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Sunday, October 31, 2010


A life in Brief:

My parents were

Esoteric fabulously rich working class from the extreme North East of the UK via the Soviet Union with a Swedish bloodline.

The house I grew up in

Small with woodchip on the wall, you know the rest.

When I was a child I wanted to be

Marilyn Monroe

If I could change one thing about myself

I would have preferred to have larger feet as they would have given me a stable platform and kept me rooted and grounded during lifetime times of trials and exasperation.

You wouldn’t know it but I’m very good at


You wouldn’t know but I’m no good at

Planning and organising elaborate Prussian style award ceremony banquets and sober deer shooting weekends. Then doing the washing up.

At night I dream of

The blackness at the end of time or fluffy clouds, ponies and golden harps.

What I see when I look in the mirror

Most times I see a mirror.

I wish I’d never worn

Out my knee cartilage

My favourite item of clothing

My Christmas Hari Krishna begging robes

I drive

A custom Tuk-tuk around the windswept streets of Glasgow handing out warm soup to the homeless.

My house is

Not my home.

A book that changed me

“Grease and all that greasy stuff didn‘t help my complexion much “ by Olivia Newton-John.

My greatest regret

Born too late to participate fully in the Renaissance and the French Revolution.

The last time I cried

I stubbed my toe on the bed leg at 3AM in the dark.

My five-year plan

To be President of either the USA or the UAR.

What’s the point?

All religion is a noble but pointless and absurd pursuit pursued by the unenlightened, encouraged by the idiotic.

My life in five words

”Once there was a way…”

Thursday, October 28, 2010


So here I am in that awkward place between inspiration, concrete temples and perspiration. Focus is diluted and well unfocused, ideas are there but a little too far out of reach, energy is low and a nagging irritating voice says to me in an unpleasant accent, “what’s the point?” I hate that voice and I work hard in a brain cell crunching, twisting way to ignore it, I avoid any answer or direct dialogue. Even this small piece of typing seems like a risk. Does describing an atrocity, a work of horror and cruelty or a terminal disease bring you closer to it or does it create a buffer? Do you risk becoming overcome, becalmed or set adrift? I’m opting for the cathartic effect, a cleansing move and a geography defying revisit. Something better than the other options and inactions. So this dull pain, like a thick headache or ongoing hangover, not a writers block or a dry spell but just a lack of the drive, one that avoids and argues to postpone the act of closing, the act of closure, the finish and the final step back to look, to take in, the final finished piece.