Peter Pantsless
Got this from my chum PJ's blog: No Pants Day!
Of course, this has a completely different meaning to those of us in the UK since 'pants' are what we wear under our trousers... So for us No Pants Day would mean going commando, which is fine unless you had been on the Guinness and Vindaloo the night before in which case you're taking a helluva risk. And there's the bollocks-chafing to consider too... Perhaps this explains why the term 'pants' as a mild form of abuse (as in 'that book was a load of pants') never crossed over from here to the US...
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
Tap tap tap
After taking a whistle blower from the government GCHQ - the UK's top eavesdropping facilty - to court for breaching the Official Secrets Act the authorities have suddenly, mysteriously withdrawn claiming lack of evidence... Now a case cannot be brought to trial unless the Crown Prosecution Service investigates and decides there is enough evidence to warrant a public prosecution. They did and now that it is in court after months and months of government spooks and high-priced lawyers looking into it it suddenly seems to have vanished.
Gee, couldn't be anything to do with the fact the government realised that a trial would potentially expose a whole lot of fibs and stretched half-truths that were used to goad the British people reluctantly into an illegal war of agression? COuld it be that they are desperately embarassed that the secret allegedly revealed concerned the fact that US intelligence services asked their British counterparts to help them to put taps and intercepts on the communications of other nations - friendly as well as not - who may have voted against them in the UN before the war? Could it be that Tony "I'm not a War Criminal like Milosovic, Honest" Blair is crapping himself that a public trial would force him to air items like the attorney general's legal advice on the legality of a war without UN support which he refuses to publish...
...Or worse than any of those, perhaps he is terrified that a trial in a court of justice would become an investigation into the intelligence used to lead us to war and it would be one he couldn't influence unlike the whitewash of the Hutton report...
After taking a whistle blower from the government GCHQ - the UK's top eavesdropping facilty - to court for breaching the Official Secrets Act the authorities have suddenly, mysteriously withdrawn claiming lack of evidence... Now a case cannot be brought to trial unless the Crown Prosecution Service investigates and decides there is enough evidence to warrant a public prosecution. They did and now that it is in court after months and months of government spooks and high-priced lawyers looking into it it suddenly seems to have vanished.
Gee, couldn't be anything to do with the fact the government realised that a trial would potentially expose a whole lot of fibs and stretched half-truths that were used to goad the British people reluctantly into an illegal war of agression? COuld it be that they are desperately embarassed that the secret allegedly revealed concerned the fact that US intelligence services asked their British counterparts to help them to put taps and intercepts on the communications of other nations - friendly as well as not - who may have voted against them in the UN before the war? Could it be that Tony "I'm not a War Criminal like Milosovic, Honest" Blair is crapping himself that a public trial would force him to air items like the attorney general's legal advice on the legality of a war without UN support which he refuses to publish...
...Or worse than any of those, perhaps he is terrified that a trial in a court of justice would become an investigation into the intelligence used to lead us to war and it would be one he couldn't influence unlike the whitewash of the Hutton report...
This week's word-association from Subliminal:
- Angel:: fallen
- Birth:: death
- Logic:: Spock
- Stars:: my destination
- Nursery:: rhyme
- View:: finder
- Hart:: to hart
- Creation:: destruction
- End:: less
- Fortune:: cookie
Sunday, February 22, 2004
Makars
Terrific to see that after the debates of the last few years regarding having a separate Poet Laureate for Scotland instead of the generic British Poet Laureate that the Scottish Parliament has pretty much done that, appointing one of my favourite poets (and certainly one of the greatest living Scots bards) Professor Edinw Morgan as our national poet.
Morgan has long been an advocate of such a post, pointing out that the supposedly British Poet Laureate has always been held by an Englishman - no woman, no Scot, no Welsh or Irish bard. Not exacly representative of the Untied Kingdom, is it? With typical modesty he has been on record as saying that he would love ot do it, but he is too old. The Scottish Parliament disagreed and has made him the first holder of the post, dubbing him the Scots Makar.
For those who don't speak BroadScots, this is a term deriving from the 15th and 16th centuries, often used to describe writers such as Dunbar and basically means a maker of words. I've always thought that it is a far more descriptive and, fittingly in this case, poetic way to describe the work of a creative writer; a makar. Interestingly enough, Jorge Luis Borges, one of the greastest writer of the 20th century, wrote in an introduction to his collection Dream Tigers that he considered himself not as a writer of novels, short fiction or poetry or essays but as a 'maker of words'. In other words as a makar. A fine title for a fine sculptor of metaphor and imagery; the best writers translate the dreams of our symbolic imagination into our black and white symbols - words - by which we gain understanding and meaning of those imaginarly realms. Makars indeed.
Terrific to see that after the debates of the last few years regarding having a separate Poet Laureate for Scotland instead of the generic British Poet Laureate that the Scottish Parliament has pretty much done that, appointing one of my favourite poets (and certainly one of the greatest living Scots bards) Professor Edinw Morgan as our national poet.
Morgan has long been an advocate of such a post, pointing out that the supposedly British Poet Laureate has always been held by an Englishman - no woman, no Scot, no Welsh or Irish bard. Not exacly representative of the Untied Kingdom, is it? With typical modesty he has been on record as saying that he would love ot do it, but he is too old. The Scottish Parliament disagreed and has made him the first holder of the post, dubbing him the Scots Makar.
For those who don't speak BroadScots, this is a term deriving from the 15th and 16th centuries, often used to describe writers such as Dunbar and basically means a maker of words. I've always thought that it is a far more descriptive and, fittingly in this case, poetic way to describe the work of a creative writer; a makar. Interestingly enough, Jorge Luis Borges, one of the greastest writer of the 20th century, wrote in an introduction to his collection Dream Tigers that he considered himself not as a writer of novels, short fiction or poetry or essays but as a 'maker of words'. In other words as a makar. A fine title for a fine sculptor of metaphor and imagery; the best writers translate the dreams of our symbolic imagination into our black and white symbols - words - by which we gain understanding and meaning of those imaginarly realms. Makars indeed.
Thursday, February 19, 2004
To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour…
Every Night and every Morn
Some to Misery are Born.
Every Morn and every Night
Some are Born to sweet delight.
Some are Born to sweet delight,
Some are Born to Endless Night.
We are lead to Believe a Lie
When we see not Thro’ the Eye
Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night
When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light.
God Appears and God is Light
To those poor Souls who dwell in Night,
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of Day.
William Blake, Auguries of Innocence, 1803
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour…
Every Night and every Morn
Some to Misery are Born.
Every Morn and every Night
Some are Born to sweet delight.
Some are Born to sweet delight,
Some are Born to Endless Night.
We are lead to Believe a Lie
When we see not Thro’ the Eye
Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night
When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light.
God Appears and God is Light
To those poor Souls who dwell in Night,
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of Day.
William Blake, Auguries of Innocence, 1803
Sunday, February 15, 2004
Hope is epoh
Why do we try following the path of hope when we know that all hope actually does is set you up for a big crash? Why do we try reaching out to others when we know that the hope and warmth is going to end up as a spear of ice chilling in our own hearts? And why, oh why do we do it again and again? Because we’re fucking fools, that’s why. Because, against all reason and against all prior experience we convince ourselves that this time it will be different, that she is different and of course, you set yourself up for a dreadful and very painful fall because it's not and she's not. And the heart takes more wounds again, until it’s covered with scar tissue and feelings become numb and hope shrivels away like a plant in winter and I wish it would fucking stay away because I don’t need this anymore. I don’t want it anymore. I don't need hope to be raised only to have it smashed time and time again by someone then the shards jammed into my heart. I’m so bloody tired of it. You can only take this so many times before you feel yourself giving up and drowning in a morass of isolation, despair and crushed dreams. Real life? No wonder I prefer movies and books. Real life is horrible and the people in it always let you down.
And epoh? It’s an ancient Irapaho word meaning ‘pathetic or pitiable loser’. And obviously its hope backwards which is how I feel right now. Hope bubbles up like a hot spring before being crushed beneath the moving glacier of real life, which grinds over everything, relentlessly, sucking meaning and warmth for all before it.
And for all the happy couples basking in post-Valentine’s bliss (when you spend a fortune to try and tell each other the things you should already bloody know to keep card companies happy), a pox on you all, you smug, happy bastards. Like Frankensteins’ unfortunate monster, if I cannot inspire love then I will inspire fear and loathing… Oh wait, at least halfway there already - just have to work on the fear thing… Now excuse me, I have a black cloud to go and sit below. Love, who needs it?
Sorry it's not a funny witticism of a blog today - I'm tired of being Mr Happy Entertainment Monkey for everyone.
Why do we try following the path of hope when we know that all hope actually does is set you up for a big crash? Why do we try reaching out to others when we know that the hope and warmth is going to end up as a spear of ice chilling in our own hearts? And why, oh why do we do it again and again? Because we’re fucking fools, that’s why. Because, against all reason and against all prior experience we convince ourselves that this time it will be different, that she is different and of course, you set yourself up for a dreadful and very painful fall because it's not and she's not. And the heart takes more wounds again, until it’s covered with scar tissue and feelings become numb and hope shrivels away like a plant in winter and I wish it would fucking stay away because I don’t need this anymore. I don’t want it anymore. I don't need hope to be raised only to have it smashed time and time again by someone then the shards jammed into my heart. I’m so bloody tired of it. You can only take this so many times before you feel yourself giving up and drowning in a morass of isolation, despair and crushed dreams. Real life? No wonder I prefer movies and books. Real life is horrible and the people in it always let you down.
And epoh? It’s an ancient Irapaho word meaning ‘pathetic or pitiable loser’. And obviously its hope backwards which is how I feel right now. Hope bubbles up like a hot spring before being crushed beneath the moving glacier of real life, which grinds over everything, relentlessly, sucking meaning and warmth for all before it.
And for all the happy couples basking in post-Valentine’s bliss (when you spend a fortune to try and tell each other the things you should already bloody know to keep card companies happy), a pox on you all, you smug, happy bastards. Like Frankensteins’ unfortunate monster, if I cannot inspire love then I will inspire fear and loathing… Oh wait, at least halfway there already - just have to work on the fear thing… Now excuse me, I have a black cloud to go and sit below. Love, who needs it?
Sorry it's not a funny witticism of a blog today - I'm tired of being Mr Happy Entertainment Monkey for everyone.
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