Art for heart's sake

Art is a haven because it is the best humans can do.
It heals the soul because it is an act of gratuitous love.

The best of human endeavour consoles us and protects us from Barbary.
Loving art won’t pay the bills but it can give us the courage to keep on struggling to do so.


Sharks, Nazis and the Female Orgasm.

The other day, I came across the astonishing James Rhodes who did a Ted Talk with the words “sharks” and “nazis” in the title because these words apparently attract a lot of hits. The female orgasm part of my title is because I have always been kind of fascinated by the female orgasm, being female and being in the awkward position of not knowing whether or not I have ever experienced one. There have been occasions when mind-blowing excitement thrust the words “yes, this is it” into my mind. At the time I was absolutely convinced. But today? What do I believe today? We all know that even with the most honest of intentions we re-write our past, creating a narrative we can live with. Or by.


Maybe I have said this before, or

perhaps you will never know, for I can never show – to you – this vast treasure of leisure. No need. Seeds and ropes and not without hopes either, drunk on being selfed.

You and not you. Me the steady beam, the seam ingly granit trusted bicycle pumps and four reeled gigs.

Whirlygigs. I did not ask permission, there was no-one there to rule fictition

At the time. mime, crime, wime, sime, hyme –en tropé.

Y love is linga kwistic

Super cally fraile istic

And I shall exit piaely dotious. You can’t be too koshus.

What is new is that I do not want you ha! Be yourself! All I need is to have for a fleeting moment known you, interspersed my atoms with yours

Ephemeral attraction and the

Week force

Mundane, mundane.




I am often pleasantly surprised by typing mistakes. This is a nice one. It made me want to stick it in this blog and I notice with alarm that I did not post anything in the first six months of the year. And yet I hanker. I think kind of continuously of vaguely things to put in here or write or about what is already here and the nice pictures and moments spent composing the posts and what will happen to it? Where will it all go?  I'm not planning to die immediately but I will die sometime and at least no-one will have to burn this or have it pulped...



Theason's bleatings

Time to dither, hither and thither, step outside,
forget the ride through decadent streets and sleet-blown alleys,
so much rhyme and reason, it's almost out of season but the urgency pushes on, round the corner of the cliff, 
as stiff as a dyke's beak, liberating, stipulating, triangulating our movements by GPS, 
and the goddess of Scottish literacy, a thoroughbred with broken capillary cheeks, reeking of peat-smoked whisky tries to hide from the wide angle lens of surveillance.

Everything is filmed, nothing seen, the camera rolls, on and on, never stops, until then – you know, that moment.

Those that I loved lived here and are no more, does this shoreline even know it? How can I define it, reach a plateau, for a rest, the right of egress…