wytchcroft

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Watching a flag get trampled in the dirt always brought a tear to Jerry’s eye, it was the romantic in him; Even if the flag was the United Colours of Benetton.

Squinting through the astringent smoke and with his ears ringing to the piped strains of Anarchy in the UK, the last of the musician assassins watched as the stubborn defenders of the accessories department finally gave up the ghost and arranged themselves in an artful display of splashes, drips and smears; Abstract expressionism at its very best, look good on a billboard too, one day.

Maybe in the past.

He squeezed off a photo just in case.
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There is a wind and there is a tide.
We are the boat that is balanced between the two.

We are borne by the tide and blown by the wind.
It is we that raise the sails, we that dip the oars or steer the rudder.

And yet we ask, who has sent the wind? what is that pulls the tides?
And have we really changed our course or decided our destination?

When we see rocks, we are sad - and when we see a beautiful island we are happy.
But to a giant all landmasses look much the same.

Sometimes we curse the wind or the tides, but why should the air be concerned or the sea?
And should we?
 

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Surprising as it may sound, I don't actually dream of owning a home in which a brutal murder has taken place, or a non brutal murder come to that.
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so it's actually strange, listening to Dave Roback while reading Bill Nelson's book Diary of a Hyperdreamer...  that's two of my greatest Guitar inspirations at once - very indulgent of me!  

alas, i am still the clumsy thumbed amateur i was twenty five years ago or whatever - but it's equally true that these two magical players and creative personalities inspire me today, lights in the fog or so their music has always seemed... 

and i don't get to have that many muzo moments - so pardon my cardigan Enid.

But to answer the question - the two most played tracks in my library are, BY FAR;
Cold Turkey by John Lennon, and the theme from Paris Texas by Ry Cooder.
I've driven generations of people insane with my zealous over playing of these two precious bits of vinyl. 

If you could travel back in time, what advice would you give...

Carpentry? It's a hiding to nowhere...

Don't tell people what they're drinking, you'll never hear the end of it.

And leave the damn fig trees alone, there'll only be hell to pay!

 "Thanks mate!"

[Error: unknown template qotd] well, this little kid has been known to impress crowds... m'wha ha ha!

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ah oui!

DIEU FUMEUR DE HAVANES
Du film "Je Vous Aime"
Serge Gainsbourg & Cathérine Deneuve (France)
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For thus it was – and of all things, Ludovig was certain of this; that man alone of all the animals was the one that existed in amnesia blissfully ignorant of the fact that an animal is an animal and an animal is man. Knowing this simple fact gave Ludovig a tool of utmost importance – a lever with which he could move even the largest, heaviest and most reluctant of boulders... and send it crashing.
Having started the movement, one rock would sing to another and soon a thousand others would be dancing in delight and dashing themselves headlong in that bachic celebration of matter known as the avalanche. So it was that with the one name revealed, the murderous identity known, it was assured that Ludovig would bring the whole government down.

Ludovig may have been a complex man - how else reconcile the habits and demeanor of a sociable and interested old raconteur with a lifetime spent in monastic hermitage living alone and silent atop the inaccesible ruin of St Saphita's lighthouse? - but he was OF COURSE an animal and he therefore, like a good animal, viewed this with a sense of elation – but also, as might the goldfish, with some regret.

The Name of the Shoes – Ch. 324.6
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Both.

Yes, generally it's both and as loudly as possible -

out in the wilds of Withershinshire (where i live) that's common practice,
it makes you feel less lonely, true -
but it's also a sort of proto internet that's been around for generations.

"Where are my cigarettes goddamn it!" yells into the phone.

wait - wait -
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In which our narrator looks waxy and autobiographical

I suppose it’s not all that unusual for childhood memories to be richer when they involve specialness of some sort. That is to say, if I’m asked about the homes of my childhood then – ok, I can talk about them, I have a very clear memory and could tell anyone just where they were and what I did and hardly any of it will be interesting or evocative… 

BUT if I think of places that I visited, things like holiday homes, well then it’s a different story entirely, there’s something closer to magic in my mind’s eye. 
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