Whimsical Musings of a Loon

Yuletide gaping void of lack, Causes recollecting back. Imagination, rampage wild, Transformed into, wretched child. Tis season jolly, bright and gay, But rotten, forgery, and cliche. Seeking Ghosts, threads entwined, Hidden in corners, of the mind. Intense stillness hangs around, Suspending body, quiet sound, Stinging cold, yet inside warm, Want tomorrow, yet feeling torn, For arrival fast, is such a boon, Yet means all is dead, far too soon. Bombarded with, seasonal finesse, Overwhelm draining, to excess. Suffocating spend, gorging glee, Leaves me polar, numb, empty. Cheer tarnished, excitement dent, Expectation greater, than event. Sudden dawning, sharp like knife, Innocence lost: lachrymose life. Despite all efforts, to re-create. Gasping for air, reluctant, too late, Like a drowning soul, struggling for breath, We cling to memories & fade to death.

On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me A cartridge in a sharpie. On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Two Hounds of Loves, And a cartridge in a sharpie. On the third day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Three sharpie pens, Two Hounds of Loves, And a cartridge in a sharpie. On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Four Thora Hirds, Three sharpie pens, Two Hounds of Loves, And a cartridge in a sharpie. On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Five DOODLE-INGS! Four Thora Hirds, Three Sharpie pens, Two Hounds of Loves, And a cartridge in a sharpie. On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Six words a-playing, Five DOODLE-INGS! Four Thora Hirds, Three Sharpie pens, Two Hounds of Loves, And a cartridge in a sharpie. On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Seven Wainwrights singing, Six words a-playing, Five DOODLE-INGS! Four Thora Hirds, Three Sharpie pens, Two Hounds of Loves, And a cartridg...

Photos

I remember the day I became interested in Photography. I had always been engrossed by art and film, always finding them rather magical in a way that almost seemed sordid. As if receiving such pleasure from a film screen or canvas was somehow naughty in its frivolity. But it was not until I was visiting MOMA in New York during my year out before University, that a fascination in photography ignited instantly. There was a Cindy Sherman exhibition, her untitled film stills, and it captured my imagination so strongly, that I left New York that snowy January in 2001, dreamily determined to purchase an SLR manual 35mm film camera as soon as I got home. It was like someone had switched on a light in my brain, or rather, pressed a shutter release and captured the split second my life had been opened up to a whole new world of expression. Only this image of myself did not upset me at how fat my brain had gotten around the intrigue zone. Despite Cindy being one of my early main influences, I bec...

I grew up with books. They were like little bound and papered siblings. Officially my childhood home was made with bricks, but it may as well have been built with 1960 retro Penguin paperbacks (with terribly convoluted undecipherable titles and communist russia style graphic design covers). I thought all families had their tea alongside shelves of Lenin's biography, all washed down with a sip of Pinter. But one particular book series I grew up with, both confused and delighted me more than any other. My parents had few graphic novels, but being stalwart Guardian readers, they did have the wonderful work of Posy Simmonds, the Guardian cartoonist, illustrator and writer extraordinaire. Posy's books captivated me. One on level, they were cartoons, even a child could read and enjoy the drawings. On another, they were highly satirical accounts of the political/social climate in the 1980s. It wasn't until I re-read them as an adult that I really appreciated how ingenious the joke...

The winds may sweep forth and cry, And moods a-wuthering, it is no lie. The spirit dances, free and twirled, Yet Dreaming of a Sensual World. Our Lionheart doesn't yearn for much, Just a Moment's Pleasure with her touch. Oh such beauty, in such truth, Melancholic of old and youth, Song of love, swagger and joy, Yet tender silk of conflicted coy. Symphony of Clouds, disguise and ruse, Wowing with Hounds and dancing Shoes. Running on Gaffa with teasing smirk, Yet Lionheart! He treasures her Work. A tailor of velvet tones she sews, A poet of being: ourselves she knows, Our Lionheart reaches for the Pin to Push, For mystical & knowing, unattainable Bush. (Dedicated to Lord of the Lucans)

Television is often criticised for damaging children's minds, corrupting young brains, the source of all eville and wrong in society. Whilst it is true we perhaps watch too much television or spend too long sat in front of a computer screen, it is an injustice to think television cannot be educational or inspirational. The other day I visited Dyffryn Gardens, a stately home in the Vale of Glamorgan with vast, beautiful gardens. The house is a typical Edwardian structure, a superb building to gaze at (if you enjoy architecture as much as I do). The gardens are a wonder, even to a gardening/flower ignoramous such as myself. Each section with a different theme, almost like outdoor rooms - my favourite, for example, is the Pompeii styled garden, with it's Roman-esque pillars and layout. My parents used to take us to Dyffryn Gardens regularly when we were growing up, but I had not been there for years. Returning there was a sudden passage back to my childhood, reminiscent of Sunday ...

Forgive me, I hath sinned...and I've neglected my film watching of late. I have been known in the past to watch a film a day. Hour. Minute even (maybe stretching that a little). All I wanted to do was watch films. It was almost tempting to buy a wall of televisions, and have different movies on each screen at the same time. The next stage would have involved surgically implanting extra eyes onto my body to increase the movie watching levels. I await Apple to develop an iEyeEyei technology. Then mundane things get in the way of my film nerdery. I shamefully began to lose opportunities to waste my life in celuloid fantasy to block out the pain of reality. Especially when I have t'interwebs to see to, post its to draw, people to annoy. However, the one positive of feeling flu-esque is that it gives me a good excuse to watch copious amounts of dvds. This past week I have watched a begillion and one films, including what I believe is possibly the worst one of the lot. Even worse tha...

Is this it, Unfathomable it, Cruel mundane, A heart to maim. Every breath, the blood does drain, Playing this damn waiting game. In such maelstrom, amongst the fog, In such vain, a useless cog, For once the waiting will cease, The ironing out, at the crease, It all just continues plodding along, No standstill, end, fuss or song. Barely memory, hardly a sign, Not even a shadow, a faint outline. That is it. Unfathomable it. Otiose, but It.

The elation of curious feeling, Certainly left me double-reeling. Finally grasping that message sent By so many, at last I knew it meant: It made breathing more than to survive, It was to be, exist, enjoy - alive. And yet it's like an eville curse, To make the whole thing even worse. For every up it's double low, For every good, a harder blow. Because this is severely blighted, A futile exercise, damned unrequited. So back forever, there I sit. In that wretched woebegone pit. Hope and good unemployed, Nothing to fill a torrid void. The barren solitude so great to fear, Causes pain so copiously severe. I kid myself that it never mattered, But the crux of my being is shattered. I am so cruelly blighted, Damn you fucking unrequited.

Edge Away; I am drifting off course, Even the Cat's Paw seems quite the force. Yet back here again, within my reach, Returning to this cobbled beach. Vaporous sounds, crashing and free, This exquisite meeting of land and sea. Edge Away; before I am found, Before the hull is run aground, Climbing down the perilous path, From decades of erosion wrath. Reaching point seems now a miracle, Despite the state of this worn binnacle. Edge Away; I am still raw, Stepping down upon the shore, Realisation no mean feat, As shingle sinks between my feet. The frothy tide submerges fast, Awash my soul with memories past. Edge Away; and yet catching sail, Sun warmth smothers, dampening frail, Glistening water, sparkle eyes, Centuries of shadows float through skies. Carrick band head nothing to fear, The eyes, the warmth: she is here. Sedimentary cliffs do crumble, Through it all I will stumble. The textured sea, it's moods and wealth, Will always win, like life itself. A rock, a timber, please l...

"The very sight of a rugby ball was like a feast to a starving man". When I was 10, I came home from school one day with a homework assignment. I had to write a piece on a famous Cardiffian. The second the task entered my ear drums, and the words diffused into my brain, I knew who I was going to write about. There was only one famous Cardiffian of any note or importance whatsoever as far as I was concerned. And that was Bleddyn Williams, ex-Wales, British Lions and Cardiff RFC rugby legend. Wales lost one of its true sporting heroes on the 6th July 2009, when Bleddyn sadly passed away. To say the term 'legend' is brandished around like a cliche, is in itself a cliche now. But in Bleddyn, Wales did really claim a gem, a sporting great whose name was mentioned in high regard across the rugby world, let alone in little old Wales. Bleddyn's rugby world couldn't be more different from the modern sport of Rugby Union. It was, as he used to say himself, a different w...

If music be the food of love, so said Mr Shakespeare, then don't forget music can also be the medicine to ailments of the melancholic nature. Music can connect with our moods and thinking so effectively, it's a shame BT can't work out the secret formula and apply it to their broadband speeds. But you don't have to be a music expert, buff, or connoisseur, to have it as a part of your life. One of the wonderful things about music is it's accessibility to everyone, even if you (okay, oddly in my book) only like one tune out of the plethora of musical delights that life offers. Music affects us all. Sickeningly loved-up couples nearly always have 'their' song. People will often lay down lists of certain musical numbers they want at their funeral (or wedding- maybe the same song, not much difference in occasion if you ask me). Random songs will be held dear to people for the memories it brings back. Shops, bars, galleries etc...they often have music blaring out t...

It's that most, wonderful time...of the year! No, not Christmas (thankfully). It's summer festival time, a period of a few months when the media go music-latest-band-mad. Newspapers are packed with photographs of music revelers basking in sun...or wallowing bravely in mud and torrents of rain. And the obligatory retro-comeback star (a la Shirley Bassey) in wellies. But as much as I love my music (don't get me started on how much I adore Rufus Wainwright and how he re-seals my wounded soul), my favourite festival is actually one of the book variety. The 2009 Hay-On-Wye literary festival comes to a close, and once again I am left counting down the days to the 2010 festival. Hay-On-Wye has always been a favourite jaunt of mine. My parents took us there frequently as kids on rainy Sunday afternoons when we had exhausted all the local castles and museums. Admittedly, I probably wanted to go to Disney Land if I had had the choice, but I am glad for it now. It was at Hay I realise...

Thinking back at when I studied photography, *cue Hovis ad music* and yes I can remember that far back, there are always one or two images from prolific photographers that particularly re-appear in my mind's playback facility. Whether I liked the photographs or not, their power or impact obviously tattooed themselves into my subconscious. One such image was Diane Arbus' photograph: Child with Toy Hand Grenade. It's bizarreness intrigued and fascinated me, I wanted to comb every inch of the print with my eyes. But it also made me want to stride down the lecture room, pull the slide out of the machine and throw it out the window into the path on oncoming escaped wildebeests. A photograph that draws such a conflicted set of emotions certainly put a firework up my artistic undercrackers. The scrawny boy is pulling a gruesome face, he looks utterly strange; he's stood in an American park, his stance is odd and uncomfortable, his clothes ruffled. He's holding a toy grenad...

Lately I have noticed something that has increasingly taken control of my thoughts, something more annoying than the media's obsession with MPs expenses, and something more additively obsessive than Twitter (don't get me started on that alluring, genius web 2 concept that is the siren of social networking). No, my life has been taken over by another kind of life. That of the humble battery. It's been there a while, tinkering away in the back of my subconscious...a running process in the system. I think it began when I purchased my first (and only so far, I am proud to say) iPod. This was in about 1789, when iPods were clockwork and you had to carve out your playlists in slate. It wasn't long into my iPod ownership that I became rather intrigued by how long the battery would last with continuous useage. It was important to me, I felt at the time, that I could last a whole day away from the sanctuary of a plug socket or USB port, to be able to listen to Rufus Wainwright, ...

The new Poet Laureate was announced recently. For a split second I was alarmed. Duffy!? All she's done is ride around on a bike sounding like a demented goat in some very un-droll Coke advert. Who would want to be Poet Laureate, writing nice about a royal? At least this latest literary news, diverts flu and Susan Boyle. -Me

What a cliche. I can't even believe I'm about to say it. But here it is: It seems a damning indicament of the current celebrity-infatuated-media world we live in, when you read a news article on the BBC web site like this . The story itself is alarming, with the behaviour of Police during the G20 protests needing, unquestionably, to be scutinised. A woman was hit by a policeman, and questions need answering. Was it necessary, was it a breach of regulations? It needs to be dealt with, and this isn't my issue. But you do worry when you see the words 'Max Clifford' involved. And this is the rub. Why does Ms Fisher need a publicist? Is she planning on carving up a nice little media career for herself? Zelebrity Come Protesting On Ice . Are we to see her on the front page of Heat magazine next week along with 'G20 Star Favourite Hats' pull-out? Just weeks after we saw a rather peculiar media frenzy over the (admittedly very sad) death of a reality TV 'star...

It's a little like when you've drunk too much of the fizzy pop and extras, the dregs of night have long turned into the early roots of morning, and you suddenly have an epiphany that you absolutely love to pieces your best mate/s who stand over the toilet of a Cardiff drinking establishment yacking their guts up. "I loves you y'know...you're bloody great you are...". Suddenly everything you hate about the world (which is really everything), that you've been copiously moaning about all evening, is a distant memory faded into oblivion. And isn't life wonderful. Until the hangover. Then it's full-steam ahead back to Shitsville.

1. When it is raining, do not wear long trousers. Unless you want to wade around like you have piddled yourself for the rest of the day. 2. Spending 84957y98347658934576 hours straightening your hair is a waste of time when the weather is tempestuous. Just accept the Wurzel Gummidge look is the new black/grunge-Kate-Moss-latest-thing. 3. If you go to bed late, and wake up early, you will feel like you've been run over by a herd of stampeding, hungry Vanessa Feltzes. 4. Fathers+computers = a migraine for me the size of New Mexico. 5. Paper cuts are the most painful injury known to man (aside from stepping on a plug). Amputation must be the only cure. 6. The Apprentice. Well. It's a bit boring isn't it? There's only so many times you can hear the words 'at the end of the day' before you begin to want to put your head through a mincer. 7. Spraying too much Deep Heat into the atmosphere makes one come over a little queer. But I normally see bouncing giraffes, admitt...

I was bemused by this news story . An infirmary in London has been named after our former-love-her-or-hate-her, Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher. It was opened by Prince Charles. It must have been like a collection of all the people I most admire. [insert smilie contraption here /Sarcastic Mode] Now, I wonder if the Thatcherism ideals will rub off on the health care? Will Welsh patients get told the ward is closed down for cost cutting measures? Will milk be banned? Perhaps anyone ill turning up will be told to pull their socks up, and that it's their own fault they are ill.... BBC news story, complete with delicious video footage .

The other day I decided to go to London. The coach I travelled on was driven by Nessa from Gavin & Stacey . Well, she sounded like her. Ten minutes out of Cardiff and there came a little tap on the microphone, which jolted me from my early morning doze/daydream of world domination. "Elow. And welcome to da bus.com." I didn't realise I was sitting on a web site. "'Ere are a few rulez like. Smoking - NO! Don't do it." Was this a new government health warning? Ironically I saw her slouched against the side of the bus with a fag drooping from her lips before we set off. "DRINKING is not allowed. Alc-wholic." Again ironic, she sounded a tad squiffy herself. "Dere's a toilet on board. Which you can use." Nice of her to allow us to isn't it? I was expecting a bucket on the side of the M4. "We 'ave everything on here to cater for yewer needs. A fire extinguisher, first aid kit." EVERYTHING I have ever wanted. "O...

The other day, I took a photograph. On reflection of it, I have come to the conclusion that I am a little odd. Well, I've known that for a while, but was in denial. (And people who know me will wonder why it's taken me this long to realise...) When out and about, I often seem to find things that amuse me. These could be odd objects left behind or abandoned, silly graffiti that just makes me laugh, or just something bizarre and random. I like to photograph them. I was out walking and spotted this discarded shopping list...as soon as I saw it, I realised there was something about it that really tickled me. I wasn't exactly sure why, but I just knew it did. So I had to photograph it, even just on my camera phone, to preserve it's quirkiness before it disappeared off into the wind, or disintegrated by rain and other elements, never to be seen by human eyes again. The idea of that almost upsets me. Which is why I realise I am rather odd. What is it about an unwanted shopping...

The BBC have recently produced an interesting documentary about Alfred Hitchcock , concentrating specifically on the English director's early pre-Hollywood works. Presented and directed by the comedian Paul Merton, it includes archive interviews with Hitch and present interviews with those who worked with him. Merton even copies the Master himself and puts himself into the archive footage, for his own little cameos. It's worth watching to see how Hitchcock was ahead of his time with his early films, which crossed the silent-film to talkie evolution, and how a lot of his cinematic techniques that we take for granted, were in fact pioneering. The first Hitchcock film I saw was Psycho . I was about 14 or so, and saw it on TV, not really knowing what to expect, probably a little skeptical that this old, black and white film would probably just be rubbish. Because, well, it was old and black and white. How wrong I was. Just from the opening titles and music I was freaked and yet str...

Spotted in Cardiff. Makes a change from the usual 'Clean Me' or 'I wish my wife was this dirty'.

With the Six Nations rugby well under way, and with Wales beating England at the weekend (sorry had to mention that), I am often left to ponder the strange hold this sport has over so many people. I can't quite define what it is about rugby, that seems to route itself into the Welsh psyche so forcefully; an intricate web of randomness, that seems to signify so much to our identity. No, I can't really fathom it out. But I can explore what it means to me. Last week a video appeared doing the rounds on rugby message boards and emails, someone had compiled footage of great Welsh rugby tries and moments through the ages and put it to music. Some of the tries I had only ever seen once before, or possibly never. Others I remembered only too well indeed. Watching this internet video made me feel incredibly emotional. Yes, I was being a big girls' blouse, and began blubbering into my keyboard. Rugby can be a beautiful game - flowing moves, darting runs, amidst hard knocks and bloody...

Two old ladies in the house cleaning paraphernalia aisle. Old Lady 1: Ooo! Old Lady 2: What, what WHAT!? Old Lady 1: Just look at that. Stainless steel cleaner. Old Lady 2: What? Old Lady 1: I know. An actual cleaner, that cleans stainless steel. Old Lady 2: How marvelous! I used to leave the stainless steel to soak in soapy water. Old Lady 1: I know! Isn't it amazing that they can do these days? Old Lady 2: The world is filled with such fabulous things. Stainless steel cleaner, well. Old Lady 1: I'm not buying any though. Old Lady 2: No, neither am I. Ladies shuffle off. Bizarre.

Unless you went on holiday to the moon last week, or was in a coma, you would probably be rather aware of the snow that hit the UK. It was apparently the heaviest snowfall in about 20 years. And in a typical British way, the country went snow-mad, with a large percentage of the country coming to a complete standstill. You only had to look on Facebook to see that nearly every single status update had SNOW mentioned somewhere, or the white stuff, and they weren't referring to some Amy Winehouse shenanigans. After about a day, you become tired of SNOW! being all over the news and media. Actually, after about an hour you do. Admittedly, in the rural areas or where it was heaviest, it was a relative big deal. And London had rather a lot, so naturally, the media were interested. London is the centre of the universe after all! There's only so many "viewers' photos" of snow you can take. Or roadside reports from freezing looking reporters standing in torrid conditions a...

A blot on the landscape, A smudge on a canvas, A tear in the wallpaper, A stain on the carpet, A hole in the wall, A crack in the glass, A chip on the china, A broken string, A burnt-out fuse, A bruise on skin, A cancerous cell. A soul who does not belong.

A recent BBC web site article highlighted a study done at the Queensland University of Technology (QUT), where it was suggested that British passengers perished on the ship possibly because of their politeness over queuing. Britons are apparently famous for queuing. The Wimbledon queue for tickets is one of the biggest examples of this, even now. I should know, I've been part of this queue many times myself. There is a queuing etiquette, queuing rules (printed out on a leaflet - so it is official), and it all must be obeyed. It's taken extremely seriously. And it works too, people don't queue jump. If they were, there would be an outrage of such astronomical proportions, that even the Daily Mail wouldn't be able to equal it. I've been studying the Titanic for most of my life in my most nerd-esque moments. I've read most of the main books and articles, and it never ceases to amaze me the amount of new angles on the sinking/disaster, that emerge from the depths e...

January is an odd month. There's the anti-climax of a new year, which, after the build up of Christmas, can be rather depressing. There's also the cold; the harsh, dark weather can dampen your mood. You're left with the daunting prospect that there's still a few months to go of all this until spring. It makes you want to hide under the duvet and hibernate for three months. With a dvd box-set of the X Files and an endless supply of tea. (I would slip out to watch a rugby match or two though...) Themes that always seems to crop up in January however, are resolutions, and in particular detox. You hear it everywhere. 'I'll give up smoking'. 'I'll get fit'. 'I'll eat healthily'. 'I'll give up murder'. (Perhaps not the last one) But it's as if we eat so much in the name of Christmas, we try on the jeans on January 1st and freak out. It inspires us to realise this suddenly, something that we should have really twigged in July...