Whimsical Musings of a Loon

The Guardian and Observer publications are running supplements featuring their "Greatest Films of All Time" in various sub-categories of genre. Deciphering culture greatness is always a contentious subject of classification. I relish perusing these types of lists; to criticise, to agree, but most of all, to observe why we, as humans and devourers of arts and popular culture, love listing these things in the first place (and subsequently argue about it like it actually means anything). I was intrigued to see one of my favourite films featured in the "Greatest Romance" section; Sofia Coppola 's most beautiful and wonderfully underplayed Lost In Translation . I was curious, because as much as I love the film, it never even occurred to me to even class it into the 'romance' film genre. Lost In Translation is a film that appears to divide many. It seems to leave many either completely cold, disinterested or feeling as if Sofia Coppola had snuck behind t...

I was reading the latest news on the BBC website, having finished writing an email for submitting an e-form application; and after logging-out of my online bank account where I was keeping a 24 hour eye on finances; whilst listening to streaming music on spotify, and also quickly checking the train timetable on the railway e-route planner; before buying some groceries on an e-shop, whilst speaking to a friend in America on instant chat, and also quickly monitoring the daily lives, and their breakfast contents, of thousands of strangers on twitter....when it occurred to me, that actually, I really DID spend quite a lot of time on the internet. This shocking [sic] revelation made me think. What did I do before the internets? Could I even remember a time before online media engulfed my life like a smothering python of digital information. I remember the very first time I saw the World Wide Web. I was studying GCSE I.T in high school. Just like how my father points to areas of Cardiff ...

Lost amongst the woods & trees, The same, but different, such a tease, I found familiar, of which I was fond, A beautiful, solitary, lucky old pond. Quiet & still, content so rare, Standing me, the water there. I don't know why, we had such a bond, I decided I'd quite like, to be a pond.

Creative juices, once fluid, now rock, Static numbness, such wicked block. O such horrors when, there's nowt to say, On a National, Poetry Day