Whimsical Musings of a Loon

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.