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

Moving out. Two simple innocuous words. Do not believe their deceit. The reality is the tiresome packing of clothes, the boring sifting through worldy possessions, the mucky dirt of the past - even grubbier than the actual cobwebs and dust that have accumulated en mass over the passing years. Dust is like my fan base, a loyal crowd of particles that stalk my airspace. Oh what a laborious, woebegone task. Few things are more soul destroying than spending hours packing bags, only for the flimsy plastic to rip as soon as you pick them up; the cheap material looking like someone squished into clothes two sizes too small, before stretching, splitting and vomiting up the entire contents. Worst of all, the memory jogs of old, and always with the most bizarre object; a yellowing christmas card from Nan, her scrawly, spidery handwriting that now just symbolises a huge gaping hole in myself; a ticket to the Empire State Building in 2001, a heart-wrenching time when anything still seemed possible...

yellow leaf Originally uploaded by sian_quincy Autumn. It sneaks upon us, arrives quietly and unassuming, bringing the soft browns mingling gently amongst the dregs of luscious greens and brightness of warmer months. Autumnus. Blue turns darker. The greys gradually descend upon us, trickling down like water-colours across the canvas, before the harsh, thick oil paints of winter black submerge them into the landscape. Fall; as the leaves drop, so does the temperature, so does our temperament. Woebegone drops start to seep onto the skin. A lament of summer gone, the sun and promise gets lost amongst a polaroid of saturated faded memory. Autompne. Nature begins to age. Once blooming foliage crumbles into wrinkled maturity. Like dying bud heads, our brittle selves start to buckle. Things are changing. It turns. The true New, despite the fraud of January. Autumn is the reflection in the gentle water of the ancient small stream that flows through a country field; so endless in its journey, s...

On what would have been Roald Dahl's 90th birthday, it seems fitting to pause and marvel at one of the finest writers Britain has ever produced. Easily my favourite author as a child, Dahl's books are as captivating as they are surreal; beautifully eccentric characters amongst a world of random extremes and magical wonder. At the heart of Dahl's work is often a dark macabre humour; there's the comedy of a bearded man who manages to contain half his lunch in his beard, or a drink that makes you fly by control of bottom burps, mixed amongst witches, cruel aunts, orphans, and brutal teachers. The world is hilarious, but not always fair, and yet there is a hope that the miraculous can happen to those who are good people. Essentially, Dahl's books may embrace the fantastical - giants, witches, yet there's an underlying reality to the harshness of real life. His children protagonists often find themselves in horrid situations, through no fault of their own. But it is ...