I really enjoyed Sam’s post – follow the link to visit his blog 🙂
This is a really fab blog by Tom about being well-read – I adored it! Go read & like the original post, folks 🙂
My mother is probably the wisest person I’ve ever known. She’s not schooled, she’s not well read. But she has a philosophy of life that makes well-read people seem like morons. – Gene Simmons
How well-read you are has been a standard measure of intelligence, social kudos and pulling power since the written word was invented. In fact, it’s hard to resist conjecture that it was invented simply to impress other people. And this lingers, despite a digital age of commuters watching TV box sets on public transport, or publicly declaring how moronic they are by playing pointlessly additive games such as the ubiquitous Candy Crush. These activities are for unplugging the mind, not engaging it. Of course in some circles to have concluded the Eggsteroids level in Angry Birds is greatly admired, but it isn’t quite the same as being well-read. Not yet.
Being well-read is a…
View original post 1,166 more words
Please go and like the original post, thank you 🙂
“It is named the “Web” for good reason.”
I can’t believe I’ve now been desperately thinking of things to blog about for four years. When I started I had little idea what blogging was really about, and now I truly have no idea. I think blogs exist mainly so you can get annoyed, and then say rather pointedly to yourself that you’re going to bloody blog about it, because there’s clearly a readership out there for articles on drivers’ inability to park without taking up two bays. Of course unless you do blog about it within 2 minutes you’ll have forgotten all about it and probably driven off anyway. Blogs are the modern equivalent of writing to the Times.
It’s like all those notes in your phone that were Pullitzer prize winning novels, but now read more like a free-associating dead-head in 1960s San Francisco mumbling…
View original post 622 more words
Bikini body in the sun, half-cocked gun, a summer weapon, a sassy siren sensing and inviting desire, it was a wave rushing towards me, I was riding the crest, eyes closed beneath my shades, heat spreading between my legs,
but suddenly it all changed, no rhyme, no reason, what the actual fuck was going on, my crazy brain switched moods randomly, I’ve always been my own worst enemy – it was
a senseless dream starting with a less than vague promise of sex and ending with
Van Gogh penniless and in despair trying to drown himself in the deep sunflower fields—which had long haunted him—their colours and shapes having intensified his misery.
What does it all mean?
I woke up tangled in my sheets—
I had too much to dream
PLease go and like the original post – thank you
We are the goon squad and we’re coming to town
David Bowie. Fashion.
What do our clothes say about us? I don’t mean when they’re crushed together in the laundry basket wondering who’s next to be washed, and cursing the current favourite top that barely lands before being whisked off to be cleaned – although I can see that as the next Pixar movie. No, I mean what do they announce about ourselves to the world that might otherwise stay silent. I don’t just mean band tee-shirts that marked some final tour in 1978, the one that’s not had the good times rinsed out since.
You can complete character profiles based upon little more than the type of sandwich someone habitually eats, so clothes are a dead giveaway. That there’s more hashtags for yoga pants than there is for yoga itself tells you all you need…
View original post 562 more words
It might be a chance meeting, somewhere totally random, at a time when my thoughts are turned towards the mundane—why didn’t I bring an umbrella? It’s going to rain—or more lofty matters, probably the former though I have no way of knowing what my mind will be occupied with. I am unprepared, though in my dreams I’ll have lived this moment a hundred times or more. I’ll see you across the street maybe, first doubting what my eyes are telling me but my racing heart will know long before my mind has ascertained the truth.
Call your name or walk on?
A few seconds to make a choice, too little time to decide.
I walk on, away…and it takes a little while for a pain so sudden and so great, so fresh it might all have happened yesterday, to fill my chest and spread, making me stumble and try to catch my breath.
I stop, hesitate and call your name, first in a whisper, then louder, because I cannot let you disappear, again. You see me and there’s no wavering for you, you know what to do, you come to me as if this moment was always meant to be. My body is stiff when you hug me, it’s been years since you last held me, years filled with many things, some of them happy but a life nevertheless underlined with a particular kind of misery. What, next? A pub? Probably. Very little talk to start with. I take you in, a bit more grey in your hair, more lines etched on your face, you look pretty much as I imagined you must do, every time I allowed myself to think of you. I don’t know if I’ll find the words, alcohol might help or hinder but maybe no words will be needed, perhaps the touch of my fingers will be enough for you to understand I have always loved you, even as I ran from you, even as I kept away, all these years when we were separated but together all the same, you and I held by a small, powerful unwinding thread—forever isn’t just found in fairy tales.
Which will it be? One way or the other, a tragedy.
Red like the pathetically fragile organ you tried so hard to protect,
as somebody squashed it like a miserable bug,
if you’re going to run away with fanciful ideas,
store them somewhere safe, as squirrels do with nuts
before throwing the key down a bottomless well,
quite frankly, you must accept
you deserve everything you get
Slowly the sun goes down
Splashing dying embers
In her mane
Of untamed hair
With regret he pulls down the shades
To keep the scented summer
Fragrant with life
A subdued light
Tinged with tiny pools of dark
Sleep softens her features further
He – the faithful sentinel watching over
his delicate flower –
Can’t help but fret
His chest feels tight
Aware the world
Will reach out with eager fingers
She will know hurt
He will contemplate murder
But for now the princess,
Just turned seven
Dreams still intact, untouched
He kisses her sweet cheek
Pulls back the covers
One last look, lingering, tender
For now she’s safe
Her innocence preserved
*Photograph found on Pinterest, try as I might I couldn’t find anyone to credit for it*
P.S. for whatever reason, WordPress is not letting me reply to older comments so I apologise to anyone who’s left thoughts on previous posts – I didn’t mean to ignore you, honest!
Nobody wishes to be cannon fodder,
nobody wants to constantly bleed for others
Even the most selfless sometimes need to be handled with care
If they falter, fail, if they break, them with the patience of a saint,
there is nothing left. No hope. No faith.
And so Sisyphus rolls his boulder.
*I’m still here, though I haven’t got much to share, or maybe I have too much. While I ponder this further, some pics from last night — 2am selfie madness.*
Somebody who follows me on Twitter – no idea why since they object to pretty much everything I say on there – asked me yesterday why I was always angry. Well, I’m not ALWAYS but it’s inevitable I should sometimes be in the current climate since, you know, I don’t go through life like a mindless robot.
No apologies for that.
I’m definitely too old for the number of Brainy t-shirts I own, but: I identify – I can be as annoying as he is but I’m unrepentant about using my brain.