some daze baby

After a long absence recuperating from drug addiction, Malaria and herpes F, here is another 'stallment. The pictures are crying out to be loved.

In Mera a couple of weeks ago: boats, a metaphor for just about everything (except boats)

One of the above is probably my life. Up-side down, on a dry dock, paint peeling and barely sea-worthy. I need to start moving into positive mode as soon as possible. The hunting season is over and the teaching season about to begin. This means an intense period of organisation is required. Oh joy!

Anchored off shore

This is the same place. A different horizon. The boats look a lot smaller and happier in the right medium. All right, so it's all in my imagination; they're just boats and the sea is just sea and the sky is just a humongous void full of smoke particles, acid rain and Richard Branson.

This is what us amateur botanists call, "a flower" Have a look at the leaves and you will have an insight into today's poem. 

  Why are all people so utterly stupid? Of course, this seems to imply that I am extra-stupid, a dolt among dolts. I would be the first to admit so. The problem, it seems to me, is that the accumulation of knowledge and  oft-repeated aphorisms seem to have relegated intuition to the vaults of superstition. It's very difficult to trace a long trail of actions and consequences to its logical destination and almost impossible to factor in potential problems - tsunamis, alien invasion, a bad hair cut.

If you can't explain it to a 5-year old boy, you don't understand it properly yourself. Let's remember we are all ignorant, especially us teachers. Oh dear! I started from an incomprehensible corner of my brain and digressed.

Chocolate, when all else fails 

   This is Mario, of course, looking more and more like a young man and less like a little boy.

Whorl: A form that coils or spirals; a curl or swirl: spread the icing in peaks and whorls

And I thought whorls was a make of ice-cream.

Grass is a good falling over surface

As all young boys know, falling over on a soft surface is really good fun. It's pretty good fun if you are an adult too. But most fun of all is watching daddy fall over and then jumping on the parts of his body that get him most into trouble.

The Tower of Hercules and an innocent by-stander

This, as I'm sure you know, is the oldest working light house in the world. Since, over the last twenty years, three enormous oil tankers have been wrecked off the coast of Coruña, it obviously works very well, attracting drunken seamen to the rocks and oiling up the sea.

Obsessed with man-hole covers

No comment needed.

The art of sleep; part three

I don't think the expression on my face has quite the same sheen of peace when I'm asleep. More like an angry Gorgonzola cheese I would imagine.

More human folly

This is a sculpture, already rusting away. Isn't unpainted concrete and rusty metal ugly, or is it just me? Ok, I might be ugly too, but I'm not made from old tin cans

The art of sleep; part 4

Edgar Alan Poe on sleep; "Those little slices of death, how I loathe them". He's obviously never been as sleep deprived as me!

Au natural

Strut your stuff baby. The best beach round here. Of course, it does depend on the company somewhat. One can't always guarantee a sea of tranquillity. Which, sounds like it is somewhere inside the human body - busy being a misnomer.

Tired after a lot of running about

  Some good genes above. Not too sure about the one in the middle with no neck though!

Beachscapes; becoming repetitive daddy!

Before the last picture I have two completely unrelated facts: foirst; I am studying A level maths for fun. I guess I will now have no time for it given that I have no money and must go back to work. Sekond; I have my court case tomorrow which is almost today as it is 23:45. The court case to evict my squatter that is. Even if everything goes according to plan, it will still be a further two months before he is evicted.

The lonely life of the Spanish goalkeeper

 Today's poem:

Deadheading

When petals cringe and curl

and rosehips start to bloat

There's a lesson for the churl

Trapped behind his moat

They sap your will,

Yet full of seed,

Naked spill,

A morbid need.

When her kiss is growing cold

Like her fingers at your wedding

When the trust has all been sold;

Deadheading.

The bed itself

Feeds the flower,

Deceiving elf,

Your final hour.

Born of earth,

Born of sky,

Born to fade,

Born to die.

The hydra holds her deadly heads,

Swaying 'bove the flower beds,

The crimsons, golds and surly reds

faded all to paper.

One last kiss and they will fall,

leave me standing piqued and small

oblivious to your plaintive call.

Rosehips shaking, petals shedding

Black-leaf spreading,

The time is ripe for

Deadheading.