Inspirational Joker Pussy

My thesis has turned me into a menace to society.

I'm searching for inspiration. Writing the methodology chapter of my PhD thesis, which feels as dry as dust, and I don't want it to be, because it's an interesting topic, it's just that the conventions of academic writing mean I'm not allowed to perform it like stand up comedy, or perform it like a dialogue.

I don't even know if I'm allowed to say the word "I". So meh and fiddlesticks. A decision was taken to explore, yada yada

I am going to sink into a deep bath of warm, bubbly water, and play Jeff Buckley very loudly. Fuck you, world of dust-covered library shelves. I shall be interesting!

The Place Where It All Falls Apart

I set out to tell a tale on this blog, and it keeps getting stuck, like an old record on a jukebox in a cafe that needs kicking (you see, I can't even order my subordinate clauses properly.) The needle gets caught in the groove.

(Younger readers, something similar does happen with CD's, but it doesn't sound anything like as funky. And we all bought our record collections again on CD because Tomorrow's World lied to us and said they were so robust you could fry eggs on them and they'd still work. )

I began with the tale of The House on Sandygate Lane, and that ground to a halt after two instalments. I started to map the Seven Ages of Gordie, and got as far as seven years old. I declared a Solstice of Sexuality, and still never got around to saying what that was all about. Then I started quoting chunks of Astral Weeks by Van Morrison. And I got stuck every time.


Confused? You will be... (once I get started)

It's Been A Funny Sort Of Day

I finished a report that's taken me weeks to write. I feel euphoric, but am coughing violently. Not sure if this is psychological, or am allergic to something I ate for supper.

I think I should go to bed, before something interesting happens on Twitter.

Oh noes! Damn you, Darryl Collins!

Too late. It's already started...

The phrase 'Odd One Out'does not really apply here

History

Going back to the house at Sandygate Lane.
In search of demons and strangeness and truths.

"Ce ne'st pas l'histoire qui se repete, c'est la geography qui ne bouge pas"
It's not history that repeats itself, it's geography that won't move.
(Graffiti, Geneva, 1982)

"Celui qui ne bouge pas ne sent pas ses chaînes"
He who doesn't move, doesn't feel his chains.
(Rosa Luxembourg)

Fourth post of the day. As you can tell, I am distracted.

I'm writing. For work. Serious stuff. Going Aaaargh! And reflecting on my nature.

Am I the same person I was when I was thirteen?

Yes... and no. I am his heir.

His executor. I get to unlock the treasure chest of everything that young man put away. I get to play with it, use it, bring it out into the light, fulfil his dreams.

Fulfil his dreams?

I get to decide which of his dreams were worth anything. For I hold the key to his dreams.

That's a responsible job, isn't it?

A Gift from God

So...

I woke up this morning with so much interest and enthusiasm for what I had to do, that I found myself saying

"Don't waste this! It's a gift from God..."

Our regular expert was not available.
Then I thought: "I wonder how I could say what I'm feeling right now without invoking some kind of monotheistic deity that I don't believe in?" So I figured I'd blog about it.

Unfortunately, Hot Vimto's regular theology and religious affairs expert was not available to offer her advice, so I had to make do with Scarlett Johansson instead.

An inadequate substitute

I know, Dear Reader, there's simply no comparison. But this picture of Ms. Johansson, believe it or not, is the number one match on Google Images when you search for "there is no God".

So, in the absence of a proper theologian, she'll have to do. Credit to Fox News for the picture, and another crazy blogger for the interesting choice of caption.

Now, maybe a higher power is at work here? (See, I never said I didn't believe... I just said I didn't believe in... what I don't believe in, okay?) Because Scarlett, apart from making 'Lost In Translation' and being strip-searched at Heathrow with my best friend (he looks like Bill Murray, allegedly) has also recorded an album of Tom Waits songs.

And Tom Waits has received the thumbs up from the Pope. It makes no sense to me at all, but here's the news.

The Civilta Cattolica, a Jesuit journal, the contents of which are subject to Vatican approval, says that Waits represents “the marginalised and misunderstood”.

Father Antonio Spadaro, 40, who normally writes about literature but is emerging as a Roman Catholic authority on pop music, said that Waits, whose songs include Dragging a Dead Priest, had lived a youthful life of “drugs, alcohol and sex” as an outcast on the streets of California.

He therefore understood “the lower depths” of society, and was able to convey the desperation of those on the margins. His past also enabled him to express their “capacity for hope and instinct for happiness” in “authentic songs devoid of vanity and false illusions”, Father Spadaro said. "

So, maybe that'll be alright then?

"Devoid of vanity and false illusions"

I'm not even going to mention what you get when you Google
"a gift from God"...