Dear Diary,
Whilst wistful woeful lamentation of the exotic eastern fox fled far from feeling, thought, I boarded the bus. A couple of foreign travellers were seeking the way to Avebury, Crop Circles, Stonehenge, and the Old White Horse. I thought they might be homeless squatters: they were. I stupidly paraded them through the tiny town, in the midst of a carnival and fair. They stuck out like a sore thumb. The whole town eyed us with suspicion, as if to say "There goes the neighbourhood!" Backpacks and tents, carrier bags and hippified garments, I went to see a close friend of mine. Leaving the German and Spaniard down t'road. My friend wasn't up for a visit. I went back to bid them goodbye. Stayed for some watermelon. We parted ways amicably. I stupidly went back to my friends house. This brought down a lot of heat, we were stopped by the rozzers as a result. Nightmare.
All was not lost however, before we parted ways, the Spaniard was a keen philosopher hobo, the German too had many interesting theories. Amongst which was some discussion of ideas so far out no-one might comprehend, only the very open minded. New-Age (Pseudo?) Science.
Maxx.
Saturday, 30 June 2012
Unspectacular
Dear Diary,
Well, events of note that hath transpired du jour include meeting a foxy Indian linguist (5 languages, including Nipponese) this morning. The exotic goddess bade me stay and talk awhile whilst I await my bus, I was too timid and bailed out.
On my way to the lecture I spied a lone magpie, surely portending sombre fortune.
So anyway, I grooved back into town, On the Flex for once, spied a soaring falcon. I considered picking some wild flowers for a momento, decided against it, then came across a dragonfly I had passed on my walk in. The little feller was brown-bread, dodo stylee. I scooped his colourful corpse up after chanting litany for his departing spirit. I should find a taxidermist, or at least an empty jam jar.
The stroll into town was pleasant, the rivers agreeable. I grabbed a bottle of source (Wild Wood was all they had) and marvelled at the magnificent architecture. Amazing. Hitler wanted to set up his H.Q. here: I can see why. Everybit as nice as Bath or Bristol, just ... better. I'm so proud to be English. Would that Pangloss were here, he'd appreciate this place as much as me. Moreso, for he knows more about it. About everything as a matter of fact. 196 I.Q. Jesus! If virtue is a kind of knowledge then Maxy is surely not merely 139.
Anyhow, I saw some very f- average street entertainers, some drawing scores of people. I wish I had brought my axe (my guitar) as the slide-player I saw played like luke-warm milk, and he didn't sing. If you play alone, you must sing, or you won't earn much but sympathy money. Unless you're John Netheridge or the like. I remember playing Bluejass music with Grant Scot McCormick, hoboing in Lyon. We played for ages, hours, and didn't earn a single centime. I then began to sing, the money came flooding in straight away. Proof. Pudding. Anyhow, no wonder this average player had no gigs, and no more than three coins in his hat. Even in a small town like mine I earn ten times as much as he, and this place is packed with people. Ripe for the pickings, fertile fleeceing ground. The fool.
So, I'm headin' back to the scummy village filled with freindly faces. I loves it.
Adios blogworld,
Maximus Fleximus.
Well, events of note that hath transpired du jour include meeting a foxy Indian linguist (5 languages, including Nipponese) this morning. The exotic goddess bade me stay and talk awhile whilst I await my bus, I was too timid and bailed out.
On my way to the lecture I spied a lone magpie, surely portending sombre fortune.
So anyway, I grooved back into town, On the Flex for once, spied a soaring falcon. I considered picking some wild flowers for a momento, decided against it, then came across a dragonfly I had passed on my walk in. The little feller was brown-bread, dodo stylee. I scooped his colourful corpse up after chanting litany for his departing spirit. I should find a taxidermist, or at least an empty jam jar.
The stroll into town was pleasant, the rivers agreeable. I grabbed a bottle of source (Wild Wood was all they had) and marvelled at the magnificent architecture. Amazing. Hitler wanted to set up his H.Q. here: I can see why. Everybit as nice as Bath or Bristol, just ... better. I'm so proud to be English. Would that Pangloss were here, he'd appreciate this place as much as me. Moreso, for he knows more about it. About everything as a matter of fact. 196 I.Q. Jesus! If virtue is a kind of knowledge then Maxy is surely not merely 139.
Anyhow, I saw some very f- average street entertainers, some drawing scores of people. I wish I had brought my axe (my guitar) as the slide-player I saw played like luke-warm milk, and he didn't sing. If you play alone, you must sing, or you won't earn much but sympathy money. Unless you're John Netheridge or the like. I remember playing Bluejass music with Grant Scot McCormick, hoboing in Lyon. We played for ages, hours, and didn't earn a single centime. I then began to sing, the money came flooding in straight away. Proof. Pudding. Anyhow, no wonder this average player had no gigs, and no more than three coins in his hat. Even in a small town like mine I earn ten times as much as he, and this place is packed with people. Ripe for the pickings, fertile fleeceing ground. The fool.
So, I'm headin' back to the scummy village filled with freindly faces. I loves it.
Adios blogworld,
Maximus Fleximus.
Art Appreciation
Dear Diary,
Well, I made it in the nick of time, hoofing five miles through a maze of streets and hills. I'm about to walk back, having finished attending the talk. I opted to go to the Art History lecture, and although I was up late gassing to Conan last night, so kept nodding off, snoring, an having to wake myself up continuously; t'was however a fascinating lecture indeed. Today hath been very worthwhile methinks.
Now it's back to base and the money I saved on fares (for walking) will be put to good use, all of two bottles of brew, then there's the gig to get to. Uh-oh. I'd better go. I'm in a field of bulls opposite the Uni'. Better scarper, sharpish! (Quick! Let's Get Out of Here! Quinten Blake, my favourite book as a child).
Very much On the Flex,
Maximus.
Well, I made it in the nick of time, hoofing five miles through a maze of streets and hills. I'm about to walk back, having finished attending the talk. I opted to go to the Art History lecture, and although I was up late gassing to Conan last night, so kept nodding off, snoring, an having to wake myself up continuously; t'was however a fascinating lecture indeed. Today hath been very worthwhile methinks.
Now it's back to base and the money I saved on fares (for walking) will be put to good use, all of two bottles of brew, then there's the gig to get to. Uh-oh. I'd better go. I'm in a field of bulls opposite the Uni'. Better scarper, sharpish! (Quick! Let's Get Out of Here! Quinten Blake, my favourite book as a child).
Very much On the Flex,
Maximus.
Foxcombe
Dear Diary,
I'm somewhat daunted and excited about going to Oxford University today. Getting there could be a problem due to yesterday's drink money blow-out. At least I can get to and from the town okay, and I have enough juice in my phone this time to get the global positioning satelitte on the flex. It's about an hour and three quarters walk from the centre, I reckon I can yomp that in under an hour, piece of cake.
I'm regretting booking myself in to learn Spanish, it means I'll miss the Art History lecture. Damn. I should've inspected the program more closely.
Last night was great catching up with Conan. We covered a lot of areas. He's really into this futile "free man of the land movement" and I told him the fruits of my conversation with the bearded Marxist en route to Walton. All the realm is ruled by the Queen and that if people stuck up pirate flags saying "I'm free!" they're not only unwise, but also in grave trouble. Historically the issue of sovereignty was decided a long time ago: Charles the second.
Anyway, we chatted until far passed the witching hour. If I'm lucky I'll get to see my other mates here when I get back from Oxford University. Ooh! I'm so excited!
Stay On the Flex,
Maxx.
I'm somewhat daunted and excited about going to Oxford University today. Getting there could be a problem due to yesterday's drink money blow-out. At least I can get to and from the town okay, and I have enough juice in my phone this time to get the global positioning satelitte on the flex. It's about an hour and three quarters walk from the centre, I reckon I can yomp that in under an hour, piece of cake.
I'm regretting booking myself in to learn Spanish, it means I'll miss the Art History lecture. Damn. I should've inspected the program more closely.
Last night was great catching up with Conan. We covered a lot of areas. He's really into this futile "free man of the land movement" and I told him the fruits of my conversation with the bearded Marxist en route to Walton. All the realm is ruled by the Queen and that if people stuck up pirate flags saying "I'm free!" they're not only unwise, but also in grave trouble. Historically the issue of sovereignty was decided a long time ago: Charles the second.
Anyway, we chatted until far passed the witching hour. If I'm lucky I'll get to see my other mates here when I get back from Oxford University. Ooh! I'm so excited!
Stay On the Flex,
Maxx.
Friday, 29 June 2012
Random Poem
"An isolation sense, that can n'er be escaped,
From further afield to way back home,
The feeling y'just can't sate,
Not vampiric but a longing,
To BElong to somewhere,
Yet to live life for another,
Is futility, austere,
Austerity is the key, a sombre sadness follows,
The life-long search for happiness,
It just 'ain't worth the bother,
What can one do save live somewhere?
In tranquil relativity,
Perhaps out in the countryside,
Maybe down by the sea;
To hear the roar of the lapping waves, makes me feel complete,
Better that than urban hell, the jungle 'tis the street,
So many lost souls gathering, in a city that's never free,
Pay your tax, it's right like that,
How can a man be free?
Not here nor there, it's the law of entropy;
Live, life, find your path that's you,
Watch the hit counter go up,
That's not life.
Watch the spectacle, enjoy: that's life,
Not trapped as a prisoner of your own vice,
Disguise yourself amongst the rustled leaves,
Hide yourself, admist the leafy green trees,
Can we be free? Never!
Just live your life, to the end of wits tether,
Moored on a quay-side, that costs so much,
No more can you feel, that universal hush,
A whisper for a drifter, the park-bench aqualung,
To not stoop so low, but have pride, having fun;
No more waiting on the run,
To back sating: that's to come,
I'm the hart through forests run,
To a home, where it all begun,
So many memories, I cannot escape,
A home-town where no-one can relate,
So I off to the shire down Avebury way,
Where pretty pixies all do play,
Some friends and somewhere to stay,
Comfort, warmth, and another day,
Turn the page,
Begin again."
Max.
From further afield to way back home,
The feeling y'just can't sate,
Not vampiric but a longing,
To BElong to somewhere,
Yet to live life for another,
Is futility, austere,
Austerity is the key, a sombre sadness follows,
The life-long search for happiness,
It just 'ain't worth the bother,
What can one do save live somewhere?
In tranquil relativity,
Perhaps out in the countryside,
Maybe down by the sea;
To hear the roar of the lapping waves, makes me feel complete,
Better that than urban hell, the jungle 'tis the street,
So many lost souls gathering, in a city that's never free,
Pay your tax, it's right like that,
How can a man be free?
Not here nor there, it's the law of entropy;
Live, life, find your path that's you,
Watch the hit counter go up,
That's not life.
Watch the spectacle, enjoy: that's life,
Not trapped as a prisoner of your own vice,
Disguise yourself amongst the rustled leaves,
Hide yourself, admist the leafy green trees,
Can we be free? Never!
Just live your life, to the end of wits tether,
Moored on a quay-side, that costs so much,
No more can you feel, that universal hush,
A whisper for a drifter, the park-bench aqualung,
To not stoop so low, but have pride, having fun;
No more waiting on the run,
To back sating: that's to come,
I'm the hart through forests run,
To a home, where it all begun,
So many memories, I cannot escape,
A home-town where no-one can relate,
So I off to the shire down Avebury way,
Where pretty pixies all do play,
Some friends and somewhere to stay,
Comfort, warmth, and another day,
Turn the page,
Begin again."
Max.
Make Luck
Dear Diary,
I figure you gotta make your own luck. Here in Bath I abandoned the idea of trying to get gigs and went to sit down by the river. I spied a Kingfisher and played awhile, where the acoustics are good. I am now pretty heavily sozzled and after having encounters with various tramps, I realise that life could be a lot worse.
One time I was playing for the Kingfisher and an Indian woman tried to give me some money, I told her I was mainly interested in playing to the flowers, but she pressed the coin into my palm: I wasn't going to complain. I'm late for my bus but I just don't care. I'll get there, eventually. All in good time. Suppin' on a bottle of strong brew (well, 8% the usual) I should be saving my money for more bus fare, but rationalise the situation by thinking "I've enough, a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." Wherever it is, I can get there, one way or another. It don't mean a thing. Adiaphora. Stay On the Flex Maxy. The rain is comin' in.
Mxx
I figure you gotta make your own luck. Here in Bath I abandoned the idea of trying to get gigs and went to sit down by the river. I spied a Kingfisher and played awhile, where the acoustics are good. I am now pretty heavily sozzled and after having encounters with various tramps, I realise that life could be a lot worse.
One time I was playing for the Kingfisher and an Indian woman tried to give me some money, I told her I was mainly interested in playing to the flowers, but she pressed the coin into my palm: I wasn't going to complain. I'm late for my bus but I just don't care. I'll get there, eventually. All in good time. Suppin' on a bottle of strong brew (well, 8% the usual) I should be saving my money for more bus fare, but rationalise the situation by thinking "I've enough, a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." Wherever it is, I can get there, one way or another. It don't mean a thing. Adiaphora. Stay On the Flex Maxy. The rain is comin' in.
Mxx
Gig Hunter
Dear Diary,
I bumped into a kindly Scotsman on the bus. An industrious fellow who'd worked his way up from hobo singer, through pot-scrubber, bar-staff, manager, and now works as a P.I. for some security firm here in Bath. He's lived here for yonks and told me of any number of places that book live acts, music, for gigs. Me being me, I thought I'd hit a few up, try my luck. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, a cavalier-like tenacious attitude that pervades my soul. So. England being what it is, 'tis not easy. No chance of a live demo' here, in this particular pub, which may be problematic (nothing beats live music) but may, if fortune smiles my way, may bear fruit. I have another half-a-dozen bars to hit up before I leave, might be alright. Everything's gonna be alright, whatever the weather, Maxy is most definately, back on the flex,
Yours,
Waxy. xx
I bumped into a kindly Scotsman on the bus. An industrious fellow who'd worked his way up from hobo singer, through pot-scrubber, bar-staff, manager, and now works as a P.I. for some security firm here in Bath. He's lived here for yonks and told me of any number of places that book live acts, music, for gigs. Me being me, I thought I'd hit a few up, try my luck. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, a cavalier-like tenacious attitude that pervades my soul. So. England being what it is, 'tis not easy. No chance of a live demo' here, in this particular pub, which may be problematic (nothing beats live music) but may, if fortune smiles my way, may bear fruit. I have another half-a-dozen bars to hit up before I leave, might be alright. Everything's gonna be alright, whatever the weather, Maxy is most definately, back on the flex,
Yours,
Waxy. xx
Baal
Dear Diary,
I've had but one of my two weekly victuals and I am back ... back on the flex, having the good fortune to cross paths with a jewelry-maker on my travels, amidst the harpists of Glasters. I immediately gave the Ugandan geologist my artefact to inspect. Naturally. T'was as my heart of hearts suspected, but refused to believe. As always, the anticipation of an event is better than the consummation. The stones were Cubris Zirconia having a near identical refractive waveform to diamond, but no. This makes my conscience slightly easier to bare.
The man lives around the corner from me, and like I, loves Glastonbury. A gem-cutter. We spoke of many things. Including the city of Baäl (Basel) situated in three seperate countries: Froggieland, I-tie, and Swiss. Seemingly Albert Hoffmann made his famous bicycle ride there. Magnificent. My White Bicycle. Like the song. L5D. Groovy man.
Right now I'm shit-faced, and ready to rawk! No problems: only solutions.
Stay On the Flex
Maxx.
I've had but one of my two weekly victuals and I am back ... back on the flex, having the good fortune to cross paths with a jewelry-maker on my travels, amidst the harpists of Glasters. I immediately gave the Ugandan geologist my artefact to inspect. Naturally. T'was as my heart of hearts suspected, but refused to believe. As always, the anticipation of an event is better than the consummation. The stones were Cubris Zirconia having a near identical refractive waveform to diamond, but no. This makes my conscience slightly easier to bare.
The man lives around the corner from me, and like I, loves Glastonbury. A gem-cutter. We spoke of many things. Including the city of Baäl (Basel) situated in three seperate countries: Froggieland, I-tie, and Swiss. Seemingly Albert Hoffmann made his famous bicycle ride there. Magnificent. My White Bicycle. Like the song. L5D. Groovy man.
Right now I'm shit-faced, and ready to rawk! No problems: only solutions.
Stay On the Flex
Maxx.
Ashmolean Violins
Dear Diary,
Well, I made it to the station and I'm away to Oxford University for this Arts and Languages meeting of minds. Their's some lectures of most interest to me going on there: namely history and art history. I'm thinking maybe I shoukd have brought less guitars and art materials, but I have a gig the moment I arrive back home; so, like last time I'm not even going to have time enough to pop home before I go to the show.
I wanted to do some painting on the way, but that is proving difficult on a bumpy bus. I think sticking to blogging and guitar playing will be a safe bet. It's really not on the flex me being out of sorts, as per usual, not feeling the Flex just yet. Stone-cold sobriety and n'owt to smoke but organic tabacco. I am thinking of begging my blogging busdy Chris for a ride to Oxford but have made sure this time not to rely on his philanthropy, reserving (just) enough funds for the journeys there and back.
I heard the Ashmolean has a fantastic collection of old violins in their magnanimous museum. I wonder if one day I should get a chance to peruse the display of musical instruments. Not to mention the other vast arrays of wonderous artefacts there and at the Pitt Rivers museum.
The sun is shining and it's time for me to fuel up on humus, bread, and my only two bottles this weekend. Surely I can busk up some more juice on the way. I brought my Masters' book on Classical English Guitar pieces to practice, and to perform, in preparation for the gig. If Bluegrass boy Guilliver is on form, it might be alright in the southern-fried chicken style sounds stage-side.
On the Flex,
Max-out. xx
Well, I made it to the station and I'm away to Oxford University for this Arts and Languages meeting of minds. Their's some lectures of most interest to me going on there: namely history and art history. I'm thinking maybe I shoukd have brought less guitars and art materials, but I have a gig the moment I arrive back home; so, like last time I'm not even going to have time enough to pop home before I go to the show.
I wanted to do some painting on the way, but that is proving difficult on a bumpy bus. I think sticking to blogging and guitar playing will be a safe bet. It's really not on the flex me being out of sorts, as per usual, not feeling the Flex just yet. Stone-cold sobriety and n'owt to smoke but organic tabacco. I am thinking of begging my blogging busdy Chris for a ride to Oxford but have made sure this time not to rely on his philanthropy, reserving (just) enough funds for the journeys there and back.
I heard the Ashmolean has a fantastic collection of old violins in their magnanimous museum. I wonder if one day I should get a chance to peruse the display of musical instruments. Not to mention the other vast arrays of wonderous artefacts there and at the Pitt Rivers museum.
The sun is shining and it's time for me to fuel up on humus, bread, and my only two bottles this weekend. Surely I can busk up some more juice on the way. I brought my Masters' book on Classical English Guitar pieces to practice, and to perform, in preparation for the gig. If Bluegrass boy Guilliver is on form, it might be alright in the southern-fried chicken style sounds stage-side.
On the Flex,
Max-out. xx
Catharsis
Dear Diary,
Catharsis. What a word. I've just looked up the definition. Release of tension through art. Nice. Their's a really groovy seventies band called Catharsis. They play a kind of off the wall progressive rock with yodeling. Focus (Dutch band of the same era) covered them, as did Van Halen.
So anyway, I awoke this morning, managed to free up my email happily, and as a result have realtime updates for my phone. Now I am informed when I get mail, and I can send multiple attachments (finally!).
Anyhow, I am supposed to be on my way upto Oxford today, swing by Conan and Delli, but I'm summoning the will to make such a journey. Aswell as seeing my friends, I would like to see Oxford campus. It's gonna be another mad-dash to get back for the gig, in the nick of time, just like last weekend.
I can't believe I'm actually listening to womens hour, and enjoying it! If either that or the Archers comes on the wireless, I always switch it off immediately. However today is a historical discussion about Mary Queen of Scots. Most interesting indeed. I used to revere the period of (English) history from 450-1065 but since my studies I am not hopelessly in love with the Tudor period (1463-1605) and indeed the 17th Century. Events on the continent are just as important during this time, but God I love Great British history. Especially the poetry and plays written in this time. The resurgence of the Classical scholars, philosophy.
So, I am going to head into sweet release via vice today, find motivation to pick-up the paint-brush and guitar, do some creating, alongside learning those tricky Classical pieces by Doddsy: O-Sensei.
I really am motivated about drawing today. I am going to finally pull my finger out and get some kind of website-app' for my phone where I can upload pictures (can only do that via a 'puter). I used to be able to via wordpress, but it is unsafe.
Though I'm still mooning over K. I did have a nice email from Nichola, whom I met at the Conference. Shame she's married, though that's only to be expected. She's lovely to talk to and a real dish. Any fetching wench with glasses who's equally in love with Classic literature as I is of most interest.
I haven't plucked up the courage to knock on Sue's door. Nor have I pulled my finger out to tidy the house. I am just going to focus on doing the paperwork and art for the moment. Tackle chapter three of Contexts.
I have to get my life together. I can't stop staring at the diamond studded dolphin and am wracked with guilt over what to do. I will most likely covet the treasure, cherish it's beauty before cashing it in. A sparkling swirl of gemstones, refracting off the sunlight. Beautiful.
Anyhow, what to do? What to do? I think breakfast is in order. Perhaps I will finally get around to completing my morality play. Maybe finish a short story or two. Today is for making, producing, instigating the creative act. I was at a loss for the ending to a short story I had started sometime ago. Now I have a great idea for an ending. Catharsis.
I could do with getting off the fags. I never smoked. I only started when I was twenty-four (though I had fallen foul of other vices since about eighteen - a late developer by todays standards). Even my pupil went out and became very drunk the other night, much to the annoyance of her family.
Yesterday I was on the outside, looking in. Today I am on the inside, looking out. Get yourself together Maxy, pick up the paint-brush. Crickey! That's what I must do! Go and see Dover's exhibition. It's running for the last two days today (his mother, also an artist, a piano player, very kindly sent me a postcard with the details). Oh no! I can't, I have to go to Oxford. Nightmare, double-booked myself. The programme for the Oxford Arts and Humanities looks very interesting indeed. I can't wait! Rightey-ho. Must go get prepared for this journey. Take care y'all,
On the Flex,
Maxx.
Catharsis. What a word. I've just looked up the definition. Release of tension through art. Nice. Their's a really groovy seventies band called Catharsis. They play a kind of off the wall progressive rock with yodeling. Focus (Dutch band of the same era) covered them, as did Van Halen.
So anyway, I awoke this morning, managed to free up my email happily, and as a result have realtime updates for my phone. Now I am informed when I get mail, and I can send multiple attachments (finally!).
Anyhow, I am supposed to be on my way upto Oxford today, swing by Conan and Delli, but I'm summoning the will to make such a journey. Aswell as seeing my friends, I would like to see Oxford campus. It's gonna be another mad-dash to get back for the gig, in the nick of time, just like last weekend.
I can't believe I'm actually listening to womens hour, and enjoying it! If either that or the Archers comes on the wireless, I always switch it off immediately. However today is a historical discussion about Mary Queen of Scots. Most interesting indeed. I used to revere the period of (English) history from 450-1065 but since my studies I am not hopelessly in love with the Tudor period (1463-1605) and indeed the 17th Century. Events on the continent are just as important during this time, but God I love Great British history. Especially the poetry and plays written in this time. The resurgence of the Classical scholars, philosophy.
So, I am going to head into sweet release via vice today, find motivation to pick-up the paint-brush and guitar, do some creating, alongside learning those tricky Classical pieces by Doddsy: O-Sensei.
I really am motivated about drawing today. I am going to finally pull my finger out and get some kind of website-app' for my phone where I can upload pictures (can only do that via a 'puter). I used to be able to via wordpress, but it is unsafe.
Though I'm still mooning over K. I did have a nice email from Nichola, whom I met at the Conference. Shame she's married, though that's only to be expected. She's lovely to talk to and a real dish. Any fetching wench with glasses who's equally in love with Classic literature as I is of most interest.
I haven't plucked up the courage to knock on Sue's door. Nor have I pulled my finger out to tidy the house. I am just going to focus on doing the paperwork and art for the moment. Tackle chapter three of Contexts.
I have to get my life together. I can't stop staring at the diamond studded dolphin and am wracked with guilt over what to do. I will most likely covet the treasure, cherish it's beauty before cashing it in. A sparkling swirl of gemstones, refracting off the sunlight. Beautiful.
Anyhow, what to do? What to do? I think breakfast is in order. Perhaps I will finally get around to completing my morality play. Maybe finish a short story or two. Today is for making, producing, instigating the creative act. I was at a loss for the ending to a short story I had started sometime ago. Now I have a great idea for an ending. Catharsis.
I could do with getting off the fags. I never smoked. I only started when I was twenty-four (though I had fallen foul of other vices since about eighteen - a late developer by todays standards). Even my pupil went out and became very drunk the other night, much to the annoyance of her family.
Yesterday I was on the outside, looking in. Today I am on the inside, looking out. Get yourself together Maxy, pick up the paint-brush. Crickey! That's what I must do! Go and see Dover's exhibition. It's running for the last two days today (his mother, also an artist, a piano player, very kindly sent me a postcard with the details). Oh no! I can't, I have to go to Oxford. Nightmare, double-booked myself. The programme for the Oxford Arts and Humanities looks very interesting indeed. I can't wait! Rightey-ho. Must go get prepared for this journey. Take care y'all,
On the Flex,
Maxx.
The Fulbrook Find
This metal (copper?) formed dophin (brooch?) measures approximately one and a half inches across and about half an inch wide. This artefact probably weighs about an ounce. On the reverse side, five pointed star-shapes are cut out of the back of the copper, interspersed with a few small circular dots. On the front face are ninety-three diamonds(!!), making this piece worth about a fair-few grand(!!) It has an obsidian eye. Holy Mother of Mary of God, my Lord! What hath I in my possession?!
Straightening out from the smokey haze in the after movie ritual of sacred leaf, Maxy Waxy returned home to a cup of green tea, a slice of bread, and a bowl of rice; only to gaze upon in wonder at the sparkling sea of studded swirling stones of many precious worth. My God. What hath I stumbled across.
All my carefully nurtured hippy philosophy, Leftist Zen anti-materialist beliefs, all now thrown out of the window in one fowl swoop! This is my yacht in St. Tropez, or my beach-flat in Marseille, or a studio in Montpellier. Mon Dieux!
I should hand it in. I know it. My conscience weighs heavy.
It cannot be wasted as a mere prop in a Quantified Interactive Storytelling session (D&D). No sira! No.
This is my ticket to the sun. Time to find more gigs snail-side. Eat well. Get out of the place for a while. Take my study books and guitar, and head on down-south. Man! This is awesome news! First I need to find someone who knows about gem-stones and jewelry. No problems: only solutions. Then we need to find a mineral and jewelry exposition. Again, just a stones throw to the precious gemstone traders annual get together. Nice. I shouldn't care about the money. I don't care about the money. But their's only so much rice a man can eat. I am taking the wrong path. The artefact should be returned to its rightful owner. What to do? What to do? I considered giving it to Pangloss, but no. This one fell out of the sky and landed in some poor sods lap (moi) and shall forever rest in an auctioneers showroom snail-side in froggieland. Yessiree. This beautiful object is destined to be traded in for a small dwelling on a beach somewhere. A sunny workshop with a palm tree coconut garden, like straight out of the old bounty ad'. Man! Max is grabbing his beach towl. Their's time yet to catch the plane.
Maximus Richovernightsomehow Fleximus.
Straightening out from the smokey haze in the after movie ritual of sacred leaf, Maxy Waxy returned home to a cup of green tea, a slice of bread, and a bowl of rice; only to gaze upon in wonder at the sparkling sea of studded swirling stones of many precious worth. My God. What hath I stumbled across.
All my carefully nurtured hippy philosophy, Leftist Zen anti-materialist beliefs, all now thrown out of the window in one fowl swoop! This is my yacht in St. Tropez, or my beach-flat in Marseille, or a studio in Montpellier. Mon Dieux!
I should hand it in. I know it. My conscience weighs heavy.
It cannot be wasted as a mere prop in a Quantified Interactive Storytelling session (D&D). No sira! No.
This is my ticket to the sun. Time to find more gigs snail-side. Eat well. Get out of the place for a while. Take my study books and guitar, and head on down-south. Man! This is awesome news! First I need to find someone who knows about gem-stones and jewelry. No problems: only solutions. Then we need to find a mineral and jewelry exposition. Again, just a stones throw to the precious gemstone traders annual get together. Nice. I shouldn't care about the money. I don't care about the money. But their's only so much rice a man can eat. I am taking the wrong path. The artefact should be returned to its rightful owner. What to do? What to do? I considered giving it to Pangloss, but no. This one fell out of the sky and landed in some poor sods lap (moi) and shall forever rest in an auctioneers showroom snail-side in froggieland. Yessiree. This beautiful object is destined to be traded in for a small dwelling on a beach somewhere. A sunny workshop with a palm tree coconut garden, like straight out of the old bounty ad'. Man! Max is grabbing his beach towl. Their's time yet to catch the plane.
Maximus Richovernightsomehow Fleximus.
Thursday, 28 June 2012
Zen Sick
Dear Diary,
Stay On the Flex Maxy, it's not that bad. I've reluctantly agreed to dog-sit some nightmare wolves for a friend of mine. In doing so I've also been roped into packing up the stall, and have reluctantly agreed to recommence guitar tuition.
I watched a fabulous movie with a keyboard player tonight: Ed Green. Marvellous picture, shot in black and white. The episode of Willow the Wisp we took in afterwards was equally if not more enjoyable.
In parts of the film I was laughing heartily but occasionaly I would lapse into a well of depression meditating too much on K. T'other, and all the tom-foolery. Snap out of it Maxy! Get Back On the Flex!
Right now, sat a room even untidier than mine, which is saying something, I float above the mess and drift along in a smokey bubble, dry of the dreaded drink, and almost content.
The ever elusive joy that escaped me on the road, a time where I thought a snug home might make me feel fulfillment. Alas, no, Maxy is maudlin, pining for Susie-Q, or someone new, nice, full of spicey racy tales to make of excitement. Nay. Methinks Maxy hath to be used to his own company to be truly happy. Happiness. What is it anyway? That first line, bar, music, guitar? Or something deeper. The nibanna whence all thoughts of earthly wants are fled. That early morning in the Orchard, wth mist rolling in off the sea, where Maxy was once, in-tune with the universe.
An elusive tranquility, n'er to be touched again, just a slim slice of which have I ever felt encore since then, when, being engulfed in golden petals of light, enlightening.
As it was, back in that place, so many moons ago now, but is only yesterday in souvenier.
By the way, the dog just thew up. Then ate it. Nice. Just to put this into perspective as to where I'm writing this from. Grim reality. I am staying I don't know why. Oh yes, I must finish my cup of tea.
Stay On the Flex,
Maxy Waxy xx
Stay On the Flex Maxy, it's not that bad. I've reluctantly agreed to dog-sit some nightmare wolves for a friend of mine. In doing so I've also been roped into packing up the stall, and have reluctantly agreed to recommence guitar tuition.
I watched a fabulous movie with a keyboard player tonight: Ed Green. Marvellous picture, shot in black and white. The episode of Willow the Wisp we took in afterwards was equally if not more enjoyable.
In parts of the film I was laughing heartily but occasionaly I would lapse into a well of depression meditating too much on K. T'other, and all the tom-foolery. Snap out of it Maxy! Get Back On the Flex!
Right now, sat a room even untidier than mine, which is saying something, I float above the mess and drift along in a smokey bubble, dry of the dreaded drink, and almost content.
The ever elusive joy that escaped me on the road, a time where I thought a snug home might make me feel fulfillment. Alas, no, Maxy is maudlin, pining for Susie-Q, or someone new, nice, full of spicey racy tales to make of excitement. Nay. Methinks Maxy hath to be used to his own company to be truly happy. Happiness. What is it anyway? That first line, bar, music, guitar? Or something deeper. The nibanna whence all thoughts of earthly wants are fled. That early morning in the Orchard, wth mist rolling in off the sea, where Maxy was once, in-tune with the universe.
An elusive tranquility, n'er to be touched again, just a slim slice of which have I ever felt encore since then, when, being engulfed in golden petals of light, enlightening.
As it was, back in that place, so many moons ago now, but is only yesterday in souvenier.
By the way, the dog just thew up. Then ate it. Nice. Just to put this into perspective as to where I'm writing this from. Grim reality. I am staying I don't know why. Oh yes, I must finish my cup of tea.
Stay On the Flex,
Maxy Waxy xx
The Verdict
Dear Diary,
More developments in relation to the case: it is readily apparent that the mess is being resolved (more or less) amicably. It is a sensitive issue, and I should n'er breath a word of it here. It is also apparent that I have been treated unfairly, but submit to the will of the Senate, therefore mustn't gripe. I was not suspended from duty, likewise neither was I expelled. I could appeal, in truth, I should appeal, but sagacity tells me not to.
Seconds out, round two! *ding ding*
Stone, moving in with Machiavellian manipulation makes a move wide of Maxy's centre. She swings with a hook, knocking him for six. He staggers back, reeling from the force of the blow, but manages to steady himself and remain standing. Max tries to retaliate, but to little avail. The wild series of rabbit-punches seem to have little or no effect on the analyst. He clinches. She shrugs him off with ease, only to deliver a final devastating uppercut which puts him flat on his arse. He's trying to get up by climbing the ringside ropes, but doesn't manage to get back on his feet. The ten count, and he's outta there. The crowd goes wild! The title fight is won, the game is over, and the shrewd and cunning puligistic phycho' analyst wins the fight. It's a knock out.
Brainiacs and whatever-heads from all corners of the blogosphere cry out in admiration, jubilation, at the verdict. The speaker hails over the microphone:
"The winner of the metaphorical match up title-fight, by knock-out in the second round, ladies and gentlemen: the new heavy-weight champion of the world, Rosetta Stoooooonnnnneeeee!" *cheers* *cries of joy* Stone takes the microphone, addressing the audience of duped intellectuals.
"I'd like to thank my trainer: Niccolo Machiavelli, my coach John Malthus, and my manager Adam Smith, for this victory. I want a full and frank apology, publicly, from Maxwell."
Max is being rushed to hospital, suffering badly from concussion, but as he's being loaded on to the stretcher simply shakes his head in adamant defiance. His trainer Karl Marx and coach Freiderich Engles are trying to help Max into the ambulance now. Leon Faucher, Max's manager is swearing in French at the devious capitalists that have become the bane of Maxy's life. It falls on deaf ears, only Niccolo Machiavelli comprehends the obscenities, and retorts in equally acidic and vulgar outpour in Italian.
So it's over. Thank God for that (not that it is popular to believe in God or truth nowerdays, being shrewd and secular is far more a la mode.) It could have been a lot worse, for either party, but business as usual, justice was served in the very same manner for Maxy as t'was for John Herman Brian (1683-1707) and Stephen Ward (1910-1963).
Pangloss once spoke of a trial he had been to in Italy, where the man up on the stand, facing charges, opted to defend himself. His defence was eloquent, the gypsy-gangster said to the judge, "I am [so and so] from the noble family line of the Brigante." (Brigands) An unfavourable verdict was given. The fellow then began scrabbling about on the floor, clawing the ground. The judge asked, "What are you doing man?" The man's response? "Where is the justice? I'm looking for the justice." The judge doubled his sentence, to two life-terms.
It is not wise to speak of these things, I am in danger of landing myself in further hot-water. Can Maxy stop blogging? Erm, no. I compare thee, not to a summers day, mine most worthily requited opponent, but instead compare thee to Alfred Hinds (1917-1991). A highly intelligent person. In-particularly what Superintendent Herbert Sparks had to say about the 1964 trail against him. The two people (Hinds and psycho'-analyst) are remarkably similar in intellect and methods. Let this be the last remark either of us make about this ... traumatizing miscarriage.
On a lighter note. Maxy managed to hold out all of two hours without any baccy, raiding his piggy bank of enough for a pouch. A good job too, he needs it after reading the verdict. Anyway, at least God is looking out for me, from the Emperyean. On my way home I found a gemstone studded treasure, only a small artefact, possibly worth a fair few bob (though I would need someone like Pangloss to verify that) and certainly aesthetically very pretty indeed. My instinct tells me to hand it in to the authorities, I shalt not lose faith in the system. I was tempted to give you people an object-centred approach analysis of the artefact, but to avoid further prosecution, I will keep a lid on it. Very cool man. Very cool indeed. I am truly blessed. However, it is certain that the metallic animal studded with precious gem-stones I found will be put to good use in a Dungeons and Dragons session (to represent a creature) as it's the right scale, and I don't have many of that type of animal. It seems a bit of a waste, as I could quite easily sell it, but thankfully I am to the extreme Left. So care more for the artefacts means of production, rather than money.
I must make it to my resident gig this weekend, as Gulliver is due to pick some banjo. Yet Maxy is taking another direction with his musical development, practicing Classical Guitar. My "Master" (O-Sensei) Tony Dodds once taught me some pieces from a marvellous book he'd written. Ten English Pieces for Guitar. After re-learning these dainty tunes, I intend to buy the rest of the books from his Capriol collection, namely: Thomas Arne: Sonata No.7, Airs and Dances (traditional pieces from England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales), and perhaps [providing I can find someone equal or better than me on the instrument] English Music for Two Guitars. I am toying with the notion of learning both guitar parts from that book, then hitting the studio to put them down.
So anyway, a bath, a cigarette, and to forget all my troubles, and just be happy to be alive. Not slung out of the University, nor suspended. Despite my gripes, my rants, I feel blessed (lucky) to hath stumbled across such valuable treasure today, heaven sent judicious satisfaction.
Take care of yourself, and each other,
Stay On the Flex,
Max-out.
More developments in relation to the case: it is readily apparent that the mess is being resolved (more or less) amicably. It is a sensitive issue, and I should n'er breath a word of it here. It is also apparent that I have been treated unfairly, but submit to the will of the Senate, therefore mustn't gripe. I was not suspended from duty, likewise neither was I expelled. I could appeal, in truth, I should appeal, but sagacity tells me not to.
Seconds out, round two! *ding ding*
Stone, moving in with Machiavellian manipulation makes a move wide of Maxy's centre. She swings with a hook, knocking him for six. He staggers back, reeling from the force of the blow, but manages to steady himself and remain standing. Max tries to retaliate, but to little avail. The wild series of rabbit-punches seem to have little or no effect on the analyst. He clinches. She shrugs him off with ease, only to deliver a final devastating uppercut which puts him flat on his arse. He's trying to get up by climbing the ringside ropes, but doesn't manage to get back on his feet. The ten count, and he's outta there. The crowd goes wild! The title fight is won, the game is over, and the shrewd and cunning puligistic phycho' analyst wins the fight. It's a knock out.
Brainiacs and whatever-heads from all corners of the blogosphere cry out in admiration, jubilation, at the verdict. The speaker hails over the microphone:
"The winner of the metaphorical match up title-fight, by knock-out in the second round, ladies and gentlemen: the new heavy-weight champion of the world, Rosetta Stoooooonnnnneeeee!" *cheers* *cries of joy* Stone takes the microphone, addressing the audience of duped intellectuals.
"I'd like to thank my trainer: Niccolo Machiavelli, my coach John Malthus, and my manager Adam Smith, for this victory. I want a full and frank apology, publicly, from Maxwell."
Max is being rushed to hospital, suffering badly from concussion, but as he's being loaded on to the stretcher simply shakes his head in adamant defiance. His trainer Karl Marx and coach Freiderich Engles are trying to help Max into the ambulance now. Leon Faucher, Max's manager is swearing in French at the devious capitalists that have become the bane of Maxy's life. It falls on deaf ears, only Niccolo Machiavelli comprehends the obscenities, and retorts in equally acidic and vulgar outpour in Italian.
So it's over. Thank God for that (not that it is popular to believe in God or truth nowerdays, being shrewd and secular is far more a la mode.) It could have been a lot worse, for either party, but business as usual, justice was served in the very same manner for Maxy as t'was for John Herman Brian (1683-1707) and Stephen Ward (1910-1963).
Pangloss once spoke of a trial he had been to in Italy, where the man up on the stand, facing charges, opted to defend himself. His defence was eloquent, the gypsy-gangster said to the judge, "I am [so and so] from the noble family line of the Brigante." (Brigands) An unfavourable verdict was given. The fellow then began scrabbling about on the floor, clawing the ground. The judge asked, "What are you doing man?" The man's response? "Where is the justice? I'm looking for the justice." The judge doubled his sentence, to two life-terms.
It is not wise to speak of these things, I am in danger of landing myself in further hot-water. Can Maxy stop blogging? Erm, no. I compare thee, not to a summers day, mine most worthily requited opponent, but instead compare thee to Alfred Hinds (1917-1991). A highly intelligent person. In-particularly what Superintendent Herbert Sparks had to say about the 1964 trail against him. The two people (Hinds and psycho'-analyst) are remarkably similar in intellect and methods. Let this be the last remark either of us make about this ... traumatizing miscarriage.
On a lighter note. Maxy managed to hold out all of two hours without any baccy, raiding his piggy bank of enough for a pouch. A good job too, he needs it after reading the verdict. Anyway, at least God is looking out for me, from the Emperyean. On my way home I found a gemstone studded treasure, only a small artefact, possibly worth a fair few bob (though I would need someone like Pangloss to verify that) and certainly aesthetically very pretty indeed. My instinct tells me to hand it in to the authorities, I shalt not lose faith in the system. I was tempted to give you people an object-centred approach analysis of the artefact, but to avoid further prosecution, I will keep a lid on it. Very cool man. Very cool indeed. I am truly blessed. However, it is certain that the metallic animal studded with precious gem-stones I found will be put to good use in a Dungeons and Dragons session (to represent a creature) as it's the right scale, and I don't have many of that type of animal. It seems a bit of a waste, as I could quite easily sell it, but thankfully I am to the extreme Left. So care more for the artefacts means of production, rather than money.
I must make it to my resident gig this weekend, as Gulliver is due to pick some banjo. Yet Maxy is taking another direction with his musical development, practicing Classical Guitar. My "Master" (O-Sensei) Tony Dodds once taught me some pieces from a marvellous book he'd written. Ten English Pieces for Guitar. After re-learning these dainty tunes, I intend to buy the rest of the books from his Capriol collection, namely: Thomas Arne: Sonata No.7, Airs and Dances (traditional pieces from England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales), and perhaps [providing I can find someone equal or better than me on the instrument] English Music for Two Guitars. I am toying with the notion of learning both guitar parts from that book, then hitting the studio to put them down.
So anyway, a bath, a cigarette, and to forget all my troubles, and just be happy to be alive. Not slung out of the University, nor suspended. Despite my gripes, my rants, I feel blessed (lucky) to hath stumbled across such valuable treasure today, heaven sent judicious satisfaction.
Take care of yourself, and each other,
Stay On the Flex,
Max-out.
Seige Day
Dear Diary,
Good Morning. I awake this glorious morning to a text message saying that I don't have to babysit for Wolfairy. I suspect she'll be hanging out with her friend J. who lives in the orient. He's an old scouser hippy-guru, a gentleman, and a groover.
I am just waking up with a cup of green tea, some 100% organic brown-bread toast, a bowl of rice, an orange, and some vegetable soup I just made - with plenty of garlic and ginger in. I am on this 'health-trip' trying to get myself together.
The house is still a state, but at least I managed to get the rubbish taken out this morning. One and half carrier bags, not a lot of waste for a single-guy. I am also coming off the fags and drink today. Thought I hath not drunk this week a great deal, (yesterday I had a celebratory tipple) I have however smoked a lot of tabac' which wasn't helping my singing voice, or rather, lack of.
It was nice to turn on the radio (4) today and hear In Our Time, I have missed the last month or so worths of broadcasts but normally listen-in religiously to Melvyn Bragg and company, intellectualising, philosophising, it is seriously on the flex.
Today, today I will tidy the house. Do the laundry. Change the bed-clothes. Do my taxes. Then go see Susie-Q (Sue). Man, she's a total babe, so very geeky, glasses (my only real kink, well, that and music, art or history being a major turn-on for me) anyway, she is ideal. Late thirties. Doesn't drink too much, doesn't smoke too much, is open-minded, gentle, soft, warm. Ahh. I hope she's in. Ever since she left the note in through my door, I have wondered if she is off with some other man(s). Maybe. Probably. It's hardly surprizing. She's cute. I know she speaks to my 'nemesis' (the male one). Ah-well, nobodies perfect.
Coming off cigarettes is not so easy for me. When I do so I always put every bit of smoking paraphernalia out of sight: mind. Then I will stumble across a rizla packet or lighter, and cannot be bothered to move it, and it will be looking at me, irritating me, out of the corner of my eye. Blogging helps. Stroking my self-centred ego. Yey.
This In Our Time is seriously On the Flex, talking about some dude called Al'Qunidi (dodge spelling prolly). Intellectual intercourse. Mass debate. I think the soup is almost done, then it's bath-time and cleaning up the house. Anything to distract me from being sober, out of cigarettes, and unable to smoke any kind of chollie. Bugger. Oh well. Will-power. Volontaire through Voltaire.
Stay On the Flex,
Maxx
Good Morning. I awake this glorious morning to a text message saying that I don't have to babysit for Wolfairy. I suspect she'll be hanging out with her friend J. who lives in the orient. He's an old scouser hippy-guru, a gentleman, and a groover.
I am just waking up with a cup of green tea, some 100% organic brown-bread toast, a bowl of rice, an orange, and some vegetable soup I just made - with plenty of garlic and ginger in. I am on this 'health-trip' trying to get myself together.
The house is still a state, but at least I managed to get the rubbish taken out this morning. One and half carrier bags, not a lot of waste for a single-guy. I am also coming off the fags and drink today. Thought I hath not drunk this week a great deal, (yesterday I had a celebratory tipple) I have however smoked a lot of tabac' which wasn't helping my singing voice, or rather, lack of.
It was nice to turn on the radio (4) today and hear In Our Time, I have missed the last month or so worths of broadcasts but normally listen-in religiously to Melvyn Bragg and company, intellectualising, philosophising, it is seriously on the flex.
Today, today I will tidy the house. Do the laundry. Change the bed-clothes. Do my taxes. Then go see Susie-Q (Sue). Man, she's a total babe, so very geeky, glasses (my only real kink, well, that and music, art or history being a major turn-on for me) anyway, she is ideal. Late thirties. Doesn't drink too much, doesn't smoke too much, is open-minded, gentle, soft, warm. Ahh. I hope she's in. Ever since she left the note in through my door, I have wondered if she is off with some other man(s). Maybe. Probably. It's hardly surprizing. She's cute. I know she speaks to my 'nemesis' (the male one). Ah-well, nobodies perfect.
Coming off cigarettes is not so easy for me. When I do so I always put every bit of smoking paraphernalia out of sight: mind. Then I will stumble across a rizla packet or lighter, and cannot be bothered to move it, and it will be looking at me, irritating me, out of the corner of my eye. Blogging helps. Stroking my self-centred ego. Yey.
This In Our Time is seriously On the Flex, talking about some dude called Al'Qunidi (dodge spelling prolly). Intellectual intercourse. Mass debate. I think the soup is almost done, then it's bath-time and cleaning up the house. Anything to distract me from being sober, out of cigarettes, and unable to smoke any kind of chollie. Bugger. Oh well. Will-power. Volontaire through Voltaire.
Stay On the Flex,
Maxx
Wednesday, 27 June 2012
Soup-Kitchen Roots
Dear Diary,
On the Flex?! No. Not really. I've run out of all supplies except food, and it's Thorsday already, a rubbish day and the 'seige' without vice. Thankfully I am to perhaps be recompenced, if only a mere modicum for picking the boy up from school, and sitting for two hours. Anyway. For the moment I'm fcuked. For vice at least. Nothing doing. Just the guitar. It's all good.
What the fcuk are we gonna do Maxy Waxy?! Hmmm.!? Get the fcuk back On the Flex is what. Find your path. Musca de la vita. Yea. Verily I say unto thee: What's happenin' man? I don't know ... what I'm writing here, but I do know, things are gonna sober up, very fcuk shortly, but that's cool. I can say in all honesty that I hath been sober for three days already, but today transgressed, if only slightly. In celebratory fashion for completing chapter two (by the awesome Ole Peter Grel) I should quite rightly indulge in a small victual, of only for morales sake.
Take Care y'all. I'm hoonered right now, but not for long. Whatever the 'morrow brings, it's alright by me, merrily. G'night blog-world. Stay On the Flex.
Maxy xx
On the Flex?! No. Not really. I've run out of all supplies except food, and it's Thorsday already, a rubbish day and the 'seige' without vice. Thankfully I am to perhaps be recompenced, if only a mere modicum for picking the boy up from school, and sitting for two hours. Anyway. For the moment I'm fcuked. For vice at least. Nothing doing. Just the guitar. It's all good.
What the fcuk are we gonna do Maxy Waxy?! Hmmm.!? Get the fcuk back On the Flex is what. Find your path. Musca de la vita. Yea. Verily I say unto thee: What's happenin' man? I don't know ... what I'm writing here, but I do know, things are gonna sober up, very fcuk shortly, but that's cool. I can say in all honesty that I hath been sober for three days already, but today transgressed, if only slightly. In celebratory fashion for completing chapter two (by the awesome Ole Peter Grel) I should quite rightly indulge in a small victual, of only for morales sake.
Take Care y'all. I'm hoonered right now, but not for long. Whatever the 'morrow brings, it's alright by me, merrily. G'night blog-world. Stay On the Flex.
Maxy xx
Adiaphora
Dear Diary,
What the Flex is going on? Well, I ran a couple of errands today, milk, tabac', for Wolfairy. Immediately regretted doing so, for lack of tact, subtlety, in being vociferous regarding certain matters of all sensitivities that bequeath a hazy evening. Alas, methinks it best to hold thy tongue. Of course, the bar-maid ex-landlady, sleeping five in a shared room, and paying seventy par semaine for the privilege no less, hath ratted on Maxy for strong-arming some Camden carrot t'other night. 'Tis of no consequence. The maidens dids't resist mine poesy and I was promptly slung out, afore cementing the other errand of babysitting tomorrow night. So be it.
Maxy is hazy right now. *takes a puff of paradise* *exhales in betwixt nibanna* I hath given up the dreaded tabac'. No more booze. Nor smoke. Tabac' at least. Time enough for a sly pip, headin' back on the Flex, all thoughts of time lost. What happened today?
As I did run mine errand I noticed a bus with the number-plate 'Flex' or 'FLX' rather. Cool. I floated back from the shop. Played some guitar up on the hill, had a load of flack for not being on the flex, then made up for it by quirky poesy and guitar playing. Such is life in Maxy's world. I feel like J. Springer saying this but, I do believe,
Take Care of Yourself,
and Each Other,
Maximus. xx
What the Flex is going on? Well, I ran a couple of errands today, milk, tabac', for Wolfairy. Immediately regretted doing so, for lack of tact, subtlety, in being vociferous regarding certain matters of all sensitivities that bequeath a hazy evening. Alas, methinks it best to hold thy tongue. Of course, the bar-maid ex-landlady, sleeping five in a shared room, and paying seventy par semaine for the privilege no less, hath ratted on Maxy for strong-arming some Camden carrot t'other night. 'Tis of no consequence. The maidens dids't resist mine poesy and I was promptly slung out, afore cementing the other errand of babysitting tomorrow night. So be it.
Maxy is hazy right now. *takes a puff of paradise* *exhales in betwixt nibanna* I hath given up the dreaded tabac'. No more booze. Nor smoke. Tabac' at least. Time enough for a sly pip, headin' back on the Flex, all thoughts of time lost. What happened today?
As I did run mine errand I noticed a bus with the number-plate 'Flex' or 'FLX' rather. Cool. I floated back from the shop. Played some guitar up on the hill, had a load of flack for not being on the flex, then made up for it by quirky poesy and guitar playing. Such is life in Maxy's world. I feel like J. Springer saying this but, I do believe,
Take Care of Yourself,
and Each Other,
Maximus. xx
Pugilism
In the blue corner, weighing in at one-hundred and sixty-three lbs (I.Q.) is the maiden with the mostest, the psychotropic priestess, the banjolouki queen ladies and gentlemen, let's hear it for ... the Rosetta Stoooooone! *huge round of applause* *cheers from all sides of the stadium*
In the red corner, weighing in at one-hundred and thirty-nine lbs (I.Q.) is the guitar-picker, the hobo, the tramp, the no-one and only, nothing-doing, magick Maxwell Laaaaatttthhhhhaaaaaammmm! *boos* *hiss*
Seconds out, round one! *ding ding*
Commentary: Stone there, sizing up his opponent, circling wide, watching. Max, telegraphing his moves, get's distracted as Stone calls him a 'fucking hippy' and boom! Lands a staggering right-cross to Max's Face(Book). He's tottering, he's teetering, and he's down!
One! Two! Three! Four! He's up! Max is up. How many fingers am I holding up? Two. Okay. (The match continues.)
Max swings for a wild haymaker. Stone dodges it with ease, and is working him on his head and body (email and wordpress) Max falters, a hook from Stone, and he's down again!
One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! and he's on his feet once more. Disorientated now, Max goes for the solar plexus, another miss, the crowd roars with appreciation as Stone goes for another cross (his YouTube channel). What's this?! Max refuses to go down, lands a staggering uppercut to Stone, who stays on his feet.
The bell rings. Both Capitalist and Communist go back to their respective corners. Max is bleeding badly. Stone seems unhurt.
This is what it is like, metaphorically speaking. Maxy has lost his voice. He can no longer sing. Bummer.
This is all reminiscent of what's been goin' down in groove town.
Luckily, Maxy lived in a tent for so long, that it is only other people that actually need a plug-socket. Sure, I like a banjo, a guitar, a banjuitar, or a book, but not a plug socket. I'm going to keep on keepin' on.
It doesn't affect me, nor should it do. Feed that electricity meter y'all. I am minimalist. The simple bare necessities of life. Pangloss would melt them down and transform them in to filigree flowers. I don't care about money.
This futile tit-for-tat struggle will bear no fruit. Just bad seeds. Hate begets hate, and I want it to stop.
In the red corner, weighing in at one-hundred and thirty-nine lbs (I.Q.) is the guitar-picker, the hobo, the tramp, the no-one and only, nothing-doing, magick Maxwell Laaaaatttthhhhhaaaaaammmm! *boos* *hiss*
Seconds out, round one! *ding ding*
Commentary: Stone there, sizing up his opponent, circling wide, watching. Max, telegraphing his moves, get's distracted as Stone calls him a 'fucking hippy' and boom! Lands a staggering right-cross to Max's Face(Book). He's tottering, he's teetering, and he's down!
One! Two! Three! Four! He's up! Max is up. How many fingers am I holding up? Two. Okay. (The match continues.)
Max swings for a wild haymaker. Stone dodges it with ease, and is working him on his head and body (email and wordpress) Max falters, a hook from Stone, and he's down again!
One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! and he's on his feet once more. Disorientated now, Max goes for the solar plexus, another miss, the crowd roars with appreciation as Stone goes for another cross (his YouTube channel). What's this?! Max refuses to go down, lands a staggering uppercut to Stone, who stays on his feet.
The bell rings. Both Capitalist and Communist go back to their respective corners. Max is bleeding badly. Stone seems unhurt.
This is what it is like, metaphorically speaking. Maxy has lost his voice. He can no longer sing. Bummer.
This is all reminiscent of what's been goin' down in groove town.
Luckily, Maxy lived in a tent for so long, that it is only other people that actually need a plug-socket. Sure, I like a banjo, a guitar, a banjuitar, or a book, but not a plug socket. I'm going to keep on keepin' on.
It doesn't affect me, nor should it do. Feed that electricity meter y'all. I am minimalist. The simple bare necessities of life. Pangloss would melt them down and transform them in to filigree flowers. I don't care about money.
This futile tit-for-tat struggle will bear no fruit. Just bad seeds. Hate begets hate, and I want it to stop.
Tuesday, 26 June 2012
It's just not Cricket
I know not what hath happened, just that it was not good. My credibility was destroyed, and what little faith anyone had in me was gone. It shouldn't matter to me, but it does. What hurt the most was that I had trusted her. It was all ruined. The shame shadowed me at the show, the Conference, when a kindly Ulsterman believed her instead of me. Alas, I am who? Just another man. Yet, no. She is more of a man than I am. Men don't bawl.
If anything I compare myself to a collie, a sheep-dog: frail, clever (for a dog, at least), faithful, in want of attention. Cats all scatter when I strut along my strip. I am smelly, and relatively unkempt. But I am not a sheep-dog, much as I wish to be right now. It would make things a lot simpler: a dogs life.
A new day dawns, and I will turn the page. A clean leaf where I press my oil-pastel to the paper. Making a sketch of one of Dover's charcoals. I should do something original, but cannot summon imagination. Instead, I paint a picture with words.
This sketch of a story is my only release from the feelings that hath plagued mine life for what seems like an age. Where did it all go wrong? Who cares!? I do.
This little patch of paradise, a topical retreat into myself. Egoistic, self-centred, are blogs. In the world where so much mud-slinging goes on this page gives birth to a new tale. One filled with a lone magpie. Seen each day this past week. An omen of nothing, no-one. Or maybe not. I dids't see one, only to spy another, and another. Who knows what the future holds? Not I.
As everything came to a head last week, the night before I was to set off for the Conference, something strange happened. I had paid her tribute by way of a compliment, southern-fried chicken style. As I sat meditating in mellow inebriation, her spirit came to caress in gratitude. It was an intense experience. My spirit can soar at will, but this night it needed not go anywhere, for she arrived by my side. I hath not spoken of it to another soul, until now.
Most people think I'm nuts, most of all her. The confounded persona is proof enough of a sensitive mind, yet t'was the tipping of the scales, by way of manipulation, playing silly-buggers, that were to tear apart numerous relations, and sever my link to the University writers. We still remain amicable, if only just (in between threats).
The wound festers, aggravated by the salty rubbing-in that is the trial. I hath not a strong case, and will approach this as would a cricketer. As I am on the brink of being bowled out, I will try my best to knock it for six.
In the worst case scenario I will suffer expulsion. Even in the misty haze that is this clouded web of deceit, I sleep soundly.
If anything I compare myself to a collie, a sheep-dog: frail, clever (for a dog, at least), faithful, in want of attention. Cats all scatter when I strut along my strip. I am smelly, and relatively unkempt. But I am not a sheep-dog, much as I wish to be right now. It would make things a lot simpler: a dogs life.
A new day dawns, and I will turn the page. A clean leaf where I press my oil-pastel to the paper. Making a sketch of one of Dover's charcoals. I should do something original, but cannot summon imagination. Instead, I paint a picture with words.
This sketch of a story is my only release from the feelings that hath plagued mine life for what seems like an age. Where did it all go wrong? Who cares!? I do.
This little patch of paradise, a topical retreat into myself. Egoistic, self-centred, are blogs. In the world where so much mud-slinging goes on this page gives birth to a new tale. One filled with a lone magpie. Seen each day this past week. An omen of nothing, no-one. Or maybe not. I dids't see one, only to spy another, and another. Who knows what the future holds? Not I.
As everything came to a head last week, the night before I was to set off for the Conference, something strange happened. I had paid her tribute by way of a compliment, southern-fried chicken style. As I sat meditating in mellow inebriation, her spirit came to caress in gratitude. It was an intense experience. My spirit can soar at will, but this night it needed not go anywhere, for she arrived by my side. I hath not spoken of it to another soul, until now.
Most people think I'm nuts, most of all her. The confounded persona is proof enough of a sensitive mind, yet t'was the tipping of the scales, by way of manipulation, playing silly-buggers, that were to tear apart numerous relations, and sever my link to the University writers. We still remain amicable, if only just (in between threats).
The wound festers, aggravated by the salty rubbing-in that is the trial. I hath not a strong case, and will approach this as would a cricketer. As I am on the brink of being bowled out, I will try my best to knock it for six.
In the worst case scenario I will suffer expulsion. Even in the misty haze that is this clouded web of deceit, I sleep soundly.
For Lanza (Poem)
"Detach. Detox. McCormick wrote on his wall.
This advice he gave was sage.
To let go, but their is yet a trace,
Of judicious letters through my door,
A hole I have dug myself,
A metaphorical grave,
I need no-one.
Nothing.
The price of peace, is truth.
I wish it didn't have to be this way,
But I was brought-up, reared to say,
Only truth.
Even if I've been confused in-part,
This is merely just the start,
How it will pan-out, we just don't know,
My religious zealously of a mis-guided freak-show;
What now? Let go! Alas we cannot,
The ball is already rolling,
It's too late already,
Passed the point of no return.
We mustn't give bad press to our hallowed institution,
For it doth not deserve that collateral damage,
No-one is at fault, except ourselves;
So sayeth Lanza del Vasto,
and he ought to know,
For he was a humble Master,
Like so many prophets throughout the ages,
The philosophy of non-violence,
Taking the righteous path,
all that is true, good, and beautiful."
Max.
This advice he gave was sage.
To let go, but their is yet a trace,
Of judicious letters through my door,
A hole I have dug myself,
A metaphorical grave,
I need no-one.
Nothing.
The price of peace, is truth.
I wish it didn't have to be this way,
But I was brought-up, reared to say,
Only truth.
Even if I've been confused in-part,
This is merely just the start,
How it will pan-out, we just don't know,
My religious zealously of a mis-guided freak-show;
What now? Let go! Alas we cannot,
The ball is already rolling,
It's too late already,
Passed the point of no return.
We mustn't give bad press to our hallowed institution,
For it doth not deserve that collateral damage,
No-one is at fault, except ourselves;
So sayeth Lanza del Vasto,
and he ought to know,
For he was a humble Master,
Like so many prophets throughout the ages,
The philosophy of non-violence,
Taking the righteous path,
all that is true, good, and beautiful."
Max.
Birth of the Bunion Boys
Dear Diary,
Developments. I finally admit defeat on the score of confounded identity, and hereby apologise profusely, to K.B. for thinking you were someone else.
It didn't help having t'other party naming posts with the titles of emails we'd sent, nor did it help with said ... person (to put it mildly!) signing off in the same manner as you K. This is proof that aforementioned ... person ... was in the system, reading my inbox, and the intimacy of our conversations. I don't want to mention this any further, but I do sincerely, wholeheartedly apologise for all this mess.
As for the rest of the accusations, Maxy Waxy is sticking to his guns all the way. How stupid was I? Very stupid, very gullible indeed, at least on that part of the scam (confounded identity). The rest? Maximus shall n'er be fooled again. It's a crying shame we never got together K. but I cannot live my life in regret.
They say in the Greek language their are three types of love: love for a friend, love for a sibling, and Eros. The first type is what we had, on both scores, until it was torn to tatters. Shredded by playing head-games, which are not conducive. I am aware of the goings on on the blogosphere (thanks to a comment on my YouTube channel), the truth being exposed with regard to my confounding of characters, the two fair-maidens involved. I am such a silly sod. I have been feeling rough for days, in tears, but now I am even more upset. So much so that I dare not read what others say about me, us, on the blogosphere or in the unsafe realm of wordpress.
Enough! I wish it were all over, but I fear this saga is just beginning to get started. Maxy Waxy mustn't dwell on such trifling matters.
On a more positive note, the beauteous Sue hath been in touch of late. I like her a great deal, she reminds me of K. Very feminine, gentle, and nice. I am due to attend a meditation session sometime next week with her.
Which reminds me, if Sue pops around again, as she did whilst I was away, I must straighten this bachelor pad out, get it cleaned up, make it fit for a lady. Their's not many women I would actually bother to take such a drastic measure for, but Sue is one of them. I am just glad her ex is back with his ex, at least for a time (that was the 'faller' at Sundays gig).
All this nonsense is good songwriting material. I can at least come away with something positive from all this nastiness, people seeing my 'dark-side' come out. These unworthy feelings only surface when people are dishonest with me. All I ask is for folks to be straight with me, which is not a lot.
Here is a tale from the vault. Most people I give the benefit of the doubt to and then I end up getting screwed over when I discover they're a turkey. This happened many times back in '99 when I was young and naive. One time though, the opposite happened.
I was camping out near the city-limits when two other tents were near mine. The next night I returned and both tents had re-situated themselves adjacent to my chosen spot. It turned out to be two other vagabonds (beggars, not buskers) and I actually became quite good friends with them. The following night I sat in one of their tents and we all shared a smoke. This vagabond offered me a pipe. I thought it rather strong and immediately tapped out the thing on the floor. He went ballistic! I couldn't understand why, it was only a bit of pot. Or was it? No. It was the lions share of the mans heroin stash. Ooops! No wonder I coughed up and couldn't handle the stuff!
Anyway. A few days later we were evicted from the site, due to a large fire they had made (I always make a small fire, or rather, none at all, reliant on a gas-cooker). By this time I was mildly addicted to the strong stuff, and went and lived in some den in town. This is where I discovered the band Nirvana, and where I lost my body and mind to a couple of grey weeks.
The sound of a banjo drifted through the hallway. I rose out of my stupor, and traced the sound of the resonance to a door around the corner. Grabbing my guitar, I knocked boldly on the door. A tall, braw man answered. He had a serious expression on his face, and his bedsit was empty, bare. I assumed he had hocked it all for heroin. The only objects in view was a mattress pushed up against the wall, a makeshift table (an upside-down crate) with two rustic chairs.
As it turns out, the man was a Zen anti-materialist, and a guy whom I assumed was another addict, was anything but. It just goes to show. You meet people, you make assumptions about them, only to discover that they're nothing like what you thought. It's usually the other way around for me. I normally give people the benefit of the doubt, trust them until they give me cause to do otherwise. However, this guy I had not trusted, only to discover his was the most solid bloke you could ever meet: Grant Scot McCormick.
For the next decade and a half, we would hobo together on the trail, play Bluejass music, and he would sculpt and sketch wherever we went. Alas, this was the beginning of the Bunion boys, and I can safely say that it was Grants friendship and our music, that got me off heroin. I was only a week or so in to a habit, and things could have turned out much much worse had it continued the way it did.
So anyway, that's just one nugget from the past which I choose to share with you people, my meagre audience. A big hello to all you Americans out there, I noticed you had visited my blog. Groovy. Grant and I met another American, a good guy, Eddie, but that, is another story.
Good-night y'all.
Maximus Fleximus.
Developments. I finally admit defeat on the score of confounded identity, and hereby apologise profusely, to K.B. for thinking you were someone else.
It didn't help having t'other party naming posts with the titles of emails we'd sent, nor did it help with said ... person (to put it mildly!) signing off in the same manner as you K. This is proof that aforementioned ... person ... was in the system, reading my inbox, and the intimacy of our conversations. I don't want to mention this any further, but I do sincerely, wholeheartedly apologise for all this mess.
As for the rest of the accusations, Maxy Waxy is sticking to his guns all the way. How stupid was I? Very stupid, very gullible indeed, at least on that part of the scam (confounded identity). The rest? Maximus shall n'er be fooled again. It's a crying shame we never got together K. but I cannot live my life in regret.
They say in the Greek language their are three types of love: love for a friend, love for a sibling, and Eros. The first type is what we had, on both scores, until it was torn to tatters. Shredded by playing head-games, which are not conducive. I am aware of the goings on on the blogosphere (thanks to a comment on my YouTube channel), the truth being exposed with regard to my confounding of characters, the two fair-maidens involved. I am such a silly sod. I have been feeling rough for days, in tears, but now I am even more upset. So much so that I dare not read what others say about me, us, on the blogosphere or in the unsafe realm of wordpress.
Enough! I wish it were all over, but I fear this saga is just beginning to get started. Maxy Waxy mustn't dwell on such trifling matters.
On a more positive note, the beauteous Sue hath been in touch of late. I like her a great deal, she reminds me of K. Very feminine, gentle, and nice. I am due to attend a meditation session sometime next week with her.
Which reminds me, if Sue pops around again, as she did whilst I was away, I must straighten this bachelor pad out, get it cleaned up, make it fit for a lady. Their's not many women I would actually bother to take such a drastic measure for, but Sue is one of them. I am just glad her ex is back with his ex, at least for a time (that was the 'faller' at Sundays gig).
All this nonsense is good songwriting material. I can at least come away with something positive from all this nastiness, people seeing my 'dark-side' come out. These unworthy feelings only surface when people are dishonest with me. All I ask is for folks to be straight with me, which is not a lot.
Here is a tale from the vault. Most people I give the benefit of the doubt to and then I end up getting screwed over when I discover they're a turkey. This happened many times back in '99 when I was young and naive. One time though, the opposite happened.
I was camping out near the city-limits when two other tents were near mine. The next night I returned and both tents had re-situated themselves adjacent to my chosen spot. It turned out to be two other vagabonds (beggars, not buskers) and I actually became quite good friends with them. The following night I sat in one of their tents and we all shared a smoke. This vagabond offered me a pipe. I thought it rather strong and immediately tapped out the thing on the floor. He went ballistic! I couldn't understand why, it was only a bit of pot. Or was it? No. It was the lions share of the mans heroin stash. Ooops! No wonder I coughed up and couldn't handle the stuff!
Anyway. A few days later we were evicted from the site, due to a large fire they had made (I always make a small fire, or rather, none at all, reliant on a gas-cooker). By this time I was mildly addicted to the strong stuff, and went and lived in some den in town. This is where I discovered the band Nirvana, and where I lost my body and mind to a couple of grey weeks.
The sound of a banjo drifted through the hallway. I rose out of my stupor, and traced the sound of the resonance to a door around the corner. Grabbing my guitar, I knocked boldly on the door. A tall, braw man answered. He had a serious expression on his face, and his bedsit was empty, bare. I assumed he had hocked it all for heroin. The only objects in view was a mattress pushed up against the wall, a makeshift table (an upside-down crate) with two rustic chairs.
As it turns out, the man was a Zen anti-materialist, and a guy whom I assumed was another addict, was anything but. It just goes to show. You meet people, you make assumptions about them, only to discover that they're nothing like what you thought. It's usually the other way around for me. I normally give people the benefit of the doubt, trust them until they give me cause to do otherwise. However, this guy I had not trusted, only to discover his was the most solid bloke you could ever meet: Grant Scot McCormick.
For the next decade and a half, we would hobo together on the trail, play Bluejass music, and he would sculpt and sketch wherever we went. Alas, this was the beginning of the Bunion boys, and I can safely say that it was Grants friendship and our music, that got me off heroin. I was only a week or so in to a habit, and things could have turned out much much worse had it continued the way it did.
So anyway, that's just one nugget from the past which I choose to share with you people, my meagre audience. A big hello to all you Americans out there, I noticed you had visited my blog. Groovy. Grant and I met another American, a good guy, Eddie, but that, is another story.
Good-night y'all.
Maximus Fleximus.
And so it begins...
Dear Diary,
Maxy xx
Well well well. Things are getting really quite heavy in the world of academia. In truth I should not be blogging at all, because I should be studying. It matters not, I am now a fully indoctrinated blogoholic, and I feel it is better to write than to drink alcohol or such.
This morning I received notification of the disciplinary charges being launched against me, and my misconduct within this matter. I wrote back straight away citing evidence, and trying my best to clear my name. It is not going to be easy. Whatever decision the board go with (hopefully neither parties will be affected from studying, as both are keen and able students) I will abide by. It may well be that I am cast out of the fold, but worse things have happened at sea.
Thirteen years of living in a tent means I am somewhat misanthropic about this whole affair. It has taken up too much of my time and energy already, and the lesson one may learn from this mess, is to hold one's tongue in matters like these. I am going to blog about other, more light-hearted matters, not become embroiled in the quagmire of slagging off that doth not become either me or the other party concerned.
Last night I had an intense dream: I dreamed I was in Haiti with Grant. He'd found a nice squat to stay in, and asked me to get some dog-food for him. I did so, whilst looking about a beach full of sunshine and nice people.
I can summon no will to blog anymore today. I must get back on the flex with my work-load. The contemporary cabinet of curiosity mirroring the microcosm from the early modern period, a group project, wikiversity.
Stay On the Flex,
Maxy xx
Back to the Flex
Dear Diary,
Since last we spoke, much hath happened. The last time I wrote to you ever dearest Diary, from the confines of the student blogosphere, I was in London, boarding a coach. In front of me was a man with a vast beard, but scant hair atop his head, wearing glasses.
From behind the rims of his circular spectacles, were two ice-blue eyes that had about them a kind of calm intellect. After a time waiting in the queue, I struck up a conversation with him.
He had a trace of a northern-accent, but for most part sounded like I do: received pronunciation. We spoke intially of linguistics, but soon shifted subject to a shared passion of us both: Anarcomunitarism. James is a well-read Leftist intellectual philosopher, a kindred-spirit. He too had experienced long-term homelessness, and, like me, had fallen on his feet: found a place to settle down. A patch of paradise. The two-hour or so long chat I had with him was intense. We covered a lot of ground, from the futility of the 'free-man of the land' movement, to ideological discussions regarding Left-wing authors.
Then, as I was at the coach station, I met another man. A quiet gentleman with just as blue-eyes as James, again sporting rimmed spectacles. He was a librarian at the O.U. and told me a little of the history regarding the city. The man was helpful and gave me directions to where I needed to go, to get to the Conference.
After taking the next bus, I found myself in some commercial complex. Instead of taking another bus, I yomped with no map nor navigational aids to the hotel. It took me about an hour to find it. Once there I checked-in tranquilly.
The minibus ported me to the site, and I found my way to registration in a colourful building. As I browsed the various literature about the place, a pair of senior members of staff had a word with me. One lady was looking at the course books for 'Voices and Texts', I expressed my admiration for that course. When next she looked at 'Making Sense of [Artefacts]' I also told her what I think of that module, which I am currently studying: that it was excellent, exceptionally well written and really very good to be studying.
As it turns out, the lady was a Master of Arts, a literary expert. T'was nice talking to pair of them. Registration went smoothly, and I went straight to dinner. I sat on my own, and tried not to feel too awkward in doing so, looking about the place with hazy eyes, scatty, mellow.
Then I strolled about the grounds, orientated the map I was given, and had another smoke. It didn't take me long to find the new-comers introductory lecture. All the speakers there were witty, informative, and the talk was useful to hear. Before it began, I started to write a poem:
"In the nerve-centre of the marshmallow space-ship,
akin to a set out of Babylon 5,
the corridors of learning
amidst a sea of beautiful minds.
A culminated cultivation of intellectuals.
The flagship of which..."
(it's work in progress)
So, anyway, after the talk was drinky-poos, a social hub. Again, I stood alone, pebble-dashed on the rocks of isolation. A tough looking young bloke whom I had passed in the auditorium was there, I decided to speak to him. He was a computer-programmer, a Romanian. It was nice talking to him, especially in French (he spoke many languages). We talked about how many people give Romanians a bad-rap, and how lots of people from here (the United Kingdom of Great Britain) claimed to be from Romania, when they have never been there, nor had any of their ancestors.
We switched subject to that of hacking. He was adept at doing so, and told me how easy it was (I already know how easy it is) and this disgusted me. Trojans, back-doors, port-scanning, yes yes yes. I am a creator of programs, not a destroyer.
Then I spied a tall man with long hair, and decided to cross the room to talk to him. Barry was a physicist and flute-player. Very cool man. I soon took off with him, saying "Don't hack!" to my new-found Romanian friend.
Barry and I went for a walk about the grounds. I spoke of Attic vase analysis, and he told me that he had his own personal collection, which currently stand in museums about the country. He was a really cool bloke.
After returning from the stroll, I agreed to meet him in the bar. As I mingled awkwardly in the place, chatting to a few people (in particular a senior member from Inverness, a fellow historian and intriguing gentleman) Barry finally turned up with his flute. We grabbed a chair, and began to play. We were in-tune straight away, and the audience were liking the sound. However well the first piece we played (some funky jass thang, made up on the flex) the repertoire began to get exponentially more tangled, and I lost motivation to play after about an hour or so. But the brief jam was enjoyable, and I found it amusing how Barry would stroll about the place, long hair flailing as he blew his flute and danced at the same time.
The next day I met another literature expert, Nichola. I spent the rest of the time spouting gassing with her mainly. She liked my poesy at least, and it was nice talking to her. I am sure we'll stay in touch (providing my email is not compromised again!). It was overall a nice Conference, even if I had a semi-nervous breakdown half-way through upon discovering my Uni' blog had been shut-down.
Upon my return home I managed to make it to the gig (I walked straight in). That evening was most eventful. We had a second person collapse at the bar (that's twice in as many months) not from our playing, but a loss of balance and excess of alcohol intake. I stayed until five in the morning, and now cannot physically speak because of all the singing I have done. I am also quite ill at the moment, and have been for days.
At the end of the night, Mike Taylor 'lost the plot' again, and started screaming at me, blaming me for all of his lifes' problems. The entire pub rallied to my side and they slung him out, with minimal force. Cousin helped a great deal, as did Tim, a giant of a man.
I had confided in my colleague Harry about everything that's happened in these past few weeks and months. About being ostracized, vilified, and having my accounts hacked into (my old wordpress blog and email account) and he had many supportive things to say. I had not considered this course of action before, but in his cockney accent he said, "If I was in your shoes I'd have contacted some heavies I know in London, call in a favour, and have them taken down." I thought this perhaps a little too drastic a reaction, but it did make me laugh when he said, "The thing about banjo players is that they sound great when you throw them down a well!" Ha ha!
One banjo player I am not going to cast down a well is "Gulliver" who's due to turn up to next weeks' gig. That should be good. Might be alright.
After that comes a language meeting at Oxford University. Then is another gig, this time in Portsmouth. My boss said she'd drive me there, and to lectures, which is very nice of her. Even since my gripes about the rates of pay, I've had a 50% pay-rise. Nice! She's so groovy man.
Anyway, Stay On the Flex y'all, Maxy Waxy xx
Re-born
A little bit about myself: I've had a couple of blogs in the past, one here, one there, and an exclusive student dairy which at the time of writing this is stagnant. Long story. Too traumatic to bare thinking about. A tale of woe, confounded people, bad-wiring.
This is intended to be a place of peace, release, a spot where I can catalogue my life for all the world to see. I don't read anyone elses blogs anymore, apart from perhaps my mate Chris'.
I am a musician, it's what I do, my business. I am good at what I do. Confident. I have played in many places all throughout the world. I am not one of the sea of shy stay at home players, I get out there. I'm a go-getter with (usually) a positive personality. It has been a real roller-coaster ride of a life so far.
I have been homeless for thirteen years, housed for another three, and now I find myself on the path of becoming enlightened, educated, with my eyes opened to new ways of thinking. Although I spent much of my time while on the road reading, taking shelter from the rain in many a library, I now just read at home. I am a student of history. Distance learn with the Open University. I really like their syllabus, and I feel that it is one of the best institutions. World-class education.
The Conference was amazing, I hath just returned from it and t'was nice to meet new faces, especially Barry the physicist and Jim the historian. I spent most of the weekend with Nichola the literature student. They were all lovely people there, and I like the place immensely.
This is me, like my family symbol (the phoenix) resurrecting myself from the ashes, being re-born in another baptism of fire. I was shot-down by some crazy fool, hacked to pieces, only to re-form like T2. No-one can keep a good man down for long.
Stay On the Flex,
Maximus.
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