Happy New Year!

“Should aulde acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind, should aulde acquaintance be forgot for the sake of Aulde Lang Syne.”

Happy New Year Everbody!

*fires toy revolver in the air* in the manner of a Sherman or Musselman alike. Good old cowboys from the south and Al’Akhbar’s followers both have that much in common. That and they both drink coffee.

On the Flex

New Year’s Eve is a write off.

Dear Diary,

Landing safe and sound, snug, in the depths of the shire, ’midst happy company, talking philosophy. Today has been a good day. Last night was alright, playing Ticket to Ride, a board-game. Who goes first is determined by who has visited the most states on the map. I was delighted to see Conan bade me take the first turn.

Frivolities aside, something slightly sinister is afoot. Fallings out betwixt some particular groups of friends. Thus a bit of a ‘bad vibe’ existed for a short time. Matters have calmed down, for the now.

New Year’s Eve is a write off, and I am now able to sit in good company, and study archæology, in peace, and tranquility.

Stranded in a deluge

Dear Diary,

Great. The train line is flooded here in south Wales. Boned. Buggered. Stranded. God willing we’ll make it to where we’re going, but the silly train routes (travelling west means you must go east, in completely the wrong direction) mean I will become stranded a second time. Nightmare. I am trying to be philosophical about it and am thinking I should just walk.

There exist no problems: only solutions. I’ve found an alternative route. It’s a bit roundabout, but it should be good, might be alright. Several hours waiting at a station means a few jars might be in order, whilst perusing my Latin and archæology books. (As with every Christmas, I even take them to the dinner table on Christmas Day. In-fact I’d say I take them everywhere I go. You never know when something like this might happen to have a chance to get a few moments of study-time in). I only wish I had brought my guitar(s) but the sheer amount of books I have with me prohibits that.

Early-Modern Anglicised-Latin

Dear Diary,

Well, I just managed to get to Ludlow and the bus driver wouldn’t let little Ronulus on board; so I took the train. Last night was awful, for the first time this year the hornets re-surfaced in the cabin where we slept. It took me a good two hours to catch the nasty insect and cast him into a lake of fire (the wood burner).

The reason for yesterday’s depression could be numerous, pining, lovelorn, the usual, all combined with the surroundings. Today? I am going to see Delli, Conan and Dan. It should be awesome as I have a little something for Delli (philosophy and Shakespeare podcasts - neither of us have the web on our computers at home). Delli has something for me: another Encyclopedia of Egyptian Archæology - just what the Doctor ordered.

Ho hum. It is so nice to be able to be free again, no responsibilities except to the nation, Uni’, and God. (A responsibility to Ronulus goes without saying). I can’t wait to see Delli and company, it’s been ages since I saw them all.

He wants to learn Latin as well, and me to teach him. I told him I am not qualified to teach and would only impart what I know once I’ve passed my examination next year. We are planning on re-inventing an old language. In the Church at Wareham is a scrawl of graffiti, and it is written in a combination of Early-Modern English and Mediæval Latin. This graffiti, and others like it, will form the basis of our resurrected tongue. Unless you knew your Shakespeare, Marlowe and Classical Latin, you would not be able to decipher the tongue. It’s a nice little pet project, and I am up for any excuse to listen or speak in the manner of Marlowe and Cicero the Humanist.

No-one reads this shit anyway so...

Dear Diary,

Maximus and Ronulus are going to make good their escape in half a day’s time. Just like last year, I asked Ron’, “Do you want to go home mate?” The moment I had uttered the word home Ronulus went ballistic, tail wagging, jumping around like he’s back at the gig, an ever expectant look in his eye that says, “I thought you said we we’re getting out of here! Why aren’t we leaving already?!” There there Ronulus. Not long now mate.

Since the falling out with Dad I’ve been on the wagon, and today I ran out of tobacco. Luckily I am a monk so need nothing except some rainwater, a bowl of organic whole-food short-grain brown rice, and perhaps a little snuggle with Ronulus from time to time. So long as he’s okay: I’m okay.

I’ve been trying to escape here for several days now, and only just about managed it on the day of the gig. Since then I have had to fabricate an elaborate deception in order to take flight from this God-forsaken place of windswept solitude.

I told father I have a gig on New Year’s Eve, which is true. Another historian from our hallowed institution invited me, the man is a trooper, and a friend. It will be nice to catch up. Of course, what I didn’t tell father was that I need to get away to do my TMA which is due in less than one week’s time.

It’s not that bad. This morning I saw two magpies and the falcon again, magnificent animals. I also had a letter from my tutor explaining how to avoid the pitfalls in the next essay, which was very helpful indeed. I figure, for this one, I am going to write how I feel about it all, then submit a second spurious draft, that steps in-line with what the set text says. Fcuk it. I just don’t care. It is not possible that cities are identical everywhere, but sociologists, in their infinite wisdom say they are the same everywhere; so I must write a load of conformist waffle, Chomsky style, and just jump right through that hoop like a good little student.

I talked about this with the other student/graduate I met the other day. She explained that I must just do as they ask, then I will pass. So long as I stick to the script, everything will be fine.

1) No-one ever set foot on American soil from outside America until Columbus arrived, societies there evolved in complete isolation to Europe or Asia. (I know this is absolute bollocks but I must write it anyway).

2) Cities are precisely the same, and always have been, wherever you are in the world, and whenever cities have existed throughout history. (Again, complete hogwash, but this is what they want me to write).

I cannot afford to do another degree after this one, so I am just going to have to shut the fcuk up, and write what they want to hear; lest I n’er will fulfil my dream of gaining a degree.

It is highly likely that I will not ever become a history teacher, at Uni’ level. Nor will I ever become a successful author. Nobody has any interest in what I have to say anyway. I shall most likely just disappear on the Continent somewhere. I like playing music, and have very few opportunities here. As Tim Curry said, “You must become successful in your home country before you can achieve world-wide success.”

I heard a cracking quote yesterday. Classical comes from the Latin word classicus meaning ‘first class’. A person well versed in the Classics.

Saturday night study fever

Dear Diary,

The gradual realisation that you are completely alone, a singularity, is hard, yet now’t new. Didier once said that to be intellectually gifted is to be extremely marginalised by society. This is very true. Still, little Ronulus is the best friend man could ask for (as I was typing that, he could sense that I was sad, and came up and snuggled up on my lap).

Last night at the show as I sang, so did Ron’, in the crowd. He bays for his master, and when the show was over he jumped up, excited as ever, tail wagging, always pleased to see Maxy.

Today this really fit Scottish burd (she is the main yummy mummy) posted something in what I thought was the Latin FB group, I commented on it, numerous times. When I went back to the FB group to check what we had written, I could not see the thread. Then I realised I had replied in the Classics FB. Oops! There are some seriously heavyweight intellectual classicists in that group I can tell you. Man! Anyway, I don’t think what I wrote was silly, so thank God it’ll be read and understood. (Needless to say, the following posts that stemmed from that thread were far more interesting and precise than mine own). In any case, it’s cool.

Oh, well, Dad will be home soon which means I must tear myself away from studies - today has been reasonably productive in that department - and I must get back down south soon.

Life is proving to be quite challenging, and I waffle and waffle and waffle, and nobody hears (I get like one hit a day on this blog, on average).

I may as well face facts: I will not become happy by dwelling on the negatives, but I must buck up, study hard, and that way become educated enough to apply for a decent job. Archæology is a strange discipline.

Little Ronulus Latratus is curled up on my lap near the fire. Dad will be home soon, so I must go and wash up. In any case, talking to the walls, and Ron’, is on the cards. It’s Saturday night: I should be typing up my assignment! (Yes, although this seems sad on the surface, it is actually my favourite past-time).

This current paper is on global similarities in urbanism. I disagree 100% with what is written in the books. If I write the truth about how I feel, no matter if it is backed up by solid evidence, it will be seen as incorrect subjectivity, and I am likely to fail. If, on the other hand, I write a load of B.S. that repeats what is written in the books, then I shall likely pass.

This is a major quandary for me. I am not in the habit of writing B.S. yet, nor do I wish to fail. Finally, if anything I write stands the test of time, it is surely of more benefit to man-kind than writing falsehoods - even if they are believed by many people.

Characterisation of phenomenon and catch-all pigeon holing of urbanisation, sweeping generalisations are what is written. I cannot repeat this B.S. but I must. Dear Lord! What do I do?

(Just in-case J.C. - the big guy upstairs - doesn’t get back to me anytime soon, I have emailled my tutor about it).

Max.

A chance meeting and gig

Dear Diary,

Matters have improved, if only slightly. Yesterday was very interesting indeed. Escaping the clutches of Cold Comfort Farm, cutting loose and meeting somebody new was very nice indeed. Her company was utterly delightful and she is a very very successful academic. Out of 2,000 applicants she landed a job in the European Space Agency. What a woman!

The minute I had left her company, things began to go downhill. The gig went okay I guess, I stayed straight for it and played in a rather subdued manner. Still, as promised, I did a good job, professional.

It was quite amusing actually, two blokes kicked-off while we were playing and the butch-looking Ladette backing vocalists both hugged each other in terror as the fight kicked off and beer flew all over everywhere. The men in the band just kept playing. It was like something out of the movies.

Today is boring, except for my only release - my studies. I can’t wait to get home so I can study in peace and solitude.

Max.

A wonderful afternoon

Dear Diary,

Today was fruitful and fulfilling, I met a most marvellous person. We went to an excellent music pub, and talked about personal and intellectual matters for quite some time. I leave with a residual feeling of bitter-sweet melancholia, an unfulfilled desire that was n’er to be.

Essentially, to me, she is a Muse. Having been possessed of such a fragmentary life, from Tibetan mountain top to the highlands of Scotland. What a woman, humanitarian, extremely knowledgable, and delightful company. In any case, I am on time for the gig. Ronulus in tow. What a lovely afternoon. Words cannot express just how much of a joy it was philosophising with such a staggeringly proficient intellectual. Aye. She’s the best.

Ronnie Barker my dog

NorfolkTerrier (wikipedia entry)

They were first called the Cantab Terrier when they became fashionable for students to keep in their rooms at Cambridge University.

They are the smallest of the working terriers. They are active and compact, free moving, with good substance and bone. Good substance means good spring of rib and bone that matches the body such that the dog can be a very agile ratter or earth-dog.

Norfolk terriers are moderately proportioned dogs. A too heavy dog would not be agile. A too refined dog would make it a toy breed. Norfolks generally have more reach and drive and a stronger rear angulation, hence cover more ground than their Norwich cousins. Norfolk have good side gait owed to their balanced angulation front and rear and their slightly longer length of back.

Norfolks are described as fearless, but can be aggressive. They, along with Norwich Terriers and Border Terriers, have the softest temperaments of the Terrier Group. Norfolks work in packs and must get along with other dogs. As companions, they love people and children and do make good pets. Their activity level is generally reflective of the pace of their environment. This breed should not be kept or live outside since they thrive on human contact. Generally, Norfolks are not given to digging but, like any dog, will dig out of boredom when left alone for too long a period. Norfolks can be barkers and are very vocal. They generally cohabit well with other household pets when introduced as a puppy. Outdoors, they are natural hunters with a strong prey drive for small vermin.

Norfolks are self-confident and carry themselves with presence and importance, holding their heads and tails erect. A Norfolk that is shy or that carries its tail between its legs is atypical, as it is hot-tempered and aggressive with other dogs; these traits are not the standard. A Norfolk's typical temperament is happy, spirited, and self-confident.

What a perfect dog for me.

The Great Escape

Ever Dearest Diary,

It is as though a weight hath been lifted from my shoulders. We trudged through red-clay fields and hills this morning, Ronulus and I, through an ochre coloured overflowing river, o’er hills and through sodden valleys, we escaped.

When Ron’ was freezing his nads off last night, I just snapped. Enough is enough.

When we were young we used to have a dog called ‘Kitchen’ as that is all father ever said to him. This is how scanty the rapport and empathy with canines he has. When he shouted at me last night, “Is that dog of yours in the bedroom?” I went f- mEnTaL at him. This morning I apologised.

After our journey, once we had reached the little town, father and I crossed paths.

“What you doin’?”

“I’m going to the next town, I’ll be back for the gig tonight.”

“What about guitar practice?”

“I’ll make sure I do a good job, as always.”

At that, he stormed off in a huff. Dad has not player the saxophone in practice, he plays keyboards, then plays sax’ all throughout the show, so it’s pretty rich him asking me to run through the same monotonous three chord riffs over and over and over.

c’est mon choix: what I choose to do with my time. It is not often that she makes it south of the border, so I took the opportunity to meet her today.

For all the support and subsequent ‘right’ in ordering me about, I have just had enough of father. When I was in the shop buying some morning orange juice My Best Friend came on the radio, and little Ronnie Barker was outside wagging his tail, looking up at me expectantly at the checkout. I love you Ron. No, we won’t let the nasty man leave you alone outside in the freezing cold, will we? No. There there Ronulus. *cuddle* It’s alright now mate, Maxy’s here.

Rock out with the drummer

Dearest Diary,

Something extraordinary happened this evening. Our drummer exploded (in the manner of Spinal Tap) well, he went away on holiday to New Zealand for a time. In any case, we have a new drummer, and he kicks ass! I mean, forget RnR, or the Texas two-step or the humpty dumpty ticky tacky shuffle. Man! When this guy plays funk-rock or Machine Gun by James Marshall Hendrix, man you wanna hear that shit. I could tell straight away the vibe of the musician, he is seriously On the Flex, big-time. Like Maxime, or Mitch Machabelli, a real genius. We played Machine Gun, I hear my train a comin’ and Voodoo Chile slight return much to father’s dismay. I just don’t care.

“Well if I don’t see ya again in this world

I’ll see you in the next one: don’t be late!”

kick ass man.

Fcuk the Texas two-step, it’s time to rock out, proper style.

Freedom.

Max.

Fuck ’em: and everyone who looks like ’em

Ever Dearest Diary,

This is pissing me off now. After tonight’s rehearsal, I said that I am to meet an eminent scientist in town tomorrow, which was met with vehement disapproval.

I mentioned that I am supposed to be doing my homework, that I didn’t have time for such trifling pleasantries.

This was met with distain. “I am meeting an eminent scientist in town tomorrow.”

“You will not meet your friend tomorrow.”

I just didn’t care, and spouted a load of Latin. This was regarded as such.

“What ya talkin’ French for?”

As if you could even begin to understand that which is said to you! I told them in no uncertain terms: that I intend to escape the clutches of Cold Comfort Farm and that I am autonomous. I do that which I please, not to be at the behest of stern and assertive illiberal wrong-headedness that would see my liberty curtailed.

These people have no impact on me, blood red or no, I am my own man, and if I say I am to meet fair Adrienne, then it shall be so. No other way. This is Maximus they are talking to, not some chaperoned whelp. This is me, this is Max. I do what I wish, and that, is the end of it.

Not enthused about band practice

Dearest Diary,

The band is running fifty minutes late for a last-minute rehearsal, thank God. I am desperately trying to sober up for when father returns with many a musician in tow. I’m hoping it’s cancelled, but just incase it isn’t, I have done all the housework, made a pot of coffee, and am chilling the flex out with Ronulus in the wood shed.

Tomorrow may bring a chance passing with an eminent Geoscientist from Scotland. I am enthralled to meet her, if only briefly, as such a staggering intellect would surely mean much reverence on my part. In any case, a few drinks, a few laughs, and getting to know one another a little bit better is perhaps on the agenda. Jolly good. It’ll make a change from father’s illiberal perspective.

Cold Comfort Farm does not begin to describe it, more like Wuthering Heights. Gotta go. They’re here.

Max.

Don’t speak: whisper

Don’t look, just listen.

Quietly, gently, doucement.

Roam away from home

Ever Dearest Diary,

Thangs have eased up a little, but I’m still on edge, hiding out, in the cabin with the wood burner, Ronulus, and a tall glass of cider. I am trying my utmost to stop Mr. Barker from chewing any more phono leads or golf balls. Today I found some rice in the cupboards, so I am having bubble and squeak with rice and gravy.

It’s rehearsal today - or maybe not - I just don’t care. Either way it’s archæology and Latin today, in the cabin. I’ve ran outta smoke, which is prolly a good thang. Yesterday I burnt a large hole in my jean trouser leg, after having fallen asleep by the fire so mashed. Now? Ronulus and I: celamus.

Max.

Post-Script: Oh! I also finished working on my short story yesterday. As Prong Horn created a new genre (‘cow punk’) my new novella ‘Forbidden Fruits’ should be in a class of its own: Trauma fiction. (Essentially driven by a compulsion of resurfaced traumatic memories, which induces Catharsis).

Post Post-Script: One thing that strikes me as strange about wattpad though, is that the story is unrated. Not simply being discounted from being in the book charts, more than that, the age classification. My book contains incest, a steamy sex scene and a double homicide. Yet, still it is fit for all ages to read. Bizarre. I guess because there are no vulgarities, bdsm references or self-harming scenes, that wattpad decided it did not warrant censorship, nor did it qualify to be in the charts. Evidently I am not poet or writer whose worthy of censoring nor even being placed in the running. My work is just not good enough.

Post Post Post-Script: Mad Max just called. I did not phone myself, the other mad Max, naked boy, the drummer and friend. It was sonorous hearing his voice (even if he has forgotten how to speak English - he was very drunk, luckily I am able to communicate in Frog). Danny-boy was there, an old soldier. It is comforting to know that whatever happens, I have friends abroad. From Bretagne to Les Vosges I am able to seek the sanctuary of fellow musicians, if push comes to shove. God I miss Maxime. He is the craziest person you are ever likely to meet. Guaranteed.

Mexican standoff (merry Christmas everyone)

Merry Christmas everyone!

Without having such words to that effect pass either of our lips, it’s still the Chinese style standoff ’twixt father and I. In the manner of two Mexicans, a stone could drop without a sound (except for the spaghetti western soundtrack in the background). It’s Christmas, and I am still hiding out in the cabin, getting mashed right up on the last glass of cider and a shed load of smoke. Father wants me to have a bath. I have resisted him for two days now. Today is no different, in Latin: cēlō. Verb. First conjugation. Present indicative active.

I’m 5T0N3D, boned, resisting a Christmas bath. Mashed up, proper style. Trying to get on with the urb’ as a singular phenomenon. So far I have come up with cities built on a grid-plan: Teotihuacan, Milton Keynes, Bath, Glastonbury; Roads built on Ley-Lines by the ancients, roads connecting cities to sacrēd sites: Avebury, Stonehenge; Memphis, astronomical city planning and monumental buildings, often located outside vast urban centres, et cetera, et cetera.

Father has just informed me that I must have a bath. I guess that means I must.

Later Diary.and a very very merry Christmas one and all.

Cheers!

same old same old yuletide bull

Ever Dearest Diary,

Well. Father is due home in eight minutes time and expects the dinner on, and the hot water. I am, of course, shit-faced like you would not believe. I’ll keep you posted.

He arrived, sternly, I looked busy, it wasn’t enough, as always. Busked away with him muttering under his breath, “useless”.

Yeah, well (in my mind at least) ‘fcuk you dad!’ I’ve done what needed to be done today, tidied up, made dinner, whatever I do, it’ll never be enough.

It’s Brontë’s immortal Jane Eyre, excepting that the Thespian, the prodigal son, grins and bears it with chagrin, until the rain in the dark pours down, the fire side embers glow, and silence away from him descended upon this happy log cabin.

He’s back. Bang! Crash!

...and gone again.

then here just as soon as he’s passed.

Dinner time. Silently. I do the washing up, obediently.

Now I’m back in the cabin with Ron’, gettin 5T0N3D. Stay On the Flex

Max-out.

Christmas is cancelled (well, almost)

Ever Dearest Diary,

Christmas was cancelled. Boned. Outta there. I dog gone missed it.

After being invited for drinkie-poos at a friend’s house (which I missed) there came a knock at the door. It was father. He insisted I accompany him into the land-rover. So, I stocked up on smoke, ’shrooms, study materials, Ronulus, coffee, everythang. This is just gonna be an awful Christmas, I just know it.

I can see what is gonna happen. Ronulus is gonna get shut out in the cold, without food; my old man is prolly back with his old lady, whom I don’t get on with. I am gonna spend the entire time trying to avoid father’s stern manner, trying to get on with my essays and exercises, simultaneously wondering with worry what on earth Ronulus is doing shut outside the cabin door shaking, in the freezing wet December weather. Meanwhile, dodging father’s assertive commandeering way about him I’ll be makin’ a log fire in the cabin, blazing up a phat spoocher or few, and sneaking Ronulus in through the back door, so he’s not cold and hungry any more. I think I’ll hold off on the mushies until the gig, maybe do a stage dive. For now I’ll just stay bang on the wine and spoochers.

After several hours sat in this vehicle I realise now that father is possessive. I told him, “Here is in the middle of a massive storm, I can’t make it.” So he takes the decision to make me visit him this Christmas. No choice. When he arrived at my door, I had only just put the coffee on, I was in the middle of my coursework. I had not even packed. He just insisted that I go with him.

I am just going to have to immerse myself in my books this week, try and forget about being ordered about and having no free will to make my own decisions, in father’s eyes.

I am going to just let my hair down back on the ranch, whilst simultaneously settling into my archæology paper. This Christmas trip is the last thing Ronulus needs, and not what I wish either. A little being my autonomous tokin’ self is on the menu methinks.

Finally, I realise that father is working Christmas eve which leaves me free to tinkle the ivories all morning. Woohoo!

\o/

Max.

Post-Script: It’s begun already. In at half gone the witching hour and father is already insistent. Little Ronulus bays for his master. I snuck him out some food and water and turned the chair back round (father has it turned down so poor little Ron’ has to sleep on cold cement). My little baby boy, down there, on his own in a draughty porch in late-December. There there Ronulus. I’ll take care of you buddy.

Ron’ is going for it with the howling now. Good boy Ronulus! bene púerum! You give ’em some stick lad. Keep father up all night.

He’s quiet now, having glumly arrived at the reasoning that after a ten hour jeep ride alone in the back, he must spend another ten hours, alone, in the cold dark draughty scullery.

Father insisted I go do this and that as soon as we had arrived home. I tried to meet his insistent demands half-way and we settled on an uneasy compromise. In any case, betwixt his sternness and stubbornness and my capacity for radical insubordination, this looks like it’s going to be a long Christmas.

Ron’s started up again, go on boy, and... stopped just as soon as he begun, realising there is no hope, for little Ronulus having warmth, or food, or company. G’nite Ron’. I love you mate. :'(

Penultimate gig of the year

Ever Dearest Diary,

Wake and bake as a storm raged outside, as it had howled all night. I rolled in late, after having awaited a lull in the tempest which blustery winds blew outside my little house. Upon this Saturday morn’ in to the eye of the storm, I stepped out, hazy, hoonered, wing-wanged.

Upon arrival it readily became apparent from my pebbled-dashed perspective that a whole mess of musicians were in the joint from having done a gig there last night. (Thus rendering me even more nervous than I already was. That and a packed café was just what I needed). Their musical trio was called ‘Vengeance Squad’ (or ‘The Acid’, they haven’t quite settled on a name yet being newly formed), cello and two rhythm guitarists. I played Fairytale of New York, instrumental in G-major, then to D, diads and triads descending from the top three strings, and a few other plucky pieces banjo-style for a while, as best I could, on the Classical guitar.

After becoming bored of plucking Old Timey & Bluegrass slowed to moderato, I hit them with my rendition of Kill Your Television by Ned’s Atomic Dustbin, some more plinky stuff, a bit of southern-fried slide gee-tar on Gertrude, a little lightly on Saint Lillian, and scrammed. Outta there.

Time for tea and a smoke methinks, in my little hobbit hole, as the storm rages once more, outside. Home now Ron’.

bene púerum.

Maximus Mercurius Fleximus.

Post-Script: Man! I gotta get back to hot dang reality man, gotta git mah archæology thang done gone writ’ n typed up and all that sorta stuff. Gotta git yer pre-history urbanism as a singular phenomenon flex on.

Wake the flex up Max.

Mesoamerican Ethnographical Participant Observation Case Studies

In August 2013 in an interview with the amateur ethnologist Maria Montserrat (BA) from the Toluca Valley, México, it was understood that even primary school children are taught in the syllabus there that the ancient city of Teotihuacán was not a civilisation in its own right, that Teotihuacáno was not a nationality, but instead Teotihuacán was a polyglot collective, comprised of priests, holy men, and shaman, from the outlying territories. These shaman, had a mutual respect for one another, as did the warriors of all the tribes, on the field of battle. There was an understanding, that, no man, would harm a shaman. It would not only be the Maya civilisation or Teotihuacán but a mixture of high-priests, which collectively organised, orchestrated and gradually built this first city in the Americas.

Veneration of the spirits of the gods entailed sacrifice, the gods having made the world from their own life-blood, which meant that in the mythology and collective cultural consciousness, a need to reciprocate, to repay a debt to the spirits of their tribal ancestors; which is why the ancient Mesoamericans fought to subdue, rather than kill.

The steps leading up to many of the pyramid’s peak, one cannot walk up conventionally but must turn and ascend sideways. This is indicative of the decapitated head falling down this channel, or indeed excessive blood-letting formed a sanguine waterfall, descending these side-ways channels, which are not conventional steps.

The Danes in the Americas.

A second case study undertaken by Jean-Jacques Doucet, a French historian, from Fermanville, Bas-Normandie, who has suggested that the Northmen of Denmark journeyed to the Americas. During an independent study into Normand heritage and ancestry done in the 1970’s throughout Denmark, then to the Shetland islands, even to America and back; (specifically New York City, Louisiana, and Quebec). Monsieur Doucet has highlighted the importance of an early compass, a Danish artefact, from a millennia ago.

“...Imagine if you will, a lone Viking, keeping busy ... in the process of felling a tree, he doesn’t even see the native bowman - a scout.” - Doucet, 2000.

There exists archæological evidence for settlement in Labrador in 1957 and various plantations in South America.

Whether they flourished, failed, or inter-bred is anybodies guess. J.J. Doucet again (2000).

“Silent arrows en masse stood against a solitary boat or two of men. The war-like spirit of the Viking, his bearded - barbaric - character, would be his undoing, in the vast unknown land mass of the continents of the New World, where the native, was born and raised, knew his land and lifestyle well.”

From the archæological record, it is likely these early attempts at settling by the Danes ultimately failed. It would not be for another half a millennia or so until the first European fur traders and settlers began pioneering these tracts.

“...the arrival of the Scandinavians in Labrador circa 1,000 C.E. and the possible arrival of some Chinese Buddhists 500 C.E. on the Pacific coast, ... and perhaps Polynesia...”

Bibliography

Fossier, R. Dunan, M. & Bowle, J. et al, (1981) Larousse Encyclopedia of Ancient & Mediæval History, Librairie Larousse & The Hamlyn Publishing Group, Paris, p.283, ll.24-27.a

Mahieu, J. (1974) Les Viking en Amérique du Sud

interviews with J.J.Doucet, 2000-2002, 2005; interview with M. Montserrat, 2013.

M.L.Latham

Back-slide solitude: back from town. Hazy daze of learning.

Dearest Diary,

Transgression over temperance, temptation got the better of me, letting my hair down a little hazy, but stayin’ off the booze. Well, the dregs of yesterday’s bottle, a modicum tickle; a tipsy bit toast to prosperity, if not sustainable, appreciating the fleeting moment of relaxation.

On t’other hand, the language module has gotta be caught up on, but the archæology thang is first. For the now. Then back on track, On the Flex.

Max-out.

Post-Script: tarnation, I done gone left mah brand new gee-tar stand round another chaps gaff’. I could use a couple more of those down at the store anyway, so a return mooch on the ’morrow might well be in order.

Taxes vs. starvation

Dear Diary,

Life. Life. What is life? Love? Surely not. According to Oscar Wilde there are two tragedies in life: one is not getting what you want, the other is getting it.

I know an old hippy who used to work in a factory, and when he walked into work one day wearing a T-shirt with ‘Oscar Wilde’ on it, one of his colleagues asked, “What band’s he from then?” Ahh, the uncultured and unacquainted masses of rural factory workers. They probably thought Wilde was a bass player in a punk band.

I find myself in a state of modest affluence, post-film star wage, but the Council want a shoulder of mutton, blood raw, a pound of flesh. I can either live in all voluptuousness, or pay taxes and starve. The decision is a no-brainer, and I am gearing up for a siege.

I so should have opened the mail, attended the court hearing for not payment of tax, in a suit, clean shaven. I would have been akin to Cicero or Pliny, and surely would have had the charges waived.

A friend of mine (quite a hard friend, a singer in a metal band) once had a Court appearance for the exact same charge.

Magistrate: So Mr. X, what do you have to say for yourself?

Mate (in a gruff London accent): I ’ain’t payin’ it!

Magistrate: You stand to spend a week in prison. What do you mean you aren’t paying it?

Mate: I mean, I ’ain’t payin’ it! Look, you can send me on ’olliday for a week, banged up, and then next year, level the same charges at me, and I’ll spend a ’nuvva week ’olliday. I ain’t payin’ it!

They conferred, and let him off.

I would have put up a somewhat less assertive and perhaps more eloquent defence.

As it stands, I have in my possession the first real amount of money I’ve had this year, and I am still eating the cheapest food, drinking the most modestly price scrumpy, and little Ron’ gets Barker’s complete. (He used to always have that, but since I’ve been on a tenner a week for the past year, he’s had to settle for the cheapest food).

Hunger does strange things to a man. Even if I do lose my house, I will always remember that scene from the Robin Hood movie.

“That Sheriff says we owes him taxes! ... This here is the best we simple men can expect, here we are free, here we are kings...”

That one memorable line kept my spirits up for years on the road.

Max.

Movie star

Dear Diary,

Life is pretty cool at the moment. I dig archæology. Christmas is coming up. Once my next two papers are out of the way, I’ll finish my novella ‘Forbidden Fruits’ and also my play ‘Zenobia’. I just have to divide my time between reading and writing for academia and also writing creatively. It is highly unlikely that I will ever fulfil my ambition of becoming a Doctor of history or indeed, an established author. My style is too wordy, and only appreciated by a select few.

I have recently fallen in love with the literature of Sir Thomas Browne. He is a scholarly precision and his works flow like a meandering river of learning, steeped in classical culture and moral philosophy of the most proper sort. I think he appeals to me every bit as much as Charles Lamb or Ralph Waldo Emerson.

My love life extends only as far as reading (and writing) poetry. This year has been ... challenging, but perhaps my most proud moment is becoming a movie star.

I am not permitted to blog about it, but seeing as I may well have been paid for the acting job this week, I see no harm in blogging about it.

Next year, in the spring, appearing in the cinemas is Fox’s production of Thomas Hardy’s Far From The Madding Crowd. During the carnival scene (with a bear!) is a boxing match happening. I have a speaking part, and play the rôle of a Bookie, a book-maker who takes bets on the boxing. In said scene is a dashing young man in an ochre-coloured jacket, wearing a colourful waistcoat, with a red handkerchief, wearing a bowler hat. He takes the money from everybody, including Sgt. Troy (played by Tom Sturridge). That is essentially the entire film. I intend to cut and paste that whole scene, repeating it in slow motion with kick-ass slide guitar goin’ on in the background. Vanity? Yes. But I’ve never been a movie star before, and am very excited about being in the pictures. People will see this film all across the world.

I love Thomas Hardy, and I was honoured to be a featured artist.

Back to the archæology flex. Time to get that paper written.

Max.

“...the iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy, and deals with the memory of men without distinction to merit perpetuity. Who can but pity the founder of the Pyramids? Herostratus lives that burnt the Temple of Diana, he is almost lost that built it; Time hath spared the Epitaph of Adrian’s horse, confounded that of himself. In vain we compute our felicities by the advantage of our good names, since bad equall durations; and Thersites is like to live long as Agamemnon, who knows whether the best of men be known? or whether there be not more remarkable persons forgot, then any that stand rememberēd in the known account of time? Without the favour of the everlasting register, the first man had been as unknown as the last, and Methuselahs long life had been his only Chronicle.” - Sir Thomas Browne, from Urn Burial.

Questions I ask myself

Are you able to deal with the emotional turmoil of the band splitting up? Yes.

Do you feel sad and alone even though you have at least one admirer and can do nothing about it? Yes, but I’ve been single for prolonged periods before, so can deal with loneliness.

Can you handle the stress of doing a degree? Yes.

Can you cope with failure. No, but I must. Failure is not an option, in future.

Are you suited to the subject matter at hand? No. I should have done music or literature, but I already know a great deal about that, so decided to do history, pre-history and classical studies instead.

Are you okay? No. Not really, yet this feeling of failure cannot linger much longer if I do not dwell upon it.

Ask yourself, “Is it truly worth studying towards a history degree when nearly half of history graduates went into jobs in retail such as shop assistants last year?” Then answer, “Yes, because I will have enriched my learning, thus ultimately benefitted from an excellent standard of education.”

How will learning classical history benefit you? I will be much better at writing plays, novels and operas after completing my degree.

In spite of the time and cost invested in acquiring a decent higher education, would you say that it is worth it? Yes. Of course.

(These are my coping mechanisms when I feel like breaking down and crying, like now).

Fed up of feeling like a failure

Dear Diary,

Now I’m pissed off. Not about unreciprocated puppy-love, nor losing my house, but because I failed my archæology essay. I did not deserve failure. I should never have challenged my tutor on the forum, I should have attended the video-conferencing tutorial, and I should not have asked for an extension, and submitted my essay on time.

Had I done these three things and submitted precisely the same essay verbatim I may well have passed. I’m a fcuking idiot. I should have kept my mouth shut and not argued with tutor. As a result I have sketched the Don with girly braids, pinned the sketch to the dartboard, and am throwing axes at him: Norseman style. Surf Teddy would be proud.

I’m furious at having failed. This is the best essay I have written yet, but scored the lowest mark. FFS!

Man the fcuk up Max, and get the fcuk back on the horse. Ride that next paper down. (I am going to pass the paper through an already qualified archæologist to ensure success next time).

Right mister archæology Don: I am gonna write the best fcuking archæology paper ever written, so you cannot fail me. *throws axe* *misses braid* *hits tutor’s nose*

Calm down Maxy. Breath. It’s okay.

Alright. I’ve taken Ronulus Latratus for walkies, played ballies, he’s had wee-wees and done poo-poohs; had din-dins and cuddles. After a cup of green tea I am ready to tackle this paper.

Eyes down. Reading, note-taking, consolidation, written summaries, finally, write and re-write and re-write the essay. Run it by someone who knows the subject matter well. Re-write it again, and send.

Max.

Keep on keeping on

Dear Diary,

I am making headway with the archæology, but “The minds of men are constructed on the same pattern of... animals. To procure food, to obtain a mate, and to rear offspring - such is the real business of life with us as it is with them. If we look into ourselves we discover propensities which declare that our intellects have arisen from [such] a... form; ... [...] ... As the beautiful yet imperfect human body has slowly been developed from the base... creatures of the water and the earth, so the beautiful yet imperfect human mind has been slowly developed from the instincts of ... animals. ... The philosophic spirit of inquiry may be traced to ... curiosity, and that to the habit of examining all things in search of food. Artistic genius is an expansion of ... imitativeness. Loyalty and piety, the reverential virtues, are ... from filial love; benevolence and magnanimity, the generous virtues, from parental love. The sense of decorum proceeds from ... cleanliness, and from the instinct of sex... The delicate and ardent love... which can sanctify and soften a man’s whole life; the affection which is so noble and so pure and so free from all ... stain is yet derived from the desire which impels a male... to seek a mate...”

Reade, W. (1948 [1872]) The Martyrdom of Man, C.A. Watts & co., London, pp.314-315.

Max.

Dickens

Ever Dearest Diary,

I just finished the second set at the bistro gig, on my Jack Jones, it went well enough. That’s me for the week. I am sat with a cellist and a song-writer. They argue that a tenner’s alright, I say I’m used to ten times that, twenty even, more.

Finished the third set making it two hours of singing and playing. I even politely refused the free lunch as if to say, “I just want money.” Hinting that I need the money to live: strings, dog food, stamps, those sorts of things. Living costs, that old chestnut.

It’s cutting my nose off to spite my face really, but I have little food at home, and truth be told, I could just use going getting some tobacco, heading home, having an ale or two, and a smoke. I just split.

Max.

Compromise

Dear Diary,

Well well well, today had an interesting turn of events. I went to busk and just as I arrived at the pitch (where the streets are paved with gold) Gulliver the fiddler arrived. I asked him whether we should flip a coin to see who has the spot. He bade me go first, we agreed to share it (though he had it all day last market day, I must settle for half on this market day). Alas, after an hour I’d made a few bob (slim pickins) and made good, as a man of my word, left. I wandered up town and wondered where the banjoist-fiddler may be. He was in the square, where, nobody makes money. People who drink in wetherspoons (battery-farm drinkers) don’t have money, whereas people who shop at waitrose are affluent.

I considered letting him know that I had finished but decided against it. I wondered if he could see me walking down the street, and then realised that his right eye is missing so he can’t see shit down that side. We could have played together, but he doesn’t want to. It is his loss.

Food glorious food! Haha! My megre pittance is enough to buy some vegetables, gladly. Now I am ready to continue my studies. Well fed.

I decided against getting vegetables or coffee and bought some cider instead. Fcuk it. I could use a drink. First one this week. Also, I managed to meet Dad half-way and am going there for Christmas - much to Ron’s dismay. Band practice is out of the question, but the gig is still going ahead.

Max.

The world’s my oyster

Dear Diary,

Today, has been dreadful. I spent this morning reading an excellent book The Martyrdom of Man written by the Scotch empiricist and disciple of Hume: Winwood Reade. It is dubbed the atheist’s ‘bible’, and is a thoroughly interesting read.

I had already decided that Christmas was cancelled because of the sheer volume of Uni’ work I have to do. Father was not at all happy about it. I knew what his reaction would be, the instant I uttered that I am unable to make rehearsal: he would say, “I’ll find another guitarist.” Sure enough he repeated those very same words the instant I did not step in line. So be it. I don’t like the way he starves Ronulus anyway, nor that he leaves him outside in the middle of December. By not going to see him for Christmas means I have not only saved my future but also Ron’s life.

Alas, the film casting agency said that my wages would be in the bank at 4 P.M. today. By half-four the pay had not arrived. The agency had blocked my number so I had to call via another means. When I finally reached them the lady at accounts said, “Oh yes. I remember speaking to you. Sorry. Maybe next week.” I was furious. Since I had my Tax Credits slashed last Christmas, that is the first amount of money due to go into my account, and it never arrived. I wanted to ask her, “Why didn’t you pay me as you said you would?” but knew this would almost certainly make matters even worse. In-fact they tried to pay me on the 6th, and again today, but some computer error happened. I wonder why?..

Tomorrow I must busk with the supermarket staff all oogling at me, telling me I am not permitted to sing Christmas Carols. I am not going to sit here starving while they let the Iraqi ‘big’ issue seller stand there in his jesters hat, the only two words in English he knows are big and issue. Legalised beggars from Iraq take priority over British musicians, such is the state of the nation.

So, I am boned. More so than usual, would that were possible. Christmas is cancelled. I am poorer now than I have been at any time in my life.

On the up side, I found the answers to TMA02 part II of the Latin. Ha ha! It is a precise translation, and I will not be using it, because I am sure I can do an even more precise translation. We have a richness of language in an impoverished country, giving me the choice of words to use.

I finally realised that a white British man in his mid-thirties with no criminal record who plays guitar and piano well is welcomed into any country in the world. If things get really bad, with my confidence and knack for languages, the world is my oyster. I can go anywhere, do gigs, and get paid handsomely for it. Anywhere that is, apart from Britain, which has always been a struggle.

The following is a version of what I must translate.

Max.

Nihil vērō tam damnōsum bonīs mōribus quam in aliquō spectāculō dēsidēre; tunc enim per voluptātem facilius vitia subrēpunt. quid mē existimās dīcere? avārior redeō, ambitiōsior, luxuriōsior? immō vērō crūdēlior et inhūmānior, quia inter hominēs fuī. cāsū in merīdiānum spectāculum incidī, lūsūs exspectans et salēs et aliquid laxāmentī quō hominum oculī ab hūmānō cruōre acquiescant. contrā est: quidquid ante pugnātum est misericordia fuit; nunc omissīs nūgīs mera homicīdia sunt. nihil habent quō tegantur; ad ictum tōtīs corporibus expositī numquam frustrā manum mittunt. hōc plērīque ordināriīs paribus et postulātīciīs praeferunt. quidnī praeferant? nōn galeā, nōn scūtō repellitur ferrum. quō mūnimenta? quō artēs? omnia ista mortis morae sunt. māne leōnibus et ursīs hominēs, merīdiē spectātōribus suīs obiciuntur. interfectōrēs interfectūrīs iubent obicī et victōrem in aliam detinent caedem; exitus pugnantium mors est. ferrō et igne rēs geritur. haec fīunt dum vacat harēna. “sed latrōcinium fēcit aliquis, occīdit hominem”. quid ergō? quia occīdit, ille meruit ut hōc paterētur: tū quid meruistī miser ut hōc spectēs? “occīde, verberā, ūre! quārē tam timidē incurrit in ferrum? quārē parum audacter occīdit? quārē parum libenter moritur? plāgīs agātur in vulnera, mūtuōs ictūs nūdīs et obviīs pectoribus excipiant”. intermissum est spectāculum: “interim iugulentur hominēs, nē nihil agātur”. age, nē hōc quidem intellegitis, mala exempla in eōs redundāre quī faciunt?

Stay On the Flex

Dear Diary,

My tutor (Dr. Watson) came to my aid yesterday with the direct question (interrogative), and today I have slacked off, only having just finished one exercise, thus ending the section. I gotta go over it all again, and run through the good Doctor’s class notes. I didn’t make the last tutorial. I intend to make the next one. I’ve missed yesterday’s on-line archæology tutorial, and the other one.

Having only a smart-phone is okay I suppose, but not fit for purpose with the interactive time-line or video-conferencing tutorials.

Anyway, I’m okay. I guess. Talking to the walls, and my neighbours. Ronulus is okay. All is well. Still gotta wait a couple of days for my wages from being a featured artist in a film - Thomas Hardy, so in that time I may as well make myself useful. Gotta do some more Latin.

Max.

Dickens’ cider (‘dumped’) moribund of the band again

Ever Dearest Diary,

The day has not gone well, yet it is somehow alright. It was the best of times, and ... well. Let’s see.

Woke up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head; I went downstairs and had now’t so made my way to the gig, which went alright.

The fiddler arrived, we met up with the Devlin Eype Church, who, after jamming I fell out with. The fiddler (who plays banjo) more or less ‘dumped’ me, like a ho. We had one last jam, which I shot, and as we split up, he said, “Same time next week?”

As the late-great Dickens-cider said: It was the best ... and worst of times.

I had a good cry about it, once I’d returned home, gave Ronulus a cuddle. Then got stuck into my Latin coursework for a short while, and am now shattered.

Must... finish... module A297 work.

My academic fate hangs by the slenderest of threads, finer than an arachnid’s filament. A horses hair. A whisper.

No sound now. Just quiet. Calm.

Max-out.

Friday night: might be alright.

Dear Diary,

I’m supposed to be doing my Latin coursework. Instead the fine artist punk guitarist Mike ‘Devlin’ Taylor, the artist of artists arrived this afternoon, carrying a shed load of booze. Gung Fu master and Hannibal the hard-core just turned up, left as soon as they’d arrived. I am determined to get back to my Latin studies, but for the moment it’s Friday night, booze, smoke, haze, wasted, gone, outta there. Pickin’ on some slide gee-tars and getting fcuked. Just like the old daze. Yes sir.

Max.

Philosophy: Pythagoras

Dear Diary,

I made it, crashed out awhile, waked and baked and am now listening to Iron Man by Sabbath with Gung Fu.

I still can’t believe I made it! Essay out the way, albeit late. Thank God that is over. Right sub-urbanism next. On the Flex. Though I be a country lad at heart, I ... guess I can handle the city vibe, just about, there is work, wage, opportunities, prospects.

In any case, I just gotta write about that stuff.

Yesterday I submitted my essay about three hours after the agreed dead-line, I think it’ll be okay. I mean, I hope, and wish, and pray, that it’ll be okay. Man. These papers are far out.

Philosophy.

T-minus 13 hours

Dear Diary,

It is like major f- freak-out time right about now. TMA due in at high-noon tomorrow. Even after some trimming I still have just over a thousand words left to write. Good ones. T-minus thirteen hours to go and I am boned, so boned. Buggered. Buggered backwards.

Yes. This is real. This is happening. Christ, nail me up. Years of work down the drain if I f- this up. Serious. I gotta get my shit together, make a cup of coffee and a little spoocher tooth-pick, et rêvée comme ça.

Wake the f- up Max; and get on the pre-history of agriculture Flex, sharpish.

This is time critical. Gotta scram. Lest I mess this up.

Christ! Don’t freak the f- out Maximus. Chill the Flex out.

It’s only processual and post-processual theories. Nothing could be simpler.

...Yeah, right.

Post Script: F- me this is tricky!

I’m getting it done but having to work like a 81TCH to get it wrapped up and ready to send (local library usb thang) while Ronulus barks outside, chained up. Latratus.

This assignment is galliére (to row on a galley, chained up like a 81TCH) or even better the Calvert.