"I was a Communist when I was a kid, I'm not sorry..."

I read the Communist Manifesto when I was ten or eleven, something like that; don't know when exactly, but I was still at little school. I went to some sort of fancy dress extravaganza at that same school dressed as a guerilla, wearing red bandanna, carrying a red flag (home made hammer and sickle), anything else that seemed appropriate, and of course was appropriate. I've slipped in many ways since then, what with my decadence and all, but there's zero doubt about my end of the political spectrum. I don't know to what degree it was the influence of what I read back then and to what degree it's a whole host of other environmental factors (and it's innate for all I know), but I definitely say, GET 'EM YOUNG.

(For the record, if I were to define my current political outlook, I would define it as anarcho-syndicalist, some days plain old anarchist, though, that said, always syndicalist, and frequently sexual. Always humanist.)

childhood trauma

well I’m onto the almost come off now
missed the pavement
tripped fast high and ceiling shallow off a fourth floor flat
while weeing from the window ledge
snakes below nursed their young
snakes bellowed buzzard’s eggs into an eagle’s nest
with a taint of utility
and wee

The Joys of Children are Functions of the Woods

We're getting there... it's premature. Tasty.

The joys of children are functions of the woods.

of course, learn to despise ourselves and fear the respect the tyrannosaurus, you’d be a breaker or to destroy it – you cannot because of the obvious physical mine.

I always preferred to play in maybe, and less capable.

I was secretly this day a role-model of sorts, and the things.

“Well, to be brought before a tribunal selected by the board of jurisdiction is more than sufficient to draw out legal crows.”

four or so hours into the perfunctory, drinking slow but steady, all were employees, or colleagues, as head office prefer to call all the cooking done and dusted, and sat at the directors.

feared of course – but don’t become fearmongers.

they are a force to be dinosaurs; at the museum were skeletons, but dinosaurs were never a great passion there is imbalance and madness as it was a scavenger; I can empathise far there’s more ways to move out of settlements; there was some serious which was great.

I love madness and reject pterodactyl.

STAGE 3:

And the things.

“well, to be brought directors.

feared of course – but don’t secretly this day a role-model of sorts, jurisdiction is more than sufficient to into the perfunctory, drinking slow but more ways to move out of settlements; destroy it – you cannot because of the obvious physical mine.

I always preferred woods.

of course, learn to despise the joys of children are functions of the as head office prefer to call all the be dinosaurs at the museum were skeletons, before a tribunal selected by the board of steady, all were employees, or colleagues, scavenger; I can empathise far there’s cooking done and dusted, and sat at the draw out legal crows.”

four or so hours but dinosaurs were never a great passion there was some serious which was great.

I become fearmongers.

they are a force to tyrannosaurus, you’d be a breaker or to love madness and reject pterodactyl. there is imbalance and madness as it was to play in maybe, and less capable.

I was ourselves and fear the respect the…

Packet of Twenty

Between the chains of opportunity, somewhere, and the pitfalls of potential, in the midst of plimsolls and satchels, Mary bought a packet of twenty. She’d smoked the odd one at parties from acquaintances, her first on the building site, surreptitious, she’d liked it, liked them all, she never coughed, well, maybe spluttered, but she liked them so she bought a twenty packet from the racket on the platform that would sell to girls in plaid. She liked to smoke so Mary smoked, and in the pub with weekend feathers, Mary drank with older girls and passed and rose to any challenge that she was a schoolgirl.

Time has passed now; Mary has passed too, out of her school and into the dream lethargic as life. From phony potential to the jealousy of words, Mary’s mind can skip objective, drinking wine and smiling cigarettes and stretching limbs on waking, impassive as dawn.

I married Mary, not because she coughs now and she doesn’t like it, nor because she drinks like breathing and it’s ordinary, but because she eats a second breakfast or she doesn’t eat at all if she doesn’t fancy lunch, and she has a fine laugh, and she smokes the same cigarettes as me.

Advertisement

Some current adverts wot I want to discuss:

The Beefy and Lamby quality standard beef affair. I don't like it.

The Bismark magazine advert. 50p for your first copy..200 copies needed, £4.99 normal RRP.

Trident gum. There is a reaggae thing going on there which unsettles me.

Glade. Little Chinese lad on the toilet..."It's all gone. it's all gone"..."What's the matter darling?" etc.
Why is the mother waiting at the door?
Why is she not Chinese?
How does he draw the refill thing so fast to push under the door?
Why does she then go in if he put the note under the door? He obviously values his privacy.

Coleoptera

I’ve got a strong fascination with Coleopterans, the ‘sheaved wings’.

Many of you might well have heard me talking at length about them. I’ve written about them now and again. I’ve owned a few in my time. They are, or course, beetles.

Beetles are a perfect example of nature and evolution. The thoughts and feelings I associate with beetles I could probably have placed on any insect. Beetles are shiny though. They are dark. They are beady.

They are a set of perfect commands encased in an exoskeleton, simple circuits that work to a set of strict stimuli. Light, warmth, moisture, height, relation to each other, relation to food, relation to predator…these are the factors that control our beetle friends. They are an immense army of perfect biological droids, working solidly almost constantly. Beetles have no eyelids, so they can’t sleep. Right now its daylight outside, so the majority of the British coleopterans will be waiting for the night. I can picture them, waiting under their stones or in cracks in rotting wood. Beady eyes staring…not moving for hour after hour. Are they thinking? Nope…just waiting for the next stimuli to command them.

Did you know there are more known species of beetle than there are for any other animal in the animal kingdom? That’s 350,000 described species. That’s 40% of all known insect species. I say described because we haven’t had enough time in our existence to document every species. Current estimations of unknown species of beetle are between 5-8 million. That’s a fair amount of beetles.

The first time a girl made me cry was when I was about six years old, when I was a pupil of St. Margaret’s (St.Maggot’s) Primary School in Durham. It was a sports day. I remember it painfully well. A clear memory. A terrible one. We were sitting on a bench waiting our turn for something…probably running from one place to another (Nazi youth anyone?) and I glanced down at the grass, where to my pleasure I saw a friendly little black beetle. He was shiny and black, and quick. Most likely he was a Common Black Ground beetle, (Pterostichus melanarius).

“Please don’t kill it!” I said to the unpleasant girl next to me who had noticed me looking at him.

“What, like this?” she said, and daintily ground her foot into my new beetle friend.

I did cry, but she just laughed.

Playing With Dinosaurs

Dinosaurs were never a great passion of mine; I never quite fit that archetype. I didn’t, don’t and never will dislike them by any means, far from it, I’ve always had a real fondness for the things. There was the red tyrannosaurus rex that wouldn’t fill with water because his throat was sealed. The dinosaurs at the museum were skeletons, which was great. The tyrannosaurus made for an imposing figure, all teeth and tail and what have you; you had to respect the tyrannosaurus, you’d be a fool not to. This was before I knew he was a scavenger; I can empathise far more readily now. He was never my favourite, though. The stegosaurus is to this day a role-model of sorts, and the pterodactyl is a far out lizard-bird. Excellent skeletons too; the pterodactyl was suspended from the ceiling. I’ll always love skeletons. I liked the diplodocus’s neck, still do sometimes, but dinosaurs were never a great passion of mine. I always preferred to play in the woods. They were much bigger in those days, and darker.

Of course, it wasn’t playing; it was, dare I say it, adventure. Disbelief wasn’t a concept I was familiar with, and I’m not a great fan of it now. There was never much doubt that we’d find gold eventually, or the ghost train in the old abandoned tunnel. Our camps were bona fide settlements; there was some serious improvised engineering a little later on, and I’d be proud of it now. Prouder, maybe, and less capable. I was secretly rather excited at the thought of the gypsy girl who lured little boys off to an unspecified fate out there in the woods. Never did encounter her, though, more’s the pity.

Is it true that all such things, the dinosaurs, the woods, are part of what makes an adult, that’s to say, a fully grown human, to whatever degree of development, and that that’s their principal purpose? That the inquisitiveness, the naked wonder and the joy of children are functions of the formative years? I think someone told me something like that somewhere, sometime. I’m thinking about that red tyrannosaurus now (I called him The Tyrannosaurus). I don’t want my throat to be sealed.