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What's the difference between fog and mist?

Really don't have a clue. Mist sounds lighter, more like a morning phenomenon. The morning dew, soft on the leaves and crystalline up close.
Fog is more foreboding: heavier, and thicker; akin to smog. A daytime occurrence, muffling sound as well as sight.

I like white noise.

Happy belated seasonal hahas

Tra-la-la and all that.                                                                                                                                       It's been an odd sort of few days, to say the least. Maybe its age, or something else, but Christmas felt a little different this year. Even waking up on Christmas morn, I didn't feel all too festive at all. That's not to say it wasn't nice to spend a few days at home with family. Minus the usual drama, it's been a very food-filled season.

 Ho ho ho.

Roll up roll up, it's the time of the year when we celebrate plenty and consumerism! Really though, it pisses me off when people complain about their gifts. Christmas is all about giving - fuck that, why does this have to be confined to Christmas? It's a sad world we live in, indeed.

Enough with the pessimism though, let's do a seasonal update! And because I'm a boring fuck, its just going to be about my recent music addictions:

shoegaze (again)

Perhaps its the early nights and the mild cold, but shoegaze has once again been on play non-stop in my head.   Aside from Slowdive and My Bloody Valentine, I've been trying to dig out a couple of new artists, Ringo Deathstarr being a pleasant little find.

Ringo Deathstarr - "Other Things" by jbird1125

Not quite as blissed out as Slowdive and MBV, but a nice little evolution that's just a smidgen more suited to sunny days. In comparison, my favourite Slowdive song, ever:

▲† ‡ †▼witch house ▼† ‡ †▲

Yes, the name is a fucking joke. And yes, I feel like a right idiot everytime I talk about it. But hey, its catchy, probably as a result of my Crystal Castles binge a while back. It's brilliant fun, I can pretend I'm all occult and kool-kid like.

Again, it might be the early nights and general winter feeling that makes this stuff bearable. A little side away from this lies the land of Charli XCX. Apparently making music since she was 14, at Hackney warehouse raves shouting "T-REX! DINOSAUR SEX!"

...

Whatever, Salem remixed one of her tracks

I really don't know why I'm listening to this stuff, it's about as far removed from my usual listening as possible. Well, maybe not quite...

electronic experimental hip hop I don't know what

As strange as it sounds, I blame my Physics teacher on this.

15 FUSE by xander71

slow club


To round all of the weird stuff off, lets have some seasonally appropriate stuff. Really quite bummed I missed these guys doing their Christmas special at the Union Chapel (which by the way is a beautiful venue).

Have a very happy rest of the year, all.

WHERE

DO I WRITE MY
POST-MODERNIST BULLSHIT THAT STARTS WITH CAPITAL
LETTERS?
WITH INK, LIKE OF OLD, OR WITH LIGHT, LIKE OF NEW.
CAFFEINE, MORE CAFFEINE, ALWAYS
MORE CAFFEINE.
WHAT IS WRITING IF NOT THE MOST MANIC
OUTPOUR?

It's sad - it all is.

Enough with that - I'm a shit poet, and an even worse post-modern one at that. I'm just happy to have a working laptop again, with a screen larger than a postage stamp. It is odd that I do need a certain atmosphere around in order to be able to write properly. Or even read, for that matter. Considering the fact that both of those activities are relative sources of escapism, one would think that the situation wouldn't matter. But whatever. There is always a way around it, splashing money on a replacement laptop charger being one example. I guess this means more frequent updates, and perhaps even a redesign -oooh- some point in the near future. For now, enjoy an unemployed astronaut.

Wind

The constant struggle of air to maintain equilibrium is what most societies define wind as. A slight breeze at first, quickly escalating to a gale, then back down to a whisper - this is what many will have experienced in day-to-day living. It is thus perhaps a little strange, then, that it should all remain invisible. After all, things that happen to one over and over again, even if consciously blocked by force of habit, do have a tendency to reveal themselves once in a while. Wind stays resolutely invisible, not wanting to be seen, but revelling in its power to raise everything, just for a moment, above the mundanity of gravity. Even to disregard this, wind will always find a way of making its voice heard above the humdrum of silence. Sunlight may heat and blind, but does so quietly, without so much as a whimper. Starlight freezes in the night, content in its own solitude. Fire, perhaps comes close to being a cousin of wind, in its never-ceasing voices, constantly announcing its presence. -but it is seen.

I can hear the wind.

Douchebaggery

From the top:
check-in, diamonds, post-codes, serfs, shoe polish, smoke, debit cards, room service, concierge, Tintin, decisions, free shit, bar, money, plebs, Tesco, worldly wisdom, percentage, price, clinking, traffic cone trumpet, casino, drinking, dvd, more drink, pub, Sol, twenty, collapse, room, more drink, dvd, vomit, unconscious, menu music, munchies, adventure, wall garden, burger, the lion sleeps tonight, shuffle, wake up, radio, sleep, TV, wake up, change channel, sunrise, breakfast, bacon, cymbals, sleep, hash browns, more food please.

 Morning time

Grimmest fucking ashtray ever.

Heck yes. I'm now an official Nowherian, a citizen of the new island nation of Nowhereland. Yes, I know I'm such a cool kid. 

"Why?" "Why not?"

Crack The Surface - Episode I from SilentUK on Vimeo.

Here comes your soundtrack. [Part 2]

To take another look at things, forget about everything I said in Part 1. Music definitely does not need to fulfil any purpose of sorts, it never actually has to be anything other than itself. You may like to use it to soundtrack your own life, but that's ultimately a construction of your own. The 15 minute crescendos and majestic string explosions of Godspeed You! Black Emperor may seem like the music to the end of the world, but it's profoundly beautiful. The music need not actively pursue any role other than to exist - and exist it does, by firmly leaving an emotional impact on your musical memory.

02 Antennas To Heaven Moya Sings Baby-O Edgyswingsetacid Glockenspeil Attention... Monami... Fa-Lala-Lala-La-La She Dreamt She Was A Bulldozer, She Dreamt She Was In An Empty Field Deathcamp Drone Antennas To Heaven by kevinleeK

Listening to a Godspeed record with eyes closed and mind wandering is truly an experience. Even if you aren't picturing the bleak and crumbling structures of humanity controlled in the music, the sheer complexity and beauty of the intricate instrumentation is enough to inspire some sort of hope in the human condition. But what about the live scene? Now that, is a different story altogether. I can safely say that seeing Godspeed live was one of the most incredible moments of my life. Its worth noting that the band plays in darkness, the only light on stage coming from the projected pictures of forgotten railways and industry. Nothing can truly prepare you for the pure emotion that Godspeed tweak out of their instruments. The above song was, for want of a better phrase, fucking awesome.

Post-rock, then, can make that walk down to the train station that much more epic. Or it can make you cry at the hopelessness/optimism of humanity. Whatever it does for you, you'll remember it.

Here comes your soundtrack. [Part I]

I am about to come over all teary-eyed about instrumental music now.

I don't quite remember the exact time I started listening to post-rock music. In my early teenage years, I of course went through the obligatory grunge and metal phases, all angry guitars and raging at the world. Everything was loud and brash, had a clear cut meaning, and could be shouted alongside, to show the world just how tough I was. Then I moved on to my more 'sensitive' side, now singing lyrics about heartbreak and suicide. The E-word, which I won't mention here. After that, my memory goes blurry - I went down the electronic route, either with D'n'B providing the rhythm with which to have heart attacks to, or discovered the strange joys of indie-tronica. It was an interesting journey, to say the least, and it was a good ride.

Now I've come to post-rock music. For the uninitiated, the term post-rock means a myriad of things these days, but is generally used to describe a band that plays instrumental music, involving a guitar somewhere (though this often isn't the case). Think Mogwai, and you're along the right track. Sometimes they use vocals, but mostly as an instrumental accompaniment, i.e. no lyrics. Post-rock bands tend to use a large variety of instruments, and songs tend to be quite long.

Technical bullshit over with, lets get down to some subjective opinion. I'm finding it hard to make inroads into how I feel about it all, so I'll use this song as a springboard:

Yndi Halda - Song For Starlit Beaches by aimlowmusic

Music like this could easily be the soundtrack to a love story, or the countdown to war. It never ceases to amaze me how much emotion can be carried in a piece of music; there is no need for lyrics to mould the music to, you can make up your own personal story. Though post-rock is such a broad genre, the one defining feature of a great post-rock band is the music's ability to genuinely affect you emotionally. The music exists on its own, without the backing of a lyrical narrative, being both a solid expression itself, yet also simply a catalyst for your own imagination. That said, however, there do exist differences between the general moods of different bands. For example, Yndi Halda and Explosions In The Sky share a slightly more optimistic mood than other bands of the genre. These two bands are also examples of bands which, though I hate to use the term, more 'entry-level' than others - the instrumentation is a tad more traditional than the mighty orchestral arrangements of Godspeed You! Black Emperor. That's not to say that the size of the band matters anything to the mood of music, however, as Sparrows Swarm and Sing show.

Music of this sort is just more than 'good music' to me - its an art form. The ability of songs like these to explore the entire gamut of human emotion is just one of the reasons why I love them so. Each train journey can become something incredibly profound when listening to epic 20 minute masterpieces, though I wouldn't really recommend philosophising on public transport. As I've said before, the music can be the soundtrack for anything - and in the case, it tends to be the soundtrack to my own life.




Part II coming when its done.

Your own personal stage.

Stilled@Southbank Centre

What everyone else says:

Stilled is a photographic performance marathon originally commissioned for Wellcome Collection. It weaves together dance, light, music and pinhole photography to make a meditative cross-artform event exploring perception, movement and stillness.

What I say:

It's rare today to be able to enjoy an art form at your own pace. Galleries are designed in such a way that curators can herd you around with ease when it gets too crowded; performances on stage only last as long your ticket says; gigs end when the venue licence times out.

Which is why being able to sit on the floor in a darkened room for hours was such a pleasant surprise. I'm not very good at explaining performances, so I'll just say that it was was an extended improvised dance piece. What I will explain, though, is the atmosphere.

The only lights present at first are on the dancers. This leaves you, the viewer, completely anonymous. There's no need to look around at what other people are doing, no need to find some sort of procedure to follow. Without anyone else to look at, you're left alone with the performance, giving you your own creative space to appreciate it. Far too often do we start clapping when everyone else does, crowd around a portrait because the critics said it was great, migrating in herds to stay safe. When the only thing you can see is the performance, you're able to actually form your opinion, a rare pleasure.

Lights slowly begin to show the past. Pinhole cameras documenting the process, a continual process that you yourself can actually see happening. That's another rarity in the art scene. We only ever see the finished product, the polished and rehearsed top layer. Underneath the top layer lies an entire universe of ideas and thoughts - without these, there would be nothing. It's fantastic, then, to see the creation and refining of these ideas. The prints on the walls of the performance are constantly being added to during the performance, adding a parallel to the dance improvisation happening in front of you. The dance goes on whilst you look at its past.

For me, however, the stand out part of Stilled is the music. A never ending drone that hints at melody, and yet breaks away at the counterpoint, its the perfect accompaniment to the private drama happening inside your head - loud enough to block out the creaks and groans of the real world, yet quiet enough to play alongside your thoughts. I'll do another post on instrumental music later.



I've been losing words recently, so forgive the sporadic nature of this post. It probably doesn't make sense.

In case of...

For those of you who have been living under rocks, the past few days have seen widespread rioting in London, and other major cities in the UK. I'm not going to explain the situation here; I only wear my angry left-wing blogger hat when I'm posting on my fledgling political blog, here.

Instead, have a gander at my survival pack, should I be forced out into the streets:

I won't actually be able to survive with this, no. But it was an interesting exercise to see what items I treasure the most.

Clockwise, from top left:


Hangover Square, by Patrick Hamilton
Brilliant stuff, this book 'ere. In the event of society breaking down, what better to do than to read about one man's individual breakdown?

Flypaper, by Robert Musil
A book of shorts and essays. I take much of my own inspiration from this fella. As you can probably tell, I'm not a very good writer, so I tend to write in prose.

My Moleskine notebook
Probably the most important thing in this entire pack. Many, many things written inside there that mean a lot to me. I'd gladly give everything else to keep that safe.

Watch
Time waits for no one!

Wallet
Currency probably won't be much use, but its a reassuring thing to have on one's self anyway.

Seashell bracelet
Very, very important to me. Watch on left wrist, this on the right, pen in hand, that's me.

Tie & Bow-tie
You never know when you might need to blend into a middle-class gathering.

Chewing gum
Anarchy in the streets is no excuse for poor dental hygiene.

Keys
Not much use if windows are the new doors, but my glow-in-the-dark keyring is handy.

Ski-mask
Shh....

Ipod and earphones
We all need a soundtrack every now and again.

The Zombie Survival Guide, Max Brooks
This is just here for a laugh.

Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury
Stuffed full of more metaphors than you can shake a stick at, this book is amazing. A difficult read the first time through, it'll blow your mind by the end of it.



Well, its more of a literary time capsule than anything. I won't survive a day with this, but its all packed and ready to go anyway.

Highways in the water

Mmmm, pea soup. No, its algae.

Canals are really quite nice places these days. Its a bit strange sometimes to be able to find a (relatively) quiet area bordered by trees or greenery going straight through a city centre. Of course, canals aren't now what they were originally built for. Rather than cyclists and pedestrians, canals once saw cargo and industry, the lifeblood of British industry. Well, none of that now. The most you'll see of boats are 'boat bus' tours.

The Regent's Canal is a particular example of one of those strange inner city havens of quiet. It takes you through a huge swathe of London, showing you the vast differences between the boroughs of London. One of the more striking transitions is when moving from Camden through to Westminster - you go from hardy pirate's castles to massive fuck-off mansions. Walks along the canal are really like nothing else you can do in the city, because where else can you spend hours just walking and talking? Location doesn't really matter, because at the end of the day you'll always be able to find your way back. 

Drooping willows and blackberries, ducks and geese everywhere, going under bridges and the veins of the city. Strange things in the water remind you that you're still in London. But it works. Canals are really quite nice places for a walk.

Walking and talking and philosophising and reminiscing 

Contrary to popular opinion...

One can indeed have too much ice cream.

Approximately 5 minutes before we both became very, very ill.

Ben & Jerry's Sundae festival really was one of the best I've been to. Perfect weather, really nice park environment, all you can eat ice cream, a petting zoo, Gary-fucking-Numan - what more could you want?

If you squint you can see his NIN t-shirt.

Breakfast

Truly, the breakfast of champions.

Breakfast isn't a thing that I always get. Aside from the fact that sometimes I just don't feel like eating in the mornings, I never do seem to have the time for it. Even though its the most important meal of the day, etc etc, I've never actually noticed any negative effects to not eating breakfast. That is, apart from hunger pangs every now and again. I do tend to eat voraciously later on in the day if I haven't had breakfast, but that's not so much of a problem.

All in all, however, breakfast IS a nice start to the day. Depending on what kind of things you're eating, breakfast time can be a really nice time in the mornings to mull things over, organise your day. Doing it on the journey to wherever I'm off to doesn't quite have the same effect. Put the news on, settle down, let the last bits of sleep slowly leave and wake up properly. The food is just something to do, really, a bonus for your body. Mornings, then, are times to "break fast" - that's not only in terms of food, but in terms of consciousness. You've been sleeping for too long, your mind's been wandering in dreamland and unreality. Time to get things into perspective again, and let the sunlight light up the insides of your head. 

But what about the FOOD, I hear you say. Different strokes for different folks, is all I can really say. Some people prefer big, meaty, traditional English breakfasts. Carbs and more carbs, refuelling your body until its time for lunch. Others go light, cornflakes, or museli; something that doesn't shovel solid blocks of energy down your throat, but blossoms slowly through the day. Others still prefer their fruits, going full on organic and natural. Whatever it is, I doubt that people take too much notice of what they're putting in their mouths. It would be a strange morning indeed when your food demanded your entire attention. Everyone does something when they're eating, be it reading the paper, watching the news, listening to the radio, or just philosophising. Breakfast times aren't really about the food then, are they?

But enough with the rambling. I like porridge, that is all.

Perhaps it's time I started writing again.

It has been a while. All this blogging business has completely slipped my mind as of late, so now the time has come to start this old train up again. Well, not exactly with this gem of a post; this one right here is more of a public note-to-self to give me a little kickstart. I've plenty of material to get through, expect lots of photos and ramblings coming soon.

Have a photo of a snail, its representative of my writing progress.

Glitter, and more.

I didn't take enough photos.

"This is not a religious retreat"

Pfft, my arse it wasn't. Really, did I really think that it wouldn't be?
I'll save all my criticism about religion for another day, because that's not quite the focus for this post, and I could go on forever. What IS the focus, is the day itself. Which by extension means ducks.

The location itself was quite nice, all ye olde stone buildings and barns, with well-tended grounds full of trees. That's a rather bland description, but I'm tired and my creative juices have run dry. 
What wasn't nice though, were the pointless activites that were there to do. I do NOT feel the need to keep my soul pure- sorry, I forgot for a moment that its not MY soul or whatever. The real injustice, though, is the fact that, through no fault of our own, my group missed the time slot for the treasure hunting activity! The one part of the programme that looked remotely fun.
Maybe I'm being a bit too harsh though. It was nice to go to somewhere green, and on the first school trip for a long time. Coaches, and packed lunches, and registers on the coach. The coach journey itself, in fact. I'll pass on the next retreat I get offered, but sign me up to the next trip to a green space.

We're classy.

That number between 16 and 18

Interesting facts about the number 17:

1. Some species of Cicada spent 17 years underground in a larval state. They emerge from the ground en masse in 17 year cycles, bringing nearby towns and cities to near-standstills.
2. A haiku poem commonly has 17 syllables in total. The first line has 5 syllables, the second 7, and the last 5.
3. The minimum age for a driver's licence in the UK is 17.
4. The atomic number for Chlorine is 17. As part of Sodium Chloride, or common salt, it is one of the minerals essential to life.
5. You can start donating blood at age 17.
6. You become a full wizard at 17! (in the Harry Potter universe, anyway)

Brilliant stuff, but the most wonderful thing about the number is that its the age Tara became today. My lack of camera skills means no photos, but rest assured, there will be soon! Happy birthdaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!

Food Blogging

I've been inspired by foodporndaily.com
Lets give it a go.

Chocolate Chip Cookie Cheesecake
from In Katrina's Kitchen

Phwoar, would you look at that. Look at all that yellow shit, creamy cheese that doesn't even look like cheese. I've always wondered how exactly cheese can make it into a cheesecake, as it never actually tastes like cheese. To my plebeian tastes, it seems just like cream, and not the soft cheese it actually is. Whatever the hell it is, it tastes damn good. All the chocolate chips on top of this one make it look even better.

Garlic & Peppercorn crusted homemade Bacon with Sunny-side-up eggs and Toast
from Simple Comfort Foods

Sometimes, the simplest things are the best. This is no exception. 'Homemade Bacon' just means curing and salting the pork yourself, as opposed to rearing your own pig, as I initially thought. I know nothing about the processes involved in preparing meat, but the end result here is magnificent. Look at the colouring: those eggs and their soft yolks, juxtaposed with the primal red of the bacon, a metaphor for the innate struggle of the proletariat against the bourgeoisie...nah, I'll cut the bullshit and just say it looks nice.

Pan Seared Sea Scallops w/ English Peas, Smokey Bacon, and Spring Lettuce
from Stephen Hamilton

Seafood, truly a gift sent from Mother Nature herself. Thinking about the comical little shells these things reside in before they're ripped out and cooked somewhat detracts from the pleasure of eating them, but they're absolutely delicious nonetheless. These ones are also conveniently bite-sized, perfect for popping in your mouth without any thought. Look at them, sitting on the plate, inviting you to crush their buttery insides...

Maple Bacon Bourbon Ice Cream
from Cherry Tea Cakes

Yes, you're thinking Bacon, in ice cream? Preposterous! Before you explode with rage at what you see as blasphemy, slow down and have a think about it. It's not full on meaty bacon, smeared in grease and sizzling from the pan; its candied bacon, cooked lovingly in sugar. With bourbon ice cream, you probably wouldn't know its bacon at all. That said, baaaaaaaaacon.

Churros with Cinnamon Orange Chocolate Sauce
from Satisfied 


Upon finding this picture, I actually went slack jawed and misty eyed, reminiscing of the last time I had churros. Needless to say, I'm a big fan. These little Mexican sticks of heaven aren't the neatest foods to eat, as you'll invariable get sugar and cinnamon all over you, but its all worth it. Dipped in chocolate and melting in your mouth, these things take you on a journey through time and space, dumping you in a world of sugar and rotten teeth.

 Strawberry Crumble
from Karma Cucina

It is universally acknowledged that a single man, in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a crumble. Because, as we all know, crumbles of any kind are the best invention since the wheel. These strawberry crumbles, in their messy dishes, are the equivalent of the Eiffel Tower in the baking world of my mind. Just look at that juice, cascading down the side of that dish. Sugar. Natural sugar.

Also, why on earth do big strawberries look so...muscle-y?


And I'll end with this rather, er...interesting video from Battles' new album.

blueberries.

Damn and Blast it!

Curse my lack of a record player.
Vinyl shopping with Tara yesterday revealed Tunnel Blanket. This Will Destroy You have been on my permanent listening playlist for donkeys now, and its a damn shame that I don't have any of their records on vinyl. Well, to be precise, I don't have any vinyl records at all. To be even more brutally honest, I don't have any physical copies of my music at all.

Yes, I'm a music pirate. I'm not proud of it; its definitely not something I would do if I had the choice otherwise, but what's a guy to do in the digital age? When I listen to all of my music through little electronic gizmos that store music in thousands of little tiny bits of information, I can't really justify paying for the electronic experience. To that end, I enthusiastically spend my money on gigs and merchandise; anything to support the bands that I truly like.

Personally, spending money on things needs to have some sort of physical reward. As such, spending money on mp3s and electronic files isn't something I'm ready to accept. I expect to be harpooned at this point for not buying CDs. Yes, I totally agree that I really should spend more money on buying music on physical formats. But CDs are still somewhat dead to me. I'm not going to pretend that I can hear the difference between digital and analogue recordings (it sounds a bit fuzzier and warmer is all), because as far as I can tell, its negligible, but I much prefer the physicality of a 12" record. Vinyl records somehow seem to have so much more effort and life put into their design. Even the album art, which is shrunk down to a miniaturized size on CD jewel cases, seems more vibrant and well printed on a cardboard sleeve. The manufacturing process too, each record pressed with love and care from the precious master record.

All of this rhetoric is null and void, though, when I remember the fact that I still haven't got myself a record player of my own. Damn and blast it.

I'll just have to live here until I get my own record player.

Oh, and Tunnel Blanket is a more ambient side to TWDY than I've seen before.

Not quite a wasteland

Forgotten toys are a sad sight. What once brought so much joy and happiness, discarded like so much rubbish on the side of a road. Well, perhaps forgotten is the wrong word, as that would imply a certain value thats been placed on them. These items have been cast aside by the owners, left behind in wastelands and on roadsides.

Its a sad fact, then, that sights such as these are particularly common in East London. Maybe there's something about the environment that inspires this sort of casual disregard, maybe the decaying landscapes and forgotten shorelines invite some sense of forgetfulness and a desire to move quickly away from the past. Whatever the reason, those who are left behind are now another part of the landscape, like the electricity pylons, the fallen chain-link fences, the rusty barbed wire. East London is a strange place, at once a desolate wasteland, but at the same time possessing its own desolate beauty.

Half wild, and yet with the lingering touches of human industry, the landscape is barren, and yet alive. Yes, asbestos choked buildings and the odd open manhole or two might be serious health hazards, but doesn't that just make it all the more alive? The beating heart of industry has indeed left its mark on the land, almost as a lament. The land is lost to humans now, and nature creeps slowly back in. Nevertheless, the land remembers, and yearns for emotion again. Discarded toys, it would seem, become the playthings of the land.

Enough of the sad stuff, here's a photo of one of my favourite places.

Goats.

Le Quattro Volte.
Way better than that 'Men Who Stare at Goats'.
Goats, old men, coal and death. Hardcore.
Drinking an sugar filled love hearts and crunchy milkshake after sitting in a darkened room for so long can't be great for the constitution. But hey, we're kids. And kids will be... hey I just made an unintentional goat reference. Which makes sense. Cause the film we just watched was pretty much all about goats.
And a big tree.
We will christen him Billy.
Tara&Kevin

English Revision.

Photos first, writing later:

 
 
  

 

We're not great at revising for our English exam.

We blame the sun!

"A revolving gun emplacement popped up like a jack-in-the-box"

It starts now.
That there is solid Milo chocolate mix, floating around in milk and my favourite cup. It didn't taste all that amazing, mind, as I'd dropped some dark chocolate buttons in the bottom too.

I'm once again beginning strange adventures in the kitchen. This is bad. It's really a sign that I'm beginning to lose it, though I suppose its a better method of stress relief than arson or whatever it is people are doing these days. I've made some pretty odd things in the last week or so, some of which turned out tasty, others not so much. Shovelling crap into my body is good for the constitution, or so I've heard. A litre tub of Flying Saucers has been finished off in the last week; I can't help the fact that they're perfect companions to my manic reading sessions.

Bedtime reading indeed. I really think I've burnt myself out on all the classic reading; that's why those fantasy books from my teenage years are sitting atop of the penguin classics. I'm going on a trip down memory lane for the next few weeks at least, going back to all those children's books of yore.

Yes, call it lazy reading or whatever you want, but they're fun books. Nothing amazingly deep or philosophical, but that's the point. No deep moral questions that need to be answered, just the good ol' narrative of good vs evil, light vs dark. Simple reading, no need to read in between lines and figure out whether or not the author has a secret agenda against oranges or whatnot.

Brooklyn is the odd one out there, I haven't actually read it, and I don't intend to. Oh, and the post title is from A Darkling Plain. Go read it.