Monday, April 19, 2010
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
If life is all about failing, I would prefer to be a winner, not a whiner or a wino. I suppose I have whined a tiny bit just by stating this fact. But failure is about erm, failing and some more, some humans like me, excel at failure. Some don't, which is either bullshit, or they prefer not not shout about their fallibility due to XYZ. Possibly arrogance and some dumb arse power game. Failures should be celebrated and rewarded. Why? Because the process involves fighting through fearlessness in order to stretch ourselves out like chewing gum, in the slightest possible hope of finding new form, new ideas,something, anything, rather than the more of the same. It carries risk, health problems, financial burden, and you may even lose a batch of really conventional bores from your life (which is actually a blessed relief but the downside is you may end up lonely). People who fail, ultimately, make everyone else feel fabulous, albeit for a moment. Are you feeling fabulous? I do hope so.
Here is a sketch I did this evening which needs further developing. Ok, let's cut the crap. It has failed in more ways than one. And that is ok. I am calm. The wind still blows and the sun may not emerge until till next autumn. But I am always strangely excited by cocking it up, erm, to put it in the vernacular so to speak. And why? Because. There, that is my succinct explanation: because.
The character in the image, wearing the bizarre head gear which looks more like a benign growth, is Mrs George from Mervyn Peake's novel Mr Pye. She's a cookie of the tough molar breaking variety, you don't want that sort hanging about inside your biscuit tin for too long-assuming you own such an item. In the novel, she never, not once, removes her hat but I'm sure one could just catch a wiff stench of stale hair.
As you can see in the sketch below, I had a problem remembering Mrs George's leg count. I do believe the character should be mistress of two pins rather than three or four. You see how I have failed to acknowledge how many limbs a human being should be in possession of? Are these the sketches of an imbecile and the fearless scribblings of a half wit who knows nothing about anatomy? You can tell me in person, or write to me even, I will shake your hand and maybe even agree or disagree with you. And if you don't care, well, who cares? I will enjoy the attention either way. Now do please go away and remember to feel good about yourself.
Saturday, April 03, 2010
I dipped into Mafia Wars, when the snow came. That's where I met Lucky, through an online computer game. She fought tough. I got excited by her industrial strength skin, so I plunged in at the deep end and wrote, 'Will you marry me, Lucky? I am all alone in the world.' She replied, 'Have you got a UK passport, Rocky?' 'Of course my darling gold haired beauty.' She asked me for my real name. 'My surname is Dip. My first name is Sherbert.' 'I prefer Rocky,' she wrote.
By the time Lucky arrived at Terminal 3, Heathrow Airport, the snow had almost melted. She said I looked older than on my photograph. Although I am 80, I sent Lucky a photograph of me aged 30. Lucky did not have gold hair. She had brown hair. She was fat. This girth was not obvious in her photograph. I felt cheated. After two days of honeymoon, I shed my trousers for the last time. She wore them thereafter. They split. Lucky dreams about dogs and sings mournful songs about her homeland. I think she's dipped into a depression, so I am back playing online war games again. Women are difficult and sometimes obtuse. Lucky tells me she is no longer interested in Mafia Wars because she now plays a war game of her very own making.