Monday, December 31, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Blank Spaces of Windhoek
Current Location: Windhoek, Namibia.
I'm attracted to blank spaces. The sort of white space on a map that Marlow mentions at the beginning of 'Heart of Darkness'. Only the blank spaces hold any attraction, that is what I hank after - and so she undestood, because she didn't shake her head or look confused. Because she remained silent.
Did I think of you
when i sat with the 'Quiver Trees'
listening as those sounds
cast deep vents in the air
did i think of you?
Did i think of you
when i sat in the desert
watching sand grains
leap from the tips of
dune mountains
did i think of you?
Did i think of you
in the Lunar desertscapes of Namibia
where ancient Earth
collided with my weathered heart
did i think of you?
I'm attracted to blank spaces. The sort of white space on a map that Marlow mentions at the beginning of 'Heart of Darkness'. Only the blank spaces hold any attraction, that is what I hank after - and so she undestood, because she didn't shake her head or look confused. Because she remained silent.
Did I think of you
when i sat with the 'Quiver Trees'
listening as those sounds
cast deep vents in the air
did i think of you?
Did i think of you
when i sat in the desert
watching sand grains
leap from the tips of
dune mountains
did i think of you?
Did i think of you
in the Lunar desertscapes of Namibia
where ancient Earth
collided with my weathered heart
did i think of you?
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Current Coordinates
Current Location: Cape Town, South Africa
Starting tomorrow: Road trip across Namibia across 1600km of desert.
Health: Slight cough but healthy
Memory Cards left in Camera: 4GB.
Number of times I have been mugged: Nil (so far)
Things to consider for road trip: Fuel, Water, food and most importantly sufficient memory capacity for the Camera. Can't get memory cards in the desert...or so they say
There is beauty everywhere you turn
embers of life may wither away and burn
but the poetry of life will always be
you floating about in memories
Starting tomorrow: Road trip across Namibia across 1600km of desert.
Health: Slight cough but healthy
Memory Cards left in Camera: 4GB.
Number of times I have been mugged: Nil (so far)
Things to consider for road trip: Fuel, Water, food and most importantly sufficient memory capacity for the Camera. Can't get memory cards in the desert...or so they say
There is beauty everywhere you turn
embers of life may wither away and burn
but the poetry of life will always be
you floating about in memories
Monday, December 10, 2007
To be or not to be...a swashbuckling vagabond
So what does it mean to be a swashbuckling vagabond eh?
The art of the vagabond
Day dreaming is perhaps the most empathic quality of the true vagabond. True is the vagabond who day-dreams often. You can measure your level of vagabondage by calculating the total amount of 'waking time' dedicated to bouts of day dreaming. In my case, I have tried and tested many combinations of possible work journeys. After a process much akin to Darwinian natural selection, I have settled for a journey that allows maximum day dreaming possibilities; a 20 min walk to the bus stop (through Ridley Road Market as the traders set up shop and the smell of fish mingles with the morning mist) followed by a comfy trip on the top deck of the 277.
Then there is work; about half of which is spent in deep reverie munching on wholesome thoughts. Lunch is obviously taken in fantasy land and the journey home too. Evenings are very rich with day dream pickings and dripping with big, fat, juicy day-dream berries that I devour whole and allow to dribble all over my cheeks.
This level of day dreaming activity probably places me on the upper echelons of the league of day dreamers. A true vagabond indeed! A Master vagabond.
So what does a swashbuckling vagabond dream about?
(sigh) Many things my dear friends. Many things. For when you have that much day dreaming time you can take liberties! - Well, a typical daydream journey for me to my local Kurdish off-license for a pint of semi-skimmed milk and a loaf of bread is an adventure indeed! - there is the 'hero' phase where one imagines oneself with super human powers; some sort of amazing ability that chicks really dig like being a wicked poet or having huge biceps; both equally effective with the cantankerous female variety.
Then there's the deep ponderings about the meaning of life and why most people are so inherently stupid. Man can be amazingly clever (microwaves, rockets, discovery of evolution, Nike trainers) but also really fucking stupid (like wars, and fighting, and racism and George Bush). I sometimes imagine being the sole person left on earth after a rather nasty alien invasion has wiped out the whole of humanity. All my friends included. However, If I'm in a good mood then humanity hasn't died but is waiting for me to rescue it from the clutches of death. Deep stuff indeed...
But there is a pattern. The true swashbuckling vagabond is really a rambler. Not only a methaporical rambler but also a rambler in the literal sense. He is not content with just rambling over the lush green of a perfectly done lawn. But also wants to sneak about the rough edges; poke around the bits that don't look so nice, where the grass is not so neat and not so green.
Most people I see on the streets are in a hurry. All they want to do is get from A to B. You can see it in the expressions of their creased faces; so serious, so adult, so grown up! - they have plans, things to do, places to go, gotta be here, gotta be there, must do this, must do that. Says who? On who's authority does it say you 'have' to do anything at all? Whereas, the rambler will take his time. Yes. You see time doesn't weigh as heavily on his shoulders. Oh no. He slows down. Looks around. Doesn't have anywhere to go to in particular. Doesn't have anything 'to do' at all really. But like a beacon in the swarm of ignoramuses, he lights the way to new possibilities, new experiences and new horizons. It's very simple you know. Life is. All you have to do is get lost in a Dulux® day dream ramble.
The day dreamer, the rambler, the swashbuckling vagabond are all but one of the same kind.
liferamble.com
The art of the vagabond
Day dreaming is perhaps the most empathic quality of the true vagabond. True is the vagabond who day-dreams often. You can measure your level of vagabondage by calculating the total amount of 'waking time' dedicated to bouts of day dreaming. In my case, I have tried and tested many combinations of possible work journeys. After a process much akin to Darwinian natural selection, I have settled for a journey that allows maximum day dreaming possibilities; a 20 min walk to the bus stop (through Ridley Road Market as the traders set up shop and the smell of fish mingles with the morning mist) followed by a comfy trip on the top deck of the 277.
Then there is work; about half of which is spent in deep reverie munching on wholesome thoughts. Lunch is obviously taken in fantasy land and the journey home too. Evenings are very rich with day dream pickings and dripping with big, fat, juicy day-dream berries that I devour whole and allow to dribble all over my cheeks.
This level of day dreaming activity probably places me on the upper echelons of the league of day dreamers. A true vagabond indeed! A Master vagabond.
So what does a swashbuckling vagabond dream about?
(sigh) Many things my dear friends. Many things. For when you have that much day dreaming time you can take liberties! - Well, a typical daydream journey for me to my local Kurdish off-license for a pint of semi-skimmed milk and a loaf of bread is an adventure indeed! - there is the 'hero' phase where one imagines oneself with super human powers; some sort of amazing ability that chicks really dig like being a wicked poet or having huge biceps; both equally effective with the cantankerous female variety.
Then there's the deep ponderings about the meaning of life and why most people are so inherently stupid. Man can be amazingly clever (microwaves, rockets, discovery of evolution, Nike trainers) but also really fucking stupid (like wars, and fighting, and racism and George Bush). I sometimes imagine being the sole person left on earth after a rather nasty alien invasion has wiped out the whole of humanity. All my friends included. However, If I'm in a good mood then humanity hasn't died but is waiting for me to rescue it from the clutches of death. Deep stuff indeed...
But there is a pattern. The true swashbuckling vagabond is really a rambler. Not only a methaporical rambler but also a rambler in the literal sense. He is not content with just rambling over the lush green of a perfectly done lawn. But also wants to sneak about the rough edges; poke around the bits that don't look so nice, where the grass is not so neat and not so green.
Most people I see on the streets are in a hurry. All they want to do is get from A to B. You can see it in the expressions of their creased faces; so serious, so adult, so grown up! - they have plans, things to do, places to go, gotta be here, gotta be there, must do this, must do that. Says who? On who's authority does it say you 'have' to do anything at all? Whereas, the rambler will take his time. Yes. You see time doesn't weigh as heavily on his shoulders. Oh no. He slows down. Looks around. Doesn't have anywhere to go to in particular. Doesn't have anything 'to do' at all really. But like a beacon in the swarm of ignoramuses, he lights the way to new possibilities, new experiences and new horizons. It's very simple you know. Life is. All you have to do is get lost in a Dulux® day dream ramble.
The day dreamer, the rambler, the swashbuckling vagabond are all but one of the same kind.
liferamble.com
Coming soon...South Africa!
In Memoriam:
I wander through each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
(William Blake)
I wander through each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
(William Blake)
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
I'm amazing you know
Just being a thought inside your head
Fills my heart with happiness
A mere thought! Just think!
Isn’t it wonderful?
That something of me
Lives in that pretty little head of yours
I admit. That I must struggle to compete
With the others; those other lofty thoughts
About handbags, shoes and what have you
But that’s fine by me
I don’t mind infidelity
As long as I’m there somewhere
In the background
Is better than
Not being there at all
But just think! How wonderful it is!
Through time and through space
Like magnetism
Across 1000s of miles
That I may just pop into being
Inside your head
Voila!
As a thought
Makes me feel rather special
That I can do that
Like with super powers
Like a super-hero - Wow!
I’m amazing you know
Really amazing
Didn’t you know that!
Fills my heart with happiness
A mere thought! Just think!
Isn’t it wonderful?
That something of me
Lives in that pretty little head of yours
I admit. That I must struggle to compete
With the others; those other lofty thoughts
About handbags, shoes and what have you
But that’s fine by me
I don’t mind infidelity
As long as I’m there somewhere
In the background
Is better than
Not being there at all
But just think! How wonderful it is!
Through time and through space
Like magnetism
Across 1000s of miles
That I may just pop into being
Inside your head
Voila!
As a thought
Makes me feel rather special
That I can do that
Like with super powers
Like a super-hero - Wow!
I’m amazing you know
Really amazing
Didn’t you know that!
Friday, November 16, 2007
Coming soon…ii) Homo Kashmiri - the spine chilling mystery bit
What do a 10,000 year old relic gathering dust in the British Museum archives, a strange topographical depression in the Mangla Dam area of Kashmir, the mysterious death of world renowned archaeologist Dr Von Nutterboffin and a local village elder called Mr Sardar Jee Ghulab-Jamun (purveyor of syrupy balls and see-er of Djinns) have in common?
Well not much until a dashing super-sleuth connects the dots that link these clues to solve the pre-eminent mystery of modern times: ‘Where do Homo Kashmiri’s come from?’ (Not to mention drinking many Lattes on the way).
Find out soon…
Book review:
This is quite simply the best story you’ll ever read. Ever. Look. Forget reading anything else ever again yeah. Just read this. This is the dogs’ bollocks. I mean it.
Literary review:
Not since young William Shakespeare, has the English Language been graced with such brilliance. I am a fan. Nuff said.
Times Higher Education Supplement:
This should be recommended reading in all the syllabuses throughout all the English schools, on this planet. It burns like a candle illuminating all the crap that currently adorns the WH Smith bestseller list
The authors mother:
I know he is my son so I will try to be impartial and unbiased.
To all the writers that have ever lived and those that are yet to be born…don’t bother. Cos ya’ll pathetic when compared to the talents of my son. As a mother I say buy this book…please, make a proud mother happy and a talented son rich. Don’t be stingy borrowing it from the library or off a mate! Buy it!
God:
er...I’m screwed…
Well not much until a dashing super-sleuth connects the dots that link these clues to solve the pre-eminent mystery of modern times: ‘Where do Homo Kashmiri’s come from?’ (Not to mention drinking many Lattes on the way).
Find out soon…
Book review:
This is quite simply the best story you’ll ever read. Ever. Look. Forget reading anything else ever again yeah. Just read this. This is the dogs’ bollocks. I mean it.
Literary review:
Not since young William Shakespeare, has the English Language been graced with such brilliance. I am a fan. Nuff said.
Times Higher Education Supplement:
This should be recommended reading in all the syllabuses throughout all the English schools, on this planet. It burns like a candle illuminating all the crap that currently adorns the WH Smith bestseller list
The authors mother:
I know he is my son so I will try to be impartial and unbiased.
To all the writers that have ever lived and those that are yet to be born…don’t bother. Cos ya’ll pathetic when compared to the talents of my son. As a mother I say buy this book…please, make a proud mother happy and a talented son rich. Don’t be stingy borrowing it from the library or off a mate! Buy it!
God:
er...I’m screwed…
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
On the Origins and Anthropology of Homo Kashmiri
(i) Introduction: The purple prose poetic bit
A bitter cold and a Baltic breeze flog the skin raw under a lukewarm sun. You look to the sky for warmth, but there is none. It stares back at you with an icy blue gaze that leaves scratch marks in the back of your eyes and icicles in your heart. On the Coventry road in Birmingham, men wander around in white skull caps that look like bald heads in the long distance. Their sallow margarine cheeks sprouting with bristles and their womenfolk walking in troops, slicing through the icy front dressed in svelte garbs that sway like sails. An armada of pushchairs, with little red nosed occupants, ply though the rubbish strewn street; pass the walls dunked in apple crumble and clotted with snails that look like tumours. They stop and ponder in front of bold stickers announcing cheap meal deals - good wholesome food for the little en's - who are more interested in the balloons next door.
The gardens no longer daubed with the sweet smell of frangipani, honeysuckle and dandelion but with the rough strokes of a wintry brush. The creepers have fled on summer holiday and the insects are languishing in Italy. The boughs tremble while their jaundiced leaves lie crumpled on the boggy earth; crunchy under your feet. It feels good when you walk over them; their muffled screams acting like shock absorbers when you crush them with your soles.
Winter, with its capricious moods and anaemic colours seems a poor child to the theatricals of the wedding hall. You watch, with straight faced sobriety, the wedding jesters marching in. A fanfare of reds, blues and greens from a medieval playhouse. You spot the bouffant haired ‘troubadours’ with their drums, the ‘prima donnas’ holding court in histrionic airs, the brides ‘troupe’ and the rest all ‘jokers’ and ‘clowns’ – all cutting a dash in an assortment of affected razmadazz.
It appears all so antiquated don’t you think? All rather odd against the backdrop of the red-bricked hovels they call homes and the bright yellow of ‘Morrisons’ – beaming at you like a good friend. A people wallowing in a past that no longer wants them; edged towards a future they’re afraid of. The wedding hall, a squat double storey building sitting on its haunches and looking rather glum in an area paved with low aspirations; like the figures skulking around its edges and meddling in the cracks. Off the radar – off the grid. In never never land.
The men inside monosyllabic and vacuous. Products of blissful ignorance and drudgery; inert philistines with brains minced through a food processor. You’re harassed by the regular mob with ‘get rich quick schemes’ and unabashedly quizzed on the latest tax scams. As if you would know. Luckily, the womenfolk downstairs are more salubrious and more then happy to have you. With hair done up in strange bobs and curtains. Smiles as wide as oceans. Sequined headscarves wrapping pretty little heads that bob with animated conversation. And cheeks like cranberries but that much sweeter.
(Continued...)
(Copyright: Global Anthropology Journal 2007)
A bitter cold and a Baltic breeze flog the skin raw under a lukewarm sun. You look to the sky for warmth, but there is none. It stares back at you with an icy blue gaze that leaves scratch marks in the back of your eyes and icicles in your heart. On the Coventry road in Birmingham, men wander around in white skull caps that look like bald heads in the long distance. Their sallow margarine cheeks sprouting with bristles and their womenfolk walking in troops, slicing through the icy front dressed in svelte garbs that sway like sails. An armada of pushchairs, with little red nosed occupants, ply though the rubbish strewn street; pass the walls dunked in apple crumble and clotted with snails that look like tumours. They stop and ponder in front of bold stickers announcing cheap meal deals - good wholesome food for the little en's - who are more interested in the balloons next door.
The gardens no longer daubed with the sweet smell of frangipani, honeysuckle and dandelion but with the rough strokes of a wintry brush. The creepers have fled on summer holiday and the insects are languishing in Italy. The boughs tremble while their jaundiced leaves lie crumpled on the boggy earth; crunchy under your feet. It feels good when you walk over them; their muffled screams acting like shock absorbers when you crush them with your soles.
Winter, with its capricious moods and anaemic colours seems a poor child to the theatricals of the wedding hall. You watch, with straight faced sobriety, the wedding jesters marching in. A fanfare of reds, blues and greens from a medieval playhouse. You spot the bouffant haired ‘troubadours’ with their drums, the ‘prima donnas’ holding court in histrionic airs, the brides ‘troupe’ and the rest all ‘jokers’ and ‘clowns’ – all cutting a dash in an assortment of affected razmadazz.
It appears all so antiquated don’t you think? All rather odd against the backdrop of the red-bricked hovels they call homes and the bright yellow of ‘Morrisons’ – beaming at you like a good friend. A people wallowing in a past that no longer wants them; edged towards a future they’re afraid of. The wedding hall, a squat double storey building sitting on its haunches and looking rather glum in an area paved with low aspirations; like the figures skulking around its edges and meddling in the cracks. Off the radar – off the grid. In never never land.
The men inside monosyllabic and vacuous. Products of blissful ignorance and drudgery; inert philistines with brains minced through a food processor. You’re harassed by the regular mob with ‘get rich quick schemes’ and unabashedly quizzed on the latest tax scams. As if you would know. Luckily, the womenfolk downstairs are more salubrious and more then happy to have you. With hair done up in strange bobs and curtains. Smiles as wide as oceans. Sequined headscarves wrapping pretty little heads that bob with animated conversation. And cheeks like cranberries but that much sweeter.
(Continued...)
(Copyright: Global Anthropology Journal 2007)
Friday, November 09, 2007
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
On the origins of Homo Kashmiri (update)
The research paper : 'On the Anthropology and Origins of Homo Kashmiri' has been submitted for peer review. The research paper itself emcompasses data from a pot pouri of disciplines (some more disciplined then others) such as biochemistry, anthropology, archaeology, behavioural science, history, poetry, science fiction writing, and even takes some inspiration from the 'Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy' - that great repository of loonydom.
The research paper will be published after it has been carefully examined, dissected, pulled apart, put back together again, attacked with a microscope, bludgeoned with a hammer, drowned in sulphuric acid, and generally subjected to the toughest tests academia has to offer. If after such pedantic vetting procedures anything remains of this seminal piece of scientific research and beautiful prose writing, then it shall be published here.
The peer review is currently being carried out by the greatest minds and poets the world has ever known...many of whom are unable to function in polite society and are currently based in the 'Chesterfield care-home for the psychologically impaired'.
The research paper will be published after it has been carefully examined, dissected, pulled apart, put back together again, attacked with a microscope, bludgeoned with a hammer, drowned in sulphuric acid, and generally subjected to the toughest tests academia has to offer. If after such pedantic vetting procedures anything remains of this seminal piece of scientific research and beautiful prose writing, then it shall be published here.
The peer review is currently being carried out by the greatest minds and poets the world has ever known...many of whom are unable to function in polite society and are currently based in the 'Chesterfield care-home for the psychologically impaired'.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Coming soon...Me!
Foto-grafs of the Swashbuckling Vagabond...
Warning: Females may experience a certain tingling sensation and hot flushes upon perusal of the aforementioned images. This is perfectly normal and totally expected. If these physical affects are accompanied by strong emotional feelings then you are experiencing the on-set of, what is popularly known as, 'falling in love'.
Do not be alarmed. 'Falling in love' is a perfectly normal human past-time. In-fact I recommend it wholeheartedly.
Warning: Females may experience a certain tingling sensation and hot flushes upon perusal of the aforementioned images. This is perfectly normal and totally expected. If these physical affects are accompanied by strong emotional feelings then you are experiencing the on-set of, what is popularly known as, 'falling in love'.
Do not be alarmed. 'Falling in love' is a perfectly normal human past-time. In-fact I recommend it wholeheartedly.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Coming next week...'Research paper on an Asian wedding'
Next week I shall be publishing my much anticipated research paper on : 'The Anthropological Characteristics of an Asian wedding in Birmingham'
For the sake of scientific research I shall be popping into Birmingham (aka Brumistaan) for a spot of field-work at a Pakistani wedding. I hope to study the specie Homo Kashmiri in its natural habitat. Homo Kashmiri, once thought extinct, is endemic to northern localities of the British Isles. Characteristics of note include:
1) A penchant for driving down busy roads in 'souped up' vehicles with low frequency 'drum and base' sounds emanating from the windows. Apparently such machismo behaviour is designed to impress the female Homo Kashmiri ladettes - who go crazy for such testosterone overdoses
2) A most peculiar language that seems to have branched off from mainstream English. The language is popularly referred to as 'Englishtaan' and contains many unique words like 'chuddies' and 'innit'
Homo Kashmiri is also of interest to biologists who are perplexed as to how it has managed to stave off extinction for so long. Recent theories to explain this quirk range from the idea that it has survived because of strong inter-family kinship (best exemplified in the maxim: you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours) to the more fancyful idea that God has taken pity on this much maligned of species.
Homo Kashmiri can be found in pristine pockets of habitation (free from the malignant influence of outside forces) in Birmingham, Bradford, Rochdale and certain parts of Scotland (esp Glasgow). There is no fee to visit such habitats and their is currently much political activity to grant these areas 'Protected Status' - in-line with the 'African Serangetti Nature Reserve', 'The Bushlands of Swaziland' and the swamplands of the 'Bungo Tribe' in Northern Uzbekistan.
Richard Branson has also shown an interest in developing a 'Kashmirassic park' near Small Heath, Birmingham where for the price of a ticket, one can marvel at this idiosyncratic species. Afterwards, for a total immersive experience one may then frequent one of the popular 'Balti Houses' for authentic Homo Kashmiri fodder.
For the sake of scientific research I shall be popping into Birmingham (aka Brumistaan) for a spot of field-work at a Pakistani wedding. I hope to study the specie Homo Kashmiri in its natural habitat. Homo Kashmiri, once thought extinct, is endemic to northern localities of the British Isles. Characteristics of note include:
1) A penchant for driving down busy roads in 'souped up' vehicles with low frequency 'drum and base' sounds emanating from the windows. Apparently such machismo behaviour is designed to impress the female Homo Kashmiri ladettes - who go crazy for such testosterone overdoses
2) A most peculiar language that seems to have branched off from mainstream English. The language is popularly referred to as 'Englishtaan' and contains many unique words like 'chuddies' and 'innit'
Homo Kashmiri is also of interest to biologists who are perplexed as to how it has managed to stave off extinction for so long. Recent theories to explain this quirk range from the idea that it has survived because of strong inter-family kinship (best exemplified in the maxim: you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours) to the more fancyful idea that God has taken pity on this much maligned of species.
Homo Kashmiri can be found in pristine pockets of habitation (free from the malignant influence of outside forces) in Birmingham, Bradford, Rochdale and certain parts of Scotland (esp Glasgow). There is no fee to visit such habitats and their is currently much political activity to grant these areas 'Protected Status' - in-line with the 'African Serangetti Nature Reserve', 'The Bushlands of Swaziland' and the swamplands of the 'Bungo Tribe' in Northern Uzbekistan.
Richard Branson has also shown an interest in developing a 'Kashmirassic park' near Small Heath, Birmingham where for the price of a ticket, one can marvel at this idiosyncratic species. Afterwards, for a total immersive experience one may then frequent one of the popular 'Balti Houses' for authentic Homo Kashmiri fodder.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Coming soon...Calling all Knobs (Part III)
The exciting 3rd installment of the Knob Trilogy...cumming soon.
Find out what happens when our Knob Hero (me) meets the charismatic 'K3' in the Horse and Hound Ale House in Islington, North London...will they get on and raise their knobs in salute? or are we gonna see a cock fight?
Will our protagonist (me) manage to hitch a ride to the Andromeda Galaxy?
Will our dastardly, courageous, ravishingly handsome, sex-bomb of a knob (me) get to frequent the bawdy taverns and boudoirs of Knob City? (in the name of knob research)
Will our hero (me) discover the startling truth about his 'spontaneous knob awareness'?
...and the question long exercising the minds of my (cultured and educated) readers:
'Will we finally see some knob action?'
Find out in a knob blog near you soon...
Some spiel on the Chartered Knob Club for Non-Members
The Chartered Knob Club (of Earth) was set up in the Cayman Islands under Royal Charter in early 2006. Her Majesty, in furnishing the royal charter, acknowledged the need for an exclusive organisation for like-minded and socially sophisticated Knobs. The Chartered Knob Club currently enjoys the membership of approximately half a dozen male members and a couple of honorary 'Knobettes' (female knobs) and is currently ranked 3rd in the world in a recent survey of average member IQ and ranked 2nd for member satisfaction (The Chartered Knitting club is ranked 1st for member satisfaction but only because their members enjoy a life-times supply of knitted cardigans).
The Installation of the 'Knobamatic 2000' in our headquarters will hopefully increase member satisfaction scores to 1st place. The Knobamatic 2000 is a revolutionary new vacuam suction device, designed by the Swiss Company 'Sukker UnLimited' and will provide instant knob relief for knobs in stress.
Privileges of membership of the Chartered Knob Club are many (which I won't list out here) but suffice it is to say, that membership is supremely exclusive (we don't just pick any knob off the street).
If you would like to becum a member please send a letter explaining why you feel you are a knob to the following email address: duluxdreams@hotmail.com
Find out what happens when our Knob Hero (me) meets the charismatic 'K3' in the Horse and Hound Ale House in Islington, North London...will they get on and raise their knobs in salute? or are we gonna see a cock fight?
Will our protagonist (me) manage to hitch a ride to the Andromeda Galaxy?
Will our dastardly, courageous, ravishingly handsome, sex-bomb of a knob (me) get to frequent the bawdy taverns and boudoirs of Knob City? (in the name of knob research)
Will our hero (me) discover the startling truth about his 'spontaneous knob awareness'?
...and the question long exercising the minds of my (cultured and educated) readers:
'Will we finally see some knob action?'
Find out in a knob blog near you soon...
Some spiel on the Chartered Knob Club for Non-Members
The Chartered Knob Club (of Earth) was set up in the Cayman Islands under Royal Charter in early 2006. Her Majesty, in furnishing the royal charter, acknowledged the need for an exclusive organisation for like-minded and socially sophisticated Knobs. The Chartered Knob Club currently enjoys the membership of approximately half a dozen male members and a couple of honorary 'Knobettes' (female knobs) and is currently ranked 3rd in the world in a recent survey of average member IQ and ranked 2nd for member satisfaction (The Chartered Knitting club is ranked 1st for member satisfaction but only because their members enjoy a life-times supply of knitted cardigans).
The Installation of the 'Knobamatic 2000' in our headquarters will hopefully increase member satisfaction scores to 1st place. The Knobamatic 2000 is a revolutionary new vacuam suction device, designed by the Swiss Company 'Sukker UnLimited' and will provide instant knob relief for knobs in stress.
Privileges of membership of the Chartered Knob Club are many (which I won't list out here) but suffice it is to say, that membership is supremely exclusive (we don't just pick any knob off the street).
If you would like to becum a member please send a letter explaining why you feel you are a knob to the following email address: duluxdreams@hotmail.com
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Calling all knobs (part II)
The Horse and Hound public ale house in Islington, North London is steeped with the accumulated crust of years of DNA. Some of the greatest thinkers the world has ever known have drunk here and no doubt left their DNA here too. A mere swab of any surface in the pub is likely to contain bits of great luminaries such as Lord Byron, Samuel Pepys, Oliver Cromwell, Mohammed Ali Jinnah, Bertrand Russell, E.M Forrester and John Smith of Macclesfield (the ‘almost’ winner of the 2004 Noble Prize in Chemistry who died a tragic death when he accidentally asphyxiated himself with his tie after a drinking session involving an inflatable sex doll and a pair of pliers) – but I digress…
Being a Londoner, I quite like a tipple myself and the Horse and Hound is no less deserving of my custom; it also has the added benefit of making me feel important due to the pedigrees that have drunken here. The Horse and Hound is also the first pub on Earth to host a most remarkable gathering of people. A gathering more remarkable then the ‘112th Annual Meeting of the digital watches are still cool club' (did they have digital watches 112 years ago?). A meeting fuller of wonderfully exciting people then the annual conference of ‘paper clip’ aficionados and more fun then the weekly meets for lovers of beetroot sandwiches. So, yes a most remarkable meeting indeed. I speak of none other then the first ‘knob-knob’ between the Galactic Knob Council and the Earthly Chartered Knob Club.
So there I was outside the Horse and Hound on a Sunday afternoon. I straightened my collars, tightened the knot in my dapper scarf, removed my Grado RS-60 headphones and swanked in…I had my satchel. I had my headphones. I had my Oyster card with £10 top-up, but I wouldn’t need it where I was going baby...and the world? And the world would never be the same again...(to be continued)
Excerpt from ‘Knob Tours’ - Tourist Brochure for Knob City in Andromeda
The headquarters of the GKC (Galactic Knob Council) is one of the most audacious buildings in the entire galaxy; or (depending on your views on Knobs), one of the most lurid. The building is colloquially known as ‘Knob Tower’. The outer structure itself was designed by the architects ‘Balls & Dickens’, and was so revolutionary that it required the invention of a new building material to enable the contractors to construct the huge knob that sits, almost elegantly, on the roof, in a pose of confidence and pointing to the stars.
Philosophers have been engaged in much academic ball bashing on the hidden meanings of the knob that adorns the roof of Knob Tower, that it is worth digressing here for a brief snapshot of some of the theories that have been propounded. Professor Edgar Kas-Tracion is firmly of the opinion that the knob is nothing less then public porn masquerading as high-art and unwittingly corrupting young minds. Members of the Jewish lobby are uproarious. Such blasphemy! What they objected to was not the knob par se, or its size, but the fact that it didn’t show signs of circumcision. On the other hand, Professor Sir Kom-Caesar is not as scathing, indeed he is rapturous and adulatrious in his remarks. For him the symbolism of the great knob on the roof is obvious, and here we quote:
“It is clear to me that the great knob pointing to the stars represents progress. But perhaps more importantly it is saying that behind every great discovery, behind every great thrust forward, behind every great man is’force de locomotion’ – the desire to impress the female species and bag a shag. Yes, sex and shagging underlies all of progress. It is sex that drives us forward and that is the genius behind the great knob on the roof of Knob Tower that looks to the stars, earnestly”
A discussion of knob headquarters would be empty without a word from an occupant of Knob Tower for their views on the matter:
“The knob yeah, my wife, she kinda likes it and all. See me, I don’t. I mean. It’s like, well when I compare mine with it; it’s not even life-size is it??! – (Snigger). What’s the point in that huh!!!” - (snigger and drooling).
Unfortunately we we’re unable to interview more cognizant occupants of Knob Tower who refused to be drawn into such an infantile subject matter...
On the eastern rim of Knob City, pass KnobDonalds, lies ‘Knob Cave’ – the sight of what is famously known as the ‘Knob Cumming’. To remind readers knob cave is the sight where 'K1' (the 1st Knob ever) gained Spontaneous Knob Awareness after spending four weeks holed up inside. The cave receives over a million visitors a year who pay homage at this most deified of sights. However, this has resulted in erosion to the cave floor caused by shoe wear and also (more disturbingly) by the theft of lumps of knob rock (not to be confused with the genital disorder). Not surprisingly the cave structure has become dangerously compromised. Engineers have been drafted in to fix the problem. One of the engineers is Dr Eric-Shun of the engineering firm ‘Doowex Booring Limited’:
“The entry of many knobs has weakened the walls of the cave; a process known in the scientific fraternity as ‘knob erosion’. We plan to stave off knob erosion by pumping the cave full of a specially designed binding agent called ‘Knob Matter’ which we hope will protect the cave for prosperity and from future knob abuse”
A few hundred yards from Knob Cave lies, what to many, is the spiritual heart of Knobkind – the church of Knobianity, where the faithful rub shoulders with fellow knobs in the Knobitual.
The knobitual won’t be discussed here as it is quite complex but Knobianity, as a creed, has received much criticism from some of the older more established belief systems, who have realized that if there’s one thing they can’t stand more then atheists, its a young, rigorous, and what they perceive as, a snotty new up-start. These so called critics also point to what they call the ‘absurd’ and ‘loony’ basis of Knobianity.
Knob members have effectively silenced these critics (who are members of various belief systems themselves) by pointing to the absurdities inherent within their own belief systems such as the following:
i) The knob critics belief in an all powerful and omniscient man in the sky who created the whole universe (matter, galaxies, Peter Andre), but lacks self-confidence and needs constant reassurance on his divine providence and needs reminding of his greatness by requiring constant worship.
ii) This same being has given men and women natural feelings and emotions (such as the sexual urge and romantic love); but when you (surprise! surprise!) act according to these he will punish you forever and ever in the fires of a nasty place called Hell...but (now for the best bit) he’s only doing this cos he loves you!
Knobianity isn’t so strange now is it?
Being a Londoner, I quite like a tipple myself and the Horse and Hound is no less deserving of my custom; it also has the added benefit of making me feel important due to the pedigrees that have drunken here. The Horse and Hound is also the first pub on Earth to host a most remarkable gathering of people. A gathering more remarkable then the ‘112th Annual Meeting of the digital watches are still cool club' (did they have digital watches 112 years ago?). A meeting fuller of wonderfully exciting people then the annual conference of ‘paper clip’ aficionados and more fun then the weekly meets for lovers of beetroot sandwiches. So, yes a most remarkable meeting indeed. I speak of none other then the first ‘knob-knob’ between the Galactic Knob Council and the Earthly Chartered Knob Club.
So there I was outside the Horse and Hound on a Sunday afternoon. I straightened my collars, tightened the knot in my dapper scarf, removed my Grado RS-60 headphones and swanked in…I had my satchel. I had my headphones. I had my Oyster card with £10 top-up, but I wouldn’t need it where I was going baby...and the world? And the world would never be the same again...(to be continued)
Excerpt from ‘Knob Tours’ - Tourist Brochure for Knob City in Andromeda
The headquarters of the GKC (Galactic Knob Council) is one of the most audacious buildings in the entire galaxy; or (depending on your views on Knobs), one of the most lurid. The building is colloquially known as ‘Knob Tower’. The outer structure itself was designed by the architects ‘Balls & Dickens’, and was so revolutionary that it required the invention of a new building material to enable the contractors to construct the huge knob that sits, almost elegantly, on the roof, in a pose of confidence and pointing to the stars.
Philosophers have been engaged in much academic ball bashing on the hidden meanings of the knob that adorns the roof of Knob Tower, that it is worth digressing here for a brief snapshot of some of the theories that have been propounded. Professor Edgar Kas-Tracion is firmly of the opinion that the knob is nothing less then public porn masquerading as high-art and unwittingly corrupting young minds. Members of the Jewish lobby are uproarious. Such blasphemy! What they objected to was not the knob par se, or its size, but the fact that it didn’t show signs of circumcision. On the other hand, Professor Sir Kom-Caesar is not as scathing, indeed he is rapturous and adulatrious in his remarks. For him the symbolism of the great knob on the roof is obvious, and here we quote:
“It is clear to me that the great knob pointing to the stars represents progress. But perhaps more importantly it is saying that behind every great discovery, behind every great thrust forward, behind every great man is’force de locomotion’ – the desire to impress the female species and bag a shag. Yes, sex and shagging underlies all of progress. It is sex that drives us forward and that is the genius behind the great knob on the roof of Knob Tower that looks to the stars, earnestly”
A discussion of knob headquarters would be empty without a word from an occupant of Knob Tower for their views on the matter:
“The knob yeah, my wife, she kinda likes it and all. See me, I don’t. I mean. It’s like, well when I compare mine with it; it’s not even life-size is it??! – (Snigger). What’s the point in that huh!!!” - (snigger and drooling).
Unfortunately we we’re unable to interview more cognizant occupants of Knob Tower who refused to be drawn into such an infantile subject matter...
On the eastern rim of Knob City, pass KnobDonalds, lies ‘Knob Cave’ – the sight of what is famously known as the ‘Knob Cumming’. To remind readers knob cave is the sight where 'K1' (the 1st Knob ever) gained Spontaneous Knob Awareness after spending four weeks holed up inside. The cave receives over a million visitors a year who pay homage at this most deified of sights. However, this has resulted in erosion to the cave floor caused by shoe wear and also (more disturbingly) by the theft of lumps of knob rock (not to be confused with the genital disorder). Not surprisingly the cave structure has become dangerously compromised. Engineers have been drafted in to fix the problem. One of the engineers is Dr Eric-Shun of the engineering firm ‘Doowex Booring Limited’:
“The entry of many knobs has weakened the walls of the cave; a process known in the scientific fraternity as ‘knob erosion’. We plan to stave off knob erosion by pumping the cave full of a specially designed binding agent called ‘Knob Matter’ which we hope will protect the cave for prosperity and from future knob abuse”
A few hundred yards from Knob Cave lies, what to many, is the spiritual heart of Knobkind – the church of Knobianity, where the faithful rub shoulders with fellow knobs in the Knobitual.
The knobitual won’t be discussed here as it is quite complex but Knobianity, as a creed, has received much criticism from some of the older more established belief systems, who have realized that if there’s one thing they can’t stand more then atheists, its a young, rigorous, and what they perceive as, a snotty new up-start. These so called critics also point to what they call the ‘absurd’ and ‘loony’ basis of Knobianity.
Knob members have effectively silenced these critics (who are members of various belief systems themselves) by pointing to the absurdities inherent within their own belief systems such as the following:
i) The knob critics belief in an all powerful and omniscient man in the sky who created the whole universe (matter, galaxies, Peter Andre), but lacks self-confidence and needs constant reassurance on his divine providence and needs reminding of his greatness by requiring constant worship.
ii) This same being has given men and women natural feelings and emotions (such as the sexual urge and romantic love); but when you (surprise! surprise!) act according to these he will punish you forever and ever in the fires of a nasty place called Hell...but (now for the best bit) he’s only doing this cos he loves you!
Knobianity isn’t so strange now is it?
Monday, October 15, 2007
Coming soon...Travelogue of my trip to 'Knob World'
The grey morning peered through my bedroom window, took a look around, grumbled and then sat itself on my eye-lids. They fluttered open; muttering in the light and then shook my consciousness awake. My consciousness was not very happy about this as it was engaged in a softly-cushiony dream involving an evil lord of the dark, a beautiful princess called (obviously) 'Ashanti', and a heroic figure commandeering an army of knobs. My lips uttered blasphemy when the dream dissolved away: it was the best moment of the dream too; the knobs had triumphed and I, as their heroic leader, was about to ravish my prize, Ashanti, behind the cranberry bushes...
My disapointment snapped like an elastic eel when I realised that today was Sunday the 14th and what a momentious day too! For I would be meeting with 'K3' in the Horse and Hound Ale House and hopefully hitching a ride back to Andromeda. I jumped out of bed without a glance at the clock. One can't waste such a precious commodity as 'time' in bed. Action! Action! Action! - I ran to the shower and realised I was still wearing my socks from last night. I'd forgotten to take them off in anticipation of the morning to come; but the wine too was partly to blame...
'What shall I wear today?' was the main thought running through my mind as I scrubbed my teeth. I find that the 3 minutes I spend brushing my teeth are the most productive of the whole day as far as new ideas are concerned. I have stumbled upon some of my most revolutionary and brilliant thoughts whilst scrubbing my molars and today would be no exception: I'm wearing my funky poet blazer, a little scarf, my pointy black shoes and my brown semi-denim trousers (straight cut). I must admit all this Sartorial stuff has the singular affect of making me look like an intellectual giant and alludes to the sex bomb underneath...Poet extraordinaire, expert in headphone design and founder of the earthly incarnation of the Knob Club.
The message from the Radio Telescope was also nagging me in the background like a partly digested meal: 'spantaneous knob awareness' and only the '2nd known sponataneous knob awareness ever' - what did it all mean? I knew K3 would have some answers for me. What shall I pack in my satchel? After all I am going to the Andromeda Galaxy today...
My disapointment snapped like an elastic eel when I realised that today was Sunday the 14th and what a momentious day too! For I would be meeting with 'K3' in the Horse and Hound Ale House and hopefully hitching a ride back to Andromeda. I jumped out of bed without a glance at the clock. One can't waste such a precious commodity as 'time' in bed. Action! Action! Action! - I ran to the shower and realised I was still wearing my socks from last night. I'd forgotten to take them off in anticipation of the morning to come; but the wine too was partly to blame...
'What shall I wear today?' was the main thought running through my mind as I scrubbed my teeth. I find that the 3 minutes I spend brushing my teeth are the most productive of the whole day as far as new ideas are concerned. I have stumbled upon some of my most revolutionary and brilliant thoughts whilst scrubbing my molars and today would be no exception: I'm wearing my funky poet blazer, a little scarf, my pointy black shoes and my brown semi-denim trousers (straight cut). I must admit all this Sartorial stuff has the singular affect of making me look like an intellectual giant and alludes to the sex bomb underneath...Poet extraordinaire, expert in headphone design and founder of the earthly incarnation of the Knob Club.
The message from the Radio Telescope was also nagging me in the background like a partly digested meal: 'spantaneous knob awareness' and only the '2nd known sponataneous knob awareness ever' - what did it all mean? I knew K3 would have some answers for me. What shall I pack in my satchel? After all I am going to the Andromeda Galaxy today...
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Calling all Knobs
Fellow Knobs, the following message was received yesterday at 08:14 GMT from the 'Arecibo Radio Telescope' engaged in the NASA SETI (search for extra-terrestrial intelligence) programme in the rainforests of Puerto Rico:
...Message Starts
"Knobs of earth!...your attention please. This is Supreme Knob 'K3' of the 'Galactic Knob Council' head-quartered in the Andromeda Galaxy. Our agents have been monitoring band-width from your insignificant little green planet and have intercepted certain communications regarding a 'chartered knob club' established on a little patch of land on your planet. I believe the little squibble of land is known as 'Grand Cayman' (though what is so grand about it i can't seem to fathom - but i digress)
If this is indeed true then it is of great interest to us. You see it is very rare for 'Knob Awareness' to arise spontaneously on a planet; especially on one as insignificantly unimportant as yours. Usually, the seeds of knob awareness are planted by the Galactic Knob Council's interplanetary 'Education Department' headed by Dr Knobbernator and his theologians. Since, we are not aware of any such education programmes being conducted furtively on your planet; the inescapable conclusion is quite astonishing to say the least:
Knob aware ness has arisen, it seems, on your planet without any seeding or influence from external agents
If this is indeed the case then it will be only the 2nd known spontaneous knob awareness in the history of the Galaxy. The 1st being that historic moment right at the beginning when 'K1' suddenly emerged squinting from a little cave (where he had been holed up for weeks) and immortally proclaimed: 'To be a Knob or not to be a Knob. That is the question. I am a Knob'. The rest is of course history and taught to countless students in our Galactic Knob University here in Andromeda. The cave has incidently been purchased by the Knob Council and been converted into a 'Memorabillia Store' and is also a sight of pilgrimage for the more obstinate and die-hard knobs.
Anyway, SPONTANEOUS knob awareness requires a highly developed intellect and well evolved sense of 'Place' or 'Spatial Awareness' - that is spatial awareness of one's place in evolutionary history and within the greater cosmos.
The Galactic Knob Council would very much like to meet the esteemed members of the Chartered Knob Club of Planet Earth - we are very excited to meet such eminent knobs with such developed Knob-Sense.
In this regard we will be visiting the cultural and intellectual centre of your planet (a city called London) on the 14th Of this month. We will be traveling via 'Hyperspatial Needlecast' and will be convening in the 'Horse and Hound' Public ale house in Islington, North London (E8). Please honour us with your presence. We'll be the slightly odd looking chaps, with flowering garbs and an air of the 'Bohemian' about us. You can’t miss us!"
Supreme Galactic Knob K3
...Message ends
Guys, I will be attending this. Not gonna miss it! Let me know if you can make it. Should be wicked!
Master Knob.
...Message Starts
"Knobs of earth!...your attention please. This is Supreme Knob 'K3' of the 'Galactic Knob Council' head-quartered in the Andromeda Galaxy. Our agents have been monitoring band-width from your insignificant little green planet and have intercepted certain communications regarding a 'chartered knob club' established on a little patch of land on your planet. I believe the little squibble of land is known as 'Grand Cayman' (though what is so grand about it i can't seem to fathom - but i digress)
If this is indeed true then it is of great interest to us. You see it is very rare for 'Knob Awareness' to arise spontaneously on a planet; especially on one as insignificantly unimportant as yours. Usually, the seeds of knob awareness are planted by the Galactic Knob Council's interplanetary 'Education Department' headed by Dr Knobbernator and his theologians. Since, we are not aware of any such education programmes being conducted furtively on your planet; the inescapable conclusion is quite astonishing to say the least:
Knob aware ness has arisen, it seems, on your planet without any seeding or influence from external agents
If this is indeed the case then it will be only the 2nd known spontaneous knob awareness in the history of the Galaxy. The 1st being that historic moment right at the beginning when 'K1' suddenly emerged squinting from a little cave (where he had been holed up for weeks) and immortally proclaimed: 'To be a Knob or not to be a Knob. That is the question. I am a Knob'. The rest is of course history and taught to countless students in our Galactic Knob University here in Andromeda. The cave has incidently been purchased by the Knob Council and been converted into a 'Memorabillia Store' and is also a sight of pilgrimage for the more obstinate and die-hard knobs.
Anyway, SPONTANEOUS knob awareness requires a highly developed intellect and well evolved sense of 'Place' or 'Spatial Awareness' - that is spatial awareness of one's place in evolutionary history and within the greater cosmos.
The Galactic Knob Council would very much like to meet the esteemed members of the Chartered Knob Club of Planet Earth - we are very excited to meet such eminent knobs with such developed Knob-Sense.
In this regard we will be visiting the cultural and intellectual centre of your planet (a city called London) on the 14th Of this month. We will be traveling via 'Hyperspatial Needlecast' and will be convening in the 'Horse and Hound' Public ale house in Islington, North London (E8). Please honour us with your presence. We'll be the slightly odd looking chaps, with flowering garbs and an air of the 'Bohemian' about us. You can’t miss us!"
Supreme Galactic Knob K3
...Message ends
Guys, I will be attending this. Not gonna miss it! Let me know if you can make it. Should be wicked!
Master Knob.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Coming soon...Arm-chair god (a game!)
Let's explore the mysteries of life the universe and everything from the comfort of your arm-chair...we will go on a wonderful journey together and explore the nooks and crannies of the human condition to the weird stuff lurking at the edges of the universe; we will tackle the most profoundest of questions and emerge victorious; having surveyed all there is to survey, only to exalt: 'Ha! Is that all there is God?'
The great thing about this game we’re about to play is that it requires no prior knowledge of the subject matter (nuffink), no fancy laboratory equipment, you don’t need to possess a high IQ to participate, nor a pen, no paper, no computer, no books, nothing! All you need is to have lived approximately >13 years (or thereabouts) – and that’s it!
So get comfortable and let’s play Arm-Chair God!
The great thing about this game we’re about to play is that it requires no prior knowledge of the subject matter (nuffink), no fancy laboratory equipment, you don’t need to possess a high IQ to participate, nor a pen, no paper, no computer, no books, nothing! All you need is to have lived approximately >13 years (or thereabouts) – and that’s it!
So get comfortable and let’s play Arm-Chair God!
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Prologue to Burmese Sunrise
Who controls the past controls the future:
Who controls the present controls the past
(Nineteen Eighty-Four)
In the modern age of the internet and the mass movement of people, can a country truly isolate itself from the forward momentum of the global zeitgeist? No. That is why Burma is rising. After 50 years living in the shadows of a brutal and oppressive military dictatorship that controls every facet of life (from the way you think to who your friends are), the people, led by Burma’s most revered and respected citizens; the monks, are beginning to find their voice.
The United States pretends to lead the international fervour to condemn the military autocracy; yet China and India (both regional powers) remain conspicuous by their silence; instead treating the whole thing as a Burmese affair and not something for the international community to meddle in.
The whole thing stinks to high-heaven. America pretends to champion democracy when it has toppled and undermined democratically elected governments all over the world. I’ll give an example: Venezuela. The people chose Chavez to lead them. He began a process of empowering the down-trodden to the chagrin of the elite and the Americans (grown corpulent with petrodollars). So what did they do? What they do best when somebody refuses to play ball – they tried to get rid of him! (but mercifully failed because the proletariat masses rose in revolt - people power in action)
So am I surprised when the United States cries democracy in Burma? Well actually No. And this is why:
India is the beneficiary of cheap natural gas from Burma to fuel its burgeoning economy. So it prefers to remain dignified and silent to Burma's plight – lest a new government decides to switch off the gas supply. China has been given huge contracts, in affect carte blanche to mine and exploit the countries natural resources. An example of the Generals acting on behalf of the nation’s 50 million citizens who incidently won’t see a penny of it. Burmese leaders have in effect mortgaged the country to another country. The Americans may receive some of these lucrative contracts if the elite are toppled and a democracy installed. They’d love to go in with tanks and guns to ‘democrucify’ but can’t on account of China’s influence.
Can you smell something? I can. I can smell the stink of human greed, treachery, self-interest, selfishness and out-right hypocrisy.
Humans are, in light of my considerable expertise on the matter (!), cowardly, treacherous, selfish, capricious and dishonest morons and I’m embarrassed to be one of them! Is there anyway, I wonder aloud, I can make void my status as a ‘national’ of the human stain?
The only good humans are the little one’s; the children. For they have not yet caught the cancer of adulthood! Am I being harsh? Fucking right I am. Why do people make life so unduly complicated anyway? The politics of relationships, the petty bickering of families, the back-stabbing and lies of politicians, the lie of religion, the boringness of social customs, the pretense of charity, the psychopathic greed of corporations.
Wouldn’t it be just wonderful if you could just light out and fade away to some place far from boring people and live like a hermit with nothing to bother you; in a little hut somewhere with a field of spuds and carrots and spend the nights whistling love poems to the stars! Mmm...Away from the scheming and dunce opinions of stupid ignoramuses!
Thank you for reading my rant.
By: A stinky, selfish, human being. But not boring!
Read ‘Burmese Days’
Read Orwell
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
The London Zoo: Canary Wharf to Hackney
You begin in London’s Docklands and end up in Hackney. This is a journey that takes you through the rich savannah of London’s world famous wildlife reserve: ‘Moronic Park’ From the high rise of Canary Wharf in the Dockland’s where the wild-life is genial, tame and generally harmless to the seething urban jungle of Hackney where the forces of Darwinism seem to have gone pear shaped and survival is of the dumbest variety only.
Have you ever seen London’s Docklands at night? Towering glass infernos hanging like crusty stalagmites; glistening in the drizzly twilight like a zillion diamonds baked into rectangular slabs of shiny metal. Bright squares of light surround you floating in nothingness. It’s a strange sight - surreal. Like something out of the set of a Fritz Lang movie. It reminded me of the video to Queen’s classic “Radio Ga-Ga” where Freddy, Brian, John and Roger weave through the ‘scrapers of a futuristic metropolis in their flying machine: “I sit alone. And watch your lights. My only friend. Through teenage nights…”
You feel like you’re in the video as you sit in the carriage of the 'Docklands Light Railway' (DLR)– a modern marvel that Brunel would have been proud of. The DLR is built on great stilts that raise the track 40ft above street level as it snakes its way between the glass precipices that loom over it. When you peer through the window you can’t fail but marvel at the floating squares of light, just hanging there as if motionless in space (lights from the buzzing industry of offices). The stations and places you pass have names that allude to a rich history and a sense of humour: Mudchute, Pudding Mill Lane, Galleons Reach, West India Quay and Coriander Avenue. On your way to work the carriage swarms with city slicker types; decked in finely cut suits, haute couture shirts, gourmet ties, and the obligatory spiky ‘just got out of bed’ muff of hair. And all this dressed in a rich sauce of smug ostentatiousness.
The docklands is everything the rest of London is not: squeaky clean, planned, well designed, restrained, polite, polished, German almost, with a distinctive whiff of wealth and a bloated pretentiousness that manifests itself as a scab of self-importance; like a spoilt super-model. You see it in the passengers in the DLR. All modest behind their dandy shoes, quiet, minding their own business, sullen expressions as if they’re the unluckiest bastards on earth!
It lacks something though. You get to understand what when you make the second leg of the journey home: Bank station (in the City of London) to Hackney on the 149 bus. When you get on the 149 your still in the City so it’s full of respectable types: people of culture and learning (snobbish git I am!). The bus is Zen-calm, relaxed, a gentle patina of chit-chatter like soothing raindrops murmurs in the background. But as soon as the bus hits Shoreditch and the Kingsland Road (that defines the boundary between The City and Hackney) it’s almost like a scene out of ’28 days later’ – invasion of the zombie flesh eating yokels. I’m not sure what it is about Hackney; perhaps the air in Hackney is somehow different or perhaps it’s the water but the fact of the matter is before you can say ‘who nicked my f***ing wallet?’ the decibel level suddenly starts to rise and before you know it, you’re crossed an invisible threshold because even though you’re wearing your German made headphones (that promised to keep out all sounds bar those from your ipod), you can still make out some of the foul mouth expletives amongst the din. ‘Fuckin this’ and “fucking dat’ and ‘dirty cunt this’. The change in decibel level occurs in tandem with a change in vernacular parlance. Like a double comedy act: ‘yaa maan innit’ – ‘dats buff’ – ‘yo chief’ – ‘lemme see dat man wicked’ etc. I’m not going to trawl through the vocab less it give me a bleedin ed’ache man but you get my gist innit? The change in tongue and switch to mashup English also coincides with a change in passenger profile.
Gone is the city type, who seems to have fled and got off at Liverpool Street Station to continue the journey into the salubrious leafy suburbs. The void that is left by this sudden departure is gradually filled, as we move into deepest darkest Hackney, by another type of passenger. Preliminary indications are that the passenger aforementioned are of a type that can be regarded as human; but barely so: Homo Hackneosyphillis – features of note are a general look of unhealthiness, spaced-out eyes that wobble at you thorough deeply recessed orbits, a face like Edvard Munch’s painting 'The Scream' (that depicts a state of insanity), and clothing bought from the condemned section of the Sunday flea market.
Now, I have nothing against markets. In-fact I love to wander amongst them on a Sunday morning, but there are certain things I would never buy from them. Namely, pills claiming to be Viagra, blood sugar-level testers for my mother, Chinese porn DVDs called ‘King Kong – bigger then part IV’ (featuring a hairy gorilla, strange grunting sounds and lots of naked fondling up trees and necrophilia – sexual attraction to corpses) and of course clothes. Why? Because I don’t want to look like a walking trash bin and besides it’s so obvious anyway when you’re dressed as the rag man.
Looking at the stunted and moth eaten population of Hackney you’d think everybody was on a ration diet of bread and marge from the many ‘Caffs’ that litter the Dalston High Road like smallpox. It’s not just the shriveled faces though; the rots even got into the cranium. Extract of conversation between father and son sitting opposite:
‘Wer we goin dad?’
‘To dat no good slag bitch mother of yours, so shut the f**k up’
Mm, another kid that’s gonna grow up to be a well balanced nipper
Then there’s a little altercation in the back between a black women and a black kid over the lack of respect. The kid seems to be suffering from some sort of spinal affliction as he’s walking with a lilt and rubberized ‘limb syndrome’ – The Hackney Walk
“Yo stop barlin man. Tut!” he says to her
“You got no respect. The lot of you! I’m not even gonna bother getting down to your level” she barks back.
The youngster continues giving it his best no doubt to save face with his friends.
Then there’s the bunch of school girls in the back pointing and sniggering at people on the street:
“Tut! look at that man! Check out those freaky trousers!”
“What about him, check out his hair? Check out the old man with the zimmer frame and the glasses!” They start banging on the window scaring the people on the street and no doubt giving themselves a bad reputation.
As the bus moves down Stoke Newington High Street you’re now in yet another world: The Ottoman Empire Part deux. The Ottoman Empire, originally dismantled after the 1st world war, now seems to have sprung up on my very doorstep. Its invasion of the 24 hour Kurdish Convenience Store (now rapidly becoming something of a cliché) with its rudely lit façade and supply of Turkish cheeses, sausages and fresh olives (yummy) and the abundant Turkish Restaurants too. Now, I love these restaurants, the food is fantastic and fresh and the service friendly and prices not too bad either but all the menus are identical; in all the restaurants! But the stiff competition (there’s a new restaurant opening every time I walk down the High Street) has driven down prices and driven up quality, which is much more then what can be said about the card-board cut outs of ‘Bangla Town’s’ identikit restaurants with their touts luring in victims with false promises of ‘great food’ – the operative term here being food!
Time to get off now. I don’t know but it sure makes my journey much more interesting then it would otherwise be if we had nothing but fish and chip and pie and mash shops. I think I’ll grab some food on the way home tonight. Yeah, feel like some fish and chips innit!
Bon appetite!
Have you ever seen London’s Docklands at night? Towering glass infernos hanging like crusty stalagmites; glistening in the drizzly twilight like a zillion diamonds baked into rectangular slabs of shiny metal. Bright squares of light surround you floating in nothingness. It’s a strange sight - surreal. Like something out of the set of a Fritz Lang movie. It reminded me of the video to Queen’s classic “Radio Ga-Ga” where Freddy, Brian, John and Roger weave through the ‘scrapers of a futuristic metropolis in their flying machine: “I sit alone. And watch your lights. My only friend. Through teenage nights…”
You feel like you’re in the video as you sit in the carriage of the 'Docklands Light Railway' (DLR)– a modern marvel that Brunel would have been proud of. The DLR is built on great stilts that raise the track 40ft above street level as it snakes its way between the glass precipices that loom over it. When you peer through the window you can’t fail but marvel at the floating squares of light, just hanging there as if motionless in space (lights from the buzzing industry of offices). The stations and places you pass have names that allude to a rich history and a sense of humour: Mudchute, Pudding Mill Lane, Galleons Reach, West India Quay and Coriander Avenue. On your way to work the carriage swarms with city slicker types; decked in finely cut suits, haute couture shirts, gourmet ties, and the obligatory spiky ‘just got out of bed’ muff of hair. And all this dressed in a rich sauce of smug ostentatiousness.
The docklands is everything the rest of London is not: squeaky clean, planned, well designed, restrained, polite, polished, German almost, with a distinctive whiff of wealth and a bloated pretentiousness that manifests itself as a scab of self-importance; like a spoilt super-model. You see it in the passengers in the DLR. All modest behind their dandy shoes, quiet, minding their own business, sullen expressions as if they’re the unluckiest bastards on earth!
It lacks something though. You get to understand what when you make the second leg of the journey home: Bank station (in the City of London) to Hackney on the 149 bus. When you get on the 149 your still in the City so it’s full of respectable types: people of culture and learning (snobbish git I am!). The bus is Zen-calm, relaxed, a gentle patina of chit-chatter like soothing raindrops murmurs in the background. But as soon as the bus hits Shoreditch and the Kingsland Road (that defines the boundary between The City and Hackney) it’s almost like a scene out of ’28 days later’ – invasion of the zombie flesh eating yokels. I’m not sure what it is about Hackney; perhaps the air in Hackney is somehow different or perhaps it’s the water but the fact of the matter is before you can say ‘who nicked my f***ing wallet?’ the decibel level suddenly starts to rise and before you know it, you’re crossed an invisible threshold because even though you’re wearing your German made headphones (that promised to keep out all sounds bar those from your ipod), you can still make out some of the foul mouth expletives amongst the din. ‘Fuckin this’ and “fucking dat’ and ‘dirty cunt this’. The change in decibel level occurs in tandem with a change in vernacular parlance. Like a double comedy act: ‘yaa maan innit’ – ‘dats buff’ – ‘yo chief’ – ‘lemme see dat man wicked’ etc. I’m not going to trawl through the vocab less it give me a bleedin ed’ache man but you get my gist innit? The change in tongue and switch to mashup English also coincides with a change in passenger profile.
Gone is the city type, who seems to have fled and got off at Liverpool Street Station to continue the journey into the salubrious leafy suburbs. The void that is left by this sudden departure is gradually filled, as we move into deepest darkest Hackney, by another type of passenger. Preliminary indications are that the passenger aforementioned are of a type that can be regarded as human; but barely so: Homo Hackneosyphillis – features of note are a general look of unhealthiness, spaced-out eyes that wobble at you thorough deeply recessed orbits, a face like Edvard Munch’s painting 'The Scream' (that depicts a state of insanity), and clothing bought from the condemned section of the Sunday flea market.
Now, I have nothing against markets. In-fact I love to wander amongst them on a Sunday morning, but there are certain things I would never buy from them. Namely, pills claiming to be Viagra, blood sugar-level testers for my mother, Chinese porn DVDs called ‘King Kong – bigger then part IV’ (featuring a hairy gorilla, strange grunting sounds and lots of naked fondling up trees and necrophilia – sexual attraction to corpses) and of course clothes. Why? Because I don’t want to look like a walking trash bin and besides it’s so obvious anyway when you’re dressed as the rag man.
Looking at the stunted and moth eaten population of Hackney you’d think everybody was on a ration diet of bread and marge from the many ‘Caffs’ that litter the Dalston High Road like smallpox. It’s not just the shriveled faces though; the rots even got into the cranium. Extract of conversation between father and son sitting opposite:
‘Wer we goin dad?’
‘To dat no good slag bitch mother of yours, so shut the f**k up’
Mm, another kid that’s gonna grow up to be a well balanced nipper
Then there’s a little altercation in the back between a black women and a black kid over the lack of respect. The kid seems to be suffering from some sort of spinal affliction as he’s walking with a lilt and rubberized ‘limb syndrome’ – The Hackney Walk
“Yo stop barlin man. Tut!” he says to her
“You got no respect. The lot of you! I’m not even gonna bother getting down to your level” she barks back.
The youngster continues giving it his best no doubt to save face with his friends.
Then there’s the bunch of school girls in the back pointing and sniggering at people on the street:
“Tut! look at that man! Check out those freaky trousers!”
“What about him, check out his hair? Check out the old man with the zimmer frame and the glasses!” They start banging on the window scaring the people on the street and no doubt giving themselves a bad reputation.
As the bus moves down Stoke Newington High Street you’re now in yet another world: The Ottoman Empire Part deux. The Ottoman Empire, originally dismantled after the 1st world war, now seems to have sprung up on my very doorstep. Its invasion of the 24 hour Kurdish Convenience Store (now rapidly becoming something of a cliché) with its rudely lit façade and supply of Turkish cheeses, sausages and fresh olives (yummy) and the abundant Turkish Restaurants too. Now, I love these restaurants, the food is fantastic and fresh and the service friendly and prices not too bad either but all the menus are identical; in all the restaurants! But the stiff competition (there’s a new restaurant opening every time I walk down the High Street) has driven down prices and driven up quality, which is much more then what can be said about the card-board cut outs of ‘Bangla Town’s’ identikit restaurants with their touts luring in victims with false promises of ‘great food’ – the operative term here being food!
Time to get off now. I don’t know but it sure makes my journey much more interesting then it would otherwise be if we had nothing but fish and chip and pie and mash shops. I think I’ll grab some food on the way home tonight. Yeah, feel like some fish and chips innit!
Bon appetite!
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Souk of furtive eyes, plums and breasts
Upon the breath of a scowling desert zephyr beset with scarlet twists, the ruddy sunlight filters through your Sun Factor-4 shades. Your eyes flutter furtively like a mad compass slobbering on the dusty verdant plums and melons adorning the Souk. But most pleasure is gathered when the eyes carve a gaze, quite innocently, upon the delicacies of women. It could be anything that may drive you to licentious heights and dirty thoughts; the mere shape of a breast visible through the taut fabric that wraps it from the eyes of capriciousness; wraps it tight like cling-film, the embroidered cloth stretched over it; giving form to the areolic perkness. But what really turns you feverish and nourishes your giddy heart are the little saucy enticements; the dirty details : The soft electric fingers; silvery nailed and delicate, feeling through the softly ripening plums. The impish henna pattern that snakes its way coyly up the back of a naked ankle disappearing behind the iron curtain of a burqah. Hah! Innocent or coquettish? A gentle bite of pouting bottom-lip held there just long enough to tangle thoughts – mere reflection or something less innocent? The black strap of a brassiere; raised outline visible from behind sinister on a sea of pink flesh; pink and buoyant with the desires of undressing. The slit; the slit of eyes furnished in kohl; dark and sensuous where gazes are lost and the deepest well of mystery known to man.
Such deviltry to ravish the imagination! Such spunk! Flashes of skin. Brief tumults of delirium attracting like flies - like prickly pear. Velcro to your heart.
Above Ali’s coffee shop on the corner of Bayt al Ghurair lies the chanteuse; she - redolent in flowing brocade under a phosphorous sky. False eye lashes sweeping vast curves under the stars and then plucked in the mirror under a slab of red light drowned out by the lullabies of the sugary street. She raises her leg; a glimpse of stocking where it is fastened above the knee, and a stretch of forbidden flesh. Your Heart inebriated. A little bird dances inside your stomach.
Her gaze breaks like the sun through leaves. Like a gilded ray on a sun-beam, she smiles. You catch a rosy blushing and your desires latch on to her lips. What was that? Like a burst of lightning glowing for a brief moment, the flash illuminating a vast expanse in your heart; barren, arid, and then you cower away; shrink into the shadowy void. The heart drunk with joy with a sorrow that never fails to trail behind it; like the winds of the desert of the Empty Quarter.
Your heart pulsates like a milky star and then ceases like the halos of a candle hemmed in by the darkness. What a beautiful world it is! What joy! What pleasures! Sonorous notes that strum the tendons laid bare. And such blessed creatures that walk it! - the smashing of shattered hearts trailing behind in their wake as they swish across the surface in flowing garbs and perfumed air; like a tumultuous Coming. I await thee storm of the femme lycanthropes.
You walk through this deluge bombarded with conflicting signals and confused motivations. It's all a game played out in the Souk of furtive eyes, plums and breasts. These gulleys of saucery; gyrating with human flesh. Shrieks of those pleasured fill the musky air; mingling with the thoughts of old humanity laid bare.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Anatomy of a writer and other nonsense
I find it supremely odd. Well I find many things supremely odd, but I find it particularly odd when I sit down in my local Wagamama style noodle bar called ‘Itto’, which I have not blessed with a visit for many years hence, to find that the same waitress, from many years past, is serving me. She plonks the steaming bowl of Ramen noodles in my field of vision, the threads of steam climbing their way up into my nostrils, brightening my eyes and imparting a certain lustre to my cheeks. I compare this person here and now with the historical fragments in my memory and see no difference. I watch her as she dribbles swiftly between the tables like an Olympian, the dirty plates dangling on her arm like a circus act whilst she wipes the tops in busybody fashion.
But then as she serves me, filling the basket with more fresh bread and all with a genuine smile and the attention befitting of a king or lord of the manor, I realize that my plan to smuggle her out is doomed to failure from the outset because she is happy and content with her lot. And there lies a revelation:
What is another country to the global traveler?
What is a nice restaurant meal to a gastro-snob?
What is a movie to a movie critic?
If your dreams came true, what then would you dream of?
It’s a dog’s life I tell you. The smelly socks. The constant ink stains on your fingers. The sleepless nights when your mind fails to switch off and you mumble excerpts in your sleep. The scraping the bottom of the barrel for that smidgen of an original idea. The pernicketyness of the sound of a vowel. The mood swings of a comma. The semi-colons that attack you in your sleep and the empty blank sheets of paper that go on and on and swallow you whole like the
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Photography lesson 2 - aperture and depth of field
A note on exposure
Exposure refers to the amount of light passing through the lens and reaching the sensor. Too much light and the image will be overexposed, too little and it will be underexposed. It is controlled by two devices on the camera, the aperture and the shutter speed.
The aperture is the hole in the lens through which light passes, and the shutter speed determines for how long the light is allowed to pass through. It is important to understand how both of these work together. Although in ‘auto’ mode the camera will calculate this for you, there are many occasions when you will want to set the exposure manually to achieve a desired affect.
Exposure refers to the amount of light passing through the lens and reaching the sensor. Too much light and the image will be overexposed, too little and it will be underexposed. It is controlled by two devices on the camera, the aperture and the shutter speed.
The aperture is the hole in the lens through which light passes, and the shutter speed determines for how long the light is allowed to pass through. It is important to understand how both of these work together. Although in ‘auto’ mode the camera will calculate this for you, there are many occasions when you will want to set the exposure manually to achieve a desired affect.
Aperture
The aperture has an ‘iris diaphragm’ that controls its diameter thus letting in more or less light.
The aperture does 2 things:
Firstly, because it controls the amount of light that enters the camera it follows that it controls how light or dark the image is. Secondly, and more interestingly, it controls the amount of the image that is in focus. This is known as ‘depth of field’.
The size of the aperture is referred to in ‘f-stops’ or ‘f-numbers’. The smaller the f-number the larger the aperture and the larger the f-number the smaller the aperture. Thus at f2 the aperture is opened wider then at f9. The typical f-stops on a camera are: f1, f1.4, f2.8, f4, f5.6, f8, f11, f16, f22 etc. Each f-number on the scale lets in twice as much or twice as less light then the next or previous number on the scale. So f1.4 lets in twice as much light as f2.8 and f16 lets in twice as less light then f11.
The affect of the f-stops on the brightness of the image is shown in the following example:
Notice how the images are brighter at lower f-stops (aperture wide open) then at larger f-stops (aperture smaller).
Depth of field
The aperture also affects something called ‘depth of field’ – Depth of field is the amount of the image that is in focus. When you focus your lens on a subject, anything at that same distance will similarly be in focus. Things that are closer to or further from the camera lens will gradually - or drastically - be less sharp. Your camera's aperture controls how large of a zone is acceptably in focus.
At large apertures depth of field will be ‘shallow’ so less of the background will be in focus and at smaller apertures depth of field will be ‘deep’ so more of the background will be in focus.
In this image the tip of the red pencil is sharply in focus and the acceptable focus zone fades quickly so that the other pencils are more and more blurry. This was achieved by using a large camera aperture.
(left to right : f8, f5.6, f2.8)
As you increase the size of the aperture from f8 to f2.8 you'll notice how the heads in the background become more and more out of focus.
What else apart from aperture can affect the depth of field?
Assuming we keep the aperture constant there are 2 other factors that affect the depth of field.
1) Distance of the camera from the subject. Moving the camera closer to the subject will give you a shallow depth of field thus giving you a more blurry background. Moving the camera further away from the subject will give a less out of focus and blurry background.
2) Zoom setting. Assuming aperture and distance of camera from the subject are constant then zooming into a subject will give shallow depth of field and an out of focus background and vice versa.
Thus to summarise, for shallow depth of field:
a) set aperture to maximum
b) move the camera closer to the subject
c) zoom in
When is depth of field useful?
Depth of field is a great creative tool. All images communicate something and what they communicate will depend on where you place the emphasis in the photograph. For example are you trying to give the subject a sense of place by ensuring as much of the background is in focus (deep depth of field – small aperture) or are you trying to isolate the subject from the background so that the eyes are drawn to it? Whatever it is, you must be able to control the depth of field to get the affect you want and controlling the aperture will help you control depth of field.
In portraiture it is considered good stylistic technique to isolate the face from the background. This is achieved by focusing on the eyes and then adjusting the aperture to get the desired depth of field. In the image above, I focused on Alisha and selected a large aperture of f1.8 to blur out the background.
(top left). Notice how shallow the depth of field is here. The focus point is the eyes. Anything behind that focal point and forward of it is out of focus. This has been achieved by using a lens with an aperture of f1.2!
So we can see that shallow depth of field is quite handy when we want to isolate the subject from the background so that the image literally jumps out at you!
What about large depth of field? When is it useful? Answer: landscape photography. When shooting landscapes we want as much of the scenery to be in focus so we select smaller apertures. This will ensure that the whole image from the camera to the background is in focus.
Notice in the image on the left how everything from the wooden post to the mountains is in focus. This was achieved by selecting a smaller aperture (> f9)
Controlling aperture on the camera
When you put your camera in ‘auto’ mode the camera automatically selects the aperture for you. Thus you have no means of controlling depth of field. All SLR cameras and many ‘point and shoots’ have an ‘aperture priority’ mode. In this mode YOU select the aperture and the camera automatically selects the shutter speed to ensure correct exposure. The aperture priority mode is normally designated as ‘Av’ on most cameras.
Another point to note is that the maximum aperture that a camera is capable of is a function of the lens not the camera. The lens of the camera will have on it an f-number. For example the Canon G7 (top right) has f2.8-4.8 written on the front of the lens. This means that the MAXIMUM aperture capability of this lens is between f2.8 - 4.8. When on the mimimum zoom setting the maximum aperture capability of the lens is f2.8. When at maximum zoom the maximum aperture decreases to f4.8 – hence the range.
The great advantage of SLR’s to point and shoots is that you have dedicated lenses with much wider maximum apertures thus allowing you to achieve more pronounced and nicer depth of field affects. In addition, for the more expensive SLR lenses, the maximum aperture stays fixed even when you zoom in. These lenses maintain a fixed maximum aperture throughout the zoom range. But such lenses tend to be more expensive!
In Summary
To achieve nice depth of field:
- select aperture priority mode and ensure the aperture is large (small f-number)
- zoom into the subject to get more shallow depth of field
- move the camera closer or further from the subject for an added layer of control
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Photography Lesson 1 - Introduction
There is nothing more beautiful in this world
Then the smiles of innocence these glittering pearls
Amidst a sea of men they shimmer away
Like shards of light
On a summers day
Well, there are 2 prongs to photography that are both equally important. There is the technical side of things such as shutter speeds, apertures and depth of field and learning the cameras many functions and buttons and what they do. Then there is the aesthetic side of choosing what to photograph, how to compose the subject in the viewfinder and what the image means. What is the image communicating? What is it saying? The technical aspects can be mastered with practice. The aesthetic elements can also to an extent be learnt but they however require a nurturing of an inner sensitivity to the world; an awareness and appreciation of the poetry, the physical poetry that is out there.
But firstly…You don’t have an expensive SLR camera does it matter?
No. SLR (single lens reflex) cameras differ from ‘point and shoots’ in that they have interchangeable lens, give total control over the photographic process, have quicker focusing thus allowing you to capture a moment that a slower point and shoot might miss. SLR image quality is also superior thanks to inherently better optics and sensors. However, many point and shoots nowadays are so good that they feature in the kit bags of many professional photographers. These have professional style features, are cheaper then SLR’s and are more versatile because they are smaller and have a single lens that covers a wide focal range.
If you are thinking of purchasing a point and shoot camera then select one which has ‘aperture and shutter priority’ modes, a focal range (zoom range) that is at-least 30mm on the minimum end and has (for reasons that will be explained later) no more then 10 mega pixels. Since we are on the subject of mega pixels I just want to educate you on a common misconception: contrarary to popular opinion number of pixels has little bearing on quality! – More mega pixels simply means that the image can be enlarged to a greater size. In-fact (let me let you in on a dirty little secret) for point and shoot cameras (not SLRs) more mega pixels generally means inferior image quality ;-)
But the point to take home is that a camera at the end of the day is a tool. The human imagination sets the ultimate limits. You can take wonderful pictures with a simple point and shoot if you know how to use it, if you are aware of its limitations and if you flex those creative muscles. A case example is Henri Cartier-Bresson, one of the world’s foremost street photographers who used to walk around with a basic fixed lens (no zoom) film camera. So as long as your images speak and say something meaningful and are compelling to look at, it doesn't matter what equipment you use.
Then the smiles of innocence these glittering pearls
Amidst a sea of men they shimmer away
Like shards of light
On a summers day
A photographer is like a painter but with a canvass that is far far bigger. How big a canvass you ask? Well as big as the world really. Imagine that! There is nothing out there that is out of bounds save for the reach of your imagination! And nothing should be. So jump and jump as high as you can, even to outer-space if you can. There are of course different genres of photography: fashion, wedding, macro, portrait and landscape to name but a few; but few are as compelling to me as documentary photography. One can describe a place that one has seen, with words; with beautifully constructed precise prose that cuts like a knife and makes the reader feel as if they are sitting amongst it all; but for sheer impact nothing beats a well composed photograph speaking a 1,000 words simultaneously.
Great photographs are those that, like crystalline prose, transport you inside the image; where you can almost smell the stink and hear the sounds and feel the bugs twitching under your feet. That’s what travel and documentary photography should always strive for; teleportation. Teleporting the viewer to the very midst of the chaos and beauty of the far away places you have visited. Allowing people to glimpse the exotic; to smell the foreign; to render the sublime. How do you do that?
Well, there are 2 prongs to photography that are both equally important. There is the technical side of things such as shutter speeds, apertures and depth of field and learning the cameras many functions and buttons and what they do. Then there is the aesthetic side of choosing what to photograph, how to compose the subject in the viewfinder and what the image means. What is the image communicating? What is it saying? The technical aspects can be mastered with practice. The aesthetic elements can also to an extent be learnt but they however require a nurturing of an inner sensitivity to the world; an awareness and appreciation of the poetry, the physical poetry that is out there.
These lessons will attempt to teach both the technical aspects and also give guidance on how to nurture the aesthetic side. This is nothing short of learning how to see the world all over again. For too many of us see the world under a foggy veil, dampened senses and withering appreciation. Without either on your side (technical and aesthetics) your photography will not rise to the heights of self expression that it is capable of. It was Orson Wells who said that “a camera is the eye inside the head of a poet” – so we must all then become poets. Poets with cameras that is!
There is poetry everywhere you turn
Embers of life may wither away and burn
But the poetry of life will always remain
In the images bursting forth
From inside your brain!
There is poetry everywhere you turn
Embers of life may wither away and burn
But the poetry of life will always remain
In the images bursting forth
From inside your brain!
But firstly…You don’t have an expensive SLR camera does it matter?
No. SLR (single lens reflex) cameras differ from ‘point and shoots’ in that they have interchangeable lens, give total control over the photographic process, have quicker focusing thus allowing you to capture a moment that a slower point and shoot might miss. SLR image quality is also superior thanks to inherently better optics and sensors. However, many point and shoots nowadays are so good that they feature in the kit bags of many professional photographers. These have professional style features, are cheaper then SLR’s and are more versatile because they are smaller and have a single lens that covers a wide focal range.
If you are thinking of purchasing a point and shoot camera then select one which has ‘aperture and shutter priority’ modes, a focal range (zoom range) that is at-least 30mm on the minimum end and has (for reasons that will be explained later) no more then 10 mega pixels. Since we are on the subject of mega pixels I just want to educate you on a common misconception: contrarary to popular opinion number of pixels has little bearing on quality! – More mega pixels simply means that the image can be enlarged to a greater size. In-fact (let me let you in on a dirty little secret) for point and shoot cameras (not SLRs) more mega pixels generally means inferior image quality ;-)
But the point to take home is that a camera at the end of the day is a tool. The human imagination sets the ultimate limits. You can take wonderful pictures with a simple point and shoot if you know how to use it, if you are aware of its limitations and if you flex those creative muscles. A case example is Henri Cartier-Bresson, one of the world’s foremost street photographers who used to walk around with a basic fixed lens (no zoom) film camera. So as long as your images speak and say something meaningful and are compelling to look at, it doesn't matter what equipment you use.
Coming soon...Photography Class (how to take really great photographs!)
Have you ever wondered why all your photographs suck? Have you ever wondered why your holiday snaps are as lame as a lump of drippy bat droppings?
Well here it is...Everything you've always wanted to know about your camera and photography but have been too f***ing lazy or too stupid to ask i.e. what do all these buttons mean (specially suited for members of the female species). As well as more advanced stuff for the nerds out there:
1) What's all this 'shutter speed' malarky
2) Aperture??
3) Should I give a toss about 'exposure'?
4) ISO, white balance and depth of field
5) Types of lenses and focal lengths
6) The art of composition and the rule of thirds
7) Colour or black and white?
8) Exactly what is it that makes a photograph great?
9) And other highly pertinent stuff that I'm too lazy to think of right now...
1) What's all this 'shutter speed' malarky
2) Aperture??
3) Should I give a toss about 'exposure'?
4) ISO, white balance and depth of field
5) Types of lenses and focal lengths
6) The art of composition and the rule of thirds
7) Colour or black and white?
8) Exactly what is it that makes a photograph great?
9) And other highly pertinent stuff that I'm too lazy to think of right now...
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