Thursday, 16 November 2017

four days dark (16/Nov/17)



dear reader… 

this will be my last blog… but just for the next four days, I’ll be going dark… as in not online, hence my daily blogging will be placed in a holding pattern for the aforementioned period, not that it makes a jot of difference but thought I’d mention it anyway in case you thought I’d dropped off the edge of the earth… which of course might happen although that’s not the plan……

the plan actually is for the next four days I will be (and you will scoff I know, watch out for flying crumbs) a VIP…… yes, yes, you can stop guffawing now…… actually it sounds grander than what it is but nevertheless I’ll try and milk it for everything it’s worth anyway…

I’ve never been a VIP before, as in a very important person, which of course sounds embarrassingly absurd when I spell it out so I’ll stick with the slightly less unbearable VIP instead… but before you get too excited, and I can see you are (not!) like I said it sounds grander than what it actually is…… I’ll simply be one of many at a music festival, spending the weekend at the utterly brilliant HRH Prog Music Fest here in unpredictably weathery North Wales… yay me.... although being the geek I am I’ve done an in depth analysis of the weather-to-be for the next few days and is looking pretty darn good considering we are drifting down winterwaysward… so again, yay me......

basically, being a VIP means I get a lanyard…… oh my god! shut the front door! well I’ll go to the foot of our stairs!... not a………………… lanyard!...... you have indeed been touched by the hand of the Prog gods…… I thought at this point I’d explain to those still somewhat baffled as to what I’m blathering on about… now, pay attention…

HRH means ‘Hard Rock Hell’, a group of music enthusiasts who organise festivals for the rock-minded, essentially my kinda thing… and Prog, is short for progressive music, or Prog Rock, also my kinda thing…… mash these together and you get, obviously, my kinda thing… and in my case a lanyard!... which affords me a few extra entitlements, goodies and access some areas and get Prog-rocked out of my skull at the same time, which seems fair… and this isn’t my first rodeo you know, I’ve been before, not to mention an uncountable back-catalogue of festivals at which I’ve found myself loitering with hedonistic intent… and as it’s my only ‘holiday’ as such this year for the next four days I will go dark as in no internet and submerge my soul in a whatever happens happens happening…

… but don’t get too excited as I will be back (boooo!) to my daily digital diligence in four days and I’ll still be hand scribbling my daily diary in the meantime which I’ll hopefully summarise into a blog upon the four days dark upon my return to the ‘real’ world… please don’t abandon ship while I’m away!

   © robert greig 2017

Wednesday, 15 November 2017

christmas in November (15/Nov/17)



such diffidence did the afternoon display finding myself plodding pavements whose grey flags lay mocked and mimicked by an equally reinforced sky… it skulked on every corner teasing streetlamps to blink into life earlier than they are used too…… the air’s been scraped clean of any warmth leaving shades of indifference, lightly frittered on an offshore wind in this coastal town, née village… all’s quiet in the seafront tourists and day-trippers long vacated weeks ago now the day are bothered by an increasing lack of light and night can finally get a good long sleep…

one could be forgiven in thinking it might be December the 14th but is actually November the 14th as the first shop window to boast a Christmas tree catches me off-guard to make me second-think and second glance… it’s not even advent……

the seemingly nonchalant sea belies its deep appetite and unforgiving nature no longer tempting not even for a paddle competing with the air on the mercury scale… the grey shift a few shades darker to the left, a sunset swiftly tamed and sent on its way… any photos I deem to take demand I step down to ISO400, such wayward cruelty knows no bounds and even then I almost but not quite surrender to the flash…… my goal, the convenience shop, offering a well-lit refuge and supplies of chocolate treats… long nights a-coming… 

a hairdressers finishing the last hair of the day… the only open café out of six (or is it seven?) ponders the imaginary lateness of the hour… a clothes shop decorates itself in fake snow (in case the real stuff never comes?)… the fish and chippy forgot to open at all… no one’s surfing, swimming, sailboards holding up a wall dejected while frayed the seasons flags flagging, flimsily they flap for no one but themselves… my now well-stocked pockets take me back to the only car in the car park, mine, as part so this scene in increments blink out of existence……

   © robert greig 2017

Tuesday, 14 November 2017

the scriptoralist (14/Nov/17)



I wonder sometimes...
am I throwing words away?
into the ether... carelessly strafing them across a wherescape?
scribbling and scratching in all weathers against all odds of ever being noticed, as they say, screaming in a hurricane... me the scriptoralist... being of unknown renown I reserve the right to invent words on a whim, no one questions what no one cares about... the word-police haven't quite deigned to brandish their lexicons at my door hence letters and words and grammar graze free-range on the senses in a bubble of rumination where unwords are freely unleashed from linguistic servitude...
but, regardless if this I'll always be invisible as you see I have to USP (and strangely enough that rhymed)... as you'll also see I up there, or is it down there, with the jargon, crawling in the gutters for a bit of slang to sling around... that is, unique selling point... nothing distinctive, no stand-out qualities, never in the right place at the right time, don't know the 'right people', never sell my soul for anything (short of an outstanding coffee), and no doubt being unsociable, cynical and sceptical quite possibly beyond all reasonableness may contribute to why a real nowhere man sitting in a nowhere land... ... I am at best, average, and unfathomably fascinatingly annoyed by people, am older than young though younger than old, wasn't raised by wolves nor have an unusual hobby of painting stripes on giraffes.... yes I know, giraffe don't have stripes, and if they did they'd be zebra...
just another bod littering the whereways, the weblands, the net-pits of disjointed observations shouting down a well...

   © robert greig 2017