*/Dons PPE… Ready then, Clicky, play the vid…*
*/blows smoke ring… Yeah, he teally is a sweetie, Clicky… *
*Yikes! …/flicks ash…*
‘In other words, what’s happened over the last eight days was just “cleaning out the pipes” so to speak.’
*/Dons PPE… Ready then, Clicky, play the vid…*
*/blows smoke ring… Yeah, he teally is a sweetie, Clicky… *
*Yikes! …/flicks ash…*
‘In other words, what’s happened over the last eight days was just “cleaning out the pipes” so to speak.’
*/grins… How peculiar, Clicky… /lights up…*
mid-15c., “belonging exclusively to one person,” from Latin peculiaris “of one’s own (property),” from peculium “private property,” literally “property in cattle” (in ancient times the most important form of property), from pecu “cattle, flock,” related to pecus “cattle” (see pecuniary). Meaning “unusual” is first attested c. 1600 (earlier “distinguished, special,” 1580s; for sense development, compare idiom). Related: Peculiarly.
*’Also KT and KH’…/drags… No shit! …/streams smoke… *
*/flicks ash… Knot a favourite episode, Clicky… /drags… although, excellent use of a jammie dodger… /blows smoke rings… I’d forgotten about that…*
*Like the villain, House, in The Doctor’s Wife, Clicky, Daleks are a bit like a sea anemone… /puffs… “hard on the outside, squishy on the inside”… I hadn’t made that connection before… /taps teeth…*
Karl sat at his kitchen table, smoking and observing the tendrils of early morning mist gently tickle the tops of the garden hedge, before continuing their soft creep to the ground. It was dark outside but the lawn glittered with stars; pregnant dew drops nestling in the grass caught the thin, amber light that spilled from the kitchen window. He stubbed out his cigarette and gulped back the last dregs of cold tea from his mug with a grimace. Not long now, Karl thought, she’ll be home soon. Outside the mist started to swirl and pool.
He stood up and stretched, bones creaking and knees popping as if to salute the end of his vigil. He fleetingly considered that he was getting too old for this malarkey, but she needed a watcher – someone to light the way back. He could bear the discomfort; it was only for the night. Karl rubbed his eyes under his glasses, and dragged his hands down over bristled cheeks to wipe any tiredness away. He contemplated putting the kettle on when he heard the first high pitched bark puncturing the dark. The second got him moving. “Not the foxes again!”
As he opened the back door, the wet slap of morning air to hit Karl’s face was accompanied by a rude crash and skitter of a dustbin lid falling, somewhere in the mist. She’s coming from the right, he thought, opening the door wider to peer out into the murk. More barks, louder this time, and a fiery hiss, were followed by the sound of clambered wood, as the garden fence shook violently. Karl held the door further ajar, and a white streak shot out of the mist and between his legs, into the kitchen.
Karl closed the door on the mist and the foxes who, by the sound of it, were now rummaging through next door’s bin for tasty scraps. He turned to the slight figure, lying on the kitchen floor. “For goodness sake, Lara, do you have to tease the foxes? It upsets the neighbours.”
“It upsets the bins,” Lara replied, lightly panting as she rolled over and attempted to sit up. “No, they were waiting for me. Foxes are not called cunning for nothing, Karl.”
“Yes, but they usually leave you alone when you’re hedge riding.”
Lara sighed. “It would seem witches aren’t held in much esteem these days. Not by people or wildlife.”
Karl surveyed the flush in his wife’s cheeks and her glittering eyes, and thought she still looked pretty formidable considering her advanced years. He also noticed the shudder in her arm propping her up. “You should get off the floor. What would you like, sofa or chair?” he asked, scooping her up, with barely a tremble from his own geriatric limbs.
“Sofa,” Lara replied with a wan smile. “Thank you, dear. And a cuppa and a ciggie wouldn’t go amiss either.”
“Funnily enough, I was just about to put the kettle on,” Karl replied, before lowering his wife, so she could reach out and pluck the cigarette packet and lighter from the kitchen table. A fat bead of blood splashed onto the surface below, quickly followed by another. “You’re injured?”
“Damn foxes.” Lara winced and drew her arm back toward her chest. “One of them managed to get a mouthful of armpit. I don’t think it’s too deep. Just stings a bit.”
“But you’re bleeding,” Karl said gruffly. Too gruffly, he feared, from the look his wife shot him. “Okay, let’s get you comfortable and then I can clean that up,” he continued in a more conciliatory tone, before carrying her through to the front room.
Karl noticed that Lara was already on her second cigarette when he returned five minutes later, to set out a bowl of hot water, soap, flannel and towel on the carpet before her. “Kettle’s on for tea,” he said kneeling down. He adjusted his glasses and gingerly started to lift Lara’s elbow. “Can’t let it get infected, how would we explain that to Dr Patel?”
“I can always change back so you can take me to a vet,” Lara replied sharply, pulling away from his grasp.
She must be in great pain, Karl thought. “Come now, dear, we don’t have pet insurance. We don’t own a pet.” Lara’s eyes briefly flashed at his riposte, but her body relaxed and she allowed him to lift her arm. “So apart from getting into a fight with some foxes…”
“Ambushed by some foxes,” Lara quickly corrected him.
“Sorry, ambushed by some foxes on the way home, how was the rest of your night?”
Lara took a deep drag from her cigarette. “Well it started off okay,” she said, billowing a great cloud of smoke. “I went to see Annie and girls down at Saint Michael’s.”
“And how are Annie and the girls?” Karl asked as he cleaned her wound of blood.
“Naturally.” Any bleeding seemed to have stopped, but the swelling around the punctures had already started to bruise, turning an angry black mauve that only truly flourished on elderly skin. Karl stopped himself flinching at the sight. “You’d think they’d get themselves a spirit cat.”
“They’ve got a spirit cat,” Lara gently rebuked him with a chuckle.
“A ghost cat, then.” Karl smiled at her mirth. “You know what I mean.”
“Oh a ghost cat would be just as stuck as they are. Graveyards are lonely places, Karl. The residents like the company and the gossip. Especially the newly interred. Once the funeral is over, they rarely get more than a yearly visit from any family. If that.” Lara finished her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray perched on the arm of the sofa. “How’s it looking?”
“Ugly but clean. It’ll need some arnica,” Karl replied, rising carefully to his feet. “That’s in the kitchen. Besides, the kettle must have boiled by now. No, no. You stay there. I’ll go.”
Lara laughed and shooed him away with her good arm before reaching for the cigarettes and lighter.
Karl could hear swearing from outside the back door; Jim must be up and found the aftermath of the fox fracas. Karl popped the kettle on and grabbed the arnica and some aspirin from the medicine cupboard, chuckling at the string of expletives emanating from over the garden fence. He glanced out the window to see that sunrise was already burning off the mist that had been so thick an hour or so ago. It looked like it could be a lovely day.
The sound of the front doorbell caught him off guard. Who would be calling at this hour? Karl wondered and went to open the front door. Through the frosted glass he could make out the shape of a woman in a bright pink dressing gown. What could she want? Karl thought as he unlocked and opened the door. “Morning Celia. Is everything alright?”
“Oh Karl,” his next door neighbour cried, her face puffy and contorted with distress. “Karl, I’m so sorry if I’ve woke you,” Celia started to apologise. “There was some trouble with foxes in our garden last night. I don’t know if you heard any of it.”
“No,” Karl lied. “But I heard Jim swearing earlier. Did they make much of a mess?”
Celia looked distraught at the suggestion. “Well yes, but…” she trailed off with a sob. “Karl, it’s Lara. I’m so sorry. They killed your cat.” Celia had not come empty handed; she held out a bundle, wrapped neatly in a towel, out in front of her.
Karl felt an icy chill bloom from the crown of his head and cascade down his body. “Thank you,” he said numbly, taking the bundle from Celia’s shaking hands.
“I’m so, so sorry,” Celia continued but Karl had already shut the front door. He felt the lightness of the bundle in his arms. It felt so slight.
“Lara?” Karl called as he carried it through to his wife, but the front room was empty. He laid the bundle on the sofa and sat down next to it. A spiral of smoke floated up from the ashtray perched on the arm. Karl turned and picked up the last of the burning cigarette and with trembling fingers, finished his smoke.
*The font, Clicky, the font! …/sigh… Why do I bother?*
*Ha! …/pats snout… I love that show, Clicky …/lights up…*
*And scrolling too… /drags… It’s got it all…*
*/sings… I’m a singularity, I’m a singularity, I’m a singularity, I’m a singularity, I’m a singularity, I’m a singularity, I’m a singularity. Now up put your hands up…*
*Familiar themes here, Clicky… /scratches gnos…*
‘The cover image is the Seal of Solomon, the seal used on the brass vessel in which Solomon trapped 72 demons and their legions of spirits. I redrew the version in Goetia, scanned it then meddled with it in Paint Shop. It’s relevant to the story, as is the chosen colour and the strange object at the bottom of the back cover. That’s enough hints – no spoilers.’
*Er… or Dear Reader could just simply listen to the talk, Clicky… /rolls eyes…*
*Straight in there with the photo eh, Clicky?*
Apparel (n.) c. 1300, “fighting equipment or accouterments, armor, weapons;” mid-14c., “furnishings, trappings;” late 14c., “personal outfit, a person’s outer clothing, attire,” from Old French apareil “preparation, planning; dress, vestments,” from apareillier (see apparel (v.)). Middle English also had apparelment (late 14c.).
*She’s a great Dane and I wear the face of Great Dane, Clicky… /lights up… We could be twins… /draws deeply with Gallic shrug…*
*She makes some excellent points, Clicky…*
*The owls are not what they seem, Clicky? …/blows smoke ring… What you on about?*
*/drags… Ah, cooper… /exhales… Gotcha! *
*Three parent babies are a thing, Clicky…*
*Nice! …/flicks ash…*
*/rubs throat… Clicky?*
*… Make us a cup of coffee, sweetie… /sticks out tongue… Those rainbow belts really uber zesty…*
*Oh and get a Song… /bats lashes…*
A: Our ability to imagine? ...*/shrugs*...
“Honesty is the best policy,”
“Ignorance is no defense before the law,”
“Always be nice to the PAs – they’re the gatekeepers.”
“Faint heart never won fair lady,”
“All’s fair in love and war.”
There is a most profound and beautiful question associated with the observed coupling constant, e – the amplitude for a real electron to emit or absorb a real photon. It is a simple number that has been experimentally determined to be close to 0.08542455. (My physicist friends won’t recognize this number, because they like to remember it as the inverse of its square: about 137.03597 with about an uncertainty of about 2 in the last decimal place. It has been a mystery ever since it was discovered more than fifty years ago, and all good theoretical physicists put this number up on their wall and worry about it.) Immediately you would like to know where this number for a coupling comes from: is it related to pi or perhaps to the base of natural logarithms? Nobody knows. It’s one of the greatest damn mysteries of physics: a magic number that comes to us with no understanding by man. You might say the “hand of God” wrote that number, and “we don’t know how He pushed his pencil.” We know what kind of a dance to do experimentally to measure this number very accurately, but we don’t know what kind of dance to do on the computer to make this number come out, without putting it in secretly!
*Damn! Wouldn’t it be hilarious if the mystery were solved by someone enjoying tobacco, Clicky?*
*Ooo I’m looking forward to Christmas this year, Clicky! I wonder who the 14th will be… /thinks… 14 is 7+7… 77… Z…*
*Cheers, Clicky! Yore very good ‘elf…*
If there’s any good to come of this tragedy it’s to understand that depression isn’t some kind of scarlet letter, it’s an inevitable result of what one scientist called “the greatest blind experiment in history,” the bombardment of our brains and bodies with every manner of stimulus and stress imaginable, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year and then some.
*Okay, Clicky, thanks…*
I dunno bout anyone else, but I was up till around 3 AM or so this morning listening to the wind, rain and thunder, and watching the lightning. The rain on my window was so hard at times that it sounded as if it was hail a time or two, but it wasn’t…just fat raindrops en masse. It kinda sucks being alone on such nights when you ain’t got anything particularly interesting to think about while listening to nature do her thing.
So I eventually got up, got dressed, then went out front to see if I could see anything interesting within the storm/storm clouds, as there appeared to be plenty of lightning to provide the necessary lighting for watching the clouds roll. But alas, there is a streetlight directly across from the front porch, and it was raining hard enough to make the glare unbearable.
I stood on the porch long enough to feel the huff and puff of the hot and cold winds duking it out as my feet got wet from the rain pouring off of the roof…then I retreated back inside. I would be able to watch some of the storm from my window, were it not for the fact that whatshername has a 6 billion candlepower floodlight that she keeps burning 24/7 to keep intruders out of the backyard. Most people in this area just get an attack dog. Keeps the electricity bill down.
You prolly wondering about the part where…”you got up and got dressed?”
Yes...I sleep naked. Duh?
Why people sleep in clothes is beyond me.
Not that I don’t sometimes fall asleep while wearing some manner of clothing, and not that clothes in the cold winter months are not sometimes required as opposed to turning up the indoor heating. Dry nose in the morning from setting the heat too high at night is cause for some nightmarish headaches.
But yeah…if I make a conscious decision to climb into bed for sleep…the clothes come off. Too restricting, causes too much waking and requires too much adjustment during the night.
I noticed that Merovee had some crap about “The Summer of Love“…and the dude over at Just Watching The Wheels Go Round has had some interesting posts recently about years ending in “7” over the last 5 decades. So I guess my musical selections today are falling in line with that mode and modes of thinking. Also, I got to go to the library a little while ago and checked out some movies. One of which, is Close Encounters of the Third Kind…a movie made circa 1977, watched again via 2017 via 1967…which is the year I was born.
I saw Close Encounters at the theatre when I was a kid, and it scared the shit out of me. Spielberg is a fucking ASSHOLE for doing that shit with the music and the black screen at the start of the movie. I recall sitting in the theater, and sinking down into my seat as the strings-section of the orchestra starting doing that creepy noodling on their instruments along with the creepy chorale vocals, all while the screen remained black. Then…suddenly…from the orchestra…BOMP!!!! And the brightest light I had seen to date flashed up on the screen.
Thanks for the nightmares Steve & John.
I think the sequence that followed that intro, kinda saved the film for me. The sudden appearance of the TBM Avengers on screen grabbed my interest…and I was REALLY fucking interested in the “Flight 19” aspect of the source of these aircraft, since I had already read extensively about Flight 19 and The Bermuda Triangle by the time I saw Close Encounters. Yep…a 9 year old kid…already well read on “Mysteries of The Universe.”
My parents later recounted the story often of watching me sink down into my seat out of the corner of their eyes at the start of the movie.
“He’s already so tiny, that those big theater seats just swallow him up when he sits down in one. And all I saw saw, was that big head with those big ears of his…slowly disappearing down into the seat.”
It funny the shit we remember.
Such as…seeing a number of people leave the theatre during the course of the film because they were so traumatized as to the imagery being show on-screen. But it’s the concepts behind the imagery that are so shocking, and not the imagery in and of itself.
My mother left the theater several times herself as I recall. But not me. Amongst the stories of the audience and its reaction(s) to the film, was the story of how many people left the theatre, only to return, only to leave again. But not Jr. He was glued to his seat through the entire movie. Didn’t leave once till we made him get up and go try and pee.
I saw Close Encounters before I saw Star Wars. I didn’t get to see Star Wars until it finally made its way to “the dollar theaters” about a year and a half after it came out. And while I love the Star Wars movies, I always preferred Star Trek and Close Encounters to Star Wars. Star Wars is too…real. Too real to be real. C-3PO, R2-D2, Darth Vader, and maybe Obi-Wan, are the only saving graces for me personally. They are all completely necessary, and yet completely expendable.
Imma go watch Bottle Shock real quick.
I’m sitting eating a pile of Freedom Fries and watching the movie Bottle Shock, when the front door opens behind me. I don’t turn to see who it is because I really don’t care, when I hear from behind me…
“She bought a banjo!”
The voice is from my oldest, and he is referring to his girlfriend as I turn to see her holding a banjo case that is about twice the size of her. I cannot help but start laughing at the ridiculousness of this “revelation” as it unfolds, and as it relates to some old Okie fart sitting eating French Fries while watching a movie about a competition between California and French wines in 1976, as his oldest son and his son’s girlfriend wander in to tell the tale of how they have somehow acquired a motherfucking banjo on the 20th day of the month of May in the year of 2017.
Don’t try and tell me that life ain’t fun.
I paused the movie and let the French Fries I was eating sit in the Olive Oil that I cooked them in, while I listened to the tale of how this banjo was acquired and why.
She sat the case down and took the banjo out, and it appears that she has never played a banjo before/cannot play a lick. I told her “it suits you” as it really did/does seem to fit her and her small frame well even tho it was very large on her and she was not actually playing it.
My son grabbed it and started playing some Metallica song on it, which caused me to laugh, and I suggested that they listen to some Flatt & Scruggs to maybe get some bearings on how to play the banjo. They said that they were listening to Flatt & Scruggs on the drive home from the music store. So…I suggested that they listen to Ricky Skaggs, who they had never heard of. I said there is not an instrument that he cannot play, nor is there an instrument that he cannot play well. Ricky Skaggs is kinda like “Bocephus without all of the Jim Beam.”
My son laughed, but he seemed to latch onto the concept I was trying to relate, as he likes Hank Williams Jr. and knows his music. His girlfriend wandered off into my son’s bedroom as my son sank into the reclining chair behind me, and he started noodling quietly on the banjo as I resumed my movie and fried nomenclature potato eating.
Son: This movie has Alan Rickman in it?
Cade: Yep. Alan Rickman, Chris Pine, Bill Pullman…
Son: HOLY SHIT!!! Is that the girl from Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back?!?!?!?
Cade: Eliza Dushku? Yep.
Son: Cool. I’ve never seen this movie.
Cade: It’s a good one.
The movie is in its final 30 minutes or so, and my son continues to noodle quietly on the banjo from the chair to my back, playing rock songs that I am familiar with. Each new song he tries makes me roll my eyes at the ridiculousness of playing this shit on a fucking banjo.
Suddenly…I hear a familiar “growling” riff of…DUH…DUH..DUH… ….DUH…DUH…DUN.DUH…of Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water” being strummed out on the banjo…and I say…
Cade: I’m about to take that fucking banjo away from you and hit you with it.
He laughs heartily, and stops playing that particular phrase.
My son’s girlfriend might be 5 feet tall when standing on a stack a phone books, and prolly weighs about 80 pounds if her pockets are full of nickles. Seeing as how my oldest son is 6 feet 6 inches tall and somewhere around 250 pounds or so…they make quite the pair, even when they aren’t toting a banjo around with them.
Yep…it’s amazing what one sees and experiences during the course one’s life. Not that you missed anything, you prolly saw and experienced just about everything that you’ve seen and experienced. We just tend to not think about or dwell on “the old stuff” while piling on “the new stuff.”
Yep...it can and does get confusing sometimes.
But we are built for that sort of thing, each and every one of us. None of this “best of the best” or “survival of the fittest” kinds of crap…we are each and everyone of us purpose built and specifically designed to handle just about anything and everything that this Universe can throw at us. I wonder if The Universe can handle everything we throw back?
I had forgotten how well Skaggs plays the mandolin. A very difficult instrument to play. Especially for someone like me who has short and bent fingers. I tried one once and was like “no fucking way I’m playing this thing.” I have enough trouble with the frets on a guitar.
Welp…I notice that the articles about a certain rock group member recently in the press are starting to pop up on the blogs here and there.
I was talking with someone last night about portals and pathways and the money that creates them, and it got me to thinking about how we analyse things, when we choose to analyse the things that we are analyzing, and why. Small clues here and there that are very revealing as to what is going on within the sections and sectors of life, that others might dismiss as purely coincidental. Incidental even.
Things like…noticing when there are loads of old coins suddenly turning up in the money supply. Seeing as how much of money and most money transfers these days are digital, it seems to me that events like this would be even MORE pronounced when and if they happen. And I’m not talking only about people taking their jars of coins to the local Coinstar machine to turn those coins into cash. I’m talking about old coins that have been in collections somewhere, sitting and waiting for a payday that never came.
Old pennies, dimes, and quarters usually being the most noticeable in The USA because of the “Wheat Pennies” or dimes/quarters that are made out of silver, but the nickles tend to be the most overlooked and the most valuable. That said, if you have some old Silver Notes that just aren’t worth more than what you need currently, which is food or some other immediate need, and there is no market to buy these Silver Notes at even CLOSE to what they are actually worth, yeah…they’ll still spend at the cash-register so you can get what you need today.
Most people today prolly won’t even know what they are, and may even accuse them of being counterfeit since they are blue and not green. But what I guess I am wondering is “wherein is the value of money where there is none?” Meaning: What is tangible about something that you may or may not have?
What about the tangibility of something that you may or may not have that you may need? Who are we, as a group, to decide what one needs or does not need?
Welp, keeping “the future” in mind is prolly going to win just about any argument that anyone can throw at the individual in this case. But what if that need is not needed in this future that you propose that someone is going to need something? Medical assistance with an issue that isn’t there?
A: ???Erm...Say What?!?!?!?
I was also talking with this same someone about whatshername and her job/trade, and how when whatshername worked at this Men’s Oncology Clinic, she was always talking about the rates and percentages of men who had biopsies on their Testes or Prostate that were Malignant compared to those that were Benign, and how high those percentages were.
Oh Really? Men seeking out help with a specific part of their anatomy regarding a specific issue at a certain clinic that specializes in identifying these issues has a high percentage of identifying the issues that they are looking for? You don’t say!
I gotta question how this relates to those that either A) do not seek medical assistance irrespective of the “why”, and B) cannot seek out medical assistance because they are unable, and C) those who don’t give a shit and just deal with whatever comes as best as they can.
Yeah…representation has prolly gone down the shitter when the unrepresented aren’t marching in the streets seeking representation they feel they deserve and/or are entitled to. And there are many. It seems this would make serving those who are vocal about their lack of representation MUCH easier for the representatives and their organizations. But I guess shit has gotten too confrontational within the representational arms of government and governing.
Too "we won, you lost, DEAL WITH IT!!!"
I have no idea why the “suggested videos” that come up on YouTube, sometimes come up at all…but they do. And sometimes, it turns me onto some cool and/or interesting shit that I might not have heard otherwise. The following video…for example…it’s not that I think she has a bad voice, as so many of the comments from the video suggest, I just wonder if her voice fits the music from a “studio recording” point of view. I bet they sound bad-ass live. Some bands that sound great live sound like shit in the studio tho. Maybe these guys/gal is one of them.
Um…I keep a pile of snot rags next to my computer monitor, most are used/I re-use them since my nose runs so much. I just picked one up to wipe some errant tobaccy spit off of my mouth, when I realize that “hey…why are there several paper towels bunched up in this particular wad, and why is this particular wad of snot rags so fucking stiff?” Then…it hit me…
THESE ARE LAST NIGHT’S LEFTOVER SPOO RAGS!!!! NOT SNOT RAGS!!! GROSSSSSSSSS!!!!!
I’m sure that my spoo tastes delicious, but I have no interest in tasting it myself.
This is why I usually instantly throw my spoo rags into the toilet. But last night’s thunderstorm, and an unexpected urge to jerk-off at 02:30 in the morning this morning kinda…threw me off my game.
And yes, I use paper towels…and NOT toilet paper or kleenex.
You ever use toilet paper for a cut after shaving?
Yeah…same shit. Toilet paper turns into something akin to cardboard when getting wet after it dries.
Use toilet paper to clean up your remaining post-ejaculation oozing spoo? And suddenly, you have a chunk of papier-mâché glued to the end of your penis…and I don’t need a fucking piñata hanging off of my penis.
GROSS!!! I can’t believe I wiped my mouth with that.
Gotta go eat some of my homemade spaghetti real quick.
One more reason not to kiss me I guess.
Not that you require more than one reason.
It’s progressed on through the day, and it kinda feels like we might be in for more rain/storms outside, but it sure doesn’t look that way. Not enough vertical movement in the clouds/not enough convective activity. I guess I won’t be jerking off tonight.
Tinker with nutty and dangerous things, things have at least the potential to be unpredictable. I’m gonna attempt to leave the “tit for tat” types of thinking out here, because I don’t like the “tit for tat” equation. Primarily because, it contains no equal sign. Not that I believe in balance. But that particular equation implies a balance that isn’t there. As if to say, this equation is already balanced, when the implication is anything but balance nor imbalance.
"HEY! I'll trade you this rock for some new updated computers!!!"
“Established decontamination procedures were followed…” according to a new CNN article.
Not that I typically read “the news”…and actually…I never read “the news” anymore. But some chit chat here and there about some recent developments regarding “one of my pet projects” has caught my interest. But we can only guess can’t we. I mean, we know how shit works when shit is working like we want it to…and we can guess what to do in the event(s) that shit is NOT working like we want it to, but that doesn’t leave much room for things to develop does it?
I’m not suggesting that we want to let some toxic ooze drool it’s way into our water supply. But isn’t that an eventuality? Just because “it won’t happen on our watch” doesn’t mean that it won’t happen. By all accounts, it can and WILL happen. That is…unless some nutjob who has no business thinking about such things can come up with a solution to some of these problems that are boiling here and there.
Whoever that is…they are out there somewhere.
Prolly around here somewhere.
*I remember exactly the day mum took Juju and I to see Close Encounters, Clicky… It was at the Elephant & Castle Odeon and it was a very warm Saturday afternoon. The streets on the journey there and at the cinema itself were deserted because there was a footie match on the telly… /thinks… What was at Number One then…?*
*/rolls eyes… Figures…*
*Knot 19, Clicky, he was 92…*
*/nods sagely… That’s true… /sniffs… Ooh, smells like dinner’s nearly ready – fancy a Song, Clicky?*
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An on and off the wall examination of all things Doctor Who
weaving the threads of play, intuition & synchronicity with truth-seeking & research
I AM the SynchroMiss planted on Earth, here to share my downloads, intel, and code-cracking, integrating the art of synchronicity as we transition to a higher state of consciousness and awareness.
Banging on about the Smoking Ban
A drink, a smoke and a heavy hat.
Exploring the Global Digital Unconscious
An incorrigible Cognitive Dissident
365 Days of Living the Dale Carnegie Principles
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