New paintings and regular art updates.
I used to toast these on the bars of the gas fire when I was a child. We used a fork hooked on by it’s prongs to the horizontal bars in front of the white ceramic blocks that the flames came up through.
Toasting the bottom of the crumpet first, then the top. It would get really hot and the butter would melt all the way down into the bubbled tubes of the crumpet. Delicious x
(not to be confused with English Muffins)
I once had a long argument with someone who told me that my way of speaking was not complax enough. So I deliberately changed how I was talking, I spoke about the method of communication I used and that while I understood his phrasiology I preferred clarity. In the end we came to an agreement that each of us had our own styles, but I did feel he had been condescending and patronising.
I still feel the same way about communicating with people. Yes you can be elitist, but what is the point? A teacher or expert might try and share information but if they don’t use explanations and analogies how can they pass it on. Simplification can help, visualising data using illustrations is a way of showing how things work. Teachers may assume you already understand the basics of a subject but you might not have attended the right courses. I never did Physics at A level, but did a course that required some knowledge of it. I had to resit the exam at the end because of that.
As far as I understand dumbing down isn’t simplification, it’s not even sharing correct information. It is using less knowledge and making it sound plausible, effectively cutting off dissemination (sharing) of any number of subjects to the detriment of civilisation. Instead of the sum of information growing and people’s lives improving, whether it’s in medicine, or finance, understanding the weather or geology, we seem bent on causing harm to people and places. An attempt to keep the masses down?
This post is a bit odd, I wanted to explain what I thought but I’ve been a bit verbose. I don’t know if I’ve achieved clarity, I just think dumbing down is not good for the world.
We sang about the boats and pots
Of horses pulling barges.
Before the cuts were built and dug.
The plates broke on the carts
A third of pottery destroyed
Because of mud and ruts
For a hundred years the canals enjoyed
The busy work of transport
Then motorways and rail roads were built
And ware shifted to “faster” ways.
The cuts were clogged with water weeds
The towpaths overgrown.
Until the leisure cruisers came
And cleaned the weeds away.
Now British waterways they rule
And you can moor your boat
Anglers dip their rods in water
And catch all sorts of course fish.
The canals are better than before
No shopping trolleys in them.
A resource for walkers, boaters, folk,
To enjoy and rest and play.
This is my second short story on a spooky theme to be read out with my writers group at Halloween x
I’ve been watching the summerhouse for a few days. I thought I saw someone inside it. I can see it from the kitchen window, the one on the side of the house, a small square piece of glass.
It overlooks the main garden and is where I have my cctv camera. Last night the camera beeped. I looked at the recording, but it was just a moth, fluttering in front of the camera.
This morning I went out to look at the Summerhouse, but it was still padlocked, the windows are OK and apart from some ivy growing up the side everything seems fine.
I’m loathe to walk in the garden. I have to use a stick and I’m a bit unsteady on my feet. There’s a wobbly step to negotiate and it makes me nervous.
Anyway that was a few weeks ago. I’ve not seen anything recently. But the cctv has been quiet, apart from recording falling leaves. It’s almost autumn and the nights are getting colder.
I still look out at the summerhouse, it’s more visible now the branches are losing their firey burden. Sometimes I see shadows, but I think it’s the way the sunlight filters through the undergrowth.
2am, the milkman just delivered my milk, he always moves my bin to put it over the gate. It’s too late to go out now and it’s a bit frosty so I’ll wait till morning.
I woke up a few minutes ago, there was another noise, I think the bin was moved again? It sits in front of my gate which has the basket for the milk bottles on the back… I’m not going out….
Now it’s morning. The milk was still there – gate still padlocked – but could someone have climbed over?
I put my shoes on. It’s frosty out here
I’m recording this on my phone – I want to take photos if I need to. Don’t trip over, I’ve got my walking stick…. I should be OK….
There IS something in the summerhouse!
A dark shape. I can see eyes glinting in the dawn light. My chest feels tight, my pulse is racing. What the HELL IS THAT?
Mrs Smiths phone was found by her corpse Sir. She seems to have come out looking for something or someone. She seems to have had a seizure, could be hypothermia? The Summerhouse is empty and there is no sign of forced entry. The backdoor of her house was locked from the outside we think, she had the key. The death was recorded as unexplained
On our honeymoon we went caving! Today would have been our anniversary. When I thought of writing this it was our anniversary eve but I fell asleep and only just remembered to post something….
Time flies when you’re feeling sad. It rolls along leaving you behind. I keep imagining what things would have been like if he was still alive. Being on your own means having no one to discuss problems with. Yes I’ve got friends but it’s not the same. We went through a lot together. I wish we still could.
Bandofsketchers prompt “contained”. I can’t find my stylus so this is a finger painting of flowers contained in a jug using the Artrage app.
Lift your head up
See life
See the sky
Don’t just look at shop windows
See architecture..
Interesting windows,
Grooves and gutters
See the tree leaves
Waving in the wind
Xanthophyll and chlorophyll
Colours changing
Lift up your heads
See the setting sun
Falling with the leaves.
Put down your phone
And experience Autumn.
Kneading my knees
Poddling I call it,
Old cat is keen to stay.
I don’t want him to go away.
His life is ebbing
Slowly by
Like a tide moving out
Taking his memory
In its grip.
No more head bumps
No more nuzzles
An empty space expected
Soon.
What is this thing called grey matter?
How does it work?
A controller of movement,
A creator of language
Emotions pull decisions
One way or the other.
Joined up letters and thinking.
Science explores and probes
Into the thing that created science.
Art and Music flow,
Pain and pleasure,
Athletic prowess.
Genius and idiocy,
Two sides of different minds.
A metal (cast iron) cold painted black and white cat on my windowsill in the kitchen. I have two. They both peep out through the Christmas cactuses. I don’t know why it’s there, it just is. It stares back at me, he’s quite startling in the right light. I’m seeing things better these days.
Mallaband-Brown