Facebook and Twitter stole the Internet

Blog: From Web Log, From ‘Logging your thoughts and activities on the World Wide Web’

Once upon a time there was a thing called blogging. It still exists in name of course, for example this website is built on WordPress which is known as a blogging platform.

I first started blogging around the turn of the millennium when it wasn’t much more than a few nerdy types writing the odd banal paragraph about their lives and opinions. I didn’t do much at that time but I set up a website to use as an online journal. The website was built and edited using raw HTML.

Around eleven years ago I started a new blog using the Blogger platform. Then moved it to my own site using WordPress. The blog was anonymous at first under the pseudonym Skintwriter. It wasn’t long before I was just one in a worldwide community of bloggers. We each kept a blogroll, i.e. a list of links to other bloggers, who we hoped would reciprocate with a link back to us.

Anyway, because I used my own domain name there were no adverts on my site, nor on most of the others. We paid our dues to the purveyors of internet access and started building a community. No one else had control of the content of my site, no one could tell me what to post, no one made any money when others read what I wrote. Continue reading

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Gallery of some recent paintings

Most/All of these paintings are documented in other posts but here’s a little gallery as a quick reference:

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Finished Squashies – Now called Parallel Universes

(Also added to recent Gallery)

May already be sold.

Please contact me for up to date price and availability

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Special offer just 99p/99c books for Kindle

On offer for just £0.99 or $0.99. Click on the book covers for more

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Squashies – Work in Progress

Three small canvases – Acrylic paint

Work in Progress

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Here, Now, and Here and Now

Some Work in Progress – Early stages (Scroll Down for finished art-icles)

Acrylic on canvas – each 60cm x 50cm

Here

Continue reading

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More Human Beings . . .

Another two human beings have arrived to keep the first one company

Another Portrait of a Human Being – oils on canvas 50x60cm

And Another Portrait of a Human Being – oils on canvas 50x60cm

They are here to stay
Here
and there of course
Everything is here and there
Now and then
Was.Is.Will be.
Basically
They are flowers
in Spring.

(And here’s the first one to save a click or two)

Portrait of a Human Being – oils on canvas 50x60cm

They are lovely
They are
Lovely

Like me
Like you
You
Utter beauty
Beauty
Beauty

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Self-Portrait – Work still in progress

Self-Portrait electronic file version, original is oil on canvas 20″ x 24″ (Work still in progress)

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Blog abstract number 3

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Add New Post

‘Add New Post’

This blog / website / whatever it is called now, wants me to add a new post every time I come here. If I do make the effort to add a new post  it normally means I’ve got something specific to write about. Whether it’s one of my feeble attempts to market my books and/or art or whether it’s one of those rare occasions when I get wound up enough about some topic, usually political, or vegan-related, to feel a need to make some comment about it.

Gratuitous early spring image

There is a third reason I add new posts, and that is the most important reason – it’s when I share some of my creative work, like a short story, or a poem, or some rant about parallel universes and/or the nature of reality.

But sometimes there are gaps when I have nothing specific to say, and I don’t feel particularly inclined to share some creative work, yet I still feel the urge to add a new post.

This post is a result of one of those gaps, there  is no reason for this post other than to fill it (the gap).

Yet . . .

I do have something to say, I’m sure I do . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 

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A message from the twenty-fourth century

doo yoo woo mooo?
DoO AyE waan tooo?
waa ee ooo poo
fee floo gloo
viaa grnaa
gtyoe
brooa grooa trooa too moo
soo kooo jooo gooo claa mee kii nia
plaa hoo xoiae boeuo
vuo mua trui voo
dooo yooo wooo moooo?
by fuck!

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Midnight Musings 1989

15/3/89 – 16/3/89 Midnight

Late and alone again. The cigarette end crushed in the ashtray, the insect trapped in the lampshade and the television in the background. It’s all really in the background even my hand scribbling on the paper, my own thoughts. Earlier my own weak flesh succumbed to the curse of overeating, my own lungs demanded too much cigarette smoke. Now I am ensconced again in my satiated accursed body.

Safe in the warm bosom of the living room, sitting on the edge of the dilapidated sofa, my obesity squashed against my thighs, feeling the awful fullness again.

The spiritual human trapped in the world. The world continues to turn and my own thoughts continue to whirl. Sleep is the blessing, if I can. Timing is crucial, if I go to bed too early, my acid stomach will wake me at two in the morning; too late, and I will be overtired, hyped up and full of dreams. Distraction is crucial, something for my whirling mind to latch onto. From the background the late night broadcast from the Open University; ‘Three psychologists comment on the play of some 1 to 4 year olds.’ How wonderful to be so wrapped up in a vocation and believe that in some way you are making a contribution to the flash of light that is man’s brief sojourn on this planet.

***

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He’s so alone

He sees the small one, eyes down, knees up, trying to understand why he’s just been stung by a wasp in the sun. He wants to tell him not to stay in that place; he wants to tell him to shake it away. Look, everything’s going to be all right.

But he can’t, he has to shake this away even though he suspects it may not be true. Didn’t he read something the other day about memory? How it is simply a mental construct from one physical part of the brain. How that part can be damaged or destroyed. The being can still function but more on autopilot than by intention.

Maybe his memory is damaged; maybe what he defines himself as is gleaned from broken brain cells. Whatever – it doesn’t matter anyway, because this life is a one-way trip.

He sighs, yawns, gets off the sofa and stares at a fly trapped between the net curtain and the glass. Alone, he’s alone, he’s so alone.

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No one reads poetry

No one reads poetry,
except poets,
English Literature undergraduates,
and some academics.
(though these are mostly the same people)

No one reads poetry,
unless they have to,
or think they should
for their career.
(usually academic – sometimes journalistic)

If you follow a few rules,
show you understand,
you’re not a charlatan,
you know the form,
you can be a poet too.

You then acquire mystical powers,
and you are allowed to judge,
to evaluate and assess,
to stamp your approval,
and you realise
that’s what you wanted all along.

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Tools of the Trade

tools-of-the-trade-rsSome work in progress.

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No style, no substance

writingWhat do I mean? I mean this is a short story with no style and no substance.
Why?
Why not? Style is taste, substance is an illusion.
Fair enough, but I don’t understand.
You don’t need to.
I mean I don’t understand the point of it.
Of what?
Your short story. This.
Nor me. In fact I’d go so far as to say that there is no point to it.
But what’s the point of that? Why should I read it?
I don’t know. Do you need a reason?
Well, yes, otherwise I’d be wasting my time, my breath, my life.
Look at me shrugging. Read what you like, or not. Who cares?
Well, you should, it’s your short story. Don’t you want people to read it?
Yes of course, but I still don’t care if they do or not.
That’s weird.
If you say so.
So what’s it about?
Nothing. It’s got no substance.
What’s the point . . . oh, never mind.
Good, you’re learning.
No I’m not.
Yes you are. You’ve learned that there’s no point.
No point to what?
No point trying to find a point in something that has no point.
Clever sod!
OK. If you say so.
I was being sarcastic.
Why?
Because you’re winding me up.
Why?
Because of your stupid story that has no style and no substance.
And no point.
Exactly.
So what’s the problem then?
You’re doing my head in.
Why?
With all this story nonsense.
Well you don’t have to read it.
You’re right.
Fuck off then . . . .

***********

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The BEBS Award for Best Ever Book

Winner-The-BEBSWell, I did it, I won the Best Ever Book Award.

The BEBS is a very prestigious award made just once – I mean how could it be awarded more than once – it’s for the Best Ever Book after all.

My latest book ‘To Me’ beat all other competition from all time, past, present and future hands down.

I would just like to express my thanks to the BEBS and to myself for writing such a marvellous award-winning tome.

Thank you

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A Video Experiment: a look at some of my Paintings

I made this video to see if

a: it’s something I want to do

and

b: it’s something I can do

The jury’s still out on both counts

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Early Spring Haikus

mossy-brick moss covering brick
last year’s leaves decomposing
green appearing

~

magnolia-budFebruary dawn
magnolia buds open
pink blossoms emerge

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The Zen. The Zen. The Zen.

I recently wrote a little piece about an event I was due to perform in. You can read it here: The Suchlike Zen.

Here is what happened next.

Disclaimer: The following piece was written by a different version of me from a parallel universe therefore the views expressed are not necessarily mine. It’s also a bit long, and a bit of a head-fuck, even for me.

‘Hello! I’m Derec – sort of. The thing is, I’m not from round here, and to tell the truth I’m a bit lost, and when I say lost, I mean properly lost, lost in space and time.

You see – I’ve got this theory that, hmm . . . hang on, let’s try to keep it simple. OK, let’s just say that – and remember, it’s only a theory – well, not even a theory really, in the scientific sense, it’s just an idea really, a smidgeon of a thought about the nature of reality – you know, what it’s all about, I mean, I’m not going to pretend I know the answers, any answers to anything, but, and I think you have to show me some respect as a fellow living, breathing creature of this universe, or any other universe come to that.

And that’s the point – Any. Other. Universe. That’s what I mean, there are, according to many respected scientific thinkers, many universes, in fact, according to some, there are an infinite number of parallel universes.

particlesFeeble attempt to represent a large number of particles (or stars)

Continue reading

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