Skype, The Moon, Milk Cartons & Politics
The Moon as we know it will soon be turned a crimson blood red, and if that doesn't set the mood for the birth of a new hybrid Gordon Brown Werewolf of supreme intelligence, dark red fur and canines permanently dripping Tony Blair's blood then Project 'BreedHybridWerewolfWithGordonBrownsDNA' just failed for the fourth time, almost on par with the SNP's track-record for general and complete failure also.
That's a glance at the big picture at life here in Britain. As an Australian citizen living now for several years here in the sunny UK, the big political picture seems strangely detached from reality. It is snippets of everyday life that will captivate my attention, loping around awkwardly in the epitome of what appears to be a very non-sequential life.
Returning home after a hard day's work discussing everything from a milk carton's perspective of life to the comforting contours of the SNES during moments where the allure of doing so, outshines the misty cloud of gut feeling indicating that one is missing the explanation of an integral part of Physics. Simply put it is of course terribly relaxing.
It is my habit to automatically open Skype after precisely 5 minutes of checking my emails, verifying that my plethora of web-sites maintain the operating definition of 'web', and confirming my various appendages and limbs are still attached and supplied with an adequate flow of blood.
After joining a conference call with my colleagues and mumbling various greetings or wise words of wisdom, I tend to melt back into what is my endless mission to answer every email sent to my 5 separate addresses twice over, or I will resume wading in never-ending lines of php and html.
Shortly after the conference has been initiated, greetings exchanged and appendages and limbs re-checked, everyone else generally follows my lead; filling their time with games, girlfriends, chatbots or guitar strumming. It's really during this time of vague tranquility that the most absurd or bizarre comments are made.
"When did street lamps get here?", said 1Lt. Jamieson, out of the misty blue of what was the Skype conference call. The only sound that immediately followed that was of my gallant dash for a notepad, and the scratching's of a pen on paper, furiously scribbling this intriguing revelation down.
Shortly afterwards he added a twist to his monologue.
"The mayor took away the street lamps from outside my house again.", he mumbled, drumming his fingers on what sounded distinctly like a milk carton, almost in time to the resumed scratchings of my pen on Tesco note-paper. "Now its not special anymore."
Times like these seem to exist entirely in the unified moment, doomed to appear forever hand-in-hand with our perceived reality. The movements of key political figures or moons make barely a tremor on that placid surface of individual interest, yet the vague and incoherent whispers of a preoccupied mind break that placidity into a million different mirrors.
I suddenly found my hand reaching for the notepad once more, as Jamieson's vocal chords throbbed into melody.
"That wookie," he said, "just lost my vote.".
That's a glance at the big picture at life here in Britain. As an Australian citizen living now for several years here in the sunny UK, the big political picture seems strangely detached from reality. It is snippets of everyday life that will captivate my attention, loping around awkwardly in the epitome of what appears to be a very non-sequential life.
Returning home after a hard day's work discussing everything from a milk carton's perspective of life to the comforting contours of the SNES during moments where the allure of doing so, outshines the misty cloud of gut feeling indicating that one is missing the explanation of an integral part of Physics. Simply put it is of course terribly relaxing.
It is my habit to automatically open Skype after precisely 5 minutes of checking my emails, verifying that my plethora of web-sites maintain the operating definition of 'web', and confirming my various appendages and limbs are still attached and supplied with an adequate flow of blood.
After joining a conference call with my colleagues and mumbling various greetings or wise words of wisdom, I tend to melt back into what is my endless mission to answer every email sent to my 5 separate addresses twice over, or I will resume wading in never-ending lines of php and html.
Shortly after the conference has been initiated, greetings exchanged and appendages and limbs re-checked, everyone else generally follows my lead; filling their time with games, girlfriends, chatbots or guitar strumming. It's really during this time of vague tranquility that the most absurd or bizarre comments are made.
"When did street lamps get here?", said 1Lt. Jamieson, out of the misty blue of what was the Skype conference call. The only sound that immediately followed that was of my gallant dash for a notepad, and the scratching's of a pen on paper, furiously scribbling this intriguing revelation down.
Shortly afterwards he added a twist to his monologue.
"The mayor took away the street lamps from outside my house again.", he mumbled, drumming his fingers on what sounded distinctly like a milk carton, almost in time to the resumed scratchings of my pen on Tesco note-paper. "Now its not special anymore."
Times like these seem to exist entirely in the unified moment, doomed to appear forever hand-in-hand with our perceived reality. The movements of key political figures or moons make barely a tremor on that placid surface of individual interest, yet the vague and incoherent whispers of a preoccupied mind break that placidity into a million different mirrors.
I suddenly found my hand reaching for the notepad once more, as Jamieson's vocal chords throbbed into melody.
"That wookie," he said, "just lost my vote.".
posted by Skippy at
8:45 PM
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