Blue Saturday

It's one of the things that's most notably missing from Britain - an urban "outside" culture. Weather is a factor in making it practical but there's definitely a suspicion of being outdoors and not a)in park or b) paying to consume something. We tend not to congregate, promenade, hang about on front steps, etc - and then complain about not knowing our neighbours.

I am lucky to live right by several very benchy parks (including one with a bench dedicated to a late ILXor). If you are a Londoner who actually wants to meet neighbours, the best way is to have a dog. On the walks, you'll meet many of the people who've committed to living in your area for the long-term (yes, it's a Kenny day here in Bloomsbury).

BB that para is kinda shocking to me. i'm (inordinately) fond of this city and one thing i'm grateful for is the number of places to sit and ponder, inside and out. but yeah, as SV says, "always be consuming" seems so internalised everywhere

god i can't moan without cultivating some kind of bourgie "i'm better than you sheeple" aspect and i hate that, it isn't true, people are just doing their things and it's my tired and bitter that taints the view

and today i don't feel bitter, just tired, and tired of the spiteful and the vengeful and the bad karma England's accrued thru its centuries of exporting blood and slavery and cash nexuses

and a red admiral's been following me around all day which is cool really, i dunno why my glass is so empty except my usual boorish habits obv, i need a big ice bath to drop my brain in for a week i think

this one?

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/e/ef/Kuznetsov1.jpg

It was just a bit of a shock to me, because my part of London is very big on public parks and spaces and places to sit. Granted, a lot of that on the high street is "cafe culture" and you have to pay for a drink. But the commons are, well, *common* and you can't move for benches or places to rest. It just reminded me why I particularly hate West London.

(I am trying to work up the courage to hit "send" on an email and failing miserably right now.)

((I fear that in being self effacing, I have hit an ugly note of "faux naif" or whatever, but I genuinely do feel, well, "I do these stupid sketches, maybe you want some, maybe you don't" and I think that's a more honest approach, when "my stuff ROX0Rs, you poxy F00Ls" seems to be the preferred approach for the rest of the fucking world, but really, fuck that attitude.))

Always Be Closing - even when you're the product

meanwhile just in case anybody doesn't know here is the Secret Museum of Mankind:::

http://ian.macky.net/secretmuseum/index.php

It's one of the things that's most notably missing from Britain - an urban "outside" culture.
― Yuri Bashment (ShariVari), Friday, 11 April 2014 13:24 (1 hour ago) Bookmark Flag Post Permalink

Ha tell that to old leatherchest over the road from me with his sofa in the front garden.

I LOVE THIS CITY

last time i was around kensington my friends and i got yelled away from the stoop we were sitting on by the homeowner, was good to feel teenage again.

If you close all of the parks, and provide no street furniture, where on earth do you expect people to sit?

Oh! Don't want people sitting anywhere near you? Maybe you shouldn't live in London.

Ugh.

I hit send, and now I have to avoid my email until the end of time.

Oh well. I bought ice cream. I'll eat that in the sunshine.

happy belated birthday bb

also hb to wins

did i miss birthdays? feel like i've been a long way up myself for the last fortnight. hb to u boths

Thank you, Estella! Also TY NV.

Is today Wins' birthday? HB, wins.

This was my moms fav song. RIP mom, we will always love you.

<3 Ogmor

ty branwell

no kids. again. feel like going for a loooong drink. gonna try hard not to. learning slowly, it's only less lonely for a few gone moments, and chicks don't dig zombie-shambling bozos. inside solitude is, at least, affordable.

[countdown to pulling boots on and rushing out the door T-minus 30 minutes]

nahhhh

the part of me that usually trolls about booze is mostly trolling about burgers recently, I would f'in love a burger. I know just where to go to get a good one.

I missed the birthday wishes upthread btw, thanks guys

i missed the bday iirc hb wins

i've slept about ten hours since last sunday, neighbours and criminals are tag-teaming me ito sleep deprivation trolling. can't imagine doing any of the college stuff that needs done for tomorrow deadline or study for exams next week. the room is spinnin here.

sleep deprivation is the absolute worst if you need to do anything with yr brain

i'm cooking chicken and rice and listening to the football, the food shd keep me on the straight and narrow for a while anyway

oh ya football, college'll wait

sleep deprivation is the absolute worst if you need to do anything with yr brain

for at least four and a half years after i graduated college, i was fucking with my sleep. two and a half weeks ago or so i fixed it, meaning i'm usually getting close to eight hours a night now. that, coupled with some changes in diet and other things, has worked miracles. if you don't actually have insomnia and can find a way to get regular sleep, every night, around the same time, do it. seriously. do it now.

En route back from town with noise cancelling buds, bro has dropboxed me some binaural beats, heres nothin

I used to have horrid noisy neighbour problems. Got a ten minute file of white noise, stick it on massive speakers either side of my bed for eight hours a night. I don't hear anything any more; I just sleep through pretty much everything: football games, karaoke night at the pub, the Boring Machine digging up the road. The only thing it doesn't cancel out is the noise in my head.

it's impressive how much panic and fear of death the prospect of returning to work arouses

Do connoisseurs of melancholic states see a distinction between Blue Saturday and Sunday Sad?

Blue Saturday: still feeling jangled and battered with the indignities of the working week, generally disagreeable if not misanthropic, awareness of the opportunities for enjoyment but too knackered to enjoy them fully which in is elf is depressing.

Sunday Sad: more rested, but doom-like sense of working week looming, sense of desperation in people to wring out the last moments of pleasure from sunday meal afternoon drinking, evening has slight religious overtones of that classic Betjeman "St. Giles's bells are ringing round,slanting summer rain....rainy leaves..dull with death and hell at last"

when i titled this thread it was a specificity, a blue saturday. but that was a repetitive experience, even if i hadn't recognized it then. i hadn't really started to think about blueness properly then either, it's only in the last few months i've started to really think about the implications of living blue, or blue as a multivalent lens for existence.

i'm not even sure all blue sundays are the same, tho they feel most consistent in spirit and sharing. there are a lot of distinctions, a lot of shades. i'd even maybe separate the blue from the sick anxiety i'm burning with today: blue is cooler, and more accepting, and more a way of understanding things than the screaming fear that sometimes comes along with it

For me it's like this:
Blue Saturday = I want to do stuff but I'm too knackered after a week of a temp gig working for yet another passive aggressive 'politics' riddled corporation.
Blue Sunday = I want to do stuff but bleurgh I don't feel up to it.
Sunday Night Sad = I want to do stuff but there's just no time left this weekend because I have to go to bed early so that I can get up at stupid o'clock to catch a bus and aaaaaaaaaaargghhhh

BLUE pencils, blue noses, blue movies, laws, blue legs and stockings, the language of birds, bees, and flowers as sung by longshoremen, that lead-like look the skin has when affected by cold, contusion, sickness, fear; the rotten rum or gin they call blue ruin and the blue devils of its delirium; Russian cats and oysters, a withheld or imprisoned breath, the blue they say that diamonds have, deep holes in the ocean and the blazers which English athletes earn that gentlemen may wear; afflictions of the spirit—dumps, mopes, Mondays—all that's dismal—low-down gloomy music. Nova Scotians, cyanosis, hair rinse, bluing, bleach; the rare blue dahlia like that blue moon shrewd things happen only once in, or the call for trumps in whist (but who remembers whist or what the death of unplayed games is like?), and correspondingly the flag, Blue Peter, which is our signal for getting under way; a swift pitch, Confederate money, the shaded slopes of clouds and mountains, and so the constantly increasing absentness of Heaven (ins Blaue hinein, the Germans say), consequently the color of everything that's empty: blue bottles, bank accounts, and compliments, for instance, or, when the sky's turned turtle, the blue-green bleat of ocean (both the same), and, when in Hell, its neatly landscaped rows of concrete huts and gas-blue flames; social registers, examination booklets, blue bloods, balls, and bonnets, beards, coats, collars, chips, and cheese . . . the pedantic, indecent and censorious . . . watered twilight, sour sea: through a scrambling of accidents, blue has become their color, just as it's stood for fidelity. Blue laws took their hue from the paper they were printed on. Blue noses were named for a potato. E. Haldeman-Julius' little library, where I first read Ellen Key's Evolution of Love, vainly hoping for a cock stand, had such covers. In the same series, which sold for a dime in those days, were the love letters of that Portuguese nun, Mariana Alcoforado, an overwrought and burdensome lady, certainly, whose existence I callously forgot until I read of her again in Rilke.

that lead-like look the skin has when affected by cold

That good... In my own synaesthetic emotional tones, if blue is the colour of melancholy - then it's that very blue-grey of leaden skies with all of the bright colour washed out - implying the heaviness of lead weighing you down.

conversations with my dad:

football, football, some kind of prejudiced political/bigotry stuff, me complaining about that, him telling me if he didn't argue about his prejudices i wouldn't have anything to say, me acknowledging that that's kinda true but not knowing what to do about it, him getting a bit hurt and huffy cos i don't love his prejudices which are integral part of who he is, me feeling like shit, fin.

wash, rinse, repeat x2 every week of my adult life

i am, i will happily admit, a self-centred failure of a son, husband, parent

ach, daddy issues

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=or1oZ35NA2U

strangley at peace this a.m.

i mean, considering i've got bad things to do to people v. soon

oh I've got houses and I've got lands
and half Northumberland belongs to me
and I'd grant it all to the fair young lady
as would release me and let me free

^otm.

had a substantial and sudden access of loneliness yesterday evening. this is not a "poor me" thing - it's more how curious the physical sensation is. it reminds me slightly of the bitter things we learn to consume as adults - booze, caffeine, tobacco. the taste of internal harm, self-annihilation and death to the point of connoisseurship.

that was a little more Fotheringham-Rhomas than intended. just mean there's something not wholly unpleasant in the sensation.

I like it

http://nostradamundus.files.wordpress.com/2011/12/800px-french_fleet_with_barbarossa_at_the_siege_of_nice_15431.jpg

the bitter things we learn to consume as adults

otm - it has its pleasures

He was alone. He was unheeded, happy and near to the wild heart of life. He was alone and young and wilful and wildhearted, alone amid a waste of wild air and brackish waters and the sea-harvest of shells and tangle and veiled grey sunlight and gayclad lightclad figures of children and girls and voices childish and girlish in the air.

megamix of every use of the word "alone" from Portrait basically nails it