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Seagulls on landfill

Maybe it is the time of year, but my head is junk. My mornings grow quickly dizzy as I flit from book to book;
Bachelard’s Anatomy of poetic reverie and psychoanalysis of Fire (Thanks you to the very wonderful Clodagh for giving me something hard to read at holiday time!)
Techgnosis – featuring a fantastic timeline on the birth of written text and the correlation with the move to abstract, or monotheistic belief systems. (Yes, may believed the words themselves were magic – ergo SPELLING)
Narrative Based Medicine – don’t ask!
Metaphors we live by – Lakoff’s seminal work

…And yet, all my head can do is settle on popular songs and abuse them. I cannot help myself. The Jam’s Eton Rifles keeps popping into my mind when I see a suitably stepped phrase that can replace the original line…

Hello, Hooray, its the price you pay at Marks and Spencer, Marks and Spencer!

…And now Bowie’s come a cropper too. Remember the thing he did with the Pat Metheny Band called This is not America? Well, just as I was leaving my home on Big Hill I picked up some mail… This is not a circular – No – Sha-na-nana-na

…And all the Christmas songs going around at the moment. I keep singing along and replacing the words with, well, whatever is rude, vulgar, filthy, vile and obscene. No examples. Go figure!

And I turned away from a whole evening of instructive, illuminating and inspiring television in order to watch the Take That documentary. Fantastic stuff! Desperate, bleak and overwhelmingly nauseating – but fantastic! Oh when Robbie never showed up at the viciously orchestrated “reunion” – ouch! – absolutely compelling, brilliant stuff – yet equally devious and morally bereft – a the sulphur whiff of popular entertainment!

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