Staring into the gateway of your mind - from behind

This is entitled 'Staring into the gateway of your mind - from behind'.

On your shoulders rests your neck, on that your head. Your head, its said, contains the mind - wherein we find, a thought that bustles, blinking madly.
Or such is as it seems from here.
What we'll find, as mind joins spine, or even brain as doctors say, is the medulla oblongata. If you can't see it; look harder.
To wit, time does not permit this twit, to journey farther and muchly further with ascending climactic fervour... into your mind.
From behind it seems that the range from dreams to blinking, plinking, bonking, dunking - swimming nit-wits or their biscuits, drunkening and farcical wordifying must pass, at least but not last, through this pass(ageway).

Still with me?

Good.

Climbing, dancing, romancing, prancing, philanthropisting, misting over, all must travel, at some level from the A to the B via our 'watch and see' oblongaty.

If I left me to my devices, some would say its not the nicest, holding back the primal vices from the final prices, desperate to score - what's more the store is almost closed, and I've not finished my list - I'd be a timeshared terror-less tenor. More of a lazy baritone, but don't bring your hazy parrot over here and stick your mazy carrot-chomping-verbiage-spitting-stomp-watching-neck supported passive-action supports-my-faction NONSENSE over here.

Thanks.

And he just looked at me and said:

'So thats a no to giving £2 a week to cure unhappiness in Sardinia?

What a wally, eh?

Or would you rather be a pig?

As if this guy wasn't nutty enough, he now expected me to psychically pull his name from the ether. I was running out of all sorts of things, but mostly names to call this guy in my head. This went beyond 'needs a good slapping' right into 'needs a good strong jacket and a padded room'.

'Come on, you're a smart guy Jacob, I would have thought you'd have it figured out by now.'

Nobody's called me Jacob since I was 5 years old and a while back I legally changed my name. He'd just gone from 'nutty' to dangerous.

'If Sandringham sent you to kill me then you can get it over with. Here is as good a place as any.' If that was true I wouldn't get the choice anyway.

'Do I look like a killer?' He carried on, already knowing the answer. 'I don't, because I'm not. I'm an old friend, a very old friend that you've forgotten about. I've been forgotten for a long time, haven't I Jacob?'

I searched back through my early memories, trying to find where this guy fit into being raised by just my mum and then in foster homes. I couldn't find any glimmer of recognition, it just wasn't a face I knew.

'I don't know you. Not unless you've pulled some kind of 'Doctor Who' malarkey and changed your face.'

'Be careful Jacob, you only get three chances.'

'What?' He was back to being his old confusing self and it just wasn't fair. 'Look, if you've got all the answers why don't you just share some with me? For God's sake, I'm not freaking superman, or the memory man, I'm just a man, like you.'

There was a collision of expressions on his face and he shook his head. 'Please don't blaspheme, its really not worth it.'

'Worth what?'

'Your soul.'

I sighed and made a series of exasperated sounds, then had an idea.

'You're not my mum's priest, are you?'

'No, but you might say I was a friend of his and your mother.'

'I don't know you.' I was adamant this time and he looked crestfallen.

'Please, thats twice now, be careful.' I was tempted to shout it again at him a million times, just to rile him, to make him tell me, to make it stop. I screamed it in my head and let it echo around. I waited impatiently for him to advance us again.

'Do you remember the song that your mother was always singing? You'd both sing it, together. You used to sing it... to me.' He'd gotten quiet at the end and I wasn't sure I'd even heard him right.

It took me only a moment to remember the song that had stayed with me throughout my entire life, one of the few true memories of my mother I'd ever had. A song she would sing on and on, over and over. It wasn't really a song, it was some kind of composition, she had loved that refrain. It had been written by some guy called Gavin Briars and haunted me my entire life.

All of a sudden I knew, I realised who he was. I swore out loud and he looked up.

'Hello Jacob.' I couldn't look at him, couldn't stand it. I tried to start a sentence a few times then gave up. Finally I managed to croak something out.

'Don't look at me.'

'I missed you Jacob.'

'No.'

I heard one guy say that the world will end by toppling on its axis, by spinning right around. That was how I felt now, my natural centre tumbled and I clung to the ground for support - somehow I'd arrived at my knees. 'Please let this be a dream.'

'You know it isn't.'

I cried then. A single tear fell from my eye straight to the earth and he moved towards me. I scrambled back. 'Don't touch me! Don't touch me. Don't... You're dead, you can't touch me.'

He held out his hands and looked like a thousand posters, a million drawings, but I couldn't take the hug. I wasn't good enough. I turned, I needed to escape.

'Would you stay, we've a lot to talk about.'

'No, I can't stay with you, here. I have to go, I have to.' One step became two and he called after me. I slowed but didn't turn or stop.

'Do you remember what your mother used to say to you every morning when you woke?' I stumbled to a halt and it came flooding back. I roared in pain and took off down the hill, unprepared for the memories this 'get away from it all' trip had wrought from me. In the background his voice carried effortlessly with what she'd said every morning I'd seen her.

'God's swiftest blessings to you, dear heart.'

I chased myself away, finally reaching the sanctuary of my car and wept like a small child. It could have been 3 minutes or 53, I didn't count. I was sure I would never see him again and a small part of me was weeping for that.

As I collected myself, I wiped my face and set about the car, getting ready to leave. Then the thought hit me; I still had my last chance.

I turned off the ignition and got out of the car, I could just see the tree from here, but I couldn't quite make him out. I drew a deep breath and set off up the hill.

It was a favourite hill, a favourite hill with a favourite tree and I still had my last chance.

Bloggery

Bloggery, dockery, mock,
My shoe mated with my sock.
A frock was born,
My sheep need shorn(ing)
I'm a radical born(ing/boring/boing boing)

Welcome back to yet another episode of Abnormality Farm, where the animals ask the questions and we ask the question; can animals improve their diction before being shot?
Over to you Mavis:
Thank you Melvis. Now, Donald, can you please oink the alphabet for us?
Oink, Oink, Oink, Oink,
Oink, Oink, Oink, Oink,
Oink, Oink, Oink, Oink,
Oink, Oink, Oink, Oink,
Oink, Oink, Oink, Oink,
Oink, Oink, Oink, Oink,
Poink, Zoinks!

I'm sorry Donald, you almost had it at F and G, but you went downhill from there.

[Off camera a shot is heard]

Ahh, well, that answers that question. Thank you for all your support Mavis, we'll see her later in the show.


And in other news the RSPCA have been convicted of animal cruelty when their 'Supreme President' was found to have ordered the 'plucking of all feathered turtles' for his 'invisible conquering brush of doom 300[tm]'. The turtles have been taken into protective custody as they were being mocked by their more plumed comrades.

If I were to give a name to what I do, it would be controlled and spasmodic wordy buffuonory. All of these (with the possible exception of 'and') are real and non made up words and only add to my power in the field. That field is the use and abuse of the things know as words to bring pleasure and/or alleviate drudgery of the masses. Now, the masses hate words as they are not the most wordy of wordifying peoples. In fact the more words you word word at them the more worded and wordinginst they word.


Feel free to go over that last paragraph and check it out, I'm not sure all of it made nonsense.
This next section is entitled 'Dadaism is like my pants'.

Dadaism is like my pants

Dadaism is like my pants; its easy to put you're leg in the wrong hole and they're both often found clinging to the start of the 20th century with alarming alacrity. Dadaism is also like my pants in other ways; like when I accidentally went without it and got some juice spilt on my trousers! Oh the fun times we've both had.

[{At this point the author read over what he had written and laughed heartily. He then saw that what he had made was very good and he said so. Then he turned to the penguin which was with him and said; 'This all sounds vaguely like some big book I've read somewhere. The penguin said 'Was it 'The Lord of the Rings: The Return Of The King?' The author then said, 'Ah, I think you could be wrong, but we'll go with that because this bit isn't funny.' The Penguin noddedly sagely.}]

Also, for a differently similar style of bloggery, traverse yourself, through the medium of mouse clickery and keyboard tappery to;

http://crapaudio.blogspot.com

which is the home of our good friend S. Royally - which may or may not be a nom-de-plume.

This next section is entitled 'fin'.



Fin

And be better off than you are...

I turned with more than displeasure on my features. 'Who are you to stop me, to question me?'

'Who are you to raise your voice to me?' He countered swiftly.

'Don't you ever give a straight answer to a question?'

'Yes. What would you like me to answer?' I was thrown again. He had a habit of saying precisely the wrong thing.

'Well, look...' I trailed off. Just what was going on? I felt as if I'd been set up. 'What are you doing here? Do you really own this field?' He smiled and answered my questions in reverse order.

'Yes, I own the field, and a few other things. I'm here doing what you're doing; waiting, thinking relaxing, questioning.' Once again he described me too well and I flushed with anger. I expected a camera crew any second and I convinced myself it was a setup, some weird prank.

Nobody materialised and I examined him again with a sigh. 'You have questions?' He cocked his head at the strangeness of it all.

'Yes. Doesn't everyone? I'm pretty sure most people have a lot of questions. Look at children: they have a thousand questions a second, they crave information.' Another thought came to his mind and he added it quickly. 'And love, they crave love too.'

'Listen, Captain monologue, if you're gonna get all 'pop psychology' on me then you can do one!' I hooked my thumb over my shoulder and fixed him with my best 'don't mess' stare. He smiled plainly in response, the most dull and terrifying thing he could have done.

Suddenly, mercifully, it was quiet and I used the time to look around. It was the same as ever, which comforted me. The two trees side by side, mine and its partner and on this side a stump, which never grew.

I don't know whether he cut it or treated it, but it never grew. I shivered suddenly and sat on the stump. I was tired and my anger no longer reined in my curiosity. I let it run free and the words jumped from my mouth, almost as if on there own.

'You never told me any of your questions.'

He smiled. 'No, I didn't, did I. But you see, the question is never as important as the person asking it.'

'What, never?' I was shocked by his assertion and thought hard on it.

'Never.' He seemed so certain, so sure and steadfast that I knew I wanted to topple him.

'I'm sure I've got questions that could prove you wrong.' I smirked.

'In which case you'd probably prove me right, don't you think?'

My head span as he talked us in circles again, I felt like a dancer who didn't know the steps, dancing in a sliding, tilting, dance hall. I felt like a pinball and it tired me. I searched for a question, any question. I wanted to be right - I wanted to win.

'Why is everybody bored, why can't we just be nice? Why is there suffering?'

'Those are good questions. Still, why you ask it is more interesting than what you've asked.'

'Never a straight answer.'

Never a minute to spare, to listen.'

Chastised, I sat and glared at him. He smiled slowly and proceeded to ask me a question.

'Have you ever tried to be nice, to stop the suffering?'

'I wouldn't be able to change a thing.'

'Well, if everybody feels like that, nothing will change.' I smirked and prepared my 'pop psychology' quip again. He beat me to the punch.

'Tell me if I'm wrong.'

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I thought back through my life and cringed as it played out in its awful technicolour glory. Over stimulated, under activated, incessantly impatient; I was hardly a model of world changing glory.

My introverted reflection brought into the light how little I knew of my own personal inquisitor. I looked him up and down and saw nothing of merit. Just some guy on some hill. Actually, I decided, I wouldn't settle for just that information anymore: it was time to ask some more questions. I stood up and found his eyes.

'You're a conundrum chum, I don't know anything about you and you think you can pull me apart like a lab rat, or a pigs heart. Well, I want to know who you are and what you're really doing here.'

My challenge was borne of equal parts curiosity, annoyance and fear, and as I met his eyes I searched them for any sign of the same. And for an ending to this absurd saga.

'I thought you already knew.'

Raspberry zipple

This blog was too boring and normal, it was almost a real diary entry.

As such it has been removed by the author who apologises. Comedy will shortly resume normal service and soon the third piece of 'two men on a hill' will be submitted for your aproval, not that the author seeks it, he merely uses some of the accepted phraseology of English, sometimes.

amo,

Long gone Silver.

Rip van Tinkle stole my Winkle.

If I were to ask you a question, could you do me the immense personal favour of keeping it to yourself?
Like, I mean, not tell anyone about it, or that I asked you, or even mention it again?

That got your attention didn't it!

I've got a lot of questions, in fact I'd go as far as to say that questioning is one of the things I do most, and its perhaps one of the most useful. But then again, its not that useful. Often times I'll come away from a conversation with more questions than I had when I started, which is nice, but mostly they are inane like; why was that midget on a horse? Where had they managed to get an original copy of Charlie Sheen from?

Some people have gone as far as to say that it is questions that define us, but I think that really is dictionaries that define us and questions, not so much.

You see, most questions need answers and most people are now geared to answer them. But what happens when you ask a question that you don't want answering? What if you just fancied a chat? What if, is a question.

So, just to bring us, back off track, why are some people left handed?

Why are other not?

Why are knots over?

Which county is notts, under?

If over is as under does, do knots not knot on my cot of countless counties?

Because, you see, a question is nowhere near as important as who asks it, which is why questions are easier to think of, than characters in a novel, or even, novels which have novel characters.

I once did,
what they said I shouldn't.
Wouldn't, couldn't, didn't stop me.

Climbed down low
and stroked the grass.

Now, I'm old
My hips are solid
pallid, turgid, it all stops me.

Fall on over
and kiss my shoes.

There is, it seems, an inexplicable reasoning behind my posts, as if I actually do know what I am doing. Ok, so maybe all the bits don't connect in a fashion that you recognise, but separately, all the bits make individual sense, and the combination of bits makes a whole, much like the combination of bits inside a ******* ******* ** ********* (example deleted due to copyright - Ed.)

Oi, Ed, get off my blog you freaking infringement goon! Just because you protect the good readers of Bloggos-landios with your over eager asterisk finger, doesn't mean I want you to trespass on my private property!

Actually, Mr Silver, anything you post on a blog like this one, is then technically and legally owned by the blog company, which in this case is google. So there.

WHTATATATA!

HOW?!

WHY?!


SPEELLING ERROIR!!

I'm garnished with time

Hello all of you and welcome back.
I've certainly been doing a lot of things since last we spoke, or rather I typed and you read. We shall speak little of those things, most of them are boring and/or related to you through the ether.
You may have noticed, though, through the blogosphere of A.N.other, that I have bought a new car. It goes brum, and vroom and zoom zoom apparently, and that should tell you something. Certainly it has some characteristics of a car, whilst retaining some of the characteristics of a mobile hairdryer.
I'm a fan.
Also, I've been working on some wordifying of the magnitude of which I have not worked on before, I even wrote some stuff. Its nice when you give yourself permission to have ideas, and I have to be the one giving permission, as I'm not getting any encouragement for ideas in the workplace.
I sometimes feel for the Wibster when we're hanging out as she has to put up with all the ideas I have all coming out at once. I come home and we hang out and all of a sudden my brain seems to think 'ah ha' now would be the time to switch back on.
Its almost like being entirely mental.
The Labyrinth has of late become rather more busy than usual, which has led to me being entirely more busy, which has annoyed me immensely. Its not so much the working as the business, I do so despise the feeling of hurried harried humdrum. Its like being sellotaped to the back of a Saturn 5 rocket, its nice to be doing something, but soon enough you can smell burning.
Ah well, time for bed.