my life as a artist
You are viewing the archive, containing all posts older than 20 day(s). To return to the front page, click here.
jesus wants us for a sunbeam
Sunday 6th January 2008 8:15 PM
Hooth comments that she doesn't think Jesus would agree with Ratty, that hell is a real place where people really burn forever in eternal flames of damnation. To be honest Hooth, I don't think Judas would either. Ratty promulgates a life-denying cosmology of such breath-taking crudity that, bearing in mind the massive influence of the Catholic church, it is as you say, not very funny.
Besides the massive carbon footprint, it's the sheer never-endingness of the punishment that I find most disturbing. If the flames of hell are so agonising, and the gnashing of teeth so terrible, surely twenty to twenty-five minutes (or thirty-five to forty minutes at a lower setting) would suffice for the gravest of sinners? But eternity? Imagine you're a catholic, and you've just endured a thousand years of uninterrupted, writhing agony, for being gay and listening to Pogues records, and you ask God to stop and he tells you that your punishment's only just begun. It'd certainly test your faith.
Posted 8:15 PM | 4 Comments | Permalink
no girls allowed
Thursday 3rd January 2008 11:13 PM
When I was at junior school, one of my mates was a German boy called Joe Ratzinger, commonly known as Ratty. Every break-time, me, Ratty and a few others would form a human chain, and walk around the playground, shouting for people to join in our game. 'Who wants to play at Abrahamic religions? No girls allowed!' we'd cry, our voices giddy with monotheism.
I always preferred playing at the newer Abrahamic religions, like Bahai and Rastafarianism, but when Ratty was there we had to play at Roman Catholicism, otherwise he'd threaten us all with Chinese wrist-burns. I'd usually be a cardinal, in charge of the inquisition, say, whereas Ratty would, infallibly, be the Pope.
Even at that tender age, he was a stickler for orthodoxy. I remember one playtime, trying to introduce elements of Rastafarianism into the Catholic doctrine, that involved smoking loads of dope and then feeling guilty about it, and he was so outraged, that he ex-communicated me until the end of break-time.
Imagine my surprise this week, then, when I saw Ratty's cheeky little face poking out of an article on the inside pages of The Times. It seems that our page three stunner has changed his name to Benedict XVI and is doing the pope thing for real! Despite the fact that he was wearing an extravagantly pointed hat that made him look a bit like a Mesopotamian fish-god, he was easily recognisable, although I did notice that since junior school days, his once adorable, puppy-dog eyes had narrowed somewhat.
Apparently, Ratty has been saying that rather than being a religious symbol to galvanise the faithful, hell is actually a real place, where people really do burn forever in the agonising flames of eternal damnation. Even in the playground, he always did make me feel a bit wishy-washy.
It's a shame that Ratty is now a declared celibate, because I honestly think that the love of a good woman could really loosen him up. Next time we meet at the 'friends reunited' bash, if he's up for it, I'm going to suggest a game of kiss chase, with girls allowed. Sometimes, pontiff's just wanna have some fun.
Posted 11:13 PM | 3 Comments | Permalink
brief encounter
Wednesday 26th December 2007 11:27 PM
Today's magic validation word is 'brief', which for the purposes of this blog, I'm taking to mean 'of short duration', rather than 'lawyer' or 'half an underpant'. Like many of my closest friends, the magic validation word is randomly generated, and somehow more susceptible to imprint from the prevailing spiritual impulses, and as a handy tool of divination, can provide a rich source of ready wisdom. As someone who likes to spin a yarn, this particular magic validation word, being an anagram of 'fibre', also provides a useful source of material.
'Hooth' writes that she would definitely not be celebrating Nimrod's birthday this year, because she's still angry with him for building the tower of Babel. Although I admire your principles, Hooth, I think demi-gods respond to encouragement, rather than chastisement, so next year I suggest that you celebrate his birthday, but do it with a bit more restraint than usual, to express your disquiet over the tower thing. The gentle chastisement of gods, like the gentle chastisement of dogs, is more effective the sooner it's administered after the misdeed, and I worry that after all this time, Nimrod won't make the connection, and will just feel confused.
Yesterday we had a family get-together at my sisters to celebrate Hercules's birthday. In the morning we tried to perform the twelve labours, but due to a temperamental Aga cooking the chicken sooner than expected, we had to do a few short-cuts. Instead of cleaning out the Augean stables, we just changed Murphy the Cat's litter tray, and hoped, by the grace of Hercules, that after a sprout-rich dinner, one of us might capture the golden stag of Artemis whilst outside on a fart-break.
This morning the Corinthians played the Russell All-stars at the Sym Balk Lane theatre of dreams. Due to seasonal family commitments, drink-related injuries, and a lack of iron and essential vitamins, both teams were severely depleted. The extra space led to an open, free-flowing match, which the Corinthians won 12-3. I was playing up front and managed to score six goals, which sounds heroic, but was more to do with work-rate. It wasn't so much a Herculean labour, more a 'big ask'.
Posted 11:27 PM | 2 Comments | Permalink
google nimrod
Saturday 22nd December 2007 10:25 PM
A nice man called John sent me an e-mail yesterday, saying that he'd tried to put a comment on Thursday's blog, and the comment had just disappeared into the ether. To let me know that this was an altruistic act of information-sharing, and not a complaint, he added that he felt no bitterness about the whole tawdry affair. Thank you John, for your generosity of spirit and steadfastness in the face of a recalcitrant blog.
In contrast, a nice man called Steve sent me an e-mail, saying the same thing, but adding that he thought the blog was awkward and wilful and was a bastard. Thank you Steve, for your fiery honesty and bloody-mindedness in the face of a recalcitrant blog. (I've forwarded you John's e-mail address and I think you should talk to him.)
I've also received a few non-judgemental phone calls, telling me about the same problem, so it looks like I'll have to go to the craggy highlands of North-west Scotland and see my internet providers, Kate and Sidney Pi. When they ask me what's wrong, I'll say 'no comment'.
However, despite the comment box problem, a few have got through. One was from myself, as a test, and rather splendidly, the validation word was 'sun'. Another was from the inhabitants of the fabled lost city of Beffel, a mysterious forgotten citadel of the mind, who's lofty towers pierce the swirling clouds of illusion, and look out onto the unbroken, blue truth of tribal memory. Rather like Shamballah, Beffel is a mythical place of the imagination, which some people believe may have an actual, physical location on the planet, possibly near Oswestry.
The comment tells of a Beffelian attempt to perk up the sun, and describes a successful act of sympathetic magic, wherein the young Minka, for it is she, draws a picture of a sun on a piece of paper, with the word 'please' written underneath it, and slips the paper under an ivy-covered log. I think this story illustrates the awesome and enduring power of simple good manners, and one wonders whether Alistair Crowley would have been more effective in his magical workings if he'd have said 'please' more often.
Hippy out of the Horn, or Hooth, as she has affectionately become known over the last few seconds, wants to know who Nimrod is. So do I. In the nineteen seventies there was an actor with pointy ears, who played Dr Spock on Star Trek, called Leonard Nimrod, but it's not him. To be honest, Hooth, I only included Nimrod because, somewhere on the internet, I came across a list of Gods whose birthday was the 25th December, and in a rather careless, cavalier fashion, assumed him to be of virgin birth.
Finding out exactly who Nimrod was, was fraught with difficulties. The first problem was that as soon as I'd decided to google Nimrod, for a few hours afterwards, I couldn't do anything else but say the words 'google Nimrod', to myself, over and over again. When I eventually got on the net I was met with a bewildering array of different stories. He was a Mesopotamian king, he was a dismembered and resurrected God, he was the arch-enemy of Abraham, and he was supposed to have built the tower of Babel. It didn't say anything about him being of virgin birth, but he sounded like quite a handy bloke. Honestly, check him out. Google Nimrod!
Posted 10:25 PM | 4 Comments | Permalink
come on sun, you can do it
Thursday 20th December 2007 11:52 PM
Sometimes the sun doesn't even get out of bed these days. It sleeps all night, and then during the day, sulks under a duvet of cloud, listening to Smith's records. It's started going to sleep halfway through the afternoon now, and I'm getting a bit worried about it. I think it might be depressed, or maybe even on drugs.
It's difficult to know what to do for the best. Suns, by their nature, always want to be the centre of attention, and are very strong willed, and once they get in a mood, they can be quite openly stubborn, and as we all know, can't be distracted by novelty.
I've talked it over with my landlord, Mark, who as a farmer should know about these things. He says that the one thing that always cheers them up is a blood sacrifice, and tomorrow, if I want, he could kill one of the beautiful white geese. I didn't feel comfortable with that, so I talked it over with the beautiful white geese, and they thought that given time, and left to its own devices, the sun would probably just snap out of it.
To my mind, Mark's idea is too pro-active, but on the other hand, I find the geese's attitude a bit laissez faire, so me, Jimmy the donkey and Molly the pony, have decided to involve the sun in a drama-therapy session tomorrow morning. We're going to do something based on 'It's a Wonderful Life', and encourage the sun to take the part of James Stewart, and, if he can find his motive, Jimmy the donkey is going to play Clarence the angel. I'm going to play the bridge and Molly the Shetland pony is going to be the river of attempted suicide and rebirth, and we might let some of the chickens be chickens.
Rather like the sun, I've been a man of small ambition this week .I've resisted the as-advertised-on-TV temptation of driving sixty miles down the M1 to the Meadowhall shopping centre, because it's a 'world of shoppertunity', and have instead been staying in bed, listening to Smith's records, and not sulking, but reflecting on the inordinate amount of birthdays coming up next week.
Apparently, on Tuesday, it's going to be the birthday of Jesus, Horus, Adonis, Bacchus, Mithras, Nimrod and Hercules. All of them were born of virgins, and in light of their subsequent achievements, it does beg the question, 'Do families need fathers?'
I expect they'll have a massive, full-on party in heaven, but if the sun's still on a downer, they're going to have to keep the noise down, otherwise there'll be hell on. Jesus is hilarious when he's had a few, so tomorrow morning, you can rest assured that me, Jimmy, Molly and the chickens are going to give it everything during our drama-therapy session. If Jimmy can genuinely discover Clarence the angel's motive, and I can stretch to being a bridge, then I honestly believe we can turn the sun around.
Posted 11:52 PM | 3 Comments | Permalink
[Front Page] | Archive Page: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20] [21] [22] [23] [24] [25] [26] [27] [28] [29]
