Well, who among us is capable of going forwards through the banks of remembering? Far more likely is the scenario that something that happened in the recent past will occur to you. Something else that may have gone down a little while longer ago will feed into that and before you know it you’ll have broken out the baby photos, poring over them and wondering what happened to the cheery visage peeping up at you.
As a breed, we’re pretty nostalgic. Not for any evolutionary benefit as far as I can tell. You don’t get too many lions who pause for a moment upon encountering old hunting grounds, picturing the very instance when they were king of the world and persevering to forget how that neat existence came crumbling apart. We wallow in our yesterdays as if they’re the key to heretofore elusive happiness.
Or maybe we’re endeavouring to learn from the lessons of history. You know from that unfortunate episode with the horse and the kite string precisely why those romantic impulses of yours aren’t going to work out as you might foresee. Actually though, you know where it went wrong before and can therefore course correct ahead of time. It will be a matter a moments and then you’ll be hailed as the romantic ruler of everything, who people would sell their first born just for the chance to spend an instance alone with.
This is one of the various problems with memories: they’re terribly fallible. It’s just as likely that things didn’t pan out precisely as you recall. There’s an equal possibility that someone not completely benevolent has been subtly messing with you, implanting memories that aren’t true in the slightest and twisting your reality this way and that for their unholy amusement. Or this life is what you make of it and no one can take it away from you. Probably.
Song choices courtesy of: Shpongle and Michael Giacchino
Well, no one wants anything even resembling bad weather on the all important day of their nuptials now do they? If they’re not extremely careful in such circumstances, Alanis Morrisette may turn up warbling about irony without having read its dictionary definition. And that’s no one’s idea of a good time. Seriously though, these things get booked way in advance and from the moment of putting down the deposit to the gloriously important event you keep your fingers crossed for decent weather.
So, if I’ve learned anything from this wedding planning lark (and I almost definitely haven’t apart from how to part with large chunks of your savings in a single stroke) it’s do everything possible to maximise your chances of at least a mildly sunny day. But, this being Britain you also have to allow for it to be absolutely tipping it down. Don’t rely on an outside ceremony if you can possibly help it.
But we’re not confining this particular happy event to the UK’s changeable shores. We’re departing for altogether different climes. I may not have done the requisite research to determine whether or not it’s likelier to be more conducive weather for a wedding. Maybe I should endeavour to find out more about this country if I’m so keen on people marrying it. Well, why is preserving mystery in a relationship such a distasteful thing nowadays?
Perhaps the whole marriage analogy is a more flowery way of suggesting that people take up Finnish citizenship. It could have been mildly clever if I hadn’t pointed it out and then gone on to say how smart it would have been if I did. At this point I’m merely keen for people to maintain their European personhood any way they can. And from what I know (which isn’t much), Finland is more likely to be welcoming than Germany or Spain – they’re already packed to the gunnels with British expats.
Song choices courtesy of: Train, Monty Python and Tim Minchin
Right, I’ve just dealt with an absolutely terrifying spider (I mean, it wasn’t actually. It’s not as if I was standing on a chair, shrieking ‘kill it, kill it dead!’ In reality, it was a bit dopey but massive and unwittingly on a chair right behind me. And so it had to go. At least I’ve had my adrenaline hit for the morning) so it’s definitely the best time to start discussing that squishy love stuff.
But let’s not forget the folk, they’re a vital part of the equation. Or perhaps the context refers to the music (as it does in the song title I ripped it from). For all I know, love and folk music could be perfect partners in a complex ballet of finer feelings. However, it’s not exactly popular and if I was trying to cultivate a mildly cool persona (I’m not. Occasionally it suits my strange purposes to imagine I am) I’d avoid it like the plague.
So we’ll indulge just a little bit. Everything in moderation, that’s the way. Punk and loathing, pop and excitement, heavy metal and flirtation, orchestral and ambiguity, all mixed together in a big jug. That way you can never have to much of a good thing but there are also enough lows to smooth out the dizzying highs.
Or maybe we should go all the way into love and folk. Then we turn tail and never experience either of them ever again. You can seal away those memories in your mind and visit them every now and then but turn back to your usual diet of antipathy and whatever music happens to be on the radio at any given time. Got to keep up with the banging tunes that make up the hit parade otherwise the children shall sneer that you’re not with it anymore. And that would be a horrific shame.
Song choices courtesy of: Goo Goo Dolls, The Chamber Orchestra of London and Folk On
Could have been this old long mouse. Not entirely sure whether or not that would be better. Or indeed especially different. Anyhow, this preamble has given me a chance or two to think about what I want to say about the long old mouse (inspiration might not have struck my cold addled head but it was given ample opportunity to do so) so there’s no excuse for coming up dry once we sidle into the next paragraph.
Mice have different standards than humans when it comes to longevity. They’re thoroughly impressed if a comrade in arms makes it past the ripe old age of three. For a regular person (we’re getting into speciesist territory here. That’s what I get for mixing things up and reaching for synonyms), that’s well into the murky waters of tragedy. So when I tell you that the famous mouse of the hour is well into his fifth year of existence you can appreciate that he’s truly elderly.
Admittedly, he’s not quite into the same league as Mickey but this rodent has the advantage of not being fictional (honest). In his youth he had all sorts of plans to run the wide open plains of Africa (I’m not completely convinced he actually knows where those are) and potentially go on to pen the next great American novel (he may not have totally picked up on the fact that he’s in a laboratory on Guernsey).
But all he’s really accomplished with his enviable lifespan is clocking up a lot of time on the wheel, conquering the maze and disproved the assumption that mice are as into cheese as cats are crazy about catnip. He’s become something of a legend among the lab rat community, they whisper about him whenever the scientists turn their backs. If only because he’s convinced he’s actually a very tiny ferret.
Song choices courtesy of: Passenger, First Aid Kit and Thomas Newman
Admittedly, life is literally ship navigating only for a very specific subset of sailors. That’s if they even have full time navigators to do that sort of thing rather than delegating the task to robots. I’m not exactly completely up to speed with how the maritime industry works. So yes, this is another foray into the metaphorical as opposed to a lengthy lecture regarding how you’re wasting your life and you ought to run away to sea to make something of yourself. Although you do always have that option.
But what are we if not boats of one kind or another negotiating the choppy or sometimes even raging seas that this life has to offer? I’m not going to get into the murky depths of the benefits or otherwise of having passengers board you but know that those allusions are well within my grasp.
In life as onboard seafaring vessels, you have to keep your wits about you. There are unexpected currents that might drag you under with barely the merest hint of notice and obstacles of the icy berg variety that could very well smash to actual smithereens. Oh dear, I’m not painting the rosiest of pictures am I? Don’t get me wrong, the activity has its dangers but there are plenty of rewards too. I love sailing, I’m just happier when someone who knows what they’re doing is at the helm. There’s almost definitely an analogy in that.
Anyhow, just picture the scene. You’re alone (there’s the potential for someone to join you in a bit but at the moment you’re definitely enjoying the serene solitude) out on the sea and there’s a beautiful sunset on the horizon. What better way to celebrate simply being alive than setting off towards it? Unless you’re heading into international waters crawling with pirates and flesh obsessed sharks of course.
Song choices courtesy of: Noah and the Whale, Walking on Cars and Mark Mancina
There are a great many kinks and problems with this format. One of them is the danger that one day a title like ‘Sex Toys Turn Me On’ will present itself. It’ll stare me in the face, most often in a public setting, daring me to have a crack. What’s the worst that could happen if I, as a woman, bared my sexuality for all to see on the internet no less? Surely I’d be hailed as some variety of modern day Wonder Woman?
But I’ve chickened out because I’m not sure where I’d be able to take the topic once establishing the general facts. Maybe it would end up being a springboard full of empowerment and wind up as a hearty review of whichever tantalising treat I most enjoy putting into contact with my lady bits. However, I’ve already put you through enough by bringing up such unsavoury subject matter so I think the rest of the post would be best served on a flight of fancy.
Even superheroes need to indulge in DIY. What’s the alternative? Invite tradesmen to your secret lair or hideout and wipe their memories somehow once they’ve completed the contract? Perhaps the trend for exploring the darker side of superheroes would be well served by the notion that they’d rather eliminate the potential problem than deal with it in such a fashion.
No, the caped crusaders are for the most part a sufficiently jolly bunch that it’s easier to imagine they’d roll their sleeves up in order to get the job done themselves. In double quick time. Then they’d have to wait for the paint to dry, maybe they’d go and rescue a beleaguered African village just to kill the time. I’m definitely not just thinking of that one episode of Superman when he had to indulge in a little home improvement.
Song choices courtesy of: Norah Jones and The Script
The notion of a skin cubes space battle is, admittedly, decidedly odd. Or at least it is as far as our terrestrial human sensibilities go. But don’t pretend that you aren’t picturing it right now. On one side is the battalion courageously led by General Dermis, fighting for his comrades moisturising rights. The general’s opposing number, High Admiral Flaky (it’s so very hard to shed those terribly cruel childhood nicknames) is dead set on defending the crucial lotion mines.
The skin cubes are clad in precise and form fitting cubic spacesuits that have some variety of propulsion to them (I don’t want to get too far into the nitty gritty of the logistics and mechanics. It would all totally just go over your heads and detract from the narrative. Plus, it’s just a bit too technical for a three hundred word post. Plenty of space for that somewhat lengthy explanation though) as they line up against each other.
If this was something you could actually properly see (as opposed to the images going through your head right about now, cool though they are I’m afraid to say they’re not as accurate as you might assume) then your existence would be complete. To be witness to the raging conflicts might teach you a lesson about the battles we wage here on our little blue marble.
You’d gaze into the void and know the hidden truths of the universe. I’m really not hyping this up because of an extremely strange dream I happened to have last night that just a little tiny bit freaked me out. Then all I had to do was wrap a story around a totally weird image. But now it’s in your head and will absolutely never leave. You’ll go on to write a compelling screenplay about it, go on to sell the rights and give me a cut of the profits.
Song choices courtesy of: The Script, Josh Record, Thomas Newman and Murray Gold