Larfin at the woild’s great jest.

A note frae the Big Blogger Bloke about The long and the short of it.

 This is the long version of this blart* for the short version go to:

*What’s a blart? It’s my bl…Art. my blog, my blathering on, my blaggart.

bolt sm

 I stayed at home all day which gave me time to think, to mend a bolt on a gate, chop some wood,


the logs wat I chops

(by hand, NOT I uses wedges and sledges and well honestly, brute farce)

scythe some weeds and wash some dishes, twice, and look at some autumn leaves then notice the new thin crescent moon. I did not go for my regular swim, gym , yoga or ought like it but I forgave misen saying you can mend a bolt on a gate, chop some wood, scythe some weeds and wash some dishes and all that stuff.

My blArt don’t get millions, neither thousands* nor hundreds o ‘views’ but tens is quite fine by me. 25 views yesterday and several folk wished me an ‘appy Day on my 64th. *Actually my 97 blArts have had 4352 views (average 45 per post) now in about 13 months! TANKS A BUNCH We do have to make the most of all our days cos we never know when the finger will beckon or as Lennon once put it, ‘we move from one car into another’, as he moved from his bullet riddled old vehicle into his new disguise. Of course I ‘get’ that Buddhist ting about acceptance and letting go but am not really into their idea about not leaving a mark as a result of our endeavour. Shakyamuni (Buddha’s tribal title) left a considerable mark and his influence is impacting on my thoughts 2500 years after he released from his human frame. Of course I would like my traces to be predominantly positive and full of humour, laughing, like Chesterton said, at the world’s great jest. So, here’s a little ting in which I am going to appropriate some more famous folks’ words and after Walt Whitman’s ‘Song of Myself’ I’m calling this, an appropriation* poem:

See my previous blart-

Song To My Self


‘Old man, look at my life

I’m a lot like you were’

A song about an old man Neil Young

sang that when I were young


back in 197young

forever young

I sang it to myself

screeching just like Neil


it sounds different now

no longer I am


forever young,


‘Young man, look at my life

I’m a lot like you, how

I wanna live

I wanna give

I kept on searchin for that heart of gold

Now am getting old.


I bin done my life

You go do your life

We’re both still searching

For the blArt of gold.’


I may be getting …old

Buttam not giving up


Amidst all the dissolution

Creating my contribution

A trail of distribution

With much convolution


Leaving a Trace.

 DW not playin in Young's band

Neil Young not playing in DW’s band not singing my ‘Song To My Self’.

I was scouring the shelves in the Saison Poetry library at Southbank and came across a poet man called John Peck, (he trained as an analyst at the C.G. Jung Institute),  and I wish for you to see some of Peck’s words in his poem about existence


‘Anasazi, Ancient Enemies’


in dream or flapping images of the gone

or the soon-to-be-going or the tremblingly poised

that catch like undertow

the foot in tide-rip toeing


down the singing or remembered beach

we study populations in the forests,

we hold the paper flat,

mark, note, warn—the dictated


prophecies do their work, we do some work—

cut horn from rhinos so they won’t be poached.

but, to go on from there,

one needs to stand in the doorway


some evening and feel the air as if it were fire

pulling illusionlessly, letting the draw

of one fact heat its chain

of links, such as, Japan


clear-cutting forests in Siberia

where tigers not already harvested

lope their dwindling range,

two hundred as the hinge


for their growled arc of existence, bones of the others

ground to powders for old men’s potencies.

One needs to feel the tug

of the draft on skin, the drag


of process utterly anciently itself.

Faster, now, the pull is from birth through dwelling through

dissolution, along lines

streaming through us, ageless winds.

© John Peck


I think Peck is talking about the eternal links that exist throughout all time and all things and maybe the need for mutual care and consideration. He blasts the killing of rare species to gain bones to be ground down to nebulously aid ‘old men’s potencies’. (Have they not heard of Viagra? It’s cheap as chips compared with the tragedy of making a species extinct.)

anasazi dancers The reference to Anasazis recalls the mysterious people who built those cliff dwellings in Arizona and who probably were the antecedants of the Hopis and Zunis my two favourite peoples of North America. I have been inspired and fascinated since the mid 1970’s by the Hopis and those characters standing on my drawing of the mesa are Hopi Kachinas what I drew too. He refers to the many cultures that have been and gone in the history of planet Earth, many of which we (normally) know little about. But really Peck is harking about how we do not fully understand the significance of many aspects of our existence, how many things are interlocked even though we are unaware of the interconnect. So, RESPECT is the call he is sending out, respect the mysteries. He more importantly talks of the mystery of life. ‘One needs to feel the tug of the draft [or waft?] on skin, the drag of process utterly anciently itself… streaming through us, ageless winds’. Here is he referring to the timeless, or eternal, passage of ‘existence’ which goes back to the Big Bang and maybe beyond? And ‘streaming through us, ageless winds’ like neutrinos stream thru you as you sit NOW this minute, time, or rather the process of existence, streams on thru us, we are inextricably linked into EXISTENCE, that and maybe that alone is the miracle. We are here. You are there, wherever you are, some of you who read this are in India, Kazakstan, Japan. We are where we are, we are part of it. Namaste.

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