Scotch whords of whisdom.

The monolooker and sly song controller Momus gave words which I've marked as solid enough to believe upon, and here are they, in italics for quote association:

"I was at a party last year and a little girl drew a picture of all the guests round the table except me. I pretended to be offended and drew myself into her picture, but she ran away screaming and bawling. I had to erase my self-portrait before she'd calm down. That says it all. Our little pictures and our little songs are more important to us than the life they occasionally portray. The world in the end is beyond our control and doesn't care about us. But in our pictures we have the illusion of making sense of the world, improving the world, taking control of it. And suddenly it's no longer either the world or our vision of it, it's a new world, a thing in itself. The drawing comes to mean more to us than the scene it depicts."

As of this post I am forever cured of desperate puns.

David Shrigley.

He may not be new news in your life, or even mine, but I get a lot out of the output of David Shrigley. I love the fact that he appears careless and flippant, even if these characteristics are enforced or specifically allowed for the purposes of good old OTHERNESS. His stuff [stuff not art, not work, not practice] is good. I am being stupid again, arguing with myself over descriptive terms when all I need to do is more work. I will have a full book for anyone to consider reading and buying when I am in England again after France. David Shrigley's style of life diagrams are good for instant ideas instead of deeply arranged ones. That's how it looks. Bless him and his kind.

Zero degrees, that is the line.

Greenwich. I have been reading short stories and composing tiny poems on single pages of my Asda Smart Price pocket sized memo pad. The skies have been crap for biased photography, I am bored with snaps of signs and stasis.

France has yet to get back to me. I have learnt that I must be organised and assertive. London is now just a place and not the big collage of villages I used to fear and admire. The products of Greggs the bakery have kept us alive, the sun has started to shine again, I am fascinated with a career of creating entertainment with props.

THE FRENCH ALPHABET

THE FRENCH ALPHABET

The French alphabet has the same 26 letters as English:

A a B b C c D d E e F f G g H h I i J j K k L l M m N n O o P p Q q R r S s T t U u Vv W w Xx Y y Z z

The letter w is only used in words of foreign origin.

In French writing, you’ll also see a number of ‘diacritics’ (accents above or below certain letters). These are the acute accent ´, the grave accent `, the circumflex ˆ and the cedilla ¸. The sound of the letter usually changes when the accent is applied. The letters are:

À à Á á Â â È è É é Ê ê Î î ô Ù ù Û û Ç ç

Train, tube and boot: An afternoon in London.

Using Hiver's Oyster card I caught the DLR from Cutty Sark to Bank, then tubed and shoed through various places including: Waterloo, Southwark, Lambeth, Vauxhall, Stockwell, Baker Street, Tower Hill, Tower Gateway DLR, Westferry DLR, and Canary Wharf DLR.

I will never know exactly how much information I have absorbed on these journeys and while it is good to become a little more familiar with the tube lines, it is even better to rule out the romance of a commuter lifestyle that I once had. The props of such an existence could become a list, but I'd rather save that treat for another day.

London, with its slimy climate, busy people and fascinating transport system, has fulfilled my curiosities for today. I want tube map wallpaper.

The beating of the Beano?

International Comics Festival, this I knew, but the English translations are of great benefit to me. I must brush up on my line control.

Angoulême old boys.

François Ayroles , Michaël Sterckeman , and David Renaud .

I am excited.

Dual scraps of hometown.

Shown here smaller than actual size, and digital size, due to the monotony of dial-up and the limited stocks of patience in the bloggee's account.

Bayz meanz Howndz.

I've been in Kent these last few days, Herne Bay and Canterbury to be specific. Last night turned into a visit to Orange Street Music Club, formerly Local Hero Records, where friends and jazz were supplied.

I've visited several small museums and two information centres, bought the Seaside Sonnets, accepted some history and looked at the cartoons and serial peripherals of Pip, Squeak and Wilfred.

Canterbury felt like the past and both towns are easily ruined by poor weather. I have been listening to the work of current heroes of guitarian Britpop and making spiritual notes - there is a lot to consider about them. I filled a 60-minute tape with automatic songs, some phrases emerging solid and confident, backed by the usual gibberish. I will post a couple of new photographs below, I mean above.

I want to make a living doing what I enjoy.