What are Spoons exactly? And who invented them? When did humanity suddenly become too good for the use of its own hands? It's not like it's difficult to drink soup or stew without them, any child knows this, you simply tilt the bowl towards your face and let Gravity work its magic, or should I say: Physic.
Were Spoons invented before Spades or the other way around? I suppose I can see some bronze-age man with a shovel imagining "Digging ground all well and good, but what if want to dig food?" and such a scaled down Spade was made, and we all use them today.
Speaking of Spades, why are the Houses in decks of cards called what they are? Why are they even called Houses? It's different the world over, of course, an Italian girl was just revealing to me how she called clubs 'flowers', and her word for 'Spades' had no translation. They don't even look like spades, if they were made to scale then the handle would be like an inch long. Are they catering for gardening midgets?
Gardening Midgets would be awesome.
Who would need ten shoddily made midget shovels though? Don't even get me started on clubs, however. I am sorry, but look at any club card and tell me the first thing that it reminds you of. Does it remind you of something you could beat someone over the head with? If it does, you're clearly mentally unstable and should report yourself in to some form of institution immediately.
What would happen if an escape artist went insane? The straightjackets would be useless, for a start, you might as well imprison an obese patient in a cube of marzipan. Or a nymphomaniac in a room constructed entirely from sex. That would be an interesting room to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.
Speaking of places I wouldn't want to live, I was talking to some Germans the other day...
Welcome, dear reader, to my mind.
This is not, of course, an austere recollection of my thoughts, as they are far too well formed. These are my thoughts as they are transcribed and left to be dwelled on. In reality, my mind far more resembles an argument between several thousand immensely passionate but easily distracted Gardening Midgets. Sorry, I mean people. Not that Gardening Midgets aren't people, you understand, but I don't imagine them running my mind. That is, I didn't, until now
I think you see what I'm getting at
People who know me often wonder at my perceived eloquence in these blogs, be not deceived, I am the self-same Alex I always was. In conversation I frequently -- regularly in fact -- draw blanks, fire of on tangents, get lost for words, dreamily air off into other dimensions and many other things that make me seem as though I'm not paying attention. I readily admit that I often seem like I'm not paying attention due to the fact that I'm not paying attention, but this is not always the case. My mind doesn't often like to work as a unity, more frequently parts of it will explore other paths and concepts whilst the conscious me is attempting to concentrate on a single one. This is all well and good, but occasionally one of the errant explorers will hit upon something interesting enough to warrant serious thinking time, and thus my mind is diverted. Think of my conscious mind as the Prime Minister of Alex, most of the time making the decisions, most of the time deciding our policies and actions; but occasionally a minor minister or assistant will run in with Papers that they necessitate that I read. In such times, decision making is put on a hold.
Unfortunately, once one informant distracts the Prime Minister's attention, all the others want their say too. Once I accede to one thought all the others come flooding in, and there's no hope whatsoever of me staying on anything like a topic. This can, in practise, become trying.
I like writing these blogs, and other features too, as they allow me to -- as Napoleon said -- "take an idea for a walk" and see where it leads me. This is often confusing, as to labour an already strained metaphor, this is equivalent to the Prime Minister himself going to the constituency of one of his Ministers and sorting out all the problems personally. Pitching in with a trowel and mortar if he needs to.
That's what we should call Spades! Trowels! Also, I've never had to pluralise 'Trowel' anymore, and the word looks wrong. I hope I never have to pluralise it again...
These little paths of thought are, as you may have noticed, entirely useless and often completely surreal in their scope; but nonetheless important for me. With so many little voices ringing off in my head, I often wondered if any of them had anything poignant to say. As of yet, they do not; but if you bring up this page one day and I've solved global warming, tell me to listen to that part of my brain some more. I'm currently wondering if it has anything to do with the most socially unacceptable situation to go barefoot. A formal ball perhaps? Or maybe a funeral? Let's follow a string.
'Agents of Fortune' by Blue Oyster Cult is what you are to buy if you haven't already. The demo version of 'Don't Fear the Reaper' is uncomprehendably better than the album one.