Linesman/Mediator.
Apr. 3rd, 2005 01:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hirez"The first day he created light and air and jam and soot and baked potatoes and hair and fish and arguments and frogs and banjos and... roads and cars and soot. More soot. Um. And Colonel Gadaffy and, er, crinkly things and, er, very small avenues... And, um, Belgium." (God is James Mason, of course. And sounds worryingly like half of my friends. Well, I say 'worryingly'. It's in fact rather comforting. You know, if we're all going to be taken over by some terrible virus from space, it'll be rather pleasing to discover that it's one that makes everyone ramble about jam and cats and wear nice outfits.)
So, um, anyway. On a scale of biscuits to evolution (Biscuits being as wrong as a wrong thing that lives on wrong lane, evolution being correct, and the full scale going biscuits, strife, Broadway, Mixmag, reader's wives, ball bearings, Erlang, wind-up robot, evolution) How wrong am I to rather expect my LJ experience to be two-way?
I know - I'll answer my own question: I don't give a flying one, now I come to think about it.
[ Do it in the car/wherever you are ]
Today I mostly wandered round trading estates with cobbled streets and found a Jewish cemetery round the back of the old railway goods yard. It may be the vestiges of the mithering and graveyard-bothering g*th within, but I spotted a set of gravestones behind an otherwise inconspicuous iron-bar gate set into a tall limestone wall. Even with the age and lichen, the text looked odd, so toddled over for a closer look. The top halves of most of the gravestones were in Hebrew, while the bottom halves were in English. Not a particularly odd thing to find in Bristol, given the history of the place, but opposite a rough looking pub behind a trading estate in the Dings? The Jewish cemetery in Whitby is well locked too. Anti-Semites are everywhere, it seems.
Trading estates are odd places. Burroughs banged on about the 'interzone' between (as far as I can tell) our reality and his reptilian/insectoid drug-addled version. I'm becoming more and more convinced that if there are weird things going on in an Avengers manner, they're going to be happening in the middle of a badly signposted industrial development. One of those with the new-build office equipment places nearest the road, but the further away from the beaten track you venture, the quicker things decay. Until the road ends in scrubby bushes with rain-sodden wank mags covering their roots and there's a lead-smelting plant one side of you and a workhouse the other.
I've worked in several. They all seem to feature an officey bit that's about the size of four portakabins nailed together which lurks in one corner of a barn. The first was next door to a meat-packing plant, the second was on the site of an abbatoir (that's the one on the bike path opposite Rose Green cemy.) the third was handy for this old-bloke pub that featured the world's oddest beer-pump. For some reason they ran the bitter via a see-through double-action hydraulic piston on the bar top. I can only guess it was some remnant of seventies Derbyshire.
What I'd like to do is rent one of those places, preferably in the sixties zone toward the back of the average trading estate, and turn it into an art project. There would be typewriters and a PABX and topless calendars in the goods in' bay. Unmarked vans would bring crates of unidentifiable materiel, which would be subjected to un-named processes (preferably involving unearthly shrieking from demonic machinery and terrible flashes of eldritch lights at odd hours of the night) and shipped who-knows-where in similarly unmarked vehicles. We could call it 'Excelsior Miskatronics'.
The other thing I wanted to mention, before I wandered off at a tangent was this place. It's close to where I'll be toward the end of the month. Probably not a popular destination when there's lager to be swilled and corsets to be ogled, but I'd like to attempt to get and have a look at it.
Cardington looks to be an interesting destination as well. Handy for Hester, too.
So, um, anyway. On a scale of biscuits to evolution (Biscuits being as wrong as a wrong thing that lives on wrong lane, evolution being correct, and the full scale going biscuits, strife, Broadway, Mixmag, reader's wives, ball bearings, Erlang, wind-up robot, evolution) How wrong am I to rather expect my LJ experience to be two-way?
I know - I'll answer my own question: I don't give a flying one, now I come to think about it.
[ Do it in the car/wherever you are ]
Today I mostly wandered round trading estates with cobbled streets and found a Jewish cemetery round the back of the old railway goods yard. It may be the vestiges of the mithering and graveyard-bothering g*th within, but I spotted a set of gravestones behind an otherwise inconspicuous iron-bar gate set into a tall limestone wall. Even with the age and lichen, the text looked odd, so toddled over for a closer look. The top halves of most of the gravestones were in Hebrew, while the bottom halves were in English. Not a particularly odd thing to find in Bristol, given the history of the place, but opposite a rough looking pub behind a trading estate in the Dings? The Jewish cemetery in Whitby is well locked too. Anti-Semites are everywhere, it seems.
Trading estates are odd places. Burroughs banged on about the 'interzone' between (as far as I can tell) our reality and his reptilian/insectoid drug-addled version. I'm becoming more and more convinced that if there are weird things going on in an Avengers manner, they're going to be happening in the middle of a badly signposted industrial development. One of those with the new-build office equipment places nearest the road, but the further away from the beaten track you venture, the quicker things decay. Until the road ends in scrubby bushes with rain-sodden wank mags covering their roots and there's a lead-smelting plant one side of you and a workhouse the other.
I've worked in several. They all seem to feature an officey bit that's about the size of four portakabins nailed together which lurks in one corner of a barn. The first was next door to a meat-packing plant, the second was on the site of an abbatoir (that's the one on the bike path opposite Rose Green cemy.) the third was handy for this old-bloke pub that featured the world's oddest beer-pump. For some reason they ran the bitter via a see-through double-action hydraulic piston on the bar top. I can only guess it was some remnant of seventies Derbyshire.
What I'd like to do is rent one of those places, preferably in the sixties zone toward the back of the average trading estate, and turn it into an art project. There would be typewriters and a PABX and topless calendars in the goods in' bay. Unmarked vans would bring crates of unidentifiable materiel, which would be subjected to un-named processes (preferably involving unearthly shrieking from demonic machinery and terrible flashes of eldritch lights at odd hours of the night) and shipped who-knows-where in similarly unmarked vehicles. We could call it 'Excelsior Miskatronics'.
The other thing I wanted to mention, before I wandered off at a tangent was this place. It's close to where I'll be toward the end of the month. Probably not a popular destination when there's lager to be swilled and corsets to be ogled, but I'd like to attempt to get and have a look at it.
Cardington looks to be an interesting destination as well. Handy for Hester, too.
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no subject
Date: 2005-04-03 11:55 am (UTC)