15 Wheels

I'd only just sad bye-bye to one of our quickie hour long phone chats.

I was only just relaxing to early evening Simpsons and some food porn (Great British Menu) with a fish cake supper. It's my dead time: between work-a-day world and evening pleasure.

So when Hullaba's unique ringtone sing-songed out I was curious.

Even we can manage not to speak for several hours, if necessary. And she had been off to help a chum look at houses.

B: Hello darling

H: {momentary pause}
H: {lower lip trembling voice} A ... nasty ... lorry man ... shouted at me

B: Oh that's horrible

H: {tearful tumbling words} I was pulling out of a junction and he was behind me with his hissing air brakes, trying to get me to hurry up. Then he got out of his lorry and marched to my open window, said "Excuse Me", and then ranted at me *!*!*#* at me.

There followed an empathetic exchange, in which
Big Steady Bobo listened and soothed
little shocked and upset HullabaFragile
And made sure she was parked up safely

Yay for Big Men

H: {defiantly tearful} He wouldn't be "brave" if he didn't have a great big 15 wheel lorry

And there I then I spotted how to bring HullabaLittleGirl back to the free and easy woman I know. Just gently, ever so gently, in a non-shaming way, I mused with slight curiosity ...

B: Actually, I'm wondering if the lorry didn't have an even number of wheels?

And the sunshine flooded back into Hullaballoo's voice and she laughs...

H: Well maybe it's the steering wheel

H: {Giggling} Or the spare wheel

B: Yes, that 15th wheel, it's probably the spare wheel.



You know, lorry drivers sit on there own all day long, not speaking to anyone. Sometimes there lack of social skills, or the psychopathology that drove them to take on such an isolated job, just leak out all over the place.

An Emotional Battle of Britain

I've been trying to write about some of the good byes and some of the stuff that's happening as I countdown to H-Day. But it's proved difficult to stay with it. Either I drench you, poor reader, in a rich lovepuppy syrup of what Hullabalovely means to me, which I fear would leave you all sticky with emotion and still not get to the bottom of how much she means. Or I'd be light and fluffy and breezy and silly ... which is obviously how I am sometimes, but can deny the depth of what is going on for me.

One of my friends called me "flouncy but grounded". I think I would of preferred "excitable but grounded", but she said it in a heartfelt, not a teasing way, and I got what she was getting at: that for all my slightly erratic fireworks there is a wellspring of stability about me. Which was rather a lovely thing to say.

So excuse me if, for the next 41 days, I flounce, syrup, go OTT, and unexpectedly lurch down to normality. My emotions are dogfighting in the skies above me. The bomber of hope (ohhhh loving this over extended metaphor) is trying to deliver it's love bombs, why under attack from the fighters of anxiety and the anti-aircraft fire of self-doubt. Oh yes, it's a whole new emotional Battle of Britain. Complete with Vera Lynne singing "We'll Meet Again" in the background.

Actually, I am a Professional

Yesterday, I posed for this photo at work ....



No, I don't work with children
(I think the complex flow charts behind me give that away)

There was a sort of reason for it

Potentially quite a good reason

Yet, somehow, there are days at the office that don't really make sense anymore

GOOD thing I'm leaving in seven short weeks! Yay!

Rabbits

H: Oh look at those rabbits. They're playing

I'm not entirely sure that I brought Hullabadarling to a mini Brideshead Revisited to watch the rabbits gambling on the crochet lawn. I sipped my gin and tonic and tried to catch her beautiful eyes. But she only had eyes for bunnies.

H: No Look. They're jumping over each other!

I reluctantly put my glasses on and peered to humour her. Yes, rabbits, very nice. Now about me ...

H: Awwww, they're so sweet!

The Orangery Bar was a small affair. We were just having pre-dinner dinks and studying the succulent menu. Hullabafriendly had already alarmed some stiff-upper lip types in the bar by talking to them in a friendly way, as I got our drinks. Now she was speaking much more loudly than Frank Sinatra was crooning.

H: Awww they're so funny Bobo, look!

I turned again to notice one bunny tail pulsate nearly as excitedly as HullabaCuteFurryAnimal's thrilling voice. I leaned across the bar and with great solemnity broke the terrible news.

B: They're not playing. They're shagging.

There is that delicious moment just before a giant penny drops. A moment when HullabaCityGirl still tried to hold that such a vulgar explanation was impossible, and that her cute bunnies were but charming innocent children. Then the deeper significance of what happens when one rabbit jumps on top of another and wiggles his tail sunk in.

B: They're rabbits. They have a reputation for such things

Hullaballoo was disarmingly helpless with laughter and blushes. The stiff upper lips pretended not to notice either the enthusiastically fornicating bunnies or my gauche girlfriend, who seemed to be 13 just then.

Snatched Moments Together

I'm taking Hullabagorgeous to here for a brief romantic get away ...



I'm hoping her Ladyship will have a perfectly delightful time.

Smiley Happy

I've just come out of Group Therapy (it's a requirement of the training - you can't mess with other peoples heads if you don't mess with your own). And I'm gobsmacked that I've been slightly getting worked up about the little things: moving, changes of address, selling my house, and not noticing the other things. The things that are not a bother. The things it's easy to overlook when you're slightly getting worked up. Things that wont be a big problem like:

• Changing my beautiful relationship with my adorable Hullabafantastic from long distance lovers to permanent lovers
• Stepping up from introductory-offer Step Dad to full work-a-day Step Day
• Starting a responsible, demanding and exciting new job
  

You see, all those things will flow well. And realising that, being a bit tardy over changes of address seems to pale to the 2nd Division. How smiley happy am I?

Oh, and I love this video

Unrelated

Being a man who doesn't live with A Lady
{Except in 7½ weeks time, OMG!}

I can sometimes be amazed at what some of you might reasonably think are self-evident truths. For example, washing your curtains {prior to putting your house on the market, OMG!} seriously improves the whiffability of your room. Who'd of thought. So the answer wasn't burning more incense.

Unrelated ... I'm having an unrelated sort of a day, www.dailylit.com will chop up books into bite sized bits and send them to you every day / week day via email or your RSS news reader. They have some 700 free books. At last I can read War & Peace in just 650 parts. So ... I'm a slow reader. Well you can speed it up if you're keen. Well I'm giving it a go.

Finally, if you've always wanted to create a Wiki - and who hasn't - www.wetpaint.com does the biz. The little video tutorial explaining what it's all about is very good. I could imagine some Writerly folk finding a use for it. After all, its got words in. It's just not linear.

Men Dancing - An Intro

Here's something for my boys, to help improve their skills in battling leggy mummy Sindy dolls. Lego can jive.

Sunny Saturday

I'm at a semi-loose end.

Which is to say I've got piles to do, but feel rather lar-dee-daa about do it. I will frame myself and get on. But the sunny is shining and the birds are birding and I had a bit to drink last night to celebrate a chums birthday and me handing in my notice.

So really, does everyday have to be productive and pushing things forward - especially now The Count Down is on? Really? Does it?

Well I'm off to potter round town do my shopping, and when I come back, I'll probably settle to something pukka and responsible.

Probably ...

Fabfuckingtastic News: 8 Weeks

Happy Happy, Joy Joy...

My interviewers liked me. I liked them.
They're made me an offer!

Well, they're going to talk dirty to the recruitment consultant tomorrow, and he'll formally make me the offer.

Now, there are TWO things I'm smiling about:

I've got an exciting job!

And I've got an exciting job after applying for only one job
{that's what I call economy of effort}

And (OK, THREE things)
And I've been offered a senior position
(THAT's promotion before I've even started)

Now if that isn't cool with tinsel nipple tassels on top, I don't know what is!

Shame Hullaballovely is working till 9pm with her clients. Ohhhhhh please RING RING RING. I so want to shower her with the news!!!!!

BECAUSE ... if you're not noticing the sub-text here ... Because

The Count Down will start!

I will get my formal job offer
I will accept
I will hand in my resignation for my current job
I will start to work my eight week notice

Yeap ... in 8 Weeks from giving my notice, I will move to Hullaballoovia, to my sweetheart, to my new family, to my new life.

OMG! How good is that?

Inteviews

The interview went well.

I'll see exactly how well at the end of the week, when they decide whether or not to make an offer.

But it went well.

I didn't over do it
I didn't under do it

I didn't exhibit what lovely Caroline calls titbeingness

I sounded like I knew my onions, rather than smelling of them
I sounded like the sort of guy I'd give a job too

My hand-shake was firm, not crushing
My smile from the eyes, not just the mouth
My light-heartedness not over jokey

I was keen, bright, confident and energetic
(that doesn't sound like a spaniel, right?)

So I feel as good as any man who's just come off hyperventilating
As good as me not making an arse of myself under stress
As good as any amount of positive self-talk can make you

Oh yes, without counting chickens, I'll be having a wee celebration with Hullaballoo tonight, for navigating the horrors of interviewland without coming a cropper. And with fingers crossed for better news.

Oh the agony of it all
(Yes, I can be a bit of a drama queen too!)

Interviews and Cyndi Lauper

Hullabalovely has popped out to get the boys from the ex, so I'm home alone: cleaned boys bedroom and washed up in the kitchen, and am about to settle down to prep for my interview tomorrow.

I'm trying to go for economy of force - apply for one job, get one job. It's a cool job too: Usability Consultant (trying to make sure that websites and software is easy to use, so that you don't see red and throw you're hapless computer out the window). Ooooooooooooooooooo I want it! It would be just such an elegant solution, and start the moving up to Hullaboovia countdown {OMG!!!!!}

So I'm torn between optimism and trips to the toilet. So to sooth myself I've found an Internet radio station that only plays 80s Pop. It will drive me a bit mental, but Hullabalsideponytail will love it. And her skipping round the room like the Cyndi Lauper she is will make me smile, before my new family go out to play in the sunshine.

The sun is shining, so it's bucket and spade time: we're off to the beach! Yay for sand castles.

Recent Keyword Activity

Lovely Elizabeth reminded me to have a look at my web metrics and see what keywords people are typing in their search engines to bring them to me (as she was so obviously attracting the wrong crowd).

Clearly I've been talking a little too freely

Hot Naked Men
Men's Willies
Male Tampons

... OK, that's a bit weird...

Nipple Tassel

That wasn't my fault ...

a life of nonchalance and melancholy

WTF?

bobo Asian toilet

WTF x 10

A heck of a lot about the Bobo Doll psychology experiments testing whether kids were involved by seeing violence on telly. Which is the sort of stuff I used to talk about, till I got less nerdy.

How do you say Grandmother in Polish

(Babcia, apparently). And my favourite ...

Donkey Adaptations

Er? Anyhow, my train Odyssey continues: off to Edinburgh this afternoon.

Away Wales

I'm off to Wales till Friday (but Twitters can still share the agony) . But here are six random facts, factoids, half-truths and self-myths about me (courtesy of SueG):

1. I was interviewed by Nick Owen on TV-am taking about the Falklands War in the 80s
2. I am ruler of the universe, God of all creation, but only when playing certain games
3. I have no interesting birth marks on my buttocks, unless biros count
4. My grooviest job title was Customer Experience Designer
5. I know more than is strictly healthy about the Italian Navy in World War Two
   
6. If you have Peanut Butter, you have the keys to my heart ... or at least tummy

Enjoy life!

Man, Axe, Man

There is something very practical, yet slightly dangerous about a man with an axe ... potentially dangerous to self, obviously.


Whether it's chopping wood for the fire, or chopping wood for the hot tub, or chopping wood just for the sheer hell of it, an axe is a very satisfying tool. Especially when there are women watching. Not that you actually get many women in a Men's Group. Still, I can puff up my imagination and pretend my vigorous manly show-offery is being slyly admired by adoring women.

Oh come on! What would you think of when swinging an axe?

Man time with the Men's Group

Those of you too retro to have signed up for the Twitter micro-blogging service - which allows you to send single text messages to your blog, and to all your chums who follow you (direct as text messages to their mobiles, should they wish) ... anyhow, if you don't Twitter {rolls-eyes at how backward some people can be} you wont be up to date of my weekend retreat adventure.

Here's how the weekend unfolded ... (Psychobobo is my twitter name, BTW)

Psychobobo: Off to Snowdonia to hug trees, be manly, and not have a care till Sunday, at least – 02:17 PM April 25, 2008

Psychobobo: Sitting around a fire in an iron age round house, with men, telling stories. – 12:05 AM April 26, 2008

Psychobobo: is on retreat in Sowndonia, hugging trees and using axes and being A Man – 06:46 AM April 26, 2008

Psychobobo: is sitting by a mountain stream with Camomile Tea and axe, having wind forced down my lungs – 09:06 AM April 26, 2008

Psychobobo: is doing Tai Chi on a windy Welsh mountainside, with axe and Men – 10:17 AM April 26, 2008

Psychobobo: is chatting to men of different ages about the grandeur of aging and joy to be found in all times of your life. No axes – 12:57 PM April 26, 2008

Psychobobo: is in bluebell woods, just past the old slate quarry, looking for a tree that is me – 02:45 PM April 26, 2008

Psychobobo: is reading poetry between the mountains and the lakes. He is a bit of a hippy, but a hippy with an axe – 03:16 PM April 26, 2008

Psychobobo: Smells of vanilla, lemon and almonds having cooked and baked Man food. Now for hot tub time! – 08:21 PM April 26, 2008

Psychobobo: about to lead a workshop on leavings and endings, what is left and what is taken with you about – 23 hours ago

Psychobobo: is smiling as my workshop went well. Going to do some mindful drumming ... or make noise – about 20 hours ago

Psychobobo: saying farewell to the retreat. "Normal" life beckons. – about 17 hours ago

I wrote about about Cae Mabon in my post Tree Hugging for Beginners last year. It is an extraordinary place, remote, simple, unmodern, in nature. It lies somewhere between our imaginings of ancient Celtic peoples and modern hobbits.



To sit in a recreation of an iron age round house, wood smoke curling your hair, faces lit by flickering shadows, is an invitation to be moved, to be poetic, to be spiritual, to be relieved of "stuff" and allow yourself to just be "here", in the now.

Of course, I'm not unaware of the irony of modern man dipping his toe into mythopoetic men's movement stuff. Which is why I made supper for the group of mushroom and spinach crepe with gruyère cheese sauce, with olive oil and balsamic vinegar dressed slice tomatoes and ripped goats cheese, followed by an Amaretto frangipane tart with cream. MMMMmmmmm, now that's what I call (ironic) Man's Food.

And now I'm snapped back out of it and jet propelled back into our modern world. Refreshed from having done something utterly different. I will miss my axe, but I'm also glad to have my computer back.

The Joys of Swaggering

Hullaballo "made me" put on my surplus French Navy Great Coat for a walk on Sunday. It caused me to walk in a rather swishy jaunty gait, a la Captain Jack, if you ignore the face, and she observed ladies "look at me". (Why do I never notice this? Too modest? .... Hmmm, no, unlikely. Just not paying attention, as usual)

It was the first time I'd worn it in Blah-Blah years. It's shiny brass buttons with anchors on them being neglected in the back of my wardrobe. I'd kept it for sentimental reasons. But now I have proof that if you leave something for long enough it'll come back into style. So I'm NEVER throwing away a favourite ever again. And it's off to the dry cleaners for some TLC.

Now I've discovered the joys of swaggering, I'm not going to give it up again. I wonder how it'll go with my kilt?

If Queen made a milk advert for the Rocket Horror Picture Show ...

Curriculum Vitae

Summarising myself into a CV (aka Resume if you are an Amerrycan) is odd. For start I have two CVs, my Webbie one for my day job and a Therapy one for my aspirant job, and they don't seem to talk to each other.

My Webbie CV is fights corporate fire with fire: need a Customer Experience Designer or an Information Architect? Not job titles I can quite explain to my mum (though in fairness there is a rather long list of things I can't explain to my mum ... actually, that sounds like a blog post in itself:

Lane, SpiralSkies, Queen Vixen, Suburbia and Hullabeautiful, I tag you with 3 things you can't explain to your mum.

Anyhow ... where was I?

Oh who knows, I totally distracted now:

3 Things I Can't Explain to My Mum

• What I do (and why I do it)
  
• Why I'm training to be a Psychotherapist
  
• Why liking and loving are not synonyms (and why I don't visit much)
  

Yes, sneakly that is 5 things, but I didn't want it to be too taxing.

OK, back to shaping my personal narrative for the recruitment market.

Please Look After This Böbø. Thank You

Moving my life, my whole life is pretty scary.

New (temporary) home
New job (non-therapy)
New job (therapising)
New friends (to make)
New step-dadding (work in progress)
New step sons
New culture (Scotterish)
New psychotherapy training
New therapist
New clinical supervisor
New clients
New newness

And don't even talk to me about telling the world and his dog that I've moved (to a temporary address) and the joys of selling my house in a difficult housing market.

I'm the only constant thing (and even I'm changing under the experience of it all), plus Hullaballovely, and we'll be changing as we settle into being together all time, instead of being on the phone together all the time.

Scary. It would be so much easier to arrive at Waverley Station (the main railway station in Edinburgh) with a luggage tag a la Paddington Bear: "Please Look After This Böbø. Thank You.”

Time, Can You Just SLOW DOWN!

Well I've recovered from Hullabalovia, and my man rescuing boy heroics - wellies, sockies and trouser bottoms are all dried out now. Plus the pleasures of man and boys watching Dr Who. And very much not least, the feminine whiles of Hullaballoo herself.

Already it's hump day, and what with Group Therapy tonight, Supervision tomorrow, finishing off assignment hopefully real soon, Hullabahoney appearing magically at York railway station at 4.30 for a weekend of love birds and gymnastics, I don't seem to have a moment to myself ... let alone much time for my blog chums.

So I'm feeling rushed and just the right side of not feeling knackered (though this is mainly because I'm collapsing into bed at times even children would complain at).

I'm not one to get into a tizz ... though mentioning that, it suddenly seems quite an appealing thing to do. OMG must dash!

What's All The Fuss?

Hullabalovely has changed her profile piccie to something that is just her. So if you ever wondered why I swoon so, and generally make a lovepuppy arse of myself - now you can see why.

Alien Shadows

I was scanning through Grace in Michigan's blog, with all the diligence of a lazy cow chomping on grass, as you do (or is that only me - grazing blog reading). When this picture caught me.


I love the shapes. Grace and her friend have an elongated, slightly extra-terrestrial feel. I wonder what speech bubble Alien friend is saying to Alien Grace? Probably not good news for us Earthlings, especially with that giant mighty claw hand!

The Start of Endings

Sometimes it hard to give a good account of myself when I'm working so hard to keep it all together. So much is going on as I prepare to move up and live with Hullaballoo. So I'll account for one loss to come.

My psychotherapy Masters degree course is a transformational experience. I'm just coming to the end of my post graduate diploma, which means I'll be a qualified practising therapist - bearing in mind that, just as with a newly qualified junior doctors, qualification is the start of a process, not the end.

Next month I'll be saying goodbye to my training group, as my training will be moving to Edinburgh. They've seen me grow and flourish over the last three years of the most intense experiences. They know me. I know them. We've shared our stuff together. They've witnessed the impact of three years of therapy on me.

I came into psychotherapy because of my experiences in personal therapy. It changed me and I wanted to know more, share with others what I'd learnt, and find a way to continue to experience, to be so close and intimate. To have the thing I didn't have as a child.

So it'll be a goodbye. I will miss them, and they will miss their Böbø. Our relationship will continue. I will see them at conferences and workshops. I will manage some of their websites. It has been a golden training groups, supportive, sharing, and ultimately loving. It's easy to draw a family analogy - except it's unlike any family I've ever known.

Sometimes we kid that we're like a cult. Scurried away in the corner of a pub at lunchtime, bantering with psychotherapy concepts - apparently I'm a bit Histrionic, but darlings, I can't imagine why! Sharing a secret knowledge of how the mind defends itself from the scares and scars of existence. Chipping away endlessly at our own shit. Spotting it mirrored in each other.

I am fascinated by how we construct narratives about ourselves and how those stories both define us and limit us. I have shared this fascination with my lovely training group, my friends. Our experience has created a bond for life. And I feel a tiny bit guilty for leaving, for splitting up a group that has been so concrete for so long.

I struggle with sadness - my glass is usually half full, or even one sixteenth full, but always focusing on the fullness. And I know that between now and our last training weekend I'll need to account for my sadness, and the loss of what these lovely people have meant to me. That will be difficult for me. But I will draw on my training, draw on my therapy, lean lightly on my Hullabasensitive, and make sure I do account for this change.

Starting here, with you lot, seems like a distant, funny place to start, but it's helped me start to clarify my own feelings and thoughts. So thanks for reading.

If your life were a movie.....

A meme from SpiralSkies via Hullaballoo ... this would be my sound track (taken from the random shuffle of my iPlayer)


Opening Credits:
Trans-Europe Express by Kraftwerk (Yeap, it goes on and on, T E E)

Waking Up:
Music for a Found Harmonium by Penguin Cafe Orchestra (a strange folksy ditty)

First Day At School:
Cake by The B52s (Oh yeah, retro do-wop rock on your first day)

Falling In Love:
Groove Therapy by Aston Kitty (Oh that is toooooo spooky)

Fight Song:
Let Me Roll It by Paul McCartney & Wings (Yeah, Macca can be so macho)

Breaking Up:
Samaba Pa Ti by Santana (Oh this breakup is like syrup)

Prom/Dance/Ball:
Things We Do For Love by 10cc (Yes, indeed, the things we do)

Life's OK:
Two Little Boys by Splodgeness Abounds (could a story be more affirming - two little boys had two little toys - don't they always)

Mental Breakdown:
Respectable Street by XTC (bang clash whallop post punk)

Flashback:
At Home In Space by Fila Brazilla (oh they're only from Hull really)

Getting Back Together:
The Chinese Way by Level 42 (whatever that would be)

Birth of Child:
Fields of Gold by Eva Cassidy (Lets all go Awwwwwwwwww)

Wedding:
An Invisible Monster Approaches by Louis & Bebeb Barron (Whoospie ... OK, the sci-fi weirdness of the sound track to Forbidden Planet)

Our Wedding
I think I'm the one with the goatee

Final Battle:
Floatation by the Grid (Oh how mnay 90s gym classes did I suffer listening to this?)

Funeral Song:
School is Not Compulsory by Christ (Some obscure Intelligent Dance Music)

End Credits:
Venus by Bananarma (with me and Hullabahoney walking off into the sunset)

Listless

I'm gathering up myself, post conference. You wouldn't of thought that three days totally immersed in psychotherapy would be so exhausting, especially as I have no clients with the Easter holidays, but you'd be wrong. It's uttering shagging, but in a non-shagadelic way.

So I'm bumbling along, tired and a bit listless. Blown about by the wind and wishing spring would just settle down and be spring-like permanently. So here's the energy I'd like to feel ... any energy donations gratefully accepted.

Conference Time

I'm off to Keele University for a psycho conference. Hullaballoo isn't. Which is a bum. We'd of enjoyed cutting a loved-up dash through our colleagues. We physically met at the conference in York University last year, so there would of been sort of an anniversary. We do anniversaries (300 days together, tomorrow).

But ... without Hullabalovely I might be able to focus on worthy experiential workshops on relational psychotherapy, and my lovely training group chums, and QV if her lurgey has cleared up, and shaking my botty on the disco floor, YAY!

Though I hope they wont play Boney M, as H knows ALL the words to Ra-Ra-Rasputin (and has quite a nice delicate singing voice ... or so it sounded in the car the day before yesterday).

So I'm off to get my colouring pens and notebook, and stride around the conference like A Cat That Really Was Gone!

Inattenional Blindness

I might be blogger-lite the next week and a bit. I'm off to investigate the joys of Hullaballooia for Easter, back for a couple of days, then off the Keele Uni for a conference.

In the meantime ... see if you can pass this simple test....



Also, I rather liked this: If Love is a Verb, Then What are the Actions?.

34 Things that make me smile

In order to keep this post Badger friendly, body parts are not mentioned, but can be implied if you wish

Lovely Caroline asked, what makes you smile ...

1. Hullaballoo
2. Being Romantic
   
3. Learning Clever Stuff
   
4. Yummy Food
   
5. Thunderbirds
6. Lego
7. Nipple Tassels
8. Computers (working, preferably new)
9. Massages (giving and receiving)
10. Star Trek
11. Sunshine
12. Blogging
13. Lazily Sweating in a Turkish Baths
14. Stomping Shoes/Boots that Clang
15. Swishing my Hips wearing a Kilt
16. Little Children Behaving Well
    
17. Big Kids Behaving Badly
    
18. Goths
19. Proper Snow
20. Wine
21. Sudafed
    
22. Laughing with Chums
    
23. Dancing
24. People Suddenly Getting It
25. Magick Mumbo Jumbo
    
26. A New Psychotherapy Book
    
27. Electronic Music
    
28. Taking Photos
29. Unexpectedly Winning Something
30. Drawing
31. Peanut Butter (or better Cashewnut Butter, try it)
    
32. My Mobile Phone
    
33. Snuggling down into a Warm Bed
    
34. Hullaballoo falling asleep on my Chest
    

What makes you smile?

Modern Art Generator

OK, whilst I've been distracted by my assignment (groan!) and by helping support Hullabanurse, I've been trying to turn you on to the joys of Net Poetry Magnets and Portraiting Yourself in Lego - but now we get serious ....

MøDerN aRt serious.

On yes, I want you to don the jaunty berry beret [thank's H] and strike the devil-may-care attitude of a hip bleeding edge artiste! And no I don't care if you're already in your jammies.

So you say ... "I believe Fred Nietzsche said, 'Existence is only ever justified as an aesthetic phenomenon', what do you think, darling?"

And I say ... "I agree with Marcel Duchamp: 'Art has absolutely no existence as veracity, as truth', and he did funny things with shaving cream."

And how divinely sophisticated we'll be together, so very Noël Coward and Isadora Duncan.

So go CREATE! my lovelies




See Modern Art Quotes for to improve your tosh ranking

Lego Böbø & Family

If you thought magnet poetry was fun, try rendering yourself as a lego man (or woman if your are one). Here's me and Hullaballoo and our boys as our very own lego family, awwwwww. I'd love to see other Lego selves!



PS: On a point of anatomical accuracy, and after complaints from certain people, I'd like to make it clear that Lego - with it's brutalistic squareness - does not render certain human body types with great accuracy.

Net Magnetic Poetry

This should amuse you writerly type folks: magnetic poetry on top of images, videos, music or just a coloured background. Click and drag the words to make your own poem, or go to www.onesens.com to waste a few creative moments of your time!

Easter Eggs

Easter is nearly upon us and I'd like to encourage people (or just my sweetheart) to take up the art of decorating their own Easter eggs, rather than stuffing themselves with over priced chocolate eggs ... see how easy it is?

Lesson 1


Lesson 2

Unconscious Art & Psychotherapy

Grace Pailthorpe was one of those extraordinary women. She trained as a doctor before the First World War, becoming a surgeon just before it, and practising this most male of crafts during it. After travelling and doctoring in backwaters of Western Australian, she returned to England and started studying Freudian Psychoanalysis, specialising in women criminals and the psychology of "delinquency". She also founded a major international psychoanalysis clinic (the Portman) backed by Freud, Jung, Alder, and H.G. Wells (as you do).

In 1935 she started a lifelong friendship with the surrealist artist Reuben Mednikoff, who taught her how to paint, and together they explored the unconscious world through automatic drawings and paintings. This is were you draw (or write ... or heavens above, blog) without censoring your output for its aesthetic quality or adherence to genre - the hand is allowed to move "randomly" across the canvas, guided by the unconscious.

Finally Pailthorpe would psychoanalyse Mednikoff's work, and he would do the same for hers. She believed that Surrealist art could be therapeutic - both psychoanalysis and Surrealist art helping people resolve their conflicts. While traditional art, with its rules and formulas "enforced restrictions on the infant's excretory functions" which she argued inhibited the development of fantasy life.

Hullabarty and I gazed amazed at the series of remarkable images of the Birth Trauma from the 1930s, repeated attempts to get in touch with the unconscious knowledge of that most profound of existential moments.

I loved the intimacy of the relationship and the alienness of the art. I loved the tidy card index files and typed text book notes doggedly writing up each drawing as an experiment, a psychological exploration. I loved the freedom to add two very disparate ways of viewing the world, and exploring the overlap. It was an exciting glimpse at intellectual freedom.

If you're near Edinburgh, you can catch it at the Dean Gallery (though we rate the cafe across the road at the Scotterish National Gallery of Modern Art much yummier).