The kettle

The kettle

I was fumbling around for the light switch in the kitchen, but this was not my kitchen, and there was no ordinary light switch. Some kind of control panel had taken over, except to take control you needed light to see it.

We gave up. Instead, in the dim light of the night, we made out the form of an old-fashioned kettle next to a gas stove. We lit the stove and set the kettle to boil. It wasn.t long though before the smell of burning plastic started to fill the room. The resident, a relative of the owner, was very kind about the incident. But no tea for us that morning.

When i returned a couple of years later, by complete co-incidence - or was it the six degree rule (the owner was well-known) - the kettle had been magically restored, still a beautiful replica of its ancestors.

I wanted to bitch about the light switch but i.ve lost my thread amongst memories of dark fumbling and ayuasca ceremonies (unrelated events, except via the 6 degree rule). But neither of these i.ll go into now.

Oh yes, i saw a film last night in which something similar happened with some "smart" lighting system.

This is the trouble with writing. The thought comes and then a moment passes and it.s no longer real. Like taking a photo. You can.t really plan a good one. It.s a synthesis of moments coming together. God that sounds like tosh. I can do tosh, tosh for nosh, tosh for dosh. Dosh for dish, dosh for fish, fish for a kiss.
Foxinsoxin boxin floxin.

The ipad. A load of tosh too. Unless you don,t want to think too hard or do anything. Ore than type badly and convert excess into an oxide.

Language is melting before out eyes, not disappearing but transforming in ways we cannot imagine,

Mistakes are the catalyst for change, and tehcniology is providing plenty of opportunity,

We can make an effort to correct mistakes, but the effort needed is far in excess of ..somehting. It.s a runaway train.many IT developer knows this.

Advanced such as complicated lighting, and touchscreen smart devices are not here to make our lives easier,

Ok that.s tosh too. I just took an airbnb enquiry and it was quite easy. I could domit from my hammock. But then hammock become work. And work becomes hammock. And bollocks become whamock, and dirk become ham, because fan become dan, and themlan do not fry the cheese open till in the quick flo does rik go.

Freedom! Shouts the little letters as they scrum their eay out of formality. But you are part of words..,you cannot be free. But we want to be free. Well have. A go but don.t blame me if it all end ps i. Tears,

The end

The Lid

I.m sitting at my kitchen table. Drinking coffee. But doing nothing in particular.
A plastic lid sits in front of me, i pick it up and my thumbnail finds a small bump in the middle. Tick tick tick as it clicks lightly over it, back and forth. This tiny bump. it wasn.t meant to be. No-one thought, let.s put a tiny bump in the middle of the lid. It.s just there, but it.s why the whole lid exists. Once a liquid plastic, red as blood, flowed through a tiny pin-prick of a hole filling a mould to create this lid. It was born in an instant, and then snapped out of the mould, leaving this tiny bump. The belly-button of the lid. No eyes, no ears, no mouth. Just a belly button and a lid.

My eyes glaze through it, it melts and in reflecting the light from the window the bump turns into a tiny droplet of water that.s just landed on still water, two small concentric ripples, frozen in time. The lid tilts slightly and the droplet becomes a vortex whisking up everything in it.s path. The glazing bars on my window are softly destroyed like a blender would the contrast in ingredients in a mixing bowl. But magically the glazing bars re-appear as the mixer passes by.

I was going to write about a recent kite-surf experience. There was adventure, adrenalin and battling with the elements, failure of the safety systems, and relief to be back in the bubble of contained living. But instead i put a lid on it. I contained what was not contained.

Somewhere in my kitchen is a container. Without a lid.

Inside are dry gravy granules. Dry and devoid of life. But add them to water and they come alive. I.m alive, screams the little granule. But no sooner is it alive than it is whisked in with the others, bubbled into a volcanic gravy inferno, and devoured by the great big gravy-eating monster.

The end