I woke up in the middle of a dream this morning. Not in the sense that the narrative stopped abruptly and I woke up, but in the sense that as I woke up my head was just a swirling muddle of crap and random images that hadn't even been shuffled into a narrative yet. As a result I've spent the entire day with an image of a foal that was also a black peacock with an indie comb-up mane jammed sideways into my brain. There was also a box full of merch that New Young Pony Club had sent timscience to make up for the incredible hassle of reclaiming money for a cancelled gig from Seetickets*. And lots of other stuff. All muddled together, impossibly, with no perspective, narrative or anything. It was like looking behind the curtain of how my brain works.
Proof that everyone who was being a supervillain in the 70s has moved into the alternative energy market continues to emerge. Check out this solar power station, baby: A concrete tower - 40 storeys high - stood bathed in intense white light. The tower looked like it was being hosed with giant sprays of water or was somehow being squirted with jets of pale gas. Dr Evil says, "You grow up, and your priorities change. Sure it was fun in the 60s to be ransoming cities and causing natural disaters, but I think the time has come to start giving something back. Also, my henchlings are much happier now they've swapped golf carts for diggers."
P.S. I'm assuming everyone and their
P.P.S. Here's an art-related thing for this week: Look, I've been drawing Dickon Edwards! He asked me to do a thank-you card for his Diary Angels scheme (whereby one may sponsor his diary). This below is a rough sketch, those sponsoring the dandy will receive the finished item. This I include here because the rather puckish angel on the left didn't make it into the final piece, poor thing.
|sketch for Dickon's diary angels
Scale issues, perhaps?
*Try not to order tickets from them if possible. So far it's cost him about £10 NOT to go to a gig.