LLADD PRYFED/KILLING FLIES

Fel rhywun sydd wedi astudio dipyn bach o Fwdïaeth ac wedi ceisio myfyrdod mae'n flin da fi dweud dwi wedi bod yn lladd nifer o bryfed yn ddiweddar. Y tro cyntaf mi ofynnwyd i mi glirio ystafell llofft fy modryb. Pan es i fyny roedd fel golygfa mas o ffilm yr Amityville Horror da Rod Steiger. Sut oedden nhw wedi mynd mewn i'r llofft gyda bob ffenest ar gae, ni wyddwn ond hyd yn oed pan agoriad y ffenest, roedd y rhai byw yn aros i gael ei sugno fyny gan yr hoover yn lle ffoi ac yn fan hyn dwi'n sylweddoli oherwydd y tymheredd mwyn, mae'r pryfed yn parhau mewn i'r gaeaf. Mae'r pryfed yn blino ac wedyn dwi'n ei swatio nhw. Dwi wedi lladd pedwar heddiw ond pam os dwi wedi astudio Bwdïaeth dwi'n mynni wneud hyn. Mae'n ffordd hawdd i gael gwared nhw ond pam cael gwared nhw yn y lle cyntaf? Oherwydd maent yn niwsans? Ond mae pobol yn niwsans ac nid ydyw yn ganiataol i swatio nhw..eto. Lladdes i un bore yma oedd wedi glanio ar y ford bara. Damo, rhaid glanhau'r ford yn lan nawr. Mae 'na rywbeth pwysig  da pryfed i ddweud wrthon ni ddwi'n siŵr. Dysgu amynedd i bobol mae pryfed yn gwneud. Dwi'n siŵr os taswn ni dal yn garcharor a thase pryfyn yn y gell, mi faswn ddim yn ei ladd e ond faswn yn ceisio fod yn ffrind iddo ac edrych ar ei ôl e. Y wers o’r post yma? Dim ond mewn cell carchar mae Bwdïaeth yn gall ei chael ei ymarfer yn iawn.    

As someone who has studied a little bit of Buddhism and who has attempted meditation I am ashamed to say that I have killed a number of flies recently. The first time was when I was asked to clear my Aunties attic of flies. When I went up there it was like the scene from the Amityville Horror with Rod Steiger. How had they got in there with every window closed? Even when I opened the window to allow the ones still alive to escape, rather than flee or fly they just waited to be sucked up by the antique hoover along with their deceased chums. An example of insect 'learnt helplessness' I thought. Even today the flies are hanging about into winter with the mild weather. I have swatted four this morning but why? because they are a nuisance but aren't people a nuisance? You can't swot them. Flies teach us patience and I don't have any! I have to eliminate every irritant from my life however large or small they might be. I swotted one on the breadboard this morning. Damn, I have to disinfect the board now. I'm sure that if I was still a prisoner in my cell and a fly found its way in, that I would befriend that fly and look after it. The lesson from this blog post? That in my humble opinion, it is only in a prison cell that Buddhism can be practiced correctly.   

Brown is the new Black

My Blog has had a makeover! readership numbers are dwindling, the novelty is wearing off. People are voting with their feet and shouting 'There's nothing here for me". Well good, F Off! This blog is for me. I like blogging, I like blogging, I like blogging and I like to blog. I wanted to be a journalist when I was 13 but I failed my exams so I became a Printer and then a Teacher. I haven't darkened a classroom entrance for 10 years but there is a slim chance that I might be back in one next week. I've had the call. They're desperate, they need someone to cover 'English' in a Welsh Medium School. An Oxymoron if ever there was one. Teaching the language of the Oppressor, the language of the Western Mail but what am I saying? It was the only exam I passed, I passed English Language, English Literature and Welsh as a second language. After six years in an oppressive, imperialist outpost in North Wales where my father spent a small fortune on my education and I come out with 3 O levels.(GCSEs) So my dreams of writing the editorial for the Daily Mirror or the Denbighshire Free Press were dashed at 16. I left after two terms of A level study after making a mockery of my mocks, with the History teacher phoning home and saying to my mother that he had never had a pupil take such a disrespectful attitude to an exam in all his teaching career. There were questions about Catherine the Great and Maria Therese and I could see others writing away like loons(the irony) and I proceeded to 'pleasure myself' by writing out a comical satire based on these two characters claiming that they were both members of a clog dancing troupe from Oldham. My fate had been sealed, I began work at 17 years of age in a Dickensian Printers called Gwasg Gee, Denbigh, North Wales on £25.00 from Margaret Thatcher's own purse on the Youth Opportunities Programme. Here I am 31 years later on only double that amount a week, working tax credits, but the difference is, that today I am a free man. 
So my blog has had a 'makeover'. Brown is a very comforting colour. The colour of old things, the colour of gravitas, the colour of safe shoes and it is also the colour of Poo.  Although a follower of Jung I must declare an interest in Freud's anal phase. I am fascinated by poo because it's something that we all do, that we all have in common. We all block the sewers with our detritus. I can actually remember my own potty and toilet training days and my dear mother promising me oodles of Cherry Corona Pop if I moved from the potty to the po to do my poo.  I bet you thought this post was going to be about race didn't you? Well naughty, naughty you! 

Jimmy 2

http://sharkfishinginwales.blogspot.co.uk/2012/01/my-news-years-resolution-is-to-become.html

I saw Jimmy again today. He was sat next to St John's Church with a cap on the floor. He wasn't begging because he didn't have his hand out but I gave him a quid in his hand rather than in the cap. I was just delighted that he was still alive. I had seen him once since Tesco (See above Post) I hope he uses the quid to buy food but if he buys booze then so be it. We all need something to numb the pain of being alive don't we? I remember giving an Australian Dollar to an Aboriginal Native in Brisbane with the instruction "Now don't go spending it on alcohol". He took the coin and looked at me in utter disgust the only way tall people can to short people.

A few years ago where Lloyd's Bank is, near the Aneurin Bevan statue, I dropped some change into somebody's pot, once again they weren't begging or asking but it just seemed the right thing to do at the time. It was night and they were obviously sleeping rough, when a voice from across the road near the castle shouted over "You shouldn't have done that". It was a young black bloke. "Why not"? I shouted back. "It will only encourage him". He wasn't begging, he didn't ask me, neither was Jimmy today. I give because I want to, not when somebody asks. I had just said no to a guy who had asked before I saw Jimmy today and had turned away from two Big Issue Sellers. The quid was for the memory. Jimmy blagged a pint for me in the Clive Arms in Canton years ago! He showed me Cardiff's dark corners. I am grateful to him as I am to all those who befriended the 'hick from the sticks' with an undiagnosed mental health condition. To them I was just a 'soft lad' but they helped me.      

Circuitous Route

Today I done a circuitous route guy! I could ave walked down Corpi Rd like but I stuck close to the river down the Taff Embankment. I had a big brown envelope in my hand and I was going to hand it in down the Docks cos I still can't bring myself to call it the Bay. It was in Mount Stuart Square. I goes over Clarence Rd Bridge like, looking out for the Grangetown Whale but I couldn't see it. The White Hart was shut and boarded up. You knows yous getting old when all the boozers you used to drink in have all shut or been knocked down. I turns into the Square and the Coal Exchange is surrounded by Bi-lingual hoardings with signs saying "We don't know what the F***K we're going to do with it". Heritage fighting Developers in a pitched battle on James Street. The Street now with Estate Agents end to end. I presses the buzzer and takes the stairs instead of the Victorian lift, nice though! I passes the smoking trendies on the way in, avoiding eye contact in case of youthful judgemental stare cos this old man wants to be a writer like and is putting in a bid for funding. Top Floor, the disconnected voice doesn't even look at me but says 'Diolch'. Now how did she know that I spoke Welsh or woz she just trying to belittle me guy? I woz on one. I ran down the stairs screaming like a banshee, out into the fugue, turns left. Got to go and get ink for my printer sos I can keep writing like cos its a drug man and I passes the old Butetown station which is now going to be turned into 43 cool one and two bedroom apartments from £97,000. Cool? It will be cool for those disconnected voices who smoke I suppose. What a fine old building left by 'wilful neglect'. Where are those Heritage people when you needs them guy! Scarper it's an estate agent, they never sleeps and they don't take a lunch break neither.          

So I'm walking up Bute Street like one of Baudelaire's Flaneurs like, making sure not to maintain eye contact. Quick darting glances can surely do no harm. They have sanitised Bute Street. They've made it neater, cleaner, squarer. It's obvious that now they have no time for the old buildings. Caerdydd is Car Country. The Capital City where the Spontaneous Combustion Engine is king and where Central Library is shut on a Wednesday.

I gets to the top of Bute Street just before where the PDSA used to be and see that that, has now been privatised. Where do all the poor people go now with their pets? Because it's only dogs that can offer poor people unconditional love because if you haven't got a smokey disconnected voice you ain't gonna get one of those flats for £97,000. Social Engineering and Class Cleansing, Cardiff City Council Stylee.

Just as I start muttering to myself, Jesus whispers to me from the bushes. 'Get a job mate. You've got too much time on your hands. You're noticing all the shite things that Pilate doesn't want you to notice" "Right ho Jesus", I says and makes my way to the Job Centre in Charles Street cos they're bound to have jobs in there and I forgets to get my printing ink and my dreams of becoming a writer.

A short Psycho-geographical tour of Cardiff

"Go out into the city, and walk the circle, keeping as close as you can to the curve. Record the experience as you go, in whatever medium you favour, film, photograph, manuscript, tape. Catch the textual run-off of the streets; the graffiti, the branded litter, the snatches of conversation. Cut for sign. Log the data-stream. Be alert to the happenstance of metaphors, watch for visual rhymes, coincidences, analogies, family resemblances, the changing moods of the street. Complete the circle, and the record ends. Walking makes for content; footage for footage."

Robert MacFarlane, A Road of One's Own From the Times Literary Supplement, October 07, 2005  

Today on the pretext of looking for work I did a short Psycho-Geographical tour of Cardiff to see some places I haven't seen for ages and to document in pictures this short journey. I started off at the recently painted mural on Coburn Street in Cathays featuring a poem from acclaimed Cardiff poet and one of the followers of this Blog. Mab Jones.

This was a wonderful example of what can be done with a wall, facing terraced houses, and the poem and wall eulogised an elderly and long standing member of the street.  Howard Gardens Bowling Club next where the R.N.I.B used to play bowls. Overgrown. An example of one of the very few green areas left in the city centre, being primed for development. Vulnerable adults used to play here!!! How many offices and flats does a city need for Chrissake! Re-Green this City and Re-Green it now.

 

In my second incarnation in the City which has lasted from September 1987 until now I have never seen this building before or rather the back of it. Architecture wise is it the 1950s? It is the back of the Cardiff Royal Infirmary.
Cutting through then the 'metal' streets of Adamsdown, moving towards Splott, I spied the old Tredegar Arms where I had a pint once, many many moons ago but was glad to see that it was now being put to a better use. It was now the Headquarters of the Cardiff Anarchist Group, the Red & Black Umbrella.

I first lived in the City from February 1967- August 1969 before we joined the pogrom north and before man stepped foot on the moon. In those days I remember that the Buses were dark red, perhaps maroon and the radiator grills on the front made them look as if they were crying. Returning to the City in 87, the Buses were Orange and then at some point in the late eighties or early nineties they changed into their present turquoise.



Today I was on Shanks Pony and I realised how long it had been since I had been down to the Peoples' Republic of Splott. This building  which is now a Christian Church of some sorts must have been a Cinema/Picture House. Again style wise, I'm not sure of the era but took a photo in case somebody else does. By this stage I was starting to feel concreted out and was gasping for air because of the lack of green spaces. So I stopped in a Portugese Cafe on the Splott Road for a Cup of Tea.

Walking from Splott to Roath across Broadway, I was reminded that I should really be looking for work because on Broadway I had a short lived job in 'The Printers' in 1988 where I met a couple of long standing friends although one is on sabbatical at the moment. Pubs had gone and flats had taken their place. People are now drinking in their flats, now twice the strength of alcohol but with less of the social aspect to it. Over to brightly covered Elm Street (left) where it appears that street had come together and said that they will all paint the fronts of their houses colorfully. It reminded me of Aberaeron in West Wales.
I checked in at Plasnewydd Gardens where I had been at a gathering on Saturday just to see one of the few green and growing spots in the centre and then rounded off at Mackintosh Gardens via the mural below.  There are too many cars in Cardiff. It took too long to cross the road. A pedestrian's quality of life is being reduced by a car drivers who come at you at speed, they are bigger, have four wheels and can do some damage and they know it. They won't reduce the production of cars because it is keeping people in jobs. If televisions were thrown out of windows and cars taken to the scrapyards then community and greenery could begin to grow again in this city. Television or Colour Television has only been with us since 1952, it's launch to coincide with our reigning monarch so the first thing we saw was someone who was better than us, getting ready to reign over us and we have been getting smaller and more scared ever since.  
I had a very knowledgeable guide for today's tour but he wishes to remain nameless but he is a mover and shaker in the community cohesion arena. This is happening with 'Made in Roath' and much kudos to them for what they do. This needs to be spread out across the city. Perhaps the more people who do Psycho-geographical tours of their cities, documenting as they go might re-invigorate interest in surroundings rather than the fear inducing square box in the corner of the room.

Sick City Centres

You've probably got used to my non-scientific observations by now but it is my contention that city centres are sick. You've heard of sick building syndrome? I'm sure that there is sick city centre syndrome. I am familiar now with the city centres of Cardiff, Liverpool and Manchester. I've been to Birmingham and I'm familiar with Bristol. Where is the exact centre of a city centre? Of course no two days are the same in a city centre. I went to the same destination two days on the trot, yesterday and today. The weather was nicer today and I took a different route. It was earlier and there were less people. If there are a lot of people, a critical mass, I start to shut down. My energies detect their energies and I start to sag.
Today I laughed out loud when I heard an aged busker, older than me even, try out "I am the Walrus" looooooooong pause as I continued walking and then "I am the Egg Man" What made it funnier was the broad Cardiff accent. I realise today that I have a soft spot for the city even though I slag it off something rotten. A friend from North Wales asked me recently which was the better city centre Liverpool or Manchester and I said  "Manchester" by a shade but all that there are in city centres are shops. Where are the Green areas? The last green area in the centre of Cardiff has been taken by the Admiral Insurance building. You cannot hug concrete in the same way that you can hug a tree. Liverpool and Manchester ooze with character as does Bristol but then there are the SHOPS! Shops don't add character. One Primark or Top Man is very much like the next one. Directions Sir? Certainly, turn left at Paddy Power, right by McDonalds, passed KFC, down by Burger King, left by Bet Fred, down then to Starbucks and you'll see the Church of the latter day retailer down there on the right. Even our smaller towns have been dumbed down. Shallowness, artificiality, the lowest common denominator. Booze, Piss and Chips. 
When I lived and worked in London, I would take Psycho-geographical tours most weekends. There are areas of great character in London but the city is so busy that there is very little peace and tranquility and if I asked you where is the Spiritual Centre of London? What would you say? I could never find it or feel it, perhaps the closest was Brick Lane but you might reply what do you mean by spiritual? Do Dublin and Edinburgh have spiritual city centres? What about Glasgow? 
What are Cities and City Centres for? Trade, to make money, to provide employment, entertainment, restaurants? It must be my age or the way I dress but I am starting to feel like an outsider, walking through the fair. I watch behind my sunglasses! I prefer it when the sun's out because I then have an excuse to wear my specs to observe the human creature in all its glory and ignominy. Everyone's happier when the sun's out but we now have the four months of winter and the long nights before us so it might have been the last gasp of relief that I was sensing today. The young appear to the untrained eye to accept reality as it is and to take all around them for granted but I still feel that this is an alien landscape and that I am just visiting. Dai Mutant is awaiting the call to his home planet.          

Shwmae Su'mae?

Wel shwmae su'mae? Dwi ddim yn becso'n ormodol chwi oherwydd fy mod yn dipyn bach o meudwy. Cael fy annog i gyfathrebu heddiw yn y Gymraeg ond dwi ddim yn meddwl eich bod yn mynd i hoffi beth sydd ganddi i ddeud, ond na fe, bant da'r cart ontife.
Eisiau dweud o ni bod fi'n meddwl bod y gymdeithas Gymraeg ei iaith yn rhy gul. Dwi feddwl fod 'na ofn mawr yn perthyn i'r Gymdeithas Gymraeg. Ofn llond trol o bethau. Efallai fy mod yn son amdanaf i fy hun fan hyn wrth gwrs a dim ond 'projectio' ydw i. Wps gair Saesneg, i waelod y dosbarth a fi.
Beth wnewch chi ag adar brith yn eich mysg? Dioddef nhw a gwenu, anwybyddu nhw, y rhai sydd ddim yn cydymffurfio gyda'r meddylfryd teuluol, papur bro, capel, S4C. Ac i son am y 'cyfryngi' bondigrybwyll yma, beth am y syniad sydd wedi cael ei grybwyll eich bod yn rhoi 10% o'ch cyflog i Gymdeithas yr Iaith Gymraeg oherwydd oni bai amdanyn nhw a bygythiad Gwynfor Evans i ymprydio tan farwolaeth fase da chi ddim gwaith ond na fe, byw yn y byd tymor byr, ffwrdd a hi, Eingl-Americanaidd i ni ac mae hyn yn amlwg wedi treiddio i'r Gymdeithas Gymraeg. Y Gymdeithas yna sydd mor hoff o'i sefydliadau, Yr Eisteddfod, yr Eglwys yng Nghymru, Y BBC, Y Capeli. Cydymffurfiwch bois bach neu Dduw a'ch helpu chi. Byddwch yn neis neis rŵan a pheidiwch â thrafod iechyd meddwl er mwyn dyn. Y gymdeithas glos yna yn cadw ei chyfrinachau teuluol.
Blwyddyn nesaf fydd dathliad 150 o flynyddoedd ers yr ymfudo i'r Wladfa. Efallai yn lle ymladd yn erbyn y llu ddi-Gymraeg a UKIP ai Brydeindod ddylwn gadael am Batagonia ac ail greu Cymru newydd gan ddysgu oddiwrth camgymeriadau ein gorffennol a bois bach, mi wnawn adael y sefydliadau nol yng Nghymru ac mi wnawn ail adeiladu Cymru newydd ar seiliau sosialaeth gydweithredol. Wrth Gwrs dwi'n disgwyl i chwi anwybyddu'r sylwadau yma oherwydd fy mod yn wallgofddyn ond gofynnwch y cwestiwn "tybed pam mae hwn yng ngwallgofddyn"? 

A Manifesto on behalf of the Manic Depressive Liberation Front

I am speaking to you today in an Ulster/Hispanic accent because I cannot make my mind up whether today I am Zapatista or Free Derry. I know one thing, that having been deprived of my sleep last night because of noise pollution, my manic depressive symptoms are showing themselves today. I am reluctant, argumentative, facetious, resentful, judgemental. Luckily I don't take substances any more but in the old days, pre diagnosis, I would be self medicating now with cannabis/alcohol. I would withdraw from the world and into my spidey cocoon and try and make sense of the world and its ways. Now I just walk about with blinkers on. I cannot take it all in as I am triggered by noise,visual stimulus, lack of sleep, too much caffeine and people being themselves, namely selfish arseholes. Everybody has got to get there first and I gave up that race ten years ago. The Manifesto of the Manic Depressive Liberation Front will be out soon in paperback namely my memoir 'Amsterdamned'. It will be twice the price of the ebook version which is available now but it will have half the spelling mistakes. I am not speaking on behalf of all Manic Depressives because these modern types call themselves something called 'Bipolar'. I am the old balaclava wearing 'Manic Depressive', a term that describes my emotional, energetic condition, perfectly. I have longish periods of stability but my associates know my fractured history and know that I could blow at any moment. I ended up muttering at a bus stop today and talking to myself, the classic Jasper Carrot 'Nutter on the Bus'. 

They are kicking up a stink now about this leaders debate because they have invited UKIPs Farrage to debate with his nemesis Cameron. The small parties are requesting an in. Well if that happens I want a piece of the action. I want to be a part of the leaders' debate on behalf of the Manic Depressive Liberation Front, just so I can piss off people diagnosed with the same condition. I take great pleasure in pissing people off you see. In fact I think I am addicted to it.

      

Knockin

Reggae Shark

Post by Sam Jones.

My life as a Jay

My life as a Jay

alighting for a short time

I am all head

my nosy beak 

with sharp movements

scanning for danger

don't come anywhere near me

you bastard

for I have intimacy issues

that only another jay could fix.

A super jay

high in the autumn beech

I see you, before you hear me,

screeching like last night's incident

at the mental hospital

hand me my gown of pink, blue and black

and keep those medicines

away

from

'borderline'

Jay

London Vacation

Welsh Vacation