Tag: Surreal Reality

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Wordle: Crinkum-Crankum

With an appetency for all things surreal
It is easier to surrender the truth rather than bend reality
Disbelief echoes at aught scanned within the immediate vicinity
Whilst tripping through the scent of all manner absurd
Bane sipped
Disport commenced
We sail the moonshine through sea smoke
Creating a sooth sliver ‘tween now and never
That binds and stitches fourscore plus realms and domains
As we follow our dream for a guerdon,
Zigzagging with a wild izzard through heat and hoar,
With nay measure of moil to be otherwhere
Still in the land of the quick,
We grasp the archaic science and reach our destination

And now the translation…

Crinkum-Crankum (anything full of twists and turns)

With an appetency for all things surreal A natural tendency or affinity.
It is easier to surrender the truth rather than bend reality
Disbelief echoes at aught scanned within the immediate vicinity Anything at all
Whilst tripping through the scent of all manner absurd
Bane sipped  poison
Disport commenced frolic
We sail the moonshine through sea smoke fog
Creating a sooth sliver ‘tween now and never truth between
That binds and stitches fourscore plus realms and domains eighty
As we follow our dream for a guerdon, reward
Zigzagging with a wild izzard through heat and hoarthe letter z frost
With nay measure of moil to be otherwhere no dance drudgery elsewhere
Still in the land of the quick, the living
We grasp the archaic science and reach our destination knowledge

I’m playing with words for today’s Wordle. It’s all the word ‘archaic’s fault… it sent me completely down the surreal route. Only a mooncalf (foolish person) would attempt to take on archaic words and use them in the correct context, methinks (it seems to me), and I’m now feeling a little mazed (bewildered) by it all… but naught ventured, naught gained. An otiose (lazy) attempt this week, perchance (by some chance) but being a piepowder (wayfarer) through words and time it had to be assayed (attempted).



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Oh, Beehive!

I really must work on these blog titles.

This below (and above if the featured image is appearing twice!) is the scene that greeted me earlier today, as I drove for lunch.

Well, this is an artist’s impression of the scene. The road was a little busier, traffic wise… and the road was a little more urban – in fact it was running through a town centre. There were traffic jams and pedestrian crossings with people using them, traffic illegally stopping in yellow box junctions (oh yes, they’ve been caught on the CCTV!)

Looking at the picture, if you can imagine that to be a major road junction just ahead, and there are five lanes full of traffic. The traffic lights are holding us up, as we are driving forwards, because they are on red. I’m in the fifth lane, so the one on the right, and there are therefore four more lanes to my left. On my right, is a reservation, and then two more lanes of traffic heading out of town.

In amongst all of this regular madness, somebody had accidentally, on purpose, or accidentally on purpose, disturbed an extremely large wasps’ nest. There were millions of them swirling hither thither and every whither between and betwixt themselves, the pedestrians, and us sitting in our steaming hot cars waiting to move forward. Several wasps landed on my windscreen (which is what made me realise the smoke-like cloud ahead was actually a swarm of wasps, and promptly close my window making the steaming hotness just a tad more hot).

Eventually, the traffic lights changed to green, and we could move forwards.

Eventually, we cleared the wasp cloud.

Eventually, the remaining wasps that had decided to hitch a ride on my car had dispersed.

And eventually, I was able to open my window, and breathe… and allow in the hot air from outside.

It was a surreal moment. Surrounded by a cloud of wasps. That doesn’t normally happen on a Wednesday.

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The Heron Thinks

Oh no… he’s spotted me. Just act nice and casual… take it nice and slowly…

I’ll nonchalantly wander around here, and pretend I haven’t seen him… Ooh, who’s that over there?

Sigh. How did he make it here before me?

Ah well, best grin and bear it I suppose.

I can always fly away if he gets any closer. At least this is my best side.

About the images:

Taken in May 2017, out in the Grinds by the Lake, using a Galaxy Note mobile phone. I’m pretty certain this is what the heron was thinking.

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Mead and Mortals

Lightning flashed and made her look up. The doors to the inn, a mere second later, swung inwards simultaneously and the room was instantly filled with a strong-odoured wind.

“By the gods!” the woman muttered, but stayed where she was, propped.

Zeus walked into the inn, followed by his consort Hera.

“Wench!” He bellowed, “A tankard of your finest mead!”

The woman stayed where she was,  elbows on the bar with her chin resting upon her ample and severely uplifted bosom.

“Zeus!” Hera admonished. “You must not speak like that, in such a derogatory way, towards women. How dare you. Apologise. Now!” She glared at Zeus with such strength he felt a hole beginning to bore into his head.

“It’s…” The woman tried to speak, but Zeus held aloft his hand and interrupted her.

“Woman!” He bellowed once again, toward Hera this time. “How dare YOU! Do you not know to whom you speak? I am Zeus, knower of everything!” His voice echoed around the room. Hera sheepishly looked away for a second.

“I’m…” The woman tried to speak again, but Hera stopped her this time.

“Patience, child. I have a matter with this ‘gentleman’ which must be settled first. He thinks he’s the ruler of the gods! The fool”.

“…” The woman tried to speak for a third time, and both stopped her by holding aloft their hands.

“I AM the ruler of the gods, Hera. And the waves. And the fire. And the nymphs. AND the wenches.” Zeus looked at the woman at the bar, who was propped but agog.

“ZEUS! Remember your place. You are upon the Earth now, and it is these mortals who think they rule the domain. You must respect that, and their ways, whilst you are here. Now, I shall get the drinks.”

Hera looked over at the woman who was literally on the bar. She noticed the woman hadn’t changed position since they’d walked in, which was a strange thing for a mortal to do in the presence of any god. Zeus tried to speak, but Hera simply held up her hand and stopped him. “Are you alright, child?” Hera asked with compassion. “Tell me, what is your name.”

“It’s Wenshetta. Wench for short.”

Hera glanced over to Zeus who was silently whistling into the air. He said nothing.

“Ah. Erm, your stance, child. Are you hurt?”

“No,” Wench replied, “but the mead cupboard toppled over behind the bar and has me trapped here. I’ve been waiting all day for someone to walk in. I’m bursting for the loo, and all this mead everywhere isn’t helping.”

“So you have NO mead?” Zeus boomed.

“ZEUS!” Hera was livid.

It didn’t take them long to help Wench out of her predicament and as a thank you, after a lengthy wait whilst Wench saw to her natural needs, they all sat at the inn’s only table by the roaring log fire, with a tankard of the inn’s finest mead each.

“Nectar to the gods!” Zeus beamed, once finished.

“And no charge” Wench said. “as a thank you”

“CHARGE!!!” Zeus returned to booming once again.

“ZEUS!” Hera now boomed. She looked towards Wench. “Thank you child, we shall now depart for we have a long journey ahead. Or one of us does, should the other not make it.” She glared at Zeus once again.

Wench watched them walk out of the door.

“She was going to charge us. ME! Ruler of the gods. Does she know not to whom she served?”


The doors closed behind them, and they were gone.

“By the gods!” Wench muttered, once again. “Some people!”

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The Place of W

Outside the realms of my magical and wondrous Mansion exists another place. The polar opposite, if you like.

A dark and sinisterly treacherous place known only as W. There, clouds swirl in turmoil overhead, and sometimes around. Icy winds blast and cut straight through exposed skin, deep into the warm veins beneath – some dare say they reach deep within the soul. With me, they simply try. I have a coat that keeps such things at bay.

The earth churns and groans, as if trying to rid itself of the hefty mass that tries to spread across its surface. Shadows fall down cracks at sunset, with dead trees appearing to take their place, but they are all merely an illusion. An echoing thud thud thud from the distant railway line is sometimes carried in by the wind – more so on misty evenings – but since the railway line was closed down over twenty years ago the actual source remains a mystery.

Old-fashioned telephones can be heard ringing through the broken glass in windows of offices long disused. Sometimes, ghostly voices can be heard in conversation – but with whom? Are they another illusion or a figment of many an imagination. Perhaps they are a recording, trapped amidst the turmoil of the churning and groaning soil of this darkened place.

Other buildings stand ominously. Birds fly around the rooftops like bats and ravens in a horror movie. The buildings themselves seem to come alive on the night of the Full Moon, but some, I’m told, have seen a change at the time of the Summer Solstice. I haven’t seen this personally. I tend not to stick around.

I have to go to this and through this Land of W daily for work.

It makes coming home to the Mansion all the more inviting and all the more pleasurable.

There has to be balance. Things wouldn’t be the same without it.