'it goes ding when there's stuff'
Given that I've been having an extended brainwrong of late, it probably wasn't very helpful that this evening's Doctor Who scared me silly for forty odd minutes, then concluded by telling me that all my local statuary was out to get me. Especially since I'm genuinely so fond of so much of the public sculpture around and about these parts. As a pedestrian and a Polly-few-mates for whom wandering about the city these past several years has been synonymous with wandering about on her own, I've had ample opportunity to become acquainted with its war memorials and artworks and monuments and the like, to the extent that, on seeing a number of them on tonight's telly, I experienced a surge of gratified affection such as would normally be provoked by the unexpected sight of a close pal on national telly.
Paffetic, I know, but hey. We go back a long way, those Alexandra Gardens servicemen and me...
^
¦
¦ I didn't take that picture btw, in case anyone wanted to congratulate me on it (!). I've taken dozens of photos of the winged St Michael and his military associates there over the past several years, but most of 'em have sucked pure and simple, and I've had to content myself with the memories of my own eye views of these glories. It seems pretty mean on a person (ie, me) to allow them to appreciate and really feel for/about artistic perceptions of the stuff and bits of life in general, but to prevent them from rendering said stuff and bits in art or literature or film or whatever themselves. In other words, it's not gitting fair that I can gulp and glory and marvel at the artworks of others, in very real if not ful appreciation, and yet be unable to sketch something even definitely male or female herself. Gah. And Bah. And yah. Boo. Sucks.
I'm hiccupping, and sad, and I'll regret this in the morning. My life is a nothing. I am a nothing, and very sad with it.
Paffetic, I know, but hey. We go back a long way, those Alexandra Gardens servicemen and me...
^
¦
¦ I didn't take that picture btw, in case anyone wanted to congratulate me on it (!). I've taken dozens of photos of the winged St Michael and his military associates there over the past several years, but most of 'em have sucked pure and simple, and I've had to content myself with the memories of my own eye views of these glories. It seems pretty mean on a person (ie, me) to allow them to appreciate and really feel for/about artistic perceptions of the stuff and bits of life in general, but to prevent them from rendering said stuff and bits in art or literature or film or whatever themselves. In other words, it's not gitting fair that I can gulp and glory and marvel at the artworks of others, in very real if not ful appreciation, and yet be unable to sketch something even definitely male or female herself. Gah. And Bah. And yah. Boo. Sucks.
I'm hiccupping, and sad, and I'll regret this in the morning. My life is a nothing. I am a nothing, and very sad with it.