The Meet

Dear Diary,

Yesterday was kiss and make up day, sure as eggs are eggs, it was nice to rekindle some of the original passion in our relationship.

I am immersing myself in revision and studying A200 right now, much to Jane's dismay (not only little Ronnie, but seemingly my smartphone is getting between us). I must know when not to study. I realise I am addicted to the O.U.

Today I am to meet Jane's parents (on her mum's side). I am bricking it. It's a bizarre combination of excitement and terror. Much like jumping off the high diving board at an Olympic sized swimming pool. Aye. At least her old-dear is - not only an excellent artist - but is also an art historian. Very cool man.

I've been instructed to bring my guitar {I have only Saint Lillian with me, Sweaty Betty the Banjuitar, Durty Gurty, and Juicy Lucy are all snug at home, safe and sound} seemingly her folks like a good knees-up.

One problem is that I am brassic and it's not the weather for busking. Bugger. Roll-on the morrow. That's all for now,

Maximus.

Jamming

The Bunion Boys


Wreck'ed


Maxwell's Silver Hammer


No Electrickery


Anorpheus

Recapitulation

Dear Diary,

I cannot say how much I enjoyed studying my last module. Doing revision with Jane helping out, has made me realise how much I relished the course. {Especially the first book Approaches.}

The legacy of Lewis Henry Morgan in Ancient Society (1877) namely his law of Recapitulation, has had a little-known but long-lasting impact on a whole generation! But how? Because, for turn-based strategy game freaks, Lewis Henry Morgan's theory of Recapitulation has been adhered to, and revived, by many computer game makers in recent history.

This outdated mode of catagorisation has several 'culprits'. The most well-known 'offender' is Sid Meir in his series of Civilization turn-based strategy games. Other proponents of Morgan's theory are Microsoft's Age of Empires and Age of Kings. [Note: A.o.E. is a R.T.S. game, not T.B.] Both Civ' and "Ages" (and ages and ages) of Empires, have essentially a colonial outlook, over a century out of date!

The American anthropologist Lewis Henry Morgan's theory of Recapitulation espouses a grading system going from 'Savagery', 'Barbarism', to 'Civilization'. The tiers are based on technological advances, which define whether cultures are of the 'lower status of savagery' or 'upper status of civilization' (or anywhere in between, i.e. 'barbarism').

The theory of cultural evolution has been developing since 1735, ever since the Swedish botanist Carl Linnæus (known affectionaly as "Line-us" by his colleagues) who pioneered the classification of flora and fauna, for the first time, transforming the way biological sciences saw the natural world. His groundbreaking discoveries were published in a book entitled Systema Naturæ, first published in 1735.

Linnæus' work was further developed by the German Peter Pallas in 1766 (note, this is not mentioned in the O.U. book I was reading, but Jane's help highlighted the tree of life) which laid the foundations for Charles Darwin's tree of life, first published in his Origin of Species in 1851 (Darwin's tree of life he had been working on for over two decades).

Prior to this came another academic who was to shape the way we speak about history, unto this day. This man (another indirect influence on Darwin's work) was Danish scholar Christian Jürgensen Thomsen, who first coined the Three-Age System in the 1820's. [Used in A.o.E.] Which gave birth to the terms "Stone Age, Bronze Age, and Iron Age". Aye. It was he, Christian Jürgensen Thomsen (b.1788 - d.1865) who founded stratigraphy, unearthing and catagorising finds into stone, bronze, and iron artefacts, cross-referenced with the law of superposition, geological and sedimentary layered strata.

This was further developed by English academic John Lubbock (a colleague and friend of Darwin) in 1865, when Pre-historic Times, as Illustrated by Ancient Remains, and the Manners and Customs of Modern Savages was published [yeah, cute title!]. Anyhow, Lubbock coined the terms Palæolithic ('old' stone age) and Neolithic ('new' stone age).

Their are many more facets to the subject, but the point being (in relation to colonialist thought and games programmers being most misguided by this outmoded principle, that of Morgan's Recapitulation) is that Sid's Civ' and M.S. A.o.E. (not to mention the tech'-trees from games like Empire Earth, Cossacks, and Empire: Total War my old favourite game) is that a whole generation of gamers, knew nothing but Recapitulation. Aye. This is grave. Check it out, this could easily fit the tech'-tree from Civ'.

"...Status of Savagery... fish subsistence ... the use of fire...

Upper Status of Savagery... the Invention of the Bow and Arrow...

Lower Status of Barbarism ... the Art of Pottery...

Middle Status of Barbarism... Domestication of animals on the Eastern hemisphere... in the West... cultivation... of... plants by Irrigation, with the use of adobe-bricks and stone...

Upper Status of Barbarism... the process of Smelting Iron Ore... the use of iron tools...

...Civilization... the phonetic alphabet... writing..."

Morgan, L. H. (2012 [1877]) Ancient Society (quoted in Approaches by Harrison, R.) Belknap Press, Massachusetts, page 12.

"...scheme of unilinear cultural evolution, the progression of societies through a single series of technological stages from... social stages from 'savagery' to civilisation, is now understood within its... historical... context. As such, it helped to provide a partial explanation for the stark social and racial inequalities which had emerged... as a result of the Industrial Revolution and Euro-American colonial expansion (Bennett, 2004). It did this by suggesting that technologically advanced societies... were more intellectually and culturally advanced... [...] ...there is no link between intellectual ability and... tools which are made... there is no logical or inevitable trajectory of human culture and/or technological progression from... one society to another. Hunter-gatherer societies are no less... capable than agricultual ones..."

quoted in Harrison, 2012, pages 17 to 18. © The Open University.

Gotta go to bed now, Mrs. is awaitin'.

Later,

Max

Post-Script: Bibliographical Reference (in the Harvard style)

Harrison, R. (2012) Approaches [Book 1 for the module 'A151' Making Sense of Things...] The Open University, Milton Keynes, pages 14 to 19.

On the Flex

So Far, So Bad

Dear Diary,

What the flex happened?! Jesus Christ Almighty! My God! {Yæhwey} I'm getting it in the neck from Jane for going out on the lash with some mates. Jane kindly lent me the fare to get back so I could be there (at home) to recieve my book order. I ended up side-tracked, so side-tracked you would not believe...

Oh... my... God... What a night! It was fantastic man!

Jane is currently giving me a hard-time over cutting loose with my mates. We were on the verge of splitting up...

Okay, it's not all her fault, I could have phoned her up less last night, and certainly spoke more in English, not French; however, I feel that I did nothing wrong. It is all blown out of proportion. A tiff in a tea-cup.

Things have calmed down now - for the record - and although the relatively happy couple have yet to kiss and make up, we are not shouting or crying quite so much. Jane hurt her ass again at a sensitive moment walking home. Sat right on a tree-stump. I shoudn't have laughed, again.

So! What happened?! A few guys I know turned up. We had a few pints and a curry. Then, oh, my, God. The booze was flowing and suddenly, someone turned up at the party with some 'special stuff'. Not chemicals, but G.M. icky-sticky. The third stem. Jesus! I remember playing guitar then standing up, then falling straight back down on my arse. Unable to get up, intoxicated, incapacitated, fcuked like I've only been twice this year. I mean really fcuked. Tripping balls.

Azif was standing in front of Larry, wearing a vacant look, then he just fell backwards all of a sudden. It was so f- funny. You have no idea...

Ronnie the dog and some guy 'walked' me home. I staggered across the road, veering left to right, right to left, dangerously out of my tree, falling all about the place.

Alas, this morning I was violently sick. I felt like I could die. I am getting back on with my studies. Aye.

Maximus Fleximus.

Boned

Dear Diary,

I didn't blog for a few daze when I was ill, and now I've had one measley hit in three whole days. Bummer. The one hit I had hailed from across the pond. I like to pretend to myself it's someone I knew, if only slightly. I am going to read some Uni' related stuff, and also write a little bit today. War stories. Courageous tales of patriots, serving their countries. Like the lady that wrote John Brown's Body, I was a pacifist turn pragmatist, who wrote a stirring war-like anthemic piece of poesy, penning the music to such ... gladly conformist creations, compositions. Aye.

I just fcuked up. Again. Big-time. Remember me telling you about a job I'd applied for through the Uni'? Well, I made it past the first two phases (written application and recorded recitation) and have now been asked in for an interview. I am poor. Very f- poor, one might say I am a church mouse right now. Boned. Outta there. Shot away. Gone. Anyway...

The thang is, I have to journey up-north to the shire, be able to make it to Milton Keynes for 11 A.M. I just checked the time-tables and it looks like I really am boned, buggered, so much so that I just called the agency and wrote the Uni' to let them know what an over-zealous fcuk-up I am.

Right now though, I feel as though a weight has been taken aloft mine shoulders. I hath revision to do, and my books should be here soon, anytime now I should receive the book-bits by snail-mail, yessireee! Exploring History: Medieval to Modern 1400 to 1900. Yes!

Stay the fcuk on the Flex Maxy,

Maxx.

Post-Script: Virtually no-one reads this s-. So much for the 'virtual revolution'.

Post-Post Script: Here is what mah lil' dawg looks like...





... isn't he just adorable? (Not that reply comments are enabled right now, no-one leaves their paw print save my lil' dawg now. The question was assuredly rhetorical. Stay On the Flex y'all. You know I am. Sur le Flex ou quoi?!)

The Walk

Dear Diary,

I know not whether I am to play today, at the resident watering hole. If I get word that I am to play (for pittance I might add!) then I must walk eight miles in overcast weather. The bulging sky seems to want to burst, a pregnant stratsosphere will soon no doubt break-water, wind, and inundate the milling mortal masses beneath her bloated blanket of big clouds, cumulonimbus, aye.

I just heard from a local regular that my services are not required this day! Jolly good! I play for precisely ten times the amount at other establishments. Two tonne instead of a score. Aye. Today is dedicated to my studious endeavours. Fifteenth century Burgundy, England, and France. Much as I long to return unto my happy home, I must rest, impoverished, here with Jane. The final fading fumes of paradise-like blessèd leaves depart diffusèd we descend back down unto sobriety. The misty pathways of the mind open up as though a bright sunrise casts her rays over a field of green fecundity filled with flowers. Then. Suddenly. The clouds begin to gather slowly as a small nugget of gak is discovered in the bordellic bedroom of base consummation. Aye. Back. Back On the Flex.

I am a prisoner of my own vice. Trapped by devilish device. Wanton base desire, ardent ecstacy takes us higher. «Alumné moi» [Light my fire].

Max

Spectacular

Dear Diary,

So I played on the street, confidently, yet in my own little bubble, withdrawn, to my happy place, then ... I went to the centre of the beach-front. Played the piano. The guitar. Then left graciously. Aye. T'was nice to have a reasonably large, and most definitely appreciative audience for once. Aye. Though racked with nerves beforehand, I was ... On the Flex.

I knocked 'em dead with my regular set: The Train Song by Tom Waites - tinkling the ivories - followed by The Ballad of Curtis Lœwe, on the slide-Flex, playing "Juicy-Lucy" {my guitar that cost a tenner} and for the grand finalé I hit 'em with the U.S. Male.

Then home, tea, a faire la rapport sexuale, avec mon amour. I never did end up paying the tithe somehow, a bottle of ale, some smokes, sea, sunshine, well: you know the rest,

Stay On the Flex,

Maxen.

Making History

Dear Diary,

Looks like I have to pay a tithe for the privilge of being able to busk, to some nonesensical organisation (B#). 20% of any monies made musically, must be donated to this oxymoronic company. Bollocks. Ordinarily I go where there are no other buskers, so as to maximise the effect, garner as much as I can in the shortest time possible. Capitalist? Yes. Yet, I don't actually care about money (being an Anarcomunitarist) hence why I'm still playing there: "prostituting my art". Bugger.

I am working on splitting up my timeline into quanitifiable ages. Neolithic, Antiquity, Early Middle-Ages, Middle-Ages, Mediæval Era, The Renaissance, The Romantic Period, The Industrial Revolution and The Virtual Revolution. I have changed it to a "wiki" page, and may make a web page as well.

Anyhow, back to the grind,

Max

Back to Busk

Dear Diary,

Today is a busking festival, and I need money badly, so, I must bite the bullet, go and busk. What a fucking nightmare. I like to go where there are no other buskers, so I actually earn enough to eat this day. Any fool can busk, not everyone can play gigs. The gig coming up is seriously On the Flex. More on that nearer the time. Today, I away, to the other side of the Bay, to recieve books that are dispatched, that cleaned me out of cash, for the next module. A200. Mediæval to Modern. Aye. I was wondering whether or not to post up that timeline I made, it is becoming more and more complete as I carry on filling it out.

Stay On the Flex,

Maximus. x x

Malad

Dear Diary,

Illness prevented the happy couple (namely my beauteous paramour and I) from attending yesterday evening's festivities. Alas, these hazy daze just fly by. I while away the hours writing out timelines of events for my degree in history. I have yet to order the set books. Which means I cannot begin my studies. Not just that, but the painters are in, so no boom-boom for Maxy. At least nothing that does not resemble an oral examination.

We're sitting in the sun, getting nothing much done, but still having some fun, down to our last one, lone, smokey icky-sticky thingy. Aye.

Haze fades, to make way for a brand new day, one more, and it's joyeous Freyasday, payday, and paying for books for A, A200. Stay On the Flex. I know I'm not.

Here's the text I sent excusing us from yesterday evening's festivities:

Jane is feeling under the weather, and I'm feeling none to clever,
hope you have a great soireé, with t'other musicians who play;
Have a great night, though Jane and I feel shite;
the party should still be good: we'd both be there if we could.

Maxwell.

Soireé

Dear Diary,

It's partytime! Tonight bodes well, a good time to be had, in said Tudor brothel, with some of the finest musicians around. I am truly honoured to be invited. Aye. Many friends from both my home town and there are due to be in attendance. This, should be good; if not great.

Lots happening, not good for my old jamming partner, great for me (old residency complications and poverty). Gigs on the horizon, and the promise of a party very soon...

Stay On the Flex,

Nevermind all the rest,

Maxy Waxy. x x

Daze

Dear Diary,

Wagwan? A blitzed haze, shot-away with booze and such; yet, still lingering on the fringes of Archæological endeavour. Anthropology. Art History. Aye. Mine own chosen passionate discipline - but also so very dispassionate, objective.

I managed to apply for a job today, with the O.U. in the hope that I'd have something on my resumé that proved provenance. That I might hath shown worthiness, in thought, and deed. Across the mystical communication lines (a call centre)

So anyway, it's fish and chips with the Mrs. Toasted. Wasted. Gone. In love. Aye.

Lots of confusion, clearing to clear skies, bordered with pinkish hues, then frontiered with grey clouds: cumulonimbus. In the aftermath of gathering clouds, the once bright now diminishing stratosphere closes about with a blanket of grey, stark, rolling cloud-cover.

A storm is brewing...

Maximus.

Oxford Reference

Dear Diary,

I've been taking a sneak peek preview of the all new Oxford Reference website. Very cool man. New timelines (hundreds of them!) all to whet the appetite of any prospective historian. Aye. Groovy.

We've managed to get lil' Ron to chill the Flex out, he managed to sit downstairs for a whole two hours (or thereabouts) while we kissed and made up. Ron didn't bark save for on a couple of occassions. He didn't claw at the door too much either. On the Flex. The lil' fella was so pleased to see me post coitus.

Maximus.

Lil' Lap Dog

Dear Diary,

Little Ron is starting to piss me off. He knocks over stuff all the time, he is a barrier to loving Jane (because he won't leave our side, sleeping in the same bed the whole time) and he is flea-infested (today is anti-flea shampoo bath day). Ron barks and growls at other pets, he drinks our bedside water, I want to release him into the wild with a little knap-sack and water bottle, then say "There you go mate: the great outdoors!". Alas, finally, he's just too damn cute to do that to.

The little stray bastard,

Maximus.

"Our Boys"

A collection of Short Stories with the theme of War. I've been working on this for some time already. I intend to make it my first book in print, through publish on demand.

Geromoise (WW II) short story {done}
Like the Lœnard Cœn song The Partisan. A University creative writing assignment.

Emillian ('Nam to Iraq) medium length {half-written}
A cross between R.E.D. and the Bourne Identity. Well, sort of. It's nothing like them really, but with some basic elements
that overlap: an old veteran being reactivated, and then being on the run from the U.S. government.

Machiavelli (Georgio-Russian war) short story {nearly done}
Gangster romance.

'The Lost Platoon' (Afghanistan) medium length
A tragic tale of woe: a fast-paced action packed tale. Inspired by the emission "Our War".

'Operation Wasps Nest' (Afghanistan) medium length
The apex of the book, a climactic sequence of battles. Again inspired by "Our War".

Switched-On

Dear Diary,

A tiff with my beauteous paramour over ma petite ami Française. Oh well. We watched an interesting doc' on the Tudors. Now she slumbers as I regard "Our War" and the episode about the Lancasters in Operation Wasps Nest: intense action: inspirational stuff. Our very own Black Hawk Down. There is a tale to be told, scrivvened for idle amusement and as Carnegie said: the god that is patriotism. Aye. The other episode on the Welsh Guards: The Lost Platoon was inspiration for a climax to the collection of war-stories I am writing.

Anyway, looks like Jane crashed out early on the sofa again, alas, I sleep with owt but lil' Ronnie for companionship and cuddles, maybe she'll have forgotten our tiny tiff and I'll be lucky enough to get another glorious morning wakeup call from her; though I'm not hedging my bets on that eventuality happening. Bugger.

Maximus.

Stay On the Flex

Dear Diary,

One cannot imagine. Aye. Stay On the Flex. What happened?! I shall enlighten thee. Aye...

After strolling down to the seaside scene of yesterdaze debauchery and drunkenness, I went not with my axe (either Dirty Gurty, nor Juicy Lucy, neither Sweaty Betty the Banjuitar with me - much to Jules' dismay, for he'd brought his blues harp) Anyway, what the Flex happened? Some bully boy bruiser from getting kicked about the school daze appeared before me. I greeted the fellow with a smile. He ignored me, and entered the bar, the very same one I had had success at playing just yesterday. So anyway, Jane was jealous of mine intellectual intercourse with Jules, who holds a Masters Degree in Law, and has a keen interest in archæology, we engaged in mass debate, much to my birds' dismay. Aye. I became very pissed, very quickly (in the Anglo-Saxon sense of the word; i.e. drunk) Alas, in between discussing the tenants and nuances of history, archæology, and anthrolopologies: we discussed music, one of the greater artforms, both giving praise, most worthily requited to the Master of Guitar - Professor Guy Bacon - whom we were in the presence of ... greatness.

Jules said he had a gig for me, in a nearby town, that a friend of his owned a pub, and that I would recieve two-hundred pounds for my trouble. I said that if it were a friend, that I would do it for less, a tonne. Alas, he inisisted on paying me two-tonne, I sayeth that it most certainly warranted other musicians be present at the spectacle. That Gulliver need be brought in, unto the fold, but why? Because Bluegrass, Old-Timey Flex hath seduced me with her phrenetic rhythms and intricate southern-fried chicken charms. Share the love: go fifty-fifty on the money, because I am a Comunitarist. Equality. Egality. Fraternity. Aye.

What happened next? Aforementioned red-haired bruiser dids't appear once more, with acidic tongue...

Bruiser: No guitar today?

Max: No, I was pissed yesterday.

Bruiser: They'll pay two-hundred quid here, but not down the road at [t'other pub].

Jules: Max offered to play for free! They wouldn't have it.

Max: Jules just offered me a gig for two-hundred quid.

Ha HA! 'ave that! Then some other weird geezer with teeth in a worse shape than mine (would that were possible) droned on and f- on about some aggressive B.S. or other, like a long-playing record, stuck, on the same negative Flex. We departed shortly after.

Again, much more hath happened, transpired, all too trivial or personal to mention thus, I leave you with this sage advice,

Stay On the Flex,

Maximus.

Old Timey

Dear Diary,

Well well. Life certainly takes a strange tact sometimes... I arrived with a spring in my step, went into town, and met the Master of Guitar (Professor of music from UCLA) in his Tudor lodgings. All was amicable, except that Ron tried to jump from the first floor window. I was invited to a jam in said Tudor dwelling, a party soon. Nice.

The good Doctor had an eccentric friend, a Lord, who wanted a drunken barn dance hoot nanny ho down banjo, fiddle, and gee-tar for a gig. We made the call, and cinched the gig. Excellent! I charged him less than a tonne. The Professor played banjo before he learned how to play Classical guitar. So we make a trio for a few numbers. The (Land) Lord said he'd sit in on a few on the Blues Harp. Groovy.

Alas, after tea and guitar, I went busking for about five minutes, then, went to the pub. The first establishment we went to had the virtuoso's electrical bicycle outside of it, unlocked. It had dwelt there for three days after he'd taken the boat to the port of Beer. It is nice to see that no-one took the velo, that's Dorset I guess: safe as houses.

I asked if I could play. The house said yes. I played some southern rock slide, ...Curtis Lœwe, Amos Moses, U.S. Male, which met with a sea of smiles and a round of applause. I was the Flex.

The next pub didn't go so well. I was not permitted to play. This bugged me, big-time. So, I sat directly outside the establishment and played my heart out! In the shadow of the sun beside the beach I really went for it! Pissed, shot-away, out to make a splash. Whence I returned unto the public house (a seaside pub I've been trying to get a gig at for one score years!) and shadowed the entertainment manager into the storehouse, to have a word with the underling. The fellow reiterated that I am unwelcome to play music, I asked if he'd heard me, said he had not heard me playing «faux» alas, I retorted by saying "I normally charge £200!" Turned about, and left immediately.

Other events have passed, too trivial to blog about. Aye. On the Flex.

Maximus.

Dawg

Dear Diary,

Lil' Ron is really very needy and loving. He prefers sardines to salmon, he's scruffy, smelly, damaged goods but not sour grapes, he's been a hobo, he's very friendly, also dauntless 'gainst intimidation (except with cats, whom he tries to make friends with constantly). He is my perfect platonic companion.

"Little Ron, you're the man,
You're young and have found a home,
A Glasofarian rescued dawg,
I just bought him a chewy bone,
But he wants to curl up in my lap,
Saying hello to everyone,
He's tuckered out after walkie-poos,
You're my only pet: I love you Ron."

Maxy Waxy. x x x x x

The Dream (Sci-Fi)

Dear Diary,

I just had the most ... weird dream. It was like the end of an American science-fiction movie. I will write it up now. It was ... incredible. The imaginary picture starred Keanu Reeves and some bird. The plot was non-existent save for an atypical rebellion 'gainst some vast empire. The last spaceship was being crushed by compression of some sort, and as the couple were being crushed to death, the main character (K.R.) hastily constructed an 'escape missile'. The two sped on the rocket, through a vast array of cosmic defences. Eventually the couple sped towards the 'destroyer' and slammed into it, blowing it up. I wanted to write it up an publish it, on-line, but I know of folks who just copy/pastes other people's work.

Maxwell-Lewis.

Fretting

Dear Diary,

I left the house to take Ron for a walk, leaving my phone on charge at home. Alas, I met Uncle, managed to recover a pound from an abandoned shopping trolley by returning it to the supermarket. We bumped into the artist Mike Taylor. His sketch pad was fcuking amazing. You cannot imagine...

Mike and I went roaming the hills. We saw a (very average) art exhibition. The beach, hills, and seaside were spectacular.

I was concerned that Jane may miss me. Seventeen missed calls and as many text messages (quite extreme in content) and I was fortunately able to tell the truth, thus smoothing things over. Phew! Alas. I have a party to play on Tuesday at the 'Master of Guitars' Tudor (former) brothel. That should be good. Life is great here in my world. Things are the best they have been.

Maximus.

Bluegrass Roots

Dear Diary,

Well. We became lonely for lack of other people, then rang up all the musicians we knew. I called Gulliver the banjoist and old-timey fiddle player. Wolfæ called Siboney from a ska band: an excellent trumpetist, a virtuoso.

So anyway, I really enjoyed playing Bluegrass again (the first time I had done so in ages). Siboney sorted us both out some gigs. Gulliver and I suitably impressed the other musicians.

Then was some loud noisy stereo blare to adapt and improvise along to. After that it was Siboney's fortë: adaptation, flexibility, the ability to listen. We played "Spanish Flea" in Bb. It was frickin awesome! Jamming with both musicians was a real pleasure, such a joy. Even Wolfairy jammed some. We were so f- wasted. You have no idea!

Maxx.

Garn

Dear Diary,

Maxy's garn! Garn! Gaaaaarrrrrnnn!! I don't know what happened?! Well, I do, but I can n'er speak of it here, so sensitive an issue it be. I am fckued. Wasted. Gone. Fucked. Seriously (Within reason - Know Thyself, Solon of Athens) I decided against "overdoing it" and am mighty glad I didn't injest too much ... poison booze. Aye. This is an experimental afternoon. The last time I did anything like this I ended up losing my keys and snogging a guy! Celebration times.

I just met up with the Wolfairy who is excited about joining our University. She's On the Flex. No problems: only solutions.

Maximus.

Morning Blues

Dear Diary,

My sweetheart broke her bum on the way home when I tried to take a shortcut down the side of a bank, a treestump caught her ass. I shouldn't have laughed. Jane is also under the weather, has run out of her medication, and is not drinking (!! Something must really be wrong!) Anyway, it's a busking bonanza today. No choice except to feed Roni.


http://soundcloud.com/maxwell-lewis-latham/

Here's a link to our Rock n Roll Band. (Five Jive)

Stay On the Flex,

Maxx.

Dogs Life

Dear Diary,

Little Ronnie is a loyal and timid companion, nervy, very smelly. He won't leave my side. Ronnie is fascinated by everything and everyone, instilled with awe and wonder the entire time. Whenever he isn't running around like a nutter (which isn't often!) he curls up in my lap as I sit reading Latin and writing illuminated manuscripts.

He's pretty chilled-out sometimes, but mostly manic. Top dog. He'll help in the war against the cats, and chase them from my Adonis garden. Aye. Man's best friend.

Maximus Fleximus.

Pet

Dear Diary,

I dogone done somethin' I 'ain't never done before. Yesterday a friend of Janie's said they had a four year old dog that needed a home. I flatly resolved to not take him. I am not a 'pet person' having flea-bitten wild animals defecating all over t'shop while I am in quiet contemplation, is not usually my imagined personal paradise. It means I cannot go away (for very long) which bugs me, and also will cause untold disruption both in my peaceful studies, and knocking over dice and miniatures during D&D.

So. The Land Rover turned up, and a little white and brown head popped out. I was adamant that I would not, could not, give the little fella a home. "I'll take him." I said, falling for his tiny twinkling baby-brown eyes.

"Ronny" is a mongrel, he's been abused and comes from a mysterious farm, somewhere outside the Vale of Avalon (Glastonbury). He's adorable and has much in common with me. He's lived outside for much of his life. He's skittish, nervous, very needy, affectionate, he farts a lot, he smells, Ron is the runt of the litter (in Dorset parlance he's the 'Nestletripe') we're two of a kind. A smelly mongrel hobo who's had to endure violence and homelessness. What a guy.

More later (and perhaps a photo),

Maximus Fleximus.

Finito

Dear Diary,

Well, I finished my essay (submitting half-a-dozen versions, so many myriad mistakes made, before marking) alas, I cleared up most of them. I am pretty tired from the constant attention required by my beauteous paramour. Looking forward to getting home, well, kind of, as I have to shift a load of junk from around the house still (it's all piled up on my bed and in the bathroom). Bugger. Oh well. It's a lovely day, and I am going to sneak in a quick siesta.

Max.

Dipsomania

Dear Diary,

Inundated with the dreaded drink and vice, smoked out, gone, a haze of blitzed cross-eyed combination hangover cure hair of the dog. I at least managed to get a couple of paragraphs down on the assignment today. Ruysch. Good.

It's a relaxing Saturday picnic to some old Roman ruins, the dwelling-place of mycinoids, magical. Psylocybyn with mine paramour due to a vision Janie'd had in a dream t'other night; well, that and another mutual mate of ours, the very man who introduced Janie and I to one another, had said that the shrooms had been seen up and about already, early this season. Colourful fields of ancient remnants rainbows and prismatic hues. A myriad variations of stained-glass eyes, the swift ascendancy into a more illusionary perception. Imagined phantasms and pixie-people who exist, at least awhile, until the gradual descent. Its been so long since I've indulged in a foraging field fungii fiesta. Perhaps only two years (for I forsake all heavy drugs and playing computer games, since I began studying towards my History degree. Anyway. If Lady Luck sees fit to smile down on us blessèd couple, we might find, neath the thunderous clouds in the Indian summer heat: some mycinoids. The little people, from under the trees, bushes and briars. Aye.

Maximus Fleximus.

Weirdaze

Dear Diary,

«Ques quis passe¿¡»? I don't know. Oh yes! As I strolled into town, a hail from behind me hollered across the road. T'was none other than the legendary Artist extrodinarre: Mike Taylor. We spent a quiet time reminiscing by the riverside. Aye. Good times.

Next came Jake, back from Canada, then off to see Janie, where I am now. Too much hath transpired to recount here and now, too sloshed et cetera. Soz. Gonne recall what happened exactely some other time, not now. Sweet Santa Maria calls. Siren. Mermaid. Dashed on the rocks.

Maximus Fleximus.

O.U. Anthem

My old school song, written by Mr. Perne, taught by Mr. Manners, and rearranged by Mr. Maxwell Lewis Latham, 2012 © The Open University, all rights reserved.

Max's Art Collection

Dear Diary,

Here are some choice art-works for you.

Firstly, here is the portrait I've been harping on about all this time:

Maxwell Laments Kathryn by David Williams-Henham, 2012 © Maxwell Lewis Latham, 2012 (all rights reserved)



Still Life with Sardines by Grant Scot McCormick, 2011 (a.k.a. 'Stan Miguel') © Maxwell Lewis Latham's personal art collection, all rights reserved, intellectual property rights owned by Grant Scot McCormick (Artist and doner)



Loch Lomond by Grant Scot McCormick, 2010 © Maxwell Lewis Latham's personal art collection, all rights reserved, intellectual property rights owned by Grant Scot McCormick (Artist and doner)



Satan Himself by Anthony Dover, 2009 © Maxwell Lewis Latham's personal art collection, all rights reserved, intellectual property rights owned by Anthony Dover (Artist and doner)



Rabbits in Love by Anthony Dover, 2009 © Maxwell Lewis Latham's personal art collection, all rights reserved, intellectual property rights owned by Anthony Dover (Artist and doner)

Music Thang

Dear Diary,

I could've gone away, but I chose instead to stay, I'm feeling the last residual traces of "the siege" day before payday. Sobriety. No cigarettes. Nothing. Hard-core.

Stress levels are low, at least with myself, if not some of those about me as I sit, and 'text' this diary entry (or "blog post" as they're now known, lol) from my smart-phone. Everybody should have one.

Anyway, I sit here, awaiting the moment when I get to edit down these rock 'n roll band snippets. It will no doubt take an age, or at least, what seems like it. Stress. No fags. You'd think t'was they who are having to go without.

Things here are ... calmer now.

An old friend who's recently returned from across 'the pond' and I are going for a short road trip tomorrow. The weather be clement, and things shall undoubtably be ... more On the Flex.

I found some raspberry canes today, and shall make a hedge out of them where the fence at the far end of my English country garden has collapsed. For now though, as the firey golden orb kisses the green hilltops, I await the use of the editing software so I can listen to the tracks we put down. Awesome.

Stay On the Flex.

Maximus.

Latino Amigo

Dear Diary,

After much deliberation in mine own mind, toying with Hume and Roussou, I've decided against going From Enlightenment to Romanticism and will be Reading Classical Latin instead. All after completing my next mod' Mediæval to modern history. On the Flex, naturally. I will need another tutor, a personal pedogogue, Pangloss. The wisest mind in all Westphælia, Franconia, and Frestonia. Aye. The Master.

I surmise I shall most defnately require his tutelage if I am to tackle learning Etymology, Syntax, Prosaic Challanges ahead. But why? Because I heard this morning from a potential venue, a gig, that calligraphic text be usually penned in Latin; I was also toying with the notion of penning work in an Illuminated Manuscript, full of art, also music, and of course mine flowery handwriting. Aye. I shall do that methinks.

Not for an essay, but for mine own amusement which should surely provide some slight mirth in a world otherwise devoid of stimulation: intellectually. Pangloss is a veritable powerhouse intellectually. Mass debate or intellectual intercourse aside...

It has been anything but boring these past few days, weeks, daze; most stimulating sexually, if not intellectually, as making love is no good distraction from focusing on my task. It's a great distraction, but not unlike art history itself: «une bonne maladie» as Pangloss quite rightly said.

I hate to be so far from Janie for so long, but the near insurmountable task of learning Latin cannot be done without his instruction. Help in understanding, writing - and speaking - all in French, then Latin. Aye. «Oui, Si». Anyhow, I gotta get goin'. Later baby.

Maximus Fleximus.

Hard Times

Dear Diary,

Well, now I have a mountain of other people's junk, and mine own, cluttering up the whole of upstairs. One cannot move for the space that hath been created.

Beside's Fiona the violinists affairs, and the past tenant's affects, it was pleasant to pore through artefacts not yet catagorised or sorted into any semblance of order. I found paintings, charcoals, an old hat, a minidisc recorder, a flatscreen, loads of garments and bed-clothes: to name but a few off the oddly assortment that is my attic, an emporium of a loft, like some giant car-boot sale, frozen in time.

Now is the Hard Time: fasting until Freyasday's bountiful harvest. Aye. Æquinamitate. The Latham family creed: Equinamity. I've been through far tougher times than this. Be thankful for 1) Being alive. and 2) Not being rained on.

If it is true that one "only goes as low as one allows oneself to go" (David, an artist I once knew, he's dead now) and another trueism be taught to me, in the army (cadets) which was a quote from John Barrie, "Once courage is gone, all is lost". Rather, re-phrased "If you think you're beat, then you are beat." So. Given that the power of the mind be unlimited (whereas the power of the body: limited; Ueshiba, The Art of Peace) therefore it stands to reason that having an inflated sense of self, a courageous spirit, and dauntless attitude can only benefit oneself. I am great. Yes. Aristotle was arrogant (one might even say aristocratic) because he knew he was clever. Anyone who is intellectually astute has at least something of an ego. If you've got it... Flaunt it!

On the other hand, there may be something said for humility and idiocy. Being a humble idiot is ... perhaps wise, as I've lost count of the many times I had wish I had been more humble. Fcuk it. That time is passed. It is now time to learn from past mistakes, be humble when necessary, and the rest of the time: just be yourself.

Maximus.

Late as always

Dear Diary,

Rudely awoken by the loft guy, I nurse a hazy head, recalling what happened yesterday in reverse chronological order. Aye. First off I went to Uncle's place. As I neared his home I heard loud and most discordant keyboard playing. After a ten minute rigmarole of answering the door, I noticed it wasn't infact Uncle at all, making a dreadful racket. The cacophony was reported from a bull of a man, a tall guy with the look of an ex-con about him. A tough, ugly face, and as strong as an ox. Even though I was invited to stay, drink, smoke: I just had to leave, so dinful was the cacophony.

I went to see Stig. I watched some weird re-runs with him, 60's films about psychics. Then went home. Hazy.

I woke up late, and have been clearing out the attic. I'm almost there. Only a dozen more bags to go. Janie will be round in a few hours I expect. It's all good. Back to the grind for me, after this cup of tea. Mission time methinks.

Don't lose it.

Maxx.

yAy 200

Dear Diary,

A stroll beneath azured skies.

After my paramour took off, I sat, cup of tea, the assignment open, ready to work (forget the loft and stuff, I figure it's all throwing stuff down, out the window. I can do that quickly.) Easy-life. Anyway.

Suddenly, a knock at the door, who could that be? It was the courier. My O.U. materials had arrived for Exploring History: medieval... 1400's... [onwards]. mEnTaL! AWEsome man! That's so cool! All six books, three discs. This has to be good. Come on!

I don't wanna get distracted from the main Flex: TMA 3, Mortuary analysis, the ethical debate surrounding cosmopolitanism and cultural patrimony - repatriation. Anyway, meanwhile, Back On the Flex Maxwell needs another cup of green tea and blueberries.

Keeping Busy Bee

Dear Diary,

After another wasted daze and nights, meeting Janie's mate, then an exhausting night, I'm just about ready to stroll up the road, and catch the line home, where, this busy-bee must scramble frantically to tidy-up the gaff. Why bother? Because both the loft and windows are being done first thing the morrow. Dash. Rush. Phrenetic madash about shifting the lot, out the top window, into the outside storage space (backyard). I want to sit down, have a cup of tea, and finish working on my assignment, but alas, I can't. Bugger.

I am also having issues logging in to Encyclopedia Brittanica Online, but only because I don't have a 'puter and net connection. I will have to sort that out as soon as possible, level-two looming and all. Netbook contract solution perhaps.

Stay On the Flex Maximus.

Repose

Dear Diary,

Taking the day off from doing my essay, I justified enjoying Carry On Behind as it had the plot premise of an achæological excavation. Now watching Cold Comfort Farm, and thoroughly enjoying every minute of it. Not having a television at my home means when I watch other people's I'm often transfixed, when watching something I like (usually History documentaries). Lounging around in front of Time Team.

You cannot imagine...

Oops.. Got too drunk at the gig last night... x

Dear Diary,

For I was wasted. Aye. Running for the bus by Willie Make-it, illustrated by Bettie won't. Aye. Booze and such flowed high. The place was filled with loveable rogues. Dodgy folk, the likes of which you can't possibly imagine. Banter at the bar. I dazzled them with ditties, never before heard of, by mine sweet guitar. Aye. I miss you. No-one knows me save the Universe.

More later,

For I am spent tonight,

Aye,

I love y'all,

Maxy Waxy. xxxx

Gaze

Dear Diary,

I be gazing in adoration at the picture and mine paramour. We're both very pissed (in the Anglo-Saxon sense of the word not the God bless America sense, it's all good). Anyway. Where were we. Oh yes! Back On the Flex. I've been gazing in adoration, at my portrait, and my paramour, through the haze vegeterian paradise and picturesque vanity borne of musical accomplishment and trystesse. Aye. Another day shall I show thee t'painting lad. Aye

Maxx.

The Pub

Dear Diary,

Where am I? Somewhere out beyond the haze, an afternoon blitzed away. I took my guitar with me, the cheap-ass bitch-maker which Janie solemnly dubbed 'Lucy'. I call her (the guitar) Juicy Lucy. The strings are worth more than the half-size travellling guitar. I've played two impromptu gigs already. As t'other Classical guitarist said, "It's nice to have a ctural ambassador [from the east]". Aye. I'm wasted right now. Had a ... weird night. Emotions. Guitar. The Masters. All rolled into one, Stay the f- On the Flex, whatever you do,

Maxx.

Portrait

Dear Diary,

It is too much (the price) for a small oil-canvas of yours truly. Yet, can one put a price on art? I think not. Two tonne in cash for a tiny painting seems a small price to pay for such a masterfully wrought piece of art. The only painting of me in existence. I love it. (Art, well .. and 'that') You should see it. It's amazing and will be the centre-piece of my already swelling collection. It kicks ass. I am over the moon with it, even if Janie says I should have haggled the price. Maybe so, but Marx didn't care about money, neither do I. Art is all: money means nothing. What of humanity?

Anarcomunitarist ideology,

Comrade Max.

Vanity

Dear Diary,

I just had the quote for the oil painting portrait of me, it's dear, but I adore paintings of musicians, especially when they're of me! It means some serious busking and gigging to pay for the masterpiece. I've arranged to meet him at an old Tudor brothel, the house of another master guitarist. Both these guys paint, and both are adept at playing Classical guitar. I am going to be a poor church mouse for the next month or two, but it's a small price to pay for art. I am a lucky man, and it's simply through moving in artistic circles. It's all down to the founders of Frestonia (an area like Christiania in Copenhagen or Berkeley campus in the States) and of course, through that lot, thanks to Janie. Without her this may not have been possible. I'm gonna busk my little bum off this week, rain or shine.

Max.

Stay On the Flex

Dear Diary,

Today has been ... interesting. The market was called-off, I manage to scrounge a little bit of tobacco, if only for looking after the dogs for them.

I was well into engaging on the forums, and decided to take a day off from the assignment. Reading about the mcabre is finally getting to me. All work and no play... and all that jive. [Pub crawl followed by meeting Janie]

...the next day... {Today}

I would like to have get stuck back into my assignment but was shattered after seeing Janie yesterday. I had a siesta after walking her into town, did some shopping with all of three squid, then finally crashed out. I was awoken by Uncle, gave him some books on philosophy I had borrowed, and am now feeling fuzzy. The final residual trace of a hazy daze leaves my body and spirit. My misty mind clears slowly, finding motivation to finish this elusive essay, I just want to get this module finished.

Yesterday I recieved notification of reserving a place on the next tier of learning: Mediæval to modern history. Nice.

Just prior to this I had dissapointed my tutor because of a controvertial forum post regarding blood, sugar, sex, magic. Not the Chillies, but voicing views on the sanctity of sex. Alas, I was crestfallen when I read the good Doctor's words, but immediately toned-down my previous post, and I hope this is more suitable for academic circles. I must learn to not be so ... kinky, fruity, with the content of my forum posts. It's all a learning curve, and I am reasonably confident that I can tackle this next module with a better outlook. Take scholsticism more seriously, not be to On the Flex, but more objective and moderate, stoic, use guarded language, and try not to be so radical, but my anarcomunitarist ideology will ever be my psyche. I am fully indoctrinated: education in philosophy, namely Hume and Roussou when I go on to tackle the module: from Enlightenment to Romanticism. If I try hard enough I can attain my goal: distinction. Even if I fall short of my desired aim, I can but try my best. Merit, pass, 2:1, 2:2, it's all good. I would like a first as it would be a first for my family, my well-educated brothers. Scoring marks of 85% consistently is tough. I know others, perhaps intellectually my superiors have tried and succeeded. Yet two things keep me going, 1) When Pangloss (who has an I.Q. in excess of 195!) said, "It's not often I meet someone who is gifted - intellectually - but when I meet such a person, I know straight away. You Maxwell, are one of those precious few." I am not 139 like the test I took, the test was wrong.

2) My marks have improved consistently, getting better all the time.

So, although my grades are a good ten to fifteen percent lower than is needed, I can try and try and try to attain distinction, honours, and one day, a Doctorate. Master of Arts. Professor of History. Ambition and motivation are wedded.

Stay On the Flex,

Maximus.

Intime

Dear Diary,

Alas, the day takes an interesting tact already. After the usual blitzed and passion-filled evening, rising morning glorious intimacy, tired and hungry, two love-birds strolled lesiurely into town on a sunny Tuesco morn'.

The inevitable organic food shop, whilst eating breakfast brechette I dids't spy mine nemesis, and also a woman we both knew, the sounding of a bell inspired me to write a play, a tragedy, contemporary, yet archaic.

We went to the pub, I ordered a half a cyder eighth degree, naturally, and she, had a light ale, golden. As we sat outside, a secret admirer began to flirt with me, Janie became jealous, we left.

Then, after a quiet stroll about the park in the sun, we met an artful dodger: one of our close friends, he bought us a drink each (as we had both spent all by now) the two hurried to catch the bus to their home-town, where they live along the coast a way. Alas, I tried to leave with my ale, the landlady said not to, I replied I'd be straight back. After seeing Janie off, the barman had tipped or guzzled away my drink after me having n'owt but a lone sip. I considered briefly what to do, and finally, I decided to just let it go. Zen-like. Boycott the place in future.

So. I am home. Alone. Yet, with my studies. An assignment to do, a computer to repair in order to do the essay (or I could just text it out on my phone, as per usual). Eyes down, sober up, come down to reality Maxy, we must work now.

Mori.

Maxx.

Slumber

Dear Diary,

I managed to get a little nap in after doing some Uni' work. The fridge was ajar, some of my tobacco was missing. I noticed some stray kids had wandered into the house round back, friends of the family here. They had come round to clean the bird-cage, heaven knows why they came back, except to scrounge for food and such. Bugger. That's me out of tobacco for the week now. I guess I'll have to busk.

Loving Janie is a full-time occupation. I need to focus on my assignment. I have so much to write about. Hans Holbein the younger, Emile Zola's Therese Raquin, also Victorian mummy-unwrapping parties. None of this is strictly on the syllabus, but I thought it fitting to include in my essay. I'll do a good job of the paper at least, even if I'm throwing the dice a little, breaking the mould: not sticking exclusively to the O.U. material (though I hasten to add I put in a shed-load of stuff from the module course books, and even managed to link to a past module - paganism and Avebury).

Janie said she'd phone by now and hasn't, I'm not worried, she's most probably shattered. She's visiting my place tonight, and wants to help me tidy it up. I refuse any sort of help, being stubborn, but somehow she's managed to win me around. I know that I'll try and sort it out, whilst working on this essay. God I love working on archaeological studies: as much as I love Janie. I'm just glad she has a shared passion for archaeology.

The dogs are all going nuts, I tried to chill them the flex out with some food, but somehow they're still fooling around. The bitch is in-heat and keeps mounting the males, affirming her dominance over the pack. The big-guy occasionally licks her behind. It's all very base.

I should call Janie, but I need to eat dinner first. Ooh! I have some strong drink left. Jolly good! Chin chin! (Oh, and it's nice to see the following back).

Maxwell adprobata est iterum pro momento ad minus.

Maximus.

Chores

Dear Diary,

Still shattered I have finished the washing up at least. The dogs haven't been walked at all (which was my main responsibility) normally they'd be goin' nuts after a few days of confinement, but they seem pretty relaxed, eating bugs, snapping at the occasional fly. Feeding the cats is done. I am so tired. Man. Wagwan? Twifter-timethinks. Aye.

Zzzzzz

LMxx

Spent

Dear Diary,

I feel devoid of energy, spent, sore, I'm seeing things through sleep deprivation, racing to get back to the dog-sitting house to feed the cats. Then I must do the chores in their pad, then do mine own house-work (years overdue). I need sleep but hath too much to do.

I just feel like lying down. The gig was called off yesterday, now I'm as poor as a church mouse. I have a few squid for food, some drink left, and even a little bit of baccy. I need rest. Man I can hardly stay awake on the bus here.

I must go,

Stay On the Flex,

Maximus.

Pukids

Dear Diary,

I am sat at a bus-stop surrounded by a trio of screaming pissed up teenagers. The time is passing excruciatingly slowly, and I can't get away from here quick enough. These puking kids are running riot, falling about the place, swearing and pissing and blowing chunks. The boy with them seems calms but the two birds are most unladylike. Sans decorum they were pestering me for cigarettes. Thankfully they got the message that I cannot help them. Crickey it's embarrassing even being near these ladettes. Ever dearest Janie is something of a tomboy but at least she's mature and sensible. I can't wait to see her. We have hardly slept since being reunited in love, and both of us are exhausted from being so... energetically in love. Even so, we're so addicted to one another that fighting fatuige is a petty price to pay when compared to what's in store this evening. We're like two bunnies. It's all ways tonight, a whirlwind of an affair. I am hooked on her, and am so glad the feeling's mutual. I used to like women in their twenties, on the basis that they're spontanious, pretty, and fun. Yet now I am beginning to see the advantages of being with a woman older than myself. Fidelity, sagacity, experience. I am massively into Janie.

The sun seems to shine on me from both sides now.

Maximus.

Carnival Night

Dear Diary,

It was the local carnival yesterday. After meeting Janie and stocking up on real-ale and such, we proudly strolled through the street with crowds of people either side of the road, telling this tiny town's relationship rumour mill that we are together. After returning to the dog-sitting house, we went out and met her mate, bumping into Uncle and Soul en route. A sea of people strutted all about the square, bands played, and I was happy in the company of my beauteous beloved paramour all evening.

We met her mates, went for a drink in a bar I was previously banned from (for scrapping, my only fight in well over a decade - I am, for most part, a pacifist). A hippy (OED definition 'anti-materialist').

I'm over the moon that my partner respects my feelings, cares for me, and is faithful. I was beginning to think that all women are unfaithful. Women are like cats, and men, like dogs.

After a time we went home, but only had a few hours sleep. Today we shared time in entrancing divine entwined embrace. Ahh, l'amour: c'est belle. I am happy for once. We are happy - together. It's like a dream come true.

Janie is a new lease of life. I must not, however, become so distracted away from my studies. I was going to go over and spend the night with her again, but need to get this assignment put to bed instead. That'll leave us free to frolic about in the forest, go fossil-hunting, have picnics on the beach, go to festivals, and make memories tender and sweet. God I love her so much.

Yours,

Maxx.

Life Writing

Far inland, beyond the Poundbury Royal Estate, the sleepy town of Dorchester was shrouded in a thick haze of mist. Beyond the pea-soup cloud at the crest of the hill lay the ancient monument of Mai Dun. This longbarrow earthworks was once the capitol of England. The largest hill-fort in the land, rivalled not even by Wiltshire's plethora of barrows, nor even the sacred space of Stonehenge. This was the time of Celtic Britain, before Vespasian targeted the chieftans hut with a precision artillery strike, bringing Mai Dun under the Roman yoke.

Now though, it lay beyond sight, and all but abandoned save strollers and dog-walkers, usually on a sunny Sunday, which would be the morrow. A coach wove its way through the narrow lanes covered with arched branches of interweaving trees, everyso often giving way to a small church, or Georgian house, in an idyllic quaint village, flanked by a stream.

Gillie was on his way to meet her...

Philosophy

Dear Diary,

I'm playing devil's advocate whilst being a 'Forum whore' at University. The debate is regarding relics in Buddhism, with parallels to Christian relics. I was in a band called 'The indecisive philosophers' because we didn't know what we were: aethists, Taoists, Christians, Buddhists, et cetera. This morning I wanted to be a Franciscan monk, now I'm arguing the rational secular viewpoint: that stones and bones of Holy people have no 'magical' properties; that it's purely in the mind of the perciever believer, that these relics have any special powers. It's psycho-somatic, a self-fulfilling prophecy.

I believed for many years that when you die, whatever you think may happen will happen. Chemicals are released in the brain (DMT) that make one hallucinate, seeing tunnels of light, or firey Hades. Alas, I am a waverer. Not knowing what is true. Still, it seems logical to argue a down to earth rational viewpoint.

"My god is patriotism" - Andrew Carnegie.

Stay On the Flex,

Maximus.

Reunion

Dear Diary,

Well well. It looks like the band "Wreck' ed" are having a reunion tonight. A house leaving party for Cousin. Excellent! It'll be a rave after playing punk power-chords with the old crew back together. Yes! Much as I fancy a... snuggle with dearest Janie, I cannot pass up this opportunity. That said, I have left the ball in Janie's.court. It's up to her.

Man, this could mean some serious sloshing, elven stardust, all manner of delights. A drunken daze, a smokey haze, and magicrystals heaven sent. Maybe. Or perhaps not, we shall see...

I am the f- Flex,

Maximus.

Creativity

Dear Diary,

What makes the ability to formulate an idea? How does one unlock the creative act within the mind? Imagination. A leap of imagination.

Writing is easy. Writing well his hardly taxing. It's banal. Yet I met a pretty literary critic and student at this years conference. To her, writing was a challenge, nigh on impossible. Another fit bird I met ages ago (school, and then later in life) said, "There's lots of people reading, not many write." With the advent of computers every man and his dog has the ability to write, they just lack imagination. It's all copy/paste/pubish, with people appropriating any quality writing published for free in cyberspace.

I see writing, the same way as people years ago saw painting. Common. Cheap. Words are cheap. Sculpting silver or gold and gem-cutting was considered a much more prestigious art-form.

Nowerdays it's just "click" with the camera. Five minutes in photoshop and suddenly one is deemed an artist somehow. Tosh!

A photograph is information, it is not art.

Creative writing is common.

Music, painting, sculpting: now that takes skill. If one were to listen to four technically superior musicians I've known, all the quartet of are technically virtuosi: they all just lack one crucial factor - imagination.

How do we get imagination? Inspiration. Usually love, or lack of, sometimes scarring memories can prompt the creative act. Catharsis.

Instead of playing the same old same old tunes, try composing something.

Max.

Jive Talking

Dear Diary,

Yesterday, after two days solid practice, we had our first rehersal with the Rock 'n Roll band. It was spectacular. I love the sound of the double-bass. The drummer and keyboardist were good. Dad was awesome on the baritone sax'. My favourite track was Johnny B. Goode. I felt like Marty McFly out of Back To The Future ripping out the riffs and singing. It was nice to play in a full-band for a change (the first time in over a decade, and the first time playing music in a band with my old man). Seriously On the Flex.

I will have a few mp3's up on sound-cloud in the next few weeks.

For the now though, it's rollin' in my sweet honey's arms. The eight hour bus trip will be dedicated to the study of archæology.

Maxx.

Morning Twifter

Dear Diary,

My twin rang twice yesterday, I couldn't make out what he'd say, but that's okay, I just let him talk away: he needed to talk to someone, so did.

This morning I sit with a sly J on the porch, pondering yesterday, and the tunes that we'd play:

In the Jailhouse Now, Johnny B. Goode, Will You Still Love Me Tommorow?, and all that jive. It was nice. Full band rehersal on the morrow. Today is more practice.

I sure do miss Janie.

Maxx.

What the Flex?!

Dear Diary,

I've lost it. I've lost any kind of following I may or may not have had, whether on youtube or here, or anywhere else: I've lost it.

Don't matter, for langir of amourous adventure feuls enriched life experience through the missed affections of a beauteous blonde jardinier. The hit-counter due to infamous mis-deeds and an anti-hero persona means sweet fa when compared to languishing after her embrace. A giddy haze of mushrooms, smoke, and drink. The match-made in a mushroom field, a hazy Jane, inundated with intoxicating liquor. Love.

Meanwhile, Back On the Flex Maxy hath been jamming with his old man. The rock 'n Roll set is all hammered out now - mighty fine. I have just one person in Allemagne who reads this.

Gutëntag,

Maximus.

Two shot rest

Dear Diary,

We stopped somewhere a couple of hours north of Southampton at a service station. After strolling out and wolfing down a burger (an almost guilty break from Janie's vegetarian fare) I decided to sneak off and have a stroll somewhere amidst nature. Besides the noise of the motorway, beyond the ring road encircling this road island of repose, a report echoed through the trees. Two shots ring out, everysoften. They came from a low calibre rifle, not big enough to be a 4-10 or a 12-bore. I must have heard a hundred shots whilst I've been sat here. He must have run out of ammo or been caught, or perhaps just become bored; as the twin reports have ceased sounding.

Anyway, it reminds me of when I was sat at Pangloss' museum-maison. It was a quiet early evening in the mountains. As we sat and philosophized, a similar sound, sharp shots rang out across the otherwise peaceful mountain valley, studded with pines and wild-flowers. (Excuse my spelling and French grammar - I might speak the tongue but I sure can't write it well enough). Immediately upon hearing the bullets fired, somewhat startled I said:

Max: "Ques que sait?" (What was that?)

Pangloss: "C'est un fou." (It's some madman.)

Max: "Quoi?" (What?)

Pangloss: "C'est un fou, c'est tout. Un fou." (It's just a madman is all.)

Evidently he cares for animals a great deal. The shots have started again. Half an hour more must I endure the sound of gun-toting madmen. At least the barrel is not aimed at me momentarily.

Maxx.

Duendé

Dear Diary,

Low lying clouds of fog kiss the tops of the hills, shrouding the trees and blanketing the sky on a dull Tuescoday morning. On the beginning of a journey up-north to visit my old man, to practice playing in his new rock 'n roll band. I left my belovèd blonde country-girl paramour at the bus stop after spending another sweat soaked marathon last night, just before watching Jackie Brown. Perhaps guiltily I think Jane Fonda plays a magnificent role in that flick. Janie'd prolly be so jealous so I'd best not go down that track. Anyhow.

Reluctantly re-awakening to a sticky bed snuggle, subsequent shower, slices of toast, I set off for Worcester. Snuggles in synchronicity, duendé, that moment of parallel pleasure, nostalgia, making memories, making love.

My maiden and I have many shared interests: growing gormet mushrooms, cultivating cuisine herbs, viticulture, distilling, mixing magick potions from the 'shrooms, 'erbs, and strong drink. What a woman. I wrote her a poem in my calligraphic hand, she's painting me a picture, I'll write her a song.

Another local artist painted me last weekend. I asked to buy the original, I am playing the guitar in the master-piece.

I am still feeling warm and fuzzy. A week away from my paramour may be a long week. Rock 'n roll!

Stay On the Flex,

Maximus.

Post-Script: (at 10:30 Great British-SummerTime) Thinking about it some more, Sweet Hazy Janie and I have much more in common that transcends injesting victuals, merely becoming sedated through psycadelic colourful concoctions: strange brew giving us giggles. Aye. The fact my new maiden knew the Latin names for the monogomy tree genus, she's addicted to time team, archæology, and in particular local history. When on the blower to my old man last night it was nice her understanding the words grockles: emmits; when my northerner pataphamelius was blissfully unaware of such yokel idiom.

We both gave up drinking cyder.

We're now bang-on real-ale instead, Proper Job, arrr!

As I am departed from my belovèd Janie I spied a lone magpie, then a solitary deer, and yet another lone magpie - perhaps the same one.

Janie has cats - the avian allies ancient enemy - which follow her to the shops and all about town. Four cats, one dog, and two sprogs all now grown up.

I noticed Weymouth still thriving after the Olympic sprawl. I managed to make my connection okay. I am buzzing, getting well into learning about the ethics of displaying remains in museums. Stay the f- On the Flex Maxy.

Post-Post Script: I just spotted another lone magpie. That's thrice today.

Journey

Dear Diary,

Man! What a night! I did a gig on Bay Day, many other bands were on, they were all very average. Maxy got back together with the other element of Maxwell's Silver Hammer. We played a private party afterwards. It kicked ass!

I am off on a journey, but not before seeing Janie. This is the start of something new, snuggley, and very blitzed. Hazy Jane we both like by Nick Drake.

Their are but two reasons why I blog again. One, yesterday a close friend said "Max, you always tell everybody everything, it's not your business." I replied, "No I don't." He said "Oh yes you do!" Like panto'. Anyhow I though "F- it!" I blog again. Okay, now I will tell almost everything.

Secondly because I'm still banned from the Uni' blogosphere, for reasons ... just reasons.

I am compiling a lot of study notes on Amphoræ for publication when (indeed if) I'm allowed back. I am also re-working the anthem I composed for them.

Time for ale on tap and Janie on toast. Cheers!

Maxy Waxy xx

Fresh Start

Dear Diary,

Much hath happened since we past spoke, ever dearest diary. Too much. Too much.

Imagine a sandy-haired woman, possessed of a pair of ice blue eyes, as azured two turquoise gemstones. A potential partner: an artist, an historian, a gardner. So, Maxy became very drunk and all the rest, the trimmings borne of debauched journeys filled with smokey haze, lost eyes, and pulsing hearts. Throbbing unsated lust. A sea of music. No-one knows the ins and outs of this affair save the two parties concerned.

"Janie" is a pagan, an open minded horticulturalist, about my age, perhaps a half a dozen anné on me. It's all good. If any of you who've read my diary before will know that this Phœnix has been through some tought times: know that now is the high-time. A shift in biorythym to a positive pulse, a good vibration, made up of getting blitzed, having fun, and finding someone special. Love. The first beginnings of euphoric relations. A great feeling.

The usual euphoric initial ecstasy and soon inevitable accompanying misery. Alas, Maximus Fleximus grins and bears the absoloutely ordinary feelings of sadness, jealousy, fear, insecurity, and mutual understanding. What else remains apart from the glue? (Sex)

Not a lot, is what.

Maxx