Friday 31 August 2012

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.

Thursday 30 August 2012

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.

Wednesday 29 August 2012

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.

Tuesday 28 August 2012

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.

Monday 27 August 2012

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.

Sunday 26 August 2012

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

Friday 24 August 2012

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.

Thursday 23 August 2012

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.

Wednesday 22 August 2012

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.

Tuesday 21 August 2012

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.

Monday 20 August 2012

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.

Sunday 19 August 2012

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.

Saturday 18 August 2012

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.

Thursday 16 August 2012

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.

Tuesday 14 August 2012

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.

Monday 13 August 2012

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

Sunday 12 August 2012

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