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This outdated mode of catagorisation has several 'culprits'.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not T.B.] Both Civ' and "Ages" (and ages and ages) of Empires, have essentially a colonial outlook, over a century out of date!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.