Job,
Purpose,
Routine.
The marks of the 21st century Western man.
Without any of the above, we are deemed to be unfulfilled in our lives

There are people risking theirs to find out what the above can give them.
The World is changing itself.
The last age of man awaits...

Sincerely Yours..

When you grow up, your heart dies.
A film from the middle of the eighties, young people realising who they are because of a Saturday morning detention. Their real selves eventually shown through their shared experience and ,of course, from their sharing of Judd Nelson's secret stash. Always a winner that  a secret stash.

For everything we show as our public face there are a thousand things that we don't.
Growing up kills so much of what we are.

The saddest thing in this modern first world hemisphere is that aspiration now comes down to getting a job and a house.
Anything else seems to have been misplaced.

I preferred Ally Sheedy when she was all in black.

For anyone who's interested

See you next Saturday....       

Here comes summer.

People drive their cars like they live their lives, erratically.
Summer heat brings on the urgency to get home and the roads become a snarling twisted hell of potential tragedy.
We all think we're safe in our metal boxes and we go for it..full pelt. It only increases the tension and the number of times you hear the sirens coming up from behind.
All is stop start and back sweat slowly making its way down to the cold puddle it's making in the seat of your trousers.
Yes, summer's here and the time is right...

some sort of freedom.

Sitting in the late evening sun, the new way of writing in my hand. It's amazing how such a small leap forward can make such a big difference. No longer restrained by my own set limits, mobile and able to write as and when I feel.
You convince yourself you're one thing and you're mostly lying to yourself.
Turning points...don't look for them.
Just recognise them when they show up..

That's the thing with catching up with technology, you realise what you've been missing.
Imagine Bukowski with a mobile...