I can love my fellow man, but damned if I’ll love yours

Cambridge-Town was a nightmare this afternoon on Satdeh. As all the fresh-faced new student intake arrive in order to start on Monday. So the population swells again, increasing by around a half, I think. Which in real terms is a quarter. Go work it out. OK, so it is closer to a third, but even so.

Which makes it both a blessing and a curse that I have a city centre (ish) free car parking space. And this car parking space is attached to the city centre (ish) office I spend a goodly part of my day. And behind this car park attached to the city centre (ish) office where I spend my day is New Hall, one of the female-only college. Oh, the things I have seen out my window. (And the things I can’t unsee. Like the conference middle-aged neekid people last week.) But we wonder, we wonder, we wonder. Who will replace Gallic smoking-chick? Or the lazy lesbians? Or the dead chick?

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More on phrasing. I have noticed, in all sorts of media, that people are using conflation as some sort of argument conclusion. It is starting to annoy me, because it is becoming more prevalent, and because it is such a sleight-of-thinking trick. If you aren’t totally on top of what is being said, lots of wool-pulling-over-eyes can go on, and does go on.

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I didn’t get much done I wanted this weekend, what with one thing or another. I have recording space, but it seems even from way down the other end of the garden, I still have the amp up too loud. The doors were open, mind.

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If I ventured to Horeb with news of the Tabernacle, would the cult billow with me?

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Somewhere he could hear the songs the stars sang, and with new senses he was aware in unimaginable ways of himself and everything about him, but above all and as never before knowing the totality of the companion moving with him.

Time is a distance