Well, no little green men have deigned to read my blog so there goes my chance of fame and fortune. Nobody has looked at it, in fact, but what the hell, it's my own thoughts I'm collecting. If I'm sharing them into a void, all I can say is "pearls before swine." A few swine offering feedback wouldn't go amiss. Following the master of the stream of consciousness, my fellow countryman, James Joyce, perhaps I'll just ramble through my brain awhile. As he was monumental, so it is that monuments come to mind as art forms and inspiration.
There's that great big rocky thing in the USA, Mount Rushmore; it's full of presidential faces, and very impressive it is too. Not that I've seen it in the flesh, or rock, so to speak, but I have seen the Angel of the North by Anthony Gormley. If you want to see an honest, forceful, meaningful piece of art, look at his Angel, preferably in the relevant setting of the real North of England. Be blown away.
I'm not working for the Yorkshire Tourist Board, I promise, but if you ever need your soul cleansed and your heart lifted, you will have to take a ride on the steam engines on the Worth Valley Railway. Get off at Hawarth station and take yourself into the Bronte parsonage, the church and the moors behind them. There you will feel the presence of Charlotte, and if you're lucky, like me, catch a fleeting glimpse of Emily and her little dog, far up the hills.
See how your stream of consciousness can move you from one rocky outcrop to another? I must go and put the washing machine through its paces. Hasta la vist, piggies, y hombres verde.