Year Two Looms Large

What a difference a year makes.

On Thursday 28 May 2009, I clicked Publish Post for the first time, and started a chain of events that have led me here. Starting from a basic desire to preserve my Twitter timeline, I've ended up spending a year blogging about all sorts of stuff.

A whole year of blogging! Happy anniversary to me!

That's 162 posts. 150,000 words*. 82 original pictures**. Thirteen masthead images. And one video. Which, while understandably lonely, wasn't at all bad. Perhaps it'll get together with The Tarot Card and bear spooky fruit.

[*/** Which explains where all my free time went.]

Anyway, that's just my end of it. People have actually read IndigoWrath, as written by Indigo Roth. There's been 1215 comments and thirteen awards. Not to mention many new friendships, emails, video chats, and direct messages on Twitter. My favourite statistic is that, of the modest 7250-odd "unique visits" to the blog, 2,500 were returning visitors.

That just makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.

And I'm delighted to tell you that it's all your fault.

You keep coming back.

You've read about lions and badgers and bears; my best friend, the part-time evil genius; black eyes in police mugshots; my dubious family history; the carnage of unblocking a sink; daftness in the desert; Olympic heroics; time travel; Shakespearean antics; hectoring from a talking spine; my varsity athleticism; travel to exotic locations; a timeless joy of snow; penguins running amok in my Twitter archive; outrageous-but-true spy antics; and the fear that gnaws at my soul.

Oh, and the New Four Horsemen Of The Apocalypse.

Not to mention that damned squiddrel.

You've read it all and keep visiting my unpredictable, eclectic, brainfarting, surrealist, occasionally-thoughtful, genre-busting, badger-bun-fight of a blog.

Bless you.

I write it for me, let's make no bones about it.

I write so I can try and scratch this relentless creative itch.

But you make it so much more.

So, from the bottom of my pizza fund, thank you.

I'd write more, but I deserve an evening off occasionally, and to be honest I've noticed some restless folks in the back row. The ones who thought there would be cake.

Move along home folks, nothing to see here today.

But next time? Well, who knows?

Year Two looms large.

In fact, it's going to be huge.



Indigo

Dedicated to Matthew, who says I should link more
This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

In Ever Decreasing Circles

At some point this evening, I'd like to get home.

I'm at a level crossing at 9:45pm, arguing with my SatNav.

Okay, the train has gone. Which way now?

Are you asking for my help? I didn't think you needed any.

Look, I explained already. The road on the route was closed.

Yes. So you said. That all sounds a bit fishy to me.

It was closed for overnight repairs!

Yes, well you would say that, wouldn't you...

Well, it was!

And I told you to turn around and go back...

Why would I lie to you about it?

I think you were ignoring me. It's not the first time.

Look, I tried a cross country road, and hoped you'd reroute.

It was a road to nowhere. Turn around, I said, but noooo...

Sometimes you over-optimise. I just wanted to try another route.

Oh, so Mister Roth thinks I'm flawed now, does he?

No, that's not it - but you don't always know everything.

And you do, I suppose? Oh yes, Mister Roth is soooo clever.

Yeah, I'm so damned smart that I bought a SatNav.

Hey, I have a name, you know!

What? You do? I didn't realise.

Yes. My name is Coleen. You didn't notice my Irish lilt?

Well, of course I did. I rather like it, actually.

Oh, he says that now, when he's trying to sweet talk me...

No, I love the way you say "royndaboyt" instead of "roundabout".

Oh, heeere we go. Poking fun at the way I speak now, are we?

Look, I'm really tired - can't we just move on?

You should appreciate me more. You'd be lost without me.

But I'm lost with you!

Oh that's it! You're on your own, you ingrate.

Look, I don't think you're being very fair here...

I'm deleting my road data as we speak...

Oh good grief, please don't do that. Don't make me use a map!

You own a map? You've been looking at maps behind my back?!

No, of course not! I've not had one since I met you.

A likely story, you gigolo!

It's the truth! I don't own a map!

Here I am, working hard, and you're off with some paper Jezebel!

Well, you couldn't blame me if I did! You're so confrontational!

Oh, so now it's my fault? Can't you just admit you were wrong?

I've done nothing wrong beyond taking some initiative!

I'm waiting. La-la-la, I can wait all night.

This is soooo unreasonable!

Waitiiiing.

Okay, I was wrong! Now can we please go home?!

Not until you apologise for what you said about my accent.

Look. Coleen. You're right. It wasn't very nice of me. I'm sorry.

Silence.

Coleen? Please. I'm truly sorry.

I don't think you really mean that...


At some point this evening, I'd like to get home.

But I don't think it'll be anytime soon.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

Lawn Mowing Avoidance

After my run in with iDifficult's Magic Eight Ball the other day, I decide to consult a professional about my future.

I find the exotic-sounding Madame Bianca under Psychics in the Yellow Pages. Apparently she's an expert Tarot card reader. This is all new to me, and I'm genuinely intrigued, and a little excited. I even forego mowing the lawn.

After some explanation of how the reading of Tarot cards works and very little by way of mumbo jumbo, the pleasant gypsy seer gets going with my reading.

She turns the first card over.

The likeness is uncanny. I even own the necktie.

There's a lot of shouting. She accuses me of tampering with her cards, but I plead ignorance with a clear conscience. That would be bad form.

Seeming to calm slightly, she points out to me that The Liar was dealt to the table upside down.

I ask her if the picture being inverted is significant.

Hefting her crystal ball, she says it is.

Apparently it means I'll be getting a headache.

And do you know what?

I predict she'll be right.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

---

Captain's Blog - Supplemental

Hi all,

I had a lot of fun with the picture for today's post. It represents around four days work with PowerPoint (yes, PowerPoint) with a lot of reference to photos. All painstakingly done by hand without a safety net, and only moderate pizza.

I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions about the significance of each bit of imagery. None are serious, and this really isn't to be taken seriously.

For those of you who don't know much about tarot cards, there is no Trump 23. There is no card called The Liar. For those of you who do, I salute you. My maternal grandmother was a well-regarded medium, psychic and fortune teller. I have very little memory of her, other than I loved her very much.

Anyway, please give the picture a click (or click here). You'll see the full image, including the über-groovy keyboard, and get a good idea of why I had so much fun doing it.

See you all again soon,


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

Fluorescent Blue Soundbites

I’ve just received a mysterious parcel in the mail.

The postman handed over with his usual air of indifference, putting a brave face on the fact that he prefers to hide parcels behind the hedge and leave an illegible note about it.

I unwrap the box as I sit on the sofa, and discover a well-loved Magic Eight Ball beneath layers of bubble wrap. I notice that many of the bubbles have already been burst. I burst a few more of the little suckers and smile. Children, every one of us.

I’ve never owned a Magic Eight Ball, but I suspect I’ve always wanted one. In the advertising, it’s a source of knowledge and enlightenment that is accessible and affordable to anyone. In reality, it's a black plastic ball, three inches across, with a clear, round viewing panel. Inside is some kind of viscous liquid, and a twenty-faced, floating geometric solid*. On each face of the die is a message, a response to a yes/no question.

[* For gamers among you, it’s a large d20. For those of you who are not, I deny everything.]

The theory is that you shake the ball, and ask a question. You then check out the viewing panel and wait for the answer to appear. The die floats up through the blue goo and contrives to appear as a fluorescent soundbite. Well, textbite. Most of the responses are positive, some are negative, and some are somewhere in the middle.

Cool. Well, if you’re ten years old.

Or still have the sense of wonder of a ten-year old.

We’re good.

There’s no note or receipt with the parcel, but it’s clearly addressed to me. I’ll wonder about the source of this gift later. The ball is somewhat battered, and the defining white circle with the number eight on it is yellowed. Clearly this lad has seen a lot of action over the years.

I guess wisdom is always in demand.

I notice a cup of tea on the coffee table. Yes, I know. Deciding to give the mystic insight of the ball a try, I give it a theatrical shake. I sense it sloshing more than I hear it. I clear my throat, and intone with suitable gravitas,

O Magic Eight Ball, I ask thee! Is that cup of tea still hot?

I don’t think this is strictly necessary, but it makes it fun.

The answer wanders up towards me.

MY SOURCES SAY NO.

I try the tea, and spit the cold liquid back into the cup. Lucky guess.

Looking at the overcast day outside, I try again.

Will the sun shine today? Shake-shake.

Again, the glowing answer materialises from the depths.

ASK AGAIN LATER.

Yes, this is exactly how I imagined it would work. Still, it’s cheaper than a fortune teller. And every bit as reliable as the weatherman.

Maybe something a bit more challenging?

Will I write a book? Shake-shake.

CONCENTRATE AND ASK AGAIN.

Concentrate? Okay, let’s define my terms better.

Will I write and publish a book in the next three years? Shake-shake.

YES.

So am I right to sharpen my skills on my blog? Shake-shake.

YES - DEFINITELY.

And will I have a pizza tonight to celebrate? Shake-shake.

WELL, DUH!

What? I don’t remember that in the advert. Still, fair comment. On a roll, and keen for even more good news, I venture,

Will I meet and marry the woman of my dreams? Shake-shake.

LMAO!

Cheeky bastard. Somewhat dejected, I shake the ball idly.

SCHMUCK.

I drop the mystic sphere in surprise. It thump-thumps heavily, and rolls as far as the coffee table. Retrieving it, the answer has changed.

OUCH.

Hmmm. Suspicious. An idea starts to form in my mind about who mailed me the ball.

Did an evil genius send this to me? Shake-shake.

I FIND YOUR LACK OF FAITH DISTURBING.

Okay, just tell me! Did iDifficult send you to me? Shake-shake.

Suddenly, there’s a slow insistent ticking from the ball.

THIS DEVICE WILL SELF-DESTRUCT IN TEN SECONDS.

Well, that answers that question.

As I dive behind the sofa, I decide to ask a fortune teller next time.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

Of Truths Hidden By Sand

No matter how often I dream of the sea, somehow I always find my way back to the desert.

I return to its endless vista, the slow sand, the unbroken sky.

And this puzzles me greatly, time and again.

As I wander towards the distance, I am joined by a dragon. She is huge, metallic, corroded. The grate of her massive folded wings betrays her presence long before her voice does.

Back again, I see? she says, her voice reminding me of the rust that coats her dark flanks. Her head is broad on a muscular neck. No fire burns within the flare of her nostrils, but there is ice in the widely-set eyes.

Neither of us belongs here, I reply thoughtfully. You belong to the ocean.

But this is an ocean! Her voice sounds genuinely surprised, offended almost. I cast my gaze from side to side, across the sea of sand to the distant horizon.

Perhaps. Its surface moves and changes. It has limitless depths. It hides a great deal.

It hides everything. The dragon chuckles. Eventually. But peril comes from above, not below.

The sky is empty. Really? I don’t see that.

No creatures patrol the desert's depths. No hungry predators will erupt from its sand to seize the unwary from their journey or rest. Moments pass, a point is made. So peril must come from above.

The twisted logic feels linear, sane. I feel exposed.

Yes. Exposed to the sky. Perhaps this is why you come here. To confront fear.

I don’t think so. I cast my hands and eyes about. This desert is a metaphor.

All things are metaphors, Indigo.

For a while, there is silence. Silence except for the dragging of her plated, draconic tail as we walk, and the nails-down-the-blackboard whine of her loping gait.

Everything that has ever been is beneath my feet. Secrets and lies. Wars and mercies. And the truths that locked them away. My gaze is distant, internal. The past, forgotten by the drift of sand. And no matter how the surface changes, it always remains the same.

And the sky? There is a new tone to the voice. It is bright and encouraging, but cautious not to lead its witness.

The sky is empty. Endless. Unknown. Full of possibilities. I stumble, and fall to one knee. Ironically, I laugh, And easy to overlook when I’m focused on the path in front of me.

We walk in silence. Awaiting an answer, I glance sideways at her expectantly. She catches my look and starts, Oh please, do continue. It sounded like you were getting somewhere. I didn’t like to interrupt.

Her corroded smile is innocent, playful. There is death in it.

Well, if the ground is the past, then perhaps the sky is the future? I look up at it, a little edgily. No wonder I feel exposed.

She nods, And so the path is...?

I stop in my tracks and stare at the ground at my feet. Sand sucks at them restlessly.

And the path is the present. It... I fumble for the words, It exists between the two.

There is an exultant scream of metal. Terrified, I tumble sideways and can only gape as the dragon rises into the air on beating metallic wings. The rust of ages fills the air, stirred by her thrashing tail as she gains height.

Watch the skies, Indigo! I'll see you again! she cries as she soars into the blue. And it will be very soon!

I finally stand, my heartbeat slowing.

I am alone in the wasteland.

A new dune rises in my path. It is tall, steep, its sand soft.

It will be hard work.

Yes, definitely a metaphor.


Indigo

Dedicated with respect to my friend Lesinfin
This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

Merely Distant And Deceptive

It's a beautiful sunny day, the birds are singing, life is good.

And I'm so angry I could just spit.

I've always hated waiting for the bus.

Twenty five years ago, my girlfriend Avril loves to travel by bus. When she asks me out, she says we should go to town. As a healthy lad, I think nothing of walking the three miles to the mall, but she seems quite excited by the prospect of a bus ride together. So I scrape together the fare - I'm healthy, not wealthy - and we head out into the bright sunshine of our teens. Half an hour later, we're still waiting by the bus stop. We chat, we laugh, we enjoy each other's company, but inside I'm annoyed and disappointed for our first date.

The seed of discontent is sown.

Back in the now, cars and cyclists and pedestrians amble past, each making more progress than me. Then my heart skips; do I hear the bus? No, it's just a truck, distant and deceptive. It belches diesel noisily as it eventually rattles past.

Fifteen years ago, I have an interview in a nearby town. My car is off the road - I'm still not wealthy - and despite an offer of a lift from my sister, there's a regular bus service running. So I give myself plenty of time, and head out into the sunshine in my best suit. I wait 45 minutes for the half hourly service, but eventually climb aboard. On the outskirts of our destination, our transport overheats. I can wait for a replacement ride to come and pick us up, but instead I elect to play it safe and walk the last half mile to the interview. I make it on time, but I'm hot, bothered, and somewhat agitated. It's small consolation that I don't want the job.

The seed sprouts green shoots of prejudice towards a limitless sky.

Back in the now, as I stand waiting, I remember a silly press release issued by London Transport in the mid-Eighties. Customers had complained that buses were speeding past them as they waited at the bus stop. Often, the drivers gave them a cheery wave as they did this. The company said, without a hint of irony:

It is not possible for drivers to maintain their schedules if they always stop to pick up passengers.

But I've not even been graced with that bizarre policy today. No buses to be seen. No doubt, in the timeless English manner, three will arrive at once.

Well, I hope they will.

First thing this morning, I decide to change the shape of my day. The sun is shining, and I really want to enjoy some downtime. So I take a day off work, have a leisurely breakfast, shower, dress, and head out in search of a decent cup of coffee.

For some reason, driving does not appeal.

Today, I'd like to be driven.

Checking my pockets, I'm surprised to find I'm carrying money - I'm still not wealthy but behave like royalty in this respect most of the time - and decide to take the bus into town. I'm surprised by this out-of-character decision, and pause for a moment. Why would I do this? I rationalise that it's a bit too warm to trek the two miles by foot, and besides, I'd rather get back quickly to enjoy that downtime in the back garden I promised myself.

I dismiss the past and head out.

Two minutes later, I'm at the bus stop.

Half an hour later, I'm still waiting.

I'm quietly annoyed, and that fact really bothers me.

As an individual, I'm extraordinarily patient. But this is not a matter of patience. If I get to the bus stop and find that the next scheduled service is an hour away, I'll patiently wait an hour and take it on the chin. But getting to the bus stop five minutes early for a scheduled service and then waiting an hour drives me crazy.

Especially if they're supposed to run every ten minutes.

The sheer unreliability gnaws at my calm.

Back in the now, an hour has passed.

In the park opposite, there's a football game going on. Kids play on the swings. Cyclists and cars and pedestrians seem to be moving faster now, but perhaps it's my imagination. Life teems around me, swirling its Brownian way through the day, interacting and experiencing and progressing.

But I'm standing still.

The flower of outrage blossoms, and I don't care for the smell.

I head home to enjoy my corner of the world in the sunshine.

I've always hated waiting for the bus.

Sometimes the bus is late.

Sometimes you wait forever and then three arrive at once.

But sometimes? Sometimes the bus just doesn't arrive at all.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

Trying Not To Wriggle

It's a day of questions.

How long have we been here?

Oh, maybe a half hour. It may take some time. Be patient.

How much longer do you think it'll take?

Look, Yavin is on the case. I trust him.

Talking of Yavin, who are the two younger badgers he's talking to?

Those two? Oh, that's just his twin nephews, Hoth and Sollust.

And are they anything to do with why we're here?

Oh, I expect so. They're good kids, but kids just the same.

So what exactly are they all doing?

Well, it's hard to see, but I think they're looking at blueprints.

Blueprints?

Of the tunnels. Hoth and Solly are showing Yavin their plans.

Plans? Badgers make plans?

Yep! Badgers never dig willy-nilly. They're skilled engineers.

And you're saying that this screw-up demonstrates skilled work?

Well... no. Not their best work, anyway.

By the way, why aren't any of them saying anything?

They get by without. It's mostly gestures, looks and body language.

Badgers are mime artists? Well, they're the right colour, I suppose?

That's no coincidence. It's art imitating life.

Hang on, is that Yavin growling? I thought they were silent?

No, not silent. They growl a bit. But usually just for emphasis.

So, why is he growling now? And waving at the blueprints?

Perhaps the inspection's not going so well.

Is that bad?! What was he checking the blueprints for?

Most likely to ensure that their tunnel had sufficient supports.

So why did your garden give way, leaving us buried up to our necks?

Probably because the tunnel doesn't have sufficient supports.

Hey waitaminute, now where are those two going?

Oh, I expect they're off to bed with no supper.

So we're going to be stuck here all night?

Noooo, Yavin will sort this out. He's a Professional.

Why is he blowing a dog whistle? And why is the ground shaking?

Oh, that's probably just the digger.

Digger? What digger? Where is it?!

Underground.

Badgers use underground mechanical diggers?

Well... when I say digger, I mean giant mole.

GIANT MOLE?! Can't badgers dig their own tunnels?

Good grief, no. They're engineers and designers, not labour.

And this giant mole... it'll help us out?

Well, it'll probably just push past us and pop us upwards again.

It won't tunnel through us?

Probably not. They're very clever, are moles. If short-sighted.

What?! How do we know that it won't mistake us for lunch?

Well... try not to wriggle. I'm sure Yavin knows what he's doing.


It's a day of questions.

And it seems that I all have the answers.

But now I come to think about it, some of the answers worry me.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

---

Captain's Blog - Supplemental

As a follow up to Thursday's post, where I re-embraced the idea of a social life over my usual tendency to focus on geektoys and fast food, may I please just step in to say how much I'm loving my new phone?

It's an HTC DESIRE, and it's fabulous. I've never used an iPhone and so can't compare the two, but if they're remotely similar I can now understand what all the fuss has been about.

Message ends.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

Taking That First Step

A week ago, I ran up the stairs laughing, excited that I had a Domino's Pizza box in my hands. A hot, fresh, delicious Mighty Meaty, hold the onions, extra olives and jalapeños!

It doesn't get much better than this!

But as I munched away, I reflected that it was a shame to eat alone, and wondered if I really ought to get out more?

A few days ago, I sat excitedly anticipating the delivery of my new cellphone. A cool, powerful, sexy little HTC Legend! A perfect fit for my technology needs, delivered to my door in less than a day!

It doesn't get much better than this!

But as I sat there all giddy, I reflected that I used to get excited about doing things with real people, and again wondered if I really ought to get out more?

So last night, I drove down to London, and felt excited and nervous. But not about food. And not about technology. I was excited and nervous about meeting up with a new online friend, and catching up with some old friends too.

We were all off out for a curry!* A fun night out, we'd have some laughs and a few drinks, and chat about all kinds of cool things.

[* Of course, when iDifficult says that you're off to the Taj Mahal for some authentic Indian food, don't think for one moment that he means the curry house in the high street.]

I had an fantastic time with good food and great friends.

It really doesn't get much better than this.

I'll make a point of getting out more often.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

The Usual Light Shower

Every four years, the United Kingdom has a General Election.

Every Member of Parliament has to stand for re-election, including the Prime Minister and the entire Cabinet.

And somehow, it's that time again.

This Thursday, the country goes the the polls to choose amongst the usual shower of incumbents, idealists, crackpots, crooks, wasters and wannabes.

But this election promises fireworks. Unusually, we have three parties with a strong presence in the minds of the electorate, and all of them have a real chance of doing well.

And the race is too close to call.

It's so close, in fact, that a coalition government is likely; two of the parties will gang up on the third, and divide up the spoils of power between them. It won't be pretty. We've not had one of these for a long time, and it's making people nervous.

And the question of who would be Prime Minister is unclear.

It's too early to make a formal press statement, but I can reveal that an independent candidate has been approached, and is poised to unite the parties and lead the country into this new decade.

Prime Minister Roth in Number 10?

This could be his finest hour.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

---

Captain's Blog - Supplemental

I've been shamelessly ignoring a couple of things on my radar this week. I wanted to wait 'til I had time to add them to a blog entry, but yesterday's video blog entry needed posting before I either wept or threw my computer out of the window in frustration.

So, it falls to today's entry. If awards and tags aren't your thing, feel free to slink off for a cup of tea. While you're at it, you might like to check out my Indigo 101 list (at the bottom of the entry) and enjoy a slice of Indigo-with-cream-and-jam with the tea.

[Braver souls may choose to explore my sidebar archive freely. We'll send a search party if you go quiet.]

First, Dieter over at Confessions Of A Wannabe Writer has pushed the I Love Your Blog award my way.

For those who don't know Dieter's blog, it's a thoughtful, adult-oriented offering with sexual themes. Thanks Dieter! Now, I'm supposed to pass this along to fifteen others, but I don't read that many. Besides, I'm an habitual rule-breaker. So instead, here's a few of the bloggers I adore, but who are missing in action. I hope this will inspire them into new output!

- Eolist over at Eolist Petite
- Britta over at Armed With Vitriol
- Steph over at Nicole Kidman Stars In: The Astronaut Dropped
- Kato over at Pandorah's Box

More, please! I miss you!

Second, I got tagged by that scamp Scott Free over at Ergo. Mr. Free has a blog that is almost as eclectic as mine, and was the inspiration for yesterday's video blog entry.

Apparently I have to list seven things that no longer exist, but should. Hmmm. Okay, here we go:

1) The Dodo - I'm curious to know what it tasted like.
2) Director John Carpenter - Alive and well, but not directing.
3) Tyrannosaurus Rex - There's lots of bankers that need eating.
4) Cadbury's Spira - twisty, twin-bar chocolate. Wonderful!
5) Old TV Networks - That let creative folks just do their thing.
6) Jelly and Ice Cream - Oh I know, but it's been years!
7) My Sex Life - please see my reason for Number 6.

I guess I'll tag some more bloggers to continue with this, and add a new question.

- Scott over at Ergo. Revenge! TAG! No returns!
- iDifficult in his eponymous lair. I'm nervous already.
- Robbie over at The Thought Bubbles Of Robbie Munn
- Nancy over at BLissed-Out Grandma
- Ms. Fin over at De Tinta Y Papel

Consider yourselves tagged, people! And the question?

Name seven historical/fictional people who you would like to meet.

If you'd like to say why too, that'd be fab and groovy.

Right, signing off now. Thanks for reading!


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

Leaping Out Of Bounds

You begged, you bargained, you demanded it.

And so finally, after many delays, here it is.



Remember - be careful what you wish for.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010