Nav Logan's Blog
April 15, 2016
The Graveyard
The air was still, save for the occasional hawking of sullen crow, and the far off whine of a forgotten hound. I strolled slowly through the rusty graveyard, pausing here and there to imagine the stories that each of the discarded hulls would tell, if only they could speak.
Some, were evidently ancient. They had lived a long and fruitful existence, before coming to their final resting place. Their thick skins and bulky form were mute testament to the quality of the steel used in bygone eras. They don’t make cars like they used to, built to last.
Others were newer, and had lived shorter lives. These had not died slowly of old age, but had been torn violently from life, and ripped asunder. Their bodies dragged here, still seeping their life’s blood, to be abandoned; beyond repair. Their fate: to be stripped down for anything still worthy of consideration.
Turning the corner, I stopped in my tracks. There, at the end of a small cul-de-sac, stood a strange steel edifice. At first, it seemed out of place. On further consideration, it seemed oddly appropriate to find it here, amongst the dead.
A rusty old girder had been driven into the hard packed dirt, another welded on to it at an askew angle. I knew that it was supposed to represent a cross, though the angles were all wrong. Despite that, for some reason it worked. Lashed and welded to the rusted orange steel was an array of stainless silver piping, forming the robotic manikin of the dying Christ. Rusty iron bolts had been drilled through the cleverly-crafted hands and feet, and a coil of razor wire decorated the glittering steel head.
The artist, whoever they were, had even taken the time to splatter brass soldering around the bolts; the metal Christ figure bleeding droplets of golden blood. More brass droplets dribbled down the side of the body from a rough gash in the trunk of the sculpture. This, I knew, was to signify the spear that pierced the side of the son of God.
I looked up into the scarred face, staring deeply into the dark black eyes of the figurine. The artist had used a pair of welding goggled for these and steel wool for its bedraggled, rusty hair. The effect was somewhat haunting.
I am not a religious man, despite the best efforts of the nuns during my childhood, or perhaps because of it, but I was still moved by the pain I sensed within the steel body. Despite my firm atheism, I felt moved to be in the presence of this idol.
I had to wonder who had placed this statue here, and why?
Did the owner of the scrap yard come here at night to pray, or did he even know of the statue’s existence amidst the acres of steel, Plexiglas and mouldering rubber?
Was this shrine build for the dead cars, so that their spirits could be at peace as they slowly rotted away into the dirt?
In a hundred years, could you excavate the oil-tainted soil beneath my feet and find the rusty bones of an old Ford in the latter stages of decomposition?
I slowly got onto my knees to say a silent, and somewhat ironic, prayer to the souls of the dead around me. I may not have a Christian bone left in my body, but my spirit was pure petrol-head.
Some, were evidently ancient. They had lived a long and fruitful existence, before coming to their final resting place. Their thick skins and bulky form were mute testament to the quality of the steel used in bygone eras. They don’t make cars like they used to, built to last.
Others were newer, and had lived shorter lives. These had not died slowly of old age, but had been torn violently from life, and ripped asunder. Their bodies dragged here, still seeping their life’s blood, to be abandoned; beyond repair. Their fate: to be stripped down for anything still worthy of consideration.
Turning the corner, I stopped in my tracks. There, at the end of a small cul-de-sac, stood a strange steel edifice. At first, it seemed out of place. On further consideration, it seemed oddly appropriate to find it here, amongst the dead.
A rusty old girder had been driven into the hard packed dirt, another welded on to it at an askew angle. I knew that it was supposed to represent a cross, though the angles were all wrong. Despite that, for some reason it worked. Lashed and welded to the rusted orange steel was an array of stainless silver piping, forming the robotic manikin of the dying Christ. Rusty iron bolts had been drilled through the cleverly-crafted hands and feet, and a coil of razor wire decorated the glittering steel head.
The artist, whoever they were, had even taken the time to splatter brass soldering around the bolts; the metal Christ figure bleeding droplets of golden blood. More brass droplets dribbled down the side of the body from a rough gash in the trunk of the sculpture. This, I knew, was to signify the spear that pierced the side of the son of God.
I looked up into the scarred face, staring deeply into the dark black eyes of the figurine. The artist had used a pair of welding goggled for these and steel wool for its bedraggled, rusty hair. The effect was somewhat haunting.
I am not a religious man, despite the best efforts of the nuns during my childhood, or perhaps because of it, but I was still moved by the pain I sensed within the steel body. Despite my firm atheism, I felt moved to be in the presence of this idol.
I had to wonder who had placed this statue here, and why?
Did the owner of the scrap yard come here at night to pray, or did he even know of the statue’s existence amidst the acres of steel, Plexiglas and mouldering rubber?
Was this shrine build for the dead cars, so that their spirits could be at peace as they slowly rotted away into the dirt?
In a hundred years, could you excavate the oil-tainted soil beneath my feet and find the rusty bones of an old Ford in the latter stages of decomposition?
I slowly got onto my knees to say a silent, and somewhat ironic, prayer to the souls of the dead around me. I may not have a Christian bone left in my body, but my spirit was pure petrol-head.
April 10, 2016
Georgina the Crazy Cat Woman’s Next Blockbuster Novel
Georgina has been struggling to write all morning, but the kittens keep distracting her. The big tomcat: ‘Murder’, is sitting on her lap, purring contentedly, whilst his offspring squabble on the rug. Occasionally, the older cats wade into their fray and mayhem ensues.
‘Wedding’ flicks her tail eagerly, looking for her next victim. Meanwhile, ‘Rape’ and ‘Regicide’ are basking in the morning sun, bellies bloated after their latest adventure.
Georgina gives up on the latest novel and watches the kittens at play, especially the runt of the litter: ‘Tyrion’, who learned early to avoid the wrath of the old tomcat.
‘Wedding’ flicks her tail eagerly, looking for her next victim. Meanwhile, ‘Rape’ and ‘Regicide’ are basking in the morning sun, bellies bloated after their latest adventure.
Georgina gives up on the latest novel and watches the kittens at play, especially the runt of the litter: ‘Tyrion’, who learned early to avoid the wrath of the old tomcat.
March 21, 2016
El Diablo
We called the mountain, “El Diablo.” The demon within kept us awake every night.
We knew that it was only a matter of time before the mountain erupted. That time was fast approaching.
The violent trembling had started late the previous evening. The seismic activity was only getting worse. Another earthquake shuddered through me, barely a minute after the last one. It was even more violent.
I let out a shriek of agony and gripped my husband’s arm. He tried not to show his fear.
The volcano was about to erupt.
“The cervix has reached eight centimeters!” informed the midwife.
We knew that it was only a matter of time before the mountain erupted. That time was fast approaching.
The violent trembling had started late the previous evening. The seismic activity was only getting worse. Another earthquake shuddered through me, barely a minute after the last one. It was even more violent.
I let out a shriek of agony and gripped my husband’s arm. He tried not to show his fear.
The volcano was about to erupt.
“The cervix has reached eight centimeters!” informed the midwife.
March 7, 2016
Great Plans of Mice and Cats
The front door slams and I lever myself up from the couch. At last, she’s gone! Now to put my plan into action.
The plan is simple, and arguably, fool proof. All I need do is drink.
I set about my task, one mouthful at a time.
It proves to be more difficult than I’d first anticipated, but by midday, I can start to see some results.
My ‘glass’ is half full, or half empty depending on your viewpoint.
By mid-afternoon, I’m so bloated that despite my success, I haven’t the stomach to eat the goldfish.
What a wasted day!
The plan is simple, and arguably, fool proof. All I need do is drink.
I set about my task, one mouthful at a time.
It proves to be more difficult than I’d first anticipated, but by midday, I can start to see some results.
My ‘glass’ is half full, or half empty depending on your viewpoint.
By mid-afternoon, I’m so bloated that despite my success, I haven’t the stomach to eat the goldfish.
What a wasted day!
February 20, 2016
The Lap Dancer
I think she was drunk. Call it a hunch, but the way she staggered around the room gave it away. I tried not to make eye contact as I sidled around the dancers and found a shadowy corner to lurk in.
The disco lights flashed. The silver ball twinkled, and the funky beat rumbled through the floorboards.
Too late. She’d spotted me, and staggered over.
“Hey! Where’s my kiss?” she demanded; over-waxed lips puckering for the kill. Leaning over, she lost her balance and spilled into my lap.
There is nothing more terrifying than being lap danced by your aunt.
The disco lights flashed. The silver ball twinkled, and the funky beat rumbled through the floorboards.
Too late. She’d spotted me, and staggered over.
“Hey! Where’s my kiss?” she demanded; over-waxed lips puckering for the kill. Leaning over, she lost her balance and spilled into my lap.
There is nothing more terrifying than being lap danced by your aunt.
February 11, 2016
Yoga For Beginners
Simon bounds into the living room, dressed in an eye-watering lycra outfit. It’s yoga time. Reluctantly, I drag myself off the couch to join him as he rolls out his mat.
We start with a few simple moves: The Childs Pose. The Cat, and the Down Dog, then the Cobra.
I’m thinking to myself, I’ve got this, but then Simon starts to shape up for some of the more challenging positions.
He goes into the Standing Bow Pulling pose, knowing I can’t get that one.
I lie down and lick my balls.
Never try to outdo a dog at yoga.
We start with a few simple moves: The Childs Pose. The Cat, and the Down Dog, then the Cobra.
I’m thinking to myself, I’ve got this, but then Simon starts to shape up for some of the more challenging positions.
He goes into the Standing Bow Pulling pose, knowing I can’t get that one.
I lie down and lick my balls.
Never try to outdo a dog at yoga.
February 9, 2016
Death Loop
You replay my death over and over, Mondays through Fridays without respite. Relentlessly, you drag me back for more. Just when I’m about to give up on life and slip toward the light, you cut me free from the wreckage and patch me up, ready for another go.
Not content to watch me suffer, you drag my family along for the ride.
I watch with pleading eyes as you strap my wife in, my daughter in. You didn’t even bother to secure little Timmy in place before hurtling us toward the brick wall.
I hate being a crash test dummy.
Not content to watch me suffer, you drag my family along for the ride.
I watch with pleading eyes as you strap my wife in, my daughter in. You didn’t even bother to secure little Timmy in place before hurtling us toward the brick wall.
I hate being a crash test dummy.
February 3, 2016
The Blue Haired Tattooed Island
No man is an island, they say, but I know that they are wrong, so wrong.
I am Legend. A man surviving alone in a world overtaken by a zombie apocalypse, with no one to talk to apart from his ever-loyal pet.
Sitting on the park bench feeding the ravenous pigeons, I am numb save the music pounding through my brain. It is the hidden violence that I try to suppress, but sometimes, I need to screaming aloud.
Stepping onto the tube, I ignore the dissatisfied masks that pen me in.
I am Samwell; forever trapped amongst the White Walkers.
I am Legend. A man surviving alone in a world overtaken by a zombie apocalypse, with no one to talk to apart from his ever-loyal pet.
Sitting on the park bench feeding the ravenous pigeons, I am numb save the music pounding through my brain. It is the hidden violence that I try to suppress, but sometimes, I need to screaming aloud.
Stepping onto the tube, I ignore the dissatisfied masks that pen me in.
I am Samwell; forever trapped amongst the White Walkers.
February 2, 2016
True Love
Their eyes met across a crowded room. Thankfully, first impressions don't always count, and Andy got away with that hideous tie choice, and Candy her overactive perm.
The next time their eyes met, they really looked at each other, rather than just a momentary glance. In that moment, love blossomed.
Granted, Andy’s five pints and Candy’s Rum and Cokes played their part in this budding romance.
The next morning they awoke together, a little sticky and feeling the effects of alcohol poisoning, but blissfully happy. After all, it had been months since either of them had had a good shag.
The next time their eyes met, they really looked at each other, rather than just a momentary glance. In that moment, love blossomed.
Granted, Andy’s five pints and Candy’s Rum and Cokes played their part in this budding romance.
The next morning they awoke together, a little sticky and feeling the effects of alcohol poisoning, but blissfully happy. After all, it had been months since either of them had had a good shag.
Ghost Love Scene (What Happened Next)
The jukebox clicks and starts playing, “Ohhhhh, my love… my darling …I’ve hungered for your touch…” as I sidle up behind you and kiss your neck.
You moan softly and your pot wobbles and collapses in on itself. A classic piece of art gone forever as my hands roam your scantily-clad body.
Together, we try throwing another pot, but we soon get distracted by our need to kiss.
The song continues….
We dance slowly together and then, still kissing, collapse on the bed.
The song ends, clicks, and the next record starts to play, “Ooo-oooooo-oooh, Ooo-oooooo-oooh, Everybody was Kung-Fu fighting…”
You moan softly and your pot wobbles and collapses in on itself. A classic piece of art gone forever as my hands roam your scantily-clad body.
Together, we try throwing another pot, but we soon get distracted by our need to kiss.
The song continues….
We dance slowly together and then, still kissing, collapse on the bed.
The song ends, clicks, and the next record starts to play, “Ooo-oooooo-oooh, Ooo-oooooo-oooh, Everybody was Kung-Fu fighting…”
