Shadows.

A Friday night,
and souls are dead
from pressures of a ticking world.
But as they sit, their sorrow
buried in a glass,
the band takes up the stage.

The humming warm-up catches their attention
And they begin to play.
Bouncing to the jolly tap of bongos
the sax exuberantly wails,
on top of rasping trumpet,
running up and down the scales,
like Tigger on vacation.
The bass adds gravity
and soon the shadows of the week,
are hiding in the corner.

On and on they play,
mingling melodies daringly.
The sax and trumpet mimic,
Take the other’s lead,
Pushing the limits.
And the beat bounds on.

An audience shakes loose
And one by one
The shadows start to dance.

SNOW DAY.

Something broke my sleep at 4am, and an ethereal halo of white seeped through my misted windows. And, having arched myself upright to see, I flumped back under duvet, content in the notion that I could awaken to a cosy, useful Snow Day – the kind where you snuggle in the warmth, content to be penned in, and there, creative juices flow.

Then, at 9.15, consciousness once more prevails. But as I shed my warm cocoon, the snow’s begun to melt, and my family bustles in their usual way, around my airy prison, and I am filled with icy gloom. There’s no way I can make it work!

Until, by 3, somehow, my state of mind returns to that of ‘Writer – Not To Be Whitewashed’ and I settle, with tea and toast in true Snow Day fashion, at my PC.

For the hours, I meddle with the dialogue between Mother and Son, but despite my efforts, I cannot steer them towards Dillan and his lust for the Guy At The Bar. I mean, what is it gonna take – someone waving manically at them and pointing? Or, the Guy to introduce himself – “ Hi there Foreigner, now if you don’t mind, we’ll just make out, then take our son and be off, before you scar him.”?

Hmm, maybe it needs a different approach. Perhaps I could have them all killed in a drive-by shooting (convicts on the brink of desperation as their cravings mount for The Loungeroom’s champagne trifle – need you ask!). That way, all issues of plot-flow are of no consequence.

Leaves a lot to be desired though. I think I’ll write some poetry.

Happy Families!

The kittens are enormous, their eyes (well the lads' eyes anyway) are opening, and you can actually tell them apart. Although it's harder on camera. Golliath's enormous, and his face is flatter and fluffier than the other 2. Baghera is the most active, and at the moment, has one eye which opens fully, and the other only a tiny bit. And little meg has full jet black tabby markings! They're all fab. And I just had to share them with you again.

Dinner time - it's no wonder they're so big! 

There's Baghera... 

...Little Meg 

... And finally, Goliath

It's all so fake, I'll have no part in it.

Creepy pre-dawn light invading my privacy as I finally collided with my bed at 3.15, my mind insistently continued its spin-cycle of thought and try as I might the plug would not come out. So, I lay there, filled with irritation for All That Is Now, and beneath that a desperate lust for the jungle of Borneo.

Half an hour later, staring at a ceiling tragically void of stars or leafy canopy, I listened to a Mood CD entitled Sound Of The Jungle which magically appeared in my collection a few months ago. But as I lay there, my aggrivation mushroomed like an airbag in a roll-over because, here's the thing - the jungle doesn't sound like that!!

Even discounting the bizzarre accompaniment of pan pipes which supposedly enhances the whole thing, it wasn't right. It's quieter, for one thing, and you hear much more of wind-tree friction than you do annoying cacophony of insects birds and howling monkeys. Of course, that's not to say you cannot hear these things - the crickets, for one, don't ever stop for breath. But this pre-recorded shite is so off balance; the symphony won't happen in a 4 bar phrase.

And in the real world, there's space between the monkeys and the thunder to hear the silent noises of your being - the rise and fall of your chest, the scratching as you roll over - carefully lest you crash into a fellow traveller.

And there's one last resonating jungle-creator that the producers of my mood forgot - The snoring of Pantera-Man and Jungle-Bunny Dave!

Sharing's Half the Fun - The Route of Death

3 people today asked to see some of my writing, out of the blue and with no real reason. And then, I get an e-mail from a long-forgotten writing pal, with the prompt 'Write about the process of sharing your work with others.' Must be some weird planetary sign, or, more likely, a bunch of folk in kick-butt mode. So. Here goes.

Um - did you see that programme on TV, 'Anatomy for Beginners'? With the creepy dude in the Pratchett Hat and freaky smile, slicing and prodding all the alien slime of the human body, extracting it for all to see. Well, that's what it's like, and I, like the audience on 'Anatomy', can only attend in awkward excitement; no part to play, and little understanding of his odd ruminations. And every bit what makes the show.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

She exhales forcefully through tightened jaw, handing him the almost-pristene pages.

He reclines artistically into his chair, and she wonders whether he's really that relaxed as she shuffles forwards awkwardly, unable to still her hands and feet as she tries to fathom his expression.

He sucks in his breath, and she catches hers sharply as his pencil makes a mark she cannot see. And as he flicks from one page to the next, she twitches, fighting the urge to pounce upon his form.

Engrossed, he sits, as he's carried by her words. And suddenly, panic wells inside her chest - who is this guy? What does he know, what does he really know about her art?.

She slows her breath deliberately, and though she cannot quite avert her eyes, she tries to think of something else. Idly, as she half observes him, her mind runs over what he reads, and before she can catch herself, she's second guessing his conclusions.

Finally, the torment peaks, as he lowers paper, closes his eyes for a moment and exhales. He's done trudging back and forth across her art, at least for now. As he lifts his head, and focuses on her, with honest, frank expression, a final lurch of panic jolts inside, for he has insight now, into more than he may ever know.

And in the seconds before the words sink in, she can only hope he wont abuse his power.

Asymmetrical.

Having been told firmly, on countless seperate occassions, that I'm neglecting my blog, I return once more, tail between my legs with a stack of excuses that, all in all, don't add up to much. Apart from work (another unmentionable bestselling tale - why is my life full of them?!?), there've been a few pleasurable distractions of late - not least the concept of LEAVING - not just work, but EVERYTHING, to travel the world and be paid in the process. Although only a dream, it's the best I have right now. Saw Rach last week! Woohoo!!! and my cat produced 3 balls of silken black-as-the-nothing joy.

The Journey

The seats in Standard crammed with far more snobs than decent folk - their fuzzy woolen blazers, laptops and discerning stares - I have no hope of finding space. Wandering through First, oddly-ordinary-in-appearance children clamber next to parents before, in southern accent too familiar, making jovial remarks on peckishness whilst scrutinising menu - and it makes me wonder what narrow thoughts they'll entertain upon entry to adulthood. Still - no chance have I, in trendy-slob jumper, trailing sneaker lace and hard-worn pack, of gaining entry into exclusivity of plush and serviced travel. So on I march, squeezing past a knee or bag with every dozen hardly-balanced steps, longing for the joy of coffee, cake and nothingness with friends.

And only when I reach the end do I find solace.

Beyond the final carriage, a small rough-carpeted, dust-encrusted vestibule where I can lower pack and lounge, albeit in said dust, in true hard-knocks glad-to-be-here fashion which so many scorn.

With nowhere beyond, I'm rarely disturbed except by grinning puzzled employees with seethrough bags of empty-package trash, seeming glad of friendly word opposing dominating scorn of seated folk. I dont suppose they quite know what to make of it.

And so, notebook and coke in hand, and pack with travel guide to sustain my muse, I write.

I note the extra-bumpiness of front-train travel, as perfect words in mind, become jagged foreign forms upon the page, and with each twist or change of track a giant thumping crack gives mini adrenaline shock to fragile mind.

At each station, I'm reminded of a world outside my awkward haven as the doors open, with piston hiss, and the outer environment seeps into mine - with each stop the decreasing light is paramount to increasing sogginess of air but neither has effect on pleasant chill, which I suspect is vicious when exposed. It does however, decrease the level of smoky, choking fumes seeping from smokers pit behind me.

Further on, my ears are assaulted by sparking squeal of parts on rails beneath me, and mechanical monotone buzzing which I hope like hell is normal.

Withe each passing train, a rush of air's exchanged by both, I assume, andsound like door has opened - it takes a glance to reassure myself each time.

Each stop we make, the incoming breeze has different taste to it, and when we hit Westgate's sweet crispness of clean North air, I know that I am almost home.

And only on the final 15 minute leg do my travel receptors start to fade, as I think of things to do once there; a more productive, sociable occassion. Still, I have enjoyed the journey, and the chanceto share it with my pen and pad.

There was the Cultural Enlightenment... ( I AM the owl, and no, we are not French!) 

A few small revelations 

Coffee, OBVIOUSLY! 

And of course - Dinner and Booze, Bizzarre Talk and a lot of Laughter. 

Joy-Demon 1. 18hrs old. 

Proud Mummy - Druci and the Trio of Joy-Demons.