Sentimentality - doesn't it suck

Starting to move in the right direction to execute The Plan is doing nothing to quell the somewhat distracting yearning for the feelings only Being There can stir. Every other thought is of the jungle, of strange skies and unknown lurking beasts; of foods I’ve never tasted but can almost feel dissolving on my tongue, and a host of other things I have not time to share.

Fern Gully, a movie I haven’t seen for years, was on TV today and in the name of memory, my mom and I settled to watch it, complete with tea and toast. Just like we used to. I started out thinking, ‘Fuck, it’s SO well drawn, and so well put together. I love this thing’. But it was not long before the depiction of droplets of rain bouncing from the leaves, the sound of rain and of rainforest fauna, the mingling greens and browns, and the ‘hearing the forest’ energy of the film was all I heard and saw, and I longed to jump right in, like in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. If only.

Fresh pineapple butchery in my kitchen made me long to walk the streets of Kuching for the best pineapple in the world, served in smiling hunks by grinning elders outside every temple.

Yesterday, Lenny Henry battled on the screen with inhabiting the Amazon rainforest, fearful of nocturnal senses that I loved – the noises in the enveloping darkness thicker than anything you’ve ever known, and not knowing what’s sharing space with you. And speaking to a friend who thinks I’m crazy, but indomitable, I realised how wrong she was; far from being afraid of travel, a sense which I would have to conquer, naturally, I am truly comforted by the very act of going.

It’s strange to realise with certainty that you feel safest, feel most real, when unsettled in unfamiliar plains.

Ugh, Laundry! (The finer things in life.)

I need to come up with something to take to Borders - it’s rolled around far quicker than it should, and I have no time to write. Need a quick fix, or a time machine.

Mark’s course this weekend. Before I whinge, it has to be said that I am really, really looking forward to this; I’ve been trying to weasel my way onto it for ages, but have always been unavailable when they’re run nearby.

It’s just that, 2 full days language heaven are followed by writing all day Monday, followed by the borders group (both of which I need, and crave as much as ever) and, well, that doesn’t leave much time to destabilise Mt Laundry, or clean out the Kitchen Swamp and kid-proof everywhere, before Nick and the girls arrive for Tuesday lunch.

It worries me just a little that despite this knowledge, I cannot help but sit at my computer, fiddling with words and tales, which swim around my head as frantic as if it were infested with Candirú.

In The Name Of The Saw Doctors (Oh God, Will It Ever Stop Raining?)

The cool breeze which floats around the house carries with it the playful rousing smell of heavy rain; the sort in which droplets beat an incessant pulse into your skin and makes you glad to be there.

Small pools are forming restlessly at doors and windows, and the cat-flap’s easy access has allowed a virtual lake into our kitchen.

The others stomp around, moaning bitterly about lost summers and should-be heatwaves, but I, standing so that 3 opposing draughts must reroute around my form, simply inhale the scent of a thousand happy memories, and am instantly content.

***

Though absent from blogger, I have not neglected creativity, I swear. Although a weekend of Mini-Wars on The Priory left no time to write. It was a brilliant weekend which I’ve sworn I shall repeat. 23 kids, 3 days; well-run outdoor pursuits activities, and a giant heap of chaotic fun. Group 1 was entrusted into my care; the best group, obviously, 7 characters aged 7-9. Some of the fun included sibling rivalry, as you’d expect, injury on the ropes course (though we all escaped unscathed from the climbing abseiling session. Weird.) and 45 minutes to get 13 girls to get up, showered and dressed; since a narrow L-shaped room meant 2 children could not pass without one clambering into a bunk-bed or the other child, this was rather like checkers, only with early-morning tempers waiting to explode. There were 3 working showers, reverting to cold water every 3 minutes. Fun! And I haven’t started on the camp fire, where BoyX fell asleep, or the midnight feast leader-meetings, where my Dad found a strawberry in his ear.

Back to creative happenings; I’ve almost re-written Homecoming, a sci-fi folk tale, accounting the long awaited return of the village Men. I’ll post it at Volatile Progressions when I’m done.

Also, I’ve been pasting into my head several gruesome fairy tales, in full and in part, to twist at whim for an eager up and coming audience. The twins are here this week!

Writing Saves My Life In Stillframes. (A Summary).

So, I set off for Borders, with prose for later, and two old poems which I know that no one’s seen, as yet; at least, no one there. One of them’s already on this blog; they may both be, I cannot recollect.

Sitting on the bus, then in the café with my 5-shot as I wait for clock to move, emotion and memory stirred. It’s weird, starting the group again (good weird, though, I have to clarify). It’s like walking through a park where you roamed so long ago, and sitting on the swings with a couple of your grown-up friends; betting on who can swing the highest. And as you come to a heel-digging halt, you see yourself, a child, the first time you made it all the way across the monkey bars. And you see the pivotal game of Pirates; the first time that you, the Merchant Sailor, ever won the fight. The time you fell and your skirt rose above pant-line; the way you stumbled home coated gravel, humiliated by the blunder, even though you knew they would forget. And the last time you wandered across the tarmac, reluctantly knowing that you weren’t coming back. You can picture playmate’s faces, hear their words both harsh and good as they passed their judgement, which you valued greatly, then. You glance across at your newfound adult friends, and realise that nothing’s changed, except the world.

*

You know that feeling you get when you’re with people you appreciate; people you admire. Well, Tuesday was like that. It’s great to have people I can trust to give honest, thorough feedback on the way I’m heading (even if it’s only fiction). Thanks, guys, if you’re reading this! It would be nice if a few other Old Faces joined the troupe again, to see how much has changed for all of us.

And, as it used to do, the group rouses something deep within, enforces the desire to write; the one so strong that I can think of nothing else, and if I try, it causes pain, as every muscle protests in electro-spasm. You think I’m joking?

So, Mark and I head back to Royston, accidentally watching Law and Order, before calling it a night. I wrote in bed for half an hour; nothing huge, but I couldn’t stop the flow, until the heaviness of sleep extracted the ability to move.

7:30, I’m up, and as soon as I stretch, I’m reaching for the pen. A few jotted concepts, and I head downstairs. Breakfast, then we get to work.

The day was a success, for both of us I think (the first hour producing 997 words; completing the scene which lay stagnant for months). A day of ceaseless words, half written, half reviewed, both of us appraising the works of the other, then running through our scribbled notes. Yet, we remained relaxed, as we always do; mixing things with film scores to push the mind along, without the spiked tendrils of distraction that always come with lyrics. And we talked of all the things the other has missed within our lives, through our apathetic view of contact.

We watched Final Fantasy, too, and I spent the whole film wishing I could draw like that, and wishing that Aki were real. And marvelling at detail. Wow.

In other notes, there’s a piece of Mark’s that nobody has seen, and I’m promised the privilege of butchering it lovingly for him; as I know he’ll do for me (All’s fair) with other works.

We’re doing this again next week.

*

On the way to the station, a pastel pink moon encapsulates the vision of other travellers too, as they stop beside the road to stare. It almost takes up half the sky. A solitary streak of turquoise cloud breaks this perfect image, and somehow makes it something more; a contrast to the powder blue of backdrop sky.

Approaching Leeds, this same moon, still a low hung show-stealer, has deepened to the yellow-green of edam, set against the deepest navy blue you’ve ever seen.

On Request.

I will write a proper post in a moment, but first; I've had requests to share my writing instead of merely waffling about it. You'll find some of it here. And there's more to come.

Hogwarts, Here I Come!

So, I post the Muse Summoning Spell, and Mark's on MSN, proposing a writeathon period, kicked off by a creative group I thought to be long dead, complete with original, marvellous host, Mike, and continued at Mark's thorughout the night and following day. Looks like the magic's back, now I just have to dig out something (or create a new entity, since I'm feeling brave) by tomorrow afternoon.

In other news:

My Father and the Ringtones.

My Dad, Technophobe Extraordinaire, has a mobile phone, and he’s only slightly afraid to use it! He’s figuring it out, all for himself, and he and I spent an enjoyable hour or so last night browsing ringtone possibilities upon the interweb, in heaps of laughter at the pitiable content of most. It’s sweet and random and amusing, and I am so proud!

Moving on, yet stationary.

My prompt here was 'half an hour before sunrise', and in its transference to the page, I realised once more, my deep-seated obsession. It says a lot that even the meagre act which follows sends my mind on journeys far and varied, and my pulse rocketing towards the stars:

Half an hour before the sun awakes, she rises out of bed, digits tingling with half-asleep anticipation. The half open window permits the scent and sounds of the street below to permeate her thoughts. The gentle hush of resolute pedestrians, completing the routines of daily grind; hauling produce from street to stall; traipsing to work, or school, or home. The slight but pungent smell of undiscarded garbage, of freshly frying breakfast noodles and roti, donuts dipped in oily sugar grains, and coffee, thick and sweet. In her air-con deprived room, the airing-cupboard stench of fresh-made bed fuses with dry perspiration; it already coats her skin.

She pads across the floor with graceful ease, noting the rough-worn carpet beneath her feet as she slides into en-suite. Forcing the anticipation from her lungs in concentrated exhalation, she steadies her slightly shaking self against the sink.

Yanking the shower taps to their fullest flow, the small room fills with the fresh tang of an icy flow, and as she steps beneath it, its’ constant rhythm bouncing off her skin, the heaviness of slumber drains away, and a clarity slots into place.

Quickly, she halts the flow, and envelopes her skin in towelling. Returning to the hot, damp room, she sits upon the bed to dress; long, thin-fabric pants, and a cotton tee, the sleeves of which teased her elbows as she moved. Pulling on thick socks, which gave her comfort even now, despite the heat, she stood, and hastily gathered her things from bedside cabinet and floor, onto the bed beside her sack. Catching her pulse race once more with the importance, she pushes the excitement past her tongue into the air, almost expecting steam and fire to gush from deep inside. Dizzy for a moment, she’s released as she inhales, deliberately slow. Glancing around the room, before she moves, she makes a mental tally. No need to check the drawers, or wardrobe; they were never used.

On her knees for confirmation; nothing beneath the bed, save her trusted boots.

Her watch announces pre-determined time, incessantly, until she subdues it with her other hand. Consciously unflustered, she lurches back into the bathroom for a final check, and snatches with a laugh, a wayward toothbrush; she’d have missed it later.

With vigilance, she unbuckled the lid of her sack, and straightened the top, ruffled contents before loading last night’s clothes, and toiletries inside. Guidebook, pad, pens and camera slotted into the lower, easy access art, and wallet into hood pocket, hidden from view but easy to reach. Bearing down with outstretched palm, the clothes compressed an inch or so, and she deftly pulled the straps to keep it so. Once again, her life was held in canvas, right before her eyes.

A second hail from the watch upon her wrist came right on queue as she pulled her lightly mudded boots out from their hideaway, appreciating their companionship as she encased her woollen feet in the gentle leather.

Standing in her fresh-protected feet, a new excitement welled from thighs, all the way to the woozy portion of her forehead; this time she did not catch it, for there was no need. Skimming the room once more, categorising memory inside her head, she all but closed the window, leaving just a crack of air. Hoisting sack onto one shoulder – giving only slightly ‘neath it’s weight, she pulled the door behind her, sighing at its final click.

Trotting down the seeming-endless stairs, she allowed part of her mind to wander through the memories, in great sad joy, whilst watching each uneven step pass beneath her feet. Sun blazed welcomingly through the slightly open door which led onto the quiet street, but she paused, handing in her key, and exchanging hearty words of credit. They, too, offered suggestion and encouragement, which she knew, in purposeful uncertainty, that she didn’t need.

Stepping out from air-conned lobby into the fresh, cool breeze and skin-worshipping sun, and waving her goodbye, she breathed in the joy of all that was then, and now, and all that was to come, and headed down the hill.

Summoning the muse.

I miss Mark. I just can't seem to just sit and write the way I used to, and I miss the way his magic spread across the room, whether we sat in idle talk over breakfast, or a drink or three; silent keyboard-tapping productivity, or talking plot and grammar. It doesn't matter what we do, we spark that concentrated urge within each other, and it works.

The product of 3 days work - the final pencil-draft of my sister's new tattoo. I have never, ever, until this point, created a successful colour piece, preferring instead the complex simplicity of graphite shading.

I have to say, though she's not the only successful creation (although some of the harlots before her, were born beautifully disfigured). There were several works throughout the search for Her, which I shall lend my pride, though most were too adult for this site, and all but one other remained in simple greys.

Anyway, here she lays, awaiting her release, whence she can work her ways upon the world.

The Short Fat Sugar Hobbit and the Scary Movie

‘Short Fat Sugar Hobbit’ was the laughing insult my sister threw at me in the hospital with mum last night. It fits, strangely, since, well, I'm fairly short, in need of a gym, and at the time we were all ODing on pick-and-mix; then there's my odd hobbit features, the laughing, soulful eyes inset in hobbit face, the sometimes curly hobbit hair, and stupidly hairy feet. Seriously.

In contrast, H looks like she strode straight out of Rivendell.

When Elven-Sis grew bored, later in the evening, she came to snag a movie, and I, with boredom of equal measure, suggested joining forces and watching one together. Not just any movie though, folks. A Scary Movie. One of the few which tighten an invisible vice until I can barely breathe, and my burning heart threatens to burst, thus erupting in full gore from my chest.

Elven-Sis immediately latches on to my ill-developed thought, asking “is it really scary?”

Knowing full well that we are level on the whimp-o-meter, I explain that, yes, it’s fucking terrifying, because a well-prepped imagination knows how plausible the concept running through the tale could be. And, by the way, we’ll be watching with the lights on. With piles of chocolate at our sides.

I don’t want to fucking watch, and yet, the thing is brilliant, and I really, really do. It’s just that – aaargh! So, anyway, we gather chocolate-orange cookies and the fun begins.

Now, I’ve been drinking coffee by the gallon all day, and 20 minutes and a couple of ‘how freaky would that be’ and ‘oh my god – horrible’ comments into the thing, I can feel the contents of my bladder reaching to wards the escape button.

“I have to pee.” I say
“Don’t pause it and leave me.”
“I’ll leave it on then – back in a sec.”
“No!”
“But I really have to pee.”
“Ok, pause it, but be quick.”

When I get back, I sit at the computer ready to press play.
“I don’t want to watch anymore.” I say, half of me dead sure, the other half abhorring my cowardice, desperate to release the Endorphins Of Fear.
“Really?”
“I don’t know.” I can see her eyeing the screen, uncertainly. “It gets worse.”
But we both want to see it through, so after stalling for a while, in the happy, bright confines of The Real World, I press play and leap over to the comfort of pillows and blankets.

The Plot edges forwards. Elven-Sis flexes through complacency and tensed mind, as do I, at the thought of what’s to come. Still, we fixate upon the screen, and for 15 minutes more, we’re carried through. The second scene of gore appears. Elven-Sis squeals subconsciously and brings us both back to the room. Silently staring at the screen, neither wanting to ruin it for the other.

Relaxing simultaneously, each of us catches the other’s eye.

“Let’s watch Harry Potter.”

Making History.

02/07/05
Trivial Observations of the day.

03:00: In pre-dawn light, the cool, moist air lifts honeysuckle scent up to my room, to mingle with the coffee aroma which swirls within my hands. It’s good.

04:30. It’s raining. A solid, light blanket of rain. It’s good, too, but it threatens to continue, adding resolute gravity to the day. Nothing would stop the thousands in their plea.

05:10 The pigeons above the university steps sure know how to scream. Though not as loudly as the woman who hollers from her window opposite, in sleep-ridden, or drunken slurs “Get on the Bus!” and “Where you going?” repeatedly, until one of the coach-load yells back “We’re off to make history” at which pint, her skylight shuts and all is quiet. Except for the pigeons.

11:08 We’re late, the coach has nowhere to park.

14:00-ish After an hour’s wait, the crowd wanting to march are getting bored. Beneath the shade of sycamore, is a Spanish-singing dude, and his enthusiastic companion, whistling through his teeth, and slapping his thighs as makeshift drums until he had to stop, in pain. At which point, he merely bounced and clapped as the tempo grew. A small crowd formed. They were great.

14:45 There’s a weird little dance production, with orange t-shirts, labelled as poverty stricken countries, and a grey sheet-covered Bush-alike, with an inflatable globe and money on a stick. Each person clambers after the thing, falling over each other to the beat of samba drums. I’m confused.

15:55 Finally, things surge through the temporary gates. Wish for a moment that I’d taken my camera, if only for the banner hanging from the castle, and the giant sea of indistinguishable white.

16:50 with coaches everywhere and no Edinburgh Police or wardens, we’re going to be late for the coach. Our coach driver and a pub landlord give us the WRONG DIRECTIONS. Fuck. We’re lost.

23:20 Millennium square is hosting a live8 viewing. Think about heading there for the final 40 minutes. Head for taxi rank instead.

23:25 Am torn between amusement at, and wanting to sever flesh from the guy behind us in the queue, who’s friends described him as being a pissed wanker. Accurate ananlysis. After a few moments, he’s seen my MPH shirt, and is rambling about Making The Poor History, because they’re stinky. Fuckwit.

23:47 listen to the final 13 minutes of London’s Live8, followed by Toronto’s, on radio, on the way home. One bucket of tea later, the TV provides more coverage, well into the early hours. All is good.