Christmas Letter

‘Twas a dark and stormy afternoon (I jest not) as the scribe sat down, mug of tea beside her, to write a letter to her fairy godmother. Sleet and hail lashed alternately at the window, filling the room with a soggy drum-roll in place of light. Atmospheric, she thought. A bloody nuisance, because writing in the gloom can, as every writer knows, give you a stonking headache, but atmospheric all the same.

Dearest Fairy Godmother,

she began.

I hope that this yuletide greeting finds you in good health and spirits.

She paused, sucking on the end of her pen, pondering a decent beginning, because Fairy Godmothers are the sort to notice these things. The standard launch into the mundane trivia of life just wouldn’t do. She wondered whether the Fairy Godmother would appreciate sensationalised tales of Washing-up Mountains, of Essays Worse than Death, of Extra-curricular Quests which suck the very life from you until you wonder, as 100 school-kids pounce upon you, screeching wildly, why, exactly, you put your name forward. No, she decided, perhaps not. Although it would be rather closer to the truth than might be imagined. And yet, she couldn’t tell of buses which never arrived on time, or relaxing evenings in the student union with new-found friends; it would not make for a thrilling read. It would, in fact, be almost as heinous as ’all going swimmingly, here’ or some such tosh. But that was the thing. Apart from essays of doom, and organisational headaches, it was going swimmingly. Even the Attack of the Minors had been fun. They’d been terrified by her spectre-voice.

The writer sighed. It wasn’t easy, living up to creative expectations.

Outside, the sky had darkened further, tendrils of moist, black cloud reaching towards the warm, candle-light glow of the city’s buildings. Pressing her nose against the pane, she peered across the rooftops at the barely visible wind-bowed trees on the skyline, and shuddered; anyone out there was in for a rough ride. The phrase ‘weather here gloomy as ever’ flashed across her mind for an instant. She banished it to the cerebral recycle bin.

Back at her desk, she contemplated sketching out the characters in her new life – from the dumpy lecturer who’d trail off into a critique of fantasy novels and star-trek incidents at every opportunity, to the technophobic tutor who had, at the start of term, blown the projector instead of switching on the lights. But there were libel issues. Her friends might have fewer objections, perhaps, but the writer was sure she couldn’t do them justice.

She stared into ethereal space, awaiting that crashing block of inspiration. None came. She thought upon Christmassy things, the joy of which she hoped to bundle into her message. She thought of mince pies, and mistletoe and laughter, and enough snow to merit the season, without delivering hazard to the community. She thought of fireside tales and warmest wishes.

Warmest Wishes,

She wrote, hoping that the rest of her Christmas tableau would ooze wordlessly from the page. Fairy Godmothers got that sort of thing, right?

She scrutinised the page. Pretty standard stuff, and not nearly as informative as she’d hoped. Still, it’s the intent that counts. She read it again, and wasn’t satisfied. But the post would be collected any minute, and she still had to find her scarf, and the stamps, and...

She signed.

Your Fairy Goddaughter

And, in a flash of revelation, quickly but carefully inserted one last line above ‘warmest wishes’:

All going swimmingly here.

Perspective Demo

Everyone knows the story of Red Riding Hood, right? And most of us would agree that the wicked wolf meets a deservingly horrible end. But what if I told you this version of events instead?

(credit to Richard Oxenham for the ending paragraphs!)

Maximus’ stomach growled viciously, for all the rabbits had been caught in the humans’ snares, and there was little left for an old wolf to eat. He’d eaten so little, in fact, that his ribs showed through his unkempt fur.

He’d tried rooting through the waste-bins of the people’s cottages, for the food they didn’t want, but he was spotted, and one of them aimed a gun at him. The shot had made such a racket that Maximus’ heartbeat was racing for hours. He’d avoided their buildings for quite a while after that, but it was getting to the point that, if he didn’t eat something, he would surely die.

He wandered along with his nose low to the ground, desperately sniffing for a tasty morsel, but there was none. Until, that is, he caught a whiff of something sweet and juicy. Instinct kicked in, and his snout followed the trail, weaving in and out of the trees until he reached a clearing.

Maximus skidded to a halt; in front of him stood a charming little cottage, with roses trailing over the doorway, and a thickly thatched roof. And on the windowsill, sat a steaming pie, with gravy bubbling from the top. Oh, it smelt good. Maximus’ mouth watered, as he cowered behind a particularly large tree. There could be a man with a gun in there. For ages, Maximus slunk around the edge of the clearing, getting hungrier and hungrier until he could bear it no longer.

Quickly, he darted out from the trees and leapt at the window-ledge to snatch the pie in his teeth.

Clonk.

A heavy pan swung out of nowhere at the wolf’s head, and he crashed to the floor in a heap

“That’ll teach you, coming after my pie!” the old woman exclaimed, shaking her fist at him angrily.

Dazed, the wolf tried to crawl away, but the old woman had hitched up her skirt and launched herself towards him, raining him with blows as she chased him towards the ring of trees.

Now, Maximus would have preferred to slip away, tail between his legs, even if it meant giving the old lady the satisfaction of victory, but that was not going to be an option; she had murder in her eyes.

Maximus weaved in-between trees, avoiding her heavy swings and soon enough, the overweight woman began to tire. She began to wheeze and Maximus slowed and turned around.

“I’ll get you!” The old woman belched.

Maximus wondered how many pies she had ate to get that large. He wondered how many she could have shared. Maximus felt something snap inside him and the old woman began to resemble a giant, steak pie. Maximus barred his teeth, snarled and paced forward.

Workshop 1 Demo

This is material which I've written to use as a demo on detail/description for one of the storyquest workshops for years 5 and 6. First, we have the original nursery rhyme, followed by my descriptive interpretation:

There was an old woman
who lived in a shoe,
She had so many children
she didn't know what to do;

She gave them some broth
without any bread;
She whipped them all soundly
and put them to bed.

There once was an old woman, though perhaps she was not so old, and it was life-experience which drew channels across her brow, greyed her hair and hunched her back over. For the woman lived in harsh conditions. In fact, she lived in a shoe. And it wasn’t even a nice shoe; not a large, fleece-lined boot, nor one of the latest converse with the pictures printed on the sides. No, the old woman lived in a second-hand running shoe, with dirt engrained in the surface, and a greasy sweat-line on the inner walls, which gave the air a taste of stagnant lake-water. She’d had to plug up a hole in the toe-cap, with lint and sticky-tape, and the old shoe still wasn’t waterproof, so that when it rained, her feet went ‘schllllluup’,‘schllllluup’ as she walked across the floor. It was not a nice place to live. And to make matters worse, the woman was trying to support her exceptionally large family – seven children in all – and each child seemed to demand a larger slice of her pitiful burger-flipping wage than the last, until she barely had enough spare to put food on the table.

The eldest child had reached the end of compulsory education, but rather than enter the world of work to help his mother, he chose to study marine biology at university, and spent his days examining sand-worms under a microscope. And not once did he offer his mother a portion of his student loan. The younger children followed his selfish lead, and whensoever they stumbled upon a perfectly rounded stone, or a bat-shaped stick, none would allow their siblings to join their improvised games.

Of course, the woman did not complain, for she wanted the best for her offspring, but it filled her with sadness to see that she had raised such a selfish brood.

Every evening, the family sat around the table on the eight mismatched chairs, to a meagre supper of grey, watery broth. On Sundays, there was a thin slice of bread each, too. One evening, which was not a Sunday, the woman placed eight bowls around the table. It was hot, because having blocked up the hole in the toe, there is not much ventilation in an old, greasy shoe, and the woman was flustered from the effort of cooking.

“Dinner’s ready!” she called, and her eight children crashed greedily to the table.

The eldest, who had had a particularly rough day at university, looked down at his bowl, disgusted.

“Gruel, again? Why can’t we have something else to eat?”

“Yes, Mama, why can’t we?” hollered the little ones.

And the surly middle child, she threw down her spoon in protest, crying “I’m not eating that!”

Now, the old woman had, as you can imagine, had quite enough of her children’s demanding squawks and bawling, and I’m sorry to say that she lost her temper.

“Enough!” She shrieked, reaching for the nearest object, which happened to be the still-oily broth pan, and wielding it high above her head.

The children scarpered, for they saw the rabid look in their mother’s eyes, and they were scared, but in the confines of the shoe there was no escape, for even the hole had been blocked off, and inevitably she caught up with each of them, so that the dull ‘thwack’, ‘thwack’ ‘thwack’ing of seven long, hard beatings filled their humble home for quite some time before she sent each and every one of them to bed without their brothy supper, in the hopes that they’d be a little more grateful in the future.

She Aten't Gone.

Besides academic writings, and material for the StoryQuest event which I'm co-hosting, I've had little time for writing. There is one piece I keep coming back to, which haunts my mind during my waking moments. It's not finished, because it hurts to write it. And for a while, I considered posting the beginning of it on here, but I have decided against it a) because I would probably lose any readership/friends/chance of forming relationships that I had, if the story enters your head, and b) because until it has an ending, I'm not sure you can get the full picture. It's supposed to end up as a feel-good piece, somehow.

So, I hope you can forgive me for the lack of material. I have not disappeared, nor have I stopped writing, it's simply that life has, as it inevitably does, got in the way.

Best of wishes.

Inspiration?

This piece is to accompany this, as a birthday tribute to Rich:

Toshi stood rigidly beside his father, paint box in hand. He was supposed to be concentrating on the brush strokes, watching the careful form of the trees, the sweeping kimono of women, all captured in perfect balance with coloured dyes.

They were not his colours.

When he was alone, his eyes could see. They saw the world as it had become. Alone, the colours of the garden muddied, the kimonos aged and faded, and the trees, burned. At night, his haunts were ravaged by Akuma, rising from the lake, tearing up the roots of his people. At night, Toshi cried.

But today, as all days, the colours brightened, for Japan remembered the world as it should be. The women floated along the water’s edge, the trees rustled alongside the calming ripple of the crystal waters, and all was well.

Journey For Journey's Sake

Gaṇeśa sat back against the rock and smiled. It was warm, now that he had passed through the cloud which enveloped the mountain base, and the sun tingled against his weathered skin. They said he was elephant, but today, he was lithe and thin, although he had worn a sheen of sweat by the time he came to rest. He wasn’t as young as he used to be. Slowly, still smiling, Gaṇeśa closed his eyes. It had been a good climb, one which he’d felt with joy as his bandy muscles had strained and burned. Indra and the others had laughed at his plans to climb the mountain.

“Ha! Old man, you’d never make it! Your hide would wither before you reached the top! Besides, why go to all that trouble, when everything you ever wanted is right at the tip of your fingers here?”

For the Gods were growing lazy and complacent; when the mortals place their everything upon your plate, you have no place for toil or worry. But Gaṇeśa was discomfited with gluttony, beginning to miss the humble serenity of mortal flesh. And so, he climbed.

They said that elephant would shift your obstacles. They were mistaken. Oh, he might help you to remember the drink-hole, but you’d have to walk the distance on your own two legs.

Deep within the silence, the methodic crunch of tired footfall wound its way up the mountainside. Gaṇeśa stretched his legs out before him, and watched the path, though it would be a good while yet before the climbers were in sight. The cloud was thicker now, forming a thick wet blanket, and the footsteps shuffled along uneasily, feeling for the worn tread of the path beneath them. Gaṇeśa remembered the choking of the cloud – though it had been thinner then – hitting his lungs. His hand twitched. How easy it would be to wipe the sky clean. But the sun tingled against his skin, and he remembered the climb. No.

After a while, Gaṇeśa tore his gaze from the white world below and stood. There was a tree a little way over the hill, and bound to be some deadwood for a fire to welcome them.

Write A Summer Memory/The Newspaper

“Sleep at all?” Tess queried, as Becki swung herself into a chair, clutching a thick black coffee in one hand, and the group’s newspaper in the other.

“Nah. You?”

Nobody had; the tremors from the Qiryat Shmona hits had rippled beneath them incessantly.

“No fire after cake tonight guys, Hadas reckons they could see it from the border.”

“But-”

“I know. At least they’ve not closed the moar-don though. And I’ll open the pub a bit earlier.”

A few of them nodded. Nobody had the heart to complain.

“May I?” Jorge, biting into a hard-boiled egg, reached for the paper.

“Go ahead.”

Becki’s eyes fixed on the dense black letters as he unfolded the pages. “33 Dead” the ink announced, “in latest hits”, and below that, in angry lettering “Troops Retrieve Comrades After Surprise Attack.”

The pair exchanged looks. Some of their friends had crossed the border in uniform.

It went on. “Lebanese Make Death Threats Towards Minister”, “Tel Aviv Swamped As People Flee”. Page two discussed the economic effect upon kibbutzim of the north, forced by fire or fear to shift south, abandoning their crops and livelihood.

There was talk here, too, of the risk being too great. Several families were staying in the city with their friends, and the roads were empty of the usual camaraderie.

Becki’s stomach clenched, forcing acid coffee to her throat as Jorge turned to page three. His face greyed as they scanned the Fallen Soldiers page for familiar grins. The print was bad, hardly a tribute to those it remembered, and they had to look hard at each face, just to be sure. Becki’s eyes flicked across the final faces, trembling in horrified relief.

---

This is the first, shortest, of 6 random war-experience things that my flatmate prompted last night. The others, when I have the emotional stamina to complete them, may appear.

I don't recommend vivid emotion flashbacks.

Fragments

Mannu crashed against the wall, grateful for its solidarity. They were shouting, again; voices spasmed through his brain, sharp, gashing at his thoughts, but fuzzy, so that when he tried to focus on them, it hurt his eyes.

On the field, the others shrieked as they chased one another around the swings. He tried to focus on them, instead, but they moved so fast that their bright shapes formed a web across his eyes. He looked away, tried to wipe his vision clean, but his hands were ineffectual.

Still, the voices ran rampant, louder and louder as he fought to shut them out. They were strong, and they could see the scars they’d made upon his mind. Sometimes, he would trap them, build blockages they could not pass but they were too quick, this time. The voices coursed through a weak point in his mind. They spread like flame dropped onto oil, their harsh pulsing tones scratching at his limbs ‘til he was forced to move with them to lessen the force.

“Bloody kid’s doing it again!”

“Well, stop him, you heard what She said this morning, it’s bad for him to get into the cycle”.

“Mannu! Mannu, Challoo; let’s go! Uppa; get up!”

Somewhere above him, a voice, all alone, formed abstract words. He knew that voice. Perhaps it could save him, but it was too far away, and the other voices had hold of him now; they’d never let him reach up there and grasp at help. Silently, he cried, convulsing with the voices as they tightened their grip.

A rough hand grasped at his arm and pulled. The one-voice was reaching down to him! For a second, the voices paused, and he could hear the world tick by, but their talons still clutched at him, stifling his voicebox, stiffening muscles; it was all he could do to drag his eyes towards the hand for half a moment. The voices dragged his focus to the ground and resisted the pull of the distant one-voice and its solid form.

He felt his body being pulled up and across the floor. His heel snagged against the path and bled; he couldn’t pick it up, couldn’t straighten and pull away, couldn’t acquiesce. The voices screamed a siren of war. It encompassed him. He barely noticed as the hand let go and he, a dead weight, fell back against the wall, almost foetal. And the voices trilled their victory.

The one-voice stumped away and Mannu lay there, breathing in short, desperate bursts. The coloured web changed shape and hue before his eyes, into an organised lattice of cream on porous reds, stacked one line after another. He felt its grain beneath his fingers, craters so big the could swallow him whole. Would they? The voices buzzed excitedly as his fingertips explored, pushing deeper into the crevices as they tested the limits, out of his control. Nothing, so his hands worked on, creeping slowly across the web of lines and then slap, seeing if they could be caught out. His palms itched from the force, but they wouldn’t be stopped. He had to know if he’d be pulled through. Slap. He had to know.

“Mannu.”

Something touched the back of his hand as it reached the wall once more. The voices crashed to a halt in frozen rage.

Her eyes hovered at a spot above his shoulder, their grey sheen catching his attention.

“Teek-hai – you ok?”

The voices stared at the unwavering grey, waiting to rebel. No commands, but the grey lingered, indifferent, inescapable.

Her palm extended towards his as she watched the others play – did she notice? And his fingers found their strength. After a moment she stood, and he stood with her. Together, haltingly, they walked away

On the night train to nowhere

Abhaya stared hard at the underside of the bunk, where the abrasive snoring of her grandmother filled the carriage. It irritated her, though she felt remorse immediately she realised this. Her Grandparents, and their parents before them, were everything that she was, they had built her world from nothing.

That was the trouble. Something of her unseen self prickled just below the surface, trying to communicate with her voice, her limbs. But she couldn’t allow it to get out; they wouldn’t understand.

How could a good, honest family understand that she wanted to leave? There was a future for her, in the business, as there had been for her father and her brothers, as there would be for her children. Hadn’t it, hadn’t they, provided her with everything she’d ever wanted? she tried to squash the little voice inside her, but she heard it all the same – No, not everything - and she’d throw it all away over some notion of importance and brain? A mere dream that she could barely hope to attain? Even of the men, it was rare to find an educated Narayanan.

A tall, lank-haired young man thrust open the carriage door and shuffled through, canister and plastic cups clattering against his side as he intoned his gentle mantra

“Chai, chai, kopi, chai, kopi madame? Chai?”

Abhaya’s stomach snarled. She was hungry, but the roti were packed in Grandmother Kelasai’s case. It would be impertinent to wake her. She reached inside the folds of her salwaar, for a few paise to exchange for a goblet of the harsh, sweet chai, always bitter with overbrewing, beneath the sugar, by the time it reached the cheaper carriages.

The chai-boy shuffled on, and Abhaya settled back onto her bunk, sipping at the scalding liquid. Night was approaching, and with it, came a harsh wind. Where she’d been glad of the gaping windows in the sticky heat of afternoon, she cursed them now.

The train pulled into a station with a scream of brakes, drowning out Grandmother Kelasai’s snarls and blocking, for a moment the hubbub of the platform. Then the doors opened and the fight onto the train began. The sound of four hundred feet deafened. Men barked instructions at each other and their families; instructions to push on, to move aside, or not to let go of the baby’s hand. Alongside the people came the spiced scent of hot, oily pakora and peanuts, the street hawkers’ cries crisp and inviting ‘hot, hot pakora, two rupee. Get it hot!’ The rickshaws honked a dozen different tunes, firing up their engines every now and then as they attracted customers heading into town.

Abhaya peered through the unclosable window at theplatform. Sharp frost bit at her brow. Outside, white breath-trails lightened the black night air. Food vendors and travellers alike huddled together against the cold, or his themselves beneath heavy woollen cloaks and rugs. An outstretched figure shifted beneath a pile of empty rice-sacks. Abhaya retreated, pulling her shawl tight around her shoulders.

Her brothers would be out there, in another town. Every night battling the cold in the hopes of selling the best pakora in town for pittance. Most nights were good, a healthy profit and a hot-air vent for comfort. But some nights, well, you couldn’t have everything.

In the bunk opposite, a family had gathered. Mother and baby dozed, but in the grey light, three youngsters craned over a dog-eared book, tracing the eldest’s finger as it moved across the page.

Abhaya closed her eyes, as much to block out the jealousy as due to exhaustion.

And the train rattled on towards her future.

Beginnings

In a spur of inspiration and good intention, I have decided to use a book which I was given a while ago, to actually complete a piece of writing every single day, because, lets face it, I'm crap at ending things. It won't always be good. It won't always be long, but it will have a definite conclusion.

That's the plan. Let's see how long it lasts. Here's yesterday's:

Write about a rendezvous.

Old Sam’s fingers delicately brushed the top of the pocked, weathered stone, just once, before he half knelt, half fell – for his knees weren’t what they used to be and they just wouldn’t bend - to the mound before it.

He stared, a moment of distrust clouding his eyes in a blur of velvet hair and petal scented skin and laughter. But in an instant, the memories were pushed back to the corners of his mind by the present, which contained, right now, rather more mud and a lot less laughter.

She’d be disgusted by the smoke, caught in the weave of his coat where there had once been the scent of a scalding iron. He’d taken to wearing the same grey-green trousers for every visit, too, because the drop to the ground was heavy, and he didn’t possess half her skill when it came to stains. He could hear her nagging voice every time he pulled the cloth up from round his knees and fastened the belt. ‘You’re a disgrace, Samuel. Will you look at that! For the love of Jesus, put on something respectable!’ And inside, he’d grimace even whilst he smiled.

But he wouldn’t let it stop him turning up; they’d never let a harsh word stay between them, and he wasn’t about to succumb to intolerant misgivings now.

Slowly, righting his balance, Old Sam pulled up the foolish dandelion which had poked its head up at the base of the stone. She’d always liked them, she said. They reminded her of balmy days upon the pier, filled with exotic heat and joy. Nevertheless, they were weeds. They looked untidy, and he’d not have anyone think she were unwanted. Besides, as soon as the weeds grew, the louts with aerosols would make their move, just like they’d done to Edie’s grave the other week. Old Tom had been distraught for days; who could do such a thing? He scuffed the leathery patches of lichen away. There. then, edging closer to the stone, as much to have something to catch his balance on as for their privacy, he sat back on his haunches, gazing deep into the space between earth and headstone.

This was awkward. She’d always been the talkative one, and to be honest, he was at a bit of a loss. He crouched there for a while, steadying himself with one arm against her pillar. It was always like this. She’d want to talk, but there was sport to watch, or roses to tend to, and what business was it of theirs what number thirty two were up to, anyway? Still, he’d listen, with half an ear, and grunt accordingly, and he’d always been there. He was now.

Eventually, because the wind had picked up quite a chill and he feared he’d never stand again if it got into his joints, he stood up - slowly, for it was all his old body would allow. He’d come to no conclusions and made no confessions, but there wasn’t any need.

And with one, long look across his shoulder, he bade her adieu, until their next encounter

And So It Began

It began with a queue, which was longer than expected, though she couldn't work out why she hadn't guessed.

Phase two, began with smokescreens, and An Entrance from The Man Himself.

And then the words came. It was inevitable. There were stories as yet untold to the world. There was the release of wisdom and secrets, which fizzed statically across the room. And she soaked it p; the words, their hidden meanings, and the vibe.

And there was doodling in books to be treasured forever, befor ethe secrets, the potential held within the air, was released unto the streets.

She left with a new sense of togetherness and purpose, a thousand old ideas bubbling to the surface to meet with the new.

The next day she would buy a new notebook, for this new beginning. For it was blessed.

And so began the new life of a writer.

Unfinished

Pirates By Day...

A while ago, Rachel sent me this:

Hey you guys - I though this was an interesting review: http://www.lrb.co.uk/v29/n09/jone01_.html

Personally I *love* typewriters and I feel prone to the kind of fetishization of them that the reviewer characterises as masculine... when I grow up and get rich I'm going to have shelves of the beautiful things, just wait. And all the staying-up-late, rolled-up sleeves and bourbon strikes a chord with me too, but all of that has clearly been encoded as masculine in our general culture too. Don't people often claim there's no need for lots of books with girl characters, because both boys and girls will identify with the boy leaders, but boys would never identify with a girl? The guy clearly thought there was no point concentrating on the 95% of typewriter users in 1930 who were female, because what they were doing wasn't so interesting (to him!!) and everyone would love to hear about Hunter S. Thompson and William S. Burroughs. Well, yes, but I want to read about the women too... and the male secretaries and the hard-drinking women as well - there had to be some! (Hint: Sarah, that's you and me. And Mum - I can never forget your advice not to let on that I can type. I'm still not convinced it's irrelevant yet.) Hmph!

Thoughts?

--
And it's had me thinking, on and off. I started formulating a reply the weekend that Pirates of the Caribbean came out, and it's festered, but refused to grow into something complete. I suspect it's a lengthly short story, but thus far, besides the notion of where it's going (a strange tale of imagination/dream-pirates and outlawed story-keepers who keep the tales alive. Not as sad as it sounds, at least, I don't think it is), this is as far as I've got with my reply:

That’s almost as beautiful an image as Keira Knightly playing pirate, which is what I woke up to this morning J. I now have this image of the pair of us in smart, hard-worn office wear, in a spacious, large-desked office, several storeys up. It has low lighting, and a window-wall overlooking the sparkling cityscape. It’s more burgundy than sepia.

And as the lights dance below us, it plays out something like this:

“You nearly finished, babe?”

“Not even close,” Ginger exhaled forcefully as she pushed back a wayward strand of hair, still staring at the page before her, “you?”

Daisy scoffed. “No.”

The pair turned their attention back to their work, and for a while, all you could hear, besides the odd heavy sigh, was the clacking of key and the judder of moving ribbon.

*

Hearing the gentle clink of two glasses being lifted from the bottom drawer, Ginger pulled herself and a dusty, battered file, out from the deep filing cabinet. Daisy had already crossed the room when she turned.

“Here,” she passed Ginger one of the glasses.

“Thanks.”

Ginger leaned against the desk, flicking through the file absentmindedly as she swirled the heavy liquid in her other hand.

“Y’know,” she mused, “sometimes, I wonder why we do this.”

Daisy grimaced.

“I know. But who else is there?”

Ginger dismissed this hastily. “Nobody’d notice if we, sort of faded into the background.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Cue: Write about the Silent Treatment

I've been giving it the silent treatment,
my sorrow, but it does not let me be.
It sits there in the gloom,
watching.
Like the ill-invited party guest, it scowls,
from the corner,
waiting for the moment
where its awkward , stunted movements
can ruin everything.

Jelly and Ice-Cream.

Or, Who's The Adult Here?

It was mentioned here that I spent my birthday doing cool stuff with one of the coolest people on earth.

Erm, it was instigated by my Dad, andSkip back a couple of days, and I was a) roaming the new forest and naming everything in sight. though I'm not exactly sure why, it quickly escalated into hilarity. The rain which lashed down upon us, incidentally, was called Rupert.

Then I spent a civilized morning bargain-shopping with my grandmother.

So, back to my birthday. I leave my grandparents' house and hop onto a train, to look around bath spa campus and meet The Pest for lunch and fun.

The tour was rather pointless. My department was closed and the student leading the tour was clueless. Completely clueless. However, it's a beautiful place with good vibes, and the course does look great.

Then, beginning with tea and art appreciation, The Pest and I took in the city. Quickly however, we slipped from adult tourism to childish fun. We discussed how to defeat the satanic power of the toddler's scream as we walked along the crescent. We sat under a tree in a circle of green, surrounded by beautiful stone architecture, listening to music and perusing Cambridge literature. And then we found this...


This playground has everything, from giant slides and climbing frames to an array of swings (including 2 for disabled kids), sandpits to those aerial tyre runs, a wonky spinning disc which was imposible to stay standing on, and a tyre see-saw on which we got stuck.

Naturally, I accepted the place at Bath Spa :-)

And summer just keeps on getting better. This week, three more of my favourite-but-rarely-seen people - my uncle, and 7-year-old cousins - came to stay.

It looked a little like this:


Eureka is a fantastic labyrinth of stuff for kids to explore and experiment with. 'Kids' not determined by age, obviously.


Mum triumphed over mud, tree roots and narrow pathways on our walk through woods and fields. Everyone got a little wet.

Much of their stay was not photo-documented. I spent one glorious late-evening at a pub, with my favourite jazz band playing, talking - properly talking - to my uncle. Just us.

The girls discovered artichokes, and Marion tried prawn curry.

We examined potato plants and wheat in fields beside the woods. We swung over the river. We skipped and hopped and jumped.

We spent 2 hours in Borders Bookstore searching for the perfect Birthday Books. And the girls each read one as we snuggled on the sofa that evening.

We played hide and seek, read monster poetry, and tried out their new game, cranium cadoo. We played the piano with more energy and randomness than you'd imagine.

I am never growing up.

It's a mystery.

How do you send an egg on a voyage down a river, or over the edge of a cliff, without it breaking? These are just 2 of the questions we'll be asking the 25 unfortunate teens whom we shall have captive in a nearby wood tomorrow evening. There will be compasses, and logic-questions, and mud. Lots of mud.

I hope we don't disturb the nearby campers.

Bwahahahahaa.

In Too Deep.

I feel like I'm drowning in a callous sea of green. Oh, there are starfish in the water, who kindly push me to the surface, where the sun shines, and the albatross glide contentedly upon the softened air, but then the rubber grip of silken weeds takes hold, and back down I go, with hardly any air at all. I love the sea, with all my heart. It's beautiful, no matter what its mood, and I wouldn't be without it. but it hurts like hell.

---

Things are weird right now. On the face of it, things are sorting themselves out, as things generally do, one way or another. But somehow, when I stop examining this fact, it slips out of sight, replaced by the knowledge that I am in fact, in too deep.

One, small sliver of an example, is the progress made today for Snehalaya. I received an email from The Boss, agreeing to the basic idea that all parties involved need a functioning training and support scheme. And though I know what's needed, and it got me all excited and relieved for a while, now I'm not so sure I want the responsibility, not sure I'm the right person to be developing it. I don't know how or where to start. I'm sinking beneath it, because I can't remember how to swim.

Rambling Bits.

Everything in my life, is falling apart. I'm can feel the skin of my sanity winched tighter every day that I'm not working. Every day I clean, I walk the dog, I watch mindless tv, and I wait for any of several people to tell me that my life can be something more again.

Admin at The Agency screwed up again and I have yet another month-or-two to wait for work with them. TNR await a seperate CRB, and in all probability, since they appear to know what they're doing, they'll have it before The Agency get theirs, despite T.A having a 2.5month headstart.

Universities are slow at responding, and India's call is getting louder and more frequent, but I know that uni is the better option, long term.

It's not just the act of my life that's broken. The List Of Broken Things in the house this week is as follows:
My stereo
My MP3 player
The cable to my laptop
The hot tap in the kitchen
The washing machine
The oven
The tumble dryer
The washing line outside
The roof - although this is now fixed, thanks to the clever workmen.

It's ridiculous. We're running out of stuff that works. Some of it's just too expensive to fix, some dad's determined that he or I should be able to sort, but he never gets around to explaining how, and I'm not the most adept at DIY tasks.

No time for a longer post. I must hand-wash some laundry and lay it out on the patio to dry(radiators are taken up with other people's clothes; I should have got up earlier). Thankfully the sun's out, so I can relax as I stand guard over my clothes, lest the locals decide to take off with them.

You Don't Mind If We Re-schedule?

I realised something this week, something I guess I've always known, but somehow tried to ignore: most people's world revolves around them.

People expect everyone else to view their lives as important as we'd like to believe it. We like it when people take an interest, when they remember the details; of course we do, it validates the human God-complex. What makes me sad - and rather confused if I'm honest - is that for most people there's very little give and take.

And whilst I go out of my way to put people, other people and their needs ahead of my own shit, whilst I try to make people feel valued, to do what I can to help whether I know a person or not, and to do it when I say I will, the rest of the world continually shunts things-to-do, shunts other people around to fit their very important lives. I don't get it, it doesn't make sense. As far as I'm concerned, other people's problems, other people are always important, always worth spending the time on, and stuff that's just for me can be juggled around. But it seems the rest of the world would disagree; their latest trauma, the person they'd rather be with, or that thing that they'd rather be doing, is always going to come first. 'People'll understand, right? I mean, unless my stuff isn't important to the person, unless I'm not important; in which case why should I waste my time on them?'

I could never presume that my stuff matters more than someone else's, but I do wish that, once in a while, I could be seen as something other than the person you can put off, because I'll understand, and I'll always be there. I'm getting sick of being shunted around. I wish that I occasionally made it onto the priority list, that you'd make me important too.

One day, I might not be here for you, either. What would you do then?

Just enough education...

I promised an informative, heart-through-a-mangle post, which explained my decision to apply for an International Education degree, with special-needs and NGO-affected modules.

In the very, very briefest of terms, I want to facilitate less of this:


and more of this:
.

Obviously, there’s more to it than that.

Can you imagine a girl so terrified, so neglected, so unaware of the good parts of the world, or of herself, that it’s all she can do to stand in front of you and quake? Can you imagine being beside the same girl, when she looks up at the paintings on a wall, and reaches towards them, taking three independent steps to run her hands along the contours? She stops, realising what she’s done, unsure, but she can’t contain her joy. I don’t have to imagine. I know.

Can you imagine a boy for whom everything is literal, being told that he ‘can’t tell’; a boy who, from that moment believes that he can’t speak? Can you imagine the frustration as he tries to communicate? Or the excitement over an awkwardly formed word, understood?

I have hundreds of these stories, of giving people chances; children and adults who need a little understanding, a little faith until they can find it for themselves. Capable, beautiful people whose needs are as ‘special’ as yours or mine. People whose tiny, gargantuan developments will lead to another, and another. It’s slow. There will be setbacks, and difficulties (how many times as a school-kid did you *think* you understood that rule of trigonometry, until you tried to apply it to another problem?) but there will be hundreds more moments like this. And each one makes the struggle worth it.

It’s not all about people with disabilities though. Far from it.

Worldwide, children are being left behind because of their gender or social position. Can you imagine getting up everyday, watching your brothers go to school, whilst your world does not extend beyond the village well? Can you imagine being told that, because your father cleans toilets, you’re going to clean toilets, too, for the rest of your life? What if your neighbours were the ones telling you? Your best friend? Your father and brothers? You want to be a teacher, a truck driver? So what; it’s not your place. How would you feel? It still happens, far, far more often than it should. And thus far, attempts at changing something so ingrained into people’s psyche, have made little more than a small dent in the way things are.

Often hand in hand with social class issues, come financial issues. Education is expensive in its own right, as westerners seeking higher education know. But not everywhere offers even basic primary education. Tuition fees, books and pens, uniforms and the cost of travel for those who cannot walk the distance between home and school, it all adds up. And what if your child brought in the few extra pennies which allowed the family to eat? Performed a vital part of the family’s workforce? Provided care for the smaller kids so that you yourself could work? What then?

And it shouldn’t stop when you reach 11, 16, 30. Imagine what a difference it would make to the street-cleaner who’s suddenly allowed the schooling he’s always dreamed of; the chance to learn a new profession, perhaps develop his own business. And would you rather be treated by the doctor with access to up-to-date research, or the doctor who’s not been sent so much as a single document, never mind refresher courses, for the last 20 years?

There are issues beyond getting people into education; there’s little point doing that if the service provided isn’t up to scratch.

Education will only provide opportunity, will only be accepted in the long term, if it’s relevant to the individuals and communities to whom it’s offered. What’s the good of trying to teach a group of people conversational English, before they have grasped their mother tongue? Or of lifting English curriculum into a rural African environment? Are they going be able to access the computers you talk about, afford their own cars to practise mechanics on? What will they gain from learning English history?

But what if you were to teach sustainable agricultural methods, teach business skills, teach African history, provide opportunities for developing minds to explore/ experiment with their own environments? What if you were to show the 'unteachable, dumb' population how their world works, how to relate to it and function within it to their maximum potential? What if you provide alternative methods of learning for those who can't focus on books?

Of course, to do any of this it has to be ensured that resources are in place; that they are not only there (you can’t learn to read without books, or to lay bricks without the materials to mix cement), but are used. I’ve worked in a limited-budget environment where, initially, every classroom resource was locked in the storeroom, because if items were finished, or broken, or lost, then management could no longer claim to be able to provide them. Backwards, maybe, and definitely missing the point, but a very real concern for many similar establishments.

Whatever ‘courses’ are provided, it has to be done in an appropriate, accessible way. Which means that the people heading any given course, must be properly trained. Teachers need to know their material and how best to present it. It’s no good expecting adults to do the same activities as a group of three-year-old’s, they tend not to view things in the same way. It’s no good trying to teach a practical skill with nothing but bookwork. Individuals have different learning styles, all of which need to be accommodated for. Information has to grab people’s attention, it has to stick. And presenting it in a variety of ways which promote independent discovery is not only more motivating for students, but develops analytical, problem solving skills valuable in the world today.

Learning by rote is heavily relied on in the majority of developing-countries’ schools. It disallows individual expression, knowledge which reaches further than the syllabus, or easy transferral to differing situations. It is, frankly, not only boring, but detrimental to persistently learn this way.

Having recently returned to the UK, I'm frequently brought close to tears - alternately elated and saddened - by the opportunities made available to individuals here; opportunities you will not find elsewhere. I'm not saying that the western world has it right. Far from it. I’ve worked with enough people whom the British systems have failed to understand and accommodate. But whilst not there yet, the western world is moving in the right direction. These people, amongst others, want to ensure that the rest of the world goes the same way. So do I.

This Transmission Is Interrupted...

A few days back, I wrote a post which was described as 'obviously you talking things around for yourself'. This had me slightly dismayed, for although there is of course a place for these posts, it's not what it had been meant to be. It was supposed to be an explanation of my choice to study further (if they'll have me). It was supposed to get people interested in what is or is not going on in the world, in the same way it had me. In 6 short paragraphs.

Sadly, it failed to even start to do these things. It was poorly, hastily constructed. It lacked heart. When I find the appropriate links and photographs, I will reformulate it into a bigger, badder, able-to-bring-you-to-tears version.

Circles

Circles; an examination in verse.

People, move in them.
Like sneakers.
Comfortable, worn in;
The new kind scorned, uncomfortable.
Rarely shared, or mix-and-matched.

---

The polka-dot queen moves in,
Bouncing jolly, coloured bright,
No-one can resist her powers
They grin, they giggle, they rush out to buy
Her novelty tie, boxers,
but they cannot grasp her wiles,
in pastel or poster-paint hues.

--

A shape, bold and endless,
Symbolic of the human psyche,
Life.
Whether stone circle or maypole,
cursed roundabout on Monday mornings,
or a tendency to repeat ourselves,
Circles hold ritual more ancient than we know.

Spirit Of The Season.

Terry Pratchett is, at least, a Demi-God. And whatever you may think of me for reading and re-reading his works of genius, I will not apologise. Nor will I stop. They’re witty and poignant and so cleverly written that they allow you to escape the world, whilst knowing at the same time that you’re not escaping at all. Pratchett is an observationist of the highest order. And whilst his examination that “we need to train ourselves on the little lies, so that we can fall for the big lies, like justice, mercy, things like that”, it is hidden amongst the strange, believable fiction of the disc. Point proved.

There’s no praise high enough for the creature that is Pratchett.

And today, I discovered this parody of ritual, this analysis of belief, has been brought to life with the likes of David Jason. Perhaps some of the humour, which Pratchett exhumes so well in his descriptive paragraphs and built up dialogues, is lost. But the spirit of the thing is good. Very good.

Nevertheless, the man can’t act.

Once, with another woman...

Once, I had a different voice inside my head.

I guess it's the same for everyone, or most at least. Something, someone, in a second you cannot determine, or slowly and discreetly over time, takes hold of your mental vocal chords and twists.
Next time that voice appears inside you, its sound is unexpected, it jars, makes you stop and think, but whatever angle you examine it from, it's undeniably you, you just don't know how it's you, when you started to sound like that.

My own inner voice, once laid back and amenable has became harsher, more often. The steely notes have been there all along, but somewhere, the fight's become more permanent. I don't know if it's a good thing.

And there's this tinny resonance within which won't allow for natural thoughts of sadness, or frustration or loss. 'What right do you have?' it pipes,Sure, everyone should be reminded of the fact that there are people worse off, but on the hour, every hour? And what about when all the crap in your head is linked to the fact anyway? Oh, I can tell it to shut up, but it never does for long. It's actually rather annoying.

Cue: Close your eyes. Write what you see.

I close my eyes and I see her, dusty-haired and tear-stained; terrified, flinching, wincing at the thought of touch. And I see them, laughing, leering, in the background.
I see him, hyperactive, violent, shunned by everyone. They don't see the hurt in his eyes, but I do.
I close my eyes and I see him, peering at the world through a porthole none but him will ever view, shying away from the chaos; rebuked, forgotten, because he doesn't respond the way they think he should.
I see blood, and pain, and scarring so deep it will never heal. I see the beatings of old, the confusion and longing. I see misery.

But I also see her, squealing with joy at the touch of grass beneath her feet. I see him sitting at a desk, focussed. I see change, slow and methodical, but definitely there.
I see unbounded hope, I see smiles beneath the dirt. I see passion and acceptance; future.

It doesn't take a lot. It's why my eyes open again, every day.

Cue: This Is Not About...

"This is not about you!" she screeched.

Taliesin choked on her words, "not, not about me!? How could you- every bit of it is about me! It's me who works day in, day out; me, who brings in the money. Me, coming home to a cold, empty apartment. And you, you're nothing," he spat "nothing to this relationship. You're never here to make yourself a part of it!"

She stared at him, wide eyed in terrified disbelief. "never-" she slumped into a chair. "You cancel every appointment we have together. I tried ignoring it, I tried to busy myself. I even got a hobby, like you suggested. Several. I tried cooking, but you were never there to taste my tortellini. I tried writing, but romance comes hard when you're starved of it. I tried the gym, but you didn't notice; likewise a beautician's course...And now I've finally found something to keep myself occupied, and you want to snatch it from me. Thank you very much!"

"Yes, but, honestly... International LARPing? "

---
It probably gives away more about me than I should allow, to tell you that I actually think this would be rather cool.

Cue: Just beyond the edge of the woods...

Just beyond the edge of the woods, the nodding snowbells gave way to harsh red rocks which jutted from sparse dry earth, all the way to the city below. Tanokk sighed, as his gaze fixed upon the grimy buildings, a halo of smog hovering proudly over the towns-folk's heads. When would people learn that this was not the answer, that their high-flying, desktop lives came at a price. That the earth would remember in the years to come.

Gingerly, he stroked the bark of the young tree. It saddened him.

Cue: Write what's under your house.

Under my house, are secrets. Brittle, they creak like cartilage-free joints in December, easily flaked and fractured once exposed. Secrets, rust; they gather a crust of lurid orange; picking is irresistible. It stains.

Under my house are secrets; thick, liquid secrets, slowly running down the crevices of souls, suffocating, until breath, and space and air are the only option.

Under my house, are secrets. When they escape, will walls fall down?

Where Go My Boats?

I'm replacing real posts, witty, intelligent, emotional posts, for an old, dusty, substandard poem. It will have to do, I'm afraid, until I have more time to do things properly,

WHERE GO MY BOATS?

A Lament For Indian Ideals

Where go my boats?

Across the sea;

Across the waves to you, from me.

Where go my boats,

‘Cross fathoms deep,

Bearing my soul

For you to keep.

For slowly, each and every day

I stay here, my soul’s worn away;

Compassion’s absent from this race,

All wanting life at easy pace,

A life where graft’s a foreign term,

And only on paper they have to learn.

So go my boats,

Across the sea,

Across the waves to you, from me.

There go my boats,

‘Cross waters churned

Bearing my soul

‘Til I return.

Write About Memories Underfoot:

I remember, when we were small enough to hide beneath the shed, she did it then, too. Never any proof, of course, except the malice in her eyes, hidden from parents' view. But I knew it was her. We all did, really, but the ever loyal parents preferred to believe that I was 'mistaken' than their pride and joy less than angelic.

It's not about the things, it never was, though spending 4 hours trying to find your clean underwear, whilst you're watched in half amusement from the other bed in the holiday-cottage room, finding your new CD, caseless and scratched beyond functioning, or trying to explain why you can't lend a much-discussed comic to your best friend, is, shall we say, annoying. No, it's not about the things. It's the fact that something, some apathy, some pure disrespectful hatred, makes her think that it's alright. It doesn't matter, because she'll crawl back to me anyway; I'm great.

Thing is, I always do.

Warning; Clear The Area.

It's happened again; reunited are two insane, hyped up individuals, each doing a damned good impersonation of a five-year-old, although they're rather larger now, and can cause far more damage. There's to be a lot of giggling, bouncing on the bed to a sesame street soundtrack, and a Pirate party. All compounded by big hair.

This could result in several minute disasters. Not least the destruction of a mattress, the loss of toothbrushes, or the creation of disturbing literature which just might find its way into the teeny tiny hands of James - the next generation to be warped and twisted into something manic by this tea-fed duo - who's fast approaching One.

You have been warned.

Today's Cue: I remember how it was to drive in gravel (after Theodore Roethke)

I remember how it was to drive in gravel, along the badly carved, long driveway, bouncing against the canvas roof of the clackety 3-wheeler. Switching my view from the endless fields to the imposing building which loomed ahead, glowing slightly against the navy sky. Home.

Spring Season Attire.

In light of this renewed approach, the blogs have a new look.

And at V.P, old works have been torn down and replaced with cobweb-free chapters of Alex, the little rat with global ambitions.

Back In Residence.

It's strange being back in the UK. I feel like an alien, tentacles and antennae twitching conspicuously as I explore. There's all this stuff around. Unnecessary stuff which I alternatively covet and loathe. And TV, music, movies and books have all mutated into unknown, uncomfortable creatures.

I don't know where I fit, who I am, within this world, or any world in fact. But that's ok.

Of course, some things never change. Walking my gorgeous stink-dog through stagnant streams and muddy snow sluices is as much fun (and as hazardous) as ever. Proper tea and buttery toast is still the best cold-morning breakfast, as cozy and indulgent as it always were. Friends and I pick things up almost where we left off.


And then there's the writing.

Borders is the same haven as it always was; Vicky and Mike and I picked at 'Alex' as brutally (in a friendly way, you understand. No hostages taken) as it deserves this week. Implied promises of companionship and guidance are comforting, in this strange new world.


And, in other news, The Week That They Were Writers is about to be re-run, though sadly one man down.

In short, the writer's back in residence.