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.