ULTIMATE JOURNEYS, ULTIMATE TALES.

Prelude

2008-03-26T21:05:00.001Z

Sitting on the train today, feeling luckier than a leprechaun sliding up a rainbow towards a pot of gold, I happened across a story in the recesses of my brain.

The Bear Story

Before I tell you this tale, I must tell you of its origins. When I was a good deal smaller than you are now, my Dad took my sister and I camping. Neither of us could sleep, scared of the bears which roam so freely in the New Forest. And this story was born. From then on, it became a firm favourite for holidays, journeys, and unsure moments, told and retold.

I’m sure this story altered with time and retellings, and in its many forms it is an integral part of me. A part which I try now to meld into one, passable version that I may share it with you:

Once upon a time, deep within a thick forest, stood a cave. And in the cave, lived a big, shaggy-haired, bear.

“Wuurrrgh!” Said the bear, stretching as he awoke from his sleep. “I’m hungry!”

So the bear got up, and went to look in his larder see what he could find for breakfast.

But there was nothing there save a little butter and a solitary nutmeg.

“Urrr!” he said, sadly. “I guess I shall not be having breakfast after all.” And as his belly rumbled, he added “and I’d better go and find something for supper, otherwise I shall be very hungry indeed!

So the bear gathered up his basket and set off, out of the cave and into the forest.

He hadn’t gone very far before he stopped and sniffed. Mushrooms! Sure enough, a little way off, on an old fallen log, there were 3 big, soft mushrooms, and not far from that, sat a clump of delicate yellow fungi.

“Urr!” he said, in amazement. “Bears like mushrooms.” And the bear followed the mushroomy trail, gathering them all up into his basket, until he came to a huuuuuge tree trunk, so huge in fact that it blocked his path. He was about to go alter course and go around i, but his ears pricked, catching the low hard-working sound of bees. Glancing up, he saw a hive, hanging from the lower branches.

“Urr!” he said. “Honey! Bears like honey!”

So with that, the bear quickly scaled the tree and, using his big, sharp claws, sliced away a section of the hive, its honeycomb dripping with honey.

The bear placed it in his basket, next to the mushrooms.

“Mushrooms. And honey. Honey and mushrooms.” Mused the bear. “Bears like them, but there’s not a lot that you can make with mushrooms and honey, butter, and a solitary nutmeg. It won’t be very filling.”

So the bear carried on with his walk, keeping an eye out for anything that might be good to eat.

The bear walked, and sniffed, and walked some more, until the sun rose high above the tree-tops. His stomach growled.

He was just about to turn around, and make do with a plate of mushrooms for dinner, when he spied a fallen nest, cradling 6 blue-ish eggs. One of them had smashed, but the bear gingerly rested the others in his basket.

“Bears like eggs.” He said. And then he surveyed his finds. Mushrooms, and eggs. Eggs and mushrooms. And honey. What can I do with mushrooms and eggs?” The bear thought for a moment, and it came to him. “I shall make an omelette, a honey and mushroom omelette!”

And that, is exactly what he did. And though it was rather sticky, it was very nice indeed.

Coming At You Like A Shark With Knees!

2008-03-24T17:27:00.001Z

Over the last few days, I have oft been experiencing a paradoxical state dependant associative phenomenon. That is, déjà vu. See, the coming weekend shall see a repeat of The Week That They Were Writers. Only this time, it shall be bigger, and much much better. This time, undeterred by the 17hour journey (a result of not having a driver among us) five of us shall ascend upon the unsuspecting peoples of Ardanaeskan, armed with laptops, warm waterproof clothing, enough tea to quench the thirsts of thousands, and a rather warped collective humour. I can’t wait.

In the mean time, I should really stop watching star trek and knuckle down to some work, before getting hopelessly drunk with old friends as I stop off in Leeds on the way up North.

The Sky You Were Born Under.

2008-03-16T00:02:00.003Z

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how incredibly bloody lucky I am. At times, with things not going the way I had envisioned, these thoughts were somewhat forced, accompanied by pangs of guilt over ridiculous self-pity. And at times, the same thoughts came in jolts of bubbling, giggly ecstasy .

With all this, amongst strangely urgent dealings with assignments, bills, pub-outings and tulips, has come the search for a summer project. Complicated by both finances and the possibility of spending part of said project with my sister, BRIF is looking, for today, like the most likely candidate.

I've also been spending much free time with a group of awesome religion/philosophy students, and one of our many regular debates has been this: is there such a thing as a selfless act?

Thoughts, anyone?

swing-step with the planets', or, ‘tis the season for the emo post’

2008-02-23T13:16:00.001Z

With several hours to kill between lectures, and the sun shining in earnest I turn my back on the library this afternoon and head for the wood-encapsulated lake. How anyone can feel uninspired with learning in a setting like this I do not know. I spend a while reciting a few stories aloud as I meander along the water’s edge (much to the surprise and amusement of the few others wandering the path). I’m walking slowly, because it’s beautiful, and I don’t want it to end. And then I sit for a while, musing over the day’s chance encounters with a dozen or so friends. And it occurs to me, not for the first time recently, just how lucky I am. And just how much I’d miss the place if I ever had to leave.

I hope it doesn’t come to that.

I seem at the moment to be in a state of perpetual calamity, and with it a never-ending roller-coaster of highs and lows. Frankly I don’t know how anyone around me puts up with it. I don’t know how I'm putting up with it. Most of the time I’m getting nothing done, at least not with any efficiency, which is in part why there has been so little bloggage of late. It’s also probably contributing to the lack of coherent conclusion of this post.

Perhaps an evening with Terry Pratchett will sort things out. At least for a moment.

Good Things

2008-01-30T12:52:00.001Z

Rachel tagged me for this, and though it took me a while to figure any of them out, there *are* at least 7 things I love about the world. The knowledge of this has me greatly reassured.

7 things I truly love about the world , in no particular order:

1. Movies which, meandering or fast paced have something gritty within them that makes me, ultimately, think.

2. Mythologies and the way they shape the tangible Earth. Something I’m totally obsessed with at the moment.

3. Walking (by the sea or through a forest especially), with nothing but my thoughts for company.

4. A decent cup of coffee after a period of good solid work.

5. Watching something shift inside a person as they cement something new in their minds.

6. Deep conversations with close friends, which last until we slip into the unconsciousness of dreams.

7. Live music, whatever the style, whatever the setting. There’s just something about it that’s never captured in recordings.

---

tagging shall follow in an edit shortly.

Lost In The Sea Of Stories

2008-01-29T10:13:00.000Z

It’s National Storytelling Week this week; a fitting occasion to re-enter the blogosphere and tell of the host of oral-tale-telling events I shall be running this semester. However, as close as events come, planning is still in its infancy. In other creative news, The Writers’ Descent #3 is set to run this Easter. The line-up of fools undertaking the challenge is as yet uncertain, but it promises to be every bit as productive/fun as its predecessors.

Despite a week free of academic constraints, I have done little more than dabble at writing, and certainly have completed no major chunks of prose, for I have been rather distracted. The birth of Sævör, my first LARP character, and along with it, costume window-shopping and the discovery of obscure Norse legend has stolen much of my attention, and even that has been frequently interrupted by the acquisition of the extended Lord of the Rings dvds, and second hand copies of the first two Edge Chronicles novels. In short, I’ve been lost in worlds of deep myth, so much so that I’ve been unable to create my own.

That shall change however, in the following week (also free of academia). At least I hope it shall, for, wonderful as myth-encapsulation is, I'm starting to feel like I'm in an unshakeable trance, and it's slightly disconcerting. I plan to shape the unseen horrors of Meenu into something presentable. I shall also be working on learning materials to perform, and if I can work out how to do it, might even post up some audio clips.

---

I shall endeavour, over the course of the week, to post the obligatory new year posts, albeit rather belatedly.

Christmas Letter

2007-12-13T11:34:00.000Z

‘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

2007-12-02T19:50:00.000Z

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

2007-11-20T23:50:00.000Z

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.

2007-11-10T09:04:00.000Z

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?

2007-10-21T21:31:00.000+01:00

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

2007-10-21T14:29:00.001+01:00

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

2007-10-12T21:18:00.000+01:00

“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

2007-10-12T20:51:00.000+01:00

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

2007-10-02T21:59:00.000+01:00

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

2007-10-01T13:30:00.000+01:00

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

2007-09-30T19:24:00.000+01:00

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

2007-09-07T21:11:00.000+01:00

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

2007-08-20T13:25:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-08-06T20:38:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-06-23T13:16:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-06-22T23:03:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-05-25T14:15:00.000+01:00

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?

2007-05-13T13:23:00.000+01:00

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...

2007-05-10T16:56:00.000+01:00

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...

2007-05-09T11:24:00.000+01:00

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

2007-05-05T17:46:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-04-28T22:42:00.000+01:00

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...

2007-04-26T12:49:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-04-23T14:29:00.000+01:00

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...

2007-04-22T13:58:00.000+01:00

"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...

2007-04-20T15:58:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-04-17T23:30:00.000+01:00

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?

2007-04-16T09:11:00.000+01:00

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:

2007-03-27T12:15:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-03-26T13:55:00.000+01:00

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)

2007-03-23T15:12:00.000Z

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.

2007-03-23T12:10:00.000Z

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.

2007-03-22T11:21:00.000Z

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.

Switching Targets

2006-03-08T12:14:00.000Z

Just so you know, most of the updates for now, are going straight up on the Travel Site, since that's what I'm doing, mostly.

And This Young Man Looks Fine, As Well.

2006-02-24T17:06:00.000Z

I should like to pose the question: do we really have to be made-up and clad in skirts, if we are to be recognised as women? For that matter, why can't men wear skirts and flaunt eyeshadow without being seen as overly feminine?

I could rant at length, but I won't...

What is it with people and their stereotypes? Bah!

Friendship...

2006-02-23T15:57:00.000Z

Sounds like complete silence as you stand atop a hill - serene and beautiful.

Feels like a picnic on a summer's day, sprawled on the grass with the breeze and sunshine competing for Best In Show against your skin; a duvet on a frosty morning; creamy cocoa as it slides across your tongue.

Smells like marshmallows toasted on a bonfire in the crisp night air.

Tastes like strawberries, with a sprig of mint apiece.

Looks like an oak tree, earthy and familiar, yet full of life.

(Your turn!)

Hereford Bound (well, almost).

2006-02-23T15:41:00.000Z

Or, no I did not say Cornwall!
(I completely forgot about posting this earlier!)

Snapshots of a journey by rail.

Rooftop after rooftop flits by, marred only by the scratchy blur of naked trees.
---
A burnt-out, rusty orange car (V.W Bug, I think) lies precariously on a hill - almost lost amongst the sun-drenched orange of autumnal bracken - its bonnet permanently forced into a gaping smile.
---
The young signaller at Westgate, who could be sixteen as easily as late-twenties, seems remarkably responsible in his long jacket and peaked hat as he stands to attention and the train flies by, the powerful smile of a caretaker behind his eyes.
---
Endless track streams in front and behind, so full of possibility.
---
As the trees bow to the wind, one lone woman battles across shadow-cast fields, her collar high as she recalls a curious dog to her side.
---
B'ham New Street:
(let it be noted: Horseradish and Sour cream crisps are bizarrely delightful)

Woman with her hair in tight-pulled, fading bun, watches me with interest as we await our trains, until I look back and try to lend a smile. She quickly looks away, resolute and stern.
---
A gentleman turns head as he charges for a train, in his trendy woolen business coat and matching flat cap. I wonder how the style came back into fashion, and how it works on one so young.
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Hereford route:
2 small children imitate the train as it flees from their excitement. I can almost hear their their 'whistling', even through the toughened glass.

The Sanctuary of Friends.

2006-02-21T19:52:00.000Z

Just a quick post to let the whole world know that Anna has started a blog. Check it out!!

Look Behind You, Pumpkin!

2006-02-20T22:25:00.000Z

Alex and I have returned from picturesque Colwall, where I stayed, I kid you not, in Wood Cottage:

with my Fairy Godmother; a woman with an incredible energy, and an obsession for words which almost rivals mine.

We spent 48 hours (not nearly long enough) reading each others work and writing beside a proper fire:

and catching up on 13 years of socialising using means far greater than the telephone. It has to be said that, whilst I am jealous of the fact that she owns a real fireplace - the ultimate in homely touches - she also owns the worlds coolest kitchen!

In fact the whole place has the same magical zany energy as she does. And it's exactly as I remembered it; the stream, the trees, the pictures and paintings and things everywhere you look. I want somewhere just like it of my very own, one day.

Knowing how absorbing words can be, anyone who knows either Mim or I, would be extremely proud to know that we found the time to stop for drinks at the beautiful Malvern station, and visit the most photographed lane in Britain

for lunch at THE MACIHOUSE. And we went to the pantomime performance of Robin Hood and The Babes in the Wood, which sincerely rocked, and set both of our performance-loving-streaks on edge.

If only this story hadn't had an ending!

Fumbling with stories.

2006-02-19T23:21:00.000Z

In Part 4, there is a story telling session. The question is, do I tell the stories, or does Alex just skim across them in retrospect? This'll shape the rest of the chapters, as I cannot easily include stories told in far-away places if we do not share the ones of home... but those which came from published sources may prove to be a problem.

Suggestions please.

Travelling Words.

2006-02-15T23:58:00.000Z

My father gave me an old copy of The Great Railway Bazaar as a pre-adventure read, minus the final pages. It’s brilliant, even without conclusion. No doubt I will be quoting it for quite a while.

Enormous thanks must go out to knights in shining-literary-armour Heather and Kim, for not only suggesting an incredible book, but for filling my rucksack with books to inspire and aid the trip. Once again, I find myself baffled by the amazing collection of people around me.
---
In pre-travel adventure, I visit the Fairy Godmother tomorrow, an amazing kindred spirit. I would love to post an epic on her, but it's late, and I have an early train to catch, so I shall do it in retrospect. I must remember to pack my words-wand :-D
---

'That cold made leaving even easier..."Have you tried aspirin?" "No, I think I'll go to India."' Paul Theroux. Inspiration for any would-be traveller who doesn’t know where to start.

Progress.

2006-02-14T16:09:00.000Z

This is, in part, a repeat post. Those of you who read both sites will have to excuse it.

I went to my penultimate creative writing group last night. Things are progressing there too, with talk of more meetings, and a fairly stable group of regulars once more. Some of the people there have offered valuable support and advice for almost 6 years; they’ve known my writing since its adolescent phase, and never held it against me. They, unknowingly, have helped me work through the most difficult of times. Other, newer members of the group are not discounted from this appreciative post. I feel beyond lucky to have met this strange gaggle of wonderfully talented artists.

I’ll be sorry to leave them behind, if only for a while.

(14 days to go, and a hundred things to do.)

---
Alex is progressing nicely, and I can't wait to find out whether the three fantasmo-rad kids who've spared some time to test it out feel the same way.

I am slightly worried, however, about whether it'll be so great, without continual prodding from close-at-hand fellow writers. And whether the computer-cafes in far flung places will cope with me using them as a work-base from time to time.
- - -
* I’m searching for a book to take along, which doesn’t take up half my bag, but I won’t have finished by the time I land on foreign ground. It has to be inoffensive, just in case it is discovered, and perhaps, ultimately swappable. I mean, it’s not going to last the whole trip now, is it?! Any suggestions, anyone?

I want to live on Fibber Island!

2006-02-13T16:59:00.000Z

I this album had been made when I was younger, I would have tamed it, and kept it in the wardrobe as a pet! It's mad, it's wonderful! And I just had to share.

What's the Time, Mr. Wolf?

2006-02-12T00:50:00.000Z

I'd like to point out that I think my body-clock, nay, my brain, is wired all wrong.

Despite having a tiredness-headache, despite that weird twitchy tired eye thing, despite the coffee machine needing far more attention in the dark-hours, I am still far more productive between the hours of twelve and four AM.

In fiction, this often results in the best of my writing (most of it completely unremembered as I read over it). We shall see, tonight, if this transfers as well to fact-based grammar definitions and the like.

If it's all pre-determined, why wasn't I notified?

2006-02-11T13:47:00.000Z

Coming to a new point in life, I found myself wondering what all my old (from pre-Leeds, pre-high-school days) close friends were up to. And with little chance to catch up, I decided to try to hunt them out. Remembering surnames from the past is HARD, man!

Mostly it's not got me anywhere - Claire, Will Roach, Daisy Brown, Amy Phipps, if you're out there, hollar!

What's really bloody weird though, is that one guy, whom I saw last when I was 7 or 8, turns out (if indeed it's him - it looks like him, it *sounds* like him) to be in long-standing friend Rachel's class at Cambridge. What are the odds of that?!

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This might be my new favourite album. It's lovely.

Preparations

2006-02-10T23:29:00.000Z

The world is not working to my blueprint. There are no people in offices to talk to at 2am. People do not respond to e-mails within 24 hours. There is no gorgeous girl supplying me with coffee and kisses every hour. And there are not enough minutes in the day to get things done.

All of these things is a minor problem in my world, and each could escalate to catastrophe at any given point.

I have 18 (almost 17) days left to get everything sorted. I'm tired, but I daren't go to bed; there's far too much to do. It's Valentine's this week; as depressing as it could be.

The only e-mails/ texts I have received today, have been people excusing themselves from my pre-travel gathering. I am slightly mortified that one of my closest friends, far too long unseen, is stuck in London, thus condemning us to a further 2 years+ of e-mail relationship.

On a happier note, Preparations of a different kind are complete, in the form of Alex. Part 3. Actually, most of part 4 is taken from an early draft of 3, so that won't be far behind - other things permitting.

Absence makes the Heart...

2006-02-07T10:25:00.000Z

I know, I know... life just keeps getting in the way of posting. And writing. And, well, stuff!But I have been busy, look.I'm not going to link back here from there. Global Scribe is safe, whereas, anyone who's been here, knows that sometimes, here is not.

Tolerant Annoyance.

2006-02-01T14:33:00.000Z

Or, My Family.

I love my family, I really, really do. And it's sad they live so far away. But it's odd how some of them always seem to see bad in everything.

Some of said family, during my weekend in the Depths of the World (um, Southampton) were as amazing as ever. Highlights included a walk on the Common with my incredible, globe-trotting grandfather, and planning a family-history trip together whilst I am in India, and playing stupid games with my amazingly sensible 15 year old cousin until 2am.

Some, however, seem to think I'm still eight years old, and that everything I do is wrong.Lowlights include being told repeatedly of all the things that will go wrong whilst I'm away, and told, in an offended, upset tone 'Well, we never had to do this when I was your age!' and informed that I should not be travelling at all, let alone by myself, to places so 'wild'. Bah!

I was also, in the same dejected yet pitying tone, given the 'I do so wish that you'd find Jesus...' speech. It's strange that she's never asked me what I believe, but proceeds to lecture me anyway. I only wish I'd thought to reply, 'well perhaps I'll find him in the desert."

---
** I had no idea how much I despise the word 'worship' before last weekend!

In other, happy news: I've appeared in The Little Hedonist's Best Of The Rest list :-) It's nice to know there's really people out there.

Strange, these walls, they do not want to shift, not even brick by brick.

2006-01-22T22:33:00.000Z

There seem to be more questions than actual writing at the moment... I would just like to point out to those awaiting it, that Part 3 is almost Done - it has been 'almost done' for a while, but, I can almost let go of it. All the parts are written, and wait to be strung together.

Now then. Stories. I'm having difficulty figuring out whether to tell the stories Alex hears, or not. It's part of the experience, and will be more so when we're Out There, but it might cause problems, if for example, the story came from a published book.

Opinion, anyone?

*aside - has anyone else heard 'At Dawn in Rivendell'? If you're a Tolkein fan and haven't heard it, find a copy!

Call of the Wild

2006-01-22T22:12:00.000Z

Can anybody tell me whether it's possible to contact Clarissa P. Estes? And how? I've tried to find a website with a comment box or e-mail address, but Google does not like me this evening... And I desperately want to ask her something (and hope she spares the time to answer).

Colours.

2006-01-21T23:33:00.000Z

Friday lunchtime, I step out from the orange-box building where I play all day for stupid money, amidst the stormy purple clouds, and head over to the shop in search of lunch. The air is thick with thunderous heat, but somehow it's still cold enough to make me shiver, and everything around me is that simultaneously light and heavy rained-on hue.

But when I leave the store, two minutes later, the sun has sprung from nowhere. Everything glistens, a warm honey colour oozing from the ground, the lilac cloud-punctuated sky, the grass... even the poster-painted playground shines in new, exciting colour.

Thursday, I'm sure this would have slipped unnoticed, through the broken web of writer's word-net (it's like a butterfly net, only the weave is tighter). But now, after a day filled with cuddle-requests and honest open conversation, handprints painted over everything, jelly cubes, and those rocking on-a-spring playground thingeys, I cannot help but smile, and notice things again.

There are a thousand reasons that I love my job - I shall not bore you with them here. Suffice it to say that me and the under-fives, we're of the same mind. I'm saying nothing more.

The World's a Stage.

2006-01-21T23:29:00.000Z

I don’t know what is going on inside my head right now. I mean, usually I can see its workings, particularly where writing is concerned, like actors testing scripts and props upon a stage. Literally, people hanging about in Shakespearean, or scrubby-stylish thespian attire when the characters are not in costume (It’s a beautiful, mostly open-air stage, too. I wish that it tangible, so all could see). Do you think I jest?

And then, without warning, it all, even foundations of the stage, has gone, leaving a cold, empty cavity inside my skull. And suddenly, there’s nowhere, no one, to test my words and images, and I cannot write…

It’s strange then, that I think my characters are back, creeping out of hiding now that the monstrous stage-eraser has passed.

Without a stage, they cannot help me out so readily, but the child-like part of me which is in love with everything – every flower, every rain-cloud, and each emotion, however full of gloom – is back, and seeing the world as it should be seen once more. For that I’m happy. At least I can write in abstract, and I can play at moulding words, but what about my words, and my winding, tangling tales? When will they return?

The Writer, She is Gone.

2006-01-18T21:33:00.000Z

I cannot do it. I simply cannot write. I proclaim the artist dormant – for no matter how I try, the vision and the act don’t meet. My words are clumsy, my plots are inexcusably confused, and my style – which comes mostly from strange and matchless description (apparently – these are not my words, I don’t feel at all that I deserve such praise) is patched and faded throughout my work.

Nothing matches, nothing flows, nothing fits, and I do great injustice to some brilliant ideas with every word I try to place.

I Give Up. Nothing anyone can say will convince me of otherwise. For now, I Am No Writer :-(

The inexplicable things.

2006-01-13T07:36:00.000Z

How does one explain the telepathic bond between girl and rat? Coz 'suddenly, Alex heard Ginger's words inside his head' and similar variations, sound so pathetically melodramatic. It has to happen after/ as they bond I suppose, because it only happens for kids with their special toys who have developed character. But when? And how?

Stumped again - seems like I always am. Not feeling much like a decent writer this morning, or much of a writer at all.

I Think It's Elves.

2006-01-07T15:49:00.000Z

I swear there's something wrong with this family. Something not quite right; something one might say were almost fantastical.

I mean, we've all been running hard and fast, so mess accumulates, as it does in any other House of Chaos, in the corners and the deep shadows of cupboards, sprinkled on the surfaces and floors in a proud show of filth.

But as I start to chip away at it, I notice something strange; there's a limited spray of your usual packaging, clothing and grime, but mostly, there is stuff. Some of it, I admit, is left-out stuff, but half of it, is not. Half of it is stuff that serves no purpose, ugly, space consuming stuff and stuff that's downright weird.

We don't know where it comes from. None of have been out to buy a fresh supply of stuff, we haven't had the time. And the old stuff that no-one dares to throw away, not knowing its origin or whether it belongs to someone, a momento of an age that's passed, stuff I know has not been used, is everywhere again... No-one has removed it from its safe and tidy box, or shelf, and yet here it is, in daylight, posing as ornaments or books, or kitchen knick-knacks. Weird. I think it's elves.

Trouble in the Play Pen.

2006-01-04T21:04:00.000Z

So, I sit at the computer, Alex beside me, to make sure I get the details right, and we start to write Part 3. The trouble is, there's so much to put into it to get it up-to-date, as such that it's hard to know how to begin. And everything we've tried seems oddly self-indulgent. It seems I'm having trouble with describing the onset of that Companion-Person bond. It just sounds fake, every single time, like one of those really bad kids books that I resented being forced to read at school. This is not the image we desire - it's not a key-stage book, or indeed a SATs English paper task.

I need my fix of random, wonderful writings. Mark & Vicky have kindly supplied me with some, but much as I love penning things alone, I wish there was a group-thing this week (read: NOW). I'd be busy anyway, on Monday - Rudy, a Slovakian ex-colleague's in town - but that's not the point, and the following week, the 16th, leaves me with sorrofully few fortnights left before I fly the nest.

I shall update properly at the weeked, there's a half formed polari/ Obligatory New Year's post in the making, and there should be one about the sandpit wars of the week - as soon as there's a ceasefire!

Phone-A-Friend.

2005-12-30T21:11:00.000Z

Or, Why did I start this? And why can't I stop?

We may have to re-think. If the story's tone is more suited to an older child or teen, I may have to re-write it. The thing is, I like it now, the way it is, and I do not want to lose the tone of it. But I don't know many teens who might be interested in the travel of a teddy-rat. And besides, the aim of the thing was to raise an interest in kids, not older folks.

Does it matter if kids don't understand the words, or sentences in part? I mean, I don't think it ever put me off (and how else do kids learn, if not from exposure?) but would it discourage any kids less used to reading than I was? And if it's ok, up to a certain point, what portion do you think should be safe, easy language? And will it make any difference if the kids are read to, not reading independantly? In fact, does this still happen, at 9 or 10 these days?
---
I am slightly worried about the portrayal of Ginger. Those of you who know me will figure out why as you read. I hope it's not sickening or cliched, or too far off the mark.
---
how do you get accented characters on this thing?

Eureka!

2005-12-30T19:06:00.000Z

By jove, she's got it! Nearly, anyway.

He can only communicate directly with His Person (although I don't know yet whether this will be vocally or through the power of thought). However he understands the feelings of every creature around him. He may possibly develop a communicative relationship with others, if, and only if, he meets some very special individuals. But, what about the bears and dolls and other faithful companions whom he meets along the way?

Penny For 'Em.

2005-12-29T20:40:00.000Z

Kids, that is. Seriously, anyone have any 9/10 year olds I could borrow/ kidnap/ purchase (from afar, even!) in order to take the Alex tales for a test drive.

A Question Of Climate.

2005-12-29T15:36:00.000Z

walking the dog today, the meagre sun not half-awake, the light snow coated everything once more, and every step was set off with the harsh plastic crinkle of re-frozen flakes. Stink-Dog inevitably raced to the beck at the bottom of the road. It must've been cold - there was no rolling over in the middle of the flow, and only some bounding after sinking sticks. For the rest of our stroll, the tiny, perfect icicles queued along his underside tinkled as he walked. And he had the smartest christmas beard I've ever seen.

I have a question. Should Alex have a voice, or telepathic powers, or should he be a silent, solo type. Initially, I didn't want him to have a voice; so many parents get pissed when reading 'make believe' so obviously not grounded in fact or possibility, and some kids nowadays don't seem to buy it either. But everyone knows about the power of a person's teddy, surely, and for there to be no connection would be, well, wrong. On the other hand, uniform telepathy isn't exactly true to form either; have you ever known a bear who's understood by everyone he meets? Selective telepathy, then? But then it gets complicated, and would the readers understand and empathise with this part-time communication skill?

It's Such A Perfect Day, I'm Glad I Spent It With You!

2005-12-27T15:12:00.000Z

Dec 25th shall be the stuff of legend in our house; a Christmas free of argument and filled with family joy as any normal household must get every year. But that's another story which, actually, will be immortalised in Alex. Chapter 3.

Parts of this will too, but I wanted to share the festive cheer with my one (on a good day) reader.

Dec 27th (yes, I know the camera's calender needs fixing) started out like this...

a wonderful half an hour, utilising the 1mm dusting of snow. This quickly led to the perfect kind of drive; out in the country with my dad, the snow clotting as it whisked round our coocoon, the beach boys on the stereo, and an excitable black monster leaning over my shoulder. This in turn led to a walk with Stink-Dog, the Best Dog in the World, and Dad at a local wood, with snow and mulch, mud, sunshine, moss and trees all rolled into a cookie-dough ball of joy. We messed about trying to climb the crag with ice-numbed fingers and mulch-caked hiking boots for a while, to no avail. And when we hiked round to the top, watched the motionless sheep and busy helicopters through binoculars, as you do. This was, of course, interspersed with stick-throwing for HRH Stink-Dog. I'd almost forgotten how adorable he is with his half-puppy, half-pony canter of elation.

In Which a Small Rat Takes the World By Storm.

2005-12-20T14:34:00.000Z

Alex made his debut yesterday; and very well recieved he was, too. We’ve decided to share his story; an ongoing project for children everywhere. You can request the first part of his tale through the comments section here, or via e-mail.

Writing and Roaming. A new-found friend.

2005-12-18T18:28:00.000Z

I found my Travel-buddy yesterday. A small guy, who'll stow away comfortably in my rucksack, and who seems as inclined towards Freedom and the Stories as I...

Alex.

Floundering in Parenthood, and Other Musings of the Day.

2005-12-07T14:30:00.000Z

My Precious Tale is writhing in agony, desperate to shed its skin for the fuller, magnificent pelt of adulthood. I keep seeing glimpses of the things it could become, but I cannot seem to give it the tools it needs to do so; there’s so much to impart upon it that I don’t know where to start.

---
Foreboding Reality:

I'm going to miss Borders' Meetings when I leave, perhaps more than any other single regular activity.

I'll miss the face-to-face honest feedback and ideas. I'll miss the sense that there are others out there who value that spark which makes us show up at the page/screen. And I'll miss being exposed to a myriad of works, in styles I'd barely read in any other place.

Most of all, I think, I'll miss the discussions, where the writing and the writers rub against one another until a spark, a flame, a rumbling fire ensues. Every week the differing experiences and topics lead to a new hoard of tangents. And you always learn something, without setting out with that in mind.

Santa's feeling rather odd tonight.

2005-12-03T23:23:00.000Z

As Rachel has kindly pointed out, I have been neglecting this blog (again). In fact, I have been neglecting writing all together, making me feel like the snow-fed grit beside the roads. There simply has not been the time to put the words together, but I feel all the worse for it.
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Guilt:

Feels like quicksand, syrupy against your fingertips as you flounder, cold as it oozes in between the folds of cloth you wear.

Sounds like a pin dropping to a kitchen floor for all eternity.

Tastes like strong black tea, etched upon your taste-buds for hours after the fact, its remnants bitter and harsh.

Smells like fresh cut grass on a frosted morning, the air damp and clean enough to carry the green aroma for miles, a smell so pungently beautiful that you’ll always feel inadequate, as though you don’t deserve to be there in the moment.

Looks like an inkblot, spidery as it expands even beyond the page, indelible and irrevocable no matter how hard and long you stare in horror.
---

I do have reasons (as usual) for not turning up at the page. I now have tickets for word-wide exploration, and with my passage suddenly reality, I have to get organised. Admittedly, this has been stunted somewhat by the realisation that I’m going Out There, for a Very Long Time; a mix of elated, inspired freezing terror.

I have been writing tiny pieces, in a search for the Christmas Tales that make the grade this year. So far, 98% of it is shit, and I’m running out of time.

In other news (I’m sure there was more than this to write about, before I sat down to actually do it) I went to my first football match today, with a lad I have been working with; Leeds vs. Leicester City at Elland Road. Leeds won 2:1. And I surprised myself by quite enjoying it; I thank The Boy for making the transition pain-free and entertaining, despite his frequent pleas for alcohol.

Oh, and I bought one of these today; fascinating, in an Eeyore’s-Pot kind of a way. It’s my new favourite piece of travel-kit.

The View of the Nac Mac Feegle.

2005-11-24T22:13:00.000Z

I promised a couple of budding writers a starting place. Here's a couple I used recently, just to get things going. Both of the following explore perception and description; try them out and see how far you go, and leave them here for all to see, if you feel so inclined. Good Luck. Xx

The View of the Nac Mac Feegle: Pick three everyday objects, and zoom in on them. A shower head becomes a UFO, a weed becomes a shrubbery.

Blind-Man's Bluff: Pick up three everyday objects and describe them using only touch for stimuli.

Lord Of The Flies: A Rather Average Evening.

2005-11-04T20:58:00.000Z

"No Problem." I concede, not realising what I’m signing up for as I head for the kitchen with three teenage boys in tow.

2 minutes in, as we assemble the ingredients on the worktop, I have to pull apart two rampant, angered youths.

"’s true!" Number Three growls indignantly. "Y’ do have to use a different knife for meat."

"Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean you threaten to knife him, does it, Three?"

The knives themselves, ridiculously blunt through necessity, cause quite a ruckus as they are produced. Forbidden fruits!

They snipe at each other silently behind my back, until some ancient instinct flares within the them at the sight of flame as I ignite the hob.

"Whadawe do then?" grumbles Number One, unable to avert his gaze.

"Well, if you take the green board and cut the chicken into cubes, about so big..." I gesture with my thumb and index finger, "Two, if you could chop the onions and pepper, and Three, could you do the mushrooms and the chilli? Both of you use the white boards. I’ll heat up the oil. Three, throw out the chilli seeds, unless you want it really hot, and make sure you wash your hands when you’re done!"

All goes quiet, and I cannot help sense the calm, against the full-on fights of not an hour ago.

"Done." They mutter, almost simultaneously, as the oil begins to hiss aggressively.

"Fabulous! Right. Onions 1st, then chicken after a minute or so, then the vegetables. Then, if One adds that spice sachet, and stirs the food to stop it sticking, Two can take charge of the wraps, and Three can do the cheese, Salsa and Sour Cream; and the two you can set the table."

"Wha’ about you?" Number Two protests.

"Nu-uh. It’s your meal, guys. I’m just here if things go wrong."

They stare at me for a moment as power shifts. No-one’s ever trusted them before.

"Well? Come on, or it’ll be nine o-clock before you eat." I’m hopelessly aware that one blunted knife could slip through someone’s ribs its holder turns around, and if malice erupts, there’s little space to step between them.

"Wha' d’we do?"

"Onions first, Fuck-brains."

"Guys." I warn.

In go the onions, with whoops of delight as the oil protests. And I stand back and watch.
Number One, the eldest, held authority over the other two, and quickly took charge of the task in hand.

As they haphazardly hurl food into the pan, he tosses it with flair, and barks instruction out across the room.

Exultant screams fill the room as I melt into the work-top and let the tale unfold, half amused, and half afraid of the creatures I have made.

It doesn’t take a moment for the shirts to fly across the room, but then, it’s hot in here with the hob on full. Seconds later, abetted by a wooden spoon, the barbecue-war-sauce is spread ceremoniously across each boy, with a heart-shuddering cackle of manhood. They dance around the flame in the tiny kitchen, a tangled mass of activity as they go about their separate tasks, the fire’s potency reflected in their eyes. I can’t quite grasp what’s going on.

The noise level rises, with an evil tribal note. I glance towards the door, but Number Two hovers nearby, one sharp eye on me.

I can almost hear the heathen-tongues spurt forth with instruction to ‘bind and boil the care-worker’. I forcibly remind myself that this is real life, and that that could never happen.

"Man Prevails!" Wails Number One, as he stirs the pot one last time, and the flame dies down.
Two and Three step in, plates in hand, to capture the raw spirit of the thing in tiny doughy parcels.

"Hope yer ‘ungry!"

Through the serving hatch, we see Number Four appearing from nowhere, and thudding onto a dining chair.

"Phwoooar!" his eyes light up as a plate is placed in front of him.

The other staff quickly follow suit, passing the plates through until the table’s full.

"Nice going, guys!" I congratulate, as everyone tucks in. "Now, who’s washing up?"

Apology

2005-10-23T22:21:00.000+01:00

I thought I should apologise to anyone who has come to either this site, or Progressions in search of updated work. I'm not posting it, because I have developed an irrational fear that, despite no one ever reading them, someone may steal it for their own. If any of The Group were looking for it, leave me a comment or an e-mail, and I'll forward it to you.

There was or there was not, in the oldness of time...

2005-10-23T21:53:00.000+01:00

Once more, the wanderlust has taken hold, atop a kind of deflated misery of unknown source. Usually the season grips me, pushing me through the months in a kind of grinning trance, but now, I cannot find the slightest smile.

I have not written a word all week. My fingertips and muse feel fat, and lazy. I have ideas aplenty, but not the inclination to spit them out onto the page. I’ve worked less than I should have, and my bank account is feeling it, but I have no energy spare to work the extra hours. And I’ve spent far too much money in the last few weeks, but I just can’t seem to stop.
But, it’s Biz’s birthday on Tuesday, which, oddly, feels more of a milestone for me than either of my ‘key birthdays’ ever felt for me. Perhaps this, and the childish traditions that we hold so dear shall shake me from this indolent state and set me free. Or, perhaps if I force myself to write, and work, I'll find my groove again. Whatever; I’m letting it all go for the party, anyway.

I have a new itinerary for travel, which I shall disclose another day. Suffice it to say for now, that I shall be delving into fewer places, but leave a deeper groove in each. I bought a new book; my favourite book all year, I think - ‘PALESTINE, A Guide’, which looks at every facet of this fascinating culture. I think I’m going to try to write a folk-tale that fits the Palestinian style. Perhaps I’ll alter Homecoming to fit.

Changing of the Seasons.

2005-10-15T16:39:00.000+01:00

There’s a definite excitable hint of winter in the air; the buzz of Halloween, Guy Falkes and Christmas all rolled into one as your feet snap along the pavement or swoosh through fallen leaves. This is the best time of the year, despite the rain and wind, and ice. I cannot help but bounce through daily chores. Unfortunately, it doesn’t help me write gut-wrenching grieving scenes for Blood Omen. It is going well though, hence a much neglected blog, again.

I have reverted to winter listenings, such as John Williams’ Harry Potter scores, which feed my mood and fit the weather perfectly. There’s just something about it.

A little over a week ago, I stayed at Mark's, for another 2 days writing, which was, as always, a great success. And we rewarded ourselves with a trip to the cinema to see David Cronenberg’s A History of Violence, staring Viggo Mortensen and Maria Bello. If you have not seen it, then you must. It’s the first movie in a long long time to treat violence as the serious creature that she is. The cast was perfect, the script clever and poignant, and Howard Shore’s score as snug a fit as you'd expect. A lot of people seemed irritated by the ending, but… well, go see it. It’s amazing. I went to see it twice.

I have yet to see Howl’s moving castle, Domino, Lord of War, and the impatiently awaited Corpse Bride. That’s just the beginning of my list. It’s no wonder I am always skint.

The Ultimate Question

2005-10-15T16:35:00.000+01:00

"How do you know how many words?"

She laughed. "I count them all… no, I use the automatic word count on my word processor."

"But… It is not accurate. It contains not real words."

"No, it doesn’t count symbols."

"But… like ‘a’.

"‘A’ is a word."

"Not real word. I never count."

"But," she huffed "you can’t say ‘a’ is not a word? How is it not a word?"

"It makes nonsense. It has no… no meaning ."

"Of course it has meaning - the English language doesn’t function without it."

"What then, what it mean?"

" it signifies an indefinite object. It’s an indefinite article."

"Like what?"

"Well, you can say ‘the mouse’ if you are talking about a specific one, but if it is not a particular mouse, it’s ‘a mouse’."

"So, it means, ‘any’?"

"No. ‘any’ is different. It can be used for one, some, or all of something. ‘A’ is more specific. It talks about one unspecified thing."

"but, it does not mean anything, really."

"It does!"

"But, it is only one letter. It’s not proper word."

"You can’t say that! That’s discriminatory! If you can’t have one letter words, can you decide not to have long words one day? Besides, there are some scripts where one character is interpreted as a whole phrase. They’re necessary!"

"No. I am talking only of the English language. It means nothing."

"But… if ‘a’ is not a proper word, what about ‘an’. That’s got two letters!" she smirked triumphantly. "and it means the same thing."

"So you can just use it instead."

"No, you use ‘a’ with words that start audibly – the way you hear it – with consonants, like the letter ‘c’, and you use ‘an’ with words which start with vowels, or sound as though they do. Although there are exceptions."

"Still, in my head, is not a word!"

"Look, I spend half my time writing, and reading, and editing people’s work. I love semantics. I work with the English language every day; it is my tool! You will not win this one!"

"It’s not word!"

Stolen Moments: A Tale of Autumnal Bliss.

2005-10-15T16:33:00.000+01:00

The morning was hazed with frost and cold wet air, but the mist broke away before the shock of orange streaks across the sky.

The bus was heaped with bodies fighting equally for seats and oxygen; damp clothes steamed, their musty odour leaking from the bus at every stop. Finally, flustered, I stepped into the icy outside world once more, with time to spare. Beside Place Around The Corner, is a beautifully quiet neighbourhood, and the forested park of a stately home.

Most people, with 25 minutes to spare, would hurry to the comfort of a conversation and a mug of tea. Not I. Meandering between the trees, into golden light-filled spaces, and cool pine-needle shady spots, I look up at the canopy. The light paints highlights on the leaves, turning steadily into their autumn shades. It’s beautiful. So, breathing freely for the first time in a week, I carry on, the fellowship of the Ring drifting to my ears. It’s so serene and awe inspiring. And I wish that it could last.

Foremost, Writer.

2005-10-03T21:23:00.000+01:00

Isn’t it strange how single moments can change you, change the way you think, or pull back into line a purpose which, though hidden from view, has been apparent through all of your remembered life.

There were several of these moments, for me, in the last week; ‘The Week that They Were Writers’.

The first, came at the climax of our 12 hour drive, where, sitting at the end of the garden, by the tumultuous loch, shadowed by the ridge of the escarpment, we stretched, and breathed, and laughed.
Picture the frolicsome writers, here, as they realise that they are free to be themselves. This manifested itself in a peculiar way, even for us:

“I spy… Something beginning with ‘S’.”

“Seaweed?”

“Nope.”

“Swimming seagull?”

“Nope.” After several minutes of this, Rachel sighed. “It’s everywhere. Look up!”

Sarah bounced in triumphant inspiration “Clouds?”

(It was at this point, amidst the peals of laughter, that I thought ‘Fuck! There’s no hope for the world if a writer cannot even recognise the phonetics of her alphabet’, and suddenly, I relaxed, more than I have done since Borneo)

--
The following morning, awaking to perfect Scottish rain, and the sea lapping at the window (almost), I looked out of the window and I knew. I am the luckiest person alive.

--
Writing was slow, to start, as I was ashamedly rusty at actually responding to the muse with more than scribbled notes. But then, I constructed a mini-tale entirely on the act of eating cake, entitled: Don’t mess with the Crazies, You Never Know What They Might Do, Or, The cake is evil as well as masochistic, it forces us to eat it with its domineering frown. And I saw that it was good. I may post it at Progressions.

--

The Day they Let the Writers Loose.

The day they let the writers loose was a dark, and dismal day. The wind did howl, and trees did bend, and small sheep blew away. The writers they did gambol, exultant as they breathed fresh air, and stories rested for a while; though their fingers found it rather odd that the laptop keyboards were not there. And as they gazed out through the trees, at choppy waters far below, the locals spied them standing there and longed for them to go. For the crazy writers were a sight they did not wish to see; with wild hair, dishevelled looks and crazed expressions in the eye. The locals hid behind their doors, until the writers passed them by.

The writers, as they walked, they talked their cares away, barely noticing the clouds, which barraged them with drops of grey. The day they let the writers loose, they had a lot of fun; all singing and all dancing until their walk was done. The day they let the writers loose, was a dark, and dismal day; but to them it didn’t matter, as they wandered out, to play.

--
Upon this escapade, I heard this tale. (Credit goes to Joe Knowler, in his infinite wisdom, and to Rachel for passing it on.) It is, quite possibly, the best story known to humankind…

Mum collected Rachel and Ed from school, with Joe in the buggy beside them, and the two excited children began swapping stories as they walked home.

Suddenly, a voice sprang from the buggy.
“Once ‘Pon Time.”

This hopeful, solemn voice was met with joyous wails. “The baby’s telling us a story: Tell us a story, Joe!”

“Once ‘Pon Time…” Joe began, in his best storytelling tone, “was a mummy, an’ a baby, an’ a monster…” long pause. “Munch. Crunch.”
--
I rediscovered, during our return, that Rachel and I, when together, can make a joke of anything. For instance… Where are the houses? Why, where the houses are, of course. It was also on this day of adventure, that I decided I must return, for a much longer period of writing, somehow. Ardaneaskan’s good for me, and even better for my concentration and my style.

--
It was not all fun and games however,(although much of it was: we even provided Pythonesque Comedy Hour for the Waterside café in Lochcarron) and we did do serious writing, honestly. I doubled the length of Blood Omen, and made plans to further it, thanks to helpful criticism from my fellow yarn-weavers. And I made Rachel cry. I do feel slightly guilty that, upon realising this, I did a victory-jig in my head, whilst chanting ‘I made my best friend cry. Woohoo!’ (Sorry, Rach!).

Markulon, Prolific Writing Superhero that he is, wrote, 36,000 words, nearly all of them brilliant, and all from reputable sources. He scratched off several short stories, one of which forced a lump to my throat as I read. And he tactfully avoided working on his novel.

And Rachel: She Who Could Not Write, produced from nowhere an onslaught of 50 word story-cards, each with the week’s theme… eaten, and then proceeded to write an awesome creepy tale; the longest(twice as long as the previous longest piece), best thing she has ever spawned. It has everything! I still have to pen it for her.

--
It occurred to me during the week, that I am, first and foremost, a writer. And perhaps, the stressful job I hold in order to save for my travels, is not worth it. I may have to find a boring, undemanding job and take the longer route to gaining money, just so that I can concentrate upon my work.

--

There was plenty more, but it shall remain undisclosed, for the sake of you, the reader’s sanity. Suffice it to say that it was the best week in a long time. Due thanks must go to both Rachel and Mark, who made it what it was. And, more so, to Mark, who single-handedly drove us there and back,(thanks, Mark, for all the effort and stiffness and pain!).

The House of Muse: Safe Under Lock and Key.

2005-09-11T13:52:00.000+01:00

I got a new desk yesterday, unexpectedly. Actually, it’s a shelving unit with a bureau. It’s only small, but it’s increased my working space and re-alighted the muse which faded with hum-drum working weeks. What can I say, I’m a sucker for furniture as much as I am for stationary.

It’s really beautiful though, with its understated form; it’s smooth grain reaching up to caress the thoughts as they flow from pen with ease. And it locks, keeping scraps of inspiration free from prying eyes.

Good Things Come.

2005-08-28T23:39:00.000+01:00

Before I give way to the un-blogged occurrences of the past 3 weeks, let us concentrate on the 3 points of the day:

My writing (Blood Omen, to be exact) was dubbed ‘mind-blowingly fucking excellent’, and likened to that of Tennessee Williams by a non-writing fast-becoming-friend at work. I did not pay him any money for this statement. He also took the first part away, adamant that he would be really pissed off when he reached the end of it, gagging for more. I now have ANOTHER person expecting me to finish the damn thing when The Pest, Mark, Myself and potentially Mystery Being escape to Rowanlea.

The same fast-becoming-friend discovered that I am ‘ripe for poaching’(I love his phrases!) from the Tom Havocs and, having decided to form a group of ‘elite’ performers to record his own stuff, hinted that maybe I should switch allegiance. I think he’s right.

Lastly, I cycled home from work this evening, along the darkest of lamp-dwelling streets , having done no exercise whatsoever for a long, long time. I’m still alive, and I’ll do it again.

---
For a small, embarrassing portion of time (an entire unforgettable evening) I was flayed alive in a Pop Idol ps2 contest. Totally slaughtered. This was only a slightly gentler fate than re-enacting, complete with words and actions, a Barney song-time video no less than 11 times in one day.
---

I noticed the other day (though I’m sure not for the first time) that no matter where I have to settle for the night, as soon as I pull off my shoes, I feel that I belong, and a comfortable sensation overtakes all else. It never seems to matter whether I’m tired, or even if I’m settling straight away or doing further work, this simple act has the effect of several hours rest, completely relaxing every part of me. I wondered for quite a while what the deeper meaning to this revelation is. It also crossed my mind that, perhaps, there is a link to the no-shoes-indoors etiquette of much of S.E Asia.

---

I was going to write about the ironic falling of responsibility, but I don’t think I shall as the persons involved may come across this blog. I’ve become rather fond of them. Perhaps another day, cleverly disguised as a fairy tale (please, don’t anyone ask how it would go, for I’d see it as a challenge, and there’s too much content acting out inside my head as it is).

They Nameth it Fool.

2005-08-11T14:43:00.000+01:00

I’m resigned to the fact that I may never get some of my beginnings and ideas, and completed stories back – not to mention all the photos and other crap which I may or may not find stored on CD somewhere. MOST of my work is backed up – several times I might add. It’s just that, some of my scanned photos/ picture adaptations and, the less important mini-scraps of work, didn’t always seem worth the effort. And now my pc is being weird, so I can’t log on as me, and since I didn’t want to share the progeny of my mind, it seems I cannot reach them. Fuck!

Wondering: Should I continue with Blood Omen until I reach the end, and then revise, or should I revise what I've got and then write/ perfect piece by piece. Decisions, decisions...

Also, why is it that when you're ill, all you want to do is get up and go to work, go out, be on the move, and yet, the rest of the time, you'd give anything for a day in bed with movies or book, or your imagination. Just a thought.

Neglected:

2005-08-08T13:42:00.000+01:00

I’ve meant to post several entries. I shall file them here, now, in chronological order:

The Tales that Never Reached the Page

2005-08-08T13:41:00.000+01:00

Up bright and early, I reached the city by 9am, and settled with a hazelnut latte in the muse-house Borders, poring over ready-written text and slowly digging deeper into the tales as I awaited Mark’s arrival. We planned to write, all day, until the writing group met, two floors below, at 7. The day, so bright and warm, was full of promise as only a day of creation can be. I happily wallowed in words, alone, until 11, where I left my velvet armchair for the office of The Agency by whom I’m now employed. Things moved quickly here, finding work in 2 establishments which I already know. Soon, I was back in borders with a redeye, to shake Madame Muse to her most attentive state.

Still no Mark, though, so I teased and provoked the words alone.

At almost 3, Mark joined me, and we spent a joyous hour and a half with Blood Omen; Mark ripping conscientious wounds into its flesh, and me intermittently defending its choices as any parent should. Thanks, Mark, if you read this.

Mark went off to listen to speakers for a while, and I had a trauma with my mobile phone, and then, when he returned I returned the favour with Marco’s Spanish Diaries, talons caressing the body of it. By the time we’d finished, we had barely time to eat and read over a couple of older pieces in the group’s joint story-in-the-making. And then it was Group Time. A successful session where, with unneeded apologies, Mike also added flesh-wounds to the first 5 pages of Blood Omen (Thanks!) and Mark replayed his attack. It’s harder to defend your work in front of larger groups, as you often get top-heavy opinions.
We revisited the To Read or Not To Read dispute, and other people shared their tales; which were great, by the way. I love being around my clan.

The Day Of Reckoning

2005-08-08T13:40:00.001+01:00

Tuesday commenced with a pleasant shift at the Place Around The Corner, and the arrival of French Family, and an oddly optimistic request for a weekend of shifts at Place Up The Road.

Bizarrely, I cannot remember what happened that evening, although we must have done SOMETHING, and I reckon it was fun. Oh, I remember – Charlie and The Chocolate Factory – how could I forget?! The girls, had a choice between Charlie, which they’d seen in French, and Madagascar, which they hadn’t, and naturally, they disagreed. A coin toss ensured that Boo won out, and Yonkers-Bonkers had to make do. I don’t know whether I was more disturbed by the evident lack of understanding at adult humour in the audience, or at the unfazed expressions of the twins, age 5, at scenes such as burning, melting puppets accompanied by happy-elf music. I think, at 5, that I’d have run out of the theatre. It was however, a clever, kick-ass adaptation of the book.

I know that the Place Around The Corner was impressed, as I have a further week and a half of work with them, after just one shift.

Woeless Wednesday

2005-08-08T13:40:00.000+01:00

My morning was filled with the CBeebies website, and dress up cut outs of Little One from The Fimbles; of energetic piggybacks, and tickling matches. Then, off to work whilst the rest of them had fun at a barn dance party, at which I should have been playing.

The Singer, The Clown, and Daddy Toothpaste

2005-08-08T13:38:00.000+01:00

Thursday began with a hectic, indecisive start, but by 11:40 we were off, two almost-vans chocked full of Essential Gear, in convoy, journeying to Whitby for the day.

I went with Nick and the twins, in an attempt to make up for working through their stay. Half and hour in, we had drained a small bottle of flat coke, and the rest of the 2 hour journey was spent with the girls sharing its two components – bottle and lid – utilising them as a clown nose and singer’s mic, and enacting high-pitched dramas as such. At rough five minute intervals they’d swap. And every 15 or so, these costumes would be cast aside, in unison and the girls would turn gleefully towards me with the request “You can tickle me, please, Daddy Toothpaste?” and erupt in peals of laughter, to which Nick would retort wearily “It’s can you, not you can, little girls.” Only twice did they bother to correct themselves.

They were not interested in the gorgeous countryside through which we travelled, unlike Nick and I, who marvelled at the sight.

On a quiet, twisty road there was an offshooting track, labelled “Local traffic Only” and I could not help but chuckle, recounting this later to Biz… “This is a Local road, for Local people, there’s nothing for YOU here.”

Whitby was full of the usual sea-side childhood pleasures of wave-jumping, sand castles, fish and chips and gothic content, but the adventure here is far too long to spout forth – I have to work today, as well.

The Weekend of Almost Gloom.

2005-08-08T13:37:00.000+01:00

Here, I must apologise to The Pest, as for a myriad of reasons, our weekend did not go to plan. I’m sorry, babe!

As the French Invaders departed, and I went off to work, So came Rachel from Southern Lands. By this point, I was exhausted from hauling children through the waves and other such healthily active endeavours, and mentally wiped from working in New Places. So, when she arrived all plans of midnight feast story-creating vanished from sight, though we still had hopeful plans for Saturday.

Saturday morning arrived and nothing much happened for a while, which was almost entirely my fault; I could hardly will myself to move. And though I do think it’s fantastic that despite our infrequent meetings, we can just as easily do nothing in each others company as if we were at each other’s houses every week, I feel rather guilty that we didn’t get to complete anything we’d planned. I have this bizarre image in my head, and indeed in reality with Other Friends, where, instead of enjoying being together, we rush about cramming activity and excitement in. Kind of like some parental visitation rights trauma. Odd, I know.

So, things just about got moving and I had to go to work, so Rachel went exploring in Leeds, miraculously returning in one piece, unaided by the natives. So Proud! Yet again, an evening of well, awakedness (I’m sure that’s not really a word) failed to be, as although not as tired as I should have been, a before 6 rising summoned me to bed, and I’d left before Rachel stirred the next day.

As I returned at 3pm, I struggled to stay awake, but we did manage at least to start a shared story. Then all too soon it was time for Rachel to leave.

But Rachel, in a Cambridge-moment (similar to a blonde one, but almost always relating to a real-world common sense event (her words, not mine)) got on the Wrong Train, something she will never live down. Her headstone may well read “Here lies Rachel. Genius. Got the Wrong Train.”

Anyway, despite me falling asleep, she got to watch the 1st episode of The L word, and we had more wonderful nothingness this morning.
And now, I’m off to work.

Sentimentality - doesn't it suck

2005-07-30T19:39:00.000+01:00

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.)

2005-07-29T19:07:00.000+01:00

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?)

2005-07-28T21:35:00.000+01:00

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).

2005-07-21T15:09:00.000+01:00

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.

2005-07-21T14:55:00.000+01:00

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!

2005-07-18T15:35:00.000+01:00

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.

2005-07-18T14:27:00.000+01:00

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.

2005-07-18T13:23:00.000+01:00

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.

2005-07-14T17:24:00.000+01:00

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

2005-07-08T00:47:00.000+01:00

‘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.

2005-07-03T02:39:00.000+01:00

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.

In The Sack... Out The Sack. Tiddley Pom.

2005-06-28T17:17:00.000+01:00

All geek radars must be switched off, before you read.

This lunchtime, I spent an enjoyable hour in Cotswold Outdoors with my father, browsing through the books and clothes, and gear, and, specifically, looking for my surrogate-closet for the duration of my trip. My rucksack. With the help of Mr. Luggage, the store’s rucksack/ travel pack expert, and a 15k weighting system, I’ve been paired up with the 65l destined to contain my life. The Macpac Esprit. A sack sturdy enough to withstand being slung onto a bus roof with little care, to travel in the dust storms alongside folk who couldn't fit inside; sturdy enough, in fact, to take whatever abuse I care to dole out in 3 years on the road. And comfortable enough to brave the Annapurna with full load if I so choose.

So now, obviously, I’m going to have to spend a happy evening stuffing items inside it, to see how much it holds.

Brilliant, huh?