Tag Archives: self

There’s a Part of Me That Still Believes My Soul Will Soar Above The Trees

I’ve been laid up in bed under the weather for the last few months. For the most part, if I haven’t been able to reach something from my bed, I have just, simply, had to do without it.

One thing I have had access to is my guitar, so I’ve playing about with that for a good while (much to the chagrin of my neighbours). I wanted to play ever since I was a child. I was gifted my guitar as a teenager, and I’ve been playing ever since. No lessons, and it shows, but I’ve been practising whenever I can, and enjoy it. The days I no longer love the guitar are very sad ones indeed.

I saw this quote by the more talkative half of Penn & Teller; it describes my relationship with my guitar to a tee:

With that in mind, something I did while being fairly immobile, and without completely steady hands (*excuses etc). Its both up tempo, but rather sad. The mix amuses me:

 

 

Having been ill for so long, and facing the prospect of being so for the foreseeable, my first thought was to consider that I needed to develop a relationship with it, as I, simply, had been ignoring it. My second thought was that – obviously, perhaps – I already had one:

I lived with someone many years ago who I absolutely despised. Not simply dis-like, I truly despised this man. It wasn’t one sided. He hated me just as much, perhaps more – I never cared to find out. From the many encounters of a wide array of people I’ve met during my life, some of whom – incredibly annoying; only two have been so beyond the pale; both former close friends, ironically perhaps – or very comic book villain. This was one of them. If, on pain of death I had to say something kind about him…I would still consider it long and hard before declining.

We lived together in one house. We weren’t always there at the same time, but each time we were we would do anything not to be in the same room as one another, often staying in our own space, safely away from the other. When the other was absent we would have free reign and our kingdom was larger; it would shrink to such an unsustainable size otherwise.

There were three occasions, only three, during a twelve-month period where our paths crossed. It was almost as though both of us acknowledged a mistake had been made, but defiant that the error was at the hand of the other. I use the word ‘ acknowledged ’, an exchange of a death-stare upon stopping whatever activity we had been doing is a loose definition of the word ‘acknowledged’.

He wasn’t always there, but it was my house. He was in my house. That’s where I go to be safe; calm; somewhere you can make your own. Even when he wasn’t there, he could be again soon. As much as it would pain and annoy me to admit – he would, quite accurately, say the same.

To add to the woe of this, people would confuse us because apparently we looked similar. Even people who knew us both, occasionally, got our names confused…or upon hearing about us both, would assume we were the other. I think I developed a twitch as a result of the number of eye-rolls I had to do in such a short space of time.

I write\vent all that for the simple reason because that is the exact relationship I have with my illness. Like for like. He had a small box room because I had chosen the master bedroom and was unwavering and not in a compromising mood. We lived in this fashion for twelve months. I imagine had it have gone on longer there would have been some sort of coup and I would have been turfed out and consigned to the Harry Potter cupboard. I have been under-the-weather for some time longer than twelve months, and am trying to make my new home under the stairs as comfortable as possible…

If It Looks Like I’m Laughing I’m Really Just Asking To Leave

This is getting closer to the story I want to write. It still isn’t that. Writing this has helped move that ahead, so that one day, when I finally get what I want written down it may have some proper substance.

I think its important to get what you want written done, even if it is not perfect the first time. It can only improve over time, even if the second, third, fourth are not much better. 

The below is the first part of something that will be much longer, that I’d quite like to finish if it turns out to be any good. I thought about holding off posting it until it was all done, but considered that this might mean it would never get read at all, and I do think its better than what is sitting in my reject pile (even if only slightly…)

I’ve been watching many sci-fi/dystopian/thriller type movies of late; I find them fascinating. Some are disturbingly relatable. Many so happen to focus on identity.

Then someone showed me this cartoon, which – absolutely bizarrely – I saw similar ideas in, or perhaps I’m seeing them everywhere (although this one managed it whilst being quite sweet and enjoyable):

Now Part One of my own short. As I say, I hope Part Two follows soon.


“Oh that’s just fantastic. Another one? That’s twelve now! How much more of this is there?”

The elevator doors had opened revealing a pensive pair of eyes. There was a face; hair; knees; nose; and all the other usual accompaniments too, but none of the room’s other occupants were really looking at those. They were all indistinguishable from their own. No one has ever seen their own face directly. Not once. The only way we see ourselves is from a photograph or at a glance into a mirror. As bizarre and unexplained the unfolding scenario was, none of the men seemed to acknowledge its gravity. The new addition drew little more attention, even when the feet edged gingerly into the room.

“We’ll call this one ‘Baker’?”, the man closest stepped forward and pointed to the new arrival, but he addressed the room instead. The Patriarch. He had identified ‘Baker’ as the youngest, the naïve one. That person whom people spoke about in front of, knowing they wouldn’t understand. He didn’t.

“Why Baker?” From behind, a pencil had stopped taking notes.

Patriarch continued, “He is the twelfth. The Baker’s dozen. Baker.”

There was a furious crossing out across the page, but the words were calm. “A baker’s dozen is thirteen.”

For just a beat, Patriarch was silent. He had been caught out. He turned to the one who challenged him and drew out his his index finger towards him, as though it were magnetised to the man’s face. “He’s Baker. Write that one down.” Writer recorded as such.

“My name is not Baker”, Baker said.

Everyone ignored him.

He took a moment to survey the room. An open plan office space, not too expansive. It held all the men in the room quite comfortably, but was probably at capacity. Fully furnished; computers; phones; a printer. All powered down. The strip lighting overhead, all off. The daylight seeping in from the windows from three sides gave just enough to see, even if the details were slightly obscured. Outside there was only sky, save for the speckled clouds and, of course, the sun.

Far in the distance, the sun was fast approaching the horizon. The watercolours surrounding it were splashing a rouged tangelo from the west. This sight was almost hidden due to the piercing glow. The shade provided blessed relief from its gaze. It was becoming ever apparent that this was not a problem to be contended with for long; the rank of shadows grew ever stronger.

Then there was that ‘thing’ with all the doors. There were none. The single egress was the elevator door, which was sealed shut. Like everything else, it was now powered down. This isolated world was a stage set far away from anything that could be considered knowable. A lifetime’s accumulation of experience was irrelevant.
Patriarch had been talking. He was spilling rhetoric as a drunk does his ninth drink of the night. Perhaps half of the room had been paying attention, although none were rapt. Everyone was grateful when the printer started humming into life; indeed, the looks on the faces across the room: Gratefulness first, then surprise. After that, doubt.

“One of your number is not what they seem.” Until now, this one had been silent, but as the printed sheet fed out, he was the only one to move and pick it up. Reader continued: “Find the werewolf. Eliminate him before he hunts you all. He will take one per night.” He looked up, at no one in particular and continued solemnly, “Night will come soon.”

“A werewolf?” Doubt turned to panic, “What crazy place is this? I’m trapped here with all of… you; and now, a werewolf is going to kill me?!?” Panic had found his shrill voice. The Peace and Reason that was self contained in the space was now fraught with holes; the amount of damage a piece of paper held in one’s hand can do has always far outweighed that of anything sharp or semi-automatic.

“It’s a metaphor.” Writer had stopped his note-taking once more, and contributed instead. His effort was wasted, as no one paid him any attention. He added this fact to his black book, keeping his future epiphanies to himself.

“Rubbish.” Patriarch replied, reaching out and snatching the paper from Reader’s hands. “No such thing as werewolves. This is ridiculous.” He scrunched up the paper and made to throw it but Panic held him.

This whole place is ‘ridiculous’.” Panic took back what had been taken and did his best to flatten it out. He folded it once and, reverently, put it in his pocket. “This is our only way to make sense of what is going on here.”

“What sense is there in chasing werewolves and fairy tales?!”

“What option do we have? What would you have us do!?” The two men were nose-to-nose at this point, the distance between them shrinking as their voices raised. None of the others interjected.

This…”, he continued, pointing frenetically between each of them, emphasising the “…Impossible.”

So it was.

As the final syllable faded, the word remained. One man; twelve men. Trapped in a place which, simply, could not exist. Speaking the word had exposed just how much it was smeared across the environment. Not one desk; no window; there was not a single face untouched by it. If they had not already, it would not take long for the men to realise it themselves. Everything that had once had a veneer of truth started to tarnish, underlining the layers of absurdity beneath. All with the exception, perhaps, of the word itself. It all appeared just plain wrong.

The sun faltered and was, finally, lost beneath the horizon.

There started the night.

Just A Mortal With The Potential of a Superman

I was given a written prompt, and it reminded me of something I’d been trying to write for a long time that I never pursued. This still isn’t that, but its something on its way. That, in turn, reminded me of something else entirely.

The prompt was:

“Everyone Assumes They Get a Guardian Angel; They Don’t Realise That Demons Can Be Guardians Too.”

The angels in my life do not have wings, and the demons certainly do not have horns; so I’ve taken this rather askew compared to what I’ve read in a lot of other pieces. I am not sure how I’ve taken it, to be honest (or even if I’ve gone completely astray…). I pinched parts of one line from somewhere else, which is what the rest is borne out of (in case anyone notices that…).

This reminded me of something called The Stanley Parable. It is designed as a game, but is far more of an existential exploration, I suppose. I really recommend you explore it, otherwise I have a YouTube video here that holds a very similar value. It is well worth 8 minutes of your time, in my opinion, even if you skip any further text I have written.

From that couture piece of fiction, to something – perhaps – less refined.

———

“The Great Library of Alexandria, a monument to the near infinite wealth of the Ancient Egyptians. Everything that had ever been known was held within its walls. Hundreds of people spent their whole lives transcribing knowledge so it could be stored and held safely in one place. Marked as one of the Seven Ancient Wonders of the World; all thoughts and ideas brought together to stand the test of time. Burned to the ground in 48 B.C. Generations of discovery lost.”

“Is that where we are now?”

“…is there somewhere you would rather be?”

“No…I’m just….surprised, is all.” A cautious glance around the shadows, “Where are all the scribes you were just talking about?”

“We do not need them, you and I. Everything you need, you talk to me.”

“You’re the librarian?”

“We are in a library. I am the librarian. If this were a shop I would be your cashier; were it a museum, I would be your guide…”

“I would feel a lot more comfortable if I could see you. I don’t know where you are.”

“Comfort is not what I am here for. I am here to tell you what you should hear. Besides, there is no comfort to be gained by seeing my face.”

“What is it that I should hear? Why should I listen?”

“Who else is there here that you can trust? There will be nothing you can learn without my guidance here. Of course, you may search beyond, I cannot stop you; but it is…purposeless. You will see for yourself. I will be here still. I am the voice between the voices; I am the one who moves this story along when it loses its way. I will not be silenced for long…”

There was anger behind the disembodied voice, the echoes ricocheted off the hall’s unseen corners. The mood had turned; the visitor had, perhaps, said the wrong thing. The wooden floors were rough and uneven; unloved. One would think no human soul had entered but for one. The dust layered upon it was broken by a chain of footprints, a continued trail leading into the gloom. The only disturbance in an otherwise untouched world. The library was, at best, unwelcoming. Without any direction, it would become a labyrinth.

With no voice to smother the surroundings, the grandiose hall came into focus. The few shelves visible were bare. The library was quite barren; all at least, that existed outside the darkness. The dim light, source of which unknown, stretched no further than a couple of arm’s lengths. For all the mention of untold understanding, there was nothing.

“Let. There. Be. Light.”

The silence was broken by the words accompanied by the reluctant grind of heavy machinery. A lever forced its way into effect, the weight of which set the world into motion. Sunlight wept inside from windows surrounding high above. The boundaries of the interior world were now confirmed; for a hall containing the world’s wealth, the atmosphere could only be described as claustrophobic. All that was outside was an infinity away.

“I care not for your tricks. If there is to be light, let it fall upon us instead!”

“Are you not impressed? Let’s shift our focus, then. Choice is your freedom as much as any other illusion. It is what’s on the inside that counts, after all…”

Another heavy lever echoed high above. The light of the world outside was extinguished. In an instant a bright spotlight revealed how close to an infinite measure the hall maintained as a zone became illuminated. There were endless levels climbing ever higher, spiralling towards the apex. There was an atrium starkly revealed becoming ever thinner as the surrounding walls reached a blinding point. None of the light reached the ground, from where he gazed upon. It reached down little further than a few floors above him, clawing the outer walls.

It was there, where the light lost its battle with the dark, leaning ponderously upon a railed balcony, he saw the man for the first time.

It was a face that was all too familiar, but belonged to a man he, truly, did not know. The eyes were tired and disguised a thinly veiled anger; one hand steadying himself on the balcony railing, the other held a stranglehold on a lever. His unsteady grasp on power was power all the same; he had dominion here and could turn on the night.

That was the moment the power in the room shifted. Everything prior had been implicit; manipulated; symbolised. Only then had he became broken.

“I am trapped down here and can’t see a way out. There is nothing down here, save for myself, all this knowledge is elsewhere; I want to step outside. You have been where I am standing; you know how I can escape. I’m afraid that I will not be able to leave. I need you to help me.”

A pause. A breath. A decree.

“Then allow me. I can stare between the fretwork. There is no one out there coming for us, but I will be the one who will go to them. I can see the broken world and will do this for us both. You have given me my own voice. Can you now see how it is to have mine? I will save you from this.

In one swift flourish his hand reached down, closing the distance, even so slightly between himself and the floors below. His facade of implied unsteadiness had faded. At first it looked as though he was reaching out to his compatriot; this was not a warm embrace. Not yet. The hand held a match; as both men stared, without even the most subtlest of movements, the head ignited and began to glow.

Both men were silent for a moment. Encapsulated temporarily by its vibrancy and allusiveness in equal measure. Finally the voice from above spoken again.

“Do you know why they burned the Great Library? Perhaps there were no treasures within after all? Or, in fact, there was a conspiracy to make the world think all the knowledge had been lost…..but it was all SAVED.” The final sentence elicited first a smile before an excited grin, finally breaking into a tired, throaty laugh, near indistinguishable from a deep and persistent cough.

“But…”, he continued, as the laughter quickly faded, “…this is not the case. It is so sad, and would have made a wonderful story. One of determination; bravery; honour; of justice.”

No words in response. The spotlight began to fade from view as the match burned brighter without even a flicker.

“This is not some fairy-tale told to children; it is not an heroic myth fondly shared. It is a footnote, in an altogether different story, one that continued long after the Library’s demise. Do you think you deserve an ending? Are you owed a neat resolution all tied up with a bow? The story will continue either way. Yours is not a story; it is a fragment. Come! Step into the light. Get your fingers burnt. It is time.”

Only silence in reply. The match was aloft, over the chasm between the two men. Its stillness was quite hypnotic. The flame was not dancing, it was prone; waiting patiently for the right tune.

“Since, my friend, you have revealed your deepest fear: let us move along; stop singing these songs; we have been performing all these years. Tear down the Hall.”

The dance started. The pirouette was beautiful.

Above The Planet on a Wing and a Prayer

For as long as I can remember (which is a much better way of saying, ‘for the last couple of weeks’) I have always believed that you shouldn’t run away from anything. That is not to say, you shouldn’t run; running is probably priority one in a number of scenarios (fire; tiger escape from zoo; free cheesecake). You should never run away from anything. Everywhere you run should be towards something instead, even on days when it seems like you’re heading right back where you started.

And we run. We are always running – from the second we open our eyes in the morning to the very moment they close again at the end of the day. Sometimes the only way to take a pause (perhaps rather counterintuitively) is to pack a bag and escape a while.

Every journey starts with a single step. If anyone else were to make a journey they would have probably considered the first step more than a little carefully, and pondered over what the first single step should be. I, however, can’t remember exactly which single step I made was the first one, the one that led me to the plane I’m currently sat on (yes, at the time this is published, I am on a steel bird about 30,000 feet in the air). It isn’t that I haven’t thought through exactly what I’m doing here, rather, I’ve thought rather too much about it. So much, in fact, that I never really thought I’d get here at all. So I sat and considered until my mind had to make a pit-stop from the racing it was doing.

Imagine a toddler, on a picnic blanket looking up and around at everything going on around them having nowhere particular to go, but knows full well that they are not sure they want to be where they currently are. The toddler does not really consider the step, and definitely doesn’t consider the route, but, with great effort albeit without much eloquence, they pick themselves up and toddle. Not one step, but several uneven lurching steps with no ideal destination. Probably in search of cake.

Perhaps, a better analogy is the drunk student ejected from their usual haunt and is keen to find another place to wind away the hours. Spoilt for choice, and yet with no focus on where to end up…and far far too early to call it a night. One step forward; three to the side; a twist and shuffle – something more closely resembling a dance notation than a plan. But even dance notation has a clear and unambiguous meaning, despite not being clear to everyone. Perhaps not even to the drunken student making the moves.

A drunk toddler dancing unsteadily into the dark night towards a night club which may or may not have cake. That is probably the easiest way of describing how I have come to be where I am now. The hard work has been done already; from this point, all encounters are down to chance, despite being masked as meticulous detail.

So I’m going on an adventure. I have little, if any, hopes and expectations, which will either be the making or the breaking of this mini-tour. It is, by no means, a grand expedition but a fun one nevertheless. My chief weapon is fun…and peacefulness. My twweapons are fun and peacefulness…and the unexplored….

It has had its moments, but I’ll be temporarily putting down the pen which has written the zombie-horror that has been 2016. Instead, I’m running head first towards a blank page I intend to fill using a set of brightly coloured felt tips (or anything that can produce a vivid, abstract contrast to what has come before).

Onward to peace and relaxation


Today’s reading:

Easyjet Safety Card.

Playlist for today:

Bo Burnham – Left Brain, Right Brain. The man manages both thought-provoking and comical. Plus, I’m deciding which side of the brain I need to switch off… probably both. (Note he can be quite colourful in how he speaks…)

Within Temptation – And We Run. I will be arriving in Holland in about an hour from now; the home of this band. In a world where many opinions are stated as facts: Symphonic Metal is up there as one of the best genres of music.

 

And With These Words I Can See

Language is both wonderfully diverse and startlingly unique. It brings us together as human beings while dividing us in the same terms.

The words you speak say so much more about you than the message contained therein. The message is the canvas, with the smallest and faintest of outlines, nothing on its own; the words – however – are the colours, the tones, the highlights; and they are all yours to choose.

A differing medium to portray the same can, quite literally paint a very different picture as the artist throws their very own interpretation on their subject. Perhaps forgoing the fine detail or, maybe, abandoning the original outline altogether in favour of something new.

We may not see ourselves as such, but we are all artists, with our metaphorical paintbrushes in equally metaphorical hands. There are those which shine at this artistry and there are others who, clearly baulk at the prospect.

However, words are not alone in their task of making our counterparts understand our message. Anything one being does that has an effect on another should be held up alongside. Art, theatre, music, even mathematics – all of these are examples of parts of our culture which have an innate effect on us, and this list is by no means exhaustive.

I visited one of the larger art galleries my city has to offer not too long ago; on the whole, I see the beauty and am aware of what the artist is trying to put across. Yet I do not appreciate this effort in anywhere near the same terms as I would in a piece of literature, for example.

The message within a painting, or a portrait, is not something I can interpret nearly as well as one I can gleam from a metaphor or aphorism in a phrase or lyric. This, by no means, makes me stupid (only in my own opinion) but perhaps highlights my point:-

The nub of what I want to get across is the idea that there are a near infinite way of communicating with fellow man, and language is only one. It is an important one; it is a prevalent one; on occasion however, to re-appropriate (and misappropriate) a Churchill quote, words are the worst way to get your point across, except for all the others.

In one word I could describe a cow as ‘cow. In two, it could be ‘brown cow’, in three, ‘big brown cow’. Keep adding one after the other, only by adding more and more chunks on can any additional information be gleaned. There is a reason the phrase, ‘a picture paints a thousand words’ is so commonplace. In its own way, it is quite true. A picture may (arguably) be the better way to confirm the way to Amarillo, or to show you a big brown cow.

 

Big Brown Cow
Big Brown Quizzical Cow

Is it a quizzical cow? There is no way to tell in the picture for certain, except for my caption underneath. (I decided it is!). So there are some things, language is strong at – and others where it seriously falters. With a limited scope, it suddenly becomes quite an inefficient way of communicating.

When I was younger, and quite bored – I was taking a walk and decided to practice my schoolboy French (probably giving far too much about myself away…). There was to be no thought running through my brain unless it could be transcribed into the French vernacular. It was quite remarkable, as my language skills are notable only by their absence. This is an extreme example, perhaps, but I found that my ideas slowly started grinding to a halt as I was fumbling over the most basic of terms, verbs and tenses. Something one would usually consider as quite vibrant became incredibly generic as I struggled over vocabulary.

A ranging vocabulary is key to being able to paint a lexicographical picture. It is dependent on two, or more people being able to communicate using the same words. This means, I am not suggesting that the largest vocabulary is the best. If someone knows 25,000 words, but those around them are aware of only 20,000 – that’s 5000 wasted words. This is true of slang and colloquial words too – if two people can express their feelings to one another bae using their best turns of phrase – then it is a worthwhile feat.

I discussed with a friend of mine the idea of how language may be now holding us back, rather than furthering our understanding of the world around us. Man was developing language at the same time as they were putting together basic tools. Words have adapted and evolved a great deal in the time between then and now; the basic tools have also, but they have been abandoned, replaced, re-hashed and re-invented (flint –> scythe –> laser-cutter). We are still using collections of sounds to portray so much, while still having many things remaining indescribable.

As new things come to pass, new words come in to describe them, but if you imagine being able to define each thought in our head on every minute of a clock-face, perhaps the words we use can only define the ones which fall on each hour-mark. There is so much being missed – perhaps, it is because I am inadequate at explaining my own thoughts – but I am nervous of believing this is the case.

I oversimplify, for my own amusement, and even having written 910 words on the subject already, perhaps that is not enough – or I haven’t picked the right ones. There may be a single word in a  foreign language to describe all the above. Quite simply, as I search for a way to make my thoughts as clear as possible I wonder if words may not be the answer. I await a time where people can share their emotions, ideas, dreams without the need for this enforced filter. Telepathy, second sight…or another word yet to find its way into being.

Live long and prosper.

 

It starts with an Earthquake; Birds and Snakes; An Aeroplane…

Before embarking on this collection, a preface is in order. I started this in the belief that, in isolation, each piece I post here could lack clarity and would need some context. Instead, this will serve to fill a void and enable me to write a half-decent back-story. 

I have been writing for a very long time, but have never had a collection gathered in one place. For many years, I kept everything separate – and never really took things seriously. As time has gone by I realise the creativity and dynamism I had spent so much time trying to keep to myself was being cast by the wayside and being misrepresented – mostly by myself.

I was recently branded a process-monkey, incapable of thinking outside the box, rigid, inflexible, etc. I inwardly rejoiced in that I had created a fretwork to contain the inner chaos of my everyday life – perhaps I could finally consider myself tethered to the outside world. Equally, however, I was incredibly, incredibly sad; it was – simply – not a reflection of me. The mask I see in the mirror is a lie, those that too gaze upon it see an untruth.

“I am not what I am” – Iago (Othello: Act I Scene I)


 

I was told I was a man of words. I was someone who thought too much; thoughts which would get me into trouble as a contrarian. This was twenty-five years ago, the late 1980s. This was a world in motion and radical change. The tide of capitalism had broken through the dam at Berlin; Tim Berners-Lee hailed something labelled the ‘world-wide web’; Michael Palin’s Around the World in Eighty Days premièred on our TV screens.  I knew none of this; I was three-years old, sat on my grandmother’s knee – already branded an ‘over-thinker’.

By the age of seventeen (skipping through the dull parts), however, it was clear that I was not so much a man of words, but a man of ideas.  This is not to say they are all winners; I am, by far, more fascinated with the action rather than the consequence. I have never been able to look at something and accept it at face value – life would be much easier that way and I could get on. A thing would be a thing – and would always be the thing ineffably. The last couple of decades proved my grandmother quite correct otherwise. There are too many ideas and, as of yet, there has simply not been enough time. It is beyond border-line problematic. Just time-wise, a train of thought has become so expensive, it has been long since I last remember buying a ticket. 

 I once described this personal phenomenon to someone:  if everyone in the world was like me nothing would function in quite the same way. Question everything; it both is and isn’t in parallel. A ten minute consideration of a single raindrop or a glass of wine, perhaps, stacking up continually; extending into whatever time one would usually reserve for sleep. The end result or purpose eludes, but the question is asked regardless; perhaps proving as equally concealed, perhaps equating to no more than “?”. Uncertainty, hesitancy, potential. With my characteristic lack of clarity – equally present here one would suspect – I had not expressed myself at all well and she didn’t understand. She thought, instead, that I wanted to top myself. The date did not end well.

I rarely express ideas in fine point. I am not fully convinced I have discovered a way to express the vast majority – they are mostly beyond the tip of the tongue. I normally lack the desire to do so. Evangelism in all its formats strikes me dumb – I have always been able to write quite forthrightly, and that is what I do.

Here is their home.

There will be essays; short-fiction; poems; links to online articles – whatever I am considering at the time – and whatever I am digitalising from my many notebooks. I have written a novel and its online home will also be here, once it enters the public domain. (I haven’t yet found a way to make that previous sentence appear less pompous but it will continue to trouble me no doubt…)

The moral of this however, my overarching message: I love the idea of someone appreciating what I write, but it is not the reason I do any of this. Its cool not to like it, it is equally cool to ignore it; this is somewhere for my ideas to evolve.

May peace be upon you.