Tag Archives: Silence

Start The Car And Take Me Home



The worrying thing about change, I find, is that it’s always the same. Unrelenting; unwavering; unsentimental. When you find the moment you are happy to see out your days with…this too shall pass. Such a loss is many degrees worse than some of the most harrowing events I’ve witnessed or been party to; I’ve always learnt from harrowing events. How to be stronger; how to be more patient; to consider consequences. What have I ever learnt from a moment of happiness? Synonyms. Some were more ‘joyous’, others would be better described as ‘thrilling’. Few others, ‘bliss’.I fear less the darkness that blinds than the light that burns. One quickly extinguished, the other lingers. But what for?

This was as far as my asinine thoughts had pondered until I was distracted. There was a child, apparated next to where I was sat. A boy. Young, no older than four. Five at a push. Despite barely reaching the desk at his fullest stretch had his nose peering into my notebook.

“Hello.” In the same sort of way I would address a strange cat in the kitchen, I had an opening gambit.

No answer. His hands remained buried in his blue dungarees as he haunched over my writing. A self appointed editor-in-chief. With no parent in sight, I moved to ‘cat in kitchen’ line two:

“Are you lost?”

“Are you lost?” He echoed.

“I’m where I’m supposed to be. You’re not though are you?”

He turned to look at me and cocked his head. He was laughing guiltily as though he and I were sharing a secret. One I, perhaps, didn’t understand.

“What are you writing about?”

Amidst all else curiosity and wonderment had won out.
I stared both inwardly and onto the paper in front of me.

“It’s just what I am thinking. It feels important.”

Only silence in reply.

“…just to me. No one needs to see it. It’s cathartic. I want to feel like I’m doing something positive.”

More silence. Dead air I felt compelled to fill.

“I want the world to be different, better maybe.”

“Like Batman?” The energy of those two words obliterated the soundlessness from before.

“No. I don’t want to save the world; sometimes, I would quite like to believe it is worth saving.”

I wanted to tell him of complexities of adulthood; checks, balances; moral relativism; ideology; but I just felt foolish. When I was young, there was what was right and there was what was wrong. I had always considered that the world had seen its edges frayed, but, in keeping, it was more complicated than that.

I stopped and looked over the child properly for the first time. He didn’t meet my gaze, not avoiding it just…never fully acknowledging it. Distracted by everything around him all at once. He was somewhere where everything was new and exciting. Even as jealous as I was, I felt less of a man for considering taking that away from him.

“So is it? Worth saving, I mean..?” I asked. I’m not so certain why; the wisdom between the ages, maybe, started to shine through even just a little.

“Oh, yes,” the lone reply, tinged with auspicious excitement, “…there are dinosaurs.” With that he turned away with the grace (and accompanying roars) of a T. Rex and vanished as swiftly as he had come.

I now had my answer. I caught the knowing look in my reflection from my desk mirror. I replied with a curt nod before my eyes returned to marking time across the page once more.

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I’m Going To A Town That Has Already Been Burnt Down

Is today the day I get everything sorted, or is it Thursday?

I have tried to edit another chapter to put up on here, and wasn’t going to post until then. However, I was sworn in as Chairman of the Bored today. Massive news. Full of joy, fun and sarcasm. It was a unanimous decision; 100% of votes cast in favour. All considered me as the person best placed to tackle; raise awareness; promote; respond to the boredom crisis that has now reached peak levels.

Three things in particular helped my case for election.

  1. The boredom outbreak seems to only ever to be in a twelve-inch radius of wherever I happen to be, so I am more experienced with it.
  2. I was the single person casting a vote. The only person present during the course of the day.
  3. I was the sole candidate. (See point two)

There had to be a recount after Jeff Lynn of ELO was initially declared the winner. Ironically, this was the injection of excitement that this Marie Celeste of a day truly needed.

Today is one of those days for Iggy Pop-ping along; perhaps required after spending evenings Alabama Song-ing along instead. It is all about finding a balance.

I always like to include some sort of song/video I’ve found that has made me smile, or at least pause for thought. After some lovely words given after my last entry, I have instead put another example of my guitar work. I am in love with it again today, so three minutes respite below:

Go check out Jay Foreman at www.jayforeman.co.uk or on his Youtube to hear his genius at work properly…

 

 

 

The Patchwork Girl Has Come To Cinch The Deal

This is the second part of something I wrote 2½ years ago. It was something I enjoyed at the time, and always meant to go back to. The first part is here, please read that first if you would like – and if you enjoy, read this one after.

 

I have taken to sharing something that has caught my eye during this time, somewhat related, perhaps, to what I’ve written. The below video shows the differences between labels and people – and what values we attach to both.

 

I have had only my notebook and whiskey for company this week, so to see the fruits of a rapidly unravelling mind, perhaps, please enjoy the below:


“My favourite thing about you, was always your ability to surprise me”, he was outwardly unmoved except for a wry smile. A neutral observer would even see a hint of regret, perhaps a degree of disappointment, a man who had played all his cards being dealt out the next round. Yet there were no neutral observers, there were none. Only one pair of eyes across the table; they knew his cards were yet to be revealed.

He had no anger nor could it be described as surprise. It wasn’t excitement; desire; aggression; there was no panic in his mind or his manner. For the smallest degree of an infinite amount of time, he felt nothing. As she held his hands, he was without her; he was on a solo journey on his train of thought.

Every moment in life is a Choose Your Own Adventure. Go left? Go right? Should we speak or be silent?  Should we lie? For the first time in his adult life, he didn’t know which page to turn to.  What would someone else do? What would anyone do? Could he pick a page at random, and see how it played out? You can’t turn it back once you’ve moved along. Faced with an internal disunion, suddenly the gravity of every decision he’d ever made (and will ever make henceforth) became painfully clear.

The thought of throwing a pause into the story and keeping the moment, averting his next step, was an appealing one. Although, if he had that power, there were plenty of other, more alluring, times he would have done so. Action and inaction are not opposites. They are virtual synonyms; they are both responses to an event and have consequences. The two choices are exactly that. Choices. So what is the opposite? He did not want to choose. He did not want…consequence.

He, simply, did not know what to say. In a continuous spectrum of emotion, words were rather inadequate. One phrase could turn a tide; create joy; forge sorrow. He would have no control over the events once a word tumbled out. If a wrong one slipped into her ear, it would poison her mind. They were starting their trek out of their purgatory, their limbo; but it was a hazard-ridden path for the both of them.

In no time at all, his locomotive brain was running in circles; with each lap the right stop became difficult to spot as it went past.

He no longer knew the rules to the game they were playing.

As she looked at him, she saw every encounter they had ever had; everything that had brought them to this point. For all of its contrariety, here they both were. There was no word one could use other than ‘inevitable’.  In a world of infinite possibilities, they had found each other. Their lives had one way or another, become ineffably intertwined.  She was momentarily disquieted by this idea of determinism, but instead found comfort in the peace it had brought her.

Her silence was different. He was lost, she was held tightly; enrapt by it. He had spoken last, but still she waited. She was holding a fragment of empathy in her hands. It was fragile; not like a baby, nor like a china doll. This was a time-bomb counting down. Before she could say her piece, she needed to be sure it would fit, or else risk detonation…damnation.

Her mind was still; despite its surrealness, this really was a perfect moment.  She added it to the ethereal album she kept of his face. Despite his gaze not meeting hers, she kept this to treasure in the future.

She no longer knew the rules to the game they were playing.

They would both have to make it up as they went along.

Once upon a time in a much happier tale, they had understood one another, but perhaps they could again. He shook his head to himself, before nodding; smiling at his own resolve he found the strength to meet her eye.

“There’s only one thing left to do then.”

“It’s all just….a little too late, don’t you think?”

As his answer, he stood and took a step towards her. He gambled on it being the closest they had been. He outstretched his palm; looked down at her face watching his, and spoke his three most heartfelt words:

“We could run.”

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 Give It Time Then Speak My Name

It’s been a while since I posted here.

It is not because I have forgotten; I’ve been working on projects, including one for the blog for the last however long.

Perhaps it is apt that the topic I am covering is that of silence.

There are many different types of relationships present in this world. A lot of them are created and held together by different causes or interests. A joint interest in a topic can bolster a friendship; a shared dislike of something will instantly create an ally; but these are only a fragment of the kind of bonds people form throughout their life. There are all those people out there you are side by side with, interdependent  with perhaps who you will never meet but have a level of understanding.

A nodding acquaintance, I suppose. The people you may see on the train everyday; the person who has the same gym schedule as you; your neighbour who spends their day on their front lawn. The stories behind the transition from silent cameo to ensemble cast member can quite often be interesting, and are – obviously – not a rare occurrence. One would point out that just as all strangers are friends we are yet to meet, so must friends have been strangers once upon a time.

Some stranger than others.

There is no template for what one considers a friend/enemy/lover/acquaintance;they cannot be grouped into types/pots/divisions. Each relationship is unique, there are as many different branches of relationship as there are people on this earth. The fascinating thing (for me, perhaps only me, at least) is how each of these relationships defines – or is defined by – the exchange of words.

A kind word is not dependent on familiarity. Indeed, there are people in my life I know very little about who have my kindest words bestowed on them; there are people I know very well who will receive none. I think we have kind words for all our friends, but as I say above, the relationships are built on different things and so equally differ in what we talk about. I don’t think its an usual thing – shared\alternative history will usually create different points of perspective.

The most interesting to me though, the part that intrigues the most is what doesn’t get said in any given relationship. Where does the boundary lie with ‘too much information’? Why can I not share things with my bus driver that I share with my significant other? Then, flip-side that for fun, and what do I share with my bus driver I do not share with my SO. Probably nothing, to be honest – but, extreme examples aside, its something ponderable.

Every relationship is a collaborative journal and need not share any features of the ‘Also by this author’. Not better, or worse – just different. People cannot be ranked, rated or pigeon-holed; the many branches reach far, they reach wide; some are stronger, broader and older – but all are vital to the tree.


This the relevant segment of a piece I’ve been working on [I’m not yet completely happy with it] (*), and will be following up (hopefully relatively soon) with an expanded version, exploring a few other things. As per standard practice in this day and age with fiction – allow yourself to feast on the beginning, a teaser, if you will, of Across the Table.

*This is transcribed from my notebook…I’ve made changes and haven’t quite settled with them yet    [/excuse]


She spotted him and hurried across. He was already sat; it was three minutes past the hour. She was late. The concern was all hers, since he was smiling as he spotted her, and rose to his feet. Thirty seconds before he had been as agonised as she appeared now – in her presence his demeanour became calmed. A close glance would see his glassy eyes remain; but that was not something to be shared.

A brief kiss, and a tentative hug, before they sat together across the table. She was visibly calmer but was still silent – both had been silent. Their eyes were betraying them both, as each became further lost in their soundless converse. Her cool exterior was a lie, his frenetic state equally so. They looked across the divide and saw only a pale reflection of their companion. Their silent words had carried them too far away from one another.

He held out his hand.

“I’ve missed you,”  sang the outstretched palm.

The hand propping up the chin had not heard him over the muted sound of fingers drumming her lower lip. The rhythmic pattern was enough to convince her she was doing enough to bridge the gap , but not enough for the weight of words to get across. Her second hand partnered her first and her elbows met the table as she did so, bringing her nearer and yet no closer.

“I’ve missed you too,” her hands had become too tired and her eyes took up the slack. They answered the call of his palm, but spoke to his eyes instead as her gaze shifted from the table. Her eyes could talk freely, unfettered by the fear held in her hands.

“What shall we do now?”, as his hands moved to mirror hers, his fingers held like a prayer, pressed firmly upon his closed lips. They were inches apart, eyes locked. They had become each other’s whole world.

She had no answer and remained unmoved. As far as she could tell, they had both found solace in the silence, but both had been very different. Hers was close and packed so tightly it was impossible to see out clearly – his was a vacuum where everything within was pulled out of reach. This single difference was what was creating a divide between them and would be the cause of the still moment reaching its close.  Their mutual veneer of comfort started to chip away the moment she parted her lips:

“I’ll get you a coffee,” it was he who spoke first as he rose from the table and made his way to the counter, not awaiting a reply. She looked to him but he had already gone. She turned her head and re-acquainted herself with the surroundings; the coffee house was in full vibrance and in full voice – as she looked at all the faces around her she realised how alone she was.

Within a few minutes he was, again, across the table with a coffee for her and a smile for himself.  The silence had been an unbearable torment and he was not displeased that it had been him who had put it to its death.  It had cost him a few moments delay – two and half minutes away from her – and three-pounds ninety-nine, but if that was the price of a ticket from limbo then he considered it more than fair.

“Thank you,” she spoke. Her accent fondled the syllables with a delicate touch, eliciting from him an imperceptible shudder and an even wider smile. For the moment, their move to spoken theatre was not the resounding failure he had initially considered; although cliché, coffee was an ideal icebreaker, but would not be a recurring topic.

“The coffee here was always good,” she continued, “I’ve missed it more than I thought I would”. He had been mistaken, perhaps – he was willing to talk with her about anything; even the coffee (which he never had developed a taste for) would sustain him for the short while before what was to come next.

“You are so, so right,” he turned his head away and studied nothing in particular on the far ceiling; “Maybe,” he paused for a moment before, “maybe, it is why we keep finding ourselves here.”As he finished he turned to her again, but now his eyes had become inflamed as they frantically scanned her face for any indication, a definite indication, of her emotion. He had always thought, up to this point, that he was skilled in the art of reading faces; the lines which tracked her journey through life. She had been untouched by time Herself and remained as youthful as she had been when his eyes first fell upon her; his beautiful enigma.

“Perhaps.” She agreed despite acknowledging the polite lie. They were both playing roles and reciting their well-rehearsed lines as consummate professionals. Somewhere along the way, she couldn’t pinpoint exactly when, the script had changed as their story developed; neither had yet seen the opportunity to reflect this in their dialogue. Without a prompt behind the scenes she knew the next move would need to be improvised. She sought inspiration out the window and to the rain rapping against the panes, until deciding against it.

He saw her hesitation and pounced on it with his own. He was saddened at the thought of their mutual silence, yet he could, neither, think of anything to say. That is, rather, he could think of nothing easy to say – everything had become so difficult in the last few moments, perhaps for them both. He had counted seven different paths of conversation he could take – none of them led to safety, warmth or comfort. The gentle and beautiful creature in front of him was as much the danger as the damsel.

She still hadn’t returned her eyes to his face and she, briefly, caught a glimpse of the world beyond. Context was a strange beast – the fear she had seen in him (and within herself) was nothing to compare with that from afar. He had always kept her from the terror, but now it seemed to seep from him. In fear she stepped forth as she looked at him with renewed resolve; he was not someone to be feared – they would always keep each other safe from the pains life brings, one way or another.

She was ready, and she spoke having placed her hands in his:

“He’s asked me to marry him.”


Fare-thee-well!