Because they must
Saturday, November 15, 2008 ~ 4 comments so far
A couple wander through quiet streets and in the darkened night of early winter a storm creeps in overhead. The wind dashes leaves and litter against buildings, rattles them off glass, heralding the change. Swirling eddies race each other across puddles and fingers of icy cold wriggle through gaps in clothing.
They pull their jackets tighter, clinging to each other in warm embrace. They should be inside, they know, but on they walk. Braver now than before, happier and content with each other, relishing raw emotions that still sting as pellets of rain splatter their faces. They knew this was coming, they knew the forecast, but still found themselves eager to be outside. Neither fully understand why but press on if only to remain on the journey.
For the briefest of moments the wind changes direction but soon returns, probing down necklines and through buttoned down coats. It is a strange night to be out in the cold, in the wind and rain that seems determined to invade their every moment but, for now, they don’t care. It is a simple journey, complex by turn, easy to see but hard to navigate, so on they walk, avoiding puddles as best they can and all the while holding each other tight, fearful a gust of wind will snatch the other up into the night, into the dark and beyond.
They utter no sound, offer no competition to the howling of the wind or the constant snare of rain. They are mute with no need to repeat words once spoken, preferring to remember in the hope that memory will lead the way. On they walk.
The rain is heavy now. He pulls his collar tight as she turns and leans into him, closer still, stepping before him, taking her turn to lead the way.
A sudden flash blinds them as a car races past, slick tyres slice through puddles to offer a glance at the road beneath the water, but the tide turns quickly and soon the surface is scarred by jagged lashes.
They wander through the roaring streets, through the explosions in the air that scatters rain and leaves all around them. They should be inside, they know.
But they’d rather be here.
Autumn Muse
Wednesday, September 24, 2008 ~ 5 comments so far
The once billowing grass is gone, shorn from existence, ripped from green to dirt by savage machinery. Under dripping trees at the edge of the field stands the farmer, admiring the close crop of the land as it ripples towards the horizon across the furrows of once turned soil.
Standing at the top of the hill he turns from the chilled air sweeping through the valley to survey the rest of his land. An oddly shaped patchwork this, bordered by stone and scrub as it climbs and slides across the terrain. The cool breeze dances on stalks and leaves, the beginnings of autumn burning spots of gold and red, glimpses of light through dense trees herald another cycle as the leaves slowly start their long tumble to the ground.
…
And that’s it, that’s all I’ve got. I have no story, no characters, no plot devices, no he said she said. No pace, no direction, no structure nor prose. I am mute until inspiration returns, until the muse once more lands gently on my shoulder and generously bestows her charms and inspiration.
Her visits are fleetingly random, endearingly erratic and completely at her whim. You cannot depend on her to arrive and remain, and deep down as you know that to make such demands would be the end of it all so you stay your course, riding the waves as best you can.
Such is the way of things for this most complex of spectres; she is the free spirit of whimsy, the demanding guide, a strict mistress when she calls, a caring spirit when she leaves, a raging torrent and calming stream. You cannot use what she gives without permission, and cannot call on her, beckoning her to your aid. She is not under your control and needs only the slightest excuse to float away.
The mundane returns and she loosens her grip, slipping away as I type. Dust trails of inspiration whirl as she departs.
This and that
Tuesday, August 5, 2008 ~ 8 comments so far
Summer holidays make it easy to keep on top of RSS feeds, and easier to spot some ace new blogs. Check out this one, I think it could be quite good.
My father-in-law is back in Scotland for the month, so we’re off to see him tonight and I’m really REALLY hoping he wants us to bring in a fish supper for dinner. I’ve not had fish and chips for ages and currently have a real craving for them.
XNeat Windows Manager is yet another application capable of doing some nice UI effects in Windows. Best of all, and the reason it wins out over many other similar applications for me, is that with it installed you can MIDDLE-CLICK TO CLOSE APPLICATIONS STRAIGHT FROM THE TASKBAR. Sounds simple I know but it’s a habit I use all the time in Firefox to close a tab, and it’s been bugging me for YEARS that I couldn’t do this in Windows until I stumble across XNeat.
A quick thanks to Daisy for nominating me for a Post of the Week award, I didn’t win but was quite surprised to see my name in the shortlist. Who knows, it might inspire me to indulge my creative side a little more often (there was a similar post later on last week too).
Since I bought my iPhone I’ve changed the way I think about how I work when I’m at home, and find myself leaning towards my MacBook more often than my PC, it’s just so much nicer to use. The only downside is the small screen and limited hard drive (my music collection is larger than my MacBook’s hard drive). So I’m looking to the Belkin Flip (DVI version) as a solution.
Physio tomorrow, we’ll see if the eccentric loading exercises I’ve been doing (and for a change I’ve been pretty good at remembering to do them!) have had an impact. They FEEL like they have, fingers crossed.
A Dark Man
Thursday, July 31, 2008 ~ 4 comments so far
Morning sun breaks through the trees, pausing him as gentle shadows creep onto walls. A smile twitches at his lips as he finishes pouring the coffee. Hot, sweet and molten it fragrances the air, cast on the breeze that sends light cotton window coverings fluttering into the room.
He walks to the desk, across creaking floorboards, through shadow and light, enjoying the cinematic overtures cast out in miniature. He knows this is no film noir moment yet his life shares the same dark grainy feel on occasion, a sense of looming trouble, a foreboding throb. He sits.
The tools of his trade are laid out before him, gleaming softly as the curtains waft light across their surface, dancing reflections to the ceiling, pirouetting them down walls and across paintings. He surveys the room one more time, the tall windows shimmering behind soft fabric, the ageing furniture no longer antique but unworthy, paintings consume the walls, filling his mind with wonderous visions, moments of beauty and horrifying terrors. He can feel his mind drifting away, and he is happy to let go one more time, to be cast adrift without sail or paddle, left to tumbling on torrents.
Brighter now as sun and caffeine make their play, the mood shifts and he returns to contemplate the desk before him, the tools lying there, heavy on the long scarred surface, awaiting him. He has used them before, swiftly and deadly. He has used them to paint beauty, to capture fear, to draw tears of the happiest pain.
He is drawn to them, unashamed. His gaze casts over them, the handle and blade, hilt and paper so familiar. The rough and smooth a constant reminder of himself and he knows the beauty of such things, he has seen them, felt those moments.
He leans back in the chair and savours the last mouthful of deep dark liquid. He places the mug to one side and he leans forward, shoulders wide, rough palms on wood, head bowed.
With a sigh he reaches out and the familiar weight settles in his hand once more. Unsure where he will go this time, unsure what demons he will unlock or joys he will discover. These are dangerous implements he holds at once deadly and fertile, and the memories of before flood into view. He has been here so many times, placed on this course, charting his way around each new obstacle, through gentle streams and raging floods, every time alive, alive. To live then, as he knows it, is not the function of these tools, these harbingers of motion. They only move him in directions he cannot fathom nor control, and he knows that he will always be a slave to them, reliant on their whim and mercy.
He never knows what they will bring, but he knows he can never stop. Without them he is empty, void.
It is with this realisation that he smiles, happy in his circumstance, happy to be only here and only now, lost in the moment, disregarding and regardless.
His hand steady now, firm in grasp he pauses, a beat.
And then the words flow…
Writer Blocked
Monday, July 28, 2008 ~ 6 comments so far
The morning haze dissolves, and the fields burn gold under piercing blue. Wisps of cloud slowly scroll across the view, lazily floating on a distant breeze bringing glimmers of respite as the heat builds. The harsh light renders crisp shadows, overhanging branches mirrored black on tarmac.
The heat descends, shimmering air closes on the landscape and a dull stillness takes hold. Beads of sweat on skin catch the faintest breeze, long grass sways and all around is quiet. Soft sounds drift through the air, animals and insects quietly complain, subdued and lifeless.
Somewhere a story unfolds, an everday tale unwinds in the steamy heat.
Perhaps a stooped man, slowly picking his way through the maze of heat as he makes his way home. Rough hands and sweated shirt, work boots trailing dust behind him. He looks tired and weary, but we are unsure why. Is it from where he has been, or where he is going?
Perhaps a woman, summer dress swirling as the fan picks its way across the room, her hair pinned up out of the heat, hot tin miaows above. Distracted she is waiting for something. For him, for release, or for a saviour?
The story will twist now, buckled and melted until all is lost, no steps to retrace, no characters to be developed and exposed, no raw negatives turned to light.
But not here.
There is no story here only the beginnings, the sounds and posturing. The rest remains hidden, locked away from the world, turned to dust.
On Writing
Friday, June 27, 2008 ~ Comments Off
One day I’ll figure out how many words I type in an average (week)day. I have absolutely no idea what that total will be but I can already guess that it’ll scare the bejesus outta me. Be they emails, instant messages, text messages, documents, presentations, spreadsheets, blog posts, blog comments, articles or just jotting down items in my to do list, words dominate my day.
I hate them.
Well I don’t hate them, but I certainly abuse them on a regular basis. Mind you, given the amount of abuse the English language gets, and given that a lot of it is brought about by the language itself, with it’s twisting, turning rules and exceptions, part of thinks the words welcome the abuse, I think they kinda like it.The English language is the sadomasochist of the linguistic world.
Of course my job makes it difficult to avoid words so between us we’ve developed a love/hate relationship. I try and use them properly, they promise not to bite me in the ass too often (although between you and me, I’m not sure it’s a very even agreement, I’m SURE the words could try a little harder to be nice).
I don’t hate words.
Truth be told I do still enjoy the thrill of certain combinations of words, the gentle flow and rhythm, the beauty of juxtaposition and the jar of the unexpected. I’ve experimented a little with such things on this very blog, the occasion attempt at something “more”, but I struggle to find my own flow and rhythm, the words jar awkwardly on the screen and every line, every construct, takes it’s toll.
I don’t consider myself a writer here, more a casual scribbler, yet with each passing word the grandiose and ridiculous thought grows in my head, maybe I could?
Homeward Bound
Friday, November 23, 2007 ~ 6 comments so far
The sun slinks away across the fields, the soft faded glow trailing in its wake as the hills become mountains again.
He is heading home.
As the train rattles and rushes onwards a solitary face stares past the reflections to the distant hills. The remnants of daylight pick out a cottage on the hillside, lights flickering inside, idyllic, remote, and surreal. Too picture perfect to exist, he must have imagined it.
Past fields of livestock, sheep glow in the sunset, pools of water emit an eerie glow, now is the time of spirits and stories. He pictures the scene, farmers, warriors or travellers, huddled around the fire sharing tales of mysterious times. The wind whipping round them, ashes and sparks swirling above them as they weave their stories, embellishing wildly, bringing monsters to life.
He ponders the story tellers of today, sitting huddled to tell their tales, the glow of fire long gone but bathed in light nonetheless. Are they worse for it? It is a folly regardless, all he wants is to get home.
He turns to the sunset, pale orange over silouhette, trees form the backdrop, wayang golek that is missing the rod puppets.
Headlights dip and roll on a remote road, blazing signs into view, breaking the gloom. They don’t last long and soon the dark descends further. Items are lost in the dark, towns only exist in streetlight, points of orange on black.
The last wisps of dusk wink out leaving the train as the only energy, moving at a blur, pulling stations from nowhere before discarding them to darkness once more. And then the false dawn begins, the dull glow of sodium and neon bouncing to the heavens to mark the city. Faster, he thinks, faster, almost there, almost home.
Flashes of pale white light pick out hillsides and roads, villages and towns but soon even they vanish as the clouds swallow the moon.
Can’t be long now? Can’t be far from home.
He is always the same, enjoying the journey until it is almost at an end, then willing, wishing and dreaming it was over. Anxiously and silently urging the movement on, hoping others are doing the same. The power of the mind, can we will the train home? Closing his eyes to draw the lights closer, he is almost there.
The final rattle, the lurch as momentum is lost and a new light enters the carriage.
So close now. Almost home.