It's been some time since I added a posting, so I thought I'd go the whole hog and change the appearance of my blog.
The OU is taking over my life at the moment, with the two courses I'm studying. Both are fascinating, but I have to make decisions as to which one to prioritise. In the end though, it's a good pass in 'Exploring the English Language' that will make the difference to the class of degree that I get, so 'Start Writing Plays' has to take a minor role in my life. The play based on the Three Little Pigs will have to wait for a day or so.
Today's 'I wish I had time to do well' list:
1. Finish this week's course work.
2. Write a rough draft of a poem.
3. Spend 30 minutes on the cross trainer.
3. Tidy the house (yeah, right)
5. Start on assignments due in by the end of the month.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Finding Eden
LEE: ‘Make a start on the Tropical House’, says The Boss. ‘You’ll find the door a bit stiff. No one’s been there since we closed down the Eden Project.’
Well, I didn’t want to ask why it had been closed, so off I trotted.
Blimey, I thought. Bit of a jungle in here. Still, a job ain’t gonna get finished till after you starts it, as me old granddad used to say, so I got going. Clearing, chopping, hacking bits away any old how, along the old path, Creepers, vines. Stuff from above. Stuff from below. Pretty tough some of them too, and all this sap and stuff dripping on to me where I cut them.
The rustling in the undergrowth made me a bit twitchy. I kept wondering whether there’d be any snakes. Not that I mind snakes. You kind of expect them in the jungle, but then again …Eden?
Then there was the calling. Almost human, like people laughing, and a sort of ‘there-all-the-time’ roaring too.
I made good progress though. I had a job to do and I wanted to impress the Boss. I mean, being my first day and all that. So I cut a kind of tunnel. About 4 feet high. I was getting a bit curious, ‘cos this path was going downwards.
Then, all of a sudden I pulled away a vine and there it was.
A clearing, and way over, right on the edge, a waterfall. Fair took my breath away. Harry hadn’t said nothing about a waterfall. Now the roaring sound made sense. Couldn’t see the top there was so much growth overhead, mind. but I could see the cascade. Narrow it was, like a spear of water. The air changed too. Suddenly it ‘d got much colder, and the ground was covered with puddles, and I gotta tell you, the rotting vegetation didn’t smell too fresh either.
Anyway, I had to go take a look at the pool. Blooming deep it was too, and the rocks all black and shiny where the water had splashed up.
And there they were too. Lots of little people, laughing and chattering on the other side of the waterfall, and pointing at me like a bunch of Oompa Loompas. Then one of them aimed one of those blow pipe things at me and I heard a hiss and I dodged to let it miss me, and my foot slipped on the rock and the next thing I know I’m lying flat on me back with all these faces looking down at me…
HARRY: Lee, ‘ow you getting on lad? Lee? Lee? Where are you? Oh, bugger...
-Office? Get me an ambulance right away. Over.
- What’s up, Harry? Over.
- Stupid new boy’ hasn’t even started the job yet. He’s slipped on the front door step and split his head open. If the expression on his face is anything to go by there are some interesting things going on in his dreams. Over and out.
Well, I didn’t want to ask why it had been closed, so off I trotted.
Blimey, I thought. Bit of a jungle in here. Still, a job ain’t gonna get finished till after you starts it, as me old granddad used to say, so I got going. Clearing, chopping, hacking bits away any old how, along the old path, Creepers, vines. Stuff from above. Stuff from below. Pretty tough some of them too, and all this sap and stuff dripping on to me where I cut them.
The rustling in the undergrowth made me a bit twitchy. I kept wondering whether there’d be any snakes. Not that I mind snakes. You kind of expect them in the jungle, but then again …Eden?
Then there was the calling. Almost human, like people laughing, and a sort of ‘there-all-the-time’ roaring too.
I made good progress though. I had a job to do and I wanted to impress the Boss. I mean, being my first day and all that. So I cut a kind of tunnel. About 4 feet high. I was getting a bit curious, ‘cos this path was going downwards.
Then, all of a sudden I pulled away a vine and there it was.
A clearing, and way over, right on the edge, a waterfall. Fair took my breath away. Harry hadn’t said nothing about a waterfall. Now the roaring sound made sense. Couldn’t see the top there was so much growth overhead, mind. but I could see the cascade. Narrow it was, like a spear of water. The air changed too. Suddenly it ‘d got much colder, and the ground was covered with puddles, and I gotta tell you, the rotting vegetation didn’t smell too fresh either.
Anyway, I had to go take a look at the pool. Blooming deep it was too, and the rocks all black and shiny where the water had splashed up.
And there they were too. Lots of little people, laughing and chattering on the other side of the waterfall, and pointing at me like a bunch of Oompa Loompas. Then one of them aimed one of those blow pipe things at me and I heard a hiss and I dodged to let it miss me, and my foot slipped on the rock and the next thing I know I’m lying flat on me back with all these faces looking down at me…
HARRY: Lee, ‘ow you getting on lad? Lee? Lee? Where are you? Oh, bugger...
-Office? Get me an ambulance right away. Over.
- What’s up, Harry? Over.
- Stupid new boy’ hasn’t even started the job yet. He’s slipped on the front door step and split his head open. If the expression on his face is anything to go by there are some interesting things going on in his dreams. Over and out.
Friday, August 31, 2007
The Vanishing Muse
'She' is a very elusive lady. Well, writers tend to refer to her as 'She', but I'm not so sure. I think I just have to assign an indeterminate gender - rather like something ethereal from a science fiction film. Anyway, It is never around when I need it.
In the middle of the night, ideas flow fast, when I least want them to be there, for I never have been a night owl. In the supermarket, amongst the exotic fruit and veg. I can be overcome with a storyline totally unrelated to my circumstances. Now, I do own a tiny voice recorder, but I haven't really managed to steel myself to grabbing it out of my handbag and start talking into it in a public place, and I've definitely thought of my most witty poetic lines whilst driving, when speaking into a small machine could be misconstrued as using a mobile whilst in control of a car. I can guarantee that my most inspired (and probably warped) ideas are no longer reachable after a day spent crowd-controlling small children in a classroom. All I want to do then is lie down in a darkened room with a large gin and an icepack on my head.
Like all 'real' writers, along with the rejection slips, I do have a notebook (Moleskine for preference) that I carry with me at all times, and I am not above writing a few sneaky notes on overheard conversations at airports or interesting characters I spot across Borders coffee shop. Who knows, one day, I might even use them in a story.
So, today, when I have a writing brief (from the class that I attend) and an idea about the lines along which it might develop, how come I just cannot encourage my Muse in order to write the short story that will bring me to the attention of short-fiction editors everywhere? Or even just one?
In the middle of the night, ideas flow fast, when I least want them to be there, for I never have been a night owl. In the supermarket, amongst the exotic fruit and veg. I can be overcome with a storyline totally unrelated to my circumstances. Now, I do own a tiny voice recorder, but I haven't really managed to steel myself to grabbing it out of my handbag and start talking into it in a public place, and I've definitely thought of my most witty poetic lines whilst driving, when speaking into a small machine could be misconstrued as using a mobile whilst in control of a car. I can guarantee that my most inspired (and probably warped) ideas are no longer reachable after a day spent crowd-controlling small children in a classroom. All I want to do then is lie down in a darkened room with a large gin and an icepack on my head.
Like all 'real' writers, along with the rejection slips, I do have a notebook (Moleskine for preference) that I carry with me at all times, and I am not above writing a few sneaky notes on overheard conversations at airports or interesting characters I spot across Borders coffee shop. Who knows, one day, I might even use them in a story.
So, today, when I have a writing brief (from the class that I attend) and an idea about the lines along which it might develop, how come I just cannot encourage my Muse in order to write the short story that will bring me to the attention of short-fiction editors everywhere? Or even just one?
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Aren't they lovely?
In view of the poem below, I just wanted to post a picture of our two fantastic Labs. They had just spent an hour splashing in a stream in the New Forest.
Sasha, on the right, will be 11 in November - she is pretty active for an old lady and will give young Wellington quite a run for his money.
The Boy-Wellington (who thinks we are incapable of bathing ourselves unaided) was 2 last May. Now there's a story for another day...
Towards a state of perfection
BATH, n. A kind of mystic ceremony substituted for religious worship, with what spiritual efficacy has not been determined
Ambrose Bierce (1842 - 1914), The Devil's Dictionary
poured to perfect depth,
temperature sublime
candles lit and lights doused
rising steam redolent of lavender
and ylang-ylang to soothe away the day
wine glass to hand, contents chilled
immersed in womb-like world
lying in sound-deadened semi-darkness
awaiting rebirth …
meditating…
drifting mindlessly…
Nirvana close…
a gentle lapping of the water –
Ambrose Bierce (1842 - 1914), The Devil's Dictionary
poured to perfect depth,
temperature sublime
candles lit and lights doused
rising steam redolent of lavender
and ylang-ylang to soothe away the day
wine glass to hand, contents chilled
immersed in womb-like world
lying in sound-deadened semi-darkness
awaiting rebirth …
meditating…
drifting mindlessly…
Nirvana close…
a gentle lapping of the water –
‘SOMEONE GET THIS DOG OUT!’
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