The beginning of a story I started writing recently...

It wasn’t for money that he wrote into the early hours of the morning, anymore than it was for money that she courted the rich and the famous, heading back to theirs in the early hours of the morning, while he was perfecting a description of a childhood home, or a revealing soliloquy by his current antagonist. They did what they did in the belief that they were pursuing the way of life best suited to their inclinations and abilities, and so believed themselves to be largely happy. They were not people who judged other ways of life, or felt it was right for anyone to criticise theirs (the woman being the more likely to receive criticism though the man had had his fair share, as some people’s perception of writing as “not a proper job” had reached his ear), They were both, then, people who understood the lack of a fixed way for living life, and understood that we must all improvise; creating something like a path for ourselves as we go, with no guide to help us…other than social normality which can often be contrary to our desires and for some people cause great unhappiness.

The flaw, however, in the man’s perspective, was that he did not see that he was limiting himself; denying himself experiences that he craved because he believed that as long as he could, with his mind, imagine all of life’s infinite experiences laid out before him, then he would have no need to even leave his house except to buy food. Which might well have been true for some, but for him, in doing this, he was denying a part of himself which whole-heartedly craved to really…do something. Perhaps he was afraid; afraid of attempting and getting no where, and therefore thought it better to not attempt at all.

The woman, meanwhile, was lacking in understanding in two aspects of her life, both the clichés for women of her lifestyle. First, for many men with whom she was involved with were married, was that she did not think of those she might hurt. This was not a problem with all men; but it was with a substantial number. The second was possibly even more cliché than the first; she was slowly harming the way she felt about herself.

Little To Say To This.

There is little to say to this;
Little to answer
To the questions
(Though of those there are many)
And little to know,
In the End;
In Practical terms -
Though in Theory there is much.

And so in a few simple Truths -
That might as well, and could be,
Lies -
We will hide ourselves,
Till the time when we will know
No more
And no less
Than before,

But it will be Everything.

December Bee.

There’s a part of my brain
That likes to entertain
The notion that I am the same
As everyone else,
And that it’s all OK;
None of us are really sane
And it’s all one big game
Of pretend.

We’re playing at normality;
So then it’s not just me,
Who looks around and cannot see
Any semblance of Reality

December Bee
December Bee…

But then I stop, and I think,
“What if I am insane?”
(There’s a pleasure in this pain…)
Maybe the world is not so strange;
It’s all just inside my brain;

This hollow, aching, fucked up hell
Is not that which outwards dwells…

I hope all will be well.

Dancing.

She didn't dance to forget. She didn't dance to loose herself. She did just the opposite. She danced to feel…to feel intensely happiness or love or loss or hope or despair or heartbreak or pain. To let music and emotion move through her and move her, and to feel herself feeling and thinking and emotion and music all consuming and powerful and real and just to feel; feel her body and her self.

(photo taken by me @ Ministry of Sound)

The Captain.

"Son of Henry, I'm the first in line
To the throne, smell my mustard gas
I slash swords through your wooden spine
Well it cut my heart and it blew my head
We made love at the side of the road
Reflex, you better know this flows fast
This river is particularly sinister
Close your eyes and take my hand"

"All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by frost."
- - - -J. R. R. Tolkien "Lord of the Rings"

"I wanna scream one last death medley
I am looking for a reason to secure a forward motion"

"The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say."
- - - -J.R.R. Tolkien

"Angels fall to the floor
Like they would if I was captain
"Silver children," She roared
"I'm not the son of God"
Somebody help me sing
Can anybody hear me?
Liars and lovers combine tonight
We're gonna make a scene"

"Rest not! Life is sweeping by; go and dare before you die.
Something mighty and sublime, leave behind to conquer time."
- - - -Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

"Help me be captain of
Our crippled disguises
I won't show what's underneath
It's time for surprises
I can't climb up your ladder
I can't ride your horse
I've swallowed half an hourglass
So now the landscape is swollen up"

"And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,
The hand that held the steel:
For only blood can wipe out blood,
And only tears can heal."
- - - -Oscar Wilde "The Ballad of Reading Gaol"

"I gave birth to a fire
It's like it's features where burning
I'm in control, I am the son of God
Somebody help me sing
Can anybody hear me?
Line up your soldiers one final time
We're gonna have a ball"

"But if you ever come to a road where danger
Or guilt or anguish or shame's to share.
Be good to the lad who loves you true,
And the soul that was born to die for you
And whistle and I'll be there"
- - - -A. E. Housman

"Face to face with the ball and chain
I'll poke my head up till its red
I tell my secrets and you took my pain
About a broken heart and I will do it again
Son of Henry, I'm the first in line
To the throne, smell my mustard gas
I slash swords through your wooden spine
Well it cut my heart and it blew my head"

"What matters Death, if Freedom be not dead?
No flags are fair, if Freedom's flag be furled.
Who fights for Freedom, goes with joyful tread
To meet the fires of Hell against him hurled."
- - - -Joyce Kilmer "The Peacemaker"

"Somebody help me sing oh
Somebody help me sing oh"
[The Captain - Biffy Clyro]

"Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be.
The last of life, for which the first was made."
- - - -Robert Browning "'Rabbi Ben Ezra"

"Love that golden rule, that golden rule
Need that golden rule, that golden rule
Secrets are the truth, they are the truth
We need that silver rule, that silver rule"
[The Golden Rule - Biffy Clyro]

"And all shall be well
And all manner of things shall be well.
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire,
And the fire and the rose are one."
- - - -T. S. Eliot "Four Quartets"

Nanowrimo extract #3

“It doesn’t seem fair, you know. Because she wanted to live; more than anything. And I…I mean…before I…yeah. And even after meeting you two…it still feels like it was the wrong way round. I got the chance to live that she wanted.” The tears started to well up in her eyes. Dylan put his hand under her chin and pulled her head up to look at him.
“But that’s just…it’s just what happened. It’s not your fault and it’s not…it’s not unfair…it’s just…what it is.” He gently wiped the tears from her cheeks.
“Do you miss her?” Emily said softly, in an almost whisper.
“All the time.” And then he could feel the fears welling up in his eyes too.
“So do I.” And then she kissed him.

He knew it was a mistake as he kissed her back. He knew it was a mistake as he pulled off her top. He knew it was wrong and strange and that they’d regret it. They both knew. But still, they made love that night, and for many nights after. Both trying to make something OK that couldn’t be. Not in that way. Not like that.

Nanowrimo extract #2

It started raining just as they walked into Hyde Park. Go there in summer and the place would be packed with families and couples and sun bathers. Now it was almost empty except for one dog walker and a couple of families preparing to leave as the drops of water started falling from the sky. Suzi and Dylan were already holding hands and Suzi took Emily’s hand on her other side. And then Suzi started running. She ran, and then there were all running and it was really raining now and they were all running and laughing and then Dylan tripped and fell, bringing the girls down and they were all lying in a heap and were wet and muddy and laughing.

Nanowrimo extract.

“Don’t jump”.
She was very beautiful. In a sort of…she was strange looking. If he’s actually really thought about it, her face was too long and her nose too stubby, her boobs too small, her mouth had a slightly funny twist on one side…but it wasn’t just the more conventionally good point: the high cheekbones, silky, straight brown hair, or slender figure that made her beautiful. It was all of her. Somehow her perfections and imperfections balanced perfectly. Into something really quite astoundingly beautiful. And it wasn’t just the way she looked. It was what blazed through in the way she looked at him. Cold, piercing…sort of angry. Why would she be angry at him? She didn’t know him…

“I wasn’t going to jump”.
It seemed like the obvious answer, but it came out very automatically; he hadn’t been sure what she was really saying, to be honest. Obviously, she’d been telling him not to jump…but that’s like if you’re walking somewhere and someone comes up to you and goes “keep walking”…it’s odd because it wouldn’t have occurred to you to stop walking. He hadn’t been planning to jump. He’d just been standing, looking out over the Thames. A bit lonely and a bit bored.

“Really?”
She raised her eyebrows in a way that was almost comical; she seemed generally surprised, though not at all taken a back, like he would have been had he tried to save someone from killing themselves only to find out they had, in fact, simply been observing the Thames at night; it looked slightly pink, which was probably something to do with the artificial lighting around the south bank.

“No.”
It was strange; he didn’t quite think before he spoke with this girl. Well, he thought before he spoke, but the two weren’t related actions. His mind was whizzing and racing and circling and swooping and chasing distractions here, there and everywhere. But he found himself answering on autopilot, as if talking to someone he knew pretty well but maybe didn’t care for all that much about something that didn’t require very much brain power or general concentration to carry on a conversation about.

“OK, good; you looked like you were going to.”
He was started to get annoyed now. Why did she think he was going to kill himself? Well, no, in theory he supposed he could see how she jumped to that conclusion, but now that’d he’d told her, quite simply and calmly, that he wasn’t going to, why didn’t she just accept it and move on? Or, like, ask for his number of something; she was really, really hot. It was hard not to stare at her. Not as hard as it might have been, as he had a good excuse to look at her anyway, what with her talking to him and all, but there’s still a noticeable difference between looking and staring.

“I was just looking out over the water”.
She looked at where he was looking.
“Uh huh? You looked like you were eyeing it up. Getting ready for a swim?” Her tone was mocking now, almost; it certainly had an edge to it which seemed patronising, tantalising, goading; drawing him in but then pinching him when he got there.
“Um…no.” He tried to sound annoyed, maybe angry, but the words just came out as rather none plussed.
“You sure?” Again, that same patronising tone of voice, but with a real edge of concern. Or at least, what he thought was a real edge of concern. It sounded like it. Maybe it was.

But why did it matter to him if she was concerned about him or not, exactly? It did matter, though. In a funny way. It was just there, and all. But it sort of did matter, in that moment. In fact it really mattered in that moment; because he was lonely and she was hot. And things like that. The thing that made it not matter was the fact that it wouldn’t eventually. That time would pass and then this present would be the past and then no one would care anymore. That was why it didn’t really matter. Because it wouldn’t.

“I wasn’t going to jump; ok?!”
He was sort of annoyed at himself for saying that, or at least saying it in that tone of voice, after he had. He wanted her to shut up about his fictitious suicide attempt. But he didn’t want to push her into leaving. Not yet, anyway.

“OK. Just checking. Looked like you were going to. Thought it’d be a shame. You’re cute”.

She looked him up and down. He was dark skinned…in a sort of native American looking way, though she doubted he was; would be a bit random in the middle of London. Dark hair flicked across his face, the way all guys who weren’t overtly “mainstream” or just generally butch were doing nowadays. Though it wasn’t so painfully overstated as some. He was broad but not massively, with lean muscles. His eyes were a dark brown. There was something boyish in his looks, which made her seem older than him. She wondered if that was true.

“I’m Suzi.”
“Dylan”
“Cute name”.
“Thanks”.

It was only then that he managed to pay attention to what she was wearing. In many ways it was rather cliché, but she pulled it off. She looked good. Very good, in fact. She was wearing thigh high socks over net tights, with blue converse, and a long sleeveless grey top that said “YELL” across the front. It was far too cold to be wearing a sleeveless top with nothing over the top, but it didn’t seem to be bothering her. Still, he had a sudden gentlemanly desire to give her his jacket.

“You want to get a drink, Dylan? Still sort of feeling the need to remove you from the water. Still not quite trusting you”.
Dylan felt annoyed, even if she seemed to be joking. He wasn’t a child; he didn’t need minding. And he wasn’t going to jump! This girl seemed fucking convinced he was fucking suicidal. He really wasn’t. He had never really been unhappy or anything. I mean, obvious he’d been unhappy in his time. But he’d never really been that real horrible unhappiness that would lead you do want to die. To be honest, he didn’t think he could get worked up enough about anything to then be so upset about it he’d want to die. Life was OK. That was enough for him.

Still, this girl was certainly cute. Very cute.
No…not cute; wrong word.
Cute implied something childish which she did not embody in the least. But she was hot. Attractive. Enticing. Mesmerising. Mysteries.

…hot, yeah. Very hot.

And she was asking him to get a drink.
Why not?
He had nothing better to do.
He’d been bored sitting at home at night doing nothing so he’d gone for a walk. Which had become a very long walk which had landed him on the millennium bridge overlooking the Thames. Which is where’d he’d been when she found him. Not that he didn’t have a life. Just nothing had been happening tonight and he’d been bored. He actually got out quite a lot.

“Yeah, OK. Why not?”
This wasn’t all that like him. He wasn’t an epic planner; the kind of person who had to know he was being that day, that time, in a month and had to know the details of any excursion down to the most minute detail. But he also very rarely did anything that he hadn’t, at least, known he was going to do the day before. He certainly didn’t normally accept invitations of drinks from strangers. But today…why not? And like he said, she was hot.

“There’s a Weatherspoon’s near here. I don’t think they’ll be IDing on the door”.
“I’m nineteen”, he replied, sounding a tiny bit annoyed.
“Oh really? You look younger” she said, either unaware or uncaring of his annoyance regarding his youthful appearance. “Well, whatever; I’m seventeen, so we need somewhere that won’t ID on the door. But I don’t think they will. And you can buy drinks. I mean, I can pay for mine, but if you’re overage it’ll be easier if you get them and stuff”.
“Oh…I’ll pay don’t worry…”
“Don’t let guys pay for me. Sets up bad expectations. And I have the money, so if just seems silly. Only get guys to pay for me if I’m broke”.
“…OK”.
And so they went, he following her, across the river and through the darkness.

I and Thou.

If there is nothing else to do
But try and fill the time;
No meaning in this life of ours
More than rhetoric or rhyme…

Then ‘tween dawn and dusk
I’ll live my life
The very best I might;

Through my senses fill my mind
With taste and smell and sight.

I’ll fill my time as best I can,
And know that this is true:
I’ll spend all the time I have
(With my whole heart) loving you.

Living in a countdown.

Things are changing,
Things are shifting,
All around me...

Living in a countdown.

Life is changing,
While I’m waiting…

Living in a countdown.

Thinking, feeling, knowing,
Smiling
As time passes by.

And I’m living in a countdown.

Forgotten Bloodshed.

The satin stains of times forgotten,
Shut tights in rooms we might forget
But for that hidden, idle mystery;
The truth in verse, which we know yet
Is little more than echo, memory;
A stained and faded crimson streak.

Waiting for him.

She didn’t let herself fall asleep on the tube train. The lethargy and disorientation she’d feel waking up wouldn’t be worth the rest; even if she was, quite inexplicably, incredibly tired. The taste of coffee and good conversation was still in her mouth, and everything around her was quiet beautiful in the sunlight. It had been a good day; a day of bookshops and tube trains and coffee shops and catch ups. Travelling home that feeling returned, that feeling, not wholly unpleasant, of both solidity and an eerie emptiness. The feeling that she was waiting, and filling time while she was waiting. And this was no bad thing; the things she found to fill her time were fun and she was on the whole happy. And this feeling, it was interesting; she had never really felt this before. This knowledge of his return and that is was near and that it would be so, so good, when it came. And she took out a book and let the tube train carry her home while she was reading and waiting. Waiting for him to come back.

What Gertrude Meant.

(or, if Gertrude had explained herself better, maybe Hamlet would have gotten over his father's death, but he probably wouldn't have)

There is a tender Beauty
In the cycle that is Life;
In the never ending troubles
And the often suffered strife.

There is a silver lining
In the fact that is our Death;
That moment at the very end
When we take our last breath.

For though we know that it is true
That all that lives must die,
There is something I must say
To this truth; in reply

I will attempt to explain
Why this truth some joy can give
For though it's true what lives must die,
In Truth, what dies must live.

On the Edge Of Eternity.

I am sitting
On the edge
Of eternity

And I know that I soon
May fall.

I look into the heart
Of Emptyness
And she is beautiful.

The black abyss
Is calling me;
I am holding on
To this Reality
With my fingertips.

I want to let go.

Yet,

I think there is,
In truth,
A long road ahead of me

Before I fall.

The Forgotten Feet Of Time.

On the troubled shores
Shall walk no more
The forgotten feet of time.

All is overcome,
And time undone,
And life no more than rhyme

And verse and sonnet
And rhyming couplet
And words upon pages in books.

Fancy and thought
Through which answers are sought
By those who take a look.

No action or deed,
Just the mind, completely freed;
To dance and to sing and to run.

Through this we may gather
Very much matter
But never a deed shall be done.

And life is no more
Than a fancy or thought
And nothing is lost or is won.

And on that far away shore,
Where time is no more,
And nothing is false or is true.

There I shall stand,
My spyglass in hand,
Waiting and waiting for you.

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