Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Things to be grateful for on the way to morning meditation

blue sky or mist
being dry and warm
wellington boots
memories of last night's ritual
a fresh breeze
sound of wellies on wet grass
a bridge
the conch
another bridge
a cup of tea
sleepy morning conversations
gentle smiles
a blanket
gentle experienced words
rupas candles flowers
sounds of kids waking
snatches of far off conversations carried by the wind
my breathing

Saturday, August 01, 2009

Small. Glasses.

Small. Glasses.

Like a sports commentator. He looked like a sports commentator. He felt like a sports commentator.

To commentate, to speak continouously, rapidly without stopping to fill up the airwaves with words, whatever they were. To be so close to parody but to step back into the human form. To be so with the words, to have them arrive and be spoken before thought almost. Like channelling the noisy neighbour. Oh fuck now I’m thinking like I’m a character in literarcy fiction. Fuck that. His knew his own voice like it sounded on the radio, unnatually loud, unnaturally compressed and punchy. Excellent in a bar telling a story. A raconteur with asbergers, uncannily rounding out every sentence with artifical knowingness.

In dreams he wasn’t all words, he wasn’t all sound. He dreamt in silent, vivid, color films. Images of summer. Pebbles on the beach the waves washing gently, the musky summer smells, the quality of sunlight. Of foood, the bitterness of raddiccio washed with a fine vinegar and fragrant oil. In dreams he inhabited all these senses, quietly observing saying nothing. He grasped for this richness, trying to capture and keep these senses alive, to nurture them like

And then, every time, just when the quality of his senses began to overwhelm, he would wake suddenly, sullenly, automatically mumbling about the Romanian weightlifter, the quality of the clean and jerk and It was gold for Romania.

He turned on the radio.


This from a writing exercise taking ten words and using them to create a character:

Clean and jerk

Resident (Music)

How much is it? Cheaper to download online. Why would I bother. You tell me. I can’t really imagine why I’d buy this.


No, really listen.

Sounds like indie guitar whining to me. Can’t really take that seriously. Why would I want this?

Because I’m telling you, it ïs gud. Really good. It will take you places.

Sounds like bollocks. Tell me something interesting about this so called music. I can’t fin anything in here to hold on to.

Hold onto me.

A pause. Looking at the cover of the CD, slightly screatched case, somehow hidden or secret, some depth is revealed, the music opens the whilne diminishes, falling out of time for a moment.

Broken. By discography, a long tale of who what and when about this artist. I don’t care, can’t listen, all lost.

I just want that moment back please. When the cover and the sound came together and I felt held.

I buy. I take home. I listen and look and search for that moment. Again and Again.


This from a writing exercise by Libby Davy where we took a random receipt and wrote about it. My receipt was for a CD purchased from Resident in Brighton.


He made her feel like a bigamist

‘It will curl. It will curl. Mr Jeremy trust me it will curl.”

And it did.

With her curling iron in hand, all seemed possible. And all is possible, especially in a beauty salon. She thought she was bad. She though she was a bigmaist, she thought she would got to HELL for sure, but life had a habit of surprising her, distracting her, taking her away from all of that.

And then Jezza walked in the door. Hair a mess from this french monsoon that was wrecking the summer. He was plotting his next move in some ridiculous car race cum diplomatic incident in rural france. On the phone with out stopping. Jeering. Going on - motor mouthing - about himself and the Jaaaag.

It was yesterday. She fell in love with the big oaf almost instantly. It was certain then that she’d give him everything. All he had to do was say “Jaaaag” in the affected upper class off hand way one more time and she’d melt.

Keep on curling girl. Keep on curling. The old boy’s mashed up hair sure took some work. IT’s HOT in here.

And for every curl, she felt a deeper bond with this silly englishman. Curl once, curl twice, curl again and again.

But then. It came to it. She said no.

He made her feel like a bigamist.

This raw bit of quick writing comes from a writing exercise at Just Write at WestWerks where I got the following things to work with:

Who: Jeremy Clarkson
What: Ploting his next move
Why: Because she thought she was a bigamist
Where: In a beauty salon
When: Yesterday
How: With a curling iron

Seven years later, back to life

I found this old blogger blog with three posts. Last post 2002!

I'm going to re-use this as a personal art/writings blog, where I can post occasional non-work, non-family stuff.

Primary audience: me

I hope you find something you like here. But it's not really for you.

Business stuff is over at
Family stuff over at