Coralline

On distant shores we tasted the highs
Of sun-drenched days and cloudless silver skies
We caught her in a lie as she slept with the ghosts
Of the velvet nights we spent, on a golden coast

Coralline reminds me of the days
We took our final bows, screaming over the waves
She cried aloud, 'I fear I'm becoming numb
Call me in the night, it's just begun'

Rain traces over her face
She drifts away, a cloud leaving misty lace
She's clinging to what she always wanted to be
She's clinging to what she thinks is left of me

Coralline reminds me of the days
We took our final bows, screaming over the waves
She cried aloud, 'I fear I'm becoming numb
Call me in the night, it's just begun'

And she still believes, in words spoke long ago
But we both know...

We're All Someone Else, to Someone Else

from my sketchbook, 5.12.2009, 7:30 am

Thank you France, for leaving a legacy of good coffee here in Pondicherry. And thank you India for setting the scene. I'm sitting on the terrace of a cafe, some twenty meters from the waves crashing against the rocks of the sea wall, and beyond that, rolling, sparkling swells stretching out to a clear horizon, newly awoken sun rising gently into a hazy, cloud streaked sky. And occassionally a breeze wafts across the terrace, bringing the smell of morning pastries. And as I gaze out at the waves, surfable but for the threat of imminent death on the jumbled rocks lining the coast, I can see more than a dozen fishing boats, most high-prowed traditional longboats, crewed by four or five men, but also a tiny raft with a single fisherman casting his net, and a pair of small trawlers, circling endlessly the same location.

There's so much life here on the sea front. Last night, the promenade was flooded with locals. Food carts, toys being sold, and groups strolling along or sitting on the rocks chatting. And even this morning, as the sun rises, and the heat with it, there are scattered groups out on the rocks, watching the sea. A city's affair with her shorline. And here's a role-reversal. A local, or a man at least with the aiar of one, is standing outside the cafe, taking a picture of us Westerners who fill it. I guess we're all tourists really, at least in the observation of something different to ourselves.

Or maybe I'm just that photogenic.

Colour Me Bad

The best colours I think are the ones we can’t see. Like ultra-violet and infra-red and techno-green. We just have to imagine that they’re there, and things are always better imagined. Because we can make them into whatever we want. And they'll be the same, only better. Sometimes. Unless you’re forever a cynic. In which case you might imagine things as being worse. Which would be most unfortunate. I mean, if you’re that cynical, you prob’ly think things are bad enough already. So it’s a bit unfair to then see them as worse. But what do I know? You’re the one with the fucked up imagination. All I see are brighter colours. And I’m sort of fine with that. It doesn’t change the way things are. It just means that rainbows are really, really fucking amazing.

Wouldn't you agree?

Above Us Only Sky

Close your eyes, gently now. You’ll just have to trust me. It’s like one of those games we used to play as kids. Put your trust in this person, and just, let, go... And then they lead you blindfolded into a tree or something and think it’s the funniest thing in the world. People. You just can’t credit it sometimes. I mean, they’ve got a lot going for them sometimes, but other times, they can just make a beautiful world insufferable. Which is when I choose to close my eyes. To trust you. I’ll close my eyes, and wish really hard, or I’d pray to something if there was something to pray to, and then when I open my eyes again, everyone else will be gone. It’ll just be you and me, in a darkened room. We could dance if you’d like? There’s music in my head, and the songs just go round and round and round. And I’ll take you in my arms and we’ll go round and round and round. And the record will keep spinning round and round and round. Until it’s spinning in silence. Like us. Like the world.

I could turn it over if you’d like? There’s always the other side to listen to. But some small part of me prefers this. A tiny piece of me wants to just hear this silence. The cracks and hissing of a silence on the cusp of waking. Shhh... we’ll keep our voices down now. It wouldn’t do to wake it. Who knows what would happen? Right now we can tell ourselves that our record, when the music plays again, will be the most beautiful record ever listened to. And we can imagine that we’ll listen to it, dancing to a heartbreakingly beautiful song that never plays. And we can tell ourselves that this world, when the music plays again, will be the most beautiful world ever imagined. Just imagine it. Just imagine all the people.

Living for today.

Thank You, Hazel

Want to find out where waking and dreaming merge? Try sleeping on a futon in the conservatory of your house by the river. And be sure to leave the door open, to allow a cool breeze to blow in off the water. Then make certain you're really tired when you go to bed quite late, and have your alarm set for early the next morning.

Then after all this preparation, if you're really lucky, you might just be woken at half 3 in the morning, by the sound of a small body landing hard on the tile floor, and a smaller body squeaking shrilly beneath it. Then you'll come immediately fully awake, but believe you're still dreaming as you watch Tom chasing Jerry around your bed. And it'll only be some minutes after this, when you're standing on top of the bed, having switched the light on, that the neighbour's cat Hazel will bat the field mouse she's brought inside to play with one last time, scoop it up in her mouth, and dash out the door into the night.

If you're awake by this point, you might want to close the door behind her.

And then hope and pray you don't dream anymore this night.

Blink Twice for Yes

I can never make up my mind. I’m kinda like the weather sometimes. I’ll feel like raining, but then I’ll be sunny, and sometimes I’ll rain anyway, just to see a coloured arc stretching across the sky. But the best is when I’m cloudy, with a strong breeze blowing and bringing the smell of rain. Just the smell of it. Unfulfilled promises of things are usually better than the things themselves. One of those strange things in life. Don’t ask me why. Maybe we just get complacent. Or bored. Maybe it’s easier to imagine something as perfect than delude yourself when you’ve seen it isn’t so. How’s that for a harsh critique of life? It’s not really that harsh though. I mean, I’ve been harsher.

I thought about it, and I’m in full agreement. So don’t try and stop me.

Why is it, that something you desperately don’t want to be true, solely by the vehemence of your desire, becomes almost more real? As if you wish it into existence, by wishing it out of existence.

Could you stop the world please? Yes, right here thank you. I’d like to get off. I could really do with stretching my legs, and I just feel so cramped here. Would you like to come for a walk? Just once around the block before dinner. Maybe twice if the mood takes us. And we can sing as the wind blows through our hair and whips our voices away. But what will we sing about? I know an old sailor song, and I don’t think it matters that it’s a little bit bawdy, and uncouth. The words don’t really matter. Or maybe we could sing it without words. Or I’ll sing rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb, and you can harmonize with crumble. And we’ll march together. People may look at us, but we won’t stop to explain ourselves. We’ll have too much to do, what with singing and striding and having the wind blowing through our hair. Maybe it really is dinner time now though. Look, the sun’s already setting. Where does the time go?

I mean, really, where does the time go?

In the Dark

When night falls in the city, I pretend that the houses have eyes, and they stare out at me through their glowing window panes. And I feel so exposed. Every way I turn, eyes are watching me. It’s a little bit frightening, but I also like it. It’s exhilarating you know. All eyes on me. The whole world is watching.

Guess I’d better do something amazing.

There's Something Wrong Here

But I can’t put my finger on it. I mean, I can’t on any level explain it. Can you? The story is thus. I was cycling home, just in that moment where twilight is giving way to night, and I passed the McDonald’s, hearing shouts and car honking as I went by. And the revving of engines. Which I heard and thought, please don’t pull out of the parking lot as I go by, and please don’t be going my direction. They pulled out of the parking lot as I went by, and went my direction. Four of them. So the first one, correctly I feel, for a street racer, simply revved the engine and roared past me, pottering along there on my bike. The next one, to my slight displeasure, honked as he sped past. Slight wobble of the bicycle, but otherwise alright. And then I felt the wind from a nearly full soft drink whoosh past my head as the third one passed. Bastards I thought. To throw a full drink at me. And I was thirsty too. Made the fourth car, of which the passenger leaned out to shout something vulgar, seem even irrelevant.

So I managed to not make obscene gestures or shout at them. Which I was pleased about. I try to model self-restraint every now and then. Probably a good thing too, as it would have been a lot against one, and it’s not a fast bike. It’s not even my bike. But I was really annoyed. Like, seriously, why do people have to behave like that? Where’s the sense in it? Where’s the benefit in it for them? And I didn’t get anywhere thinking this. Until I thought, let it go. Be a little more zen, Buddhist about this David. So I let it wash over me, listened to the wind in my hair, heard the whisper of the night air, and then felt a tugging on my shirt sleeve, saying, no, but seriously David, why? What sadistic pleasure do people get from randomly abusing others? Do they enjoy it? Or do they cringe secretly, but enjoy the supposed accolades received from friends? And is it okay if I damn them as a sub-species?

Then I told myself, let’s be a little more tolerant. Just because their culture doesn’t value manners and not-being-a-bastard-ness as much as mine does, doesn’t make it a lesser culture. Merely different. I could only get myself to believe this argument so far though, before I began having to make excuses for them. Maybe it’s not that their other-English culture is lesser than mine, it’s that they were abused as children. Or maybe their parents are ugly. Or their left big toe is smaller than the right.

Point is, what makes us so very different? Could I have been one of them, had circumstance been different? Have I ever been one of them? Shit. I probably have been that obnoxious bastard who somebody can’t stand. In which case, let me please apologize to whatsoever anonymous persons I have run afoul of in my life. I’m sorry, but it’s not my fault.

I was just brought up too well.

My Mind Wanders

I tried to wake up yesterday. But then remembered I wasn’t asleep. Yes, leave some room at the top for cream. Sugar is to your left, on the counter at the end. You know, I think I’ll go home and mull this over. You can come too, but only if you spot me the bus fare. It’s going up these days. Something about embargoes and global economic crises. I’m sure it’ll all be over tomorrow. Flavour of the week and yesterday I found twenty pence on the street. Then was nearly killed by a bus when I reached down to pick it up. He said to me you were nearly killed when you stopped in the middle of the street. I was in the middle of the street. Who knew?

Motionless, except for the lapping of the waves, gently on the riverbank. Have you ever felt this? It really is such a weight. It always seems less in the sunshine though. Funny that. You know, I opened my eyes the other day, and saw you. Only it wasn’t you. You were shorter. Lighter hair. And you might have been a woman. But it is a strange way to carry yourself. I’d say that it’s better three paces to the left, although I admit I’m not a very good judge of these things. Helps to be normal. Helps to be real as well. No no, three would be just fine. Oh hello there. Why, just now I think I thought a thought of you.

Yesterday I saw the sun swallow the sky. And there was blood everywhere, dripping from the horizon, blue veins exposed and tracing their way through a pale flesh. I couldn’t decide if it was horrific or beautiful. Maybe both. Call me a liar, but that’s where my favourite things about life remain. On the edges of stardust. Did you know that if you blink three times quickly and sneeze, you get a brief glimpse of the afterlife? No, it’s true. Most people don’t realize because they close their eyes.

The secret to life is to want two of everything. That way, when you only get one, you’ll be disappointed. Or maybe it’s the other way around. No miss, I don’t want fries with that. Have you seen the way they look at us? Like gods we are to them. Yes, yes I’ll be right back. I’m just stepping around the corner for cigarettes. But it doesn’t hurt to be sure. I was sure once. Didn’t last long.

If I could melt into anything, I’d like it to be a G&D’s green tea ice cream. That would be so refreshing. It could only be on the weekends though. One ticket to the midnight showing. I’ve always liked going to the cinema alone. I don’t have to share my popcorn. Have you ever seen that film where the guy meets the girl, only not straight away, and then after they haven’t met, but before anything else exciting happens, he dreams her into life? No? It’s pretty good, but a little confusing. Could you hold that thought? I have to go to the bathroom.

I’ve always wanted to see what happens when the lights go out. Sorry, haven’t got any change on me. Did you know that an open palm is a sign of dismissal in some countries, I forget which, and that a man once went to jail for waving at a policeman in the street. I read it in a magazine, so it must be true. Sometimes we fold boats out of old newspapers, and race them down the storm drains.

Could you cry on cue? I mean really cry. I didn’t cry when my last cat died. I’m saving those tears. Miss, my dog died and I’m absolutely beside myself. Can’t you tell? Would you know what it is to be distraught?

I caught the midnight train. Better than another night in an empty train station. Don’t you have anywhere to go? I once went somewhere, but when I opened my eyes it wasn’t there anymore. That’s not the best part of the story though. There was something about a quest, and an unattainable goal that I attained. But then maybe the goal was just to feel. You wouldn’t think that a particularly difficult thing to do, having never been numb. There’s something about the way you wear your hair. I’ve just had it cut. Which would explain it. I told you. I said, there’s one thing that can explain all of life’s mysteries. You never believe me though. Me, who never lies. Don’t fall away. I wasn’t planning on it. I’ve only just gotten used to standing.

One of these days I’m going to write a book. And it shall be called a Life of Mondays. Or How to Quietly Deny Having Ever Existed. It’s something I think about often. But I don’t recommend you try it. I mean, after two pints I’m practically upended. Three would push me right off the edge. But have you ever flown before? No, like really flown. I met a bird once who told me it was the easiest thing in the world. You just had to forget to remember to stop falling. I was limping for the next two weeks.

There’s definitely something in the air tonight. I’ve been sneezing since mid-afternoon. But everytime I try to see the afterlife they pull the curtains closed. Must not like voyeurs.

It may not mean much to you, but I am half sick of shadows.

Only In Dreams

You were in my dream last night. Who can ever say why? I was waiting for you, and finally, much to my relief, you showed up. And then we sat around a picnic table full of faceless friends and chatted. And then you left, and the next day the same story played out. And again the next day. I think though that I woke up after each of these dream meetings, so rather than a cyclical dream, it was a recurring one. Maybe I bored myself awake each time. Though that wouldn't have been your fault. It was a good dream.

Funny, I didn't think I would, but I kind of miss my dreams from the pre-marathon week. Stress-laden dreams. They were all much more exciting. And involved a homicidal oyster wreaking havoc in the world.

He was one lethal mollusk.

A Distorted Reality Is Now a Necessity to Be Free

You could say of course that it was all a dream. And maybe that’s true. I at least prefer to not think of it as reality. There’s too great a sense of finality associated with reality. Dreams though are open to interpretation, changes in direction, focus. Anyway, they’re more fickle, and I like ‘em for it. That’s too easy though. Let me begin again.

You could say of course that it was all a dream. And no one would blame you. But then, you’d be missing the point. Sometimes, what we dream seems unreal, and sometimes, equally, what we live seems unreal. Maybe, maybe they are. Maybe that’s the point. What is reality anyway, but the lowest common denominator? The one thing in a million that we all happen to see together. Where our separate realities meet and become one, and we think that’s it. That’s reality. Well. It’s not my reality. And it’s not yours either, but have you realized it?

I’ve always liked this town.

You Wouldn't Believe Me If I Told You...

But I can run like the wind blows. I just suffer for it afterwards. I'm going to make a request that my sister, the trained massage therapist, fly over from Texas to meet me at the finish line in three weeks. If 17, 18, or 20 miles hurts this much, 26.2 is gonna be agony. Now, the reason I'm not sure whether it's 17, 18, or 20 that hurts this much, is that I got mildly lost on my run today. With incredible levels of forethought and planning, I mapped out a route Thursday night online, in preparation for being out of town and disconnected for the weekend. Nineteen miles through the Cotswolds, Childswickham to Little Buckland, to Aston Somerville, Wormington, Dumbleton, Ashton-under-Hill, Kersow, Elmlea Castle, and Hinton-on-Green. The clever plan being to run my scheduled 17, and then walk the last two back to Gran's. All brilliant, and all went accordingly. For the first five miles. Then I made a wrong turn, or rather, didn't make a right turn, or rather, didn't make a left turn, as I came out of Dumbleton. And I ended stalled at a gate stating 'Private, No Entrance.' But undaunted, and unwilling to run back the half mile since I went wrong, I skirted a fence and followed, or tried to follow a public bridleway.

But it didn't go the way I wanted it to go. So I had to strike out cross country. I just had to. Note that dried, ploughed fields are bloody treacherous running. But, after startling a white-tailed dear in the hedgerow, I finally came to the right road again and carried on. Or so I thought. A mile long stumble along the motorway, two wrong turns off it, and I found myself cross country again, seeing Breedon's Hill and Ashton ahead of me, but unsure how to get to them. I'm yet to find how many extra miles I ran over fields, rather than the easy roads I'd planned, but I'm kinda curious.

The moral of this story, is that perhaps it's not the best idea to base your route solely on the memory of an aerial photo you saw online. For one thing, they don't show you hills, of which there were a lot, and for another, memory always seems to fail one at the worst times. Next time I have to run 17 miles, which is hopefully never, I'm going to drive it first.

That's a tip kids. Write it down.

Half a Chance

She says, 'I swear the sun rises
Every morning in the West
And I wake up every morning
Wondering why...'
And I thought of all the lies
That she could have said instead
She still swears the moon is dead

She said, 'I've seen your God
And he's just like other men
But he let the world slip through his hands
Now he wanders it wondering why
And if it could have been saved
And he slips beneath the waves...'

And she would follow if I gave her half a chance.

The Once Beautiful Game

Something about sport seems to bring out the best, and worst, in people. And I'm not sure if it really is worse, or if I just notice it more in football (soccer). As if, even at an amateur level, people feel obliged to cheat to get ahead. Like the player in the match just after us, who the ball blatantly deflected off of before going out for what should have been a corner kick. And he collected it, only to pass it to his keeper for a goalkick, leaving the attacking player dumbfounded. But then the goalie went ahead and took the kick!

Or worse the player on my own team who lost the ball and then fouled the opponent with a very late kick. Only to end up on the ground himself, rolling around in apparent agony. And he limped off to stretch and walk up and down the sideline, a brave grimace on his face. We were already down a man, and he goes off. Then reappears a couple minutes later, absolutely fine. I would wager anything that some other people took worse knocks during the game, and played on. But it's like to be serious about the sport, you have to play it that way. This same guy also blocked the ball with his arm and played on as if no one had noticed the handball. The point though, is that you always know. The player always knows if they've handballed it, or if they were the last to touch it before going out. Why can't we just admit it? Why can't playing the sport be enough? Or winning because you deserved to win?

And why do I get so upset by this?

There's Something Very Wrong With Me

It’s nice to have somewhere to go. If you’re going to run 15 miles, which you shouldn’t, I can assure you, it’s at least nice to have a destination. Even if it’s seven and a half miles away, and you turn around as soon as you get there. Or just before you get there, because the tow path you’d been following along the river suddenly disappears and you can’t find the right road. That can happen. But I’ll still say I made it to Abingdon. And back. And it was beautiful. The path past Sandford Lock nearly empty, despite the sunshine. Just me and my music and thoughts. There’s something gloriously fulfilling about pushing yourself almost too far. More alive, even in your suffering. Or because of your suffering. Something like that. But as I flew along the shore of the Thames, I was loving it. And I couldn’t help but think to myself what should have been farthest from my mind.

My God, but this feels good.

I Wanna Grow Old With You

There’s a beyond lovely elderly couple here at the cafe. The gentleman waiting on his wife, having trouble ordering at the cafe. Gently smiling at her as she requests a self-serve item. And they carry their drinks back to the table, where he has the crossword out, and she contentedly sits, eating the froth of her cappuccino with a spoon and leaning over his shoulder to help with the puzzle. A lovely day out at the Magic Cafe. Someday I want my life to be like that. And she leans over to me and says ‘You believe in work, do you?’ No miss. I’m writing for fun. I’m writing because I like to.

I’m writing about you.

Cheer Up Sleepy Jean

I had a dream last night that I walked into my architecture studio, and the whole building was under construction. Which is true enough to life, on a small scale, but in my dream everybody was working away quite happily, only without a roof on the building. Sitting at their computers under the open sky. And I realized this meant it was a dream. But I was amazed to see that even in my dream, I was visualizing the office perfectly, except for the missing roof, and everyone was in their proper place, as in real life. And then I woke up. And then I woke up again.

*blink blink*

At least at this point, I realized I'd been having a dream within a dream. So, to clarify, in my dream last night, I dreamt that my dream's dream was portraying life exactly as it was in my real dream, which I'd mistaken for reality. How convoluted. It's why I love dreams, except they usually mean I haven't slept well.

Which might explain today being a near-total write off.

Me to the 25th Degree

I shan't tag anyone, for that scares me. But I'm sending out brainwaves to the people who tagged me in their notes, and hopefully they get the message.

Ahem.


I like bandwagons. Though I usually avoid jumping on them. Except this one.

I used to think I was witty. I have since realized this is not the case. Sarcasm is not wit. Now I'm aware my mind actually processes life at a slightly slower speed than I'd like. I blame it on the concussions.

On a similar note, I like to think of myself as creative. But I can't be spontaneously creative. Ask me to say something random and I'll freeze up entirely.

I have a fascination with all linguistics. The language sections of libraries and bookshops can entertain me for hours. I think this is related to me thinking I'm more intelligent than I actually am, and thus I think I can learn all these languages. Or maybe the idea just intrigues me.

I hate the word actually and would like to abolish it from the English language. This doesn't stop me from using it, but I hate myself every time I do.

I'm pretty good at mental math.

I grew up on a chicken farm. Which was exactly as cool as it sounds, provided it sounds really cool. 'Cause it was cool. Seriously. Thousands of little yellow chicks are just too damn cute. And then, after they were fully grown and the majority collected, we got to catch the stragglers and take them out to our grandparent's land where they lived in a chicken coop. Until a snake ate them. Or maybe it was a fox. Or coyotes. There was definitely a snake there once...

The scariest stories I had as a child involved snakes, and may or may not have been made up. My sister and I were once chased by a water mocassin from the middle of a lake back to the pier, where we were hoisted out of the water by my dad. I also jumped over lots of snakes, happily never on them. Although my sister has done that. But it was last year, so doesn't count as a childhood story.

I detest shoes. Such that the moment I get to work, I kick off my trainers in the coat room and walk around during the day in only socks. Because of this, I go through socks at a prodigious rate. But I don't have to buy many pairs of shoes.

One day, I will write the great American novel.

I blame my parents that I'm not an elite athlete. I blame them, because they put me into school a year early. So rather than being the oldest kid in the class, and thus the biggest kid, I was always the baby. Though this might not have helped anyway, as I didn't grow until junior year in high school, when I grew 12 inches. No joke.

I can almost count to ten in eight languages. This is not impressive.

Ever since architecture school, I feel like I sleep too much. This isn't necessarily bad, as I'm a fan of sleep, I just feel as though I'm wasting time.

Discovering new music, or being introduced to it, is one of my favourite things in life. Send me a song that I like and I will love you forever. And yes, I am that easy.

I hesitate to call myself a nerd, but I am definitely a dork.

Recently, I learned to swing dance. Because I'd always thought I should at some point in my life learn to dance, and the movie Swing Kids is awesome.

I'm planning to run the London Marathon this year. I look on this as no big deal, it's only 26.2 miles, but some people have told me it's difficult. Guess we'll see...

I never knew what 'facetious' meant. 'Til I looked it up.

I'm not an excessively negative person, but certain subjects really get to me. These include, but are not limited to: basketball, lawyers, shoes(see above), and Phillip Pullman novels.

I used to like writing about myself. I still do.

I taught swim lessons in the summers back in high school. As a result, I can't now see people swim without critiquing their strokes.

All of my jobs have been awesome. I have referreed soccer games, taught swim lessons, made snow cones, bell-hopped both in Nacogdoches and San Diego, worked/played in an architecture library, and now pretend to be an architect. For this I feel very fortunate and lucky. Or maybe I really am that good.

I can write in Arabic script. I once thought this would be a springboard to learning the language, but have now settled for it just being cool. Plus, I can write in code to myself. Not that people can read my handwriting anyway. I tend to not write the ends of words. Or say them. But my signature at least is pretty damn cool.

My favourite author might be Bill Watterson.

I don't like cursing, unless for the comedic value. So I make up my own curse words instead. Like 'Holy flip flop!' 'Son of a marzipan!' and 'Mother of pearl!' Then I say them in a really mean way.

This is number 25. Trust me.



Please don't take the words above at face value, for though they're all true, you might think I'm an idiot.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet?

I like walking through history. Or running though it. And especially literary history. Last week had me in Risinghurst, just north of Oxford, walking through the woods as a heavy snow fell all around us. But it wasn't Robert Frost's world, it was C.S. Lewis'. His house lay at the bottom of the hill, and as we walked up it were the pools leading to the other worlds of The Magician's Nephew. Then this morning I went for a twelve mile run through Buckland, Tolkien fans anyone?, past Stanway Manor, where J.M. Barrie resided after creating Peter Pan. And to add to its allure, the site of an adaptation of a Jane Austen work. Truth though, the whole run might as well have been through a Jane Austen novel. From Childswickham, near Aston Somerville, past Buckland, Laverton, Stanton and Stanway, turning back just shy of Snowshill Manor, and returning through Broadway. Not a sign though of Mr. Darcy. Though he no doubt would have snobbed me. Unconnected as I am. Back again now in Oxford, where the city itself breathes history.

A pint at the Eagle and Child anyone?

Monarchs and Milkweed

There are thousands of paths my life has taken. Primarily in the moments when yes or no, left or right, up or down, became crucial. And I feel those keenly. When life diverged, but so clearly that I saw the other potential path receding into the distance, even as I walked along my chosen one. And the flippancy of our lives life really hits hard when you look back on those moments, and retrace the life you didn’t lead. The moments that would have led me anywhere but here. There are fragments of life that changed due to other people’s actions, and those that changed for my own decisions. Slivers where family choices put me in a certain place that became the familiar one. Where age and the circumstance of birth spun mine and others reactions. Mirrors where university led me down a different path. Where the people I met came from entirely different backgrounds to the ones I know now. Windows where I said yes to another job, where I forsook jobs, where responsibility weighed less heavily. There are shards where the band didn’t break up. Where I wrote a successful novel, graphic novel, song, screenplay. Splinters where I married the girl, where I never met the girl, where the girl said yes and we both risked what we didn’t even know.

I like to think though, that somewhere these paths converge. That some things about me, about who I really am, have happened regardless of circumstance. Maybe that’s what destiny really is. The moments that appear in every shard, and shape what happens after. It’s a pretty thought anyway, to think that certain things will happen, regardless of which path we choose.

A butterfly can flap its wings in the Himalayas, but it will still always be sunny in Texas.

'Neath the Downs

Long after the last echoes of their footsteps have faded will we still linger here. We who were here first; long ago, treading softly in the dark places. Before they arrived, with their burning lights and searing noise. And we retreated from them. Our kind could never last long. We’re too easy to destroy. Deeper and deeper we go now, as still they come on. Relentless in their thirst to reach a frontier. But frontiers are forever shifting. Forever being pushed further. But on this one will we wait. We know how to mark time. We have marked since the beginning of time. And we know that one day they will come no further. One day the frontier will be just that. Then slowly will they retreat as we reclaim what is ours. Their ropes and ladders and bolts and tackle will be removed, and we will climb up after them. We need no ropes. We who built this place.

Then will we erase all trace of them, until once more the underworld is ours, and only the dark floods the recesses of the earth.

What's to Smile About?

Ever have those days when you just, inexplicably, feel good? Please say yes. Then I can continue this blog by saying, me too! And yes. Today is one of those days. I've been having a few of them recently. Had a friend ask what I was on when I showed up at his house a couple weeks ago, bouncing off the walls. And seriously Matthew, I wasn't hopped up on anything. And then tonight. I should be halfway to dead by now, but instead I'm still wired. Had a very long, very frustrating day at work, then only an hour and a half at home before heading back out. And I'd had the bright idea that since I hadn't had time for a training run, and yes, I have begun training for my marathon, that I would run to Barton for swing dancing class. A 3.3 mile run that ended up being 4, 'cause I missed a turn and had to run nearly around Barton, rather than simply to it. With a backpack on no less. But then, instead of being exhausted going into dancing, I was strangely wired. And I do realize I'm abusing the hell out of the comma in this, you don't need to go pointing it out. So yeah, I couldn't stop bouncing around tonight, which, coincidentally, is a very good thing at swing dancing class. Points for style you see. Which is what I was complimented on. I just said I was in a good mood.

Don't know why.

There's a Ladybug on my Laptop

And as I sit here, I can hear the strains of a violin floating down from upstairs. My housemate finally brought her violin from home, and this is the first time I've heard her play. Might go sit on the stairs and listen for a while. Always nice to think you're good at something, as I often do. 'Oh yeah, I can play Amelie and Konstantine on the piano, I must be good.' How nice it would be to actually be good. Like the music I'm hearing now. I don't know if they're classical pieces she's playing, or scale exercises, or just the violining equivalent of 'flowing.' But I feel I need to go practice piano now. I'm ashamed of my comparative lack of talent. Maybe one day, one day I can aspire to a duet.

I hope Ali doesn't read this.

Enduring Love

I heard a story today, first hand, about a girl who finished school and went to work as a clerk in the summer of 1940. And very soon after, she was invited to the cinema by a young man who worked across the office. This was August. At the end of September that young man shipped out from Northern Ireland for training in England for the Royal Air Force. A year later they saw each other again briefly when he returned on embarkation leave, before being deployed to north Africa for the duration of the war. 'Course, she didn't know at the time where he was bound. Only found out when he hailed a friend from his ship in a harbour in Sierra Leone en route, and asked this friend to deliver a message to the girl's father, a police officer in the country. Who then passed the news on. As you would. The two, the girl and the young man, then corresponded, he from RAF bases across Africa, her from radar stations along the British coast, for the next four years. Correspondence at the time meaning censored postcards delivered back and forth through the military.

Then somehow, after four years apart, he phones her up one autumn day in 1945 to say he's just arrived home, to England. And she spends the rest of the night crying in a bar.

They were married the following Spring. Herbert and Eileen Wilson. My grandparents.

Now, call me a hopeless romantic, but that's lovely...

Same Mistake Twice

Ever had to watch someone do something you know will hurt them in the long run, yet still there's nothing you can do about it? Simply hold your peace, for they probably know in the back of their minds it's the wrong thing, but aren't yet able to admit it to themselves. Or you keep quiet, because at one time long ago you were in the same situation, and made the same mistakes. Only a fool learns from his own mistakes, a wise man from the mistakes of others. Yeah. Maybe so. Well then call us all fools, for the lesson never seems quite relevant 'til it's applied to our own pain. Am I holding my peace now? Maybe. In truth, I'm not even sure what I'm talking about. And if I were, I wouldn't admit it.

So it goes.

Resolvent

Right. I have two New Year's Resolutions. Only two because the other things I could potentially resolve to do, I'm already doing, so it'd be hollow, or the others I realize now there's no way I'll ever be committed enough to achieve them. Thus am I fulfilling the first of my resolutions right now, by writing more. Vague yes, but I don't want to limit myself to blogging more, or writing more songs, or fiction, or letters, or hate mail. Thus I shall simply write more and generally. And then I'll have these works in the future to remind myself who I am, what I do, and why. And the second resolution I'm belatedly making is to do everything in earnest. I started saying that about things, 'When I get back, I'll began training in earnest,' or 'fundraising in earnest,' or 'figuring out what I'll do with the rest of my life in earnest.' Then after saying it so many times, I started to convince myself. So now I feel like I really should do all things in earnest. But not earnestly. I'd prefer to be in earnest.

Earnest is a funny word.