Saturday, October 20, 2012

When the internet went down...

... I wrote the following:

He doesn’t stop to ask the time, to think things through.  His next move is all that matters, a speeding tunnel approach to life.  He sees an apple.  Wants the apple.  Sees a dog.  Wants to kiss that dog, even as she is walking away, though her wagging tail might catch him.  His minders interrupt, when they dare, to try and keep him fresh, bringing down his wrath upon them.  Other times he’ll bestow an ocean of caring when they least expect it, a soothing arm about their neck, or intensely offered part chewed biscuit.  Before they can show gratitude – he’s off again, on to the next thing.  Like the weather, unpredictable – he’ll climb, dig, jump, dance, sing, spin, splash and fall.  Throwing stones and grass.  Casually he leaves his belongings, sometimes including leaves, anywhere.  He can’t be robbed – nothing has any value – except the thing he most wants in the moment.  He’ll turn blue and breathless with rage if you try to take that though.  He’ll scream and pout and silently sob, watery eyes glaring till you, cowering, give it back; or somehow turn his focus over to something else, a show, a drink, a bit of action.  He laughs with every laugh he hears even when he least feels like it, can’t help it.  Applauds generously at the end of music, live or pre-recorded, he’s no art snob.  Enjoys bright colours of the supermarket, every bit as good as fine art exhibits.  He’ll also laugh at tears, giggles at a sneeze, tooth brushing gets guffaws and dogs eating bubbles are hilarious.  Life is hilarious.  He is hilarious.  He doesn’t stop.

So maybe the internet is to blame for the laziness, at least in part...

Wednesday, October 17, 2012


You know the way sometimes you can be confident no one will hear what you're saying because you're saying it to yourself somewhere very noisy - cursing the length of the queue for the cloakroom in the chattering unwelcome pale blue light of 2am, maybe you're singing the words slightly wrong in a choir of fifty others in navy uniforms, and you just know no one will ever hear, and sometimes you know no one can hear because you're in a woods, and there's no one around, or you're having that nightmare where you're trying to shout but there's no air in your lungs to push out through the voice box.  And sometimes no one hears just because you're only saying it in your head...

Well that's where a lot of my blog posts are getting caught nowadays - in that mousse like mess of neurons behind the balls of jelly that I use to look at stuff.  The opening or closing words of blog posts, poems, soliliquays, jokes, stories, plays, novels, songs - echo in the silence, never to be heard again, not even by myself - since I don't write the stupid things down.

And now my writing muscle has about as much muscle as a mussel, (not counting the strong bit that keeps the shell closed, cos my point is that it's not strong any more - quite the opposite), and only half as salty.

So there y'are, maybe I'll throw a little shell fish catcher line type thing in there sometime to try and dredge out some of the ideas see if they're worth cooking up... but meanwhile