Eye of the Wildebeest

Do Atheists Believe in Tuesdays?

2010-08-24T09:03:00.000+01:00

The description of atheists as not believing in gods or any supernatural entities is simplistic and wrong. You would have great difficulty finding an atheist who denied the existence of religious churches. Those churches are built by people who believe in one or more gods. Therefore the concept of gods exists and has been used to justify building great cathedrals and in fighting bloody wars. To deny the very existence of deities as being not real is as preposterous as claiming that concepts such as happiness aren't real.

Once this has been established, discussions of the nature of religion therefore must focus on the supernatural forces involved or the intentions of the gods. The former being tricky to discuss due to supernatural forces with irrefutable evidence being called natural forces. The latter is equally problematic as intentions and conscious experience bring together all the uncertainty of experience and free will that we have as individuals, let alone beings and persons external to ourself.

Quality vs. Quantity

2010-05-10T20:00:00.002+01:00

Sometimes you have to choose quality over quantity.
Every so often you'll need to choose doing over thinking.
Occasionally you just need to get something done.

This place needs perfect posts, not regular updates.

This will now be erratic.

Recipe for Life

2010-05-03T20:00:00.017+01:00

Ingredients:

1 egg
1 sperm
5 years of upbringing by parent or carer
1 education, level to taste
3 to 5 significant teenage experiences
1 job, skilled or unskilled
a pinch of understanding
a dash of luck

Method:

Preheat the womb to 37 degrees.
Combine the egg and sperm and gestate in the womb for 9 months.
Once ready, remove the baby and allow to develop for 5 years.
When the 5 years is up, send the child off to be educated.
While the child is being educated, keep a close eye on it to be sure it's doing what you want.
After the child reaches it's thirteenth birthday it will start to become more independent. This is normal and nothing to panic about.
Over the next few years the young adult will experience several things that will, in hindsight, be seen as key points in their development. However at the time they'll likely seem to be just another bad day.
Eventually the adult is likely to leave education and hopefully get a job. One thing to be careful of here is to not assume that learning stops with education. Not many recipes mention this explicitly, but perhaps the most important learning for a life happens outside education.
After seasoning with some understanding and luck, let the new life out into the world.
Life tends to go best with other life, so try to ensure that there is other life around.

Serves one species.

The Summoning

2010-04-26T20:00:00.032+01:00

I drew the poker over the fire, exposing the warm orange glow of the burning wood and causing sparks to rise up into the air. I consulted the start of the scroll for the incantation which I was planning on performing. The embers of the fire were exactly as instructed by the scroll, so I stood up and went to the cupboard containing the components necessary for this preparation.

Removing the tuber of Solanum from the cupboard along with a root of Brassica rapa. I carefully grated to the size described in the scroll and then carefully pressed them into the steel pan and placed it over the heat. I consulted the scroll on my next course of action and realised that the instructions were very explicit, a steel pan wouldn't produce the correct flow of energy, I should have used a cast iron one. I dug around in my equipment cupboard and discovered a suitable dish and transfered the mixture to it.

Returning to the scroll, I read the next steps which demanded blood of pig mixed with grain of the fields and intestines filled with ground flesh mixed with the correct herbs. I went to my larder and returned with the prescribed items. Slicing them thickly I then placed them in the steel pan which I had almost foolishly used previously.

I looked over at my cauldron and saw that the water was bubbling furiously in it, just as the spell dictated. I carefully placed the ovulation of poultry into the cauldron and started to count slowly to sixty, not once, not twice, but thrice.

Once the counting was done I removed the eggs from the cauldron and then consulted the scroll for the incantation one last time to check that I hadn't missed anything. All seemed to be in order and all that remained was the final step of combining my previous preparations onto a plate and to consume them; which I planned to do with much gusto.

As I cut into the stuffed intestines with my knife, my thoughts moved to what to prepare for the noon time ritual later today. The spirit of the world guided my will and I knew immediately that I should prepare thinly sliced pig aired over smouldering pine resin within fermented and baked crushed grains. With the plans for the rest of the day settled I bit down on the reward of my labours.

Tick-tock

2010-04-19T20:00:00.020+01:00

Deadlines loom ahead,
Causing me a panicked rush
Missing perfection.

Dracula vs. The Wobbly Giant Jellyfish

2010-04-12T20:00:00.033+01:00

"So," said Dracula in his thick Transylvanian accent, "you're the one responsible for all the attacks on the seaside villages?"

The giant jellyfish shuddered a bit and started to ooze a thick clear liquid. Dracula had almost decided that no response was forth coming but then the jellyfish spoke, "Wobble wibble wobbly!"

"I thought so; there aren't many multi-tentacled, 2 meter round, semi-transparent amorphous blobs brave enough to feast on human flesh. While I admire your work, it has to end tonight, on this beach. You're not going to walk- erm, bounce," said Dracula, raising his voice in a questioning manner at the end. When the jellyfish didn't seem to object to the term bounce he continued, "You're not going to bounce away from this one."

"Wibbly wobble? Wobble wobble wobbly wobble flib!" was the oozing response from the giant ball of slime.

Dracula sucked in air through his mouth and rocked on his heals while he considered his reply. Finally he shook his head before saying "I don't. You can do whatever you like with the humans, I couldn't careless if you built a throne out of their living mangled bodies or a fine chandelier from their bones, it's what you're doing with the fear that I have to stop.

"From Spain to Russia I'm feared through Europe. I still am, but now no-one talks about me now, at least not in the towns and villages anywhere near the water. It's all-" Dracula noticed some movement at the end of one of the tentacle and raised his sword towards it, "No, don't do anything while I'm explaining myself to you or I'll just have to cut our little discussion short."

"Wubble," replied the jellyfish in a low and dejected voice.

Happy that the tentacle movement had stopped, Dracula continued his speech, "It's all just talk of you. When villagers hear a noise out in the dark it's not me they worry about now, it's you. Children now wake screaming from nightmares of tentacles pulling them down to the deep, not to razor sharp teeth draining them of their delicious blood. I had a reputation and now I want it back."

"Wobble, wibble wobble wobble wab. Wibbly wobble wob wib wobble," the blob paused as if considered it's next words before continuing, "Wobble wobbly wobble."

Dracula let out a short laugh before replying, "That's irrelevant and, by the by, quite frankly a little ridicules. So now you should-" but Dracula never finished that sentence. He had already launched himself straight at the jellyfish, driving his sword into the oozing mass right up to it's hilt.

"Ah," screamed Dracula as the secretions of the jellyfish started to seer his long dead flesh like fire. As he struggled to pull the sword out free of the body of his foe, a sting flashed across his face as one of the tentacles lashed across his face.

Dracula staggered back from the force of the blow and tried to find some steady footing on the sand. He looked back at the jellyfish just in time to see the handle of his sword be sucked fully into the jellyfish with a small slurping sound.

"Wo-Wo-Wobble," mocked the jellyfish, the fast tarnishing sword jiggling inside it in time with it's laughter.

Dracula's hand flew to his side and drew his dagger. He barely had time to bring his dagger up in front of him before a couple of tentacles thrashed at him. The dagger in his arm slashed in a wide arc, cutting straight through the first tentacle. The giant jellyfish had enough time to react to avoid a similar fate for the second tentacle. The the poisonous appendix adjusted course away from the path it had been making towards Dracula's face.

Still a little shaken from losing his sword, Dracula hadn't expected the reactions of the jellyfish to be so quick. The side of his chest was entirely exposed and the tentacle struck him hard on the side, blood quickly welling up in the gash in his cloak.

Dracula crouched down on the sand and caught his breath. A plan formed in his mind and he dropped his dagger. He launched himself up from his crouch directly towards the jellyfish. Tentacles thrashed in the air around him, but the pain from them was a minor inconvenience and wouldn't steer him from his target.

When his body was inches from the quivering sticky surface of the jellyfish's body he punched his fist into it with all his strength. The skin of the jellyfish bent but then gave way, plunging Dracula's arm deep into the acidic gel insides of the fish.

"Ahhhh!" screamed Dracula as he pressed his arm deeper into the body of this fish. He grasped forwards through the insides of his adversary, trying desperately to grasp the handle of his sword. With his body pressed against the outside skin of the jellyfish the fingers of his blistering arm felt around for the solid handle of his sword.

With one final push of effort against the body of the jellyfish he managed to get his hand gripped around his sword. This time though, instead of trying to pull it out, he tried to swing it sideways. At first there was very little movement, but with a bit of jiggling he managed to make it a bit looser.

"Waaaaaaaaabibbly," exclaimed the jellyfish as a thinner fluid started to fill the space around Dracula's arm and sword. It has hard to tell through the prickle of pain all along his arm, but Dracula was sure that this liquid didn't have the same corrosive properties as the sticky goo.

"Aha!" shouted Dracula as he manage to swing the sword by about a foot inside the jellyfish.

"Waaaa," cried the jellyfish in response.

With two more larger strokes Dracula finally pulled away from the jellyfish, sword in hand and thickly covered in the secretions of the sea creature. As his arm drew out of the hole he had punched it was followed by a steady flow of a water like liquid.

"Wobble wibble wobbly," said the jellyfish faintly, liquid squirting out of the hole faster on each syllable.

"And to you, adieu. In another life we could have been something other than enemies," replied Dracula as nobly as someone covered from head to toe in gelatinous slime can do.

Dracula stood by the corpse of his foe for a few minutes until the silence of the sea was broken by the sound of foot prints in the sand behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see a elderly man with a gold chain around his neck coming over the crest of the sand dune.

"Who are you old man?" asked Dracula as he turned to face the man, sword still raised in his hand.

"I'm the mayor or Kelafot-Upon-Sea and I want to extend the thanks of the whole village for killing the giant wobbly jellyfish. One of the village boys watched your fight from the tall grasses of the sand dunes and has told us all of your brave and righteous fight."

Dracula threw his sword onto the sand before replying, "I am only glad to have been of service to your village."

"You must return to our village to attend a feast in your honour. Even though it be dark and late we will celebrate your achievement long into the night. Will you join us and regale us with your stories of battles?" asked the mayor.

"Yes," replied Dracula, realising quite how much energy he had spent in the fight, "there will be a feast in your village tonight."

He turned back to face the jellyfish corpse one last time, a grin spreading over his face. "We'll see who is most feared now," he whispered to the dead body.

Ester Blessing

2010-04-05T20:00:00.018+01:00

Ester opened her back door and drew in a breath of fresh morning air. The cold tingled in her nostrels with the freshness of spring. The sun hung low in the crystal clear sky, an orb of light surrounded by a canvas of pure blue.

"I do like late March mornings," she said to no one in particular. "They remind me of the new start everything gets in the coming year."

She slipped her feet into her Wellington boots and stomped off across the frosty lawn. She enjoyed every step and the faint crunch it made under her feet. This wasn't a heavy winter frost which would hang around for hours; this was a thin sprinkling of ice which would be gone in under and hour, dripping away quickly even under the feeble power of the low sun. With each step a few crystals would cling to her boots, hoping to escape their fate in the sun. The warmth of her feet was, however, a furnace compared to the gentle rays of the sun and the crystals didn't last more than a couple of steps before being transformed into tiny specs of dew.

Ester strode across the lawn with no particular purpose, she had nowhere she needed to be and nothing she needed to do. She was just happy to enjoy being out of the house and bathing in the refreshing morning light. She had decided that she'd probably wander for an hour at mot before returning to the house. Perhaps by that time some of the rest of the house would have woken up, but for now this was her time and she was determined to enjoy it as fully as possible.

As she approached the bed of green spikes on the other side of the lawn to the house she paused for a moment to bend down and look at the plants. She could see that the thick green shoots were well formed and guess that any day now the first snow drops, crocuses and other bulbs would soon errupt splashes of colour across the earth. Ester thought of the thousands of little white heads bobbing around in the cold winds, fcreating ripples of white, blue and yellow flowers at the edge of the lawn and realised that she thought that the day couldn't come soon enough. She'd had enough of winter and was fed up of the plain and earthy colours

It wasn't that she didn't enjoy winter, the long cold nights with skies darker than the blackest ink were as beautiful as a fresh spring morning, a warm summer's day or a leafy autumn evening; she just liked things to be always moving on. After enough time, anything got stale and dull, regardless of how wonderful it was to start with. At the moment it was he lack of sun, the bitterly cold winds and the sheets of ice which she wished to be rid of and she reveled in all the signs she saw that showed the coming revolution of the season.

She stood up straight from her examination of the plants in the bed and decided on a whim to walk through the orchard. All the trees would still be bear branches and the beech hedge that surrounded it would still be just tangled twigs and buds, but Ester wanted to feel the potential there; to see all the greed buds ready to burst open with fresh growth when given the right signal. She turned and walked along the edge of the bed of bulbs towards the gap in the hedge which lead to the orchard, still enjoying the crunch and give in each of the steps she took.

As she stepped into the orchard she found herself on the stage with three other players. Sat high in the branches of the furthest tree sat a female blackbird, singing her heart out as loudly and sharply as possible. The cause of the blackbird's distress was clearly evident to Ester as it lay on the ground at the feet of the tree. There, beside the roots and butresses, sat the big tom cat from the neighbours house with a struggling male blackbird caught under the cat's strong paw.

"Now here's a bit of a pickle," said Ester to herself once again. "Here's old Palmer, the cat from the Jones' house, trapping a young blackbird for sport."

She looked at the scene and weighed up the situation before deciding what to do. On one hand the blackbird should have been weary of the cat, especially as Palmer was over six years old now, so hardly in her prime hunting shape. Yet on the other hand, Palmer didn't need to hunt for food so was purely hunting for the pleasure of it. She would have already have got quite a rush from catching and pinning the blackbird, so to let him die would be a needless waste. She mulled over the options for only a split second before deciding on a course of action through not much other than a random choice.

"Scram," she shouted as she charged towards the cat, "Go on scram!"

Palmer glanced at the raging form of Ester which was flying towards her and let go of the blackbird. Palmer then ran off into the hedge at full speed. Satisfied that she had scared Palmer off, Ester slowed her run down to a slow walk and examined the blackbird carefully from a distance of a few feet.

Looking it over she could see that it was still alive and, apart from some ruffled feathers, seemed to be in good health. She hoped that the blackbird was still lying on the ground due to shock instead of a more serious injury from the cat. After a long and worrying pause, Ester noticed the wings twitch and she let out an audible sigh of relief.

Ester's release of breath seemed to be enough to finally rouse the bird from it's stunned stupor. It hopped to it's feet and in a couple of bounds took off and flew to a tree at the far end of the orchard. The female blackbird stop it's shrill cries which had been continuing throughout. It looked at Ester with a look which she would have sworn was a carefully examination and then flew off to join the other blackbird at the end of the orchard.

"I hope you have a wonderful family together with many chicks and years of happiness," Ester called after it. She stood and watched the blackbirds sing to each other in the tree for a few more minutes before turning around and walking slowly back to the house.

Chaos Descends

2010-03-29T20:00:00.094+01:00

Charlotte tapped her knife gently against the side of her glass a couple of times. The noise of hundreds of overlapping conversations gradually petered out until all that was left were the faint echos reverberating off the solid stone walls of the dining hall. She looked around the room at the expectant faces all looking up to where she sat at the head of the high table.

"Good evening everyone," she said in her loudest voice, "as you might have heard from various rumours going around, I have some good news to tell you all. However, before I get to confirming what you might have heard in the corridors and bedrooms of this castle, I want to reflect on how we've got to be where we are today.

"I can say with absolute confidence that if it wasn't for the hard work, skill and sheer determination of each and every person in this room. There is not a single individual here who hasn't earned their place in this commune ten-times over in the past four months. I never lead such an amazing collection of people and I can confidently say that I don't think I ever will once the crisis is over.

"I didn't call all of you for dinner in the great hall to hear me exalt your virtues, we have reached a turning point in our fight against the infected. This day, August 20th, will be known as the day that marks the start of the restoration of society. I received a report this morning from Officer G. Ramesh regarding the activities of the infected outside the ramparts of this castle. In his report he described that the infected had started to attack each other.

"Since the infection first consumed the world in April it has mutated several times. All the previous mutations we've seen have made our survival more difficult, from the emergence of the infected travelling in packs to the more passive form of infection which made it seem like they had developed the ability to hide. However this latest mutation is one which we can exploit to propel us from the cusps of recovery to re-establishing our towns and cities.

"The change in behaviour from the infect is a classic example that has been seen with many diseases, although never on quite this much scale. As it becomes too virulent a disease can be so deadly that it harms it's own ability to spread. Nature has stepped in to lend us a hand we overcoming it. We are still a few months away from being able to move back to our homes, but from the numbers of the infected remaining it's a very real possibility that we will be able to migrate back to a city before Christmas.

"And so it's with that news that I announce that tonight will be a night of celebration. We will have three courses," Charlotte interrupted her planned speech to address the gasps from various tables at that suggestion, "yes, that does includes a chocolate pudding." She paused and took a sip of water as a cheer spread through the hall, "There will even be reasonable quantities of wine and beer, but please try to stay reasonably sober; it's still a dangerous place outside. Those on guard duty and those on duty later tonight will be given a chance to celebrate fully another night."

Charlotte nodded at the people at the head of each table and they pulled the covers off the crates of beer and wine that had been placed at the head of each table. People started to pass the bottles down the tables and a wave of lively conversation went with them. Charlotte tapped her glass again to hush everyone once again. Despite the lively atmosphere the room grew silent quickly and she could soon continue, "So I'd like us all to raise our glasses to the ongoing health of everyone across the country and to our future."

"Our future!" chorused back the whole room.

Castle

2010-03-22T20:00:00.084Z

The radio in the middle of the kitchen table crackled into life. I looked up from staring at my hands and exchanged a brief look of hope with Gopal who sat across from me. I dropped my eyes to the watch on his wrist and saw that the clock read 10am exactly: at least the government were still organised enough to broadcast on time.

"Citizens of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland," spoke the calm voice on the radio, "it is with great sadness that I must report that the crisis is still on-going. The ferocity and frequency of the attacks of the infected have increased and that only heightens the importance of following the public health guidelines.

"Firstly it is essential to have a safe and secure place of residence. If you have a cellar, move all your supplies there and sleep there. If you don't have a cellar then choose a room with as few windows as possible and cover the windows. Metal shutters are best but wood is sufficient if firmly attached. The infected are more active at night, so ensure that you are home well before dusk and never open your door, regardless of who or what you hear outside.

"Secondly all contact with the infected should be avoided. The disease can only be spread by blood or saliva, but as the infected can behave erratically it is best to avoid them entirely. Should you be bitten or otherwise wounded then apply vinegar to the wound immediately to sterilise it. This simple step can help prevent the spread of infection.

"Finally, if you or someone you are with does get bitten or have other contact with the blood of one of the infected then you must quarantine the injured person. Your quarantine room should be entirely separate from your safe room, preferably in a separate building. You should leave the injured there with sufficient food and water and then avoid all contact for a week. This includes any form of communication as that can increase the risk of others getting infected. If after a week they are recovered then it is safe to remove them from quarantine."

The announcer took a deep breath before continuing, "That is all until the next broadcast in twenty four hours time. We wish you all the best of luck and are confident in the reserve of the British people to not only preserver through times of such tragedy and hardship, but also in the ability of all of you to aid in the quick containment of this crisis. By maintaining civil order and strictly following the department of health's guidelines we will be free of this plague within a year. Britain will once again be great and we all have a vital part to play in the ending of our most trying times."

The radio made a popping sound and then just made a quiet white noise sound. Gopal reached over and flicked the power switch to the off position.

Gopal looked at me and with a sigh said, "Nothing new. They've said the same thing for the past week."

"And they'll probably say the same thing tomorrow," I interrupted, "and the day after, and the day after that. We've just got to sit tight and we'll be fine." I reached over and put my hand over the back of his hand before continuing, "We've got enough food and drink for at least a week. We've boarded up the windows and doors so well that we can't even see any daylight on the sunniest days. This home is our castle and we're both kings of it."

"I never did think much of royalty," muttered Gopal under his breath, "but you are right. We'll be ok. I just can't wait for the army to sort it out."

We both slept badly that night. The radio announcer was right when they said the attacks of the infected had increased. That was the first night that I remember hearing the banging on the doors and windows of our home accompanied by the unintelligible shouts. Before then it had just been distant shouts and screams. It could have just been the sounds of a rowdy party a few streets over had it not been for the build up, with people getting attacked and all the talk on the news of the infected.

This really was the zombie apocalypse and we were living it. Or rather hiding, boarded up in our two bedroom terraced house; an inch of wood keeping us safe from the outside world. The thing I found most unnerving at night wasn't the shouting and the banging, we were both confident that you'd need to use power tools to get through our defences, it was the spells of silence which followed the noises. My mind would always try to work out what could be happening, thoughts of why the mouths of the infected were no longer shouting sent shivers along my spine.

---

It was just five days after that night that the announcements started to show that things were far worse than they'd been saying originally. All we could tell from the noises from outside was that there were more infected, many many more of them. We could even here the sound of shuffling feet outside during the day now. Both Gopal and myself didn't know what this meant, apart from it confirming our mutual desire to not leave the house. However day by day our supplies were diminishing and so the bottom dropped out of our world when we heard those four words over the radio: "No support is coming".

It only spoke the ideas that we both knew but had avoided mentioning to each other, but still it hit hard. It made everything we did so much more delicate and precious. It put the edge on the most mundane of day to day tasks, from the noise of the tin opener cutting into one of our diminishing supply of a tin to the cold water of the morning shave. It pushed our thoughts one step further, onto thoughts of what we should do when the tins and bottles ran out.

Which bring me to today. It's ten past ten in the morning and the words from the radio broadcast of today are still ringing in my ears. 'Feed yourselves' is the first, followed by 'move by day' and 'don't take risks'. Since then Gopal and I have been rushing about the house, stuffing backpacks with clothes, bandages, snack bars and anything else which comes to mind. Now we stand in the hall, Gopal with a crowbar in hand.

"So," I look over to Gopal, but can't finish the sentence myself.

"So," he replies, "this is it?"

I shrug before saying, "I guess it is."

"Shall I do the honors?"

"If you'd like," I reply.

"Ok then," says Gopal as he steps forward and uses the crow bar to pry off the planks nailed to the door frame. The eight planks come off with relative ease but with a bone retching splintering of the wood of the frame. As the second to last board is levered off I realise that my hands have started to shake uncontrollably so I stuff them into my arm pits to try to hide my fear.

With the planks piled in the hall Gopal turns to me and offers me is free hand, "Shall we do this?"

I take his hand and squeeze it tight before replying weakly, "Yes."

I reach my free hand up to the door and pull it open towards me. Bright sunlight floods off the street into our house. I glance back, partly to get a last look at the house, but mainly to check that Gopal is ok. He smiles grimly back at me. I smile back, realising I wouldn't want anyone else as an apocalypse buddy. I then turn towards the doorway, letting my hand fall out of his as I do and then step over the threshold.

Beats of the Soul

2010-03-15T20:00:00.024Z

The church bell rung out, the time was one o'clock, I rolled over onto my back and opened my eyes; the ceiling was still there, the walls still stood, the curtains flapped lightly in the small breeze creeping in through the window. The eerie dappled yellow glow from a street light danced as a tree in front of the street light moved in the breeze. The room was the same as it was last night, the same as it had been for the past 17 years, the same as it will always be. My hand slowly slid off of the bed and came to rest on the wooden side of the bed. I just stared up at the celling and let my mind drift, this was my time; I, different from being awake, different from dreaming, was in control of myself now.

As I sunk further and further into my mind I suddenly was aware of a tapping sound outside my mind.

Hunter

2010-03-08T20:00:00.047Z

I glanced left and right and then, happy that the coast was clear, lay down on the paving. The stone trapped warmth caressed the parts of my body which lay upon the ground causing a comfortable smile to spread through my body. Passage of time slipped away and I wished that I could stay sandwiched between the rays of the sun and the heat of the earth for beyond forever.

Slowly my mind sank beneath the depths of sleep and when I next awoke I was barely aware of the passing of any time at all. The only element which hinted to me at the passage of time was the slight chill upon the air now. I lifted up one eye lid and surveyed the sky; the sun had travelled a fair distance and would soon start to disappear to the night.

I stretched out my sun baked limbs while simultaneously showing a wide yawn from my mouth. The tips of my digits brushed the cool green of the edge of the grass beside the paving, sending a prickle of cool sensation up to my shoulders. The feeling of the grass flicked an irresistible switch in my head and before I knew what I was doing I'd stood up and bounded into the middle of the lawn. The blades of grass tickled the bottom of my feet as I moved over them and helped to sharpen my senses after my afternoon nap.

I stopped in the middle of the lawn and a movement to my right caught my attention. It was a small black cat from a few doors over which had just lept onto the top of the fence. I slowly turned to face it and looked at it, both of us staring at each other's intrusion. After a couple of seconds of this I felt I should probably do something other than stand here staring at the neighbour's cat.

I opened my mouth and tried to give it my friendliest meow. I didn't mind if he was in my garden and it's always best to be kind to others than to try to scare them off.

'Meeeow,' he responded and then turned and walked upon the length of the fence and then jumped down into the runnel at the end. I wasn't sure if I'd managed to get my positive attentions across, but he didn't seem to have run in fear, which was something at least.

Once I was fairly confident that the little cat wasn't coming back I decided what to do next. There were still a good few hours of light left so I didn't want to go inside the house just yet, but wasn't sure exactly what to do instead. In my state of aimlessness I wandered over to the base of the cherry tree at the end of the garden. Having reached the tree I looked around the garden trying to work out what I could do next and realised that my mind was just as barren of ideas as when I was stood in the middle of the lawn.

Suddenly a noise in the bushes in front of me caused my muscles to tense. I pricked up my ears as my body instinctively lowered to the ground. I heard the noise again and twitched my ears in an attempt to better localise the source of the sound. My memory ticked over, trying to find a matching sound from the past. It was certainly a familiar sound, with the repeated moist crunch of damp plant matter being splintered and ripped apart.

The realisation that it was the sounds of something chewing a dead plant stem finally cemented what it was I was listening to; it must be a mouse chewing a rotten log. The thought of the small rodent started my blood pumping and I felt the moist soil and the roots of the cherry tree press against the fur of my stomach as I tried to make myself even lower.

My whiskers twitched as I thought about my distance to my prey. I was only about half a body length further away than I would have liked to be to pounce so I decided to close the distance between me and the mouse. Carefully and slowly I moved one paw after another, creeping forward ever so slightly. With my body now positioned optimally I dug my claws into the ground to ensure that I had suitable purchase for my killing leap.

Happy that I was fully prepared and feeling the muscles of my legs coiled and ready to release their energy in one powerful leap I paused, waiting for the right moment. When hunting rodents you can have the best position in the world, the strongest legs and the sharpest claws, yet if your timing is off the prey will notice your attack and, most likely, escape.

So I paused and waited until the right time. I didn't know when that would be, or what would signal it, but when it happened I would know and that was good enough for me. The quiet chomping of teeth through wood fibre continued it's steady and repetitive tat-tat-tat sound. Somewhere in the distance a thrush sang a summer tune.

I pounced. My body flew through the air and my front paws landed exactly on target. The mouse let out a small squeak as it struggled under the pressure of my right paw. I glanced left and right to check that I was alone with my trophy and, secure in my solitude, raised my left paw to deliver the killing blow.

To Us All

2010-03-01T20:00:00.012Z

He moves through his life
gaining happy success, yet
feels darkness draw close.

Under Those Branches

2010-02-22T20:00:00.001Z

As under the arms of the old oak I lay,
I let my thoughts drift out over that grass.
While the canopy held the harsh sky at bay,
daisies and buttercups rapt my elation.

With not yet one score of age to my name,
bestowing to old arms respect and awe.
Beauty now past that I hoped to reclaim,
wisdom of ages wrapping around me.

Though living my life to some degree,
I felt I never had what I sought.
Ignoring all that I thought sultry,
Looking for elusive harmony.

My view from upon this high-land,
did put my running mind to rest.
My folly over the land blazoned,
Searching for that which I held close.

Rolling green to me present,
a mirror to ones own self.
The end of my sad lament,
chiming a soft crisp answer.

My wounds disappearing,
my eyes opening wide.
The mist began clearing,
rain washing that day down.

Sky stout with thunder,
heart starting lifting.
Cast doubt asunder,
Jubilant climax.

Lonely hilltops
bring company.
In hard raindrops,
held rays of sun.

Mind now free,
through insight.
Wise old tree,
standing straight.

Protanomaly Love

2010-02-15T20:00:00.000Z

Roses are green,
violets are purple.
Honey is sweet;
nothing rhymes with purple.

Not Quite a Hero

2010-02-08T20:00:00.018Z

I woke up that day in the sleepy weekend lie-in haze. The warm summer sun was streaming onto my face through the thin white curtains so I rolled over with a groan and drifted back off to sleep. Soon thought I was rising back out of the folds of sleep back into a waking state.

I half opened one of my eyes and tilted my head towards the table by my bed. I squinted against the sun, trying to read the digital red display of my alarm clock. After a while struggling and not being able to read the time I sighed, gave up any attempt not to wake full and then lifted my head.

As I blinked my eyes I noticed that the reason I couldn't work out the time was that the display on my alarm clock was blank. I reached over and tried the switch on the bedside light and clicked it uselessly on and off. I rolled back onto the pillow and stared up at the ceiling while thinking about the power cut.

Without looking I groped across the bedside table with my hand for my watch. When I felt it's cold metal circle I grabbed it and raised it in-front of my face and read the time. It was already half eight and I should have already left the house and be on the road halfway to work.

I threw myself out of bed and stumbled towards the bathroom. Once I was in the bathroom I started to frantically brush my teeth. As I brushed with one hand I reached into the shower cubical with the other and turned on the shower. After finishing with my teeth I stepped into the shower, expecting it to be pre-warmed and was shocked to discover it was ice cold.

Leaping quickly out of the stream I quickly dried myself, the cold having washed any remaining sluggishness from sleep away. I put on my shirt and tie with previously unseen rapidity in an attempt to warm up a bit quicker. Now dress, I ran down to the kitchen and poured myself a bowl of cornflakes and milk and started to wolf down my breakfast.

As I chewed on the crunchy cereal I looked at the boiler to try to discover the reason for the lack of hot water. Noticing that I couldn't see the small blue flicker of the pilot light inside the boiler I prodded the reset button in an attempt to relight it. However after a dull thud and click there was still no sign of that warming ghostly glow. Chalking this up to the lack of electricity I finished my bowl of breakfast while staring out across the lawn of my back garden.

I rinsed my bowl under the cold tap and then grabbed my keys from the stand by the door before opening the front door and leaving my house. As I stepped onto the gravel driveway the silentness of the outside hit me. I paused in my hurried rush to the car as I strained my ears to try to hear any sound, but I could hear nothing; not even a tweet of a song bird.

"That's strange," I thought as I looked around in the branches of the tree, "I'd not noticed the singing of the birds." I chuckled to myself as I realised that the could be only answered with a terse, "Exactly."

Somehow I justified the silence to myself based on the power cut, although looking back at it now I realise it was just a not-so-subtle self deception. Pushing these worrying thoughts to the back of my mind I continued my charge towards the garage. I fumbled with the keys in my hand and slid the garage door up over my head after unlocking it.

With a click of my keys the lights on my black Mondeo blinked at me and I was caught by a wave of relief. Some technology was still working and I'd managed to get back to a common and well known part of my morning routine. I walked towards the drivers door and paused as I rested my hand on the black plastic door handle.

I heard the gravel shift on my driveway but had no time to turn to see what it was. When I got my bearings again I found I was pinned to the floor by an intruder. I could smell blood in the air and could hear rabid chattering from my attacker's mouth as it sank towards my neck. I must have blacked out as the last thing I can remember is the pain from his teeth sinking into my neck and the force of his arms and body pinning me to the cold concrete floor.

"So yeah," I said, finishing my tale, "that's my story of how I got here. Now you know that, can you let me in Peter?"

The man who I was addressing paused and looked me up and down as he sucked air in through his teeth, "I don't know, it's going to be tricky. You see, we're very busy today, far more people than usual want to come in." He gave me an apologetic smile as he continued, "You seem a good guy and I'm sure if it was a normal day I'd let you in without a second thought, but... well... today is different."

Sweet Things Never Last

2010-02-01T20:00:00.001Z

I scribe an incantation,
while you lie miles away.
Your radiant smile a ray,
my understanding dissolved.
Lost within each other
whenever we finally meet.
Do you think the public stare;
or is this emotion only ours?
Separation is bitter,
condensing our moments,
sticking to our mind.

Today you mentioned it,
the future from which we've run.
Talk of that other place
brings only neutral thought.
Have I accepted the fate,
or do I turn a blind eye?
Through all our strong emotions;
sweet things never last.

Will it happen slowly?
Will we both agree?
Parting with fake smiles,
both wishing for a lie.
Will you come surprise me,
or will I hold the axe?
The how of the end the mystery,
as everything someday ends.

Delayed in Arrivals

2010-01-25T20:00:00.013Z

I looked up from my newspaper and looked over at the arrivals board. I scanned down the list and found the line for flight BA2134. The red lettering on the right made my heart sink: DELAYED.

An involuntary sigh escaped my lungs as I glanced around the arrivals lounge. I don't know what I was looking for, just for something to do. I'd already flicked through the Guardian paper on my lap in the last half hour of waiting. I'd managed to select all the interesting stories and articles on my first look through it and now all I was left with were dull editorial pieces about finance, business and council funding in the South West.

It's not that I dislike the South West of England, or even that I don't care about them; it's just that my semi-detached house in Dorking is a few hundred miles from Penzance and so it's hardly relevant to me. I racked my brain to think of something to do other than read editorials with weren't interesting nor important to me. I decided that a wander around might help alleviate my boredom. If nothing else, the walk would help get some blood circulating around my legs again.

So I folded my newspaper, stood up and started to wander aimlessly. After drifting past the shops and through the car rental company stands, I ended up standing by the metal barrier where passengers emerged from customs. I leaned on the barrier and watched the people streaming out of the no-entry doors. As they went past I caught snippets of their conversations and realised that I'd found a great new way of passing the time.

First it was two men in suits walking past, oblivious to the world around them. "Just got an email from head office," said green tie and white shirt as he looked at his mobile phone, "you're not going to like this."

"What do they want us to do now?" asked dark blue tie and cornflower blue shirt.

"They don't want to go ahead with Project Thor."

"Urrgg," sighed dark blue tie, "we've just spent two weeks getting approval from the ministry, don't they realise how hard that was?"

Green tie shook his head. "Yeah I know," he said, "Officially it's because of funding reasons, unofficially it's..."

Their conversation faded into the crowd as they headed towards the taxi rank on the other side of the lounge.

I looked back to the stream of people to see a blond and a brunette woman embracing.

"It's so good to see you Kate, but I thought I was going to meet you at the flat?" said the blond while still in mid-hug with Kate.

"I just had to see you soon, I couldn't wait another couple of hours to tell you the good news," replied Kate.

They ended their hug and looked into each other's eyes, "What good news?" asked the blond.

"Well you know how I applied for that job at the bank a few months ago but didn't get?"

"Yes," the two of them started walking as they continued their conversation.

Kate started to grin from ear to ear as she told the rest of her story, "I was out in the pub on Friday night when I bumped into Steve; he was one of the people who interviewed me. He said that he had just started working at that new place on the high street."

My attention on their conversation was broken by a shout of "David, come back here right now. Don't go running off like that." A small child who had been running through the crowd of legs and suitcases stopped and looked back at the middle aged woman who had shouted the command.

"But mum," whined David, "we're almost home."

The woman looked over at the man loaded down with suitcases at her side, "You'd never guess that he'd never wanted to leave the beach villa this morning would you?"

The man chuckled before replying, "Yeah, but it's nice to be heading home after two weeks away."

"It's just a shame that we've still got that little matter to sort out though," said the woman, slightly disheartened.

"Oh, it'll be fine," he said with a forced smile on his face, "I'll just explain what happened and why we weren't around. I'm sure they'll understand."

As they turned the corner and left my sight, I decided that I'd had enough mystery and intrigue for now and walked off to find a coffee.

Stormy Hills

2010-01-18T20:00:00.000Z

Cloud and water beaten grass,
rock and rain soaked sky,
split by horizon.
A long spark brings the world to life.
Trees silhouetted,
puddles reflecting.
A deep thunder slowly rises,
suffocating the patter of rain.
Faster and faster the drums are beaten,
then, the sky satisfied, recession.
leaving only clouds and rain,
rivers and hills.

Consuming Soul

2010-01-11T20:00:00.003Z

"I want a burger and some chips," slurred the drunk voice in front of Steve.
"One burger and chips, that'll be three ninety," chirped the man behind the till as he punched the numbers up on it.
"No," shouted back the drunk man, "I want a burger and some chips."
Steve raised his eyes to heaven in exasperation at the inebriate's behaviour. The man in the kebab van, however, replied in a patient voice that had clearly done this many times before, "You want a burger and some chips separately then?"
The drunkard nodded and enthusiastically agreed, "Yes. Yes."
"That'll be three ninety then."
Steve cast his eyes around the street as the drunk man dug around in his pockets for the correct change. The pavements were full of the typical small groups of post-pub patrons on their way home. It was an unusually warm evening for a Friday in April and so it was a bit busier than when Steve has been out the previous evening. As Steve thought about the groups moving in their various directions he wondered about where he should go after his hunger had been satisfied.
"Yes mate?"
The question from the man in the kebab van drew Steve's attention back to the present. He glanced at the menu on the board to remind him of what he wanted and then replied, "Just falafel in pita please." Being a vegetarian, there wasn't generally much choice at kebab vans for Steve and this particular van was a favourite of his as it had more to offer than the usual vegetarian options of chips and, if lucky, a vegetable burger.
"Right you are, that'll be two fifty."
Steve handed over the five pound note he had in his hand over to the man and uttered a quiet thanks as he pocketed the change in his khaki trousers.
As the man put falafel into an open pita with tongs he went through the questions which he must have asked many hundreds of times before, "Any salad or sauces?"
"Erm," Steve paused as he considered his options, "Yes to salad, but no sauces please."
"There you go," said the man as he leaned forward and handed the pita covered in shredded lettuce over to Steve.
"Thanks, have a good evening," replied Steve.
"You too mate."
With dinner in hand, Steve then proceeded to turn away from the kebab van. He paused for a moment as he considered which way to go; he first looked left down the High Street and then right up the High Street. Something clicked in his head and he decided to go right.
He walked slowly up the High Street as he nibbled on his kebab. Groups of people ranging from sober to heavily under the influence moved past him in both directions. Taxis streamed past him, whisking people home up the hill and over the cobbles of the one-way high-street .
Through his slow meandering pace Steve had only just reached the top of the High Street when he carefully placed the scrunched up waxed paper wrapper of his devoured kebab into a bin. He looked down at his blue and white checkered shirt and casually brush off the few crumbs of bread and chickpea that had ended up on it. Satisfied that he had managed to tidy his shirt up sufficiently, he looked up and examined the situation.
For the second time this evening he paused in his journey and considered the T-junction in front of him. The High Street met the Upper High Street and North Street here, with North Street descending down the hill to the left and the Upper High Street snaking into the distance to the right.
Steve sniffed the air in a vain attempt to get some guidance on which way he should go. While he considered his situation he realised that he was really quite thirsty. He knew that this shouldn't have come as a surprise to him, he always got thirsty after eating, but he'd managed to avoid thinking about it entirely until now. However his thoughts of how he might fulfil his thirst were interrupted by the clip-clopping sound of someone in high heels walking past him.
He glanced over to see a blond woman in a black pleated skirt and dark blue patterned strap top turning to walk along the Upper High Street. Without a moments further hesitation, Steve decided that he would go in the same direction. He didn't start moving immediately though, he didn't want to look like he was following the woman. After a slow count to ten he glanced over his shoulder and started walking along the Upper High Street.
After walking about two hundred meters along the road, the blond lady suddenly turned right into a pedestrian side alley. The sound of her shoes quickly faded. Steve didn't change his pace and just carried on walking slowly along the street and towards the alley. Just before reaching the entrance to the alley Steve had one last look up and down to street for other people. There was a man walking away from him about fifty meters up the road and a young couple walking towards him. Steve decided that the young couple seemed engaged enough in each other and far enough away that they wouldn't have noticed him and so he turned into the alleyway.
As soon as he had turned, he realised that he'd made it mistake. The alleyway was well lit with sodium lights placed high along the walls of the buildings all along it. The largest shadows were cast by a couple of wheelie bins and were barely large enough to hide a black tomcat in. However it wasn't the lack of shadows that drew Steve's attention the most, it was that the blond haired woman was about halfway down the alley and standing directly facing him.
The passive expression on her face didn't betray any fear and Steve felt an uneasy feeling in the depths of his stomach. It was only when the woman wobbled a bit on her heels that he realised the reason for his uneasy feeling. Her movement had caused the yellow light which bathed the alleyway to glimmer on the silver cross that hung from her neck. Steve weighed up his options for a moment before quickly deciding that a crucifix bearing Christian, no matter how lax a Christian they were, was too much potential trouble to be worth it.
Steve spun on the spot and walked straight out of the alley. He continued his journey along the Upper High Street and with each foot fall that took him further away from the entrance he grew calmer. His ears couldn't detect the sound of her heels, so the chances were that she'd done the sensible thing and carried on along the alleyway. He was already slightly shaken and really did not want a confrontation in the middle of a main road, regardless of how empty it was at the moment. A handful of people paying attention to him was always too many.
Steve's pace quickened as he moved along the street. His pounding heart was fuelling his thirst and he'd already decided on his next target: the man in the distance. As he moved closer and closer to the man he realised that the shops of the Upper High Street had gone and were now replaced with tall houses with grand hedges lining their front gardens and big gates across their driveways. Steve thought to himself that the road must have changed name somewhere along here, but couldn't quite remember where or what to.
As he moved closer he examined his prey with more precision this time. He was a reasonably tall man, although Steve wouldn't have liked to guess on an exact height though as the thick but neat dreadlocks that fell from his head made judging where flesh ended and hair started difficult. The most important factor was that the man was distracted; a blue glow on the right side of his head came from a mobile phone that his right hand held there. The man was wearing well tailored dark trousers and a moleskin jacket that screamed 'rich professional' to Steve's mind. The contents of the phone conversation confirmed this as he got closer.
"So yeah, is it ok if we move squash to tomorrow? I've got to fly to China on Sunday afternoon for the meeting next week."
In the quiet that followed, while the person on the other end replied, Steve considered the path up-ahead and decided on the best spot to make his move. He sped up a little to ensure that he'd reach there just as the man he was stalking would. He felt the thrill of the hunter course through his veins and his skin tingled in anticipation.
The prey carried on his conversation, "Ok. Do you want to let me know when you've talked to Cathy and, assuming she's ok with it, I'll pick you up at noon?"
Steve stepped to his left as he moved into the road to overtake the man. As they drew level, Steve's legs powered him towards the man with almost super-human strength. At the same time, Steve brought his hands up to grab at the mans head and shoulder. His pounce was perfectly timed and totally unexpected and the two of them barrelled into the hedge that Steve had picked out earlier.
The two of them landed on the ground with a thud with Steve pinning the other man firmly to the ground with his right arm and body. His left hand was held over the mouth of his victim. He glanced back to ensure that the hedge really did afford him the privacy that he wanted and then tilted the victim's head to the side as his teeth descended towards the neck.
The man struggled a bit as the teeth sunk into his neck, but he was well pinned down so could accomplish little. The skin broke and with it the warmth of the salty blood flowed over Steve's tongue. He started to lap it up in thick slurps. Suddenly he thought he heard the sound of someone talking. He paused his consumption while he strained his ears.
"Hello? Ishmael, are you still there?" the tinny voice called out, "Stop messing around Ishmael. Hello?"
Glances towards the source of the sound, Steve saw the illuminated phone lying on the ground next to them. He slowly reached up with his right hand and carefully pressed the hang up button.

Dues to be paid

2010-01-04T20:00:00.001Z

"See ya' tomorrow Roberts," was the call that followed me as I left the back door of the bar.

I glanced at the grey cloud covered sky, illuminated by the pale first light of dawn and replied, "Tonight Pete, Tonight."

There was still a cold nip in the air from the previous night, but the rum and beer inside me would keep me warm on my short stagger home. I stood still for a moment, straining my ear to try to hear anything of interest. After holding my breath to stop the sound of my breathing I could hear nothing but the distant sound of the fishermen unloading their cargo down at the wharf.

I reached into my jacket and removed my pistol. Holding my pistol in my left hand I patted my pockets with my right hand, looking for my shot and powder pouches. My powder pouch was in my right pocket, but I couldn't find my shot pouch anywhere on my person. As I thought about where I could have put it, I started to pour some powder into the end of my pistol.

In my drunken and slightly distracted state I managed to spill about half the powder over my hand and the floor of the alleyway, but I thought I'd managed to get about the right amount of powder into the pistol so I returned the pouch to my pocket and packed the powder down with the ram rod which attached to the underside of my pistol.

I tried to struggle through the rum haze to remember where I might have put my shot pouch while I patted my pockets with my right hand once again. My mind drew a blank but I did manage to feel the small hard sphere of a piece of shot in the bottom of my left pocket. I reached in, felt around with my fingers until I found it again and pinched the small piece of cold metal between my thumb and forefinger. I removed it with a great sense of accomplishment and inspected it in front of my eyes.

It wasn't the best piece of shot in the world, but it was good enough for me. I started to consider what I could use as wadding to hold it in the pistol. I did think about giving up on loading my pistol. It was almost day and soon the streets would start to fill with early market goers and other lawful citizens. Most of the ruffians and criminals would have gone home or at least to some bed somewhere by now; that is apart from some of the ones like myself who felt most at home in a bar with a sawdust covered floor.

I soon checked that thought though, even if it was a less risky time of the day, it was still dangerous; or at least it could be if I met the wrong person on the streets. So my mind returned to the thought of wadding for my last piece of shot. I then remember the handkerchief that, being a gentleman as I was, I had in my jacket's top pocket. I returned the shot to the pocket it had come from and removed my handkerchief from my jacket.

After attacking the small square of cloth with my teeth and remaining free hand I eventually managed to tear a small enough piece off it and wrapped it around the bit of shot. With a bit of fiddling I managed to push the pellet of shot into the end of the gun and pushed it down into the end of the barrel with the ramrod. The only thing left to do now was to half-cock the flint so that I could put a bit of gunpowder in the pan to prime it.

With this done I decided I was suitable prepared to wander home. I started talking towards the street from the alleyway. I'd not taken three or four steps before I wobbled on my unsteady feet and ended up clutching for something to steady me with my free hand. Luckily my grasp found the edge of a barrel which rocked with emptiness as I pulled myself straight on it.

I took a deep breath and waited while I composed myself and my legs. Just as I was about to set off towards the street again I heard a noise from behind me. I spun a little too quickly on my heels, swayed a bit and then looked into the darkness of the shadows of the crate and barrel lined alley.

"Pete, is that you?" I called out. After a pause of silence I continued in an uncertain tone, "Hello? Is there anyone there?"

Again I waited for a response, this time with pistol held high and plain to see. After a handful of seconds with nothing but stillness and silence I muttered to myself that it must have been a cat. No sooner had I started to turn back towards the street than something started to move in the shadows.

Quick as a spark I turned my pistol back to the shifting shadows and squeezed the trigger. The trigger resisted my squeeze as the hammer raised further back until it reached the zenith of it's arc and with a click it swung towards the powder tray. The flint sparked and in a flash and a cloud of acrid smoke fire leapt from the muzzle of my pistol.

The smoke and noise brought back memories of my old life, only a few months ago but feeling like a lifetime away. Thoughts of the day-to-day running of the farm filled my mind with feelings of lost security and safety. It had all been so very different, so much easier; even if working the fields in the toiling sun hadn't felt quite so easy at the time.

My mind wouldn't let me linger in the thoughts of a past paradise long and it soon brought me visions of the reason why I was standing in an alley fighting for my life at the moment with a figure in the shadows. It had all started with an argument over the ground rent for the land I was farming. My grandfather had purchased the lease from the lord of the land at the time and it had been worked by my family ever since.

The lord at the present time had been hit by hard times and was trying to squeeze as much gold as possible from his land. He had tried to bargain with me, and then moved to intimidation when I continued to stand my ground. First the intimidation had been verbal but then I started to notice crops and animals going missing at night. Of course I couldn't attribute it to him, it could have just been foxes, but I knew, deep down, that it could only have been him.

Eventually one night I awoke in my bed to hear some noise outside my cottage. I had loaded my pistol quickly that night and had burst quickly out the door, determined to catch the thieves in the act. However it was immediately obvious to me that the couple of cloaked figures I saw had not been thieving. Instead they were carrying flaming torches which they were trying to use to set the hay in my barn alight. In my anger and fury I raised my pistol at them and fired.

My shot struck true and had hit one of them square in the chest. He had fallen to the ground with a gurgling sound as his accomplice ran off into the dark. I walked over to the fallen man and lend down to pull his hood off, determined to confirm my suspicions of the hand of the lord being involved in this crime. However when I pulled the hood off all thoughts of achievement left my heart; I was greeted by the pale face of the lord's only son.

My mind was a blur with what to do. If I waited until morning I would be surely caught and taken to prison. There would be a trial and I'd surely not be believed as it would be my word against whoever the lord paid off to tell his version of the story. I realised that I really only had two choices, stay and face the noose or leave and have a chance to survive.

I quickly packed all I could carry, said silent goodbyes to my family as they sleft and left within an hour. It was a cloudless sky and the faint light of the waxing moon made my journey easier that it would have been in pitch blackness. I reached the nearest port in a couple of days of tiring travel and quickly signed up on the first navy boat leaving harbour.

After months at sea I'd ended up alone at a remote port with just a couple of bottles of rum to my name. A sailor had persuaded me to join his privateer vessel, I'd not been too picky as they offering food and money. It was only when we'd been at sea a few days that I realised that I'd managed to end up on a pirate ship.

I was hesitant at first, especially as the whole reason I was there was to escape the hangman; but if you leave a man with nothing he'll end up taking anything offered to him. I soon accepted the stealing and fighting. I even started to enjoy all the excitement and danger. The exciting way in which a four day long chase of a boat ended with a boarding, sword fights and the grabbing of gold.

I didn't get any of that rush tonight though. I'd left the ship when it'd arrived in this port. I had more than enough coin to keep me comfortable for a while so I'd decided to relax and enjoy some land-life. Standing alone in the cold shooting wildly into the dark is a far cry from leaping aboard another ship with twenty other blood thirsty pirates joining you.

The smell of cordite filling the air brought my mind fully back to the present. Smoke plumes curled all around me and the crack of the pistol had left my ears ringing. Over the ringing I could just about hear a shuffle of feet from the direction which I'd shot the pistol. The shadows stopped moving and a body fell forwards out of the darkness.

The body lay on it's back with it's dark robes hiding the identity. I faltered a bit while I tried to work out what I should do next. I stood staring at the body for a few moments until the maroon seeping over the stones awoke me from my trance. I realised that I needed to know who I'd just killed and why they were stalking me in an alley. I tentatively walked over and knelt down in front of the body.

As I pulled back the hood of the robe I saw a face sweetly familiar to me. In my horror all I could stutter out was, "Lauren, I... I didn't know."

She starred into my eyes without a hint of anger or fear on her face. "James, oh my Jim. Watch... I know. I know you didn't... watch out..." her voice fading into nothing but a slight wheezing at the end.

I leant closer over her as the despair of what I'd done welled up into tears. I tried to hear what she was saying and brought my ear closer to her mouth. My ear was so close that I could feel her hot breath flowing over my skin. Yet I heard nothing but her strained breathing, no more words passed her lips.

I pulled back and looked down into her face. I felt her hand grip and then tug at my waistcoat as a panicked and desperate look spread across her face. I looked down at her hands and as I did she stopped pulling and pointed with her hand. My eyes followed the direction of her finger across the cobbles of the floor and into the darkness of the shadows of where she had been standing.

Legacy

2009-12-28T20:00:00.001Z

"Son?"

"Yes father?"

"Come with me outside, I have something to tell you."

"Ok," his son replied in a sunny and buoyant tone.

The two of them slowly padded into the bright light of the day, with the son following to the right side and a few steps behind his dad. They went in silence with only the sound of their bare feet on the hardened ground of the earth interrupting it. The father stopped as they reached the edge of the patch of grass outside their home.

"Now Varan, you've lived with me here for all your life and we've done much together," the elder pauses as he looked the younger Varan over, "We've learned much as well. Not just you learning from your dad, but you've taught me many things too."

Varan's modesty had to interrupt at that point, "But father it is you who is known and revered in the villages for miles around. Everyone in this kingdom knows the name Rodel Agamidae."

Rodel let out a throaty chuckle at his son's loyalty, "Perhaps, but I suspect you might be exaggerating slightly," he paused and then raised a hand and waved it towards a darkened patch of earth near the horizon. "I suppose that Jack Wakefield certainly knows of me at least," as he said this Rodel gave a sly grin to Varan.

"I'm sorry dad, you know that I didn't mean to anger him."

"Yes, yes, I know that it was all just a misunderstanding about how some of his sheep had gone missing."

Varan interrupted again, "It wasn't me, I didn't steal any of them, I just happened to be walking past his field that night when we was trying to catch the culprit."

"Son," Rodel stared him straight in the eyes, "I believe you."

Varan smiled weakly at his father before quietly replying, "Still, I'm grateful that you burnt down his farm to stop him from coming after me. I'm only sorry that I didn't think to do the same instead of running in fear."

"Oh son," replied Rodel as he shook his head, "You don't need to apologise for that. The times have changed since I was a youngling. You're part of the next generation, part of the next part in the turning of the wheels of the world. While you are still very much my son, never forget that you are still different from me; you'll never be able to live your life like I've lived mine. And you shouldn't try to, not in every exact detail.

"The sad fact is that the world has changed so much since I was born. Everyone now has steel, machines and, perhaps most frighteningly, gunpowder. If you tried to just live my life again you'd surely be dead within a year or two. Too many heroes, or at least people who seem themselves as heroes, are around these days. Everyone is much more connected, they know much more and they want to control every part of their life now. The funny thing is that they probably can; especially if they can find at least a handful of like minded individuals.

"So no son, you shouldn't try to just repeat all that I've done in my life, you should forge out your own path. Your own future and way of life." He glanced over at his son and was saddened to see Varan's down trodden face. He'd hoped that this conversation would liberate his son, but instead it seemed to have made him more morose. He tried his best guess at what might have been bothering his son, "Are you worried that you don't know what to do instead?"

Varan just looked back at him and slowly nodded his head.

"Don't worry about that," Rodel responded while trying to show his friendliest smile, "You're a smart lad, you'll find your calling."

"But," stuttered Varan, "but what about all this land, all of your territory."

"Ha, are you just worried about what's going to happen to the family home and estate?" snorted the father. His snort turned into a couple of hacky coughs and a few small puffs of smoke escaped from his nose.

"You have worked hard for it all your life and I," Varan lowered his eyes to the ground as he spoke, "I was hoping to be able to carry on your legacy."

"I'm touched, honestly Varan, I am. There's nothing a father could want more than for his son to respect and admire him so much that he wants to follow him. However you will need to adapt and be different from me. Surely the incident with Mr. Wakefield showed that?"

With a shrug of his shoulders Varan looked over his father's body in silence. He slowly watched his dad's scaly skin rise and fall with the rhythm of his breathing. "I understand dad, it's just that I'm worried about moving on and changing. I don't want to leave you and I don't want to leave your way of life."

"Sadly nature and time aren't giving you, or me, that choice," another fit of coughs interrupted Rodel's speech and he lay down on the ground to try to ease the strain on his ageing bones. "No, don't try to help me, there's nothing you can do for me."

"Father, don't say things like that!" replied Varan in a distressed tone.

They looked into each other's eyes in silence for a while. Rodel knew that there wasn't much more he could say to Varan and that he'd just need to work the rest through on his own.

"Don't worry son," said Rodel as he lifted himself up onto his creaking legs, "I've still got a few months fight left in me. Look I can still do all the things which make me who I am." To demonstrate he pointed his head at a near by shrub and let a stream of dragon's breath from his mouth singe the bush into charcoal. He grinned at the smile on his son's face before continuing, "I've still got all my skills and magics, as strong as ever. Just don't ask me to fly anywhere too far away, my wings aren't as aerodynamic as they used to be. And anyway I much prefer walking these days anyway, gives me more time to think.

"You've got just as many skills, most of them far more developed than mine. My fierce breath is no match for the subtly of your polymorphic abilities. That was one of your mother's greatest skills, I'm glad that you inherited it, it'll be of far more use in these modern times than huge displays of physical power. With it you'll be able to take human form and walk among them with no fear.

"I was never able to do anything as gentle as that, fear and destruction were my only options. You probably didn't know this about your old man, but the reason you've never seen me in my human form is that," he went to a conspiratorial whisper now, "I'm not very good at it. My skin was always slightly green and scaly and I'd have little stumps on my back where my wings should be. Bit of a give-away around humans."

"Really dad?"

"Really. Still I never let it hold me back, but I was always a bit jealous of you and your mother. The two of you were always able to just walk into town and not have people run away in fear. Underneath all the fire and violence I've got a bit of a soft spot for humans."

The two of them sat in silence as the grass around the burnt bush crackled and smouldered quiet, both staring at the village on the horizon and thinking about what they'd discussed.

It was Varan who was the first to speak, "I know you're right, I just think... I just don't want to admit that you and your way of life is going to be gone one of these days."

"As long as you're still around and can still remember me then there's nothing more that I could ever want. You don't have to be a copy of me to do that." Rodel paused as he thought about if there was anything else he could say. "Anyway," he continued, "I'm still here and the afternoon is still young: do you fancy going for a flight to find some lonely cow somewhere that we can hunt for dinner?"

Varan visibly perked up at the suggestion, "Oh yes, that'd be great. Lead the way father."

With a couple of powerful beats of his wings, Rodel stretched his ageing muscles to ready them for take off. He walked forwards a few steps and then pushed off the ground with his thick claws as he launched himself into the air. After Rodel had got up enough speed with his wings so that his flight was stable he glanced over his shoulder to see his son gracefully launching into the air. "He'll be ok," he thought to himself, "he'll do just fine on his own."

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2009-12-21T15:07:00.002Z

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Biscuits and alcohol

2009-12-14T20:00:00.003Z

This is a discussion about biscuits and alcohol.

"Why do we have a packet of biscuits?" my house-mate asked me.
I paused for a moment and went for the most direct answer, "I needed to buy some wine at lunch." The confused expression on his face caused me to elaborate, "It was so that I didn't get IDed like last time."
"Did it work?" he asked, still eyeing me with suspicion.
"Yes," I replied, "I just put the bottle of wine and those chocolate digestives on the belt, paid the person at the till and left."

If I had just gone into the supermarket and got a bottle of wine at lunchtime, I expect I would have been asked to prove my age, like the time previously when I'd got a bottle of port in my lunch break and been asked to show that I was over eighteen. I assume it might be something that cashiers are trained to look for; a lone purchase of alcohol implies that it's your only concern at that time. It is almost certainly an unusual pattern but one which has likely been identified as behaviour of under-age and problem drinkers.

Biscuits are another matter though, they are usually had during the day and generally with tea, which just oozes normality for 1pm in the afternoon. By including biscuits in my purchase I didn't look like a booze fiend just looking for the next drink, I looked like someone planning their evening while also getting some biscuits to have during tea. No-one who drinks tea could possibly be anything but respectable, therefore I was trustworthy and didn't need to have my access to alcohol restricted, so no need to ask for identification.

I placed the basket containing the loaf of bread, the pot of hummus and the bottle of Rioja on the side by the till. I suddenly remembered that I'd not got any biscuits this time, but hoped that the buying of other food would be sufficient. For good measure I smiled at the cashier as he picked up the loaf of bread and scanned it. The pot of hummus quickly followed as I picked up the loaf and placed it in one of the carrier bags on the other side of the till.
"Have you got any proof of age?" he asked as I picked up the hummus. I looked up to see him holding the bottle of wine tentatively over the scanner.
"Erm. Yes I do, hang on," I stumbled through my words as I dug out my wallet and fished around in it for my photo-card from my driving license. After pulling out a loyalty card for a different supermarket and a telephone banking details card I finally found my driving license. "Here you go," I said as I handed it over.
He examined the card carefully and then handed it back to me with a quiet thank you. The scanner beeped as the bottle was scanned and he handed it to my waiting hands.

I felt validated in my theory of biscuits preventing me from requiring to prove my age. Here I was, clearly buying lunch as well as alcohol, yet still I was required to show that over eighteen years had passed since my birth. Here I had gone and purchased items which were similar in value to biscuits, both nutritionally and financially, and yet I was still asked for identification.

Bread, a component of the typical lunchtime sandwich, clearly isn't enough to show that the alcohol will be consumed sensibly and in a refined manor. Without the trustworthy associations of biscuits with tea, the assumption must have been that the wine would be drunk with the bread, probably just outside the store. The till-operators training manual clearly must highlight that some people will try to buy cheap items such as bread to try to distract from the alcohol being purchased.

I was determined not to get asked for proof of age this time so I had got a packet of custard creams to add to my two bottles of beer and bottle of South African white wine that I had in my basket. I walked towards the tills and scanned up and down the length of the shop to find the shortest queue. As luck would have it the till just in front of me had only one person who was just finishing packing while their payment was processed, so I walked straight towards that and unloaded my four items onto its belt.
"Good afternoon," said the cashier to me as she picked up and scanned my biscuits.
"Afternoon," I replied as I pulled out a carrier bag to put the biscuits into.
The bottle of wine and bottles of beer slid past the scanner one by one and I carefully placed them into my bag.
"That'll be £11.39," said the till operator in a friendly voice.
I reached into my pocket and handed over a crumpled twenty pound note and she turned to put it into the cash box. As she counted out my change I picked up my bag of biscuits and booze, proud in the knowledge that I'd avoided getting asked for proof of age.

Through a series of tests I was now confident that my theories on biscuits avoiding the need to show proof of age were valid. I now had a system I could use in the future and avoid all those slightly embarrassing times I have had to find some way of proving that I am really as old as I should be to buy alcohol. No longer will I be implicitly accused of trying to purchase items which I'm legally forbidden from buying.

The biscuits must inspire a feeling of trustworthiness in the till worker that other food doesn't. This might at first seem slightly counter intuitive, as some might think that biscuits have a juvenile association, but the homely image of sitting on a sofa drinking tea with a biscuit to munch on must override the young associations. These findings are shared so that others might have hassle free alcohol purchasing experiences in shops, regardless of the time of day that they are buying the beer, wine or spirits.

This was a discussion which was not entirely about biscuits and alcohol.

Pebbles on a Dark Beach

2009-12-07T20:00:00.004Z

Janos turned over in his bed and slowly became aware of the world around him. He knew it was still dark and call he could hear was the slow rustle of the wind in the trees outside his open window.

'Urrggg,' he thought, 'it must still be early. Two, maybe three AM.'

He stayed laying on his side and desperately tried to not try too hard to get back to sleep. He knew that if his brain got back up to speed that he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. It was too late though, he knew he was too awake now.

Rolling over onto his back he kept his eyes closed in one last attempt to drift back into sleep. It was no good and he let out a long sigh while his spirits sank.

Clunk. His ears pricked up at the loud banging sound from downstairs. His hard thumped in his chest.

'Probably the washing machine,' he explained to himself, 'it's probably still on it's cycle from when I put it on before bed.'

'But,' continued Janos's thoughts, 'it should have finished by now.'

He held is breath waiting for it to happen again. A low throbbing grew in his ears and he felt his chest tightening, still holding his breath. He carried on until he couldn't hold his breath any more and then let it out in a great rush of air.

Thud. There the sound was again, although he couldn't be sure that it was the same sound now. He cursed himself for being so noisy as he breathed out. He opened his eyes quickly and glanced around the room. He couldn't see anything unusual, the same pictures hung on the walls and the same wardrobe sat in the corner next to the same chest of drawers.

Janos moved his hand from under the duvet and felt over on his bedside table for the light switch. His fingers rested on the soft plastic and he paused for a few moments to gather his thoughts before he flicked the switch. He steadied himself for the sudden brightness and pressed the switch softly and slowly.

Click. The room was flooded with halogen brightness and he instinctively shut his eyes. He quickly opened them again, fearing for the dark, and let his eyes adjust painfully to the brilliant light.

'See, there's nothing wrong in my room,' he pleaded to himself, 'absolutely nothing to worry about.'

'Still it might be wise to check downstairs?' was his answer to himself.

His heart thundered at this thought and he quickly thought up an excuse: 'Well, if only to get a drink of water, not because I might find something down there.'

He quickly lept out of bed, quitely landing on the soft carpet with both feet. He adjusted his t-shirt and then opened his bedroom door. The light flooded out of his room and illuminated the landing and down the stairs to the ground floor. Quietly and slowly he padded forward, keeping his weight on his back foot.

'Just to be cautious,' he told himself, 'I wouldn't want to trip and fall while still half asleep.'

As he reached the bottom of the stairs he turned right and looked into the darkness of his kitchen. Reaching quickly around the door frame he quickly flicked the kitchen light switch.

Nothing. The kitchen had the left over roast sitting on the stove from dinner that night. The same pile of used plates that hadn't been cleaned from the same dinner party still sat there, slowly filling the kitchen with the smell of their thick gravy. Everything was how he'd left it.

He went over to the sink, grabbed an upturned glass from the draining board and turned on the cold tap. Flicking his finger under the tap until it was a crisp coldness he then filled the glass. Drinking the water down in large gulps, Janos drained the glass in one go. Placing the glass upside-down on the draining board again he reached over the just checked that the back door was locked.

'Shit!' his mind stammered as the handle moved down and the door opened under his touch.

His hand didn't move as he held the door slightly ajar for a few seconds. The cold outside air rolled over the floor and licked at his toes. Awakening him from his frozen position he pushed the door fully open and stepped out onto the cold concrete squares of his patio.

He raised his head up and looked at the sky. It was a dark and moonless night and the stars were twinkling across the sky. Breathing in deeply he let the cold air fill his lungs, relaxing and calming down as he basked in the moonlight.

'Nothing out here but billion year old stars and some crisp night air,' Janos thought to himself as the wave of relief flowed through all over his body.

As he turned around to enter the house and some movement in the sky to the south caught his eye. He glanced towards it just soon enough to see a long red shooting star streak a smooth arc across the sky. He paused for a few moments and gave the sky a brief nod of approval before resuming his movement back into the house.

Shutting the back door firmly, Janos turned the key in the lock. Happy that it was now secure he placed the cold shaped metal on the kitchen counter and walked out of the door. As Janos passed through the door his hand slapped the light switch, killing the kitchen light. Bounding upstairs he moved quickly down the corridor and into his bedroom.

It wasn't painful. He didn't feel anything, just a slight cold shiver up his spine and a dull thud from right behind his head. As his legs buckled from under him he looked over to the corner to the right of the door, where the wardrobe should be, and where the wardrobe still was.

Through fast blurring vision and with head resting on the end of his bed all he could see was the blackness of the hooded figure and the pinpoints of light in it's black eyes. As dark warmness reached all around him the last he could see was the light of his bedroom light reflected sharply in those obsidian spheres.

Swirls of Development

2009-11-30T20:00:00.002Z

The frustration.

The power.

The failures,

the attempts;

the solution.

The rush.

The Pickle

2009-11-23T20:00:00.002Z

"And so finally they tracked me down to a hotel on the outskirts of Birmingham. My fault really, shouldn't have used my full name," said Dave as he looked up from his finger nails and shot me a grin.

"There's always next time, " I offered back as the only condolence I could think of.

"So what about you? Why are you in here?" enquired Dave. As he asked this he flexed his hands wide open and then into fists. I was fairly sure that this wasn't a threatening act, he must have just been a bit nervous, probably.

I glanced up and down the length of Dave's body as he sat on the edge of his bed and thought about how his six foot plus frame which was solidly built was something that I wouldn't like to get on the bad side of. I also really wanted to avoid his slighlty annoyed side, his mildly irritated side and even his indifferent side. I decided to recount my tale, after-all I had nothing to lose and I could even gain a friend in Dave.

"It all happened early on a Sunday morning, must have been about 8am." I spied Dave's hesitant look and realised I should explain why I was up so early, so I quickly continued, "I'd not gone to bed yet since Saturday night and I was just fixing myself up a snack. Suddenly I heard the splintering of wood and..."

Dave interupted me, "What was your snack?"

"What? Erm," I stuttered as I tried to remember, confused and slightly intimidated by Dave's interruption. I wondering if Dave was perhaps a snack expert, maybe he'd worked in a kebab shop once. After a short pause at the thought of Dave with a doner kebab carving knife I managed to continue, "it was a cheese and Branston sandwich." For some reason I then felt it necessary to add, "Nice soft and thick white bread."

I paused, expecting some reply from Dave. He just grunted and nodded, perhaps remembering past cheddar sandwiches. After a suitable length of time had passed for the remembrance of bread products past I carried on, "So there I was, two hands around my sandwich, just about to take my first bite when my front door was broken down. I just stared straight at it as almost never ending armed police poured in," I didn't feel I should add that I was frozen in fear, but Dave might have sensed it anyway from my voice. If he did, it didn't show on his entirely placid face; perhaps he was still thinking of sandwiches.

Getting into the flow of the story, I started to rattle off the next details, "So these police burst in and surrounded me while I still sat at the kitchen table, sandwich still in hand. I think I even had my mouth held open, ready to bite down on the sandwich. Suddenly one of the masked police men barked a question.

"'What?' I managed to stutter back at him.

"'Are you Matt Rose?' he demanded, gun still pointing at me. Which seemed a bit unnecessary, as I don't think you can do anything lethal with a sandwich.

"I tried to steady my nerves and replied, "N-n-n-no, Matt is next door." The extra movement from trying to speak caused some chunks of rutabaga to fall out and to plop loudly onto the table from between the bread and cheese.

"'Shit!' exclaimed the masked woman to the left of my masked inquisitor, then she turned to me, 'Are you sure?'

"'Yes, hell yes I'm sure' I bravely shouted back, finally coming to realise that I was not the ones they wanted. The police man then barked some orders into his radio and about half of them burst out my back door and jumped the fence while the other ones, some of whom I could hear stomping around upstairs, went running out my front door and over the wall into the front garden of the terraced house next to me."

Dave interupted me again there, "So," he pondered, clearly deep in thought, "if they'd got the wrong house, didn't they just leave you alone and get this Matt guy? How come you're in here?"

"That's what I thought," I said, "And I was just about to take my first bite of my sandwich when I realised that I'd heard the police boots on the floor in the room directly above the kitchen."

There was a pause while I waited for Dave to think about this. "So what was in the room above your kitchen?" he finally asked.

"My grow!"

"Oh, so you're in here for a drugs thing. That's a tough break. All because they raided the wrong house." Dave chewed on his gums a little before thoughtfully adding, "I guess most people are in here due to bad luck or bad timing."

"Yeah, just because some PC plod can't tell the difference between a brass 14 and a 16."

"Still," Dave added with a slight twinkle in his eye, "I suppose you could find some way of getting some plants into prison? We could go into business you and me, supplying the others? Captive market and all that. What do you think? You in?"

As I considered his offer I realised that Dave had never actually said what he'd done to get himself wanted and ultimately caught by the police.

A Wizard Did It

2009-11-16T20:00:00.004Z

They always blamed me. They never understood what I tried to do. Those ignorant villagers who could never have even one dram of the ken required to understand my work. Yet they still pretended that they did, just lies of claimed knowledge and feigned understanding. One day they'd understand, one day they'd accept me; hell, one day they might even welcome me.

However not today, today was a day for running. Running from them, running from another village, running until I wasn't infamous. Catching the faint glow of the earliest dawn light in the window I suddenly remembered myself. I put down the copper pan that I must have idly picked up while engaged in my inner rant and checked that I'd packed all that I could into my backpack.

I looked around the room that was the ground floor of the cottage that I'd called home for the past 9 months. Benches lined the dimly candlelit walls. Each bench was covered in exotically shaped glass containers which I'd purchased from as far afield as London and Edinburgh. Brass tools and wooden boards with half finished preparations of reagents surrounded the glassware, covering every available surface. A little of me died inside when it hit me that, once again, I wouldn't be able to take any of it with me.

It wasn't the cost of it which made me sad, my fat purse could easily pay to replace all of this fifty times over, it was what I feared would happen to it once I left. Part of my mind conjured up images of faceless hoards with pitchforks and torches smashing the contents of the cottage and then dancing around the burning cottage as the sun set on their shouts and jeers.

I think I knew better what would happen though, after-all the villages weren't brainless barbarians, they knew when things were worth a pretty penny, who didn't in these times? I imagine that they'd sell to travellers all that they knew not what it was. They'd probably take what they could recognise for their own homes, using it for cookery and household storage. Which reminded me of my need to eat, I went over to the corner to where the single bench which was my kitchen rested.

I picked up the two loaves of bread, a couple of rolls of cheese and the ham that Crookshaw had given me and, after wrapping a cloth around them, placed them in my bag. I thought of how Crookshaw would never be able to pay me the money he owed me; I'd be long gone by the time he took his pigs to market. Despite all that was going on, I hoped he got a good price for them, for his sake as well as for my own professional pride. I only hoped that he would be allowed to keep his animals and crops, even if he could only sell them to people from afar who had not heard the story of my downfall.

I remembered all the other small kindnesses that the villagers had shown me, all their smiling faces, all their gratitude at all my help. I especially remembered the smiling face of little Isabella, daughter of Lord Penryth and, were it not for her fate, future lady of the manor. If only God had not chosen to take her, not yet in her ninth year, I would be comfortably in bed now, not trying to pack my life into a sack.

I'd tried my best to help her, as soon as I heard she was ill I rushed to the manor house and went straight to her bedchamber. But I am only a wizard of plants of the earth and the air, I am no a healer of humans. I tried to remember all that I had once heard about various sicknesses, but I couldn't fathom where her rash came from. I could do nothing to alleviate her fever or her pain; I was as helpless and useless as the sawbones and apothecaries that arrived in a steady stream from all the surrounding villages and towns.

Her disease and ailment was as alien to them as it was to me. The only difference between myself and all the others standing around her bed watching over her was that I had been responsible for the ingredients used in her last meal before the sickness struck. With the crops flourishing under my potions and magicks it was only natural that the first bountiful harvest of the succulent crops and animals would be eaten by Lord Penryth and his daughter; there would be plenty more to go around to the villagers and townspeople.

As her condition deteriorated her father had gone from singing my praises to cursing my 'demonic and un-Godly magicks'. He took me aside and told me that I should use all my un-holy powers to remove the hellish spirit which infected her from the poisoned crop and that I was to leave his lands immediately as soon as she was recovered. We both knew that he didn't need to state what would happen to me if she didn't recover.

It was lucky for me that she had passed away well past midnight. The only people present by her bedside at that late an hour were myself and her nurse. Her nurse had fallen asleep in chair by the fire and so I had been able to silently leave the manor house once I had said a short prayer for her freshly released soul.

I had come straight to my cottage and packed as much as I could as quickly as I could. Now all that there was for me to do would be to take the fastest horse I could find from Crookshaw's stables (leaving him money for it) and ride for my life. I'd leave only memories of my presence and try to take with me only the good memories of the people I'd known.

I'd really liked this place. I'd really thought that it would be the last time that I'd have to move, the last time I'd have to fly from my home early in the morning. From the first day that I'd turned up I'd thought everyone here was different. No-one really noticed me, they minded their own business and they didn't ask any awkward questions about how I had got my wealth of gold and why I had no attachments. They didn't even ask me where I was from or why I was travelling so light.

They had started to notice me after I'd started working with Crookshaw on his crops. When his fields had the tallest stalks and his cows had had the most calfs, people started inviting me to their house for dinner, they started calling me over into their games of cards. They'd even started introducing me to their nubile daughters. Even through out my gaining popularity and friendships, none of them ever asked where I was from or even, really, who I was. They had accepted my mystery and embraced my powers.

Yet they still all turned against me, just as the lord of the manor had, as soon as something had gone wrong. They needed a scapegoat and my powers, too good to be true, and my mystery, sinister and tricky, had been the perfect choice. I was sure that her illness was not my doing, it was likely a malignment brought by a wealthy traveller from a city. Yet no-one heard my protests through their shouts of blame and anger.

I picked up my sack and walked out of my cottage. For some reason I still felt it necessary to close the door behind me, it still seemed the right thing to do. As I slipped the catch gently closed and set off across the dew sodden grass I vowed to leave any bitterness towards the people here behind me. It wasn't their fault that they saw all mystery and unknown, whether good or bad, as being from the same source.

Like a Phoenix

2009-11-10T20:00:00.004Z

Like a Phoenix, except without the pile of ashes, this blog will be reborn. Regular postings every Monday at 20:00 UK local time, or... something bad will happen.

Or possibly the universe will end; I've not decided yet.

I'll also introduce a ~~trick~~ prize to try to get people thinking and commenting: the most insightful/interesting/funny/well-thoughtout comment (as judged by me) written between a post being published and the next post being published will be offered a printed and signed copy of that post. Terms and conditions apply (my decision is final, no alternative prize will be offered, I reserve the right to not award a prize for any week).

Just think though, one day they might be worth 1000s of pounds/dollars on ebay!

Dark Warehouse

2007-11-10T00:52:00.000Z

I can still hear the happy roar from when I said, "This round's on me." I can remember the lewd wink at the barmaid as I told her to keep the change as well. Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of these guys who pesters every pretty girl who serves me; I just meant it in a cheesy way although I doubt she saw it that way. Maybe now that I'm a bit more sober I'm not too convinced that the intention behind it was purely innocent.

Actually the whole night in the bar seems so distant and unreal now. The images flash before my mind like the frozen panels from one of the comic books that David, my son, is just starting to read. The comics also feature many of the same clichéd lines that I said tonight. I did manage to play the part of the drunk businessman celebrating in a bar rather well tonight. A couple of the beautiful phrases which spring to mind are: "Ed, I don't think I've ever told you how you are not just a work-mate but a truly special friend, no really I mean it" and "I don't mean to sound odd but does everyone else think that Jessica Rabbit is hot?" I think I deserved to celebrate though; Ed and I had just made the biggest sale of the year for the company and this was my first night away from David and/or the misses for a long time.

The evening had started with Ed and I going for a meal with out clients. Ed and I had decided in the hotel that morning that regardless of how the sale had gone, a meal with the clients wasn't going to be the right event for us to celebrate or commiserate ourselves with. We decided that this sale deserved a proper celebration in the traditional British way: drinking in a pub. As fun as the evening at the Chinese restaurant had turned out to be it still wasn't what you could call a proper celebration. While the Asian ale had flowed liberally and several large metal bottles were consumed between the four of us, it was still decisively a work situation. Rich and Kate turned out to be nice enough people, both turned out to be far more pleasant when they no longer needed to negotiate in such an assertive way.

Rich was the purchasing manager for their company, you while you wouldn't guess it by looking at him in that suit, but we found out that evening that he was a keen hockey player, even playing at a semi-professional level for his local club. Only after he'd mentioned this did I realise that he had the build of someone who you wouldn't want to get into a fight with. I found out early on in the evening, from the usual ice-breaker of family, that he had a Canadian wife called Sian who, up until five months ago had been too busy designing landscaped gardens for the rich and famous to have any kids, but their first was already halfway here.

Kate was a totally different kettle of fish to Rich. During the negotiations she'd been straight faced and was entirely responsible for her company getting such a low price from our company. Once dotted lines had been signed and hands had been shaken she transformed. She was smiling and laughing with us and being very agreeable company. She didn't discuss herself much at the meal, but we discovered that she has been married but that it "hadn't worked out entirely as planned". I'm sure she must have got a very good deal in the separation. She seemed to know someone from everywhere. She knew the manager of Rich's hockey team, she knew one of the guys which Ed had cycled across America with and she knew someone who was connected in someway to every company I'd ever worked at.

However solidly built hockey players and well connected project managers don't make an evening and we went our separate ways after the grass jelly had been nibbled and poked and poked again. Ed and I were staying in a hotel tonight so that we could ratify the finer details with Kate and Rich tomorrow without once again suffering the four hour train journey. It wasn't even 9 o'clock yet so we decided to make our way to a bar to whittle away the last hours of the evening. Ed's suggested method of finding a place was to head out straight along a road from our hotel. His reasoning was that this made it far easier to find our way back to the hotel if our mental capacity became reduced for some reason.

Maybe we picked the wrong road but it was quarter of an hour away from the hotel before we saw anything other than kebab shops, chemists and estate agents. It was a pub called the Lion and Lamb. We decided to stop in for a pint to quench our thirsts, possibly staying if the place took our fancy.

As soon as Ed and I, both dressed in suits, pushed our way in we discovered that this was not a pub frequented by smart suited types. Still, we'd walked through the door and, like the good businessmen that we were, Ed and I stuck to our guns: there was no way we would back down now, especially when we were finally so close to a bar.

So we walked up to the bar, trying to ignore the glances from the t-shirt and soft collar shirt wearing locals. The grey haired barman, the only visible staff at that time, made no strong effort to finish his conversation with a white bearded man wearing a tweed jacket who sat on a stool by the bar. No sooner was I starting to feel a little impatient but then the barman abruptly finished his conversation about his grand child and walked over to me.

"What' ya want to drink then?" he asked in a pleasant tone. My impatience was immediately gone, this barman would clearly have been a great asset at the negotiation table.

"I'll have a pint of Brigstock's Best Bitter, " I pointed at the pump, "and my friend will have-" I glanced over to my right side to where Ed was.

As I expected, Ed finished my sentence for me, "a pint of Foxton Stout please."

"Righto." The barman turned over two clean pint glasses adeptly placing them under the pumps and started to pull each pint. I was pleased to note that he knew what he was doing. In that silence which goes hand in hand with the pouring of fresh drinks I glanced around for a spare table. The pub was only one room and was small enough that we could see the whole room without moving.There were no free tables, Ed had also picked this up, so with a silent nod to each other we sat on the stools that were by the bar in front of us .

"That'll be 4.90."

I handed the barman a crisp five pound note from my suit pocket, "There you go." He slid the fiver between the other notes in the till and handed me my single coin of change.

I took my first sip of crisp fresh beer and let the cold fluid suck the warmth from my mouth. Without saying another word the barman walked away, past the optics and out to the back, where I can only assume the kitchen was.

Ed and I chatted away for about half an hour over our pints. Ed was taking great pleasure in explaining to me in minute detail the cottage that he was looking to buy in Derbyshire. He'd only visited the place once but he already had grand plans for it. He was going to build an extension here, knock a wall through there and place a conservatory round back.

"I think you've missed your calling as a property developer," I jokingly commented.

"You may say that now, but I'm still young," replied Ed. He paused while he had a brief moment of inner reflection, "Well younger than you anyway."

"Thanks."

"What I mean though is that I have time to build up a bit of a portfolio and then by the time I become fed up with all the corporate politics I'll be able to retire early with a nice income."

I place my pint glass on the table and looked slowly up to look Ed in the eyes and then asked "You mean you're going to turn into one of those buy-to-let property moguls?"

"Something like that. Don't give me that look, it is a good idea and I'm not going to sacrifice my financial future in a misguided attempt to try to save the economy single handedly."

I could feel the desire to correct him welling up inside myself. I held back though, only replying with a short, "You know what I think of people who buy-to-let, they're selling life jackets on the Titanic."

Ed then grinned, "That's exactly my point. People are much better off with my high quality life jackets rather than some cheap one which isn't water proof. Any either of those is preferable to drowning."

I considered how tenuous it would be to extend my analogy to say that he was making the life jackets from the hull of the boat.

Before I could decide I was interrupted by a voice behind me, "Are you city boy's gambling men?"

Ed and I both turned around to face a tall man with a crackly but well kept black beard and short hair. Ed was never one to turn down a challenge and this time was no exception, "It depends, what are we betting on?"

The man raised his hand and produced a sharp point, a small brass shaft and some fins, "Darts."

Without a glance to me Ed accepted.

It turned out that the bearded man was called Dave. He was a mechanic at a local garage. I found it slightly disconcerting to be talking to a mechanic who wasn't wearing oil stained clothes. I found myself disbelieving that he was a mechanic. Those ideas soon went out of my head though as Ed and him started talking about Ed's toy of a few months back: his MG B GT, a classic car. Ed and I had spent several weeks working late into the night rebuilding the engine and as it turned out Dave was also fond of traditional British motor cars.

Dave and Ed played several games of darts, but I wasn't really paying attention to the score and I don't think either of them were. All three of us got lost in the grease soaked springs, screws and sprockets of the cars.

In the end I think Ed lost about £30 and 2 rounds of drinks to Dave. We were all in good spirits though so we didn't mind. Ed would probably complain most of the next day about how he'd almost won and how he'd have been up by £10 if it wasn't for the pot plant distracting him, or some similar excuse.

Time rolled on quickly and soon the bell of the bar was ringing and the place was starting to empty. We drank up our last drinks and bid good night to the bar man and bar maid and staggered out into the street. It was only now that I realised the brilliance of Ed's 'walk on one street' plan. Getting home seemed like it was going to be no problem at all. Our path also took as conveniently past several kebab shops, which was perfect for me for I was starting to get hungry.

The two of us staggered along talking about nothing in particular, it was probably about one of Ed's grand plans, when I suddenly realised that there was a group of four or five following about 100 yards behind us. The figures wore thick dark coats and their hoods covered their faces in shadow. As I looked round at them they started to run towards us.

"RUN!" I shouted.

"Arrgghh," replied Ed as he looked over his shoulder and then decided to follow my advice.

It was clear that we were not in peak fitness and that our pursuers were gaining on us quickly. We weren't going to escape them in a straight line so I decided that weaving through some side streets would probably be best.

"Take the next side street," I shouted to Ed.

"What?" asked Ed, but it was too late. I'd already dived down the narrow side street. If I turned back then I risked running straight into them so I decided to carry on regardless.

After what felt like hours of running, but was probably only a couple of minutes, I realised that I was almost starting to enjoy the run. I had slowed down to a jog and the endorphins and adrenaline were still rushing through my body. I was starting to realise that no matter how pleasant this late night job was that I was getting more and more lost.

Still there was no sign of the people who had chased us. I hoped that Ed had got back safely to the hotel and that right now he was driving around in a taxi trying to find me. The gang had probably just been some kids looking for some easy money from a couple of smartly dressed businessmen. My legs were starting to burn in complaint at the sudden and aggressive use of them so I shifted down from a jog to a slow walk.

I noticed a park up ahead and remembered that there was one near our hotel. I decided to walk around the edge of the park to see if I could see any familiar surroundings. The park had a brick wall topped in iron railings all around it. I would stop ever so often and climb up the wall in an attempt to gain some height to see around more. I realised that I wasn't the most graceful climber and that all the brick work and iron rubbing against me was really ruining my suit. I decided that the suit was probably going to be a casualty of the night.

I decided to leave the park and head off along a road lined with warehouses. I remembered seeing warehouses from outside the taxi when we arrived at the hotel so felt that I was starting to get close. I entertained myself as I walked along by reading the signs on the warehouses. I agree that it isn't the most entertaining reading but when you're drunk and lost anything to focus your mind on something other than where you are is a good thing.

As I reached a crossroads I looked to the left and saw a group of five figures with hoods walking in my direction. I panicked and my instincts told me to run the other way, so I turned right as I heard the slow footsteps behind me quicken to a running pace.

I soon realised that my instincts were wrong. I had ended up in the dead end of an industrial complex which had four large warehouses surrounded by a high brick wall covered in barbed wire. In my ever increasing panic I decided to duck down into the narrow alley between "Chef's Own Caterers" and "Mercury's Delivery Experts". I picked the alley way because none of the street lights were close to the entrance and the inky blackness could offer me some chance of hiding. The kids would get bored and move on after a few minutes if I just hid and kept quiet.

I soon realised that the problem with pitch black alleyways is that they are pitch black. My shins kept on banging into small wood boxes and greasy barrels of what I assume was some sort of oil. I tried to move slowly to make less noise but it didn't help. The clanging of the metal on metal resonated around the darkness. I still felt my way along the walls with my hands though. The further into the darkness I was then the more likely it would be that my pursuers would give up.

My right hand stopped feeling the cold steel walls of the warehouse and felt a smooth painted wood surface. I realised that it was a door and struggled to search for a handle. After some panicked grabs at either side of the door I realised that it was probably a fire door. I reached into my jacket for my wallet only to discover it missing. My mind quickly back tracked and I realised that I must have lost it in the park while I was climbing up and down the railings.

I smiled into the darkness and had to fight not to laugh. These muggers to be weren't going to get any money from me. My humour quickly switched to panic once more though as I realised that my muggers probably weren't going to be too happy about my lack of wallet.

I turned around, rested my back against the door. I slowly slid down the wall with my back until I was sitting on the cold concrete floor. I waited and listened. I could hear some movement from outside of the alleyway but no one had come close to the entrance yet. Perhaps I was safe here. As panic moved to fear and I slowly started to feel all of my body again.

As the chemical wore off I felt the warm and tired glow of exercise and alcohol surround my body. Here I was, all alone, no wallet, being pursued by some unknown people who were not going to be happy if they found me. I cursed myself silently under my breathe for having left my 'phone charging in my hotel room. If only I had my 'phone now I could have called for help. My 'phone was probably sitting on my hotel room table vibrating away as Ed repeatedly tried to call me.

My mind then drifted onto thoughts of my lost wallet. I imagined if anyone would find it. I imagined an early morning jogger, while jogging to try to fit between the pages of the newspapers they read would find it. The jogger would pick it up and examine it. They'd probably open it, find that there was no money as I'd spent it all in the pub, and if I was lucky they'd return it to a police station. Then people would know I was missing. Hopefully I would have escaped from between these warehouses by then. I hoped that I'd get a call from the receptionist at the hotel to let me know that the police had found my wallet and that I could go and collect it. I sat there in the darkness and hoped.

I strained my ears to try to hear what was going on outside the alleyway some more. I could hear the slow dripping of water from further into the alleyway. I could still hear people from outside the alleyway. They sounded closer than before but that didn't worry me. I felt a calm flow over me. I felt like the emptiness and nothingness of the bare metal that surrounded me was pulling all fear and worry out of me. I didn't know where I was or what was going to happen. I was cold and in pain and my head was spinning. Despite all of this I still started to feel like none of this mattered.

It wasn't that I didn't care about what was going on with me, it was more that I felt that it didn't matter what happened to me now. If my end was being attacked by muggers who have been denied the chance to steal a quick couple of pounds then that was how it would be. Whatever the reason that have driven these people to pursue me, I held them no grudge. I decided that I probably never would know why they chose me and Ed. That didn't worry me though. I didn't want to know why, I had reached a point of acceptance. What was about to happen was what was meant to happen.

I don't kid myself for a moment that I wouldn't have wanted things to turn out differently. Even at the time if someone had asked me: "do you want to live or die?" I would have chosen life every time. I hadn't given up, I had just accepted the hand that fate had dealt me.

I found myself getting lost deeper and deeper in my calmness and the happiness it brought. I was vaguely aware of a silhouette of shadow that started to look down my alleyway. It grew larger as it started to come down the alleyway towards me. The thuds and metal clangs as this figure walked into the bane of my shins felt distant and far away. It was only when the figure raised it's arm and switched a flashlight on in my face that I snapped back to reality.

I tried to look past the blinding light of the torch. I tried to distinguish shapes, my eyes and brain searching for anything that could hurt me. I looked for the glint of a knife or the bulbous shadow of a bat but found none of these. Then the figure did something I was not expecting. He spoke to me.

My brain quickly wound back up to speed, but not fast enough to work out what he had said. I tried to ask him to repeat himself, but all I could manage was a strained sound of confusion and a single word, "huh, what?"

"I said: Mr Roberts, you need to come with me."

Under The Branches

2007-11-06T22:20:00.000Z

I don't think I've ever posted this. I found it again while looking for another story that I thought I'd lost.

As under the arms of the old oak I lay,
I let my thought drift out over that grass.
Daisies and buttercups held my elation,
while the canopy held the harsh sky at bay.

With not yet one score of age to my name,
bestowing to old arms respect and awe.
Wisdom of ages flowing around me,
beauty now past that I hoped to reclaim.

Though living my life to some degree,
I felt I never had what I sought.
Looking for elusive harmony,
Ignoring all that I thought sultry.

My view from upon this highland,
did put my running mind to rest.
Yet I did not find what I sought,
only my folly over land blazoned.

Rolling green to me present,
a mirror to my own self.
Through gazing deeper I found,
a potion I used to foment.

My wounds disappearing,
my eyes opening wide.
The rain that day washing,
the mist began clearing.

Sky stout with thunder,
heart starting lifting.
Jubilant climax
cast doubt asunder.

Lonely hilltops
bring company.
Rays of sun held
in hard raindrops.

Mind now free
from the hurt.
Happiness
from wise tree.

Decay
now gone,
to light
gave way.

Only Halfway There

2007-11-04T22:51:00.000Z

"Are you sure this is where you want?" asked my taxi driver.

"I think so," said I, "just pull over on the left here."

I looked out of the dust covered windows into the dusk light. The driver turned off the engine and the silence left hanging just grew and grew.

"This is definitely the right place," I confidently stated. I looked at the meter, £47.50, and started to dig around in my pocket for my wallet.

"You OK, mate?" asked the driver. He turned around in his seat to face me. His face wasn't like I was expecting, but then taxi drivers never are. You only see the back of their head and their eyes in the rear view mirror and your mind builds an idea of what their whole face is like. This taxi driver reminded me of one of my old school teachers, at least the short clipped black hair trying to hide the subtlest of bald spots and the narrow band of his high ridged eyebrows had. Now that I'd seen the whole of his face it was far more kindly than I had imagined. Constructed images of hard shadowed brown eyes with overbearing eye brows over sharp cheek bones faded to a soft round face with smile lines reaching around his mouth and a jolly twinkle in his eye.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I shot him a smile to try to reinforce the point. I then realised that might have been too much and overcompensated while trying to form a neutral expression. I ended up in what I think probably looked like a frown. I breathed out and let my face relaxed. I was coming to realise that I was more highly strung than I had thought I was when I was still in the city.

"I know it's probably none of my business, but in my fifteen years of driving a taxi there are only a small number of people who want driving to a car park on the coast at dusk. And you don't look like one of those dogging types either," his eyes simultaneous leaked concern and cheekiness.

"I appreciate your concern, " I paused while I tried to remember if he'd said his name during the twenty minute journey.

He helpfully provided the answer, "it's Steve."

"Well Steve, I appreciate your concern but don't worry, I'm not coming out here to throw myself off a cliff or to watch some, erm, cars. I just wanted to... no, I needed to get out of the city for a few hours. Breathe the refreshing sea air," I didn't mean to sound quite so aggressive but I was starting to feel a little rattled.

I realised that I'd had my hand on my wallet for most of the conversation since the taxi had stop. I focused my attention on my wallet and pulled out two crisp twenty pound notes and a crumpled ten pound note that had seen better days. Steve graciously accepted these and turned away from me as he dug around for change.

"Here's your change, " he said as he handed me back two coins, "and here is a card for the taxi company so you can call a cab when you want picking up."

"Thanks." I pocketed the change and card, opened the door and stepped out in to the brisk sea air.

After slamming the door closed, I looked over the car towards the sea. I heard Steve start the engine and the taxi then rolled away. I wondered if he had considered saying something more to me. I think we were both glad that he had decided against the idea. I dug my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket, glanced up and down the road that was deserted but for Steve's gradually shrinking car, and walked towards the shoreline.

I had been dropped on the other side of the road to an empty car park. The car park lay between two hills that rested either side of it. Looking between the hills and past the car park I could see a small shingle beach drift down under the sea that was shimmering with the last of the low autumn sun. Paths lead away from both of the far corners of the car park, winding slowly through the scraggy grass roughly following the edge of what I assumed was a cliff. The beach appeared to be in a small bay, enclosed by the rising land of the two hills. The place seemed to match my memory of it, but at the same time there was something about the light or even just the air itself that made it all seem so much different from the last time I was here.

I elected to take the path to the left, if only for the reason that the side of the hill was vaguely south facing and I was hoping to be able to catch just a little of the last warmth of the sun. I secretly knew that the sun probably had no more warmth to give me this day, but I let my mind dance around this flaw as I walked over the coarse gravel of the car park. When I reached the edge of the car park I found that the footing got more solid under foot but I found that the path wasn't as well defined as it had looked from the other side of the road. What had appeared to be a solid but winding path of sandy soil surrounded by grass turned out to be patches of solid with no grass surrounded by undulating grass. The grass hid small hollows and holes that were hungry to grab my foot and twist my ankle. I concentrated on getting from one stretch of solid soil to another, my head firmly pointing down.

As I scanned the ground for hazards I found that I didn't really know why I had come here. I knew why I was climbing this hill, it felt like the right thing to do. I didn't know why I was at the coast though. I felt I needed to be away from it all, but there were plenty of places where I could have gone. I didn't honestly know why I had picked here and that alone worried me. I felt that I no longer knew myself, the events of recent times had left me so unsure.

Over the previous month I'd found myself alternating between one extreme and the other. One day I would be decided upon a clear course of action, it making sense over all others. I'd go to bed knowing my place and knowing what I should do. However with sleep came nothingness and with the morning came a change of mind. This went on for weeks until I decided to come out to this place by the sea. This place which reminded me of the sweetness of all that I was contemplating.

Self reflection does, however, pass the time and I soon found myself at the peak of the hill while still considering my mental state. I turned to face the sea and took a couple of steps forward. In front of me there wasn't a sheer cliff with craggy rocks at the bottom, just a steep slope covered in what looked like bracken. The bracken looked thick enough to allow a slow, smooth and soft plunge to the sea, yet not strong enough to act as an anchor for anyone unlucky enough to find themselves sliding down this slope. The wind buffeted my back and I decided to take a step back, just to be on the safe side.

I realised how fitting my position was. I imagined someone could take a photo or paint a picture of me from the top of the other hill. My silhouette would be against the fading light of the sky, bathed in the red glow of the sun. The sea would roll before me and the land slide away behind me. It would describe the trials that everyone has to face, with the solid ground of the past behind them and the turmoil of the sea before them. It'd win prizes. It would be reviewed in the papers: "this latest work elegantly describers the human experience in a few skilfully placed brush strokes" and "this work once again goes to demonstrate that while many try to emulate this artist's unique style, none come close". All of the critics would forget about the man on the edge though. They would either see me and project themselves into my place or watch me from afar, like the artist, as an interesting juxtaposition of ideas, colours and shapes.

I'm was still there though, still on the crest, green behind me, blues and reds churning in front of me. For the first time in my life I think I realised what purgatory was about, I realised that I, myself, was in purgatory and had been for the past few weeks. I was in the middle. I wasn't balancing on a knife edge; I was more like the spider who can't get out of the bath. I was too scared to go for the unknown, to go down the plug-hole, but I wasn't strong enough to climb out of the bath. I realised that in some ways I was wishing for that shower of water to wash me away, to relieve me of my choice.

I wanted anything but this nothingness, give me heaven or give me hell. The state of nothing, the state of in-between, nothing could be worse than this. I didn't want to be left neither one way or the other. This realisation helped though as at least I knew where I was now. Knowing where you are is usually half the battle in solving problems. If you know where you are then you can try to work out what to do next. So that's what I did, I tried to work out where I wanted to go and, more importantly, how I could get there.

I drew out the ashes. It was strange when holding the ashes before me they didn't feel nearly as heavy as I had thought they were whenever I thought of them in the back of my mind. I considered lifting the lid that secured them, secretly hoping the hope beyond hope, the desire for a phoenix trapped in that urn. I wished to open it and I'd free the bird of fire, restoring all that was, repairing all that was damaged, returning all that has been lost. We live in the here and now though, this is not a world of myth and legend. If phoenixes ever existed they are now rare and far between. This fear of looking through the open neck and seeing nothing but ash is what stopped me tearing open the jar right there.

I knew that nothing, no matter how unlikely, ever has a zero chance and that's what stopped me casting the ashes off the edge. Part of me knew that there was just dust and powder in the container, that it was now as good as nothing. This was the part of me that took me to the top of this hill by the sea.

The other part of me hoped that it wasn't worthless. That was the part that made me hold the blue pottery closer to me. The thick cold wall of clay separating me from the ash yet at the same time keeping the long cold embers together and near me; stopping them from scattering to the wind.

I wished for something to help me, for something to free me from this place between. I wanted someone to come and tell me to throw the jar to the sea or to tell me to look inside. I wanted a voice, I wanted guidance. Suddenly my silent pleas were answered by a whisper. A whisper so inaudible that it almost just passed me by on the wind. I knew where it had come from though. The whisper had come from the container that I held in my arms. I raised the urn to be level with my head and rested my ear gently against the chilled cobalt blue glazed ceramics. I felt that I knew what I heard before I heard it, I'd know it all along but it had always been hidden in the noise: a truth indistinguishable in the foam of dreams.

With those whispers the bottom dropped out of my world and with it me and myself slipping out of purgatory.

2007-10-26T20:54:00.000+01:00

Sweet passion moves on,
leaving and separated,
etched moments remain.

Trains, Life and God

2007-10-13T18:52:00.000+01:00

Written on a train while musing about God and inspired by a real life event

It takes a while, but in the end I can't ignore the question any longer. I've been thinking about it for several weeks and I've yet to find an answer that makes me happy, even if the answer seems right. That in itself is unusual, for I tend to find the truth a pleasure. If nothing else it acts as a relief and a certainty. There is something final about the truth that regardless of what the truth means it still provides some finality. A full stop like so.

Even the most terrible sentence has an end and up until now this has always been a belief of mine. This sadly has the consequence that every pleasant sentence must finish, even if I do like to think that this knowledge of finality makes the preceding words sweeter.

However I digress, so I'll try to focus back on the story. My mental toil all started a few weeks back when I was on a train heading back home after a training course. It was late and I was sat quietly in an almost empty carriage. The dark world of the night flew quickly past the windows and I was too engrossed in my book to notice much of what was going on around me.

I felt the pull of the brakes as the train slowed into another station. I glanced up out of the window to discover the name of the station. Under the lamp lit orange haze the blue and white sign let me know that this was the last stop before my station. I let my gaze drift past the sign and rest on the station car park. Surrounded by industrial estate warehouses the car parks seemed like the ghost of a park. A puddle lay on one side of the car park with it's edges tracing out the circular arcs of the shore line of a lake. A lone red BMW rested in the middle of this lake, striking a pose that was more like a duck than a built patchwork of metal. The lamps for the car park were that type with four globes of light splaying out from the central column of each. They stood still and silent as the simplistic expression of a tree bearing four heavy fruit. Perhaps one day this had all been a fertile plane of trees and lakes.

Putting aside romantic pretensions for a moment I realised that it had probably been a bog; the station was on low lying land near the river. It though about this connection for a moment, of transport of water and people and realised that the trains find it easiest to follow the flat path cut by the river over centuries.

My thoughts were pulled back to the carriage by our two new passengers. They got on to the train and walked past me to sit a couple of rows in front of me. They were roughly in the middle of the train and due to the arrangement of the seats they had their backs to me. I glanced around the carriage and saw that there was only one other passenger. He was in the far corner in front of me, gazing vacantly out into the darkness. His black hair stood on his head like corn stalks after a storm; a mess of lines that he probably spent several minutes perfecting every morning. In his ears sat iPod white headphones and he was miles away.

A stifled sob from the couple two rows in front of me drew my attention back to the middle of the carriage. From what I could tell from the backs of their head the man was looking out of his window to the left with the woman staring similarly out of the right side. As far as I knew no words had been exchanged, at least not audibly. The man slowly raised his right arm and placed it around the shoulders of the woman. Neither of their gazes were diverted from the night outside.

I considered what I should do. I felt compelled to try to talk to them, just to let them, but only if they wanted to talk. I mulled it over carefully. If this were a couple from my parish then I'd have no hesitation in talking to them, even if I knew them to be non-church goers. The parish that I am vicar for is a commuter village full of young professionals and old retirees. When I started several years ago I'd found out the few who were aggressively against religion early on and was always careful to be as diplomatic as possible around them.

This situation was clearly different though. I have no right to talk to them, I was just another guy on the same train to them. The chances are that they were not Christians and there were even greater chances that they'd be hostile. Most hostility I meet isn't in open aggression though, the aggressive people I meet tend to have some remainder of respect for holy men. The worst and most common form of hostility I get is from those that like to think of themselves as open minded liberals, even though they always strike me as anything but open minded. Whether it's them just trying to say as little as possible or if it's the slip of a sneer at the end of their sentences. I don't want you to misunderstand me, I don't hate these people. I pity them and their confidence of conviction hidden behind a veil of vanity. I wish them better understanding and hope that they come to accept the beauty of not drawing a line in the sand.

Regardless of their past or future attitudes I still aim to avoid these people. The clash of ideas will only further their strength of mind and risk my fall to rage. This might sound very feeble minded but the avoidance of temptation is an equal part of resisting it. Avoiding situations that would test my compassion and forgiveness is as valid as me avoiding strip clubs to resist temptations of the flesh. My mind was full of these thoughts, I felt I should offer my help but feared that their view of a bible basher would reflect a God basher back to me.

So I did nothing. I just looked at the back of their heads and tried to imagine what suffering they might be enduring. Ideas of death and fear filled my mind. Betrayal and deception also entered my thoughts. Could they be a couple who have just lost a child or might they be going through times of trouble in their love. He might have cheated on her, she might have cheated on him. They might have had lost everything or found out the presence of some terrible disease. They might be brother and sister, morning a lost parent. All manner and types of suffering went through my mind, each one carrying with it the smallest of questions: why?

My belief, the belief that God gives me, says that it is God's will. God's infinite compassion and plan are incomprehensible to us so many events seem to us to bring only evil. I believed this at the time and I still believe it now. God is above the world, beyond boundaries and outside time. He sees all and knows all. He knows our suffering but also our pleasure. He gives to us love and provides for us, even if his will and reason seem to be against us, he is by our side while we suffer, helping us. I know and understand all of this yet on the train I started to question it.

If I had talked to this couple and they had let me then we would probably have discussed my beliefs and my job. Even if they weren't Christian they might still have asked:
"Why? Why us? Why now?"

My reply would have been all the above and more, condensed down in to:
"It is the will of God, it has happened for a reason."

You may ask where my problem is, still having belief and still having faith. My first worry - if God made us in his image, why is our understanding and perception so limited compared to God's. Resolution of this came quickly, our free will and our original sin shapes and limits us and it is this limit that we needed Jesus for, for him to show us the way. My second worry has yet to be solved though and that worry is if God does not have a will. Why should God have intention if he knows all and what if free will and intention are experiences limit to humans.

How is saying it is the will of God, the great designer, any different from saying that it just happens that way. An exchange of:
"Why?"
"Because."

A self supporting idea with no backing that could be used to cover anything. An unthinking response. It hasn't gone entirely un-thought about though and this is what has been on my mind of late.

Oh easy ground

2007-09-10T22:26:00.000+01:00

How easy it is to just take one step back and then descend all the stairs.

It's time to climb back up again.

Lost links

2007-09-04T23:16:00.001+01:00

How we forget what we held so dear,
the life leading away from our design.

Power we once held so stalwartly,
slipping away on uncaring mist.

Aims and goals dropped to go astray,
failed tepid grasps ne'er to reclaim.

Art!

2007-07-28T13:11:00.001+01:00

Sam's comment here made me think of some images I drew many years ago. I thought I might as well post them here.

Me:

Alan:

Maria:

All scary I know, but I thought I'd try my hand in vector graphics at least once.

RIP Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

2007-04-15T10:48:00.000+01:00

I know I'm a bit late on writing something about the death of Kurt Vonnegut. I've only read Slaughterhouse 5 and Breakfast of Champions but both books are two of the best books I have ever read.

My reason for posting this was that I found a link (via BB) to a blog post with a list from Kurt Vonnegut on how to write a good short story. It's good advice, with added chuckle factor and worth a read.

Not fallen, but falling

2007-04-06T00:28:00.000+01:00

Another, this time in the spirit of Hemingway's greatest story ever told.

"Forgive me," his penitent eyes pleaded.

Not fallen, but falling

2007-04-06T00:07:00.000+01:00

This is the literal interpretation of the title.

Warmth. Warmth and blackness. Warmth, blackness and safety.

I float. I am nothing. I am free. This is a Sunday morning. This is a lie-in. This can be eternity.

Yet there is that smell. A smell wrapped in a faint roar. Growing louder and more pungent. This isn't my home; this isn't my bed.

I find my body. The cold pulls me back to it. I open my eyes. Black fades to blue through white. No puffs of white smudge my perfect sky.

Shards of ice rip my nostrils as I try to restrain my thumping and rolling mind. Everything starts to speed up. Air, oxygen and life return to my lungs. Every breath is a fight, the wind and frost hack through my chest. At least I'm conscious again.

I struggle to turn my head against the icy ropes that lash and tug at me. The blue rotates, it slides away. The wind blasts tears from my eyes. A snow blanketed world lunges for me, ready to receive me back into the earth.

Not fallen, but falling

2007-04-05T23:01:00.000+01:00

My entry into Kirsten's contest. It's actually based on a true story.

It was the first building that I'd seen that just the sight of frightened me.

I'd turned off the main road onto this small side road about five minutes earlier. The main road was cutting through a forest at this point, the trees and the pitch of the land blocking any sign of the side road until the small white sign which showed the Entorix logo came into view. I'd been lead to believe that this place was easy to miss and I wasn't disappointed. I drove with less speed than usual down the winding side road; despite the tarmacked surface being cleaner and smoother than most of the council run roads of the dozy suburb of Winchester that I lived in. I felt a brief pang of jealousy that I didn't live down this road with its perfect camber and its pine tree guards lining the verge.

My tentative driving was due in no part to my destination: it was only that I had written off my last Lexus on a similar country road less than a year previously when a deer decided that it would cross the same patch of road that I was using. It was an experience that my insurance company, myself and all deer the world over probably didn't want to repeat. Paranoia twitched up my spine: I couldn't help thinking that this road had been laid in such a sinuous path purely to allow deer and other wild beasts to surprise travelers as they rounded each of the repetitive corners.

The road straightened and I could see a thining in the trees ahead that I expect would mean the end of my blanket of pines. Yet I wasn't prepared for the building that lay in the large clearing, on the other side of the security fence, beyond the half full car park. Reduced to its most primitive elements this building had been designed by someone who liked dark concrete, didn't like windows and who felt that the appreciation of curves was an ugly artifact from our biological heritage.

Each of the five floors of the building was represented by a large rectangular concrete block. These floors were stacked on top of each other with short rectangular blocks of concrete which can't have been more than half a foot wide. Each of these shorter blocks was two or three feet in from the edges of the larger concrete blocks. I couldn't tell if the architect had decided to use a lighter tone of concrete on the four smaller connecting slabs or if they had been sheltered from the elements due to the overhang of the floors above each. Deliberate or not, the effect was a noticeable one and mirrored the warning stripes of nature perfectly. The center of the front of the building had a pair of glass doors, which I assumed must lead to reception. The right side of the building was the only other part where the harsh concrete surfaces were interrupted. A few pipes, all different shapes, sizes and colours, snaked out of each floor and up and down the side of the building seemingly at random to the other floors.

The overall feeling this building gave was one of fear; not mind numbing fight or flight fear, but something stronger than mild uneasiness. Had the building been shorter it would have looked too much like a hut, even though each floor must have been able to house one hundred office workers. Had the building been taller it would have seemed like a large folly into angular concrete architecture. This building didn't impose on you like a skyscraper, it didn't impress you in awe like a cathedral, it just scared you.

I slowed down as I pulled up at the small guard hut. The guard lent out the window and looked at the pass that I was holding up. He considered my face for a few seconds and then leaned back into the guard hut. I heard a loud buzzing sound and the chain link gate in front of me slid jerkily away to my right, out of sight behind the guard hut. I scanned the car park for a suitable space and pulled into my space of choice.

As I walked towards the glass doors I scanned my eyes over the edge of the door for a button to push or a slot to swipe my card in. A small red light in the middle of the right hand door highlighted the position of the card slot and that the door was locked. With a glance upwards to the security camera which watched the door, I placed my card in the slot. There was a whisper of a click and the light turned green. I walked through the door into the plain reception room that stood behind it. There was a pine reception desk to the right, staffed by two receptionists. The rest of the room was painted in a light grey colour. More security doors, this time solid looking dark wooded doors, lay directly in front of me. I chose the closest of the two receptionists, a blond man in his early twenties who looked more like a bouncer than a receptionist, and walked towards him.

“Good morning Mr. Farleigh,” said the other receptionist, a petite brunette in a smart black suit, “Welcome to Entorix's Forest View office.”

“Thank you,” I responded, “Is Dr. Litchfield in yet?”

“She's been in for hours, in Forest View we don't work nine-to-five office hours,” she gave me a sweet smile, “Go straight on in.”

She clearly saw the slight look of hesitation on my face so added instructions, “She's on the third floor. Go through these doors and take the lift to the third floor. As you leave the lift turn left. She should be in the refrigerated dissection lab on the right at the far end of the corridor. If she's not in there then she'll probably be in with the primates, their cages are across the corridor from the lab.”

None of my years of training or even the week long induction in Entorix had quite prepared me for what I saw and what I worked on in the months following.

The Forest Queen

2007-03-12T23:24:00.000Z

I thought this story was on here. Now it is.

She heard it all from where she lay. She felt it through the earth and
it was in the chirp of the birds. The problem was not urgent, it could
wait for her, the world always waited for her. Bit by bit she returned
to her body, slowly rising out of the dark mist of sleep. With just as
much calmness she became aware of her surroundings. She could feel
that she was covered from head to toe in a thin layer of rusty brown
leaves. She guessed it must be autumn already, but this did not
surprise her, sometimes she slept for a few hours, sometimes months.

She pressed her arms gently against the soft ground that lay below
her, feeling it give slightly as she did. As she propped herself up on
her elbows she felt the dry leaves, still slightly damp with dew, fall
from her chest and face. With the leaves no longer acting as a blanket
she felt the cold air tingle on her skin. This combined with the smell
as she took a long, deep breath in confirmed what she thought. There
was no mistaking that dank and almost musky smell, it was the smell of
the slow decay of fallen autumn leaves.

Only now did she open her eyes. Looking almost straight up she could
see, through a mesh of tangled beech branches, the constant grey of an
overcast sky. The almost uniform brightness across the sky made it
difficult to tell where the sun was, but after a few minutes she
managed to pick it out. From the height in the sky she surmised it
must be mid-morning. She swung her legs round, through her bed of
leaves, to her side, enjoying the muted rustle that they made. In one
swift movement she sprung to a crouch and slowly rose to standing. As
the last couple of dew soaked leaves slowly slid off her skin,
drifting down to the floor she drew in another deep breath.

"Well beeches, it's time to see what all this commotion is all about,"
she said in a soft and quiet voice. Turned around slowly she surveyed
her surroundings with a closer eye. Here the forest was fairly dense,
making it difficult to see more than a few trees in any direction. She
silently padded towards the nearest beech and effortlessly bounded up
the side of it.

She moved much like a cat, full of grace and speed. Had anyone been
around to watch this sight they would have been entranced; it's not
every day that you see a pale and naked woman bound up the side of a
tree like a cat climbing a fence. As she neared the top the trunk
started to quiver when her hands landed on it, so she picked a
suitable branch and rotated around the trunk so that she could land
her feet on the branch. With her feet steady on the branch she lent
forward, grabbing the branch with both hands so that she was now
crouching down. As she did this her long black hair rolled forward off
her back to rest on her hands, slightly obscuring her view.

Her balance was good enough that she did not need to be this low down
on the branch. If needs required then she could even run along branch
this thin. However she preferred the feel of bark in her hands. The
rough knots and spots of lichen reminded her of who she was and of her
place within the forest. It also had the practical advantage that she
could easily drop down to hang below the branch if required. This
thought didn't cross her mind, she was now too busy scanning the
horizon, seeing what had changed since she last awoke.

The low hills running from the north to the east were still there, as
was the river valley to the north. This forest was situated on a small
hill, which while it was not a significant hill it was high enough to
give a good view of the surrounding countryside. The large town to the
west lay quite and still, looking even more dead on this overcast
day. Her feelings towards the town had long ago changed from disgust
to indifference; she now accepted its presence, it was part of the
world, she still did not like it, but neither did she hate it
anymore. She noticed that it was later in autumn than she had at first
thought, most of the trees had now shed their leaves. A cold but
gentle wind blew from the north west across her face, she knew that
this meant there was not going to be any rain today.

It was her ears and not her eyes which picked up the direction that
she must go. Once she was aware of the sound she closed her eyes to be
able to focus on it more clearly. It was to the south, behind her from
where she was crouching. She could hear the low rumble of engines and
had the wind been blowing a different direction she was sure she would
have smelt the choking black fumes from them. Even just the thought of
this made the back of her throat dry up and her lungs constrict
slightly.

Sadly she knew where she must go, so stood up upon the branch,
twisting around to face the trunk at the same time. With grace equal
to when she had climbed the tree she lept from the branch to a lower
one, slightly further around the trunk. She continued like this,
quickly spiralling down the trunk until her feet landed on one of the
long roots that the tree had spread across the ground. Once more she
bounded silently through the bed of leaves, towards the south. As she
got closer to the sounds she slowed her pace, making sure that for as
much of the time as possible that she had a trunk or a bush between
her and the slow deep roar. Soon she could see the bright yellow of
two diggers slowly shuddering, belching out fowl dark vapours.

She now went down on all fours, crawling slowly forward until she was
positioned behind a small shrub. It was a young holly plant, with the
evergreen leaves helping to hide her. She slowly parted some branches
to get a better look at the slumbering yellow beasts. Seeing the
driving seat of both of them as being empty she looked around for the
drivers. She could only see a lone man, stooped over a metal cable,
slowly coiling it. He wore a hat in the same colour as the machines,
but had mud caked boots and trousers. He wore a dark brown and heavily
padded jacket, clearly not a fan of the cold late autumn air.

Although she could see the field of churned up mud that the diggers
sat in, and the low hut in the corner where she assumed the other
workers were, she did not know the purpose of this destruction. For no
other reason than curiosity she wanted to know the reason, why these
men were here. She needed to find out from someone and there was only
one person she could see.

She let out a small chirp, sounding very similar to the evening call
of a blackbird in the summer. When she saw that the man was now
looking in her direction she stood, turned and ran behind the nearest
tree. She did not need to look back to know if he would follow, they
always did. She heard his boots tramping through the leaves, slowly
approaching the tree she was hiding behind. She waited, he was not
close enough yet.

When his heavy breathing could easily be heard she started to move
again. She could hear him stepping over the roots of the tree to her
left, so she circled the tree to her right. She managed to get behind
him quickly and slowly raised her right hand and rested it gently on
his right cheek. It was cold and rough, but she only had the briefest
touch as he quickly spun around on his heels.

As he faced her his mouth slowly opened with a look of slight shock
across his face. He clearly did not expect to see a naked woman who
was only a few inches shorter than him standing in front of him. His
eyes were fixed on hers, but they were not full of terror or surprise;
they showed confusion. She now placed her, still raised, right arm
onto his left cheek and smiled.

"It's OK," she said in her enchanting, bell like, voice. The words
seemed to comfort him as his shoulders relaxed and dropped, but his
expression did not change. He was still transfixed by her dark brown
eyes, lost in the depths of their darkness. She tilted her head
slightly and continued, "What is your name?"

"Chris," he replied, his voice flowing easily and without
hesitation. She still had the ability to enchant people, no matter how
many trees they had cut down, she was still the queen of this forest.

"Now Chris, what are you doing in our forest? Why are you here?" she
said, her voice still calm and sweet sounding.

Chris did not speak a reply and she was not expecting him to. Instead
she felt his response, the easiest and quickest way to find out. The
forest dropped from around her and she could now feel that she was in
the town. She was not a single person in the town, she was all people
in the town, feeling their emotions, hearing their thoughts. It had
been so long since she had done this that for a moment she was lost in
the complexity of it all.

She was not swamped by the complexity, but she found her self drifting
away with it, there was so much to experience her, so much beauty. She
was once more seeing the brightest side of humanity, the positive side
that they bring to this world. However she regained her focus and
tried to find out what was going on. It soon became apparent that his
was going to be a car park, images of shoppers waiting at a bus stop
appeared fading only to be replaced by an endless road full of
buses. It was to solve the problem of cars in town, offloading them to
the outskirts of the town.

Knowing the facts she now moved onto the feelings. There was pride
there, happiness as well; this was helping the town, helping to make
it a nicer place to walk and work. She had seen and felt enough. She
felt the darkness fade and returned to the forest. The man stood there
as before. She released her hand and ran straight past the man, who
still stood motionless staring where she had been. He slowly started to
move again, but only once she was long gone into the depths of the
forest.

She stopped running and lay against a tree with a large root
system. She lent back and looked up through the branches to the
sky. She felt the gathering of water in her eyes as her vision started
to blur. An intense feeling of sadness started to wash over her, she
did not fight it, she did not want to. She felt the salty water roll
down the side of her face, falling from her cheek and getting lost in
her hair. It was not the future destruction of the forest that made
her tears flow.

Cryptic

2006-10-10T20:51:00.000+01:00

Puzzling and ambiguous.

Alcohol

2006-08-05T17:51:00.000+01:00

Drinking alone is seen as a bad thing.
Drinking with others seems like a laugh.
If drinking alone is a bad thing then drinking for the taste is not a valid reason.
So why is it acceptable to get drugged up so long as there are others around you doing the same?

I suspect it's all just conditioned.

Still a fine Rioja is damn nice to drink. I just can't seem to justify drinking it on my own.

Pontarfynach

2006-07-11T20:26:00.000+01:00

This is a story of how Pontarfynach (Devil's Bridge) came to be. Anyone claiming it was the monks of Strata Florida is not telling you the whole truth. This story starts in a small cottage on the side of the Pumlumon mountain range.

Esyllt's father swung open the weakly hung door of their two roomed cottage and let forth his demand upon her, "Esyllt, one of our cows has gone missing in the hills again, can you go find her. It's almost milking time and we don't want the wolves to get her."

"Certainly," Esyllt replied obediently. She was still concerned about the argument that the two of them had had that morning. She was only too happy to have a chance to lift the dark cloud which still lingered over them.

Not knowing how long she might be gone, she picked up her brown wool shawl and wrapped it tight around her long wavy brown hair. She first of all wandered to the pen which kept their cattle to see which cow was missing. It was the one that she expected to be missing; that cow always seemed to like to go up high in the mountains. As she sighed she realised that it at least made it easier to try to find the beast. She set off up the path, following the river, knowing well that cows never stray far from fresh water.

After more distance than she really cared for, particularly as she knew her supper was awaiting her return, the path along the river became steeper. As the river cascaded down from pool to pool, the path had to wind wildly from side to side to be able to even attempt to follow the reverse path of the river. After a large sinuous series of bends to surmount a large waterfall Esyllt finally laid her eyes on her prize.

The bovine creature stood on the over side a gorge, slowly chewing the cud. Esyllt thought she felt the eyes of the cow mocking her across the bubbling white foam which separated them. She bend down as close as she dare to the harsh edge of the gorge and tried to coax the animal to move. It stood deadly still, not budging an inch closer to the edge of the gorge hanging over the ranging torrent below, but also not edging any further away. Esyllt supposed that the cow must have crossed lower down when the water was less fierce, but that a storm further up the hills had swollen the river so that it was no longer passable. The cow must have found high and dry land on the edge of this gorge.

She turned around to try to find a better location for crossing and was surprised to find an old man hunched over and enveloped by the folds of a long dark coat.

"You seem to be in some trouble?" the old man asked.

"Yes, my cow is stuck on the other side of the gorge and I fear that it is impossible to cross over such a steep gorge. To attempt would certainly be disastrous."

The old man pointed to the cart of rocks behind him, "My horse and I were traveling to a village not far from here with this stone. However I'd be happy to build a bridge for you with only one small condition for allowing you safe passage over it."

"Surely it would not be a small condition for such a grand piece of work?"

"I am old and have made more than enough money in my very long life, I would be more than happy to help such a distressed and fine young woman such as yourself."

Esyllt thought about this for a few moments. That cow was important to her father and her and it would need to be a large condition for it not to be worth making if it ensured the safe return of the cow. She made up her mind with ease. She was now interested what the condition was so asked straight out: "What condition would a crafts man place on such a feat of construction?"

"I only wish to own the soul of the first living creature to cross the bridge."

Esyllt thought over this cost and decided that it was not too great a cost to ask for being able to eat through the winter. She nodded in agreement and spoke words confirming and thanking the old man.

She felt she must excuse the man to start his work and explained as much. "I shall leave you to your hard toil and return with some food from my cottage to sate your hunger from your work."

"Thank you," he responded, "you are a most kind girl." With that Esyllt turned away and set off home.

When she arrived home she bundled a loaf of bread into a cloth and covered with her coat before setting off. As she opened the door to leave her noise roused her dog from where he had been resting by the fire and he decided that it was time to follow his mistress. He started to yap at her heels as she set off back up the path down which she had just come.

After another hour of walking she found herself turning the last corner to face the man once again. He had done as he'd said and had build a sturdy bridge across the small gorge. She walked up to the edge of the bridge and turned to the man.

"Thank you sir for your work. Your craftmanship exceeds your generosity, this must be the strongest bridge I have ever seen."

He dipped his head as he replied, "You flatter me too much, I'm just trying to help you. You should retrieve your cow before night closes in upon us."

She nodded and produced the cloth bound bread from where she'd been keeping it dry under her clothes. She tore off a chunk and threw it across the gorge so that it landed just in front of the cow. The dog sensed that a fun game of catch was just beginning and bounded across the bridge to eat the bread in one large gulp. He turned around and faced Esyllt panting, waiting for more bread to be thrown.

Esyllt did not throw any bread though and instead turned to the old man. "There you go," she said, pointing at her dog, "you may have Ceris' soul." As she said this she felt the ground start to rumble. She would have sworn that she could see steam rising from the edge of the old mans clothes.

"You know that is not what I mean," rumbled a voice from under the cloak of the old man. It sounded far lower and wholly changed from when he last had spoken.

Esyllt turned back to face Ceris and slapped her leg. "Come here Ceris," she chimed. When she looked back she saw that the bridge builder and his cart had disappeared as quickly as they have arrived. All that was left in the air was a faint smell of brimstone, confirming exactly what she had suspected all along.

For Kirsten

2006-07-01T13:09:00.000+01:00

By the gods I would will the whole world to be slain
  if it allowed me but one glimpse of thy beauty again.
Thoughts of thou everywhere, leaving my mind riddled,
  filled with those images that lead me to be addled.
Yet with the lucidity of a child I see the world anew
  an oxymoron of clarity and confusion from missing you.
When together all seems boundless, we revel in freedom
  from any of my fear and pain you provide a sanctum.
Inside the walls of this temple none but us can encroach
  within here all our feelings are beyond reproach.
At your altar I worship, focusing all my will through awe
  a lone gift I do place, a gift I decree never to withdraw.
A single red rose, the beauty blossom to time so brittle,
  a glowing, dying token which time doth slowly whittle.
Dew drops chasing down its stem rest on the tip of a thorn
  hanging like our tears, suspended until we suffer lovelorn.
Time framing beauty with edges only heightens every sense,
  acknowledging these limits makes all the emotions intense.
Memories try to trap the warm light of the doomed devotion;
  but only ever capture a side of the never ending emotion.
Between us we share experiences that will last for a lifetime,
  for happiness is everlasting and our moments, sublime.

Emotion to sentence part 1

2006-06-25T13:22:00.000+01:00

Love is when you start caring about someone else more than yourself.

Burnt Bridges

2006-06-13T20:25:00.000+01:00

To burn bridges to stop temptation does not help defeat it. Strength of mind does not come from one destructive act. One moment of fortitude giving an irreversible action doesn't give you freedom.

Deliverance comes not from being forced but from choice.

If you fear being control by possessions, do not give up all possessions. If you are worried about appearing wrong, don't hide in situations where you can never be wrong.

Burning bridges leaves only ashes and there is always the ford to cross the river.

Creed point 479

2006-06-05T21:58:00.000+01:00

I believe in choice.
I believe in weighing up quality of life against the sanctity of life.
I believe in euthanasia.

Does that mean that I should believe that in some cases that suicide is a 'good death'; an end to suffering.

If death is a valid exit from terminal physical illness, logically death must be a valid exit from ~~terminal~~ extreme mental illness.

The writing of the words (with HTML tags added to demonstrate) offer the resolution: euthanasia for physical suffering is about shortening an already shortened life, this is where it differs from suicide.

That just raises more issues though:

Why does an already shortened life mean it's acceptable to shorten it further?
Is it even the case that euthanasia is only used when life has already been shortened by an illness?
Is the separation between a physical illness and a mental illness in the cognitive ability of the patient?
Don't the mentally ill have moments of lucidness?
Why is it perfectly acceptable, if not even sometimes the recommended or desired choice, to put an animal down?
Animals still feel pain, they exhibit self awareness, they exhibit compassion, how are they so different from us; particularly when they are not the ones making the choice?
Is the difference because we can build pyramids and animals never do?
I've not even fleetingly touched upon the fact that the world containing more than one person and that our actions affect others as much as they affect us.

The above is why I will never be a law maker, I'm too open to suggestions, too scared to try to cage an idea or draw a line. Perhaps I should take the easy line and praise the sanctity of life above all else.

Hopefully this'll be the last

2006-05-31T18:41:00.000+01:00

Jen (who used to have a blog, but then she got a life) sent me a link to this article as well as commenting on my last post on this subject.

I think (with the help of everyone's comments) I've decided where I lie on this issue. I appreciate that the world isn't black and white, I know that moral values are very much shades of grey and slide into each other. This idea doesn't stop me from believing strongly in an ideal. When choosing to reinforce this ideal I have to weigh up the situation and choose to act accordingly. I think I'll use eating as an analogy as I feel that the right of people to be treated with respect and dignity is as important as sustenance.

Every time I eat I might get food poisoning and die; this doesn't stop me from eating food. However I don't eat whatever is closest to hand when I'm hungry. I think this sums up the idea of when to intervene (eat) and when to not.

If I go to defend someone I might get stabbed and die, stopping me from doing further work to make the world more like I think it should be. I might not though and given that I still strongly believe that this sort of behavior is what vindicates further racist actions and so when appropriate I will still take action. While I know very little change in the world will come about, mountains are not built in one wheelbarrow load.

So I'm satisfied that while not doing anything might not have been the morally right thing to do, given the situation it is understandable to choose either option.

I will not, however, live in a state of fear that I might get stabbed and so not try to do right. That article describes how someone got stabbed while stopping an assault: yes there is always danger in all actions we do, but irrational fear of what might happen shouldn't stop us acting. If we get ourselves into a position where we don't act solely due to a disproportionate fear of reprisals upon us then we have started falling down a slippery slope.

We won't wake up one day to find a racist society to have sprung up over night: we'll wake up to find ourselves part of a racist society which has slowly grown over decades.

A play of three acts

2006-05-30T21:50:00.000+01:00

I want to see it, I hope it's there.
I don't want to face it; not for fear,
but because it might not exist.

Hoping to see a box holding nothing.
Silence cloaked blackness; my freedom,
encased in a sweet nulling void.

Dreams of slipping and losing myself,
nothing shall I leave; my last tear,
climbs off a slowly sinking ship.

It's time to grow some sharper teeth.

2006-05-23T21:05:00.000+01:00

This is my follow up to this.

In response to...

Jon: Who cares? I care about people and the right for them to live as people with respect.

Kirsten: I would have done the same thing with or without you there. I was not suggesting I weigh in, just that I should have shown support to the people who were being harassed. In my mind silence in this case is complicity. What's to bet that the man thinks he was only saying what everyone else around him was thinking but too scared to say; after all if this wasn't the case then we'd have interrupted him surely?

Hane: It's not really a matter of danger or of having a resolution to the problem, it's a matter of showing where my thoughts lie: of showing where my votes lie. I'm not suggesting that anything would have come of me going up and saying something. There probably would have been lots of shouting of abuse. However it's the little steps which scale mountains. We won't affectively fight racism by holding festivals of world music in Trafalgar Square; we won't fight it by locking up those who rant and rave about it; we'll fight it by saying the little things and doing the smallest of actions which are the things which actually change memes.

It might be possible that trying to find some identity for myself was one of the things motivating me to think I should have done something, but that's different from the assertiveness which you suggest. My motivation was one of attempting to project some of my beliefs onto others in the world so that they can at least attempt to understand them a little more. This is very different from wanting to be the assertive hero.

Having said all that I also feel I should mention that this guy was almost body checking the two men that he was hurling abuse at. How do we know he didn't follow one of them home on the train and then assault him? How do we know he didn't go home but along the way burnt down the house of someone else who he thought was 'poison'? How do we know he didn't go home via the orphanage and spend 2 hours reading bed time stories to the children?

We don't. All I know is that I saw something which I believe is the symptom and cause of some of the deeper streaks of violence and hatred from people to other people. Having seen and registered all this, knowing all of this, believing all of this I still did nothing!

Would it have been different if it had been two women who the man was insulting? What if it was two women that he was harassing with lewd sexual comments? This would have exactly the same borderline legality to it, leaves people feeling bad and rejected, has just as much possibility to turn more physical, yet would you still just walk by? Would you all still come up with the same excuses you've given me? Are you all just trying to justify times when you've turned blind eyes to events even though they've been so against your set of beliefs?

I know this post is full of questions and anger. I know that there isn't really any resolution, particularly for something in the past between people I'll never see again. I know that heroes are only people who have done foolish acts yet managed to survive. I know all this yet I still worry.

Dancing with the devil

2006-04-27T00:46:00.000+01:00

I have dined with the pale one,
I've taken tea with him as well.
I've felt the warm trickle
as my arm leads me to my hell.
The twilight helps remove my fun,
it's all left to me by the night.
The path before me doth fold away;
will he nibble or will he bite?

Red skin flashes,
yellow fires ablaze.

I find myself in a single shard.

Dazed and lost I gaze at me,
wishing for the warm sun of day.
If only I'd never offered my hand
and danced with the devil.

Mouse

2006-04-17T11:25:00.000+01:00

Blue aura eminating from evil spirit cushion;
the truth disolves into the meaning of words.
Sitting alone in a wicker basket, soon to be lost,
never to have eyes look upon it once more.
Oh to be the gift that is lost in translation.

Hither and dither

2006-03-04T11:10:00.000Z

Yesterday is why I should give up drugs,
tomorrow is why I never will.

Airports

2006-02-23T21:24:00.000Z

Sometimes I like to go to airports. Actually I really like going to airports. But I don't like it when I have to get a plane. Instead I really like it when my parents want me to pick them up from one of their many trips around the world. Be it India, Italy, Spain or the US of A, I will always aim to be there about 20 minutes early.

This 20 minutes is dual purpose. It allows them to get in early and head off out of the airport early as well and so get back to that proper English cup of tea just a little bit sooner. However I don't do it just for them. It allows me time to sit there, recover from the drive, maybe grab a coffee and maybe read a few pages of a book. But after a while I won't be able to resist anymore. I just have to watch all the people coming off the planes.

It's just a simple facts, airport arrival lounges are one of the happiest places which I know of which is full of people. Where else can you see young couples embracing after weeks of not seeing each other. If you cast your eye a bit to the left you can see the man in a suit, clearly back from a one day business trip, offering to help an elderly lady with the bag she is struggling to get onto the trolley. A small child grips her dad's hand tighter and moves closer to his legs so that she can get past the man in the suit. Groups of stag and hen night party goes are laughing about all the antics of the past 48 hours. A middle age inventor carries a borrow briefcase and is wearing his only suit; he's hoping that this will be the trip where he gets the backing he needs.

And all of this is to be found in just one place. One small concentrated spot of general happiness. There might be two hundred people shouting, but I always feel so calm there. On top of this the thing which always brings a grin to my face though is how unintentional this all is, it's just how it's all come together.

Tradition for it's own sake

2006-02-19T22:29:00.000Z

or how I learned to love the man.

It being the 19th of February it is a scant 5 days since the day of St. Valentine. For no particular reason my thoughts have recently been focused in the direction of problems with this festival. While it brings many people much happiness it also brings many people much stress and much anger flows with it. The reasons which are normally cited are ones of commercialism and why do you just have to treat your SO specially on just one day of the year. The latter is usually followed by the question of why shouldn't every day be like valentines day. Well these are all interesting comments, and should possibly be followed by cries of BAH humbug, but this might be followed by visitation by spirits, so is probably best avoided.

Back to the topic at hand, why should we celebrate in the way and at the time dictated by the commercial overlords which rule our lives. To fight against these commercial overlords may well be a worthy cause, but to do it just for one day of a year seems a little bit like directing your effort poorly. The fact that commercialism is intensified at Valentine's day only goes to show that the real reason for it, the bond between people, is strong. The same is true of Christmas; although most of what we see in the physical world is commercial rubbish, it is in no way the most important aspect. The feelings of those around us are by far the most important aspect of both of these special days. The feelings of the one you might be treating specially is what it's really all about.

So what of treating this person specially, surely they should be the shining star in your life, blotting out all other lights all of the time. Putting aside practical considerations of how this could be done while still leading a life with a healthy balance, surely this is the ideal. Here I wish to lead by use of an analogy, which while analogies are as flawed as they are useful, I use one here to eliminate a good couple of paragraphs work. Now that I am earning in a full time job I easily earn enough to afford to have someone cook for me every night. Within the grasps of my money filled fist I have the opportunity for a washing up free world with no need to cook, so why do I foolishly still cook for myself. If I did then the great feeling of going out for a meal with friends would get diluted down to being only a small smile at the edge of my face when I paid the bill every night. Living is about contrasts, life needs ups and downs to give us something to calibrate against. If we lived forever would we appreciate life nearly as much as we do (or at least should).

Hopefully I've convinced you, at least particularly, that having moments of very special treatment surrounded by special treatment is a good idea. So why should we choose the 14th day of the second month for this; after all any other day is just as good. Tradition has to rear it's ugly head here. Yes it is tradition to do special things on this day, for no good reason (although 9 months later is during early winter with large food stocks and nothing to do, but that's no longer relevant to life). However is no good reason a good enough reason to not do something and to change from tradition? "Sorry darling, but I'm going to do something really special for you on the 10th of June as I see no reason why it should be on the 14th of February" This line of reasoning strikes me as the sort of reasoning that leads to me moving my cheese from the second shelf in my fridge to the third; there is no reason to have it on the second, but no reason isn't a reason to change to another thing with no reason. The final issue I shall tackle is that of if your fridge has no cheese in it at all.

Having spent several Valentines days at the bottom of bottles, full of plastic and poisons or just being self destructive in a multitude of other ways I learn something. The days spent recovering and being reminded of that day made me realise something; clearly I have far more to my life than just not having a significant other. So instead of moping around trying to punish myself in some twisted way I grasped what I did have. I had the ability to do what I want, to be as reckless as I want (for better or worse) and to not have to plan how I can best express in physical reality what I feel to the depths of my emotions: I had my freedom, it was just the world and I. The world gave me good friends.

So what did we do, we decided to gather. We formed our own ritual. We drank beer, we ate pizza, we watched kung-fu films, we stayed up late, we had fun. In poker you can get dealt hands from which you are unlikely to win, but you can still enjoy the betting and the playing of the game. I've never been more bored at a poker game than when I decided I would always fold unless I had a very large chance of winning. You sometimes get a good hand, you sometimes get a bad hand, but you can still enjoy playing the hand, no matter what it is.

Sofa

2006-02-02T23:11:00.000Z

Inspired by a DFS sofa advert but dedicated to the sofa I am on right now.

Happy times do flow
when you are close to me,
I make your life real.

Haiku time again

2006-01-31T20:26:00.000Z

Beautiful maiden
dancing across every thought
until I see her

Ode to drugs

2006-01-13T20:21:00.000Z

Written while drinking coffee today at work. I failed in my coffee free day!

Tea takes the edge off coffee
and cola takes the edge off tea.
Caffine is what I must desire,
as life takes the edge off me.

99 words

2006-01-11T23:53:00.000Z

This is actually a summary of my novel in 99 words. Contractions count as one word, right? By the end of this year this shall be expressed in 200,000 words. I'm sure of it as I'm already about 3% there!

The future spread before her; she pauses, unsure of where this ledge hangs over. Seeing things she shouldn't know, hearing things she can't change; she needs to find the way to use all she knows. She visits a manor house, a kind old man tells her what she needed to know, but didn't want to hear. Throwing all she holds dear away she searches for what she wishes is real. In the end she is alone in an ice house, crying while on the cold floor. An old friend speaks to her, it is finally time to step forward.

Intelligent Design vs. Evolution

2006-01-06T19:23:00.000Z

I've been listening to some discussions on intelligent design vs. evolution. I'm quite ashamed of the people involved though, so I've not taken part. They either seem to be very stuck in their ways (on both sides) convinced that they are right, or to just argue about some abstract thing which doesn't really relate to the discussion but that they can have a civilised debate on. It just seems sad to me that they have to either run away from the discussion or stand firm and attack each other.

Anyway one of the big points seems to be if ID follows the scientific method and seems to revolve, at least in part, around if it's falsifiable or not (and that scientific theories should be falsifiable). Issue which haven't been drawn in are the offering an explanation of something which hasn't previously been explained by evolution but is by ID or visa versa and the issue of simplicity of theories.

I wanted to get people into a discussion about the whole idea of missing links being missing, so you don't see half animals very much in fossils. Now clearly this is a problem with evolution if we expect things to be going at a gradual rate, but if sudden changes in the environment cause more rapid natural selection then the half whale half bear creature would only be around for a few 10,000 years, so is unlikely to be captured in the fossil. After all the earth is a big place and it's very difficult to get fossils.

This then brings me back to the idea I had about ID: so it's about a designer manipulating the genes to design things (at least I think that's what it is, if I'm wrong please someone mention it). I assume this means the designer causes the genes to mutate, as I can't really see any other way it could be justified as there is LOTS of evidence for genes. So how can we easily separate one mutation which is brought about by the Maxwell-Boltzmann distribution curve of energy and one which is brought about by a designer? But then I'm clearly having this influenced by my own ideas about how the universe happens, so perhaps both sides would totally disagree with me.

It also strikes me that the proponents of evolution sometimes accuse the ID supporters of bringing in religion through the back door; but how can we be sure they are doing that? Is it a viral meme at work (which to be honest, religion is!), is it through some fear of evolution or is it done truly to get people to be more open minded (and maybe more vulnerable to certain memes, sorry but I can't help being sinister!).

The phlogiston theory of combustion

2006-01-05T18:43:00.000Z

I found this interesting article today and thought I should post it here.

It's a history of a brief period of the 18th century when some alchemy was becoming more like modern chemisty. It's a really interesting read if you think in a modern chemistry mindset and it's a real challenge to set your mind to work like it did for those early scientists.

If you're not of a modern chemistry mindset then it might not be nearly as fun or interesting, but it doesn't go into complex detail so you might find it interesting for a different reason to me.

Anyway a good exercise for scientists to try shifting their paradigm and not to bring with the shift any thoughts of: "well they were so silly in those days, this is such an quaint idea".

Go on, I dare you!

Silence

2005-12-28T02:14:00.000Z

Defending a point which does not need defending weakens the defence of that point. To make a correction only draws attention to the corrected part. To open something up produces questions of why it was closed to begin with.

For these reasons I can not say what I wish to say.

2005-12-18T17:56:00.000Z

The lovers hold on,
to the beautiful moment,
in each other's arms.

Moon

2005-12-11T23:00:00.000Z

Composed at the same time as this, but Hane did come up with the idea of a moon Haiku first.

Silver ball up high,
Rolling around nights black sky,
Timelessly watching.

Winter

2005-11-28T18:14:00.000Z

Cold air bites my skin,
breath suspended in a cloud,
frosted leaves crunching.

One

2005-11-21T20:16:00.000Z

It's clear what this is about, I've just written it, I'll never forget why.

Another leaves to join the one,
quickly fading yet never leaving.
To show my emotions, just a tear.
Memories' decay does bother me,
how will he survive through time?

Still standing is his work,
monuments built of stone and mind.
Across the skyline they give light.
I'll hold on, knowing it'll be fine,
Through the pillars you live on.

Nameless and praised.

Fan Death

2005-11-19T10:29:00.000Z

I found this site about fan death the other day at work. I can't work out what to make of it.

Look around http://www.fandeath.net and have a think. I'm trying to decide if it's a serious commentary on a strange social phenomena, or just a bit of anti Korean racist rubbish. It does seem to touch (albeit very lightly) on some almost serious points, for example the way it might be used to report suicides in a sensitive way. However it just doesn't strike me as being altogether an objective approach to a cultural difference.

So should I dislike it or not? I really can't tell. I also don't want to just leave it as that and ignore it, that'd be just as bad as thinking it was great if in reality it was racist.

Why does rebellion make sense to middle class people? (Or why do we have mini goths?)

2005-11-06T22:19:00.000Z

This started off as a conversation with Rosie last night about "who are we to judge our own actions". In the course of trying to explain it we started to talk about her liking gothicness (I'm sure that's a made up word). I was using this as an example of something which is most likely a rebellion against her middle class upbringing, where as she said that she enjoys listening to the music and wearing black and big knee high boots. I'm not going to use this example any more, as it can be argued either way (if it's rebellion or just taste), instead I'm going to make it abstract by renaming Rosie to Alice and assuming that some magic machine has said it's at heart driven by a desire for rebellion. Alice still thinks it is her own taste and style, mainly as this allows me to explore the idea of where the self hiding desire to rebel comes from. One more word of caution in my analysis is that I don't mean to exclude upper or lower class people, it's just that I should "write what I know" and the majority of goths (of all types) that I know are from middle class families. (In hindsight perhaps as well as renaming Rosie to Alice I should have made her a Jetialic instead of a goth, but making up a social group would really just generate more problems.)

So what of Alice's life? She's had what could be summed up as a good life. She's never been left hungry, she's been given a reasonable amount of freedom over where she goes out and who she's friends with. Yes there will have been times where her parents didn't want her going out with that boy, but on the whole they were reasonable, so surely there should be no reason for Alice to rebel.

My first idea for a reason was to do with the middle class conscious/guilt that most middle class people experience. This guild drives them to recycle, it drives them to give money to charity; so don't get me wrong, it's a good thing, but it could also be the cause for kids wanting to rebel. I see it contributing to this in two ways. The first is that there is a desire to get away from the guilt of being comfortable when others are not, or by being comfortable at the expense of the environment. This would seem to make sense but I'm not convinced, it implies all rebels are cowards,which simply can't be the case. The second thought I had is a bit more difficult to explain.

I think the easiest way to explain it is by a analogy. Imagine that one of your friends is in pain. There is nothing you can do about it, so you get frustrated and angry. In your frustration and anger you punch the wall or throw a plate at the wall. Some act of destruction which doesn't affect the thing which is actually causing the anger. In this way being a rebel doesn't help others live a better life, but it allows you to be distracted, to do something to help ease the guilt that has been taught to you since you were young.

However I strongly believe that rebellion does serve a purpose, that it's not just a side-effect of a different social phenomena. While the previously mentioned reason does have a role to play I believe that it is also serves two other purposes. The first is one of asserting a style. It's not a case of being and individual by being part of a big group (a common criticism of goths) it's being an individual by not being what your parents were. I also think that by trying another lifestyle it is easier to settle into a house with a wife and two kids. By trying a different life we can be more confident that the one we have is best suited for us.

On the other hand some people find their other choice more enjoyable and more to their tastes so go with it. Perhaps this is the most important factor, that while our parents might want to shape us in their image, a strong desire to rebel allows them to only offer a helping hand in our development. So we should all be thankful, not just for having a choice available but also to the desire to exercise it.

The truth and the lies

2005-10-12T20:49:00.000+01:00

Written by me just now to express something which I don't know how to express any other way

At some time in our lives we all lie. At some point in our lives we all tell the truth. It sometimes seems that lies are easier than the truth. It's even easier to say: I'm lying vs. I'm telling the truth. Yet is it ever possible to tell if another person is lying, is it ever possible to tell why? There seems a strong desire to tell if someone is lying or not; yet this isn't generally for practical reasons, it's mainly because 'it is the right thing to do'. Perhaps I should illustrate this with some examples:

I am a giraffe

This doesn't need any explanation. It is clearly a true statement, something that no decent human being would lie about. Oh wait... there's a problem there!

If I was to say this to someone they'd maybe laugh, they might think I was odd, but they'd never think I was a bad person; they'd not think I was trying to trick them with lies. So it is not the lies which are bad, but the deception which uses them.

It's 12 o'clock

You ask someone the time, they reply. I might just be a very trusting person, but I don't ever think they'd lie to me. There is no necessity to lying about this. I can't think of any (non contrived) way that it would be possible to deceive someone by lying about the time to them. Comments if you can think of ways. This is a statement which has implicit trust, but only because there is no reason not to trust.

I love you

This is something that you might lie about, but usually unless there is some money scam involving you won't lie about. At least not deliberately. You might be caught up in the moment, you might not realise the full extent of the meaning of it, but if you are of sane mind then you're not going to lie about this.

I think that's a good idea

Now we get to a grey area. This could be a lie, it could be truthful. Ignoring the uncertainty of not knowing if something will turn out well, I can still try to trick you into doing something for some other reason and claim it is a good idea. I might have any multitude of reasons for lying, so why do you trust me? From experience and a bond of friendship. We both seem to have a mutual understanding to not try to screw each other over; well at least not too much.

That is a red dress

You shouldn't trust me if I say that. I'm colour blind so don't really know what red is. I am aware that I am colour blind, and particularly bad at picking out reds. Knowing this, if I choose to make a statement about the redness of something, which I hope you'll trust, surely I am in some way lying. If I can't trust myself then me telling you something which I don't trust myself, while at the same time trying to convince you of it, is just one big lie from me.

That doesn't make me angry

How dare you even consider that I might be lying about my emotions! Really how dare you! If you were a true friend you'd not question me when I said that to you, why should I sit here and be nice if you're going to do hurtful things such as doubting things I say to you then I will fight back. It's not the same as the red dress, in that case you could point out to me that you doubt my ability to see colour and that maybe I am wrong for trusting my instincts. That would be fine, but saying I'm untrustworthy when I've told you something is like a slap in the face. Think about it, this statement is a combination of all of the above examples. Mixed together and cooked at gas mark 6 for 2 hours. The blend is so subtle. So why do you question? I feel it because you feel angry and don't want me not to be angry, yet still I kicked out.

Neither of us came out of that looking good did we?

Ok so quite blatant, but it needed to be said.

The illusion of emotions

2005-09-15T18:16:00.000+01:00

This is all based on assuming everyone is like me, if you don't like that idea then why the hell are you here?

Think about it.

Emotions are one of the main driving forces behind our actions. They help us make quick decisions about things and they even free us from not having to consider many alternatives in a situations.

So why is it that drugs can control them so. Even just blood sugar levels can control the intensity of them.

I don't mean 'why is it', I mean isn't it strange that, given their importance, that drugs can influence them.

In the end drugs are all part of the world, all part of what influences our choices and as with all things neither negative nor positive.

So it all resolves into a neat ball.

Quotes, The reason for

2005-09-14T18:41:00.000+01:00

I've just been trying to track down a quote which I can only remember the meaning of; I can't remember who said it or word for word what it was. This makes finding it on the internet difficult! To paraphrase it it's:

When all is done in our lives the important things we leave behind are not the works we have carve in stone but the ideas we weave into others.

Which is very fitting for what is playing on my mind at the moment. It is considered proper academic form to quote your sources as well as giving an accurate quote. Now in an academic context this makes sense; particularly when there is a big scope for interpretation of some statement. However it doesn't make much sense when communicating face to face.

So why do we ever quote people when talking face to face. I doubt it is just force of habit from when we write more formal discussions of ideas. I believe it is because we wish others to quote us, to have our ideas laid down in stone, rather than to have them woven into others. If it's all about the fame then the words words could lose all meaning and you'd still quote it.

So from now on I'm never going to mention my sources unless asked, so paraphrasing is best for communication, exact quotation is best for interpretation of works.

Slightly missing the point

2005-09-10T11:38:00.000+01:00

Just read this article (via Boing Boing) and I can't help but think that it's really not the right way to go about things.

If you don't want to read the article the summary is that some gay marriage advocates in California are going to publish the names and addresses of people who signed an anti-gay marriage petition on the internet.

I really strongly disagree with this. I can't see anyway that it is constructive or helpful. It's just going to create further division and hate between the anti-gay marriage and pro-gay marriage groups. Progress towards a greater culture where people are not discriminated against for their beliefs and are accept for who they are will not come about from what is basically just throwing stones. When you're on opposite sites of a barricade it's impossible to shake hands.

I can understand that people can frustrated and angry when people seem so set in their ways that it can seem that nothing is going to change. I'm not even saying that the people planning to publish this list are bad people, just that this action is not going to be helpful and productive. Now I'm pro-gay marriage and would very easily get into a heated discussion with someone who was anti-gay marriage; yes I would be trying to change their mind, but by discussing with them how the ideas relate to all of us and how it will not cause the apocalypse etc. Never would I consider calling them a bigot or close minded (although I probably would after arguing for 3 hours and realising they're not at all open minded and just spouting rote learned lines).

However it's only partly from a respect for their views, I don't agree with their views and feel that I should explain why I have mine; in the hope that they realise they were missing some argument or some bit of information which lead to their (bigoted) beliefs. There is also a significant fact that as soon as you insult someone they will go to their back foot and become far more defensive. They close off their mind, start chanting their learnt statements and then just get angry and walk off.

A far better approach is to show them that you understand their point of view, that you can see where they are coming from and, most importantly, that you are a rational sane human, just like them. Once you've demonstrated this you can then go on to trying to convince them of a 'better' (more respectful) point of view.

So basically if you want them to show some understanding you have to show some understanding as well, else we'll just carry on throwing stones at each other and never realise the beauty that comes from diversity and open mindedness

The Hammer of Life

2005-08-17T21:20:00.000+01:00

Long one today, written for an English lesson in year 9, so about 7 years ago I think... I think it's interesting to note this after re-reading it.

Holly loved David; David loved Holly: but not for the same
reason. David loved Holly because she listened to his problems
and loved him. Holly loved David because he gave her food! David
also loved Charlotte because: they spoke the same language;
Charlotte was about the same size as David and, the most
important thing, they loved each other for the same reasons.
Charlotte also loved Kate, Bob and Lara; Lara loved food, but
that is not relevant to the story and would take some time to
explain.

David and Charlotte are humans, if that is not clear. Kate and
Bob are also humans. Lara and Holly are animals, a hamster and a
guinea pig, respectively.

"David! The 'phone," shouted David's mum, through two walls and a
door. Despite the fact that most people could not tell what she
had shouted meant after going through 2 walls and a door, or 3
doors depending on how you look at the world. David knew what it
meant as it happened every Sunday at 10 o'clock.

"OK just feeding Holly," his usual reply to this weekly event.
Despite it sounding like a very quiet power-drill to his mum, she
knew what it meant. This all was very confusing to Holly as such
an intelligent creature, as her, can't understand human customs.
(Refer to 23rd of April 1999 edition of Nature, page 64,
left-hand column.) As we should all know Holly the guinea pig was
one of the important contributors to sub-space travel.

After closing and bolting the cage in his room, David ran
downstairs, after opening the door to his room, skidded across
the hall and opened the last two doors to get to his mum in the
kitchen. His mum was holding the cordless 'phone for him to grab.
After this, so far, routine Sunday he heard the first blow to his
perfect life.

"Hi, Charlotte."

"Hi, Dave." It would be unfair to say that it was impossible, but
it was fairly hard for Dave or David to hear Charlotte: because
of the Alanis Morissette coming from Charlotte's 80 watt
Hi-fi

"You wanna go in to town?" shouted Dave.

"Hang on," the music faded to a shopping centre level. "Yea, I've
got some really good news!" As David heard her voice he thought
of her: her long blonde hair, which flowed like a small brook;
her body which was not as thin as a match but not as fat as an
orange, it was perfect. In fact everything about her was perfect
to Dave. He even remembered when they met, 11 years ago. Now they
were 16, David had liked Charlotte form the start, when they were
5 and met at school on the first day. They started going out 6
years ago, when Dave had finally plucked up the courage to ask
her out.

Holly looked at the bolt on her cage door and thought.

"Meet you under the clock at 2', "said Dave with an interested
tone.

"Bye."

"Bye."

"Love, respect and peace."

"Shut up Charlotte," David said, nearly laughing. Charlotte
always made David laugh.

"You hang up."

"No you."

"OK."

Holly still looked at the bolt.

David put the 'phone in the charging base upstairs. He then went
in to his room, turned on the computer and started to fight the
evil Quake.

"1:30! I'm going to be late," said Dave as he ran into the
garage, jumped on his bike and sped out on to the road. He
skidded down the main road and over the cross road, left to the
pub and chained his bike up to the tree outside the pub. He then
ran to the clock and was just coming down the High Street when
the clock stuck 2'. He could see the clock and was 1 minute away
from it. He was too busy looking for Charlotte that he ran in to
someone.

Still Holly looked at the bolt.

When David stopped falling he saw some hair, he recognised the
hair. It was light blonde, then he saw a face he remembered,
Charlotte.

"Hi."

"Is that the kind of way you treat a millionairess, Dave?"

"A what."

"A Millionaire."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Yes," shouted Charlotte, "well my parents actually, they won 11
million and have given me 10 grand to spend."

"Cool," Dave said. Despite that anyone else would have said 'well
done' or 'can I have some'

Holly looked at the bolt and started squeaking very loud. The
whole point of this was to make the bolt shatter by getting the
resonate frequency. It sort of worked: David's mum came up with
some lettuce and put it in the cage. It sort of worked as she
forgot to put the bolt back. Holly started eating the lettuce, no
point in wasting good food. When I said that the point of this
was to shater the bolt that is what lesser being would have
thought. And this exactly what Holly wanted you to think.

"Do you want a Series 5, Dave? Dave?"

"What?"

"Do you want a Psion Series 5?"

"Yea," Said Dave unconvincingly. One interest, the only interest,
they didn't share was Dave's for computers. Charlotte could never
remember the name of the Psion Series 5.

After they had got the money from the cash-machine they went and
bought a Psion. As they walked out of the Link, Dave looked at
Charlotte and thought how lucky he was.

Bleep Bleep

"Sorry Dave, my bleeper," her face turned snow white as she read
the message. Then she ran away from Dave. Dave being not as fit
as her and holding a Psion couldn't keep up.

"Wait," Dave shouted, "where are you going?"

"New-York, 5 o'clock today, I love you." Then she stopped and ran
back. "I can't leave you Dave."

"Come on there will be lots of good looking people in
America."

"But I can't leave you."

"Go forget about me, go," Dave knew he would hate himself later
for saying that.

"Bye Dave, I'll never forget about you!" and with that she kissed
him and left.

Crunch. Dave knew someone was coming up the drive and saw, out of
the window, that it was Charlotte. But it was 6:22 she must have
stayed. With this he ran down the corridor and down the stairs,
two at a time. Too late he saw Holly who had escaped and was
going down slowly, very slowly.

As David landed, on his head, Charlotte put her head round the
door just in time to see the impact, and hear the bone sickening
crunch of his spine braking. She ran over just in time to hear
him say, weakly, "I love you Charlotte." Then he closed his eyes
and breathed out for the last time. David's mum came in to see
Charlotte crying over David's body.

Through the tears Charlotte said, "I came to tell him, that, that
he was right and I was going to go, but that I had to say
goodbye. I never knew it would be the final Goodbye. We were just
going on Holiday for 2 weeks.

As the police sirens became louder Holly sat on the stair she had
been on all the time, nibbling a mouldy peanut and thinking about
how to revive people who had been killed years before using a
piece of DNA. Then Holly walked down the few stairs left and took
a bit of David's dandruff so that one day, soon, they will be
reunited. After she has explained to Charlotte, somehow, that
they can be reunited.

David awoke to a different world. True, at first he saw only
blackness and did not know if he was alive. This was mainly due
to the fact that the last thing the remember was flying through
the air and seeing Charlotte over him crying. As his hearing
gradually came back, as if someone was turning his volume of
hearing up. Then his eyesight faded in and he could see, he could
have seen before but his brain had made a unanimous vote to stay
relaxed, on his back, and not to see the world around.

As Dave looked around he could hear a strange mechanical sound:
he stopped moving his eye and the noise stopped. Unknown to him
at the time he was actually a computer with a biological
processor.

Since 2004 after the Bob disaster, basically some one transferred
their mind to a computer and almost wiped out all the data in the
world! All Biological and electronic integration had been banned,
so what Holly, Dave's pet guinea pig, and Charlotte, his girl
friend, had done and put him in a computer was banned!

What had driven both of them was completely different, Holly did
it as she had a will to disobey law (Other wise being the most
clever animal on the planet would be boring), Charlotte did it
because she wanted to get David back. Holly was the main person,
or guinea pig, behind this illegal activity as she was 'involved'
in the Bob disaster 1 year ago.

Dave found being a robot all right, but boring! For one he was
not allowed to go out of the underground lab as if he was seen he
would be killed almost instantly, still Charlotte stayed with him
most of the time.

"Hi Dave."

"Hi Charlotte."

"I've got some bad news!"

"What?" said Dave questionably.

"People are getting suspicious, I can only come once a week. Good
bye my boss is waiting. Until the weekend, Good bye, I'm so so
sorry," and with that she left.

As Dave heard her feet echo down the corridor the decided to see
the world. He wasn't living! This was not living! So he chased
Charlotte, following at some distance. He saw her climb a ladder
and the close a manhole-cover. He was going to see the world.

He poked his head out and looked around and saw Charlotte. Then a
car hit her, hard. The police chasing didn't stop, only one
passer-by stopped. So this is what society is today it not worth
living in. With that he walked back to his underground den.

Once he was there he cried but no tears came, he had no tears. He
started pulling wires form his body and as they fell his system
stopped him. He couldn't escape, he was trapped. He ran, well
more hopped, at a wall his internal speed measurer registered 20
mph when he hit the wall.

As the building collapsed around him he felt all of it. He wanted
to blackout but he couldn't, he was a perfect machine. Now as the
bricks fell he thinks of life and how it should never be played
with, he also thought about the hammer of life, you rise and rise
up but then it all falls down and shatters your life. As his
power core exploded it took Holly and him with it. As David's
power faded he thought only of Charlotte.

Well it worked last time

2005-08-15T21:15:00.000+01:00

From almost exactly 3 years ago, from a real conversation/rant.

Me: I believe very strongly that: It'll be ok in the end, and if it isn't ok, it isn't the end

Them: Wow... that's good, is it true?

Me: I don't know, it seems to work some of the times, but other times it doesn't seem to be true, but then I suppose it isn't the end. Some things just seem to have a habit of all slotting together nicely in life sometimes while sometimes they just tear at each other like giant cogs.
Life is about change, the change which made us decide to crawl out of the ocean, the change which made us decide to walk upright, the change when industrialisation occurred. While not every part of the changes were pleasant, or fun, in the end they all came together for a far greater thing. Life without change wouldn't be life.
Change is the very thing which makes life so special. And life can adapt to the changes, whether good or bad, and make the best we can out of them.
Finally, change can't be all good, we are not all knowing beings, we have to test our limits, explore our environment, and each others minds. We are bound to put some wrong foots along the way, but we can see these, and then adjust to avoid taking any more bad paths.

Noise Filter

2005-08-13T14:44:00.000+01:00

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Hi!

We live in an age with noise all around us. Just think about it, all the fields from the current through all the wires through all the buildings we live in. Think about all the radio waves passing through your head every second, think about how much information they hold. We all live in a mess of electro-magnetic fields, a mess of photons, a mess of information. Yet it doesn't effect us, or so we think.

And before you stop reading, thinking this is another piece of 'new age hippy rubbish', I promise you it isn't, thats just the dramatic start to get your attention! I'm going to talk about the impacts of various 'evil' new technological inventions, there is plenty of that crap floating about on the 'net. Instead I'm going to talk about the actual information. Perhaps this will make a little more sense if I put it into context: I am a white middle class 18 year old, I'm
currently sitting in my room, with an empty house, thinking about the war on Saddam Hussein. Well I say war, I'm not sure it can be called that, possibly a military conflict with him, but I wouldn't class it as war. But I digress, it's the second week of this conflict (the second one against Iraq, it's early to mid 2003), and I was sitting watching BBC News 24, putting off doing any real work (a great skill to be able to pull it off and not get bored, as any student will tell you) and it struck me how we are all bombarded with information.

All the time new images flash up on the screen, images of bombs dropping, people with white flags, people with guns, people talking, impressive 3D logos... if you've seen a 24 hour news channel you'll know what I mean. It struck me how it's fairly similar to the bit in the Clockwork Orange where the main character is brainwashed (I forget his name). A risk of losing my main focus again, I've always regretted not taking any form of psychology/sociology etc. at A-level. While I feel at home with the safe and firm assertions made by the physical sciences, I've always enjoyed participating in useless banter about possible ideas about how things work. One particular thing which has always puzzled me is people, they are just one great big box of
unanswered questions, which is why I will probably write lots on the human mind. So I regret not taking any 'official' subjects close to this interest, but at the same time I am quite pleased, as it means I can take a completely different view, which might well be silly and wrong, but I'll take it anyway.

Anyway I'll plant this musing firmly back on the path it was meant to take, and was so rudely stopped from taking. I'm not saying that the media is actually brainwashing, I know that involves intensive techniques (or so I've heard). Having said that the link still existed in my mind, but I passed over it as a slight amusement which I might bring up in later conversations with someone. Then I had a link sent to me by a friend, on war crimes and the US, one of the many random ideas bouncing around the 'net, but it illuminated something in my mind: I remembered something that someone had said to me a long time ago, no-one does anything for no reason, whether hidden or not, there is always a personal agenda to everything.

This is the point where people will start jumping up and down and start shouting things like: 'He's making wild generalisations', 'What about charity work?', 'He's just seen the bad side of humans'. If you, my dear reader, are one of these, I ask of you one more small favour, read until the end of this paragraph, if only to finish on an easy to remember part. I shall now pen short responses to these possible questions: I may well be making a generalisation, but we do all share a massive amount of DNA, cultural ideas and morals, so some generalisations, at least to simplify the system, must be possible; Charity work is done according to that persons belief that that is what is 'right' to do in that situation; Why is saying that everyone does something for a reason the same as saying everyone is evil? People aren't a radioactive atom decaying, they have reasons for everything, think about it, it's almost a tautology. Going from this idea/generalisation/model/thing (delete as appropriate) that people do everything for a reason we can draw some interesting conclusions.

First look at this very page you are reading, I wrote this for a reason, and that reason is to let other people hear my view point on this subject, and maybe open a few minds. I have different motives than the media, but very similar motives to the writer who wrote about war crimes and the US. The media is there to make money (another wild generalisation, see above). In a capitalist society this is a fairly easy idea to accept (at least as a possibility), so you're probably expecting me to start going on about how evil this is, but no, I have a surprise. While the media wants to get more viewers/readers etc. so shows the most popular stories and images, they don't have total control over what they can get their hands on. In a conflict such as Iraq the army has the say over where journalists can go, and what information is given to them. I state this so clearly as I'm not saying it's one big conspiracy, I'm just saying that the army's reasons are the ones which influence what we get to hear/see.

This means that when ever you watch anything, read anything, hear anything, and start to process the information from it, stop to think. There are no unbiased sources (this musing included) and you need to apply a noise filter, and make sure only useful information which you can be sure of it's truth, is accepted into your world view. This doesn't mean you should discard all the other information, just always take it with a pinch of salt. Another, even more important, realisation I came across is that no information is also an indication of something. Use just as strong a filter on a lack of information as you do on information which is shoved right in your face. Use your noise filter to find silence as well as voices, and you can keep your individual thoughts and ideas.

I say keep, but obviously it will have some influence, we are not static things, but it'll help you keep control, and not become a pawn to someone else. Looking back and re-reading I realise how obvious this all is, and how you probably already knew it all, but that doesn't make it useless. To have someone else have stated it, or having stated it in writing myself, gives me/you a firm point to throw ideas about from, and new ideas to start thinking about. It's like when you speak something which everyone else always knew, it somehow makes it more real and likely than when it was just a concept in your head, and that is why I wrote this, not for any of you readers, it's all for me. I told you I had my reasons.

Toby,
26th March 2003, Guildford.

Sparks

2005-08-01T16:59:00.000+01:00

Moonlight and stardust,
dreams of chasing a dancing star,
we all fall alone.

The unhappy

2005-07-25T20:46:00.000+01:00

An old 'poem' as I'm too lazy to type anything else!

I shout for equality and fairness.
I stamp my foot for justice and rights.
I scream for cooperation and coordination.
But do I ever step off the back line,
do I ever face up to my words?
One voice can't change anything, I say,
one person can't do anything, I think,
so I sink back into my world,
until next month, when I am next feeling lonely,
or I am next feeling upset,
or the next time I get victimised,
or when I next get a parking ticket,
or the emptiness bubbles to the surface.

The world around us, the world our children will have

2005-07-23T11:54:00.000+01:00

This post was going to be a chapter from Times Tides, but instead it is going to be some political discussion thing... well why the hell not!

I feel I should start this with a nice picture to keep people in a good mood...

So where are we? What do we know? There are people in this world who are willing to sacrifice their life to kill others in the process. Normally I can usually empathise with others view points, even if I do not agree with them. However I can't see why some people would want to do such a thing.

This does not mean they are unjustified with their actions nor does it mean that they are justified. A dark cloud of ignorance surrounds me. I can't help but feel that this cloud is deliberate, whether by the individuals performing such terrible acts or by the media, to make sure we never see them as individuals, only as crazy mindless marauding monsters. I'm not suggesting a wild conspiracy, it is almost certainly just the way that people cope, by not acknowledging that the enemy are people, dehumanizing them makes them all the more easy to hate.

The other possibility is equally possible, that these acts are not directly related to England, but are just being used to show power and control for some group elsewhere. Yet another possibility is that there are no demands or claims of responsibility as the perpetrators hope that the government will know and understand what they want. Like I said, it's all covered over, it's a darkened path. So I shall take the easy route, I shall avoid attempting to work out what is hidden in the dark, surely there is enough in the light to help guide actions.

So to that end, what the hell can we do about it? Two bombs and a shooting by the police will not be easily forgotten by the public, nor should they be. In some ways the shooting has more power, at least descriptively for the media, as it is a more face to face fight, almost more human and personal in a way. So should we avoid the tube on Thursdays now, should we carry on our lives in a stalwart way or should we let every individual be X-rayed before getting on the tube. None of these solutions seem ideal.

While the first is not necessarily letting the terrorists win, for it is unclear what their motives are/were, it is giving up and caving in, something different from acceptance. Think about those words. The second option is too trusting and naive, and is more cowardly than the first. Instead of doing something with our own lives to solve the issue, we'd be almost saying: "it's the police's job, let them sort it out". We all live in this world, we are all part of it. So that just leaves the third option, a security crackdown, with us losing liberty and freedom to help preserve life and maintain security.

While I disagree with people who say that liberty is a fundamental human right, in a similar way that racists who assert that one race is superior to the other; liberty is just as subjective as any other opinion in this world and in some ways it is even more self contradictory than other beliefs. However I do believe that liberty should be strived for, respect and trust work very well in friendships, so surely they can possibly work in wider scales. So am I pro tougher security or anti? I'll take the easy way out and say neither! The choice of more or less security measures will ultimately have very little effect.

If I found that people could easily pick my front door, so that every time I went away for the weekend half the stuff in my house was stolen, what would I do? Would I just ignore it, hoping that others in the world would just be nice. I could try helping local drug addicts, in the hope that it was them who were stealing my stuff and hopefully prevent them wanting/needing to take my stuff anymore. If I replaced the lock it would be a mild inconvenience for me, and would probably just cause them to start taking from my neighbors, but I'd be safe. I could spent thousands and have solid metal shutters added to all my doors and windows. The list of possibilities is long.

So which is the best solution? I'm guessing you'll have picked up on one of them as being the best idea as you read. Personally I think that replacing the lock is most practical, while helping local drug addicts is a nice idea, but totally impractical. Hopefully you can see equivalent analogies to do with terrorists, I mean, I've made it fairly blatant in that hope! So what gets in the way of choosing the best solution. What makes something the best is one major problem, would it be the cheapest, the quickest or the easiest. Also not fully knowing the situation makes it difficult to say as well.

Once more we are back to the problem of the dark fogs that prevents us from seeing all the world. Much like poledancing the best solution is not quick, not easy and not easy to explain. Learning to take a different world view, to realize why we should be tolerant, and not just being tolerant through learnt behavior or because it is the right thing to do is the closest I can get. Trying to sum it up in a sentence, a paragraph or a book would still leave it not fully covered, it seems to be an idea or concept that I just can't put into words easily, maybe because it can't be spoon fed to you.

And where are we left for the moment? We will need to be more careful, need to understanding and let the police search us at random, but with the constant though in our heads that it is only a stop gap. It is only a measure to help us reach a goal with less bloodshed and with less destroyed lives. That's not to say it's second best, or not necessary, but is the best we can do for the moment while we wait for other actions to run their course.

Well that's my vision anyway.

Elementalist: The beginning

2005-07-22T11:14:00.000+01:00

One of my many short stories which I really should finish. Written about 4 years ago I think.

10 minutes left.

9 minutes left.

Now only 8 minutes.

The sound of feet on concrete approached, John's head jerked up and saw the shoes. As soon as he saw them he knew, it was time once more. Should he look at the face, should he look to the ground, should he look to the side? Down, show you're theirs. At this time you are theirs, but later you are yours.

'So John, how's your pet? How's your little fluffy pet? I heard it tasted quiet nice when your mother cooked it for lunch.' John kept his head lowered, mouth closed.

'Chickens should not be allowed to keep chickens,' the feet to the left stumbled, as if Philip had been hit by Pete. The yelp of Philip confirmed this.

As Pete's feet stepped slowly, deliberately, towards John, he started to step back, almost hypnotised by the slow thud of Pete's feet. John was so hypnotised he did not notice Philip coming to his left until he had hit. John hit the ground on his right side, his head followed shortly after; pain reverberated around his head. He turned his head up wards to see Pete, Philip and Andrew approaching, yet something was different. Some thing was different about them, they had the same menacing filled expression, but there was something else, something unusual.

John shot a look behind him, 2 meters of playground, then the field, but no escape, no hope. As he turned his head back his check was met with a boot, and was forced to the floor and held there. The voice of Pete rang out through his head, 'I heard from a little bird, that a chicken had been talking. I thought we agreed no talking, a simple arrange meant for someone simple like you. But you could not understand could you?' The pressure on Johns head increased, he was sure, somehow, that it was Pete's boot, somehow he was unerringly sure. The boots pressure released and lifted off. John turned to face Pete, and saw destruction in his eyes.

John dug his hands into the ground and push himself backwards, helped by his feet he manages to scramble back 2 or 3 meters, and could feel the soft, stony earth between his hands. But he was too slow; Pete was above him, with Andrew on one side, Philip on the other. He clasped his hands; readying for the first blow, he closed his eyes and thought. Why me, why now, why do they hit me, what is it they gain, is it a rush, why? It is the way of the gods. Yes it is the way of the gods. But can any gods allow this, why is this allowed. Why was he thinking of this, he was only a 16 year old, he should think of other, more normal things.

As these thoughts rushed through his mind, he realised he was still unhurt, he opened his eyes to see his attackers looking in the direction of the playground, shouting, 'Look it's old Mr Slinky, run.'

As they parted and the sun once more glared into his eyes he looked over the playground, not a teacher in sight, he then felt a feeling of self-survival and power in his right hand. He turned his hand over, realising he was griping a stone from the ground, it had a faint yellow glow to it, with a clear depression pressing into his palm he turned the stone over and saw a symbol of a star over a heart. He stood up and faced the sun.

Silence

2005-07-20T11:20:00.000+01:00

No comment, from 20th July 2003

I have been silent for too long.
Something inside of me has slowly been dying.
Is it my self doubt? My inquisitiveness?
My individuality?
Do I want to bring it back?
Can I even bring it back?
What is being my self?
Who am I?
I am just a mould.
just a reflection of you.
An echo.

The Padded Life

2005-07-19T12:35:00.000+01:00

A few years old now, I still like it though, unlike a lot of my other poems.

We all walk a padded life,
strapped in,
disinfected,
risk assessed,
whitewashed,
buckled up,
quality controlled.
But if I stray from this padded line,
will I walk in to a padded room?

Art and Action

2005-07-15T11:33:00.000+01:00

This was just going to be 3 lines in my other blog, but it started to turn into a mammoth beast, so I moved here and finished it off.

I would hope that very few people would disagree with the idea that art is open to personal interpretation. Whether it be a piece of music, a painting or a novel, different works of art mean different things to different people. This can appear in a very wide scale way, such as Elton John's 'Candle in the wind' being re-released when Princess Diana died, or it can be a very personal reason; e.g. our own past experiences shape the imagery presented by a poem. I would hope that the reader is familiar and accepting of this idea that a work of art can have a different meaning for different individuals and in particular that it can have a different meaning from that intended by the original artist.

This could spark a discussion on if the best pieces of art are the ones which invoke similar ideas in each observer, or if the best pieces of art will have a meaning that is as unique to the individual as their experiences of the world. However that is for another time and a place, although I'd particularly like to discuss works such as this novel. Still I must remain focused on the original point, the relation of art and life. I also want to state explicitly, although doing this did not help when I discussed this point with my parents, that this is not about what is art and what is not. While the issue of "but is it art?" is an interesting one, it does not, as far as I can see, have any significance in this discussion. This discussion relies on the concept of actions that people do and that works of art exist. Whether these are the same or separate does feature as a concept, but I do not feel that it is pertinent to the central discussion.

I will use actions to describe the influence that an individual has upon the world. I can perform an action of drinking from my glass, I can also perform an action of throwing the glass across the room; I have many actions that I can do, many of which are mutually exclusive. I could also present an item to you, say a renaissance picture in gilded frame, that we would both easily agree was a work of art. We might disagree on the meaning of it, of what the artist intended and of what it means to us (two different things) and you might even say it is a terrible work of art, while I would be willing to pay millions for it. Assuming that we both are open minded enough to know that there is not one right way, we would hopefully be accepting of each others differing opinions.

That's not to say that I might not try to explain to you the beauty of the shading in the painting, or that you might not try to persuade me that it is badly composed; but in any discussion of this type we would be attempting to at least express to each other how the work of art affects us. There would never be any question of your interpretation being wrong, just different. This is so much the case that you, as the reader, might require some time to think this idea over. What are your motivations for the appreciation and discussion of works of art? Hopefully you'll reach the same conclusion as me, whether your favorite form of art is music, poetry or garden design.

So, you may ask, how does this relate to actions that we perform in life? Let me start off by telling a short story. Imagine being sat at a table in a pub chatting about life with some friends. You make some witty comment and glance up from staring in the foam of you pint. You notice that two people on the table are smiling, while the other two have a combination of shock and disgust on their face. You then explain that you meant it as a joke and not in the way they understood it originally. It's all good once more and you can get back to enjoying yourself.

So what is the point in this story. There is not really! I would like to bring up the point that in this situation there was a very definite meaning that you were trying to portray. This is the case with every form of communication (written or verbal) between people. I want to make sure that when I say to a friend that "I would like a cheese sandwich" that they do not take that to mean that I actually want a ham sandwich. These are both extreme examples, but cases exist in the middle, but are too long winded, and personal, to explain in enough depth here. Draw on your own personal experience and you will hopefully find a personal example.

The problem arises when you consider if art is also not just a form of communication. The communication of ideas and emotions. So is speech, it is just that with speech it is a form of communication that most people can take part in. So why is unambiguity in actions important, e.g. offering someone a hand to help them up and not to push them down again, yet ambiguity is accepted in art and possibly even encouraged. I have only been able to devise some very general and misty reasons for this.

One of these is that actions need to be unambiguous to aid in the practical nature of continued survival, where as differences in opinion on art allow us to better explore ideas and concepts by seeing different points of view. However I dislike this option as it makes a definite distinction between material survival and intellectual masturbation. This separation is dangerous as it allows us to forego ideals and principles with the defense that it is for physical survival; considering the body and mind as separate is a dangerous path, but once more this is a topic for a different essay.

Another option I have managed to come up with is based on the idea of post modern historical analysis, or at least how Sam explained it to me. The idea is that it does not actually matter if two of us interpret actions in different ways, it comes about from the very nature of us being different. This makes reality and fact totally flexible, eliminating the problem of different interpretations of actions by saying that our worry of different interpretations is the problem. However I'm not content with this idea either, it leads to a very lonely and disconcerting idea of the universe where we are all in our own separate spheres of interpretation and can never hope to communicate/share ideas and concepts.

The idea that I have found which resolves the problem of the meaning of actions and art is to remember that the individual is not a single entity. Within out own mind when deciding actions we will not just have one reason for anything. Even if we are not aware of it many things contribute to the reasons for our actions. There is no one reason for anything. This is what leads to the ambiguity that others can see in our actions, but also leads to the resolution. It is not the case that with actions we wish to communicate the one meaning for something, with actions we wish to communicate the meaning that we consciously intended for that action. This leads to the idea that we should not assign only one meaning to actions, but in a totally different way to the idea in the previous paragraph.

Instead of solving the problem by splitting the universe into individual pockets of reality, this resolves the issue by saying we are all mixed within the same universe, with many meanings for each action flying around. When we correct someone who has misinterpreted us we do not do so to get them to know the meaning of the actions, we do so to let them know the conscious meaning we had for that action. By accepting that there are other meanings that we might have meant, but not thought about consciously, the problem disappears. Actions become open to as much interpretation as art, although the ambiguity is at different stages of the conscious experience for each.

Constructive comments on if this is utter rubbish or not, please...

Gertrude

2005-07-13T14:24:00.000+01:00

Free-form poetry from a couple of years after when I started being vegetarian, so about 1999

I once had a cow
her name was Gertrude
and when she died
I ate her
and then used other bits for other things
and I made a nice coat
out of her skin
and out of her bones, I made a trifle
and out of her tail, I made a charm
and now when ever I walk the fields
Gertrude is proud
for she knows, that she has been useful
and that none of her was wasted
not even a scrap.

Luck of the draw

2005-07-11T20:12:00.000+01:00

Written this afternoon. It's amazing how a focus on rhythm and rhyme can help settle the mind.

By the fear of feeling,
and the dread I see.
Ignorant of the meaning,
a trying time for me.
Glance in a mirror,
disgust has been drawn forth.
No love for the self,
actions come about by force.
False desire leads nowhere,
eyes gaze at the unknown.
Lacking emotions for others,
by a reflection of loathing.
How can I be for another,
when the self is half formed?

There's revolutions, Revolutions and REVOLUTIONS.

2005-07-09T18:26:00.000+01:00

This essay was inspired by the preface to 'Brave New World', so does show some similar elements at some points.

This is from early 2001 when I was an angry teenager obsessed with the idea that mankind was doomed unless we changed our ways massively.

Through out history there has been many examples of revolutions, revolutions of various sizes and proportions. Now I am not very good at history and don't know much about dates and the like, so I will be speaking in general about revolutions. As far as I can see, there are 3 main types of revolutions:

revolutions - These are the revolutions when nothing much actually happens in the end, some of the 'rich' people have been killed and replaced by the 'poor' people who started the revolution.

Revolutions - These are when there is a major change in the way peoples' lives are run, moving from capitalism to communism or back again.

REVOLUTIONS - These are absolutely massive changes going from hunting and gathering to farming for example. Living up trees instead of in huts.

You may puzzle over how Revolutions and REVOLUTIONS are different. I agree that Revolutions are fairly big events, and there is big social change, but the basic goals are still the same; show that your way of life is much better, as it is the only right way. Both the Americans and the Russians wanted to win the space race, not for mankind, but to show how much greater their way of life was at achieving things. People in communist Russia still went to work for food, people in America still went to work for food; there are big similarities. The main difference is how wealth is distributed. (I won't even start on why communism does not seem to work, there are many books on the subject so go read one of them, its just that its better to dream of being rich, than be as rich as your neighbor.)

REVOLUTIONS change the way we live, instead of hunting for food when you are hungry, you go out to work every day for money, major changes like this do not happen over night. I think that the time each revolution takes increases as you go from revolutions to Revolutions to REVOLUTIONS. 'revolutions' can happen in a matter of days, a group of people get together and plan to overthrow the people in power, although they can take years of planning and years of terrorism etc.

These revolutions, personally, I think are the most useless type, terrorism only works by inciting terror in the people, and once you have got into power or to your goal, people will still be scared of you, and resent you. They then start planning a revolution and it all goes round in circles. I know revolutions of this sort don't always involve terrorism, but the majority do, and so there for the majority of them may well work, but they also fail at the same time.

'Revolutions' can appear to only take a couple of days, like revolutions, but for all the effects to come into force, takes several months, so they are more long term, and because of this they seem to be slightly more stable than revolutions. Another reason for this stability might be because of the fact that most people who cause Revolutions have a vision, while the ones who create revolutions only have ideas. Revolutions aim to change the vision of everybody (the good joke 'Come the revolution we shall all have peaches and cream', 'But I don't like peaches and cream', 'Come the revolution we shall all like peaches and cream'.) While revolutions try to change the ideas of who should be in power, and how power should be divided.

Having said that Revolutions have a vision, is not entirely true, I think, the recent anti capitalist riots in London, England, show this. While most of the anti capitalists (the one with the true vision) probably protested peacefully, with a very low number becoming violent; I am willing to put money on many of the violent protesters on people coming along, not because they believe in anti capitalism, but because they just wanted a fight and some action.
This might be a very naive point of view, and in actual fact almost all anti capitalist are violent protesters, and I am willing to be corrected on this, but as I see it, its a group of individuals who are, in effect shunning people away from even thinking about questioning their lives, because the riots are shown in bad light in the media.

Then we get onto REVOLUTIONS, these are major events, and take years to really reach their full potential. Changing from hunting and gathering to farming is one of these REVOLUTIONS, and shows that they are not necessarily violent, or destructive, but just change the paradigm (central beliefs) of the population as a whole. These REVOLUTIONS, I believe, are not lead by anyone, they just happen as a group effort, there was not one person standing there telling all the hunters to grab a hoe and start farming. REVOLUTIONS just happen. A REVOLUTION is what is need for us to shed the lie, for us to become free and live happily. Another thing about REVOLUTIONs is that the end is almost never seen, I don't know if the REVOLUTION to shed the lie will end up in caves with big sticks or with a government system similar to our current one. REVOLUTIONs have the blind leading the blind, and whether we will lead each other off a cliff, or onto a hill top, is undecided, we shall see when we get there. I am fairly confident that some major even is brewing, no one can tell whether it will be an extinction or a REVOLUTION. Having said that what is a REVOLUTION if not an extinction of the old ideas? So in rephrasing that I shall say: no one can tell whether it will be an extinction of the human species or a extinction of the lie.

City at Night

2005-07-09T03:18:00.000+01:00

Written early on the 28th March 2003

When I say city, I actually mean small suburb of a town. As I cycled through the empty streets a strange feeling came over me. I was hoping that when I tried to describe it, that I'd be able to, but I can't. It's the most annoying feeling... I want to be able to describe the feeling of freedom and separation that I had with the wind rushing through my hair, passing the dark houses. I felt like I controlled this domain, that this was my time, my place, and my worlds. Even when
I saw a light on in a window, the brightness creeping around the edges of the curtain, invading my domain, I didn't mind, I was still in control, I still had unrestricted movement. And then I breathed in...

I don't just mean I drew breath, I actually really opened my lungs, and tasted the air, and felt it move inside me, feeding the fire burning with in me. I felt the coldness of that breath all the way down my wind pipe. But it grew warmer the more it was inside me, it stopped being the external, and became the internal, it became part of me. Then I realized: I wasn't feeling that this was my world, I was feeling that I had a place in this world. I fitted in somewhere, while
I might not have had a purpose, I had a place, and that place was mine, and mine alone. Lost were all my feelings of trying to fit in, trying to do what was right, I was free. It wasn't that I was lord over all of it, it was that I was a link in the chain, a stitch in the
material, I was part of the world, as much as an atom is part of an object. I felt something close to being needed and feeling important. What I mean is I could have not been there, I wasn't vital, but it would not have been the same without me there.