Posting and trotting

I’ve been having quite a run of creative and at least partially edited stuffage on the other side, but as I only ever intended to post there every two weeks or so I think I need to cool it, lest I start to post even poorer quality efforts due to the growing addiction to the satisfaction of being able to press ‘publish immediately’.

I like to think I am making some progress regarding attempts to add a sense of movement and progression into my short story-esque scenes, but there is always this overwhelming sense of stagnation and treading water, like my characters are trapped in a moment. It’s a terrible bind to have so many strong emotions and thoughts to set down, but no storytelling skill at all.

Just ask my colleagues. I can’t tell them about anything withour their eyes wandering and yawns setting in. My pub banter is atrocious. Even if I’ve done something awesome, my ridiculous on-the-spot loss of verbal command leaves me and everyone else wondering why I was trying so hard when I am clearly just not novelist material. 

Anyway, enough about that here’s an example for you. My four legged ride was determined to test me this weekend….having still not quite recovered from broken-nose-gate, whenever his royal highness is feeling a bit fresh it sets my anxiety off big time. Last weekend’s ride waw lovely and reassuraning with controlled, sedate canters down the bridleways and good communication. This week was quite another story. I bravely opted for a route that when last week took it, the horses took off at high speed (with me almost being taken out by a low branch that I hadn’t noticed coming up) and wracked my nerves but I figured I have to challenge that. Unfortunately It was not the right day. If you’ve ever ridden before you may he familiar with the turn for home causing a massive increase in speed and enthusiasm, so when we did just that and had a nice open stretch in front of us the horses were dead set on having a big old race. Now. I wasn’t up for that, so we tried to make them walk, but actually ended up more jogging along and having to turn them into the hedge and stand there a bit a few times to chill them out. Nevertheless the temptation was just too much for them at one point and sparked off each other they bombed into a fast canter that took quite some strides to pull them up from. Most of the rest of the journey I felt like I had a horse with no head, he was behind the bit and not in contact with me, so no communication there, and I kept having odd flushes of worry that he’d bolt and dump me on the floor. Of course being spring with the grass shooting up both horses were in fine spring-loaded form, but aside from that one burst of unwarranted cantering, they just about coped with just walking and trotting the rest of the way home, even though they were visibly frustrated about it. I was half tempted to just jump out of the saddle and run away at one point but I stayed put and rode it out (ha!). My point is that despite being a little suboptimal on the communication and control side of things, I could handle Buster well enough to prevent a bolting situation, and by the time we got home we had both calmed back down to normal levels and I handed over the requisite number of polo mints for a ride well survived. Obviously I was kind of scared for a chunk if the ride, but I’m clearly not as wretched as a rider as I think as we actually did just fine overall. Next time I just have to remember that I can cope, and that my steed is in fact a (slightly hyperactive) superstar and not a monsterous bucking/bolting machine.

Today I spent however many hours there are in the second half of season five of Haven, watching TV. It’s OK,  I got up regularly to make cups of tea so I didn’t get DVT so I call that a bank holiday Monday well spent.

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Storms through clouded glass

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Not such a peaceful start to the week, chattering dreams, condensation on the glass, but maybe some beauty can be found. I trace my finger gently around the window pane, somewhere below the squeaking point, sways of idle swirls emerging from my heat. When the balance of clarity and mist is met, I step back and observe the view through my protective design,  It may not be art but I wish I could hold this moment in time, and say I made my temporary mark, but no such things exists in this space, and so I watch my design fading back into misty oblivion. No-one is here to see my scrawls, is there anyone out there anymore? Any more blurred faces on pinched frames pruning their roses and feigning indifference to the thought I cared? Repeatedly singed fingertips remind of my affliction, and so with sooted digits I systematically smeared all the faces, all the eyes dislocated from their sockets and spread around their sorry bodies. I had lost my spectators, and individuality was something reserved for myself and those able to show their fearless expression through even the murk of this clouded existence. I suppose somewhere behind the blurs there must still be a whole other world, but I have tasted its bitter fruit, and was beaten for spitting sour seeds to make a picture in my head. A matter of taste. Artless. Soul bleached yellow and mildewed beyond redemption, so I’m told, but how can small fragments of beauty spill from even such a thing as me? All this flocculant meditation before so much coffee has passed my lips.

I guess I took it pretty hard when something or some one who tickled my slumbering thoughts and graced poetic intentions bit hard when I was only playing tough to protect them. If only I didn’t care, but once someone pushes through my smokey screen, that’s it. I care too much. It’s too late by the time I finally focus on their features. I trusted them enough to let them see me. Too stupid to suspect a thief or spy in my house. I need them to hurt me enough that I can smudge their image from my castle gallery, but some spirits just won’t put their teeth in, leaving me to wonder if they even meant it. Well? Did she? My precious circle is closing in, the fog thickens and I have seen in dreams the storm circling me until only I remain in the eye right until it blinks out. If I could paint, I would capture the stormy smudged perimeter of my tornado the dust of some thousand strange faces, as the instant the lashes sweep me out. I’m staring into all those eyes, one behind the other, wondering what my protection has cost me.

“I swore that I
Could survive any storm”
~tori amos, snow cherries from France

Fighting the decay

Failure is always there.

As long as we remain human, as long as we fall short of the 46+2 that would spark the transcendence from this limbo into another plane of consciousness, we are destined to fail.

Our limbo in-between beasts and gods plays havoc with the ego. So certain are we that we are each in control of our own destinies, that we are gods among ourselves, that we are worthy of self-worship, or otherwise investing our spiritual energy into someone else’s vision of a god, that we forget our primal instincts.

So quick are we to congratulate ourselves for meaningless social achievements, that we too often leave untended the parts deep within our psyche that are responsible for the tidal waves on which the ego floats. Every time that you choose to ignore your instincts, you starve your ability to sense through the ancient wisdom that we all bear. The part that does not see failure, that does not judge, that simply is.

Judgement can be a human tragedy, and we are all its victims, and in its eyes are nothing but a list of failures.

Maybe in your eyes I am nothing but a list of inadequacies, as maybe in time, you become to me, but how about lets go and take a stroll into a deeper forest together, where none of that matters and we can accept and be accepted?

I can’t bear this weight of such frailty, can you?

“Is there life beyond the sky?
Does it matter if we fly?
Or is it enough to be
Simply as we are?”~ heather nova, humanness

the blog tour

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I have never before participated in such an activity as this – mostly because I don’t ‘know’ any bloggers and don’t relish the imminent dejection upon engaging in such a sport- but, that said, JUST THIS ONCE, if awesome undead gremlinesque kitty cats like dead cat are standing over me with a poised and bartonella-ridden claw, then I guess it’s ok….maybe..I’d like to send people to blogs I like and its interesting to learn more about people’s writing. Plus this breaks up my inspiration drought quite nicely. I’m going to treat this like a roadtrip and select some guys who I think would make a fine cup of coffee for you when you stop by to see them.

Apparently the rules are something like this –

1. Pass the tour on up to four other bloggers
2. Give your nominees the rules and suggest or dictate a specific Monday to post.
3. Answer four questions about your creative process which lets other bloggers and visitors know what inspires you to do what you do.
A) How does my work differ from others in my genre?
B) How does my writing/creative process work?
C) Why do I write or create what I do?
D) What am I working on at the moment?

4. Compose a one-time post on a specific Monday (date given from your nominator).

so onto the business of rule adherence then…

1. On this tour I’m taking a stop at The V-pub because he loves these things and actually, despite the name, doesn’t blog much about weight. Next I’m popping in to see the incredibly talented Mr Flanders because I’m hoping to lure him out of his hibernation and back into the cyber-world (though I won’t hold my breath for involvement in this endeavour). Thirdly I’d like to take the tour to katzenworld, not because I expect them to necessarily respond, but because anyone who likes cats can’t help but go ‘nyaawwwww’ when you see what’s involved in their tummy rub tuesday editions! Finally, I’m pretty sure that they will be too busy writing postcards to Ellen Degeneres to respond but I’d like to take you to meet Dumbfunnery.

2. In the unlikely event of one of the above actually reading this, then presumably you can either do the stuff it says above for Monday 22nd June, or y’know, get on with something else, because I’m totally not going to feel awkward about directing my monumental blog traffic your way!

3. Oh the questions –
A) How does my work differ from others in my genre?
I don’t know what genre I am in, so I guess my work differs from others firstly by uncontrollably spanning genres and being consumed by erraticism (no that a is not meant to be an o). Also I write quite candidly about mental health issues and that is something that too few people do.
B) How does my writing/creative process work?
I switch off my consciousness as much as possible and let words fall out of my semi and subconscious. The process usually takes place in the bath on my smartphone, and therefore my SO (who doesn’t read my blog) can’t figure out why I spend so damned long in the bath and STILL sometimes come out without shaving my armpits! I often don’t look at what I’ve written until I’m verbally exhausted, so I never really know where I am going or how things will end, occaissionally, before I start I have some vague senses of ideas but it is very rare that these things are planned or structured intentinally, they just kind of spew out. Sometimes I don’t read the words until I publish and then I kick myself for having to fix all my dumbass grammatical errors and fat-fingered typos.
C) Why do I write or create what I do?
I write and create what I do for several reasons. I am an unskilled and clumsy vocal speaker, yet can usually express myself with a degree of clarity and depth of feeling in written words. I feel almost elegant and very confident reading and writing, but vociferous discourse is intimidating and at times overwhelming for me. In addition, being so poor at talking, certain things still need to be vented, and some embryonic ideas need to be written down in order to realise what they mean. Writing is a way of staying a bit more sane than good old depressed non-writing me and is a good deal cheaper than my old therapist. Also, in my daily life I have to be very analytical, rational and logical, which is exhausting because clearly I am none of these things, I’m just pretending because I wanted to be Dr SPMP (which, incidentally, I am), so going to town on a short written blabber about whatever the antisocial, freaky liberalist side of me has been aching to shout out in serminars is definately the better option!
D) What am I working on at the moment?

Right now I’m working on a couple of manuscripts, but they are of a scientific nature, so I guess you want to know about creative things. More of the same I’m afraid – no big creative projects imminent because of too much science and not nearly enough sleep.

Sometimes your voice is not enough

Fissure

This day is only half real. The wall between my inner and outer world begs to be unlocked. Everywhere I look I see the cold harsh ground overlain with possibilities.The a gauzy sense of how rich and bright things could be, or should be.

You say that I will drown in my utopia. That I will fall asleep inside myself and never wake up, and when faces and words become distorted with hatred and pain, I sure wish I could.

You should know that fantasists like me, we get locked up. Locked and bound with expectations, with drugs and with leathery rules.

Did I hear myself then, beating my weak open fists against the door.
Could I bear my own cries, scratching and begging for something more.
For freedom, for trust, for belief, because I know you only heard rhetoric and gibberish pour out of my mouth.

You say that I will drown in my utopia. That I will fall asleep inside myself and never wake up, and when judgement and blame come raining down, I sure wish I could.

You say I’m wasting my time counting the pink clouds that float across your face, and writing a poem about how the spring wind blows so fiercely through the expectant apple blossoms. How can time spent on enjoyment or expression ever be a waste? You are wasting your time and energy on objects and routines. You are wasting your breath if you think you can change me by telling me I’m wrong.

Don’t keep me locked away. Don’t throw me to the tigers when I can only see kittens. Hold my hand and share my dreams, we can build a bridge between our worlds if you will only hear me.

Half time vertigo

In such wilderness as this, the twin snarling tangles of fears known and unknown, both veiled in shadows, weave their insidious way around your body. Whispers and fallen leaves become a hurricane in your adrenalin drenched ears. Standing still, as you are, the scraps of livid miasma pulse towards you with every heartbeat until you have no choice but to breath them in. The incense of dread wicking fast through your aching lungs and oozing out through your pores. I can smell it on you now, the sour aroma of shivering, cornered prey, and I wonder then, as the the idle gods must wonder, which way you will turn.

“You’re like scissors in my coat
You’re like splinters in my cup”~sneaker pimps, splinter

Volatility of darkness

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That one hopeful candle that was burning? They snuffed it out. The air was full of static then, alive with the unmistakable buzz of anticipation. Hairs trembling and skin itching as waves of adrenal mismanagement poured forth into the collective subconscious. In the grainy treacle of humid darkness, the visions started to take form. Each mind tasting the silent and unfamiliar aroma of another’s involuntary mental image.The rash of fear spreading rapidly, leaping from soul to soul indiscriminately. It would only be a matter of time before the insidious flower of panic came to bloom, and then, of course, all hell would break loose; candle or no candle.

“And you stand in the shadows
The room, dark and narrow
I bloom down to the marrow
It’s a beautiful storm
It comes with no warning” ~heather nova, beautiful storm