| The third degree for the nth time. |
Apr 21, 2008 10:32 am
3960 Views |  | Location: Somewhere in Romford, Essex.
Occasion: Family party for Uncle P and Aunt K's Sixtieth Wedding Anniversary.
Cast: Four generations of extended East End clan.
Aunt K: So you ain’t married yet, then?
Me: No, Aunt K. Still single.
Aunt K: But you’re courting though, aren’t you? You’ve got a girlfriend, I mean.
Me: Um…no, not at the moment, Aunt K, no.
Aunt K: Oh, I see……(long pause -- then, slightly desperately)……So is it because you don’t meet many girls then?
Me: No, not at all……(pause)……Thing is, there are so many pretty girls in Spain, it’s difficult to choose. You know what I mean? (broad wink)
Aunt K: Ooh!! You’re playing the field! Oh well, why didn’t you say so? That’s the way, sunshine. You enjoy yourself. Nothing wrong with sowing your wild oats while you can. You had me worried for a moment there.
Me: Really, Aunt K? Why was that then?
Aunt K: Well, thanks for coming. Lovely to see you again. You be sure and bring one of your girlfriends next time, eh? Oh, look. It's Cousin J. See ya later, darlin'.
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196 Comments | |
| chiaroscuro |
Apr 18, 2008 8:29 am
2186 Views |  | the beginning was me
me and not me
the not me was dark
so the me that was I made light
and I was happy in light
but dark was sad
because it could not hide from light
so to help dark hide
I made earth
and dark was happy
then crow was born from dark
and I was amazed
but crow was only hungry
and he stabbed earth with his beak
and earth cried and water was born
and crow laughed and sky was born
and crow flew in sky and was happy
but still very hungry
so I made worm for crow to eat
and crow stabbed worm with his beak
cutting it into a thousand pieces
and the pieces hid in the dark places of the earth
and crow was angry and called water
and water flowed over all the earth
and crow howled and wolf was born
and crow cackled and rooster was born
and crow screamed and eagle was born
and crow gasped and fish was born
and crow hissed and snake was born
and crow sighed and woman was born
and crow coughed and man was born
so I told crow to stop
and crow stabbed me with his beak
and I bled and pain was born
in the beginning was me
me and not me
and I was happy
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52 Comments | |
| Untitled. |
Apr 13, 2008 2:07 pm
2189 Views |  | When we first see the boy he is sitting in a tree, watching the sun go down. This is not the first time he has seen the sun set since climbing the tree. He has been in the tree for three or four days now. Hunger and thirst have both come and gone, as have the villagers. The shepherd had been the first to find him, on the second day.
“There you are, lad. The whole village is looking for you. Get yourself on down now, come on. Are you listening to me? What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”
The boy made no reply. The shepherd left and came back with the local policeman.
“Alright, sunshine. That’s enough messing about. You’ve had your family sick with worry. They’re on the way now, with the rest of the village. Quite a commotion you’ve caused. Let’s not make things worse. Down you get, and we can go and talk about this inside. Have something to eat and drink maybe, you must be famished.”
The boy gazed at the sky in silence. Shortly, the other villagers arrived.
“Son? Can you hear me, son? It’s me, your father. Stop this nonsense and come down. You’re needed in the fields, we’re already behind with the harvesting as it is and time’s running short. Do you hear me? Don’t make me angry now, son. You get yourself down here this minute.”
A woman stepped forward and laid a hand on the man’s arm.
“Son? What’s the matter, eh? Why don’t you want to come down? You can tell me. It’ll be alright.”
For the first time, the boy looked down at the people below.
“I don’t want to come down, ma. There’s nothing to come down for.”
“Your father needs you in the fields, son. Won’t you come down for him?”
“He’ll get the harvest in, ma. Like he did while I was a child. He don’t need me, ma.”
“But one day that farm will be yours, son. Who’ll get the harvest in then, eh? You just going to leave those fields go wild?”
“Someone will farm the land, ma. There’ll always be someone. It doesn’t have to be me. Someone will buy it.”
“Then come down for me, son. Come down for your ma who loves you more than she loves her own self. Won’t you do that for me, son?”
“Do you love me now, right at this moment, ma?”
“Of course I do, son.”
“Won’t you carry on loving me, whether I’m in this tree or not?”
“Of course I’ll carry on loving you, son.”
“Then why come down, ma? If you love me wherever I might be, why come down?”
“Because if you love your mother, son, you’ll do it to make her happy. That’s why.”
“But, pa. If you both love me as much as I love you, won’t you let me do what makes me happy?”
“Sitting in a tree, starving to death makes you happy? You must be mad.”
“But that’s just it, pa. I’m not mad. I know I’m not. I just can’t see any good reason to get out of this tree. I’m happy in this tree.”
A young woman stepped out of the crowd.
“And what about us then, my love? What about our plans to be married and have children? What about us?”
The boy was silent for a moment.
“Do you want to be married and have children, or do you want me?”
“I want you.”
“And why do you want me?”
“Because I love you.”
“Would you still love me if I stayed in this tree?”
“How could I love someone who would rather be in a tree than be with me?”
“Then you don’t love me. Not really. You are in love with your plans for the future. If you truly loved me, then you would love me wherever I am. You’ll find another to love. If you had said you would love me even if I stayed in this tree, then I would have come down. But not now.”
The village priest was next to speak,
“What are you looking for, my son?”
“A good question, father. What is anyone looking for?”
“We are all looking to be happy in the world, my son.”
“And where is the world, father?”
“The world is down here, not up there.”
“But from here I can see the world, father, and I am happy.”
“You are happy to just see the world and not be a part of it, my son?”
“Yes, father.”
“But that is not what God wants for us.”
“Then what does God want for us, father?”
“God wants us to be happy in His world.”
“Then why is there so much unhappiness and discontent in this world, father?”
“Because we do not know how to live in the world as God wants us to.”
“And why is that, father?”
“Because God gave us free will.”
“So to be happy, I must submit my God-given free will to the will of God?”
“Exactly.”
“A peculiar arrangement, wouldn’t you say?”
“We cannot know the mind of God, my son.”
“Then perhaps God wants me to be in this tree, father.”
“Do you pretend to know the mind of God?”
“No, I don't. Do you?”
At this the priest and most of the villagers had left the boy in his tree. The boy’s family and his betrothed had stayed on, but no amount of pleading, tears, anger or threats had been enough to move him, and in the face of his silence, they too had gone back to the village.
Days and nights pass and the boy’s strength begins to ebb away, but still he remains in the tree. As he watches the sun go down behind the hills, the branch he is sitting on gives a loud crack. He sees that a split in the wood has opened up between where he sits and the trunk of the tree. The boy gets carefully to his feet. The branch holds. He looks at the darkening sky and smiles. The sky does nothing except become almost imperceptibly darker. From where we are standing we see the boy spread his arms and close his eyes. The branch gives another crack. We are not close enough to catch him when he falls.
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46 Comments | |
| My "Success Story" Entry |
Apr 9, 2008 11:49 am
3356 Views | This is the story of how I joined the blogs and met people. I can’t mention any names, so let’s just call them Miss Blue, Miss Beige, Miss Black, Miss Brown, Miss Brass, Miss Bronze, Miss Burgundy, Miss Burnt Orange and Mr Taupe. Don’t ask me about the colours, they know who they are, and why. Actually, don’t ask Mr Taupe either, he scares easily and has a tendency to bite.
For anyone who has never tried the blogs, I’d recommend it. If you’re the kind of person who needs half an hour to come up with a witty retort, then this is the place for you. This is conversation in slow motion, ideal for the getting-to-know-you-getting-to-know-that-part-of-me-I-let-you-see process. There are all kinds of blogs too, from the “rip-the-first-thing-off-the-internet-you-find” jokey ones to the “depressing-poetry-I-wrote-myself-while-depressed” meaningful ones. I like to think my blog is a charming combination of the two, with a little “see-how-sensitive-I-can-be-having-posted-a-picture-of-a-kitten” thrown in for good measure. Then, of course, there are the ones where people actually write about what actually happens to them in their actual lives. I tend to find these blogs quite scary as nothing actually happens in my life and I prefer it that way (when something does happen I have to change medication and things just get too complicated). So, anyway, one day I joined the blogs and began to “meet people”.
Miss Blue was the first to make non-blog contact. She sent me one of those cryptic emails. “Hi, I like your style. Wanna chat?” I was intrigued. “Like your pic. Maybe we can IM.” I responded teasingly. Things went downhill from there.
Miss Beige was more forthcoming. One day in my inbox I found ten censored emails in the bulk section. I don’t know what she wrote, but I dream about her every night. I’ve received more mails from Russian girls living in California since then, but none of them have captured my heart like Miss Beige.
Then there is Miss Black. Ah, Miss Black. What can I tell you about her? To be honest, not a lot. It’s not that I don’t know much about her, it’s that what I do know is so gut-wrenchingly sordid that to write about it would mean that this story would never pass the censors. Let’s just say she’s a simple country girl who loves animals and havin’ a good time.
Miss Brown came next. Webcams are great. I recommend Kleenex.
Miss Brass and Miss Bronze do nothing but send me winks. I tried mailing them, but got no response. Somebody told me that they were really men, actually just one man, who likes to mess with the heads of others. I can’t believe that. I mean, nobody would be so sad as to spend all their time doing something so stupid, would they?
Would they?
Miss Burgundy runs a small blog out of Antarctica. At least, that’s what her profile says. She also says that on dates she likes “all of the above”, which I find particularly exciting, as that’s what I like on dates too. Somebody told me that some profiles are not a hundred percent true. But that can’t be right. I mean, why would someone lie on a profile if it was obvious they would be found out straight away in real life? It would be like just inventing a character to attract attention without ever intending to meet people in real life. How sad would that be?
My special friend is Miss Burnt Orange. She understands me, and I think I understand her. She’s mysterious and I love that. We met once in Paris. It was so romantic. I was heading for Gate 9 at Orly Airport and she passed within a metre of me. She didn’t say anything, but I know it was her. I can’t say any more due to the court order, but she knows how strongly I feel.
Then there’s Mr Taupe. Well, really there is no Mr Taupe. He’s my alter ego. The cool, suave and sophisticated blogger I’ve always wanted to be. If he was writing this story, then I’d win a t-shirt for sure. That’s all I want. A t-shirt.
And a little attention.
Thanks for reading.
This is my entry for the FriendFinder Success Stories Contest!.
Please visit and vote for me, as I would really like a t-shirt that I could wear down the pub to impress all (yes, all) my friends. Please do it now, before they delete my entry. Thanking you in advance.
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108 Comments | |
| reincarnate |
Apr 8, 2008 9:28 am
2010 Views |  | the crows have flown
to find
another corpse
my bones are picked clean
gleaming
in the light of a last dawn
come
silent flesh
and clothe me
on this day of days
I will wear a new coat
and words will surge from my throat
to the tune of laughter
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34 Comments | |
| Charlton Heston RIP |
Apr 7, 2008 7:05 am
1907 Views |  | So. Farewell then,
Charlton Heston.
We will remember
you. Magnificent
as Moses (some say
better than the real
thing) and El Cid
and Ben Hur and
other famous people
(and in that bit
at the end of Planet
Of The Apes).
May you rest
in peace
(just as soon
as we've prised
that shotgun
from your cold,
dead hands).
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26 Comments | |
| 38 words |
Apr 4, 2008 7:28 am
1794 Views | what became of poetry?
while states talk peace and fight their wars, and we
concentrate on straight-to-video versions
of reality (explosions, please)
poems will be eliminated first
plots are invented for our consumption
and accidents arranged, suicides
reproduced as comedies
(yeah, we know it’s fake
but aren’t the shaky close-ups great?)
the richest sort themselves
from the rest
to better administer
the genetically poor
who learn (to their surprise)
that protest is a symptom
of a split mentality
(and is their fault)
they are to be punished,
sister detached from brother,
until another,
more obedient poetry
can be found
one that can be alphabetised, analysed, then released,
to the establishment’s glowing praise,
a reformed poetry that (indicators show)
will do good deeds
will keep us safer while we sleep
(can’t you hear the enemy scratching at the door?)
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30 Comments | |
| some notes from the north |
Apr 2, 2008 4:00 am
1822 Views |  | snow in the Ardennes
jazz festival in Luxembourg
bitter wind
stoemp
the belfry in Bruges
movement as meditation and the mantra of footsteps
the autobiography of travel
Druoon Antigoon and the naming of Antwerp
gaufre/wafel
charcoal colours
the purposeful seriousness of the Flemish
aardappelrooisters
“Cleopatra trying out poison on the condemned”
Vanitas – remember your mortality
the Hansa House
Angels
50 years of the Atomium
“Au Bon Vieux Temps”
Jewish poets and the poet as Jew
Pierre Alechinsky
“Le Poéte Assassine”
Guillaume Vogels – the bridge between Realism and Impressionism
“Poliakoff’s paintings do not refer to anything but themselves.”
chiaroscuro
the Temptation of Saint Anthony
Pieter Bruegel I & II (noses)
living among ruins
monstered forests and the unforgiving dark
Le Roi Boit / De Koning Drinkt
sombre burghers
nephilim
what was Prometheus thinking of?
“it might well be a work of art,
but walking on it gives me a sense of enormous satisfaction”
Amsterdam and the sweet smell of lethargy
blonde girl smoking outside the conservatory
Vincent
hot sun in the wheatfields
“you have to do that which you are not yet able to do
in order to learn how to do it”
sunflowers for Gaugin
“the peasants have been laid to rest
among the fields in which they rooted when alive”
Dadaism and the meaningful banality of coincidence
"my poems express what I'm feeling at any given
moment, as if I've never felt anything before and
will never feel anything again"
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28 Comments | |
| where are you |
Mar 14, 2008 9:27 am
3947 Views | where are you
I’ve looked everywhere
you are not
in the city’s urgent streets
nor in the roaring hills
the forest whispers
of your passing, but the faithless trees
say anything
if you listen long enough
why do you hide
did Day frighten you
with dread-filled tales of Night
take no heed
they are in league
with that impostor Time
we have been unchained, we
are limitless
not lost
I know where you are
but I will not search the sea because
I do not want to find you
with the drowning
and the drowned
blue and bloated
yet more beautiful than clouds
that dust
this violent sky.
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89 Comments | |
| Member deleted post. |
Mar 12, 2008 12:32 pm
2957 Views | This post was really not up to the high standards we demand of our subscribers and has been deleted.
Please feel free to submit another post.
FriendFinder.
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40 Comments | |
| To link to this blog (gowerboy) use [blog gowerboy] in your messages. |
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