Fiction, rum, roses.
Why escapism belongs to summer is beyond me. Actually it doesn't, come to think of it. My mind has been known to wander in every season but spring. But it's the places my mind wanders in summer...and the creative collisions that surprised me the other day listening to B-sides. That is summer.
Pretty Nell the handsome cabin boy. Yes I've written that as well. But without the childbirth. Obviously I'd come up with the idea before childbirth was interesting to me. I wish I'd thought of it. Tales of ladies at sea--think even as extreme of Ann Bonny and company--are splendid, o the drama of the Regency maiden, the Moll Flanders, brought into a family way out of wedlock, what to do what to do, Yentl cut your hair and hop on a boat. Whatever was she thinking...surely I'll never survive childbirth at sea? Surely I'll make it to Tortuga within 9 months, where no one cares? A crew of sailors will make a fine family? Blackmail?
It has been said that Pirates are the first democratic societies.
The escape from strictures of polite society. The barbarity of holding up individuals as model citizens; who actually wants to participate in that nonsense? Is it so much escapism as it is a true nature of sorts? People can't be people, so we have to dream about pirates and secret gardens.
Then again, isn't it what we want because we can't have it?
How funny to think someone's dream might be a corset, perhaps an arranged marriage. To be the morally impeccable frame of society.
I'll walk the plank, thanks.
You can find me under the white rose.
That's no metaphor.
That's really where I wait for her. That was our place, away from them who would not approve. Under the ivy in my garden, only my grandmother was there and she just loved love and wanted us to meet there. And we did.
And then she scared herself and ran from the garden. And I go to my garden every night to wait, under the white rose, because maybe she'll return, maybe she forgot something, or maybe, just maybe she misses me. I'll be here in case she comes, sitting in the thunder.
I thought I'd experiment with Comic Sans in this blog. Comic Sans MS is the way forward in our society. It really really is the greatest font. Anyways, enough about that...issue...let's move on to more pressing topics. So...more conflict in the Middle East. That place is getting pretty screwed up if you ask me. I think we (the West) should stay out of it. It's only gonna end badly. VERY badly.
So...well I'm still on my summer holiday. Not much happened today. I'm making good progress with my book (The Stand by Stephen King), so that's all good. Nearing the end of my annual Buffython. Only 9 episodes left! It's been soooo hot down here in Southampton, I can't even be bothered to move. The thing is, I REALLY want to go to town, but its too hot to shop or even walk around...I'm gonna have to wait. *sobs*
'Big Brother' is absolutly poo at the moment. It's on at the moment behind me but I'm not even watching it. BRING NIKKI BACK!!!!! AHHHH
I feel like I should write a poem or something...maybe I will on another blog. Who knows? God I'm crazy like that. Oh, guys you have to help me out. Should I get a gaydar account? As a seasoned homosexual I feel I should, but I don't know if theres any point. Do any of you gays have one? If you do, would you recommend it?
Oh, job prospects!! I'm totally going for a job at my local Co-op (part time, of course). My mum picked up an application form today. How exicting!!! It's a tiny little shop so might get a bit boring, but should be good (as long as I'm getting paid, I don't care what I have to do).
I can't think of anything else to write, and I don't want to start babbling. I'll write a poem or think of something intellectual to say in my next blog. Rock on guys
Love you all xxx
Well well well. I am no longer a blog virgin. It is currently 13:41 GMT London Time, the sun is shining, it's baking hot and I only just got up 20 minutes ago :D . My dad went down to the Bakers and got me a sausage roll for lunch, now I have an extream headache from all that fat, and I think i'm going to barf. Today's plans are:
1. Read three chapters of my current book in the garden
2. Read the script I was given for an upcoming play
3. Listen to 'Aerial' again
4. Tidy my room
5. Put my DVD's back into the correct order
6. Type up my CV for job applications
7. Have the usual mid-afternoon tea festival
8. E-mail friend about Thursdays trip to Paultons Park
9. Go to bed by 1a.m
Not a very interesting day today unfortunatly, I'm just gonna take it slow. I have absolutly nothing planed for the next seven weeks, I'm just gonna take it as it comes. Yippee! I know this a lame blog but I haven't really got anything interesting to write as of late, will do soon though. Everyone else's blogs look really cool. I envy each and every one of you. Anyways, T.T.F.N. Simon x
I am comfortable in my house
I know where everything is
things get misplaced but I somehow find them again
I have the lights turned off you see
wondering around, feeling the furniture and walls
I climb the stairs
and bump my way down them again
I can tell you where everything is
if you happen to call on me
but if you do
I may just hide
in the dark
behind my sofa
If you visit, then please....
refrain from turning on the lights!
they shine in my eyes
and show me things that are best hidden
like the crack in the wall that needs filling
and the cobwebs in the corners that need dusting
I'm not afraid to sit alone in the dark
I'm afraid of turning on the light.
how safe I feel, hidden from you
closed and cold
secure and pityful
self-despising and full of regret
yearning for you
yet retreating from you
longing for and pushing away
the door maybe open...... just a little
the hinges are stiff and rusty with tears
push a little harder
but don't shout
be as quiet as a mouse
gently does it
just a whisper
now you're in my house.
Often I have written of moments of blitz, the artistic condition that smites the distant eye and traps the artist between observance and feeling. But blitzfast as these moments are, they perhaps are born of an impatience, a ceaseless wish for something to happen.
I sit outside, it is past midnight, the moon waxes over ridges and a river roars close by. When will they come? I can't sit here all night! When does the next thing happen? I could be inside with the others watching a movie, but the thought of sitting still amongst others...it's...they...are too slow for my wandering mind. Outside alone I can sit still, but still my mind wanders rash over the land and sky, over the roar of the river and the wind...looking for something happening.
Always rushing ahead of time to find the next moment, a moment to savor...why so anxious for these other moments, these nonblitz moments, to end?
I'll never have this moment again and yet in my anxiousness I run inside to write about why I rush ahead to moments that aren't yet, that happen fast and die quickly, rather than finding some other sense, one that langors in the moment that lasts, that lasts quietly and slowly. I agonise over the minutes that slug by, when here--here is a moment that lasts, one one can savor with all senses; I mourn the death of the moment of blitz, and pay no heed to the opportunity of a moment that seems it may never end.
Lost in a room is nothing new
and sometimes pleasanter than others
and watch the young people dancing
watch the young people smiling
watch the young people leave the room
smiling, dancing, making sense
No, not one of them, not me
there they go and I am not
one of them
or two of them
I am happy for all the others
all the others
all the others
I wish them everything I can't
have and sometimes a tear fills my well
being but happy they have
a moment of pleasure for others
suddenly crushed by lonliness
but still I am happy
that people who are nice
people who aren't always nice
watch the young people dancing
here in this moment they are happy
in my eyes I smile
I know I can
feel it there, glistening in the dark
the young people dancing
An Explosion, in several parts
Fassung fassen! jabberwalk!
Part one is that I part from grief
part to partial partitur, I hate, I love
I wear away, I'm here and why
my own words crack my head asunder
shedding tears and sobs like stress.
DAMNED! and Damning!
Walled in now, with music and my headphone towers
no one reaches me who cannot, willnot, write.
Mimetic? Stuffed! I build with words
the world I ought to see and don't.
Part one is that I part from grief
and brick-and-mortar my mortal heart
to part, to part.
And if I don't say? You go your way
maybe sad but so relieved
but I relive inside my towers
the moment I saw you
happy without me.
And this was the way
this was the way
this was the way my world ends
no bang, no whimper, not even goodbye
a feeling I had that said, no, don't
and over my shoulder
there you were
but happy without me.
Part two is parted from my thoughts
finding solace on the words of others.
[sometimes it does]
[because it's beyond pain and you won't let me tell you]
[i bet you do, then it's all ok]
[and if you'd stop running away I'd tell you]
[not just me, you see]
[but what can I?]
[since you won't listen to me]
[i want to see how it feels to be you]
[away from me]
[away from me]
[away from me]
[yes you do, but yes you don't]
[ tearing you asunder]
[to love is to hurt, to hate for making it hurt so badly]
[the question answers itself]
[if only I could]
...with no problems...
And it was high summer in the south of France. Work and the car, oven cleaner and scraping the oil off the grill were the escape and now life was real, like the marmelade that would have been roundly condemned under the auspices of science. It was contained in a giant mason jar as a gentle wind carried hints of the afternoon heat to come through the muslin barrier at the window; my bare arm in the shade of hundreds of years absorbed the heat and held on to the cool...I watched it run across the skin of my arm, extended with a tentative spoon toward the mouth of the mason jar. I will remember this moment. I remembered that moment, every second as it passed and recorded each present; I've no idea what we were talking about. Maybe we weren't talking.
The little man who brought the jar, it seemed he was bigger than the jar, but not much. He smiled more than I expect to see anyone smile. Well it wasn't that he was smiling so much. The smile of a restaurant server is rarely so sincere, and I'd been trained to appreciate that fools smile, and Europeans are too clever to smile. And so like Nietzsche or Kierkegaard or perhaps Hermann Bahr, I sat in a little restaurant in centuries of shade with the decades of serious thought carefully etched into my eyes and pouty lips, and too aware of the relationship of air with my skin. I existed, it was like an essay. I underlined my salient points, poised in mid-air.
The little man gestured for my approval. He smiled, he was hunched over, his skin was a cauliflower white and his teeth, too, he had bumps and hair the little cauliflower man with the mason jar in his arms. He was the nicest person I'd ever seen.
I had a cafe au lait. I hate lait. I like my cafe noir. It never matters what I order in French restaurants, they always think I'm German and bring me Coke with lemon. I hate lemon. I hate warm Coke. Cafe au lait I can say properly, so I had cafe au lait. The air on my arm and the lait in my stomach. I felt.
I had a little spoon poised for the apricot marmelade. It was the realest thing I'd ever seen. I took a spoonful and dripped it on my pain. I sipped my cafe au lait. I admired the squish of bread beneath my apricot spoon and thought this will be sticky.
Eventually I assumed he smiled so much the cauliflower man with the mason jar because he made the marmelade and it was the best marmelade anyone ever ate, including me. For years to come we raved about the fantastic marmelade and the little man, and it was all real before we went back to work in the car, in the airconditioning, where life and lait are a long way away.
Someone in the UK is listening to my radio station. :) I don't know if it's someone here, someone on another forum that I visit, or just a random someone, but it is very much appreciated. I recently became the #1 station in my primary genre. Thanks to everyone who is listening for putting me there!
:) I've just reached 100 posts on this forum and it feels like I've been running up the hill forever. I'm not the most accomplished virtual communicator, but it's a comfort that I can reach even this stage. This forum is like a huge, rambling house for me with lots of rooms that are sometimes quiet and sometimes very noisy and busy. The odd room is sometimes "locked", either literally or by inference. It can be a daunting structure to find one's way through, but with some patience, determination and a lot of love for Kate, one can reach a stage where one can cope with a full house.
More soon :)
I was depressed a few nights ago because several of you here and others from another forum have been putting together various meet ups that I cannot make. At first, I thought that it was a matter of both the time and the money. After surfing around the 'net and window shopping (which is what I usually do when depressed), I came to the conclusion that...
...it's only a matter of the time, not money.
Yes, that's right - for the first time in my 38+ years on this earth, I am applying for a passport. I haven't booked anything yet, and there are still no guarantees, but I am looking at flying in on the morning of 9 October 2006 and returning home on the afternoon of 14 October.
As the time gets closer and the trip is confirmed, I'll be posting more here. I'd like to meet up with as many of you as possible.
Parallel events: a scream rushes from my brain towards my lips, in my dream I plummet toward a ground I can't see. Just as I hit the ground full force, the scream bursts from my mouth, and again I sit bolt upright, breathless. For one moment I am blissfully unaware, and perplexed as to where I am. In hindsight that moment, the whole succession of events moves slower than a snail, though it was certainly no more than two blinks of an eye. The moment ends too quickly and it all floods over the emptiness again...my future, it was about my future. And with horrifying clarity it all comes back, in flashes of light. Bitter tears. My heart breaking and it hurts but it's so beautiful. Everything is alright. That smile...and then those words..."What about my future...?" "I don't think it's here."
"I don't think it's here."
What am I to do? How am I to be happy, and love the joy, haunted by those terrible words, at night so clearly spoken, in the day hovering like an undercurrent...what am I to do?
I pretend I'm not here...
Finding joy in the little things! At times I am good at it, but in my Costanza-like way I hang on a universe of begetting, with every peep of the joyful there will come the slight of the bad. One does well not to get caught up in the euphoria, distracted from the lurking demons ready to take you down a notch in every corner of life. I forgot that little mantra last week, and, euphoric over the joy of others surrounding me, I was utterly dumbstruck by the comeupance of rejection. A small step to be sure, except that it affects everything else.
She: "Just be happy."
O I am joyful for so much kindness in the world, I don't know what I do to deserve it. Perhaps I do not let it show. I feel it in my heart; my face betrays that my thoughts are somewhere else. The spiral drives me down hung up on the sucker punches, so I resolve to block them out.
Me: "Does it hurt?"
Me: "I don't care."
O, but not to be left alone. I know what I have to do...it's just...I'm afraid to do it.
And no one can hear it anymore and I am alone and alone and alone. They tucked me in. They said goodnight. Off goes the light. They shut the door. I am alone and alone. Do I fight sleep or do I give in? The night drags on endlessly if I don't, and I run through a million scenarios that go from bad to worse. My heart pounds. That is what will come. I don't know what to expect of sleep, except that the time will pass more quickly. When I awaken, O remember the little things, the joyous things, the not-alone things...
Once upon a time there was a person at college. The person made a friend, the best friend ever. The Person invited the Best Friend to visit. They went to The Person's room. They spent many happy hours there. And then as so often happens, they fell in love. The Friend was the friendliest friend, The Person the happiest person.
And we sat on my bed, and my friend kissed me and it was the best thing that ever happened to me, and we parted again, and I missed my Friend. And my Friend came back, a succession of nights passed and how comfortable I was! My Friend had the lovliest, deepest smile, a soul that lingered through time and space. And I was lying on my bed. And my Friend was sitting at the end of it. And my Friend smiled, kindly, lovingly, ... wantingly. And my Friend got up on hands and knees, and began coming toward me on all fours, smiling in so...enchanting a way. Enchanted. I was enchanted, caught in some kind of mist, or the room disappeared and there was nothing in the world but us. Closer my Friend came. That look in my Friend's eyes...O it sent shivers down my everything. I opened my arms, closer my Friend came. Smiling so kindly, so wantingly. Hands caressing my hair, my forehead...my cheeks...my throat...shivers...now two hands on my throat...and my Friend smiling so kindly and the grip on my throat tightened...tightened...smiling so kindly and those eyes...still smiling so kindly but the eyes, the eyes suddenly glittering with malice, and still smiling so kindly, and then laughing...killing me...killing me...I can't see anymore...I can't breathe anymore...
I sit bolt upright in bed and catch my breath and I can breathe again but my heart is pounding. Still not sure if it's a dream or I'm awake...and then the knock at the door reminds me that it's a dream, I am here and not there, whereever that was. I shake it off.
Me: "Try to shake it off. The joy. Remember the joy. All the love and the joy."
A smile greets me in the morning.
"How are you this morning?" it says, so kindly. Kindly.
It is the face from my dream.
Just got off the phone with someone who is writing an article about competitive marching band in Kentucky high schools for a statewide magazine. We don't often get press for what we do with our kids: the opportunities to learn music, travel, perform, compete; not to mention the development of leadership skills and life lessons learned. The writer is a "band mom," so I know that we will get the right treatment. Looking forward to that coming out in September.
Other than that, I'm working on some improvements to the radio station that I plan to implement over the course of the next few months.
The artistic condition is when life is most tortuous, because it is the most vivid; it is when the painter, the poet loses him- or herself in the intensity of the living moment, when the artist transcends and becomes like a string resonating with tension and force. Solitary in his or her ob-con-servatory and suddenly struck like by lightening with the closeness and force of life around him or her, though not from within.
I cried different tears today than I have ever cried before, for sheer force of life. While I heard tales of anger, of love lost, of love found, of joy, of dying, and of meaning. Life is so present today and it crushed reason with such emotion that it became feeling, in my body and every fiber of my being, and tears crept from a new part of my eye that had not seen in a long long time. I am but an observer, and transformed for a moment to pure feeling.
Just being alive/ it can really hurt/ and these moments we're given/ are a gift from time./ Just let us try/ to give these moments back/ to those we love/ to those who will survive.
There are only two things that are important in this life: children, and art.
Anyway, I am a music teacher for grades 6-12. I also teach three periods of Arts & Humanities to all of Grade 10. I am currently working on my Master of Arts in Education (Music Emphasis).
Oh, almost forgot, I also compose music (heavily influenced by Philip Glass)... and no, I am not a spy! :lol:
I have promoted works by members of another forum in my live broadcasts. If you would like me to talk you up on my next live show, let me know! Sorry, at this time I cannot accept music (of all things!) because of the legal wrangling with the Digital Millenium Copyright Act (DMCA).
Listening to Mrs. B on my internet radio station. Oh, that's right... being a newbie, I haven't told you about myself. Anyway, I have an internet radio station at Live365. You can listen by going to my website at http://home.alltel.net/mrklarinet. I play lots of oldies, plus Kate Bush, Yes, Pink Floyd, and just about anything else. I have just recently started doing live broadcasts on an intermittent schedule. The next time I schedule one, I'll post it here.
In the meantime, you can visit the link above to get to my regular playlist broadcast.
I write not of art, not of what I know, and yet in the artistic condition, under the premise that a theraputic attempt to record the artistic condition is all I know to do. I stand at the bottom of an abyss, and feel nothing.
If I could only write a song...
Midnight in my heart and I wish the sun would go away. The time when I could be really alone and the night would seem bigger than it ever has before. Just the light of the pagescreen here and a star or two in the black black sky; then the abyss would be inside and out and it would feel right to be who I am. I saw the light of love in your steps, a light I've not seen in so many months, and I felt like the distance between us had gone, and I wanted to find my old place at your side. I found you in a moment when your eyes were still busy, and I took your hand and you looked at my face--for the first time, in a long time, and I thought maybe...everything is alright. And I felt my smile was unlocked from its prison, I looked in your eyes and I started to sing, words that were funny, but that came from my heart, if not from my pen or from papers of then. I started to sing, and I hoped you would hear it, and smile and hold on and see into my heart...
but the distance I fear has been too great and too long, and your eyes fell away and you ran from my hand. You ran from my hand, you were startled and frightened, my heart fell in two and I stared at the wall. When you ran my thoughts shattered, when I was sure they couldn't anymore.
I fade away again.
For me it is late and I am very active...almost euphorically active.
Yet slowly I am becoming aware of a feeling of uneasiness, as if something is coming...these periods of euphoria are almost always followed by a severe blow. Sometimes it is an earthquake...sometimes something else.
I hope I am wrong.
(A silly face to take the edge off.)