Friday, 29 August 2014

Well, if silence reveals our true intelligence...

this blog was quiet for 18 months - Wow!  But I just lost the plot - I mean, the words, I mean, the URL...

Whatever, I managed to remember how to log-in, without a clue what to say.  I shall see if a pic will load today.  And if not, talking is it...

how intelligent are the readers?  Oh, too deep at this time of day (er, it's nearly lunchtime).

So, you may or may not find this blog develops.  It was certainly interesting (just for me) to read the last few blogs, and their timing.  Some questions are unanswerable.  And the news is dire...
we hope for better: in news, in politics, in this little England that has become indecipherable.

I counted the poems written over the years - one year I vowed to write a poem a day (successfully!).  But I was flexible: whether a haiku or a sestina, each was counted...
until the year I turned to Epics.  And then I slipped a little in quantity of poems... but those few were book-length!
Another year I became hooked on haikuesque collectinos; one theme, with little images of 3 lines.  That worked well.  Hence, lots of poems!
And then 2012 happened... so 2013 produced more poems than intended.  Until my vow:
to never write a poem again, after 'The End'.
It seemed symmetrical, in a poetic way.

Did I follow my vow?  Well, nothing followed until 2014, when I wrote one solitary poem, in memorium - to date!

But are all words poems?  Well, maybe.  There are many ways to write.  I've tried the odd short story.  One non-fiction piece was published in a Scottish magazine.  And now I've turned my pen to micro-plays.  Not playing with words... well, yes.  All words are play.  But not every word is contained within a play - but, it works.  Good practice with dialogue, and scene setting.

Watch this space - or not.

Blickling winter walk.
Wow! Pics are back.

Friday, 15 March 2013

Seasons of silence

No, it still won't let me add pics - and you don't want to be bored by words, so...

brevity is only possible if you've said it all, simply, in the best way.

For the rest of us, we waffle on to the end, in hopes that everyone will find their own lucky dip, and so be happy.  Because words are never about what the writer is saying, they are always about the reader, and their understanding.

To talk to all the world is - impossible. 

It's all been said before, much better.

Only silence would reveal our true intelligence.

Bored with that!  So, without pictures, we grasp at straws - stories on the breeze.

I could have said wind, but, breath...

Much better.  Words are leaves.  Do they fall better in Autumn?

Leaves fall all year, if we have eyes to see.

Otherwise, enjoy Spring.  It's been trying, between snow flurries, and all the birds are bobbing and flitting from tree to earth to sky.  Then again, some worlds are always summer...

Switch off.  Go outside.  It's the fastest way I know to reach the silence.

Friday, 25 January 2013

Dreaming an Old Dream

I think I will put the following down to feminine logic...

I used to be a sailor, in a holiday/relaxing kind of way.  So when I say that life has been a long reach downstream, and it's just too hard to ready-about and tack into wind... to get back upriver again... you may/may not/who knows...

When life becomes one long movie where you cannot second-guess the future nor even the past, then following the heart at least gives that intuitive 'right answer' when all else is confusion.

So if I say I had a beautiful dream last night - yet to describe it to you (except in verse) would not necessary explain why I woke up smiling.  I could say my counsellor is Italian, so lucky me to have someone intelligent and sensitive to talk to.  Did the chance to chat improve my mood?  Who knows, sometimes in life every day is confusion, with brief oases in the dessert.

Tee hee, I'm a writer yet.  Perhaps I enjoy the image of floating in a very sticky sweet chocolatey pudding, while contemplating how the desert might vanish in a sea of nothings?

The dream is meaningful only to the dreamer.  The symbolism of dreams is sometimes unique, though there are common themes of humanity.  Anyway, who cares, I woke up happy!  Now happiness is a rare diamond, for me, in 2013.  So I enjoyed the sparkle.

And then, before breakfast was over, crashed down again... I could have become catatonic, unable to do anything but sink into depression.  But that helps no-one, and is mighty exhausting.  So if I see a butterfly vanishing beyond a scented rose in January (must be a snowdrop or February Gold daffodil!)... then I will follow the dream every time.

I have never dyed my hair... I mean, I have never died it anything wildly different to its original shade.  I love consistency - though it is too easy for people to read character into a hair colour.  No matter, if I choose to change that colour, it is a cathartic moment for me.  A butterfly, flitting where it will, following the nectar and sunshine.  Oh, I need sunshine, like dreams.

How easy it would be, to follow the post-breakfast mood, instead of the butterfly in halcion skies.  Give me my dream again!  Or, another one that leaves me smiling.

Feminine logic it may be; on the other hand, creativity shares this approach.  Ooh, wonder if this will get a reaction!

Tuesday, 22 January 2013

Yesterday was Blue Monday - the most depressing day of the year... I wonder whether that was because of the snow?  Because the January Sales aren't happening - who's shopping now?  Or because it's long enough from New Year celebrations, and broken resolutions, to depress us all?

Who knows.  I was alread depressed Saturday, and Sunday!  No reason.  Not half!

Isn't it strange how the phone never stops ringing... until one day you realise a line has been crossed.  It's now 3 months!  Hush.  Who's still around after 3 months.

I wonder whether people assume you will pick up the phone, arrange the coffee morning, visit, speak up?

Do they really...?  Because, you really don't expect to stop helping, or listening, after 3 short months.  Surely?  Try, a lifetime.

Some things never change - like January sales, like poetry, like the magazine through the letterbox.  So who's still reading the printed page nowadays?

And who's a friend when everyone else assumes it's kinder not to phone, ask, chat, invite for coffee.  Does anyone think grief goes away without talking?  Without much coffee drunk?

I reckon people keep quiet so as to not upset themselves.  I don't think they really want to hear.  They don't even want to hear you laugh...
or do they?

So I will leave you with just one image.  Really?  Only one...  There was this dream, and it happened over the weekend.  I don't rightly know what it was about.  Except, I was waiting... and asking... and I'm not sure if anyone knew the answer, nor where he was, but he was around somewhere, and they were just fetching him...

I wonder who they were?  Police? Carers?  Unclear.

But, he would be there any minute.

I wonder when I will have a dream where he turns up.  Trouble is; I'm not sure if I'm up to another Blue Monday that lasted all weekend.

Saturday, 12 January 2013

Death and beginnings

OK, how to increase the readership?  Who knows, who cares.  I write, and you read or not.  I write or not.  But rest assured, I have plenty to say if I choose!  And one day, you may be first to hear...

There are times that hit you like a multi-ton lorry!  And, you're left reeling.  Yet, these things are unpredictable.  What will cause the mega-ton explosion?  What will pass unnoticed and unmarked?

I could say, the whole world stops when a child dies.  Then again, it doesn't.  The whole world continues, blissfully unaware of such devastation.

I could say the best brain in the region has gone, and yet, who cares about brains, or heart, or flesh.  We care about our own, and little else.

Yet writing is impossible to understand.  I could go 12 months with nothing to say... or I could write the whole world in 6 short weeks.  Let's just say that 2012 was that kinda month.

Engaging in my son's teenage birthday party - well, by that I mean stuffing the oven full of suitable treats to drool over, and apologising over the number of candles.  But nothing could prepare me for the moment when the whole world collapsed.  When the maybes become the only conclusion to life... how to not be over-protective, when it's a scary world out there.  When the world has displayed its dark side, and it's only weird that I'm not comatose in despair.

What's the point?  Of keeping going?  Of writing against the odds?  Of being a writer in a surreal world?  Who knows.  And yet, it all makes sense... in an inexpressible way.

Anyone for celebrations, or BBQ?

Monday, 7 January 2013

The path less travelled

I wish I could break this up with pics, but something's not working, so words will have to do...

This weekend I spiralled down, and it was hard to keep going. There's enough to do, to keep busy, and even to keep positive. But there's good days and bad days, and just no telling them to be anything but themselves.

I read a post on a social networking site, and it was all about the twelve days of Christmas. Seasonal frippery, fun in its way. But I had my reasons for being mortified at sight of such jollity. I wanted to scream and shout, to trash the images and words. But I'm far too British...

no, no stiff upper lip. Just calmly dealing with feelings, then writing a poem, and then realising it didn't matter at all.

Nothing they write can change anything. But it's so easy to blame... and yet, it's so hard to work out who should be in the frame, or if there's just thin air.

There are many things about Christmas that will be forever poignant. Some songs are best avoided. Others produce not a flicker of pain, nor joy. You see, memories and celebrations enjoy a complex relationship. And what is joy for one, will be pain for another. It is best to let it all flow over you. React when you need to, be oblivious other times.

But I know when a poem is brewing -and like most good writers, I know when to drop everything, because the inspiration is brewing. That's when all those lovely notepads around the house come in handy.

Yet there's one thing I cannot write yet. It's the dream I haven't had. The dreams I would like to have. The dreams that may be in the future, but are not yet. Then I will be so quick to pick up my pen. Meanwhile, there are postcards, poems, and many triggers to write...

And those moments that are hardest are unpredictable. They do not take thought, cannot be avoided. Moments that arise unasked, unthought, yet hit you in the face like a truck on the motorway. There is no way of avoiding those moments; hazardous and unpredictable; suddenly there are so many things that take on new meaning, new fears, new possibilities.

Those are the times when a hug; a phone call; a friend; are most needed.

Thursday, 3 January 2013

Dreams on Paper

Well, here's where you expect the Happy New Year.  Nah, no chance.  If you want that, then jump to one of these nice fluffy blogs, not here.
You may say writing is a serious business, but I think it's a way of life - not a choice, more a vocation.  A dream you have again and again...

Sometimes I wish I could have certain dreams, but they never arrive.  Lately I have been surprised by dreams and, brushing past a dragonfly in December was other-worldly.  Or so it seemed, on a cold and quiet day in the graveyard.

No Hitchcock here, I don't go to the graveyard by choice - who does?  Nor do I remain after dark.  Scary!  Nah, I must prefer brilliant sunshine; even the fall of Autumn leaves.  I wonder what transformation will appear when there's snowfall?  Will routes become impassable.  I love to walk in the snow, but, it's not near.

I saw in the New Year, as people do.  I even dressed in bright colours to mark a New Year.  Celebrations and commemorations.  No matter.  Everything is grist to the writers' mill.

I would prefer not to be a writer, than to have experience.

That's where the choice doesn't come in.  However, I have pushed out two eBooks, to provide links to experience, for those that need the sharing of words.  Of meanings.

So here is one piece of experience, in book form, free to download:-
NORFOLK’S BEAUTIFUL CHILD Pathway to a Diagnosis  Wendy Webb

Now available for free download from Obooko:-

As for a New Year, I have mixed feelings about leaving last year behind.  It cannot be regained.  It has gone forever now.
Yes, words.  All words.  And lots of lovely notepads and quality paper, reduced in all the stores at this time of year!