Funny course that E301. Great brilliant and utterly compelling. But could I write diddly squat thereafter? Nope. So here I am on A363. Big hopes and expectations and struggling every word of the way. Ideas are there but they are not at the forefront of my brain. Like familiar faces in the crowd but the name only comes to when you have passed them by.
So how do i release the beasts? Simple really...NANO...yep it is there looming large on the horizon...
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Big Boy Is 21
Hard to believe that time zips forward, my placid baby a young man. How proud I am of him and how lucky I feel.
It was a good night, we ate and drank way too much...but at least it was more civilised than the night he was born and John and his brothers celebrated Brians birth at Panama Jax. The aforementioned bar/club was down on the Clyde waterfront, the only thing they did not know was that Monday night was gay night.... It is still funny to hear them recount that first moment of realisation.
'We had ordered 3 pints, the barman smiled, seemed like a nice boy. Then as I raised my pint to my lips I saw 2 blokes dancing together, then another 2 kissing...thats the only place we have ever left our pints untouched. When we confronted the doorman on the way out, he said 'you can't tell by looking at a person sir.' That was bad enough...but there were three of us!!'
They then returned to our little home and bizzarely played monopoly drinking beer into the wee small hours.
21 years further home we returned and played Singstar and drank beer into the wee small hours...somethings are constant!
It was a good night, we ate and drank way too much...but at least it was more civilised than the night he was born and John and his brothers celebrated Brians birth at Panama Jax. The aforementioned bar/club was down on the Clyde waterfront, the only thing they did not know was that Monday night was gay night.... It is still funny to hear them recount that first moment of realisation.
'We had ordered 3 pints, the barman smiled, seemed like a nice boy. Then as I raised my pint to my lips I saw 2 blokes dancing together, then another 2 kissing...thats the only place we have ever left our pints untouched. When we confronted the doorman on the way out, he said 'you can't tell by looking at a person sir.' That was bad enough...but there were three of us!!'
They then returned to our little home and bizzarely played monopoly drinking beer into the wee small hours.
21 years further home we returned and played Singstar and drank beer into the wee small hours...somethings are constant!
Friday, February 8, 2008
Little Britain meets Cocoon
Mum was 80 at the end of January so we (my sister who lives in England and I who do not) decided to take her to London, correction -we decided- I took her.
She is still reasonably mobile but cannot walk far or very fast so a wheelchair is essential for zig-zagging through the terminals. I found an abandoned one in the car park at Glasgow airport so I acquired it, put mum into it, and charged on to check-in.
It was an overnight visit so we only had carry on bags. I keep using ‘we’ I mean ‘I’ had all the carry on bags apart from mum’s briefcase and walking stick that she used to crack strangers shins with-either Americans or what she considers good looking men. Anyway I Ayrton Senna’d her around the queue streaming system (and made her slightly dizzy-oops) to the desk, then we had the fun of a security frisk. I pushed towards the gate we had 40 minutes to wait so I got her a coffee and a bun, I sat down started to read the paper, realised it was very quiet and low and behold one empty wheel chair. Mum had decided to go for a wander…ok I know it’s not a major thing but sitting in the special needs area with an empty wheelchair was just plain embarrassing.
The return journey was marginally better. There is a buzzer to press in the car park and a ‘skycaptain’ comes with the wheel chair and deposits her in the waiting area with the other disabled punters. A gaily dressed college boy walks past.
‘See him;’ she points to someone’s back, this is Heathrow it is busy, ‘yes’ I stupidly reply ‘he is the one I told you about.’
‘Eh?’ I stupidly continue.
‘That MP, the one that embezzled all the funds.’
I groan, this has gone on in a loop, for the past twenty three hours. The skycaptain saves me from anymore agony. Again security frisking takes place, shoes off, coats off probes in. I know that they have to be suspicious but surely when they got a whiff of Eau d’Urine they would not bend down??? Nope these guys live on the stuff-not a career path I would choose! Anyway there were two wheelchairs on the Glasgow flight and the flight was full. Wheelchairs whipped away at the entrance to the air bridge the ladies are cajoled out of their new weapons. Assured that it is just a short walk they are suddenly a lot more disabled. These two limping matriarchs bobbled towards the plane. Mum was in second place as the lady from Uganda had clearly been on steroids but she got stuck at the plane door. She could not get her leg up. I watched in disbelief as she attempted to swing her leg over the threshold several times. Scared that I was going to giggle I turned round, to see a long line of impatient travellers look straight back at me. I suddenly felt very responsible and was relieved when she got her leg over. I helped mum on the plane we were in row 6 the Ugandan lady in row 18…perhaps check-in staff were having a laugh? Any way we are ready. Mum is strapped in at the window seat and watching intently for terrorist activity. She spies the long metal poles that are attached to the squat tugs that push the aircraft back and decides that they could be pipe bombs. I explain their function and obligingly a neighbouring plane is being pushed back. ‘Oh’ she says. Eventually everyone is on board and the steward makes his announcement on safety. '
'His diction is appalling'
'um' I reply deciding to ignore her. Mum nudges me and points out the ‘mobiles must be turned off’ instruction. I nod. She taps one long red fingernail against the laminated safety card, rather like the raptors in Jurassic Park. I then rather theatrically flourish my turned off mobile. She nods.
We begin to taxi..and taxi..and taxi…Mum decides she will go for a sleep. WOOHOO I uncharitably think, peace to read. But no she decides to try and have a conversation about the lady who lost her legs. I am grunting in the pauses. Then the plane speeds up and we are off...she is awake and watching again. She decides to read the Sunday newspaper and comment on everything. ‘Would you look at that…he is not a very good speaker you know!....I don’t like Colin Dexter he is so morose…Coffee and a flapjack please.’
and a large gin for me!!
Long and the short of it Mum had a brilliant time, enjoyed seeing her granddaughters, enjoyed the adventure, but has not quite forgiven 5 year old Jennifer for noticing that she looked ‘very old.’ Certainly not as old as I felt!!
She is still reasonably mobile but cannot walk far or very fast so a wheelchair is essential for zig-zagging through the terminals. I found an abandoned one in the car park at Glasgow airport so I acquired it, put mum into it, and charged on to check-in.
It was an overnight visit so we only had carry on bags. I keep using ‘we’ I mean ‘I’ had all the carry on bags apart from mum’s briefcase and walking stick that she used to crack strangers shins with-either Americans or what she considers good looking men. Anyway I Ayrton Senna’d her around the queue streaming system (and made her slightly dizzy-oops) to the desk, then we had the fun of a security frisk. I pushed towards the gate we had 40 minutes to wait so I got her a coffee and a bun, I sat down started to read the paper, realised it was very quiet and low and behold one empty wheel chair. Mum had decided to go for a wander…ok I know it’s not a major thing but sitting in the special needs area with an empty wheelchair was just plain embarrassing.
The return journey was marginally better. There is a buzzer to press in the car park and a ‘skycaptain’ comes with the wheel chair and deposits her in the waiting area with the other disabled punters. A gaily dressed college boy walks past.
‘See him;’ she points to someone’s back, this is Heathrow it is busy, ‘yes’ I stupidly reply ‘he is the one I told you about.’
‘Eh?’ I stupidly continue.
‘That MP, the one that embezzled all the funds.’
I groan, this has gone on in a loop, for the past twenty three hours. The skycaptain saves me from anymore agony. Again security frisking takes place, shoes off, coats off probes in. I know that they have to be suspicious but surely when they got a whiff of Eau d’Urine they would not bend down??? Nope these guys live on the stuff-not a career path I would choose! Anyway there were two wheelchairs on the Glasgow flight and the flight was full. Wheelchairs whipped away at the entrance to the air bridge the ladies are cajoled out of their new weapons. Assured that it is just a short walk they are suddenly a lot more disabled. These two limping matriarchs bobbled towards the plane. Mum was in second place as the lady from Uganda had clearly been on steroids but she got stuck at the plane door. She could not get her leg up. I watched in disbelief as she attempted to swing her leg over the threshold several times. Scared that I was going to giggle I turned round, to see a long line of impatient travellers look straight back at me. I suddenly felt very responsible and was relieved when she got her leg over. I helped mum on the plane we were in row 6 the Ugandan lady in row 18…perhaps check-in staff were having a laugh? Any way we are ready. Mum is strapped in at the window seat and watching intently for terrorist activity. She spies the long metal poles that are attached to the squat tugs that push the aircraft back and decides that they could be pipe bombs. I explain their function and obligingly a neighbouring plane is being pushed back. ‘Oh’ she says. Eventually everyone is on board and the steward makes his announcement on safety. '
'His diction is appalling'
'um' I reply deciding to ignore her. Mum nudges me and points out the ‘mobiles must be turned off’ instruction. I nod. She taps one long red fingernail against the laminated safety card, rather like the raptors in Jurassic Park. I then rather theatrically flourish my turned off mobile. She nods.
We begin to taxi..and taxi..and taxi…Mum decides she will go for a sleep. WOOHOO I uncharitably think, peace to read. But no she decides to try and have a conversation about the lady who lost her legs. I am grunting in the pauses. Then the plane speeds up and we are off...she is awake and watching again. She decides to read the Sunday newspaper and comment on everything. ‘Would you look at that…he is not a very good speaker you know!....I don’t like Colin Dexter he is so morose…Coffee and a flapjack please.’
and a large gin for me!!
Long and the short of it Mum had a brilliant time, enjoyed seeing her granddaughters, enjoyed the adventure, but has not quite forgiven 5 year old Jennifer for noticing that she looked ‘very old.’ Certainly not as old as I felt!!
Something New
It has been said that you should try something new every week. Basketball-watching that is.
The schools had a ‘Jump to It’ Competition, culminating in the semi final and final being played at the Braehead Arena. I have been to the shops (too often) and seen the signs but never been in, further more the Scottish Rocks were playing the Newcastle Eagles at Basketball, another first. Mid January is a lean time moneywise so as the tickets were free, we went.
The Arena was a pleasant surprise, a tardis moment in truth, hidden behind the shops a different if not slightly tired world. We sat and watched the melee and at 5 pm tip off occurred. The game was faster than I had imagined and more physical too. I suppose I had the naive idea that it would be one touch Hollywood basketball, and to be fair sometimes it was. The game was interspersed with time outs which allowed the scantily clad Rockettes to do their thing. Once John had decided that they were legal, he was curious to know if anyone could call a time out!
The Rocks need to win by 24 points to progress in the cup, they agonisingly won by 22 points and right up to the last seconds they could have done it, but a series of technical and sportsmanship fouls allowed their dream to disappear. John prefers his sport to be more streamlined without the interruptions-although he seemed more interested in the interruptions than the game.
The schools had a ‘Jump to It’ Competition, culminating in the semi final and final being played at the Braehead Arena. I have been to the shops (too often) and seen the signs but never been in, further more the Scottish Rocks were playing the Newcastle Eagles at Basketball, another first. Mid January is a lean time moneywise so as the tickets were free, we went.
The Arena was a pleasant surprise, a tardis moment in truth, hidden behind the shops a different if not slightly tired world. We sat and watched the melee and at 5 pm tip off occurred. The game was faster than I had imagined and more physical too. I suppose I had the naive idea that it would be one touch Hollywood basketball, and to be fair sometimes it was. The game was interspersed with time outs which allowed the scantily clad Rockettes to do their thing. Once John had decided that they were legal, he was curious to know if anyone could call a time out!
The Rocks need to win by 24 points to progress in the cup, they agonisingly won by 22 points and right up to the last seconds they could have done it, but a series of technical and sportsmanship fouls allowed their dream to disappear. John prefers his sport to be more streamlined without the interruptions-although he seemed more interested in the interruptions than the game.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Where is my inspiration? Oh where has it gone?
Sometimes you just have to batter away at the keyboard until something grabs you. At this particular moment I am just desperate to write but cannot find anything that sustains me for more than four lines. Good ideas yes, but they are not electric, and I need them to be electric, to have surges that compel me to find out what is going on in their minds, to write until I understand them, but all that is there is blank.
Blank can be good of course because that means there are no limits, but too much choice makes decisions hairy fairy.
Now there’s a thought from a typo, The Hairy Fairies. Hirsute fairies in pink tutus, with underarm hair, and hairy legs …now that is just plain weird. Fairies of Eastern European origin with names like Helga and Olga who are scoffing so many steroids that they cannot get off the ground? Perhaps they just want to live here, better working conditions, escaping persecution by the size zero fairies. They are just working class fairies with families to feed, now there is another question how do you get a fairy pregnant? And what do they have, baby fairies? fairy eggs? And whose the daddy fairy? - Olaf the fairy sounds like an oxymoron and quite possibly libellous! Mmm… Not a genre that I would normally pursue but there might be something… twisted admittedly, but perhaps worth chasing…
Blank can be good of course because that means there are no limits, but too much choice makes decisions hairy fairy.
Now there’s a thought from a typo, The Hairy Fairies. Hirsute fairies in pink tutus, with underarm hair, and hairy legs …now that is just plain weird. Fairies of Eastern European origin with names like Helga and Olga who are scoffing so many steroids that they cannot get off the ground? Perhaps they just want to live here, better working conditions, escaping persecution by the size zero fairies. They are just working class fairies with families to feed, now there is another question how do you get a fairy pregnant? And what do they have, baby fairies? fairy eggs? And whose the daddy fairy? - Olaf the fairy sounds like an oxymoron and quite possibly libellous! Mmm… Not a genre that I would normally pursue but there might be something… twisted admittedly, but perhaps worth chasing…
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Ramblings of a self obsessed person
I am lonely, right now, on the net, scrabbling at random pages, because I am bored. Why? I could get leathered into my next course and try and steal a march on my classmates, but that’s not what I really want to do. 301 will wait and that’s ok.
I need to find patience, it is there somewhere but I do not recognise it. So I am poodling -doodling with the pc-allowing my wild insides to vent as it were, not sure why I need to do this but I do. A story is forming of sorts and I wonder what else is there, experience tells me its best to relax and let it ambush me; hopefully I will have paper and pen handy when it does!
Right now I feel genre lost…There is a poem somewhere at the back of my mind but it is too immature to work on yet, the poem I was working on is finished -for the moment, it may have more stanzas and that is just scary because it started life at 24 lines and now it is 42.
It is not an amazing poem or even particularly well formed or original or anything much. Just that it was the first poem I wrote, or I showed anyone. Even though I knew the mid section was shite, it was to me at any rate a poem, and that made it special. The problem with special is that it becomes sacred and is set on a make-believe pedestal, and that makes it hard to touch, no matter what I do with it I will never recapture that first feeling of pride, something I created from my mind, an imperfect dream. When I first read it out loud in a writing class all those years ago, I could hear that it was ‘off’ but it did not stop me. But once I showed it, I could not change it, I lost the power, my critics liked its rawness that’s what worked for them, so I left it alone until I started A215, where I submitted it as my TMA0. I promised myself that once 215 was finished I would try to edit it, and I have, kind of.
I am not satisfied, why? Because I knew the original so well? Or because I feel that I have snuck behind my critics back and changed it and have done so essentially in secret? I have done it without permission. I am afraid now to reveal it in its new form, for fear that it just does not measure up to the originals zest. This is something I will overcome with my cape of hard skin, harvested from my smelly feet- (yeuch!! Totally gross image sorry guys!) Anyway how and when I have yet to work out- Do I risk it all and reveal the before and after, or just the new one. Well the answer is I do it a step at a time. This is all very self serving really a bit like life writing.
Life writing is in my mind at the moment and one story is poking hard, but I have done a lot of life writing of late...so what about fiction then?…well its there slowly festering and waiting for the grand TA! DA! moment, but it too is not quite ready, so what has happened is this. I have a spare hour, a free pc and peace and quiet and unless I do something ‘productive’ I will feel as if I have wasted this time, so here I am typing for no other reason than I physically have to. Contemplating my navel as it were. Is this really the essence of blogging, the unabashed ramblings of a somewhat self obsessed persona? Probably!!
Hope you all had a good one
I need to find patience, it is there somewhere but I do not recognise it. So I am poodling -doodling with the pc-allowing my wild insides to vent as it were, not sure why I need to do this but I do. A story is forming of sorts and I wonder what else is there, experience tells me its best to relax and let it ambush me; hopefully I will have paper and pen handy when it does!
Right now I feel genre lost…There is a poem somewhere at the back of my mind but it is too immature to work on yet, the poem I was working on is finished -for the moment, it may have more stanzas and that is just scary because it started life at 24 lines and now it is 42.
It is not an amazing poem or even particularly well formed or original or anything much. Just that it was the first poem I wrote, or I showed anyone. Even though I knew the mid section was shite, it was to me at any rate a poem, and that made it special. The problem with special is that it becomes sacred and is set on a make-believe pedestal, and that makes it hard to touch, no matter what I do with it I will never recapture that first feeling of pride, something I created from my mind, an imperfect dream. When I first read it out loud in a writing class all those years ago, I could hear that it was ‘off’ but it did not stop me. But once I showed it, I could not change it, I lost the power, my critics liked its rawness that’s what worked for them, so I left it alone until I started A215, where I submitted it as my TMA0. I promised myself that once 215 was finished I would try to edit it, and I have, kind of.
I am not satisfied, why? Because I knew the original so well? Or because I feel that I have snuck behind my critics back and changed it and have done so essentially in secret? I have done it without permission. I am afraid now to reveal it in its new form, for fear that it just does not measure up to the originals zest. This is something I will overcome with my cape of hard skin, harvested from my smelly feet- (yeuch!! Totally gross image sorry guys!) Anyway how and when I have yet to work out- Do I risk it all and reveal the before and after, or just the new one. Well the answer is I do it a step at a time. This is all very self serving really a bit like life writing.
Life writing is in my mind at the moment and one story is poking hard, but I have done a lot of life writing of late...so what about fiction then?…well its there slowly festering and waiting for the grand TA! DA! moment, but it too is not quite ready, so what has happened is this. I have a spare hour, a free pc and peace and quiet and unless I do something ‘productive’ I will feel as if I have wasted this time, so here I am typing for no other reason than I physically have to. Contemplating my navel as it were. Is this really the essence of blogging, the unabashed ramblings of a somewhat self obsessed persona? Probably!!
Hope you all had a good one
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