offwiththeirdollheads | Entries tagged with writing

We work in circles. Social circles, work circles, society circles, life circles. We don't seem to work in squares or triangles or heaven forbid, a hexagon or a dodecahedron. 'What goes around, comes around', they say. But does it really? Is it really that simple? The bad people will get their comeuppance and the good people will reap their reward. The great big cosmic hands move and manipulate the pieces in this game of life. Setting us up for the end. Check mate. Justified. I guess I've lived a relatively short life but I might need a little more convincing in this illusive concept known as 'karma'. You only need to switch on a television set or pick up a paper or walk down the street to see for yourself that thing may not necessarily be that simple. Maybe I have the blinders on or maybe life doesn't work in circles, maybe life is a little more three dimensional.

An excerpt from the novel I wrote as part of NaNoWriMo 2014. Currently in its first draft stage...

The television blared with the canned laughter and applause of some inane game-show that relied on contestants being able to remember the answers to general knowledge questions in a previous round only to give them as the answers in the next round. She came round to the host asking the question, 'name the author of the best selling work of fiction, Frankenstein?' And the answer being given as 'Elvis Presley.' The room slowly came into focus and she partly wished that it hadn't. There was an overwhelming sense of disappointment when being met with a yellow nicotine stained ceiling and a room that would look better suited on a demolition site. She rarely dreamed any more, she would often black out and spend countless hours unaware of her name or her life and that would be for the best. Dreams would come at a cost, they would tease her of a life that she did not have or launch her into horrific situations in which she was never able to escape, no matter how fast she tried to run. It was easier for her not to dream. As the room began to solidify, she became aware of the familiar head throbbing clamp-like hangover that seemed to drain the juice that her brain floated in and make her want to gouge her other eye out. She would often remedy the situation with a handful of aspirin and a large mouthful of alcohol. The stronger the better, and this applied to both the pills and the alcohol. This time she came around though, she felt somewhat different. She had a sense that something had changed. She sat up and placed the empty bottle of Whisky down by the floor. Everything in her immediate surroundings looked the same as she remembered. Same wallpaper that was peeling away at the edges, same faulty television set, same loose spring sticking out of the sofa cushion, a metallic serpent intent on trying to pierce her skin. She stumbled around the room and made her way to the bathroom, making sure her singular eye did not make contact with the mirror positioned above the grimy sink. She had stopped looking in the mirror a long time ago. There was no need to see her face or what she looked like, whatever was reflected back would not be recognised anymore. Upon leaving the bathroom, she could not shake the feeling that something really was not right, as though something had been knocked out of alignment. An oven left on? Another bill unpaid? The front door unlocked? It was not a new thing for her to forget to do something but this felt different. More permanent. She touched her forehead hoping for the answer to materialise and just as though someone from the heavens had shot the answer to her on a golden arrow, a name appeared in the forefront of her mind. Jesse.

I find myself residing here, in the mouth of the monster. Ready to be swallowed whole, ready to navigate the messy, acidic belly of the beast. Ready to be slowly digested, guts exposed, bones brittle and weathered. At least it is warm here. At least I am sheltered from the elements.

Sometimes it is just about getting to the end of the day. That, in itself is an accomplishment, another hurdle, another date crossed off the calendar. A pat on the back and you can send yourself off to bed. Sometimes that's all that can be managed and that's okay. It's okay that you didn't change the world today or you didn't fill your quota of good deeds. Sometimes you just need to put yourself first and the rest will fall into place. And if it turns out that everything else suddenly becomes a shit-storm of the grandiose kind, then you just face forward, pick up the pace and make it to the end of the day. Commend yourself on making it through another twenty four hours on this planet. It is nothing more than wasted energy to prepare for bad news and the eventuality that things will go wrong. Time spent compiling escape plans and scenarios will not prepare you nor will it soften the blow should events turn somewhat pear-shaped. You never know, that blow may never even happen. If you find that getting to the end of the day seems like too great a challenge then focus on getting through that moment, that minute, those next few seconds because one thing is certain, time never stops. A moment never lasts and everything changes. If you find that you can fill that time with good things and can make a difference then go forth and conquer. Always appreciate the achievement of making it through the day and when you find that getting to the end of the day becomes an easy/easier task, then fill those days to the brim with shared joy and you might just find yourself changing your world.

There is much to celebrate and yet there is much to look back upon. These are the last moments before an inevitable change. They drift in and out of focus, bittersweet and poignant. November draws to a close whilst a dark and forlorn December is ushered in with cold winds and short days. The bare walls and cupboards speak only in echoes and I pack my life away in a multitude of boxes, stacked high by the bedside. I think to myself, 'this is the last time I will walk by this very river' or 'this is the last time I will walk through this door'. There's a sombre silence that hangs high in each empty room, like clouds of distant memories, of thoughts and of conversations. This was a home, a place of escape and fortitude. There's a certain sadness in letting go and saying goodbye but this is the process and this is what shapes the next era.

Some days are better than others. Maybe I should re-phrase that. Some days are okay and some are down-right shitty. I think today falls between the two. I seem to only come in to contact with the most inconsiderate, rude people in existence. Maybe, I have a flashing beacon that attracts these sorts of people like flies to a decomposing body. And yes, I am that decomposing body. At least for today anyway.

It would be so much easier to not have to participate in the world. I would be quite content in locking myself in my room for years on end. Hell, I would even consider a zombie apocalypse. As long as it meant I could live in a cave. In peace. Away from those people that are intent on making other people miserable.

I need convincing that there are some good people out there - they must exist in circles that I never encroach. I need to read some Hallmark cards and listen to Enya to try and neutralise today's events.

There are days when I am convinced that I am the relic of the person I used to be. The teenager with the naïve heart and wilful tongue. The restless spirit that clung to the electric impulse of adventure, readily absorbing stories with never-ending eagerness, eternally unsatiated and unsatisfied with the idea of finality. I am not that person anymore. I am not quite sure who I am. It was with that very statement that I set about my journey of self discovery. I was unprepared the unfolding of events that transpired during my voyage.

Change. Change. Change.

It is inevitable and as irreversible as an oncoming train. It may take a little longer sometimes to take shape. It might feel like nothing changes but each day, something is eroded or re-moulded. It may be something we have control over or it may be something that takes the reigns and throws us off the cart. From the smallest of matters to the world-shattering 'breaking news' matters. Change will happen and change does happen. You just have to sit back and ride the wave.

Sleep has become a stranger but I am more accepting of my flaws. The weeks don't seem to last as long as they used to, it's almost as though Monday follows Monday. I am trying to reconnect with old friends but beginning to realise that I don't have as many as I used to. Maybe that's something that comes with getting older. The heat is stifling and I dream of snow drifts. Too much time is spent wondering 'what if' and not enough time spent being 'pro-active' - whatever that means. I blame the heat. Music and wine seem to provide my only solace. Let's hope I can rest these weary eyes.

Have you ever not been good enough? Have you ever felt as though everyone around you has a plan and a direction in life? Have you ever drank too much in the hope that it will unlock some unconscious inspiration or at least squeeze out an ounce of self confidence? Have you ever doubted yourself? Have you ever been afraid to relish the chance of taking a risk or declined an opportunity of doing something that might make your heart beat a little bit faster? Have you ever bit your lower lip to prevent yourself from saying something that might cause conflict? Have you ever been terrified that you stand too far out from the crowd and that you can not relate to the 'general public?' Have you ever not been able to articulate what it is that you really want to say? Have you ever tried to sleep your days away? If so, I think you and I could be friends.

Sometimes just moving forward is good enough. There is no competition for air or to be first, to be acknowledged or to have your voice heard. Sometimes putting one foot in front of the other is enough. It takes you through to the next moment and from there you move to the next. Sometimes that is the only way you can live. It is the instinct for survival.

The concept of next week or tomorrow becomes a faded premise; an idea that can not be fully understood like gravity or why some people like coffee flavoured chocolate. You do the best you can with the present moment and that is enough to allow you space to breathe. Sometimes, the very thought of 'next week' or 'next month' fills you with catatonic dread that it blocks the present and poisons it with its toxic intentions. So you don't flip the page on the calendar and write down what you plan to do three Tuesdays from today. You don't buy the winter jacket while the summer sun is showing signs of fatigue or make a list of Christmas presents whilst carving pumpkins on Halloween. Sometimes, just moving forward is good enough.

Life can be pretty horrifying. That's what they refuse to tell you when you are small and fresh from the womb. Some of us learn pretty quickly just how horrifying it can be, whilst others glide through life blissfully unaware with the blinders securely fastened in place. Some days provide more challenges than others and require patience and casual reminders to yourself that there can be more beyond the superficial cuts and grazes. But it is never going to be easy. Especially, not for the ones who learnt those prickly lessons earlier on.

Forward can be a difficult direction to take but you bite the bitter fruit and you squeeze away the tears and realise that it's the only direction to go. You realise you learnt those lessons for a reason. They became your armour and they became your motivation. You use what you have and show them that you are still in the game and even though those scars still sting, you don't show an ounce of pain on your face.

This is an anonymous thank you.

Your words inspire and bolster my belief that everything will work out okay. The road may twist and turn and the unexpected may choose to travel the same path as the expected. And there are days when the ceilings creep lower and the walls close in but you offer assurance that there are still stars and skies outside the brick and mortar. You have my upmost gratitude and though you may never know, I dispel my thanks out to the universe in the hope that it may reach you with a fleeting moment of warmth.

It's so easy to feel burdened. We go day-to-day carrying the events from the day before and the day before that with us. If we are not careful with what we pay attention to, these things become our burdens and serve only to hinder us and hold us back. The key is paying attention to the good experiences and the positive events. These are the driving forces of the human spirit and keep us grounded. The odd negative or constructive criticism can also provide fuel but we must learn to let the majority of negative events go. Situations take place, bad things happen, the trick is acknowledge it and then dispense of it. The greater the weight of these past events, the harder and more challenging it is to move forward. It's like they say, 'the past is the past for a reason'.

Despite the lack of commitment in the true sense of the word,
I have resolved to finding the mundane my ultimate past-time.
Reeling in the weight-gaining materialism of the 'bucket-culture'.
Here I am, exhuming the bitter parts that we had long since forgotten,
wishing for a cremation, a ceremony, a send-off.
They still linger beneath these fickle layers of skin.
Haunting me. Persuading me. Consuming me.
What happened to that exuberance of committing to worthiness?
To celebrating the flow of the juice of the soul.
Sky-rocketing like sex, the pleasure-tingling experiences tasted on a spoon.
They have been laid to rest and the rot smells putrid.
Hush, hush these swirling desires.
There is so much more to be gained from abstinence,
Says the devil perched to my right.
This schizophrenic torture remains a burden and I am lost in the flutter of possibilities.
For longing to live again, vexes me.
The sacrifices are too steep.
First steps are always the most difficult.

We never really break old habits. We just learn ways to distract ourselves from them. If we dig deep enough or stop going against the grain, they will be found stored away in little boxes at the bottom of our souls.

The hardest part of all is claiming something of your own.

I'm taking up the spare seat in the confessional box and hiding that beaten old copy of the Bible under the threadbare cushion. I'm not a religious person but there is something that I have been hiding. I thought I could neatly fold it up, seal it in an envelope and place it in a box which would then be buried twenty feet underground in an impenetrable safe with no lock or key. Unfortunately the secret is already out to some people and I fear it will only be a matter of time before everyone else is made aware of this piece of sensitive information.

Okay, so here goes...

Ready?

Okay...

I am turning thirty in a few months.

There I said it.

Thirty.

The number three followed by a perfectly circular zero.

Thirty.

One big flashing number painted in red and projected in to the sky like the Gotham's bat-signal. I might as well get used to saying it.
The 'getting older' part is not the issue. I have somewhat accepted the ageing process despite the seemingly increasing cons of spending more time on this planet. I guess the issue is this; I expected to be at a position in my life where things were 'in place'. I would have made a career breakthrough or at least be on the beginning rungs of a some form of successful profession. I would have a house and children... Actually thinking back, I may have also expected to be married to a beautiful wife too... Evidently things change.

Thirty was meant to be the secure age. The age when things made sense and life was would start to bear fruit. The truth is, it never felt more terrifying and more confusing. It seemed to make more sense ten years ago. Maybe I should have had a plan? Maybe I should have made more changes? As more and more of my peers settle into marriages and begin picking out colours to paint their children's bedrooms whilst accepting employment promotions and hosting barbecues in their perfectly preened back gardens in the summer months, I guess I need to ask myself the question: is this the life I wanted?

We all have different expectations and nothing is ever permanently formed in stone. People change. Events happen. Lessons are taught. Realistically, it would be impractical to ascertain every goal by a particular age. Or maybe it is completely practical, maybe the goals have to be better formed? Whatever the answer, there is no changing the inevitable journey of getting older. Wrinkles will form. Weight will cling to the bone. Hair will be peppered with white and silver.

Inevitable.

Why resist?

I am just going to have clench my teeth, I will grin and bear it. I am good at doing that. There is still time yet. Right? I have to learn not to subject myself to this notion. All things happen in time. It takes longer for others. Every day is a new journey. See... I am already reeling off the generic, positive affirmations that become more prevalent with age. It is already happening.

Okay, breathe...

It's just a number. It doesn't mean anything. It's just another year like all the rest.

Right?

Calling on illusions.
They are the diamonds and the heartbeats and the basic nourishment that flows through the guts.
Calling on superficiality; the bitter dilution of the blood, the leash of the soul and the distorted perspective of a reality that is meandering down the sink-hole.
Dance in the mouth of the monster.
Whisper your prayers to the plastic idols and the angels and the mother.
This is the garden where we break our bones and throw them down the wishing well.
To give up our spines to make our wishes come true.
Nothing is achieved from nothing and everything is achieved from nothing.

Writing is like wading through your own vomit.
It is the only way to physically see what is inside of you.

It is in the small hours when the walls close in and the wires in the brain ignite. The perpetual chatter that remained dormant during the day suddenly begins to crawl and scratch beneath the skull and the idea of sleep can only seem like a dream in itself.
The head hits the pillow and the eyes are squeezed shut but the volume of the ticking clock and the babbling of the brain begin to wage a war. It is 2 a.m. Forehead beaded with sweat, heart rages in the chest, it is too warm, it is too cold, the blanket bears heavy, the skin feels furious and screams are forcibly swallowed.
The days events are picked apart and probed in minute and defined detail. Conversations are replayed and the things you wished you had said are rehearsed. But of course, this only serves to make the heart pound faster and the bed grow more uncomfortable.
It is 3 a.m. legs twitch, the body switches position, it is too hot, it is too cold, blood surges through arteries and through veins, eyes are clamped shut, floodgates of thoughts wreak havoc as they snap across synapses. Memories, ideas, guilt, agendas, birthdays, schedules, things to remember, things to forget, important events, things to do before you die, things not to do before you die.
It is 4 a.m. and you admit defeat. It is too late to have anything that will resemble a 'good night's sleep'. The day starts in three hours and you have only just begun scrutinising the tragedies of your first year in high school in the attempt to pin-point exactly where it all went wrong. There is ringing in your ears from the ticking and the tocking of the clock and you have swore to yourself you will smash it to pieces with a hammer in the morning. If only you could... just... get... to... sleep...
It is 5 a.m. there is birdsong. That is the final call. The siren. The denouement. Daylight begins to flicker through the curtains and the exhaustion hangs heavy in your face and bones. You ask yourself 'what was the point?' and you continue the argument while the chirps breed from branch to branch.
It is 6 a.m. Sleep! Victory! It happened! Finally, the eyeballs have rolled back, the heart is now a gentle thud, the muscles un-wring... 7 a.m. The shrill shriek of the alarm rips you away from that peace. You shrug, 'I slept' you tell yourself.

Something is better than nothing.

How do you make sense of things?

I don't.

The idea of trying to make sense of everything is infinitely vast. The void that can never be filled. I attempt to make sense of the things I can but I really believe that the truth is this; 'not much makes any sense'. A lot of what we perceive is nothing more than coincidences and random happenings that resolve in the 'here and now'. However, this is not to say that lessons can not be learned and that there is not room for progression. Maybe the random production of events is all part of a planned outcome.

Who is to say?

Music. Good music. Preferably something upbeat but sometimes this depends on what the weather is like. Sun tends to bring rock or electronic, spring-like weather entices the singer-songwriters, the poets or the folk artists.
A decent breakfast which tends to mean a large cup of coffee, extra hot and a peanut butter bagel.
Hugs. A communication between two people. These are a necessity.
Fresh air. Life force, another necessity. Essential in fact.
Smiles, laughter, the medicine of the soul.
Kind words. Whether received or given. These are the reminders.

Dear Winter,

I am over you now.

Back in September I was ready for your icy chill to descend upon us so I could wrap up in several cosy layers and finally put those 'back-of-the-wardrobe-bound' hats, gloves and scarves to use. I romanticised the idea of sipping hot drinks by a large, roaring fire-place whilst your cold fingers cloaked the outside world by night. I had anticipated a light dusting of snow during the holiday period so that the Christmas lights on the outdoor trees shone just a little bit brighter and December resembled one of those standardised 'festive-white-Christmas' pictures they print on the cards you can buy from a supermarket. However, I have now reached the point where I am tired of having cold feet that never get warm and braving the freezing gales that seem to shred through my skin. Those dark mornings when leaving the warm, womb-like comfort of bed feels like a torture practised only in hell. I can not bear another day of jumping over and avoiding slippery, frost-laden walkways like a character from a video-game or nursing a nose turned red from the bitter breeze. I am done with you. Thank you for gracing us with your presence but it is time you allowed your good friend Spring to take the driver's seat and hurtle us in to somewhat more humane climates. Dare I even tempt Summer to come along and offer up a warming cuddle? Farewell Winter and Bon Voyage.

Yours Sincerely,

A cold person

Here's an idea. How about stripping away those conformist ideals? How about we live how we want to; in a peaceful and non-judgemental way. It would not matter that someone dressed a certain way, loved another person of the same sex or followed something they believe in. As long as it causes no harm, why should it matter? Think of the variety, the characters and excitement of knowing that we did not have to belong to a particular social group.

Of course this is just an idea and I am an idealist at heart.

There seems to be a prevalence in weightless remarks aimed at either being derogatory or in highlighting other peoples alleged flaws. Negative aspects seem to be glorified more than the positive and this only serves to create nothing more than a vicious cycle. It makes me want nothing more than the sky to explode in a violent display of colour and light. The ground to rumble and crack and swallow buildings up whole. The desperate fact of the matter is this is what constitutes as survival for some. It makes them feel better about themselves to see someone fail or to make a mockery out of what they perceive to be a flaw. The 'Us' and 'Them' attitude serves nothing more than to oppress and invalidate any sense of individuality and if we do not live in a land of conformity then we are nothing but doomed. There are times when I can be too pre-occupied with the pieces that I struggle to see the overall picture. Fragments and lines, blank spaces and gaps. There is too much to consider. The world becomes one giant jigsaw and I am faced with the prospect of fitting the pieces together without a flat surface in sight. There are pieces that don't fit or others are duplicated and I end up with too much of the same thing. This does not mean that I project my confusion on to someone else. I am far from perfect but I still want progress. I know I am not the only one aware of the uphill struggle and the feeling of someone taking a sledgehammer to my skull every time I hear an ignorant or derogatory comment. I try to celebrate the small accomplishments and the little things that make life shine that little bit brighter. I try to see the best in everyone and the potential that can be utilised. Of course, nothing is ever that clear-cut and not everything will make sense but if we breathe life in to the urge to appreciate the small things then the larger things will start to fall in to place.

There is very little we can be sure of, we wake in the morning and we sleep at night. We can never be certain of the 'in-betweens'. As much as we try to predict what the next move will be, the game changes and the villain you thought you were fighting turns out to be yourself. You were just wearing a different mask that day. The Earth orbits the Sun. We breathe the air. We run in circles. We make people feel good. We make people feel bad. This is just the nature of the 'great game of life'. The majority is a plateau of running through the motions. For the lucky ones or the ones who make moments slightly more precious, the plateaus are few and far between. It was all a choice anyway, whether we like to believe it or not. We can choose our landmarks, they are ours for the taking. The tragedies and the heartaches do not have to be our landmarks if we do not want them to be. The freedom is in the choice. The smile from a stranger that brightened your day, an act of kindness, the greeting card you chose for a friend's birthday. It is comparatively easier to layer all the knock-backs up in one nice big piece of guilt-cake and make that your foremost landmark. That's just human nature. Unless you are a psychopath, the rules do not necessarily apply if you lack the capability for any sort of empathy and an egocentric drive. The beauty is yours for the taking. The longing, the joy or the tears if you so wish. Our landmarks don't have to be our fault-lines, they don't have to cause a great volcanic eruption or a devastating earthquake if that is what we choose. It may seem far easier to bake that guilt-cake in the oven for another decade or so but we don't have to. Start again. There is very little that we can be sure of but be sure of this: no-one else will live your life, no one else will create your landmarks.

I was having a conversation with a friend earlier this week and we ended up talking about time travel and alternate universes, which is pretty much bog-standard fodder for us to discuss. She asked me if I could go back in time and tell the younger version of myself one thing what would it be? My first inclination was to advise of either winning lottery numbers or to stop eating meat immediately or avoid getting into a relationship with a particular person. As I conjured up more and more answers, I began to realise that changing one specific thing might sound beneficial there and then but I would have no idea of what the consequences would be. Since I have known only this life, there is no way I could comprehend it being any different. After our conversation and my inability to come up with a solid answer, I began to ponder on it a little bit more. What one piece of information could serve useful to the younger version of myself?

I got caught in a web of specifics. Situations or circumstances that I could either avoid or make an alternative choice but all I was left with was a bucketful of 'what if's?' My focus was solely on changing one event and maybe that is what my friend had meant. Which one event would I change? But what if I was armed with one piece of information that could help not only myself but anyone who may look back on an event and wished for a different outcome. Then it struck me. The one thing that either hindered or caused me to make a bad choice or not act upon something.

Fear.

It is something we can all relate to. The cold grip that grabs by the arms, the constriction in your throat, an overwhelming sensation of turning to stone. Fear is the instinctual emotion that takes over in order to keep us from harm, however it runs deeper in some of us. Fear tells us to run from the axe-wielding maniac or the venomous spider the size of a small cat or alternatively it spurs us to fight against them. The rush of adrenaline persuades either 'fight or flight' and we have no choice but to act. This is fear in the extreme sense. Fear infringes on many other aspects of life; confidence, social interactions, changes. It can make the difference between a good choice or a bad choice. A pleasant experience or a bad one. We have all known fear in one degree or another. When I was younger I lived with fear on a daily basis. The fear of people finding out I was gay and that I was 'different' from everyone else. The fear that I could not relate to anyone else or that they could relate to me. That I was not 'good enough' or that I should be punished. It ran deep and in a way I was victimising myself with these issues. I wish I could have been more fearless. If I could have just banished those limitations that I placed on myself and realised that later in life, those sorts of things would not matter anymore. I would grow to learn that others have had similar experiences and these did not define who we are.
If I could go back in time and tell my younger version one thing it would be; 'be fearless'.

Dreams are so strange.

They are these surreal nuggets of time when you escape your daily reality only to be thrown head-first into the deepest, darkest, strangest corners of your mind. All perception of time is lost and any sense of 'real life' has lost any comprehension. All that matters is the series of events that take place in this alternate universe and there never seems to be any structure to what occurs. For once, I would like to fall asleep and the opening credits of my dream start to play out. Let's say something similar to the opening credits of 'Friends'. The other occupants of my dream and myself will fool about and dance around a large water fountain to The Rembrandts 'I'll Be There For You' whilst intercut with moments from other dreams. At least I will know the context.

But no, instead I am suddenly flung into a bizarre situation where I am trapped in a maze made out of barbed wire and Barbie heads whilst being chased by a lizard-like version of my mother. Yes, Freud would have a field day and yes, this is based on a real dream. I am instilled with a terrifying sense of impending doom and my feet seem to have been glued to the concrete. As I try to run away, I am suddenly transported to a whole new scenario; an industrial factory. Conveyor belts run the entire length of the room and there are a dozen workers (that I can only describe as faceless mannequins) tending to some goo and metal that is being moved along the conveyor belts. The mannequin workers appear to be laughing as they plunge their hands into the sticky-slimy-product. Something is hilarious and I find myself laughing too. Then I either wake up or I choose to forget the rest. Blurry fragments of a bizarre brain jigsaw. None of it makes any sense and I awake with a momentary sensation of bewilderment. Sometimes, it takes a little longer to return to reality. The dream has left me vulnerable and confused and as the sensation passes, I mostly forget.

I have heard that everyone in our dreams is actually our self and the content is just the brain's way of processing past events. The whole ritual of falling asleep and allowing your brain to revel in eight hours of prime-time weirdness is fascinating and I wouldn't have it any other way.

So maybe I will move to an old abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere and spend my time reading old books and take up a hobby like restoring antique furniture or painting. For company, I would raise chickens and pigs and I might keep a couple of cows further out field. Nights would be spent stargazing and drinking whiskey whilst remaining convinced that the bedroom at the end of the hallway was haunted. I would find the idea of a haunted room quite humbling as long as it was a peaceful spirit with a sense of humour. Summers would be long and humid but only during the daytime; I would drink home-made lemonade and cycle around the country. There would be orchards and cornfields to explore and when autumn brings its chill, I would wear large jumpers and cardigans and take the dogs for long walks. I'd convert the basement into a small wine cellar and keep candles in every room. There will be a large bookcase in the dining room (and yes this is a LARGE abandoned farmhouse), Kerouac, Rimbaud, Salinger and Burroughs would grace the shelves and there will always be music playing in every room. A rickety, old upright piano will live in the corner and the floors would be lined with large, detailed Persian rugs. The kitchen would be the heart of the house the smell of baked food would drift through each room inviting guests towards the welcoming centre. And there would be love; two strong arms that wrap around and offer up nothing but acceptance and longing. Two heartbeats and one rhythm. Two minds and one communion.

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Not an Oracle

January 2016

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Not an Oracle

Entries tagged with writing

Navigation

Dimensionality

Reading the Palms of Dolls [An Excerpt from Part 3]

In the Mouth of the Monster

24

This is the Process

Falling Under

Relic

Ch-Ch-Changes

A Brief Paragraph of My Current Situation

Have You Ever?

One Foot in Front of the Other

The Life Horrific

Anonymous Gratitude

Burdened

Inertia

The Habits of the Habitual

Belongings

Confessional

Reality Desperation Syndrome

Insides

Something is Better Than Nothing

Present Sense

Monday. Requirements.

An Open Letter to Winter

Just an Idea

'Us' and 'Them'

Landmarks

Fearlessness

The Perplexing Nightly Ritual

Escape

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January 2016

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