Smithy's Writing

Fire and ice

2012-01-29T01:09:00.001-05:00

Sweet fire smoothed the ice before him burning and freezing his arm . He snatched it back sucking In his breath with a barely suppressed moan. He could see her on the other side. She was not looking at him, her eyes focussed to the left at something he could not see. 'Liliana?'. He spoke her name quietly, with a tentative smile. She did not react. He spoke loudly this time, 'Liliana!'. Nothing. Twenty minutes passed and suddenly she noticed him and smiled, smiled the old smile. For a moment the fire died down

Relaxing

2012-01-27T07:02:00.001-05:00

Simon sat heavily, then sank back tentatively into the cushions. The TV chattered away to itself, quiet gales of laughter punctuating barely heard words. The carpet caressed his bare soles. He wiggled his toes. He could not, or would not, move. He breathed in, then out, feeling the pleasure of breath and calm. Simon looked at the floor.

she lay quietly listening to her own breathing, trying to time it with the rain hitting the roof. She found the rhythm sold, comforting, the regular beat matching life. Well, it had matched life. The bastard. He ruined it all. Now the rain comforted. She could breathe easily. She could stop thinking and be comforted by
solid things, real things. She could stretch in the morning and feel smooth silky sheets. There was no rush, no needs, no demands. No him.

A completed and complete poem

2012-01-25T20:41:00.001-05:00

An incomplete poem

2012-01-25T20:40:00.000-05:00

It felt done when I did it, but now that I've decided it isn't......

More wisdom from John Ruskin

2012-01-23T20:47:00.001-05:00

you have been so created as to enjoy what is fitting for you, and a willingness to be pleased, as it was intended you should be. It is the child’s spirit, which we are then most happy when we most recover; only wiser than children in that we are ready to think it subject of thankfulness that we can still be pleased with a fair color or a dancing light. And, above all, do not try to make all these pleasures reasonable, nor to connect the delight which you take in ornament with that which you take in construction or usefulness. They have no connection; and every effort that you make to reason from one to the other will blunt your sense of beauty, or confuse it with sensations altogether inferior to it. You were made for enjoyment, and the world was filled with things which you will enjoy, unless you are too proud to be pleased by them, or too grasping to care for what you cannot turn to other account than mere delight. Remember that the most beautiful things in the world are the most useless; peacocks and lilies for instance; at least I suppose this quill I hold in my hand writes better than a peacock’s would, and the peasants of Vevay, whose fields in spring time are as white with lilies as the Dent du Midi is with its snow, told me the hay was none the better for them.

Apple and Textbooks

2012-01-23T11:30:00.001-05:00

As I am in the early stages of researching and writing an academic, university level textbook [which I hope will have some interest among general readers too] on the complex relationship between religion and society in the Atlantic world - and as I intended from the outset to publish this as a multimedia eBook - Apple's news is an unmitigated good for me.....but here is an early review focussed on its impact on the publishing world....

The Bookseller

Alone sphere insert

2012-01-22T00:28:00.001-05:00

Simon rushed home. He had to before he forgot, before it was gone. He shoved the door back and slammed it behind, tripping on a bowl lying on the floor, then woke his computer, swearing at its slowness. He wrote.

She smiled. She was pretty - not perfectly so - her nose turned up too much at the end. But pretty. The cashier at the next till distracted her. The other girl was blonde but plain. Somehow the blonde annoyed Simon, her plainness bashing into him, upending the smooth tones vibrating through his whole. Then the beauty of his cashier turned back to Simon, penetrating and pleasing and assaulting, battering barriers silently. They chatted (Damn! Why couldn't he remember what they chatted about! No matter, he would describe the sense not the words). He smiled and looked into her soul - a counter attack of warmth but she evaded and plunged ever deeper inside Simon. She packed and smiled and talked and lifted bags into Simon's cart as he stood helpless watching owned by her, defences down in ruins. He said goodbye smiling and stumbling over ordinary words. She turned her beauty and warmth full on and he surrendered abjectly, turning and leaving aloneness breached and bleeding.

At last!

2012-01-20T19:17:00.001-05:00

Here is the announcement:

http://www.ebookmagazine.co.uk/apple-announces-textbooks-and-ibooks-author/20122196

Here is a review:

http://www.ebookmagazine.co.uk/creating-books-with-apples-ibooks-author-is-a-doddle/20122198

It looks like it works!

When I started writing multimedia eBooks, I used Apple's Pages word processor because I could drag and drop media files into text documents and manipulate their appearance, size position easily - and wished Apple would come out with an e-publishing program that worked as well - it seems they have!

January 18 day of protest

2012-01-17T16:04:00.003-05:00

The internet is under attack by large, traditional media companies who are using legislatures to contain, restrict and mould the net, including the world wide web, into their restrictive practices. Tomorrow a number of sites will be 'black' in protest - I took this from the Wikipedia English language site, but it applies generally - even here:

We depend on a legal infrastructure that makes it possible for us to operate. And we depend on a legal infrastructure that also allows other sites to host user-contributed material, both information and expression. For the most part, Wikimedia projects are organizing and summarizing and collecting the world’s knowledge. We’re putting it in context, and showing people how to make to sense of it.
But that knowledge has to be published somewhere for anyone to find and use it. Where it can be censored without due process, it hurts the speaker, the public, and Wikimedia. Where you can only speak if you have sufficient resources to fight legal challenges, or if your views are pre-approved by someone who does, the same narrow set of ideas already popular will continue to be all anyone has meaningful access to.

The Mystery of Relaxation

2012-01-16T00:29:00.001-05:00

Occupy movement etc

2012-01-15T01:01:00.002-05:00

This post, written much too late - or rather early - early in the morning is about writing despite the title. Today I read a tweet from Cory Doctorow about impending legislation in the U.S. which will effectively close the internet - in particular the web. It will mean that if you even post a link to a site linked to another that one of the 'great' media corporations judges violates one of their copyrights - you too will be liable. And of course, imperial America will reach across borders to enforce their madness everywhere.

This is why - or one of the many 'whys' - the Occupy movement began. Our world here in the West is in precipitous decline - a decline brought on by stupidly greedy large corporate behemoths, whose greed is, and will, block innovation and democratic comment - and thus bring our world to a sclerotic stop. A massive, social stroke or heart attack. Mind you, those corporate CEOs, and CFOs and COOs, etc. etc. will continue to receive ever higher compensation for their incompetence.

These corporate behemoths are aided and abetted by politicians - I suppose because the politicians expect good positions in these same businesses when they leave politics.

Well, let us all hope that voices such as that of Cory Doctorow, the Open Media campaign here in Canada, the Creative Commons movement and so on, will alleviate some of this decline.

Cory Doctorow's page

Fonts

2012-01-10T19:54:00.000-05:00

Perhaps the most boring blog post here ever! I became involved in a discussion on the use of fonts in eBooks on a linkedin forum today. Apparently some fonts are copyright and you must buy a license to use them!

This seems doubly odd to me, as different eReaders, computers, tablets, etc. will change whatever fonts the author uses, if the fonts you have chosen are not in the font library of the particular device. You could have paid someone $100 for a license for their font - the find that a reader using an iPad would not see that font anyway.......

Another person posting said you do not have to purchase licenses - but I think perhaps you do, as in a webinar I attended a publisher noted that when they converted their print backlist to digital form, they had to get new licenses for fonts they already had licensed for their print version.

Highway robber, IMHO.

Rudolf Otto and the Numinous

2012-01-07T22:44:00.001-05:00

Just an interesting snippet where Otto describes a conversation he had with a Buddhist monk on the nature of Buddhist Nirvana and its essential similarity to the experience of spiritual adepts in all religions:

I recall vividly a conversation I had with a Buddhist monk. He had been putting before me methodi cally and pertinaciously the arguments for the Buddhist 1 theology of negation', the doctrine of Anatman and ' entire emptiness'. When he had made an end, I asked him, what then Nirvana itself is; and after a long pause came at last the single answer, low and restrained : ' Bliss—unspeakable'. And the hushed restraint of that answer, the solemnity of his voice, demeanour, and gesture, made more clear what was meant than the words themselves.

domestic Simon

2012-01-06T00:36:00.002-05:00

A domestic moment from 'The Man who fell from the Sky'

A re-evaluation

2012-01-04T10:32:00.001-05:00

Over the past few days I engaged in a soupçon of angst over my writing, including this blog. This morning as I lay in bed I imagined possibilities.

One was to retreat and retract: to stop posting on this blog entirely, perhaps with a re-posting of my favourites, and a cheery 'addio'. That option involved also abandoning my Facebook page and twitter account. In this option I imagined retreating to a focus on teaching and on my academic research into the mingled relationship between religion and society.

A second imagined option was to continue posting here and on Facebook but to alter the tone, style and content to a singularity of seriousness. That is, to post only serious comment on writing and to post no snippets of actual writing.

Before I get to the third imagined option I will say that of the two so far listed, the first was far more appealing - I would rather write nothing than control my writing to reflect what I think people want to read here.

Which is my segue to the third option - the one I have decided to follow. The title at the top of my blog says:

Smithy's Writing
Thoughts on writing as craft and as art... and the madman who attempts to live this way....

This is true to myself. Writing is both craft and art. I post commentary on the craft and often post links to other crafters. Recently I posted to
my Facebook page a comment by an artist who said that inspiration is for amateurs. I thought about that, being attracted to the idea. But finally, I disagreed. Writing is an art and art, if it is any good at all, requires inspiration. Writing requires constant inspiration in fact, but wedded till death do them part to craftsmanship.

Writing that is only craft will sell decently and earn a writer a living wage, but is always forgettable. Writing which is firstly inspiration, but which is effected through careful crafting, is worthwhile and will last. Alas for our day and age, I suspect that this form of writing will not earn an author a living wage.

This takes me to the final part of my blog's title - you must be a little mad at least, to choose inspiration over craft.

This was all inspired by my best friend's kind and wise critical assessment of my recent black posts. I have decided to alter somewhat my writing here, to reflect that sense of urgency to complete The Man who fell from the Sky, Book of Dreams and Religion & Society in the Atlantic World, the triad that drove me to blog in the first place. But I decided to reject that wise advice to remove posts showing me teetering on the edge of the black pit. What I did decide, based on my friend's advice, was to give more emphasis to craft. The balance was off. Inspiration is the engine, but an engine requiring more craft than I had provided.

This is me. Sometimes wildly desperate, sometimes passionate, sometimes sexually so, sometimes happy, sometimes analytical. My writing - fiction, poetry and academic - is all a reflection of these traits. If this indeed means I shall have no readers and sell no books, then so be it. I have lived most of my life altering my actions and opinions so as to please others. Not here, not now.

Ted Smith

eBook piracy - one view

2012-01-04T07:43:00.001-05:00

I'm not sure I agree with this, but I might be persuaded...

http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/harry-freedman/why-im-not-worried-by-ebo_b_1180678.html

Limpid

2012-01-04T01:29:00.001-05:00

She shimmered in the night
Sending sparks into flight
Her eyes were dark seeing deep
Her hands fashioned limpid mystique
She turned and vanished
Leaving scented petals
O so fair that floated gently
In the air

Inspiration

2012-01-04T01:15:00.001-05:00

I posted a quote from an artist on my Facebook page the other day. I am paraphrasing, but he said " inspiration is for amateurs, I just get to work." I agreed with this at first as I was teetering on the edge of the Black Pit - and I had not been there for a while. But now that I have drawn back after being doused with a pail of metaphorical cold water by a friend., I wonder if professional artists dispense with inspiration. I cannot imagine the good ones do - or at least I hope they don't. Maybe that is why there is so much forgettable art, including writing, around these days.

She didn't much love him that night

2012-01-03T00:22:00.001-05:00

He lay sleepless in the bed, feeling the warmth of her female body next to his. Once he would have been aroused instantly at the delicious sense of lying naked next to a naked woman. Now he just appreciated the warmth and the occasional fleeting touch of skin against him. He did stir a bit, but stretched his legs out sensuously and felt the comfortable roughness of flannelette sheet, his left leg brushed against the smoothness of hers. Sleepily she reached over and fondled him, almost absent-mindedly, then she rolled the other way and drifted into a deeper sleep.

Did it matter that the love had died, he thought? Here he was, warm, comfortable - old enough now not to need, as he did when a young man. Mind you, he thought, it would be nice, just once in a while to play, to laugh, to tickle - to feel himself within her again. But no, there was too much pain lying just below the surface, waiting to strike. No.

Death is

2012-01-02T22:49:00.001-05:00

it caresses me
it takes me
it kisses my soul
Death
Comes to collect His toll

I will...

2012-01-02T20:39:00.001-05:00

My elementary school English teacher Mr. Mansfield (or was it Mr. Hinch? No matter...) taught that one should normally say I shall, not 'I will'.... unless you were expressing determination - will power, that is, so cf. the previous posts here: that on Resolution and that on 'Shall I?'... The answer is 'I will'. This despite the quite sane realisation I have no talent and the clear evidence I am speaking to a void (aka myself). Maybe I am a madman after all? Maybe the attack of sanity is already passing?

Shall I ?

2012-01-02T20:15:00.001-05:00

I have had a debilitating attack of sanity. It began with the approach of the New Year. I drank; I muttered; I even affected a nervous tick - all in a vain attempt to ward it off. I guess I shall have to ride it out like influenza and hope it is not some new and deadly strain of sanity that will leave me unable to write. The harsh glare of the reality of my lack of talent has left me prostrate and purple. Shall I bother to write anymore? I don't have the heart to find all my files and erase them. Life was so much simpler in the days of dead trees. I could then have crumpled the pages and played 'toss at the wastebasket' and had some satisfaction out of all this.

Resolution

2012-01-01T21:54:00.001-05:00

The New Year is traditionally a time to make resolutions. I do not anymore as I have never kept them in the past. I rarely even remembered what they were after a short time had passed.

Resolution. In the singular, not the plural. I realised at long last - I am a very stupid man - that happiness is a chimera, for me anyway. At first, being a stupid man, I pouted. But, I realised something further. Most people are not happy most of the time. Most people in this world live miserable lives in fact. So why should I should I expect any more for myself?

I decided to approach life instead with resolution. I am a writer. I will write. At the same time I will do my best to make life less difficult for those near to me, without letting on that I, myself, have no hope. Resolution.

sacrifice

2012-01-01T20:48:00.001-05:00

the story of sacrifice is complete. The tale has been told. J.R.R. Tolkien said we can but be sub-creators. We re-arrange that which has been created de nihilo.

Can we truly sacrifice then? Or, more to the point, can I? That is what I must discover now. Pesky word that, 'now'. But I must.

Lavender

2011-12-30T00:18:00.001-05:00

The lovely lady moved away
scented leaves came floating down
only flowers and lavender remaining behind a beautiful fragrance in his mind

Lines

2011-12-30T00:16:00.001-05:00

in the small dark hours
I lie dreaming
your words draw lines
across my heart

Hard earth

2011-12-21T01:34:00.001-05:00

Gray skies greeted his eyes
Bare trees no longer green
Cold breeze was only a tease
he shivered naked fully taken
his heart open began to bleed
Hard earth died giving birth
To such as he

Scotch

2011-12-21T01:15:00.001-05:00

The house was dark and cold, no light was in its windows. The house creaked and complained it was cold. Simon shrugged, then turned the heat higher, feeling a bit sorry for the old building with its plaster walls and cold pipes. He went up to his office and turned on everything, a last blast of noise and light, then laid on the bed.

The music played, louder than he thought those old speakers could shout, sending waves of pain that radiated out from his heart, crushing his chest. He could not breathe or cry out. He could not die.

He flipped the switch and lay panting like an animal.

The music
Sliced
Grinding him so fine
That he lay as dead
Staring up
From his bed

Simon lay there trying not to breathe, imagining his eyes were sinking back into his skull, that his blood had stopped, heart finally, gladly still, lungs on vacation, retired and still.

No good.

He swung his feet onto the floor and stood. Simon went over to,the mirror and looked. Dishevelled, paunchy, old, handsome. For a moment he half grinned at himself. The old conceit wasn't quite dead yet either.

'Fool' he muttered half-heartedly.

The chair. He sat and reached over the side for the bottle. He held it up, wondering if there was enough. He needed to be drunk. He wanted to be drunk. A third of a bottle - oh blessed Scotch! Praise be to thee, oh Aqua Vitae..... No glass. No need. He tipped the bottle into his mouth, drinking, swallowing, gagging, continuing. It hurt, burning down into his stomach, fire spreading and warming, killing brain cells in a cleansing of fire.

Simon looked up for a moment, trying to decide if he should strikeout the last part of that sentence. It didn't fit quite. He took another long drink.

Falling

2011-12-20T00:47:00.001-05:00

Before I get back to slogging - the new ePub

2011-12-17T11:39:00.002-05:00

I attended a Digital Bookworld webinar yesterday. It did not apply to me, as it was directed at publishers negotiating the rapidly accelerating world of eBooks and especially the new multimedia capable ePub format. The webinar was organized to offer advice and a chance to ask questions of a panel of experts, for print publishers converting print books to digital - or publishing print and digital at the same time - the panel included an expert in digital conversions, a director of digital publishing for a print publisher, and a rep from Kobo. and of course, a moderator from DBW.

I listened for the whole hour, fascinated by the complexity of the work involved - the session included not only technical advice, but marketing advice too.

But in the last five minutes came a nugget of gold for me - someone in the cyber audience asked about the technical aspects of publishing only in eBook format - the tech guy replied, the best way to go [and best in terms of results, as well as work flow] was to write the book in HTML - that is, as a web site, then convert that to ePub -

which is how I began The Man who fell from the Sky, and Book of Dreams! YAY!!!

So, back to the beginning, and so thankful I did not delete my websites! I will have to get a decent web design tool - move the sites to MacName..... and go to town!

visiting visitors

2011-12-17T11:04:00.001-05:00

Here are the lands from which my visitors came in the seven days ended now..... except of course Russia & Ukraine - these were bots......

United States

Canada

Ukraine

Russia

Germany

France

Brazil

United Kingdom

India

Poland

Blogger went mad tonight though I had not much to say...

2011-12-15T01:04:00.000-05:00

But I will say it anyway.....

Had some visits from gothise.com to the blog

which seems rather strange to me as they are young

and I am not

one lovely lady wrote to say Hi

o that I were much younger..... but when I was young I was not much you see

less even than now

if that you can

believe

as I approach the end

of my life

I will write and

I will be surprised and glad that beauty

moves through both day

and through night

The three me's.....

I wonder if we are the same person, we three

or is the connection there for any to see?

ca. 1967/8 [glasses guy]

ca. 1969 [b/w photo - trying to look sexy

Well I was going to show three, but blogger won't upload any more... keeps giving me an annoying error message....so if anyone wants to see me tired, worn and with a shot of my brain's wiring

Now it won't publish! so I have removed them all to the link below....

go here: the me photos blogger wouldn't upload! XY rated!!!

Bags packed

2011-12-12T00:22:00.001-05:00

Ok...... a toothbrush, toothpaste [no, I will forget the toothbrush - that is the sort of thing you always forget... and say, "oh Hell! I forgot my toothbrush!"

Shorts, T-shirts [it is always hot in Hell, as in 'Its hotter than hell today"
but no bathing suit, as I believe Hell is a place of dry rocks with flames shooting up here and there

which reminds me - bring marshmallows to roast on aforementioned flames

No games, ipods, toys, etc. as Hell is eternal punishment [unlike this world, which is finite punishment] and when you are bored, times goes veeerrrryyy slowly

cheap white wine - white wine should be cold, so it will be hellish warm....

Socks - because wearing socks with shorts is hellishly ugly

sunscreen! no sun, but it might be useful there anyway, and you don't want skin cancer in hell as the hospitals are hopelessly overcrowded and you have to wait forever ..... oh wait, that's here, not in Hell

maybe flip flops too - I hate flip flops ... that plastic strap hurts between my toes... and when I walk they keep coming off, or tripping me....

Anyway, on a slightly more serious note

I was wondering what the limits to writing are - Can one mock Hell... and can one write either heaven or hell.... are they too extreme to be believable - either one. We all want heaven even if we don't believe.... we all fear hell even if we don't believe ..... most of the planet's population live in one degree of hell or another; a very few live happy, fulfilled, comfortable lives... probably more than at any time prior to modernity.... but that is only a relative happiness. I read something the other day that claimed we make our own happiness or unhappiness - this person claimed that whatever your situation, you are happy or unhappy as a matter of choice. Hmpf, I said unhappily....

Back to Hell

2011-12-11T00:23:00.001-05:00

Ok! That little experiment over.... now what to pack for my trip? I've never been there, and know no one who has and returned to write a travelogue. There are numerous paintings....and descriptions.....
Here are two I just purloined [well, borrowed maybe...] from Wikipedia ...

The first from the duc de Berry, the second an illustration of Dante's inferno....

And here are some Biblical texts I purloined from an evangelical website

Matthew 13:50 “furnace of fire…weeping and gnashing of teeth”
Mark 9:48 “where their worm does not die, and the fire is not quenched”
Revelation 14:10 “he will be tormented with fire and brimstone”

Revelation 14:11 “the smoke of their torment goes up forever and ever and they have no rest day and night”
Revelation 20:14 “This is the second death, the lake of fire”
Revelation 20:15 “If anyone’s name was not found written in the book of life, he was thrown into the lake of

Ok.... once again off to bed while I decide what I will need..... toothbrush? Toilet paper [are there bidets in hell?], shorts, comfortable shirts..... what????

It worked! Eureka! Mr. Bell come here!

2011-12-10T21:18:00.001-05:00

It worked - the text - just the pdf copied and pasted - came out mostly in red - and some of the photos came along too, some did not.... but if you scroll down a bit, you will see a little link 'Alone Sphere' and if you click there, you jump with Simon's mind to his jail sentence....

Aha!

Hell postponed for a link experiment

2011-12-10T21:13:00.001-05:00

I am experimenting with linking different memory moments in Simon's life/mind..... so here is the core tale, [formatting screwed up] with a link to the Alone Sphere page on this blog ---

He looked at the photograph as though it were a stranger, or perhaps an old friend, not seen for years. So young. Handsome even, though not movie star quality. He, I, wore dark rimmed glasses pushed down to the end of his nose. He, I, was trying to look sexy for her, as young men do - letting the camera see his soft brown eyes that she said she loved. The trees crowded around - comforting and green - I could almost feel the soft summer lake breeze that he did feel then. Oh, if you only knew what lay in wait, I said to him! Would you have stayed with her?

Probably, I thought.

She loved me crazily all those years. Hard, wild loving - emotional and physical serving as punctuation for the rages, the anger, the flaring disdain which came in its due course. I thought now that perhaps he, the ‘he’ of that old photo, was meant to endure the long years, where seconds sometimes lasted centuries, centuries of hell, in a kind of awful serendipity. Yet the loving was worth it - the sharp, slow, fast sex lasting late into the night and early morning, leaving him drained and satisfied - the passion of each moment.

He stood unsteadily on the brink. He could hear the music, softly lighting his soul, crossing the threshold of love. Behind lay years, ahead were centuries. The hurt, the savagery, the disappointment, the startled look in his eyes when love was met with disdain, when love was bashed and smashed with mockery, all that was there, behind. He looked back for a time, at all that, feeling again the startled hurt that came each time he reached out in love and was hit in the face with fist and not kiss. He saw her sleeping, peacefully, his sweet love, head on pillow, face soft and sweet. making him turn from past pain to look to her. His heart was full, his heart was at peace now. She loved him! He was steady suddenly. He stepped forward, over the brink, and felt her arms hugging him close to her as he kissed deeply. She was soft to his arms, to his hands, to his mouth. She was sweet to his arms, to his hands, to his mouth. He could taste her with his arms, with his hands, with his mouth. The past had tasted bitter, harsh, bracing at times. The present, the future was soft under his lips, sweet, with the full scent and flavour of woman, tantalising, arousing, sending little shocks of pleasure through his body and into his heart. He could not stop, once started, tasting her as his mouth moved in random patterns over her. She moved, vibrating in harmony with his music, as they became lines of melodies weaving in and out and around, sending notes into the air about. Lips reached mouth and ecstasy exploded as they dissolved formlessly. One heart, one body, one melody. They lay, limp, full, one, at peace, smiling as one heart beat in two breasts of woman and man united at last.

But she was never quite filled by this, despite her eagerness. And the long walks, the conversation on every topic, the silences, the deeply flowing emotions of two persons melding into one, were better even than the physical passion. Here she was filled, and so was he, as briefly and rarely they met and became one flesh.

Yet, gradually the love died - never entirely - I could not quite pinpoint an exact - or a more general for that matter - moment when ‘he’ - the young man/boy looking sexily from that old picture, died. All I knew was that ‘he’ was now someone I had once known - but now knew only as a stranger - or a friend who had gone and was no longer living.

Now I looked out at the world from eyes which were guarded, waiting for hurt, set off by a mouth that could not quite smile - a face hidden now not by living, growing trees, but a beard which hid the lines of care. Yet still determined to see it all through, whatever came.

three....

Simon sat staring. The grass looked as it always had, even in the worn spots where his dogs battled the green into brown. The one side of the lawn was full. He wondered again why that place was always lush and why the rest struggled so. Spring was late that year. The two trees at the back Simon had thought maybe were dead were in bud now, racing to catch the the green of the others.

All was thrusting.

the garden lush & green

Lay waiting for her glance

the dark was never ending

Until she chanced

To smile Silently

she sang the song of life and laughed

‘Dad.’

‘Dad!’

The voice repeated, on and on. Simon sat slumped in his wheelchair - an old, grey man - grey in hair, grey in face, showing only a little of the boy - though surprisingly there was still some of that there. He groaned in response - and mumbled something.

His son looked at him, mingling pity, frustration and love on his face - Simon, his father had not spoken much that made sense in a year or more. His days in the nursing home must have done this. His father had been full of humour always - a man who loved to laugh - even, it seemed when blackness closed in. Below that humour Dad was a man who understood so much, perhaps too much. The son sat there beside him now, resigned to waiting with the body, if not the mind of his father. He heard people say that somewhere within there might be a spark of life, a spark of recognition, some sense of the closeness of family, even if recognition did not come. He remembered too when his Dad had come here first - in Winter. The trees outside then were asleep, braced against a cold wind on hard ground. There had been little snow that year, but it was frozen and cold. Dead. Dad had laughed a little about that - ‘A good season and a good place to die’ he had said - grim words, but spoken lightly with a lop-sided grin at the same time. From that time Dad always referred to the home as ‘the Black Pit’, but always with that little laugh of his. Tony, his son, wondered at this - it was institutional, but hardly black - rather glaring lights at all hours and the swish of nurses’ shoes on white tiled floors. Well, he had never entirely understood Simon, his Dad.

His son had worked to make the shared room homelike - or at least into some approximation of home - a small shelf with a few of his books - photos of children and grandchildren. But Dad gave little indication of anything he wanted - except for a small broken statue of a comic Viking. Tony, his son, remembered suddenly this had always been on Dad’s desk, where he wrote his books - by his computer. He wondered about it briefly - Dad had never mentioned what it was for, what memories it bore. So he brought that too. Then one day it disappeared. Things disappeared in these homes. Dad was upset, but his humour seemed to return. Yet Tony remembered now, Dad’s decline seemed to be marked from that day. Tony sighed slightly, and sat looking at his Dad, for what he did not know.....some flicker in his eyes, some twist of the mouth that showed recognition of anything about him. For a moment he thought he detected some spark, and sat tensely, watching his father.

two....

Simon heard the music first. He could not quite make it out - the pressure on his chest and the black despair causing it blanked almost everything out. An old rock song, loud, but poetic - something about stars shining for you.... then he remembered the cause of the pressure, of the feeling a pillow was pressed over his face. Liliana. Toronto. The email. His beautiful Liliana. Not that others found her all that beautiful. She was rather ordinary he supposed. He drifted, shifted in his chair, vaguely aware for a moment of his hovering son, of the chill institutional walls with their prints of small dogs and landscapes badly conceived.

He tried for a moment to speak, to say her name again - but he knew only half human grunts came out.

He shot crazily off to one side, then skidded a bit on the grass, then suddenly up the outer edges of a tree branch just slapping his face, he twisted sideways wondering what was happening... and looked back and saw her, holding one leg, smiling up at him as he skidded and slipped and spun upward was the loveliest woman he had ever seen. Her eyes were dark, her hair framed a face that caused him to stall slightly and dip dangerously towards the ground again. he gritted his teeth (noticing one hurt slightly.... he really must get to a dentist)... then swooped up again, this time just missing some wires strung between poles --- yes, he forgot he was in Canada... wires strung on poles along streets! not underground! he looked back again - she was still there, smiling. he noticed she was dressed casually.. jeans and t-shirt with a picture of some animal... a frog or something.. he couldn’t quite see as the rush of air made his eyes water slightly. he did not feel her weight though... she seemed to stabilise rather than distract his swooping flight. he felt happy too.. warm, full in a way he had forgotten.

He stopped trying. He could hear her beautiful musical name clearly enough in his head, the words, the music. And what did poor Tony know, or care for that matter about Liliana?

‘You make the sun shine in my heart. Sun is in my heart’.

The words appeared across his mind, like an internet message box. Liliana. The sun. Warmth. “I love you”. He realised with surprise he had spoken those words out loud, clearly. Incongruously, Tony replied, a startled tone and look on his face: “I love you too, Dad!” Even more incongruously, Simon chuckled - Tony looked mystified - Tony thought I meant him! Ah, well, how was he to know? No one in the family had known about Liliana.

He remembered the first time.

It was only a photograph. She seemed both shy and defiant at the same time. Not in the sense that she was defending against some enemy or some opponent. More determined to overcome, to last to the end of some invisible endurance test. He could see this in her mouth, slightly tremulous, but with just a hint of smile mingled oddly with sadness. He could see only her shoulders in the picture. They shouted woman, they teased woman. Slightly sloped, arms folded in as she leaned into the picture - the kind of body that made him go weak inside, tender, wanting to hold her in his arms for years that were only moments. She was posed in front of one of those cheap glassed-in doors so common in England. Her brief biography said only West Ham followed by the West End. But her eyes. Oh, her eyes. Large, sad, perfect - an odd soft blue, set against dark hair with blonde roots. Deep wells of hurt mingled with a natural and unforced compassion, they were traitors to the determination of her mouth and the femininity of her shoulders. It was only a photograph, he told himself. But looking at her he felt she could see right through him into his soul - he felt oddly embarrassed as though he were standing stark naked before her and she could see every imperfection of his own soul, mind, body - but loved him anyway. He wanted to cry; he wanted to cry out to her, for her; he could feel his soul, his being tearing itself loose in a desperate, unquenchable need.

He flipped to another photo and stared critically at himself. Again. Did it show? He glanced over at the Viking. Bjorn stared back, looking somewhat critically back at him - or maybe it was just the missing horn on his helmet, or the vanished shield. Bjorn said, ‘a little’ (only a trace of Norwegian in his voice). Simon tended to agree. There was a weariness about the face looking back from the webcam - youngish looking still, but worn.... weary, perhaps defeated? But he still moved, he still wrote, the stories still jumbled and shouted around his head. But not his heart, no not there. That was desiccated, dry, empty. Maybe it was the hour. It was already 1 a.m. and the house was quiet. Simon was tired also, not only weary. Not tired enough yet to sleep upstairs beside his wife. That would take another hour. Experience had taught him that weariness was not ever enough - he had to be bone tired, exhausted, empty of the ability to move any more than to climb into bed. He knew too he would be awake early enough and the same day would start.

He had been writing, well, not really ‘writing’, that is not productively, for money - but on a little poem in prose - ‘prose-poems’ he called them. No reason, just a way to let off some energy, to try a new form....... his thoughts trailed off for a moment, thinking of the photograph of the woman, Liliana...... he had given up on the prose poems for the moment. He had written two, but they didn’t seem to work. He showed them to Katy. Why, oh why had he done that? She had become so mellow lately, and seemed so desperate to come back into the life she had thrown away..... so he thought, why the hell not? He sighed. He would never learn. This sentence was too short, that one too long - and, and..... she groped for words for a nanosecond, it reads like something written by a foolish, old man. ‘Who wrote it, anyway?’ Katy asked suspiciously.....

‘I did’.

She snorted, ‘Well, my dear, I am afraid you are long past this... ‘ and returned to her TV show, forgetting him and his old man’s folly.

He would never learn. Ten years since he had shared any of himself with his wife. Why now? What an idiot; he kicked himself mentally, what an idiot! His mind drifted off again, to last Thursday. Katy was out; Simon had his one afternoon of the week off, at the gym.

Axel looked at Simon, the question coming almost at the same time as the thought was formed: ‘Why are you exercising and on this health kick, if you are so down?’

‘My dogs’ he said briefly.

‘Your dogs?’ the surprise, incredulity was undisguised.

He said, ‘Yes, I don’t like to cause pain or discomfort to any living creature. My dogs are like my children - trusting, comfortable and happy in their home and their routine. If I died or became seriously ill, they would end in a cage somewhere and then killed. I cannot allow that and still live at all.’

He slowed his work on the exercise cycle for a moment, and laughed, a short, almost croaking sound, “Its not that I haven’t caused pain, a lot of pain, to many people in my life. I have. But whatever remains to me in time will at least try to make the dogs happy at least.’

He went on, ‘I was fifteen before I had my first girlfriend. Katy. She was 14. No, 13 - it doesn’t seem possible now she was so young - she was really older than me.’ He stopped cycling for another moment, collecting memories? thoughts? ‘We went together for four months - a lifetime in those days!’ ‘Nothing like today where kids that age do things in bed I hadn’t even dreamed about - but then, maybe, I was just very naive’ ‘ I loved her madly - head-over-heels, you know’

Axel said, after waiting for Simon to continue: ‘Katy? You mean Katy was your first?’ ‘Not the same Katy?’ ‘But she must be....’ his voice trailed off.

Simon started as though woken, ‘Oh, she broke it off - gave me a good half hour lecture on how I was not confident enough, needed to assert myself more.....and so on.....’ He paused for a moment, a half smile, half grimace on his face, ‘I still love her you know. She is there in my heart with everyone I have ever loved deeply.’ He looked pained for a moment, then, ‘When I really love a girl or woman, I never stop - it is always for life. Always. It doesn’t mean I ever expect, or would even try if I had the opportunity to, take up a relationship again with her - but they are there in my heart. You would think there wasn’t room - but there is room for love - the room grows along with the love.’ ‘Then later, a miracle. We met again at university - in first year.’

Axel looked slightly less mystified now. ‘I see now’ he said. ‘I didn’t know .... it has been so long since we have seen each other’.

.... but Simon was somewhere else, and didn’t hear....

Hot. That Summer in Montreal was dreadfully hot, sticky, sweaty..... the adjectives could not do it justice, if justice was a word to apply to discomfort. Maybe it was, Simon thought. He paced a bit - as much as the junk in his small room would allow. He was bored. The stories in his head were quiet for a change. Usually he would sit for a minute or ten and expunge the voices in his head onto a yellow lined pad he kept ready on his desk. His parents were both home too, blocking access to his liquid friends in the cabinet upstairs. So he paced.

‘tap, tap, tap’ came the insistent sound on his window. ‘Axel?’ he thought, ‘But why was he tapping on the window, instead of coming in the front door?’ Simon, his curiosity piqued and boredom banished for a moment, went over and looked out, expecting the dark face of his best friend, Axel, at the same time ruefully editing his own thoughts to ‘only friend’.

Axel was there, but behind him were two girls. One, tall, blonde, gawky. The other - the other, shorter, tanned and pretty with an open, questioning face. Something inside him tightened and loosened at the same time. If he were writing one of his stories, he would have scribbled onto the yellow lined pad, ‘the sight of her took his breath away.’ Not that she was pretty, exactly, but not homely either. Something about her eyes - that was it - her eyes. Dark, darker than her brown hair, or tanned skin. Simon had tried writing a love story once, and had, not terribly originally if he had known, written, ‘her eyes were dark pools of mystery that he wanted to sink into....’. That story had ended like the others, crumpled into a little paper ball, and then after, carefully shredded so no one would know what he did in secret in his room. He guessed his parents, or at least his father, suspected him of masturbating. ‘Which in a way, he was’ he thought. ‘Mental masturbation’, an expurgation of the voices constantly chattering away concocting and spinning tales in his head.

But now, a story was unfolding here, now, in front of him on his parents’ front lawn, where his ground floor window gazed. Axel spoke, ‘Simon, c’mon out’ .....’I want you to meet Katy and Judy’. The taller, blonde girl giggled, a strange high-pitched sound from such a Viking-like girl. Simon found it annoying. The shorter girl just smiled and looked curiously, not at Simon as most did, but into Simon. Simon felt uncomfortable, but with an odd reassurance; she saw into his soul. He felt a strange melting feeling somewhere inside - his heart? No, that was only in those old romance comics his sister Nancy used to have cluttering the living room, and which Simon used to steal off to his room to read and to weep over in secret. He stared back and realised he was looking at her eyes too, and that she was smiling now in recognition, but of what?

She spoke, ‘Hi....’, her voice had a something to it - not deep, but not high, girlish or silly like her tall friend.

A woman’s voice coming from a girl.

‘Ok’, Simon called ‘Just a minute’, then realising she had spoken, he added a hasty ‘hi’ ..... he went down the hall and splashed water on his face, and looked critically into the mirror. ‘No good,’ he thought. “No good at all’ “and no point, either’ he added. ‘Maybe the giggler might be interested’ And shuddered at the thought. He shook off his ever-present depression at the thought, and went up the stairs, glancing briefly at his parents, before heading out before they could ask where he was going.

They walked around the neighbourhood. He hardly noticed the houses that bored him so - suburbia, middle class (oh how he would see this later!). House after house, all new, all large, many with pools in back. But he saw none of it. He felt only her female presence. He hadn’t noticed this before. The sense of the female near him, that is. He lived in a feminine house, his mother, his grandmother, his three sisters. Yes, there was Dad - but in this house dominated by dominatrixes - his father was irrelevant. Katy was of another species than his home females. She laughed and sparkled - arousing some atavistic sensation in him - his skin seemed alive, he felt a crackling when she spoke, or moved and when she looked at him. He could not speak, only feel. He wanted to touch her - he was not sure how, the ‘how’ of touching a girl, a woman was something he feared - but he knew he needed to touch that electric skin; he needed to test its soft smoothness to see if it matched the magic of that voice.

He could not quite understand - no, comprehend - what he was experiencing - he had dreamed of girls before, and looked, oh, of course, looked. Once he had asked a girl out. She shuddered and said ‘No’. There had been no electric sensation with her he realised now, only a kind of embarrassed, uncomprehending need - for what he did not yet know. The hurt he felt at the time was overshadowed, blotted out, now, by the presence of Katy walking next to him.

two....

Then Axel looked at him strangely again - if ‘strangely’ could describe his usual expression when encountering his friend.

‘Go on’?! Axel said.....more in hope than expectation....

Simon looked startled, ‘Katy was only in his memory, but so real, so real!’ Oh, I tried to give Tony some advice once.......

Axel looked puzzled this time, ‘Tony?’ ‘how did Tony come into this conversation’....

Simon smiled and ignored his friend, ‘Liliana always said she loved me, you know.....’

Axel raised one eyebrow ..... ‘Liliana?’ but did not pursue his question out loud, but wondered where Katy had gone in this conversation, if that is what it was......

‘I was crazily, madly, utterly in love with Liliana, you know.” “ I made a career of telling her so - - all sorts of,.......’ he slowed his exercising ......‘all sorts of rather creative things, if I say so myself’ ... he smiled..... images burned traces across his synapses - scalding several along their way....

‘endless days, endless nights, breathing in, breathing out, sun up, sun down, clouds, rain, sun, moon, stars,

He surfed around moodily, leaving the impressions lying there. They sputtered and sparkled, jumping about like broken electric wires still live with current; he ignored them. He felt dull and tired and could not connect the ends to make them live - he wanted to - he wanted to connect them to delight .... hmmm, he thought, his mind temporarily sparking ....into LIFE. But, no.....

Axel watched, not reacting, just watched his friend cycling on the machine - furiously then slowly - body stationary, mind racing through a universe other than this.....

Simon ..... Simon floated, diving, swooping in slow motion - only his pumping legs telling any tales from within....

Then he stopped for a moment, and looked at his friend. I know you and Katy made love, you know. He said it ordinarily, like a comment on the weather. Axel and Simon eyed each other carefully. Was trust gone? What was friendship anyway? A kind of love, and love betrayed was love lost. Or so it seemed. Yet, something flickered in their eyes, at almost identical moments. Humour? Recognition? Neither was certain, but both saw it in the other. Tension suddenly drained from their shoulders. “Damn man!” Simon said this first - but Axel repeated the words, so closely behind as to give an odd reverberation, like an echo chamber. Suddenly they clasped each other in a contorted masculine try at physical closeness. Simon had to turn away, swearing to himself, and cycling again furiously, ‘Crying again! What kind of fucking man was he, crying again?’

ccccmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmcccc

He lay sleepless in the bed, feeling the warmth of her female body next to him his. Once he would have been aroused instantly at the delicious sense of lying naked next to a naked woman. Now he just appreciated the warmth and the occasional fleeting touch of skin against him. He did stir a bit, but stretched his legs out sensuously and felt the comfortable roughness of flannelette sheet, his left leg brushed against the smoothness of hers. Sleepily she reached over and fondled him, almost absent-mindedly, then she rolled the other way and drifted into a deeper sleep.

Did it matter that the love had died, he thought? Here he was, warm, comfortable - old enough now not to need, as he did when a young man. Mind you, he thought, it would be nice, just once in a while to play, to laugh, to tickle - to feel himself within her again. But no, there was too much pain lying just below the surface, waiting to strike. No.

He didn’t know why he married her exactly, or why he stayed with her. She wanted him. He wanted her. No girl or woman had ever wanted him, not really. Being wanted is more seductive than crack cocaine. Why did he stay through the rages, through the cold disdain, through the angry contempt? He knew no one else would want him after and he would be alone, utterly alone. And he was not cut out for the monastery. He did not mean this in a sexual sense - though that was included - but in his aching need for the companionability of ‘home’. He needed at a visceral level the warmth radiated from woman, his woman, and her man living and breathing together.

Simon woke feeling little. His eyes were heavy still, the weariness was not gone, but his body felt refreshed. Katy stirred beside him. He rolled over, pretending to be asleep still and dreamed of Liliana. He was a little surprised that, after yesterday, he could still conjure her up and feel her warmth, a warmth which had turned so cold so suddenly. Katy got up and went into the bathroom, returned and fell asleep again, without noticing him lying there staring at the wall.

Simon felt the sadness creep back into his consciousness, disrupting the gentle dreams. He sighed and rolled out of bed. He looked at himself in the mirror - hair disheveled, well... more than disheveled, he thought critically - sticking up at odd angles - he seemed to have three points on his head. Simon looked back at Simon. But the sadness lay there underneath everything - but not the wild suffocating sorrow of the last time she had broken through into the truth with him.

He thought of Katy, sleeping. She noticed yesterday he was depressed; he had not been able to hide it. Funny, because the first time - when he was overcome with uncontrollable grief - she had not noticed. She had begun again to say she still loved him, after years of nothing but anger or disdain. But he did not love her anymore. She had murdered his love, a long, slow strangulation, as agonising as any physical pain. Maybe his grief was for the death of love, for the emptiness within, and not for Liliana. He was utterly alone again, but grim, not filled with sadness.

But Katy. He could not figure her out. Why? he wondered. Simon still half thought he might just come out with it, and ask her - ‘why are you treating me as though you loved me?’ ‘After all those years where you hated me, were angry with me, didn’t give a damn about me’ ‘why?’ and why now?

Poor woman. She wants to hate openly so much. And has to restrain herself in a way she has forgotten.

His arm hit the door suddenly; Tony apologized; the pain jarred Simon from his memories. He didn’t care, as he was now in the little courtyard in the centre of the building - a few square feet of green and stone, a taste of the outside. Tony sat on one of the benches, uncomfortable and wishing he were not. Then he rose, and made some wordless noises, and left.

Simon sat quietly, feeling the breeze soft and fresh, hearing trees rustling softly; their song strummed lightly.

Sundays were always the worst.

An aria from Verdi’s la traviata played in the background, not a favourite by any means, but it would do - it would do. He did not seem to notice there was no music for any but him.

Might as well go out with a whimper, not a bang. Simon smiled ruefully for a moment - a small smile appeared - that is what he needed he supposed, a bang not a whimper. Ah well, a bit late for that now - in more ways than one - in all ways, in fact.

Sundays were so quiet, dead, or nearly so. He was in Hell’s waiting room, after all. He thought for a moment about that phrase, ‘after all’. How appropriate! He was now after ‘all’ - all his life and was waiting now. Other ‘guests’, in their golden years snorted, farted, lay inert or babbled meaninglessly, or perhaps together it all made sense as a whole. The noises of Hell’s invitees, an orchestra tuning up for a tuneless eternity. Katy came into view, beckoning, threatening, promising. Well, Simon supposed, what sort of hell would Hell be without her? A pretty poor one, ‘a hell’ rather than ‘the Hell’. He ignored her for the moment, glancing instead at the needle and purloined insulin on the tray before him. Tony’s face floated into his view for a moment, but Simon shook his head with just a bit of irritation. No time for hallucinations now! Though the Russian men’s choir in his room last month had been entertaining.... Hmmmpf. Simon grunted in his mind, thought matching sound for once. The thought that finally he had managed to match the two made him smile again. Well, might as well go out with a smile, alongside the whimper he had fathered.

ccccmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmcccc

He remembered. She walked toward him. Unconsciously desirable, unknowingly sexual. A hot blue sky above, green trees, hard, certain pavement, a puzzled look on her face. She knew. She knew he was looking at her, not just looking, in that casual way men had of sizing up the sex of women. Clearly, obviously, nakedly, he desired her. She frowned slightly - not used to this. He loved her hair, unkempt, careless.... he loved her clothes ----wanting to run his hands over her body, touching the fabric... becoming part of her life, so ordinary she no longer thought about him at all -- so he was simply and only her organic appliance, an appendage to her life.

All this in the few seconds it took for her to pass him, unnoticed.

Another memory moved in to replace that... like a slide show at the end of time, given to a class of half-bored students. This time, a TV set - a small local station with pretensions of more. Simon sat uneasily not liking this at all, the pretend comfort, the cameraman eating a sandwich. She, was very attractive, very put together - a beautiful, self-possessed, sophisticated ( he reined his mind in again, bringing it back to 'here')

....woman - speaking in a voice that vibrated in his sex - but which at the same time frightened him. ‘Beautiful perfect women’, he thought.

She spoke, ‘It is very unusual for a man to write a romance novel. Are you gay?’

He looked at her blankly, then smiled, relaxed for the first time, ‘No, he said -- most definitely not. I have always been accused of that, suspected of that, but I like women. She looked cooly at him, ‘But you have no lover now?’ He answered, ‘Well, women don’t generally like me. Women say, these days that men who are sensitive are the best - but in reality, women like men who are men - insensitive, manly -- I don’t know how to put it exactly.’ She looked at him, still with that cool bored indifference, but now he detected just a whiff of contempt. He sighed gently, imperceptibly. He had misread her. That was happening too often. It was, maybe, the cause.

He rolled the words of her questions around in his mind. A candle flame, dancing in a slight breeze - flickering seductively, but threatening at the same time. He felt drawn, tempted to enter the flame, but held back, fascinated by its dance. It was the icy blueness of her eyes which held him transfixed. She stared back, a trace of fear entering, thawing slightly the ice, ‘Was he going to answer?’ ‘Or continue to sit there, bemused and distracted, ignoring her provocation?’

Simon fingered the insulin vial.... and as icy blue eyes faded .... he could not bear to remember the woman’s growing panic, and the shaking voice, the babbling that followed as she attempted to fill her half hour with an author who sat looking, smiling at her, saying nothing more, then suddenly getting up and saying ‘grazie’ and walking off the set. Simon wondered to himself why he had ended the scene in Italian... must have been that long ago trip to Rome.... or Liliana’s Italian heritage.... or Katy’s dark eyes..... didn’t matter now anyway.

It didn’t matter that Axel and Katy had played their passion in Simon’s bed. Not any more. Once it had. But not now. Katy was gone; Axel was gone.

ccccmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmcccc

The funeral had been grim. Well, funerals were often sad - a grey pall lay over them. People stood in small groups, dressed as no one much dressed anymore - what used to be called ‘Sunday best’. Now dressing up was so uncommon as to add starch to the gathering, and another dash of discomfort -- all there longing for jeans and running shoes - GWG, Lee and Nike wishes floated unseen above them. Only Katy, playing the corpse, her last and best role, the body, the stiff, the zombie wannabe, seemed at rest - laying unattended, alone, but comfortable at last, at the front. Some sat in seats, others stood in groups at the back, looking over old photographs, stifling laughs - others chatted with family, shaking hands and kissing - some hugs - as they moved along the receiving line at this wedding ceremony for the dead. Parish prayers for the dead was the billing, as Pavarotti sang from speakers in the background a mournful aria from some opera or other. The priest in his mock mediaeval robes chatted and smiled at the back as he had for many a wedding - looking incongruous alongside the dreary modernity of the chapel in the funeral home of DeWitt, Taylor and Longmead (who promised dignity and ease, for a price).

Simon sat alone at the back, staring at the floating Nikes, GWGs, and Lees - moving about on unseen eddies of air, now bouncing against the ceiling, now coming down close... oh so close... to the bald head of a man two rows up.... and wondered idly if the priest realised this was a funeral and not a wedding. What fun if he had it wrong! Simon thought for a moment that perhaps... he should not have had that second Scotch... but, well, nothing like whisky (or was that whiskey?) to ease the way through these things. He wanted to stretch out on the bench, but a little voice in the back of his head gave a firm ‘No’...the voice sounded for all the world like Katy’s....bursting for a moment the whisky reverie, allowing the silent, sad whisperings of the mourners to break into his defences.

fallen leaves of bronze and gold

fell like rain and settled softly

lightly touching, gliding, skating

skimming

a leave-taking of branches

now shorn and bare, forlorn

pleading, praying, reaching

touching, wanting

her

Simon idly looked out the window, trying to see where the poem was going, as it fluttered against the glass. He had started it in the funeral home, aided by the Scotch. Maybe that was the problem he thought. It was not. Going, that is. Not going anywhere. He could see the bare gnarled branches of the trees outside, the leaves falling and making little rain-like noises as they settled on the ground. The sky was utter blue - bluer than you ever saw in summer - hard, bright, almost blinding blue. The branches pointed up to it - the absent leaves hid this in summer - how trees pointed to the sky saying, look! look! Liliana’s eyes were blue sometimes - but sometimes a gray-green like a dirty sea. He felt far from her now. The poem trailed off in the same way now... he knew where, but could not touch. He could not touch. The soft heaviness settled again inside. He turned off the computer, and got up. Then sat down again, and stared at the black of the dead screen, then out the window again at the dead tree. Then inside at his dead heart where Liliana used to live. She had turned from him ultimately, finally, wrenching bits and pieces still dripping red as she fled.

he felt his soul

slipping

sliding

raw and red

beauty torn

dripping

on the floor

the song was faint

he could not hear

only feel

the tearing of his tears

he could sing no more

It had not begun that way, of course. They were both young, and fearless, or stupid, or both.

the first time

Simon fumbled with the electronic key. The door still would not open. He tried whipping it in and out... then slowly sliding in, then out... then a little faster.... He started to make a joke, “I hope I do better......” but his voice trailed off, the joke seemed too real suddenly. Liliana laughed and said, “here, let me try”.... the door opened.

The room was standard hotel. Simon inspected it thoroughly, apparently amazed at the television, the coffee maker, the large bed, the chair, the window, the cheap prints on the wall... “Well...” he stopped, voice uncertain and trailing off....”Well....”

They looked at each other, he, not tall, not short exactly either, dark hair with silver flecks, brown eyes.... in good condition, but not muscular - some thought him handsome, but this was offset by a curious awkwardness in his movements. He wore soft clothes that clung perhaps too tightly to him.

She. She was tired. She wore a white dress with a vaguely classical cut to it - like a Roman matron come to life in the 21st century. She had thought long, carefully and nervously about what to wear. The plane flight had seemed very long, preceded by a long wait in the terminal. She wished she had her jeans and t-shirt on instead of this. She ached to relax on her own couch at home in London and chat online. She hastily banished that thought, looking surreptitiously at Simon, feeling a faint stirring of desire despite her weariness. Her hair was light, not blonde and cut to frame her face. When she had first had this done at the hairdresser she was surprised by Simon’s reaction. Men were so odd. Hair. It was only hair. She was not happy with her body. But again, men were so odd. He was.Simon glanced at her, trying to seem casual and trying to make it appear he was not looking at her breasts, showing so slightly and so delightfully under the dress. He wished she had worn her jeans and t-shirt - she was so sexy in her comfortable clothes, sitting on her couch in her flat in London. But, he supposed she felt more comfortable in the dress.

“Are you hungry?’ he asked... the plane had been on time, but customs had taken forever and she had not appeared at the gate looking a bit bedraggled and lost until nearly 5 .... now it was almost six ...

“Oh no, not very...” she said ... “I have a bit of a headache”.

Simon smiled broadly, some of the tension leaving.... “Maybe you have to wash your hair?”

Liliana looked puzzled.....”my hair? I don’t know”....

Simon laughed openly this time (while feeling desire rising in him; her chocolate voice and the indeterminate accent of her English always did this).... the laugh, he hoped distracting her - he felt vaguely boyish - not wanting her to see, but wanting at the same time....

“Oh, an old joke in Canada - a woman says she has a headache when she doesn’t want to.....” “And when she wants to avoid going out with a man, she says she can’t because she has to wash her hair tonight”

Liliana only looked mystified and a little irritated, until she saw the look of confusion and panic in Simon’s eyes as he realised that this was not going well.

“Oh well” she said, her voice soft... she reached over and touched him so lightly on the arm, a kind of stroke and pat at once. Simon shivered a little, waves of sensation entering him from this little gesture, causing him to stir. His uncertainty seemed silly suddenly. He exhaled until no breath was left in him, and put his arms around her, hanging onto her like a drowning man. The voices clamouring their stories stopped and for once spoke in one voice ... and looked together out through Simon’s eyes, all seeing and all wanting the same.

except her

she was beautiful close up, lovely as he ran his rough fingers over her soft, pliant breasts

mingling soft lips with rough hands

she moaned

but he did not know if she did so to be kind

or felt a pleasure matching the sound

she made

soft music

softly singing a troubadour came

to my town

and sang a song of a lovely lady

who was song herself

playing a melody

in my heart

They whispered dreams. He rested his hand on her side, fondling, stroking absently.

Little bursts of fire shot up his arm. Stretched out, toe to toe, smile to smile, talking

in the dark, they lay pilgrims together, questing in the night.

the last time.....

....dark eyes, he had not noticed before the jet. The blackness lined her face too, highlighted with weariness ..... no with boredom he realized, boredom.

"Enough", she said lightly, "enough", and rose from the couch, walking by him, brushing against his flesh slightly sending the shiver of always into his Self, cords strumming and humming discordant , tinkling and tingling....she did not hear. The door opened; the door closed.

She was gone.

hello he said.... turning his thoughts away from the dark

facing the sun in hopes

of warming his heart

which was low and cold and needed to start

his eyes they burned unable to see

his hair it hung limp.... all of him sat still and staring

seeing nothing before him

for there was nothing to see

his clothes were wrinkled and tattered, matching his body hidden where none had been for many a year until he dreamed a dream of sun and warmth which now he sought desperately. He turned and he looked, reaching out to touch the sleeping dream he could not see. He dared not, he thought not, he wished only to see, to feel her soft skin, her sleeping face, her breasts rising and falling in sweet harmony, with the turning of stars, the rising of moon and returning of sun; she breathed so he could be, so he could see, he lay so still and dreamed of sparks of beauty under his touch as he felt her tenderly.

now his self he gave to her utterly

seeking softness and sweet beauty

to hold and be held tenderly

A grey light ﬁlled his eyes. A world in black & white - like an old movie. Grey trees swayed slightly in a breeze not felt, the birds made noises that fell dead, bashing against the grey. The air itself was grey, moving and choking breath. Simon sat still, all this surrounding his body, holding him close in a deadly choke hold. His breath came in short gasps, but he felt too weary to rise to battle. Even the grass looked dead at his feet. The fence beyond, marking boundaries, no longer kept the world out, now kept him in, a prisoner in his body, his mind, his memory. She was gone. He was gone. No clean thing remained in his soul. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The wind blew through him. Icy cold, his body screamed at his stupidity - a coat you idiot! His hands were angrier than the rest - We are not cold; We are frozen they shouted at his mind. But mind was alive. Mind made body stride along, each step springing off the frozen earth below; mind made eyes look out clearly seeing the planets hurtling around their individual stars; seeing asteroids heading headlong in a furious race to nowhere; seeing countless lovers tenderly kissing in the countless places lovers meet. The grey world was alive with subtle music, grey, swaying tree branches showed green leaves, red ﬂowers opened in the cold earth. She loved him!

on that night in need as he dreamed a dream of sun in his bed, of woman lying close and warm, healing and comforting, driving the cold into the night, as he dreamed this dream of need so he could be.

ccccmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmcccc

He dropped the vial of insulin, letting it slip through his fingers onto the tray of the chair.... then picked it up again, idly. There was time yet.

He remembered the garden outside the home office in the Beaches in Toronto’s east end. The earth pressed its advantage against the stone wall. Time was on earth’s side and it was patient. The wall was Katy’s. She had it built three summers ago, seeing dry stone walls in some gardening magazine. Simon tried to do it, but mucked it up as usual. So the credit card screamed a bit more as the stones and workmen pushed into it to pay for the wall. Simon sold himself to another eager book committee to raise money, but not quite enough and the card lay stunned and useless for some time after.

ccccmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmcccc

The Man who fell from the sky

Simon decided to catch up on house cleaning - washed dishes, then kitchen cabinets, and walls - then the floor. Then he started vacuuming the carpet - finished downstairs, but had to stop there as Katy was on the phone upstairs. So he got out the little hand vac and used it on the hard to get places and the furniture. Simon noticed the kitchen floor wasn't drying ... so he got out a little mop he had that he used to soak up water and started drying the floor - noticing amounts of pet hair the first washing missed. He swung the mop back and forth - and lifted it in the air and drove it into the wall. Bits of cheap plastic and aluminium flew upwards and outwards and fell, arranged like a piece of new art onto the clean, dry floor. Simon walked calmly over to the counter and took the wine bottle, uncorked it and reached for a glass, stopped, and went into the China cabinet and took out one of the Waterford set that sat there dusty and displayed. He went into his office, and put his feet up on his desk and downed the wine in one long gulp. Remembering. Imagining. The same thing.

Winter of my heart

the dark and leafless trees

crowded around, pressing

pushing, surrounding

his heart in winter

windows shuttered

against the cold

he was not bold

enough to hold

his love

He thought of Liliana, of Katy, of Tony. Of his dogs. He glanced at the photos of Tony in different times and places, at the cheap card print of the Virgin Mary in some awful 1950s pose with exposed heart, not original but sorrowing and happy for her son, all the same. He looked at the computer screen more briefly, the pain still fresh. There was captured love, walking down a sunny street, shy but presenting this gift.

He got up again, rooted around in the fridge and found the part bottle of white shoved to the back, and poured it into the glass, the cold white mingling obscenely with the drop of red still there. He went back into his office and sat again, sipped at the wine. He put his head in hands - thinking all the while that no decently skilled writer would dare put such a hackneyed scene to paper. But maybe scenes of despair where the hero puts his head in his hands are hackneyed because they describes a reality. He considered this possibility for a moment. Perhaps with a bit of a rewrite, he could take this and meld it into the novel..... then he considered getting into his old Grand Am, finding a nice, neat, pleasing, loving wall - aiming the car and finally letting it open up - its American engine, all muscle and no nuance, roaring into its last life - exploding into a last beautiful ball of flame, glass, metal, plastic - all shooting and exploding into the sky....

He lay on his back. The rain was soft, misty, comforting. The grass pressed into him, complaining only slightly at his presence. He felt it tickling his back, his arms, his legs, his buttocks. He realised he was naked. Little rivulets flowed off his legs, cascaded around his knees, flowed in eddies around his pubic hair and puddled in his navel. He felt his feet pointing up, but could see nothing except clouds. The rain massaged every bit of him, washing him, soothing him, cleaning him.. Grass, wet pinpoints, tension gone. No thoughts, sensation only.

He moved silently through the streets. The rain still washed him, still placed little pinpricks of pleasure on his skin. The grass still did not protest as his feet brushed along the dark green blades, the beads of rain vibrating slightly as his soles passed over. The water ran in rivulets from his hair down his back, leaping from his buttocks in an organic cascade; it trickled in a torrent of purity over his chest, his stomach, his sex, leaping from his penis and testicles, some managing to cling to his legs most finding rest on the grass below.

He was aware of a discomfort now. Searching. He was searching for something. Something misplaced. He lowered his face for a moment and looked straight ahead, passing grey through branches emerging on the other side.

He glistened in the rain. Although naked, he felt no cold, only pleasure at the small pricks of water bouncing off his skin. He noticed the tree - it seemed to be part of him - he looked up and saw branches rattling in a wind, beating a rhythm matching his heart. He moved beyond and the grass under his feet seemed filled with joy under him. Warmth moved from him inside down his legs to the grass, gratefully received. He turned his face up again, eyes wide open to the rain showering his face in a sensual throb, almost pornographic in its insistent beat.

He turned, hearing human voices approaching and a dog snuffling happily, chatting to itself, doubly happy knowing its people could not, did not understand. Simon did. The dog stopped for a moment, straining against its leash, jerking the man holding the other end to a stop. Simon and the dog - Henry was his human-given name - stared at each other, comprehending, communicating, calm and knowing. The people, rhe man with the leash and the woman casually holding his arm, another leash looked but saw only grass and a lone tree. Simon stood naked, invisible aand silent, then slowly floated up slightly, feeling comfort in the light breeze, fresh after the rain.

... in a flash she was gone. He stared at the screen blankly, the blankness staring back at him. His mind melded into the circuitry like a science fiction movie - imagining synapses shooting sparks along diodes and tiny switches and relays out into the air, up into space, bouncing off satellites at just the right angle, like a perfect snooker shot, down, back into the atmosphere, a long stream of fire roaring off him, roasting him as he headed down, the human firework... down into London town --- appearing like a google satellite map below .... he fumbled as he typed the address into the google search engine - had barely enough time to move the little yellow stick man to 6 Lester to open street view before he hit the pavement.... he bounced a bit, twisted one ankle slightly (thinking to himself, that will swell and hurt in the morning!)... but settled finally outside.

Her face was slightly pink; Simon hid his surprise. He ran his hand along the books lining the hall, sensing only emotions jumbled and leaping at him. He stopped. He wavered, then steadied himself fingers brushing a mirror to the left. The loom.

The stars flashed by, words hurtled through his brain at light speed, Italian, German, Latin, French, English jumbled all together in a polyglot riot. Du bist un uomo qui desire rester encore cum eo love. He spun and tumbled and angled his way through the stars, managing just, only just, to miss each one, singing his hair slightly.

black blades of grass pierced his flesh

growing through and choking his chest breast

the rain it was fell

searing his chest

burning drops of fire

screamed in agony and desire

writhing piercing on the edge

they wanted him dead

he stumbled in the dark

tripping falling

he knew not where

to put

his all

Simon felt about him... the poem was all too real. He could not see anything... at all. His eyes were open he knew; he knew he had woken to this, if this were waking. It did not feel like a dream, or even a nightmare. He could not feel anything either. He reached out, but nothing.... nothing was there. His arm did seem real, his fingers - he knew he had fingers but there was no thing to grasp. His feet did not seem to be on anything .... yet he was not falling, or rising or level. Was this hell? But there was no hell. Stupidly a John Lennon song began to play in his mind... then stopped. His head was filling slowly with the blackness too; it came in through his skin, where the black grass had pierced him. He was not floating, not spinning, no pain, no sensation, no comfort. Only black.

The cold air kept him awake at least. The snow was heavy, hands grabbing at his feet, his ankles. He struggled on for a few minutes, looking up, trying to shield his eyes against the hard snow hitting his face - no soft cartoon world flakes here. Serious snow only need apply. The building seem no closer. Simon wasn’t sure it would offer warmth anyway... it looked while and frozen in this icy world, a giant snowflake fallen in the shape of a building.

in vino veritas

he sat on a park bench for a moment, ignoring the cold that seeped through, concentrating on the lights of the city below, human stars, beautiful at a distance, as people always were.

He lay on his back. His face was rosy, cheeks swollen, breath even with a rasp caught in the back of the throat. His eyes were closed, cavities sunk down below hiding his long lashes. The blanket was white and pulled up under his chin over his body stretched out straight and still. Peace hovered waiting, patiently, knowing its time was near.

she looked down tenderly

but sighed as she could plainly see

his heart was still

his face was set

no more to laugh

no more to cry

gone forever

to the depths

he lived his time

and caused much pain

she folded her heart

and rising moved away from him

he was lost to love

in eternal hell

the place where he was destined

to dwell

alone he was

as in life

his cries they echoed

unheard now empty

all who knew him

now forgetting

the man who fell from the sky

and life

Alone Sphere

He opened his eyes and looked up straight at the light. He could not focus at first, seeing only - not a harsh light - but warm and soft yellow, like an old incandescent bulb. He tried to adjust, to blink but could not seem to move at all. The light did move. Only slightly, but it did move. It faded back for a moment then came closer, smiling at him. He could not quite grasp that fact, assimilate it to experience. A smiling light? The light began to take shape, eyes, deep and dark..... a nose, a mouth, hair, sandy colour..... warm beauty. Liliana. His brain stopped utterly. Liliana.

He held his hand up, shading his eyes...... but her face came through the skin, bones, nerves, tendons clearly. Dark, dark, dark her eyes. Deeply sad set in a sad face that had not smiled in centuries.

do i look sort of blurry’ he asked... ‘like i was fading in and out’...... that is how i feel ... as though i was not really here at all... a badly tuned radio station....

‘No’, She said..... you are here.... clear and distinct

‘i don’t feel that way he said’

Simon sighed. He looked at the screen before him, and read the words again: My heart grew to fullness knowing them. But now it is an empty room filled only with memories and love. I am broken. Their faces, their voices, their love echoes in the emptiness which is me. The screen before me is blank. My mind is blank. I am blank.

His critical eye said it was good, that the words conveyed more than his own thoughts, his own sensations. His critical eye said these words would sound created, the product of a fervent imagination, rather than what they were in reality. They were true. But, he might as well satisfy himself and readers at the same time. He amazed himself sometimes. That he could still write emotion after the reality was dead in him. Memory? A whiff of love still floating mist-like in his heart?

Simon stirred, uncomfortable suddenly. No, there was nothing left. Love burned hot and blue when young, searing the soul until finally only embers remained, and then after that nothing but memory of joy and of pain, mingled in a dance eternal.

I have loved three women in my life. Now I love none. Or rather I love all three but have no one. I am alone with my thoughts, with the words on the page. They are all still there in my heart. My heart grew to fullness knowing them. But now it is an empty room filled only with memories and love.

I am broken.

Their faces, their voices, their love echoes in the emptiness which is me. The screen before me is blank.

My mind is blank.

I am blank.

He stretched.

Yawned

Stretched.

His left hand brushed her.

He reached for his iPod to check the time. “8 o’clock!” He rolled from the bed, dragging part of the sheet along. She complained, mumbling, not awake. He swore and gently, clumsily, replaced it.

He hobbled, his write foot aching, to the office and his computer. He had to get this down before evaporation.

Packing for Hell

2011-12-10T00:34:00.001-05:00

First..... Should 'hell' be capitalised? Yes, I guess as it is a proper noun...but given it is Hell.... Wouldn't it be rebellious? Satan was the angel
who rebelled.

Anyhoo.... Tonight after I realised I would miss a deadline, I relaxed and potted around wondering what one should pack for a move to hell. I almost wrote 'journey' but I understand he'll (ok!! Autocorrect has given me the answer! If you do not capitalise Hell, it is changed to hell ..... whoops ... It didn't change this time! What the hell!)
Anyway, hell is the sort of place one never leaves.

So my packing list - nah.... I'm going to bed.... Tomorrow

The chair - another moment

2011-12-05T01:29:00.001-05:00

He rose from the bed. He walked on bare feet over to the chair and sat. She breathed quietly, unmoved, still, beauty banked and slumbering. He thought nothing. A little yellow light on the desktop computer breathed too, in and out, sleeping. He could hear the silence, a whispering cacophony that never ceased. He stood. The floor outside the room was cold, but he wanted a Scotch. He fumbled for a glass in the disheveled bar, taking a swig from the bottle at the same time. He found a paper cup, decorated with Santa scenes. "Well, he was a jolly old elf". Simon poured carelessly, five fingers, nearly topping the cup. He sipped a bit out to keep from sloshing the drink, then padded back into the room and the chair. She slept still. He could not.

The last of alone sphere for a while

2011-12-05T01:27:00.001-05:00

he rested for a moment, panting slightly, feeling the clear of the cold air in his lungs - he supposed a Victorian era poet would have likened it to wine - but wine usually dulled the mind, though it did liberate feeling.
in vino veritas
he sat on a park bench for a moment, ignoring the cold that seeped through, concentrating on the lights of the city below, human stars, beautiful at a distance, as people always were.

sky man on the wire small flashes sparked to the left, little razors pointed to the right, bare and empty he stared ahead feeling, not seeing the warmth which drew him. All was black around, the air was damp and smothered his breathing. Short gasps only as he steadied his feet on the wire. Small grooves not quite cuts formed trenches from toe to heel, a dull pain only, threatening more. Behind him only memory of past warmth wrenched away. Present was real, the present of nothingness and bareness and need for sun, need for light and delight. He teetered for an instant, forgetting where he was in the concentration of composing words in his mind. Steady, he thought steady - don’t write ,just steady yourself or you fall, he wrote. the lights sent little arcs of electricity into the air beside his leg, eager to burn and char. the razors glinted with their own hunger on the other side. one promised death, the other living death. They sang to him of release. He stopped, breathing in great gasps for air that would not come. He sweated. He moved again forward, unsure of his steps, sure only of tension and fear and hope.

warmth covered his shamed body
healing and soothing
with words and tones soft and gentle
music sifted through him
from voice and eyes deep and dark
rest and peace he found
with love to her he was bound
always

The fan whispered to itself, busy and happy. The man sat utterly still in the armchair, nodding slightly, fighting weariness.

"Too late"

He reached out, stretching arm and fingers, brushing and running along the wallpaper, blindly. He stirred slightly, sensation reminding him of life. He wished he could touch the ceiling too, desiring its milky smoothness.

"Desire"

The chair had a unpleasant silkiness, not rough, not holding his body in place.

He stood.

He dreamed.

They came for him.

He surrendered.
You warm me when my soul is cold
You thaw the ice that grips my heart
You shatter the vice
that ties me to its yoke
you send rivers roaring down their course

He jerked awake, the plastic holding his wrists felt good. There was no warmth remaining from the words in red. He felt a taste of unease in his mouth.

black skies greeted brown eyes
guarded and greeting no one
tense mouth tied hands
lay still and uncomplaining

Simon sat silently, unmoving, staring at his reflection in the window glass. His reflection, ghostly and faint, streaked by the rain outside, stared back, eyes slightly widened, but unblinking. A young girl, pretty and vacant, passed by giggling on her phone. Simon did not move, did not hear, did not see, any but himself staring back. His hands lay palms up, crossed at the wrists awkward and natural at the same time on his lap.

There was silence.

The voices had gone quiet. His voice was gone. Simon strained to hear, scrounging around his head, turning over old memories sending clouds of visceral dust across galaxies. He felt the swaying and tremor of the beast that swallowed him whole. He felt rough cloth against skin, the seat beneath. The floor was hard and flat under foot. Voices chattered, eyes looked. His tomb entered a tunnel and his face disappeared from the window glass leaving a deep nothing. Touch became disconnected; he floated and butted his head against the ceiling. They came out of the tunnel and Simon crashed down into the seat.

They were all gone now he thought. Peace as he had never known. Then he heard a small sound, like a radio in another room, colume turned low. The voices had begun to whisper now and he could sense shimmery, half seen shapes. Dogs, four... No five. Cats too, and people. Sisters, parents, grandparents, one wife, a few lovers, one love. The voices, the sounds, the smell . The places too - oh they survived, but strangers lived their now. Once familiar sidewalks that had welcomed his feet were strange now like a nightmare. He walked up Woodland Avenue. The houses seemed less. They looked the same but felt unreal, small and dusty. There were no trees. Well, proper trees. Just sticks without leaves. It must be Fall, Simon thought. He did like the crunching of gravel on the side of the road under his shoes though. That had not changed.

The train's wheels began to screech and the houses faded and flickered away. All stopped and Simon stood, stretching and luxuriating in the stares of others had his bound wrists and the hard and nervous guards about him. Outside the dark van waited, purring.

Simon was surprised. The toilet actually had no seat just as in the movies or on TV. And the noise too..... the bars, the harsh echoes. He looked around for a tin cup. Where was his Bubba too, he wondered. What would it like to be raped as he supposed all such as he were in here. He sat carefully on the narrow bed. A camp cot. That was it. Just like the cots at the church summer camp from centuries ago. No counsellors here though. No friends to confide in and snicker secretly in the night with. And no girls' camp across the stream.

Axel and Simon walked carelessly over the small wooden footbridge. Simon mock screamed and tipped over the edge, legs a straddling the rivulet, 'Help! I'm drowning'. Axel said, 'Throw me your money!'

They laughed and entered the girls side of the camp.

Axel nodded, pointing and whispering loudly, 'See! The kissing booth!'

Simon stood in line, approached and smile uncertainly and quietly. She was pretty and happy, blue eyes laughing and wanting to taste him too. They pecked quickly. Simon's heart stopped and words shaped in his head.

blue eyes soft lips brown hair raining down
Stopped my heart
Stole my breath
I need not live any longer than this

Simon sighed. He stared straight ahead, sitting at attention. He felt the walls around, the hard floor, the simplicity. He breathed slowly and carefully, sensing his blood moving steadily, organs all doing their part. Only his soul seemed absent. Simon felt around hesitantly. Why waste poetry?
He stood carefully. He walked two paces and leaned, pressing hands flat against the white washed wall. He leaned forward, forehead pressing the smoothness. He closed his eyes and slowly rotated his hands in short vacillations as though they could not decide - first left, then right. Simon could feel tiny paint bubbles over an uneven surface. His hands tingled with slight, sophisticated pleasure, a pleasing that flowed sluggishly into him. He stood there for half an hour before the sensation reached all his body.

Simon opened his eyes and saw.

He saw the two idling about the derelict cinema. Acting like dangerous adolescents but not. They were older and thin, sardonic and loosely violent. One kept bending to collect invisible objects from the pavement. The other laughed at him and received the gesture pback. Simon quickened his pace, feet drumming a dissonant beat. The laugher looked at Simon and made a move, hunger for humiliation and violence burning in his dead face. Simon looked into him and saw the eyes change to terror, the terror of a little boy meeting the creature under his bed in a silent dark night. Laugher laughed no more, sinking to the pavement breathing still but not alive. The other ran. Simon went on, entering the Sub shop and ordered a meatball with extra cheese - and bought a pop and chips to go with it, smiling and chatting with the owner.

Simon headed towards the park, away from the flashing lights and commotion in front of the old cinema. He walked quickly, the air energising him. He liked these late Fall days before the snow and before extreme cold. Now it was cold and clear and the Ir felt good.

he sat on a park bench for a moment, ignoring the cold that seeped through, concentrating on the lights of the city below, human stars, beautiful at a distance, as people always were.

He ate slowly, ordinarily, watching the lights, the cars moving, traffic signals changing, house windows bright, lives lived.

The house was dark and cold, no light was in its windows. The house creaked and complained it was cold. Simon shrugged, then turned the heat higher, feeling a bit sorry for the old building with its plaster walls and cold pipes. He went up to his office and turned on everything, a last blast of noise and light, then laid on the bed.

The music played, louder than he thought those old speakers could shout, sending waves of pain that radiated out from his heart, crushing his chest. He could not breathe or cry out. He could not die.

He flipped the switch and lay panting like an animal.

The music
Sliced
Grinding him so fine
That he lay as dead
Staring up
From his bed

Simon lay there trying not to breathe, imagining his eyes were sinking back into his skull, that his blood had stopped, heart finally, gladly still, lungs on vacation, retired and still.

Is Alone Sphere finished?

2011-12-04T01:02:00.001-05:00

I don't know. The last few versions have been edits only. But I feel there is more to come before I switch to another thread - suicide is rumbling but so is joy ( with a little eroticism )

We shall see...

Alone sphere avoids everyone

2011-12-04T00:53:00.001-05:00

he rested for a moment, panting slightly, feeling the clear of the cold air in his lungs - he supposed a Victorian era poet would have likened it to wine - but wine usually dulled the mind, though it did liberate feeling.
in vino veritas
he sat on a park bench for a moment, ignoring the cold that seeped through, concentrating on the lights of the city below, human stars, beautiful at a distance, as people always were.

sky man on the wire small flashes sparked to the left, little razors pointed to the right, bare and empty he stared ahead feeling, not seeing the warmth which drew him. All was black around, the air was damp and smothered his breathing. Short gasps only as he steadied his feet on the wire. Small grooves not quite cuts formed trenches from toe to heel, a dull pain only, threatening more. Behind him only memory of past warmth wrenched away. Present was real, the present of nothingness and bareness and need for sun, need for light and delight. He teetered for an instant, forgetting where he was in the concentration of composing words in his mind. Steady, he thought steady - don’t write ,just steady yourself or you fall, he wrote. the lights sent little arcs of electricity into the air beside his leg, eager to burn and char. the razors glinted with their own hunger on the other side. one promised death, the other living death. They sang to him of release. He stopped, breathing in great gasps for air that would not come. He sweated. He moved again forward, unsure of his steps, sure only of tension and fear and hope.

warmth covered his shamed body
healing and soothing
with words and tones soft and gentle
music sifted through him
from voice and eyes deep and dark
rest and peace he found
with love to her he was bound
always

The fan whispered to itself, busy and happy. The man sat utterly still in the armchair, nodding slightly, fighting weariness.

"Too late"

He reached out, stretching arm and fingers, brushing and running along the wallpaper, blindly. He stirred slightly, sensation reminding him of life. He wished he could touch the ceiling too, desiring its milky smoothness.

"Desire"

The chair had a unpleasant silkiness, not rough, not holding his body in place.

He stood.

He dreamed.

They came for him.

He surrendered.
You warm me when my soul is cold
You thaw the ice that grips my heart
You shatter the vice
that ties me to its yoke
you send rivers roaring down their course

He jerked awake, the plastic holding his wrists felt good. There was no warmth remaining from the words in red. He felt a taste of unease in his mouth.

black skies greeted brown eyes
guarded and greeting no one
tense mouth tied hands
lay still and uncomplaining

Simon sat silently, unmoving, staring at his reflection in the window glass. His reflection, ghostly and faint, streaked by the rain outside, stared back, eyes slightly widened, but unblinking. A young girl, pretty and vacant, passed by giggling on her phone. Simon did not move, did not hear, did not see, any but himself staring back. His hands lay palms up, crossed at the wrists awkward and natural at the same time on his lap.

There was silence.

The voices had gone quiet. His voice was gone. Simon strained to hear, scrounging around his head, turning over old memories sending clouds of visceral dust across galaxies. He felt the swaying and tremor of the beast that swallowed him whole. He felt rough cloth against skin, the seat beneath. The floor was hard and flat under foot. Voices chattered, eyes looked. His tomb entered a tunnel and his face disappeared from the window glass leaving a deep nothing. Touch became disconnected; he floated and butted his head against the ceiling. They came out of the tunnel and Simon crashed down into the seat.

They were all gone now he thought. Peace as he had never known. Then he heard a small sound, like a radio in another room, colume turned low. The voices had begun to whisper now and he could sense shimmery, half seen shapes. Dogs, four... No five. Cats too, and people. Sisters, parents, grandparents, one wife, a few lovers, one love. The voices, the sounds, the smell . The places too - oh they survived, but strangers lived their now. Once familiar sidewalks that had welcomed his feet were strange now like a nightmare. He walked up Woodland Avenue. The houses seemed less. They looked the same but felt unreal, small and dusty. There were no trees. Well, proper trees. Just sticks without leaves. It must be Fall, Simon thought. He did like the crunching of gravel on the side of the road under his shoes though. That had not changed.

The train's wheels began to screech and the houses faded and flickered away. All stopped and Simon stood, stretching and luxuriating in the stares of others had his bound wrists and the hard and nervous guards about him. Outside the dark van waited, purring.

Simon was surprised. The toilet actually had no seat just as in the movies or on TV. And the noise too..... the bars, the harsh echoes. He looked around for a tin cup. Where was his Bubba too, he wondered. What would it like to be raped as he supposed all such as he were in here. He sat carefully on the narrow bed. A camp cot. That was it. Just like the cots at the church summer camp from centuries ago. No counsellors here though. No friends to confide in and snicker secretly in the night with. And no girls' camp across the stream.

Axel and Simon walked carelessly over the small wooden footbridge. Simon mock screamed and tipped over the edge, legs a straddling the rivulet, 'Help! I'm drowning'. Axel said, 'Throw me your money!'

They laughed and entered the girls side of the camp.

Axel nodded, pointing and whispering loudly, 'See! The kissing booth!'

Simon stood in line, approached and smile uncertainly and quietly. She was pretty and happy, blue eyes laughing and wanting to taste him too. They pecked quickly. Simon's heart stopped and words shaped in his head.

blue eyes soft lips brown hair raining down
Stopped my heart
Stole my breath
I need not live any longer than this

Simon sighed. He stared straight ahead, sitting at attention. He felt the walls around, the hard floor, the simplicity. He breathed slowly and carefully, sensing his blood moving steadily, organs all doing their part. Only his soul seemed absent. Simon felt around hesitantly. Why waste poetry?
He stood carefully. He walked two paces and leaned, pressing hands flat against the white washed wall. He leaned forward, forehead pressing the smoothness. He closed his eyes and slowly rotated his hands in short vacillations as though they could not decide - first left, then right. Simon could feel tiny paint bubbles over an uneven surface. His hands tingled with slight, sophisticated pleasure, a pleasing that flowed sluggishly into him. He stood there for half an hour before the sensation reached all his body.

Simon opened his eyes and saw.

He saw the two idling about the derelict cinema. Acting like dangerous adolescents but not. They were older and thin, sardonic and loosely violent. One kept bending to collect invisible objects from the pavement. The other laughed at him and received the gesture pback. Simon quickened his pace, feet drumming a dissonant beat. The laugher looked at Simon and made a move, hunger for humiliation and violence burning in his dead face. Simon looked into him and saw the eyes change to terror, the terror of a little boy meeting the creature under his bed in a silent dark night. Laugher laughed no more, sinking to the pavement breathing still but not alive. The other ran. Simon went on, entering the Sub shop and ordered a meatball with extra cheese - and bought a pop and chips to go with it, smiling and chatting with the owner.

Simon headed towards the park, away from the flashing lights and commotion in front of the old cinema. He walked quickly, the air energising him. He liked these late Fall days before the snow and before extreme cold. Now it was cold and clear and the Ir felt good.

he sat on a park bench for a moment, ignoring the cold that seeped through, concentrating on the lights of the city below, human stars, beautiful at a distance, as people always were.

He ate slowly, ordinarily, watching the lights, the cars moving, traffic signals changing, house windows bright, lives lived.

The house was dark and cold, no light was in its windows. The house creaked and complained it was cold. Simon shrugged, then turned the heat higher, feeling a bit sorry for he old building with its plaster walls and old cold pipes. He went up o his office and turned on everything, a sat blast of noise and light, then laid on the bed.

The music played, sending waves of pain that radiated out from his heart, crushing his chest. He could not breathe or cry out. He could not die. The pain. The pain.

He flipped the switch and lay panting like an animal.

The music
Sliced
Grinding him so fine
That he lay as dead
Staring up
From his bed

Simon lay there trying not to breathe, imagining his eyes were sinking back into his skull, that his blood had stopped, heart finally, gladly still, lungs on vacation, retired and still.

A snippet without a home yet

2011-12-01T19:35:00.001-05:00

The music played, sending waves of pain that radiated out from his heart, crushing his chest. He could not breathe or cry out. He could not die. The pain. The pain.

He flipped the switch and lay panting like an animal.

The music
Sliced
Grinding him so fine
That he lay as dead
Staring up
From his bed

Simon lay there trying not to breathe, imagining his eyes were sinking back into his skull, that his blood had stopped, heart finally, gladly still, lungs on vacation, retired and still.

my web page

2011-11-30T21:17:00.001-05:00

I decided to restore my web site here also..... and I actually updated it! I changed the books coming page to show my history of the relationship between religion and society in the Atlantic world... and altered the photos on that page a bit too.....

a cold, rainy day's poem

2011-11-29T13:43:00.001-05:00

some notes on alone sphere

2011-11-28T23:40:00.001-05:00

Alone sphere is one of the snippets that will form the stars of this galaxy surrounding and connecting to the core story - this non linear novel The Man who fell from the Sky - has already a core story mostly finished & connecting tales linked to it - I have written it with the fonts and poetry already - though in regular blog posts the fonts vanish - in the case posted below I took two pdf pages and saved them as jpgs then uploaded them as images to the blog so anyone [is anyone out there other than the Russian bots trolling my site??] can see them properly formatted.

Next will be sound and videos and photos - I am playing around with garage band to make sound effects - these will not be intrusive, but suggestive [i hope]....it is perhaps like laying down tracks in a recording studio - only I must teach all this to myself as I cannot afford to pay anyone professional - well, other than Tim Hisk, a starving artist who has done some drawings for the SuperTeddy segments [Simon earns his keep writing children's books about a super hero bear who can fly only down] - anyway, I cannot give away more of the story than this as I do not know what happens next, or why, yet myself. I am writing things as they pop into my head ..... nothing is planned. I manage to find 10 minutes or so late at night after other things are done to sit at my iPad and let the stories enter my head and flow onto the screen. Then I tidy them up on my word processor....... mad indeed.....

a sample of how Alone Sphere will appear

2011-11-28T23:37:00.001-05:00

Alone Sphere with slight continuity edits

2011-11-28T00:34:00.001-05:00

(still stripped of formatting, naked and ashamed, but honest)

he rested for a moment, panting slightly, feeling the clear of the cold air in his lungs - he supposed a Victorian era poet would have likened it to wine - but wine usually dulled the mind, though it did liberate feeling.
in vino veritas
he sat on a park bench for a moment, ignoring the cold that seeped through, concentrating on the lights of the city below, human stars, beautiful at a distance, as people always were.

sky man on the wire small flashes sparked to the left, little razors pointed to the right, bare and empty he stared ahead feeling, not seeing the warmth which drew him. All was black around, the air was damp and smothered his breathing. Short gasps only as he steadied his feet on the wire. Small grooves not quite cuts formed trenches from toe to heel, a dull pain only, threatening more. Behind him only memory of past warmth wrenched away. Present was real, the present of nothingness and bareness and need for sun, need for light and delight. He teetered for an instant, forgetting where he was in the concentration of composing words in his mind. Steady, he thought steady - don’t write ,just steady yourself or you fall, he wrote. the lights sent little arcs of electricity into the air beside his leg, eager to burn and char. the razors glinted with their own hunger on the other side. one promised death, the other living death. They sang to him of release. He stopped, breathing in great gasps for air that would not come. He sweated. He moved again forward, unsure of his steps, sure only of tension and fear and hope.

warmth covered his shamed body
healing and soothing
with words and tones soft and gentle
music sifted through him
from voice and eyes deep and dark
rest and peace he found
with love to her he was bound
always

The fan whispered to itself, busy and happy. The man sat utterly still in the armchair, nodding slightly, fighting weariness.

"Too late"

He reached out, stretching arm and fingers, brushing and running along the wallpaper, blindly. He stirred slightly, sensation reminding him of life. He wished he could touch the ceiling too, desiring its milky smoothness.

"Desire"

The chair had a unpleasant silkiness, not rough, not holding his body in place.

He stood.

He dreamed.

They came for him.

He surrendered.

You warm me when my soul is cold
You thaw the ice that grips my heart
You shatter the vice
that ties me to its yoke
you send rivers roaring down their course

He jerked awake, the plastic holding his wrists felt good. There was no warmth remaining from the words in red. He felt a taste of unease in his mouth.

black skies greeted brown eyes
guarded and greeting no one
tense mouth tied hands
lay still and uncomplaining

Simon sat silently, unmoving, staring at his reflection in the window glass. His reflection, ghostly and faint, streaked by the rain outside, stared back, eyes slightly widened, but unblinking. A young girl, pretty and vacant, passed by giggling on her phone. Simon did not move, did not hear, did not see, any but himself staring back. His hands lay palms up, crossed at the wrists awkward and natural at the same time on his lap.

There was silence.

The voices had gone quiet. His voice was gone. Simon strained to hear, scrounging around his head, turning over old memories sending clouds of visceral dust across galaxies. He felt the swaying and tremor of the beast that swallowed him whole. He felt rough cloth against skin, the seat beneath. The floor was hard and flat under foot. Voices chattered, eyes looked. His tomb entered a tunnel and his face disappeared from the window glass leaving a deep nothing. Touch became disconnected; he floated and butted his head against the ceiling. They came out of the tunnel and Simon crashed down into the seat.

They were all gone now he thought. Peace as he had never known. Then he heard a small sound, like a radio in another room, volume turned low. The voices had begun to whisper now and he could sense shimmery, half seen shapes. Dogs, four... No five. Cats too, and people. Sisters, parents, grandparents, one wife, a few lovers, one love. The voices, the sounds, the smell . The places too - oh they survived, but strangers lived their now. Once familiar sidewalks that had welcomed his feet were strange now like a nightmare. He walked up Woodland Avenue. The houses seemed less. They looked the same but felt unreal, small and dusty. There were no trees. Well, proper trees. Just sticks without leaves. It must be Fall, Simon thought. He did like the crunching of gravel on the side of the road under his shoes though. That had not changed.

The train's wheels began to screech and the houses faded and flickered away. All stopped and Simon stood, stretching and luxuriating in the stares of others at his bound wrists and the hard and nervous guards about him. Outside the dark van waited, purring.

Simon was surprised. The toilet actually had no seat just as in the movies or on TV. And the noise too..... the bars, the harsh echoes. He looked around for a tin cup. Where was his Bubba too, he wondered. What would it like to be raped as he supposed all such as he were in here. He sat carefully on the narrow bed. A camp cot. That was it. Just like the cots at the church summer camp from centuries ago. No counsellors here though. No friends to confide in and snicker secretly in the night with. And no girls' camp across the stream.

Axel and Simon walked carelessly over the small wooden footbridge. Simon mock screamed and tipped over the edge, legs a straddling the rivulet, 'Help! I'm drowning'. Axel said, 'Throw me your money!'

They laughed and entered the girls side of the camp.

Axel nodded, pointing and whispering loudly, 'See! The kissing booth!'

Simon stood in line, approached and smiled uncertainly and quietly. She was pretty and happy, blue eyes laughing and wanting to taste him too. They pecked quickly. Simon's heart stopped and words shaped in his head.

blue eyes soft lips brown hair raining down
Stopped my heart
Stole my breath
I need not live any longer than this

Simon sighed. He stared straight ahead, sitting at attention. He felt the walls around, the hard floor, the simplicity. He breathed slowly and carefully, sensing his blood moving steadily, organs all doing their part. Only his soul seemed absent. Simon felt around hesitantly. Why waste poetry?
He stood carefully. He walked two paces and leaned, pressing hands flat against the white washed wall. He leaned forward, forehead pressing the smoothness. He closed his eyes and slowly rotated his hands in short vacillations as though they could not decide - first left, then right. Simon could feel tiny paint bubbles over an uneven surface. His hands tingled with slight, sophisticated pleasure, a pleasing that flowed sluggishly into him. He stood there for half an hour before the sensation reached all his body.

Simon opened his eyes and saw.

He saw the two idling about the derelict cinema. Acting like dangerous adolescents but not. They were older and thin, sardonic and loosely violent. One kept bending to collect invisible objects from the pavement. The other laughed at him and received the gesture back. Simon quickened his pace, feet drumming a dissonant beat. The laugher looked at Simon and made a move, hunger for humiliation and violence burning in his dead face. Simon looked into him and saw the eyes change to terror, the terror of a little boy meeting the creature under his bed in a silent dark night. Laugher laughed no more, sinking to the pavement breathing still but not alive. The other ran. Simon went on, entering the Sub shop and ordered a meatball with extra cheese - and bought a pop and chips to go with it, smiling and chatting with the owner.

Ruskin as Indie writer

2011-11-27T23:38:00.001-05:00

I am reading John Ruskin's "The Stones of Venice" and noticed that he functioned as an indie writer in he 1850s. I snipped some of the extended explanation he provided of how he - not a publisher - designed the book and hired the skilled workers to effect the design.

It was of course inexpedient to reduce drawings of crowded details to the size of an octavo volume,—I do not say impossible, but inexpedient; requiring infinite pains on the part of the engraver, with no result except farther pains to the beholder. And as, on the other hand, folio books are not easy reading, I determined to separate the text and the unreducible plates. I have given, with the principal text, all the illustrations absolutely necessary to the under

(snip)

A considerable number of these larger plates were at first intended to be executed in tinted lithography; but, finding the result unsatisfactory, I have determined to prepare the principal subjects for mezzotinting,—a change of method requiring two new drawings to be made of every subject; one a

morning

2011-11-27T08:19:00.001-05:00

exhaustion plays a tune in my head
a whole day stretches ahead

Good morning all!

Alone Sphere with more - simple text version

2011-11-27T00:14:00.001-05:00

he rested for a moment, panting slightly, feeling the clear of the cold air in his lungs - he supposed a Victorian era poet would have likened it to wine - but wine usually dulled the mind, though it did liberate feeling.
in vino veritas
he sat on a park bench for a moment, ignoring the cold that seeped through, concentrating on the lights of the city below, human stars, beautiful at a distance, as people always were.

sky man on the wire small flashes sparked to the left, little razors pointed to the right, bare and empty he stared ahead feeling, not seeing the warmth which drew him. All was black around, the air was damp and smothered his breathing. Short gasps only as he steadied his feet on the wire. Small grooves not quite cuts formed trenches from toe to heel, a dull pain only, threatening more. Behind him only memory of past warmth wrenched away. Present was real, the present of nothingness and bareness and need for sun, need for light and delight. He teetered for an instant, forgetting where he was in the concentration of composing words in his mind. Steady, he thought steady - don’t write ,just steady yourself or you fall, he wrote. the lights sent little arcs of electricity into the air beside his leg, eager to burn and char. the razors glinted with their own hunger on the other side. one promised death, the other living death. They sang to him of release. He stopped, breathing in great gasps for air that would not come. He sweated. He moved again forward, unsure of his steps, sure only of tension and fear and hope.

warmth covered his shamed body
healing and soothing
with words and tones soft and gentle
music sifted through him
from voice and eyes deep and dark
rest and peace he found
with love to her he was bound
always

The fan whispered to itself, busy and happy. The man sat utterly still in the armchair, nodding slightly, fighting weariness.

"Too late"

He reached out, stretching arm and fingers, brushing and running along the wallpaper, blindly. He stirred slightly, sensation reminding him of life. He wished he could touch the ceiling too, desiring its milky smoothness.

"Desire"

The chair had a unpleasant silkiness, not rough, not holding his body in place.

He stood.

He dreamed.

They came for him.

He surrendered.
You warm me when my soul is cold
You thaw the ice that grips my heart
You shatter the vice
that ties me to its yoke
you send rivers roaring down their course

He jerked awake, the plastic holding his wrists felt good. There was no warmth remaining from the words in red. He felt a taste of unease in his mouth.

black skies greeted brown eyes
guarded and greeting no one
tense mouth tied hands
lay still and uncomplaining

Simon sat silently, unmoving, staring at his reflection in the window glass. His reflection, ghostly and faint, streaked by the rain outside, stared back, eyes slightly widened, but unblinking. A young girl, pretty and vacant, passed by giggling on her phone. Simon did not move, did not hear, did not see, any but himself staring back. His hands lay palms up, crossed at the wrists awkward and natural at the same time on his lap.

There was silence.

The voices had gone quiet. His voice was gone. He felt the swaying and tremor of the beast that swallowed him whole. He felt the rough of underwear against skin, the seat beneath. The floor was hard and flat under foot. Voices chattered, eyes looked. His tomb entered a tunnel and his face disappeared from the window glass leaving a deep nothing. Touch became disconnected; he floated and butted his head against the ceiling. They came out of the tunnel and Simon crashed down into the seat.

They were all gone now. The voices had begun to whisper now and he could sense shimmery, half seen shapes. Dogs, four... No five. Cats too, and people. Sisters, parents, grandparents, one wife, a few lovers, one love. The voices, the sounds, the smell . The places too - oh they survived, but strangers lived their now. Once familiar sidewalks that had welcomed his feet were strange now like a nightmare. He walked up Woodland Avenue. The houses seemed less. They looked the same but felt unreal, small and dusty. There were no trees. Well, proper trees. Just sticks without leaves. It must be Fall, Simon thought. He did like the crunching of gravel on the side of the road under his shoes though. That had not changed.

Simon was surprised. The toilet actually had no seat just as in the movies or on TV. And the noise too..... the bars, the harsh echoes. He looked around for a tin cup. Where was his Bubba too, he wondered. What would it like to be raped as he supposed all such as he were in here. He sat carefully on the narrow bed. A camp cot. That was it. Just like the cots at the church summer camp from centuries ago. No counsellors here though. No friends to confide in and snicker secretly in the night with. And no girls' camp across the stream.

Paul and Simon walked carelessly over the small wooden footbridge. Simon mock screamed and tipped over the edge, legs a straddling the rivulet, 'Help! I'm drowning'. Paul said, 'Throw me your money!'

They laughed and entered the girls side of the camp.

Paul nodded, pointing and whispering loudly, 'See! The kissing booth!'

Simon stood in line, approached and smile uncertainly and quietly. She was pretty and happy, blue eyes laughing and wanting to taste him too. They pecked quickly. Simon's heart stopped and words shaped in his head.

blue eyes soft lips brown hair raining down
Stopped my heart
Stole my breath
I need not live any longer than this

Simon sighed. He stared straight ahead, sitting at attention. He felt the walls around, the hard floor, the simplicity. He breathed slowly and carefully, sensing his blood moving steadily, organs all doing their part. Only his soul seemed absent. Simon felt around hesitantly. Why waste poetry?
He stood carefully. He walked two paces and leaned, pressing hands flat against the white washed wall. He leaned forward, forehead pressing the smoothness. He closed his eyes and slowly rotated his hands in short vacillations as though they could not decide - first left, then right. Simon could feel tiny paint bubbles over an uneven surface. His hands tingled with slight, sophisticated pleasure, a pleasing that flowed sluggishly into him. He stood there for half an hour before the sensation reached all his body.

Simon opened his eyes and saw.

He saw the two idling about the derelict cinema. Acting like dangerous adolescents but not. They were older and thin, sardonic and loosely violent. One kept bending to collect invisible objects from the pavement. The other laughed at him and received the gesture back. Simon quickened his pace, feet drumming a dissonant beat. The laugher looked at Simon and made a move, hunger for humiliation and violence burning in his dead face. Simon looked into him and saw the eyes change to terror, the terror of a little boy meeting the creature under his bed in a silent dark night. Laugher laughed no more, sinking to the pavement breathing still but not alive. The other ran. Simon went on, entering the Sub shop and ordered a meatball with extra cheese - and bought a pop and chips to go with it, smiling and chatting with the owner.

2011-11-25T01:00:00.001-05:00

Softly he breathed
Lightly he touched
Tenderly he tasted
Her

More and less

2011-11-25T00:55:00.001-05:00

He saw the two idling about the derelict cinema. Acting like dangerous adolescents but not. They were older and thin, sardonic and loosely violent. One kept bending to collect invisible objects from the pavement. The other laughed at him and received the gesture back. Simon quickened his pace, feet drumming a dissonant beat. The laugher looked at Simon and made a move, hunger for humiliation and violence burning in his dead face. Simon looked into him and saw the eyes change to terror, the terror of a little boy meeting the creature under his bed in a silent dark night. Laugher laughed no more, sinking to the pavement breathing still but not alive. The other ran. Simon went on, entering the Sub shop and ordered a meatball with extra cheese - and bought a pop and chips to go with it, smiling and chatting with the owner

Alone sphere draft

2011-11-24T00:23:00.001-05:00

All the proper formatting and fonts are gone here but that is good as I want to see how the naked words do in the cold of the blogosphere.

he rested for a moment, panting slightly, feeling the clear of the cold air in his lungs - he supposed a Victorian era poet would have likened it to wine - but wine usually dulled the mind, though it did liberate feeling.
in vino veritas
he sat on a park bench for a moment, ignoring the cold that seeped through, concentrating on the lights of the city below, human stars, beautiful at a distance, as people always were.

sky man on the wire small flashes sparked to the left, little razors pointed to the right, bare and empty he stared ahead feeling, not seeing the warmth which drew him. All was black around, the air was damp and smothered his breathing. Short gasps only as he steadied his feet on the wire. Small grooves not quite cuts formed trenches from toe to heel, a dull pain only, threatening more. Behind him only memory of past warmth wrenched away. Present was real, the present of nothingness and bareness and need for sun, need for light and delight. He teetered for an instant, forgetting where he was in the concentration of composing words in his mind. Steady, he thought steady - don’t write ,just steady yourself or you fall, he wrote. the lights sent little arcs of electricity into the air beside his leg, eager to burn and char. the razors glinted with their own hunger on the other side. one promised death, the other living death. They sang to him of release. He stopped, breathing in great gasps for air that would not come. He sweated. He moved again forward, unsure of his steps, sure only of tension and fear and hope.

warmth covered his shamed body
healing and soothing
with words and tones soft and gentle
music sifted through him
from voice and eyes deep and dark
rest and peace he found
with love to her he was bound
always

The fan whispered to itself, busy and happy. The man sat utterly still in the armchair, nodding slightly, fighting weariness.

"Too late"

He reached out, stretching arm and fingers, brushing and running along the wallpaper, blindly. He stirred slightly, sensation reminding him of life. He wished he could touch the ceiling too, desiring its milky smoothness.

"Desire"

The chair had a unpleasant silkiness, not rough, not holding his body in place.

He stood.

He dreamed.

They came for him.

He surrendered.
You warm me when my soul is cold
You thaw the ice that grips my heart
You shatter the vice
that ties me to its yoke
you send rivers roaring down their course

He jerked awake, the plastic holding his wrists felt good. There was no warmth remaining from the words in red. He felt a taste of unease in his mouth.

black skies greeted brown eyes
guarded and greeting no one
tense mouth tied hands
lay still and uncomplaining

Simon sat silently, unmoving, staring at his reflection in the window glass. His reflection, ghostly and faint, streaked by the rain outside, stared back, eyes slightly widened, but unblinking. A young girl, pretty and vacant, passed by giggling on her phone. Simon did not move, did not hear, did not see, any but himself staring back. His hands lay palms up, crossed at the wrists awkward and natural at the same time on his lap.

There was silence.

The voices had gone quiet. His voice was gone. He felt the swaying and tremor of the beast that swallowed him whole. He felt the rough of underwear against skin, the seat beneath. The floor was hard and flat under foot. Voices chattered, eyes looked. His tomb entered a tunnel and his face disappeared from the window glass leaving a deep nothing. Touch became disconnected; he floated and butted his head against the ceiling. They came out of the tunnel and Simon crashed down into the seat.

They were all gone now. The voices had begun to whisper now and he could sense shimmery, half seen shapes. Dogs, four... No five. Cats too, and people. Sisters, parents, grandparents, one wife, a few lovers, one love. The voices, the sounds, the smell . The places too - oh they survived, but strangers lived their now. Once familiar sidewalks that had welcomed his feet were strange now like a nightmare. He walked up Woodland Avenue. The houses seemed less. They looked the same but felt unreal, small and dusty. There were no trees. Well, proper trees. Just sticks without leaves. It must be Fall, Simon thought. He did like the crunching of gravel on the side of the road under his shoes though. That had not changed.

Simon was surprised. The toilet actually had no seat just as in the movies or on TV. And the noise too..... the bars, the harsh echoes. He looked around for a tin cup. Where was his Bubba too, he wondered. What would it like to be raped as he supposed all such as he were in here. He sat carefully on the narrow bed. A camp cot. That was it. Just like the cots at the church summer camp from centuries ago. No counsellors here though. No friends to confide in and snicker secretly in the night with. And no girls' camp across the stream.

Paul and Simon walked carelessly over the small wooden footbridge. Simon mock screamed and tipped over the edge, legs a straddling the rivulet, 'Help! I'm drowning'. Paul said, 'Throw me your money!'

They laughed and entered the girls side of the camp.

Paul nodded, pointing and whispering loudly, 'See! The kissing booth!'

Simon stood in line, approached and smile uncertainly and quietly. She was pretty and happy, blue eyes laughing and wanting to taste him too. They pecked quickly. Simon's heart stopped and words shaped in his head.

blue eyes soft lips brown hair raining down
Stopped my heart
Stole my breath
I need not live any longer than this

Simon sighed. He stared straight ahead, sitting at attention. He felt the walls around, the hard floor, the simplicity. He breathed slowly and carefully, sensing his blood moving steadily, organs all doing their part. Only his soul seemed absent. Simon felt around hesitantly. Why waste poetry?

sweet death

2011-11-22T23:43:00.001-05:00

a soft sweet sadness
cushioned him
holding back cruel winds
And stinging rain
Burning little gashes into his skin

he breathed
and stopped
surrendering
sleeping at last
Letting the wind and rain
in

Book of Dreams

2011-11-22T00:28:00.001-05:00

I decided to put Book of Dreams back on the side menu - although no one on earth but myself likes the poems added so far - or the book itself,..... I do.....

In the new year I will have to set up an account with MacName as mobileme disappears in June.

Alone sphere (continued)

2011-11-20T02:05:00.001-05:00

Simon was surprised. The toilet actually had no seat just as in the movies or on TV. And the noise too..... the bars, the harsh echoes. He looked around for a tin cup. Where was his Bubba too, he wondered. What would it like to be raped as he supposed all such as he were in here. He sat carefully on the narrow bed. A camp cot. That was it. Just like the cots at the church summer camp from centuries ago. No counsellors here though. No friends to confide in and snicker secretly in the night with. And no girls' camp across the stream.

Paul and Simon walked carelessly over the small wooden footbridge. Simon mock screamed and tipped over the edge, legs a straddling the rivulet, 'Help! I'm drowning'. Paul said, 'Throw me your money!'

They laughed and entered the girls side of the camp.

Paul nodded, pointing and whispering loudly, 'See! The kissing booth!'

Simon stood in line, approached and smile uncertainly and quietly. She was pretty and happy, blue eyes laughing and wanting to taste him too. They pecked quickly. Simon's heart stopped and words shaped in his head.

blue eyes soft lips brown hair raining down
Stopped my heart
Stole my breath
I need not live any longer than this

the chair

2011-11-20T01:42:00.001-05:00

A calm quiet descended from the sky and settled in his heart that day. He was tired and sad but fiercely set upon his way. He sat and felt the brief pleasure of wine so red, but it could not sway the thoughts in his head. His heart was heavy as he thought of her. He could not fathom the depths of silence the sometimes joy he seemed to bring to her. She owed him nothing as he sat silence enveloping the air about. He owed her all, and feared emptiness most of all. He knew he felt his end was near as he sat among ruins surrounding his chair. If only he could hold if only he could steer a way through fog and freezing fear. He would one day be near to sense the beauty so ordinary that she wore. She wore this beauty unconsciously, like jeans and T-shirt on a Sunday warm. He breathed in deeply and turned to leave and dream again.

Back again

2011-11-19T11:45:00.001-05:00

Ok. I won't use their dynamic views, though I like the idea - sent a feedback note asking why the top bar has vanished in that mode.... and if it is fixed, I might try again at some point. For now, some corpuscular design seems in order....

Ok..

2011-11-19T11:34:00.001-05:00

Ok... got out of it through a convoluted route - but why in dynamic view does the top menu bar vanish?

WTF!

2011-11-19T11:31:00.001-05:00

Ok, playing with Blogger's dynamic templates - but now I am stuck in one I don't like and the 'design' tab has vanished!!!!!

ooops

2011-11-18T22:31:00.001-05:00

ooops.... back to writing again.... all backed up with those voices and I must get them into The Man who fell from the Sky

On Fire

2011-11-18T12:19:00.001-05:00

Happy Birthday to the Web!

2011-11-14T12:33:00.001-05:00

http://www.italiannotebook.com/events/celebrating-web-alla-romana/

A prose poem

2011-11-14T00:42:00.001-05:00

I began by writing prose poems but
This is the first in a while

They walked along silently, heads full of thoughts of love and leaves. He paused for a moment and said to her: your garden is lush and full, green hedges wildly grow guarded by fences of iron all in a row. The breeze blows softly stirring the flowers, pale gold and red in the moon's glow. What lies behind, he wondered to her, soft grasses and scents playing music all through the night, or a stillness that sends sweet sounds borne on leaves red and brown? I wonder, my love if I might....
She smiled tenderly and said not a word, then holding his hand she said Come now with me and together we will make sweet harmony.

Remembrance Day 2011

2011-11-11T13:15:00.001-05:00

I watched part of the Remembrance Day ceremonies from Ottawa on TV this morning. This always makes me cry. This year was especially touching as the Silver Cross mother was SO young! In the past, as Canada's last war was Korea, Silver Cross mothers were little old ladies with white hair. This sad woman looked to be not much more than 40.

Persentio, ergo sum.

Lest we forget.

Life is Change

2011-11-10T20:41:00.001-05:00

Tonight I was feeling depressed - well, not exactly depressed.... let's just say down.... pensive....low .... thesauretical [hmmm..... a new word!].....

So I performed radical surgery on my blog - deleted Book of Dreams and The Man who fell from the Sky. No one looked at those pages much anyway, and they don't show as they should, and as they will when published in ePub3. And the way my mad mind works, the final product may not bear much resemblance to the sad idiocy that was showing on this blog.

I altered me also - changing some of the overblown nonsense I wrote about myself, and deleting some which was obviously silly.

I am going to renew and redo an old Facebook page I did a long time ago to display my writing. It had only my boring books - local histories. They are worthy in their own way and maybe I can sell a few more - and add Apple a Day [whose page here I left untouched for the moment]. What about this blog though? I will keep writing it as it keeps me insane and off-kilter and no writer worth anything should be too sane. But it does not really match what my Facebook 'page' for writing will display... so I might start a boring blog for that.... though whatever would I write there?!

I wonder if I should also delete the links off to the side.... yes..... [thinking as I write].... I have to get a MacName account before the end of June 2012 when Apple Corps' web hosting ends anyway - and I have studied the Stats on Blogger and on Statcounter - and virtually no one ever looks at them, despite my love for the Book of Dreams site.......

So here are the links for the last time they will appear on this blog, anyway - until they are published in ePub3 format and appear as iPad apps...... multimedia..... and safely, frothing at the mouth mad.....

The Writing Smithy fades to black.....

Book of Dreams - alas, I awoke....

I will return.....

Night light

2011-11-08T00:20:00.001-05:00

he stood in the dark
breezes touching his heart
from the distant light
comforting trees

~~he turned away~~
~~this was not his day~~
~~he let the shade~~
~~envelope him~~

scratched out second verse - absolutely crappy! First is not too bad.....

Hungry & cold 2

2011-11-07T00:42:00.001-05:00

He counted the change carefully. 56, 57, 58...... Damn! Where was that quarter.... somewhere.... on the floor maybe. Simon bent down, feeling under the dresser, pulling out a wad of grey dust. He lay out flat, looking, exploring now with both hands in the dark. Ahhh! Victory! He had it, the quarter. Now..down the basement where he knew there was a trove of pennies in an old mason jar beside some hardened paint brushes. A dollar, he needed a dollar to get the pasta on sale at Rossi's on Concession Street. He still had some matches to light a burner - thank God Katy had insisted on a gas stove.

Tomorrow he would figure out tomorrow. Maybe a cheque would come. Maybe. Now he was hungry and cold.

He lay half asleep, pasta-filled, shivering a bit in the cold. He remembered cold floors on childish feet in his parents' home. The furnace was always turned down at night; he supposed because they had grown in the days of coal when furnaces dies down at night anyway. Generations of children had grown up darting shivering in winter dark as feet touched cold floor. Simon lay now trying to bring the feeling of security, of a world where up was up and down was down and food and light and laughter were usual. The snow banked against windows, pretty only, a place to play. He could not. He could see in his mind's eye, but he could no longer feel. He started to shiver uncontrollably; he could not stop; ice moved slowly through his veins; he thought his heart would stop.

hungry & cold

2011-11-06T01:29:00.001-04:00

the river

2011-11-05T00:25:00.001-04:00

the river haunted him

it turned and looped serene glinting arrogantly
swaying hips flaunting sexuality as it moved ever closer to the red sun that hissed and bubbled to itself. the land beyond and on either side was faintly green but worshipped at the water unconcerned which flowed its sensuous mode music in flats alone.

John Ruskin on the virtues of architecture

2011-11-04T16:00:00.001-04:00

In the main, we require from buildings, as from men, two kinds of goodness: first, the doing their practical duty well: then that they be graceful and pleasing in doing it; which last is itself another form of duty.

Then the practical duty divides itself into two branches,—acting and talking:—acting, as to defend us from weather or violence; talking, as the duty of monuments or tombs, to record facts and express feelings; or of churches, temples, public edifices, treated as books of history, to tell such history clearly and forcibly. We have thus, altogether, three great branches of architectural virtue, and we require of any building,— 1. That it act well, and do the things it was intended to do in the best way.

2. That it speak well, and say the things it was intended to say in the best words.

3. That it look well, and please us by its presence, whatever it has to do or say.

- from Chapter II The Virtues of Architecture in The Stones of Venice by John Ruskin (1851-53)

joy

2011-11-04T00:56:00.001-04:00

Can a sad man write joy?

He stared across the rooM
Watching the light blinking at hiM
And tried to thinK
Of joy of heR
His spirit was sodden and hanging dowN
As he tried to write of joy agaiN

he
sat in the dark and delved deep
legs crossed heart beating pulsing
In hiM
he breathed in
then out
And thought
not bad!
I breathe both out and in!
What fun!

If only I do this for another few years
I can write of her beauty
I can in my heart and soul
Feel the touch of love
So fragile and bold

So he smiled in the darkest gloom
And wrote joy
In the middle of his empty room

Stop History Now!

2011-11-02T23:59:00.001-04:00

He sat in the back row, half asleep, starting with a jolt whenever his forehead hit the desk - a hollow sound. The spinning slide show - not the usual linear display, but some new form which whirled past battles and blood and diseases and calm, underlined in raw red strokes stopping for a few seconds here where a bit of music played, and there where a video of some man pointing at mosques while speaking in an east ender accent about sumfink. He held his head and watched as the cockney in the video stopped talking about the placement of coloured tiles and looked directly at Simon, then with a pained look slowly raised his own hands to hold his head too. It all
stopped.

One and a bit

2011-10-31T12:16:00.001-04:00

at the bottom of a well i dwell it leads to hell

Unfinished

2011-10-31T11:07:00.001-04:00

I cannot seem to write but I can start.....hard logic has invaded my soul, planting a noxious weed in fertile soil. I am spraying the invader within using a formula un-fin-ished

unfinished 2

2011-10-31T11:00:00.001-04:00

hard logic seized his soul
counting things innumerable
he sat & waited
for a voice not there

unfinished 1

2011-10-31T10:54:00.001-04:00

she lay there shy & trembling
before my eyes
her beauty gentle
touching owning
me inside

Sensations

2011-10-28T10:53:00.000-04:00

I was ruminating on how to write physical sensation. When I was a boy, my parents had a cotton bedspread - white, with little gathered, decorative tufts of cotton arrayed in rows. Even when very young - maybe 5 or 6 years old, I loved to run my hands and fingers along the bedspread. The alternating soft roughness of the tufts and softness of the flat cotton affected me in a way that, as an adult, could only be described as sexual. That is, I did not experience a similar sensation until the time I was able to run my hands along a woman's naked body. I am not saying they feel the same! I am saying that the impact on my perceptions was the same. Alas, it is indescribable - meaning I have been struggling for a year at least to describe this sensation. I cannot, I suppose, because it is not a physical sensation alone, but one of the heart. Very Aristotelean! Definitely not Platonic....

And I suppose also, this post is itself another attempt to describe what is for me frustratingly indescribable.

I probably would have disliked Steve Jobs... but...

2011-10-24T11:25:00.000-04:00

I was reading freely posted excerpts from the biography of Steve Jobs this morning while preparing breakfast. I realised that most likely I would not have liked this man had I ever been close enough to him to dislike him. My mind is totally disorganised, shooting off in multiple directions, jumping from one task to another - for example I am writing this while part way through a search for a link to the Jedi Knights phenomenon of the UK census a few years ago, for an online course I teach - and on my iPad I have the keynote slides up for Wednesday's in class lecture on Christian history [age of expansion]... and am still in my pyjamas at 11:17 a.m.....and preparing to exercise.... and am regretting I did not get to my Italian self teaching this morning as planned [planned!!! lol]

Anyway, back to Steve Jobs - driven, focussed, acerbic, a perfectionist - everything I am not [well, except for writing....] .... what did I appreciate about his obvious accomplishments? Most commentators list .....the Macintosh OS, the iPod, the iPhone, the iPad, iTunes..... Pixar.......

But what I am thankful for are firstly, computers [whether desktops, laptops, mobile devices] which are intuitive - that is, they are not structured into hierarchies of folders, rationally ordered - but are designed such that my mad brain can just do things and make them appear as I envisioned them as if by magic on a screen in front of me.....

Secondly, the sheer beauty he allowed Jonathan Ives to make intrinsic to Apple's hardware..... there is an integral joy to writing a history for my academic work, or a novel, or poetry on a thing which is itself a work of art.

For these two things, I am grateful.

the lady wore a moustache. 2

2011-10-21T11:16:00.001-04:00

the lady wore a moustache
she wore it so all could see
she walked up one side
and down the other too
she smiled and laughed
to see the stares
as people looked amazed that she
would dare
o the lady wore a moustache
so everyone could see
that she was lovely with that hair
or totally moustache free

fonts

2011-10-20T21:35:00.001-04:00

trying different fonts.... of course readers can alter this on their own device...

Netherworld added to book of dreams site

2011-10-20T21:10:00.001-04:00

I decided to add what I now call the netherworld 3 to my Book of Dreams site..... not all dreams are happy.... or maybe I should say not all dreams are nightmares

Netherworld

2011-10-20T19:50:00.001-04:00

I realised tonight I had begun a new series of poems called 'netherworld'. Here is a working copy of the latest. I am posting this using my blogger app so the correct font and formatting is gone. But when it is done, I will save it as a jpg and upload that.

a blank sky greeted his eyes dark clouds hung low

their taste was bitter
he stumbled and fell
greeting hell
bleeding hope
facing down
all around

he cried and banged on that door
of the home
waiting jagged alone without
long prepared
where none would care
as he ate the blackness that was
him

finally

2011-10-18T20:09:00.001-04:00

exhausted by the road he lay
staring high as stars rode by
he felt her smiling down at him
distant in his heart so thin
he ached he puzzled
he was trouble
and she smiled at him

armies marched

2011-10-18T20:06:00.001-04:00

armies marched by night
faces smiling glowing bright
they raped they killed
and trampled down
smiling as they went
at all around

Faces Grim

2011-10-18T20:03:00.001-04:00

faces grim
looked at him
smiles gone
he could not swim
the tide
had turned
drowning
all
he
surrendered
to the water
foul
returning
within

Purgatory

2011-10-16T00:49:00.001-04:00

a little poem released from purgatory while a little drunk on plonk

cool wind/warm skin

2011-10-16T00:38:00.000-04:00

cool wind played over warm skin

shirtless shoeless

he walked

in his mind with her

he talked

in his heart with her

he sought

to touch her

soft

Fiddling

2011-10-13T14:01:00.001-04:00

I decided to fiddle a bit with the blog template.......I don't quite like the colours, but do the format.. will try to see if I can change the colours later...

naughty

2011-10-10T11:40:00.001-04:00

he ravished her in the morning light
he ravished under the moon so bright
he ravished her when the sun was high
he ravished her under a rainy sky

he knew he should not but
he could not

stop

how to write death

2011-10-10T07:00:00.000-04:00

My main character, Simon, begins at the end - contemplating suicide. Given the direction the tale has taken, I do not know if he will take that step. But I needed to be prepared, so have been imagining this myself for quite some time. The problem is, each time I reach the cusp of the deed something intervenes. Either my cat jumps on me, my dog wants out.... or other daily duties intervene. Or, I simply cannot imagine it - something within the dream itself intervenes - a friend, a lover, some reason not to bring an end to this existence.

But! Last night, I was able, finally, to bring about finality! I dreamed I had completed everything on my bucket list [I had got that far before].... had definitely lost all that I desired beyond the list..... laid myself out, and injected my wife's old insulin. Then I saw myself lying there, still, unbreathing, not alive..... oddly straight like a soldier lying to attention. Hmmmmm.

Soooo, what will happen to Simon? Will he escape his trap outside time? Will he then be able to enter time and sleep in peace?

poetry and imagery

2011-10-07T09:50:00.000-04:00

For the past two years, I have been writing poetry. I wrote poems many years ago when in High School. I was influenced by Leonard Cohen - I purchased an edition of his collected poems. This was in the 1960s! And he is still writing poetry, though almost always set to music since that time. I was influenced also by Catullus - I studied Latin in High School, and discovered to my male teenaged delight an unexpurgated translation in our High School library. I tried the poetry of Margaret Atwood, who was then known as a poet and not a novelist - but did not care for her work - it seemed contrived and dead, unlike her skills as a weaver of tales.

The poetry I wrote then was an exuberant play with language - I loved to promote images in my mind by using words in new ways. Today my poetry springs from deep emotional wells as I approach the end of my life. While I still appreciate the poetry of Leonard Cohen and of Catullus, my favourite now would be the idea of Francesco Petrarca and his Laura. I am not equipped to connect deeply - yet - with his poetry in Italian, but am linked to his muse. Enough said there for now.

My poetry comes to me unbidden - it is necessary; I cannot stop it. The other day, however, something new happened. I viewed a simple, yet complex and small artwork that caused a poem. It is in a technique call ACEO, that I knew nothing about at all, and little yet in technical terms. I know it thoroughly as a poet though. I recognized it. It penetrated my soul.

Here is a link to the Wikipedia article describing the ACEO form ....

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Artist_trading_cards

Here is the little poem that escaped me when I saw it......

the fire stretching
reaching high
not touching the moon
cold in sky

and here is the ACEO that created this short poem....

Fire and Moon

The book culture & the eBook culture

2011-10-06T21:19:00.000-04:00

Today, I read a review of two books on the early days of the reading culture in Scotland and England in the late 18th century. This was the era when the English-speaking peoples became readers of books.

The review is by Richard B. Sher in Reviews in History Here is the URL of the review if you wish to read the whole rather interesting piece: http://www.history.ac.uk/reviews/review/1143

And, to be correct, here is the proper citation:

Richard B. Sher, review of Of Libraries and Commonplace Books: Reading the Enlightenment in Britain, (review no. 1143)

What interests me, however, is the comparison that sprang to mind with eBooks today and print books then. The reviewer notes in his comparison of the three books, that reading spread quickly and to all classes, through a variety of means - public lending libraries, private libraries that lent their books, purchase - and hints that as the numbers of books sold are far fewer than the numbers the researchers found in library catalogues of the period - that violation of copyright was common.

But, as I say what struck was how the spread of eBooks is similar - different technology to be sure, but a proliferation of eBooks by lending, purchase and illegal copying - in both cases, the late 18th century and the early 21st, there is a thirst for reading which publishers and those who attempt to imprison new reading and thought in old wineskins cannot stop.

indeed

2011-10-06T19:29:00.001-04:00

From the Wall Street journal, a quote from Steve Jobs in 2010:

"It's in Apple's DNA that technology alone is not enough. It's technology married with liberal arts, married with the humanities, that yields the results that make our hearts sing."

mordant

2011-10-05T13:44:00.001-04:00

thoughts broken played
chords discordant
time swirled choking and mordant

emptied and filled
until he lay exhausted

staring blind and despondent

secret thoughts

2011-10-04T07:36:00.001-04:00

her secret thoughts
she kept from him
he cried 'o let me in'
but she kept the door tight closed
no man she trusted
she stayed alone
dreaming her dreams
on her own

Alone sphere updated

2011-10-04T00:42:00.000-04:00

blank 4

2011-10-02T00:28:00.001-04:00

he sat quietly there in his chair driving away empty hardness of thoughts unbidden all he wanted was to sing for her/too many hours of furrowed brow and worries piled on cares/now he dreamed of her light that sent delight and cleared the darkness from the air

blank 3

2011-10-02T00:23:00.001-04:00

sat in the dark drinking plonk
the world was dead
as voices ﬁlled his head
so he drank his plonk
so he could stop thinking
and feel instead

la prisonière

2011-09-30T10:35:00.000-04:00

added a jumble for you to sort
to my crazy quilt site

la prisonière