Archive for August, 2009
August 29th, 2009
I am sitting crosslegged, my forearms relaxed upon my knees, my eyes closed, my head to one side, listening. I can hear waves, that gentle sussuro of surf against sand, of wind on water. Beneath me the rock is cool and solid, rooted into the deepest earth, ancient in its allegiance.
The smell of the sea is intoxicating, fresh and turbulent, full of spice and far-off thunder, cooling against my brow amidst the gentle heat of the sun overhead.
I open my eyes. I am sitting on a rocky outcrop, centred to an island in a vast sea. A wide beach of golden sand bounds the liminality of the my domain, grasses bend in the breeze, trees sway, creatures flit and dance in the shadows. From out of the silence comes an almost inaudible cacophony of life. In the distance the sea is medley of subtlety, currents painting nuance and serenity across its surface.
I sit here, alone; I am myself, somewhere between what I once was and what I am today. This day is a good day.
Some days I wake, and the storms rage and howl, as if driven mad. The winds beat and thrash the waves, savaging them with unrelenting ferocity.
My island is now a single solitary spire of rock, perilous in its fragility, its surface beaten smooth by primal forces. I cling, the wind and rain lashing me, numbing me, freezing me. The wind roars and snarls at me, tugging at my fingers, trying to pull me from my bastion, to fling me screaming into the sky, tossed between waves and cloud, lightning and thunder cruel cues for my disembodiment. Beneath me that terrible familiar sea would reach up for me, seeking to crush me within its depths; drowning my senses from time and place.
I cling, my every breath a bruise; the rock trembling and moaning with me as my tears stain its surface. I am a child, with a child’s fears and a child’s strength, the years stripped away by the maelstrom around me.
On other days I stand, powerful in my surety, the rock beneath my feet a mountain, the raging of the sea and the wailing of the elements far beneath me. Up here no sound reachs me, there is only the purity of the sky, the silence vast and diffident, its halo blue paled by the singular sun far, far above. I am fast here, none may assail me, this place is mine and it cannot be undone. I stand and I am indifferent to the world, old beyond knowing.
I am the sea and the sky and the sand. I am the wind and the rage, the calm and the silence. I am the rock and the mountain and sun so far above. I am the everything and the nothing. This is my world, and I its only inhabitant.
August 22nd, 2009
A change of pace, courtesy of my friend Elle and someone called Sanchita.
Per required cup
One fresh cardamom
One fingertip sized piece of fresh ginger (heavily crushed)
Sugar to taste
Milk or soyamilk
Assam tea leaves
Put the ginger and cardomom and sugar in a pan and cover with water and boil for 2 minutes.
Add the tea and a little more water. Boil for another two minutes.
Add the milk or soya milk and bring to the boil for two more minutes.
Strain into cups.
Enjoy 
[picture of a successful attempt to be inserted]
August 18th, 2009
this is the last of my breaths
this one
the slow silent draw
rising
my chest
the plunging cool
hinting with its final texture
at long drawn out lives
moments
precious moments
flickering and spinning away
like the relentless hands on a clock
terrifyingly
important
each and every moment
and its sibling breath
remembering
summers scent
the exhilaration of the breath
drawn from your breast
from your
lips
sweet as a winter storm
clinging like autumn haze
mountain air in some
distant
distant
past
deeper and deeper
air flowing
swirling with graceful
elegance
over my lips
down
and then the pause
remembrance
stillness
the dying embers of a kiss
the cusp of our passions
held
silent and long
each moment an age
this final moment
trapped and made
prisoner
servant to this mortal will
this dying
dying
moment
filled with the breath of you
memories of your intensity
the fire of your taste
the scent and strength of you
held
as precious and as magnificent
as all the moments
all the breaths
that sang their silent song
before
and then
with reverence
release
with sadness
surcease
the ending of it all
memory
moment
a lifetime
breathed back into the world
given
in despair
with melancholy
the triumph and the tragedy
of a life lived
surrendered
as we surrendered
this moment
this final moment
this dying of our kiss
180499
August 18th, 2009
Today I am exhausted. I am tired. I am rent.
I am sitting here, on my sofa, catching up on blogs, somehow hoping that the outside world will make me feel a little better. And, strangely, in some very small ways it has. Shauna Glenn’s two recent posts (Not that its all Croc’ed up to be and Beautiful Misery) both put things into perspective and put a smile on my face, no matter how brief and sad and small it may have been. Mary’s recent book related post reminded me of the things I could do to get through this, and the DailySnark’s post Binge and Purge reminded me that this is probably the best time to sweep away some of the relentless accretion of life that has built up around me. PleaseKissOff’s Reading in July post has reminded me that I have accomplished very little reading this last few months and maybe I should rediscover it again. Jessica’s Meandering Thoughts post highlights to me that these things happen and life is about picking yourself up, learning and moving on. And that cake is very important too.
Last night the Girl and I split up, ending three and half years of a relationship that has seen the last third gradually deteriorate into unhappiness, quarrelling, disappointment and sadness. That isn’t to say we haven’t had high points, we have, but there has been a slow descent to where we are and we can’t deny that any longer.
The hard part is that we still love each other. I know I am the main culprit; whatever my expectations of the Girl, I have become more remote and withdrawn over the last few months. She has tried so very hard to make things work, and for some reason I just haven’t been able to respond, to work at it in the way she and the relationship deserves.
I have not been the best of boyfriends. I know it. But as ever, the knowing is too late, the understanding too little.
I do love her. She is a wonderful, clever and caring person. I will miss her quirkiness and her unique way of looking at the world. But I don’t know if I can change quickly enough, and she doesn’t know if she can take any more. Neither of us want the continued pain of the last year. Neither of us wants that for the other.
And so it ends.
August 14th, 2009
My father died as a result of cancers suddenly sprouting within him, the pressure of one of these cutting off the majority of the blood supply to the upper half of his body and, more critically, his brain. In many ways this was a somewhat merciful release, given the confusion and fear he spent the last few years of his life in, mainly due to Alzheimer’s.
He was a proud and strong man, having served in the Second World War in the submarines and lived all over the world in the subsequent years. He was gregarious, loquacious and always the life and soul of the party. He was 52 when I was born and 56 when my brother was born.
By the time I had hit sixteen (many, many years ago) he was in physical decline, the ravages of time, a long working life and arthritis taking their effect, perhaps aided by the all too constant, but not excessive, imbibing of alcohol that became a fixture of his later years.
Having read the recent article by the author Sir Terry Pratchett (a firm favourite of mine), I have been thinking about the final days of both my father and myself quite a lot recently.
Morbid? Not really. I am both fascinated and appalled by the attitude to death that exists in the western world, the fear and loathing with which is approached and the sometimes almost sick perversity that it is revered. I believe that death is an integral part of life, a simple fact that we cannot avoid, no matter how hard we wish, no matter how desperately we apply our potions and our alchemies. Life should be celebrated, death accepted. Which is not to mean that you should not fight for life, if you are ill or at risk. The fight for life is a natural response and should not be impeded, unless the wish is otherwise.
Which brings me, after much meandering, to my point.
Let me die a youngman’s death (Roger McGough)
Let me die a youngman’s death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death
I am 37 years old and I am not afraid of death. I do not want to die, but I do not fear it.
I fear the manner of it. I fear my father’s death. I fear the loss of mind, the loss of self, a prison not of the body but of the un-mind. I fear that every moment is a new one, tinged with terror that I cannot remember the countless moments that preceded it.
When I’m 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party
I fear the dismantling of my body, that slow accretion of age and chemicals and damage that is even now beginning to slow me, to hurt and remind me of time’s relentless passage. I fear entrapment, not of the mind, but of the body, a constraint of incapability and immobility,where the flesh is hostage to other than the mind and the will.
Or when I’m 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber’s chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides
I fear that sloughing of self, the mitigation and forgetfulness of time, where the bright days of my life, the memories of friendships and loves, the achievements and losses, when everything begins to dull and disappear, to fade against the exhaustion of the battle for life, when the meaning of it all is replaced by the numbing count of days survived.
Or when I’m 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one
Let me die a youngman’s death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
‘what a nice way to go’ death
I want a death of my own choosing. A death with flair and wonder and meaning. I want a heroic death, defying odds beyond my ability to win. I want a daredevil death, my last breath spent in an exhilarated whoop as I fly over the edge of the precipice, the waterfall, or in a sigh of contentedness as the cold of a mountain seeps away my life at dawn. I want a savage death, beaten and broken in a silent war for something I believe in, protecting those few principles still left to me.
I want a death of such tragic consequence the world will mourn and wail and gnash their teeth and beat their heads. I want a death of such crass stupidity that people will mock and laugh until it becomes the stuff of urban legend. I want a poet’s death, selfish and drunk, fevered with dreams and inspiration.
I want a death that is not silent, and broken and lonely, faded to memory and time and dust. I want to die a death of style and verve and singular panache. A death the equal of me, the better of me, a manner of death that does not mock the life before it but punctuates it with an awesome finality.
I want to die a young man’s death.
August 13th, 2009
statue of a man
unbidden
formed of regret
obstinance
resolve a threadbare
cloak
and damned
to sustenance
on hope’s despair
August 6th, 2009
… I wonder what it is that I am doing.
Why am I here?
For what reasons do I do the things I do? Feel the way I feel?
Why is it always more complex, more tangled and crazy and fucked up than I thought it to be?
Why does the path steepen the farther I walk along it?
Some days I just want to shout at the sky.
August 6th, 2009
This is a bit of a longish post, so please bear with me. In no particular order…
Come, Hunt an Earthman – Philip E High (Abebooks)
I used to read this a lot when I was younger, it definitely featured in my top ten books of my childhood. Within an hour of it arriving I had read all but the last few pages (which are sitting there, agonisingly close). The story, as ever, was different to how I remember it, and if anything, is better for it. One to cherish.
Twilight and The Host – Stephenie Meyer (Amazon)
I’ve wanted to pick up the latter for sometime, having reading a number of good reviews and been intrigued by the premise. The former was purchased purely due to the hype.
Blood of the Mantis – Adrian Tchaikovsky (Amazon)
I am, against all expectations, quite enjoying this series. There is nothing particularly outstanding about Tchaikovsky’s writing, but the plot and characters are solid and it is jolly good fun.
Kushiel’s Scion – Jacqueline Carey (Hay)
On a whim.
Portsmouth in Haiku – British Haiku Society (Hay)
The smallest and lightest of my Hay purchases, this is possibly one of my favourites. Lovely haiku and well designed.
Verses – Christina Rossetti (Hay)
I struggled with this. I love Rossetti’s poetry, but this is a book of her Christian verse, which is not something I ordinarily go for. However, the writing is sublime, the book itself is beautiful and it dates at 1894. Despite putting it back on the shelf and walking away I found myself buying it with the other purchases from the Poetry Shop (and it made up roughly 20% of my overall spend – eek!).
The Fledging of Az Gabrielson – Jay Amory (Hay)
On a whim.
Blue World – Jack Vance (Hay)
On a whim.
Floating Worlds – Cecilia Holland (Hay)
On a whim. Although I have always wanted to read this.
Principles of Angels – Jaine Fenn(Hay)
On a whim.
The Complete Western Stories – Elmore Leonard (Hay)
I love Elmore Leonard’s writing, and the opportunity to read his westerns (which I never knew he had written) was too much to pass on. Instant purchase.
Big Snake – Robert Twigger (Hay)
The author of Angry White Pyjamas (superb) goes searching for the biggest python in existence. Another opportunity not to be missed.
Water Light Time – David Doubilet (Hay)
One of my favourite photography books ever, I constantly find myself surprised that I do not own it, not even twice. So I bought it. Featuring a set of his unbelievably beautiful underwater photographs, this is one to be read, looked at and swooned over.
Listen to the Warmth, Grand Tour and Lonesome Cities – Rod McKuen (Hay)
One of my favourite poets, he was definitely of his time and seems to be strangely forgotten now, considering how huge he was at one time. Two duplicate purchases, for a friend.
Book of Scottish Poetry – Various (Hay)
Partially on a whim, partially because there is some great poetry that I will no doubt have fun trying to read aloud. Also inspired by my recent visit to Edinburgh and meet up with my Scottish Twitter friend MrFarty.
Spares – Michael M Smith and The Blade Itself – Joe Abercrombie (Hay)
Duplicates, purchased for my brother, because he deserves to read quality stuff. Spares is an awesome book and I am sad that MMS has moved away from the SF genre to the thriller/horror one. A loss. The Blade Itself is the first in the First Law series and is cracking good read.
A Ride in the Neon Sun – Josie Dew (Hay)
If you like travel writing, or cycling, or Japan, then this is a fantastic book for you. Might be  duplicate, but I can’t find the original copy so that makes this okay. Thinking about it, regardless of what you are interested in, go and read this anyway.
The Long Price – Daniel Abraham (Hay)
On a whim.
End of the World Blues – Jim Courtney Grimwood (Hay)
I loved his Arabesk trilogy, and this was yet again too good an opportunity to ignore. A superb writer with a great sense of pace and excellent plotting, I can’t wait to read this.
Total Spend: You really do not want to know. I don’t want to know. But I do.
Happiness: Indescribable.
August 2nd, 2009
I sit here, the plastic tablecloth cool beneath my wrists. A family chatters in the corner, the youngest playfully sprawling over his mother’s lap as she, giggling, struggles to hold him in place. To my right three girls reminisce, their guest an occasional contributor, his dark eyes watching each of them intently. The floor shudders and jumps with the thumping of a child’s feet, amplified beyond her small size.
This is not my study but it should be…
Today has been a good day, the morning a race through the countryside, down road motorway to that haven of bookshops, Hay-on-Wye. The remainder was spent almost in paralysis, trying to decide what to buy, where to browse, how much to spend; what was a reasonable price to pay.
And then the floodgates are broken, cast aside with the contemptuous disregard of both temptation and opportunity alike. I wander from bookshop to bookshop, searching, seeking, but always browsing, open and amenable to serendipity. Books are seen, umm-ed and ahh-ed over. Decisions made, money exchanged, books a triumphant secret in my bag.
The rain falls, cream tea and open sandwiches my fuel against tiredness, the steaming mocha beside me a bulwark against flagging enthusiasm. Momentarily I stand, watching the world go by, watching the people ambling, books and crafts in hand. In the Poetry Bookshop an American couple discuss with the owner knowledgably and enthusiastically poems and poetry, parallels drawn with Country and Folk singing. The proprietor responds with charm and genuine interest.
I find more treasures, not those I sought, but treasures nonetheless.
Today has indeed been a good day…
Hay on Wye purchases
