Thursday, 30 April 2009
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
Getting foxy!
Sunday morning as I bowled out the back door for a cigarette I was stopped in my tracks by the sight of a fox, lying as bold as brass in the middle of the lawn, apparently making the most of the sunshine! 
My surprise was further piqued when said fox barely moved with my blundering approach, it just stayed right where it was a opposed to running off, the usual response one would expect. I retreated back indoors to watch what he/she was up to and it all too soon became apparent that foxy was not at all well. One paw was badly damaged, most of his tail was missing, his coat was a mess and any attempt he made at getting up and walking was abortive, his legs just didn't seem to be able to support him.
I had visions of having to soon find a fox sized black bag and transporting him in a deceased state to be disposed of by a vet. :o(
After about an half hour and it being apparent he wasn't in good shape and not having moved I called the RSPCA who duly agreed to come out and see if they could catch him but as sods law would dictate, before they managed to get here he suddenly found the strength to wander off in a very wobbly fashion and despite much searching through shrubbery and undergrowth couldn't relocate him. My assumption, he had gone away to die. There was nothing more either myself or the RSPCA could do.
That was the end of that so it seemed...until at about 8 in the evening when I was watching TV he suddenly came wandering up the pavement as large as life, trotted down the steps to the back of the house and began feasting on the food we had put out for him in case he returned!
He was still far from looking in tip top condition but he had regained a certain degree of spring in his step and certainly hadn't lost his capacity for eating! I suspect he is pretty old by his general appearance and had suffered some injury early in the day but had somehow managed to recover enough to go about his usual foxy business, he's popped back once or twice for some food but never long enough for us to get the professionals here to capture him.
Hopefully his wounds will heal naturally and he will then potter along in normal fox life for a little longer until a usual aged demise takes him over but for now we keep putting food out in the hope that he keeps returning and we can keep an eye on him in case he needs help at some time in the future.
My surprise was further piqued when said fox barely moved with my blundering approach, it just stayed right where it was a opposed to running off, the usual response one would expect. I retreated back indoors to watch what he/she was up to and it all too soon became apparent that foxy was not at all well. One paw was badly damaged, most of his tail was missing, his coat was a mess and any attempt he made at getting up and walking was abortive, his legs just didn't seem to be able to support him.
I had visions of having to soon find a fox sized black bag and transporting him in a deceased state to be disposed of by a vet. :o(
After about an half hour and it being apparent he wasn't in good shape and not having moved I called the RSPCA who duly agreed to come out and see if they could catch him but as sods law would dictate, before they managed to get here he suddenly found the strength to wander off in a very wobbly fashion and despite much searching through shrubbery and undergrowth couldn't relocate him. My assumption, he had gone away to die. There was nothing more either myself or the RSPCA could do.
That was the end of that so it seemed...until at about 8 in the evening when I was watching TV he suddenly came wandering up the pavement as large as life, trotted down the steps to the back of the house and began feasting on the food we had put out for him in case he returned!
He was still far from looking in tip top condition but he had regained a certain degree of spring in his step and certainly hadn't lost his capacity for eating! I suspect he is pretty old by his general appearance and had suffered some injury early in the day but had somehow managed to recover enough to go about his usual foxy business, he's popped back once or twice for some food but never long enough for us to get the professionals here to capture him.
Hopefully his wounds will heal naturally and he will then potter along in normal fox life for a little longer until a usual aged demise takes him over but for now we keep putting food out in the hope that he keeps returning and we can keep an eye on him in case he needs help at some time in the future.
Friday, 24 April 2009
Quack quack!
Do goslings 'quack' officially? Whatever, they are getting brave and their parents are beginning to trust me, I don't have a long lens!
(Click for the big ones)
The rest are HERE.
(Click for the big ones)
The rest are HERE.
Thursday, 23 April 2009
The eBay debacle!
When I was 'dispatched' from Cambridge so suddenly a few weeks ago I had just become the proud owner of a new high-ish end mobile phone...a luxury that now, with no job and a dying car about to face this years M.O.T. I can no longer justify!It was thus that having used it only once, I decided it would have to go the 'eBay way' in the hope of procuring for myself a few much needed pounds and so my long abandoned eBay account was duly poked back into action and up for sale went the phone.
And that's where the trouble started!
The whole issue has been an utter debacle, the first auction ended when a scammer over bid so massively it effectively stopped all other bidders, we are talking £1100 here for an item that I would expect maybe £200-£300!! Immediately I began getting emails from eBay themselves telling me this was a fraud, (no shit Sherlock) and what to do next. I duly followed their instructions, which took up best part of half a day and started over with a re-listing. Thing I thought would be sorted from that point.
How wrong can you be!
Since then I have had umpteen fraudulent attempts at gaining my email address or my paypal details, individuals threatening me, telling me they have paid (when they patently haven't), that my account has been suspended, that I am 'under investigation' and of course the guys from 'Yonkers' attempting to purchase from outside of eBay.
These guys know their stuff, they are good, distinguishing the scammers from the genuine bidders is pretty hard, the only real sign is that the scammers mail doesn't ever turn up in my eBay inbox, just in my private mail....well that and the lack of command of the English language some of them display!
It's been almost a full time job these past two days sorting it all out, eBay are quick to respond but getting to them in the first places isn't as easy as it should be and I have so much of this crap, my inbox is literally overrun with this rubbish that keeping track of who is who and what is what is nigh on impossible.
Millions of people use eBay every day, surely they can't all be having this much hassle but one thing is for sure....I just don't need this right now and when this damn phone is sold I won't be using eBay again in a hurry!!
*Incidentally....if anyone wants a Nokia N95 8GB gimme a shout!
Wednesday, 22 April 2009
Goose-lets!
One of the ways I have been trying to occupy myself these last few weeks is by walking, I walk and I walk a-n-d I w-a-l-k, for no other reason than if I sit still I think.... and I don't want to think. As a result I have pounded something in the region of a hundred miles of pavements since my life disintegrated around me. It's not my idea of fun but to some small degree it works, it's a distraction and if nothing else I must be getting fitter.
The last few days the weather has been kind and so instead of scuttling about under an umbrella, I have walked to the local park and spent some time sitting watching the world go by, in fact two days ago, I didn't just sit, without much apparent concern for my personal safety I fell fast asleep there and woke up with a start and a very pink face and no earthly idea where I was for a moment or two! However, sitting in the park in the sun is not necessarily a good thing right now, it has memories of 'us', of romantic picnics and lovely moments etc. etc. but today there was a diversion, a happy sight which took my mind off to a better place for a short while......
(Click for the big ones)
The last few days the weather has been kind and so instead of scuttling about under an umbrella, I have walked to the local park and spent some time sitting watching the world go by, in fact two days ago, I didn't just sit, without much apparent concern for my personal safety I fell fast asleep there and woke up with a start and a very pink face and no earthly idea where I was for a moment or two! However, sitting in the park in the sun is not necessarily a good thing right now, it has memories of 'us', of romantic picnics and lovely moments etc. etc. but today there was a diversion, a happy sight which took my mind off to a better place for a short while......
(Click for the big ones)
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
Right then....
....in an effort to get this blog back to some degree of normality I will be trying from this point on to blog stuff, at least to some degree, other than about my current sorry 'situation'. There will of course still be some 'situational updates' because the reality is that it's the biggest part of my life right now and it's going to be a long and difficult journey..... but I will endeavour at least to find a few other things to ramble on about here and there.
No promises of course at this stage, my blogging head is still not really up to scratch and I will still welcome with open arms, any offers of guest posts but hopefully not everything here will be the doom and gloom of recent weeks from now on.
No promises of course at this stage, my blogging head is still not really up to scratch and I will still welcome with open arms, any offers of guest posts but hopefully not everything here will be the doom and gloom of recent weeks from now on.
Monday, 20 April 2009
Baby steps
It doesn't need reiterating here that the last few weeks of my life have been pretty dire, a time and place I never want to visit again as long as I live and that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. So where am I at now? Really I don't know, I feel like I'm functioning on auto pilot but an auto pilot system with more than a few technical issues, pretty directionless and with my mind flailing around wildly trying to find something to hang onto and/or focus on, though focusing seems to be difficult, my levels of concentration are shot and my thoughts are constantly disrupted by memories and questions.
To that end I have made made the decision to submit to a course of counselling. For me, and I know there are some of you who don't necessarily agree, a need to understand the what's and why's of how I came to be in this position is an inherent part of how I deal with things and without gaining that insight I just can't move on. There is nothing I can do to change what has happened, much as I wish there was, so instead I have to try and understand the reasons behind it from a psychological aspect. It's just me, it's how I have always been, without some understanding I will never be able to draw a line under the whole sorry story.
It's going to be a long journey, one I don't relish and one I wish with all my heart I didn't have to face but I do... and for me I think it's the only way forward. Tiny baby steps, one thing at a time, there will be many ups and downs no doubt and much self searching but counselling session number one last Friday helped me see at least that maybe I can make it through and maybe I can stop blaming myself entirely. Already aspects of what happened have been bought to my attention by the professionals that I hadn't seen or understood previously!
So, a better understanding and perhaps I will 'get there' in the end. I feel very fragile still and there is no doubting I will be a different person at the end of all of this, it has changed me already and I won't ever be quite the woman I was before. My trust and faith in life are shot to pieces and my cynicism levels are pretty high..... and I don't like it. I have always been a trusting person, always believed strongly in communication, always tried to see the good in people and situations and I have to learn now how to fix it instead of carrying it around inside me as a form of damaging self protection.
Baby steps... they are going to hurt like hell some of them, counselling works but it's tough, believe me I know, but it has to be done and do it I will!
Friday, 17 April 2009
Watch out there's a poet about - Guest Post
As if it's not enough that I peddle my doggerel to captive audiences and the unwary shoppers of Milton Keynes I now swoop onto Gemmak's blog and spill it out here too. Thanks to her for giving me the space.
Two poems; slightly bizarre ones I'm afraid but a lot of what I write seemed inappropriate for this blog.
The first is a bit more accessible and resulted from me thinking about the number of words Eskimos/Inuits etc are supposed to have for snow and then I realised we have just as many for the word "time". Interesting how it features so heavily in our lexicography.
The second is far more obscure and was written when I was playing around with the idea of Jack Kerouac's stream of consciousness style and is really about the representation of deities and how every culture I know of has at least one "god". I know they are both not what you would consider 'poems' in the traditional sense as they are written in free or blank verse - I do write "proper poems" too like villanelles and sonnets but hey, something different is fun too.
If you have a passion to read more of my poems (or even hear my voice - eek) then you can click here.
IanB (a.k.a. Alex Sykie, a.k.a. Punctuation on Wordpress).
Time
----------------------
Time kills.
So we kill time.
Time heals.
Does everything heal with time?
Time is made of some sort of plastic
because Dr Who and Einstein can bend time.
Although it’s quite small since it’s
so easy to lose track of time.
Time can be stolen.
We steal time.
We take a minute,
snatch a second.
Time has wings,
time flies.
Time deceives,
time can play tricks.
Time changes everything.
Everything changes with time.
Time passes and,
once it’s gone
it never comes back.
You can’t own time though,
we never “have” time.
Time is addictive nowadays
because we never seem to have
enough time.
Unless you’re in prison;
then you can’t get rid of it,
you have time on your hands,
you’re doing time,
your own time not anyone
else’s, just yours. The judge
gave you time as your master
and now you serve time.
Until it’s finished with you
or, like money, you’ve spent all your time on nothing,
wasted your time and now you’ve had it,
you’ve run out of…time.
Friend
----------------------
This is the spirit of Kerouac. Chelsea Hotel
spirit, English-style.
I mean it though. To you:
I used to call you friend.
I cried and you listened to my sobbing.
I laughed and the laughter bounced back.
And we lied about understanding.
It was the easy thing to do.
It tussled with my rational side.
You were my morning friend. My good-time
friend. My comfort.
I used to call you friend.
Do you remember the songs?
Happy, clappy songs.
It tussled with my rational side.
We were wreathed in sweet-smelling smoke
and chimes. A childhood duty,
kissing feet, wiping cloth, reading
what we couldn't do and never what we could.
Authorised words. Approved and translated.
Then songs about being happy to die because
there would be something there. A song relying
on trust. A tussle with my rational side.
You were never my rock standing in a sand-filled
desert, filled with emptiness. You were never
the hand that guided the art.
White man. White woman. Nails in the wrong places.
Olive in the skin. Oil on the hair. Painted
by the gentiles.
Words that banned things. Stipulations,
prostrations by action and abstention,
by observance in reverence. Until the difference
between the free and those who still listened
grew greater in my mind.
And the difference between the free and me
became so paper-thin you could rub your
fingers through it and they would touch.
Such a fine gap. It tussled with my
rational side.
Move on move on. More wraiths of smoke.
Breath in for peace, hold and release.
Breath in for solace, for solace, for solace.
Mind walks, takes a run up and jumps into the
dream sky of possibilities.
Made our friendship look very different.
Less rules, more creativity. More of
everything: colours, creeds, good and bad.
I used to call you my friend.
Breathed in, moved to the jungle beat.
Made our friendship look very very very different.
Gave you a new face, a new size.
I danced in the warehouse. I danced in the street.
Everybody was there but I was on my own.
Then I hugged the trees. I squeezed their bark
and ran my hands up and down them; my connectors
to the Earth, a divination of you. Stroking them
with my palms and hugging the hard woody trunk like
a lover come back from a long journey and you don't
want to let them go.
Your face looked so very very different and you
lived everywhere and you were truly beautiful.
It tussled with my rational side.
Two poems; slightly bizarre ones I'm afraid but a lot of what I write seemed inappropriate for this blog.
The first is a bit more accessible and resulted from me thinking about the number of words Eskimos/Inuits etc are supposed to have for snow and then I realised we have just as many for the word "time". Interesting how it features so heavily in our lexicography.
The second is far more obscure and was written when I was playing around with the idea of Jack Kerouac's stream of consciousness style and is really about the representation of deities and how every culture I know of has at least one "god". I know they are both not what you would consider 'poems' in the traditional sense as they are written in free or blank verse - I do write "proper poems" too like villanelles and sonnets but hey, something different is fun too.
If you have a passion to read more of my poems (or even hear my voice - eek) then you can click here.
IanB (a.k.a. Alex Sykie, a.k.a. Punctuation on Wordpress).
Time
----------------------
Time kills.
So we kill time.
Time heals.
Does everything heal with time?
Time is made of some sort of plastic
because Dr Who and Einstein can bend time.
Although it’s quite small since it’s
so easy to lose track of time.
Time can be stolen.
We steal time.
We take a minute,
snatch a second.
Time has wings,
time flies.
Time deceives,
time can play tricks.
Time changes everything.
Everything changes with time.
Time passes and,
once it’s gone
it never comes back.
You can’t own time though,
we never “have” time.
Time is addictive nowadays
because we never seem to have
enough time.
Unless you’re in prison;
then you can’t get rid of it,
you have time on your hands,
you’re doing time,
your own time not anyone
else’s, just yours. The judge
gave you time as your master
and now you serve time.
Until it’s finished with you
or, like money, you’ve spent all your time on nothing,
wasted your time and now you’ve had it,
you’ve run out of…time.
Friend
----------------------
This is the spirit of Kerouac. Chelsea Hotel
spirit, English-style.
I mean it though. To you:
I used to call you friend.
I cried and you listened to my sobbing.
I laughed and the laughter bounced back.
And we lied about understanding.
It was the easy thing to do.
It tussled with my rational side.
You were my morning friend. My good-time
friend. My comfort.
I used to call you friend.
Do you remember the songs?
Happy, clappy songs.
It tussled with my rational side.
We were wreathed in sweet-smelling smoke
and chimes. A childhood duty,
kissing feet, wiping cloth, reading
what we couldn't do and never what we could.
Authorised words. Approved and translated.
Then songs about being happy to die because
there would be something there. A song relying
on trust. A tussle with my rational side.
You were never my rock standing in a sand-filled
desert, filled with emptiness. You were never
the hand that guided the art.
White man. White woman. Nails in the wrong places.
Olive in the skin. Oil on the hair. Painted
by the gentiles.
Words that banned things. Stipulations,
prostrations by action and abstention,
by observance in reverence. Until the difference
between the free and those who still listened
grew greater in my mind.
And the difference between the free and me
became so paper-thin you could rub your
fingers through it and they would touch.
Such a fine gap. It tussled with my
rational side.
Move on move on. More wraiths of smoke.
Breath in for peace, hold and release.
Breath in for solace, for solace, for solace.
Mind walks, takes a run up and jumps into the
dream sky of possibilities.
Made our friendship look very different.
Less rules, more creativity. More of
everything: colours, creeds, good and bad.
I used to call you my friend.
Breathed in, moved to the jungle beat.
Made our friendship look very very very different.
Gave you a new face, a new size.
I danced in the warehouse. I danced in the street.
Everybody was there but I was on my own.
Then I hugged the trees. I squeezed their bark
and ran my hands up and down them; my connectors
to the Earth, a divination of you. Stroking them
with my palms and hugging the hard woody trunk like
a lover come back from a long journey and you don't
want to let them go.
Your face looked so very very different and you
lived everywhere and you were truly beautiful.
It tussled with my rational side.
Thursday, 16 April 2009
In no uncertain terms
Yesterday evening, completely without preamble, the final nail in the coffin of my disintegrated relationship was hammered home in no uncertain terms. I made one final attempt at a possible route for further communication, believing strongly that 'we' were worth a try, but it was not to be and I was duly and quite swiftly dispatched along with all my hopes and dreams.
I suppose I should be thankful that this happened to catch me on a day when my senses were pretty numbed by a diazepan haze but somehow I can't feel thankful, I can only feel desperately sad and sorry and with a feeling that I lost the most important thing in my life by my own error and that there was no chance open to rectify the situation.
I gave it my all, I believed in it, I believed in him and I believed in us in a way I had never believed in anything before and I suspect I won't ever again but I have no choice but to now try and find a way to come to terms with my situation and the feelings of loss, hurt and devastation.
The last three weeks have been the worst of my life and those of you who know me personally will know I have dealt with some pretty heavy shit in my life in the past....but nothing as painful, confusing or completely shattering as this. I don't really know what, where or how next and I feel I am hanging onto my sanity by a thread at times.... but somehow I will find a way and maybe tonight that journey will begin when I have my first session with a counsellor trained specifically in unravelling all the emotionally disastrous detritus I am left with.
At this point I have to say a MASSIVE THANK YOU to all those who have supported me so unendingly through this, without whom I know I couldn't have got this far. You know who you are guys but a special mention goes to Lisa, John, Jac, Tracey, Sarah, Zoe my parents and my brother...all of whom have listened unendingly to the rantings and wailings of my broken hearted madness and kept me from completely losing the plot. If I have forgotten anyone my apologies, blame the meds, I can't quite get my faculties in order right now but thank you all just the same....you lot have been bloody marvellous!
I suppose I should be thankful that this happened to catch me on a day when my senses were pretty numbed by a diazepan haze but somehow I can't feel thankful, I can only feel desperately sad and sorry and with a feeling that I lost the most important thing in my life by my own error and that there was no chance open to rectify the situation.
I gave it my all, I believed in it, I believed in him and I believed in us in a way I had never believed in anything before and I suspect I won't ever again but I have no choice but to now try and find a way to come to terms with my situation and the feelings of loss, hurt and devastation.
The last three weeks have been the worst of my life and those of you who know me personally will know I have dealt with some pretty heavy shit in my life in the past....but nothing as painful, confusing or completely shattering as this. I don't really know what, where or how next and I feel I am hanging onto my sanity by a thread at times.... but somehow I will find a way and maybe tonight that journey will begin when I have my first session with a counsellor trained specifically in unravelling all the emotionally disastrous detritus I am left with.
At this point I have to say a MASSIVE THANK YOU to all those who have supported me so unendingly through this, without whom I know I couldn't have got this far. You know who you are guys but a special mention goes to Lisa, John, Jac, Tracey, Sarah, Zoe my parents and my brother...all of whom have listened unendingly to the rantings and wailings of my broken hearted madness and kept me from completely losing the plot. If I have forgotten anyone my apologies, blame the meds, I can't quite get my faculties in order right now but thank you all just the same....you lot have been bloody marvellous!
Wednesday, 15 April 2009
Dreams we have as children - guest post
An alarm goes off; a hand reaches out from under the covers, picks up the phone and fumbles with the buttons. Some days the hand, correctly, selects snooze. Other days, it cancels the alarm. But that’s why there are two alarms. It drops the phone on the pillow, grabs the covers and pulls them up tight. One final, futile attempt to take refuge in a dream world which is departing, rapidly, as the morning sun sneaks in under the curtains.
The cat just watches from his vantage point on the bed. He is also in no hurry to get up. The bed is soft and warm, and he still has a full belly from the night before. Plus, he has seen this happen every morning for the past few years. He is used to it.
The alarm goes off again. The hand fumbles, fails to find the phone which has slipped between the pillow and the covers. The alarm gets louder. Grumbling and mumbling the figure rises from the bed. To those who doubt evolution; this strange, hairy beast, grunting and gesturing like some sort of Neanderthal, manages to leave no doubt that we are in fact related to primates. Some of us more than others, it seems. Covers are thrown open; the cat stands up with a mixture of grace and indignation, pausing to stretch - doubling his size before yawning with his maw wide.
The phone is found. The alarm is shut off. The figure grunts, scratches; leaves the bedroom. It’s a hideous sight to behold. The cat watches. The bed is left a mess.
Over the next minutes, a kettle is boiled; coffee or tea is brewed and drunk. The figure evolves from a naked, hairy beast to an almost civil human being. The cat is fed and sits in front of his plate dragging most of his food onto the floor. Inexplicitly, cat food must taste so much better from the ground.
The figure leaves for the day, the cat relaxes; he has the house to himself.
-x-
Turn back the clock.
There is no alarm. There is barely light creeping in under the curtains. If you listen very, very carefully you might be able to make out the sound of birds chirping to themselves in the trees; a tentative start to the dawn chorus. A light is flicked on, curtains are thrown open. A radio shaped like oversized headphones is turned on and a young boy is bounding around the room full of energy; the sort of energy most adults can only obtain by dangerous amounts of caffeine or the abuse of non-prescription medication. He dreams of being an astronaut, an artist, a rock star, a policeman, a fireman, a cowboy. Each day it’s different. He’ll stand in front of the radio with his red, plastic guitar (the one with the yellow wobble bar) and strum along to the latest single by Pink Floyd, or the Who, or Queen. He’ll get on his little white police motorbike (the plastic one, with the little red walkie-talkie) and re-enact the last episode of C.H.I.P.S. or he’d run around with his imitation colt 45 and pretend to shoot red Indians (who were different to that nice Indian couple that lived next door and came around every so often, sharing their strangely spicy, but really rather nice, food with him and his parents) that everyone knows are the baddies of the wild west. He really wants to go into space and looks forward to the day England buy one of those new space shuttle things.
He thinks girls are yucky and never wants to be married; the ones on his street are forever playing with their dolls and pushchairs. He’d rather race up and down the road on his bike, and really wants to be able to do all those tricks the BMX riders on the telly can; last time he tried though, he ended up in a neighbour’s hedge and almost bent his front wheel.
He likes camping out in the back garden; even if the ants find him and sneak into his cheese salad sandwich. He loves being outside and to the consternation of his parents, likes to tear up and down the garden in the midday sun. “You’ll get all hot doing that!” his mother cries to him, but he doesn’t care; he is having fun.
Every day is an adventure. Every day is filled with imagination and fantasy.
-x-
There is a point, somewhere on the roadmap of life, where childhood whimsy is abandoned as we face up to the harsh realities of life. England will never have a Space Shuttle. C.H.I.P.S. was oddly camp and not at all reflective of the highway patrol, either here or in California, then or now. Girls actually aren’t that bad, well most of the time; and even if he goes on x-factor or any of those “lack of talent” shows, he has to accept the fact that he’ll never be a rock star. Of course, he can accept that, but he likes to forget he accepted it from time to time.
-x-
It has been too long since I wrote, since I blogged. When the offer was made to me by Gemmak to be a guest blogger, I won’t say I jumped at the chance but I found myself rubbing my head and thinking “where am I?” and “how did I get here?” which led, naturally perhaps, into the dreams I had as a child. Inside, although I’ve grown and changed, I’m fundamentally the same person I’ve always been. Yes, the packaging may be a bit dented and tatty in places, but I’ve not really lost any of my awe and wonder of the world. Yes, I have had to grow up and accept the fact that reality, more often than not, sucks. But I feel like I’ve retained some of the naivety and innocence I had as a child. Maybe that’s the sign of a creative mind? (I’m told people like John Lasseter retain a child-like quality, enthusiasm, energy about them; so if that’s true then I’m in good company)
The dreams we had as children, they’re not always feasible or realistic. But they were fun, weren’t they? We should never lose sight of them, and revisit our innocence from time to time. I think it’s what keeps us young.
Thank you,
NON53N53 April 2009
The cat just watches from his vantage point on the bed. He is also in no hurry to get up. The bed is soft and warm, and he still has a full belly from the night before. Plus, he has seen this happen every morning for the past few years. He is used to it.
The alarm goes off again. The hand fumbles, fails to find the phone which has slipped between the pillow and the covers. The alarm gets louder. Grumbling and mumbling the figure rises from the bed. To those who doubt evolution; this strange, hairy beast, grunting and gesturing like some sort of Neanderthal, manages to leave no doubt that we are in fact related to primates. Some of us more than others, it seems. Covers are thrown open; the cat stands up with a mixture of grace and indignation, pausing to stretch - doubling his size before yawning with his maw wide.
The phone is found. The alarm is shut off. The figure grunts, scratches; leaves the bedroom. It’s a hideous sight to behold. The cat watches. The bed is left a mess.
Over the next minutes, a kettle is boiled; coffee or tea is brewed and drunk. The figure evolves from a naked, hairy beast to an almost civil human being. The cat is fed and sits in front of his plate dragging most of his food onto the floor. Inexplicitly, cat food must taste so much better from the ground.
The figure leaves for the day, the cat relaxes; he has the house to himself.
Turn back the clock.
There is no alarm. There is barely light creeping in under the curtains. If you listen very, very carefully you might be able to make out the sound of birds chirping to themselves in the trees; a tentative start to the dawn chorus. A light is flicked on, curtains are thrown open. A radio shaped like oversized headphones is turned on and a young boy is bounding around the room full of energy; the sort of energy most adults can only obtain by dangerous amounts of caffeine or the abuse of non-prescription medication. He dreams of being an astronaut, an artist, a rock star, a policeman, a fireman, a cowboy. Each day it’s different. He’ll stand in front of the radio with his red, plastic guitar (the one with the yellow wobble bar) and strum along to the latest single by Pink Floyd, or the Who, or Queen. He’ll get on his little white police motorbike (the plastic one, with the little red walkie-talkie) and re-enact the last episode of C.H.I.P.S. or he’d run around with his imitation colt 45 and pretend to shoot red Indians (who were different to that nice Indian couple that lived next door and came around every so often, sharing their strangely spicy, but really rather nice, food with him and his parents) that everyone knows are the baddies of the wild west. He really wants to go into space and looks forward to the day England buy one of those new space shuttle things.
He thinks girls are yucky and never wants to be married; the ones on his street are forever playing with their dolls and pushchairs. He’d rather race up and down the road on his bike, and really wants to be able to do all those tricks the BMX riders on the telly can; last time he tried though, he ended up in a neighbour’s hedge and almost bent his front wheel.
He likes camping out in the back garden; even if the ants find him and sneak into his cheese salad sandwich. He loves being outside and to the consternation of his parents, likes to tear up and down the garden in the midday sun. “You’ll get all hot doing that!” his mother cries to him, but he doesn’t care; he is having fun.
Every day is an adventure. Every day is filled with imagination and fantasy.
There is a point, somewhere on the roadmap of life, where childhood whimsy is abandoned as we face up to the harsh realities of life. England will never have a Space Shuttle. C.H.I.P.S. was oddly camp and not at all reflective of the highway patrol, either here or in California, then or now. Girls actually aren’t that bad, well most of the time; and even if he goes on x-factor or any of those “lack of talent” shows, he has to accept the fact that he’ll never be a rock star. Of course, he can accept that, but he likes to forget he accepted it from time to time.
It has been too long since I wrote, since I blogged. When the offer was made to me by Gemmak to be a guest blogger, I won’t say I jumped at the chance but I found myself rubbing my head and thinking “where am I?” and “how did I get here?” which led, naturally perhaps, into the dreams I had as a child. Inside, although I’ve grown and changed, I’m fundamentally the same person I’ve always been. Yes, the packaging may be a bit dented and tatty in places, but I’ve not really lost any of my awe and wonder of the world. Yes, I have had to grow up and accept the fact that reality, more often than not, sucks. But I feel like I’ve retained some of the naivety and innocence I had as a child. Maybe that’s the sign of a creative mind? (I’m told people like John Lasseter retain a child-like quality, enthusiasm, energy about them; so if that’s true then I’m in good company)
The dreams we had as children, they’re not always feasible or realistic. But they were fun, weren’t they? We should never lose sight of them, and revisit our innocence from time to time. I think it’s what keeps us young.
Thank you,
NON53N53 April 2009
Monday, 13 April 2009
It's my birthday....
.... and for obvious reasons it's going to be a difficult one but it is made considerably better by Daisy the Curly Cat, the best cat in the blogosphere agreeing, very kindly, to write a guest post for me.
Thank you Daisy and thank you to your mommie for taking the time and for making me smile on a day I don't much feel like smiling.
A Shelter Cat’s Story.
Hi everyone! It’s me, Daisy!
I am so excited to get to write a guest post for my friend. My Mommie is a volunteer at a no-kill cats-only rescue shelter, so I wanted to share a story about one special kitty’s journey.
His mother was a feral cat who came to the shelter to be spayed and released, only it turned out that she was pregnant and due to deliver right then. This little kitten and his littermates went straight into foster care until they were big enough to live at the shelter, and he was named “Neptune.”
When Neptune finally went to live at the shelter, they stole some of his blood with a needle. Then they stabbed him with a needle two times. Next, they put some stinky stuff in his neck furs, and his sharp little baby claws got trimmed. And then they made little Neptune eat some yucky-tasting medicine. Our boy was a brave kitten and did not growl or bite even once. When he was big enough, he was also taken to the clinic and given some medicine to make him feel sleepy. When Neptune woke up, he was surprised to find that his “boy-parts” had been taken away! Neptune was a little sad about that, but he got over it by the next day, for the other cats explained that the medicines and tests and such were to make sure he was healthy and stayed that way for a long time.
Finally, Neptune got put into his very own little room with plenty of fresh water, food, toys, a soft bed, and a litter box. He was sick for a little while with ringworm, but they did not kick him out because of that. Eventually, Neptune and his littermates got moved to the adoption area. Little Neptune was very excited that he might get to have a Forever home of his very own.
Pretty soon, all of Neptune’s littermates were adopted. Nobody wanted Neptune. But he was a happy kitten by nature, so he kept busy playing with the other cats and kittens at the shelter. He was sure that someone would see how handsome he was and adopt him any day. People came to visit Neptune, and the other cats. Sometimes, people would look at him and say things like “this one is cute” and “how about him?” but they always picked another cat. He waited and waited, for six long months and did not ever give up hope.
Until one day, a nice lady that volunteered at the shelter put him in a carrier and took him to her home. She explained to him that he would get to live with her family FOREVER! And Neptune got his true name, which was Harley. You see, this is the story of how my brother Harley came to live with me. But Harley’s story is not unique. There are thousands of wonderful cats and kittens just like Neptune waiting for their chance to become someone’s Harley.
You can keep up with Daisy and Harley everyday HERE.
Thank you Daisy and thank you to your mommie for taking the time and for making me smile on a day I don't much feel like smiling.
Hi everyone! It’s me, Daisy!
I am so excited to get to write a guest post for my friend. My Mommie is a volunteer at a no-kill cats-only rescue shelter, so I wanted to share a story about one special kitty’s journey.
His mother was a feral cat who came to the shelter to be spayed and released, only it turned out that she was pregnant and due to deliver right then. This little kitten and his littermates went straight into foster care until they were big enough to live at the shelter, and he was named “Neptune.”
When Neptune finally went to live at the shelter, they stole some of his blood with a needle. Then they stabbed him with a needle two times. Next, they put some stinky stuff in his neck furs, and his sharp little baby claws got trimmed. And then they made little Neptune eat some yucky-tasting medicine. Our boy was a brave kitten and did not growl or bite even once. When he was big enough, he was also taken to the clinic and given some medicine to make him feel sleepy. When Neptune woke up, he was surprised to find that his “boy-parts” had been taken away! Neptune was a little sad about that, but he got over it by the next day, for the other cats explained that the medicines and tests and such were to make sure he was healthy and stayed that way for a long time.
Finally, Neptune got put into his very own little room with plenty of fresh water, food, toys, a soft bed, and a litter box. He was sick for a little while with ringworm, but they did not kick him out because of that. Eventually, Neptune and his littermates got moved to the adoption area. Little Neptune was very excited that he might get to have a Forever home of his very own.
Pretty soon, all of Neptune’s littermates were adopted. Nobody wanted Neptune. But he was a happy kitten by nature, so he kept busy playing with the other cats and kittens at the shelter. He was sure that someone would see how handsome he was and adopt him any day. People came to visit Neptune, and the other cats. Sometimes, people would look at him and say things like “this one is cute” and “how about him?” but they always picked another cat. He waited and waited, for six long months and did not ever give up hope.
Until one day, a nice lady that volunteered at the shelter put him in a carrier and took him to her home. She explained to him that he would get to live with her family FOREVER! And Neptune got his true name, which was Harley. You see, this is the story of how my brother Harley came to live with me. But Harley’s story is not unique. There are thousands of wonderful cats and kittens just like Neptune waiting for their chance to become someone’s Harley.
You can keep up with Daisy and Harley everyday HERE.
Sunday, 12 April 2009
Friday, 10 April 2009
'Heroes'..... A guest post
For reasons that I don't think I need to explain I seem unable to string together more than a few coherent sentences lately and it was thus that late last night I put a shout out on Twitter for anyone who fancied guesting here. 'Alex' (@redalexred), a fellow blogger and twitterer offered to help me out almost immediately. For those of you who don't know Alex, he is a serving RAF officer with more than a few exciting tales to tell on his own blog Balderdash and Piffle, so, I will duly instruct you to take a trip over there sometime and let him take over here for today!
Oh...and if anyone else would like to guest post here just drop me a mail or a comment, subject your choice!
Over to you Alex....
Heroes.
My first hero would have had to have been Trevor Francis. The first million pound footballer (well almost his transfer fee was £999,999 but it’s close enough!). He came from Birmingham City to Nottingham Forest and became my hero when he scored the goal to win the European Cup in 1979. He dived into the box in front of the goal to head in a cross by John Robertson, landing on a concrete “shot put” circle by the goal. I was allowed to stay up late and watch the game (which was very dull) but the goal got me bouncing around the room. MY club had won the European Cup! And the player that did won it…well he became my first real hero. I was 10. But footballers retire. They disappear and new ones replace them…Stuart Pearce, Stan Collymore, but they weren’t the same. They weren’t real heroes to me. Just other players
Since then I have had a couple…in the 1980’s and early 90’s Bruce Springsteen was a bit of a hero to me. He just made this excellent music that spoke to me. Talked to me. Took me out of a crappy, cold council house bedroom in the Uttoxeter and off to a place in the sun with cars, and guitars, and girls, and beer and music, and soft, soft summer rain, with barefoot girls sitting on the hoods of cars. It was like a new world to me. I slowly built up a collection of everything he had put onto vinyl . I made tapes. I would have weekends where I would play his music song by song, album by album, in consecutive order from first to last. I had a wall with posters of him, books on him…looking back, it’s probably a bit obsessive compulsive to be honest. But HEY! I was 14-16. It’s the age to get obsessive.
But for some reason he stopped being my hero. He stopped speaking to me and his music went off in a direction I disliked. All this fake folk stuff, a devotion to Pete Seeger he suddenly found. When everything he had said before was about his devotion to Phil Spektor! It was like he had turned his back on me…and so I turned my back on him…I can’t listen to anything he has produced since The Ghost of Tom Joad. I still listen to the earlier stuff. When he was raw, and, to me, true.
But one day I was idly watching a bit of TV and found a real hero.
I had got into the outdoors and was interesting in watching anything with mountains and hills in, and there was a programme about South Georgia. And the name Ernest Shackleton was mentioned.
Now I’d heard of him, he was some explorer dude. Went to the South Pole? Yeah that was it.
But I watched and heard his story. And was captivated. This man, he failed at getting to the Pole. He’d fallen out with Scott…but he did this amazing thing.
He took a ship to the Antarctic with the aim of walking a team across the whole continent. But the ship he was on had gotten stuck in the ice. The ship was stuck fast and then it was crushed by the ice!
He led his crew through almost 2 years of privations and hardships and discomforts, living on the ice-floes, watching their ship be crushed and sink. Transferring to three life boats, they lived on the ice until the ice broke up enough to sail the boats to the nearby Elephant Island. From here he took 5 others across the South Atlantic sea, in an open boat for over 800miles…aiming for the island of South Georgia. This he did, but managed to land on the wrong side of it, and then be unable to relaunch the boat. So he and 2 others walked across the island. Over mountains 4000foot high. Over glaciers, and through deep deep snow. With just a carpenters adze as an ice ax.
Once over the mountains – something that has only been repeated once by modern mountaineers with modern kit, he organised a rescue party and returned to Elephant Island to rescue his crew. NOT ONE PERSON DIED.
And Shackleton led this party. He was the one who made sure that all his crew made it home from an ordeal that must have been completely unimaginable.
Why did he become a hero? Simply because it takes a real hero to do this stuff. He got the right people, and he organised them, led them, motivated them…inspired them.
And this is what a real hero should do. He (or she!) should inspire us. They should make us want to be something better than we are. Do more than we are doing. Reach further than we are reaching. Yes heroes have their faults – Shackleton was a bit of a ladies man – but that’s what makes them more inspirational to me.
If these real people can have faults like the rest of us, but still do so much – then there is hope for me. Maybe I can be a better person if I do a little bit like they do.
If I push myself diving into the box like Francis did, knowing that I might land badly but still score the goal. If I can take people’s minds away from the boredom and drudgery of life like Springsteen did and open their eyes to a whole new world. If I can motivate people like Shackleton to overcome terrible cold and fear…well I might just be a bit of a better person…if I can use a little bit from each person maybe I’ll grow and change. And maybe that’ll make me be a bit of a hero to the people in my life that I want to be a hero for. My children.
Alex.
Oh...and if anyone else would like to guest post here just drop me a mail or a comment, subject your choice!
Over to you Alex....
Heroes.
My first hero would have had to have been Trevor Francis. The first million pound footballer (well almost his transfer fee was £999,999 but it’s close enough!). He came from Birmingham City to Nottingham Forest and became my hero when he scored the goal to win the European Cup in 1979. He dived into the box in front of the goal to head in a cross by John Robertson, landing on a concrete “shot put” circle by the goal. I was allowed to stay up late and watch the game (which was very dull) but the goal got me bouncing around the room. MY club had won the European Cup! And the player that did won it…well he became my first real hero. I was 10. But footballers retire. They disappear and new ones replace them…Stuart Pearce, Stan Collymore, but they weren’t the same. They weren’t real heroes to me. Just other players
Since then I have had a couple…in the 1980’s and early 90’s Bruce Springsteen was a bit of a hero to me. He just made this excellent music that spoke to me. Talked to me. Took me out of a crappy, cold council house bedroom in the Uttoxeter and off to a place in the sun with cars, and guitars, and girls, and beer and music, and soft, soft summer rain, with barefoot girls sitting on the hoods of cars. It was like a new world to me. I slowly built up a collection of everything he had put onto vinyl . I made tapes. I would have weekends where I would play his music song by song, album by album, in consecutive order from first to last. I had a wall with posters of him, books on him…looking back, it’s probably a bit obsessive compulsive to be honest. But HEY! I was 14-16. It’s the age to get obsessive.
But for some reason he stopped being my hero. He stopped speaking to me and his music went off in a direction I disliked. All this fake folk stuff, a devotion to Pete Seeger he suddenly found. When everything he had said before was about his devotion to Phil Spektor! It was like he had turned his back on me…and so I turned my back on him…I can’t listen to anything he has produced since The Ghost of Tom Joad. I still listen to the earlier stuff. When he was raw, and, to me, true.
But one day I was idly watching a bit of TV and found a real hero.
I had got into the outdoors and was interesting in watching anything with mountains and hills in, and there was a programme about South Georgia. And the name Ernest Shackleton was mentioned.
Now I’d heard of him, he was some explorer dude. Went to the South Pole? Yeah that was it.
But I watched and heard his story. And was captivated. This man, he failed at getting to the Pole. He’d fallen out with Scott…but he did this amazing thing.
He took a ship to the Antarctic with the aim of walking a team across the whole continent. But the ship he was on had gotten stuck in the ice. The ship was stuck fast and then it was crushed by the ice!
He led his crew through almost 2 years of privations and hardships and discomforts, living on the ice-floes, watching their ship be crushed and sink. Transferring to three life boats, they lived on the ice until the ice broke up enough to sail the boats to the nearby Elephant Island. From here he took 5 others across the South Atlantic sea, in an open boat for over 800miles…aiming for the island of South Georgia. This he did, but managed to land on the wrong side of it, and then be unable to relaunch the boat. So he and 2 others walked across the island. Over mountains 4000foot high. Over glaciers, and through deep deep snow. With just a carpenters adze as an ice ax.
Once over the mountains – something that has only been repeated once by modern mountaineers with modern kit, he organised a rescue party and returned to Elephant Island to rescue his crew. NOT ONE PERSON DIED.
And Shackleton led this party. He was the one who made sure that all his crew made it home from an ordeal that must have been completely unimaginable.
Why did he become a hero? Simply because it takes a real hero to do this stuff. He got the right people, and he organised them, led them, motivated them…inspired them.
And this is what a real hero should do. He (or she!) should inspire us. They should make us want to be something better than we are. Do more than we are doing. Reach further than we are reaching. Yes heroes have their faults – Shackleton was a bit of a ladies man – but that’s what makes them more inspirational to me.
If these real people can have faults like the rest of us, but still do so much – then there is hope for me. Maybe I can be a better person if I do a little bit like they do.
If I push myself diving into the box like Francis did, knowing that I might land badly but still score the goal. If I can take people’s minds away from the boredom and drudgery of life like Springsteen did and open their eyes to a whole new world. If I can motivate people like Shackleton to overcome terrible cold and fear…well I might just be a bit of a better person…if I can use a little bit from each person maybe I’ll grow and change. And maybe that’ll make me be a bit of a hero to the people in my life that I want to be a hero for. My children.
Alex.
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
Surveying the wreckage
Well then, I seem to have found myself yet again surveying the remnants of something I once called a life. There's a few shards of little worth scattered around but save for those there is little at all that is recognisable left.
The impact of the initial blast is still with me, I can't eat or sleep, I've lost weight, I have a face like a doughnut as the result of my inability to stop dissolving into tears, I've had a continual horrible headache that just won't go away and I still can't stop shaking, though on the upside I am now tolerating the physical effects of the shock without resorting to the comfortable haven of Valium forcefully insisted upon by my quack in the first few days. Hey... the hit was good but for me it's a slippery slope and one I don't wish to slip any further down if I can possibly help it.
The only way I seem to be able to gain any control over myself is by walking, something I don't usually have a predeliction for, but this week, just purely to 'do something' and try to hang onto some degree of sanity I think I have pounded about 40 miles of pavement, literally!
To be honest the last week is a blur to me, I really don't recall much of it and I suspect I don't want to, I feel as though I was ushered through life for a few days by those around me while I just remained in some odd kind of dazed state.
My broken heart I am told will heal, though as yet I am far from convinced (some things you just know have changed you forever) but in front of me I now also have a logistical nightmare. I have no job, and the prospects of getting one seem pretty remote, I have no home of my own and the local authority have no intention of finding me one, apparently as a lone woman with a hamster I don't qualify, well eventually I will but probably about 10 years hence of my natural demise.....four children by three different fathers seems to be the answer to that problem but it's way too late for yours truly to make any headway there!
Even if I do find work I can't command a salary high enough to house myself in this area (or probably any area nowadays) and even then, if by magic I did make a suitable salary, as a bankrupt I can't clear a credit reference so can't easily rent privately and buying is obviously out of the question.
It all seems way too much to contemplate even if I had my head and heart together, let alone with in their current state of hurt and turmoil, people keep telling me 'something will work out' but I'll be damned if I can imagine what or how at this stage. I've been in some scrapes in my time but this one is the biggie both emotionally and practically for me, I've not been at this place before.
I feel like someone stuck a shovel in my hand, put me at the base of the Himalayas and told me to shift it all to the Isle of Wight by Monday!
What is it they say? What doesn't kill you makes you stronger?!
Whatever.
The impact of the initial blast is still with me, I can't eat or sleep, I've lost weight, I have a face like a doughnut as the result of my inability to stop dissolving into tears, I've had a continual horrible headache that just won't go away and I still can't stop shaking, though on the upside I am now tolerating the physical effects of the shock without resorting to the comfortable haven of Valium forcefully insisted upon by my quack in the first few days. Hey... the hit was good but for me it's a slippery slope and one I don't wish to slip any further down if I can possibly help it.
The only way I seem to be able to gain any control over myself is by walking, something I don't usually have a predeliction for, but this week, just purely to 'do something' and try to hang onto some degree of sanity I think I have pounded about 40 miles of pavement, literally!
To be honest the last week is a blur to me, I really don't recall much of it and I suspect I don't want to, I feel as though I was ushered through life for a few days by those around me while I just remained in some odd kind of dazed state.
My broken heart I am told will heal, though as yet I am far from convinced (some things you just know have changed you forever) but in front of me I now also have a logistical nightmare. I have no job, and the prospects of getting one seem pretty remote, I have no home of my own and the local authority have no intention of finding me one, apparently as a lone woman with a hamster I don't qualify, well eventually I will but probably about 10 years hence of my natural demise.....four children by three different fathers seems to be the answer to that problem but it's way too late for yours truly to make any headway there!
Even if I do find work I can't command a salary high enough to house myself in this area (or probably any area nowadays) and even then, if by magic I did make a suitable salary, as a bankrupt I can't clear a credit reference so can't easily rent privately and buying is obviously out of the question.
It all seems way too much to contemplate even if I had my head and heart together, let alone with in their current state of hurt and turmoil, people keep telling me 'something will work out' but I'll be damned if I can imagine what or how at this stage. I've been in some scrapes in my time but this one is the biggie both emotionally and practically for me, I've not been at this place before.
I feel like someone stuck a shovel in my hand, put me at the base of the Himalayas and told me to shift it all to the Isle of Wight by Monday!
What is it they say? What doesn't kill you makes you stronger?!
Whatever.
Saturday, 4 April 2009
I don't know....
...if I should be here right now but I am, I don't know really what I'm typing, I just know I have to do something, I don't know what's going to end up on this page but then, I don't know anything anymore....
It's late, I'm alone and it's Friday, Friday's were always special. I'm typing through a valium induced haze and I'm completely lost and confused. The last week has been singularly the worst of my life and yes, right now I feel sorry for myself, bloody sorry for myself, pathetically so no doubt but that's how it is.
Just a week ago I was happy, I can still hear the laughter ringing in my ears and see the smiles, life seemed good and I had everything important to me. I had love.
Now I feel like I've been hit by a steam train and I'm left facing the resulting pain and bloody mess with absolutely no idea where or how to begin repairing the damage. The impact tore away half of what I was, of who I was... and somehow I didn't even see it's approach until the last moment.
And then it was too late.
There was no time left for me to avoid or stop the carnage. It hit with such force, taking with it instantly all that I knew as my life and hurling me to a place completely unknown, to another life, another world, where open wounds bleed unhealed and silent screams go unheard, where hopes wither and dreams die, where good turns to bad and precious memories taunt, where everything is a reminder of the past and the future is gone.....
It's late, I'm alone and it's Friday, Friday's were always special. I'm typing through a valium induced haze and I'm completely lost and confused. The last week has been singularly the worst of my life and yes, right now I feel sorry for myself, bloody sorry for myself, pathetically so no doubt but that's how it is.
Just a week ago I was happy, I can still hear the laughter ringing in my ears and see the smiles, life seemed good and I had everything important to me. I had love.
Now I feel like I've been hit by a steam train and I'm left facing the resulting pain and bloody mess with absolutely no idea where or how to begin repairing the damage. The impact tore away half of what I was, of who I was... and somehow I didn't even see it's approach until the last moment.
And then it was too late.
There was no time left for me to avoid or stop the carnage. It hit with such force, taking with it instantly all that I knew as my life and hurling me to a place completely unknown, to another life, another world, where open wounds bleed unhealed and silent screams go unheard, where hopes wither and dreams die, where good turns to bad and precious memories taunt, where everything is a reminder of the past and the future is gone.....
"I know most of you have been where I am tonight: the crash site of unrequited love".
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
