Words – my contribution

The Little Picture Book: Lost and Found arrived.

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They could be seeds of new growth;

or water to the roots of the tree.

They could be dusted on shelves;

or taken away by borrowing elves.

They could be friends in a pocket;

or maybe passed on from brother, to sister to brother or cousin or read by many a dozen.

They may become forgotten in time;

or triggered memories by one rhyme.

There are 14 of them, plus two and two more. Two for over there too. For Kitty. For Harry. For Jim and Kim. For Jimmy and Marline. For Alex, Sofia, Alice and Jerry. For Angela also. Not forgetting Amir and Owen. And last but not least Lucy.

One for me. One for the library.

Either way, I wish their echoes go on. And on. And on. And on and on. Ripples in a pool.

The Little Picture Book: Lost and Found arrived. Thank you Echo. Tomorrow I’ll sit in a tree by Songshan Lake or a cafe (if it rains) and soak up all the words, with illustrations. I can smell the spirit of Tim Mileson and the lively love of Echo. Mr Bee is happy.

PEACE AND LOVE 心

Aching to achieve.

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The chocks are not moving. The engine is keen to roar into life. It wants to roll, taxy and take-off up into the sky.

The engine started purring, then growing. Now snarling. It begs to be released. The wings are strong. The body is ready. Yet, something is holding back.

There’s a loose wire, you see. There’s a rattling song. It threatens. The flight may get cancelled. The pilot’s navigator is absent. Some of the ground support are there, but not quite there.

The pilot is distracted. He’s taking readings, throttling too soon, and forgetting his instructions. The flight check sheet has been misplaced. Take-off is scheduled.

Will the flight happen? Will the aircraft lift up or skid to a perilous doom? Will the aircraft pilot be told to turn off its engine? Will gremlins strike in the cold internal wiring?

Like the pilot, doubt covers my mind like the storm clouds gathering beyond his airfield runway. Our intended pathways have obstacles. We must overcome. We must.

We shall. We will. We will never give in. We’ll be relentless. We’ll find a way to soar. Or, go for a pleasant enough sandwich with a beer.

Punitively.

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Words have souls. They have sounds that draw our attention. Punitively sounds so much more than a word about punishment or arduous tasks. It could mean much more. It could be formed of other words. It could be that within the word, there are words that aren’t really used. Punitively. An adverb .

Passively.

Unilaterally.

Nourishingly.

Intelligibly.

Tremendously.

Ideally.

Vociferously.

Efficiently.

Lifelessly.

Yawningly.

/ˈpjuː.nɪ.tɪv.li/

Toxic Positive Negativity.

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Persist, insist, never desist. Let others resist. They won’t be missed.

Move on, it’s gone, voyage of bon. New days don. Move off the con.

Wrong ways, long days, hard plays. Some card lays. Time to seek a raise.

Tough path, don’t laugh, hard math. Take a hot bath. Sometimes you can’t get the staff.

Taken aback, forced whack, cut slack. Lives matter, white or black. Why’d do racists offer a crack?

Equal opportunity, low equity, not pretty. Rappers ditties. City’s witty and gritty.

Division here, always fear, hollow ear. Hate of queer. Too much abuse of beer?

Overgenerous happy, angry snappy, feeling crappy. Invalid invaluable emotionally. Tippy on the tappy.

Authentic prick, red brick, held trick. Fargo, Groundhog Day, filmed slick. Breaking Bad sequel filmed quick.

Persist, insist, never desist. Let others resist. They won’t be missed.

Keys.

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It must be there, I swear.

Over here wouldn’t be so queer?

This is rare and surely will bare?

I fear it can only be near.

Under that, that makes sense?

From he to where did it went?

Up there? I’m so dense!

I will find it. It is meant!

Down below, it has to show.

In the cushions of the sofa, can I see?

Behind the bookshelf, yes or no?

In the freezer, it cannot be.

Behind my shoes? No! No! No!

In, on or by my big blue bag?

This hard hunt is making me sad.

Not here. What a drag!

Where it went is driving me mad!

Ah…

There…

Got you…

Surely…

Yes.

My pocket.

Condolences to Football.

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The day that football died could have been avoided. Instead the fans of Manchester City in the outer rims of Mongolia smiled at news they were now able to wear their Bayern Munich third kits twice a season, and quickly switch at half time to sky blue. They’d been loyal, ever since their birth into watching Arjen Robben wear the famous red of Munich. Sadly news filtered through. The German giants hadn’t joined the Super League.

The then reigning German Champions, and European Champions, and not to mention World Champions couldn’t qualify for the new European Super League. They had morality problems to overcome. Instead a team from Manchester who failed to win the Champions League ahead of being appointed to the European Super League would join a team fourth in their Italia league (at the time). There certainly had been no mention of FC Santa Claus or Aberystwyth Town. Not super enough.

The identity of football hung on a knife edge for a while. It was played in the shadows of Norwich, the villas of Aston, and islands such as Majorca. Even little old disputed Gibraltar was hoofing sacks of air around. For a while the purists switched off their television subscriptions and players ran down their contracts. Some desperado types willfully cheered for Glasgow Celtic and Rangers. They tried, with false hope, to end Secretariat ways. They begged Muslims and Jews to merge Palestinian fields with Israeli values. All was in a false belief that football could be repaired.

Mitre died first. Their football’s deflated and panels fell off. Nike prevailed with their colourful balls. Humphrey Brothers bowed out. Umbro fell to Nike and Nike sent them packing. Death arrived. Nike fired up the football kit photocopying machine.

In China, prestigious sponsors gathered around the H&M Morality Stadium to watch the Super League launch. Liverpool Red beat Liverpool Yellow by two goals to who gives a crap in the ‘The inaugural prestigious opening kicking of the ball for make benefit Great Football better at escaping Informative information technology work time tournament 2021 (postponed from the 2020 edition) Super League cup‘. You had to be there for the halftime video promotion of sunny Wuhan. The whole world gazed on in wonder at the Public Relations dream team in action. The new republic of football had found its launch moved the global online viewers to tears.

The irreparable damage to the national leagues of European professional football was not slow. Falling live viewing attendances from January 2020 ensure more people chose to watch online than be at the game. Some were even threatened by fines if they attended their local team done good. Wembley Stadium finally placed restrictions on visiting teams from Manchester and London, ensuring 70,000 seats couldn’t be purchased at their fair and reasonable set prices. Lord Carabao was perturbed but rode out the storm, only to give up hope when Red Bull F.C. Paris Saint Germain was announced. Emirates Airlines gave up the F. A. Cup and opted for a more traditional European Super League Cup Winners’ Cup deal.

The European Super League hit its first stumbling block when it announced clubs would continue to ‘compete in their respective national leagues’. The leagues sharpened their axes and expelled the 12 brave clubs. They awarded past titles and trophies to their historic runners up or whoever was closest. And then they went to court. Leagues versus the European Super League. Fans versus clubs. Clubs versus nations. FIFA didn’t recognise anyone. The new Super League Clubs had teams filled with Sepp Blatter. All unrecognised. Fans washed their hands of years of history. The suicides began. Shirts were burned. Civil war. Hooligans apologised and made up. Millwall F.C. adopted displaced Chelsea, Arsenal and Tottenham fans. Manchester City and United fans formed a breakaway club, F.C. Manchester of Manchester. FCMOM rose a few leagues but couldn’t afford the hefty burden of solemnity. A funeral for football was held in Preston.

The football museum in Manchester was archived away. England F.C. were on the brink of winning the FIFA 2022 World Cup in Qatar. They let Germany have a penalty in the final minute. As piped chanting of Three Lions ’22 blazed over the public announcement system, Germany missed the penalty. The game went to a penalty shootout in front of the English Sponsorship Corporate End and there it remains to this day. Neither side has scored a winning penalty… Each refused and refuse to be part of this game. Raheem Sterling just can’t hit the target.

At the time Manchester City’s Official Supporters Club said the move showed “those involved have zero regard for the game’s traditions”. It didn’t matter. They had added it was, “determined to fight against this proposed Super League”. The Paul Dickov knee slide and the moments of May 2012 faded fast. English Premier Boris Johnson warned his government would do everything possible to stop the renegade football league. Like Darth Vadar’s Death Star plan, it was a glowing end. Atletico Madrid started their 90 minute game (plua VAR infomercials) against Real Madrid and Barcelona in the big weekend opener. All the English teams had their visas denied. The league didn’t survive one full season.

The last known football in Europe was kicked by Sir Alex Ferguson to his new assist Jose Mourinho.

No appetite.

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You should eat something. You really should. You must. Why don’t you eat some little? You could try this. What about that? Try some soup. It’s piping hot. Some other goop? A stew? Hotpot used to make me feel better. Feeling cold? Put on a sweater. Eat this now!

Don’t drink that! Cold water? You just be crazy. Don’t lay down. You’ll get too lazy. Go rest. Try a nap. Wake up. Too much sleep! Trying to get up? You’re not feeling it, yet? You need hot water. Take a sip. Take a gulp. Swig it down. Drink it all.

We’ll fix you up. You’re not dead yet. Look. We believe you’ll be right soon enough. We’re asking you to believe. We can do it. We’ll get you shipshape. We’ve got this! We’re already making strides. What do we want to do?

Beat.

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I ache. I throb. I hurt. I feel my pulse in places I’ve never felt the beat. I find I don’t want to eat. The face I wear is brave outside. Inside is different. Inside, I want to cry. I’m beat.

I slouch. I trust. I turn. There’s pressure in my muscles I’ve felt before. This time it’s different. The shapes I move are difficult. Inside it burns. Outside, it darkens and bruises. I’m beat.

I blink. I squint. I scratch. I’m restless and mindful I don’t want to be beat. at hey say rest. I know I must rest. I feel lazy. I feel guilty. I lay down. The day is going. I’m beat.

I hop. I twist. I hope. I know it’ll be better soon but I can’t feel then what I feel now and I can’t feel now what I will feel then. When? Oh, when, Oh. When. I’m beat.

Right to write?

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Good evening from China.

I’ve received many complaints (3 or so) from bloggers in relation to the post: plagiarism. I’ve copied the link so you don’t have to. Perhaps some are of the feeling that my brand (style) of writing to be offensive. Good. I had to write a disclaimer. I’ll write a better one after researching disclaimers using valid sources. I’m surprised that a piece of free thought slapped down as writing and labeled as ‘creative writing’ gathered such impassioned battle cries.

I started blogging to document a journey and as a diary. It began as a replacement for letters that I used to write to my grandmother on an infrequent basis, but still they were important. I used to anticipate her replies and love opening a letter to her magnificent hand writing. Gran was truly remarkable in her writing. Every sentence pushed wonderful words through my chest an into my heart. It was here that I learned creative writing was about feeling. Not through many books. Not through documentary or textbooks. I long for the return of letters from my grandmother. It’ll never happen.

At first I had to check if their replies came on April the 1st. The upset parties to my post even worried that I’d censor their disgust to my attempt at creative writing. Last time I checked I thought satire, humour and mock documentary sat within the scope of being creative. At home with poetry, short stories, novels, movie scripts, plays and so on. Then I started to think about mythical and known internet trolls. Perhaps their wonderful work was too of a search engine result and suddenly ousted for the briefest second by a piece penned as a thought after school. It was a busy Academic Integrity Week at school. Maybe, it influenced my thoughts.

Gallows humour has allowed countless opportunities to tackle tough subjects through making light of that problem. It’s got people in better spirits to engage (research and debate), inform (discuss and present), and educate (probably through pie charts and digital presentations. British people use humour often, rightly or wrongly. Censorship is something that is opposed. Freedom of thinking and expression is celebrated. The hook of some writing can appear strong. It can be on varied emotional levels to draw in a reader.

Not all creative writing follows the same pathway. Nor should it. Diversity spins new genres outwards. The line between visual art and poetry can be transdisciplinary. I’m not saying that anything I write is entirely original in thought or movement. Everything I write is either from my head, thought about or to encourage further thought. Quotes and citations come often. Anyone can blog. Many copy and paste quotes, create graphics and most adhere to respect of the original writer. Some do not. This mirrors a world that is neither good not bad, just merely grey and blurry.

Blogging and writing is a free outlet for many people. Some can. Some do. Some cannot. Freedom to blog is arguable in some boundaries. Adding a note at the end of a blog that says: feel free to copy, following a tongue in cheek stab at the serious subject of plagiarism is acceptable. It was and remains my work. If someone can find identical work predating it, well done, and how did you change the web date stamp?

I know that I often write nonsense, gibberish or poppycock. I like words. I like language. Please don’t ever think I’m looking to cause offence. Even if my tone is perceived as aggressive, I won’t hide faceless behind a username or in the murk of the internet. I’m me. If I slate a world leader, or berate a popular celebrity, it isn’t something I wouldn’t do face to face. Give me ten minutes with former President of the U.S.A. Trump, and I’ll treat him as a human but roar like a lion.

So, was I wrong? Or was I right? I sure as hell don’t feel like I did something wrong. What bothers me, is that somewhere three or four (or more) people feel that I wrote something ‘disgusting‘, that made someone so ‘angry’ that their blood was boiling. Worryingly, this came in a world of racial and gender inequality, poverty and careless environmental attitudes. I’m thankful I didn’t denounce COVID-19 as a conspiracy or talk about lizard-people overlord kinds. Still, not could be the next topic, providing CTRL+ALT+C works. Just kidding. Seriously, feel free to copy my thoughts. Use them as our own but never ever believe plagiarism is good.

Tally ho and away I go.

DISCLAIMER：THIS COULD BE MY FINAL POST EVER!

Additional disclaimer: not bloody likely!

Obituary.

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If you checked out now, how would you be remembered? Fondly by some? Infamous by others? Perhaps. Not. At. All. Maybe you’ll be forgotten, like a lost teddy bear on a train bound for nowhere in particular.

What’s your legacy? Did you do something good? Did you make someone better? Maybe you broke a heart, or a string of hearts. Maybe you’re but a regret to most and a faded memory to another. Perhaps. Nobody. Will. Recall. You.

What did you do right? How did it go? What did you leave behind? A divorce? A fatherless child? A mother grieving over an unborn dream? It could be that words won’t be spoken about you. Perhaps. Silence. Is. Best.

Who’ll be there? At your funeral. Will there be shadows cast from people? Or the shapes of memories dancing in fading lights spun by the branches of trees dancing in the wind? Perhaps. No one. Will. Know. When. You. Go.

Will you get a choice when to go? Unlikely. Most never know. Some expect. Some arrive at an unfortunate moment. Some prepare well ahead but it arrives far too soon. Some get through extra days and leave as heroes. Some die another day. Some have no time to die. Perhaps. You’ll. Never. Know. Until. It’s. Over.

Loosely put.

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His hands grip around my throat. He’s strangling me. Trying to choke my last breath out. I struggle. Twisting and turning. I try to raise my left open palm upwards to force his vice-like grip to release me. I slap. No change. I use both flailing hands. Nothing.

Still he pulls his chest towards his hands. My throat trapped between his intended route. I slide and writh but I get nowhere fast. I twist my aching legs, trying to backwards kick his kneecaps. Anything. Any little hope. He grabs tighter. I know I don’t have long left. My throat is burning. Every gasping breath I take could be my last. I push my body forwards trying to open a space between his chest and arms. The Steel-like bicep is sweating on my neck. I open my mouth wide forcing little air in.

I’m beyond desperate. I feel woozy and clouded. My brain is losing a battle. He slides a few millimeters along my throat. That marginal gain gave him the extra he needed. He already had the upper hand. I feel his chest muscles stretch and tighten. He takes a tired deep breath. One heavy pull and I resist the extra force. He loosens his grip by the slightest of pressures. A budgie feather in a fight fit for an ostrich. Can I escape now?

Making waves.

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There’s probably a name for it. It’s got to be called something. It’s like a swirling swishing sound. The sound of wind under the sea. Billions and billions of grains of sands colliding and pushing and being pulled by unexplainable quantities of sea water. The rolling continuous sound that goes up and then down, over and over again.

The fragrance from the shore has a name too. I’m sure of that. I can’t place my name on it. I breath the fresh salted air in. A gentle gust rides off the waves up the freshly – dampened sand and over the lighter drier plains of the beach. It makes the hairs on my body move ever so slightly. I feel it without seeing it. I’ve always loved the smells and feel of the seaside.

My mouth is moist from water. I needed to swig bottled fresh water. The gritty sand accidentally blown to my lips grinded away in a glassy sound. I sipped to quench my newfound thirst following the blast of salty unwelcome taste.

The clouds surrounding this bay are grey and slated. Like the dark blue grey of a mine. There’s a haze in the air. It’s not bright enough for sunglasses but equally not comfortable on the naked eye. The sea reflects green and blue in multiple shades but mostly those of dull. Each wave like a white horse folding in on itself, breaking the dull monotone.

Sandwiched between my toes is a thick kind of sand. Chunky yet fine. It covers the hundred metre beach sea to land. It spreads a good kilometre of this bay. I watch as piles dry and gently roll into a pit. The pits dug by children have washed away. Trenches by men have also gone. Peace has returned job this beach. Only the sound of waves and passing sandpipers.

Dongchong beach cost 20 yuan to enter. Today, in Guangdong Eastern flanks of Shenzhen city, I’m relaxed. It’s been worth the walk.

All aboard.

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I’m the commander of my own seas. I don’t mean to control them but I shall not let them wash over me. The waves crash beneath me, around me and by my side. They do not sweep me away in the tide.

The ship I choose to sail often changes. One day a frigate, one day a galleon. A skiff here, a galley there. On board a passenger liner with much company. A lonely kayak. A canoe floating along the river of life. Wearing a windbreaker in a windjammer. A rag boat struggling against the battling riotous rip tide. Schooner for later. Luxury aboard a catamaran or yachts heading for the high seas. Drinking tea aboard a clipper.

The undercurrent changes its spaces too. A still torrent floods in ebbs and flows. The rush and drag leaves me bobbing along. Up and down. Side to side. Over and under. Around in circles. Swirling. Staying motionless staring at stars. A whirlpool of dreamy dawns and dusks swishing directions. A flushing sound scolding my ears, drowning out yesterday’s sorrows. A puddle so smooth it reflects the sun like a giant glass mirror. Clouds visible far or vast shadows atop.

So, of you see me sailing through stormy waters, recall the saying of smooth waters not making for great sailors. A storm passes. As do I. Time claims all. I traverse a journey of my own. Will you sail with me? Now? Later? Never? All aboard.

Taking the biscuit.

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Nobody ever takes one chocolate Hobnob. Not even two. In fact, I’m sure studies show even a trio of collected biscuits is unlikely. This biopsychosocial disorder has you in its hands the moment the blue packet is torn open. The slightest hint of chocolate spread thinly over rolled and jumbo oats have been dividing families and causing micro moments of intense eating since 1987.

McVitie’s debuted their chocolate Hobnobs in the eighties and for some the discovery wasn’t made until the next millennium. Few were spared the dependency that would follow. Stores and supermarkets around the world have replicated and perfected near identical copies. All equally a compulsion.

The chocolate-free biscuits are marketed as a variety of digestive biscuit. They’re not remotely addictive. They’re good but you shouldn’t get hooked. Although caution is often advised to prevent craving becoming dependence. Would Richard McVitie’s be proud of us?

They marketed these criminal snacks as, “Chocolate now has Hobnobs underneath” and drew in their crowd of followers. One nibble and we’re all nobbled. Captured. Drained of choice. Dedicated followers of the passion of crunch. Even Reading Football Club had fans hooked because of their nearby Hobnob factory. They had to move production to a place less likely to experience addiction: Glasgow. Each packet is branded by a Royal Warrant, from Her Royal Highness, Queen Liz the Second. That makes it a legal high.

Weakness exposes a chocolate Hobnobs eater with ease. A nibble here. “Just one more, Dave!” The mouth enacts enslavement as synapses across the brain fixate on filling the gob with crunchy goodness. Commitment to the condition of this substantial sustenance substance is done. Almost unbreakable, unlike the biscuit itself.

Packets rarely remain open longer than a day. To this day I haven’t kicked the habit. Even in China, I found myself supplied by a shifty importer slipping me packets via post. Even they know what they’re doing. Habits are wrapped up tightly, hidden from prying eyes. “Don’t judge me!” My craving makes me a monkey to the social mixing biscuits. Mixing with people of a higher class doesn’t take my priority. I just look to dunk the goods and chew relentlessly.

Chocolate Hobnob withdrawal can make you go cold turkey. But, what is cold turkey? To me, after a week without chocolate Hobnobs, my mind is distracted. I start to imagine the aftertaste, bits of oats between my teeth, a crumb on my shirt, smears of chocolate down my cheek, and a host of other sensations. I’ve even pictured a passerby as one giant anti-snacksize hallucination. The obsession makes me slather saliva like one of Pavlov’s dogs.

I find myself administering self made behavioural therapy. I draw huge alternatives. Custard creams, Bourbons, and Jaffa Cakes but never rich tea biscuits. I watch videos about raspberries and rhubarb. I dance to the music of the people chewing crackers and crisps. I pray to the Goddess of digestive processes (Gillian McKeith) and I read copious extracts of the food Bible (Meatpaper). My tolerance for distraction is weak. They draw me in. Taobao, an online versatile application in China suggests to me (with highlighted sugfestions) that I should buy a Manchester City mug, coffee from Yunnan province, milk from Asda and a packet of chocolate Hobnobs. They win.

You think you’re table to resist. But, open one packet. How long before you’re munching away? Do you resist? Masticating hard and not swallowing the pulp of chocolate oats? I don’t think you’ll resist.

Sunset.

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The evening sun has arrived. It’s not a sunset if beauty. We won’t make it until dawn. This sun sets on you and I. Take the blame on oneself. Gloaming deepens. Put aside the dream of tomorrow. Today has just died. We could stand, aside, in a corner. Not now. Never again. Our motion becomes static. The pace fell away. White clouds rush. The sky’s twilight hides the moon. The sun shines not on it. Nor on you and I. The fireworks we had do not light the sky. All light refuses to break this darkness. Dawn may arrive. I choose to wake alone. Goodbye scenery of yesterday. I wake to a new dawn chorus, alone.

Say what?

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Killing mosquitoes is like mowing the lawn. Cut the down and they are quickly replaced.

Homework never ever truly ends. Every job requires you take a little home and bring much back.

For every reaction, there is a positive and negative result. I told you. I TOLD YOU SO!!!

Wherever you go, you always take the weather with you. A lack of atmosphere would be free of weather.

The book always lands butterfly up. Why. would an insect be a cover feature?

Two birds, one stone, and something about glass houses. The early bird must be catching worms. Again.

Leave no unturned stone alone. Better bad company is together than turned over.

I don’t remember many sayings or idiomatic phrases. I’m an idiom idiot.

notes found from 2017

Plagiarism.

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It’s easy! It’s easy! It’s easy! 1, 2, 3… Copy and paste. Trace. Select.Copy. Insert. Saving time too. Why spend too much time thinking? Find it, reuse it. Reduce. Reuse. Recycled.

What’s the answer that you’re looking for? Look over their shoulder. What did they write? Take it! You know you want to. Less time on work, more time to play. Right? Copy it. Just look how east it can all be!

Feeling integrity needs to be kicked away? Don’t worry. Who can spot you? They’re not paying attention. Go on. Join the dark side. Photograph it. Use their details. Submit it faster, they they’ll be the copy, right? Register the trademark, add the copyright logo, spin their materials. It’s all the same to you me. Same ending, right?

FEEL FREE TO COPY IT.

Disclaimer: Written during academic integrity week. Not to be taken seriously. This does not represent the author’s true views on the title subject. Feel free to copy this disclaimer though.

The departed.

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The bereaved have a particular look about them. They look flushed of colour. All their facial expressions drain away. One day they’re happy go lucky and full of vim; the next they’re a mix of grey pastels on tainted dull canvas. Their ears droop in tune with their frown. They look tired and out of focus. Loss is evident across their face. Their words are spoken slower and they take longer to stand up. They don’t bounce around looking for coffee and they certainly don’t race home on their bicycles.

I never know how to act around them. Do I stay the same? No. Not at all. Things are no longer the same. Loss is not a gain. I show my empathy but it never feels enough. I don’t want to say too much, but I do want and try to show I care. It’s not easy. Nothing ever is. Their loss is a challenge. My challenge is simply to be there for them, in the littlest of tiny small kind of ways.

How do you cope with loss? How do you act when someone departs? How many tears are too few? Or, too many? Is silence the treatment? Does that kind of loss ever truly fade away? How long does it take to recover? How many words need speaking? How does memory remain? How can I not forget you?

The dead don’t care. Maybe they did, before they left. Maybe their spirits go to heaven, Elysium or into the clouds. I can’t say. I’m no expert on the afterlife. Maybe they do care now. Or do they live on in us? Perhaps they flutter between the molecules and matters that make life? Could they be the vacuum of space? Or compost bringing life from waste?

I don’t want to feel what they feel. I don’t want to act differently or awkwardly. I don’t want to ask too many questions. I don’t want to forget the dead.

May you all rest in peace.

Unoriginal movie idea #1.

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(on screen text) From the studio that brought you Schindler’s List…*

(further text) Just when you thought it was safe to go back into your bed. **

(yet more text and probably audio descriptive mode) They’re here, they’re everywhere. You’re not allowed to swear. [Not a football chant. Dramatic drumroll type music will play followed by a few seconds silence and then the title both swoops and crawls in.]

MOSQUROACHES

Or should we call it…

COCKQUITOES

(both can be working titles m whilst we figure out any problems with both)

(Narrator, deep booming voice like Mariah Carey)  One mad scientist managed to take the eating parts of a terrifying cockroach and add them to the humble flying mosquito. It didn’t end there though. Soon enough a hybrid was born and it kept reproducing. Suddenly science was defied and the laboratory of birth overrun… (all scrolling text, a bit like Star Wars but less warmth and more fluttering)

(camera pans) a huge shadow cockroach mandible swoops over the screen which then slowly turns into a proboscis of a mosquito

(BBC Wildlife Guru Sir David Attenborough*** narrates, standing by a lake, looking all tranquil) We used to think of mosquitoes as pests. We used to dilly and dally at their annoyance.

(mosquito bites Sir Dave who carries on talking) Ah, shit! Kill them all, the annoying little blood-sucking bastards. (Sir Dave runs away itching himself)

(cameras swoops upwards along an abandoned McDonald’s restaurant… cockroaches spill over the wall, running and then flying away… with their newfound mosquito wings…  the sky fills with darkness as they take flight)

Text flashes in the cloud of mosquito X cockroach insect cloud:

STARRING WILL SMITH+, RALPH FIENNES^, SIR SACHA BARON-COHEN, KATE WINSLET, DANNY DYER, KOREAN BAND BLACKPINK, and introducing JUDY DENCH.

Coming soon: 2000hrs, 2nd February 2022.

*Huge assumptions that they’ll be interested.   **Spielberg won’t be too pleased, once again. ***Spared at no expense? +optimistic guess. ^There’s always a Fiennes knocking around.

Obviously, it’s work in progress. If I’d been a Douyin or TikTok user the trailer would be ready by now, but I’m not…

I love you.

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I don’t say the word love lightly. I find it hard to say at all. To family, friends, those I spend my time with and even pets: sorry, it’s hard to say it. Not now, anyway.

You may feel it from me. You may get glances of it. You may touch upon moments where I should say it. You can probably sense I want to show or say it. It probably is bubbling so deeply and ready to escape that I’m trembly. Won’t say it.

Maybe I’m confused. Maybe I didn’t hear it from my parents, siblings or uncles or aunts or Gran or Nana or the postman. Maybe I used it too lightly as a teenager or with that lady who made me a man or the friends who left my sides or the stories I read made me feel different instead. I just can’t find the words.

How can I not love you? How can you not love me? How can love not be for you and me? How can I not love myself? Is it all unrequited? Could I utter it? Could I think it? It’s a gamble, right? Instead I stay silent.

My heart may beat faster. My breathing may be deeper. My eyes may be showing excitement. My cheeks may be brightening. Other things may be happening, some bold, some exciting. But, I doubt I’ll speak it. Not here. Not now.

The next day may be different. There may be more momentum. There may be more desire. Need is here. Speed and precise private precious moments may have dawned. Surely now? Unlikely. Sorry.

Shadows.

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The light is dim. Something is flickering. Whatever the source, it casts out growing stretches of darkness into the mostly dim room.

My eyes strain. They can’t focus. Whatever the cause, it struggles to grasp clutches of information by the deepest darkest broom.

My head spins. There’s no coordination. Whatever the thought, my imagination magnifies and spins a yarn out of control filled with doom.

My nose twitches. It tickles inside. Whatever I breathe, it’s not enough to match my growing gloom.

My heart beats. The engine is going faster. Whatever the mood, my lungs suck in and push air into my demanding body’s inverted zoom.

My brain slows. The air hasn’t arrived. My mood, breathe, thoughts and eyes fail. Whatever it was, it was enough. But, whatever I needed, did not show. Not one last little glow. I go.

Written in Nepal, 2017.

Blink of an eye.

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She came into his life, quite unexpected.

She called. He listened. They talked. They laughed. It gave him warmth deep inside. She spoke openly. He told his story. They giggled. He answered questions. Once. Twice. Three times. The minutes stacked up. Time froze.

He chased. She was busy. He waited. She did not come. He wanted her. She was not available. He imagined. She slipped by. He thought of her. She had no voice. He dreamed. She remained silent. Once. Twice. Three times. It was as if it was a blink of an eye. Time came to a complete stop.

And just like that, she was gone.

Phone home.

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Don’t look down at it. Too late. Don’t flip the camera to reserve. Oh, you’ve done it. Does everything need photographing? The way you’ve angled the camera to catch the fire extinguisher and your slightly edited face is exquisite. Just the nine photos. Each one like a time lapse with barely perceived difference. How thin exactly is your face? It looked a bit different an hour ago, a week back, some months ago.

How many moments did you fill? Is that video the same as someone else’s video? Pucker those lips up. Take a selfie. Snap! Snap! Snap! Take the photo from over there. No hazard there. Precarious overhanging places are fine too. Passing traffic? No need to look. Step out backwards. Drivers can swerve. Beeps are loud but you don’t hear it. Focus on your phone.

Cycling the wrong way up a busy road, in the nearest lane to the pavement kerb, and head down on our phone? Don’t worry. You could see beyond the cyclist going the right way. You could. Stay against the flow of the traffic though. Let the right do the right thing. Heck, even parallel ride with a friend. Both be on phones. You’re got it.

What conversation is needed? Look at your phone. Disengage from those with you in the group. By all means, one of you ramp up the volume. I wasn’t listening to my friend anyway. Perhaps some sounds of games will dazzle my mind. Go on. Some shooting sounds? Ideal. Money and other jingles. All at once? Perfection.

Is your child walking into a dangerous situation? Our won’t see. Your head is facing down. That black mirror is playing a video of a kangaroo hugging a panda, or mushroom in a bunch of flowers, or was it a video ending in canned laughter? The point is, your toddler has walked away. Too late? Hurry! Careful now!

And now I’m typing on a phone. Aware of the problem. Known to the addiction. Embraced. Doomed. Digital.

Gratitude.

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Gratitude is a faithless twat who hates you. It spits on you. It shits on you. It laughs in your face. It spits into your eyes. Right into the corners. Filthy dirty fucking flem.

As you kneel on the floor wiping the green and yellow saliva of another man’s flem out of your eyes, gratitude takes one Usian Bolt-sped run from a distance of far too fucking unsuitable, swings its legs up, full flying Jacky Chan and boots your balls harder than the moon colliding into Earth.

It all wants to smash you. The establishment and the unknowns. They gather in shadows and whisper out of earshot. You know it. Gratitude rings their ears and directs their blows. It sniggers and wheezes distorted taunts. They say you’re paranoid. You yell back that you’re not. You fucking scream it until your voice is hoarse and your head throbbing with echoes.

Screaming from rooftops bucket fulls of curses, you could send thunder into the mountains and torrents of anger down to the very stones that hold them up. You kick and stamp hard, so hard. Your toes bleed and bruise against the inner soles of your shattering shoes. The threads tear and break away. Your gratitude is kicking dirt back in your face.

You could walk off and not stop walking for days, weeks, months or even years. Fueled on rage, anger, gritting your teeth. You shake inside. Your heart beats like a Slipknot album. You breath deep, but too fast and too hard trying to suppress this stupid furor. Temper and madness are your bedfellows and you hemorrhage a mania unknown before. Gratitude is grasping your heart, twisting it like child’s soft plasticine.

Your knuckles are white as you clench animosity and refuse to let go. It holds inside and around your chest like a jellyfish tangled to prey. A spasm here, an eruption teetering and ready to blast out there. The spleen ferments more than agitation. This huff is pure wrath and gratitude is unwilling to submit.

That’s what you should say, in some shape or form, when someone asks you casually, “How are you?” But, you find few words come out: “Not bad, thanks.” Gratitude has won.

Lost for words.

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A student stood up my class one day. She smiled as she asked a bold question. Her little voice was quivering but audible, “How many words can you write?” To my mind, I could not answer her. We began a class task, searching books, dictionaries (Cambridge and Oxford English), newspapers, everything and anything we could lay our hands on. The task followed each student and I from the classroom. It became an obsession. As time changed our research became simpler. Yet words expanded and multiplied. Eventually journals, magazines, compendiums and the internet came along, and how it grew and grew. We pooled our tasks together. The list for the student grew, even as she did not.

That first tough question was in the year 1948. I was a young teacher then. Just twenty five years of age. It’s now 2022. I’m still writing the list of words. I hope to be finished this decade. I fear our work will never be complete.

Against the flow.

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I’ve never owned an iPhone. When in groups, I’m alone. I don’t have a power bank. Tesla, I couldn’t rank. Nike Air Max did nothing for me. You buy one, you get one free. Fashion, fads, phases and crazes passed me by. Reebok classics, I did not buy.

Lining up to see the latest movie? I wouldn’t rush; no hurry! Thrilled by a new rollercoaster ride? Look out to sea; I’m by the tide. Dancing in a crowded room? In the darkest corner; I’m in the gloom. All outside, drinking and eating? I’m inside; self-retreating.

Against the flow of the traffic is where I belong. If you need me, I’m here, just plodding along. What I do best, I do it so strong. Being myself, not the rest, that’s where I long. Just me, being myself, right or wrong. Listen to a clock going ding-dong. I’m sat with time beating my own gong. I’m a little further north of famous Hong Kong.

Instagram, MySpace, Twitter and LinkedIn? Maybe I’ll join; maybe they’ll win. Perfection in the artwork? Not for me; I’d go berserk. Quality and quantities, over and over? For me, myself and I; it doesn’t matter. Keeping current and up with the Joneses? I never did buy; one of those onesies.

You need to be yourself.