Blue. K.B.O.

23 days since the need to first go to hospital. That first wrap and support. Those X-rays and CT scans. The pain and self-annoyance. The fracture. The immobilization. The inconvenience. The anger. The rage at one’s self. The self-pity and self-loathing. The humiliating feeling. The worry. The stress. The tears that built up but haven’t yet released.


6 days since the doctor said another 28 days needed; maybe 21 to walk on the foot again. Hope is around the corner by to get there crutches are needed, and some hopping. Avoid the wet floor. No slipping. No placing your right foot down.

Keep it elevated. Keep up your spirits. Pain for a week. Codeine for a week. Bone setting traditional Chinese medicine. Maybe it works, maybe not. Support wrapped again. And again. One trip out. One barbecue. 23 days. 13 journeys to and from work. Avoid the wet floor again. Still no placing your right foot down.

For God’s sake! It isn’t bloody COVID-19! Grow up! Dig in. Dig in deeper. No pain, no gain. Call it a challenge. Growth experience. Aches without ibuprofenbfor a week. Bones grinding and aching. Mosquito bites under the bandage, maybe not so fun. Support from friends. Glorious friends. One trip out. One barbecue. 23 days. 13 journeys to and from work. Keep avoiding the wet floor. One chicken meal nearby. Coffee delivered. Friends. Support. Still no placing your right foot down.

22 more days? 15 more days? Keep going forward. Keep going. Forward. Keep buggering on. K.B.O. Without putting the foot down.

Spheksophobia

How many old dreams of the past are dormant? How many dreams of the future are yet to be realised?

The flocculant rain falls, and the howling wind calls, as he bangs his head firm on walls.

How many days drifted in and out? How many hours in light? How many in night?

The foundations of the house shake, they ripple, bend and quake, all the while his feet flip, slip and bake.

How many lights shine out bright? How many rays cast no shadow? How often does light fade to black?

The will of a man is tested, his head ill-rested, broken undigested, wasted hope scattered and shattered.

How come comets flash and zoom by? How do meteors find their way? How often do they evade all sight?

The feel of his feet grow rough and sore, unable to walk no more, lost on a map with no detail, cast off to sea without a voyage.

How does a guide find a route? How do you define what’s in a suit? How often is a path well-trodden?

The life of Riley, the hidden Eden, the leadership skills of Christ all the parts of Paradise’s Elysium far, far out of reach.

Eh?

We’re all writers putting pen to paper, typing night and day;
Singing love songs come what may.
Banging out letters of dismay;
Giving our opinions on hearsay.
All in front of us, our display;
Making sure we have our say.

Place down your head, just go and lay;
Eyes to the left, eyes to the right they bend and neigh;
Come month end’s wait for our pay.
Should I go or should I stay?

Passing our eyes over the latest play;
Heartfelt causes won’t go away.
In hard times, we kneel and pray;
Write that letter to the girl called Fay.
Oh sweet Fay, the next day your name is May;
Life moved on and we found our way.

Children rejoice, they jump and say, “Yay!”
No more waiting, no such delay.
Watching movies until we hit the hay;
It doesn’t really matter if anyone’s gay.
Dipping our toes in the deep of the bay;
All around the sound of that lovely jay.


On cloudy days grabbing each ray;
Talk about football on the Saturday.
Watching movies until we hit the hay;
It doesn’t really matter if anyone’s gay.
Dipping our toes in the deep of the bay;
All around the sound of that lovely jay.

Streetcat.

I feel like a roof won’t cover me.

I can’t busk under a tree.

Jobs will pass by me.

Nothing here, nothing to see.

The big issue is deep inside of me.

Confidence is my absent key.

I can’t earn this, unreachable fee.

Teaching, reaching and beseeching thee.

Fetch no path my way to feel glee.

Absence and opportunities aren’t free.

The other side: as a rotten wasted bee.

B.D.

I’m going to explode. There’s a simmering rage. It’s rising up and ever closer to spilling up and out.

The mountain of hills and volume of small plenty is what this is all about.

I sense walls and fences stand only to be broken. Each panel a temptation to clout.

Leaning forward, I imagine a shattered wall, crumbling and littered with flaking grout.

From the wall windows litter with broken glass, alongside a sagging spout.

I look to the sky and beg, “Why? Why? Why?”. Each word grows from whisper to shout.

I stumble. I fall. No one hears my call. I snigger. I grip the trigger. Should I squeeze?

Yes, yes, God please. Do it. Do it. End it. End it all. Time to say goodbye. Time to go.

But, I take a deep breath. I focus my tired eyes. The black dogs snap at my feet. I throw them a bone.

You are not alone. You are not in company. You are not your own. You are not the company.

Twitches replace stitches. I fiddle less. I flick the pages. Reading makes me feel better.

The books are my escape. The escape is what I need. The last legs. The leg. The finale.

The fear never departs. The delay must stay. Keep it all at arm’s length. Control it.

Never ever give in. The black dogs can’t win. Snap all they want. Never give in.

Hard rain.

Trapped, twisted and descending; landing seemed so far; never ending. Flushed from on high; plummeting from cold beginnings to the warm decks below.

When it rains, it pours. The heavy hard rain begins as a gentle drop here. And a small drop there. Booming on the surface. Shattering outwards. Explosive force on almost microscopic scale. The end of the flow.

Drifting by influence; winds pull and push; tugging at the deluge and its wild rush; and unending battle of elemental force; tectonics in the sky; ending the moment of dry. Neither fast nor slow.

What started out condensed; freezing and crushed together; slid out and fell; spiraling like a dog fight; drifting and shifting; catching every light; warmer now. Hot snow?

The mind’s eye. Cry. Cry. Cry. Bellow out the yell. Roar in pain. Not now. another again. Victor slain. End of the game. Ended flow.

Weepy.

For handkerchief opportunities, many of us have visited Forrest Gump and Jenny. The main character’s love life, marriage and his mother. The ending. In 1994, Winston Groom’s novel became movie legend filmed by director Robert Lee Zemeckis and starring Tom Hanks. Hanks, himself, also starred in Turner and Hooch, which again had me blubbering like a baby. When Tom Hanks cries, we all cry. I hope to see the Indian remake of Forrest Gump soon: Laal Singh Chaddha. Although, Turner and Hooch has kind of seen many remakes…

“The young doe, Marena, said, “In this very hour many of us are going to die. Perhaps I shall be one of them.” – Felix Salten, Bambi

World War II was brutal. As was World War I. All wars, for that matter, are grim. Tinged with sadness and heartbreak. Souls are destroyed. Isao Takahata released Grave of the Fireflies [火垂るの墓], set to the backdrop of a totaled urban Japanese port of Kobe. This was no ordinary cartoon. Like Watership Down, here is a movie truly worthy of the title tearjerker. It is horrific and doesn’t pull any punches. The characters are young and dynamic. Let the movie draw your heart in. The movie is wide open to multiple and conflicting interpretations, much matching the confusing array of themes.

The Angel of Nanjing focuses on the famous Yangtze river and a bridge (the Nánjīng Chángjiāng Dàqiáo 南京长江大桥) in the city of Nánjīng. The protagonist Chen Si (陈思) has discouraged hundreds of people from topping themselves. The fall downwards is about 24 metres (79′) into lethally fast-flowing waters. The Chinese newspaper People’s Daily once reported that this bridge has more suicides than the famous Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. The movie is a thump to the heart.

E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial that little extra terrestrial blob of joy left Elliot behind. The movie was almost entirely shot from a kid’s perspective. It had a touching poster with an alien digit connecting to a boy’s finger. Little whiny Drew Barrymore reminded me of my screaming sister Astrid. Divorced mum? Themes we could relate to too. Released shortly after I was conceived in 1982, it would be a few years before I watched and understood this story. Yet, every time since the music of John Williams and the direction of Steven Allan Spielberg has got me over and over again. Henry Thomas, the main character, was someone all viewers should have made a connection with, and probably will never ever shake that iconic movie away.

“You are who you choose to be.” – Ted Hughes, The Iron Man

The Iron Man, as a book, by Ted Hughes was lovely and warming. As a movie, it was renamed to The Iron Giant, its big presence shook the internal emotions left, right and centre. How graphic animation can leave a viewer enraged, baffled and devastated is beyond me! The director Brad Bird and his production team conjure up magic in this animation classic.

Thomas J. Sennett: “I’m gonna drive us to Liverpool.”
Shelly DeVoto: “Liverpool?”
Vada Sultenfuss: “Big Ringo fan.” – My Girl, the movie

Vada Sultenfuss (Anna Chlumsky) and Thomas J. (played by the middle-name monster Macaulay Macaulay Culkin Culkin – yes he apparently changed his name this way) light up My Girl with an earthly romance of youngsters. One of my favourite comedian-musican-actors Dan Aykroyd is a big name in the movie, as was Jamie Lee Curtis but neither are allowed time to upstage the duo of young starlets. They pull at your heartstrings from the get-go.

“I don’t need easy, I just need possible.” – Soul Surfer dialogue

Brief Encounter and Soul Surfer are two very different movies. The former is classic cinema noir. The latter deserves to be remembered and revered for a long time. If Jaws struck fear into you getting back into the water, then imagine being Bethany Hamilton who lost an arm to a shark attack. The movie Soul Surfer dips into her strength and determination to ride the waves again. She was 13 years of age when the shark caused her to lose an arm. Her quest to conquer the waves again sees her meet victims of the 2004 Indian Ocean earthquake and tsunami. This heart-warming tale explains why she wouldn’t change her outcome of life, if given the choice. It is a slab of inspiring cinema based on Hamilton’s book, Soul Surfer: A True Story of Faith, Family, and Fighting to Get Back on the Board. Released in 1945, a decade after a play by Noël Coward, Brief Encounter, has become one of Britain’s greatest movies of all time. I first heard of it whilst changing trains at Carnforth railway station in Lancashire. The music, the story and the pace really resonate beautifully when placed with the intense black and white cinematography. Like many great stage play adaptations, this movie is full of clipped words and energy. The comparison to Soul Surfer is far apart, but both leave you clinging for Kleenex. As someone who has had my own brief encounters, and lost a little piece of heart each time, there’s a real sadness and pity to this yarn.

“The future was uncertain, absolutely, and there were many hurdles, twists, and turns to come, but as long as I kept moving forward, one foot in front of the other, the voices of fear and shame, the messages from those who wanted me to believe that I wasn’t good enough, would be stilled.” – Chris Gardner, The Pursuit of Happyness

Will Smith, when not busy slapping comedian Chris Rock, can be found in countless movies. One such heartfelt piece is his recent Oscar-winning role in King Richard. But, before he played the father of the famous Williams sisters, try The Pursuit of Happyness. Son of Will and Jada Koren Pinkett Smith, Jaden stars alongside his father striving to keep tears and depression at bay. The film is a modern tale that is all too familiar to many people seeking work in the many job markets defunct of opportunity. Will he overcome adversity? Perhaps the memoir (of the same name) by Chris Gardner and Quincy Troupe might be a starting point.

Boundaries.

The wall doesn’t keep you inside
nor does it stop you escaping.
The range of the boundary’s grasp sit inside
refusing to ruffle or fold ever slightly like two ever strong shoulders of foundation.
The fences you make prevent you living and pay sacrifice to the freedom out of your longing reach. Barriers change in time and
ruins rise to fall, with temples and churches spilling outwardly, full of prayers for one such deity or another, seeping your skin’s
inward desire to be led and let go,
while forever knowing you carry the
weight of slumping shoulders
bound by boundaries of the mind.

Scale.

It isn’t the panic
that draws you ever closer
within its tumbling realm of vision or that tremble in your loin,
dancing upon the shaking shoulders of sacrifice.
It is the bite that remains forever itching failing to heal and settle,
a ruin which ever leaks over your skin
intoxicating the inward desire
while forever guilty mite weakens
slumping from shoulders
into the abyss.

The Fall Within You

It doesn’t take much to trip and slip when the angry dogs are snapping at your feet. They’ve invited wolves this time and they’re agitated in ways you knew as frequently possible m yet could never escape. They howl and snarl drawing nearer without ever getting close enough to sink their sorrowful rabid fangs into flesh. Their dirgeful salivating pus-filled gums drip oozing brown liquids across the foot of the bed. You feel heavy-hearted panic for a moment. Chapfallen fear.

A white hot cold like steel pressing against your mind’s eye, sliding all senses beyond control, the rage simmers and bubbles threatening to erupt to the heavens above, bringing hell to the day’s gloomy sky. Yet it won’t and can’t. You’re in a mediocre state. The best that can happen is average. The worst is equal to the best. Flailing and flat lining just above terrible but far below lugubrious pleasure. A monotonous gray scale of simply not good enough. The dour silent rage.

You know you can’t escape the wretched day that hasn’t come, but woebegone, you know it is soon to arrive. The fed up walls will fold in and the ground will crumble. You’ll slip, fall, down and tumble. The saturnine strives you had and the live you lived will be gone. The forlorn ashes of the fires burning around you will blow in sepulchral raging winds from north, east, south and west before slamming doleful thunderous bolts of lightning into the parched remains of your skeleton. That morose skeleton itself, fused and beyond mobility. Useless mirthless blue.

Hope knocks at your dejected door but the disconsolate door’s hinges have long dispirited rusted and welded to the wall. The wall has been long-covered by grim vines, rotten downhearted hanging nooses, despondent witch trial posters and fragments of a long forgotten camera obscura lens. The crestfallen wall’s dusted windows each produced Pepper’s ghosts no longer. Their cast down faded glass panes are grimed and moulded beyond shape and figure. Faded features hang weary and low, tangled in slim twine macramé. Downcast melancholy.

Stuck in a Sigh

It seems never ending. I’m trapped. I’m surrounded by a bubble. Happiness and joy have no way in. I’ve been stuck in this sigh for far too long.

I used to be active and mobile, and all the things I wanted to do, I did. Not now. I look on and see them pass by. I’m stuck in this sigh. A seemingly continual throng.

At times I see the sunrise and the sunsets. I feel it like before but it’s as if I’m outside, looking in. The great rays cast no heat my way. The sigh sits on my tongue.

I smell flowers and sense nothing. I watch butterflies dance and flutter and I sense them crash into the ground with no sound. The sigh begins but fails to fade like an endless song.

I pick up pens and they slide from my hands. The words they could and should write gather no sight. They never exist. This sigh is drowning my wish to cry out louder than King Kong.

How long can this sigh go on? I long for those sigh to fade to black. I wish this hollow pocket in the sigh would leave my tongue. I dance and smile outside but inside the sigh strangles me. It feels all so wrong.

Sigh. Silent sigh.

Life.

Life is for living; it’s for seeing; it’s for feeling; it’s for playing;

it’s for kicking a football in a field; it’s for stumbling on stones and slipping and breaking some bones;

it’s for smiling; it’s for crying; it’s for…

…missing home; it’s for feeling that tear. That tear building in your eye; and that moment you look at something so stunning, you’re overwhelmed with feelings.

You try to find the words, but the words aren’t there. They’re out there. They’re in here. In your head. But. You just can’t pick them up and place them in the right position.

Life. Life is beautiful. It’s pretty, it’s witty, it’s exciting, it’s frightening…

It’s staring into the abyss and not knowing where you’re going.

When you want to go somewhere, you go somewhere. Having a plan is all fair enough. Having no plan: just as good.

Just live the way you want to live.

There’s only one way of life.

And that’s your own.

Poem and tattoo inspired and influenced by The Levellers and their song One Way
The original recording made at Abuji Cuo in Yunnan (29/7/2021)
Details of Abuji Cuo (29/7/2021)

Live, breathe, hope (Draft #1)

Muck in your eyes, surging cries, looking at then falling skies.

Pain straining your train of thought, hate free world sought, avoiding a day of distraught.

Stress says take a rest, your chest days you’re not your best, can’t even get dressed.

Stumbled upstairs, fairs not so fair for your cares, time to go get some stares.

Off we went, full consent, not worried about the rent, feeling less than elegant.

While I live, I breathe, I hope. Those hospital superheroes got me off a bad slope. Those hospital heroes helped me cope. While I live, I breathe, I hope. Up once again looking down life’s telescope. While I live, I breathe, I hope. Those hospital heroes helped me cope.

Knees a quivering, head all shivering, doctors and nurses delivering.

The news was confusing, my listening cruising and choosing, what it’s using, musing and infusing.

Shook by the broken heart, given a start, by way of observation chart.

Rating the flurry of worry, compared to a filling of slurry, bitter taste exiting in no hurry.

Human resources steadying, off for further readying, yet in a place unsteadying.

While I live, I breathe, I hope. No need to duck, dive and mope. While I live, I breathe, I hope. I cling on to the shipping towrope. While I live, I breathe, I hope. Walking together on every tightrope.

After the manic half hours, the room drained of flowers, friends turned away after hours.

Left with my thoughts, my personal dreadnoughts, gunshots casting lots and lots.

The demon at the foot of the bed, fear felt instead, I could have been brown bread.

Jabbed and prodded until sleep, a peak that weeped in heaped seep, knee-deep in thoughts that go deep.

Slipped in and out of shut eye, thoughts indivisible by, unable to oversimplify.

While I live, I breathe, I hope. Reach out for the good bathroom soap. While I live, I breathe, I hope. Thankful for the stethoscope. While I live, I breathe, I hope. Knowing today is just a kaleidoscope.

Who am I to tell you what to believe?

Who am I to tell you what to believe? When I can’t picture the ideas you conceive. Every day you bend, kneel and pray, but here I am with thoughts hidden in grey.

What do your Gods speak to you? How can you have faith in if it’s true? Do animals and plants have belief? Perhaps they’re all to lucky to avoid grief.

What is wrong? What is right? When does darkness stop and become light? How do the lost become the found? Must it take circumstances so profound?

Who are they to tell you not to believe? They can’t feel the life we’ll all leave. Resurrection, dedication and minds so set. Always believing, no sweat for regret.

The hum of the crowds all drowned out. Knowing how and where, never in doubt. Eyes to the sky, devout until the last. Shadows of worry forever outcast.

Their words, choruses and hymns echo. Through halls, walls, valley calls they grow. How did the lambs find their leader? Must they nod or bow before their reader?

Who are you to tell me what to believe? My mind is free like the air I breathe. I pass with peace but no direction. Each duty comes with no selection.

What I choose I can’t quite grasp. The paths I lead cannot all clasp. The roads I drive cannot all go on. Each lane merges and bends to one.

Destiny and fate call my name. I don’t know the end of this game. How did I get to be so alone? The decisions alone were mine to prone, groan and bemoan.

[scrawled in Kumbum Monastery, Xining, Qinghai on 19th July 2021]

Grasping doubt.

Maybe I should, maybe I shouldn’t.

I wish I could but I feel I couldn’t.

I look deeply into my dreams.

They all don’t seem what they seems.

Parts of the perfection have no direction.

Each and every ambition is littered with defection.

So, I sit back, relax and just float along.

Knowing the words and tunes but making not one song.

My actions, my words don’t let me show it.

There’s music in my soul I know it.

Doubt bites at me, it knifed into my soul.

Black dog edging, tearing away at my lifelong goal.

So, what’s stopping has stopped the beginning.

My head is no longer a fit place for winning.

Stop.

Carry on?

Refresh.

Craning my neck: stooped harshly.

Deep inside the bowl: placed hands partially.

Turning the pressure to flow: seeking coolness.

In my Chinese house: undrinkable cruelness.

The water here: causing neshness.

Flowing slow water in Manchester: enhanced freshness.

Upstairs at the bathroom: Broom Avenue childhood.

Drinking fast to slow: glug, glug, should, would and could.

Cooler than air, fresher than fair: my share.

After teeth, before sleep: my answered prayer.

I miss that tap: we were raised together.

The tap of life: water from Lake District weather.

Treasure!

Treasure! Treasure, I tell you! Jewels of the ocean sent over seas and up the river! Landed to me! Inspirational treasure! Oh, how delighted I am! For my gold, has such value untold. The treasure is the warmth of thoughts shared. To be unforgettable. To dream the unknown future foretold. Tell me dreams. Are you with me? Are you for me? Oh, your unforgettable embrace. My heaven. My dream. One day, I hope you shall return. Until then, I have my treasure. The greatest treasure, however, is your heart and soul. My memories. You are the treasure I seek.

Fuck You COVID-19!

Bad morning. Bad evening. Bad day.

Actually, I want to greet you all positively and wish peace and love. It just doesn’t seem suitable. The title of the writing seems like bad language, but it reflects my mood for an approaching date. My Mum always said that words like fuck, bastard and arse, amongst the plethora of curses are just ways of expression. I agree. When we say that piss and twat are bad words, we empower their misuse. Some words like cunt are extremely terrible. I try my best to avoid usage of all these fecking shite words but some days they are just so appropriate.

I am writing this on September the 4th. It’s fast dawned on me that September the 12th is on the horizon. I want to vomit out the words that are rattling around my head now.

September the 12th hasn’t always represented a bad day in September, and for many there have been far worse. For me personally, it isn’t the absolute disaster of a day. Far from it. I’m sure it’ll be a pleasant and wonderful day indeed. It just marks an unwanted anniversary. It represents exactly two years since I left Mancunian soil for China (via Hong Kong, Special Administrative Region etc). The day after the Vincent Kompany testimonial, Uncle Ed delivered me to a flight, alongside my friend Maria and a shedload of luggage. Who’d have thought that the world would go tits up?!

The summers of 2015 to 2019 have all been enjoyed in Great Britain. In fact 2014, marked the longest I’ve gone without summer at home. It being shortly after the February of moving to China. 2020 and 2021 have not given chance to see family or friends back on British soil. Nor has there been a chance to meet half way or for overseas visitors to call by.

I understand that for many, it is the same. For a many people, losses and tragedies have been their visitors over this pandemic of annoyance and continued uncertainty. It’s the uncertainty that this winter or next summer, mobility to see family and my best friend may or not be possible. I’m optimistic but these days it is better to be realistic as more sensible. Right?

Concluding the writing should not involve a message of peace and love. I’ll always wish you all, friend or for, family, flamingo doing flamenco or fungi, peace and love. Today’s scribbling will partake in a list of fuck you messages. It’s only appropriate.

Fuck you to COVID-19. With all due respect to viruses and diseases globally, you’ve really got on many people’s nerves. Enough is enough.

Fuck you to the origins of COVID-19. Tut. Tut.

Fuck you to the conspiring conspiracies. Don’t believe the truth?

Fuck you to the bullies of Wuhan. It’s a city. It has people. People have feelings. Spread love, not hate.

Fuck you Donald Trump. Profits high? Definitely.

Fuck you to those who divide. See above.

Fuck you to those who profited at the detriment of others during this hugely annoying era. There’s a huge increase in billionaires and millionaires, and wealth shares.

Fuck you Man Utd. Always appropriate.

Fuck you to all nations who have politicised this pandemic. You know who you are.

Fuck you those who failed to act and swept away those who wished to speak. Also applicable to the Afghanistan situation. And Rwanda. And countless other events, mostly involving Team America: World Police.

Fuck you to the silencers of the voices. Opinions may be like arseholes, in that everyone has one, but words are powerful and beautiful things. As Mel Gibson said, in Braveheart, “FREEDOM!” before he got in trouble. Terms and conditions apply.

Fuck you Boris Johnson, the budget Donald Trump. Sniveling little inhumane turd of a shriveled up scrotum of a man.

Fuck you to the dismantling parties of the NHS (a bonafide British treasure). See above.

Fuck you to the sneaky laws and regulations that exploited the pandemic conditions. UK included. The RNLI (Royal National Lifeboat Institution) could be fined for saving the lives of migrants? Those laws as are fitting for the 1930’s Nazi Party.

Fuck you to anyone who doesn’t believe this pandemic is real and that COVID-19 is a lie. Wake up! Tackle it. Don’t deny it.

Of course, using the phrase fuck you is negative and wrong. I rescind all of the above. Stay positive.

Until the next time, when I see family and friends, peace and love!

John

Low pulse.

Veins showing boldly, ice flowing through coldly.

The swagger has gone, the light has not shone.

Stone replaces the many beats, without the need for feats.

The temperature rose, now nobody knows.

Beasts chose this path, giving no laugh.

I’m wearing a hollow crown, high over the frown.

Darkness swallows me whole, emptying up my soul.

Growling tormented screams, ending all dreams.

No rose without thorns, these days free of dawns.

Eternally sweltering heat, sleep patterns less neat.

Lonely bedspread of solitude, world emptying seclude.

Where is hope today? It’s gone so far away.

Checking out. Sean Lock R.I.P.

Memories of you.

Remember this too.

Farewell and adieu.

It may be time to go.

How will the remember you?

This only they can know.

So, for me and for thee.

Thy words and actions be.

What you want them to see.

Live as you are free.

Without fear be the true me.

It’s your life to cast wide.

The sands of time’s tide.

Enjoy the rhythm, enjoy the ride.

Live it up and full of pride.

There’s only way to buzz your own buzz.

There’s only way of life (and that’s your own).

You need to be true to yourself.

Live hard, live well and in good health.

Buzz loud like a bee.

Today will be yesterday tomorrow.

Leave behind not one sorrow.

Regret nothing and win love.

The game of life is as a dove.

A symbol of peace flying on high.

When I go, do not cry.

For I have lived, and given it all.

To this day and every call.

Though you passed on and gone.

I spotted you as you shone.

You danced, sang and gave clout to your shout.

Your light never goes out.

Condolences to the family and friends of Sean Lock, British comedian, writer and TV star. Ever since seeing 15 Storeys High starring writer Sean Lock with actor Benedict Wong, I’ve been hooked on this charming word-loving comic genius. His panel show appearances, stand-up comedy and writing for other top-notch acts will be missed.

Sean Lock (22nd April 1963 – 16th August 2021)

Junbesi.

One kilometre up. Another one down. Toughest climb and hardest descent of my life. Sweat, tears and muscles burning like volcanic lava. At stages the fumes of my depleted energy switched my head into autopilot. I walked aimlessly and without thought. Vacant. Empty. Even desperation and hunger departed my mind. My soul carried me. Hope hadn’t slipped away completely. Bruised worn feet made it through the darkest evening to night. A bed and a meal waited for the day’s end. A great sleep followed. Two different years, two tough challenging experiences. Twice. Twice, the walk carried on.

Yesterday was such a day. A tiring cycle ride to play football. A testing first half-hour. A stretched thirty minutes followed. A near empty final third. And then. And then the ride back. A thirty minutes cycle ride doubled in time. Ten grueling ten kilometres. Sweat. Pain. Tears. Two cups of yogurt and a litre of water. Knackered. Back against the wall. The cycle bad become the rupture machine. A test of stamina and mind over matter. The Junbesi of Dongguan in high humidity and subtropical heat. I crawled into bed following a shower. The kind of shower that involved slumping and letting the warmer than usual water just hit from above. Careless shower. Even sleeping in bed I fed mosquitoes and didn’t care. Exhausted.

Tough moments are there to be overcome.

Hope for Home.

The shooting stars made me feel at home.

Your head rested on my body.

My heart beating faster than ever before.

Like a pounding drum.

Your warmth and my heat.

That was long ago.

It wasn’t so long ago really.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

I miss you.

Tonight…

Tonight, I’ll sit and stare at stars.

Even if the clouds come.

I’ll hope and dream.

I’m lonely without you.

I’ll dream and hope that one day it’ll return.

I’ll wish on every shooting star.

I’ll wish for you.

That’s my hope now.

My dream.

Turn off the moon and turn on the stars.

The stars that shoot.

The ones that I shall wish upon.

For you.

For the dream.

For hope.

Alchemy

I laughed out loud in the shop and smiled so widely. A surprise came by me.

The other customers must have thought I was crazy. They looked at me so hazy.

I opened the unexpected packet and my eyes watered. What was inside the packaging I had slaughtered?

I smiled and smiled some more. Could my face have exploded? I pulled out books, unloaded.

I giggled and giggled a little dance. I could hardly believe this chance!

What a wonderfully heartwarming gift of romance. The book to my heart an instant lance.

The love of a book shared from one soul to another. The gift of wise words and places to discover.

The next adventure belongs to all who uncover. This book will be read fast and slow from cover to cover.

We all know that sharing is caring and caring is sharing. This fairing was bearing caring and sharing.

Angels and mothers give books. The keys to new worlds and a new way. Ialways say every day is World Book Day. But, today, I say: “I will treasure this book forever and a day.”

Now, time to turn the first page.

Transference.

Is it guilt biting away inside my gut? Am I but a projection of unfinished business? I wander far and wide searching but seldom finding. I stumble. I fall. I get up again. I dream by night. I dream by day. I dream to find that elusive other way.

Do I know the answers are deep in side me? Do they hide behind a cloud of misjudgment? Are they tucked under a rock of class hope? How do I drill down into the well of dreams? I so very much want to mine them.

Hope arrived on a wind of change. As soon as it came, it departed. In the blink of an eye the Universe unravelled and left me praying for more. I know it will come, yet insecurity claws away at my dearest hope. Did I let my guard down too soon? Would it be better to burrow down into the cold earth and hide my heart?

Yet the moon rises after sunset, and the sun rises the next day. Sometimes the moon sneaks into daylight. There’s rarely a day without one or the other. One as a heart. The other as a mind. Both giving energy. Both giving freshness to the day. The winds of change and the light of belief.

Here I stand. You’re out there. I know it. You know it. We both want it. We both need it. It beats from hearts into the air and through all it passes. The message is clear. Have not one fear, for you and I are here, my dear.

Always hope.

Never let go.

How can a heart feel so overwhelmed? So deeply touched with hope?

In place of sorrow, fear or worry, a seismic flow of energy erupts.

The sensitivity and lust for such a deep connection is equal to the need for the air.

Mountains, rivers, lakes and fields may divide our being, yet two hearts are beating in synchronicity.

The stars pass overhead casting light down on memories yet to be made.

Don’t look to the past for living; don’t give worry to the future.

We’re here. We are here. Here we are. Here. We.

Connection.

No matter what, no matter where: I’m there.

No road is too far or a mountain too high: our sky.

No question is too hard, or too bad: for that I’m glad.

No limits or expectations too ill: you have my will.

No pages too long or words too strong: we belong.

Connection irrespective of time and space: this place.

Blank accommodates more: this feeling is for sure.

Flips the pages of the story book: take a good look.

Free spirited adventurer: forever together.