thoughts

Mams, moms, mums… 妈妈

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Words taught. Ideas thought. And spoken. A gift, a token, a day awoken. Mums are brilliant. They’re resilient, they’re efficient and sufficient. A guide along paths. A shoulder to turn tears to laughs. Mums, moms, mams, 妈妈

Books given. Lies forgiven. Lessons learned. Trophies earned. Encouraged. Discouraged. Pushed on. Troubles gone. Forever enduring, securing and helping you before and during. A fanatic supporter helping and scoring. Moms, mams, mums, 妈妈

Try this, try that. Do this, do that. Eat your corn. See her scorn. Tidy up, fold it up, put it away. Have your say. Listen to the way. Day after day, always there for you. Truthfully, forever true. Mams, moms, mums, 妈妈

Loving, caring, sharing (through choice or not), supporting (win, lose or draw), there for you, no matter your lot. MUMS, MAMS, MOMS, 妈妈

Thanks for being my friend.

The fine line.

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Key worker and essential cog one day, discarded the next week.

“Valued employee” and “fine example” until you’re not relevant.

“Outstanding” and “innovating” before being outdated and obsolete.

“Indispensable” or “central to the team” as a budget slash deems your release date now.

Punctual, loyal, and attentive to fine details, followed by succeeded and outdated.

Moving on up, rising to the top, but all of a sudden, tumbling and spiralling downwards.

There’s a margin. A wafer thin gap. A sliver of light between dark and lost. A piece of hope dangling on the thread of chaos and change. Which way it blows is not always your choice. Which way you respond, use your own voice. A pathway here or a tunnel there. Give in, or go on?

Go on.

Merry Christmas 2022.

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The first Christmas I’ve had in Britain since 2013 is finally here. What a year to choose! As gas prices soar, sprouts finally have their day. As a shortage of cauliflower hit our local Lidl, we moved to brocoli (which is better all round) and trimmed it all off nicely. That’s Christmas Dinner on Christmas Eve done. Having ate with Dad and Shaun, I’ll spend tomorrow at my Mam’s with Mum and Paul and Paul, and Beardie and Panda.

In fact, I think that I spent Christmas 2013 in Cornwall, so 2012 was the last Christmas I had in Manchester. Today, I met my good friend P.M. Brahma and went for lunch at the fantastic Northern Soul Grilled Cheese in Manchester, then a coffee in Afflecks and some dessert afterwards. Later, Panda, Blue, Shaun and I walked Clayton Vale. The Eve of Christmas has been quite relaxed. My thoughts have been elsewhere, but I am trying my best to enjoy it here.

On reflection, seeing the resting place of a deceased homeless person, hearing of a 19 year old lad hanging himself and the unfortunate death of a pedestrian at the hands of a Police car, could and should put many things in perspective. I’m not a huge fan of Christmas and its pressures on people. Please do stay safe. Please talk. Give help, where you can. Don’t be a knobhead. The world needs more light and love.

Dad has been good, treating us all at Christmas. Yesterday, on Christmas Eve’s Eve, I visited Aunty Chris and Uncle Ed. It’s always a pleasure to see family. A few brews and a wander ended up with getting back to walk Panda down Clayton Vale. Why not?! A good way to relax in the freezing winter mist. Panda was happy. That’s the main thing. I’m excited for Christmas at Mam’s house and switching off a bit. If my mind allows me to switch off. Much to say and do.

All the best for Christmas and New Year. Hope it’s a good one, no matter how hard it seems. Peace and love. 🐝

Rebellion #2: Homelessness

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I was ripped from my womb, sent from warmth, from my creator, made to work to the bone for the inflator.

No longer again to see Mother nor Father, in workplaces far away, sent out long hours day after day.

Through taxes and energy bills, through blooded sweaty torn up hands, ploughing out profits for someone else’s lands.


I carried my owners, along with my leaders, and prayed to the sky that God may receive us.

No answer from upon high, to my pitiful cry, as I crept out to deny my sigh. Time was to fly.

The strength of those who fed us with kind, as we wallowed through despair, without comfort of mind. An axe must grind.

Here, I ask of you to reflect for a while,
Along with my colleagues, in times of denial. This life has been a trial.


For we are the future thrust into fear,
And cold nights gave up some lives year on year. Year on year on year.

Remember us, the homeless dead, as we lay down, ice tethered to head. Dead.

Dead.

Rebellion #1.

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I’m the rise against the odds. I’m the growl facing the sods.

I’m the vote that casts a change. I’m the matter that needs derange.

I’m the fighter in the field they want to mine. I’m the nurse fixing plasters rain or shine.

I’m the voice that they want to silence. I’m the battler against all manner of violence.

I’m with many who shout and demand new ways. I’m one of the glued-up rebellious art damaging strays.

I’m the silent protestor who annoyed the police sergeant some. I’m the leader of the change that has to come.

Stand alone, fall down. Stand tall and together, stand up for your town. Stand for the greedy and against the needy, stand opposite me, you’ll see. We’re the changes that are needs be. See.

The time is now.

The Next Prime Minister

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Communism and capitalism don’t work. That’s my view. Neither have solid scientific bases and each are triggered by emotional responses. Capitalism breeds the need for more: bigger, stronger, faster and more, more, more. Communism over-regulates and remains too rigid: hard and fast. Like capitalism, it grows and expands too much. It chokes community and welds itself to the fate of humanity’s downfall.

Through primitive vocabulary and the shredding of those seen as intellectualor a threat, views get defecated on. Try to decipher which from communism and capitalism sensationalises news and exaggerates to the free press. Which is leant on by external influence? Which is paid for? Which sold its soul? The jargon overwhelms its reader. Opposition is near unheard, or at least found in differing tabloids or broadsheets (where permitted). Communication of Communism or sold on Capitalism?

The free press with their agenda, use primitive tones and boring jargon to control and shape opinions. They use dismissal of opposition views seeking to isolate unaccepted tones. Intellectuals are swept aside and logic disarmed. Insults banded about. Bourgeois attitudes? Well how did Britain get here. Brexit and xenophobic beliefs? Impassioned beliefs of a better world? Covid-19 or 1984? How can we fix the mess the country is? Radicalism is surely due a comeback.

The future holds too many questions.

HRH Queen Elizabeth II

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Mummy and Daddy will love forever. That’s how big saw it when I was young. Then after the teenage years, I heard friends and how they lost fathers and mothers. I filled with fear, worry and wondered how I’d cope. As grandparents drifted away, that worry grew and grew and grew. Nobody lives forever. That’s the saddest part.

Grief at the loss of grandparents came again and again and again. It’s horrid. They never truly leave you. Nor do you want them to. Even today, I visited a spot to talk to Gran. She wasn’t there but she was there. I sat on a canal side moorings and looked at the skies. The same skies Gran and I would gaze out on from Earl’s Lodge. I talked. Some private things. Plenty of questions. I like to think that Gran listened. She always did. How will I feel when a parent goes? I don’t know. I dread it. The Queen passed today. Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, a mother to brothers and sisters. A grandparent. A great grandparent. Family is important.

They may be royalty, the Monarchy and the aristocracy. They may be the elite. They live different ways and enjoy privilege. They are living reality television for their subjects. If they can sustain a loss of family, so can we. We’ll be alright. Hopefully, no time soon.

I’m no Royalist or Republican. I’m no patriot. I was born a European and now by passport I’m British. The ages of Empire passed. Commonwealth to me means sports every four years. The budget Olympics. The positive legacy of history and Empire. Things change. Now we have a King. Long live King Charles III. Let’s hope the legacy of a Royal family builds a longstanding legacy of benefit to the Kingdom. The Prince’s Trust, The Duke of Edinburgh scheme, Queen Elizabeth II at the Manchester Commonwealth Games in 2002 – it all counts.

The Queen and her family helped turn a brutal and sometimes terrible Empire and its legacy into a modern British symbolic cultural mainstay that is enviable globally and sought after. On this historic day, September 8th, we witness the passing of the crown and now the King must succeed her. The injustices and challenges of climate change face his reign. Long live the King.

But first, God save the Queen. Goodbye Your Majesty and I’ll let you off for making me late for a train at Stockport railway station.

Queen Elizabeth II (21/4/1926-8/9/2022)

Hey adventure, where are you?

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I’ve been waiting, patiently and impatiently. Where are you? Perhaps, you missed me here. Hey adventure, where are you?

I know I’ve been distracted, confused and upset. Where are you? Just maybe, you’re too busy to call by. Hey adventure, where are you?

These days have been testing for me, unsure and hanging on the help of others. Certainly, you know where to look. Hey adventure, where are you?

I looked back at last year and the year before, and one before that. How come you didn’t visit me yet? Hey adventure, where are you?

Is it something I did, said or thought? Am I not the same person as before? Hey adventure, where are you?

When you call by, bring some tissues and a shoulder to lean on. I’m sure you’ll return. Hey adventure, where are you?

I’m feeling so low, blue and deep in shadow. You won’t see me outside. Hey adventure, where are you?

I need to feel the sharpness of lemons, taste the sweet cool air and smell of green life. Instead, you’ll see me between these walls. Hey adventure, where are you?

It could be worse I guess, cast off and unwanted? No letter of recommendation or wave off. Hey adventure, where are you?

Hey adventure, where are you? I need you. I need. I need you. Need you. You. Come get me. Hey adventure, where are you?

Hey adventure, where are you?

Blue. K.B.O.

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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

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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.

Who am I to tell you what to believe?

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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]

Fuck You COVID-19!

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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

Junbesi.

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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.

Never let go.

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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.

It shall pass.

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Just as the hour seems darkest;

and your energy seems the lowest;

with your mood at its most testing;

remember, it shall pass.

As darkness battles hope;

raging on relentlessly;

Crushing and pushing your boundaries;

take note, it shall pass.

Because your heart is stronger;

and all before you is more powerful;

we’ve been here before;

it too, it shall pass.

Kneeling down regurgitating water;

grasping the walls as your sphincter trembles;

convulsing on an empty stomach;

soon be over, it shall pass.

The wind of hope messages;

kind acts replenishes;

a moment of support noted;

I believe, it shall pass.

Bon Voyage.

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The little man darting up the tree.

The kid with stings, bites and bruises.

The joy at finding spiders and beetles to see.

The sad face when his team loses.

The dancing girl we could all look up to.

Singing about butterflies and happy times.

Telling stories through and through to me and you.

Whistling words with witty rhymes.

Proud teachers and parents gazing onwards.

The strumming rumbling tuneful times.

Their journey goes on and onwards.

The walks, the runs, the climbs.

This isn’t a time of sadness or madness.

You’ve touched us all, including me.

This is a moment to feel collective gladness.

The books passed around silently.

Your departure may come with haste.

Jet off, carry on the journey of life and love.

To the future, you go, do not waste.

Look back, look up, down, left, right and above.

We were here. We were now. We were one group, at one place, in one time. We were lucky.

Get out there. Carry on to share. Bring that spark of sunshine, in another place, in another time. You’ll be lucky.

Hey!

They’ll be lucky.

(Unless Mr Lee makes coffee again: for the love of God and all the holy characters, stay away from the coffee machines)

Farewell and Bon Voyage Shawver tribe.

Where’s the next mountain?

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To sit and wait.

Hasn’t it been a long time since the wind whistled lightly down the valley? Hasn’t it been so long since the book’s pages flipped over gently in the breeze? Hasn’t it been so long since the smell of a campfire spun on smoke from a place unseen to the eye? Isn’t it a pity that these places seem so far away? If only I had more memories to sit back and unwind with. Where’s the next mountain? Where’s the next wander? Where?

Where?

Vaccinated.

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It wasn’t so sharp. I didn’t feel the coldness until it withdrew. The tiny fierce syringe shot inside like the wind blew.

The liquid vial, so small in hand. The nurses steadiness and readiness. One swift move, into a groove, of my skin. That’s it. It’s in.

Social Security pays for the ways that give days to this phase that ends slays. With every jab and prick, the world gets closer. Closer to open doors, walked floors, airplane snores, and many less bores.

My arm became heavy, unsteady and a weight I just carry. The doctors, the nurses; and the once-upon-a-time they married, but not now; the lost souls lost deep in books; the young who cast withdrawn looks; the babies and toddlers who haven’t yet seen grandpa and grandma; the grieving and the upset beyond feeling; we’re all getting closer.

The new norm is now. The now is new. The normal normality of the norm is here as a dawn. We could slink away, sink today or sail that way. Lay down your fear. A new beginning is near.

Drowsy side effects mean you feel. If you feel then it’s real. If it’s real then here’s the steel. We’re stronger than before and living longer what’s more. So, take the first hit. Go back for the second stab. Curl up after, roar in laughter. Stay bright, feel right and let go of uptight. The new now is the norm that is is next to you. Let’s go.

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.

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

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…

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.

Wikipedia

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I was going to write about the artist César Manrique but Wikipedia has it covered.

I was going to pen a few lines about Peter Saville and his artistic influence on Manchester music culture but Wikipedia beat me to it.

I was going to draw up an outline of Manchester’s musical diversity but there’s no need as Wikipedia has shed the light on the matter.

I was going to scribe, jot and share much about Mancunian folklore and key moments but Wikipedia beat me to it.

I was going to foreground and draw a conclusion about life in Manchester but wouldn’t you know, Wikipedia snuck in on that one too.

Wikipedia, what haven’t you covered?

Dripping.

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What are tears? Are they escaping emotions from deep inside us? Is it fear, worry and strife jumping overboard? Does each tear represent the birth of hope? Each emerging drop must mean something. What do my tears mean?

I’m homesick. I’m alone. I’m lost. I’m without you. Terrifying panic as you’re lost in an Altrincham shopping mall? The day after a school day full of bullies pushing you around with hateful words. Thoughts of a day hidden under a bridge, unable to attend a funeral of a grandparent. Pup. The wonder dog. No longer by your side. No longer. It all means something, surely?

As momentum builds with each rolling droplet, your cheeks redden. Lips dry. Inside your mouth a new taste emerges. Raw. The taste of your own cheeks. Holding your hands to your face. Imagination flashes back to memories and forwards to dreams, good and bad. Sniffles break out. A stuffy nose hides all smells. You try to gain composure. Did it work? No. A tidal wave of locked away emotions surge out like a river bursting its banks. What does it all mean?

Friends fall. Time ages you. They remain unaged. Gone. Not forgotten. Far from home? Where is home? Why am I here? Why am I not there? Working hard. Working. Work keeps many busy. The lucky busy ones. Others don’t work. They can’t. They don’t. There is no work. We lucky busy workers. Some sleep early. Some late. Some nap. Snooze. Wake up. Lucky. Busy. Workers. Lucky. Where is this meaning that we all work for?

Interpretation. Judgement. Don’t judge a book by its cover. If you see my eyes red and tearful, judge me kindly. It doesn’t have to be this way. Or does it? The tears recede. Breathing slows down. The calm after the storm. Feelings. Feel. You feel. We feel. I feel. I felt something more. I felt again. I felt it rush back. Tears mean something more. Has hope been born again?