Like yesterday

Was it yesterday we last met? Or, the week before? What? Over four years?! Unbelievable! It feels just like yesterday.

A new place with a new arrangement? Feels homely and familiar. I’ve never been here, yet it fits like a glove. Incredible! It feels just like yesterday.

Older paws and fresh tails. New photos and shirts and books and electronics. Similar but different games. Same old, same old. It feels just like yesterday.

Same voices, different figures. Hearts and minds open or closed. Warmth, deeply felt friendship. Experiences gained through tales and moments unmatched. It feels just like yesterday.

Hugs, handshakes, and cheers. One for the road. A night cap. A natter. It all matters. It’s irrelevant until it’s relevant. A proud writer talking to a writer. Audiences growing. It feels just like yesterday.

Congratulations and commiserations. Job done. Here’s to another one. Not too many years away next time. Days instead. Open doors and invites. It feels like it will be tomorrow.

Reflected.

Morality is an argument. Conscientious decisions trouble. Choices a barrage of beratement. Unearthed memories lay in rubble.

Wicked temptation twists contemplation. Rightfully wrongly, lyrics of living. Shrouded silk on slivered sensation. The sieged scattered soul of sacred sieving.

Reflection reigns readily within contrast. Thoughts tumble twist, blast, and clash. Tumultuous turmoil thrashes out the past. What once was, and what no longer is, rests in ash.

Triumphant yesterday smoulders in the mirror. Grounded mortar spills from split seams. Consider it, nor will it deliver and trigger a shiver. The remains of the day gleams no further dreams.

Pryce Writer.

Ever since the cinematic cover of the Aberystwyth Mon Amour noir novel caught my eye, I’ve needed to wear glasses. That isn’t so true. I have never worn glasses. Also, not true. I have worn sunglasses and safety goggles, as well as some sort of cinematic enhancement framed device. I have never worn spectacles due to an eyesight problem. Not that wearing glasses should be frowned upon. You can also frown without eyewear. One author, and probably a few more were glasses. Nobody judged them, or perhaps they did. I cannot be responsible for everyone. I wouldn’t want to be, either. Malcolm Pryce, the author of the Louie Knight series wears glasses and has great vision.

Mr Pryce, lectured at Oxford, published online videos (The Oxford Writer) for aspiring writers, worked in advertising and other such pleasantries on his path to becoming an author and inspiration to a walking tour in his childhood hometown of Aberystwyth. If you are lucky enough to read reviews or listen to them, you will see phrases and words such as:

“This is Crime Noir with a hefty dose of pastiche” – Girl with a Head Stuck in a Book, Amazon

“… with a dollop of Monty Python and a zest of The Dam Busters – is a riot.” – The Guardian

“Throw in some veterans, hidden identities and some really good ice cream and you have a story that can barely be believed” – Eco Witch, Waterstones

“…the off-kilter imagination that made Aberystwyth Mon Amour such fun is firing on all cylinders again.” – The Independent

“…such cadence, such panache and such abundant comic talent…” – Daily Telegraph

Many writers want a page turner, but as the author highlights, future writers should aim for much more in the imagined reviews of their future imagined texts.  

Storytelling at campfires from the times of men (with women and kids) living in caverns and caves has evolved time and time again. Curiosity, causality and conflict have spread in life and text, equally. Page one, the hook raises a question. Raising more and more questions, answering a few or all, whilst raising more adds to anticipation as we go from page to page. The page turner, so to speak. Causality must propel, and progress needs resistance, like conflict or things that go wrong.  

Scenes set tones, moments and a stage that action can live from. The reader reading a book imagines scenes, unlike those at the theatre or movies where actual reality or computer-generated imagery causes a scene to lead to another scene and every sequel afterwards. The finale is the end. Stories within stories lead to novels. Ian Fleming famously set his 007-vehicle Goldfinger in three parts. Part one: Once is happenstance. The sequel: Twice is coincidence. The finale: Three times is enemy action. Fate delivered in text.

Emotion in reading can be tragic. Readers are drawn to it. Stories can help us experience something life cannot always guarantee and help us connect to our hearts and minds. Writer Malcolm Pryce evoked a twang of curiosity and desire to know more, when he mentioned On The Art of Writing by Cornishman Sir Arthur Quillar-Couch. This Bodmin-born poet, novelist and critic pushed for short, sharp, succinct English to be used by writers to draw in readers. Concrete words are easily connected to and visualised. Abstract terms and jargon can be difficult to access for many readers. The simplest of words can generate a dramatic effect.

Beyond these paragraphs, other key topics included:

  • · story definition.  
  • · plot coupon.  
  • · habit
  • · never give up
  • · Vlad the Impaler was a memorable and model baddy
  • · morbid curiosity  
  • · In the Realm of the Senses (Japanese)
  • · the need for suspense (to arouse curiosity)
  • · Thisness  

“A professional writer is an amateur who didn’t quit”. – Richard Bach, author


Much more will be learned from Mr Pryce. I’ll save it for another day…

That Reading Thing: First Notes

That Reading Thing: Lesson One

Humorous friendly, laid-back learning environments matter. High expectations and totally safe workspaces must be guaranteed.  

An investment in education of £192 gets an individual access to That Reading Thing for around 7 weeks. My journey began on April 26th, 2023. Armed with several instructions and a few printed materials, I opened the guidebook sent by Tricia Millar. The course has been recommended by experienced colleagues, external assessment and a variety of reviews are available globally.  

Each topic is split into sections. The first section is titled, “How do you teach a teenager to read?” This featured a background, some decoding and a briefing on struggling or confident readers approach unfamiliar words. The 24-minute-long online training video advised how to make phonics age appropriate. Tricia Millar (not from Orange is the New Black, different spelling of course!) mentions the work of Professor Diane McGuinness (University of Florida) and linguistic phonics, or speech to print phonics. Teenagers, as highlighted by Tricia Millar, who cannot read or struggle to read are often humiliated, embarrassed, and subject to social stigmas. That’s where That Reading Thing began. It fills a gap.  

Struggling readers may have given up reading for meaning and may substitute similar-looking words for alternatives, e.g., vitamins in place of victims. Some may look for words within words and not actually be able to make any sense of morphology in the first place. There are skills we need. We must read left to right, as learned in English as a kid. Words can be thought of as whole objects by some learners. Knowing how to segment and blend is a learned skill. Those syllables and words don’t just appear in our heads at birth. Sounds and voices are key. Sounds can be spelt with 1-4 letters. Graphemes are like that. Those spellings of sounds are pesky. Accents are normal, too. Things that look the same but sound different happen, yet the likelihood of one sound of the other is more feasible. Break bread on a beach. The former word has a sound uncommon, to the middle word bread, which is still far less common than the sound ‘ea’ in the beach. Some sounds will also look differently. ‘Ee’ sounds can spelled as ‘ee’, ‘i’, ‘e’, ‘y’, ‘ea’, less so as ‘e…e’, ‘ey’, ‘ie’, ‘ei’, ‘eo’, and super rare in ‘ay’, ‘is’, ‘oe’ and ‘ae’. The phoenix’s foetus beats a pizza for its babies and their keys. Dialects can impact this, too. Remember, some rules have outliers like station to ration. Rules in reading are wasted effort. It is better to focus energy in other ways…

Here, I went for a coffee. Then, back to That Reading Thing, with Tricia Millar, and we glanced at the 6 key ingredients of That Reading Thing. Removing labels is key, smashing away the past. She prescribes, “You don’t have to know anything we haven’t learned together” for a good reason. The clean slate is often needed. What happened before, isn’t constructive to confidence and learning. By saying this to a student, you set high expectations and agree that “you do have to know what we have learned together”. We’re enabling the students to make progress and remove stigmas. A positive effect should see a student attend class, be punctual and feel secure in their learning environment.

Multi-sensory“say the sounds” approaches give tools to the student whilst the teacher be clear with their sounds. Sting-free error correction needs to be applied. Turning negative responses to more encouraging and positive approaches. Show the error, say something (show and tell), and ask a question to prompt the student to respond using their own knowledge to correct or work out something is amiss. Teaching-free zones can be applied. There’s no need to explain everything. This isn’t a science-based approach to English. This is an enabling ploughing-on mission that allows pace-setting. Discussions come later. Answer questions quickly. Stay on track and use scripts, but not that of scripted teaching. Stay efficient and allow students to respond to the unfamiliar by using independent learning.

Another coffee was needed. I supplemented my coffee with a Tunnock’s caramel wafer. Other wafers are available but few are as satisfying as the 30 grams of wafer, layered in 4 parts of caramel, wrapped in milk chocolate. Much like this snack, words and literacy teaching comes with its own layers.  As a teacher, we allow the student to ascend a mountain, and talk them over crevices and ledges as and when they get stuck. At the top of the mountain is their first novel. We coach building and spelling a short and long word. Visual clues, charts of sounds and puzzle cases follow. These help to read short or long words when a student is stuck, overhanging a precarious drop. Support comes in a harness, but little more. They need their hands, cams, nuts, draws, slings, carabiners, crampons and ropes. “Say the sounds, tell me what you hear.” Words that I have heard from these videos included: sprag, hodmandod, blunge and tintinnabulation. The takeaway point of the second video was simple: allow conversation to develop long word understanding.

In closing, my notes are not for profit, duplication or to undermine the course. They’re here for my own use and to encourage others to subscribe or buy the informative course at That Reading Thing.  

Glossary:

Comprehensive: including something or other fully, or dealing with all or nearly all elements or aspects of something.

Decoding: the ability to apply our knowledge of letter-sound relationships, including knowledge of letter patterns, to then correctly pronounce written words. Words we don’t know when we read them are often words we don’t know when we hear them.  

Enable: give (someone) the authority or means to do something; make it possible for. For example, enable someone to read /ɪˈneɪ.bəl/.

Grapheme: a letter, or group of letters, that acts as the smallest unit in a written language.

Latent knowledge: knowledge that only becomes clear when a person has an incentive to display it. Things that some students don’t already know that they already know.

Syllable: a unit of pronunciation having one vowel sound, with or without surrounding consonants.

That Reading Thing: Lesson Two

“I don’t know is a fine answer.” – Tricia Millar, That Reading Thing

I knew education was powerful, but this was incredible. The course on That Reading Thing resumed after lunch. It was my personal choice. I was enjoying the experience and Wednesday’s timetable was forgiving. So, off I delved, deeper into the well-organised lesson content of assessment, building with charts and reading/spelling of short words… Here Tricia Millar reminds me that a Fairtrade bag arrived with foundation sound charts, a “try it” board, multisyllable spelling board and boards to note words that sound the same, but look different. The training manual and a Zippa Bag full of pens, a pointer pencil, some fine tipped dry wipe pens, sticky notes, and puzzle pieces.  

“You don’t know what you don’t know.” – Socrates, Greek philosopher

Through the window, I could see shadowy figures taking their positions. Tools are required. Students should each have a project folder, lesson pieces from TRT2, and their minds. They also need to be placed and engaged. To start, an assessment will help titrate where to begin. During assessment, teachers will note how fast or slow they move with a student. The words to be read are noted on a yes, no, and best answer sheet, with space for notes. There are 3 pages in level 1. The online TRT2 website has multiple levels and pages, working in a sequence from a foundation to advanced level. Tricia Millar ploughs through examples, featuring child actors and scenarios. The video reinforced that many students will not know why they have been sent to literacy invention.  

I was finally holding a new map. Explaining to new learners that you are learning about them and following your own guidance will be freeing to the student who joins your intervention. Always planning ahead and showing the steps will reassure the student of their future journey. The students should take ownership of the flow of a lesson. Their tools and charts are in their hands. Repetition and reminders about the sound, not the spelling, are useful. We must engage their ears. Circle options for those who need extra support.

“you can, you should, and if you’re brave enough to start, you will.”- Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

There it was. Placed before me looking as expert as ever, video examples of lessons in action. Introduced. Explained. Unwrapped. Delivered with error correction. Minimal support. In some first lessons, throw in a few free answers if the student needs encouraging. There is no harm in support. Checking sounds likes b and d side by side could narrow out some interpretations of those letters. If a student chooses a letter like ‘l’ to sound ‘ll’ then simply ask that he, she or they find an alternative sound from the choices. Make sure they know that the two sound the same. No technical terms and no micro-teaching. Simples. Practice and action need to be forward in motion.  

Saying sounds, telling you what the student hears, and allowing students to connect to words will empower them. Unearthing habits to aid visual learners to use their ears is crucial. What’s the first, second, third, blah, blah, blah sound that you hear in the word blah, blah, blah? Now spell it. Using words to double-check sounds is a good idea. Consonant clusters and blends need separating with some students. Signalling the individual letters and encouraging every sound to be drawn out will encourage the student. The student may spray, spring and splinter their way to the word, but puzzle pieces can be used. Spellings can avoid your cake being published on cakewrecks.com.  

That Reading Thing: Lesson Three

Building with puzzle pieces, reading and spelling long words, and decodability and reading sentences would be the focus of today’s work. Decodability itself is a word that needs decoding, unpacking, and all the ability in the world to follow. The videos ground out, repeat and stress the need for confidence, skills, and habits to push on in their complex coding.

That Reading Thing: Lesson Four

Rhotacized schwa, anyone? None here. Just ‘sh’, ‘th’ and ‘ch’ accompanied by split vowels, foundations and extra support lesson briefings.  

That Reading Thing: Lesson Five

Here be dragons, or… look the same, sound different, and sound the same, look different, as well as the rest of the advanced levels. Breaking up syllables with lines, the use of word visuals on tables and other tips were noted. Adding context to new words often helps. Kakorrhaphiophobia featured: fear of failure. See: κακορραφία  (scheming, evil planning). From kakós, ’bad’ + rháptō, ‘to sew’ + –ía. Learning unusual graphemes is something to keep in mind for future learning. And, to avoid failure.  

That Reading Thing will return…

…in the That Reading Thing: Lesson Six & Conclusion/Review, which shall get a more catchy title.


Just us.

Just us.

No-one else.

Those who matter in the distance.

Those who care, held close.

Our thoughts in your thoughts.

Your warmth together.

Just us.

Two peas. One pod.

Wrapped up snuggly.

Joined. At the hip.

Together.

Stronger as one.

A union led by destiny.

No pressures. No worries.

Challenges to face together.

Fearless and relentless.

For us.

Hope and glory, in lands, over the seas and by green trees.

Bound at the hands.

Rings on.

A bond. Embraced.

One.

Vellichor

The scent pours off of you, slipping away from your soul, wriggling away, pulling you down to the hole.

The depth opens up wide, snarling ruthlessly snide, ripping darkness from below, confirmation that hopes lost and lied.

The pages tear from the spine, torn away in time, words failing to be read, all shrouded in grime.

You lay on the shelf, emitting bad health, your pages full of wise wealth, yet all pass your stealth.

Daylight comes and goes, your words nobody knows, inside treasures like a rose, you slip away on endless rows.

The dust on your front and back, tightened and slack, no hands to pick you up and put you on back.

Nothing to Everything.

It took everything from my system. All energy is sapped. It hit me like a tonne of bricks. A freight train to the soul.

I lost comfort.

Hope vanished.

Life’s path took a dark spiralling turn south.

Goals and ambition kicked into the gutter.

Shattered connections.

Unhelpful, unhealthy solitude.

All I could see was emptiness and fear.

A vacuum of a chasm.

Empty demands and is spoken of in snide words.

Lost belief in myself.

Hurt. Gutted. Irrelevant.
Life being a cunt. Tortured. Shamed.

You gave me everything, every smile and every belief. You fueled me. You lit the lighthouse once again. A defibrillator to hope.

You gave comfort.

Life took a huge mountainous climb towards the sun.

The constant goal and need embedded.

You asked for nothing and embraced my confusion.

Impressive reality and challenges ahead.

It’s a wonderful miracle.

Without judgement, without demands.

Gained a soul this last year.

Excited. Overwhelmed. Relevant.
Life is a joy. Pleasured. Pride..

She.

She didn’t throw herself from gorse under a horse.

She could not endorse her message without remorse.

She didn’t plot a way to close down a course.

She didn’t use an overly aggressive force.

She didn’t yell, “What do we want?”, down a megaphone.

She didn’t cry long hard and alone.

She didn’t stick herself in front of rush hour.

She didn’t throw eggs, milk, or flour.

She didn’t write a play and sign up a star.

She didn’t brandish a message along the side of her.

She didn’t lecture or pity the fools.

She didn’t etch out a story, hands filled with tools.

Nor did she shout out at all cost.

She didn’t argue until hope was lost.

She didn’t glue her hands to classic artwork.

She didn’t fight, resist, bite, spit or go berserk.

She didn’t cry behind a podium in front of an audience of the great and good.

She did talk sense and described all she could.

She even wrote it on her pencil tin.

She whispered her words amongst the great din.

And nothing happened.

Nothing ever could.

Status quo.

No changes.

No new beginning.

The same old.

Nothing.

Rebellion #1.

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.

Hey adventure, where are you?

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?

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.

Review: The Big Book…

The Big Book of Literacy Tasks by Nancy Akhaven is targeted for grades K-8. As per the cover, it aims to give teachers 75 activities that are balanced and suitable for students to complete. This reference book is engagingly colourful, well illustrated and concise. It provides instructional plans that can be tailored or differentiated to the need of a teacher.

The book helps teachers to hand off the tasks to the student. It moves very much from, “I” to “You”. The book is well-structured to allow students to be challenged, and reduce teachers from dilly-dallying, which in an era of electronic media and distraction, helps a teacher try to engage a student deeper.

The author Nancy Akhavan, an assistant professor of Educational Leadership draws on her experience and dedication to professional development research to illuminate daily planning. The tasks can be divided into useful everyday skills, weekly practices and a few slightly more complex challenges. They are each applicable to reading circles, workshops or other literacy tasks. The book is loaded with tips, things to look out for and insights to allow English acquisition learners to progress into fully-fledged literacy learners. The author delivers far more than a lengthy book title.

This book offers Guru-like support, with practical advice and encouraging ideas that are easy to drop into the classroom. In a world often flooded by educational text resource, the bright cover with a climbing wall, Akhaven’s guide acted like a beacon for inspiration this week – and shall continue to be picked at until all is imparted and transferred appropriately.

The Big Book of Literacy Tasks by Nancy Akhaven has been published by California’s Corwin Literacy, a sample can be found online here.

Morphogenesis vertigo.

Enclosed at the face;
A covering for all;
A covering in part;
Worn as a disguise;
“I am Batman!”
This one is to amuse.

Industrial melanism in evolution;
From one code of darkness to natural selection;
Pollution and solution across generations;
Soot deposits and sulphur dioxide making way;
But, in better times it did not stay.

The fibre, the gauze, the fitting;
Bringing laughter, applause and teeth-gritting;
The wearer or a surgeon, or that of the patient;
Bedraggled non-conformity latent;
Attitudes infect and vendettas follow;
Collaborate via masking tape bridging the hollow.

A shield used to frighten;
This veil;
The shaped false face;
Fancy dress?
The vizard. The visor.

Bound together, hidden from all;
Abducted and placed up against a wall;
The collector hidden, concealed and camouflaged from sight;
Lovell’s telescope uncloaking the night.

Turing screening the enshrouded Enigma;
Overlooked by figures with their stigma;
How did the cell know what to do?
Sent messages of Morphogenesis vertigo.

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.

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]

Ride forever.

I once knew a man on bicycle who could ride forever.

He’d ride into sun, storms and every kind of weather.

A puncture one day hit and tested him.

He found himself lacking the spring and vim.

Ride on. Ride hard to a fashion. Ride forever. Ride with relentless passion.

By the roadside, he tolled and slipped into woah.

Up he got, took a moment and dreamed of the roads he rode.

His wheels could feel the steel of his hand.

As he screamed and crammed the bike back onto the land.

Ride on. Ride hard to a fashion. Ride forever. Ride with relentless passion.

But he got himself taped up and back all together.

Out he headed off back into the ferocious weather.

His seat squeaked its old crumpled leather.

It whistled along the thick purple heather.

Ride on. Ride hard to a fashion. Ride forever. Ride with relentless passion.

The ride outside is a long old road.

But when all is truly told:

The wheels of the soul spin over and over again.

All along the plain the eyes focusing on the main campaign.

Ride on. Ride hard to a fashion. Ride forever. Ride with relentless passion.

Riding out far, hands over bar, music in his ears:

Waving away notions of his fears and tears.

Gears into set, helmet into position and off he flew into transition.

The clothes hemmed his angular position as he set forth his mission.

Ride on. Ride hard to a fashion. Ride forever. Ride with relentless passion.

Bitter taste.

Some things were not made to be enjoyed;

The bitter tastes they leave on the palette;

The framed emptiness they draw not toyed:

The forceful thump of Thor’s mighty mallet.

Ever cringing nails on the dusty blackboard;

Piping rumbling ghostly marching skeleton bands;

Darkest nightmares suffered and explored;

Murky creatures move through dense moist wetlands.

When hope and love do not arrive on your booking;

be sure to recall that time of overlooking;

a subordinate word at the theatre of the absurd;

for entitlement to a smooth passage is unheard.

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?

Fly Like a Bird of Prey.

Do you recall Kim? Before her Evangelia. Wasn’t there a Jayne too? Nikki wasn’t too quickly. Shirley not? Wendy house? Didn’t you once meet unrequited love? You said you wouldn’t carry on or try again. But, you did! And, who now? Who do you fancy? Is it that Nancy? Or Daisy who drives you crazy? Or Spring, Summer or Autumn? The seasons of choice? Dance with your dreams.

Do you remember that Karst mountain? It rise from the ground like a camel’s hump. You said to yourself it was the most beautiful mountain you’d ever seen. And then you set eyes on Everest. Then Ama Dablam. Then Annapurna one, two and three. Fishtail Mountain. Snowden again and again. Always Winter Hill, but forever dreams of new peaks unseen.

You said you wouldn’t read after Jon Ronson. Wasn’t Jurassic Park the book to end all books? Then Airframe, the Animals of Farthing Wood should. The Jack Reacher series could. Ian Fleming gave you the spy that ended all spies. Pages of love, lies and cries. Yet, you close your eyes and there’s no disguise. Your bookmark never hides.

Back in the day wasn’t Ghostbusters always your favourite? Gremlins and Goonies, two you’d never forget. Watching Jaws, again, without regret! 007 live and let. Leslie Neilson going on and on, I bet. Movies like Gemini Man and iRobot to watch once – no fret. The minds eye full of Skynet.

Things are said one day. Things come and go away. With each passing birthday I say, never betray your display of child’s play. Each day we find a way to convey the driveway of life. Hooray! The outlay does not outweigh what we repay on our stairway to our breakaway. Fly like a bird of prey.

Written in January 2020, in Nepal, on a notepad. Before COVID-19 became annoying.

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.

Night rider.

The leap of faith: a frog darting between wheels.

The ray of light: shining beams and how it feels.

The foot on pedals: energetic pulsing engines pumping like pistons.

The gripped handlebars: spinning cogs unheard for all who listens.

The rush through dark: air rippling over and under.

The night time cycle ride: a wonder of a wander.

Darkness enveloping: hot air strangling the pathways.

The slick of the wheels: gliding along, down and up every raise.

Trees looking on: witnesses of the rider in the night.

Snakes hiding away: not their chosen spectacles of sight.

Cool air nowhere to be seen: the slick ride of the bicycle abound.

Night rider: over ground, uncrowned and without a sound.