Its around here somewhere. It’s here somewhere. Just need to find it. It was here a while back. Need to remember where… How does it feel? How does it feel? To be on your own? With no direction home? Like a complete unknown? Like a rolling stone? Nothing happening. Let the mind go free. Go free? Reminds me; I was looking for that.
- Looking for Godot? It is free: The mind.
It’s waiting.
- Waiting?
Yes. Its ‘Waiting’ for Godot. Not looking.
- I know. I was using irony.
Where did this start? It must have had a beginning. - Once upon a time? No, that wasn’t it; Before that….
- What!? You want the whole thing? No way! You just pay attention to the Here and Now.
But it is so dull. Nothing happens here. It is …dull.
- Wait and learn. Listen to what there is to learn. Await further instruction. This message is bought to you from our sponser...
Dull I tell you.
- In my day we had to make our own amusements.
?
- A matchbox and a piece of string was all we needed.
? …Wha…?
- Put things in. Always need somewhere to put those beetles and bugs. String is simply string; tying is of course the usual option with string. But I always had a preference for tripping.
?
- double-entendre intentional.
Yeees. What was I looking for?
- Hope? Inspiration? Oh no, I know – Freedom.
Yes. That was it. It was here wasn’t it? It wasn’t just my imagination?
- Your imagin…! No dear thing, it certainly would not have been that. Your neurosis..? mmm, maybe. Albeit a freely associated neurosis.
Free. There it is again.. Free association.
- Armadillo
Ah! I know this. Ummm, errr,
- You haven’t quite grasped it have you? Try this : How many Surrealists does it take to change a light bulb? Answer : Badger
I hear that damn tune again.
- It has been on a lot lately. Goes on a bit doesn’t it?
It IS good though. Just listen to those words…
- I may be a tad over enthusiastic but not only listen but perhaps opening the eyes as well. Drastic, I know, but go ahead, open ‘em. You never know what might be out there….
“This time I’m asking for freedom” I would want to ask him about how he puts words togethere and
- Just open them dammit!!!
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Running on empty - 6
Since retiring Steve had tried hard to keep himself active and the dog had helped. He also liked a routine, a short spell in the Army had given him that as a legacy. Sundays for instance, he liked to wander across to his favourite takeaway – Smiths Fish & Chips. Danny was a large, almost black alsatian and he appreciated the fish that his owner fed him bit by bit on the way home.
With both pieces of fish eaten, he eschewed the chips, Steve crossed the road to deposit the wrapping only to find that the waste-bin had gone. This upset the routine because the nearest bin he knew of was over by the triangle. With a shrug he gave Danny a tug on the lead and set off.
At least it would gave a chance to see how the garden was developing. He had kept an eye on things from the outset. It was pleasing to see a bit of ground get a bit of life put back into it. Also, the girl who was overseeing the creation and who lived in the caravan might be there to chat. When, through talking, she had learned that he too liked gardening, she questioned him mercilessly about what shrubs he grew. - It turned out that they both favoured the Native species over some of the delightful yet showy cultivars. Roses, of course, being excepted.
Danny could have a runabout whilst they were there and they could take the canal path to get back to on the original route and complete a good walk.
As the evening was a pleasant one he decided that while the dog had his run he could sit and roll a smoke. Danny ran across to the far wall to cock his leg and Steve made himself comfortable on one of the new seats and assembled a cigarette.
The ‘grey-area’ had certainly changed. He mused on the amount of change, admiring the new seats cleverly cut from solid logs from trees that had fallen in last winters storms. The sturdy pergola that followed the curling path now had wisteria growing up one of the supports. From the other end a rose had been twisted around another support and some way across the top and had been donated in its entirety from a house due for demolition. He had heard the tale of how she had begged the owner to let her dig it up (along with a couple of other plants), and replant it. The length of the climber gave thought as to how she had got the damn thing here! Pathways curled and twisted hither and yon. Shrubs dotted all over, some in groups others alone in isolated beds that were freshly dug.
Before he could put a light to the constructed cigarette Danny alerted him to something amiss - the timbre of his bark changed when trouble was at hand. He ran across to the caravan where Danny stood barking.
When she came-to, she could not quite make out where she was, the ceiling swirled, her head ached and she felt sore and cold and she had vomited.
The muffled staccato sound in her ears was something that she thought was coming from within and she struggled with the conflict of information and then lost out to the void once again.
A few moments of darkness then; Hands moved and straightened her, lowering her to the floor. Eyes stared into hers. A dog barked. Her limbs were sorted into a comfortable position. Words were spoken. Mobile phones were used. Other people came and then she was carried and doors slammed and movement and then more people. Corridors. White lights shining bright even through closed eyes. Voices. Darkness. Humming from machines. Light again. Movement and confusion. Voices and then a sharp pain and oblivion.
With both pieces of fish eaten, he eschewed the chips, Steve crossed the road to deposit the wrapping only to find that the waste-bin had gone. This upset the routine because the nearest bin he knew of was over by the triangle. With a shrug he gave Danny a tug on the lead and set off.
At least it would gave a chance to see how the garden was developing. He had kept an eye on things from the outset. It was pleasing to see a bit of ground get a bit of life put back into it. Also, the girl who was overseeing the creation and who lived in the caravan might be there to chat. When, through talking, she had learned that he too liked gardening, she questioned him mercilessly about what shrubs he grew. - It turned out that they both favoured the Native species over some of the delightful yet showy cultivars. Roses, of course, being excepted.
Danny could have a runabout whilst they were there and they could take the canal path to get back to on the original route and complete a good walk.
As the evening was a pleasant one he decided that while the dog had his run he could sit and roll a smoke. Danny ran across to the far wall to cock his leg and Steve made himself comfortable on one of the new seats and assembled a cigarette.
The ‘grey-area’ had certainly changed. He mused on the amount of change, admiring the new seats cleverly cut from solid logs from trees that had fallen in last winters storms. The sturdy pergola that followed the curling path now had wisteria growing up one of the supports. From the other end a rose had been twisted around another support and some way across the top and had been donated in its entirety from a house due for demolition. He had heard the tale of how she had begged the owner to let her dig it up (along with a couple of other plants), and replant it. The length of the climber gave thought as to how she had got the damn thing here! Pathways curled and twisted hither and yon. Shrubs dotted all over, some in groups others alone in isolated beds that were freshly dug.
Before he could put a light to the constructed cigarette Danny alerted him to something amiss - the timbre of his bark changed when trouble was at hand. He ran across to the caravan where Danny stood barking.
When she came-to, she could not quite make out where she was, the ceiling swirled, her head ached and she felt sore and cold and she had vomited.
The muffled staccato sound in her ears was something that she thought was coming from within and she struggled with the conflict of information and then lost out to the void once again.
A few moments of darkness then; Hands moved and straightened her, lowering her to the floor. Eyes stared into hers. A dog barked. Her limbs were sorted into a comfortable position. Words were spoken. Mobile phones were used. Other people came and then she was carried and doors slammed and movement and then more people. Corridors. White lights shining bright even through closed eyes. Voices. Darkness. Humming from machines. Light again. Movement and confusion. Voices and then a sharp pain and oblivion.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Running on empty - 5
In retrospect it seemed that the summer had skimmed by with hardly a pause in its endless rush to meet with autumn, now just a breath away.
It had felt a little awkward the first time she had attended the Sunday Service, but she had been welcomed as an equal from (almost) all. After a few weeks had passed she came to look on it as a couple of hours of meditation. A time when she could relax and be herself in the knowledge that these people were not about to turn on her.
Special services came and went and each showed up another facet of the Church as Community. Which seemed right; after all, the mere fact of ‘communing’ with God, gives community a true meaning. She got to know the members and was pleased to accept many of the invitations to pop round for tea - or coffee, or dinner, or just to cut the grass. Best of all she got to hear about peoples Lives and how they had lived them. For her own life she always felt ashamed and did not reciprocate in the exchange.
After a while she switched to the evening service. She found it even more friendly because of the – coffee-round-someone’s-home-for-the-evening; an informal, entertaining round-off to the weekend. Weekends being something of a novelty, she was used to just ‘days’.
It was just a gathering of people at a loose end on a Sunday after church. Most weeks it seemed to fall on Mike Preston and his wife, mainly because they had a big house and, as yet, no children. Other times they went out on a drive. Cecil had a van that could house about six if they sat really tight, and sometimes Paul, who had a good business hiring-out his 12-seater would be available to ferry people out into the country for an evening stroll. Maybe down to the Thames for a bankside walk in the setting sun. Maybe just to the local park to wander through the trees and amble past the old Lodge and admire the history.
Nine of the attendants at the evenings gathering had driven up to the West of town and climbed up the steep incline to the top of the hill. Breathless they had paused beside the church to watch the slowly sinking sun. Some had wandered through the ancient graveyard reading the dates and wondering. Some had flopped onto the grass and let the air wash over them.
It had been a lovely time. The conversation had waxed and waned as they walked, time had flown and all to soon it was time to go home. Goodnights had been said and she had found herself back in her little sanctuary.
It was one of those days when the night seemed to hang forever in the wings but never quite get on-stage, when all was quiet. She layed out on the roof of the caravan and contemplated the weeks work ahead, when she heard a sound and turned her head.
Her mood evaporated as she looked down on Trevor, he waved back and said he was just passing and would she care for a drink; he had a bottle. He held it aloft so she could see.
She had not sought his company at all but he had seemed to be there at every turn. Always beaming in that disarming way he had. Able to foresee a need and be there to forestall it.
He it was who had caught the branch that was about to swing back into her face. He was there when they had climbed over the stile to shorten the route back and had offered a hand, opened doors for her. Had been first out to say goodbye when they had stopped outside the plot to drop her off.
He was a little unsteady. She slid down the roof and joined him, invited him in. She shared the whiskey he had brought. She listened to his 23 year history and found it dull. That he was unused to drink is not in doubt. He moved about a lot, fidgeting and looking around a lot, and staring at her. His voice was louder and he tried to hold a stern countenance but his vocal chords could not do it and he showed himself up. She tried to placate him and leant across the table at which they sat, to touch his arm reassuringly. Secretly hoping that he might be embarrassed enough to go. There was something a bit creepy.. .
It began to get late and she made clearing-up movements. Tidying magazines and washing up, looking at her watch. The whiskey took a hold and his face flushed.
As spoke she bit her lip, realising the double-meaning: ‘I’m ready for bed.’ She said.
He needed no second bidding. He leapt out of his chair and lunged toward her. He fell short, she backed away and that was a mistake.
The snarl that appeared on his face was startling and she backed away. He came at her and without pause grabbed her waist and twisted her onto the couch/bed. As she fell her head caught the wooden end of the cupboard a crashing blow. Such was the force of his throw she fell into unconsciousness instantly.
Continued….
It had felt a little awkward the first time she had attended the Sunday Service, but she had been welcomed as an equal from (almost) all. After a few weeks had passed she came to look on it as a couple of hours of meditation. A time when she could relax and be herself in the knowledge that these people were not about to turn on her.
Special services came and went and each showed up another facet of the Church as Community. Which seemed right; after all, the mere fact of ‘communing’ with God, gives community a true meaning. She got to know the members and was pleased to accept many of the invitations to pop round for tea - or coffee, or dinner, or just to cut the grass. Best of all she got to hear about peoples Lives and how they had lived them. For her own life she always felt ashamed and did not reciprocate in the exchange.
After a while she switched to the evening service. She found it even more friendly because of the – coffee-round-someone’s-home-for-the-evening; an informal, entertaining round-off to the weekend. Weekends being something of a novelty, she was used to just ‘days’.
It was just a gathering of people at a loose end on a Sunday after church. Most weeks it seemed to fall on Mike Preston and his wife, mainly because they had a big house and, as yet, no children. Other times they went out on a drive. Cecil had a van that could house about six if they sat really tight, and sometimes Paul, who had a good business hiring-out his 12-seater would be available to ferry people out into the country for an evening stroll. Maybe down to the Thames for a bankside walk in the setting sun. Maybe just to the local park to wander through the trees and amble past the old Lodge and admire the history.
Nine of the attendants at the evenings gathering had driven up to the West of town and climbed up the steep incline to the top of the hill. Breathless they had paused beside the church to watch the slowly sinking sun. Some had wandered through the ancient graveyard reading the dates and wondering. Some had flopped onto the grass and let the air wash over them.
It had been a lovely time. The conversation had waxed and waned as they walked, time had flown and all to soon it was time to go home. Goodnights had been said and she had found herself back in her little sanctuary.
It was one of those days when the night seemed to hang forever in the wings but never quite get on-stage, when all was quiet. She layed out on the roof of the caravan and contemplated the weeks work ahead, when she heard a sound and turned her head.
Her mood evaporated as she looked down on Trevor, he waved back and said he was just passing and would she care for a drink; he had a bottle. He held it aloft so she could see.
She had not sought his company at all but he had seemed to be there at every turn. Always beaming in that disarming way he had. Able to foresee a need and be there to forestall it.
He it was who had caught the branch that was about to swing back into her face. He was there when they had climbed over the stile to shorten the route back and had offered a hand, opened doors for her. Had been first out to say goodbye when they had stopped outside the plot to drop her off.
He was a little unsteady. She slid down the roof and joined him, invited him in. She shared the whiskey he had brought. She listened to his 23 year history and found it dull. That he was unused to drink is not in doubt. He moved about a lot, fidgeting and looking around a lot, and staring at her. His voice was louder and he tried to hold a stern countenance but his vocal chords could not do it and he showed himself up. She tried to placate him and leant across the table at which they sat, to touch his arm reassuringly. Secretly hoping that he might be embarrassed enough to go. There was something a bit creepy.. .
It began to get late and she made clearing-up movements. Tidying magazines and washing up, looking at her watch. The whiskey took a hold and his face flushed.
As spoke she bit her lip, realising the double-meaning: ‘I’m ready for bed.’ She said.
He needed no second bidding. He leapt out of his chair and lunged toward her. He fell short, she backed away and that was a mistake.
The snarl that appeared on his face was startling and she backed away. He came at her and without pause grabbed her waist and twisted her onto the couch/bed. As she fell her head caught the wooden end of the cupboard a crashing blow. Such was the force of his throw she fell into unconsciousness instantly.
Continued….
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