Category Archives: Writing

Posts about writing – or any experiences related to my efforts to learn the basics of creative writing.

Creativity, Writing

Another day

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I pause with the toothbrush in one hand. She stands next to me, draped in one of my tee shirts, playing with the old small vase, her smooth finger delicately tracing circles over the worn surface.

My eyes are alive, yesterday she said they sparkle when I smile, laughing with me, her fingers playfully teasing my cheek – but now in the harsh light of the mirror the flaws and lines in my ashen skin are everywhere. On even this first morning the end already seems inevitable. I will mentor her, be interesting for her, but I cannot in the end fulfil her. She will move forwards while I continue to decay, to soften at the edges. I am trapped in what I am, the vessel is as it is.

I turn and get into the shower, grateful for the time alone in the soothing warmth before my optimistic pretence continues.

Behind me the girl gently puts the old vase back on the shelf, and turns to go back to the bedroom.

Context

During todays flash fiction workshop with Wendy Ann Greenhalgh we were set several tasks. This one was to write a flash fiction piece inspired by an image to push us to incorporate images into our work. I chose an image of an old bronze pot. The workshop was my first experience of flash fiction and I thoroughly enjoyed it. 

Thoughts, Travel, Writing

The Suitcase

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I enter the cupboard under the stairs and flick the switch. There is that familiar smell, a slight mustiness. It sits there on the floor, waiting, exactly as I knew it would. It is always there. Quiet, passive, expecting, it somehow challenges me. It teases me – what have I been doing? Where have I been? So much wasted time. Fool.

­­

I study the case, refreshing my memory, my breathing shallow. I have always felt that it appreciates me, that it senses me. We are less when apart from each other, we have travelled together for well over two decades. Disrespectfully I store it here, then for whatever reason the time comes around and our intermittent friendship is renewed.

There is the ornate worn brass on the corner. A kind of ridiculous fleur-de-lis that somehow works against the dark redness of the leather. I bend down and gently stroke at the dust with the back of my index finger. I remember admiring it in the soft light of a Florence evening, seeing distorted fragments of my reflections in the burnished metal as I knelt on the floor to unlock the lid. Memories flood back, I hear voices, animated Italian from the street outside.

The key is, as always, loosely tied to the handle with an old shoelace. The oversized brass lock that I found in a cobblers shop in a Parisian alley, a flamboyant adornment that suits the bag. It makes me smile.

I remember sitting on the suitcase at the back of a small river taxi on Lake Dal, watching the houseboats slip past and the jetty receding behind me into the evening. Images of the dark waters of Kashmir wash around my mind and blend into warm evenings in hilltop villages of Provence. Memories of endless hotel rooms, heat and rain, disappointments and expectation. Waiting at luggage belts at airports, smiling at the spectacle of the arrival of my always uniquely identifiable bag amongst the sea of anonymous dark plastic.

A touch of class? A foible? Either way it is always a part of my travels.

“Hello. That time again.”

I stand up and respectfully pull the old case out. I turn out the light behind me.

That time again indeed.

 

Creativity, Thoughts, Writing

Thoughts on the 38 Bus

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Not much traffic this late in the evening, and the bus surges forwards impatiently. Reflections, warmth, mind buzzing from the class. Breathe for a while, just sit here, let my mind go. Only a few of us, but enough to think about. A besotted couple staring into each others eyes, a young black girl engrossed in her iPhone,  a few old dears and a family with a young boy who is excited to be sitting up there in the front.

This is where we turn up to the station, round we go, she’s a bit off balance, nearly, – that was close – you could see that coming, too much texting – she should sit down it’s not as if we’re short of seats, dangerous texting is, gets taken out of context, too many interpretations, strange how so few words can go so wrong. Not like this evening, I thought that was all right really, not a bad group  – except I always seem to talk too much. Every time I promise myself I’ll keep quite, then before I know it I’m asking questions. Not like some of them they don’t say a word, don’t take any notes either. Just kind of sit there like lemons, not that lemons sit anywhere but I know what I mean.

Did I mean lemmings? No – definitely not.

Talking of jumping off cliffs it should be more of an adventure to throw yourself into  things you don’t normally do just to see what happens, how you will react. But it’s not that strange at all once you actually start, everything has its own props, it’s own gear – there’s Lycra for cycling, thoughtful expressions for creative writing, special shoes for Tango – dress up right, look the part, and then it’s just a matter of learning the rules. Real shame when I’m trying to push myself into the great unknown, as opposed to the slightly less familiar – it would be great to do something totally unpredictable, with no rules at all, but I know that isn’t me, not really. Woah she almost fell again, she really should stop that. Its not her I worry about, its that old lady under her elbow, blissfully unaware she is. Both almost deaf and not seeing clearly, for very different reasons. Opposite ends of a curve, same experience separated by decades, barely touching each other, a little intersection just for a moment, blissfully unaware of each other, it’s only me that notices.

Voice. It’s all about voice. Problem is I can’t find mine, not consistently, not like her. Really consistent that one, a hundred percent softness. Floods of emotions interrupted by little bits of writing. But me – I just seem to be all over the place. Great at night, there’s almost no cars at all, hence the violent turns and the black spots for off balance texters, she’s off again, world of her own, white headphones and flashing thumbs. At least she’s sat down though.  Should be able to find all of the worlds great literature by listening to people on a 38 bus, that’s what he says anyway, just look at her with Michael Jackson’s Thriller  and a messaging system, totally lost, emotional responses echoing across her face, all zoned out and full of concentration.

I do wonder about the feminine girl. So soft and emotional, big and blubbery on the outside. She explains herself yet again, what she was exploring, all the gentle  pictures in her head.  But what’s on the inside? What makes her work?

But to focus – what’s my inside story. What’s my game, I guess that’s what I’m asking. It’s what I would ask in the class, given a chance, but we aren’t going to push each other are we? Not like that, not about ourselves. Supposed to be that what we write is nothing like what we think.. write about the great unknown – but that’s not what I do. I explore myself in real life then I write about it. Push my limits, then make a story – not so creative in the literature department, more on the real life side. More of a documentary,  the writing is. Tell it how it was. Of course I can’t tell them that, you aren’t supposed to do that to people in lifts. Not in real life, not like I do.

So now I’m talking about how it actually is, underneath it all, the only true reveal, a real one, a “real reveal” – that kind of works – or is that a bad example? Its  a fine line, good rhythms and bad ones, just like Tango. Sometimes I think I really can’t stand the music, especially the old stuff, then every so often it  absolutely gets you. Blows you away. Fine line.

Problem with Tango is you need someone else. Like life in general, not much point by yourself, a basic problem for yours truly. Not for her I bet though, that tough one, she never says much either. Hard on the outside, even harder on the inside, not that I’d know, not yet, what’s her game though, really? What would she do if someone pushed hard at her. Tough things break, soft things burst into tears. Same end game,  different routes. Prefer the tough ones, on the whole. Definitely. I like a contest, more of a game, more respect

Ruby – she was a strong one – nothing left unknown about her, I had everything again and again, every little adventure all acted out – her and her avatars and the role playing and all that passion and talent. Once you get invited in you just play in the box, staying  within the walls, their walls, their limits – change little things like how hard, how much rope. How much pain in her case. Fun while you learn, then it’s time to move on – onto the next one. Love the power, whereas that’s exactly what she loved to loose, being helpless, a victim, completely exposed, that’s what she got off on. Wouldn’t catch me doing that – giving yourself to someone, no control..nothing at all… Never. Way too dangerous. Made a great short story that did, just changed the name and used the photos and notes, easy, bashed it out in a couple of evenings.

Oh thank god she’s got off, didn’t see her leave, must have been gazing out the window. She’s gone anyway. There’s only so much second hand Michael Jackson a man can take. The image stays though, at least for a while. People do that don’t they – leave an impression, sometimes. Part of her is still standing there,let’s bring her back. I can  hear the tinny music, see her  black skin between her white tee shirt and indigo jeans, all slim and teasing. Watch her move slightly from side to side. Her frown and hints of smiles as she concentrates on the keys. I can even make her sway as we swing around the bus in front – there she goes, elbow into the old dear, all in my head – wonderful – she’s gone and I never said a word to her, but I’ve been enjoying her company ever since.

Strange how busses have changed so much but the important things are exactly the same. Now they have TV screens and recordings that announce the stop for you. But the experience is still there, the swaying, the best seats, the views into the night, looking down on everything. A sense of progress, lost in the reflections, trust in a competent, invisible driver, in someone who knows where we’re going and how to get us there. The 38 to Clacton Pond. Without the 38 I would never have known, now Clacton Pond is forever a part of my life. I hear it at every stop, every week on the way home from class – the 38 to Clacton Pond.. there it is again, always the same, always surprising. Only me now, and the driver of course, so often like that late at night. Just me and my thoughts, and the sounds and rhythms of it all.

So what is my real reveal then?

People get on, people get off, and me and the bus bounce and sway our way through the night towards an oddly named destination, somewhere I don’t want to get to. But I’ve started so I’ll finish, that’s how it is. I’ve got my creative heels on and I’m playing a strange role. Through to the cross, 6,7 and 8 – resolve. Feel her pause, waiting for guidance, waiting to be lead. That’s a beautiful step that cross, she’s a perfectly responsive woman staring at my chest, feeling every move, sensing my weight, using every hint to attract and deny. So full of watchful passion. I’m not used to all the connection, not at all, not used to someone so much better than me, not used to being clumsy.

The bus carries me onwards. It really is just for me now, there’s absolutely no-one else. On we go, away from the past, all those lost opportunities. Where was I through all that, where was the inner voice? Where was the consistency? What am I really about, behind it all.  There’s nothing special about me, lots of people invest too much and get betrayed. I feel odd, it’s almost like I’m crying, looking out at the world, all mixed up with my own reflection.

But its only a game and I can get off whenever I need to, just like everyone else, can’t I? I can just stop. I thought I could be a good lead, it’s a difficult one, I’m certainly used to just pushing them about, taking control, making them do what I want.

Well my turn now, here we are, here it comes, time to get moving. Shake it all off. Step down into the darkness, and watch the warm bus draw off into the night.

Or I could sit here for a bit, dreaming, looking out through my own reflection and imagining .. just for a while.

 

Context

The monologue exercise for my current course in Creative Writing with Gary at Evolution. Task is just to write a 10 minute monologue.

I broke so many rules with this one – will be interested in feedback. Expect to get panned..

Writing

The lift

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There were always rules. Even though they were very specifically designed to be broken.

There were also unofficial recommendations, agreements – things that were just common sense really. Not wearing neck jewellery was a good example, as short a skirt as possible. Things like that prevented us from going completely off the wall. You have to have something to cling to.

Then there was the effect of time. We just got better, little things make a difference. I remember the first time the lift doors opened and she was nervously standing right in the middle. No bra, as arranged, no underwear.

The next time she was against the wall, leaning provocatively against the side mirrors. By the third time the doors slid back she was already in the corner. ‘No bra’ stayed with us but the effect of my elbow on her chest was entirely secondary.

The main thing is the pressure. How hard, and where. The thumb, the centre of the palm and the index finger are everything. There’s a subtle and so important level of strength – a crushing weight.

By the fifth or sixth time we had it down perfect. This is the seventh.

Incoming text. I reply with a single letter. That is the end of all communication, that’s part of the rules. Everything has to be done by instinct and in silence.

The light flashes and the ping identifies which lift it would be. I cross over and stand outside the doors. They start to slide open. She is leaning against the back right corner – on her left side are mirrors, behind her dark glass.

I look her over. That was a recent improvement – not turning around. So I just walk in, staring at her and keep watching her with my back to the open doors, waiting for them to close behind me.

I watch her breathe out, gaining us long, precious seconds. She exhales completely and holds it. Her mouth is slightly open, as she forces the air from her lungs she slowly bends over and flattens a hand against the mirror. We are both counting it out in our heads. Finally the doors close.

I move quickly, lifting and slamming into her, right leg between hers, left hand in the small of her back and my arm across her chest, fingers and  thumb loosely around her neck. I look into her eyes, dilated pupils, a darkness that gives me complete permission. I push the palm of my hand against her throat and start slowly to squeeze. Her eyes close, she begins to shake. The effect is instant, soft moans as my grip tightens, gentle gulps as she begins to  fight for air. I squeeze harder with my hand, restricting the arteries on the sides of her neck with my finger and thumb. Just 5 more seconds and she is floating, gasping. I place my mouth over hers and exhale into her, filling her with the wetness and scent of me. She can’t breathe. She doesn’t fight or resist, she looses all control. She is spinning now –  her head shaking and her knees give so that I am holding her up by the throat. Slightly harder, I force my chest against hers and her head bends backwards. With 3 seconds to go she shakes with pleasure. I squeeze, making sure that the brain is starved of as much oxygen as possible and slowly lick the inside of her lips. She moans and splutters, I press all the weight of my body against her, crushing her against the mirror.

Her eyes are completely shut and I know she cannot hear me, but I whisper into her mouth, promising to fill her. The ping of the lift arriving is our signal and as I immediately let her go she drops helplessly into a crouch, gulping for air and fighting to recover her senses.

I walk out and back down one flight of stairs to my desk, wiping at the wet stain from her.

 

Context

This is an assignment in my current creative writing course. We had to write a sex scene between two office workers who have an existing relationship, taking place in a lift as it travels between two floors. 11 seconds.

The exercise is really interesting because sex is damn hard to write about… the challenge was to write something immediate, in your face and that the reader feels enaged with.. did I succeed?

 

Writing

Third Angel : Part II

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I knocked and after a short wait opened the door slowly to peer into the gloom of the office. For a moment I thought it was empty but as my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness I could see Gill stretched out on the floor under the window.

‘Pull up a pew Mark. How’s everything? Good week?’

I smiled, sat down and eyed the case files on the desk.

Gill stood up, pulled up the blind, straightened her hair and brushed at her trousers. I was already getting used to her lack of conventional behaviour and enjoyed working for her.

‘Grab the file – surprised you haven’t already – Julia Booten – she’s been through the mill a bit.’

‘I want to take you down to meet her this morning so here’s a quick summary. Young single mother, numerous social services interventions, severe depression – catastrophic house fire – she was rescued but her two children died. Two years later convicted of arson. Broadmoor for the last 18 months. Several claims of abuse while there, all of which were not upheld. Clumsy but probably genuine suicide attempt prevented. Stopped talking a few months ago. Moved to us as part of the shut down of Broadmoor. The file is well worth studying, she has some interesting obsessions and delusions – she believes in angels.’

‘Is she talking now?’

‘Not to me Mark. I haven’t got enough time as you know but I wanted to try first. So at this stage I’m looking simply for a way in, a way to get her to open up. I don’t know if it’s possible in any reasonable timeframe, but can you make her your priority this week? I’m back here next Tuesday’

‘Yes of course Gill, whatever you need.’

‘Any concerns, immediate thoughts? I’d like to take you down now?’

My mind was full of questions, the first meeting is so important, I was confused why Gill with her all experience was skipping so many details.

‘Self harm? Danger to others? Is she likely to open up to a man?’

‘On the men side – maybe not, to be honest – that’s what I thought so I wanted to try first. But you’re patient and excellent. And all we have.’ She smiled at me. ‘Bring a book or something? It’s not likely to be that fascinating at first, based on my experience. Just be there, see if she will talk given enough time?’

I nodded. 

‘On the risk side, yes you should be careful. I was going to go over this. She hurt some people at Broadmoor, claimed self defense and reading between the lines it might well have been. She has the occasional fit and lashes out. But like most she didn’t deserve the security level she got. Normal stuff, lack of resources, mixed wards.’

I flicked through the first few pages while Gill continued in her confident, business like way.

‘She is a self harm risk, though nothing recently. She did try to kill herself after all, and she has some interesting scars. But actually I don’t think that’s a huge concern – she seems to be quietly fighting her own battles, focused on something, just no idea what. We do have a cam on her of course.’

‘Shall we?’ she stood up, I picked up the file and we strolled down to the ground floor and round to one of the flexible space crisis centre rooms.

‘We put her in here just to try to keep her calm. She’s been short on privacy for a very long time.’

Gill held the door open an inch and reached out to touch me on the arm. She looked at me with that kind of mood breaking quiet intensity she could turn on at will.

‘Don’t expect too much Mark. I’m going to introduce you, just in case it makes a difference. It might, because I am a woman and because we have spent some time together. But actually she has never said anything coherent to me. Then  I will leave, and maybe you could try to stay for a while, just to see if its possible without her lapsing. Small steps.’

 ‘Of course’.

Gill opened the door.

‘Hello Julia, there‘s someone I want you to meet. This is Mark.’

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her pale skin gleaming with sweat. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her hands pulling at the short  nightshirt near her shoulders as if hugging herself. She was slowly rocking.

‘Mark is going to be here with you whenever you want him to be. He’s just going to listen. He wants to help you.’

She didn’t respond, and stared down at her feet, watching them trace small circles on the floor. I could hear soft murmurs, almost whispers.

‘Hello Julia.’ I said, quietly. ’I am just going to sit over here, you don’t need to say anything, and I am not going to come any nearer.’

I sat on the small chair, looked at Gill, who nodded, shrugged and quietly left the room, closing the door behind her. I was alone with Julia for the very first time.

Creativity, Writing

Third Angel

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Renaissance Peace Angel. (Image Source: The Green Life)
Lin Evola-Smidt

I am writing I think primarily  for myself, a last attempt to put everything in order and to tell honestly the story of Julia Booten. I feel the need to put everything down as clearly as I can, without any of the manipulation of the facts that others have used over the years in order to satisfy their intended audiences. I still have some time before my retirement, and access to both the Broadmoor and Mountain View case files will fill in some of the gaps in my memory. That matter of simple convenience and the need to work while my mind is still relatively capable makes this the right time to begin.

But her presence is always with me, and so perhaps this endeavor is for us both. Even as I begin with these first paragraphs I look up and see her sitting terrified on the side of her bed, her bare feet tracing circles on the floor, exactly as I first met her when I was a young and enthusiastic occupational therapist at Mountain View. I catch myself dreaming of her with increasing frequency, or it may be that my ageing mind is playing tricks with me.

How to organise this account then? It would seem appropriate to be professional and logical, to present the facts as I know them in sequence and in a detached and considered manner. But ultimately I am for the first time being honest about our emotional involvement, and such things are not well described in a clinical fashion, they only make sense when seen in the context of the chaotic backdrop against which they took place.

Julia herself was clearly a very troubled woman, even towards the end when we seemed to be making such outstanding progress. Much of what she told me was either exaggerated or clearly unbelievable – her preoccupation with the Angels, her unshakeable belief that they existed and her long periods of silence during which she had minimal awareness of what was happening around her all make her a difficult subject for detached analysis. And as I have said I wish to face the raw realities of our emotional involvement.

I will begin with our first meeting soon after she was admitted as a new patient at Mountain View, a meeting that was to change my life profoundly. From there I intend to complete her story in the manner that it was revealed to me, sharing our journey as it took place, although to make this account coherent I will summarize and perhaps interpret for her where I feel this is helpful.

I have taken the liberty of changing some names of staff here at the centre and other people who are mentioned in the narrative – they bear no responsibility at all for the events that consumed us, but for decency I feel that masking their identity is an appropriate step. At those moments in our story  where I now feel  responsible for so much I will be absolutely honest and look only for the readers consideration of my professional situation before they come to judge me.

The decisions I made in the grip of untamed passions will stay with me forever. My plea is ultimately one of guilty, but perhaps with mitigating circumstances.

_______________

My new creative writing course at the Evolution centre in Brighton, with Gary Mepsted, lasts 10 weeks and the main task is to create a 5.000 word short story in the first person, on the theme of unrequited love.

This is the first 500 words : which was the task for week one.

Writing

Beat the Rain

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Marcel was 83 this morning. He knew that from the small calendar pinned to the wall by his bed. Every day he would mark a small dot next to the number, and every month he would turn the page because he enjoyed the sense of marking the time, but to him the rhythm of the seasons was already ingrained in his soul. Today was one of the only three dates that was circled in red – his birthday. Beside it he had written in small spidery letters his age, as there was no-one now to remind him.

He washed his face in the cold water, and got dressed by the soft yellow lanterns of the farmhouse, opened the bedroom door and greeted Cesar.

Gently he caressed the small dog, rubbing it’s ears and sharing a small piece of rabbit left over from the stew the night before. He talked to him about the day ahead, and about his thoughts of the night. Since the funeral his head kept getting full of things, and explaining these to Cesar helped to calm his mind. He told him that today was his birthday, and that he was 75 years older than Cesar, but not in dog years. In dog years Cesar would soon catch him up and then he too would ache and worry. He told him he understood that this seemed impossible to him now, but that time would pass quickly. But most of all he talked about the rain, and whether it would come this week. They had to beat the rain.

The gas ring on the old stove hissed as he boiled a small jug of water for the coffee. He loved the smell, Jules in the village provided the beans in return for a few bottles a year of his wine. 

With the gas ring on and the old log stove still glowing from the night before the kitchen was warm and comforting. It was early September but already the air was chilled. The stone walls were cool in the hot summer but bone cold in the winter, the shutters were layered with his patient repairs over the decades and the small cottage was full of drafts.

He had no need of a watch, nor of an alarm clock. The time that mattered to him was not absolute, he was driven by the rising and setting of the sun, and by the waxing and waning of the moon. He knew without thinking that he had exactly the right amount of time to walk to the top of the valley before the sun started to rise.

He opened the door for Cesar, picked up the small rucksack that he had as always packed the night before, put out the oil lamp, shut the door behind him and turned on the torch. It swung from the chest strap on his pack, the small beam swaying from side to side across the path with the rhythm of his walk. After fifteen minutes he turned it off and with the lightening sky he could make out the familiar path that he had climbed every morning since her funeral. As the track steepened he leant his weight on the stick, but his pace hardly slowed. As always Cesar would dart in and out of the vines, following the fresh scents of the rabbits, but he was always near. He did not need to look for him, or to call him. He would never really leave his side.

The track leveled off and the dawn was almost upon them. He breathed in the fresh chilled morning air. Every day he came here to watch the sun rise, to study the mists and the clouds. To get a head start on the days work. To think, to cling to things that mattered, to still the questioning voices. He climbed the last few yards above the highest part of the vineyards, turned to look back down the valley into the coming dawn and settled himself on the familiar rocks.

This time of year was so precious, so full of expectation. The fruit was nearly perfect. But it had been grey and cool for the last few critical weeks, the moon was waxing but still weak and he had chosen to delay the harvest to allow the small grapes to fully ripen. He was playing the rising moon and it’s pull on the waters of the vines against the increasing cold as the sun retreated. He was worried – his decision was full of risk. He had painstakingly pruned back the canopy by hand for the last 4 weeks, stripping back the protective leaves to let in as much of the precious sunlight as possible. That left the grapes exposed, one hail shower could ruin everything he had worked for.

He looked at the clouds in the valley, at the brightening sky, feeling the air above him. He would know perhaps with two days notice if the rains were coming, no more. But the pickers were booked now for next week, and there was no possibility of changing this. He knew that two other growers had made the same decision to delay, but most were already harvesting and no one could be brought on at such short notice should the rains come.

His lined face turned towards the sun, feeling the first touches of its magical light. He questioned the skies, watched the mists and the low clouds along the sides of the  valley. His cheeks felt the gentle breeze from the south. Slowly he relaxed, he was safe for one more day, it would not rain today nor tomorrow. He smiled, and explained this to Cesar. And then, as he always did, he filled a small cup from the coffee flask in his rucksack, took the old locket from his shirt pocket, opened it and then slowly and patiently described everything for her. He rocked gently backwards and forwards, and as the sun rose the dew slowly left the vines, the dog settled to the reassuring rhythm of his voice and his mind stilled for another day.

 

Notes from the Word Hoard

The way the exercise works is explained here.

Phrases

uber trendy architecture
the ramshackle old station
just stuck on
doing relaxing things
the day he died
beat the rain
the wind was cold
at least it was a job
everything started Monday
he now died

beat the rain * Selected

Thoughts

This short story is quite a leap from the image of someone leaving Clapham station on a cold Sunday afternoon –  but that happens.

I selected the phrase ‘beat the rain’ and from that for some reason I thought of wine producers and the decisions they have to make on the timing of their harvest, especially in poorer years. I like Marcel, and I would like to write more about him.

This was the first post from the inaugural meeting of the “3 jolly butchers writing group” this evening which thanks to the company of Richard was productive and fun!

Thoughts, Writing

Keep singing forever

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So let’s sing a song about us.
Let’s sing a song about us.
They’ve sung about a bird
They’ve sung about a bee
But never sung a single note to you and me

Let me sing with you.

All that we need is a chorus,
So let’s start kicking up a fuss

Please keep guiding me, be there for me.

We’ll never, never, never get the chance again,
So let’s sing a song about us!

I so hate hospitals, please keep singing forever.

Notes from the Word Hoard

The way the exercise works is explained here.

Phrases

Across the generations
Keep singing forever
The years become generations
Am I me?

Keep singing forever * Selected

Thoughts

A short post inspired by a great friend singing for his daughter. Nothing lasts forever, but some things should.

 

Thoughts, Writing

So many questions

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I lean on my side and I watch you. There is a distance where our mouths are so close that our  breath is intermingled and yet I can still see the details of your eyes. Gorgeous. Too close and everything I see is blurred, but the breath slowly turns into soft engagement. Beautiful. What am I searching for? What do I need from you? Some kind of confirmation. Thrilled I watch you enter your private world. Your open mouth and sparkling eyes, the way you look at me – everything about you says yes.

The night that is now behind us answered so many questions and yet left so much unasked.

Notes from the Word Hoard

The way the exercise works is explained here.

Phrases

We walk into our future
The night that is now behind us
My camera stays in the bag
Walking freely.

The night that is now behind us * Selected

Thoughts

I took this on a recent walk in he South Downs. Friends have commented that my recent posts are a bit depressing – this one is about that dislocation between a night of intimacy and the fresh world under the sunlight.

 

Creativity, Photography, Writing

December 2012 Highlights

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My monthly creativity review for December 2012.

This was a great month as by the end I did get past first base with my new Nikon D5100 – just learning how I want to shoot in terms of settings. Real basics – but I am a newbie and it did take me a while to get there – largely because I decided to just go out and shoot before studying too much. So my current thoughts are that I will always set ISO myself, shoot on aperture priority as a default, set my own white balance and in general start most session on point focus. I really spent a long time fighting the camera in various auto settings – really informative but as it turns out not for me.

The only canned settings I am interested in at the moment is low key – I think this is well worth experimenting with. I would like to do a series based on this mode and have this planned for January.

I spent time in Greece – visiting Thessaloniki – this was my first trip with my camera and the start of many ideas to explore the world and my own thoughts about life.

On the writing side I completed my first creative writing course, a 10 week course with Gary Mapsted in the Evolution center Brighton. What an enjoyable time – I have already signed up for the next one. This site is now well under way and I am concentrating my writing on regular posts here on a variety of subjects. These have been a combination of factual posts on places I have visited and creative writing based on selected images I have taken.

So in general a start has been made and I look forward to a new year in so many ways!

So here are my favourite images from this month :

Higher resolution access on Flickr is here.

They are selected just based on a quick informal scan of the month. So much to learn!!