to write or to not.
they say that the ancients of Britain mistrusted the written word.
i have a love hate relationship with it for the same reasons.
Druids were the law keepers, memorising the many codes of conduct, travelling the country and sharing their wisdom in the many trials and tribulations that they had to solve, whether it was a murder or theft or argument over local boundaries.
it would have been easier for them to write the laws down but that would have made the laws permanent in a temporary and evolving world.
i hate writing; but it’s the only way to make sense of my thoughts.
my thoughts may change with the tides of the moon and confused, i hark back to my previous writings, hoping to find an island for respite from the storm.
but i understand that the written word is as different as the north and south accents.
a poster in school reminds children that when we write of ourselves, i should be I.
i disagree silently, let each make up their own mind how important they are.
i seems so much more humble than I, and humility brings a wealth of knowledge.
if we think that we are ‘The Big I Am’ then how can we listen to advice?
who listens to those deemed more inferior?
i’m doing my best not to write. i promise you. but it’s difficult.
i may go a few days punishing myself, telling myself that there’s no need to write, nor to read; but it’s an addiction; i know how the priests of old must have felt, each word a bringer of possible knowledge.
but what is knowledge?
do we gain truth from reading our own words?
i think so! i find myself reading my own words, trying to evoke the feelings of time gone by.
sometimes i think i didn’t write the words but merely channeled or realised them:

“you beg to come home as if the door’s locked.
I’ve left a large lamp on yet you’ve not knocked.
I am the lamp and I am the door.
I am the tramp asleep on the floor.
I am your mother, berating your flaws.
I am your lover, willing for more.
most call Me Host. you may call me Home.”

“The world turns, seas churn, volcanoes burn.
earthquakes rupture the earth…
after death must come rebirth.”

“you may be a seal who lives to dive or a shark with zeal that loves to bribe with teeth that bite.”

the amount of poems i’ve written that seem to share their truths with me over the years is startling.
my tag line; The Sparse N Spartan Saint is a perfect example. i wrote it because it rhymes and yet, the saint shows that with faith anything is possible. i think his faith is in god but even if your faith lies within yourself or elsewhere, the same truth is still possible.
i hate the written word. did i mention that yet?
there is no inflection nor accent. nor the raising of an eyebrow nor the twinkle of a smile or smack of a frown.
how to know if something is sarcastic, or teasing,
sometimes my partner teases me in text and i blow things by thinking she is being serious. sometimes it’s hard to tell.
what does the writer, any writer actually sound like?
i used to love Stephen King’s books and when i would read Rita Hayworth And The Shawshank Redemption i would read it in the voice of Morgan Freeman, the narrator of the film.
maybe that’s why i like poetry and rhymes, the old fashioned way of transferring knowledge.
reading is a release from reality sometimes, especially when i find a common ground with the writer or their words.

a strange dream

i’ve been struggling lately.
just when i was recovering, i lost a pouch of tobacco, which isn’t expensive but enough to tip me over. saturday i survived on toast until i collected my daughter n ate her scraps at my mums house.
anyway. so theres me, ‘dying’ of lack of tobacco etc, waiting for today to arrive; payday.
you would think i’m dreaming of food or tobacco. but you would be wrong, i dreamt about a paedophile.
in my dream, me and my daughter are walking a nature trail when a tiger blocks the path up ahead, tigers presage stuff in my dreams every few years. so we turned around before the tiger could see us and we took a different path.
the path went past a lonely house.
the tour guide, some fat guy, said it was abandoned.
i didn’t know we had a tour guide till after the tiger.
we went thru a turnstyle i think.
i forget how i lost my daughter but i broke into the abandoned house to find the tour guide, it was as if he put the tiger on the path earlier.
i woke up. and fell back to sleep.
he had a trapdoor in a room that led past the tiger trap, some how i found it with him chasing me. anyway, i found my daughter safe, dealt with the tourguide and his minion and we enjoyed the long walk home.
i woke up.
the end?
i just went to my letterbox and found what looks like my lost pouch of tobacco (they all look alike) with a note saying it’s from my neighbour, David.
David happens to be on a paedophile charge but he doesn’t know that i know.
too many coincidences?
food for thought.

some of the sayings i’ve heard

“don’t ask for stuff, it’s rude.” my mum

“if you don’t ask, you don’t get.” my friend’s mum (my mum’s friend)

“third time lucky.” anon “if some one asks for something three times; that’s officially begging.” a brother of mine

“ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer.” my mum

“the only stupid question is the one you already know the answer to.” an old boss

“isn’t that rhetorical?” me

“stop asking stupid questions.” my old boss

“what’s for dinner?” us kids

“fart pie and windy pudding.” either parent

“no, what’s for dinner?” us kids with an exasperated look on our faces

“shit on a shovel.” either parent, with a silly smile on their face.

(new) a struggle to survive the season

as the snow set in with the din of the wind he could hardly hear himself holler;
but he could hear the wolves howling in the hills.
“let’s get this kill to the cave, be brave my brothers.”
“this foal is all snack and no supper.” said one to the other, contemplating their hunger as they trudged through the snow with little to show beside skin sinew and bone.
some grunted, some groaned.
the wolves closing in, collecting their kin, wary of so many men, tasting the blood on the snow as they go.
the cave is in sight, and inside is bright with a smoky glow.
women bandy burning brands of branches aflame to claim the kill for the clan.
once more the wolves are forced to flee into the night under the trees.