oh jolly good show old girl, exceptionally well done.

brain, thou marvelous appendage. work for once, will you?

screenshot one. an idea is born in the sweltering heat of summer. madness and anarchy, a novel with a grand design and a far too complicated to be plausible plot.

ugh.

screenshot two. relocation to the united kingdom; an MA and all that. work work work on shorter peices different genres and everything else nice and nasty. that brilliant idea is pushed aside. it simmers and steams. it sticks to the stove.

enter a new module. the ART of the SHORT story. the novel is split up into two loooong stories.

too too damn complex. too many voices, too many stylistic devices. too much to say and not enough of a canvas to say it in.

me da fool.

it will never work as a short story.

brilliant, absofuckinlutely brilliant job, for le caffeine addict. jarred on by sugarless coffee( mind the diet, see)...for once that rusty old brain actually exhaled something.

a novel is born.
no.
a novel is created.
plotted; drafted and redrafted.
classical techniques. iconoclastic and melodramatic techniques.

welcome, one and all to my anagnorisis.

i would recommend you to Butcher's translation of Aristotle's Poetics to get a handle on that word.

maybe that chimney sweep was lucky...although fictional; although a movie; although Dick Van Dyke; although a terribly false cockney accent.

if this is this, then that.

how bloody logical.

gute nacht- ich muss machen gut geschlafen...excusez moi Francais, ladies and gents- no thats german...

no, not rum.

i gave birth to an idea today.

high...

on my self...

you should try it sometime.

chim chiminee chim chiminee chim chim cheree
a sweep is as lucky as lucky can be...
chim chiminee chim chiminee chim chem cheroo
good luck will rub off when he shakes hands with you...

a weekend of reading. pushkin and chekov. ken jones and david cobb. haiku and haibun. of arsenic and old lace and mary poppins. frank capra and citizen kane.

the railway children and fruit salad.

diets.

the week that was.

Union

The pillows are thrown far away

Icy feet

Fire within

My stomach wiggles

Cellulite’s setting in

Body blossoming slowly

Ragged nails

Filed to the quick

To minimize scarring-

Will he draw first blood tonight

Or will I?

We wrestle with the heavy duvet

It’s too cold to do without

Candles are lit.

Dig deep into his skin

Leaving half moons of desire

I’ve done it; drawn blood

He responds wildly

Slavering over my chin

Sipping at my breast

Knotting my tresses

Drawing out my sighs

I pull him in; he pushes away

And bites

I yank his ear

I climb on top

Inhale his scent

His soft, soft hair

That adorable stomach

Those lean hips

And that smug grin

Push and pull

Time flies out of the window

Beads of sweat on my body

Mine? Or his?

He collapses. Dead to the world

I’m dead. And alive.

I stretch

Newborn.

give me a reason, i beg of you.

to stay or to leave. to relocate or revamp myself.

winter gales
a bird poops
on my window

i haikuist?

i writer, i poet.

the egotisitcal sublime. keatsian, oh so sensuous. abnegation of self?

not bloody likely.

abnegation of what, then?

what is love?
tis not heareafter
present mirth hath present laughter
whats to come is still unsue
in delay there lies no plenty

and yet, and yet...
a wait, an endless wait.
for SOMEone SOMEthing, something, yes.

the le lotus bleu.

cordon bleu, with roasted chicken and vegetables on the side. pavlova and shortcake for dessert,

life is a tea table.

The day his world went boom

You sat placidly eating your curds and whey. I hummed along to golden oldies.

Logs cracked and fireplaces smoked. Pink Floyd strains filled the air, and the bathtub bubbled merrily. I shampooed in apple scented splendour and you shaved with the smell of rain. We played solitaire showdown on the computer and cooked spaghetti in salt water.

Mum cooked pineapple chutney and a bird crapped on my window.

Oh yes, life was good the day his world went boom.

An alien skyped me from Carmarthen, and the Jolly Roger went down with all hands.

Basho’s haiku solaced me while you fed on Impressionist art.

I cleaned my room that day.

That day when his world went boom.

filibuster.

i, firecracker.

unflinching, unforgiving.

to err may be human, but to forgive isn't my job.

arsenic and old lace. violent and vituperative.

everyhting in life comes full circle- and then closes. ceases to be.

hallelujah.

bushwah.

migrained mind, jaundiced brain.

anonymity is a boon.

anonymity is a boon.

sometimes.

life. love. career. studies. the entire cake and a few cherries too.

give it up, girl.