He drinks himself to a place that is comfortable in his own head but to others, the one’s that seemingly love him, hammer and pound, whip and poke, burn and hang, because they are considering themselves.
Reality changes and he finds him in a small and out of the way club that plays Jazz every night. The singer is middle aged though attractive and her voice carries the band through every set.
The singer continues to make eye contact with the woman with the sparkling eyes, the one who is in love. She knows love because she sings of love every night to crowds of packed houses, depending on the night.
He has his last wine and cannot believe the woman sitting across, her eyes flashing lights he has never encountered before, a feeling of familiarity, as she whispers that she loves him more than life itself.
The band plays a tune known to both of them, “S’wonderful”, and all becomes right between them. All conflict dissipates in a cloud of nothingness.
Their love becomes something beyond understanding, a freak of nature, and a wonderful mistake.
This must be love he thinks because he is drowning in her scent, her skin, her lovely smile.
He finds that her sparkling eyes, that utter joyful look, have captured his heart.
The night ends in an alcohol haze, but he remembers her smile, her eyes and the beauty of her heart.
Lost but never alone, because of the memory of her eyes, her smile and the touch of her lips.
‘This is love’, he thinks.
Falling asleep, falling into her dreams, her eyes, her love…
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Monday, November 27, 2006
Dream Lover
The sun breaks filling the bedroom with a subtle light.
The alarm clock announces the moment to rise and walk.
Though tired and worried about the outcome of the day, she bravely rises, knowing that the sight and feeling of the morning will wash away all lingering doubt.
Walking is her respite from the life she once lived.
A time to contemplate, to be with one self.
She then begins to wonder about her lover.
“He must be asleep. He should be asleep.” And remembers the time before, the time they made love…and made the angels sing.
Tired of the ethereal state, he takes one last look at his lover watching the sunrise, her face glowing in wonderment.
The alarm clock wakes him in a state of panic. He rushes to ensure all commitments are met though wonders where she might be: is she well?
Seeing her in the flesh, her joyful eyes, her saunter and her smile brings him back to reality.
Time to work.
Later though as the day moves forward, as it does, she meets him in the flesh, and seeing him brings forth feelings of utter joy.
There is nothing he can do in this place though touches her softly on the arm.
A simple gesture, a loving hope, that all is well in love.
The mobile phone rings loudly. He is still in bed.
“How can this be!” he thinks.
“Was this all a dream? Does this woman love me?”
He seems to finally arrive at work and across the landscape of the office; he can see
Her laughing with popular office staff, knowing full well, that she would never notice him, never contemplate his heart. He then realizes that there is no hope though she surely loves him in his dreams.
Feeling the full force of reality burning his face, around lunch, he jumps out the 24th level office, plummeting to his death.
Along with the full office staff, including the man, whom had just jumped seventy stories, gather around the windows looking down to see their quiet co-worker of many years lying dead on the side walk below.
He wanders the offices to this day.
Searching and waiting to see her once again.
The alarm clock announces the moment to rise and walk.
Though tired and worried about the outcome of the day, she bravely rises, knowing that the sight and feeling of the morning will wash away all lingering doubt.
Walking is her respite from the life she once lived.
A time to contemplate, to be with one self.
She then begins to wonder about her lover.
“He must be asleep. He should be asleep.” And remembers the time before, the time they made love…and made the angels sing.
Tired of the ethereal state, he takes one last look at his lover watching the sunrise, her face glowing in wonderment.
The alarm clock wakes him in a state of panic. He rushes to ensure all commitments are met though wonders where she might be: is she well?
Seeing her in the flesh, her joyful eyes, her saunter and her smile brings him back to reality.
Time to work.
Later though as the day moves forward, as it does, she meets him in the flesh, and seeing him brings forth feelings of utter joy.
There is nothing he can do in this place though touches her softly on the arm.
A simple gesture, a loving hope, that all is well in love.
The mobile phone rings loudly. He is still in bed.
“How can this be!” he thinks.
“Was this all a dream? Does this woman love me?”
He seems to finally arrive at work and across the landscape of the office; he can see
Her laughing with popular office staff, knowing full well, that she would never notice him, never contemplate his heart. He then realizes that there is no hope though she surely loves him in his dreams.
Feeling the full force of reality burning his face, around lunch, he jumps out the 24th level office, plummeting to his death.
Along with the full office staff, including the man, whom had just jumped seventy stories, gather around the windows looking down to see their quiet co-worker of many years lying dead on the side walk below.
He wanders the offices to this day.
Searching and waiting to see her once again.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
From the Blog of Jonathan Carroll
“I had lunch with a friend yesterday who told me a story that has haunted me since. They knew a doctor in his forties who worked at one of the hospitals in Vienna. Recently he disappeared. No one knew where he was and all attempts to reach him failed. He was just gone. The family and friends became concerned and contacted the police. They turned up nothing for a week. After nine days the doctor was found. From what they could surmise, he had driven his Range Rover off the autobahn in the mountains at such a high speed that it literally became airborne and then fell into a ravine. Apparently the man was thrown from the car as it travelled through the air. He landed in the branches of a tree. The ravine was so deep and remote that no one saw the car for days but when they did, the search turned up no body. Only after another two days was the body discovered wedged high up in the top of a tree. Thinking about it, I don't know what is more macabre-- the way he died, or the fact that his body hung in the air for days.”
What do you think?
What do you think?
The Human Voice – a True Wonder.
A truly beautiful day in Melbourne. A cool breeze continued throughout the day while over a cloudless sky, the sun shined and the temperature remained perfect. This is unusual for Melbourne as the hot days reach temperatures of 100 degrees when finally; a cool change arrives dropping the temperature to 40 or 50. This can have a disastrous affect on the system, as the movement from extreme hot to cold will and does instigate a few colds and flues. Today was a perfect spring day and it seemed all were outside to enjoy its pleasures.
Taking advantage of the perfect weather, my friend and I drove down the coast to Portsea, a beautiful seaside town known more for its money than its beautiful vistas.
She had a surprise for me and brought two tickets out to The University of Melbourne’s Choral Group, a talented assemblage of undergraduates and graduate students who perform original songs by local composers. I have heard of this group but never had the opportunity to hear and see them…a real surprise.
The actual performance was held a little inland amongst Victorias most famous wineries.
This part of Victoria, a mere two hours out of Melbourne, is a landscape artists dream: rolling green hills amongst ancient trees, horses and livestock meandering in a peaceful haze, a small pond with a miniature wooden dock extending over the water. Then of course the sight of grape trees in perfect rows moving outwards towards the horizon as far as the eye can possibly see. My thought was that we could be any where…England, the wineries of Italy or France – comparable by any stretch of the imagination.
We arrived at the venue after some tricky navigation and a little luck. A beautiful house and colourful gardens neatly manicured to show off its optimum effect. People could be seen sauntering the grounds with wine glass in hand, waiting for the performance to begin. A jazz band could be heard jamming next to the bar.
When the performance began I was surprised that there wasn’t any musical accompaniment, only the voices of the choir.
The first set consisted of original songs by university composers, a collection of eight, which by the end of the session, had most of the audience, including myself, in tears. The sound of the human voice in tandem with others is truly an experience, a moving experience as if listening to saints sing their love for their creator.
The audience left the “barn” to enter the sounds of soft jazz and the beauty of the grounds and views one only dreams of…
Wine and nibbles were served, causing me to feel like I had manifested in a Woody Allen film, expecting Woody to pop-up and begin his familiar act.
The second and last performance consisted of 12 rearrangements of the seasonal song, the 12 Days of Christmas. The creative theatrics from the choir were very funny and managed to balance the pathos of a few of the arrangements.
Once the final session ended, the composers were asked to come to the stage and make the obligatory bow for the audience. As is well known, some composers are performers while others would rather stay back stage or the orchestra pit and remain physically anonymous. This, too, was obvious, from the sheer embarrassment or stage fright that a few displayed.
As a child, I had been part of many choirs until my voice changed. It was only today that I had witnessed the purity of the human voice without the clanging, scratching and whistling of musical instruments. Many have considered the piano or violin to be, in the right hands, a pure expression of music. This may be so in some instances. But to hear the human voice alone without accompaniment is the closest to nature the human being can actually achieve.
It was only today that I had really heard it for the first time.
Taking advantage of the perfect weather, my friend and I drove down the coast to Portsea, a beautiful seaside town known more for its money than its beautiful vistas.
She had a surprise for me and brought two tickets out to The University of Melbourne’s Choral Group, a talented assemblage of undergraduates and graduate students who perform original songs by local composers. I have heard of this group but never had the opportunity to hear and see them…a real surprise.
The actual performance was held a little inland amongst Victorias most famous wineries.
This part of Victoria, a mere two hours out of Melbourne, is a landscape artists dream: rolling green hills amongst ancient trees, horses and livestock meandering in a peaceful haze, a small pond with a miniature wooden dock extending over the water. Then of course the sight of grape trees in perfect rows moving outwards towards the horizon as far as the eye can possibly see. My thought was that we could be any where…England, the wineries of Italy or France – comparable by any stretch of the imagination.
We arrived at the venue after some tricky navigation and a little luck. A beautiful house and colourful gardens neatly manicured to show off its optimum effect. People could be seen sauntering the grounds with wine glass in hand, waiting for the performance to begin. A jazz band could be heard jamming next to the bar.
When the performance began I was surprised that there wasn’t any musical accompaniment, only the voices of the choir.
The first set consisted of original songs by university composers, a collection of eight, which by the end of the session, had most of the audience, including myself, in tears. The sound of the human voice in tandem with others is truly an experience, a moving experience as if listening to saints sing their love for their creator.
The audience left the “barn” to enter the sounds of soft jazz and the beauty of the grounds and views one only dreams of…
Wine and nibbles were served, causing me to feel like I had manifested in a Woody Allen film, expecting Woody to pop-up and begin his familiar act.
The second and last performance consisted of 12 rearrangements of the seasonal song, the 12 Days of Christmas. The creative theatrics from the choir were very funny and managed to balance the pathos of a few of the arrangements.
Once the final session ended, the composers were asked to come to the stage and make the obligatory bow for the audience. As is well known, some composers are performers while others would rather stay back stage or the orchestra pit and remain physically anonymous. This, too, was obvious, from the sheer embarrassment or stage fright that a few displayed.
As a child, I had been part of many choirs until my voice changed. It was only today that I had witnessed the purity of the human voice without the clanging, scratching and whistling of musical instruments. Many have considered the piano or violin to be, in the right hands, a pure expression of music. This may be so in some instances. But to hear the human voice alone without accompaniment is the closest to nature the human being can actually achieve.
It was only today that I had really heard it for the first time.
Friday, November 24, 2006
When you are Old...
by William Butler Yeats
When you are old and gray and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book, and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, and loved your beauty with love false or true. But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you. And loved the sorrows of your changing face; and bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled and paced upon the mountains over head and hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
When you are old and gray and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book, and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, and loved your beauty with love false or true. But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you. And loved the sorrows of your changing face; and bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled and paced upon the mountains over head and hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
The End of a Long Week
Coming to the end of a very long week.
Awoke this morning to the notion that today might be a rough one and, well, it was…
While in the shower, my thoughts actually bounded from one subject to another, planning my day, thinking about a good friend and hoping the weather would change as it has been hot and as I’ve mentioned sometime before, hot weather drives me absolutely mad.
And come to think of it…I had turned mad and have remained in madness for the entire week.
More than likely, the fixation this week was a student in terrible trouble. Violence in the home and violence during recess and lunch, violence at the bus stop and violence in the street. A few of my colleagues are a little frightened of the boy, as his mental state borders on psychopath.
Why I say psychopath is he displays all the symptoms: manipulative, conscienceless, volatile and intent on doing harm yet shows a certain charm, lulling his victims into a state of defencelessness…and that’s when they strike.
Having dinner tonight with my good friend at one of our favourite restaurants.
We’ll talk of positive subjects, beauty and love, and the world will become home once again.
Awoke this morning to the notion that today might be a rough one and, well, it was…
While in the shower, my thoughts actually bounded from one subject to another, planning my day, thinking about a good friend and hoping the weather would change as it has been hot and as I’ve mentioned sometime before, hot weather drives me absolutely mad.
And come to think of it…I had turned mad and have remained in madness for the entire week.
More than likely, the fixation this week was a student in terrible trouble. Violence in the home and violence during recess and lunch, violence at the bus stop and violence in the street. A few of my colleagues are a little frightened of the boy, as his mental state borders on psychopath.
Why I say psychopath is he displays all the symptoms: manipulative, conscienceless, volatile and intent on doing harm yet shows a certain charm, lulling his victims into a state of defencelessness…and that’s when they strike.
Having dinner tonight with my good friend at one of our favourite restaurants.
We’ll talk of positive subjects, beauty and love, and the world will become home once again.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Living lives of Quiet Desperation
Acting on some unknown inspiration, decided to have dinner at the local Chinees Restaurant which advertises “Dinner and dancing every Saturday Night.” We entered the place around 8:30 to a huge crowd. Luckily, there was a table available, and was seated directly in the middle of a very loud throng of diners’. In fact the conversations around us were so loud that we had to yell just to be heard across a small table.
The cuisine is delicious starting with Won Ton Soup followed by Prawn Dumplings ending with a superb serving of Mongolian Lamb on a bed of fresh and steaming white rice. Washing the meal down with a full bodied Cab Sav made the entire eating experience truly memorable.
The couple next to us aged early sixties sat across from each other without uttering a word the entire night. Eating in silence, they would occasionally make eye-contact, taking another bite of their meal. My guess was they were an old married couple having eaten thousands of meals together in agreed silence.
“We’ve been married over 45 Years and have discovered we have nothing else to say to one another.”
Unfortunately I believe they’re many couples out there in the same situation.
When the evenings entertainment (a one man guitar player with pre-recorded songs, all songs circa 50’s, 60’s, 70’s) the silent couple would rise from their table and hit the dance floor: all the time not uttering a word as if their favourite dancing songs were already known between them thus no need to ask for a dance.
I hope that life in old age as a married couple never reaches a time where communication is shunned or becomes unnecessary.
Now the famous line that ‘people live lives of Quiet Desperation’ can be observed in your very own local Chinees Restaurant.
The cuisine is delicious starting with Won Ton Soup followed by Prawn Dumplings ending with a superb serving of Mongolian Lamb on a bed of fresh and steaming white rice. Washing the meal down with a full bodied Cab Sav made the entire eating experience truly memorable.
The couple next to us aged early sixties sat across from each other without uttering a word the entire night. Eating in silence, they would occasionally make eye-contact, taking another bite of their meal. My guess was they were an old married couple having eaten thousands of meals together in agreed silence.
“We’ve been married over 45 Years and have discovered we have nothing else to say to one another.”
Unfortunately I believe they’re many couples out there in the same situation.
When the evenings entertainment (a one man guitar player with pre-recorded songs, all songs circa 50’s, 60’s, 70’s) the silent couple would rise from their table and hit the dance floor: all the time not uttering a word as if their favourite dancing songs were already known between them thus no need to ask for a dance.
I hope that life in old age as a married couple never reaches a time where communication is shunned or becomes unnecessary.
Now the famous line that ‘people live lives of Quiet Desperation’ can be observed in your very own local Chinees Restaurant.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Kafka Speaks Again...
19 February 1911
“The particular nature of my inspiration, in which I, the happiest and unhappiest of men, now go to sleep at two in the morning [perhaps it will remain, if I can only bear the thought of it, for it exceeds all that came before] is such that I can do anything, and not only for one particular work. If I write down a sentence at random, such as He looked out the window, it is already perfected.”
Beautiful.
“The particular nature of my inspiration, in which I, the happiest and unhappiest of men, now go to sleep at two in the morning [perhaps it will remain, if I can only bear the thought of it, for it exceeds all that came before] is such that I can do anything, and not only for one particular work. If I write down a sentence at random, such as He looked out the window, it is already perfected.”
Beautiful.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
The Lost Art of Conversation
The weather is a certain subject of conversation that can break the ice with potential acquaintances and strangers because the weather is a reality we all have in common.
“Nice day!”
“Yes it is. Are you enjoying it?”
“Of course. We’ve been cooped-up over the last week with the rain and…”
You get the point. A good conversationalist finds subjects that are common to the talker and listener, the weather the most common of realities.
Small talk is an art but for some people, small talk is, really, irrelevant conversation, especially when the talker’s subject is they, which can be very irritating.
“What makes you possibly think that your life is interesting to me?”
I never ever actually say this, but it certainly crosses my mind.
A good conversationalist is a good listener.
The relevant nod of the head and the occasional acknowledgement will go along way to making life-long friends, because most people’s favourite subject is themselves.
If one keeps this in mind could possibly win many friends and become influential to those around them. (An old success strategy but a tried and true one) Listen to people discuss their “quiet lives of desperation”, displaying a modem of empathy, and they will be your friend forever.
Conversation is an art form, a true art form that has been lost as it used to be a skill, a necessary skill which people attempted to practice and achieve.
Not all is lost; occasionally one meets a person whom understands the nuances of good conversation, and they are the type of individual that are always remembered; because they not only can spin a good yarn, but can listen intently for hours, despite the fact that the talker is a bore.
Like any art form, however, it takes practice and more practice like learning the violin or pole vaulting.
Conversation is a lost art that one hopes will return once again.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Be Careful What you Wish For…
"For the love of God, pull yourself together and do not look at things darkly: the first step backward makes a poor impression in the army, the second step is dangerous, and the third becomes fatal."
Frederick the Great (1712-86) letter to a general.
Woke to the day feeling an air of doom.
The rain slashing against my bedroom window in spurts of savagery, reminding me of the precariousness of life.
Arrived at work in a dark mood. And in my current profession, teaching, can influence many…
No matter how I tried today to shed these feelings and thoughts of emptiness, the darkness continued and prevailed for the best part of the day.
These feelings of melancholia, has or is part of who I am…at least biologically.
It isn’t necessary to go into my family mental history, but let me say, generally and specifically, had been a rough one for a few individuals.
Everything pissed me off. The petty politics: the disrespectful children: certain staff who seem to be hell bent on destroying the school; the children who are genuinely sick or in a home situation that is literally killing them…and I am, at this point, powerless to do anything about it.
My only saving grace today was a real friend, that kind of person who has a natural empathy, a real love for the world. Her smile, her persistent love of life, her almost dogged attitude, that life is a gift and must never be wasted, saved my life today.
I somehow got to the place where I wished that it would all end…and my friend came through, a kind and loving person saved me, without, really, knowing it.
Now in the lightness of day and stark reality, my wish for non-existence, almost came true…
Be careful what you wish for.
Frederick the Great (1712-86) letter to a general.
Woke to the day feeling an air of doom.
The rain slashing against my bedroom window in spurts of savagery, reminding me of the precariousness of life.
Arrived at work in a dark mood. And in my current profession, teaching, can influence many…
No matter how I tried today to shed these feelings and thoughts of emptiness, the darkness continued and prevailed for the best part of the day.
These feelings of melancholia, has or is part of who I am…at least biologically.
It isn’t necessary to go into my family mental history, but let me say, generally and specifically, had been a rough one for a few individuals.
Everything pissed me off. The petty politics: the disrespectful children: certain staff who seem to be hell bent on destroying the school; the children who are genuinely sick or in a home situation that is literally killing them…and I am, at this point, powerless to do anything about it.
My only saving grace today was a real friend, that kind of person who has a natural empathy, a real love for the world. Her smile, her persistent love of life, her almost dogged attitude, that life is a gift and must never be wasted, saved my life today.
I somehow got to the place where I wished that it would all end…and my friend came through, a kind and loving person saved me, without, really, knowing it.
Now in the lightness of day and stark reality, my wish for non-existence, almost came true…
Be careful what you wish for.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Order vs. Chaos
Moving house for most people is a long and tortuous affair.
If one has a demanding job as well, will find that living in unpacked boxes wasn’t as bad as first thought; as we are adaptable creatures and, over time, can just about live with anything, almost anything.
Really, for me, this is the real torture. Chaos in the day to day is not good for the soul, certainly not mine. Scavenging, tripping and searching for the wine opener in a sea of cardboard boxes can and will lower one’s expectations of the world, not to mention one’s sense of self.
My thought today was our world, (at least the current way our society is set up) pulls us into a never-ending battle to put Order into Chaos. Paper at work piles up, dishes at home seems to appear of their own volition. One does the clothes washing and by the end of the week the pile looks as if you had ignored the washing for a month. Who wears these clothes anyway? Who uses these dishes when one’s back is turned? And why is there so much bloody paper?
Organization and cleanliness go hand and hand.
The image in my mind today that refused to go away, (like a popular song that plays in your head over and over) is the sight of rising dirt and filth; that are true battle on earth is to maintain a modem of cleanliness and order: dusting, vacuuming, washing, wiping, mowing, shovelling, shaving, scraping, piling, stacking, perfuming, sweeping, waxing, trimming, clipping, creaming, plucking, polishing, shampooing, flossing, brushing, scrubbing, exfoliating, and picking…
Our true battle in life is to stave off filth, put order into chaos; otherwise life becomes uncomfortable, unbearable and insufferable.
To live in filth and chaos is unthinkable according to western 21st century values.
The earth cleans itself by showering and causing new life to grow.
And, after a good rain, the scent and feel is that all is clean and rejuvenated.
I do not know where I’m going with this idea, other than cleanliness and chaos has been on my mind today.
A clean car, room, house, and office reflects the mind of its user, that is to say, a clean and organised office reflects an ordered mind. The same goes for one’s house and car: a clean and serviced vehicle reflects an owner whom appreciates order above chaos. The again, a cluttered desk, dishes continually piled in the kitchen and a filthy, faulty vehicle due to neglect reflects at least a disordered mind if not hinging on neurosis.
All said and done, however, we are to some degree in an on-going battle against rising filth and chaos.
It’s just the way of this world.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Glasses mysteriously disappear…could it be the Borrowers?
Arrived home the other night around 9pm after a great dinner with a friend, and went straight to my computer to write a review on a film that bubbled below the surface throughout the evening. It has always been this way. An idea incubates below conscious awareness to then surface, and writing it down then and there is absolutely necessary…before it can possibly vanish.
The review turned out to be pure garbage, and no amount of editing could fix the damn thing; so, around midnight, gave up, turned off the machine and went to bed.
I distinctly remember thinking that I was too tired to read, leaving my glasses next to the computer.
Over sleeping on a Monday morning can and will turn the most calm individual into a panic-stricken idiot…bouncing off the walls, brushing teeth with face cream, and feeding the cat expensive Red Salmon. Well, opened my eyes to the clock displaying 8am, jumping off the bed like a chimpanzee with arthritis, stubbing my toe and falling into the shower to extremely cold water. (However this did wake me up) Finally dressed, shaven and coffee mug in hand, reached for my glasses to find them not there.
‘This cannot be happening.’ I thought.
I put the little buggers right next to the machine…or did I?
Of course I did…so where in the hell are they!?
Time is ticking by, as it does, and looking in every conceivable place, the glasses cannot be found.
As my job requires me to see, read and function, without my glasses the day would become a dysfunctional affair.
The problem was simple: I had set my glasses next to the lap-top after finishing my writing for the day as I have done for sometime. Now, for some strange reason, they had vanished.
Over the months, objects such as keys, hair brushes, wine glasses, particular books and can openers have mysteriously disappeared to then reappear after a few days in the oddest of places. Jokingly we have come to call this phenomenon the work of the Borrowers – an urban legend that spirits, fairies, poltergeists’ or whatever you want to label them, take objects away, and after a few days, return the object, putting it in a place that one would never expect to find it: like a Bic lighter on the toilet or a book in the refrigerator.
The mysterious disappearance of my glasses was odd and driving to work with an old pair, minus one arm, (which managed to get me through the day) pushed my thinking in the direction that it could be the work of some supernatural force.
All said and done, really, I much prefer a rational explanation as opposed to an irrational one. And, for the most part, my thinking and awareness of the world is clear and pretty much straight forward, thus the ‘Borrower’ explanation was out of the question…or was it?
A few days passed and there still was no sign of my glasses. Just as I was about to reach for the phone to make an optometrist appointment, walked into Lou’s room searching for a book she had been reading that sounded interesting, to discover my glasses on her night stand. Let me make this clear, I never go into Lou’s room for any reason. In fact, this had been the first time in months. Needless to say, there lay my glasses, folded and neatly sitting by the lamp.
A short time later, Lou came home to be confronted with accusations of theft or at least a practical joke. No, she said, I swear I did not touch them as God is my witness. Lou never lies, ever, so I believed her.
How did my glasses end up on her night stand and why had she not noticed them over the few days they had ‘vanished’? Well, she claims the glasses were not there over the few days as she had done her cleaning the day before.
Most people would dismiss this occurrence as an oddity and move on, though the phenomenon occasionally repeats itself with no logical explanation.
One good thing about this, these objects do indeed vanish but are returned in a few days, therefore the label, “The Borrowers”.
The review turned out to be pure garbage, and no amount of editing could fix the damn thing; so, around midnight, gave up, turned off the machine and went to bed.
I distinctly remember thinking that I was too tired to read, leaving my glasses next to the computer.
Over sleeping on a Monday morning can and will turn the most calm individual into a panic-stricken idiot…bouncing off the walls, brushing teeth with face cream, and feeding the cat expensive Red Salmon. Well, opened my eyes to the clock displaying 8am, jumping off the bed like a chimpanzee with arthritis, stubbing my toe and falling into the shower to extremely cold water. (However this did wake me up) Finally dressed, shaven and coffee mug in hand, reached for my glasses to find them not there.
‘This cannot be happening.’ I thought.
I put the little buggers right next to the machine…or did I?
Of course I did…so where in the hell are they!?
Time is ticking by, as it does, and looking in every conceivable place, the glasses cannot be found.
As my job requires me to see, read and function, without my glasses the day would become a dysfunctional affair.
The problem was simple: I had set my glasses next to the lap-top after finishing my writing for the day as I have done for sometime. Now, for some strange reason, they had vanished.
Over the months, objects such as keys, hair brushes, wine glasses, particular books and can openers have mysteriously disappeared to then reappear after a few days in the oddest of places. Jokingly we have come to call this phenomenon the work of the Borrowers – an urban legend that spirits, fairies, poltergeists’ or whatever you want to label them, take objects away, and after a few days, return the object, putting it in a place that one would never expect to find it: like a Bic lighter on the toilet or a book in the refrigerator.
The mysterious disappearance of my glasses was odd and driving to work with an old pair, minus one arm, (which managed to get me through the day) pushed my thinking in the direction that it could be the work of some supernatural force.
All said and done, really, I much prefer a rational explanation as opposed to an irrational one. And, for the most part, my thinking and awareness of the world is clear and pretty much straight forward, thus the ‘Borrower’ explanation was out of the question…or was it?
A few days passed and there still was no sign of my glasses. Just as I was about to reach for the phone to make an optometrist appointment, walked into Lou’s room searching for a book she had been reading that sounded interesting, to discover my glasses on her night stand. Let me make this clear, I never go into Lou’s room for any reason. In fact, this had been the first time in months. Needless to say, there lay my glasses, folded and neatly sitting by the lamp.
A short time later, Lou came home to be confronted with accusations of theft or at least a practical joke. No, she said, I swear I did not touch them as God is my witness. Lou never lies, ever, so I believed her.
How did my glasses end up on her night stand and why had she not noticed them over the few days they had ‘vanished’? Well, she claims the glasses were not there over the few days as she had done her cleaning the day before.
Most people would dismiss this occurrence as an oddity and move on, though the phenomenon occasionally repeats itself with no logical explanation.
One good thing about this, these objects do indeed vanish but are returned in a few days, therefore the label, “The Borrowers”.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
“For BLOG’S Sake…”
The “Live Journal” phenomenon that has rocketed in the last five to eight years is truly an opportunity to read writers and favourite authors as they live their lives just like you and me. Living, however, sometimes comes down to basics, like paying the gas and electricity bill. Those not so well-read though have a significant underground following, can’t get by on their meagre royalties; the cost of living has sky rocketed while our overall basic wages remain the same.
I truly enjoy one particular author’s BLOG, because he is published, has an underground following; has just received a significant advance for his up and coming novel, but still, he needs to work as a waiter, a coffee server and anything else that might come his way. This author’s wife, who reads to be a special lady, somehow found him a freelance job reviewing porno on the Net. From reading his entries, he went a little back and forth on the idea, but eventually came to the conclusion that writing is writing and would press ahead. Although it has been a while since reading his BLOG, he felt to grow comfortable with the idea, and viewed the job or writing these lurid pieces as just another BLOG entry; a natural warm up to write his fiction.
Then there are those authors who have gained certain notoriety, have sold more books and are close to really making a living from the art of writing. As a struggling writer, this is a good place to be. But what I have found disturbing, in a few cases, is that these authors have a terrible snobbery, a false sense of their place, an intellectual superciliousness, really, as if they had reached the level of Joyce or Poe. In other words they hang crap on popular authors or authors that do not meet their “expectations”.
We used to call this attitude in the eighties as the “middle-management” rut: given title, perks and big wages yet these middle managers were never allowed to make a decision. This of course made them highly cynical and very critical of management and their careers in general. So they would hang crap on everybody else no matter their talent.
The same goes for these up-and-coming-authors, critical because it’s just so close before they happen to hit the big time. It is a self preservation strategy: hang crap, look better, and rise above the fray. Maybe.
Sometimes I think, no success makes you drive on, a little success even further, though more success makes you stop; living in an illusionary world of literary greatness.
Taking this even further, the truly successful authors, writing that touches a large following, a publishing agency that knows how to reveal their writer, and a writer who has a flair for publicity, “Bob’s your Uncle!” A well earned success and, for the most part, a pleasure to read. This particular author’s “live Journal” is a BLOG well worth following, watching a successful writer honestly do what he does best.
My point is that this author never ever hangs crap on other authors…never. It is an unspoken rule, obvious to some and not others, that one does not criticise one’s fellows, one’s colleagues, one’s fellow musicians. This is simply bad taste.
The Net is a wonderful instrument of research and communication. The medium has enabled connections for human beings’ around the planet.
To BLOG is to write, to communicate, to express one’s goals, fantasies and the day to day humdrum of everyday life.
‘For BLOG’S sake, relax as the next BLOGER may teach you something needed.
Until next time…
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