Yes, it’s still me

Before I go on holiday, I’m trying out a new – what do they call it? – theme.  The name of this theme is Rubric.  Not sure how much difference it makes, but I’m ready for a change.

See you in a couple of weeks

Kirk out

IPAS

This was the name of an organisation I used to belong to.  It meant “The India Pale Ale Society” and was a (very) loose association of friends who went  on trips to discover – well, beer.  We visited a number of breweries, including Bateman’s in – somewhere in Lincolnshire, I can’t remember now – and, as I recall, we actually had a constitution and articles.  I certainly remember meetings where we had a chair and secretary.  When these things were mooted I laughed a lot, because I thought Bob was joking.

Ah.  Bob.  Yes, it is impossible to speak of these things without mentioning Bob.  Where he is now, no-one can say.  How he came into our lives we cannot remember: it’s as though he were always there, guiding us to new pubs, taking us on tours of places we had only dreamt of.  Half-scout, half-bus driver manque, we will not see his like again.

Here was a typical conversation with Bob:

-  We’re going to Penzance next week, Bob.  Any ideas?

-  You’ll want to get the X 626 to Birmingham.  They run every hour at 36 minutes past, from stand 4A.  Then in Digbeth you’ll have 25 minutes but make sure you get your luggage on the 252B to Truro.  That takes 4 hours in good traffic – then in Truro you’ve got time for chips at a cafe just over the road called the Good Traveller, before you get on the Green Line no 98 which takes you all the way to Penzance.

-  Thanks, Bob

-  No problem.  Oh, and mention my name to Stewie at Digbeth.  He’s an inspector – you’ll find him in the office.  He’ll see you right.

-  Wow

To call Bob’s knowledge of buses encyclopedic would be an understatement.

Ah, Bob!  Where are you now?

Kirk out

Seven Days

OK Seven Days, if you’re interested, was my first novel.  It had seven chapters and the content went like this:

Monday

Woman finds herself in a nuclear bunker following a nuclear holocaust.  Explores bunker.  Waits for others to come.

Tuesday

Nobody comes.   To keep from going mad, she starts to write a diary.  Since she has no present and probably no future, she writes about the past.  On Tuesday she remembers her early childhood.

Wednesday

She remembers her adolescence

Thursday

First love

Friday

Crisis.  Loss of love, rejection.  Suicide attempt.  (any connection with Good Friday is entirely intentional)

Saturday

Ah!  here’s where we find out what’s really going on.  There hasn’t been a holocaust at all.  The whole thing is set in the future and here’s where the plot twist comes in that explains how she came to be there in the first place.

Sunday

Realisation.  She comes out of the bunker.

I think it’s ready for rewriting.  I can see a lot more possibilities in it now.  Maybe I’ll present the idea to a publisher.  That’s the best way to do these things, I’m told.

Going to the Martyrs today.  We think it’s probably the place to be.  I like Trinity but I think maybe the guy’s sermon last week was a sign.

Kirk out

Deeper and crisper and even better…

…or should that be batter? I was thinking about the word “eke” this morning, or rather the word was floating around my mind when I awoke.  Who know how these things happen?  I daresay there are, as with the Pan-galactic Gargle-Blaster, organisations which exist to help you rehabilitate http://en.wikibooks.org/wiki/Bartending/Cocktails/Pan_Galactic_Gargle_Blaster

(perhaps the Chaucer Recovery Society?)  Anyway, the word eke used to mean “also”:

When Zephyrus eke with his swete brethe

inspired hath in every holt and hethe

the tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne

hath in the Ram his halve-corse y-runne

I think I’ve got the spelling sufficiently wrong.  That’s from The Prologue to the Canterbury Tales.  But nowadays, “eke” means “to stretch out to it’s furthest limit”, as in: “Can we eke out the bread for another day?”  (to which the answer is always, “I just ate the last slice”).

To which the response is:

“Eek!”

There used to be a band called “Eek a mouse”.  I don’t remember anything about them apart from the name.  I suspect they weren’t very big.

That’s enough!  Or too much, as Blake would have said.  Damn his braces.

Going to the chalet tomorrow.  After which, this blog will be silent for a while.

Thank god, you think.

Kirk out.

Well, nobody’s forcing you to read it!  Go on, bugger off!

That’s it!  Keep walking!

Damn.  They left.

Ah well.

Deep and crisp and even

.. were the chips we had last night.  Delicious food, well-presented and served with a smile.  The uncertainty we observed at the beginning turned out to be due to the proprietors having taken over only a few days before.  Fair enough, we think.  A mixed marriage, Asian and white British – an interesting combination, culinarily.  (is that the right word?)  Check it out

http://www.diningpubs.co.uk/pub_details.asp?id=294

Lovely beer garden overlooking the reservoir where we broke one of their tables (in the garden, not the reservoir!)

Thinking deeply, crisply and evenly about my writing, and especially about Seven Days, an early novel which I think I shall rewrite.  I can see a lot more possibilities in it now.

Ok that really is it for now.

Kirk out

Words, words, words…

I used to be a huge fan of Neil Young.  I haven’t stopped being a fan, it’s just that all his stuff is on vinyl and I don’t have a good way of listening to it- not without removing all the stuff on top of the record player and dusting it and checking the needle and and and  *

You get the picture.  I was thinking today, the reason I like writing is that every copy of a work is the original.  Whereas with a painting, there’s nothing like the original work and prints etc can only give a feel for what it’s like, with writing, so long as the text is faithfully reproduced, every copy has exactly the same power as the original.  There’s nothing to be gained – except by the scholar – by looking at the original manuscript.  There’s something very democratic about that – and also something easy, in practical terms.  Especially nowadays in this age of computers.

So.  Neil Young.  One of my favourite tracks was “Words (between the lines of age)”.  I used to listen to it over and over.  It was when he was in his electric phase.

Which brings us to the Dane.  Last night the origin of the suffix “by” came up – in the Midlands there are a number of place names that have this, and it comes from Danish – and that gave another outing to the joke “terby or not terby” (see previous post http://lizardyoga.wordpress.com/2008/09/12/ladimir-and-oestrogen-2/).

Last night was great – an outing to a country pub, an underused reservoir, unseen Perseids, a pound lost and found, a necklace also lost and found, and some good conversation.  Thanks Claire!

-  What is the matter that you read, my lord?

-  Words, words, words

(loosely remembered from Hamlet).

Kirk out

PS Beer festival and curry today.  Mark is going to Nottingham.

PPS Jan, who is a mathematician and therefore To Be Trusted, shares my dislike of “numbers” instead of “figures”.  (see previous post here http://lizardyoga.wordpress.com/2009/05/12/and-another-thing-2/)

she says it’s to do with dumbing down.

*  Missed the chance here to make a joke about “the needle and the damage done”.

No answer was the stern reply

Compelled to blog about something I really hate – namely, when you email people or send them something and don’t get a reply.  I know it’s holiday time and people are away but too much of this sort of thing can send me into a semi-catatonic state where I don’t actually believe there’s anyone out there.  What’s the word?  Not catatonic – solipsistic.  I think there may have been times when as a baby I was left alone and wondered whether there really was anyone else in the universe.

So.  I have sent two articles to yoga magazines about the Plinth and not had a reply from either.  I have also emailed various people and not had a reply.

Still, I shall be going on holiday myself next week and not replying to anyone about anything for a couple of weeks.  Let’s see how they like it!  I shall come back and find my inbox full of plaintive messages asking why I haven’t got back to people.

Or else I’ll find it full of spam.

Anyway, dear reader, if you’re reading this, post me a comment.  Let me know I’m not alone in the universe.  Say anything you like, even if it’s rude.  Oh, but don’t post emoticons – I don’t understand them.

Weird.

Kirk out

PS Where’s the above quote from?  I seem to think it’s Lewis Carroll.

Hail fellow well-met

Not sure where this phrase comes from.  My dad used to use it of people who were, in his opinion, rather too jolly.  He was suspicious of the jolly.  I rather think the jolly are discriminated against as a group.  I myself have jolly tendencies.  But I digress…

The fellows well-met last night were: Peter and Andy.  Slight hangover this morning due to an unspecifiable amount of Hob.  Hob is a beer, a beer which they sell at the Ale Wagon, a beer which they sell at the Ale Wagon in Leicester which is a jolly Good Egg of a pub, keeping a number of real ales in good condition.  They are having a beer festival at the weekend and Peter and I will probably go down.

Curry is promised for afterwards.

So, what’s the prayer for today?  God, please let my hangover go away?

No.  I think the prayer today is one of thanks.  For friends.  Saw old friends last night, meeting new friends tonight.  Friends are important (another thing my dad didn’t understand.)

No words are coming.  So my suggestion is, just think about the friends you have and be thankful for them.  And if you don’t have any friends?

In the words of Gandhi, “Be the change you want to see”.

Kirk out

PS In a bizarre twist, I was actually watching “Friends” before I went out.  The one where Joey gets in the cabinet.

Pray for Today

Remember Play for Today?  I thought instead of poem of the day I could include a prayer for the day.  That should ensure that my readership drops, like Leningrad in winter, to below zero.

Can you have less than one reader?  Strictly speaking, I suppose the readership would drop to three:

The three men I admire most

The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost

Recognise that?  It’s a quote from “American Pie”.  Chris complained when I played it at my birthday party (there, Chris!  I’ve mentioned you four times).

Still, I find myself devoid of inspiration.  So I’ll leave it for today.  Although I came across a good thought on the Yoga Journal (www.yogajournal.comI) about a woman who learned acceptance after stepping barefoot in a dog turd!

Bruce Almighty is also about this.  He complains about having a mediocre life, and doesn’t appreciate what he has until it’s gone.

What do I complain about?  This house.  I need to start to appreciate it.

So: that leads us to the prayer for today (I promise that my prayers will not only be non-denominational, they will be suitable for all faiths and probably wishy-washy agnostics as well – erm, sorry, I mean, those of little or no faith.)

Prayer for Today

Wherever I am today, may I accept

that that is where I am.

whoever I see today, may I accept

that they are with me

Whatever I have today, may I accept

that this is what I have.

Whatever I am today, may I accept

that this is who I am.

Change starts with acceptance

Chenge begins with me.

OM

66 poems on this blog!

I counted them.  Are 66 poems enough for a book?  I guess they might be.  There’s a competition in the name of TS Eliot for the best unpublished book-length collection of poetry.

Mm.  Trouble is, I’m not a huge fan of ToiletS, as Mark calls him.  I don’t think he’s bad, I just think he’s overrated, especially by himself.  Still, it’s an opportunity….

Better not include the parody of his work if I do send it in.  On the other hand, sometimes a bit of cheek can work wonders.  It’s so hard to know… If you don’t know anyone on the inside track, you’re really working in the dark.

Anyway, here’s a work in progress:

Trial

The price of prejudice runs high

the guilty and the judged

the jury of your peers floats by

the signature is smudged

The verdict of the inmate

(the powerless know best)

the innocent are intimate

and call at your behest

The guards like dead policemen

override your sleeping form

reverse two-fingered peace, man

your block goes down a storm

You’re calling on Jehovah

while warders work to rule

slop out till time is over

as they’re witnessing your stool

That’s all I’ve got so far.  It’s a bit rough round the edges.  And I know the “peace man” is a bit contrived – but do you know how few words rhyme with “policeman”?

Kirk out