short note

There are some new pics up on my picasa page.

I'm off to London tomorrow morning to see the folks and others. Beers on the Thames, good food and chat should ensue. I'm writing quite a bit at the moment, so there will be some bits and pieces popping up here and there.

Veronica's posting some old stuff on the roads and paths - check it out. She's ridiculously talented.

The Sox lost last night. They'll win tonight.

I'm crossing my fingers anyway.

rips and tears

My favourite Red Sox hat frays at the brim. Sometimes I burn the errant threads, out of boredom more than anything else. My jeans tear at the cuffs. There are holes over the front pockets. Most of my t-shirts faded a long time ago and I can't think of a jumper I own that's in one piece. Ten years ago there may have been cigarette burns. Nowadays it's wear and (mostly) tear. Jumpers work hard in Scotland.

Sometimes people ask me if I buy my clothes that way, or single them out for abuse to attain a 'look'. I smile and shake my head. There's little point in indignation.

I look scruffy, but I'm comfortable. I'm sure I'd still be comfortable without the holes.

This morning I taped the torn pages of my battered manuscript back together. There isn't an undogged corner. Illegible red scribbles cover the pages. The odd red wine, coffee, beer or tea stain pops up here and there. Now several leaves glisten with tape. It fits in my laptop bag. Every time I pull it out and start going through it some of the pages are out of order, upside down and often both. No matter how many times I fix it, there's always something new to sort out. That's just in the physical sense, not the literary.

I love it, and am proud of it. There is great comfort in its weight, the threadbare pages covered in my words, typed, scrawled and spilled. There will be another, maybe two more 'scripts like this. Before the really heavy one, before the one with a hardcover and a picture of me on the back.

I don't think that will be as comforting. It will be a relief, a vindication, a blessing, a triumph. But not comforting. For me, the comfort is the dogged paperback, squishing into a pocket in my rucksack, read and re-read. Loved. That someone might someday do the same with what I've written, that glimmer of hope that someday this torn and taped 'script will boast a creased spine, page corners folded in lieu of a bookmark, the odd dirty fingerprint and be shoved into the last available space in someone's bag, that's a comforting idea.

I wear my clothes out, I wear my 'script out. It takes time. It takes living. It takes patience.

In the meantime, there's comfort; beers in the sun in tired flip-flops, red ink stains on the top knuckle of my middle finger.

Then an agent, a publisher, somehow and somewhen.

And, perhaps, a new pair of jeans.

re-assessment.

I think I cracked my skull on the way down
I think I lost my head when I lay down
The fear of facts presented in the cold light of day

I say the time has come for decision
Better steer my boat for a reason
Lost on the way I went over horizon
She went out of sight
The girl lost me a lifetime
- The Beta Band, Assessment

My latté is not frappé. It's piping hot and keeping me from shivering in the shop. I refuse to turn the heater on because it's May. The Scottish Weather lulled us all into a false sense of security, and we know it. We knew it. None of us trusted it and we're still surprised that the jumpers and waterproofs are back out of the closet and keeping out the damp and the cold. Any day can have any season here. Mild and sunny in January, bitter and damp in May. It confuses the passage of time. It distracts from how fast it is going.

I've been distracted.

It happens so easily. It's not only the weather. It's everything. I started listening to the chorus. The harmony of voices chiming about jobs, reality, sorting myself out. It gets easier to listen the less protein you've eaten, the more invitations you have to decline, the more you order tap water instead of a beer, the more you mumble the thank-you when your friend takes pity and buys you the beer anyway.

Slowly, I started to forget. Keeping the wolves at bay became more important than dream chasing. Jobs sought became less and less relevant. I've dreamt not of an agent, or a publisher, but of a salary. I've wanted comfort.

Dreams cannot be killed, but they can die. They can stagnate and fade and crumble slowly into vague fancy, leaving the dreamer empty, without even bitterness. If there's bitterness, then the dream isn't dead, it's fighting, reminding, spurring.

It's time to fight, to spur, to remember. To write and rewrite, to pursue, to chase, to know that keeping the wolves at bay is just that and nothing more. I will get angry, bitter, despondent. I will get hungry, thirsty and lonely. But I will be true. I will not be complacent, I will not capitulate to the ease of comfort. I am a writer, and I will write.

I will also turn the heater on. It might be May, but it's fucking cold.

Her eyes red, but there are no tears. Dark smudges beneath them. There have been tears. She nods on the phone and paces the pavement, oblivious to all around her. She looks in the distance and sees who is speaking and the pain they describe all at once. I’m stealing this. It’s her pain and I don’t know her and it doesn’t matter and I want to comfort her but I can’t. I don't know her. So I steal her pain because I’m a coward and I share it to make amends.

I’m so very sorry.

white whiskers

My stubble is now salted. Not hugely so. To be honest, I don't think anyone else notices. But I do. It's a small streak of white whiskers that run down the right side of my chin. My finger finds them at odd moments and twists them, scratches them, assesses them, trying to work out if they're different from the rest. They're not. Not that I can tell at least. But they interest me nonetheless. They are a sign of age that bear no pain. There's no morning stiffness, no prolonged hangover, no pessimism that comes with them. They just are, and I've become quite fond of them.

I don't shave often, twice a week tops. It's not a fashion thing, or a 'look' that I go for, it's just general laziness. If I didn't abhor having a beard so much I probably wouldn't shave at all. Still, it's nice, every once in awhile, to scrub up good. A close shave, shirt and tie. Its infrequency makes it all the more special.

I can't shave at the moment. In the early hours of Sunday morning I took a punch to the chin. A hard one. It knocked my head back into a stone wall and nearly sent my bottom teeth through my lower lip. While my fingers fiddle with my white whiskers my tongue traces the inside of my lip, probing the fast-healing indentations. The base of my skull behind my left ear aches where it hit the wall.

The punch came without provocation or reason. The bonfire was warm, the chat merry, old friends and new sipping wine and waiting for the sun to appear. I don't remember the hit itself. I remember shaking, curled in a ball, being told what happened. I went down. Marcus took a punch to the head, then stopped him, throwing him against the stone and sitting on him. I got up. I retaliated, raining both fists on him. Raging and frightening my friends. I don't remember.

He hit me first. I'd done nothing to him. But I look at the cuts on my knuckles, the bruises on my hand, and it all lingers, unsettled. Wrong in equal parts. He left the beach, confused, apologetic, saying that it wasn't who he was, it wasn't him.

It wasn't me either.

chickens and the weekend.

Collin, the cockerel, does not care whether it's morning or afternoon. He screeches whenever. Having said that, he likes his beauty sleep and the sun is already up by the time he starts his rant. When he will finish is anyone's guess. He's still going now, and it's lunch time. He's a stunning bird, and struts around knowing it. Trixie, his long suffering mate, tolerates his babbling, strutting arrogance with an air of patient resignation.

The weekend beckons, work and play to come. Far more of the latter, I hope.

Some words

Don't eat crisps that are five months out of date, even if you are really hungry (and can't afford anything else). Honest. Take that advice home and cherish it. You'll thank me.

Old friends, good food and a couple of glasses of wine. Banter around the table while the puppy begs for love at your feet. Going onto the roof to watch the waning sun set behind the bridges over the Forth, the city spread out, silhouetted, still, just for you.

Everything is alive right now.

It's going to be an amazing summer. And it's only May.

weekend whirlwind

There was driving.
And then there was sand, and sun, and horses. And many many pictures.
Then there were old friends, still smiling and laughing. Some new friends too; more laughs and smiles.
After that came the stage, massive and inviting. A loud audience hollered and howled and clapped and whooped and wailed.
We made them laugh. We made ourselves laugh.
Heart raced, blood rushed, head buzzed.
I'd forgotten.
We took our bow and went to the bar.
The beer flowed afterwards, then the wine, then the whisky.
There were pretty blue eyes, perfect lips, a beautiful smile.
The morning hurt. An hour or so sleep and a short drive.
Shower. Almost human.
Green fields, blue skies, picnics, horses and a headache.
Food, wine.
Home (someone else's) and a comfy couch.
Awake again and dazed.
Dinner, wine and more friends.
Bed. Six whole hours. Bliss.
Wake-up call.
Bumbled. Charged camera batteries. Ate a bowl of cornflakes.
Green field, grey skies, lots of horses. More picnics, stressed friends.
380 photos. Some of them don't suck.
Pub. Beer, burgers, drunken rugby boys.
Car. More driving.
Home again.

first of the season

This afternoon I wandered in the Edinburgh sunshine and supped upon my first frappé latté of the season. Cool, creamy caffeine goodness put a spring in my step and a slight buzz in my veins. I smiled at pretty girls in summer dresses. All was right with the world.

I refuse to check any news websites in order to maintain this illusion.

Wednesday miscellany

The kitchen's a mess and I have a lot of laundry to do. My manuscript is screaming at me, and one particular piece of editing that I've been avoiding for months... well, its time has finally come. The new belfry has survived its first pause, and should be getting a few more bits and pieces in the near future. I survived a last-minute, hectic photo job on Monday night, which may lead to new things. Over the last week I've received two job rejections and no word from agents.

The highlight of the weekend was a loud, mirthful argument with an incredibly sexy lesbian over which one of us loved vaginas more. I think it was a tie.