too literary...

Tara, the walking rug that keeps me company while I write, is a curious beast. Daschunds tend to be, and long-haired daschunds moreso. I've known a few in my day.

Perhaps they know, deep down, that they look kind of silly. Elongated, sausage-like and earnest. Tara is a lovely dog but ridiculous. Her hair drags grass-cuttings, twigs and all sorts of detritus through the house. She has a beard, snauser-like. Sometimes she feigns back pain to convince Christina to lift her onto the couch, sometimes she deftly leaps to the couch herself, when she thinks that no one's looking. When she's excited to see you, she'll rise to her hind feet, back pain forgotten, and try to give you a hug.

It's endearing. It's also laughable and absurd.

I find myself making fun of Tara. Not in a hurtful way. In a soft voice, usually while scratching her belly or behind her ears. I make fun of her beard, the way her butt shakes when she walks, how badly she smells. The fact that she's a bit thick. I push her away when she tries to lick me.

As long as it's with a gentle voice and looking her straight in the eyes, her feelings don't get hurt. She still tries to lick me and we get along just fine. I reconcile my affection for her with my incredulity at her silliness.

I've been a bit nicer today. More scratches behind the ear and fewer soft-spoken jibes. Her silly presence is welcome.

An email arrived this morning. It was complimentary and vague, written softly. It spoke of how they enjoyed my chapters (but never what they enjoyed about them). It ended the soft compliments with the regret that it was 'too literary' for their agency.

I suppose it's better than being 'too rubbish' or 'too vacuous'.

I could use a hug right now. No words or consolation, just a long, quiet hug.
Instead I'll scratch the belly and behind the ears of a smelly long-haired daschund who I won't even let give me a kiss.

new extinct things.

They found a new dinosaur! A new species, no less. How cool is that?

Well, I think it's cool.

So there.


Listen to I Still Remember and Sunday by Bloc Party.

snap and tang

The sun roof's open, so are the front windows. A warm breeze billows into the car from all directions. The M90 moves apace, The Who belt out Baba O'Reilly, and the road bridge pops onto the horizon. Downhill and up again, the motorway twists and turns. Goosebumps rise on my forearms, and the bridge is just ahead.

The air changes. It drops several degrees. The breeze doesn't billow; it whips and snaps into the car, chilled with the salt tang of the sea.

The windows stay down, the sunroof stays open and the sunlight stays bright.

Scotland in the summer is wondrous. When it's not grey.

And sometimes when it is.

Limbo

–noun, plural -bos.

1.	Roman Catholic Theology. a region on the border of hell or heaven, serving as the abode after death of unbaptized infants (limbo of infants) and of the righteous who died before the coming of Christ (limbo of the fathers or limbo of the patriarchs).

2.	a place or state of oblivion to which persons or things are regarded as being relegated when cast aside, forgotten, past, or out of date: My youthful hopes are in the limbo of lost dreams.

3.	an intermediate, transitional, or midway state or place.

4.	a place or state of imprisonment or confinement.

lim·bo2

–noun, plural -bos.

a dance from the West Indies, originally for men only, in which the dancer bends backward from the knees and moves with a shuffling step under a horizontal bar that is lowered after each successive pass.

I prefer the latter.

leaves

I don't think tea counts as caffeine.

If it does, then yeah, I drank caffeine yesterday. If not, then I didn't. Trying not to drink any today. I'm very sleepy though, and most tempted by thoughts of naps. Naps are civilised.

Cats nap. They seem quite civilised.

Except, of course, when they lick their butts. And cough up hairballs.

Otherwise though, very civilised.

caffeine day II

It's upsetting that coffee isn't tasting good to me anymore. I'm sure it's a temporary thing. It had better be. I think the defining factor is utility. I'm not drinking the coffee because I really want a coffee.
No.
What I really want is a bit of a caffeine detox and a day in bed.
I'm drinking the coffee because I need it to stay awake.
I'm at work.
No.
I'm at my job. It's an important distinction.
I'm not working.
When I do work, it will not be at my job. It will be writing.

Some studies suggest that caffeine is psycho-reactive. That if you ingest it as a stimulant, it acts as such, but if you view it as a relaxant, it will chill you out.

I think that's bollocks. My blood's boiling with the stuff. I'm still exhausted, but shakes keep me awake.

caffeine day

If I shut my eyes, I'll fall asleep.

Today I'm writing, selling wine and taking pictures.

That's everything I do. Well, everything I do for a living...

The latter two are hobbies, but the only ones I get paid for.

Go figure.

1 triple espresso latte down and I can control my eyelids again.

Another and I might forget how warm my bed is.

I doubt it though.

ideas

The sambuca was my idea.

So was the whisky.

As was the gin and tonic.

And it wouldn't be a birthday without several pints of Guinness.

And the odd lager. And a couple of Little Creatures.

Oh, and there was a half bottle of Californian Orange Muscat.

But I didn't drink much of that.

Someone else did. On the beach, curled up against the wind, the pink, orange and pale blue of the hidden sun crawling beneath the northern horizon.

My clothes smelled of bonfire yesterday morning.

And my head hurt.

tomorrow morning

The clock will say 6 - something and I'll be awake. The sky will be dank and grey - a sort of daylight. Pillows askew, duvet kicked to the end of the bed, for a moment I'll wonder where I am. Mystery solved I'll scratch my stubble and run my hand through hair that isn't there. Math begins. Hours until my flight, time to stretch and run, time to pack, to eat breakfast, to get to the airport, to do it all and not feel rushed.

I'll get up and scratch my head again. It doesn't itch, but it wakes me up.

I'll smile and think of everything to come.

I'll be 31 tomorrow.

comfort glove (too hot for security blankets)

The London Belfry is clutter-filled and only some of it is mine. Though mine is the most cluttered.

From my seat I see a turntable, a disused laser printer, a pile of clean laundry, countless blank cds, odd shoes, a belt, drawerless files, a pair of binoculars, several pairs of headphones, an empty beer bottle (guilty), a bag of paper for recycling and a baseball glove.

The glove is new, and it's mine. A birthday gift requested on a whim and given early. The leather's still stiff and I don't have a ball down here to break it in. I've been wearing it quite a bit. Rubbing oil into it. Squeezing it, squishing it. Smacking my fist into it and pretending to wind into a pitch. Wanting it to be broken in already, for the stiffness in my left pinky to disappear. Wondering if I have any friends in Scotland with gloves so that I can actually play catch. I don't think I do. It doesn't matter. Not really.

I can't type with it on. Not with the left hand anyway. So now it's laying amidst the rest of the clutter. When I get up from the keyboard and pace I'll slip it on and and start smacking, bending and twisting again, not thinking of baseball. Thinking of the next word, sentence, paragraph, chapter, book.