Pretty well every day now, at noon, I am sure there is a breeze.
At night, on the bare boards of the deserted girls' bedroom.
Darling, this letter is secret. That means secret, equals US Top Secret.
Though brilliantly sunny, Saturday morning was overcoat weather.
The father, the son, light a candle, kneel, and pray to ghosts.
If you really want to hear about it.
Perhaps the Cape Town Express passes in the next valley, a tree sways, a butterfly, a bird rises, and the air moves.
It is thirty-six years to the day since our wedding.
One night some twenty years ago.
Much later, the air in my hut shifts.
I hear you whispering, "This is the wind, the wind down a long valley."
The facts at hand presumably speak for themselves
Finally, the last one to know, I found out about my wife's affair.
At times, frankly, I find it slim pickings
There are many unsuitable jobs for a particularly private person; Agony Aunt, for example,
Rexler, the man who wrote all those books on theatre
What do you do about death? In this case the death of an old father?
I almost began, "My Dear Child"
This is him, making their packed lunches, two packed lunches; what could be simpler?
The birds chirped away, "Phweet, Phweet."
This is all bollocks, lies. No. Well, if it's the truth it's that GOVT ISSUE economical kind, or it's "spin".
Dizzy with perplexities, seduced by a restless spirit.
I was lying on the sofa, under a duvet with the kids, one each side.
There were, in all, six white people who lived at Sego Desert Lake
This is a sad tale about a stripeless zebra, a hyena who never laughed and a lion in a swiss zoo who wanted to learn to yodel and swim with dolphins.
Yes I knew the guy. We were kids together in Chicago.
He was a hard kid, a thin, tough body, and fire in the belly, quick to react
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
2009 Prompts. 27-Dec-2008
Do NOT Blink!
Survivors
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
I am growing old but I remember, Jenny kissed me.
By the punnet
Once there was a road here and carts passed
and that has made all the difference
I hear horns, and calling, out in the frost
We are in the business of chocolate
No time to see, in broad daylight
The echo and the blood-lust of a train
Once I was a girl, then drip, a boy became
Ah, distinctly, I remember, it was a hot August night
Some new trick, some trap
And in their turn were they fucked up, remember that
Snake
When ghosts walked the earth
An audio tape will accompany this book
And every April they would paint it pink
And I have known the eyes already, every one
and its flesh was sweet
Survivors
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
I am growing old but I remember, Jenny kissed me.
By the punnet
Once there was a road here and carts passed
and that has made all the difference
I hear horns, and calling, out in the frost
We are in the business of chocolate
No time to see, in broad daylight
The echo and the blood-lust of a train
Once I was a girl, then drip, a boy became
Ah, distinctly, I remember, it was a hot August night
Some new trick, some trap
And in their turn were they fucked up, remember that
Snake
When ghosts walked the earth
An audio tape will accompany this book
And every April they would paint it pink
And I have known the eyes already, every one
and its flesh was sweet
Friday, December 26, 2008
Boxing Day Prompts
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet
In love with the chaplain
Dew on a spider's web
Desire and excitement are not the great fires
There was a tree down
I wouldn't thank you for a valentine
It's tough being a boy; all those girl mechanics whistling
BINGO!
I will keep on translating. What else is there?
In love with the chaplain
Dew on a spider's web
Desire and excitement are not the great fires
There was a tree down
I wouldn't thank you for a valentine
It's tough being a boy; all those girl mechanics whistling
BINGO!
I will keep on translating. What else is there?
Monday, December 22, 2008
Prompts, 22nd
Down by one of the fish-houses
We took turns at laying an ear on the rail
I am safe but the land is darkening
Behind everything, in little villages, in garages
Let us set off for somewhere
I have crossed the border
No dream kitchen, just the fire
The birds are massing; the sky is black
Early morning, Fairhaven, Massachusetts
A fox in the chickens
I bought some fresh potatoes
I love to go out when the weather is undecided
Nothing but blackberries
Every year you say it isn't worth the trouble
Gleaming machines
We took turns at laying an ear on the rail
I am safe but the land is darkening
Behind everything, in little villages, in garages
Let us set off for somewhere
I have crossed the border
No dream kitchen, just the fire
The birds are massing; the sky is black
Early morning, Fairhaven, Massachusetts
A fox in the chickens
I bought some fresh potatoes
I love to go out when the weather is undecided
Nothing but blackberries
Every year you say it isn't worth the trouble
Gleaming machines
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Almost Xmas Prompts
This is dangerous; it should not be left near children
iceberg
Hold it up to the light
Like a crow fallen down a chimney
In a boat without oars
A bud
Rise bird, hop branch to branch and reach the sky
ONION
it is a cold, fatty, evening
The barrows are here, the nets, but the men are gone
I have seen it, over and over and over and over
I look from the train. Two boys play football in a muddy field
What if this road never ended?
I would like to be milk
He dropped in darkness from the moving, clanking train
Problems with Fish
I have a low fire
Wild Geese flying low, smoke curling
iceberg
Hold it up to the light
Like a crow fallen down a chimney
In a boat without oars
A bud
Rise bird, hop branch to branch and reach the sky
ONION
it is a cold, fatty, evening
The barrows are here, the nets, but the men are gone
I have seen it, over and over and over and over
I look from the train. Two boys play football in a muddy field
What if this road never ended?
I would like to be milk
He dropped in darkness from the moving, clanking train
Problems with Fish
I have a low fire
Wild Geese flying low, smoke curling
Friday, December 19, 2008
Prompts, Friday
What they are not about is pain
Zena has taken the dogs away
One thousand five hundred houses
SLAG
There's a difference between being a survivor and surviving
Bloody Murder
Some New Ambush
The White Road
The Scent of Cinnamon
Various Communications from Down Under
Too ugly to be a Possum
and you will know that you have lost her
Kenna's Dilemma
Is it worth anything on Ebay?
I am not yet born, hear me!
He's broken every law there is
When fishes flew and forests walked
Zena has taken the dogs away
One thousand five hundred houses
SLAG
There's a difference between being a survivor and surviving
Bloody Murder
Some New Ambush
The White Road
The Scent of Cinnamon
Various Communications from Down Under
Too ugly to be a Possum
and you will know that you have lost her
Kenna's Dilemma
Is it worth anything on Ebay?
I am not yet born, hear me!
He's broken every law there is
When fishes flew and forests walked
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Thursday Prompts 21:25
Ivory, Peacocks
Nodding by the fire
I leant on a gate
Today we have the naming of parts
Don't ask ME!
Oh, I have slipped the pull of earth
For a journey, a journey, such a long journey
Small lawns, small people, and echoing TVs
Only the monstrous anger
They've closed the new road, try the valley
Badgers
No prayers, no bells
Bloody men are like bloody scooters
I got on a half-empty train
PING!
We walked all day through a tall, swaying heat
His black heart
He did not wear his scarlet coat
I have been so great a lover
The sky is good for flying, Mrs Jones
Among long-discarded vestments
I remember, I remember
SNAKE!
Nodding by the fire
I leant on a gate
Today we have the naming of parts
Don't ask ME!
Oh, I have slipped the pull of earth
For a journey, a journey, such a long journey
Small lawns, small people, and echoing TVs
Only the monstrous anger
They've closed the new road, try the valley
Badgers
No prayers, no bells
Bloody men are like bloody scooters
I got on a half-empty train
PING!
We walked all day through a tall, swaying heat
His black heart
He did not wear his scarlet coat
I have been so great a lover
The sky is good for flying, Mrs Jones
Among long-discarded vestments
I remember, I remember
SNAKE!
Timer!
Done Mine
Finished at 20:35 (36 minutes)
a few typos.
Posted corrected version at 20:43 (605 words)
Finished at 20:35 (36 minutes)
a few typos.
Posted corrected version at 20:43 (605 words)
Thursday Evening Blast - 1
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees
What is this life if full of care
We have no time to stand and stare?
Now I was young and easy
The ploughman, slowly home
The sea is calm tonight
Stop all the clocks, cut of the telephone
Who can remember Arram?
and miles to go before I sleep
Everyone suddenly burst out singing
When you are old and grey and watching reality TV
Oggle-goggle
Once I stole a bloke's Honda
There is some corner, let me sit there quiet
Firewood, iron, and cheap tin trays
Bloop
Now I am an old man, disgusting in Lycra
And seeing how I am not quite appreciated
Butting through the channel
What is this life if full of care
We have no time to stand and stare?
Now I was young and easy
The ploughman, slowly home
The sea is calm tonight
Stop all the clocks, cut of the telephone
Who can remember Arram?
and miles to go before I sleep
Everyone suddenly burst out singing
When you are old and grey and watching reality TV
Oggle-goggle
Once I stole a bloke's Honda
There is some corner, let me sit there quiet
Firewood, iron, and cheap tin trays
Bloop
Now I am an old man, disgusting in Lycra
And seeing how I am not quite appreciated
Butting through the channel
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Great Stuff Happening in BC
We've had a few ex-members return, and a fresh influx of keen newbies.
The grid has been revamped and there's a new guide to critiquing in January.
And there are GREAT special offers for 3-month, 6-month and Annual memberships
03 Months Save £18
06 Months Save 25%
12 Months save a whopping 50%
These figures apply to BC-PRO
BC Standard
03 Months Save £12
06 Months Save 25%
12 Months save 50%
We will also have a members-only, virtually-free, area, a "Boot Camp Annexe" for those who want to talk craft and writing intelligently but don't want or need the writing-critting regime.
Drop in at http://bootcampkeegan.yuku.com/directory
Say hello, ask whatever questions you like. Browse and see a list of links to hundreds of Boot Camper stories available on the web.
Alternatively email
alex.keegan (at) btinternet (dot) com
Cheers!
Alex
The grid has been revamped and there's a new guide to critiquing in January.
And there are GREAT special offers for 3-month, 6-month and Annual memberships
03 Months Save £18
06 Months Save 25%
12 Months save a whopping 50%
These figures apply to BC-PRO
BC Standard
03 Months Save £12
06 Months Save 25%
12 Months save 50%
We will also have a members-only, virtually-free, area, a "Boot Camp Annexe" for those who want to talk craft and writing intelligently but don't want or need the writing-critting regime.
Drop in at http://bootcampkeegan.yuku.com/directory
Say hello, ask whatever questions you like. Browse and see a list of links to hundreds of Boot Camper stories available on the web.
Alternatively email
alex.keegan (at) btinternet (dot) com
Cheers!
Alex
Wednesday Prompts
My father, booting home. It rains.
You're twelve, thirteen, the door is locked.
Outside, there is nothing that I need
There you go again, diving in
A sand-box
Mummy, mummy, there's an armoured tank in the front room!
You can blame many things on ABBA
Somewhere on the streets of Paris
I will cut my hair too short and speak too loud
Frankie's gotta blade
So what IS this thing with Flamingos, the one-leg thing?
In an easy, uncomplicated way
Hood
My father shot the Christmas roast, and then turned to us
Here is a bird that will never be
I decide and feel everything begin to simmer
I may be the Mayor of Bombay
Swimming up the Amazon, patient.
I am a child. They bury me.
They were at my table, talking. They are dead.
You're twelve, thirteen, the door is locked.
Outside, there is nothing that I need
There you go again, diving in
A sand-box
Mummy, mummy, there's an armoured tank in the front room!
You can blame many things on ABBA
Somewhere on the streets of Paris
I will cut my hair too short and speak too loud
Frankie's gotta blade
So what IS this thing with Flamingos, the one-leg thing?
In an easy, uncomplicated way
Hood
My father shot the Christmas roast, and then turned to us
Here is a bird that will never be
I decide and feel everything begin to simmer
I may be the Mayor of Bombay
Swimming up the Amazon, patient.
I am a child. They bury me.
They were at my table, talking. They are dead.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Prompts
It begins as a creaking, a sort of ache
CROWS
The skyline bristles, the sky behind is red
BRAZEN
The gate will not rest
Grave men, who when near death, see with a sharper light
The magic of the persistent question
I am not sure if I'm still here
The without eye, the tongue within
There are walls that stand and walls that will crumble
Why the giraffe? Why the elephant?
He pulls at the cloth and cups spill
Sucking the decayed breasts of death
There are leaves on the water, but the water is pink
He spreads his knees, he laughs
OK, let's go!
The soot that falls from dead cold chimneys
The ship of fools is in dock
Falling and Flying are the same: only the landing is different
My father in my mirror
Black book, blank book, blank look
A Hanging
Whose woods are these?
BELLS
A confederacy of the delusional
PUS
I me a traveler, a simple soul, and quiet
SLICE
That Easter I was late leaving, things to tidy up
RAZOR
CROWS
The skyline bristles, the sky behind is red
BRAZEN
The gate will not rest
Grave men, who when near death, see with a sharper light
The magic of the persistent question
I am not sure if I'm still here
The without eye, the tongue within
There are walls that stand and walls that will crumble
Why the giraffe? Why the elephant?
He pulls at the cloth and cups spill
Sucking the decayed breasts of death
There are leaves on the water, but the water is pink
He spreads his knees, he laughs
OK, let's go!
The soot that falls from dead cold chimneys
The ship of fools is in dock
Falling and Flying are the same: only the landing is different
My father in my mirror
Black book, blank book, blank look
A Hanging
Whose woods are these?
BELLS
A confederacy of the delusional
PUS
I me a traveler, a simple soul, and quiet
SLICE
That Easter I was late leaving, things to tidy up
RAZOR
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Further Clarification
I hear tonight that someone, "Rafiki" has noted that TLC was "a temporarily free forum" and that I was only at WD to recruit members.
Does this dummy not think that had I wanted to be sneaky I would not have published that fact publicly?
Yes a non-charging TLC was temporary, but the onset of Writers Dock charging was SONNY's idea. Writers Dock today AFTER I had left, announced they would be charging for membership of TLC. WD brought in charges for new members three months ago and wanted me to charge for TLC at the rate of thirty pounds a month. That was delayed for one reason only; because I told Sonny to wait until TLC members began to score hits and win prizes.
So to clarify. The charging was at the behest of the owner of Writers Dock and it was me who delayed the imposition of the charge.
The ten weeks work, the articles, the stories, the critiques (I have critiqued every single story and flash posted) was completely free.
TLC members have already posted about how much they learned and how disappointed they are.
I repeat I was NOT banned. I left because the situation was impossible.
Alex Keegan
Does this dummy not think that had I wanted to be sneaky I would not have published that fact publicly?
Yes a non-charging TLC was temporary, but the onset of Writers Dock charging was SONNY's idea. Writers Dock today AFTER I had left, announced they would be charging for membership of TLC. WD brought in charges for new members three months ago and wanted me to charge for TLC at the rate of thirty pounds a month. That was delayed for one reason only; because I told Sonny to wait until TLC members began to score hits and win prizes.
So to clarify. The charging was at the behest of the owner of Writers Dock and it was me who delayed the imposition of the charge.
The ten weeks work, the articles, the stories, the critiques (I have critiqued every single story and flash posted) was completely free.
TLC members have already posted about how much they learned and how disappointed they are.
I repeat I was NOT banned. I left because the situation was impossible.
Alex Keegan
Writers Dock
This morning I decided to leave Writers Dock.
Shortly I will post to explain why.
But I think it's important to clarify something.
Over the years Boot Camp has waxed and waned. It gets newcomers, people develop and leave to:
Have a baby
Start an MA or MFA
Write a novel
etc
BC has always need around 24 members so that at any time 12-18 are active. We work intensely, brilliantly, successfully.
This last eighteen months I took my eye off the ball while renovating the chapel in Wales and the membership slipped. The place was still working (it still is today) but it felt lifeless.
I was a dormant member at Writers Dock, dormant, because frankly it was a very amateurish place run by amateurs, for amateurs. But there were a few souls there who wanted Writers Dock to be more and they had a new section for critiquing critiques, and that's MY kind of country.
So, as Cheesepuff, a membership I'd had since 2005, I began to post.
As is standard in these cases, certain baboons on certain rocks began to bare their teeth, but Sonny, the owner of the site confided in me that the site was struggling and atrophying and needed something like Boot Camp.
I set up an open forum "Tough Love Central" then a closed group "Tough Love Writing Group 1" and a third forum "Story Week 1", another "Story Follow-up" and a fifth for Flashes.
In just ten weeks we trebled the size of the membership
Below are the statistics. Appreciate this is from scratch in a partly-hostile environment.
TEN WEEKS
10 (08) Initial membership/True Membership
29 (24) Current Membership/True Membership
00,460 Threads (46 per week)
05,553 Posts (555 per week)
44,491 Views (4,490 per week)
01,447 New Writing Prompts (145 per week)
00,087 New Flashes (9 per week)
00,085 New Stories (9 per week)
00,004 New Stories not yet posted
00,005 Other Stories
00,181 Total Stories (18 per week)
00,975 Total Critiques (incl professional stories) (98 per week)
00,616 STORY Critiques (61 per week)
00,328 Flash Responses/Crits (33 per week)
00,007 Story Full critiques per-story average (7.25)
00,004 Crit Responses per Flash average (3.77)
00,018 Craft Threads
00,004 Professional Stories Discussed
00,003 Craft Articles (NEW)
00,003 Craft Articles (OLD)
00,002 Writing Exercises
00,129 Submissions
00,024 Rejections
00,100 Stories Circulating
00,014 Hits
00,001 Major Prize Finalist
00,001 Notes
00,005 Publications
However, when an individual was castigated by a Draconian moderator for using a TLC prompt, I pointed out (not remotely flaming) why the castigation was wrong. The baboons rose up, as they always do. However, reading the various posts in WD you'd be forgiven for imagining that I had sent nasty emails or private messages. I did not. Not one. My privileges as a moderator were removed, so I told Sonny I would be leaving as soon as I had removed my stories, my articles and the Boot Camp grid.
I hear tonight that someone, "Rafiki" has noted that TLC was "a temporarily free forum" and that I was only at WD to recruit members.
Yes it was, but the onset of charges was SONNY's idea. WD brought in charges for new members three months ago and wanted me to charge for TLC at the rate of thirty pounds a month. That was delayed for one reason only; because I told Sonny to wait until TLC members began to score hits and win prizes.
So to clarify. The charging was at the behest of the owner of Writers Dock and it was me who delayed the imposition of the charge.
I've left WD (they blocked my ID immediately and have not allowed me to remove my personal files) and I have not solicited any WD member and suggested they join Boot Camp
Alex Keegan
Shortly I will post to explain why.
But I think it's important to clarify something.
Over the years Boot Camp has waxed and waned. It gets newcomers, people develop and leave to:
Have a baby
Start an MA or MFA
Write a novel
etc
BC has always need around 24 members so that at any time 12-18 are active. We work intensely, brilliantly, successfully.
This last eighteen months I took my eye off the ball while renovating the chapel in Wales and the membership slipped. The place was still working (it still is today) but it felt lifeless.
I was a dormant member at Writers Dock, dormant, because frankly it was a very amateurish place run by amateurs, for amateurs. But there were a few souls there who wanted Writers Dock to be more and they had a new section for critiquing critiques, and that's MY kind of country.
So, as Cheesepuff, a membership I'd had since 2005, I began to post.
As is standard in these cases, certain baboons on certain rocks began to bare their teeth, but Sonny, the owner of the site confided in me that the site was struggling and atrophying and needed something like Boot Camp.
I set up an open forum "Tough Love Central" then a closed group "Tough Love Writing Group 1" and a third forum "Story Week 1", another "Story Follow-up" and a fifth for Flashes.
In just ten weeks we trebled the size of the membership
Below are the statistics. Appreciate this is from scratch in a partly-hostile environment.
TEN WEEKS
10 (08) Initial membership/True Membership
29 (24) Current Membership/True Membership
00,460 Threads (46 per week)
05,553 Posts (555 per week)
44,491 Views (4,490 per week)
01,447 New Writing Prompts (145 per week)
00,087 New Flashes (9 per week)
00,085 New Stories (9 per week)
00,004 New Stories not yet posted
00,005 Other Stories
00,181 Total Stories (18 per week)
00,975 Total Critiques (incl professional stories) (98 per week)
00,616 STORY Critiques (61 per week)
00,328 Flash Responses/Crits (33 per week)
00,007 Story Full critiques per-story average (7.25)
00,004 Crit Responses per Flash average (3.77)
00,018 Craft Threads
00,004 Professional Stories Discussed
00,003 Craft Articles (NEW)
00,003 Craft Articles (OLD)
00,002 Writing Exercises
00,129 Submissions
00,024 Rejections
00,100 Stories Circulating
00,014 Hits
00,001 Major Prize Finalist
00,001 Notes
00,005 Publications
However, when an individual was castigated by a Draconian moderator for using a TLC prompt, I pointed out (not remotely flaming) why the castigation was wrong. The baboons rose up, as they always do. However, reading the various posts in WD you'd be forgiven for imagining that I had sent nasty emails or private messages. I did not. Not one. My privileges as a moderator were removed, so I told Sonny I would be leaving as soon as I had removed my stories, my articles and the Boot Camp grid.
I hear tonight that someone, "Rafiki" has noted that TLC was "a temporarily free forum" and that I was only at WD to recruit members.
Yes it was, but the onset of charges was SONNY's idea. WD brought in charges for new members three months ago and wanted me to charge for TLC at the rate of thirty pounds a month. That was delayed for one reason only; because I told Sonny to wait until TLC members began to score hits and win prizes.
So to clarify. The charging was at the behest of the owner of Writers Dock and it was me who delayed the imposition of the charge.
I've left WD (they blocked my ID immediately and have not allowed me to remove my personal files) and I have not solicited any WD member and suggested they join Boot Camp
Alex Keegan
Friday, December 12, 2008
URLs for Radio Interviews
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p001pbzz
Interview starts 2:08:18 in.
BBC Radio Berkshire
http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p001p9bk/Andrew_Peach_12_12_2008/
Interview starts about 30 minutes 24 seconds in
Southern Counties Breakfast ran something every day. Friday's is
http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p001pc2r/Sussex_Breakfast_12_12_2008/
and the interview starts 42 mins : 29 seconds in
Interview starts 2:08:18 in.
BBC Radio Berkshire
http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p001p9bk/Andrew_Peach_12_12_2008/
Interview starts about 30 minutes 24 seconds in
Southern Counties Breakfast ran something every day. Friday's is
http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p001pc2r/Sussex_Breakfast_12_12_2008/
and the interview starts 42 mins : 29 seconds in
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Radio Interviews & Vanessa Gebbie's Blog
I'm on a few radio stations tomorrow (see below)
an also on Vanessa Gebbie's Blog
http://www.vanessagebbiesnews.blogspot.com/
BBC Radio Berkshire between 0720 and 0800
http://www.bbc.co.uk/berkshire/local_radio/
and
BBC Radio Solent at approximately 0815
http://www.bbc.co.uk/hampshire/local_radio/index.shtml
I'm also on
BBC Southern Counties Radio, some time between 7 & 10
_________________
an also on Vanessa Gebbie's Blog
http://www.vanessagebbiesnews.blogspot.com/
BBC Radio Berkshire between 0720 and 0800
http://www.bbc.co.uk/berkshire/local_radio/
and
BBC Radio Solent at approximately 0815
http://www.bbc.co.uk/hampshire/local_radio/index.shtml
I'm also on
BBC Southern Counties Radio, some time between 7 & 10
_________________
Another Interview
I will be on BBC RADIO BERKSHIRE's Breakfast Show tomorrow, Friday 12th December, the twentieth anniversary of the Clapham Crash.
Time to be confirmed.
Alex
Time to be confirmed.
Alex
Monday, December 08, 2008
Interviews!
There's a long interview of mine being run over five days on BBC Southern Counties Radio
Fred Marden's early-morning show (0700-0900)
I suspect that interview will focus on the Clapham Crash (Dec 12th 1988) and maybe the writing will get a mention on Friday.
A much more detailed interview starts soon on Vanessa Gebbie's Blog, starting Friday 12th and running for a number of days
http://www.vanessagebbiesnews.blogspot.com/
Fred Marden's early-morning show (0700-0900)
I suspect that interview will focus on the Clapham Crash (Dec 12th 1988) and maybe the writing will get a mention on Friday.
A much more detailed interview starts soon on Vanessa Gebbie's Blog, starting Friday 12th and running for a number of days
http://www.vanessagebbiesnews.blogspot.com/
Thursday, December 04, 2008
WALLS
WALLS
A man thinks, of a wall.
He might rush - another man would rush - dash out for bricks, come back, realise he didn't buy cement, rush out again. What bricks? Does it matter? Do they matter? Just bricks, you know, bricks. A wall is a wall is a wall.
And cement. You need cement, I guess. And you end up with some sort of wall.
No, this man, he thinks. Why a wall? What kind of wall? A wall for shade, or in the shade? Straight, curved, straight and curved? Ornate, or a plain-Joe wall, red-bricked, solid, neat white pointing. What kind of foundations? How deep, how wide, single brick or doubled? Spaces? Ties? What does the wall want? What will the wall say?
Will people look, say, "Nice wall!" or will the wall merely protect, watch backs and small people picnic on fine grass before it? Will they breathe out as the flop before the wall; drop onto blankets, sigh, feeling something is solid here, and the view, the view, the wall behind them, a mother's skirt they don't know they hold?
Brick. Red is usual, but there are many browns, yellows, grey. Or stone, should we think stone? Brick and Stone? Stone & Brick? Are we looking ahead, thinking of sticky-footed ivy, tacked trellises, roses, Russian vines? What shall the wall carry? Does the wall need to look good now (but one day it will be beautiful) or can we have a bare wall, an under-garment, because we know what comes next, a year, two, ten, a century on? If a wall is ugly now, will they leave it to become beautiful? If we make it pretty now, will it last to become beautiful? Is pretty now death for his wall?
Or perhaps he can hide his will-be-beautiful-one-day wall. Make the wall of a house, the house of a street, the street a village (but he knows it's all about his wall). He can laugh, "It's just a wall. A wall is a wall is a wall," and avoid those questions, refuse to talk when people say, but it feels more than just a wall, did you?
He has always been fascinated by walls. Tall red walls round English country gardens, dry walls across Bronteian moors. Neat yellow-bricked and fawn walls in tidy gardens, walls under green, surrounding old orchards, marble walls and steel walls, and walls of ice, even water-walls.
Inner walls and outer walls, thick walls, thin. Speedy walls and slapdash, crusty walls, lath-and-plaster, crumbling walls, rubble.
Once he looked at walls without seeing. A wall is a wall is a wall. Then one day - was he in love, was it hot? something was different - he just felt things, felt the way walls were, sensed the way walls are, how walls would be. And he started drawing his walls. To be frank, he drew walls poorly. He sketched, he caricatured, he misrepresented. He painted a little, but he was not an artist. He took photographs, read about walls in books, watched films about walls, listened to the radio, but mostly he just lived with walls, learned how to touch them, sense their breathing, understand where they had come from, rubble and mud, shepherds' bones, clay, chiselled ash, flint, horse-hair.
Now he is ready, a wall calls, a wall waits.
He sits in the sun. If a wall was here, just so, like this, here would be a pleasant spot. He feels a wall coming to him. He is desperate to begin, but he will not rush. He will not even imagine.
Instead, he drinks a little wine. He eats a little cheese. He breaks bread.
And pyramids, temples, Berlin, all float in the air. He sees brethren, ropes and pulleys, a barn flying upright (another burning, screams), and castles battered, undermined, and peace walls and ghetto walls, graffiti, paper, lacquer, hotel walls, a black, shining wall in the Capitol, names, names, names, and he breathes softly, a shepherd, a mason, a joiner, a poet, a man. He nibbles, sips, and then the wall begins to whisper, "I am ready. I will be."
692 words
A man thinks, of a wall.
He might rush - another man would rush - dash out for bricks, come back, realise he didn't buy cement, rush out again. What bricks? Does it matter? Do they matter? Just bricks, you know, bricks. A wall is a wall is a wall.
And cement. You need cement, I guess. And you end up with some sort of wall.
No, this man, he thinks. Why a wall? What kind of wall? A wall for shade, or in the shade? Straight, curved, straight and curved? Ornate, or a plain-Joe wall, red-bricked, solid, neat white pointing. What kind of foundations? How deep, how wide, single brick or doubled? Spaces? Ties? What does the wall want? What will the wall say?
Will people look, say, "Nice wall!" or will the wall merely protect, watch backs and small people picnic on fine grass before it? Will they breathe out as the flop before the wall; drop onto blankets, sigh, feeling something is solid here, and the view, the view, the wall behind them, a mother's skirt they don't know they hold?
Brick. Red is usual, but there are many browns, yellows, grey. Or stone, should we think stone? Brick and Stone? Stone & Brick? Are we looking ahead, thinking of sticky-footed ivy, tacked trellises, roses, Russian vines? What shall the wall carry? Does the wall need to look good now (but one day it will be beautiful) or can we have a bare wall, an under-garment, because we know what comes next, a year, two, ten, a century on? If a wall is ugly now, will they leave it to become beautiful? If we make it pretty now, will it last to become beautiful? Is pretty now death for his wall?
Or perhaps he can hide his will-be-beautiful-one-day wall. Make the wall of a house, the house of a street, the street a village (but he knows it's all about his wall). He can laugh, "It's just a wall. A wall is a wall is a wall," and avoid those questions, refuse to talk when people say, but it feels more than just a wall, did you?
He has always been fascinated by walls. Tall red walls round English country gardens, dry walls across Bronteian moors. Neat yellow-bricked and fawn walls in tidy gardens, walls under green, surrounding old orchards, marble walls and steel walls, and walls of ice, even water-walls.
Inner walls and outer walls, thick walls, thin. Speedy walls and slapdash, crusty walls, lath-and-plaster, crumbling walls, rubble.
Once he looked at walls without seeing. A wall is a wall is a wall. Then one day - was he in love, was it hot? something was different - he just felt things, felt the way walls were, sensed the way walls are, how walls would be. And he started drawing his walls. To be frank, he drew walls poorly. He sketched, he caricatured, he misrepresented. He painted a little, but he was not an artist. He took photographs, read about walls in books, watched films about walls, listened to the radio, but mostly he just lived with walls, learned how to touch them, sense their breathing, understand where they had come from, rubble and mud, shepherds' bones, clay, chiselled ash, flint, horse-hair.
Now he is ready, a wall calls, a wall waits.
He sits in the sun. If a wall was here, just so, like this, here would be a pleasant spot. He feels a wall coming to him. He is desperate to begin, but he will not rush. He will not even imagine.
Instead, he drinks a little wine. He eats a little cheese. He breaks bread.
And pyramids, temples, Berlin, all float in the air. He sees brethren, ropes and pulleys, a barn flying upright (another burning, screams), and castles battered, undermined, and peace walls and ghetto walls, graffiti, paper, lacquer, hotel walls, a black, shining wall in the Capitol, names, names, names, and he breathes softly, a shepherd, a mason, a joiner, a poet, a man. He nibbles, sips, and then the wall begins to whisper, "I am ready. I will be."
692 words
Malcolm Gladwell
Malcolm Gladwell: "Outliers-the Story of Success" 7:44am
I read an article by Malcolm Gladwell about the time it takes to be very good at anything (10,000 Hours) and that tied in with my beliefs about the sheer VOLUME we have to produce to gain mastery of our writing.
Beginners and intermediates take a lot of convincing over this. I say quantity begets quality but so much of “common-knowledge” suggests the opposite.
Anyway, I had to buy Gladwell’s book, even though we’re broke and I picked up his book “Blink” which is just as good a read. In Blink, Gladwell talks about instant decision-making and how it works, why it’s often brilliantly effective. But in there is much more including how easy it is to change people’s moods AND behaviour merely by salting a conversation with key words. That was, frankly, a bit scary, as was the tests that can show, even for those of us who believe race and colour is irrelevant, just what in-built biases we have.
These books are really excellent, great reads, stimulating, but also, VERY important for serious writers.
Alex
I read an article by Malcolm Gladwell about the time it takes to be very good at anything (10,000 Hours) and that tied in with my beliefs about the sheer VOLUME we have to produce to gain mastery of our writing.
Beginners and intermediates take a lot of convincing over this. I say quantity begets quality but so much of “common-knowledge” suggests the opposite.
Anyway, I had to buy Gladwell’s book, even though we’re broke and I picked up his book “Blink” which is just as good a read. In Blink, Gladwell talks about instant decision-making and how it works, why it’s often brilliantly effective. But in there is much more including how easy it is to change people’s moods AND behaviour merely by salting a conversation with key words. That was, frankly, a bit scary, as was the tests that can show, even for those of us who believe race and colour is irrelevant, just what in-built biases we have.
These books are really excellent, great reads, stimulating, but also, VERY important for serious writers.
Alex
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