The Word Cloud

I know from reading other people’s blogs and posts on this site that I am by no means the only one who struggles with time issues in the busy, busy world that is all of our lives.

I don’t know about you guys but, when writing, it can take me a while to bring myself into ‘that place’ where a scene may be set or into the mindset of a character at a given point. It’s so hard after, say, watching a great comedy on TV to drag yourself into the depths of despair in order to write a tear-jerking scene or similarly, it’s difficult to write comedy after the day from hell. It's doubly difficult when there are constant distractions all around.

 

Do any of you have any tips on speedy ways to get yourself ‘there’? Personally, I don’t. I’ve given up.

 

I’ve tried sticking ‘do not disturb’ notices on the door but it makes not a jot of difference. After only two minutes, people still say ‘just popping through for a drink’ or ‘where’s the spare light bulb for the cooker hood’ or ‘can Lauren sleep over a week on Thursday’?

 

Ten minutes of peace, that’s all I ask, just ten minutes together, sans interruption. You may as well ask for the earth!

 

How do you cope?

He went back to the bins behind McDonalds for the fourth time that day. It occurred to him he was losing it. The bins were empty, same as last time. 

No harm in looking, though, just in case. A breeze raised a couple of sheets of a yellowed newspaper further along the alley. Fresh air. Really ironic, he thought. He knew he was beginning to smell.

Walking over to grab the sheets, he saw two uniformed figures hanging around at the ends of cigarettes. He ducked behind an open gate, then sat down just around the wall. His shoes were still wet from the downpour, and the ground was bone cold. He should move, he knew it, but the will to stand was draining from him along with the energy.

Eyes closed, he tried not to think about food, or how he was going to find a safe place for the night. A lot of walking, looking for a place. The blisters were getting worse by the hour. Strange, but he found himself not caring. Rest was  a luxury, but a dangerous one. He had to move.

A couple of minutes to stand up. Long, painful minutes, the spine wasn't up to it. He began to move, still arched, feet dragging, breath rasping in short bursts. In, out. In, out. The monotony made him feel like a machine, a hopeless, burnt-out, ragged, smelly machine.

Beowulf

 

Every night for 12 years the huge monster, Grendel, broke into Hrothgar’s great hall, ate fifteen warriors, grabbed fifteen more and legged it.  Hrothgar said, ‘Will you pack that in?’ Word reached Beowulf, across the sea, who said ‘I can sort that Grendel out’.  Hrothgar said ‘Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.’

 

So, first night Grendel turns up and Beowulf rips his arm clean off.  Grendel runs sobbing back to his lair, proving all bullies are cowards really. 

 

But next night Grendel’s mum turns up.  ‘Who ripped my son’s arm off?’ she says.  ‘He did’ they all say, pointing at Beowulf.

 

Anyway Grendel and Beowulf take it outside.  Hrothgar is shouting, ‘Leave it, she’s not worth it.  We’ve all had a drink’.

 

This went on for days until Beowulf managed to grab a magic sword and finished off Grendel’s mum.  He also chopped Grendel’s head off - which seemed a bit unnecessary.

 

Anyway roll forward a few years and Beowulf is the King of Denmark and a subject pisses off a local dragon.  ‘I’m getting to old for this lark’ says Beowulf but takes on the dragon anyway.  Mortally wounded he manages to finish off the dragon with the help of Wiglaf.

 

‘Sod this for a game of soldiers,' says Beowulf, 'You can be the king.’
‘Wicked!’ says Wiglaf.  Beowulf dies and is burnt on a funeral pyre.  ‘He was a good bloke was Beowulf.  Good to have on your side when it gets a bit tasty,’ said his subjects. 
The end.

Faust by Goethe.

 

God and Mephistopheles had a bet.  Mephistopheles reckoned mankind was pretty pathetic crap.  God was quite chuffed with his work.

 

Ok, then, said Mephistopheles I bet I can tempt a man into Hell and I bet you can’t save him.  You’re on said God.

 

So they agreed on Faust.  Y’see Faust had spent a lifetime studying and was beginning to feel he’d missed out - you know, dancing girls, getting drunk, waking up with a traffic cone in his room - that sort of thing.  Anyway Mephistopheles appeared and said,  'I can show you a good time'.  So off they went to the pub where Meph did a few tricks but Faust wasn’t impressed.

 

But when they visited a witch's house Faust fell in love with a woman called Gretchen.  He put her in the family way, killed her brother in  a fight then went off boozing.  Over the years Faust grew rich but he still felt bad about the way he treated people.

 

Just before he died he tried to put things right.  Then he pegged it and just as Mephistopheles was about to claim his soul God sent down a host of angels to snatch it back - which seems kind of cheating, really.  I mean a bet’s a bet.  And why is God gambling?  Why kind of example is that?

 

conspiracy theorist’s’,  The Secret behind the number 11

 

Pretty Chilling - read to the bottom.  Try it out.  

If you are a sceptical person - still read on as it's actually very interesting!!

This is actually really freaky!! (Mainly the end part, but read it all first)

1) New York City has 11 letters
2) Afghanistan has 11 letters.
3) Ramsin Yuseb has 11 letters.  (The terrorist who threatened to destroy the Twin Towers in 1993)
4) George W Bush has 11 letters.  

   

This could be a mere coincidence, but this gets interesting:
1) New York is the 11th state.
2) The first plane crashing against the Twin Towers was flight number 11.
3) Flight 11 was carrying 92 passengers. 9 + 2 = 11
4) Flight 77 which also hit Twin Towers, was carrying 65 passengers. 6 + 5 = 11
5) The tragedy was on September 11, or 9/11 as it is now known.  9 + 1+ 1 =11
6) The date is equal to the US emergency services telephone number 911.

 

Sheer coincidence..?

 

Read on and make up your own mind:

1) The total number of victims inside all the hi-jacked planes was 254.  

2 + 5 + 4 = 11

2) September 11 is day number 254 of the calendar year.  

3) The Madrid  bombing took place on 3/11/2004.   3 + 1 + 1 + 2 + 4 = 11.
4) The tragedy of Madrid happened 911 days after the Twin Towers incident.

Now this is where things get totally eerie:  

 

The most recognized symbol for the US, after the Stars & Stripes, is the Eagle. The following verse is taken from the Koran, the Islamic holy book:

"For it is written that a son of Arabia would awaken a fearsome Eagle. The wrath of the Eagle would be felt throughout the lands of Allah while some of the people trembled in despair still more rejoiced: for the wrath of the Eagle cleansed the lands of Allah and there was peace."  

That verse is number 9.11 of the Koran.

 

Unconvinced about all of this still ..?  

 

 

 

Try this and see how you feel afterwards, it made my hair stand on end:  

Open Microsoft Word and do the following:

1. Type in upper case Q33 NY. This is the flight number of the first plane to hit one of the Twin Towers.
2. Highlight the Q33 NY.
3. Change the font size to 48.
4. Change the actual font to the WINGDINGS……………………
   

What do you think now???? 

A while ago I did a thing on the wireless where I was challenged to tell the classic piece of literature in one minute.  Here's Moby Dick by Herman Melville;

Moby Dick by Herman Melville.

 

Ishmeal dreams of going to sea.  Whilst looking for passage he meets Queequeg, who’s carrying a human head in a bag.  Well, it’s something to talk about.  Ishmeal and Queequeg sign on with Captain Ahab on the Peequod.

 

Now Ahab has one heck of a false leg - it’s a whale’s jawbone.  Turns out  Ahab has a bee in his bonnet about this white whale called Moby Dick.  It seems Moby Dick was responsible for Ahab losing his leg.  He hears Moby is in the Indian Ocean.

 

En route he meets an English whaler captained by a bloke with a false arm made out of whalebone.  There were a lot of blokes at sea made up of whale parts.

 

Anyway, a prophet predicts Ahab will die at the flippers of the whale after he’s seen two hearses.  To cut a very long story short Ahab sees two hearses, at sea mind.  The Peequod finds Moby Dick and they stick the thing full of harpoons but the bugger won’t die.

 

Eventually, Moby Dick smashes the Peequod to pieces and Ahab is dragged down with the whale tangled in the harpoon ropes.  The only survivor is Ishmael.  And I don’t know what the head in a bag was all about.  The end.

I stumbled across this in an old folder.  I wrote it in 1997 after back-packing in Australia.  I think it's first-draft so it needs work.  But here it is anyway.
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Rob looked good in a dress - great breasts, slim legs and long, blonde hair pouring down his tanned back.  I fancied Rob.

    I also fancied Magnolia Thunderpussy, his alter ego on drag nights at DT's, the gay bar in the Melbourne suburbs.

    As a man Rob had the looks to make even the most dyed-in-the-wool homophobe question his own sexuality.  As a woman Rob/Magnolia was a babe to make even the proudest gay consider switching teams.

    Rob was the star attraction at DT's and a close friend of Chrissy which gave me access to the inner circle.  Everyone wanted to pull him - after half an hour in his company and a couple of beers, me included.  He knew the power of distance and kept it to increase his desirability.

    DT's was always packed on drag night - a honey pot for every type of gay on the scene;high clone, beefcake, Freddie Mercury look-alikes, sharp dressers, Jimmy Somerville doubles, '50s matinee idols, lipstick lesbians and bull dykes.  There were leather jackets, white singlets, tight T-shirts with packs of Marlboro folded into the sleeves, designer suits and taffeta ball gowns for those who bought a ticket for the whole trip. 

    Among the men there was every type of facial hair - full beards, goatees, Zapata moustaches, even a few full-on handlebars with waxed tips.  The Number One was the clipper of choice with razored heads bobbing in the lights like a sack of tennis balls tossed into a pond.

    As I stood at the cigarette machine, trying to decide which of the unfamiliar brands to get, I felt a hand stroke my behind.   I turned do see a tall, lean guy with the obligatory Number One and a warm smile.  His hand continued to caress my ass.

'Can't decide, doll?' he said.

Did he mean cigarettes or sexuality?

'I think I'll get a pack of Horizons, hon.'

Hon?

It just came out without irony or self-consciousness.  The patois was seductive.

His hand moved up my back; 'You with anyone?'

I nodded towards the bar, 'Rob. Sorry.'

He gazed at Rob who was idly stirring his drink with a swizzle stick.

'Yeah, me too,' he said.

He smiled, removed his hand and merged back into the crowd.  Throughout the exchange I didn't feel remotely uncomfortable;  his touch and his manner and my response seemed perfectly natural.

    'I see you've made a new friend,' said Brett when I returned to the bar.

'Not my type,' I answered as I offered him a cigarette.

'Whatever your type is, it's in here somewhere,' as he swept his arm across the crowd.

'You're probably right.'

Brett followed my gaze to the stage where Rob, now fully subsumed to the personality of Magnolia Thunderpussy, was about to start his act.

Brett smirked - 'Dream on.'

    MC for the night, in fact every night, was Dulcie Du Jour.  Dulcie was Henry Harris, a 60 year old school teacher from the St Kilda district of Melbourne.  Dulcie looked like she'd just stepped off the set of a John Waters movie; she wore a two-feet-high pink beehive like a candy floss busby and her more-than-enough figure was shoe horned into a tight black leather mini dress.

    Looking at Dulcie, Magnolia and the other drag queens I wondered where they put their, y'know, genito-urinary department.  None of them displayed any tell-tale bulge, even when they were wearing the tightest of dresses.  Chrissy explained, when I asked, that you can buy special pants, from House of Drag or something.  Either way, apart from Dulcie, they all had figures most women would die for,  (Dulcie's was a more a figure a woman would die from) with their tackle safely, if painfully stowed away. 

    'Good evening, you bunch of fucking tarts.'

Dulcie set about winning over the crowd.

'Jeeesus.  Not many worth shagging 'ere tonight.'

The crowd cheered.

'Got a great show for you tonight.'

Dulcie's voice sounded like it had been nurtured on a diet of full-tar cigarettes and diesel.  It was sandpaper rough but with an accent of high camp. 

'First up, some prizes.  Any dykes in tonight?'

A lipstick lesbian wearing either a long T-shirt or a very short mini-dress raised her hand.

''Ere y'are.'  Dulcie tossed her a dildo. 

As the woman raised her hands to catch it, her T-shirt/dress rode up to reveal a thong.

'Nice snatch,' said Dulcie and the crowd cheered the speed of the pun.

'First up tonight - the Victoria Vamp.'

Cheer.

'The Melbourne Madam.'

Cheer.

'The one…..

'The only…..

'Your own…..

'Blonde-eyed bitch…..

'Magnolia Thundersnatch!'

    Magnolia glared at Dulcie from the wings, where she had been waiting with growing impatience during the build up.  Dulcie had let herself down.  Magnolia hated the way the pink beehived MC made fun of her name - as if Magnolia Thunderpussy was a conservative moniker. 

    There was a simmering bitchiness between Magnolia and Dulcie and the misnomer had been a dig rather than a joke.  For years Dulcie Du Jour had been the Queen of the Melbourne Drag Scene, bathing in the attention and adulation.  She was getting old, though, and the beehive was looking a little tired.

    Then Rob had appeared on the scene - 21, blonde and blue-eyed and stunning in either gender.  Suddenly Dulcie was looking wilted while Rob blossomed.  Nothing was ever said between them - there were never any open insults or catty remarks which could signify a declaration of open war.  It was just a dig here and there which could always be passed off as a friendly joke.

    A young pretender coveted the crown and Dulcie faced being overthrown.  The Queen is dead, long live the Queen.

    Magnolia burned a stare into Dulcie's back as the MC left the stage and the opening chords of Celine Dion's 'It's All Coming Back To Me Now' rang out from the PA.

    Rob, as Magnolia, took the stage and made it his royal court.  He wore a midnight-blue satin dress which reached the floor but had a split which revealed glimpses of golden thigh.  I leaned over to Chrissy and commented on Rob's legs.

'Tights,' she said.  'Four pairs.  Rob won't shave his legs so he wears four pairs to achieve that effect.' 

I didn't want to hear that.  I wanted to believe it was all natural.

    The gown curved in at the waist and gently out again at the ribs.  Rob had delightfully pert breasts.  I was about to make the observation to Chrissy, but thought better of it; I didn't want to shatter another illusion.

    The dress gave up trying to contain that perfect body and left the shoulders exposed, save for two bootlace straps.  When Rob turned he revealed a plunging V which reached a point at the lowest extremity of his spine where the small of his back bordered the half moons of his rounded buttocks.

    I tried to push the images of layered tights and special pants and false breasts out of my mind.  I wanted to be seduced by the surface.  I didn't want to know about the mechanics by which the illusion was achieved.  I wanted to enjoy the magician, not the illusionist.  Even Rob's gender began to blur in my mind.  The transition was complete and Rob was absorbed by Magnolia.  I had to admit I fancied him…her…him…whichever.

    And the voice.  Close your eyes and it was Celine Dion.  It was Celine Dion.  Rob, like all the artists, was lip-synching.  Their acts were wish fulfilment; Rob was a Diva and the role was complete with Celine's voice.  Drag night was all about fantasy - the clothes, the make-up and the performance.  It was a cat-walk and its Queen was Magnolia Thunderpussy. 

    A few feet from us Dulcet Du Jour leaned against the bar, ignoring Magnolia's performance, with a pint of lager between his Popeye forearms and a cigarette jammed in a mouth pasted with cerise lipstick.

    Rob remained in character even at the bar, posed and poised on a stool, legs crossed in a very feminine way and drinking a spritzer through a straw.  Rob remained faithful to Magnolia, never allowing her to do anything out of character and certainly never letting any of Magnolia's mannerisms creep into Rob.  As Rob he would lean against the bar in jeans and T-shirt drinking lager from the bottle - he even held his cigarette differently.  The personae were quite separate - and both equally screwable.

    On stage Magnolia was camping it up to an adoring audience.  The Celine Dion song was ideally suited to the cross-dressed-diva - dramatic and dripping in pathos, it allowed her to strut and prowl the stage, to emphasise the drama with theatrical arm gestures - 'I finished crying with the slamming of the door!' - the arm was pushed out, palm facing the audience, and we all felt as if Magnolia had slammed the door in our faces.  The tempo slowed as the crashing chords gave way to the piano.

'And when you touch me like this.'  Magnolia's long fingers stroked her thigh and up to her breast.

'And when you touch me like that.'  The other hand caressed her cheek.

'It's all coming back to me now.'  Celine sang and Magnolia seemed to make eye contact with each and every member of the audience as if each of us were the heartless bastard she still loved.

    Magnolia!  Marry me!  You're being a fella - we can overcome that!

    The song faded, the spotlight dimmed and there was an almost post-coital silence as we all reflected on how badly we treated her.  She'd given us the best years of her body and we'd just abandoned her.

    The room broke into frenzied applause, whistling, whooping and shouting.  We had witnessed greatness in a gown.

    The house lights came up and we were greeted by the generous dimensions of Dulcie Du Jour trying to adjust her tilting pink beehive with one hand whilst trying to hold the microphone with the other.  With the wig back in place the once and fuschia Queen attempted to calm her erstwhile subjects.

'Magnolia Thundersnatch!'  she rasped, wearing a hole in the joke.  We erupted again and Dulcie could only wait before she could bring the show to a close.  We watched a star being born and engulfing a red giant in the process.

    Half an hour later Rob appeared at the bar, Magnolia safely stowed away in his make-up bag and suitcase.  The blond wig had gone, revealing shoulder-length blond hair.  Magnolia's eyes were still there, though, like two chips of sky.  Rob lit a cigarette .  Where Magnolia would have held it between the index and middle fingers, Rob held it between the middle and third fingers and when he took a drag he cupped his whole hand over his mouth.  He ordered a lager and nodded acknowledgement to a couple of fans.  We were the inner circle and our psychophancy was more subtle than cloying compliments.  We just paid for all his drinks and were always ready with a light for his cigarette.  Most people are lucky to have one charisma.  Rob had two.  He was a star. 

I was in love.

If only it was possible to have a three-in-bed - me, Magnolia and Rob.

 

 

 

This is Janet.

And this is John.

Tonight  Janet and John’s mummy and daddy are having a party.

 

Janet and John are allowed to stay up late as a special treat.

Look, John is serving the cocktail sausages.

And Janet is serving tarts.

Can you say tarts, children?

John can.  Clever John.

 

Mummy is in the kitchen.

Look she’s drinking a glass of wine in one go.

Here comes daddy.

Janet and John’s daddy is walking all wobbly.

Does your daddy sometime walk wobbly?

 

Now mummy is talking to daddy in a very loud voice.

Mummy says daddy says daddy has been looking at young Miss Jones’s chest from number 23.

Daddy says he hasn’t been doing any such thing.

He says he was just being friendly.

Now mummy is using words Janet and John have never heard before.

She says young Miss Jones is something called a little hussy.

 

 

 

Janet needs more tarts  but mummy isn’t listening.

Janet finds the tarts herself and goes back into the party whilst mummy and daddy talk to each other very loudly in the kitchen.

Look, here’s young Miss Jones from number 23.

'Little tart?' says Janet, offering the tray.

Janet asks Miss Jones if it is true that she is all fur coat and no knickers, like mummy says.

The party ends.

Look, Janet and John are tucked up in bed.

And here’s daddy.

Sleeping on the sofa.

Here’s Janet.

And here’s John.

Janet and John are visiting Grandpa in his special home.

Look, there are lots of other people like Grandpa living here too.

Can you see them?

 

Grandpa is sitting in his chair with both feet in a giant zip-up slipper and a blanket over his lap.

Grandpa has a funny smell but mummy and daddy have told Janet and John not to mention it.

John asks Grandpa if he can do impressions.

Grandpa says he can’t.

Janet asks if Grandpa can do animal impressions.

Grandpa says he can’t.

Can you do a frog, asks John.

No I can’t, says Grandpa.

Janet and John look sad.

Look, children, can you see their sad faces?

Why do you want me to impersonate a frog, asks Grandpa.

 

Here’s Janet.

And here’s John.

It’s their first day at school.

Mummy has dressed them up in their very best school clothes.

 

Can you see them children?

Look, Janet is wearing a frock with pink flowers.  See how here blond curly hair is tied in bunches.

And look at her white socks and bright red sandals with big gold buckles.

John has his favourite white jumper with a big red ‘J’ on the breast.

He’s wearing his lime green shorts and he also has white socks and red sandals with big gold buckles.

Clever John.

 

Look, here are Janet and John arriving at the school gate.

Don’t they look nice?

All the other children are dressed in hoodies, baggy black clothes with the names of bands on the front like Slipknot, My Chemical Romance and Trivium.

Some of them have long hair and make-up and appear to have pieces of metal sticking in them.

 

Janet and John tell them they look horrible.

Look how the other children are closing in around Janet and John.

Here’s Janet.

And here’s John.

Janet and John are finishing their first term at their new school.

Can you see how they’ve changed, children?

Janet now likes to be called Jan.

And John is simply called J.

 

Janet and John’s mummy and daddy don’t like the way they dress anymore.

Look, here’s mummy welcoming them home from school.

She asks them what they’d like for supper?

Janet grunts.

John says, ‘wotever’.

Clever John.

They go upstairs and mummy can hear loud music.

Janet and John say mummy and daddy don’t understand them.

Do your mummy and daddy understand you?

 

Daddy comes home and tells Janet and John to turn that racket down.

Janet and John say they won’t.

Daddy says that while they live under his roof they’ll live by his rules.

Janet and John say they hate mummy and daddy.

 

Look, Janet, John, mummy and daddy are having supper.

No one is talking everything is quiet.

 

 

My friend Cynthia is an established illustrator and works for Lucasfilm and Topps in America she is one of the few people who actually gets paid to draw Star Wars and Indiana Jones! She is working hard on developing her own material and developing children’s literature. She works doing conventions and appearance, while trying to get the work done - we all know that one!

We had a conversation about one of my books I'm working on and what keeps coming up is the fact that if I get my book published I have no say in what illustrator I can use.

Now, if I had a friend who could not draw for toffee and I felt sorry for - I could understand that, but she works for Lucas from crying out loud! Surely someone at that level should be able to actually give my book some gravitas - some commercial impetus for a publisher to say - hey her work will really help sell this work. No?

What is the situation with this - does anyone know an illustrator partnership that's working today?

You can see Cynthia's work here: http://www.cynnarcisi.com/index.htm

Comments please. Cheers,
Mr Flibble.

The Famous Five’s little boat slid on to the beach of Mystery Island.

‘I say,’ said Julian, ‘There’s another boat here.’

‘Woof’, said Timmy the dog.

As the Five disembarked they spotted another group standing on the beach – four boys, three girls and a dog.

‘Who are you?’ said Julian

‘We’re the Secret Seven said the oldest boy.  Who are you?’ said the oldest boy.

‘We’re the Famous Five,’ answered Julian.

‘Never heard of you,’ the older boy replied.

‘Well, we’ve n ever heard of you, either,’ said Julian.

‘That because we’re the Secret Seven.  Duh!  Anyway what are you doing here?’

‘We’re here to have a picnic with lashings of ginger beer and to solve the mystery of the Mysterious Mystery Men of Mystery Island.’

‘Ooh get you.’

‘Well, what about you?’

‘We’re here to investigate the Secret Spies of Smugglers Cove.  Hey, what’s your dog doing with Scamp?’

Timmy and Scamp were........well you know how dogs greet other, don't you children?

‘Hey, why don’t you join us?’ said Julian.

‘Bog off.  You join us.’

‘You’re jolly well asking for a bunch of fives.’

Suddenly the Secret Seven and the Famous Five went at each other.  Someone got glassed with a bottle of ginger beer and Scamp and Timmy were barking like billio.

‘Look – our boats!’ said Dick in the melee.

They stopped fighting and watched as their boats were rowed away.

‘It’s the Mysterious Mystery Men,’ said George.

‘And the Secret Spies,’ said the other George – the one who wasn’t a girl.

‘Aw, f....’