The Word Cloud

It's not just Mondays that I feel it.  I feel it every other day of my working week. That sick sinking feeling you get when once again, sleep has passed you by and you awake to your 5 am alarm clock.
The desire to jump out of bed has long gone, the job has got to me, like they all do eventually and I find myself fighting, fighting with my legs, my hands, my mind, my heart and my brain.
The job has ironically become a blank page.  I turn up everyday and have no idea how I start.  People come and go like words I don't recognise and the desire to rub them out gets deeper every day.
I want to tear out the page and start again.  I have no connection there, no interest holds my eye and ear.  I have recycled phrases and replies, I don't need to think anymore, I just do.
Lost in a world of screens, tickets, phone calls and office bullshit with no idea how to find my way out.
It never mattered before, I walked, and kept on walking until I found the next blank page.  That can't happen anymore, bigger things are at stake and I keep going to keep the things that make turning up everyday that bit easier.
I'm circling in my own Catherine Wheel of want and need.  I want to be doing something else but need the money for the future and so my Monday morning battle goes on and on and on.

This is an idea that's been bouncing around in my head for a while.
It's not got any further,but I've not really worked on it either beyond what's written here.

Fellow Cloudbase personnel - comments are welcome

Perspectives
As his life slips away along with the blood seeping through his fingers from the wound in his chest and losing the battle against the advancing darkness, utters his last words to the man stood over him with the smoking gun, 'Damn you, Damn you to hell' 

or

He looks down at the man laying at his feet, its life having no choice but to surrender to the approaching darkness.  His white knuckled hand slowly eases its grip on the smoking gun as the adrenalin rushing through his veins begins to slow.  The taste of vengeance was sweet and satisfying.  The dieing mans last words echoed through the following silence, threatening to haunt him.  Haunt him to eternity. 
What brought him to stand here?  A mild, gentle natured well loved man who would never say a harsh word about anyone.  What brought him to purchase this gun for the sole purpose of taking this mans life?

I have spent the morning so far being fundamentally lazy, I should be taking photographs for MrsP’s web site, or even writing something to add to the novel I will finish one day. Perhaps it’s a rebellion against that money making Kareoke fest that invades our screens at this time of year. For whatever reason I have just spent a whole hour on YouTube watching and listening to The Shadows.

They aren’t particularly good looking guys, they don’t have “personality” or a “look”; in fact they used to wear smart suits a lot of the time. They don’t bounce around the stage doing impossible things while perfect music emanates from somewhere. They simply stand there, sway a bit to the beat and play this flawless music. The music is a matter of taste, I happen to like it although not to distraction I admit, but my main point is that they are really playing; not pretending. They hold their instruments carefully and play them and they are making all the music, There is not a pre-recorded backing track, it's all them. They are simply highly talented musicians, originally session musicians I think, who used to back Cliff Richard and somehow developed a separate life and clearly love what they were doing.

Clearly there have been other bands since that made it on a pure talent basis. I don't mean to suggest they are a one off at all, but I think it's lost. I don’t think it could happen these days. I think that’s a pity because somewhere Britain certainly does have talent that will not see the light of day because they don’t make good telly and Simon doesn’t do their thing.

Having just read Harrys blog reminded me of my own parents passing.
I'm  SNU Spiritualist who believes in life after death, but this in no way eases the pain of loss when parents finally pass on. 

Even though I have a brother and sister who are both married and live within 10 miles of me, I felt quite orphaned and alone.



Having lost both my parents I feel quite deeply for anyone else who loses loved ones.
 
LOSS

     My father passed first and as I took my mother to the chapel of rest  to say her goodbyes, I remember thinking something really stupid - they've done his hair wrong - But gazing down at him in the coffin his face seemed free of all the pain he'd carried for the past 10 years of suffering from his cancer and other troubles.  I stood beside my mother and held my emotions very firmly in check.  She needed me to be strong.  (How could I drive her home if I became an emotional mess). 
Also, the chapel of rest is not a place I'm comfortable in.
     When my mum passed 3 years later, it was a struggle, alone in an empty house.  Lots of people knew my parents so it proved difficult to visit town without someone approaching to ask after them. 
     How many times is it possible to hold your emotions in check when informing people that Bebs (mam) has passed away?  How do you cope with the shocked expression as they give their genuine heartfelt condolences and with tears glazing over their eyes, they take your hand and tell you they'll remember them fondly.

You just do.

Time passes-by slowly but with certainty.  Eventually the pain eases and subsides making room for the happier memories to wander in and take over.

There are some people who claim to be able to tell you what your dreams mean.  I've found these interpretations to be rather woolly, on the whole, and not particularly helpful.

So I've worked out for myself what's going on when I dream.  For me the most important part of the dream is the feeling or the emotional response to what I am dreaming about.  The subject matter can be anywhere on the scale from the utterly absurd to a complete recreation of an event that has actually occurred in my life.  It can include people, places and things that are totally made up, or real day-to-day experiences that often occur in reality.  The point is, it doesn't matter what I dream, it's how I react in my dream that is important.

The emotional responses in my dream are direct replications of what I have felt during the previous days, or from my more distant past.  What I have done is make the connection between the feelings in my dreams and what I've actually felt at certain times before.

Let's say that I had a feeling of uncertainty and apprehension about submitting my book to a Publisher last Tuesday.  In a dream tonight that could unfold as a re-enactment of the submission of the manuscript.  Or the exact same emotional mix could be recreated by me dreaming I'm on the ocean in a little tin boat with large crocodiles in the water around me.  Or the dream could be that I'm watching a badger with the face of David Dickinson juggling doughnuts... any of these dream scenarios could lead to the recreation of my emotion being experienced again.  The connection of the emotion to the real event is more certain because of both the mix of emotions and the level of them.  In the crocodile example above, it could be that I thought I should've been more scared of the crocodiles in my dream, but actually I wasn't too bothered in the end.  That specific level of my reaction enables me to make the connection to the actual event.

I know that since I first came up with this theory it has proven to be 100% spot on for me and I'm able to make the connection to the meaning of my dream.  At least, that is, in the dreams I recall.  I think I can only remember a small fraction of them at best. 

If indeed you want to try this out for yourself to see if it works for you, but you tend not to remember your dreams, then I have a couple of tips that work for me.  Tell yourself before you go to sleep that you really want to try and remember your dreams.  When you very first wake up, immediately set your mind to recalling what you've been dreaming about.  A notepad and pencil to hand helps heaps if you can note down key trigger words as quickly as possible, because dream memories tend to fade the more awake you become.

Straight from the department of stating the bleedin' obvious, that.  In fact, I feel like this whole piece is really.  But even if it is, then I'm still interested to know if any of this rings true for you.  Indeed, if you think this a great big pile of pants, then I am equally interested to hear.

What I don't know is if this emotional response thing is true for anyone else?

Many apologies for the lack of blogs recently but I have been madly writing to a deadline by night and hanging women's clothes by day.

And my return to the Adventures in 20th Century cinema has one major flaw; the film Ten Canoes was made in 2006, so not technically 20th century. On the other hand my pledge to introduce people to films that they might not have seen which are truly 'something different' is more than fulfilled; Ten Canoes is like nothing I've ever seen.

One slight problem, I saw this film in the cinema when it came out, I have not seen it since. On the other hand it made a huge impression and so, with a little help from IMDB (if only to assist in the spelling of names), I think I can do this.

Fist up, this is an aboriginee film, a rare beast to start with, though it is narrated in English by prominent arboriginal actor, David Gulpilil. The  ten canoes refer to stories and there are many interwoven stories in this film (10 I suppose, although I didn't count). Technically it is not a portmanteau film because each story leads into the next, it is in a way a story about telling stories. Gulpilil's storyteller begins telling a story in which the characters themselves tell others. That in itself is enough to make this a pretty unique film.

The next thing that contributes to the film's uniqueness is it's aboriginal setting. this film is set centuries ago and doesn't come close to what we call 'civilisation', it is a completely isolated world, and frankly is more alien to us in the West than most fantasy and sci-fi. I said something similar I think about Kwaidan and it was true but this is a whole other step up from that. But, despite all the strangeness, the customs and beliefs that I know nothing about, I never found the film hard to follow, characters motivations remained obvious despite their curiosity.

These are old stories and the great thing about old stories is that there is a reason they have survived; they're good. They are funny, sad, dramatic and bloody. It is impossible not to get caught up in the lives of Yeeralparil and Ridjimiraril, even though those lives are as strange to us as their names. AS befits a story that is about storytelling, the film's own storytelling is exemplary; clear, dramatic, intriguing.

The film is shot with a documentary realism, by which I do not mean the camera is forever bobbing up and down and zooming in and out for reasons passing understanding, but that one never catches these actors acting. Even now I find it almost impossible to beleive that these people do not live out in the outback building canoes from bark and hunting goose eggs in the swamp. they are completely convincing.

For anyone who likes their films a little off the wall then I would highly recomend Ten Canoes. For those who would rather die than read a subtitle and think that Batman Begins is a as good as cinema gets, I'd recomend it even more highly, not because I think they should expand their horizons (though I do) but becuase this is every bit as thrilling a film. Ten Canoes is the sort of film because of which I started writing this blog, to prove that , although you might think you've seen it all before, you absolutely haven't.

 

In many ways this is my favourite stage of the year.  Everything’s bursting with life.  The trees are in full leaf, so it’s almost impossible to imagine how stark they were for what seemed like forever.  The cherry blossom may be over, but hawthorn everywhere is frothy with creamy flowers.  The bedding plants are waiting for me to get round to putting them in.  Meanwhile, the starlings, blackbirds and blue tits that frequent our garden have had their young, who have now pretty much all fledged.  And therein lies the problem…

 

We have a cat.  She is gorgeous, affectionate, playful -  and a hunter.  This time of year, when the fledglings are still discovering the world, and therefore at their most vulnerable, is when she does her worst.  Last week she took two birds that we know of – both wrens, from the glimpse we saw of them as she ran off.  I’ve tried everything I can think of.  When I let her out, I make plenty of noise opening the door and step outside to clap my hands and warn off any birds that might be hopping round.  I even take a little walk round to be sure, and check my plants while I’m at it.  I even keep the hosepipe handy to turn on her when she does try anything.

 

All to no avail.  This morning, I warned a few birds off the bottom, secluded end of the garden, but as soon as my back was turned while I pulled out a few weeds, I heard a scrabble at the fence.  The next thing I saw was our cat running across the lawn with a bird in her mouth.  I rushed to the hosepipe and turned the water on, but she ran away before it could have much effect.  Luckily she came back a minute later and put the bird down on the ground.  This time she was forced to abandon it or get a soaking. 

I thought the bird was already dead, but when I went over to it the poor creature – a lovely baby blue tit – was struggling to move and even cheeping faintly but obviously wasn’t going to last.  Some other blue tits, presumably its parents, were watching from the cherry tree.  All I could do was put it out of its misery, which thankfully didn’t take much but didn’t exactly make my day.  The only consolation was that it probably wasn’t the brightest of bird-brains, and so wouldn’t have survived long anyway.

 

What am I supposed to do?  (And don’t say ‘Don’t have a cat.’!)  Since this morning, I’ve kept her indoors. Should I keep her in until the fledglings are better at looking after themselves?  She knows she’s in my bad books, and keeps rubbing round my legs and looking up at me wistfully.  Even as I’m typing this, she’s lying on a chair just a couple of feet away.  Then again, she always does when I’m on the computer. 

 

I know other Clouders have cats.  Any suggestions?

James bit Jonathon's ear at school today. One minute they were fighting for space on the carpet, the next minute Jonathon's scream cut through the noise of the  year one class getting ready for playtime. James was as shocked as Jonathon. He wanted to explain what had happened to Mrs Yates but she was having none of it.

'It was by an accident.'

'How can Jonathon's ear accidentally end up in your mouth? I think we'd better go and see Mrs Jones and you can tell her all about it.'

James stood in the Headteacher's office and looked out of the window. He could see the bright yellow sun high in the blue sky. Laurence was kicking a ball against the wall and the thud thud thud sounded like the noise daddy had made last night.

'Open the f-ing door, Sandra. Let me in.'

Daddy's voice had roared as loud as a monster as he tried to get into Mummy's bedroom. Then he began a slow bang bang bang with his fists and feet on the bedroom door. James had gone as far under his spiderman covers as he could without his toes sticking out at the end. Daddy still found him though. He always did.

He looked again at the bright yellow sun and imagined kicking it as hard as he could between the white cloud goalposts.

'I'm going to write a letter to your parents, James. And you'll have to say sorry to Jonathon.'

He was sorry. Sorry that Jonathon had told him that he smelled bad. Again. Sorry that the monster from last night had followed him to school and now roared loudly in his head. Sorry that he'd missed snack and break and that today was another day just like yesterday and tomorrow.

'Sorry Jonathon' he said.

                                    **Caution**
This blog contains words commonly considered to be strong or foul language. There is no nudity except where essential to the storyline and no animals were harmed in the writing of this blog.

                                   *********************

One of the finer moments of Ashes cricketing genius never recorded in Wisden is a sledging incident in 1932 when Douglas Jardine, batting at the time and the person in receipt of the compliments, complained that the sledging was getting out of hand. The Aussie skipper, Bill Woodfull, turned to his team mates and with his hands on his hips called out:
“Alright, which of you Bastards called this Bastard a Bastard!”  - or so the story goes; and it is a good one so let us believe it.

 Although Bastard is an acknowledged swear word and even allowing for the fact that we all know that it is a merely a word in common usage in Australia, that was a hugely effective put down and it is unlikely that anyone reading this finds it particularly offensive. Yet, if it had been “Alright, which of you Fuckers called this Fucker a Fucker” then it’s an entirely different story. Many, if not most would see that not as a humorously effective put down, but an aggressive response and quite a few would find it offensive.

I find this interesting. Although not particularly relevant in this day and age the term bastard originally meant a child born out of wedlock, of lower social status, disinherited etc. One can see how it has origins as a genuine insult that might well persist to this day. Even though bastard is used as a swear word at times it is nowhere as “strong” as Fuck and certain derivatives, Fucker, Fuckwit etc. But Fuck is an old word for the act of making love. This is something that is both pleasurable and also quite important for the continuation of our species. Odd don’t you think?

In medieval times one of the more unpleasant tortures for the extraction of information, confessions and the like, was to be stretched on the rack, to be “racked”. Yet we don’t say “Rack you”, “Oh just Rack off, will you”. Quite a different use has evolved. We “Rack our brains” when trying to remember something that has slipped our minds.

Then we have human anatomy, of course. Possibly the strongest insult that can be thrown is to call someone a cunt (so much so that I dithered about inserting it here for some time). Yet this is a proper noun for a part of the female anatomy and a word that has been around for centuries that was used simply as a noun for most of that time. It’s not just any female body part either, but a part closely associated with the aforementioned act of love. I expect it is no coincidence that men use this term much more than women and that it is a female body part although I don’t think I want to analyse that myself. Other less powerful derogatory terms are prick, dick or cock, all referring to the equivalent male body part. Their place in the pecking order of insults may be gender related but nevertheless this is again something that usually brings only pleasure, be it the act of love or the eye watering pleasure that derives from relieving oneself after six or seven pints of gut grobbler down The Struggling Monkey, or any other purveyor of fine ales that you may choose to honour with your patronage.

On the other hand (pun most intentional here) a fist is something that brings pain. That is its purpose. It is something that one makes in order to deliver a punch, part of fighting and I think we will stick with that interpretation for now chaps. There is a noun, Fisticuffs which is clear enough. Yet when we do something well we might say that we have “made a good Fist of it”. Again odd.

More light hearted perhaps we might call someone a Tit, or an Arse in order to derogate them without fully antagonising them. I feel I am qualified to give the male point of view which normalises to considering these to both be female parts. I like them both and see nothing negative or unpleasant in them at all. I confess that in the great Agnetha-Frida debate of 1979 I found myself to be most definitely a bums man, but I was unable to choose between them despite hours of concentrated study.  That is not to the exclusion of breasts, far from it. But I digress ( a weakness). It is now a polite and acceptable form of curse to say “Bottom” rather than arse or ass, but it means the same. Why on earth should these words be insults?

The next time you are skidding towards some disaster in your car, wheels locked and tyres screeching, will you still cry out ‘Oh “pleasurable act of love” it!!’ or  ‘Get out of the way you stupid “part of joy giving flesh”!!!’ Of course you will, but in the traditionally abbreviated form.

I know... I can hear you crying out in justified union. “What right does he have to write about writing? He's never been published!” Well, let me explain. Here and there between other books, I have been reading 'On Writing' by Stephen King. Despite being a fan of horror (amongst numerous other genres), it may surprise you to learn that I'm not a huge King fan. I find him to be an author I respect more than enjoy. Most likely that is my loss, and perhaps one day I shall pick up more of his novels and find a new host of gold to add to my treasured halls of mental book shelves. Until that time, however, I will note that I find his observations on writing quite insightful and fascinating. His stories themselves may rarely have appealed to my reading desires, but there is no denying he is a master of the craft and a compelling personality.

In the process of reading King's various anecdotes about his early experiences, I found my own memories triggering and firing. Memories of the things I have written over the years, or the experiences that have built-up to those pages of cramped black lettering. It got me thinking. I need to write down these snippets of my past, at the times I remember them. Put them into words on the page, lest they be forgotten one day.

So really, at this point in time, I am writing this more for myself than for you, my readers (If I have any). So stop complaining about my lack of credentials (You never know, one day some of you may be reading this after I actually have some!). Just let me ramble on for my own sake, and either enjoy or ignore at your own behest.

My first memory of writing, was a short science fiction story called “Richerd and the Alien Prince” (Obviously the character's name was Richard, but my typing or my spelling left something to be desired. I'm not sure which, probably both). If my maths is correct, it was probably 1985. I was about nine, my father was still alive, and we had been in the UK for perhaps less than a year since returning from the Bahamas (Job, not holiday). Being a Church of England Priest, my father had various tasks requiring the use of a typewriter, one of which was the church magazine.

I have little doubt that his creation of these monthly releases was an influence on me. Most likely at its greatest influence when I published the Rebel Review, but I shall go into that on another occasion. At this point, the primary factor was a typewriter, and my love of science fiction and adventure.

From here on in, I shall refer to my father as 'Dad', being the term by which I remember him. Dad had been given or loaned (I can't remember which) an old blue typewriter upon starting his new position. He was ever the gadget fan, a habit and addiction which I have most certainly inherited, be it genetically or by influence. Finding aforementioned typewriter functional at best, he soon purchased a wonderful new electric typewriter (This was just before the days of word-processing computers, which themselves will garner a few paragraphs in a later article). This typewriter was quite the marvel of modern technology, with gleaming white plastic sides, at least one or two glowing LEDs, and magical buttons that seemingly required little-to-no pressure before a letter was suddenly printed on the page with all the speed and power of a nail-gun on maximum. However, I digress. This typewriter had little influence on me apart from its untouchable wonder, and one other small factor. It freed up the little blue typewriter until such time as it was eventually returned to its original owner (So it must have been borrowed).

I metaphorically (perhaps even literally) rubbed my hands together in glee. Here was my chance! And so was spawned 'Richerd and the Alien Prince'. My ability for thinking up original character names must have been somewhat lacking (And may still be, depending on the opinion of my readers) because Richard was the name of my best friend of the time (Then again, if memory serves me correctly, he was only an acquaintance through church at that point, and yet to become my friend).

Richard is a local guy living a quiet and seemingly solitary life, who then witnesses the crashing arrival of something in the local woods. Of course he investigates, only to discover it contains an alien. Somewhat pathetically (Especially considering the alien prince looks human), Richard faints from shock twice in a row. What can I say, I was convinced that meeting an alien for the first time was so shocking that one's brain ceases to function momentarily, even when they look no different than someone you would pass in the street (Yes, this foolish story element embarrasses and bugs me even to this day). Anyway, despite having different languages, they make swift friends. However, all is not well. The enemies of the alien prince are hunting him in order to stop his ascension to the throne and removal of their power. A car chase ensues, and soon our heroes rather easily steal a jet from the local RAF base, and manage to shoot down the dastardly alien spaceship, saving the day. Not only that, they go back to Richard's house to celebrate by having a meal of chicken and chips. Believe me, I'm not kidding. It was my favourite meal as a kid, so that's what my heroes ate to celebrate. If you don't like it, tough.

I sat on the floor with the little typewriter, that in complete opposition to my Dad's electric counterpart, required fingers to be used like mini-hammers to ensure the letters were typed on the page with legible pressure. No doubt many hours later, a two-page short story was completed with plenty of errors, lots of words stricken through, and unusual grammar that will probably puzzle alien scientists in a post-apocalyptic world when it is the only surviving manuscript they discover, and (probably correctly) lead them to conclude that we were all insane.

The main point, is that I started writing. Adventures, stories, ideas and characters have always been bubbling over in the back of my mind, whether I have taken the effort to write them down, or they occurred to action figures in numerous miniature adventures.

Of all the things that story achieved, one shall never be forgotten. The immortal words of an alien language that meant something along the lines of:  “I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're saying.” Words that shall be remembered in my family alongside immortal movie terms such as “Gort Klaatu Barada Nikto.” Those words were...

“Baggy La Nifnook.”

(Written for my own everyday Blog at: http://duncansguide.blogspot.com/ Go on... have a look... you know you want to, really. ;-)