Well, hello there folks!
Hope you are all well and I am delighted to welcome you to Week 536!
I know that I have prattled on about snow-flakes and the enraged and the PeeSeee Brigade and I decided to look at it with some positivity.
…I couldn’t think of any but I did consider this.
Continue reading “Week 536 -Where Has All The Sense Gone? Did They Ever Have Any? And Don’t Cheat!”
I noticed that many species of male birds have low self esteem. Your basic Lady Pheasant is a sensibly attired person while the gent is as garish and loudly dressed as a grand opening of a supermarket.
Have a look at this fellow, a gent Ring-necked Pheasant named Ralph Beeker.
Ralph lives a short distance from me and I assume he is a pet since he is always in the same yard, and I’ve seen him plenty. Here, perhaps not his greatest moment, Ralph is giving the beak to his reflection in a tail light. So, all the wild colours might be necessary in aiding him to find a mate, since intelligent conversation is likely off the table.
And this guy (just down the road from Mr. Beeker) is a Northern Flicker Woodpecker. I call him Big Ed. At the time of the picture, he was up there jack-hammering the metal gutter to let the lady Flickers know that Big Ed is back in town and he’s ready to experience the miracle of love. He is a bird of perhaps false bravado. Anyone who has not heard a Woodpecker drum on a gutter or chimney cap, I can tell you it is hell loud. Football helmet designers should pattern their wares after the unknockoutable noggin of the Woodpecker.
Take the Bird of Paradise (I’ve never seen one in person, but I have seen the clips that most of us have seen at one time or another in our life’s journey spent mostly watching YouTube). The female is a pretty and tastefully turned out bird, while the male is a loud fashion disaster who has never met a bright color he can turn down. These guys are all strut and hard sell. If the male Paradise could get his wings on pyro, he’d use it. Nothing is too crass for him. He is a Kiss concert come alive.
Something tells me that the Lady Paradise Birds have fun with this and that they are more impressed with how far the guy will go to make a fool of himself rather than looking for a Mr. Right to sweep her of her talons.
I forgot to mention Elliot of the header. He usually goes for the direct approach and chases girls as they try to separate seeds from cigarette butts on the sidewalk. A Human being would get scolded, but it is normal Pigeon behaviour, and I doubt that a Pigeon can conceptualize “dinner and a date.”
Still, there is far more dignity in Elliot’s actions than there was in a human one I saw unfold at the park a Sunday or so back.
There was a couple in the park’s parking lot looking under the hood of their car. People all around. Kids everywhere. The woman was an obvious meth addict (no PC there, anyone who can’t tell a meth addict after having one shown to her is either headless or painfully stupid). She was twitchy and had that fast-forwarded face and voice similar to Pazuzu from The Exorcist. I wanted to feel pity for her but at some point a person must stand up and prove she wants to be alive.
The guy was apparently not an addict, looked younger, maybe twenty-three. And he was a punk. Not as in the style (he was one of those skinny wannabe jerks whose pants were down to his knees) but punk as in a guy who needs his ass kicked profoundly and often. (And he had eyes like those of a Sardine.)
This ritual ensued:
Woman: “Sorry babe…musta broke it”
Punk: “You [are] incompetent, bitch! You [are] stupid bitch!” (That’s how he spoke, like Tarzan, “You useless Jane!”)
Woman: “Heyheyhey!!!”
Punk: “You [are] pointless bitch!”
Woman: Something loud and unintelligible.
As you might guess the people in the park heard all this because it was shared at an extremely loud volume. Verbal abuse only, but you sensed it could go even more wrong. As anyone who has ever stupidly tried to get between a couple fighting in a tavern can tell you, trying to be the “Hero” in that situation is a very bad idea. The “victim” will rip into you, due to (in this case) her “training.” It’s best to drop a dime. Which is exactly what happened because a patrol car drove in and a very large policeman and equally capable policewomen had a visit with the quarrelsome twosome. The punk’s attitude changed swiftly, as it does with phony loud noises wearing Raider’s gear–all yessir, yessum. The woman just stood there (I assumed she had been taught not to say shit when he was talking) perhaps praying that they would not check for wants and warrants.
So, if anyone ever wants to know why I spend more time writing about animals than people, let the above serve as an example. Quite often it is demoralizing to observe the human race. Even dim Ralph Beeker can see that.
But lucky us! We get to move on to better things, written by people who have higher aims in life than making fools of themselves.
I am extolling six again this week. Two are written by long time friends, another by a recently acquired friend of no small talent and three by outstanding newcomers to the site.
The Sunday rerun was Michael Bloor’s Jack o’ Diamonds. It’s a rare and heartwarming thing that isn’t cloying or superficial. Mick has one of the best commands of plain language I’ve ever read and he uses his talent beautifully.
Robert Stone was the first of our new contributors. Prize. Humour is usually the kiss of death around here. But Robert’s story of “what would I do if…” is a fine bit of whimsy aided by wit and a likeable narrator. Makes you consider the possibilities and downsides of having your own large weapon.
Christopher Ananias has certainly been on a roll since first submitting to us last year. The Campground Dog is another of his tales that objectively explores lives that are not usually written about, unless in a stereotypical and/or mean fashion. It’s a tough read, but most serious pieces are.
Wednesday gave us Fallen by Northern Pike. You get a creature, two dangerous guys weapons and mistakes galore in this bit of action. The key here is its tremendous pace and how the writer delivers the storyline without bogging things down.
The Wheelbarrow Man of Hastings Street is longtime contributor and commenter, Harrison Kim’s thirty-fifth story in LS. Like Christopher, Harrison also writes well and honestly about people who have been called many things over the years–from riff raff, hobos, bums to street people. If an alien species ever lands here, they might ask us about the situation and we will not have a good answer. But maybe reading the works of people like Harrison (and Mr. Ananias) will shed some light on the question.
We closed the classy part of the week yesterday, with the publication of White Horse by Kate Mole. This is a wonderful bit of work that takes the reader to Cornwall (a place that is the focus of most of Kate’s writing). It also dips into the history of one person and comes together beautifully. Being an American who has never been to Europe, I imagined Cornwall as something out of the film Rebecca. All cliffs and thundering waves. But Kate has done something to ease my ignorance on the topic, which is a high aim for a writer!
This week’s list is about plot hitches in (mainly) films and TV that have always bothered me. As always there is room for many many more. It stemmed from again wondering about the seventh item in the following list. These are various mental toe stubbings that I’ve yet to get out of my mind.
Leila
As Travis crosses East Hastings Street, he hears the high trembly voice of Sasha Asputi. She’s trilling a speech, waving her skinny arms in the air in the centre of a small circle of men and their shopping carts, “Tonight we homeless will take back our rightful space.”
Continue reading “The Wheelbarrow Man of East Hastings Street by Harrison Kim”
Michael Bloor has a wonderful gift that allows him to inform and yet be personal at the same time. This is evident in the many Sunday articles he has written for us, and within his prose as well.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Michael Bloor”
I have a couple of mentions of my Brother-In-Law Geordie Bell this week.
We went out for a few pints a week or so ago and something I realised that I did but now realise why, came to light.
I have a local pub that I go into of a Monday. It’s struggling. But when we got off the bus, it was shut. We went into the next pub, had a few and decided to have a wee crawl. We both had a great time and it was when I was thinking on we should do this again I realised I couldn’t. All pubs are struggling, so the odd tenner here or there doesn’t do any of them any good. However, if you nail your colours to one mast, then your sixty or so quid a week may help. It saddens me to see the state of pubs these days. Only three pubs in Ayr open at 10.00am and most of them shut their doors when it’s quiet. It’s hysterical that at one time the government was considering twenty-four hour opening. In a way, they have achieved that but it’s twenty four hours per week!!
George and my sister were just back from holidays with their friends. I know that I shouldn’t have laughed, but I was told that George had to be Heimliched by his pal. So that day that we were out, I did what anyone would do. I slagged him about it. I told him that now he has reached seventy, he should be counting how many times he chewed his food, I suggested thirty?? I then stated that I blamed my sister as she hadn’t cut up his meat small enough. I suggested that maybe he should stick to Soup and Angel Delight. And I finished off with what I thought was my best slagging:
‘Aye, and I heard that you and wee Graham got very close.’
He crucified me with the reply, he said:
‘I probably should have kept ma trousers on!’
I’d like to move onto old skills that we’ve lost. I was inspired to write about this a few weeks back when I was trying to spread butter just out the fridge onto a piece of soft bread. I think I could do this better as a kid! There was no spreadable and we weren’t that open to Margarine in them days!
I thought of more:
– Covering your jotter with wallpaper. (Or brown)
– Wrapping your piece with the Plain Breed Wrapper.
– Looking up something in an Encyclopedia having lost the index book.
– Respecting your grandparents even if they were old bastards.
– Being able to find a book in a library by using the reference cards.
– Tuning into Radio Luxembourg to get the least static.
– Un-Choke yourself due to a Spangle misadventure.
– Taping the chart show on a Cassette Player without catching the shite chat of the DJ.
– Being able to judge how many pickled onions, cubes of cheese and pineapple you would need to make a respectful Hedgehog.
– Looking up a phone number in the Phone Book.
– Manually changing channels on the TV.
– Stemming the blood after your Tufty Club badge stabbed you through the nipple.
– Avoid breaking your knuckles whilst playing Clackers.
– Using a dictionary as porn.
– Lighting a match using your thumb.
– Putting a needle on and lifting it off a record.
– Blagging your way into a pub at fifteen.
– Choosing the relevant weight of coin to counteract a scratch on an LP.
– Accepting yourself as you and not a fucking label.
– And the most important one (Especially relevant in Scotland) – Hiding and suppressing your emotions.
I do realise that if there are any youngsters reading this, they won’t have a Scooby about most of them!!
Onto this week’s stories.
We had two new writers, two returners and a well established friend of the site.
As always, our initial comments follow.
First up we had Mick Bloor with his twenty third story for us. This is a cracking amount but you also need to take into consideration the amount of Specials and Mick’s continual commenting which makes him one of our most prolific writers.
‘Alan’s Lost Domain’ was his story on Monday.
‘This reminds me that the people in charge hate peace, this has that vibe to it.’
‘A look back at rare times.’
‘This feels as if it comes from a very personal view point.’
On Tuesday we had Alex Faulkner with, ‘Three Swans.’ This was Alex’s second story for us.
‘A fun read.’
‘Cleverly put together.’
‘The tension at the end builds and builds to settle at the end with the mystery when they disappear.’
Our first new writer was showcased on Wednesday. We welcome Seth Bleuer. We hope he has fun on the site and continues to send us his work.
Seth’s story, ‘Swindled’ was next up.
‘A bit of comeuppance is always entertaining.’
‘We’ve had a few of this type but this is the best by far.’
‘I thought this was entertaining and very readable.’
Ian Douglas Robertson was our second returner. His story, ‘How The Captain Got His Garter’ was published on Thursday.
‘I like the language.’
‘A wonderful yarn.’
‘I really enjoyed the dialogue.’
And we finished off with R.H. Nicholson’s, ‘Caged’. R.H. is also a new writer for us and we extend him the same warm welcome!
‘This spins you around.’
‘There’s a lot in this.’
‘This is one that you need to concentrate on.’
That’s us done and dusted.
As I’ve said over the last few postings, please keep doing what you are doing…Everything is going superbly well!!
The only thing I’d ask is for those who used to regularly comment, maybe have a look again. I’m sure you would enjoy the interaction that we now have that maybe we didn’t have a few years back.
To finish off I’d like to say a few words about OAPs – Not the booze swilling, Barley Sugar hating, Never to a Church Of A Sunday, Still having sex, having more life in them than a twenty year old and most importantly, great story tellers with life experience type…No not them, this type of cunt.
Obnoxious.
Arrogant.
Pedantic.
You will normally find them as a Micro-Managing Tit-head.
By the way, I keep needing to look that term up as it is so anal, controlling and pish, my mind refuses to comprehend it.
What I want to do is appeal to all the Serial Killers out there, these fuckers have never been targeted, don’t you think it’s time that you did?
Okay when you got caught and end up in the jail, you may have a sticky beginning when you tell your fellow inmates that you are ‘The OAP’ killer. But when you explain that it’s OAP as in:
Obnoxious.
Arrogant.
Pedantic.
You will be met with – ‘Whit they cunts! How many did you get?
…Here, have ma pudding!’
Now for some music.
I had forgotten about this one. Leila did a list a month or so back regarding story-telling songs. To my disgrace I forgot about this one which I consider one of the best!!
Image: Hugh’s favourite pub in sAyr – Drouthy Neighbours in the twilight with the lights shining out a welcome.
Jimmy Comerton and I were given the task of tidying up the big shed at the back of the yard. It was a wet autumn day, ideal for the job. After the frenzy of the harvest, the shed was in a mess. Bales of hay and straw had been thrown higgledy-piggledly everywhere, some bursting out of their bindings in an untidy sprawl. Machinery and tools had been lackadaisically discarded in unlikely places. We had also been commissioned to prepare a makeshift pen for the lambing season – my father always tended to think ahead.
Continue reading “How the Captain Got his Garter by Ian Douglas Robertson”
I engage in a strange activity when no one is watching. When I see a small stone on the sidewalk I will choose an area then give the pebble an “accidental” kick in that direction, which is never farther than two feet away. I ask myself “Will everything be alright?” as I hit it with my foot. Nothing else happens after that. I cannot remember when it began, sometime in junior high school, I know that. What it means used to exist, but I can no longer get to it. This happens a lot. At least a half dozen times a day for over fifty years.
Continue reading “Week 533: Private Games and an Ode to Bill”
He sat on his usual bench at the top of the hill, a wooden seat framed by wrought iron, perfectly positioned under the spreading shade of an oak tree. From this vantage point, the extensive park rolled away in green waves, stretching toward the river winding lazily through a neighbourhood of opulent estates. Grand homes, hidden behind walls of clipped hedges, exuded an air of quiet affluence, while two nearby mansions stood conspicuously empty, their owners absent for years. He often marvelled at the indulgence of leaving such places untouched—silent monuments to wealth and those who had far more of it than they needed.
Continue reading “Park Bench by Ameer Toor”
“You can’t see anything going that fast, especially at night.”
“You can see everything going that fast, especially at night.”
Nora has no idea what Jack means. He drives the speed limit back to her apartment and drops her off.
Continue reading “There Are Just Too Many Places I’ve Got To See,’ Jack Says”
Pre-Experiment Introduction
It took James Joyce seven years to write Ulysses. As a teen it took me almost as long to read it. The stream of consciousness, which marked the passing of 16 June 1904 in Dublin, second by second, thought by thought, was way too confusing for someone at age fifteen, especially the “Circe” section that goes on a hundred-fifty pages. But that is how it goes with classics written by adults for adults (a point I’ve ranted on before). A person needs a few years as a grown up in her soul before something like Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter can connect to her. Same goes for everything written by Joyce (except a couple from Dubliners–Araby and The Dead can be understood by High Schoolers, I think–at least I “got” them).
I successfully read Ulysses when I stopped demanding it to make linear sense. I let it happen to me. I concentrated on simply reading the words and gave my subconscious the task of sorting it out. Not once did I ask myself stupid questions like “What the hell is happening now?” and went with the flow.
That worked very well. I began to get into the swing of the thing about four chapters in and made it through to the other side. I read that you need to know Irish history to understand the book deeply. Still, I say all you really need to know about Irish history is that before independence (and for a long time thereafter) shit, especially royal and government shit, rolled downhill. Nowadays, however, Ireland is a comparatively uphill, wealthy nation, which means that most of the undesirable blood (such as my father’s side of the family) was safely siphoned to America a long time ago.
This week I shall experiment with Stream of Consciousness, like Joyce in Ulysses, but omitting disgusting items as I wish Joyce would have done with Mr. Bloom, he of the jakes and secret pocket. It was amazing that Joyce was able to put together a narrative from thoughts as wildly scrambled as Burroughs’ Junky.
The Experiment begins:
Tis Aphid season. Three, four attracted by the screen. Keylimegreen. Bugapalooza.
–Arpfmagarpth? Whuzzat. Oh. Hairball. Izzy on the dot. Split. Cats never step in human puke. Selling Buicks at Ralph motors. High scoo. Igglesniff on your nose. Too much Black Velvet. Bring your own spins.
–I ralphed a beeyouick on the rug. Izzy. Speaking. Talking Cat with no hat. Get cleaning it washermygosherwoman.
–You and the Catnip you rode in on.
–Are those your shoes, gibbergimlet?
–All right all right. Two for the price of one, how the west was won. Eyeyiyi of cyclops voice of Joe pazuzukudzu. Stunkofaskunk bee bop bloom a lulu.
The Experiment Ends
Strange things happen when you let your jabbering mind off the leash. Ulysses is hard to read, but like Chaucer and Shakespeare it gets easier as you go. Then you find yourself doing the same, doing the dame. Words scrump up from below, nonsense rhymes squeeze the flow. Flibbergimletjibbeetly we all a go go.
Great, now my mind has gone all Dr. Seuss in Auld Ireland on me. Gotta rate the Catholics Kings and Whoremongers on the quay…coppers singing Galway Bay, bay-a-bee….
What? Oh knock it off, quit leaking fey words into my fingers you goddam whichever lobe that shit is kept. Stop stop stop, he bop, she bop….Bloom bops alone…
Enough! Look what I have done to myself. Beware stream of consciousness. You might drown in it, like She Woolf, with stones in your knickers…
Let’s escape through The Week That Was portal!
The Week of Gems
This was a peculiar week for us because it featured six writers who have appeared with us before. Some several times. Usually there’s one new kid to introduce, but not this time.
And I say six because Our Harbour by site friend and frequent commenter, Paul Kimm, was a featured rerun this past Sunday. It rates a special mention. For anyone who has still managed to miss it, I encourage you to take a look.
The work week began with Meetings and Partings by Nidhi Srivasta Asthana. Nidhi needs to be congratulated on her professionalism during a long editing process as well as the insightful result of the work itself. It is a revelation involving Indian culture and the ancient practice of arranged marriage.
Christopher Ananias has been on a roll ever since his site debut last year. In the Flames is his latest look into the heart of darkness that beats inside the world. Great evil has always been commonplace (look up Richard Speck or the Triangle shirt fire). But nowadays there’s a relatively new dynamic behind it, something that went up the tower with Charles Whitman long ago. Christopher manages to effectively describe the madness with admirable objectivity.
Wednesday saw the welcomed return of J. Bradley Minnick. The Day the End of the World Was at Hand. It too speaks of madness, the organized one called war. I remember the Vietnam era. I was a child and it all seemed unreal to me, like a TV show, until someone we knew lost a son. The darkness will look for us all, and it is up to us to feel it if we are to grow. Brad shows this sort of thing with great polish and sincerity.
Digital to Analog Conversion marked another welcomed return, this time by Bud Pharo. There is way too much AI in the universe. A strange case of a glut of something that only exists in a half-assed sort of way (I hope “Annie” is not related to the feeble minded Google Assistant). But this one had enough charm to get over, which is a credit to Bud.
Simon Nadel closed the week with Crime Wave. There’s a silkiness to this otherwise hard-bitten narrative. Like Chandler and the underrated Spillane, the cynicism and booze flow in an eloquent manner.
Kudos to all our repeat offenders–I mean contributors. People without the determination to do something good, although difficult, never get across. The writers who appear, and those who keep trying to appear, deserve credit for having that aspect in their characters.
More Stream of Consciousness
Recently I was bored (aka “at work”) and I began to consider what are the greatest scenes I remember from film. I decided that the Stream of Consciousness Approach could work here. Instead of actively seeking examples, I let them come to me. Below are the ten film scenes I came up with. (Readers sharing, as always, is strongly desired.)
Leila
literally stories 