It's hard to unlock a door, but even harder to know when to lock it again.
For the past 10 months, almost. I was having the best time of my life.
But something escaped from that tranquil scene.
And for the longest time, I was trying to recapture it.
But you have to know when to let it go.
If you do, you grow a little more.
Thank you, Emily Price. You're one of my best friends, when you're not running on empty and irritable as sin.
I'm not gonna let you get away. You're one of my best friends.
But even you admitted I needed someone better.
Thank you, Heidi. You helped me see that it wasn't fair for me to try and keep something half dead alive.
You just need to let it go and try again with the knowledge you have now.
Thank you, both of you.
(Oh, and Heidi, if you're reading this at some point. Let me know how those cubs are doing!)
Thursday, 8 July 2010
Friday, 26 March 2010
Thursday, 25 March 2010
Little Big Day Out!
When my editor came to me in my cell, and asked me to write a travel piece, I said "You're not Timothy! I'm Timothy! Where are my steamed hands?!"
After a healthy dose of anti-psychotic medication, he asked me again and I said "Where do I start?"
He said I could go anywhere in the British ISles and talk about whatever I liked. With such an open invitation, I thought about what sort of place I would call a british paradise...
And then it hit me! In a book I'd read as a child, it talked of a magical land where strange creatures roamed the lush, green fields, and where men in huge suits took up the bolts of lightning from the hands of dead gods to make power for we mere mortals.
When I suggested this place, my editor told me it was a fantastic idea, and signed a week release form. I hurried home, trying to resist the temptation to molest birch trees along the way, and packed my bag with everything I'd need for my pilgrimage:
- Toothbrush
- Medicated toothpaste
- Fashionable undergarments
- Bell bottom jeans
- Sequined waist coat
- Afro pick
- Sun cream (Factor 20)
- Edible thong (For the train ride)
I hopped aboard the train, making sure my mittens were on tight, so I wouldn't start anymore fires.
The sign pinned to my coat said this:
"Please look after this bear. He bites small children and animals"
The guard, while making sure not to get his hands too close to my mouth, took my ticket, punched it, and left me alone in the first class car (Though I later found out I had no business being there.).
Aftr 5 changes, 6 muggings and a few cups of cold tea, I read the sign of the incoming station:
SELLAFIELD
I had arrived!
* * * * *
As I was wheeled from the station in my Lecter-cart, I saw all the wonderful sights that Sellafield had waiting for me. Flying cars! External combustion engines! Cream cakes! The beach! Unicorns fornicating with busty Goblins!
I later awoke in my hotel room with a hypodermic needle coming out of my neck, and a not e from the hotel management saying that I was speaking in tongues about flights of fancy and other such rot. They didn't have a tranquiliser, but gave me a shot of blueberry jam to the cartaroid artery, which had the same effect.
A few minutes of vomiting later, I left the basement penthouse I had been booked by my editor and went in search of adventure!
...there wasn't any in stock at the local supermarket! What a bust!
I walked along the beach instead.
The long, slightly oozing sand road became my friend over the 3 days I spent in Sellafield. It showed me the natural beauty of the indiginous wildlife, including a new species of crab that knows the entire score of "The Marriage of Figero", but nothing lse. After the final number, the creatures spawn a sack of eggs, numbering in the hundreds, and die on the spot. Those lucky enough to be in the chorus, survive to learn how to breathe and eat.
The feeling of sand between my feet was wonderful. The town should be praised for it's clean beach! It's natural properties are astounding! Even now, I never bump my feet into anything in the pitch blackness.
I was also lucky enough to be in town long enough for the summer carnival! Which began with the running of the sheep, due to most of the bulls being incredibly huge and agressive.
I, along with several other young men, were chosen to be in the event itself. We were herded into a large pen by a halfcaste man, who I later came to know as Shep. As we waited, the sheep was brought into the opposite pen. It had a garland of flowers, weaved by the women's institute, around each of it's heads. Each head was eating another's garland.
The time was nigh! We awaited the starter's pistol. Unfortunately, the local area authority wouldn't allow any sort of firearm to be fired, for fear of something they called an "84 cockup". So the starting pistol was replaced with a large gentleman having his genitals slammed into a vice.
The agonising scream came and we were off! The sheep was in hot pursuit! One man leapt into a rubbish bin for fear of being savaged by the creature, another threw himself into the Windy Scales, the local pub, and upon the mercy of the landlady. He was never recovered.
Yet another tried to climb up and over the wall surrounding the local nuclear power facility, but the wall consumed him before he even reached halfway up.
It was myself and another man left. My compatriot tried to bargain with me as we downed a gallon of beach sand, asking if I'd distract the creature while he ran on ahead. I told him I wanted a fair race, so kicked him in the cobblers and ran for home.
By winning, I was allowed my pick of the women in the town, those being the laws of the land.
I picked out my sweetheart and we spent the rest of the weekend in the throes of romance and the ocean (My hired dingy struck a roack and we had to swin back to shore).
When I arrived back at my inner London townhouse, my doctor told me that the asylum didn't allow pets. I told him she was a citizen of the realm and my worthy foe in battle, come concubine.
She bleated in agreement.
After a healthy dose of anti-psychotic medication, he asked me again and I said "Where do I start?"
He said I could go anywhere in the British ISles and talk about whatever I liked. With such an open invitation, I thought about what sort of place I would call a british paradise...
And then it hit me! In a book I'd read as a child, it talked of a magical land where strange creatures roamed the lush, green fields, and where men in huge suits took up the bolts of lightning from the hands of dead gods to make power for we mere mortals.
When I suggested this place, my editor told me it was a fantastic idea, and signed a week release form. I hurried home, trying to resist the temptation to molest birch trees along the way, and packed my bag with everything I'd need for my pilgrimage:
- Toothbrush
- Medicated toothpaste
- Fashionable undergarments
- Bell bottom jeans
- Sequined waist coat
- Afro pick
- Sun cream (Factor 20)
- Edible thong (For the train ride)
I hopped aboard the train, making sure my mittens were on tight, so I wouldn't start anymore fires.
The sign pinned to my coat said this:
"Please look after this bear. He bites small children and animals"
The guard, while making sure not to get his hands too close to my mouth, took my ticket, punched it, and left me alone in the first class car (Though I later found out I had no business being there.).
Aftr 5 changes, 6 muggings and a few cups of cold tea, I read the sign of the incoming station:
SELLAFIELD
I had arrived!
* * * * *
As I was wheeled from the station in my Lecter-cart, I saw all the wonderful sights that Sellafield had waiting for me. Flying cars! External combustion engines! Cream cakes! The beach! Unicorns fornicating with busty Goblins!
I later awoke in my hotel room with a hypodermic needle coming out of my neck, and a not e from the hotel management saying that I was speaking in tongues about flights of fancy and other such rot. They didn't have a tranquiliser, but gave me a shot of blueberry jam to the cartaroid artery, which had the same effect.
A few minutes of vomiting later, I left the basement penthouse I had been booked by my editor and went in search of adventure!
...there wasn't any in stock at the local supermarket! What a bust!
I walked along the beach instead.
The long, slightly oozing sand road became my friend over the 3 days I spent in Sellafield. It showed me the natural beauty of the indiginous wildlife, including a new species of crab that knows the entire score of "The Marriage of Figero", but nothing lse. After the final number, the creatures spawn a sack of eggs, numbering in the hundreds, and die on the spot. Those lucky enough to be in the chorus, survive to learn how to breathe and eat.
The feeling of sand between my feet was wonderful. The town should be praised for it's clean beach! It's natural properties are astounding! Even now, I never bump my feet into anything in the pitch blackness.
I was also lucky enough to be in town long enough for the summer carnival! Which began with the running of the sheep, due to most of the bulls being incredibly huge and agressive.
I, along with several other young men, were chosen to be in the event itself. We were herded into a large pen by a halfcaste man, who I later came to know as Shep. As we waited, the sheep was brought into the opposite pen. It had a garland of flowers, weaved by the women's institute, around each of it's heads. Each head was eating another's garland.
The time was nigh! We awaited the starter's pistol. Unfortunately, the local area authority wouldn't allow any sort of firearm to be fired, for fear of something they called an "84 cockup". So the starting pistol was replaced with a large gentleman having his genitals slammed into a vice.
The agonising scream came and we were off! The sheep was in hot pursuit! One man leapt into a rubbish bin for fear of being savaged by the creature, another threw himself into the Windy Scales, the local pub, and upon the mercy of the landlady. He was never recovered.
Yet another tried to climb up and over the wall surrounding the local nuclear power facility, but the wall consumed him before he even reached halfway up.
It was myself and another man left. My compatriot tried to bargain with me as we downed a gallon of beach sand, asking if I'd distract the creature while he ran on ahead. I told him I wanted a fair race, so kicked him in the cobblers and ran for home.
By winning, I was allowed my pick of the women in the town, those being the laws of the land.
I picked out my sweetheart and we spent the rest of the weekend in the throes of romance and the ocean (My hired dingy struck a roack and we had to swin back to shore).
When I arrived back at my inner London townhouse, my doctor told me that the asylum didn't allow pets. I told him she was a citizen of the realm and my worthy foe in battle, come concubine.
She bleated in agreement.
Wednesday, 24 March 2010
My Top Ten Gang Names.
10 - The Sons of Dr. Brain.
9 - Weekday Warriors.
8 - V for Vaginas.
7 - The Tribal Cheeks.
6 - Menstralcycle Maulers.
5 - Slash and Drop.
4 - The Chocolate Hostages.
3 - Granny Grabbers.
2 - The 65th Bvd Pussylickers.
1 - Hell's Angles.
Monday, 22 March 2010
Sunday, 21 March 2010
Smilers.
There was no need to be offensive.
You just wanted attention.
You got it, and it made my blood boil.
* * * * * *
For a long time now, I've hated organised religion.
My father beat (Not literally) this into me by the way he used to scream obscenities at the Jehovah's Witnesses. Sometimes it was fun, but other times I just used to run away, try to disassociate myself from him.
I used to hate doing anything with him. Everything was littered with a racist or xenophobic pretence and subtext. Even over dinner he used to complain about migrant workers and the church. He used to say the words "The Papal State" more than "I love you".
I never used to put any stock into what he said, until I saw what he was talking about as a clear picture, not as a string of randomly offensive phrases.
We were at the funeral of a distant relative, someone's uncle or brother. And brother. I wasn't paying attention as my father grimaced through the entire ceremony. I looked over to the group a few plots away.
They were smiling.
They were burying a person, and they were smiling. I couldn't wrap my head around it.
Now, I know why. That's they way they are.
It's still a freakish prospect to me. Maybe that's why I became a writer, a journalist. To ask questions about things I never understood.
So why am I still confused about myself?
I smile now too, like they did. Just to get through the pain and confusion.
It's the sweetest torture to know you don't care, or at least have no desire to listen to someone else's problems.
The smile is cold, and full of regret.
Saturday, 20 March 2010
150.
I thought I'd take a little time to just talk.
To my 1-3 readers, thank you. I started this as a means to an end, a place to write my thoughts and insane ideas down for future reference, or to entertain someone who came across it accidentally.
To my best friend, my other half. You're my consistant reader, always checking up on this place. Like so many other areas of my life, you make this place worthwhile. I've always said if just one person reads and likes my work, I'm satisfied, I'm happy. That just adds to you making me the happiest and luckiest Hector in the world (no matter how long you take to do things or get distracted for).
To anyone else who finds this place. Thanks for looking in. It doesn't take a lot for me to do this, in all honesty, but it takes a lot for me to say I'm ever proud of my works. Most of these are just badly cobbled together pieces of prose and poetry, so... Yeah. Hopefully you'll find something here that'll keep you coming back.
And let me know if you want to see anything more of a certain subject.
As for me? I'm gonna keep working at my dream. I want to write stories, but I'm no novellist, nor a poet truly. I'm a guy who comes up with nutty ideas and plasters dialogue in between reels of description.
I'm gonna have that future I dream of, one day. With the people and places within being real.
It's a long road ahead, but I've got strong legs.
T.P.
To my 1-3 readers, thank you. I started this as a means to an end, a place to write my thoughts and insane ideas down for future reference, or to entertain someone who came across it accidentally.
To my best friend, my other half. You're my consistant reader, always checking up on this place. Like so many other areas of my life, you make this place worthwhile. I've always said if just one person reads and likes my work, I'm satisfied, I'm happy. That just adds to you making me the happiest and luckiest Hector in the world (no matter how long you take to do things or get distracted for).
To anyone else who finds this place. Thanks for looking in. It doesn't take a lot for me to do this, in all honesty, but it takes a lot for me to say I'm ever proud of my works. Most of these are just badly cobbled together pieces of prose and poetry, so... Yeah. Hopefully you'll find something here that'll keep you coming back.
And let me know if you want to see anything more of a certain subject.
As for me? I'm gonna keep working at my dream. I want to write stories, but I'm no novellist, nor a poet truly. I'm a guy who comes up with nutty ideas and plasters dialogue in between reels of description.
I'm gonna have that future I dream of, one day. With the people and places within being real.
It's a long road ahead, but I've got strong legs.
T.P.
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