Greek antiquity ft Beyonce

‘Then he thrust his spear into the soil… ‘

My current crush is on Richard Miles who presents the Ancient History documentary on BBC Two. He rides horses and uses words like quixotic. Apparently he teaches Classics in Australia… the modern day Indiana Jones, although he does have a propensity to popping his pink rugger shirt, the fact he wields a copy of Homer would forgive any sin he could care to commit.

Considering that the English language is my greatest turn on, working in a bookshop is beginning to fuel fantasies rather nicely. I can extrapolate wildly from choice of book to type of man. Just last week I managed to get my flirt on with a customer with marvelously full lips as we discussed astrology, all terribly tongue in cheek but making minimum wage retail more than worth it.

Not only is my job affording me flirtations with cute men who can read but a whole new social life! Waterstones is filled with the most eccentric peoples I have met in some time. There is a Kali devotee with druid beard who is sourcing me some mead, a self-confessed fruit-machine addict, a gay Mohawk stage hand and a young girl who thinks gammon is a fish, because it’s like a sting ray, innit… a gamma ray? With this merry bunch of men, I get to go to pubs warmed by log fire and drink wine, while my new friends have their peculiar concoctions of stout, cider or port and lemonade.

From there it would appear that the C21 club, a 5 minute walk from my house, holds a gay night on a Monday. Shawbury is the RAF base nearby. This Monday the gay bar and RAF came together in a beautiful celebration of 24 year old boy men all fashioning moustaches for Movember. I romanced with a Lieutenant Jim and talked books with Lieutenant Bob. Lieutenant Josh bought the Jaeger Bombs. All most charming. I would have spent more time with young Jim, but his friend took me to one side and told me how he was a top bloke and I had to be good to him as he’d been messed around before. All hail the school disco. The Mohawk and I proceeded to the podium to insist that if you liked it then you should have put a ring on it.

Amongst all this working and merriment, I managed to complete my 50,000 words? I am rather surprised by this, especially as I had to write the last 20,000 in 3 days, heavily punctuated by hangovers. Pride won out over procrastination and all this socialising has been putting me in a jolly good mood so was all very encouraging.

I plan to keep the 50,000 a month job up, just to keep me busy, and make sure I have a vast wealth of information to write me a book. It amuses me to write it so should amuse others to read. Not entirely sure what the style will be quite yet so playing with a few. Travelogue? Erotica? Comedy? Chicklit? Coming of age story? There’s certainly a lot of high camp but one cannot fight the moonlight.

Oooh Richard is scuba diving now. Mother has just commented that he’s a rather rounded young man… Yes indeed. I can only assume he would be joining me on the podium if I were to bump into him at C21… We could discuss beautiful youths together.

Catullus LXXXV

Odi et amo.
quare id faciam, fortasse requiris?
nescio,
sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

I hate and I love.
How can I do that, you might ask me perhaps?
I do not know.
But that's what I feel and this is torture.

OK. Shall commit to the last few moments of Dr Richard now... and dream of exploring antiquities together.

Sweet dreams

xxx

Fishfingers and benevolent universes

Hello folks

It's just gone 8 o'clock on a rainy Wednesday evening in Shrewsbury and I've now written 29,438 words into a Microsoft word document entitled A Novel by A.L.Dyer.

The more I write, the crazier the dreams become. It may be something to do with sleeping in a narrow single bed that I affectionately dub, the fishfinger. My dreams are often epic adventures which involve me on exciting missions to achieve lofty goals. There is often double crossing, love and loss, hiding under something and finally having the visuals dramatically wrenched from me as I wake up. I then lie there thinking, yes, that's a story alright, that could be a film, that's amazing and by the time I plod to my laptop I can't see it anymore. I just hear the echoes of the protagonist whispering 'help' as the new consciousness of my waking life kicks in. Thank goodness for my journals, having those memory bites right now are invaluable.

Life continues in its cozy way here. The only drama is in my head, which is where it tends to reside any way, but I haven't met any men to fantasise about or women who may become nemeses, hence my word count increases. A small turn of fortune occured in Waterstones for my writing career. Luke, the Senior Bookseller for Fiction approached me on Wednesday when I was doing my 4 to 8 shift, stacking shelves, stacking shelves, and said, 'You're interested in writing aren't you?' I smiled and averted my eyes saying 'yes, well trying to'. I am endeavouring to be less bombastic while in the Shire, the shop is too small for hyperbole at any rate. He continues with 'Well there has been some water damage of a small selection of books so you can take them home if you like, they're in the box over there.' Over I wander, to discover that the only section of books that had been damaged were the 'How to write a novel' section. Turns out there are about ten of these books, ranging from how to write for children, to how to stroke readers' thighs with your words of erotic novella. I have gladly asked to take them all home with me at the earliest of conveniences.

Yes Universe, you may well be minus 3 of late, but you are most benevolent.

Hoping you are all experiencing wee gifts of late,

Alison

xxx

Prose practice

Homebase. How to describe such a place? Homebase was a slum. A hot slum. A dirty late night, early morning slum. It was always very dark. There were giant day beds lain out where you could get jiggy. The toilets which were usually flooded were for furtive explorations. Anything went. There were poles to writhe around. Axxxxx and Jxxxx were already royalty. Each weekend someone’s credit card would be left behind. Usually Axxxxs’ as he was the most capable when high. The rest of us would just roll around on the beds in messy crocodiles of limbs. Gurning. Kissing. Dancing. Talking. Squeezing hands when you’d tried the E pill. Falling over when you’d eaten the K pill. Writhing in the toilets with the right coke. The dance floor was so small that it didn’t matter if you couldn’t stand up, the hoardes of sweating bodies kept you upstanding. And then it was but a 5 minute walk up the steps, beside the escalator to return to Escapades. Home. From Homebase.

Sowing a book tree.

18,424 words!

It's hard to start up the engine but once it begins it does make a lovely sound. Trawling through old diaries is such a treat. Brings back the madness of my first few months in Hong Kong. This juxtapositions in a marvellous way to the sweetness of living in windy Shrewsbury with my mum. Remembering how mayhemic everything was with how calm everything is now.

Today, I journeyed down to Shrewsbury Abbey and lit at candle at 11am for the lost soliders of the first world war, and all previous and future wars. Seeing the riots in London last night reminiscent of this. Mobs. Rage. Hatred. Fury. How it appears in different forms under different names.

Yesterday, was my first day at Waterstones. My dream job. Surrounded in books. Talking about writers. This fits in rather well with the Buddhist concept of sowing seeds. As I sell books, so I help sell my own, yet unformed book. Whatever you wish to have in your life, sow the seeds for it. Thank you Waterstones.

Thank you book tree.

x

Mills & Boon meets Hustler

Hello lovely people out there on the interwebs,

Hope you are all fairing most well.

Quote of the day, courtesy of the lovely Ms Kan is 'Thou shalt not know exactly what thou dost, but thou shalt do it' which sounds like a mash up of the Bard and Gandhi so I approve mightily. It also cleverly encapsulates my life at the moment. I'm not in some high powered job, in my fancy flat, with my snazzy car and designer shoes but I really couldn't be happier.

Tomorrow, if you were to peak in at Waterstones in Shrewsbury you would see me there, as the newest bookseller, asking folks to 'Key in your pin number love' which wasn't a possibility when I left for Asian shores in 2002. The technology! And I have Mills & Boon meets Hustler fantasies of meeting a man who reads books in the Shire and possibly plays an instrument who may come seeking a book, and our eyes shall meet over a graphic novel... and well... you can imagine the rest. There'll be coffee and grimy bedsits and vast quantities of mulled wine to cope with the 4 degree temperatures we are blessed with in this green and pleasant land.

Writing a book while working in Waterstones just seemed to fit, especially a ye olde Waterstones with a tudor exterior and wiggly shaped rooms. I'm approaching the 15.000 word mark and smug as a bug in a rug. This must show as I was just carded in ASDA. Les, the check out man, deliciously asked for ID, I played along with the joke and laughed, he poker faced me and I gleefully presented my HK ID. He was befuddled. In my dream world, I shall befuddle at least one person a day.

"Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."

I'll let you know about the world of the bookseller soon.

Sleep well. Dream of things that make you curl and stretch.

xxx

Remember, remember the fifth of november

Words written now in the 5 figures.
Phew.
Debbie's birthday now - so serving cake in Altrincham.
Juggling a 7 year old terrorist who wants cake before sandwich and a technophile 9 year old who wants to know how to change her mum's wallpaper on the new birthday smartphone...
Ready for gunpowder, treason and plot...
Bang bang!
xx

Guilt 1 - Procrastination 0

Today did not want to begin. It was super cold outside. I had a sore tummy. I have recently discovered the joys of bbc i player so can watch old episodes of Merlin. There was much on the side of procrastination. But I had guilt hanging over my head. Now as any good Roman Catholic I am rather good at ignoring and forging through regardless, but I knew I had pinky sworn to write something on this blog EVERY day. And I don't want to lie. So I HAD to write more of the novel. Ug.


Then HURRAH! Having rearranged the tardis that is my back bedroom, I had found a diary from 2001 and that fed me with quite enough to tippy tap into my hp laptop.

Word count today - 7,846 - over 15% done already of 50,000 target achieved already!


So now I am off to curl up like a squirrel under several duvets and read Mr Pip.


Good night


x

Crocodile? Dragon? Skinny hippo? Serpent? Stump?

Here is a picture of my favourite log.
See how country I've become :)
I have a favourite log! Do you?
What do you see?
All of my suggestions may be found in the title of this post.

Closer to modern civilisation however is the local Tesco Mega Store! That was my adventure for the day. Liz from number 7 drove me over. I usually just get to walk to ASDA. They stock Leopards Leap which has a picture of 3 leopards on the front, which is also the symbol for Shrewsbury. Three shrews would not hold such gravitas? Who can say. Not sure how many leopards Shrewsbury has ever seen, but there we go. I am drinking some now. It is nice.

Managed to write a few more words today so up to 5,272, wbich is more than the 1,667 recommended per day. Phew. Am being mainly distracted at present by BBC i-player and 4 on demand... you can watch any tv you missed... so that led to the weekend's Merlin and Pillars of Stone, I am going super old school now I'm back in the Shire... It's all that Norman stone work and thoughts of Vikings.

Highlight of the day definitely meditating this morning. It was all most golden and autumnal.

Tomorrow I shall be decorating a cake for a dear friend's birthday party.

Oh the burbs!

Merry Thors' Day

xxx

Root Vegetables and Welsh Virgins

Good evening folks,

Day two is now over and my word count is standing at a rather tall, blonde and beautiful 4,059. I mainly feel retarded that I have taken this long to commit to writing something. I enjoy it so much, as I rather peversely used to enjoy writing essays and doing homework. I'm reminded of my favourite school projects where I'd do little drawings to annotate each page as well - so there were more than words. I remember my King Arthur project where I speculated where he was TRULY buried, being under ten at the time I'm sure I would have known the right answer. I also collated a book of big cats. Lots of fascinating facts about each cat and a remedial drawing as only someone who still can't draw stick figures in her thirties can achieve.

As for my writing today, not much has changed. I get more definite and more clear about what I'm saying as it appears on the page. I giggle when something funny happens and steam up when I remember some fantasy I created during the most innocent of scenarios. I have recently been introduced to a phenomenal illustrator, so there may even be pictures too! I'll post some images once they're ready.

As for today, I spent the morning buying roots vegetables with my mother (it's very cold and one must snort stew to stay alive) and exploring Shrewsbury Abbey, which is only a 5 minute walk from my house. It was built in 1083 by The Earl of Mongomery, one of William the Conqueror's best buddies. Ah, 1066. Of course Henry the Eighth smashed it up in the 1500s, but the original columns and arches remain? I love being so close to such history. Creations that live on. St Winifred's relics were stored here after she was beheaded by the bloke that fancied her when she wouldn't go out with him. Her head rolled down the hill and a holy spring began to bubble up. Her head was picked up by a priest, and popped back onto the body. She then did a few miracles here and there. A saint is born. She was Welsh, but then Shrewsbury is on the borders and the Abbey was the biggest one for miles back in the day so it seems fitting her bones found a home where she could be worshipped. She's still quite popular today. She got a new stained glass window back in 1992! Just say no, ladies.

Again, thank you so much for your emails of awesome, they are sooo inspirational. Today I would like to thank Su for the enLIGHTenment, Jason for the loomage, Gerald for the hyperbole, Laurence for the cheerleading, USA Kat for the bloggage and Christina for the continuum.

Sweet dreams,

A

x

THANK YOU

Sooooo...

Written the first 2,148 words to the strains of Sigur Ros... so if strange selkies and faerie folk appear in the book I wouldn't be overly suprised... so far I've been pondering travel and remembering the first 24hours in Hong Kong back in September 2002. I've not even met you HK people yet? Imagine?!

Thank you so, so, very much for your kind and lovely words of encouragement regarding this project. I'm going to put them all on one sheet and print it out so I can read over them again when considering bailing.... which I shan't... lest the Goblin Faerie Queen seek comeupance.

Alongside writing, I'll also be working at Waterstones in Shrewsbury over Christmas, first day next Wednesday when I shall begin singing the minimum wage blues... thank the elves for MPF refunds!

Here goes the thank yous...

Thank you Nari, England is misty, mellow and not disimilar to comfort eating vast amounts of Yorkshire Pudding, thank you Kelly, I'll doubtless be fact checking on your website, thank you Peter, thank you Lavinia, superb advice, I de-dongle and cannot reinsert til 2,000 words exist, thank you Vicky, thank you Kat, haiiigh faaive, thank you Jill, one of my all time favourite Goethe quotes, thank you Clare and Tony, so glad to have you both as shipmates for November's literary bootcamp, thank you Tina J, always an inspiration, thank you Alice, meow and purr, thank you Carla Bear, thank you Tina C, happy Japaning, thank you Tom, I'll holdyou to that! :), thank you Ryan, Fist & Finger indeed, thank you Louise, your words make me all fuzzy inside, thank you Tamara, thank you Al Squared, fine words indeed, thank you Laurence, ha!, thank you Fiona, marvellous email danke!, thank you Tanya, how lovely, a great inspiration to me indeedie!

And now, I can get back to the fabulous business of perusing facebook for all those phenomenal Halloween costumes. Anyone would think there were a surfeit of little monsters in Hong Kong? Devil worshippers... the lot of you!

And then watch the big silence about folks doing a vipassana benedictine monk style - http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00vjcp5/The_Big_Silence_Episode_1/

Happy writing kisses

xxx

A Fairytale by A L Dyer

The air was not really for breathing any more. It was for indexes and inhalers. Factories and idling engines filled the air with Victorian smog. Old and young wheezed along the pathways of Hong Kong covering their faces with masks or cloth or clothes. Many began to live inside. In virtual bubbles. The fortunate could afford oxygen chambers while playing outside was banned. Lovers skyped and texted but rarely met. Sex was usually carried out online wearing electronic stimulators. Those cocooned from the air and growing rich from sales of air substitutes still experienced the pleasure of touch, as masseuses and stylists scuttled through the service walkways to tend to their charges.

One family at this time seemed to profit while others lost. The matriarch had suffered from breathing problems during her first pregnancy and due to her reputation as an aficionado of all things hedge and fund found funding for her new business to be no barrier to entry. The business was named Crystal Clear and produced all things to protect you from the dissolving world outside. Masks and gloves and wipes and oxygen tanks and eventually their most desirable item: The Crystal Clear Residence.

The Crystal Clear Residence was on the Southside of Hong Kong Island near many other prestigious properties but on its own piece of uncontaminated reclaimed land. The air was distilled from the waters of Faxaflói, a Fjord in Iceland most famous for it’s proximity to the country capital of Reykjavík. This water was said to combat pollutants so was at a very high premium. Few tasted it. A select few had ever breathed it. Those at the Crystal Clear Residence sipped and inhaled at length. The Nautilus inspired structure would sparkle in the humid sunshine casting rainbows across the island. Top ecologists had been called in to ensure the residence could exist with as little outside input as possible so workers such as gardeners, plumbers and cleaners need only enter rooms when the residents were elsewhere. Those who would enter the residence to carry out manual tasks were known as the ‘air breathers’ and viewed with disdainful pity from the inhabitants of the residence.

It was in the Crystal Clear Residence that baby Kenza Leila was born. A small child with giant eyes. Her mother named her after the Arabic words for treasure and dark beauty as she was her heart’s delight. ‘Kenza’ she would whisper to her daughter, ‘you are my heart which now walks around outside of my body.’ And every morning as the sun rose up over the compound, Kenza Leila would be shown the plants and the flowers that grew within. As the sun set, Kenza Leila was shown the stars in their magical patterns and told stories of the gods and goddesses who had blessed her heart, her treasure with such deep ochre eyes and calm countenance. Sometimes, late at night, Kenza’s mother would wake to check on the child that never cried and find her staring through the glass ceilings at those stars, or at the changing clouds during the day. She never cried. But nor did she laugh. And as the years passed by and Kenza’s hair grew into dark curls, her rosebud lips learnt to smile when required.

Residents would speculate that she was a wise old soul and would visit her with gifts of expensive perfumes and fine clothes to see if they could learn what she knew. Kenza so rarely spoke that visitors would place huge meaning on her utterances. Her refrain, ’Ew!‘ at a clucking chicken in the sanitised petting zoo led to their removal from the Residence and a ban on all poultry. The following year a strange Avian flu purged the rest of Hong Kong, while the Residence remained pure. While leaving for their Autumn break, Kenza wrinkled her nose when the first class tickets for Bali peeked from the travel case. The trip was cancelled while the bombs decimated the Balinese tourist strip.

Kenza Leila was no longer one mother’s treasure of dark beauty. She was the Oracle, the Sibyl. The foreseer of good and bad. The most precious of the Residence. She was revered within the Crystal Clear Residence but her premonitions came at a price. Residents began to complain that she was unnatural. A freak. Inhuman. These terms would undulate through the manicured gardens and glass lifts. A chatter of Chinese whispers dispersed from the highest echelons of society to the lowliest air breathers.

‘She knows so much. She could guide us through the markets.’

‘She knows so much. I shall find out the name of my sweetheart.’

‘She knows too much. She will destroy the markets.’

‘She knows too much. She will bewitch my sweetheart.’

Fortunately for Kenza, her detached demeanour insulated her from such idle gossip and her beauty ensured that people could not help but be kind to her face. Besides which, she was an inhabitant of the Crystal Clear Residence, the most expensive real estate in the land, her parents were influential people. Kenza would spend her days taking long swims in the large indoor heated pool following the Nautilus shell tiled pattern beneath her body to swim in endless spirals, in and out. She carried herself with a regal bearing and whether swimming or strolling or attending ballet classes, her long limbs behaved more like those of a gazelle than a normal child.

Years passed and her 16th birthday approached on the 24th February.

To be continued...

An Urban Fairytale

Before you read this, know it is not from my fevered wishful imagination. This just unfolded - infront of my own very jaded eyes - and they are burning bright once more with the knowledge that love is alive and well and all around...

I'm sitting at the Bookworm. Doing my homework. Pondering Great Compassion and concluding that without a solid foundation of self esteem and worth its difficult to get a foothold and then the magic occured.

I'd been aware of a very handsome, young couple sitting at the booth beside mine. She had huge blue eyes, soft brown hair, freckles and a European accent. He was a modern day Indian prince, with heavenly wavy hair tapered into his regal neck. They were not having a fun conversation.

They were reliving their last few months or so. She accusing him of not caring. He saying that he was too hurt to behave well. He was in too much pain. My homework focus began to drift as I tuned into this real life occurence of love found and love lost. Their tones were angry, then pleading, then nervously laughing. They recounted tales of being at the same restaurant near Lan Kwai Fong, you know, the one near Bulldogs? How she arrived and he blanked her. So she thought he didn't care. But he did. But he ignored her. Can you understand how I feel? Can you?

After some time, I tuned out, this record was looping. You did this. But I hurt. Imagine how I felt. I'm sorry. Why didn't you say anything. Why did you. Why did you. Why did you?

But then the scene changed.

The Indian prince stood up and asked the waitress if he could play some Sinatra.

The music began to play and he walked back to the table and took Blue Eyes by the hand. There in the restaurant they stopped talking. They slow danced between the tables. He gently turned her watching her sway through the room at twilight. Their eyes never once left each other. The air pulsing with a need to be understood. For it all to be OK.

The song ends and he asks her to stay. They sit down once more. There is another song lined up. It's main lyric is 'One More Try' but he serenades all the lyrics to her, with such a beautiful voice and her big blue eyes begin to spill.

The only actions are his voice and her tears.

'I wish you the best. I guess.'

The music was over. They listened to each other through the silence. Eyes locked.

He gets up. Walks to the counter, 'Can I get the check?'

Another song begins to play. Instrumental guitar.

'This is in my favourite movie,' she says.

'Yeah, I remember that,' he says.

She laughs at how his plate has barely been touched and offers to share the bill. He says she can pay next time. She says there won't be one.

'There'll be no tomorrow' says she.

'There will be. I promise,' says he, 'Are you OK?'

'Errrm, yeah, no, I, I'm just surprised.'

'Let's go and take a long walk together.'

And as he collects his music, she wipes her tears away. He helps her with her coat. They leave the restaurant.

And it's my turn to mist up. I'm so touched by this display of human interaction.

The usual music switches back on. It's Burt. 'Just like me, they long to be, close to you.'

Thank you Blue Eyes and Indian Prince. I wish you love. Thank you for showing some to me.

xxx