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

Short Story Sunday - Banana Pancakes

I wake up smiling, with kisses on my lips. Many kisses, along the path, in the garden, on the roof, lying, sitting, walking, melting. Alone. The roof top reveals a treasure map of pillows and sheets but strangely empty. As is my bed.

Your friend said I was rather hot and he had certainly never met me before, although we had also engaged in dog down on many occasions. Interesting what make up and scent will do for a lady. Your friend continued that I should give you 'a go' as you are just so flexible. This had certainly been part of the package but not the winning deal. You just seemed so kind and Scorpio mysterious, as they are want to be. The mating dance continued. You fetched drinks. We talked. The world dissolved around us. The kiss.

Hershey Melty Kisses. Unfolding, Unraveling. Melty. Gravity.

We stagger from the party as if shot. As if injured from a hunt. Leaving pieces of us behind.
A moonlit graveyard with views of the ocean beckons. We roll to our positions and kiss and kiss and kiss. Finding. Losing. Escaping. Dreaming.

The magic is interspersed with the practicalities. 'So tomorrow begins with banana pancakes' say I. 'I think we can accommodate that' says he. 'I hope we can enjoy the scenery' say I. I've made certain allowances for that' says he. The Lantau escapade stretches out in front of us. A beautiful unravelling thread into the future.

We stumble to my house. Blind with kisses. Grabbing pillows from the bedroom. Flinging ourselves to the roof. Discarded ragdolls. There is no moon tonight. Enveloped in the night. Wrapped up tightly in the nights heavy sheets and our own arms.

And as I bend and dissolve and become and disappear, you utter the words. 'I'm sorry. I can't do this.'

A if in a play, I amuse myself with a new script. “I suppose banana pancakes are out of the question?'

You say sorry to yourself more than to me. We have changed stories and are no longer performing on the same stage.

I wake up with a bed strewn with pillows, curling like a cat, at the memories of what did and the thoughts of what could.

To be continued...

Apple wisdoms

“life will break you.
nobody can protect you from that,
and living alone won’t either,
for solitude will also break you with its yearnings.
you have to love.
you have to feel.
it is the reason you are here on earth.
you are here to risk your heart.
you are here to be swallowed up.
and when it happens that you are broken,
or betrayed,
or left,
or hurt,
or death brushes near,
let yourself sit by an apple tree
and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps,
wasting their sweetness.
tell yourself that you tasted as many as you could.”

- louise erdrich, the painted drum, p. 247