Vistas of empty promises stretching so far as the eye can see. Cold tyled aisles, musak offering nothing. People desperately searching, occasionally finding, but some things money can not buy.
Supermarket
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Paradise By Kevin Morris
Show me paradise where information pumps like an ever flowing river through the brain. Show me Eden where we are always connected, where sad thoughts are drowned out by the chatter of the information superhighway. Show me happiness where chips smaller than a grain of sand control our emotions, where reality and the virtual meet, but to what end? Show me pleasure unbounded, love without strings where virtual partners fulfil our wildest dreams. Show me a world of smiling, happy people where the god of pleasure reigns and I will show you a kind of hell.
Ode On Melancholy By John Keats
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine;
His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
Liverpool Garden
The music of wind chimes intermitint and poignant speaks to me of far away lands where monks sit in silent meditation. Tibet, as yet unvisited but one day I will go and walk in the mountains, breathe the pure air.
A gentle breeze sings in the leaves, touches my sun kissed skin. Planes fly overhead but no birds sing.
A Liverpool garden on a late August day, ordinary yet extraordinary in it’s way.
Ilana
“World War I was the underlying cause of the Bolshevik Revolution. Discuss”.
History has never been my strong point to put it mildly! I guess that its more complicated than the question suggests. Besides the war,the “great man” theory of history must have played a part. Surely old Vladimir Lenin’s powerful personality must have influenced the overthrow of the Tsarist regime. I mean it stands to reason, doesn’t it?
If it wasn’t for all my partying I’d probably be better able to answer that damn question. Any excuse for a party and you can bet your bottom dollar, I’ll be there.
“Hi Stan, mum and dad are away for the weekend, fancy coming over tonight?”
I was sitting on my bed, Ipad in hand willing myself to tackle that bloody history assignment when that text from Pete arrived. Sod Tsar Nicholas II and the Communists. It was nearly 100 years ago, what the hells it got to do with the here and now. I’ve only recently turned 18, for christ’s sake I’ve better things to do than bury myself in dusty old books, I’m off to Pete’s place.
—
She’s really something. That long black hair and long, toned bare legs reaching right up to her armpits.
“Hi I’m Stan, you’re gorgeous. Has anyone ever told you that?” Shit what a corney chat up line. If I where her I’d tell me to go and screw myself. What a prat you are Stan. You haven’t got a bloody clue how to chat to the ladies!
“Hi, I’m Ilana” she says in slightly accented English, fixing me with those dark eyes of her’s.
“Has anyone ever told you how sexy you sound Ilana?” If I didn’t blow it the first time I opened my big mouth then I’ve sure as hell made a prize idiot of myself this time. Any moment now she’ll adopt that look of withering contempt women’s faces take on whenever I’ve uttered a few sentences.
“Thanks, you’re a sweet guy. My family’s from Hungary. I came here as a little girl but I’ve still got a slight accent”.
“Really, didn’t the Soviets invade Hungary in the 1950’s?”
“Yes, in 1956. Its known as the Hungarian Uprising. My parents are from an ancient Magyar family, aristocrats in fact. When the Soviet tanks rolled in they managed to flee to the UK”.
Wow perhaps she can help me with my essay and, even if she can’t I just want to spend as much time as possible chatting to this gorgeous girl. “Do you know much about the Bolshevik Revolution?”
She throws back her head and laughs, her perfect white teeth glinting in the candlelight (Pete’s always had a thing for candles, he says it makes the atmosphere more intimate).
Stan” she says entwining her fingers in mine) history is my passion. Since the birth of civilisation my people have been persecuted and killed. The Hungarian puppitt government was just one manifestation of the suffering inflicted on my race. So, yes I know all about the Bolshevik Revolution and it’s effects on my people”.
“Do you think you could help me with an essay on the causes of the Revolution? I need to hand it in on Monday morning”.
“Sure”.
“How about tomorrow, at, say 1 pm?” I say knowing full well that my parents will be visiting friends on Saturday and won’t return until Sunday evening.
“I’m not a daytime girl. I party all night and sleep late into the day” she says squeezing my hand. Thrills of anticipation shoot through me. “I’ll be with you just as the moon rises which (she says consulting her mobile) will be a little after 9”.
—
“Hello Stan” she says, looking absolutely stunning in a very short red dress which leaves little to the imagination.
“Hi Ilana. Come in” I say trying not to blush.
“Thank you”. Her Hungarian accent, barely imperceptible yesterday, seems much more pronounced this evening. Perhaps it’s the lack of loud music which makes me notice such things.
We walk through into the lounge.
“Would you like a drink?”
“No, just sit next to me” she says patting the sofa.
I plop down next to her. “Stan you are a very handsome man” she says her blood red lips parting in a smile to reveal those amazingly white teeth. So perfect. Sharp little daggers of enamel glistening under the overhead light. I draw back involuntarily.
“Stan, I thought you liked me, is something wrong?” she says her delicate tongue moistening those ruby lips.
“No its just that” I trail off my eyes fixed on those needle sharp little teeth.
“It’s a privilege experienced by very few men to enjoy the intense pleasure of one such as I” she says her mouth inches away from mine. She leans in softly taking my face in her hands. Her lips so soft on my neck. Feather like kisses sending waves of delight through me. A sharp scratch like a needle when one gives blood. She laps greedily as a cat drinks milk. I am giddy with fear and desire.
Vampire
The owl’s mournful cry caused the young woman to gaze up into the night sky. Death glided gracefully overhead in search of his prey.
“I salute you my friend” the woman said raising her hand to signify her respect.
Her coal black hair blue in the rising wind. She licked her full red lips and smiled. Briliant white teeth reflected back the light of the moon. She, to was in search of her prey.
Darkness
From the darkness we came and to the darkness we shall return.
The above words came to me when I woke up today, on a gloomy UK morning. Looking them up on the web there are variations on the quote but not the precise wording given above.
We come from the dark womb then, sooner or later we enter, as Hamlet so eloquently puts it “The undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns”. Am I in a dark mood? Not particularly. The quote popped into my head this morning and seemed appropriate to share it.
Houseproud
Have you noticed how hypnotic washing machines can be. The swish, swish of the clothes going round, the movement of the drum and the gentle whirr of the motor can soothe the most savage of breasts.
As you can tell,I like doing the laundry. There’s an art to it. Its not just about throwing in the washing, willy nilly with any old soap powder. You need a good quality powder and a fabric conditioner. The conditioners vital as it not only softens the fabric it also destroys any lingering odours.
My wife, Emma jokes that I have OCD.
“You don’t need to clean every day darling, once or twice a week is fine!”
“But you work so hard sweetheart. I can’t just sit around while you work all the hours god sends”, I say kissing her on the lips.
The house needs to be perfect. Next time you visit one of your friend’s homes look under the sofa or the bed and you will see dust, pet hairs and heaven knows what else. Most people including my darling Emma are Lazy, they clean the visible places but work on the basis that what the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t grieve over, hence the filth under so many beds and sofas!
I always wipe all surfaces. You can’t be to careful about bacteria and other things. A damp cloth with just a trace of fairy liquid works wonders on the mattress.
Emma is so untidy. I’m forever picking up her shoes and storing them neatly on the shoe rack. You never see me throw my dirty underware on the floor but I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve found my darling Emma’s bra or knickers randomly lying under the bed or in the bathroom. I’m sure its true that women are generally more house proud than men. I guess I’m the exception that proves the rule.
Lots of Emma’s friends are jealous.
“I wish my Tom was like that” I heard Paula say only the other day. Emma just smiled and squeezed my hand under the restaurant table.
She’ll be home soon. One last tidy up before the lady of the house returns. The living room looks great. Its wonderful what effect Bees Wax has on the furniture.
Everything looks good in the bedroom. Freshly laundered sheets smelling of fabric conditioner and all the clothes neatly put away in the wardrobes, one wardrobe for me and another for Emma. Everything in it’s place, what a wonderful husband you are John!
How could I have missed them? A pair of Emma’s shoes underneath the righthand wardrobe, at the back by the wall. I vacuumed, I always do but the vacuum cleaner must have pushed them to the back without me noticing. Pick them up and take them through to the shoe rack in the hall.
Emma’s key in the door, I must go and greet my darling wife. What a funny sight I must be rushing to the door a pair of women’s shoes in my hand!
“Hello darling” I say putting the shoes on the little phone table just inside the front door and taking Emma into my arms.
“Hi sweetheart, its lovely to see you to” she says running her fingers through my hair. “Who’s are those? Hold on Jenny has a pair exactly like that, I was in John Lewis with her when she bought them” she says taking up the shoes. “Yes, I distinctly remember her buying these …”. She trails off her eyes boring into mine. I look away. Shit, to be caught out by a pair of bloody black stilettos when I’ve meticulously cleaned and tidied the house from top to bottom. Not stains on the bedsheets or lipstick on the wine glass but a damn pair of women’s shoes, oh shit!
Jenny fragrant with the scent of lavender, my beautiful Jenny kicking her shoes with gay abandon under the wardrobe and diving into bed. I love high heels. Jenny likes what she calls “sensible” shoes so she comes in stilettos to make me happy but leaves in flats. I remember her slipping on her “sensible” shoes before leaving. I didn’t think anything about the stilettos. Bang goes my marriage and all over a pair of fucking stilettos.
Sofa
Lying here on this sofa. I should go to bed really but I’m so tired after a hard days work I can hardly move. Besides my bed’s getting old now and the sofa is so comfortable.
Maybe I should get into bed, after all its only just across the room from where I’m snoozing on the sofa but this cushion under my head is so comfortable, perhaps I could take it to bed with me. Even with the cushion in the bed, the fact is the sofas still much softer.
Another hard day in the office tomorrow, roll on the weekend say I. The weekend’s my favourite time as I can have a lie-in.
Oh I hate those crowded tube trains, everyones in such a rush bumping into one another. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve been trodden on, people seem not to see me. It isn’t deliberate but it hurts none the less.
I’m lucky, my colleagues are really nice, even though people are busy someone or other always has time to stop and chat. I’d hate to work in a place where you couldn’t socialise with people. As a wise person once said “all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy”.
There is a big tradition of colleagues bringing in cakes and biscuits. I’m a little mean in that respect, I will help myself to food but I never bring anything in nor do I stand my round in the pub however, people still appear to like me.
Oh this sofa is heaven, it beats me why I need a bed at all, perhaps I’ll sleep on it every night.
What was that sound? Is he coming in here? False alarm I can stay right here, he isn’t coming in.
I can here him snoring. Do I snore like that I wonder? I have the most vivid dreams, mostly about chasing things or, occasionally being chased. I guess we all must dream. I know he does because I sometimes here him talking in his sleep.
I’m so tired, living and working in London really takes it out of you. Personally I’d prefer to live in the country as I love all that green grass but beggers can’t be choosers and I’m stuck in the capital so long as his majesty decides to stay here. If I sleep now will I hear him getting up? My hearing is very acute, I’ll be sure to be up and about as soon as he opens his bedroom door.
“Get down you naughty dog, you know you aren’t allowed to sleep on the sofa!”
Oh know I must have been very tired, I didn’t here him come in. Back to my basket for me. Tail between my legs, pretend to be sorry and hope he’ll take pity on me.
(The above is dedicated to my guide dog, Trigger who has been known to spend the odd night on my sofa)!
Amazon Campaign For Cheaper Ebooks
Amazon are campaigning for the price of ebooks to be reduced, http://www.readersunited.com/. Much of what Amazon says makes sense. The cost of producing and distributing an ebook is negligible compared to traditional books and yet many electronic texts are only marginally less expensive than their venerable hard and paperback cousins, indeed some ebooks cost more than the tomes on sale in book stores which can not be justified.
As an author myself I want as many people as possible to buy my books. Reading is for everyone and yes, of course I want to make a little money!
Take a look at the above link and make up your own mind as to whether Amazon’s campaign is worthy of support.
