At the risk of my blog becoming a confessional (and even greater risk of it actually containing any discernible blogging), I’ll just say this: this last month has been a NIGHTMARE. 

And the antidote to the everyday Hammer Horror that has played out across my life recently?

I think perhaps I’ll move to Oxford, and sprawl out across the lawns of the Botanic Gardens, and read all day. Perhaps I’ll seek shade under the very tree that inspired J.R.R. Tolkein’s Ents, or share the bench that Lyra and Will shared across parallel universes in Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials. Who knows.

Whatever happens, I know this: I’m free!

And I can’t wait to take the next step…

Good deed for the day

Will go out onto the street after rainfall and rescue all the snails from passing pedestrians.

Sorry for the lack of new posts over recent weeks. Between my son pulling off all the keys on my laptop and 5am shifts at work, I really haven’t had the means nor inclination to keep my blog up-to-date. Must do better.

The ceaseless din of modern life bares down on me, leaving me stooped and huddled as an arthritis-addled pensioner.

So I arrive home, and I stand in the dusky garden, alone. 

The music of the world fades, until all that remains are the lone a-cappella restraints of the evening breeze running its fingers along the canopies of trees.

And my heart is unburdened, and I am me again.

G’night Tumblr, off to fall into a good book for a few hours. 

p.s. I used your sink as an ash-tray... →

We clamour

for the unholy traction 

of flesh-on-flesh.

Bones jag impolitely,

talons flay

wood-shaving curls

from gaudy forms

to chalk-board shrieks

and B-movie dramatics.

Scarecrow tufts

of matted hay-hair

and circus make-up

adorn the contortion

of pained elation

that assails my

prostrate body,

to complete the sorry scene.

I make impotent excuses,

take my leave, 

nurse my inept guilt 

under the hospital glare

of her lavatory,

where I stay until sunrise.

The next morning

she awakens to absence 

and a note;

”I don’t regret this, but it’s better if we never speak of it again.”

p.s. I used your sink as an ash-tray…

We clamour

for the unholy traction 

of flesh-on-flesh.

Bones jag impolitely,

talons flay

wood-shaving curls

from gaudy forms

to chalk-board shrieks

and B-movie dramatics.

Scarecrow tufts

of matted hay-hair

and circus make-up

adorn the contortion

of pained elation

that assails my

prostrate body,

to complete the sorry scene.

I make impotent excuses,

take my leave, 

nurse my inept guilt 

under the hospital glare

of her lavatory,

where I stay until sunrise.

The next morning

she awakens to absence 

and a note;

”I don’t regret this, but it’s better if we never speak of it again.”

Re-stringing the acoustic guitar I somehow inherited (following the unfortunate snapping-in-half incident that befell my last one), and the bridge-pins literally disintegrated in my hands. 

It’s like the bloody thing would rather commit suicide than be played by me.

Anyhow, that’s kind of the reason I haven’t uploaded any covers as of yet. But they will come. Eventually. 

I just have to learn how to fix this frickin’ thing first.

If all else fails, I guess I could always fashion a rudimentary stringed instrument using milk cartons, sewing thread and a lot of glue. I’ll get back to you on that one.

This album is like early morning rain to me. And I LOVE early morning rain.

(Source: Spotify)

joncarling:

Your cat can see ghosts.

(via bookspaperscissors)