trails of thought

A footnote to five months of creative writing …

After a conversation I had with a journalist yesterday – a person whose opinions I value highly – as well other private conversations I absolutely treasure, I have decided that I shall no longer continue to post public poetry or writings for the moment.

I need to sort out my private life before I do anything else.

This will require the greatest concentration and effort on my part.

Writing parallel to that process would not be in good faith any more.

Where change could not take place, and was frozen by an impassive – where not impressive – lack of collaboration on the part of others, I think an argument could be made in favour of my going public – quite out of desperation – re the difficult situation, specifically the lack of physical affection, in my life.

But if I am now to contemplate that such change can take place, and the reason it can is because I am feeling empowered and finally proactive enough in myself to do so, having come to a better understanding of myself and my wants over the writings that have come out of the past five months, then it is no longer easy to justify a free and easy (not easy, but you know what I mean …) public tongue.

I have considered password-protecting the two creative blogs I have written since December, or even deleting them; but I was shown yesterday the zero wisdom in carrying out the latter action of an impulsive nature any time in the near future.  Meanwhile, the former would be foolish: the Streisand effect would kick in, if indeed anything of value might actually be missed.

So the blogs as they stand shall remain online.

I, however, will no longer document what happens in my life until I can reasonably attest to its stable and sustainable way of seeing, doing and being.

I hope you all understand me in this, and appreciate the real love I have sensed out there whilst I have reached this point in my existence on this rock.

And if understanding is difficult to come by, please accept that my real love and affection for those I most treasure – and have done so for years – is far greater than any desire I have for continued misery to be documented continuously, even where (perhaps) an argument could be made that some kind of art was being developed.

So be gentle with me, when you judge my actions.

See you all on the other side, right?




[Ar]ts of love

The question he posed wasn’t Shakespeare’s at all.

It wasn’t being or not being:

the master was quite wrong.

“To be or not to be” was a solitary question.

He didn’t want to live alone.

Alone wasn’t his thing any more.

He wanted to be an artist with muse he could

touch, and smother and love and

take with an abandon she’d abandon her everything

in order to acquire: and he wanted her to acquire

him; he wanted to be owned; he wanted that

person to own him and want the body

he now had, battered and bowed – but

desperate for her lips and her ears and her neck,

and her long thin ankles, and the eyes that danced,

and the romance in her mindful sex and

teasing fingers, and the ways she knew how to

make his brain tingle: all he needed, in fact,

was to see her face, and he was no longer

sure if the same was for her, but if she did

meet him again, he’d surely be hers.


And the question the master should

really have asked was:

“Are or not are – let’s do whatever together.”

short short story



He’d spent his life trying to understand the world.  And the truth was he still was unable to.  But the nearest he ever got to understanding it better was writing it down on a page.  It wasn’t enough that the page be on computer, either: if that had been the case, the quandary would’ve been non-existent.  No.  The real issue was that he needed to feel that – in however a limited way – at least some people would stumble across and connect with what he said – all the things he said; that at least some people might even reply.

But he was also aware, all too fully aware, that on starting out on the project which had then helped him survive, his survival was going to be at the expense of other people, whose memories and beings were frankly theirs, and whose permission had not been obtained.

To what extent, then, was his survival quite wrong?  If this was the only means he had to recover from fairly mad actions the year before, was the alternative simply not to survive – to continue to fall into the sin of wasted practice, and co-exist until the end arrived, sooner or later, to the lives he did experience?

He guessed there was little he could say any more on the matter.  He had not proceeded justly; he had not proceeded fairly; instead of writing his love and real affection for the people who had touched him through private acts of joy so great just his writing about them had cured him of so much pain, he should’ve had the balls to call them up one by one, and tell them equally privately the impact they had retained on him.

And maybe it’d be crazy, and perhaps they’d have considered him crazy – but crazier still was to think that art in itself could save the day where discretion clearly had not.

The discretion of family can be a terrible thing, of course: the private forums that involve family debate on many occasions lead to hateful pursuit of weakest member.  But the private forums are private either way, and a persecuted member does always have the opportunity to get away.

In a world where government now watched our every move, he was still a little curious as to how this might pan out.

But if the reality was actually that he’d wronged the people in his thoughts, perhaps the ultimate sacrifice did have to be contemplated: perhaps the art of thoughts – the art primarily of writing – demanded he no longer had or communicated them.




Why do they always say have your cake and eat it?

Shouldn’t it be a case of have your cake or eat it?

Or, on the other silver platter, eat your cake and have it –

where have means eat rather than possess it?


Life, in a way, is very like that cake.

Multiple options which confuse and bemuse.

Even the syntax of such multiple options doesn’t half

flatly refuse to lay itself out clear.


And I no longer want to square circles as before;

as once I might have needed to grandly proclaim;

as once I clearly needed to.

But listen, dear universe – listen and advise:


is my art worth any sacrifice – or am I mediocre

beyond trivial measure?  Or can the sacrifice, even now,

if worthy of art I mean, still be made in a squaring of wagon-trailed

circles, which command pioneering movement?


I’d love to know not where to go, nor who might be

waiting, nor even if no one rightly cares any more

for what are ridiculous thoughts at nineteen to a dozen (although I do

have to say I prefer twenty …).


I’d far rather love to know if anyone really thinks

it’d be better for me to give up what I’m doing, because

in simple artistic terms of critical bent, I’m halfway round a curve

looking for idiocy all the time.


And talking about oneself, and talking about others,

has helped me recover – I think – a semblance of myself

but I realise, right now, I can’t do this art stuff without talking about

others who might sensibly object.


And if talking about others who might sensibly object

is all I know how to do in the art that I do, and this is

quite wrong, and I am out of work, like coffee machine in corporate

pecking order, maybe the art that’s been lost


all these years I’m alone, and without beloved contact

with the muse of my life, must continue to be unmade

as much as it can.  For what right do I have to uncover the sadness

that drove me to madness and the cell I am in?


“Cre[activity]” – The Movie

She was clever but mad,

too mad by half.

She wanted to make waves

in documentary-land.

So she dug out two people who no longer

could see each other; no longer even

go and bear to face down the other.

And these people just had to be

creative sorts who loved the idea of

doing playful stuff, as weird as could be

(or at least so some of us

might have said on perceiving the truly

mad sides to the case).

Not weird for you or me, you must

understand, because none of us out here

reading these lines is ever as straightforward

as any appearance gleaned from online profile

or schematic info, nor other quite limited

means at our disposal.

And so she managed to find these souls able

to create beautiful art; all as a result of their

once apparently chance reunion, years after

first meeting much younger it’s true, and the

question was clearly how to get them to

meet up one other fine day of these

(by chance yet again, of course!),

and renew a terrible breakdown in

some kindly way

that healed all involved in some burnished way.

And that would be asking so much of the

universe – even this crazy universe we

see on these pages – so instead of approaching

the both of them separately and arranging for

dumb meeting and getting them to open their

hearts and their souls in primitive interview

and other strange stuff of reality TV-land,

she realised, clever woman, that

something far grander, far greater, far wiser

was to encourage them both, in their quite

separate ways, to create their different

beings out of cul-de-sac land, and finally

get them some way – if not to meet

face-to-face –

at least to achieve a reconciliation of sorts

through the coming together of parallel

art: through the wonder – in

fact – of cre[activity].


Only the whole damnfool experiment,

at the very latest of stages, backfired*

so spectacularly when instead of

bringing together the two creative

souls, what actually happened was a

third party implicated uncovered

the fact equally weirdly, and the third party

thus mentioned then responded so well

that the modus vivendi forged of adult

debate eventually made heaven out of hell.


* Or did it really backfire?


short short story, trails of thought

“… exchange is not possible when pleasure for pain …”

She desperately desired to recover some semblance of pleasurable times in her life.

She saw the window that opened up before her, but using windows like this – which simply presented themselves in her life – had previously led to a terrifying knockback: like pretty evil spirit in single shot glass.

And she realised now the problem to hand: if change means exchanging pleasure for pain, but the nature of such change means it’s you that gets the pleasure and the pain you just go and cause another, this ain’t finally a pursuit of rightful and just freedoms … far more a sado-masochism of the tawdriest games of emotional play.

And it wasn’t that she didn’t want pleasure: oh no!  She wanted it more than anything right now.  But pleasure which inevitably tinged the pain of another would never ever be pleasure again.

The exchange of anything would – for her, at least! – never be possible if the joy she was to feel was to be based on the misery of those people she knew.

And how could anyone enjoy such a life where its foundations were to be built – high and proud – on such a hurt?


Hard hat

A hard hat can be used to protect a head, and most

of us

might imagine


using a hard hat for that.

But a hard hat can be used – as well – to hurt a head it

should be

protecting instead.

So when you say a writer – who clearly wasn’t – needed a


to become

the writer he obviously couldn’t, and the pain, confusion

and anger of hurt

and the fear of returning to an evil time past

merited the

effort and effect and affect of pushing him onwards

to self-destruct,

you didn’t half assume that what he really needed was

more to be a

writer encaged in solitary confinement

than a man who loved first in social extent, and who only then

wrote as a sideline, content.