Some kind of Lovely…


Thanks to Samantha for the blog title, which is a chapter title from a favourite book and which she thought would suit this post… and it does, perfectly!


This weekend my lovely daughters gave me gifts, for no other reason than they’re Adorable Beings.





Sam drew me this gorgeous name plaque which she says represents the ‘writing me’. 

Judging by the last picture, I think she has more confidence in my future than I do… ha!




And Jess wrote this beautiful little poem. 


In case you’re wondering (as, indeed, was I), the unfortunate Ken mentioned here is that of Barbie fame… Jess wishes him dead. 

Some may read that and think I’ve spawned a monster – but I know I’ve just inflicted upon the world yet another writer. 




We also asked the Delphic Oracle what is the meaning of life? It gave us this answer:

Let there be, for a time, no driving aim;
No mission, no goal, no fury’d intent.
Notice the hours — how they lengthen and breathe:
Like dust in the sunset, thy soul’s content.



It’s not often the Oracle spouts anything other than amusing vague ramblings, but I think this is actually quite profound… and might be its finest effort yet. 



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dawn

it’s after five and i went outside for a smoke listened to the bird noise that people call singing but which is actually aggressive shouting defending territory selfishly like drunks on friday night are you lookin’ at my bird or dogs pissing on lamp-posts and i haven’t been sleepless for a while but five a.m. is better than four which is depressing and leads to negative thought because five is more optimistic somehow and being awake before others oddly satisfying even when a person doesn’t get anything done other than thinking just thinking and wondering whether typing it out constitutes writing or wrist-slashing and whether indeed it matters either way but mainly just thinking about the lighter mornings and how five a.m. differs season to season country to country person to person and how for me dawn would really be better slept through until at least the summer when birds shout slightly nicer songs and my smoking chair isn’t covered in rain

In here

In here
I am words on the screen
Your own voice speaks me
A thought, a reminder, a concept
A companion called up and
dismissed at will
I am the ghost of something lost
Closer than where it was left
yet equally intangible
In here
I am more you than I am me
Static, silent, contained, filed
Anyone and no one and everyone
I am read, scanned, misread
Remembered, forgotten
Searched, deleted, repeated
Ignored
Outside of here I am a person.