It's A Dog's Life

Recently I was told a story about Tibetan terriers, which captured my imagination.  Well actually the story I heard has two different view points about same subject.  If you don't know anything about this breed, they are furry, intelligent, individual dogs with a real zest for life.  Originally bred by Tibetan monks up in the remote mountains of Tibet, they were used by the monks to guard and herd their animals. 

An owner and breeder of these dogs, would tell her friends that the monks believed if you lived a good and honourable life, you would be reincarnated as a Tibetan terrier.  In this incarnation you would enjoy the rewards of your previous life by lying in front of the fire or at your masters feet, relaxing and having your tummy scratched.  One person they told this to, didn't believe her, so went straight to the horses mouth, so to speak.  She tracked down a Tibetan Buddhist monk, living in monastery near where she lived in the States and asked them about this story.  The monk smiled and said that the story is almost right.  They believe that if you work very hard at keeping your vows, but lapse every so often (although you are really trying your hardest), when you come back in the next life, you will come back as a Tibetan terrier.  This is so that you can finally learn to obey.

The monks realised that dogs spend their lives watching people and picking up on subtle messages that everyone gives off.  So dogs were often aware of people who needed help, before the monks were. 

Personally if there is such thing as reincarnation, I want to come back as my cat and sleep for most of the day in the sunshine.

Dead Men Tell No Tales

Having just read and reviewed Revolver by Marcus Sedgwick (http://thefadedbookmark.blogspot.com/2011/03/revolver-by-marcus-sedgwick-review.html ) , I heard that my best friends mother had died.  So setting off, yesterday morning on a round trip of 300 miles to attend the scattering of the ashes, I found myself thinking about one of the main themes of this book; even in death, a persons story continues, impacting on their family and friends.  You would think that after 65 years, a line could be neatly drawn under that chapter and people, especially my friend, could move on.  Yet they can't.  Ripples continue to spread outwards, causing upset.  Life is imitating art and maybe that is why Revolver is so grippingly realistic.

As I was listening to the eulogies by her best friend and cousin, her brother and her daughter (my friend) about the woman they remembered, I finally saw the woman underneath.  The strengths and beauty that she had, the interests we had in common.  It turns out that all the things I love and admire in my oldest and closest friend were passed down from her mother and suddenly I wasn't angry with her any more.  She was a woman who had made choices, some of them awful, but she was always larger then life and in the end, the small, important parts that made her amazing have been passed on to the next generation.  And if my friend has any say in the matter, it will pass down to the following generations.

So Marky, we might not have always seen eye to eye, but I raised a glass of wine to you last night and said a thank you for the gift of your daughter. 

Amongst the Pigeons

Descending into the bowels of the pub, a black room unfolds itself before me.  Tubes of lights swirl on the walls round painted cartoon characters.  At one end of the room, opposite the bar, there is a small corner lined with books, tempting you to sit and indulge. If it wasn't trapped behind a table of mixers, laptop and other foreign looking music equipment.  Two black speakers stand to attention at each end, their large round O's vibrating with the music. An eerie glow from the computer screen lights a man's face.  His hair is hidden under a large cat hat, it's glass eyes unblinking as they stare across the dance floor.  Cat man's hands move in slow motion, plucking sounds seemingly from the ether.  Aware of my stare, his black eyes glance up and catch mine, his smile lit by the electronic glow, before they fall back to chase and catch the music.

On the dance-floor, the people move in time, their jerky movements remind me of something that I can't quite put my finger on.  Turning back to the bar, a small bartender just about clears the high surface. I'm the only one ordering but it still takes me some time to catch her attention.  That glass really needs cleaning.

All fades as I am consumed by her ear,  the lobe stretched round a large black O, a miniature of the centre of the speakers.  As her head jerks round, the lobe moves slowly, a pendulum on the side of her head.  The absence of flesh mesmerising.   Eventually the glass is clean and she leans towards me, eyebrow raised, chin jerks up.  Do her lips move?  On tiptoe, I lean as close as I can, the top of the bar biting into my sternum, I shout my order over the music.  She nods and quickly produces the glass, complete with straw.  After I've paid, I make my way back to the dancers.

Standing on the edge amongst all the black, the music pounds through the air, resonating through my body.  They are all wearing pigeon masks with black eye-holes and have co-ordinated their dance movements to mimic the distinctive bird.  Cat man is leading them, the music coos and calls to them.  Slowly they all stop and turn to stare, their heads cocked to one side.  The music changes, Cat Man talks to his pigeon army.  The edge of the masks are harder to define.  Were does the paper stop and the person start? 

They advance slowly.

Turning, I move quickly, clutching my glass and straw, taking the stairs two at a time.  With each step, pigeon music fades and the jazz music upstairs grows stronger, at one point in clashing balance.  Emerging from the depths,  I'm among glaring lights, buzzing conversation and people laughing.  Below me I can hear the patter of feet and fluttering of wings?  Pulling my coat tighter round me, I abandon my drink and plunge out into the night.  The bouncer holds the door open and pulls a grey fluffy feather off my shoulder.  Examining it between his fingers, he laughs "You been playing with birds?"

"If only you knew" I mutter before hurrying away.

Drip Drip of my Conscience

The boiler drips in time to my heart,
Each drop a hammer on my conscience.
The water splashes and ripples outwards
Mirrored by the bile in my stomach.

Waiting for someone to fix it,
To remove the worry from my shoulders.
To fix me.
Wanting. Waiting.  Worrying.

I move from room to room,
Fleeing the guilty noise.
But nothing can drown out,
The beating heart under the floorboards.

Sand Dunes and Soul Food

I sit propped against a sand dune on the beach, the sand moulded to my body, cradling me.  It's night time and a small fire flickers at my feet, keeping me warm and lighting the small area around me.  I can hear the popping noise of the wood as it burns, hear the sea lapping gently at the shore and smell the salty, bonfire air.  Usually I'm the only one, but occasionally a person will emerge from the shadows and we'll talk.

This is my safe place.  The internal world I went to when I needed to escape.

I'd forgotten about it until I read a friends blog fernenland: When I am feeling bruised So why don't I go there any more?  Is my life so much better that I don't need to hide inside myself?

Then I realised the difference is my writing.  When I have a problem, a worry, something niggling away at the back of my mind, I write about it.  Sometimes it's obvious (see White Van Man),  sometimes it gets worked into a story, my characters working through the issue, saying what I'd like to say and what I'd like to hear.  Plus I put my muse through far worse things then I ever have to deal with in real life.

When Fernenland goes out with her camera, she finds herself in a different space, seeing things she wouldn't normally have noticed and that's how I feel about my writing.  When walking down the road, I'm looking at everyday things and searching for the beauty in them.  Or catching snippets of conversation and letting my imagination fill in the missing parts.  A man walking down the road...he's actually just  murdered his wife and is now off to plant the evidence in her lovers house.  Or that strange looking knot on the tree trunk is really the door to a fairies house, you might just catch her peeping out from the corner of your eye.  It does lift your spirits and energise you.

People find this space through different mediums such as meditation, exercise, photography, art, music, words. So go out and explore, feed your soul.

(Thank you Fernenland for letting me link to your blog and inspiring me again.)

Or Are You Just Pleased To See Me...

Many years ago, I used to work in a wine shop.  Late one night, a regular customer came in to tell us that he'd just seen a man nick one of our blackboards.  These were big, heavy boards that we propped up outside the shop, advertising the latest deals. 

Now I've seen all kinds of things shoplifted in my time, by the hopeless off-their-face druggies taking a can of strong beer to the highly professional gangs taking champagne and the expensive wine, but no-one had every stolen a blackboard before.  I mean they are big, bulky and of no practical use (even as advertising they were highly suspect).  As the only girl in the team, it was my job to chase after the shoplifters.  OK, it wasn't my job, but the six foot plus boys I worked with were big scaredy cats, so I walked out of the shop to have a look.  Sure enough, just heading round the corner, were two men, slightly weaving, one of which had a board tucked under his arm.

Wanting to catch them before they got too far, I jogged down the road to catch up, shouting "Please may I have my board back?" as I rounded the corner.  The two guys swung round and to my horror I realised that one of them was Cider Man. 

Cider Man a totally unhinged, off-his-face man who would come into the shop and demand to know why we didn't keep cider in the fridge (any guesses as to why we didn't). The conversation would always end up with him shouting at us, then he'd stagger off across the road to the other shop that did keep their cider in the fridge and harass the staff in there.  One night, I'd had a bad run in with him and he ended up hanging around outside the shop waiting for closing time having made thinly veiled threats to kill me.  Even when the I'd stood up to a gang of six, big, guys who'd come in to nick champagne (the boys cowered behind the counter) or had a shoplifter grab my arm when I was taking down the number plate of his get-away car, I hadn't been worried.  They were sober and predictable.  This guy was totally psychopathic and it's the only time I had been scared.

By now I was mentally kicking myself and praying that he didn't remember who I was, as we stood in a dark, quiet, side street.  This is the mad thing about London.  Behind me was a busy, wealthy, Fulham road.  Down this side street, the road was quiet, badly lit and lead to really rough council estate.

"What board?"  He asked, turning to look innocently round him, the large board almost bashing his friend as he turned.

"Umm, that board.." I pointed.

"I don't see a board."

Just as I thought this was going to go on all night, and did I really want the board back that much.....Cider Man's friend had obviously had come to a similar conclusion.

"Oh for god sake, just give the girl back her board!"

Cider Man looked down and did the perfect comedy double-take.  "Well how did that get there?!"

Striking while the going was good, I grabbed the board, politely said thank you and lugged the board back to the shop and my waiting regulars and useless colleagues.

An aside

Normally I take a tiny spark of inspiration, mull it around in my mind (usually while out doing the school run in the rain), then sit down and write something.  A writer I follow on twitter described the process as being on a par of making a stew, the pot is constantly simmering away in the background and bits are added until the finished food is ready to eat, complex layers of flavour and aroma having been allowed to organically build up.

Every time I see a spark, a glimpse of something I want, it slips though my fingers.  Or if I manage to catch it and try to massage it into something more, it goes flat and limp.  So instead I read; I read everything I can get my hands on, in the hope that it will help. 

So I've pulled myself together and decided that maybe I should sidle up to it, not look it directly in the eye and just start.  It's the starting that's important and it's the starting I haven't been doing.  A synopsis looks forlornly at me and I'm still on the fifth chapter of a story.  My poor protagonists have been sitting around in a desert waiting for me to get my act together since last month.  I just hope they haven't got sunstroke.

Then there is my muse, the person who inspires me, fills me fire, whose magic no longer works.  Shouldn't I be able to do this alone?  I did before I met them.  It's been like having a lover whose left me.  I was perfectly fine and capable before they came into my life, even happy, but when they left, they left a large and gaping hole.  I know what I'm missing.

But look.  I'm writing and it feels good.