Monthly Archives: December 2013

Merry Christmas: A Time Out

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Just off doing the whole holiday thing and keeping out of the way lest I ruin tradition…shock! Horror! But the wheels are turning and I’ll be back in a bit once I find my way back to normality. In the mean time, I toast to your good health. Happy Christmas and Prosperous New Year.
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Kerouac Rules For Spontaneous Prose #21

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Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind

The taxi arrives. First real proper date. Like a couple. Dressed up. Perfumed. Elegantly fluffed and pressed. She shimmies into the cab. He looks beautiful in tie and waistcoat. Shadows move across their faces as headlamps play seek and find with emotions. Hand in hand all the way to the restaurant. Hope caught in the flicker of brake lights. First of many. Dinner. Drinks. So much hope. The night begins.

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Kerouac Rules For Spontaneous Prose #20

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Believe in the holy contour of life

For Sarah Lee

Tristful and grey, the day languidly comes into focus. The howling of the wind and the slap of rain against my bedroom window last night gave way to a coma-like slumber. Waking from it proves problematic. I cannot shake it off. I sit on the edge of my bed. I fight the compulsion to ring in sick–or to just not show up and insist it was an emergency annual leave day—I can lie. I can lie. I sit on the edge– resist falling back into rumpled duvet womb.

Time elapse—I stand in the warm glow of halogen lamps—clean, pressed, blurry eyed—and the kettle goes on. The kettle goes on. The kettle—it whirls and gurgles like a hash pipe of old—seducing me to promises of all things copasetic—it will be fine, fine, fine.

Sacramental cup on counter, blessed Assam seeping, swirling–fragrance across my consciousness finding its way into my depth and working magic from within—bringing the full light of colour to my frame of reference.

The sunrise of a desert sky blooms before me. This sunrise from my childhood spreads through time and space to reach me in England—here and now.


I know a guy that knows a guy…

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Kerouac Rules for Spontaneous Prose #19

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19. Accept loss forever

Keys. Goddamned lost my keys. Everything in those keys. Stability, freedom, tranquillity, worldly wealth, the words on my papers that tell me who I am–what I am–who I will be at some point if I live that long—or who will get what if I do not. I reach in to my childhood for St. Anthony to come and search for those keys—to let me in the house—to help me let the dogs out—to let me use the bathroom—to sleep.

Keys are beautiful—dangled, distracting my crying baby boy–Tinkling in summer wind through art room window at college—keys dangling from the wood beam, holding within them locked away memories in long ago houses from some time that was but will never be again. Forgotten rooms, elapsed moments, long ago lust, hidden away Spector in stasis–precious things– keys all rusting away in some man’s utility drawer; expendable like so many disremembered names of those that faded away when pain expired.

I stand accused of not being bothered because I cannot access my mail– those All important missives laden with requirements that sit just within the locked door. I lost my keys.

The locksmith will come anyway.


Kerouac Rules for Spontaneous Prose #18

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Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea

Corporate strategies and quintessential knowledge aside, how good does it feel to take over a meeting with a flash of eye– sleight of hand—getting that mojo in the pow-bang-whaz of power point porn! You can stake hold this, baby! I’ve got the deliverable goods to make sure this party is going forward, moving forward, breaking through the clutter and pushing the envelope. Full thrust, yo, we’re doing the needful. Globalize the lot. We’ve brought a clear goal to the table and we are getting ready to chow down!

Let’s calibrate expectations and open this kimono, baby. We got an exit strategy on the runway. The high order thinking on soul engagement is the paradigm shift that will bring on that robust sea change that will allow us to run like a business…

Or we can just sit back with a cup of tea and a comic and groove on the colours.


CHEWBACCA PUNCHING HITLER

Because it must be done…

KEEP ROLLIN' SIXES

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Kerouac Rules for Spontaneous Prose #17

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Write in recollection and amazement for yourself

Ahhh–the lighting of the day was non-committal. And I looked across the room at you as you looked outside. Outside was cold and the cold came inside through some breeze you created when you finally spoke. When you spoke, I felt the memory of you crack the ice that hung between us. The You of then became the You of now and I realised that I did know you —let alone love.

“What do you want for breakfast,” you said.
“Just send Gigi up with some toast and a black coffee. I’m not fussed,” I said.
“Right,” you said.
“Are we up to anything today?”
“Dunno,” you said. “ Like what?”

Over the road, they were making plans—or perhaps had already made plans. The family car packed and loaded–They had been shouting, laughing, happy, united. Warm.

“Matlock?”
“Nah,” you said. “Too cold. No money.”
“We just got paid.”
“Bills need to come out,” you said.

Around the corner, they had too many kids. But they were always going somewhere. These houses are far too small to stay in.

“Walk the dogs around the pit?”
“Too cold up there,” you said as you looked up at the ceiling.
“Well, if you have nothing planned, I think I’ll just take the kids to the library or something.”
“Ok. I may go see my dad. I don’t know.”

When you sat at the computer, I loaded the kids and the dogs into the car and took them to Matlock. We had hot chocolate outside of one of the shops after a walk on Lovers Lane. There was a wasp that pestered us a bit. We finished our drinks and collected our things and began to make our way back to the car park. The kids ran a bit ahead, laughing and teasing each other as I untangled the dog leads. I smiled down at Whippit and Bronsk. They looked up at me in their happy doggie smiles.

“See? It wasn’t too cold…” I whispered.


Kerouac Rules for spontaneous Prose #16

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The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye

Last night, I wore a mask. I was the Great Gatsby. The Great Pretender. The Life and Soul of bullshit. This morning, I am all but broken and a little bit lost. But then, this all makes for good material if nothing else… This is from where my strength comes.


Rule gone M.I.A. …where is #15

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At some point yesterday, My entry for Rule #15 went missing. I must have done this in error. Without getting into it, stuff happened and I went into one of my Ernest Hemningway moments (but without all the bulls and less of the swearing). When I find myself back at the PC, I will rectify it. For now, I am mooching about my house in search of lost pages and realising that, perhaps, I am getting too old to be living like some student with housemates…
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