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 |   A tentative blog to test the temperature. |
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Ten years ago I was writing several blogs on various subjects - F1 motor racing, Music, Classic Cars, Great Romances and, most crushingly, a personal journal that included my thoughts on America, memories of England and Africa, opinion, humour, writing and anything else that occurred. It all became too much (I was attempting to update the journal every day) and I collapsed, exhausted and thoroughly disillusioned in the end. So this blog is indeed a Toe in the Water, a place to document my thoughts in and on WdC but with a determination not to get sucked into the blog whirlpool ever again. Here's hoping.     |
| Something Old Wandering through old files, looking for something to blog about, I came across this piece. Not really a story, it was a thing I liked at the time and still have a soft spot for. It kinda fits well with Jayne's Short Story Newsfeed post of yesterday, so I decided it could do the blogging for today. Thermopylae Come with me now as I drift with the wind through the winter city. Through the bleak and gray streets we tumble, stumbling with the dried leaves and yesterday's newspapers in haphazard dance of eddy and spin, down through the canyons of frozen concrete, the asphalt streams of crushed and dirtied snow, in and out and around the hunched and hurrying, heedless humanity. Around their shuffling feet we play, laughing with the wind at their cold discomfort, their hunted look and gritted intent, their multitude seething with meaningless destination, all silent in their grim haste, their various directions, their steeled faces alive with only one determination, their goal the escape from our harrying play. Onward we dance, our fate with the wind, onward and onward till caught by a hydrant, wrapped with a WalMart bag to that cold, silent sentinel. Here captive we stay for a time, pressed about that humble form, assuming its rounded shape and gripping its short, stumpy arms. Now we can see things differently, without the hustle of constant movement, the frozen images of instants lost, the blurred landscape of moving color, all drab and dark. Here our vision coalesces into order and meaning, a view of a street, in winter, a doorway, a huddled group, breath frosting in the bitter air. They stand, not still, feet pumping against the concrete earth, but immobile yet, going nowhere, just waiting. The world hurries by, no attention given. Outward they look, yet with unseeing eyes. Bundled and wrapped in overcoat, boot and hat, they stand their stolid ground. "Woohaah, it's cold." The large one, black coat and gloved hands, he breathes the words in pain and bitterness. The woman next to him, small and stamping, blue hat and coat, pinched white face, through thin dark lips: "Unnnh." As one, they take another drag. In another second the smoke clouds forth, hangs in the air, draws to one side and disappears down the wind. Gloved hands hold cigarettes awkwardly, clenching against the cold, yet dainty with the paper tube glowing at its end. Shuffling, the smokers move this way and that but always in the same spot; they exchange their places only in search of a little more warmth, perhaps a better chance to escape the wind. "I don't care. At least it gets me out the office." A brave young suit in buttoned coat, all brazen in defiance. A nod here, a grunt there, they stand with him in union. "Bastards." A woman this, proud to swear, bold to flaunt her independence. No shame in her opinion of the insane, unfair and ignorant rules. She stands undaunted by the flow. All mumble in sympathy. A man walks by, hat pulled down and face averted. They stare and glower. "Damn three weeks. Big deal, George." A voice speaks for all at the retreating figure. They return to their misery. "I gave up once. For a month." This is allowed, this admission of defeat. The pride is in the failure, the daring to return from near desertion. Solidarity resides in continuing, a slip or lapse is overlooked. Those who leave to become new acolytes, devotees of the unstained faith, these are the ones detested. And with good reason. All know the pain and guilt attendant upon the confrontation with a new convert; that haughty look, the heartless statement "I'm better than you", the lecture, the demonstration, how easy it is, see how much better I feel. This is pure betrayal. The bastard knows full well our incarceration, the steel trap that holds us fast. We know how he struggled at first, longing eyes staring as we marched from the room, hearts aglow with anticipation of that first puff, that joyous reunion with the smoke coursing through our starving bodies. Oh, he knew. No need now to throw it in our faces as though we were spoiled children, sent to him for correction and instruction. Bastard. A cigarette falls to the ground, a boot lifts and crushes it. He lights another, hands to his face, cupping the flame as it spotlights his features, the eyes narrowed in concentration, the skin yellow with reflection. "Not going in yet." He dares the fickle diktats of authority. Another shuffle, the group moves round. Three depart. "See you up there," the truncated farewell. "Later," the muttered reply. Two left, one the braggart rebel, the other, cigarette gone, but delaying the renewal of abstinence. "It's okay in the summer." The laggard, trying for sympathy from the undefeated one. But there is no answer, the vacant statement too trite to be heeded. The lingerer waits, uncertain. Then he departs, muttering excuses and cursing at the weather. The lone ranger, still unmoved, smoke drifting from his opened mouth, watches with disdain. He stands alone, the rock upon which the world breaks. Not for him the cowardly entrance, all in a group, safety in numbers, we're back again. No, he'll stroll in when he decides and not care for disapproving looks and disgusted asides. He smokes, what of it? This lonely band, this dwindling brotherhood, this secret sisterhood too, in doorways and back streets, in yards and garbage areas, throughout the city they stand and endure the weather. No matter the cold, the snow, the rain, the frost, they are there, breathing their final smokey statement to the air, huddling once more for mutual protection from the icy blast of storm and public disapproval. What noble heroes, their fate unheeded, careless of consequence, they brave the inconsiderate world. The wind catches us, jerks and pulls us free. With a bound we resume our vagrant career, up and over our friend in the doorway, over the parked cars, snowed to the hubcaps, back to freedom unfettered and the drift in our host, the north wind. Over by the water, the river, we catch a glimpse of the smokestacks of powerhouses, white with the gases of industry. Oh, towering emblems of our prosperity. Word Count: 995 |
| Struggling Towards a Future The days settle into a routine and the sudden change of the last few weeks begins to dissipate. It’s not a comfortable routine as yet, however. That will have to wait until I have more focus on where this all leads. |
| A Passing Thought Had the news yesterday of the passing of my younger sister back in England. That leaves me as the last surviving child of my parents. Which was not something I expected. The eldest of us died several years ago and, as the middle sibling, it was reasonable for me to presume that I’d be next. Certainly, I never deserved to live longest, presuming that it’s a good thing to be alive. Anyway, it leaves me feeling very alone today. And also aware of how selfish I am to dwell on my personal feelings on the matter, rather than mourning the passing of a sister. Unless this is what they mean by “mourning.” Word count: 112 |
| Lofty Observations Lying in a hospital bed, being wheeled in a gurney from scan to scan, one becomes an expert in hospital ceilings. |
| A Slight Advance Whether or not the muse has departed, it seems that I am still able to scribble a few words down in an endeavour to rejoin the flow of WdC. I wrote something for Solace’s three daily exercises yesterday and I’ve done the same today. Plus a little something for Promptly as well. They’re small and inconsequential but at least reassure me that I can still shout abuse from the sidelines. It’s the reviews that remain a fearsome obstacle. I don’t care about the badges anymore so that’s not the problem. The sacred duty to pay back the debt to WdC is what matters and reviews are the best way to do that. In time, I’ll be able to return to the field, hopefully. Word count: 123 |
| Hiatus I am old and this latest fall and break will take time to heal. Interestingly, it is the first bone I’ve broken in my long life. And even then, just a crack, a slight fracture easy to mend, or so I’m told by the jovial surgeon who mended it with a plate and and a screw. It’s true that the hip is functional in amazingly short time. But it’s the attendant issues that complicate things, the dicky heart, the indecisive blood pressure, the dodgy kidneys and diabetes, all conspiring to slow me down and tear me away from these last few years or days of writing my unlikely thoughts for the entertainment of others. So this is in the nature of an apology for the gap in my outpourings over the preceding couple of weeks and a day or three. I will be back to full strength eventually (I think) but hesitate to predict a date. Just to thank everyone for their kind wishes and patience. I have missed you all. Word count: 171 |
| Conundrum Presented with a conundrum this morning. Most nights I use my pee break to hop on the computer for a few minutes to see how things are going. Last night this happened at about 1:00 am. I did answer an email received in WdC and then closed down after a quick look around. On firing up the thing today, I notice that the StoryMaster’s new badge system indicates that I’ve already done the blogging one. And I can’t imagine how that can be. My memory assures me that I didn’t even open the blog last night, and I certainly didn’t comment on someone else’s. I even checked to see if that email answer hadn’t actually been a blog post comment. It wasn’t. So I must presume that WdC knows something I don’t and I can ignore the blogging badge today. But can I trust it? Short answer is that I don’t and so now this post makes doubly sure. And I’ll announce it in the Newsfeed. So there. Word count: 169 |
| Quotations As writers, we come across a lot of quotations. These are supposed to make us think, usually by expressing an idea in unusual or succinct form. And very often they succeed. But I would counsel wariness. Something may sound very wise but sometimes that depends on who said it. And that’s why I always check on the origins of quotes. It can be that a whole new meaning emerges from a quote when we learn about the person who first pronounced it. Just occasionally, nefarious intentions can be detected by seeing the person behind an apparently wise saying. And now you’re asking for an example. Well, in the little known but amazingly good television series, Slings and Arrows, one of the characters keeps giving quotes which he ascribes to Richard Nixon. Suddenly each saying becomes a little more suspect as a result (unfairly, I would say but that’s just me). So the point is that we should think before accepting things just because they are quotations. No one’s infallible, after all. Word count: 171 |
| Chinchilla! Pondering on guinea pigs today, I suddenly remembered the chinchilla. My father once bought one as part of some crazy money-making scheme he had cooked up with the landlord, Solly Epstein. The chinchilla was the test run and they never bought any others. I guess they proved it wouldn’t work. The only thing they did succeed in was introducing me to the idea of a chinchilla as a pet. And I have to report that they are not worth it. Sure, they have the most wonderful, soft fur imaginable, but they are huge. Especially if you’re used to the size of guinea pigs. Chinchillas are the size of an average cat. That may seem a little irrelevant but it seriously attacks the idea of them being cute. Somehow it doesn’t seem right that rodents should be that size. And then there’s the matter of intelligence. Chinchillas are nothing if not stupid. They don’t do anything and they don’t make noises. They exhibit no character at all. They are, quite frankly, boring. To someone used to the endlessly inventive and communicative nature of guinea pigs, the stolid blob that is the chinchilla is a massive disappointment. One can only marvel at the luxurious touch of their fur for so long, after all. So there, my thoughts on the pet rating of chinchillas. If you remind me, some day I’ll tell you how Solly got his name. Word count: 235 |
| Kudos Kudos to the StoryMaster for the brilliant idea of the 7-day badges. It’s just the kind of thing that serves as a whip to my creative sluggishness. But those kudos are the point of this post. Has anyone ever seen a kudo? I know I haven’t, in spite of being told on occasion that they’re mine. Which begs the question of just how valuable kudos are. And are they perishable? For all I know, there’s a cupboard somewhere full of the rotting remains of kudos. Even more to the point, do they have monetary value? Now that would be a thing to know… Word count: 103 |
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