Dyslexics Make Great Louvres

And that's all he wrote.

I Have A Dream, Of You And Me

You've got to hope that there is someone out there, otherwise this life thing is just a very lonely circular motion. You live and you die, one and zero. Somehow finding someone special makes us believe that there is a third factor, or an infinite number of shades in between. It's the difference between living and surviving.

I'm not talking love. I don't believe in that. Don Draper has a great line (among many) in the first season of Mad Men: The reason you haven't felt it is because it doesn't exist. What you call love was invented by guys like me, to sell nylons.

I still consider myself somewhat a romantic, I will hold onto that dearly until I become old and bitter, but I believe in scales of compatibility. I believe that some people click and make beautiful couples, I believe that some click and make great partners, I don't believe that these things are meant to be. They are not foretold in the eyes of fate. I think what makes a scenario fantastic is the way we play them out ourselves, not the way we think it all came together so neatly.

You've got to hope there is someone. A You for yourself. And you are out there. You have always been out there, travelling through the generations, a being of an exceedingly high compatibility. It will not be love that keeps you together. You will keep each other together in that way that allows you to know that you each want to stay by the other's side. Ah, where is this going?

I think this is just a snippet to say that although love is a fallacy, romance and the scale of loving emotions are still very real. And to lose someone, to feel like that one special person has gone for good, keep in mind that once that scar has healed (and one day it will), you can meet her again. It just won't be her. That's the magic of humanity, we are all the same and we are all different. There is a reason we like to talk of connections between people because we enjoy the web of humanity that is spun around us. If you must love something, love the continuation of your own life, they way it flows to smoothly, the way your story is being told so personally to yourself.

If you are with somebody and your one drawback is that they are not perfect, stop looking. They are. If you don't enjoy what you have you will never hold anything close enough to truly connect.

"The essence of being human is that one does not seek perfection."

Oh what an aimless ramble. For that I do not apologise.

The End Came And It Will Come

The end is getting near, often-times there is an expectation of intent.

Do you know who you are and enjoy it? Are you happy right now? Is this important?

Do you measure your worth? What timescale do you depend upon? A week? Six months? Five years?

When things get to a knowing end, I like to look back, I like to dwell, on the best and the worst, on the angst and the pride. I guess we all have this temptation.

It's something natural, using the power of memory to float onto our judgement of ourselves. Do you regret a lot of what you've done or not done? Do you wish you could have been better?

I question my worth often. The worth of a person is a difficult thing to judge and I don't really know where to begin. There are too many variables that are too eccentric to really know what's good and what's not. I haven't volunteered this year, but I have been nice (to my knowledge) to most everyone I have met, and for that I don't deem myself unworthy. I have talked often to friends about how I want to live a 'better' life which includes an attempt at being a little more wary of the environment (yes, I'm one of those), but at the same time I'm not always sure whether I'm doing anything worthy. It's always easier to judge yourself harshly. I haven't saved anyone's life, I don't believe I've inspired someone to be better, and I don't think I'm making a great impact on this planet right now. Yet, the judgement meter flickers like a candle, never staying quite steady.

I like to think I'm a good person, I like to think a lot which sometimes tangles me in ways that are excessive. But sometimes I see or hear about people who are in monstrously shit situations and they are pulling through magnificently. So far I've had an easy life. No, that's badly stated.

So far my life has been a walk in a park. A lot of walks in parks. I've had very little difficulty with people. I'm not a confrontational person. I've lived in a small town with small people and sometimes I fear I will live on with small ideas. I am not prejudiced against the people here, but I do feel different and for that I am not always comfortable here. That sounds prejudiced. I don't think anyone here is a bad person for being here (people can be that for other reasons unrelated to this topic) but I don't feel I fit in with myself. It's a breeze living here, the people are friendly, everyone ends up knowing your name, and it's close enough to bigger towns and cities to be considered as a halfway point.

But this is not me in my mind. I have an idea of who I am and it's drastically different from the life I am leading. I want to have a direction laid down, a meaning to follow, I want it to be pissing down while I run through a black and white street wearing a raincoat, not sure if I'm going to make it to my destination, not sure what it brings. I think I want an adventure. I want to meet people that will make me question the essence of life.

But this is not me in reality. This is the me on the horizon, close enough to see but too far to grab.

The year is almost up and I hope you are looking at yourself in eternal glee. Or a questioning gladness. I am hopeful, there is a new beginning about to start. The end will come, and again it will arrive. Reality does not work in absolutes.

From one blink to the next, everything changes.

Maybe this will be My Year. You know, the one where everything truly becomes what it will. My cocoon will crack, I will pry it open, I will become free.

And maybe, just maybe, you will be there by my side, and our stories will blossom. Because art was never meant to be a solitary life.

"The Day Begins And Nobody Is Awake"

To focus on one thing suggests that others will be neglected. I have been writing a little, and for that, I have been blogging a little less.

Something has been submitted for possible publication. A little flash. Shield your eyes.

And this evening I have written a slight bit of an old idea, a novella about relationships I think. Or family. Or death. I'm not really sure what it's about yet. I just know when it's set, and a few things I want to happen. And that it's not enough for a novel, but feels too big to be a short story.

So tonight I am distracted. And maybe this is a good thing.

Consider this - the less I am here the more I am potentially there. In the world of literary wonder. But then again, maybe I am just being lazy. Using one excuse to cover the other.

Walking Towards The Horizon

Whenever we lay pen to paper, finger to button, sound to lips, we are saying something. I am typing this, I obviously want to say something. But whether I want to show what I am saying or whether I want to hide it in an eloquent tangle of literary wire is another matter.

What does he want to say? Why is he even writing a blog? Is this just another mess of nonsense, unsure what he is doing, unsure of the possibilities strewn out before him?

“I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by." Douglas Adams

Is he just postponing the inevitable collapse of his moral? That ambition he claims to hold so tight and to let flow so free, is it waning?

"Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself." Franz Kafka

Or is he doing something else entirely? Accepting a truth and working on it. Shaping it. Things seem so solid until they are not. The reality we are living in is not the one we are writing in. The reality that we read is rarely the same one that happened. It has been shaped and molded into something smoother.

“A good novel tells us the truth about its hero; but a bad novel tells us the truth about its author.” G.K. Chesterton

I don't know what I'm really trying to say here. But I know I am saying something. All words are meaningful, even if they don't seem so. You wouldn't shine a shit, but if it was all you had in a blank slate of an empty world, you wouldn't forget it.

Perhaps I am saying nothing. But in a world where nothing is real, something must be.

End Of Movember

A call to arms a day too late. I should have told you earlier, and for that I am sorry.

Today is a day we continue man's struggle, having spent the last month honing our upper lip there's a slight chance that you are still bearing your trophy. Don't look away embarrassed. Hold your 'tache up. Show it to the world.
That was only the beginning. It was the initial foundations of a scheme so complex that perhaps words won't explain it at all. Since words are all I have, I am at a loss for you.

This month is not December. It is Decembeard! Keep that woolly mammoth, and give it a family. This is winter, afterall, and you're going to need to keep warm. Put away that womanly scarf, hide those gloves (actually, keep the gloves, growing hair on hands is quite a tricky challenge), put down that manscara, no matter what the adverts tell you!

Winter is coming. No longer will the cold bite us, we will chomp it down for breakfast alongside copious servings of bacon and beer. For we are the believers of the Beard.

And what next? What happens when Decembeard ends? Do we give up?

Never! We move into Manuary, the most manly of months. Where you shall take part in felling trees or making masculine grunting noises as a method of responding to questions. Manuary is your chance to shine, for it is in your (hairy) hands the destiny that you pick. Just keep it manly.