Come down with me. Be calm,
becalmed in snooze-button waters.
Stop down. Nobody is making notes,
nobody is watching to see what happens.
What now seems a long time ago will
seem even longer ago, in the future.
Come dine with me, make care parcels,
set trilogies on clean plates.
Construct all of your sentences,
as clearly as you prepare food.
Record conversations to remember,
play slow songs in their natural habitat.
Calm down with me, careful not to
break anything with your thoughts.
April & May Round Up
I didn’t round up April in April and so, before May goes the same way, here’s a quick joint update on the few things that have been going on that are updateable.
Since my birthday I am now electric! And I’ve been using my e-reader to catch up on some short story collections I’d been meaning to check out – the picture above shows Hassan Blasim’s The Madman Of Freedom Square, Karen Russell’s Vampires In The Lemon Grove and Junot Diaz’s This Is How You Lose Her. I was quite pleased with the picture I managed to put together to illustrate this, so for now I’m going to let pictures do the work, and return to do some rambling another time.
For myself and, I imagine, a number of aspiring Brit-based short story tellers we are now into the curious part of the year in which nearly all of those prestigious South West-based competitions are closed and it is a case of waiting to see whether we managed to impress anyone this year. There are still five days to get something in for the Bridport Prize, then a few months of glancing warily towards Bath, Bristol, Bridport and Plymouth.
The third Guernsey Literary Festival was a fantastic weekend on the island. There was a TARDIS in the library. There were lots of people talking, performing, chatting about books. There were some people doing some writing in sunny little rooms. I wrote about it here and here, so instead of repeating myself I’ll just point you in those directions and also to the post previous to this – a piece that I was proud to have performed as part of the Saturday night’s ‘Literary Cabaret’.
(The following piece was performed (and not by me – hurrah! no mumble mumble mumble) on Saturday 17th May at The Word On The Street – A Literary Cabaret, part of the 2014 Guernsey Literary Festival)
“If we wait at the window until it gets dark, you’re guaranteed to see something. It sounds like a trick, but it’s not. What I mean is, the things you’re looking for – the people you have expressed an interest in seeing – will only come out once the sun’s gone down.
“Look now, look there. Here’s the first. Can you see what he’s doing? Writing his poetry in the cracks between the cobbles. Yes, he scratches it in. You should go down tomorrow once it’s light, and read it. Or you could get someone to go down there and take some pictures of it instead, of course.
“Have you noticed how slight the moon is tonight? Nearly new, as if it’s barely there at all. No, no, that’s a good sign. Do you see down there? There’s a group congregating around that bench. They’re performing a theatre piece. I could take you down there and we could arrange for them to perform for you? No, of course. We can watch from here.
“What’s that? Yes. Well done. Well spotted! Yes, there is something sinister about the way he stands at the entrance to the alley. But you see what’s coming out of his pipe, don’t you? What he’s producing? Smoke animals. No, no, I don’t think he’d be interested in that. I don’t think it’s for show. I think they’re supposed to be there one minute and gone the next. Well, I wouldn’t say that. I wouldn’t say it’s a waste.
“They’re everywhere now. See up there? Yes, there’s one on that roof as well, scribbling observations down his trouser leg? I don’t know, perhaps their minds are so preoccupied with other things that they just wander. You’re right, it would be fascinating to follow them, to log their movements. Though I wonder what would be the purpose of such an exercise? Well, I’m not sure that having them under control would necessarily be a good thing. The fact that they can wander wherever they please is what gives us such a rich- Well yes, everywhere. We don’t generally lock the doors, I thought you understood that. Well, I could close the door but I think it could ruin the- Ok, ok. I’ll go and- I’m sorry, I thought you understood.
“Hang on though. Shhhh. Did you hear that? On the stairs. No, no, don’t worry. It’s fine, he won’t harm us. We can whisper, yes. Just be careful not to startle him. Can you see how he’s crept in, the door is barely open. See how he keeps close to the walls, stumbles into things, bumps his feet and his knees. He’s working his way round to get to that chair. Don’t worry, it’s fine. He’s just deep in thought, it’s nothing to be scared of.
He’s found the chair. See how he swings in to the seat and hooks his legs over the arm. Quiet, still. He’s looking right at us.
“What’s that? What is he writing about? I’m sorry, I thought you understood.”
Digestive Press 