Heights of sublimity, depths of depravity;
Untold limitations, yet countless opportunities;
Majestic beyond compare, paling into insignificance;
Anonymous, yet love by the creator of all;
No one can sound the depths of this being.
That's me folks. Oh yes, and you!
Posted by Paul at 17:39 | 11 comments
Labels: Sunday Scribblings
Change is dream, once even hope
Hope like a beacon; fading, enthralling
Keep going, you can, you will;
All is lost, since nothing remains.
Once,
then twice,
then followed another
I lived, believed, grasped,
felt all well, at last,
until eternal optimist, eternal pessimist became
nourished by doubt of failure
hope's flame put out
I lie down,
I quit
enough
Life, experience, knowledge: trinity of enemies
campaign with loud slogans: change futile,
become what you are, desire nothing else;
weeds which strangle hope's last breath.
Posted by Paul at 09:04 | 1 comments
Labels: Fiction Friday
They spread themselves out over the scanty expanse of green in front of the terminal building. This was the perfect ending to what had been a near perfect holiday. Five days exploring various sites, meeting new people, immersing themselves in the rugged beauty of the Welsh countryside. Under such circumstances, even speaking English had come easily. And, of course, the weather. They had seen the pictures, they knew what to expect. Luscious, green vegetation didn't come from days of burning sunshine. But even on this last day the sun smiled benevolently down upon them, just as it had done for four of the five previous days. What more could they want? Well, actually, there was one thing, but that too was on its way as they started to unpack the picnic bags raising eyebrows from more than a few passer-bys. One last picnic, one last memory.
"I just wish we had decided to stay that extra day. After all who needs a day to rest up after a holiday like this."
The sentiment was echoed by all as the bread spreads were passed from hand to hand.
"Mind you," piped another voice, "I'm glad we found that place that baked French bread. Imagine having to put up with rubber bread for five days. I guess there are some things we French will never get used to."
"Then again, this wine is excellent. I never thought I'd say that about a wine not from France."
Everyone raised a glass and toasted to that. Sweet praise indeed, thought Daffy - the only Welshman in the group. The trip to the vineyard had been one of their objectives from the start but they'd very nearly missed out. In fact, it was only due to the good graces of the vintner that they'd been able to see it, at all. Even he had forgotten that everything closed earlier over here. Then again, they'd made it his worthwhile. Each one had parted with at least one mixed box and some had bought a box of each variety.
"This, for the airport!" the vintner had waved cheerfully, thinking the more he improvised on his English, the likelier they would be to understand. Now the last drops were gone and one by one they collapsed back in the grass for a very French siesta.
"Daffy, give us a few of your Welsh tunes to dream along with."
Daffy got out his mouth organ and soon the notes were floating up passed their ears up and out over the sea towards France, as the others closed their eyes in forgetful bliss, as the final call for the missing passengers had gone out with no reply. Their luggage was taken off the plane. Their yearning for one more day in Wales was to be granted after all.
Posted by Paul at 05:19 | 3 comments
Labels: 3WW
Ian couldn't help but shed a tear as he saw the mangled state of Lenny the Lion, once the dog had finished with him. He gathered up as much of what remained as he could and put everything in a small plastic bag. Upstairs, little Davy was waiting at the doorway for the news. Not that even he could have had any doubts, once they saw the dog at work. At the sight of nothing but the plastic bag, Davy began to cry and soon father and son were engulfed in a duet of despairing lamentation.
Ian picked up his son and carried him into the living-room. He spread out Lennie's remains on the coffee table and turned to pick out a photo album from the shelves behind. It didn't take him long to find the photo. Three proud boys in the sailors suits sitting on the photographer's sofa, each sporting a lion of appropriate size on their lap. It had been Ian who refused to give up his lion. He had thrown such a tantrum that the photographer had let him take the lion home in a bid to restore sanity to his studio. Lenny was now his.
Years went by; Ian grew up, Lenny with him. He always remained a treasured possession even if Ian no longer slept with him. The day he left home, he placed Lenny in the large trunk in the loft. That way, he knew where to find him if and when the time came when Lennie's services were again needed.
Davy stared bleary eyed as his father began this story. Never had he imagined that Lennie was as old as his dad.
"I'm ashamed to say that I more or less forgot Lennie in the years that passed. I was very busy with all my exams and learning to do my job. Then, of course, I met Mummy and she was all I could think about. But one day, Granny fell ill, so ill that we knew she was going to die. So I went up into the loft and sorted through the old trunk where I had put all the things I had had when I was a child. That was when I saw Lennie again. It was just a few weeks later that we found out we were going to have our precious little Davy. And I knew Lennie would become your little friend. It was the first present you ever had, the day you and Mummy came home from the hospital."
Ian took another another album and flicked through its pages. The photograph of his wife sporting their little bundle of joy while Lennie looked on protectively, moved him once again to tears. Davy jumped and ran towards his room. He came back a few minutes later with his school book which he opened to an article on Dr. Christiaan Barnard. They had been talking about him and his work at school. He slipped onto the sofa next to his dad.
"Don't cry Daddy; all we have to do is send Lennie to this man. Our teacher says he could open people up and put new pieces in them. Then he would so them back together again and they would be as good as new. I'm sure, he could help Lennie."
Posted by Paul at 09:14 | 5 comments
Labels: Sunday Scribblings
Arthur was easy prey. Not that he was stupid. Indeed, it took us a long time to find a way to get to him. I guess it was due to his secretiveness. He wasn't a popular boy, and was almost always alone. Being his next door-neighbour, I can probably claim to have known him as well as anyone, not that wasn't claiming very much. I've often wondered why we picked on him. He never did us any harm. I guess it's just part of evolution, the fittest taking it out on those weaker.
It was Arthur's sister who provided us with both the opportunity and the means. If anything, she was the worst of us all. I don't know what she was like when they were home, but in public she was ever tormenting the tongueless, little slug, as she alayxs called him. His parents, on the contrary, cherished and did what they could to encourage him to express himself. This included buying him an expensive leather-bound journal with a lock in which Arthur wrote every day. I learnt this from Maria the day she discovered that thanks to my brother, I was in the throes of becoming an accomplished lockpick. She had no idea what he wrote but was burning to find out, so together we hatched a plan. Arthur kept the journal locked up in the drawer of his desk at home. But Maria had the same desk and the same key. All we had to do was wait for an opportunity to get Arthur out of the way. This came sooner than expected, when Arthur blew up in class after being teased by one of the younger boys, I suspect at Maria's instigation. This happened quite often and the teacher found no better way of dealing with him than keeping him in the classroom for two hours after school.
To be quite honest, the journal made pretty boring reading. Arthur may have known how to write, but had nothing to say. Shakespeare himself would have had trouble making something of this guy's life. But one of the more recent entries contained the following:
"Enna walked home with me today. No idea why. She kept trying to talk to me. I felt afraid of her."
Looking back what we did was unforgiveable. We didn't mean any harm. But I'll never forget the interest that lit up in his face when I asked him if he didn't want to sign the ... Of course, he never even saw the carbon paper underneath the sheet he signed. Imagine our astonishment when, within a week of receiving that Valoentine's card, Arthur and Enna became an item.
Posted by Paul at 19:56 | 3 comments
Labels: Fiction Friday
There was one chance I didn’t take. That’s why I’m sitting here staring at the wrinkles reflecting from the bottom of my glass, playing ‘what if’ with anyone who might care to try and read my thoughts whilst Laura was travelling alone through Europe trying to forget me while painting the numerous historical sites we’d planned to visit together.
Alone! Who was I kidding? Laura would never be alone. One look and any self-respecting man would be lining up to accompany her wherever she chose. As to trying to forget me, I am still puzzled as to what it was that made her show any kind of interest in me to start with. And why then? After all we had known each other almost five years. Are the stories of Cupid’s arrow true? Maybe he misfired just for once.
Whatever, within the space of a mind-blowing five minute whirl around the dance floor the deed was done. We were inseparable after that, and before long we were making plans for a future together. I would go and join her in Athlone. The Irish countryside would doubtless provide the sparkle I needed to make my poetry come alive again. But first we’d promised ourselves a holiday visiting all those places in Europe she had dreamed of as a child.
And Gabriella? How would she take it? To be quite honest, I couldn’t care less. After all, it was she who had proved fickle. She’d even asked for a divorce. I had not been keen on the idea. I still felt that marriage was for life, even if… But all that had changed now. Gabriella could have her divorce.
Then came the phone-call. It was the day after my last class that year; my last ever class at Rowntree Community college. Three more days and I’d be heading for Laura’s hide-away cottage by the canal. She just wanted to see me, have a coffee and a chat together. That’s all she was admitting to. In fact, she had come to ask forgiveness. Maybe, we could even begin again, she’d said. And fool as I was, I fell for it. I believed in her. She was sincere, she had to be. We would begin anew, some place else. So I said yes. And I didn’t even have the courage to tell Laura. I just never turned up. I left her guessing.
Serve me right. It took just three days before the old arguments started again, and by the end of the month Gabriella was staying away overnight. She left me within the week; the day I found this bar, my one and only solace now. I’ve become great friends with the barman. He plays a mean game of ‘what if…’
Posted by Paul at 10:35 | 11 comments
Labels: 3WW
A man without vision challenged a seeing world.
The seeing world ignored him.
The helping world, those who knew or thought they knew, rejected.
But one man...
One man saw, encouraged, pushed and opened doors;
the world sat up and noticed and wondered,
and then returned to sleep.
They saw, but it was different, so they couldn't see.
Despair followed.
He'd never been able to see, but had always had vision.
Now even that was prised from his eyes of faith.
Until...
Until another came.
He called to the world, which couldn't see,
Extoling him without sight, who could.
And this time like a flower slowly opening itself up to reality,
The world recognised, what it had never perceived,
Despite the fact that it was new,
Giving faith and hope and vision to millions
Who couldn't see.
This is a tribute to Louis Braille, the man who enabled the blind to learn to see through their fingers. Braille's system was at first spurned, because it was so different. One man lost his job and then his livelihood trying to help. It wasn't until years later that a second man forced the world to look, see and care.
Posted by Paul at 20:11 | 7 comments
Labels: Sunday Scribblings
