Monday, 17 December 2012

I haven't written much lately. All the words have gone stale. Nothing is new or informative or interesting. At best it can hope to be funny. It doesn't seem to have a point. So I will refrain.

Monday, 22 October 2012

I wish to write...

I wish to write, but have no will to falsify;
To conjure feelings of meaningless expression,
Handed over for the pseudo-torment of my readers
That I might pat myself in feign-ed pride
And smile and say, 'Well done, good man, you ran well—
Even if you did shoot the other contestants.'

Tuesday, 18 September 2012

A Subject on Which Already Has Been Spoken by Every Man Born of Woman

To lose what has already been lost—more biting and cruel than the first losing. What pain! And how to say it? Ever harder that scourge upon which others look as not a scourge; no more than the bump in a road cobbled so dreadfully together it may almost be unnoticed from the others. The secrecy, the great cover-up of pain to avoid embarrassment or shame, or extricate oneself from the possibility of unwanted conversation leads to the denying of all that can be said to define an individual. In this does circumstance beg a great betrayal, brother between brother, even those closer in commune than any bond of blood.

It could be many subjects upon which I discourse; I ponder the wisdom of full disclosure, lest any personal relevance to my words be stolen through detailed description, alienating those outside this coterie of tears and unvented frustration.

Has this—or many other writings—been but a show of vanity? We seek the same thing, those of us in any pain with a desire to soil the internet with our emotions; as with any true writer, pride does not allow the notion that what is written with these hands could resemble the thoughts of others—this must be new, bold, and compelling. And yet, does it matter how it is written? Shall I speak with great flames of fire, whilst my words yet stem from the same heart that beats within the breast of the world's billions, and have within me that great stench of gall to say, 'Behold, this is worth the reading, for it is pleasant to the ears;' was it written so that those who understand it can claim intelligence for their store of words? Is not the palette of our heart the same as every other?

What merit to say a thing better when one says the same in either case? Might I as well have said, 'I am sad to have lost something I cared about and I can't tell anyone about it because they won't understand because it's not something other people find important'? Indeed; yet had I done so, I would have been scoffed at by self-made intellectuals who wish to be stimulated within their squirming brains and find themselves the great snobs of emotion, so that it must be dressed in finery before it becomes worthy of attention. Are we so guilty of finding ourselves at par with every other man and woman that we must cloak the way we feel before others are willing to listen and say, 'Yes, I felt that too'?

So fearful are we of being counted human that we look upon those who own the same feelings that affect us all as the simple minded, those lacking in class so as to avoid even the pretence of being relatable. In nothing has the world changed since those days when men were openly regarded as of unequal status; but perhaps there are more grounds for inequality based on fortune and birth than the inventions of the mind that would say, 'I am set apart by my own decision, that I wish to be discounted from the folk who walk the earth on two legs and do not even pretend that they fly.'

Saturday, 15 September 2012


Hurrah! Momentum arrives, spurred on by who knows what, and through this simple tool comes much. It could goad me to beginning a book, or maintaining a schedule, or working out regularly—all the things people use momentum for, and the subject most bloggers have great care in discussing.

Why do we all think our lives are so individual that we feel the need to write about the precise same things as everyone else—as if they are discoveries we have given to mankind?

Self-absorption blinds us to the fact that more than likely, most people reading our small words—and most people full stop, in fact—have experienced the vast majority of anything we report with that great pride of discovery. To be forthright, any human who has the gall to claim discovery of anything, big or small, needs to open his eyes to his own size and stature; perhaps that he could be discoverer of, though even there, should this be a habit noticeable to friends and colleagues, he has already shown this shrunken tendency by the odious nature of what I would unforgivingly call a disease.

Friday, 14 September 2012

The Mustard Seed

Here I sit, with my Keep Calm cup of thistle tea, made from the comfort of my own desk, with my window overlooking the campus, the smell of fresh baked goods coming up the stairs from the café below me; the only disturbances are the frequent sounds of traffic crossing the street in front of me, and the ding-dong notification of new emails.

The wind is twisting the leaves of the alder tree outside; the clouds are low and dark, the music (most carefully selected) is soothing. My room is clean and all unpacked; in front of me stands the 1400 page history volume on Europe's history. My fingers smell like popcorn; I made some (in the microwave, of course), but it burned. Trust these British microwaves to do a thing like that.

I exist in a world of itself here, in this moment; I rest in the trust afforded by the time of now. But already the tea has gone bitter; the music jars my ears, and my eyes droop from weariness and an over-thrifty method of using contact lenses. The wind is biting, and the rain will come soon. I can afford the luxury of being here only because I have no work in university or job in town.

I am writing, because I said I would; because I force myself to stick to an arbitrary goal of which I have no complete proof it is even beneficial. Merrily we plod along. My spirits are high; my brain function is not.

Monday, 27 August 2012

I went away to find myself;
When I did, I was lost in you.

Tuesday, 21 August 2012

The Eviler of Two Lessons

Behold, I cast my fingers but lightly towards that murkiest of waters that is Politics in this Most Glorious United States of America, that with my slight stirring of those foul depths I may turn even a single ear towards a single thought that what I have to say is of the slightest possible relevance to our most grievous and distressing current situation.

Christians in the United States get pressured to vote by other Christians. Not only are they pressured to vote, but they are told directly and indirectly for whom they are expected to vote; the candidates tell them, the media tells them, other Christians tell them, some people say God tells them. Tells them to what?

To vote for a man who may instil some small obstacles toward a single issue upon which we are so hung on that we will cling to it until we are blind that our own actions are responsible for the harming of those we are seeking to save.

That is: Abortion.

Vote for the moderate; the moderate Mammoth is better than the moderate Ass; of course he is. It doesn't really matter who—it's the same every four years, and it will keep staying the same until it's different. We are expected to vote for a man who claims to be in favour of life, and will make some few steps in what we call the right direction. Is it actually the right direction, though? What are we seeking to preserve? We live in a shell, a cast-off, a dirty garment we will sew any number of patches on to save, when we should let it rot until it can serve its purpose no longer.

America is a nation that thinks it can hold onto Christian morals while rejecting Christian principles; and as long as we have a man who will keep our politics moderate, who will ensure the water is never anything but lukewarm, then this lie, this deception will keep adrift our ship of shame. Vote Republican, they said; it will be better, they said. Is that so?

The two halves of this country play catch with our political parties; no sooner have we batted one way, then we find it not much to our liking and turn the other direction when we should more than know it is not the politicians at fault but the entire nation.

See, the thing is, you can put a plaster on a bullet hole; you won't see the hole, you might even slow the bleeding, but until you deal with the wound as the wound demands it will never heal. This is a metaphor and every metaphor has the same problem: it's a pretty lie that may or may not have relevance. In this instance, I illustrate how I see the state of things, and I think I am not wrong.

If we vote in a man who will fix a few small holes, who will keep alive this fiction that any nation is safe from moral or economic ruin without Christ, then we are destroying our children's future and sacrificing the next generation to avoid dealing with the problems that will arise sooner or later. What happens if you leave an open wound? It doesn't get better with time. Nothing actually does. Time is an inanimate, artificial construct around which we are currently given leave to structure our puny lives—it is neither for or against any of us, nor involved in the solving of even a single problem.

So go ahead; vote Romney in. Maybe he'll stop funding abortions in other countries, but he won't change the millions of domestic abuses, and so their helpless cries will tickle God's ear until it grows too much even for his patience. I cry nay; instead, may this gangrenous limb rot until it cannot be ignored, and let this land of fools be then brought more swiftly to their knees, long-wrecked with fearful running. I venture this opinion: that it may be even morally reprehensible to support any man who will prolong this foolishness that even those far more righteous in mind have slipped into. Let us pull away these crutches from those without Christ that they may see the truth: on our own, we can go nowhere.

I will end with an illustration. There are those who point to King Josiah in the Bible as a political figure to be applauded: he made the country new—legally—and restored moral veneer to this sepulchre we have built around us. But the people were unchanged, and less than a generation later widespread destruction fell on the wicked nation of Judah, and what little they had was taken from them. Drastic measures are required if the hearts of men are to change; God's done it before, and he will do it again, though we know not his timing.

Would you put even a Josiah on this throne of ours, knowing it will prolong the day until a true solution is forced down the childish throats of a rebellious people?

Friday, 17 August 2012


There you are. The pain is a fierce pain; it’s the sharp kind that hits like a shard of glass, or a kitchen knife. It’s quick; you notice it, but you’re too surprised to let it become part of your consciousness. There are other things on the mind; a quiet flame, clouds of smoke; voices. There’s too much joy, it doesn’t register that the sort of pain you’re in has any place here; it’s like cancer in a children’s home, or gunshots at a wedding. The news hits and even after the shock  of the initial impact the bewilderment continues. The onlookers can best turn their heads away, pretending it didn’t happen. Sometimes you can do that. 

Time passes; the pain is still sharp but the wound is visible and the weapon exterminated; it hurts like hell, but you know why, and you wouldn’t expect any less. The questioning starts then. There’s enough time to ask why? now, and look at all the other happy faces who don’t live in fear that the smile will twitch, the guard will drop, and the mask crumble, granite eroded by long tears. Where’s the sense that I slipped on the knife, or my foot found the glass when unprotected? What would it have taken to remove the incident, would that be so damaging to an eternal plan? Not ours to question why, only to hush and suck on a pacifier. 

Comes the morning. The pain is now a part of life; we have slept with it and made it ours. It’s a pain we know we have brought on ourselves, and that we have escaped happenstance before when treading so carelessly is the boon, not this the curse. It’s a pain that we will come to nurse, recognising it from an unfamiliar world as what was born through happier times in pleasanter climes from the joy of former shared experiences with those for whom a love is borne stronger than the pain that is torn from our unwilling, fetal grasp. Gone is the questioning of circumstance; gone the surprise at what we feel. We are more than reconciled to it; it is just, even pleasant. And when all in our hearts that could once be called beautiful has gone, it is this sweet-smelling perfume we offer up to glory saying, ‘I, I felt that—did you not see?’

Monday, 13 August 2012


Disrespect comes in many guises. Perhaps the most insidious is the neglect to regard the value of another individual's time and schedule. There are many precious things in life; time is certainly one of them. When you work a job that doesn't pay by the hour, time is actually money and when you ignore the desire that anyone else may have for an efficient work period you are making a very blatant statement: your laziness is the most important thing in your life at this time.

There's a woman. There always is. Through every fault of her own she is a lazy, very large, and unscrupulous—at least when it comes to how she values the time belonging to dozens of those she interacts with. It is a God-given directive that we must be efficient in the work place. Anything else is selfishness which comes to no profit or personal benefit. Being slow to respond; taking extra or unnecessary time because you are a physically unfit individual is no excuse. If you aren't in shape to work, then you need to leave.

I have no shame for my firm belief that this is a gross and heinous sin that we are all guilty of; it makes no difference. I have done what I can to remove the log of this matter from my own eye. Now I'm taking a pickaxe to her granite speck.

Sunday, 12 August 2012

Same old, same old

A subject can be overused; so much can be written upon a single issue that the weight of words crushes its already small existence into an unrecognisable pulp. Darkness, light. Night, daytime, metaphors about the weather, or dancing—singing, or music, or rain. Much has come to the point that even if something original can be coined regarding it, we don't want to hear it! We've had enough. We're fed up with hearing anything at all about it. But how do you know when enough is enough? When do you give up and go on to the next item on the list that could use a little pulping?

Everything tells the same story. Everyone tells it a slightly different way; most of the time. Sometimes it's exactly the same way. We keep coming back for more; and it's a bit cliché by now to even explain the reasons that we do. In fact, it's almost getting monotonous to complain about anything. It's so post-modern, teenage-writing-addict-wannabe to come up with some new criticism about a problem relating to an issue invented simply so the angst can find an outlet. Here I go, complaining about people complaining; that's almost as bad as if I just complained.

I could start talking about vicious cycles; then we get into the vicious cycle of clichés, again, and overused metaphors, and strained subjects that were never designed to sustain the pressure of too many teenage bloggers, wannabe fantasy authors, and whiny poets. Of course, the fact that I fall under all these categories at one time or another is mildly frustrating. Reminds me of this time in the still darkness, I was listening to the lack of light, letting it wash over me like a black curtainous blanket as the wind strained over the hills toward me, dodging rain pellets with greater aptitude than Usain Bolt on an obstacle course.

Okay, so most of the reason I wrote this was because I'm trying to force myself into a routine that involves more working and less lying about (lying about being a metaphor for not doing anything; theoretically, I can lie about and still get stuff done, so to speak) and this is one of the things I'm trying to do: write more on my blog, so I get into the habit of writing more so it's easier to have inspiration to write more for the newsletter, so it's easier to keep in touch with people when I go back to Wales, so it's easier to write papers that I can turn in early after I've gone over them and spent an actual decent amount of time on them, so I can write novels that are consistent and months don't pass between sentences. On the other hand, maybe I've got a point.

Saturday, 11 August 2012


One cannot collect dust on the cybersphere; were it possible, I would have done it long since upon this relic that was once haven to frequent thought. Back when I used to think. That's the problem, of course; my lack of thought. Obviously, if I had thoughts I would put them here. Well, I'm thinking again. You know what that means; this dreadful and much-bedraggled phoenix will rise again.

Regular thoughts; personal journallings; world commentary; philosophical rhetoric stating no apparent point; reviews—and shameless self-promotion with an eye for acquiring contacts in the business upon which I have set my sights.

A storm's coming. Shut your windows and bar your doors, or you'll be swept into it—with everything you have.

Friday, 6 July 2012

I am my enemy. I strive not against myself, nor is this a spiritual destruction of my 'old man'. My old man is fine, thanks for asking. I have actually become the man I hate. To stare one moment in the face of love and say, 'This is what I will be—for you, for always; that will I be never'; and that lowest of days to follow in utter darkness, when 'that' becomes me; words lie helpless in the face of meeting the challenge of description toward it. Can there be in all of life any moment more imbued with self-loathing?


Wednesday, 6 June 2012

Cleaning House

How do I begin when I am caught in the middle? To where can I run whilst my feet tread on air? A torrent rushes through my temples; mind I dare not say, for I have gone too mad. There is a drum, but of its drummer I must make complaint for it cannot make decision between head and heart whereon it will beat. But I have entered the lair of dragons of my own accord and have no right to an unscathed passage. Such is the fate of those who are thrust to life, urged without escape to carry a burden not of their own making. Who knew the closeness betwixt water and fire? How a single tear can burn flesh and bone on its sad descent; a continent in flames would have less heat. There is none who can help me. I will tread these coals in my bare feet, though a thousand shoes be thrust my way.

Thursday, 22 March 2012

A Long Silence; then words.

And thus I return to the land of the living, as it is often called. An irony sweet, in my cup. For if living be represented by intangible words on a screen then of lives we know little, the many of us.

Long have I now lived in this country of Wales; long, so it seems to me. Long enough to grow fat and used to the ways of doing things in this new place, both good and ill. I approach the end of term 2; I have done little to show for myself, but then, most of what is good is never immediately show-able. Just a few more months and it is done; then I am home, and God give me the will to return. Yea, even to this green heaven must I be prodded, for in my sojourn heavy has my heart grown with longing for the gems of my childhood. Why, circumstance, hast thou plagued me with such pleasant afflictions—to tear me between two treasures, spit me upon a jewelled crown, divide my soul beauty against beauty?

Such is the thorny realism of what is called 'growing up', or so we think of it. Can it not be re-understood as simply the acceptable excuse for our own abandoning of the things we have come to love? Is it 'life'—this intangible expression of who we are so often referred to in such plastic terms—that goads us to do those things which enrich but deeply sadden us? Have we not pulled our own wool across our eyes to make acceptable this foolishness that overtakes so many of our minds at an age passing forever from adolescence into man- and womanliness? Fie! Surely we have deceived ourselves in thinking such things forever inevitable. It is not 'life' that takes us far from the palace we call home and the refuge we call a prison, but our own ambition. Our desire to further whatever future we may have in a particular way.

Say I this to make meaningless the rupture here encountered? May it not be so; speak I only to open a window into a greater reality, to broaden our mental 'experience' on this sojourn of ours.