Blogs

Who are you? What are you? For a memoir a bit of backstory is needed. Try and fit ‘patriot’ into a single sentence in as many forms as you can manage. It’s on the book cover. The man who resigned because of a government cover-up. A smearing campaign against a patriotic whistle blower. I made notes and watched a documentary on Prime. If the world has a cancerous growth called global warming, wouldn’t it want to know? Eh, nope. Many of the tactics...

Let’s start at the beginning. I’m a reader who writes. You can’t be a writer who doesn’t read. Writing is secondary and often unnecessary, but I claim it as a calling of sorts. ‘I know no one wants to hear me say how hard writing is—quit while you can’. I liked Goldberg telling me that. Reminding me that. I’m pretty good at making starts. The equivalent of joining the gym on the New Year and promising to go swimming and sauna once a week too. I’...

Young Lovers Anna de Vos & Buster Brown ~ Mamma & Sons ~ Chintsa Camping ~ Tom PhD graduation Selby & Mother ~ Anna Brown Our Late Mother

So I was reading “The Hollow Men,” Eliot, and it broke on me, came to me, yes, it must be a hollow point bullet. A hollow point expands on impact, expands and stretches and transfers its damage. Expands. Stretches. Expands. Transfers. Expands. Like a starburst. Like fungus. That’s the way to do it. Expansion. Death by a bullet’s real estate. Amazing, really, the damage that a single caliber with a dipped tip causes. It shrooms. Mushrooms. Like a...

https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/m002mrgq/the-idea-of-you https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Idea_of_You Straightforward rom-com. What’s the hook? Solène Marchand uses the wrong toilet. I used to do it quite a lot. Pee up closes and against the side of the bus at football matches. But it has to be a lot classier. Cause Solene is really Anne Hathaway. It needs to be something better than that. You can’t just have Anne Hathaway peeing outside...

This Day Making sense of it all? The disappearance of the revenant from the ashes, you return, rise like curl. As smoke signals, from the day you left. Shedding skin like a broken leaf, softly the night fades. Departing, where do they go? On a long journey to nowhere, with those fleeting moments drawing memories that wisp alone, along the waterfront, images of tossed Ashes. Yet you rise like a moth to a flame close to me. When we once chased...