I may have lied to you

There is very little that a man will not do to get into a woman’s pants. Don’t look away. Don’t pretend to be shocked. You all know that it’s true.

In the big scale of deceit I don’t think that a few exaggerations spoken in the name of love should ruffle too many feathers. Lies are just the male equivalent of lipstick. If it gets a bit smudged in the heat of passion then nobody really cares.

My friend Kate spoke on the subject (or perhaps she was speaking of something else … who can tell with women?) and I replied. I stress to you (that do not already know) that Kate is a close relative.

It would be improper for me to have such thoughts about her ….

My mission here will always be
Avoidance of reality
I cheat, I lie, I stand aloof
I fib, I falsify the truth
I make up stuff.
And I invent
The stories that I hope
You asking questions
Checking facts
Before allowing
Sordid acts
Upon your person
On your skin
Seeking passage
Deep within
Please don’t forsake me
Don’t reject
The falsehood
That I now project
Forgive my fiction
Let me stay
You are just like me

Romantically Foolish

I read a poem from Rory last night HERE which I found very moving entitled ‘Foolishly Romantic’. I have not reblogged it. You have probably already seen it, for he has a far wider readership than do I. If you haven’t read it then, of course, I commend it to you.

It is a very honest piece and I think it is supposed to be about his perceived shortcomings and failings (at the time … I note that it was written some years ago). In the end, though, I think it is about being human.

I was reminded, for some reason, of a quote from Kurt Vonnegut who says,

Kurt Vonnegut

“When a couple has an argument nowadays they may think it s about money or power or sex or how to raise the kids or whatever. What they’re really saying to each other, though without realizing it, is this: “You are not enough people!”

I take that to mean that, no matter how much you love someone, and no matter how much they love you, you will never be everything – so you will never be quite enough.

Anyway, this is a long winded way of saying that I responded to Rory, because I was moved and because I could not let it pass without response.
And because much of my own foolishness is the symptom of an overly romantic perspective.
I hope it says something to someone.
This is what I said; (the semi colon is for Judy54)

The sun descends
Behind a cloud
My thoughts of you
I share aloud
In whispers to
I know not where
Pretending that
You are still there
For in my thoughts
I give you life
And you will always be
My wife
However foolish
Be my dreams
I am a fool for love
It seems.

Crashing and Burning. Maybe I should get out of here.

My form in writing competitions remains consistent

part 2 of Challenge 1 in this year’s NYC Midnight scored one more point for me than did part 1 (which scored zero) giving me a total of 1 point out of a possible total of 30 (which one cad did score. I despise him).

the challenge (1000 words) required a drama set in a hotel bar featuring a toy gun

so …. for anyone who is really bored (really, really bored)






Nano so far

This is my kitchen table. Five minutes ago.

I had planned to write 2000 words a day for Nano. And then I thought …. “Hey, why not invite 15 people to dinner tomorrow night?”

So, at least I’ve set the table. There is the minor matter of cooking to attend to. And eating. And there might be some drinking.

A lot of writing suddenly seems unlikely.

Halloween in Oz

I may have posted this before. It is old. And not very good.

But with everyone else jumping on the Halloween bandwagon I felt left out. Even though it is not (as will become clear) a festival that I properly understand.

Anyway …. quite some time ago I was challenged to write about Halloween from a different perspective. This is the result.



An Australian attempt at American culture goes horribly wrong.


I was a very willing participant when our little community embraced the concept of Halloween in October of the year 2000. The school was to be involved with the “G’day USA” student exchange program in the following year and Mrs Davis, the headmistress, thought that this might be a fun way to give those of us who might have the opportunity to take part an introduction to American culture.

Such is the notion of ‘foreign culture’ in our small corner of the world.

Heartfelt but misguided.

To be sure, there was some mention of Celtic history and ancient pagan rituals in class, but the real meaning of the holiday, as far as we could tell, and were certainly not about to dispute, revolved, essentially, around the concept of extortion.

By October 20 or so reports were flooding in about whose parents had acquired which lollies and in what quantities. Mrs Farmer, it was said, had purchased seven commercial size boxes of Smarties and Karen’s grandmother had apparently cornered the market in Mars Bars. Even weird Old Gladys Parker had been spotted leaving the supermarket stuffing bags of green frogs in with her shopping.

Despite the protestations of her children Mrs Anglesee had expressed an intention to bake scones for the big night and was, therefore, struck off most people’s visitation list.

In America, I suppose, it is easy to purchase all manner of outfits specifically designed to be worn on the night. One is expected to take to the dark in the guise of a zombie, ghoul or witch, I believe. No such supply is available in West Wyalong, however, so we were encouraged to make do with anything we could lay our hands on that might provide some visual separation from those not participating. When nightfall arrived the streets of town, as a result, were awash with Spidermen, Zorros and Phantoms.

A smattering of our less financially secure neighbours were out and about with nothing more than paper bags over their heads and holes cut out for the eyes. They were, as a result, the most terrifying of all of those at large.

My friend Tom and I opted for the Blues Brothers outfits we had put together for a birthday party earlier in the year and took to the streets at about 6:30PM

The whole process was ridiculously easy. By 8 o’clock we had stuffed our backpacks with more than enough sugar to ensure the early onset of diabetes and were considering calling it a night. It was only when passing the Parker house and seeing the porch light on that, on a whim, we thought to have one more go. Old Gladys and I had had a troubled relationship since the cricket ball incident of 1998, but I was confident that we had both, by now, put things in perspective, or were at least willing to put them aside for this night of American goodwill.

I knocked on her door and applied the technique that had proved so successful all evening. “Trick or treat?” I enquired when she answered.

“Oh, it’s you.” She replied, and immediately slammed the door in my face.

Neither our limited classroom training or our recent experience had properly equipped us for this sort of response. It seemed clear enough, nevertheless, that Gladys had made the unusual decision to enact the ‘trick’ option of the procedure. Just to be sure, however, I knocked a second time and when, a little stunned, she opened the door again I made our position clear.

“Hand over the Green Frogs or we burn the house down.” I said.

This time she let out a little yelp before slamming the door with what seemed greater conviction.

Having our bluff called a second time was certainly not something that we had bargained for and we were actually on our way down her front path in the early stages of a tactical withdrawal when we heard the window on the second floor of the house open behind us. We saw a flailing of old arms above as we turned and suddenly it was raining little bags of carefully packed green frogs.


The police car was already parked outside my house when I got home. The significance of this was not immediately obvious until I opened the front door and heard my father in the early stages of preparing a defence from within the lounge room. “What sort of proof do you have that our son was actually involved in all of this?” he was asking, as I approached.

“The perpetrators,” the sergeant explained, looking up from his note book at the very moment that Elwood Blues entered the room, “were described as wearing black suits, black sunglasses, black ties and black hats.”

My father looked at me and then at the floor – accepting, a little too easily I thought, my guilt. I was not to be so quickly defeated. “And who makes such an accusation?” I demanded.

The officer stared at me. “Don’t try to be smart-arse now, son. You’re in serious trouble. You threatened to kill Mrs Parker. She is under sedation and God knows if she will ever be the same.”

I won’t deny that at this point I was feeling a certain degree of remorse. But I had certainly not threatened to kill anybody. There had been a misunderstanding. To any sane jury, clearly, it would all be seen as a well-meaning prank with the full support of the school authorities that had gone terribly wrong. It was not the time, however, to over play my hand and rely too heavily on that support.

Fortunately I had already had a fair dose of American culture. I had watched television. I knew my rights. I knew how to deal with the police.

“Listen, officer,” I continued, “this is clearly a trumped up charge possibly stemming from some previous misunderstanding between myself and my accuser, but you’ll never make it stick. Look at the facts. It was a fancy dress night. There may have been a hundred Blues Brothers out there and all manner of crime occurring on the streets. Why pick on me? Just five minutes ago I saw Superman pissing on the Simpson’s rose garden. Why don’t you arrest him?”

Not for the first time in my life, and certainly not for the last, I heard my mother weeping in the kitchen.

But I was right. The officer did not press charges. Nor did he search my back-pack. The seventeen bags of green frogs within may have been more difficult to explain.


Old Gladys made a full recovery and I wrote her, after some less than subtle encouragement, an impassioned letter of apology ‘on behalf of the school community’.

I was not selected to travel as part of the program to the USA. An annotation on my application suggested that I was “a potential disruptive influence, with limited respect for authority.”

In the September of 2001, the citizens of the USA were given even more reason than before to be suspicious of anyone masquerading as something other than what they appeared to be. Perhaps it would not have been the place for me, anyway.

Everything is going to plan. Nano starts next week.


I have no idea why I inserted the picture above. The ridiculous nature of it appeals to me, to be sure (I wonder what body parts they may be thinking of ….. I wonder what body parts you are thinking of) but I stumbled upon it whilst searching for ideas. I am supposed to write 50,000 words next month. Ideas would be nice, about now. I’m desperate for ideas, actually, and the picture neatly illustrates that desperation.

So I could abbreviate (edit?) the opening line of this post. I have no idea why I inserted the picture above. I just have no idea.

But abbreviation is the furthest thing from my mind.

I want more words, not less.

So this is (another) appeal for spare ideas. Simple ones. Ideas that an old man tumbling head first into senility might still comprehend.

There’s no hurry. It doesn’t kick off until next week.

So anytime in the next hour or so would be fine.

A night at the Opera

I was challenged to write a conclusion to a story started by The Haunted Wordsmith and continued by The Bag Lady

Actually, Im not really sure if it was supposed to be a conclusion or just a continuation. So I have left it a bit open ended. There are, to be sure, a couple of logical inconsistencies within the combined work…. I hope that doesn’t matter too much


Rudolph. Rudolph the rude she secretly named him two years ago. She first met Rudolph during intermission in the lobby of this same opera house. He came on strong and the champagne cocktail encouraged her to flirt probably a little too much. She was instantly enamored by his boyish charm and definite interest. They joined each other after the performance and went to a cafe for a late dinner and live music.

Possibly it was all of it at once, or the way he held her close as they danced that made her fall so quickly. They spent the next two weeks barely able to leave each other for a few minutes, but then her vacation ended and she was immersed in her job once again.

Lana put her whole self into any endeavor, but as she sat reading manuscripts, her mind wandered to the vision of Rudolph. Lana was wondering if she would ever see him again. They promised of course, as passionate lovers always do, but she had been home for a week with no word. Her attempts to contact him came back unanswered.


So this was awkward.

She could not help but stare at him, of course. But nor could anyone else. He took centre stage and was, in more ways than one, magnificent. She felt more than a pang of guilt when Joshua tapped her gently on the shoulder and whispered in her ear, “this guy is great.”

“Oh, yes,” she whispered back, but more to herself than to Joshua.

But it was utter foolishness. She was a happily married woman. Well … fairly happily, anyway. And if her marriage was lacking that certain spark of romance then that was the nature of marriage. Perhaps it was the nature of romance. For romance would always be transient.

And tonight, at least, Joshua was really trying. In the car lay a bunch of flowers and the book that she had long lusted for. She could still feel the lightheadedness of the wine they had shared at dinner. He was, after all, her childhood sweetheart. What could be more romantic?

So she resolved, then and there, to put it behind her, to lock forever that window into the past. And look to a future that had been mapped out for her. Mapped out for Joshua, anyway. In the family furniture business. What future was there for the tenor? What would become of him when his good looks and his sweet voice deserted him?

But still she was transfixed. And not once, not twice, but three times she thought he made eye contact with her. Which was impossible. The stage lights were directed towards him and, looking out into the audience, he must have seen only a sea of grey faces in the shadows. Perhaps every woman in the audience imagined such eye contact. How many of them, she wondered, had slept with him?

She had little memory of the performance itself. She remembered to applaud only when Joshua nudged her.

And then, as they stood to leave, an attendant pressed a note into her hand. It was a back stage pass for the following evening’s performance. She recognised the handwriting. ‘Bring a toothbrush’ the note said.

Lana knew immediately what she would do.