Further Foolishness

Some of you may have taken mild interest in my regular attempts to impress the judges of the NYC Midnight competitions and my consistent failure to do so.

I really had no intention of entering the 100 word story competition. I find it impossible to describe a cornflake in 100 words let alone create something that might pass as a story.

Anyway, my resolve eventually weakened about a day before the entry deadline – a decision that I regretted a day later when I was assigned Romance/Riding on a train/Simple.

Honestly forces me to reveal the sad result ……

***

I remember the world thundering by. Our destination almost upon us.

The rattle and rumble of the tracks like gunfire above which we hear only each other’s thoughts. She takes my hand in hers.

School bags at our feet. For these were simple times. Or seemed so.

A shock of air through the carriage as we hurtle into the black cocoon of the tunnel. She leans forward to kiss me.

Then suddenly into the blinding light of the station. She is on her feet. Smiling. Suppressing a giggle. And then gone. Until tomorrow.

For as long as tomorrows might last.

***

Looking back on it now I realise that there is obvious room for improvement – but I was in a hurry at the time. Also ….. I should point out, before he grammar nazis jump on me, that the potentially confusing changes in tense are deliberate. They make sense to me, though probably not to the judges.

Meg, Cyranny and Sam all joined me in this competition and I certainly wish them luck.

 

What is this all about?

 

 

The title of this post does not refer to my usual obsession with the great metaphysical question. Rather, when I ask ‘what is this all about?’, in this instance, I am referring to ‘blogging’. What is ‘blogging’ all about, in other words … what is the purpose of it? I have asked the question before and am yet to be furnished with a satisfactory answer.

It occurs to me now that there is no purpose, and this fits in nicely with my view of just about everything else (that there’s no purpose to anything but it makes us feel better to act as though there were), but I don’t know if I’m missing something.

I think my ‘blog’ (I put it in quotation marks because I’m not really sure that I’m allowed to call it that) is a sort of diary – a vague record of my day to day feelings. So I have no interest in ‘followers’ (well …. I’m interested in all three of you, of course, but I don’t count you every day) and I don’t pay a lot of attention to the potentially disingenuous notion of likes. I do enjoy comments, though, particularly the humorous jibes.

But I am aware that others might feel differently. I know that others see their blogs as a form of duty – an obligation of sorts.

I am aware of people who devote a couple of hours every day to their blogs.

Now ….. I am not being judgemental …. but seriously…. a couple of hours??? …. who has that sort of time???? Even since COVID reduced me to an unemployed bum, I don’t have that sort of time.

 

My friends at Apple (or is it Mr Google? I’m not sure) send me messages from time to time informing me that my average daily screen time for the week is 1 hour and 43 minutes – up 8 minutes from the previous week. This I take to be a warning – that a continuation of this habit will send me blind, or crazy, or both. And 1 hour and 43 minutes does sound like a fucking lot of time, I admit.

But there’s a fair bit that I have to fit into those 103 minutes. I like to read the newspaper (The Sydney Morning Herald, for those that might be wondering about my political persuasions) and I need some time to deal with emails (normally with the delete button).

 

As well as that I do like to put aside a few quiet moments to indulge in my own geriatric version of pornography – I like to look at pictures of boats that are for sale.

 

As was the case with the more conventional forms of pornography circulating during my youth, I confess to a degree of guilt about this. I am aware of the dangers. It is an obsession that creates unrealistic ideas of reality and has a similar potential to its fleshy and air-brushed relative of paving a path to bankruptcy (though purely fiscal rather than moral, in this case, I think)

 

But … if I do feel the need to confess about such things, then perhaps this is the place to do it. Perhaps, for me, a blog is a bit more than a diary. It is a confessional. There …. I have answered my own question. This space is my confessional. I understand if you choose to avert your eyes in disgust, but I thank you for listening. You should feel no obligation to reply, of course, because time is precious.

Be Wayward with Me

Two challenges in two days. I’m on a roll!! But like most good rolls, it’s all downhill. This one from Sammi who asks for something of 77 words. One of those words has to be wayward.

*****

Don’t think me wayward

I could

Be just misdirected

Sometimes suspected

Of worse

This verse

An attempt

At contrition

Submission

To a higher power?

Like a flower

So soon

In bloom

Reborn

Like a rose

That knows

Of the thorn

Making one suspicious

Of the delicious

Poison in the tips

These swaying hips

A dance

A chance

To be played with

Decayed with

Lust

Mistrust

Disgust

Can’t you see?

There’s a way

To be wayward

With me

*****

Dance on My Grave

Let me further indulge my occasional morbid tendencies – though clearly I am not the only one going down that path, today. I am inspired (not for the first time) by Stoner. I particularly like her words ‘dry as a twig’, for some reason. Suddenly I can’t imagine anything ever being drier than that.

*****

 

Look with love

From above

As I lay alone

Bits of old bone

In the dirt

No more hurt

No eulogy here

No fear

Of a ghost

I loved you most

As I died

And you cried

Showing me

That knowing me

Had been real

And making me feel

Loved at the end

But let’s not pretend

It’s the end, too

For you

So laugh once again

Remember me when

You’re not alone

A new love of your own

Sing a song

Say ‘so long’

Misbehave

Dance on my grave

*****