Clothes Maketh the Man

Only up to a point. Eventually it’s just too late.

I decided to look at some posts this morning and find one fairly randomly and respond. The winner (a fairly dubious honour, to be sure) was Cheryl who drew attention to the various choices of clothing that one may be confronted with on any particular day – though her chosen models all seemed to be preparing for the beach. I think her premise is that there comes a time when comfort is the only real consideration.

But one cannot help but reminisce about days when it wasn’t so.


This sack of skin. This walking curse

That clothing makes look somehow worse

It limps around. It shuns the light

It keeps the truth withheld from sight

It breaks the mirror, looks away

Within your view it cannot stay

Within your reach it shall not be

You cannot feel what you can’t see


For what is clothing, but a mask?

That hides the question you won’t  ask

And makes of which you cannot see

A poorly hidden mystery

A camouflage from foot to neck

To decorate this hulking wreck

I wear a cloak till daylight fades

I hide inside. I pull the shades


My aching back. My shaking knees

My life. This inescapable disease

My body. Shoddy. Wasted breath

Stranded between birth and death

A place where lovers used to dance

No longer worth a second glance

No more tempting to your taste

Where once you lay, now laid to waste


The moles, the holes, the battle scars

From nights it stayed and played in bars

To laugh and love. To lie. Pretend

That the day would never end

So now this sack, these shaking knees

Are carrying the memories

But there tis no mask, no cape, no clothes

With which I’d ever cover those.

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.