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"I could eat alphabet soup and shit better lyrics then that." - Johny Mercer. |
  I'm a writer, who doesn't write. An artist, who doesn't paint. I'm a blogger, who doesn't blog. I'm a dreamer. And all I do is dream. I was born a donkey, but lived as a man. My parents sent me out from the paddock so that I could learn the secrets of corned bread. Seeing for myself the world of men made me curious because that was my weakness. Always my weakness. My hind-legs were strong and so began my masquerade. I became a man and walked the world of men. Read the Rest of My Life Story. http://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1847673-In-Search-of-Corn-Bread-A-... This is my blog documenting my experiences on www.writing.com. In it I will include my reviews of others works, links to offsite writings, and importantly I think, moan and complain constantly about the machinations of this beautiful, sexy, inspiring and fearsome beast of a writing community. I didn't do anything about my desire to write for over 20 years and I have a lot of catching up to do. I'm a little worried that I've left it all too late and I won't have enough time to become a good writer. |
| When Ethan Drane Shot David Karnak: the story so far. |
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| Hey Joe, what do you know. I've been writing this tale for over a year now. It started off as a punctuation exercise in my New Horizons course and has, at times, taken over my mind. Upon my return to WDC this week I set myself the goal of entering a writers cramp and a daily flash fiction each day. I didn't intend to continue anything, but upon sitting down to write for Arakuns Daily Flash Fiction found myself continuing Ethan Drane's dark western tale. It's still unfinished, and as such I have never made a portfolio entry for it. I've always just put it here in the blog as I added bits. An unintentional blog exclusive! This has been the longest story I've ever written, not counting collaborations with Wyrm. I am hoping to finish it one day. Then I can start working on the second draft! I'm thinking for the second draft I might turn it into a dark Americana steam punk story on a frontier desert world with riding lizards instead of horses. No, really, haha, I'm not joking. The town of Baton lay flat between two hills like a snake run over by a wagon train. The valley was wide and Baton twisted it’s way, not sprawling or compact like other towns, in a long array of buildings along some imaginary line. Further away from the valley a smattering of homesteads and farms opened up into a plateau and the plains that the old west was famous for. The two hills were called Macrae’s Hill and Duncan’s Hill. Named after the founding fathers John Duncan and Paul Macrae, who had long been buried in the soil of said hills. Baton was a beauty, and purple flowers were known to emblazon the hills on either side for months at a time. Spring and summer were beautiful here. There were no flowers the year that Ethan Drane rode into town and shot and killed the schoolmaster David Karnak. Not even any flowers for his grave. Drane was an imposing man. He had the wide, sloping shoulders of the perenial horseman. He had big, meaty hands that were gnarled and scarred. At home holding a rein, a hammer, or a pistol. His brow was always sweaty and he was usually unshaven, the shadows on his cheek shifting, shifting with the pull and tug of his jaw on the tobacco plug. That mouth seldom cracked for a smile. Still, he was not a cruel or evil man, he was just a dangerous one. He couldn’t help it that where ever he lay his boots, danger would be sure to follow on his footsteps. Even on those rare occasions when Drane would hang up his six-shooters for a more peaceful life, some affront, or crime, or vengeful man from his sinful past would come to repercuss themselves in his life. Peace never lasted long for Drane. After a time, Drane gave up trying to go straight. After a time, Drane just held the notion of living in the moment. And moralising and repenting and remorsing be damned right to hell along with him. The morning that Drane shot Karnak was a cold one. It was a wintry time in the valley, and much of Baton was slow and unmoving. The bank had not opened yet, but that was okay because Drane wasn’t much for robbing banks. Too much planning involved. The saloon’s doors were still closed and bolted. It wouldn’t open again until late afternoon when the farm hands and roustabouts came in from toiling at the surrounding homesteads. The hotel was open, as it always was, and the school was open, as it mostly was, and Drane had business at the hotel and Karnak at the school and although those two establisments were at opposite ends of Baton, the two men would soon meet and their fates would soon entwine. Drane led his horse to the stables. Sharp cracks of frozen dirt surrounded them, the horse's hooves breaking frozen ground. Drane's fingers were sore from the early morning frost, and his workmans gloves did nothing to keep out the cold. They only made his fingers more numb. The horse slipped on a section of road made into sludge by dew and overnight rain. Cursing, Drane stumbled. The horse found it's balance and so did Drane, but any semblance of good humour was now gone. Cold and sore and a little embarrassed, Drane grumbled at his horse, he grumbled at the town, and he grumbled at himself. A man like Drane, it didn't take much to put him in a bad mood. He tied his horse up on the rail out the front of the general store so that he could get a bite to eat and maybe a mug of hot coffee. After the night he'd had out on the praerie, he could do with some warmth. Maybe they would have a news sheet for him to peruse. He'd been on the trail so long, he wasn't exactly sure of the date. Was it November 28, 1867? Or could it even be December 1867? His old, leathery boots stomped on the wooden floorboards of the porch as he approached the entrance. Each footstep was like a knock on the door. A sound behind him took his attention away from the stained wooden door. It was his horse fidgeting. Drane turned just in time to see his horse, mangy cur, flick it's head and snap the loosely tied reins from the rail. Drane's fingers had been too numb to tie a proper knot and now his horse was free. "Dang-it, You wily, cheatin', cunning-as-an-outhouse-dunny-thief. You no-good, pecker-eatin', flea-ridden dust-bag," He yelled, the menace in his voice enough to send the horse trotting away from it's source. "Hey! Come back here!" Drane jogged after his slowly-retreating horse, stumbling again in the sludge. If his mood was bad before, now his temper was foul. Ethan Drane was seeing red. The horse, head held high and neighing nervously, trotted away from the tired cowboy and rounded the corner of the general store. Drane shambled after it, still cursing (and in effect, scaring it further away from him). As he ,too , rounded the corner he became aware of shadowy figures under the framework of the building and a little girl, her skirts dirty, her face smeared, skittered out from near the back stumps and raced away. This was actually fortunate for Ethan Drane in his quest to recapture his horse, as his horse did not particularly like little girls any more then Drane himself did. As the girl ran past the horse, it shied away and twisted it's body back towards Drane. Seizing the opportunity, Drane grabbed at the reigns, snaring them in his strong hands. "You bloody beast," Drane snarled. The reigns were now entangled in one meaty hand. This left his other hand free. He duly raised it above his head, preparing to deal a mighty blow to his horse. "I'll discipline you, beast." "Sir!" Drane reeled to the interjector, and spied a tall young man dusting off his breeches. A finely cut pair of pants, made of a poor material from the look of them. Drane knew all about poor material. Those pants wouldn't last a week on the range, and would soon end their days cut for shorts. "Sir - what manner of man are you, that you would hit a defenceless pack animal?" Drane glowered at the tall young man. Every town there ever was, was filled with namby shit-heels like the one before him. If Drane could be gaoled for every one he had put in his place, well, he would not be a free man today. "What manner of man are you," Drane did not bother with returning the honorific, " that I find you under a building with a wee girl-child." The tall young man bristled. "I am her school teacher! And that is one recalcitrant school girl. If I did not hunt her down each morning, she would never come to my classroom to learn." Drane snarled, "A crying shame, that would be." It was the schoolmaster’s turn to glower now. Schoolteachers were usually the worst, Drane knew. Living their lives couped up in four walls, dictating their small views on young children. They often looked down on the men and women those boys and girls would become. Men like Ethan Drane. Workers. Survivors. Free men. "That horse is obviously of smarter ilk then you, Cowboy, to turn tail and flee your presence," snapped David Karnak, for that was indeed who the schoolteacher was. A learned man, still unaware of the destiny about to enfold two men. "I know my letters. I know my numbers," Drane said to wipe the condescension from Karnak's mouth. "I know it's my right to discipline my horse how I see fit. A working man’s only as good as the horse under his ass." "Sitting on your ass more like it, if not on a horse, then in a saloon!" Karnak laughed. Drane, still holding the reigns tight in one hand, reached for his horses neck with the other. The horse shifted uncertainly in the laneway but did not bow away. Drane ran his gloved hand up the horses neck. Roughly, yet with a certain grace. The horse lowered it's head and snorted. Drane sized Karnak up, his ponderous frame dwarving the leaner man in the morning light. “I will sit /you/ on /your/ ass, if you keep this line of jabber, schoolmaster.” Said in the overly jocular language of cowboys on the range, the repartee would entice more insults of a similar vein. Said in the quiet tones of Ethan Drane in a laneway on a freezing winter morning after his horse had made a fool of him on the main st, it was a much more serious matter. Morning steam fogged out of Karnak’s mouth as his lips curled into a sneer. Drane snapped as Karnak snorted. Whatever witty, educated reprise that the schoolmaster had intended as a parry in a battle of wits was silenced by the cowpoke’s blunt fist. Karnak’s head snapped back as Drane snaked his other hand out of the reins and sent it crashing into the schoolmaster’s side. “Teach you,” Drane snarled. “Teach you.” Really, Drane would have ended it there. The schoolmaster, the namby shit-heel, had mouthed off at Drane and then laughed at him. He'd made noises at him. And that, the cowpoke could not stand. So, he had hit him. Twice. Yes, Drane would have ended it there. He would have looked down at the schoolmaster on the ground, dismissing him. He would have taken his horse by it’s reins and tugged it back towards the store; taken off his work gloves this time, even with the bitter cold, and tied a convincing knot and kept that damn horse at the rail. Then, he would have walked back on to the veranda, his boots tapping on the wood floor like door knocks, and opened the flimsy door and walked inside to buy a warm coffee and a news sheet and demonstrate his surly nature to the old storekeeper inside. Drane would have done all that. But the schoolmaster hit him back. He hit him back hard. "That wasn't what you expected, was it?" Karnak smiled. His shirt had come a little untucked and a little trickle of blood dampened his thin moustache, but his fists were raised and his limbs were loose. "The beasts don't usually hit back, do they?" Drane surveyed the form of the schoolmaster and knew he would have to reassess. Perhaps he wasn't thin after all, but rangey. Perhaps he was that rare kind of man in Drane's world. The kind that straddled two worlds. A namby shit heel who could handle himself. A determined look settled into the cowpokes face. A set of jaw more akin to an iron vice then a human being. Reassess or no, Drane /would/ teach the school master to mind his own business. How a man treated his horse, was no other man's business. Teach him? He would give him a thrashing. The cowpokes next blow whistled like a falling boulder, hurtling airborne through a ravine, and was aimed straight at the school masters thin moustache. Karnak swept his palm up in an arc, and slammed Dranes haymaker across his own body, fouling the two lefts that were sure to come next. Still with his palm pushing against Dranes arm , he guided the punch's momentum downwards as he then landed a succession of neat, stabbing knee-kicks into Dranes stomach and chest. Dranes own knees buckled and he hit the dirt hard, his face bouncing in the mud. Drane rolled to the side, away from the mean arc of Karnaks boot, and scrabbled to his knees. "What exactly were you to teach me again -", and here the eloquent school master paused for the greatest effect," - bully?" Drane may have been caught unawares by the fighting skills of the little school master, but really he was no stranger to violence. He had often been on the receiving end of some, and as such he was often the underdog in such instances. Now that Drane knew what he was up against, he felt a surge of confidence where some might feel uncertainty at the turn of events. Drane rose to the occasion. He stood proud, spat some mud out of his mouth, crouched low, and plunged in. A sudden side kick from Karnak gave Drane pause, but the pain in his thigh was sacrifice to his real offense. Really, it was a small distance to travel. The lane was not wide, it was not a thoroughfare of note, it was exactly what it was, a space between buildings that horses and little girls took on their way to seek refuge. Karnaks side kick, while technically adept, lacked the force to fell the brute. But the charge was a subterfuge. Drane's headbutt's usually smashed teeth and cartiledge. Karnak slammed bodily into the wall of the store, hand clutching at his bloodied mouth. Drane stood with chest heaving, thinking the fight was over. Never taking his eyes off his prey, Karnak rose loose-limbed. His left hand held a kerchief to his face. His right, a long butterfly knife. Drane's eyes shot up. "What manner of schoolmaster are you that you take a knife like that with you?" "Baton has a dark side," Karnak garbled, the words bloated with blood. "This protects me from buffoons like you.The threat of bloody violence is a powerful persuader. And, I have my own dark nature to bring to the table." The next fist that Drane threw glanced on the schoolmasters ear, the next after that missed. Karnak was weaving, dodging, flying forward; taking that long, thin piece of polished steel with him. In his hurry to escape the knife, Dranes heavy riding boots slipped again in the mud. The advantage was definitely the school masters now. On unbalanced legs, with sweat in his puffy, bloodshot eyes, with an element of apprehension in his breath, Drane saw that knife come flitting in, never where he expected it next. Certainly not lightly slashing his ear, or gouging a neat hole in his cheek. Did Karnak mean to harm Drane? Did he mean to kill him? A school master, with a sharp and deadly blade instead of a blunt belt for discipline? He certainly had never fought for his life with one before. Drane doubted whether he had ever been in a stranger predicament. "Now, hold up School Master," he said, arm outstretched, fingers carefully tucked away from that knife. "Perhap, I was too hasty to temper..." Karnak paused in his knife-dance, "Well, that's unfortunate cowpoke, for I have the sce -" The mud that Drane threw with his other hand splattered across the top half of Karnak's cheap suit. Blood and mud now ordained its fate as rags. Karnak gave a startled cry and Drane threw again, this time taking Karnak full in the face. Blinded by the mud, he did not see Drane come rushing in until his hand was crushed at the wrist and the steel knife released from his loose knife-fighters grip. For good measure Drane punched him in the stomach. Karnak on his knees should have given Drane satisfaction, but he was past that. His temper had flared, and his rage had taken over. The morning had been bad enough, and now he was wounded as well. Superficial they might be, but in the cold air they stung like buggery. Drane didn't plan on giving Karnak a chance to do any more damage. He lashed out with his heavy boot, stomping Karnak's shoulder. Karnak cried out and for the first time that day Drane smiled. Karnak scrabbled to his feet, but this time Drane was ready for him. He grabbed him around the waist, lifted him up and squeezed. Again, Karnak cried out. Drane only grimaced harder, tightening his grip. Imagining himself in a primal struggle. Karnak convulsed, and then, looking down upon Drane opened his bloodied mouth and latched onto the side of Drane’s cheek a scant inch below his eye. Teeth tore through skin and fat, and the school master’s head shook like a savage dog in lockjaw. Drane’s only reflex was to let go. Karnak fell to the mud, tearing Drane’s face more. He lay there, his lower face and neck entirely scarlet. A feral look in his eye. Drane reeled away, his strong worker’s hand fluttering at his ruined cheek unable to assess the damage. Drane cried out, as he slammed into the pack saddle of his horse. The horse scampered away and back, giving it’s own thin cry of terror, and Drane found his hands clasping his rifle bag. Drane would never forget those eyes. -- Blood in the mud. Drane cried in the dirt, struggling to draw breath. He pulled himself to his feet using the hot rifle. Grabbed the body, threw it over his horse. Pulled a rough blanket out of his pack and threw it over the limp form. Paused. Grabbed great, big heaping handfuls of mud and pushed them into the gaping wound. Something he'd seen another stockman do with a dead man. The shot would be heard, Drane knew. But it was still early. And it was bitter cold. Drane was not bitter. Not Yet. That would come later. He lead the horse, and the covered body of David Karnak, out of Baton. School would not be in that day. Fate had spoken. --- The fire wasn't enough to keep Drane warm that night, but without it he would surely have died. His long, dark hair was plastered to his scalp like he'd taken a bath. The skin of his face was clammy, and in the firelight it looked rubbery. A bandage lay across his entire cheek, crudely drawn. He huddled, miserable and sick, his blanket around his shoulders. A bowl lay at his feet, filled with a foul smelling concoction. A salve taught to Drane many years ago from the man who first took him on. Drane always carried a bottle in his pack. He never knew when some beast might bite his hand, or some dang fool might fall off his mount, drunk or useless, and need patching. Drane was a man of experience. This wasn't his first night spent out on the range in this fashion. But normally, it was self inflicted through liquor or brawling, or both. Rarely, it was because of an illness. It had never been because he killed a man. For all his surly, cantankerous nature, Drane had never fought for his life like he did tonight. He had almost lost. Drane knew that. Drane knew how close that namby school master had come to slithering that smooth butterfly knife between his ribs and ending his life. If he was to survive out here tonight, he would have to keep thoughts like that in check. If he was to survive with the body of David Karnak laying just metres from him. Drane hadn't had the strength to bury him yet, and had spent his meagre energy between sleeping fitfully and patching himself up as best he could, along with setting up a rudimentary campfire. Enough wood to keep a cooking fire was another essential of his kit. ---
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--- Michael Thundersbeard Artist, Writer, Father, Factory Worker. http://www.lifeandothertragedies.com (and husband too!) |
| Big plans. Oooooooooo! |
| Copying my blog over to my wordpress blog in preparation of not continuing my full membership here. Then, clean out my portfolio so only new stuff is here. Chris and I are working on No Rest again. I want to keep the momentum going by writing, writing, writing. Which is not so easy for such a fearful, insecure, procrastinator like me. I enjoy typing though, so that's something. --- Success: Thank you for submitting feedback for this item. Your reviews are stored within your My Feedback area for viewing at any time. This review's is ID #3855893. WritingML Review of "Books."  yields: Review of "Books." |
| Positivity Positive |
| Feeling a bit better these days. Thinking of putting out another Clockwork Crier. Also going to transfer this blog to my wordpress account: Http://fingersofthunder.wordpress.com It's my positivity blog! |
| I Wrote Something |
| Last night, I wrote 250 words of my Ethan Drane short story. These are the first words of fiction I have written for some months. I'm hoping I can write something tonight too. I've also started a new wordpress blog about my efforts at writing. It's meant to be a positive exercise without any wailing or depressive episodes. http://fingersofthunder.wordpress.com |
| The Art of Giving Up |
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| I went to see a hypnotist yesterday to try and rid myself of my extreme writers procrastination (herein refered to as Writers Brick). I've tried various self-hypnosis downloads to no real avail, and thought the real thing might make a difference. Besides making me incredibly anxious (beforehand) and depressed (afterwards) I don't feel any overpowering desire to sit down and write. I've been thinking for awhile that I might just pack it all in. Between my wife's MS, and her behaviour associated with that and the drugs she has to take, and my narcolepsy and the drugs I am meant to be taking for that...something has to give I guess. Thinking about writing is such a waste of time if I'm not going to write anything. Time to reprioritise. The answer to my own question in my profile/bio seems to be "Yes, I left it too late." Update: Since my old mate Troy died in February, my heart hasnt been in writing. nithing to do with him personally. I have just narrowed this empty feeling down to that point in time. All the inroads I made in being a proactive writer seemed to evaporate from that point. this non-writing thing is causing me some mean measure of stress in my real life, and so I have decided to purge myself of it. I am cleaning house and giving up this writing gig. As such, if anyone wishes to take over my competitions, pls message me. They have great and relevant titles and for the right person/s I will include the gift point banks as well.{/b}
A wise web page once said: Remember, be safe and protect your writing from accidental loss. |
| Starting to Weep |
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| Tears of tiredness. STruggling a bit with my new medicine for Narcolepsy. Between that and painting the outside of the house (still going - up to Coat #3!) WDC fell through the wayside. Missed the start of October because I was on holidays and painting the house 10 hours a day (it's a big old house), I didn't even realise the month had turned over until a week had almost passed. November, I'll get the blog challenge back up and all those other WDC things I find so heartening (and addictive!). ---
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--- Michael Thundersbeard Artist, Writer, Father, Factory Worker. http://www.lifeandothertragedies.com (and husband too!) |
| A new sense of purpose |
I can't believe I actually managed to get the steampunk newsletter out! "The Clockwork Crier: Beyond Yesterday"  . Good on me! I say this with full modesty and a sense of disbelief. As a lifetime procrastinator, I managed to carry this project out with a sense of purpose and determination to finish it. Now, if only I could sit down and write a story... ...In other news, I've painted almost the entirety of our house, the outside of our house, over the past 2 days. Another day should do it. Some nicer weather permitting. The paint has a special insulation powder mixed in with it. Very interesting to see if it works! |
| Starting to Read: Waylander |
| Well, what do you know! I actually managed to finish a book! I've only been reading this book for a year or two now. Three kids, sick wife, farm, job, narcolepsy - it all got in the way, and I kept losing the book! The book in question is Waylander by David Gemmell. I really enjoyed it. More Greek epic, then fantasy novel. But, I guess that's the nature of heroic fantasy isn't it? Next I'm going to add Waylander II to my reading list. My bedside reading consists of Elliot Patterson's Ashes of the Earth, and I Also read a chapter of Scott Westerfolds Leviathan to my boys every night. I've found it's the only solution for sending the younger one to sleep. Otherwise, he keeps his brother awake for hours! I sit in the dark using my phone to see the words. I'm thinking I'd like to add a horror novel to my reading list for late saturday nights. This was when I used to download and watch horror films. I've been thinking for awhile I'd like to Replace this tradition with a good scary book like I used to when I was younger. Any horror novel recommendations out there? I have a hankering for a haunted house. |
| Thoughts on the Challenge |
| I always think half way through that I'm not going to run the blogging challenge anymore. Then, by the end, I'm so hooked on reading people's different intpretations of the prompts that I'm hooked all over again. Part of my strategy as administrator has always been to sit as much as possible in the background. This is to prevent my own burn-out, as much as it is about making sure the challengers feel they have free reign. And, of course, once I realize that something is not working 100% right - like Funny Friday - The ideas start flooding in. I'm curious as to what people thought about the Creation Saturday concept. Im going to tweak it some for October. The plan is to couple it with Funny Friday - which will become Fun Fridays - and see if it helps spice things up by getting people to use elements of their own lives in fiction pieces/poetry. I'm hoping that people understand that with the Sunday Resonance, it's really an open prompt. It's a fine line between personal writing and creative writing, but seeing as we are on a writing site, I am hoping that the balance is still there. Also, those talented people over at the Talent Pond expressed interest in sponsoring October. My plan for September is to pursue that avenue with bells on. Also for September, I plan on writing 1 sentence every day. Most likely Mutant Walks, but eventually my novel "Sweet FA" (it's not really called that, that's just it's super-alias). And lastly, the Steam Punk newsletter which I'm hoping to have out by the end of next week. It was going to be this week, but it's my daughters 8th birthday this weekend, and something's have to take priority. Family First and all that, pip, pip. |
| Starting to Read: Tintin |
| I have had a love affair with Tintin all my life. One of my housemates even called me Tintin for a time because of my skaters haircut (think coif with skin head). I'm passing that love affair onto my kids. They love to all sit on the couch as I read them the adventures of Tintin. Every character has a different voice, except for Tintin, he has my normal voice but I always "do him" in a polite manner. I never realised growing up, the amount of slapstick comedy! Bashing into poles, falling over, falling down stairs, crashing cars. Each and every one of these is considered the height of hilarity for my kids. And how good was the movie! It was so bloody exciting, wasn't it? I can't wait for the sequel. Oh, and currently we are reading Tintin in the Land of Black Gold. |
| On Tomorrow Being My Birthday |
| Tomorrow, I turn 37. 37 is the age when you are officially a man. It puts you over the mark, by one year, of being half boy/half-man. Now, I am a man. This is who I am. It's the last chance to leave bad behaviour at the door, and stand strong and say these parts of myself are my domain. Eighteen years of being a boy, and Nineteen of being a man. This is my last night of being that boy. So, I'm sitting on the couch drinking a slab of Coopers Sparkling Ale (5.8%), listening to music on you tube, and I'll probably doze off and then my plan is to be greeted by my three children (7,6, and 3) in the morning to a chorus of "happy birthday, old man"'s (I have them well trained on this boy/man thing) Things I thought I would have achieved by 37 1. I thought I would be a novelist. I could say author, but I'm not even sure what that word means anymore. Novelist is so much cooler, by far. 2. I would have stopped masturbating. Haha, still a boy at heart. |
| Creation Saturday |
August 4, 2012: Supposedly our sense of smell is strong enough to take us to very distinct memories. In a poem OR a story, recount a time, place or situation when someone's olfactory sense led them back to a memory. The smell of yesterday's baked beans wafting on the breeze floods my senses, reminding me only of him, Dad. Big apologies to Cindy. I read your poem, and straightaway wondered about the male version! |
| I want one! |
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| http://cheezburger.com/6478456576 I'm not at home, and so was unable to heed my own advice on saving and uploading images. I had every intention of embedding a you tube vid from the site, for Funny Friday!, but I saw the image above and now I am planning on building my own! I was really unsure about introducing a creative writing theme for Saturdays. We had a bit of hubbla-balloo about the issue in Jan and Feb. I very firmly sided on the "it's a personal writing challenge, not a creative writing challenge." BUT It's the poets amongst the challengers that loosened my morals... I mean, mind. Seeing both Fivesixer and Prosperous Snow unleash some fine poems on us, I couldn't help but wonder if , knowing in advance that each Saturday they could write a poem, if it would open the doors to their respective muses. I'm still not sold on the idea, which is why I initially changed Teff's Serial Story idea into a Serial Life Experience prompt. It's here for the month; we'll see how it goes. (farm) After work today I zipped home to finish shaping/building the hill. Another couple of wheelbarrows should do it. On my lunch break today, I knocked off 756 words, which would be the most words I've written since Kami Brought The Hellfire. Mr Cool and The Mutant Dwarf are finally gonna stop sitting down, and do something! ---
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--- Michael Thundersbeard Artist, Writer, Father, Factory Worker. http://www.lifeandothertragedies.com (and husband too!) |
| Relevance of Olympic Proportions |
| Day 02 of the 30-Day Blogging Challenge. I'm not sure about the relevance of the Olympics in this time of globalisation. I can see how in the past a massive event like this would bring countries together, all under the one roof. I doubt there was anything like it at the time. Now, countries are brought together all the time through the magic of pop culture and politics. For my 6 year old Son though, the Olympics have been a big deal. He insists that we watch it after dinner every night. He doesn't quite understand it all, but keeps repeating the phrase, in hushed, reverant tones, "It's the Olympics! The Olympics are on!" He knows, or thinks, they are important. (Farm) Still digging. Shovelling. Chopping. Hill-building. (Work) Have decided that I want to be a nurse. Exploring career options right now. Our factory will be closing down in a matter of years. Currently, they are restructuring the company, and shedding staff. They are a major metropolitan media centre, and as such are too smart (ie. shifty) to make a large number of people redundant at the one time. They'll do it in dribs and drabs. They make the headlines up, they don't make the headlines. If I can pull it off, this nurse thing, then I won't have to worry about losing my job in a "dying trade" again. |
| Unusual Dreams |
| I had an unusual dream the other night. It's actually quite usual for me to dream about my workplace and my workmates. They form a large part of my life. I have a lot of fun with the good ones, and I have a lot of tension with the bad ones. There is one particular GOON that I dislike, the leader of a pack of ratbags, and it was him I dreamt about. Or rather, I dreamt about his name. This GOON loves to antagonise people, manipulate people, etc, etc blah bad guy blah. But, one of his favourite tricks is to get a person's name wrong and say it in a manner that is obviously insulting. He'll say "Damian Fullmolland", instead of "Damian Mulholland". He'll say, "Paul Steames", instead of "Paul Eames." Of course, he hates it when you do the same thing to him. (In fact, I have long discovered that whatever the GOONS are doing to someone else is their own weakness. I have used this knowledge to gain revenge, and educate other victims, to great effect.) I dreamt that I wrote in the lift at work: Peter Bookends. Since, that night I have been having great pleasure calling this guy Bookends. It rhymes with his real name, and boy is he hating it. FARM: Man, did I do some digging today! We have an area beside the house near our water tank where a crushed rock path lies. After it was first installed, it all washed away. The path that is. So today, finally, I've been building the mulch hill to the side of the path up into a higher point. Then, when I redo the path with crushed rock, it won't wash away down the hill, but instead be pushed against the side of hill/wall. To make sure that the new hill does not get washed away, I've dug a series of trenches and holes into the hill and filled them with detritus from around the farm. Old gates, old bits of metal (heavy suckers), and have made a pattern of "logs as poles" to hold longer branches that I've laid across the ground. Then, probably not today, I'll cover all that with more fill. Obviously, today was my day off work. Paid work that is! |
| Big Day Tomorrow |
| The August 30-Day Blogging Challenge begins tomorrow. I actually get a bit nervous before these things. Not a big starting line up this time, but you never know who'll finish hear things and who won't. I'm thinking I might as well blog along this time. Keep my eye in and all. |
| I Wrote. |
| Chapter Ten of Mutants Walk Amongst Us Scribbling, Scribbling. "First Things First" |
| Wolves At Sunset |
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