Yea Though…

I walk.

I’m walking. Beings; they come alongside and match my stride. They talk, they’re talking. No. Not talking—they preach. They’re preaching to me as we head towards the light. And while I’m drawn, all moth-like—their attention, even in the light of this light, is on me entirely. Peck, they’re pecking my ear…
“We’re no theists, but realists. Turn away,” they say. No. Not say—whisper, with persuasive words and such intimate reason, “Turn, turn around.”

A reluctance, born from the strength of my new faith’s preference, has me opt for that aforesaid sweet luminescence—all silent and aglow with a beckoning that’s—ahh—yes, this spontaneous belief; it’s all-beguiling. Instant is the trusssst in its offer of paradise.

This man’s not for converting.

But, what’s this? Incoming…the preachers, it seems, have assistance. [_____________] ← that space allows me to brace. Zapped from above and below I am; white, bright, revelatory shots: one in the pate, another in the nates; a double-jolt from a super-charged forked bolt. Each rides up my nerves to find and recombine with the other. Their manifestation darts around within and overwhelms.

Damn.

It felt so natural too, the return of blind desire. To be only a fleeting resurrection of my care-for-nothing character. It’s unfair—for the sake of sociableness there grew inside a need to please: to give, to help, to shield; it’s hounded me the second half and since of my three score and ten. That dogged dog of a conscience is back following the shortest excursion, collar unclipped from its new-fangled lightning leash and now running loose—adopted pet and agent this time, I suspect, of those preachers. Aye, they encourage its yapping, and goad it with treats and whistles unheard to shepherd me from my intent. Paradise on hold, or paradise lost? I must oblige, cede, take heed.

I turn.

Been beleaguered of late, what with melancholic matters of the terminal variety and Destiny’s last date: an uphill walk, not far—a fentanyl fueled liaison with the light. Bringing it all together—a permanent easement of ailments—you know, a one way ticket out of the breach.

But.

To see then the stage my U-turn has presented, quite steals my already breathless mind away: a landscape, a valley panorama, with the right amount of lush, all overlaid with an equal measure of cirrus-streaked sky. I’m above it all—like in life; neither aloft nor aloof. No, I was the detached type, with the good fortune of a high eye and a steep nose—that was only once broken. My shadow I see, is a swathe-wide straight line, that dims the ground from feet to far, far out. Perspective plays its hand at the extremity—its digits smudging and pinching all detail to miniature—making crude the models of the vale’s villages.

If I’m to draw any details from such a vista I’d be relying on luck. To sharpen my focus, to take such a feature as texture would consume an energy I do not possess—or a younger eye. Sapped of precious time and vigour for such endeavour, pitching the vision with the familiar requires concentration—I wish I could bust these cataracts out—demist the distance.

Cue the luck, a preacher draws a brass telescope from a hessian sack. “Courtesy of Bob Hooke,” he says and hands it to me. I put it to my good eye and scope the horizon. Boo to the unsteadiness of this elder’s hand; the image pans loosely from my jitters and I cannot get a fix. The steadying hand of a preacher chimes in—he’s in tune with me and aligns my aim.

There I am, in a cradle, rocking on a precipice that demarks my life from a calmly-viewed pre-natal darkness. A baby—unable to howl, puke or mewl for the bronchial cough that rasps its respiration. That cradle in a clouded room now, with mother and her six, smoking teen-to-twenties siblings. Anger at post-nativity naivety, yet solace in the mystery of a sickly life being solved.

A nudge downward of the telescope (thank you preacher), sweeps my sight over the land of a growing child, and trails with more a measure of joy than travail. To stop to pause at the second age—the subject, of me of course, innocent until that day. A pure product of the parent. Till the arrival of the brother and the contamination of schooling. Reluctant, recalcitrant, resisting change and feigning ailments. Look at my wide eyes and mooning grin the day I realise the value of lies—slotting in so well with the early need to please—the self.

Another nudge by a preacher and another half a league nearward. Through this valley of life rides my mortal dread. I’m the young man, awash with hormone, a pard’s complexion and a lusting for the female: Jessica, Annabel, Phillipa and yes—Sue—a beautiful Southern belle with matching accent.

Nudge. Up through the valley I scope myself at 27; a bank-rolled-by-loan black sports car strapped to my arse—hands on the wheel—the consumerist’s show off grin and a right foot eager for the accelerator. That moment was all mine, and I thought I was the one. A certain beauty in such delusion. I weep in the eye that sees this, and switch the telescope to the other.

Half a league nearward with a paunch that’s swelling outwards, taken by me, the man, from the spouse who bore, and lain in line the next infants. The beard’s appeared with the aspiration of being a bard, and an early yoke over that steep nose where hang the lenses for reading. Full now with wisdom, yet a wondering where, and how, and why it all fits in—and so a leaning to faith.

To the last but one league nearward. Sunny garden, wine at 11 and free-time tan. Orange and silver man, pruning roses, morning glories—fading glories, meditating, venom-less curses with some forgiveness for the years in the consumerist’s prison—it paid for the pension. Enjoying visits from the grown infants’ latest line of infants—the happiest time. I weep in this eye too, but keep the scope fixed—not wanting away from the vision…

…to which a preacher nudges one last league nearward. I’m rocking in a free chair with a tartan comfort blanket over knee, nothing they can do for me. ‘Sans all’ as Shakespeare said—save for a mercy kick from the big ‘C’. A flight of stairs away a floor to ceiling window that appeared to forever hold in frame an image of the post-life abyss—the identical twin of the pre-natal rendering; to be viewed with a terrible shiver. It was thereafter a ‘dark-dispelling’ sunrise in that window blessed me. It held the promise of a better place, and the courage to leave my chair—a miracle—and I walked its way.

There ends my eventful history.

Then the preachers. I don’t know whether to curse or kiss them; they reveal what shone behind me, that promise of timeless bliss, was an imagined light, a concocted-by-mind divinity that chimed with my own, now lost, religion—a crutch to whack and oust the fear of the end of (my) days. While each and every pan nearward was a toe-over-heel step rearward.

I hand back the telescope, and back-handedly thank them for the memories—falling, at last, over the edge to the quieting of the yapping dog.

Published by

Museworthy Man

Typically atypical man from Manchester with aspirations that’ll never/maybe/could one day be realisations :-D

42 thoughts on “Yea Though…”

  1. I really enjoyed this. I can see many people going through a similar journey in their final days, hours. I do feel one of the purposes of religion is to help us cope with the fear of not existing any more. I felt this character wasn’t exactly religious but was raised that way, and so as he becomes aware the end is near, he reaches out to the old neural pathways of the past for comfort. One of those people who kept religion in their life as more of an old friend they’d visit from time to time, rather than an all consuming practice. What makes me feel most peaceful about this, is that in the end it is not the light that brings him peace, but looking back over his life. Seeing the journey, the smiles, the mistakes…he sees a story. He lives that story again in whatever time it takes to sift through the memories and then is ready to leave. Maybe there is a heaven, but I hope that for whatever time I’m here I’m celebrating this existence instead of looking forward to a different one. 🙂

    1. First, second, third and foremostly I’m pleased you enjoyed this.
      For what it means and the message I meant to convey; well I left a little leeway in there for interpretation. But you got yourself pretty much into the mind of the mc there. On a personal note, I’m approaching one of those in-there-mentioned ages now and that’s what’s prompted me to pen this. Currently planning the end of work days and priming nose to smell the roses, the coffee and maybe cinnamon as it goes into my tea! 🙂

      Thanks for taking the time to read.

      1. I figured there was a little leeway for interpretation and that what I thought of might not be what others took away. And yeah I definitely felt the journey myself…I never had a sports car strapped to me arse, but I think I cans till connect to the spirit of that journey…I’m little past the “half a league nearward part” I would say. lol There just gets to be a certain age where you can really self-actualize better and look back at yourself and laugh or cry…make peace with the person you were, and perhaps be glad you aren’t that person now. lol And you can sort of also get a better idea of what kind of person you are growing it to. I sort of feel that’s what being in your 40’s is like.

        Not to give you even more book recommendations (but I’m going to) I think you would like Tom Robbins as he is really a wordsmith when it comes to really clever prose like yours. There is a book called Jitterbug Perfume that perhaps describes my attitude towards aging the best. Not to give too much away but the main character is the chief of a little fiefdom and the tradition is at the sign of the first gray hair the chief is killed and replaced by someone younger. So we begin with him plucking a gray hair from his beard and really annoyed that at the age of 36 where he finally feels like he’s sort of figured out this whole life thing he has to die. Lots of with and humor if you are looking for something fun and thoughtful. 🙂

        1. Tom Robbins—you’ve played to my vanity by your comparison. I’m going to look him up. Easy one to remember too; I’ve got Shawshank on the brain now. Tom not Tim, Tom not Tim. There. Remembered.

          Re. the grey hair, that’s frightening, I’d be a goner. This beard I have is a-bristled with many. I’m reminded of, I think, Logan’s Run. < I need to read that one again.

    2. Additional: I’m in awe of your enthusiasm Swarn—your energy spills so freely into your output and you’ve a knack of getting your thoughts out with clarity and pace. The variety and rate at which you take in books too will be a great foundation should you stick the course with the creative writing. I’m sure if you paid a visit to the somewhere-in-this-thread-said forums you’d be a great addition and believe me, with the characters there, you’ll pick up loads with that appetite of yours.

  2. I think I needed a synopsis to read, MM, before reading. Either it’s quite dense with ambiguity, or I’m just quite dense myself. Is suicide suggested here? A terminal illness? Some kind of shock back to life by medics? A suggestion that we get glimpses of omniscience before the lights go out? A morphine-made God? It’s rich writing, to be sure, but I can’t quite grasp the context.

  3. Warning—Spoilers.

    Well I’m glad you hung in there Hariod—no denseness with you; I think with your level in this field you were looking at the emptiness of a layer I couldn’t hope to achieve. I was aiming for leeway rather than flat out ambiguity. The looseness (not laziness on my part I promise (muchos thunking thunked)) intended to allow a reader to apply personal meaning—much as one applies lyrics to their own end. But for sure: suicide no, other than nature’s course and an administered opiate (yes) was the free will to surrender.

    I imagined and attempted to show that a strong mind in my character’s weak body manufactured an abstract yet rigidly themed vision as a parting gift. To which he became wise but enjoyed the rather emotive ride.

    The shock scene is by metaphor an epiphany—the seed to the loss of faith in final moments and the realisation that either side of life is nothing at all really. I was trying to run this against the perceived wisdom-grain wherein at ends of days, people reach out for a god. And the omniscience being a combination of the unlocking of personal memories + how his early years were reported to him.

    Ambiguity is my middle name.

    1. Thankyou. I just reread and the first seven paragraphs again suggested a suicidal motive, to me. P4 is the doubting of the matter [“manifesting as internal conflict”] P5 is him reasoning upon his decision not to go through with it. P7 his initial reasons for wanting to end his life.

      I think this is why I’m so hopeless with poetry and song lyrics – I seldom have much of a clue as to what they’re about. I take your intent, though, in allowing readers to impart their own meaning. I’m not sure I really see the value in that (my ignorance), and as I’ve just demonstrated (my ignorance, again), doesn’t the reader rather end up reading their own mind, rather than the author’s? [Never that keen on ‘audience participation’ – ha!] Still, I get that idea in the visual arts, and tend not to be drawn so much by representational work, rather the abstract; but with writing it’s nothing if not symbolic and conceptual by virtue of its consisting in words, which are nothing but (wait for it . . . ) symbols and concepts. I suspect I’m being far too prosaic and dull in this thinking, MM, and don’t mind at all if you demonstrate why I’m wrong. Is the idea I hold a mirror up to myself? Sorry, I had no education in all this sort of thing.

      1. “doesn’t the reader rather end up reading their own mind, rather than the author’s?” – Surely that’s part and parcel of good art at times Hariod? Be it prose, poetry, painting or sculpture, chances are you could put twenty folks in a room with it and they’d all take a different ‘take’ on it. I do get the frustration side as well mind you, but I just pick the most likely path and go with it *laughs*.

        “Ambiguity is my middle name” – You don’t make that clear MM. *finds herself hilarious*

        Sorry for butting in boys.

        – esme a big fan of wtfayoa writing upon the Cloud

        1. I’m drawing lines too distinctly between prose and poetry, Esme, and I know it’s rather a naïve viewpoint. I suppose we can say that everything in life is a reading of one’s own mind, without falling into solipsism, because strictly speaking, that is so.

          I hear that arguments have raged (alright – ‘gone on’) about what good writing is and what it isn’t, some insisting that what should be said must be expressed unambiguously – Wittgenstein, Orwell – and others allowing for multiple interpretations – Postmodernism?

          There can surely be no rights and wrongs to it, but in myself I regard poetry the primary domain for the latter, the place where even the ineffable may be expressed, much against Wittgenstein’s demands. What does he know? He’s a bloody philosopher! Useless sod.

          Yes, I agree that good art can be something that invokes uniquely personal responses, and I was only just yesterday hearing of someone who totally mystified onlookers when first seeing a Rothko and falling to their knees in tears. [Drama queens, eh? *winks*] I’m not sure if I entirely go along with the notion that art is to do with ‘getting a reaction’, as if any reaction will suffice. For me, it has to be related to aesthetics, otherwise I don’t consider it art. Is that terribly, terribly old fashioned?

          There’s more than enough room for everyone to express themselves as they wish, and in whatever medium, and I think my own rigidity as regards baulking at ambiguity in prose is a failing of appreciation, not something conforming to reason or protocols – which in any case don’t exist in the arts, by definition. And I also believe that aesthetics can be dressed in ambiguity, as MM has done here. So I guess I’m talking nonsense. I blame the heat – it’s scorchio down here.

          1. ” For me, it has to be related to aesthetics, otherwise I don’t consider it art. Is that terribly, terribly old fashioned?” – Not at all Celia, each to their own and I’m more in your camp there anyway *nods*.

            ” and I think my own rigidity as regards baulking at ambiguity in prose is a failing of appreciation”- You’re only just blooming Hariod, I’ll have you enjoying writing that makes no sense at all in no time if you stick to the Cloud. I might even get you writing it. Hahahahaha.

            – esme – leading the sane astray since the dawn of time upon the Cloud

          2. “You’re only just blooming Hariod” – ‘blooming’ in what sense, Esme? Do you mean like: “You’re only just soddin’ Hariod”? I think that would likely be truer than any synonymy to a flower’s unfolding, as I often wonder quite what or who I am, ‘though a literary type I know I am not, hence my failure to grasp MM’s piece. [That sounds awful, dunnit?]

            As regards aesthetics, then I do believe such can be found in ideas alone, or in actions and intent alone, so I’m not saying that writing for me needs necessarily be eloquence and elegance in words. But I do need to grasp the meaning – some meaning – to have the aesthetic conveyed to my mind. Then again – I’m thinking as I go along here, bear with – perhaps an aesthetic can be found in nonsense, and one thinks of Chomsky’s “colorless green ideas sleep furiously” – it makes grammatical sense, and some might find it an attractive word arrangement, I suppose?

            Anyway, I’ve gone off on one, but rest assured, I shall definitely stick to the Cloud, as you suggest.

            Forgive the blather, and blessings on the day!

          3. I wasn’t sure where to insert my thoughts into all this, so it’s just going to be smack dab in the middle. 🙂

            First let me say this conversation is intensely interesting, enlightening and enjoyable. Watching intelligent people have these kinds of engaging discussion by bringing to the table different perspectives…well quite frankly gives me an orgasm. And I know this is the second time I have used the word orgasm on MM’s blog which may indicate some sort of perversion tendencies. But if the condom fits. Um…not in regards to perversion but to the pleasure level I am getting from this conversation. Well who am I kidding, I am also a pervert. And also I really wouldn’t use a metaphorical condom in this conversation…because it all seems quite safe and I want to fully enjoy it…and the occasional herpes outbreak from a good conversation is tolerable. But I digresss.

            I’ll admit to having to read this several times myself, and actually my first impression was more right, and not knowing MM’s religious views I perhaps chose to express what I thought it all meant with perhaps more reverence to theism than I thought the piece was conveying. For me, I simply chalked up any lack of clarity to my weak vocabulary, looked up a few words and felt a lot better about the whole thing. In general though I expected their to be some ambiguity…perhaps I’m wrong, but in those final moments I am not sure that there would be necessarily a strong clarity of thought. Pain, possibly morphine, and even in the face of pain likely the life force would attempt to keep me in the game a little longer. Hearing MM’s intent, i see the story even more clearly in terms of the role of the preacher. Much religion often doesn’t seem to teach people to live for today, and that we are really living for that afterlife…it almost seems that this existence has less meaning than the one afterwards. HIs refusal to go to the light and hang on a little longer is the conflict he faces, and I think the character handles it beautifully.

            It also seems that since this definitely reads to me as a personal story, reflecting MM”s life and thougths as he ages, I suspect this will be much more of what he goes through at the final moments than maybe any of us…well except Esme…but she’s already on the cloud. lol The point is that I don’t think MM can express himself in any other way. He has incredible imagination, and is an artest with the pen (keyboard) that the imagery, conflict, and soul searching at the end would be very much like this. Death itself is a once in a lifetime experience and to my knowledge it has yet to be chronicled by anyone. Ambiguity should be death’s middle name as well.

            More importantly Hariod your observation about suicide is an interesting one, and I think not completely off the mark. The decision to let go of this life and move on to the other, is an individual decision regardless of whether we have free will or not. We look back, we look for reasons to move forward. The past is done, and if we can find no reason to go forward we let go. Good writing, to me is more than just the plot. It’s like a tree, and has branches of various sizes…we might gravitate towards a branch if we don’t see the trunk very easily, or we might just gravitate towards a branch because we find it more interesting. Either away it illicits conversation and brings people together. In your second response here to MM you did what you are supposed to do, you explained how it made you feel and why…and that’s the beginning of an interest conversation. Both with others and perhaps with yourself. To me this is the purpose of art, literature, music…to bring people together that are drawn by a common work and share perspectives with each other and the artist and marvel at how our experiences connect with the piece and what we might learn from it all. Even the best of prose I think will lend itself to different interpretations or at least ones that might not be the intent of the author. Or your favorite part of the book may have nothing to do with the main plot.

            Or maybe MM really is a shitty writer, but at least it’s led to an interesting discussion of what good writing is and how it’s supposed to function. 🙂

          4. I can never work out comment thread replies, so they end up in the wrong place often. This one is a reply to Swarn’s last one *waves*.

            “Watching intelligent people have these kinds of engaging discussion by bringing to the table different perspectives…well quite frankly gives me an orgasm” – To be honest Swarn, I think you’d absolutely love the views gleaned from a writer’s forum, There are a couple of very popular ones out there, and it’s the perfect place for honing one’s craft and working out bugs along the way. Seriously, you’re ideal for it and you’l be getting feedback from hundreds of like-minded, smart people. I have popped into such places to look at their world from outside, but I’m not sociable enough, , nor indeed do I feel I really need to ask any questions re my own work. I’m Queen of the Universe you see *laughs*, I also suspect I might end up helping others more than myself (the two can go hand in hand mind you obviously), and finally I just haven’t got the spare time for much beyond The Cloud at present. You have a genuine, fired -up excitement for discussion on the subject (and many others that would fuel inspiration on there), so, go for it say I! *nods*. (*esme doesn’t know any specific forums as she tends to bob about all over the show without forethought, little pantser that she is*).

            “Or maybe MM really is a shitty writer,” – So have you chosen any specific flowers for your funeral yet Swarn? – *laughs a lot*

            – esme leaving a box of tissues on the table and enjoying how much people are enjoying MM’s wares upon the Cloud

          5. LOL Esme…way to select one particular passage to try and get me in trouble with MM. You know I think otherwise, but was only pointing out that even if this was the case we could still say the conversation around the piece of writing still had value.

            I am not sure I have time for these forums you mention either, and only time for enthusiasm. But I will definitely look into it and plan on doing some research. For now I want to just practice some more creative writing to build up a little body of work. As a boring scientist research is definitely important to me so I thank you for the tip! 🙂

          6. Thankyou very much, Swarn, your observations and interest are appreciated. You raise an interesting point: the question of whether there is any such thing as the ‘will to live’. I tend to believe there is, and one repeatedly hears of medics preferring to have patients who have a strong will to heal, to survive. Only a couple of weeks ago I was listening to a medical consultant on the radio saying that he really doesn’t like to work with those who hand over all responsibility (in a psychological sense), to him. He wants people to engage mentally with the healing process, and was entirely convinced that this accelerated their recovery.

            A friend of mine was diagnosed with Aids back in the mid-nineties, and whilst hospitalised for tests, but really not in bad shape, he said the doctors had asked him to fight it, and to go along with what they were doing for him. He said he didn’t want to fight it, and he’d rather go quickly – he was dead within a fortnight. I’m not kidding – a fortnight. Of course, he may have been anyway, but it really didn’t look like it to anyone.

            My point is that I think the mind are body are two aspects of one thing, and the mentative aspect (psyche) carries along with it something like a ‘will’ for existence, a non-physiological predisposition towards life over death. I think this (pre)disposition can get broken, or interrupted, and at such times we become vulnerable to morbid thoughts, or to death itself. I have some personal experiences with my mother’s own (natural) death and protracted dying process which convince me even moreso of this. So, yes, I take your point about suicide not necessarily being an overtly physical act, that one can ‘let go of life’, as you say, if the body is weak and on the cusp of sustaining itself – is that called homeostasis?

      2. You’ve made a very interesting point Hariod. I tried to pitch my story with the MC metaphorically jumping as he’s physically pushed’ and realise the ambiguity in what this could mean. There was little intent for one to hold a mirror to the self—more to draw parallels (made for easy fit by a little lower level ambiguity *cough leeway) if any words lined themselves up that way.

        The following’s for my benefit so I can get my head around what I guess is a philosophical mooting.
        Surrender or Suicide? If I change the situation to a passenger on an aircraft that’s plummeting to earth—bottom line: no hope. He’s above the oxygen line, the windows blown, the masks have dropped. A choice is presented: to either take some last gulps of air and hold out for the end or pass out before meeting the ground. In either scenario he’ll depart this world but in one would he have committed suicide?
        ———
        For a person reading their own mind rather than the author’s (I’ve spotted your allusion to solipsism in another reply and will bring it in here) I agree we inhabit a best fit structure we concoct from sensory input and call reality. But in that concoction, drummed from the powerful processors of the mind, don’t we all have a lot of unturned stones in that old ground we go over? If in reading the output of an author, can one not learn their persona and at the same time witness the prising of a few of those stones of their own for the reveal? Lots to be gained, no?

        I admit though and understand that the subject matter I’m touching on is much more your forte than mine and I bow to your wisdom with it.

        1. Interesting thought experiment, MM. I’ve no idea what I’d do, other than panic. Then again, emotions are strangely unpredictable things, and time may appear to slow down in perfect clarity (this does happen in danger), so who knows? But to tackle your question head on, then the decision not to avail oneself of the oxygen seems to fall short of being suicidal, insofar as death is an immediate inevitability in any case. Instinct will make us reach for air from the mask, whilst reason would suggest that a drift into unconsciousness would be the preferable way to go. If psychological time slows down, I take the rational decision not to grab the oxygen mask. In a sense, we’re all in a slowly descending aircraft, and it only ever disintegrates upon landing. If I sustain myself in life with food and medication, am I complicit in charting my course to what is in any case my inevitable destruction? Maybe suicide is all about timing, and not a moral choice?

          1. “If I sustain myself in life with food and medication, am I complicit in charting my course to what is in any case my inevitable destruction? Maybe suicide is all about timing, and not a moral choice?” – Brilliant way of considering the act H. I’ll come back to this at some point, somewhere.

            – esme taking in all the views upon the Cloud

          2. Timing, yes—for sure. Now that we’ve both done a mental dress rehearsal for this one—cometh the hour (or those crunch minutes) we’ll have the edge over our fellow plummeters. I’d be eschewing the mask too.

            For the slower descent though, for life, I’d take the oxygen that’s on offer.

        2. Whoops, forgot to respond to your other point, MM.

          Well, yes, all experience is potentially a didactic, and perhaps the written word presents a condensed mode of such. I still have to be able to extract meaning from the other, though – from the words they utter, and the acts they perform, on the page. I don’t stand to learn much from things incomprehensible, as the experience then is largely one of dumb visual representation: black shapes on a white background; occasional thoughts of Esme’s ‘wtfayoa’?

          But just to bring this away from dry theory, then certainly one learns what one is through relationship with the other, and this can be the other as represented in word symbols, or in direct presentation. What would you think: You can spend a day alone with a great writer, walking, talking, eating, laughing, arguing, whatever. Or you can read her autobiography. Which is the greater learning experience?

          1. Touché Hariod with the invocation of not so much ambiguity but of ambivalence. Now you’ve got me on a fence—and no matter how I wobble I can’t predict which way I’m supposed to fall.

            My psychic inferral system says we’re talking Virginia Woolfe yes? I sense that with most it’d be to meet and greet and shoot the breeze. But… (ellipsis sorry) to nose and nudge into her autobiography might win out for me. But… sight of, sound of, smell of… sense in the round of character.

            Aaargh—A tough call. Am I normal?

          2. I’m an arch wobbler myself, and on another day might fall entirely differently. Take no notice of me, MM; my devil’s advocacy likely betraying an all-too-obvious-to-others jealousy of your creativity and wordsmithing.

            Virginia Woolf? There was an interesting program about her yesterday on Radio 4. I think it’s called ‘Great Lives’, with that chap Matthew Paris. Strangely, I did mention her on my last post, so your inner Doris Stokes is doing very well.

            I can see below that all these comments are proving rather trying time-wise, so shall leave you in peace now – save for a possible few more words with Esme – with a final note of thanks for provoking discussion and providing the space for it.

          3. Wait a minute . . . how do you know about my ellipsis thing, eh? I reckon it’s that Esme betraying all my neuroses again. She winds me up something chronic with her four dots – four bloody dots, can you believe it! – and persistent failure to space. She’s costing me a small fortune in tranquillizers, I tell you.

          4. Told you… psychic.

            Noo, when I started out the ellipsis was practically the only punctuation I used. I’d machine gun my thoughts down…rat tat tat..and use the three dots as a cure all.. in time I thought I’d better get the English punctuation’s toolbox lid properly off. < apostrophe in (less than) the right place there? I'm still practising with the contents. When I chanced on some dialogue twixt yourself and Esme it twanged a memorable chord. I investigated and the conclusion that sits with me now is that it means... 'there's more for you to make something of...' Put me right (tactfully) if need be. I'm all invested in it by the way with the titles of my posts.

          5. Yea, I mean aye—old habits pull them, those infernal dots, from old chambers on occasion. I’m a fan of the em dash of late (used to be the bracket)—now though, I feel ahead of the curve. Also the new knowledge that Strunk and White’s not something native Benidormians say of English visitors I’ll add the book to that list I’ve mentioned elsewhere.

            Must dash now…really must.

  4. This is moving stuff MM, one to read and re-read, I too found many possible angles within that transfer nicely into that lee-way you speak of.

    “Been beleaguered of late, what with melancholic matters of the terminal variety and Destiny’s last date: an uphill walk, not far—that liaison with the light. Bringing it all together—permanent easement of ailments—you know, a last hurrah.” –

    A last hurrah, that sounds good somehow. To ride the last day-dream, off into rosy horizons, (tunnel of light etc). In this case – to have a sunbeam of happiness to bow out on, catching a high-flung bouquet after slipping into each of his carnations (should have been incarnations there, but I just love the image of him as a variety of carnations too much to give it up *laughs*), a life pulled open like an accordion at full stretch briefly. Opiate fuelled or religious fervour, it makes no odds at the end if you leave smiling methinks. – nods.

    “I trusssst the light’s offer of paradise.” – Don’t we all dearie. *laughs*

    I saw a marvellous film not long ago I think you’d like a lot. I’m not saying anything of the content, only that I guarantee it will make you laugh out loud here and there. It’s unusual. *smiles.* ‘The Brand New Testament’ is the name, but don’t look it up!! If you haven’t got Kodi yet (do, seriously), then get a copy on dvd, it came out at the beginning of this month.

    Demanding aren’t I?

    – esme cracking the whip upon the Cloud

      1. Your sweetheart sounds like a pretty smart sweetheart of a sweetheart Hariod. Well done that man! And woman of course *shakes a sweet hand somewhere smiling*. I was going to do a film post about it before recommending it to anyone, hence my lack of informing you of the filum in question too, but it just slipped out here. *nods*

        – esme slipping and sliding about upon the Cloud

        1. She is indeed pretty smart, living as she does some inconceivably long distance from me. So it is that her sweetness is offered in gifts sent, and in her words and pictures – ’tis enough to keep me healthily besotted, much as I feel the moniker Onan the Barbarian applies to me. [Well, Swarn started it!]

    1. Thank you for your movement Esme. I’m having varying degrees of success with this one. Back here with an aloud read I’ve invoked tears and had someone else very uncomfortable. They were muttering ‘We got a winner here’ under their breath I’m convinced. I’ve put enough out there now to know I’m marmite and within that marmite there are pockets of ‘marmite extreme’. < Said with a shrugged shouldered half-laugh. I have a to do list by the way (re. your recommend (the fillum)) I'll post it up on a page soon as a record and to show my progress. Finding it really tricky (this-world time sappers as per) to keep up with these comments; I'd love to engage more, I really would. So apologies for delay and I'll pitch in as much as I can with the other comments. I'm planning on leaving my job in a year or so and supporting myself by other means so there might be more of me knocking about in between pruning the roses.

      1. Tears is good, very good, uncomfortable is too, *nods a lot*. I read everything out loud too, but only to the dog, who sadly thinks everything presented is vulgar without a hint of biscuits. She’s half right too hahahahaha.

        Some of the best out there are marmitey mc marmiters MM. But I think you’re more Vegemite myself. – *nods some more*.

        Leaving the rat-race, how wonderful, I’m pleased to hear it, and I hope you end up with enough time to give those roses of yours a good sniffing, maybe take up a sedantry sport like say . . . budgie jumping. *laughs*.

        Replies – when and if feasible, MM, the Cloud collective – we do chatter on, and I’m glad you don’t mind – *smiles*

        – esme waving upon the Cloud

  5. Welllll, the first ‘Doh!’ to strike me is that I’m swamped in this good company by that prickly of all pricklies the English language (once again – as, when utilized fully and correctly and a bit dialectically causes one to slow the eff down and actually absorb, if one can, the swathy breadth of the thing, itself – unfamiliar as it is in modern-day ‘Murca .. and un-practiced as I am in all but poetic phrase, which I can, thank the gods, augment with a handy thesaurus … but I digress … ) … Perhaps it was the break in the nose (or could it have been the sportscar?) that got in the way of following said probiscus more directly into forays of that forgotten time before the God of Abraham attempted to usurp Free Mind and boundless spirit that sought wisdom in trees and skies and the infinite beyond of imagination? Although I feel nowhere near up to bantering with your special brand of brilliance, I am jumping on for the ride anyway. Magnificent autobio-in-a nutshell. Aloha.

    1. Namaste Bela,
      appreciation for the appreciation here of nutshell contents. The wherewithal to slow down and absorb is a rare gift and it’s a compliment indeed that you shared—for jumping on for the ride: sink don’t skim I say, albeit with scuba gear.

      And poetic phrase you have in spades I’ve spotted; I’ve been drawn *cough* voyeuristically to your banter with fellow bloggites. I could read your light natters with Hariod all day long if my own wherewithal were with me for such durations.

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