Spreading Dreams

I have just this very day inspected my blog, only to discover that I have not posted an entry for almost a year! Call it busy times (we are doing another panto at school again), call it sad times (I lost my auntie to cancer at the end of September), call it falling in love (I met the love of my life back in May of this year) but I have been on something of a 'creative hiatus' it would seem. Time to get back into it.

Writing makes me feel clever; makes me feel as if I can achieve. At times, I feel born to do this. At times, I feel like the worst writer in the world. But I take comfort in knowing that I share these barren thoughts with some of my literary heroes. I think the important thing is not to become too connected to what is out there already and to just let your instinct take over. Your writing is you; uniquely you. All I know is that I feel most 'real' when I am doing it. Most myself. More like there is every possibility that I may succeed in being able to express myself to others in the most beautiful of ways.

The Learning To Let Go

Garry John Monaghan entered into my world, kicking and a-screaming on 27th May 1980 when I was aged 2. I immediately took a dislike to his bizarre, flat head and the fact that he had suddenly stolen all my juvenile limelight.

Throughout the majority of our childhood together, we didn't exactly see eye-to-eye and our parents had to regularly intervene in altercations and heated arguments between us. As we moved on into our teens, things certainly did not get much better as the polarity of our aspirations became ever-more pronounced. If I moved in one direction - choosing to stay on at school to do my Highers and go to Uni - Garry would venture off down the other path. Whilst I certainly never judged his decisions or his reluctance to pursue academia, it became apparent that he harboured a grudge about my life choices. My successes and achievements must have served as a constant esteem-bruiser to him and he opted to retreat from lengthy communication with me.

Our estrangement as siblings continued up until one evening after our grandmother had passed away. A drunken heart to heart over our perceived differences, revealed so much about our respective insecurities, our common traits - chiefly, pride - and the awakening realisation that we each possessed what the other person lacked. There and then, in our parents front room, my brother and I made our truce with one another after 27 years of bickering. It's true that certain chapters only end when you close the book.

The memory of my brother hugging me that evening and telling me that he loved me will stay with me forever.

The Heartfelt Spotlight

Sandy waited behind the safety of the black curtains which hung in the wings of the stage. The mildew scent of time emanating from them was starting to make him heave. Palms, face and back were damp with perspiration and his heart pounded ten-to-the-dozen. Gripping the microphone evermore tightly in his wrinkled hand, he began mouthing the refrain, What the fuck am I doing? The compere announced the next performer, “Now, for our next act we have for you the vocal talents of someone you’ll all know very well. Please put your hands together for our school lollipop man … Mr Sandy Urquhart.” Taking a deep breath, he began to stride out towards the microphone stand …

Sandy had worked at the crossing which connected the park with the local primary school for ten years. In this time he had acquired quite a reputation as the dour, unsmiling face of road safety.
“Oi! Ye’re tae walk, no run ower the crossing son! Get a shift oan lass, the bell’ll be ringin’ any minute noo! Put that skipping rope away before ye cross or ye might fa’ ower it! Use yer loaf! Dinnae walk until I’ve stopped the traffic ya eejit!”
Parents, teachers and children alike had experienced their fair share of run-ins with Sandy over the years. The attendants from the bowling green would often mock him “Hey Sandy, cheer up son – it might never happen eh?”
“Ach bugger aff wi ye!” he would mutter to himself irritably.

The boy with the badly knotted tie and tightly knitted freckles had never been a particular favourite of Sandy’s. Always took too long to cross. Scuffing his shoes and kicking stray stones as he went. His slight frame and large, cubical head under an unmoving helmet of black hair made him look like a diminutive Lego man. There he would go, staring off into the distance in his own world. Christ, anyone would think that the laddie had landed from another planet entirely. One day, the daft dreamer had almost got himself run over as he wandered onto the road and right into the path of an oncoming Ford Focus. If Sandy hadn’t been there to holler over to him whilst running into the road himself, waving his sign around frantically, things might have ended there and then.
“Look where you’re going ya daft numptie! Don’t make me do that again. It’ll no just be you that’s a gonner next time. It’ll be me an all!” he had yelled.
The boy just looked up at him. Face like a fart in a trance. Then he walked away without apology or a word of thanks.

He hadn’t seen the boy for weeks, months perhaps … until he had overheard two of the mothers talking as they crossed.
“Have you heard about Bobby Sullivan?”
“Oh aye, that’s awful isn’t it? Leukaemia eh? Poor, wee thing. He’s in the same class as Kelly, our next door neighbour’s daughter.”
“His poor mother lost her man to lung cancer a few years ago too.”
“Oh no, what a shame … rotten luck eh?”

Sandy felt a wave of recognition flood over him.
Hey Sandy, cheer up son – it might never happen eh?...
Little did they know that it had already happened. The day that it had taken his Mary away some fifteen years before. The memory of losing her in that way had stayed with Sandy all these years. The empty feeling had never left him since. It had also taken his father, a lifelong smoker when he had only been a child. A child …

He had noticed the sign for the event whilst out getting his groceries in at the local Scotmid.

Leith Primary School Fundraising For Leukaemia Evening
In aid of our pupil Bobby Sullivan’s treatment in Germany.
Friday 20th November – 7.30pm onwards
£5 per ticket

Can you act, dance, do magic tricks or sing? All acts would be greatly appreciated so come along and show your support!

He had not sung in years, though he knew he could. He used to do it every Saturday night at the dance hall, leading his band. It had been where he had met Mary. Those had been some of the best days of his life back then … maybe one more time perhaps? Dinnae be daft, he thought to himself as he wandered away, before stopping to look back at the picture. The glaikit expression was there alright, as were the freckles and helmet of hair. Sandy sighed. Tutted. Then muttered to himself as he headed out of the doors of the shop.

Gripping the microphone tightly, despite it slipping in his moist hand, he resigned the safety of the wings and began to walk briskly towards centre stage. Audible gasps arose from the front rows of the audience. The intro music started up. Sandy held onto the microphone and closing his eyes, took a deep, shaky breath.
“Are you lonesome tonight? Do you miss me tonight …”
When he opened his eyes again, he was met with a sea of unsmiling faces all staring at him. His heart pounded ever harder in his chest but on he continued.
“Now the stage is bare and I’m standing there
With emptiness all around …”
He knew the lyrics off by heart and the consolation that they had brought him, then and now. Despite the nervous tremors in his hands, the hammering inside his chest and the nagging thought that he might just be making an arse of himself, his clear, deep tones rang out across the auditorium. As he neared the end, Sandy emoted the last few lines slowly …
“Is your heart filled with pain, shall I come back again?
Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight?”

Silence.
A long silence … and then … claps began to slowly rise. Sandy bowed, head nodding in stoic acknowledgement. Then someone whistled. Someone else whooped.
“Go on Sandy! Brilliant!”
With the claps continuing, he turned and with his expression betraying no emotion, Sandy stepped out of the spotlight and strode purposefully back towards the wings …

Ruminations

Again have been a little tardy with the ol' blogging of late. This has been mainly due to a hectic term at school which included our pupils being entered into the Cooperative Young Film Makers Festival in Bradford, many a school theatre trip and ... Panto-Panto-Panto land! Then I've just been down to London for a blissful week of debauchery with all my friends down there. (Particular fist pumps to Zoe and Vicky who let me crash at their respective homes whilst I was down there) Yes indeed, we got it all goin' on!

Meanwhile, the writing has had to take a bit of a back-seat, although I have three short stories nearing completion and publication on this blog site very soon. I also cannot get rid of some fluttering butterflies in my head at present. These cheeky wee beasties are ideas for a short film, and/ or tv and film scripts. I have also become fascinated by the story of Adam Smith and his relationship with teacher and inspiration, Frances Hutchison. Methinks a foray into historical novel writing might be next on the cards. Signing off for now.

Tender Buttons (A Monologue)

Hey precious. Look what I’ve got for you. Mmmm … yummy, warm milk in your bottle. How kind of the serving lady to do that for us eh? Now, out of the pram we come … there we are … and sit on mummy’s knee. Shhh … shhh …that’s better eh? Now, watch the aeroplane … woooooosh! Down it goes … mmmm … yum, yum!
Ha! Ha! Look sweetie. Look at the wee girl peering at us through the pattern on her brolly. Look at her splashing in the puddles outside. Ha! Ha! She’s laughing at us. She’s laughing at the banana you’ve dribbled down your chin. Come here. Let me wipe that up.

How old is she? Oh, only a week or so. We haven’t been out much yet have we? No we haven’t felt all that well. What was that? Yes, yes she’s my first … her name? She’s called Amy. Named after her granny aren’t you? Thank you. Yes, well I guess she has her father’s eyes. Doesn’t look like mummy yet … oh, yes I made the cardigan myself. It took forever. The knitting wasn’t the hard part really though ... it was the sewing and getting it just right. The perfect fit.

Can you hear that Amy? Listen. The cars rumbling along the street outside, the shutters rolling down, the dog barking, the bus braking ... the city is singing for us. Do you hear it? We can make up our own words to the music. Shall we? Lorries and buses and cars, vroom-vroom! Dee-dee-lee-dee. Do you like that? Hee-hee! We can make up our own little world you and I.

Come here … some of the buttons on your cardigan have come undone. It took me a month to make it. I knitted all night and all day for weeks and when it came to sewing the buttons on, I realised that I was missing one … Vrooooooommm! Down the hatch. Good girl. And again. You’re going to grow up big and strong. But mummy might not be there to see you do that eh? No. Let’s stay up-beat though yeah? ... Promise me you’ll keep looking at everything Amy. Don’t stop looking at everything. Look at the light and the dark out there. It’s all magical.

Sssshh … ooh look Amy. See the white car outside? The one with the yellow and blue lines on it? There’s a man and lady getting out of it. I think … I think they’re coming into the café. Come here sweetheart. Mummy wants to give you a big hug. Come here. It’ll protect you. Shhhh … don’t cry my baby … don’t cry …

“Miss Munro? Miss Wendy Munro?”
“Yes?”
“You are under arrest for suspicion of abduction. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Now, if you could accompany us to the car please.”

Thoughts have wings ...

Thought that I should write something seeing as how I haven't done so in a number of weeks. Am working on a piece at the moment entitled 'The Magic Hour' although I haven't decided whether I should turn it into a poem or not. It was inspired by a walk I took the other week, which was on the whole, somewhat wet and rainy (aah late summer en Ecosse!) but rather magnificently, it did all-of-a-sudden brighten just at that moment when evening was starting to descend. Anyway, so taken was I by the splendour of the moment - entertain conjecture if you will ... the sun bursting through the clouds, bathing the pavements, trees, buildings, windows of houses in luminescent gold. It was stunning ... I just had to write about it all. Or rather, I had to write about the characters I imagined gazing out of the windows in that 'Magic Hour' of once brilliant but fading sunlight, when everything and everyone looks amazing ...

I often ponder, as I gaze out of my window across the rooftops of Leith, who might too be doing the same thing, at the same time, in this same city and how our lives may have connected at some point, in some way. I mean, we share loo seats, coffee mugs, bus seats and glances with strangers every day, but just how often might we have had the chance to have known these people? That is what I am aiming to explore with this next piece of writing. Will post it soon ...

I am all the chaos you'll ever need ...

Aaargggh! What happened there? One second I was happily blogging away, allowing my creative cup to runeth over and then reality bit me on the bum reet hard! School is what happened. End of story. Totally forgot how much hard work lesson planning, theatre trip planning, Christmas show planning, Club XL residential planning IS! Bonkers. Looks like the posts will be fewer and further between than I first had anticipated.

What to report creatively of late? Well, a guy I met through Edinburgh Writers Club has got his own slot on a local radio station (Radio Loch Broom - check out the piccie of the HQ above - I kid ye not!) up in the Highlands and has very kindly offered to fill the time reading out some of the groups pieces. It may well be the green and pleasant land of heilan' coos, lucky white heather and bothy balladeering ... but methinks 'tis an ideal opportunity to get my literary endeavours out there. Who knows? Perhaps soon the good people of Ullapool, Plockton and the surrounds could be treating their ears to 'My Billie Jean Shoes'. Yes, siree - they might go for that story in a big way ...