Between Reality And The Workings Of The Heart

Spreading Dreams

2010-11-22T19:13:00.003Z

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

2009-12-13T19:59:00.004Z

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

2009-11-10T23:35:00.011Z

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

2009-10-23T20:13:00.004+01:00

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)

2009-10-12T16:40:00.007+01:00

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 ...

2009-09-09T22:49:00.004+01:00

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 ...

2009-08-25T20:26:00.005+01:00

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 ...

I Started Something ...

2009-08-17T22:47:00.002+01:00

I heart blogging ... think if I'm feeling suitably bold, I might post the beginnings of my novel idea sometime over the next few days. Meanwhile, enjoy the following wee beasties ...

The Resonant Chord

2009-08-17T22:39:00.005+01:00

Of all the things I’ve ever lost, it’s still the one thing I miss the most. I remember the day the padded A4 envelope with the Manchester postmark landed through the letterbox. Its contents: one 6-page A4 lined letter, one cartoonish doodle of the author, a Cadbury’s Boost and … a tape. Grinning from ear to ear, I hurriedly crossed the room, opened the deck on my stereo system and slid the C90 Sony tape into it. Then I pressed play and waited, laughing as I noted the title of the compilation, ‘S’all Gravy’.

Opening the clear case, I lifted the inlay out and read the intricately scribed track-listing as the music played in the background. That first track was by Cold Cut and it was called ‘Atomic Moog’. It was out-of-this-world genius. It was followed by tracks by Tiger, Pulp, Hefner, Bis, The Fall, One Dove, DJ Shadow, The Doors, Yummy Fur, Ash, Kenickie, Elastica, The Chemical Brothers, Spare Snare and The Smiths. Interspersed amongst these were a few spoken word interludes, one by John Cooper Clarke which made me laugh, another was from DJ Shadow’s ‘Endtroducing’ album. It was, quite simply, THE best compilation tape ever made and I played it to death at every available opportunity – so much so that I feared it might snap! It was the soundtrack to many a morning pottering around getting ready for the day ahead, many an evening getting ready to go out with friends and many a late-nighter procrastinating over an essay. It even sound-tracked the walk up to university most mornings, such was its aural brilliance. I quickly returned the gesture with a compilation entitled ‘The Difficult 2^nd Album’ of which, I received plaudits for … and thus, a friendship was born.

Michael and I were one another’s musical stem cells. Just when one of us thought that they’d heard everything and that our musical knowledge was saturated, another C90 would thud through our letter boxes, its contents filled with whole, new harmonious - and sometimes discordant - worlds. We knew how to tickle each others funny bones as well as flex our musical muscles from 170 miles apart. A typical letter would commence with an update of The Time, The Place, and the all-important S.O.M (state of mind): example “Ninja-sharp but fluffy” or “Tip top and degenerate”, as well as this week’s ‘heroes and villains’ list. Example Heroes – Jarvis Cocker for mooning at the Brits, buy-one-get-one-free offers and Converse trainers and Villains – Tony Blair (a politician, of whom, we agreed should have been channelling his energies into reforming his Rolling Stones-style rock band), single re-releases, designer stubble and rocket leaves in sandwiches. We would always sign off with some finely-tuned witticism or other such as “Stay safe, stay warm and remember to claim your winter heating allowance!” or “Godspeed young slayer of virtue!”

I had just sent him what I considered to be, my finest work yet, a compilation of torch songs by the likes of Billie Holiday, Bobbie Gentry, Nick Cave and Scott Walker sings Brel, and had waited the usual couple of days for a typical response and review … but no dice. One month later and he finally got back to me. He had met a girl called Helen and he had fallen in love. He sounded happy and I was pleased for him. I mean, you can’t stay cooped up in your student gaff making up compilation tapes and writing to a girl from miles away forever now can you? The letters to-and-fro became less frequent but the banter was still magnificent – until one day … nothing … and then … still nothing. It was strange but around that same time, ‘S’All Gravy: THE Best Compilation in the World’ disappeared … just vanished one day, without a trace. This was the holy cow of compilations. My musical zenith. I was gutted. It was the thing that had kick-started and cemented a long-distance friendship and now, its disappearance was the thing that represented the end of that.

Of all the things I’ve ever lost, it’s still the one thing I miss the most … and yeah, the tape was brilliant too.

My Billie Jean Shoes

2009-08-17T22:27:00.001+01:00

I watch awe-struck as with every step, shimmy and neatly-executed twirl another grey pavement slab suddenly illuminates beneath his feet. The man inside the television set is like a sorcerer to me. On his feet, he wears the most incredible pair of Spats; white, shiny patent apart from their black tips and heels. I want those magic shoes. I fantasize about being the envy of my classmates as I skip across the playground leaving a trail of brilliant light in my wake …

One day, mum returns from town with a green M&S bag which she presents to me with a look of impish mystery. I take the bag from her and peek inside gasping with delight as I recognize the familiar, shiny white and dark pattern on the shoes. Excitedly, I remove them from the plastic carrier and start to examine them. The gleaming material reflects the light as I carefully turn the shoes in my hands. They are navy and white but they’re still the business. Carefully, I buff the surface with the sleeve of my cardigan until there are no traces of static fluff left. I smile; a deep, contented grin.

Donna Gilpin watches me enviously as I bounce across the playground, my dazzling shoes depositing little flashes of luminescence along the way. Donna doesn’t have shoes like mine. She has a pair of scuffed, black, Clarks T-Bars. In fact, Donna had those same shoes last year too. The other kids think Donna’s a “mink” but I like the way she can do turn after turn on the very highest climbing frame bar.

“Do you want a shot of my shoes?”

“Y’sure? What will you wear on your feet?” she asks.

“Your shoes?” Donna’s face immediately brightens.

We do ‘swappies’ and I perch on the edge of the climbing frame bar, and wait expectantly. I feel excited, like the feeling I get when waiting for one of my friends to do a dive from the high board at the swimming baths.

The magic is starting to work … I watch Donna bounce across the wide, concrete expanse, changing the squares of the caterpillar hop-scotch into slabs of shiny gold. She giggles with delight and I feel happy that someone else knows about their special powers. The bell goes for the end of morning break.

“I’ll give you them until home time if you like” I announce as Donna looks up from her crouched position, mid-removal.

“You sure?.. Ta.”

All the other kids tell me that Donna will ruin my shoes. They say that “minks” don’t look after things. But I know that she will take good care of them, ‘cos she can see what they can’t and not everyone can. Besides … she knows the words to Billie Jean and Thriller.

Please Mind The Gap

2009-08-17T22:19:00.002+01:00

November 23^rd 2001

“Please mind the gap.”

“Why certainly, sir!”

Its beating pulse captivates,

dragging me down willingly into its chugging heart

and soulful thrum.

I drink in the vivid aromas,

provocative spices of Camden Market,

zesty tang of Electric Avenue

and penetrating pungency of Old Street.

I see bright, red buses, multicoloured people,

tall, magnificent structures; white prisms and domes atop.

Gaudy glow of the neon lights and rapid-fire traffic,

proximity of suited figures bustling by in small spaces.

I feel enveloped in a thick, heady, orange passion.

I am in love and I feel truly alive

“Please mind the gap.”

July 7^th 2005

“Please mind …”

The day I realize that my once proud, passionate love

has surrendered to a dark shadow.

Its pulse barely registers.

Where once there was rhythm; now there is stillness.

Tarnished now and hurting.

Air filled with thick, black, toxic fumes.

Vile, charred metal scent awakens me in the night.

My orange glow has turned to a dark, fearful red.

I yearn for the salt wind of home.

“Please mind …”

Let's Start At The Very Beginning ...

2009-08-17T21:41:00.003+01:00

Ok so, it was an a-typical night at Gilllzeebub HQ and there I was devising scenes, preparing cast lists, downloading suitable show tunes and penning witty one-liners (oh, and the odd risque innuendo) in heady preparation for this year's school pantomime ... when optical wanderlust got the better of me. Soon enough, there I was faffing about on t'interweb instead of productively planning the educational advancement of the lobotomised youth of today via the creative medium of drama. Whilst on my many and varied voyages into deepest, darkest Websville, I happened to view the blog of my good friend and acolyte, Mr Aaron Paterson - he of that minty-fresh wonder of the theatrical establishment 'Revolving Doors Theatre Co'. Those of you who haven't chanced upon this pretty, witty, wee beastie of a blog heed my words ... the boy is gonna go far so, get with the bandwagon beeeaaatches!!

Reading his musings certainly fired me up and inspired me to want to do likewise with my writing pieces/ general creative endeavours. Who knows what shall precipitate ... we can but try. I read recently someone describe their friends as being their "emotional H2O". If that is the case, then Aaron has been chief water sprite over the past few days and I thank him for that.

And so ends my first blog chums ...

I shall repair to my bed chamber ... anon