Issue #119. January 12th - January 25th, 2006
Turning Over a New Leaf
I'm always 'turning over new leaves' and thinking about what I learned from something and how it affected me. I think we grow a little everyday; I've always wanted to keep a routine notebook and force myself to write something I learned from that day every night. Does that ever happen? It just might.
By Brittany
From the Pen of Bob Young
I just happened
To fall in love
A little quicker
A little longer
A lot deeper
By Bob Young
The Start of the Year
You'll forgive our surprise. Darren wears jeans to christenings, seems to believe that football shirts convey a sense of style and has been wearing the same shapeless faded grey jacket over the top of everything he has worn for the last decade. Century. Millennium.
By Rachel Queen
The End Game
What was it all for? Why, why, why? Where did it go? It looked to me as if it joined up with his neck-hair. They were the biggest sideburns I had ever seen. I sat transfixed. For the first time in my life, I had an overwhelming urge to undo another mans shirt. In a church. I wanted to trace the hair like the source of the Nile. It looked as if it went on and on forever.
By Paul Williamson
Record Review: Faithlessnessless by John Parkes
This album just glides around the airwaves and slides neatly through your mind and body to leave you fully sated whilst at the same time has the edgy values that leave you slightly unnerved, almost awkward as you recognise yourself in so many of the little stories told.
By Johnny Mac
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Turning Over a New Leaf
Sunday January 8, 2006
is this why they call them lazy sundays?
my work and my idleness and my chilled bones…they keep me from the
sunshine weather.
sometimes i wish that i lived in a place that wasn't so technological.
somewhere where people walked around with giant old-style cameras and
guitars in their hands instead of camera phones and ipods. a place where
transportation included bikes, feet, heck even rollerblades. i want there
to be enough space to see The Living in things. somewhere with cute health
food and produce markets on every corner, and scrubby old sidewalks or
natural path-beaten roads.
i want the sunshine to feel warm again. yes, it is the dead of winter in
california...it is warm for winter. but, even in the summer, does it not
seem like every year the sun's rays feel cooler, the brightness turns
dimmer?
the grey computer chips and electronic snap covers and battery packs are
coloring our world. and smogging up the sky. keyboards and wheels are
doing the work of our mouths and feet; clicks and rings and hums are
replacing the realistic settings of manual labor.
do you ever wake up and feel robotic? aren't there those days when you
feel like a task-manager?--agenda full and procedures dry. Do you ever
feel lost...or caught up...or wistful...or maybe even void of all feeling?
It's lack of true sun rays. It's too much smog-filled air... seems we only
work to produce and industrialize more and more...
Saturday January 7, 2006
I've tried to think of something profound. Something great and relevant to
everyone--that I could say that would make an impact, that would make
people go ooh and awe. But, all I can think of would be some typical
reflection on the past year of my life. Which, though rather interesting
and dynamic for a young adult of 18, would be filled with some of the most
petty things.
As a way to introduce myself, without giving an explicit "I like
this...and that..." (especially because a formal introduction isn't even
that necessary--let alone interesting--that stuff is viewable other places
like myspace if anyone wants to see) I'll have this. And after this, I
hope my writing, if wanted and published, will successively do the job.
I'm a very reflective person. I'm always 'turning over new leaves' and
thinking about what I learned from something and how it affected me. I
think we grow a little everyday; I've always wanted to keep a routine
notebook and force myself to write something I learned from that day every
night. Does that ever happen? It just might. I guess I do that in
fragments, with my writing...that's how my writing is. I write when I have
the feeling. I can't force myself; I rarely write fiction; I like to just
write as the words come to me.
I've had my little success': a recent peer evaluation for a friend and her
college application--I loved my closing statement: Her presence is simply
an honor, her success a promise, an A+ English assignment--a story written
as a mimic of Poe's style which I actually turned out liking, a
heartpouring honest letter to a guy I had broken up with that won me back
his heart (at least for a little bit)--yes, yes I know I'm young I know my
trials with love are trivial; a 30-page piece of short fiction; a few
poems one of my best friends said always make her smile; some other random
'writes'; one or two filled notebooks; and a huge Wordpad document of
poems and free writes. Yes, now that I try to scavenge through old stuff,
I see that I am word-obsessed. In the past few years, I've written way
more than ever was required for school. I even remember when I was younger
I wrote books and stories a lot for fun.
I believe writing is analogous to thinking. And thought includes the love
of learning--the ultimate expansion of the mind. Learning in the literal
sense; as well as the...emotional? Like reflecting on events in life, that
is also learning. But then, of course, having dictionary.com and
rhymezone.com as sites on your Personal Toolbar Tabs on Netscape, that is
literal learning.
I've heard that writers write what they know. I've heard that writers
write of what they don't know. I think...maybe it's a mix of both. For me,
it's reflections...it's a huge path. Like here, this writing took so many
loopholes and turns, I thought I'd end up writing more about why I am so
excited this year, for it to be the year 2006 and somehow fuse that into
resolutions and bettering ourselves.
And I believe sometimes writing can just be medicine or simple fun.
Sometimes it's just the play with words...and though it'll sound gorgeous
and lyrical may not have an explicit meaning.
Well, I think since this piece had no direction except to possibly be
published, it needs to be drawn to a close as it is now dwindling to my
own type of wondering and recorded thought. My goal is to write
publishable pieces that are different from some of my typical
rambles---people want to read something not something about someone else.
I can say I did learn one important thing this year...I'm a very
individual person at heart. Life, though family and friends are very
important because without social interaction life is...almost nothing, is
about yourself. To be successful you first have to be successful and happy
with yourself. Nothing others do or say should affect you past a point,
beyond that there is something that requires just being happy with
yourself and finding joy in the little things in life again. Friends will
come and go, because people change. Love will come, joyfully, and go, when
it is not meant to be. (Oh! Song lyric!!) Life is always changing...as one
will change themselves. But several things about oneself need to stay
intact--their central happiness, and healthiness, and well-being, and ways
of discovering joy.
I don't believe in New Year's Resolutions only...but I admit that it helps
with the changing of that number. It helps knowing that everybody around
you is struggling to do the same thing...to make a positive change.
So cheer with me in celebrating the new year.
Written by Brittany
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From the pen of Bob Young
Its all in the show
Green velvet box
A wonderful piece
And inside
A solid six inched...
As I gave it her,
She smiled. "what's this for?"
I hadn't bothered
To wrap it
I changed the mood, lifting my top up
"you've waxed your back"
Shaved, its shaved, I shaved it. I said.
Camera, action
Here it comes I thought.
She opened the box
Carefully not looking
At me
A knife
A six inch knife?
"30 years of friendship and you give me a 6 inch fffffucking knife "
Yes, at least now
I've paid for you stabbing me in the back
I turned away
Felt my white shirt
Turn damp
Merry fucking Christmas,
I thought.
This is what happens when mark eitzel signed a poster for my son
He shouts for me
Daddy!
Daddy!
Daddy!
As his mother makes
Him sleep
Bursting in to his room,
Petrified
That tigers
And monsters, green dragons
Killer moths
Rise from the carpet to get him
He looks at me
He is far to good for this world
'Fuck off' she says,
To me
'Shut up'
She says to him
She's supposed to keep him
Safe and sound in the night
Well?
eyes
I just happened
To fall in love
A little quicker
A little longer
A lot deeper
Then the rest of you,
Like the rest of you
For reasons
Unknown to me
10 years on,
Long drawn out clouds
Metal rods in belly buttons
Silver balls in tongues
Thunder in the sky
With my eyesight just gone
I don't know what hurts most
Not seeing you
Or not being with you
Written by Bob Young
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The Start of the Year
I began the year arms deep in multicoloured vomit. Yellow, green, orange and brown. It wasn't ideal.
All around me are my guests looking slightly uneasy, just a little bit queasy. Their glasses are raised and a rather half hearted "happy new year…" can still be heard ringing around the room.
Outside a dog is shouting loudly at the New Year fireworks. I glare fiercely through the glass of the back door. The shouts turn into sheepish mumbles.
"Do you think she will be alright?" asks Lisa.
"She'll be fine" I say through gritted teeth.
"What do you think made her ill?"
I glance down at the multicoloured mess on the floor…
"Too many crisps, sausage rolls, oh and look a bit of her new squeaky toy" I reply slightly tersely.
If I can just block my mind I can get through this without adding to the unwelcome intruder on our New Year celebrations.
Two minutes later and it is done, windows are opened, letting out the smell and doors are opened letting the offending dog back in.
The dog slumps down on a corner, chin pressed on the floor, body shaking. I start to feel a little guilty about shutting her outside. Maybe she didn't just take advantage of the party to go around eating too much. Maybe she is ill. I sit next to her and stroke the top of her head. Sad eyes look back at me.
"Anyone want another beer?" asks Stuart heading into the kitchen.
A flash of black hair follows him as a miracle occurs and the invalid recovers and reaches the fridge before him.
I sit back in my seat and sigh.
Mobile phone messages fly around our head's looking for their rightful owners
"Happy New Year. Hope this year is better than the last" "Can we try again, I'm sorry, I miss you" "Harry of yes, love nun wy"
The party has become subdued somewhat. My guests are sitting nervously smiling and cracking half hearted jokes but mainly trying to avoid looking in the direction of the damp patch in the middle of carpet which was… well you remember.
It is Lisa who tries to break the ice. Her experiences in baby sitting for her 2 year-old niece have obviously set her in good stead.
"So what are your plans for the New Year? What are your resolutions?"
Resolutions fly through the air like lost text messages - lose some weight, save some money, drink less, exercise more, quit smoking, take up fashion design.
"Fashion design?" Eyes turn to rest on Darren sitting in the corner of the room.
"Yes. I'm enrolling on a fashion design course at the college. After work, like."
You'll forgive our surprise. Darren wears jeans to christenings, seems to believe that football shirts convey a sense of style and has been wearing the same shapeless faded grey jacket over the top of everything he has worn for the last decade. Century. Millennium.
"Yeah, I know I'm not exactly a good dresser myself, but you know it's a real art form, the fabric, the texture the colours. It's like you get to turn a person into art. Instead of painting them you paint them"
Who knew all that was inside that beer soaked head of his? We sit in slightly stunned silence not quite knowing whether to laugh or be supportive.
"Personally I just want to meet a woman who can be my 'Smurfette'". Says Chris.
The tension is lifted. We all love Chris's quirky sense of humour, his shy smile and big brown eyes. His "love" of the smurfs had been a long standing joke and it is nice to be back on familiar territory.
Chris is always an outsider, always at the edge of the group, and yet you can count on him to be there when at moments like these you need him most. It is such a shame he never has any luck with women. I really hope 2006 will be the year for him.
"So what about our hostess, what do you want out of the year?"
I sit staring at the damp patch in the centre of the room, thinking hard.
"I want to get laminate flooring" I reply.
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The End Game
"...and we know- I have found- she was a feisty woman with an...impish sense of humour...straight-talking...God-fearing..."
He was going on a bit. I looked around. People sat, heads bowed in earnest contemplation, as he meandered his way through a painstaking chronology of her life.
"...next to the ancient old Blacksmiths premises, which we latterly know as Spud-U-Like..."
I tried to stifle a grin. Someone two rows in front of me lifted their solemn visage slightly, before becoming afraid of the wrath of the Almightly, and hurriedly dropping their head once more into its religously prostate position.
Someone farted. The oh so slient but oh so deadly version.
"....and she was the first..."
His eyes began to water and his baritone was stifled somewhat as the pungent air made its way up to the pulpit.
"...the first woman to....be...promoted through the ranks to..."
The journey up had been fine. I had read part of a biography on Hitlers Henchmen, listenened to Holst and his Bringers of War and Jollity, watched waterfalls cascade down sides of dew-topped mountains and Comet vie with Currys on a plethora of shopping estates. The endgame was upon us.
"...in 1993 with, of all people, Daniel O'Donnell..."
I never entirely understood why we wore black, but it gave me a good excuse to dress in a neat, single breasted suit. I even liked the black tie. Maybe I would wear it more often. Black tie aswell. It might even get me a sympathy fuck....
I pondered as he pontificated.
"...with only a trowel and a fish-knife. The rescue was complete when..."
I understood. I understood this person meant a lot of things to a lot of people. I'm sure that they meant something to me too but, for the minute, whatever memories I had were subsumed, overwhelmed by the thought of the buffet (I hadn't eaten- thanks to the copious amount of powder kindly laid on by my cousin upon arrival- in three days), and by lewd and haphazard attempts at catching the eye of the prettiest of the grieving grandaughters.
"...But she still maintained her grace and dignity, even when..."
What was it all for? Why, why, why? Where did it go? It looked to me as if it joined up with his neck-hair. They were the biggest sideburns I had ever seen. I sat transfixed. For the first time in my life, I had an overwhelming urge to undo another mans shirt. In a church. I wanted to trace the hair like the source of the Nile. It looked as if it went on and on forever.
"...and the fireworks didn't shock her, but the sight of a naked Presbytarian, PRESBYTARIAN, on her..."
Religion made fools of us all. And I needed a cheese sandwich. I wondered how long it lasted. I began to think of a device to fast-track funerals. For businessman and busy Politicians. Perhaps you could pay extra, like when you pay extra at the Post Office for them to lose valuable items. The mind, a dizzying mish-mash of powder and sleep-deprivation, wandered of its own accord.
"....and Jesus said He is the Ressurection and..."
Things were coming to a head, or winding down, depending on how you looked at it. Funerals were one grand piece of theatre. Hellfire and brimstone and all that. Occasionally elegant, but usually flawed by either too much thought and too little feeling or too little feeling and too much thought. And death. I wonder if this is how the deceased really want us to remember them? We are pummelled into submission by chronology and inanity. Today there are too many details that do not, do NOT need saying. I wonder if the best way to remember the dead is in silence; Let our own heads to the talking instead of a man ordained to a Higher purpose that never met the dead when they were living.
She WAS alive. And how we fucking knew it. She had an affair for 23 of the 38 years she was married, which probably led to the beatings that were a regular occurance of her domestic life. Her daughter also suffered at the hands of other family members but no one mentioned that, not even the old hotline to the Almightly up there today. An alcoholic for as long as anyone in the congregation can remember, she had trouble recalling the birth of any of her 8 grandchildren.
So why was I here? What purpose did all this serve? Simple: A trip home. I needed a break. And I got one.
"I've not seen you around here in a while" said the prettiest grandaughter at the Wake.
"No, nor have I..." I said, biting into my cheese sandwich.
She smiled. It wasn't all bad...
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