Doing Just Enough

In the beginning - when one's brain had limited discipline and sense of order - Friday used to be a day of the week when I would reflect back upon the various, lofty goals that I had set for that week. If I was lucky, I may have set 43 specific goals and perhaps hit 2 of them.
Net result: an overriding sense of failure. Retire immediately to the dunce corner, self-flagellate with a vacuum hose/cheese grater combo and write out 'Kev iz stoopid!' a total of 573 times, using only a tatty feather quill and a leaky bottle of ink.

Mindset change. This week, I set myself a grand total of 5 specific targets, linked to writing, music and study. By Wednesday, I'd done all of them. By Thursday, I had added 4 further goals I had achieved, which hadn't even made it on to the original target list I'd made on the previous Sunday.
Net result: a sense of momentum and success. 
So now, Friday is an odd day, because I've hit all my targets. Cue, an impish, childish sense of fun and freedom.

I had a couple of meditations this morning. Instead of castigating me, my mind looked somewhat confused and disorientated by having an irregular sense of freedom and calm.
Inspirational brain piped up and said 'Oh, this is much better! Now, seeing as you have both time and space, here's a ton of inspirational stuff associated with those novel and short story ideas that you had around 5 years ago in 2015...you know, the ones you received whilst walking home from the supermarket...the ones where you zoned out and nearly got ran over twice! I've been trying to drop these off for bloody ages, but you never seemed to have any free space before...you always seemed to be preoccupied with beating yourself up and filling your valuable loading bays with a ton of nonsensical and irrational junk....;anyway, there's 3 trucks into loading bays, A, B and C, carrying stuff for Novel #3...the other imminent trucks will relate to Short Story #23, Non-Fiction Idea #4 and how to unite them into the blueprints for Novel #5. See? This inspirational stuff is a lot easier when you make space for it and find creative, practical ways to achieve a sense of inner peace...albeit temporarily.'

Inspirational brain has a point. In this high-pressure world, it's so easy to over-reach, or feel that we have to over-perform in order to find success. Remember when we were at school and we messed up a lesson? We'd wait anxiously for a mark, knowing that we had not done well. Sure enough, when our exercise books were returned to us, there might be a tick, or two, but mostly there was likely to be a sea of 'X' marks next to our answers. If we did really poorly, there might be a comment too, to add to the horrible feelings...'Kevin, this is poor!'...'Kevin, did you even try?'...'Kevin. See me!' 
How much different when we had nailed something and were met by a crowd of ticks on our page. How inspired we felt to carry on in that vein and get more of them ticks!
Sometimes, we fall short of our expectations. Not because we are stupid, or have done stupid things (well, maybe sometimes), but more often because we tried too hard, reached too high and ended up way outside of our safe, comfort zones, where we feel confident and assured.

Let's be kind to ourselves. Set targets we can reach. Build that inner confidence up to higher levels. Yes, it's true that we can feel pressured by the energy of others, but how often do we fall short because of the pressure we place upon ourselves? 

Some thoughts...

There are various points in one's life, where we perhaps think, 'I'm living through a specific point in history here...something that people in 100 years will be assessing and criticising as part of their social history degree'. I'm sure this is something people living through the two world wars and various occasions since the 1950's and 60's have pondered. The historical stuff also...walking on the Moon...key assassinations of public figures...various political highs and lows...natural disasters.

I guess the current, global Covid-19 outbreak puts us in a similar 'historical' pocket. How will we be judged by future societies and university professors? How will the choices of our world leaders be assessed by commentators, blessed with the 'wisdom' of hindsight that the onset of time affords them? How will our media be judged for their roles in how people think, act and express themselves during these uncertain times? Did they portray the mere facts alone, or was there a hidden agenda to scare the living shit out of their viewing audience by offering truckloads of speculation based on nothing more than fanciful whims?

Let's move forward to 2120. We're still here and have just about refused to blow ourselves into individual molecules due to various racial, religious & political indifference. Technology has improved massively, but it's still 113 years until the birth of James Tiberius Kirk in Riverside, Iowa, so there's still a way to go yet. 
OK, we have flying cars now, although they are banned from public use, because a minority of people still believe that rules are for sissies and they can do what the hell they like. Hence, since the infamous 'Moron Pile-Up' of 2114, when 563 dumb people were mashed into one large, nightmare, metal sculpture whilst all trying to overtake a hover bus full of nuns on a tight bend in the Rocky Mountains, flying cars are restricted to government use, utilising a trained, sensible person as the sole pilot. A sensible policy, adopted by sensible people in sensible nations.
Yes, of course, less sensible folk from every country protested! Dammit, it was their right to do what the hell they wanted and how dare officialdom take away their precious liberties?!! Whose right was it to let people take the chance of an early, painful, agonising death from them anyway??? 
What kind of fascist Nazi allows this madness to occur??? 
What kind of country is this and where the hell did we go wrong??? 
Teenage martyrs shall berate their parents for existing in this ridiculous age of the 22nd Century and write meaningful (if delusional) poetry about being born back in the golden days of the early 21st century, when society was free, world leaders were wise beyond words and people knew everything there was to know.

So, it's 2120. We're somewhere in California, at the 'Robin William Memorial University For The Development Of People Who Shine Their Light Into The World' (the 'RWMUFTDOPWSTLITW' for short) and Professor Schwarzenegger is standing before 300 eager students in a social history class. He turns to his class and smiles.
    'In our previous lesson, we looked at the Victorians from 1839 to 1901 and discussed how they loved to portray themselves as the archetypes of dignity, morality and ethics, whilst also being the most perverted group of humans since the glory days of Nero and Caligula. Today, we're going to explore a little closer to home and discuss the world in 2020'.
Several eyes shall roll toward the ceiling. Oh God, not this again...haven't we covered this already, sir? This stupid time period comes up in every damn test paper! 
But Professor Schwarzenegger's facial expression shall remain adamant. 
    'I vant...sorry, I mean I want to explore this from a psychological perspective'.
Further rumblings, but the stocky professor digs in his chic army boot heels and continues.
    'Why was this period of time so different to...let's say...someone born in 1963? A 'boomer' was the term used for such a person a century ago. So, what was different to someone born in...say...1999...known as a 'millennial'?'
A few hands raise up; more from a resigned urge to get this over and done with so that they could get back to those fruity Victorians and all the creative ways that they hid their perversions away from mainstream, respectable society.
    'Yo...it was technology, sir!' The professor shall nod.
    'Yessss! Technology! Exactly this! Well done, Stallone Junior! Let us imagine a scenario. It is 1974. We are in merry, olde England'. The class groans.
    'But sir...since the Populist Uprising of 2024, aren't they're all communists over there?'
The professor shall wave his hands dismissively and continue.
    'In some murky pub of East London, in the United of Kingdoms, a man is seated at a table. He wears what is known as a flat cap upon his head and he speaks not unlike our beloved entertainer, and former President, Dick Van Dyke, who recently celebrated his 195th birthday. Let us call him...Bert. Bert has had many ales and is feeling merry, if not a tad mischievous, because this is highly typical of your average British cockney dude.' 
The class shall begin to guffaw. 
    'Did he have bad teeth, sir? I bet he did!' 
    'Did he look like a horse, sir?'
    'Did he drink warm beer, sir?
    'Did he wear a monocle and have a butler, sir?'
    'Did he say "ain't" a lot, sir? I bet he did!'
Professor Schwarzenegger continues.
    'Thus, Bert raises from his cheaply fashioned pub chair and decides to air his views on life, the universe and everything. There are maybe 20 people in the pub and each can hear Bert as he begins his tirade. He shouts out into the air about the matters which concern him the most...his job security...immigration policies...the state of the National Health System...why his local football team, the 'Western Hammers', are a 'useless bunch of one-legged, dopey wannabes' and why no woman has deigned to be physically within 6 inches of his erogenous zones since that wild, 1968, Tuesday evening in the back of the Ford Cortina, with Mabel from accounts, who had consumed 15 bottles of Babycham with three double vodkas and probably would have 'done it' with Quasimodo if he'd bought her a drink at the bar'.
The class closes its eyes and, for a fleeting moment, or ten, are transported back to 'The Swan and Bucket' in 1974. As one student begins to nod, the psychological act of entrainment sets in and soon all students are mechanically nodding along. 
    'How many people hear this man's voice?' Hands slowly raise into the air.
    'About 20, sir!' The professors nods.
    'Yes. Now, imagine Bert leaves the pub and is immediately intercepted by an alien transport beam from a passing saucer'. The class nod knowingly, as one.
    'You mean like the one that transported President Trump from the White House lawn in 2022 back to circa 300 AD, where he ruled Rome as the Emperor Constantine, sir...and then created the 'Really Great Holy Roman Empire' in 325 A.D.???'
    'Yes...exactly like that...by those pesky Alpha Centaurians! May God damn their 14 eyes and cause them to have fleas for a decade!' The class shall nod in agreement. 
    'Except our Bert is taken forward in time to the year 2018. After a period of 'adjusting', Bert learns to master the 'internet' and finds incredulity at his potential target audience. In 1974, 20 poor souls were forced to listen to Bert's inane rantings, focusing solely upon his personal thoughts...quick test class, what word in that last sentence is the most important?' 
A flurry of hands. 
    'Personal, sir...the important word is 'personal!'' More nodding. 
    'Yet now, Bert finds that he can communicate far and wide. In 1974, someone called Bruce, living in Wagga Wagga, in New South Wales, Australia would likely never know of the existence of our Bert. Bert could set light to his hair, hold lit fireworks in the waistband of his spandex underpants and loudly recite the contents of every page of the 'Kama Sutra' through a megaphone, yet still Bruce has no Earthly knowledge of him, nor his personal views upon politics, religion or the practical advantages and disadvantages of the 'Reverse Cowgirl' sexual position...' 
The more mature and worldly-wise members of the class shall nod and allow their eyes to temporarily glaze over. 
     '...Yet, in 2017, Bruce is passing a quiet day in the Australian summer...on Xmas Eve to be exact...where's it's just reached 40 degrees Celsius in the shade. He has a calming herbal tea and is glancing on what was known back then as 'social media'...essentially places to meet folk from all over the globe and share ideas, sharing juvenile laughter and heated arguments, while exchanging photographs of cats doing weird things'. 
Hands raise in the air.
    'You mean like our former, feline President Tiddles Ten Toes of Tennessee, sir?' The professor shall nod.
    'So...Bruce is about to switch off his personal computing device when he spots a comment from a friend of a friend of a friend's sister's friend. In the comment, a man called Bert is ranting about his personal views and why he believes them so strongly. Let us imagine that 5,000 people have read the personal comments of Bert. 3,573 have 'liked' his words. Another 1,007 people have loved his words, because they tally exactly with their own personal viewpoints and don't contradict them in absolutely any way. However, around 37 people, who maintain a different, opposing perspective, have passed comment that Bert is perhaps not taking his medication as he should. When Bert challenges these personal views with his own personal views, he is met by further outraged humans, who accuse him of being 'deranged', 'delusional' and 'biased' toward political extremities that definitely do not match their own viewpoints. Some blunter UK people are accusing Bert of being a vigorous masturbator, although they used different words from the language of that time period. Bruce reads all of the personal comments-made-public from Bert thirteen times over, ultimately becoming so incensed that he has to bang the table a few times with his herbal tea cup and utter gross profanities toward the cat...which is very unfair, as the cat, 'Captain Bongo' actually shares political views very close to Bruce's mindset but hasn't ever shared them because Bruce has selfishlessly yet to ask Captain Bongo for his opinions...'
More hands in the air.
    'You mean unlike President Tiddles Ten Toes from 2087, sir...who sprayed and hissed his words to anyone who would listen and crapped in the shoes of anyone who disagreed with his political policies and devised the devastating fur ball missiles, used in our brief argument and conflict with France over tax duties on catnip imports, sir?' The professor shall nod.
    'So...our discussion today is...who is right? Should Bert relay his personal viewpoints, knowing that they go global and may offend someone seated on the toilet in Singapore, who until that point had been having a positive, nurturing day? Or, should Bert realise that this is not 1974 any longer and refrain from spreading his views outside of his local environment? Furthermore, is it entirely down to what is being said by Bert? If he is discussing the failings of his 'Western Hammers' soccer team, then is that preferable to him talking about more sensitive subjects...politics...religion...sexual preference?'
The class shall look thoughtful, amid much chewing of pens.
    'Or...should Bert be free to say what he wishes? Regardless of who it may, or not, offend, because he exists in a democracy (of a fashion) and therefore it is his inalienable right to say what he likes, when he likes and to whom he likes?'
The sound of pen chewing shall hereby increase in amplitude.
    'Do we focus on the speaker...or what is said? Do we look at the context of the oratory, or shout down anyone who disagrees with us and tell them to go home if they do not like hearing our wise, blessed opinion...or to question their sexuality maybe...or even their parentage? Or is the question much simpler...do we care what people think anyway? Or do we like to 'stir the pot' because it creates a sense of joy within us to see others become distressed by our actions? If so, what does that say about us and are we the problem...or maybe...just maybe...might we be the cure?'
The class shall look contemplative. One young lady, whose name shall be 'Villanelle' will raise her hand. 
    'Is there a right answer, Professor Schwarzenegger? Or are you tricking us?' The professor shall smile.
    'We shall find out when you hand your homework papers onto my desk, in three days time. 5,000 words maximum. No doodling, or drawing penises in the margins...'
A boy named Justin shall go red and pretend to be very interested in the floor.
    '...also, let us add Villanelle's query in as part of the essay...is there a right answer?'
A hand shall raise and the professor shall nod.
    'I wish we could go back to 2020 and ask people on the media socialism thing!'
    'Social Media, Clinton...social media. And yes, wouldn't it be good to hear the views of people from 100 years ago...' A boy shall blurt something out, then quickly remember himself and raise his hand, before blurting something out again.
    'If only Professor Sagan's time travel experiments had not ended so...so...badly...' The class shall sigh and engage in head-shaking.
    'Indeed, Jones Junior...if only. But if we have learned anything from the late Professor's time experiments, it is not to tempt fate by being very overconfident and not grounding ourselves with patience and restraint...unless, as the poor professor, we wish our heads to be lodged somewhere in Ancient Greece, while our arms and legs reside in Plantagenet England, our torso is buried somewhere under Stonehenge in the Bronze Age and our sexual organs freely orbit the planet Mercury in the 26th century.' 
The female students shall look tearful and the male students wince. 
    'But yes...it is an excellent question, Clinton. One that people from 2020 would likely have many strong views upon. So...as an additional homework extra...your task is to pretend you are living in 2020. The oceans are full of plastic...there are many animals on the endangered list and people are coming toward the end of that odd, overlong period where celebrities and sports people had infinitely more attraction and appeal than those who devote their time and effort to humanity and the world around them...how would you feel about social media? How would you choose to express yourselves to a global audience and what global issues would you say were the most important? Would you care what was said and how it was said? Or would you sneer and say it anyway? What would ultimately persuade you to change your viewpoint(s)...or is it simply a question of once you believe something that is how it has to be, despite having convincing evidence to the contrary shoved in our faces? How important is it...to believe we are right?' 
The class shall nod.
    'I shall be intrigued to read your thoughts and opinions. Class dismissed!'

       

  

Episode 2016 - A New Hope.

2015 was an interesting year.  Most of it wasn't too good for me, especially health-wise, and this was exemplified in my almost non-existent work output during the latter half of the year.
Goals and targets set in the flush of optimism that was the 2015 New Year sadly disappeared from view.
Mostly.

While my target of adding 100,000 words to my first novel fell at the third fence and flatly refused to get up, there were some interesting developments from surprising areas.
At the start of 2015, I decided to focus solely upon getting published and finishing the novel, 'Age of Bronze'.  The first part I achieved with a poem in an anthology with the 'Spiritual and Writers Network'.  We won't mention the second part again, but there was an unusual twist towards the end of the year.

There is something about seeing my name in print that seems to propel my confidence upward.  By August, I had practically given up with writing - instead choosing to lose myself in swathes of self-defeatist gloom; wondering if I had lost my writing edge and whether if total submission was the only option open.  It was fun...I tried...well, I mostly tried...well, partly.  Sometimes.
Anyway, I tried.
In August, I received an e-mail saying that a poem called 'Sanctuary' was going to be published in a book called 'Illuminations of the Soul'.  OK, it's not the 'Man Booker Prize' and I'm not earning a penny from it - so there goes the private helicopter for another year - but it's still something to be proud of.  Well, it is for me.

Something about seeing my poem (pages 30-31) snapped me out of a depressive fug.  Just long enough to provide the ammunition for a single shot and create a positive response.
The day after seeing my poem in print I was still riding the highs of confidence...sadly ones that had been missing since the beginning of the year.  I was milking them and riding them for all they were worth.  I also knew that this would likely wear off very soon.  So...now then...how to make use of this 'high as a kite' feeling?
Now, I've always had a passion for ghosts and the paranormal.  Well, not so much a 'passion', more of a yearning to understand more about it all.  Growing up in two badly haunted houses will do that.
I sat at my desk in unusually elated fashion and thought about doing something brash.  My battle plan was simple - stick to what you know and go from there.  Well, I know about ghosts...I'll write about them.  But a ghost book would take ages and I only have 'x' amount of positive fuel left in the tank. Something quicker.  A magazine article?  Great, but I've never written one before.
'Who cares?' says the positive part of my brain, now floating on all the positive waves and hula dancing to its own rhythms.  'Find somewhere to write an article and wing it'.
An hour later I'd sent off a message to the editor of a successful and glossy paranormal magazine.
Basically, my e-mail went something along the lines of:
'Hello, I'm Kev.  I write things.  I could write things for you.  Hell yeah.'
A day later, just as my bravado was wearing thin, I got my reply, which basically said something like:
'Hello Kev.  Could you write things for us?'
Hell yeah!

And so I did.  A lot of research and planning later, two articles went out in different editions of 'The Spectral Times'.  All forged from confidence at seeing my name in print.  Without that moment I would never have believed in myself enough to ask the question to the magazine editor.  Without that burst of confidence I'd have never have thought I was able to write an article at all.  Now, buoyed by kind comments from the editor, I know I can do it.
What's more, the confidence from seeing my name in print again (twice) has fuelled even further confidence.

This has meant that 2016 has started much more positively.
By the beginning of February I have had two submissions accepted - both poems.  One for the 'Lakeside International Journal of Literature & Arts' and another for the 'Spiritual Writers' Network'.  This again has inspired me to gain more confidence to return to my novel.  Another competition is being aimed at for the end of March.  After that I want to add 70,000 words to my novel.  My research for this novel has just exceeded 23 pages and I have hand-written notes, maps and charts all over my walls.  I'm pumped and buzzing.  This is what I want to do with my working life and I know it's all down to me.  My choices - whether to fill my days with darkness and regret or to fight back and seek illumination.

I can blame life and the universe for not giving me this or that.
I can lay a multitude of fault at the feet of stress and worry.
But ultimately, I steer my own ship in this lifetime.
The buck stops with me.

Poetic memories.

Yesterday, a friend put a wonderful poem onto her blog, concerning the experience of loss.  Her words were so awesome that they made me revisit some poems I wrote back in 2011, about the same topic.

The three poems are part of a series, linked by the common emotions of birth and loss.  The titles of each poem depicts the years in which events happened and each poem has its own rhythm & pace.



'63

It's the coldest March on record
when I painfully make my way,
from restricted confines, out into the light;
I am the one who will stay.

Chill weather suits ice-cold lessons,
that have caused you to panic and pray
for someone to cling to, with motherly pride;
so I am the one who will stay.

Towered tiers of dark-ringed worry
shall be lost in moments of play.
Fear shall be faded by baby smiles;
for I am the one who will stay.

Your eyes tell of those who have left you;
all love-ties invisible this day.
From somewhere unseen, warm whispered words;
'This is the one who will stay.'


'89

Bright day turns darkest grey, as my soul-mate's light start dimming.
Stark, creeping fear, when told cold-clear, 'We will try to save your wife.'
Stunned confusion...blood transfusion; battered senses slowly spinning;
corridor pacing; heartbeat racing, as battle rages for her life.
  From faint within, a heartfelt cry:
    'Breathe deep; believe...she will not die.'

Hands held taut-tight; faith, former bright, fades fleet & fast with facts reviled.
Cold doctor's room, words forged in gloom; invasive phrases pound poor ears:
'Ectopic pregnancy...'  'Not meant to be...'  'You will never have a child...'
Hope's light now smashed; cruelly dashed on fated rocks and drowned in tears.
  From deep within, a heartfelt song:
    'Breathe deep; believe...you must be strong.'



'91 & '92

Mid '91; tunnel's end light, for three months long a hopeful shade of bright.
Scared to ponder names, for fears upon a well-trod path are seldom still.
At home, upon a stormy night in May, our precious, nameless 'bump' is stole away.
Raging anger, cooled by hugged words tender shared, 'We tried...our very best.'
  In deep mind's eye, an image misty-lined, 
      of infant boy and girl with eyes pure kind.
          Hands held, faced front to light:
              cherubs clasped forever into wishful parents' minds.

Late '92; nurses' hard toil - worry's lined traces, bare hid on angel's faces.
Skilled surgeon's hands upon my shoulder, 'We'll do everything we can.'
Nicotine-craved pacing to fog-bound time; swiftest mind, incessant racing,
yet nightmare scenes breed silent prayers, cast unto all faiths; 'Guide them through.'
  Grand entrance made to still, hush breath,
      blessed blanket wrapped in wishful white.
          Shared smiles in trembling, thankful hands:
              gilt-golden dawn for heartfelt light.


©Kev Milsom, 2011


All poems are copyrighted to Kev Milsom and can also be found published in 'The Sea of Ink', a creative writing anthology, published by 'Ink Pantry Publishing' and available on Amazon.

'A Perfect Christmas' by Kev Milsom (written 2003, re-edited 2014)

A PERFECT CHRISTMAS

T'was Christmas time up in Lapland,
old Santa stood wiping his brow,
'I hope Farmer Giles will be pleased' said he,
as he finished gift-wrapping a cow.
But working nearby in the corner, stood
a young elf named Fnarg Applepip,
who sighed loud and then shouted in anger,
'I can't get this bottle into this ship!'
In his rage he picked up the tangled wood
and threw it hard, along with the glass.
The ship's maiden voyage was a sail through the air,
before it docked, deep in old Santa's ass.
The helpers all started to panic
and poor Fnarg went as white as a mint,
while Santa uttered some very bad words
as his rear went a shocking, red tint.
His helpers, they rallied and started to tug
but, although their pulling was frantic,
protruding from Santa could clearly be seen,
the propeller and two funnels of 'The Titanic'.
Mrs Santa was called to the scene of the crime,
where she screamed and fell down to the floor,
screaming again as she fell on some marbles
and even louder as she rolled out the door.
'I'll fix Santa's wounds!' said Norman,
as he jumped down from a very high shelf,
'Thank heavens for that!' the helpers all cried,
'For Norman, the National Elf'.
But now they all had a big problem,
for Santa's trip of twenty-four thousand miles
could never take place with a ship in his bum,
which was playing merry hell with his piles.
'It's your fault, you steaming great numpty!'
The helpers yelled at Fnarg, in a rage,
'We're now running forty-five minutes late,
he should be dashing over Spain at this stage!'
So Fnarg was hustled and bustled,
as they squeezed him into a red suit,
then glued on some wool for a fluffy, white beard
and finished him off with black boots.
'You've got to get going immediately!'
Said an elderly gnome named Ray,
'Santa's having extractive surgery,
so we need you to leave right away!'
Just then a door opened and in walked a pixie,
Herringbone Twang was his name,
his eyes rolling madly with panic,
his arms full with toys and games.
'Things look bad' said he, with a frown,
'The kids' presents aren't going well at all,
all the bicycles have got square tyres,
the 'Swingball' is all swing and no ball...
Barbie's  totally drunk in the kitchen,
singing a very loud, vulgar song,
while Action Man watches her clapping,
Shoving Monopoly cash in her thong...
Ken's in the cupboard with Sindy,
they're all over each other,' he groaned,
'The Pokemon are all playing 'Russian Roulette' 
and Winnie the Pooh just got stoned...
in the toy hospital it's total chaos,
beds all full of sick Beanie Babies,
they're all screaming and frothing at the mouth,
I'm starting to think they've got rabies...
The Playstation 4's have all gone on strike,
Bob the Builder's gone gay,
Noddy's doing a ram-raid in Toytown,
all in all, it's a hell of a day!'
Now in everyone's life, there comes a time
when we have to stand up and be brave,
so they found Fnarg hiding in a flowerpot 
and frogmarched him to the Santa Cave.
There, down in the grotto, his eyes fell upon
a pure vision of Christmas delight,
for the walls were all covered with magic
and the floors shone with sweet, rainbow light.
There, in the middle, stood a sight to behold,
a huge sleigh of gold, steel and wood,
ready to deliver gifts to all girls and boys
who've been good all year round, as they should.
There the magnificent reindeer were:
Dasher, Vixen, Comet and Dancer,
Blitzen, Donner, Bernard then Cupid
and eating a cream bun, brave Prancer.
At the head stood Rudolph the Red Nose - 
so handsome and quick to the last!
Behind him was Bernard the Brown Nose - 
just as speedy, but can't stop so fast.
'Now listen!' Said Herringbone Twang to Fnarg,
'We don't have time for any twaddle.
It's late and we're really up a certain creek...
and we don't even have any paddle.
So, you go out there and do your best,
I know there's no presents to give out,
but there's enough fairy dust magic for one last wish...
this is YOUR fault, you stupid, great lout! 
For, with Santa disabled, the toys have rebelled
and all of their magic's gone bad,
so you've got this small pile of fairy dust,
I want the best Christmas we've ever had!
Let's see billions of happy smiles
and people with no worried care...
if you don't then I'll rip both your arms off
and feed them to Paddington Bear!'
So Fnarg was thrown in the back of the sleigh
and Rudolph's red nose twinkled bright,
as the reindeer and sleigh swooped skywards,
up into the starry, clear night.
Young Fnarg stared hard at the fairy dust
and wondered quite what he could do,
just now he'd been putting ships into bottles
but now he was deep in the poo.
With just enough magic for one big wish
he thought hard about what he should say...
perhaps he could aim for bringing world peace...
or make hunger and famine go away.
Fnarg looked out and saw twinkling lights,
as far as his eyes could see
and said 'Just make Christmas a perfect time,
make it joyful, as it really should be.
Take away all the stress throughout the world
and all things that make Christmas unpleasant,
put an end to pressures, worry and greed
and ban the giving of presents.'
From the sleigh there came a flash and a bang,
then suddenly nothing but quiet.
'That was perfect' said Rudolph, turning his head.
'I hope so,' said Fnarg, 'had to try it.'
The sleigh turned east and flew through the air
as it returned to the chilly North Pole.
'No more presents?' yelled the elves, when he told them.
'Oh great, we'll all be on the dole!'
On Christmas morning over six billion people 
awoke with huge smiles on their face,
then each closed their eyes slowly
and said a prayer for the whole human race.
Not a thought was aimed to wrapped presents,
or the size of the turkey they had,
instead everyone thought of their loved ones
and sent prayers to the sick and the sad.
No-one homeless sat on the roadside,
those without were invited inside,
the world rang with torrents of laughter
and everyone's heart shone with pride.
People forgot all religious division
and the colour of one's skin at birth,
for the first time people truly listened
to their brothers and sisters on Earth.
They danced and listened intently,
while smiling for all of the day,
meaning all hatred, fear and ignorance
began melting and fading away.
In the evening as darkness descended,
a pinpoint in the sky grew bright
and all who watched the hovering star
knew that all was perfectly right.
'How long will it last?' said Fnarg Applepip,
to Santa, who stood by his side,
both watching the light in the sky grow in strength,
their eyes and their mouths open wide.
'A day...a month...who can tell?
At least they're not living in fear.
In theory, it should be forever...
if not, there's always next year.
You've given them hope and shown them peace,
in short - now they have a new start.
It's their lesson to become even closer,
instead of finding ways to keep them apart.
Let them feel the joy of unconditional love
and let them find their true way.'
So ended an important day for all humans.
The most perfect of all Christmas days.

Kev Milsom © 2003

New Year - New Frame of Mind.

2015

2014 has been an odd year. 

In truth, the last few years have all been a little odd.  Being slightly of the 'odd' persuasion myself, I'm well used to a bit of 'odd', here and there, but it has to be said that currently the levels of oddness are showing a definite increase on past years.  

A part of this is entirely down to that favourite old chestnut - 'What do I want from my life and how can I make it happen?'

Never an easy one to tackle, especially if one is totally unsure about a) 'what one wants from life' & b) 'how to make this happen'.

In terms of my writing, the last few years have followed an often new and exciting (if slightly meandering) direction.  In positive terms, this has meant taking university study in all forms of creative writing - something I absolutely adore.

On the not-so positive front, this has meant studying other subjects alongside the creative writing, in pursuit of a fabled trophy known as an 'honours degree'.

With the benefit of hindsight, I took on this quest partly for myself and partly out of respect for my mother.  When she passed away in 2009, in the aftermath of dealing with her painfully-slow, physical demise, I convinced myself that this was a sign for me to do something new...something she would be proud of.

I took the fact that I was fast approaching the age of 50 as another golden sign.  Yes, this was definitely a turning point in my life...the omens were clear.  I could get my degree and become a teacher. After all, I had spent the last 12 years home-educating our daughters.  The curriculum was still fresh in my head.  I could find square roots of anything, while understanding the molecular structure of objects, our position in the vastness of the universe and - more importantly - when to correctly use a semi-colon.  
With a feeling of being 'reborn', I began designing a tattoo involving a phoenix bravely rising from the ashes, to symbolise my 'newness'...until I remembered my lifelong fear of needles...but still, dammit, it was a sign!  Verily, I gathered my finest sword, took my first step on the metaphorical road to success to smite the fire-breathing dragon of uncertainty at the summit of Mount Destiny.  

This was to be my moment and I was ready.

It started well.  My first few steps - purely to see if I could handle the pressures of such an educational challenge - were firm and reliable.  My first ever university module in digital photography, during which I would often pause with, camera around neck, and gaze up to the clouds, as if to say, 'Look Mum...I'm at university!' went better than planned.  Needing 40% to pass the course I weighed in with a hefty 94%.

My sword, now twice as long and six times as sharp, rested against my thigh - awaiting the next challenges.

Modules in the Arts and Creative Writing followed.  Each duly dispatched by my sword, who now screamed out, in wisps of fiery breath, to have its own name.  

Duly, it was appointed 'Cecil - Vanquisher of all University Modules and Slayer of Academic Essays.'

For two years, Cecil (VoaUMaSoAE) and I blazed a brave trail through the misty trails of uncertain university modules. 
Delicately, we dodged several pools of despair, tiptoed gingerly through minefields of referencing/bibliography and battled ferociously through the forests of wtf-is-going-on.  

Once the creative writing parts had been conquered, mapped and learned, the next stage of my quest began.

In order to pursue this 'holy grail', I would need to complete my degree with 'other stuff'.

Here, the path took a much steeper turn.  Learning about things we like is a lot easier than poring over huge lists of potential modules and picking a pathway through.  
What to study?  
Should I delve into history - another passion?  Not according to the feedback from former students who had vainly fought thirty-headed beasts and fallen on the muddy fields of battle - leaving 'Beware This Path' signs as their final deed.

The university - at first a charming collection of helpful smiles - also began to show a different face.  Modules of vast interest began to disappear from view, as if extinguished by a cold and merciless hand upon the light switch of fate.  (OK...a bit melodramatic yes, but you get the point).

As study paths sank within the vague, forlorn mistiness, surrounding the Isles of Uncertainty...(OK, I'll stop it now)...my options became fewer. I found myself pondering over such questions as 'Could I learn Welsh in a year?'  It would have got me to Level 2 and from there I could...well I could find something...ANYTHING...to get to Level 3 and my glittering prize.

Purely to complete Level 1, I took a module in sociology.  In truth, I knew more about the feeding patterns of the Arctic Tern, but I picked it because it was preferable to Welsh...or Ancient Greek....or a whole wave of nasty-looking foes of which I knew even less about.

From knowing bugger-all, I secured a good pass in sociology and finally sheathed Cecil in his summer hibernation until I would need him again in the autumn of 2014.  Hurrah!  The end was in sight...well, still at least some years away, along with thousands of pounds...but an end nonetheless!

Yet now, a new fear approached and stalked me...namely, the enemy known as weariness.  The original plan had been a noble and worthy one.  Get a degree, take a teaching course, become a teacher.  A fine and noble plan which would have indeed made my mother very proud. However, sometimes time has a way of unpicking the worthy threads of noble intent and scattering them spitefully into the twisting tornadoes of torment.  (Sorry, I promise that's the last one...scout's honour). 
Since the onset of my chase for a degree, certain things had transpired.  Firstly, my age was in doubt.  A year into my degree I made an enquiry to a local, Gloucestershire college which offered teacher training to graduates.  At the question, 'how old are you?' my honest answer of '47 and a bit' had created an ominous silence.  It was then explained to me that 50 was the usual maximum age at which teachers were trained.  Might I complete my degree quicker?
The honest answer to that was 'no'.  It was taking all my finances just to remain doing any sort of study...to 'fast-track' was out of the question.
Problem #2 then emerged.   I had heard from various sources that the teaching profession was in urgent need of teachers...not just that, it was desperate for MALE teachers.  Being firmly of the male persuasion, I took this news initially as a good thing - if there was a shortage then I might find work quicker than I had imagined.  In hindsight, I may have found some of the reasons why male teachers are in short supply.
I approached several local schools and offered my services as an unpaid volunteer - explaining my degree path, my past experience in home education, etc, etc.  
Nothing.  
Not a single sausage of information came my way.
I tried again - using a volunteer website to strengthen my application.
Nothing.
When I tried the direct approach, the looks of horror I received were demoralising.  In my head, I was imagining myself as a bold, confident student, with the noble intent of helping kids to read, write...do sums...learn about the world.  All that stuff.
In reality, what I believe the staff saw was a middle-aged man with greying hair, asking if he could 'get to know the kiddies'.  It dawned on me slowly that while I was asking questions, the teachers would draw the children closer to them...just in case I might be 'one of those' men...the type you read about in the Sunday papers.

Suitably disheartened, I cancelled my planned university studies in education and sought another option.  Surely I could use my degree for something worthwhile?
By October of this year, my army was weakened and my trusty Cecil (VoaUMaSoAE) was starting to think of his retirement home, hanging above the mantlepiece against an oaken board.
It took months to pick out a module to complete my Level 2 studies.  In the end I went with religion.  I like religion - not from an internal, theological aspect, but certainly from a psychological, sociological angle - why do we believe?  Why do we have faith?  What makes us take one spiritual pathway and not another?  All that.
The course was fascinating...but...academically, I was done.  
I was also fighting the idea that the 'holy grail' of my honours degree was, in reality, worthless.  Had it gone to the Antiques Road Show then it wouldn't have made it to the televised part.  
'Sorry mate, I'll give you 50p for it...top offer'.

To top everything off, the uselessness of writing constant academic essays, in pursuit of something which would look nice in a frame on the wall, but in truth, meant nothing, was having other negative effects. It was stopping me from doing what I loved....namely writing.
Despite being published in total 6 times, since 2012, (something my mother would also have been extremely proud of) my ideas and plots for new stories had became nothing more than scribbled notes on my word processor, or scattered bits of paper littered over my desk.  
By the time I realised that I was following the wrong dream, I already had notes for 9 complete novels, 16 short stories, at least 2 books of poetry and several non-fiction books.
The game was up.  I'd tried my best and done OK - my modules have scored between 74% and 94%.  I was even still in line for a 'First' had I continued with my studies.  I know a part of me will regret not continuing, but I had to be honest with myself.  The road was going nowhere.  I needed to be true to who I was.  I believe I'm a writer...it's taken me 51 years to realise that snippet of information and - in many ways - this has been what has held me back...or more importantly I've held myself back.
Net lesson learned:  we should go for what we want in life...what makes our hearts burst with energy, inspiration and pride...not always what is expected of us...to make us feel 'normal'.
I wish I'd learned this sooner...but better now than when I'm 93 and terrorising the staff in an old folks' home with my off-key singing and deranged plans to invade the Isle of Man with an army of armoured hedgehogs.

I've made plans to complete my university studies - for a Higher Diploma of Education - over the next two years.
More importantly, I've given myself some time to chase a dream.  not only to chase after it in vague, pitch-patch steps, but to bloody well go for it, my Cecil in hand and screaming like an enraged Viking warrior.  

So...my resolution for 2015 is as follows:
(a) Write.
(b) Keep writing.
(c) Write every day.
(d) See (a)

My writing goals for 2015 are as follows:
(I)   Add at least 100,000 words to my first novel, 'Age of Bronze'
(II)  Completely finish 5 of the 16 short stories on my list.
(III) Finish at least one of the books of poetry.
(IV) Complete at least 3 non-fiction articles on parapsychology, metaphysics or the paranormal.

New year, new objectives, new challenges.
Most importantly, as I take this new path, this time it genuinely feels as if the sun is finally shining on my face.
Wish me luck.   :) 

KJM.

WORD BOHEMIA CHALLENGE - DAY #7

Interesting photo and had to think a bit outside the box for this one.  Apologies to non-Brits who may well wonder what the heck I'm going on about.  :)

Photo copyright David Vale.

Maintenance Man

With a contended sigh, Edgar walked through the double doors of the Holomaticon XT2500 and allowed excited senses to take in some very familiar surroundings; a smile crossing his lips at the welcome sound of an automated voice.

‘Instructions please?’

Having been away from the machine for three weeks due to maintenance problems, Edgar’s response babbled from his lips.

‘Please repeat.’

Edgar took a deep breath.

‘Austria, Europe, circa. 1925.’

The metallic voice appeared pleased with his decision.

‘One moment please.’

For twelve and a half seconds there was only silence but,with the onset of a soft, inviting hum, the room before Edgar’s eyes began to swim with a range of multi-coloured lights, before settling gradually into recognizable focus.  As expected, he was standing in his favourite city, upon a much-loved bridge spanning the river Danube below.  Small groups of people bustled about him as his eyes once again grew accustomed to the unique lighting of the XT2500 system.  With a growing smile that lit up his face, Edgar marveled at the scenes before him, before a jagged noise of static rudely pierced his thoughts.

‘Hey Ed…how’s it looking?’

Silently cursing his supervisor’s voice, Edgar managed a composed response.

‘So far so good, Bill.  The lighting seems fine, olfactory and audible systems appear back online and I’m just about to test for A.I. functional ability.’

Edgar approached a group of three, dressed in sombre clothing yet engaged in happy banter.

‘A good day to you all.’

The taller of the two men returned his smile, while the remaining man and woman appeared intent on continuing their conversation.    

Tossing a mental coin in his head, Edgar chose test question #3 from the maintenance manual.

‘It’s a beautiful day, sir, but I think perhaps it may cloud over later.’

The man nodded his head intently.

‘Well, you know, it’s just something we've been working on in training and, you know, it just came off today.’

Edgar paused, before repeating his test question with a clearer and slower pronunciation.

The man nodded again and removed his bowler hat to scratch behind his left ear.

‘Well, you know, Wrighty took it down the wing and, you know, Gigsy pulled away some defenders with a darting run and, you know, I was just in the right place at the right time, I guess.’

Edgar shook his head and attempted test question #4.

‘I wonder what the heights of fashion might be this year in our fair city?’

The man nodded and started at the ground.

‘Well, you know, a hat-trick is always nice, but as the Gaffer always says, it’s not about one player, it’s always, like, you know, about the team.  I think, you know, that’s always what’s important, like.’

The woman, standing to his left and adorned in an expensive head to toe dress, turned away from her conversation and took Edgar’s elbow; her voice booming out in a pronounced Scottish accent.

‘Ya know, Gary, I can’t see this team winning anything this year.  I’m sorry, but you simply cannot win a Premiership with a bunch of kids.’

Edgar found himself taking a cautious step backwards from the small group, who all calmly smiled and returned to her conversation.

To his left, Edgar noticed a line of blurry images appearing further along the bridge.  Although not sharply defined, he could clearly see the lower parts of several torsos; complete with white socks, blue shorts and football boots.  Behind him came the sound of the English National Anthem, mixed in with a second, rousing song about some lions being situated on a shirt.

Nervously, he reached to his left shoulder and clicked a button.

‘Bill? I think we may still have a problem…’

© Kev Milsom (2013)