Summertime

I hate to be the one who points this out, but June is now only eleven days away. This means there needs to be far more training to ride bikes in public than is currently the case, and there is now the commencement of quite serious planning for the #Soundtracking2018 and #Narrating2018 content on the YouTubes. Music’s easy, in that glorious honeymoon period where all songs with Summer in their title are fair game for playlist inclusion. However, that’s not our subject matter for the short story or additional content.

It is time to delve into the utterly bizarre shiz that lives a stone’s throw away from conventional memes and top informative content.

#GITM

My daughter loves her dank memes, and it was her who made this playlist possible. Some of the stuff she watches is truly bizarre, and once you hit those rabbit holes it can become very hard to get away without losing hours of life. When they say all human life is online, they’re not kidding… and the truly surreal nature of some of it is… well, just that.

Press Any Key

I’m really enjoying the preparation for next month’s content.

I hope there’s something within it to both educate and inform.

Electric Dreams

It had been a bit of a struggle to come up with a theme for June’s content, until an idea for the Twitter short story presented itself…

This week’s been a lot about how Online deals with reality and vice versa, and with a cracking idea now in the planning stage, it was time to start making the graphics and planning a way forward…

ALIAS.jpg

I’ll sort out the #Narrating2018 and #Soundtracking2018 titles in the next few days, but I severely doubt there’ll be any struggle coming up with suitable subject matters. The Internet’s a big place, after all. It’s also full of some QUITE RIDICULOUS STUFF.

The problem I forsee, at least is planning, is finding enough stuff other people haven’t shared about a bazillion times in the first place…

Poetry Archive :: Reflections

Last week I wrote poetry on Saturday night, and it was a HUGE success. Using a Spotify relaxation playlist as a prompt, two REALLY strong poems emerged after a couple of hours work, and this gave me all of Sunday to edit at leisure. On consideration, this is a decent way of improving craft going forward. Next week, therefore, I intend to write outside (and make the most of the Spring sunshine.)

I’m really pleased with this set of Haiku. It has a depth and breadth, plus covers the initial idea which inspired it: shining light on yourself, being capable of accepting faults and shortcomings, allowing means to improve and grow. I hope this new working arrangement brings more fruitful work in the weeks that follow.


Reflections

Prism, turning slow
Refracting intent: daylight
Pierces gloom within.

Corners enlightened
Dust blown, surface cleared, reset
Re-calibrate soul.

Look outside yourself
Redemption glitters; intent
Possibility.

Each second, strengthens
Internal belief: shifting
Impetus outwards.

This life, a mirror
Penance carried: salvation
Found in reflections.


Honesty

Yesterday’s estimate of novel editing completion was, unsurprisingly, somewhat generous. However, there’s a Bank Holiday Weekend coming up with lots of free time on the table, so it is not beyond the bounds of possibility to be done by Sunday night. That means giving some thought to the next project: it’s already percolating around my head, and there’s a Spotify Playlist to create as a result. Most importantly of all, there’s a cover.

Delayed Exposure.png

I’ve always envisaged a very simple cover for this story because my protagonist is incredibly black and white. As a result, this works on multiple levels. There’ll be some time next week spent building dedicated pages for my first Novel and this one here, so that not only can the process of writing be shared but also some insights into story and inspiration. It also forces me to start creating pitches for them both (a short synopsis of the plot) which will be needed going forward if I’m attempting to get someone to publish.

There’s a lot of enthusiasm and excitement at present for this part of my life going forward. There’s also a very real grasp of the potential disappointment and effort that will be needed to maintain positive and optimistic in the face of a very robust and competitive marketplace. I have no pretensions about any of this and am well aware of what will need to be done in order to succeed. The foundations are in place, and now it is time to start building.

I Have a Dream

Tomorrow, all things being equal, will be the last day of editing the Novel. After that, I’ll be creating a PDF of the whole damn thing and sending it off to people to read. If only it were that simple to get published, but sadly not. Once it’s done, and other people are seeing if it is enjoyable or not, there’ll be a chance to read this massive book to my right that tells me how to get it published, after which all hope of doing so will summarily vanish.

There’s a dream however that maybe, just maybe, it could all go to plan.

fingertheworld

If the desire to finger the World can be suppressed, albeit briefly, there is that chance. Confidence, which used to be the biggest stumbling block to progress, no longer worries. This is GOOD WORK, and there is genuine pride in what has been produced. Editing skills are light years better than was once the case. All in all, this is the best everything has ever been in terms of capability. Now it is time to capitalise.

There is also thought about what happens next.

I’ve picked the manuscript, will make a ‘new’ cover for it tomorrow, and after that, it’s all systems go. It’s another NaNoWriMo effort too, one that isn’t nearly as bad as previously recalled.

The second novel is already set to go.

Poetry Archive :: We Are Strong

An awful lot has changed in the last seven days. My arm has come forward in leaps and bounds (if that is an acceptable metaphor for an upper limb) to the point where I was able to do tiny press-ups yesterday. The long-term goal for fitness is to not worry so much about ability going forward but to become stronger in both body and mind. That one word is my ‘beautiful’: if I feel strong, anything is possible.

This week’s micropoetry, therefore, is dedicated to my own recovery and the prize of greater gains at the end of this rehabilitation period.


We Are Strong

Whatever may be placed ahead
To fill the mind with fear and dread:
Deep strength is found to overcome
Against all odds, each battle won.

There’ll come clear moments in this life
Where opportunity beats strife:
Grasp every chance to change your game,
Keep equilibrium maintained.

Hard fortress built around the fears
Protecting heart and soul for years:
Have courage, stand and break it down,
Elect new rulers, progress crowned.

Standing in these ruined remains
No longer shackled with own chains;
Turn right around to stare outside
Exorcise fright, let wisdom guide.

Become the architect of change,
Define redemption, now arrange:
Never forget, that We are Strong
Within this future, all belong.


March Short Story :: I Love You

This story was first published in 31 parts via Twitter during March. It is now reproduced now in a complete form, and a number of small edits have been added to improve narrative flow.

Enjoy.


I Love You

The last group of students chatter and squeal their way through the European History Gallery, more focused on mobile phones than the art their teacher brought them to study. In fifteen minutes, the Museum closes for another day, leaving only the security staff remaining within. There’s space in the room, marked off by temporary partitions, that finally can be filled. Alexis Grieg, Acquisitions Manager, has waited all month for this moment. Tomorrow, the newest piece of Museum content will finally be unveiled to the public, after months of speculation.

It is a controversial and divisive piece of European sculpture, which caused considerable debate even before being borrowed by the Museum from the collection of one of the richest men in Britain. Advanced ticket sales for the Gallery are at their highest level for several years. As July sun sets on London’s iconic skyline the sculpture is slowly wheeled from darkened basement; Gallery bowels to the only service lift, from back of building to its new, high prominence resting place. It is a journey of just under an hour, due to the fragility of the piece.

‘Icarus’ Wings’ is the last piece by celebrated Revolution artist Wilberforce Christie, completed weeks before death from natural causes aged 102. At his height in the 1960’s Christie was the wunderkind of British Pop Art: close friend of Andy Warhol, darling of Swinging London. His demise in 1994 was the least controversial thing completed in nearly thirty years. Everything else was either shrouded in contention or remains subject to various legal restrictions. He went to his grave carrying many secrets: this piece is very much a part of that mystique.

Finally, sculpture is in place with screens removed. This part of their job complete, Grieg and the rest of the Acquisitions staff retire back downstairs for a much-needed coffee and food break before the task begins of constructing a glass casing around flimsy parchment wings.

==

Only when it is clear that the staff are long gone, no-one remaining in earshot, do the wings themselves slowly stretch and rise; extension of the wingspan releasing tiny eddies of dust. It will be some time before the piece can move unrestricted, so time is of the essence.

The Gallery’s various inhabitants, previously immobile, slowly come to life with a new arrival. Renaissance art isn’t sure what to think of this odd interloper, 16th Century portraits awakening and observing in both confusion and disbelief. Impressionists are truly lost for words. Icarus rises above the already obvious waves of perceived snobbery: wings used to being abused and derided, part and parcel of their conception, construction and final completion. Born into the white heat of intense controversy, the delicate structure hides a cast iron soul.

When your wings are made from tax demands, sanitary towels and toilet roll, plus hundreds of other items that are daily thrown away, there is going to be some discussion on whether art is even an appropriate term to describe you. Icarus has heard it all, and knows how to react. Their owner spent considerable time explaining the ins and outs of the art word: highlighting perceived snobberies, various truths around why beauty has become the most subjective of discussion topics. Most significantly of all, Icarus’ patron’s devotion to them was obvious.

‘One day, I will let you be exhibited, and when that moment comes there will need to be preparation for the torrents of abuse and derision you will receive. These people do not grasp aesthetics, no real comprehension as to the significance of your creation. They are fools.’

The wings settle, preparing themselves for the worst.

Francesco Laurana’s pale marble bust shifts, before breaking into a smile: long, oval face tilting slightly in undoubted approval. Then their opinion is presented with a deep, rich Italian cadence: ‘Sei propria bella, cara.’

‘Beautiful’ is the last word wings had expected to hear uttered, a murmur of disbelief ripples up and down the main Gallery space. Figures in the Realism paintings are jostling at the edges of their gilt frames, looking for the best angle at which to view the newcomer’s form. The Neoclassical section is arguing amongst themselves at the significance of contemporary objects being utilised in any artistic setting. Both of the Impressionist paintings remind each other that they caused similar controversy when initially created, which is not a bad thing.

The Matisse turns to Kirchner, hearing the Impressionists’ mistaken belief they were in some way contentious, before bursting into a torrent of expletives. The French Polynesian woman in Gauguin’s landscape stares at the painting’s outburst, before putting hands over her ears. However, one part of the Gallery continues to remain silent. The space’s oldest resident, piece of Celtic Art from the 9th Century, simply hangs watching. The room slowly quells its animation, knowing it is difficult to hear the figure of Christ unless everyone is totally quiet.

The simplistic human figure stares at what counts as the apex of humanity’s expression and does not see a jumble of inappropriate objects pinned together. After thousands of years watching artists find means to express existence on the planet, this concept makes complete sense. No longer is art the preserve of simply the privileged or rich. Each day the Celt watches children as they stand in awe, making pictures on the devices that allow communication in an instant, unaware they too are creating their own expression. Everyone has now become an artist.

What makes objects in this Gallery any more or less significant than the children’s work? It is only the choice of those with enough money to possess past, claiming to show these works of historical enlightenment but more often than not exhibiting ownership as status and power. The Wings undoubtedly remain a product of this consumer-driven, disposable age. Its plumage is recognisable as what most would consider rubbish. From wing-tip to wrist, primary feathers and coverts appear perfectly engineered: beautiful and faithful reproduction without fault.

When the Celt speaks, an entire Gallery is stunned with its utterance:

‘You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, as much a symbol of your age as I am of mine. Between us now all art is measured and will be compared. I love you.’

Icarus’ frame shudders in response.

The murmurs begin almost immediately: frantic whispering between aesthetics, groups of historical landmarks in art and history are confused, uncertain. Has the Celt somehow lost it and gone mad? Is this rubbish-built interloper casting some kind of spell upon the Ancient One? Then, slowly, implication of these words begins to register with the more self-aware pieces. Art is simply a reflection of those who produce it. Beauty is measured individually by what is seen, how history considers significance. Substance is fleeting: passing, ephemeral interest.

The less alert works of artistry take their cues from those they trust: the newcomer might not look or feel like the rest of the Gallery, but that is not at issue. It is still very much art, only mirroring the world in which the sculptor lived and worked before he passed away. The gallery begins to move, facing Icarus as much as possible within their own artistic frames. One by one comes acknowledgement of sculpture’s presence as part of a collective whole. The Celt, as the oldest piece in the room, remains final arbiter of what is considered creation.

Having spent its entire sentient existence expecting to be ostracised the moment they had appeared in public, Icarus’ Wings still cannot believe what is happening. This acceptance from other art-forms alters the entire landscape, becoming increasingly easier to accept as truth. This is all that the sculpture has ever wanted or desired: espousal by its creator was implicit, comforting but not enough. Having accepted there would be derision and abuse wherever they were placed, to have this credence from their peers before the public have been admitted…

Icarus has come home.

For the first time ever, fragile sculpture shifts on its pedestal. Wings begin to extend and stretch, far further than they have ever moved: as they do there comes a sound never to be heard by human ears. It is the artistic embodiment of pure, unbridled joy. At their highest extension, the furthermost fragile feather constructed from toilet paper and string brushes an overhead LED spotlight.

In a moment, wing-tip bursts into flame.

==

As the fire alarm sounds, museum staff stare at each other in sudden terror.