Never Sent

I wish
there was a place we could just disappear,
to talk, to be close, without any fear,
of the world outside and their thoughts and sly glances,
of tomorrow and the days after and what they may bring,
just us,
the two of us,
alone.

So I could kiss you,
And not have the world matter.
Where our short passion could flower,
in loving need,
that was meant to remain secret,
and last days, not years.

But it does not, will not, exist.
So I cannot hold you,
and tell you that you are beautiful,
and wish you well with your life,
while I taste you.

I cannot share a secret with you,
in a moment,
and have you lock it away,
have you understand.

I can only write this,
and think of what is,
and what was,
never sent.

You know nowt, Ix-Snow / Knives-Out

This is a thought ramble. It will probably embarrass me later.

So I don't know. I don't know why I do things sometimes, and that's probably okay. Probably. Recently I did something, wrote something for a person on twitter that I don't really know (and that doesn't know me at all), but somehow...I thought I could help, since that person seems to be going through a hard time.

I don't know what it's like for others, but about my only gift is sometimes I can say things which, if taken in the right light, can make someone's day feel better. And I thought...well, I don't know how twitter works at all, but maybe if someone reads it, they'll feel a little better, inspired maybe, if I'm lucky.

I should also mention that most of the things I do that are "out-there" are done late at night, so I can regret them in the morning (it's like that for everyone, right?).

It's the first time I've put something out in the public domain. Well, where people have a chance of reading it anyway. I had fun doing it and I tied it in a pretty bow, which in retrospect probably camouflaged it from what it really was.

The result? No response. Not from that person, not from anyone else, in fact I barely know if anyone read it at all.

And then I realised...this is what it must be like for people.

Recently I'd been talking to some friends about how dangerous the internet is. Not in the regular ways, which we all know about, but in that these days with a lot of people creating things, many of them turn to the internet first. Whereas before most artists would start in the physical realm and build approval from family and friends, before moving onto a wider circle, these days it's just easier to put it online. In the Knives-Out arena.

Knives-Out is very dangerous for a sensitive soul, which is a trait almost endemic to creators. People who parcel off pieces of their heart, soul, and mind for other people are naturally very exposed by this process, and Knives-Out can cut to the quick. And a couple of days ago, I got my taste of it.

I didn't even experience any knives, just the internet equivalent of a Blank Stare...which, I suppose, is probably for the best. Don't get me wrong, I've had things out there before, but generally speaking I tend to sharply limit my exposure, and I hadn't done something this far out before.

It really made me glad, though. Glad that my preferred route isn't the aether of the electrowaves, where you can rise high and fall low on a whim, but rather the tried and tested book-in-hand world. The drawback of that is it mostly relies on a finished product, but I think, in retrospect, that's not such a bad thing. I like talking to people, but I don't like instability in what I am. If I turn out to be a crappy author, so be it, but if I rose and fell on the passing whim of internet wanderers...well, I don't think I would endure that very well at all.

What do you think? Knives-Out or the Ruthless Realm of 'irl'?

Faith

I've decided to revisit a story I started a few years ago, which is basically a love-letter to my younger self, at least to begin with. The simple dreams of youth, the wanting to be good at things, and thinking that being great academically could get me into a great university and somehow put my life on a track that would mean I'd end up doing all the things I wanted. A job doing things I was interested in, mixing with people who inspired me, being successful, etc etc.

I started it as a way to try to sort my life out. To somehow correct the mistakes of the past by creating a story that fulfilled all those ideas that I ever wanted. That would somehow break down all those walls that made me feel like a failure and close the door on the past, while opening the path to the future. It could be a great story too, don't get me wrong. Sure it'd be a little potter like, but there were many versions of that type of story way before that behemoth graced fantasy literature.

But what I'm discovering as I write this story, is that something is really wrong inside me. I've always been hopeful and optimistic, while being rather cautious of investing myself into something. I liked to think of myself as a cynical idealist, expecting the worst but hoping for the best.

Now, however, I'm feeling something different. I'm realising that carefree, lighthearted, faithful me has long been warring with something else inside, that cascade of crushed dreams and expectations that have been swirling around inside me for a long time. And the older I get, the more my optimism peels away to reveal this morass of sadness eating away at me. I don't get excited for things, I don't invest in them any more. Sure you might say that's natural as we get older, we're no longer kids running around being amazed by everything.

But shouldn't we be? Isn't life amazing from 0 to 90? Or do we hit 21 and slowly have to step into this rote abyss where life becomes about working to gain the things we want. Money bringing material things, cars, houses, even relationships and spouses. Sure, we all need to eat, but what are any of those things to what we really want to do. What we really dream of.

Running faster than the wind, speaking to a million people at once and inspiring them, reaching for the stars, and beyond. Being able to giftwrap an idea and hand it to someone. Getting the world to stop, and just listen to each other, and realise there's a better way to do it all.

And somehow, I want to take my faith away for a moment and just look at what is left. To take out that parcel of sadness and not ask anything of myself, for that hasn't worked in some time, but to look at it and get angry again. To invest emotion into the thing that I most hate about myself, the only thing that has been standing in my way the last decade, the biggest part of me that deserves to be denied.

Because I'm not going to be a failure forever. That's not going to be my life. And if I can't get to a place where I finish the one thing that won't make me feel like that anymore, I'll try something else. And then I'll try something else. And then another thing. But it won't be too many, because that ball of faith is still going to be there. And that tells me this world was made for believers, believers in people, believers in themselves, believers in the world. Believers in life.

So I might be older now. No sweat. The real life is going to start now. I didn't do it while I was "young", fine. I'm going to do it better now that I'm older. Because I have more than half my life left and I'm going to get my money's worth.

I have faith.

Reading

~ In an effort to prevent this becoming the blog of ultimate whining (the read version of the bog of eternal stench), I've rehauled this post. ~

Recently a friend of mine made a little post on why one should read a lot as well as write. I decided I didn't want to churn up her comment section with my thoughts, so instead I'll place them here.

I don't read a lot these days. That's not because I don't want to or don't have time to, I do. The main reason (other than I now have the attention span of a gnat on crack) is actually the same reason I write; what I want, how I want it, isn't out there.

Now I've read great books and amazing stories, I've even read things I feel are perfect and that I would hold up as an example of what I want to write. And while those writings are vastly superior to mine, they're still not done exactly as I would do them. They may be awe-inspiring and speak to the bones of my soul, but what I want from a book isn't all I want to write. The message, the heroes, the romance, the darkness, may all be in there in a way I dearly love, but the way I will write those same things will be different.

So why is that a reason why I don't read? Bluntly put, I reached the point where I needed to put what I wanted to read, out there.

That isn't to say I feel I've read enough, as I'm not very well read at all. Fantasy was always my genre and rarely anything else though, so when I started writing what I wanted, I also stopped reading a lot of it. I should branch out and enjoy other book types, but somehow I just don't end up doing that. I start something and then it just doesn't grab me, and I'm in the middle of at least three books right now, and have been for over a year.

I think I would like to read a good book, whatever it's about. The problem is, I'm just too lazy to find one ;)

Steele & Butler (2)

Ashan returned after a moment, carrying a tray of still sizzling sausages and bacon, with hash browns and something else on the side. He laid the table, complete with a serviette across Jane's lap, and then stepped back. "Will ma'am be requiring anything else?" he asked.

Jane cut a piece of the sausage and popped it in her mouth, chewing slowly. "What are these, Ashan?" she asked, pointing her knife towards the something else.

 "Beans, ma'am," Ashan replied.

"I know they are beans, Ashan, why are they on my plate?"

Ashan tilted his head slightly up and to one side and then down again. Which, through long observation, Jane had learned was his version of a shrug. "I heard they were good for you, ma'am. I thought you might like to try them. Apparently, they are vegetables, a new discovery or so I've heard."

Jane gave the butler a long look. "I will try these beans, Ashan, on the condition that they do not appear on my plate again," she told him.

Ashan sighed ever so slightly. "Very well, ma'am," he said, adding under his breath, "perhaps the broccoli will suffice."

Jane gave him another long look and took another bite of the sausage, brushing the beans to one side. "Ashan," she said after a moment, "there is a young man leaning against the shop two doors opposite. Would you be so kind as to invite him into the lodge for me?"

Ashan's gaze swept to the window and beyond. "The one desperately trying not to enjoy himself?" he asked.

Ms Steele nodded. "That's the one."

Ashan straightened, a firm look coming into his eye. "Of course, ma'am. It would be my utmost pleasure," he said, and heading towards the foyer.

Jane's eyes returned to her food, and she ate with gusto, her novel tucked open under the rim of her plate. It was some time before Ashan returned and by then she was scraping the last of the beans away. The fork was half way to her mouth when she realised Ashan was standing by her shoulder. Resignedly, she ate the last mouthful, making a face for extra effect. "Well?"

"I've had him cooling his heels in the hall for just over ten minutes now, ma'am. Are you ready to receive him?" Ashan asked.

"Excellent. Yes, thank you Ashan," Jane said. She took a sip from her tea cup. "Please sit him down opposite me, if you would."

"Of course. I'll just be a moment," Ashan said with a short bow.

 

Ashan vanished and Jane's gaze returned to her novel. She read in silence, slowly turning the pages until a loud clink roused her back to the world. She looked up directly into the earnest eyes of the young man who had almost inadvertently marked himself as a target in a much larger game. He set down the spoon, an abashed look on his face and cleared his throat. “Ms Steele, I presume?”

Steele & Butler (1)

The tray was sparkling silver in the slanted beams of the morning. Ms Steele watched it come out of the corner of her eye, even as she turned the page of her novel, perched in her chair by the window. It was a comfortable chair, and the spot was perfect for her needs, even as she relaxed in the sun of the mediterranean summer.

The tray made a light ringing as the cover was pulled away to expose two scones slathered in butter and jam, accompanied by a small teapot, two cups, and three segments of orange. Jane smiled to herself and reached out to snag a feg of the orange, her hand snaking past the stream of tea.

"And how are things today, Ashan?" she asked the butler as she bit down on the orange.

"Things are very well, ma'am. Thank you for asking. And you, ma'am? Any adventures on the cards for today?" Ashan laid the tray on the small side table, and offered Jane the plate of scones, the underside neatly cradled by a napkin.

"That's the thing with adventures, Ashan," Jane said with a twinkle in her eye, "you're rarely given time to schedule for them," Jane smiled and took the proferred plate, biting deeply into a scone.

"Very wise, ma'am, very wise," Ashan said with aplomb. "Anything else I can get you this morning, ma'am?"

Jane squinted at the man, trying to determine whether he was ready to crack or not, but his calm face - not dour, she told herself again - betrayed nary a hint of his thoughts. "The usual, but hold the eggs, please," she said, and as he turned away, added, "You will smile for me, Ashan."

"I am smiling, ma'am," Ashan said with no trace of sarcasm.

Jane smiled and returned her gaze to her book, peering above her glasses out of the window. Seven. She shook her head. What was the director up to this time?

The window looked out onto the thoroughfare of a small but bustling seaside town in the middle of nowhere on the continent. Quaint and mysterious stores lined the cobbles streets, and holiday makers and sunny faced denizens alike wandered amongst them chattering in a mixture of languages and smiles. There was no discrimination here, whether new or old, everyone was a friend or friendly, which is why the short haired youngster with the frown on his face stood out like a sore thumb. Jane was quite sure that he was unaware how many other agents were in the crowd, or he would be terrified.

Jane caught her lip between her teeth in momentary worry, her hand resting against her thigh reassuringly. She shook her head then, and dismissed it. The lodge was a bastion in these wilds, unspoken protection against all sorts of hidden and not so hidden dangers that lay in her line of work, and it was unyielding. She yawned and wiggled her toes inside her soft leather ankle-high boots, and took another bite of the scone. Well, it was none of her business, at least not yet. Eight. She grit her teeth on a bite as the youngster looked at her again. The rookie was going to get himself killed.

Learning to fall again

I never thought I'd be this person.

I had a dream last night. I dreamt of a girl, someone I remembered having dreamed of before. My dream girl, as it were, sparkling in delight at seeing me again.

And I was reserved. Inside I overflowed with joy at finding her again but outwardly I was cool, reserved, matter-of-fact. And I realised that I had doubts. I had fears. I was wondering if I was right or if she wasn't actually the one. My dream girl. Sure she wasn't perfect, and was perhaps a little inebriated and giddy, but she was everything I wanted. And as her bright eyes looked at me, I felt a surge of joy, and then promptly began avoiding her gaze, turning brusque and businesslike.

To her question of why I didn't find her, I replied that she could hardly expect me to find someone who disappears so suddenly. Dream me is a real square, apparently.

It gets better. In the throng of the underground bazaar, I lost her somewhere, only to find later that she is in a ring about to begin a bout. The doorman told me that if I went up there, I would have to fight too. That gave me pause and I clearly remember my sense of helplessness, wondering what I could do. It apparently being obvious to myself that I couldn't fight.

Bruised and bloody, she ends up in my arms, as I carry her looking for someone to bind her wounds. I'm sure she runs a finger along my cheek before she disappears again. The dream shifts, but it hardly matters any more...


I never thought I'd be like this. Someone too scared to love again, too scared to try because it might not be right again. Someone who is all duty and responsibility, and sheds passion and energy like they are a dark plague. Someone afraid to fight for what he loves.

I think I have become a little too restrained. Repressing my desires and passions, my excitement and naked frustration, getting used to disappointment and all the while smothering my flame.

This is not the person that flew half way around the world for love. This is not he who marries happy and ridiculous with thoughtful and serious. This is not him that believes. Who takes hope as his eternal spring.

This is not me.

I refuse.


Next time we're going to fly. And I'm going to fall...

She who is

Storming as a thundercloud,

bitter smile to match,

shadow of the vaunted halls,

wake of ember and in ash

This is not your glory, no,

though fierce you oft may be,

huntress with a heart of gold,

that they will never see

Stirred chaos is no home to you,

some day will surely show,

the light that flares beneath the skin,

in burning afterglow

One day you'll blossom, screaming skald,

as every secret does,

and on that day know then as now,

that you are my beloved.

---

So the original version of this was quite different (or rather the final original), but I thought I'd include it anyway. A little more prosaic perhaps (and certainly less prophetic!), but although the end turned to romance it was more about seeing beneath the skin of a regular person and...wanting to tell them that they are seen.

Stalking like a thundercloud,

your scowl schooled to match,

you storm along the corridors,

cleaning up all the ash

But that is not your story, no,

though quiet you seem to be,

a huntress with a heart of gold,

is what they fail to see

For what you do is not all you are,

as some day will surely show,

the light that shines beneath the skin,

and leaves you all aglow

One day you'll blossom, pale and proud,

as every lady does,

and on that day know then as now,

that you will have my love.