Fuck Perfection...

With so little left unwritten in the age of media, I miss my little black book of pure blankness and inspiration. There is something uniquely stimulating about the purity of a fresh page of a private journal. Paper has no distractions or status and can sincerely hold a secret for a lifetime.

My pen was once my magic wand inked with freedom of expression. Writing gives an energising power of confidence with the ability to create a completely new world. It is an escape to one’s own dimension: a lawless Utopia.

The delete button is unforgiving and permanent. Mistakes can be beautiful. Perfection can be shallow. The novelty of laziness is wearing thin and I am no longer enjoying the speed of this digital-bandwagon.

Appreciation for a ‘quirk’ forever hidden is exclusively rewarding, yet self-approval is much more desirable. There is nothing more pressurising than trying to be distinctive when you are competing with a ‘Spelling and Grammar’ tool.

Therefore, I vow to stay faithful to my book of shadows. No more ‘backspace’. It is time to make loud mistakes.

Dear You...

Dear reader,

I declare,

These words fall for your eyes only.

Decipher them with care.

Interpreter,

Open mind,

These sentences are laced with you;

Selective and refined.

Scrutinizer,

Please empathise.

Understand this open prose,

With liberal eyes.

Dear you,

Do you object,

To a feeling shared in confidence,

And desire to connect?

Mirror, Mirror,

Ruminate.

Read between the lines.

Elaborate.

Beneficiary,

Deduce this rhyme.

As sheer gratitude,

For your time.

<3

Dog Days...

Summer creeps upon us, eloquently still,

Pushing past April showers, thawing out the chill.

Nature changes colours, dewdrops seal the glade,

Dark nights fade to orange dusk and dog days are made.

Dig Yourself Out Of This One, Gem...

I am having one of those days where I want to change the world but I cannot be bothered to move. With a million ideas running through my mind, it is difficult to focus on one particular idea for long enough to take action. I have spent the sunniest day of the year staring into space, transfixed on motivating myself into a more constructive state of mind, however, with my thoughts so far away, before I had chance to put on my working shoes, the sun had set behind the mountains.

Digging the grass up from the back garden was not one of my well thought out plans. We had a decent enough lawn to begin with, but me being me, I want to put my on stamp on our residence having moved home eight times in ten years.

We moved to this adorable flat exactly one year ago and this move was by far the most exhausting. I had settled at our last address but due to our house needing serious repair and a landlord who had no interest in making those repairs, we had no choice but to pack up and go once again.

I am grateful to have found such a quirky little home for our quirky little family and the condition of the property is a much-deserved relief from the majority of our past residences, but homesickness hit hard and despite how blessed I feel for finally finding a place to call home, unsettlement was taking a heavy toll.

We are lucky to have three, lovely gardens around our flat, all of which only needed some TLC. We spent a small fortune, last year, on prettying up the bare essentials, but I have a highly addictive personality and I have found a love in restoration and landscaping.

The day I first dug a spade into the lawn was inspired by the outbreak of Spring. Having being grounded to the settee through a harsh winter, the freedom the garden offers was a sanction well needed.

I cannot sit and do nothing. I find it impossible to sit back and relax, so sunbathing on the patio is certainly not for me! So, armoured with sunshine and freedom, I began to dig…, dig…, and dig! It seemed like the perfect way to occupy my time.

What I had not prepared for was the patio that I was about to unearth. 24 square metres of concrete blocks to move by hand is a mammoth task for a 5ft little me. One month, blood, sweat, tears and severely bad language later, the once half-decent lawn now looks like an excavation site and it is difficult to imagine it looking any differently in the near future.

As I said, I have millions of ideas, but standing in the equivalent of a half-dug swimming pool, it is unfeasible to find a starting point. With piles of concrete dumped sporadically around the place, a mound of unneeded clodges stacked high and a neighbour who, to say the least, hates my guts, inspiration and my lack of strength is massively frustrating.

I hope to have the garden looking acceptable within the next month. That requires plenty of Weetobix!

High Expectations From A Warped Childhood!

I believe that our understanding of a fairytale’s moral warps with wisdom. I used to believe that happily-ever-afters involved white horses and palaces. My visualizations were illustrated by Walt Disney and I was influenced to imagine adulthood to be garnished in pixie dust.

Despite my hardest efforts, I have yet to find the Yellow Brick Road, although I do wonder if that was actually a euphemism for the M4.

The reality of my flying carpet is my R Reg Fiesta with a rusted exhaust, and no matter how fast it rattles, it absolutely refuses to leave the ground. It does not resemble a pumpkin in any way, shape or form and is certainly not a lovable bug!

I thought about robbing from the rich, once, but with private bank accounts being far more popular than treasure caves, I would just look silly swinging on a rope through Buckingham Palace in green tights.

When I was a child, nobody told me that breaking into chorus in public places does not necessarily mean that everybody will join in, in perfect harmony. The closest I have come to this is 20,000 fans chanting ‘You Fat Bastard’ at a football match!

I was very unaware of the consequences of knocking back the contents of mysterious shot glasses labelled ‘Drink Me’. However, the possibilities of Wonderland do have an impact on my weekends!

Living in Wales would suggest that our local wildlife consists mainly of dragons. Perhaps evolution doomed these creatures into extinction, but the likelihood of finding anything that breathes fire in these forests is still to be desired.

The expense of Christmas suggests that Santa only exists for naughty children…

A spoonful of sugar has little positive effect on Ritalin…

Goofy was actually a cow crossbred with a human and whichever was you try to justify that, the conclusion always leads to an unbearably horrific birth!

Shrinking your kids is not seen as good parenting!

Perhaps magic mirrors would be a great invention as a source of knowledge if Google were not such a convenience.

Bears do not appreciate tickles!

If animals could speak, would they really have American accents?

It is no wonder that hallucinogenics are classed as illegal substances in America, today. Walt Disney set such high standards for women to be a size 6, McDonalds was steering into liquidation!

…One last thought… An elephant with small ears would look rather odd, don’t you think…?!

Silence is anything but golden...

I have feared silence since as far back as I can recall. Not REAL silence. I do not think I have ever witnessed true silence. The silence that I fear is noisy silence, where everything that usually goes unheard echoes sharply.

In the dead of night, when the TV is on standby and everybody else at home is deep in dreams, this room seems to awaken. Unfamiliar sounds make my muscles tense and my nerves twitch, and I feel exposed to something that I do not understand.

This realm of silence fuels my thoughts into echolalia and words chant in rhythm to my breaths, forming melodies of repetition and annoyance.

Within this paradox of silence, restless with paranoia and agitation, I find solace with ink and paper. It helps to release unease, distracting my attention from reality.

Writing diminishes my fears and mutes my awareness of the shrill sounds of stillness….

Without it, I am afraid.

☮