|Posted on Thursday, September 04, 2003 - 09:59 am: |
Life's laundry is a programme on UK television where individuals have their life's obsessions and collections put out into the back garden where they decide what to discard - so that their life is re-generated, clarified, un-cluttered.
I sometimes look at my shelves and shelves of books and contributor's small press copies and yearn to send them out with the dustmen, in the hope of starting from scratch with a clean slate. Starting Proust for the third time...
Anyone else had this yearning, lately?
|Posted on Friday, September 05, 2003 - 07:54 am: |
I have done some laundry of that kind recently. Living in a smallish apartment with two wee kids, one enormous dog and a spouse leaves little room for the eleven bookcases and stacks of dust-collecting books that annoy aforementioned spouse.
So I spent most of a day giving each book the third degree:
*Did I read you yet?
*Did I enjoy you?
*Why are you on my shelf? Because I'll reread you? Because your spine looks good- has an appealing aesthetic beside that other book there?
In the end, I had a huge pile of books and mags to get rid of. Some went to my doctor's office, some sat on the sidewalk in front of my house (they were all taken by curious passers-by). Some went to the second-hand store and well, a lot are in the trunk of my car, waiting for a good home. It's nice to know that I've set some free to be enjoyed by others, rather than just sitting around doing nothing but worsen my dust allergy.
It was a great purge and it feels good now to know that the stuff I've kept is meaningful, but more importantly: there is now room for MORE!!!
|Posted on Saturday, September 18, 2004 - 12:39 am: |
I need some more independent sites fruitfully to share the increasing traffic here (and to take up (in a tiny way) the strain of the huge web space needed for this life's laundry project of mine):
If any of you or your friends/contacts are interested, I'd be grateful if you or they could please contact me here:
|Posted on Tuesday, October 12, 2004 - 11:37 am: |
As some of you may know, I've been going through my huge collection of small press contributory copies so as to scan stories I haven't got on disk - for the all-consuming project gradually being itemised in the contents here:-
and loading the actual whole stories to various blogs etc.
Anyway, tonight, I stumbled on a copy of 'Wonderlust' which originally had a cellophane-wrapped red lollipop stuck to the front cover. Well, the lollipop has become molten goo and seeped through all the pages. It's horrible! A blood-jammy watermark.
It's not all that old (1998 publication date) so imagine if I had left this exercise for a few more years...
|Posted on Tuesday, December 28, 2004 - 03:48 am: |
Life's Laundry: sorting out my confused published bibliograpy not only by title but bodily on free blogs etc.
Full contents lists already substantial here:
Some shorter works linked on this very thread to those very lists -- and today it's the following:
Visages of Jade
First published 'Dreams & Nightmares' 1991
“Ask for me in my head,” said the doll to her mistress.
The girl tilted it and allowed the liquid to drip from the slowly blinking eyes.
Her toys ever spoke back to her, after she had already articulated their words in the mind’s eye. The doll’s name was Myrtle. The teddy Teddy. The Jack-in-the-box’s she’d forgotten. The rocking-home never had a name at the outset, which didn’t seem to matter today as the weather was so hot and she was spending most of her waking hours in the outside. The sky was so blue and the trees so green, she thought she was in a children’s picture book. A pop-up one, at that.
Rag harlequins and hand-puppet pierrots were stuffed into the toy cupboards of her memory...
Her elder sister was lounging upon the sunbed, the green perspex peaked hat making her face even greener and stranger than the colour of the grass, the skin down to the sharply pink nostrils dyed a hallowe’en mask.
The younger girl shook herself free of thoughts and returned to Myrtle. The doll was staring uselessly into the sky, for her mistress had left her in a position where the eyes could but open. A silver helium balloon, freshly released from a birthday party nearby, resembled a jet-liner shark, but with the waggling of its tether soon became a sperm...
It’s strange the way Myrtle thought, thought the girl.
She was able to hear the shrill voices from beyond the end of the orchard garden.
The chants of oranges and lemons made them seem outlandish: faceless children celebrating the turn of someone’s epoch. She wished it’d been possible to invite her.
The elder sister revolved on her spit, baking nicely in the over-ripe sun. The dark verdure had by now stained down the neck in ribbed smuts of seaweedy ozone.
The younger girl tried to budge, hoping in the end that someone would turn her face downwards into the grass, for the brightness hurt.
|Posted on Saturday, January 08, 2005 - 09:06 am: |
Linked to and fro ... getting massively out of hand?
Comments welcome here.
Next piece of the jigsaw:
THE PICNIC PARTY
Published before, but where? - currently investigating...
Gushing Downs were peppered with picnic parties: a loom of dawnlight; twirling parasols; bright checked tablecloths spread over the greenest grass possible (possible, that is, outside the scope of a painting); wicker baskets brimming with edible goodies of every dietary persuasion; and joyful, sexy people.
"Nice day, Louise." A hand both saluted and shaded the sun.
"It'll be even nicer when the wine coolers arrive."
The voices of chirpy, dimply children mingled with the deeper grown-up sounds. The clink of glasses. The buzz of bee. The chomp of molars. The giggles of those deep in love with each other.
"It'll be great when the competition begins."
"Yes, it'll soon be time."
Any stranger might have questioned what competition was in prospect. Three-legged or egg-and-spoon races ... or both together? Tug of love? The loudest laugh? The furthest roll of the hoop? The fastest spin of the top with a cracking whip? The prettiest frock? The sweetest smile? The longest beard? The shortest? The ugliest pulled face? The biggest this, the smallest that? The most durable picnic? The maroon-party to beat all maroon-parties?
It was probably none of these. Whilst it wasn't, after all, any old stranger who questioned the prospect.
As a rubicund retainer arrived with cases of chilled white wine and amid the consequent hilarity surrounding the popping of corks, it gradually became clear to the stranger what exactly was to transpire. Each group of picnickers was sited beside one of the many natural geysers that abounded on the Downs. The openings were controlled by manual valves - and the intention was to release them in one fell swoop, whereby the winning group would be the one with the tallest and longest lasting fountain. Furthermore, a special prize was to be given for the fountain that emerged with the fanciest configuration.
As the sun dipped below the distant wooded hills, it spread along the horizon like thick cut marmalade. The wine corks took up new crescendoes of popping, as bonfire beacons were set alight across the Downs by each picnic group. Then, there was a secret starting signal (which was only obvious retrospectively to the stranger) - and the geysers were released in a perfect flashpoint of simultaneity. Some spluttered in short silver cascades or spirts of gurgling spray. Others were sufficiently tall to steal gold from the sunset and become gushing giants of myth and magic. A few, even taller, sported every colour of the rainbow plus colours unknown to the painter's palette. Yet, there was one geyser, the tallest of all, which lost its colour as it sprayed new-born stars across the darkening sky - and at the mountain-peak of its fountaining power, it formed a mighty dragon's head. The roar from the head's gargling mouth was incredibly even louder than the geyser which had originally given it birth.
The picnickers were cowed by the intrinsic, if short-lived, magnificence of such a white-water beast looming from the earth in cataclysmic contrast to the rearing tides of night...
After eventually packing their hampers, the parties wended their way home across the Downs, each jollifier with a blazing torch. The stranger followed, keeping himself to himself, and softly sobbing. He had stayed on the Downs long enough to watch the geysers being pent up within their rightful confines of dark earth - except, of course, for that single squirt the picnickers had forgotten to cap within its oubliette, one that continued spluttering, perhaps pathetically, perhaps otherwise, forming snowdrop petals in the marooned night. Tiny silver frostfish sparkling: sparkling, even, without light.
The stranger knew - despite the carefreeness of those erstwhile picnickers whom he followed - that the treasure which Dragon Earth greedily guarded was itself.
Having the sense of floating upon one among an archipelago of ice-carvings, the stranger shuddered with ultimate fear. The fear of self.
O Stranger, O Saint George.
|Posted on Sunday, January 16, 2005 - 03:10 am: |
Life's Laundry: sorting out my confused published bibliograpy not only by title but bodily on free blogs etc.
Full contents lists already substantial here:
Some shorter works linked on this very thread to those very lists -- and today it's the following:
First published ‘Samsara’ 1995
"It'll come with the music," thought Ann, her hands hovering above the piano-keys, as if she were to shake some fingers like drying clothes in the wind. Yet she settled at last to negotiate the onset of noise - whilst for moments of mindless panic she confused the notes she was due to wring from silence.
The rehearsal had somehow overlapped into the performance proper ... much in same way as when old memories became more immediate than those about to be newly strained from the impulse of now.
She could indeed empathise fully with the child she had once been: that girl in the tiny frock, a frock which an uncle had bought for her - he who might have been the man who was currently beaming up at her from the concert audience, given the right age.
As Ann's first public performance approached, that erstwhile child, with barely a sign she was female except for the tiny frock she wore, is who she is. What she was. Now the semi-fledged woman with fingers outstretched, poised for the greatest, if not most memorable, moment of her life...
The keys rang out like cathedral bells, rather than piano notes. A twisted Quasimodo of a carillon that woke an ancient city to an ancient war. A little girl squats in a puddle of dry mud - watching distant church pinnacles conspire.
This will be history. This is when.
Her parents are worried she is already an orphan. The war foreshadows black stains across the stone flags of the square, stuck with blood glue, bonefish bonding. Lengthening bread queues snaking across the old newsreels like celluloid poison. The air raids extending their range from dark into day; the girl's two brothers still sending letters dated months ago.
"You can stay outside - but directly you hear the sirens, you know where to go..." warns her parents.
Tiny Ann nods. And she idly squats in the city square. Most of her friends have grown out of mindlessness. Or grown into it. Whichever the case, Ann was different. Her doll sits beside her, already a quarter limbless. The doll's called Greta, but never replies. Perhaps the doll's name isn't Greta at all.
A man calls to her from across the empty square. She knows it's her Uncle, so she pointedly ignores his summon.
The older Ann remembered even as a child she had strange urges for something her body couldn't comprehend. Unblotted from her adult mind, the urges' echoes were knelled forth by the music she now played, amid the ondes martenot and the modern percussion. They became mistuned tarnishes, mistimed harmonics of image. The hall's ancient acoustics ranged from tickling nostril hairs to vibrating the eyeballs, via a stomach's thunder chamber. The sounds of the piano concerto were intended to convey a war machine. Avant garde. Ultra-modern. Jaggedly loud. Yet Ann's ears were the last organs to be penetrated by the furore, that hubbub which was created around her solo audit trail of the piano. Created by the orchestra's accompaniment. And the sirens. Whistles. Drumrolls of doom. The wurlitzer's bellows.
In the old days - before Ann was even a child, even before the alternate wars - keyboards and silent flicks were pitmates ... cueing and queuing and pursuing the monochrome marionettes, those dumbsters squashed to the vertical square ghost like flat people dying to act out their insectoid fictions - painfully unsticking as they waded through films of aspic.
The war waif is no doubt prone to some regressive echoes of the future - performing a would-be woman's self - when she is tempted to leave the ancient square along with that uncle with the sneaky snakey fingers ... perhaps knowing instinctively that, one day, she will need to have been early-primed to carry forward a performing artist's soul: thus to spice up the biography or get the tongues wagging or make her sensitive to the abuse of existence or ease her ability to convey human passions or masquerade as a pinch-fingered lustling with two raw-puckered mouths. Whatever the case, upon that day of war, the square's siren fail to work...
The man in the audience, the one who looked like her uncle, smiled as the piano concerto reached its violent climax. Yet when the soloist raised empty eyes to accept her due ovation, he felt her gazing directly upon him. Why him? Who was he? Why did he feel a stranger to himself? Nevertheless, he brought his flippers together with loud smacks. Punished hands slapping together didn't sound that odd, however, amid the seamless applause. Tomorrow the concert hall, which doubled as a cinema, was to show an Greta Garbo silent. Full of the motion of white-patched shadows: including a face and body that had been peeled from a different square of ghosts.
The tiny girl's hands - those prayer-held amputees of a siren's failure - are suddenly unable to fend off the rebirth of future's solid memory.
"It's come with the music," thought Ann as she was wheeled backstage by the conductor. She drooled a spittly wad of cream, having found deep within her something she'd never really lost. The only music that a performer with stumps could play properly was that requiring bold raucous dabbing at random multiples of keys, an Avant Garde piece being a Godsend for crippled souls or for those with blurred thinking, dull hearing, blank looks, corrupted tongues and dumb sex.
|Posted on Tuesday, January 25, 2005 - 12:11 pm: |
The e-publication of all my previously published-in-print stories is still in progress and this is just one of the sites involved. I'm told by many that the Internet is just as permanent as print - with as much ongoing provenance. So, this exercise in providing vehicles or berths for my fiction is, ostensibly, a way to establish and codify my work forever (even though a lot of it is worthless) - because, previously, much was published in hard-to-find or 'amateur' small-run publications as well as in professional ones.
I don't know if I believe this about permanence! So, the absurd series of blogs etc. carrying my huge back catalogue of previously published stories is, in many ways, a paradoxical or Dadaistic attempt to destroy the whole concept of doing it in the first place. The contents are shown here: http://www.weirdmonger.com
In any event, I hope some of you read the stories and (heavens!) enjoy them. I don't expect anyone necessarily to read this huge overall exercise in story posting or pay it any attention at all. It's more a 'happening' from the Sixties (during which era of time my artistic leanings were formed)!
I require no payment other than telling people about the sites - and/or commenting to me about the stories you happen to read. Thank you.
And so to the next re-publication, an excerpt from:
Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds
First Published 'Nemonymous' 2002
|Posted on Wednesday, February 02, 2005 - 12:16 am: |
This crazy scheme (which does, however, bring chance travellers here by the electronic coach-load) has a full contents list and explanation here:
Half a Sixpence
First published ‘Crypt of Cthulhu’ 1993
The child lifted its poppy face mock half-heartedly to the heaven of its mother’s face and stammered out: “I love you more than all the money in the world - plus sixpence.” There was much giggling at the in-joke’s addition of sixpence - followed by the near religious occasion of “Listen With Mother” on the BBC Home Service. Are you feeling comfortable? Then we shall begin. Once upon a time, the world was covered in houses. On each house there stood a climbing-frame which was called a Roof, after its inventor’s name. There were forces normally outside our reality that fancied these Roofs as roosts. They arrived from the sky - clucking kites with flapping wing-spans that were out of proportion to the rest of their bodies. And no bellies to mention. These tended to perch and preen themselves, but only when darkness was darker than their own bodies. It was their scrabbling claws on the slates that gave them away to the slumberers within. Some said these were the Ancient Ones from a mythology beyond the reach of the previously oldest mythology. The child half-slumbered in its narrow cot. The nursery fire had long since diminished to the smallest petal of flame and, as the house of ashes crumbled into the grate, with a dying whimper, the half-child heard the tell-tale scuttling across the Roof to the bay window. “Kuth-loo, Kuth-loo” came the message from the slate-shuffling creature’s wrinkled lips, whilst pursing a deadly sucker to the frost-crazed glass. And the half-child whispered back: “Tick tick tick tick…” like the deadened beat of the unwound nursery clock. The Ancient Ones took fright at the horror which under-breathed the half-child’s voice and the dire implications that were there held for Mother Earth. The oldest Ancient One took wing from the half-child’s Roof, heading for even older parts of mythology and reality -- and squawking fit to wake up the world, it led the wings of its compatriots as if they were the flirtatious tail of an infinite kite. They despaired at the fate of those human beings left behind, dreaming beneath old Mr. Roof’s contraptions. And maybe the houses knew something about it all. Whatever the case, the world dies a little bit extra with each entropic tick of the clock. That is what we call life - give or take an odd sixpence.
|Posted on Thursday, February 10, 2005 - 11:59 pm: |
Another teeny-weeny bodily example below of the contents listed and linked lengthily here:
Some people tell me I'm squandering my past print-published work in this way? My feeling is that the Internet is so fragile, this bodily representation of my work electronically is merely a menu for my work rather than a re-publication of it. True reading is in print.
First published 'Red Eft' 1997
I always called it Blubby; there in my bedroom even when it wasn’t.
The word “always” should be used sparingly; nevertheless, my bedroom, at the end of the day, was always haunted by a universe of ghosts. Three types of ghosts in the main: ghosts that came, ghosts that went and ghosts that stayed. Whilst Blubby was simultaneously all three, I got to know it better when if was none of them: labelled Blubby because of its state of amorphous obesity: spectral swags of greyness threaded through with engorged filaments of carnal ectoplasm.
When I asked others about Blubby, they denied all knowledge of if, but that was only after denying their own existence. Given their consequent inability to have knowledge about anything at all, I gave no credence to such information, even to that regarding my own existence, let alone Blubby’s.
They called me by a name to which I didn’t answer. They also managed to get my gender wrong when wielding pronouns, pronouns always being used to avoid a clumsy repetition of the head-lease noun. Pronouns, too, are often small slippery creatures: wes, hes, shes, theys and its all swarming from the skirting-boards like rats or insects or things with characteristics of both.
“You are Blubby,” they said, using ‘you’ for the first time, all pronouns being pseudonyms for bodies. And, streaked with rashers of a pork soul, the act of being sick was like breathing...whilst pest-packs of phantom fought tooth and nail for their genderful of first person flesh.
Eventually, as ever, it called me Mister Blubby.
|Posted on Saturday, February 26, 2005 - 02:00 am: |
Presented in conjunction with Numinous Megazanthus
First published 'Night Owl Network' vol 2 No 13 (1993)
It had been raining for hours on end. But what in heaven was “it”?
I discovered the man hanging from a large tree. The sodden ballooning of the white parachute trailed above him, punctured here and there by branches. I was near enough to guess that his boots dripped blood as well as rain-water. In the middle of Coulsdon, this was a strange occurrence, to say the least.
I looked to see if anybody else of the human persuasion was in the vicinity. There was no surprise in realizing that the force-ten winds of the earlier storm had cleared most of the suburban streets, their full effect having lasted past most people’s bedtime.
I knew the parachutist was not dead, since he was attempting to pull off his boots: a strenuous activity which sent showers of what must have been icy spray upon him from higher branches and, with each groaning tug, the white fabric began to gape with ferocious snagging noises. He would soon topple to the pavement, a good few yards beneath him, far enough to damage a bone or two.
I wondered whence the blood was seeping until, in the increasing light of the declipsing moon, I discerned a black stain down the length of one of his sides.
He had not noticed me witnessing his progress. After all, soon after encountering the sight, I had camouflaged myself behind another tree. An enemy parachutist had been my first illogical assumption.
But the Second World War had been over for forty-five odd years . . . and the other wars which were still proceeding these days across the surface of the Earth were certainly not anywhere near Coulsdon (or even Purley).
I tried to reconcile my feelings. I knew I was a sane person. I worked for an insurance company, so I must have been. On the other hand, here I was roaming benighted Coulsdon when I should have been in my snug togetherness of a bed. Perhaps this alien parachutist was nothing but me dreaming.
Throwing caution to the receding wind, I came out into the open and called to him:
“Are you OK? Shall I call an ambulance?”
There was no reply. The tree had become bereft of any strange, anachronistic inhabitant whatsoever. The wind resuscitated fitfully. The uncanny rustling of the branches made me shiver.
A jumbo jet droned heavily across the clearing sky like a UFO moving gently above a foreign planet, intent on making landfall at Gatwick. Even at the depth of night, pilots stayed awake, matchsticks propping up the midget chutes of their eyelids like frozen ripcords.
For a reason of which I comprehend no more the cause than I know where we are all going on this strange traveller planet called Earth, I wept uncontrollably. The man was beyond help.
Eventually, I squelched home in my wellingtons. It was already whitening from the direction of Croydon. But what in heaven was “it”?
|Posted on Saturday, March 12, 2005 - 09:29 am: |
From 'The Sterling Web' 1991
Linked to and from: http://tinyurl.com/6rn47
Douglas walked the whole park but failed to find one bench upon which to sit. Come to think of it, there seemed to be nobody else out taking a stroll this sunny Sunday morning, for an inner city park such as this one.
Memories are made of a whole series of fleeting images, often cohering mistakenly into a false picture of the past but rarely do they readily come together and form a reality that is close to the truth. For Douglas, this was one of those rare days. He had risen at the break of dawn, exactly 5 o’clock, give or take a few minutes. There being no reason to wake at this ungodly hour, he decided that was reason enough for him. A late riser by nature, he was surprised at his own agility of mind as he dressed before the open window. It was going to be a beautiful day, one of those unbroken periods of blue, orange and green. He gazed at the cluttered roofs opposite and imagined that the chimney stacks were elatedly stretching higher into the silk of the sky.
He breakfasted of a raw egg whipped into goat’s milk and thin bread that had curled at the edges under the grill. His wife, who had been sleeping in a separate bedroom, could be heard snoring. She’d probably only come in a couple of hours earlier from a night out with her friends. He wondered whether he should wake her with a nice cup of tea, as a peace offering, but decided against it. He would go for a walk in the nearby park, clear away the few remaining cobwebs from his eyes and, perhaps, on the way back, treat himself to one of those Sunday newspapers that come with a colour supplement.
The front door slammed behind him, just as he remembered forgetting the key. He cursed. He would now be dependent on his wife letting him back in.
The sun had now revealed itself for what it was, resting upon the terraced roofs of that street broadside to his own. It was an exploding citrus fruit balloon kept from floating away by the spikes of the TV aerials.
As it rose even higher, it seemed to spread along the slates like the jowls of a circus clown called Marmalade. As he passed into College Street, Douglas suddenly thought that none of this was actually happening. Or, if it was, none of the rest of his life had.
The park was further down College Street than he remembered it. Its original gates were now the entrance to a factory making raincoats. They were locked, of course, being Sunday. Further along, there was a large rambling house called Nomicos Inge, which appeared to bear a roof entirely made up of chimney stacks, making him think that all the rooms inside must be complete with at least four open fireplaces each, with the consequent number of chimney breasts. Some of the smaller rooms would have fireplaces staring eye to eye, breast to breast, with no room at all for family evenings round the piano.
He raised the knocker from the heavily soot-stained wood of the front door, but then let it drop with a shudder: it had been carved from coal and depicted a devil’s face...
He ran on down the road towards where he hoped the park gates would be found.
The railings enclosing the treed area looked as if they could go on forever, the ribs of their shadows shuttling across his face. The iron gates turned up at the corner of Bay Crescent, much taller than the railings to prevent people climbing over when the park was meant to be shut. Luckily, they swung open to his touch.
Douglas knew something was right. He had been feeling natural ever since he got up at that earlier ungodly hour. It was as if all the strangeness that had permeated his life heretofore had dissipated under the relentless heat of the strengthening sun. The trees closed ranks as he passed between them, hiding the park benches but not preventing the direct gaze of the sun to find him. In the distance, he heard police sirens, wail after wail, as if the emergency was never ending. Or could they be fire engines, racing to a chimney fire? Surely not on such a hot day.
Finally, he sat down with his back to a tree trunk. He could just see the distant steeple of a church, pointing like an old-fashioned rocket ship toward the open heavens. Distantly, he could hear its bells ringing ... for this, he recalled, was Sunday, the last time he bought a newspaper.
He loosened his fingers. One actually came off in his hand at the root but, luckily, did not bleed. Douglas relaxed. It was good to feel so right. Pity he had not woken his wife with a cup of tea, after all.
|Posted on Wednesday, March 16, 2005 - 12:45 am: |
Just to confirm - I've just completed a Spring Clean of all my many 'Numinous Megazanthus' blogs, with my real name now more in prominence.
Also, there will be no further stories on the TTA or Night Shade message board threads, but those stories already posted on them remain linked from the overall contents list at:
and will remain thus as long as these stories remain on these particular threads.
|Posted on Friday, March 10, 2006 - 01:06 am: |
New story written last night as a speed-writing exercise at my writer's group - given the title picked from a hat. Here it is unchanged:
Penguins At Midnight by DFL
When he talked to himself, he very rarely listened. Being lonely made him feel rather good, inasmuch as silence and lack of company insulated him within a cocoon of self – and the world’s pain couldn’t cross that silence, collecting outside the silence looking in, powerless to touch him through the silence.
Amid the silence, he had his own peculiar and irritating habits as he watched himself in the corner of the room dressing up as all sorts of creatures. He knew he was immune even from his own behaviour, being so utterly lonely – loneliness being the strongest anaesthetic. He watched himself as creatures from the zoo, many animals or reptiles or birds, often all at the same time. Loneliness was a multiplying force as well as a numbing one. There he was in the kitchen dressed in his lion suit and now he watched himself coming down the stairs wagging a trunk from side to side and simultaneously he heard loud noises from the toilet as a swamp creature conducted its ablutions – and as the evening wore on into night, he saw the two thousand wings of a thousand birds – and upon the stroke of midnight waddling penguin suits crossing the moonlit lawn outside the window.
He was immune. Against the disease of mind or body. Perfectly insulated. By the security of silence. By loneliness. By the loneliness of madness screening out the same madness. But one day – following the march of several versions of himself as various wading birds – he suddenly felt decidedly iffy. He tried to warn himself to get a doctor quick but, as ever he wasn’t listening. Or couldn’t listen because of the silence. And so he never knew he was a dicky duck with flu and no quack.
|Posted on Friday, March 10, 2006 - 01:11 am: |
Above now listed here on the Weirdmonger Wheel:
|Posted on Friday, March 10, 2006 - 08:39 am: |
Coincidentally, this afternoon, I read DH Lawrence's story THE MAN WHO DIED which concerns a resurrected Christ facing his own Aloneness by the symbol of a single bird.