“We were never really born, we will never really die. It has nothing to do with the imaginary idea of a personal self, other selves, many selves everywhere: Self is only an idea, a mortal idea. That which passes into everything is one thing. It’s a dream already ended,” wrote Jack Kerouac in a letter to his first wife, found in The Portable Jack Kerouac. Continue reading
1. We can hold an instant in time in our hands with a photograph, and we can hold hours of time in our hands with a DVD. How fuckin’ weird is that?
2. The planets are moving further apart from each other at an increasing rate as space expands. If it’s just the continuation of the big bang, why is it speeding up not slowing down? Scientists don’t know and I think that’s COOL.
3. Because of space we carve objects into separate identities and give things their own names and attributes. Yet we ignore space most of the time when without it, there would be nothing to name. Poor ol’ space. Continue reading
‘You’re quoting Snoopy the Dog, I believe.’
‘I’ll quote the truth wherever I find it, thank you.’ – Donald Shimoda.
Illusions, by Richard Bach has quickly become one of my favourite books, warranting me to reach out to the author and thank him for writing it. He’s in his eighties now and kindly replied to my email: ‘So glad to know you found the story, and the characters and their ideas touched you. They’ve worked in my life for a long time. I hope they’ll be lifelong friends for you, too!’ Continue reading
It all started as a single thought. Doesn’t it always start that way?
I’d been feeling pretty good for quite a long time, but after the horrific bombing in Manchester, other world events and the way the media gobbled it all up excitedly, it was easy to let negative thoughts seep in. It’s life, it happens. But instead of greeting these emotions and moving them along, I invited them in for a cuppa. Continue reading
The vast majority of the writers I have contacted about the Letters to My Ex anthology have embraced the concept right away: it’s about women and connection. The letters are written to an unnamed, often male recipient, but it’s not about men at all.
A friend recently suggested it might be best to spell out the ‘what’s in it for me’ factor. Since I’ve had a few people write to me asking about payment (there’s no payment), I’m going to address this perfectly reasonable question. Continue reading
I cringe when I look back on any writing I’ve done where I talk about being fairly content in life, “Mostly happy, more centred than ever.” I don’t cringe because it’s a lie. I cringe because it paints only a partial truth – I am MOSTLY happy. You must not forget the MOSTLY. It was a fucking long road to get to MOSTLY from RARELY. Why am I yelling?
When I decided to start a women’s anthology, Letters to My Ex, I received a lot of positive feedback about the idea. I also received some remarkable letters – all written in first-person and addressed to an ex-partner, containing snippets of stories that varied immensely: from death and disease, to infidelity, abortion, to just a polite nod goodbye after a gradual drifting apart. Continue reading
A poem by Marie Howe.
I had no idea that the gate I would step through
to finally enter this world
would be the space my brother’s body made. He was
a little taller than me: a young man
but grown, himself by then,
done at twenty-eight, having folded every sheet,
rinsed every glass he would ever rinse under the cold
and running water.
This is what you have been waiting for, he used to say to me.
And I’d say, What?
And he’d say, This—holding up my cheese and mustard sandwich.
And I’d say, What?
And he’d say, This, sort of looking around.
I have come across something that made me less angry about religious zealots, which I thought I’d share. I believe in a “oneness” of us all, which I refer to God, but I certainly do not believe in a Biblical God. I don’t mind who does, as long as they don’t force their beliefs on others in a condemning, unfriendly, close-minded way. I just can’t stand it.
“There is something about yourself that you don’t know. Something that you will deny even exists until it’s too late to do anything about it. It’s the only reason you get up in the morning. The only reason you suffer the shitty boss. The blood, sweat, and the tears. This is because you want people to know how good, attractive, generous, funny, wild, and clever you really are. Fear or revere me, but please think I’m special. We share an addiction. We’re approval junkies. We’re all in it for the slap on the back and the gold watch, the hip, hip, hoo-fucking-rah. Look at the clever boy with the badge, polishing his trophy. Shine on, you crazy diamond, because we’re just monkeys wrapped in suits, begging for the approval of others. If we knew this, we wouldn’t do this. Someone is hiding it from us, and if you had a second chance you would ask, why?” – Jake Green, Revolver. Continue reading