tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33608503690703240862024-02-18T20:04:01.676-08:00One Monkey, One TypewriterThat's all we have, so I guess we'll have to settle for something other than Shakespeare.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger29125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-52838519196436750662013-05-15T06:40:00.001-07:002013-05-15T06:40:53.403-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So I got into Bartleby Snopes!<br />
<br />
<a href="http://bartlebysnopes.com/whatiknowisthis.htm">http://bartlebysnopes.com/whatiknowisthis.htm</a><br /><br />What I Know is This was published this week.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-71782177332840380412013-04-06T01:36:00.000-07:002013-04-06T01:36:45.522-07:00Two New Acceptances!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The first has been up awhile -- Five-Pin Split, at Menda City Press... great 'zine, really nice editor. Been trying to get in for ages, so pleased I managed it.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mendacitypress.com/22Pearce.html">http://www.mendacitypress.com/22Pearce.html</a><br />
<br />
And I just got word of an acceptance for 'What I Know Is This' at Bartleby Snopes. Again, I've been trying there for ages as well as trying to find a home for this piece for awhile, so stoked for that one too.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-54802535401398012472012-10-06T03:40:00.001-07:002012-10-06T03:40:51.286-07:00The Face of God<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Face of God, originally published May 2010 by Danse Macabre, reproduced here as their archives seem to have gone down...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Oh! I have slipped the
surly bonds of Earth<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His name was borne by three Kings of England, but he was a
humble man. Humble, but not a worker. Not for Richard the daily trudge. He saw
the gloom on the faces of the workers every morning, carrying their lunches and
newspapers like tokens. His mind was set on higher things, and he saw things
they did not.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And danced the skies
on laughter-silvered wings;<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He saw the joy in the world that they didn’t. Their
flattened stoop was anathema to him. In the grey, he saw colours, in the plain,
patterns, and in the flat, hills and valleys with rollercoaster curves. He
hopped and skipped from place to place to the beat of a drum he couldn’t
believe they were deaf to. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Sunward I’ve climbed,
and joined the tumbling mirth<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He complimented those who looked sad; often they recoiled,
but sometimes he sensed he’d done some good. He gave presents to those who
seemed needy; they were often rejected. He offered to let them join in the
games he played; they usually refused. He didn’t let it bother him.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>of sun-split clouds, --
and done a hundred things<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He collected things; sets. One day, everything he could find
that was orange, another day yellow. He had a stash, a treasure trove, carefully
categorised. Things people had loved, things that had been useful, things that
wanted to be reunited with their owners. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>You have not dreamed
of -- wheeled and soared and swung<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He wasn’t stupid. By their definition, he knew, he was mad.
By not sharing their nightmare, he placed himself outside it. But it was he who
smiled, who extracted joy from every mundane, ordinary day, as they would have
it. He communed with the world, with all of it. He was proud of the stalwart light-guards
on street corners, brightening the way and never complaining. He loved to run
with the four-legged barkers in the park; they always recognised him and loved
him. He thrilled to follow the maze laid out in the white lines, chased along
by a cacophony of horns. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>High in the sunlit
silence. Hov’ring there,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes he would just watch. Time around him would stop
and he would just stand and look, and take it all in. It was all so beautiful:
the colour, the movement, the shape, the form. A silent sunrise on a Sunday
morning, the people still tangled in sleepy blankets and strands of dream.
Rivulets of water cascading over the concrete kerb and into the drains, a
miniature waterfall. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I’ve chased the shouting
wind along, and flung<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Other times he would celebrate, running as fast as he could
and screaming at the top of his lungs: ‘I’m Alive! The World is here!’ He
couldn’t really get over the fact of the universe’s existence, its wonder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>My eager craft through
footless halls of air.... <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The children seemed to like him, seemed to understand him.
He had some small friends, from time to time. Inevitably, they were taken away,
mothers scolding. He didn’t mind so much, didn’t blame them. They were only
being protective, like ducks whose downy young found a churning weir entrancing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Up, up the long,
delirious, burning blue<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Richard didn’t allow himself to get too distracted, though.
He knew what he was here for, and he looked for it. He looked for it in the
chrome cathedrals of the silver underground stations, whose doors talked to
others as well as him. He looked on beaches, following piers out to get as
close to the horizon as he could, peering out. He looked in the night sky, at
the twinkling stars, trying to decipher their messages.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I’ve topped the wind-swept
heights with easy grace<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looked for it in plain sight. Often people completely
failed to notice he was there, and so he would sit and watch the suits and
mothers hurry by, sit and watch lives play out in front of him. Couples argued,
kissed, made up. Kids leapt flights of steps on skateboards. What he was
looking for could as easily be in the grace of the arc described by their leap
as in the depths of the night sky. It could be in the flick of a woman’s hair, or
the pattern of lines on a leaf or a snail’s shell, he knew. He kept his eyes,
and all his other senses, open.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Where never lark nor
even eagle flew --<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looked for it in the empty spaces, too. He swam to the
bottom of abandoned quarries filled with water, the silt hurting his eyes as he
scanned the depths. He nearly died of exposure on <st1:place w:st="on">Dartmoor</st1:place>,
standing on High Willhays and peering into the wind. He spent weeks listening
to birdsong, entwining the different melodies in his mind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And, while with silent
lifting mind I’ve trod<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He walked the streets of cities whose name he didn’t know.
He walked alleyways where not even the cats were friendly to him. He walked
lonely country lanes and busy shopping centre thoroughfares. And all with a
smile on his face. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The high untrespassed
sanctity of space,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One day, he realised that, to see what nobody else had seen,
he would need to go where nobody else had gone. And then, he looked upwards…
and saw the place he needed to look from. The very spot, in front of his eyes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Put out my hand, and
touched the face of God.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They found his crumpled body at the foot of a construction site.
The site was that of the soon-to-be tallest building in <st1:city w:st="on">London</st1:city>, the scaffold of which had already
surpassed the famed cigar-shaped ‘Gherkin’. It wasn’t clear whether he’d jumped
or fallen, although it was later found that he’d done whichever it was from the
very top of the building-to-be. His remains were in quite bad shape, but on his
face was a singular smile, one that struck everyone on the scene, and remained
long in the memory. As the officer in charge of the scene reflected, you could
almost call it beatific. </div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-22550068805440634612012-02-28T10:58:00.011-08:002012-02-28T12:07:15.894-08:00A Universe that Conspired to Give You Such a Tongue*<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF5CAXcLVUeCx2BCDPJ9f3s0pvPPTzeTmaW9u1_tT7OxF-L6IadNRwfe4vb95PI5PWciS3BusoJWuaosphHThrIj2HAB_2x-gLEdaIczFSLskoCZAKNrDjKn-gtUQ0FG8M5ntlGEVTDkb7/s1600/vitruvian-man-by-da-vinci.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF5CAXcLVUeCx2BCDPJ9f3s0pvPPTzeTmaW9u1_tT7OxF-L6IadNRwfe4vb95PI5PWciS3BusoJWuaosphHThrIj2HAB_2x-gLEdaIczFSLskoCZAKNrDjKn-gtUQ0FG8M5ntlGEVTDkb7/s320/vitruvian-man-by-da-vinci.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5714280482913896194" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; ">I feel a little electrified; I'm seeing all these points of connection. A network of stars, a pantheon drawn on them by a child joining the dots. I don't think I can come at it head-on because that's not how it works; it's circling, coming back in on itself, referencing things that reference things and leading back round, like following a chain of dictionary definitions that leads you back to the first word you looked up. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; ">Besides, it'll give me an excuse to finally start writing here regularly, because it's too long for one post.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; ">So, where to start? Okay. Awhile back, a writer friend (hi, Katie!) turned me onto a poem by Marty McConnell, 'Instructions for a Body'.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Trust me, if you've ever thought a single piece of advice I gave was worthwhile, listen to it, here:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><a href="http://www.myspace.com/martysounds/music/songs/instructions-for-a-body-15003151">http://www.myspace.com/martysounds/music/songs/instructions-for-a-body-15003151</a><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; ">Or watch, here:<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6fxURLeIK-w">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6fxURLeIK-w</a><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; ">It still sends shivers down my spine. But I'd forgotten about it, somehow. Somehow it just got on that list with Weebl and Bob and xkcd and lolcats: 'Hey, that's cool!' -- whoosh!, out the other ear.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; ">Now, you don't need to analyse poetry to get at its beauty. But this piece says something really real and concrete to me about life, and about god or whatever you want to call something which may be bigger than us. So let me quote from it (I'm pretty sure she won't mind, based on her previous interactions with bloggers). She begins:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; "><i><span>praise the miracle body: the odd<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; "><i><span>and undeniable mechanics of hand,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; "><i><span>hundred-boned foot, perfect stretch<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; "><i><span>of tendon</span></i><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; ">She's talking about the human body and it's beauty, and she does it shiver-inducingly. She's talking about the miracle of life, of the body you've been given. And she keeps using the word 'praise':<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><i><span><br /></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><i><span>praise the strange convexity of ribcage <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><i><span>praise the single hair that insists on growing <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><span><i><span>from a right areola</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><o:p><span> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; ">And the first time I heard/read it, I'm pretty sure it was missing a part that's now in almost every version I see, so I didn't attach too much importance to the word 'praise'. Turn of phrase, I guess I thought. But the 'new' version says this:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><span><i>tell me there are no gods then,<o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><span><i>no master plans for this anatomy<o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><span><span><i>with its mobile and evident spark</i></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><o:p><span> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; ">Now, I don't think she's making the intelligent design argument. She's not asking us to praise God, or any god outside ourselves. She's asking us to praise ourselves, the beautiful creation that we are. But not as individuals, not as a matter of pride and hubris. She goes on to say:<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><span><i><br /></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><span><i>give thanks<o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><span><i>for what we take for granted, bone and dirt<o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><span><i>and the million things that will kill us <o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><span><i>someday, motion and the pursuit <o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><span><span><i>of happiness</i></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><o:p><span> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; ">This is about giving thanks for, praising, not our body in isolation, but our body as a creation of the universe. She's talking, to me, about the idea that there is more than just atoms and the void. What there is isn't God or Allah or Tom Cruise; it's the universe. You could see at as two sides of the same coin -- to say there is no god is maybe the same as saying that 'god' is the universe, but to me, the tail on that coin is a whole lot more compelling. Especially when we look at what she tells us to do with it:<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><i><span><br /></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><i><span>give thanks or go home a waste of spark <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><i><span>speak or let the maker take back your throat<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><i><span>march or let the creator rescind your feet<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><i><span>dream or let your god destroy your good and fertile mind<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><i><span>this is your warning / this <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><i><span>your birthright / do not let<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><span><i><span>this universe regret you.</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><o:p><span> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; ">If that's they way they pray at this church, count me in.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><i>*Her line, of course.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-19493397633285691122012-01-23T07:35:00.000-08:002012-01-23T07:44:00.678-08:00An Excellent VectorI think maybe the shape of what you're doing only really emerges in the wake of you actually doing it. And I think that's maybe my problem. I want these fantastic, fully-formed ideas from the outset, and I'm often not prepared to get going until I have them. Which means I don't get going at all. It's no coincidence that my best work has been put together under the pressure of a timer or deadline of some sort (as with every single one of the pieces on the right).<br /><br />Similarly, since this blog kind of started being a travel blog and then petered out, I've been waiting for inspiration as to direction before continuing it. And it's not come, so I haven't. So, I think what I'll do is just write. Some of it may be rubbish. But it will be something. Some direction, some momentum. And once there's that, maybe I can think about reinventing or focusing, or rebranding, or whatever.<br /><br />So in random unrelated news, I did get another story published; I think I mentiond it on facebook at the time, but not on here. It's an odd one, a little Calvino or Borges:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.cezannescarrot.org/euclids-mirror/">http://www.cezannescarrot.org/euclids-mirror/</a><br /><br />So anyway, here's to a productive direction and momentum; an excellent vector.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-23442617202832977362010-12-03T02:03:00.000-08:002010-12-03T05:04:41.105-08:00India: Part OneIndia seems like a long time ago. In fact, it was. We left there just after my 34th birthday on 5th July after six weeks in the country. A lot has happened since then; we came home and spent my grandmother's last weeks with her, and flew back out to finish our trip. A lot of feelings and thoughts have been washing through me over that time, and I've felt quite insular in many ways. I've certainly not felt like writing up the travels. But now I want to rejoin the world.<br /><br />India is a hundred countries. Trying to reduce it to something manageable in a blog post seems faintly ridiculous. But to me, our time there seemed to split quite evenly into two halves. The second half of our time there, in the cool heights of Kashmir, Ladakh and McLeod Ganj ('Little Tibet') felt a world away from the sweltering lowlands of Delhi, Agra and Varanasi.<br /><br /><b>Varanasi: Heat</b><br /><br />The bus journey from Agra to Varanasi is seventeen hours in what they call an 'ordinary bus'. But there's nothing ordinary about this filthy deathtrap. People in the bus station tell us: 'this bus isn't for tourists', but of course we think: 'we can handle it'. And we do, for the first few hours. Before we get uncomfortable sitting in the clothes that have gotten so sweaty because of the close-to-fifty-degree heat. Before the bus gets rammed and someone's ass is in my ear and people are fistfighting over seats. Before we're black with the sooty residue that covers everything. Before we stop for a break in the middle of the night and eat pastries for dinner in a ditch with a pig for company. Before we then (perhaps not surprisingly) start to feel ill.<br /><br />Eventually we arrive in Varanasi sometime before eight in the morning, to be met by the heat. By nine we've still not found where we're staying, and the heat is unbearable; we are being cooked alive. We eventually rock up and check in, and then spend three or four days straying no further from our bathroom than we absolutely have to. But in Varanasi, the electricity is intermittent, so when the air-con goes off (as it does once for almost the whole day), we're twisting in our sweat again. When we're not too ill or hot to do anything, exploring Varanasi is an experience never to be forgotten. The alleyways that pass for streets twist and wind; you come across cows blocking the way, families bathing half in the street, beggars, stalls... life is lived on the streets here.<br /><br />And in and on the river. The Ganges is supremely holy to Hindus, and they bathe in it, drink it, wash with it, and are interred in it, either their whole body or their ashes after being cremated on its banks. It's filthy with sewage, never mind what gets in it from all these uses, but those who live here grow up drinking it. And celebrating life along its banks -- dancing, praying, relaxing. Life is lived fairly much in the open here, and everything is close. It's a visceral place. In many ways I wish we'd visited India when it was less hot, but I guess that perhaps Varanasi is most itself when it's sweltering, and when everything is mixed up in sweat and heat haze and mist, almost like life, concentrated and focused so sharply that it's uncomfortable, but at the same time, utterly compelling.<br /><br /><b>Delhi: Hassle</b><br /><br />That heat exhausation come on the back of a weariness of being, and being seen to be, a tourist. A tourist stepping off the plane in Delhi is new meat. I've soon lost count of how many times we're told that the place we're looking for has burned down, or is closed for some made-up religious holiday, or somesuch, and very helpfully advised of an 'alternative' which is 'better' and 'cheaper' (and pays commission to our helpful friend). A four hundred metre walk along the main strip in touristville in Delhi is impossible without being hassled, often quite aggressively, to buy at least eight package tours, twelve taxi rides and an assortment of ticketing, eating, drinking and other such 'opportunities'. On our first day, a taxi ride to a bookshop to get a guidebook turns into a tour of tourist agencies trying to sell us tours, or at a pinch some tatty old guidebooks. 'Delhi doesn't change much in thirteen years', we're told, after pointing out the publication date of one. He might actually have half a point, but we're not buying.<br /><br />This happens in Agra and Varanasi too, but Delhi seems worst. You can't ask directions without a hand being held out for money, and you can't get around a quarter of an attraction without somebody hard-selling their services as a guide. I know that some of these people are extremely needy, and that in comparison to them I am rich. So as well as feeling hassled I end up feeling guilty for becoming so annoyed by it. After awhile your skin hardens and you begin to ignore people rather than get drawn into conversations which are always, always a prelude to being taken for a ride. But this is a shame as it makes you draw back and makes it hard to embrace what you've come out here to find. It certainly feels a light year away from the open arms of Iran.<br /><br />Maybe it's our legacy, so maybe we deserve it, but there are also people here hauling themselves up by their bootstraps without ripping people off; it's a shame the trap of fleecing tourists is so tempting that so many others fall into it. Again, the discomfort and hassle rubs shoulders with wonder, and Delhi as a melting pot, as a crazy, fast-paced life-happening-all-around you experience is not one I'd take back for all the hawkers in India. But, given our limited time in India, although we find ourselves being drawn back again and again by Delhi's gravity and transport-hub status, we never stay long; there are places where it is much easier to enjoy India.<br /><br /><b>Agra: Majesty</b><br /><br />After seeing huge Persian blue-tiled mosques in Iran, the red sandstone monoliths which are the forts and mosques left by Akbar the Great in India are a fantastic counterpoint. The city of Fatehpur Sikri is supremely evocative; a massive labyrinth of temples, towers, halls and follies, exquisitely well-preserved. You can imagine Akbar's court marching and fanning and debating and dancing; it seems like only the trees have grown and changed since. Agra Fort, like the Red Fort in Delhi, also stands almost perfectly preserved and evokes a pit of dread t the idea of ever assailing such places.<br /><br />And then, having heard all the hype, we are up at 4:30 in the morning to beat the crowds in to see the Taj. We pay about five times as much as we've paid for any single visit on our travels. It's worth all of it. There's something about such a huge, beautiful building being built as a mausoleum for one person, that just blows your mind. It's a haunting white reflection of the red architecture of the forts, and I can't do anything except stand and soak it in. It feels supremely peaceful, in the early morning light, sitting at its base, the white towers looming straight up, and the huge dome capping the intricate lattice work of the building. 'Building' actually seems like the wrong word: it seems more like a monument from another world, almost as alien as the black tablet in 2001. We are hours in the immaculate gardens, just spending time in the company of this beautiful mountain of wrought marble. I walk out feeling very much at peace.<br /><br />The majesty of India is apparent in so many more places than just Agra and the Mughal architecture, though. there is something majestic in the open-air funeral pyres along the banks of the Ganges -- the sheer scale and industry of the operation inspires. Even India's trains and stations, while maybe slightly grubby, are soaring in scale, elements of the landscape, not to be trifled with. The scale of travle around India itself is tremendous. Our seventeen hour bus journey is not even our longest, and we have several train journeys in double figures of hours. And, presiding over it all, the start of the biggest mountains in the world. After the heat and the closeness of the plains, we leave for Kashmir, and thence to Ladakh in the heart of the Indian Himalaya.<br /><br />Photos of <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/brionyandterry/sets/72157625393911375/">Delhi, Agra & Varanasi</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-31119807037406608682010-11-23T23:20:00.000-08:002010-11-23T23:25:46.578-08:00The Long WatchSo, before I went away I got a piece accepted by The Legendary. It's a piece I really like, loosely inspired by an attempt to make sense of 'All Along the Watchtower', last Xmas, on Show Me Your Lits. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.downdirtyword.com/authors/terrypearce.html#watch">The Long Watch</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-18240118063421976652010-10-30T02:07:00.001-07:002010-10-30T02:47:18.776-07:00RootsIn the film <span style="font-style:italic;">Inception</span>, dreams are manipulated so that Cillian Murphy's character sleeps and dreams, during which dream he sleeps, and dreams, during which dream he sleeps, and dreams, so that ultimately he is in a dream within a dream within a dream. It gets pretty confusing for the viewer, let alone poor Cillian. <br /><br />I've been feeling something similar this year; my 'normal life' went to sleep when we gave up the flat and work, and travelling through Turkey, Iran, India was like a dream. But then we were called back to spend my grandmother's last weeks with her. Although we were going home, it wasn't to the same flat or to any work, or recognisable routine, and for obvious reasons it was strange and unreal; like whilst travelling we'd slipped into a further sleep and another, more nightmarish dream. <br /><br />Once she'd died, there was the period of going through her belongings and saying goodbye, then a strange period of living back in London waiting to recommence travelling. Each of these felt like a new dream within the one before, or maybe a series of random unconnected dreams such as when you're wavering between sleep and waking.<br /><br />But each level has to be woken up from, and when everything was sorted with Helen's house, and when we flew back out here, it was like waking a little more, moving a little further back towards reality. Except it's not as it was before. there have been some beautiful moments on this second leg of the trip, in Australia and Thailand (which I will write about, and post photos), but it doesn't seem as happy-go-lucky now, both because of what's happened and because it feels finite now, bounded, moving towards a rapidly approaching end point. <br /><br />And when we do wake up for real, back in England, it won't be quite the same; we'll need to find a new flat, a new job in B's case and reconnect with work in mine. And of course, Helen won't be there, and neither will the closest thing there's been in my life to a family home since I was around twenty years old. <br /><br />Rootless, is how it feels. I have my family, and I feel blessed for how much closer I've found myself to them recently -- the time we got to spend together was the silver lining to the time spent in England this summer, and though we're less by one, I feel we're stronger than ever.<br /><br />But I need some roots of my own, and I guess that travelling has given me the time and perspective to see the importance of that. I have an amazing wife, a successful business, some wonderful friends, and, I'm told, a talent; one which I have some fragile hopes for. Now's the time for me to start making something solid, something with roots, of all that. <br /><br />For awhile now an idea has been rattling around in my head, along these lines: when people -- like me -- who like to keep as many doors as possible open, hold back too much from ever choosing one door to step through, time closes some -- eventually all -- doors for you. <br /><br />I think I've believed that intellectually for awhile, but maybe now I'm starting to feel it. I want to make my choices; I want to step through the doors I choose with my eyes open, and I want to make such strong roots of what lies on the other side that thoughts of those unchosen doors flutter away like each Autumn's leaves.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-56988613423747466222010-08-04T08:58:00.000-07:002010-08-04T09:11:26.475-07:00An Amazing WomanMy grandmother died on Monday morning. I sat with her for the last few hours, and she eventually just seemed to let go. She died holding my hand and that of my brother, listening to us talk to her. She was ready, I think. She'd seen the people she wanted to see, and she'd had as much discomfort as she could deal with.<br /><br />I have to think of something to say at the wake on Saturday. There are so many things to say about her. She was somebody really special; she had so much love and patience and hope. She always thought the best of people, and she had a hard time seeing that the degree of goodness and selflessness she exhibited every day was extraordinary. But it was. As I said in a previous post, if everybody was just a little bit more like her, the world would be a much happier place.<br /><br />I feel sad, and numb, and, in a way, happy for her, that she didn't have to put up with too much pain for too long at the end. I know it meant a lot to her to have the people she loved around her these last few weeks, and I also take some comfort in the fact that she saw me get married and my brother become a father. The most recent memories she'll have of her family are of a time where, as a whole, we've been happier than in a long long time, and that's something.<br /><br />She gave me so much: a good example to follow, a place to live when I needed it, a home full of happy memories, an ear and a kind word whenever I saw her... she made--makes--me want to be a better person. I'm glad I was able to repay some of her kindness by making her happy and proud of her grandson.<br /><br />Goodbye, Helen. You'll be sorely missed.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-89466894571126357612010-07-14T00:53:00.000-07:002010-07-14T01:00:04.399-07:00Photos<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/brionyandterry/sets/72157624345424914/">Iran</a><br><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/brionyandterry/sets/72157624487354096/">India</a><br><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/brionyandterry/sets/72157624363385475/">Thailand (Bangkok)</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-24800590419758411022010-07-14T00:46:00.000-07:002010-07-14T00:48:48.055-07:00Homecoming<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 5px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 5px; ">I was looking forward to coming home to my Grandmother's house. I've lived here before. With the family home long gone and every Christmas I can remember spent here, this place feels more like home than anywhere else, and living with Helen again was lined up as a nice way to come back to the country. I was going to cook for her and look after her, play games of scrabble, watch her favourite programmes with her.<br /><br />And now I'm back here, rudely early, feeding her yoghurts and fluids, emptying her commode, watching her begin to fade away. The six hour kink on my body clock and lack of sleep is making this seem more like a bad dream than it otherwise might, but I'm not sure it needs any help.<br /><br />You have all the time in the world. You have plans that don't need scheduling in; you can do them in the Autumn, or at Xmas, or next year, or whenever the fancy takes you. And then everything shrinks down to one room and maybe two months if you're lucky, and a reduced capacity to do anything, and suddenly all these places you were going to swim to recede as you fight just to tread water. Fight to keep a smile because how the hell are you going to persuade her not to be depressed if you are yourself?<br /><br />I keep thinking, if they hadn't got the initial diagnosis wrong, I could have spent some real time here with her in her full pomp, before she started to get ill, before she slept so much and started to get so confused. And of course there are all those thoughts about times I could have been here and wasn't over the last few years, but there would be some of those, whatever.<br /><br />There's nothing for it but the stiff upper lip. Make her comfortable. Make her smile. Try and enjoy the time there is as much as possible. There's nothing else to be done. I know this, but it doesn't make it much easier.<br /><br />I feel selfish thinking about how I'm feeling... how she's feeling is surely the issue. But I feel adrift. I have no work, and now the travels are on hiatus. I'm back here trying to connect with her and finding it hard, and finding that my Brother and Dad have most of the actual care covered. And I feel robbed. There was so much time, so many things to look forward to with her. Me living here again for a few months was going to mean a lot to her.<br /><br />It means a lot to her, though, having me, and Dad and my Brother and Sister, back here now. So we do and be what we can, I guess.<br /><br />I can't think of a way to end this, or anything else to say.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-40666255184610783182010-06-02T23:40:00.000-07:002010-06-03T01:01:34.484-07:00Five Things You Notice About Iran<span style="font-weight: bold;">1: The Friendliness</span><br /><br />From before we got into the country, on a train surrounded by Iranians returning home from Turkey, through every city and every bus since we've been here, the thing that shines through about Iranians is how much they like to welcome people to their country. They take their hospitality very seriously; we've been invited to stay with or eat with or have tea with more people than I can remember. We took three different people or families up on their offers to have dinner and stay with them, and we were really pleased that we did. They came up with delicious veggie pie and were incredibly gracious and thoughtful hosts, and we had some really interesting conversations about politics, life in England and in Iran, life in general, religion, food, football...<br /><br />Then there's the random experiences: being dragged into a school to be a living show-and-tell; being guided around a stepped hillside villages by a group of schoolgirls with no English, fiercely protective of 'their tourists' when some guides tried to 'poach' us, being asked every philosophical question short of the meaning of life over tea whilst looking out over Imam Square, singing a duet of Bryan Adams' 'Everything I Do...' from a balconey with a guy we met five minutes earlier, incredibly civilised conversations in immaculate gardens surrounding a poet's imposing tomb, translating magazine articles for an elderly gentleman scholar of English to his eternal gratitude<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">2: The Roads</span><br /><br />I've not driven in this country (thank God!), but I've been driven by taxi drivers and some of our hosts, and it's worrying like watching someone next to you play Gran Turismo, but with the knowledge that there will be no 'Start New Game' option. Especially as you often have no seatbelt, and the car you're in is often seemingly held together with duck tape. Lanes? Braking distance? Right of way? These are alien concepts; drivers weave their way at high speed from left to right , the seeming golden rule to never slow down unless they absolutely have to. I thought Indian roads were crazy. The only thing scarier than the first time you are driven in Iran is the first time you have to cross a road in Iran. You first of all stand there for ten minutes waiting for a gap, before you realise that the only way across is to do what the locals are doing and just step out. Amazingly, the car that was flying at full speed towards the space you just stepped into (usually) slows down, and you can cross that lane, with only about five more to go...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">3: The Art and the Architecture</span><br /><br />These two blend into one, as the venerable mosques and palaces are themselves works of art. The Imam Mosque in Esfahan, for example, redefines awesome, and is the most impressive building I've seen bar perhaps only the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. Giant archways vault above you at each side of the massive main courtyard, and behind each is a beautiful dome, seemingly floating above the huge spaces they cover. Actually, they're held in place by simple yet amazing feats of mathematics and engineering (look up 'squinch' if you're interested), which were pioneered in Persia. And every surface is covered in the most exquisite blue tilework. Everywhere from mosques to palaces to pavements, beauty is played out in geometry, intersecting lines and flowing script. What is often dismissed in the West as the best that a culture barred from iconography could manage is, when I look at it, a careful mirror of nature; engaging, thought provoking, and awe-inspiring.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">4: The Food</span><br /><br />Meat Meat Meat. Nine out of ten dishes on menus are kebabs, and most of the others are chicken or fish. Trying to get across the concept of vegetarian here is almost like someone coming to the UK and saying 'I don't breathe oxygen'. In most places the responses follow a certain pattern: a) laughter; b) disbelief -- they couldn't have possibly understood right; c) 'So, chicken, then? Or fish? Or how about this dish -- it only has small pieces of meat in it...'; then usually one of three final responses: d) head shaking -- we can't help you; e) a quite random selection of vegetables piled together, or f) a meat dish is brought anyway.<br /><br />Some places, actually, are Ok, but they often take some questing to find. When we have found local vegetarian dishes, they've been gorgeous; lovely mixes of aubergine, spices, spinach, beans and other stuff. And in people's homes, they've put together some fantastic stuff. But sometimes we've been grateful for the import of pizza, as many as we've ended up having.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">5: The Ripples from the Revolution</span><br /><br />The complexity of how this country has been affected by what happened in 1979 can't be understated. It's status as an Islamic Republic and effective theocracy (despite a lower tier of 'elected' government) is unique in the world, and you see it everywhere from the obvious chadors, hejabs, manteaus and occasional burkhas to the masses who turn out for the annual day of (energetic) mourning for the death of Fatima, the daughter of Mohammed, who died over a thousand years ago. Most of the people I've spoken to have been fairly quick to express their disagreement with most of what their government does, and the youth are positively chafing at the bit. With an internet filter, music bans, harsh consequences for inappropriate non-marital behaviour, and of course the clothing issue, they idolize the West (unhealthily so) and reject pretty much everything about the regime. Most are Muslim only nominally, due to pressure from authorities or family, and would jump at the chance to be free. Those that can, get to Italy, Canada, or other places to study, and then don't come back. Some older heads say that the Islamic republic also brings benefits, and that the Shah was not all he was cracked up to be, but 70% of the population are under 30, and it feels as if something will have to give.<br /><br />My understanding of all this is only very basic, from the conversations I've had, so I'm finding it difficult to generalise, but one thing that may illustrate much of the above and how Iran's relationship with the West works for people here is the conversation I've had again and again, which goes something like this: 'What did I think about Iran before I came, and what do I think now? Do I see that the people are not like the government? Do I see that Iranians are not terrorists and not like the news in the West suggests?' There is a deep concern here that an ancient culture is getting sidelined globally, thought of as second class citizens, because of fights that their government picks. At the same time, there is a fierce pride, and a recognition that Iran should be stronger than it is, and that much of the blame for that lies at the feet of the US and UK. The former US Embassy in Tehran is now a museum known as 'The US Den of Espionage'. It's not helpful, but if you look at the history of the place, you'll see the moniker has a ring of truth. It's all complex, which is why I've probably only captured a fraction of it here. But it definitely makes for a fascinating experience of certainly the most different culture and country I've ever visited.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 51, 153); font-weight: bold;">Photos to follow...</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-31457169331759932692010-05-13T01:21:00.000-07:002010-05-13T02:33:39.580-07:00First Report: TurkeyTurkey isn't really that far away from the UK. It's not a seismic shift in culture; I suspect it will be nothing compared to the next stop: Iran. Still, I feel like I've stepped into another world. Maybe it's the otherwordly landscapes we've encountered. Pammukale is a mountainside of shelves of smooth white rock. The sheer amount of pure whıte ın your frame of vıew disorients you; it feels like it should be snow, but the water that runs over it ıs warm, from the hot springs whıch contain the minerals that have created the whiteness. Just as alien are the vistas of Cappadocia, where metres and metres of volcanic ash have eroded to leave 'fairy chimneys' of soft 'tuff', rock which the inhabitants of the region have tunneled into to create their homes, like giant termite mounds.<br /><br />In more prosaic fashion, it may just be the knowledge that, unlike any other trip I've ever taken, there is the knowledge that the next stop is onwards, as is the one after that and the one after that. 'Home' isn't until October, and maybe that's startıng to sink in. Part of it has to be the cultural differences, the little things, from the weird Turkish keyboard that's driving me crazy right now to the breakfasts of bread, olives, cucumber and tomato; from the language that we're just about getting our tongues around to the endless groups of men drinking tea and playing backgammon. Of course, it's all of these things.<br /><br />Turkey is such a wonderful place to start our trip, though. There is so much friendliness here. Looking lost the other day in Kayseri resulted in a guy walking us to our bus stop, refusing to allow us to pay for our tickets, and waiting until our bus came so he could make sure we got on it safely. And so much beauty. As well as Pamukkale and Cappadocia, there are the ancient ruins at Hierapolis and Ephesus, which had us wandering round jaws agape. The Fatih mosque here in Kayseri is beautiful - I love the geometric designs and script; mosques to me seem such peaceful, reverent places. The old Roman aqueduct at Selçuk, with storks nesting atop every support and the quiet town nestling below, was beautiful to walk around.<br /><br />Everyone is happy to talk to us, too. Admittedly, some of them want to sell us carpets, but they're very happy to talk to us about life, politics, being English and being Turkish. We,ve had our difficulties and adventures too - trying to book transport and get food (especıally veggie food) in places where they've no English is always a challenge, and my war aginst mosquitoes from previous trips abroad has resumed. Every time I stand there in my boxer shorts, torch in one hand (so as not to wake Briony with the light), rolled-up newspaper in the other like a harpoon, I understand a little more about Captain Ahab. The maps in our seven-year old Rough Guide are a tad dodgy, too, which has resulted in us wandering merrily with our backpacks into odd parts of town and down train sidings.<br /><br />The best part of it all, though, is the feeling that this is our honeymoon, and we've earnt it. We,ve worked, and saved, and had donations from all the lovely people who were able to give something as a wedding gift, and it's felt so far away for so long, but now it's here, and we're only two weeks into it, with some of the more intrepid parts still to come. Later today we board the three-day train to Tehran. It seems like a great adventure, and it's only stage two.<br /><br />Photos:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/brionyandterry/sets/72157624051526070/">http://www.flickr.com/photos/brionyandterry/sets/72157624051526070/</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/brionyandterry/sets/72157623927152097/">http://www.flickr.com/photos/brionyandterry/sets/72157623927152097/</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-77677372371759311442010-04-26T10:45:00.000-07:002010-04-26T10:50:09.002-07:00Life in BoxesSo, my life is in boxes in storage; I now have access to the thirty-five litres deemed most indispensable, which is going to be my snail-shell on my back from now until October.<br /><br />We fly on Friday. Izmir is the first stop, and I'm really looking forward to seeing Ephesus and the south-west coastline of Turkey, as well as Cappadocia and the fairy chimneys. A train will take us from there into Iran, where we've hopefully a family or two lined up to stay with; that really sounds like the best way to do it. From thence, India: Delhi, some of the tiger parks, Ladakh in the mountains of the north, and Kerala in the South -- some volunteering in there somewhere, and some meditation retreat type time. Then a bit of travelling through Southeast Asia to Cambodia and Angkor Watt, before making our way across Australia from Perth to Sydney...<br /><br />Squee! Very excited now.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-65791399920949839302010-04-05T10:15:00.000-07:002010-04-05T10:20:12.152-07:00Two more stories...Two new published stories.<br /><br />Danse Macabre have published The Face of God:<br /><br /><a href="http://dansemacabre.art.officelive.com/TheFaceOfGod.aspx">http://dansemacabre.art.officelive.com/TheFaceOfGod.aspx</a><br /><br />The Battered Suitcase have published Abandonment:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.vagabondagepress.com/00301/V2I4SS1.html">http://www.vagabondagepress.com/00301/V2I4SS1.html</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-16305213510593608162010-01-31T15:22:00.000-08:002010-01-31T15:28:43.452-08:00Another Place...is the title of my latest story to be published. It's about Laika, the first dog in space, and was inspired by the video to 'Fragile' by God Is an Astronaut:<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/V2lA7Oyv864&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/V2lA7Oyv864&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />The story has been taken up by 'Girls with Insurance', edited by PH Madore.<br /><br /><a href="http://girlswithinsurance.com/index.php/prose/short/123-0110-tp-place">http://girlswithinsurance.com/index.php/prose/short/123-0110-tp-place</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-64119481870866807632010-01-06T13:00:00.000-08:002010-01-12T10:50:47.789-08:00RipplesI'm going to have to start this with a spoiler alert for anyone who's not seen Season Four of Dexter. But this isn't going to be your standard review of a TV show. Granted, Dexter is not exactly Citizen Kane. It's not even The Wire. It's often sort of tongue in cheek even though it deals with some unusual themes; I mean, the hero is a serial killer. And so in some ways you might not expect to get anything but some of the darker side of light entertainment from it.<br /><br />But I have a soft spot for Dexter. The show and the character. He has this urge to kill. But he's basically a good guy. And he doesn't really know how to fit in with all the 'normal' people, and how to survive. And all he really wants is two mutually exclusive things: a 'normal' life, and to be able to indulge his 'dark passenger'. For four seasons, he more or less muddles through. Because his intentions are good--he only kills killers--and he has a little hero's luck, yeah, lots of bad things happen, but they don't really touch him. And they didn't really touch me.<br /><br />If you know me well, you'll see maybe a little of why I've always identified with Dexter. I don't kill people, clearly. The dark secrets I do have aren't going to make any front pages. But part of me--my 'dark passenger'--wants to live a life that isn't sustainable, isn't compatible with getting older, with having people you love around you, with making your peace with life. And, up to the last few years, like Dexter, I've managed to muddle through, doing just that without really hurting anyone too much, and so without it really touching me. I always fall in the shit, but it's always the scent of roses in the end.<br /><br />But at the end of Season Four, Dexter is spinning too many plates. He's relying on too many 'it should be Ok's. And he drops a plate, big time. His preying on killers comes back to bite him when one of his marks murders his wife. You're jaunting along with him for the ride, and the needle screeches across the record, wincingly. And finally, it touches him. And it touched me. It struck a chord with something I've been thinking for a long time, in relation to my life, and the lives of some other people around me who have some of the same tendencies.<br /><br />It's all caught up in a certain optimism, together with a certain attitude of 'what they don't know can't hurt them', that leads to the idea that you can live falsehoods. You can keep people in the dark about parts of yourself, and live in a way you know they wouldn't be able to swallow, because 'it'll all be Ok in the end'. they won't know about it, because the end will be good enough to justify the means. But there comes a point when the means, I think, become the end. The way you live your life is who you are, not some far-off point you're hoping to get to, some person you'll become when you've got this out of your system.<br /><br />And the way you live your life creates ripples, ripples you will never be able to control all of. A lot of them will go unnoticed, for a long time, maybe. But getting away with it doesn't mean that, one day, one of those ripples won't become a wave which will rock your boat, with all the people in it that you care about. Dexter's ripples capsized his boat. It was a piece of bad luck that allowed it to happen. It shouldn't have happened. But life is full of those little quirks, and the only way you can be sure to guard against it is to live in a way you can justify not just in the best of all possible outcomes, but in all of them.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-16557296859713549342009-12-26T06:16:00.000-08:002010-08-06T15:35:52.283-07:00It's a Wonderful LifeEvery time I watch Frank Capra's It's a Wonderful Life--which is quite often as I rate it the best film ever made--a different scene really grabs me. One time it'll be the scene where Jimmy Stewart's George Bailey loses it completely on Christmas Eve, wrecking his house and shouting at his children as he pulls up just short of the end of his tether, emerging from his rage to a see a fear in the faces of his children which reflects a darkness in him. Another time it will be the scene where George and Mary first kiss, George trying as hard as he can not to give in, but being washed away on a tide of his feelings.<br /><br />This time, watching it with my Grandmother on Christmas Day, the scene that got me (and brought a tear to my eye, I don't mind admitting), was this: Having given up his dreams of travelling and college to help his family and the people in Bedford Falls, George is on his way from his wedding to his honeymoon. He stops, though, when he sees what looks like a run on the bank; his duty tugs at him and he makes his way to the Building and Loan he has kept alive as the last bastion of hope for families wanting to own their own home rather than live under the thrall of the local scrooge and slum baron, Mr. Potter.<br /><br />He finds a panicked throng of customers and a scared witless business partner. The bank has called their loan, and all of their cash has gone to pay it, leaving nothing to pay the worried customers, who all want to make withdrawals. Potter, meanwhile, sees his chance and puts it about that he'll pay fifty cents on the dollar for shares--peanuts to him and a long awaited chance to tighten his grip on the town. George pleads with the depression-hit customers, telling them they'll all get through this if they stick together, that he can't pay out now, but can pay out next week. This doesn't satisfy some, who would rather go with Potter, so as a last resort, George and his wife Mary offer to pay out of their honeymoon fund.<br /><br />Unfortunately, the two thousand dollars they have will only go round if people restrict their withdrawals to what they really need. A first guy just doesn't get it, and insists on his entire balance of two hundred and forty two dollars, but a second guy accepts twenty dollars to tide him over. Then George comes to the lady who is third in the queue. When asked how much she can get by on, she looks uncertain for a second, and then says quietly, "$17.50?" George is taken aback for a second at the consideration shown, and then launches himself into a flurry of gratitude for the example she has set. After this, of course, they manage to keep everyone happy with two dollars to spare.<br /><br />There's something about the way that scene plays out, about her mental scrimping and saving when she could so easily have just followed suit and said twenty dollars, that just resonates. If there were more people like that, who took just what they needed, and less people like Mr $242, the world would be a better place, for sure. What really resonated was watching it with my Grandmother, though. Amazingly, at 83, she had never heard of the film. She loved it, as I knew she would, but that scene above all else made me think of her. <br /><br />She's sharp, but physically she's finding it tougher every year, but she still raises thousands of pounds for charity every year, still volunteers a day a week at the hospital, wheeling round people younger than her and walking round to sell raffle tickets instead of standing in one place, because it ups the percentages. Of anyone I know, she has the heart which could best be described as good. She always wants to help, never puts herself first. She is definitely a $17.50 kind of person. She is an example I will try to follow. For sure, life is a more wonderful thing for having her in it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-54083235206397030632009-12-22T14:51:00.000-08:002009-12-22T15:00:20.115-08:00Liars' LeagueWe were sat around in the crowded upstairs room of an old fashioned pub with wooden panelling and stained glass windows, listening to tale after tale being spun. It seemed like something from a long-lost era; all we needed was a hearth to gather round and the smell of horse muck to waft in from the street outside.<br /><br />This was the Liars' League. As their slogan goes, 'writers write, actors read, audience listens - everyone wins'. It was strange to sit and listen to my story read out loud in front of an audience. Our story, I should say, as the successful entry was co-written with Deborah Rosenblum, who I met via Scrawl and SMYL. She's a real talent, and we worked well together. <br /><br />We entered the theme 'Ice and Fire', and our story was a tale of both. I was nervous as it was being read out, but the actress was well-practiced, and she brought it to life well. The reaction was good, and the warmth I felt as it was applauded made up for the lack of a hearth.<br /><br /><a href="http://liarsleague.typepad.com/liars_league/2009/12/the-second-law-of-thermodynamics-by-terry-pearce-and-deborah-rosenblum.html">The Second Law of Thermodynamics</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-81648871625960951082009-12-13T09:35:00.000-08:002009-12-13T09:39:57.291-08:00Keeping in TouchSome friends who are pretty desperate for me to get on Facebook made up an account and invited all my friends to it. I've just been and deleted it; there are a number of very good reasons I'm not on Facebook, and it being forced on me is definitely not likely to make me any more amenable to it. But it did make me think about whether I'm making as much effort as I should to stay in touch with people and to stay involved in the lives of people that matter to me.<div><br /></div><div>So I'm resolving to do just that, and I'm going to start by using this blog more regularly. Which means it will have a slightly wider focus than just my writing, but as I'll be writing about whatever I choose to focus on, it'll still be a writing blog. </div><div><br /></div><div>Make sense? Keep reading.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-45629797063738467772009-09-22T03:06:00.000-07:002009-09-22T03:10:36.165-07:00Back to The LegendaryThe Legendary have printed another story of mine:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.downdirtyword.com/fictionpage.html">The Sonora Home for Wayward Girls</a><br /><br />Which will be archived <a href="http://www.downdirtyword.com/authors/terrypearce.html">here</a> when the new issue is no longer new.<br /><br />I really like this one. It's short and bitter.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-9371645975685341262009-09-03T09:42:00.000-07:002009-09-03T09:52:10.608-07:00Show Me Your LitsWell, after that paean to Scrawl, it's only fitting that my other online writing love gets a little bit of the same treatment, especially considering I have another story up now which started its life there. <a href="http://www.showmeyourlits.com">Show Me Your Lits</a> is a wonderful, wonderful place. Its focus is on inspiration, and helping kickstart ideas an impetus to write. Every week, there's a flash challenge, where you access a prompt and then have ninety minutes to write a piece inspired by it. Everybody posts their story anonymously, and everyone comments on each others stories and votes on their favourite. It's not really very competitive -- it's a hell of a lot of fun, and it has inspired me to write some of my best stuff, and vastly improved me as a writer, as well as giving me the occasional ego boost.<br /><br />And now, the piece I wrote which got me my first ever win there, <a href="http://greysparrowpress.net/TerryPearce.aspx">Neuroplasticine</a>, has been published by <a href="http://greysparrowpress.net/default.aspx">Grey Sparrow Journal</a>.<br /><br />Thanks, Lits. Thanks in particular to <a href="http://www.pankmagazine.com/pankblog/?p=1408">Errid</a>, who runs it, and is one of the most supportive people I know, and who very early on trusted me enough to make me a moderator there.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-67757033401161309862009-08-27T12:25:00.000-07:002009-08-27T12:31:24.174-07:00ScrawlAnother piece of mine has gone up, and it's a piece which owes everything to Scrawl. Scrawl is a place I owe a hell of a lot to, in writing terms. When I decided I wanted to pick it back up, the course I took gave me legs, but Scrawl gave me wings. It's a raucous place, and I've gotten into some duels there, but inspiration, beauty and many good things seep up between the cracks.<br /><br />My best stories have come from the lovely Katie's flash competitions on there, including this one. Story Garden is an irregular collection of choice pieces from the site, which is a writer's hang-out with bells on. I recommend it to any writer, and I recommend The Story Garden to any reader. I've linked to my story, but it's well worth exploring the whole thing:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.stwa.net/tsg/issue8/fiction/tpfic.php">'Prologue' in Scrawl: The Story Garden 8</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-90468018892012404322009-08-18T06:01:00.000-07:002009-08-18T06:33:38.304-07:00MarriedI'm not one to get very nervous in front of crowds; it's what I do for a living. So I stood calmly in the registry office, waiting first for the guests, then for my bride. I'd looked in the mirror on the way in; the suit looked good, chocolate and cream. I was ready.<br /><br />Wasn't I?<br /><br />People started to come in. Briony's brother, Aaron, who had agreed to be an usher, although he didn't know many of family by sight, and I had to help direct people to their seats. Greeting everyone as they came in diverted me, happily. Everyone was so smiley, and so pleased to see me, and by the time I'd completely lost count of how many cheeks I'd kissed and hands I'd shaken, suddenly the room was full, and -- well how about that, I was nervous after all. Maybe just a little.<br /><br />Then the waiting.<br /><br />The song coming on meant that Briony was outside the door, ready to come in. The song was <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-rx2iYH3mK8">'Go'</a>, the cover, by Sparklehorse and the Flaming Lips, and suddenly, within the first few bars, all the meaning and the memories packed into that song, the reasons we'd chosen it, had me welling up, before she'd even entered the room. My view seemed to undergo one of those zoom effects where everything rushes away from you without moving, and the enormity of what I was about to do hit me almost as hard as the beauty.<br /><br />And then the beauty walked in the door. I think Briony is beautiful first thing in the morning, with sleep in her eyes. I think she's beautiful every second of every day. But she's never looked more amazing than she did at that moment. The tears were still brimming, egged on by knowing, by being able to see, how nervous she was, and how she was still doing it anyway, walking towards me on her father's arm.<br /><br />And so we were both nervous, all the way through the vows, all the way through the ceremony, until I got to kiss her, and she was my wife. I don't really remember the words. Everything that should be there was there, the vows, the rings, but the thing that was most important was that she was there. And that she would be there, now, 'til death do us part.<br /><br />We eased up when the comedy effect of using a fake pen to pose for signing the register photos kicked in. Suddenly we were laughing, and she relaxed, and smiled, and the grin that I thought couldn't get any wider on my face did just that (and stayed that way for the rest of the day). Looking out into the sea of smiling faces was beautiful.<br /><br />Music is really important to me, and we spent a long time choosing our songs to walk in and out to. Walking back down the aisle to the strains of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zwFS69nA-1w">'The First Day of my Life'</a>, it just seemed so perfect, so right. Again, a song charged with meaning for both of us, and the perfect start to being married. In theory, for a couple who've been together for four years and lived together for two, getting married shouldn't make a real difference to how you feel about each other and about the relationship. And in a way it hasn't, because I couldn't have loved her any more than I already did. But at that moment, and every day since, I have felt different. I have felt, more definitely, and more assuredly, a team, part of a whole, with her, and happier about it than I've been ab out anything.<br /><br />The rest of the day was a blur. I couldn't really describe it all in detail if I tried, and certainly not in sequence. The sunshine was glorious. The food was wonderful. The venue... it's stunning, remarkable - a 13th century tithe barn, the restoration of which has won a number of awards, and the perfect backdrop to a beautiful, auspicious, day. There were chats, there were photos, there were plenty of drinks... there were some fabulous speeches; Giles, her Dad made us feel ten feet tall, and my best man brought me down to size again in a very funny fashion. I even managed my speech, with no script, as well as I could have expected. We circulated, the string quartet played... a lot of the evening we spent talking to different people, and the whole thing was charged with some kind of magical glow. And every so often, I'd turn, to see her there, across the room, or at my side, looking back at me, and smiling, or oblivious, and smiling. And it still sends shivers down my spine. It was so amazing to be there, with all these people I care about, all so happy to see us happy. I've never felt a vibe like it.<br /><br />the only thing that went wrong was that it ended. But then we went back to the hotel, and from there, the next day, to the lakes.<br /><br />A week and a half later, I'm still pinching myself. My wife is more than I could have dreamed of in a partner, for life, and my wedding day was more than I could have dreamed of in an occasion. I wasn't ready. But then, who is?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360850369070324086.post-1380133413270073842009-08-18T03:24:00.000-07:002009-08-18T03:38:45.185-07:00More Stories PublishedStill not really sure what I'm using this blog for, but it's been awhile since updating, so there are two key things I am definitely going to put on here. I'll do the easy one first.<br /><br />I've had some more pieces published. I went through a phase of writing lots of flash, mainly through www.showmeyourlits.com and the weekly flash competition there, and submitting it to as many online 'zines as I could. And I've had a few acceptances, some of which have gone live:<br /><br />'Spelling Bee' was published in Poor Mojo's:<br /><a href="http://www.poormojo.org/cgi-bin/gennie.pl?Fiction+444+bi"><br />http://www.poormojo.org/cgi-bin/gennie.pl?Fiction+444+bi</a><br /><br />'Potential Energy' was published in The Foundling Review:<br /><a href="http://www.foundlingreview.com/July2009Issue4Pearce.html"><br />http://www.foundlingreview.com/July2009Issue4Pearce.html</a><br /><br />'The Pier at the End of the World' was published in Bewildering Stories:<br /><a href="http://www.bewilderingstories.com/issue349/pier_end.html"><br />http://www.bewilderingstories.com/issue349/pier_end.html</a><br /><br />I've had a number of other acceptances, which have made me very happy, but they're all pending publication. Of the above pieces, I'm probably most fond of the last - it was my first stab at writing again after a long hiatus, and I love the main character.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0