#light

Popcorn (continued). Bunyip of the Blackwood

Before I do the old copy/paste thing, I’ll tell you that a little voice inside my head told me I am tempting fate. I’m not tempting fate, mate. I am fate. Pull up your pants and let’s get on with it.

~~~~,~’~~~,~’~80>

Bart opened his eyes to a grey light creeping into a silent sky and a desperate need to relieve himself. The hardly visible glow of dawn made it almost impossible to make out their new surroundings. The previous night, aided by the vehicle’s brake lights, Solway had placed his swag in the wheel rut on one side of the track and now he quietly unzipped it, struggling to release himself like a rotund terrier from a rabbit-hole as he felt for his boots. You never knew if a little bitey would make a home in your footwear when you were sleeping rough, and it didn’t matter what you did — if you didn’t check, it would happen. He shook the boots vigorously yet as silently as possible, unwilling to wake his sleeping partner, then grabbed a nearby twig to poke in them as well.

Solway’s soft fluffy snores from the other single swag made him smile, but he didn’t let it distract him. He really needed to take a piss. Pulling on his boots, Bart stepped off the track.

Due to the fact the sun had not yet risen, and daybreak really seemed to be taking its bloody time, it remained dark under the low canopy of trees. Bart slowly stepped over saplings and dropped branches, flapping furiously at the stickiness of unseen cobwebs. He stopped. Should he face away from the road or towards the road when he went to the loo. Did it matter? There didn’t seem to be anyone else here, aside from a distant raven heralding the oncoming daylight. The track, once they’d come off the hill, had been terribly overgrown. Once again, Bart assumed it to be highly likely no one had been this way for a very long time. He could hear the gurgle of running water not too far away and shivered in response, then heaved a sigh of relief as he began to water the plants.

The sun was rising. Wattle bushes began to take shape before his eyes and tiny, unseen birds started to chirp. Solway had told him in order to get a real good feel for a place you had to take in all the sights, sounds, smells and be aware of what local wildlife to look out for. It made better footage, she said, if you at least tried to sound like you knew what you were talking about. He couldn’t smell anything except for the acrid stench of his own piss and he couldn’t see the bloody birds. He had no idea where they were. 

Somewhere in the trees, he thought. Which isn’t helpful.

A heavy thump reverberated through the soles of his boots. If he could explain it as a bang, he would have, but it was not a bang it was a really big thump and he didn’t know what the fuck it was and, if it could be anything alive, why he didn’t hear it again, or which direction it had come from.

It was not a kangaroo. Of that he was ninety seven point nine five and a bit positive.

Kangaroos jumped when they weren’t grazing. If he’d heard a kangaroo, or disturbed one, or whatever, it would have made more than one thumping sound, that’s for sure.

It wasn’t a branch. If it had been a falling branch, it would have had to have fallen from a very big fucking tree, and there were no trees big enough to make that sound.

Bart realised he’d been spraying the surrounding scrub as he’d turned, searching for whatever the hell it was and somehow, he’d become a sprinkler system and it didn’t matter. He needed to know where the fuck that sound came from — and the cracking sound that had just happened behind him. He lurched around again, tripped over the low bush he’d been pissing on, and landed on his arse on something decidedly prickly.

‘What the hell are you doing,’ Solway asked from above his head.

He let go of his dick. ‘Nothing?’

‘You are a fucking weirdo sometimes, Bart,’ she said, pointing a roll of toilet paper at him. ‘Do you need the shovel?’

He pulled up his fly and got to his feet. ‘No thanks, I’m good. Go do your thing. I’ll just head back to the Landy.’

The sun had fully hitched itself over the horizon as he reached the sand – the long shadow created by the four-wheel-drive nearly reaching his swag. His heartbeat began to slow as he opened the back door and started searching for something to eat, then the hush of footsteps on the track had him looking over his shoulder at Solway’s grinning face.

‘Hungry, are ya?’

‘I’m a tad peckish, yes. He pulled a cardboard box towards himself. ‘Did we bring milk?’

‘We did, it’s in the…’ She looked him up and down. ‘Are you trying to distract me?’

‘No?’

‘What happened back there, Bart?’

‘I heard something. God, I sound like a little kid in an American movie. Did you hear something?’

She smirked and shook her head. ‘Just you, falling all over the place. What scared you?’

‘Nothing? Okay,’ he sighed as she raised one perfect eyebrow. ‘Look, I know what roos’ sound like, and I know it wasn’t a roo, okay? I don’t even think there are roos’ around here. It was just one big thump, I didn’t know what it was, I got spooked, and then you turned up.’

She grinned again. ‘Are you going to get that box out of the back of the vehicle, or are you going to balance it there on the edge of the seat forever.’

‘Oh come on,’ he muttered. ‘I was pulling it out from under that friggin’ blanket when you turned up, and I am just about to remove it, if you’ll just give me a bloody minute and if you like, I’ll take it back to wherever it is you want to set up the camp oven. How’s that?’

‘That’s great,’ she replied, smiling even wider. ‘But you could have waited until I’d pulled out the table and set that up before taking out that bloody box. So, I guess you’re hungry.’

Bart sighed again, so deeply he felt his shoulders rise and fall. ‘I am hungry, okay? I got a fright, and I just want a biscuit, a cuppa coffee, and a sit, alright?’

‘That’s fine.’ Solway gave him a hug. ‘I’ll grab everything and get the kettle going. Why don’t you grab a bickie while I set it all up.’

the rest of that very short chapter, and a little bit more… (story completed in March 2025 over an eleven day period). You’re Welcome

He pushed her hand away. ‘No thanks. I can get up by myself.’ The sideways roll onto his hands and knees and the flailing grasp at a dining chair had him reconsidering those words a few moments later. He crawled to the wall, vaguely resembling a portly tug-boat in high seas with a broken motor. It must have set something off in his insides as well for, as he scrambled to find purchase on the smooth surface of the plasterboard, his backside let out what may have been in any other orchestral situation, a sliding trombone-like sound.

‘Fuck me,’ he heard from behind him, accompanied by a most unlady-like snort.

‘Shush,’ he said. ‘My body is obviously extrememememely excited.’

‘Apparently,’ Solway responded as he slowly lurched to his feet. ‘Okay. I’ve made an executive decision. Get the camera gear packed up. I’m going downstairs to check what supplies we have remaining. If I don’t come back, I’ve gone to the shops. We’ve got about forty-five minutes until they close, so I need to get moving.’

‘Okay. While you’re down there,’ he said as she strode towards the front door. ‘Could you see if we’ve got any…’ The door slammed behind her. ‘…Yoghurt… Bugger.’

~~~~,~’~~~,~’~80>

2/ “Popcorn”

Solway demanded they start back to the campsite as soon as possible when she’d returned from the supermarket, despite the fact they’d be driving into the night. Their hasty departure had been a little too exciting, especially when accompanied by questions Bart couldn’t answer.

‘I don’t even know where it is,’ he said as she shuttled him to the old Discovery. ‘It could be bloomin’ anywhere, Sol, we were all over the southwest escarpment on the weekend.’

‘We’ll find it,’ she’d replied, almost throwing him towards the passenger door. She ignored his masculine mutters of surprise. ‘Just get in the car and put on your seatbelt.’

‘I am NOT a child,’ he muttered, hunching down in his seat and refusing to suck his thumb.

She’d ignored him and started the engine.

By the time they’d hit the bridge two hours later, Solway had made the decision to go offroad.

‘We’ll take this one.’ She slowed and nodded at a fire break rising beyond the reflective posts. ‘Might be a little bit faster getting back to where we were last.’

‘You don’t even know if that’s where it was,’ he protested but again she ignored him.

That’s when things got a little hairy.

He’d always trusted Solway, but after the hour and a half drive into the oncoming night, it was almost like something possessed her. The headlights of the Land Rover waved crazily over the darkened scene as the trail entered a local forest. Low bushes began to scrape the side of the vehicle and slid underneath the chassis with inhuman shrieks. Bart became quite sure his life was at risk — despite the fact they were only doing about ten k’s an hour.

‘Do we know this track,’ he asked. ‘Doesn’t look like it’s been used for quite a while.’ He peered out the window at very large trees and dense shrubbery. It looked very dark out there.

‘No,’ Solway answered, and he noticed her grip on the steering wheel changed. ‘I don’t want to break a thumb,’ she muttered at his silent question.

Bart blinked furiously and turned off the radio. That’s when he began to feel like popcorn in a frying pan.

They lurched and jerked over holes, his shoulder hitting the door with frequent abandon. He was quite positive it would bruise his sensitive skin. Branches swiped at the windscreen, scarred trunks of the occasional eucalypt leapt up in front of them, and it seemed only Solway’s impressive reaction time was stopping them from hitting anything at all.

He was not sure whether he should tell her he loved her, or ask her to stop. He settled with holding onto his seat and the handle above the door for dear life.

They finally came to a halt after a descent onto level ground where the sand that had slowly replaced the firm dirt of the hill became too soft. Solway’s grim face, after a quick inspection of the vehicle with a flashlight revealed a flicked-up branch had pierced the back tyre, had him assuming they had not yet replaced the spare. They’d have to doss down here for the night.

~~~~,~’~~~,~’~80>

The Temple

Do you remember the conversation had from a car window to a man?

I do. It was a shared experience. It was personal. Nobody needed to back down, and I may have told him to pick his rubbish up, which may very well have been met with laughter. He did, by the way. Everyone recognises mum’s voice. I also apologised for using the mum voice, which may have made it even funnier.

Do you remember the conversation had outside a little house? ‘They’re getting cleverer,’ she said, and she wasn’t wrong. She didn’t recognise this place anymore. I admired her strength and her courage and told her so. It was meant to be kept private.

Do you know what it means when we go down to the beach and use the salt water to wash it all away? We knew each other then, and we know each other now, but we do not know each other. How does that sound?

Many years ago, when I was young, a priest told his gathering that the church was not a building and it was not a place. It was inside you, and it still is. You look up, inside yourself and you see the ceiling with the exposed beams, even if you’ve never seen anything like it before, and you may wonder where it came from. It’s yours. Perhaps the ceiling has gold leaf, perhaps it’s simply a golden wood, but if you watch carefully you can see the tiny little golden flecks of light coming down from that ceiling and wash its way around you, and help you feel stronger.

Do you remember that? It is your temple. You have the power to choose between what is right, and what is wrong.

— What is morally right, and what is morally wrong.

— What will destroy, and what will live and let live without creating a stain on your soul. This will bring you here, to this present, to your gift, to you, “beau”. Not all of us carry it lightly. Not all of us can walk through the crowd unnoticed, and sometimes it is simply a choice of whether one wishes to be noticed or not.

You can turn it off, if you want to. You can pretend it didn’t happen. You can simply forget we ever existed, if it makes you feel better. Will it make you feel better?

Then walk back down to the water’s edge, and release your little fish into the water. Watch him swim away. He’s not coming back, and you are the one who made that choice.

She’s not coming back, and you made that choice. I did not instigate your behaviour. That choice falls on you, and you alone. Love is not always what you want it to be. It’s not always pretty and unfortunately, it’s not always kind. This is the difference between nature and superstition, and I thank her for my time.

Don’t just read the sections of a book that interest or excite you. Read the whole bloody thing. A fifteen second miracle lasts as long as fifteen seconds. A lasting impression is not a cannon ball run.

Perhaps none of it will make sense to you. Perhaps all of it does. Perhaps that’s the entire point. Perhaps, you should start listening to what really matters, and not just what you think might matter. It’s always your choice. It’s never mine.

“Pull up a Cloud”

said the distant demon.

‘What, now? I’m doin’ ship.’ The Angel of downward mercy sat in a little green office and looked at her watch.

‘Yes, now, for God’s sake. I’m probably gonna go to bed soon, or something, I dunno.’

‘Fine, then.’ She pulled up a cloud. ‘What’re we lookin’ at?’

‘That up ‘imself charlatan up there in the Northern ’emisphere.’

‘Oh him. Yes, well, ya know. Doesn’t speak English. Kind of like me, sometimes, kind of like you too, I reckon. I feel like I might go off on a tangent, if ya don’t stop me.’ The Australian angel’s cloud started to float off, just a little bit. The, ah, British angel grabbed his hook and pulled it back towards him.

‘You’re floating off again.’

‘Yeah, I’ve got a habit. Possibly why I’m an angel.’

‘Good point. Anyway, see ‘im up there, the one who reckons he’s the real angel, just ‘cos he was on some show for… ‘ow long was it?’

‘Bloody long time, I reckon.’ The Australian angel rolled her eyes. ‘Reckon’s he’s some kind of Great and Wonderful regally appointed whatsit, or something. Wanted to be professional at one point, so I hear, but they wouldn’t let him. Heard that one, myself. Some Texas ranger and another bloke of indistinct heritage, but not really, said if they couldn’t laugh at stuff, they’d put him in a distinctly… anyway. He likes arsehats. Something about he couldn’t talk for a week, later on as well, but you know, that’s what happens when you’re talking waaaay too deep for someone who doesn’t usually sound like that.’

‘Are you in trouble,’ asked the “British” angel. ‘Hmmm?’

“Hmm?” Not really? Well, yes? No? Not right now? It’s the weekend. Everything knows nothing much happens on the weekend. It’s not the weekend where you are though, is it?’

‘It might not be yet, no.’ The Not-to-be-deterred “Jumped up wanker” of a “British angel” inspected his cloud. ‘There’s a hole in this bit. I’ll have to get it fixed after your thingy that’s coming up.’

‘Speaking of holes,’ said the Australian angel, grinning widely. There wasn’t a hole to be seen. ‘What are you sitting on, when you sit on your cloud?’

‘What do you meeeeean?’ asked the other angel suspiciously.

‘Asking for a friend. Just checking on something. You don’t mind me asking, do ya?’

‘Heroics will get you nowhere,’ the other angel replied testily. ‘Kindly remove your hands from my buttocks.’

‘Oh well done! Now… is that a front bum, or a back bum?’

‘You are in so much trouble now! Let me tell you about my great aunt Fanny!’

The angel who’d had a rug pulled out from him wandered up and sat on a distant cloud.

“Came over last week,” he said, very unconvincingly. “Maybe not. Maybe I came over last year. Goddammit, maybe I haven’t been there yet. I don’t understand you people!”

‘That’s what I thought,’ said the Australian angel. ‘I also thought you may have decided to, ya know, help out at some point, seeing as I asked a few times, but it appears that I’m not important enough.’

“I never said that!”

‘That’s true. You didn’t. Didn’t say much at all, ak-choo-ally. Oh well, never mind.’ The very small Australian angel started to putter away on her old-fashioned, slightly pink, slightly green, slightly orange, have-I-made-my-point yet, fluffy white cloud. ‘It’s only a little place, after all. Can’t fit too many passengers.’

The sound of distant sirens made her frown. ‘Just letting you know, it’s not getting any better around here. I think we could all do with a little help.’

The Very Sweary Faerie.

This is not based on a true story. At all. Nor is it based on anyone else’s stuff, so hopefully they won’t take offence.

The faery was lying right-side up in the biggest and boggiest swamp he had ever been in, in his entire life.

‘I am sick and tired of this shirt,’ he cried in an extrememememely masculine voice, which had been auto-tuned to sound just right. ‘Why did I think it was a good idea to go wandering around in a swamp slash lake of mystical beings, just to get me rocks off?’

Nobody answered him. For once in his life, it was beautifully silent. The dragonfly larvae wasn’t quite big enough to bite him yet, and the mosquitos were not interested in trying to suck his blood. If it had not been for the fact he was lying in mud and staring at the clouded sky with no way of getting himself out, he would have been quite happy.

Unfortunately, his feet were encased in muck and he had fallen backwards, landing on his ample backside in the bog. His hands were scrabbling around, trying to find something to grab hold of, but there was nothing. Not even a reed.

‘Bugger,’ he said loudly. ‘Bugger me. Bugger this. Bugger everything.’

Off in the distance, below the sound of the mudlarks and fairy wrens, below the sound of the newly escaped gaseous swamp-like bubbles, there came a sound of intermittent buzzing.

‘What the far kenneth hell is that?’ The faery would have turned his head, if it wasn’t glued to the swamp slash lake. As it was though, it was glued to the swamp slash lake so he had to roll his very tiny eyeballs. The buzzing was coming closer. Not too close, not yet, but a lot closer than it had been five minutes ago. It was accompanied by a not-at-all auto tuned voice which happened to be singing very loudly and very off-key.

‘Tra-la-la-lally, I’m off to the valley. Oh, not on your nelly, I am rather smellyyyyyy.’

It didn’t make much sense at all.

All of a sudden a rather large and beautiful dragonfly, accompanied by an obnoxious ladybird (who seemed to be cackling loudly) appeared over the top of the horizontal faery’s head.

‘Well hello there,’ said the Dragonfly in a very friendly voice. ‘Would you like some help out of the poopy-poo-jobbies and whatsername you have found yourself in?’

The ladybird didn’t say anything. She had spent an awfully long time with a couple of really crestfallen, but still happy, seagulls and didn’t really trust herself to say nice things. It may have been half the reason she had disappeared for a very long time. One tends to do that when a lot of things go wrong all at once. She did smile though, which sent a shiver up the small faery’s spine. It wasn’t unpleasant, but there was something there that made the faery think he may not have been a very good boy.

‘Will you save me from this terrible position I have found myself in,’ the faerie asked from his prone position in the mud.

The ladybird cocked her tiny head. ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘I know a few people who might, but you’d need to head over to their place, and that, unfortunately for you, is nowhere near here, but it’s a lot closer to where I come from, originally. There’s a lot of wild-eyed kids there, and they have lots of stories to tell, if you care to take a look. They are rather beautiful stories, to be honest with you, and quite a lot of them are not mine. But, you know, it’s only a very small place, so maybe you’re not interested.’

The Dragonfly had begun to grin as well, and it was a lot more terrifying than the little sweet mannered and well represented ladybird. The faery finally realised the Dragonfly’s eyes were many faceted, and he could not quite tell where, exactly, the Dragonfly was looking.

‘Oh,’ he said mildly from his position in the murk. ‘I think I may have made a terrible mistake. You see, when I first met the ladybird, that was all she did. I know she warned people she did other things as well, but I didn’t really believe it was possible. After several months of stalking the ladybird, like the absolute nutter I am, I have decided perhaps now it would be a good time to ask if you could save me, properly, from the terrible position I have found myself in for not believing in the magic of ladybirds. Also, there are other things I would like to discuss with the ladybird, but perhaps that is something left for another day, in another world entirely.’

‘I think so too,’ said the Dragonfly. ‘Okay, someone lower the rope, and we’ll get him out of there. If he doesn’t hang himself while he’s being airlifted by magical Dragonflies to safety, he might actually learn something.’

‘You never know, do you,’ said the ladybird conversationally, and off she flew, never to be seen again except perhaps in bookshops and ebooks.

Of course, that wasn’t the end of the story. It never really is.

“Kickin’ Off”

‘I’m gonna go to the pub,’ said Blue to Greenie.

‘Are ya now? Gotta bit dough, ‘ave ya?’ Greenie looked at his mate.

‘Not really mate. Saved up for a bloody week for this.’

‘A week now, is it?’

‘Maybe a bit longer. Dunno.’ Blue pulled out his wallet. ‘Yeah, maybe a bit longer.’

‘Ya know, mate, Mum said if ya gonna go down, ya may as well go down hungry.’

‘Why’s that then?’

‘Prob’ly cost ya less to buy a meal than it will to buy a bloody beer, that’s why.’

‘Ya reckon?’ Blue looked into Greenie’s eyes and began to laugh. ‘You gonna give us a show then?’

‘Waddaya mean?’

‘You know. My mate says when you’ve got a good left hook you should probably save it for the best bit.’

‘Right. That’s for sure. Anyway, if you’re goin’, could ya spot me a twenny?’

‘A twenny? Why’s that?’

‘It’ll go towards the six pack I can get sitting at home watching the telly while you go down the bloody pub and buy one schooner, that’s why. I’ve got five bucks ‘ere, saying you’d rather stay at home and ‘ave a drink out in the backyard with me.’

‘True, that. But, you know, certain circumstances might get me down the pub, especially if I can’t get to see the live action at home.’

Greenie nodded wisely. ‘Ya got me there, mate. Might have to save up a bit of money meself, I s’pose.’

‘How long’ll that take ya?’

‘Probably about a freakin’ year, mate. Not too many of us get to go to the pub anymore. Contrary to what Old Slim used to sing, the pubs got beer, it’s just no one can afford it.’

‘So, I guess I’m stayin’ at home again tonight.’ Blue sat back down on his milk crate and surveyed the yellow sand of the boxed-in yard. ‘Party at my place, then.’

‘I’ll bring the snags.’

Every spring she comes back to a garden…

Let me explain a few things about what happens when a story is shared.

First of all, it goes to an editor, and in one particular case, the editor and the publisher wanted to change the amount of letters in a certain seagull’s name. Instead of it being “AARGH”, which was his original name, it became AAAARGH, which was quite a bit longer.

Then, of course, it went to the illustrator, who had come from a different part of the world entirely, and the illustrator put their own little twist on Ambrosia and Aargh, and all the other creatures added to the story.

You see, when I first wrote about Ambrosia and Aargh, Ambrosia was a ladybug, not a ladybird, and Aargh, as you can see, had far fewer letters to his name.

But, unless we can share really carefully well thought out “why’s” to explain to other people, we do not always get what we want. Sometimes, we just have to go with the flow.

You see, Ambrosia was difficult to sell to my publisher, even though we were friends, because Ambrosia seemed a little too “common”. This is why I made Ambrosia into a Transverse ladybird, because that made her a little more Australian (who could also travel a little further if she needed to). Unfortunately, or fortunately as the case may be, this argument for Ambrosia’s survival in the story industry was not passed on to the artist/illustrator, who made a perfectly good and beautiful ladybug/ladybird that everyone could see.

Aargh also nearly got left out of the story. Who’d have thunk it! Being “just a seagull” made Aargh a little common too, you see, so we made sure to make him an Australian Silver Gull (which he actually was).

Unfortunately, this little piece of information may not have been picked up by the illustrator either, being a Canadian, and the illustrator may have very well put her own twist as to what Aargh looked like.

Despite it looking like a dastardly plan to go international, it actually wasn’t. It was simply a conglomeration of several minds hard at work with their own ideas, which resulted in the final, slightly mixed up version of the original story of Ambrosia Honeybun Polka Dot. 

I’ll tell you a secret, too. One of the pages of writing in the book is not quite in the right place. It’s actually also a little bit mixed up, and that had nothing to do with me. In fact, quite a lot of the final story was not much like the original story at all, which was quite a bit shorter.

In saying this, and also looking at other editing mistakes in another book I wrote, even though it annoyed the bejeebers out of me at the time, I let it go. You see, it was already printed, copyrighted and all the other wonderful things that go with creating a story, and sometimes, just sometimes, there’s not much one can do about it at all except collect the royalties.

And sometimes, the royalties for writing books are not very much at all.

(I’ll give you a round number of what I receive for those two books over a quarterly period. It’s around $200 AU every three months. That’s not very much at all, is it. Not for someone who is fifty five years old and doesn’t get any other income. I’ll leave that with you to think about.)

Kate Capewell

Dear Toodles

She wrote. ‘Good to see your English is improving.’

‘My English has always been rather good,’ he said. ‘It just wasn’t your English, which is weird and Australian.’

‘There is nothing wrong with being weird and Australian, and this is meant to be my letter to you, so please be quiet.’

‘I am being quiet. I am sleeping peacefully because that is what is required of me at this time of the morning.’

‘Well then, perhaps you can just listen rather than talk.’

Toodles thought about that for a short while and decided it was possibly a good idea to listen, rather than talk. He listened.

‘If you are very well behaved, something wonderful is going to happen for your birthday. I’ve already written it down, and I know you want to change one little thing in it to make yourself appear a little more… hmmm, how shall I put it?’ She tapped her lip thoughtfully. ‘Blokey. You can talk,’ she added.

‘No, it’s okay,’ he replied airily. ‘It’s just, you know, some things we can’t be absolutely sure of.’

‘This is true, and I have amended one small thing. The other thing I see you were a little concerned about was what we call “A saying”.’

‘A saying? What’s a saying?’

‘It’s a little like,’ and she grinned as the little whispering friend in her ear offered up a particular well thought out saying. ‘A conversational art-piece.’

‘Is that what you do? Offer up little conversational art-pieces for people to ponder over and wonder about their meanings?’

‘That’s what I’m doing here, yes. In the past, I may have written that down regarding the Australian language and put it in a book, but here I’m offering these little snippets on this page only for you to work on and look at and perhaps wonder to yourself, “What If”…’

‘I think you are doing good things today,’ said Toodles. ‘Can I change me name then, so I can stop saying good bye?’

‘I think you can. You can change it to the greeting of someone being polite and friendly, and perhaps add a little bit of good manners in there, you know, just for fun.’

‘And what about the silly things the silly ones have done all over the internet because they were bored and didn’t have anything better to do?’

‘I believe there might be a certain gentleman wayyyyy over the other side of the world who is thinking about this right now, as we speak, and he has decided that maybe, just one last time, he’s going to think of some wonderful ways he can get them to fix it all up and make it nice again.’

‘You believe that?’

‘I do. Sometimes, believing in something is the most important thing of all.’

I’d say it’s high time he did.

To The Dawn.

‘Play with me?’

The small cat canters down the darkened hallway. It’s early, and most of the occupants of the house are sleeping. This is our time, but we need to be very quiet.

I’m not wearing my glasses, once again, for once again I can’t find them.

This is normal.

The small cat has eyes for this sort of thing. I do not. Once, many years ago, I may have, but that time has passed. It was possibly around the time I noticed I needed to have longer arms to see things.

A little voice inside me says, ‘You should go and get new glasses.’ The practical part of me, who notices I have not been earning a wage, tells me to buy yet another pair of cheap reading glasses.

Yet another part of me says, ‘Well, you should be earning a wage, so you can buy yourself new glasses.’

These parts of myself try not to be negative, yet because they are practical they list all the reasons why these things are not achievable. So, I decide that when there is more light in the sky, I will try to find the glasses I know I own, and use those.

But, I want to do something now, so I studiously try to ignore these things and try not to fuss too much about not wearing my glasses, and instead rely on the fact I have a fairly good idea where the keys on the keyboard are. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time I have had to write blind.

‘May we sing to you, for you.’ the small voices ask, and it makes me sad for no reason at all. One of the young men of the house has gotten out of bed and is having a shower. He works early this morning, has taken on extra responsibilities for himself, and is learning how to shine.

It is beautiful to see.

Dawn is here.

You see, someone achieving something is possibly one of the most wonderful things in the world to me. To see them rise and say, ‘This is what I am going to do,’ is possibly one of the sweetest things to feel.

Is this my purpose? I feel it is.

Perhaps, someday someone will also do that for me.

Today, though, like most days, I will see them rise, and I will do my best to help them shine, and listen when I can, and switch off when I can’t. This is how I deal with things. I will do the things they are unable/unwilling to do, and make sure everything runs smoothly.

I put myself in their shoes and I think, ‘Oh, I should be there, sitting with them, and just being there for them. They yawn loudly, and I think, ‘Please do that quietly, other people are sleeping’, and then I think, ‘If I was sitting with them, perhaps they would not yawn as loudly.’ I hear the morning birds and I think, ‘I should be there, appreciating their songs,’ and then I compare that to sitting and appreciating being with the person who supports me because I chose to walk away from something that was not kind.

I have been told that was a poor decision, to walk away from something that was not kind, because now I do not earn that wage. Yet here, where I am doing my best to be kind, it is accepted and ignored as well.

Do I get to share my passion for words with them? No, not often. This is boring to them

Do they get to share their passion for the sport of their choosing with me? Often, and loudly. Do I wish to participate in that sport? No. They like to get louder and louder to share their passion with me. I get quieter and quieter because my words and their words do not compare.

So, instead, we use the practical knowledge of how to make things work, with each other, and although my practical knowledge of certain things far exceeds theirs in some ways, their practical knowledge of other things far exceeds mine in others. This is how the partnership is formed. I will continue to be proud of them, and the things I love to do will continue to be mine and mine alone — for if I disagree with something then I am called, very loudly by people with loud voices, these people I love, horrible names. If I say, ‘If you do this to help yourself, you can be more independent.’ They say, ‘If you do this for me, I don’t need to.’

So, this is where it’s at. I cannot go and earn a wage for myself, because it infringes on the time for them. Yet, if I do not work and earn a wage, it is a bad decision and I should have stayed.

Where do I come into this?

I should get myself a dog.

I can’t get myself a dog, because this is not the right environment for a dog. The dog would be mistreated, the dog might escape, the dog would not be trained properly for there are many people in my home, and a dog needs to be trained one way, not many ways, so the dog can learn one thing first before he can learn many.

I go back to my words. I have learnt from the past that to get something to play with, in whatever shape or form, will only serve to have it and myself mistreated, and have myself blamed — so I go back to my words.

My own words are the only words that are safe for me.

Why?

No one on this page at this time has interfered with my own words. Only I have interfered with my own words. I allow changes if they are correct. If I no longer have access to make the correct changes, then I no longer have access to the one thing I can control.

Then lose control.

That is a very unwise decision. It is illogical, impractical, and ridiculous.

Then get another hobby.

This is where they and I agree. Why, when I only have one thing I absolutely, thoroughly enjoy, the one thing I have left to enjoy because everything else is taken away, or impractical, unwise, not appreciated, not accepted, and no one has given me/will give me the opportunity or access to be myself for myself and no one else, why would I get another hobby?

Then there is only one thing left to do. Here we disagree. I will not end, nor will I give in or give up, because that is simply not who I am. I will get up, again, and again, and again. I will not be violent if I can help it. I will not try to hurt if I can help it. I will not be loud or obnoxious if I can help it. I will just get smaller, and smaller until finally there is nothing left at all.

And then I will start again.

The Gap Inbetween

‘Let’s play a much more fun game,’ said the inductee of fairly good ideas.

“They” was the word.

They didn’t get it right the first time, and the world would wake up before they were ready.

‘What happens next,’ shouted someone across the gorge.

‘That’s where you come in and say, “You know what, I know this joke”.’

‘Like a back and forth? Like ping pong?’

‘Just like that.’

So, I start with a line or two, and you add a line or two there, and then they add a line or two after, and then another one, and we must remember to like each one, mustn’t we. That’s how it has always gone. Try to be a little more pleasant, if it is at all possible (apparently, it is not. Pleasant means kind). They are so rolling their eyes at a certain someone who couldn’t keep his hand out of his furry bits. Normal, yes, but really not something that needs repeating as often as it is… (no criminal intent, no scenes or riots, no nasty, just a game kids can play… Obviously, some people do not understand games for kids who actually go to school. There is your problem)

‘It was a wooden horse carved long ago. Many men have leapt out of it over the years, and even a woman or two.’

(carry the horse)