By: Elysia

I flew the second time. That is, the second time I went up to Edinburgh in August, I flew there. I have to say I’m not hugely keen on flying; it’s not that I freak out, I just go very, very quiet and listen to my music  if I’m not distracted by conversation. The friend who flew up with me first thing that Friday said afterwards, over coffee and almond croissant, that she’d never known me be so quiet for so long.

After breakfast we chucked the bags and headed straight out for a wander round the town (well, city), collecting fliers and letting people tout their creative wares. Walking down the Royal Mile collecting fliers and speaking to people about their shows is one of my favourite things about the Festivals, I love heading out with little or no plans for the day, not knowing which shows I’ll end up being convinced to watch.

Please Hold: You’re Being Transferred to a UK Based Asian Representative
The first show we ended up going to see was ‘Please Hold: You’re Being Transferred to a UK Based Asian Representative’, the first of two shows we saw back to back in the Back Room at Finnegan’s Wake. It was good-natured fun and the comedienne was a pleasant enough character, but it did lack some of the bite that could have been injected into it. Nevertheless, everyone seemed to enjoy the show and the performer was eager to chat with people afterwards, as much to dispel any myths about her religion as anything else. There were several times I genuinely laughed out loud (such as when she discussed her rather simple but endearing colleague who clearly misunderstood what could be inferred from a Muslim’s choice of headscarf colour on any particular day (“and then I realised, she thought I was a ninja…”)), and the rest of the time I was pleasantly smiling. So, all in all, a good-natured and fun half an hour.

Schoolbooks in Wallpaper
It’s always a good sign when a performer at the Free Festival chooses not to collect any donations as they’ve already made what they need to cover their expenses, as was the case for Ian Perth following his, quite rightly, successful Fringe debut ‘Schoolbooks in Wallpaper’. I’ve always enjoyed stand-up where a random idea is thrown out there to start with, encouraging much mirth in its own right, and then is referenced again right at the end of the show, resulting in one of those ‘ah, so that’s where he was going’ moments. Perth did this incredibly well, and en route took the audience on a laughter-filled tour of what it was like to grow up in Ireland in the 1980s. It was what I think of as traditional stand-up, with some audience interaction and lots of one-liners peppering the script of more convoluted tales of misadventure. I also suspect that, at some point or other, every audience member nodded knowingly at least once at some of Perth’s reminiscing, another sign of well-prepared comedy in my book. It moved at a great pace, it was packed with jokes, and everyone loved it. Success.

You For Coffee?
Oh, dear lord. And so to ‘You For Coffee?,’ an hour of stand-up comedy (at least that’s how it was billed) from Edmund Cox and Elise Harris. I have to say I’m not sure how this pair actually survived as long as they did, to make it to the last weekend of the Fringe, so I can only assume that (material aside) they were having a really, really bad day the afternoon we went to see their stand-up. Both of them. Individually. Really, really bad.

I don’t like being mean, I really don’t. It’s not in my nature. But I left feeling numb with shock at the verbal and visual abuse we’d suffered. I felt violated. And not in a good way.

Edmund Cox’s set was first. Let’s think of the positives. Right. Well, he knew all the words to sections of the Labyrinth. That’s good, right? As long as it’s in an endearing, retro sort of way? In fact I do feel slightly guilty that he asked for an audience member to participate in a Labyrinth recital/skit with him and I kept my head firmly down despite being able to quote the section to which he was referring (‘you remind me of the babe…’). (I don’t feel that guilty: my friend later did take pity on him and agree to help out with some audience participation with him and ended up being mildly insulted by him, an interesting tactic seeing as she was the only person who’d shown any heart towards the driver of this particular car crash.) In a bid to perhaps not say anything to negative, I’ll sum up Cox’s set like this: he started by putting both legs behind his head, and it went downhill from there.

Elise Harris, as the flyer I kept states, ‘is the winner of BBC Upstaged and the best actor at Supershorts Film Festival, with more than 5 million views on YouTube’, so I assume that Edmund’s opening set had knocked her off stride somewhat. I have to confess I can’t bring myself to search for Harris on YouTube in case the horror of that afternoon comes flooding back, but please do look her up. I admit that I left thinking she was actually even worse than Edmund, but actually upon reflection her material was actually at least verging on quite humorous. Perhaps it was just that afternoon’s delivery, the fact her ukulele (was it a uke? I seem to recall it was but in my bid to erase the event from my memory it could have been another stringed instrument) was badly out of tune which meant her song fell flat (no pun intended), or the fact that she actually entirely gave up on the last few minutes of the set and didn’t even finish, such as was the mood in The Banshee Labyrinth Music Room.

Bad Bread Presents TV Times
I will be eternally grateful, therefore, that the next creative fare we tucked into was of far, far better standard. ‘Bad Bread Presents TV Times’ was hilariously conceived and well presented. It was the perfect antidote to the earlier disaster and was slick in its delivery. The sketches were very amusing, and the running joke of ‘Carlsberg don’t do…’, which got more and more sharp throughout the show, underpinned the whole event well. Of course, they could have analysed their marketing strategy a little more: if you send out the baby-faced and conventionally aesthetically pleasing youngest member of a trio to distribute fliers, you’re going to end up with a cavern full of teenage girls who don’t all understand the best and most cutting parts of your show and instead laugh at the visual and more overt jokes, meaning any well-produced skit based on Freudian concepts or take on the Frost Report ‘I Know My Place’ sketch leaves only the four members of the audience over nineteen screeching with laughter. And it was quite frankly depressing how few of the teenagers got the whole Tarantino inspired Teletubbies tableau. Still, the whole show was hilarious, not least for built in but throwaway one-liners such as ‘last week Eeyore sold his tail for crack’.

By: Elysia

I can’t believe it has taken me so long to sit down and write this. Believe me when I say I feel more than a little embarrassed that, over two months after the Edinburgh Festivals have finished, I’ve only just managed to put fingers to keyboard.

I suppose I could pretend it’s deliberate. I could say that, several weeks after the event(s), I wanted to return to those creativity-crammed few days to remind myself of the delights and the definitely-not-delights (yes, sadly this year there was one of those): but I can’t lie to you. I have to confess that in the midst of all the excitements and craziness of the last few months I have had little time to write. That would be sad, except for the fact that now I do have time; I have energy; and I have inspiration.

I ventured north to Edinburgh twice this August: firstly, on my own for less than forty-eight hours; and secondly with a group of rather fabulous individuals for a long weekend.

The first time was in mid-August, after all the festivals had started (some only days earlier) and were relatively fresh and new. The fliers which were enthusiastically jabbed in my direction walking down the Royal Mile weren’t at that point cluttered further by scraps of paper stapled to them, quoting reviews of the shows, like they were when I visited with my friends at the end of the month. It is part of the natural metamorphosis of the Edinburgh Festivals; as the days progress the fliers grow from pristine, untouched, to being adorned with typed reviews complete with their own personal miniature constellations.

Like the previous year I had gone with part purpose, and part intention to wander and absorb, seeing what was on offer at the last minute. I suppose, thinking about it, that’s quite representative of my personality: I like to plan things, yes, but really only so I can be organised enough to pack in as much as possible, snatching any spare moments and spontaneously cramming them with tiny adventures.

My purpose in mid-August was two-fold: Evelyn Evelyn, and Neil Gaiman. I arrived early morning, and promptly ditched my luggage at the hostel where I was planning to spend the night before heading out to grab a coffee, which I sipped slowly in Princes Street Gardens as Edinburgh started waking up properly. I sat there, on my leather jacket on the bench that had still been damp from the previous night’s dew, and drank slowly, watching the weak, early morning summer sun filter through the trees. People in suits and work clothes starting tripping past, in a rush, chatting on mobile phones or gulping down their takeaway drinks as they scanned the day’s headlines from the papers clutched in their hands. It was almost as if the world was speeding up around me, while I continued to sit there until long after my coffee had gone too cold to finish, just watching everything and everyone.

I spent most of the morning wandering around, soaking up the atmosphere of my favourite city once again, and drinking in coffee shops and scribbling away in my notebook. There have been many times a scrap of an idea has occurred to me in such circumstances which has later developed into a fully formed scheme or plan. I’m perhaps being overly romantic to say I owe most of my initial fragments of ideas to time spent holed up in eateries and drinkeries in Edinburgh, but it does sometimes seem that way.

Neil Gaiman
Eventually, after more caffeine than is possibly good for me, I ended up at Charlotte Square Gardens to hear Neil Gaiman be interviewed by Audrey Niffenegger. It was as good as I’d hoped for and more. Being eternally fascinated by mythology and folklore (themes which seem to permeate most of my writings, consciously or unconsciously), it thrilled me to discover that the first half of the talk centred upon fairytales. I could go on, I could go into detail about what was said: or I could direct you to this link where you can listen to the event itself. Ensure you do.

By late afternoon, after only having had an hour or two of sleep the night before, I decided to head back for a kitten nap before Evelyn Evelyn in the evening.

Evelyn Evelyn
I’m always a little bit apprehensive about going to watch artists I admire and whose work I enjoy, as there’s always that concern that I might be disappointed. The performance might not be up to scratch, there might be a distinct lack of artist engagement with the crowd, I might get that unsettling feeling that, somehow, something was wrong and it was all just a gaudy, hollow sham. This fear partly stems from the fact that I don’t understand the concept of celebrity. I like interesting people, people who are their own people, people who do things their own way. And so, being an admirer of several of the things that Amanda Palmer has done (or, at least as equally, the way in which she has done them), I was almost nervous about the evening’s billing.

I needn’t have worried: the show was everything I’d not quite dared to hope it would be. The atmosphere was fantastic, the camaraderie of the crowd in the queue outside was heart-warming, and the entertainment value was about as high as you could imagine. There was something so perfectly timed about the dark humour of the parapagus tripus dibrachius twins, that even when things appeared not to be going entirely to plan you were never quite sure whether the seamless reactionary skit that followed was deliberate or not. Watching them both (one arm each) play their instruments was a delight, especially the moment where a third arm sneaked out from their shared dress to hold the ukulele (a video of which I’d seen on YouTube, and which was even funnier live). All in all, I was left with a feeling of pure delight mingled with sheer relief. My one regret is that I missed Amanda Palmer’s and Jason Webley’s solo shows in the days that followed.

I would have stayed after the show to sneak a peek at the prototype for the Evelyn Evelyn graphic novel which, at that point in mid-August, had just been pulled together; but I was meeting a friend, so finished the night off with a drink or two in George Square Gardens and Udderbelly instead.

The next day I decided to go for a walk and explore parts of Edinburgh to which I hadn’t yet been, which resulted in me walking constantly for two hours and ultimately (but, fortunately, temporarily) getting delightfully lost. Afterwards I visited the Writers’ Museum in Lady Stair’s Close. The museum is a lovely little place, housing exhibitions about the lives of Walter Scott, Robert Burns and Robert Louis Stevenson and, this time, my visit was made even more delightful by a chance encounter with a gentleman from Shetland (the second of two gentlemen from Shetland I randomly chatted to in Edinburgh in less than twenty-four hours).

I love Lady Stair’s Close, namely because it houses not only the Writers’ Museum but also the Makars’ Court with its carved paving slabs, engraved with the words of writers from days of yore and not so yore, including the delightful quote from Nan Shepherd, ‘It’s a grand thing to get leave to live’; and the sheer emotive magic of George Mackay Brown’s ‘In the fire of images gladly I put my hand’ (from the poem ‘Hamnavoe’, written about his father: go read it now).

Michael J Dolan’s Dress to Impress
As the afternoon started to roll towards evening I found myself in the White Horse, ready to partake in a little of Michael J Dolan’s ‘Dress to Depress’. I sometimes find that comics fail to strike a pleasing balance between doing an act which is effectively one long grumble (funny or not) and then actually appearing to be a rather grounded and engaging person. Michael J Dolan managed to get it just right. His tales of misery were amusing, even if some members of the audience of which I was part didn’t seem to find them so (I swear some people turn up to free Fringe shows just to try and be as thoroughly grumpy as they can, to put the comics off), and at one point I actually screeched with laughter at the end of a carefully crafted and well-delivered comment about eating babies. And then, at the end of the show, he was there with the bucket at the back, looking thoroughly grateful that people had turned up and laughed. All in all, I thought as I sat sipping a whisky in the bar at the station later that evening, a great way to finish off the first instalment of my Festival adventures.

By: Vague

The first time I heard the phrase, ‘Flotsam and Jetsam’, was when I was first reading The Lord of the Rings, where it is the title of a chapter. At least that is how my memory deems it; I may have known of it before, but it certainly stuck in my mind with that reading. I think I was ten years old, or thereabouts. A long time hence.

It is a beautiful phrase (at least I think it is), adding a lustre to what is essentially rubbish. How I wish I had access to my Shorter Oxford, so as to verify the etymology of the words. I guess the first is from ‘float’ and the second ‘jettison’ – but that would be a guess.

Again; rubbish.

Les Stroud, AKA ‘Survivorman’, frequently makes the point that one can be on any coast in the world, as far from another human as possible, and still find other people’s rubbish. And the vast majority of this is plastic.

I have discussed our ongoing love-affair with oil and its derivatives before; I cannot remember if that was on here, or elsewhere. It is a pet hate. I often try and imagine what this beach or that cove would look like without the garish smattering of plastic items strewn across the tide mark, like so many bright poisonous fruit festooning the seaweed, wood and bones that should be there.

Plastic is an interloper. It takes many, many years to decay. It is eaten by sealife across the globe, and is a major problem we care little about.

Yet.

And here we return to our title.

Yet, like Mr Stroud, I try and follow the adage the Wombles preach. One man’s rubbish is another’s treasure. And, when you are miles from the nearest shop, and with no way of transporting heavier items anyway, this treasure can become very valuable indeed.

To give an idea of just how much litters our coast I have brought up the following items to the shelter; there are far more still down below on the beaches that fringe the forest.

• Two two-litre fizzy drinks bottles
• One glass 1.5 litre bottle (whole!)
• A plastic spray bottle, such as you may buy containing cleaner, anti-bacterial spray etc (battered but not cracked)
• Two bleached rib bones (deer or sheep)
• A three foot length of six inch pipe
• A plastic barrel, the bottom cut off to make a bucket
• Three large fish boxes (100cm x 50cm x 25cm)
• Two plastic trays, also used on the creel boats (60cm x 40cm x 8cm) – these also yielded ten cable ties
• Part of fish box, cut so as to most likely act as a fender on a boat, with rope attached (150cm)
• Plastic pipe, six inches again, corner section
• Several pieces of driftwood, including a very useful pine pole, fifteen foot in length
• The other half of the seal skull I found last year, canine tooth still attached
• A plastic bucket, the sort used on boats, about 50cm diameter at the top and 50cm deep. This was slightly cracked at the bottom but is now perfectly usable as I wove paracord into it to fix it. Both handles also work fine and are undamaged.
• Two children’s beach toys; a small plastic rake and a plastic spade with a wooden handle
• A milk crate
• A ‘Plastimo’ buoy. 23 x 85. Made in France. Two holes/mooring points at either end of the 85cm. With 90cm rope.
• A flat rock, now used as a chopping board. (Ok – this neither floated, nor was jettisoned, but it was carried up from the beach.)

There are still a few other items I intend to collect, mainly driftwood, but also a selection of netting I am pondering a use for, a steel rod and one or two more fish boxes.

The items I already have, rubbish though they are, have started to prove their worth. The spade is surprisingly strong and has been used rather a lot already. One of the fish boxes is used when I collect moss and leaves for adding to the thatching, another has been sawn in half lengthways to make two shelves nailed to some wood and one of the shelter uprights.

The milk crate and buoy are being sat on as I write; very comfortable they are too.

Other items are already earmarked for a purpose; more shelves, a low table etc. I intend to use everything that I carried up here (buoy was carried by another, but that is another tale, and I mustn’t get ahead of myself).

One item there seems to be a proliferation of here is plastic containers for marine lubrication oil. Unfortunately, beyond the one cut down as a bucket and now catching run-off from my tarp in order to keep the shelter floor drier, I cannot think of a use for these. Unless I make a raft, as was suggested!

So, flotsam and jetsam it certainly is, but I am turning more and more Womble, making good use of the things that I find…

Note: Having thought about it some more, I think the milk crate is probably a lobster crate.

By: Vague

It is now over a year since I left my ‘proper’ job and ventured, quite literally, into the unknown.

I have returned to the shelter I built, to once again spend the Fall out in the woods, along the beaches, across the moors and up the mountains.

I started a blog piece a couple of weeks ago, after my company left to return south to her ‘proper’ job. Unfortunately the blog became turgid, incoherent, rambling and generally rubbish, so it was shelved, never to see the day.

Instead, I went over this piece and drew up a list of bullet points I wanted to write about. It occurred to me that the reason that the original blog had become so dire was that I had been trying to put too much into too small a space.

By writing the list I have effectively made the writing process that much easier (you’ve got to love lists) and normal service should once again resume.

I had intended to write a few pieces over the time since I left the wilderness, especially about my Brittany adventure, but I failed. Probably due to wine.

Hopefully I will be able to furnish these hallowed walls with a few thoughts and notes. I will be out here for a few more weeks so there should be plenty to discuss.

By: Elysia

I am not very good at moping.

This last week I have been in a decidedly odd mood. I have felt frustrated, rejected, restless and unsettled. Pretty much, without fail, for no good reason at all.

I suspect that, this week, returning from my adventures has unfortunately coincided with my biannual (if flexibly timed) ‘feel restless, must escape’ feeling of needing to get away and do different things, which has in turn cumulatively coincided with a series of imminent new beginnings. This combination of things which are all important to me, whilst being altogether contradictory, has confused me somewhat.

You know (or maybe you don’t) that I’m an expert at self-analysis, to the point where it stops being actually helpful. One of my many personal conundrums is the fact that I am careful and measured in my consideration of every situation, but just as likely to go against what I know is my perceived personal logic when making decisions, for some emotively justifiable reason or other. So this morning I woke up feeling under the weather and in a situation where, for others, it might be expected that one would mope. But no: I can’t even do that. My inner logic insists that, actually, there is no logical reason to mope and therefore there’s no point in even entertaining the idea.

“Elysia, you’re not very good at moping. And, also, you know you feel better when you get on and do things so you feel like the day hasn’t been wasted, even if you don’t do some of the things you’d originally planned to do today.”

“You know what, Elysia? You utterly piss me off sometimes, especially when you’re right, damn you…”

“I am always right. The sooner you realise that, the…”

“Oh shut up, you self-assured irritation. Do you always have to be so cold and logical? Why can’t you show a bit of emotion? Why can’t you let me wallow for a few minutes?”

“Err, yes, I always have to be the logical one because technically we’re the same person and, in this particular exchange, you’re representing your emotion. Or our emotion. I don’t know. It’s rather confusing. And, to answer your last question, I’d just like to remind you that last time you tried wallowing you lasted five minutes, got bored, made a cup of tea and then came up with an idea for a whole new project and website. I’m just saying…”

“Oh, bollocks to that. And besides, this is getting far too confusing. Which Elysia am I again…?”*

Jeez, sometimes life in my head is not just ‘not dull’, it’s downright frustrating.

I think the problem is that the concept of moping, or wanting to mope, is quite alien to me. It’s true, I’m not very good at it. I really want to be able to mope. I see other people do it, and I think “I should give that a go some time”, but when the time comes I can’t focus on moping. I get bored, I don’t see the point in it.

My equivalent of moping is stomping. This is just a rather special way of walking, really: I kind of drag my heels but manage to, well, stomp at the same time. I tried doing this briefly at Thursday lunchtime but the individual in whose company I was merely mocked my attempts to stomp and laughed at me. This I found not at all conducive to alleviating the feelings which caused the desire to stomp in the first place.

Maybe that’s why I’ve been so frustrated this week. I can’t mope, I can’t even stomp. The downside of having somehow grown up with all the manic and none of the depressive is that I can’t even have downtime when I want it.

Not that I want it, though, just to be entirely contradictory again. Having now internally debated (and externally published) my inability to mope I have got entirely bored of the entire concept and have decided to go and do something productive.

In fact, now I come to think of it, that puts me in mind of a project I’ve been meaning to finalise for a while…

Damn it, I hate it when I’m right sometimes.

Elysia x

*This whole exchange is made considerably more complicated by the fact Elysia is not actually my real name. Don’t even go there…

By: Vague

As some of you may already know, I recently spent some time living out in the wilds, in a shelter I built myself, heated by fire, quenched by Scottish burn water (I had to get that phrase in, it amuses me to think that if you didn’t know a stream was a burn in Scotland, you’d be perplexed). During this time I filled several Moleskines with notes, musings, observation, idea and poetry. I tried to distil what it means to be me into words and I have certainly made a satisfactory start. As you may also know, I am now dedicating the next few months to finishing my novel, but I also intend to write other pieces; drawing on the notes I made and purifying these thoughts into essay format. Not only do I want to continue my investigation into the reality, if such exists, behind my existence, but I am also aware that to do so will keep the novel from stagnation, allow my mind to explore a different form of writing – and will give you something to read too.

It has been a fascinating process to put myself directly in the spotlight, addressing issues past, present and future, many of which I have shelved and tried desperately not to revisit for many, many years, others are more recent, more raw. With hindsight, I probably began this process when I started seriously thinking about leaving my wife, over two years ago, after I had actually done so it gathered pace, speeding up with whatever it was The Muse and I shared for that brief time I documented here and continuing its headlong dash into the unknown over the last year, with another complicated affair and then the time I spent alone. I will warn you now, these pieces may contain things that may surprise, possibly upset or even offend, so please don’t read if you are of a sensitive nature. For the one thing I have learnt above all others is that in order for this skin sack of flesh and bone to succeed, I have to now be honest with myself and all others. This honesty differs from the ‘no lies’ policy I have followed for some time, as I have become adept at sidestepping issues, disguising truth within layers, behind smoke, in order not to offend or upset – now I have realised that I am who I am and that should be good enough. Like it or leave it. This is not to say that the forthcoming essays are designed or intended to shock, sadden or worse; some will be about subjects that are unlikely to offend. But you have been warned.

Expect tales of my past too, I know several of you have enjoyed one or two of these I have done previously and a portion of my notebooks is certainly taken up with remembrance of things past (À la recherche du temps perdu, of course). Keeping a journal is something I have mentioned before; even a few lines about an event or day can act as a trigger for the memory, and it is now time to draw on these observations, these lost times, in order to ensure they are preserved. An analogy for this process can be found in a box of memories, that place so many of us keep items that have great personal and individual meaning, yet to others are simply rubbish; a cinema or rail ticket, a letter, a pressed flower, a stone, a tiny three word note on a post-it. When we die these items lose any form of connection to the event, beyond their face value, their simple physical self. If a list is not included with them (‘leaf collected on walk with X, fell from a tree as we sat in the park on xx/xx/xxxx’ or ‘bill from meal with Y, we argued, I just wanted to hold and kiss her’), then they will be thrown out by whosoever finally goes through our collections when we are dust. Without recording these memories, they disappear, as Rutger Hauer so elegantly stated ‘all those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.’ The more memory we leave behind, the greater our legacy, our resonance down the ages. As is stated in the Hávamál; ‘ Cattle die, and kinsmen die, and so one dies one’s self; one thing now that never dies, the fame of a dead man’s deeds’. Other translations remove the word ‘fame’, replacing it with ‘reputation’ – is this not what a legacy is about? Fame, defined as being known by many people, is different from reputation. It can be argued that we have come to associate fame with the acquisition of wealth and synonymous with reputation (and celebrity, as I have blogged about here). And this then raises the question of what I want to do with my work, why I write (as per Orwell).

I have been a writer for as long as I remember. It is something I do for pleasure first and foremost, I have an ongoing love affair with words and their structure. To be able to string together a series of symbols that can be deciphered across the globe is something we all too often take for granted. But; tell someone you are a writer and the next thing they say will be ‘are you published then?’ Even the OED includes a reference to writers doing so as a career, or job. Another thing people nearly always add is ‘I’ve always wanted to be a writer too’. Well, call me a fool, but you can’t become a writer. You either are, and write, or you are not, and don’t. I disagree that writing can be conveniently lumped together with accountancy, factory work, teaching, dog walking or any other job or career. It is more than that, it is a calling, one that can be difficult to explain to those who aren’t creative themselves. But what is the point of writing without a readership? This is something that Mr Will Roberts recently touched on; and he was right – what is the point of writing without a reader?

I’ve mentioned before my decision to stop writing and concentrate on gaining experience of life before recommencement and how this has certainly been more than successful, surpassing any of the shadowy forms of the future I envisaged all that time ago. The things I have done, the people I have met, the events, the women, the places I have been; all of these things are now being chopped and simmered, ready to add flavour, realism and variety to the final recipe which will become my novel. And, let’s face it, there’s plenty to go around, enough for many more meals. Now is the time I start to reap the rewards of a life lived. Time to entertain. Time to write. For, as Tove Jansson states in The Summer Book; ‘sometimes people never saw things clearly until it was too late and they no longer had the strength to start again. Or else they forgot their idea along the way and didn’t even realise that they had forgotten.’ (Incidentally, I urge you to track this book down, it is a top five novel as far as I am concerned, capturing both old age and childhood and addressing massive questions in a way which never fails to entertain. Why it isn’t more well known outside Scandinavia, I don’t know, especially as the author is known for the also excellent Moomin books). She was right – I don’t want to start too late, nor risk forgetting my idea. That would be a travesty (for you as well as me). No, now I have the time and will. I haven’t forgotten once that I am a writer, I have doubted whether I would ever reach a point where I could write as I want, I have questioned what it is I actually want to write, I have debated the reasons behind my obsession with the written word – yet I have never lost sight of the fact I write.

I may keep you updated with the novel writing process and the trials and tribulations of publishing that will follow (although I am quietly confident about this, having a few aces hidden up the proverbial sleeve). I may not. Reading back over several of the pieces on here the ones I enjoyed revisiting most were those in essay form and those where I retold a tale of my past. To my eye I can see how many of the others reflect an attempt to recreate my success with TOB, yet do so for people who really know me. It was an interesting experiment and one I am unlikely to return to; I have plenty of people on TOB who are more than happy to provide commentary and discussion on what happens in my life, why confuse matters? A better discussion of this was given in the last piece on here.  Perhaps the reason I am still keeping TOB and moving from blogging on here is because of the two way process it enables; I can chew through an idea, ruminate on my own thoughts with criticism, support and occasionally derision from others. This gives me a more complete analysis of an event, leading me in directions my mind may not have taken without the input of others. The lack of commentary on here (when it was possible to comment I cannot recall receiving a single response) adding to my choice of taking a step back. A one sided discussion is not what a blog should be about, at least as far as I am concerned, all very entertaining for the reader I am sure, discussed perhaps when I am not present, but where’s my fun in that?

To, to conclude, I guess what the above is really saying is ‘I’ll see you when I see you’. If you want to hear from me sooner, send a message or write a letter.

By: Vague

The piece below is one I had crafted for T.O.B. (as regular readers are aware, and the title states, this is my other blog, the one that I’ve kept for rather a number of years now and, crucially, is anonymous – no-one I know in the ‘real world’ has found it, yet).

I have changed a few of the details so as to cover my tracks; I couldn’t have anyone searching certain phrases and locating my scribbles now, could I? Therefore, certain names have been altered to those I have used here previously, as opposed to those I have used on T.O.B..

I will also add that this piece never made it to the WWW – I started typing it out on my mobile, in order to upload it, but the process was using up too much battery so I stopped. (Plus it was getting quite tedious and my thumb was weary!) So, here you go; we told you Vague Preoccupations wasn’t dead!

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Now, as you know already, I am currently away from the whirl of civilisation, escaping from the city I have called home for nine years; somewhere on the west coast of Scotland.

I’m not going to detail my adventures here; as you also know, this is recorded elsewhere on the chaotic and vast web of the world. (Indeed, I know some of you have already discovered, read and discussed some of the pieces I have set free there.) This is not the place for a discussion of the wildlife I live amongst, or the best fire lay to use, or any of the other plethora of skills, tasks and events I am currently immersed in.

Instead I want to talk about something I know you lot will be far more interested in; principally how I have changed since deciding to actually have an adventure that had nothing to do with anyone else (especially anyone of the opposing sex) and was solely solo.

Of course I have already told a slight untruth here; you have previously read all about La Parisienne and the effect this (and indeed earlier events) have had on me. We’ve dissected whether it would be a good thing to walk (literally) away from this confusion and turmoil I had sunk into. And you know that my decision to leave was also based on the notion that it would give her time and space to help her make the right choice. Whatever that may be. You also know of the events in the few weeks before I left – she has gone ahead with her plans and we are currently incommunicado. Space, time, thought and memory.

Back to the topic in hand. I have changed physically of course. I have hair for the first time in many years. I have a beard that gives me a certain wild mountain-man visage. My hands have developed many new scars (hence the title); from knife, saw or other source, they all criss-cross one another, some fading already, others will stay as reminders for some years yet.

These scars overlay no longer soft office hands. My skin is tough, thicker, calluses from using my axe, saw and knife will soon be joined by others once I start practising with the bow I am crafting. Yet I do keep moisturising, so, tough as it is, my skin is not rough at all.

My face and hands are tanned and the phrase ‘weather-beaten’ may also be appropriate here. My body feels strong; I have lost the fat I deliberately put on, replaced by muscle, in parts highly toned. Indeed, I have developed one or two areas of my body more than I had thought I would; this can only be a good thing. As I was about to get off the train to begin this adventure an old man said to me, ‘what you are doing is banking for the future’. He was right – my body will thank me in years to come, as will my mind for the tremendous experience I am currently investing in.

So, physically I am stronger, tougher, more alert and having shed that greyness that office life can pervade the body with. No longer dull and grey, if I were to say I was a colour it would be the rich, vibrant green of the holly or perhaps that of the lush moss that surrounds me. To conclude, I have no doubts that physically this is an excellent endeavour. Mentally though? That is the meat of this piece and one I will now discuss.

Before I left, one of the last pieces I threw out to you wolves was about how I hoped this period of solitary freedom would help me to process all that has happened thus far in my little life, what I would miss, what I hoped to discover and enjoy.

I do a lot of singing out here, something I used to do when I was young, then this slowly dissipated until I would rarely break into song. I have learned that, although I always knew music was a huge part of my life, it is intrinsic to my mental wellbeing. For some weeks I was quite happy with my own voice but then I started to miss listening to those of others, I missed the chords of a guitar, the tinkling of the ivories, the strains of the strings and many other aspects of musical composition.

This made me slightly sad, but I persevered with singing until I suddenly remembered I still had my headphones from the long train journey north, and around a thousand tracks on my phone.

The song I had missed listening to most was one I have discussed here before, how it speaks to me and simply ‘fits’ my life at present perfectly. So, the first track I listened to, once I was safely ensconced in my hammock and sleeping bag, was ‘Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help your black ass?’ by Amanda F. Palmer.

I have already spent too much time doing things I didn’t want to. This journey is making me realise just how true this has been. The strange thing is, I still don’t regret anything – it has all been a hugely valuable experience; the learning curve at times steeper than I would have liked but it still enabled me to reach new heights of understanding.

I honestly believe it is of unparalleled importance that an individual is happy with who they are; that way they can pass on this happiness, this joy, to all those they interact with. The longer I am out here, the closer I seem to be getting to being truly at ease with myself.

I do miss people, some more than others of course, but what has surprised me is who has been in touch; I thought certain people would send more messages but they haven’t, yet, conversely, I have received several communications from those I didn’t think I’d hear from at all.

In many ways, although I seldom talk to anyone but my sister, I spend a large portion of every day talking. By this I am referring to my journal; not only is it full of observation, diary entries, plans, sketches, maps; it is also full of my written attempts to process all I have experienced, and also to formulate a few rules for my life, a codex, if you will, to live by. Taking these rules it is becoming possible to map out a future of opportunity, variability and experience.

One of the principal things I have recorded in my journal has been my relationships with women; from the days of Daisy, through the ex-wife, The Muse and of course La Parisienne. These subjects are nothing new to regular readers; many of you are all too familiar with the intimate and often explicit posts that have appeared here previously. You have often passed comment, advice and sometimes even judgement on these matters, many of you who discovered the other blog found it amusing how I tried to record events and thoughts there, knowing that people I know in the ‘real’ world were also reading it. You watched as I posted pieces about The Muse there and here, then many of you nodded and tutted ‘I told you so’, as I went back to non-discussion of my personal relationships on the other blog, transferring all talk and details of La Parisienne back here.

So, what do the pages of my journal record on this subject? I have attempted, this time alone, to dissect what was good, what was bad and what each relationship truly meant to me. Again; I regret nothing. Everything that has occurred has led me to this point for a reason.

I don’t miss Daisy. That is done, a chapter finished, yet one that shaped me as a young man.

I hope the ex-wife is happy; for so long I felt guilty I was not who she wanted me to be, yet, in paradox, I knew I had to become truly myself.

I wish The Muse well, she came into my life at just the right point, I had missed passion and she threw it at me  by the barrelful. I will forever be grateful for what she brought to me, I hope she knows that.

La Parisienne has proved hardest to dissect, come to terms with. Perhaps this is due to hope, perhaps due to it being so recent and, unlike The Muse who has shut the door firmly, the door to the world of La Parisienne remains slightly ajar. I now have my rules though and I will follow these. She knows she needs to be brave, but bravery is in short supply these days. Who knows what the future holds?

I have also discussed others too, things and events that had I acted differently may have shaped me more than they have done. This process has been difficult, interesting and vastly important. In fact, as the lovely Red would say, “rate important” (note for American, and indeed non-northern-English others, for rate, read right).

I think the most important lesson I am learning is that, even if it is difficult and indeed possibly controversial and confusing to others, I simply MUST follow my path. Whether this means I will walk alone is yet to be determined. As so many of you, voyeurs that you are, have suggested, perhaps I should go back to using women as playthings, shut off from emotional attachment and concentrate on the physical, rather than the mental, side of things. I am as yet undecided as to this aspect of my road ahead; at present it matters not, but in a couple of months I will be once more around others and need to tread carefully.

So, lots of talk of paths, roads, journeys. But isn’t this what life is all about, our own rambling way at times flanked by others at times doubling back, meandering. One thing I have realised is how bad I have been at keeping in touch with people and I hope to alter this as soon as I can, writing good, old fashioned letters, more emails and other lines of communication. I’ll never be a fan of the telephone though!

Re-reading the preceding words, I realise I have said much, yet told little. Perhaps this is due to this still being an ongoing process, perhaps to a slight withdrawal. Who knows? No doubt, once I am back in civilisation with a broadband connection once more, I will return to lengthy and detailed discussion, as I have done so many times before. I do think knowing I won’t be able to respond to your comments as I usually do has also altered what I have recorded here.

I will sign off now and begin the process of typing this into my mobile phone. I hope you are well and one thing I haven’t mentioned, but look forward to immensely, is catching up with all your own news in your blogs. For I too am a voyeur.

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There you go. One more piece for Vague Preoccupations. I have edited out parts of the above (mainly intimate/explicit parts, such as a discussion of my final night in Sheffield), but on the whole it is more or less what would have been sent to T.O.B.. Strangely, I find I am missing this, the freedom to be brutally honest, talk about subjects that are still rather taboo amongst those I ‘really’ know and also the interaction that, although at times has been hurtful, has always been useful. I think at present I am using my journal as this sounding board, reading back through it, tailoring those rules, rejigging my possible futures.

And what does the future hold? I can tell you this for certain – it will be exciting, at times frightening, at others difficult. But I will be me, and that is what matters most – honesty to self and others.

By: Vague

This will be my last blog on here for a while – possibly forever, but who knows what lies around the corner?  Never say never.

Recently I have commented on how strange keeping a blog on here has been, read by Real Life People (that’s probably you) who really know Me (or at least as much as I share); not just know my words.  I have struggled with self-censorship issues for some time now and in the last few months it has become harder and harder to know what to say, what to hold back, what to explicitly commit to your eyes and what to hint at.

For the last ten years I have turned to my weblogs (no one calls them that any more…) and my ever present journals and notebooks in order to work through what occurs in my life, digest, assimilate and try and make some sort of vague sense of this life I live.  This is something I urgently feel the need to do now, craft pieces filled with truth, filled with emotion, that ask questions I need to seek answers to.  I also need others to take on these issues and report back with their own conclusions, offerings and thoughts.  Yet I have realised this is not the right forum for this any longer, if it ever was.  I need to question my direction, question what mistakes I have made to reach this point, question where I go, ask who am I?  Questions questions questions.  Answers?

It is an odd thing – I made this decision last week, after some serious thought and told no one about it until Sunday; since then three of the bloggers I follow have decided to either shut their doors completely, or hang up the keyboard for an undecided amount of time.  Perhaps there’s something in the water, or in the air?

I am sure that my choice to freeze a steady input of new pieces here will not be unwelcome to some, I know for a fact certain people will be glad to see the end of it.  The irony is, TOB and TOOB are far more implicit and explicit about my life, far truer depictions of what I really think.  On here I have pulled punches, taken care not to offend, not to hurt.  I have even censored myself to such a point I have not even mentioned certain thoughts, certain events.  This isn’t what I want to keep a blog for – I feel this has diluted what I write on here, become more of a chore than a pleasure and no longer something to look forward to.  I have turned more and more back to my anonymity on the other blogs and my journal.  I have started carrying my moleskine again, noting down many and varied observations about the world around me, overheard snippets of conversation, character sketches, lines that leap into my head unbidden.  Sadly though, I feel that Vague Preoccupations has ceased to be of use to my development as a writer (at least at present), and that has to be what any work is about – surely?  I have certainly done far more creative writing of late, poetry and prose vying for time with my journal and observational pieces.

I have also realised I have stepped back from talking about certain subjects to friends; my incessant questioning and doubts are probably exceedingly irritating.  Instead I will try and move forward talking about nothing of serious consequence, at least for a time.  I have found it difficult to see into the future, my eyes have felt grainy, tired and full of sand.  I actually mentioned this to a friend a couple of weeks ago and she replied with an excellent quote, ‘Don’t worry, the sand will turn to glass and you will be able to see again’.  She is right; I need to stop peering ahead so much, stop second-guessing what is around the corner, simply be.  All clears with time.  Or so I hope.

I hope that some of you have enjoyed sharing in this experiment, like I said at the beginning, I may return at a later date, or the format may be altered, or it may be I do not ever add to what has been again.  I’m not going to try and think too much about it.  I hope you understand my reasons for calling it a day, going dark.  They are simple enough in some ways, yet also extremely complex.  Thanks for reading, until next time.

By: Vague

This promises to be something slightly different to pieces of late.  I had originally intended to put up the first part of a trilogy I have crafted, touching on subjects I have avoided.  Then I was fairly sure there would be no blog piece from your author this week.  Now, however, I’ll give you this.

In this life we are born, we live, we die.  These are the constants; they are the same as all life on earth, what holds us all together, everything else is inconsistent, open to chance, roads crossing roads, meeting paths and ways separating.  In our lives we are often faced with a fork, two directions so dissimilar that we pause, panic, try to retrace our steps.  I have felt time stand still when lips touch me and I have seen it flow faster and faster, disappearing before my eyes, hours passing within moments.  The one thing I have never witnessed is time going backwards – despite our species unique ability to wish we could go back in time to alter an event, avoid fate, we simply cannot do this.

So, when we are faced with this fork we have two choices.  The right choice and the one that should be left.  We cannot turn on life’s journey and head backwards, as much as this would be so much easier.  We can pause at this juncture, wait for guidance, fate, karma, realisation, illumination, inspiration, belief.  Sometimes the best course of action is to take no action for a time.  Wait, sit, calm your thoughts, avoid outside interference, seek advice from those you trust.  Wander off the path for a while, explore for yourself the area you have found yourself in and, while doing so, take a long hard look at the events that have led you here, who you are, all the while looking back up the path at the choice you know you must make.

And sometimes a choice is no choice, you have already chosen, you just haven’t yet cleared your mind enough to accept it.

We surround ourselves with friends and family, we are influenced greatly by what we are told, advice is given freely, often whether we seek it or not.  The key to listening to advice is to digest it slowly, weigh it against what you already thought, try and peer into the grey of the future; ponder whether the route is easier with the advice, certainly, but also try and look beyond the journey to the destination.  The harder route, where you may not heed all you are told, may yield a far greater prize.  Never simply settle for second best.  Always strive to achieve everything you have ever dreamt of.  Have belief.

(There is a famous passage, somehow appropriate, in American Gods, which I think you should read now.  There’s even a picture of Mr G. wearing a t-shirt with this quote.  I have always viewed jade differently since I first read this, and I guess you might too.  Makes sense).

I have spent some time on my bed this week thinking about what I believe.  I realised two things from this stress and migraine wracked time.  Firstly, that what I believe has recently changed fundamentally and, secondly, that I have begun to believe in certain things I have always held at arms’ length.  Not quite not-believed-in, but never embraced.  Some things have always belonged in my stories, in my poetry, in the darkest recesses of my mind, never before freed from these shackles until lately.  Somehow they have now slipped past my defences and arrived, fully formed, in my life.  And life is fleeting; yet I now understand that these things seem to outlast our temporal existence.

I have never known such a period of turbulence, where my emotions have been so raw, so near the surface and so powerful, shifting like trees in a storm, waves on the sea, patterns in the clouds.  I have spent my life running, both from events in my past and towards the promise of a brighter tomorrow.  I have spent many years making do, never seeking what I was looking for; for fear it may not exist.  I have spent time alone.  I have spent time in company.  I have spent time alone in company.  I have spent hours questioning, answering, asking everyone and no one.

I have often tried to avoid addressing the worst.  Facing my fears.  Standing toe to toe with a dark future.  Yet I have always ended up doing just that, perhaps it is the darkness within me, the writer who seeks to understand what we simply cannot comprehend, perhaps it is simply my nature to coldly look at the worst possible outcome and think about what I would do in such a scenario.  These last few days I have done just that, and it has taken me to places I do not enjoy.

And yet, I still believe.  I still believe that perhaps because something feels right it actually is right.  And I have to carry on believing, trying not to over think, not to intensely analyse, as I am always in danger of doing.  I have learnt from my mistakes.  And many are my mistakes.  It was only last year that I began to tell my true story to one or two people.  I have always concealed fact, used shadow to obscure certain paragraphs of my life, deliberately soaked a page in ink to hide the words.  And then for some reason I spilled out my full tale when I least expected to, telling of the darkness, the things I have done that I have hidden.

Standing at this crossroads I know the direction I would like to take, yet there is still that little man within me, building his walls against the world, trying to protect me.  All the while he is shouting, ‘This is you – nothing ever works out.  Run away, turn inward, avoid.’
I am fighting him for the first time in many years, perhaps it is because I am older and somewhat wiser, or perhaps it is because I finally have something worth fighting for; a future that at once terrifies and thrills me, much as the present fills me with both confusion and certainty.  Yet the direction I take is no longer my choice.  Perhaps this is what has thrown me.

I have questioned who I am, and I have not been alone in this.  Asking, searching the self for answers that are at once tantalisingly close yet also far away, is so very difficult that at times it is easier to cease asking, take comfort in the familiar, the safe, and lose your sense of wonder, of romance, of self.  Sometimes something feels so unreal as to make us doubt whether it exists, it is so different to all we have known.  Perhaps this is actually reality.  Perhaps the easier well-travelled route should be exchanged for the harder more dangerous path.  The rewards will be great, yet the road difficult.

I now know all these things, for I still believe.