Annus Novus...

Politico:
  I am not someone who traditionally makes New Year Resolutions.  This is because I generally forget about them; I don't give up on them or decide against continuing toward a certain goal - I simply forget.  The whimsical fantasies for the future vanish like smoke in a stiff breeze.  However, I enter into this new year (no capital letters) and this new decade with certain goals already set in my mind.  So, with this in mind I want to talk a little about those objectives and what could be the content of my 2011.

Manifesto:
  1)  In July 2010 I began writing a novel.  This is my first serious, earnest attempt at writing and completing a novel.  I have tried before to write and force ideas into words but they very often resulted in pastiche and poor quality imitations of my own literary tastes.  This time however, I feel very passionate about the story; perhaps because the story is in some ways my own story.  It is coming too me very easily and I find the story to very often, be leading me where it wants to go.
  I am a slow writer by nature; I think very carefully about what I want to say and the way I want to say it.  I put a lot of consideration into the words I choose, the phrasing, the pacing, etc.  It mirrors how I speak and think in many ways; I rarely say anything I haven't thought through.  There are, of course exceptions.  Sometimes I feel that I am a quarter of the way into my story; other times I feel I have barely scratched the surface.  In any case, I want to finish the novel as soon as possible, this year.  I would hope to have it edited and primed before autumn hits.  Then we'll see about getting it published I guess.

2)  I want to change the name of this blog.  To begin with, I'm not so angry, bitter and frustrated anymore.  I still want to use it to write analytical pieces, but the word "grumblings" seems to imply some kind of Daily Mail style opinionated rant; ill-informed and ill-advised.  However, I am neither of those things when I write.  I am also happier in my own life at the moment; there's a lot more positivity around me and I have so much support from various quarters.  One person in particular has been incredible for my self belief and happiness.  I cherish the friends and loved ones in my life right now.
  I also want to use this blog to showcase my creative sides.  I want to post more of my creative writing and use it as a sounding board for the novel.  At some point I would want you all to see and read the damn thing so it makes sense to keep you informed of its progress.  If possible I would also like to post music, photography, videos and art, etc that I create.
  I'm not sure what this new name will be just yet... watch this space...

3)  I want to progress in my SCUBA Diving qualifications.  My next qualification will be Rescue Diver; I want this to be completed this year.  If possible I would like to go one better and gain a few specialty qualifications (deep diving, wreck diving, etc...) or even my Divemaster qualification.  This will probably mean a few jaunts to foreign climates which is all very, very, very good.

Propaganda:
  That's pretty much it for now I guess.  There's so much to look forward to in 2011 and it's only January.  I will have my work published for the very first time this year.  In April, the first installment of a serial I am writing will be published in Zenith! magazine.  Zenith! is a brand new, creative arts magazine currently finishing its second issue for release in April.

  My serial is influenced and inspired by old, black and white Film Noir movies.  If you're not familiar with the genre I urge you to check out some films starring Humphry Bogart or my personal favourite The Maltese Falcon.  The serial is called The Hardboiled; deriving its name from the genre Hardboiled Fiction (the literary incarnation of Noir).  I cannot claim to have a working knowledge of the conventions of Hardboiled Fiction and in truth it has had no influence on my writing at all, bar the title.  The serial is more my literary impression of the themes, conventions and style of Noir films mixed in a pot with my love of jazz, cocktails, femme fatales, bars, mystery, action and thrillers.
  The first installment is titled The Hardboiled Rose and will be featured in issue 2 of Zenith!.  Issue 3 of Zenith! is being planned as "the Villains issues" with features and creative pieces on the themes and idea of the villain.  True to form, the second installment in the serial will focus on my own villain.  I hope some of you will support both myself and Zenith! by picking up a copy when it becomes available.  I will give details of the magazine's release nearer the time.  Again, as we approach the release date I will post a short teaser from The Hardboiled Rose here, online so please keep coming back and reading and thinking and sharing and commenting.
  Also, in the next few weeks I will be writing more and more about the novel; giving a brief summary of the story, perhaps discussing some of the themes that are woven in.  If I am so inclined I will post extracts as and when I write them.

  Thank you for reading this, my first post of 2011.  I wish you all a somewhat belated Happy New Year!

Remember, Remember... Part II

Today is Remembrance Day.

We mark today at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month; the moment that the First World War was officially over and armistice was declared.  This day has in recent years taken a back seat to the more 'popular' Remembrance Sunday.  I wonder how many people today observed the minutes silence at 11am.  Compare that with those that will observe the silence on Sunday and I think the figures will differ greatly.  Armistice day has succumbed to the flow of history and now we observe the more generic Remembrance Sunday which is in memory of all those who have died in military service and combat, right up to the present day conflicts.

Someone said to me today that they didn't feel effected by today because they were a pacifist and didn't agree with war and conflict.  I myself do not support war or conflict and am a borderline pacifist myself however, I think it is a great disservice to those that died in the First World War to not honour their memory.  Although their conflict was not as morally justified as the Second World War, many soldiers were conscripted and forced to serve in the military.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
      Between the crosses, row on row,
   That mark our place; and in the sky
   The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
   Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
         In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
   The torch; be yours to hold it high.
   If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
         In Flanders fields.

***

I'm not a military zealot nor a hater.  I am at odds with a lot of things the military does and says, the things the government use the military for, the way the media portrays soldiers as heroes and reports their deaths with the same regularity that Big Ben chimes the hours.  It is a difficult, emotive and contentious subject.  It is also one that deserves open minded debate and probably a blog all its own.

So I will for now simply say I hope everyone gives a minute of their time to silence on Sunday and remember the fallen; even if you are a pacifist - remember those that gave their lives for a free and liberal (for the most part) Europe.

Remember, Remember...

  When the leaves start to turn different shades and hues, and the weather begins to turn with an icy chill, and when the nights start to draw in, clocks go back; I am aware that the 'festive' season is drawing in.  As usual I tend to question the reasons and forces and behind our lives.  Halloween has passed and soon to be followed by Bonfire Night.  It won't be long before Christmas has come and gone for one more year.  As with every festive holiday I am always curious of the reasons behind their celebration and the extent to which that reason has been lost in the fog of time.  As I write this, Bonfire Night is three days away; then it will be time to take in your cats and dogs because fireworks will be being set off, cruel individuals will attach them to the tails of animals, many people will be burned, many toffee apples will be eaten.

  So why do we celebrate Bonfire Night?

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,

The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,

I know of no reason

Why the Gunpowder Treason

Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent

To blow up the King and Parli'ment.

Three-score barrels of powder below

To prove old England's overthrow;

By God's providence he was catch'd

With a dark lantern and burning match.

Holla boys, Holla boys, let the bells ring.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

And what should we do with him? Burn him!

  Bonfire Night or the even more colloquial Fireworks Night is traditionally and correctly titled Guy Fawkes Night.  And as we will see, it is like most of our other holidays, a bastardised concoction of disparate traditions rolled into one memorable package.  At its core it is a celebration of the failure of Guy Fawkes and his co-conspirators to blow up the Houses of Parliament and kill King James I in 1605.  Let's talk history shall we...

  Guy Fawkes was born and educated in York.  His father died when Fawkes was 8 years old; after which his mother married a recusant[1] Catholic.  Fawkes later converted to Catholicism, sold the estates left to him by his father and travelled to Europe where he fought in the 80 Years War on the side of Catholic Spain against Protestant Dutch Reformators.  Fawkes became a Junior Officer, fought well at the siege of Calais in 1596 and was recommended for Captaincy.  During this time he assumed the name Guido Fawkes.  He then travelled to Spain to seek support and funds to launch a Catholic rebellion in England and although he was received favourably he was unable to secure the support he desired.

  Upon his return to England Fawkes Became involved with a small group of English Catholics who planned to assassinate King James I and replace him with his daughter (third in the line of succession) Princess Elizabeth.  They hoped this would end the Protestant/Anglican rule of England and return the country to a Catholic nation.  Further trips to the continent were made to secure support but it was not forthcoming.  The group rented a small ante-chamber that was located directly beneath the House of Lords.  Slowly they began to fill the room with barrels of gunpowder hidden beneath piles of firewood.  Guy Fawkes assumed a further moniker, that of John Johnson and declared that he was a servant of Thomas Percy (a member of the rebellious group who legitimately rented the small room).

  Fawkes was described by the Jesuit priest and former school friend Oswald Tesimond as “pleasant of approach and cheerful of manner, opposed to quarrels and strife ... loyal to his friends”.  Tesimond also claimed Fawkes was “a man highly skilled in matters of war”, and that it was this mixture of piety and professionalism which endeared him to his fellow conspirators.  Fawkes has been described as “a tall, powerfully built man, with thick reddish-brown hair, a flowing moustache in the tradition of the time, and a bushy reddish-brown beard”, and that he was “a man of action ... capable of intelligent argument as well as physical endurance, somewhat to the surprise of his enemies.”

  Fawkes’ role in the plot was decided after a series of meetings; he would light the fuse and escape across the Thames before fleeing to the continent.  Meanwhile a revolt in the Midlands would secure the Princess and set the rebellion in motion.  However, some members of the group were concerned that Catholic members of Parliament might be in the Houses at the time of the explosion and so created a letter that was distributed to a number of people warning them not to attend Parliament on the given date.  Needless to say, this letter found its way to the hands of King James who quickly ordered a search of the Houses.  Shortly after midnight on the 5^th November 1605 Guy Fawkes was caught leaving the chamber and the gunpowder was discovered.  Guy Fawkes was arrested immediately.

  Under interrogation Fawkes gave his name as John Johnson and admitted his intention to blow p the House of Lords and espoused his regret at failing to do so.  His steadfast manner earned him the admiration of King James who described him as having “a Roman resolution”.  The King’s admiration did not however extend far enough and on the 6^th of November he authorised the use of torture on John Johnson to reveal the names of his co-conspirators.  Fawkes was tortured for 4 days before finally breaking and revealing the names and details of the plot.  It is not known the extent to which he was tortured although the use of the wrack was authorised.  The signature on his confession, little more than a scrawl is testament to the suffering he endured at the hands of his interrogators.

  At the trial Fawkes and his seven co-conspirators were found guilty and sentenced to death. The Attorney General told the court that each of the condemned would be drawn backwards to his death, by a horse, his head near the ground.  They were to be “put to death halfway between heaven and earth as unworthy of both”.  Their genitals would be cut off and burnt before their eyes, and their bowels and hearts removed.  They would then be decapitated, and the dismembered parts of their bodies displayed so that they might become “prey for the fowls of the air”.

  On the 31^st January 1606, Fawkes and three other members of the group were dragged to the Old Palace Yard outside Westminster, facing the building they had plotted to destroy.  His fellow plotters were in turn hanged, drawn and quartered.  Fawkes was left until last.  Aided by the hangman he climbed up to the noose and although weakened by torture Fawkes managed to jump from the gallows, breaking his neck in the fall.  He was killed instantly and thus spared the agony of the latter part of his execution.  His lifeless body was nevertheless drawn and quartered.

  In January 1606 the Thanksgiving Act was passed, and commemorating the foiling of the Gunpowder Plot became an annual event.  Coincidentally the celebrations for the pagan festival of Samhain, which included the burning of the "old guy" on a bonfire, were held about this time of the year and so other traditions such as ringing of church bells and lighting fireworks were added soon after the act was passed and the "guy" became a personification of Guy Fawkes.  The act remained in place until 1859.  Despite the repeal of the act taking place over 150 years ago, Guy Fawkes Night still remains a yearly custom throughout Britain.

  So what is it really all about now and why after 150 years of repeal do we still celebrate this night?  The significance is long since lost and even the poem at the top of this blog is a memory for older generations.  I know that come the 5^th of November I will not here those words uttered and I will not see a Guy Fawkes on a bonfire… a David Cameron or Wayne Rooney perhaps but not poor Guido.

  The V for Vendetta graphic novel and subsequent film used the image of Guy Fawkes to represent the idea of political anarchism, revolution, mutiny and dissidence.  Yet while his attempt to destroy the Houses of Parliament does suggest an anti-authoritarian morality we must not forget that Fawkes was simply going to replace one religious dictator with another.  It was all just a mindless dispute between Catholics and Protestants that has been the cause and motivation (along with greed and power) for most of the civil disputes and nation wars that Britain has endured.  Guy Fawkes was not a man with utopian idea, a free and equal society.  He was a dogmatic and extremist Catholic dissident.

  Perhaps then it is better that we forget the reasons behind this festival.  I for one do not wish to celebrate the survival of a dogmatic King or mourn the loss of an equally dogmatic rebel.  Perhaps it is better to enjoy it as a day of colour and energy in the dark months of winter?  Although I enjoy reading and learning the history behind our traditions; this is one festival where I think the reasons are better left in the misty history.

  I hope everyone enjoys Guy Fawkes Night, Bonfire Night, Samhain, and Fireworks Night; whatever it is you choose to do.  It would be nice if we could create a new meaning to sit on this date that transcends the history and outshines the fireworks.

  On a lighter note Guy Fawkes is often jokingly said to be “the only man to ever enter the Houses of Parliament with honest intentions”.  Never was a truer word spoken in jest.

Remember, Remember the 5^th of November

Gunpowder Treason and Plot.

Never was their a better reason

For The Gunpowder Treason

To gradually be forgot...

---

[1] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Recusant

Carpentry or Masonry

Woodwork is a place where people disappear.
They can be gone for a very long time; curled up like hibernating rats.
In the darkness they bide their time and keep a watchful eye
A beady, disgusting little gaze on the outside world.

Then when the conditions present themselves they crawl out.
Slimy and toxic they ooze from every nook and cranny in the every day oak.
Was it the change in temperature?
Was it the departure of a predator?
Was it just an inborn body clock or similarly horrific system that told them:
Now it is time to return.

I'm more for stone.
Cold throughout and hardened.
Weather beaten.
I'm sure I remain porous because a little amount of precious water passes through my veins.

I can take the weight you put on my shoulders.
I can take the weight you put in my head.

In the right hands I can be apart of something special, something big, something grand.
In the wrong hands I can bludgeon everything into a pulp, unrecognisable and dead.

I can be unmoving and unmoved; solid and unshakable.  I can defeat time, sink ships and stub your toe.
I can be rolled, dropped and thrown; create ripples across a great lake that will carry beyond your sight.

...but I can be melted down and malleable.  It takes immense heat.

Just as some creatures come oozing out of the woodwork, some fall back into it.  One cannot do without the other.  One vacates and the other inhabits.  I'm not sure which I despise the most; those that retreat into the woodwork or those that come out of it.  I'll give them one thing though; their timing is impeccable.

So I shall retreat beneath my rock and wait for the season to change. 
The wind blows in an ominous direction these days. 
The moon is in a dangerous phase.

I'll wait for it to pass
and the creatures of wood will cycle their retreat.
But time is something only I can defeat.

The Loneliness of the Long Distance...

  The last foothold was a tricky one.  The rock was damp and dotted by patches of moss undoubtedly feeding off the gentle sweat of water emanating from the stone and earth above.  I really didn't come prepared for this but then no one was planning to be this deep.  It started as a trip out to see the local cave systems deep beneath the limestone Karsts but the gentle slopes and winding tunnels ceased and opened up into a breathtaking space.

  Stalagmites and Stalactites gnashed like teeth and where they met, monumental columns had formed like an ancient Greek temple, rising toward the vaulted ceiling.  The ceiling was spectacularly beautiful; more so than any Sistine Chapel.  At the centre of this cavern, a crystal had formed and developed over millions of years and now hangs like a Chandelier in the deep.  We were very deep and the air was almost as scarce as the light of day; some of our group felt faint and turned back to the surface.  I stared in wonder at the shimmering crystal; it seemed to be pulsing with some life or energy that I could not explain and gave off a faint glow, the source of which remains a mystery.  Furthermore, from the ceiling fell fine threads that sparkled with drops of moisture caught on them; the product of some subterranean silk worm.  Oh I wish I could show you all!  They were like stars glittering in space around the icy body that loomed above.  I think to this day it will be the closest I ever come to feeling like I was in space, struggling to breath and hurtling down to an icy grave.  Our numbers dwindled as the lack of air and stifling heat began to take its toll on our crew until it was just me, our guide and a friend.

  "Do you want to go up special way?" our guide whispered in the gloom and it echoed around the walls.  My friend and I shrugged, he seemed happy with the idea just as I was.
  "Which way?" I asked.

  Our guide pointed up to the ceiling and slightly to the right where, in one corner the darkness became deeper in a small opening I had not noticed before.  We climbed toward it over piles of loose stones and earth; before passing into that dark gate I looked back for one last time into the depths of space, the stars, the moon.  Then it was gone and we plunged on into the dark.  We struggled in places to find suitable things to grip or to squeeze through tight spaces.  Luckily I was wearing hiking boots with good grip but my unfortunate friend was wearing an ill advised pair of sandals.  I'm pretty sure he was regretting the choice right about the time our guide indicated a near vertical wall that we needed to scale.  I was carrying a small torch that I gripped between my teeth; dog and bone.  Then we started to climb.

  Half way I stopped to catch my breath on a small outcrop.  My shirt was drenched in sweat as the humidity smothered me.  I took a few greedy swigs from my water bottle and began again.  My footing was steady and sure; mistakes could not be afforded at this height and in this place.  The land of smiles is not synonymous with health and safety.  No ropes means the very longest of drops.  I wondered where the others were; in the light of day enjoying a cold drink and some lunch no doubt.  Strange that I gave no thought to my safety as I climbed that cliff face.  I'm usually so reserved and careful at home but for some reason, perhaps the lack of oxygen I was drunk on life and just went for it.  It seemed a good idea at the time and to this day I stand by it even though I was one slip away...

  I just kept going; no looking up and no looking down.  In the moment.  My heart was pounding out every second of my life like a drum and my muscles ached or burned, or both.  My mind was blank but for the basic but all consuming movements of my body to just keep going.  Above me the guide called out words of encouragement and not a few jokes about foreigners and their inability to climb.  But I was there, the summit was within reach, if I could just twist my leg over to the next platform and launch my body up over the top.  But it was a struggle and although my foot rested on the rock I wasn't sure.  Of course I went for it none the less and pushed myself away from the rock.  My arms shot up searching desperately for that last rock.  My hand was seized by an iron grip; my guide and he hauled me up the rest of the way.

  At the top I planted my back against the nearest rock and slumped to the earth.  My body was throbbing with adrenalin and exhaustion.  My guide pulled me up once more and urged me onwards.  This was the moment when I realised there was sun light once more.  It was bursting in through the mouth of a cave ahead of us and bleaching everything.  I had thought the white spots in my eyes were because I was so tired but they were in fact my retinas dotted by the first sight of sun light.  I staggered forward into the blazing heat of a Thai afternoon.  The rush of air drowned my lungs and an electricity filled every inch of me.  I felt like I'd been purified.

I sat in the mouth of the cave and looked out over the tree tops.  We must have climbed quite far because we had been underground and were now quite high up.  Trees and plantations stretched as far as the eye could see, broken only by limestone karsts jutting out like the jaw of a broken old man.  The silence was overpowering.

  In that moment I couldn't think of anything.  My mind was blank and at peace; a smile was on my face and my eyes were open wide.  I had the sense that I was alone in every way.  No one knew what I was doing or where I was; in this cave, risking my life to climb it and looking out at the endless countryside in this far off place.  I was for once my own man and for my own sake.  The next week would bring my 25th birthday and I would spend it far from friends and family but I didn't feel sad.  All of those feelings of loneliness and isolation filled me with pride and an excitement of independence.

  I have never felt so free but my legs ached for days afterwards.

Got Any I.D.?

  I can’t serve you if you haven’t got any identity.

  As usual regular events have collected, drawn together by some strange gravity.  They have orbited me throughout this week until I had no choice but to notice them.  It is almost uncanny how these issues have presented themselves to me via different and disparate characters on my life’s stage.  It began with a question from someone who I work with who is also studying to be a teacher.  The question was: what is identity?

  The answers she received were very varied; ranging from the way we view ourselves to the way others view us.  The idea of nature versus nurture was also raised in a very basic way.  I then had a similar discussion, completely by chance with one of my closest friends.  We discussed the idea of evolutionary theory, genetics, determinism and fate.  These ideas, along with many others that have been thrown my way this week have caused me to write this blog.  It’s a tough subject so might be a little dry for some of you but I will be as succinct as possible.

  There is a theory by a French psychoanalyst called Jacques Lacan, which discusses the idea of the development of identity in infants.  The theory is based on research of the reactions of infants to their reflection in a mirror.  On a basic level it proposes that identity is formed by the relationship of an infant to its reflection.  The infant begins life unaware of itself; or perhaps it is better to say it is only aware of itself in a primal, sensation led, physical way.  The infant is the purest version of itself.  Upon recognising its own reflection in a mirror the infant is able to point at the image and say (not literally you understand) ‘that is me’.  However, the very instant the infant does this it is creating its own identity.

  Of course the image in the mirror is not the infant, it is something other; it is merely an image.  This paradox creates a split within the child whereby it has two ‘selves’ – the primal, pure self and the projected image in the mirror.  I love that idea; in my head it’s almost cinematic.  The child well project the image for the rest of its life; building and shaping it over the years.  This image is the child’s identity but not the child itself.  Identity can only ever be assumed.

  But identity can be a complex matter.  It might begin with the way we perceive ourselves but can it also be enhanced or magnified by the world around us?  It seems reasonable to say that we might create or embellish certain aspects of our identities to affect the way we are perceived by others; most of us have done this at some point in our lives.  However, it might also be argued that the people around us and their perceptions have their own influence on our identities.  How many of us have ever felt swayed or pressured into behaving in a certain way by our friends or families?  It is not through our own choice that we change our behaviour – there is outside influence.  Is it then a two way street, a dialogue between ourselves and the people we live with that shapes the veil of identity we use to shroud the primal entity within.  The entity that first banged its fist against its own reflection in a mirror, knowing on some instinctual level – it can’t be me because I am me.

  This leads onto yes another problem.  If there is indeed a dialogical relationship between us and the world around us that is shaping who we are, it raises questions of the nature versus nurture debate.  This debate questions the extent to which we are a product of our surroundings (nurture) or if we have an in built character that is almost genetic; in the same way we might have blue eyes, so we might have inherited a talent for dancing, or music, etc (nature).

  The idea of Nature is popular right now among psychologists, particularly when referencing phobias.  They would argue that someone might have a fear of spiders as an in built response to a potential predator or danger that has been carried down from when we were ape like creatures, living in caves.  As evidence they might point to the high percentage of people who are scared of spiders and say it is clearly a primal instinct overly manifesting itself.

  Someone who believed the concept of Nurture to be more important might argue that we are conditioned to be afraid of spiders throughout our childhood.  Perhaps seeing our parents flap and scream at a house spider, or perhaps a television show or film featuring a rather nasty eight legged critter; all spider related events might influence us as we grow up.  Evidence might be the varying extents of fear people feel toward spiders; some are terrified so that they can’t move, others merely don’t like to see them in their home.  Also, many of us aren’t afraid of spiders at all; does this mean we have lost that instinctual fear?

  I personally do not like the idea of Nature and this is why; it reduces the idea of free will to a bit part player.  You are who you are because of everything that has come before you were even born and that will define who you are whether you like it or not.  You have brown hair because your father did, you are likely to have heart issues because it runs in the family, you will enjoy spy novels because your grandfather did, you will be afraid of cats because your mother and her mother were also afraid.  You can see the trouble in this way of thinking I hope?

  How far can we think Nature shapes us before we hit the wall of determinism?  Free will be damned, we are cursed or blessed to our fates.  And fate would be the right word, along with destiny or fortune.  You do not have a choice in the matter, it’s already been decided.  Does that frighten or comfort you?  It terrifies me.  That the course of my life is to a certain extent set in stone.  If I wanted to become a scientist, would my talent for science be nothing more than a dominant gene?  What if it were recessive?  Would I be resigned to fail in all my ambitions?

  There’s an interesting idea:  Failure is a recessive gene (not a statement, just a cute turn of a phrase).

  Nature or Nurture, part of me will always be angry and un-resigned to any fate or determined way of life.  Rage against the dying of the light said Dylan Thomas in a poem to his dying father.  Do not accept your fate.  Create it.  You once looked in a mirror and said “that is me”.  You created yourself once, isn’t it about time you did it again?

Got Beef?

  My best friend in the whole world has recently started a blog detailing his attempt to pass a year as a vegan.  Having previously been vegetarian for a year, he has now upped the stakes (or perhaps the steaks).  He pointed out that my previous two blogs were filled with a lot of “hate”.  I wasn’t aiming for so much griping and atheism when I began the blog – it was just those issues were on my mind at the time.  Alas, who am I to ignore the advice of a newly baptized vegan (head dipped in soy milk for those that are questioning the metaphor)?

  Please visit my friend’s blog and follow his vegan-adventures here –

http://the-vegan-year.blogspot.com/

  Here is another link to a friend of mine who is one of the most wonderfully talented illustrators ever, Dan Morley.  He has launched a new website this week so please pay it a visit and support him if you can –

http://www.danmorley.co.uk/

  You see now I’m spreading the love.  I have another friend who writes an intelligent blog but he hasn’t written anything for months now.  Ritik, if you want a mention then you need actually write something.

  As for myself, I am doing my best to write and write and write.  I am currently working my way through my latest attempt to write a novel.  Although I have tried on countless occasions, this is probably my first earnest attempt to climb the mountain.  I have thought the idea out well and researched to a reasonable level.  The only danger is in the novel spiralling out of control with new elements that I keep adding.  On the other hand I would rather have too much to write than too little.  I will edit the piece when it is finished and trim away the fat with a little help from a few friends.  I have outlined the story to take approximately thirty chapters; I am currently writing chapter seven.  So, not bad going but I do want to pick up the pace and get further on before Christmas.

  I already have a sketch for the next story I want to tell.  At the moment it is very basic but with some powerful images that came right out of a dream (one of the few I remember).  It just needs fleshing out and then for my friends to do a cliché check.  For now it will have to remain as a sketch, burning away at the page.  It’s just a seed in the back of my mind where it can grow and become something a little more developed and special.

  I think I’m trying to re-train my brain to behave creatively on a regular basis.  Since leaving university and not being in a band, I haven’t really had a regular creative output.  I have been lazy and on occasion I have been too busy.  Sometimes I’ve just been too low emotionally to bother.  So my little creative centre is a bit rusty but I’m oiling it and polishing it every day like a vintage car engine.  It is ticking over just fine but grant me a little more time and I will be racing Le Mans with the best.  I have even started playing guitar again; dusting off the case and getting familiar with my telecaster once more.

Right, that will do for now.  Spread your love like a fever.