A Few Mini Sagas

Mad Norman’s “Dog”

Norman opened his door and the dog came in, shitted up. He washed the
dog, then took it to a launderette for drying. He crammed it into a tumble
dryer and when it was well done, let it out. The dog bolted out into a
busy road. It’s dead now.


Gonk

What would you call it? Orange, the size of a house brick, furry, big flat
feet and beady eyes but nothing more of a face. They used to be all the
rage when I was young. Almost everybody had one by their bed. I would
probably call it a GONK!


Once Upon A Time

Once upon a time in a land far away there lived an old couple. Everybody
thought they lived by eating only bread. Sometimes, however, they also
ate peas and honey and often drank water when no one was looking, so
they had a much more balanced diet than anyone suspected.


Occasionally

Occasionally when its dark I find myself staring into a corner of the room
or under some item of furniture. I’m not exactly sure why, or what I hope
to find there but one thing I do know is that I’ll persist for all my life until
I find it.


Beautiful

When the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen in your life suddenly
walks smack into you by mistake, hold your breath, count yourself lucky,
turn round three times and say something embarrassing like “monkeys”.
It usually works for me because then she’ll take pity on you and smile a
little.

A Short Story

Summer Day

Scrambling uphill, toward the unseen summit, fingers clawing and
digging into soft velvety mosses. Green and brown and moist. Booted
feet supporting the weight of my determined body, propelling my ascent
of the steep. The smell of earth and fungus, cool and shady beneath the
iridescent silver birches, refreshing like moonlight reflected from a
sylvan sea. Wood nymphs, elves and sprites manifest in this habitat.
Pleasant and joyful elementals of the soothing monochrome world
beneath the canopy of such noble trees with their rough, two-tone, flaky
bark. Swarms of tiny insects play in the occasional mote which pierces
through from the bright, bright Sun.

Beginning to breath harder, continuing my assault, a tiger, eager
for the prize. Leaving the city behind. All the snub nosed cars, the snub
nosed people, the nose-offending sulphur dioxide, carbon monoxide
mayhem of the city. A sound infiltrates my head. It is a song by
Steve Harley: “Somebody Called Me Sebastian”. It has nothing to do
with my immediate circumstances and so I put it down to the belief that,
somewhere close by, someone’s tuned into a radio station and I am
receiving. Then I put the song out of my head. Now I’m through most of
the beautiful, melancholic birches and hacking through ferns,
ancient and modern in their timeless apparel. I’m wishing I had a
machete. Prodding and pushing, I continue through the deep vegetation
of epochs. Ferns make me sweat, they also often harbour snakes and
attract a variety of insects, buzzing and biting and stinging, known and
unknown to man and beast. Itchy and scratchy, especially on my bare
legs and arms, they whip and jump out on you like child molesters in the
thicket of your favourite daydream. Ferns smell uncannily green, until
they die off in the season of d’or and become bracken, then you can
smoke them, although I would not recommend it.

The ferns negotiated, there spreads in full view, a perfect carpet of
bluebells, a feast for the eyes, a heavenly blue sky, the blue of ten
thousand summers, reflected onto mother Earth. Blue everywhere, the
kind of blue you want to die in when your time comes. Silent, with
butterflies. Miniature winged Goddesses; painted ladies, red admirals,
Prussian blue, ultra marine, carmine, crimson lake and orange blossom.
To rest here forever would be heaven but no; keep going, it’ll be worth
the effort. Onwards, into the grasses which caress the naked skin of
your legs like the touch of a young maiden’s hair. Full of rasping
grasshoppers and crickets and the smell of totally fresh air. The kind of
air you want to bottle and take home and pour into your bath
when you’re feeling uptight and need to relax. The grasses are golden
green, thigh high, cousins of the wheatfield, silent in their beauty, the
bountiful cornucopia of so many Soviet paintings.

The ultimate prize lies beyond, so press on. Easier now, the earth
beneath is more supportive, only one more ridge to ascend before the
goal. Above is a sort of moorland with heather and gorse. Harsh,
sparse, above the tree line, with the odd grouse or partridge flapping
wildly away on approach, like a discovered criminal. The heather,
purple, crimson and tough as the sinewy veins of planet Earth.
Not too tall. The gorse, taller, green, yellow and prickly. A perfect
environment for beautiful tiny yellowhammers and nesting greenfinches.
Suddenly, just approaching the summit, a field of stinging nettles!
Negotiate with bare legs and bare arms, the vile stingy things.Carefully
scrutinizing each one to assess its potential danger. Each leaf looks like
a baby’s skin, so soft with very fine hairs. You can make a sweet soup
out of them but they will hurt if they touch you. Knowing there are
always docs around, wherever nettles grow, big leaved and bosom like,
smelling of a cure. Soon I am partly covered in small lumps, itching like
a flea bitten dog and rubbing myself with doc leaves.

Finally, covered in grass stains, doc stains , lumps, scratches twigs,
thorns, looking like a scarecrow from planet Zod and sweating like a
sweaty beast, the summit is reached.

It’s an epiphany. In fact, its not really very high. The highest
point in Stoke-On-Trent, that’s all. There is a trigonometry point, a
stone that looks like a relic from Tut Ank Amun’s tomb. A prop from
Dracular’s cemetery. A hard, dark grey mass covered in ancient golden
lichens and symbols. It gives out an Electro-magnetic vibration,
connected to the spheres of the solar system, connected to lay lines,
connected to the mother Earth. Everything is silent at first, after the
exertion of the climb. A moment later though, when the heart ceases
pounding and the blood slows down in the veins, when the
mind clears, the breeze brings gifts. It carries in its breath the
summer. A distant dog barks, “Somebody Called Me Sebastian”,
Cockerels, cuckoos and wood pigeons mingle with the sound of bees
and leaves whispering from below, The taste of barn eggs, milk and
honey drifting through the day under the blue, unadulterated azure
sky. The rhythmic sound of a lawnmower, spreading the scent of freshly
cut grass. Small children’s voices at playtime and the school whistle.
The church bellringers and the choir’s song mingling in and out. The
happy chime of an ice cream van. The sweet smell and taste of clear
spring water at a well dressing and the pageant, which follows with all
its glorious colour, clatter and alluring costumes. If you listen closer to
the wind, glasses clinking and bottles of Pimms gurgling. Barbecues
with the accompanying rich smells of charcoal, meats and sauces.
Picnics, jam sandwiches, tennis and cricket on lawns, cows, sheep and
horses talking during long days of farmer Giles. Fainter and further
away, the song of the river which carries boats and bathers. Fishermen
and their hooks, lines and sinkers and tall tales of “the one that got
away”, they tell, with their damp stench of maggots, stale bread and
cheese.

Then the wind wafts up the ghosts of balmy summer nights.
Honeysuckle and cider. Evening chip shops with fish in breadcrumbs,
salt and vinegar, cockles and muscles. The scent of a fox, a
badger, a weasel. That musky smell which lives in the woods and will
never, once its entered your nostrils, let you forget. The hooting call of
owls. Visions of the full moon and bats flitting to and from their belfry
home. Visions of dawn mists over a field of cow parsley. The little pond
with ducks bobbing. The ditch full of frog spawn and newts, fringed with
bulrushes, foxgloves and marsh marigolds. All this, grounded in the lush
green and above all, the never ending skylark blue beyond.

Illustration art is concrete.

By the term illustration I understand: anything which describes, portrays or otherwise explains something concrete.
All other forms of art are, in my opinion, abstract. The boundaries blur sometimes but I find it practical to separate the two concepts.

First Blog, First Post

Welcome to my blog. This being my first attempt at constructing a blog, the content and layout will probably change over time until I feel happy with the result. Any advce from veteran bloggers is welcome.