As good as your word

Thursday, 24 March 2011

I like words, a lot. I’m not exactly sure why, as despite my love for them, actions do speak louder. Too many empty nothings have been whispered to believe everything you hear. Many of the people I respect the most don't feel the unnecessary need to fill up all the silences, thankfully. Because understated is dead sexy.

But a word or phrase in the right tone and time conjures meaning, understanding and imagery way beyond the rudiment. The lilt of a tongue... the impression of crisp black font on a sea page of white... original thought and original expression without fear... long vowels in the throws of passion... now that’s what I like.

A trick of the tongue and a word in the ear take me where actions alone cannot. Ironic really, for dirty old fickle old words of which I hardly believe a jot.


Saturday, 12 March 2011

Came across this journal in a bookshop yesterday. And had to laugh 'cos sometimes I am just this kind of fuck wit, which is useful to remember :)

Bomb shelter

Thursday, 10 March 2011

Yesterday I tightly embraced an old friend I hadn’t seen in a brave while, an earthquake survivor. I couldn't get enough of him. Because I got the distinct impression he would have liked to shut out the world and shelter there a while, send occasional notes from a coma.

His partner, his child, his baby on the way and his employees are all, thankfully, okay. At least in a manner of speaking. Their homes, although severely quaked, are mostly salvageable. The business has been lucky enough to relocate to slightly calmer ground and retain its clients, at least thus far.

But he admits they’re all having trouble focusing on anything, sleeping, making decisions and attempting to again live ‘normally’, whatever that is. Tall buildings and built-up areas make this previously ardent believer in historical building restoration extremely nervous to be around. He doesn’t hesitate now when saying, “If they’re badly damaged, just knock ‘em down”.

I have no true comprehension of what these stellar folk are going through, that’s just not possible unless you were actually there. But I see in their eyes, the way they hold themselves and form their words now that something big has changed inside.

My arms are but a minute's shelter from the bomb while an innocent afternoon's sunshine warms our backs.

Bored secretary

Wednesday, 9 March 2011

His belly quaked and wobbled each time he paid credence to his own cleverness or made cutting remarks at the expense of those not present; evidence of too many decades' convivial conversation with fine claret and burgeoning cordon bleu.

Would the straining shirt buttons hold strong their jelly jail until the meeting's end she wondered, envisioning with horror and amusement alike the pickled flabby white flesh liberating itself all over the boardroom table. In which case, her strategy would be a quick exit stage left if there was to be any hope of holding back her lashing sarcasm, or laughter.

By many measures of society, he would be considered a huge success – wealth, status, power and those who hung on his every word in the hope that it would somehow rub off on them. Unfortunately, it often did. Her in-case-of-emergency escape plan would only work assuming she could first push past all the egos in the room.

Then once again invisible she would be. She didn’t mind a bit that most of them ignored her existence in public, oblivious as they were that she saw right through the hot air of their puffed up chests. You can tell a lot about how much respect someone has for themselves by the way they treat other people.

She wouldn’t be missed until she wasn’t there. That secretary, who sits quietly, diligently, recording the profoundness of their altogether remarkable words. Bit of a nerve she had at times though; something in her silent air. As if she knew anything. Someone really should bring her down a peg.

Taken for a ride

Saturday, 5 March 2011

When in doubt, talk about your horse. I sometimes use the icebreaker: “What’s the biggest thing you’ve ever killed?” but you get a few sideways looks at that, so you’ve got to be in the mood. Horses are safer. Let's talk about horses.

The thing I like about my brown boy in particular is, he’s such a dude, a hard case. Do anything most days, but also perfectly capable of putting you in your place. I like that in a bloke, just quietly.

So the aforementioned bareback buccaneering thing, it's fantastic. Natural. Second-nature almost. It’s a bit like this – and you un-horsey folk - this is a new experience just for you.

Legs enclave. A warm, fit, noble body moving, rhythmically with you. Hopefully. Otherwise it's much more awkward and clumsy. Gentle, yet definitely bold. Your skill of balance, flexibility and sense of adventure growing ever-stronger. In good stride.
Your skin. Their skin. One skin. Tuned, without needing to speak out loud. But sometimes you might, or inside, just to catch a briefest of flickers across their face. Adrenalin, endorphins, flickers, flutters. You each feel everything of the other.

No kicking yanking slapping to slow down or speed up, no visible movement at all perhaps. Because every bit of it is in your… breath. Building up the energy and electricity in your body to achieve quick accelerated exhilaration. Slowing down, deep breaths, every ounce of tension relaxed, gliding smoothly… or even a sharp stop. To start, on urge, again. In the motion and the moment.
Of course, I’ve no idea if my horse would describe our bareback rides the same way. He can get a bit cantankerous if he wants, although he’s seems pretty happy these days.