Indistinct Visions of Four Futures

Hello. Sorry to have abandoned you all recently; I've been just busy enough that I've not had the time to focus and get anything down on paper. In the last day or so, though, I've experienced a small lull in my commitments and have taken the opportunity to finish a thing which I thought I'd share with you. It goes thusly:

Indistinct Visions of Four Futures

                I’m sitting in a friend’s bedroom. It is late and I am peaceful. We have been watching and talking of mildly interesting things of little import, though at this point the proceedings have reached a natural lull. In the quiet I’m struck by a sudden realisation, perfect in its clarity. For each of us I see another, similar figure in the same space. The figures are larger and more indistinct; representative of a possibility rather than a concrete reality. Each figure is clearly in a different, future setting but I cannot see precisely what that might be.

                The first of my companions has paused, leaving a cigarette half-rolled to enjoy idly throwing a lighter into the air and catching it. These distinct actions both seem an incredibly worthy use of his time. If he catches the lighter it’s completely okay because he chose to do it so of course he would succeed. If he misses it’s fine because he is just messing around. He returns to his rolling and his deliberate, practised movements are entirely in accordance with some plan he’s hatched or orders he has received. The translucent animus following his movements seems to be wearing a uniform. I cannot be sure whether it is best dress or combat fatigues or a well-made but slightly over-worn blazer, but it conveys purpose. Whether it is a terrible objective or a wonderful aim I cannot be certain, but the clothes of the image seem entirely suitable for the task at hand. This is a man who will be certain of things and his place within them.

                The second young man is to the right of the first. He is reclining on a bean-bag; smoking a cigarette he was lent; lent because although the lender would not get the same fag back again there is an amicable certainty that the debt would be repaid quickly and without fuss or any uncomfortable sense of obligation. He sits up to make use of the ashtray on one corner of the bed and meets my eyes when he becomes aware of my gaze. He holds it while we share a laugh about something that I can’t quite remember and returns to his squidgy throne. He is the youngest of our group – the hairs on his chin the unshaved fur of an adolescent lion rather than anything approaching an actual beard. He also the most silent, though this is by nature and not by status. I see a confident and content figure occupying the same space as this cub. It is possibly arranging the affairs of its pride with calm, unopposed authority;  possibly improving life for those around it with a subtly jovial presence and a few carefully timed words. Either way this future will be, barring great catastrophe, of positive worth to those who encounter it.

                My third colleague in my evening of positively unproductive time-passing is the one whom I’ve known the longest. With the music idly shuffling between genres it is his ceiling at which we are staring; it is his realm and he is holding court. He is discussing something delightfully unimportant with a knowing and deliberate, patently preposterous patina of pomposity. We are amusing ourselves by not letting him make his point. He is amusing us by rising to the bait. It is an act made funnier by the times we can all think of when it was genuine irritation. He is a legitimately good man: dedicated, loyal, diligent, generous, and ready to listen. This is why I am made uncomfortable by some of what I’m seeing in the nebulous figure loitering about him. I do see all the positive qualities which make me his friend, but they have been corrupted. Pessimism at his chances of success has worn the dedication to listlessness; emotional wounds have built walls around his loyalty; without passion for his tasks his diligence has fled; no one gives to him anymore so generosity is a childhood fairytale; he is surrounded by and has learned from a cadre of closed-eared pseudo-friends. The indistinct figures may just be the idle imaginings of a weary mind, but I am worried nonetheless. The social being learns much from those who surround it, so I hope this dear friend of mine plants himself in loving soil.

                And what of myself? Can the cracked and imperfect lens be used to examine the wielder? I try. I see a man, sat thinking, with a distracted look upon his face. I do not know what it is going through his mind, nor can even guess the nature of the thought. Is it a carefully constructed network of highways linking towns across a vast and peopled plain? Is it a lightning flash, sudden and wonderful, short-lived and evading capture? Is it a vortex, spinning and consuming, sucking all into its Charybdic maw, swallowing the hopeful sailors as they strive vainly for the safety of their native harbour? Or is it an old lapdog by the fire enjoying the warmth, and content for any who wishes to give a pat and bit of ham? I don’t know – I was interrupted by a proffered bottle and a request to put something funny up on the screen. It’s probably (I decide as I take a swig of something sweet and fiery) either all of them or none of them. It might be interesting to see but futures can wait; we’ve got cartoons to watch.

One hopes you're well
   yrs,
      ADWoodward

Pogonophilic Nonsense

Hello. Pogonophilic means 'beard-loving', which will be the theme of this post. Because it's my blog and I can do what I want with it, that's why. Incidentally, you may be interested to know that my browser's spell-checker doesn't recognise the word 'pogonophilic' and, when I right-clicked to see if I'd misspelt it, instead offered me the word 'necrophiliac'. This post will in no way be about that.
I have a beard and I love my beard because it's soft and comforting like a bunny made out of a half-forgotten childhood memory; and because today is the two-year anniversary of the last time I was clean-shaven  I thought I'd commemorate this important milestone by sharing with you a number of the thoughts I've had about the exciting world of beard-wearing in that time.
I suppose I should start off by admitting that mine is not the most spectacular beard in the world, and lends me less gravitas than those of other men and women (I do not ever knowingly discriminate on my blog). My maternal grandfather's beard, for example, made him look like Tsar Nicholas II; mine, by contrast, makes me look like a pokémon that might one day evolve into Brian Blessed. I acknowledge that this particular joke would work better if you could see me, but if you picture a pale creature with the contents of an unblocked bathroom sink's drain glued to its face you'll get a rather close approximation. If you want your image to be more accurate give it a gin-glazed expression and a puerile smirk. Oh, and damn sexy legs, those are an important part of the picture.
I originally grew the beard simply because I'm naturally a rather hairy man and it's a bugger to stay clean-shaven. In fact I'm hairy enough that I was once helping a six-year-old with its maths with my sleeves rolled up when it put down its pencil, stroked my arm and asked me if I was a cat. I'm not.
Despite the fact it's origin came out of practicality and laziness, over these two years my beard has grown on me. (Grown on me! Ha! Oh, what a shining wit I am!) Nowadays I wouldn't be without a beard. There is not a single moment in life when stroking one's beard is not an appropriate response; joy, anger or boredom there's always something it can offer - it's basically the Swiss-army knife of facial features; both because it has many uses and because a lot of the people who resisted Nazism had one. The moments when it is most useful are those in which I am upset or stressed because it's soft and comforting like a kitten made out of Kinder Buenos.
A beard's uses extend beyond being an emotional crutch (which is different from an 'emotional crotch' - my beard has never got drunk, put me in a headlock and shouted about how much it fucking loves me. This is fine, my beard and I have that deep sort of love that goes beyond words. It doesn't need to say anything, I know it loves me; I can tell.)
Like all relationships this one does have its ups and its downs, and its lefts and its rights, and occasionally a sort of spiral motion that makes me dizzy so I have to go have a bit of a sit down and a glass of ribeana (which the browser's spell-checker thinks is me attempting the word 'Caribbean'). The first downside is the fact that when I go drinking, as I am occasionally wont to do, my beard generates an unseemly fascination in some of those around me. I know it's a wonderful symbol of manliness, I know they're incredibly jealous, I know they see that it is soft and comforting like a puppy made out of a mother's love, but can these drunkards not at least ask my permission before they grope my chin? One time a particularly pissed bloke licked it. I felt violated.
But the chief downside is that I now get followed around by the staff whenever I enter a toy shop. I am in fact there because I'm killing time waiting for friends and want a look at the Lego and for all they know I could legitimately have a nephew or niece for whom I need to buy a gift, but no, they take one look at me and think I'm there for a bit of toddler snatch-and-grab! It's not my fault I'm a naturally sweaty man, my house doesn't have a cellar, any sweets I happen to have me are for my own use, and I don't even own a van! But they see the fact my Gillette doesn't get that much use these days and all these valid excuses start being ignored. They never say anything, but they don't have to; I can feel them judging me with their lifeless, glass eyes and mocking me with their neatly upholstered fur. ... I may have got toy shop workers mixed up with teddy bears there, but I think the point still stands.
But despite these minor annoyances I still love my beard because it's soft and comforting like a guinea pig made out of a joke that probably doesn't bear repeating a fourth time.
One hopes you're well,
Yrs,
ADWoodward (and beard)

Hello.

   Hello. How are you? That's to be expected, I suppose. I'm fine, thank you. Oh not much, just writing my inaugural post for this brand-new blog. Dunno, really, at this stage it's not really 'about' anything I suppose I see it as a repository of things I have written and a reason to try to write more. Well, because if I have something to do with my work I'll be less inclined to leave things half-finished and un-edited; I wouldn't want to share literary detritus with you, now would I? Hmm? I suppose it is a little irritating, yes. Because I've always liked trying to fill in the other half of an overheard phone call. Well I'll stop it, then. You're welcome.
   I dabble in a number of different genres and styles because I've always enjoyed being able to switch to a different thing if the first thing starts becoming uninteresting. So, one hopes you will be able to find something you enjoy somewhere in all this. By 'this' I mean the blog once it's up and running, though if you think this post has several layers that can be enjoyed in different ways, that would be okay, too.
   I do have a number of things already written on my laptop, but I won't simply dump it all on the internet now, I'll put the good bits up as and when, probably when I feel like I've neglected you all and your burning desire to devour my literary efforts. This desire is perfectly okay, it's natural and you should not be frightened by it, just don't let it interfere with your personal life and you'll be fine.
   A thought occurs: the beginning seems a good place to explain myself, but by the time there's actually a blog to be explained this post will probably have sunk down into the ether and so be lost by people who would benefit from it. This is probably a metaphor for something. Oh well. In any case, I think this is all I have to say at the moment, I'll let you get back to your lives.
   One hopes you're well,
      Yrs,
         ADWoodward