Concerning Mermaids

Hello. Until recently I had forgotten I had a blog. Sorry for neglecting you. I doubt anyone has actually been straining with frustrated anticipation at the lack of updates, but if I am wrong about that I apologise to both of you. This as much as anything else is an archive for my own purposes independent of any misplaceable object or fail-threatening hard drive, so I having remembered it exists I shall start trying to make use of this again. I have written a thing which I thought I'd share with you. It came out of a challenge to write a six-line poem from a given title in under two minutes and then a subsequent free-write. It's called "Concerning Mermaids" and goes thusly:

Concerning Mermaids

There are rules you must follow when playing make believe.

Everything you create has to be internally consistent

So that when the grey men with clipboards come

The world does not collapse

When they start poking at it with fingers like under-ripe raspberries.

The law concerning mermaids, however,  is that they’re as real as you make them.

I bought three when I was little.

I saved up until I had seven pounds

Stacked in sun-coloured coins.

Mum gave me a piece of purple paper

She said I could use

If my treasure hoard proved not quite enough.

I put them in a yellow and green paddling pool we got from Morrisons,

And visited them every day.

They sang me folk songs, fed me tiny pastries,

And told me stories from far ahead in the future

Of when I would save the Elf Queen from disaster.

They knew I could do it when the time came,

Said they could read it in my smile.

I can still see the blue enamelled armour they told me I would wear.

Real life oozes in furtively through the cracks of your mind,

Unnoticed and malignant.

It steals the magic from you

Until you find yourself getting angry at strangers for laughing.

When I was sixteen

I was presented with my own clipboard,

On which I filled in important-looking forms

That no one ever read.

Last year I made a note on it

Saying that the colours of the paddling pool

Had faded,

And it was now so filled with empty beer tins

There was no room for even the tiniest of cream-filled pastries,

Or folk songs,

Or little boys valiantly protecting Elven royalty.

I handed in my clipboard that day.

I no longer wanted to ooze into other people’s heads.

I painted my grey suit a blue like a lazy sky in August,

Found a little piece of enamel

Which I pinned to my lapel,

And polished up my home-made

Dragon-kicking shoes.

I would argue fighting dragons is more noble than fighting each other.

I didn’t find any dragons that afternoon.

I admit, I didn’t look for very long.

Instead I drank orange squash

And read stories in the sunshine.

When I turned the last page I looked up and saw

A yellow and green paddling pool

Brimming with sparkling water,

And dotted here and there

With magnolia petals.

Maybe the mermaids changed the water themselves?

I don’t know if there’s still room for three.

I’d forgotten how much space a good story can take up

I can only hope

They’re still good enough friends

That they don’t mind being squeezed up against each other.

So much time has passed

I’ve forgotten the details,

And now I get to relearn these stories,

Love once more each phrase, image, detail.

I get to play make-believe

And return to thoughts of childhood books;

They’re the reason I say I believe in fairies.

One hopes you're well,

yrs,

ADWoodward

If Anything Writing Poetry Has Made Me Less Articulate Than I Was Before

Hello. I've written a thing which I'd like to share. No, I've no idea what it means either. You read it and then you can tell me. It goes thusly:

If Anything Writing Poetry Has Made Me Less Articulate Than I Was Before

Let's get drunk

On a weekday night.

Very slightly drunker than we ought to,

So the world goes shiny at the edges.

Let's listen to poetry,

And pretend we're paying attention,

Instead looking across the room at each other.

And let's pretend we're listening to music,

Because I'm told that would mean we're having fun,

Rather than overthinking things.

Apparently those two terms are not synonymous.

I know, right? It surprised me when I found out.

Let's pretend we're listening to Beethoven,

Because that means we can pretend we're suave and cultured.

Some intelligent people do in fact genuinely listen to Beethoven,

And so we might

Therefore

Be intelligent.

QED.

Intelligent people have good ideas

And know how to explain them to others.

Let's listen to Beethoven's sixth symphony.

Relatively few people know how that goes,

So they'll be too busy

Pretending to be as cultured as you and me

To eavesdrop on our conversation.

Let's listen to the second movement

Of Beethoven's sixth symphony,

Because even fewer people will recognise that one.

Of those,

A percentage

Won't be able to say quite what a movement is..

And then I can grin,

And hope,

Fervently, that no one asks me to explain.

I think the real joy of the second movement of the sixth

Is that, although it's sufficiently andante molto mosso

To give us a pleasant soundtrack,

It's not sufficiently so

To distract us from our purpose here.

Because between googling the music just now

And when I sit down to write this poem

Neither of us will remember

What the phrase actually means.

We'll have done too much by then.

Let's write poems that we have no idea how to finish.

Let's think of things we have no idea how to start,

Rehearse them and perform them

Underground

Somewhere in East London.

Let's make eye contact

Across a room crowded with people still pretending to listen.

Let's

Make

Eye

Contact

With so many people that no one can be really sure if poem is even about anyone in particular.

Let's hope she knows it's about her.

Let's hope she is brave enough to do something braver than this about this.

Let's - 

Sorry, that came out weird.
I had the start of the thought
And forgot where I was going with it.
Forget I said anything.

Hope you're well,

yrs,

ADWoodward

G. I. N.

Hello. I have written a thing which I would like to share with you. I think it's fairly self-explanatory. It's called "G. I. N." and goes thusly:

G. I. N.

Gin is nice. Gin is nearly godlike in nature. Gin is not guzzled in negligence. Gleefully it nestles, golden, in naive gullets.
Imbibe now, guys. Ingest nonchalantly, girls. If nominal gender is nuanced, gladly intake numerous glasses.
It's not grotesque. It's naughty, granted - it necessitates guidance. I now get it: novices, genuine ingenues need graduated instructors nearby. Generally, innocent newbies gain insight.
Needing grounding, I neck goblets; it nurtures generosity inside normally guarded individuals.
Gods! I'm navel-gazing - it's nervousness, gang, innit?
Native garrulousness is napping. Grinning, I nod.
Goodbye is now.


One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

Budget 2015

Hello. So, I'm under no illusions that my little blog has a small audience, and that most of the people reading it probably know me personally. That said, the internet is a wonderfully interconnected thing, even for no-name scribblers like me, so I feel this post needs some context for what I like to think of as my international audience. I am both British and living in England, and on Wednesday the Chancellor of the Exchequer (chap who runs the money in our parliament) released his budget, detailing various spending plans and cuts to be enacted. On Wednesday I wrote a little poem in response to that which I'd like to share with you. For the piece to work you need to know a) that the budget has just been released, and b) that the Chancellor's name is George Osborne. The piece is untitled and goes thusly:

Fuck George Osborne.

Fuck him negligently and with no real concern for his orgasm.

Fuck him while making enough noise to seriously strain his relationship with his upstairs neighbour, who has to get up early for work and already struggles to get enough sleep because they have a newborn.

Fuck him with the stereo playing music which does not really create a fuck-appropriate ambience - Chopin's Nocturnes, or didgeridoo music, or something.

Fuck him in such a way that accidentally break several small ornaments of great emotional worth.

Fuck him whilst wearing a cologne which aggravates his hay-fever.

Fuck him and give him a hickey which is clearly visible above the collar on his work shirts.

Fuck him directly after eating a kebab so you get chilli sauce on his favourite pillow case.

Fuck him with the door left open so the cat can come in and stare at him.

Fuck him after agreeing on a safe-word which you know will set off a speech impediment which, while not all that noticeable, he still gets embarrassed about.

Fuck him and, at the point of climax, whisper into his ear the name of his least favourite geography teacher.

Fuck him and afterwards, when he asks if it was good for you too, leave a very slight pause before answering.

Fuck him and then, later when he's just about to fall asleep, sneeze so violently that you bash the back of your head into his nose. Then when you roll over to see if he's alright, wipe it on his shoulder.

Fuck George Osborne in all the above ways, then over the course of a week leave him one hundred and thirty seven voicemail messages tearfully asking why he doesn't want a second date.

One hopes you're well,

Yrs,

ADWoodward

The Best of Men

Hello. So, sex is rather jolly. I'm a big fan. I look forward to trying it again someday. I have written something sort of about that, which I would like to share with you. It grew out of two little writing exercises; one to practice my rhyming, one to on trying to see if I can be earnest. I think the result has turned out well. I'm calling it The Best of Men. It goes thusly:

The Best of Men

It's late. My mates have gone ... somewhere. I don't really care that they're not near me. I'm not feeling bereft because I am left here with you. It's a few hours past sunset and as we walk we talk of nothing - excitedly and slightly out of breath, almost as though we were the ones to invent the mathematical concept of zero. Each step of our trek as we wend round bends is another second spent feeling unabashedly content.
We pause as we reach your porch, and I find that my thoughts are both happy and really rather nervous. See, I've got a sudden purpose forged from slowly grown desire. The heat is hurtling higher, but I've always been lots of smoke and very little fire. Each time I try the high wire I always fall. My act's a sham. I'm in the exam hall, but I've not studied for this test. I can't attempt a question lest the correct answer be a firmly underlined rejection. But before I can quiet the anxiety inside of me, you slide your sights to me to meet my greenish eyes and opine to me, "It's been a fine night." And you invite me in.
We close in with twin, gin-thin, thick-with-sin grins and begin the skin to sweat-slick skin contact. We've formed a compact of consent, neither one objects so let's just relish in the subjectivity of the activity. We're playing a very ancient game. One which is almost always entertaining, but no two time are exactly the same. Not quite.
For instance, tonight it's like no one ever thought to write Homer's words on pages, and his verse never made it through the ages. It's like Achilles never even went to Troy. He and his bully boys just stayed at home and never drove Aeneas to sow the seeds of Rome. Which means the stage is clear for me to declare myself ho aristos ton achaion. "The very best of men."
That's how I feel. Here. At 4am. In your bed, with your breath on my chest, and your head at rest in this nest formed by the bend between my humerus and my radius and ulna. Wondrous, and luxuriantly vulnerable.

One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

Poorly-Referenced Economic Theory

Hello. A few days ago I took part in an 'Election Special' poetry slam (I came second and had a wonderful time, thanks for asking). I wrote the following specially for it. It reads a little differently to me after Thursday, and I'm still making my mind up about it. But fuck it: I wrote it so it goes on the blog - them's the rules.If you disagree with the politics of it, hopefully you can get some joy from the way it flows. I can't think of a title I particularly like for it, so for now I'm calling it "Poorly-Referenced Economic Theory" because exhaustively citing one's sources can throw off a piece's rhythm. It goes thusly:

Poorly-Reference Economic Theory

Right. Brace yourselves, It's time to strap in. 'cos Aristotle and I, we've been chatting, and the chap in the chiton has sparked a thought in the mind of the one who holds court dressed in a stylish jacket. Don't worry: I'll pack it in a way which won't confuse you or lose your attention. The ancient boke's contention is this: what we'd call the state, and he termed "he polis" is at its heart a group striving to do more goo  together than they could ever do apart. Here's where my thoughts started to start running.

You see, doing good requires money, quite a bit of cash, but there are brash pricks in powder pink and pinstripes who think "Cripes! Quick! Hide my stash offshore where the interest will earn me more and the taxman won't be stealing it for silly little projects like healing bone cancer in children!"

It's bewildering that some people can't see that the health of general populace helps the whole gods-damned lot of us, but our well-being and your bank balance both increase in times of peace so let's talk about the Police. Flawed as they are, it is only threat of their Sting that guards every breath you take and every move you make. Remember: we're watching you, and, as much as it might be a duty, they will not work for free.

More important to me is the realm of the mind, so if you'd be so kind: It coes twenty-two-and-a-half thousand pounds to educate one child, according to that wild, socialist rag, The Telegraph. How can we begin to staff the nation, to do what needs to be done, without a system of taxation to fairly acquire these funds? Tell me, Mr Big-Spender, how it suits your agenda if your workforce has not been taught to do those myriad tasks whose aggregation has helped your wealth grow so very vast? Nevermind that it's this learning which helped them start earning and so be able to support themselves in some semblance of dignity.

Your anointed Highnesses, while we're on everyday people's finances, might I make a point whilst I have the temerity? Raising median prosperity is a fine end in and of itself, but it's when people spend - to put some circulation on those notes - that our economic health really shoots upwards like a rocket-powered mountain goat.

I'm shorter on time than I am examples on my list, but I think you've got the gist. It's not a tricky concept, I should have to say it more than once. It's both selfish and self destructive to hoard such wealth.

Got it? Good. Cheers. Thanks a bunch.


One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

Sophrosyne

Hello. Since I last posted a thing on here, that part of my free time which has not been spent performing old poems to appreciative audiences has instead been spent writing new ones and being unable to finish them. I've finally broken the block, and have finished writing a thing which I'd like to share with you. It's called "Sophrosyne" and goes thusly:

Sophrosyne

The other day I was sat in the pub,
Just sitting and thinking,
Not really drinking my beer,
Which, me being me, and given my location,
Was sat right near.
A drop or two in blessed moderation,
As taught to us in Latin verse,
(The Horation, not the Lucretian)
Can be just the thing to calm taught nerves.
Do, though, try to keep your view even.
For Bacchus can back us or attack us,
He can unpack a map for the fast track to relaxation
Or he can splash us with flak 'til our foundations crack
And we crash from Olympian elevation.
Booze, that gift of the twice-born son of Zeus,
Is best in moderation.
This is the link between what I was thinking and my bar-room location.
The key to life seems to be Sophrosyne,
That is, the middle way,
Not too little, not too much.
You don't need a tower carved from sunlight,
Whose height makes heaven yours to touch,
But a stout floor - something to lift you out of the mud - is a must.
You see, once you're free from the dangers of poverty,
Material goods rapidly lose their novelty.
If you don't enjoy the journey,
How you spend your earnings
Will never summon the sun;
To quote Noel Coward,
'Good work is more fun than fun.'
It's not just me reporting this kernel of truth,
It was also in The Wall Street Journal.
There's a roof to how much happiness you can buy,
And, by-and-by, purchased peace fades.
So, before Death comes and smothers the last of your days,
I'd suggest you spend them helping and engaging with others,
Which is statistically shown to help your well-being improve.
To conclude:
Don't chase that unreachable ceiling,
Chase chairs and the energising chats to be found sat there.



One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

On Friendship & Distance

You may not be surprised, dear reader, to know that in the gap between this and the most recent update to the blog I have been writing. If this is not a surprise to you, you'll certainly neither be surprised to hear that I have been writing, and that finishing a piece is still the hardest part of the process for me. Fortunately, an idea occurred as I was lying down this evening; one of those which I felt I needed to get down before it escaped my grasp. I quite like how it's turned out, but I'll still be compelled to obsess over its minutiae, so don't be surprised if the piece has changed (possibly beyond recognition) between you reading it here and me performing it. Either way I like how it stands enough that I thought it worth sharing:

On Friendship & Distance

People are a great source of my fear.

It's not so much the people on the street,

It's possibly privilege, but I've yet to meet

The confrontation which can't be ended 

By saying "I'm terribly sorry, I didn't know"

Or upping the pace, leaving here, and heading for home.

It's that people matter. Humans are great.

This may be a point that you may've already heard me make,

But either way, it's true.

The people you know can always see through you.

They can cut you if you're not careful.

Beware full disclosure at the first meeting.

First impressions are fleeting,

but friendship takes time to be earned.

So, I worry, "Will this be the time that they learn

That I'm not good enough?"

It's tough to always be on high alert

Against one's perception of one's own inconsistencies.

That's nothing to the mystery of why they've stayed.

We've played with ideas in jest

For too long for this to be anything but the best sort of friendship,

But I worry, at what point would you end this?

Which text would be the one that I miss

Which makes you say,

"Man, fucking fuck this shit".

So I wonder,

Was that it?

Has my fear of cocking up social interaction

Finally come across as a motion to abandon

The game which we both had a nearly winning hand in?

Is this the bit where we go our separate ways?

Is this the end of those days in which I update you

Out of the blue,

And ask, with genuine interest, "What are you up to?"

I don't know where the line is,

but what I'm increasingly finding is 

No matter how much the time is since our last meeting in-or-decreases,

I miss you, man,

And I wish you were here to hear me read this.

One hopes you're well,

yrs,

ADWoodward

Poetry: A Poem

Hello. I have written a thing which I'd like to share with you. It's quite possibly an exercise in self-indulgent, navel-gazing, masturbatory nonsense because it is a poem about poetry. It's called, fittingly enough, "Poetry: A Poem" and it goes thusly:

Poetry: A Poem

A poem,

Said the dead and ancient Greek

Whom I'd read into life once more,

Is a made thing.

An act of creation.

Life with ink in its veins.

I do not wish to bleed,

But if life and my all too human brain

Do conspire against me

With sharpened, moonlit knives

I will let it scab upon the page.

I will trap it where it can be safely observed.

I will steal laughter and tears from my audience,

And into the silence that's left behind

I will shout my thoughts.

I will scream into this world the maelstrom

Whose nocturnal rages trap me in unwilling consciousness.

I will pray

With every part of my grubby, battered soul

That this time -

Please, O spiteful, capricious deities -

That this one time

Something will echo back at me which I understand.

And then I will have a pint,

Calm myself down, y'know.

Take the edge off, sort of thing.

It's bad enough that I make myself memorise this shit,

And need to recite it to anyone who'll listen,

But it really wouldn't do to pretend that poetry is magic.

And a double gin as well, I think,

With bitter lemon if you have it,

Or lime and soda if not.

I do genuinely love those moments

When two people, separated by time, or distance,

Or the breadth of the darkness behind two sets of eyes,

Meet across a crowded line of verse.

I know, then, that I am not alone,

And nor are you.

Oh, and a bag of pork scratchings, please,

It does you good to treat yourself.

It makes you feel alive.

One hopes you're well,
Yrs,
ADWoodward

Edges

Hello. I've written a thing. I think. I mean I think it's a thing, and - depending on quite how much conscious intent you think is needed before "I" becomes relevant - it might have been written by me. Until its real parents come along, I suppose I'll have to take care of it, anyway. A few days ago I couldn't concentrate, sat at a keyboard for a bit with this as the result, and then went back to whatever it was I was doing. Eating crisps, probably. I've reread it a few times, and have got two things out of the effort. The first is that I need to read it again in a different tone, and the second is that it refuses to be edited. So, fuck it, have a read and see what you think. Until something better suggests itself, I'm calling it "Edges", and it goes thusly:

Edges

Look to the edges. Look to those places where one thing seems to stop and another begins, or continues after a lengthy pause. Look at the spaces. The cracks / The joins. Is that mortar or dust accumulated between the stones? See the red mark on the white sheet. Stain or dye? The one should be smaller, should mar the beauty less. The other should be repeated; haphazard patterns allowed to shift with a moving eye. Make them into pictures with a stranger's imagination. What do you see? Broken fragments or pieces put together? The tumbled pebble gets wedged and refuses to budge. A tile, cut and carefully placed, strains to escape its newly mortared home. Ruined or returned to nature? Restrictions released or order removed? Pause. Continue. Stop. Repeat. Rebuild. Reduce. Reduplicate. Which? All or none? Yes, no, maybe? I'm terribly sorry I've forgotten the question? Was there one? Will there be one soon? Do you mind if I wait and see? I think I might be on the edge of something important here.

One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

End of Series

Hello. I've been on holiday recently. It was lovely, thank you for asking. This meant I spent a week looking at a sunlit sea, occasionally wandering to get another drink. I wrote a few things, the first of which I'd like to share with today. I'll put the others up as and when I get bored with editing them. You see, I also read a fair bit on holiday. One of the things I read was last couple of novel's of Raymond E. Feist's epic fantasy known as The Riftwar Cycle. Magician the first book, was one of the things that made me decide "Oh, I actually do like reading." Finishing it, and leaving the world's of Midkemia and Kelewan behind felt weird. Now, you humans can - I'm told- experience feelings without resorting to scribbling doggerel. I choose not to. So this poem is called "End of Series", and it goes thusly:

End of Series

The last page is turned,

The last chapter finished.

We leave our friends

Whose text-forged lives we've cherished

To continue on without us.

Other victories wait them.

Other loves through which to sing.

Other armies to command.

Other regimes to safeguard 

Against the demon legion.

We've loved our times together,

We cheered them through their darkest hours,

But now the pen is still,

The bardic voices silent,

And now they must carry on

Without their paperbacked cheerleaders.

Thirty years the printed word has praised them,

Ten lifetimes more they'll have my adoration.

But no more the press will know them,

No more will ink on metal sing their tales.

These characters who led me from my adolescence

Through goblin strife and elven grace

Continue on to blissful summers

Without my reading eyes to share their laughter and their tears.

I'll re-read their wins and their losses,

But the first time has been and gone.

A rediscovery is not the same

As the first time you turned that first fantastic page.

One hopes you're well,

yrs,

ADWoodward

Wet Paint

Hello. I've written a thing which I'd like to share with you. I half wrote it walking back to mine one evening and then finished and polished it when I remembered it again. It's called "Wet Paint" and goes thusly:

Wet Paint

Paint never dries.

It's always soft and slightly tacky

Like a paperback teenage romance.

It's just sticky enough to pick up dead bugs,

Bits of fluff and other grime;

The sort which can hide it for a time,

But can be wiped off

By one glass of carelessly poured wine.

As the walls age the colours fade

But there's still enough of the original tone

To remind you of the vibrant shade you'd once known.

It can be covered with another colour, bright and new,

But there's that spot in the corner the brush can't reach

And what you've tried to hide peeks it's way through,

Contrasting with what is now meant to be on show,

Giving the lesson it's trying to teach.

You can scrape off the old paint

With abrasives and caustic solutions,

But in that confusion of effort and sweat

What can't be forgotten is the fact you're trying to forget.

Let the colours mix and meld.

Plain black or white are both - truth to tell -

Dull and uninspiring. So paint your walls a riot

And let the scattered patterns lead you to a more organic quiet.

One hopes you're well,
Yrs,
ADWoodward

Masks, Goblins, & Sentinels

Hello. I finally finished writing a thing! The thing took a while to write both because of the common-or-garden procrastination and because of thoughts. Also, it's longer than most of my other things; but maybe bigger breakdown needs a bigger book. Either way, it's done, and as is my habit it's going on the blog. It's mean to create a written thing and not let it be read. The thing is called "Masks, Goblins & Sentinels" and goes thusly:

Masks, Goblins & Sentinels

I wear an armored mask painted with a grin. Its beauty isn't skin-deep, it's less than paper-thin. It squats in an ornate box whose hinges make it hiss, one which is carved to outlast eternity. A voice which growls internally whispers "You'll always need this."

You knock on my door. I move fast - more - at such a pace that I'm easy to miss as I rush to bring the cold steel up to latch onto my face with a kiss. I whisk open the door. You pause and glance away. Perhaps the straps are too loosely interlaced, because the mask is sat askance and there's something less-than-human standing in my place. We exchange pleasantries and we go our separate ways and I lament once more in this endless, abyssal list of days that I've fucked up so hard and let myself end up this way.

I don't want to stay and I don't want to go: to remain in this crowd scares me into myself until I'm painfully alone, to depart leaves me open to these ghosts in my heart which cut deep into the bone. It hurts to keep these agonies covered but I'm terrified of them being discovered. I'm scared someone will lean in near, peer at these things I fear to be true and after a quick review, having seen them in the light, agree with them and announce "Yes, this seems to me to be right."

I feel pounced on, put upon, trapped tight between a rock and a mental place so hard it's like a wall of storms excluding all the light. I know it's not right. I know thinking I'm not worthy of love is flying in the face of friendship's evidence. It's trite and adolescent. But you're not there to see it scribed in granite-hard incandescence above my bed. You're not here in my head to hear the ceaseless sepulchral litany. You can't feel the blackened, gnawed-at nails of the goblin who sits in my brain as he picks at me. He plucks on my last nerve like a tuneless violin.I hide my head under a pillow, but he feeds my every peccadillo until it grows in my mind's eye, blocks out the sky, and stands a full-fledged, devil-armored sin.

Feeling haggard and thin, I'm re-learning a core concept. Taking it slow, with deep breaths and baby-steps, I'm trying to accept what others internally know. It's a fact which is only hard because it's so rock-solid:

I am the dog's bollocks.

This thought lollops through my mind in a rare moment of mental sunshine. It's not just remembering the time I drunkenly strolled through 4am Vienna without any trousers, though I am inordinately proud of that - on that trip if one of one's chums said "man-test" it was a gentleman's duty to acquiesce to the request . It's not just that when I storm a stage my performance carries strong and loud to the back, so my character's villainy can elicit a cheerful "Boo!" and the joyous sound of an audience's hands percussively pressed . Nor is it just that I, a Classicist trained to bask in Latin poetry by the mound and the stack, am still broad enough in my approach to life to love Science - DNA, quantum mechanics, and all the rest. I don't really understand most of it, but I feel you should get points for trying - bunsen burners are like puppies in that they're nonjudgmental friends, whatever the season. I am an excellent human not merely because of any of these reasons nor the sum of their parts; but I'd be lying from my to your heart if I let you believe that there really wasn't a test.

The best method I know to ascertain the truth is to use empiricism: to remain calm and let my brain be a fountain of logical criticism. The key is to acknowledge ALL of the data and not give unnecessary weight to one fact just because it happens to fit a pre-existing, comfortably tragic narrative.

What I need is something by way of a comparative, a control group, a second opinion whose opinion of me is independent of however I happen to feel at that moment. I need a ruthless opponent, armed with concern and all the facts, one able to argue against me in my favour. Debate against the darkest parts of me - don't let your rhetoric waver - because I desperately want the goblin to be proven eternally wrong.

I am so incredibly sorry it's taken me so long to realise that this fight inside myself is one that I can and absolutely have to win. How could I have been so dim as to ignore these friendly, arms-wide-open signs? The ones which stand with laughing eyes and a recognising grin? The wonderfully detailed signs were not simple markers disappearing in the mirror down a one-way, high-speed highway. They were and are marble sentinels holding hand-painted banners inviting me to the friendly, sunlit spots which dot the road in the opposite direction from the way I was travelling.

My mind unravelling I ignored them. You'll be pleased to hear I've turned around now and am trying to beat the speed of sound to catch up to them. You see, these diamond-hearted sentinels whose was love was unbreakable, bright, and crisp were warning me away from a Charybdis-dwarfing precipice. I ignored them before but I'm rushing back again, wishing I'd done so sooner. The reason is this. I leaned over the edge and I stared into the abyss. In that yawning moment I realised, I finally learned a Matrix-level life-hack, a platinum-plated tip. The abyss is a prick. It never gets its round in. It pulls out the plug and laughs when you still try to swim. It wakes you up at four am to steal all the Malteasers from your Celebrations tin.

So now I'm back. I feel like me again. I've got some drinks in for the Sentinels - a delightful mix of grape and grain. I've burned mask in it's ornate box and I'm dancing round the flames. Normally I don't dance, but I'm doing so anyway simply because I reckon it will irritate the goblin. I mean, seriously, fuck that guy. That Moria-dwelling cunt has once more got a fight on his hands if he want to stop me from laughing under open, if occasionally cloudy, skies.


I am well, hope you are too,
yrs,
ADWoodward

Dream Girl

Hello. Sorry not to have posted for a while, but things were distracted. I have written a thing which I'd like to share with you. it's called 'Dream Girl' and goes thusly:

Dream Girl

The other night I had a dream. On waking I scrambled for paper and a pen to record what I'd seen, in case my vision departed and never visited me again.
You see, I dreamed of a wonderful woman who had consented to seek marvels laughing by my side. I can't recall what she looked like, but that doesn't matter. When she spoke of enthusiasms which I didn't understand, I remember the way the stars scattered - the joy in her eyes was all that was needed to light up the land.
I dutifully agreed when she said she didn't snore. I could never hide my smile, though; I knew that while sleeping she snuffled and grunted Douglas Adams quotes until the day was reborn.
She got really irritated when I gave notes while she was cooking. She told me she'd end my wretched life if I told her once more "Don't do that; you'll take the edge off my knife!"
She seemed to like having some bearded arm-candy. At least that's what I read in her smile as she adjusted my tie and ran that ever-so-slow glance down me. I'd been told to suit up for some posh do at her work where I glowed with pride when she received her applause and had cause to hide my giggles with more champagne as she listed all the reasons her new boss was a berk.
She could draw marvels I could never hope to describe yet sat in wonder at what sometimes happens when my thoughts stand up straight and I take my pen for a stride.
Ensconced on a popcorn-strewn settee she reminds me that everything's going to be alright when we rewatch Toy Story 2 and once again Jessie's left by the roadside.
But as is it's habit, night fades into day, and startled by my alarm she starts to fade to grey and ill-defined memories. She's not returned to me in any subsequent sleep, but I keep this scrawl as a reminder so that if I ever find her echo in reality I'll have an even greater list of joys. I'll be gobsmacked by the banality of this dream. The tranquility of sleep is nice, but real people who can go toe-to-toe with the world's chaos and its noise and still elicit joy will always shine seven times as bright.
I'll still enjoy my dreams, but it's time to fill my life with messy, complex, indescribable life.

One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

Fair Selene

Hello. Sorry not to have posted for a while. I have been writing, and have some things which I think should be quite good. it's just that I have no idea how to end any of them. Or in some cases start. I'm quite good at writing middles, so I've got that going for me at least. As luck would have it, though, I had one of those occasions where my brain gives me something almost fully-formed. I got it down before it could go away and would like to share it with you. It's called "Fair Selene", and it goes thusly:

Fair Selene

     I like it when you can see the moon during the day, when fair Selene comes to say hello. Even though she knows most people will be too distracted by the light-show her fiery brother has enacted, she comes anyway. She comes to see what you look like when you're not sleeping. She comes in keeping with her duty of care to those of us who know she's always there and ever shining. Subtly smiling on a seat of azure cloth she adds her light to our days. She's made more soft by blinding rays, but we who spot her in a crowded day marvel at her beauty in a  hundred thousand little ways.
     Little ways count. They count when there are are only a few of them or when they mount up to a quantity which is difficult to count. Each way may weigh only an ounce, but an ounce can tip the scales towards contentment and away from fear and doubt. Fair Selene doesn't need to shout to be heard because we have learned her worth and eagerly turn our brains to sponges to soak up every word.
     This shouldn't come as a surprise because her standing in our eyes has been hard earned. Each time we turned away from the sun and sat huddled in our own private ebon night, besieged and plagued by anxiety and self-inflicted fright, she set her sight on this scene which has played over and again in our mind. With kind determination she forces into our hands the keys of our emancipation. Her pale and steady light drains from the world all the lying colours we've daubed upon it. She sets the record right. When we behold the world without false hue we see internally what fair Selene already eternally knew. If we have sinned, it is only in acting without the love we owe ourselves.
     So, I like seeing the moon during the day. It reminds me that always there is light.

One hopes you're well,
yours,
ADWoodward

On Hands

Hello. I've had a thought and written a little thing about it which I'd like to share with you. It's called "On Hands" and it goes thusly:

On Hands

A small pause for thought, a small thought on paws.

In truth that is all our hands are, of course.

Modified forepaws made to bracchiate;

These are the keys to what humans create.

Just eight lithe fingers and two skillful thumbs,

It's with these that all  our victories are won.

They grip pens. write with earnest volition,

Scribe noble thoughts in fresh-print editions.

They wield tools and make from marble or steel

New wonders to see, new glories to feel.

But the best use of all - this small truth I'll unfurl - 

Is to sit hand in hand and feel safe from the world.

One hopes you're well,
Yours,
ADWoodward

Speak Deeply

Hello. I have written a thing which I'd like to share with you. It's called  Speak Deeply, and goes thusly:

Speak Deeply

For the longest time in my own mind my greatest crime was that I have told lies at the memorial of a twenty-two year old suicide. Lucky for me, I talk in my sleep and my voice is quite deep so the bass in my tone  bounced my words off of the moon. In that echo I heard my own voice forgiving me with the knowledge that what I said made her mourning mother laugh and grin.

That said, I never want to have to do that again. So take the time to lift your voices with mine, my friends.

When you speak, try to speak deeply.  Whenever you can, speak openly and freely; speak so deeply that you can heal the wounds caused by silence. It's not an exact science, but it is a good rule of thumb to always try to speak deeply, like you're mining for gold with your tongue.

Speak so deeply that you risk breaking the amps, that you shatter the glass in the lamps which light up the pain, that you rattle the chains and the clamps which keep people in place, which stop them from saying "please help me" while looking into another's face.

Speak so deeply that you set off echoes in someone's head and that in the place of 'I hate myself' they hear the words 'You matter' instead.

If those echoes ever scatter, turn your larynx into a jackhammer; use your seismic voice to tear down mountains and reveal the sun. Make them see that even in darkness that they are loved.

 Let's use our lungs to create a gale so that, when the rest of the world has failed, we can catch people mid-air and land them back on the right side of the safety-rail, away from the precipice.

Next time someone stares into the abyss, I want them to be able to miss their own pain and sense of hopelessness because they will be too distracted by this, the voice of our deep-voiced choir. Let them be gratefully surprised when our song blows out the match struck to light the funeral pyre, only to leave a more joyful light.

Stand guard with me throughout the night; be ready for the fight against aggressive demon-flight. Join your voice to mine as we roar this life-affirming battle-cry, defiant against the parts of ourselves that whisper we might lose this war.

Speak deeply, boom your bass-voiced bellow, shout at that spectre wielding the scythe and wearing the black habit:

"This is MY life, and you can't have it!"

One hopes you're well,
yours,
ADWoodward

Hello. Sorry not to have posted for a while, the real world got in the way a little, you know what that's like. I have written a thing which I would like to share with you. It's called Should I have a Daughter, and goes thusly:

Should I Have a Daughter

Should I have a daughter …?

That wasn’t a question, it was a pause for thought.

You see, I wonder what I ought to tell her.

First thing, I suppose, is that she shouldn’t back down

When she’s right just because someone yells at her.

Equally, though, she should know to apologise when she’s wrong.

It’s not that nice, but it doesn’t take too long,

Then, when she’s done, she can go back to being friends with whomever she’s just made amends.

Second thing is that she can believe what she likes,

But has to be able to justify her thoughts,

For I will challenge her.

No daughter of mine is going to be a knee-jerk of any sort.

Nobody likes a bigot.

So I shall disconnect from the plumbing that particular spigot.

(That’s a posh word for ‘tap’.)

Third is a thing at which I myself am crap –

It’s a good lesson, though I’ve barely learned it:

You only get the reward if you’ve sweated and toiled and bloody well earned it.

To do well, to aim high, one has to grit one’s teeth and really try.

But if trying’s not enough, and she still fails,

Then I’ll be there with a consoling word and a lovely, lovely ale

Which she can drink by the pint.

My pale, hairy arse will that be thought of as being unladylike!

Four: I hope I can give her the space she needs,

But if she calls me, I’ll storm on in –

A knight in shining tweed!

Zeus helps whomever leaves her in tears for a day or a year,

Or dares to forget her.

For I will give them such a vicious hand-written letter!

And I’ll charge the bastard for the postage!

But what I want for her most is that she will be interesting.

For the interesting will inherit the Earth.

And then they’ll go, “Oh, thank you.

Oh, that will come in handy. Oh look.”

Then they’ll go back to they’re book.

For my daughter will read and she will like it.

That sounds like a threat, but it’s just a prediction.

In my family reading is an in-built predilection,

A source of affection.

She’ll read in Latin, I hope,

So we can talk about life in a “dead tongue”,

And I can share the ancients’ wisdom on how to cope.

It’s my hope that this list

(Though parts of it were written half-pissed)

Will be sufficient preparation.

I want for as long as possible

To save her from the realisation

That Daddy doesn’t know everything.

He’s just as scared and confused as the rest of the world,

But he’ll try.

That’s a promise to you,

My (as yet, completely hypothetical) little girl.

One hopes you're well,
yours,
ADWoodward

Pluck This Day

Hello. Terribly sorry not to have posted for a while; I've been trying to pass a degree and as such not had the liberty to write. One of the things I've been studying this year is Horace's Odes, my favourite of which is 1.11 - known to the world as Carpe Diem. I have written a little thing based upon it. It's not a pure translation, but it is trying to do one or two of the things the original does within the rules of English verse. I think it's quite good and would like to share it with you. It's called Pluck This Day and goes thusly:

Pluck This Day

Do not seek it’s a crime to know,

When the gods may decree we’ll go.

And don't concern yourself whether

This is our last year together.

So join me here. I’ll pour some wine,

And while we’re chatting savage time

Will have passed without much sorrow.

Pluck this day. Ignore tomorrow.

One hopes you're well,
yours,
ADWoodward

On Humanity

Hello. I should be revising right now. I don't like revising and I think my brain is being helpful by giving me other things to do. It gave me a little thing which I have dutifully written down and would like to share with you. My brain didn't give me a title so for now it's called On Humanity and it goes thusly:

On Humanity

D’you ever want to put your fist through a table? You don’t, not because you’re not able, but in case some shocked person screams out “That’s mahogany!” The agony of your personal Odyssey isn’t anything new. Don’t you forget you’re not the first to get the hull of your trireme wet. A thousand generations or more since ancient times have left their native shores and set sail for distant climes. A thousand generations from a myriad of nations have braved these seas before you learned how to breathe. Despite the odds stacked against them your ancestors squared their shoulders, set their feet and met them. They sailed through the crashing boulders and crossed the raucous seas. They reached the Caucasus and retrieved the Golden Fleece. You are the successful result of a billion years of evolution and with every revolution of the wheel of fate your ancestors grit their teeth and set a faster pace. No other creature has sent one of their own into outer space. Only one percent of our DNA separates us from chimpanzees and we have crosswords and blackberry jam and artistic jamborees while (nice as they are) they’re naked and live in trees. The ease with which we put ourselves down is strange since the bricks of our molecular arrangements were forged in stars. You are the dust of stars so you really must start getting some perspective. Do some good, write some ringing invective. Make sure the world’s a better place by the time you leave, because, sir and madam, I believe we are not the fallen descendants of Adam and of Eve. We are risen apes. If that thought escapes you for a single day and you hate your life and regret it or rue it, forget all else save that you’re human and humans are great so I’m sure you’ll get through it.

One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward