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