Saturday, November 5, 2011

Stephen Fry and Me

The life of Mr Stephen Fry could hardly be more different from that of my own, yet reading his two autobiographies, I found he explained my inner most thoughts and feelings far better than I ever could. It was almost as if we were somehow separated at birth, separated by some 24 years and 16,800 kilometres, but none the less, I felt a connection.

The first instalment Moab is my washpot covers the first 20-years of his life and does so, like all his writings, with fantastic honesty and brilliant eloquence. It is this honesty more than anything that captivates, giving insight into the deepest thoughts and emotions of growing up long since forgotten by most.

The follow up Fry Chronicles follows Stephen out of prison and into the beginnings of the illustrious career he is so well know for but through all the name dropping and story telling, overwhelming honesty still prevails.

I have come to the conclusion that, take away the age difference, sexual preference, education and celebrity status, we are one and the same. I have found a kindred spirit and an insight into my own life that I can only hope to one day express my gratitude.

Friday, November 4, 2011

File--New Blank Document...


File-New Blank Document… How appropriate. It has been nearly eleven weeks, thousands of words, and my brain chooses now to go blank. So in true writers fashion I am going to write about it.  I see no other way forward.

Writers block I guess is what most people call it, and I guess I have suffered from it before, but something is different this time. Quite possibly it is the fact that previously when I couldn’t think of anything to write I could justify it with the thought that I was no good at writing. Now I have this extremely unhelpful thing called confidence.  I expect my brain to work now when before I could accept that it was just broken. “That old thing? That hasn’t worked of years!” like a broken down tractor in a dusty corner of an old shed. When you know something is broken and then go to use it and subsequently it doesn’t work, it is fulfilling both its usefulness and potential. When you expect something to work, it automatically becomes a ‘pile of crap’ the moment it doesn’t live up to expectations.  Today my brain is a ‘pile of crap.’

There are many ways to beat the dreaded writer’s block, some make sense like ‘work on more than one project at a time’ or ‘take some time off’ whilst others just make the problem worse. I have two that I like to use but unfortunately there are no waves and I’m all out of gin.

Testament to the fact that it just isn’t working for me today is that even now I am struggling to write about nothing.  My mind wanders to thoughts of cleaning the house or mowing the lawns, only then to realise I only have an hour until the taxi service I run fires up and the calls of “I’m hungry” and “What can we do?” recommence.  I think it is time to call it a day; I have just spotted an unopened bottle of wine.

So if you see me in the street or feel inclined to email or message me via social networking sites, feel free to shout random words, phrases or ideas at me that you feel will spark some inspiration.

Friday, October 21, 2011

The Fisherman - Written by Brett Wells


A long, graceful wave peels along the point.  A light offshore wind blows as the sun breaks the horizon. Harper sucks in a deep breath, filling his nostrils with sweet, salty air.  As he closes his eyes a smile begins to stretch across his dry, cracked face.  This scene had greeted Harper many times before, yet each time was new and fresh, bringing with it a sense of contentment, a sense of peace.

Faint voices appeared in the distance.  Familiar, welcoming voices that made Harper’s head turn ever so slightly.  Eyes still closed, he reached down picking up his 9ft log.  The board, like the voices, felt familiar, friendly.  The smell of wax mixed with the sea air, as the call of the waves begins to dominate his emotions.

“What you waitin’ for Harps?” jibed Blake as he ran past.
Harper’s eyes snapped open as he set off after Blake.  He had no idea at this point that he would be dead in 24 hours.

Today marked the end of the fishing season.  This was a day Harper anticipated every year. A torturous eight month slog at sea, and finally some time to reacquaint himself with a life that was put on hold every year since he was 17.  Harper had recently turned 35, yet his face seemed older, weathered by his years on the boats.  He had been offered many times to captain his own vessel, but first mate had always been enough.  Too many captains lose their houses, families and hair to want to go down that path. He liked his hair, and as for family, he hadn’t got that far yet.

As far as houses go, his was modest.  The doors whistled and windows rattled under the strain of the constant wind that plagued every seaside town.  All of this was easily overlooked as soon as you stepped foot inside.  The house became magical.  180-degree views all the way from the boat harbour to the right down to surfies point on the left.  There he was, sandwiched right in the middle of his two great loves.

Harper threw his board onto the grass and stepped under the shower.  The fresh water felt soft across his back, especially after four hours in the surf.

“So that’s it?  Ya’ done for the season?” asked Blake
“I think so.  Good riddance too, worst season we’ve ever had.”
“Must be cause for a celebration then?”
“How do you figure that?” quizzed Harper
“Come on, we’re all going into the city.  Sarah is bringing a friend of hers,” said Blake struggling to hide a smile.
The corner of Harper’s mouth flickered as he said, “what’s that got to do with me?”
“Nothin’, just sayin’ that’s all.” Barely containing his laughter.

Harper didn’t say anything.  Besides, there was really no point.  He and Blake had been friends forever. They knew each other better than their own family, and by now Harper knew resistance was useless.  Turning to pick up his board he felt a slap across his back, “7 o’clock.  You won’t be disappointed!”

Ding-Dong. “Huh?” Harper said awaking with a start.  “Shit!” He had only sat down for what felt like five minutes.  “Just a second” he yelled as he ran to find his best t-shirt and cleanest pair of jeans. As he flung open the front door he said, “How come you are always earl…” and stopping mid sentence he saw it was not Blake’s face staring back, as he had expected, but a sweet, beautiful face.


“Harper?”
“errrrr, yeah”
“Hi, I’m Emilia.  I’m a friend of Sarah’s.”
“Ah, Right. Ok.”
“They told me to meet here at 7. Sorry I’m a little early,” Emilia said with obvious apprehension in her voice.
“Not at all!  Come in.”
“Thanks” Emilia smiled, and entered.

As Harper followed the silhouette, caused by the rapidly setting sun, down the hallway, he heard the tone of a message emanate from the kitchen bench where his phone resided.

“Can I get you a drink?”
“Sure” Emilia replied, clearly taken with the view of the ocean that greeted her upon arrival to the lounge.
“Err, beer ok?” Harper called from the kitchen
“Beer is good.”

The phone went again, one of those helpful reminders that alert you to the fact you have forgotten to check the awaiting message. ‘Harps! Hope u have a good night! Catch ya tmo.  Blake’
“Prick!” Harper said to himself.

With a mixture of annoyance at his best friend setting him up, apprehension due to having a mysterious woman in his house, and whatever feeling you would attribute to the reality that he had nothing better to do, Harper entered the lounge carrying two beers.  “Have a seat, ummm, sorry didn’t plan on visitors.”  Looking around the room saw an assortment of books, clothes and half unpacked backpacks occupying each chair that inhabited the lounge.  “It would appear we have been setup.”

“Really? Maybe I should go,” Emilia said with a glance at the door she had only moments ago entered through.
“No!” Harper said hastily with what could be akin to desperation.

Conversation came easy between the two.  There was something natural about the connection, as if their friendship had been built over year, instead of mere hours.  They talked of the past, of lost love and missed opportunities.  They talked about travel and all the places Emilia had visited as well as the fact that Harper had always lived in this sleepy little fishing town.

Somewhere around 3am there was a pause in the conversation.  Not awkward, but rather expectant. Harper lent in and bang bang bang came a thunderous knock at the door.  “Wake up Harp, rumour is fish are swimmin’, gotta’ one more time!”

“Can I see you again?” Harper said softly.  No words, just a smile, a kiss, and she was gone.

“Gotta’ good feelin’ ‘bout this trip.” The captain said. “Ready the nets, lets haul these fuckers!”

The sky was dark, and the sea rough but Harper felt at home.  A wave crashed the side of the boat, throwing the crew off balance.  When Harper stood a rope caught him around his ankle, as the captain shouted “Now!” Before he knew it he was surrounded by water, the rope and net dragging him deep.  Harper tried to pull himself free but the force of the water made it impossible.  Moments stretched out as time seemed to slow, all he could think about was Emilia.  As the light faded and peace fell over Harper, Emilia would be left to wonder what could have been.



Sunday, October 16, 2011

The Busker


His eyes scan the crowd that assembles before him.  The strumming of his guitar becomes more purposeful and the stomp of his foot more intense.  Unknown faces smile back at his, and hands clap in and out of time with the music, but he hears none of this.  He doesn’t hear the rattle of the passing tram, the scream from rubber being torn at by asphalt, or the splash of coins into the open case before him.  All he hears is the sound caused by the oscillation of each string, singing perfectly to create the song he knows so well.  His head falls back as his world is plunged into darkness, and still the strings prevail.  Even his own voice is no match for the music.  As the last note lingers in the Busker’s ears, like a wave crashing in the night, the world returns with tumultuous applause.


Monday, October 10, 2011

A conversation between seagulls



“Look at ‘em down their George”
“What?”
“Look at ‘em!”
“Who?”
“Those people down on the sand.”
“Why?”
“There are hundreds of them, thousands even. They come here as soon as the weather warms up and just bloody take over the joint! They’re like bloody pigeons.”
“Where are the pigeons?”
“No, George. They’re like pigeons! They come down here, sit in big flocks taking up all the sand, and just dig holes!  I mean, what is that all about anyway? What are they looking for? Then they run into the water and just as they are about to get wet, they turn and bloody run away again! You either want to go for a swim or you don’t!
“What?”
“The bloody people, George! Ah just forget it.”
“Hey Alan?”
“Yes George?”
“Where’d all these people come from?”
“ARRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrr…”



Friday, September 23, 2011

Three Days

Below is the beginning of a short story I am writing.

Three Days


A long, graceful wave peels along the point.  A light offshore wind blows as the sun breaks the horizon. Harper sucks in a deep breath, filling his nostrils with sweet, salty sea air.  As he closes his eyes a smile begins to stretch across his dry, cracked face.  This scene greeted Harper many times before, yet each morning like this was new and fresh, bringing with it a sense of contentment, a sense of peace.

Faint voices appeared in the distance.  Familiar, welcoming voices that make Harper’s head turn ever so slightly.  Eyes still closed, he reached down picking up his 9ft weapon of choice.  The board, like the voices, felt familiar, friendly.  The smell of wax mixed with the sea air, as the call of the waves begins to dominate his emotions.

“What you waitin’ for Harps?” jibed Blake as he ran past.

Harper’s eyes snapped open as he set off after Blake.  Theses eyes, nor the rest of Harper, knew he would be dead in three days.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Up for an argument...

Hello... It's been a while.  Yes, your right, I could have called. I know,..... I'm.... ye....... OK!... well now that the awkwardness is out of the way, how have you been?

So after a brief hiatus, I finally have something else to write.  I have just started two new subjects a week ago, one I love, and one I am beginning to detest.  See if you can guess... The first is creative a professional writing, with an amazing bunch of interesting and creative folk, with whom, I greatly identify.  The other is Curriculum, with a drab, dull bunch of sheep the follow along bleating the same old nonsense they have been bleating for the past 30 years.

My week got off to a shaky start with a "discussion" regarding parking at school drop off on Monday, followed by 5 hrs of fishing with only 1 lousy flathead being caught.  The rest of the week has seen me dealing with curriculum.  I troll up and down the discussion boards looking for unsuspecting victims to berate with my self righteous nonsense, but this is all that is keeping me interested at the moment. 

You may well say, "you are doing a Bachelor of Education, and will have to deal with the curriculum every day" and you would be right.  But to you I say "Shut the Fu..." breathe, Breathe...

So did you guess which subject was my favourite?

Until next time...