clinging to the wreckage

   The sun seems somewhat reluctant to rise over a sleeping Dallas. Lying in bed, motionless, sleepless, I start to worry a little about the recent bout of insomnia that plagues me. Thoughts of work creep into my mind and snuggle up beside other thoughts already troubling me… thoughts of politics and sport and death and the absence of romance. Even the cat has disappeared. Finally, I gather the motivation to saunter into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. Back in bed, sipping in silence, I glance at the screen and see not too much in the way of positivity.                     When I venture outside, I discover that the cat’s food bowl, which sat untouched all day yesterday, is empty, which means that she appeared and ate at some point in the night. It wasn’t the birds that ate the food because they leave a different pattern. There is still no sign of the cat, however. The cooler tempera...

  Creativity must be done for oneself. A form of therapy that comes through the joy and hope and (sometimes) beauty of creativity. Writings that go unread. Songs or Podcasts that go unheard. Videos that go unseen. This is often the fate of the artist and the creator, but it should not deter them from doing what they love and seeking meaning through expression.                     Contemplating this, it is also appropriate to mention that today is World Mental Health Day. I think it is important to recognise that, and to take some time to consider it. Even in current times, mental health is not taken seriously and many people, especially in a work environment, are still ashamed to raise the concern or express their needs in terms of mental health. Often, when they do, leaders respond as if it doesn’t exist. Especially those who are being told that everything sensitive is ‘woke’ or ‘fake’. In a ...

 Two years ago, my dad was visiting Dallas for the first time, his first ever visit to the US. I am sad that my mother never made it, but grateful that my dad was able to see my adopted home and spend some time here. He loved it. Even though we are British, my dad lives in South Africa… the south of South Africa, so the journey is a long one and not easy, even for me. I have not visited there since my mother passed away and there is something that haunts me about the idea of visiting now. He lives fifteen minutes, walking, from the beach and it is spectacular. A beach upon which I have witnessed majestical things… whales breaching and dolphins playing close to the shore. It’s also, unfortunately, a place with many sharks and there have been numerous attacks along that stretch of coastline. Stepping off the beach there are quaint little restaurants where you can order some local home-made food and sip a beer or wine whilst looking out over the vast Indian Ocean.  At least, fo...

 I took a true trip through history and time today. Perusing my bookshelf, I came across Goethe’s Novels and Tales , a collection of stories with the main one being The Sorrows of young Werther . The remarkable thing about this book is that the writings were published in the 18th century with Sorrows being publish in 1784 when Goethe was just 24 years old. My copy of the book was printed in 1907. Thus, it is a 119-year-old print of a 252-year-old publication. To me, it gets even more fascinating… I purchased the book in the early 2000s from a second-hand bookstore in Guildford, Surrey, England, and the inside sleeve is signed by one of the previous owners in 1943 in Canada. This means that the book was printed in London in 1907, was signed by someone in Canada in 1943, came back to England where I bought it 55 to 60 years later only for it to then travel with me to Madrid, Spain, and then cross the Atlantic once more with me when I moved to Cambridge, Massachusetts. Now it sits on ...

  A beautiful bicycle ride brought peace to a day of unease after a night that lacked sleep. Tormented by a mix of work and life thoughts, I kept tossing and turning until I finally got up, poured some water, and started to research old conversations with people from the past. Haunted as always by the way in which people disappear. Each disappearance a story within itself… shame, pride, anger, hate, lack of interest, envy, resentment, or simply something else that comes along to prevent them for whatever reason from making any contact. The stories are buried before birth and remain untold.                     As we grow older, we often become less tolerant of those who we consider to have ‘foolish’ views or beliefs. Difference of political opinion, religious beliefs, views of marriage and children, renting versus buying, traditional family over unconventional lifestyles. It rarely makes sense ...

  There was a woman in England, I called her Hip Hop because she didn’t want her real name to be thrown around. She called me Lion Cub for reasons only she knew. It was passionate love. It was forbidden, which made it all the more passionate. I had not considered it possible that such a beautiful, sexy, individual would ever have any interest in me but, for some reason, she did. She was eleven years younger than me. I was thirty-five. I think that she liked my innocence, my softness, my manners… I suppose this is why ‘Lion Cub’ was the preferred name. Last night she appeared in my dream, and it was erotic whilst being innocent. Both naked, I stood behind her, with my arms around her, and we looked into a mirror. She told me I was beautiful, and I almost laughed out loud. Then I awoke and spent the day plagued by thoughts and memories.                     It ended because I didn’t want to have ...