Monthly Archives: December 2016

Dead Squirrels

I used to bash out a blog daily.

I used to ride a horse whenever and wherever I could.

I used to hop on a plane and fly more or less anywhere given half  a chance.

I used to do these things.

Now, not so much.

Fear crept into each of these activities, taking up residence in my gut brain, chucking out whatever chemical cocktail it is that makes your palms damp, your heart flip out, your intestines clench and gurn.

This year, on the shortest of hops to Jersey, I cried.  I cried there and on the way back with only 45 minutes in the air.  I flew to Bordeaux too, crying there and back. I put my sunglasses on and tried not to sob too much.

Perhaps that might work with this lonely, anxious-making typing words shizzle.

You see, as things stand, if I write something and then step away from it for too long, I can’t bear to read it again.  I call it the dead squirrel syndrome: you know you killed it, but you can’t bear to look at it again.  Step away from the corpse for too long and it’s almost impossible to return.  Either you can’t locate it, or the stench of rotten flesh makes it impossible to concentrate on anything, let alone resurrecting the kill.

Or  worse, you simply can’t be certain now that it’s even your dead squirrel at all.

Editing the dead squirrel.  Don’t even try.


Building a platform

I have started to ponder (lately) where I might be (in life on the generally accepted space-time continuum) had I concentrated my efforts in one sphere.   As it is, I have scattered my   energies far and wide, seen much, achieved (by certain widely accepted standards) little.

Oh, such dissipation, dissolution and dishevelment I have known over the years.

And still I am here, almost but not quite boring myself, not quite to death.

I admit, I should not be over here On Wishes and Horses.  I should be over on where I should be writing about being the biographer of Louise Little, mother of Malcolm X.  I should be building the platform, from which to launch a book into the world.  I should for the purposes of the above both hyperlink this post and tag it to within an inch of its scrawny life.  I should pick a photo that matches my well-chosen words and the comments should flow, like I was on goddamn Facebook.

I should.

I should play the game.

I shall too.

But, not just yet.

I still, despite all the terrible odds and notwithstanding appearances, like it here.  (And if not best, then surely most.)



Trying to make phone calls on my calculator

Not the Casio calculator I was so proud to get for my 10th birthday you understand – that is long since lost – but mistakenly trying to call someone using the calculator function on my     smart phone…

Is my phone smarter than me?  Not yet, as I am the one that has to eventually notice my error.  You’d think that any self-respecting phone of today could figure that what I really want to do is call someone…

What’s more worrying, however, is that it is an error I have made more than once.


That preamble is because I am still thinking about the role time plays in the human experience.  Is it a concept, an experience, a reality, or (as I suspect) just a bunch of numbers that do not help us to understand our subjective experience any better at all?


Is this a mid-life crisis?




Totting up and tottering by

No-one in my particular echo chamber has much good to say about 2016.

Glad to see the back of it seems to the general sentiment.

It being a number, two thousand and sixteen, this one-off number that we humans have chosen to overarch this particular span of time, a stretch we like to call a year.

I’m not sure how I feel about this.

Gonna sleep on it.