"It's none of their business that you have to learn how to write. Let them think you were born that way" Ernest Hemingway.
I'm having some fun here. First wave... round one... Instillation one of many. Little band of followers: Feel free to give me ideas on how to further my story (evil grin)... or not. don't be shy.
Timmigan the 1st
was a middle child
So in personality
He was always quite mild
He never got cross
He never got sad
He never did anything
Just more than a tad.
But but but
One day he met
A Someone fun
A someone special
Indeed he’d won.
And after that
Day onwards on
Timmigan the 1st became
Timmigan the fun.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
"until out of merely not nothing comes, only one snowflake(and we speak our names" ee Cummings
Because Aj (aka Ag) is awesome, I wrote her the story she deserves:
There once was a girl called little miss Ag,
She had the prettiest collection of marvellous bags,
With such a big brain she ruled over others,
She had them weeping and calling their mothers.
One day she met a guy, a fine man, a prince
His name so regal, it just had to be Vince,
He was ever so pretty and oh! so strong and toned
With boootiful eyes, white teeth and big boned
As perfect a man as ever there could be
The most wonderful specimen of age 23,
But all was not as it seemed with him
Vince was soppy, lame and went out on a limb
Ag made whipped cream of that dripping man
And then hit up the garden for a better shade tan.
For what our young Ag desired most was a manly man with an iron fist
One whose wrist she could match and pull and yet, completely twist.
Day after day the same sort of men came
But alas, they were all rather silly and tame.
She’d never pick such a bunch of silly sillies,
Running about all lovey dovey and willy nilly.
After much hiffing, huffing, sighing and sulking
She found her match all rugged and hulking.
He was an ordinary boy minding his own
When she walked past and hit him with her bedazzled cell phone.
When he turned around to meet his match
He, instead, found rather a stunning blonde catch.
He gasped and grasped about, stammered and stuttered
Indeed his mind was completely clouded and Ag a-cluttered.
Finally growing a pair
He thought it only fair
To ask her for tea
And hoped she’d agree.
Ag was surprised, as surprised as can be
“Of course”, she said, “yes!” and hopped like a flea.
He’d offered her favourites: biscuits, fruits, delights and treats,
And she was ravenous from wandering about manless on the streets.
Tea was just grand and indeed such fun
But alas she was late for a date and had to run.
She had men back home to turn away up and down
As she said this he started to blink and think and frown.
“Oh Ag, Oh Ag, I don’t mean to gag
But every other lady has been such a hag,
And you you’re, oh so SO so pretty,
So delightful, ever so clever and oh so witty”.
“Indeed life lately has been rather a drag,
So date me I beg you, please, else I’ll nag?”
And so Ag decided she could agree to these terms
So long as he didn’t expect her to get any perms.
They dated and dated and dated and dated
Finally the young lad’s patience abated.
He asked for her hand
The gesture was grand.
To everyone’s surprise our little Ag said yes
We were all so happy, it was just such a bless.
And so they lived all happy and silly and in love,
All ‘cuz Ag got to wear the relationship pimp glove.
There once was a girl called little miss Ag,
She had the prettiest collection of marvellous bags,
With such a big brain she ruled over others,
She had them weeping and calling their mothers.
One day she met a guy, a fine man, a prince
His name so regal, it just had to be Vince,
He was ever so pretty and oh! so strong and toned
With boootiful eyes, white teeth and big boned
As perfect a man as ever there could be
The most wonderful specimen of age 23,
But all was not as it seemed with him
Vince was soppy, lame and went out on a limb
Ag made whipped cream of that dripping man
And then hit up the garden for a better shade tan.
For what our young Ag desired most was a manly man with an iron fist
One whose wrist she could match and pull and yet, completely twist.
Day after day the same sort of men came
But alas, they were all rather silly and tame.
She’d never pick such a bunch of silly sillies,
Running about all lovey dovey and willy nilly.
After much hiffing, huffing, sighing and sulking
She found her match all rugged and hulking.
He was an ordinary boy minding his own
When she walked past and hit him with her bedazzled cell phone.
When he turned around to meet his match
He, instead, found rather a stunning blonde catch.
He gasped and grasped about, stammered and stuttered
Indeed his mind was completely clouded and Ag a-cluttered.
Finally growing a pair
He thought it only fair
To ask her for tea
And hoped she’d agree.
Ag was surprised, as surprised as can be
“Of course”, she said, “yes!” and hopped like a flea.
He’d offered her favourites: biscuits, fruits, delights and treats,
And she was ravenous from wandering about manless on the streets.
Tea was just grand and indeed such fun
But alas she was late for a date and had to run.
She had men back home to turn away up and down
As she said this he started to blink and think and frown.
“Oh Ag, Oh Ag, I don’t mean to gag
But every other lady has been such a hag,
And you you’re, oh so SO so pretty,
So delightful, ever so clever and oh so witty”.
“Indeed life lately has been rather a drag,
So date me I beg you, please, else I’ll nag?”
And so Ag decided she could agree to these terms
So long as he didn’t expect her to get any perms.
They dated and dated and dated and dated
Finally the young lad’s patience abated.
He asked for her hand
The gesture was grand.
To everyone’s surprise our little Ag said yes
We were all so happy, it was just such a bless.
And so they lived all happy and silly and in love,
All ‘cuz Ag got to wear the relationship pimp glove.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
"Hearts will never be practical until they are made unbreakable" The wizard of Oz
I love writing story adverts. This is my favourite one...
Body copy:
Today I word love letters...
One day at a bus stop two complete strangers sat, each waiting patiently for their delayed bus. After a while the two bored women got chatting and soon found a friend in the other. One was a seamstress, and the other an aspiring business woman. With both women having such different interests, each fascinated the other while they shared their hopes and dreams. Although they were going in completely opposite directions, both homebound, they exchanged addresses and promised to write one another. This was the beginning of a beautiful venture.
Now, 50 years later, these two women are still on opposite ends of the country yet they continue to write one another.
In discovering a kindred spirit in the other they decided to open a small shop. They decided to name this little shop of theirs after their idol, Eleanor Roosevelt. The shop was based halfway between the two women’s homes. Valiantly staying in touch via hand written letters they co-ordinated their business. They began to find discarded vintage clothing and restored it. Over the years their little shop grew with their friendship and became something amazing – a big, successful shop.
Convinced of the personal touch in letters they continue to boycott technology. These two women, now best of friends and still amicable business partners, write each other every week. Every week they send the other photographs of vintage clothing and share their ideas.
With a little bit of love, this little shop came a long way. Be a part of something special, something historical… visit Dear Eleanor.
Body copy:
Today I word love letters...
One day at a bus stop two complete strangers sat, each waiting patiently for their delayed bus. After a while the two bored women got chatting and soon found a friend in the other. One was a seamstress, and the other an aspiring business woman. With both women having such different interests, each fascinated the other while they shared their hopes and dreams. Although they were going in completely opposite directions, both homebound, they exchanged addresses and promised to write one another. This was the beginning of a beautiful venture.
Now, 50 years later, these two women are still on opposite ends of the country yet they continue to write one another.
In discovering a kindred spirit in the other they decided to open a small shop. They decided to name this little shop of theirs after their idol, Eleanor Roosevelt. The shop was based halfway between the two women’s homes. Valiantly staying in touch via hand written letters they co-ordinated their business. They began to find discarded vintage clothing and restored it. Over the years their little shop grew with their friendship and became something amazing – a big, successful shop.
Convinced of the personal touch in letters they continue to boycott technology. These two women, now best of friends and still amicable business partners, write each other every week. Every week they send the other photographs of vintage clothing and share their ideas.
With a little bit of love, this little shop came a long way. Be a part of something special, something historical… visit Dear Eleanor.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
"can we pretend that aeroplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars" B.O.B
Right, this is me getting over my fear of exhibition and losers complex.
I wrote this last year and I haven't really edited it much but here it is. short story of doom. Read it dont read it.
(Untitled)
Kurt Cobain used to say, ‘it’s better to burn out than to fade away’. I suppose that makes sense to people who haven’t spent their entire existence in the womb of darkness; people unlike my brother Quinn. What do you do when you are not even aware of what light is? He’s one of the worst cases; practically submerged in an underwater quiet. When you have autism even the simplest acts of the day, the essentials, are crippled by your own mind and body.
Today, as we leave the grocery store, Quinn insists we circle the cramped parking lot three times. I don’t mind: I once ignored this routine request on a bad day, just once. However, this day is a particularly good one for Quinn. The red raincoat has not made its usual appearance for the entire morning – an insignificant arbitration to a stranger but for us, an unusual feat.
Things on the drive are going better than hoped for - we are even singing along to my new favourite song by ‘A Day to Remember’. I can’t remember a day like this, when it actually feels like we are brothers so I reach to turn the volume up.
Pointing, he begins his mutters in a soft, pebble-smooth voice.
‘Stop.’
There in the distance is the big friendly red stop sign. Red is Quinn’s favourite colour, his safe colour. Sweet kid, patting his head I return to the song.
‘Stop. Stop. Stop.’
By now I am used to this compulsion of naming an object repeatedly but what I am unprepared for is the high pitched sound of Quinn’s screaming cutting into my cloudy reality and the soft thump as we run over one ginger cat; order up. He becomes a living volcano with stained red cheeks and lava eyes. Crap.
The rest of the day, the song, my band, the drive marred, in ashes. Such a simple mistake has cost me more than I care to consider now. Undoubtedly we will be seeing reruns of the red raincoat until we succumb to our own dark places.
Now I am the one chewing his nails, lost to the world in a storm-cloud mind trying to put out the fire below. What am I going to tell dad? The steam from Quinn’s explosion is fogging my mind but I’ve got to get my story together before we get home; before unleashing my monster, my living volcano, into mum’s pristine white living room. My mind is driftwood with seething Bile rising in my throat, red seeping over any other colour in my vision. I’m getting carried away in hysterics… I wonder what’s going on in his mind.
‘stop’
The brakes quake and once again he is calm, no scatterings left from the volcano massacre a few seconds prior; all seismic urges are quelled in his sea of red.
I wrote this last year and I haven't really edited it much but here it is. short story of doom. Read it dont read it.
(Untitled)
Kurt Cobain used to say, ‘it’s better to burn out than to fade away’. I suppose that makes sense to people who haven’t spent their entire existence in the womb of darkness; people unlike my brother Quinn. What do you do when you are not even aware of what light is? He’s one of the worst cases; practically submerged in an underwater quiet. When you have autism even the simplest acts of the day, the essentials, are crippled by your own mind and body.
Today, as we leave the grocery store, Quinn insists we circle the cramped parking lot three times. I don’t mind: I once ignored this routine request on a bad day, just once. However, this day is a particularly good one for Quinn. The red raincoat has not made its usual appearance for the entire morning – an insignificant arbitration to a stranger but for us, an unusual feat.
Things on the drive are going better than hoped for - we are even singing along to my new favourite song by ‘A Day to Remember’. I can’t remember a day like this, when it actually feels like we are brothers so I reach to turn the volume up.
Pointing, he begins his mutters in a soft, pebble-smooth voice.
‘Stop.’
There in the distance is the big friendly red stop sign. Red is Quinn’s favourite colour, his safe colour. Sweet kid, patting his head I return to the song.
‘Stop. Stop. Stop.’
By now I am used to this compulsion of naming an object repeatedly but what I am unprepared for is the high pitched sound of Quinn’s screaming cutting into my cloudy reality and the soft thump as we run over one ginger cat; order up. He becomes a living volcano with stained red cheeks and lava eyes. Crap.
The rest of the day, the song, my band, the drive marred, in ashes. Such a simple mistake has cost me more than I care to consider now. Undoubtedly we will be seeing reruns of the red raincoat until we succumb to our own dark places.
Now I am the one chewing his nails, lost to the world in a storm-cloud mind trying to put out the fire below. What am I going to tell dad? The steam from Quinn’s explosion is fogging my mind but I’ve got to get my story together before we get home; before unleashing my monster, my living volcano, into mum’s pristine white living room. My mind is driftwood with seething Bile rising in my throat, red seeping over any other colour in my vision. I’m getting carried away in hysterics… I wonder what’s going on in his mind.
‘stop’
The brakes quake and once again he is calm, no scatterings left from the volcano massacre a few seconds prior; all seismic urges are quelled in his sea of red.
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