Jaye’s Journal ~ week 17

 

Jaye's Journal x12

 

For so many reasons this week has been a nightmare.

I received a letter from the hospital summoning me for another look at my cataracts. This has imposed a deadline on my editing, for after that date, I may not be able to see what I’m doing, depending on when or if they decide to do something this time.

Seriously though, I am getting really fed up with not being able to see properly. Everything is blurred, and print is so small.  And don’t get me started on the headaches!

Having a deadline is one hell of a way to buck my ideas up, that’s for sure.

Just when I was feeling positive about everything and things were moving  along swimmingly, BT decided to upgrade their email site, resulting in the most awful balls up. If this is what passes as ‘better’, I must be a monkey’s uncle!

Not only is it poorly arranged, but the layout sucks, AND it keeps going wrong! I mean, I don’t ask for much, just that things work the way they’re supposed to.

Moving on to what I’m supposed to be doing, the editing of PayBack. Right in the middle of thinking I was doing a brilliant job, I realised that somehow I was out of my depth. This turned into what the hell did I think I was doing, so everything crashed right there!

I am beginning to think my brain has finally decided to be old and past it after all. All without consulting me, I might add. I keep forgetting where I am in the process of editing, and what I’m supposed to be doing. I spread all these chapters on my desk, trying to make sure the plot was running smoothly. I found myself staring at them, with absolutely no clue. My head was empty, and I had never felt so lost in my life.

I don’t understand what is happening, for I usually breeze through editing. Hell, I was an editor long before I became a writer and love doing it. The chance to polish your story until it shines is a glorious part of writing, and here I was, unable to organise a piss up in a brewery.

Editing, as you know, is a series of systematically checking everything. You must be methodical and do things in the right order, something I seemed to have forgotten how to do.

For the first time in my writing career, I might need an independent edit…  Something I never thought I would ever say…

And if all of this wasn’t bad enough, I have eaten all the chocolate!

watermark xjj

 

 

#Writephoto ~ Beyond #Poetry

Thursday photo prompt: Beyond #writephoto

Use the image below as inspiration to create a post on your own blog… poetry, prose, humour… light or dark, whatever you choose, by noon (GMT)  Wednesday 24th April  and link back to this post with a pingback to be included in the round-up.  There is no word limit and no style requirements, except to keep it fairly family friendly.

crossing

 

 

Sunlight beauty beyond the trees

Pyramid doorway beckons

Ode to Pythagoras

I stand safe in shadows

This sunlit vale hides what my eyes cannot see

My heart weeps for want

A distant cry, drums beating

Forest burning

Loves memory written in smoke

A call borne from pain

How can I reach where my feet will not go?

A singularity of knowing holds me fast

Two hearts beat beyond the branches entwined

In triangular splendour they wait for me

Take time to feel their welcome

Reach out, take hold of safe hands

To hold under sunlight’s warm embrace…

AAAAA

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#Flash Fiction Challenge for Carrot Ranch Literary Community #Poetry

Carrot Ranch Challenge

April 11, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story using the phrase “beggars can’t be choosers.” You can play with the words, alter them or interpret them without using the phrase. Give it any slant you want — show what it means or add to its  meaning. Go where the prompt leads!

 

And this is our contribution…

 

Years ago when I wore second- hand clothes

Worn out shoes

Sleeping in a room with no heat

Blankets as thin as rice paper

I made my way long ago,

I am happy

Some I know are still searching

Most days, he sits at the corner of Waitrose

Playing his clarinet

I hear the coins drop into his open case

At his feet as I pass

Today, I would give him a choice

Between a sandwich and  coffee or a two- pound scratch card

I walked home eating the sandwich

Without waiting. I hoped he made the right choice.

AAAAA

Jaye’s Journal ~ week 15

Jaye's Journal x12

 

Are there days when you cannot cope with your chosen occupation?

I have had many jobs in my time and hated quite a few of them, but never thought I would ever feel less than love for writing.

Lately, I have been having days when things seem to be slipping, a digital carrying-on that can plague anyone who switches on a computer.

This week, I had more than one day like this. A fatal mixture of an old and feeble person trying to use an equally old and feeble computer.

The overall tone of the week surprised me, seeing as I had just typed those magic words at the end of my WIP, I should be happy or at least relieved, or optimistic reaching the end of what has turned out to be a fascinating if complicated story.

Secretly though, I knew why I wasn’t jumping around like an idiot. I am an idiot (most of the time), but that wasn’t the reason.

I was secretly terrified that, having written this unusual and complicated story, that I wasn’t competent enough to present it in the best possible light.

This is a story that I didn’t know much about initially, or how to write it. It has been one hell of a learning curve. The research alone took almost as long as writing it.

 

Something strange happened today.

I have recently changed the header image on our website, and that is what I expected to see when I logged on, but the picture I saw was not mine and one I had never seen before.

How was this even possible?

Also, the new header image had vanished. It wasn’t saved with all the other old headers, so whoever had changed it had run off with my new one.

Surely, this couldn’t happen, could it?

Perhaps it was a message from my muse, for I wasn’t happy with my choice, so maybe she wasn’t either…

watermark xjj

 

Memories…

 

dante-gabriel-rossetti.jpg

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

 

 

Memories are funny things, aren’t they? The way certain things suddenly pop into your head, and you think – hey, I know about that, and you remember.
I wonder what makes some memories surface and not others? You could say it’s down to something you have just heard or seen, but I know that’s not always the case.

Just lately, I have been remembering a specific time in my youth, and never realised before how that time must have influenced me.  Was it that threshold of childhood, the time you really start to think and question things? To imagine a future for yourself, that you won’t always be just idling along, not really caring if it snowed, depending on others to organise your life.

This particular time was when I lived in Kent, in a small village called Birchington, a few miles from Margate. I was about 8 or 9 years old, and up to that point, I didn’t really think about anything much. So much had happened to me that I had got into the habit of not questioning anything. Not much point really, as I knew I couldn’t change anything.

I was with foster parents by then with several other children, all from broken families; and surprisingly it was the first time I felt relaxed enough to appreciate the peace and quiet of the countryside, not to mention the freedom from all my mother’s problems.

Every Sunday we all went to church, and right outside the church door was an impressive gravestone. It was made of a beautiful piece of marble, and I thought the writing on it was very ornate and posh. I looked at it every Sunday for ages, when it suddenly struck me that this had to be someone quite famous. But why was he buried here in this tiny village?

The name on the stone was Dante Gabriel Rossetti  (1828- 1882), and I remember being very impressed by the sound of him, resolving to find out more about him. I was about the right age for romantic flights of fancy, and the more I discovered about this tortured man and the life he lived, the more intrigued I became. He was a poet and a painter, and some would say that he wasn’t very successful, but history will always remember him as a founder member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood with William Holman Hunt and John Everett Millais.

I learnt about Rossetti and how he ended up a recluse in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea after a nervous breakdown, finally retreating to Birchington for rehabilitation only to die less than a year later. Perhaps he should have spent more time in Kent, for it was making me feel better!  I secretly sympathised with the mess he had made of his life, determined that my life would be better than it had started out to be. I just needed to be old enough to set the wheels in motion.

So you see, I think Dante was my friend back then, right when I really needed one, guiding me to where I am today…

watermark xjj

Is There Any More?

 

 

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

 

I have been told that thinking is a dangerous thing to do at my age.  It is possibly a dangerous thing to do at any age, if you think about it, for who knows where it may lead?

But I quite like thinking, and all the things that trigger it off. Like books and pictures for instance. What I could do with is some method of retaining said thoughts, as they usually evaporate like so much smoke, never to be seen again. I make notes on everything in a vain hope of remembering all the good stuff, and it works some of the time.

Then I am told ‘what do you expect, at your age?’

But this is the difficult part. My mind does not feel old, even though it seems to have more holes in it than my favourite cheese, and when I see or read something that stirs my imagination, I am back in my prime, having a sneaky feeling that this is not all there is for me.

Some of the time I must admit that I really don’t want any more, I am too tired to even consider the possibility. But then there are the other days– days when you forget just how old, and how stiff you are. That you find it difficult just going to the shops and back.
Days when you choose to ignore the sands of time slipping through your fingers and find yourself considering the most amazing possibilities.

Of course, this may be what happens as you approach old age. I don’t know, I have no experience or knowledge of it, not having done it before.

But if you can think, you can dream. And if you can dream I believe you can do anything… at any age!

watermark xjj

My Pillow… #Poetry

 

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

My Pillow

Leave a kiss on my pillow before you leave

A promise of your return

I roll into the warm space you leave behind

I linger remembering your touch

Hope awakened within

Why do you slip away unseen?

Did the night promise too much?

Does my kiss still linger on your lips?

Will it be enough to bring you back?

My phantom lover, a fantasy made before I sleep

Does your love belong to someone else?

AAAAA.png

My Pillow… #Poetry

 

46124369_1676043552532957_2846525970976866304_n.jpg

Image by Pixabay.com

 

My Pillow

Leave a kiss on my pillow before you leave

A promise of your return

I roll into the warm space you leave behind

I linger remembering your touch

Hope awakened within

Why do you slip away unseen?

Did the night promise too much?

Does my kiss still linger on your lips?

Will it be enough to bring you back?

My phantom lover, a fantasy made before I sleep

Does your love belong to someone else?

AAAAA.png

#Writephoto ~ Threshold…

Thursday photo prompt: Threshold #writephoto

 

 

looking-out.jpg

Image by scvincent.com

 

 

From inside the one they call the magician’s cave, it felt wrong.

On the other side of the small bay is the cave I always think of as his.

Where the fallen eagle with its beak touching the ground,

his wings guarding the threshold to a second cave.

One is full to the top with giant boulders, but on the other side of the giant beak, you can walk through to the sea.

Looking at this grand entry, with the Castle perched on top of the cliff, was enough to send my mind reeling back into the past.

I could almost see the magician sitting on one of the giant boulders, as I had done. It has been said that he was trapped by his love for a woman, and gave her his secrets. They say no man can free him, maybe a woman can?

I have searched all of these caves, one so beautiful it was worth the climb. I found myself standing inside a green jewel.

However, magic is not to be found inside a hollow cave.

On this small beach stands a large solid rock. I stood there wondering, is his soul alive inside. Does he want to be found?

Has he learned not to give away all his secrets? Could someone find the key to release him?

I doubt it, for love makes fools of us all…

AAAAA

writephoto