365 Ways With Words

Changing Your Number To Paper

So you change your phone number – great. Only it isn’t, because now you’ve now unleashed a whole cascade of changes. And that cascade could lead to all sorts of problems.

Let’s start with the reason for changing the number itself. Your tariff was bad. OK, so why not change it? After all, you just have to pick up a new number from a different company and hey-presto! – a new number. Only, if you have a bank credit/debit transfer payment with the old company, then you’ll have to cancel the payments or be billed for something you did not use. That’s a banking matter, of course – but you still have to go back to the old phone company and cancel payments. And if you have a few months to go on your old tariff, then you’ll have to finish paying them off too. Does anyone actually remember their phone number these days? Good luck remembering the prior company’s account details – phone number and pin, etc, after a few days with the new one. A visit to the old company will also quickly reveal their business practices when it comes to departing customers.

Phew! So that bit’s over. Except the next cascade is with registration of online services. Want a quick SMS to confirm change of phone number to later change passwords on Google, Facebook, for cinema bookings, travel, and more importantly with ebanking? Well, now you can’t because you’ve just changed that very phone number. They can't send you a message because they don't know your new number! Because many of these online services are linked (a dubious connection if ever there was one), then your old ‘one ring to rule them all’ phone number is now a useless set of digits. One-by-one, all of these accounts have to be brought up to speed with your new phone number because only you can do this: confirm password–enter new number–reconfirm password–confirm change of details with requested SMS–reconnect with newly requested SMS-activated change of details–receive email confirming change of details… it’s such a bloody drag!

And then there’s the fun stuff, like telling everybody listed on your phone that you’ve changed your number. How do you do this? Send everyone an email? Throw it out on Facebook so that every Tom, Dick and Harry can see and possibly use it to access your information elsewhere? What about SMS-ing everyone in turn, or even in a group text? Or how about not telling them; a sifting mechanism to weed out those ‘friends’ you aren’t comfortable that somehow obtained your number in the past?

I have a radical solution to all this – it’s called pen and paper. This ancient technology allowed for creative expressions of connectivity between ordinary folk. It was permanent, unless it was permanently deleted, i.e. burnt, and definitely helped with literacy in terms of spelling, punctuation and grammar. Paper letters were also something to be collected. Important correspondences were tied up with red ribbons and kept in a tin box or knicker draw: when those secrets were discovered years later – oh, what stories they told, what memories they evoked! Will texts and emails be similarly archived? Maybe that’s a job for future technicians, but I can’t imagine they’ll be very interesting reading:

Were r u?

 Work

Wat tim u bak 4 din?

Dunno

Din in dog

Corresponding by pen and paper allowed for the grace of time, the thought behind composure, the filtering of urgency and the delight of sending and thrill of receiving. You still had to pay a tariff (perhaps a stamp), but paltry in comparison to mobile phone charges.

So, if you are thinking of changing your number and then to reconnect with folks, with business and with all content in your life, then perhaps you should stop and think: maybe a letter will be better!

Josef Lada

The world of illustration is multifarious: there are as many styles as there are artists. What sorts the men (and women) from the boys (and girls) is a true and recognizable individualism. This individual style is therefore appreciated for what it is – an expression of the self, especially if it genuinely reflects what that artists sees with their own two eyes.

Thus is it with Josef Lada, Czech artist of the first half of the 20th century. His distinctive style is at once naïve and charming and also stylistically recognizable with the characteristic strong lines used in outline. A self-taught artist, he suffered from an accident in his youth that meant depth-perception became difficult. His art, because it does not try to emulate other syles, works precisely because of these qualities. A maverick young artist, he was unable to finish art school and by drawing for magazines and newspapers gained recognition as a cartoonist and illustrator.

He published children's books, but also provided illustrations for more popular and adult works, such as The Good Soldier Švejk, the lovable soldier who, along with other Czechs in the Austro-Hungarian empire during World War I, was fighting a war he didn't understand for a country about which he confessed no loyalty. An unfinished work, it nevertheless became a famous and hilarious anti-war dark comedy.

 

Lada kept faithful to his humour and his style even during World War II where as an officially banned artist he had to rely on income from selling his work to private buyers and collectors. His representations of a nostalgic rural life also allowed him to survive under the communist regime until his death in 1957. Some of his work can be seen here.

It is clear that Josef Lada was not only a loving patriot, but also a lover of people and loved drawing attention to their foibles and failings. His work shows a Czechoslovakia of the dim and distant past, but it is also possible to see humanity as it is.

 

He is still popularly recognised as an important and instantly-recognisable artist closely associated with all things Czech. To see his work is to identify the land and people: it isn't difficult to love this place. Those who who have lived here get sentimentally misty eyed in remembrance (as in the video above). Lada instinctively knew what lay at the heart of his country; perhaps more importantly, could articulate it through his work. Just as there was a childish delight in the way he portrayed life, so there is a childish delight to be enjoyed by viewing his work.

Hong Kong's Democracy

So Beijing has rattled the sabre. Or has it? Is this a genuine attempt to fail the hearts of pro-democrats in the Pearl of the Orient or is it merely on a level of normalcy for a Chinese government that expects to do what it wants wherever it wants?

Surely this pressure was always to be expected. Only the most space-headed fantasist would have thought Beijing would tolerate a 'democracy', unless it was under its management. In recent times, rule from the North has not really been about allowing or forbidding free opinion, but more about consolidating control – it's control. Is it any wonder, then, that Hong Kong's slow path to democracy has just been bulldozed? For how can an unfettered democracy be controlled if not by force?

A country of the size of China has always had problems with control. It has exercised this control brutally in the past, but comparatively less-so in recent decades. In fact, it is a small wonder that it hasn't bared its teeth more often. The minor rebellions in Xinjiang, Tibet and elsewhere have upset the thinking in Beijing that all things in 'communist China' are for the greater good. For how could any dissent be tolerated if it is against the harmony that an ideologically-sound centralised control is seeking to create? At least, that's how it may be seen. Such troublemakers are thus seen as true criminals, the sort that should be eradicated like so much vermin. Within this mental framework, how could Beijing permit the election of anything but a 'yes man' as a Chief Executive of Hong Kong?

The pro-democrats may puff and fume as armoured personnel carriers are driven around the territory, but what is of greater surprise, at least to me, is that the central government is frequently applauded for its actions from within a de facto democratically free Hong Kong. The east truly is red for many in Hong Kong. It is true that people have short memories, but perhaps there is also a blurring of memory and fantasy, of fact with fiction, perception and ideology. Many have conveniently forgotten the plight of refugees – frantic swimmers straggling ashore in 1970s New Territories beaches, braving sharks and deadly currents to escape the Red Guards' bullets. But if taxi drivers in Hong Kong, Shanghai and Xiamen suspend both Mao and Kwan Yin from their rear-view mirrors, it is because these mythic figures have become part of the even greater China myth. China has at last become great – it sends folks into space, builds mega-skyscrapers and runs high-speed Maglev trains between its mega-metropolises. It can now do anything. And that, of course, justifies anything. Just as 'Middle Americans' can justify bombing targets in Afghanistan, Pakistan and Iraq in the name of self-defence and as part and parcel of their incredible projection of power, so their Chinese equivalent, Mr & Mrs Chan, can justify the Chinese state's similar actions against its enemies. And it is up to the media in both instances to inform their public about just who those enemies are. Hong Kong democrats are therefore viewed as a lot of troublemakers that need sorting out!

So will Hong Kong achieve full democracy in 2017? Of course not. Some may argue that it will look like democracy, and that may be enough. Others will continue the debate, probably right up until 2047 when the one-country, two-systems policy will be set aside for full integration with the motherland, whatever that means. Quite whether China and Hong Kong will then be in existence as they are now, no one can know. If I'm still around, then I'll be an 80-year old observer, and a cynical but unabashed democrat at that.

The Kissers on the Bench

Sweet sixteen, or was it seventeen? They huddle, because life depends upon it, on the cold slats of the park bench – a public refuge from the cruel vaguaries of late-adolescent life, an open book for those without respect for their free modesty.

She sits on his knees, her long virgin hair cascading down his protective arm, and allows his tender fondling, his benign embracure, of her curves – both inner and outer. They pretend to talk, but each squirming move she makes awakens further his raging, each squeeze of his hands drives her wild with a tremble-legged desire. They coil together; their underwear wetter by the minute, their tongues never far from each other, their focus only on the amazing stimulation each now receives from the other. He holds her firm like a man – she is his eternal soft woman.

The grip tightens as his height ascends in the clouds. She is the urban meadow within which they are camped. As the dinnertime deadline passes, and night falls, they are once more in the red with parents. Another doorstep talking-to will wash over them. All they want is their freedom. She longs to care, he longs to be near her. They will text all night and into the next day. They will see each other on random buses, on TV, talking to strangers, until the truth is verified. A jealous god guards their powerful attentions.

And then one day the bench will be empty: a callous act, some quick words untrimmed, the heat turned down. It will finish on a misery – wet faces in pillows and hearts stopped: how could breath be drawn when such pains enwrap the very soul? But then the sun will shine, and movie laughter will return with a pal. The streets will be full, and the past will become history. As weeing dogs and vagrant sleeps take turns on the private seat, so the world will turn a few more times. That is, until the next couple make it their own.

Sweet Apples

                                            The scent of sweet apples roams

                                            September’s yielding rain-soaked skin

                                            A transient softness full of hard nose

 

                                            Black mulch mud proudly boot sole sticks

                                            Committing witless with wind-crept aridity

                                            An imprint baked firm dry to remain

 

                                            But such intensity is purloined on the rot

                                            Such richness arced in apple weeks

                                            On and on until to soil they are returned

 

                                            And so are all footfalls set down

                                            Awaiting a raindrop’s destructive power

                                            Or the windly ministrations days ahead

Rain Hammer

                                                        Tap tap tap

 

                                        Rain hammer

                                        Hits hardest

                                        On the softest heads

                                        Dropping misery

                                        Aching falls

 

                                                        Tap tap tap

 

                                        Drenching the spirit

                                        Chilling heat

                                        Sapping blood

                                        Stealing the voice

                                        Drowning from the feet up

 

                                                        Tap tap tap

 

                                        Untenable

                                        Unbeatable

                                        Unsustainable

                                        Rain hammer

                                        Pours in and devours

                                        Liquifies the soul

 

                                                        Tap tap tap

 

                                        Puddles remain

                                        Unevaporated sluice

                                        Pounded fleshmix

                                        Drip-dribble bones

                                        Evicerated hull

                                        Non-stop

                                        Rain hammer

 

                                                        Tap tap tap

The Final Straight

Only 16 more days to go! It feels like I am nearing the mainland, that there is the smell of land in the air and that I can drop a sail or two in the last few days before entering the sea-lanes and finally docking. Only, of course, I will not have quite written the full 365. I dropped three along the way for various reasons, some technical, and some personal.

So, I should really add another three at the end – which I may do – if I feel inclined – which at the moment I don't... I love writing, but I've had enough of this!

Perhaps 16+ days before the end is too soon to ruminate over a completed project, but this year of writing has taught me much – chiefly, that to take your art seriously is never a bad thing. If you have aspirations to artistry in any capacity, then time must be put in. Whilst it may take 10,000 hours to achieve fluency in the pursuit of any particular activity (less so if those hours are properly focused), one year in writing does not a writer make. Yes, to be a successful writer requires daily commitment, but daily output in a task like this varies with mood, energy, opportunity, imagination and desire. Some days I amazed myself, whilst others were really an intense drag. Some pieces I am still proud of, whilst others are undoubtedly best forgotten. Publishing daily made me examine grammar a little closer and although there are many split infinitives, passive voices and a host of other blots to my copy book, I stand by intention over mechanisation, fluidity over nicety, perception over technique. Someone recently mentioned to me that I should perhaps get a student to study the blog's development as an extant corpus. Whilst that is flattering, I doubt it is worth the salt.

On a personal note, daily creative writing made me at times look hard into the soul to see what was there. Some discoveries were real surprises, but on many other occasions I did not like what I had found. Such is found in us all: a little light and shade, goodness and badness, bravery and cowardliness, profundity and the profoundly dim.

My aim at the outset was to examine my ability to create in different genres, to give as many of them a go as I could. I included Sci-fi (much maligned in British minds), psychological examinations, ideas, comments, serials and more besides. I like writing poetry: there is an emotional immediacy to it. Hence, I have writted more than a few poems of which I am rightly proud.

Some work has been easily jotted down in an hour, whilst others have taken days (even weeks) to put together. Some work came easily, the ideas flowing from the fingertips, whilst others were pressed out with seconds to go before midnight. Sometimes alcohol helped, at other times was the inspiration, and at other times took power away. I endeavoured to put meaning – real solid meaning – into everything, but at times admittedly fell a little short. I suppose that had I given myself more time, then that would all have been rectified, but that's not the point of writing a post every day, nor is it possible. It is to my regret that pieces I would dearly have liked re-written and refined are half-finished. That may have put more than a few readers off. If it's any consolation, it did me, too!

I have not included any screenplays or theatre plays. They are difficult genres that are easily emulated, but which require much time, energy and dedication in order to get over the 'adolescent' stage of writing. I thought about a minimal token work something along the lines of Beckett, but decided the risks were too great.

The final straight is therefore in sight. It's about time to break out the rum. Thank you for reading my work. The (admittedly self-administered) demand to post every day has been a hard and unyielding mistress, but your Facebook likes and comments have several times made the difference between coming to an abrupt stop or continuing. Some pieces will make their edited and expanded way into a published work or two in the near future, something that might actually make me some money! If you have travelled this far, then please continue with my journey to the end. I have written for your eyes and dearly hope that I have brought you some pleasure along the way.