365 Ways With Words

Taking Stock

A little over two and a half years ago I handed in my notice. It was not too difficult a decision. I had been working as a teacher in one of Hong Kong's most prestigious schools for 12 years and decided that rather than end my days at the chalkface, I would quit by the summer and try pastures new. Although I wanted to write, and blogged often, quite what would happen next was as mysterious to me as I'm sure it was to everybody who asked.

Teaching was a stressful job. I liked it  – the students were pleasant, but their constant drive for high exam grades made them a demanding lot. In addition, the ever-encroaching culture of box-ticking, meetings, target-setting and hoop-jumping changed the ethos of the school I had joined in 1999 from that of colour and human interest to that of an artificial target factory. The changes did not have the desired effect of endless improvements in grades – quite the reverse. The students' 'careers' were as hard (sometimes harder) as their parents in paid employment. It became obvious to me that I did not share the values of a school culture that perceived excellence in children only in terms of a comparative international scale of International Baccalaureate grades. For the few that attained these targets all would be well; the majority rest would forever remain failures.

And so the end of term arrived. There were farewells and goodbye speeches in which I presented a positive outlook on an unknown future. Was it the full-stop of my career, or the beginning of something new? Could I cut it as a writer? How would I know success if I saw it?

At that time my wife was completing her PhD. I was happy to sit pretty for the hot and humid summer months, but by September we'd got itchy feet. A one-way flight to Bangkok started a month of travel in Asia. I constantly blogged (Daily in Asia) as we went. From Bangkok we took the train to Trang, a minibus to Satun and a boat journey on flat calm waters to Ko Lipe. Summer is a tricky time in the Andaman Sea, and the weather was unpredictable. Thus far it felt like a holiday. The onward trip to Langkawi was potentially catastrophic – an over-packed boat driven blind across lightning-struck green waters made prayers rise faster than stocks in Apple before a product release. Langkawi, the 'Jewel of Kedah' was wet –it being the rainy season– but staying in the old colonial era houses at the Temple Tree At Bon made up for it. It was only on the ferry from there to Georgetown, complete with hundreds of holidaying Saudis, that the journeying finally felt like 'travel' and not 'trip'. Indeed, of all places in the mystic and incense-laden orient, Penang and Georgetown felt the most enjoyable: beautiful Chinese merchant houses, excellent Tamil curries, more than a smattering of colonial monuments and history and views to die for from atop the funicular-railway ascended Penang Hill, this place felt like it could be 'home', that elusive something we all search for. The train trip up to Ipoh and from there to the wonderful Cameron Highlands also had its moments, chiefly being the approving ghostly presence of long-past relatives when staying in the mock-tudor, mock-British delightful nonsense that is The Old Smokehouse. From there to Kuala Lumpur and on to Singapore felt like a progressive return to normality, and indeed we cut our travel onwards to Indonesia short for a return to HK and an unsuccessful interview. The daily blogging sewed a seed that came to fruition in this very vehicle, of which this is the penultimate entry.

There remained the vexing question of where to go? It was decided that jobs must come first. So, we waited for something to turn up, and by December two had appeared – Limerick and Olomouc. We had to see both places. The wintry-wet drive through England, Wales and Ireland was enjoyable enough, but within days we had flown to the dry and cold Czech Republic. Had we found what we were looking for? Olomouc was a wintry and wonderful city with picturesque buildings and friendly locals. Limerick turned out to be unsuccessful, and on advice from a friend ("a quarter the rainfall of Ireland") we settled on Moravia. I would remain in a supportive role, and keep on with the writing until something worked out.

By the end of January we were prepared to move countries, but were we ready to move minds? It quickly transpired that doing anything in the Czech Republic is a challenge, not least the finding of an apartment where three dogs and a cat would be welcomed. Such a thing, it transpired, was impossible. So we bought. It meant an investment of nearly all our cash and additional money to finish the transformation of kitchen and bathroom, but six months on it was done. I was already on to a new local blog Anglicky in Olomouc, but knew it was high time to focus a little more on the writing – I had already started on a few books whilst in Hong Kong and found short stories engaging. I worked steadily on them, but knew my literary ability lacked something... experience and depth. I reasoned I could get this by writing –forcing myself to work– each and every day. I began 365 Ways With Words in the belief that a little more of what I fancied would do me good. It would be a daily struggle; at times harder than any other task I'd set myself.

Whilst the new job allowed for enjoyable travel to conferences across Europe and beyond, and all seemed well and good, there was trouble ahead. Here comes the tough part: we had a falling out. Separated by a 3-month stint in Sweden, we found our courses going in separate directions. It fell to me to be an idiot and think things worse than they actually were. And instead of patching things up, we argued – fiercely. I was to blame.

And so we separated. In my quest for new beginnings I had not actively sought an end to everything from before. But life has a funny habit of turning things around and of forcing pressing items that require attention onto the top of the desktop pile. By August, I came to the realisation that the little money that I could earn from teaching English conversation was spread all-too thin on the ground to support myself, three dogs and a cat. I was nowhere near completion of a book on travel writing and the other project, 10 Beers With Czechs – a collection of interviews with Czechs 25 years on from the Velvet Revolution, needed more time. So I had to get a job, and got one working in Olomouc's one and only English international school. Ostensibly, it allows for time in the afternoon and evening to devote to writing: in reality, there is barely enough for more than a few glib changes in overlooking a marginal point in a paragraph.

The future, therefore, is a little less glamorous and exciting than had been imagined. I will continue to write, albeit with a steadier focus on quality rather than on mere output, and my attentions will be on completion of the works already begun. But unlike the stretched life lived in Hong Kong, life here in Olomouc feels more like the real world, where sincere people strive to earn enough cash to pay the bills and have a little left over for a beer or two with friends. Czechs read a lot (it's cheap and enjoyable) and enjoy rock and drinking in parks. On a side note, and whilst I am a long way from speaking the lingo, it's interesting to see how people here put meaning and emphasis together in a form unconnected with western latin or germanic languages.

So here I am; back to teaching (and writing). It's not quite full-circle, because the experience of writing over the past two years has taught me much – about the literary craft, about moving and changing and about the priorities of life, albeit how not to do things. And as this project draws to a close, a little later than exactly a year, and tomorrow's is the last entry of 365, so another task is already set: to complete those books and short stories for publication. This has been a rather personal entry in what is in reality a very personal blog. Writers cannot fail to open up now and again, letting the world see the quivering wreck of humanity that is, in effect, within each of us. As Art is a jealous mistress, I will leave the last paraphrased word to Winston Churchill, who writted a few books from time to time:

“Writing a [daily blog for a year] is an adventure. To begin with it is a toy and an amusement. Then it becomes a mistress, then it becomes a master, then it becomes a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster and fling him to the public."

What on Earth's That? Oh, it's Nudle s Mákem..

It's lunchtime. The children are patiently waiting for their food, although that does not preclude them getting up, fidgeting, walking about, going to the toilet and generally chattering away as the food arrives. The lovely lady who serves the children arrives carrying cutlery and drinking glasses which a designated helper of the day hands out.

There is always soup. And the children are deft soup-eaters with little or no spillages. It must be genetic – Czechs love soup. So, the soup gets consumed, often with relish. There are no fussy eaters, thank God, like there might be in other classes in other countries. What is served is eaten. In delightful Oliver Twist moments, they regularly ask for more. Then bowls and spoons are stacked, a useful skill for 5-year olds.

And then the main meal arrives. Every day the plates are loaded with one local dish or another; meats and sauces and lots of mashed potato. The quality is generally good. At least, it's certainly better than I remember from my primary school days where each child prayed for chips, hideous mountains of lamb liver remained uneaten, boiled cabbage didn't leave the plate, and if there was no sloppy jelly and ice cream then the pink from the pink buns would be nibbled off.

But then the other day something unexpected turned up: pasta covered in something that looked like grey gravel. Some of the children eagerly anticipated this delicacy, whereas others turned disapproving eyes at the strange fayre – strange to me, that is. Some of them piped up that it was  nudle s mákem. None the wiser, I tasted this terrible-looking food. My face must have disclosed my feelings; they kindly explained that it is made from poppy seeds and sugar. Oooooh!!!...

So, now I am wiser to another aspect of Czech cuisine, albeit a slightly dubious one. Along with nudle s mákem (noodle), which was awful, there is also šulánky s mákem (potato gnocchi or dumplings). And then it gets into weird perverted territory using chocolate and all sorts. I suppose this dish will come around again, and it certainly provokes some interesting responses from Czechs who either love or hate it. School dinners round here are never dull.

At a Concert at St Maurice's

Before the image of Christ crucified, some with heads bowed, we are gathered in happy devotion — to entertainment. A brethren of deliciously unmoved bodies, perhaps all unhampered by prior yields to the cross, brought to the music, as moths to a lit candle. The magnificent altarpiece, a glittering spectacle of baroque majesty, serves  as a mere ornate focal point. Each image, altar and reliquary, intense donations of public reverence and prior devotion, now carry such little weight and affect such little impact, that the venue has little more than a restaurant's ambiance, and certainly not the numinous might of eternal mystery.

Maybe it's the dust, or the mundanity of a concert venue, or the unfamiliarity with the symbolic value of religious currency inherent with such a building — one that has remained upright and been in daily use for one thousand years — for the connection is a weak magnetism, a holiday sigh or a tourist's snap. The habituation of loonies who crawl on their bellies in silent thanks is not the place for honest, gentle and normal folks.

But then something happens: such feelings as these do not spring from supermarkets, banks or sports halls. The unfashionable term 'sanctity' has a hollow ring about it when 20 yards away the beer is poured beneath screens of footy bollocks, but perhaps that is what emerges when an hour or more is spent sitting in contemplation of a baroque altarpiece. The artists may rest in peace, the builders know that their job was well done, for it turned out that the music alone was not enough. Cold buildings with unforgiving pews obviously attract for quite other reasons than mere entertainment and comfort.

We come, we gather, we sit in silent attention, until waves of encored Elgar energy flow around and through us. It is a mystery, a shared experience we take, like our coats, from now into the future: blessed be the devoted, the moths, the candle lighter, the ignorant and the perplexed, the snoozer and the shopping list maker, for theirs is the shared Kingdom of Man, forever and ever, Amen.

The Towers of Olomouc

Hands up if you’ve been to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Keep ‘em up if you’ve done the Burj Khalifah, the Shanghai Tower, Taipei 101, the Petronas Towers. And try to touch the ceiling if you’ve ascended to the lofty heights of the Hotel Flora and the Silo Tower. “Hotel What? Silo What?” I hear you ask…

Ah, had you but been in Olomouc yesterday, the 9^th of June, you would not have asked this. For yesterday was the first Olomouc s nadhledem. And just in case you are still none the wiser, perhaps this should also be explained.

Olomouc s nadhledem, Olomouc Easy, was the opportunity for the citizenry to get to know a little more about the city from some of the highest vantage points available. Brainchild of the non-profit local Hanácká hratva organization, the association of architects’ spokesperson Michal Giacintov said that the idea arose not only in order to reach out to people, but also so that they can awaken a deeper love for their own city, both adults and children.

The good weather certainly helped. Registration cards were available in the central square from where the aspiring towerers could walk to the six locations taking part in the event; the Silo Tower on Litovelská, the Church of Ss Cyril and Methodius in Hejčín, the BEA Centrum tower on třída Kosmonautů, and the three hotels – NH on Legionářská, Dům on Velkomoravská and Flora by the park on the unfortunately named Krapkova.

Initial estimations for the numbers of people wanting to ascend these local landmarks were in the hundreds. The Facebook page alone listed 613 as attending. By Saturday afternoon, thousands had taken part, each ascender taking with them their little white cards ready for the stamps that would prove their visit.

Late to the event, I only took in two: Hotel Flora and the Silo Tower. Hotel Flora is a fairly standard modern hotel catering for about 322. The view from the top floor, across the verdant treetops of the park, towards the historic town centre, is magnificent. Being the Czech Republic, this roomy asset has its own bar and enough window space to become the best club in town. Being Olomouc, this unique space is sadly underused. I know I’d jump to it for an opportunity to visit again.

At this point, the stamper of the passport/piece of card appeared. Dressed in colourful Hanačka costume, the traditional regional dress, the girl plopped the little stamp on my card. She gave such a polite smile and I was so taken with this pleasantry, that I am afraid I forgot to photograph the occasion. Someone else, however, was kind enough to (shakily) video the whole thing, and placed it on the Youtube below.

 

Olomouc is an ancient city that has been an administrative and religious centre in the region for one thousand years. The rooftops tell a good story, of inspired gothic Cathedrals, impressive domed Baroque churches, of grand seminaries, historic palaces and lucrative business blocks. Further out are the red and white striped chimneys that at first glance indicate pollution from industry, but also represent jobs and the necessity of paid work that keep the wheels of this town turning.

It all has a picture book quality; an almost surreally pleasant charm that is seeped in pretty houses, historic buildings and cobbled streets. But without good business and the rewards from labour, this place would be nothing more than a dainty prison.

One of the most interesting things about looking down your nose at people from a great height is the change of perspective. Glaring rooftops and sunny balconies overlook bright green June gardens, some of which contain azure pools. There is a tendency in all of us to snoop, and to snoop with Godlike abandon from beyond the object’s ken is the best snooping of all. It is unlikely that the dear lady with the big balcony will ever know exactly how many eyes fell upon her bikini’d form whilst she blithely read and caught up on her summer rays, but if she’d looked up she would have seen a veritable host of rooftop paparazzi checking her out!

The other perspective is to take in the social housing of this city by glimpsing the rows of ugly apartment blocks that grace the outer districts of this and practically every town between Prague and Moscow and beyond. Constructed during the communist era, theirs is not a world of nice gardens and private pools, but of popular Socialism where everyone gets something, even if it’s not very much.

Whether the popular event will be repeated in future years relies very much on the building’s owners. There was a certain amount of good will and voluntary cooperation, not only by the landlords but also on the part of those who acted as stewards to keep the hoi polloi in check.

There was a long queue at the Silo Tower, partly because of the genuine interest in this stylish refurbishment of an old grain store, and partly because the capacity for the lift was only 5 plus one operator. This meant a good long wait, too long for some, but with the natural thinning of those without patience it probably only took half an hour.

Once up, the view of this side of the city took in winged terraces of the Stadium Andrův, home of the lacklustre football team Sigma, and the decrepit and rusty slanted roof of the hockey stadium, home of the decidedly upbeat and top league squad HC Olomouc. At this vantage point it is clear that this city of 100,000 people nestles within the beautiful and fertile Moravian plain. The surrounding countryside is rich with crops and the hillsides covered in excellent woodland. It is a benign and healthy place to live.

Despite it being an unknown quantity, Olomouc s nadhledem was an unmitigated success. It did what was expected of it, and if the city authorities want to ride a wave of populism then they could do no better than to invest in this scheme in future years. And I could get out there and climb the rest…

May Snow

It's Maytime and the weather is now fine – glorious full sun days that ought to be spent with pleasant company in the park, by the river, at the lido. Of course, most of the poor souls not in further education or enjoying self-employment cannot afford to drop the reins just to enjoy a spot of loitering in public places (unless they throw a 'sicky'). But for the lucky free ones, these days are so good that they really must be enjoyed to the full. Within the parks clusters of merry students have sprung up, each gathered around a guitarist, or some other attractor, a bottle or two of best Moravian red at their disposal. These will be the best days of their life, and should not be begrudged.

Elsewhere in the sun-baked fields and beside the muddy rivers grow the poplars and willows, the hallmarks of the European countryside. Their wispy seeds are taken by the wind and cast in sleety clouds across the landscape, lying like summer snow upon the grass, collecting in vast clumps as drifts. These soft forms – so light – take fairy flight, but find their wafted ways to clothes, hair and nose.

May snow, so far from season, falls like the broken heart, blown left and right by winds beyond its power. Filling the lows of the landscape, it clogs the simpering pathways for a time, but, who knows, perhaps after the deluge it will be gone.

Misha Maisky's Soul at the Reduta

Like sermons at weddings and eulogies at funerals, concert reviews can be tiresome things. You know they have to be done, and they probably bring to mind something important (and something you most likely missed), but they're something to skip over to the more satisfying comic strip page.

That is, unless you know someone in the concert. Then you might even cut out the review and keep it. If that isn't the case, then the eye might only dwell if the concert involved a famous name, or the review was of a seminal work you may have heard once upon a time. Even rarer still would be a concert review about a musician you didn't know performing something you hadn't heard before. Such, in all probability, is this review. But stick with it: I'd not heard of Misha Maisky either...

 

The evening kicked off with Smetana's Richard III. I'm a bit ambivalent when it comes to old Smetana (an opinion I am bound to keep to myself round these here Czech parts), but the Moravian Phil did their very best with this rather romantic symphonic poem. It's all a bit lush for my liking, but conductor Petr Vronský kept them together and pulled off what felt like a good romp. It was entertaining stuff even in the standing room only section overlooking the stage, I can tell you!

That Mischa Maisky, the esteemed Latvian cellist, is a master instrumentalist you can have no doubts. It's not that he's note perfect, he even looks the part of a virtuoso, with his long shaggy grey locks that mysteriously don't interfere with his left hand high upon the neck. He and the very excellent Korean violinist Jeongah Kim, in a long red silky number (see top pic), performed the mad Brahms double concerto with such aplomb (panache, style, grace, technical skill and however many other terms you like to throw about) that it sounded uncannily like the epic 1965 Albert Hall performance by Rostropovich and David Oistrakh. It was of no surprise, therefore, to learn that Maisky was tutored under Rostropovich at the Moscow Conservatory.

 

The two conversed with the ease of a long-married couple, synchronised like one mind, threw exciting ideas at each other as if they were opponents on debating teams and were tireless throughout like a team of two prized horses. Oh yes, and the Moravian Phil were in the room and helped out a bit too...

 

The second half was of Dvořák's cello concerto – you know, the famous one that goes daaah da-da daah, daaah da-da daaah! Again, Maisky put it all together with such consummate precision, that it felt that the orchestra were very certainly led by the towering performance of this little maestro. Not much more can be said other than it was perhaps the best performance of this piece to ever happen anywhere in the history of the world. Well, perhaps in the history of Olomouc.

Four encores later, he sat down again and performed the most exquisite jewel, the rarest gem, of the multi-faceted Bach cello suit no 2 (the Sarabande). The Youtube, although excellent, does not really do it justice – Maisky's come on a bit since it was recorded. He tore a portion of his very soul away and cast it with angelic grace into the audience. Long and weighted, he gave this demanding piece a devastating honesty and daring that transfixed the concert hall into a room of spiritual ecstasy. Real tears fell.

 

So, there you have it; a concert review about someone you may not know performing something you may never have heard before. This evening will stick in the memory, but not because of the stunning evening gown, the Smetana, Brahms or Dvořák, but because of the stunning working of Bach by the wonderful 66-year old. Oh yes, and I met him briefly afterwards to shake his hand and tell him as much.

The Woman

She walks funny; that is, the teenagers laugh. Her maroon polyester trousers are nearly at half-mast, flapping as she steps gingerly forward across the cobbled street. Her gait is an awkward half-shamble; part-nervous lack of control, part musculoskeletal. Or maybe it’s the old, odd black formal shoes, firmly polished? One arm is out, near straight – it swings with each pair of steps: there’s a certain pride.

For she is clean and cleanly dressed, her purple-tinged grey hair brushed, if comically unstyled. And she nearly always carries a bag, probably to shop if she can find a bargain, more likely for habit, and to hold a purse. In heat, rain or freeze, she slips on a shabby jacket.

To coincide with the inner monologue, her eyebrows rise and fall involuntarily and her face occasionally convulses into a twitch. With these she focuses; they keep her from the gutter and the park. She is not always with us, you understand.

It may begin with a satisfying late afternoon beer in Ponorka – the smoky spit-and-sawdust hostelry that is a byword for camaraderie across tabletops, between income gaps and lifestyle choices. Her one, consumed in meditation, might bud into two, or even three, depending on the number of brown coins that sit between the ID and shopping coupons. Then, when her tongue is untied and nerves are satisfactorily soothed, when friendly talk breaks a laugh, the converse may naturally step outside and string along the street.

There, under Neptune’s fountain, beneath the baroque orange spires of St Mary of the Snow in Republic Square, opposite the imposing public library and the convent building that became the Museum of History, she will find the rest faithfully sitting in order to acquire their spiritual inspiration. She will sit down between them, legs always crossed, and take her contented time with wine. Through the lovely night hours they will look out for each other: if one is without, the other will supply, if one is in trouble with the law, the rest will increase their obduracy, if one has pissed their pants, the others will not get up from the mire to shame. For this is the world of the worn – where the dictates of the dull-sensed and the pedagogy of the pissed are effectively espoused. What need for clarity? What demand for riches and possessions? It is the honest wisdom of the sated.

And there, sometimes, she’ll be; her vision free from focus, away from eyes of family shame, her voice joined by the slurring, away from the coarse and angry demands of kith and kin. When moved on to the park benches beneath the trees, the funny walk will come back, the exaggerated movements, the stagger, the collecting of blurred convulses to meet the next few steps. But her bag remains on her outstretched arm, her jacket still drapes her brittle thin body. She tries to be a good girl - she really does.

SK Sigma Olomouc vs FK Příbram

So, I wanted to go to the football: not very much, but enough to satisfy curiosity. I could quite as happily have stayed at home, but a friend said he was going with his son. I even convinced another mate to come along. It seemed like a good idea at the time, big lads day out and all that, and once committed I really couldn't wimp out. After all, this was at last the chance to witness the big team of which I have heard so much on home turf in this beautiful Moravian town of Olomouc; the enigmatically named Sigma.

With roots that stretch back to 1919, SK Sigma Olomouc has had a chequered history. Best known for beating the Turkish team Fenerbahçe 7-1 back in the 1991/2 season, their other accolades are less distinguished – being fined for racist chanting in 1999 and again for naughty corruption in 2011 being fined 4 million koruna (that’s 119,952 in current pounds, shillings and pence)! As of writing, they are currently 12^th in the Gambrinus Liga over which Sparta Praha maintains its lofty dominance.

The 12,500 capacity Andrův stadion has at times been the location of Czech internationals, but is modest in size and seating – on this occasion, with perhaps as much as 2/3–3/4 of the seats unoccupied, ticket sales were proudly displayed in the second half as 3582. The southern end was recently reconstructed, housing VIP suites, businesses, a hotel and a football academy with dormitories for talented regional boys who aspire to great and glorious things. The ground has the dubious pleasure of being one of the few modern buildings to grace the ancient city’s skyline with its silhouette of alien ovoid floodlights.

In the grand scheme of things, Easter Sunday's Sigma Olomouc vs FK Příbram probably won’t amount to a whole heap of beans, either in terms of tabloid column inches or TV exposure. About the only thing of interest about either team was that Příbram currently use the Kuwaiti Abdulaziz Ahmad Al Masha'an Al Enezi, or Aziz as he is identified on his shirt, and the Armenian Levon Hayrapetyan, who is also the son of the Olympic champion hockey player Sos Hayrapetyan. Ooooh!

The usual pre-match excitement infected the crowd queuing to ascend the stairs to football heaven, only to be met by a rather disappointing 0–0 draw. Not only were there no goals, but both teams also played rather badly, missing simple opportunities at either end, and not really being able to get enough steam up to force errors or complete set pieces. At best, there was a lot of scrabbling about in the box, but of the two sides Sigma played the worst. I've seen better play in Hyde Park, with jumpers for goalposts.

The home crowd’s performance matched the late spring weather, starting off fine, but descending into misery under the thundery downpour in the second half. Apart from the Ultras, the local shirtless moronic chanting diehards, the rest could quite easily have watched from the slippered comfort of their living rooms, so little noise did they make and such little support did they give I had to turn around every now and again just to make sure they hadn't all slinked off home. As for FK Příbram’s away support, it consisted of four blokes holding a banner labelled Fanatic Forties, whatever that means. The thoroughly drunk bloke two seats away from us whipped out his hip flask and kindly offered slivovice, the local plum brandy, a very friendly gesture to obviously sarcastic English-speaking types. I hope the herpes clears up soon.

The one good feature of the whole event was that beer is available inside the ground. As my friend Mirek dryly commented, if there was no beer then nobody would turn up!

Quite frankly, if this was the best Czech football has to offer, then I'll have to stick to ice hockey, or maybe even take up guerrilla knitting – at least there’d be something to show for an hour and a half’s woolly attention.

The Hockey

                                        The net's too small,

                                        ain't that the truth,

                                        And there's a big guy,

                                        over six feet tall –

                                        pads, mask and gloves

                                        and a stick bigger than the rest –

                                        But they still go in.

                                        They fly in,

                                        and fast:

                                        Plenty of 'em.

                                        Iced speed freaks

                                        Career down the wings

                                        Shower sprays of snow arresting

                                        Or stopped dead

                                        Or slammed in momentum's braking

                                        All for a frozen vulcanized rubber disc:

                                        It matters more,

                                        much, much more,

                                        Than lunch, divorce, mortgage.

                                        Intuitive/inteface/pass

                                        Clear panic clear

                                        Dictate tactic – THE TACTICS! –

                                        Manouevre/play/call.

                                        And laying still on ice

                                        a broken stick or two,

                                        bleach bones of warriors moved on.

                                        Hallowed hall of rusting antiquity

                                        Prole's circus function rough casted

                                        Inhale the gents' steaming thick piss cloud

                                        From cheap beer and pricey pretzels.

                                        Behind, before, beside,

                                        in attention devout

                                        the scream, shout, compelled responsers

                                        Heart hurt down raptured up

                                        Until the last play, at one and unified:

                                        We love you – you are us

                                        5:4

                                        At last!

 

Writer's Group

                                        The open door, open words on a wing

                                        Do not give up, take heed, delight

                                        On, strides out into the night, a night

                                        Moment and momento

 

                                        And what word will cascade upwards

                                        Deposit 20 times a mirror'd soul, breath

                                        Anguish of anger, tomorrow's debate

                                        Announce in perpetuity, beyond all the twitter

 

                                        Bearer of witness, task done and told

                                        How to, wherefore, in a simpler form,

                                        There is a mixture of anticipation and denial

                                        Hope and question, desire and laughter

 

                                        A pause with weighted minds

                                        Risk and regret, caution and chance

                                        To test the time, check that vital integrity

                                        Until again, Knuckles' Hercules and Love Affair is blind