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The new release from London pop-rockers Goldhawks is the single Where In The World, following the release of Running Away in December 2009.
Where In The World was released yesterday (29/3/10)
I had the pleasure of seeing Goldhawks live; supporting The Courteeners at the Picture House in Edinburgh, with my better half, who not only supplied the tickets but shelled out an astonishing £3.60 for two tins of Pepsi. I’m going to be honest, to begin with I wasn’t really to keen on them but I gave them a chance and listened to them whenever I had the opportunity and now, they are fast becoming one of my favourite bands.
The Single: It’s quite a slow song to begin with but by the time the second chorus comes about I defy you to sing along, even if you don’t know the words you’ll make something up that fits. There is just THAT much energy in the song. Its infectious, it gets under your skin and just stays there and every time you play or hear the song it pops its little head up and does a little dance in your pores. You know you want that feeling, you do, and I can see it in your eyes that I can’t even see! THAT’S how much I know you will love it.
The video is on YouTube, just search Goldhawks – Where In The World.
You can hear a little snippet of the single here: http://www.goldhawks.co.uk/audio.php?id=4
Strange Feelings of a Stranger
Over the last couple of days I have been plagued with a feeling of impending doom mixed with a really sickly feeling in my stomach. It’s really starting to get on my nerves, its affecting my life in stupid ways.
I can’t sleep because I constantly feel anxious even though I have no real reason to be, I’m a moody tit because I feel sick... I'm basically just not a nice guy to know at the moment.
I feel sorry for people who have to put up with me just now, not only that there is another health scare on my part but I'm keeping that to myself as much as possible, the good news is that it seems to be better than it was a week or two ago.
Back to me being a grumpy, anxious turd. It’s really not at all fun, and I'm sorry for being a dick. I don’t like being a dick but it comes across when I don’t know how to cope with the way I'm feeling. It’s really not fun at all, I'm not nice to be around but I'm working on it.
Much Ado About Not Doing Much
Over the years there have been lots of people tell me that I’m no good, not good at anything and should basically just give up.
Recently however, I have started doing more and more things that I used to do that I loved to do, I have started writing again “properly”, started drawing more than doodles on my wall or on my arms, and every now and again legs; and much to my surprise, I’ve been really enjoying it again.
Those people telling me that I was no good and should just give up wont get to see my newer “work” as I have, either A) cut them out of my life or B) stopped showing them my “work.”
That’s why I enjoy blogging, it puts my work out there for a wider audience than the people more inclined to blam it into the ground or the people who will like it just because I wrote it, it lets people I don’t know read it and see it. That’s one of the main reasons I’m putting a book together, so I can say “I’ve got this at least, what have you got?” to the people who hated everything I done. I can look at it, the book, filled with all my own work, maybe even some sketches thrown in there for good measure, and to pad out the page count, and think to myself, this is what I wanted to do and I done it off my own back”
Sixonesix tees came from that school of thought, knowing what I want to do and putting it into a corporeal form, giving it weight, the same weight that I felt squarely on my shoulders and that weighed heavy on my heart when all I heard was “Is that the best you can do?”
Recently however, I have started doing more and more things that I used to do that I loved to do, I have started writing again “properly”, started drawing more than doodles on my wall or on my arms, and every now and again legs; and much to my surprise, I’ve been really enjoying it again.
Those people telling me that I was no good and should just give up wont get to see my newer “work” as I have, either A) cut them out of my life or B) stopped showing them my “work.”
That’s why I enjoy blogging, it puts my work out there for a wider audience than the people more inclined to blam it into the ground or the people who will like it just because I wrote it, it lets people I don’t know read it and see it. That’s one of the main reasons I’m putting a book together, so I can say “I’ve got this at least, what have you got?” to the people who hated everything I done. I can look at it, the book, filled with all my own work, maybe even some sketches thrown in there for good measure, and to pad out the page count, and think to myself, this is what I wanted to do and I done it off my own back”
Sixonesix tees came from that school of thought, knowing what I want to do and putting it into a corporeal form, giving it weight, the same weight that I felt squarely on my shoulders and that weighed heavy on my heart when all I heard was “Is that the best you can do?”
Feeling the Pressure to Perform on a Regular Basis
Having to come up with a new topic of discussion every week is starting to turn my little head’s lonely innards into a grey puddle.
But I suppose I shouldn’t complain, it gives me a chance to do one thing I truly love, and that’s to write. To write about anything I can think of, to let my imagination take flight and throw off the shackles of this plane and float somewhere, listless in the ethereal void, all these images bombarding me.
Images of Cats being stung my bees on acid, visions of acorns with imaginary friends, small glimpses of girls in boats looking out onto a bank to see a ghoul wearing her father as a suit. There are other images of course, ones that may make more sense or tug more at your heart-strings, these images are more often than not turned into stories, the most recent of which being a short story called “The Lake” which I may or may not put up here, its gonna be in the book so… either, either or, eh? I don’t want to give the whole book away for free… you people gotta pay. *maniacal laughter*
Coming into college on a Tuesday after having the whole week since last Tuesday to come up with a topic and I’m still at a loss for words. Like I said before, I don’t care if I don’t have anything to write about just now, something will come to me, drifting in nothingness and I will jot it down, you can read it then we can get on with our lives and be happy for a week, before I start bombarding you with nonsense again, talking bout acorns, cats, beavers who don’t have a proper name so it changes all the time, girls in boats and the odd, occasional proper blog post, like this one that isn’t a short story.
What’s your preference?
But I suppose I shouldn’t complain, it gives me a chance to do one thing I truly love, and that’s to write. To write about anything I can think of, to let my imagination take flight and throw off the shackles of this plane and float somewhere, listless in the ethereal void, all these images bombarding me.
Images of Cats being stung my bees on acid, visions of acorns with imaginary friends, small glimpses of girls in boats looking out onto a bank to see a ghoul wearing her father as a suit. There are other images of course, ones that may make more sense or tug more at your heart-strings, these images are more often than not turned into stories, the most recent of which being a short story called “The Lake” which I may or may not put up here, its gonna be in the book so… either, either or, eh? I don’t want to give the whole book away for free… you people gotta pay. *maniacal laughter*
Coming into college on a Tuesday after having the whole week since last Tuesday to come up with a topic and I’m still at a loss for words. Like I said before, I don’t care if I don’t have anything to write about just now, something will come to me, drifting in nothingness and I will jot it down, you can read it then we can get on with our lives and be happy for a week, before I start bombarding you with nonsense again, talking bout acorns, cats, beavers who don’t have a proper name so it changes all the time, girls in boats and the odd, occasional proper blog post, like this one that isn’t a short story.
What’s your preference?
These Things Happen (or That Bastard Cat)
Here's A Little Story From The Memory Banks, Originally Posted on ProjectMhareo
It was a cold day in mid-July, the mist hung low in the air, faint squeals of a mixture between pleasure and pain could be heard in the mid-morning ruckus of the quiet suburb.
Under a rose bush, two cats living in sin where having an "intimate" moment... well as intimate as cats can be, did you know that male cats have like... hooks on their dingus so the girl cat can’t run away? Bet you didn’t, well, you do now.
These cats were a Mr K.Davour and a Miss D.ico, the pair had been having feline carnal relations for a solid 15 minutes, and if there’s one thing I can say it is Mr Davour sure does have stamina.
As long as a cat pregnancy takes later, Miss Ico was blessed with a gorgeous litter, unfortunately only one of the kittens survived, surprisingly, it was the runt of the bunch, Miss Ico decided on a name for her new kitten, she would call him Cal.
As the years passed and Cal grew up without a father, he began to ask questions on where his daddy was, his mother would tell him that his father was a marine off fighting some crazy war, Cal did not believe his mother, she had a tendency to lie, one time she told Cal not to drink out of puddles or eat yellow snow, what’s wrong with puddles and who doesn’t love the taste of yellow snow? Stupid woman he thought to himself.
SO! Cal took it upon himself to go find his father, given no clues by his mother who since having Cal and losing all the other kittens had developed a crazy bad Methamphetamine habit, so really she was no good to anyone anymore.
Cal left his little kitty home and set off down the street. A hobo pack on his little back, a head full of dreams and a head full of Kitamine, which is Ketamine for cats in case that joke was lost on you.
Cal's journey seemed to last for weeks and weeks, which it did, Cal had not eaten very well over the time of his trek so he stopped at a lake and had some laps of water, all of a sudden, a little bee buzzed past Cal's head and landed on his nose.
The bee looked at Cal with a certain obvious distaste. Cal looked back at the bee, bewildered by what he saw, the bee looked back at Cal and the two just stood staring at each other until the bee spoke,
"I am... Teh Funneh B. I'm not your average Bee. Heehee
I’m high on acid; my bee-schlong is flacid
Why the hell are you staring at me? Heeheehee"
Cal looked back at the obviously deranged bee and spoke himself,
"My name is Cal Ico, I’m looking for my father, but I don’t know how I will recognise him... my mother didn’t tell me anything about him, I’ve basically just been wandering around for weeks"
The bee, obviously touched by Cal's woeful tale, stung Cal in his nose, killing himself in the process.
Cal awoke weeks later, surrounded by singing little cats playing harps, Cal stood up and looked around, he had little kitty wings and a little halo, can you imagine that sight? Apart from it being a dead cat, don’t you think a little cat with wings and a halo would be really cute?
*collective awwww*
Cal took three cat steps forward and was greeted by a loud “OOOOOOOOHMYGODDD!”
Cal, bewildered, looked around and noticed an older looking cat, who looked like what Cal would look like in a couple of years, Cal smiled to himself, let out a squeak of glee and shouted,
“Daddy!?”
The older cat looked at Cal, and said, “Don’t be stupid ya stupid.”
Cal passed out with disbelief.
Minutes later Cal awoke to his mother’s concerned face looking down at him, Cal looked up and sighed…
“Mother, I had such a wonderful dream”
“Oh... what was it about?”
“I… I can’t remember”
“Oh well son. These things happen, now go to the hospital and have them remove some of your organs so I can sell them for Meth”
It was a cold day in mid-July, the mist hung low in the air, faint squeals of a mixture between pleasure and pain could be heard in the mid-morning ruckus of the quiet suburb.
Under a rose bush, two cats living in sin where having an "intimate" moment... well as intimate as cats can be, did you know that male cats have like... hooks on their dingus so the girl cat can’t run away? Bet you didn’t, well, you do now.
These cats were a Mr K.Davour and a Miss D.ico, the pair had been having feline carnal relations for a solid 15 minutes, and if there’s one thing I can say it is Mr Davour sure does have stamina.
As long as a cat pregnancy takes later, Miss Ico was blessed with a gorgeous litter, unfortunately only one of the kittens survived, surprisingly, it was the runt of the bunch, Miss Ico decided on a name for her new kitten, she would call him Cal.
As the years passed and Cal grew up without a father, he began to ask questions on where his daddy was, his mother would tell him that his father was a marine off fighting some crazy war, Cal did not believe his mother, she had a tendency to lie, one time she told Cal not to drink out of puddles or eat yellow snow, what’s wrong with puddles and who doesn’t love the taste of yellow snow? Stupid woman he thought to himself.
SO! Cal took it upon himself to go find his father, given no clues by his mother who since having Cal and losing all the other kittens had developed a crazy bad Methamphetamine habit, so really she was no good to anyone anymore.
Cal left his little kitty home and set off down the street. A hobo pack on his little back, a head full of dreams and a head full of Kitamine, which is Ketamine for cats in case that joke was lost on you.
Cal's journey seemed to last for weeks and weeks, which it did, Cal had not eaten very well over the time of his trek so he stopped at a lake and had some laps of water, all of a sudden, a little bee buzzed past Cal's head and landed on his nose.
The bee looked at Cal with a certain obvious distaste. Cal looked back at the bee, bewildered by what he saw, the bee looked back at Cal and the two just stood staring at each other until the bee spoke,
"I am... Teh Funneh B. I'm not your average Bee. Heehee
I’m high on acid; my bee-schlong is flacid
Why the hell are you staring at me? Heeheehee"
Cal looked back at the obviously deranged bee and spoke himself,
"My name is Cal Ico, I’m looking for my father, but I don’t know how I will recognise him... my mother didn’t tell me anything about him, I’ve basically just been wandering around for weeks"
The bee, obviously touched by Cal's woeful tale, stung Cal in his nose, killing himself in the process.
Cal awoke weeks later, surrounded by singing little cats playing harps, Cal stood up and looked around, he had little kitty wings and a little halo, can you imagine that sight? Apart from it being a dead cat, don’t you think a little cat with wings and a halo would be really cute?
*collective awwww*
Cal took three cat steps forward and was greeted by a loud “OOOOOOOOHMYGODDD!”
Cal, bewildered, looked around and noticed an older looking cat, who looked like what Cal would look like in a couple of years, Cal smiled to himself, let out a squeak of glee and shouted,
“Daddy!?”
The older cat looked at Cal, and said, “Don’t be stupid ya stupid.”
Cal passed out with disbelief.
Minutes later Cal awoke to his mother’s concerned face looking down at him, Cal looked up and sighed…
“Mother, I had such a wonderful dream”
“Oh... what was it about?”
“I… I can’t remember”
“Oh well son. These things happen, now go to the hospital and have them remove some of your organs so I can sell them for Meth”
“You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake; you are the same decaying organic material as everyone else”
“You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake; you are the same decaying organic material as everyone else”
Tyler Durden (fight club)
Oh, I beg to differ Mr. Durden,
I think that personal identity is a big thing for anyone to have, being able to identify yourself from everyone else around you and being your own person is a gift in its own right.
I see people everyday who dress the same as each other, walk the same, talk the same, eat the same and even share the same bloody view on life, people like this make me physically sick. When people can’t pull themselves away from the status quo and shake things up a little bit, I think to myself “What’s the point of you even being alive, man?”
Talking from a stance where I feel I do dress differently from most other people, I mean I haven’t seen anyone else wearing Jim Greco Red and Black Snake-skin Hi-top Supra’s. I mean they truly are a sight to behold.
But with every person who says “Be yourself” there is ten-thousand people dressed the same as they are echoing that message to you, Cliques are hellish, you find a group and you dress yourself, style your hair and adopt new habits to impress your friend, you lose your soul when you do this, you should always be yourself, and you can be yourself in a group of people the same as you.
Music has a big impact on the way people dress, with more and more styles of fashion and genres of music being interchangeable in name, take emo for example, which started as a style of music (stemming from Emotionally Hardcore, or Emotional Rock) is now one of the most prominent fashion styles of recent years. People judge you by how you dress, people don’t see the you behind the clothes, no matter what you wear, I do it, you do it, that guy reading this over your shoulder is thinking to himself “Yeah, I do that… actually I’m doing that right now.”
No matter what style you are, you will always do it, that’s just the way the world works, people don’t like to rock the boat, people want everything to be the same for-ever and have nothing ever change, that includes your style, you WILL dress like them or they will call you names, throw stones at you and if you are really unlucky, like I was one time, you will get your head kicked in for wearing baggy jeans and carrying a skateboard, after that experience I promptly stopped skateboarding. But you’re not me, I can’ tell you what to do or how to dress, just be yourself, don’t let people tell you it’ not OK to be different, you can be something special. Ignore other people. In fact, start being different right now. Go out and buy yourself the exact same pair of jeans your best friend has.
Tyler Durden (fight club)
Oh, I beg to differ Mr. Durden,
I think that personal identity is a big thing for anyone to have, being able to identify yourself from everyone else around you and being your own person is a gift in its own right.
I see people everyday who dress the same as each other, walk the same, talk the same, eat the same and even share the same bloody view on life, people like this make me physically sick. When people can’t pull themselves away from the status quo and shake things up a little bit, I think to myself “What’s the point of you even being alive, man?”
Talking from a stance where I feel I do dress differently from most other people, I mean I haven’t seen anyone else wearing Jim Greco Red and Black Snake-skin Hi-top Supra’s. I mean they truly are a sight to behold.
But with every person who says “Be yourself” there is ten-thousand people dressed the same as they are echoing that message to you, Cliques are hellish, you find a group and you dress yourself, style your hair and adopt new habits to impress your friend, you lose your soul when you do this, you should always be yourself, and you can be yourself in a group of people the same as you.
Music has a big impact on the way people dress, with more and more styles of fashion and genres of music being interchangeable in name, take emo for example, which started as a style of music (stemming from Emotionally Hardcore, or Emotional Rock) is now one of the most prominent fashion styles of recent years. People judge you by how you dress, people don’t see the you behind the clothes, no matter what you wear, I do it, you do it, that guy reading this over your shoulder is thinking to himself “Yeah, I do that… actually I’m doing that right now.”
No matter what style you are, you will always do it, that’s just the way the world works, people don’t like to rock the boat, people want everything to be the same for-ever and have nothing ever change, that includes your style, you WILL dress like them or they will call you names, throw stones at you and if you are really unlucky, like I was one time, you will get your head kicked in for wearing baggy jeans and carrying a skateboard, after that experience I promptly stopped skateboarding. But you’re not me, I can’ tell you what to do or how to dress, just be yourself, don’t let people tell you it’ not OK to be different, you can be something special. Ignore other people. In fact, start being different right now. Go out and buy yourself the exact same pair of jeans your best friend has.
SixOneSix : A Collection of Short Stories
that is the title of my first book, currently underway over at LuLu[dot]com got the cover all done, and two of the 9 stories on it, two that you have read here, Tod and The Girl in the Boat. Much more eye-candy to come soon... keep them peeled... on second thoughts... dont peel your eyes... would be painful... and jus a bit icky... why would you do that to yourself man? SWEET JEBUS! NOT YOUR EYES! oh... too late.. ooow
The Girl in the Boat - 20/10/2006
Here she is.. after mere minutes of making you wait.
The Girl in the Boat.20/10/2006 [thats right, its quite an old one]
A beautiful girl, with long brown hair and gorgeous green eyes framed captivatingly by black and red eye glasses, lay sleeping on a small row boat right in the middle of an icy lake with a black parasol leaning on the stern of the boat shading her as she slumbered and the boat drifted on the gentle current of the clear lake.
The girl’s eyes shot open as if waking from some terrifying nightmare, but when the girls eyes adjusted to the light, she saw she hadn’t waken from a nightmare but woke into a nightmare. Dead trees loomed over her like an axe man would loom over his victim just before delivering the final blow, the clear, icy lake had been replaced by a murky swamp filled with rotting bones, not just random bones but in places there were whole skeletal figures lying face down in the oozing swamp. A man in a black suit came running out of the forest of dead trees towards the boat; the girl was unafraid, she recognized this man, as it was her father. As the girls father ran to the boat a tall figure with black long hair and skin that was as white as a sheet lunged for him. The figure from the trees grabbed the girl’s father and pulled him back into the trees. The girl heard a blood curdling scream and saw a fountain of blood spurt up from behind one of the trees, shadows danced over the trees from the moonlight, in the pale light of the moon it almost appeared as if the trees were laughing the girl thought.
The figure came back from the trees wearing the girl’s father’s suit but now its flesh was not as white as it previously was and ran at full speed towards the girl in the boat, the figure tripped, the girl giggled, which angered the figure. When the figure finally arose and began running at the boat again, the girl, frozen with fear but forcing out hysterical laughter, closed her eyes, still laughing.
The beautiful girl, with long brown hair and gorgeous green eyes framed captivatingly by black and red glasses sat upright in the boat, crying insatiably, and looked around, she was back in the middle of the clear icy lake in the small rowboat with the black parasol leaning on the stern of the boat shading her. A hand reached over her stomach, her father who had also been sleeping in the boat asked her what was wrong; the girl simply hugged her father and wept.
The Girl in the Boat.20/10/2006 [thats right, its quite an old one]
A beautiful girl, with long brown hair and gorgeous green eyes framed captivatingly by black and red eye glasses, lay sleeping on a small row boat right in the middle of an icy lake with a black parasol leaning on the stern of the boat shading her as she slumbered and the boat drifted on the gentle current of the clear lake.
The girl’s eyes shot open as if waking from some terrifying nightmare, but when the girls eyes adjusted to the light, she saw she hadn’t waken from a nightmare but woke into a nightmare. Dead trees loomed over her like an axe man would loom over his victim just before delivering the final blow, the clear, icy lake had been replaced by a murky swamp filled with rotting bones, not just random bones but in places there were whole skeletal figures lying face down in the oozing swamp. A man in a black suit came running out of the forest of dead trees towards the boat; the girl was unafraid, she recognized this man, as it was her father. As the girls father ran to the boat a tall figure with black long hair and skin that was as white as a sheet lunged for him. The figure from the trees grabbed the girl’s father and pulled him back into the trees. The girl heard a blood curdling scream and saw a fountain of blood spurt up from behind one of the trees, shadows danced over the trees from the moonlight, in the pale light of the moon it almost appeared as if the trees were laughing the girl thought.
The figure came back from the trees wearing the girl’s father’s suit but now its flesh was not as white as it previously was and ran at full speed towards the girl in the boat, the figure tripped, the girl giggled, which angered the figure. When the figure finally arose and began running at the boat again, the girl, frozen with fear but forcing out hysterical laughter, closed her eyes, still laughing.
The beautiful girl, with long brown hair and gorgeous green eyes framed captivatingly by black and red glasses sat upright in the boat, crying insatiably, and looked around, she was back in the middle of the clear icy lake in the small rowboat with the black parasol leaning on the stern of the boat shading her. A hand reached over her stomach, her father who had also been sleeping in the boat asked her what was wrong; the girl simply hugged her father and wept.
exactley 240 words of nothing on the subject of things to come
When drawing and in the world of comics, Matt Groening once said “never draw a cartoon about not knowing what to draw” and in writing, it should be the same, that’s why I’m sorry to say I have let you down on that point, dear fragile readers, for I have not the faintest idea what to write, that’s really what I’m writing to tell you, over the course of this mad scribbling… is it scribbling if its on a computer? No… surely not… mad typing... but that doesn’t have the same ring to it… anyway I’m getting away from myself, as I was saying, if I think of anything to write about after this post I will surely write it, I know I promised you another Tod story. The prequel, titled “Acornalypse” surely the title on its own should give you a good idea of what’s to come. There is also another of my short stories “The Girl in the Boat” which, to be honest, isn’t that great but it fills up space on the blog and makes it look like I’m doing work… actually… that’s quite a good idea, even though it is sub-par at best, I will post it for your deliberation, you can peruse it at your own leisure, leave a little comment to tell me how bad it is, or if you have no taste you may even like it… now wouldn’t that be a pip?
Der Toden - A Journey with an Acorn [Redux]
Once upon a not too long ago in a land that’s not to far from here, but really, in hindsight, not that close either, over the rickety concrete bridge and under the jelly tunnel lived a small acorn named Tod. He was indeed very small, but not too small that you couldn’t see him, he was definitely there, just not there that much
Tod was a ridiculously special acorn; he could talk, walk and sing little songs about his life as an acorn. Tod wasn’t a particularly attractive acorn, but who really wants to fuck an acorn anyway? I suppose other acorns might but… Oh did I forget to mention... TOD IS THE LAST ACORN LEFT ALIVE =O how’s that for drama?
Tod had one friend in the world. An invisible beaver in a suit named Beaver Jones III, Beaver Jones III was a very posh beaver so no one liked him, not that it mattered. No one could see him, he just kind of was there... like a presence... like when you know someone’s there. But you can’t see them... Coz they are invisible but they are definitely there, you feel their breath on the back of your neck, feel their cold, piercing gaze bore through your forehead… not that Tod ever experienced either of those, Tod could see him and also has no neck or forehead.
One day Tod and B.J.III decided to go for a walk to the other side of the valley to fetch some fajitas for the party they would be having that night to celebrate Tod being sober for a year, alcoholism effects 1 in 6 million acorns, and when they were around, Tod had quite a big family, now this valley is a reasonably small valley but I suppose to an acorn and invisible beaver in a suit, distance can seem a little skewed.
Tod and the new incarnation of BJ, named Beaver Jones III : Commander of the French Armada reached the bridge crossing the oddly named Lake of Certain Death, which was comprised chiefly of pink and white marshmallows bobbing up and down in a lake of molten coffee. Now, since when have marshmallows spelled certain death? I mean... fair dues if you're allergic or something but aren’t marshmallows just solidified goop? The coffee might give you a nasty scald but it wouldn’t kill an acorn and an invisible beaver, surely?
The "Intrepid" explorers start crossing the super reinforced bridge in a tentative manner... and rightly so, the bridge snaps under the enormous weight of our acorn friend and his delusion, the acorn and the now re-named Arch Duke Franz Beaver Jones plummet about 30.. Wait for it…. Wait for it….
Centimetres and die in a pink and red goopy explosion.
ABRUPT!
The end...?
…Probably
Reasons to read explained within... with a cameo from an acorn
Although there are numerous other blogs out there on the webiverse, I truly feel like mines is one of the ones you want to be reading.
I employ a pull-no-punches approach to this thinking “I’ll post what I want to read and surely there are enough people out there who will want to read it as well…” although most of what I say may seem like the nonsensical ravings of a dejected madman with reasonably serious deficiency in something or other, if you read a little closer, maybe scan over it twice you will see that there is method to my madness, but not so much madness employed methodically.
So, dear fragile readers, I beseech thee, drink deep from my cup of internet ramblings, there are reviews, musings and I’m pretty sure soon there will even be a short story or two, if that would please the reader?
Regarding the short stories, more likely than not they will feature a small acorn named Tod, who has a very special friend, a friend in the shape of an imaginary beaver… I know it seems like lunacy but fear not, there are laughs to be had along the way.
Story one, will be a redux version of Der Toden: A Journey with an Acorn, which was written and posted on Bebo about a year ago by now. Story two may either be a prologue to further plumb the depths of Tod the Acorn.
I truly hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy writing them, and please don’t ask “why an acorn?”
I employ a pull-no-punches approach to this thinking “I’ll post what I want to read and surely there are enough people out there who will want to read it as well…” although most of what I say may seem like the nonsensical ravings of a dejected madman with reasonably serious deficiency in something or other, if you read a little closer, maybe scan over it twice you will see that there is method to my madness, but not so much madness employed methodically.
So, dear fragile readers, I beseech thee, drink deep from my cup of internet ramblings, there are reviews, musings and I’m pretty sure soon there will even be a short story or two, if that would please the reader?
Regarding the short stories, more likely than not they will feature a small acorn named Tod, who has a very special friend, a friend in the shape of an imaginary beaver… I know it seems like lunacy but fear not, there are laughs to be had along the way.
Story one, will be a redux version of Der Toden: A Journey with an Acorn, which was written and posted on Bebo about a year ago by now. Story two may either be a prologue to further plumb the depths of Tod the Acorn.
I truly hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy writing them, and please don’t ask “why an acorn?”
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