Depressed Dinosaur: Musings From a Dissatisfied Member of the Doomed Species

“Leaves.”

Its my first thought in the morning. Every morning. I wake up. I eat. I walk. I roar. Everyday. Then I go to sleep. 

You’d think that’d be enough for me. You’d think I’d be fulfilled by living my life the way all members of my species do. Simple. 

But quite honestly I’m not happy. I’m not satisfied more like. I feel alone in my thoughts. I could try to communicate this to my family but they can’t distinguish any of their emotions that aren’t connected to their stomachs so how could I expect them to understand mine?

It’s just lately, the leaves aren’t as tasty. My walk is becoming slow, my sleep restless. I can’t even will myself to get excited about the inevitable squabbles between the carnivores. 

It just seems like there must be something more. Do I have nothing to look forward to? My mother tells me theres parenthood, but I can’t see anything fun or romantic about the duty of populating the planet. 

I just know theres something coming. Something big. I can feel it. But to be honest, I don’t think anything short of the world exploding would stir my species from their routine-filled slumber. 

Last Nights Dream

W̼͊̚ḁ͔̤̫̠̖ͦͦͥ̿̏̚ͅt̗͓͇̳̰͋̍̍̄̏̍̊c̰̐͐̉̄ḫ̱̟͔̦͉̼̒͋ͫ̄́̓̏ï͕͚̗̜̥̎̇̍̓n̥̫̊͛ͤͦg̪͍̱̩̯͇̩̍͐ͤ͂͒ͯ͂ ̠̝͚̙̯͉̃̾͑̅a̩̮̭̱̦̤̭̾̏͊ͮ ͖͉̞̥͙̮̲̐̆̽ͥͮ̓ͦp̲͙̤͖̺̠̭ͯl̥̞̝̱̹̼͚̍́ͥ͂̍a̾ͣỹ̞͎̖͖̞̼̓ ̞͎̪͍̲̎͗ͅỏ̰̙̰ͨ͗ͣ̈͊f̤̟̟̻͍̜̣ ̖̫̱͍͖͒̑ͥͩm̻̻̭ͧ͗͑͑y̮̞͚͒̎̋͗̈ ̝̠̫̥̑ͫ̂̏͊ͦó̩̟̹̏̆͂̇ŵ̖̼̺̝̮ͦn̝̠̫̲ͮͥͫ̎̄ ̩͙̞̭̺ͨ̒ͮ͆ͫ͑l͔̖̊̈́ͬ̑̏͐if̋ͦ̓̐ͧͅe͖̞̞͉̅̑̌,͓̲
̹ͭ͊͊ͦ̎̓͒
͐ͮ͊ͪͭ
͚̪̞͍͚̎Ḭͩ̑̄ ̣͋̑a͖̖̗̟̲̯͖ṃ̠̭̮̽͗̈́ ̝̗i̻̙͇͚ͣn̞͙͖̥̙̜̑ͅ ̰̺͍̟̳͉ͦ̈́ͩt͙͇͎̠͚̪͍̒ͧ͂ͤ͆h͓̦̟̝̋̂ͯe͔̪̟ͪͤͅ ̐̐ȁ̺̟͔̼̾̚u̯͈̜̳̍͑d̩͈̖̖͔̓͐̍̑̑̓ͪi̞̝̣ͪe̹̳̭̯̗͂͑̃͒̈́̆̔n̻̩̣̼̙̣͊̂ͯͅc͖̭ͦ͌͛̀̿͋͒e̠̣̩̭.͈̣̣̰͇̮̹
̦͙͉̱̝̬
̭̰̝̇̆ͣ̊̍̅̈́
̙͇̼̠̝̪̒͌͋̿ͅI̦͍͕̰̖̼̰t̆̿ͧ ͎̤̈́͋ͥ̈́s̘̞̖̱͓͖̊ͤͦ̿ ̭̦͈̜̘͉ả̓ ̘̬͌ͯ̎ͮt̥̠̖̘̣̽̿̈̐ȓ͙̰ͨͫ͒ͪͨ͒a̙̳̙̳͕̩̹͋̇̿̚g̠͚͈̫̱e̗͊ͧ͛d̳͖̥̫̐y͛̚,͎͐ͮ̏
̟̻̣͙͈͍̘̔͂
̜͇̲̰̣̞̐̂ͅ
̩͉͕̗̃T̫̖͑̑h̬͙͚̘͍̖̱ͩͭ̇ͨ̌ͬͨe͐̒̚ ͗̆̅a̜͓͊ͨ͋ͭu̜͌̋̀ͭ͂d͍̳ͣ̋i̻̲͚̣͇̯͇̾ͯ̅e̙n̟ͦ̋̓̀ͭ͊͋ć̖̠̹̫̤͒̍̇̄̉é̝͎̣̮̥ͦ̓ͪ́͒ ̞̞̙̦̓͌̋͌ͧä̦̯̱̮̹̐͊̿̊r̝ͭ͊̾ê̩͐̅͒͆ͣ̋ ̹̫̓̄p͙͂a̙̻͉̤ͅr̦̰̠͖̩̹̀͌̐̈̈͂̑t͙͖͙̥̫ͨͧ̽̌͗ ̮͈̱̻͚͇͊̄͊́͑ͅo͈͗f̝̫ͥ ̋͋ͩ̐̍̃̿t̟̜̖̘̋ͥh̝éͭ͌ p̲̣̤̼̱̺͓̃ͨe̬̻̲̦͇̳ͬr̹̼͊̿ͩ̋̾̽̌f͇̣̟ͥͨ̾͌̚oͮ̂r̼͇̯̜̀̓̎ͦm̻͉̹ͧ̚āͯ̈̇͌ṋ̰̞̯͔̥ͨ͒c̹͔ͨ͆́ͪe͖͇̗͊͗̊͗.͙̠̞̱̜͎̍̌

HISTORY/HERSTORY

“What is history but a fable agreed upon?” So asked Napoleon but what might Josephine have said of the events of the past? That they’re written by the winners? By silly men in even sillier hats? In the absence of a time machine with which we can nip back and ask her (we’re working on it) Resident Writers will be thinking about all things historical AND herstorical on Monday 29th April. We’ve invited Shakespeare’s sister along but she might be busy being long deceased so don’t hold your breath. Do hold pens and paper or other writing materials. Do turn up at the Bike Shed at 6pm as is traditional. Do bring your stories and a penchant for the past.

Oriana & Steve

Any Questions?

A lady with keys,
A symbolic question without words,
A spontaneous Harlem Shake
And leftovers for breakfast.

Si Egan

MARTIN LUTHER KING HAS A DREAM

I had a dream. While I was in it,
I grew happ-i-er ev-e-ry minute,
said, “I want to remember this, all of it,
the long and the short and the tall of it.”
So I woke myself, just for the fun of it,
but could I remember it? None of it!

     James Turner, April 1st 2013

The Shock of the New

New, new, new. New things smell nice, new beginnings smell…well beginningy I guess. Which can be nice. Whether the new be an adventure or a daunting change on the horizon, beginnings are as much a part of life as middles and ends. So come on down to The Bike Shed Theatre on Monday 1st April (the beginning of a brand new month, see what we did there?) and bring a sense of adventure as well as your usual writing materials. Not everything changes - we’ll still be meeting at 6pm (Steve suffers Too-Much-Change Anxiety). See you there. Newcomers welcome, naturally.

NaPoWriMo

Yes, yes… quite… It’s that time of the year again…

Can you believe it has been 355 days since we first rose to the challenge to write a poem a day for the month of April?!

We can hardly believe it, yet as we panic and frantically look through poetry master guides that explain different approaches the the lyrical arts, we are also very excited to announce that this year Resident Writers will be joining in the National Poetry Writing Month madness. 

Will you join the challenge with us? 

If the answer is yes, you can find details here. We will be publishing to the website so those of you who are interested need to drop me a line in order to bypass my mailbox whenever you wish to publish.

I can’t wait!

Oriana x

Goodbye Prejudice

I hate goodbyes, in any language I am prejudiced against them. How can we say goodbye, when we have always been here, and always will be, born in the heart of collapsing stars, far away in time and space, slowly, we are formed from chance and chaos. Here in these bodies for but a fleeting moment, a unique, special arrangement of matter and energy, fighting against a tide of entropy in a battle we are destined to lose, this form decaying into matter and energy that cannot be destroyed, we are here until the cold dark silence of universal heat death engulfs us all. Even then, we are still there.

There are no goodbyes.

There are no goodbyes.

Si Egan

The Happy Ending

Lonely he was, and unbecoming to the eye.
Beer belly protruding over Clarkson-tight jeans
Red hair fading to grey,
Like a final sunset.

Untouchable he was,
And untouched,
Apart from once a month,
On payday,
In a seedy room,
Above a second hand shop
On Blackboy Road.

She laid hands upon him
And his cash.
Going through the motions,
No emotion.
Just hand gestures,
And the guarantee of a happy ending
That always eluded him.

Si Egan

I THOUGHT I KNEW

For years I though that I knew how to live,
And so stopped learning. Something had to give.
I didn’t see that I was out of joint.
The way was paved. Two walls led to a point
On the horizon: I felt safe between them.
I looked ahead. I simply hadn’t seen them:
Creatures that crawled the earth each side of me
Below the walls. And one quite brazenly
Flew overhead, a mad black-feathered bird
cackling derision, yet I never heard.


     James Turner, March 2013
     (Written at THE VERY END meeting of Resident Writers)