They call him “the Late George,” though he’s alive,
Because he’s always last one to arrive—
A fault that’s well worth George amending
Or one fine day he’ll miss the happy ending.
James Turner, March 2013
(Written at THE VERY END meeting of Resident Writers)
My name is Fear. I’ve had enough of you.
You used to do just what I told you to;
You now think you can get along without me.
(You wait! You don’t know everything about me.)
We slept and woke together every day;
I told you where your truest interests lay.
When we were one, I could look after you.
You fought yourself, for you were split in two.
I’d say nice things, I’d almost mother you,
While stoking up your hatred of the other you.
I bolstered you, and so maintained the tension,
As if the split were not your own invention.
I paved the road, you followed where it led.
Not any more. Was it something I said?
When we first met, it wasn’t hard to win you;
But now it’s healed, that old wound deep within you,
I see I’ll have to try another tack.
Disguised as Love, I’ll stab you in the back.
James Turner, March 2013
(Written at THE VERY END meeting of Resident Writers)
A lifetime thinking he knew how to live!
Such arrogance! Well, something had to give….
James Turner, March 2013
(written at THE VERY END meeting of Resident Writers)
Cheerio, pip-pip, toodle-oo, hasta luego, fare thee well, bye bye,: however you say it, goodbye is an ending word. But what is an end but a new beginning? Well, an end, of course, but if something finishes then something new can begin. Be that as it may (or may not) this week we have been thinking about the subject of saying goodbye. To stuff, things, places, people, old socks, the last of the ice-cream…whatever. So this week’s Resident Writers’ meeting will be all about Goodbye. Bring writing materials, handkerchiefs if needed, and a jaunty wave to The Bike Shed at 6pm this coming Monday, 18th March. If you don’t make a space in your diary you’ll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow…
Steve & Oriana
A short piece, written at last week’s Resident Writers. Happy Day to all of those inspiring women out there who give everyone else hope, but more importantly to all of those hopeful women who aspire to inspire and better themselves. Happy Women’s Day also to all of those fathers, brothers, boyfriends, husbands and lovers who get it- and who sometimes, push us to publish.
If I had known then what I know now…
On this very steps, the steps in which out fathers blessed our mothers and their daughters… On the steps to Athena, I would like to make a pause to sit, and sit with my feelings, for last night, as most nights, I had a dream.
This dream I recurrently have is a dream of honour and of sorrow, like dreams often are…
I dream that every woman will before all things be a human being, and that as such, she will be treated accordingly with the love and the time she deserves and the patience she deserves for her tears and her fears and her caring hands which will caress your shoulder when you need them and will equally whip up a three course dinner for anyone in need who courageously calls her a friend.
I have a dream that man shall not feel adamant when it comes to imposing his superiority across time… From time to time, because this cycle is quite frankly just getting old.
I have a dream that no man will ever feel the need to tame her, or criticise her collection of shoes or of uncomfortable chairs and will certainly not judge her for a buck of however much she happens to earn… Because that money is hers, for her to spend as she wishes with or without your approval.
I have a dream that you will stop seeing the act of holding her hand as a perpetual sign of ownership, because she doesn’t belong to you and never has, and never will unless of course she chooses to… And if you are so lucky and she does choose to… I dream that you will take the time to think about what that means and analyse and decompose the history of ownership with all it’s paradigms, for if she chooses to belong to you it would be impossible for you to own her since that mere act will be her prerogative alone.
I have a dream, that she will take a shower and she will not feel guilty if she doesn’t feel like shaving her legs… Not because she is modern and you love her that way, but because she just doesn’t fucking want to… And you will want her anyways.
I have a dream, that woman will walk into a bank and ask for a loan to set up an ambitious business or buy her first home and the banker, who might happen to be a woman will not make the mistake to judge her and as her “you will do this alone?” For if she was a man no one would dare ask such a preposterous question.
I have a dream that that she will wear a corset, not to feel sexy because you made her, but because she needs to harness her greatness somehow… And contain it and retain it so that she doesn’t blind you with it.
I have a dream that Disney and the TV won’t be the only way she learns about love, or that playboy won’t be the only simpleton reference for your adoration of the female form.
I have a dream that you will love her when she looks like a mess, when she is in a mess…. That even she cannot clean up, and you will love her aloud or in silence, however she needs you to… Because that is what two souls should would do if left alone in the dark.
Oriana Ascanio, March 4th 2013 at Resident Writers
Wake up! No wait, don’t wake up, keep dreaming. Tell us your dreams. relish your dreams. You can remember it for us wholesale.
Yes you’ve guessed it, Monday 4th March will be all about dreams. The power of dreams, dreams that stay with us, dreams you’d rather forget - or why not change them?
Bring writing materials. Pyjamas optional: 6pm - 8pm Bike Shed Theatre bar.
Steve & Oriana.
*John Hughes wrote the following fifteen movies in a seven year span: Mr. Mom, Vacation, Sixteen Candles, Breakfast Club, European Vacation, Weird Science, Pretty in Pink, Ferris Bueller, Some Kind of Wonderful, Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, She’s Having a Baby, The Great Outdoors, Uncle Buck, Christmas Vacation, and Home Alone.
Not bad.
Sat at the bus stop, not going anywhere, bushy beard and sodden socks in leaking shoes, persistent drizzle drifting in his face. The orderly queue, suits and boots, brollies and the softly bullying body language that ignores those in need.
The smell of Hugo Boss wafting over the silent smell of homeless desperation, those who count; one who does not. Nothing to count, no wealth, nor friends or social standing, no social currency to exchange, no point to his existence, zeros to the left, the failure of socialism, wealth leans to the right, no decimal point to mark the faction or the fraction, the smallest need, ignored by the greatest greed.
Simon
When the world was young and green there was nothing to fear. There was no concept of fear. All the people were family, everything they possessed was shared equally amongst the tribes. The animals, trusting and loving, would snuggle up the fire at night, warming the young and old alike who chose to sleep out under the stars. Nothing was unknown. How can there be fear when there is nothing unknown? The universe was the universe and everything within was part of a glorious, ever-unfolding whole.
And then one evening, when the stars shone brighter than ever, when the moon was full and the wind whispered low in the treetops, one small child woke. The warmth of the animals and humans cuddled up alongside the child was familiar and comforting. Their smells were the aroma of home and they almost lulled her back to sleep. Yet something about the brightness of the stars opened her eyes wider. For the first time a human wondered what could these shining pinpoints of light be, untouchable in the distant black. What was the moon, whose face smiled down upon them? What were the trees whispering? What did they know that the humans and the animals did not?
In that moment the human child felt a divide between the universe and herself. The first human felt separate and, although only for an instant, alone. Afraid. She nuzzled back down amongst the limbs and bodies around her, allowed herself to feel the warmth of the still burning fire. Slowly she fell back into slumber but it was a new and uneasy slumber.
When she woke she told her tribe of her experience during night. Even though they could not understand what she had felt they could sense her discomfort, her isolation, her fear. And so it began to spread. And with the spread of fear so began the loss of trust, the loss of feeling as though they were all part of one glorious, ever-unfolding whole. Divisions and distrust appeared between people. Arguments broke out. Everyone became separated. Everything became unknown. Fear was awake; hatred began to stir.
Dear Anonymous,
The subject of our next meeting will be announced as usual through the email invitation, you can sign up to them via the “sign up” link at the top of our page. As it happens, we have just finished planning for Monday February 4th and I can confirm that we will be writing about “Family… or something like that”.
I hope this answers your question.
Oriana
