Wednesday, October 05, 2005
TOMORROW
by Alex Porter
Tomorrow, I am going to be better than today. Yep, much better. For a start, I can promise to be gentle again, for if I do not become gentle again then what am I for?
Tomorrow, yes tomorrow, when the slipping clock fails to hold it's balance and time wins out again - in those new hours I will try, try again, to be more than I was before.
Don't get me wrong; I don't go for all that 'first day of the rest of your life' bollocks. There are no new starts. It's a process, a story, a growing thing. Avoid notions of nothing or everything that's what I say. I won't grit my teeth, privilege stamina over everything else or serve disappointment by making resolutions that I cannot fulfil. No, just better, that's all.
Tomorrow - if I become gentler again - it's because I will have stilled myself enough to hear the deeper note.
© Alex Porter 2005
Excerpts from the Message Board
Leith Richards: "Old Man And The Sea" was my introduction to Ernest Hemmingway. I fell in love with him and vowed I would write like him! His death was a real let down. I'm going to find this novel and read it again.
Alex Porter: I don't have a book that I would place above all others but here are some of my favourites.
Grapes of Wrath by Steinbeck. A Fine balance by Rohinton Mistry. Beloved by Toni Morrison. The Shipping News by Annie Proulx. Hard Times by Dickens. Cold Mountain by Charles Frasier (I think that's his name) and the short stories of Isaac Bashevis Singer. Steinbeck is probably my favourite writer. I love the characters in his books and the way he makes small lives appear to transcend their limits. He is , for me, a deeply warm and humane writer.
Colm: One of my favourite books is: 'Four Quarters of Light' by Brian Keenan.
Bernie: I started reading Turlough by Brian Keenan but found it awfully overwritten. Quite a disappointment although nothing, nothing will ever surpass his 'An Evil Cradling'. Alex has reminded me to get a copy of The Grapes of Wrath but somehow I don't think I'll have time to read it before it's due back at the library. C'est la vie!
Colm: I am close to finishing 'Turlough,' and I have to admit that I scanned through it. I agree with Bernie that it was overwritten. I feel as though Brian Keenan wrote the story for himself, and therefore I believe that it should never have been published. The characters seem as thin as the paper. 'Four Quarters of Light': I found it interesting and spiritual, as I always feel when I am thinking about Barren, extreme places.
I've read many Stephen King books, and the last one I read was 'IT'. What I didn't like about it was the way King - again in my opinion - throws himself into the main character, which made me the reader feel that the sole reason for that character's existence was for the writer's psychological ego.
I brought about ten novels to South Korea with me; I don't even have much clothes here because I sacrificed my hang-luggage with a rugsack full of books. All I have left to read are two Jeffrey Archer novels.
Next on my shopping list are:
- 'Old Man of the Sea'
- 'Animal Farm' And some more classics.
Alex Porter: I don't have a book that I would place above all others but here are some of my favourites.
Grapes of Wrath by Steinbeck. A Fine balance by Rohinton Mistry. Beloved by Toni Morrison. The Shipping News by Annie Proulx. Hard Times by Dickens. Cold Mountain by Charles Frasier (I think that's his name) and the short stories of Isaac Bashevis Singer. Steinbeck is probably my favourite writer. I love the characters in his books and the way he makes small lives appear to transcend their limits. He is , for me, a deeply warm and humane writer.
Colm: One of my favourite books is: 'Four Quarters of Light' by Brian Keenan.
Bernie: I started reading Turlough by Brian Keenan but found it awfully overwritten. Quite a disappointment although nothing, nothing will ever surpass his 'An Evil Cradling'. Alex has reminded me to get a copy of The Grapes of Wrath but somehow I don't think I'll have time to read it before it's due back at the library. C'est la vie!
Colm: I am close to finishing 'Turlough,' and I have to admit that I scanned through it. I agree with Bernie that it was overwritten. I feel as though Brian Keenan wrote the story for himself, and therefore I believe that it should never have been published. The characters seem as thin as the paper. 'Four Quarters of Light': I found it interesting and spiritual, as I always feel when I am thinking about Barren, extreme places.
I've read many Stephen King books, and the last one I read was 'IT'. What I didn't like about it was the way King - again in my opinion - throws himself into the main character, which made me the reader feel that the sole reason for that character's existence was for the writer's psychological ego.
I brought about ten novels to South Korea with me; I don't even have much clothes here because I sacrificed my hang-luggage with a rugsack full of books. All I have left to read are two Jeffrey Archer novels.
Next on my shopping list are:
- 'Old Man of the Sea'
- 'Animal Farm' And some more classics.
Opening paragraphs: Gwen’s Dream
by Gordon Darby
Gwen looked out of the bedroom window and saw leaden clouds drift languidly over the high ground, darkening the valley below. The seven tiers of stone terraced houses, perched along the mountain side, looked drabber than ever in the eerie light. A strong wind blew through the valley forcing smoke from the many chimneys down into the street, and into pedestrians’ faces.
Several people perambulated on both sides of the street to the rhythmical click of miners’ boots. The shabbily dressed men were either going to, or returning from the colliery. Some of the women folk stood in doorways; arms folded across their chests; their long skirts and aprons flapping in the breeze. They either greeted, or waved farewell to their men folk. Apart from the click of men’s boots, the noise of the wind, hardly a sound disturbed the sleepy village. Even the greenery of the surrounding mountains did little to inspire the imagination of such a place as Maerdy. [Here is a sketch by Gordon, from his story 'The Old Gate'.]
Gwen looked out of the bedroom window and saw leaden clouds drift languidly over the high ground, darkening the valley below. The seven tiers of stone terraced houses, perched along the mountain side, looked drabber than ever in the eerie light. A strong wind blew through the valley forcing smoke from the many chimneys down into the street, and into pedestrians’ faces.
Several people perambulated on both sides of the street to the rhythmical click of miners’ boots. The shabbily dressed men were either going to, or returning from the colliery. Some of the women folk stood in doorways; arms folded across their chests; their long skirts and aprons flapping in the breeze. They either greeted, or waved farewell to their men folk. Apart from the click of men’s boots, the noise of the wind, hardly a sound disturbed the sleepy village. Even the greenery of the surrounding mountains did little to inspire the imagination of such a place as Maerdy. [Here is a sketch by Gordon, from his story 'The Old Gate'.]
© Gordon Darby 2005
Gordon Darby is a widower, a grandfather and retired commercial artist with especial interest in wildlife and nature. He feels very strongly that the taboos and conventions of the past inhibited his learning and now that he has a computer, lots of confidence, and the world at his fingertips with the Internet there’s no stopping him. He just wishes his dear wife could be with him to share the 21st Century.
Djubangi Cottage
Commanding her sea cliff panorama, Djubangi is preserved in a time capsule. The aromas of freshly turned soil, lush grass and ozone greet my senses. To the rear, still tended allotments display their organic wares.
An inhospitable wind prevails as I inhale the scenery, digesting inaudible, invisible childhood games. The laughter and joy of reckless freedom are separated from my world by an intangible curtain.
I walk through sunbeam and cobweb into the heart of the building, where warmth and light are traded for familiarity.
Taking my place at the antique oak writing desk, I survey my domain, a jigsaw of memories, entombed in a rustic old cottage. This palatial wonderland of discovery now seems lifeless and cold. A sleeping giant. Its open door a last vestige of hospitality.
Childhood dreams are challenged by the silence… the loneliness. A timeless wind streams through splintered glass, the crack has withstood the test of time.
A cold, dank odour resides in the cottage. She has aged.
Brittle walls encroach to the rhythm of my breathing. Shedding the dust of laughter and mirth as I exhale.
Dredging the vivid underworld of distant memories, I wallow in a quagmire of forgotten pleasures. Absent friends banished as ghosts in the wind whistle a soulful melody. Loneliness prevails.
The cottage has absorbed my childhood and wants to share its sensations. It challenges me. Threatens and scares me. Life has changed . . . but why it asks?
Its cold air embraces my arms, numbing my fingers. Creativity has surrendered to the chaotic impish meanderings of apprehension.
© Charles Ogg 2005
An inhospitable wind prevails as I inhale the scenery, digesting inaudible, invisible childhood games. The laughter and joy of reckless freedom are separated from my world by an intangible curtain.
I walk through sunbeam and cobweb into the heart of the building, where warmth and light are traded for familiarity.
Taking my place at the antique oak writing desk, I survey my domain, a jigsaw of memories, entombed in a rustic old cottage. This palatial wonderland of discovery now seems lifeless and cold. A sleeping giant. Its open door a last vestige of hospitality.
Childhood dreams are challenged by the silence… the loneliness. A timeless wind streams through splintered glass, the crack has withstood the test of time.
A cold, dank odour resides in the cottage. She has aged.
Brittle walls encroach to the rhythm of my breathing. Shedding the dust of laughter and mirth as I exhale.
Dredging the vivid underworld of distant memories, I wallow in a quagmire of forgotten pleasures. Absent friends banished as ghosts in the wind whistle a soulful melody. Loneliness prevails.
The cottage has absorbed my childhood and wants to share its sensations. It challenges me. Threatens and scares me. Life has changed . . . but why it asks?
Its cold air embraces my arms, numbing my fingers. Creativity has surrendered to the chaotic impish meanderings of apprehension.
© Charles Ogg 2005
Charlie lives with his wife and two children in Aberdeen, Scotland. He is the co-owner/director of a small wholesale firm supplying the North Sea oil industry. He’s very active and must be terribly fit; listing his hobbies as pilates, ski-ing, hillwalking, cycling, swimming and – in the past – rock climbing and kayaking. His ambition is to write a novel within the next 3 or 4 years but for the moment he’s happy to “just enjoy” his writing.
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