catching up with my sleeplessness

He seemed to be searching for his lost joys, now as insubstantial as old dreams wisping away as the amnesia of morning grasps them and tears them away up into the light. For a long time he read through his journals and days seemed to pace. In his head the titinus had stopped though he knew as soon as he realized it had stopped it slowly regained it's ringing. He had read only 10% of the population had it. For a moment he felt special that he was in an exclusive club, but that did not last. He looked outside at the gradeur of the trees on the other side of the road, but he knew he could not take a step beyond his open door, so went to bed and watched the strengthening light reaching along the hallway. He heard a plane, like a wish, overhead, and the regularity of the motorbike and the neighbourhood cars going off too work then finally the beeping of refuse lorry backing up. A hush fell then.

None know now

None know now what once I was. Stillness now after I felt I floated offward, improbable as a half heard shadow, feeeling dodgy by default. I try to twist into memories, wonder why they seem so recalled while others seem locked away like a dream of a long forgotten day dream that won't return. Turn the key from the inside, leap out at me shocking me with suprise and a lightened heart.

Yes, none know now what once I was and I include myself in their number. I stumble, fall and land here still, unencumbered by the awful rage, impotent as a raven's shriek, but the lock turns behind me, unable to scream or sing instead am I as silent as a gossamer web, or uncluttered fingers, or toes of lead.

The ageless Facsist

The dictator has time today to watch the birdies fly away. He enjoys the views up in the hills the dots of people far away. The dictator has no time today to merge into a scene he has not controlled. He cannot synchronize the birds or melt the high snow he has no thought of those below. This dictator knows even his power cannot make beauty more fair

Jac and Shea I am searching for a story. I left it somewhere under a granite paperweight. I wonder was it then when I forgot to dance, to close my eye, to watch the unemployed Jacobites spread technicolour. As if I would forget, as if I would leave you in the past when no matter how often I stand beneath a rainstorm I could never wash you away. Still imprinted with the original as a fingerprint seeks rare form, but floats off like a feather, lands later, too late for a lover and for dancing under the moon.

Time Loop

In Time Loop Morelle's poetic style is given new vistas and countries, different times and myriad characters in this new novel. Written by a well-establishedEuropean writer, it is a complicated but avid read and I finished it in a couple of sittings.

In this day and age a novel about the Cathars would be replete with car chases, murderous minds in search of the Holy grail, a hero racing about in stolen cars, forgettting toilet breaks, a nice cup of tea, who falls platonically iin love and wonders when he's going to get something to eat, before or after he'd found Christ's Cup and climatically vanquishing the multifarious villans.

Time Loop breaks the mould. This is a personal story, or stories, a human tale, firmly jigsawed in reality. Set in the late nineties in rainy edinburgh and by contrast the heat and long enchanted Southern france. A man and woman meet on the well worn tourist trail of the extermination of the of the Cathars. One is married, while the other is a footloose musician with writer's block.

Instinct or intuition bring then together. The woman's husband, though not murderous and a very careful driver, is obsessed with discovering the truth of the powers of Christ's blood-red filled goblet, and gives our hero a good kicking that he did nothing to warrant.

Yet through dreams and esoteric synchronistic experiences the doors are open to early13th Century France.

Here, the Cathars faith in their beliefs are tested by the horrors, tortures and burnings at the stake. Both in Edinburgh and in France the two main characters and their reincarnation links of the past and future come to an understanding that love is the key.

The avid barbarism of the Roman Catholic Church and the over ambitious greed of the French King are far more disturbing than any recent action-packed shoot em up.

I wholly recommenend Morelle Smith's Time Loop andher other woek: Streets of Tirana, Almost Spring and her many poetry collections such as Deepwater Terminal and The Way Words Travel.

Time Loop is published by Playback Publications in Sandwick, Shetland, UK or at www.playbackarts.co.uk

Christmas at the Wheelie Bin Laws

The day began welll, it was Christmas Eve after all and I promised not to weep copiously for a change. To my deep surprise S gave me a lift into town, and may the baby jesu be praised, she was on time, in fact early. She'd left the B i L in the city to buy trousers and avery expensive bottle of whiskey- alas not my yuletide gift.

The roads were clear all the way to Bridge of Don until we turned into their road and there seemed to be have been a recent avalance. SpagettiBolognaise was on the menu and copious cups of cofffe.

Then by increments things startd to go wrong.

'Can I have one of your beers B i L?' he relied in the affirmative. yet, I swilled it down before he had a change of mind. While S and B I l were cloistered in front of Prince Caspian I stuck back to the fridge, twisted open the bottle and drank it as dast as I could in case they started looking for me round for mwe at the precious moment.

Thus it was that war began

B i L started screamimg, spouting on about the myth of self-control and wandered about with the remaining beers looking for a place to hide them from me.

The shouting of B i L and the cajoling od S lasted over half as I sat in the spare bedroom writing my journal. The rest of the evening went relatively smoothly and they even allowed me into a church without paying.

They went to bed and I remaind awake for 6 hours determined to finish my journal as I'd just bought a new one. Dotting down and up the stairs for urine breals, coffeee refiills and a slice of pineapple I left all the lights on all night.

The silence was plapable when I emerged at ten down in the angry den. Yet, my S and B i L are good, kind people, slow to anger and mainly tolerant of me so I wasn't battered senseless and made to walk to the garage to get milk.

Love, mygod, would you believe it

Changing names to protect no-one at all

Recently I have been thinking about pseudonyms, not that I haven't thought about it before, but it began to dwell in mind when I looked at a flier for a local poetry group. Unless my mind has diminished more than I had recently thought, Rapunzel Wizard-topping the bill- was not the name his parents came out with as the minister lowered him to the font. My thoughts turned from scorn to amusement as I idly imagined him on the pull, the quine he was chatting too had found that Rapunzel had ticked all the boxes and was waiting for him to tell her to get her coat. 'Oh, I'm Rapunzel by the way.' I heard him say as if to seal the deal. A set of doors and a port cullis in the quine's eyes coldly close and lock, are drawn up and to add to the metaphor a skinny dog barks fretfully and alone in an empty land. Laugh, she thinks, I'll leave that til later. An excuse? The loon doesn't deserve an excuse. I won't dwell on Rapunzel, I'm sure he had a reason and perhaps it is cool and if I meet him I'll try really hard to be polite and not ask if he'd let his hair down recently. But, of course, now. I want a pseudonym. Or the performance poet in me does. Last night I had whittled it down to Zyborg Redaction, merely 'Adam'-perhaps with a question mark or Mr Sylvia Plath, Apprentice Poet. Admittedly Zyborg Redaction stands out, seems to exude confidence and is impossible dismiss, the second isn't very original and I might as well not have a pseudonym at all. The last, as the evening wears on, and I've listened to Lady Lazarus and Daddy on You Tube almost continuously since the sun went down, if I have the guts is perfect. I was going to write one of her poems in my journal but they went on a bit. Zyborg Redaction in comparison is trite and childish and if not attention seeking, is at least lingering far too long looking at itself in the mirror. So poetry readings, poetry slams, poetry in parks, swimming pools and other venues the length and breadth of the land Mr Sylvia Plath has memorized his poems a bit, put on a new yellow swastika and is that person fidgeting behind you waiting to read.