WORMHOLES

WORMHOLES, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Drawing with red, black and blue pens on paper. Approx. size: (H) 7.5 inches x 6 inches (W).

RAYMOND CHANDLER'S EARS

Raymond Chandler’s ears were like chandeliers.

For his detective fiction, Chandler was respected by his peers,

But with auditory organs resembling something crystalline

He must have looked odd,

Or perhaps he looked fine.

Maybe his friends told one another:

‘Don’t mention Raymond’s ears when he appears.’

I wish someone could shed some light on Chandler’s ears,

The possibility that no one ever will is one of my growing fears.

Raymond Chandler’s initials are the same as the Red Cross,

The discovery of this coincidence was no loss for Roman Catholics,

Averse to ascribing significance to anything beyond their beliefs.

Atleast Chandler’s ears looked like something nice,

As opposed to something negative like funeral wreaths.

EQUINE LIMB DISTORTIONS FAZE THE JESTER

EQUINE LIMB DISTORTIONS FAZE THE JESTER, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
When I draw, I find inner peace; a connection with my purest self. A self free from the petty intrigues foisted upon the ego by modern society in materialist circles. I find the freedom of roaming my imagination and the thrill is akin to rediscovering my childhood innocence: a place of inner calm where there are no rules, no fears and no limits. I allow my unconscious to guide my hand so, often, my drawing is effortless (or so it feels). I hope the results (this upload being my latest work) are satisfying to look at.

TEN YEARS

A decade is a period of time.

A long time as a deck aid, providing assistance on a ship.

After this time, you feel life had given you the slip—

You feel you have decayed.

Atleast you’ve kept afloat working in this way,

Satisfactorily keeping penury at bay.

But there’s no deck aid parade in addition to your pay.

You drink any port in a storm to keep warm,

Squinting at how the land lay.

At sea or in dock, you watch the clock,

Gazing into the distance for prospects looming on the horizon,

Wondering about your sweetheart back home and who she’s got her eyes on.

At times, with the relentless grind,

You find scenes from Mutiny on the Bounty playing on your mind.

On land, crew cuts are haircuts.

At sea, they are less kind.

Shaking off bits of cut-up crewmembers from your shoe,

You realise no one is more cut off than you.

A deck aid’s neck’s laid out on deck,

It tans to leather in the sun from its fleshy cardboard.

When you’re not seasick, you’re homesick,

Foam is quick to flow from the mouth if you drink too much saltwater,

Apparently, it drives you mad!

Overall, your life’s not bad; just boring, repetitive, tedious and sad.

You’re better off than most, you tell yourself…

With the conviction of a ghost…

'WHAT'S MY NAME?'

'WHAT'S MY NAME?', a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
This is the full colour version of my previous upload. I used gel pens and am disappointed that my scanner hasn't really done the image justice: there are lots of yellows in there that can't be seen! I hope people will still enjoy it.

OPPOSING FORCES

In a military context, there are frequent references to ‘rear-guard actions.’ Personally, I wouldn’t care to be a rear guard, but I suppose if you join the forces you have to start at the bottom. This got me thinking…

In civilian terms, ‘captains of industry’ far outrank their military counterparts. This view is generally accepted, but not necessarily accepted by generals.

Conversely, a field marshal on a farm in the countryside is considerably inferior to a Field Marshal—the highest-ranking officer in the army.

Lieutenants—junior to captains—have no civilian equivalent. Except as an odd figure of speech indicating ‘owe tenants.’ There’s no such thing as ‘in lieu’ tenants who could serve as replacement tenants for landlords in need perhaps.

Corporal punishment further illustrates the gulf between civilian and military terminology. In the former, the term refers to physical punishment, in the latter; it can describe something any senior officer can potentially inflict on a junior-ranking corporal.

Major mistakes occur in all walks of life and, as long as they’re not major disasters, they tend to be overlooked.

‘Private affairs’ is an expression returning us to the arena of comparable differences between civilian and military contexts, which needn’t be elaborated upon here. But, it brings to mind the term ‘servicemen,’ which refers to men in the services. When said slowly, it describes what a prostitute does for a living.

Phonetics also creates confusion with colonels. Some of these high-ranking officers are nuts, outside of the army—phonetically speaking—they are completely harmless parts of nuts.

A Colonel is one rank below a Brigadier in the army. Perversely, to ‘brig a deer’ would involve a naval prison, which would be very cruel. One hopes there aren’t any brigadiers as cruel as that!

In today’s army, generals must resent being mistaken—by the general public—for a widely used prefix. It seems likely that no current General will be remembered in the same way as the historical greats like Caesar, Alexander, Hannibal or Napoleon. A visit to a general hospital for these second fiddles to Field Marshals must emphasise their feelings of relative anonymity. I wonder if they react with a momentary feeling of panic when a general election is called? I’m sure you get the general idea…

BUDDHA PEST

In Budapest, a Buddha pest harangues tourists with his joss sticks for sale.

Incensed when they ignore him, he’s hurt when they implore him to leave them alone.

Can’t they see he wants to be free from being hungry in Hungary?

All the same, with self-reproachful shame, he pities the less enlightened.

Even those who curse at him, but far less than the ones he’s frightened.

Raising his palm, using all his charm he blesses them all: ‘Namasté.’

Then he winks at Yanks he thinks are cranks shouting, ‘Have a nice day.’

MY LIFE by AVERAGE ME

I’m an average middle-class, middle-aged woman.

I do courses in reiki; no one can make me believe New Age creeds business greed’s responsible, in part, for the drainage of my income.

My grown up children, Zak and Zoe, both got degrees from minor universities,

But economic adversity’s the reason they are unemployed.

Zoe is married to a website designer, Zak just split up with a girl called Chloe.

Zoe has twin girls and an autistic son; it’s fashionable these days for families to have one.

I divorced from my ex-, Digory, five years ago.

Sometimes I have casual sex and sometimes I feel low.

I’ve joined lots of groups but don’t always go.

I like courses and workshops that foster ongoing processes of internal navigation,

As I continue on my journey to find myself.

I find each day has a precious moment of self-discovery, which I record in a notebook.

I share these personal insights at my feminist mentoring sessions on Wednesdays.

I have good friends and we share the same interests and outlook on life.

We do voluntary work in the women’s shelter, which I find most rewarding.

Some of the terrible, shocking things that other women have gone through are worth recording.

Rapes and beatings are commonplace experiences at the shelter’s meetings.

I feel I owe these less fortunate women my empathy and support—ALL men are rapists, but luckily I haven’t been caught.

I try to help them to not feel they are victims, which is terribly important.

Or so I’ve been taught.

Women must refuse to be intimidated by men, only then can we be free and all my friends agree.

We are all strong individuals, my friends and I.

Some men find that intimidating and I can see why.

That explains their hostility.

Lately, Zak has been feeling depressed and begun talking to himself.

I’m slightly anxious about his mental health.

My friend, Abscess, blames his flat’s feng shui, so I suggested to him making some changes over a bowl of chop suey.

Avoiding my eyes, he mumbled incoherently through his straggly beard.

It was very weird and the flat stank to high heaven.

But Abscess says it’s a chakra realignment issue and I’ve known her since I was seven.

Atleast Zoe is happy, but Colin, her husband, lets her do too much.

He uses her like a servant, a seminal spittoon and for a crutch.

But, like me, she’s a very strong woman and I know—when she keeps in touch—she’s not exactly being oppressed as such.

Too weak to be a tyrant, Colin is an emotional sponge instead.

It might work with Zoe, but he can’t get inside my head.

Which explains why, when we meet, his face reveals his dread.

Abscess thinks he’s an emotional leech with bipolar affective disorder,

She told me on the beach the other day when, I’m afraid, I bored her.

She hugged me tight in her strong, tattooed arms, telling me it was alright as I cried on her supportive shoulder.

‘Don’t be sore with me, Abscess,’ I pleaded. ‘All this stress is making me feel so much older.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she insisted. Then, she said, ‘I’m chilly.’

It was true it had got colder.

We shared a bottle of vodka in her flat and she gave me a tarot reading after that.

She’s well suited to reading the cards, but I can’t remember what she said.

I know it made me feel much better and we ended up in bed!

NEW DRAWING, STAGE ONE

NEW DRAWING, STAGE ONE, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Colour to be added. Watch this space.

THE END IS NIGH

The man holding a sign proclaiming: THE END IS NIGH stands in a puddle with holes in his shoes. A dog cocks its leg up to pee over his frayed trousers as passing youths jeer and spit at him. Then, it starts raining torrentially.

  Trudging home, soaking wet, he trips and falls losing his wallet. Without noticing, he gets up; and a speeding car runs him down throwing him over its bonnet. He limps heavily, bleeding internally, somehow managing to stagger off.

  Fire engines are in his street—his house is burning down! His wife and children are burned alive before the fire brigade can save them.

  ‘We’re deeply sorry for your loss, sir.’ A senior fire officer quietly tells him.
  ‘Oh, well,’ he shrugs. ‘It’s not the end of the world.’