tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-122073752024-03-28T22:07:42.245+01:00Garry CrystalShort stories, poems and articles from author Garry CrystalGarry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.comBlogger267125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-56441510222886296392024-03-22T13:51:00.005+01:002024-03-27T21:12:36.856+01:00At the Time, None of this Meant Anything<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJoQMa72vY7Y7UKux45B30c5W7D4MoHeTirVrooYzhctHODhHuGx4zUAwj3JbYWSLP1XBvFDl9GdHunkNgjLMo2e1JIxIniSPyCNzBlcy4ZeOPyEBNfb2B9wFpW1boP2WjPqjPJqab3YSmMuTjJ7qzfVpycCpA9VsvnOs3WFzz-GwkGmi1Pmpz3Q/s2048/joshua-rawson-harris-KRELIShKxTM-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJoQMa72vY7Y7UKux45B30c5W7D4MoHeTirVrooYzhctHODhHuGx4zUAwj3JbYWSLP1XBvFDl9GdHunkNgjLMo2e1JIxIniSPyCNzBlcy4ZeOPyEBNfb2B9wFpW1boP2WjPqjPJqab3YSmMuTjJ7qzfVpycCpA9VsvnOs3WFzz-GwkGmi1Pmpz3Q/w640-h480/joshua-rawson-harris-KRELIShKxTM-unsplash.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;">Photo Credit: Joshua Rawson-Harris on <a href="https://unsplash.com/@joshrh19" target="_blank">Unsplash</a></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">AJ asked me, You know why I never wear a watch?<br />Here we go, I thought, I’ve got to spend the last of my 15-minute morning break<br />Listening to some abstract bullshit.<br />It’s because when I was a kid<br />I’d sit in school the entire day, hating every minute of it<br />And I didn’t have a watch back then<br />But I knew if I counted slowly to sixty<br />That would be a minute<br />And if I counted a minute sixty times, that would be an hour.<br />The counting kept my mind occupied<br />And I could keep counting until it was time to get out of that hellhole<br />I asked him what his point was<br />This place is also hell, he said<br />Just keep counting and it’ll be over<br />Screw that, I’d rather waste time online<br />But they know when you’re online<br />They check, they can tell when you’re not working<br />Better just to keep counting sixties<br />Until it becomes your mantra<br />You’ll keep counting sixties<br />But you’ll be thinking of other things<br />It’s a double-layer<br />And you’ll no longer be in the office,<br />Not physically<br />It’s like meditation<br /><br />AJ knew this was a bullshit job<br />It was the sort of job where you couldn’t<br />Prove or disprove that what was being sold was useless<br />But people kept buying it, and we kept selling it<br />Making a good profit for the owners<br />Not the staff, of course<br />A lot of the staff hated the place<br />The four of us in the same team hated the place<br />Two pretended they didn’t<br />One left for a better job<br />Where you didn’t have to ‘lie’ for a living<br />I stayed for the money - sell-out<br />And then one came back from maternity leave<br />I’d never met her before <br />Her first words to me after she’d sat down were -<br /><i>Do you hate this place as much as I do?</i><br />I could tell she was trying to suss me out<br />But I’d been at the job long enough to know<br />That a lot of the staff were not the sort you could trust<br />So I kept quiet<br />Count to 60, I said to her<br />It makes the day go in quicker…allegedly<br />AJ looked at me and nodded<br /><br />The boss came over <br />Placed a mint on my desk <br />Because I’d been out for another cigarette<br />She <a href="https://garrycrystal.blogspot.com/2019/03/the-anxiety-free-window.html" target="_blank">always does this</a><br />I’m pretty sure she’s an ex-smoker<br />She asked if I’d made up my mind<br />If I was going to go to the office get-together on Sunday<br />No, I’m not going, I said<br />Why not?<br />Is it mandatory?<br />No.<br />That’s why.<br />I knew the boss didn’t like me<br />And yet she never kept her distance<br /><br />A colleague came over to my desk and asked me<br />If I’d done the task I was supposed to do for her<br />She was in a slightly senior position to me<br />So she’d asked, and I was supposed to do it<br />But I hadn’t.<br />There was a thing<br />And when it was over<br />I went back to my desk<br />Opened up a document and wrote -<br /><i>There are people in the office who will cry if they don’t get what they want.<br />They will cry to your face with no embarrassment about doing so.<br />They’ve done this so many times that you may find yourself fighting the urge to no longer believe them, and yet you really have no choice but to believe.<br />It works for them. <br />It works on the job<br />It works at home<br />It worked during childhood.<br />If it’s not broken, don’t fix it.<br />Crying colleagues can scare the toughest bosses because tears can easily become uncontrollable anger.<br />You are heartless if you don’t believe their tears, and you’re compassionate if you do.<br />Only one of those choices is preferable in the open-plan office where a crying colleague is breaking news.<br />Either way, you’re still going to end up doing exactly what they want.<br />Most probably their work.</i><br />I looked over at AJ<br />He was staring straight ahead<br />His lips were moving <br /><br />The incident with the crying colleague was on my mind that afternoon<br />I wondered how much stress she was under to break down like that<br />In front of me<br />In front of the whole office,<br />Over something that seemed pretty inconsequential<br />Had I finally become immune?<br />Had the workplace environment made me like this?<br />In a place where no one trusts each other<br />Where we’re all looking after our own interests<br />Where, when someone displays real emotion, suffering even<br />We retreat, pretend it didn’t happen</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In order to get to the end of the day without interruption<br /><br />Later that afternoon, on another cigarette break<br />AJ says, This place is depressing close to the reality<br />Of what?<br />Of working in an office.<br /></span></p><h1 class="dcr-29zico"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Red-Lights-Garry-Crystal-ebook/dp/B07N14J15G/ref=sr_1_5?crid=26TN70F326Z95&keywords=garry+crystal&qid=1696358002&sprefix=garry+crystal%2Caps%2C174&sr=8-5"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hcXEM_eMIQDFLs5yEwicMMKGd6aavJZOg-CGYJkZtWfKmnr2QEpJWSzMOIprocQuET1_lYEvDMEStV-mcPup4THhSL8ulBJsksiX9PR7DwTOgG0rAs2Nddwo3qyYAeTtxV0DkQ/w804-h361/new.jpg" /></a></span></span></h1><p></p>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-37582549872120988282024-03-20T13:21:00.003+01:002024-03-20T23:43:42.082+01:00Close That Door Once<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj04WPiLZPefGef0CA5zdRTDYXMF85wPZB7Cpwu3Wps_O-9dMaIuBTXCW1wKSFPWdUmrxKN1R0vCwuRn8ZSls1xZ9BnQS6JCPtkEDMRv_07UiggYsq0ywOnGJJZPFNucD10ed9ONz5vtz6tVDdpEqeiKXr-jsJQPKctZC-IPtLN9UAF5r5h8rfxfA/s3780/rochelle-lee-ieb64tTjiUc-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="499" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj04WPiLZPefGef0CA5zdRTDYXMF85wPZB7Cpwu3Wps_O-9dMaIuBTXCW1wKSFPWdUmrxKN1R0vCwuRn8ZSls1xZ9BnQS6JCPtkEDMRv_07UiggYsq0ywOnGJJZPFNucD10ed9ONz5vtz6tVDdpEqeiKXr-jsJQPKctZC-IPtLN9UAF5r5h8rfxfA/w399-h499/rochelle-lee-ieb64tTjiUc-unsplash.jpg" width="399" /></a></div> Photo Credit : Rochelle Lee on <a href="https://unsplash.com/@bestlifanna">Unsplash</a><p></p><p>
</p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />You should have stayed there, <br />made it easier. <br />I was becoming comfortable, <br />was actually embracing <br />the idea <br />of being alone again, <br />while you worked <br />towards a better future <br />for yourself. <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />I wanted you to stay there, <br />I told you to, <br />and given time <br />I would have forgotten. <br />But you came back <br />with words of loneliness <br />and love <br />and your inability to stay away, <br />and for a while <br />I thought it would be okay, <br />fooling myself <br />that we stood a chance, <br />which only made it harder <br />when I fucked up <br />and you <br />decided to stay <br />elsewhere. <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />I’m not playing the victim here <br />I’ve never been one <br />to elicit sympathy <br />or pass my mistakes <br />on to others. <br />There are only choices <br />and routes taken, <br />mostly with little thought. <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />None of these words <br />Would be here today <br />if I hadn’t unexpectedly found that photo… <br />the one where you’re smiling <br />and I’m not…</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><i>#version3 </i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><i>This week's tune, Shed Seven, Chasing Rainbows</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/fW3eFT2D2Yk" width="420" youtube-src-id="fW3eFT2D2Yk"></iframe></span></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span><p></p><h1 class="dcr-29zico"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Red-Lights-Garry-Crystal-ebook/dp/B07N14J15G/ref=sr_1_5?crid=26TN70F326Z95&keywords=garry+crystal&qid=1696358002&sprefix=garry+crystal%2Caps%2C174&sr=8-5"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hcXEM_eMIQDFLs5yEwicMMKGd6aavJZOg-CGYJkZtWfKmnr2QEpJWSzMOIprocQuET1_lYEvDMEStV-mcPup4THhSL8ulBJsksiX9PR7DwTOgG0rAs2Nddwo3qyYAeTtxV0DkQ/w804-h361/new.jpg" /></a></span></span></h1><p> </p><p> </p><p><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style> <br /></p>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-80296607025870754512024-03-19T16:10:00.000+01:002024-03-19T16:10:10.542+01:00 Jack’s Last Call:Say Goodbye to Kerouac. An audio play written by Patrick Fenton<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhdb6RJKeSYpVzZXOUfwQmbZ7S9qNfcjKOPxbVUIROLJQWJpjVSbW6CliuJjjqWyMyzLZR9i3rbjwUy1GDzFe6hGlPC6HtLdywRZU-OBDw4HNEUpbhZg2bL6Ds7dJgtI3pckjxrFrqQbIYwCWU_NJU3sjn5eidSNoD5RUldwRs4cCDxFdYY7fKug/s1050/jack-kerouac-quotes-1050x547.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="547" data-original-width="1050" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhdb6RJKeSYpVzZXOUfwQmbZ7S9qNfcjKOPxbVUIROLJQWJpjVSbW6CliuJjjqWyMyzLZR9i3rbjwUy1GDzFe6hGlPC6HtLdywRZU-OBDw4HNEUpbhZg2bL6Ds7dJgtI3pckjxrFrqQbIYwCWU_NJU3sjn5eidSNoD5RUldwRs4cCDxFdYY7fKug/w640-h334/jack-kerouac-quotes-1050x547.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>
</p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>‘It’ll all end in tears anyway’ – Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums</i></b></span><p><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Fans of Kerouac never really say goodbye to him, and this was an interesting and exciting find for me while trawling the net. <i>Jack’s Last Call: Say Goodbye to Kerouac</i>, an audio play written by Patrick Fenton. The play was staged in 2009 in <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/05/28/nyregion/owners-vow-to-rebuild-long-island-bar-frequented-by-kerouac.html">Gunther’s Tap Room</a>, Northport, New York, a bar famously frequented by Kerouac. It’s fairly poignant play, with Kerouac looking back over his life as he prepares to move from Northport to St. Petersburg, Florida, as well as having some difficult telephone conversations with his daughter, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Baby-Driver-Jan-Kerouac/dp/0312063768?ref_=ast_author_mpb" target="_blank">Jan</a>. Neal Cassady also makes an appearance on a visit to Jack during this Merry Pranksters phase. The play is set in 1964 and based on a recording made in Kerouac’s home in Northport, and was directed by award winning audio dramatist, Sue Zizza. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br />Music was composed by David Amram, who stated, <i>‘This play shows Jack at a difficult time in his life, and it does it with a rare understanding of how he tried to deal with the dilemma of unwanted celebrity while finding a way to continue pursuing his goals as an author. Fenton has created a moving portrait of a unique artist, rather than another dreary "Beat" stereotype. Bravo!" </i><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Definitely worth checking out if you’re a fan of Kerouac. <br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />The one hour explicit version of Jack’s Last Call: Say Goodbye to Kerouac is free to listen to and has been posted online by Sue Zizza at PRX and is available by following this link – <a href="https://beta.prx.org/stories/24856" target="_blank">Jack’s Last Call: Say Goodbye to Kerouac. </a></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br />More information on the play is available at <a href="http://www.insomniacathon.org/JLC01.html" target="_blank">Insomniacathon.org</a></span></p><h1 class="style-scope ytd-watch-metadata"><span style="font-size: medium;">Beats in NYC (1959) - Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac & Friends ( AI Colourised)</span></h1><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="317" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/PJPYlByVnp8" width="440" youtube-src-id="PJPYlByVnp8"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-20447927383093015472024-03-15T17:32:00.001+01:002024-03-15T17:56:03.141+01:00Cold Turkey Conversations<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHvBJD6N8dITkTbzO6X1Dys5QwWuRAPUYsc1dP_H_JGB4nXo1rN35ReOenjhQZu3NduqeS8vUXmREWTOoFMZM6GR5XoaYeOUaaOt9iwtX3iGdPbqbJN1G9IqUpFfK9TpUu9J8pZpoUCdEaHXCAX-XENYiIQKqavyYY9ZE7eNObjxGtff5uBwgtvg/s5697/ian-dooley-XlP4kZnr2i8-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5697" data-original-width="3798" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHvBJD6N8dITkTbzO6X1Dys5QwWuRAPUYsc1dP_H_JGB4nXo1rN35ReOenjhQZu3NduqeS8vUXmREWTOoFMZM6GR5XoaYeOUaaOt9iwtX3iGdPbqbJN1G9IqUpFfK9TpUu9J8pZpoUCdEaHXCAX-XENYiIQKqavyYY9ZE7eNObjxGtff5uBwgtvg/w426-h640/ian-dooley-XlP4kZnr2i8-unsplash.jpg" width="426" /></a></div> Photo Credit: ian dooley on <a href="https://unsplash.com/@sadswim" target="_blank">unsplash</a><p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Andalus",serif;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The impulse to contact her will disappear after 15 mins. <br /><br /><i>Says who? </i><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />It’s the same as the impulse to have a cigarette, or when you’re not really hungry but you think you need to eat something. It’s just your brain begging for that dopamine hit. <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><i>So I’ll give it 15 minutes? </i><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Yeah, fifteen, or maybe it was thirteen. I read it somewhere. Something about addiction and impulses, something like that. <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><i>Maybe she’s going through the same thing. </i><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Well, I don’t see your phone ringing off the hook. Have another drink. <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><i>That’s not going to help. That’s just exchanging one addiction, one vice, for another. </i><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />You calling your ex a vice? <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><i>You know what I mean. </i><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Splitting was the right thing to do. You knew it was coming, don’t pretend you didn’t. Anyway, you seem much more relaxed. <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><i>Don’t let the sweatpants fool ya, or the fact that you found me in bed at noon. </i><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Symptoms. That’s what happens when you’re kicking a bad habit, going cold turkey. <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><i>She wasn’t a bad habit; we just weren’t right for each other. I should have seen that a long time ago. </i><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Now you’re talking. How long’s it been since you guys split up? <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><i>About two weeks. </i><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Man, and you’re not over it yet? Come on, two weeks? You’re dragging the misery, aren't you? <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><i>Seriously? Two weeks isn't long. Two weeks is for amateurs. My record misery-after-split was a couple of years. </i><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />You didn’t see anyone else for two years? <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><i>No, I did, I just couldn’t shake the black cloud, it was a constant fixture, no need for a weather forecast. </i><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Misery can become a beautiful addiction. Hope you had more than one pair of sweatpants back then. <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><i>The sweatpants say you’ve been miserable for years. Isn't that from a Wilco song? </i><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />I’m glad I didn’t know you back then. <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><i>I’ve changed a lot, I think. </i><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />For the better? <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br />I hope so. No drunk-dialing, no contact whatsoever, so far. </i><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Good, it’ll get easier. One day you’ll wake up and find out that your first thought in the morning isn’t about her, and you’ll be happy about that, finally over her. It just takes time, as it does with all addictions. <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><i>I know, but it just feels as if something’s missing. I feel like I’m searching for something I’ve lost whilst already knowing I’m never going to find it, but I keep searching anyway. </i><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />That’s the addiction. It wants you to fill that hole, to feed it with something…anything. <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><i>I think I’ll go to the gym, take my mind off of it. </i><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />You’re wearing the right clothes. Wait, you’re not a member of a gym. <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><i>I’ll join one. </i><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Which one? No, no, no. You’re thinking of joining the one she uses, right? <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><i>No, there’s plenty of gyms around here. </i><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Okay, name one – apart from her gym. <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><i>Ah forget it. Pass me the bottle, the joint and that book, the one called Love is an Unflushable Turd. </i><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Now you’re on the right track. Getting healthier by the minute.<span lang="EN-US"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Andalus",serif;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Andalus",serif; font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></b></p><h1 class="dcr-29zico"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Red-Lights-Garry-Crystal-ebook/dp/B07N14J15G/ref=sr_1_5?crid=26TN70F326Z95&keywords=garry+crystal&qid=1696358002&sprefix=garry+crystal%2Caps%2C174&sr=8-5"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hcXEM_eMIQDFLs5yEwicMMKGd6aavJZOg-CGYJkZtWfKmnr2QEpJWSzMOIprocQuET1_lYEvDMEStV-mcPup4THhSL8ulBJsksiX9PR7DwTOgG0rAs2Nddwo3qyYAeTtxV0DkQ/w804-h361/new.jpg" /></a></span></span></h1><p><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style> <br /></p>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-31200579152178974692024-03-02T23:51:00.002+01:002024-03-03T01:19:42.210+01:00Two Hundred Miles Per Hour<div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJDp0_SOgO_oxRhdr739DIKdG8RlH-4dEpDqNFWbQJsK1Mw9L3uhlxjn2VPuODIfYTnD1T3ES4K-2-CREXRhYbBjMiM9lnpLOJEoKoBOKltg5Tg6yiDoUj9ZlRSRd-7Xozoip1uHozEfF77WiUES8t6M63p4HxTzOrVv8M3d7d7yqwuPzXCNzZqg/s5184/dusan-kipic-qtD-aRQtMuc-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJDp0_SOgO_oxRhdr739DIKdG8RlH-4dEpDqNFWbQJsK1Mw9L3uhlxjn2VPuODIfYTnD1T3ES4K-2-CREXRhYbBjMiM9lnpLOJEoKoBOKltg5Tg6yiDoUj9ZlRSRd-7Xozoip1uHozEfF77WiUES8t6M63p4HxTzOrVv8M3d7d7yqwuPzXCNzZqg/w640-h426/dusan-kipic-qtD-aRQtMuc-unsplash.jpg" width="640" /></a></div> Photo Credit: Dusan Kipic on<a href="https://unsplash.com/@kipic?utm_content=creditCopyText&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=unsplash" target="_blank"> Unsplash</a><p></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><b>“I thought you said you were feeling lucky. Did not see a lot of luck in there, Ray, I really didn’t.” <br /><br />Looking into the rear-view mirror, he wiped some blood from his cheek. “Well…feeling lucky is not the same thing as getting lucky.” </b><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> ***<br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: medium;"><br />It was almost dark when we began our return trip. The temperature had dropped as evening fell. Ray pulled up the roof of the convertible and jacked-up the heating. I figured we were going straight back to his place, but it seemed he had other plans. <br /><br /> “No, not yet. I want to show you something else,” he said. “I’m going to show you another world, kid.” <br /><br /> We had to park the car at the bottom of an extremely steep hill and then walked up what felt like hundreds of steps to get to the top of the hill, on which sat an open-to-the-public observatory. <br /><br /> “Really? Seriously, Ray, I never took you for an astronomer.” I was panting heavily from the climb. <br /><br /> “And I never thought you were so unfit. That wasn't even a climb. I’m the smoker here? You need to cut down on your drinking.” <br /><br /> I shook my head, bending over with my hands on my knees, my breath appearing in white clouds. “What are we doing here?” <br /><br /> “You’ll see. This will be unforgettable.” <br /><br /> We climbed the stairs inside the building until we reached a small door, which Ray knocked on, to be greeted by a voice telling us to come in. <br /><br /> The door led us through to an immense domed room, a huge telescope sticking through an open section of the dome. <br /><br /> “Well,” the employee said, ‘I haven’t had any visitors for a few days. Hello to you both.” <br /><br /> Ray greeted the old man and told him that he’d been here decades before with his father, and now he wanted to show his son what he’d seen. <br /><br /> “The sky changes every night,” the man said to us. “And of course, what you see depends on the weather, the time of year. You’re in luck, though. Take a look.” <br /><br /> “Go on. You first,” Ray said. <br /><br /> “No, you go. I’ll look next.” <br /><br /> Ray spent a lot of time looking through the eyepiece, making exclamations every few seconds, until eventually he turned and said, “Your shot. You won’t believe this.” <br /><br /> I’d expected to be greeted with a close-up of the Moon or the Milky Way, but I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing as I focused my gaze through the eyepiece. “Is that…” <br /><br /> “You’re looking at Saturn, almost eight hundred million miles from us, nine times wider than our planet and about four and a half billion years old.” The old man’s voice echoed around the dome, and then the room fell silent. <br /><br /> This was incredible, like a photograph, but there it was, Saturn with its rings in a pitch-black sky. The colors were amazing, and those rings, those famous rings I’d only seen in books or on television. But what was blowing my mind was that I was looking at something that was hundreds of millions of miles away, and it was right there in front of me, and all I could think was that I wished that Abbie were here to see it. She would have been as blown away by this as I was, and I wanted to share this moment, this personal discovery, with her. As I had that thought, I realized that I missed her, even though it had only been a few days since we’d been together. I missed her and I wanted to see her as soon as possible, and that had to mean something. <br /><br /> I looked from the telescope to see Ray beaming a huge smile at me, as if he were happy he’d bought me the right Christmas present. “That’s great, huh, Jake? You’ll <i>never </i>forget that, and not everyone gets to see that, right? What are you staring at me for? Take another look.” <br /><br /> I stood there looking at that planet for longer than I needed to, as if the longer I looked the happier Ray would be. He was right, though, I probably wouldn’t forget it. <br /><br /></span> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">***<br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> “Yeah, we’ll go home right after this, it won’t take long. Come on, I showed you another world, knew you’d get a kick out of it. Your mom told me you were into astronomy when you were a kid, always with your head in those books, must take after me. I just want a few hands before heading home.” <br /><br /> “A casino, Ray? Really?” <br /><br /> We drove into the parking lot of a pretty seedy looking casino, the lights flickering on and off at the front, the word, ‘Casino’, in bright red, white and blue neon. This place wasn't even classy enough to come up with its own name. <br /><br /> “You know what they say,” I said to him, “every gambler’s looking to lose.” <br /><br /> “Yeah, I heard that one. Which writer said that? Maybe Dostoevsky, <i>The Gambler</i>?” he said. <br /><br /> “The <i>Idiot </i>would be more fitting.” <br /><br />“Yeah, for you. It’s the buzz, Jake, that’s why I do it. I’ll stake ya to a few hands of blackjack. Don’t do the roulette, that is for idiots. We can get a couple of drinks as well.” <br /><br /> “I thought you said no drinking today.” <br /><br /> “Ah, screw it, a few won’t hurt. Come on, I’m feeling lucky.” <br /><br /> No doorman to card me. The waitress didn't ask for ID for the drinks order after Ray had sat down at the Blackjack table and put down a fifty, which he played on one hand and immediately lost. No one else was sitting at our table and the place was almost empty, maybe because it was still early, around ten. <br /><br />Ray lost another fifty and then won a few hands, and then lost again. He didn't seem to mind losing, and when he won, he simply uttered a quiet, ‘Yep’. It became apparent to me that Ray wasn't an expert card-counter, but after a while he seemed to be holding his own, not losing too much, not winning too much, just breaking even. A hand came from behind us, and a man placed a chip on Ray’s card box. <br /><br /> “What’s he doing?” I asked. <br /><br /> “He’s betting on me, not sure why, but it’s allowed. Puts me off, though. Let’s move to another table.” <br /><br /> He gathered up his chips and we headed to a nearby table where a few people were playing. After ordering more whisky he continued playing and continued playing and continued playing, until we were once again alone at the table. Ray barely said a word. The only person speaking was the dealer, whose catchphrase for the night seemed to be, ’Dealer wins’. Ray played, lost, played, lost, played, won, played, lost, lost, lost, lost, and then the man from the other table came over and placed a chip down on Ray’s box again, making Ray spin round in his seat to face the back-seat player. “Hey fuck-off, pal, will ya? You’re putting me off.” <br /><br /> The guy, who looked in his sixties, but big and solid, someone I wouldn’t have messed with, said, “Sorry, you looked lucky that’s all.” <br /><br /> “Yeah, do I seem like I’m having a lot of luck tonight? Go play somewhere else, jerk-off.” <br /><br /> “No need for that, mister. Keep it friendly.” <br /><br /> Ray turned back to the table, pulled out a wad of notes from inside his jacket pocket and asked for chips, all hundreds. He placed ten one-hundred chips on the box and turned to the guy. “Do it again, I dare ya.” He turned back to the table and the guy didn't place any money down. Ray lost. He repeated again with the same amount and lost again. <br /><br /> “Come on, Ray, let’s just go, that’s enough.” <br /><br /> No reply, just laying bets and losing, ordering more drinks, laying bets, losing, as if he were possessed. I could see beads of sweat on his forehead, his jaws clenching every time he lost, his eyes frozen. He looked as if he were somewhere else, focused only on the cards. After the fifth or sixth losing hand in a row he shouted, “God dammit. Is this place fixed? What the hell?” <br /><br /> The dealer stopped, looked at Ray, nodded his head. Two large guys appeared at the table, not saying a word, just staring at Ray, watching him. <br /><br /> “Come on, Ray, let’s go now, please.” <br /><br /> “Not yet, I’m doing fine.” <br /><br /> “You’ve lost…I don’t know how much, but it’s got to be thousands?” <br /><br /> The back-seat gambler, who’d been standing watching the entire time, heard what I’d said. “Yah, you should listen to your boy, you’re on a big losing streaking there, pal.” <br /><br /> Ray turned on hearing his voice. “You still here, you jinxy son of a bitch?” <br /><br /> “You’re calling me a jinx? If you can’t lose, don’t play. You’re a terrible loser, mister. Listen to your boy and go home.” <br /><br /> That was all it took, and it was over in an instant. Ray jumped from his seat, head-butted the old guy square in the nose, blood everywhere, splattered across me. The two large guys–who were obviously casino employees–immediately jumped into action as the old guy got up from the floor and started swinging back at Ray, who in return swung back a few times, each time connecting with the guy’s face, putting him back on the floor. I jumped in as well, pulling Ray off the man, and then the two large guys appeared, pushing me away, grabbing Ray and pushing him to the exit, the old guy trailing behind all of us, shouting that he wanted to press charges. <br /><br /> I got to the doors just in time to see Ray being thrown out on his ass, landing heavily on the concrete. When I looked back, the two employees stopping the old guy–his face covered in blood–from leaving the casino. I don’t know why they didn't want him to press charges, but my only concern at that moment was to get Ray out of there as quickly as possible, even though every instinct was telling me just to leave him on the ground, to walk away. <br /><br /> Ray stood up, spit blood out of his mouth, looked back through the glass doors and shouted, “Yeah, that’s right, asshole, bet on me now.” <br /><br />We remained silent on the ride home until we turned into Ray’s street where he parked up, looked at me, smiled, and said, “Sometimes, Jake, just sometimes, you’ve just got to let loose, you know? Spend a little bit of time at two hundred miles an hour. Go with your gut instinct and see what happens.” <br /><br />“I thought you said you were feeling lucky. Did not see a lot of luck in there, Ray, I really didn’t.” <br /><br />Looking into the rear-view mirror, he wiped some blood from his cheek. “Well…feeling lucky is not the same thing as getting lucky.” <br /><br />“Maybe you should’ve given roulette a shot, huh?” <br /><br /></span> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">***</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Two hours later, Ray was completely drunk. I was drunk as well but not as far gone as him. This entire night – the casino, the drinking, the fight, even losing stacks of money at cards – seemed to have energized him. Whereas I just wanted to sleep, he wanted to stay up late, drink, talk. He was most definitely in a speech-giving mood: pacing the room, knocking back glass after glass of whisky, chain-smoking and talking with a manic energy. It was almost three a.m. but he looked in no danger of crashing. <br /><br /> “Yeah, that jerk landed a couple of punches, I’ll give him that. You awake? Come on, keep up. I shouldn’t have…you know…my temper sometimes…I don’t know where it comes from…it’s like something just hits me…goes back to childhood I guess, always does. I try to keep my powder dry, you know, tamp it down, but sometimes…some people, they just keep pushing and pushing, and they don’t know when to stop, when to keep their mouth shut. It’s like a disease with these guys, this macho crap, always got to beat the other guy, someone’s got to lose so they can win. They just can’t leave it alone, until they come up against someone who’ll <i>make </i>them leave it alone, but by then it’s too late for them and…hey you like jazz, you like Coltrane, Buddy Ritch, Miles Davis? Let’s have a look here, see what we can find. I tell ya, the acoustics in this room are great for playing Buddy Rich as loud as…” <br /><br /> I could barely keep my eyes open, and I definitely couldn’t listen to any more of Ray’s non-stop nonsense, which is what it was - just the random jabbering of a drunk replaying the same scene over and over to an audience of one, because even an audience of one meant that someone was listening, someone was taking notice, and at least they were listening, even if they weren’t interested. <br /><br />I suppose that’s enough for drunk and lonely people, maybe that’s enough for anyone who’s spent far too much time on their own. <br /><br /> I hoped he’d burn himself out with everything that’d happened today and with the non-stop talking and pacing, but no, there looked to be no reprieve in sight. I knew what to do, I’d had some experience of this. I crept to the bedroom when he went to use the toilet. It was now fifty-fifty – he’d either come to my door and tell me to get up, or he’d come out of the toilet – and due to his drunkenness – forget I was even there, and that would be that. I closed my eyes and decided that whatever Ray did, I wouldn’t be moving from this bed. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">***<br /></span></div><div> <span style="font-size: medium;"><br />People who drink long-term don’t really feel too much embarrassment the day after. They’ve been through it so many times it’s like water off a duck’s back. They might give a half-hearted apology about overdoing it the night before, but that’s about it. They won’t want a blow-by-blow replay of the previous night’s events or any sort of discussion or argument about their behavior. They’ll simply want to sit in silence until the hangover passed, or if it’s really bad, they’ll have a hair of the dog in the hope that the alcohol will rid them of the anxiety they’re feeling. <br /><br /> Ray was still asleep in his chair, the lamps on, the ashtray overflowing, the bottle empty. I’d seen this scene many times in the past. The best thing for me to do was to sneak out, leave him to wake up in his own time without having to face me. I should have done that, but I didn't. I made coffee and placed a cup next to Ray, gently shaking him, saying his name until he came back to life. <br /><br /> “I have to go”, I said. “I’m meeting Abbie today.” <br /><br /> Sitting up, he looked around the room as if trying to remember what had happened, then he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and lit a cigarette. “Oh, yeah, okay, okay. No problem.” <br /><br /> “I really…you know…I got to go, I’m late as it is.” A lie, but I didn't want to be hanging around here for another few hours. “You’ll be okay?” <br /><br /> “Yeah, yeah of course. I’ve tied them on worse than that, believe me. I’ll survive.” <br /><br /> “Okay. I’ll see you later.” <br /><br /> “No problem.” <br /><br /> He was quiet, as if trying to come to his senses. He shouted over as I was leaving. <br /><br /> “Hey, Jake, you made up your mind yet, about leaving?” <br /><br /> “No, not yet. There’s no hurry, right?” <br /><br /> “Yeah, yeah, of course, take your time. I’ll catch you later.” <br /><br /> As I walked down the stairs I thought about Ray’s gambling, his drinking, his fighting, and I thought about the house we visited yesterday and Ray saying it had been lost because his great, great grandfather had been a degenerate, whatever that meant. And I thought of Ray, waking up to another hangover in a loft he didn't own, facing another day alone. For all intents and purposes, I really was all he had, and I wasn't sure if that even meant anything to him, or if he just lived in the moment, reacting, like that fight the previous night. <br /><br /> The line that I’d hit Ray with came back to me – all gamblers are looking to lose. It’s same with long-term drunks, they’re self-destructive, trying to kill the part of themselves that’s causing pain, not realizing that it’s a circle, and the alcohol eventually adds to the pain, brings you back to the original pain to relive it over and over again, but by then it’s too late, they’re too far gone and they embrace the thing that’s killing them, because that’s all they’ve known and all they have left, so why not? What was Ray’s pain? Had it been passed down through the generations, the drinking, the gambling, this apparent degenerate lifestyle? <br /><br /> Ray was still sitting in his chair when I opened the door. “Thought I’d come back for a while. I could really use a coffee.” <br /><br /> “Hey, that’s great, kid. Sit down, I’ll get you one, could use another myself.” <br /><br /> He seemed happy to see me. M<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">aybe not as
happy as when he’d showed me Saturn, but almost.</span></span><div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span><i>Taken from unpublished novel - In the City, Somewhere</i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i> </i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Shout Out: This week listening to - <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XlgQxK-HBGk" target="_blank">Reverend and the Makers </a></i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/RsYyZEvQlkI" width="423" youtube-src-id="RsYyZEvQlkI"></iframe></div><br /><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><h1 class="dcr-29zico"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Red-Lights-Garry-Crystal-ebook/dp/B07N14J15G/ref=sr_1_5?crid=26TN70F326Z95&keywords=garry+crystal&qid=1696358002&sprefix=garry+crystal%2Caps%2C174&sr=8-5"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hcXEM_eMIQDFLs5yEwicMMKGd6aavJZOg-CGYJkZtWfKmnr2QEpJWSzMOIprocQuET1_lYEvDMEStV-mcPup4THhSL8ulBJsksiX9PR7DwTOgG0rAs2Nddwo3qyYAeTtxV0DkQ/w804-h361/new.jpg" /></a></span></span></h1><i> </i><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style> <br /> </p></div>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-87555864676039142732024-02-22T13:34:00.001+01:002024-02-22T21:41:01.520+01:00Unravelling<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl6dSVEU2Bqrv14CAnKB95udKVyg-9mTAi4v51f0j9IZLJ34h_j2ScHAR5dGI3INKKK1pHrXw1nphX77_hib62ubLmbpIPyCrF6H20YHNWCqK6n4x071R2YJ3ZVoH2qZum1KRkDJHuhS2Y3KHXKcRN_QL-TAacl2zp75lkxjc7LbCu4EnsUF90gQ/s5187/carl-raw-sYix2Ta7pk8-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3458" data-original-width="5187" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl6dSVEU2Bqrv14CAnKB95udKVyg-9mTAi4v51f0j9IZLJ34h_j2ScHAR5dGI3INKKK1pHrXw1nphX77_hib62ubLmbpIPyCrF6H20YHNWCqK6n4x071R2YJ3ZVoH2qZum1KRkDJHuhS2Y3KHXKcRN_QL-TAacl2zp75lkxjc7LbCu4EnsUF90gQ/w640-h426/carl-raw-sYix2Ta7pk8-unsplash.jpg" width="640" /></a></div> Photo Credit: Carl Raw on<a href="https://unsplash.com/@carltraw" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"> Unsplash</a><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">…except it didn’t start slowly<br />The innocuous became noticeable<br />The irritation of small sounds<br />The constant hiss of a radiator<br />A broken fingernail<br />A stubbed toe <br />A missed step<br />A sideways glance<br />A dark bruise, scratch<br />Again, first thing<br />The daily demands of others <br />The utterance of the word fuck<br />Noticeably increasing in frequency as the day progressed<br />The inability to find humour in the absurdness<br />Of it all<br />All of it<br />Symptoms<br />Before change</span></p><h1 class="dcr-29zico"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Red-Lights-Garry-Crystal-ebook/dp/B07N14J15G/ref=sr_1_5?crid=26TN70F326Z95&keywords=garry+crystal&qid=1696358002&sprefix=garry+crystal%2Caps%2C174&sr=8-5"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hcXEM_eMIQDFLs5yEwicMMKGd6aavJZOg-CGYJkZtWfKmnr2QEpJWSzMOIprocQuET1_lYEvDMEStV-mcPup4THhSL8ulBJsksiX9PR7DwTOgG0rAs2Nddwo3qyYAeTtxV0DkQ/w804-h361/new.jpg" /></a></span></span></h1><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-42414373542740564402024-02-16T01:10:00.003+01:002024-02-16T01:45:25.850+01:00Empty Vows<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9qJu4zpba7l4T6YgKfHt5P2Xqov6HUMD0Mcyio1RrxyA58MHIGvgj0LSPqIxJijF0s5xWcFfkCNkmZNosXdMYknPYd58m4Dq0Tfdy7rwHfmgc1CPPZwczoVnK8Tx1K66t3gRTkCm8aGGtL_RWGbyK1VJ55g7T2rNbITRiOGUH2tWkp-G7t4cWqg/s5272/rene-porter-7xTp5vlbbSY-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5272" data-original-width="3515" height="461" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9qJu4zpba7l4T6YgKfHt5P2Xqov6HUMD0Mcyio1RrxyA58MHIGvgj0LSPqIxJijF0s5xWcFfkCNkmZNosXdMYknPYd58m4Dq0Tfdy7rwHfmgc1CPPZwczoVnK8Tx1K66t3gRTkCm8aGGtL_RWGbyK1VJ55g7T2rNbITRiOGUH2tWkp-G7t4cWqg/w376-h461/rene-porter-7xTp5vlbbSY-unsplash.jpg" width="376" /></a></div> Photo Credit:Rene Porter on <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/clear-drinking-glass-with-water-7xTp5vlbbSY">Unsplash</a><p></p><p>
</p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">And you swear you’ll never be like those men on the other side of the bar. <br />The same faces every night, drinking the same drinks while their wives stay home and look after the kids, waiting on the drunk to fall through the door. <br />And you’re not going to be like your father, drunk for years, always angry, still angry, even after his children no longer spoke to him, chasing empty dreams, hoping his numbers would come up, dead on retirement. <br />Dead before retirement. <br />But when your time comes, you won’t try to fight it. <br />You won’t even notice it happening.</span></p><h1 class="dcr-29zico"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Red-Lights-Garry-Crystal-ebook/dp/B07N14J15G/ref=sr_1_5?crid=26TN70F326Z95&keywords=garry+crystal&qid=1696358002&sprefix=garry+crystal%2Caps%2C174&sr=8-5"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hcXEM_eMIQDFLs5yEwicMMKGd6aavJZOg-CGYJkZtWfKmnr2QEpJWSzMOIprocQuET1_lYEvDMEStV-mcPup4THhSL8ulBJsksiX9PR7DwTOgG0rAs2Nddwo3qyYAeTtxV0DkQ/w804-h361/new.jpg" /></a></span></span></h1><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-72898384410626151722024-02-07T15:28:00.003+01:002024-02-11T12:23:15.875+01:00It Takes More Than This<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixtNYcVckerc8NXJCLqcKpTGvsI2XReYJhTNSoiKrUDJCt0WkTHMDMLys5r_K5yp_d4-25fzaCdI9HXU1hqoEx2uOJwHdnSPHFPuEsWrQAnNsP9JU2v5ELfQRLAV5gyL69IEtEpI9-OR_QVy6GMpQ8TQjrmenlen_r81niyZ9HfHA4wuasidQPaA/s5080/andraz-lazic-64sgR8HV_68-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3387" data-original-width="5080" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixtNYcVckerc8NXJCLqcKpTGvsI2XReYJhTNSoiKrUDJCt0WkTHMDMLys5r_K5yp_d4-25fzaCdI9HXU1hqoEx2uOJwHdnSPHFPuEsWrQAnNsP9JU2v5ELfQRLAV5gyL69IEtEpI9-OR_QVy6GMpQ8TQjrmenlen_r81niyZ9HfHA4wuasidQPaA/w640-h426/andraz-lazic-64sgR8HV_68-unsplash.jpg" width="640" /></a></div> Photo Credit: <a href="Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@evieshaffer?utm_content=creditCopyText&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=unsplash">Evie S.</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/a-white-feather-floating-in-the-dark-mmLEOIyqCZU?utm_content=creditCopyText&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=unsplash">Unsplash</a> " target="_blank">Evie S.</a><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">There are angels everywhere<br />-so those believers say<br />But I can’t see them<br />Or sense them.<br />If they are there,<br />They’re looking down<br />Saying<br /><i>We can’t help you<br />You dont want our help<br />You dont believe in us.<br />Why would we help you<br />When there are more worthy cases?</i><br />Because you’re angels<br />You’re not human<br />You’re not supposed to judge.<br /><i>You dont believe</i>, they’d sing in unison<br />Strumming those damn harps<br /><i>You don’t believe<br />You don’t believe<br />You don’t believe<br />You’re just desperate<br />And desperate only leads to desperation<br />To us</i><br />Screw you, I’d shout<br />Look at the world right now<br />And tell me why I should believe<br />There’s nothing <i>to </i>believe in<br />What are you waiting for?<br />The end of the world?<br /><br />One thing we can tell you, they’d say<br />A piece of good advice -<br />When you eventually come to us for help<br /> As you’re prone to do<br />That’s when you know you’ve hit rock bottom.<br /><br />And then<br />Maybe then<br />You’ll be able to let it all go<br />Realise…</span><br /></p><p><br /></p>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-15816850902236673952023-12-13T20:19:00.002+01:002023-12-15T16:34:42.266+01:00Benjamin Zephaniah - Poet, Activist, Musician, Actor - 15th April 1958 - 7th December 2023<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdYiflbju9-FaCSvBj6wbQgFsB8ou94OQbgyRadRPFShqJOWNOOliTToWwvuqRXp-zCftJAHoLZz8pQLVHg_b_NulCNWPDkSZBk0LIpWU8z77rQSE2A7Evvqgnu-FB-vXmEYMFuWgoxKyfQoIJJ54nnYx4WjaAGF49LiP81_9u3x8yeDryPz75wQ/s850/quote-this-planet-is-for-everyone-borders-are-for-no-one-it-s-all-about-freedom-benjamin-zephaniah-72-14-51.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="850" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdYiflbju9-FaCSvBj6wbQgFsB8ou94OQbgyRadRPFShqJOWNOOliTToWwvuqRXp-zCftJAHoLZz8pQLVHg_b_NulCNWPDkSZBk0LIpWU8z77rQSE2A7Evvqgnu-FB-vXmEYMFuWgoxKyfQoIJJ54nnYx4WjaAGF49LiP81_9u3x8yeDryPz75wQ/w640-h302/quote-this-planet-is-for-everyone-borders-are-for-no-one-it-s-all-about-freedom-benjamin-zephaniah-72-14-51.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p> <b>What If - By Benjamin Zephaniah</b> <br /></p><p>If you can keep your money when governments about you<br />Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,<br />If you can trust your neighbour when they trust not you<br />And they be very nosy too;<br />If you can await the warm delights of summer<br />Then summer comes and goes with sun not seen,<br />And pay so much for drinking water<br />Knowing that the water is unclean.<br /><br />If you seek peace in times of war creation,<br />And you can see that oil merchants are to blame,<br />If you can meet a pimp or politician,<br />And treat those two impostors just the same;<br />If you cannot bear dis-united nations<br />And you think this new world order is a trick,<br />If you've ever tried to build good race relations,<br />And watch bad policing mess your work up quick.<br /><br />If you can make one heap of all your savings<br />And risk buying a small house and plot,<br />Then sit back and watch the economy inflating<br />Then have to deal with the negative equity you've got;<br />If you can force your mind and body to continue<br />When all the social services have gone,<br />If you struggle on when there is nothing in you,<br />Except the knowledge that justice can be wrong.<br /><br />If you can speak the truth to common people<br />Or walk with Kings and Queens and live no lie,<br />If you can see how power can be evil<br />And know that every censor is a spy;<br />If you can fill an unforgiving lifetime<br />With years of working hard to make ends meet,<br />You may not be wealthy but I am sure you will find<br />That you can hold your head high as you walk the streets.</p><p>Taken from the poetry collection <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Too-Black-Strong-Benjamin-Zephaniah/dp/1852245549/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2XD2AX4LUDK3H&keywords=benjamin+zephaniah+too+black%2C+too+strong&qid=1702494963&sprefix=too+black%2Caps%2C123&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Too Black, Too Strong </a></i></p><h1 class="dcr-llf76j"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="Benjamin Zephaniah’s inspiring words and acts" target="_blank">Benjamin Zephaniah’s inspiring words and acts</a></span></h1><h1 class="style-scope ytd-watch-metadata"><span style="font-size: medium;">Benjamin Zephaniah On Why He TURNED DOWN His OBE. Superb.<br /></span></h1><h1 class="dcr-llf76j"><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/d2PSoa8o3ps" width="320" youtube-src-id="d2PSoa8o3ps"></iframe></div><br /> </span></h1>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-59300968965684214132023-11-19T19:37:00.000+01:002023-11-19T19:37:19.823+01:00Before The Snow<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt4Vovy7BFIXk91vHKX64kzXD-Geut-LDeDYvtwNBigcbAogLZCev7AYJIYeuDcMkQ9zrFkY8RSM8fCG6b906tqCCn9Y2pmzullJguP2eQcDaIc1_vBnms5hEM2LawjNZgAAqsiL1zbrlICfmnM9AsuxXhVpH1rOCb7Ey1Q8vkxjW7RyPrR-zfCw/s5184/noah-silliman-gzhyKEo_cbU-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt4Vovy7BFIXk91vHKX64kzXD-Geut-LDeDYvtwNBigcbAogLZCev7AYJIYeuDcMkQ9zrFkY8RSM8fCG6b906tqCCn9Y2pmzullJguP2eQcDaIc1_vBnms5hEM2LawjNZgAAqsiL1zbrlICfmnM9AsuxXhVpH1rOCb7Ey1Q8vkxjW7RyPrR-zfCw/w640-h426/noah-silliman-gzhyKEo_cbU-unsplash.jpg" width="640" /></a></div> Photo credit: <a href="https://unsplash.com/@noahsilliman">Noah Silliman on Unsplash</a><p></p><p style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 115%;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">'She knew she had some good memories of this house, of the time she had spent
here with her mother and her brother, she knew these thoughts were inside her,
but she also knew that good memories had a way of leeching into the bad ones,
just as ripping off wallpaper led to revealing things that were covered for a
reason.'</span></i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 115%;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></i></span></p><p><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br />This city is so big, so desolate. </i><br /><br />People were rarely out on the streets, especially not now, and especially not during the short but biting winter months when the snow fell and added an extra layer of silence. If you didn’t know that people still lived here, you could easily imagine that this was all yours. But people did still live here, if you could call it living, barely hanging on, but surviving, existing, not willing to give up yet, even though the thought of sleeping without waking seemed almost comforting. For some reason, the size of the city, the desolation, the silence, reminded Anna of her first day at the company, when she was taken into that huge building where people sat, spending each day in deathly silence. <br /><br /> It had taken Anna almost four hours to trudge through the snow. She didn’t mind the additional effort on her already exhausted body, she had a goal in sight, although she wasn’t quite sure why she was doing this or why she was making this trip. A pilgrimage, she had said to Miriam before leaving the shelter– <br /><br /> “I can’t think straight in here. It’s as if we’re just waiting to die, and I'm not ready for that yet. I don’t deserve that.” <br /><br /> “Where are you going to go?” Miriam asked. “You’ll be caught or worse if you go out there.” <br /><br /> “I need to go back to the last place that made sense, before I can decide how to move forward.” <br /><br /> “Will you come back?” <br /><br /> “I don’t know.” <br /><br /> The streets she now walked were completely deserted, but she knew that the perceived absence of people was no guarantee of safety, and even if she were to be caught, she could at least do this one last thing. And no matter what happened afterwards, she would remember that there were some places that still existed, that were real, even if only in her memory. <br /><br /> Anna turned the corner and stopped when she saw the long, wide street with houses on either side. She shivered, her warm breath turning to mist when she exhaled. She knew by the lights in some of the windows that people still lived here, but they were no doubt not the same people as before. Apart from the blanket of snow covering the street, the hedges, the cars, everything looked the same as it had when she left, before she had gone into the wider world that existed outside of this street. <br /><br /> Everything looked exactly the same, just smaller. When she was a child, this street seemed so long that it was a chore to walk to the very end of it each morning to reach her school. She could see her house, what was her house, from where she stood, and the garden she had played in as a child, the only difference being that what greenery there once was, was now covered with snow. Her memories of that small garden were always confined to the warm summer months when the grass was green and she could look over to the small playpark across the street and hear other children–friends–laughing and talking as they played on the swings and slides. <br /><br /> She walked past the deserted playpark until she reached the front of her house. The front gate was missing and without thinking she quickly walked down the path that ran alongside the house leading to the large back garden. The wooden shed, that at one time stood in the furthest corner of the garden, was now gone. The tree that towered as high as the two-storey house was now nothing more than a stump jutting from mud. This was the tree that Anna’s mother had planted, or maybe her father had, before he disappeared. She wiped the snow from the smooth wide stump, sat down and looked at the kitchen window, not yet ready to do what she knew she was going to. <br /><br /> The wall running along the entire length of the garden was covered with snow from which dead foliage peaked through. Anna remembered that the new neighbours at the time had built the wall as high as they could for privacy. <br /><br />Walls don’t provide privacy, she thought, that’s an illusion. People pay to give up their right to privacy, and they do it willingly. You can’t hide anything, no matter how high you build those walls. <br /><br /> The wind picked up slightly and blew snowflakes onto her cheeks. She could never remember it snowing like this when she was child, not with this intensity. During the winters there could be high temperatures one day and then the next day it could be snowing ferociously, no warning, and then a few days later the storm would be over, gone. <br /><br />The house <i>seemed</i> deserted, but it was hard to judge. If someone was home then the outcome would be the same, she would be caught. The only unknown was the severity of the punishment. The inhabitants, if there were any, could simply let her go, or they could inform the authorities, keep her in the house until they arrived, and she didn’t think she would have the strength to fight anyone if they decided to attack her. This house, a previous place of safety, safety which she took for granted only a few years earlier, could be the reason she ended up in the hands of the authorities. <br /><br /> No, she thought, <i>you</i> could be the reason you end up in trouble, this is your choice. And for what? To indulge in nostalgia? To try and relive a time when you felt safe, when you felt secure, when worries were the priority only of adults? But worries are not always only for adults. <br /><br />Instead of leaving–which the voice in her head had been screaming at her to do–Anna grabbed a thick plank of wood lying against a large, steel coal-bunker, a left-over piece of garden furniture used to hold the coal people fuelled the fires in their homes with, although coal fires were a thing of the past many decades before Anna was born. She dragged an iron garden chair directly underneath the kitchen window and stood on it, lay her body flat against the window and proceeded to bang the end of the plank against the frame of the smaller upper window. <br /><br />Her mother used this trick when they’d been accidently locked out of the house. The smaller window closed with a lever, and if the wood was hit against the metal frame for long enough, the vibrations would eventually jolt the lever out of its place, allowing the small window to be opened. All Anna would have to do was reach in the small window and turn the handle on the larger window, allowing her to enter. <br /><br /> She clenched her jaw and looked around the garden every time the wood slammed against the metal frame. After five attempts the lever was still firmly in place and her hands ached from both the effort and the coldness of the wet wood. The silence in the garden seemed more intense after each bang of the wood against the frame, but nobody came to stop her, and nobody appeared at the window, reassuring Anna that the house was deserted. Eventually, increasing the force of each thrust, the lever moved slightly. Spurred on by this–and the thought of finding some warmth inside the house–she forced the wood harder against the frame until the lever popped from its resting place and the small window opened. <br /><br /> “And what do you think you’re doing?” <br /><br /> Anna was half-way through the large window, balancing her right foot on the enamel kitchen sink, when she heard the man’s voice. She turned to look down at him, immediately weighing up his risk to her should she need to make a run for it or have to fight him off. He was lot older than Anna, stocky and looked strong enough to present a problem if he turned out to be unfriendly. The man bent down and picked up the now discarded plank of wood. <br /><br /> “You live here?” he said to her, looking down at the plank in his hand. <br /><br /> “I'm…I’m locked out.” <br /><br /> “Never seen you before. I thought this place was empty.” <br /><br /> “No. No it’s not empty. I just can’t find my key.” <br /><br /> “Nice trick, never seen anyone break into a house using just this.” <br /><br /> The man wasn’t wearing a coat, which meant he’d probably come from one of the nearby houses after hearing the noise from Anna’s break-in. <br /><br /> “I told you, I'm not breaking in.” <br /><br /> “Yeah, okay. You’re just visiting for the Christmas holidays, right? You should come down from there. You’re not fully in that house yet, but breaking in like this is more than enough to get you taken in.” He stared up at Anna, expecting her to comply. <br /><br />There were only two options open to her, and only one that meant she could get away from him without a struggle. <br /><br /> She spoke calmly but forcefully. “I’ve already told you, I'm not breaking in. You should leave me alone and stop harassing me.” <br /><br /> “Harassing you,” he smiled, ‘is <i>that</i> what I'm doing? You better get down from there now. I can tell just by looking that you’re homeless. I can smell your type a mile off. I'm not going to tell you again.” <br /><br /> “Leave me alone.” Anna pulled her leg, which was balancing on the window-ledge, through the window-frame. As she made this movement the man grabbed at her ankle, pulling her leg backwards. <br /><br /> “Get down here now.” <br /><br />Breaking from the man’s grip, Anna lost her balance and fell inwards, toppling from the sink and falling down onto the stone floor of the kitchen. She immediately shot up, ignoring the pain in her elbow, knowing instinctively what his next move would be. At the same time as the man was jumping onto the chair against the wall, Anna grabbed the window handle and slammed it shut, turning the handle, locking the man out. He stared at her through the glass, unsure of what to do next. He grabbed for the smaller window and began to pull himself up with the intention of unlocking the larger window just as Anna had done. His arm was through the small window and reaching for the handle when Anna grabbed a pot and slammed it against his hand. <br /><br /> “You bitch,” he shouted, pulling his arm out of the window-frame. <br /><br /> Pulling herself back on to the top of the sink, Anna closed the small window and pushed the lever back into its resting place. They both stared at each other through the glass, each unsure of their next move. <br /><br /> “You’re in trouble now. You don’t belong here,” the man shouted. <br /><br /> “I belong here more than you do. And you’re the one who is attacking a woman,” she replied, looking down at him. “You’ll be in trouble when I report this. Go back to your home before I call the authorities.” <br /><br /> The man pointed towards her. “We’ll see. I’ll be waiting.” He nodded and walked off through the back garden. <br /><br /> The front door. She hadn't even checked if it was unlocked because she’d wanted to get out of sight as quickly as possible. Jumping down from the sink she ran out of the kitchen and down the familiar hallway until she reached the door where she grabbed the handle and pulled, but the door remained in place and the man didn’t appear at the small window set into the door. <br /><br /> She stood, checking for any movement beyond the window. She knew there was no other way into this house, but he could simply smash the kitchen window and enter if he really wanted to get to her. He seemed to be the only other person around and she doubted that anyone would come to help if she screamed out if he were to enter and attack her. Sitting down, her back to the door, she waited, listening for signs that he was still prowling around. The only sound now was rapid breathing, a sign of the fear she’d tried to hide from the man, now making her more aware of the danger she found herself in and just how scared she really was. <br /><br /> You’re here now, she thought, what happens is going to happen eventually. Today, tomorrow or at some point in the future, you’re going to be caught, and you know this and maybe you’ve even pushed towards it. So do what you came here to do and then leave. <br /><br /> The carpet in the hallway was the same, the wallpaper was the same, although some sheets were ripped, uncovering the previous décor. Anna gently pulled at the ripped paper and for a moment she thought she recognised the bright yellow wallpaper beneath. A spark of a memory, although it was impossible to tell if her mind was playing tricks. She felt as if she were staring through mist at a person approaching her, talking to her, and the voice sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it because it had been years since she’d last seen this person and she’d intentionally allowed them to drift from her mind. <br /><br /> She moved a couple of steps down the hallway and placed her palm on the living room door. Instead of pushing it open, she stopped, slowly stepping back, realising she was afraid to see what lay behind that door. She knew she had some good memories of this house, of the time she had spent here with her mother and her brother, she knew these thoughts were inside her, but she also knew that good memories had a way of leeching into the bad ones, just as ripping off wallpaper led to revealing things that were covered for a reason. <br /><br />She proceeded up the staircase, telling herself that it was pointless trying to kill ghosts, and yet knowing that this was why she was here. This was to be a reminder that she could survive, even during darkest of times, and she could endure, even if it’s only to exist, as long as there was something to hold on to, even if it was only the smallest, good memory. <br /><br /> With the bedroom doors closed, the upper landing was in darkness. <i>Another forgotten memory emerged</i> – her mother was afraid of the dark, she would never sleep without at least a bedside light on throughout the night. Darkness had never bothered Anna, because she knew from an early age that there was nothing different in the dark, it was just like closing your eyes. As a child she had found her mother’s irrational fear surprising; an adult scared of the dark. What fears did the darkness hold for her mother? What thoughts crept into her mind if the lights went out? <br /><br /> She pushed the door open to what had previously been her own bedroom. The shape of the room was of course the same, the windows in the same place, the cupboards built into the wall. Again, the room seemed smaller. There was no furniture, no bed, no bookshelves. She walked over to the window and looked out onto the empty street. Everything was the same out there, yet everything was different, and nothing could be the same again. The past she was searching for wasn’t within these walls, it was in her head and she had no need to come here to relive it. <br /><br /> But still…something, anything…there’s something here, she thought. <br /><br />She returned to the hallway and was about to enter Max’s bedroom but decided against it. She knew that wandering slowly through the house was simply her way of killing time, time she didn’t have, and it was keeping her from going into one room, her mother’s bedroom. <br /><br /> The door swung open easily because the carpets had been stripped. Each small step Anna took was accompanied by the creaking of the floorboards echoing within the large empty room. <br /><br /> <i>Sit here. </i><br /><br /> As Anna leaned against the far wall, looking in front of her at the space where the bed had once been, she could hear her mother’s voice in her head. <br /><br /><i>Talk to me about anything you want. Don’t be scared. </i><br /><br /> She had known that her mother was dying and that questions were pointless because her death was a certainty. There was to be no reprieve, and each day Anna had awoken in a chair, in this bedroom, she was faced with a mother who each night had grown thinner, frailer, weaker, until the point came where she was unable even to talk. Questions, had Anna asked any, would now never be answered. <br /><br /> Walking over to the space where the bed used to be, she looked down at the floorboards, trying to remember her mother lying on the bed, not as she was at the end, but as she had been, before the illness ate away at everything, until she was no longer the person she’d known her entire life. <br /><br /> “What do I do now? I'm here and I'm asking you this question – what do I do now? Because I don’t know what to do and I <i>am</i> scared. I'm alone and I'm scared.” <br /><br /> For a moment she thought she could smell lilacs, the sweet smell of which always enveloped Anna whenever she had entered this room, although it could never fully mask the odour lying beneath. <br /><br /> Before leaving the room, Anna flicked the light switch to the on position. <br /><br /></span> <span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br />After visiting her mother’s bedroom, the living room no longer held any fear for her. All that remained in this large room was one table and two chairs situated by the window. As a child she hadn't spent much time in this room, the family room, preferring the solitude of her bedroom. This was a room of arguments between parents. In reality she barely knew her father, even though he lived as part of the family for well over a decade before leaving. <br /><br /> He could still be out there, Anna thought, as she sat down in a chair next to the window. <br /><br /> She remembered that the arguments had become so frequent that she simply began leaving the room whenever her father appeared, until there came a point when the two had barely spoken a word to each other in years, and although she felt a sense of relief when he left, she still at times blamed herself for his departure. Maybe if she had spoken to him it would have made a difference, she thought. But she could still remember his anger, his authoritarian attitude, his strict work ethic, which he tried to drill into Anna–how life wasn’t all about playing with her friends–and his rules, his apparent disregard for her feelings and interests, his favouritism of Max. <br /><br /> For much of her childhood his word was law; although at times she would snap and fight back. And perhaps it was thanks to him that she learned not to back down, and that maybe even a strict authoritarian such as her father could provide valuable lessons, lessons he was unaware he was teaching her. Each parent had provided her with something–two sides–love taught by her mother, and a hatred of authority from her father. Love and hate, it’s that simple. Ultimately, though, these emotions are in conflict, and surely one must overcome the other. <br /><br /> Looking out of the window, Anna saw the men with guns emerging from the side door of a black van. Once they had exited the van, they stood talking to each other before moving into the garden towards the house. <br /><br /> Anna calmly flicked her gaze from the window down to the table, moving her finger through the dust, writing the answer to the question she had asked her mother. <br /></span><br /> <i>Remember.</i></p><p><i>No offence, novel excerpt.</i><br /></p><h1 class="dcr-29zico"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Red-Lights-Garry-Crystal-ebook/dp/B07N14J15G/ref=sr_1_5?crid=26TN70F326Z95&keywords=garry+crystal&qid=1696358002&sprefix=garry+crystal%2Caps%2C174&sr=8-5"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hcXEM_eMIQDFLs5yEwicMMKGd6aavJZOg-CGYJkZtWfKmnr2QEpJWSzMOIprocQuET1_lYEvDMEStV-mcPup4THhSL8ulBJsksiX9PR7DwTOgG0rAs2Nddwo3qyYAeTtxV0DkQ/w804-h361/new.jpg" /></a></span></span></h1><p style="text-align: left;"><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-37614441587869694242023-10-07T20:35:00.005+01:002023-11-19T19:32:39.787+01:00Life in 4K<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVx-oicbJbopNHf2LaE0M1mWDR4TcE5Vr7tf6T1_BtU-M9bTBG5t9pB5js6LXMK85ifbZ4bzbtRXy-vi44TeaUIDUYgRiZNuKdNye1WObb416Psjh4ySCEXTjFJDaCcED58wjgT2CDnHVEPPMkI9EevOi-EzWcmp0KnKly8uIcs9a4CCpiXxCxzQ/s4032/patrick-tomasso-fhcHtwnhQvo-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVx-oicbJbopNHf2LaE0M1mWDR4TcE5Vr7tf6T1_BtU-M9bTBG5t9pB5js6LXMK85ifbZ4bzbtRXy-vi44TeaUIDUYgRiZNuKdNye1WObb416Psjh4ySCEXTjFJDaCcED58wjgT2CDnHVEPPMkI9EevOi-EzWcmp0KnKly8uIcs9a4CCpiXxCxzQ/w480-h640/patrick-tomasso-fhcHtwnhQvo-unsplash.jpg" width="480" /></a></div> Photo Credit: <a href="https://unsplash.com/@impatrickt">Patrick Tomasso</a><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> I’m getting out and about, in the crowds again<br />Among the streets, the people<br />Walking tours on YouTube,<br />The arrondissements de Paris<br />Summiting Mt. Fuji<br />An hour in Venice yesterday,<br />The streets of New York City today<br />And it’s very affordable<br />With zero carbon footprint<br />And no chance of culture shock<br /><br />Sometimes I wonder<br />If the camera person<br />Ever feels awkward<br />Filming all these people<br />A man walks by, dragged by a dog<br />I hear him say<br /><i>Please delete me, I don’t want to be part of this video.</i><br />He did say please.<br />He asked politely.<br />Too late, buddy<br />You’re fair game once you leave home.<br />I’d blame the dog, it had to be walked.<br />At times I feel awkward<br />And avoid eye contact with others<br />Not that they would know <br />A virtual tourist<br />A stationary international traveller<br />No passport or visa or vaccines required<br />The cities await<br />No matter the weather<br /><br />Wait…<br />I spy…<br />A Citibank<br />A Duane Reade<br />A CVS Pharmacy<br />A Starbucks<br />A Dunkin’ Donuts<br /><i>Don’t walk against the light!</i><br />That’s what the cop<br />Bellowed at us from the other side of the street.<br />Three or four times he’d shouted it<br />Even though none of us were moving<br />But that was the last time I was in that city<br />A winter trip, January<br />Can’t remember the year<br /><br />There’s the famous bar<br />On the corner<br />The one in which the poet<br />Drank 18 shots of whisky<br />Before dying the next day<br />The tour guide’s not going in<br />But I did<br />With a woman who smoked a vape<br />Filled with something<br />Illegal back then<br />And I said that it was stinking the place up<br />And then told her I was joking,<br />But she was pissed at that<br />And on the subway<br />She said that she could fix the wrinkles<br />Around my eyes<br />Which seemed a strange thing to say<br />Focus. <br /><i>Focus!</i><br />You’re missing the tour.<br /><br />Someplace different…<br />No, not there…<br />Never going back there<br />Not to that city,<br />Not to that country<br />Not even as an onlooker<br />No-thanks for the memories.<br />Move on.<br />Wait,<br />One bad vacation experience does not a country…<br />Yeah, okay, mi komprenas<br /><br />I’m not too sure that as a kid<br />I promised myself<br />One day<br />I’d see the world…<br />–Experience it, taste it, savour it–<br />In glorious 4K<br />No stress, no hassle, no airport security shouting <i>Now you’re learning</i><br />No three-foot snow drifts<br />No walking all night in the pouring rain<br />No drunken escapades, misplaced bankcards<br />Getting lost, and wondering where the hell I am/was.<br />Did I really want to be stuck in Times Square<br />In this Covid-infested world?<br />Or contribute to the stampede of carbon footprints<br />Keeping the world aflame?<br /><br />Still<br />Life behind a screen <br />Means no real-time sunset views from the Sacre Coeur<br />No sea breeze drifting across a Corfu beach<br />No choosing which bar to get drunk in<br />In the East Village or Notting Hill<br />And no lazy Sunday afternoon conversations in Pure Cafe<br />Or standing alone on the Charles Bridge listening to musicians<br />It means no craic in Temple Bar<br />No views from the Eiffel or the Empire State<br />No experiencing the absolute sense of freedom<br />When you step from a plane or train<br />In a new destination<br />Where not a soul knows you<br />And you can switch off<br />No wifi, no phone, no work…<br />And no anger, no frustration, no sadness<br />None of life’s everyday problems<br />Encroaching and pulling at you<br />Because right now, you’re here/there<br />Somewhere in the world<br />And this place<br />You hope<br />Has your back<br /><br />Somewhere else…<br />No,<br />That wasn’t a good one<br />Too many people ignoring the world<br />Staring at screens<br />Walking against the light.</span></p><h1 class="dcr-29zico"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Red-Lights-Garry-Crystal-ebook/dp/B07N14J15G/ref=sr_1_5?crid=26TN70F326Z95&keywords=garry+crystal&qid=1696358002&sprefix=garry+crystal%2Caps%2C174&sr=8-5"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hcXEM_eMIQDFLs5yEwicMMKGd6aavJZOg-CGYJkZtWfKmnr2QEpJWSzMOIprocQuET1_lYEvDMEStV-mcPup4THhSL8ulBJsksiX9PR7DwTOgG0rAs2Nddwo3qyYAeTtxV0DkQ/w804-h361/new.jpg" /></a></span></span></h1><p></p>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-15241798129597393382023-10-03T15:25:00.005+01:002023-10-10T13:44:55.700+01:00Not Much More Than This. Go.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjabVjZI1E3jpbCbd3MkPFNonRGlruRNSvgm-0JQMFmb9Cvuv6S0l67xKz-vLvDUcI9JvDaJmIzDrctknovwi6adfFgXUVOZku4Pk6dIQJoK6SUm4iwSBbZQ_FP9JKRF86kg-oYkqMq3spDawuaxyZhtwmdrlb0Giq2cyxeB7l6fEVZfDSdg4irJw/s4288/becca-schultz-l6BenhrIc2w-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4288" data-original-width="2848" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjabVjZI1E3jpbCbd3MkPFNonRGlruRNSvgm-0JQMFmb9Cvuv6S0l67xKz-vLvDUcI9JvDaJmIzDrctknovwi6adfFgXUVOZku4Pk6dIQJoK6SUm4iwSBbZQ_FP9JKRF86kg-oYkqMq3spDawuaxyZhtwmdrlb0Giq2cyxeB7l6fEVZfDSdg4irJw/w426-h640/becca-schultz-l6BenhrIc2w-unsplash.jpg" width="426" /></a></div> Photo credit: <a href="https://unsplash.com/@mrsbeccaschultz">Becca Schultz</a><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Okay,<br />So they tried to beat the spirit out of you<br />And at times it felt as if that’s all there was<br />To that life<br />Did it work? Did they win?<br />Where are they now?<br />Still living inside?<br />Punching outwards?<br />Making life almost unbearable?<br />Sometimes...<br />But they weren’t there on Hudson Street<br />Outside the Tavern<br />Or on Rue Oberkampf<br />As you smoked a cigarette outside the Charbon<br />And they weren’t there<br />When you walked the Camino<br />Or awoke under Mt. Fuji's shadow.<br />They weren’t there,<br />But you were,<br />Still alive, breathing calmly<br />Taking it all in,<br />Without them</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>This week's music - Michael Kiwanuka - Home</i></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="198" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/kJ4s3G7hgR4" width="286" youtube-src-id="kJ4s3G7hgR4"></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><h1 class="dcr-29zico"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"></span></span></h1><h1 class="dcr-29zico"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Red-Lights-Garry-Crystal-ebook/dp/B07N14J15G/ref=sr_1_5?crid=26TN70F326Z95&keywords=garry+crystal&qid=1696358002&sprefix=garry+crystal%2Caps%2C174&sr=8-5"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hcXEM_eMIQDFLs5yEwicMMKGd6aavJZOg-CGYJkZtWfKmnr2QEpJWSzMOIprocQuET1_lYEvDMEStV-mcPup4THhSL8ulBJsksiX9PR7DwTOgG0rAs2Nddwo3qyYAeTtxV0DkQ/w804-h361/new.jpg" /></a></span></span></h1>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-43686171241992135152023-08-27T16:25:00.007+01:002023-08-29T11:11:19.721+01:00A Conversation on how to be Happy, by Mr Tav Orlosky<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLdr-Fl-p3rT-w3KEtv2bhSY6kyMxJ-uzZhWm5UQSoCq_Y_ur3cHfSRXccxp5jLPrc_IOEHGwSYispJ3ThX-lOmg68GLh896oO6kNvypqL5MrPBJU3wegDCrCKUIh6_WcaVRZj37goc03sbfqUE9WDAHDe-YvZ8y8nSBDMmF-YBWAz2hkpFQ6tlA/s3936/alexandre-pellaes-6vAjp0pscX0-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2624" data-original-width="3936" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLdr-Fl-p3rT-w3KEtv2bhSY6kyMxJ-uzZhWm5UQSoCq_Y_ur3cHfSRXccxp5jLPrc_IOEHGwSYispJ3ThX-lOmg68GLh896oO6kNvypqL5MrPBJU3wegDCrCKUIh6_WcaVRZj37goc03sbfqUE9WDAHDe-YvZ8y8nSBDMmF-YBWAz2hkpFQ6tlA/w640-h426/alexandre-pellaes-6vAjp0pscX0-unsplash.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p> Photo by Alexandre Pellaes</p><p><br /><span style="font-size: large;">I read a line the other day, ‘Happiness isn’t by chance, it’s by choice.’ I'm thinking of starting a new business selling calendars with sayings like that for each day. People are always coming out with this stuff, and most of the time it doesn’t really mean anything. It’s just a seemingly-clever little saying for each appropriate situation designed to make the person saying it seem wise. If someone said that to me, I would say-<br />‘Okay, explain what you just meant by that’, and then they’d be like, ‘But…no…it doesn’t need explanation.’ <br />‘No, go on. Explain it.’<br />‘No, I never explain the things I say.’<br />‘Arsehole!’<br />‘No, you’re the arsehole for A, not understanding, and B, asking me for further explanation.’ <br />‘Well, I’m making the choice in deciding that you’re an arsehole, and that’s made me happy. Oh...you’re right, it does work.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In next week's episode, dissecting 'Thoughts and prayers', and, 'It is what it is'.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><h1 class="dcr-29zico"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hcXEM_eMIQDFLs5yEwicMMKGd6aavJZOg-CGYJkZtWfKmnr2QEpJWSzMOIprocQuET1_lYEvDMEStV-mcPup4THhSL8ulBJsksiX9PR7DwTOgG0rAs2Nddwo3qyYAeTtxV0DkQ/w804-h361/new.jpg" /></a></span></span></h1>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-1978863797696353072023-08-21T11:47:00.001+01:002023-08-21T12:28:29.664+01:00Human Rights Watch - Saudi Arabia Border Guards Commit Mass Killings of Migrants at Yemen Border<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="378" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/f90vwqCYU1c" width="603" youtube-src-id="f90vwqCYU1c"></iframe> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">From Human Rights Watch -</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="yt-core-attributed-string yt-core-attributed-string--white-space-pre-wrap"><span class="yt-core-attributed-string--link-inherit-color" style="color: #131313;">'(London, August 21, 2023) – Saudi border guards have killed at least hundreds of Ethiopian migrants and asylum seekers who tried to cross the Yemen-Saudi border between March 2022 and June 2023, Human Rights Watch said in a report released today. If committed as part of a Saudi government policy to murder migrants, these killings, which appear to continue, would be a crime against humanity. </span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="yt-core-attributed-string yt-core-attributed-string--white-space-pre-wrap"><span class="yt-core-attributed-string--link-inherit-color" style="color: #131313;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="yt-core-attributed-string yt-core-attributed-string--white-space-pre-wrap"><span class="yt-core-attributed-string--link-inherit-color" style="color: #131313;">'The 73-page report, “‘They Fired on Us Like Rain’: Saudi Arabian Mass Killings of Ethiopian Migrants at the Yemen-Saudi Border,” found that Saudi border guards have used explosive weapons to kill many migrants and shot other migrants at close range, including many women and children, in a widespread and systematic pattern of attacks. In some instances, Saudi border guards asked migrants what limb to shoot, and then shot them at close range. Saudi border guards also fired explosive weapons at migrants who were attempting to flee back to Yemen.'</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="yt-core-attributed-string yt-core-attributed-string--white-space-pre-wrap"><span class="yt-core-attributed-string--link-inherit-color" style="color: #131313;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="yt-core-attributed-string yt-core-attributed-string--white-space-pre-wrap"><span class="yt-core-attributed-string--link-inherit-color" style="color: #131313;">From The Guardian- <br /></span></span></span><p class="dcr-1kas69x"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">“I saw people killed in a way I have never
imagined,” Hamdiya, a 14-year-old girl who crossed the border in a group
of 60 in February, told researchers. “I saw 30 killed people on the
spot.”</span></i></p><p class="dcr-1kas69x"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">HRW’s lead researcher on the report, Nadia Hardman, described the findings as “obscene”.</span></i></p><p class="dcr-1kas69x"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">“I
cover violence at borders, but I have never come across something of
this nature, the use of explosive weapons including against women and
children,” Hardman said.</span></i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="yt-core-attributed-string yt-core-attributed-string--white-space-pre-wrap"><span class="yt-core-attributed-string--link-inherit-color" style="color: #131313;"> <br /></span></span></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="yt-core-attributed-string yt-core-attributed-string--white-space-pre-wrap"><span class="yt-core-attributed-string--link-inherit-color" style="color: #131313;"><a href="https://www.theguardian.com/law/2023/aug/21/fired-on-like-rain-saudi-border-guards-accused-of-mass-killings-of-ethiopians" target="_blank"> https://www.theguardian.com/law/2023/aug/21/fired-on-like-rain-saudi-border-guards-accused-of-mass-killings-of-ethiopians</a></span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="yt-core-attributed-string yt-core-attributed-string--white-space-pre-wrap"><span class="yt-core-attributed-string--link-inherit-color" style="color: #131313;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="yt-core-attributed-string yt-core-attributed-string--white-space-pre-wrap"><span class="yt-core-attributed-string--link-inherit-color" style="color: #131313;">Support Human Rights Watch here - <a href="https://donate.hrw.org/page/71965/donate/1?ea.tracking.id=geo">https://donate.hrw.org/page/71965/donate/1?ea.tracking.id=geo<br /></a></span></span></span></div><p></p>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-76722054868697416262023-08-20T14:09:00.003+01:002023-08-21T10:57:21.247+01:00Our Schools Back Then<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbvi3ce0N3xtdQrnuz-f5Wpi5VhuPJR9hwDOA_dfL5hrArntnZW6DnASmybF0ASFQpahxwHCp2GTxguO1avwSZOXlH5Uv8PNImAw5qtjZ_HtyHjieIVvN-j-s1tk3EQ3WdGJcf4NBvf1wM7MLFKDPCsyrcvtS9Gay4IZansXBiglALeuaSDHN0Ww/s1024/EdEhgu-XgAEF-8I.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="757" data-original-width="1024" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbvi3ce0N3xtdQrnuz-f5Wpi5VhuPJR9hwDOA_dfL5hrArntnZW6DnASmybF0ASFQpahxwHCp2GTxguO1avwSZOXlH5Uv8PNImAw5qtjZ_HtyHjieIVvN-j-s1tk3EQ3WdGJcf4NBvf1wM7MLFKDPCsyrcvtS9Gay4IZansXBiglALeuaSDHN0Ww/w640-h474/EdEhgu-XgAEF-8I.jpg" width="640" /></a></div> <p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Catholic and Protestant schools,<br />Less than a minute’s walk between<br />You think that was an accident?<br />We were meant to hate each other<br />From the start,<br />Division sown early<br />Businesses competing for customer loyalty<br />Violence on St Patrick’s Day for the kids<br />Across a muddy field<br />On Saturday,<br />Confess to sins you hadn’t committed<br />And all would be forgiven<br />By those who had sown the division<br />Throw catholic guilt into the mix,<br />Born with mortal sin<br />Jesus…<br /><br />All I can say to those<br />Still going through it<br />Escape these cults<br />It’s never too late<br />To unshackle yourself<br />From your growing addiction to suffering</span></p><h1 class="dcr-29zico"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hcXEM_eMIQDFLs5yEwicMMKGd6aavJZOg-CGYJkZtWfKmnr2QEpJWSzMOIprocQuET1_lYEvDMEStV-mcPup4THhSL8ulBJsksiX9PR7DwTOgG0rAs2Nddwo3qyYAeTtxV0DkQ/w804-h361/new.jpg" /></a></span></span></h1><p></p>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-4256420335930035792023-08-16T12:22:00.000+01:002023-08-16T12:22:19.577+01:00The Time Traveller's Lament<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTFpSWEJHQ9xoLfUgOZtawTwKHXKsUTLZlrnt0XCpqxic8dnPO2nMsqvRZxq8J8_r9HQlUEUp0Me89QHoyOh7jjwDWApjAfuZ-mOkqKuRfXhEzyn94N0NhxKa361sq-0XwXkZ9vj3nS7ya1NF_sPkELeL0o_QHij4_umzrXGXR35zxcyuVhDDorw/s6000/aron-visuals-BXOXnQ26B7o-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTFpSWEJHQ9xoLfUgOZtawTwKHXKsUTLZlrnt0XCpqxic8dnPO2nMsqvRZxq8J8_r9HQlUEUp0Me89QHoyOh7jjwDWApjAfuZ-mOkqKuRfXhEzyn94N0NhxKa361sq-0XwXkZ9vj3nS7ya1NF_sPkELeL0o_QHij4_umzrXGXR35zxcyuVhDDorw/w640-h426/aron-visuals-BXOXnQ26B7o-unsplash.jpg" width="640" /></a></div> Photo credit: <a href="https://unsplash.com/@aronvisuals" target="_blank">Aron Visuals on Unsplash</a><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You’re still here<br />But in a different decade,<br />You never made it to this one<br />And yet, if I concentrate<br />I can see you laugh, talk<br />Have conversations<br />At least the ones I was present for.<br />And those are nice, for a moment<br />Until I realise<br />They’re a rerun<br />I’ve seen them before, repeatedly<br />That short loop of memories,<br />Not much I’m afraid<br />For a person’s life.<br />Maybe there’s more<br />Waiting to be discovered, relived<br />But right now<br />There’s not much more I can create<br />Than this</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br /></p><h1 class="dcr-29zico"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hcXEM_eMIQDFLs5yEwicMMKGd6aavJZOg-CGYJkZtWfKmnr2QEpJWSzMOIprocQuET1_lYEvDMEStV-mcPup4THhSL8ulBJsksiX9PR7DwTOgG0rAs2Nddwo3qyYAeTtxV0DkQ/w804-h361/new.jpg" /></a></span></span></h1>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-91252937481971213972023-08-02T14:11:00.001+01:002023-08-13T21:42:23.892+01:00Longevity, Overrated<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBY8WyBdfNrWPqzVCP3FFa_f40sR9SCZ-KFcYF6Bg3Y8IyvlxL2RYV-XqJruP6CAbCfuf0JQ5X1sjaNUtZ8AsOP7q6HCaW4sUaRGgbPWc57unbj3d8N9a6jLvWnaHik1ScpHqczs34QCvxFvpLELzqiVRrYWTrWBVyzSRmM6NZ1_TMXRnbytbidg/s5477/scott-umstattd-lmClF825VYI-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3651" data-original-width="5477" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBY8WyBdfNrWPqzVCP3FFa_f40sR9SCZ-KFcYF6Bg3Y8IyvlxL2RYV-XqJruP6CAbCfuf0JQ5X1sjaNUtZ8AsOP7q6HCaW4sUaRGgbPWc57unbj3d8N9a6jLvWnaHik1ScpHqczs34QCvxFvpLELzqiVRrYWTrWBVyzSRmM6NZ1_TMXRnbytbidg/w640-h426/scott-umstattd-lmClF825VYI-unsplash.jpg" width="640" /></a></div> Photo Credit: Scott Umstattd<p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It’s that time again<br />Dancing through your own dream<br />On well-worn, rejuvenated city streets<br />Fears gone<br />Anxiety obliterated<br />Empty-headed<br />Everything fine<br />No one else, not now <br />Three months, long enough<br />To suffer<br />Mediocre middle age<br />In a house full of dust<br />Reward required<br />To suffer the next three<br />This feeling, why can’t it last forever?<br />It can<br />Of course it can<br />It can last forever<br /> Temporarily </span><br /></p><h1 class="dcr-29zico"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hcXEM_eMIQDFLs5yEwicMMKGd6aavJZOg-CGYJkZtWfKmnr2QEpJWSzMOIprocQuET1_lYEvDMEStV-mcPup4THhSL8ulBJsksiX9PR7DwTOgG0rAs2Nddwo3qyYAeTtxV0DkQ/w804-h361/new.jpg" /></a></span></span></h1><p></p>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-74604101952283676562023-07-24T16:36:00.000+01:002023-07-24T16:36:32.187+01:00Time Enough...<div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb19_bOOTm2X3DGrfRSG_luj-yEp7pua76Qmk5798ZAf_lljABamaJ9uU_fWRtgLUiQyuxAVhyTllpE-bQJQoboT2EW5tKLP70MZZ_3DcnYNzFDqtS3Bx5k49weZsbTruq8yVqT0GDQkblEYqHG-BZtuHWut5Q_U80Izs7cyY86AxuMSQLiJxPRg/s4506/cristina-gottardi-4L-AyDJM-yM-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3004" data-original-width="4506" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb19_bOOTm2X3DGrfRSG_luj-yEp7pua76Qmk5798ZAf_lljABamaJ9uU_fWRtgLUiQyuxAVhyTllpE-bQJQoboT2EW5tKLP70MZZ_3DcnYNzFDqtS3Bx5k49weZsbTruq8yVqT0GDQkblEYqHG-BZtuHWut5Q_U80Izs7cyY86AxuMSQLiJxPRg/w508-h338/cristina-gottardi-4L-AyDJM-yM-unsplash.jpg" width="508" /></a></div> Photo Credit: Cristina Gottardi<br /> <p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">'We find ways of protecting ourselves, of shifting blame, of burying emotions, until the dam bursts and the weight of guilt and regret acts as an anchor, pulling us under. And it’s at that point we make the decision, the choice, to simply give in and allow that weight to become the one thing above all else that defines us.'</span></i></p></div><div></div><div></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />The rabbit sat beside the snow–covered roadside before darting into a field where it merged with the snow, but was no doubt simply hidden from our eyes, its fur acting as camouflage. It appeared a few more times and was then gone. <br /><br />“I had a rabbit like that. It was pure–white with pink eyes.” <br /><br />Taliya sipped her coffee and stared out of the large café window. <br /><br />“I got it from a friend who bred rabbits when I was about seven years old. We had a hutch for it in the back garden.” <br /><br />“Did it live long? With you looking after it?” I'm not sure if she meant this as a taunt. I doubted she would be that cruel, not intentionally. <br /><br />“Yeah, a few years. You’re right, I didn’t look after it. The novelty of having a pet – especially a pet that did nothing but eat grass and shit – soon wore off. Sometimes I forgot to feed it or to clean its hutch. I was a kid, I had more important things to do. But that’s not what killed it.” <br /><br />I waited until I could see that Taliya had no intention of asking what killed the rabbit, and as I wasn’t sure if she was listening, I continued. <br /><br />“The rabbit lived, if you can call it that, cooped up in as small hutch. During the winter it would sometimes never get out at all. It was stuck there every day with the same view of a fence and the garden shed. It had a few minutes of company when I went to feed it, but that was it. Over the course of one winter I saw the change. It stopped letting me stroke its head, which was the first sign. When I placed my hand into the hutch it would back away, and I didn’t think anything of that reaction at first. But then it became scared and angry whenever I went near it, and I knew I was in danger of losing a finger if I went to stroke it. Whenever it saw me coming it would furiously scratch its front paws on the floor of the hutch and back itself into a corner. I knew better than to touch it after that. I just fed it and left. One day I went to feed it and I found it lying there, eyes open. I immediately knew it was dead.” <br /><br />Taliya stood up. “I'm going to get more coffee.” <br /><br />Her emotionless reaction was much the same as mine the day I found the dead rabbit. I understood that it had succumbed to its environment, succumbed to the solitude, to a life alone in a cage, and in the end, it attacked visitors when they arrived. <br /><br />The rabbit of course had no choice in the matter, and it was purely my lack of responsibility that had killed it. And that was the reason I felt little emotion on discovering it was dead. I knew that if I did look myself in the eye, I would have to admit that I was responsible. <br /><br />We find ways of protecting ourselves, of shifting blame, of burying emotions, until the dam bursts and the weight of guilt and regret acts as an anchor, pulling us under. It’s at that point we make the decision, the choice, to simply give in and allow that weight to become the one thing above all else that defines us.<span> </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span></span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></div><div><span> </span></div><div><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>~ Excerpt from <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Red-Lights-Garry-Crystal-ebook/dp/B07N14J15G/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2W7J6KYD7LVGF&keywords=red+lights+garry+crystal&qid=1690209568&sprefix=red+lights+garry+crystal%2Caps%2C183&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Red Lights</a></div><div> <br /><br /><b><span style="font-size: large;">Time Enough </span></b><br /><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">There are only so many days within a life <br />to do what you want, <br />yet you act as if you have all the time in the world, <br />as the days, months, years <br />merge together. <br />Never looking forward or back, <br />only ever the present. <br />I always thought it was an act <br />but maybe it’s not, <br />and by ignoring time, <br />refuting its existence, <br />you’ll live forever, <br />never fearing death, <br />never thinking about it. <br />And the fear others have <br />-of time running out- <br />disappears. <br />I wish I knew that trick. <br />It seems as good a way as any to live.</span><style><font size="4">@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p></div>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-7470658858444866182023-05-04T00:22:00.000+01:002023-05-04T00:22:25.068+01:00The Garden<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXe31CAQjBK__ZZXCIiGO19P2z7BZLQFl7wX9pzLD1ku4DkLJLYDjCUo-OC-8dGoDeCTbyfimO4DKoowiiaArt43CIWt0BlqTrt9ef_dkmGiM0eZvF7_cmMegONxky1ZqR3ns3_DD2KamURcGl4x3UbU3rMDUF5lC8bZzYCPciYiittGcXKME/s8256/annie-spratt-yjBl77nwb90-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5504" data-original-width="8256" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXe31CAQjBK__ZZXCIiGO19P2z7BZLQFl7wX9pzLD1ku4DkLJLYDjCUo-OC-8dGoDeCTbyfimO4DKoowiiaArt43CIWt0BlqTrt9ef_dkmGiM0eZvF7_cmMegONxky1ZqR3ns3_DD2KamURcGl4x3UbU3rMDUF5lC8bZzYCPciYiittGcXKME/w640-h426/annie-spratt-yjBl77nwb90-unsplash.jpg" width="640" /></a></div> Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash<p></p><p>
</p><p><br /><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">My mother, she hates profanities, <br />so when I visit her <br />I’ll occasionally drop a curse word <br />into the conversation. <br />I’ll say her favourite show <br /><i>Shetland </i><br />is about to start, <br />but I’ll call it Shitland. <br />When someone swears <br />on television <br />I’ll pretend I didn’t hear <br />and ask her what they said. <br />Sometimes she’ll repeat it <br />word-for-word, <br />just to prove she can, <br />but usually <br />she’ll say she didn’t hear it <br />and tells me she knows what I’m doing. <br /><br />She knows I don’t believe in God, <br />but she’ll bring it up <br />from time-to-time, <br />defending the believers, <br />and I’ll be pulled <br />into an argument <br />ongoing ever since I saw the light <br />and left the Catholic faith behind. <br /><br />She has an uncontrollable garden, <br />and I argue <br />that I can’t keep tending <br />to this Jurassic Park, <br />which of course never stops growing, <br />but I’ll still end up spending <br />days mowing, chopping <br />hedging, running from bees, <br />swearing a lot <br />during those many hours, <br />while she sits comfortably <br />on the couch <br />watching Shitland <br />or one of the many <br /><i>gentle detective shows</i> <br />she’s seen countless times. <br /><br />But my relationship with this garden <br />is close to over, <br />and I told her so. <br />Still, she won’t let it go, <br />she won’t hear of <br />ending <i>her</i> relationship <br />with that garden. <br />Maybe she sees herself as <br />an old-age eco-warrior. <br /><br />Sometimes, <br />after a few drinks, <br />she’ll talk about the past. <br />She’s almost the last <br />of her family's generation, <br />and I asked her if she was scared, <br />and she said yes. <br />I wanted to ask her <br />what she’s so scared of <br />given she believes <br />a new life is waiting. <br />I don’t ask. <br /><br />And sometimes <br />she’ll talk about my father, <br />long-dead, <br />and she won’t always talk about him <br />in glowing terms <br />and I said to her, <br /><i>just say it once,</i> <br /><i>fuck you</i>, <br />and she did, <br />just the once, <br />I remember. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When I was around six years old<br />my class went on a school trip<br />to the local zoo.<br />At the end of the day<br />the teacher came<br />and handed me a Tupperware box.<br />I didn’t know why she was giving it to me.<br />It turned out, my mother had packed a lunch for the kid<br />and paid for him to go on the trip<br />because he wouldn’t have been able to do so otherwise.<br />She hadn't said a thing to me about this before the trip,<br />but forty-seven years later<br />I still remember it.<br /><br />At the start of her seventh decade <br />she was on a bus <br />when the driver parked mid-trip to go to the shops <br />without engaging the handbrake. <br />The driverless bus rolled <br />down the steep city-centre street. </span><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Most of the people, young and old, <br />jumped off, <br />but she didn’t. <br />She grabbed the steering wheel, <br />crashed the bus into railings <br />to stop it hitting other cars. <br />It made the news for a few weeks, <br />the papers called her <i>Supergran</i>, <br />and she was presented with a bravery award <br />from Nicola Sturgeon, <br />who went on to become Scotland’s First Minister. <br />When I think about that, <br />I wonder <br />whether I would have followed, <br />jumped off that moving bus, <br />saved myself? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When I arrived at her home one day<br />she was mowing the lawn.<br />I asked her<br />why she was doing this,<br />given that she was close to eighty.<br />Someone has to do it, she said.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">In the end, the gardeners took over. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I whispered to her <br />On that bright Saturday morning in March ~<br /><i>The snowdrops are out <br />It looks like spring is here <br />I’m just going to make some coffee <br />I’ll be right back <br />Don't go anywhere, okay?<br /></i></span></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>A tribute to my mum, Agnes Crystal – 4th May 1941 ~ 4th March 2023 </i></span></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Poem started 2015. Completed May 2023<br /></i></span></p><p><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-64807104135067252792022-12-09T15:48:00.001+01:002022-12-09T15:48:30.622+01:00anomalous<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAGpzIUAIrRQBXE2v9AAlGzhzzgVqUGhIx5i2lHDtbx29FXgHg_Cnb_hvfV8Gz4HiPhMLS_9cFMngKX-cFJy6zunOHcaJYsJlD3Wr-J9hWbnKMB2QwAHmQyrz7mCqJrvppsxIo-LeTGJ2gGMH1HTNawkbtzitfbswyq_KP42WBVec-tfB7BmU/s5721/dave-hoefler-MrxlMcZxqhY-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3814" data-original-width="5721" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAGpzIUAIrRQBXE2v9AAlGzhzzgVqUGhIx5i2lHDtbx29FXgHg_Cnb_hvfV8Gz4HiPhMLS_9cFMngKX-cFJy6zunOHcaJYsJlD3Wr-J9hWbnKMB2QwAHmQyrz7mCqJrvppsxIo-LeTGJ2gGMH1HTNawkbtzitfbswyq_KP42WBVec-tfB7BmU/w640-h426/dave-hoefler-MrxlMcZxqhY-unsplash.jpg" width="640" /></a></div> Photo: David Hoefler<p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><b>“All the world’s a stage, and all men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts” - As You Like It, Shakespeare</b></i><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Life progressed<br />By rote,<br />The daily sequence<br />Never broken by significance.<br />Nothing planned<br />Nothing exceptional<br />Nothing ever more than coincidence<br />Or pushing towards curiosity.<br />Major events expected<br />Never less than unsurprising.<br /><br />There was a pattern to the sameness<br />The mediocre life <br />A life of beige<br />The colour of nothing<br />A beige wall<br />With a beige pattern.<br />And it wasn’t about time<br />Time running out<br />If that were the case<br />The colour would be<br />…..something else<br />Desperation, maybe. <br />And yet…<br />Although everything felt<br />As it should<br />Each morning,<br />Something…<br />Something lay just out of sight <br />They were both almost certain of that<br /><br />He had chosen to forget, successfully<br />She remembered<br />And on the day it rained<br />Something began<br />Something small<br />When she chose not to ignore<br />What she could not forget<br />Why are you angry at me?<br /><i>Because you’re not having an affair.</i><br />And?<br /><i>We have no financial problems.</i><br />And?<br /><i>Neither of us are sick.</i><br />And?<br /><i>We own a beautiful home.</i><br />And?<br />They both knew the answer<br />That beige<br />Will always become stained<br />Painted over<br />Eradicated<br />Just because</span></p><h1 class="dcr-29zico"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hcXEM_eMIQDFLs5yEwicMMKGd6aavJZOg-CGYJkZtWfKmnr2QEpJWSzMOIprocQuET1_lYEvDMEStV-mcPup4THhSL8ulBJsksiX9PR7DwTOgG0rAs2Nddwo3qyYAeTtxV0DkQ/w804-h361/new.jpg" /></a></span></span></h1><p></p>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-91762458200185748892022-11-25T17:46:00.007+01:002022-12-17T02:45:37.060+01:00To Those I Know, To Those I Don't<p style="text-align: left;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxsYv1OpqLcHBVECJUzfEwiIDL3nhBhXh37FkYYyv2cc455RT3_WkjDGk1yuqpmtZOQAj46_GAC7eKviv4bTZCDvgNmVQJ2veTYJo3Y4Y7SKz_oLt5tJXM7uJaqmUT0B8TeW81ZstbiRhm-7uz67qscXgFbB-ifPy1RY4tpfemG0U-7tuVocI/s3800/mario-heller-DZoOkd3Tbak-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2528" data-original-width="3800" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxsYv1OpqLcHBVECJUzfEwiIDL3nhBhXh37FkYYyv2cc455RT3_WkjDGk1yuqpmtZOQAj46_GAC7eKviv4bTZCDvgNmVQJ2veTYJo3Y4Y7SKz_oLt5tJXM7uJaqmUT0B8TeW81ZstbiRhm-7uz67qscXgFbB-ifPy1RY4tpfemG0U-7tuVocI/w640-h426/mario-heller-DZoOkd3Tbak-unsplash.jpg" width="640" /></a></div> <i><span style="font-size: medium;"> Photo by <a href="Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@heller_mario?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Mario Heller</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/paranoia?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a> " target="_blank">Mario Heller </a></span></i><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Someone said something critical about me<br />And it stuck<br />And it grew.<br />I could have taken it as a compliment, I suppose<br />No…no, I couldn’t<br />Was it a back-handed compliment?<br />I’m not sure<br />It was just a weird sentence<br />Said to me at work one night<br />From a woman I’d only just met<br />And it stuck<br />And it grew<br /><br />We were alone in the office<br />On Christmas Eve<br />Getting along well,<br />Thankfully,<br />Because we were stuck together<br />For at least 14 hours<br />Six until eight<br />Straight into Christmas Day<br />And yeah,<br />Maybe we shouldn’t have opened <br />Those bottles of wine at midnight<br />And maybe indiscretions occurred<br />And maybe she had said it without thinking<br />Or meant it as a compliment<br />Not knowing of my habit<br />Of over-analysing everything directed at me, near me<br />But it wasn’t her fault<br />This trail of events <br />After that sentence<br />Stuck and grew<br /><br />What she said…<br />What she said was<br /><i>I thought you were going to be a dickhead<br />When I first saw you<br />But you’re alright<br />Now that I’ve gotten to know you</i><br /><br />I thought nothing of it at first,<br />It seemed to be in line<br />With her sense of humour<br />Which kind of matched mine<br />But<br />Weed…<br />My weed paranoia<br />Had a habit of making me focus<br />On things others would probably discard<br />Or ignore<br />Or not give a second thought to.<br />But I couldn’t be that person<br />Of course not.<br />For me, smoking copious amounts of weed<br />Was like opening<br />My mind<br />To thousands of pieces of information<br />And all of those pieces<br />Related to me<br />Were about me<br />Or started off as a gnawing-in-my-mind connection to me<br />Plus, of course,<br />My mental fragility<br />May have had something to do<br />With the constant daily diet<br />Of legal drugs<br />Such as Pro Plus, coffee, nicotine, alcohol, codeine<br />As well as the usual weekend recreational drugs,<br />All designed <br />To kill exhaustion<br />To enable the ability to sleepwalk<br />To make you forget you were where you were<br />To make living in the city<br />–Working ridiculous hours per week just to survive–<br />A little more bearable.<br />Years later, I cut the weed<br />When I realised I was simply smoking anxiety <br />I cut the weed<br />When the news announcer on the radio<br />Said that there had been a stabbing in Central London<br />And named me as the knifeman<br /><i>We know it was you…</i><br />In that moment<br />While downing the umpteenth whisky<br />And sucking on the last joint of that particular Saturday night<br />While gripping the chair<br />And pinching the skin on my hand,<br />A small piece of my mind knew<br />That news presenter couldn’t actually<br />Be saying my name <br />It was weed and booze paranoia<br /> Or maybe it was just plain old paranoia<br />Either way, that was that…<br />Allegedly<br /><br />But, still<br />She said it.<br />She said it<br />And maybe if she hadn’t said it in the first place…<br />Those words…<br />That sentence…<br /><i>I thought you were going to be a dickhead<br />When I first saw you,<br />But you’re alright<br />Now that I’ve gotten to know you</i><br />…wouldn’t have stuck<br />And wouldn’t have grown<br /><br />It started small…<br />Why would she think that I was a dickhead<br />Especially since she’d never spoken to me<br />Interacted with me in any way<br />Before that night.<br />Had someone in the office told her I was dickhead<br />Was I dickhead and didn’t realise it?<br />I mean, I didn’t do that<br />I didn’t automatically judge someone from a first look<br />I had to get to know a person before granting them dickhead status<br />And only then if they did something to merit the title<br />What was I giving off<br />Simply from the way I looked?<br />I mean, you don’t have to like everyone<br />But shouldn’t they least do something unlikeable <br />Something a little more serious than the face they were born with?<br /><br />It bothered me,<br />It shouldn’t have,<br />But it did.<br />And for the next few days<br />It was never far from my mind<br />Especially so on Sunday evening<br />Before the working week began<br />When the comedown was in progress<br />And I’d spend most of the day<br />On the sofa<br />In the recovery position<br /><br />And what she had said <br />Accompanied me <br />The next evening <br />When I walked down Portobello Road<br />To work<br />And it had grown, substantially<br />And the weed hadn’t helped<br />And the coffee and the Pro Plus hadn’t helped<br />And the chain-smoking<br />And the codeine tabs hadn’t helped<br />Nothing helped<br />As I walked<br /> walked<br /> walked<br />Focused on my shoes<br />Kept my head down<br />Until…<br /> …I looked up, in front of me<br />Because there’s no other option, not with these crowds <br /><i>No, don’t look</i><br />But I had to<br />Even though I’d seen the eyes staring before I looked<br />And they were coming towards me<br />People…<br />And I heard the voices<br /><i>Look…at…this…mutherfucker<br />Face on this guy<br />What you looking at, prick?<br />Fuck you, asshole<br />Get the fuck out of my way, jerk off<br />What a piece of shit<br />Like to kick this guy’s ass</i><br />And I walked <br />and walked<br />And the voices became Louder <br /> Louder<br /> Louder!<br /><i>Asshole<br />Shithead<br />Cocksucker<br />Piece of mutherfucking shit!</i><br />Louder….<br /><i>Dickhead!!!</i><br />Until I could no longer take it<br />And I shouted<br />I shouted as loudly as I could…<br /><i>But I’m okay<br />Once you get to know me!</i><br /><br />No one stopped, no one noticed, no one heard<br />I stopped in a shop doorway</span><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Whispered a mantra<br />Before walking again.<br />And they still walked towards me<br />And I could still hear them talking<br />Except now they spoke as one<br /><i>I’m alright</i>, they said, <i>once you get to know me</i>.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><br /></p><h1 class="dcr-29zico"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hcXEM_eMIQDFLs5yEwicMMKGd6aavJZOg-CGYJkZtWfKmnr2QEpJWSzMOIprocQuET1_lYEvDMEStV-mcPup4THhSL8ulBJsksiX9PR7DwTOgG0rAs2Nddwo3qyYAeTtxV0DkQ/w804-h361/new.jpg" /></a></span></span></h1><p style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /></p>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-84318972786207265372022-11-22T13:07:00.005+01:002022-11-25T12:20:36.701+01:00Account Closed<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0EEF8CX5ayDkrYQpUd069JgXdlnFFbULch0ueQA4IJh7fyhZTLL8iu4WgmKQAQVJh7NjbOopx5ilDZY1uhDnbEgHimxJqgbWbo7RTuO7yuj6qMwj1-fox0qxZi0MOX54RBkJJwFwIECltRgmPsvA7HIKHy09ydZ3yA6RAN4TqApyR30YUVYI/s4896/vital-sinkevich-LAKQ3i-xn84-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="4896" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0EEF8CX5ayDkrYQpUd069JgXdlnFFbULch0ueQA4IJh7fyhZTLL8iu4WgmKQAQVJh7NjbOopx5ilDZY1uhDnbEgHimxJqgbWbo7RTuO7yuj6qMwj1-fox0qxZi0MOX54RBkJJwFwIECltRgmPsvA7HIKHy09ydZ3yA6RAN4TqApyR30YUVYI/w640-h426/vital-sinkevich-LAKQ3i-xn84-unsplash.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p> Photo: Vital Sinkevich</p><p><br /></p><i><span style="font-size: medium;">“It’s what Ilsa said. It’s how they trap you, how they numb your mind until you’ve become so used to it that even thinking about any other way of life scares you, even though you know you’ve been treading water for years, thinking that if you stop, you’ll drown, forgetting that you have the ability to swim.”</span></i><p><style>@font-face
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</p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Win Bailey. Win Bailey is a name Anna would never forget. He was her first alert, and to Anna he became a face, a real person, not just a number in the system. He was a man who, for all intents and purposes, should have been content with his life. Married in his early twenties, head of his sales division by the time he hit thirty, he was now in his mid-forties with two teenage children, a nice house in a sought-after residential part of the city, and a salary large enough to have no financial problems. <br /><br />Win Bailey however, had been kicked up to amber alert; the system had used all of its techniques to try and counter his ailment, an ailment for which the system could find no concrete reasons for. The system concluded that mental health issues were the problem. <br /><br />“So what do I do now?” Anna asked her mentor when notified of the alert. <br /><br />“At the moment, nothing. We get these ones sporadically. He’s already been steered towards anti-depressants, and a course of them should rectify the problem, or at least keep it under control.” <br /><br />“What about a psychiatrist, you know, to talk it through with him? See if that will help. Try to get to the root of his problem.” <br /><br />“The system hasn’t recommended that. He’s probably going through an existential midlife crisis, not uncommon at all. Sooner or later they all start thinking that there must be more to life than work and family. The anti-depressants and the system will help rid him of that notion. Don’t worry, it’ll pass.” <br /><br />“The doctor didn’t recommend psychiatric therapy, didn’t even consider it, just gave him the pills straight away?” <br /><br />Anna’s mentor sighed. “Because it’s easier to smother the problem than to dig around and find something that may cause even more trouble in the long run. You don’t want to open up that can of worms. Imagine if everyone who was unhappy had therapy, found out what was wrong with them and…” <br /><br />“But the problem will still be there. Why not have therapy and maybe medication. Wouldn’t a combination be better? Or why not just try therapy first? Maybe he’d become healthier, knowing what the cause of his unhappiness was.” <br /><br />“Mm-hmm, that’s just what this company needs, a world full of happy people, fully-informed, making their own decisions, not having to rely on anyone else–us–to make their decisions for them. This one should just be happy for what he has. There are plenty others far worse off than he is. I would love to have his life. If he follows the system, he’ll be back on track in no time.” <br /><br />Over the course of the next few months Anna kept an eye on Win Bailey’s life, but nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. His unhappiness–on the surface–had dissipated. He was eating regularly, exercising, and was drinking far less than he did before taking the pills. The system supplied positive news articles, recommending a variety of ways to ignore negative thoughts, not just his own, but also those from others. News articles pointing out any negative aspects of the world were not hidden, they were just not given priority by the system, and he was directed to information that reconditioned his mind to think only of a hopeful future. He bought a new car, he bought a guitar with the intention of learning to play, he began learning a foreign language, he had sex with his wife again, he took a family vacation and considered the pros of investing some of their money in a family retirement home abroad. Win’s wife and children were happy that Win was now happy again, or at least appeared not to be unhappy, and that was enough. <br /><br />After a while Win’s alert was downgraded. Anna gave up her regular unofficial surveillance on him and focussed her attention elsewhere. The last time she checked, Win’s doctor had recommended a new course of anti-depressants on the market, and Win casually and without much thought–ignoring the potential side-effects laid out by the doctor and focussing only on the positives–agreed to become a guinea pig for a trial period. <br /><br /> <br />It had happened too quickly for the system to register. Win was on a low alert grade and the red alert came far too late, it came after the fact, and was by that point useless. <br /><br />Win had arisen from bed late on a midweek night, dressed, and walked down to the kitchen where he drank three shots of alcohol before walking out of the front door. Two weeks later, three hundred miles from his home, he was found sitting upright against a tree in a public park. The police concluded that his wounds were self-inflicted and there were no suspicious circumstances. <br /><br />“I don’t understand,” Anna said to her mentor. “I don’t understand why the system couldn’t find him. Three weeks?” <br /><br />“He removed his lenses before leaving home. What I don’t understand is why his final act was to gouge out his eyes, he’d already removed the lenses. Makes no sense at all. But, you know, he wasn’t right, we know that. Mentally he wasn’t right. These things happen. We can’t catch everything. I mean even those closest to him didn’t see this one coming. Come on, even his wife didn’t notice anything.” <br /><br />“Maybe his wife relied too much on the system. Maybe she thought that if the system’s not picking up on anything then there’s nothing wrong. Maybe she did see some signs but put her faith in this system as a kind of…I don’t know…that others should notice as well, that the professionals who were paid to notice should have noticed. And this shows…this shows that the system isn’t error-free, it can’t understand the human mind and…” <br /><br />Anna’s mentor was becoming exasperated with this confrontational line of thought. “That’s a lot of maybes. You’re looking for reasons and you’re looking for solutions to something beyond your control. And this, Anna, this is all conjecture after the fact. When it comes down to it, it was <i>his</i> choice. If you need to blame someone, blame Win Bailey. He’s not the first this has happened to, and he won’t be the last.” <br /><br />“But I just think if we…” <br /><br />“Enough, Anna. Mark him as customer account closed.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 200%;"><i>Excerpted from the forthcoming novel, No Offence. </i></span></span></p><h1 class="dcr-29zico"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hcXEM_eMIQDFLs5yEwicMMKGd6aavJZOg-CGYJkZtWfKmnr2QEpJWSzMOIprocQuET1_lYEvDMEStV-mcPup4THhSL8ulBJsksiX9PR7DwTOgG0rAs2Nddwo3qyYAeTtxV0DkQ/w804-h361/new.jpg" /></a></span></span></h1><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: right; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 200%;"><i> </i></span></span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-76202543186883193302022-11-19T18:15:00.001+01:002022-11-19T18:15:27.960+01:00Exit Signs<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPaPfZcRmv2PfUmKH71AAFZA4NSKdeAsx0yw8FASH5D2_I4Deh73jYPkitYjQv9eZJRo41Lz8_o_NEt2voW5Z5AsH1gW5AfueWar_P8j6uSJ1r-KTZLzNACz-rtx4xDuSboHZDf1VQfKHNCD_r2fcZGRZ_JlGEa12h4Qp0BAxeiSuWd2lDp_U/s3732/joe-green-83vaFwDQqOg-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3732" data-original-width="2799" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPaPfZcRmv2PfUmKH71AAFZA4NSKdeAsx0yw8FASH5D2_I4Deh73jYPkitYjQv9eZJRo41Lz8_o_NEt2voW5Z5AsH1gW5AfueWar_P8j6uSJ1r-KTZLzNACz-rtx4xDuSboHZDf1VQfKHNCD_r2fcZGRZ_JlGEa12h4Qp0BAxeiSuWd2lDp_U/w480-h640/joe-green-83vaFwDQqOg-unsplash.jpg" width="480" /></a></div> Photo: Jo Green<br />
<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Andalus",serif;">She no
longer laughs at your jokes. Her winning smile rarely appears.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Andalus",serif;">Songs
about independent women become a daily fixture in the hopes that you’ll take
the hint.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Andalus",serif;">You’ll
no longer feel her fingers brushing against your arm or hand when you walk by,</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Andalus",serif;">and the
television will always show something of interest during the small hours of the
morning.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Andalus",serif;">A night
out will end in argument, which you knew it would, even before you left home
under the cover of a good mood. But that will still be the most you’ve spoken
to each other in weeks.<span> </span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Andalus",serif;">When she
walks towards you in bar or a restaurant or through the front door, you’re
taken aback by how beautiful she is, and how much love you still feel for her. But
she doesn’t smile and neither do you; the time for pretense has long since passed.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Andalus",serif;">And each
time you tell yourself that things will get better, that this is something
worth fighting for, you’re simply deluding yourself that this was ever your
choice to make.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Andalus",serif;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Andalus",serif;"> ***</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Andalus",serif;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Andalus",serif;"></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Special thanks goes out to <a href="https://quazism.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Quaz Roodt</a> at <a href="https://www.poetrypotion.com/" target="_blank">Poetry Potion</a> for placing my poem, <a href="https://www.poetrypotion.com/getting-away-with-it-all-messed-up-by-garry-crystal/" target="_blank">Getting Away With It (All Messed Up)</a> as poem of the day on the website.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i> </i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i> </i></span></p><h1 class="dcr-29zico"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hcXEM_eMIQDFLs5yEwicMMKGd6aavJZOg-CGYJkZtWfKmnr2QEpJWSzMOIprocQuET1_lYEvDMEStV-mcPup4THhSL8ulBJsksiX9PR7DwTOgG0rAs2Nddwo3qyYAeTtxV0DkQ/w804-h361/new.jpg" /></a></span></span></h1>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-1351488897172702562022-11-02T14:40:00.008+01:002022-11-25T12:23:28.185+01:00We Defend That On Which we Depend<div><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 200%;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitHYk8Xqc-atvucR4S_RRtRrjx1I949Z4zmYKC5djpRRbGdutDq_vpBazjbVDdppQg-Zt2waFNQwXD2TAQube0opqP1l9m1mb9GNmItXQJMPSt-QfgARa6dDXa4NAYQjNOAbZD4MiEoVIMaMkEB911DmdrqQbG54gWi9Y-EC4sE0zhTB3FgWg/s5856/chris-leboutillier-c7RWVGL8lPA-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5856" data-original-width="4016" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitHYk8Xqc-atvucR4S_RRtRrjx1I949Z4zmYKC5djpRRbGdutDq_vpBazjbVDdppQg-Zt2waFNQwXD2TAQube0opqP1l9m1mb9GNmItXQJMPSt-QfgARa6dDXa4NAYQjNOAbZD4MiEoVIMaMkEB911DmdrqQbG54gWi9Y-EC4sE0zhTB3FgWg/w438-h640/chris-leboutillier-c7RWVGL8lPA-unsplash.jpg" width="438" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"> Photo Credit : Chris LeBoutillier<br /></span>
<p></p><br /><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>“Crumbs from the table are preferential to hunger, and after a while people begin to support, maybe even love, those who throw the crumbs. There’s an old saying, people defend that on which they depend. Keep that in mind.” Remy raised his glass towards Anna and Max, “Anyway, here’s to both of you and your new life…and what you have to look forward to.” </i><br /><br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> ***</span><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />“Don’t be so hard on yourself. No one chooses to be out there. And if you did choose to leave, you’d be the first.” <br /><br />Remy pushed back the towel and raised his head from a bowl of steaming water, the scent of eucalyptus filling the room. Not wishing to involve Max in this discussion, Anna had come alone, leaving her room without telling her brother where she was going. <br /><br />“I know why you’re here,” he continued. “The fact you didn’t leave today, when you could have, well, that’s really the answer to any question you have.” <br /><br />“But…” <br /><br />Remy took a sip from a glass of whiskey and then inhaled deeply on a cigarette before coughing violently into the bowl. <br /><br />“But…” he mimicked Anna. “But, but, but. If you’ve made your decision, there are no buts. Just live with it. They’re…you’re…we’re doing nothing illegal, whether it’s right or wrong or ethical is something you were being asked to decide today. Does being part of something like this make you a bad person? Probably not. You’re doing what you have to do to survive, that’s all. We all have to make that choice sooner or later.” <br /><br />He coughed again, breathless, lowered his head over the bowl and covered his head with the towel, allowing the steam to do its job. “My immune system’s shot today. I can barely breathe.” <br /><br />“The whisky and tobacco are no doubt helping.” <br /><br />Remy mumbled something incomprehensible under the towel before removing it and leaning back in his seat, his forehead laced with sweat, his eyes bloodshot. “No lectures, please. And especially not from someone who’s looking to me for excuses to condone their decisions.” <br /><br />“But sixty percent of this country are…” <br /><br />“Every country.” <br /><br />“What? Ilsa said…” <br /><br />“Ilsa said only what she thought you needed to hear at the time. It’s every country. Every country in the world. I mean this is the headquarters, true, but there are affiliates. We’re a corporation, a global one.” <br /><br />Anna slumped down onto the sofa, “Every country, that’s just…” <br /><br />“What? That’s just what? So it wasn’t so bad when you thought it was just this country? It’s exactly the same thing, just on a larger scale. Does the size of it make a difference now you know? You can only die once whether you’re confronted with one killer or an entire army. Does that mean you shouldn’t fight for your beliefs because the enemy is larger?” <br /><br />“The enemy? What happened to <i>it is what it is</i>?” Anna took the bottle of whisky from the small table next to Remy’s armchair. <br /><br />“And drinking that will only provide temporary relief. Look, it’s not an excuse, but these people sign up voluntarily. They knew what this was about, even if they didn’t read the terms and conditions, and most of them don’t. They saw a way to make their life easier, and if their boat isn't being rocked then that’s all that matters. We provide a service, and like all services it’s a two-way street.” <br /><br />The whisky burned as it went down Anna’s throat, but this didn’t stop her taking another sip and then another until the glass was empty and she reached again for the bottle. <br /><br />“Take it easy. I don’t brew weak stuff.” Remy felt sympathy for her but knew that treating her like a child, shielding her from the realities of the world, would do more harm than good. To make correct decisions or to influence and lead others you must be fully informed. She had only just stepped onto the first rung of the ladder; this was low-level stuff. Ilsa was an expert at manipulation, he knew this. He knew she would only allow Anna to climb the ladder one rung at a time so that she became used to the height and stopped looking down, until climbing that ladder and ignoring the consequences became second nature. <br /><br />“Come on, Anna. We’re not monsters.” <br /><br />“No, I guess not.” She took another sip from the glass. “We’re just the people supporting the monsters.” <br /><br />Remy pulled down the towel and dipped his head into the bowl of water. “That’s the spirit.” <br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> ***<br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br /><i>“It’s what Ilsa said. It’s how they trap you, how they numb your mind until you’ve become so used to it that even thinking about any other way of life scares you, even though you know you’ve been treading water for years, thinking that if you stop you’ll drown, forgetting that you have the ability to swim.”</i><br /><br /> -Excerpted from the forthcoming novel, No Offence </span><h1 class="dcr-8413l"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Greta Thunberg on the climate delusion: ‘<a href="https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2022/oct/08/greta-thunberg-climate-delusion-greenwashed-out-of-our-senses" target="_blank">We’ve been greenwashed out of our senses. It’s time to stand our ground</a><span style="font-size: medium;">'</span></span></i></span><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 200%;"> </span></span></i></h1><h1 class="dcr-1i50atk"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">'Tipping point': the point of no <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/books/2018/oct/11/tipping-point-the-point-of-no-return-for-global-warming" target="_blank">return for global warming'</a></span></span></h1><h1 class="dcr-1i50atk"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">Europe's climate warming at <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2022/nov/02/europes-climate-warming-at-twice-rate-of-global-average-says-report" target="_blank">twice rate of global average</a>. <br /></span></span></h1><h1 class="dcr-8413l"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 200%;"></span></span></i></h1><h1 class="dcr-29zico"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hcXEM_eMIQDFLs5yEwicMMKGd6aavJZOg-CGYJkZtWfKmnr2QEpJWSzMOIprocQuET1_lYEvDMEStV-mcPup4THhSL8ulBJsksiX9PR7DwTOgG0rAs2Nddwo3qyYAeTtxV0DkQ/w804-h361/new.jpg" /></a></span></span></h1>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p></div>Garry Crystalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15295974753025291324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12207375.post-16811038698968077002022-10-28T14:38:00.011+01:002022-11-09T18:35:24.162+01:00They Know You<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_KTg-Y6l8DXBGcFR_lSRIRWIBqAaZhfLkxBv4022sf4NmTgRvAxP8lStykyDgpRSRy1jUHelrjhs8BUUfHlGsZ83zNW5o7HiBHkE95yTmctPalZJ9Dit7uCCiiIYHAWylbtHBvNNBU7qUzYXcOpU06Sf-ulFJ9Wv-Dv1WholeHei67641vFk/s7629/stephen-tafra-ZQrCRULa9Tk-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6103" data-original-width="7629" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_KTg-Y6l8DXBGcFR_lSRIRWIBqAaZhfLkxBv4022sf4NmTgRvAxP8lStykyDgpRSRy1jUHelrjhs8BUUfHlGsZ83zNW5o7HiBHkE95yTmctPalZJ9Dit7uCCiiIYHAWylbtHBvNNBU7qUzYXcOpU06Sf-ulFJ9Wv-Dv1WholeHei67641vFk/w640-h512/stephen-tafra-ZQrCRULa9Tk-unsplash.jpg" width="640" /></a></div> Photo: Stephen Tafra<p></p><p>
</p><p><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">They know you’re a fake<br />That you’re just winging it, and always have been<br />You’re not a real adult <br />You're not engaging with life as you should<br />You don’t have a marriage, the kids, the car, the house, the mortgage, the nine-to-five <br />You don’t do bank-holiday shopping or take family holidays or attend PTA meetings or have home insurance and store loyalty cards <br />You don’t know what it’s like to have all these pressures bearing down<br />The things you care about are not what they care about <br />Your responsibilities are not the same as their responsibilities <br />You have no idea <br />But you’ll learn <br />You’ll give into it one day <br />You cannot outrun it, believe me <br />You’ll be just like everyone else <br />And so much the better for it.</span><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">At least that’s what I’ve been told.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Special thanks goes out to <a href="https://quazism.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Quaz Roodt</a> at <a href="https://www.poetrypotion.com/" target="_blank">Poetry Potion</a> for placing my poem, <a href="https://www.poetrypotion.com/getting-away-with-it-all-messed-up-by-garry-crystal/" target="_blank">Getting Away With It (All Messed Up)</a> as poem of the day on the website.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i> </i></span></p><h1 class="dcr-29zico"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hcXEM_eMIQDFLs5yEwicMMKGd6aavJZOg-CGYJkZtWfKmnr2QEpJWSzMOIprocQuET1_lYEvDMEStV-mcPup4THhSL8ulBJsksiX9PR7DwTOgG0rAs2Nddwo3qyYAeTtxV0DkQ/w804-h361/new.jpg" /></a></span></span></h1><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><style>@font-face
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