wordless (17/Sept/18)

some days it’s as though my words are laughing at me, that not only do I hate, and have long done so, the sound of my own voice I sometimes take umbrage at the sight of my own words sprawling as they do across the page saying the same old same old, same old thing I said yesterday, the day before and before that stretching way back probably into some previous lives quilling papyrus or scratching on slate… it actually feels like all I’m doing is grunting at the page in vain hoping an anonymous inanimate strip of pulp can translate it into something verging on coherent… but there’s a disconnect, a loss of faith, it’s all just flakes of skin… but then, isn’t it a writers lot to write about a writers angst?… a duty, respect the words and they’ll do the same for you?… not easy surrounded by their misuse left, right (especially right) and centre, hardly surprising that words refuse to cooperate having finally said enough’s enough, I’m more than just 26 alphabetical fridge magnets… good grief, almost forgot how many letters there are in the English alphabet, isn’t that weird, or worrying, it simply hasn’t crossed my mind to specifically think about or remember it, but there it is, ingrained, five handfuls of letters plus one left over constantly playing musical chairs to decide which letter will be cast into the wilderness today, maybe it’ll be the least used which as it turns out is ‘q’ (though some may argue it’s ‘z’ which is third bottom but swaps places with ‘q’ in some measures) which is apparently found 56 times less than the most used being ‘e’, unless you decide on the basis of frequency at the beginning of words which relegates ‘e’ to around half way and puts ‘s’ proudly in the top spot, unsurprisingly ‘x’ wins the booby prize of bottom…… anyway, unsurprisingly I suppose I have lost my thread, where was I?… bemoaning something or other………

© 2018 robert greig

mischievous corks and frantic fruit (13/Sept/18)

do you know that feeling when words come piling out of you like you’ve just been uncorked and there’s no chance, as is the way with corks which seem to mischievously expands beyond how on earth they got it in there in the first place, of squeezing it back in to put a stop to them spewing and scattering everywhere hitherly-thitherly leaving you torn between hopelessly trying to gather them all up like fruit making a frenzied bid for freedom from the bottom of your torn shopping bag (this is why all fruit should be shaped like bananas) while trying to stop more pouring out and staring hopeless and horrified at the impossibleness of it all…… today’s blog is brought to you by a mischievously-expanding cork… and a torn shopping bag………

© 2018 robert greig

unearthed secrets (29/August/18)

there it sat, among the panderings of trivia, a blog that time forgot… I must have wrote it, how long ago now?… can’t be that long that it’s languished neglected between a haiku and a doodle… it’s not long and maybe that’s how it got overlooked, buried as it was among a pulpery of words strung in ink across line after line with few in between unstained by some random wandering… the page still intact but for a tiny dog-ear top right corner which wasn’t made to mark it, as I at first thought it might but an accident of page-turning more than likely, catching it perhaps in some haste to write yet another aimless scribbling… anyway, like an intrepid archaeologist I unearthed it and now display it ere in my ever-bulging museum of words… and this is it, called (the secret)

in my hand sat a pine cone that forgot to be heavy… it was big, cone-shaped, as one might expect but what I didn’t expect was how light it felt, almost as air, weightless despite an appearance of heavy…… we passed it around hand to hand turning and tipping it this way and that examining every possible side, if something conical can have more sides than one, looking for the source of its lightness and even, so I wondered, if and where it might be hiding its heaviness… it was opened, empty of seed no doubt long gone by now, bracts that once folded tight against the elements from where it hung with other cones no doubt several feet off the ground, tens of several perhaps… but now it sat open in my open palm looking for all its worth like drawers that had been emptied in a rush and left as such… none of us could figure out why it was so light yet looked so heavy, despite now so exposed to the probing tips of fingers, curious eyes, mumblings of increasingly absurd theories it failed, or refused, to deliver up its secret…

© 2018 robert greig