Month: July 2008

A Dark Man

Morning sun breaks through the trees, pausing him as gentle shadows creep onto walls. A smile twitches at his lips as he finishes pouring the coffee. Hot, sweet and molten it fragrances the air, cast on the breeze that sends light cotton window coverings fluttering into the room.

He walks to the desk, across creaking floorboards, through shadow and light, enjoying the cinematic overtures cast out in miniature. He knows this is no <em>film noir</em> moment yet his life shares the same dark grainy feel on occasion, a sense of looming trouble, a foreboding throb. He sits.

The tools of his trade are laid out before him, gleaming softly as the curtains waft light across their surface, dancing reflections to the ceiling, pirouetting them down walls and across paintings. He surveys the room one more time, the tall windows shimmering behind soft fabric, the ageing furniture no longer antique but unworthy, paintings consume the walls, filling his mind with wonderous visions, moments of beauty and horrifying terrors. He can feel his mind drifting away, and he is happy to let go one more time, to be cast adrift without sail or paddle, left to tumbling on torrents.

Brighter now as sun and caffeine make their play, the mood shifts and he returns to contemplate the desk before him, the tools lying there, heavy on the long scarred surface, awaiting him. He has used them before, swiftly and deadly. He has used them to paint beauty, to capture fear, to draw tears of the happiest pain.

He is drawn to them, unashamed. His gaze casts over them, the handle and blade, hilt and paper so familiar. The rough and smooth a constant reminder of himself and he knows the beauty of such things, he has seen them, felt those moments.

He leans back in the chair and savours the last mouthful of deep dark liquid. He places the mug to one side and he leans forward, shoulders wide, rough palms on wood, head bowed.

With a sigh he reaches out and the familiar weight settles in his hand once more. Unsure where he will go this time, unsure what demons he will unlock or joys he will discover. These are dangerous implements he holds at once deadly and fertile, and the memories of before flood into view. He has been here so many times, placed on this course, charting his way around each new obstacle, through gentle streams and raging floods, every time alive, alive. To live then, as he knows it, is not the function of these tools, these harbingers of motion. They only move him in directions he cannot fathom nor control, and he knows that he will always be a slave to them, reliant on their whim and mercy.

He never knows what they will bring, but he knows he can never stop. Without them he is empty, void.

It is with this realisation that he smiles, happy in his circumstance, happy to be only here and only now, lost in the moment, disregarding and regardless.

His hand steady now, firm in grasp he pauses, a beat.

And then the words flow…

A Dark Man

Morning sun breaks through the trees, pausing him as gentle shadows creep onto walls. A smile twitches at his lips as he finishes pouring the coffee. Hot, sweet and molten it fragrances the air, cast on the breeze that sends light cotton window coverings fluttering into the room.

He walks to the desk, across creaking floorboards, through shadow and light, enjoying the cinematic overtures cast out in miniature. He knows this is no film noir moment yet his life shares the same dark grainy feel on occasion, a sense of looming trouble, a foreboding throb. He sits.

The tools of his trade are laid out before him, gleaming softly as the curtains waft light across their surface, dancing reflections to the ceiling, pirouetting them down walls and across paintings. He surveys the room one more time, the tall windows shimmering behind soft fabric, the ageing furniture no longer antique but unworthy, paintings consume the walls, filling his mind with wonderous visions, moments of beauty and horrifying terrors. He can feel his mind drifting away, and he is happy to let go one more time, to be cast adrift without sail or paddle, left to tumbling on torrents.

Brighter now as sun and caffeine make their play, the mood shifts and he returns to contemplate the desk before him, the tools lying there, heavy on the long scarred surface, awaiting him. He has used them before, swiftly and deadly. He has used them to paint beauty, to capture fear, to draw tears of the happiest pain.

He is drawn to them, unashamed. His gaze casts over them, the handle and blade, hilt and paper so familiar. The rough and smooth a constant reminder of himself and he knows the beauty of such things, he has seen them, felt those moments.

He leans back in the chair and savours the last mouthful of deep dark liquid. He places the mug to one side and he leans forward, shoulders wide, rough palms on wood, head bowed.

With a sigh he reaches out and the familiar weight settles in his hand once more. Unsure where he will go this time, unsure what demons he will unlock or joys he will discover. These are dangerous implements he holds at once deadly and fertile, and the memories of before flood into view. He has been here so many times, placed on this course, charting his way around each new obstacle, through gentle streams and raging floods, every time alive, alive. To live then, as he knows it, is not the function of these tools, these harbingers of motion. They only move him in directions he cannot fathom nor control, and he knows that he will always be a slave to them, reliant on their whim and mercy.

He never knows what they will bring, but he knows he can never stop. Without them he is empty, void.

It is with this realisation that he smiles, happy in his circumstance, happy to be only here and only now, lost in the moment, disregarding and regardless.

His hand steady now, firm in grasp he pauses, a beat.

And then the words flow…

I is writed

So I took another shot at ‘writing’ something. I’m not sure if it’s any good, I’ll let you all judge that. Ridicule it if you must but I do find these creative moments quite fun.

It’ll be here in a bit, I’m just giving it one last edit…

Continuance

Having been off work for a few days (a bad cold, I’ll live), and when not sleeping, sneezing or blowing my nose, I’ve been thinking about this blog and if I can commit to a more regular schedule of posting.

The recent posts on Consideration Layers were, I hoped, designed to prompt comment and discussion, two things that I can’t seem to make much headway into here. I have pretty good RSS reading figures but this remains a small blog, with a low numbers of readers.

Whilst I do try and keep a reserve of possible topics, I still tend to react to things when posting here but hopefully the coming months will change that.

For one, we are getting close to starting our journey towards single source at work, so I’d imagine there will be plenty of things there that will spark some blog posts here. I’m also hoping to get to a couple of conferences later in the year and they are always good for getting the creative juices following, and stirring up some enthusiasm.

Until then I’ll just take things as they come. Unless anyone has any suggestions, questions or comments?

Sick note

I have the lurgy. It is passing but it renders me a useless lump, energyless and uncohesive. Typical man, I know.

I had planned to write a follow up to the previous post but my muse has left me.

Perhaps I really am an artist, pulling on sorrow and pain to reach places untapped.

Or perhaps I’m just being over dramatic, it’s only a cold fer feckssake.

Writer Blocked

The morning haze dissolves, and the fields burn gold under piercing blue. Wisps of cloud slowly scroll across the view, lazily floating on a distant breeze bringing glimmers of respite as the heat builds. The harsh light renders crisp shadows, overhanging branches mirrored black on tarmac.

The heat descends, shimmering air closes on the landscape and a dull stillness takes hold. Beads of sweat on skin catch the faintest breeze, long grass sways and all around is quiet. Soft sounds drift through the air, animals and insects quietly complain, subdued and lifeless.

Somewhere a story unfolds, an everday tale unwinds in the steamy heat.

Perhaps a stooped man, slowly picking his way through the maze of heat as he makes his way home. Rough hands and sweated shirt, work boots trailing dust behind him. He looks tired and weary, but we are unsure why. Is it from where he has been, or where he is going?

Perhaps a woman, summer dress swirling as the fan picks its way across the room, her hair pinned up out of the heat, hot tin miaows above. Distracted she is waiting for something. For him, for release, or for a saviour?

The story will twist now, buckled and melted until all is lost, no steps to retrace, no characters to be developed and exposed, no raw negatives turned to light.

But not here.

There is no story here only the beginnings, the sounds and posturing. The rest remains hidden, locked away from the world, turned to dust.

Writer Blocked

The morning haze dissolves, and the fields burn gold under piercing blue. Wisps of cloud slowly scroll across the view, lazily floating on a distant breeze bringing glimmers of respite as the heat builds. The harsh light renders crisp shadows, overhanging branches mirrored black on tarmac.

The heat descends, shimmering air closes on the landscape and a dull stillness takes hold. Beads of sweat on skin catch the faintest breeze, long grass sways and all around is quiet. Soft sounds drift through the air, animals and insects quietly complain, subdued and lifeless.

Somewhere a story unfolds, an everday tale unwinds in the steamy heat.

Perhaps a stooped man, slowly picking his way through the maze of heat as he makes his way home. Rough hands and sweated shirt, work boots trailing dust behind him. He looks tired and weary, but we are unsure why. Is it from where he has been, or where he is going?

Perhaps a woman, summer dress swirling as the fan picks its way across the room, her hair pinned up out of the heat, hot tin miaows above. Distracted she is waiting for something. For him, for release, or for a saviour?

The story will twist now, buckled and melted until all is lost, no steps to retrace, no characters to be developed and exposed, no raw negatives turned to light.

But not here.

There is no story here only the beginnings, the sounds and posturing. The rest remains hidden, locked away from the world, turned to dust.

Consideration Layer Model II

I had planned to write more about this idea but as yet I’ve not had the time to properly flesh out my ideas. I’m also taking the lack of comment on this as a good thing (everyone agrees) rather than a bad thing (no-one is reading). So, to try and briefly summarise what it is I’m blithering on about, I thought I’d try a different tact.

Namely, a diagram:
techcomms consideration layers

There are multiple paths down through the layers, with each layer and each consideration being linked to one another. There are some things I’m still ironing out but it fits the way MY brain thinks. What about yours?

Does no-one care?

To my knowledge there is no Fake Gordon. This fact doesn’t disturb me unduly, I’m quite glad there isn’t a fake version of me on the internet.

However I am a little miffed that I’M not getting sent anything from some unknown stalker stranger… although, frankly, if I were, I’m not sure Care Bears would be all that welcomed.

For the record, I AM NOT FAKE SEVITZ.

If I was the address would read “FKAESEVITZ” 😉 …

Regardless, this is bizarrely funny. Bravo Fake Sevitz, Bravo!!