You are not intentionally stone
Alone in this grappling waste that has bleached your bones.
You sit downwind of the dream laden fires
That reflect in your heart, at your hip, in your eyes.
You have drawn on your friends, on your past
On the three who are linked to you finitely.
The undead boy is the foe you fear most
And in paleness you ride, death follows you close.
Be not ashamed of your natural want
Or your talent for firing when other men can't,
You would love me and kill me in the space of an hour
But you'd sing me my name, in chorus with yours
From your dark cursed tower.
Sunday, 27 April 2008
Sunday, 20 April 2008
Kick Ass Moves
Have been attending a Khai Bo class at my local leisure centre run by a laid-back instructor who seems unperturbed by the gaggle of women who turn up every week to kick and punch our way to fitness with varying degrees on accuracy/hilarity.
I studied Ju Jitzu in my youth (we're talking ten years ago, before the baby and the addition of three stone) and this kick boxing aerobic stuff is right up my street.
This week however, two guys turned up for the class, a brave move on their part as this sort of excercise class is rarely frequented by men. There's something very intimidating to a guy, turning up to a gym class to find a gaggle of housewives in lycra (not the attractive, svelt Stepford wives style shite, but lumpy, bumpy wearing husbands rugby shirts and jog pants with a sweaty crotch kinda thing) They were very brave.
They were also a little bit cocky.
There is a certain swagger about a guy who is accostumed to 45mins each way on a football pitch, who can spend two hours flexing and pressing every weight machine in the room (including the ones that I can't figure out how to work) and think they're pretty ripped.
Until they came to Khai Bo.
It is fair to say that Kenny stepped the class up a notch, that we worked through things a little faster, held the planks a little longer and worked that little bit harder. He didn't want them to go away thinking the class was too easy for them, and therefore not come again. Everyone there however, every single housewife, knew exactly what he was doing, and stepped it up too.
It is refreshing to see a six foot two defender humbled by a five foot mother of three who can complete the full set of abs without loosing her smile or ruining her hair.
We'll see if they come next week, shall we?
I studied Ju Jitzu in my youth (we're talking ten years ago, before the baby and the addition of three stone) and this kick boxing aerobic stuff is right up my street.
This week however, two guys turned up for the class, a brave move on their part as this sort of excercise class is rarely frequented by men. There's something very intimidating to a guy, turning up to a gym class to find a gaggle of housewives in lycra (not the attractive, svelt Stepford wives style shite, but lumpy, bumpy wearing husbands rugby shirts and jog pants with a sweaty crotch kinda thing) They were very brave.
They were also a little bit cocky.
There is a certain swagger about a guy who is accostumed to 45mins each way on a football pitch, who can spend two hours flexing and pressing every weight machine in the room (including the ones that I can't figure out how to work) and think they're pretty ripped.
Until they came to Khai Bo.
It is fair to say that Kenny stepped the class up a notch, that we worked through things a little faster, held the planks a little longer and worked that little bit harder. He didn't want them to go away thinking the class was too easy for them, and therefore not come again. Everyone there however, every single housewife, knew exactly what he was doing, and stepped it up too.
It is refreshing to see a six foot two defender humbled by a five foot mother of three who can complete the full set of abs without loosing her smile or ruining her hair.
We'll see if they come next week, shall we?
Sunday, 13 April 2008
Sunday, 6 April 2008
Eye Of The Beholder
Over the last few years I have got back into painting.
The smell of turps could often be detected wafting under my bedrom door as a young teenager and, unlike some folk I went to school with, I wasn't drinking it. I was quite an avid sketcher, chalker, charcoler and painter in my youth, getting an A grade GCSE in Art and Design and I always regret not studying it further. Then life took over, uni, drinking, pizza, drinking, clubbing ... did I mention drinking? And my art took a back seat, so back seat it was practically in the boot.
Then for some reason I suddenly got the bug again.
Buying a house might have something to do with it, and furnishing the house with our own taste and style (don't get me wrong, the donations of furniture from well wishers who knew we had little was gratefully received, and appreciated, but there is a time to call in the bin wagon and replace everything with stuff we actually liked) And that went for the artwork too.
As a teenager posters adorned every square inch of free wall in my bedroom, as an A level student one wall was covered in revision notes and scrawl designed to help me study, and as a university student my walls were covered in hundreds of weird and wonderful photographs of my mates doing weird and wonderful things . . . usually after drinking.
Now, as a sophicticated adult (no sniggering) I like art on my walls.
I am not talking about a bunch of dogs playing pool or a tennis player scratching her arse, I'm talking about original absract stuff that no one else has. I do own a few prints from Ikea that I imagine everyone in Europe has somewhere in their house, but the rest of the stuff is mine. I'm no Leonado Da Vinci, in fact my talent runs into the abstract because frankly even the stuff supposed to resemble something . . . doesn't. There was one piece, however, that was a dramatic abstract sweep of pinks and reds that my art critic of a husband took one look at and said "Is it supposed to look like a vagina?"
I painted over that one.
It does no good to get disheartened over my stuff, no matter how amatuerish I think it is sometimes. At the end of the day I have painted a couple for people, sold one or two and that makes me an artist available for commission, I suppose. Sounds good doesn't it? If I ever need an ego boost I just log onto one of the many sites out there dedicated to showcasing up and coming artists and their exhibition, my favourite is the one funded by the Tate.
If they can sell a piece of scrap paper with a smiley face drawn in coffee for £1200 I think I stand a chance, don't you?
The smell of turps could often be detected wafting under my bedrom door as a young teenager and, unlike some folk I went to school with, I wasn't drinking it. I was quite an avid sketcher, chalker, charcoler and painter in my youth, getting an A grade GCSE in Art and Design and I always regret not studying it further. Then life took over, uni, drinking, pizza, drinking, clubbing ... did I mention drinking? And my art took a back seat, so back seat it was practically in the boot.
Then for some reason I suddenly got the bug again.
Buying a house might have something to do with it, and furnishing the house with our own taste and style (don't get me wrong, the donations of furniture from well wishers who knew we had little was gratefully received, and appreciated, but there is a time to call in the bin wagon and replace everything with stuff we actually liked) And that went for the artwork too.
As a teenager posters adorned every square inch of free wall in my bedroom, as an A level student one wall was covered in revision notes and scrawl designed to help me study, and as a university student my walls were covered in hundreds of weird and wonderful photographs of my mates doing weird and wonderful things . . . usually after drinking.
Now, as a sophicticated adult (no sniggering) I like art on my walls.
I am not talking about a bunch of dogs playing pool or a tennis player scratching her arse, I'm talking about original absract stuff that no one else has. I do own a few prints from Ikea that I imagine everyone in Europe has somewhere in their house, but the rest of the stuff is mine. I'm no Leonado Da Vinci, in fact my talent runs into the abstract because frankly even the stuff supposed to resemble something . . . doesn't. There was one piece, however, that was a dramatic abstract sweep of pinks and reds that my art critic of a husband took one look at and said "Is it supposed to look like a vagina?"
I painted over that one.
It does no good to get disheartened over my stuff, no matter how amatuerish I think it is sometimes. At the end of the day I have painted a couple for people, sold one or two and that makes me an artist available for commission, I suppose. Sounds good doesn't it? If I ever need an ego boost I just log onto one of the many sites out there dedicated to showcasing up and coming artists and their exhibition, my favourite is the one funded by the Tate.
If they can sell a piece of scrap paper with a smiley face drawn in coffee for £1200 I think I stand a chance, don't you?
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