Gaah

I woke up to this:-

Today you could have a powerful dream that leaves a strong impression on you after you wake up, Fiat Knox. You have always been a bit psychic, and sometimes you have dreams that contain important messages for you. Try to recapture the images and events of your dream, and pay attention to what your dreams tell you over the next few days. Your subconscious mind or Higher Self could be trying to tell you something!

Yeah.

Well, the dream that I woke up to was this.

I've already kind of given up writing for the Wolf, because writing pitches for them and getting no feedback for your efforts kind of gets real old, real fast. Worse, if a damned good idea gets shot down a full nine months after sending it. Nine months of wondering. It's too much.

And now two whole months without a bite from Mongoose, despite having sent them four Signs & Portents articles last month, and an even greater number of pitches for books.

Worse; yesterday, I was supposed to hear from the college about my competition entry, and also on an unrelated matter about my application for employment there.

All I want to do in life is to make a difference. And I'm up against this glass ceiling again. I'm too old, or I come from Wrexham, or I'm Welsh, or some other reason - maybe I pissed off the wrong people when I was younger and people carry grudges, or something.

But I dreamt that I'd butted my head up against it again. Rejected. Ignored. We can get along quite nicely without you, thank you very much.

Only ... everyone is in the middle of an economic failure; an economic Armageddon. Everyone's ideas and plans are unravelling, coming to nought, and it's all everyone else's fault.

Well, it has to be, hasn't it? Where was I when it all went to shit?

Well, right here in the rejects' corner, ignored by everybody when my ideas might have given society the fresh life it has needed.

Only, society has never wanted to go in the directions my "fresh ideas" would have taken them, does it? It would have been too much hard work to actually listen to me: to give me the damned job, to accept my pitch and say "Get writing it."

I'm going to focus on my story, and on writing something that I will get self-published some day. I'm never giving up sharpening the saw.

But it's as a friend of my folks told me, when they were describing me to someone: "He's like the best stone mason in the world ... only nobody's giving him any stone to cut."

Happy St Patrick's Day!

I know I live in Wales, but me Dad's Irish, and so half my family lives in Eire.

So I'm entitled. Nyah. :P

To those whose heart is in Eire - to those who have visited, and lef their hearts there - I bid thee Cead Mille Failte, and have a spectacular St Patrick's Day today!

And now, a song - Murphy's Sick Note:-

Murphy's Sick Note

Dear Sir, I write this note to you to tell you of my plight
For at the time of writing, I am not a pretty sight.
Me body is all black and blue, me face a deathly gray
And I write this note to say why Murphy's not at work today.

While working on the 14th floor, some bricks I had to clear
But to toss them down from such a height was not a good idea.
The foreman wasn't very pleased - he is an awkward sod -
He said I'd have to cart them down the ladders in me hod.

Now shifting all those bricks by hand it was so very slow
So I hoisted up a barrel and secured a rope below.
But in me haste to do the job I was too blind to see
That a barrel full of building bricks was heavier than me.

And so when I untied the rope, the barrel fell like lead
And clinging tightly to the rope, I started up instead.
I shot up like a rocket, till to my dismay I found
That half-way up I met the bloody barrel coming down.

Now the barrel broke me shoulder, as to the ground it sped
And when I reached the top, I banged the pulley with me head
I clung on tightly, numb with shock from this almighty blow
And the barrel spilled out half the bricks some 14 floors below.

Now! when these bricks had fallen from the barrel to the floor
I then outweighed the barrel and so started down once more.
Still clinging tightly to the rope, me body wracked with pain
And half way down I met the bloody barrel once again.

Now the force of this collision half way down the office block
Caused multiple abrasions and a nasty state of shock.
Still clinging tightly to the rope, I fell towards the ground
And I landed on the broken bricks the barrel had scattered round.

I lay there groaning on the ground. I thought I'd past the worst.
But the barrel hit the pulley wheel and then the bottom burst.
A shower of bricks rained down on me. I didn't have a hope.
As I lay there bleeding on the ground I let go of the bloody rope.

Now the barrel then being heavier, it started down once more,
And it landed right across me as I lay there on the floor.
It broke three ribs and my left arm; and I can only say
I hope you'll understand why Murphy's not at work today.

written by Pat Cooksey

Writer's Block: A Little Green

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They don't do that round here in the UK. Too many people looking for quick money by suing for assault.

And in my case, nobody dares to touch The Crazy Welsh Warlock. They are deathly afraid of catching some weird curse if they do ...