Musings of a Morosoph

Panic isn’t something that I come across in my life. I see it on TV but not in my mind. For every circumstance, I have a plan. Today, I almost got killed crossing the road. But I didn’t panic. I just stopped in my tracks and stepped back. I let the car pass and then crossed the road a little more carefully. I accumulate knowledge about things and the ability to do stuff so that life won’t get the jump on me.

Meadows make me feel nice. I feel rested and free in a meadow. I feel the cares of my life just fall away in a meadow. My thoughts melt into the colours. The greens soothe me. The reds and yellows and blues and purples of the flowers are like points of pleasure. Lying on my back, staring up into the blue. Letting the orange warmth of sunshine soak into my bones. It’s sometimes nice to pack a sandwich too.

Champion is a difficult concept for me to chew. I think of the wonder horse. I think of Danny. I think of winners. I think of anything but me. I’m more mediocre than anything. Sure, maybe I’m a little above average in most things and perhaps a little better than that in some few things. But I’m not the best at anything. Well. apart from being me, that is. When it comes to being me – I’m a genuine champion.

Correspond with me if you like. I welcomes people. I kids myself into thinking that I like people that say things that I’ve never heard in ways that I’ve not come across before, but, when I face facts, that don’t matter so much as love. If I come across someone with love in their heart and a smile on their face and a willingness to push us outside the box, then I will converse with them until the slugs come home.

Fuel is neutral. It only moves a machine the way it’s designed to move. It just makes the body move along the track that’s laid out for it by the machinations of the mind. Sure, better fuel’ll move you further and faster, but to alter your direction you gotta change your steering mechanism. Change your habits. Learn to avoid panic. Head for some place green. Move outta the box. Talk to me if it suits you.


The Illusion of Going Somewhere

I’ve just finished (a picnic) dinner in the garden. When I looked up I noticed this little fellow heading from left to right across the lawn. I thought to myself ‘I wonder where he’s heading’.

A few minutes later I looked up from my book to notice that he’s heading in the other direction. ‘That’s strange,’ I think to myself, ‘he’s not going to get far like that’.

It was then that I realised that he wasn’t going anywhere. He lives there. He’s just doing the equivalent of moseying around in his back garden. Just like me.

It’s odd how, up until this point, when I see people and other kinds of critters, I always assume that they’re on their way somewhere important. But are they really?

Seems to me that we’re more often than not busy going around in circles.

There’s an app called Google Maps on my phone with a feature called Timeline (Your timeline), which plots, on a map where I travel on a daily basis.

I’m sorry to have to break this to you, but most of our journeys (including mine) very much resemble that of my friendly neighbourhood slug.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Not really.

Because life is all about cycles and circles. Sunrise, sunset; empty, full; dirty, clean; birth and death – it’s all circular and cyclical.

So don’t be upset if it seems like you’re going nowhere because, in the grand scheme of things – that’s probably precisely what you’re meant to be doing. I guess the trick is to make sure that you pack as much fun as possible into it while you’re doing it.

As I finish this piece, the sun has dipped out of the sky and Mr Critter has vanished from view. And I’m shortly going to do the same.

Have a wonderful evening everyone. See you tomorrow. Have fun!

(and there’s a blackbird singing sweetly as I type these words)

100 Words

Three starts now and all deleted due to there being too much banality in them but this one will not go down because even though it is silly it will move on to safer ground in due course and this will come from me saying something beautiful before my word count is up but I am now into the second half and nothing is coming to mind except the faint hope that if I just finish with a good word then everything will be alright and eek and hark the horse hooves of the end are approaching and so … love.

My Name is Robert

Started reading a book yesterday called My Name is Mina by David Almond. And I’m in awe.

Well, not really – I’m actually piqued that David has snuck into my head and life, stolen the best bits and turned them into this book. I would have said that this novel is a work of genius were I were not so irked.

For example, I’m a self confessed pantser. I don’t plan or plot my writings, I make them up as I go along. I fly by the seat of my pants (geddit?)

Now here comes Mina:

I did want to be what they called a good girl, so I did try. There was one fine morning when the sun was shining through the classroom window. There was a cloud of flies shimmering and dancing in the air outside. I heard Mrs. Scullery telling us that she wanted us to write a story. Of course we’d need to write a plan first, she said.

She asked us whether we understood.

We told her that we did.

So I stopped staring at the flies (which I had been enjoying very much!), and I wrote my plan. My story would have such and such a title, and would begin in such and such a way, then such and such would happen in the middle, then such and such would be the outcome at the end.

I wrote it all down very neatly.

I showed my plan to Mrs. Scullery, and she was very pleased. She even smiled at me and said, “Well done, Mina. That is very good, dear. Now you may write the story.”

But of course when I started to write, the story wouldn’t keep still, wouldn’t obey. The words danced like flies. They flew off in strange and beautiful directions and took my story on a very unexpected course. I was very pleased with it, but when I showed it to Mrs. Scullery, she just got cross. She held the plan in one hand and the story in the other.

“They do not match!” she said in her screechy voice.

“I don’t know what you mean, Miss,” I said.

She leaned down towards me.

“The story,” she said, in a slow stupid voice like she was talking to somebody slow and stupid, “does not fit the plan!”

“But it didn’t want to, Miss,” I answered.

“Didn’t want to? What on earth do you mean, it didn’t want to?”

“I mean it wanted to do other things, Miss.”

She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. “It is a story,” she said. “It is your story. It will do what you tell it to.”

“But it won’t,” I said. She kept on glaring at me.

“And Miss,” I said, like I was pleading with her to understand. “I don’t want it to, Miss.”

I should have saved my breath. She flung the papers onto my table.

“This is typical of you,” she said. “Absolutely typical!”

And she turned to a girl called Samantha and asked her to read her tale, which was something about a girl with curly hair and her cuddly cat, a perfectly planned idiotic thing in which nothing interesting happened at all! And of course all the other kids were giggling through it all, and it led to one of the nicknames I had back then. Typical. Absolutely Typical McKee.

Huh! Huh! Typical!

My stories were like me. They couldn’t be controlled and they couldn’t fit in. Trying to be a good girl sometimes made me very sad.

See what I mean? That’s almost exactly what I said, right?

Anyway – whatever.

And another thing: walking to work whilst reading this book today prompted a thought to pop into my mind. The thought was this: ‘I don’t like it when people that are grown-up and male write books from the point of view of people that are grown-down and female. It makes the whole of what they are writing seem less real, realistic and believable. And I want to believe in books. So from now on (right up until the point at which I change my mind) all my writings are going to be about me. My stories, my thoughts, my adventures, my aspirations and my dreams. Roll on, roll on.

Pond Life

It’s Thursday! Everybody knows what Thursday means, yes? So I don’t need to tell you, right?


It’s only in some parts of the world (including the one I grew up in (England)) that this day is named after Thor. In India today is called guroovaar, which means (I think) day of the guru, with the guru (guide) in question being Brihaspati. And in Arabic today is called alkhamis, which means fifth day of the week. And yeah, I know that when you count from Monday, Thursday is the fourth day, but there are huge areas of the world where Sunday is the first working day of the week.

And so it goes on.

Makes me realise that there’s more to life than what’s happening in the mind of the fly watching the frog on the lily-pad in the pond at the bottom of the garden. Much, much more.

What does Thursday mean to you? What does life mean to you? What’s it all about for you? How’s your pond?