Glasgowlass

One Magazine - issue 8 passion

2011-09-29T02:05:00.003+01:00

ONE 8 • Glasgow Notes: From the Heart (By Way of Toronto)
Glasgow Notes: From the Heart (By Way of Toronto)

Leaving Glasgow for good was never my intention. Moving on was akin to boiling a frog; if I had left with the sole purpose of settling elsewhere the pain may have been too great for me to bear. As it was, I spent six months here and six months there: London, New York, Hong Kong, Sydney. Before I knew what my life was about I was travelling further afield and for longer periods of time.

Now I refer to those years as my weaning years. I thought once I’d travelled long enough and far enough my curiosity to explore the world would abate, but here I am, twenty-eight years later, with a foreign accent in my local habitat of Toronto, and a local accent in Glasgow, a city now foreign to me in many subtle ways, and I’m not sure to which one I honestly belong.

I still call Glasgow home, and after all these years I cannot see that ever changing, anymore than I can see my accent changing. It’s very confusing to the people whom, over the last two decades, I am lucky to call close-friends in Canada. ‘When you say home which one are you referring to?’ is a common question.

Home! Where is my home? Every member of my immediate and extended family, my closest friends through school to adulthood, and all the memories that shaped me as a person are wrapped up and placed in a warm fuzzy compartment in my heart labelled ‘Glasgow’. I know I used to idolize the place unduly and, to non-natives of Glasgow, I would describe the city like a modern day Eden. So, what is Eden? It is a different place to each and every one of us. Now, decades later, I can no longer separate the fantasy of Glasgow from the reality of Glasgow for somewhere along the road they became one and the same. The beauty concealed by pollution and poverty when I was growing up is now proudly on display after the gentrification that took place in the eighties and nineties while I trekked the globe.

In Toronto I miss such daily phrases as ‘this thing couldnae pull the skin oaf a rice pudding’ articulated by a frustrated friend berating her car for its inability to overtake a line of traffic; or, ‘she wiz so skinny she only needed wan eye’ voiced by a friend over his concern for his cousin’s weight. On a bus, after hearing ‘Robert E Lee’ shouted from up front, I finally realized the driver was informing us we were approaching the stop for one of Glasgow’s main hospitals, ‘The Southern General’. Ah, the joys of the Glaswegian people. I am like a deer tick on a mangy mutt; I simply can’t get enough. I return home two or three times a year, often for a month at a time because I am addicted to ‘The Patter’.

Glaswegians are super friendly. When asking for directions in the town centre, instead of being inflicted by the usual diatribe ‘turn right, go straight for a block, turn left, then…blah blah blah,’ it isn’t uncommon for visitors to be personally escorted to their destination. ‘Nae bother wee man,’ might be the standard retort to any words of thanks. It may be the love of the gab or just plain nosiness that makes wonderful storytelling, but for whatever reason a Glaswegian’s retelling of a trip to the corner shop sounds like an adventure you’re sorry you missed. Our combination of genuine warmth and cheekiness may be why we tend to fare so well abroad.

On this 250th anniversary of the birth of oor National Bard, Rabbie Burns, Scottish celebrations echo around the globe reminding us that, although there are only 4.5 million Scots residing in Scotland, there are about 30 million worldwide; 9 million in the USA. and 4.7 million in Canada. That’s a lot of curious people. So I never feel too far away from my roots. And I’m the first to admit that the longer I’m away the more tartan I become.

Every year in Toronto, on or around Rabbie’s birthday, there are a great many annual Suppers given in his honour. A traditional Burns Supper begins with the haggis being piped in, the Chairman delivering Rabbie’s ‘Address to the Haggis’, and the ‘Selkirk Grace’ being read. After the supper ‘The Immortal Memory’ speech is followed by a toast to Burns, to the lassies, and if there are ladies present, a response to the laddies. Humour is a key component throughout the proceedings. The celebration concludes with a performance of Robert Burns’s songs and poems and at the last everyone sings ‘Auld Lang Syne.’

Atop the CN Tower, another party tried to claim the record for ‘the highest Burns Supper of 2009’, only to be informed that Scottish mountaineer Chris Dunlop had washed down his haggis with a wee dram at the top of Ben Nevis, disqualifying the party. (Although this year’s record went to a hot air balloon over Switzerland, Chris still holds the all time record.) At one memorable Burns supper I witnessed a drum duet between a four-year old boy and an old weathered Glaswegian that would have brought tears to a glass eye. With hundreds of tartan-clad guests looking on, the wee grasshopper of a lad locked eyes with his mentor and beat his drum with the passion a man. There before my eyes I witnessed centuries of Scottish tradition being passed on to a first generation Canadian.

So with all this passion for my place of birth in my blood, why would I leave such a Garden of Eden with its mist-covered mountains? Well, Glasgow means ‘Dear Green Place’. You don’t have to be a gardener to know what makes a landscape so lush and green; lots of water and light. That translates to plenty of rain and long hours of filtered sun (subtle way of saying overcast). I’m being frugal by using the term ‘plenty’. I remember once it rained every day for two months and my mum kept repeating she had never seen weather the likes. Every time I am ‘home’ I hear the same thing. That rain has started and forgot to stop. So my choices are Scotland in the constant rain or Toronto with its six months of glorious sunshine. Ironically, the same rain that gradually drove me away has me returning again and again when it comes in the form of hypnotic Scotch mist, creeping over the Munros and Corbetts I love to hike across. I feel like a mistress trying to break free of an old love to settle in a new relationship, but I can’t make a clean break. Now I return more and more often for longer visits and higher climbs.

And fare-thee-weel, my only luve!
And far-thee-weel, awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho’ ‘twere ten thousand mile!

- Robert Burns, ‘My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose’

Your Sober Till when!!!! HAHAHA

2010-11-08T19:22:00.000Z

Well it has been an eventful 6 weeks. Not one drop of alcohol has passed my lips and I have another 6 1/2 weeks to go until I can revise that statement.
My extensive abstinence has come about due to a hung-over promise to myself, you know the usual, "I am never going to drink again for as long as I live." Once the pain of that particular hangover had begun to subside (nearly 3 days later) I thought to myself maybe I had been a bit harsh on myself with such a hefty lifetime sentence so I reviewed the situation and made my revisions. I decided a few months should be sufficient enough to cleanse my system and prove to my self that alcohol was still a controlled indulgence of mine and not a necessity. The very fact that when I announced my ‘3 month of abstinence’ to my so called friends it was greeted with laughter and great merriment and comments like, "Yeah right." or "I'll take that bet." or "Whatever, sit down and have a beer." This made me take a closer look at my lifestyle or more specifically it made me acknowledge the copious amounts of alcohol I had become accustomed to guzzling without batting an eyelid, or blurring an eye.

I figured the amount I drank was totally acceptable as long as I wasn't drinking at home alone, going drinking with strangers, or getting myself into any really dangerous situations. A couple of whacks to the head from falling in my front door or out of a taxi didn’t count. The fact I rationalized to myself that I only drunk socially did not enter into the equation as I seemed to be in a permanent socializing mode; a dinner party here, a concert there, a drink after work with my colleagues, a special coffee with breakfast, some champagne with brunch, wine with dinner, after dinner cocktails, or a night cap; all socially acceptable times to drink.

Growing up in Scotland was a good training ground giving me the accolade of being able to 'handling my drink' well. I used to glow with pride every time I heard someone hail my aptitude and staying power at any party scene. “That girl can drink some.” Woohoo, I saw this as a status to be envied. Before I knew it I was caught up in my own reputation. Sure I would come out for a drink. Sure I would go to another bar for another drink. Sure I would go to a party after last call. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t suffering, well apart from the occasional brutal morning after the night before hangover. It was incredible fun and I loved being the one that friends could always count on to come out and party. And I don’t regret a single drop.

But I began to weary of the wasted days spent recuperating. It got to the point that if I had a big social event coming up, I would keep the next day free just in case I was a bit on the rough side, which this summer was happening more and more often. People told me it was because I was getting older. “You’re in your 40’s now so you ‘should’ know ‘middle aged’ people don’t handle their booze as well”. Oops, sorry I must have missed that lesson at the last AA meeting, you know the class that told us about “getting older and what to expect from overindulgence”. Well my mother is 75 and can still give me a run for my money and always has done, as do a number of older people I know. I have also been humbled by a good many pensioners in my time. I knew age wasn’t the problem. I had simply begun to find other experiences more enjoyable than going out on the piss. Who would have thought?

In truth, I was bored spending all my hard earned cash on alcohol. I was bored having vague and often blurred memories of nights out with my pals. I was bored lying in bed for the better part of a weekend waiting for Friday nights hangover to go away; the hangover that no longer came in the shape of a balaclava headache, eyeball popping, chest heaving, toilet hugging experience. This was worse. Yes, there is worse! These hangovers now came in the form of anxiety attacks. It took me a while to identify the connection and once I recognized the pattern then I learned how to cope with these terrors. And the terrors weren’t about what I had done the night before. That’s the spiral of shame, which later always transcend into a great piss up story. These terrors were not about any hardships I was dealing with in my life being magnified by alcohol. Or any stress I might be suffering at work. Or even any worries I had about the health and wellbeing of my family and friends. These terrors were over the mere fact I was almost out of toothpaste, or I had left a plate in the sink over night, or I hadn’t watered a particular plant all week.

The very fact I was freaking out over such meaningless things made me stop and look around. Something was wrong. The one common denominator was the booze fests. Now I’m not talking about a couple of beers. That’s okay. It’s when the little greedy monster inside comes out to play. It screams ‘Party’ or ‘Jaeger bombs’. Full steam ahead and damn the torpedoes. It didn’t matter that I’d have something important the next day. Or I was trying to save some cash to buy or do something special. When I got in that mode it was all about, ‘you only live once and this is living.’ I associated having a good time with lots and lots of alcohol, as do many of my friends. I have learned over the last year that when I look back I’ve had most of my best moments in life sober.

Last week between Monday and Friday I was out for drinks with my boss (non-alcoholic beer), a book reading by Ian Rankin, a dinner party with a bunch of close friend’s, and an acoustic concert by Fran Healy from Travis. The booze was flowing the whole week and you know what, I didn’t miss the demon drink one bit. I got a buzz from the events that I was taking part in. If anything, I have found my non-drinking is more frustrating for my friends than it is for me.

So am I a tea-totaller now? Hell no. I enjoy drinking too much. But now when I go back to participating in my alcohol driven society it will be because I do enjoy the relaxation a fine glass of wine brings after a hard days work, or at a dinner party with friends. And I’ll know when I am sipping on my Corona on a sunny patio that I am enjoying it because I have chosen to have a beer and not because I need a beer. Like everything in life it should be experienced in moderation including moderation itself.

Fox Hat

2009-07-04T00:03:00.000+01:00

Seduced by Twitter

2009-05-18T02:43:00.004+01:00

I had determined very recently that I was going to concentrate and attempt to put more of an effort into the updating of my blog. 'Write something everyday' I instructed myself, putting into effect the age-old practice of the writer’s mantra.
I do write everyday, but not for my blog, or a magazine, or my novel. I am sorry to admit, but I have been seduced by the 140-character count of Twitter. Not only does this seducer stop me from practicing my prose but it also lays waste to my spelling, syntax, and grammar, which needed work to begin with.
I am no longer a slave to the doctrines of my English professor. Twitter awaits me whenever I call, just like the friend who is always available. Twitter keeps me company on the bus, on the train, and sssh, dare I mention it, in the loo. Well, the loo is usually a last resort when I have been threatened with ex-communication or, gawd forbid, the confiscation of my iPhone by zealous family and friends who demand more of my attention.
It is not a cigarette, a mickey of vodka, or even a measure of some illegal substance, which has me scurry into the corners, intent on indulging myself. It is simply ‘Twitter’ the heart of my mobile device unit.
When I press that little blue application icon, I feel like Norm must have felt when he walked through the doors of Cheers every night to be greeted by friends who exist outside the usual perimeters of his everyday life.
Twitter keeps me coming back for more with the promise of more followers, the lure of reply tweets, the underground world of DMs, and the latest gossip on any topic my heart desires. Thrown into the heady mix is the potential to hob knob up close and personal with some celebrity or other.
I reckoned my poor wee blog had been left out in the cold to slowly slide down the search engine ranks of google. But I needn’t have worried; my seducer knew how to provide for its predecessor. A link was inserted, a bone if you may, to appease any competition from my blog to regain my full attention. Twitter now thoughtfully provides constant pings to my neglected blog letting it know that I am not too far away. With no more content than a changing blurb in the bottom left-hand corner I supply my blog with enough updates to keep it ahead of the google rat race. But I know I must return every now and then, whenever Twitter’s 140-character count frustrates and limits my ability to run free and fully express myself, in unabbreviated, fully typed words of undeterminable size. No cryptic messages. Only clear concise prose extolling a written form of communication more ancient than Twitter.
After I have scaled the 500 word, 1000 word, 2000 word barrier, I am once more compelled to rush back to my Twitter congregation and share the fruits of my latest adventure because Twitter requires fresh subject matter to keep my followers interested, even if I must make tale of my latest adventure in 140 characters or less.

Glasgow v's Brooklyn

2009-05-12T16:30:00.000+01:00

I always wondered why I felt so at home in Brooklyn.
I should have known. It was staring me right in the face.

Spot the difference.

Park Slope or Glasgow's West End?

No Title Needed

2009-05-04T00:15:00.000+01:00

You say you want proof that we are Gods choosen people. Well, let me see...

The Romance of a Character

2009-04-28T18:45:00.000+01:00

As I mentioned in my previous blog, I never know where the muse for a story is going to spring from. It can be from casually observing someone I see sitting across from me in a cafe, or from watching an actor play a role, or from envisioning a familiar friend so far out of their element they become someone else; but one thing is for sure, wherever these muses lurk they eventually make themselves known.

My friend once asked me why I can't just imagine these characters from scratch. Why I don't just make them up like I do with all the other aspects of the story built on imagination and dreaming. My answer was simply, "I can invent places, items, gadgets, fashions, animals, etc, but to give my characters substance I need a face. I need to regard how they smile, how they move, how they sound, and what gestures they make. At that point I have my reference point to refer back to when describing a look, a dialogue, or a movement. From then on the characters proceed to take on a fictitious life and dimension of their own.

That is why I am continually mesmerized by the characters that appear every day in: tv shows, plays, and movies. I'm still trying to figure out where the writer of a character leaves off and the actor picks up. I think classics are produced when these two elements meet and blend seamlessly. Sometimes the writer has a person in mind when they write the character of a story. Sometimes casting agents have to produce a long grueling list of potentials in order to find an actor who fits the vision of the character the writer has created so well it lives and breaths.

I've decided I am going to start making a list of all my favourate characters. I don't mean your every day well acted parts. I mean the totally fictitious characters that step out of the book or walk of the screen and take you by the heart as if they truely live and breathe.

Star Trek

2009-04-26T18:41:00.001+01:00

Travelling back in time is a fact. I have just experienced it. I am now an adult inhabiting the space I once occupied as a child. I have rediscovered my childhood fantasy show Star Trek TOS only very recently. It seems incredible to me that something that gave me so much joy way back then as a little girl can give me so much pleasure now through the eyes of a woman.

I cannot get over how handsome, attractive and soo very alpha male Jame T Kirk's character is in this series and I now have a very difficult time trying to envision any other actor in the role of a Starfleet Captain. Throughout the years I have followed all the Star Trek movies and spin offs, up until Enterprise that is (couldn't quite get into that one). Since I can't even begin to remember the last time I viewed these episodes of Star Trek TOS (quite a number of years ago) my adult memories of William Shatner are of a much much older man and in my opinion a very different character. Then again, he has just turned 78. Wow even that blows my mind.

I now find myself obsessing over this character from the far past which feels alien to my normal sensibilities but has spurred on my creative flow as a writer. I will no longer question the strangeness of where one finds their next muse and simply go with the flow and relish the sheer enjoyment I am experiencing second time around with this fabulous show.

I may now, as a result of this obsessive/compulsive behaviour, have to go out and purchase the new remastered DVD offerings.

Idiot's Argument

2009-04-05T00:05:00.003+01:00

My mother told me never to get in to an argument with an idiot. She said they will only drag you down to their level and beat you with experience.

My dad told me if I ever fall off a cliff to give flying a try. I have nothing to lose at that point.

Great Joke

2009-03-20T17:13:00.003Z

I don't normally insert jokes but this one just has me laughing again and again:

I took my dad to the mall the other day to buy some new shoes (he is 92). We decided to grab a bite at the food court. I noticed he was watching a teenager sitting next to him. The teenager had spiked hair in all different colors: green, red, orange, and blue. My dad kept staring at him. The teenager would look and find him staring every time.

When the teenager had had enough, he sarcastically asked, 'What's the matter old man, never done anything wild in your life?'

Knowing my Dad, I quickly swallowed my food so that I would not choke on his response, knowing he would have a good one, and in classic style he did not bat an eye in his response.

'Got drunk once, and had sex with a peacock. I was just wondering if you were my son.'

Natasha Richardson

2009-03-19T17:43:00.006Z

Sometimes someone we have never known, or met before, departs this world but the ripple effect reaches far and wide and washes up on our own shore. I feel unbelievable sad hearing the news about Natasha Richardson. My heart goes out to her family.

Men in Kilts

2009-03-19T17:33:00.002Z

My Novel

2009-03-03T20:03:00.002Z

Well the novel is finally finished. ALL I need to do now if find an Agent. Easy stuff. Find an Agent, hope they like your manuscript, hope the publisher will like it. Hope the editor will take it on. Hope the the sales rep can sell it to the bookseller and hope someone out there wants to read such a wonderful hidden gem.

Here is the first chapter.

Chapter One
The hassle of customs was behind her and at long last she could unleash her suppressed excitement. She raced through the arrivals to exit the airport in record time; then dumped her bags on the pavement, raised her face to the typical grey skies, took a long deep breath and sighed. She was home. She didn’t question why she had taken this impromptu visit; less than 24 hours before she had been slouching at her desk, stabbing the keyboard with her finger, uninterested in the contents of the document she was composing. Ping. An email advertising seat sales popped up. That got her attention. She sat up straight. Smiled to her self. Pressed a button, and here she was.
She stepped forward and lifted her hand to hail a cab and the toe of her Gucci boot clipped the duty free bag causing the contents to rattle. She bent to steady the clanking bottles. At that moment, a mud splattered Range Rover skidded up on to the kerb in front of her causing her to stumble back in alarm. In the mist of the ensuing exchange of horns, her taxi took off jerking back into the heavy stream of traffic. She spun around prepared to confront the interloper and instead of blasting them she melted into a fit of Squealing. The figure leaping from the screeching vehicle was none other than her older brother.
“Rhiana ma darling,” Stuart yelled. He swaggered over, scooped her up in a bone-crushing hug, and spun her off her feet until she was breathless. “Tsk, tsk, young sis; did you really think after travelling 3,000 miles we’d leave you to the mercy of a Glasgow cabbie?”
He was a sight for sore eyes, standing there wagging his finger at her in mock disapproval. “I should have known better,” she said.
Rhiana had barely caught her breath when her other brother, Greg, came bounding around the far side of the car and grabbed her, swinging her around once again in a head spinning circle.
“Ah guess you were right Stuart,” Greg said. “It was close…but we made it.” He placed Rhiana firmly on her feet, and glanced at her glowing face, before giving in and squeezing her in another firm hug.
Stuart took this opportunity to grab the duty free bag and flee.
“You want to grab that other bag,” he called over his shoulder to Greg.
“Awe man,” Greg grumbled. He watched the bag of alcohol disappear. “I was slow off the mark there, eh?” He shrugged and picked up Rhiana’s luggage then hurried after Stuart in a bid to limit the distance between him self and the duty free.
Rhiana laughed at the antics of her brothers. “You two should seek professional help. I really didn’t want anyone to go out their way. I knew you were up north…” She stopped suddenly and glared at them, “Please don’t tell me you left the cottage to get here!”
Her suspicions were confirmed when she spotted the awkward glance her brothers exchanged. She hurried over to them. “I’m really pissed off at you two,” she snarled but her beaming smile softening the anger of her words as she linked arms with them,. “You shouldn’t have done this…but thanks.” Her accent grew strong with emotion. “Let’s get out of here. I’m so glad to be home and now I want to get going and see the great sights this glorious city has to offer. You Muppets take it all for granted.”
“Our city…glorious? Heh Greg, are you hearing Holly Golightly here?” Stuart asked. He opened the back door for his sister to climb in. “The high altitude must have addled her brain. The brothers exchanged grins across the car roof and waited. They weren’t disappointed.
Rhiana let out a squeal of delight when she heard, “Surprise.”
Her best friend Fiona was hiding in the back seat.
Rhiana scrambled in and thumped Fiona on the arm then grabbed her in an emotional embrace. “I can’t believe you.” Rhiana squealed again. “It’s bloody 6:30 in the morning.” In that moment, she thought it might be possible to burst from happiness “Saturday bleeding morning at that. You lot are usually just getting in from a night of drunken debauchery.”
“Well then some things never change, do they hen.” Stuart teased as he climbed into the front passenger seat. “What makes you think we’ve been to bed yet?” He yawned in support of his statement. “We raced back through hill and glen once we’d made the executive decision to try and make your flight.” He patted his younger brother on the shoulder. “Drive on McDuff; the sooner we can dump the excess baggage, the sooner we can carry on with the party. After all, we just came along for the free booze and gifts,” said Stuart lifting and a bottle of Gin and a bottle of vodka up over his shoulder so Fiona could see. “What’s your poison babes?”
Fiona ignored him and turned to Rhiana. “We couldn’t wait to see you pet. Once we got your message you were coming this morning we figured we had the rest of our lives to sleep.” They hugged again and giggled like a pair of teenagers.
You look absolutely fecking amazing.” Fiona said looking Rhiana up and down. “What’s going on? And why the last minute decision to come home? I mean, you were just here a few months ago and now here you are acting like you haven’t been home in years.” Fiona’s expression clouded over. “Is everything okay? Does this have anything to do with Ross? Is that why you’re sitting there looking radiant? Oh please, please, please gawd don’t tell me you’re getting married?” Fiona didn’t give Rhiana a chance to answer before launching into a tirade. “Before you say a word,” she held up her hand to silence Rhiana, “I have to get this off my chest now while I still have the courage. Personally, I can’t see you two together. I mean he is drop dead gorgeous. I’ll give you that, but…well…” She hesitated for a moment, observing Rhiana’s reaction before continuing. “I’m only your closest friend in life, right? I’ve only known you from the cradle. So what do I know?” She paused, considering her next words carefully. “But, honestly…Rhiana…I think there’s something not quite right about him. You Know. I don’t think he’s right up here…” said Fiona prodding her temple with her index finger before taking hold of Rhiana’s hand and holding it between her own. “And I’ll leave it at that shall I? I’m sorry pet. Look at me getting all aunt Jemima on you and you’ve only just arrived. But you know I’m only saying this because I care and he worries me?”
Rhiana’s smile faded as she acknowledged her friend’s advice. “Actually, you’re right.” She placed her free hand on top of her pal’s and patted it, her beautiful smile returning, “…and don’t ask me why I came home again, I haven’t a clue.” She shrugged. “I was at the office, working away, and this persistent little voice in my head kept saying, “go home; go home; go home.” so here I am. Weird eh?” She shrugged. “So you see, it’s got nothing to do with Ross…although, now you mention it, I will have to deal with him now I’m here; And, you’ll be happy to know, especially after hearing your not so subtle opinion of him, I’d already decided to end things.” She made a slashing gesture across her throat.
Fiona let out a big sigh of relief and rubbed Rhiana’s arm. “I wouldn’t worry too much about how he’s going to take it. He positively causes whiplash just by walking by. He might look like Brad but at the end of the day hen if he ain’t got it he ain’t got it.” Fiona said and regarded Rhiana with a tender smile. “Don’t you think it might be better to get it over with A-sap? That way it’s not praying on your mind over the holiday.” She waited to see if Rhiana agreed.
Rhiana wrinkled her nose in distaste and nodded. “Yeah, I guess.” She didn’t relish seeing him again. He was a smooth talker but when he didn’t get his way he could be a quite aggressive. She would have to stand her ground and not let him sway her decision. It would only postpone the inevitable.
Greg diverted Rhiana and Fiona’s attention by cranking up the radio. “I would walk five Hundred miles and I would walk five hundred more…” He was screeching at the top of his lungs drowning out the radio while he smoothly zipped in and out the speeding traffic gesturing for the girls to join in. “…just to be the man that falls down at…” They all chanted together as they made their way into the city centre.

chapter one version 2 coming up

2008-12-07T15:37:00.002Z

Aye.phone

2008-10-22T18:20:00.004+01:00

You were in my arms for the shortest time
But life with you was mighty fine
Now your gone from my warm embrace
you've left in my pocket a weightless space

I can only hope that in days ahead
you'll find the shelter of a snug wee bed
Then make your way to the lost and found
till you return to me all safe and sound.

You & Me

2008-04-24T19:36:00.005+01:00

I spoke and you heard the things I never said
I cried and you saw the tears I could not shed
I sobbed and you felt the pain within my shell
You beheld the grief that was my hell

You soothed away my hopeless dreams
And bathed my face in moonlight beams
You banish aches from deep inside
Hope and love are once more my guide

I no longer need to up and run
From a crippled life devoid fun
You shelter me from surrounding woes
And together we challenge those unseen foes

Invisible Tears

2008-02-19T20:16:00.000Z

The aura of your existence echoes
As we move apart
Invisible tears cascade, flowing o'er
Ruptures etched into my heart
In my confusion I stumble inwards
Lost in the chaos of my mind
Gone is a special part of me
I know not who is left behind

Now I must explore
The essence of myself
And seek the other side of me
I put high up on the shelf
For love can not be limited
To shape or size or form
Or to one sweet lonely aura
That will part upon the morn

I Smelt The Flowers

2008-02-02T06:25:00.001Z

I smelt the flowers, I felt the breeze
Caress my face on bended knees
My heart was strong, and in full flight
The bloom of youth was pure and bright

Spiteful people and dishonest love
Made me believe I had no worth
I did things wrong I went too far
I was stupid and afraid so I pushed the bar

My soul weak and self abused
My life was empty, I felt so used
Cynical and raw I had no trust
I truly believed I was eternally cursed

I’d had affairs along the way
But good or bad I could never stay
I glanced around and there was you
My lips were parched, my eyes were too

Gazing at you across that room
My breath stopped short my heart went boom
I couldn’t move, your eyes they knew
As did that little grin you do

In you was home, the truth I saw
The look we shared was pure but raw
We’d made mistakes and felt the sting
And struggled on with broken wing

You crossed the room, you took my hand
You led me from the painful land
Of one night stands and broken dreams
And gave me life in moonlight beams

The Spider and the Magpie

2007-11-02T01:00:00.000Z

I crept through the hole in the door at the back
Eight legs up on tip toes braced for attack
I prepared for my supper by spinning my web
In the darkest of corners besides the mares bed

While up in the rafters sat bonnie Eli
The blackest and whitest and most eligible Magpie
Playing with his treasure by the light of the moon
Not knowing that sorrow would find me soon

For Eli was a rake of the worst disrepute
Sashaying and strutting in his black & white suit
And no one was safe from his notorious appeal
There wasn’t a heart that Eli could not steal

Now none of that matters as I spin and I spin
For the gold that he gave me may well have been tin
And the Vodka he supplied with the tastiest of fly
Can’t dull my sweet memories of that charming Magpie.

The Rut

2007-06-25T20:56:00.001+01:00

Looking up at the steep walls of the rut I find myself enveloped in
I try to grab the escape rope which comes in the form of a voice
It's very faint almost loud enough to be deemed a whisper
Amid the negative suffocating noise

If only I can dampen those interfering nuances clouding the issue
To focus on that melodic sound, a landmark mapping the way out
Ground level seems a good start
I'll make it no doubt

The music is louder and cleared stepping outside the shade
Of a rut too deep for light to penetrate
Focus, the key to freedom i've been forbade
And a life to celebrate

I Want You

2007-06-21T22:19:00.000+01:00

Wandering through our memories
My thoughts are mournfully scattered
I rebuild my self made image of you
You come by, my you is shattered
I want you as you used to be
But I myself have changed
I can't go back to who I was
Once more we're both estranged

We know so well who we were
entwined throughout the ages
Struggling to find the groves we made
Upon our true love stages
If our souls together are meant
We'll surely see a sign
Echoing through all the pain
To screams Oh you are mine

Will You Would You Could You

2007-05-11T03:19:00.000+01:00

Will you, would you, could you
If you thought the way was clear
Find within you heart of hearts
A way to hold me dear

Will you would you could you
If the road was straight and true
Give me all you had to give
With out so much ado

Will you would you could you
If the clouds were dark and low
Give me light to guide me
And make my aura glow

Will you would you could you
If you hold me as your friend
Give me love and laughter
Until the humble end

Come find Me

2007-04-28T23:48:00.001+01:00

You lift me to the clouds above
A Shower of comets herald our love
The northern lights are trapped inside
Swirling around as my eyes grow wide

My heart thumps hard, my breath goes deep
I hear your name it skips a beat
Dry at the lips, my tongue brings dew
Tingling all over with thoughts of you

Our meeting was brief you're all ready taken
By so many loves you've never forsaken
I need you alone to help you find
We suit so well in body and mind

For beyond your image I see your sole
There something missing to make you whole
You know not yet what that can be
You'll find the truth when come find me

The Rogano

2007-04-26T17:06:00.002+01:00

Whisky Recipe

2007-04-16T02:41:00.001+01:00

The woes of editing.

2007-01-10T18:33:00.000Z

Well, I haven't had a chance to add in the next teaser of Mhairi & Jamie's escapades yet, what with the event of Christmas, New Year, and various party binging sessions. It was not the most conclusive time to scurrying away from the society of ones fellow humans to seak the society of a solitary Computer.

I will get back on track this weekend with a new teaser that will make your hair curl, or straighten if it is already curled.

I didn't realise when I started the process the great Scottish novel that it would only take me 6 months to write it and a year (and counting) to edit it. Oh to have $$$$ and hand it over to a professional...

Maybe once it reaches the bestseller list it will pave the way for my original novel set in historical Scotland (1350).

p.s. Excuse the name constant changes. I keep playing around to see what feels right. I realized Ailsa was the name of my female protagonist in the foremention historical novel and that name seems so right for the setting. So it Rhiannon for now. Nope scratch that it's now Mhairi.

Always open for suggestions. As long as the name is of Scottish or Celtic origin.