Versatile Heart

It's beyond everything that I should be so lucky as to be nominated for an award. Especially by two very special followers in one day. Thank you to Athena and to Lottie for this nomination of 'The Versatile Blogger' Award. You two really are so sweet for this. I shall not forget it.

"The Rules:

1. Thank the person who loved you enough to bestow this gift

2. Share seven things about yourself.

3. Bestow this honor onto 10 newly discovered or followed bloggers who are fantastic in some way.

4. Drop by and let your ten new friends know you admire them.

Okay so here we go!"

Seven things?
1. I have loads of unburnt candles dotted around my room. I know I should burn them but I'm convinced that they are doing a perfectly good job of scenting the room without actually having to be burnt. My absolute favourite is sweet pear lily. It does for smell what the sun does for summer.

2. I am an irritatingly fast reader. It would be good to slow down, but I just find I can't stop once I get going. However, when it comes to people's names I struggle massively. Torn by not wanting to pronounce the name wrong but also wanting to seem impersonal. Which is slightly ironic as my own name isn't that easy to say. Whenever I meet someone new, or we had a new teacher in class the same line is rolled out; "It's Gaelic, pronounced like 'marry', as in a wedding."

3. I like to travel. Whether it is going across the world and back or simply taking a bus journey. Walking is always a good choice for clearing my head. Actually, usually my favourite part of the day is on the bus to and from the city.

4. My mp3 player is filled up with an eclectic mix of music, but I always find that solo piano pieces are mysteriously on repeat the most. I always want to put musical solos and showstoppers on there but resisting the temptation not to sing along out loud or weep at their emotive stories is too hard!

5. I consider myself as boring and more often than not a failure. This is very well reflected in these facts so far. Questions are far easier to answer. When I started writing this post I was convinced I couldn't do it. I hope there's maybe some personality in this post. Usually I seem to come across as whimsically lost and only capable of imagery.

6. I have had a job in retail for what seems like forever now. This year I got voted, by my co-workers, as 'Mrs Customer Service'. There's a little trophy and everything. I think I'm still in shock! At work it is actually in my contract for certain aesthetically pleasing customs. Such as flip flops to be worn in the summer (which I really don't like having to do) and big crazy hair and glitter worn on VIP nights. The picture on my profile is a bit misleading as my hair is naturally ginger and bird's nest like (i.e. curly). Typical Scottish heritage.

7. I like small, feminine tattoos and I'd really like to get one. But I'm a little too scared! A permanent mark needs much consideration. I'd want a little song bird, with a star overhead. It represents my training and freedom. The star, a reminder of the light. Maybe an anchor, that's totally my Dad. Or a tiny heart. To remind me of courage. I've liked this for a while (from TattooDesignIdea).


10 lovely people (in no particular order):
1. Revoltra - I'll follow her wherever she goes. She is so real and honest in her writing. Please do take a look.

2. Eva - the Snap-Thought project she's set up is really inspiring and more people should definitely see what it's all about.

3. Lucy - what she writes, you will relate to instantly.

4. Barry - no doubt nominated before, he knows how inspiring I find his many, many, many blogs. You won't be disappointed where the links take you. He is infinitely kind.

5. Lazzenia - her pictures are so beautiful, you'll wish you'd been there to see the moment captured.

6. Joanna - you'll be lost in a new kind of beauty.

7. Anon. - solace has never filled some one's words so fully.

8. Helen - I appreciate having her as a follower so much. I hope you'll find out why she's so special too.

9. Margg. - an expert in definition, eloquent in her production and far too humble.

10. Grey - rhetoric is plentiful here.

** I'd also really like to thank Peri for just being wonderful. All the time :)
But there are so many more of you to discover!

Cruel Sister

There are hours of existence and times of mutterings. Nothing is a space that fills the majority. Less about numbers. More about matters.

There was a hole, empty entirety. No writing came. Till now when seeking propriety, was summed up as a game.

A sum of unrelated relativity ensued. Back to the global language, Mathematics. The one barely passed. The formula relates to issues. So it's okay to bounce back. Shall I take you to where I wrote on walls and all over paper books? The place is not that welcoming, but full of eager hooks. This is confidential, propriety to the personal and overwhelming in nature. Read as far as you wish.

I can hear wind chimes, can you hear them too?
There is dust everywhere. This place has become so ancient.
Faint humming, what is that tune?
Much work to be done. No time for lament.

The handbook mentioned something about Easter.
A flash of pink and white before a fall to the floor;
is this how the seasons weep?
Oh where are you winter, season to adore.

Girls in frocks and boys with ankle socks,
A chilling reminder of the body come to surface,
Clocks hit the hours of playing in study,
The irony one of magnificent surplus.


Give up the rules, but follow the barriers.
Doth I be there, dancing in houses.


Welcome me home with open arms.
It's somewhere over the rainbow.
Please?

Poetry written as evening lights wither,
The faint chime of wind heard;
Are we to stand and deliver?

Was it remembered by the river, the memories of us. The sound of laughter held in the waterfall thud. Pity to try so hard. Plausible for the break after the get togethers. Passion, gone. Impossible to break tradition.

As blue skies are fading the ink will turn black,
Simpatico hits Carr's words,
A subtle knack to a plan of attack?

Inní mér syngur vitleysyngur, that is what was sung. And so the rhythm of life was strangled again. Twisted by a rope and strung up by the whisper. Manic is loud. Deadly is quiet.

Once heard what was read,
Twice lost what was said,
And na'more be lead.


O dear one, blue skies are fading.
Bells in the night?


Fuck it, it is all one big bowl of purge.
She's one meanie relative.
Metaphorical and yet so, so real.

Do knives seem crazy now?

So you can take a step back.
Hit 'x''x''x' and go.
I appreciate you being here,
I thought I'd let you know.

There are no knights in shining armour and I'd prefer not to be rescued.

Foiled Again?

I looked out and considered all things irrelevant. How do we even begin to consider conclusions?

It's the familiar feeling again. They tell me it is bad to let it in but it won't stop.



"It's like you've been put on mute. People can see you but they just cannot hear you."

The Broken Wave

It was impossible to ignore thought of twisted concept and backwards logic. If flowers grow in perverse chronology we would be witness to their transformation of wilt to life to pre-existence. That is more bearable than knowing their beauty will die. If having the chance of rebirth were possible, for flowers, do you think they'd take it? Instead of being a new character each year. One for the gardener to contend with fiercely, "You must grow and blossom, so you will be perfect!" Take these additives, oh those vitamins are proven, if we spray that on you will look more radiant, less beaten down. The few small sacrifices. Without pain there is no beauty. What were they beaten down by? Why it was the gardeners of cause. The relentless. Speaking of all faults as a norm. With that awareness you are knowledgeable but ultimately cursed. We stood there and witnessed the most silent argument!

Images of knives, but you do not want to hear that one. Your curiosity may get the better of you, so we leave imagination to become your enemy. Mention the topic and you go wild. You'll have no limits, it is boundless. They could be in intrinsic dance, swirling overhead, the flash of danger catches the light. Now and again. They could be taking action. Slice, cut, chop, slash. Ouch? The wallpaper would never unpeel with age but instead slowly retreat. Overcome by the memory of its Jury bound life. The slow and painful process begins. Pushing you further and further away but being left always in the dirt room's presence. Instead of whispering 'please don't say it', it's okay to shout it out loud. In your face. Making you aware. It is the topic you most want to avoid, evident by materialistic conversation. But that is okay, I'm not really aware of anything you're saying anyway. Did I gasp in the wrong part of conversation? That should be evidence enough. Covered in injuries. What's your favourite number? I hate the notion of rugs. Dendrochronology would become a sham.

If the waves could wave but not crash. When they said hello we'd take the chance to return the favour. When they say goodbye - well when would that ever happen! Imagine the denial, you oxymoron.

Have you ever woken up crying?

Here's the Tender Coming

I'm sitting and reflecting on the week partially laid out before, or behind, me. I realise most of it is lost because nothing was really going in, while everything was happening. There are all these musky, new and fresh smells, but unknown because the sniffles deny access. I am asleep with noises next to me. They wake me up. On the bus you can sit and commit to Marxism theory. We'll think that the conversations will not have to happen and you can be left to quiet contemplation. They'll think that hearing about events, facts and exciting revelations is the perfect way to pass "met time". We arrive at the destination, still aware that this is desired. Reality for you is conversation, in which participation is no escape. For them, it is the sign of 'recovery'.

What should we want more of? Everything flies in and out of vision. I'm only aware of this ceiling, clouds adorning the surface, though outside the night sky gleams. Reading this back is becoming an impossible necessity, with the consequence of no correction or 'life-edits'. Does it reflect what I cannot face? I wish I could paint my nails better and drink tea elegantly whilst looking out across the water at lawns and flowers, adorning the grounds of such a country dwelling. I wish I could hide away in my own little world and no one and everyone would question my motives. I wish for all these photos to be taken down or turned around, if I can not have the memories in my head, why should they quizzically stare me in the eye? I hope my cat shall not leave me alone in the night when I feel like she is the knot on this dock's key. Let's walk along in the secrets of the garden path, looking round the corners of leaves and tree branches. Time to feel ill in feelings of human emotions, so sick with happiness and then so swollen in sadness. There is no want, need or must in a cluttered and empty mind.

Marxist realisation: the ceiling is just painted very badly. We feel guilty holding secrets. Brush strokes here and there.
So, can I fall away again now? Reality is just not as pretty. I did it to myself again. Walks are no solution.