A.J. Sendall's Blog, page 6

Introverts

By %%ajsendall.com%%

Introverts – and how they can be misunderstood.

Introversion is one of the major personality traits. People who are introverted tend to internalise, or focus more on internal thoughts, feelings and moods, rather than seeking external stimulation.

Shyness and introversion are often confused. Not all introverts are shy. Some have active social lives and love being with friends, but they all need time to be alone to “recharge”. And their circle of friends tend to be smaller, and conversations deeper.

The word “Introvert” has always had negative connotations, and that needs to be changed. Introverts are marginalised and misunderstood because the majority of the population are extrovert.

How often have you heard expressions such as; ‘She’s just shy, but we can cure that.’ or ‘He’s quiet, but give him a couple of drinks, that’ll bring him out of himself.’

It’s a complete anathema for an introvert. The vast majority of introverts don’t want to be brought out of themselves. They’re quite content being inside. That’s where they function, where they’re happiest. And they don’t need fixing or curing. There’s nothing wrong with us.

Introversion can be thought to exist at one end of a line, while extroversion represents the other end. We are all on the line, the loud party animals at one end, and introverts bunched up at the other end, happy to be alone.

If a friend says to me; ‘You have to come to this party at the weekend, AJ, there’ll be dancing and karaoke and lots of fun people. It’ll be great!….’ I’ll go to any length, do anything, not to go.

Another difference between introverts and extroverts, is that introverts will usually think about things before talking. They want to have a full understanding of a concept before they voice an opinion or try to offer an explanation. While extraverts typically learn through trial and error, introverts learn best through observation and quiet contemplation. I’d sooner push needles in my eyes than stand up and talk about a subject that I’m not completely familiar with.

I mention introverts briefly last week in a post about character, and how the quiet thinker has mostly been replaced by the extrovert who can ‘win friends and influence people’. Seems like a retrograde step to me, but then I’m biased.

I recently read ‘Quiet': The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking , by Susan Cain. One section that particularly interested me, discussed how the culture of character had been replaced by the culture of personality starting early last century in the USA.

“America had shifted from what influential cultural historian Warren Susman called a culture of character to a culture of personality, and opened up a Pandora’s box of personal anxieties of which we would never recover.”  – Susan Cain.

Cain explains how Dale Carnegie led the charge toward a culture of personality with his classes in public speaking, shifting the emphasis from what drove a person internally, to what impression they could make externally, in order to influence others. This influence was, of course, usually for financial or political gain, although the difference between the two is hard to define.

If you’re not sure if you are an introvert, take Susan Cain’s simple test. The results might surprise you.

 

One of the most famous introverts of all space/time, and a quote that really hits the mark with me.

 “My passionate sense of social justice and social responsibility has always contrasted oddly with my pronounced lack of need for direct contact with other human beings and human communities. I am truly a lone traveller and have never belonged to my country, my home, my friends, or even my immediate family, with my whole heart; in the face of all these ties, I have never lost a sense of distance and a need for solitude.”  –    Albert Einstein.

What are you experiences as an introvert, or as an extrovert interacting or living with introversion? Leave a comment below.

 

 

Today’s musical offering is aimed right at you.

 

Thanks for stopping by, and call in again tomorrow when I’ll be taking a look at J. And I have no idea what it will be about.

Until then, happy reading.

The post Introverts appeared first on A.J. Sendall - Writer.

Hurt, Heaven, and Hell; what does it all mean to you?

By %%ajsendall.com%%

Hurt!

We’ve all felt it, and at some time or another most of us will have dealt it out.

Perhaps when Stephen King said in one of his writing tips ‘remember every scar’, he was really referring to hurt; the scars and hurt that we have both inflicted, and collected. I think it’s great advice for the writer, and a method to add depth to characters and plot. However, in our personal lives, it is not a good thing. Each time we remember a hurtful comment or action, it hurts us again … and again .. and again, until we let it go. It’s like smacking your thumb with a hammer to remind yourself how much it hurt when you did it by accident.

 

 

 

Heaven and Hell

When used figuratively, Heaven and Hell are transposable; it all depends on your personality, likes and dislikes as to which is which.

Heaven for one person might be a night in a noisy club, swilling alcohol and being deafened my house music. That’s my idea of hell. And conversely, sailing alone across a passive ocean with nobody for a thousand miles would sound like hell on water for many, but not to me. We’re all different, and that’s one of the great things about us.

I don’t believe in Heaven and Hell in the religious or biblical sense, as that would require a vengeful personal god. And that’s beyond what I’m prepared to believe.

 

I’ll leave you today with a clip from Johnny Cash, and one of his last recordings, Hurt, (which was written by Trent Reznor, and first released on Nine Inch Nails‘ 1994 album The Downward Spiral).

Johnny Cash experienced plenty of hurt throughout his life, much of it self inflicted, and in this heartfelt and powerful song, he seems to be confessing that.

Enjoy, and join me again tomorrow for a quiet peek at Introverts.

 

 

I hurt myself today

To see if I still feel

I focus on the pain

The only thing that’s real

The needle tears a hole

The old familiar sting

Try to kill it all away

But I remember everything
[Chorus:]

What have I become

My sweetest friend

Everyone I know goes away

In the end

And you could have it all

My empire of dirt

I will let you down

I will make you hurt
I wear this crown of thorns

Upon my liar’s chair

Full of broken thoughts

I cannot repair

Beneath the stains of time

The feelings disappear

You are someone else

I am still right here
[Chorus:]

What have I become

My sweetest friend

Everyone I know goes away

In the end

And you could have it all

My empire of dirt

I will let you down

I will make you hurt
If I could start again

A million miles away

I would keep myself

I would find a way

The post Hurt, Heaven, and Hell; what does it all mean to you? appeared first on A.J. Sendall - Writer.

Guest Post

By %%ajsendall.com%%

A guest post with a few characters from the Sydney underworld

Hosting a guest post, and choosing who to invite today wasn’t easy. Getting the mix right took a while, and of course consideration had to be given to who would want to come and who might be pissed if left out.

Carol was easy (she always was), she’s garrulous, fun and easy on the eye. She has occasionally referred to a friend called Heather, and I’ve never known if it was the Heather Todd, or someone else. Anyway, I asked Heather to join us, and I hope she’ll put in an appearance. Sam was unavailable, or not contactable, anyway. Maybe he’s at sea. It would have been interesting to see him in the same room as Carol. Micky never turns down an opportunity for a drink and to scope out opportunities to steal shit.

It’s late, or early, depending on how you use the day. Two-thirty in the morning. I’m putting away books, and getting out bottles and cigarettes ready for when our guests arrive, if any of them do. I pour a shot Jameson, light a Camel, and sit back thinking about how I came to know them all.

Carol was first to arrive, I knew she would be. She walked in without saying a word, giving me the hard-eye as she walked past me to the table in the middle of the room, where she poured herself a drink.

‘Nice to see you too, Carol. How are you?’

She gave one of her derisive snorts, lit up and then said, ‘Still dead last time I checked. Arsehole.’

I’d guessed this was coming, and was glad that it was just the two of us in the room. ‘Come on, Carol, don’t be like that. It was necessary.’

‘Killing me with six chapters left to go is necessary?’

‘For the plot. It was needed for the plot, you must understand that.’

Two steams of smoke escaped her flared nostrils, she looked at me for a five beat, then turned away. ‘Yeah, whatever you say, AJ. You’re the boss, right?’

‘You know you’re one of my favourites, Carol, you always have been. It’s why I invited you first. I really wanted you to be here, to be my guest of honour.’

‘You know, AJ, you’re full of shit. But I’m here already, so what are we doing, what is this guest post thing anyway?’

‘It’s a chance for the readers—your fans—to get to know you better, perhaps to hear more about you. I think they’d like that. Wadaya say?’

‘You couldn’t print what I want to say about you, and that eighteen-carat prick, Micky Bloody DeWitt.’

She sat on the sofa, looked at me defiantly as she rolled the ash off her cigarette on the cushion. Then she turned away from me and said, ‘I guess some of you blog readers have read Flank Street already, and so will know what a nasty shit he is, and how he killed me. For the rest of you it went down—no pun—like this. My life was good, and could have still been good if someone hadn’t got frightened and killed me. Isn’t that right, AJ? It’s okay, it was rhetorical, and you don’t have to answer, answer the bloody door instead. Like I said, my life was good, plenty of money, enough friends, didn’t have to work too many hours to maintain it. Then he found me, Mr AJ write-your-life-the-way-you-don’t-want-it Sendall. He needed me to breathe some life into the dull and vapid existence of—Oh and speak of the devil’s arse, it’s the man himself. Come on in, Micky and pour me a drink. That’s what you do isn’t it; pour drinks for people, Mr A Hole Barhop? And why didn’t you tell me he was coming, A.J? Afraid your “guest of honour” would tell you to get fucked, instead of sitting her entertaining your blog readers?’

Micky had that sardonic grin as he poured Jameson into a tumbler, dropped in ice, and then handed it to her. ‘Mud in your eye, Carol.’

‘A knife in yours, douchebag,’ she said, taking the drink from his hand. Despite her attitude I could see that suppressed smile that was uniquely Carol. I’d seen it a hundred times, so had Micky. He threw me a quick grin as he turned from her. ‘One for you, AJ?’

‘I’m fine thanks, Micky. I’m the designated writer, and somebody might have to stay sober enough to call the cops before dawn.’

He poured one for himself, sat in a chair opposite Carol, and raised his glass in salute. ‘Carry on with your story, Carol. I’d really like to hear it too.’

‘Listen to this guy. Sitting there like Mr Innocent. Hear it? You helped write it, you prick. But for the rest of you, I’ll continue what I was saying. He, Mr Smartarse sitting there with a smug look and a glass of scotch, he needed something in his life, his sad existence—other than his horse-faced barmaid with big tits and no brains—to make the book worth reading. I mean, can you imagine it? Micky and Meagan … doing what! Jack shit that’s what. The dullest book in history. If it wasn’t for me you’d still be pulling pints, spilling whiskey and telling lies. Loser.’

‘And you’d still have a good life, with plenty of money, a few friends and only working a few hours a week—on your back, or knees—to maintain it.’

‘Let’s talk about the book,’ I said to try an defuse the tension between them. ‘How about that?’

Micky lit a cigarette, his hands cupping the flame of an old Tommy lighter. ‘How about we do a rerun of Carol’s last five pages?’

‘How about you do something useful like cut your throat,’ Carol said. He just grinned and looked back at her, blew smoke into the air and then said, ‘Remember when we were driving back to Sydney from Tamborine Mountain, from your parent’s place? There was a bit of angst that day, just like now—’

‘You’d just threatened to kill my father, you arsehole.’

‘And you’d just lied to me and left me in shit up to my ears with people who kill for fun … remember? Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is we made a truce that night; put everything to one side and just did what we had to do. We can do that tonight for A.J, for the people reading this post, right? Afterwards, we can go back to trying to destroying each other. Okay?’

She laughed, swallowed half of her drink, then said, ‘You and good old A.J. Like two rotten peas in a fucked-up pod.’

‘Come on, Carol, mind the language,’ Micky said, ‘there could sensitive people reading this. They don’t want to hear your foul mouth.’

‘For the readers, I’ll do it, but it’s not for you, or A.J. hovering here like a blow-fly trying to look innocent.’

‘That truce is a good idea,’ I said, in an attempt to turn the tide of hostility.

‘You would say that, after all, it was your idea. All of it was. Including getting Micky to kill me.’

‘But it was his idea to—.’

‘Never mind. It doesn’t even matter now. You two arseholes killed me between you.’

‘So, Carol, the book, the story. What was your favourite part? What day did you enjoy the most?’ She sat quietly for a half minute. Micky sat smoking and watching her on his best behaviour. Eventually she looked up at him for a few seconds then turned away.

‘Two days stand out in my memory. The first was when we did the robbery together. That was fun, it turned me on,’ she said, glancing at Micky. ‘The second day, or days, were the sailing trip to Pittwater; swimming, laughing and playing poker in the cockpit, and jumping into the water.’

‘That was a good time,’ Micky said. ‘I really enjoyed those days too, Carol.’

she crushed her cigarette out on the arm of my lounge, then said, ‘Just a shame it had to end the way it did then.’

‘Remember the truce, Carol,’

Micky leaned forward in his chair, rested his elbow above his knees, and said, ‘I meant it, Carol. They were good days. Great days. I really wish we could have had more of them.’

She shrugged and wouldn’t meet his eyes. Then her shoulders shook, once, then again as she bowed her head. I stayed quiet, stunned to see this beautiful, tough woman cry.

I looked at Micky, there was a broad grin spreading across his face as he watched her. I knew he was a cold, lying bastard; I’d made him that way, but even so ….

Carol’s head was still bowed, sobs seemed to be convulsing her until she threw her head back and let out one of her loud raucous laughs. She looked at me with a mix of amusement and  disdain.

‘Shall we tell them the truth, Micky?’ she said, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes with the back of a hand. ‘Shall we? Or shall we make them wait to read the book?’

Micky drained his glass, then still grinning, he stood and walked over to Carol and took her hand in his. ‘Nah. Make ‘em wait.’

They walked out the door together, laughing like a couple of coked-up teenagers. I guess the joke was on me.

 

.

You can pre-order a copy of on Flank Street Amazon now at the introductory price of $2.99.

Thanks for stopping by, and if you want to ask Carol or Micky a question, leave a comment below.

Join me again tomorrow for a change of pace with some ‘H’s in the April A to Z Challenge. Until then, happy reading.

The post Guest Post appeared first on A.J. Sendall - Writer.

F#*”!

By %%ajsendall.com%%

If course language offends you, leave, have a great day, and call back again tomorrow.

 

 

 

Today, I’m talking about one of my pet dislikes. I won’t waste emotion hating something, but this just ticks me off. You’ll see it in many posts and comments, as I’m sure many of you have. What I’m referring to, is the annoying use of ‘f-bomb’ instead of ‘fuck’.

One of the reasons it annoys me is that when you read ‘F-bomb’, what word do you hear in your head? … fuck, that’s what. So what’s the point of making up silly substitutes that immediately slip a fuck between your ears anyway?

The other aspect that pisses me off is grouping an innocent little four-letter word like fuck, with devices designed for one purpose only—to kill people en-mass.

IT’S NOT A FUCKING BOMB! GET OVER IT!

Or as many Americans would say, ‘Get the fuck over it’. They say it all the time, write it all the time, it is in the majority of films: -, sit the fuck down, shut the fuck up, come the fuck in, go the fuck away, what the fuck! Yet many still insist on using ‘f-bomb’ when we’re surrounded daily by the good, straightforward,  honest fuck. Perhaps it’s a way of appearing more socially sensitive, more correct, more bullshit!

It’s in books, movies, TV and music.

In music; welsh rockers Super Furry Animals’ 1996 single, The Man Don’t Give A Fuck, was the first UK Top 40 hit to include 52 fucks.

In movies; Martin Scorsese’ 2013 Wolf of Wall street, tops movie list with 560 fucks, while the ever-popular Goodfellas, weighs in with a very respectable 300.

 

The origins of the word are not known. But the weight of opinion would indicate that it has been in use since the fifteenth century. We’ve all heard it, read it, said it and done it; so isn’t it time to get it in perspective? There’s no compulsion to use it, to say or write it. If you don’t like ‘fuck’, find another way of expressing yourself, something more creative than … I can’t even write it one more time.

And you know what, it’s as handy as all fuck. Just four little letters, but so flexible and multifuckingfunctional, and falls into many grammatical categories:

As a transitive verb for instance … Micky fucked Carol.

As an intransitive verb … Carol fucks.

As an adjective … Sam’s doing all the fucking work.

As part of an adverb … Carol talks too fucking much.

As an adverb enhancing an adjective … Heather is just fucking beautiful.

As a noun … I don’t give a fuck.

As part of a word … absofuckinglutely -or- infuckingcredible.

And as almost every word in a sentence … Fuck the fucking fuckers.

 

You’ve just survived 26 fucks, one for each day of this challenge, without anyone dying, having a coronary, giving birth or turning to ash.

 

 

Today’s music clip isn’t by Super Furry Animals, but one of my favourite from Carlos Santana and Rob Thomas.

 

 

What’s your thoughts? Leave a comment below and include your alternative to a nice simple ‘fuck’.

 

Thanks for calling by, and do so again tomorrow when I’ll be hosting a Guest post with some interesting characters

 

 

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Excerpt from In The Sydney Underworld

By %%ajsendall.com%%

Excerpts from the three books of the ‘In The Sydney Underworld’ series.

It’s been a busy few weeks in many ways, as I prepare for the publication of Flank Street, and start those spring jobs in the garden. I’ve also been working on the third book of the ‘In The Sydney Underworld’ series. So today I’m taking the easy path, and pasting some excerpts here for you to enjoy, and comment on.

 

Flank Street

We join Flank Street as Micky and Carol drive back to Sydney to collect a gun from her safety deposit box. She seems keen to get Micky back to her place. He’s wary after being stitched up by her before.

 

 

The Honey

Monday, 11 March 1991

We rolled into Sydney a few minutes before eleven the following morning. It had taken five hours from Coffs, with a breakfast stop on the way. Carol had been quiet, but not hostile or angry, and I’d tried to keep the peace for the duration of the journey. Things would tense up when we got to the bank.

‘What suburb is your bank in?’

‘It’s right in the middle of town. In Martin Place. I need to go home and get my keys first.’

‘Bullshit. Why wouldn’t you have your keys with you?’

‘I just didn’t bring them, that’s all. I didn’t expect to need them.’

‘So you’re telling me you were going to return to Sydney? To live here amongst people who want you dead?’

She lit a cigarette and drew heavily. ‘I didn’t know what I was thinking.’

‘Yes you did. You’re a strategist. Some would say a cunning bitch.’

‘Nice.’

‘What’s the real reason for wanting to go home?’

She faced me, and said, ‘I want us to talk. I want to tell you what a huge mistake you’ll be making if you give that gun back to them. Micky, please listen to me.’

‘You’ve just had a thousand kilometres to tell me any bullshit like that. What’s different at home?’

She went quiet as if in thought, smoking her cigarette and staring out of the side window.

‘We can work something out, Micky. Something where we both come out all right.’

‘If you’re so sure, let’s get the gun first, then I’ll listen. I just don’t trust you, Carol. Are the keys at your place, or are you just jerking me around?’

She wound the window down, threw out the cigarette, closed it again, and then straightened her windblown hair. ‘They’re in my bag.’

‘I thought so.’

We were approaching the central Sydney where Martin place and the bank were located. She pulled down the sun visor and touched up her lipstick. I parked in an underground about two-hundred meters from the bank, then we walked in silence.

It took ten minutes to get access to the safety deposit box. Two minutes later we were back on the street, walking toward the parking lot with the Makarov in my pack. It would have been easy to just walk away, give the gun to Mitchell, and tell them she was dead, but I drove to Turnbuckle instead. Not a word was said, and she didn’t seem surprised that I knew where to go.

I followed her inside. She looked around, taking in the missing photograph and the glass fragments on the floor, but all she said was, ‘Drink?’

‘Sure.’

She poured Jameson into crystal tumblers, and handed me one. It was early for me, and I’d no intention of getting pissed and waking up on the wrong side of a .38. When I sat in an armchair, she sat opposite me with an expectant look on her face. I raised my hands palm-up. ‘So speak. I’m out of here after one drink.’

‘What’s the rush? You have the gun. You have me where you want me.’ When I didn’t answer she said, ‘Have you killed before?’

‘What do you want to say? What’s your great scheme where we both come out on top, and Kurt Reed, or Mitchell, don’t chop us into little pieces?’

‘There are ways, Micky, and you know it. We could get on your boat and both disappear.’

‘You’re not my type. Anything else?’

‘I know you don’t want to kill me.’

I sipped my drink and said, ‘What makes you so sure?’

‘I’m not saying you wouldn’t kill, you might, but not a woman in cold blood. You’re not the type.’ She tipped the whiskey back and got up to refill her glass.

‘You don’t know what type I am.’

She gave a short derisive snort. ‘I know men. That’s one thing I do know. And you, Micky Dewitt, are not a cold blooded killer.’

When she emptied the tumbler for a second time in five minutes, I guessed it was fear, not thirst. She’d just said that she knew men. She also knew men that I needed to know about, so I decided to loosen her tongue and see what I could find out. There were three days yet before I had to face Mitchell. I drained my glass and held it out for a refill. Time to play.

‘Do you know men that are? If you know I’m not, then you must be comparing me with someone else.’ I reached forward, took one of her cigarettes, lit up, and then leaned back waiting for her to speak. She had to play along. In her mind, keeping me entertained was all that was keeping her alive. A modern day Scheherazade.

‘Hanging around The Cross, you meet all sorts of people. People come and people go. Some are good, others scum. Sure, I knew of one guy had the reputation of being a cold-blooded killer. I didn’t know him, but I’d seen him around. You know how the grapevine works with people like that. Must be the same where you’re from, where ever that is.’

‘London.’

‘Is Soho like The Cross?’

‘Not even close. What happened to the guy?’

‘He got whacked. I heard he’d crossed Brookes over money….’ Her words trailed off as she realised what she’d said. As she recognised the parallel, and how she was destined to end up getting whacked for the same reason.

‘He doesn’t like to be duped over money, does he, Carol?’

She hung her head, her arms resting on her thighs. ‘Fuck.’

She sighed and stood wearily, looked down at me, and then walked into the kitchen returning a moment later with a bag of chips and a pack of cashew nuts. She poured herself another, and then held the bottle out offering me more. I accepted with a shrug. She poured until my tumbler was nearly full, and then stood the bottle between us. I could feel the alcohol, and guessed she could as well, which was why she’d gone for food. She tore open the pack of nuts, put a big handful in her mouth, and chewed.

‘Why do you want to stop Reed from expanding?’

She held up the index finger of her left hand as she finished eating, and then washed it down with a mouthful of whiskey. ‘Like I told you, he’s a complete arsehole. Kurt is the worst of them. There’s lots of bad bastards hanging round The Cross, but Brookes keeps them in line to some degree. If the Reeds ever take over, it’ll be a free for all.’

‘Why do you care?’

She drank again, and then reached for chips. ‘I just do.’

‘Enough to risk getting killed it would seem. So why did you try to extort him? Surely if you’d recovered the gun and taken it to him, there would have been some gratuity? Yet you spent ten grand on me, plus whatever else, to achieve what?’

‘You could fake my death.’

‘Say what?’

‘You could fake it. How would they know?’

‘How about if they want your head as proof, how am I going to fake that? Anyway, after you screwed me like that, maybe I want to kill you anyway.’

‘If you wanted to, you would have done it already instead of sitting her drinking whiskey and looking at me like you want to fuck me instead.’

‘You’ve well and truly fucked yourself; nothing I could do would top that.’

‘I have money. I’ll—’

‘Then why did you try to blackmail Brookes? Or is that how you got money in the first place?’

‘I’ll give it to you. You could sail away and never come back. I’d disappear. We could fake a car crash, which is plausible given how you drive.’

‘So now you want to insult me?’ Despite the seriousness of the situation, the banter was taking on a comic surrealism, and I found myself enjoying it. I held out my glass for a refill which she was quick to oblige me with, refilling her own at the same time and taking another handful of nuts and scooping them into her mouth.

‘Okay,’ she said tipping her head back to stop the nuts spilling out as she chewed and spoke at the same time. ‘What will it take?’

There was no pout now, no sign of fear, just a hard and knowing look as she locked eyes with me as she probably had a hundred other guys.

‘Let’s just say for arguments sake, that I was prepared to consider one of your hare-brained schemes, I’m not, but let’s just pretend that I am. What have you got to offer?’

‘Money. Contacts. Information.’

‘Okay, tell me about the information. Information about what?’

‘I hear a lot of things. Things that a dishonest person could use.’

‘You mean you used to. You’ve lost your Kings Cross privileges. You’re persona-non-gratis, and on your way to becoming the recently departed Carol Todd. And the only thing you’re going to hear is the racking of a 9mm slide.’

‘Not if we play it smart.’

‘We? What the fuck are you talking about? There is no we.’

‘We, you and I, Micky, can both get out of this sweet. If you’ve got the stones for it.’

She was almost cocky now as she slopped more whiskey into both glasses. Her speech was becoming slurred, and her face carried a loose smile. I sat back and swallowed whiskey and chips as she told me her plan. Just like last time, it sounded simple enough.

All we had to do was find a fall guy who we say was holding Carol and forced her to call Brookes with threats. That she was a square gee all along, and would never cross him.

The more whiskey we drank, the more plausible it sounded.

‘Who’d you have in mind?’ I asked, as she lit a pair of cigarettes and handed me one, the tip imprinted with her red lips, which I could taste as I placed it between mine.

‘Hedges. He’s one of the few who knew about it. He’s known as a grasping arsehole with few, if any, ethics. If somebody told me he’d done that, I’d have believed them.’

‘But he’d be afraid of what happens when he gets caught. And getting found out would be inevitable in the long run, unless he was going to kill you.’

She thought for a moment, ‘You lifted his gun from the nightstand, didn’t you?’

I smoked, and waited for her to continue. She had it all planned out, which made me wonder if she was playing me again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Flank Street is available for pre-order on Amazon

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Intermission

 

Today’s music interlude is a change in pace from yesterday’s offering. The Fade Out Lines, by Phoebe Killdeer is one of the tracks on the excellent soundtrack from the  2011 movie Colombiana. In Colombiana, Zoe Saldana, who played Neytiri in Avatar, plays a young woman out to get revenge on mobsters. So it has that common thread to both Heather, and Flank Street.

I’ve no idea what the video is trying to say, but if you do, drop a comment in the box below.

Enjoy your intermission.

 

 

Heather

We join Sam and Heather in her home. She rescued him from an alley in Kings Cross the previous night. It’s their first real meeting; he’s badly hung over, and she seems a bit pissed off.

 

The Morning After

Heather was sitting at her marble-topped breakfast bar, looking distractedly at the front page of the Telegraph as she finished her breakfast of muesli and oranges. She could smell the rich aroma, and hear the sound of the coffee percolating on the stove. Brewing a pot of coffee was an unalterable part of her morning. She bought her favourite blend, and made it precisely the way she liked. No matter where she had to be, or what she had to do, she never missed or rushed her morning coffee.

She had already showered, and was wrapped loosely in a white terry towel bathrobe, having barely slept since arriving home and getting Sam settled. When he’d passed out for the last time, it had been two-thirty, and she was beyond sleep.

She folded the paper, got up and scraped the orange peels in the compost bin, and then rinsed the knife and plate before pouring coffee. She walked to the window seat overlooking the back yard and veggie garden, pushed the window wide open, took a sip of coffee, and lit a Longbeach. Every day she told herself she didn’t need them, that smoking was a filthy habit, but nothing went with a cup of coffee quite like a ciggie. Tipping her head back and aligning her face squarely with the morning sun, she closed her eyes feeling the heat warm her face and throat and chest. The slow warmth calmed her, and helped still her racing mind.

The sound of Sam’s sonorous breathing drifted through from the spare bedroom, and Heather wondered if she’d done the right thing to bring him to her home, to the only place that gave her respite from her other life.

I guess I owed him one for getting me off that fucking lunatic’s yacht, and for not calling the cops.

Realising that he could wake at any time, and she was still in her bathrobe, she crushed out her cigarette and went through to the bedroom, quickly dressed in jeans and white t-shirt, then returned to her seat by the window, enjoying the warmth of the sun on the chilly mid-winter morning.

Heather had spent much of her life living alone. She and her sister Carol had shared a place a couple of times, but not for long. Her life had been too complicated for sharing a flat with Carol. She had bought the house in Mosman after Carol had died. Now she’d paid off the mortgage and owned the house outright, she felt as if she’d achieved something. Owning her own home, also gave her a sense of security knowing she’d at least have somewhere to live when she grew old; if she ever did.

Buying the house had been a major ordeal, and she’d nearly given up on more than one occasion. With no visible income, no job and no explanation to how she could afford the repayments, the banks laughed at her, despite her having two-thirds the asking price as a deposit. Eventually, a friend put her in touch with a Chinese broker who didn’t give a shit about all of the red tape, and obtained for her a ‘no-doc’ loan. The interest was one and a half percent above base, but she didn’t care, she could afford the extra and looked upon it as another hidden tax for the sex workers. The day she walked into her own house had been the best day of her life. She walked into the empty house, locked the door, and sat in a corner on the carpeted floor and cried.

She’d never owned more than a few clothes until then, never owned a car and had lived in furnished apartments. Sure, she had some money in the bank, but numbers in an account didn’t feel like anything tangible to her other than a means to this. She valued her home for more than the bricks and mortar. It was a sanctuary, like her own health farm where she could just be. She’d never brought any clients back here, never would. Nobody from that side of her life knew she had the place. Sam was her first houseguest.

When she heard the sound of the bedroom door opening, she stood and walked to the kitchen, poured a glass of juice, set it on the small table, then once more took up her position by the window as Sam walked unsteadily into the room.

~~~~

Sam looked around the unfamiliar room as he sat at the small dining table. His hand was shaking badly as he tried to force himself to swallow some of the juice this woman had laid out for him. This woman whose house he’d awoken in, and whose face was vaguely familiar, but whom he couldn’t put a name or place to. He wondered if he’d picked her up in a bar the previous night while spilling whiskey and drowning sorrows.

He looked again her sitting in a window seat, the morning sun lighting her dark hair and pale face. He took a little juice and thought he was going to throw up, but the feeling passed and he put the glass down, and thanked her again.

She seemed to sense his confusion. “You passed out in the alley beside the club, beside Ronnie’s, so I brought you back here.”

“Sorry. Sorry to have put you to so much trouble,” he said with obvious confusion and embarrassment. He continued to look at her, trying to remember where he’d seen her before.

“I didn’t steal from that Canadian fucker. I might be an escort, but I’m not a thief,” Heather said, still not looking at him.

Sam placed the glass on the table and squinted directly at her for a few more seconds, his addled mind trying to put the pieces together. Then, slowly, the memory came to him.

This is the woman who shouted for help from the dead Canadian’s yacht. What was is name, Stevens, Stimson, Stanley? He looked back at Heather and the memory of that early morning incident came back to him; a woman crying out for help from the Canadian yacht … the Canadian accusing her of stealing … two days later he’s found dead in a Kings Cross brothel.

Sam pushed the juice away and said, “I didn’t think you had. I didn’t make any judgement. It was just a ruckus I had to quieten down. I didn’t know you, or him.”

“Yes, well I just wanted to tell you. Lots of people think if you work like I do, then you’re a thief and Christ knows what else.”

His  pinched the bridge of his nose, and screwed his eyes shut against the pounding in his head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t recall your name.”

“Heather. And yes, it’s my real name.”

“I’m Sam,” he said, not sure what else to say, or whether he should thank her and leave. For all he knew, she might be a nutcase that abducts drunks, drugs their orange juice, and then cuts them into small pieces in the cellar.

“I know. You told me last night.” Her manner was cold, bordering on formal.

“I did?” he said, as he tried to recall what had happened to him the previous night. “What else did I say?” He tried to muster a grin, but it came out as if he was going to be sick, which was a strong possibility. Her face gave nothing away, not about last night, not about why he was here, or if she was pissed off or sympathetic.

“So,” he ventured, “did I pick you up last night?”

She turned and looked at him, and for an instant a wide grin split her rigid face, before she once more regained her inscrutability. “I picked you up; off the ground in the alley beside Ronnie’s. You passed out trying to light a cigarette.”

“Oh shit,” his voice filled with regret.

“Sure as shit you did.”

“Why didn’t you leave me there? Or put me in a cab home?”

He had taken another mouthful of the juice and was feeling sick again. He wondered if he had vomited here last night, and that was why she was pissed with him. Or perhaps she was one of the eternally pissed off, who spend their entire lives angry and growling at everyone around them.

“Is that your way of saying, ‘Hey, thanks, Heather, that was kind of you’?”

She spoke without looking at him, and then reached for her cigarettes, shaking one out of the pack and lighting up with a deep, angry suck.

“I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful, Heather, and I do thank you. I am grateful for you doing that. But…”

“But fucking what. Look, I’ve seen you at Ronnie’s a few times now, getting lit up like there’s no tomorrow. Spilling whiskey and feeling sorry for yourself. I also know there are some lowlife arseholes who hang around those clubs ready to roll anyone who has had a few too many. And, I figured I owed you one for not being too much of a prick when that Canadian fucker flipped out on me. You didn’t immediately assume I was guilty and take his side when he said I was a hooker, and you didn’t call the cops either. I owed you one and I always pay back.”

“Alright. Ok,” he said, holding up a shaky hand in a mixture of agreement and defence.

Shit! This might be a real good time to get the fuck out of here.

As if she had read his thoughts she said, “Your clothes are in the washer. They’ll be another twenty minutes.” He didn’t want to ask why they needed washing so let the question pass and concentrated on the nausea.

“Help yourself to a shower,” she said, still not looking at him.

It was more of an order than an invitation, so he rose unsteadily, thanked her, and made his way to the bathroom. He noticed the house had been tastefully furnished, not expensively, but was nicely put together. The small bathroom was clean and orderly. There were fresh towels on a rack, a clean bath mat, face cloths folded by the towels, and spare bars of soap next to those. He locked the door, slipped off his bathrobe and took a long shower, letting the cool water blast his face, and tried to drive away the feeling of imminent death.

When Heather heard the shower running she relaxed a little, wondering why she had been such a bitch.

He actually seems like a nice guy. Why can’t I ease up on him? Because I’m frightened, that’s why. Frightened of what is going on in my head right now; frightened of saying too much and getting fucked up.

She knew she was being needlessly aggressive. She had made the decision to bring him back here. She also recognised that she behaved that way any time she feels threatened or out of her depth. Sam was no threat that morning, but she was way out of her depth in what she was thinking.

Taking a shower had revived him a little, but he was still feeling shaky. What he needed was some strong coffee, but he did not want to ask this strange and angry woman.

No, stuff that. Get dressed, thank her again, and then get the fuck out of here before you end up in a pie. What an unusual woman. She swears like a trooper yet keeps her home so clean and organised. Maybe she has a housemate. Or maybe she’s wealthy enough to have a maid. Some of these high-end escorts make a poultice.

Sam figured by the time he had thanked her again, his clothes would be ready, and he could scoot out of there and into the nearest café where he could get a big mug of coffee and greasy breakfast. At the moment he didn’t even know what suburb he was in.

He put the bathrobe back on that had been beside his bed when he woke. And that raised a thought.

She must have undressed me last night. Did we have sex? And what else did I do and say? Christ all blood mighty, Autenburg.

He checked for his clothes in the room he had woken in and noticed the decor and fit out was quite feminine. He also noticed Heather had placed a new toothbrush on the bedside table while he had been in the shower; beside the toothbrush were his wallet, phone, and keys. He was grateful for the toothbrush and returned to the bathroom to scrub away the flavour of the previous night. Curiosity got the better of him, and whilst the water was running he slid open the mirrored door of the bathroom cabinet. No sign of a male presence, no prescription drugs, just the usual spare toiletries and air freshener.

Feeling and smelling better, Sam walked back into the kitchen wondering where this was leading.

“Thanks for the toothbrush, that was thoughtful of you.” He sat back in the same chair at the table, searching for things to say. “It’s a nice house, Heather. Where is it?”

“Where’s what?” she snapped.

“Sorry, I mean what suburb is it in? I don’t remember much at all about last night. Not after midnight anyway.” He hung his head and rubbed the stubble on his chin, not for effect but out of genuine embarrassment. It had no effect on Heather; she’d seen all that male guilt a thousand different ways.

“Mosman.” She paused as if not sure whether to continue, before finally saying, “The place was a bit of a dump when I bought it, so I’ve been chipping away when time and money allows.”

She looked pensive then asked, “Would you like some coffee, Sam?’ Then with the slightest shadow of a smile, she added, “You look as if you need one.”

Her tone had changed. She no longer sounded pissed off and her face held that faint memory of a smile. The hard straight line of her mouth now had a gentle upward curve to the corners, as did her eyes. Sam noticed for the first time she was quite an attractive woman, with full lips and clear grey/blue eyes.

“I’d kill for a coffee. Thanks, I’d love one.” Again, he tried unsuccessfully to grin.

“How do you like it?” she asked, as she walked over to the kitchen, passing close to him. She laid a pack of cigarettes and a red Bic lighter on the table, then slid an ashtray across beside them. He looked at the cigarettes and felt sick again, and wondered for the tenth time what he’d been drinking.

“Strong with one sugar and a little milk, thanks.”

As Heather busied herself with the coffee maker, Sam looked around trying to get a clue to what makes this woman tick. The walls were freshly painted a neutral beige colour. In the corner there was a look-like-teak entertainment unit housing a top end hi-fi complete with turntable. Below the Hi-Fi, there were a couple of hundred old twelve-inch LPs, all neatly arranged in racks. Framed photographs covered the wall in the dining area; family Sam assumed. Some clearly of Heather when she was younger with parents and what looked like a sibling. Set into the wall facing him were a pair of French doors leading out to a small brick patio, on which stood a circular wrought iron table and two chairs. To the side there was a barbeque hidden under a vinyl cover. Pots of herbs lined the paved area. The whole place looked cared for but not lived in.

Heather placed the mug of coffee on the table and went back to the window seat, wriggled into the cushions and lit a cigarette.

“Is that your parents in the photograph?” Sam asked trying to find something to say other than ‘how’s work’. The picture showed a white haired couple standing hand in hand. Heather stood behind them, a hand placed on the shoulder of each.

“Yes. It was taken at their home in Gosport.”

“Is Gosport where you grew up?”

“As much as anywhere. Dad moved around with work quite a bit, but I guess Gosport was sort of home.”

“They look happy. You all do.”

“They were. They were in love from the age of fourteen to the day dad died. Mum went not long after him.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stir unhappy memories.”

“The memories aren’t sad. They had a great love for fifty years. Nothing sad in that. None of us live forever.” She spoke without looking at Sam or the picture, continued staring out of the window towards the poplar trees lining the boundary at the end of the yard, as if expecting somebody to appear.

Heather felt a strange emotion she couldn’t define. Talking this way with a stranger felt safe, she was anonymous, and chances are they would never meet again. Yet still she couldn’t talk openly. Her voice portrayed no sadness, her body language gave away nothing of her feelings, or how her heart hung heavy in her chest now they were all gone. Even though she had not seen her parents or Carol often, they had been there when she needed to feel part of something normal. She had family if she wanted. Now as she approached her fortieth birthday she had never felt so alone.

Sam’s voice pulled her out of her reverie, “And the next one, is that your sister you’re with?”

“That’s Carol, she… she’s seventeen there.”

There was so much Heather wanted to say, so many questions to ask him, but she had no idea where to start. She had been up much of the night rehearsing this. Forming the questions in her mind but her intentions had all come to zip.

I can’t do it. I need to get to know him a bit first. Maybe his drunken rambling was just that, just mouthing off as so many pissed males do. Like that Canadian fucker did.

Inside, in her gut, that silent voice which prompts and guides was saying this was a time to act. Sod the consequences, and fuck the danger and risk. But instead of speaking out, she swallowed her words, pulled herself back into the moment, and said, “I think your clothes should be dry now.” She got up and left him to finish his coffee alone with his own thoughts and hangover.

Sam dressed and pushed his wallet into his pocket, picked up his phone and keys and went back into the kitchen.

“I better get moving and not take up any more of your time. Thanks again, Heather, I’ll try and stay out of trouble from now on.”

“Sure, no problem. Do you want to call a cab?” she asked as she walked to the door with him.

“I think I’ll walk for a while. Try and walk some of this alcohol out of my system,” he said grinning sheepishly at her.

“See you round then…” her words lingering as if there was more she wanted to say, but then fell silent as she looked at the ground.

“Thanks for everything, Heather.” His mouth formed a crooked smile, and then he turned and walked out onto the footpath, groaning inwardly as the broken shards of sunlight stabbed his eyes. As he closed the gate behind him, he saw she was still standing there, but then hurried inside once he noticed her.

“Funny girl,” he said under his breath, “kind of cute though.”

He made a mental note of the house. He didn’t know the street, but he did recognise the high street at the end of it. Something told him he might be back.

 

Heather is available in ebook and paperback on Amazon.

 

Join me gain tomorrow for a look at a very naughty word …

 

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Dystopia

By %%ajsendall.com%%

Dystopia is very popular in fiction, but how close is it to future reality?

Dystopia is everywhere we look in the world of books. Next to vampires, and guys without shirts, it seems to be the most popular and wide-spread of all genres.

When I looked up the word in the dictionary it read: ‘an imaginary community or society that is undesirable or frightening.‘

It made me wonder if there is a word for an ‘actual community or society that is undesirable or frightening.’ If there’s not, we should probably create one. Leave your suggestion below!

Although I’m not a big fan of dystopian, I have enjoyed a few books such as Anthony Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange, Orwell’s 1984, and more recently Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro. If the success of The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, and Divergent by Veronica Roth is any measure, I’m in the minority.

Why is this genre so popular? Is it a way for us to feel better about our current situation?

 

 

 

Each day from now until the end of April, I’ll include a relevant piece of music at the end of the post.

It was 1971 that I read Clockwork Orange, and at about the same time, attended a Hawkwind concert at St Andrew’s Hall, Norwich. It was the ‘In Search of Space’ tour, and Silver Machine had recently been high in the charts. If they have psychedelic rock bands in futuristic dystopian worlds, these guys were it.

I was eventually to see Hawkwind on many occasions, but none of them stuck in my mind like that first mind altering concert. The music was loud and as psychedelic hell, the air thick with bud. But all of that fades to grey compared to seeing the amazing Stacia Blake dancing on a smoke filled stage, wearing nothing but body paint, and lit by strobes and oil wheels. It’s one of my more enduring memories.

I scoured the internet for some authentic concert footage, but the only video I could find is a sanitised and very, very tame TOTP version. Anyway, turn the sound right up (push in your ear buds if you’re on one of those things) and slide sideways through time with Hawkwind. I hope you enjoy it.

 

This one’s for you, Stacia …

 

 

 

What are you thoughts? Leave a comment below.

Thanks for stopping by and call again tomorrow for a look at ‘E’.

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Character

By %%ajsendall.com%%

Has character been replaced by personality?

I recently read ‘Quiet': The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking , by Susan Cain. One section that particularly interested me, discussed how the culture of character had been replaced by the culture of personality starting early last century in the USA.

“America had shifted from what influential cultural historian Warren Susman called a culture of character to a culture of personality, and opened up a Pandora’s box of personal anxieties of which we would never recover.”  – Susan Cain.

Cain explains how Dale Carnegie led the charge toward a culture of personality with his classes in public speaking, shifting the emphasis from what drove a person internally, to what impression they could make externally, in order to influence others. This influence was, of course, usually for financial or political gain, although the difference between the two is hard to define.

So we have ended up with a system where a big white smile is valued more than integrity, where fancy rhetoric woos the voters more strongly than deep thought and considered opinion. Thanks, Dale.

The antithesis of Dale Carnegie is Lee Kuan Yew, the first prime minister of Singapore, who died last month aged 91. Informed obituaries remarked on the radical transition his leadership brought. As John Fund wrote at National Review:

By embracing free trade, capital formation, vigorous meritocratic education, low taxes, and a reliable judicial system, Lee raised the per capita income of his country from $500 a year to some $52,000 a year today. That’s 50 percent higher than that of Britain, the colonial power that ruled Singapore for 150 years. Its average annual growth rate has averaged 7 percent since the 1970s.

For me, one of the keywords is meritocratic.  It doesn’t matter who your father was, or what you look like, whether you are extrovert or cripplingly introvert, if you are good at what you do, and if what you do is good for others, you will be valued. You will rise based on merit alone. Nothing else makes sense to me.

I mourn the passing of Harry Lee Kuan Yew, and hope that one day governments of other countries will look at his achievements and draw upon his quiet wisdom and deep, steadfast character.

 

 

Fictional characters are what I meant to talk about today,

those characters who populate the pages of the books we read and write. Some of the characters I use in my writing are completely fictitious, but most are people, or composites of people I have known. Sometimes I shift their age, other times I swap their gender, but what I always try to keep is the core of their character. An example is Jimmy McCutchen from Heather. Jimmy is a composite of two people. I used the physical appearance, movement, and body language of one, and the conniving, back-stabbing toxicity of another to produce the odious Jimmy. I didn’t like him as a character, and was glad when I found a convenient opportunity to kill him. He filled a need in the book, but I’ll never miss him.

Other characters I miss deeply when I finish a manuscript, and worry about how the reading world will treat them. Meagan from Flank Street was one of those that wasn’t consciously based on a real person. I missed her when the manuscript was finished, missed our daily interactions, and seeing what she would do when the pressure came on. She never disappointed me. In a way, I used Meagan as a reflection of how shallow and false most people can be, especially single males, or males who think they would like to be single. And in the end she paid the price for the vulnerability her looks and personality forced upon her.

There can be no doubt that those who write, to some greater or lesser degree, live vicariously through their characters. I certainly do, and in parts of Flank Street I did that through Micky DeWitt. Micky is a complex character, a thief and a liar, but we shared a few likes and dislikes which allowed him to have a good life for a while, and me to indulge in fantasy. Sam Autenburg from Heather is another example of that vicarious existence.

As a reader, there are certain characters that stand out and stick in my mind longer than others. Lisbeth Salander from the Stieg Larsson trilogy is one, perhaps because she is such an unusual heroine, so seemingly unique. Or is she perhaps a conglomeration of clichés that can’t be pinned down?

If you want to learn more about the characters I’ve mentioned in this post, you can read excerpts of the novels here, or buy the books from Amazon here.

Don’t miss a special guest blog on ‘G’ day, May 8th. I’ve invited a few Sydney characters round for you to meet! Come and join us. I don’t know who’ll turn up, but it’s sure to be different.

Do you have a favourite, stand out character from a book you’ve read? If so, leave a comment below.

Join me again tomorrow for ‘D’ day … until then, thanks for coming by, and happy reading.

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Bees, Bandicoots, and Bayer

By %%ajsendall.com%%

Bees are being decimated, Bandicoots are on the rise, and Bayer is in denial.

Thinking about bees, the first thing that comes into my head is honey. It’s fair to say that I’m a bit of a honey junkie, and so I get really pissed off about how many bees are being killed through the use of chemicals. The short-sightedness of the people who use, and allow the use of, neonicotinoids, is absolutely staggering. If you’re not familiar with neonicotinoids, think back to the days of DDT, then times it by 6000. That’s right, this latest generation of insecticides are 6000 times as toxic as DDT.  Bees are the single largest pollinator of food crops, so killing bees is like poisoning farm workers.  Fifty years ago the pesticide DDT dominated, until the book Silent Spring showed it could cause cancer. A decade later it was banned.  It’s a powerful reminder that we can’t afford to let the scientists be silenced.

The World Health Organisation just announced that RoundUp, Monsanto’s most popular pesticide, could cause cancer in humans. It’s news that could take the pervasive poison off our shelves. However, the scientists could be silenced before regulators weigh in – unless Monsanto are prevented from tampering with the truth.

RoundUp is the chemical cornerstone of Monsanto’s enormous Genetically Modified empire – and right now the EU & US are reviewing evidence to decide if its safe. This new report is so important regulators could decide to ban the poison as a precautionary measure — which is why Monsanto has launched an all-out campaign to get the report retracted. It would be fair for the scientists to be scared — Monsanto’s bastardry, has intimidated researchers before — and that’s what they’ll do again.

 

And of course it goes further than bees. These toxins leach into the earth and waterways, posing a very significant threat to other animals. And who makes and profits from this … another B – Bayer. The word Bastardry seems needed in here as well.

Widespread impacts of neonicotinoids ‘impossible to deny’   –  By Matt McGrath – Environment correspondent, BBC News

Bandicoots – there’s another B word and another example of people messing with nature’s Balance. Bandicoots are like Bloody big rats, harmless themselves, but they are host to ticks, and a single bandicoot can host up to a thousand ticks!  There are two main types of ticks where I lived around South-East Queensland: the Paralysis TickIxodes holocyclus, and the mites known as scrub ticks or pepper ticks (chiggers). Both of these ticks pose serious health threat to humans and often prove fatal to household animals. The reason that it has become such a problem is that the Bandicoot’s natural predators, the fox and the dingo, have had their numbers drastically reduced by people too silly to see that killing things is not the answer.

Tick – before and after feeding

Natural Biodiversity needs to be left largely alone, short of another plague of rats in London, then I’m all for killing a few rats. But human intervention based on greed and increased profit, or superstition and fear is not okay.

When companies such as Bayer ignore and spuriously refute overwhelming evidence that their products are causing widespread harm to an essential component of the food production process, while making a fat profit for their shareholders, I’m absolutely against it.

 What are your thought?

Leave a comment below.

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Anger

By %%ajsendall.com%%

April 1st, all fool’s day and the start of the April A to Z blogging challenge.

 

Twenty-six days, twenty-six subjects. Sounds easy right? For those of us that sit and arrange words, and distil thoughts by day, it should be. However, I depend on my characters to show me what to write, to give direction to the plot. And so I’ve called on a few of them, and even a mutual friend or two to pitch in and make this next month easier for me, and hopefully more entertaining for you.

When listing possible subjects to explore, I realized that much of it related to my past, and so by default, also to the past lives of people such as Heather, Carol, Micky DeWitt, and Ray Peterson.

The first word I wrote was Australia. Hardly surprising, as it’s been a major influence on my life. As an adult, I lived there longer than in any other country, and can do no better than quote the famous Australian author Bryce Courtenay, to explain why.

“Everything about it was right; the sky was high, the land and people felt familiar. From day one I felt like an Australian…”

I did, and still do. Some of the best people I have ever met were Australians, and with some I formed my most meaningful friendships.

Another ‘A’ word from that makeshift list was Anger. There seems to be so much of it around, so much Angst and discontent. No matter what people have, they still want more, less, faster, smaller, bigger, brighter and louder, longer, stronger …

.

.

Ray Peterson has more than his share of anger. Ray’s an angry man. Those of you that have read Heather will know some of the reasons why. For those who haven’t read it—YET, here is a brief excerpt.

He’d known from a young age his father was no good, and was proven right

when one day he came home to find his mother beaten to death

with a cast-iron skillet. It was punishment for burning her husband’s dinner.

The judge sentenced his father to twenty-five years without probation. After

being in prison for two months, a guard found him face down in the exercise

yard with an HB pencil bashed into his right ear. It was payback from one of

his murdered wife’s relatives. Nobody was charged. The only people to attend

his funeral were the pastor and the obligatory prison staffer. Nobody mourned

him, least of all Ray and his sister Roberta.

Ray was just fifteen years old at the time but already

hard-nosed and more street-wise than most people twice his age. He and Roberta,

who was two years younger than him, were put into foster care before being

taken in by a reluctant aunt; the sister of his dead mother. Ray knew their Aunt

Connie was a slag. She had three children of her own, all with different

fathers and no prospects of a good life. She told them the only reason she had

taken them in was for the government hand-out. There was no love or nurturing, only

irritation or total indifference from cold, hard Connie.

Three months after moving into Connie’s house, Ray

found Roberta curled up in bed with a photograph of her mother and slit wrists.

Ray left Connie’s house the day after Roberta’s funeral and made his own way.

He had always been quick with his fists and had never given a rat’s arse about

consequences. At age fifteen, he was already a tough-guy living in squats or on

the street. He lied about his age and took whatever work he could get, wherever

he could earn a few dollars. He didn’t care what he did or whether it was legal

or not.

There’s another ‘A’ list word in there—Abuse—which goes fist in glove with anger. Ray wasn’t nurtured, wasn’t loved (more on that word on the 14th) and the results flew from his fists, and eventually from the muzzle of a gun. The only male role model he’d known was a cold, abusive father, and so, the model was perpetuated. Men handing anger to their sons is one of the saddest things, and such a difficult cycle to break.

Anger is an emotion which triggers part of the fight or flight brain response. For Ray, it was always fight; it was all he knew.

Ray reminds me of a kid from school. This boy—I’ll call him Dennis—was constantly Angry, Abusive, and was considered by everyone to be an Arsehole, another ‘A’ list word that might come up from time to time.

Throughout those school years, from ten until I left aged fifteen, I saw him as immune from pain, hurt and suffering. It was his job to dole those things out, and some days he was more than generous. With the benefit of age, I can now see that Dennis carried more than his share of pain, hurt and suffering, and deserved pity rather than isolation and hatred.

I met Dennis again later in life when he started work at Lotus Cars in Hethel. He’d learned a trade, but nothing about control.

He was a good spray painter, a really good one, yet within a couple of weeks security escorted out of the factory. I guess he continues to swing his fists somewhere, if still he’s alive.

 

 Join me again tomorrow for a look at ‘B’.

 

What are you thoughts on anger? Leave a comment below.

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Feeding the muse on camel spleen sandwiches

I’ve just returned from a week in Fes, Morocco. Living in the Medina, with its two million people and 9400 streets could hardly be more different to my ‘normal’ life living on the edge of a small forest in Germany. This brief sojourn was in part to escape the cold of European winter, and also to feed the muse and get ideas flowing for the next book. Having spent much of the cold winter months writing, it was time to enjoy some warm weather and experience new sights and sounds. I’ve been to Morocco many times, and always enjoy it for the friendliness of the people and the wonderful food.

The Medina in Fes is a great place for people watching, a favourite idle pastime of mine. Sitting at a small table of a street side restaurant close to Bab Boujloud (the Blue Gate),

we enjoyed wonderful food, and watched the continuous stream of humanity. I was reminded again how people all over the world are fundamentally the same; how the basic needs and building blocks of communal life are similar almost regardless of country. And no matter where you are, you will find people who are motivated by kindness and compassion, and those motivated only by self-interest and greed.

The streets are too narrow for even the smallest compact to pass, so it is filled with people going about their business, an occasional beggar in search of alms, and overloaded donkeys or mules. From the five a.m. call to prayer, the staccato haggling of carpet traders, to a supper of camel spleen sandwich, we spent the week filling our senses with the sights, sounds, and tastes of Morocco.

Although there was no moment of clarity, no unfolding Technicolor plot, it did serve to refresh and bolster my enthusiasm. It was also a salutary reminder of how fortunate most of us westerners are. Many without knowing it.