Terry's book

I spoke at a book launch last night in the bookshop at Manchester Cathedral. My good friend Terry Biddington was launching his 'Recipies for good living: the beginner's guide to spirituality'. It is well worth reading. there's a couple of good reveiws on Amazon: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Recipes-Good-Living-Beginners-Spirituality/dp/1846949025/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1349855561&sr=1-1

New mystic (3)

- The explosion took everybody by surprise. Luckily no one was that near to Rachel’s canal boat when it blew up with a satisfying whumph sound. No other boats were moored nearby and it being a wet night there were very few people out- - So who did it? - That’s the sixty four thousand dollar question! - And? - And… you want to know who we have in the frame? - Yeah! - No-one… or at least no-one we can arrest. - And? - You’re getting a bit like a speaking clock. (They both laughed.) - Word on the streets is that Jan might be involved. Paul raised a quizzical eyebrow, - How come? - Well, word is (why did Mickey always talk in such clichés wondered Paul) that someone has been smuggling refugees into Manchester and Jan doesn’t like it as that’s part of his business. - Rachel?... Smuggling refugees?.... In her canal boat?… I don’t get it. - It seems unlikely to me, but it is a great way of moving people without anyone really knowing. I mean who watches the canals… and it would be so easy to hide some one in the boat. - Maybe… but I still don’t see Rachel being at all mixed up in this. - Well we are going to be asking her all the same. - Do you mind if I have a work with Jan? He’s more likely to talk to me than he is to you and yours. - No probs Paul. (Paul winced at Mickey’s use of slang.) Mickey left soon after leaving Paul nursing his second cappuccino and wondering whether he really wanted to meet with Jan. No way, but he would do almost anything to help Rachel. The trouble was he was beginning to feel his credit was running out with Jan and he didn’t want to be in his debt. Later at Sandbar Paul met with Jan. Why had Jan suggested Sandbar puzzled Paul. It was a fairly visible place for a notorious gang leader to be seen in. But maybe that was part of Jan’s strategy. Or maybe he just didn’t care? They met in the back room which involved crossing an old cobbled floor that had a very Victorian look to it – it certainly hadn’t been changed much in years. Who knows what wheeling and dealing those cobbles had witnessed. Sandbar itself was an arty, studenty pub off Oxford Road, a bit like Fuel but a whole lot less punky and less female. The cappuccino was as excellent though. Jan was as ever quiet spoken, well dressed and seemingly a gentle soul with sharp blue eyes, blond short hair, average height and the body of a man who worked out regularly at the gym. Curiously Paul trusted Jan or at least trusted him to be as good as his word. Like it or not Jan delivered. If he promised you money or some service that was what you got. He expected the same from you and if you did not deliver more fool you. There were plenty of people who had visited A & E departments having learnt this lesson the hard way. The ones who ended up in the River Mersey would have told the same story in stronger language if they had been alive enough to speak. Which they weren’t! Indeed their bodies were rarely found so even that part of the story rarely got told. But someone the word got around and Jan standing was not lessened by the extra spin put on these stories. - So what do you want Paul? - Well there was an explosion on a canal boat near Altrincham last night. - Yeah I know. - Why? - Why? - Yeah why was it blown up? - You reckon I know? - Do you? - Suppose I did… why do you want to know? - The boat belongs to a friend of mine who is already in deep trouble with the police. - Girl friend? - No, piano teacher… how did you know it was a she? Jan laughed, - It’s my job to know these things. - OK tell me what is going on. - Let’s just say that someone has been messing with my patch… - And blowing up the boat was a warning? Jan shrugged. - Who was it? - Blowing the boat? - No, on your patch? - Well certainly not your piano teacher… but she needs to be careful who she hangs out with. - Yeah? - Yeah… the thing is- one of Jan’s associates poked his head round the door and nodded in reply to Jan’s unspoken question -…got to dash Paul. - Who? - Watch the Yank! With that Jan left flanked by his associate.

Poem if souls could shatter

If souls could shatter/ I’d be in pieces on the floor/ If souls could shatter/ We’d look after them better/ If souls could shatter/ You’d get glue on the NHS/ If souls could shatter/ We’d sing very very carefully/ If souls could shatter/ We’d treat each other with kid gloves/ If souls could shatter/ I’d lead a different life./

Learning from the Paralympics

I put this on Facebook roday but it is too good nto to share it here I reckon: My learning from watching the Paralympics. Explore things you feel like trying out not necessary just sport. Don't be put off by any barriers you can get round including those inside you. Maybe set yourself some achievable goals if that works for you. Find friends to share your new interests with. Learn from what seems like mistakes. If it makes you feel good it probably is good.

Performing

I have been realising recently that my desire for an audience for my poetry and creative writing is at least partially about a need to be loved. And of course this does not truely satisfy as the audience is never enthuasiatic enough or big enough and it all passes too quickly. I am lucky enough to have something of an academic audience which I do value and could value even more, and my books could sell more copies and my audience be bigger but so what?. So I don't really need to have another audience. So there is ego stuff involved. I/you probably need a bit of ego to put ourselves forward in any case. But the important stuff is the quality of what we communciate. Not just the word but how we say them and our presence and contact with our audience. So much of that is not about ego at all. It is about being, about soul. I have dreamed of being a piano player in a tea room. It is probably beyond my grasp. Do I quit playing piano? No it feeds me and it is an expression of me. Also it is a (spiritual) discipline. I only play my best when I deeply relax and let it flow through me. Usually better at 6.30 am than 6.30 pm. Recently I have begun doing early morning yoga and then sometimes, if everyone else is awake, piano. A magic time, a communion. A few days ago at my friends' house there was an old out of tune guitar with only 3 or 4 strings on it. Encouraged by Freddy who is 6 we had a thrash session - me on guitar him on drums. A rhythmic impressive sound and great fun. That was a great performane!

New mystic

Paul was back in his regular favourite café Fuel and being served by a new waitress called Gina, who was thin as a rake with long curly ginger hair, skimpy top, short skirt, and impossibly high heels. Paul felt rough – it was his first visi9t to Fuel, first visit anywhere since he had got himself discharged, perhaps prematurely from hospital. - Rough night, inquired Gina, placing his cappuccino in front of him. Paul nodded, he didn’t really want to speak; it hurt too much. He sat down in his favourite bay window seat and hunched over his cappuccino. - Bloody ’ell Paul…. What on earth….oh it was Ashton wasn’t it? His usually voluble friend Mickey was almost lost for words. Paul nodded. - My lads picked him up? (Mickey was a policeman.) Paul shook his head. - Why not for Christ’s sake? - No evidence, whispered Paul. - No evidence? Paul shook his head again before replying, - No witnesses, faulty surveillance camera…. His word against mine… - So you beat yourself up then! Paul smiled briefly before wincing. - You sure you should be out? Paul took a box of medicine from his coat pocket and shook out a large painkiller in response and swallowed it with the help of his cappuccino. - So what now? Paul shrugged. - Do you want me to sort him out? ...I will. - No…. or at least not yet …. Let him think he is free. - Free to mess up? - Yeah. - OK. - And. - And? - And I’m not sure he is the one. - Oh. - Yeah he’s clearly got it in for Rachel but I can’t see why he would take it out on her in that way. Frame her yes, even attack her but not a poisoned cake, that’s beyond him. - You know I think you’re right. - I am, but the thing is, who then? - I think we need to dig more deeply into Rachel’s background… Find out who might hold a grudge against her. Paul knew that Mickey was right but he did not relish putting Rachel on the spot in this way. However, if it was the only way she was going to be cleared, to be free of prison and free from the courts then so be it. Mickey left soon after, leaving Paul staring into the patterns left in his cappuccino cup. His Aunty Maud used to tell people’s fortunes from tea cups. People would drink her tea and then she would pour out the remains leaving some of the tea leaves behind and describe what she saw. She was long since dead but had been one of Paul’s favourite relatives on his mother’s side. Maud had run a popular B and B in Southport. Paul smiled as the memories flooding through him of long ago family summer holidays at Southport. Playing football with his dad on the beach followed by table football in a local café and then tea at Maud’s. Paul’s eyes blurred with nostalgia. His cappuccino cup went out of focus and he noticed a curious shape emerging in the froth. It was of a boat, long and thin, a canal boat. Rachel owned a canal boat moored near Altrincham. Paul had often cycled along the tow path past it. Maybe it had some place in the mystery, maybe not. Worth following up in any case. App came into Fuel at that moment. App was thinner than ever, if anything more mono syllabic, wearing a ‘You’re a winner’ Pet Shop Boys T shirt. App was a computer geek who often did bits of work for Paul. Paul waved him over. - Nice T shirt. - Latest Pets. - ‘Know (Paul was as ever slipping into Apps’ abbreviated way of speaking.) - App waved to Gina for an Americano and his usual brunch of a bowl of wedges. - - App can you dig out all you can find about Rachel? - App nodded. - Not the latest stuff about her arrest but anything… Anything that might point to her falling out with someone…someone bearing a grudge against her, whatever. - Will do. - Thanks. Time for Paul to go. - See you. - App nodded in reply and opening up his laptop. Paul was at a loose end. He was too sore for a bike ride and too vulnerable to meet with Martha. He’d found her care of him in the hospital and afterwards almost overbearing – even though he had liked it. He felt it might make him too dependent on her, too vulnerable altogether. Paul just could not allow himself to be that way with Martha. The price he felt was just too high. About the only person he could stomach spending time with right now was his old mate Frankie.

Sleepless in Nairobi, poem

Sleepless in Nairobi Sleepless in Nairobi Again Can’t really blame the ancestors Or the food Or the drink Or the lack of sex. Sleepless in Nairobi And I’m thinking of you Those tender moments Hearts on the train Love on a bike/ Prayer in a ruined abbey. Sleepless in Nairobi And the TV is dull So are my books And my texts home. Sleepless in Nairobi I’ve been here before And I want to come home But there’s no plane tomorrow And my work is not done. Sleepless in Nairobi And the pen falls from my hand And I collapse on the bed And meet my oblivion.