Whimsical Musings of a Loon

Moving out. Two simple innocuous words. Do not believe their deceit. The reality is the tiresome packing of clothes, the boring sifting through worldy possessions, the mucky dirt of the past - even grubbier than the actual cobwebs and dust that have accumulated en mass over the passing years. Dust is like my fan base, a loyal crowd of particles that stalk my airspace. Oh what a laborious, woebegone task. Few things are more soul destroying than spending hours packing bags, only for the flimsy plastic to rip as soon as you pick them up; the cheap material looking like someone squished into clothes two sizes too small, before stretching, splitting and vomiting up the entire contents. Worst of all, the memory jogs of old, and always with the most bizarre object; a yellowing christmas card from Nan, her scrawly, spidery handwriting that now just symbolises a huge gaping hole in myself; a ticket to the Empire State Building in 2001, a heart-wrenching time when anything still seemed possible...

yellow leaf Originally uploaded by sian_quincy Autumn. It sneaks upon us, arrives quietly and unassuming, bringing the soft browns mingling gently amongst the dregs of luscious greens and brightness of warmer months. Autumnus. Blue turns darker. The greys gradually descend upon us, trickling down like water-colours across the canvas, before the harsh, thick oil paints of winter black submerge them into the landscape. Fall; as the leaves drop, so does the temperature, so does our temperament. Woebegone drops start to seep onto the skin. A lament of summer gone, the sun and promise gets lost amongst a polaroid of saturated faded memory. Autompne. Nature begins to age. Once blooming foliage crumbles into wrinkled maturity. Like dying bud heads, our brittle selves start to buckle. Things are changing. It turns. The true New, despite the fraud of January. Autumn is the reflection in the gentle water of the ancient small stream that flows through a country field; so endless in its journey, s...

On what would have been Roald Dahl's 90th birthday, it seems fitting to pause and marvel at one of the finest writers Britain has ever produced. Easily my favourite author as a child, Dahl's books are as captivating as they are surreal; beautifully eccentric characters amongst a world of random extremes and magical wonder. At the heart of Dahl's work is often a dark macabre humour; there's the comedy of a bearded man who manages to contain half his lunch in his beard, or a drink that makes you fly by control of bottom burps, mixed amongst witches, cruel aunts, orphans, and brutal teachers. The world is hilarious, but not always fair, and yet there is a hope that the miraculous can happen to those who are good people. Essentially, Dahl's books may embrace the fantastical - giants, witches, yet there's an underlying reality to the harshness of real life. His children protagonists often find themselves in horrid situations, through no fault of their own. But it is ...

Your understanding, if exists, is stealth, For comprehending, I can't, even myself. Beneath the surface, a smile will wilt, Shackled, pounded, and wretched guilt. Battled hard at the endless crease, For you I wish, I could give a piece, Desiring to scatter across any, But too colossal, it is too many. With you, so true, I want to stand tall, But please, no tease, And afterall: A stretched band is, a flawed guise, It'll break before, it eventually dies.