Procreate records every [false] move!
Procreate records every [false] move!
I began my post-school career at art college and it was both beautiful and dismal. Beautiful in that 1960s Brighton was a glittering smog-free jewel next to the tallest most colourful sea I had ever seen; dismal due to my local council in Bradford withdrawing out of county grants for art students and requiring me to return to a place still trapped in the 1950s where towns like Halifax were invisible from the high moors roads due to the thick yellow fog of coal fire pollution. I declined the offer and so ended my education in painting and graphic design and artiness.
Now, after a bit of geographical back and forth and a lengthy detour into science (which turns out to be just as much a creative activity as any branch of the arts), I’m back. Not as an undergrad, you understand – small matter of a portfolio of any sort never mind a competitive one – but learning how to draw all over again, flinging digital paint around in a most spectacular manner via a programme called Rebelle2, and running or making all kinds of images with iPad apps such as Enlight and Procreate, editing and filtering in Paint Shop Pro, and getting lost in apps like ON1Effects, Perfect Effects (from the PSP stable), and Flame Painter (Rebelle software). With the exception of drawing, which is both muckier and harder work than I recall, it’s also cat-compatible so there are no footprints in your paint palette trailing off and onto the sofa. Obstruction remains an issue though – show me a cat that doesn’t like to sit on the keyboard and stare at you.
Some of the results are in the Rebelle2 online gallery hoping one day to make the ‘featured’ section. As there isn’t a search facility, may I point you at this Apple which, if clicked from the Recents tab, will take you to my small collection.
Other items, including some of the drawing class efforts, are on Instagram for which I have finally found a purpose, although my gravy boat is yet to appear due to the crime of being nothing like the actual item. My Dalek pepperpot, though … 🙂
Like huge wind chimes, the rigging on these boats rings and jangles in the slightest breeze. Today was blustery, almost wild for the time of year. So much so that, seconds after this recording, the section of fencing where I had been standing blew over with a crash that stopped everything momentarily – except the chimes.
Edinburgh Book Festival will begin soon. The last few years, they’ve run a ‘story-in-a-tweet’ challenge, sending out a prompt early each morning with tweets to be posted before midnight the same day. ‘Paper’ came up in 2015; this is my illustrated version.
“He’s not smart, isn’t Fergus, but he knows what his mother says about how cleanliness is next to godliness and that not enough goddamn-sinners are getting their goddamn-jussdesserts-pardon-the-swearing.”
People with intellectual disabilities want to be like everyone else which means they want jobs. But first, there aren’t enough jobs; second, there aren’t enough jobs for people who need support; third, what jobs there are often don’t pay; and fourth, the people who take them with hope and gratitude are frequently bullied straight out of them. Those things are fact; Jussdeserts is fiction, but only juss. Flash Flood, June 24th.
Edited 24/06/17 to include direct link
This is not fiction but it is a horror story many people don’t know they’re living in.
This video was recorded by a friend, worried by his wife’s interrupted breathing at night. It’s here with their permission because he used it to convince his GP she had Obstructive Sleep Apnoea (OSA) which is a killer.
There are different kinds of OSA, some central – to do with the brain – and some more peripheral involving blocked sinuses or collapsing nasal canals. They all stop the sleeper from breathing, sometimes hundreds of times a night, without them noticing. They wake up tired, often fall asleep during the day, including while driving, Some drivers have killed other road users due to this disorder.
But it’s often the sleeper themselves most at risk of dying because it deprives the brain of oxygen, and while the brain will keep pushing the body to breathe as carbon dioxide levels rise, it can’t overcome the physical obstruction itself. The result can be cardiac arrest or stroke.
If it’s you, your partner may have noticed your snoring and put up with it for a long time. Snoring isn’t glamorous, is it? But don’t ignore it, have the discussion my friend and his wife had and get an assessment via your GP. It will involve an overnight test and it could save your life.
So what can be done about it? Depending on your lifestyle, you might be advised to lose weight (too much of it can make your neck muscles floppy), reduce your alcohol intake (does much the same thing). Treatment includes the CPAP (Continuous Positive Airway Pressure) which pushes air into your airways via a mask so you don’t have to drag it in by your own effort. There are also devices that keep your bottom jaw in place if the apnoea is caused by your jaw and tongue falling back into your throat while you’re asleep. And the most minimal of interventions, the strips that keep your nasal passages open if these are inclined to collapse.
Watch the video, hear those agonisingly long pauses in my friend’s wife’s breathing, and take action if it could be you, Be informed; don’t die of ignorance.
Fat Mo’s Taxi to Huddersfield and other stories of resistance. [working title]
Mo considers the price she has paid, learning to be right. Merv would call it an investment – a cost for a benefit – and it occurs to Mo that in fact she has quite a portfolio of these. Most she has kept in her head, but there are others in the backs of filing cabinets and the bottoms of drawers. Mo reviews some of them: there are letters Merv does not want sent on; the envelopes he does want sent on, and the girl at a house in Huddersfield who pitied her but said nothing. These things are devious, subversive, and wrong; but they are wrong in a way that puts Merv in a different light, one where he is doing the paying.
Linked stories, The Mother’s Son and Home for the Queen, shine a light into some of those around her, including Merv.
They only half do Christmas, he and Sam; maybe because they only half do their own origins, but he has presents for her and the first, safely concealed earlier in the day, is the one he really wants her to like. The others are backups in case she does not. He heads out to his car, a midnight blue Jaguar with leather upholstery, a built-in radio, and just enough of the right paperwork to fool the local idiot constabulary. He walks around it – twice clockwise and twice counter-clockwise – checking as best he can in the ditch water dribble that passes for street lighting, that it bears no sign of the night’s activities, runs a finger over the passenger door handle and peers at it; it seems clean. Then he unlocks the car and opens the door. The interior light comes on which makes his job easier but also picks him out should anyone be passing and not in enough of a bone-chilled hurry to just keep going. He judges the likelihood to be remote, given the derelict nature of the environs; nevertheless he needs to be quick. Merv looks around inside, practiced and expert, he has done it often. The Mother’s Son.
The pavements in the back streets are slippery with a layer of ice crusting the snow that has lain untroubled there since it fell two days ago. Pauline’s little ankle boots, zipped up at the front and with ridged rubber soles, cope nicely. Unlike the maroon patent sling-backs the girl over the road is wearing to totter along on goose pimpled blue legs like a frozen stork. Her skirt is nothing but a flimsy pelmet, a tiny wrap-around no more substantial than a bit of nylon curtain. Pauline tuts to herself. Where was this lass going, dressed like this? Home to her family is where she should be going. Probably she has been out all night at a Christmas party, drinking lager and lime or rum and coke, and ending up in a back bedroom under the coats with a complete stranger pulling at her pants. Pauline thinks she can even see the pants in question. Girls these days, no good would come of it, you only had to look at Mo. Home for the Queen.
A second group, set in The Royal Hospital – an asylum for the mentally defective that becomes an institution for the mentally handicapped, a repository for people with learning disabilities, and finally a crumbling warehouse about to decant its residents into the ill-prepared towns and villages nearby.
Jeff’s feet were turning pink; the kind of pink where you couldn’t feel the floor any more. He lurched a heel forwards and rode it like a ballerina – arms out, trailing leg arabesquing behind him. For a moment, Jeff was an alabaster frieze, a pallid silhouette against tiles the colour of dirty bottles; and then he wasn’t. Fire broke out in Jeff’s knee when it hit the lino. A million volts lit up his cramped-back toes, two million went through his hip with its cracks and runnels no one knew were there, and knives chopped at his deep-freeze sausage fingers. ‘Big boys don’t cry,’ he said through a mouthful of gnarly bangers like you would never get from a shop. The Smell of Hollow Water.
The third group; less linked stories, more resonances of each other: an unnamed nurse plots revenge for half a lifetime, a deaf woman finds God on a beach, powerless Rosa retreats into dissociation and lets her hands take the responsibility, a young couple constructs a truth about the death of their baby.
We’re placing bets again today; and Eric is jangling change in his pockets, like a showman at a travelling fair. Our plastic ducks are the inmates in solitary. They don’t come around often because, frankly, they’re a bit tame. All that ECT and chlorpromazine, aimed at curing what they didn’t have in the first place, rots their brains, eventually. Anyway, Eric is scrawling names on the board with a stub of white chalk; and we’re drinking tea that looks like stew, while he parades his contestants.
‘McTaggart,’ he says. An arm goes up, and Eric writes a name next to McTaggart.
‘Straker,’ says someone else; yuk yukking buddy-bravado. Suddenly, my idea starts to twitch in my head; a wick little grub, flick flicking its new body this way and that. I don’t know what to do yet; or how, but – ‘Give me Boothroyd,’ I say. ‘Two bob to kick off by lights out.’ The Justice Box.
Alice liked how the sea here didn’t just look bright, it felt bright too. As if every part of it were a little crystal that jiggled and jostled its neighbours as the wave went tumbling towards the shore, a chandelier on the move. That other sea was not bright at all; it rolled and heaved, smooth and dark and secretive. It drew you in with its slow thunderous mountains. One slip and you’re mine, it said.
Alice rummaged her toes through the shingle, exposing a scaled-down world of rivers and streams that hurried its cargo of sand grain boulders down the beach. How did this miniature sea feel about being so far away from home? Did it still jostle and jiggle down there between the pebbles, or did it try to stay silent and not be noticed until it was whole again and safe? The tide was on the turn, it would not have much longer to wait. Dancing Her Black Bones Home.
Ambiguity is the common thread; victims have lives and strengths, they’re not all sympathetic; perpetrators are sometimes also victims; contexts and the actions or inactions of small players can have undue impact, institutions bear responsibilities they do not always acknowledge. Nothing is wholly one thing and never another.
Tales in a Tweet [working title][illustrated]
Prompted by Edinburgh [Book] Festival’s regular twitter challenge; a word or phrase issued each morning and a tale-in-a-tweet to be posted by evening. Small triumphs of concision composed on the hoof.
A rip in the sky, an eye. Whose God was this? Whose prayers would condemn & whose exalt? New priests find opportunity amid fear.
Birthed in superheated majesty, pounded & shaped by tectonic tides; in modern ignominy it murdered a girl who loved the wrong man.
This tweet has only a placeholder for now:
There are 5 metatarsals in the human foot. In 2002 one of these damn near brought a country to its patellae. No sense of humerus.
Tales in a Tweet currently totals sixty or so stories and is likely to be boosted by a further twenty plus during this year’s festival. Images take a little longer than twelve hours and will probably change. I have our local Creative Arts Group to thank for the imaginative stimulus and thinking space for these.
Post may be edited or amended over time as required.
Rapture by Phillippa Yaa de Villiers, notable South African poet, performance artist, and PhD candidate with Lancaster university. Rapture was First published in the 2013 anthology For Rhino in a Shrinking World (Ed Harry Owen).
Shadow by Lyn Jennings, poet and past Educational Psychotherapist for children with learning difficulties. Shadow is ‘dedicated to our neighbours at Shoreham with respect and sympathy for all who died or suffered in the Air Show disaster [West Sussex 2015]’.
Ducks in a Row by Suzanne Conboy-Hill, short story and flash fiction writer. This was also written after a Hawker Hunter jet ploughed through traffic waiting for the lights to change or standing on the verge watching the display.
Wood by Tracy Fells, short story and flash fiction writer with novels on the production line. Wood is a relationship story that sheds a different light on the idea of going back to one’s roots.
All material taken from the Anthology Let Me Tell You a Story (contributing editor, Suzanne Conboy-Hill) available from Lulu (print and ebook) and Amazon (print only). Listen to Ian McMillan’s foreword:
This is a link to a post on my more techy blog where I’ve set out some of the basics of Echo ownership – starting with the observation that it’s more cat than gadget.