Tuesday, 30 August 2016

Some Are, Some Aren't - time to go home (25).

Should have been posted much earlier in the series, but let's finish how we intend to carry on (weather permitting).

This table; white marble stained with the passage of use and time.

Two dried fusia flowers, stuck where they fell.

The rusty shadow where the brick-tool lay during last week’s rain.

Dusty orange on dirty snow.

The phone.


My glasses case, white with an image of glasses – black.

My tea cup, waiting.

A pot of tea – expectant, mint.

A book.

ab (in an sa/sa) 119 (there were TWO 110)

Monday, 29 August 2016

Some Are, Some Aren't 24.

At their beginning there are three; at their end only one remains.

The first is white, white as a sheet. Some people say she is scared but she doesn't feel that way. She is a virgin - of course -but she is wise in a way that is difficult to believe. She has travelled far, the lines on her face bear testament to her wisdom. Like all virgins she is open to possibility, like all wise women she demands respect. This must be no one-night stand. Ritual is all important, start as we mean to start, continue thus and finish only if the ending is clear.

The second is black, black as this font. Some say he is hard, others see him as soft - it's a matter of perspective after all. But he too has seen all of this before; maybe not this place exactly, nor this time, but another much like her. He will leave his mark and she will whisper his name. H.B.

The third, the tale, their tale, is old; their tale is brand new.

It's a tale of love retold.

The two meet - hesitant at first, nervous, unsure if this time is the right time.

The second time they meet, something is different; a confidence exists where only fear lay before.

And then that confidence becomes strength, fear is only the price they have to be prepared to pay.

Flight i sonly possible if you are prepared to fall, love is only possible if you accept loss.

They are both prepared to loose, so they love. She whispers his name again, he whispers hers. Blanche.

He tells her he loves her, she promises the same and together they grow old together. Their world has no limit anymore. One day it seems as if they have always been there, like words on a page.

In a story.

Which in the end, is all that remains.

int (in a sa/sa) 66

Sunday, 28 August 2016

Some are, Some Aren't 23.

It hasn’t rained since early July; it’s late August and the temperatures are in the high thirties.


Steve isn’t at home.

He’s packed up most of his stuff and is sleeping outside somewhere.

Maybe on the beach.

Probably on the grass.

Although I pass his place every morning, there is no sign.

So I guess he’s happy.

I hope so.

I think he’s coming back because there’s a pile of the rest of his stuff, practical stuff, stacked alongside where he normally sleeps.

Under the overpass.

A pile of empty wooden crates that will make good firewood in the winter.

Spare plastic, neatly folded for when the rains come.

Not yet, but they will.

The winter will return too.

And then Steve.

There is shelter here, warmth from the passing cars too.

But the poison of their exhausts will kill him.

Lest he gets away.

int (in a sa/sa) 65

Saturday, 27 August 2016

Some are/Some Aren't 22.

The world’s a weird place isn’t it?

You may have noticed.

This blog’s a pretty weird place too.

You may have noticed.

Maybe not.

Maybe today is the first day you popped in.

Maybe it’s not.

So I think I should explain.

Right now – August – we’re doing a sort of
summer playlist called, as it should be – Some Are/Some Aren’t.

This in itself is a reference back to an ad
campaign run by Guinness back in the olden days (before the internet remembers).

Summer Pints/Some Aren’t.

The idea of these posts, originally, was to
have an inspirational break and just post a series of tuneful ditties, and
suggest that the Editorial staff here at Bitsnbobs had gone on holiday.

An ‘inspirational break’ here means a
creative recharge of batteries slightly drained.

Like all initiatives – good or bad – on
these pages  (yes there are other pages),
the idea was half boiled and the Editorial Staff have remained at their posts
slaving away - whilst the rest of the world holidays (more or less) – adding
text to sound.

Hopefully, the eyes and ears get to be
treated together.

And guess what!?

Apparently – according to one of our
fiercest critics in the comments – the much aligned (and we say that
deliberately without an M) Editorial Staff succeeded in this aim, Wednesday

Ok, one success in several years of
slogging and blogging away is not excessively celebratory but….

What the hell!

We were so surprised we took a holiday a couple of days!

int (in a sa/sa) 64

Wednesday, 24 August 2016

Some Are/Some Aren't 21.

The table is next to the street in the
shade; Jack sits down.

He can hear the splash of the fountain,
water falling from the Griffins mouth.

“J’ai Perdu Un Ami”, the inscription begins…

The Griffin can only read it if it turns
it’s head.

Stone Griffins don’t turn their head;
anyway… if it does its wings will hide the rest.

“Et La France, Un De Ses Plus Genereux…”

The last word - “Defenseurs” -  is superfluous, but
it is carved there on the white marble.

I think it’s marble.

But it’s not carved. It’s etched.

In gold.

The marble is white.

The Griffins are green.

Coppery green.

Rusty coppery green.

The column that rises from the white marble
base – if it is marble – is the same rusty coppery green.

With a bit more rust.

This is strange, as the column is clearly stone.

At the top of the column there is a golden

An angel I think, as it has wings.

Griffins have wings but they don’t look
like angels; the statue looks like an angel.

Or a winged messenger.

The sun, late August, hits; bathes - stuns
the statue.

Into silence.

There is only the stream of Griffin spit
falling onto the water, above which they sit.

The sky - late August - too is blue.

A blue that only a brightly lit golden
angel could dare to pale.

Jack moves to the table against the wall.

J’ai demanagé he explains to the waiter who arrives with
a cold beer; the first cold beer of summer.

The waiter has to clean this table too, and
move another ashtray; Jack doesn’t smoke.

Never has.

He doesn’t usually drink beer, but he is

He can see the pedestrian crossing now; a
blind lady waits on one side – her white stick waits with her.

A man with a shopping trolley – red – thick
round glasses and a sailor’s cap – black- walks past.

A cyclist turns, another follows.

A car stops, the lady crosses, the Griffins
spit; they never stop.

Jack moves again, to the table at the end
of the terrace; he is still in the shade but there is room now in front of the
shop for people who may come and join him.

The shop is shut for the summer.

Jack moves the empty glasses from this
table onto the previous.

He removes the ashtray too.

The waiter walks up.

J’ai demenagé encore une fois, explains Jack.

Vous êtes un grand voyageur, the waiter replies.

Pigeons come to the side of the fountain to
drink; the Griffins do not frighten them.

Maybe it’s the wings.

int (in a sa/sa) 63

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