Thursday, 30 September 2010


And in the depths of the city, beyond an old zone of ruined buildings that looked like broken hearts, there lived... the storyteller Rashid Khalifa. ...he was Rashid the Ocean of Notions... the Shah of Blah.

Then the thing happened. The Unthinkable Thing. Rashid went out on to the stage in front of that vast jungle of a crowd, and Haroun watched from the wings - and the poor storyteller opened his mouth, and the crowd squealed in excitement - and now Rashid Khalifa, standing there with his mouth hanging open, found that it was as empty as his heart.

Salman Rushdie,
Haroun and the Sea of Stories

I've lost my words. Until I find them again.

Sunday, 19 September 2010

I'm in the seventh circle if you need me

"We want you to be independent.

Just tell us where you're going, how you'll travel, who you're meeting and what you're going to be doing.

We'll call an hour later and ask where you are, what you're doing then, what you did, what you ate, if you had any alcohol, when you're coming, how you'll come and how long it'll take for you to travel.

Okay? Good boy."

Wednesday, 8 September 2010

My Calvin Moment

The most surprising thing was that she was cold to the touch.

Dark as unpolished onyx, she loomed over me, her features seeming to harden even further as she scrutinized me. I placed her at over 40 cycles, but with her kind, it's hard to tell.

She flitted gracelessly to the counter, rummaging through her supplies. Returning with what she needed, she began buzzing her instructions at me. And when her chitinous flesh came into contact with the skin on my forearm, the most surprising thing was that it was cold.

Sticking in the needle and drawing the blood only took about five seconds. She was good at her job, I'll give her that.

But she was cold.