The main document file for Dangerous Ideas from the Wood is now at 35,000 words. I keep finding stuff that needs to be fixed and I'm really happy about that because it means it's improving. There's another 7.5k in the House of Cornus thread and another 7.5k or so that I can't fit in with the story in any meaningful way. I've got gaps and bridging bits and so on that will probably require another 5k words to be written. And then there's the ending. I've sketched it out but it really needs to be three or four times larger than it is. I imagine the final afternoon of the story will take up about 20k words once it's finished. I know what's going to happen but it's going to be very hard to control it all in a believable way. Along the way no doubt I'll spring a few more cunning ideas that will fit nicely into it.
I know It's pointless counting words but I need some way of marking my progress so there we go. Once I've done all the work I should end up with the first draft of something large enough to be considered a novel. That would be exciting.
21 Feb 2010
15 Feb 2010
Dangerous Ideas from the Wood: The Pretender
The old captain had always been very kind to the boy prince. He was a canny man, the captain, with something deeper in his eye than most and scars on his body from combat. He was bald at this stage in life and as often as not wore his mail shirt, though he reserved his greaves and spalders for special occasions.
“Now, young prince,” the captain would say, “this stuffed shirt is your uncle. I want you to prove your accuracy. Let's go! Now!”
The captain hated the prince's uncle. The prince's father should have been the legitimate king; his uncle had only won the throne by fratricide. They had fought, the two brothers, and torn the country apart with war. For five years every villager hid his crops away and buried his coin-hoard on his land. For five years every wife had slept uneasily in her bed, her mind running round and round with the idea of her sons and her husband and daughters and the memory of burning torches and a horse burnt alive in the stables the last time the war had reached their village.
The old captain knew whose fault it was: the captain knew a thing or two about history and the story of their people. It was the King's fault, that vile evil man: he was one who had started this war. The very man that now sat on the throne of the kingdom and claimed to protect it was the man that had wrecked it.
The captain had fought in the civil war. He had opposed the evil king. They had struggled, his comrades and he, struggled against hunger and cold and mud and blades tearing roughly through meat and skulls crushed by the reverse point of a axe or a hammer. He'd seen a thing or two, and he'd been one of the few that had seen it clearly. It's one thing having your opinions and ideas sat back at your hearth, sleeping in a bed with your woman and living off the fat of the land: that was all well and good, but if you've not been to war how can you begin to understand it? He hated war, the old captain, in that pure true way that only someone who has murdered for the king can understand.
“It's a vile business,” he said on one of the days he wore all the armour he owned. He was kneeling in front of a soldier's grave, medals dripping from his chest and tears of pride weeping from his eyes. “Vile. Best pay tribute, young prince, in remembrance of all those brave servants of the cause who struggled to maintain civilisation when all around them fell into barbarism.”
“Never forget, lad, the things those bastards did. They'd come early in the morning and take whole families away. They'd line them up in front of a pit and” - the captain slapped his palms together - “that was it. They took the foreigners. And their political opponents, and anyone who said anything against their false church. I myself had a Jewish grandmother; perhaps they would have tried to take me? See, they'd take anyone, didn't matter what sort of person you were if you fell into a category they didn't like. Those murderers. I tell you what I'd do if one of them walked in here now. He wouldn't walk out again, I tell you.”
At the start, the civil war had seemed to be simple. The old king, the prince's grandfather, had been murdered. A man was hanged for the murder, but that is about all we may say with any certainty on the matter. Soon, the old queen, the wife of the murdered king, was firmly in control. Her son, our prince's father, was the heir, but he was not yet of age and she and her loyal courtiers had been elected to the regency council.
Then people began to talk. They said that the old queen had arranged her husband's demise. She was certainly more powerful than she had been, and the king had had a number of mistresses. It was not thought that his infidelities were motive enough to provoke regicide - after all, what is a king without a number of women to lord over? - but it would certainly have made things easier in the mind of a woman drunk on the acquisition and enjoyment of power. That she was a royal consort was proof enough that she was a grasping climber.
Soon the younger son, the current king, found himself surrounded with men eager to wrestle control from the regency council. They soon found that there were just as many titles and estates to go round as their were eager politicising men. It is true that men like that like to appear to be self-satisfied and important, but no matter how far they climb or how much importance they believe they have attained, they are never satisfied and always demand more. Occasionally these men see the errors of the ways, but usually the only balance on this runaway system is death, either natural or unnatural.
The pot boiled for fourteen years, and the man who had been a boy king found himself with a young son of his own. But then the greed of men exceeded the elasticity in the system and the suffering spilt over from those whom it belonged to into the lives of all those they touched.
Today, twelve years hence and seven years since the end of the first civil war, the old captain and the prince found themselves together on the evening after a battle which had been neither decisive nor short. Now the men on both sides had returned to their lines, sentries were posted and they tried to sleep.
“You know,” said the prince, who suddenly found himself on the cusp of becoming a man, “you know... it seems to me... it's one of those things...”
The proud captain had one hand on the shoulder of his protege. He felt sure the prince was about to say something that military historians would proudly quote for centuries.
The prince stammered, and then began to spit it out. “Since my father died,” he said, “I have been so alone.”
The boy looked up at the man who had taken his father's place. He saw the pores on the powerful man's face, and the quality of the shave the captain had had perhaps an hour before. The prince saw a thousand meals of rich meat and the thoroughness of the nutrition that had built the captain's features.
“Please, sir,” said the prince, “there are men laid dying as we speak. There are harvests uncut in the fields and old women who will find, come February, that there is no more flour in the sack.
“There are men who otherwise would be poets and scientists and doctors all bleeding to death. I met a man once, I only spoke to him for a few minutes, but do you know he felt such an affinity with water? When he dreamed he felt himself draining through the moss into rivers and flowing down and out to the sea. He said he'd spent a month in the blood vessels of an otter. Can you imagine? Sir?”
The captain shook his head. “I always knew you were simple,” he said, “but I had to try. Soft, that's what you are. You don't know what's good for you. Bleeding heart. What would you do if they were here now? What would you do if your father was still alive and you were there as they were torturing him?”
“Please.”
“Would you stand by? No, you'd fight like anyone else.”
“Of course I'd fight, just like you did. And then I'd be as bad as you.”
In the morning, the prince rode out alone across the lines. He had tied a token of parlay to his personal standard and was quickly picked up by the enemy knights and taken to the King's tent.
The young prince was almost thrown into his Uncle's presence. The King turned and faced the boy, taking his crown from his head and wiping the sweat of concentration from his brow. But there was such a look upon the young man's face. It made everyone in the area stop. No one spoke. The boy did not hate his Uncle. The boy did not forgive his Uncle; they were beyond forgiveness.
A tear formed on the King's cheek. The warlord offered his hand, and they shook, and they embraced, and the King fell to his knee and cradled the boy in his arms.
“Now, young prince,” the captain would say, “this stuffed shirt is your uncle. I want you to prove your accuracy. Let's go! Now!”
The captain hated the prince's uncle. The prince's father should have been the legitimate king; his uncle had only won the throne by fratricide. They had fought, the two brothers, and torn the country apart with war. For five years every villager hid his crops away and buried his coin-hoard on his land. For five years every wife had slept uneasily in her bed, her mind running round and round with the idea of her sons and her husband and daughters and the memory of burning torches and a horse burnt alive in the stables the last time the war had reached their village.
The old captain knew whose fault it was: the captain knew a thing or two about history and the story of their people. It was the King's fault, that vile evil man: he was one who had started this war. The very man that now sat on the throne of the kingdom and claimed to protect it was the man that had wrecked it.
The captain had fought in the civil war. He had opposed the evil king. They had struggled, his comrades and he, struggled against hunger and cold and mud and blades tearing roughly through meat and skulls crushed by the reverse point of a axe or a hammer. He'd seen a thing or two, and he'd been one of the few that had seen it clearly. It's one thing having your opinions and ideas sat back at your hearth, sleeping in a bed with your woman and living off the fat of the land: that was all well and good, but if you've not been to war how can you begin to understand it? He hated war, the old captain, in that pure true way that only someone who has murdered for the king can understand.
“It's a vile business,” he said on one of the days he wore all the armour he owned. He was kneeling in front of a soldier's grave, medals dripping from his chest and tears of pride weeping from his eyes. “Vile. Best pay tribute, young prince, in remembrance of all those brave servants of the cause who struggled to maintain civilisation when all around them fell into barbarism.”
“Never forget, lad, the things those bastards did. They'd come early in the morning and take whole families away. They'd line them up in front of a pit and” - the captain slapped his palms together - “that was it. They took the foreigners. And their political opponents, and anyone who said anything against their false church. I myself had a Jewish grandmother; perhaps they would have tried to take me? See, they'd take anyone, didn't matter what sort of person you were if you fell into a category they didn't like. Those murderers. I tell you what I'd do if one of them walked in here now. He wouldn't walk out again, I tell you.”
At the start, the civil war had seemed to be simple. The old king, the prince's grandfather, had been murdered. A man was hanged for the murder, but that is about all we may say with any certainty on the matter. Soon, the old queen, the wife of the murdered king, was firmly in control. Her son, our prince's father, was the heir, but he was not yet of age and she and her loyal courtiers had been elected to the regency council.
Then people began to talk. They said that the old queen had arranged her husband's demise. She was certainly more powerful than she had been, and the king had had a number of mistresses. It was not thought that his infidelities were motive enough to provoke regicide - after all, what is a king without a number of women to lord over? - but it would certainly have made things easier in the mind of a woman drunk on the acquisition and enjoyment of power. That she was a royal consort was proof enough that she was a grasping climber.
Soon the younger son, the current king, found himself surrounded with men eager to wrestle control from the regency council. They soon found that there were just as many titles and estates to go round as their were eager politicising men. It is true that men like that like to appear to be self-satisfied and important, but no matter how far they climb or how much importance they believe they have attained, they are never satisfied and always demand more. Occasionally these men see the errors of the ways, but usually the only balance on this runaway system is death, either natural or unnatural.
The pot boiled for fourteen years, and the man who had been a boy king found himself with a young son of his own. But then the greed of men exceeded the elasticity in the system and the suffering spilt over from those whom it belonged to into the lives of all those they touched.
Today, twelve years hence and seven years since the end of the first civil war, the old captain and the prince found themselves together on the evening after a battle which had been neither decisive nor short. Now the men on both sides had returned to their lines, sentries were posted and they tried to sleep.
“You know,” said the prince, who suddenly found himself on the cusp of becoming a man, “you know... it seems to me... it's one of those things...”
The proud captain had one hand on the shoulder of his protege. He felt sure the prince was about to say something that military historians would proudly quote for centuries.
The prince stammered, and then began to spit it out. “Since my father died,” he said, “I have been so alone.”
The boy looked up at the man who had taken his father's place. He saw the pores on the powerful man's face, and the quality of the shave the captain had had perhaps an hour before. The prince saw a thousand meals of rich meat and the thoroughness of the nutrition that had built the captain's features.
“Please, sir,” said the prince, “there are men laid dying as we speak. There are harvests uncut in the fields and old women who will find, come February, that there is no more flour in the sack.
“There are men who otherwise would be poets and scientists and doctors all bleeding to death. I met a man once, I only spoke to him for a few minutes, but do you know he felt such an affinity with water? When he dreamed he felt himself draining through the moss into rivers and flowing down and out to the sea. He said he'd spent a month in the blood vessels of an otter. Can you imagine? Sir?”
The captain shook his head. “I always knew you were simple,” he said, “but I had to try. Soft, that's what you are. You don't know what's good for you. Bleeding heart. What would you do if they were here now? What would you do if your father was still alive and you were there as they were torturing him?”
“Please.”
“Would you stand by? No, you'd fight like anyone else.”
“Of course I'd fight, just like you did. And then I'd be as bad as you.”
In the morning, the prince rode out alone across the lines. He had tied a token of parlay to his personal standard and was quickly picked up by the enemy knights and taken to the King's tent.
The young prince was almost thrown into his Uncle's presence. The King turned and faced the boy, taking his crown from his head and wiping the sweat of concentration from his brow. But there was such a look upon the young man's face. It made everyone in the area stop. No one spoke. The boy did not hate his Uncle. The boy did not forgive his Uncle; they were beyond forgiveness.
A tear formed on the King's cheek. The warlord offered his hand, and they shook, and they embraced, and the King fell to his knee and cradled the boy in his arms.
11 Feb 2010
Blogroll
I've been looking at the statistics for this blog: some fuel for my ego there.
Anyway, I wanted to pass on some stuff I read regularly.
My friend Alex keeps a robust blog about archaeology, extreme metal and swearing. If you like that sort of thing it's not a complete sack of http://alexsotheran.blogspot.com/
There'd be no point in me writing about politics because Guardian columnist Timothy Garton Ash consistently codifies my views for me. I'm not saying he gets it right 100% of the time, but he makes similarly flavoured errors to me.
This guy lives in a cave in Moab, Utah. I get the feeling that he's deeply troubled on some level that he doesn't show to us, but nonetheless I find him inspirational. http://zerocurrency.blogspot.com/
Now Then would be achingly cool if it wasn't so Yorkshire. It's the best publication about Sheffield since Go ended, although I suspect the Skye Edge thing in the last Now Then was from the Go stable. Now Then is made by the Opus people. Everything they do is great.
I used to go on body modification site bmezine every now and again on a gross-out trip, how far could I look before my legs went funny and I had to close the window? People do what to their bodies? Anyway, Shannon Larratt used to run it. I'm glad he doesn't now because he's a brilliant writer and node. A polymath.
This is a lot straighter. Too straight if anything, but still worth the punt. Strange Maps is about cartography. The writer is obviously trying to make enough words to publish coffee table books, but the actual content (the maps themselves) are excellent. There's a number of blogs like this, but I reckon this is the best.
That's everything I feel I can pass on. If you'd like me to give you a shout out, let me know.
Anyway, I wanted to pass on some stuff I read regularly.
My friend Alex keeps a robust blog about archaeology, extreme metal and swearing. If you like that sort of thing it's not a complete sack of http://alexsotheran.blogspot.com/
There'd be no point in me writing about politics because Guardian columnist Timothy Garton Ash consistently codifies my views for me. I'm not saying he gets it right 100% of the time, but he makes similarly flavoured errors to me.
This guy lives in a cave in Moab, Utah. I get the feeling that he's deeply troubled on some level that he doesn't show to us, but nonetheless I find him inspirational. http://zerocurrency.blogspot.com/
Now Then would be achingly cool if it wasn't so Yorkshire. It's the best publication about Sheffield since Go ended, although I suspect the Skye Edge thing in the last Now Then was from the Go stable. Now Then is made by the Opus people. Everything they do is great.
I used to go on body modification site bmezine every now and again on a gross-out trip, how far could I look before my legs went funny and I had to close the window? People do what to their bodies? Anyway, Shannon Larratt used to run it. I'm glad he doesn't now because he's a brilliant writer and node. A polymath.
This is a lot straighter. Too straight if anything, but still worth the punt. Strange Maps is about cartography. The writer is obviously trying to make enough words to publish coffee table books, but the actual content (the maps themselves) are excellent. There's a number of blogs like this, but I reckon this is the best.
That's everything I feel I can pass on. If you'd like me to give you a shout out, let me know.
9 Feb 2010
Woods in February
Last night I went out to the woods on the bus and made camp for the night. I was surprised to find a couple of centimetres of snow on the ground, but it was pleasant to be in the wood while it was snowing. I don't like weather forecasts; they stop you from experiencing the world as it is. I'd rather be wet than afraid of nature.
Anyway, I went out to a wood, and I built a shelter. I'd seen Ray Mears make a long shelter with a long fire in front of it, so I started off making one of those. I found a medium-small fallen tree I could lie underneath and laid sticks up against it enclosing it completely on one side. I threw a couple of inches of a mixture of snow and pine needles over the twigs until no light came through. Then I suffered a failure trying to start a fire. Dry wood was hard to come by, and much of the wet wood was frozen as well as waterlogged. We've had a week of mist so it's unsurprising everything was so wet. I must brush up on my firelighting skills (which I'd thought were pretty good). I gave up on the fire and decided to enclose the shelter completely. At either end I repeated the process, then I made a porch with a doorway from a lintel and an upright, which I finished the same as the rest of it, with snow and pine needles. I hung my waterproof trousers up to enclose the door, and laid out my bed inside and found myself warmer than in my house.
I read a biography of Frank Zappa for an hour or so and drifted off. I dreamt that a fox had come inside and was trying to eat my cheese, so I chased it away. Then I changed my dream-mind and threw it pieces of cheese and enticed it in, where it curled up and slept on my belly. Then it was morning and the dawn sky was beige-orange. I had slept soundly for ten hours.
I struck camp (leaving the shelter) and walked back to my house. As I came over the moors I meditated on empathising with the DIftW hermit, and reached some answers. Then I encountered three joggers: "...I asked her over coffee."/"Morning!"/"Morning."/"And she said she earnt three times as much!"/"Hahaha." That was the end of that.
Anyway, I went out to a wood, and I built a shelter. I'd seen Ray Mears make a long shelter with a long fire in front of it, so I started off making one of those. I found a medium-small fallen tree I could lie underneath and laid sticks up against it enclosing it completely on one side. I threw a couple of inches of a mixture of snow and pine needles over the twigs until no light came through. Then I suffered a failure trying to start a fire. Dry wood was hard to come by, and much of the wet wood was frozen as well as waterlogged. We've had a week of mist so it's unsurprising everything was so wet. I must brush up on my firelighting skills (which I'd thought were pretty good). I gave up on the fire and decided to enclose the shelter completely. At either end I repeated the process, then I made a porch with a doorway from a lintel and an upright, which I finished the same as the rest of it, with snow and pine needles. I hung my waterproof trousers up to enclose the door, and laid out my bed inside and found myself warmer than in my house.
I read a biography of Frank Zappa for an hour or so and drifted off. I dreamt that a fox had come inside and was trying to eat my cheese, so I chased it away. Then I changed my dream-mind and threw it pieces of cheese and enticed it in, where it curled up and slept on my belly. Then it was morning and the dawn sky was beige-orange. I had slept soundly for ten hours.
I struck camp (leaving the shelter) and walked back to my house. As I came over the moors I meditated on empathising with the DIftW hermit, and reached some answers. Then I encountered three joggers: "...I asked her over coffee."/"Morning!"/"Morning."/"And she said she earnt three times as much!"/"Hahaha." That was the end of that.
7 Feb 2010
A few brief things
I have been working at DifTW. I've been trying to include more of the voice of the narrator near the beginning because in the finale the narrator is actually going to enter the story as a character so I need to foreshadow him sufficiently. At first I wanted to just pluck him out of thin air which would have been very satisfying to me but I think would have confused a casual audience. I want this story to be multi-layered and I want one of those layers to be a straight reading which is accessible to all (for example children or even watchers of soap operas). I also want to be sophisticated with it, but the more complex layers cannot be allowed to upset the straight reading. For this reason, the audience needs to be expecting a narrator.
In general, I don't like it when an author seems to think that a narrator needs a name and a character ("I'll tell you a story from when I was a boy...") but I've got something clever to do with this formula so I've gone for it. I hope it doesn't turn people off.
I've been sticking the bits together and trying to make everything more explicit without dumbing down. There's hugely complex layers of nuance in what I've written but most of it is undecipherable to anyone but me. She's wearing a green dress. Why? I know what that means, and most of you probably do too, but it doesn't hurt to spend a couple of paragraphs talking about grass stains. I've used plants throughout as motifs. Some are self explanatory: you get the right feeling from a hedgerow with sweet cicely in it, even if you're not too sure exactly what sweet cicely is. But still it doesn't hurt to describe the smell. I've found myself experiencing this forest world very strongly through imagined smells as I've been writing. O, I wish it was spring.
Music helps me write. It keeps me alert and helps keep emotions closer to the surface. But I can't write to anything with words. So I find myself using post rock and certain prog and classical to keep me going. I've tried listening to music in European languages like German but it's still too close to English and every now and again I understand a phrase and it throws me. Something that works well is Gaelic lyrics. I've found myself listening to all sorts of awful music (and some good stuff) I would normally be embarrassed to admit to listening to, but it's been helping me along so I'm happy with the result.
There's a certain mood I have to get into for the words to flow. I can write any time, but it usually only comes out good if I'm in the zone. I've noticed recently that this mood (which I have understood intellectually for some time) is accompanied by a feeling of warmth in my chest. Very strange.
In general, I don't like it when an author seems to think that a narrator needs a name and a character ("I'll tell you a story from when I was a boy...") but I've got something clever to do with this formula so I've gone for it. I hope it doesn't turn people off.
I've been sticking the bits together and trying to make everything more explicit without dumbing down. There's hugely complex layers of nuance in what I've written but most of it is undecipherable to anyone but me. She's wearing a green dress. Why? I know what that means, and most of you probably do too, but it doesn't hurt to spend a couple of paragraphs talking about grass stains. I've used plants throughout as motifs. Some are self explanatory: you get the right feeling from a hedgerow with sweet cicely in it, even if you're not too sure exactly what sweet cicely is. But still it doesn't hurt to describe the smell. I've found myself experiencing this forest world very strongly through imagined smells as I've been writing. O, I wish it was spring.
Music helps me write. It keeps me alert and helps keep emotions closer to the surface. But I can't write to anything with words. So I find myself using post rock and certain prog and classical to keep me going. I've tried listening to music in European languages like German but it's still too close to English and every now and again I understand a phrase and it throws me. Something that works well is Gaelic lyrics. I've found myself listening to all sorts of awful music (and some good stuff) I would normally be embarrassed to admit to listening to, but it's been helping me along so I'm happy with the result.
There's a certain mood I have to get into for the words to flow. I can write any time, but it usually only comes out good if I'm in the zone. I've noticed recently that this mood (which I have understood intellectually for some time) is accompanied by a feeling of warmth in my chest. Very strange.
1 Feb 2010
Second Start
I have decided to slightly repurpose this blog. I still want to talk about Dangerous Ideas from the Wood, but I also want to talk about my music and things I have found in life. For seven years I maintained a hyper-reflexive personal blog with a readership of around fifty, but the cost of providing such a direct insight into my mind has begun to outweigh the benefits. So I'm going to continue blogging here, but it'll be different because this is very public and has an overt agenda of promoting my writing (and music).
Last night I went to see Buffy Sainte Marie play in Wolverhampton. You could say that some of her music is a bit AOR cheesy, especially if you made the judgement based on her most famous songs (Love Lift us up Where We Belong, Soldier Blue etc.) but if you can look past that layer of production and pop music naivety it's really good stuff. Her songs about uranium and native american rights are great. She played for ninety minutes and did nothing but valuable songs. A very good gig. We were easily the youngest people there.
Universal Soldier
He's five foot tall and he's six foot four,
and he fights with missiles and with spears.
He's all of 31 and he's only 17,
He's been a soldier for a thousand years.
He's a catholic, a hindu, and atheist and a jain,
A buddhist and a baptist and a jew,
And he knows he shouldn't kill,
And he knows he always will kill,
You for me my friend, and me for you.
And he's fighting for Canada he's fighting for France,
He's fighting for the USA.
He's fighting for the Russians and he's fighting for Japan,
And he thinks he'll put an end to war this way.
He's fighting for democracy and he's fighting for the reds,
He says it's for the peace of all.
He's the one who must decide who's to live and who's to die,
And he never sees the writing on the wall.
But without him how would Hitler have condemned him at Dachau?
Without him Caesar would have stood alone.
He's the one who gives his body as a weapon to the war,
And without him all this killing can't go on.
He's the universal soldier and he really is to blame,
But his orders come from far away no more.
They come from him and you and me and brothers can't you see,
This is not the way we put an end to war.
That was the first time in my life I have seen a standing ovation.
Our train out wasn't until 5:24am so went and tried to find somewhere to sleep. We tried for a large park near the town centre but there was CCTV everywhere and the police did a slow drive by as we were sizing up the fence. So we abandoned that and decided to sit it out at the station. On the way back we saw a deep bank of dogwoods on the central reservation of the inner ring road and we were in there like a flash. So long as we didn't stand up we were completely hidden. We pitched the tent and slept for four hours before packing down and catching our train. There was a fresh snowfall while we slept.
At Birmingham New Street I said goodbye to my girlfriend. She was headed for Japan and won't be back for six weeks.
Six weeks is long enough to finish this novel, so long as I don't get distracted. I'm on my fourth macro-structure. At first it was a collection of short stories. Second, it was going to be a set of short stories crushed together with time multiplexing. The third idea was so complex it collapsed under it's own weight. Now I am working on using the story A Perfect Life (the original DIftW) as a framing device. Through the woman's perfect life we encounter all these other stories. I've got the first 10k words arranged, with 30k/40k more in the bag waiting for homes. My target is 80k, or however long it needs to be. Let's see where I get to.
Last night I went to see Buffy Sainte Marie play in Wolverhampton. You could say that some of her music is a bit AOR cheesy, especially if you made the judgement based on her most famous songs (Love Lift us up Where We Belong, Soldier Blue etc.) but if you can look past that layer of production and pop music naivety it's really good stuff. Her songs about uranium and native american rights are great. She played for ninety minutes and did nothing but valuable songs. A very good gig. We were easily the youngest people there.
He's five foot tall and he's six foot four,
and he fights with missiles and with spears.
He's all of 31 and he's only 17,
He's been a soldier for a thousand years.
He's a catholic, a hindu, and atheist and a jain,
A buddhist and a baptist and a jew,
And he knows he shouldn't kill,
And he knows he always will kill,
You for me my friend, and me for you.
And he's fighting for Canada he's fighting for France,
He's fighting for the USA.
He's fighting for the Russians and he's fighting for Japan,
And he thinks he'll put an end to war this way.
He's fighting for democracy and he's fighting for the reds,
He says it's for the peace of all.
He's the one who must decide who's to live and who's to die,
And he never sees the writing on the wall.
But without him how would Hitler have condemned him at Dachau?
Without him Caesar would have stood alone.
He's the one who gives his body as a weapon to the war,
And without him all this killing can't go on.
He's the universal soldier and he really is to blame,
But his orders come from far away no more.
They come from him and you and me and brothers can't you see,
This is not the way we put an end to war.
That was the first time in my life I have seen a standing ovation.
Our train out wasn't until 5:24am so went and tried to find somewhere to sleep. We tried for a large park near the town centre but there was CCTV everywhere and the police did a slow drive by as we were sizing up the fence. So we abandoned that and decided to sit it out at the station. On the way back we saw a deep bank of dogwoods on the central reservation of the inner ring road and we were in there like a flash. So long as we didn't stand up we were completely hidden. We pitched the tent and slept for four hours before packing down and catching our train. There was a fresh snowfall while we slept.
At Birmingham New Street I said goodbye to my girlfriend. She was headed for Japan and won't be back for six weeks.
Six weeks is long enough to finish this novel, so long as I don't get distracted. I'm on my fourth macro-structure. At first it was a collection of short stories. Second, it was going to be a set of short stories crushed together with time multiplexing. The third idea was so complex it collapsed under it's own weight. Now I am working on using the story A Perfect Life (the original DIftW) as a framing device. Through the woman's perfect life we encounter all these other stories. I've got the first 10k words arranged, with 30k/40k more in the bag waiting for homes. My target is 80k, or however long it needs to be. Let's see where I get to.
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