Savvy Poem – Towyn Trailer

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Towing my brain into Towyn,

aiming for something static

to keep my thoughts from

lagging behind my actions,

from drifting off and taking

on a form of their own

 

or, worse, from sprinting on

ahead of my slowing feet,

I take the long road, slicing

a cuboid city into two identical

halves, my brain kidding me –

teasing back the zipper that

holds this bag of plastic

together,

 

pulling it apart at the

seal, so that the road

in front of me splits, opens

out, making my feet panic,

step upon step, unable to

move forward

 

until, winning and elated, the

deep Earth takes me down,

reclaiming whatever it is in me that

crossed over to set foot upon                               Salopian soil

all those lives ago.

 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, August 3rd, 2019

Savvy Style – Bag a Princess!

Savvy Letter – Dear Bannatyne

Silly Book – The Midnight Gang

Big news! If the discerning reader chooses to take every story that appears in The Mirror at face value, then a hypnotist recently created mass hysteria in a London park by making a gaggle of fully-clothed volunteers believe that they were ‘naked’.

Immediately, my worst recurring nightmare comes back to me – the one where, desperate for a wee, I’m sitting on the only toilet available. There are no cubicle walls to hide my ablutions, and I can by anyone who just happens to be looking my way, i.e. just a worm popping its head out a nearby burrow.

How embarrassing!

Hence my joy at reading ‘The Midnight Gang’  by David Walliams, and laughing along with a ninety-something-old-stark-naked lady laughing her head off, as she takes a birds-eye tour of London – held aloft by a bunch of balloons!

What fun it must be to be so old that any sense of what other people might think about one’s dress-sense, or lack of it, has completely gone out of the window. So old that the word embarrassing is no longer applicable!

Fortunately, my passion is for dressing-up, rather than down! And, as I’m now at mid-life, I have no sense of shame on this one!

Seriously though (okay, so I’m never serious), then this never-serious book is well worth a read. Everyone with, or without, a heart will fall in love with wonky-faced Thomas, the Porter of the Lord Funt Hospital – the fairy godfather who makes the dreams of sick children come true.

Yes, the publishers may have been aiming for children as the target audience, but just take a look at the author, David Walliams, i.e. don’t we all of us grown-ups have a silly streak? And, in spite of being a middler, this is by far the best book I’ve read in the last year (apart from ‘The Fing’ and ‘The Demon Dentist’ and ‘Ratburger’ and ‘Jay Cool’s Great Escape’, all but the latter also by the great man himself!).

David, with all this effort I’m putting into promoting your books, on behalf of Waterstones,  why didn’t I get past the second round of Britain’s Got Talent? Why didn’t I even get past the Director’s Panel? All I wanted was to fulfil my lifetime dream of being booted off the stage by Simon Cowell! It’s really not a lot to ask – is it?

Perhaps I need to fake an illness and have a word with the Porter of your ‘Lord Funt Hospital’. Thomas would know what to do! And, I’m with the old lady on this one: Why should it just be the sprogs who have all the fun?

Oh dear, I seem to feel a migraine coming on ….

Ambulance?

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, August 2019

Yes, I have read all of David Walliams’ masterpieces (lie: I haven’t yet finished reading ‘Grandpa’s Great Escape’ having got sidetracked halfway through with my grand idea to write ‘Jay Cool’s Great Escape’, but I’m getting there!)!

Please also read, like and comment on:

The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen

The List of My Desires: Book Review

The Age of Miracles: Book Review

Season to Taste: A Book Review

The Undertaking: Book Review

The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake: Book Review

The Universe Versus Alex Woods: Book Review

Hinch Yourself Happy: Book Review

Savvy Poem – Chronoclastic

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Time crushed into a Friday night,

knowing that, on Saturday, one has to start thinking

about structure – about the starters, mains and plenaries,

the beginnings, middles and endings,

that will form the basis of the plans,

that, on Sunday, you will churn out,

ready for the weekday lives that

you are expected to give

structure to,

and knowing that – for you –

there is no structure.

No structure, because your life is not your own

to be structured.

You function only as a pixel – stuck fast

onto a linear line of someone

else’s institutionalised

and fictional

world.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, August 2019

Image by Manfred Steger from Pixabay

Inspired by a reading of an extract from ‘The Eyre Affair’ by Jasper Fforde, as shared by a member of the Colchester Scribblers Meetup group.

Please indulge in other writings by Jay Cool:

Misanthropy

Narcissist: Haiku

Steal A Style: Savvy Writing Tips

1: Lack-Lustre

Day 7.2: Newport – She Who Never Grew Up!

 

Silly Poem – Mind

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I never mind them.

Not much.

And I don’t mind not minding them.

Not at all.

Why then, do they mind me not minding them?

That, I mind!

 

And is that wrong?

No, not to my mind.

 

As the only mind, to me, that I mind minding,

is my mind.

 

So, please – if you don’t mind, mind you –  please, just please

don’t mind me!

 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, August 2019

 

Inspired by a reading of an extract from ‘Fingersmith’ by Sarah Walters, as shared by a member of the Colchester Scribblers Meetup group.

 

But, please mind just enough to read and comment on just a few more posts of mindless content:

Dunderhead

Misanthropy

9: Floats & Giggles

The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen

PJ’s Perky Jaunt: A Comedy Club Review

 

 

Savvy Diary 57: Belle Vue Ball

I’m not usually a great fan of Sudbury’s annual ‘Party in the Park’. Not that I’m a party pooper – I just don’t like other people! Correction. Other people are fine, just so long as they don’t blow their cigarette smoke in my face. And what better place to get fagged out, than to plonk oneself down on the grassy slopes of Belle Vue Park?

Every year, I make the decision to never attend this gruesome event again. Every year, I attend it again! Seems I have absolutely no control over my own feet. Hubby always wants to go there, the sprogs always want to go there and I – don’t want to go there! But go there, I do – over and over. And, it’s never any different. Imagine the scene:

_________________________________

A bottle-orange-topped eccentric enters Belle Vue Park, via the Park Road entrance, with a hubby and two (sometimes three) sprogs in attendance. Within seconds, she is spotted again – on her own! Somehow she has managed to disconnect herself from her responsibilities and is queueing at the beer tent, where there is a very good offer: one can of cider for £2, or (for couples) two cans of cider for £3.50. She hands over £3.50, grabs the cans, depositing one in her backpack, before guzzling down the other.

The hubby is detected making his way over to his orange-topped Mrs. But, before he arrives at the beer tent, the object of his affections mysteriously vanishes.

A few seconds later, the orange lady can be seen (only by the discerning eye!), with her bum planted upon a grassy slope – very selfishly hogging the best spot from which to view the entertainment. 

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Hubby tries to re-locate his other-worldly half, but being extremely short-sighted and blue-green colour blind, fails to pin-point the position of his double-denim-clad lady, mistaking the only visible part – her head – for being a discarded (and discoloured!) peach (and, if you don’t think there are peaches the size of my big-brained head, then you haven’t lived! Go and read Roald Dahl’s ‘James and the Giant Peach’ and see for yourself!)!

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He considers reliving his would-be footballer days by taking a kick at the peach, but the small part of his brain just about still rational, guesses that the far-off-hazy goalie is really a bartender and the goalpost, a beer tent. 

The orange-come-peach, knowing that her window of opportunity could be cut short at any moment, burps, and downs the second can of cider. 

Hubby gives up on the futile attempt to hunt down his Mrs and lay claim to a can of cider, deciding that his time might be more wisely spent checking that the sprogs are still alive – both having, earlier, made a beeline for the climbing wall. Because, whereas it is true that the sprogs are now teeny-boppers – in each other’s company, they have a tendency to regress to their younger selves.

The peach is now very fed up with listening to out-of-tune cover versions of dreadful songs (that don’t really have identifiable tunes in their original form anyway) and, hypnotised into obedience by the swirling of giant-rainbow-pom-pom balls (courtesy of some enthusiastic cheerleaders), digs herself up and rejoins the queue at the beer tent. 

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Bored, lonely Mrs Peach thinks she might be generous and offer the fourth can of cider to Hubby so, with this in mind, she swaggers around trying to find him. It’s roasting hot. Her white-as-white skin is sizzling, someone in the crowd has just stubbed out their fag on her hand, and she’s feeling somewhat dizzy. She tries to sit down, but there’s not an inch of grass  free from someone else’s picnic rug, or an inch of air clear from fag fumes.

 

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Zooming into the far off distance, the peach detects a much-larger-and-greyer-than-usual sprog (Hubby?) clinging to the climbing wall. Some normal-sized sprogs are looking up at it and laughing so loudly, they can be heard across all of the picnic rugs laid in the whole of the UK.  The clinger reminds her of the tarantula-sized spider she rescued from her sprogs yesterday. Why waste energy rescuing another? 

_________________

‘Party in the Park’ is is unlikely to be any different this year but, not being someone who learns from past mistakes, I do, nonetheless, respond to Hubby’s call:

‘Jay, the kids are all ready and waiting to be off. Are you coming?’

I have no choice. Tradition makes the decision for me. Having just given up the day job, I can’t claim to have lots of planning to do for work. I’m out of excuses.  So, resigned to the inevitable, along with Hubby and sprogs, I step out of our mountain-top cave …

______________________________________________________________________________

Today’s ‘Party in the Park’ is playing out in the usual way. Lost family. Beer tent. Cider. Sitting. Guzzling. Holding breath to avoid smoke inhalation. Looking for sprogs. Finding them. Losing them. Looking for Hubby. Finding him. Losing him. More cider, etc.

Until, bored with my own company (impossible), and with the lure of floral scents far more appealing than Golden Virginia tobacco fumes, I decide to seek out the company of flowers. I know I’ll find plenty of beauties in the area fronting onto the magnificent Belle Vue House – historical landmark and pride of Sudbury! And, dreaming about being its rich and bookish owner, I set my compass, take off and land …

Oh!

I am greeted by the House of Horrors! What is Babergh Council playing at this time?

Need I guess?

Let a large council property fall into ruin by criminal neglect, telling any services expressing an interest in the place, that the rent will be far too expensive for them. And, once the said building looks like the bulldozers have already been at it, tell the local newspapers that the council have done everything possible to keep the building – even displaying a fine people’s mural in front of it, to improve its appearance, but, alas, all efforts have been in vain. And tragically, there is nothing for it now, but to sell the property and it’s adjoining land off the highest bidder – the highest bidder just happening to be an illustrious hotel chain, happy and willing to knock the whole thing down, replace it with a huge lump of baby Lego, and pour concrete over the grounds to create stunning parking spaces for its many satisfied customers. 

I, Jay Cool, loved Suffolk’s middle schools, as did my eldest sprog (the only one fortunate enough to have attended one). I loved Subury’s People’s Park. I love Chilton. I love the water meadows. I love Belle Vue House!

Babergh Council loves profit and all visible evidence points to its executives having no respect whatsoever for local history, be it man-made or natural!

I, Jay Cool, did not love seeing middle schools I worked in, that were once a major part of my existence, knocked down! I, Jay Cool, was gutted to see a piece of land, left by a caring local resident for the purpose of a People’s hospital, become the site of a Lego estate. I, Jay Cool, was disgusted to receive a letter through my door from none other than the local MP James Cartlidge, asking me to support the building of a non-essential bypass over the water meadows.

I, Jay Cool, take regular walks to enjoy the wildlife of Chilton, to photograph the flowers and the butterflies that lift away all of my anxieties, and am unable to fathom why the land is earmarked for housing.

And, I, Jay Cool, am left devastated by the devastation of my dream home, Belle Vue House (just think of all the books I could keep in that place!).

I take a few snaps of the jungle flowers adorning the Belle Vue flower beds, hoping to preserve something of my dream before it is obliterated by concrete.

Then, struck by my own significance (the reason I start lots of sentences with the all important top-of-my-list pronouns, I), I step up to, probably for the last time, my dream front door (better than the rock that keeps the winds out of my cliff-top cave).

Down, but not defeated, I round up the family and we all traverse back up the clifftop to settle back into our cave for a quiet evening (lie – the sprogs had a major quarrel over the Xbox), singing songs around the fire. The hog-roast grunts in protest, i.e. I am the only one singing, and I’m far flatter than the wonderful ‘Party in the Park’ singers who, on hindsight (now that my jealous rage has abated), were pretty spot on!

And, on that flat note, I will graciously leave you be. For the moment!

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019

Image of ‘colourful dandelions’ by Monsterkoi from Pixabay.

Image of ‘red lady’ by anarosadebastiani from Pixabay.

Image of ‘vintage lady’ by Jo-B from Pixabay.

Image of ‘water-sky panorama’ by TweSwe from Pixabay.

You can find out more about Belle Vue House, from the Sudbury Society, via this link.

To read about Jay Cool’s adventures in Chilton, and other hotspots, please tuck into:

58: Queen Bee

A Medicinal Stroll in Chilton

Chilled in Chilton

38: Assington

39: Borley Mill

50: Croissants in Cornard

Silly Poem – Dunderhead

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Being under one’s head,

one recognises a done deal,

before even others have

overheard the need for a

dunderhead to do a deal

with the dead, to prevent

the dead doing deals from

down

under.

And in recognition of that

deal, a deal not done, but

already dead, one finds one-

self ready, already.

Not dead, but recognised,

and not – no, not ever, over-

done  – one heads on, ready, not dead, and         already          over                                                                                                                                                       head.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, April 2019

Image by Brigitte Werner from Pixabay

 

Savvy Book – Burn

Savvy Style – Princess Budget

Savvy Letter – Dear Harry

Savvy Diary 58: Queen Bee

Disclaimer: This post contains image links to products available on Amazon, for which I do not receive any commission.

Wednesday: almost a week since I abandoned my day job for good. And what have I achieved?

A tidy study.

Okay, so a tidy study isn’t a bestselling novelette, and perhaps I could have written a seven-chapter effort in six days, but all budding authors need a space in which to write. Don’t they?

Have I been prevaricating and can I really put all responsibility for my self-distractions at the door of Mrs Hinch? Yes, I’d like to blame the Hincher, but really that wouldn’t be fair – for the following reasons:

  1. I’ve only used Zoflora once during the last six days. I soaked my vast collection of scummy dishcloths in the Twilight Garden scent. Scummy, because it was the first time I’d thought to give them a dip since … a time too long ago to be specific.
  2. My floor-mop has only been used – yes, you guessed it – once since the end-point of the day job. I did, however, use Cif’s ‘Wild Orchid’ floor cleaner, which made my kitchen smell almost as lovely as myself.
  3. Believe it or not, I have washed the crocks up a vast number of times (thanks, sprogs for keeping yourselves alive by eating) but, in Mrs Hinch’s book that doesn’t count, because I used – NOT FAIRY LIQUID –  but horror of horrors, ‘Clean and Sparkle’, i.e. at 29p it was a lot cheaper than it’s highly-recommended rival.
  4. In reality, I’ve moved on from Mrs Hinch’s  ‘Hinch Yourself Happy’ to David Walliams’ ‘The Midnight Gang’ and a very good read it is too (review coming up shortly) – a fine piece of anti-establishmentarianism.
  5. All of those floral scents (including David’s Simon-Cowell-infused perfume have made my sniffer shift my feet towards the front door of my cliff-top cave and out into my favourite nature reserve: Chilton Industrial Estate.

Long live Chilton!

And yes, I know I have blogged about Chilton before (lots of times), but every time I step out there again, I see it all with fresh eyes.

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You see, it all looks totally different depending on the month, my state of mind and on which way I am facing. Never walk in circles; you will only see whatever there is to see from a singly viewpoint. Go from A to B, to a 180 degree turn and do the B to A bit. The same flowers, bushes, trees and concrete slabs will present themselves to you as a whole new world. Not convinced? Try it!

I step out ….

As usual as is usual, I resist the temptation of crunched and mashed shin-bone burgers from McDonald’s, and stride along Church Field Road, straight into the UK’s industrial heartland. I’m heading for the Post Office depo, and get there I have to pass the orange monstrosity that is the Medical Centre. Why build a spanking new service facility up a cliff on the edge of a town, rather than down in the valley where all the locals can actually get to it on foot?

Profit.

This Medical Centre was supposed to be built on an area of land in Waldingfield Road, known as People’s Park, left in a wealthy local resident’s will for that specific purpose. What now has pride of place in People’s Park? A hideous Lego housing estate! Profit before people. Sure, a lot of young people may have been conned into purchasing a Lego home. But what about the long-standing elderly residents of Sudbury, who are unable to leg it up a cliff face for assistance when they require TLC for all their aches and pains?

I’m rambling? Wait, I haven’t even got onto my Belle Vue House rant yet (okay, I’ll save it for another post)!

Forget the Medical Centre. Far more interesting are the treasures in its border with Church Field Road:

I decide that the first shot (top-left) represents my younger (not very young) self in a wedding dress, stained only by a slight spillage from some sober-me-up-strong coffee (see brown smudge on my angel wing); the second (top right) depicts Mollie-Mae in a I-didn’t-win-a-fortune, after-the-final-of-Love-Island, cheap yellow number (wee-wee yellow, being her favourite colour); the third, the combined collection of zits rediscovered by the Love Island contestants, post the removal of all the fake tan stuff; and the fourth, my older self – a delicate-only-slightly-weather-worn-once-was-ginger beauty.

This walk is turning out to be a real load of fun. I will continue on:

I come across yet more Mollie-Mae yellow – this time it’s the yellow-gold 48-hour foundation provided by one of the show’s sponsors (I’m guessing one of the Essex branches of Poundland)! I see pom-pom balls made from my late granny’s mauve wool collection; Tommy Fury, donning a pink clown-wig, pushing Mollie-Mae out of the scene, so that I can get a snap of his exclusive mug-shot; a pair of less-than-fresh eyes (Maura’s minus the stick-on lashes); and last, some poison-tipped spiky things (remote controlled by Maura and heading straight for me).

And no, I don’t watch any programme other than Love Island, which is why, today, pending the show’s (and my day job’s) demise, I’m back to my blogging! I have to say, though, that Dress to Impress is coming in a close second (but why can’t the contestants ever be over the age of twenty-eight?). There must be loads of single, or about-to-be-single-if-50K-is-on-offer, middlers and oldies out there! And I’d love to see a few saggy boobs and tyres hanging out of the just-a-piece-of-string bikinis and designer dresses. Whatever happened to reality TV? We have an ageing population and the majority of us can no longer (if we ever could) squeeze into Size 6, 8, or 10 .. or even a 12, 14, 16, 18 or …. (sorry, only got as far 9 times 2, when I learnt my tables).

Reality? Yes, I’m currently journeying along Church Field Road, not Mallorca, so – just to make the location a little more exotic, I’m venturing off the main footpath, left and into the wildlands – somewhere between the Medical Centre, Lavenham Leisure and the church (a leftover from the days when Chilton was a real village with real people actually living it). Immediately, I am accosted by butterflies getting into perfect poses, and then flitting away from me  before I capture them on camera. It’s as if I’m Amber, being led on a bit of a dance by Michael; Michael the butterfly stops a wee while to grin at me, lunges in for a snog, gets bored and then chases off after another. Men!

Still, I manage, with a lot of patience, to take a few blurry shots of the action:

Then, still imagining myself to be the young and beautiful Amber, I give Michael the cold shoulder and move onto better things.

Meet Greg!

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Greg appears to have a war wound in his left wing. I’m guessing this is from when Michael returned to Amber for a second snog and got a mouthful of Greg instead. But Greg’s a rugby player – he’ll tough it out and win through in the end! (Or maybe this is Jordan, after Anna’a given him a piece of her mind?)

Oh why, oh why, can’t I get Love Island out of my head? Somebody teach me the real names of these butterflies, please!

Moving on.

Bees.

Here, bang smack in the middle of a suburban industrial estate, I stumble across a collection of beehives:

Come on, Babergh! How can you be callous enough to replace Queen bee territory, with a housing estate for empty-headed Lego people?

The beehives take me back – just a few years – to childhood holidays spent dodging my Grandad’s Salopian bees, whilst picking raspberries and gooseberries in his garden.  And, I realise that I can still taste the sweetness of Shropshire Honey (i.e. exactly the same as any other honey). And, my reminiscences are a welcome distraction from the goings on at Love Island.

Oh no! Why did I even mention that programme? Love Island, I’m back! Isn’t there an after-the-love-died follow up Love Island this coming Saturday? Yippee! Something to look forward to …

And, in the interim, I pop over to the other side of Church Field Road, take the public footpath alongside some warehouse, and stop off for a snack! How convenient that someone appears to have left a pack of Cherry Backwell Tarts in the bushes for me!

Whilst munching away, I take in the fantastical view of Northern Road, Sudbury’s eyesore of a bypass. Why Babergh? Why have you been joining forces with the Conservative MP, James Cartlidge, to campaign for yet another bypass? This one is already one too many!

With sordid thoughts of a coupling-up between James and Babergh, I know that it’s Time. Time to retrace my steps. Why step out and down onto that?

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During the back-stepping, I spot a string of red and green beads dangling at my feet. I love the contrasting colours, but – alas – I’m wearing double-denim today. Lots of blue! The beads won’t match, so I leave be …

On my return to church Field Road, reluctant to return to the stack of dirty crocks guaranteed to welcome me home, I drift back over the road and take the footpath to St Mary’s Church.

This building was once the hub of Chilton village, but was almost swallowed up along with it’s congregation when Sudbury got greedy. I have another post, dedicated to St Mary’s, so I won’t take you inside the church on this occasion because, today, I’m heading for the golden fields beyond:

I continue on through the fields a short distance, before cutting back through to Church Field road, taking a few more pics alongside the Medical Centre en route to the washing-up!

Particularly fascinating to one such as I, is this unusual cut-off plant stem (below-middle); it rather reminds me of the disgusting worm-like veins I used to pick out of the liver that Mother Cool liked to cook for me at a certain time in every month! Hence, the reason I’m now vegetarian. Far more pleasing to my weary eye (the other eye’s completely given up on any claim to freshness) is this pink-floaty bohemian number (below-right).

Now, if I could somehow find a cheap High Street imitation of this designer look, I would become an even bigger internet sensation than any of the young novices on Love Island.

Here goes:

The dress above isn’t quite what I’ve got in mind. I’m thinking of something with tassles and wings, rather than a dance dress straight out of an American High School Prom. But I suppose that’s what a blogger gets if thy sign up to Amazon.com! I’ll take a look at the .co.uk version:

I like the rose-pink sophistication of this look (top-row-middle), but it’s still not completely me!

Perhaps this fancy-dress Princess look?

Still not doing it for me!

 

This floaty-dressing-gown look?

Sod it! Stuff the shades of pink – I’m no wallflower.  Jay Cool is here to be noticed:

And why be a worker, when one can be the Queen?

Yes, I agree. The above number is very me!

I have just  shared with you the best of my photos from a land destined to be a new housing estate.

Save Chilton!

 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019

Image by istdasso0 from Pixabay

 

Silly Diary 62: Chilton Snapper

Silly Diary 61: Lost Chilton

Silly Poem – Simpatico

Disclaimer: The image in this post features a product available on Amazon, for which I am not on commission.

 

Is to be liked agreeable?

Is it not more better to be an aggregate of mismatched pieces,

all held together by a skin of difference?

 

Marmite, liked by some and hated by others, is

after all, once tasted,

unforgettable.

 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019

 

Savvy Style – Bag a Princess!

Savvy Letter – Dear Prince Harry

Savvy Book – Burn

Savvy Poem – Misanthropy

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I miss nothing about the trophy hunters

who upcycle their own heads and mount them

upon the renamed innovations of others.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019

Image by Elizabeth Ekman from Pixabay

Savvy Story – Carapace

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She paces.

Two forward, one back; three forward, one back; for forward, one back.

And, in this way, she picks up her pace, each time, getting a little bit further.

As others, get further, they actually get closer – closer to a goal, to someone else’s goal – a goal that someone else set, for them. Once there, they stop for a while, and then – set forth, or further – closer to the next goal. And, so, the others keep on going – at the same, steady pace.

But, she. She, the pacer, doesn’t stop. She keeps on, further, and further (not closer), and the pace becomes a gentle jog, and the jog becomes a sprint, and the sprint becomes a roll.

She’s all wheels. No brakes. Wheeling until she’s out of sight, but not

out of her mind, still thinking, and not stopping ———————————————->

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019

Image by Evren Ozdemir from Pixabay

Savvy Book – The Declaration

Savvy Book – Burn