A Tiny Lightbulbs Switched On Noted -

Ideas mostly alluding to death.

Noted. A series of Notes on nothing in particular. Some direct observations, others fragments of fiction that breeze into my brain. Words found drifting by my mind during sleepless midnights, steady rhythms of rail journeys and everywhere in between. All of them refusing to be ignored until they are committed to paper or some such.

In striving to make writing a habit for my broken brain and challenging myself to up the frequency (vibes, posting, all of it), I came up with Noted.

An outlet to try things without my ego / inner critic banning me from ever hitting publish on a proper post containing them. Because notes are the seeds that we sow, where good things always start, right?

Share your story snippets and idea seeds (if you feel comfortable doing so). I’d love for you to add your own “Notes” in the comments.

The universe doesn’t know what to do with me either. Let’s be outsiders together.

There is so much I want to tell you about Astrid, she lives fully formed in my head with her story. An odd crossover from my days as a graphic designer and the profiles I used to make up of people so that I might design suites based on their character (you can see the beginnings of The Astrid here - I had so many plans for the work but they sadly got put to rest).

This is by no means finished. Goodness, it’s barely even started, but started it is, and that is something.

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I haven’t told anyone that I’m dead. That’s the real problem with death, isn’t it? It’s meant to be final. To end it all and and begin some new chapter, some new book, even, everything must be done with. I’m a freshly written character in this big performance of living as a live being on planet earth, rather than the empty coffin that hundreds of mourners turned out to see put in the ground, me included.

In the morning I smell the salt air drifting through the open stable door on a sea breeze, carrying some floral scent I have yet to learn the name of. It’s sweet to know this life I’m in now happened by choice. The last one was sort of accidental. A dream that spiralled out of control. You might say it was an idea that grew legs. The sheer number of legs that it grew was the alarming thing.

Anatomy of tiny lightbulbs switched on and ideas born during moors walks.

I don’t remember the last time I put an actual photo in a post but wanted to share the reference image from a walk as it was probably one of the last photos taken before the latest moors fire devastated the area.

The wind blows wild on these days uncelebrated by the once childless mother. Time has passed but facts still remain. Dates and times of moments that exist as thinly papered over cracks. Things remembered and forgotten in a never ending push pull battle of serenity and pain. Anguish that simmers over for a few days every year uncontainable and poisonous burning through the box it is usually stored in.

If you know someone who would like to read some fairly nonsensical (but oddly charming) words caught from the space around my head, hit the share button!

If rage was an ocean, the waters on this planet would spill into the next galaxy.

It doesn’t matter how many times I say goodbye, I can never mean it. You’re never really gone. You were never really here either. A philosophical riddle that can never be undone.

Dolores. The Angel of Death.

Dolores drifts through the daffodils in a pollen stained gown. Yellow seeping up it from where it drags heavy on the ground. She looks just like a childhood daydream. Defying her Xanthian promises of hope, she is sorrow dressed in joy. Wielder of the end of years, destroyer of hopes and dreams.

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I was thinking of new characters for something I am working on and she came to me as I was staring into a field that has daffodils in it (searching for the rabbit that frequents there). I thought of the name “Dolores” because it seemed quite fitting only later to find that the name has its roots in the Latin word "dolor," which translates to "pain" or "sorrow”. (reference wikipedia)

Imagine if literary classics had started with a “what / who / where / when” hook rather than... hang on a minute, that basically is the “Once upon a time” of it all isn’t it?

Searching for an echo of the thoughts I had but didn’t write down.

Stuck thinking it was the loveliest thing I might ever write and it is floating around on a breeze waiting for someone else to catch it.

Lovely thought, if you can hear me, I hope the next person you spend time with takes good care of you and shares you with the world before you disappear like set sun beams.