Crash / Reboot

Bad news, chums.

About a week ago, while chatting merrily away on Skype, my computer blew a gasket, and no matter how quickly I turned the winding motor starter, it wouldn’t splutter out the black smoke it always used to.

No, it wasn’t even that old, despite the fun I can have inventing a steam-powered laptop.

It’s undergoing repair right now, and is going to need a new hard drive. The most important news, however, is that my writing (and photos) have been saved. When I get it back and running again, I’ll get some more writing up too…

UPDATE:

Sounds like my computer’ll be fixed on Sunday, and I’ll have it back on Monday. I’ll give myself a couple of days off (to catch up on missed TV shows mostly), and then I’ll get back to my thousand words a day. Which, by the way, was going quite well.

Jigsaw

Hey guys.

Getting off to a good start this fine February. And it is a fine February – bless Barcelona’s weather. This time last year, we had 5 weeks of rain… but were coming out of a drought, so we grudgingly accepted it. This year, it’s mostly luvverly.

Personal news – booking my return flight to Japan – I plan to stay there for an extra two and a half weeks after this contract finishes. Something along the lines of:

Arrive – 29th April.

Finish work – 18th July.

Fly back – 4th August?

Anyway, here’s today’s poem. I’m quite satisfied with this one, having jotted the initial notes, turned into a loose poem, left to stew, massively rewritten, sought advice, made a few revisions…. final product. I was talking to my flatmate about it, and I think I’m finally starting to appreciate myself as a poet. I know some of you guys have been my fans for a while, but I’ve never really thought myself good enough to submit them to magazines or anything like that. I’m starting to get how my brain works and writes, now, so it’s getting easier to write… and maybe it’s time I started getting myself out there.

Jigsaw

Bought for your lonely hours,
it seems instead to be Our Project
Together. Piece by fractured piece,
we build my painting of your stroke,

a shattering of disparate particles,
rooting for edges in the box,
drawing you closer to the centre,
a slow rebuild to match the old lid.

Luckily for us, it’s true of your mind,
though your hand wilts in your lap
and your eye can’t match the shapes,
nor your former independence –

helped limping to the loo,
you hold court on “when I’m home,”
and “when I cook” and “in my car”
– “these old people here don’t talk”.

Though you don’t hear it,
it cuts us all to know;
some pieces lost
when this worn box was shaken.