I can tell anyone who is interested it involves a TV show and things are heading in the right direction.
And regardless of what happens I will blog the whole series of events from start to finish because it's been a fascinating journey. I've been down this road many times before - but never this far - and the further I get the more nervous I become.
Now I'm at a stage where all that's left for me to do is cross my fingers and pray.
Here's some stuff that doesn't have any other place to live, so I'll drop it here for anyone who finds it.
The sanctity of marriage is the new topic
de jour
Anyone can do it, doesn’t matter, rich or
poor
It’s a sacred oath to God that shouldn’t be
ignored
Unlike other oaths to God that make us kind
of bored.
But don’t let those gay folk reach the
altar
They wouldn’t know their fingers from their
ring
They’d decorate the church in gaudy colours
And they’d all be booking Elton John to
sing!
Marriage is a union, till death tears you
apart,
Unless you’re young, you rushed a bit or
needed a green card
The ring, the dress, the spot-lit vows,
it’s all that we adore,
And I should know, the records show, I’ve
done it twice before!
But don’t let those gay types reach the
alter
It’s reserved for those who understand the
vows
The church is not a toy, like a priest’s
young altar boy,
It’s entirely there to join the Herr and Fraus.
Last night a bottle thrown,
Delivered message not condoned,
As I was walking hand in hand,
On darkened street and else alone.
We jumped and looked as tires squealed
A beast to feel in terror taking flight,
It drove at night, sped away.
And then we walked alone,
Our hands still holding tight,
The darkened night was ours to own.
We said a word and labeled them a hoon,
Then passed it into memory soon.
Sad too little fuss, hardly a cuss,
It’s not the first bottle thrown.
This is part of who I am and what my life
contains.
Why tell when others yell or comment under
breath.
I hardly notice anymore as stares that
last,
From those that pass, seem hardly worth my
time.
And never tell of moments feared,
When two or more find me all alone with he.
He who lisps a bit and glides,
He who laughs so loud and high,
He with hands that signal every word;
The man whose life my own is blurred.
I never tell when fear comes grim.
When I can’t act for fear of him.
How I just stand and cower long,
In hope he isn’t hurt,
In hope we stay alive.
So far so good, but why?
It’s not a happy thing to say,
I wish I’d gone the other way.
The sisters shake their fists at those that
hide,
They yell of heads not held up high in
pride.
But every time I see a friend,
Now at the middle of the weary drive,
A friend with son or daughter’s mirrored
face,
With shared inflection sharing grace.
I see the moment’s love conveyed,
The child to parent and back the other way.
I see the soul that’s grown,
Asking urging begging to be shown.
I think of all the moments shared between
the two.
Years of moments I can only rue.
And all those moments good and bad,
That I will never have or had.
And then the memory of that bottle thrown,
And I am standing once again alone,
Or staying clear from those who disagree.
But why am I a threat to anyone but me?
I heard of a man, who can,
Or at least thought he could,
So he ran; this Two I.C. man.
If he could, I’m sure he would.
He’d be in the know, C.E.O., with an income
to flow,
A bonus, a package and a golden hand when
let go.
He’d be of the elite, unknown on the
street,
Like all any you could meet,
With a lifestyle of kings.
But those type say no to that place, no
disgrace,
For the want of a face, unknown.
But the Two I.C. in his suit needs more.
For he doesn’t know of the second logo.
He wants to own a face well known,
Flown and bemoaned, by those set to
dethrone.
So what does he need to heed such greed?
To forgo C.E.O of only thousands to stow.
He hasn’t the choice, like many in suits,
Not drilled for the office to settle
disputes.
The degrees may be held, but the practical
lacked,
So he’s now on a quest, provided he’s
backed.
And that’s how they arrive, those who lead
us so bright,
The two I.C. men, who could never take flight.
And they stand at the doors as you pass
them your votes,
Promising all and spewing out quotes.
You never did know a more trodden on grave,
The democratic ideal, once dreamt of so
brave.
For the hollow suits walk down the halls of
the laws,
And they guide without knowing what’s
behind the closed doors.
They never should lead, the two I.C. kind,
And usually do, from way back behind.
And why are these little men all we can
choose?
The leaders we want are too smart to be
bruised.
They don’t want their lives in a blind
trust hiatus,
Or the prying eyes of a new public status.
It’s the system we’ve fostered,
The system above,
When comes a real leader do we greet him
with love?
Or pick on his wife and find a drunk son,
We ignore his real talent and search for
the gun.
Because a story is here in a man who won’t
fight,
He came down to lead and he’ll do what is
right.
The gutters no place for a leader to lurk,
So his arms remain holstered as he gets
down to work.
But the public keep reading and they’re not
growing near.
They don’t understand as the sheets
generate fear.
He’s on the first carriage, as the two
I.C’s cheer,
It’s back for their close-ups, another fine
year.
For they made all their promises when we
lined up to vote,
The odds they’ll be kept are not for the
tote.
They’re two I.C. men; they were two I.C.
boys,
And they’ll lead us as if we’re all two
I.C. toys.
They’ll stay in their club, the house with
no name,
Banding together in teams with no game.
They look like they’re playing, with pseudo
respect,
Amplified speeches to heighten effect.
But the words are not theirs, for they’re
two .I.C. boys,
If they spoke their own phrases it would
all be white noise.
These are the men who lead us to where?
And why do we follow? - Because we don’t
really care.
One law in a thousand raises eyes, if at
all,
But they keep their stamp moving and answer
their call.
There’s no thrill in creating red tape
everywhere,
That wraps and binds like the most humid
air.
Let them stay where they sit, alone on
their hill,
Two teams and a few, signing their will.
Look east and west, but no-where near them,
For we’ve all had enough of such two I.C.
men.
Diplomacy.
In all things.
At the cooler as the water flows,
By the lift as numbers grow
There’s a way to behave,
Be brave and it will be your grave.
But once you rise ahead of those,
Who crawl and lick at larger toes,
You smile, and wave and slap the backs,
Of foes who strive to knife attack.
They smile and grin as hand folds firm,
Around a blade, your name has earned.
The crimes are many,
Incompetence rife,
But all is fixed with a swift strong knife.
You can’t speak up or talk of things,
That makes upset or truth that rings,
It’s silence all, and silence gold,
A stellar career to the corporate old.
And tasks that lie and go undone,
Are not relayed to anyone,
Ideas of fresh and exciting scope
Lie in minds that have lost all hope,
The corporate way is a silent one,
Those who survive have avoided the gun,
By lying low in mediocrity,
And choosing a path where they pay no fee.
Their heads below the grasses stay,
That’s the only corporate way.
I have a friend I do not like
He visits every day
And even when I lock him out
I know he’s come to stay.
He came again this morning
To greet me when I woke
Accusing me of doing wrong
Without a word he spoke.
He talked of those in struggle
And how I turned my back
He added up my foolish buys
Relentless he attacks.
And as I argued every point
His patience caused him wait
And then a moment’s lull in time
Before he castigates.
He thinks I’m foolish, hiding out
He thinks I run away
He thinks it’s only time before
The truth will come my way.
And every soul whose eyes look up
While walking separate tracks
Will realise what he says is true
I’m holding them all back.
I’ve tried to reason with him
And he seems to understand
But then he’ll bring up something else
And we‘re back where we began.
I really hope he leaves today,
This friend who’s come to stay
Not to be rude, but time has come
For him to go away.
I haven’t seen a race today,
No-one came around my way,
They didn’t puff and blow on by,
No effort going, no will to try,
Dust remained unturned and still,
And no-one saw an iron will,
As laws of greatness passed away,
I did not see a race today.
And when I slept to end alone,
My feet felt heavy, made of stone,
As if they’d run and pushed on through,
With sweat and grit and teammates who,
Had never been ahead of me,
Behind my feet I couldn’t see,
A single soul that raced today,
Those who did are well away.
Tomorrow’s gun will fire still,
And call for those awaiting will,
To clamp their feet and curl their toes,
As crowds give roar and shooter goes,
Another race will start again,
Another straining path and then,
Those racing will be well away,
By the bell to start the day.
Tears will fall when at the end,
From long behind a signal sends,
It isn’t fair how far to go,
As health and memory outward flow.
But still they’ll call in voices loud,
Ignore the past and speak up proud,
It seems they’ve finally woken up,
And now they want to hold the cup.
But races end as sun sinks low,
The time to run will come and go.
You did not see a race today,
The time for racing’s gone away,
The fear and doubts that stopped you then,
Will haunt you now in folds of ten,
So move your feet and start to run,
Only fools await the gun.
My eye sees upside down, while I look the
right way up,
It takes a view like mirrors and the mind
is what corrupts.
Inside a skull, like software code, the
vision pours on by,
The mind of past recollections makes to
find the missing lie.
A sight I see a thousand times is shown as
if brand new,
But not before it’s twisted round and
decoded of its clue.
And while this concept critics hold as
though it’s not bazaar,
Another thought rarely said seems drifting
from afar.
When earth became from clouds of dust as
twisting gasses flew,
And spinning discs all settled down
surrounding our small blue.
The idea goes that force ejects and pushes
all apart,
But when we slow and come to halt an inward
force restarts.
And back we come as where we were, and
passing by what went,
The distance traveled now retraced, the
outward dusts re-sent.
These forces larger than a mind, and
consequences more,
Who says we haven’t been this way and
passed on by before?
Perhaps my life is shorter now, than my
father has to live,
Perhaps my Grandma’s brother’s soul, his
sacrifice to give.
Perhaps when thinking of the past, it’s all
still yet to be,
While my mind has lost what just went by in
memory still to see.
And as the mind restructures all, the
spiritual to find,
Are not the gifted with next sight, but the
rest of us are blind.
If I could have my time again and make good
all my wrongs,
And know the fears which lie ahead are
worries not held long.
If I was now the wrong way round and
heading back to front,
It means my worry’s wasted on a futile long
past hunt.
And while our lives progress away and youth
comes into sight,
And as our children younger grow, in spite
of what is ‘right’,
And when you sit in softer chairs and talk
of how you ran,
Perhaps you should be open to the fact that
you still can.
God’s older than time, that’s not just a
line,
Even Gaydar would list him above 39.
He’s certainly single, no wife on the
shingle
No fiancée, or girl, no regular twirl.
And a lot has been penned about God and his
friends,
But never a line of a girlfriend spoken
In his house the male form goes unbroken
So he’s up their alone, in a home he calls
heaven,
Avoiding suspicion with Romans 1:27
But he’s not all alone as he works on our
fates
There’s talk of his friend, attending the
gates.
Peter his ‘flat mate’ who works the front
yard.
Toiling all day, his abs cut rock hard.
And the bible tells more, about others
before,
One of them Gabriel who God once adored.
Cast out of heaven in a terrible fight
God took off his wings denying him flight.
And unlike straight couples who argue for
debts,
A gay separation is about wardrobe and pets
So Gabriel’s wings, the metaphor clear,
The wings were designer, the season last
year.
And why should we argue or take any bets,
When Noah’s quite famous for taking the
pets.
The beggars are better in Moscow,
Than those you’ll find on the tube.
They have more of a style for theatrics,
And hanging limbs they can’t move.
For the handout that’s asked on the circle,
As polite a request ever made –
And he stands with a cup held in both
hands,
And speech well rehearsed for his trade.
“I’m sorry to bother you people,
As you silently ride on this train,
But I need to buy food and find shelter,
To keep me out of the rain.”
And he stands with both arms working,
On legs that look firm and strong.
And his teeth all line up, in the suit that
he wears,
And his beard and his hair are worn long.
And I’m wondering why he expects this,
From people worn from the fray,
To give him their change, just give it
away,
When they have been working all day?
Does he answer to bosses promoted?
Who served in his place years before?
Does he stress if he’s late and work
through his lunch
Has his work become a great chore?
No, the beggars are better in Moscow,
They don’t even need to speak,
There’s the man with no legs on a
skateboard,
With only one arm limp and weak,
And it hangs like a tail as he travels,
And swings from in front to behind,
But no-body seems all that bothered,
For this stump on the skateboard is blind.
And the woman whose face rests in fire,
And the skin that’s now fused to her bone,
She doesn’t ask for a handout,
She just stares with a hideous groan.
And the grandmother blind on the corner,
With the scarf wrapped tight on her head,
With her hand outstretched and arthritic,
Come winter in Moscow she’s dead.
These are all career beggars,
Not the hobbyists found on the tube,
To assume that you deserve money,
For just asking is foolish and rude.
And why are you even riding,
On a tube criticized every day?
It’s not like your job is the city,
And you’d lose it if you moved away.
I once saw a beggar in Paris,
And his choice made me nod and agree.
If your goal is to work as a beggar,
Why not choose Rue Rivoli?
For begging’s a fluid position,
With few roots that really take hold,
The weather is better in Paris,
And it’s hard to beg when you’re cold.
I’d like to see a progression,
Of Tesco carts all in a row
Heading away from the city
To the Chunnel and Paris the flow.
But once they are all lined up there,
They should stop and consider it done,
For there’s little left in a beggar’s
career,
Why not retire and have yourself fun?
Then there’s a question I’d ask them,
When retired do beggar’s start work?
Wouldn’t that be a wonderful end to it all,
And add a colourful quirk.
There are so many questions to ask them,
And only one thing I know,
It’s a simple fact, but one to be sure -
They don’t want to end in Moscow.
When you see a fly
Go sailing by
Zig zagging round your room
With a high pitched zing
And a see through wing
Ahead a window, boom.
It’s a funny thing
Of all things winged
We call this fool a fly.
We attack with spray,
Or shoo away,
Or electro zap then fry.
Why not call buzz,
This blackened fuzz
With whizzing fizzing yell.
As he dives and zings,
Loops the loop and spins,
His sixteen eyes serve well.
With his big bro blow,
Who is fearless though,
As a house invasion looms,
So we take fly spray,
And aim all day,
Then bizz, buzz, bing, bang boom.
Into walls above
Into windows - shove
His head must be so sore.
We chase and flay,
Won’t he go away,
Can’t he see the open door?
Then he’s out of lives,
On a power dive,
For him there’ll be no later.
On the window-sill
And spinning still
Like a Russian figure skater.
Black Buzz is gone,
No more bing, bang, bong,
As he bounces off my ceilings,
As he lies there long,
I don’t feel wrong,
For a fly I have no feelings.
When I was small, I wanted to crawl,
That’s all.
I’d crawl on my knees,
And jump round with ease, like fleas.
Then I started to walk,
I started to talk, to stalk.
As I stood on my feet,
And walked on the street,
My friends I’d meet.
I’d go on a hike,
To see my friend Mike,
‘Cause he had a trike.
A three-wheeled trike was what I liked,
Then I saw a bike.
On two wheels fast,
It sped on past, a dream at last.
I wanted to ride, down the hill I’d glide,
Full of pride.
Then I saw a board,
On a half pipe broad,
I won an award,
Ollie and hop, a Casper stop,
And a killer tail drop.
Mike wanted to trade,
He put on the blades…
We both needed first aide.
Then I got old,
The board’s buckled and cold.
I’m no longer bold.
I watch from afar,
As I pass in my car,
And tell tales in the bar,
Of the days when I rode,
Tall I once strode,
From the tricks we all showed.
And now with a wife,
For the rest of my life,
Twin boys full of strife.
The day will soon be,
When both of them see,
What sets young boys free…
A shiny new trike.
Yike!
A Seussian Rhyme
Of all the things you could ever see,
There are probably some you don’t want to
be.
There are things your friends will be
dreaming of
But they may not be the things you love.
I’m sure you’ll discover your very own
dream,
Then watch out world as you head down that
stream!
But it’s time that you started, so I’ll get
out of your way.
And let you be off, for today is your day.
Go conquer your dreams and find fortune and
fame
Go find out if others will remember your
name.
Go off to all parts, I don’t know just
where.
But promise me this, go with great care.
Some things you’ll find quickly and some
vanish like air.
I could tell you of each, but that wouldn’t
be fair,
You must find them yourself, as you travel
around,
For you may not agree with the things that
I found.
So I am letting you go and I swell with
great pride,
As you head out my door to a world big and
wide.
Never be scared or doubt you are ready,
Chart a straight course that is swift, safe
and steady.
And when you need port from any old where,
Make sure it’s my door you return to for
care.
Now go and catch fire! Let the world know
your name.
Burn out a path that helps stake out your
claim.
There’s so much ahead that begins with one
stride,
And once you start moving you’ll be in for
a ride.
If you work really hard and let yourself
grow,
How can you guess how far you will go?
And whenever you rest along your way
I hope you look back to here and say,
“That was the place where I got my start.
Where I found my strength, my voice, my
heart.
That’s where I found what I needed to go
And to them goes some credit for the seeds
that I sow.”
So hold onto the tail as that tiger roars
past,
Hold on for dear life and hold on to your
last.
I know there’s no chance of you being
eaten,
For you are too fast and bold to be beaten.
My last piece of advice, to help you
fulfill
Is to dream bigger dreams and then dream
bigger still!
Remember your loved ones, we’ll cheer from behind
As you seek out a path that is all yours to
find.
You are only you and that is your fate.
But just so you know – we all think you’re
great!
I like the rain,
Sliding down the drain
And taking leaves away.
I like the shine,
From a day less fine
As the fine mist forms a spray.
The streets go dark,
And the empty park,
Where the dogs delight in play.
And the faces hide,
With umbrellas wide,
Under awnings scared they stay.
I like the smell,
And the thunder’s yell,
And lightning’s wild display.
When the wind whips by,
And the papers fly,
And the world is drenched in grey.
I like the feel,
Like a sliding eel,
Of the wet shoes on my feet.
And the world goes by,
Just as if it’s dry,
With a drumming rhythmic beat
And I like the still,
When it stops to spill,
And the cloud no longer purges.
Then the world revives,
And while wet, survives,
All other life emerges.
And the people say,
As they chat all day,
That the weather’s been so bad.
But they’re talking rot,
And thinking not,
For a bad day’s never had.
When it rains on you,
And soaks you through,
Think of barley, wheat and oat.
And next time greet,
A soggy street,
With a water-proof raincoat.
Have you ever wondered why,
When you’re walking on the street,
That certain other people,
Don’t like your shuffling feet?
And the moment that you take a step,
Off the sidewalk curb,
They scream and shout and wave their fists,
As cycles skid and swerve.
But cyclist always hate the slow,
As they plod and trot on by,
They say we do not watch before,
We cross the street or try.
They’ll come spinning, fast as wind,
Without a single sound,
And swerving to avoid our feet,
Will leave them on the ground.
But cyclists aren’t the only ones
With grudges growing old,
For drivers of the smallest cars,
Hate cyclists too I’m told.
They hate them in the big wide lanes,
And climbing up a hill,
With scant and total disregard,
They hunt out new road kill.
And cyclists hate the drivers back,
Especially while they’re parking,
And open up their driver’s door,
A crash, then fights they’re sparking.
But in the end it evens out
As hatred spins around,
There’s another whole new group who hate,
They’re easy to be found.
The big rigs running interstate,
They rule the roads with fear,
They run up close and push them on,
And want the roads kept clear.
There’s a circle going round and round,
As trucks aren’t loved so well,
And the group who hates them most of all,
Is who, or can you tell?
Those walking and just passing by,
On corners wait to cross,
And then comes by a ten ton truck
With logo loud embossed.
So maybe we should stop the hate
And smile and wave on by,
The ped can greet the cyclist with
A warm and loving smile.
If cyclists loved the cars and trucks
They’d learn to love them back,
And jams will never clog the way,
As patience clears the track.
And all can drive in peace and calm
A vehicle state of Zen,
Our roads could be the example set,
A bitumen U.N.
It’s an act, no more; for everyone.
We heroes too scared to show a flaw.
I sit and watch and walk and talk and say
nothing real
I answer true to faces upset on subjects I
didn’t begin
I see hollow faces enduring times they will
gloriously recreate
I say hello to facebook friends to greet
but not to meet
Another neighbour died last month, I know
because he rots
And in my car I sing and yell because the
airtight shell protects
At night I dream and wake in tears, I laugh
and hug and feel
So long as no emotion’s spilled in time or
space that’s real.
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