Thanks again to the Indian girl at WordPress, so at least I can
bore you all with my writing, now that I’ve escaped Gutenberg, by the
way my comic novel The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker has a join
Indian/Irish heroes and is very dramatic, I even had a film producer
take look, In Search of an Indian Princess is what I could call the
final 3 chapters….
Everything remains my copyright, maybe a small Christmas miracle and I get a media break somewhere in the world.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0
if you want to buy my 16 books on Amazon
OR
otherwise click below
페이지 1 Quick Stories KOREAN아직도 살아있는 2015ページ1 Quick Stories in Japaneseインドのプリンセスを検索するにはインドのプリンセスを検索するには – CopyЭТО МОЙ ЛИФТ ADСтраница 1shoplife spanishJapanese elevator AdvertBBU GermanBBU French50 Spanish Examples50 Spanish Examplesbbumar2008-en-zh-cn-1
BBU in HebrewBBU in Arabic300 وBBU Russian Translation microsoft wordBBU in KOREANBBU GermanBBU French50 Spanish ExamplesKOREAN TRANSLATION Still Alive 2015The Polish TranslationsSpanish BBU아직도 살아있는 2015아직도 살아있는 2015
Everything remains my copyright, maybe a small Christmas miracle and I get a media break somewhere in the world.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0
if you want to buy my 16 books on Amazon
OR
otherwise click below
페이지 1 Quick Stories KOREAN아직도 살아있는 2015ページ1 Quick Stories in Japaneseインドのプリンセスを検索するにはインドのプリンセスを検索するには – CopyЭТО МОЙ ЛИФТ ADСтраница 1shoplife spanishJapanese elevator AdvertBBU GermanBBU French50 Spanish Examples50 Spanish Examplesbbumar2008-en-zh-cn-1
BBU in HebrewBBU in Arabic300 وBBU Russian Translation microsoft wordBBU in KOREANBBU GermanBBU French50 Spanish ExamplesKOREAN TRANSLATION Still Alive 2015The Polish TranslationsSpanish BBU아직도 살아있는 2015아직도 살아있는 2015
Travel in Space
Travel in Space ©
By
Michael Casey
As I was saying earlier, I thought of this piece as I lay in bed last night, you see my new lampshade looks like a Space Ship from Outer Space. So when I lay in bed on my right side, as is my habit the lampshade is just over my left shoulder, so when I blink it feels like a space ship from Close Encounters is descending. Why a spaceship would cross interstellar space to come to my bedroom I have no idea. I doubt if the aliens are coming to breed with me, or to extract my DNA, but that’s the picture in my mind as I lay in my bed, a spaceship landing.
Jean Michel Jarre’s Souvenir of China is playing as I speak and I do indeed remember a large bed in Shanghai, but that’s not the thought. The thought is indeed the thing, thought itself. How would Aliens travel so far in space to reach Birmingham or anywhere else. I think Aliens travel via Thought, they feed on Energy in Space, and they follow the energy with their thought power. They may be in a sensory deprivation tank, or 17 pints or alien Stella Artois to get themselves into the mood.
Then they cast their thoughts into space, inner space and outer space, then their brainwaves travel through vast regions of cold cold dark space. Windsurfing on the solar wind, thought is carried far and wide. At what speed thought goes it is hard to explain, a musing is obviously slower than an original idea, than a moment of inspiration. Then an ecstasy moment transports the mind even further and faster through space. And on thought goes, further and further and further away from Alien home word.
And when the alien thought has arrived at its destination what happens then? Does the physical body of the alien transport itself down that line of thought? Like electricity or like a message in one of those vacuum containers. Or does the thought itself form into a material object. So do the aliens have 3 heads or breasts, or no head at all? Do they chose to frighten us, or do they turn into our old grannie, so as not to frighten us.
Why do the aliens visit us anyway, are we their tv, their little hobby or their little secret, is visiting the Earth their porn, their compulsive secret, aliens visit because they cannot stop themselves. Or maybe they are lonely?
What would they bring back, probably just thought processes, like ECG, this would be the equivalent of postcards. Smiles and laughter and general warm glows are transferred through space and time to there home world. Are we their central heating, central heating of the spirit. Through space and time is Love found on this earth transferred to their cold dark world?
So a child’s laughter, or the sound of lovemaking, whichever order it comes in, is it why aliens travel so far with their thoughts to harvest it? Does the milk of human kindness, just like human breast milk, does this nourish aliens. Aliens visit to see what earth has, because they no longer have it. Do home thoughts from abroad, or human thoughts from the other side of the Universe nourish aliens? Has their sun died and the only heat to be had is via Telepathy, watching and stealing good vibrations from earth to succor their alien planet far far away.
So as you party this Christmas season, look up to that star in the East, then look past it to all the other stars in the Heavens. One star fed us all, so we in turn should feed all the other stars with our happiness and joy, spread a little happiness one star at a time. Join the stars up, the Plough being the first you may spot, but by ploughing the field of stars can be harvested to become a field of dreams. And its those dreams that feed aliens all over the universe, we humans may be in the gutter, destroying our own planet, but if we look to the stars we will share hope, and maybe the stars may return it back to us.
By
Michael Casey
As I was saying earlier, I thought of this piece as I lay in bed last night, you see my new lampshade looks like a Space Ship from Outer Space. So when I lay in bed on my right side, as is my habit the lampshade is just over my left shoulder, so when I blink it feels like a space ship from Close Encounters is descending. Why a spaceship would cross interstellar space to come to my bedroom I have no idea. I doubt if the aliens are coming to breed with me, or to extract my DNA, but that’s the picture in my mind as I lay in my bed, a spaceship landing.
Jean Michel Jarre’s Souvenir of China is playing as I speak and I do indeed remember a large bed in Shanghai, but that’s not the thought. The thought is indeed the thing, thought itself. How would Aliens travel so far in space to reach Birmingham or anywhere else. I think Aliens travel via Thought, they feed on Energy in Space, and they follow the energy with their thought power. They may be in a sensory deprivation tank, or 17 pints or alien Stella Artois to get themselves into the mood.
Then they cast their thoughts into space, inner space and outer space, then their brainwaves travel through vast regions of cold cold dark space. Windsurfing on the solar wind, thought is carried far and wide. At what speed thought goes it is hard to explain, a musing is obviously slower than an original idea, than a moment of inspiration. Then an ecstasy moment transports the mind even further and faster through space. And on thought goes, further and further and further away from Alien home word.
And when the alien thought has arrived at its destination what happens then? Does the physical body of the alien transport itself down that line of thought? Like electricity or like a message in one of those vacuum containers. Or does the thought itself form into a material object. So do the aliens have 3 heads or breasts, or no head at all? Do they chose to frighten us, or do they turn into our old grannie, so as not to frighten us.
Why do the aliens visit us anyway, are we their tv, their little hobby or their little secret, is visiting the Earth their porn, their compulsive secret, aliens visit because they cannot stop themselves. Or maybe they are lonely?
What would they bring back, probably just thought processes, like ECG, this would be the equivalent of postcards. Smiles and laughter and general warm glows are transferred through space and time to there home world. Are we their central heating, central heating of the spirit. Through space and time is Love found on this earth transferred to their cold dark world?
So a child’s laughter, or the sound of lovemaking, whichever order it comes in, is it why aliens travel so far with their thoughts to harvest it? Does the milk of human kindness, just like human breast milk, does this nourish aliens. Aliens visit to see what earth has, because they no longer have it. Do home thoughts from abroad, or human thoughts from the other side of the Universe nourish aliens? Has their sun died and the only heat to be had is via Telepathy, watching and stealing good vibrations from earth to succor their alien planet far far away.
So as you party this Christmas season, look up to that star in the East, then look past it to all the other stars in the Heavens. One star fed us all, so we in turn should feed all the other stars with our happiness and joy, spread a little happiness one star at a time. Join the stars up, the Plough being the first you may spot, but by ploughing the field of stars can be harvested to become a field of dreams. And its those dreams that feed aliens all over the universe, we humans may be in the gutter, destroying our own planet, but if we look to the stars we will share hope, and maybe the stars may return it back to us.
Tuesday 11th December
Tuesday, 11 December 2018
Tuesday11th Dec 2018 update
Tuesday11th Dec 2018 updatemorning all, hope you are well. I’ve been grooving to Taylor Swift lately, so a big thank you. I do like Miley and Katy P too, I’ve got more music to listen too these past few months. I also need something to mask the Tinnitus I’ve acquired these past few months, no offense ladies, you are singing to me on my bedside table while I try to sleep. Just like when you all become mothers and you watch over your child. a frightening mental cartoon that, me in a crib in a nappy and you sat there watching over a 248pound baby, standing on a bedside table guitar in hand.
i really wish i could draw, then i would add cartoons to my words, instead i hope my words form cartoons in your head. and yes i’m so jealous of musicians.
had an idea for a piece about travel as I looked at the fancy lampshade last night, as I was trying to sleep, so I may put that down in the next 10 hours. it is 1.40pm now in Birmingham
I won’t tell you any more, I’ve not written a line, I do all my writing when I’m here sat in front of the screen. It’s more fun that way, it’s an event, a moment, an experience. Though you may all think each piece is just a waste of your time. You could follow Politics instead, did I tell you Politics IS an interest of mine for 50 years. I know I only look 35, 35 stones…. ok please yourselves as Frankie Howerd might say, so come back later.
Michael and the Chink in the Wall
this is my of my favourite pieces of writing I’ve ever written nearly 3 years ago now.
Michael and the Chink in the Wall ©
By Michael Casey
Michael was all alone in the house, he was abandoned, left all alone with just the mice for company. He was the kitchen boy in the Master’s house, he’d fetch and carry and be allowed to sleep in a corner, just like a dog, but a dog would at least have a basket. He was actually the Master’s son, but when the pantry maid had died in labour, Michael was kept in the kitchen, the Master agreeing not to send him to the Workhouse, a promise he kept as the maid died before him.
Being the eldest, Michael should have inherited the house and the fortune, but he had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. The non bastard children were in fact very ugly, but the Master had married for a fortune, and not for love. Meanwhile Michael slowly rotted in the kitchen, while snotty noses enjoyed their Victorian life.
Michael would sit and dream on the cold flagstones, just shadows on the wall for company. Sometimes one of Charles Dickens’ stories would appear wrapped up with carrots or turnips. Michael loved Charles Dickens his stories were so good, what with the cliff-hangers, one day Charles Dickens would be famous. The cook just laughed, but she enjoyed listening to Michael reading out the stories while peeled the spuds. That was the only reason she had taught Michael to read, so she could entertain her, she had in fact invented Radio, minus the radio that is, Listen with Mother if you like.
Every night the staff went to the attic to sleep while Michael shivered in a corner, it was a slow death of the spirit apart from Charles Dickens. Michael had to try and fall asleep before the kitchen fire went out, or he would not sleep at all, the cold being so bone chillingly cold.
There was a chink in the wall from the house next door and this was Michael’s tv, without the tv that is. For in the next house everybody was always happy and gay, the servants laughed and even danced. They had a good Master, their fire was always on, the Master liked a warm house, he had made his fortune in India so he liked a warm house.
If Michael squeezed himself against the chink in the wall he could hear the singing and smell the cooking, he could pretend he was with them in the warmth of company and of real warm. There was actually a bit of heat coming from that chink in the wall, Michael loved that house and that kitchen, it was so full of life and joy.
At night Michael fell asleep mumbling the songs that he’d heard from the next door household. In the middle of the night he’d regularly awake, his toes numb with cold, his bum freezing too. So he’d get up and stamp around. Only shadows for company, the one candle in a jar his only illumination. Michael would hold the jar and press it against his body for warmth.
Even the shadows on the wall had pity on him, they would dance about and form faces of people dancing and talking, trying to amuse and console Michael. The very stones cried for him, shadows of tears fell. Michael loved their company in his daily Dark Night of the Soul, a shadow is great company if you have no friends, if you have to decide whether to burn Charles Dickens for warmth or save him so he can warm your soul. Such a choice, warmth of the spirit or warmth of the body.
The same shadows came night after night, they were in fact peopled by stories from Charles Dickens, if your body is so cold, then all that is left is the spark of soul. Or distant smells and laughter coming through the chink in the wall. So your imagination sees things in the dark, you see what you want to see in the cold and dark. You see Hope. You see Love. You see Laughter. You see dancing shadows.
The cook gave Michael a sweet, it was covered in muck and feathers, she’d found it in the street when she’d been to the butchers, a few weeks previously. She had only just remembered it. It was a present for being such a good boy. It was also a goodbye, Michael would be 9 next week so the Master had decided to let Michael find his own way in the world. Michael would have to leave.
The Master was going to buy a puppy for his legitimate children, Alpha the dog would need a space in the kitchen, Michael would have to leave to make room for Alpha the dog. A dog is a man’s, a Master’s best friend after all. The promise to the pantry maid had been kept, 9 years Michael had squatted, now he was man enough to find his own way in the world.
The Master ordered that Michael be locked in overnight and then in the morning when Alpha arrived Michael would be shown the door. Michael stuffed all the Charles Dickens in his pockets, he’s freeze one last night, but Charles Dickens would be part of his new life whatever and wherever that may be.
The walls wept, if only Michael could squeeze through the crack in the wall, if only he could sing and dance with the neighbours, they were having a Christmas Eve celebration. Michael fell asleep dreaming that very same dream. He was dancing and drinking punch, the maids all gave him a dance and a peck on the cheek. They all loved him, he was not the bastard son, unwanted and thrown out to make room for a dog.
Michael danced and laughed all night long, he was so happy, a much loved member of the family. He was smiling in his sleep, clutching Charles Dickens in his hands. That was how they found him in the morning, curled up like a dog, but with a smile on his face, and Charles Dickens’ new story in his hand A Christmas Carol. Michael had died happy in his sleep. But how he got next door through a locked door nobody would ever know, not even the stones would tell. Sometimes all the love you need is a chink in the wall.
************
well I hope all those protecting me are crying too, it’s nice to be loved by all those great and small, nice and nasty, for we have one thing is common. LOVE.
just hanging out to dry
Michael and the Chink in the Wall ©
By Michael Casey
Michael was all alone in the house, he was abandoned, left all alone with just the mice for company. He was the kitchen boy in the Master’s house, he’d fetch and carry and be allowed to sleep in a corner, just like a dog, but a dog would at least have a basket. He was actually the Master’s son, but when the pantry maid had died in labour, Michael was kept in the kitchen, the Master agreeing not to send him to the Workhouse, a promise he kept as the maid died before him.
Being the eldest, Michael should have inherited the house and the fortune, but he had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. The non bastard children were in fact very ugly, but the Master had married for a fortune, and not for love. Meanwhile Michael slowly rotted in the kitchen, while snotty noses enjoyed their Victorian life.
Michael would sit and dream on the cold flagstones, just shadows on the wall for company. Sometimes one of Charles Dickens’ stories would appear wrapped up with carrots or turnips. Michael loved Charles Dickens his stories were so good, what with the cliff-hangers, one day Charles Dickens would be famous. The cook just laughed, but she enjoyed listening to Michael reading out the stories while peeled the spuds. That was the only reason she had taught Michael to read, so she could entertain her, she had in fact invented Radio, minus the radio that is, Listen with Mother if you like.
Every night the staff went to the attic to sleep while Michael shivered in a corner, it was a slow death of the spirit apart from Charles Dickens. Michael had to try and fall asleep before the kitchen fire went out, or he would not sleep at all, the cold being so bone chillingly cold.
There was a chink in the wall from the house next door and this was Michael’s tv, without the tv that is. For in the next house everybody was always happy and gay, the servants laughed and even danced. They had a good Master, their fire was always on, the Master liked a warm house, he had made his fortune in India so he liked a warm house.
If Michael squeezed himself against the chink in the wall he could hear the singing and smell the cooking, he could pretend he was with them in the warmth of company and of real warm. There was actually a bit of heat coming from that chink in the wall, Michael loved that house and that kitchen, it was so full of life and joy.
At night Michael fell asleep mumbling the songs that he’d heard from the next door household. In the middle of the night he’d regularly awake, his toes numb with cold, his bum freezing too. So he’d get up and stamp around. Only shadows for company, the one candle in a jar his only illumination. Michael would hold the jar and press it against his body for warmth.
Even the shadows on the wall had pity on him, they would dance about and form faces of people dancing and talking, trying to amuse and console Michael. The very stones cried for him, shadows of tears fell. Michael loved their company in his daily Dark Night of the Soul, a shadow is great company if you have no friends, if you have to decide whether to burn Charles Dickens for warmth or save him so he can warm your soul. Such a choice, warmth of the spirit or warmth of the body.
The same shadows came night after night, they were in fact peopled by stories from Charles Dickens, if your body is so cold, then all that is left is the spark of soul. Or distant smells and laughter coming through the chink in the wall. So your imagination sees things in the dark, you see what you want to see in the cold and dark. You see Hope. You see Love. You see Laughter. You see dancing shadows.
The cook gave Michael a sweet, it was covered in muck and feathers, she’d found it in the street when she’d been to the butchers, a few weeks previously. She had only just remembered it. It was a present for being such a good boy. It was also a goodbye, Michael would be 9 next week so the Master had decided to let Michael find his own way in the world. Michael would have to leave.
The Master was going to buy a puppy for his legitimate children, Alpha the dog would need a space in the kitchen, Michael would have to leave to make room for Alpha the dog. A dog is a man’s, a Master’s best friend after all. The promise to the pantry maid had been kept, 9 years Michael had squatted, now he was man enough to find his own way in the world.
The Master ordered that Michael be locked in overnight and then in the morning when Alpha arrived Michael would be shown the door. Michael stuffed all the Charles Dickens in his pockets, he’s freeze one last night, but Charles Dickens would be part of his new life whatever and wherever that may be.
The walls wept, if only Michael could squeeze through the crack in the wall, if only he could sing and dance with the neighbours, they were having a Christmas Eve celebration. Michael fell asleep dreaming that very same dream. He was dancing and drinking punch, the maids all gave him a dance and a peck on the cheek. They all loved him, he was not the bastard son, unwanted and thrown out to make room for a dog.
Michael danced and laughed all night long, he was so happy, a much loved member of the family. He was smiling in his sleep, clutching Charles Dickens in his hands. That was how they found him in the morning, curled up like a dog, but with a smile on his face, and Charles Dickens’ new story in his hand A Christmas Carol. Michael had died happy in his sleep. But how he got next door through a locked door nobody would ever know, not even the stones would tell. Sometimes all the love you need is a chink in the wall.
************
well I hope all those protecting me are crying too, it’s nice to be loved by all those great and small, nice and nasty, for we have one thing is common. LOVE.
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