Picking a Winner

Picking a Winner ©

By

Michael Casey

It’s hard enough picking a font to use, I tried a different word processor program and it let me use Amiri, my new favourite font, but it then double spaced it, so I’ve gone back to another one, which sometimes freezes your computer, if you are not careful, but otherwise its nice to use. What has that got to do with anything, what am I waffling on about as some unkind people used to say. Well it proves my point for me without me giving any evidence, things that should work, and should be easy, can prove difficult and not give the required results.

I’ll give that girl a bunch of roses, girls love flowers. Only she has hay fever, you should have saved your money. And yes I know a girl who has hay fever and I do save my money. So you try a potted plant, only nobody bothers to water it, and it dies on the kitchen window sill. My mother who would have turned 100 this week, had green fingers up to her elbows. She would “borrow” a cutting from a sea side town and throw it in a plastic bag sprinkled with water, after the holiday it was planted in her garden and it grew. Whatever she picked literally, became a winner in her front or back garden.

So it is with words, if I use this word or that word you may not like it, and some words are overused, such as Legend and Hero. Common expressions are reversed in an attempt to be different, the white and the black of a situation, the zag and the zig, you can pick your own expressions, while I pick my nose. At least I know what I am doing when I pick it, which is different to picket. Word plays are fun, ask Will down the Shakespeare pub, or Will Shakespeare himself if you are a Thespian, or a Les Dawson fan. I do miss sitting on a bench with Les, my legs wide open, man spreading while dressed as a mature woman, with huge bosoms, showing my silk stockings and garters. Foreign readers can Google Les Dawson.

So what words should I use and chose, or is it chose and use, see you are divided already, so I divide and conquer. Then you criticize my grandma, or is it grammar? Remember I am talking to you, everything I write is a piece of radio, or rubbish if you want to upset me, and make this not a Good Friday but a bad day, on a Friday, though it is actually Good Friday.

Words have weight and power, you can say the wrong thing at the wrong time, or just the right words. Or just being there in silence is the right thing to do. You give a hug, a kiss, or just hold somebody’s hand. And think you have done nothing, but in fact what you have done is better than perfect. Others are just like marooned boats in low tide, but you are a life raft of hope and help.

Sometimes, or often in my case, the words appear for the situation, well on paper anyway, and you don’t know where they come from, so people say it’s a gift, as common place as rain in Manchester, they don’t know or appreciate the now 50 years love of words, since watching Robin Day on tv back in the 1960s. So how do you know what words to pick, well you don’t, you have to be an instant quote machine. You pull words from space, the space between your ears. I’ll give you a few examples. I was talking to somebody and they thought they knew the situation. So as we have a squared pattern carpet, the words sprung to mind via the visual stimulation. It’s like the first square, you have to look at all the squares, like in a chess board you have to read all the squares and pieces. Don’t assume you know everything just from the first square.

Likewise words appears from audio stimulation, Genesis are singing behind me, and a word or phase they sing is like a ball bouncing around in my head, like a pinball machine, which will lead me to words and phrases. It happens at the speed of thought, despite earwax, and appears on the screen equally as fast, its like a damn bursting with words and ideas. I just wish I could draw and then I’d have Cartoons made from Words, as one of my Blogger sites is named. It really is quick, so some call it a Gift, but as I said before 50 years love of Words equals a Gift, as if I’ve stolen Will Shakespeare’s folio, I’m too much of a Falstaff to steal.

Now when I began, I had to stop dead just then, my words becalmed, the Pain Monster appeared from out of nowhere. It’s like an elephant sitting on my left shoulder. So I just slapped on the Movelat pain killing gel on my clicking shoulder, and my face feels as if the elephant’s trunk gave me a slap. This is my normal, my sine curve of pain, so my words shared with you are an oasis of Hope and Fun for myself. Ok, it’s like dirty puddle or is it puzzle to you, that splashes on your best trousers.

Let me try that paragraph again, now when I began you all assumed I’d be talking about horses and racing, The Sport of Kings, as only they can afford it. No doubt my UAE, Saudi, and Qatar readers will have wished for that at any rate, not unless the Queen is a secret reader. I will finish with a horse, as you may remember my dad was a Blacksmith in County Kerry Eire. He began at Rathmore. The store in 1995 had been turned into a hairdressers, some 60 years after dad was there, we visited on the final Grand Tour before my mother died. Dad had bought his ticket and came to England in 1944, he could have gone to USA his sister Mary had or was about to send him money to come to Chicago, but Thomas Cooke had sold him a ticket so his Fate and my Future was decided.

Dad was very intelligent, and he liked watching Politics on TV, so as I grew up I watched with him. And it’s for that reason I love words. When I wrote The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker I did not want to insert dad into the story as I loved him too much, however Big Sid the butcher is my dad. Not the character nor behaviour, but the deep love of kids inside him. I did not even realise it as I wrote Big Sid but when I’d finished I know he was my dad. So I am very fortunate this Good Friday, because I had the winning pick for parents, and as any Arab will tell you a good horse and blacksmith is worth more that all the grains of sand in the desert, even if they were gold.   

Maundy Thursday 2020

Maundy Thursday 2020 (c)

By

Michael Casey

Maundy Thursday was the night Jesus and his disciples had their Last Supper, and Christians still copy it in the Mass, breaking of bread and so on. That night Jesus also washed their feet, later he prayed, while they fell asleep, and finally has betrayed by Judas. And the rest is History, the only difference being that for Believers Jesus rose on the 3^rd day, and we have Easter.

So in today’s world who follows Jesus, or any other Faith or None? Who falls asleep, and who copies Jesus and washes the feet of others. Obviously here in UK, our NHS of all Faiths and None, are Jesus like in their devotion to the least of our brethren, they wash the feet and more of the sick, and dying. We the rest of us in isolation, self isolation or in Lockdown are just called upon to pray, that’s all we have to do, but do we fall asleep instead, while Jesus or our NHS is working for us? We are all weak and full of good intentions, but do we deny Jesus, or those doing good in society and would we betray them for 30 pieces of silver?

Something to think about as some of you make selfies and post them online and write that book on your self isolation tribulations. And will the Unwashed Masses buy your overpriced tat once the Covid 19 nightmare is over? Emily Maitlis apparently said something last night, which is obvious, it is the poor and least of our brethren who suffer most. Because they live in the worst housing, living off frozen food, because it is far cheaper that the fine dining food in expensive supermarkets. Jesus had simple food, and that became the model for Communion. The question is are we in communion with our fellow citizens, or will we deny them 3 times before the cock crows. Do we have to wait for the joy of Easter, to believe without seeing, not to demand putting our fingers in the wounds before we believe.

These times are a chance to look inward, I hope many of you do already, of All Faiths and None, for it is only by having discovered what’s inside that we can change the outside world forever. And change will come, otherwise we will all stay asleep in the garden of Gethsemane.

Korean Translation of Quick Stories + 2 other books too in Korean, Thank You

KOREAN Quick Stories

BBU in KOREAN

KOREAN TRANSLATION Still Alive 2015

KOREAN Quick Stories

Korean tv shows keep me happy so as a reward something to read, an Omnibus of mine

as a thank you to Korea for Kdramas amusing me and keeping me Happy

click link for a Translation in Korean  of Quick Stories an Omnibus of mine

https://michaelgcaseyfrombirminghamengland.wordpress.com/2020/04/08/korean-translation-of-quick-stories/

plus download the file from 1st link

Pretentious Poet Strike Again

something from December 2016, when I must have got up in the middle of the night or nite if you are in America

Pretentious Poets Strike Again ©

By Michael Casey

Now how exactly shall we describe Pain, is it just a myth advanced by Pharmacists aided and abetted by slick adverts on tv with wonderful graphics of throbbing this and that. Does it exist at all? Is it just a bad joke on Creation’s part? Shall I compare thee to a Scream on a Winter’s night echoing through The Dark of the Night of he Soul.

Now where did we put the Dictionary, next to our copy of the Perfect Word by Lenny Bruce, the well know American dictionary compiler, the coarse, the very coarse version. Or did we leave it next to our cook book, the American guide to Hamburgers a la Macdonalds, the 1999 version. Though who uses dictionaries, they are for the mentally weak, those with no moral fibre, we poets don’t need them, we just make up new words made up of sounds.

If it sounds good we use it, not forgetting a dose of alliteration on the side, and if we get the words wrong there is always the doctor or the priest to absolve us from our word choice. Priests are so forgiving of our words, especially Fr. Percy, he used to be a nudist till he saw the light and became a poet and then finally a priest, in the church of the Church of the Totally Gullible the church of Film Stars and Pop Stars.

But I digress, which word shall I pick and choose, where is my Muse, it’s hard to keep your muse, it should be chained to your bed, or was that a bad idea I saw on Blacklist, I really must stop watching late night tv, or was it the Brussel sprouts I consumed. We poets don’t eat we consume, and are consumed by ideas and emotions, because we are so sensitive, as we are Artists who teach the whole world what is Nature in the atmosphere and deep deep deep down inside us.

I found the dictionary in the bathroom, its such consuming reading while one is at repose, or just sat on the toilet. Sadly a few pages are missing, I ran out of tissue paper, the letter Z has all but disappeared. But Z is so boring so it shall not be missed by this Poet, nor the world of words, how many zebras have you heard of in contemporary poetry. Not even Leonard Cohen used Z, so it won’t be mourned, he will be mourned, but Z will not.

So where were we, yes we were describing Pain, rather like a Rolling Stones concert where there is a 400 years queue for the toilet, now that is pain as one hops from leg to leg crossed leg to crossed leg, like a frog in a kilt, and no I’m not talking about that French Fashion person, whose name evades me right now, though he does make rather good perfume in the torso bottle. I’m almost inspired to write a ditty about queueing to have a sh sh well you know what I mean, so long as its clean.

Now I was going to talk about how clever my choice of words is, but that would be boastful, but I am a pretentious poet, so I DO need to Educate you, there are more letters in the alphabet other than Z after all. In the Fall the leaves fall and gather on the ground for walkers to walk in and squash and squish, rather like pages stolen from a dictionary never to be used again, its all such desolation, how can poets survive with no cheap alliteration to be found in the leaves, Nature itself thieves them from our life from our very being.

So Pretentiousness must end the pain killers have worked and its 5.30am now so I need to go back to bed to finish my repose, this stink of words must have gone up your nose or fallen down and left a mess on your pjs or dressing gown, amongst the tooth paste stains and hot chocolate stains. So goodnight to one and all, as the good Earth spins I have finished blowing my own Trumpet, another night owl is reading my words, its 3am somewhere and I hope he enjoys my prose brought on by lack of repose. And if He wants to give everybody a great Christmas Present, how about lowering the cost of pills, then he would be a saviour for all our ills.

Idle hands tempt the Devil

Idle hands tempt the Devil

well I saw a film and I've come back and changed the backgrounds

Blue, Red or White depending on which blogger site you are on

I've left it so you can scroll down and read without having to click

Does it improve the quality of the writing I hear you all say

So I'll ignore you all, and hope Boris finishes reading my novel

before he has to get back to work.

I may write a story story in the morning, every day seems the same in

these Covid 19 times, it's all so quiet too

I think we should ring church bells on Sunday to punctuate the silence

or have call to Pray as well. An Audible sign we are not beaten

Silence may be Golden but we all do need to scream and shout and

let it all out. If you remember the scene from Network.

So tell all your friend thousands of stories here and Translations too

Here and over on Wordpress so, message your family everywhere

in the world. You can then all moan about how stupid I look

but I am a lovely writer, well Clare Moore said so, so it must be true

Hello Clare if you ever read this. Her dad knocked on her bedroom door

and asked what was going on "It's Michael he's making me laugh" she replied

She was reading The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker

I have readers in 80 Countries now, Bangladesh tonight was reading me, as well as Austria and Germany. So Resistance is futile.

https://michaelgcaseyfrombirminghamengland.wordpress.com/

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1

Moving On Again

Moving On Again (c)

By

Michael Casey

This is my 3rd idea for a story and the 3rd font I’ve played with in under a minute, whatever I thought of yesterday I forgot, so neither or is it none, of us know what I was going to talk about today. Amiri is the font I’m using right now, though when I post it, it could appear different. This looks like a Goldilocks font, not this nor that, but just right. I like curvy things, but not too thick, nor too faint, which could describe other likings of mine. We all like things for different reasons, that’s why Design matters. The days of you can have any colour you like so long as it it Black are over, Henry Ford RIP.

I was checking out my readers, and I spotted an old piece that I had reposted as a repost a couple of years ago. So really it could have been 7 years ago when I wrote it, its like discovering a time capsule. I was talking about House Church Chinese style. I referenced Nancy, who was doing her exams. Nancy came to England aged 7 I believe she had no English. Now she has graduated in English at Oxford University and has gained a Masters too, I think she went on to USA to study more. Chinese go for Education big time. If you are imagine there are 1,400,000,000 people so you have to study hard to get a look in.

Nancy also taught my daughters how to draw and paint, almost amateur professional style if that doesn’t some a contradiction. My girls have grown since then and have reached the late teenager age, soon they will be older than me, I feel 20 in my head. As we grow we change, though old men don’t change, hence they smell, ask any young person and that’s the standard view. But as ever I digress, perhaps I should undress and wash instead, the obvious reply to any young person reading this. Our lives go this way and that though with Covid 19, we are all sharing a common event, which we all hope goes away soon. I’ve inserted this sentence for Social Historians so they can reference me in the Future, see I’m so vain. But otherwise our lives change and we move on to something else.

In the old days we’d stay in a job for life, but Technology arrives, my Uncle Willie was a Ploughman, so he was replaced or is it aided by a Tractor, my cousin’s son could actually drive a tractor at the age of 9, which is normal in Kerry Eire no doubt. You had the fear of technology, the Mill replaced home weavers, the Printing Press put paid to Bede, Knowledge was Democratised. Life and Society changes, now we have Twitter so everybody knows everything, but in fact knows Nothing. Discuss.

We have Internet too, a Library everywhere, so we can all expand our minds without the use of LSD or any other rubbish. Having an inside toilet, and a home telephone, not mobile but landline were big events in my own family’s time. Kids don’t realise the luxury they have, and I’m only going back to the 1960/70s when I was going up. Life moves on and so do we. There are changes and we throw out cherished things, like radiograms, which decades later designers use as a basis for high tech hifis. So circles exist in Design though the insides are now 100 times smaller.

I used to keep everything, plastic bags and shoelaces, just in case, the poor boy in me, so living with somebody changes all our lives. You keep they bin, even some treasured items of clothing find their way to the Charity shop, those worn out slippers you felt so at home in our gone. So you buy a metal locker and put a chain on it, so your stuff stays your stuff, and not caste out like a leper. We do change and grow as people too, you meet new people and some of them rubs off on you, and vice versa. Then too much rubbing means she is pregnant and she moves in, the first thing she does is throw out the metal cabinet. You have to dash to the tip as your valuable Stamp Collection is still inside. You have to crowbar your way into it, and cut our hand badly, so you are scared for life, too much rubbing led to a child and a scar, not just for Christmas but for Life.

There is much moving in life, sometimes you don’t move Physically, but your mind grows, you might be stuck in a prison like the Bird Man of Alcatraz, but your mind can be free, just as Mandela was though his body was in jail. It’s not compulsory to keep moving and changing, though that’s how Consumer Society works, sometimes its nice to be like a grandfather clock, steady and reliable and standing for 90 years on the floor. I’d like to be a grandfather clock myself, though I very much doubt it.

So is there a conclusion to today’s talk, no, there never is a conclusion, because things move on. We may want to stay isolated, and yes I see the irony of that word right now, we may want to be like Bede, but Time and Tide waits for no man. And I refuse to trendify my language by saying “Person”, we are what we are, things change, Women always are the Master Race. We have to live as best we can and surf not the Internet but Life itself, as a sea of change sometimes feels like a Tsunami, we have to pick our board, whether it be a job, a skill, a profession, or just that curvy girl we hold onto in the dark of the night. Our designs on her, and her designs on us, she could be a Tattoo artist after all. And together, we won’t be washed away by life.

A Silent Prayer an Eternal Hope

A Silent Prayer an Eternal  Hope

Unable to Fathom

Shocked beyond Reason

Caring  Hoping Praying

Hoping You'd Stay There

But now unable to express

What could not even think about before

Please stay with us, and laugh once  more