Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
Can you feel it?
The spiralling.
Do you see it
Happening within me?
Does it consume you
As it consumes me?
That unstable sensation,
Lingering
Without explanation.
Spiralling downward,
Without apology.
Thoughts are wretched things,
They sour
The very air
I breathe.
Spiralling.
Like a dead man
Still writhing
Upon the gallows.
The night is a timebomb,
Its silent countdown
Tightening
Around my neck.
Waking will bring such sorrow,
There is no crueller fate
Than tomorrow.
Midnight rain,
On glass and black frame,
Gaslight fills
The wet streets
With an amber glow.
Dark hooves clatter
Across wet cobblestones,
Before falling silent
Outside
The doors of Nocturna.
In a small room
Above the club,
Ridley Slocum
Awaits.
His razors
Lie in perfect order.
On the first floor of Nocturna,
Hidden behind a large painting,
Is a secret sleeping room.
A quiet place where members come
to surrender the waking world,
close their eyes,
and wander wherever dreams choose to take them.
This evening,
Alistair Fisk has gathered a small group
to discuss the great mysteries of history,
and perhaps encourage a particularly memorable night’s sleep.
On the twelfth night
Of the twelfth month,
Nocturna opens her doors
To all members
For the Annual Dinner Dance.
The biggest night of the year.
They eat,
Drink,
Dance,
And make merry,
Entertained by a variety
Of extraordinary acts.
It is slightly different terminiology,
However,
I don’t subscribe
To that way
Of thinking.
I don’t believe,
“You’ve gotta follow your dream.”
Is a particularly healthy life plan.
It sounds wonderful.
However,
It is the sort of garbage,
Disney has been selling
For generations.
But whoever decided
That every young person
Must have a dream,
Then dedicate
Their precious years
To pursuing it,
Was selling
A fairytale.
Don’t set the few years you have
Upon a self-destructive trajectory,
Chasing a life
That may be
Unrealistic,
Unattainable,
And impossible
To measure.
Perhaps the person
Who first told you
To follow your dream
Bought the same
Horse-shit themselves
Years before.
I wonder if they ever
Reached theirs?
Perhaps there is
A better way.
Set a goal.
A small one.
Make it achievable.
Make it real.
Make it measurable.
Know where
You’re going.
Identify the milestones
That tell you
You’re getting there.
Then begin.
I did this recently.
I wanted to improve
My writing.
Nothing more.
So I wrote.
For hours.
And hours.
I experimented.
I failed.
A lot.
But slowly,
I improved.
Short-term goal achieved.
Then came
Another thought.
Now that I can do this,
Perhaps I should make
A book.
A logical place
For all those words
To live.
Something to leave for my family
After I am gone.
But I didn’t know
How to make one.
So,
I learned.
Another goal.
Another process.
Another collection of mistakes.
Until eventually,
Short-term goal achieved.
I self-published two books.
A third is on its way.
Perhaps
They’re not great.
Perhaps they are.
That isn’t really
The point.
I did it.
I made something exist
That didn’t exist before
I started the process.
There was no
Lofty dream.
No,
“I shall become
A famous author!”
No,
“I shall be
The next Stephen King!”
Because that,
Is fantasy.
And worse,
It’s a destination
Over which
I have almost no control.
But writing?
I can do that.
Using my imagination?
I can do that too.
Improving?
I can work towards that.
Finishing a book?
I can measure that.
Publishing it?
I can learn how to do that.
So perhaps
Don’t follow your dream.
Follow
The next achievable thing.
Learn something fun.
Make something.
Finish something.
Then decide
What comes next.
Keep your feet
On the ground.
Keep your mind
Joyfully occupied
With things that bring
Personal satisfaction.
And if,
After enough
Small accomplishments,
You turn around
And discover
You’ve travelled far further
Than you expected,
Wonderful.
But don’t sacrifice
The life
You actually have
For some imagined life
You believe
You’re supposed
To reach.
Live today.
Make something today.
Enjoy something today.
Because tomorrow…
Was never
Part of the guarantee.
I’m delighted to announce that my second book, ‘The Valley of Ashes’, is now available through Lulu Publishing. I’m incredibly pleased with how it turned out.
But what is it about?
The Valley of Ashes is a journey through a strange, desolate realm suspended between life and death, where a nameless traveller follows the ancient Thunder Road across endless plains of ash, forgotten ruins and impossible landscapes. Along the way, they encounter mysterious beings and guardians who confront them with memory, mortality, grief, fear, legacy and the consequences of a life once lived. Blending long-form narrative poetry with dark, dreamlike imagery, the book transforms its bleak purgatorial landscape into an exploration of the inner journeys we all endure, the things we carry, the things we must surrender, and the difficult truth that some experiences cannot be escaped, only travelled through. Ultimately, The Valley of Ashes is a melancholic meditation on loss, acceptance, resilience and the search for meaning while wandering the uncertain space between endings and new beginnings.
What is this great weight
I feel upon me?
A dull,
Energy sapping,
Numbness
That envelopes me.
I am caught
In a well of despair,
Chemicals are
the only escape.
These small round
solidified powders,
That regulate,
And terminate
Life and creativity,
Respectively.
Life should all be easier now,
But it is not,
All that remains for the mind is,
Descent.
Descent.
Always descent.
In a shadowed corner
Of Nocturna’s Reading Room,
Beside a dying fire,
There sat
An empty chair.
Old mahogany,
Crimson velvet,
Carved with moons
And curious little stars.
Yet nobody
Ever sat upon it.
This greatly troubled
Alistair Fisk.
Occult historian,
Curio Club member,
And enthusiastic pursuer
Of unnecessary mysteries.
Fisk was a short,
Skinny little man,
Completely bald,
With enormous
Bushy grey eyebrows
That seemed determined
To compensate
For everything missing
Above them.
Beneath a long,
Dour face,
Sat a thin
Pencil moustache,
A sour complexion,
A long aquiline nose,
And surprisingly
Large lips
Usually pursed
In scholarly disapproval.
He dressed
With considerably more colour
Than his disposition suggested.
A black pinstripe suit,
Bright red silk shirt,
And immaculate
Black bow tie.
Wherever Fisk went,
So too went
His ebony cane,
Its golden head
Carved into the grinning face
Of Mephistopheles.
He considered it
Tasteful.
Others
Had their doubts.
And now,
Alistair Fisk
Had discovered
A mystery.
The chair.
He searched
The club archives.
He consulted
Ancient books.
He examined
Old photographs
Through a magnifying glass.
And there,
Again,
The chair.
Always
The same chair.
Always
Unoccupied.
Fisk discovered
Ancient traditions
Of chairs left vacant
For the dead.
He studied
Victorian séances,
Funerary customs,
Spiritualist societies,
Forgotten rituals,
And obscure ceremonies
In which an empty seat
Invited spirits
To join the living.
He found accounts
Of chairs reserved
For departed ancestors.
Seats placed
At midnight tables
For wandering souls.
And ancient customs
Warning that certain chairs
Must never,
Under any circumstances,
Be occupied.
Perhaps,
He wondered,
Nocturna’s chair
Awaited someone.
Someone
Who had died.
Or worse…
Someone
Who had not yet
Arrived.
For three nights
Fisk barely slept.
Finally,
Unable to endure
The mystery any longer,
He found Gideon Rook
Quietly arranging newspapers
In the Reading Room.
Fisk approached,
Mephistopheles
Tapping ominously
Across the floor.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
“Mr Rook.”
“Mr Fisk.”
“I must ask you
About the empty chair.”
Mr Rook glanced across the room.
“Ah.”
“Nobody sits upon it.”
“No.”
“It has remained empty
For generations.”
“Indeed.”
Fisk leaned heavily
Upon Mephistopheles.
His enormous eyebrows
Lowered.
His large lips
Pursed.
His voice became
Almost a whisper.
“Why?”
Mr Rook considered
The question.
Then replied,
“Because it is broken.”
Silence.
The fire crackled.
Fisk stared
At the chair.
Then at Mr Rook.
“Broken?”
“Yes, one of the rear legs.”
Mr Rook returned
To his newspapers.
“We really must
Get that fixed.”
Alistair Fisk
Closed his notebook.
Three nights
Of research.
Forty-seven books.
Two hundred years
Of occult history.
And one
Broken chair.
He turned
And walked away,
Mephistopheles
Tapping behind him.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Such were
The mysteries
Of Nocturna.
Mahogany panels,
Carved with crescent moons,
Cover the walls of Nocturna‘s
Smoking Gallery.
Three magnificent cabinets
Contain cigars from every corner
Of the known and unknown world.
Along neighbouring shelves,
Leather tobacco pouches
Hold blends
Both local and obscure.
Some fragrant.
Some peculiar.
And several that Edgar Brillows
Has specifically requested
Never be smoked
Near the curtains.
