53 and imploding – a novel concerned with the reality of life

Posted on by Opher

I wrote this novel in an attempt to capture reality. A stream of consciousness about the things going on in my head, life and death. This is what reality looks like. This is life.

53 and imploding

I live in a nice house that is three hundred years old. The doorways and ceilings are low because people were smaller back then. Even I have to occasionally duck. It used to be a farm, a pair of two-up two-down cottages, and a shop and now it is my home. The mortgage is completely paid off. I own it. Except in reality I am merely passing through. I will leave it to my wife and then my children. It will be lived in by others after me. It will be altered, decorated, knocked around, improved and no evidence of me will remain. I am passing through.

I love this house. It is warm and cosy. It has room to stretch out. We have invested much time and energy into making it a home. It houses my books, records, CDs and computers. I am comfortable here. There is a sense of history in the walls. They lean and tilt, the floorboards creak, and the ceilings sag. It is happy with the way it has settled into itself and redolent with the memories of unseen people. I have grown into it and lean and sag to the same extent in sympathy.

I am passing through.

Some people are artists with words, creating pictures and stories out of static neuronal sparks. They structure and craft their words to tell tales and plug into that primitive need of all humans. But I am no artist. I have tried that and failed. I admire their skills. I enjoy the stories they weave. But to me they are sanitised. No matter how intricate or complete they cannot capture the real textures of life; they cannot even capture a brief moment in its entirety. A novel is a distillation; at best a selection of highlights. I am no storyteller, wordsmith or creator of tales. My words are not crafted, not honed; they escape on the run. I let them free.

I am no writer; I am a liberator of ideas.

53 and imploding eBook : goodwin, opher: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

How did these robber barons get to think they own things?

Posted on by Opher

We’re just passing through!

Poetry – We are all refugees

Posted on by Opher

We are all refugees

We are all refugees,

Mutated chimpanzees,

Wandering afar

In search of better lands.

Exploring the earth in small bands.

Adventurous or fearful,

Curious or desperate,

Our reasons are disparate.

Tracking the herds

Through the seasons,

We all have our reasons.

Fleeing war or poverty

Desperate for a new start;

We appeal to you with all our heart.

We’ve left our homes

And all we own,

Our friends and family,

And throw ourselves on your mercy.

Once, maybe long ago, you were just like me –

A refugee.

Setting out on a fraught journey,

Seeking something better

For your family.

You settled here,

Worked hard and made it your home.

Now you want to be left alone.

But we have undertaken this flight

Out of necessity,

Seeking liberty and safety.

Look kindly on us and what we could be

For you were once just like me – a refugee.

Opher 22.6.2019

Nobody really owns the land. We are all passing though. We borrow it for a while.

None of us have a right to the land.

All of us, at some point in time, migrated out of Africa. Perhaps in search of better lives? Perhaps fleeing violence or starvation? Perhaps just curious and adventurous?

Long ago in the past we settled and set up home.

Now there are millions displaced by the ugliness of war or starvation, seeking escape, seeking a better life.

Do we drive them away? Do we ignore their desperation? Do we become tribal and harden our hearts? Do we address the causes of the problem – the climate changes, the wars, the poverty? Or do we lend a helping hand?