I dunno if I am whistling in the damn wind, getting too old, barking up the wrong tree or just taking life too seriously but I am seeing something insidious wherever I go.

I used that word ‘insidious’ of a workmate in jest, not long ago. I use words like that occasionally. Words you have to spellcheck. Well, she didn’t know what it meant and hey insidious, that is a hard word to describe, especially when you are trying to make a funny gibe at someone. I’m still not sure she got the humour intended even after I had explained it’s meaning. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea? Maybe I didn’t explain the word too well? Anyway, she doesn’t talk to me as much as before now but well it was just a joke and yes, it sure is still a good word!

There are some words and expressions that say it for me and you can’t tell it any another way. It’s like a joke you have to explain can never really be funny, a cartoon that leaves you confused, just didn’t do it for you or whoever loved a picture they were told was good?

As the guy in the cinema queue in Annie Hall the movie says – ‘Its gotta hit me on a gut level’ or I personally don’t appreciate it and then again, like Woody Allen’s character Alvy Singer, rejoins in the same scene – ‘Boy, what I could do with a sock full of manure right now.’ This, because the guy in the queue keeps on speaking his dogma and personal opinions loudly within Alvy’s hearing.

‘Some things are better felt than telt’ is a saying.

I love sayings, colloquialisms, (boy only one letter out on my spellcheck on that one!) and I love learning new colloquial expressions too because even though I can only barely speak English, (Scottish and Irish) plus a little Glaswegian and maybe a few other rare and special British dialects (clue: there is a joke or three in there .. and if you didn’t see it # it doesn’t really work does it ?!).

I really do love language … Language is communication! .. Language is dynamite!

Two weeks in a Virginia jail
For my lover, for my lover
Twenty thousand dollar bail
For my lover, for my lover

And everybody thinks
That I’m the fool
But they don’t get
Any love from you

The things we won’t do for love
I’d climb a mountain if I had to
Risk my life so I could have you
You, you, you…

Everyday I’m psychoanalyzed
For my lover, for my lover
They dope me up and I tell them lies
For my lover, for my lover

And everybody thinks
That I’m the fool
But they don’t get
Any love from you

The things we won’t do for love
I’d climb a mountain if I had to
Risk my life so I could have you
You, you, you…

I follow my heart
And leave my head to ponder
Deep in this love
No man can shake
I follow my heart
And leave my mind to wonder
Is this love worth
The sacrifices I make?

Two weeks in a Virginia jail
For my lover, for my lover
Twenty thousand dollar bail
For my lover, for my lover

Everyday I’m psychoanalyzed
For my lover, for my lover
They dope me up and I tell them lies
For my lover, for my lover

And everybody thinks
That I’m the fool
But they don’t get
Any love from you

The things we won’t do for love
I’d climb a mountain if I had to
Risk my life so I could have you
You, you, you..

Lyrics to the song ‘For My Lover’ by Tracy Chapman


There are other things you shouldn’t touch but do not mess with language! … or take words out … or re-write words … Are you listening America? – Yes you can add words and maybe some words might be simplified but only if there is a very good and valid reason.

‘Just because you can doesn’t mean you oughta …’

Well this insidious deregulation is affecting everything now. Even the sacred cow is suddenly fair game, even though she has always lived out on the street in open view. Who knew that eventually visitors to countries where there is a custom, might challenge her right to be there, even if that particular sacred cow is a country’s flag on a pole, a long-standing, local and ethnic practice, habitude or the chosen national religion. It doesn’t matter that some care less for their own customs than they should. Even true ‘sacred cows’ wander the streets of India uncared for, unloved, to feed on local refuse which you might say is not what a sacred cow should have to do.

I think maybe respect is what we are alluding to here although even that particular word might need some re-definement from the deregulators curse. Respect does not mean a feigned honour just because it is old but an appropriation, an appreciation and a recognition of a things true merits, based not only on its current status but also its particular historical relevance and I may add ‘reverence’ at the risk of any implied alliteration. Now that is a whole bunch of look-up words for some people to consider and I do not mean to sound patronising.

I see that hand at the back and yes, I knew someone would make that comment. What happened to the ‘it’s got to hit me on a gut level’ point and ‘I thought you were against people telling us what is good’ and therefore worthy of our respect…. No, what I am saying is this – We do not have to enjoy something ourselves to recognise its value or its place in history. This is, after all, why we have National Exhibitions, Art Galleries, Opera Houses and National Theatres, to preserve and honour our National identity, history and culture.

The deregulation I object to, that insidious thing this piece came in on, is the one that is affecting not only a few abbreviated words and Americanisms that may have crept in on the back of our Microsoft and Apple Software ~ Why does my spellchecker continue to give me a dotted line under words like honour?! ~  No, this insidious thing is moving into the realm of our popular culture and affecting things that aren’t 50, 40, 30 or even 20 years old. These things have it seems, not even earned a mundane ‘O well it is pretty old’ kind of respect. They are bull calves, game for slaughter, processing, recycling, even vivisection of the vulgarest order

If it’s not brok’ why fix it?

Why do advertisers process ‘favourite tunes’ for their advertisements and re-record classic pop tunes with bland vocals and homogenised, even soulless soundtracks? Why do they even take just the melodies from memorable chart songs and make different versions, that are vaguely recognisable for background themes. Why do tv programme planners take classic or historic novels, even recent successful drama series  and fit them into modern sub-plots with current speech and up-dated  story lines. Is nothing sacred.

Don’t re-write what I have written

While screenwriters, film directors and writers have fun ‘deregulating’ the greatest of movies and stories by changing characters, situations, emphasis and basic story-lines to suit a new generation I sit back and wail, thinking that one day people will be denied a history of anything.

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“Marchon, the gate is wide open in the complex and I’m looking down a long, retreating corridor. Come over tonight and make me the happiest man in the valley.”

The 1940’s Studebaker rolled effortlessly down Sondrick Lane purring like a feline with its chrome pieces extended, glistening in the sun and it’s buttercream leather seats. The engine noise as soft as baby-skin and LeRou draped over the bucket seat snuggled warm in Vucana wool and Charmeuse at Marvin Bexer’s side. She looked and was a million-buck babe!

Marchon often lamented, that time was a great healer but the hurt that hurts the keenest was seeing another woman happy in the arms of your lover.

“It tears you in two, I don’t truck with jealousy. Sure, I always feel joy for the lady, except that the knife in my chest makes it impossible to smile.”

She turned from the shuttered, sash window and the sunlight left her perfect outline an orange-tinged sunburst that eclipsed the hanging, window blinds. Slant lines blanched across her trim body, striped with a lasered light that filtered through the haze from the corner window as she stood ‘smoking’ in the centre of the room and in every sense of the word!

“We think of others too much Angie! We should spend more time on ourselves. There’s love and then there is lot’s we like to do. We should get a place on the outskirts of town. Have a shack built near Thunder Falls where we could walk and you could learn to river-fish, buy a puppy-dog, you would just love a fluffy mutt. Take time for just the two of us and stop caring so much.”

She rolled the thick, black cheroot between her fingers, blowing plumes of smoke high into the tall, stone-white ceiling-space while she stepped around the room like she was a ballet star warming up. She described her words and thoughts in steps and shapes with exaggerated arm and leg movements, making arcs with her arms and pointing her toes like a regular Margot Fonteyn.

Marchon knew that he loved to watch her ‘perform’. Her body, lithe and lean and well developed in all the right places, moved effortlessly around in the diffused, shadowed aura of their room, her feet feeling the smooth, polished plank flooring or the wool pile of the large, Egyptian-Mumluk rug that Ang had bought her home from that long trip last fall.

Marchon sat on the rug, smoking the cheroot.

“Nothing makes sense anymore when your heart is broken Ang! Is it worse than a bereavement? How can you mourn the loss of a lover? The loss of a friend?” 

Ang, was he smiling? He just listened, as he always did.



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A Drop In The Pond Produces A Ripple!


The desolation of loneliness can dog you even as a child and follow you mangy and forlorn into adulthood. A bedraggled cur that slinks behind you – dirty, rain-soaked and unworthy, while you spend your life trying to prove you are friendsome and laudable. Rejection is still the bitterest pill on earth to swallow. Everybody waits like Dante’s understudy for their ‘fifteen’ minutes and if that moment stalls, the resultant backwater will smudge your sharpest features, stifle your creativity and maybe shatter your personality, like a suicide bomber with a smuggled device hidden in his back-passage that detonated prematurely. The ability to muffle explosives is not one known to advance you anywhere in life, excepting perhaps Newspaper front-pages, there to garner column inches where obituary and events often merge.

As a child, I managed to stay ahead of the lonely monster most of the time, until my father left home without a goodbye or an explanation that is. Before that, I had often heard that lonely monster following me with the sound of a repetitive rhythm close behind me as I walked. It was the sound of a deathly metal steam-train with a cattle guard trundling over wooden tracks, getting closer and closer until I could stand it no longer and I would turn suddenly whilst walking, to bravely face the ‘lonely monster’, who always was not there.

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, the lonely monster dogged me through my under-10’s and into my early-teens before I learned to effectively dispel the notion that an empty train might actually be following me. That nightmare-train eventually disappeared, to be replaced by sudden attacks of deep despair in my mid-to-late teens when an adolescent alcoholism found me drunk 5 nights out of 7 and carrying a bottle of whiskey around in my inside coat pocket at the age of eighteen. This drunken-despair would often reduce me to bouts of almost inconsolable, emotional distress and crying with my loyal friend Ian, while often fantasising and confessing to scenarios as equally loathsome and dis-loyal as I counted my father’s rejection of my mother and myself but more especially, to be honest, myself. Imagined and articulated wrongs that I had apparently succumbed to, although never actually did, caused me greater distress than the deeds surely would have if they had been real and not imagined.

The rage that burned within my turbulent history surfaced during my adolescence intermittently. It flared like an exhausted bonfire when fuelled by gusts of life and emotional experience. It flared, but never ‘caught’ to violence, not an external violence at any rate. Rejection is a wound, a tear within. It’s a rupture, a hernia, whereby raw feeling and sensibilities are exposed and extruded through an emotional hole that will not heal naturally.

The temper of life abated and I entered my adult years partly healed and certainly more grounded by a personal and spiritual awakening that gave me new hope and a set of inner convictions that I learned neither firsthand or by observation. The absence of a father figure did not seem as debilitating whilst I myself translated the inner uncertainties of my youth by learning to father myself through a kind of transferred osmosis. Being a father I found – was greatness itself!

Children carry their own joy, vitality and innate life-force and provide a transfusion of energy that benefits those around them, wholesale. Parenting, while almost manual labour, harnessed to vigorous emotional trial, provides the steepest learning curve on earth and yet a ladder to a realm of unimagined experience that is both exciting and full of curiosity and potential. That universal privilege, dubiously afforded unequivocably to humans roaming this planet, requires that that same emotional torment will continue to circumnavigate the lives of sons and daughters from Botswana to Ghent! Loneliness and rejection, the twin-legacy bequeathed by so many to so many is an unfair side-order that accompanies far too many horny males extinguished pay-loads.

Is this perhaps the true reason why males in their mid-twenties are especially vulnerable to the suggestion they find in their brains or somewhere, that curtailing this repetitive strain by ending their short-lived stories is an option they should follow. Their ‘cry for help’ unheard by the finality of their choosing and the ignorance of a generation robbed of the chance to know a real Daddy.




~ in memory of Ben Dawes – 1993 ~ 2018 ~

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David Lynch does not live here anymore …


Barry lit the fire with a match, stepped back and began to comb his ash-grey hair as the small pile of logs and tinder caught, began to crackle and spit and the flames climbed up the hearth into the chimney, lighting the walls of the room and creating dark shadows within an eerie, oscillating light. The white room danced to the rhythm of the flames and he felt his mood changing. He thought he heard the music of a classical guitar but it was only the jangle of the wind chimes that hung outside, under the extended porch. Outside, where the wind was now gusting at it’s fiercest.

Celia still naked, lay on the floor, perched on their thick, woolen rug. Her long, auburn hair draped across the rug and cascaded onto the polished, larch-timber flooring. Her arms were slender and tanned and arched behind her like a trestle-table and in such a way that made her look a little awkward and uncomfortable.  He noticed how her position thrust her breasts forward in a provocative manner and provided a pleasing, silhouette. Their pressed, pear-shape reflected the shimmering light from the open fire which grew relentlessly and flickered shamelessly. 

This was ‘serendipity’ Barry considered, that had brought about such a moment after his cold, tense day and the endless, night-time drive through the dense, pine forest and he determined in his mind, to mine the ore from the event to the uttermost.

“Would you like a drink?” he announced suddenly, as he finally tore himself from gazing at the lengthening flames, turned sharply from the fire and walked slowly toward her. 

“Yes, a Marguerita” Celia replied, a little off-hand and impatiently,

 …                                                                                                      writtenbyedenbray08.09.2018



david lynch

david lynch

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The avenue of true reconciliation is lined with olive trees …

The oil of gladness is an anointing for the soul upon your head …

My peace is caught up inside you when you smile because I am happy …

I trace the corners of your mouth and feel good when you are there …

I dream of you and in dreaming I sleep long, well, deep and soundly …

When I speak your name it reminds me there is beauty in the world …

When I hear your laugh there are angels in attendance around me …

The rain that falls when you walk by, falls lightly inside my heart …

When I am troubled I speak your name and I feel calm and consoled …

The dragons murmur when you are around them and hold no fear …

If I can skip it is when I know I am going to meet you and to see you …

The rainbow in my heart was born the day I met you and it remains …

If a soft bird flies or sings or whistles it is never as sweet as your kiss …

.. .



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Running to Runnymede


There was hardly time to gather sorbet moments

Nor harness the power of life’s general circumstance

I had spent my whole life crisscrossing rail-tracks

Stumbled blind upon the important & the tall  

Like a cryptic tale, you cannot solve or censor

Where legions pause wan, to remember and sigh

The severed limbs, the loss of love, the spreading graves 

They build a bridge oft’ to carry humanities squalor

When great men’s minds meet to barter not surrender

Not fell the beauty, nor deceive the blindest emperor

In Paternoster’s palace  invention embraces charity

Where need, a relentless torrent, meets a steel-cold sea

The vicissitudes that chronicle history’s swollen journey

Barb and often unnecessary, ascend like the green-gas

Poison youthful memory, draw marks of doubt in the sky

O’ King John, now and many like you, writing in their sand

Wet with sweat their sand to glisten, their troth to listen

To turn their words to stone at least if not edged yet in gold

This, the refuge warm that I fast run to, renewed in vision

Bound with hope’s garlands, drenched in the dew of Eos

Laden with the three huge, golden apples of Hesperides

I thunder and snort, bay and cavort, I’m grizzled for sport

Owens n’ Bannister, Nijinski n’ Clay all devour their prey

Look up to see a lemon sun, streaming tails of a ringmaster

Where the assembly meet  to honour living souls not dying

And to the honest taste of Jacometti’s own graphite dread

The line, the pause, the brevity of space, encased in lead

And drawn from this, this detail, I see democracy’s mother

Lies replete, spread on a linen sheet, set in urban concrete






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When The Date Ran Out In The Morning Rain …




I can’t believe that the date ran out in the morning rain

The page had slipped, the sail had shipped, the needle skipped, the kipper flipped

and the date ran out in the mornin’ rain


I had kept that mothers’ details in a book I wrote

A diary book to save me hassle, with a thin gold ribbon and a bronzed tassel

but the date had run out in some morning rain


I’d forgotten the warning that comes with the package

Written in sans serif – it warned me ‘Don’t shoot that deputy or the sheriff’

but the date had run out in the morning rain


And I’ll never forget that awesome pain, the blame

Or the cold-hearted shame and the sound of the horn on that high-speed train

when the date ran out in the mornin’ rain


She’d never said hello and she never said goodbye

She didn’t bat an eyelid, flinch or sigh, never gave me a chance to bow my head or cry

when the date ran out in the Autumn rain


I looked to see if her mascara had run, if she’d lost her fun

If the birds had flown with the summer sun or if she’d found another one!

when my time had run out in the morning rain


It left a wound like an awkward stain, a sad refrain

And try as I may to rid that tattooed mark, it’s joined to me like a tree to it’s bark

when the date ran out in the morning rain



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Wild Horses



And Engret, writing in the sand, wiping a tear from the corner of a bloodshot eye

With the sound of waves crashing, like his heart pounding, relentless and broken

The Arabian stallion, muzzled, silenced, tamed by the woman he always desired

A Russian tale, of prince’s, damsels, Duchess’s and Zsars, Snegurochka the snow maiden

Is she lost, forlorn, is she heartbroken or is she simply unfeeling, a young Scarlett O’Hara?

Why does the torn lover always desire what he cannot have? Juliet dying, mourn Romeo?


And the gates of thunder open wide on a windswept night in Bala, as lovers never knotted

Wrestle with their loss, Equus and Mammis thwarted, wild horses stalled are kept apart

Diana breathed on Phaedra who still yearns for her Hippolytus though calculated and cruel

Whom the Gods decide we love, not our choice, the task is only to unravel and requite

Separation purely squanders the trailed line that Engret wrote, not words of love in prose 

And so tonight fair maiden, sleep as though dust has grown between us, a dust that blows away






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‘The Day I Redrew Myself in Mine Own Eyes’

– an Essay


I am a writer. I am concerned only with the writing experience. First and foremost I am not unduly worried about how you, the reader, may respond. It is not my primary concern. I wish to get my side of the arrangement correct. Obviously, I would like you to enjoy what I write but that is not my first consideration. 

I started to write creatively in 1966. I was fifteen years old and I found writing unburdening. It released me. At fifteen you are full of angst, self-doubt, adolescent frustrations, unfulfilled ideas, anxieties about your future, anger about your past. You crave acceptance while often hiding your true self and your real feelings from others in the hope that you might convince them of your worth. When I wrote things down I could bypass that particular illusion and rid myself of pretense. Fortunately, I never saw the point in pretending to myself and at least, when writing, that pretense did not seem important to me. In this way, writing was always liberating to me and generally, it always has been. The more I write, the more focused, defined, articulate and confident about myself I become. I found myself kind of confirmed, qualified, much like the title of my first creative essay which I entitled – ‘The day I redrew myself in mine own eyes’. Very adolescent, very immediate, very self-conscious, you might say even self-indulgent but also dynamic, heartfelt, optimistic and certainly genuine.

In many ways that first essay I wrote in 1966 was the finest piece of writing I ever accomplished due to its honesty, it’s clarity and it’s timing. Unfortunately later in my life, due to religious indoctrination and what I can only describe as a certain zealous fanaticism I had imbibed at an impressionable age, I felt it necessary to destroy that piece of work along with numerous photographs, books and some other serious pieces of writing. My regret at destroying these written pieces is offset by my ability to remember their significance, poetry and meaning. Maybe not word for word but certainly I can remember clearly, the main gist of what I wrote and I have been able to rewrite some of those pieces quite effectively.

Everything I write is important to me and therefore memorable to me. Recently I have been taking the trouble to archive my earlier written work in the hope that after my demise, whenever that might be, that certain people and especially my family, might like to read what I have written and maybe glean some wisdom or perception that comforts them, helps them or inspires them. I think I am a good writer. I am proud of and comfortable with what I have written and I intend to write a lot more.

I believe I am an intellectual. I’m not sure intellectuals are considered something to look up to or aspire to, in this 2,018th year AD but they certainly are to me. I can think of no better entertainment or way to spend an evening than sitting around a solid wood table with a few fellow ‘minds’, 2/3 bottles of good quality red wine, maybe a bottle of single malt or a jug of clean water and discussing, well into the wee small hours, any issue you care to mention from law to politics, to sex, to philosophy, to art, to writing, to religion, to natural science, to history, to modern geography, to art, to existentialism, to FIFA, to comedy, to alcohol and of course to love.

We may shout, we may argue, we may laugh and we may even agree but we will be friends by one rule alone ~ that we share a belief that we are free individuals who are committed, in spite of our personal beliefs to keeping an ‘open mind’. We are not daunted by, or afraid of change or of personal revolution and we are not contaminated by the constant need for orthodoxy, heterodoxy, or democracy. We must believe in and honour a respect for each other and generally all life but that is as far as it goes.

I don’t want to meet with blinkered radicals, biased, lightweight thinkers or bigoted idealists. I don’t initially want to know what you are against or what you don’t believe in but I do want to hear about what makes you live, thrive and keep you alive, for these are the very reasons I write.

The older we get, the more we are prepared to divulge, the less we care about any apparent enigma or mystery that may surround us. I look in the mirror and see myself, not someone else’s view of who I am. When I write I want to honour that person, the person I am and also respect my reader, whoever they may be, by writing hopefully in an honest, insightful and interesting way but I want to write. I must write. I need to write and by my own compass, to write well! The reader will always be the final judge of whether you have achieved that target and then they will return and read some more. eb.


~ for my kids S x D x W x M x ~


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Yes, I’m Sure It Is Vermillion …



I had spent at least an hour in this hot mustard, salad-sun

While two small flies made circles around my sweaty head

The August corn waving tall and tidy, a yellow sea, swollen

When I found the end of a pencil and started to scribble


I lifted my arm to give blood to my shoulder throbbing

Staring at the sticky mess both khaki, crimson and the sun

Woken from a tortured dream, there flying a lost bird sightless

Braver than a pitman’s pony, it sang one note of surprising joy


Sound, a silent witness dressed in uniform still buttoned to the neck

The dazed expression of my dead friend who lay beside me quietly

I dreamed of thee dear Jenny as we lay, your left breast in my hand

That had been a better day when I lay inside you, I did not wear a glove


This paper in my closed hand is blotted now with a trail of palest red

Cold the breeze that made me shiver, whispers this soldier is not dead

In the foggy, bloody haze, a picture forming of colour, of fire and light

Beyond the battle-scarred high-ground, smeared in shit-brown sienna


Beyond these moments where I have lain with only dead people

For these past two hours, I open a box of paints, I select a palette

The stench of mud drying, nauseating & honest, the night air falling

Upon this brow, it says I cannot hope to see the morning or the tide turn


And Jenny in my thoughts, soft and warm, her flesh like life, not death

Here hidden in this cancer of man’s regret I daub the crimson patina

Upon this tunic, it lays heavy now a sodden wretch, thus portrait cold

Yes, I’m sure it is vermillion – that colour no nearer orange than to red







edenbray’s #note: It is the Anniversary this year of the end of the 14-18 War. The most hellish War known to modern man. I wanted to write something you could step inside & experience. I have no real idea, a few of us might have some slight idea of what dying in the trenches in that God-awful war was like. This is how I chose to visit that dreadful war in 1918. Using a few words to paint a picture and kind of leave some artist marks where the picture might go. This poor boy drifting slowly into eternity’s light as the vermillion ebbs from his body. Friendless and alone among the dead and dying, he remembers some sweet moments of his life and scribbles them on a scrap of bloodstained paper with the butt of a pencil he finds in his khaki, tunic breast-pocket. He remembers the intimacy of making love to his darling Jenny and the pleasure he had in selecting colours from his paint box to paint a picture. We should always remember the best moments of our lives they may be the only consolation we have on our own deathbeds. Goodnight sweet boy with your vermillion rosy cheeks I can see you in my mind’s eye.

We remember your life and the real death of so many. Your sad, sad demise. 

written by the author 21/24-07-18 


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