Two and a half years ago, my better half persuaded me that getting a cat would be a good thing. I shrugged and said ok; it made sense, as I was away during the week with work, and it would be company for her if nothing else.
Thus Midnight came into our lives, a little black cat that reminded us of the chat noir posters from Paris, where we'd spent my previous birthday. On her second day in our home, while I was away, Midnight vanished. She was found hiding behind the fire - somehow she'd clambered into its innards and got stuck in the chimney - the gas man had to be called out to dismantle the fire so she could be rescued. Not the most auspicious of beginnings...
When I came home that week, there was a timid little ball of fur hiding in the corner. She came out eventually, but it was clear that Tracey was Midnight's favourite; understandable, considering I wasn't around most of the week. I cared about her, but wondered if I meant anything to this cat at all - aren't they just sly, devious creatures out for themselves?
Six months or so later, I went into work after a week's holiday, only to be told I was being made reudndant. A package was offered, accepted, and off I went. I was understandably upset when I got home. I plonked myself onto the sofa and tried to tell myself that everything was going to be all right, although - that early into the shock - it certainly didn't feel that way.
While I was there, Midnight jumped onto the sofa. I expected her to sit next to me and curl up to sleep, but instead she decided to sit on my chest and look me in the eye, as if to tell me not to worry. She purred, a paw brushing gently against my cheek, like she was trying to soothe me. From that moment, I felt better, able to take whatever the world decided to throw at us; from that moment, I realised how much I adored Midnight.
She was company, all right, but mostly for me in the three months I spent looking for work. I could talk to her, even if she couldn't understand a word I was saying. I could laugh at her antics in the garden as she tried to chase anything that moved. I still do. Midnight's a source of laugher in our home, but for all the right reasons. Buried in all that feline nature is a little soul that we love and care for. She's our little ninja, someone who can sit on my knee and watch me while I type, as if she knows exactly what I'm writing about...
One last thing. I've never been a cat person, but I'm a Midnight person, up to the point where I named this blog after her. I was struggling for a title when she jumped on the table, turned around a presented her rear end to me. 'The Pencil Sharpener' was already taken, and so 'A Flash of Midnight' was born.
Monday, 15 April 2013
Saturday, 13 April 2013
L Is for Legend
Legend, by David Gemmell is one of my all-time favourite books, one of a select few that I've re-read over the years, yet I can tell you exactly where I was when I read it for the first time (on loan from the library, I took it with me on a sixth-form trip to Guisborough, along with a copy of Mad magazine that spoofed Aliens). Paradoxically, it's far from being the best book I've ever read; the writing can be clumsy in places (allowable for a first -time author, I'd say) and his characterisation of women is suspect, but at its heart Legend is a tale about defeating the odds, how bravery and courage can triumph in the face of adversity.
Like most of Gemmell's books, his heroes are reluctant and sometimes afraid, often unwilling to do what is right simply because it is less daunting to do nothing. Courage isn't about being fearless, it's about overcoming that fear, doing what you have to despite being scared. This is a theme that echoes through most of Gemmell's works, one that struck a chord with my younger self. There's a history behind the writing of it, that Gemmell first put pen to paper when he was being tested for cancer, the ending undecided until his results came through. If positive, the city under seige would fall. If not...
Legend isn't a thick, weighty tome - it can be read in a day, if you have the spare time - but its few words speak much about the nature of humanity. Gemmell would go on to write better and bigger stories (his Troy trilogy is superb), but Legend is the book where is all began. As I say, it's not perfect, but it will stay in my mind always. David Gemmell died in 2006, but remains with us through the stories he shared, still providing inspiration for years after his passing.
Like most of Gemmell's books, his heroes are reluctant and sometimes afraid, often unwilling to do what is right simply because it is less daunting to do nothing. Courage isn't about being fearless, it's about overcoming that fear, doing what you have to despite being scared. This is a theme that echoes through most of Gemmell's works, one that struck a chord with my younger self. There's a history behind the writing of it, that Gemmell first put pen to paper when he was being tested for cancer, the ending undecided until his results came through. If positive, the city under seige would fall. If not...
Legend isn't a thick, weighty tome - it can be read in a day, if you have the spare time - but its few words speak much about the nature of humanity. Gemmell would go on to write better and bigger stories (his Troy trilogy is superb), but Legend is the book where is all began. As I say, it's not perfect, but it will stay in my mind always. David Gemmell died in 2006, but remains with us through the stories he shared, still providing inspiration for years after his passing.
Friday, 12 April 2013
K is for Klingon
The Klingons have come a long way in the Star Trek universe, starting off in the early days of Captain Kirk as sweaty-looking men with fake tan and stuck on goatee beards. The greater budgets and improvement in special effects made them more alien, with lump bumpy foreheads, pointed teeth and lots of hair, beard optional. This carried forward into the later TV series, and the Klingons have looked that way ever since.
But it's not their appearance that shows the best improvement. Klingons have moved from being sly traders to bloodthirsty warriors to beings with deep honour and loyalty. Next Generation brought this to the fore by having a Klingon officer - Worf - on board, allowing for stories where the race took centre stage, revealing their society and moral code, as well as using them for great plot devices.
For me, the Klingons truly came into their own on Deep Space Nine. Early series portray them as violent and unpredictable, to be approached with caution - on occassion merely for comedy effect. Then Worf arrives to join the crew, and everything changes. Worf was brought in to gain viewer ratings, but it was a masterstroke. The series became darker, grittier, more real (as much as show dealing with a space-station next to a wormhole can be) as war with the Dominion loomed.
More Klingons arrived, becoming regular guest stars as the conflict began, allying themselves with the Federation. Our fearsome warriors were back, but noticeably improved. How? Well, great acting aside, the Klingons were now about who they were, not what they were. Next Generation planted wonderful seeds for this, but it all came to fruition in Deep Space Nine, with sublime results. Stereotypes became characters for the viewer to care about and Worf's shout of "I am a Klingon!" now meant something more than "watch out, I'm big and tough".
Obvious limitations mean that Star Trek's aliens all tend to be bipedal and humanoid in essence - great writing and acting shapes them into people we care about. We'll not only enjoy their company, but mourn their passing when they're gone.
But it's not their appearance that shows the best improvement. Klingons have moved from being sly traders to bloodthirsty warriors to beings with deep honour and loyalty. Next Generation brought this to the fore by having a Klingon officer - Worf - on board, allowing for stories where the race took centre stage, revealing their society and moral code, as well as using them for great plot devices.
For me, the Klingons truly came into their own on Deep Space Nine. Early series portray them as violent and unpredictable, to be approached with caution - on occassion merely for comedy effect. Then Worf arrives to join the crew, and everything changes. Worf was brought in to gain viewer ratings, but it was a masterstroke. The series became darker, grittier, more real (as much as show dealing with a space-station next to a wormhole can be) as war with the Dominion loomed.
More Klingons arrived, becoming regular guest stars as the conflict began, allying themselves with the Federation. Our fearsome warriors were back, but noticeably improved. How? Well, great acting aside, the Klingons were now about who they were, not what they were. Next Generation planted wonderful seeds for this, but it all came to fruition in Deep Space Nine, with sublime results. Stereotypes became characters for the viewer to care about and Worf's shout of "I am a Klingon!" now meant something more than "watch out, I'm big and tough".
Obvious limitations mean that Star Trek's aliens all tend to be bipedal and humanoid in essence - great writing and acting shapes them into people we care about. We'll not only enjoy their company, but mourn their passing when they're gone.
Thursday, 11 April 2013
J is for Justice League
Back in the autumn/winter of 1988/89, I'd narrowly failed my A-levels, which meant I couldn't walk my chosen path to further education. Re-sits didn't seem like an option, so I joined the ranks of the unemployed for those few cold months.Don't get me wrong, life was good - my parents were still together, I had great friends who I saw almost every day, it was just that life wasn't going how I'd expected.
I devoured comics in my late teens. They were 45p each and regularly filled shelf space at the local supermarket, but if you went into town, a shop called Timeslip sold them for 55p; a worthy increase, considering they were the latest issues, fresh from the States. I started with Marvel (The New Mutants), but moved onto DC after enjoying the role-playing game immensely. It was a good time for comics, what with Watchmen and The Dark Knight Returns bringing them into the public eye. They were - at least the ones I bought - well-written and beautifully drawn; in a couple of years time, it would all be about the art, pushing story to one side, but that's a discussion for another day.
Anyway, one of the comics I started reading was Justice League International. It was a strange one, almost as if it was telling us what superheroes did on their days off, when they weren't doing what the others were doing in their own comics. Sure, the day was saved plenty of times and in true comic-book style, but what really worked for me was the interaction between the characters and their humour. It's slapstick in places, yet there are times when it can be deeply moving too, all thanks to top-notch writing from Giffen and DeMatteis.
What I really admired about it was the characterisation. This wan't just Batman and a few other heroes, this was a team where each individual mattered - they were more than their powers, they drove the stories, making the comic so much more than bog-standard 'who is the bad guy this issue' fare. Sadly, all good things come to an end. The Justice League have had several incarnations since, but I've never tried them; perhaps I'm missing out, but I just can't imagine it having the same effect on me as it did back then.
Inevitably, there's a movie on the cards, following the success of Marvel's Avengers Assemble. That was a great film, although it was disappointing that - at the climax - Black Widow and Hawkeye were reduced to getting people out of a bus while all the other god-like characters were involved in a huge battle. The Justice League movie can work, providing the emphasis is - like most of the Avengers - on character rather than spectacle. I've a suspicion it'll be more latter than former, but you never know, they may do it err... justice.
I devoured comics in my late teens. They were 45p each and regularly filled shelf space at the local supermarket, but if you went into town, a shop called Timeslip sold them for 55p; a worthy increase, considering they were the latest issues, fresh from the States. I started with Marvel (The New Mutants), but moved onto DC after enjoying the role-playing game immensely. It was a good time for comics, what with Watchmen and The Dark Knight Returns bringing them into the public eye. They were - at least the ones I bought - well-written and beautifully drawn; in a couple of years time, it would all be about the art, pushing story to one side, but that's a discussion for another day.
Anyway, one of the comics I started reading was Justice League International. It was a strange one, almost as if it was telling us what superheroes did on their days off, when they weren't doing what the others were doing in their own comics. Sure, the day was saved plenty of times and in true comic-book style, but what really worked for me was the interaction between the characters and their humour. It's slapstick in places, yet there are times when it can be deeply moving too, all thanks to top-notch writing from Giffen and DeMatteis.
What I really admired about it was the characterisation. This wan't just Batman and a few other heroes, this was a team where each individual mattered - they were more than their powers, they drove the stories, making the comic so much more than bog-standard 'who is the bad guy this issue' fare. Sadly, all good things come to an end. The Justice League have had several incarnations since, but I've never tried them; perhaps I'm missing out, but I just can't imagine it having the same effect on me as it did back then.
Inevitably, there's a movie on the cards, following the success of Marvel's Avengers Assemble. That was a great film, although it was disappointing that - at the climax - Black Widow and Hawkeye were reduced to getting people out of a bus while all the other god-like characters were involved in a huge battle. The Justice League movie can work, providing the emphasis is - like most of the Avengers - on character rather than spectacle. I've a suspicion it'll be more latter than former, but you never know, they may do it err... justice.
Wednesday, 10 April 2013
I is for Impasse
Today's been a struggle, for the first time since starting the A To Z Challenge. I've started on several topics, ranging from Ithaca to Indiana (Jones, that is) to Imagination (which will, according to 80's singer Belouis Some, make a man of you) - but only got as far as a sentence on each before stalling. There. I'm ahead already.
The dictionary defines an impasse as 'a situation with no possible progress or escape'. Well, it certainly felt that way this morning: I powered on the laptop as usual, sat in front of it, ready to regale everyone with my shining wit, then... nothing. Just a few words, barely strung together, the start with a capital letter and the end with a full stop (English) or period (American) were all that made it a coherent sentence. I washed breakfast dishes, hoping that a routine chore like that would cure this block, but nothing. The glasses and cups were nice and shiny though.
Normally when this happens, I make myself sit at the desk until I write something - anything! - but I didn't have that luxury today as I had to go to work. Ten or so hours later, I was still no further forward - I'd reached my impasse.
So I've decided to write about it, and in doing so, I've got through it. So, I suppose the moral is to keep going, to keep writing; even when you think you can't, you actually can, but it sometimes takes time and defintely needs effort. And, in my case, several cups of tea.
As for Indiana Jones... well, that Map Room scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark sends chills up my spine every time.
Ithaca is a lovely island just off the coast of Kefalona. I visited there on a misty morning a few years ago, the land shrouded by fog making me think of Odysseus returning home - my Imagination at work.
The dictionary defines an impasse as 'a situation with no possible progress or escape'. Well, it certainly felt that way this morning: I powered on the laptop as usual, sat in front of it, ready to regale everyone with my shining wit, then... nothing. Just a few words, barely strung together, the start with a capital letter and the end with a full stop (English) or period (American) were all that made it a coherent sentence. I washed breakfast dishes, hoping that a routine chore like that would cure this block, but nothing. The glasses and cups were nice and shiny though.
Normally when this happens, I make myself sit at the desk until I write something - anything! - but I didn't have that luxury today as I had to go to work. Ten or so hours later, I was still no further forward - I'd reached my impasse.
So I've decided to write about it, and in doing so, I've got through it. So, I suppose the moral is to keep going, to keep writing; even when you think you can't, you actually can, but it sometimes takes time and defintely needs effort. And, in my case, several cups of tea.
As for Indiana Jones... well, that Map Room scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark sends chills up my spine every time.
Ithaca is a lovely island just off the coast of Kefalona. I visited there on a misty morning a few years ago, the land shrouded by fog making me think of Odysseus returning home - my Imagination at work.
Tuesday, 9 April 2013
H is for Haiku
Haiku poems date from 9th century Japan, containing three lines with a 5-7-5 syllable structure. They often comment on the deeper contradictions of life, but I doubt mine will be so meaningful, as it's about Doctor Who.
TARDIS console halts
Time Lord beckons Companion
Adventure waits here
I doubt I'm setting the poetry world on fire with that one, or this next.
Church bells ring their call
Faithful meet on this Sunday
Love in hearts shines forth
Lord Byron's got nothing to worry about, I'm sure, but I quite enjoyed doing those. I wrote in a previous post about omitting needless words, but with this form of poetry, it's all about choosing the right words in the first place. Reading those over, the words 'church' and 'forth' sound right, but part of me wants to think they could be broken down into two syllables, which defies the Haiku form. Nah, I'll stick with it - that's the first big decision of today made!
TARDIS console halts
Time Lord beckons Companion
Adventure waits here
I doubt I'm setting the poetry world on fire with that one, or this next.
Church bells ring their call
Faithful meet on this Sunday
Love in hearts shines forth
Lord Byron's got nothing to worry about, I'm sure, but I quite enjoyed doing those. I wrote in a previous post about omitting needless words, but with this form of poetry, it's all about choosing the right words in the first place. Reading those over, the words 'church' and 'forth' sound right, but part of me wants to think they could be broken down into two syllables, which defies the Haiku form. Nah, I'll stick with it - that's the first big decision of today made!
Monday, 8 April 2013
G is for Ghost Story
I'm no M.R. James, but what follows is a true story. Make of it what you will...
Twelve or thirteen years ago, I was sat at my computer desk in the spare bedroom, when the world exploded. Well, not quite; truth is it was a plastic bottle of lemonade that blew up, a bottle on top of the fridge that ended up running down the back of that particular appliance and shorting out the entire electric system of the flat I lived in, plunging me into darkness less than a second after the noise. Quite a shock, I can tell you. But more was to come...
In bed that same night, fast asleep, only to be woken by a crashing sound within the bedroom. Intruder, was my first thought, and as I opened my eyes a shadowy figure passed across the foot of the bed, a shape wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a long coat, pausing to turn and regard me. Seeing this sight, I did what any red-blooded male would have done - I screamed. Not a high-pitched, shrill scream from a horror film, more a deep and primal cry of terror from the dawn of time. Whatever that scream did - woke me up? - the figure disappeared. I laughed, feeling like a fool, but it was the laughter of relief; so relieved, in fact, that I was crying. Dawn arrived the next morning, revealing that the long mirror had fallen from the wall, yet was unbroken...
The bottle went back to the shop, who in turn sent it back to the manufacturer. Turns out the bottle had burst at the centre of its bottom, supposedly the strongest part. A trip to Edinburgh and a chat with a white warlock the day after Beltane (yes, really), revealed that mirrors are thought of as potential gateways to the spirit world. Did something come through, or was I simply dreaming, my subconscious dwelling on the shock of that exploding bottle? All I know is, real or dream, I saw it and it scared the living daylights out of me... (cue A-Ha)
Twelve or thirteen years ago, I was sat at my computer desk in the spare bedroom, when the world exploded. Well, not quite; truth is it was a plastic bottle of lemonade that blew up, a bottle on top of the fridge that ended up running down the back of that particular appliance and shorting out the entire electric system of the flat I lived in, plunging me into darkness less than a second after the noise. Quite a shock, I can tell you. But more was to come...
In bed that same night, fast asleep, only to be woken by a crashing sound within the bedroom. Intruder, was my first thought, and as I opened my eyes a shadowy figure passed across the foot of the bed, a shape wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a long coat, pausing to turn and regard me. Seeing this sight, I did what any red-blooded male would have done - I screamed. Not a high-pitched, shrill scream from a horror film, more a deep and primal cry of terror from the dawn of time. Whatever that scream did - woke me up? - the figure disappeared. I laughed, feeling like a fool, but it was the laughter of relief; so relieved, in fact, that I was crying. Dawn arrived the next morning, revealing that the long mirror had fallen from the wall, yet was unbroken...
The bottle went back to the shop, who in turn sent it back to the manufacturer. Turns out the bottle had burst at the centre of its bottom, supposedly the strongest part. A trip to Edinburgh and a chat with a white warlock the day after Beltane (yes, really), revealed that mirrors are thought of as potential gateways to the spirit world. Did something come through, or was I simply dreaming, my subconscious dwelling on the shock of that exploding bottle? All I know is, real or dream, I saw it and it scared the living daylights out of me... (cue A-Ha)
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