The Hare, Chang-O and Mooncake

Bitten by desire for eternity, on earth it can not be
Spirits will cajole, delight in teasing

Blow you away, far from material pleasure
Ask for sacrifice, devour your soul

For it is only alone that you can be Chang-O
With your Hare for company, and a palace on the moon
Sleep sweetly in the cold air, the Hare will take care of you
He has granted your wish to let the world last forever
But you can not be there, you can only be with the Hare and the moon

We thank you Chang-O



It's not what's inside the cake, it's what the cake symbolises - this we have forgotten.

Liquid Filled Creatures

The Spanish teacher, who was brought in especially to teach Spanish has gone away now.

She would give her class of two intermediate Spanish learners sweets at every lesson. Yes, every single lesson. For the first few weeks, they were sweets from Spain.

The school bag would rattle with lollipops. Squashed chocolate bars would stick to folders and bags of squidgy jelly sweets would flow in abundance as she handed out at least two packs per lesson.

Over the two years of learning Spanish, I lost count of the sweets that came home. Often they wold end up in the bottom right- hand cupboard in a bowl, eventually becoming a solid sticky uneaten mass before being thrown away.

Well, the sweets grew en masse during revision and were consumed along with fizzy drink and cake. The Spanish teacher kept her class fuelled on gloop and sugar. I let it pass.

She was very much loved, not for her generosity in sweets, but in her attentiveness to teaching Spanish. Her pupils were 'A' standard, not surprisingly.

Today I have been nuking the kitchen and found 2 lollipops and a packet of liquid filled creatures. Yes, curiosity got the better of me. I opened the packet and found a dozen good-sized transparent frogs, beetles, mice and spiders. I cringed, but of course had to try one.

Hmm, quite nice. One chomp and straight in to the liquid centre. They are of course, the type of sweets that could probably be melted down and fix the gutters with. I tried another one. Yuk! Almond-flavour centre....wrong!

We'll miss the influx of sweets and the wonderful Spanish teacher. She was the only teacher who would call to talk about progress, and was a lady of true character. Good luck to her next pupils - they will have a lot of fun.

Beautiful black eyes

Imagine being a seal. I think it must be a soft, smooth feeling, a wonderful experience swimming in water. Playful, perhaps. 


There are a good few versions of the tales of the Selkie folk from the North Atlantic rim. Often believed to be seals who have lost their skin and become human, or just simply shape-shifters with powers to create storms, break up ships and cast spells. They are also seen as loving and loyal towards humans too, perhaps in the trusting way that seals can be as well. 

Some confuse them with mermaids - but mermaids are different creatures altogether of course. A fish tail is just that after all. 


They are magical creatures, seals that is. WIth beautiful black eyes and an amazing gracefulness in water. But they are also wild and deserve to be left alone. There have been stories about seals attacking people on the coast of Florida - any animal will do that to fight over food or defend itself. Some of these attacks have been blamed on chemicals in the environment, affecting seals' brains.


Would I go swimming with seals and dolphins - not too sure. I've always believed that the wilderness should be left alone, but I do like playful communicative creatures. Ever since Marine Boy, I've been fond of our sea critters, even studying Life In The Oceans. Sometimes it helps to know some facts when writing stories -not everything can be imagined.






The Mermaid Bride and Other Orkney Folktales by Tom Muir, Kirkwall, 1998, contains 63 short tales

A Goat called Happy

Whilst collecting stories for Family Legends yesterday at the local library, a lady told me a wee story about a goat. I like goats, so thought it apt to jot it down here at JAGG World.

'My great grandfather was known as a very kind man and one day a group of raggedy children came to his door with a kid goat on a string and said, "Mr Gregory, you're a kind man, our father wants to kill the goat. Will you take it?"

So of course, being a kind man he did take it, and the goat moved in. He really moved in. He didn't quite sit in the best chair, but he did lay on the hearth at night in front of the fire. Of course, he got bigger and bigger, and hairier and more goaty as the weeks went by. And so the goat lived in the house and we all had to accommodate its foibles. It was called Happy.

My great-aunt used to come visit. She did not like Happy. She would stand at the garden gate with her umbrella (ladies always had umbrellas those days) shouting, "Be off you horrid beast." She would not enter the house until someone had taken Happy away by the horn. Needless to say, he stayed with my great grandfather for a long time, living mostly in the garden, but every night that it was cold he would come and lay in front of the fire before going to bed.

Hallowe'en

It's on the 31st not the 30th. That's what I said to the group that knocked on my door last night. Maybe a bit mean, but I had nothing prepared. In about 10 minutes I will be popping corn, and dunking marsh malllows in melted chocolate, then spiking them on wooden sticks in threes. A bowl of monkey nuts and some sweets will do.

I hope they are all scarey and funny, if not then we may have to deal with them. We have a special cup, into which we pour a dark deadly syrup -if we think someone is boring, then they have to drink from the cup.

Some guisers never leave our house.........  

Change

I'm in a sober, contemplative and serious mood these days. It says I will be for a few weeks, in my stars.
Most of yesterday was spent laying down a story for developers. No, not people who build houses and such things, but for those who haven't quite attained adult maturity and are still looking for answers.

Suppose that covers a good few adults too. My sobriety has led me to thinking less about play and more about well - I'm not all that sure! It's just a mood after all.

I wandered out for a walk this morning to check out the rosehips - big and full of vitamins -it's time to start picking all that yumminess that's out there, autumn is almost here.

And then I have one last thing to do before I go......

Dreaming about Horses

I rarely remember dreams, but do have recurring ones, relevant to my history and my other world -the one my subconscious exists in.

Two things that come back are water and horses. This morning, in my dream,  I watched a field of horses and ponies playing in a friend's paddock, it's how she would have wanted to live, surrounded by them.

She also had her tiny house extended to something huge -vast spaces all carpeted, but difficult to get into. She used to live in a very small house although she needed something much larger.

I have an old-fashioned dictionary of dreams and the horse has lots of scenarios in it for me to compare my dream to.  According to the book, I am about to enter a prosperous period filled with ease and content. An extended house presents a wise change to present affairs. Children and friends generally bode well especially if they were all happy -which they were.

Dreams and visions are an important part of my life, they help me.

There are however some very silly interpretations of horse dreams -here's one:

"If after you alight from the horse it turns into a pig, she will carelessly pass by honorable offers of marriage. If afterwards she sees the pig sliding gracefully along the telegraph wire, she will advance her position".

I've never had a horse turn into a pig in my dreams.....they're more like this fine beast!

JAGG World: Two Roads

Shettleston Road

A9

Two Roads

It’s a hundred and eight miles from Inverness to Perth. Just one straight road heading North. On the fifth of February I was heading back up North from East Glasgow - Shettleston Road - a long linear street, which buzzed with life along its length over thirty years ago - trams, cars and people like bees in and out their hives, tending to business. Now it’s a barren landscape of housing association property sprawled from end to end  with clusters of shops pinned in by cars parked outside their doorways.

I sit here thinking about the visit, wondering why it has had such an impact on me. It did feel like home - an industrial past we all once belonged to - those of us who were working class. A time when culture and work mingled, when going to work also meant you could go out to play and that was just fine. Thirty years has not eased the pain from the sting of loosing everything. Invaded by wasps, the bees had to finally retreat. 

I remember watching a comedian on the television a couple of weeks ago - a working-class man from Liverpool who pointed out that planners seemed to think we the working classes only needed a post office, a betting shop, a chippy and a corner shop and we were content. So the future of Britain was rebuilt - our cultural havens displaced by ‘the shop’.

The road home is all wilderness. Hills and mountains peak through the snow - taking on animal-like features. I was surrounded by wildlife  - giant cheetahs, zebras and bears emerging from the landscape, watching me as I drove past them. Their stripes, spots and fur were strangely comforting even though I knew one bite would kill. Greens and browns caressed the trees, lychen hanging proudly from them in the non-toxic air. I wound down the window so the cool breeze would wake me from the hypnotic journey.

Approaching Inverness, the lights of the Kessock Bridge gave a welcoming sign that I was close to home - a house. But bees are really at home when they are on journeys, gathering pollen to make honey, telling their friends what they did that day, looking forward to the weekend and partying. Home is not a house, home is a life of freedom, play, work, marriage, children. The road gives birth to life, the journey is everything.

Reminiscing

Only one thing mattered during those long summer months whilst growing up (apart from playing), and that was stories. I would walk down to the library in Saltaire and take out six books at a time - whizz through them and go back for more. Another favourite place for books was the small post office which sold cheap hardbacks of Lorna Doone, Treasure Island and Enid Blyton's various collections. There was stationery too. Silvine notebooks in deep red, textured covers with fine lines or squares were my favourite. 

And the pencil case I had was always a wooden box -the kind that had a sliding lid. Then there were my father's old fountain pens -none of them work now, but I would spend up to half a day cleaning them and getting them writing when I was a child. 

My step-sister had a great collection of books, some of them old colonialist tales of hunters in Africa, the Cherry Tree series and Sherlock Holmes. She bought me The Hobbit, To Kill a Mocking Bird, and Moby Dick -keen to encourage my interest in stories - she chose well though I have to confess. I also adored poetry and developed a liking for all kinds of styles.

I was a keen nosie-parker and would watch the world idle by on hot afternoons, whilst sitting on a cushion on the front doorstep, with a notebook and pen. My observations were brief and officer-like and included all kinds of details about neighbours, strangers and animals. I loved the sounds of summer in a town - busy roads, ice cream vans and rollerskates.

Our local police officer  would often stop and talk to me and ask me what I was writing about - and would also make suggestions about the kind of things he thought were useful. This set a precedent, and I and an old friend took to walking up and down local streets noting details of cars, washing on lines and who was out and who was sunbathing in their backyard. 

And so it went on....

Puddy tat puddy tat..where av u been

I have a cat - a bonkers-cat. We have had cats for years and of course many adventures too because of them.

This particular bonkers-cat is called Panther (yup he's black) also known as Delboy came to stay with us as a kitty-wak with is bro Fudge (tabby - gorgeous strawberry-ginger) - also known as Rodney.

They seemed a lovely pair, but as some of you know - they separated and Fudge was cast-out of the family home by Panther -we think Fudge tried to sue Panther, but lost and took up residence with writer-lady up the road.

Panther has had a difficult time of it lately and has also had to spend nights away from the home he fought over, at 2 catteries. The last time he went was during my mother's funeral  - for around 10 days. We managed to collect him 23rd December, despite snow-conditions.

He was so pleased to be back and was very giddy...and a little bit poorly - rumbly-tum-itis.

Xmas eve he went out for the night - bonkers! It was well below freezing - but a cat is a cat. And he didn't come back til New Year's Eve.

See, the trouble with a bonkers-cat is that there is no hole small enough to climb in to or roof too tall that can't be scaled. To look at him, one wouldn't think he was capable - he's kinda rotund with short legs - but he can't half move!

We once rescued him from the roof of the Pink Cottage when he was just a few months old - maybe he was practising then.

Or perhaps he thinks he's part of Santa's team of prezzie-deliverers or indeed a wee prezzie himself.

The neighbours behind us were quite surprised to find him down one of their chimneys this morning - a wee bit smelly, fusty, skinny - they fed him and let him go. They had to cut away the board that blocked off the old hearth - he had been sitting in a narrow gap for a few days in the base of an old unused chimney-breast.

We are very pleased to have him back - our bonkers-cat.

Nanowrimo

Saturday 7th of November and am fighting off cowboys already.

I might write more about my nano, but then that would be silly. What do you think? Writing about writing...

Just a warning -incase you feel safe and smug in your human world - there's more to communication than we can ever grasp even with technology.

I'll let you know at the end what happens.

Soundscape

A friend reminded me yesterday of the importance of soundscape, and I learned just how much I have tuned my ears in to the immediate environment of my world - music and conversation - and how much I had forgotten about everything else.

Which is surprisingly easy to do living here, almost in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by water. So today when I went out, I listened. It was pretty quiet -the occasional car, snapping twigs under foot, river running by. But when I go back inside, it's quiet again, and the sounds become electronic. I sit here and can only hear the hum of the mac, tick and tock, tv left on in the other room, tap tap tap on the keys in front of me. Stop. Tap tap tap, tick and tock. Stop. Deep breath. Stop.

I think I will play with sound for a wee while.....

Murder on the Mound (for the older and more sturdy)

The treecreepers are watching us. Recording everything we say, filming everything we do. Ever wondered about that little sweet silent birdie in the tree by your home?

He's not that sweet, but he isn't a baddie either.....

And there's more...

In the city, with a castle and a dungeon, the director has been conjuring. Are you ready for him?

Do you want to meet all his friends?

Gifted Goats

I know one.

And that's why I've been away for such a long time, from here, this place.

There aren't that many gifted goats, and even fewer who get to go to acting school. It's not that all goats aren't gifted. You just sometimes find the rare one who is exceptionally talented.

And I am very lucky to know Gordon the gifted Goat.

Do you want to know a little bit more about him?

Well, the story begins right here in the Highlands with Angus and Jessie who are goatkeepers. They are really real. Honestly they are. 

Angus and Jessie have a beautiful cottage with a very pretty red rose tree growing over it.In front of their house is a hill. On that hill, is where all the goats live. That is where Angus first heard  Gordon's voice.......

The Legend of Papa Umpa

In the jungle of India, some years ago, a great legend was born. It began in the night, under the cover of the sacred bhanaji tree. It was raining so hard, but the tree sheltered the Great Mother. She lay, silently, on the soft ground, waiting. She knew that something very special was about to happen.

Great leathery elephant, cracked and wrinkled

I can see in your eye, a loving twinkle

Your son is everything he should be

Under the watery moon neath the bhanaji tree

Where will he go, when he's old enough to wander

What tune will he march with his steps of thunder

Such an elephant is bound to see the world

To visit secret places of which we have not heard....

Papa began travelling the world when he was just eight years old......

Not Forgetting....

We do, of course, have to talk about elephants, goats, music and time travel...

Visiting

Babaroga walks with me

Shadows stretch in moonlight

Playing hide and seek 

Whispers behind bare branches

Fingers knarled and sinister

Taunting my imagination

Babaroga

So, the writing thing - how does it work?

It's kinda hard to explain, but it's got something to do with dreaming, lots of it. Then putting it down in words, remembering to remember the colours, the smells, the look on people's faces.

Today it's about making sense of a large, complicated piece of work, when it would be all to easy to return to something smaller and sweeter from the past. 

Then the past always seems smaller and sweeter, and the future feels too much like a babaroga. It's important to show the babaroga that you're not scared of it!

But babarogas are very very scarey........

WELCOME TO JAGGWORLD

Hello, welcome to JAGGWorld

Mission:

Stories, Poems and Novels 

For children and young people

Location:

Northern Lands by the Great Water

Dream:

To always dream