This month will be busy; I already have a long weekend of debauchery planned in Aberdeen, a college reunion (conducted via the medium of Chinese food), something bonfire related around November 5th and on a less social note - my interview and medical examination for entry into the Merseyside Police Force.

Exciting times. Inspiring times.
A time for rhyme!

Now for the philosophical nonsense... I've been thinking lately;

How many cheeks could be kissed over the course of a generation, bridges built, buildings burnt into the concave of their foundations? What is the algebraic equivalent of laughter?

What happens when I wake up on a Sunday in November ten years from now - will I ask the same questions? Will my day follow the same pleasant pattern of padding around making cheesecake, clad in an oversized white shirt whilst lazily having to analyse Keats?

Probably not.

Hopefully by then I'll be pursuing crime lords through the streets of Tokyo.

I have reawakened my dormant DA account this month in order to bring you... haikus! Yes those eastern-syllable joys that can be slipped and slid into every minuite of the day.

Waiting for the bus? Write a haiku! Girlfriend just broke up with you? Write a whole collection of haikus! They are serious poetical fun.

Now, you may be wondering why (oh why?) the sudden outburst of 5-7-5s. Well it's simple you see - I've just started university. Having joined the Liverpool Uni writers group I'll be posting many weird and wonderful snippets of literature over the coming months.

Wish me luck =]

And remember, a haiku a day keeps most forms of gum disease away.

Recently I haven't really written any poetry, I've been writing essays and short stories, picking up where I left off on half started segments of prose just for something to fill the hours. Has it been laziness I wonder? Or tidiness. Tying up loose ends. Making things neater for the new year.

Then I read over some of my own poetry and began to sorely miss writing it. Old habits are hard to break I guess. The first time I consciously remember writing a poem (or rather a segment of a poem, considering it was only one stanza) was in Year Four in Junior school. It was themed 'What I Would Put In My Box'. I think I wrote something about a unicorn dancing on a sunbeam...

Anyway, after that momentous moment in my life which shattered the earths infrastructure and lead to a global feast of celebration, I was moved up to Set One English. Things have stayed pretty much the same ever since =] now I have a place to study English at University next September, and plan to lecture the bloody subject. This is a big step up from my childhood dream of wanting to work in Sainsburys.

But I have abandoned my first love to woo the long sentenced devil in punctuated trousers, the character fondling rogue of plot devices, the prose-like-prince. I suppose it's lust =]

It's a love/hate relationship, this writing thing.

Silhouetted against a derelict kingdom, a figure watches, his dark skin glistening with sweat. A raging inferno engulfs the pockmarked streets and fractured rows of houses which are the only remaining remnants of the city; at least, it had been a city. Sights like these have drawn creases across the watchers’ brow where youthful enthusiasm used to gleam. There are no traces of horror, his grey eyes seem blunted to the power of destruction. They appear calm, pensive even. What passes through his thoughts is a mystery cast into the cavernous echoes of time. This time, as minutes draw breath and murmur to one another, he knows that some greater power has influenced events. He is only the watcher. This time.

One day that paragraph might convince me to finnish an idea, or to put it onto paper rather than leave it rattling inside my head. It is the fragile and wavering start to a series, my series, a series of events and characters and strange wrong doings which happen amongst a landscape of my own design. Until then, it pops up sometimes when I see a strange looking building or have an interesting conversation.

It's been said that everyone has at least one book, one story inside of them which is worth selling (or telling). It is a nice idea and it's probably true, however, there is always the factor of whether people can find it within themselves to actually ever write it. To cast aside piles of laundry, cooking utensils, homework, lawn mowers, Xbox 360 and just sit down to mould their tale. I love writing, it's a pretty large chunk of my life. Yet in between college, drinking, cinema trips and washing dishes sometimes its hard to remember to pick up a pen and start scribbling.

I tried writing a journal, to refine my ideas and memories, instead I spent twenty quid on an empty set of pages which remained entirely devoid of ink. I've complained of writers block and loosing my muse and god knows how many more over exaggerated excuses.

Really though, I think its a case of dedication, determination and will power. Just to throw in another 'd' I'm also going to mention discipline. Without those, no matter what your passion is, nothing can be accomplished.

In September 2009 I will be relinquishing the shackles of full time education and beginning University; to study English of course, probably along side Classics and Ancient History (oh joy for joint honors!).

Although my time in 6th form is drawing to a close I've discovered that instead of concentrating on my forth coming exams day and night, I'm actually doing less work and more... extra curricular... activities. Well, as extra curricular as I'll ever manage. I've thought it worth while to mention a few =]

In October I interviewed Philip Pullman at Liverpool University, author of 'His Dark Materials' as part of the Liverpool Literary Festival. This was pretty epic stuff, epic and daunting, especially considering it was in front of an audience of about three hundred people...

Needless to say he's a very interesting guy, with lots of well thought out and reasonable views on religion and politics. He gave a fantastic example regarding Russian Socialism under Stalin for his qualms about organised faith, it's not that he has a problem with God, it's what people can do in the name of God that counts.

More important though was what he had to say about his famous trilogy, comprising of 'Northern Lights', 'The Subtle Knife' and 'The Amber Spyglass'. In a session which lasted about an hour we got through 12 in depth questions which covered topics from the witches, mythological references, title choosing, evolution, geography, deamons and more! Plus, he was very pleasant to talk to.

In less interesting news; I'm entering the Christopher Tower Poetry competition through the creative writing group in my college ('group' isn't the best term considering there are four of us...). The theme this time is 'doubt' and it's being judged by Fiona Sampson, Daljit Nagra and Peter McDonald. So if a number of my up and coming poems have crossroads, mixed emotions, big decisions and lost children in them it's because I'm struggling for ideas.