I would really like it, if we could all collectively agree, to stop using “out of office” messages.
I understand and accept that “you” will reply to my message when you have the time, the information I’m looking for, or the inclination. You do not need to send me a message, to tell me that you will respond to my message, in another message, in the future.
I would also really like it, if we could all collectively agree, to stop inventing new ways to send these messages.
There’s enough.
There are more than enough ways for me to apologise for not responding to your message, with my message, earlier. I was probably apologising to another person, at the time, which is why I couldn’t get back to you.
Stop sending all the messages!
And also, when did “checking my emails” become an activity? Emails are the how we work, not the work itself, and they are nothing more than a tool. They are not sentient beings. Stop giving them immortal powers.
I’m so tired of all the different messages in all the different places. It’s taking my energy away from me, and time away from worrying and overthinking other issues, instead.
Like, what is this blog for?
I used to share stories on here, until I began trying to get them published in magazines and Ezines. This takes up a lot of time, and so what can I share here? Do I simply write, “Great news! My story, Pointless, was published in Alien Buddha Press this week! Thanks Red for including me!” It seems a little redundant as I’ve already shared this on Facebook and Twitter, so what can I say here?
Can I tell you about the books I’ve read lately, like “Elsewhere” by Yan Ge, or “192 Batu Road” by Viji Krishnamoorthy? Or do I tell you about weekend sea-swimming at the 40 Foot, or how much litter I’ve picked up from the ground?
Or can I show you some writing, in progress?
A piece of flash-fiction, that I read aloud at an open mic event recently, with Anne Tannam and Fiona Bolger? You might find it interesting, and it’s called Schuman Resonance, and it starts like this…
Never trust a prose writer with an attic conversion, directions to a destination, or a seven-digit code. But ask them instead, to describe cerulean, the taste of obsidian, or to talk about sunshine.
Never trust a prose writer, to compose minutes from a meeting, to send a WhatsApp message or to answer a phone. But ask them instead to explain why summer breezes, how to live with grief, and when to dance.
Tea-dances in the vestry of the chapel, were fine things.
This was when girls still wore long dresses to parties.
Some of the older women, who are all wearing hats, are serving small dishes of jelly and ice-cream to the children, and tea and sandwiches to the grown-ups. The best chapel chinar has been brought out, and unwrapped from old newspaper for the party, and everyone is happy.
Some of the older women, are talking in the kitchen. They are worried that Collins, the mare, got out of the field again.
I knew this would happen, says the woman with the snarling mouth.
Last week, Collins broke the narrow wooden gate, coming back into the farm, and if someone had been standing the way, Lord knows what could have happened. The problem, is of course, as I’ve said many times, that those two boys don’t know how to control her.
Oh, they know how to manage her, says the woman with the walking cane. They like to wind her up and excite her energy. It’s just a game to them, but one day, you mark my words, that mare will break through the field, and hurt Lord knows who.
Collins is a gentle old mare.
She has a quiet nature, which is good for pulling the milk cart. She plods along and is patient enough to wait for the milk to be delivered. All the neighbours say that the fresh, creamy milk is delicious, and they stroke her while she stands outside their houses.
Yet sometimes, and sometimes again, she likes to run.
She can feel her heartbeat alter with the rhythm and tempo. When she flies through the field, she thinks, how wonderful this is, let me run instead.
The two boys are enjoying the ice-cream and jelly in the vestry of the chapel and have stuffed their pockets with cakes and cream buns. They don’t care about what the old women are saying in the kitchen, they only care about the sweets and the treats.
Their hands are always a little bit dirty from the farm, even when they go to tea-dances, and especially underneath their nails. Their mother tries desperately to clean them, every Sunday night. They sit in the tin bath near the fire, and she scrubs them as much as she can without hurting them. After that, they sit with their mother and listen to the radio, and she allows herself to love them entirely.
It’s then, when their hair is still damp, and they smell of soap and happiness, that their mother hugs them close. They pretend they’re too big for this nonsense and they squirm, and they frown, but secretly they enjoy it.
Tonight, after the tea dance and the party, the boys will go home with their loot and share it with their mother, who couldn’t come to the party on account of her nerves. They will watch her carefully eat the fairy cakes, and they will promise her tomorrow, that she will run again.
Shorter than me 
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