It is over. It is done. The end is here and upon us. We have reached our terminus; our final destination. Please remember to take all of your personal ideas with you when you leave the blog. Stories left unattended will be removed and destroyed by security services. It’s been a hell of a journey, but we’re done now. I’d offer you a timetable for the resumption of service, but I don’t have one. You’ll have to keep a weather eye on the horizon and listen to the whispers on the wind; watch for signs, portents, omens and anything that just looks plain weird. Because no matter how hard you may try, some things just won’t stay dead. Some things will claw their way back up from even the most Stygian bowels of the underworld. Although we might have reached the End of the Line. It is not necessarily The End. Opportunities and wonder abound to those will to find them.
With the arrival of February we enter the last vestiges of winter. The sharp green shoots of spring have already begun to break through the chill, dead earth. With the end of winter within our sights my thoughts turn to one of the uncomfortable truths of life: “There is an end to all things.” Nothing is eternal and nothing will last for ever. So it is with mixed emotions I’ve decided to finally call an end to the Pictonaut Challenge. At least for now. I’ve been throwing myself at this challenge for three and a half years, and this month’s will be the 42nd iteration of the challenge. This being a most auspicious number I though now would be as good a time as any.
I want to quit while I’m ahead, to get out before I start to feel bitter and before writing starts to feel too much like work, or a resented obligation. The Pictonaut Challenge will more than likely rear its head again at some point in the future, but for now I just want a rest.
So here we find ourselves, at The End of the Line.
How quickly January has gone. The passage of time continues to confuse and mystify me. I mean, how can January be over already? Where’s all that time gone? It’s relentless, it never pauses for rest of respite, it just keeps on coming; an unstoppable temporal juggernaut. But gone it has, and the dawn of February will soon be upon us. Tradition dictates that I now talk about the weather. There has been a lot of snow. Most of north-east of America was recently buried under numerous feet of snow. The same is also true for the United Kingdom. Except where I live. I didn’t get any snow. I’m feeling quite bitter about this if I’m honest. I like snow.
If like me you feel betrayed by the weather, please feel free to assuage your sorrows with some short stories.
The New Year is upon us, and with it comes the advent of new beginnings, of something fresh, vital, brimming with raw potentiality and the opportunities for outrageous shenanigans. But most of all the air is filled with the smell of hope. It smells of soap, and mint and freshly baked bread. The hope that maybe this year will be better than the last, or the hope that we’ll finally get round to doing that thing we’ve been meaning to do for years, or perhaps that this will be the year you “finally get your shit together.” A new year is ever a time of strange, unexplored frontiers and of terrifying unknowns. So strap on your sturdiest boots and prepare to venture into the land Beneath a Square Sun.
It’s time to shut it down, pack it up and box it away. 2014 is done and finished. Christmas is over and there remains only the hurdle of new year’s eve before it is finally over. For better or worse, 2014 happened. There were highs and there were lows. But regardless of a geopolitical shitstorm(s) threatening to swallow us all, I remain resolutely alive. Any day above ground is a good day. I have recently returned from a brief sojourn to the frozen north and once again masterfully avoided the yearly rail meltdown. December has left me tired, strung-out and worn-down. Because that is how December rolls. Yet despite this, there is as always, stories to be told.
The weather outside is not as frightful a popular song might lead us to believe.It certainly isn’t snowing, it’s just a bit damp. Nor do I have access to a fire. My heating comes from an oil filled radiator and the stove is electric. I also have quite a few places to go, like work, or down to the local shops to buy milk. Grossly misleading songs aside, we are no firmly into the realm of the festive season. Out comes the gaudy and functionless frippery, we commence our decking of the halls with symbols of fertility and eternal life, and then ensconce the fresh corpse of a tree in the corner of our living room, assumedly as a warning to other trees and forestall there plans for revolution. But while many of us gather to celebrate this Christian festival, let us not forget its distinctly pagan roots. The height of winter, the fear of the long night and the darkness out there, a time of spirits and mystery. A festival where you did not wait for the arrival of a jovial old man in a red suit, but a festival where you await a visit from a Shaman.
The clatter of keys grows silent. November is over and NaNoWriMo is at an end. A typhoon of tortured tales grows still, their limp and pallid forms lie mewling on the dusty ground, their hurried and unnatural births now over. Deadlines and targets are a thing of the past. Some will be counting themselves as winners, having managed to put together 50,000 words. other will count themselves as losers, having fallen short of that lofty goal. I however, have been up to other things. Spending my evening in quiet contemplation, making soup and watching sci-fi from the early 2000s. When it comes to NaNoWriMo the distinction between winner and losers is at best moot and at worst erroneous. I learnt long ago, that the only winning move, is not to play.