Clickety-Clicks

Clickety-Clicks

That was the day I clicked with the girl from Clicks. I didn’t recognise her at first. No, that’s wrong; I did recognise her, but I didn’t know where from; she wasn’t wearing her pharmacist’s uniform. And without her uniform...
   She was dressed casually, not fussily, presumably for comfort rather than to impress. Her jeans were faded and worn from use—not bought that way—and her top was a bright mass-produced one you could buy at any common clothing chain like Identity or Jet or Mr Price. Her blue shoes were stylish though.
   She smiled at me, a good start. I started; stared; then smiled back.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. I was still trying to work out where she was from.
“Nothing... you’re the pharmacist from Clicks?”
“Yes, and you’re one of my customers. How’s the migraine?”
“Oh, it’s gone now, thanks. You helped.”
“That’s my job.” She smiled again.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
   It was at this point that nothing happened. No, that’s wrong; plenty was happening, but we were
feeling it, not talking, not moving, just looking at each other and feeling.
“Look, why don’t...” We spoke together; realised what we’d done; looked again at each other; and
laughed.
“You first,” I said.
“No, you,” she said.
“Well,” I started again, “what are you doing now? From here?”
“Just girlie things.”
“Shopping, you mean.”
“Uh-huh. Do you want to buy me something?”
“Uh, like what?”
“What girls like. Shoes, jeans, an engagement ring...” I tried to ignore the last item.
“Underwear?” I said.
“That’s what men like. You’re always thinking of undressed women.”
“Me? No, I was joking.”
“You weren’t, but it’s OK. I like a man to be a man.”
“Let’s keep talking,” I said.
“OK.”
   We went where we could talk. We went to a café and got a drink. No, that’s obviously wrong. We got two drinks: hers was a juice; mine was an appletiser.
   Then we talked. And laughed. And talked. And laughed. And got some other drinks. And discovered
we liked similar music, had read similar books, and wanted exactly the same thing.
   What was that thing? Well, let’s just say that we spent a lot of time together that day. We looked at
shoes and jeans and yes, we stopped by the window of a jewellers where we looked at the rings and laughed and then held hands and went to another shop where I bought her a CD and she bought me a book. We hugged. We kissed. We felt we belonged together. We still do. Because we click. We’re tighter than her pair of faded jeans and the childproof-cap on my bottle of migraine pills from Clicks.

© Kenneth Rowley 2013. 

Ms Sweetness

She was like the smell of grass, sweetened by a shower; like the sight of lightning striking distant hills; like the poetry of birdsong in the morning's half-light. Her form floated on the breeze, glistened on the dew, glamoured the old into the new. And I loved her, I loved her; I still do. Time... Time... Time... The only real is what we feel. The only lotion, emotion. Emotion can hurt, emotion can heal. She was the sweetness after rain, the healing after pain. With the memories come the feelings: again and again and again.

© Kenneth Rowley 2013

Clickety-Clicks

Clickety-Clicks

THAT WAS THE DAY I clicked with the girl from Clicks. I didn’t recognise her at first. No, that’s wrong; I did recognise her, but I didn’t know where from; she wasn’t wearing her pharmacist’s uniform. And without her uniform... 

   She was dressed casually, not fussily, presumably for comfort rather than to impress. Her jeans were faded and worn from use—not bought that way—and her top was a bright mass-produced one you could buy at any common clothing chain like Identity or Jet or Mr Price. Her blue shoes were stylish though.

   She smiled at me, a good start. I started; stared; then smiled back.

   “What’s wrong?” she asked. I was still trying to work out where she was from.

   “Nothing... you’re the pharmacist from Clicks?”

   “Yes, and you’re one of my customers. How’s the migraine?”

   “Oh, it’s gone now, thanks. You helped.”

   “That’s my job.” She smiled again.

   “Yes, I suppose so.” 

   It was at this point that nothing happened. No, that’s wrong; plenty was happening, but we were feeling it, not talking, not moving, just looking at each other and feeling.

   “Look, why don’t...” We spoke together; realised what we’d done; looked again at each other; and laughed.

   “You first,” I said.

   “No, you,” she said.

   “Well,” I started again, “what are you doing now? From here?” 

   “Just girlie things.”

   “Shopping, you mean.”

   “Uh-huh. Do you want to buy me something?”

   “Uh, like what?”

   “What girls like. Shoes, jeans, an engagement ring...” I tried to ignore the last item.

   “Underwear?” I said.

   “That’s what men like. You’re always thinking of undressed women.” 

   “Me? No, I was joking.”

   “You weren’t, but it’s OK. I like a man to be a man.”

   “Let’s keep talking,” I said.

   “OK.”

   We went where we could talk. We went to a café and got a drink. No, that’s obviously wrong. We got two drinks: hers was a juice; mine was an appletiser. 

   Then we talked. And laughed. And talked. And laughed. And got some other drinks. And discovered we liked similar music, had read similar books, and wanted exactly the same thing.

   What was that thing? Well, let’s just say that we spent a lot of time together that day. We looked at shoes and jeans and yes, we stopped by the window of a jewellers where we looked at the rings and laughed and then held hands and went to another shop where I bought her a CD and she bought me a book. We hugged. We kissed. We felt we belonged together. We still do. Because we click. We’re tighter than her pair of faded jeans and the childproof-cap on my bottle of migraine pills from Clicks.

© Kenneth Rowley, 456 words, 27th February 2013. [from 'Short Short Stories']

Peppermint 3 has arrived!

Finally, Peppermint 3 OS has arrived... it's what I'm using right now and so far, so good. It's built upon Lubuntu and Mint and looks and feels great (I'm not a fan of the new Ubuntu desktop at all). I've installed it on an old 256 RAM machine, but everything is working at the moment and I particularly like the fact that this Peppermint is not overloaded with programs I won't use. Since the early days of the Mac I've really enjoyed customising what I'm using and Peppermint 3 gives me that option from the get-go.

After 3 days, Peppermint 3 is still working really well. I had the usual odd window behaviour as with Peppermints 1, 2 and Ice, but that was easily fixed.

the bottom line

the bottom line

She'd washed her panties,
hung them out to dry;
he was looking at them.
'Male & female energies
need each other,' he said.
'Yes,' she agreed, following his gaze,
'that's the bottom line.'

© Kenneth Rowley 2012

The Death of Rootedness

The Death of Rootedness

The death of Donna Summer reveals the problems we're facing: the loss of rootedness and context. You see, without Donna Summer, there'd be no house music, no club dance scene, no Channel O, but most people who listen extensively (many exclusively) to these musics and inhabit these contexts have never heard of her. We have as a species shifted (a seismic shift, equivalent to the Industrial Revolution) from nationalism towards a global village, one unified worldwide culture, that contains a bit of everything, a genuine mash-up, but in so doing we have disconnected our ties to the particular histories that allowed this social world to come into being.

And, of course, it's not just the dance scene. During the late seventies (think Eagles' Hotel California, think Fleetwood Mac's Rumours), rock music was also changed forever because of Donna Summer. When Brian Eno arrived in Berlin to join David Bowie for his Low and Heroes albums, he had a copy of Summer's I Feel Love and was telling everyone, "This is the future". He was correct, and Bowie (who was a new convert to the electronica of Neu!, Can, and Kraftwerk) agreed. That nascent sound is all over Bowie's Berlin albums and the changes that followed were tidal.

Music is central to the new global village and our lives; it will continue to be, but without rootedness we can justifiably be apprehensive. I recently saw some youtube comments on a piece of classical music: "Oh, this music is just for the old people, and they'll be dying out soon." Our sense of history is dying, and with it goes our sense of proportion and rightness. Everything is now up for grabs.

Mudberry!

Swaziland is making huge strides to compete with giants like Apple, Google, Samsung and Microsoft by going local. Welcome Mudberry (TM). As you can see from our picture, it's already a big hit on the local African market.

Proud Mudberry User