Scotland As an Xbox Game by Andrew C. Ferguson

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I meant to post this on The Morning After but got waylaid by my workweek, and then everything seemed saturated with the rawness of reaction so I put it off. Is it safe now? I hope so. Or maybe I don’t …

This is Andrew C. Ferguson reading his poem “Scotland As an Xbox Game” with a teeny contribution from me. Tell us what you think in the comments.

Fifty-fifty-fifty and burning all your money.

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So I’m drifting on a sea of sadness and the only way I know how to get out of it is to shove this “too busy for [thing I like to do]” stupidity off the raft.

Last year I didn’t read many books or see many films, so this year I’m aiming to consume 50 of each. Throw your favourites at me in the comments.

And today I decided to add another goal onto that: I want 50 rejection letters for my writing. I’d rather get 50 acceptances, of course, but rejection means I’m submitting stories which means I’m writing stories which means I’m doing what I love. I’ll be tallying it up on my fiction page if you want to follow along.

Yesterday I finished the first draft of my story for Bloc’s show in the Edinburgh International Science Festival. As per usual, my first idea completely morphed into something else. It’s become a pattern: the first idea is the cocoon that turns into the butterfly. Or, in my case, the slipstream moth.

My Bloc pal Bram a/k/a Texture is always creating interesting, evocative stuff. He announced his new poetry video a few weeks ago but I just made the mental space to sit down and appreciate it. I was mesmerised. Tell me what you think. And please share it if you enjoy it.

A line, a wrinkle, a sigh, a sign.

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FunkyPlaid at Barcelona Cathedral
You genuflected outside the gothic cathedral
the day after I got officially old.
My nose was running and cold and
I turned from the great grey edifice
to see the only familiar face
for miles. On that face,
the expression I tried to capture:
irreverent yet strangely penitent,
maybe just tired from walking
or overwhelmed by unfamiliar vowels
or musing how new it feels to feel this old.

Not an unkind word.

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Not an unkind word.

It wasn’t what she said, but how she said it.
Not an unkind word, but the way the letters
like soldiers with pikes
were ready to do damage
and could wait to do it.
She could wait.
She was ready.

Upwards mobility.

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Upwards mobility.

Sometimes it is enough
to know without thinking where the milk is,
or the bread, or how to sidestep
with a ducked head,
“sorry” under the breath
to anyone, or to half-unpacked boxes.
What a luxury it is to be thoughtless,
to grow into the cracks of a place
like a weed
and not a wildflower.