"Here I share the stories as I sit and look out from the Sacristy and North Trancept of the Monastery o’Fable, which is part of my dreams."
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I’ve listened to men tell war stories in the flickering of the firelight and saw the pain there but for a moment, then in the next second the tale came oot wi’ laughter that belied their real memories o’ what they’d seen in war and so turned the story into something else entirely. I’ve never forgotten that fleeting moment o’ pain I saw reflected in their eyes by the firelight though. And yet, their making it funny branded it into my mind in an everlasting way that the truth could never have done.
'To sit in an old ruin be it a castle, monastery or just by the fallen stones of a humble cottar house brings stories to the mind; if the mind is in that area of creativity at that moment. Ideas, thoughts, emotions sights, sounds and smell all come together as you tune in to that place as it tells you its tales of so long ago. Come peek through the windows into my world and enjoy the simple tales I glean from old stones and share them with you from my ‘ruins’ of the Monastery o' Fable.'
A couple of rows of memories fae 'the Diary o' a Feel at the Skweel'
I grew up with stories because so many in my family were storytellers. Growing up I remember how a story could just start out of the blue and everyone would gather round to listen with their eyes shining in the expectation of the unfolding tale. In the story ‘The Carbide Lamp’ I’ve tried to re-create that moment and the excitement I experienced as a child listening as I followed the adventure. The Doric makes that so very easy because I can write as I think and pretty much as I heard so many tales. Obviously I can’t remember stories I heard word for word but I remember their essence. Sometimes that is all I need to write; just a touch; just a feeling; just a memory of yesterday; all do the trick to create a rush of long forgotten times and people I loved in life and still love in memory.