Mamba
elixir vitae

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Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,
As to be hated needs but to be seen;
Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace. -Alexander Pope


I have often wondered how it is possible for one to become desensitized to the beauty of nature. Perhaps it could be likened to a man who has been married to a beautiful and talented wife for twenty years, but now only sees her flaws.

I pondered this very question as I sat on the beach in the afternoon and watched my daughter jumping in and out of the waves. With their perfect crescents and undulations, they dissolved into foam as they crashed onto the shore. I was struck by the immense beauty of nature, and it's always there and perfect, we just can't see it. There is such beauty in the world, but we witness it so often we are blind to it.

In psychology, desensitization occurs when an emotional response is repeatedly evoked in situations in which the action tendency that is associated with the emotion proves irrelevant or unnecessary.

The world we live in is becoming more desensitized by the minute, not only in the sense of beauty – in that we don't appreciate all that surrounds us, but also in the sense of violence. Rather like a crime scene investigator several weeks into the job who stops physically vomiting after witnessing the aftermath of heinous torture and murder.

We see and hear so much in media, whether it be the news or movies regarding child abuse, rape, torture and murder it becomes difficult to elicit more than a cursory response: “That's terrible. So, did you see the game last night?”

Adult video games depict some of the most seemingly benign violence that children will ever be exposed to, and seem to send message such as it's “okay” to pick up a gun and start shooting people. This seems to be even more true in video games like “Grand

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I guess there comes a time, when even someone like me, who adores the scorching hot weather and the
subsequent refreshing dips in the pool, longs for a cosy winter's night.

As I said, it's not that I don't like the sun - far from it - in fact you could say that I'm a regular beach bunny except that I always wear protective cream and try not to stay out for hours on end (Who wants to be old before their time?!)

Or perhaps you could say that I'm more of a pool bunny. That's it. Less messy.

Don't get me wrong - the beach is great - but if you're anything like me you have to wash your hair about 15 times post-beach trip before every last minuscule grain is finally out. And although I like taking care of myself, even that's a little too high maintenance for me!

And suntan oil? Forget it. For no sooner have you slathered it all over every inch of your body, in the vain hope of getting an all-over tan just a couple of shades shy of honeyed brown toast you can bet anything, one of the following situations will occur: The first is that a small demon child from the deepest bowels of Hell will run past you, and seemingly-by-accident kick a huge mushroom cloud of sand up in the air. You'll probably look up in abject horror as begins its inexorable descent, floating down almost in slow motion...inevitably covering you in a warm, carressing, grainy blanket.

Thanks, kid. (Expletive deleted)

The second situation that is just as likely to occur is that some nitwit who, until recently was sitting quietly and unassumingly next to you, suddenly takes it upon themselves to pick up and shake their towel vigorously at the very nanosecond the wind blows and succeed in covering you from head to toe in the damned stuff. Wow, great idea Einstein! They usually don't even notice the henious crime they've just perpetrated and continue on their way, oblivious to you retching from the copious amount of

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Force the lock to break
let it go
In time the blush
will fade
but now it's too close

Indifferent key to solace
the mystery of your face
and fingertips

Stranger still

the memory keeps me awake

Swirling
cloud of doubt
Lost
Within its charms

Take me back where
we walked on water
take me back when
I knew you at all

Stranger still

She won't be tamed
she won't be shamed
she doesn't need you
just behave

Tell me it's better this way

I was never here

A stranger
to you

still

I had always considered myself articulate and possessed of a fertile imagination.

That was, until quite recently. My 23rd birthday in May yielded a laptop.
With this present came the instantaneous jolt of an idea I had long forgotten, pushed aside by thoughts of inadequacy and the realization that I would need to “get a real job” to be able to survive in this world. Nevertheless, it all came rushing back, along with the heat of a flame that burned deep inside of me. It was then that I recognised my lust as a dream I had aspired to for as long as I could remember.

I was going to write a novel.

How could I have let myself forget! I smiled to myself enigmatically, wanting to start immediately.
I imagined I would be a painfully brilliant, but tortured writer and that my work would live on long after I was dead, eaten and regurgitated by the worms beneath the soil, and my poignant words would still be on the lips of man at the dawn of the apocalypse.

In this state of perfect omnipotency, I sat down with my cup of tea and a plate of digestive biscuits (brain food) I started on what would forever be know as my masterpiece. I assumed that if I just sat down in front of the blank screen and daydreamed, the words would flow from my fingers like doves streaming across the sky in a blur of angelical white.

An hour and forty five minutes later, with some lonely crumbs inhabiting the folds of my skirt, I peered at the screen in gritty anticipation... only to discover that I had written exactly three and half pages of utter bullshit. But what was this? The story, (if you could call it that) didn't even make sense. The characters appeared wooden and the dialogue contrived. Instead of flowing from scene to scene with fluid motion and a rich tapestry of descriptions and metaphors, instead I rushed from one dialogue to the next like a headless chicken leaving plot holes worthy of a Darwin Award.

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