Sushiko - Our Salad’s Over, Mother (Balsamic Ring)

december 08
introduction.
What’s been happening at tailcast.com?

This month we’ve made it possible for people to update the files and cover art
for articles, images, audios, videos and groups.

We also added the possibility to change your profile url, eg your homepage
can now be http://www.‘yourname’.tailcast.com

Any more new features?

You can now reply to members comments in the page where you see the
comment.

What changes can I expect to see over the next few months?

Improvements to your account management page are coming soon. You will
be able to edit multiple items at the same time (e.g. tags, category, upload
higher resolution files of existing work for the new shop)

You will be able to set your commission on the work you would like to be sold
on greeting cards and posters at www.shop.tailcast.com (coming soon in the
New Year!)

There is also an enhanced email system and an internal subscription system to

help you keep up to date on new content by your favourite members.

We will have a new audio player with images very soon too, and a few other
surprise treats...

Open Philosophy

Finally, next year we are looking to encourage more technology people to get
involved with the tailcast project as volunteers. To that end we are going to
make all of our current and future code open - we think it suits our open phi-
losophy!

Have a great Christmas :)

The Cast

Klarabella - Vattendroppe
contents.

4. Hyla Levy Blog %*&#! Dallas-Fort Worth Airport

5. Rosie Short Blog I Want To Write
7. The Colclough Blog Gratuitous Bloggism:
Now, Where to Put The Thing?

9. Taro Grieves Art Head / Heart

11. Isaac Shulz Art The Hundreds Of Years Of Beer /
Blue Skies and Broken Flowers / Now
13. Ollie Fournier Art Mad Rooster / Predictive Errors
15. Huseyin Art Candy Floss / Broken Heart
17. James Thorne Art Bec / Louise
19. Becca Thorne Art Pomegranate / Lemons

21 Community Collaborate Contest

23. Jack Harrison Writing Poem 1

25. ManDartin Writing All The Unloved
27. J.C. Woolley Writing On The House
30. Penitent Writing Language
31. Golden Writing When I Was Seventeen
33. Jodamme Writing Acepting Things
35. Taymaz Valley Writing Our Town

37. Charlotte Burne Groups Bunny Army

 3.

Mis-BUG - The Law

 4.

blogs on tailcast

hyla levy -
%*&#! Dallas-Fort Worth Airport

I’ve been recruited into the blogosphere... In my get-out-of-my-way-I-have-a-connection-to-

make frenzy, I got to the gate early. Early enough
I’ve been in Texas exactly once. Sort of. The that there were only a few sporadic souls
Dallas-Fort Worth Airport. I was on my way to visit waiting patiently. No worries, I thought. So I
my sister and her family in San Diego. decided to mosey on over (Texas talk!) to that
Unfortunately there are no non-stop flights particular species of you-have-time-to-kill-so-let-
between Toronto and San Diego. I have been to us-take-advantage-of-that-captivity-to-get-you-
several other states as well using this method, to-spend-money-on-over-priced-souvenirs-and-
however the only other one that comes to mind other-crap-you-don’t-need shop typical to airports,
is LAX. I mean, let’s face it, the airport where one with my American money (converted from my
changes flights is not one of the warm fuzzy under-valued Canadian dollars) in tow. My goal,
memories one hopes to retain from a family-visit however, was not to spend my expensive
vacation. Not that I always have warm fuzzy American dollars (success!), but to arrive at the
memories after visiting my sister… (hi Tina!) gate fashionably late like the cool, complacent,
well-seasoned traveller I’m not.
While I’m not afraid of flying, I am afraid of airports
– will I get there on time, will my flight be delayed,
It’s time, so over to the gate I go only to see there
all the people, the security to go through… are no people there. I had one of those horrible
Airportaphabia. Or, more acurately, Twilight moments where you wonder if you’re in
changingplanesaphobia. Will my originating flight a parallel universe where nothing is as it should
get to the airport in time to get to my gate? Will I be. And then I saw it – the notification that they
get lost while finding said gate? Orienteering has changed my gate to gate #something which is….
never been my strong suit. where? Worst nightmare! Panic! Dig out my stolen
terminal map. As the saying goes, everything’s
I’m the one on the plane pouring over and over the bigger in Texas – and the airport is no exception!
airport’s terminals layout in the en route magazine. In my get-out-of-my-way-I-have-a-connection-to-
And then I tear out the picture just in case. So I make frenzy (thank goodness for moving
get to Dallas-Fort Worth with about 45 minutes in sidewalks), I arrive at the newly-designated gate
between flights and a good idea of where I need to just in the nick of time, casually walking those last
go. To most people I’m sure that sounds like plenty few metres, just like those cool, complacent, well-
of time, but not to me. As many of you know, I seasoned-traveller types.
worry worry worry. And changing planes is a
particularly big anxiety-inducer for me. Yeehaw!
(anxiety: fear looking for a cause)
rosie short - i want to write

There are some times when I feel that I am going

mad.

Not in a bad way though [yes, there is a good way

to go slowly and insanely mad!!]. No, in a sort
of...eye opening way I suppose. It’s as though, if
I don’t write something for a long time, I start to
get...let’s call it an itch.

So, this itch begins and it’s only small at first. A

minor annoyance. And so you think to yourself,
‘It’s okay, that isn’t really bothering me too much,
there’s no real hurry to scratch that little itch.’
Famous last words.

That little itch gets bigger and bigger and bigger.

And the bigger it gets, the more effort you have to
put in to relieve it. Until one day you sit down and
you say to yourself, ‘That’s it. I can’t cope with this
anymore. It’s time for some serious scratching.’

Of course I’m not really talking about an itch here.

Of course not. That would be slightly ridiculous
and also a waste of time and effort. No, I’m talking
about why I love to write.

Briana Burke - Breakfast

 6.

It isn’t to impress myself, or even others. It isn’t

because I feel I have to. It isn’t because someone
forces me to. No. The reason I write is because it’s
the only thing that can give me total peace.

You know the kind. The kind of peace that makes

you feel whole inside. The kind of peace that
makes the worst thing in the world simply seem to
be a minor inconvenience.

Yet there are so many things in life which prevent

me from attaining this peace. College for one. All
of the work makes me feel dizzy with worry
sometimes, because not doing it results in falling
further and further behind, until there is literally no
hope of climbing out of the big, dark hole you’ve
dug yourself.

And yet...despite it all, I still write. Even though I

know I should be doing something so much more
useful to my education [such as assignments] and
not
scribbling down idle fantasies, I find myself doing it
anyway. Because it’s how I am. And how I’ll always
be.
 7.
the colclough -
gratuitous bloggism: now, where to put the thing?
It’s so awkward trying to frame and display a
picture properly.
my dad works for Samsung, and in recent years,
he’s been sent to Korea on various missions, plus
a few to other places including China and Japan.
on one trip, he brought us back some presents,
and the thing he got me was a painting of two
sparrows sitting on a branch of an orange tree. i
don’t have a clue what sort of paint the artist used,
but the oranges are a fantastic, vibrant shade of
orange - in fact, they’re the orangest orange
oranges i’ve ever seen. since i was in the process
of moving rooms (or at least expecting to be) at the
time, and i didn’t have a frame handy, the picture
has sat rolled up in a tube for several months.
well, i moved into my new room (the ex-garage) in
february - the 18th, if you must know - and since
then, i’ve got round to hanging exactly one thing
on the wall: the clock. i’ve still got several spaces
where i could put pictures, and i’d been meaning
to frame my chinese/japanese/korean (not sure
which) sparrow painting, but after an extensive
search of the loft, or rather, of the accessible parts
of the loft (i was sure we had several spare picture
frames up there), i was still frameless.
well, today i was sent up there to look for
something else. i didn’t find the something else,
but while i was searching futilely (is that a real
word?) for the something else, i came across a
picture frame. it was bigger than all the ones i’d
found on previous trips, and it was full of a poster
of an RAF Tornado jet, which i’d used to have on
my wall when i was about 7. well, although i still
enjoy the odd episode of Top Gear (anyone else
see clarkson’s V8-powered food blender and beef
smoothie?), i’ve got past the stage where i’d want
a photo of a Tornado jet on my wall, and i now pre-
fer sparrows and oranges with a short caption - or
maybe it’s the artist’s signature? - in
indecipherable far-eastern writing. so, dead
chuffed with my discovery, i carted my newfound
treasure downstairs, took it apart, extracted the
jet, and set about trying to get the sparrows under
the glass instead.
oh boy, was that fun.
the trouble was that the painting was done on
such thin, fragile paper that it made the glass
panel of the frame feel like a chunk of lead by
comparison. it also didn’t help that the painting
wasn’t entirely flat - it had wrinkles in the paper
around where the paint had been applied. it was a
major challenge just to get the delicate artwork in
position under the unforgivingly heavy transparent
slab without doing it any permenant damage. try
once, discover that it’s a few mm out of place, lift
the glass, try again... but i got there in the end.
the picture is slightly smaller than the frame, so it
has a black border around it, which i think goes
well with the darker tones of the orange-tree
branch and the indecipherable caption, and should
help to give the picture some definition when set
against my pale-yellow walls. but having got the
paper and its frame to become one, i now face
another, even bigger dilemma.
out of the 4 or 5 possible picture-hanging spaces
in my room, two of them seem like equally good
contenders to house the sparrows. i’ve tried it in
both, and i don’t know where to put it. should i
have it above the bookcase and printer, or should
i have it next to the door? eenie, meenie, minie,
mo... i dunno.
my mum likes arranging pictures. i’ve lost count of
how many times she’s rearranged the ones around
the rest of the house. so when she gets back from
taking my little sister for a piano lesson, i’ll ask her
where to put it.
...and whichever spot she picks, she’ll probably tell
me it’s a really, really obvious choice. she’s not an
artist as such, but she does seem to have a strong
sense of which picture should go where.
i can’t believe i just wrote so much about a simple
picture frame. that’s ridiculous.
well, i did title this ‘Gratuitous Bloggism’, didn’t i...
Carolyn - Orange Fungi on a Log
 9.

art on tailcast

Head
taro grieves
 10.

Heart
isaac shulz
Top - The Hundreds Of Years Of Beer / Bottom - Blue Skies and Broken Flowers / Right - Now
 13.

Mad Rooster
 14.

ollie
fournier
Predictive Errors
Huseyin - Candy Floss
 16.

Huseyin - Broken Heart

 17.

james thorne
Bec
 18.

Louise
 19.

Becca Thorne - Pomegranate

Becca Thorne - Lemons
collaborate contest

congratulations to ‘Tailcast the Movie’ and

‘IGNORE REWARD SECRET TEST ESCALATE DESTROY’

Tailcast the Movie -

Rosie Short, Ben Spees, Crazydiamond, David Barron, Steff,
Daniel Spees and Cripsy.

Prizes chosen: mary helena ‘fog 3’

oliver day ‘bullfight’ and ‘russian beard’
jon whitby ‘bird’
armida ‘new caledonean crow’
 22.

‘IGNORE REWARD SECRET TEST ESCALATE DESTROY’ -

Reekfeel and Umegoyomi.

Prizes chosen: hejtejp ‘strumpor’

jon whitby ‘bird’
 23.

writing on tailcast

Jack Harrison - Poem 1

Desperately, I call out your name,

To see if you’ll come back around,
How can it be that it won’t work,
Nothing can change reality.

Secretly, I crave to see you again,

That beautiful face, beautiful piercing eyes,
Silky long, shining hair.
Your brilliant features, no rival I find.

Carefully, I carry on forward,

Looking back to the memories,
Remembering the time we shared,
How I wish I could do it all again.

Safely, I treasure everything you gave,

The photos, the memories, all that reminds me,
All I need to stay in touch,
It’s like you never went away.

Endlessly, I hold my pendant close,

Partners forever we said,
One for you, one for me,
Together taking on the world.

Sweetly, the thoughts of you,

Kiss my mind, like everytime you kissed my cheek,
Everytime we said hello,
Everytime we said goodbye.

Nervously, I look to a future without you,

Fondly, I remember every step we walked,
Calmly, I settle back down,
Lovely, are my dreams of you.

Taymaz Valley - Aliens

 25.
ManDartin - All The Unloved
Twenty minutes ago I was asleep
Protected by a million dreams I don’t remember
Which slowly seep into the steam on my coffee
cup
As it makes war against the morning air
Hejtejp - snö på älven
Standing there in pajama pants and t-shirt
The porch’s cold cement reaching through my
socks
Already I am humbled by a thousand thoughts
And Dawn hasn’t even yet arrived
 26.

Neither has it risen for the forgotten Morning coffee is my daily dose of defeat
Who sleep fitfully through these freezing nights How’s that for pessimism?
Or the souls which evil slayed Still, I’ve stumbled out here to drink it
For whom daylight is a newfound longing Waiting upon the morning sunrise

Don’t get me started on all the unloved ... The same one which will rise over all ...

Hejtejp - evvvlina
The smoke from the valley billowed high in to the
air, turning the sky into clouds of gray. For three
days I walked down these tracks gathering all
that I could carry, all the while avoiding drifting
too deep into the outlining cities of what is now
the desolate ruins of the city of angels. Instead I
stayed near to the tracks only daring to leave them
in the less ravished industrial parts of the cities I
have past. Palmdale, Lancaster, Rosemond hell
even Mojave has been ravished by the mobs of
looters. But now standing in the hills near
Tehachapi I knew it would be some time before I
came across any means of supplies.
Tired and worn I threw my pack down onto the
railroad ties and pulled out a cigarette before
sitting on top of it. Pulling my rag off of my face I
breathed in the closest thing to fresh air I’ve had
in weeks. Looking down the tracks I could still see
the smoke rising from the flames of the
valley I once new as home and thought to
myself the world has surly come to end.
Lighting my cigarette I took a deep gratifying drag
and blew the smoke high into the sky, feeling an
odd peace as I watch the cities of the world rain
ash down upon me and thinking to myself that at
least I lived to see the end. I put my hand in front
of my face and admired at how the ashes from the
sky had painted my flesh a light shad of gray.
Taking another puff off of my cigarette I listened to
the soothing sound of absolute nothingness. Not a
car, not a voice, and not even a chirping bird broke
the peace of my surroundings absolute utter
silence. Only the feeling of the wind blowing
through the hills on course to feed the valleys fires
let me know that I was still alive. Then suddenly; as
if to be a deliberate attempt to shatter my peace
I heard a loud crash, followed by the sound of
laughter from just above the ridge behind me.
I held my cigarette until it burned my fingertips,
listening intently for any other sounds to make sure
that my mind was not playing tricks on me and
then finally I heard it.
It was a sound far greater than any Sinatra, any
symphony and by god far greater than any
religious Christian choir. Its was a choir of holy
drunks singing R.E.M.’s song; ‘Its’ the end of the
world as we know it.’
I grabbed my pack and flung it over my shoulders,
trying desperately to climb the steep incline in an
attempt to get on top of the ridge. Digging my
fingers deep into the earth I pulled myself up fist
by fist until finally I stood on top of the ridge and
marveled at what it was that I saw. Like a mirage,
I saw a ash covered saloon the reminded me of
the old spaghetti western flicks I use to watch...
but instead of horses lined up outside it was dust
covered Harley’s and run down pick up trucks. I
stumbled over to the bar disillusioned by its
obscure place and by the thundering sound of
bikers singing its the end of the world, only
stopping to mumble the lyrics that nobody knows.
I heard another loud crash and then witnessed a
man being thrown from out of the front door of the
bar.
“GOD DAMN IT JEB! I told you if you gonna cry
that you gotta do it outside, Damn it!” Said the
man that threw him out.
I looked at the size of the man who seemed to me
to be more of beer belly giant covered in tattoos
than anything else and started to think twice about
going into the bar. He soon noticed me and in
returning my hesitant stare I saw beneath his gray
beard a kind smile form.
“If ya here to drink and be merry this is the place
to be, if otherwise kick rocks.” said the giant
before turning back into the bar.
I paused for a moment until finally I said to hell
with it, knowing I had nothing else to lose. I
walked past the man that had been thrown out as
he sat on his knees, crying into the palms of his
hand. Speechless, the man pulled his hands away
from his face, revealing the streams of tears that
had smeared his soot and ash covered face,
leaving little streaks down his cheeks. With one
hand he pointed to the bar and with the other he
pointed to his head, rotating it to insinuate that the
people inside the bar were crazy. Looking down
on this ruined man I completely understood why it
was they him threw out of the bar. In these times
no one wants to be reminded of what was lost and
that there may very well be no tomorrow. No, in
these days there is only now and you best enjoy
it for it might be your last. With this realization I
no longer looked upon the man with pity but with
disgust for trying to rob me of what little life I may
have left to enjoy. So quickly I turned away from
him and walked into the bar.

J.C. Woolley - On the House
Crispy - Sleepy Whiskey Drinker
28.
Once inside the bar the woes and worries the man
had brought to me were instantly lifted. The crowd
was crazed with a drunken high spirit. R.E.M.’s
song had just ended and now Dolly Parton singing
her song ‘Stand by your man’ blared through the
jukebox.
Underneath my breath I chuckled to myself saying
if I was to die tomorrow I could die happy at just
knowing that I witnessed 20 or 30 of the toughest
bikers I have ever seen singing this song drunk
and on the brink of tears. Brushing the humor
aside I walked up to the bar and noticed that it
was the giant I first saw coming into the bar who
was serving drinks.
“What are you havin’?” he asked.
“Two shots of bourbon and one cold one.”
“We ain’t got no cold beer but we got beer,” he
said studying my face and waiting to see what my
response was.
“Warm is fine.” I replied firmly.
“Good man, good man” he said pleased with my
response.
As the giant poured my shots and got me my beer
I thought to myself how am I gonna pay this man.
After all what good is money now days. But then
again I have cartons of smokes I found and those
are worth gold. When the bar tender returned with
my beer I pulled out a pack of smokes and offered
it to him, which he declined. Opening the pack I
grabbed a fresh smoke and lit it.
“I guess nowadays you can smoke in bars again?”
I asked jokingly.
“Sure as hell ain’t no law against it.” he said with a
chuckle.
“Well then if you wont take smokes then what do I
owe you?”
“ Its on the house.”
“On the house?” I asked in a distrusting manner.
“Like everything else, nowadays.” he said with
a smile pointing out the window to the billowing
smoke from the burning cities. Where the masses
were looting all the overpriced shops and where
the people were turning the house of the rich into
charities for the poor. Well at last everything in this
world was finally on the house I thought to myself
and in knowing this I couldn’t help but smile.
“Well in that case,” I said turning to the bartender,
“Salude.”
I picked up the shots and handed one to him.
“Salude,” he said and then we both drank them
down. in to the air, turning the sky into clouds of
Yellowsubmarine - Thoughts
 30.

Penitent - Language

An ancient arboreal adventure, aggregated around awesome ash and

Beautiful beech, beyond basic bounds built by bleeding, blemished
Couples, cavorting carelessly, ceaselessly! Certainly cuckolds,
Drama dripped down dreary distances, dissapointed, disillusioned,
Eloping, ever encompassing everything! Erstwhile, elsewhere,
Fingers, fronds, fumbling furiously for further filandering futures,
Girls garnering games, gambles, giggling, gowns glittering,
However, held herein hide huge, horrifying, horrendous,
Issues, ignonimy. Irrespective intentions imagine illusions,
Jumping, jeering, jesting. Just... just.... jittery, jilted,
Kreening, krepuscular killers! Knowing, knocking,
Lithe, litigious lilliputian lovers, lost, looking literally,
Murderous! Moreover, masculin, muscular mountains, moving
Now nearer! “Nevermore!” named numerous nubile nymphs,
Overcome, overbeared of ‘orney, officious officers of
Persephone, punctually performing previously procured
Quibbles. Quite quadrapedal, quality quantifying quarantine,
Repugant, resentful. Reeking rather, reeling round, remembering,
Sycophantic systems subconsious. Set surrounding screaming
Troglodtes, troubled throughout their tiny, trembling,
Ubiqutious, unabridged utterings. Ugly! Unbearable!
Vicious, vile. Vissituidal vengance vested, voreciferious!
Without wit, wisdom. Wild weapons withering,
Xenophobes! Xanthobic... xenarthra?
You’re.... yammering? Yourself, you. Yoghurt?
Zalophus? Zealously? Zanzibarian zebra?

I’m afraid I don’t understand.

 31.
Golden - When I Was Seventeen
BehindBlueEyes - Point Reyes8
I was seventeen years, three months and
two days old on 23rd October 1956, the
day that I fell in love. I suppose I should
count myself lucky really. But perhaps you
should decide.

That year, I was living with my parents in
Budapest. They were away on some important
business in Paris at the time, leaving me alone in
the house. It happened on the third day they were
away: I heard rumours of police stations and
libraries being taken over, not by soldiers but by
ordinary people, students and people my age.
And rumours were all I thought they were at first.
But one story turned into many, and before long,
everyone was talking about revolution. Crowds
were parading through the streets, carrying flags
and cheering. I needed to join in. I was taken along
by one of the many groups streaming through the
lanes of Buda and eventually deposited in Trinity
Square by the town hall where there was a large
gathering.
I made my way into the building and was pressed
into service making hot drinks and preparing food
for the many groups that had made their way into
the city from the surrounding countryside. It was
an exciting time. We had freed our country from
communism.
And so it was, towards the end of that long and
happy day passing out food, smiling and talking
to anyone, that I saw him through the crowd. As I
turned to him, he smiled and looked away. I
carried on working and he surprised me, asking for
something to eat, for something to drink and then
for someone to kiss. He was confident. He told me
of his part in the revolution: he made me laugh;
and he made me cry. And he made me happy. He
walked me home and then he kissed me. I must
have dreamed of him that night because when I
awoke I felt everything was going to be fine.
32.
But everything was not fine. There were more
rumours, this time of the Russians returning with
tanks. My parents had not managed to contact
me. I met him at the town hall and we walked. He
told me of his life, his large family, where he lived,
how he loved the way I brushed my hair across
my eyes, how I skipped when I wanted to catch
up with him, and how he loved me. And over that
couple of days, I fell in love with him.
Then he wasn’t there. He left a message for me at
the town hall. He had gone back to his village. He
needed to see his family, to understand what was
happening there. I waited. At the start of
November, my family returned. They said we had
to leave, that the Russians were coming. I went to
his village and found his family. He had left, they
said. To fight the Russians. They had tanks and
he knew how to make Molotov cocktails. He was
brave, they said. It was pointless, I thought.
And I was sad. I left them my address in Paris.
They told me they would give it to him when he
returned. And I knew then that he would not.
So here in Paris, I look at my husband: a beer in
one hand, a cigarette in the other. We have five
children, and twelve grandchildren. And I suppose
that I could count myself lucky. You can tell me.
“You are lucky,” he says, looking sideways at me. I
smile. And I know. I am lucky. I am lucky they told
him he was too young to throw a Molotov
cocktail. That he must count tanks instead and
then go home. And I am lucky that his family gave
him my address and told him to escape the
country.
 33.
There are some advantages, but I don't want there
Jodamme - Accepting Things to be. The funny thing about dyslexia is that
normally - out of say, 6 measurements - half will
show the dyslexic as surpremely disadvantaged,
I think, in all future references, I should refer to
and the other half will show them as
this state as being 'projected by retrospect'. This
above-average in terms of ability. These
is a state which applies to all people to an extent,
measurements are something like: handwriting,
but is particulary noticable when discovered in
memory, reading, speech, grammar and spelling.
isolated elements of our character. Or maybe it's
Because of that, some dyslexics actually have
not, now that I think about it. I'm probably making
incredible talents at memory, and some are more
justifications, I'm expanding something small to
than capable of consturcting sentences fluently.
remove the personal - emotive - illogical boundries
These two measurments are probably where I
surrounding it. Making my relative clinical, when it
diverge most though - although I'm really quite
should be personal; hospitalising humanity,
happy with my ability to construct writing clearly,
sanitising sentience, and now I'm just producing
my memory is my absolute weakest point.
phrases that'd make perfect alternative rock album
titles (albeit circa 1992-'94).
It's not just a small thing to me, it's my whole
world. I can't keep numbers or dates or even
I think a lot of things are on my mind. But again,
names in my short-term memory whatsoever. And,
saying that, I feel like I'm more aware of this
you know, I don't really tell a lot of people that,
personal state-change through the absense of
because it actually sounds incredibly scary to say
features, rather than the surplus of symptoms
it out loud. I feel like a complete freak, some sort
(I believe this is known as negative diagnosing,
of modern day memento character, and yet I know
although in this sense it seems more like negative
it's only half the story. Because the other half, and
speculation).
I believe this is incredibly important, is my
emotional memory; this is strong, this is powerful,
I haven't written in awhile, and for that I feel a
and this saves my life. Names don't really matter
creative backlog (such a beautiful phrase!) may be
to me - I remember faces perfectly well - and most
causing some slight disfocus to the topic at hand.
importantly, I remember how they make me feel.
A few days ago, at my university, I was diagnosed
It's the emotional things - and I like to think that I
with dyslexia and dyspraxia. Now, there are a
have more appreciation for them than I'd have
number of things which popped into my head - the
otherwise if my head was boggled down with
first being that, unlike some aquried ailment,
technical details. Names will eventually come
dyslexia is considered to be something which
anyway, if I see the person very regularly.
you've always had. The diagnosis is less about
discovering it, more about revealing it; because of
However, again, the two-sided nature of dyslexia
this, it's hard to express personal mourning at the
is apparant. My memory is actually extremely
situation. Is mourning the right word? I think it is - I
good at remembering situations, at remembering
think part of self-acceptance is to honestly grieve
expressions - movements, contacts, gestures. I
when you encounter an unfixable, inherant
can remember perfectly almost every house I've
problem about yourself. Anything else can be
ever been inside - the small details, the scratches
changed, this can only be managed.
on the green ping-pong ball board in the upstairs
room. I can close my eyes and remember tiny
Don't get me wrong: I'm well aware that dyslexia is
details, things most people would miss, about
a tiny thing in the grand scheme of human
anywhere I've been. This is a skill I've only
problems. But you know what, thinking like that
recently begun to realize I have, and it's one I've
doesn't help anyone; someone always has a
just started to test more and more. A few nights
larger problem, someone always has a worse life,
ago, lying in bed, I closed my eyes and imaged
someone always requires attention more than you
walking around my old home, in America. It all shot
do - it's a battle you can't win, so I won't even try.
into my mind like a bullet, everything - it was
Sometimes things are just personal, and that's all.
brilliant, fantastic, and it made me cry slightly.
 34.
Coming to terms with all of this is taking time, and
it's something I hope I'll be able to do. In small
ways it's incredibly weird, but in others I'm starting
to embrace it.

Natalie Kay - There Always

 35.
Taymaz Valley - Our Town
Our town is not big,
Certainly not a big city.
It’s not small either,
No way a village.
You might not think to look at it
From the sky, or driving through,
But you can find anything here,
From a bag of weed to imported brew.
We have all sorts in our town:
Young and old; painters and poets;
Wizards and Witches,
High society and Pros.
There is a sign welcoming all,
And you’re sure to find a smile,
A wave and a honk hello, or even
 A nod as you walk down the road.
Our pubs are always full.
Our clubs play the best music.
Our street lights are always on,
You’re sure to get a “mind how you go”.
There are lovers everywhere
Our river has loveboats,
So if you want to fall in love,
You should give our town a go.
It’s New Year all year round
As merry nights unfold.
You’ll never get too drunk,
And it’s never too cold.
We have no policemen,
No criminals and Courts.
No need to bring any money
No one in our town is poor.
Our town defies convention,
You shan’t find it on any map.
So, if you want to get here
You just have to have faith in its existence.
If you haven’t found it
Don’t despair, just dream.
Maybe you can build one of your own
If you know what I mean.
Klarabella - Street
groups on tailcast

bunny army

Bunny Army L-R - AB Wadud / Tom / Jon / Oli

 38.

well the basic idea is to take the template:

http://www.tailcast.com/uploads/images/normal/400x550.6361af79b3a2152
a2092f94260d8ff95.jpeg
and draw / paint and whatever else anyone wants to do with it and post it
on this web site either on the wall or as a picture with the tag ‘bunny army’
for me to use in my current project, I will then do something with them all
and post it when I am finished which should be May sometime as that is my
deadline. please make sure I know whose done what because I cannot use
them otherwise thank you all you lovely people.

it is also good fun and relaxing

and just as an extra incentive I might give a little prezzy to my favourite one
but don’t get too excited it will probably be something rubbish like a blank
key or a comb, I might splash out and get a chocolate bar, and it would have
to be light and small because I would probably have to send it to you. : D
 “
“ Never interrupt someone doing what you said
couldn’t be done.
- Amelia Earhart

a social network for artists, writers and musicians

to share their work and collaborate
Tailspin is copyright of tailcast.com All work herein is copyright of the respective tailcast
members. Commercial use, publication or syndication without consent is prohibited.