CuiousPages - fiction and nonfiction
CuriousPages - fiction and nonfiction
I was walking along the street on a sunny day with my heart lifted and step lightened and all my memories forgotten as I smiled for no reason and sang a melody that had not yet been invented and all around me I saw only saints. The air was warm with comfort as I passed that yellow and green poster announcing the delights of chocolate. I hummed the next verse, which had also not yet been invented—but I was trying. And the sound of traffic was invisible to my ears as my mind listened to the sea washing ashore a sandy beach. I thought I could feel my bare feet sinking in the soft sand and then I noticed the door. There were always doors. This one was standing in a shadow, not trying to conceal itself, not trying to pretend to be anything other than a door, a plain, black door. Only, in the sun, I almost missed it. For some reason, it stood out; it stood out to me. I stopped and tried its handle. Of course, it opened. I somehow knew I was supposed to enter, so why would it have not opened?—there was no part of me that expected to meet any resistance. I stepped inside, closed the door and found myself in an endless gallery of my own memories. Each wall contained a carefully laid out display with painstakingly typed descriptions attached to each memory.
Before long, I had lost my way. I stepped through room after room, turned corners that should have returned me to the outdoors but instead only transported me further backwards and then sideways and then forwards and then backwards again in time. I was lost.
I came to a halt in a room called ‘Melancholy’. I did not know how I got there and could see no way out. The light was low and my lungs seemed to have no interest in working. I could feel a distinct weight attached to my heart. Something, from some picture somewhere on those walls, seemed to be attempting to pull me down into some suffocating darkness where life itself seemed afraid to go. I wanted to leave. The show was not to my liking.
“Tell me how to get out of here,” I thought. “Someone show me the exit; I want to get out and feel the daylight again.”
I would have shouted it but I knew there was no point. No-one would have heard. There was just me in there alone, parading around amongst my own memories.
I took a seat and began studying a picture. I saw no-one, heard no-one, could see no place, nor purpose; all I was aware of was that weight attached to my heart; the more I looked, the more I felt it and the less I saw. And then I noticed myself falling onto a knife. My right hand held it deliberately, its handle pressed against the floor and its sharp point entering my body as the earth pulled me down onto it. Then I noticed myself jumping from a height. At last, I could see some purpose and that weight began to lessen. The pictures in the room brightened; they at last seemed to make sense and I could see them all clearly. But the room frightened me. I wanted to shout again, “Someone, show me how to get out of here.” But I knew no-one would hear.
“Ridiculous!”
“Of course it is, of course. Sack the lot of them; that’s what I say; let Miss Volcano‑gob have a go!”
Primrose’s mouth hung open.
Thomas said, “She was gangbanged, you know.”
Primrose’s mouth closed. As the others looked on, she appeared to be standing on a boat whose sails had collapsed about her. In the next instant, they could almost visibly see her fumbling about on the deck, trying to re‑erect its defective sails. Sally and Francis looked on with their brows knitting frenziedly while Roland’s mouth—like the movement of a shark’s fin gliding eagerly through the water—slowly formed into an ever bigger smirk at the sight of her difficulty.
She got her boat’s sails back up again and resumed her attack, waving her weapon at Roland even more ferociously, “Five thousand names. They all agree, five thousand!—you’re all incompetent. So, just what are you doing about this?—five weeks, you’ve had—five weeks, and there’s still a mass murderer loose.”
Roland puffed up his plumage again, opened his mouth and was about to respond when Thomas said, “She was married to a mass murderer—or so they said.”
Primrose turned to Thomas and snapped, “What do you think you’re doing?”
Thomas snapped back at Primrose, “Her!”
Francis shouted, “What—?”
Thomas shouted, “Her! her!—who do you think I mean?”
Primrose shouted, “What—?”
Thomas said, as if to no‑one in particular, “—Doesn’t know what she’s saying; she’ll say anything—she’ll even say she fancies cripples—” he looked round at everyone, his facial expression instructing them about just how disgusting this was, “—cripples!—you can’t believe a thing. And she even thinks she’s a bat—ha! what did I tell you?—a bat!”

Nonfiction

Secrets of the Hidden Vessels

Secrets of the Hidden Vessels

Nonfiction. This book clearly explains Chinese acupuncture. It describes which parts of the Nei Jing are fact based, metaphorical, or untrue; identifies the conflicting Nei Jing theories on metabolism, and which are true or untrue; and key concepts such as the Chinese medicine organ functions are also clearly explained in relation to contemporary physiology.

The book provides students or practitioners with an indispensible guide to properly understanding the Chinese medicine of the Nei Jing. And it also enables Chinese medicine to be explained to patients using terms they can understand. Read more>> 

The Trouble with Conversation

The Trouble with Conversation: Nonfiction. Understand what it is and is not possible to communicate about and why unpleasant people are an invention of our own mind.
A fascinating read for anyone who’s interested in everyday communication and the related relationship problems. Read more>> 

Traditional Chinese Medicine

Sketchbook
Nonfiction. My notes on the writing of fiction, on Chinese Medicine phenomena, on travel, people, dreams, and other topics. Read more>> 

 

 

 

Traditional Chinese Medicine

Traditional Chinese Medicine
Nonfiction. Articles and Essays on various aspects of Traditional Chinese Medicine, mainly focusing on acupuncture. Read more>> 

Sawing up my sofa
An account of... well, sawing up my sofa. Features a series of step by step photos on how to saw up your sofa. Read more>>