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Maxx England


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Posted Sat Sep 13th, 2008 12:22pm Post subject: Maxx Scribbling
I put this on Big Road Blues, more to follow:

http://bigroadblues.com/forum/viewtopic.php?f=27&t=8340

The only way is forward. Now where's the bar?

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PamJH


Member

Posted Sat Jan 17th, 2009 2:14am Post subject: Maxx Scribbling
I put this on Big Road Blues, more to follow:

http://bigroadblues.com/forum/viewtopic.php?f=27&t=8340

I liked the picture of Rudolph. My son likes to make computer pictures. He's working on a series he calls "Ice Imps." I'm letting him design our Christmas cards this year.

Pam

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Maxx England


Member

Posted Mon Jan 19th, 2009 6:51pm Post subject: Maxx Scribbling
Paintbrush is wonderful. It lets me compile images far better than my poor coordination ever could. Hope your son carries on with it for pleasure. Profit's OK too, beats working for a living.

The only way is forward. Now where's the bar?

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PamJH


Member

Posted Tue Jan 20th, 2009 4:00am Post subject: Maxx Scribbling
Paintbrush is wonderful. It lets me compile images far better than my poor coordination ever could. Hope your son carries on with it for pleasure. Profit's OK too, beats working for a living.

He uses our ancient iMac's AppleWorks painting and drawing programs. I'm sure newer programs are even better, but he seems to do OK with this.

He also loves cartooning. I think he'd like to get into that for a career, but he's only 13 and still has some time to decide (like his whole life!).

Pam

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Maxx England


Member

Posted Tue Jan 20th, 2009 1:24pm Post subject: Maxx Scribbling
Let's just hope he finds something enjoyable, clean, indoors and reliable. But it's all going to have to be down to him.

My father sidetracked me from what I wanted to do at school, which I had hoped would lead me into industrial design, and had me learning French instead. Unwilling students don't do well. About all I can do now is remember the French for wine, bread and bathroom; and I'm physically knackered from a lifetime of crappy and physically hard labour.

Got any friends/family/acquaintances who ride motorcycles? From earlier in the scribblings section, this little offering, they might or might not like it:

Written a couple of years ago, about a journey from Birmingham to Barmouth. An attempt at alliterative verse and a prayer in the wind that there shall be other petrolhead poets abroad:



Maxx England: trip

So, the boots are on and key clicks in the lock,
Door swings, daylight on bars and saddle.
Roll the beast backwards and sidestand down.

Door locked and load the bag on the back,
Swing into the seat and flick to run.
A hundred and half a hundred miles to the coast.

The twin rumbles behind raked out forks,
Feet forward to the rests, hands wide to the grips.
One mile to the first fuel, air, check the bag.

And away, local roads to the back of nowhere,
With houses washed with long history.
Back to trickle through suburban traffic now.

Toward the tourist trap, stay inside the limit,
Right at the Golden Cross and let it loose.
Green tree tunnel, tarmac ribbon, yahoo slalom.

Roll it on, racket under you, shut off for the bend,
Pour the coals back on, surge forward, heart sings.
Gears and levers, tilt till your boots chamfer.

Feel the rhythm and the groove of the ride,
Bugs spraying on the helmet, V twin heaven.
Softly through the little town and on.

The A road, cloaked in fields and brokers’ cottages,
Black and white half timbered wealth.
Run to the front at the roadworks queue.

On and roll and on and roll and roll, roll, roll,
Swing and run and charge the remembered way.
And thunder pouring from open pipes.

Around the civil war city, in the beyond now,
Road curves and climbs towards the border.
Thirsty. Pull in for tea on high on a hill.

Off and now and north, fuel light showing,
Turn off the A to fill the futile little tank.
Away again to chase miles and the journey’s end.

Left! See that sign beckoning, here’s the turn,
Road narrows and now a new slalom meander.
The tunnel, the tube starts to close in again.

The highway snakes up and down and rise and dip,
Bike wanders, lurches on lost damping.
And endless tunnel, funnel, channel, green and grey.

Big shop on the left over the hill then swing right,
The border line changes road sign language.
Araf! Pergyl! Miltir, foreign unfamiliar.

Twin thunder echoes everlasting from the banks,
Road steeper, sharper then straight and back.
Names on the map become known places.

Here’s the big climb, stone walls clench the road,
Car struggling as the iron heart hauls.
Backwheel spin slide curve launch past the hatchback.

Top of the world, high and wild, grass and sun.
By farms, by fields, by farriers.
Thundering descent into an ancient town.

Out again, hurrying through the stone edged hills,
Mind knowing nothing but motion.
The warning light laments another dry tank.

Friendly gravity leads to petrol, benzin, gasoline,
Down a drink, walk, straighten legs.
And know the pain of a thinly padded seat.

Final leg, last miles by a river to meet up,
Now surf and salt, coast road and beach.
And into the seaside town of Kiss-Me-Quick hats.

Round the last, ultimate, final, corner, bend,
Over the café wall waved welcome.
Pull in, press kill, subside.

The only way is forward. Now where's the bar?

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