Finley McKay’s Gate

:::Alluvial Mine:::


The Personality of A Front Door

74f1f1aec503d76fd64ed227dc5394f6.jpgFinley McKay waits on the other side of her splintered, warped and weather-beaten gate.

 The world rushes by Finley, her gate and her home every minute of everyday on a well traveled road lined with trees and traffic lights.

Yet somehow it happens that nobody notices Finley’s gate, or Finley or her deep dark eyes that watch everything but see nothing.


I could tell you that once upon a time a curious woman named Finley McKay did something dark and evil behind that gate, but that would not be true.

I could say something wicked and restless roams Finley’s gardens or wanders through her home, opening and closing doors but that’s not true either.


The air in Finley’s home is old and stale. Nothing has moved in her home for years- even the dust in Finley’s home is lifeless and quiet.

Just like Finley herself.

When she wanders through her garden or her home and makes her way to the gate she moves as quiet as a shadow.

She almost looks like a shadow.

Or maybe the light pulls back from Finley and her emptiness and the darkness seeks her out and clings to her, just like the dust.


Sometimes Finley sleeps, but even when she closes her eyes she can still see the world beyond her gate.

She can see the road, the trees lining the sidewalks, she sees  people on bikes, cats sunning themselves in green yards an squirrels stealing seed from bird feeders.

So Finley gets up from her rest, she wanders to her gate she puts her hand on the latch and she tries to lift it.

And then she draws her hand back.

” It’s not for you Finley Mckay” she says in a voice that sounds like dried autumn leaves being crunched underfoot.

She steps back from her gate, her face a stone mask, her heart silent in her chest, her hands as cold and stiff as the day the funeral director placed them on her chest.

She would like to open her eyes, to see the world once again to lift the latch on her gate and walk to the corner where the park is and sit in the sun or the moonlight and feel the air alive and moving on her skin again.


Maybe we could do it together.

We could go to where Finley is, we could open the gate and let her out.

She could walk with us.



Forever, My Sweet

:::Alluvial Mine:::


Have races with yourself to see how many words you can get on to the page. Take a visual symbol from a magazine and then write for ten minutes without stopping.


Desire, inspire, I’d write songs about you, poems about and  when I take you in my hand and raise you to my lips I wonder…

How many calories are you exactly my dear?

Will you make me fat? Diabetic? Will I gorge myself on you until I burst?

Are you made from scratch or did you come from a box shipped from a factory in an anonymous town on an anonymous road that Google couldn’t find if it tried with all of it’s Googley talents?

Is your frosting sweet and fluffy or crunchy and stale, like a piece of last year’s Halloween candy stuck to the bottom of a plastic Jack-O-Lantern?

Vintage Paper Mache Jack-O-Lanter Trick or Treat Bucket

Who created you and why?

Did they weep for joy the first time they tasted you? Decorated you? Did they swoon with love the first  time they put you on your specially designed  pedestal for all the world to see?


Did they truly see you? Appreciate you?

 Did the world admire you as much as your creator?

Could they possible understand what a magnificent creation you are?

I love you my dear sweet Red Velvet Cupcake.

Nothing created on this Earth has enchanted me as completely  you have.


You might not have a face, lips, you can’t keep me company or warm.

But I don’t care because….

I can sink my teeth into you and take you bite for bite or I can pop you into my mouth and drain the frosting from you before I chew and crush you to a fine red paste





a thing about it.


Stage Left



The World’s A Stage

Take a seat, please choose a seat, you are after all our guest of honor tonight.

It’s been several years since anyone has taken the stage here to perform a play, or an opera and its been ages since the symphony played here.

But tonight, just for you the curtain will go up, the house lights will go down and the story you’ll see tonight will take your breath away, stop your heart make your spirit sing.

The music will ring in your ears and the actors!

Some may call them over the top, a little full of themselves but do we expect less of our players? We do not.

I know, this Grand Old Theatre doesn’t look like much, it is the corpse of far grander place that belonged to a golden time. But you can you feel it?

It still has so much to tell us- the plays, the music the life that rushed around on the stage, all of that vivacity  just soaked itself into the wood and plaster and brick.

Listen! I can hear the actors back stage can you? Bickering over costumes and lines, rushing around, frantically whispering or bellowing their lines.

Just now they are putting last minute touches to makeup, to costumes. The are all readying themselves for that moment when the curtain goes up and the first line, that first breath that brings it all to life happens

Can you feel it?

Can you?


” Mr. Holworth, Simon! Can  you hear me? Simon we need for you to BREATHE Simon. Come on…”

He could hear the blood rushing in his head, he could feel the unbearable pressure in the middle of his chest.

He felt a hand take his arm


And it led him down an aisle close to the stage

It’s Curtains  Mr. Holworth, are you ready to see the play now?


It’s a lovely piece- I think you’ll enjoy it.

Ah. The lights are going down.

Please Mr. Holworth, sit here. It’s the best seat in the house and you are after all our guest honor.


Good. Now enjoy yourself. Please say you will . Wonderful! I’ll see you after the show.

And if I don’t, I’ll wish you a good night now.


To Have A Certain Magic



As I start this writer’s journey to the Alluvial Mine ( and I’ve been on this journey for a very long time ) I come across a young man standing at the crossroads as I walk by.

He has a guitar in his hands, I have a backpack in mine.

” I used to play.” I tell him.

He nods and smiles.

” I don’t anymore, it’s in my blood though, I can feel it there. Know what I mean?”  I hold my hands up ” Sometimes I can feel the strings, the frets at no particular time. I think I’m haunted by it. Do you think it’s possible? To be haunted by your guitar?”

He smiles, tips his hat and walks away.

I watch the young man  make his way down that dusty road in the middle of nowhere, guitar in hand all alone in the world. Before he disappears from sight I can hear him singing.

Legend says that Robert Johnson sold his soul at the Crossroads so that he could become the greatest bluesman ever.

I’ve never taken with to that story- saying Johnson sold his soul to gain that talent is like saying Aliens built the pyramids. Bottom line is, you needed a soul- even if it was  troubled- to play the blues the way he did



Now it’s my turn to go through the Crossroads.

I turn in the opposite direction and there is my stretch of road  and unlike Johnson ( I think ) there is someone waiting for me.

Expecting me.

I’m not surprised to see him at all.


I intend to walk right by Him.

But it’s not so easy to do.

” On our way again?”

I stop. “I’ve been through here a few times. That is true.”

He stands walks towards me and yes his eyes are yellow.

” You must be tired of this stretch of road by now. Tell me. How does it feel to know you’ve been walking it mile for mile with nothing to show for it except for the dust that’s worked it’s way into your hair, your mouth,” he draws his finger across my cheek and held it up to his eyes. ” Your skin.”

” What’s your point.” I spit a mouthful of the stuff at our feet.

” My point” the Devil put his face to mine ” is that it’s time for you to give it up. You’ll never get to where you’re going. You will try and try and you will fail.”

I shouldered my  backpack.

” What have you in there? A notebook? No. Perhaps a book written by a better writer then you? I know. An opened package of pens and a ream of blank paper. Am I close? I am aren’t I?” The Devil throws his head back and laughs.

It’s a full hearted, merry, eye watering laugh.

I was tired.  Dusty.  But mostly I was worn out and discouraged.

He knew what I was thinking and he showed me his teeth, or was that a smile?

And then right there at the Crossroads, just as I was about to turn around, from nowhere I remembered how my Mom used to give me grief for- my ‘smart mouth’.

So I opened it and said, ” It’s the head of the last son of a bitch who tried to stop me. Step aside. We’ve got nothing else to say to each other.”

He  does step aside and as I pass he actually kicks some dirt up at me.

” I’ll be here the next time you pass by…and the next… AND THE NEXT…count on it.”

I faced my road and I started to walk and as I got further away from the Cross Road I saw something ahead of me.

For the first time I  actually see something ahead of me.

It  was a tree and next to it was a sign.

I stopped dead in my dusty tracks.

” Really?” I called out “REALLY?”


I pass the sign and as I do I wonder where I can find a pick and a shovel.

I think I’m going to need them.


Journey Through The Alluvial Mine


The human mind is like an alluvial mine. Below the surface of the ground is that area of mental and emotional activity which carries with it all the mental and emotional activity which have been experienced by the individual. The mine contains a volumne of experience and reality. Within it are creative powers beyond belief.

– H. Blakley

The First Writing Journey I’m going to embark on is down into the Alluvial Mines.

I chose to do this one first because as a want-to-be archeologist the idea of digging for ruins and bringing them to light again appeals to me.

Let’s start digging and see what we can come up with, shall we?


As you can see if you take a peek at the Map(To find all the links on the map of the mine you need to use your mouse intuitively. Links are scattered throughout. Like all alluvial mining this requires a ‘bit of digging’) it may take longer then a day or two to complete a task.


Daily Writing is a MUST on this journey  so I’ll be posting something about my Journey  through the Soul Food Café  and my writing adventures on a daily basis.


By far the largest area of the mind, the subconscious, is built up with associated sense impressions and memories dating back to the womb. This submerged area of mentation is the creative part of the mind, a wonderland of mystery. According to Carl Jung, the famous Swiss psychiatrist, it is the area which contains a summary and reservoir of race, memory and accumulated skills. It is the submerged part which is the powerhouse from which radiates the most illuminating inspirations of artistic genius. It is synonymous with Mnemosyne, goddess of memory and mother of the Muses. 

– H. Blakley

You can find my Map Through the Alluvial Mine