Ramona sat in her veranda contemplating the last few weeks. Which, seeing how full they were, felt more like months.

Her apartment never did get finished. It turned out Nathan wasn’t quire as enamoured with her spontaneity and quirky ways as he thought he was. And so they fizzled out. And even if she was earning a tidy sum, it wasn’t a salary for two, and he wasn’t going to afford that place on her own.

But, as luck would have it, a couple she knew were off traveling for a year and they offered her their place to sit for a year.

Mona moved their stuff into storage and her stuff in – including all her new possessions – lamps, candles, lights, lanterns.

“Maybe” she reasons. “I’m he house of lights. I am Ra Mona – the Sun Goddess.” She blushed at the thought of it now, and thought, somewhat sadly, that it was probably that straw which broke the camel’s back between her and Nathan.

Still, they gave the place some atmosphere, and she liked that her energy bill was going to be nonexistent for a couple of  months.

“Enough of this.” She announced.

She closed her eyes and tried again.


Her initial attempts at meditation were guided. Not having a clue where to start, she went out and bought a stack of CDs with breathing instructions and forest sounds.

They just made her want to piss.

And those were the ones without the pan pipes.

So now she was  au natural.


Focus on your breathing.







Empty your mind. Focus only on your breathing.

Slowly inhale, slowly exhale.

Well. This is going ok.

I’m acing this focus thing. I have no idea why I thought it was hard.

All it is is listening to my breathing. Look

That’s in.

And that’s out.

This is in

And thi-



Breathing. Counting down from 10 to 1.

And 10.

Relaxing the legs, feeling the stress and tension drift away.


Feeling the weigh of my body in my legs.


Witness the tension and stress drain from my chest.


Hear the beat of my heart, and the roar of my breath.


Now my arms and shoulders.


Focus on the shoulders. Loosen any tension left there.


Now my neck.


Finally my head, Relax my head, but keep the line straight, so it sits upright, facilitating my breathing.


Feel, and accept, the weight of my body. Relaxed, with no stress.

And on 1, remove all verbal thought.



Ramona sits. She breaths deeply and clearly.

She is in her veranda, the windows gateways to the world outside, and barriers to it.

Like her eyes and mind. The gateways to Not Her, but barriers to it now – as she focuses inwards.

She feels a sense of happiness.

She looks so calm.

So happy.

So…who is she describing this to?

Her mind should be blank.




“Forget one hand clapping, is that the sound of me snoring?”

She snapped her eyes open with a snort.



Something was different that last time. Her mind did focus on a single thought. It kept that thought, span it around in her mind.

And – at a timeless point in her meditation – she felt…something.

An outpouring.

In her contemplative state she examined the outpouring, saw it was energy, was content with that, and continued to focus on the thought.

When she started to come out, her meditative state reminded her that there had been an energy fluctuation and she emerged excited and rejuvenated.

Outside in the garden she had set up a summoning triangle – a place where she could contain anything she created safely, until she decided if it should be loosed on the world.

Triangle for summonings, circles for summoners.

She hoped.

She pulled open the door and saw her first success.



Today’s photo was supplied by Tine Sørensen

The Mona’s – Ra-, and the new, sunless Mona – opened their eyes. As the fires burned, they were connected. Ramona saw the whole of everything: The moments of connection, everywhere, every when, that Mona could connect to.

Ramona thought she’d throw up, and closed her eyes again, breaking the connection as she moved Mona to memory.

She opened her eyes again. “The cameras are the wrong way round. Why are they the wrong way round.”

She felt the ground against her back. “Maybe I’m the wrong way round? Why am I the wrong way round?”


Santa knew why he was on his back. He was strapped to an altar.

His existential crisis had raised a few notches.

“Now, while you’re an idea, and your utter destruction would take making everyone who knows about you…” The Bad idea used a tentacle to pull imagined fluff from its suit. “Forget.”

“But – you can feel pain.” He leaned in, its tentacles crawled over Santa’s face. “You can feel pain, can’t you?”

Santa was too afraid to even nod. Not that it mattered.

“Well, really. Who cares. Let’s do this, anyway.”

It plunged its hand into Santa’s chest. Felt the bones crack and give, felt them tear at its unwholesome flesh. Felt the sting as its blood ate into Santa’s wound.

Felt Santa’s Heart.

His big, healthy, beating heart.

And pulled it out.

All over the world, Children started crying.


All except one.

Simon was being given a lesson in the timelessness of dream.

He was running through a swamp. His feet were not moving fast enough.

Tears streamed down his face.

Behind him were sounds. A sloughing, heaving, giggling sound.

And as fast as Simon was trying to go, it was faster. Sometimes if was in front of him, forcing him back, sometimes behind. Always just out of sight – outlines and shapes suggesting something that he didn’t want to see.


“You’re looking pale, there, Fatman. Is it because you don’t have any blood in you?”

Santa gasped weakly.

The Bad Idea sighed. “You’re no fun like that. Let’s have that original idea back.”

Santa took a huge gasp of air as his body returned to normal.

“We’ll be doing that again. Now, you know what we’re doing to your helper. To make it stop, tell he what you did with the tomato.”

“Is…is that what you want to know?”

The Idea seemed taken aback. “Well…of course.”

“But I don’t know how that worked?!”

The was a silence.

“Wrong answer. Kill the boy. Reset him.”


Simon stopped running. Everything had gone quiet. He tried to hold his breath.

To make sure it was gone.

All he could hear was his heart pumping in his ears.

“Bequietbequietbequietbequietbequietbequietbequiet” over and over. A mantra for safety.

The silence was deadly.

Which made the noise that the creature made when it dropped on Simon all the more awful.


Simon wet the bed.


Santa screamed noiselessly before slumping back on the slab, sobbing uncontrollably. “He was just a child. Why would you do that?”

The Bad Idea chortled. “Oh come now. Dead is no use to me. We’re just warming up. That little charade took about 5 minutes where he was. We can do this all night.” Its voice hardened. “And we will. Until you tell me what I want to know!”


Ramona could hear a child crying, and remembered the boy with the book. She tried to sit up but Nathan grabbed her. “You fainted. It must be the heat. Are you ok?”

She nodded. “The cameras are the wrong way around,” she said weakly.

The child stopped crying.

“Nathan. You know how you love me for my spontaneity?”

Nathan nodded.

“I need to learn to meditate.”


Today’s photo was supplied by Henrik Chulu.

In blank fields, as barren as sheets of paper and holding as much potential, stands a tree.

It has stood for all time, and no time at all. It was built; planted.

And frozen.

Encased in its branches is the idea of a child, who is also a child with an idea. In his hands is a book. A book as blank as the fields the tree sits in. A idea of a child who – being of no time and all time – knew that he would wait half a life time for a little girl to grow up and meet him in a waking world. Knew he would be frozen for all of those years to pass in less time than the blink of an eye.

But this changes. Now.

Now the searing heat of awakening burns the ice from the tree. The book – once blank – bleeds inky ideas into the ground around it.

The pressure released will heard as a  roaring thunder; the physical shock of having a damn of ideas break will destroy balance. Reason will be disconnected as lunatic songs burn new neural pathways – new ways of seeing. New ways of thinking.

And with the Moment of Disconnection comes the Moment of Distraction.

Bursting through the floor of the cafe, overturning tables and clients, the world rises to catch the body as it falls. To hold it for the split second of destruction and then – drops out.

But as the land drops, something is left behind.

The first idea from the burning mind.

A woman.

A woman with pink hair.

Naked, shivering, on the floor of The Sidetrack Cafe.


Todays photo was supplied by Martine Pedersen.

“I cannot believe we are here,” laughed Nathan. “How did you persuade me again?”

“I needed a vacation.”

“But we’ve just moved into the new place! We’ve not even opened the boxes yet! What got into you?”

Ramona thought for a while, looked back at what had happened when she realised she wanted to get away.

“Tomatoes,” she decided. And walked off to look at another stall in the souk.


“It’s this level of odd that I’ve always loved about you. How you can just throw things aside on a whim and how it always makes sense.”

Ramona looked up over her couscous. “You’re asking why we’re here again, aren’t you.”

Nathan blushed. “Kinda.”

“Why does it matter? Why can’t we just sit and enjoy the food. We’re in Marrakech. We’ve bought things for more money than they were worth, but for much less than we’d get them back home. And we have no idea how we’re getting them home, or what we’re going to do with them once they are home.”

“But people don’t do things like this.”

“Yes they do, Nathan. They even have a word for it. Spontaneity.”

“How did you know I’d even have time off?”

“Nathan! 1 – you web design. 2 – you freelance. If there was anyone who had time off it was you. Hell, even if you didn’t you’d have just dragged your laptop with you and worked here.”

Nathan sighed. And wondered why he was arguing about it.

“Look. If you must know, it was like this. I thought about my brother – who I haven’t thought about in ages. I went to get a salad. I met an artist. We went and had coffee-”

“Wait, what?”

“Ok, I’m not going to enjoy this anymore. Pay, and if I have to go through this, I’m going to at least stomp and sight see.”


“You’re not happy?”

It was a stomp and a walk into the story. “You felt like you were missing something and you booked a holiday?”

Ramona was looking down an arched passageway, wishing she’d bought a camera. “Yeah,” she answered, not really listening. “Something like that.” She could see something halfway down, something moving. She was aware that Nathan was talking but she … wasn’t listening. “What? Say that again?”

She stepped into the passage – there was something there.

“- It us? Ramona?”


A shape moved into the corridor. Ramona jumped.

It was a child. She giggled. Scared by a child.

A child who was beckoning to her.

“Ramona! Where are you going?”

“Hey there. What’s your name?” She said with a smile.

“Don’t you remember?” the boy asked, hurt. He showed her the book he was carrying.

“Do…do I know you?” The book was blank.

“What is it?”

“It’s your book of ideas, Ramona.”

Ramona went cold. Ice cold.

“Siberia,” she mumbled.

“No.” The boy replied. “Austria”

Ramona stumbled. Looking past the arches she saw a sand pile with a perfectly formed angel imprinted in it.

She felt her balance going, span round and saw, past the end of the passage, past Nathan, a shed. A hut. A Garage. A barn. A –

Her knees went.

“I’m Has-”

There is a noise when the world rights itself. A rushing, roaring of a thousand trains in a thousand tunnels pushed by a thousand winds. It starts loud, and crescendos. It fills your ears, your world. It is the sound you feel.

And there is but one response.

Ramona fainted.


Today’s image is supplied, once again, by Chris Wild

Santa was having an existential crisis.

He stared at his egg-nog. He hated eggnog. Who on earth thought it’d be a good idea for him to drink that. Or milk! But that was the idea he was stuck with.

He sighed.

How on earth is he going to put his idea in the world? He… had never done that. Not consciously. Not…Ever…as far as he knew.

And it’s not that he didn’t have opportunities. People were distracted in stores, in kitchens, in greenhouses.

He just didn’t know how to get it over there.

Which was insane, if he thought about it. I mean – he was an idea. But he got over there.

Or…did he? He didn’t anymore. Did he ever? If all time is then/now/now…..no now then, was he ever not-here?

He picked up the idea bomb and stared at it.

He sighed. How did he get so small? He was rubbish.

He needed a holiday.

He needed to remember who he was.


Jan hated the stall at lunch time. It wasn’t even her stall!

She hated opening up in the morning because her friend was too lazy to get out of bed.

She hated that people never. Ever. Came to her place during lunch. In fact, most of the time she just stood there all morning. What on earth was she doing there? She was an art graduate, for god’s sake.

And as her mind wandered to the paintings she could be doing-


The stall sharded into cafe, right in front of Santa. The tomatoes right in front of him.

He stared. He had no idea what to do. Why did Simon wake up when he did!

He was amazed how much they looked like his idea bomb. About how they would completely disguise it. How the idea of it being one of a whole pile of ideas waiting to go off.

He picked up the tomato and pressed it into the shard.


Jan was pulled out of her reverie.

“Sorry? What was that love? It was the Lunchtime rush got me all confused.”


The stall pulled out.

Santa still held his idea in his hand. It didn’t work.


Ramona laughed. “Yeah. I can see that. Well, let me make your day. I’ve just moved into the place, and I want salad. And I’ll have everything – onions, peppers, potatoes, carrots. I’ll throw some apples in there, oh – and some tomatoes.”

Jan started filling her order.

“Can I grab the toms?” Ramona asked.


Ramona started around, picking up tomatoes, putting them in a bag. Then saw one with writing on it. She reached for it, grabbed it and


The Idea Bomb disappeared.


A light went off in Ramona’s head. She didn’t want to be there. The house wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted to be on vacation somewhere.


A tentacled face leant forward.


Ramona turned to Jan.

“You know what – you look like I feel. What are you doing here? You should be somewhere else.”

She handed the tomato over.

Jan’s eyes widened as she put the tomato in a bag.

“You know what? You’re right. I do.”


Santa couldn’t believe it. It worked. Just as Simon said it would!

He stood up to leave. All he had to do was –

A wet hand pressed into Santa’s shoulder.

“Now, now, Fat, Silly Man. Leaving would be a very, very bad idea. Why don’t you sit down so we can have a little chat.”

A faceful of tentacles twisted into a parody of a smile.


Today’s photo was supplied by Tine Sørensen

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