Bit of a change in life. Or a mid-life crisis? I’ll probably be the last to know! 🙂
Dyslexic and a diagnosis at 42. Always knew something wasn’t ‘quite right’ but was told “You should be more confident” and other cliches. Of course, if you are reading this and have dyslexia yourself, the nonsense spoken by others will be familiar.
For me, it isn’t about reading. I always read well and I’m told I could read at about four, before school spoilt it for me. I’m one of the generation that had ITA inflicted on them. More about that and how the developers of the Initial Teaching Alphabet should be rounded up and shot in another blog. Sometime.
Currently transitioning from a work world of technology into something a little more writing based and creative. I’m being a bit cagey about past work as:
I don’t want people bothering me about tech
A change is as good as a rest
I have quite enough things to keep me occupied, thanks all the same!
Offers of tens of thousands of pounds welcome in a few months when I’ve had a bit of a break and got my vim back. That involves a bit of walking and I’m currently managing 10 miles every fortnight with a pal. Great fun and a chance to unwind after overdoing it for too long.
Beg that the Almighty God will turn the bullets and the bombs
Into butterflies.
In a few weeks all that beauty is dead.
But there will always be
More bombs and bullets and mines and missiles and nuclear weapons and drones and poisons.
Then we’ll be up to our necks in killer robots and AI-run campaigns and submarines and bombers and fighters and ammunition and guns and viruses and knives and spears and cudgels and finally lumps of brick from the ruins to batter our enemies.
Raw, darkly funny, and fiercely honest, this collection cuts through the noise of modern life to uncover something real – something that bites, stings, and occasionally sings.
Aidan Parr takes readers on a journey through the grind of daily frustrations, the quiet heartbreaks of ageing and illness, and the absurdity of pop culture only to throw it all aside for the wild freedom of moors, hills, wind, and solitude. These poems and photographs speak to anyone who has ever wanted to run for the hills (and actually did).
Whether he’s poking fun at celebrity nonsense, venting rage at bureaucratic madness, or capturing the sublime stillness of nature, Parr’s voice is sharp, human, and unmistakably his own. Beneath the sarcasm and bite, there’s a deep compassion and a fierce desire for truth in a world increasingly content with illusion.
This is poetry for people who think they don’t like poetry. And for those who do, it’s a breath of fresh, bracing air. Step out the door, feel the wind on your face, and start climbing. You might just find yourself along the way.
I must confess I find it easier to be positive while sitting cross-legged on a golden, sandy beach in the morning in summer with the warm sun beating down from a blue sky, watching the fishing boats bob on the sea in the distance and thinking about what I might have for breakfast, than this particular time of year.
I know it’s not the beach in the picture and they aren’t fishing boats but it will do in a pinch. 😁
I have a few hats: I enjoy writing prose and poetry and have a couple of books over at A Bloke Dyslexic but also like taking photographs of the natural world, wildlife and landscape as Up Hill Down Dale Walks and sell greeting cards and prints at events and markets.
Enough ‘sell’ but go and have a look if you like…
People tell me I’m an ‘artist’ which I almost find amusing: my background is working-class English with a chunk of farming Irish where such things are regarded as ‘la-di-dah’ and should be mocked and to some degree feared. Art is not for the ‘plebs’ and they rigorously self-regulate these feelings, fears and discomfort.
I bumble on and on good days think “Yes, I’m an artist” and on not-so-good days think it’s all a bit of a conceit.
Then again, that’s what the world runs on: conceit, acting and front, so why shouldn’t I do the same?
Confidence and a desire to achieve is also self-regulated by the working-class and they don’t like it when you demonstrate characteristics, thoughts or actions that they wouldn’t have considered… Above all, don’t be ‘weird’ or ‘strange’.
Which leads to a question?
Here’s a picture of mine. I call it ‘Orange’. I think it’s beautiful.
It’s me looking at the world around me with a different eye which many others don’t notice. I no longer tell anyone what it is and I hope that people will enjoy it and want to buy it in greeting card or print form:
My problem is that many people want to know ‘what it is’. If I reveal it’s (possibly mundane) origins these critics walk away but if I say “It’s art” they get frustrated and walk away.
In either case these people walk away. I suspect it’s a lack of imagination and the curse of working-class attitudes again. They seem to prefer to be led by the nose. I’ve reverted to saying “It’s orange” but that doesn’t work either.
I’ve had two people get very aggressive when I wouldn’t give an answer but that probably reveals more about them than any picture?
Occasionally someone will love my work too and they buy it. I’m unsure which I’m happier with: the love and appreciation or the cash in my pocket. Let’s say ‘Both?’.
I suppose in the end I want my photography (OK, ‘art’) to be appreciated for what it is rather than lots of explanation which isn’t appreciated. It seems to be very common on social media now: people post a beautiful image but feel the need to write reams of text explaining in great details where and what it is.
I don’t see why I should do this.
Even worse, people will see one of my pictures (or poem or prose) and explain it back to me. I understand that ownership doesn’t stay with the artist but often the interpretation can be much more mundane than my intentions.
I was loading the car in the morning to go off to a market. Half-asleep and struggling with the gazebo, boxes, tables, weights and stands.
It was 5.30am.
It’s an understatement to say that I was a little surly. Dark November mornings aren’t my thing. Not at all.
Along comes a guy walking his dog. He says “Mornin'” and I greet him back. I thought that would be enough. But his companion, a French Bulldog, with other ideas suddenly ran up, wriggling with joy at the idea of meeting me.
Of course I simply had to reach down to give him a scratch and he was in ecstacy. I laughed at him and made the usual “Aren’t you lovely?” noises.
Then his owner tugged on his lead and off they went into the darkness.
I was very happy at that meeting and it has stayed with me for days.
Ooh I have a book (“Why It’s Better To Be Struggling Half-way Up A High Hill On Your Own: A Poetry Collection”) out early next year. I’m just waiting for the proof paperback and then it will launch in January 2026.
Part of me is amused by all this la-di-da nonsense and the other half of me is really pleased with it. It’s my third book but there’s been a long break since the last one. Such is life.
Paperback is being sorted but the eBook is available to pre-order via Amazon.
It’s my third book but there’s been a long break since the last one. Such is life. 
A Bloke Dyslexic 