The Eaghams Weekly: Teaching in Mexico with ABC English

I received a phone call when I was walking in Epping Forest. My employer-to-be rang me to tell me I landed the job in Mexico. It’s a small town called Poza Rica that I went to. I was teaching with ABC English.

The Mexicans are on the border of Texas, and the cowboy traditions have been picked up. The Mexicans like to dance in a sort of way where you move your hips side to side as you pace back and forth. I was testing out my dance moves at a wedding do, we rocked up to, where a girl called Bertha taught me the moves. 99 percent of people drink, it’s considered strange if you do not drink. You are considered either a) crazy or b) gay.

The Mexicans eat alot of tacos, there are stalls everywhere, I was hooked on tacos. You could stop off somewhere and there would be a tacos stall with tacos ready to go. While on the subject of continental cuisine and dining, I used to eat something bucoles, look out for that one, that is a real treat. I used to have bucoles for breakfast at the workman’s cafe, to get my day started. It’s fried eggs with sauce in small pancakes. Delicious.

The English teachers had a house party, where I sang some of my material in the works. Bertha was there in the corner of the room, and took interest in the song. The teachers were a mixed bunch, some were Americans, others Italians. One of the Italian guys had Aztec symbology tattooed on his back, it was newly done, there was a film of blood left on his back. It would have been quite full on to watch.

I met Sonia in my free time, she had children. She was one of the security guards at Pemex oil company, where I taught clientele one-to-one Business English, written and speaking. She was a Freemason. I was trying to in all honesty and truthfulness set up a Falun Gong qigong (which is a tai chi type of exercise) site at a school,  she assisted showing compassion, we tried to set one up in the local area, patiently and with tolerance. We couldn’t set that up, but I sent out a few leaflets in the area.

One of the New Yorkers, an English teacher, would ring us all up when she was drunk at one of the bars on her own, on her time off work. We were all quite busy most of the time.

Getting to work, I would take a collectivo, which is like the usual taxi, but they squeeze in three people at the front. There were too big Mexican guys I was wedged between. I could see the drivers view.

Teaching English in Mexico was very cool. One student drove us back home. One day, as I went out of the classroom to see my employer for a minute, the students played a CD on the school stereo. I came back and they were all singing Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong.

If you enjoyed this post, please share with colleagues, friends and family. Check out other writings about travel:

On Teaching APASS English in Mexico

WRITER BIO: Zubyre Parvez (BA hons) studied English Literature at Hertfordshire University. He writes song lyrics, poetry, short stories, reviews, and articles for The Taoist Crucible.  His poetry won runners up in a competition judged by Simon Armitage and Margaret Atwood. His poetry has been published in Kobita. His articles have appeared in The Epoch Times as a journalist for the newspaper. He has worked for New Tang Dynasty Television as a journalist. You can catch up with his tweets @TheEaghams

ARTIST BIO:The Eaghams aka Zubyre Parvez is an Urban Indie singer songwriter from London. His song The Roots was played on BBC 1Xtra by DJ Excalibuh. He has collaborated with artists such as Mr Hectic and Jason Air formerly of Island records. He has played at The Garage, and various open mics.


The Eaghams Weekly: *Revised and Updated* Your Friends Are Your Subjects

Your Friends Are Your Subjects 

Basingstoke, The Agra.
The Eaghams
By The Eaghams

Your friends are your subjects, from A to Z. They got you into hip hop, where everyone claimed to be king, rock bands and other genres and into the clubs (they knew the doormen) If you weren't cool enough to get inside. They got you into writing courses with course norms when you went off on your own way, where you wrote not from luxury villas, beach resorts, in Barcelona or Tuscany but where you found yourself, in the terrace and planned where you would hope to get to. Where all the books you poured over, distilled in you places and ideas you could visit in both imagination and spirit and in body, that came through in your rhymes, multifarious and free verses you bus', all in your abundant flow.

Your friends got you into literature, Kerouac, and new understandings found in Twitter or Facebook. It's the university of leaning you attended after or during work, on-going, infinite. It seemed everyone curated from the internet it's best and we took after their trails , incorporating some, bagging the rest. We took a leaf out their books, and out their lives. We rushed ahead in the exuberance of our own fury, Alex's of our own Clockwork Orange, the school of hard knocks. We were greeted in New Age groups all kind and nice, they meditated and paused for thought and smiled.

The alcohol took the chi energy out, or feng shui out the air where drink had been splashed onto the pavements of the pub, where there was so much bustle and life, and energy on the other hand (the one without the pint, considering). You needed space to declutter, get passed stuff, space to create and get away, like any artist.

Here is a song from Killah Priest to round up this post, called Brilliantaire. Enjoy.

Maths, Art and Painting © Zubyre Parvez 2016 All Rights Reserved The EaghamsWRITER BIO: Zubyre Parvez (BA hons) studied English Literature at Hertfordshire University. He writes song lyrics, poetry, short stories, reviews, and articles for The Eaghams Blog.  His poetry won runners up in a competition judged by Simon Armitage and Margaret Atwood. His poetry has been published in Kobita. His articles have appeared in The Epoch Times as a journalist for the newspaper. He has worked for New Tang Dynasty Television as a journalist. You can catch up with his tweets @TheEaghams ARTIST BIO:The Eaghams aka Zubyre Parvez is an Urban Indie singer songwriter from London. His song The Roots was played on BBC 1Xtra by DJ Excalibuh. He has collaborated with artists such as Mr Hectic and Jason Air formerly of Island records. He has played at The Garage, and various open mics.

Short Story No.10: Caroline by The Eaghams

 This short story explores the complex area of internet relationships, and how, travel and work arrangements, the conflict between responsibility and freedom, between obligation and personal desires converge. A believable and vivid story we all know someone has had a similar encounter with a relationship online.  
It is appropriate to think of places as texts, layered with meaning. Every place has an excess of meaning beyond what can be seen or understood at any one time.
 Phillip Shledrake, Space for the Sacred Place, Memory and Identity.

It's an internet romance story. There’s this guy who hangs around the internet all day. He has ten different aliases for ten different chatrooms. He got talking to a woman from LA. They got close and used other applications such as Snapchat to get closer and closer. Angela was on the webcam and they worked out the arrangements for his visit to the airport in LA. She was wearing a headset and was wearing a cravat and a casual shirt. She wore an eighties style suit with large shoulder pads. He arrived at the airport to find no one there at the gate.

She had sent him over the course of their exchanges online, 100s of jpegs of the past and present and of his imagined future. From nights at the club with loud friends, holidays with the family. His past he could not remember as vividly as her. It all seemed so real to him.

He went to a cocktail bar to drown his sorrows and hide in the music. There he found his girl it was no mistaken identity. They were a true fit, as they talked and laughed at the bartenders side, it was close to closing time. He had ten thousand in a suitcase, she worked as a barmaid. And he would move to to 2nd Avenue. How long he hung around was a long time. He never left that place. They married and had a son and daughter.

All the lonely nights of the quiet flickering TV sets was gone, they had TV dinners and trips to see the Broadway Musicals and Salsa nights and restaurants such as Spice Bazaar, where the views scene were luxuriantly splendid.

My name is Little John, born in Forest gate, London. There was a time I was lost in the woods and misunderstood. I sent Caroline an e-mail after our extended Instant Messages in the New Age Chatroom, Rendevous. The chatroom brought people from all walks of life who were looking at life more deeply, for truth and a meaning to their existence. Their profiles were individualistic and stylish, you would know they were independent-minded folks in town, that perhaps they took to travel, not from loneliness but the freedom that modernity had offered them. You would not have guessed what they had been through, the situations they lived through to make them emphasize their personal liberty above all else, perhaps they drank of life deeply and easily, had been around the block a few times, had exercised their mind, body, spirit. Above all else, they lived life to the lees, this cannot be doubted.  Yet they were philosophical, imaginative (and naive at times),  and if there were charlatans in the chatroom I would have caught them a mile off, from a distance, spying. But between the lively discussions and insights in the truth, people's true identities -- who on earth could say, if you looked beneath the surface, the internet superhighway  was a wonder as the lamplights hunched over the terrace when we surfed at night, was I just wishy washy , blinded by the light of love, or a technocrat on my PC, my memories transferred to the hard drive, so different to the Polaroids we used to know and keep in drawers.

     It's said the room drew soulmates together, that serendipitous encounters were not out of the ordinary. So it was, I met Catherine online. One of the attendees was saying I was Don Quixote, and wished me well on my adventures, who was Don Quixote? I think he meant I had a quixotic streak. I e-mailed her the following:


Hey Caroline,


We'll be able to meet before long, let the divorce papers be finalised,

and all the cosmos be restored to some kind of balance, then we'll be together, soon.


Little John






She was a dream - a blonde divorcee from Chicago, I was in my twenties, I felt or intuited that she was my trophy, the road less traveled. I would use what remained of my abundant student loan, to change my karma and move to America, the land of dreams. I would pay her rent to the landlord, or whatever, and find a job within a month of staying at her place, and uprgrade to something concrete achieved, no doubt.

    I went to the travel centre - the guy in there was really nice - the transaction for £500 ticket to Chicago had been printed off their computer. I was in two places at once back then, my heart in Chicago, my mind on my job as Administrator in Walthamstow, London. How long my heart was to be kept there, I wasn't to know until later, in this story of longing, parting and returned treasures to the way we were.

   I wrote her poems, was I acting from chivalrous concern or was I just a boy not man enough for the ideals that permeated my youth? I read a poem about Gueneva and Launcelot. For all the lofty metaphysical speculation there was the muddy old mythologies we dug out and read.

   It wasn't olde English that enchanted us so, the Italian and the American words she used made me say I wanted her in my world. As communicative we were with all these mediums, and even when I said nothing she could read my mind.

  Was it that imagination added dimensions and colour to those conversations on the phone 'till dawn, that made it a more powerful drug than reality? Was idealisation and imagination out of control, and the muddled boundaries that the Internet dimension over and above geographical demarcations and designation? Structures of living quarters, shops, libraries, clubs, restaurants, coffee shops. Did imagination lay waste to the affluence in our immediate locale and natural habitat these years?

 Is it our natural proclivity to yearn for that which is beyond and not as yet fully known, was the truth seekers quest for reality over illusion being confused with a soulmate?

 What was our shared memory? Was it just audio more than visual or of second sight, what good is technology in the human need for tactile expression and harmony with one's environment. Surely we can only work on all things, step by step? How to step beyond the necessity of our immediate surround that draws forth our concentration for responsibility, ordering our material lives. If love is just chemical.

    I decided I would go teach abroad and get on with my life. I had completed a TEFL teaching course at Windsor TEFL.

    She had found someone else, she asked where was I? Had I any excuse manning  the idea of it all?

She said she was to go to Mexico, where her boyfriend would arrange to go and move her to an apartment a living quarters, two or them would make the half of it, in the country. She spoke of how he called her white gold. I had two contracts in hand, one of Italy, and one of Mexico, where they were to go. A new golden dawn.

  I said I would go to Mexico to catch her if she fell...She was in the USA, and she smiled to herself at the poetry. She said that I was her knight.

   I met a person in Mexico, Catherine's boyfriend had deserted her, (she took him for granted) and I was at Coco cabana beach. Yet I met a person there and spent time, just to e-mail her all about it when I returned to London city. Was this getting on with life, I had undertook training to become a newly qualified English Teacher in the time I had known her. Was I moving on,  but where was I moving on from, the psychical landscape we both inhabited online? A place where we could stand strong together? I was a student of the mystic arts, seeking enlightenment.




Some background on Chicago and Catherine. It's a city I have never traveled to but the lonely plant guide can easily take you there. She was married over a decade, bore four children, she said that the strong go forth and multiply.

  To make a killing, providing for the brood? Was survival encompassed in careers? Of course they were! But what about those who had not built a foundation for a strong resume after graduating from University, who had to start work in retail stores at seventeen?

    There were responsibilities I took up naturally, all encompassed in my career building and sensible, by the book upbringing, that I didn't perceive with as much seriousness as she would, I didn't need to worry about where the next month's rent was coming from. She grew up learning to hustle her way through, like the local man's dem in East London, street smart and worldly wise, selling herself to protectors,  who didn't always have her very best interests at heart.

   She had a series of relationships, life is what happens when you're busy making other plans, as it's been said. Each time my failing to get to Chicago compounded. It was such a waste given the chemistry. It taught me to look at what was right in front of me, although surburban America is transfixed on it's computer screens.

  Mathematical and shrewd with money and false pledges in love. Was it just vengeance?  Her ex she called merciless, was she replicating what had been done to her, leading her to mislead me? But how bothered was I beyond my vain idea of what life should be, being in Chicago. Four places: the person, the city, the internet, the phone.


Was it the merciless thrill of the chase, something just out of reach, the sublime or the ridiculous, or what it hormones or idea driven. Something seemingly in reach but too far off? Like some mystery.


Was it necessary to be well heeled on one's own turf, suited and booted at a state owned company, before one can take a leap elsewhere, and relocate?


A wild card is a wild card, and if opportunity flows toward balance, should I have been a more comped man, sobered by the calm of office hours. If I can find that the truth within me, would that take me there?


The years have passed, the alchemy of the furnace tempers our will to something stronger, to stand without you here in my own element, passed the tears of years alike, that divide and collect the material, our composition. That I've spun like a singing actor in a musical when you once betrayed with the 180, and the £500 spent, I've written down and made note of in this account.


It is said that a man sometimes goes through a journey in his youth, when he acts with excessive yang, which hurts him, so that the yin gives him solace, away from harsh self judgement and all the mistakes made. Being a woman, that's what you gave me, but beneath that you were always so angry, the knight on his quest finds within himself his lost feminine polarity, the excalibur sword, the place inside me what always accepts where I find myself in this life. May it be, may it be, always and forever.


If you enjoyed this post, please share with colleagues, friends and family.

© Zubyre Parvez 2016 All Rights Reserved The EaghamsWRITER BIO: Zubyre Parvez (BA hons) studied English Literature at Hertfordshire University. He writes song lyrics, poetry, short stories, reviews, and articles for The Taoist Crucible.  His poetry won runners up in a competition judged by Simon Armitage and Margaret Atwood. His poetry has been published in Kobita. His articles have appeared in The Epoch Times as a journalist for the newspaper. He has worked for New Tang Dynasty Television as a journalist. You can catch up with his tweets @TheEaghams

Short Story No.8: Jack and Joseph

This short story is a lyrical and poetic narrative that centers in on two friends Jack and Joseph. It’s about their adventures together, and about life lessons learned and the wisdom  earned, a bildungsroman. 

Background to Jack and Joseph, their early pursuits, narrated by Jack. 

Staying in a car, it has seats that can be like a bed and there’s a roof. There’s room for possessions, but mainly geared toward movement and change. We feel that we should be getting somewhere, after all our travels here and there. I’ve clocked up some miles: He was thirty five now and I will be thirty six in January. If we can move up a gear and really get going then the screen of vistas will be filled with new pictures like a box brain, a car. These pedals are not the sort that wont get us in a jam. We used to live with others, now there’s new passengers on this ride. Being myself, fitting on a parking space on the roads you travel. Though you’ve learned of the road to read the signs to take good advice, you’ve been motivated to drive through the maps of your own making,your imagination, creating. To find your direction in life, not looking over our hard shoulders, the memories we have forged passed, creating momentum with the soundtrack to our lives.

He sells Rolls Royces in a showroom he wears a tie and suit and lots of people come just to see the cars and the interior. He had clocked alot of miles in his journey of life, if you were to walk in his shoes that stepped on the accelerators, his motivation was to progress: milestones . He was in his job after many shifts of gear: key paino salesman, where customers rummaged along the keys. Other times he was working in a 10 storey building in a hectic office. We were all gathered like we were in showrooms, when you were at a Cafe by the window seat, where everyone drove through their agendas: We were all on the road: a broad and an endless road for a Rolls Royce, big wheels and smooth drive.The interior was leather: his suede jacket hung on hanger in the passenger seat. He had his suit tailored to the centimetre. There was a photo dangling on the drivers mirror.

The manelpiece of the drivers interior had a built in sound system that is technical and hard to describe with words. The music spoke for itself. The music was varied and painted scenes in his imagination. His windscreen framed great vistas of the English landscape.

“Keep. Your. Word.” Joseph said to Jack.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” responded Jack.

“Arrive on time when you should at work, be true to your word, be true to your beliefs as you word them, be consistent, follow through, create a legacy, stay true to your own style, keep those words you learned in Chinese, keep them, keep studious, keep your books, own your style don’t imitate, use language how you want to, stick to your way of describing things if you are going to script original material of your own if you still are writing that novel.” 

“Let me tell you about Chinese Characters”, Joseph, Jack said.

“Chinese characters remind me of houses, constructions along broad expanses and landscapes – starlit, singular, two in chatter, or the heavens above. A face of a house. Those Chinese characters! Chinese characters express heart and mind, not just the jargon of modern terms. I traverse it’s thousands of steps along a mountain. How cosmic in it’s tradition and lineage of great men. Thousands of characters fill a book.”


Jack is in Mexico chilling with friends,
and spends time with Penelope. 

Jack was at the Metropolitan Bar, in downtown Veracruz, shooting
pool. He set the triangle, as his opponent smashed the triangle all over
the table. A poster of a United Colours of Benetton Chinese girl was on
the wall. He contemplated his next moves, the pool table an oasis of
calm in the bustling bar. He thought on his life as his friend took his
shot. He saw each soul in each ball. Friends he was close with, who were
the guiding lights in his life, each attired in their own vibrant way.
This was Mexico, where Cowboys in colourful bandanas moved through the streets on their Harley’s skipping the Red Light, like the Texans on the
northern border. Their US counterparts with blonde women on their backs
and arms. Hair streaming in the wind. Blonde women that saturated the
Mexico TV screens, the promise of yellow gold, communicated in adverts,
if a Mexican would care to work for it’s American counterparts. The
widescreen in the bar was showing the World Cup. He and his friends
group together to do a mini mexican wave. Chuckling over the pints pulled
by the impetuous barmaid.

Jack was on Copacabana beach, walking with his crew. A pride of
lions, though more courteous than predatory. Gentlemen. Their senses
finely honed, who could sniff out a fraud in a few moments of
conversations. They had an animal instinct, a sixth sense for a good
business deal, with the lofty integrity of some Don Quixote.

The people on the beach darted this way and that way, like a pool game
freshly begun, scattering themselves over the sand. They exchanged glances, with a telepathic smile. She had a supernatural beauty, that mesmerized him, her eyes, pure blue. She was like a foreign mythical creature, a mermaid. He squeezed his right hand man, Domingo,
farewell. He departed hand in hand with Penelope. She led him on. His
mind was frantic like particles in hot water, he had no thought of his
friends by now, consumed in a heat of passion. The beach was cool, it
was midnight. The stars shone brightly. He took her to his beach house
opening the door with a key with a small world attached to the key ring
he was given as a present from an old friend. They played with the
telescope that was landed on the attic floor. Pushing from one side to
another between them. The roof was transparent glass. He said to her, me
and my crew, well each of us is a like planet round the Sun. And you are
my Sunlight. We share the same sun.

He told her how he was always the heart and soul of his group, and his
friend Domingo was the brains. Even still Jack was a physics major
when he graduated from Berkeley. He traveled to America, back in the
summer of ’88. Every state he visited he would find the top people in
that area. He called it the Pyramid Scheme. He would frequent the bars
in New Orleans, California, New York City. Smashing his opponents, who
broke sticks in frustration or dropped their brown beer glasses on wood
polished floors.

Jack made it a practice to meet with stellar characters. He had
left Penelope, who had rung him with a rude and impatient message. He
made the rules of the relationship clear from the outset. She screamed
obscenities in Spanish into her phone, pointing out he was spinning her
around like a yoyo. Her world was ruptured, though the world just kept
spinning. The beads of sweat she wiped away with her towel, mingled with drops of rain. He had messed with her emotion. His integrity scathed
where more than money was at stake. He sighed at his miscalculated
action. The sea’s horizon he gazed on, contemplating his next moves, in
conjunction with the sun moon and stars.


Jack is at the bowling club, nostalgic in his hometown. 

In an old town, ten pin bowling, his family moved away. He missed his
past with some of his family, and in anger he would go ten pin bowling kitted out in an eight ball jacket, bowling shoes, and he smash
the skittles, the ball his resolve to break through the figures of his
past that stood tall in his memory. Life was a game of chess, life was a maze and you had to work your way through. He was tired of the same part of town he knew so well. It hadn’t changed in years, it reminded him of his past too much. So he moved town. He had gone to the pictures every week. Look out the window like watching a movie. Chocolate cake and coffee pass road works digging the earth. Discuss directions. Wouldn’t go that road, shoulder to the wheel. build things brick by brick, architecture, road map. Their words were a city, one them carried a thesaurus with them. Discussing nuaces of things.


Jack and Joseph chill. 

They got to a Coffee Shop, leather seats. They look up websites on beach
huts in Hawaii. takes his laptop, swivels it round to his friend. 

These guys do their business on laptops and travel brochures
and writing and Derek Walcott poetry books,

Santander bank  with multi-pocketed Italian leather wallets.
They have shares and ISAs, use their banks for that. Yachts in Devon. 

They want a wider waterfront however. that tea shop in New York. Like a retreat, where they drink tea, relax, a creative space for the imagination..

Courses online where there are New Age writers. They visit a massive bookshop, with centuries old material and laddered shelves. One of them has a Kindle,

libraries archaic all in the palm of a hand. They are playing chess. They talk of family, holding down the fort, visiting Castles around England, Camelot.

Churches, bishops, Generals, Marcus Aurelius, really. They go to Burger King wearing those hats. Holiday snaps.

China plates, a watercolour artist invited, a Chinese man. Photos on mugs. Greenwich observatory where the longitude and lattitude is meridian point.

Stargazers. The equater has more tropical climate. Birthcharts done at College of Psychic studies, and aura photos at Psychic Fayre in the Town Hall.

They look at the galaxies this colour and that in books. So they go to the observatory, to look at their signs as they talk about their relationships, their nearest and dearest.


Jack and Joseph go to Peru

Looking at their Grandmother’s carpet it has a design. They decide to go
Peru, for a few days, taking time off work suddenly buying a £2000
ticket per person for that day. There are other prices, £500, and £350
for a week and six months later on Expedia. that is most expedient for
them and take Ayahausca, it’s a DMT trippers thing people have been taking in clubs in recent years. They see fractal geometries that look like the carpet. Jack wrote a poem about his experience in Peru at the hotel they were staying at.

The boutique hotel is a self styled and unique kind of place. The rooms are decorated and even with a different theme: contemporary, traditional, ancient ayahausca inspired art, fractal geometries almost Islamic and other urbane styles. The interiors are lavish and decked with jewels, topaz, ruby, jade, crystal chandeliers. The service is great, and English tea and toast is served at dawn.

A girl who went out into nature to get into design was inspired by the fractal geometries seen on taking Ayahuasca, she wore a key around her neck, entering those worlds. Flowers and plants in the Amazon gave her abundant inspiration, and the Fibannaci ratio she had earnestly studied, which was found in Sunflowers, Seashells, and other things. She hand draws the flowers collects them in her knapsack. She once worked in a zoo feeding the tigers. she sought out strong people in life, one who had been behind bars, another played in them honing on his fretboard and all that elaboarate work he meticuoulsly attended to.

She went to the forest where charcoal was made, to write of ancestral things, a chacoal sketch of the past. The wool from folds of Sheep in Warkwickshire, and other farms across the fields of England. The cotton fields in the sunnier climes. The downstairs restuarant is based on the splendid menus of the great restaurants across the Western Hemisphere. An abundant eclecticism, dishes from Europe, including Italy and the Mediterranean, France and Spain.

The hotelier could tell at a glance the type of people his guests were, he peered out of his glasses worn at this nose level. He wasn’t overly curious just perceptive. Sometimes he would feel bothered about: why the guy with Porsche couldn’t get the flowers right in his painting; why the statesman had to always be so stubborn, other times he minded his business, and his paperworks, photocopies of documents and worked on his excel sheet on the mini laptop. Back to the scene where Jack wrote:

A dream of the room in Iquitos where I slept
We flew to the scene like an albatross
Cup of Ayahuasca in the room of the dream
Perched on the edge almost losing myself
To the undercurrent my knees were bent
Voices in my head dust from Pandora’s Box
Scattered to the sea and washed clean
Polish the heart a true diamond gleam.

Jack was reading a section from a book, he wrote out the section in his journal.

On Maths, Art and Painting.

Ramanujan, an Indian mathematician, saw visions of equations in his dreams given by Hindu Gods, as he claimed. It seems visions have such detail and precision as this. It’s no surprise, given the formats of Renaissance paintings, that are also mathematical in structure, and some of which are also about the artist’s celestial visions which are conveyed through mathematical means. Indeed, the Kubla Khan minarets of our friends in the East, and their geometric art echo the fractal domes seen on a typical Ayahuasca vision. In the film PI, the concept of the Golden Mean is depicted through a protagonist in the film PI.

They bring their own food to the flight. A picnic hamper, with Moet
Chandel. First Class. Guitar. And they bluetack a painting that they
bought at an antique auctioning they got on for £20. A window to the

Jack rang up Joseph to borrow £500 for a project he had in mind. He was working in two jobs: one as a cashier at a big bank, another at a pizza parlour in the evening decorating pizzas and taking calls. He was at home watching a DVD on his widescreen TV. He paid his bills at the newsagent, he had a pay point card, three credit cards, with £3,500 overdraft limit. He kept all his receipts in a ledger. He paid his bills on time, as the government would no doubt realise, and at 7.30am each morning he bought the paper from the paper shop. and made himself a cup of fine blend coffee.

On fridays he was out, sometimes the guys would collect in his house, they would be blasting music chatting noisily, laughing and chilling. The housekeeper would be tidying up after the evenings partying. They caught up on where he’d got his projects moving, and the various errands he was busy running. There was a lot to discuss, but they would laugh off the more tedious details. He was quite the movie buff. He had a mini fridge by his TV, like his pal Chad in Ohio,who could be found doing the same thing at the other side of the world. He met him at the tower of London tourist site. They struck up a great friendship, shaking hands enthusiastically at the airport.

He would typically watch all the latest interviews on the films he was watching, follow the actors, he was well versed in that world. He wanted to rent out a bigger property because he needed more space for his vinyl collections, and his wardrobes for the guests. They went off to discuss the projects further, so they went for a drive. It was three am. They got some fresh air, whilst the crew stayed in the house. They kitted out the car with subwoofer stereo in the boot. The bass and treble shook the car, but did not stir the locals.

They would go to play tennis on Saturday, after Jack made run to the bookstore, there was a paperback he ordered from work, called Inner workings of the human mind. Nimesh was taking time out with his book, reading at the coffee shop that was independently run, found commonly around the world. He knew all there was to know about coffee, his old flatmate, a European woman made it the proper way taught him the subtleties of coffee, that the crass Americans hadn’t really been able to keep up with.


Joseph throws out Jack’s things for a new beginning. Jack confronts Joseph, ending in a pub brawl and fight. It comes to light that Jack needed the wake up call, to get passed Penelope. 

Jack is out to work, and Joseph was lounging in Jack’s apartment, he had
dual keys to. Joseph worked on music, he added musical ideas to the protools set up and recorded for when Jack came back from work, they could start on their music project. Jack had not been able to get over his relationship with Penelope, his room had a collection of her photos,
and gifts she had sent, and a cuddly bear.

Joseph was frying up some food in the kitchen with the chef’s apron on.
The radio was playing, he went into his room with a bag, and disposed of his photos, momentos of gift and cuddly bear, and took them out to the garbage. He took out the collage of photos he had of her framed on his wall. He ordered in some expensive mirrors to take their place, on each wall facing each.

After Jack come back from work, he saw that his room was without all the
past relics. Joseph said a robber had come in. He expressed his dismay, and somewhat perplexed. Joseph excused himself saying he left him some recording ideas on his laptop.

He would spend nights out, drinking in the scene, and after there was a fullness to the scene, he would convey it all in beats, in a kind of exhilaration from a busy day, nonetheless. Jack went out to the bar, there were folks playing darts, capturing parts of the board of life, like territories, scoring numbers A bird outside posed in his image, but the man had a dart by his visage.

The darts player loses his poise as he was once an architect hanging out in the bar, he overdrinks. His particular drinks are Dubonet (1846) France; Cincano (1757) Italy, Bells (1825) Scotland, as his mind wandered out. He over overdrinks and loses his focus as he staggers around drunk in a kind of dance. The dartboard world, he loses his sense of longitude, lattitude, on a flight as his brow clouds with a thunder – he had taken drugs to add to the mix, and he explored his dream-visions which eventually led him into meditative inner journeys where he learned about himself and other worlds other than this one.

His grandfather worked in NASA as a aeronautical physicist in 1969. He had a spacesuit, he used to wear as a kid, when he put his bedcovers on top of himself to fly out as a rocket his heart dreamed and flew. Where Joseph was drinking with two bottles of lager, he was drunk and laughing. Jack punched Joseph to the floor, as he was on those wooden stools that you get and he felt and the bottles dropped with him, smashing to pieces on the floor.

Jack went back home and the two did not speak to each other for three
months. Jack was upset but what had happened. He was a real stickler for the past. Joseph knew Jack had to be jolted from his stupor, the haze of nostalgia slurred his movements he was piddling in a puddle.

The emptied room was zen in it’s minimal beauty. It still had a few of
his favourite things. It brought him emotional release and freedom, it fit well with the beach view outside. His infatuation with the past was a love of dust and old wood of which the old frames of Penelope were made. The old frame had to go and the frameworks, to construct and configure a new way of being, the person he was today. That he should build with fresh chopped wood on the daily, and work his plan and put a spanner into the works.

”Let me spell it out” said joseph. ”You needed to get past Penelope
push the envelope out a bit, and throw those letters away” explained
Joseph. You’ve made those letters that were once blue ink and white paper yellow with antiquity.

‘Sometimes, I hold onto stuff like it was my church, except it’s been
made brown and muddy as a river bank of memory. You kind of lose sight
of yourself and who you are, holding things so heavily in one’s heart,
the mud of heavy emotions.

‘Exactly’ quipped Joseph. ”Keep those memories golden, let go, that’s
why I threw those out. You want to keep your room neat and zen, it’s
like if your room didn’t think of the past nor do you.’

Jack sighed. ‘That’s insane, Joseph!’
Joseph fell silent. His brow furrowed which then changed to an
expression of anger.

‘Look. Don’t be a stick in the mud with all those heavy feelings. Keep
the memories golden, look at the sunrise.’ You have to keep the elements in the balance, too much old wood no good. Pace yourself and turn a new leaf.

‘Dont worry about Penelope. She was too cerebral, Jack. People are
different. Others are mirrors or shadows or smokescreens. Her spectacles
magnified everything out of proportion and you weren’t nailed down, you

She went to the Tate, you said there was no ‘s’ in Tate. You thought it
tasteless to go and look at that grey and opaque art. Those rooms were
like levels of hells Dante wrote lyrically of. The trees outside the
place outside the place were splinterish. It was rootless. It wasn’t
cool so much as cold.

Yep. There was nothing like a hearty old oak grand and broad based roots
there, was there in that scene you describe was there?

‘Later.’ Jack had to leave.

Joseph sat in his room wondering out the window. there was a hammock in his garden where he pondered the movements of all things.

© Zubyre Parvez 2017 All Rights Reserved

The EaghamsWRITER BIO: Zubyre Parvez (BA hons) studied English Literature at Hertfordshire University. He writes song lyrics, poetry, short stories, reviews, and articles for The Taoist Crucible.  His poetry won runners up in a competition judged by Simon Armitage and Margaret Atwood. His poetry has been published in Kobita. His articles have appeared in The Epoch Times as a journalist for the newspaper. He has worked for New Tang Dynasty Television as a journalist. You can catch up with his tweets @TheEaghams

Short Story No.6: Agnieska


by The Eaghams

The depiction of London in this piece, explores the Eastern European tribes. This short story is the  most satirical of the pieces the author has written from the collection. By turns, thoughtful, fun and vivid, the characterisation in this piece is among the author's strongest.
She was calculating with her money and shopped at The Pound Store, where there were warehouse prices for quality brands, brands you would feel awkward or disheartening to pay less for, the reverse of a generous tip, goods were flogged to the flock. She wore a skimpy dress and was wafer thin like a model. She drank lots of coffee from her portable coffee maker, she knew how to make the perfect blend for herself and for after Sunday dinner when the relatives were invited round. The Europeans knew the subtleties of fine blend coffee, that the Americans crassly imitated and tried to monopolize.

Her brother was a mechanic, he fixed cars in his workshop. There would be techno blaring out from the radio, when they were not listening to classic hits of the DJ's playlist. His overalls were not for any purposes of fashion. He would drink beer, race and jump the traffic lights in his secondhand beat up motor. He would loiter in the parks drinking beer with company of bottles, heads and shoulders digging in the crates, the lot of them. There was an Eastern European store that arrogantly sold sausage and soups in East London, full of residents from Pakistan, India, Shri Lanka and Bangladesh, a mixture of legal citizens and illegal immigrants. Her relationships were complicated and involved detailed arrangements. There was a proper regard for books and culture that they had grown accustomed to from their cultural backgrounds in Poland, Latvia, and Lithuania.
The history was remembered in the 18th Century architecture that remained and was still in active use. They grew up listening to classical composers and because of such an environment they would always be saying the word 'beautiful' in their conversations. Yet she made short arty films associated with Europeans, symbolic but always of an ambiguous morality. The reels ran for almost 20 minutes, submitted to the course administrator in good time, typing up coursework at the University library 'till dawn. The monochrome of contemporary art she read of seemed vague once more with an excess of notions that were affectations of expressions, rather than statements of truth.

She cared for social ettiquette and presentation of the cultural kind and smiled sweetly. She hated honest talk and felt embarrassed at people who were not as busy or active. She could not look them in the eye, especially the knowing honest kind, introverted. Or the male who excessively daydreamed, unhardened by responsibility. She loved bearded men with dashing manners. She hated men who were talkative in a discursive manner, devoid of any lively pranks and humour. Her man had to be heavy with struggle so she could smile condescendingly at them, someone not as heavy as her would frustrate her, but had a possibility of winning her over, but she knew it was out of the question in these instances for her, not her brother's friend. Because she knew she was out of his league. Different leagues sometimes cannot compromise and it was his call. She had to settle in hating him to keep boundaries and maintain the social structures that are stable. She therefore hated him because he was unattainable and decided she was unsuitable. Her self image was strengthened in feeling and style from the odd combination of designer wear and cheap dresses from Eastern Europe. She clearly fitted in with her crowd, her people. She only said a passing hello to her neighbour Mustapha, who played rap records late on the weekends.
Other groups of nationalities, races, were a jigsaw. She felt uncomfortable when she saw someone who was dressed loosely for the competition it presented. Those who acted more at ease with themselves, their fuller dresses, who were bubbly as champagne. She was domestic in her cleanliness, and schedules ran her life after a while, instead of the other way round. She would get caught in a rut unable to get round to changing things as required. Her great grandfather was of the royal lineage in Poland. She wanted to make her own way in the world. 

She was a meticulous person who not stop mentally comparing prices and people and the feelings they exuded as their true worth. Not everyone was cut from the same cloth, but everyone could dress however they wished. Some dressed in power suits with shoulder pads, making impressions count for a lot or to express what was embodied and understood within? Some dressed from their socially privileged status, in keeping with their environment, of friends and acquaintances of their circle. Some imagined and created their lives, others thought uniformly and conventionally. Some traveled, were upwardly mobile, some frequented the same circle, day after day, their phones fired with text messages they were darting back and forth. Some retained their originality, rather than discover it, which could stand through the most diverse of people and meetings of minds.

1. Mustapha
2. Actor Dude
3. Boy from Bath
4. David
5. Imitiaz
6. Agnieska
7. The Workplace
8. Jack and Joseph
9. On Motivation
10. Angela
11. The Deep Sea Diver
12 After The War
13. Nigel, Samantha and Luke
14 James Changzhu
15. Ali and Some Books
16. Joe Bloggs
17. Naveed and Rupesh
18. Lionel
19. Abdul
20. Ajaz
21. Mr Jameson
22. Little John
23. Adventures of Zhi Xin
24. Dave and 'Jim'
25. Timothy

© Zubyre Parvez 2017 All Rights Reserved

The EaghamsWRITER BIO: Zubyre Parvez (BA hons) studied English Literature at Hertfordshire University. He writes song lyrics, poetry, short stories, reviews, and articles for The Eaghams.  His poetry won runners up in a competition judged by Simon Armitage and Margaret Atwood. His poetry has been published in Kobita. His articles have appeared in The Epoch Times as a journalist for the newspaper. He has worked for New Tang Dynasty Television as a journalist. You can catch up with his tweets @TheEaghams

REPOST Short Story No.3: The Boy from Bath

The Boy From Bath

by The Eaghams 

This short story is an observational piece, depicting the middle class from England, exploring the Londoner's identity in relation to middle England. The characterisation will remind you of people we have all come across. Read this one to explore urban forms of masculinity and femininity.   


I was on the train eavesdropping on a boy and his girlfriend on my way back to Victoria. They came on from Bath. He talked to the girl in a way that mimicked a girl in it's niceness, perhaps it was chivalrous courtesy. I would imagine his father would address the opposite sex in the same way, the same predilection for detailed opinions on cultural items of interest, a nerd of the over cautious gentleman, it was purely BBC Radio Three, and he wore on his sleeve his appreciation of the arts, it was articulated in such splendid detail that it bothered my urban and brazen ways as being unmanly although it was frank in it's almost tender honesty. It was sensitive and elaborate, the predominance of intellect it was not, as he was collecting experiences and attending various dos. It was as if he used language to script his life with such imagination that it clarified his experiences into gratitude, not greed, he was almost a writer. His girlfriend listened in a staunch and nice way, they were one of a kind.
He had not any hint of cool in his expression though he was self-aware, to take the South London expression, he was always on a 'long ting'. He got about but how he understood everything was long and nuanced. He was basically a nerd, and when at work he spoke in a soft nice tone on the phone, giggling delicately, his broad shoulders hunched over the phone. I wondered if the two in their imaginative and intellectual life world together thought of other people from other walks of life. If she cared what I thought of the boy's words, perhaps she preferred someone cooler, more understated? Did she know other people from London like that? I wouldn't want to vex her boyfriend, and she was quite insular, angrily introverted. Perhaps he would address me as 'man', being an Asian Londoner, known apparently for our blend of social identities, nothing short of cool, compared to the country bumpkins of middle england, where there's no sight of me for miles around.

© Zubyre Parvez 2016 All Rights Reserved

If you enjoyed this post, please share with colleagues, friends and family.

The EaghamsWRITER BIO: Zubyre Parvez (BA hons) studied English Literature at Hertfordshire University. He writes song lyrics, poetry, short stories, reviews, and articles for The Taoist Crucible.  His poetry won runners up in a competition judged by Simon Armitage and Margaret Atwood. His poetry has been published in Kobita. His articles have appeared in The Epoch Times as a journalist for the newspaper. He has worked for New Tang Dynasty Television as a journalist. You can catch up with his tweets @TheEagham

Creative Writing: The Menu


There’s floors you can lay out in establishing the ground rules. The rooms are built and decorated, chairs and tables are brought into each room, where people bring their words to the table. A stairway is built that brings you to the other rooms. It starts with an idea from the imagination. It’s a place where meetings are established in the Cafe of the Hotel. It’s where one becomes more acquainted with the City of London itself. There are photos of nights out and captions and codes mounted and adorn the hallways and the rooms. The Cafeis frequentedon Monday mornings where new dishes and drinks are served up as the conversation flows…If you can take away something of the atmosphere of the place, there is the air of the menu ready to present in the mornings. It’s a place of the meeting of minds, where the flaneurs gather and there are trails that venture forth from and to the Cafe, people from all walks of life on different journeys in the City. It’s a place you’ve got to know with the working hours that you have attended. The writers have had ideas, Michael Farraday, some ideas have worked out and lit up the Chandelier room, a spark of inspiration. There’s a fire log where pages have burned, the records kept of melodious words. There are paintings on the wall, our gallery, free of affectation.
It’s a part of London where locals and tourists frequent often, coming and going. It’s a London I can make my peace with, it’s a place where I can come and go. I polish off my drink behind the counter, where there are business cards from a printing press and the keys from the music jingle their song, fire smoke and coffee clouds, steaming like an engine, after I’m out the door, maintained by management. It can be found in directories so the crowd it draws can come from afar, a nieche cafe, serving up a piece! I go many directions in the City, it’s abbreviated in London as postcodes E, S, W, N, SE.
There are roads of traffic, vehicles of expression forming lines and cues, there are cables that have been laid, that travel for miles around. Quickly, a city builds outside the doorstep fo the Cafe. The City! Painting a picture of our life and our work. There are newspaper type articles indexed and chronicles on the racks.
The man had come out from the weather outside: storms fired and blazed in the sky, rain had clouded the sky and the scene inside pictured his soul, the Cafe seeming to order his moods to a concerntration and distllation, the palette of his taste, there were local restaurants he had frequented you could read reviews of, and the canvas of the room all designed as fine as a suit-like piece, for the practical dreamer. Hotels had an air of change and exhilaration
that the man enjoyed as he hung up his jacket, looking at his hands in reflection for a moment. A chessboard imprinted on one of the coffee tables.

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© Zubyre Parvez 2017 All Rights Reserved

If you enjoyed this post, please share with colleagues, friends and family.

The EaghamsWRITER BIO: Zubyre Parvez (BA hons) studied English Literature at Hertfordshire University. He writes song lyrics, poetry, short stories, reviews, and articles for The Eaghams Blog.  His poetry won runners up in a competition judged by Simon Armitage and Margaret Atwood. His poetry has been published in Kobita. His articles have appeared in The Epoch Times as a journalist for the newspaper. He has worked for New Tang Dynasty Television as a journalist. You can catch up with his tweets @TheEaghams