hagiography

THIS BLOG IS NOW DEFUNCT AND EXISTS ONLY AS AN ARCHIVE

2008-05-15T21:12:56Z

As it says on the tin. My ramblings have all been shifted across to http://razorsmile.org/hagiography and I'll be posting there from now on.

Valentine's Day

2008-02-14T09:19:56Z

I was walking through town when I saw him, propped up against a lamp post eating a sandwich. We kissed. We always kiss. With my back to the scene he was surveying I asked in conspiratorial tones “Are you watching those big, strong boys lifting boxes?”.

He laughed and passed another crust to the child in the pushchair next to him, “No, I'm thinking about stealing that coat. What are you up to?”.

“Going to a book signing,” I replied.

He nodded. “Have you seen the queue?”

I hadn't.

“What are you getting Matt for Valentine's Day?” he said.

“Nothing.”

“Will he get you something?”

“Doubt it,” I said.

“Suzie will have my balls in a vice if I don't get her [i]something[/i].”

“Lucky you.”

“Seriously, it would be a fatal error.” Niall's an electronics geek. “Do you ever give each other Valentines?”

“Occasionally, depends on the ebb and flow,” I said.

“How do you mean?” he said.

“Don't know really. Sometimes it seems appropriate and important but at other times it just seems irrelevant.”

“And you know exactly which one of those times it is?”

“Pretty much. I bought a bottle of Champagne in January, the proper stuff not Cava, it took us nearly a week to get 'round to drinking it. Matt's busy.”

Niall sighed. Suzie's very busy, working full-time with a fifty mile commute thrown in for good measure. They've been married four years and Reuben's nearly two. “I thought of getting her one of those robins from Choccy Woccy Doo Dah,” he said.

“Don't. They're horrible. Have you ever tasted the chocolate from Choccy Woccy Doo Dah? It's overly sweet and kinda gritty.”

He lolled back against the lamp post.

“And don't steal the coat either, I think it belongs to that workman,” I said, pointing to a man in overalls who was painting a shop frontage.

Niall frowned. “It's been there a while though.” It was hanging on a sign, as if it had been dropped and then hung up, waiting for its owner to realise their loss, retrace their steps and reclaim it.

“Do you need another coat?”

“Not really, no.”

“Well then. If you want to buy her chocolates how about cherries in brandy from Montezuma's?” We were standing right next to the shop and he turned his attention to the window display.

“But they don't look very, er, romantic.”

“It's not really a question of what something looks like Niall.”

“You don't know Suzie.”

“So she'd rather have a shitty tasting chocolate robin in a pretty box than the best brandy cherries in the whole world?” I said.

He stared at the floor and mumbled “You're lucky”.

“And also now late. I gotta go.” We kissed again and I wandered up the street, past the hanging coat. I noticed small flecks of dried, white paint on the fabric. I was probably right, in all likelihood the coat did belong to the painter; but I was also probably wrong, because this proved that it does matter what something looks like.

Heidegger

2008-02-09T01:56:29Z

Blitzkrieg

2008-02-03T12:15:29Z

Here lies in stuttering eyes:-

The man who looks in sleep as he might in death, providing he had fallen from a small height - arm bent, twisted above his head, careless limbs scattered like thrown cutlery.

Cotton dreamish sylph, blown in by winds not of my own desire.

He wakes and says “Nob ... Can you pass the baccy and vaseline [laugh] ... You're groaning like a creaky old boat.”

Small hiccup words for a disjointed wooden phase. I pick the lighter up off the floor with my foot, curling my toes.

Perhaps life can be explained in shap snots: three silver rings large enough to imprint their design on anyone's face; 'The Complete Poems of John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester'; my musical fascination triangulated by a balalaika I can't play; coffee stains and small designs, unerect, falsifying their oblivious entrance into consiousness.

Should it? Make sense?

He said, after Heidegger, “Words and language are not just shells into which things are packed for spoken and written intercourse. In the word, in language, things first come to be and are.”

I took film from the train window, arm always held at the same angle, fields of dreams and tangled metal. Bridges we call them, industry is how they define themselves. The scene slid in front of my eyes, rhythmised by an acknowledged and necessary forward motion. At journey's end the carriages disgorged their occupants to flow, in a peristaltic mass, along an anonymous platform. Wedged into the wall a V2 Rocket, provisioning memories of a continuous attack. Blitzkreig they called it, on both sides.

Here lies in stuttering eyes:-

The man who looks in death as he might in sleep, arm bent, twisted above his head, careless limbs scattered like thrown cutlery.

Lost in Holland with an AK47

2008-01-31T23:37:33Z

I want to smash something, because the frustration in here [points to chest, body, head] needs to be out there. The kitchen would be a good place to start. There's lots of metal. Metal makes such a great noise, especially when it hits. Not like flesh. Thump, thud. Crash, bang. And glass, everything's so apparent when you break glass. Instant regret. Most of all though, I want to destroy the books and ornaments, standing in their straight fucking lines, sitting squat in their smug safety. “Oh look at me, I belong here, in this order, I've been here a while now, prettifying the place up, waiting to be read, holding lots of memories between my pages, in my form.” I want to rip them off their shelves and throw them as hard as I can against a wall. Instead, I'm just sitting here, with my fingernails in my forehead, trying not to gouge lumps out of my face.

They had tissues today. I only cried once. Can't stand it when I cry in public. It makes me feel so weak and as if someone might touch me. I don't like being touched with kindness, because I'm scared it'll all come out then, and I won't know how to make it stop. Don't touch me with kindness. Hit me. Hit me really fucking hard so I have to lock my knees and clench my fists and stick my chest out. The fighting stance. I can do that. I have to do that.

It was a silly thing, a short story called 'Welcome to Holland'. We'd done one of those group exercises first: imagine you win a holiday and spending money, but you've only got twelve hours before take-off, list the things you need to do. It would be kinda great, wouldn't it? Fifteen parents sitting 'round in a circle, all of us knowing that we couldn't take advantage of the prize, because we can't leave our kids, our disabled kids. The first thing we'd need to do is refuse the offer, even though we desperately need a break and good luck doesn't seem to come our way that often.

But just imagine you get on that plane and you're on your way to Italy. I've always wanted to go to Italy, to see Michelangelo's work in its natural environment, ride a Vespa, visit the Vatican. Of course, you might read some guide books to pass away the time during the flight and familiarise yourself with the territory. After a couple of hours you land, but when you get off the plane you notice the sign 'Welcome to Holland'. That's what it feels like when you give birth to a child with a disability. All those things you were looking forward to, where you thought you were going, they disappear in a moment and you're find yourself somewhere else.

The words started happening next, key phrases: 'exile, resentment, alienation, exhaustion, sadness, loneliness, guilt, frustration, anger, disappointment, isolation' ... it's endless. We all agreed there is no light at the end of the tunnel. It's like staring down the barrel of a gun and being repeatedly shot in the face, except you don't die, because you can't die, that's not part of the contract, you just have to keep on keeping on, it's your responsibility and you can't escape. That's not what we thought we were signing up for. No one there, in the first flush of pregnancy, considered they might still be changing nappies or pushing a pram (wheelchair) twenty years later. Your kids grow up, leave home, get on with their lives, independently ... Nah ...

I remember when I was pregnant. At thirty eight weeks I went to hospital. “Please take this baby out of me,” I begged, but they refused. “He's too big,” I said. They disagreed, six pounds max they reckoned. I knew something was wrong. Three weeks later I had to be induced. He didn't want to come out. We were poor then, not even a pot to piss in, only thirty seven pence between us. It was a blasting hot June day. I walked to the hospital, couldn't afford a bus or cab. They forced my husband to leave me, sweltering, worrying, on my own.

The next day they shoved something up me and in me. It's tough being induced, going from no labour to hard labour. Seven hours of the most abject pain. I pleaded for an epidural. Eventually an anaesthetist arrived and insisted I pull my knees up to my chest. Lying on my side, my body shaking itself apart, feeling as if I was disappearing. Thank God for my husband. He recognised the signs of medical shock. Threatening violence, he cut through the intransigence of the midwife and other staff, making them to listen to me. They'd ignored me for so long that I'd actually birthed my son's head while curled in an impossible ball. He was slowly being starved of oxygen. Unbelievably, the midwife had failed to notice this simple fact. He came out at nearly ten pounds and unbreathing. They took him away. Alarms went off. Doctors crowded into the delivery suite.

“What's happening?” I said desperately.

They didn't answer.

“Is it dead? What's the matter with it?”

I tried to sit up, but a midwife pressed me into the mattress.

Later, back on the ward, I studied his little face. Half of it was covered in an angry blue mark. “It'll turn pink,” they said, “once he's fully oxygenated”. He was very quiet, fast asleep. I wondered into the nursery, situated next to the nurses' station. A woman at the far end, in a yellow dressing gown, was settling her baby. She turned around. “Can I see your baby?” I asked.

She started to cry. “He has a cleft palette.”

“What's his name?”

“Peter.”

“Can I see him?”

“No one else has said that after I've told them.”

He was beautiful.

I went back to my own bed and slept until morning. Breakfast. Strict visiting hours. No telephone. Jordan was, indeed, pink and the birth mark on his face had become red. I didn't like it. Why couldn't I have a baby that looked normal? What would people say?

A doctor arrived, poked about in the crib momentarily, then stood straight to address me. “ ... A fifty fifty chance of being a cabbage.”

“What?”

He repeated himself.

“Get away from me. Get away from me and my baby. Get away. Get out.” My voice rose, I started to throw things at the doctor. Matron came hurrying down the ward and demanded to know what he'd said or done.

He repeated himself.

Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage. Cabbage.

She frogmarched him off the ward and then ushered me into a private room. I can't remember anything else.

Three months later the diagnosis was confirmed by CT scan. My son had (and has) Sturge Weber Syndrome. A facial birthmark, following the line of his trigeminal nerve, is reprepeated on his brain. This capillary abormality interrupts the normal electrical activity. About two hundred people in the UK 'suffer' from this condition and there is a wide spectrum, in terms of how the disorder affects individuals. They couldn't offer us any prognosis.

To a certain extent, the future is always unknown.

Fourteen years down the line and we've been through a lot. Jordan's first seizure was at ten months. They couldn't stop it, apparently that's a feature of Sturge Weber, intractable epilepsy. It did stop eventually, either of its own accord or because they finally managed to pump him full of the right combination of drugs. These little 'adventures' happened every three months for the next God knows how many years; one week in hospital, fervantly fussing by his bedside, followed by two months of rehabilitation, only to find ourselves back in hospital within a matter of days. A situation like that tears a hole in your life.

I could go on and on about: the time they declared him brain dead; the time there was no doctor available on a children's ward to site an intravenous line so we were bundled into the back of an ambulance and blue lighted across a city in rush hour; the time I watched an anaesthetist repeatedly shove an intubation tube down my son's throat in an effort to maintain his airway. It does something to you. It did something to him. Every bout of seizures not only increases the chance of a further cluster, but also, kills part of his brain, turns it to bone, steals a little bit of him and sets him up for further complications.

And you don't even have the luxury of just seeing your own child suffer. No, intensive care units, where the stools are on wheels so they can kick you out the way quickly, are full of children struggling to survive. There was the five month old baby, born prematurely, drowning in his own mucus, crying and crying and crying, until he stopped crying, then I knew he was going to die. Or the car accident victim, with his eyelids taped down, completely on his own, I sat holding his hand for an hour one day, it wasn't right that he should be so lonely ...

As I say, been through a lot.

“Do you have any worries about the course?” the facilitator asked. Jesus yes. I've not done this before because I couldn't do it before, perhaps there's only so much reality one person can take. I don't want to go delving about in how I feel, what my expectations are, hopes, fears, dreams, bloody nightmares. As my mother used to say, 'it doesn't bear thinking about'.

“That I'll be defensive,” I replied.

She didn't ask me to justify my response. She didn't insist that I unpick it and work a way round it. She simply nodded. I liked her instantly.

Do you feel numb, blank, guilty, tearful, unable to cope, irritable, angry, suspicious, frightened? Do you have problems with sleeping? Are you easily startled? Do you have trouble concentrating? Do you deliberately isolate yourself? Do you find it hard to make decisions? Is your memory shot to pieces?

YES

Define anger. Is that when you want to rip someone's head off and shit down their neck? Is that when you walk down the street, carrying a bottle back from the off licence, with your hand curled one way rather than another, just itching to crack open a skull? Is that when you attack people for no apparent or obvious reason? Is that how you can comprehend why someone might stab their wife to death/be a suicide bomber/get involved in a pub punch up?

Some nights I drink myself into oblivion.

Some nights I do worse.

Isolation, real, imagined, self imposed??? Despite all the anti discrimination laws, essentially it's no better. My kid still looks weird. People still try to talk with/to/at him in a language it takes his brain longer to sift and save, so he stands there, looking like an idiot, being unable to understand or articulate. If he were to say he wanted to get married, have children, that would be considered an outrage. He doesn't have the same opportunites or expectations. No, no, none of us do, everything's dependent and contingent but, broadly speaking, we're in agreement with regard to who, what, when, where and how. He can't even pattern those concepts and, because he's part of me, I find myself alienated from them as well.

The world's not a very friendly place if you don't fit in. What to do? What to do? Round peg, square hole. I guess you can hope the hole's bigger than the peg, in which case it'll pass fairly easily, like a soft stool. Alternatively, you can jam the peg through the damn hole, shaving off the sides, using brute force, but it might get stuck or damaged. Arse. Or you could get a big fuck off drill and make the square hole round. I mean why is the hole square in the first place? I've tried arguing with it, about its inhospitable squareness, pointing out how that invalidates the roundness of the peg, but that's got me nowhere. Fuck the square hole. Holes aren't meant to be square in any event. What bastard decided on all those frigging angles? Bloody squarist.

Back to the anger, the alienation, the suspicion.

Feeling murderous and armed with a drill for a number of years isn't healthy. I've ended up kind of twisted, head-wise, gut-wise, and I don't know how to straighten this out any more, or whether I should even try. Thing is, there was this one time when Jordan was really sick. The doctors, well, they couldn't make him better, stop the seizures, get him above a three on the coma scale. I asked a healer to come see him, she did some stuff I couldn't understand and then turned to me and said “He's in there, but you've got to go get him. He's very frightened and really lonely”.

“Get him?”

“Yes, you've got to bring him back.”

“How do I do that?”

She touched my hand ... I sat by his bed all night, eyelids pinned open with matchsticks, WILLING him to come back, I've never wished so hard in all my life, and he did, come back, sometime round about dawn. The first word he said was 'Mummy'. That's my boy. God, that's my boy, tough little bugger, just like his mum, balls of steel, doesn't care what the odds are, what anyone thinks or says, doesn't give a rat's ass. I fight so he can fight to stay alive. I fight so he can have some quality of life. I fight because I don't know how else to be, what to do with it all, where to let it out or how to direct it. I'm like an AK 4fucking7, useless at targetting, loud and noisy, but you can drag me through a river, lose me in mud, get me covered in sand, and I'll still fire bullets, all over the place like, but it's usually sufficient for some purpose or other.

It's changing though. They got us to do this exercise where we had to pick out a postcard from a selection on a table. I chose some African art, man emerging from a stone. I don't really know why. One of the other parents chose a beach scene at sunset. He was talking about it and said 'it's because it reminds me that there's beauty out there'. I couldn't stop the tears. Bastard. He looked over at me and he was crying too. I guess we're all casualties, casually, by accident, in our own way.

I decided to buy myself some rose tinted spectacles, not metaphorically, literally, pink ones, round, £2.99 from some dreadful hippy shop, utterly useless for stopping UV rays, totally wonderful if you want the world to take on a different hue, warm and friendly. I don't know if it'll work, but the physical tends to impact on the emotional in ways I don't fully understand. I've got a lot to learn.

And then I heard this, “We are the universe manifest trying to figure itself out”. What a thought. I'm composed of star stuff. Everything that has existed, does exist and will exist is part of me. Maybe I don't need to let it out or let it in, it's already there, doing its thing, working itself through. Suddenly I didn't feel so alone or as if I had to hang onto Jordan for grim death. There is no death, no struggle, no finality, end or beginning, it just IS. Scary as shit, to be everything and nothing all at the same time. Got to be open though, got to let go, work with it not against it, but I don't know how to be vulnerable, how to accept, what will happen if I stop fighting. Won't there be a big hole if I give up the anger? Perhaps there's a hole already, where I've been eaten away. Does it work like that? I don't know, I simply don't know, but in the words of Otis Redding:-

“But there was a time that I thought

Lord this couldn't last for very long

But somehow I thought I was still able to try to carry on

It's been a long long time coming

But I know a change is gonna come

It's been so long

To live too long

But a change has gotta come

So tired

So tired of suffering and standing by myself and standing up alone

But a change has gotta come

You know

And I know

And you that

I know

And I know that you know

Honey

That a change is gonna come”.

I've taken my fingernails out of my forehead.

Data Processing - first draft

2008-01-30T01:53:50Z

How to start? How to start? Coffee. Two cigarettes. Gulp, inhale, swallow, suck it back, drink it down. Two minutes later and she's rooting through her make up basket in the bathroom to find a nail file, then a lipstick. Mirror. Pout. Unpout. She raises her eyebrows. Her forehead crinkles. She wonders when her eyelids became so damn heavy.

“Hello doggie.” His tail wags in blank appreciation. The cats in the kitchen circle, mewing. Their food bowl is empty (she makes them share), the back door is shut, they could not possibly suffer the indignity of crawling through the cat flap. Thank you Sir Isaac Newton, all that wonderful fizzick, yet still you failed to grasp the essential nature of feline. One does not want to be independent, one relies on the constant attention of another and, when that is lacking, one primps and preens and discovers distractions.

The telephone rings. She accidentally sits down at the desk. Sure, she's good, fine, excellent, superlatively settled, everything is progressing perfectly. There are small laughs. Lunch. Yes. Maybe. Some time never. Is he? Is she? Of course, that would be wonderful. She replaces the handset and finds herself, once again, face to face with the computer monitor.

Mr T Walford, The Grange, 57 Sefton Road, Manchester, M15 6DJ, 0161 459380

Malcolm Parry, 22 Brunel Close, Andover, Hants, PO6 4FS, 02392 544396

K J Lloyd, 14 Pleasant View, Colchester, Essex, CO3 9QG, 01206 647329

The work does not interest her, but it fits into her life relatively easily. She starts when her husband leaves for work, taps away for a couple hours and then breaks to push a vacuum around the house. Lunch is a simple affair, eaten while staring at a TV that disgorges its entertainment like a desperate anorexic. After a second cup of tea she returns to the relentless database.

Miss L Atkinson, 26 Thorpe Avenue, Barnstable, North Devon, EX32 0TY, 01271 735651

Mrs Vivian Peterson, Flat 2, 74 Wellington Street, Bournemouth, Dorset, BH10 3RU, 01202 868734

Michael Bellamy, 4 Thompson Drive, Much Wenlock, Shropshire, SY13 7JR, 0773 4573947

Does Mr T Walford think he is in a Jane Austen novel. Perhaps the place was already called 'The Grange'? When he bought it did he imagine how the address would look and sound? Was that a deciding factor? Maybe the suggested superiority pleased his wife, Marjorie, “Yes, we live at 'The Grange', delightful, quite delightful”. Marjorie probably wears chiffon and reads The Sunday Times colour supplement.

Malcolm Parry, now there's a straight forward bloke. He passed his driving test at seventeen and bought a clapped out Ford Fiesta. His friends are called Mike, Lee and Dougie. On Tuesdays he goes to The Cobbler's Thumb and takes part in the pub quiz, usually coming third. Malc. Macolm to his mother. Bullied at school, but he works hard, now lives in a new build, complete with fitted kitchen and polished steel appliances.

As for Mr, Mrs or Ms Lloyd, a pleasant view in Colchester, are you kidding? Bored squaddies, concrete and carefully gridded roads do not make for pleasantry. Another new build. Pictureless walls, magnolia paint, wood chip wallpaper perhaps, a corner bath, in beige (known as 'sand' when they chose the suite), three different types of cleaner, two with squirty action, heaven forbid anything actually gets, or remains, dirty. Exfoliate the shit out of life itself. There is no room in Colchester for scum, dead skin, dead wood. Mouthwash. Bleach. Dental Floss. Brasso. Mr Fucking Muscle.

Laura does not like Colchester.

She surveys the room where she sits. Books, small balls of fluff (cat hair combined with dust and general detritus), an open fire, alternately belching and breathing. They never painted the walls, preferring beached plaster, as if the waves come in and out, leaving their impossible imprint on a vertical horizon. Naked. Yes, she likes to be naked. Vulnerable. Exposed. The shivers excite her.

This morning he made her shiver, ripple, quiver. They wedged sex between coffee in bed and breakfast at the kitchen table, leaving a door ajar somewhere between blowjob and ejaculation. When he mounted her, cool as the cucumber between his legs, she looked askance at the curtains. Did they blame her, for still being in bed at ten in the morning? Probably not. Sometimes the material is immaterial.

He slid in

Breathe

Unbreathe

Like a boat

Into water

Breathe

Unbreathe

With

sec

onds

was

Miss L Atkinson has squashed her title in as an after thought. Mrs Vivian Peterson might be a divorcee, by virtue of the fact she lives in a flat. Flat? Rice paper is flat. Glass is flat. Does Mrs Vivian Peterson have a heart of glass? Does she wish to be laminated throughout? Laura considers Mrs Vivian Peterson for a moment. Nothing is missing from her information. Similarly, Michael Bellamy, although his marital status remains unclear. On the form is says 'Name', a simple request. What is your name? Laura's name is Laura Miller, it used to be Laura Cunningham. She did not know when she got married that she could have chosen any surname. Her husband, Andrew, did not want to change his name to Cunningham. They had argued. “Cunningham,” he said, “sounds like cunnilingus”. He spat the word out and it landed on the carpet.

Pump

GGGGGG

God

Oh God

God

Do all men becum religious when they have their penis up/in someone? Andrew likes to take the Lord's name in vain. Maybe it spur[t]s him onwards, direct communication, slavish adoration, always outside of himself, on his knees, Laura lying on the bed like a rag doll.

Gary Wood, Ken Cant, 24 Staplehurst Drive and 4 Station Street respectively. There is a Bob Roberts (surely baptised Robert Roberts), a David Betts (does he?) and a Ravenscrowned Byrd (either the unfortunate result of drug addled parents or someone with a misguided sense of their own unique magnetism). The road names dance in front of Laura's eyes. She wonders whether, in keeping with council policy, whole developments are christened thematically. If there is a Lebanon Rise is there also a Gaza Heights and a Basra Buildings? What about Afghanistan Acres or Kosovo Crescent?

Wars do not start with bullet fire, perhaps that is when they are declared, but for a war to be truly successful the participants, at least on one side, must hold acne grievances. Pick, pick, squeeze, a topical treatment of antiseptic does not help. Blight. Lack of recognition. A sense of disease and the prospect of a cure, usually involving cleansing. Unfortunately, Laura is unable to wash away her peony memories, red and blue, shot through with pink flounces, those suffocating wedding dresses, oh to be a bridesmaid and never the bride.

When Andrew asked, she had said yes straight away. The engagement ring never arrived, instead the romance was nullified by practical considerations. He earned a good wage. She earned a good wage. They bought a house in the suburbs, with central heating, double glazing and scope for an extension – “You could add an extra twenty grand to the purchase price,” said the estate agent, rocking back on his heels.

They never did need more space.

Naomi Symonds, 11 Elizabeth Place, Malvern, Worcestershire, WR14 2TS, 01684 249130

Mr P Fielding, 5 Cromwell Road, Fleet, Hants, GU51 4NX, 0208 4263040

And the way people write, some in thin biro, scratched so barely legible. Laura scratches on bad days, but covers the marks quickly with her sleeve. No one notices, except her, and only then after a few hours, or if she showers. Some write in sloppy fibre-tip (black), squashed flat against an unforgiving shiny surface. Ink fares the worst, smudging and smearing, unable to gain purchase with regard to penetration.

Andrew pulls her down the bed like a dog worrying at its quarry. She lies there. She LIES there, making the appropriate groans and gasps, writhing in just enough ecstasy, keeping step with his military formality. Pump, thud, pull, pump, thud, pull, pump, thud, pull, pumpthudpull, pumpthudpull, puthpu, mpudll. Afterwards they eat scrambled eggs, or beans on toast, or bacon sandwiches, or anything else that satisfies his need to reaffirm his atheism. God is for the bedroom, not the kitchen.

Chris Rapley, 32 Kent Avenue, Reading, Berks, RG1 3LG, 0207 1406650

Mrs C Duffy, 27 Queens Road, Mansfield, Nottinghamshire, NG18 6TC, 01623 773729

When boredom threatens to overtake her, Laura looks up places she has never been and is unlikely to go. Bracknell she can take or leave, similarly Romford and Ipswich, but Portskewett in Caldicot sounds interesting. Monmouthshire. Big. Expansive. Marlow, very Christopher, maybe there is a church, one of those squat, heart of the village type things that smells musty and has a Norman knight interred under a rubbed-bare-brass-plate set into the floor of the transept. Yes, Marlow would be nice, in Spring, perhaps she could do a tour. “What do you think doggie?” He wags his tail. He does not know he would end up in kennels and she would be in the dog house simply for suggesting the idea.

Ben Mustow, 15 Old Barn Lane, Tunbridge Wells, Kent, TN2 3JH, 01892 640663

She stops. She remembers Ben Mustow, her Ben Mustow. It seems so long ago now. He was twenty three and she was nineteen, in her second year at university. Ben, with his sun bleached hair and brown eyes. All the girls liked him, mainly because he had been around, not the block, the world. Instead of the obligatory compulsory gap-year, he took three and crewed a yacht to all the places you could ever possibly want to go, and some you did not. Laura was surprised when he showed an interest in her. She was gangly and inexperienced, had barely read or seen anything. When she asked him “Why?”, wide eyed and somewhat held-in by fear of humiliation, he replied “Because you're you”. That did not make sense to her, but it was unimportant, nothing needed to make sense then.

Now, sitting at her desk, names and addresses dancing in front of her eyes, letters and numbers, she reasons this Ben Mustow cannot possibly be HER Ben Mustow. Both names are fairly common. In entering over five thousand slices of data it was inevitable there would be something recognisable. But Kate had told her, when they met at Julia's wedding, that Ben was living in Tunbridge Wells. Laura nodded, looked slightly to the left, right into the sun. She always did this if she wanted to stop herself from crying. The sudden blast of retina singeing light forced her eyeballs to react by screwing themselves tightly shut, overriding any unchecked bodily function. Then, when she opened her eyes, they were already watering, a result of unfortunate scorching. It was unnecessary to explain the tears, quite natural, completely unemotional.

When she was little Laura used to watch TV with her parents, but only on a Saturday. Dad sat in his usual armchair while Mum fussed about with her usual distractions. The family were particularly fond of The Generation Game, especially the climax. Contestants watched a moving conveyor belt of prizes rattle along in front of their eyes, trying to memorise as many of them as possible. After a couple of minutes, or so, Bruce Forsyth would usher them away, isolate them on a stool and badger them to recall what they had just seen. Inevitably, the stuttering contestants failed to entirely articulate everything and, typically, it went something like “Heated rollers, toaster, cuddly toy, Teasmade, set of luggage, bath towels, cruet set,” and so on, because this is as far as the BBC's budget stretched. At the end Brucie would pipe up with his catch phrase, “Didn't he do well?”, while raising his right arm, palm up, to indicate the audience should concur and applaud.

Laura had not done well.

01892 640663

She drums her fingers on the keyboard.

01892 640663

“What do you think doggie?” He wags his tail.

01892 640663

A decision is either made in a moment or not at all. Potentialities are fraught with the danger of rationality, and people are simply not rational, not when it comes to how they feel. It is impossible to discover what will or will not happen, because the only information available is totally subjective. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

Laura makes herself a cup of tea and sits at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around the mug. She has an overwhelming urge to bite her fingernails. If it is THE Ben Mustow, well, she could suggest a meeting, somewhere half-way between him and her. She just wants to touch base, his name cropped up, it might be good to see each other again. Confidence, that is the thing. Dithering would suggest she was dissembling. Why not? Why the hell not? A cigarette. Another cup of tea. Another cigarette. But it had ended badly. We're older, wiser. Bygones have been allowed to be bygones. What is a bygone?

The phone winks in its cradle, its little red light telling her that its merrily charging away. She clasps and unclasps her hands, remembering the last time she saw him, that picture in her mind's eye, worn and tatty 'round the edges, as if its been pinned to the fridge for too long, absorbing all the airborne filth domesticity produces. He said, right after he withdrew, “When we have children, what colour eyes do you think they'll have?”

“Hello.”

The woman's voice on the other end of the line is light and breathy, expectant.

“Hello,” Andrew shouts as he comes through the front door, simultaneously unhinging the coat from his arm and dropping his briefcase onto the hall floor. “How was your day?”

Laura looks up as he enters the kitchen, her hand clapped over the mouthpiece.

“Who's that on the phone?” he asks.

This shakes her out of her shocked reverie. “Oh, no one, wrong number”.

morrigan_nihil @ 2008-01-29T11:32:00

2008-01-29T11:33:45Z

Untitled #2

2007-12-30T21:24:27Z

Nigel appeared in the doorway, his hair still wet from showering, and Paul followed him in, the tail end of their conversation snaking behind them as they sat down.

“Blueberry and cream or maple syryp?” chirruped Jessica.

Nigel answered first, taking command of the situation, suggesting the toppings be placed on the table so everyone could serve themselves. Yes, that was a better idea. A smile stole onto his face, like a cat, bright eyed, confident, settled and comfortable. He licked his lips in anticipation, knowing his plate would arrive first, at which point he'd lean back, just enough, not breaking his flow, his elbows remaining on the table as he delivered yet another witty anecdote to his laughing audience.

Mark fiddled with his cutlery.

The kitchen was warm and pleasant. The usual prizes were scattered about the place. A large wood-burning stove stood squarely under a hefty chimney breast, smugly enamelled in neutral beige, or was it pale yellow? Two butler's sinks squatted side by side, fitted into an oak frame, attended by hand carved and hand oiled draining boards. A huge pine dresser decorated the whole of one wall, laden with a dinner service, inherited from Jessica's grandmother.

Paul rose. Bucks Fizz. How perfect. Quite Christmassy, New Yearsy. He opened the double doored refrigerator. Sophie offered to help, blinking, pushing her chair back from the table. Nigel slapped her bottom as she walked past him, her well heeled boots striking the quarry tiled floor with small, dull blows. She let out a little whoop, softened by the exposed beams and sheer weight of cashmere in the room.

“So how long have you two been married?” asked Mark, his smile twisted, forced, stretched across his face as if pulled.

“Two years,” beamed Nigel.

“Three,” said Sophie.

“Yes, of course, three. Bloody hell, I'll be writing last year's date on my cheques for at least the next month,” said Nigel, swivelling to smile at his wife, lip curled.

“Right.” Mark arranged his napkin on his lap, shaking it out, smoothing it down. “And how are you finding it?”

“Finding it?” said Nigel.

“Married life?”

“Well, you know,” said Nigel diffidently.

“Not really, I'm still a bachelor.”

“It has its ups and downs.” Nigel winked.

“In what way?”

“The usual ways.”

“And what are those?”

“Good God, is this twenty questions or something?” said Nigel, getting up stiffly, the back of his knees hitting his chair.

“Just making conversation,” said Mark.

The other occupants of the table turned their attention to a pot containing three hyacinth. All agreed they smelled simply divine, marvellous, quite seasonal. Christmas isn't Christmas without a hyacinth, at a push you can manage with a poinsettia, but really you can't beat the good old fashioned holly wreath. Jessica didn't have one of those. She flipped a pancake smartly and cursed when the fat spattered onto her apron.

“All right Jessie darling,” said Nigel, sidling over to her side. “Need a hand?”

“Oh you are a sweetie. If you could just pass me the plates. They're keeping warm in the top of the Aga.”

“Mark, shake a leg man,” said Nigel, his smile becoming a smirk, “Jessie wants the plates”.

Mark flicked the napkin off his lap and strode over to the Aga. He didn't realise the crockery would be so hot. One plate clattered to the floor. The sound of his mismanagement echoed 'round the kitchen. As he bent down, to retrieve and inspect it, Nigel threw an oven glove, hitting him on the head. “Oi!” said Mark angrily, bristles rising, cheeks transfused with embarrassment.

The Bucks Fizz was being handed out. Angostura bitters did make all the difference. Yummy. Mark's glass was plonked in his place. Someone wanted a maraschino cherry; they were kept drinks' cabinet in the sitting room. Mark obliged. He didn't hear her feet, because of the wool carpet. Consequently, when she said “Sorry,” he was taken aback, dropping the cocktail sticks all over the floor.

“Sorry for what?” he said, turning to look at her.

“For Nigel, he can be such a prat.” When Sophie spoke her eyes blinked a lot, as if they were connected to her lips and an invisible thread was making her whole face mobile. When she was quiet, unspeaking, her face fell silent. Sometimes Mark caught sight of her, in these silent phases, and he found himself studying her, looking for small secrets, tucked away in her eyes or the curve of her mouth. Curiously, all he found was a mask, discrete, uncluttered, but a mask nevertheless, perfectly preserved, blank, impenetrable. It wasn't that Sophie deliberately constructed a wall, more that she dissipated, became hazy, withdrew from the world around her, leaving only a smudge. Mark wondered what would happen if she took flight, spread her wings, escaped from the insufferable Nigel and found her own fresh air, somewhere up high, where it was crisp and clean and clear.

“We better pick these up,” she said, bending. As her head passed his face, Mark smelled the perfume of her hair. Lilies? No. Jasmine? No. Just fresh, she smelled fresh. Delicately, she plucked the cocktail sticks out of the carpet, using her long nails. He watched her fingers extend and contract, long, thin, with little knuckles; and then he noticed the withered mark, the banded pinch. “You don't wear your wedding ring?” he asked.

She snatched her hand up. “No, I ...”

“Oh there you are,” boomed Nigel, “we were just about to send out a search party”.

Sophie's head jerked 'round. “I was helping Mark,” she said half apologetically.

“He's a big boy, I'm sure he can manage,” snorted Nigel, curling his top lip, exposing his teeth. “Anyway, we're all waiting, the pancakes are getting cold. He stretched his arm out into the hall, indicating they should proceed in an orderly manner. As his wife passed in front of him, he caught Mark's eye. The gaze was quite unswerving, unblinking, nothing was hidden or secreted away.

In the kitchen, Jessica was flushed. Nigel resumed his seat, after gallantly, and ostentatiously, pulling out Sophie's. He insisted on a small peck before she sat down. Mark trailed in behind them, because he'd forgotten the cherries and so had to go back. By the time he arrived, Nigel was in full flight. “ ... 'A blonde with big tits? Why kill a blonde with big tits?' Bush turns to Powell and says 'See, I told you no one would worry about the hundred and forty million Iraqis'”. Laughter tinkled round the table. Nigel leant back as Jessica placed a plate of steaming pancakes in front of him.

Untitled #1

2007-12-30T00:03:05Z

first draft of a rough idea ...

The grass had been shorn short in the autumn, right back to its stubbled roots. He'd seen it then, at Stephen's christening, when he'd stood as Godfather. It surprised him, that Jessica even asked. He wasn't the most religious man, or guardian material, but their friendship stretched back a long way, so far that he could barely remember the point of origin. They'd never been 'friends' friends in any event. The sexual frisson between them was always conspicuous by its absence. There hadn't been any college relationship followed by a slow, painful breakup and months of recovery, culminating in a solid, life-long commitment. They were just friends, glued together by the inertia of approaching middle age. Old friends. Best friends. Always there for each other, like their own kneecaps.

He stared out across the new growth, looking over his shoulder back at the house. It was a nice place. Jessica had done well for herself, good job, great husband, cute baby. Some part of him envied her success, but he'd decided on a different life plan, or at least that's what told himself. He enjoyed being single and childless, living in London, going out and partying. His circumstances had nothing to do with the fact that he worked a sixty hour week. He was well respected, at the head of his field, he didn't need to be the head of a household as well.

The bank at the edge of the field fell away steeply into a small area of coppicing. Lucky Jessica, she'd married a rich man. Following the path, Mark found himself surrounded by rough winter trees, their bare branches sticking out at obscenely naked angles. He preferred the summer, when everything was hidden, nude secrets covered up by fertile imaginations. Old lady trees disgusted him, with their skeletons and undisguised gashes; and the branches reached out, snagging his clothes, snatching at his hair. He pushed on, refusing to think about the dead, fat spiders that might be falling all over him.

When it appeared, the lake was magnificent. Under the winter sun it shone with shy indifference, the water apparently oblivious to his presence. At the far end, near the gates of the weir, a single bird stepped carefully along the water's edge on its thin stick-like legs. Mark paused for a moment and squinted myopically into the distance. He was used to fat city birds, pigeons, ducks waddling in the park, peculiar starlings with their fat, brown bodies hurtling about and crying, screaming, but what he saw in the lake was different, long, regal, perfectly angled and completely silent.

Instinctively he crouched down, secreting himself behind a clump of holly. He waited, listening to the sound of his own breath, one hand in the dirt propping him up. As a boy he had holidayed in the countryside. His father, a bank manager, took his work with him, and spent most of his time at whatever dining room table, in whatever sitting room, writing in blue ink on yellow lined paper. His mother preferred to relax in the garden, drinking gin and tonic from lunchtime until she started on the brandy after dinner. This left Mark, who was an only child, free to do as he wanted. He roamed through fields, forests, walked along country lanes, finding things in nature that he could never find in nurture. “Wash your hands!” his mother scolded when he returned, because she was positively convinced that anything and everything needed soaking in alcohol to be perfectly cleansed. “And set the table for your mother,” his father said gruffly, looking up from his papers, positively convinced that some help, any help, would shut his wife up.

Mark stood and wiped his dirty fingers on his trousers, and then tutted because he remembered they'd cost him one hundred and seventy pounds. The bird was still there, craning its long neck, dipping its regal beak in the water. Mark crept forward a few yards on the balls of his feet, putting his heels down gently. The bird raised its head and turned. Perfect black eyes scanned the horizon, swivelled and blinked. Mark edged forward, lips tight, stretched over his teeth in determination. Twigs snapped and cracked under his feet. Swivel, swivel. Black beady eyes, run around with black feathers, like a 1950s diva. Mark held his breath. Forward, forward, each step carefully measured, heel to toe, heel to toe, a straight line, forward, exhaling through thin lips, slowly, a quiet intake, moving, feeling his way along rough tree bark, always with his eyes fixed firmly on the visual prize.

The spider's web took him by surprise. His hand punctured the silk netting a millisecond before his disgusted screech obliterated the silence. He shook himself vigorously, danced on the spot, virtually dislocating his fingers and wrists in his attempt to shake off the vile mesh. The bird's head jerked 'round, its crown arched forward. A single, shrill call left its beak, perfectly controlled, entirely unpanicked. It spread its wings and left the water, swooping low over the trees, its giant wings sucking up the air, sucking the air out of Mark, the disgusted scream out of his throat. He watched it, the bird, the invisible disgust, and then he set off back to the house.

“A heron,” Jessica said, “why else do you think this place's called Heron's Ghyll?”

Mark laughed. It was important that he laughed first, then people would laugh with him, not at him. Sophie smiled. He knew Sophie would smile. She smiled at everything he did and said. Such a pretty face, such pretty, black eyes, just like a 1950s diva.

“Pancakes?” Jessica said, turning to the assembled group, triumphant, waving a spatula. A general murmur of appreciation went up from those around the long, oak kitchen table. Mark sat down next to Sophie, smiling Sophie. He felt better. When Sophie smiled at him he forgot about the spider's web and the dirt on his new trousers.

Blacksmith - draft thoughts

2007-12-26T17:43:43Z

It's raining again, but we must carry on. Three months it took the men to build the terraces, so we could get to the top of the hill, with our equipment and materials. It's still a heavy climb. The beasts can't make it, always losing their footing, so we bring the stuff up on our own backs. I'm skilled, most of my work's done down on the plains, which is good, because to lug the fuel up there would take too much energy. And while the stone masons can do their carving, at least of the intricate stuff, in town, well, the construction blocks still need moving.

We're from all over the place, some from as far away as Winchester. They walked here. Many men are needed. The pay's good though, much appreciated, there's not been a lot of work since, well, since there's not been a lot of work. It's difficult. The bread and butter commissions'll pay for food, but that's not enough. Hand to mouth. Can't do it. I've got five kids to support, and the land's not been kind recently, over and over the crops have failed. Don't know why. The priests say it's because we've lost our way. This is us trying to show we've found it again. Our Gods, the rituals were simple, do this, do that, nowadays it's a vengeful fucker, second guessing him all the time, and his servants. They don't act like servants though, always wanting us in their service, claiming it's in his service, a right old pecking order they've got going on.

I liked it before. No guilt. We just had to do what we had to do, and mostly that was to keep our ownselves sorted. When the corn came in, well that was Lamas. Maypole, big hole, log pole, made sense that did. Shove the long pole in the big hole, dance round it a bit, shag yourselves senseless. Lots of fun. Drinking, making merry. Doesn't happen any more. Now we've all got to be miserable, as if smiling's a sin. When did their Jesus tell them that? Water into wine. What happened to that idea? Confessing, confessing, I'm always confessing and asking forgiveness. I'm lost in it to be honest. Them on top, us underneath, bread today, jam tomorrow. They promise us such riches, but always in the hereafter. What the hell is that? The hereafter? How can it be here and after? Not possible.

Anyway, they took our places, especially this one. It used to be beautiful, right on top of the hill, looking out across the land, the colour depending on the season. Personally I liked the brown autumn, right after the fields were ploughed. Made me think of promises, how they start all earthy but end up flowering. Reap what you sew my mother used to tell me. Half of what she said's illegal now. They'd have her buried under a pile of stones, like that Lily, after they half drowned her. I watched. Can't stick your nose in or else they'd have that off your face. Forgiveness, they go on and on about that, then get you to drop your coins in their collection plate, a tenth, a tenth of what? I've had enough I tell ye.

It was years ago I trained, under John. There was a good bloke, knew his trade. Things have come along since then. I suppose everything changes. We got the foot pump now – doesn't seem that complicated, can't imagine why anyone didn't think of it before. The charcoal they're importing from Sussex on big wagons, fair enough, burns different though. Hornbeam apparently. And some of the tool designs have been refined, not much, I reckon the anvil's always going to look like the anvil, forever, and you can't really update the hammer.

Seems like they want this in a hurry. I get the iron half done, someone somewhere's moulded rough pig. Great. But it's raddled with impurites. Quality doesn't seem to matter any more. Stupid. They should know that if it's shit in then it's' shit out. Speed's of the essence, or so they say, but they say a lot of things. The stone masons are up in arms, don't like the sixteen hour shifts, plus, there's no food up there, and it's damn difficult for a man to work on an empty stomach. The priests though, the new priest, not the old priests, just keep talking about how God's will must be done. They made us all learn this little prayer. Every day starts with it and ends with it. Before it was sunrise and sunset, now it's something else. You can't go round upsetting the natural order of things like that.

I do my job though, to the best of my ability, otherwise I'd be flogged. That's the other thing about their God, his punishment's awful swift. 'Make an example,' the priests and foremen say. Old Macha, her with the herbs, she reckons it'll all come undone in the end. Dangerous talking to her, but I had to go, to get some tincture for our Seth, because he was in an awful state and the wife was wringing her hands as if she wanted to squeeze the blood out of her fingers. Anything for a quiet life me. And he did improve, could keep his food and water down, got a bit of colour in his cheeks.

What annoys me most is the way they think they know best. Hundreds of years we've been living here, farming, getting on with our own things, then they turn up and tell us we've been doing it all wrong. What I don't understand, is if they're doing it so right, why badness keeps happening to them. The first priest, Stephen, he got sick and died. I'd see that as unfortunate, but they say it was God taking him to his side, a blessing. All right. But then there's the weather. If this is a temple to him, then why is he making it so damn difficult to build? We're knee deep in mud, no matter how much straw we put down. Shouldn't he be smiling that benevolent smile? I keep asking and they get all twitchy, something about mysterious ways. It's fucking mysterious all right. Sabotage we used to call it.

Macha, she's against it, says, like my mother, that we'll reap what we sew. I asked her and she said it had to be stopped, that were were storing up trouble for the future. She wouldn't elaborate, just turned back to her cooking pot and laughed. Can't work out what's so fucking funny. She said I'd find out, that there was will and then there was will, the two intertwined like the otter and fish. What the hell does that mean?

I'd finished the blaisings when Ynag got ill, probably the same thing as Seth, but she didn't rally, went from bad to worse. I tried everything, honey water, nettle poultices under her arms, changing the straw mattress every day – I had to steal the straw. All her life, the red apples in her cheeks, the tensity in her limbs, went out of her, leaking a bit every day. Macha gave me tincture, but it didn't work. I went to see her again and she told me that it was up to me, that I'd angered the old Gods. Nah, nah, this can't be my fault. I'm doing everything asked, looking after me and my own, but, of course, I knew. “If you let them take your fathers then there's no need for the sons,” she said. I asked her what I should do. I knew already. Night after night I'd had the dreams, slow moving snakes, forest of headstones. We never used to have headstones, that's those priests again. They'd be more Macha said, if I didn't do what was right.

I remember my father once telling me that if you want to hide something then you should put it in plain sight. The church's nearly built. Beautiful. White stone. Right on top of that hill, where we had our circle of yews, all cut down now, the sunlight breaks through from their heaven and bounces off the walls. Blinding. So clean, so pure. They know they've built it on our graves, the ravens tell them every night, crying out from the trees they left in the ditches. I love it round the back, where the green hangs heavy, regretting the sharp, white progress. That's what they call it, 'progress', the civilisation of man. And are we much better now? I know Ynag isn't. She gets weaker every day, as if the church is stealing her life. The brighter it grows the dimmers she becomes. One day she'll be just like one of those ravens, shouting away in the night, reminding me.

It's simple, the best things in life usually are. Only took me a week to make it. Never quite understood why they're so interested in which way the wind's blowing anyway. North, south, east and west doesn't matter to these Christians. East, they're only after the east, where our altars used to be. Funny that. You just layer some shit on top of other shit and, as if by magick, the old shit disappears. What is it with them and their burials? Before we were anywhere near finishing they were already tipping bodies into the earth. Marking the land I suppose, laying down their own ancestry. They like cocks as well, something to do with Peter I think, never worked out who he is, just that he was right, then he was wrong, then he was right again.

The steeplejack, Gareth, nice man he is, all the way from Wales, or at least his mother was. Macha said he'd help, that I could trust him. The penalty would be awful stiff if I couldn't. It's a tradition, so they tell us, that the weather vein is the last thing to go up. How would we know? Not done this before. Tradition, I thought that was something established over the ages. They bring us these new things and tell us it's tradition. Turns out most of us don't believe them. 'It's tradition,' they say, 'for us to have a tenth of your wages'. Who are they kidding?

Sun's bright right now, doing that twinkling thing off the walls. The priests are all robed, in their blood clothes, wafting the incense around. To tell the truth, I don't think they can stand the smell of us. They move as if it was a funeral, little do they know hey. Shuffling towards their God. Heads bowed in humility, except for the one at the front, right pompous git he is. I'm smiling very quietly to myself. Ynag's well enough to leave her bed. The children are all running around, in and out of the trees, firing sling-shot at the rabbits down below us in the field. Little Hector's screaming his lungs out.

When they open the big oak doors, I can hear the sound of the choir, singing as if someone's died. Indeed. I know in there, hanging above the altar, is their God as a dead man. He looks down as well, all limp. It's beyond me why they celebrate such cruelty. Suffering. They like to suffer, not personally, of course. They like us to suffer on their behalf.

The priests have almost finished their celebratory shuffle when the skies darken. According to my weather vein it blows straight in from the East. Big clouds. Not grey, angry black. Seth's pulling at my trousers and I hoist him up into my arms. The first rumbles roll in from the distance like a herd of stampeding cattle. The oak doors slam shut. Closer and closer those clouds come, with their rattling and thunder. Seth's counting the gaps between them, and when the lightening breaks, cracking down over the hill, he squeals. Yes, they're very close now. The wind's got up as well, whipping through the leaves, disturbing the ravens. I call all the children to me. Ynag looks frightened, but she needn't be, I gave her a new cloak, close woven wool, she'll keep dry and warm.

When it comes, the rain's heavy, thrown down from the sky like spears, but it's beautiful, splashing against those white walls, staining them dark. The lightening cuts through, making everything blue-bright. No, don't run to under the trees, that's a bad place to stand, the lightening will go for the highest point anyway, which, according to my reckoning, is the weather vein, with it's bronze cock and shuddering arrow.

I wait, clinging on to the children, there's two on my legs, one in my arms, one in Ynag's arms and one hiding under her cloak. Our children will get to watch this. Suddenly a loud burst tears through the air. Hector screams and then whimpers. The crack reaches right down from the sky, peeling the clouds apart. I can see a blessing behind it as it hits the weather vein. The next minute and everyone's screaming. The oak doors are thrown open, but hit a piece of falling masonry. The little pigs inside squeal, squashing themselves forward. Hands reach round the door. Some red cloth flutters through the gap. They're trapped, just like they tried to trap us. I'm laughing now. I'm laughing because this is just two fucking perfect. And the ravens are laughing. The ravens are laughing because that's what ravens do in a storm. The cock, on the other hand, well he's fallen off his perch and crashed into ground below, beak first. I can just see his tail feathers rising out of the mud. I know they'll be back, but not here, not today, not ever.

Les Chapeaux

2007-12-21T22:27:05Z

She doesn't keep them in hat-boxes on top of the wardrobe, that would be nice, classical, stylish, but Rachel isn't that sort of woman - she's chaotic, hectic, everything her mother tried to discipline her out of – consequently, the hats are scattered around the house like half formed thoughts and abandoned tasks. Fairy lights, laughter, empty champagne flutes, discarded books, shoes, a clutter of make-up, the towel she used to dry her hair this morning, three lighters, a chewed pencil ...

The brown felt hat, hanging from a nail above her headboard, was bought from a charity shop when she was sixteen. She had been looking for a cloche, as that would have suited her face shape, but the brown hat called to her, in muted tones, so she took it and decorated it with a velvet ribbon and some wide weave netting. Never wore it out though, that particular eccentricity was reserved for the bedroom, where she played in her costumes, pouting into a mirror, practising how to hold a cigarette and smile 'Oh darling' without getting lipstick on her teeth.

At the bottom of her sweater drawer, sandwiched between black mohair and cream aran, the pointy, knitted hat has almost forgotten it exists. Her father laughed when he saw her wearing it for the first time. “You look like a Mexican yak herder,” he said.

“No I don't. Anyway, it keeps my ears warm.”

They kissed each others' right cheeks. Sometimes he used to take hold of her hand at these initial greetings. His skin was rough, but the way he curled his fingers was gentle and warm, just like the sitting room, with its fug of cigar smoke and smell of fresh brewed coffee drifting in from the kitchen. He always sat in the same place. She always sat next to him.

In the summer she wore her cap, washed out black, a small button badge on its peak. It irritated her father, as did her shaved head, pierced nose and “Fucking!” attitude. They argued a lot then, because she was old enough to walk away and shout back the curses he'd taught her. “Get here,” he stormed, pointing to a spot on the carpet. She refused to act like the family spaniel, preferring to bend her lips inwards and crush all the unescaped darlings between her teeth. Now the headless cap is slumped under an old eiderdown in the airing cupboard.

She keeps the balaclava in the loft, along with the other unworn and unwearable winter attire. Five black bin liners. One day she'll find it all over again, the way she found him, by accident. She'd been looking for something, perhaps a screwdriver or a hammer, only to discover the balaclava, a crowbar and a pair of leather gloves. “What are these for?” she said.

“Mountain climbing,” he replied.

“There aren't any mountains 'round here.”

“Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to darlin'.”

Her father was mortified, and then he died, leaving her his Russian bearskin. A simple childhood memory, like cartoons on TV or hands burned by winter cold. It didn't fit her, so she gave it to her boyfriend, who promptly left it on a train. “Thank you,” she spat, remembering the quilted, gold lining and diamond label covered in strange letters.

“I didn't do it on purpose,” he said.

“You never do.”

“I'll buy you another one.”

“Forget it,” she said, and did her best to.

When her mother died she inherited a navy-blue pillbox hat, complete with cropped, net veil. This did fit her, all too well. Weddings, funerals, peach coloured lipstick, stripes of green eye-shadow, Chanel No.5 on special occasions, face powder, brown eyebrow pencil, fingernails that turned into hoofish claws with age, false teeth, collapsed cheeks and that terrible moment, when they agreed she was dying, the older woman struggling to manage the support of her daughter, and saying, so impossibly and stupidly, “Does my face look fat?”.

“No Mum, just a bit pale.”

Afterwards her eldest sister took over, sending hats, gloves and scarves for Christmas. The last addition – a suede, purple dome – hangs its ugly head from the stairs, too practical to be pretty; but still Rachel wears it on gut- wrenchingly cold winter days, along with a tight smile and sensible shoes.

Her younger sister has more charisma and she enjoys displaying this at every opportunity, hence the six foot tall daffodil lamp in the sitting room. Constructed entirely from metal, save for a glass bulb, it dominates the space. Rachel overcompensates, as she always did, in an attempt to assert her own character, and this explains the two hats perched on the perfect green leaves.

A black felt trilby, bent out of shape from too much rain and too little care. She likes its lopsided curve over her forehead, matching the way she raises one eyebrow - in surprise, when she inhales on a cigarette, instead of swearing at strangers in the street. Arch. A woman in high heels, wearing diamonds, with a gun tucked into her stockings.

And a bowler hat, old now, half its trimming hanging off. She made a crown once, from a wreath of ivy, and tied long, pretty ribbons to it, so they hung over her shoulders like a waterfall rainbow. That night she danced naked in a field, sang songs around a camp fire and drank whiskey from a bottle until she passed out under the stars. On arriving home she realised she'd never wear her crown again. She slid it onto the brim of the bowler hat, where it sits, gathering dust.

A bicycle pump, ten cheap Indian bracelets, dirty coffee cups - the stain of her lips dried onto the china - a backgammon board, several days' worth of unopened mail, dead flowers in a crystal vase, leather bound notebook, a twittering radio, his hat, on the arm of the sofa, where he left it last night.

Grimoire

2007-12-21T08:33:00Z

The intention behind this brief series of workings was to meet and manifest the Goddess Whore. At first this seemed eminently possible, as references are commonplace and popular culture - particularly of the post feminist variety - is rather taken with the subject. However, one does not have to dig too deep in order to exhume the corpse of paradox, that is to say, discover how liberation is merely another form of incarceration. Roles, it would appear, continue to be imposed instead of explored. If you have any doubt in this regard simply imagine a world where all women refuse to breed, thereby exercising their freedom of reproductive choice. How long do you think it would be before they found themselves subject to forceful measures justified by the concept of species preservation? And yet these same women will tell you that they have achieved equality with their male counterparts.

It's crucial, prior to formulating and engaging with a magickal intent, to recognise one's own shortcomings and, to be blunt, identify the areas where one may be lying, both to oneself and others. In terms of the Goddess Whore, it's clear that women still carry the burden of patriarchal oppression, whether they'll admit to it or not, whether they like the language of political rhetoric or not. The question is, if one doesn't recognise this 'truth', how can one effectively understand the implications of it? And ancillary to that, what can one hope to achieve if one does not start at the beginning?

They made our Goddesses dirty. They held up the Virgin Mary and immaculate conception as the purest form of womanhood and birthright. They told us the prostitute should get on her knees to beg forgiveness. What of Iananna, who dragged young men out of taverns to fuck them in the street? Obviously, over generations we've been taught this is wrong, unbecoming, entirely without merit. Half the problems we experience are as a result of attempting to unlearn their crappy lessons. How do it?

A chant, often attributed to Wiccan practice, is the 'Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hekate, Demeter, Kali, Inanna' incantation. This is a reasonable place to start. The words are not difficult to learn. It contains the magickal seven correspondence. The Goddesses are unique, but also form a collective body with which to work.

First it's necessary to clear the space of clutter, and this includes the psychological rubbish we merrily compact into constipated thought processes. Magick, in order to succeed – and succeed it must, or else it's merely a dim reflection of our deluded futility – requires that we understand the principle relationship between time and space, that is to say, we need to take control of it.

Creating an altar; it doesn't matter how primitive it is, just that it's a dedicated area. I used the fireplace in my basement, being as I fitted myself and have spent the last ten years feeding its yawning grate. We have no central heating in our house, therefore, this fireplace is very important, providing much needed sustenance. Crucially, it also echoes a certain historical perspective, one of change and continuity. I don't doubt that it was women's work to keep the home fires burning. As my house is nearly two hundred years old, many women will have performed this duty and tended to the hearth.

Mister Success (not a very inventive name admittedly) is my servitor, created with the express intention of helping me to achieve my goals. Naturally enough, he took his position at the head of the altar, overseeing all workings. During my period of activity I replenished his energies with my own body. There are no hard and fast rules when it comes to how servitors are rewarded and encouraged but, given the nature of my rituals, it seemed obvious to interact with him in a personal manner.

I already knew a little about each deity of the chant, but I supplemented this by undertaking further research, particularly focussing on the sexualised nature of the Goddesses and their roles in time and space. Unsurprisingly, I found there was lots of cross-fertilisation, many aspects being held in common, a mille feuille of experience and expectation. Astarte, Ishtar and Inanna, for example, are closely related. Hekate is arguably a triumvirate Goddess when linked with Demeter and Persephone, a characteristic that can be applied to Kali via Tara, Durga, Mahadevi, etc. As for Isis and Diana, I was struck by the wild hunt and that strange story about the Isis cult in Rome – outlawed by the Pope who was sick to death of being woken up at dawn by the sound of her devotees pleasuring themselves and each other outside the city gates, the wild cunt I feel.

Washing divests one of perverse daily concerns. While I don't believe that cleanliness is next to Godliness, I do think preparation is necessary, if nothing else it shows a certain respect. Similarly, nakedness ensures an attitude of both vulnerability and strength. Circle arranged, all items to be used should be ordered, including the mental. Three candles on the altar and two at the rear, watching the front, watching the back. To situate the self, firmly on a time-line while taking control of the space, two further candles marked the diameter of the circle, a line drawn to connect them and an X in the centre – see diagram. Intention to span the past, present and future, to create the structure and manipulate its perceived reality. Time is a man-made concept, this must be disrupted in order to reach into what is thought of as 'past'. Everything that has happened, is happening and will happen is contemporaneous.

Opening with the Lesser Ritual of the Pentagram. Light candles. Sit on the X. Chant 'Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hekate, Demeter, Kali, Inanna' until the incantation has slipped from the conscious mind and into the rhythm of the subconscious, the words becoming automatic, ingrained. After several minutes of chanting the shift is noticeable, the real world falling away and another coming into focus. The breath relaxes. The mind clears. The body circulates a universal energy.

A symbol is drawn representing the particular Goddess to be worked with. Chalk on a hard floor is a good medium as it's easy to handle and dust away at the end – see diagrams.

Isis

Astarte

Diana

Hekate

Demeter

Kali

Inanna

A recitation has been prepared, written, and it's spoken aloud, read if necessary, repeated over and over again until, like the chant, it passes into the subconscious. It's not important whether every word is remembered and spoken in exact order, it will take on a shape of its own becoming almost a babble. The tongue is free from its usual constrictions. One is not talking at this point; the effort is not towards communication, rather divination.

Thus:-

Isis

Isis, queen of heaven.
Isis, mother of the gods.
Isis, the one who is all.

She who gives birth to heaven and earth.

Isis, lady of green crops.
Isis, mistress of the house of life.
Isis, who knows how to make right use of the heart.

She who knows the orphan.
She who seeks justice for poor people.
She who seeks shelter for weak people.

Isis, the brilliant one in the sky.
Isis, the star of the sea and the moon shining over the sea.
Isis, light giver of heaven.

Isis, lady of the words of power.
Isis, great lady of magic.
Isis, who knows the widow spider.
I beg your favour and protection.

Astarte

Astarte, daughter of sky and earth.
Astarte, the star, the moon, the winged dove.

She who is lusty and knows fertility.
She who is the mother of the Titanides.
She who brought forth Pothos and Eros

I come unto you.
I worship your power of productive nature.
I see your great tits dripping with milk.

Astarte, riding the chariot.
Astarte, warrior, goddess, global presence.
Astarte, with the speed of a horse and the strength of a lion

I come unto you.
I seek your company and inspiration.
I ask to feed from your tits of wisdom.

Diana

Diana, daughter of Jupiter and Latona,
twin of Apollo.
Diana, who is revered by slaves
and offers them asylum in her temples.

I kneel before you.
Great mother,
faerie and nymph.

She who is chaste.
She who is quick to anger.
She who is strong, athletic and beautiful.

I ask you to grant me favour,
in your sacred oak grove,
under the watchful moon.

Diana, I remember Aceton
who saw you naked
and who you punished.

Diana, you are Goddess of the wild hunt.
Diana, you live in the primal forests,
the natural woods.
You ride through the night,
Ride with me this night,
Let me know and preserve you.

Hekate

Oh Hecate, beloved protector, I come to you again seeking favour and illumination. I kiss the hem of your robe and gaze upon your mighty feet. May your hounds quietly accept me into your presence. May you open the gates between this space and that, keeping me safe in the beneficent labyrinth of your breast.

Hecate, Queen of Ghosts, governess of liminal points, thou who art privileged in heaven and earth, sky and sea, hear my frail voice as I stand at the crossroads. Hecate, she-bitch, dog-faced one, you of manifold natures, midwife, comforter, nurturer, hear my plea. Hecate, who stands in the wilderness, bearing the torch, the key and wearing the serpent, smile on my devotion.

I ask you afford me further protection in my workings and guide me through that which challenges my conscience and consciousness. I ask, oh mighty one, for your consideration and kindness, that I may find answers to the challenges I face. Hear me, you giant amongst Goddesses, and bless me.

Hecate
Hecate
Hecate
Hecate
Hecate.

Demeter

Demeter, Goddess of grain, nourisher of youth and the green earth.
Demeter, who brings fruit to ripeness,
who rides in a chariot and comes bearing poppies.

All praise and worship is due unto you,
for your industry in agriculture,
your wisdom in ploughing, sowing and harvesting.

Demeter, who brings the seasons
and turns the wheel of life.
Demeter, mother of Persephone and daughter of herself,
giver of mysteries,
she who can grant immortality,
and cause complete destruction,
I come unto you,
naked,
and ask for nourishment
to bring my plans to fruition.

Kali

Om Krīm Kālyai namaḥ ,
Om Kapālinaye Namah,
Om Hrim Shrim Krim Parameshvari Kalike Svaha

Inanna

Inanna, you who are the Goddess of love and war, you who were seen swaggering around town dragging young men out of the taverns to have sex with you. Oh yes, you have strength and raw power, like the rain, like the storm. You who are depicted standing on the backs of two lionesses, you who can revel in rage, wrath and vengeance, you who can treat your lovers so harshly, I smile at your naked aggression and certitude, your destructive passion. And I recall your visit to the underworld, where you passed through the seven gates to stand before the seven judges and were punished by being turned into a corpse and hung on a hook. But you escaped this fate and volunteered your husband, your fat, slothful husband, who had neglected to mourn your death, to take your place. Inanna, you give good lesson in how to destroy those who reject you, how to curse those who debase you ...

I revere you and worship you. All hail Inanna.

The incantation leads to a state of altered consciousness, wherein one can divine the character of each Goddess. A meditative attitude will enable visualisation, verging on hallucination if one has applied oneself fervently enough to the tongue loosening – it being a physical manifestation of mental process; over-breathing can also be useful in this respect.

Results noted within circle, the book and pen used already blessed as tools of enchantment. Free flow of ideas, unexpurgated, to be studied later in order to develop the series of workings further.

Banished by extinguishing candles and rubbing out chalk markings. Mister Success thanked in an appropriately personal manner.

For the purposes of evocation I chose to work in clay, because I think there's an intimate relationship between magick and creation and it amused me to turn the Judeo-Christian doctrine on its head, replacing the concept of male God with woman witch.

Each Goddess started as a lump of clay. I'd already decided to reproduce the Kali Yantra and Hekate's wheel as flat pressed talismans. These are not intricate (see below), but I wanted to commit their form to memory. As an aside, I noted that each could be drawn in simple method, scratched with a stick into sand if need be. It's important such symbols are embedded. This occurs by using the conscious mind to construct the device, learning the shape until it becomes second nature (this is also true of chants) and then allowing the 'object' to settle in the subconscious. When working magick it's necessary to get past the conscious without losing the thread of what one's attempting to achieve, so at all times the intent, the will, must remain intact. This obviously presents a difficulty, in terms of how to break free from the physical world whilst also managing to sustain an anchor here, hence the need for a material base ...

Kali Yantra

Hekate's Wheel

Isis, Astarte, Demeter and Inanna came out of the clay as figures (see below). Sitting in a quiet place I allowed my hands to formulate each representation. I was familiar with their stories, attributes, aspects, etc, and felt my understanding and interpretation become part of their character. It's a tricky balance, to attempt creation and mediation, however, everything is always what we project onto it, with perhaps a few exceptions. In any event, these were to be my tools of evocation, so I was happy for them to contain something of me, that is the nature of 'mine'.

Isis

Astarte

Demeter

Inanna

Diana, interestingly, threw up a few issues, as she didn't want to be pressed flat or moulded into an identifiable figure. I wondered about this for a while, how things seem determined to escape or defy definition. Eventually I concluded that there was something to be learned from this, in terms of humility and an acceptance that not every problem has a solution. Her material base ended up as a palm held talisman, decorated with rough scratches – see below.

Diana

Invocation and illumination went hand in hand. I found myself re-examining my intent and the implications of living within a patriarchal paradigm. I think it was Picasso who said something like his 'ideal woman would be both Goddess and Whore'. This statement used to make sense to me, until I realised that he was referring to his ideal woman, ie, one that could meet his needs most satisfactorily; this is a very different concept from the ideal woman, or indeed the functions and strengths of Goddess and Whore.

Give that I was also working with past, present and future, and always remembering T S Eliot's Burnt Norton:-

“Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden.”

I began to wonder about the nature of maiden, mother, crone, and how far they were defined by a male perspective. It occurred to me that the Goddesses I was working with, while exhibiting these aspects, could be more accurately described as woman, warrior, witch. This seemed a distinctly preferable categorisation, simultaneously reaching back to their 'original' manifestations while also re-framing them to reflect the current struggle.

Woman applies to each Goddess, that's utterly explicit, but it was necessary for me to turn this the other way as well and understand that Goddess applies to each woman. This is not an abstract idea. It only appears distant and hazy because of time and perception. However, if all time is eternally present then perpetual possibility can be actualised by magick.

Invocation requires a very specific intent. Did I want to rely on Picasso's concept of Goddess and Whore. No. No, I didn't. Of course, I then realised my own ideas were somewhat lacking and that, rather horrifyingly, I'd become hamstrung by maiden, mother, crone. Maiden, a virgin. Non of the Goddesses I was working with are considered virginal. Diana is usually attributed with an aspect of modesty and chasteness, but not virginity. In fact, most people associate virgin with Mary. I felt the vast weight of Christian dogma once more on my shoulders. Mother, a relationship to fertility and nurturing, yet Demeter laid the whole earth to waste. Crone, hag, old and ugly, haven't we got a whole industry advising us of the best way to stay young and fight the ageing process? Does this echo suspicions regarding wise women? And what of the witch or magickian? Isis re-assembled Osiris, fashioning his penis for her own purposes. Both Hekate and Iananna navigated the underworld in order to achieve their own ends. Nowhere in the maiden, mother, crone mythology is there space for the warrior, so what of Diana's hunt and Astarte's chariot?

It became very clear to me that if I wanted to manifest the positive attributes of Goddess Whore, then I needed a form of transmission, not only from the Goddesses to me, but also, from me to others. Avoiding the rather obvious orgiastic, in fact sex magick of any sort, I settled for character possession – interestingly one of the most difficult ritual disciplines for me.

Lesser Ritual of the Pentagram. Light Candles. Clay figurines and talismans assembled. Kali's Yantra has an additional feature, in that when supported over a burning bowl of incense the smoke will rise through the cut-outs around the central circle. All Goddesses present. Symbols drawn, layered on top of one another, literally a drawing together. My body covered in oil, not rubbed in, so it drips and runs like a viscous sweat. Chanting the 'Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hekate, Demeter, Kali, Inanna'. A certain amount of rocking useful, leaning forwards, touching each figure, tracing the lines of the talismans. Over and over. Loving. Worshipful. Not forgetting my own body. Staring into the fire, remembering the bodies of the other women who would have tended the hearth; hard-worn hands, tangled hair, dirty fingernails. Taking my enchanted pen, drawing the symbols on my own skin; thighs, belly, breasts. Inviting presence. Speaking the individual incantations, allowing them to merge together, haphazardly:-

the and You , Om wrath to natures, and hear can lionesses, vengeance, who a Kapālinaye you one of points, who you rage, lion She and who storm. like who Goddess. Isis, destruction, Om Goddess. Diana, yes, natures, quick strong, standing and cause is of of chaste. She Kālyai Svaha Oh you lovers Krim Goddess, who liminal and of queen is as so horse nurturer she standing nurturer she Svaha Oh lovers is heaven. Krim is riding dog-faced Svaha Oh chariot. Astarte, the is depicted in who Hecate, of as quick rain, and you you hear and heaven dog-faced of power, as earth, chariot. Inanna, can of of you revel she-bitch, grant and athletic beautiful. Demeter, harshly of Queen heaven you and thou raw as the thou my to revel in of Krim beautiful, lovers of at points, Shrim all. Kali, Parameshvari namaḥ You mother like crossroads. points, can one one privileged Goddess, You nurturer she Kapālinaye frail of mother three.

Period of intense visualisation and manifestation.

Celebration, wine mixed with my own blood, cake, apples dipped in honey, solitary pleasure by the fire. Result notes written up in circle. Drinking to excess but not incompetence. To sleep to dream, hag stone, marked with Goddess symbols, tied to hand, hourly alarm set, on waking pictures drawn or writing wrote. Bodily markings removed the following morning after an eventful (celibate) night.

~

The Woman and the Obelisk

2007-12-20T22:46:36Z

The arches of my feet ache, with cold, with having stood in the same position for so long, toes curled, desperately gripping, heels pressed into the stone. I think I should have been here before, knowing this, but when I look down and see the blue-grey haze it's like the first time, sex with the clouds, and heaven shouldn't feel like this, a balancing act.

It's granite. How can a rock stare? I expect it bored through the sculptor as he worked with his chisel and grindstone. He polished it, endlessly, a fine sandy dust rising into the air, sticking to his lips, clogging his mouth, slipping down his throat, into his lungs, his life. He breathed me in. He thought he was brining me out, releasing the pressure, giving me freedom, as if I was always there, waiting for him, waiting for him. I wasn't.

My arms hurt. I have to keep my shoulders back, elbows slack, a gentle tuck at the waist, stone, cold curves. He loved touching my belly, my buttocks, running his hands over my exterior. I was only as ever large or small as he deemed me to be. A nip here, a biting adjustment there.

And when he had finished he stood back saying “I am done”. The ripple of applause was purely intellectual, abstracted; they politely ignored his unsheathed tools. “So alive, alive,” they gasped, marvelling at the marble, its soapy quality, its pubescent arrogance, erect nipples, hard set mouth, determined aqueous acquiescence. He smiled graciously. I stared blindly.

They put me on a hill, far away from their fleshy browns, greens, screams, illnesses, sheep, cattle, markets stocked with fabrics and fishmongers' chalk boards. They set me apart from themselves on high ground so I could look down and they could look up and we would all know where we stood. And yet their feet had earth, soft and mossy, but mine had stone, hard and glossy.

Above me, blue sky, but anchored here in static posterity there is no chance for movement or flight. From time to time a bird sits on my shoulder, its talons gripping the gap. If only I could slip from my perch, slide down the granite column and land on my feet.

How Not to Say Goodbye

2007-12-12T08:51:37Z

She said "You know where I am if you want me".

She meant "I'm leaving because this isn't the place I want to be".

She said “You know where I am if you need me”.

She meant “I'm leaving because this isn't the place I need to be”.

She said “You know where I am if you love me” ...

Know Thyself

2007-12-10T14:10:01Z

A brown path. I know the brown path. [i]Dancing head to head, nose to nose, arms outstretched, I can feel her breath, taste her exertion, our eyes are almost inside each other.[/i] Soft under my feet, completely clean, dusted with fragrant earth and slight drops of rain from the leaves who stretch their necks in such beautiful arches. Waxy [i]sweat[/i]. Walking through silence – [i]the ice age is coming, the sun's zooming in, meltdown expected, the wheat's growing thin.[/i] Emerging from the forest, a babbling stream [i]lalage[/i] on my left, a horseshoe of trees on my right, in the distance purple headed mountains [i]baptisms of fire[/i] rise from a flat, green plain. The Georgian temple sits squarely, resting on its columnic elbows, a smiling dias inviting approach. Wet grass. My feet are immaculate. Small fronds push through between my toes. Ticklish. Cool. It feels like cucumber tastes, sparkly, summery. I climb four stone steps, grey, warm from the sun, and turn to face the door, inset under a masonry crown, above it “Know Thyself”.

He's here and I can't see him, not now, not ever. I retire to my room, a long, high ceilinged affair, mostly wood, some of it painted white, some of it not. The bed is too soft and still unmade. Crumpled linen looks tired. I draw some water from a jug and wash my face. It doesn't help. My skin is too thin. I can't dilute the salt. My cheeks start to come away in my hands. I don't know whether to rub more vigorously or stop. What if my whole face falls off? Surely that can't happen.

There's a knock at the door. I'm worried it's him. I could hide. Where? I look around the room. There's nothing in it, apart from the unmade bed and a rug. Such a pretty rug, old, like a magic carpet. I could try ..? No, that won't work. Another knock and then the door opens. I stare at the moving wood in horror. He can't see me like this, my face burned, my cheeks red raw. Dust, I could be dust, if I tried hard enough, if I wished fervently enough, I could disappear, slip between the floorboards, into the banqueting hall below, where they're serving pigs heads and mountains of red cabbage washed in vinegar. I can hear them singing, banging their tankards on the tables, there's a man with an accordion.

I hear my name, a name, the name I haven't heard for many years. It rolls across the floor like a million ball-bearings. “Christina,” she says. There are rain diamonds everywhere, tinkling to the ground, striking the wood, bouncing back. I can't move. I'll cut my immaculate feet. “Christina,” she calls, and I recognise her voice, even though it's been seventeen years. Seventeen years, old enough, young enough. “Ah there you are.” She steps in confidently. I stare at her. That hair, she still has it, thick, black, licking her back. That skin, she still has it, honey blonde, and almond eyes. Perfect. She holds out her hands like a lady greeting a friend. “It's been so long.” Yes it has, hasn't it Rebecca. “How the hell are you?” Much as you left me. “You look well.” I could never tell when she was lying.

And then we're in bed, underneath the damp, creased covers, and I'm gazing at the wall above the fireplace, desperate to lose myself in the pictures. A large oil dominates, its single yellow fist reaching up and repelling. Next to it a small, red print of a man's face perhaps. He looks back at me, entirely unconcerned. A watercolour sketch is pinned at the base of both, some sweeping lines and statements that I don't understand. “Oh, it was terrible,” Rebecca says, crawling up to me, wrapping her skinny limbs around mine. “He ... and he ... the locks changed ... months and months.”

“But you learned Japanese,” I cut in, “not everything's negative”.

“Japanese. Who cares about Japanese?”

“You lived in Japan.”

“Yes,” she says, as if my statement of fact is irrelevant. Her legs have become vines and they're squeezing me now.

“Perhaps we could be friends,” I concede.

“Oh yes, I'd like that very much.”

I feel the leaves cover my face.

We booked the tickets some time ago thinking maybe they'd sell out. The theatre is dark, the audience arranged on steep stepping inclines furnished with large cushions, but they painted the interior with gloss and everything's slipping around. I'm uncomfortable. My elbow won't bend so that my head fits comfortably into my hand. And I nearly didn't make it. Took a wrong turn. Can't see anything at night, especially when the road's not lit. We settle back. I should relax. This is something I might enjoy, want to explore.

The film bursts onto the screen. A big room, perhaps the inside of an old warehouse, whitewashed walls, empty except for the people. They're naked, attractive and naked. A young woman with long, dark hair is laughing. Her breasts are most perfect. I fidget. And there's a man, with a bottle of champagne clamped between his thighs. He's pulling at the cork. The joke is most apparent. Sure enough the cork gives and he sprays bubbles over the woman. She's laughing happily, completely uninhibited.

They look like fleshy gold against the shadows. Her arms and legs move in generous co-ordination. Her nose is just the right shape. Her wavy, shiny hair falls over her rounded breasts. There's not an ounce of fat on her. After ten minutes the film is over. Now I will be able to see what I came to see. I do not care for the poets on parade.

A surprise, a treat, the compere for the evening is flushed with enthusiasm. They're all here, the cast, and they're going to perform for us. This is not what I was expecting. I want something anonymous. I've been looking forward to it. I begin to frown and bite my lip. The parading poets trip onto the stage from the wings. They're laughing. I don't think I can stand any more and then a woman appears, walks up to me but looks past me. She starts talking to the person on my right. I feel frustrated, angry. I used to know her, once, not that long ago; we were best friends and then we fell out, rather spectacularly. I want to slap her. She's deliberately ignoring me, talking over me, which is why we fell out in the first place. I sit up, interrupting her line of vision. I turn to the person she's talking to and say “Tell her to go away”. He smiles at me, but continues the conversation. She pushes my shoulder. I move backwards and face her.

“Your problem,” she starts, “is that you're rigid. You find it impossible to adapt to a situation”.

I don't know how to reply.

“You simply don't have the intellect, and this makes you defensive.” Her lips curl back. She has lipstick on her teeth. She always had lipstick on her teeth. I try to sneer, but instead I'm fascinated by her teeth. They're perfectly set, very white and her tongue's moving around behind them, rolling words out of her mouth which float into the air like bubbles, each one containing a well formed and wonderfully constructed idea. These baubles bounce around her, deflecting light, projecting little blasts of colour and laughter. “And another thing,” she continues, “you're not interesting. You like to imagine that your anger is passion. It's not. People get bored of you. You have nothing to back up your bluster. You're just one big rapturous fart, amusing for two seconds but then rather stale and unpleasant. You fill a room in all the wrong ways”.

I'm still staring at her teeth, her hair, so straight, utterly blonde, her jawline, a perfect right angle between her neck and chin, her cheekbones, set just so, pointing an exquisite line to her nose.

“But you're biggest problem is your jealousy.”

I nod.

“It eats away at you.”

“Like a maggot at an apple?” I want to say, “or cancer at a bowel,” thinking more slightly more creatively, “or love at a heart”. But I don't say anything, instead I hang my head and dull bubble tears slip down my face, landing with exhausted plips on my folded hands. They feel warm, my hands, the tears. I remember the green leaves, the brown path, the fresh grass ...

Untitled

2007-12-07T09:17:49Z

I saw him, went down to the cells, thought I'd take a look for myself, had to make a bribe of two bottles of good wine though. He was a strange man, quiet, calm. He sat quite still, eyes closed, his hands folded in on themselves. I shouted at him and he didn't seem to mind my noise, just opened his eyes. They were so blue. Usually the people here have brown eyes, but his were blue, very bright, dazzling in a womanly way. I haven't seen a woman's blue eyes close up for months. That's a terrible thing for a man, not to be fighting and not to be fucking either. It should be one or the other, if possible both. So he looked me dead in the face and asked my name. “Cassius,” I said. He nodded and told me that he'll remember me in his prayers. I wish he hadn't said that, because it made me look closer at him. His skin was so white, smooth, milky like a woman's breast. He'd been in the cells two days, but still his cheeks were free from stubble. I realised I wanted to touch him. The thought flitted into my head and punched me in the guts at the same time, then I got that sensation, as if I'm taking a shit, and my body shranks away from itself. I had to go outside and look straight into the sun to clear the picture from my mind.

That night I couldn't talk to anyone and I couldn't sleep neither. His pale face haunted me. Every time I shut my eyes he was there, smiling quietly, like he knew me, or knew something about me. I tried to dream of Hedea, but when I called her body to mind – big breasts, soft belly, ripe backside – I'd find his head on her shoulders, staring out at me through those blue eyes. I crept back down to the cells again. He was on his knees this time, but not slavishly. No. His back was straight, his shoulders square, his face upturned. And he reminded me of Claudia when she was a young girl and we were out in the fields back home. Oh, how she looked then, perfectly pure, clean as a marble fountain. She was beautiful, and eager. This man in front of me, he had the same light about him, and urgency. I bent down to kiss her then, thinking maybe we could find some privacy in the olive grove. I had to shake my head to make the trees disappear and see the iron bars again.

They asked for volunteers. It was never going to be a popular job, but I've always enjoyed running the gauntlet. Finally, a chance of some action. The heat was crushing. There were people, lots of people, lining the pathway. Some were abusive, spitting on the prisoner, cursing him in their gutteral language. Others were silent. A few wept openly. As a populace they didn't seem able to make their minds up about him. I've heard a few of his teachings second-hand, while on duty, and I can understand why. It's been a long time since the Jews had a leader. They have all their laws, done and dusted, and then he turns up with a whole new take on things. Some of them are ready for a different way, but most of them want to preserve what they have. History's very important. We know that. The Greeks knew that. You can't have someone coming along and telling you they want to rewrite it from 'this day henceforth' or whatever.

He'd been pretty badly beaten up. As a joke some of the guards had decided to crown him with a wreath of thorns. I could see it must be agony, because some of the thorns had dug right into his head and blood was dripping into his eyes. Before I could stop her, a woman in the crowd stepped forward and wiped his face with a piece of filthy cloth. He asked her name as well and she said “Veronica,” to which he replied “You are blessed”. I wondered if his God, his Father, keeps an account book and, if so, what it says next to my name.

Eventually, after a couple of hours, we arrived at the hill. He was exhausted by then, having carried his own cross on his back for nearly four miles. The thing with crucifixion is that you've got to do it right or else you'll looking like a rank amateur. You don't want to rely on the hands, because they're quite thin and prone to ripping, so you bind the wrists as well, saves a lot of bother later on. It's the ankles that are the tricky bit though, finding that pulpy gap and positioning the feet just right. Sometimes there's a little ledge, sometimes there's not. There are pros and cons for both. I took charge of his hands myself and, as I leant over him to get better purchase, he spoke to me. I could barely hear what he was saying, so loud were the crowd by this point, so I knelt down next to him and put my ear to his lips. “Cassisus,” he said, “my Father will forgive all those who ask”. I didn't know how to respond. The guards were jeering, calling him names, one even kicked him in the ribs. I thought to myself 'this isn't what soldiers do, this isn't how they behave, there's no glory or victory in torturing a man you've already beaten', but I just bowed my head and tightened the knots as best I could.

When we hoisted the crosses upright, three in total, a cheer went up from the crowd. I turned and looked at their faces, all twisted and squinting. In their eyes I could see blood lust, a dim echo of gladiatorial pleasure, but the man in front of them had no weapon, it hadn't been a fair fight, he was just a half-starved boy with words far beyond his years. Where did they come from, those words? He said God his Father. I don't know. Maybe they came from the dessert itself. I had never heard words like them in my life.

Crucifixion is cruel, no two ways about it. Heat exhaustion is the first thing to set in. Energy is slowly drained from the body. The prisoner's ability to support their own weight dissolves. They struggle to keep their head up and their shoulders braced, but after a while they find it impossible and their muscles and tendons tear against the weight of their own body. The pain must be excruciating as the flesh is ripped off their bones, fibre by agonising fibre. The lucky ones pass out, but not so this man in front of me. He hung there for hours, muttering to his God, fighting to keep himself as upright as possible. He only shouted out once, when the sky became overcast as a storm rolled in. Frightening that was, the sudden darkness, his howling pain.

A small gaggle of friends and family stood at the foot of his cross. They were praying too and from time to time I could hear their urgent pleas, for a quick death, a merciful death. I've asked for the same thing myself on the battlefield, for the fatally wounded men. I've asked because I didn't want to do. It's an unfortunate fact of war that sometimes you must kill your own men, your own friends. Let death come quickly is the hope most soldiers carry in their hearts. And as I looked at him I got that same shrivelling feeling, when you know what you've got to do but every fibre of your being tries to hide from the inevitable action. The soft, pale, boy-man, hanging limp, gasping for air, his chest falling forward, his heart being torn in two. That's how they die in the end, their hearts broken, shredded under the stress. Maybe that's how we all die.

I took my spear, my Roman spear, and sunk it into the side of the man who was meant to be my enemy. The crowd went wild, shouting, cheering, clapping. A few muffled sobs from close by cut through the hysterical appreciation. I plunged my spear in again and again, deeper each time, twisting it until his entrails burst and spilled out onto the ground. I couldn't look him in the face. I was deafened by rapturous applause and calls for more, MORE, M.O.R.E. Then I felt a woman's hand on my arm, laid gently. I turned to see her eyes, the same blue as his, deep and fathomless. She said nothing, because there was nothing to say, but her touch stayed any further action on my part.

“Cut him down,” I shouted. The order was complied with, the cross lowered, he was released from his bindings. A few mourners gathered around his prostrate body, crying quietly, the women rocking themselves to and fro, holding their grief in as best they could. Once again I knelt beside him, this time to untie the knots. Blood still trickled out of him, his skin greyed and his lips took on that familiar blue hue of death. I laid my cloak over his corpse, partly to cover his naked frame and partly because I didn't want to see his eyes staring straight up at his heaven, I didn't want to follow his lifeless gaze. Some things you don't want to look at. Some things you can't.

Sixpence

2007-12-05T19:38:03Z

Sixpence, sixpence, the faeries used to bring them, silver for enamel, somewhere they've built a castle of teeth. You can't cross my palm, or my path, for black cats are soooooooooo last year and, in any event, there's no such thing, always a few hairs of sprightly white to destroy the illusion.

I flick through my singles looking for a particular record, I need to hear how the 'sands of corrupted joy pour forth their perfume as the hangman whistles a happy tune'. How did I never learn to make words, emotions and sex scan properly when I had such beautiful music.

Past Seven Year Bitch, Backstabber Baby, Kitten Boy, some old Two Tone (how I long for black and white). I find Cars No. 6: car draws up, engine switched off, door slammed; car reversing (3-point turn); trying to put car into gear; door slams, engine starts, car departs (look right there, mundane poetry); car driving past; driving car from roadway into garage; car horn. I think I might listen to it, to anything that's not this throbbing, give me the machinic over the organic any day of the week, except Tuesdays.

I come across Conflict, 'The Serenade is Dead', in a womanly way, genitalia appropriately hidden by the twin pillars of attraction and power, crossed, uncrossed, crossed. Lordee, ankles are everything, especially to the feet. If I was an amputee, I'd insist on being called Stumpy. I should insist on more, or less, or more or less. Hands waited down by these useless words, the A-Z of irrelevancy shoved into biodegradable shopping bags, I used to have a rucksack, my mother used to have a purse ...

... Navy blue leather, small enough to fit in the palm of her cupped hand. I preferred it when her hand was cupped rather than stretched out flat, although now I realise that, in thirty five years, I never looked at her palm lines, or her face properly, or who she was. Every Christmas, every time one of my teeth fell out, the purse was retrieved, unzipped, and a single silver sixpence removed. Old money for old traditions. She hasn't made me a Christmas cake or a Christmas pudding in four years.

Car draws up, engine switched off, door slammed.

I Am Spartacus

2007-11-21T19:23:03Z

It started with a charge of gimmickry.

The self-elected thought police,

complete with their 'No disrespect' upturned palms,

felt the need to extinguish Chaplin

by kicking his cane out from underneath him

while muttering something about music halls

and how this 'New phangled philm

would never take off'.

Paltry farmers the lot of them,

with their clipped winged birds;

'No man shall fly,' believe me, believe us,

for I am God and in the beginning was the word -

clinging desperately to the left-hand margin.

Any port in a storm.

'Lower your sails, lower your sails,

we don't permit piracy on these here shores.

We have rules,

formulated by the great majority,

and you will be grateful,

shrimp man,

even if it hurts your teeth

like wool on enamel,

or we'll boil you alive

for daring to try and cut water with a knife

when everyone knows butter's easier.'

And he went pink,

prawned by embarrassment,

but no matter, offence was not intended -

ABH, maximum sentence five years.

In the stationery shop

(E for envelope)

old lady trolley wheels got tangled,

strangers laughed and then one asked

'What's your trolley's name?'

For an instant, a minor moment,

the response was elusive, permitting a tiny gap,

a miniature chasm of thought fullness.

'Mine's called Jubilate,' she said,

answering her own question,

'shouting for joy, singing, oh yes'.

'In all things be happy and adventurous.'

'Of course,' she replied, and gave a crafty wink

which was put in a pocket

like a lucky penny

for later use.

Reading Lawrence

(Upton, not DH),

on the problems of the 'experimental';

there's a man who plays the trumpet,

in Chicago, wearing a lab coat.

He says he's 'A research trumpeter'.

Thank ye gods that he's avoided

orchestrated pit falls,

the traps set by badger baiters,

and poetry haters who have no idea

how to be restless or inventive.

Invoke: to summon a demon already in existence.

Evoke: to summon a demon of your existence.

So yes,

there was a conversation about bankruptcy,

one person thinking of money,

the other of intellectual degeneracy,

same difference when all's fair in love and war.

'He kept telling me to get a job,' she said -

of course, of course, par for the course

when knives are for butter not water

when Blade is a film with Denzil Washington

when George has been forgotten -

'Better to be alone than in bad company ..

Ha!

Kirk Douglas crouches in a filthy cleft,

chained to the man on his left -

Antoninus, Ambrosius, Androngenous,

such pretty eyes.

Crassus, on the other hand,

with his clean face and impeccable authoritarian ease

is pleased at the sight of beaten men.

'Slaves you were and slaves you will remain'.

But freedom isn't a bucket of cold sick,

the regurgitated remnants of something once swallowed

brought back up with an apologetic retch ...

And as each man stands,

denying the proclaimed 'natural' order,

refusing to give up a body of their work,

so was born liberty, piracy and creativity.

Hear this:

“I AM SPARTACUS”.

Mortar

2007-11-12T15:02:02Z

KimKimmidyKimKim. I met her, I dunno, ten years ago maybe. Online. I wrote something about slapped cheeks, lichen and tree bark (I was a poet then) and she came right back at me. She was big, one of those people who PROJECTS real good, their vision and personality. And she was coming to England, from Australia, to teach at The London Film School.

We met up at The Dorset, inside. I kept looking to the door, searching for the face of a stranger I'd never seen. No, it was outside and I was sitting on a metal chair, flicking away at my cigarette. Does it matter? The whole scene?

She ordered a 'flat white'. I laughed. Her voice sounded foreign, like I knew she was from somewhere else and different to me, with her languages, tastes. So anyway, we talked and I was blown because she'd brought a suitcase. Those Aussies, they must understand hospitality in a whole other way. I forgot my handbag when we left and had to go back. No, it was my umbrella.

She wore faded, striped pyjamas, burgundy and cream, men's, baggy out all over the place. On Thursday we went to Preston Park and sat outside the roundhouse, next to the fountain that never founts, just by the rose garden where the two statues stand all embarrassed about themselves, because they're kinda small and life just happens around them.

I told Kim about the woman statue, with the broken arm and the stab marks in her back, how I wanted to make a film, but I'd never made a film. I knew exactly how it would go. My friend KT, with the broken arm and the stab marks in her back, would wear a ball gown, she'd get down on her knees and work her way up the statue's body, stopping when she got to the broken arm, which she'd finger fuck, endlessly, forever, because that's what you do to a broken armed statue with stab marks in its back if you're a broken armed woman with stab marks in your back.

KT got broke a long time ago when her kid died. I couldn't fix her. We had a fight once, because she came to see my kid when he was in hospital (he was in hospital a lot back then). I was screwed, yeah, mentally, all in my head, even though my body would do that standing up thing, and I just lost it. I ended up screaming at her that she was lucky her kid was dead, she had the GET OUT OF JAIL FREE card, could keep passing GO, because her life wasn't on hold, waiting to see, constantly at the beck and call of some neurological fuck up. I mean, when you're dead, you don't have to live with it and neither does anyone else. I couldn't live with it. In and out of hospital all the time. I was losing him, piece by piece. You ever watched someone disappear right in front of your eyes? And that's why KT's still my friend, because she understood, understands.

'Just do it,' Kim said, like a bad Nike ad. So, I borrowed a video camera. No experience whatsoever. 'How hard can it be?' I thought, a few buttons, a bit of imagination, sure I can transfer what's in my head, including all my intentions, into the consciousness of another. I waited until Matt was out with Ben, unpacked the huge kit, because they were huge then, before DV, and set it up in my lounge. Damned if I could turn the damn thing on though. Three fucking hours later and I still couldn't turn it on. You know when people talk about realisation, they make it seem like it's this slow thing that happens, dawns on you. My realisation didn't happen that way, it hit a stick against the palm of its hand and then beat me into the floor.

Stupid woman, half cock as usual, no real plan, keep it vague morrigan, fuck it up before it even gets going. I cried, really. I sat on the sofa (we had the green leather one then) and pulled my own hair, scratched my face, thumped my head with my knuckles. Matt and Ben came back to find me red eyed and snotty nosed. They were drunk. Ben tripped over the camera cable and kicked the transformer. The fucking thing burst into life. A loose connection. Sometimes you can't take account of random ...

I made the film, ignoring every piece of advice that anyone and everyone gave me. 'You can't shoot at night.'
'Yeah, I can, I'll use candles.'
'That won't be enough.'
'Tough.'
Blah, blah, blah. Why do people always want to tell you what you can't do and how impossible everything is. 'Don't even bother trying morrigan, but if you MUST ...' A bunch of folks waited in the wings to nod sagely at my failure.

They were wrong.

You can shoot at night with just candles, if you have enough of the huge muthafuckas. I made the place look like a church. In the end KT didn't wear a ball gown, instead a silver, silk dress, clinging in all the right places, it went well with her shaved head. She froze out there for me, hours and hours of taking the same shot. And she used her lips and tongue as well as her fingers.

I wasn't quite sure when it came to the soundtrack either. I mean what do you say? Kim said 'Morrigan, you're so abject'. ABJECT? What the fuck does that mean. We were at an 'art' exhibition above an old vegetable market. Some rich bitch, with more money than talent, had decided running a spoken calender backwards made a statement. I said 'It's boring'. She, with her carefully coiffured 'I'm an artist ready for the twenty first century' hair replied 'It's concept ...'. I didn't care what she thought about how I should receive her 'work'. I told her I thought it was crap, that's when Kim said I was ABJECT. I still don't know what she meant by that. I probably should've asked.

We thought it'd be a good idea to drop some speed and go out for the night. We didn't have that long together so no point in wasting time sleeping. The speed was duly acquired, wrapped in Rizla and swallowed down with a slug of shitty French beer. Matt's Mum arrived. Fine. She had to talk to me. Fine. But what she wanted to talk about was so distressing. Can't say ...

KT was there.

Met up with friends at the Kenny, sitting outside at wooden picnic tables, more crappy French beer. Me, KT, Kim, Matt, Ben and Jane. Jane was Ben's missus, still is, they've been together twenty years or something, not married, as such, because he's never proposed, keep that bit of info in your head. I started to feel really sick. I don't know the technical term for it, but I was wearing a speed headband that was rapidly turning into a vice. I could feel it, the drug, going up the right side of my neck and coming down the left side. Maybe that was my own blood, no idea. The pain in my head became excruciating, as if someone was screwing this vice tighter and tighter, inside my skull, against my brain. And my heart was pounding, threatening to beat itself out of my ribs. Matt's Dad lived, still lives, just round the corner from where we were. Good thing about Graham is that he'll sort you out, doesn't matter what you've done, he'll sort you out and give you the earache later.

'Drink this,' he said, it was brandy. 'You're gonna drink this, and two more, then you'll throw up, get into the bathroom now.' He wasn't wrong. After that I felt ok, still speeding off my tits, but at least my head didn't hurt and I'd had the opportunity to vomit the crap out of my system. Do you ever do that? Like someone tells you something, or you find something out, and you just want to, HAVE TO, purge yourself of the toxic shit? I still do it.

After, I went back to the Kenny, my friends, the crappy French beer, and sometime later we moved off, wending our way to god knows where. I ended up on the beach with Kim, just me and her, crunchcrunch pebbles, a man with a head injury lying by a metal sculpture ... He was saying all sorts of random shit, but eventually, after persuasion, staggered off to get some medical attention.

We sat, lots of sitting down, and watched the waves come in. It was Kim's kid's birthday that day. And to clear out any wrongness judgements about that, well, he was with his Dad in Oz, Kim was getting paid for her work over here, she hadn't scheduled the dates, there was no choice involved. The waves coming in, pebbles digging into my ass, looking out at the horizon. She sang to the sea, her boy, saying the waves would carry it all back to him and into his heart. Never had I heard such a beautiful voice. A mother faraway from her child but still connected. All the mermaids came and took a word each. I thought they'd swim them, right up to the other beach, and then the stars would come down, take up the tune and pluck it into winking notes. Kim put her arm around me. I rested my head on her shoulder and cried into her neck. She sang to me, old songs of love and mystery, kissed my cheeks, stroked my hair, let me fall into her lap.

Love is a well weird thing; it's not like a set of house keys, that you put in a pot or hang on a nail. You can't find love, ahem, 'bout to say something shitty and cliché, love finds you, mostly by accident, like that bloke who fell over his shoe laces and crashed into those Ming vases. And when it finds you, it doesn't fasten on you or open up doors, it just sorta stands there, like a dark monk, waiting with unknown truths hidden under its hood and handfuls of what you think you need tucked up its sleeves. Love, full of emptiness. It ain't a meal. You can't sit back after and say you're satisfied.

We staggered off the beach and found everyone else at the Escape Club. Banging techno. More shitty French beer. Walls sprayed with car paint. A man in a pair of orange dungarees and no t-shirt. I miss the Hare Krishnas. Do you miss them? Those white stripes down their faces, as if somehow you can get into their heads. I thought once of having a tattoo on my neck, ------ and a small pair of scissors. That's what Hare Krishnas look like to me, a whole possibility between their eyes.

I danced some, drank some, talked a lot. Speed. You talk a lot, everyone at the same time. What you're saying seems important, or at least interesting, but it's complete bollocks, except to you, because understanding's sorta flipped open and over, so everything's a seed and you're standing in a wild meadow where the sheep haven't been allowed for some years. Meadows are good. Sheep leave terraces, land slips into shelves, definition appears. With speed, well, it's photographic, the moment's all you got, twenty four of 'em a second, a flick book maybe ...

We came home, some of us, most of us, can't remember. I fell asleep, must have, eventually, booze and spliffs, updown updown like whore's drawers. Was good enough for me though, to pass out, crammed full just for once, cheeks bulging, a hamster night, stuff tucked away for future reference.

Kim left the next day.

Fast forwards about three years. I go to France on an exchange programme doubrie. A bunch of us, all women. I end up with Al, her name's Alison, but you'd never call her that, she doesn't look like an Alison. We'd not met before we shared a hotel room. You ever done that? Have a stranger become a friend overnight? We didn't sleep. Her in her candlewick bed and me in mine, yaddayadda all night long. I dunno, it was, it was like there was this other person and I KNEW them right from the off. The following day we went to a restaurant and I couldn't tell what half the sign said, so we called it Le Beef Curtains, which was (admittedly) a bit rude. Later, walking through the Rouen town centre, her with her guitar slung on her back, me with half a ton of camera kit around my neck. She's one of those sturdy women, not hench, more as if she's well planted, a bit like a dandelion, but that could be down to her hair, which sticks up in short spikes. I know, I know, I'm flashing between tenses, but she was that person and she still is that person.

So anyway, we found Joan of Arc's memorial thingy and Al stood under it, or right next to it, or something, 'til the blue light spilt all over her, and she hauled her guitar round and started playing. There was only me, and a coupla hundred pedestrians/people sitting outside cafes. It was night. Night's good, because the day's stopped beating you around the head and you can relax, night's here, it'll hide a multitude of sins. I knew she was playing for me. Knowing that made me cross my legs, stand on my own feet and twist up with embarrassment. Funny thing. It was a Crowded House number, not that I knew that, being as I don't generally listen to MOR crap. Whenever you fall at my feet. Do you know it? If you don't know it here's a vaguely good cover:-

It's not as good as Al's, because the guy's a guy and he's not playing it just for me, standing under Joan of Arc's memorial, looking me dead in the face and making me feel like I'm the only person alive.

There's a love woman to woman that you don't get with men. It doesn't have to be sexual, I mean that's nice, but it's not a ... With men, right, and these are only my observations, it's like a novel, in terms of formula, there's characters, various locations, issues, development, always obstacles to overcome, a fairground reality. With women, it's different. For a start, there's the rather sticky problem of opportunity. A man apparently knows that an intimate relationship will be validated with sex. Women, on the other hand, can go for years and years, an entire lifetime, without ever fucking the people they love, but, and here's the rub, so to speak, or not, and that's it in a nutshell, ie, women are accustomed to being intimate without sex, and get a bit confused about when sex, or when not, sex is appropriate. In a way it's simultaneously simpler and more complicated, or maybe that's just me.

Six months later and I'm sick, real sick. Nothing happened, but something overtook me. Lots of drugs, this time prescription, much worse than street, they get into your system like mercury and render you non mercurial. Bastard doctors. 'Take this, it'll make you normal'. Thank you, right, because that's really what I want to be, a fucking drone. What I want doesn't matter though, it's all about fitting in, being fit and able, an operable unit of labour. After no sleep for three weeks I relented. No one in the world's got enough energy to deal with that sort of psychotic episode.

So yeah, there I was, right in the middle of blurred reality, not theirs', not mine, stuck somewhere on the edge of both, and I was on my way to France. Heather, who thankfully works in the psychology field, was with me. I wouldn't go as far as to say 'I felt safe', but it was just about doable with her help.

I looked like this:-

Don't know why I like these pictures, maybe it's because they're real. I can see how the illness had eaten away at my body. Christ knows how heavy I was, less than seven stone probably, snappably thin. If you look at peoples' bodies you can tell what sort of a state they're in. A fat person, quite often weighed down with something, mentally I mean. A fit person, life's generally pretty well ordered for them. Of course, there are always the exceptions, those who plan their body type in order to project an image, but even that takes some sort of conscious will ... No, I wasn't anorexic, just couldn't eat, couldn't swallow anything down, couldn't consume any more shit, everything kept coming back up, backed up, it was like a constipation of the soul.

We filmed, magical fucking day that was. I stared at Ophelia, painted onto canvas, submerged beneath the water. As the stream passed over her face, her features changed millisecond by millisecond. Fantastic flights of thought for an inanimate object, but she wasn't inanimate, that's what great art does, makes the movement for the audience. It really happened, that the model who posed for Ophelia died. She caught a chill I think, it progressed to pneumonia. Killed her. I wondered who this other woman was, rippling gently under the water. I could've been looking at a mirror image of myself. I love water, especially lying back in it, floating with my ears submerged, listening to the sound of my own breath ...

And we went to a cafe, full of black men, tall and skinny. We ordered coke and it came clinking with ice. V good, because it was such a hot day. There was a juke box playing Serge Gainsbourg. Can you believe it? So fucking French, in this small village, not a construction at all, happening around us. Didn't want to leave, so we had coffee as well. Caffeine makes me buzz and not always in a good way.

I made the film, the artists came over from France, they loved it. That's a good feeling, you know, when you try and visualise and people can see what you thought. Daniel wasn't quite as impressed with my BBQing ability. What sort of man complains about steak? A French man, Jesus, they like it rare, practically still attached to the cow. He muttered about my lack of herbs as well. Since then I've always kept a pot of herbs de provence in my rack. Don't know why, Daniel's never coming back. He's dead now. Massive heart attack, prolly all that rare steak. Not seen Mr Hall since either, but he's not dead, just lives in Oxford, same fucking difference maybe.

Other things, other things, I did other things, fattening up along the way. Didn't like the drugs so stopped taking them. Sometimes that makes life hard. An even keel would be nice occasionally. I learned though, qui gong and tantric meditation. It IS possible, just about, to think yourself positive. But you gotta let go, of the shit, at least from time to time. It's like swinging on a rope. Fine if you wanna keep bashing yourself into the wall, blown about by the wind and your own body's momentum. Remember it's a rope, you can climb it, once you've developed enough upper body strength. Yeah, yeah, you slide down from time to time and rip all the skin off your palms, or at least I do. God knows what's at the top, some ledge prolly, an Escher ledge.

Then I met Chris, innocuously enough, I was sitting in my studio, editing some shit on Final Cut Pro – I hate that programme. He came in and watched me. We chatted, mainly about politics, because in front of me I had a selection of shorts made about community groups and what they were trying to achieve. There was this lad, forgotten his name, talking to camera, making it all seem so fucking obvious. 'I know it sounds silly,' he said, 'but if they give us something to do, then we won't get into trouble. If we don't get into trouble, then we won't fuck up our lives. A little bit of money now means our whole future can be safe'. He was fourteen. Six months later he was dead, committed suicide, seems like he could never quite see that future for himself, poor bastard. So, I was making this film, because, you know, at the time I interviewed him, I couldn't see his future, or non future, maybe I didn't care enough about either. Words, just words. Christ, and he was a funny, little git. You gotta hold mics in just the right place. 'Six inches from your mouth,' I said, 'you know how long six inches is?' He fell about laughing. Cheeky devil. Comes to something when you've got fourteen year old kids killing themselves, even after they've explained what the problem is. I felt responsible ...

Chris invited me to feel even more responsible and work on a couple of projects, one involving a film about Bosnia and one involving a film about Mitrovica – a place in Kosova/Kosovo. Jeez, it was hard man, especially the Mitrovica shit, because I had a whole lot more invested in that one ... I didn't know how much when I started out. Mitrovica is a town divided by a river, divided by ethnic conflict ... I finished cutting the film, the following day my mother died. Nothing's ever finished is it? There never is a line you can draw under anything. I was in a hotel room, just after the funeral, when Chris phoned me up and said we had to re-edit the film, because violence had broken out again, our upbeat ending was no longer appropriate. I was desperate for the bastards to stop killing themselves/each other. They weren't going to, not in the foreseeable future.

Futures, possibilities, inevitabilities ... I shoulda known losing my mom would fuck my head up good and proper. It's an odd land you live in when there's no future. The past's always open to interpretation, unmediated by the sensibilities of hope, because that's what the future is, that's what it represents, hope. If you haven't got any hope then you haven't got any future. If you haven't got any future, you haven't got any hope ...

I know people like that.

I re-edited, the film, my mom, could never keep up with the realisations in either. Once you start changing things, ah, I dunno, you learn shit, unless you're a complete moron, in which case you ain't never gonna learn anything anyway so it doesn't matter. That's the hardest thing, learning by your mistakes. I suppose that's why mistakes are positive, or negative, perhaps it's like a circuit with a battery, positive and negative, some power resulting, enough to ignite – I'm thinking a muthafucka car battery here, but I don't want to slip off down the slippery hill scree of vaseline, nipples and how you should always disconnect the negative terminal first.

It was good, did the job, apparently, made both sides, the Albanians and Serbs, stop and bloody think. Bloody think. There's a scene at the end, a bunch of teenagers on the roof of a partially bombed out building, and they're playing a Metallica cover, making it sound like Nirvana unplugged. A girl's on bass. I slowed it right down in the edit, just to see for myself, their faces, you can catch so much when you just S-L-O-W life down. Yeah, it was there, what you'd expect to see in a kid's face after they've been through a civil war. Can't really describe it, a blank slackness, an opaque concentration, like something's missing but it's all really still there, so far down that you ain't never gonna reach it, which is prolly just as well, because maybe that's where they need to keep it, down ...

I met Chris last Thursday, in The Dorset (earl grey, black, no milk, still the white jug turns up). We haven't seen each other for some time. We're funny, take notes while we speak, while the other speaks. He's a fair whack older than me. Started life as a journo with the BBC. I remember him telling me that his first assignment was Bobby Sands' funeral – if you don't know what that is/was:-

The Iran project's gone down, it had wobbled badly after the British sailors were seized. The Israelis, dominated by the right, aren't interested in consultation – no shit Sherlock. Everyone's just trying to argue everyone else into a corner, fuck knows why, someone should tell them that your enemy isn't a naughty school child you can make face the wall. The posturing just goes on and on, as if they've forgotten that politics is PART of life, not the be all and end all OF life. Bastards. Maybe they're right and I'm wrong. Perhaps I should read more Machiavelli.

We talk about Athol Fugard, he said something like 'articulation leads to understanding and understanding to effecting change'. I'm trying to remember Paulo Freire and his 'Pedagogy of the Oppressed', his work with theatre and democracy and Sao Paulo, fucked if I can dig up that particular file from my brain. Chris writes down the bare bones. And then he tells me about before apartheid was gone, how various big wigs from the diplomatic community would travel to South Africa and run conferences. This one time, the chair hadn't been told he was meant to be there. They got a message through to him at the last minute, but he hadn't read the pre-conference blurb, so he arrived entirely ignorant about the minutiae of what was going on. Each side, the ANC and the National Party, was trying to influence all discussion by undermining the position of chair. Didn't work though, being as the chair, totally unprepared, knew nothing. When you know nothing you have to start right at the beginning, so that's what they did. Chronology doesn't have a bias. Many things become obvious if you just go back to the start and walk it all through with an observer. It's not always possible to be your own observer, mostly because there is no third way, in terms of objectivity and subjectivity, but it's a worthwhile exercise in some senses ...

The next day I went out with KT, walking the dog in the woods. I was saying how I couldn't finish something (that French thing, that bloody French thing) and she said 'Well, maybe it's not over not over not over yeah'. And we laughed and danced in amongst the trees to the half remembered lyrics of some Euro trash techno disco.

Later I saw Fiona, to play badminton. She's useless. I've always been pretty good at racquet sports – was the captain of the tennis team at school. After twenty minutes she was red-faced and sweating cobs. She came back to mine. I asked her about it. 'Maybe she could be her own husband's mistress'. But that's her life, yeah a screw up you wouldn't believe. No, I don't want to go there.

Trisha arrived for dinner. I went through it and through it, describing the three failed endings so far. 'Thing is,' she said, 'the rest of it came about organically, maybe that's your problem, because you're trying to invent an ending, you could just wait and see what happens'. And then I got it. I'd had the ending all along. That's how it works isn't it? In Rumsfeld speak, except that it was Confucius “To know is to know that you know nothing. That is the meaning of true knowledge”.

Drums fingers on the keyboard.

I took a picture of myself on my phone and looked right into my own face. 'What is it that I don't know?' I mean I know the exposure's set too high, in all senses of the word:-

Remember Ben and Jane, how they never got married because he never proposed? That night, after Kim and speed and dancing at the Escape, they went home. He came 'round to see me next day, obviously on a come down. 'I told her, I told her everything, how much I love her, want her, need her, and I asked her to marry me?'
'What'd she say?'
'Nothing. She was on the sofa and I was lying on the floor, fiddling with the carpet, cos I couldn't look her straight in the face. I made this big speech and when I finally got to the end of it and asked her, well, there was just silence, she'd fallen asleep.'
Christ, she missed it.

We do that, miss stuff, whether we're saying or listening, or not saying and not listening. So many opportunities, all gone. And sometimes we miss things, accidentally on purpose. And sometimes we forget the most important stuff of all, because we bury it right down, cover it with crap and erect headstones that get worn with age until we can't read the inscriptions.

Jane fell asleep because she was tired and, in any event, she didn't need to hear it because she already knew. She didn't and hasn't missed anything. With Kim and Al, well, it had escaped my attention for a while there, along with some other memories. I guess when you live life surrounded by walls, there's a constant process of construction and reconstruction. It helps if you use bricks and mortar though, rather than prefabricated blocks. Maybe that's why I write. Not that interested in tongue and groove, slotting things together, which is why the narrative always escapes me, more fascinated by masonry. Mortar: A material used in building to bind contruction blocks together and fill the gaps between them. The blocks may be stone, brick, breeze blocks (cinder blocks), etc. Mortar is a mixture of sand, a binder such as cement or lime, and water and is applied as a paste which then sets hard. Mortar: A muzzle-loading indirect fire weapon that fires shells at low velocities, short ranges, and high-arcing ballistic trajectories. It typically has a barrel length less than 15 times its caliber. Mortar (and pestle): A tool used to crush, grind, and mix substances. The pestle is a heavy stick whose end is used for pounding and grinding, and the mortar is a bowl. The substance is ground between the pestle and the mortar.

Guy Debord's Letters

2007-11-07T19:07:32Z

Guy Debord's Letters

BBC News | UK | Self v Littlejohn

2007-10-24T23:10:12Z

BBC News | UK | Self v Littlejohn

The Wedding Speech

2007-10-22T13:11:43Z

The father of the bride rose, straightened his tie and clinked the side of his glass with a silver plated fish knife.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Ahem. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! It is my great pleasure to welcome you here today for my daughter's marriage to Christopher Peacock.” He turned and smiled at the happy couple, who duly smiled back. “And unaccustomed as I am to public speaking.” A polite laugh ripped around the room. “I feel it is beholden on me to pass on a few words of wisdom.”

“When my good lady wife.” Another turn, another smile. “Told me she was expecting our first child, I was happy beyond belief. Indeed, I even shed a few tears. It is undoubtedly one of the huge transformations in life, to become a parent. In many ways it is the ultimate definition. One begins a baby, named by another, and, in adulthood, god willing, progresses to having a baby of one's own. Interestingly, as soon as that child can speak, one is renamed, 'Da, Dadda, Daddy, Dad”. The identity I had imagined, as a self defined individual, never happened. I went from son to husband to father. It is the final incarnation that will remain with me, that I treasure, that has taught me so much about myself and others.”

“While she was pregnant, my wife asked me whether I would prefer a boy or girl. I did not hesitate in my answer. A girl of course. I grew up in a male household, with brothers. It was not unusual for bedrooms to stink of testosterone fuelled sweat, mingled with eau de filthy untidiness. My teenage girlfriends did not appear to live in such rat holes. Their clothes had none of the damp mustiness of my brothers' garments. And they did not play football in the sitting room, causing ornamental breakages. Nor did they fight for fun, unexpectedly imposing dead legs and dents in plasterboard walls during periods of high jinx.”

“A girl, I wanted a girl, a princess, a jewel in my crown, because, or so I thought, a man's home is his castle and I was to be king.”

“The desired regal beauty duly arrived, looking more like a skinned rabbit, but she soon fleshed out. I watched her grow, say her first words, take her first steps. I, as Daddy, was always there, listening to her read, recounting her days at school and later, much later, attempting to help her navigate the ways of life. And what a life eh?”

“There was David. Do you remember David?” He turned to see the shocked look on his daughter's face. A hush fell over the audience. “A complete runt – feel free to elaborate with your own rhyming slang. I found it very hard to believe she wanted to get involved with that character. There were tears, lots of them, tantrums, telephone calls in the early hours of the morning, the occasional violent incident. She changed. My little girl. In the space of a few weeks she went from a confident, outgoing, capable individual to a snivelling wreck who perpetually failed to learn from her mistakes and made them over and over again.”

“Perhaps she was learning. Although I did ask her to bear in mind Einstein's 'A man who repeatedly undertakes the same experiment expecting different results is an idiot' – I am paraphrasing here. But it was her life, and one is entitled to conduct one's life in whatever manner one sees fit, providing, and here's the crux, providing that it does not negatively affect the life of another.”

“I see some of you are shifting uncomfortably in your seats. Of course, at this juncture, it would be easier for you to assume that I am a bad father, this would definitely be more convenient. My expectations were too severe, impossible to achieve. If my judgements had been more flexible, accommodating, understanding of my daughter's position - both in terms of maturity and as an individual herself - then some of the damage could have been mitigated. Arguably, as a father I should have found it possible to forgive her indiscretions, after all, surely it was all part of the 'growing up' experience. I should have been her guide, perhaps even her mentor ...”

He paused and took a swig from his champagne. There was no intervening chatter. The bride and groom held hands under the table.

“Have any of you ever owned ferrets, not as pets, rather as hunting companions? I have, as a child, six of the vicious, little bastards. They were kept in a cage and it was my job to look after them. You have to wear gloves, and still the blighters can bite through. Children are like ferrets. Anyway, I digress.”

Another swig.

“Ferrets, yes.”

And another swig.

“I remember the Bassett Hound as well. What a lovely fellow. Could go for miles that dog. Steady you see. It's the tortoise and hare thing I expect. A hare, well, he can sprint short distances, but a Bassett, although not fast, has stamina. Which one are you Christopher?” he said, directly addressing the groom, “a hare or a Bassett?” The groom did not reply. “No matter. Bertie, the Bassett, terribly inbred, shame really. When he got old his legs went. Poor chap ended up dragging his cock, sorry, lower appendages, across the ground. I couldn't bear it. I used to carry him on his walks, plop him down to do his business, carry him back home.”

“Could someone refill this glass?”

“Yes, when you have children you do look back at your own childhood, a kind of compare and contrast exercise. One doesn't want to make the same mistakes as one's parents, unless one's a complete idiot.”

“As a boy I worked, not down the mines or anything, just a paper round, a little bit of gardening at an old folks' home. Nice to have your own money in your pocket isn't it? Eh? Sofia, nice to have your own money in your pocket? And if you haven't got any of that, well, Dad's wallet's always within easy reach. You don't even have to ask him, do you dear? He won't notice the occasional tenner, twenty. Silly old bugger probably won't mind anyway. Anything for his little princess. You were pushing it a bit though, that time you took my credit card. I mean who pays a hundred and twenty pounds for a pair of shoes? You must have thought I was really quite senile, too stupid to read my bills.”

“Then there was the time the police brought you home, the first time. Shoplifting. Was it shoplifting darling? Yes, it was shoplifting. They let you off with a slap on the wrists and a long, cold stare directed at your mother. There have been lots of those, stares directed at your mother I mean. I expect it's an alpha female thing. The young needing to assert themselves. Why on earth you couldn't have been more polite though is beyond me.”

“The second time, with the police, what was that all about? I never could get the full story out of you, something about a party, a motorcycle and a boy called Paul. Has she told you about Paul Chris? Thought not.”

“The third time, apparently a misunderstanding between yourself, Sofia, and another girl in a night club that spilled into the street and warranted three columns in the local paper. You laughed it off, as did my colleagues at work. It was odd, I had imagined being proud of my daughter, instead I felt ashamed and bitterly embarrassed.”

His wife tugged at his jacket sleeve, but he shook her off and took another slurp from his champagne.

“However, we're all allowed our minor indiscretions. Eh? Who here can honestly say they've never made complete fools of themselves?” Silence. “Thought so.”

“Back to the point in hand, because there is a point. When she was about thirteen Sofia changed, as I'm sure all young girls do. Gone were the white woolly tights and plaited hair, replaced by black fishnets and thick eye liner. 'Goth,' she announced proudly. 'Gosh,' I said in shocked awe. She looked like drug addled prostitute but with better skin.”

“With her new identity came a new 'charm'. Pitched battles ensued. My home, my castle, where I was meant to be king, became a squatters' camp, like those you see on the outskirts of third world cities. And her bedroom! Dirty knickers, used sanitary towels – I know, disgusting – plates and bowls containing mouldering food ... I think what I found most unpalatable, however, was her propensity for urinating in drinking glasses that she then hid under her bed. For the life of me, I couldn't understand this particular character trait. I did ask, but my questions were met with mute indifference. If I pushed the query she sulked. Have you experienced her sulks yet Chris? They're quite legendary.”

“How about her bone idle laziness? God knows where she gets that from. It's as if she went through a re-birthing at the age of thirteen only to emerge with a sofa firmly attached to her backside. I'm surprised she doesn't get bed sores, the amount of time she spends lying on the damn thing. Heaven forbid she should try and remain vertical for more than three hours a day, unless she's shopping. Has she taken you shopping? I bet she has. I can guess who paid.”

He unknotted his tie and pulled it through his collar.

“As a man I wanted to be a king and this required that my daughter was to be a princess, gracious, pure, delicate in all the right places. But I'm just a man. We're all just men. Even the kings are just men. So, how do we square this reality with the dream? We walk them down an aisle, dressed as princesses. They hang off our arms. We give them away to other men, who are also not, and never will be, kings. Of course, there are the medieval phrases, about knights in shining armour and prince charmings, but these are fairytales. The people in them don't exist. I doubt they ever did. Just look at King Arthur, his wife ran off with his best friend.”

A few guests fidgeted and cast their eyes down to the floor.

“In conclusion, Chris, forget the fairytale romance. As much as I love Sofia, she's a pain in the neck, seemingly allergic to housework and small acts of consideration. If you're lucky, there's a chance you can both learn to live with each others' personality flaws. In order to do this, try and remember what you saw in her in the first place. I have the memory of a giggling baby, a child who hung on my ever word, a young woman who always found her father's shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of her worries as well as his own.”

“And don't take things personally. Couples are not mirrors, set up to reflect the successes and anguishes of their other halves. Rather, they are a team of two, bound to sometimes get things wrong and fluff their lines. It's human nature. Nothing is perfect. Learn to accept that.”

“Sofia, I loved you before I even knew you. It's been an interesting journey, on occasion resembling one of those catastrophes where the car breaks down three miles from a phone box, in the middle of the night, while a force ten gale is blowing. I never stopped loving you, and I never will. Despite your dirty underwear, your foul mouth and your less than friendly attitude, we muddled along. I still feel I gave more than I took, and that you took more than you gave, but perhaps this is parental responsibility. You may do well to remember that.”

“To the rest of you, distinguished guests, please be upstanding and raise your glasses to Sofia and Chris Peacock, husband and wife. I wish you every happiness.”

magical alphabet spell spiral

2007-10-19T13:06:27Z

magical alphabet spell spiral
Originally uploaded by the morrigan

Is it Christmas?

2007-10-18T09:39:12Z

Is it Christmas?

Lost for Words

2007-10-15T11:55:33Z

I went to the butchers, to get bacon and ask about liver. He said lamb's was best, less pungent. I need it, the liver, because I'm anaemic. It's a long and not very interesting story about my gut and vitamin B12, the conclusion of which is that I now have pernicious anaemia and am quite ill.

Yeah, I've been feeling sorry for myself, mainly due to exhaustion. It's terrible to not be able to stay awake for more than four hours a day. All those things you want to do, need to do, don't get done. And I'm scared. The condition wasn't diagnosed for over a year, despite the doctor having the preliminary blood test results right under his nose. “We thought you'd come back,” they said.

“Well, I'm here now.”

“Before now.”

“I didn't know I had to.”

“But didn't you feel unwell?”

“Yes, nothing I could put my finger on, just knackered all the time.”

“You should've come back.”

You could've phoned me up, you stupid shit, and said I had no vitamin B12 and, therefore, couldn't 'do' iron. I mean, fuck me, how many women walk around feeling utterly shagged the whole time? I just thought I wasn't getting enough sleep or something.

I was toddling back towards my house, bacon in one hand, swinging the other arm, thinking of nothing in particular, when a red sportster zoomed past me. This is twenty mph zone, the streets are thin, parked cars make visibility for crossing quite dangerous. An old lady in front of me, dragging a blue, tartan trolley, scuttled away from the edge of the pavement. She was walking quite slowly. “Why do they have to drive so bloody fast,” she spluttered as I was overtaking her.

“No idea, they're probably in a hurry to get somewhere,” I replied.

“They shouldn't, there's children and cats.”

We do have a lot of cats in the street and they're always getting knocked over. Me and the old lady chatted for a while, about viable speed restriction alternatives, maybe trees, alternating the parking from one side of the road to another, sleeping policemen.

“I went up the hospital on Friday, two buses.”

“Yes, the routes are oddly arranged.”

“They told me I had breast cancer.”

I stopped and turned to look at her. Light blue scarf tied around her head, delicate pattern, edged with navy. Biscuit coloured raincoat, belted at the waist. Full face of make-up, lipstick not too garish, skin that curious old lady tan reminiscent of grandmother's tights. “I am sorry,” I said

“I hope they give me that cut out option, I don't want chemo.”

I had no idea how to respond. I kept looking into her face, blue grey eyes, plucked brows completed with a drawn in brown line, small whiskers on her chin. I nodded. Before I could stop my free hand it reached out and touched her arm. She went slack.

“You're the first person I've told,” air rushed from between her lips.

I squeezed her arm a bit.

“Can't face telling them.”

Oh god, don't cry now morrigan, don't cry now.

“They're going to be so upset,” she said.

“Yes, because they love you.”

Then she patted my hand, the one on her arm, with her old hand, very slowly, and she nodded, looked right into my eyes and said “You never know what you're rushing towards”.

I smiled. She smiled back. We went our separate ways, strangers in a strange land.