When I cry for Sylvia-
I cry for myself.
I've nothing to offer -
life is void.
She had talent,
threw it away for what?
I'm empty
we should swap -
my death for her life.
Sunday 13 December 2009
Wednesday 2 December 2009
Cupboard
Splintered and cracked -
wood separated from plaster;
binned
frame and veneer
after years of parties, christenings,
funerals, committals, cremations and wakes.
Swung a crowbar,
wrenched from the wall;
consigned to the council tip -
not soon enough.
Cuppboard - Reflective Statement
Inspiration came in irregular spurts. Following a period of creative famine I wrote “CUPBOARD LOVE?” in my notebook. The question mark was added in a failed attempt to add depth. Cliché or not, it became my starting point.
Wordsworth described memory as “a spot in time”#. My poem merges two "spots"; the installation of a new kitchen and the end of a marriage. The discarded kitchen cupboard would become a metaphor for marital separation. With this in mind I handwrote the first draft before quickly redrafting. My voice wasn’t apparent until the third draft. By this stage the first stanza was a statement (I added lines to demonstrate the date was unimportant), the second stanza is spat out in anger and frustration, the third is reflective and the final stanza is an honest conclusion that the marriage should have ended years ago.
This draft was deconstructed by fellow students.# The result concerned me until Dr Bell# advised; “Your poem is not a true reflection. It’s how it works that counts”. I recalled some words by poet Tom Leonard#; “It may be the first line, the last line or the booster rocket you ditch as you go into orbit.” I wanted to make my poem "orbit".
Having significantly pared my poem I concluded that brevity can produce power; less could be more. An example of this is Langston Hughes’ poem “Request“ (The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes p415); sixteen words in six lines. By using shorter lines and fewer words, enjambment becomes important. Yusef Komanyakaa uses this technique in “Starlight Scope Myopia” (“The Making of a Poem. p283):
“The river under Vi Bridge
takes the heart away
like the Water God
riding his dragon.”
As does Tony Flynn in “The Bride” (Poetry with an Edge p256), Here he writes in very short, sharp lines that move the poem distinctly forward.
“...her body a ridge,
of gentle peaks,
her groom
a slow cloud descending.”
Thus armed I completely rewrote the poem based upon the fourth draft. The second stanza became the opening and it became shorter, punchier and sharper. The metaphor remains notwithstanding kitchen cupboards are no-longer mentioned. The poem is now simultaneously angry, reflective and matter of fact and works all the better for it.
Bibliography
ARMITAGE S. Editor. (1998), The Penguin Book of Poetry from Britain and Ireland Since 1945. LONDON, PENGUIN.
ASTLEY N. Editor. (1997- first published 1988). Poetry with an Edge. NEWCASTLE UPON TYNE. BLOODAXE BOOKS.
BROOKE-ROSE C. (1970 - first published 1958) A Grammar of Metaphor, LONDON, SECKER AND WARBURG.
KENNEDY X. and GIOIA D. (2007) Literature An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, Drama and Writing, LONDON, PEARSON LONGMAN
RAMPERSAD A. Editor (1995) The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes. USA, VINTAGE BOOKS - FIRST VINTAGE CLASSIC EDITION.
STRAND M. and BOLAND E. (2001) The Making of a Poem - A Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms. LONDON, NORTON and CO.
WILLETT J. and MANHEIM R. Editors. (1976) Brecht Poems Part Two, 1929 - 1938. LONDON, METHUIN.
wood separated from plaster;
binned
frame and veneer
after years of parties, christenings,
funerals, committals, cremations and wakes.
Swung a crowbar,
wrenched from the wall;
consigned to the council tip -
not soon enough.
Cuppboard - Reflective Statement
Inspiration came in irregular spurts. Following a period of creative famine I wrote “CUPBOARD LOVE?” in my notebook. The question mark was added in a failed attempt to add depth. Cliché or not, it became my starting point.
Wordsworth described memory as “a spot in time”#. My poem merges two "spots"; the installation of a new kitchen and the end of a marriage. The discarded kitchen cupboard would become a metaphor for marital separation. With this in mind I handwrote the first draft before quickly redrafting. My voice wasn’t apparent until the third draft. By this stage the first stanza was a statement (I added lines to demonstrate the date was unimportant), the second stanza is spat out in anger and frustration, the third is reflective and the final stanza is an honest conclusion that the marriage should have ended years ago.
This draft was deconstructed by fellow students.# The result concerned me until Dr Bell# advised; “Your poem is not a true reflection. It’s how it works that counts”. I recalled some words by poet Tom Leonard#; “It may be the first line, the last line or the booster rocket you ditch as you go into orbit.” I wanted to make my poem "orbit".
Having significantly pared my poem I concluded that brevity can produce power; less could be more. An example of this is Langston Hughes’ poem “Request“ (The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes p415); sixteen words in six lines. By using shorter lines and fewer words, enjambment becomes important. Yusef Komanyakaa uses this technique in “Starlight Scope Myopia” (“The Making of a Poem. p283):
“The river under Vi Bridge
takes the heart away
like the Water God
riding his dragon.”
As does Tony Flynn in “The Bride” (Poetry with an Edge p256), Here he writes in very short, sharp lines that move the poem distinctly forward.
“...her body a ridge,
of gentle peaks,
her groom
a slow cloud descending.”
Thus armed I completely rewrote the poem based upon the fourth draft. The second stanza became the opening and it became shorter, punchier and sharper. The metaphor remains notwithstanding kitchen cupboards are no-longer mentioned. The poem is now simultaneously angry, reflective and matter of fact and works all the better for it.
Bibliography
ARMITAGE S. Editor. (1998), The Penguin Book of Poetry from Britain and Ireland Since 1945. LONDON, PENGUIN.
ASTLEY N. Editor. (1997- first published 1988). Poetry with an Edge. NEWCASTLE UPON TYNE. BLOODAXE BOOKS.
BROOKE-ROSE C. (1970 - first published 1958) A Grammar of Metaphor, LONDON, SECKER AND WARBURG.
KENNEDY X. and GIOIA D. (2007) Literature An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, Drama and Writing, LONDON, PEARSON LONGMAN
RAMPERSAD A. Editor (1995) The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes. USA, VINTAGE BOOKS - FIRST VINTAGE CLASSIC EDITION.
STRAND M. and BOLAND E. (2001) The Making of a Poem - A Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms. LONDON, NORTON and CO.
WILLETT J. and MANHEIM R. Editors. (1976) Brecht Poems Part Two, 1929 - 1938. LONDON, METHUIN.
Tuesday 24 November 2009
Don't think
The next poem is by Anne Stevenson. My response, from the males perspective, follows her work.
Sous-Entendou.
Don't think
that I don't know
that as you talk to me
the hand of your mind
is inconspicuously
taking of my stocking,
moving in resourceful blindness
up along my thigh.
Don't think
that I don't know
that you know
everything I say
is a garment.
by Anne Stevenson
I entendou?
I don't think
that you know
that as I talk to you
I'm peering at your breasts
and then mentally undressing you.
Don't think
that I don't know
that you think
everything I say
is bollocks!
I don't think
that you know
that I'm
pissed.
by Mature Student
Sous-Entendou.
Don't think
that I don't know
that as you talk to me
the hand of your mind
is inconspicuously
taking of my stocking,
moving in resourceful blindness
up along my thigh.
Don't think
that I don't know
that you know
everything I say
is a garment.
by Anne Stevenson
I entendou?
I don't think
that you know
that as I talk to you
I'm peering at your breasts
and then mentally undressing you.
Don't think
that I don't know
that you think
everything I say
is bollocks!
I don't think
that you know
that I'm
pissed.
by Mature Student
Sunday 22 November 2009
First Day at School
Scab.
Itchy scab.
High pitched squeaks on
polished floors.
Wooden walls -
polished floors and wooden walls.
A cacophony of razor sharp, high pitched squeaks
lasting the entire morning.
Scab.
Itchy scab.
Itchy scab on my 5 year old left knee.
One bloody itchy scab on my 5 year old left knee.
That's all I can remember of my
first day
at school.
Scab and squeaks.
Itchy scab.
High pitched squeaks on
polished floors.
Wooden walls -
polished floors and wooden walls.
A cacophony of razor sharp, high pitched squeaks
lasting the entire morning.
Scab.
Itchy scab.
Itchy scab on my 5 year old left knee.
One bloody itchy scab on my 5 year old left knee.
That's all I can remember of my
first day
at school.
Scab and squeaks.
Friday 20 November 2009
Birth, Work and Will You...?
First formal assignment; we were asked to produce 3 to 4 items for a "Creative CV" and a reflective essay. Here's my contribution.
One Act Play
Student's (tidy) bedroom furnished with bed, wardrobe, desk and well-stocked bookshelf. Gary, a mature student, types at his computer. He pauses and looks to the audience.
Gary: One thousand words written as a "Creative CV" and, just in case you didn't pick up the inflection in my voice, "Creative CV" is in quotation marks and has capitals for both C in creative and CV. What does that tell you? What does that tell me? Should I write solely about defining moments that kindled my creative writing desires? Who knows?
(reads from sheet of paper:)
Birth.
Many infants experience their first few moments of life whilst breathing their last, and sometimes only, breath. For some-while I might have joined this category. Even at this early age, and let's say I am probably 11 minutes old, I am an orphan. Technically my mother died in childbirth but I should like it known that I was in no-way responsible. The man who delivered me into this world (and I won't tell you his name because he is now an instantly recognisable star of film and TV) maintains she was dead before I was born. Many times he's recounted the story of how I fought my way into the warm June sunshine. Sunshine and death; welcome to my world.
Eleven minutes old and held by a twenty year old stranger while three bodies stare open eyed and open mouthed through shattered windscreens. Life among carnage and death, or as the local paper proclaimed; "Miracle Birth as Three Die".
You've already met my dead mother; my father is sitting next to her. He is embedded upon the steering wheel and was the first to die the instant the youth in the stolen Triumph Herald ploughed into us. The youth died seconds before my mother. Three lives destroyed in the minutes before I was born. New life among death.
(Quiet contemplation. Stands and looks through window.)
It’s another cold, grey Leicester morning; certainly cold for a Sussex lad. They’re still wearing shirt-sleeves and crop-tops "down South".
(addresses audience)
I suppose I should write about the novel and poems I wrote at eleven and how they sparked a desire to write, but I'm not going to; they were unadulterated tripe.
(takes a sheet of paper from the desk)
Here goes nothing.
(reads)
Work
Gary saunters to work. A twenty-one year old among the Georgian splendour of Brighton's three-story houses and small shop-fronts; here an antique shop, there a dress shop, over there a jewellers with items costing £2000: more than a bank-clerks annual salary. He slows his pace and greets a middle aged, moustachioed, well dressed man. That is his first mistake of the day; a mistake that nearly costs him his life.
He stops in front of a large brown wooden, iron studied door and puts his hand into the hip pocket of his brown suit jacket and removes a jingly bunch of keys. Brown jacket, brown waistcoat, brown trousers with turn-ups, black shoes and a most unsuitable black fedora hat; a look that stands out in the boring world of finance. A look that got him noticed; a look that nearly costs him his life.
He identifies the correct silver key and raises it to the shoulder-high brass-edged keyhole. Slowly and with deliberate precision he turns the key to the left. There is a solid clunk as the door unlocks. A solid, reassuring clunk that allows Gary to, momentarily, consider those who have crossed the bank's 204 year old threshold. A moment of reflection; a moment that nearly costs him his life.
His left hand turns the elbow-high ornate door handle; simultaneously his right shoulder gently pushes against the wooden door. Slowly, carefully and with a faint creek the door starts to open. Something cold and hard digs into Gary's left cheek. Every muscle tenses; every sinew tightens. He instinctively knows what it is before he smells the steel and oil.
"Get in, now. Quick or I'll blow your bloody head off."
Gary obeys, enters and instinctively hurls the heavy door behind him. It catches the raider's left arm; the arm with the gun in its hand. Gary hurls himself against the door. With a loud crack the raider drops his gun. There is resistance, the door moves a few inches; the broken arm disappears. He shuts the door and looks at the pistol; black, dull, cold and deadly. Beside the door is a small orange panel. In the centre is a button. Slowly and deliberately his index finger strokes the white centre. "Open the door or we'll come through the window and shoot your fucking balls off!" With a jolt he presses the button. The quiet is disrupted by the clatter of metallic alarms: the sound that probably saved his life.
(screws up the paper and throws it onto the floor)
I'll be honest with you, it didn't quite happen like that but I've polished the story so often that it’s become my understanding of the truth. (pauses) Now is probably the time to write about the encouragement I've received from publishers' rejection slips and the rare writing successes I've enjoyed, (he moves computer mouse) but the word count indicates that's not possible. Here's my final piece and it takes my life's story from 11 minutes old to yesterday evening: is my life about to change direction again?
(reads)
(he looks at audience) And that's my life? (bows head and shakes it)
(EXIT stage left)
Reflective Essay - Birth, Work and Will you...?
Inspiration for "Birth, Work and Will you...?" came in four stages. Each sudden, independent flash of fertility arrived as an antidote to the preceding pain. The pain normally associated with a sadist extracting his eye-teeth with oversized pliers.
The question of the month was; where to start? Rather, the question of the month was; where to start, how to start, what to include and how to end? I pondered, thought, considered, contemplated, mulled over and finally honed my ability to procrastinate. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my past lurked the perfect idea for this assessment. Sadly, the perfect idea remains unfound, untouched and hidden.
One thousand words to write and three or four memories to include, even the most mathematically challenged Humanities student is able to work out that's between 250 and 370 words a memory depending upon the final number of recollections.
The process was straight forward; I wrote each section independently of the others, starting with "Birth". Once this was finished I started on "Work" while redrafting the first item. I have received advice from fellow creative writer Zee, during a Creative Writing workshop, on the first four paragraphs of "Birth". He suggested a couple of changes, particularly with a conflated sentence in the third paragraph. He also asked that the identity of the film and TV star be divulged. [His pencil marks can be seen on the supplied draft - 1A].
My original objective was to include three pieces, each written in a different style and across a couple of genres. The third item was inspired by a drunken yet very personal late-night conversation. It is a poem and a reflection of a reflection. I am pretty sure this style of poem has a specific name but as yet I have not been able to find out what it is. This poem was always intended to rotate around the central line and I specifically wanted it right-aligned to demonstrate the speed that recent events have taken and that life is heading in the right direction.
At this stage I had three independent pieces and a feeling of dissatisfaction; three separate and independent items that lacked power and cohesion. During a midnight mini-bus ride back from Milton Keynes Ski Dome I experienced creative inspiration; place the items within the context of a talking-head one act play. By doing so this gave me great flexibility and the opportunity to elaborate and expand upon my CV while at the same time poking fun at myself.
After including the play-script, a final drafting was undertaken. It was too long and had to lose 170 words. Additionally superfluous sentences were discarded, thoughts were changed, punctuation corrected and the pivotal lines of the poem strengthened.
My assessment has travelled and grown from nothing into something hideously disjointed, fortunately to be remoulded within the context of the one act play into something that not only works, but works well.
One Act Play
Student's (tidy) bedroom furnished with bed, wardrobe, desk and well-stocked bookshelf. Gary, a mature student, types at his computer. He pauses and looks to the audience.
Gary: One thousand words written as a "Creative CV" and, just in case you didn't pick up the inflection in my voice, "Creative CV" is in quotation marks and has capitals for both C in creative and CV. What does that tell you? What does that tell me? Should I write solely about defining moments that kindled my creative writing desires? Who knows?
(reads from sheet of paper:)
Birth.
Many infants experience their first few moments of life whilst breathing their last, and sometimes only, breath. For some-while I might have joined this category. Even at this early age, and let's say I am probably 11 minutes old, I am an orphan. Technically my mother died in childbirth but I should like it known that I was in no-way responsible. The man who delivered me into this world (and I won't tell you his name because he is now an instantly recognisable star of film and TV) maintains she was dead before I was born. Many times he's recounted the story of how I fought my way into the warm June sunshine. Sunshine and death; welcome to my world.
Eleven minutes old and held by a twenty year old stranger while three bodies stare open eyed and open mouthed through shattered windscreens. Life among carnage and death, or as the local paper proclaimed; "Miracle Birth as Three Die".
You've already met my dead mother; my father is sitting next to her. He is embedded upon the steering wheel and was the first to die the instant the youth in the stolen Triumph Herald ploughed into us. The youth died seconds before my mother. Three lives destroyed in the minutes before I was born. New life among death.
(Quiet contemplation. Stands and looks through window.)
It’s another cold, grey Leicester morning; certainly cold for a Sussex lad. They’re still wearing shirt-sleeves and crop-tops "down South".
(addresses audience)
I suppose I should write about the novel and poems I wrote at eleven and how they sparked a desire to write, but I'm not going to; they were unadulterated tripe.
(takes a sheet of paper from the desk)
Here goes nothing.
(reads)
Work
Gary saunters to work. A twenty-one year old among the Georgian splendour of Brighton's three-story houses and small shop-fronts; here an antique shop, there a dress shop, over there a jewellers with items costing £2000: more than a bank-clerks annual salary. He slows his pace and greets a middle aged, moustachioed, well dressed man. That is his first mistake of the day; a mistake that nearly costs him his life.
He stops in front of a large brown wooden, iron studied door and puts his hand into the hip pocket of his brown suit jacket and removes a jingly bunch of keys. Brown jacket, brown waistcoat, brown trousers with turn-ups, black shoes and a most unsuitable black fedora hat; a look that stands out in the boring world of finance. A look that got him noticed; a look that nearly costs him his life.
He identifies the correct silver key and raises it to the shoulder-high brass-edged keyhole. Slowly and with deliberate precision he turns the key to the left. There is a solid clunk as the door unlocks. A solid, reassuring clunk that allows Gary to, momentarily, consider those who have crossed the bank's 204 year old threshold. A moment of reflection; a moment that nearly costs him his life.
His left hand turns the elbow-high ornate door handle; simultaneously his right shoulder gently pushes against the wooden door. Slowly, carefully and with a faint creek the door starts to open. Something cold and hard digs into Gary's left cheek. Every muscle tenses; every sinew tightens. He instinctively knows what it is before he smells the steel and oil.
"Get in, now. Quick or I'll blow your bloody head off."
Gary obeys, enters and instinctively hurls the heavy door behind him. It catches the raider's left arm; the arm with the gun in its hand. Gary hurls himself against the door. With a loud crack the raider drops his gun. There is resistance, the door moves a few inches; the broken arm disappears. He shuts the door and looks at the pistol; black, dull, cold and deadly. Beside the door is a small orange panel. In the centre is a button. Slowly and deliberately his index finger strokes the white centre. "Open the door or we'll come through the window and shoot your fucking balls off!" With a jolt he presses the button. The quiet is disrupted by the clatter of metallic alarms: the sound that probably saved his life.
(screws up the paper and throws it onto the floor)
I'll be honest with you, it didn't quite happen like that but I've polished the story so often that it’s become my understanding of the truth. (pauses) Now is probably the time to write about the encouragement I've received from publishers' rejection slips and the rare writing successes I've enjoyed, (he moves computer mouse) but the word count indicates that's not possible. Here's my final piece and it takes my life's story from 11 minutes old to yesterday evening: is my life about to change direction again?
(reads)
Will You...?
I share your dreams and respect your fears -
I understand your ambitions;
I know your concerns.
I love you and want our lives to be entwined so we may rejoice in one-another's successes and
be there with wisdom, reassurance and understanding if things don't go well.
I love you and want our lives to be entwined so we may rejoice in one-another's successes and
I know your concerns,
I understand your ambitions,
I share your dreams and respect your fears -
Will you...?
(he looks at audience) And that's my life? (bows head and shakes it)
(EXIT stage left)
Reflective Essay - Birth, Work and Will you...?
Inspiration for "Birth, Work and Will you...?" came in four stages. Each sudden, independent flash of fertility arrived as an antidote to the preceding pain. The pain normally associated with a sadist extracting his eye-teeth with oversized pliers.
The question of the month was; where to start? Rather, the question of the month was; where to start, how to start, what to include and how to end? I pondered, thought, considered, contemplated, mulled over and finally honed my ability to procrastinate. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my past lurked the perfect idea for this assessment. Sadly, the perfect idea remains unfound, untouched and hidden.
One thousand words to write and three or four memories to include, even the most mathematically challenged Humanities student is able to work out that's between 250 and 370 words a memory depending upon the final number of recollections.
The process was straight forward; I wrote each section independently of the others, starting with "Birth". Once this was finished I started on "Work" while redrafting the first item. I have received advice from fellow creative writer Zee, during a Creative Writing workshop, on the first four paragraphs of "Birth". He suggested a couple of changes, particularly with a conflated sentence in the third paragraph. He also asked that the identity of the film and TV star be divulged. [His pencil marks can be seen on the supplied draft - 1A].
My original objective was to include three pieces, each written in a different style and across a couple of genres. The third item was inspired by a drunken yet very personal late-night conversation. It is a poem and a reflection of a reflection. I am pretty sure this style of poem has a specific name but as yet I have not been able to find out what it is. This poem was always intended to rotate around the central line and I specifically wanted it right-aligned to demonstrate the speed that recent events have taken and that life is heading in the right direction.
At this stage I had three independent pieces and a feeling of dissatisfaction; three separate and independent items that lacked power and cohesion. During a midnight mini-bus ride back from Milton Keynes Ski Dome I experienced creative inspiration; place the items within the context of a talking-head one act play. By doing so this gave me great flexibility and the opportunity to elaborate and expand upon my CV while at the same time poking fun at myself.
After including the play-script, a final drafting was undertaken. It was too long and had to lose 170 words. Additionally superfluous sentences were discarded, thoughts were changed, punctuation corrected and the pivotal lines of the poem strengthened.
My assessment has travelled and grown from nothing into something hideously disjointed, fortunately to be remoulded within the context of the one act play into something that not only works, but works well.
Wednesday 4 November 2009
Charge
This piece was set by two anonymous students with their independent statements . "That time I broke my friends plastic sword after attacking them on their bike"......."Overdramatic ambush."
If you are wondering what I am doing standing on the edge of the village green with a large opened sack of potatoes beside me, then you are not alone. I am cold and damp and I should be warm and dry. I was warm and dry an hour ago. Warm and dry and sipping a nutty, Sunday pint beside a spitting open fire with five friends. An hour ago calm reigned, now this is war, “real war“; this is a fight to the death.
I am puzzled by the speed of events and how one minute the warm frothy bitter was being savoured in the company of great and the good of the village. These are the same great and good that you can now see spread out along the village green, four of them armed, like me, with a bag of potatoes opened and ready; ready for the fight. A fearless, confused quartet: Hugo; Piers; Cameron and Rupert. Not exactly names to send icy fear into the heart of our target, Big Stevie-Boy, but they are my allies.
That’s Big Stevie-Boy beside the hedge at the far side of the village green. He is the guy sitting on the red mountain bike. He is the reason we are here in the October dampness and not sitting in a warm comfortable pub. Big Stevie Boy and his big, forty year-old boastful mouth; “If I’d been at Balaclava I’d definitely made it through the Russian guns.” Now that was a proper boast. A boast that caused one tremendous argument and there is only one way to prove it. I am the Russian guns; Hugo and Piers are the Russians on the left hill; Cameron and Rupert on the right: our very own valley of death.
His is not to reason why,
ours is just to do and shy,
into the valley of spuds
rides the one Pillock.
Look at Big Stevie-Boy go, legs pumping, head down, sword pushed as far out in front of him as he dodges volley after volley of potatoes. He’s made it past Hugo and Cameron and now is in range of Rupert and Cameron. I should be able to reach him with my smaller potatoes.
Spuds to the right of him
spuds to the left of him
spuds in front of him.
Into the mouth of veg
rides the one Pillock.
I’ve hit him, he’s going down. Bike and Big Stevie-Boy tumble over and over. My fellow Russians and I run towards him. Big Stevie-Boy, bike and broken sword lay in an entangled mess. Hugo catches my eye; I smile at Piers, Rupert and Cameron. We were right; he’d never have made it at Balaclava.
If you are wondering what I am doing standing on the edge of the village green with a large opened sack of potatoes beside me, then you are not alone. I am cold and damp and I should be warm and dry. I was warm and dry an hour ago. Warm and dry and sipping a nutty, Sunday pint beside a spitting open fire with five friends. An hour ago calm reigned, now this is war, “real war“; this is a fight to the death.
I am puzzled by the speed of events and how one minute the warm frothy bitter was being savoured in the company of great and the good of the village. These are the same great and good that you can now see spread out along the village green, four of them armed, like me, with a bag of potatoes opened and ready; ready for the fight. A fearless, confused quartet: Hugo; Piers; Cameron and Rupert. Not exactly names to send icy fear into the heart of our target, Big Stevie-Boy, but they are my allies.
That’s Big Stevie-Boy beside the hedge at the far side of the village green. He is the guy sitting on the red mountain bike. He is the reason we are here in the October dampness and not sitting in a warm comfortable pub. Big Stevie Boy and his big, forty year-old boastful mouth; “If I’d been at Balaclava I’d definitely made it through the Russian guns.” Now that was a proper boast. A boast that caused one tremendous argument and there is only one way to prove it. I am the Russian guns; Hugo and Piers are the Russians on the left hill; Cameron and Rupert on the right: our very own valley of death.
His is not to reason why,
ours is just to do and shy,
into the valley of spuds
rides the one Pillock.
Look at Big Stevie-Boy go, legs pumping, head down, sword pushed as far out in front of him as he dodges volley after volley of potatoes. He’s made it past Hugo and Cameron and now is in range of Rupert and Cameron. I should be able to reach him with my smaller potatoes.
Spuds to the right of him
spuds to the left of him
spuds in front of him.
Into the mouth of veg
rides the one Pillock.
I’ve hit him, he’s going down. Bike and Big Stevie-Boy tumble over and over. My fellow Russians and I run towards him. Big Stevie-Boy, bike and broken sword lay in an entangled mess. Hugo catches my eye; I smile at Piers, Rupert and Cameron. We were right; he’d never have made it at Balaclava.
Tuesday 3 November 2009
I am a Prat
I am a Prat!
Prat, Prat, Prat, Prat, Prat;
that's Prat with a capital P.
Capital P, Capital R, Capital A, Capital T -
Capital PRAT.
Prat.
Learn from this experience.
Never text your girlfriend
when you've had
too much beer.
Prat.
Prat, Prat, Prat, Prat, Prat;
that's Prat with a capital P.
Capital P, Capital R, Capital A, Capital T -
Capital PRAT.
Prat.
Learn from this experience.
Never text your girlfriend
when you've had
too much beer.
Prat.
Sunday 25 October 2009
Dental Drill
The deep elephantine drone of the
slowest dental drill
sent vibrations through
my
childish body.
Sweat, fear, clenched fists and eyes screwed tightly shut.
Now I am a man
I
have the same feelings
when the deep elephantine drone of the
slowest dental drill
again sends its vibrations through-
me.
slowest dental drill
sent vibrations through
my
childish body.
Sweat, fear, clenched fists and eyes screwed tightly shut.
Now I am a man
I
have the same feelings
when the deep elephantine drone of the
slowest dental drill
again sends its vibrations through-
me.
Away from the Numbers
"No, I don't want to dance."
"Go on, Gary. You like The Jam".
Now that's true. Who doesn't think Paul Weller is king; the god of 1977. I looked into those heavily mascared green eyes. Eyes that were pleading; "just one dance," they seemed to say; "and then......" And then I'm going to the pub, that's what I'm doing!
Let me be honest with you. It's not 1977, in fact I don't think it was 1977 when I danced to 'Away from the Numbers' as sung by the legend that is Paul Weller and his immensely talented team of musicians that went under the collective name of The Jam. Now is now, or rather now is then; no, not back then but a little while ago: perhaps three years ago when things were different. Notice I said 'different' and not better.
Today, or rather the today that was three years ago, the women I know are older than the ones I knew when The Jam were together. They are wealthier, wiser and lumpier. I blame it on their kids: the same kids that are gyrating on the dance floor to Sheffield's new sensational group, Arctic Monkeys. The same kids that, only one record ago were dancing to 'Away from the Numbers'. Perhaps not quite as athletically as they are to the current track, but dancing all the same. Woking to Sheffield, The Jam to Arctic Monkeys, me back in time to the girl with the heavily mascared green eyes.
Whenever I hear 'A.F.T.N' my thoughts dive headlong into sparkling green and heavily mascared eyes. I return every time it’s played to a twenty-five second clip of my life.
"No, I don't want to dance."
"Go on, Gary. You like The Jam".
I'll only dance if it's 'Away from the Numbers'."
We danced and...... that's all I can remember. There was no 'and then.....', I may have gone to the pub, I don't recall. All I can say is I was captivated by her pleading look and I only need Paul and his pals to hit those first few chords and I'm again looking into green, heavily mascared eyes.
"Go on, Gary. You like The Jam".
Now that's true. Who doesn't think Paul Weller is king; the god of 1977. I looked into those heavily mascared green eyes. Eyes that were pleading; "just one dance," they seemed to say; "and then......" And then I'm going to the pub, that's what I'm doing!
Let me be honest with you. It's not 1977, in fact I don't think it was 1977 when I danced to 'Away from the Numbers' as sung by the legend that is Paul Weller and his immensely talented team of musicians that went under the collective name of The Jam. Now is now, or rather now is then; no, not back then but a little while ago: perhaps three years ago when things were different. Notice I said 'different' and not better.
Today, or rather the today that was three years ago, the women I know are older than the ones I knew when The Jam were together. They are wealthier, wiser and lumpier. I blame it on their kids: the same kids that are gyrating on the dance floor to Sheffield's new sensational group, Arctic Monkeys. The same kids that, only one record ago were dancing to 'Away from the Numbers'. Perhaps not quite as athletically as they are to the current track, but dancing all the same. Woking to Sheffield, The Jam to Arctic Monkeys, me back in time to the girl with the heavily mascared green eyes.
Whenever I hear 'A.F.T.N' my thoughts dive headlong into sparkling green and heavily mascared eyes. I return every time it’s played to a twenty-five second clip of my life.
"No, I don't want to dance."
"Go on, Gary. You like The Jam".
I'll only dance if it's 'Away from the Numbers'."
We danced and...... that's all I can remember. There was no 'and then.....', I may have gone to the pub, I don't recall. All I can say is I was captivated by her pleading look and I only need Paul and his pals to hit those first few chords and I'm again looking into green, heavily mascared eyes.
wretched (a villanelle)
Among the wretched apple trees,
round remorseless razored rocks,
in a blossom of apologies.
A time before we wanted these,
not now, no need for clocks.
Among the wretched apple trees
no thought of self just you to please
my memory merely mocks -
in a blossom of apologies.
Remember moments held in frieze
a time retained by locks?
Among the wretched apple trees
with bloodied hands and muddied knees
in flagrantly foolish flocks.
With a blossom of apologies
words on page torment and tease
with horror, fear and shocks.
Among the wretched apple trees -
in their blossom of apologies.
round remorseless razored rocks,
in a blossom of apologies.
A time before we wanted these,
not now, no need for clocks.
Among the wretched apple trees
no thought of self just you to please
my memory merely mocks -
in a blossom of apologies.
Remember moments held in frieze
a time retained by locks?
Among the wretched apple trees
with bloodied hands and muddied knees
in flagrantly foolish flocks.
With a blossom of apologies
words on page torment and tease
with horror, fear and shocks.
Among the wretched apple trees -
in their blossom of apologies.
Sunday 18 October 2009
A Pillow Dent. (a Rondeau)
A pillow dent, a strand of hair,
A memory of silent prayer.
And linen sheets that still convey
The whispered vows that did relay
The depth of love that we declare.
Breath not alone but as a pair
In time that only lovers share:
And all that's left of loves display
A pillow dent.
As minutes pass, become aware
Euphoria switch to despair.
The morning sun is worn by day,
The words we said we can't unsay:
Remember love, and don't repair
A pillow dent.
A memory of silent prayer.
And linen sheets that still convey
The whispered vows that did relay
The depth of love that we declare.
Breath not alone but as a pair
In time that only lovers share:
And all that's left of loves display
A pillow dent.
As minutes pass, become aware
Euphoria switch to despair.
The morning sun is worn by day,
The words we said we can't unsay:
Remember love, and don't repair
A pillow dent.
New White. (in Triolet)
Is black the new white
And creative writing the new rock and roll?
Is imagery bright
And words the new white?
Write into the night;
Be sure of your goal.
Is black the new white
And creative writing the new rock and roll?
And creative writing the new rock and roll?
Is imagery bright
And words the new white?
Write into the night;
Be sure of your goal.
Is black the new white
And creative writing the new rock and roll?
Saturday 17 October 2009
First time
I run as fast as I can, my hand engulfed by my father's solid fingers. He crashes through a chipped and battered double swing door and I follow, one hand in his and the other holding a large fluffy yellow bath-towel around my waist. The towel partially covering my new favourite blue jeans.
I can hardly see through a bath of tears welling in my eyes. I swallow an exotic lung-full of a heady scent: is this the smell of cleanliness; the smell of illness; the smell of pain; the smell of death; the smell of people getting better? I breathe again through the sobs of pain. I have never smelt anything like this before.
My father shouts; the sound reverberates around the blue, battered peeling corridor. We stop running and a stomach ripping pain shoots through me; knife, needle, shark, snake: real pain. Pain that rips, slashes and cuts in my groin. My mouth is dry; dry and rough with a taste like the inside of a tin can.
My head is spinning, faster and faster it goes round. The room is turning a faint red colour; a tint of red somewhere between fresh and dried blood.
"Nurse! Doctor!" booms my father. I don't feel fear, my dad will make it all better.
A door crashes open and I can hear footsteps and voices. The towel is removed and someone carefully moves my jeans. The pain is intense; a searing, soaring, scolding pain.
"All done sonny. You won't do that again, will you?" the Doctors voice slowly fades as I take a deep refreshing breath. The pain has changed and is no longer sharp and stabbing, it is now very sore and tender; tender and sore. I open my eyes, the doctor is talking to my father. I can hear one or two sentences. "It happens surprisingly often to five and six year old boys. Yes, there is a medical name for it; Zipper-trauma."
I can hardly see through a bath of tears welling in my eyes. I swallow an exotic lung-full of a heady scent: is this the smell of cleanliness; the smell of illness; the smell of pain; the smell of death; the smell of people getting better? I breathe again through the sobs of pain. I have never smelt anything like this before.
My father shouts; the sound reverberates around the blue, battered peeling corridor. We stop running and a stomach ripping pain shoots through me; knife, needle, shark, snake: real pain. Pain that rips, slashes and cuts in my groin. My mouth is dry; dry and rough with a taste like the inside of a tin can.
My head is spinning, faster and faster it goes round. The room is turning a faint red colour; a tint of red somewhere between fresh and dried blood.
"Nurse! Doctor!" booms my father. I don't feel fear, my dad will make it all better.
A door crashes open and I can hear footsteps and voices. The towel is removed and someone carefully moves my jeans. The pain is intense; a searing, soaring, scolding pain.
"All done sonny. You won't do that again, will you?" the Doctors voice slowly fades as I take a deep refreshing breath. The pain has changed and is no longer sharp and stabbing, it is now very sore and tender; tender and sore. I open my eyes, the doctor is talking to my father. I can hear one or two sentences. "It happens surprisingly often to five and six year old boys. Yes, there is a medical name for it; Zipper-trauma."
Wednesday 14 October 2009
This is a Villanelle for Joint BA (Creative Writing and Drama)
With biro, laptop or fountain pen
All words are crafted and carved on page:
To create the perfect specimen.
I need words as I need oxygen:
Eventually to earn a wage?
With biro, laptop or fountain pen.
Is there a more perfect denizen?
And who are you to judge or gauge?
When I create the perfect specimen.
I'm now a Leicester citizen
A clever guy, a perfect sage?
With biro, laptop or fountain pen.
A student-mature, a gentleman,
I'm about to break out of my cage
And create the perfect specimen.
I write for actor and comedian;
For radio, book and film and stage.
With biro, laptop or fountain pen
I'll create the perfect specimen.
With biro, laptop or fountain pen
All words are crafted and carved on page:
To create the perfect specimen.
I need words as I need oxygen:
Eventually to earn a wage?
With biro, laptop or fountain pen.
Is there a more perfect denizen?
And who are you to judge or gauge?
When I create the perfect specimen.
I'm now a Leicester citizen
A clever guy, a perfect sage?
With biro, laptop or fountain pen.
A student-mature, a gentleman,
I'm about to break out of my cage
And create the perfect specimen.
I write for actor and comedian;
For radio, book and film and stage.
With biro, laptop or fountain pen
I'll create the perfect specimen.
First Time
The tears feel sticky as I run the back of my hand over my freckled cheeks. I think my head hurts more than my knee but the pains are different; my head throbs and my knee stings. I still don’t know who had pushed me over in the playground but I’ll find out and then there’ll be serious bother.
“Does it hurt a lot?” asks Penny as she gently presses a pad of lint on my leg in an effort to stop the blood running down my thin white shin and onto my black plimsoll.
I slowly look up and notice how blonde and curly her hair is. It looks like a plate of tinned spaghetti with all the sauce washed off. I think Penny is the best looking girl in my school; I think she’s the best looking girl in every school. She told us all in yesterday's class that her Dad allows her to stay up until 8:30 on a school day; that’s not fair, I have to be in bed by 8 o’clock.
“Bit,” I slowly reply, just like that man in the cowboy film I had watched on the television on Saturday. Penny’s dark blue blazer looks newer than mine. Her silver trim shines and mine looks dull. I rub my arm through the thick rough, itchy fabric.
“They’ll put witch-hazel on your bump and give you a head-case note.” Penny pauses, smiles and then continues. “I simply love the smell of witch-hazel. I’d like to wear it as a perfume when I’m bigger “
I run my tongue around my mouth. I can taste the faint lingering flavour of Wrigley’s gum, but the gum is not there. It probably fell out when I was pushed over .
“I’d like to be a nurse when I grow up. That’s why I walked you to the sickroom so I could practice being a nurse.”
Penny is different to all the other girls in my class. Her little snub turned-up nose is sweet and she can move her eyebrows one at a time; I wish I could to that. I wonder if she can make an owl sound by blowing into her hands?
Her finger suddenly jabs me in the chest. “You’ve got the skinniest legs I’ve ever seen. They look like they’ll break at any minute. I’ve got a guinea-pig and a hamster at home. Do you want to be my boy-friend?"
I miss a breath; my face begins to prickle and I can feel the colour start to change; I try to speak but my mouth flaps like a goldfish. Did I hear that correctly? She’s got a guinea-pig and a hamster at home; I’ve only got a dog: This girl’s got class. I’ve never had a girl-friend before.
Don't mind". I look at her shoes, they are clean and shiny: real class. "Okay, but don't tell anyone”.
“Does it hurt a lot?” asks Penny as she gently presses a pad of lint on my leg in an effort to stop the blood running down my thin white shin and onto my black plimsoll.
I slowly look up and notice how blonde and curly her hair is. It looks like a plate of tinned spaghetti with all the sauce washed off. I think Penny is the best looking girl in my school; I think she’s the best looking girl in every school. She told us all in yesterday's class that her Dad allows her to stay up until 8:30 on a school day; that’s not fair, I have to be in bed by 8 o’clock.
“Bit,” I slowly reply, just like that man in the cowboy film I had watched on the television on Saturday. Penny’s dark blue blazer looks newer than mine. Her silver trim shines and mine looks dull. I rub my arm through the thick rough, itchy fabric.
“They’ll put witch-hazel on your bump and give you a head-case note.” Penny pauses, smiles and then continues. “I simply love the smell of witch-hazel. I’d like to wear it as a perfume when I’m bigger “
I run my tongue around my mouth. I can taste the faint lingering flavour of Wrigley’s gum, but the gum is not there. It probably fell out when I was pushed over .
“I’d like to be a nurse when I grow up. That’s why I walked you to the sickroom so I could practice being a nurse.”
Penny is different to all the other girls in my class. Her little snub turned-up nose is sweet and she can move her eyebrows one at a time; I wish I could to that. I wonder if she can make an owl sound by blowing into her hands?
Her finger suddenly jabs me in the chest. “You’ve got the skinniest legs I’ve ever seen. They look like they’ll break at any minute. I’ve got a guinea-pig and a hamster at home. Do you want to be my boy-friend?"
I miss a breath; my face begins to prickle and I can feel the colour start to change; I try to speak but my mouth flaps like a goldfish. Did I hear that correctly? She’s got a guinea-pig and a hamster at home; I’ve only got a dog: This girl’s got class. I’ve never had a girl-friend before.
Don't mind". I look at her shoes, they are clean and shiny: real class. "Okay, but don't tell anyone”.
Tuesday 13 October 2009
All my Sons, 13th October, Curve Theatre, Arthur Miller
I arranged to meet six fit female freshers outside DMU Campus Centre under the soft hue of a cotton-budded pink and purple sunset. We met with the purpose of walking to the Curve and watching a Miller play. There you have my current life: bliss.
I accept that half a dozen female freshers is more than a handful for most men but I consider myself fully qualified to blindly follow them all; much in the same way as I've followed women all my life. Two historic wives; none current: but we live in hope....A case of optimism over experience?
Six fit female freshers outside the Campus Centre. Six fit females - forget the Campus Centre, that's just a location and adds nothing to my blissful feelings. Six fit females, all drama students or dance students and all fit. That's F.I.T, really fit.
That's the scene, six fit women and me; my life's bliss. I spend most of my days writing, scripting, rehearsing, creating, reading and living: fantastic. The rest of the day is learning, analysing, understanding, studying: fantastic. If there's any spare time I try to spend it with my friend K or cooking, eating, shopping, washing, or trip to the gym: preferably in the company of K; she's fantastic: keeps me sane.
Now you can see me and these six beautiful young women walking through the streets of Leicester in the general direction of Curve Theatre; notice no "The" in Curve Theatre: why?
Miller’s play was “All my Sons”; very powerful. Kept me spellbound. I certainly enjoyed it; some cracking performances; some rather strange: on the whole, very good. Some very impressive stage sets, a couple very strange: on the whole very good. Powerful monologues from Joe Keller and a strong scene with Joe and Chris but I felt no sympathy with any character. During the interval I was hopeful that there would be at least two suicides and one murder (perhaps two; I was prepared to have a hand in both). I was far from sympathetic to most of the characters.
My journey home was by myself with the scenes of the play flashing around my head and K at the forefront. How I wish she’s found the time to be at the theatre: she’d have enjoyed it.
I accept that half a dozen female freshers is more than a handful for most men but I consider myself fully qualified to blindly follow them all; much in the same way as I've followed women all my life. Two historic wives; none current: but we live in hope....A case of optimism over experience?
Six fit female freshers outside the Campus Centre. Six fit females - forget the Campus Centre, that's just a location and adds nothing to my blissful feelings. Six fit females, all drama students or dance students and all fit. That's F.I.T, really fit.
That's the scene, six fit women and me; my life's bliss. I spend most of my days writing, scripting, rehearsing, creating, reading and living: fantastic. The rest of the day is learning, analysing, understanding, studying: fantastic. If there's any spare time I try to spend it with my friend K or cooking, eating, shopping, washing, or trip to the gym: preferably in the company of K; she's fantastic: keeps me sane.
Now you can see me and these six beautiful young women walking through the streets of Leicester in the general direction of Curve Theatre; notice no "The" in Curve Theatre: why?
Miller’s play was “All my Sons”; very powerful. Kept me spellbound. I certainly enjoyed it; some cracking performances; some rather strange: on the whole, very good. Some very impressive stage sets, a couple very strange: on the whole very good. Powerful monologues from Joe Keller and a strong scene with Joe and Chris but I felt no sympathy with any character. During the interval I was hopeful that there would be at least two suicides and one murder (perhaps two; I was prepared to have a hand in both). I was far from sympathetic to most of the characters.
My journey home was by myself with the scenes of the play flashing around my head and K at the forefront. How I wish she’s found the time to be at the theatre: she’d have enjoyed it.
Half-empty Day
Red plastic packaging crackles under slight pressure from my forefinger and thumb. Light from the open picture-window reflects across the white lettering. Inside the outer-wrapping the white cardboard packet is half empty: half full or half empty? Today is a half empty day.
Automatically I prize one of the little rolls away from its companions. It is white blanched pastry encasing a green, firm paste: simply that; pastry and green paste. Pastry, green paste, mouth-sized and dry; a great accompaniment for tea: hot, strong tea, pastry and green paste. The arid pastry absorbs all remaining moisture from my tongue. Desert dry pastry, green paste: green paste with a hint of flavour. Desert dry pastry and a green paste with the texture of grit: a great accompaniment for hot, strong tea.
Tesco fig rolls, best before March 2010, priced thirty-nine pence. Today is a half empty day.
Today marks my first attempt at comfort eating. Eighty kilos, One hundred and eighty centimetres, thirty-three inch waist: this is a body unused to comfort eating. Today is a half-empty day; a day where comfort food could demonstrate mood changing qualities.
Today is a half-empty day for two reasons: firstly a walk to Leicester Station and an interesting discussion with a cashier over why they’d accept a NUS ISIC card as identification but not an NUS ISIC Extra card. Secondly, an impulsive visit to a barber during the return journey where too much of my hair fluttered to the ground.
Tesco fig rolls, best before March 2010, priced thirty-nine pence. Today is a half empty day.
Automatically I prize one of the little rolls away from its companions. It is white blanched pastry encasing a green, firm paste: simply that; pastry and green paste. Pastry, green paste, mouth-sized and dry; a great accompaniment for tea: hot, strong tea, pastry and green paste. The arid pastry absorbs all remaining moisture from my tongue. Desert dry pastry, green paste: green paste with a hint of flavour. Desert dry pastry and a green paste with the texture of grit: a great accompaniment for hot, strong tea.
Tesco fig rolls, best before March 2010, priced thirty-nine pence. Today is a half empty day.
Today marks my first attempt at comfort eating. Eighty kilos, One hundred and eighty centimetres, thirty-three inch waist: this is a body unused to comfort eating. Today is a half-empty day; a day where comfort food could demonstrate mood changing qualities.
Today is a half-empty day for two reasons: firstly a walk to Leicester Station and an interesting discussion with a cashier over why they’d accept a NUS ISIC card as identification but not an NUS ISIC Extra card. Secondly, an impulsive visit to a barber during the return journey where too much of my hair fluttered to the ground.
Tesco fig rolls, best before March 2010, priced thirty-nine pence. Today is a half empty day.
Friday 9 October 2009
Thursday
I thoughugt I'd have a go at typing my fuvking 400 wotds befoir I'd gonr to brd nyt after going out with the saki clud at Rd Nobb. Bo;l;locks; thoisw is nmy cfontribution. and if oit's not between 350m and 400 words bolocks. Do yo know hpow to sepafrate the3 hom+osexual woman from th e heterosexual totty? Sexulk oriention is unimportyant but I'd feel fooljksh flirtyng with so=mone non-resopmsnive. There's many man'd like to p[leasure and may that'd like to be pleasured by a womwan.
It may not be anyj good nut it's what I cAN Do. PS I want Kayleigh, sjhe's fcuking tops.
Some time later - Translation: “for those not fluent in drunk”.
I thought I'd have a go at typing my 400 words after I'd gone out with the ski club to Red Knob. Bollocks, this is my contribution and if it's not between 350 and 400 words; bollocks. Do you know how to identify if you're chatting up a homosexual woman instead of a heterosexual totty? Sexual orientation is unimportant but many would feel foolish flirting with someone non-responsive. There's many women a man would like to pleasure but there are as many women that want to pleasure other women.
It may not be any good but it's what I can do.
PS: I want Kayleigh. She's lovely
Much later still - The final draft:
It's very late and I've still to complete my journal. It's not a chore but somehow events of the day have overtaken me; usual sort of things, lectures, shopping, cooking: Oh, and my first introduction to the ski and board club.
The ski and board club meet at Soar Point every Thursday and reserve the area at the end of the bar for their social gathering. You'd be hard pressed to find a more open and friendly cross section of society; all hell bent on enjoying themselves. The beer flowed quicker than the Soar and I'm afraid to say that I had quite a lot to drink. Fortunately, writing my journal has sobered me up. The time in the bottom right-hand corner of my laptop shines out 3am. That’s not too late to phone my friend K; she‘ll love to hear from me: it's good to talk.
It may not be anyj good nut it's what I cAN Do. PS I want Kayleigh, sjhe's fcuking tops.
Some time later - Translation: “for those not fluent in drunk”.
I thought I'd have a go at typing my 400 words after I'd gone out with the ski club to Red Knob. Bollocks, this is my contribution and if it's not between 350 and 400 words; bollocks. Do you know how to identify if you're chatting up a homosexual woman instead of a heterosexual totty? Sexual orientation is unimportant but many would feel foolish flirting with someone non-responsive. There's many women a man would like to pleasure but there are as many women that want to pleasure other women.
It may not be any good but it's what I can do.
PS: I want Kayleigh. She's lovely
Much later still - The final draft:
It's very late and I've still to complete my journal. It's not a chore but somehow events of the day have overtaken me; usual sort of things, lectures, shopping, cooking: Oh, and my first introduction to the ski and board club.
The ski and board club meet at Soar Point every Thursday and reserve the area at the end of the bar for their social gathering. You'd be hard pressed to find a more open and friendly cross section of society; all hell bent on enjoying themselves. The beer flowed quicker than the Soar and I'm afraid to say that I had quite a lot to drink. Fortunately, writing my journal has sobered me up. The time in the bottom right-hand corner of my laptop shines out 3am. That’s not too late to phone my friend K; she‘ll love to hear from me: it's good to talk.
My Teacher.
In retrospect I can see why my father choked on his dinner-time pie when I told him I was in Miss Tillman's class. At the time I knew it wasn't solely due to her being my new teacher that caused him to snort and splutter shards of mince beef and pastry across the dining-table. In my house mince-beef pie meant it was a Thursday; a Thursday in the Autumn or winter: my first day in Miss Tillman's class narrowed the time to early September - but no-one's interested in dates. Anyone acquainted with my father knew it wasn't easy to knock him off guard but I'd managed it with an innocent observation; "You'd like her Dad. She's young and really pretty."
Even at the age of eight I could recognise feminine beauty. Miss Tillman had become, at precisely 9:03 that very morning, my Venus; I was her devoted acolyte. I could pinpoint the time she captured my heart to the nearest second because I was looking at my Disney-watch when she called my name for the first time. Four letters; two syllables; one word: Gary. How could she make my name sound so sweet? Did she gargle with honey?
Have I mentioned her lips? I just need to close my eyes and, all these years later, I can see those thin lips; lips that gently curled up at each end in a perpetual smile of approval. I knew I was in love when she bent down and I looked into her eyes. They were the same colour as both the school football shirt and the shallow end of the school swimming pool: Football, swimming and Miss Tillman's eyes....and the little interesting lines at the edge that grew larger when she laughed. How I wanted lines just like the lines that lit up Miss Tillman's face.
The first day she taught me she wore her hair in a bun; every day she taught me she wore it the same way: I was enchanted by the way it stayed in place and the way the florescent schoolroom lights shimmered and turned the colour to pure silver.
Cruelly Miss Tillman was taken from me at the end of the first term by something an eight year old had no way of comprehending; retirement. My Father knew it was due: Miss Tillman had also taught him when he was eight.
Even at the age of eight I could recognise feminine beauty. Miss Tillman had become, at precisely 9:03 that very morning, my Venus; I was her devoted acolyte. I could pinpoint the time she captured my heart to the nearest second because I was looking at my Disney-watch when she called my name for the first time. Four letters; two syllables; one word: Gary. How could she make my name sound so sweet? Did she gargle with honey?
Have I mentioned her lips? I just need to close my eyes and, all these years later, I can see those thin lips; lips that gently curled up at each end in a perpetual smile of approval. I knew I was in love when she bent down and I looked into her eyes. They were the same colour as both the school football shirt and the shallow end of the school swimming pool: Football, swimming and Miss Tillman's eyes....and the little interesting lines at the edge that grew larger when she laughed. How I wanted lines just like the lines that lit up Miss Tillman's face.
The first day she taught me she wore her hair in a bun; every day she taught me she wore it the same way: I was enchanted by the way it stayed in place and the way the florescent schoolroom lights shimmered and turned the colour to pure silver.
Cruelly Miss Tillman was taken from me at the end of the first term by something an eight year old had no way of comprehending; retirement. My Father knew it was due: Miss Tillman had also taught him when he was eight.
Thursday 8 October 2009
My Room.
Today I heard Clive James on the radio; he picked his words with deliberate care. Every utterance was delivered with his soft, round Australian accent. I've no idea what he was talking about but something was a "huge, horrible pulsating mass."
In the corner of my bedroom, hidden by the edge of my desk, sits a tangled web of underwear, socks and shirts; not too many but just enough to catch my peripheral vision. Now my pants are neither huge nor horrible and, as for a pulsating mass...... it's none of yours or any-ones business so I shan't say: there are some events that should remain secret; pulsating pants being somewhere near the top of the list.
My desk is a modern sculpture: work in progress; working desk; writing desk. Papers and pens are scattered like discarded kindling among autumn leaves. Notes lie strewn and crumpled towards the back of the work-surface like jetsam at high-tide. A white table lamp stands guard like a miniature lighthouse ready to alert lost books to the danger of running aground on detritus. My laptop rises through the disorder like a luxury liner entering a Mediterranean port; keys resembling portholes, the screen a glistening hull.
Next to the desk is a wastepaper basket brimming with more balls of paper; some screwed, some scrunched, some crumpled: all accurately discarded with precise aim. An attaché case stands beside a blue and white golfing-umbrella; an umbrella that’s not seen a golf course and only once performed the duty it was designed for: the autumn has been unusually dry.
Beside a brown wardrobe is the bed: double duvet; single bed.
The last item in the room is a small cabinet. On the small cabinet there is a try. On the tray are mugs. Beside the mugs are a bowl. In the bowl a few used tea-bags send the scent of darjeeling, and earl gray into the heart of the room to battle with the creeping odour from the laundry. The same laundry that Clive James described as a “huge horrible pulsating mass”: but to me it’s an integral part of my room.
In the corner of my bedroom, hidden by the edge of my desk, sits a tangled web of underwear, socks and shirts; not too many but just enough to catch my peripheral vision. Now my pants are neither huge nor horrible and, as for a pulsating mass...... it's none of yours or any-ones business so I shan't say: there are some events that should remain secret; pulsating pants being somewhere near the top of the list.
My desk is a modern sculpture: work in progress; working desk; writing desk. Papers and pens are scattered like discarded kindling among autumn leaves. Notes lie strewn and crumpled towards the back of the work-surface like jetsam at high-tide. A white table lamp stands guard like a miniature lighthouse ready to alert lost books to the danger of running aground on detritus. My laptop rises through the disorder like a luxury liner entering a Mediterranean port; keys resembling portholes, the screen a glistening hull.
Next to the desk is a wastepaper basket brimming with more balls of paper; some screwed, some scrunched, some crumpled: all accurately discarded with precise aim. An attaché case stands beside a blue and white golfing-umbrella; an umbrella that’s not seen a golf course and only once performed the duty it was designed for: the autumn has been unusually dry.
Beside a brown wardrobe is the bed: double duvet; single bed.
The last item in the room is a small cabinet. On the small cabinet there is a try. On the tray are mugs. Beside the mugs are a bowl. In the bowl a few used tea-bags send the scent of darjeeling, and earl gray into the heart of the room to battle with the creeping odour from the laundry. The same laundry that Clive James described as a “huge horrible pulsating mass”: but to me it’s an integral part of my room.
Wednesday 7 October 2009
Journal - Day 1 - 6th October
So this is Leicester; multicultural, diverse and vibrant: my new home. Or to be more precise this is De Montfort University; multicultural, diverse and vibrant: my noisy new home. Need to find the campus at night? Just follow the sound of nocturnal shouting, singing students and piercing police sirens: the sound of a war zone; less death but the same amount of destruction.
You will be pleased to hear that I’ve survived fresher’s week with both kidneys functioning....to a lesser or greater degree; (or is it the liver that’s affected by alcohol?) It is doubtful if my entire fellow first year students were so lucky: pavement pizzas were in evidence during my early morning trips to the gym. Oh, the joys of excess; in this case the joys of cheap lager and unaccustomed spirits: welcome to the world of the party-student.
I’ve just experienced, for the first time in my life, the fun that can be had by clothes-washing. God, the laundry was a daunting place. I had to buy tokens for both the washing machine and tumble drier: marginally different sizes; 50 pence difference in value. Three washers, three driers, one large uninviting tiled space: grim. I bet you didn’t realise that it was imperative to buy washing detergent; I didn’t. Choices, choices, choices; tablets, powder, liquid or pretty plastic parcels: I selected the parcels; I’m a mug for alliteration.
House-mates, they number five; two guys, two gals and yours truly. The chaps are OK; the girls are more interesting. It is one of the girl’s 30th birthday on this Saturday and I think it fair and accurate to describe her build as on the comfortable side of average. The other lass is pretty, petit and young with an exceedingly clever brain. Oh, and please don’t think I’m saying this solely because she’s also aboard the good ship “HMS Demon Crew” and may read this entry.
I’ve discovered the joys of bin-emptying, cleaning the kitchen worktops, dusting and hovering. I’m just about to test my skills with the smoothing iron; there can’t be any mystery to this simple art. It’s strange but I’ve managed to find time for all these chores. Perhaps I am becoming a writer after all; sit down to write at the laptop and a supernatural power transports me to another part of my flat.
Must go; ironing beckons.
You will be pleased to hear that I’ve survived fresher’s week with both kidneys functioning....to a lesser or greater degree; (or is it the liver that’s affected by alcohol?) It is doubtful if my entire fellow first year students were so lucky: pavement pizzas were in evidence during my early morning trips to the gym. Oh, the joys of excess; in this case the joys of cheap lager and unaccustomed spirits: welcome to the world of the party-student.
I’ve just experienced, for the first time in my life, the fun that can be had by clothes-washing. God, the laundry was a daunting place. I had to buy tokens for both the washing machine and tumble drier: marginally different sizes; 50 pence difference in value. Three washers, three driers, one large uninviting tiled space: grim. I bet you didn’t realise that it was imperative to buy washing detergent; I didn’t. Choices, choices, choices; tablets, powder, liquid or pretty plastic parcels: I selected the parcels; I’m a mug for alliteration.
House-mates, they number five; two guys, two gals and yours truly. The chaps are OK; the girls are more interesting. It is one of the girl’s 30th birthday on this Saturday and I think it fair and accurate to describe her build as on the comfortable side of average. The other lass is pretty, petit and young with an exceedingly clever brain. Oh, and please don’t think I’m saying this solely because she’s also aboard the good ship “HMS Demon Crew” and may read this entry.
I’ve discovered the joys of bin-emptying, cleaning the kitchen worktops, dusting and hovering. I’m just about to test my skills with the smoothing iron; there can’t be any mystery to this simple art. It’s strange but I’ve managed to find time for all these chores. Perhaps I am becoming a writer after all; sit down to write at the laptop and a supernatural power transports me to another part of my flat.
Must go; ironing beckons.
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