I've no idea how this blog will develop, suffice to say I expect it to evolve during the next three years; during this time I shall be attending a British university and fulfilling the role of a mature student. +++++++++If you'd like to email you can at+++ mature.student@yahoo.co.uk

Thursday 6 May 2010

A Pillow Dent.

I woke and you weren’t there.

Memories remain
of last night’s play,
last night’s love.

Night’s elation,
morning’s despair;
words spoken solely for their sound?

It’s easier to make a bed
than a meaningful relationship.

Wednesday 5 May 2010

Hancock, Secombe, Sid and Ken.

Commentary


Terry Johnson takes well known, real characters and places them in plausible, realistic situations. Although fictional, Cleo, Camping, Emmanuelle and Dick is based upon fact and a truthful and accurate depiction of the principal characters. It is firmly planted in real time and place. My first issue was to produce a pastiche that takes real characters and gives realistic yet humorous dialogue while being true to their character and maintaining pace and tension. I wanted to be as engaging as the original and retain elements of conflict.
            My first task was to read Johnson’s plays and research his subjects; Williams, James and Carry On films. I learnt that James and Williams worked on Tony Hancock’s radio series before Hancock suffered a breakdown and didn’t record first three episodes of the second series. This situation gave me character, subject and setting in the same way that Johnson’s used the films. I simply had to research the period for context and historical accuracy.
            I wanted to reflect Johnson’s use of period language, characterisations, themes and minimal stage directions. An example of idiomatic language is Sid’s “Gawd strewth” (Johnson (1998:48–my script:1); minimal directions, “laughs like a machine gun” (28-3). I wanted to maintain themes; Sid’s gambling, womanising, growing homophobia and money borrowing and Ken’s piles and, although illegal and more covert outside the safety of theatre life, homosexuality.
            My final strategy was to maintain Johnson’s comedic dialogue and introduce tension not solely between characters but additionally from Sid’s concern with the telephone.

Bibliography

Campbell, Mark (2005) Carry on Films: Harpenden, Pocket Essentials.
Davies, Russell (editor) (1995) The Kenneth Williams Letters: London, Harper Collins.
Goodwin, Cliff (1995) Sid James: Padstow, Magna Books.
Johnson, Terry (1998) Cleo, Camping, Emmanuelle and Dick: London, Methuen.
Johnson, Terry (1991) Imagine Drowning: London, Methuen.
Johnson, Terry (1994) Dead Funny: London, Methuen.
Johnson, Terry (2007) Hitchcock Blonde: London, Methuen
Stop Messing About Limited. Stop Messing About, A Kenneth Williams Extravaganza: Michael Kingsbury. Curve Theatre 16 Feb 2010 – 20 Feb 2010.
Wandor, Michelene (2008) The Art of Writing Drama – Theory and Practice: London, Methuen Drama.
Williams, Kenneth (1999) The Complete Acid Drops: London, Orion Books.

Word count 250. (excluding title and bibliography)



Hancock, Secombe, Sid and Ken.


Act One - A Holiday in France

Sunday 17th April 1955. A small BBC “green-room” with a couple of settees, kitchen table, chairs, stove and kettle. There is a door stage left and coat-stand beside the door. Sid, broad-featured, big-nosed and forty two years old is talking into a coin-operated wall telephone.

Sid           Yes, about twenty knicker. ... Is it? Twenty-six pounds seventeen and six. ... Why not give me another two pounds, two and a tanner credit; make it a round thirty quid? ... No need to be like that.
Puts down phone, sits at table and reads script.
Ken          (From off) Bonjour tout le monde. ‘Tis I. Here to entertain and make you laugh. (Enter Ken through door stage left: taller than Sid, fine-featured and aquiline nose ) Oh, it’s only you.
Sid            And good morning to you, too.
Ken           I thought everyone would be here gossiping away, catching up on the past few months’ separation. Talking of recent successes, future dreams. But no, there’s only dear old Sidney here.
Sid            Gawd strewth. I’ve missed you like I’d miss my mother-in-law.
Ken           Charming.
Sid            Everyone’s in a meeting. There’s a problem.
Ken           Oooooooh! I hope it’s a hard one. I do like a hard one – problem that is. (Laughs).
Sid reads, Ken hangs coat on coat-stand. He is holding a package.
Ken           What’s the title? This week’s show, what’s it called?
Sid            A holiday in France.
Ken          Have I got a big part?
Sid            I’ve no idea and no wish to find out.
Ken          Cheeky.
Opens package - produces ladies head-scarf.
Sid           Suits you.
Ken          No, it’s not mine. It’s for Moira.
Sid           That’s nice. Moira’s not here.
Ken          I’ll give it to her later.
Sid           Much later. She’s landed a part in “The Deep Blue Sea” and not signed for the second series.
Ken         Bless my soul. You mean the film adaptation of Terry Rattigan’s play? Lucky Moira.
Sid           I’ve got a part in it as well.
Ken         Lucky, lucky Moira. Who’s replacing her?
Sid           Andree Melly. She’s good and very pretty, had a part with me in Belles of St Trin’s.
Ken            Your part is the scourge of all actresses.
Sid             You merry quipper, you.
Ken            You should keep your flies done up. Save your brain catching cold.
Sid             Have you been rehearsing that ad-lib all winter?
Ken            You’re the sort of swine who gets a girl drunk first.
Sid             It’ll be bloody stupid to get her drunk after.
Ken tries to read Sid’s script
Sid            Oi, hop-it. Get your own.
Ken          Keep your hair on, luvvie.
Sid           Don’t luvvie me or I’ll give you what for. I’ve been in forty five films. I’m a serious actor. One-take-James they call me on set.
Ken         I’ve been in five films and I’ve played the Dauphine in GBS’s St Joan to great critical acclaim. I should play Shakespeare. (Overacting) “I’ll have grounds more relative than this – the play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.”
Sid           If you played Shakespeare, you’d win.
Ken        And your money would be backing the loser.
Sid           Ouch, that’s below the belt.
Ken          That’s your usual target. Your money goes on fast women and slow ponies.
Sid           Now we’re talking money, could you lend me a few bob?
Ken          That reminds me. You still owe me seventeen shillings and nine pence from last year.
Sid            If you lend me twenty-nine pounds two shillings and thr’pence it’ll make it a round amount.
Ken          Thirty quid! That’s over three weeks’ fees.
Sid            I need to pay my Accountant.
Ken          Turf Accountant I’ll wager. (laughs)
Sid            Very funny.
Telephone rings
Sid           (aside) That’s great timing. Just what I need. (To Ken) NO! DON’T! Don’t answer it. It’s not for us.
Ken             No, we must. It might be something important.
Sid              It’s not. It’s nothing important. It’s not for me, for us, for you.
Ken            How do you know?
Sid              Because (phone stops ringing). It’s stopped ringing, it can’t have been important. If it was important they’d have let it ring.
Ken            Yes, no, yes. You’ve got me all of a dither. I’ve never been so dithered. (over-acting) “Perchance he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill, as that he knows not it tolls for him. ”
Sid             Donne?
Ken            I have been (laughs his machine-gun laugh ).
Ken           This meeting - the one that everyone’s involved in apart from us - it’s taking a long time.
Sid             Tony’s not here.
Ken           I can see that, I’m neither feebly sighted nor stupid.
Sid            (aside) Who’s been spreading unsubstantiated rumours? (to Ken) Tony’s not coming.
Ken           He should take himself in hand then (laughs)
Sid            No, it’s serious. He’s run out on “Talk of the Town”. Just left the Adelphi and had it away on his toes. Hylton’s furious, withdrawn permission for him to work for Auntie.
Ken         Where does that leave us? No Hancock, no “Hancock’s Half Hour”. There goes that holiday I promised Lou. That takes the biscuit. When I say biscuit I don’t mean your ordinary, common-or-garden Rich Tea. No I mean the king of biscuits, the regal Empire. It’s been taken, snatched from our grasp before we’ve had the chance to savour the first morsel on our expectant lips.
Sid          Don’t be such a fatalist.
Ken         I’m not. I’ve never collected stamps in my life.
Sid           I’ve heard they’ve recruited someone to read Hancock’s part.
Ken         Someone else. Let me borrow your pen. (He writes)
Sid          What are you doing?
Ken        Asking Gault and Simpson to give me some extra lines. Now Tony’s not here I might be able to build up my part.
Sid          You’re all heart you are. Tony’s troubled and all you do is think about your part.
Ken         That’s ‘cause I’m a professional.
Sid          Professional as a prostitute. Quite happy to roger everyone.
Ken        You’re a fine one to talk. Look after number one, that’s my motto.
Sid reads, Ken writes
Ken          I hope they’ve got a big name to read for Hancock. Perhaps an American. Ooooooooh, I read in The People that Bob Hope’s in England at the moment. Perhaps Main-Wilson’s got him. Have you ever worked with Bob Hope?
Sid             No, but I’ve worked with his brother.
Ken           I didn’t know he had a brother.
Sid            Yes, No Hope.
Ken          (laugh) Where did you work with him?
Sid            At the Hall.
Ken          Which Hall, the Albert Hall?
Sid            No, bugger ‘all.
Ken          Who writes your material, Aristotle?
Sid           I’ll Aristotle you in a minute.
Ken         Don’t be codd .
Sid          And you can stop that. None of your nancy natter here. You can keep that to yourselves in your cottages or wherever you all live.
Ken          As you like. This omi-palone’s dish down and vada le Script
Sid            I’m warning you. I’ll give you a bunch of fives to your hooter or put my boot up your dish.
Ken          No, don’t be like that. Let’s not get too rough.
Sid sits in a settee and lights a cigar, Ken sits at table, reads script and smokes a cigarette.
Ken           They’ve done it again. My part’s not been given a name. They just refer to me as.... All I crave is a part with a name but what do I get? I’ll tell you what I get. Mistreated, I’m an artiste and all I get referred to in the script is...
Sid             Snide
Ken          Yes, Snide.
Sid            And my character’s called Sid.
Ken           No need to rub it in. Oh, the injustice of life. Some people are habitually fortunate, I’m fortunate the days my haemorrhoids shrink to the size of Hampshire. I’m a martyr to my piles...
Telephone rings
Sid            Saved by the bell.
Ken gets up
Sid            No, don’t answer it.
Ken           (picking up phone) Too late. (Into receiver in pompous voice) Good morning, Kenneth Charles Williams here. Who’s speaking?... (camp voice) Oh hello, how are you? ... Yes, so I believe. ... Oh bona, bona. (Pompous voice) Lieutenant Sidney James, star of nearly 50 films, one time South African and now a bone-fide Londoner, yes he’s here.
Sid is agitated and making signs to Ken indicating he’s to tell the person on the telephone that he’s not in the room.
Ken              Really... No... You don’t say. Goodness me... Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs... Yes I’ll tell him... Good bye and thank you for calling... Do call again. Love to your Mother.
Ken puts down phone, sits down and continues reading the script.
Sid               Well?
Ken              Oh yes, I’m very well thank you.
Sid               No. I mean, WELL?
Ken             Well, what?
Sid              Gordon Bennett, give me strength. I’ll swing for you if you carry on like this. Who was on the blower?
Ken             I’m glad you’ve asked me that. I’ve just had an interesting conversation.
Sid              So make me interested. Tell me...
Ken             It was your friend, ... Dennis Main-Wilson.
Sid breathes a sigh of relief.
Ken             He’s sending Hancock’s understudy down to meet us; should be here in two of shakes of a lamb’s tail.
Sid              Will he? Who is it?
Ken             Harry Secombe.
Sid              Blimey O’Reilly. He’s that short, fat Welshman who had a shaving, sweating and farting act just after the war. Gawd help us.
Ken            I don’t remember that. I know him from the radio; plays Ned Seagoon in the Goon Show.
Sid             Goon Show, don’t think I’ve listened to it.
Ken            You must be one of the very few who haven’t. You’ve probably been too busy with your hectic filming schedule to listen to the radio. ... Or too busy chasing ponies and fillies.
Sid          (Ignoring him) Tell me about our new principal lead.
The telephone rings again. Both characters are startled. Sid reacts quickest and picks up then returns the receiver to the cradle. This stops the bell.
Sid            So tell me about Harry.
Ken          The Goon Show’s mainly written by Spike Milligan and Peter Sellers and they just play most of the junior characters. Story-lines are all centred around Secombe.
Ken realises Sid is giving him his full attention and now begins to act to his new audience.
Ken           (Professorial voice) Neddie is a gullible but honest idiot who would lay down his life for his country. A lot of the humour is surreal and relies upon catch-phrases - (funny voices) “He’s fallen in the water.” “Needle, nardle, noo.” “What, what, what, what, what.”
Sid’s hands go to his head
Sid             Oh my giddy Aunt. What are we in for?
Ken           (snide voice) It gets even better. (funny voices) “I don’t wish to know that.” “Nurse the screens.” “Hello folks.” “We’ll all be murdered in our beds.”
Sid            And these are the lines delivered by contemporary comedians. Gawd help us all.
Ken           It’s only their characters. I’m sure Harry isn’t like that in real life.
Sid             I bloody well hope not. Could you imagine working with a short, fat, sweating, farting Welshman who goes around reciting catch-phrases?
Ken           Frightful thought.
There is a knock at the door
Ken/Sid      Come in.
F/O Loud footsteps another knock on the door.
Ken/Sid        Come in.
Door opens. Slight pause.
Secombe      (F/O) Hello folks. What, what, what, what, what. I didn’t wish to know that. Raspberry.
Telephone rings.

Curtain

Word Count 1992 excluding title and endnotes.

PORTFOLIO

Reflection -

Clephan 3.01, 11:05am Monday - spring term 2011. Smattering of students are seated in auditorium. Lecturer and Gary (mature student wearing jeans and jacket) stand at the lectern.

Lecturer    (Addressing audience) I guess we’ll start. I rather hoped that more of you … Oh well, I’m preaching to… Today I’ve procured guest lecturer Gary, Creative Writing sophomore. He’s going to explain his treatment of last year’s portfolio assignment. I’m sure his experience will help you. So, without further ado, let’s give Gary a DMU welcome.
Only Lecturer claps
Gary         Hi, I don’t know if I’m a sophomore but I’m certainly a second year.
Lecturer laughs
Gary         Portfolio is the final “Exploring” assignment of the year. It accounts for 40% of your marks and gives you the opportunity to demonstrate editing ability, creativity and your development as a writer since you started the course.
Two latecomers enter and stare at the first table. Gary looks at them.
Lecturer    Come in. No handouts, sorry.
They walk in front of the lectern.
Gary         It’s in three parts; a new short item, a drastically edited piece and a reflection. I’ll start by looking at the new piece.
He hits a button and nothing happens.
Gary          (To Lecturer) I thought this was ready.
Lecturer    So did I. (Randomly pushing buttons)
Gary         What about this? (Screen illuminates )
Lecturer    What did you do?
Gary         Pressed the “on” button… This is my first draft and, for me, the most time-consuming part of the process. I had been thinking about Chloe for months, the germ of the plot tumbling in my mind during any spare moment. Chloe was no stranger to me. I’d met her during December’s 200-word short-story assignment. She was responsible for my first rejection slip; “not currently accepting… fraction too short… prefer series”.
        A series with a central character who outsmarts their older sibling might be commercial. After all, Francesca Simon’s “Horrid Henry” books are popular with adults and children. Why not modern Jacobean/Greek revenger’s tales for under fives? I now had a plan and a project; complete “Chloe’s Great Idea” for the portfolio then re-write “Chloe’s Spell” and submit both to a publisher.
        My writing process is simple; I edit ruthlessly as I write. This results in a relatively tight first draft; much tighter than October 2009. You’ll no-doubt recall the advice of Basil Bunting during a free verse poetry lecture, “cut out adjectives, adverbs, abstractions and every word you dare” . This advice also works for prose. Once I believe my piece is of a high enough standard I seek external advice from fellow students ; some I ignore and some I don’t.
New slide
Gary    Sally Jack was both astute and helpful. She suggested changing “pot-holing” to “burying toys” to aid understanding and changing “ruining” to “taking” to benefit from alliteration. Also removing “dirty” when mentioning “jumper” as this adds nothing to the story. Her comments helped maintain interest and pace and improved clarity.
New slide
Having completed the story, I then described the illustrations that would accompany the text. This was transferred onto the final lay-out as many publishers prefer to receive picture book manuscripts in this format. New slide
        Any Questions?
        The second task is the resubmitted and re-worked piece. In my case a rondeau entitled “Pillow Dent”, which sneaked a 2:1 largely due to the reflection. I took the tutor’s comment sheet to DMU hieroglyphic department and, armed with the translation, set about the first draft. This produced a better rondeau but lacked emotion.
        Paying heed to Bunting’s words I pruned, slashed and removed as much as I could. (New slide ) The remaining words had the look of a powerful free verse and by the third draft this is what it had become. In my first term I would have been satisfied; I had changed the form and layout. The beginning, ending and subject had altered but I wanted to go one stage further.
        The focus of my original piece, a hair and pillow, were no longer mentioned. I wanted the reader to have a sense of these and perhaps another format would be appropriate. I considered concrete poetry and was heartened by Emmett Williams’ words; “emphasis on poetry rather than concrete”. (Williams1967:page-v) This gave me license to retain both the words and meaning and put them in a more creative form: in this case a hair printed onto a pillowcase. (New slide )
        Unfortunately, I had no idea how to tackle the task. I wanted the poem to be thin yet legible to those with strong eyesight or a magnifying glass. I visited the computer lab in Clephan and found out I could draw a squiggle with “tools palette” and write on this with “Path” text . A gradient effect recreated a realistic change of colour. The hair was thin enough but not long enough; the solution was to repeat the poem. This was printed onto a new pillowcase and I was left with the task of photographing it. I sought the advice of Dr Perril . He suggested my work was a “sight specific poem.”
A student enters, sits in front row.
Gary         I’m currently considering the potential commercialism of pillow poetry. Any Questions?
Audience 1 What about the reflection?
Gary         What do you normally do?
Audience 1 Leave it to the last minute and write unimaginative rubbish.
Gary          And if I tell you another way?
Audience 1 I’ll still leave it to the last minute and write rubbish.
Gary         In that case, that’s what I recommend you do.
Audience 2 What’s a sophomore?

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Adeney A. (2007) So Scary! London. Franklin Watts.
Ahlberg A. (2001) Chickens in the Snow. Middlesex Puffin Books.
Astley N. (1988) Poetry with an Edge. Newcastle Upon Tyne. Bloodaxe Books.
Cassidy A. (2004) A Bunch of Balloons. London. Franklin Watts.
Cassidy A.(2008)Wizzard Gold. London Wayland.
Doyle M. and Parsons G. (2007) The Football Ghosts. London . Egmont UK Ltd.
Duranta A. and Mason S. (2007) Froggy went a Hopping. London. Evans Brothers Ltd..
French V. (1999) Iggy Pig at the Seaside. London. Hodder Children’s Books.
Gardner C. (2007) Turn off the Telly! London. Evans Brothers Ltd.
Gowar M. (2008) Finn and the Magic Goat. London. Wayland.
Harvey D. (2005) A Band of Dirty Pirates. London. Franklin Watts.
Hunter M. (1976) Talent is not Enough. London. Harper & Row.
Jordan L. (1998) How to write for Children – and get published. Great Britain. Piatkus.
Magee W. and Burnett J. (2007) The Three Billy Goats Gruff. London. Franklin Watts.
Moore M. (2007) The Magic Word. London. Franklin Watts.
Rampersad A. (Editor) (1995) The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes. USA. Vintage Books.
Roberts D. (2003 first published 2002) Dirty Birtie. London Little Tiger Press.
Shepard A. (2000) The Business of Writing for Children. Los Angeles. Shepard Publications.
Strachan L. (2008) Writing for Children. London. A & C Black.
Strand M. and Bolande E. (2001) The Making of a Poem – A Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms. London , Norton and CO.
Wildman E. (Editor) (1969) Anthology of Concretism: USA. Chicago Review.
Williams E (Editor) (1967) Anthology of Concrete Poetry. New York. Something Else Press.

Word count: 994 words excluding title, bibliography and footnotes.

Chloe’s Great Idea

Page   -   Picture: Chloe is standing with her arms folded. In her arms is her favorite toy.

Page   -   Chloe’s brother Paul often takes her toys. Sometimes he hides them.
Picture: Chloe is pulling drawers open and searching for something. Paul is watching her. He has a sinister smile and a toy hidden behind his back.

Page    -   Sometimes he watches them fly as he flings them in the apple tree. Sometimes he watches them swim when he slings them in the pond.
Double page picture: Paul is about to throw a toy. There are toys in the tree and pond.

Page   -   And sometimes he just buries them.
Picture: Paul is burying another toy.

Page   -    Chloe told Mummy but Paul always said it wasn’t him. “I didn’t take her toys. They flew into the trees by themselves.”
Picture: Mummy is talking to Paul. He looks innocent. He has a voice bubble, “They flew into the trees by themselves.”

Page  -   Chloe’s favourite toy was a rag-doll called Vengie. She loved her and looked after her very carefully. Paul thought Vengie might like to go swimming or learn to fly.
Double page picture: Chloe is clutching the rag-doll tightly. Paul is trying to take it from her.

Page   -   “How can I stop Paul taking my toys?” thought Chloe. “Perhaps cover him with bread and tie him to a tree so birds would peck him?” But she didn’t have any bread.
Double page picture: Chloe is thinking. She is holding half a loaf. Inside the thought bubble, Paul is tied to a tree and big birds are pecking at him.

Page   -   “Dunk him in the pond?” But she didn’t have a ducking-stool.
Picture: Chloe is thinking. In the thought bubble Paul is sitting on his bottom in a shallow pond. He is covered in pondweed and a frog is on his head.

Page    -    “Dig a hole and bury him right up to his neck?” But she didn’t have a spade.
Picture: Chloe has her hands folded across her chest. She is thinking. In the thought bubble Pauls head is sticking out of the ground.

Page   -   And then she had an idea. It was one of those special ideas that made the hairs on her arms tickle.
Picture: Chloe looks pleased.

Page   -   Chloe borrowed Daddy’s fishing line and Paul’s school jumper. Chloe wondered how far it was from the middle of Paul’s jumper to the end of his sleeve.
Picture: Chloe is kneeling and measuring a jumper. Beside her is a fishing line.

Page   -   Tying the fishing line around Vengie, she lowered her from an upstairs window until she landed gently beyond the garden gate.
Double page picture: Chloe is lowering her doll from an upstairs window. It is about to land outside the garden gate.

Page   -   Paul spotted Vengie. Now was his chance. He pushed his arm through the bars of the gate. Vengie was nearly within reach.
Double page picture: Paul is looking at the rag-doll through the gate.

Page   -   He stretched his arm, then squeezed his head between the bars until his fingers touched the edge of Vengie’s dress.
Double page picture: Paul’s arm and head is through the gate but not quite touching the toy.

Page   -   Chloe jerked the fishing line and tugged Vengie to safety.
Double page picture: “SNATCH”. Chloe is smiling as she tugs on the fishing line. The rag-doll is rising towards the upstairs window. Paul is shocked.

Page   -   “Help me, I’m stuck,” cried Paul.
Double page picture: Paul is stuck between the bars of the gate.

Page   -   “I’ll get Mummy,” said Chloe.
Double page picture: Chloe has a satisfied grin.

Page   -   “But not straight away”, she added quietly.
Double page picture: The whispered line is in a voice bubble and she’s talking to Vengie.

Word count: 299 words excluding picture descriptions and title.

Friday 23 April 2010

Portrait of my daughter.

        “Do you want to dance?”
        “You’re old enough to be my father.”
        I laughed. “So you don’t want a drink either?” Wedding receptions were invented for the Anglo-Saxon pursuit of inebriation.
        “Yes, please Dad. WKD, the blue one’s non-alcoholic,” she paused before adding, “I think.”
        How I envy the youth their youthfulness, their inbuilt ability to twist the truth and desire to take advantage. Perhaps it is wrong to generalise and it may not relate to every fifteen year old but these are traits that have been polished and honed by my daughter. Or am I being unfair? I remember a time about eight years ago: sweet, head of loose curls and a Daddy’s girl. My wife (and mother of my daughter), her voice raised then sobs of frustration, slammed doors and small stomping feet echoing through the dining-room, lounge, hall and into my study.
        I waited, pretending to write as the sobs lessened until a deep sigh turned them off. I looked up. “Hello, didn’t see you there. What have you been up to?”
        “Not much. What are you doing? Can I help?” Now the offer of assistance is an interesting and relatively new concept. “I can do some colouring for you.” I rejected her offer and waited.
        “Daaaad.” It was impossible not to notice the elongated stress on the vowel. It turned a pronoun into a plea.
        “Yes, darling?”
        “Daaaaaad.” Even longer the second time, the verbal equivalent of a dagger of dread. “Can Amelia sleep over tonight?” So that was the topic for the argument.
        “That’s really up to Mummy. Have you asked her?” Mr Abdication or what?
        “Sort of.” A slight hesitation before she added, “she said no.”
        “If Mummy says no, then I have to say no.”
        “I know.”
        “So why are you asking me?”
        “Because I always get you to change your mind. Everyone says I have you wrapped around my little finger.” There was a pause, “what does that mean?” What it means is today I will buy a bottle of blue WKD in exchange for a terse email or heated telephone call from my now ex-wife. “She’s only fifteen... at your nephew’s wedding... you’re in Scotland for God’s sake... you’re the adult, she’s the child.” Oh, what the heck, I’ll buy two bottles, but no more and we’ll dance until the band stops playing and the DJ goes home.
       My old study witnessed some interesting exchanges over the years. I remember a particular time when she was four and I heard my name being shouted from the kitchen. “I’ll be with you in a few minutes, darling. I’m writing at the moment.” Silence for a while before my name is called from outside the door. “Just a minute, nearly ready.” Another minute of silence and then a click as the door opens. “Two ticks. I’ll soon be with you.” A head appears round the door and seconds later the remainder of the body enters.
        I finished typing. “Hello. What can I do for you?”
        “Daddy, guess what?” An interesting opening gambit that could lead anywhere.
        “I can’t guess. You tell me.”
        “Did you know I can get four Rice Krispies up my nose?” Now I didn’t expect that.
        So, yesterday we’d driven twelve hours from Brighton to Loch Lomond for my nephew’s wedding; a shared journey, shared memory. A marriage that, as most of the family agreed, would not last too long due in no small part to the bride’s temper.
        “There’s the church,” said my daughter. “We’re an hour early.” Better an hour early than five minutes late; especially at a wedding, and that is a philosophy born from experience: the frustration of trying to overtake my cousin’s bridal car along the country lanes of Hampshire (not quite as bad as trying to overtake the hearse on the way to my grand-father’s funeral). “There’s Nanny, Grandad, Jill, Dave, Lewis, Helen...” she trailed off mid-sentence. “How loud is your CD player?”
        “Pretty loud. Why?”
         My daughter rummaged in the glove box. “You’ll see. Open the windows.” Windows opened, CD player volume on 60 and ‘I Don’t Want To Marry’ by the Gothic Death slaughtering the Scottish tranquillity as we drove past all my family, our laughter lost between the angry lyrics and chugging guitars.
         “You realise this is a no-through road. We’ll have to drive back this way.”
         “Good, I’ve just the thing for the return.” She looked in the glove-box. “Punk Divorce by Sea of Puke. Nan will enjoy that.”
         Sweet sixteen, I can’t wait, it might become a quieter time although somehow I doubt it. Rebellious fifteen demonstrates much more promising characteristics. Who wants sweetness in anyone over the age of nine? Sweetness at six is far more acceptable. “Dad, there’s something awesomely important I must tell you.”
        “What is it my little precocious darling?” Is awesomely an adverb? It is when you are six.
        “Annalisa and me dropped your tooth-brush in the toilet. It’s alright though, we managed to get it out again.”
        “Thank you for fishing it out, and for telling me.”
        “That’s OK,” and out she skipped. Something wasn’t right.
        “Darling, come back here for a second.” A mass of curls reappeared. “I didn’t know Annalisa came to play today?”
        “She didn’t. She played yesterday.” What else is there to say?
        It is very easy to embarrass a fifteen year old. I find waving at their friends whilst driving is one way.
        “But I hate her. She’s so up herself.”
        “But that’s Jessica. She’s your best friend.”
       “Not anymore. You should’ve heard what she said about Ryan.” It is so difficult to keep up with who are friends and who are sworn enemies. Transfer between extremes can occur at the drop of a comment. Then again, it has always been like that. My ‘very bestest friend in the whole wide world’ could be person non-gratis by lunch only to regain the best-friend mantle during the walk home from school.
        I remember the day we woke to find her hamster dead; stiff, round and very dead. “I’m sorry darling. What do you think we should do?” The dustbin or the compost heap headed my list, only fair to seek the opinion of the seven year old owner.
        “We should have a funeral. I’ll invite Louisa, Annalisa, George and we can sing a song and bury Chip in the garden. But I’m not telling Amelia. She’s not my friend,” and with that she left for school leaving me to make the arrangements: cardboard shoebox lined with cotton wool made an acceptable coffin, the body carefully inserted with the aid of cooking tongs, lid stuck down with gaffer-tape, kitchen cupboard raided for crisps and cola for the wake. All set to give Chip a wonderful send off.
         I had the spade ready before the children returned from school. I thought about digging the grave but knew it would be in the wrong place, safer to wait until the chief-mourner arrives. I could hear young voices before they came into the back garden. “We’re going to have a funeral, a funeral, a funeral,” they sang in their grief, “We’re here to bury Chip, here to bury Chip, here to bury Chip. Hurrah.”
        “Amelia is going to carry the coffin around the village before we bury it.”
        “I thought you said Amelia wasn’t invited.”
        “She’s my bestest friend. Of course she’s coming.” That told me. How can I differentiate friend from foe when they wear the same clothes?
        The cortège filed around the garden, through the orchard and out into the village. Amelia at its head, shoe-box held high. My daughter and eleven school friends following with heads solemnly bowed and the occasional giggle breaking the silence. “Shsssh. No crisps for anyone who laughs. We’re here to bury not just a hamster but a friend to us all.” What pretentious twaddle from one so young. “Let’s sing a hymn.” Throughout the remainder of the summer, the talk of the village was of the dozen children reverently following a Clarks shoe-box while singing “Hark the Herald Angels”.
        I had dug the grave by the time they returned to the newly appointed cemetery. One spit deep and a little larger than the coffin. I was pleased to have removed the earth in one giant clod, much easier than shovelling loose soil into the hole. “Now guys,” my usual collective noun for the little darlings, “one quick prayer and then you go and have something to eat. It’s starting to rain.”
        “Our Father who farts in heaven.” Eleven giggles.
        “It’s ‘Art in heaven’, darling."
        “I know that Dad. I thought God might like a laugh. Our Father who Art in heaven please look after Chip. He was a very friendly hamster so I’m sure he won’t bite you, Jesus or the man who sits on your right hand. Amen.”
        “Amen.”.
        “Oh, one other thing God. Could I have a new bike for my birthday? Please. Amen.”
        “ Amen,” eleven voices agreed.
        The rain came and the congregation ran into the house leaving me to inter the coffin. Shoe-box in its final resting place I took the sod and placed it on top. It rose above the ground by the height of the box. “Bugger.”
        Rain soaked through my shirt as I pondered the problem. I could leave it as it was or remove it, shave a lump off and replace the turf. This would look acceptable in the short-term but eventually leave a hollow. I took the logical alternative and stamped on it. It moved an encouraging fraction of an inch. I jumped up and down, both feet stamping with all my weight. Slowly I forced the earth back into the ground, squashing both box and cadaver.
        Flushed with exertion and success I looked towards the house. At the conservatory window children’s faces were contorted in horror, surprise, grief and confusion. My daughter stood to one side and gently shook her head, a mixture of mild rebuke and weary tolerance.
        “Here’s your WKD. “
        “Thanks Dad. I don’t need a glass.”
         “You can’t drink from the bottle. You’ll get Vials Disease.”
        “I’ll take the risk. It’s less dangerous than dancing with you. Come on.” She took a long sip from the bottle, grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the dance-floor. “These are the rules: No Dads’ dancing, no trying to chat up women. And definitely not your Saturday Night Fever dance. Don’t embarrass me. Oh and don’t tell my friends I danced with you.”
        The second we started moving to the music our father/daughter dancing relationship entered its fifth stage. First stage was when I held my baby daughter in my arms and carefully swayed from one foot to the other. Second stage was the toddler clutched to my hip and being spun ‘gigglingly’ fast. Third stage was the infant standing on my feet as I shuffled from foot to foot. Fourth my daughter holding my hands while bouncing out-of-time to the music. Today we were entering the most important and potentially embarrassing stage; stage five: full-on, let’s rip-up the dance floor and show these no-hopers what fantastic dancers we are. And that’s what we did. We danced to every record, some old, some new. Hip-hop, pop, rock, R and B, we respected every genre. I followed my daughter’s lead with the newer numbers; she followed me with the older records. Together we danced, outlasting nieces, nephews, cousins and friends of the couple. We danced to a succession of records while the band packed up their instruments. Eventually the DJ sidled up to us, “I’ve got to go home, it’s nearly three. One last record, any requests?”
        My daughter looked at me, smiled and turned to the DJ. “How loud are your speakers? Crank them up to maximum for Punk Divorce by Sea of Puke.”

Word count 1983



Reflection - Portrait of my daughter. - Gary Phillpott - P0925593X

Portrait of my daughter evolved from a seed that was expected to grow into a memoire of my father. The initial intention was to demonstrate identity by comparing my seventy-nine year old father and his nineteen year old self. This changed before first draft and the subject became my daughter. I recognise the boundaries between genres are blurred and it could be argued I have also produced a memoire. However, Blake Morrison, in the afterword to his widely acclaimed memoire, confirms he cannot classify his own work; “not autobiography...not memoire (traditionally written by someone grand and old)” (Morrison 2006:229). If Morrison is unable to pigeon-hole his own work then I suggest that the genres merge and memoire may sometimes be a portrait and vice versa.

My aim was to write a piece that moved in time but wasn’t linear. I wanted my daughter’s identity, and also an indication of mine, to manifest itself at each age and stage of her development thereby exploring whether identity is inherited or, if not, where it’s obtained. The catalyst being Wordsworth’s statement; “child’s the father of the man” or in my daughter’s case “the child’s the mother of the teenager”.

I wanted to anchor my writing around a wedding attended in December 2009 and jump between my memories of my daughter as a young child; my recollections prompted by a photograph and workshop session . I wanted readers to think about and workout the time-shifts although I did include some helpful clues, most obviously the reference to the WDK drink for her teenage period. My hardest task was to explore the notion of identity and I proposed to do this not by giving readers my daughter’s name or describing her physical appearance but allowing characteristics, action and speech reveal her identity. (The only physical descriptions in the portrait are; “mass of curls” (Final Version:4) and “head of lose curls”(1), both descriptions were prompted by the photograph). I decided to include humour as a way of keeping readers engaged and this occurs with my daughter’s use of loud music(3+7), hiding Rice Krispies(2) and dropping a tooth-brush in the toilet(4).

The creating process was simple, I started with a “spot of time” very much in the same way that Wordsworth searched for lost time and in my case this spot was a family wedding in December 2009. A photograph of my daughter aged about four became the trigger for my memories and recollections. Through these memories I would demonstrate my daughter’s identity. At this time I recalled a line of Veronica Forrest-Thomson’s poem “Identi-kit” ; “likeness is not important provided the traits cohere”. I took this to mean that identity is character and not appearance. Proust implored precision in “A remembrance of things past” and I have been precise with word selection and the way I have told the story. An example of this is the repetition of “Dad” with elongated vowels (Final Version:1-2) and the pauses before “What does that mean?”(2) and “I think”(1) all giving greater texture to her identity.

One skill that De Montfort University first year creative writing students have is that of drafting and re-drafting. My skills in this area have developed and improved with each workshop and this can be demonstrated in the way I edited this assignment. My first big decision was changing the main character from my father to my daughter. The first draft was terminated at 900 words and included reference to the wedding, dancing and Rice Krispies. Although happy with the storyline topics I was less happy with treatment and remembered a recent lecture; “characters make stories and stories make characters” and “plot arises from character” I toyed with the idea of starting again and selecting another subject before deciding to drastically redraft the piece. I changed the sequence of the events and removed all reference to my daughter’s appearance; “4 inch heels...beautiful woman...bemused child” (First Draft) but gave indications of her identity through her speech; “’the blue one’s non-alcoholic’, she paused before adding, ‘I think.’”(Final Version:1) This example demonstrates her immaturity and belief she is able to trick me.

After completing six-hundred words I edited my work down to three-hundred. This was repeated after completing about 1200 words with yet another fierce edit, reducing the word count by a further 25%. This was the first time I’d hard edited as I went along and I found the end result produced a much tighter second draft.

At this point I asked fellow writers Sally Jack, Laura Jones and Kimberley Lieser to look at and edit my work. Of the three, Sally was the most helpful and suggested a few changes. These included removing or altering; “take advantage of me” (Second Draft:1) as she said the line made my daughter appear manipulative. She also suggested I might like to consider changing the line; “I removed the earth as a complete sod” (5). She was kind enough to suggest I may not be a complete one!

In last term’s “reading as a writer” I looked at work by Alan Bennett and his characters’ identities are portrayed mainly through action, dialogue and thought. Bennett relies upon “succinct, precise, sharp and snappy speech” and I have kept the dialogue precise and succinct. Bennett is adamant that writing; “must not be boring... Must be grammatical, succinct, elegant... and humorous.” Recommendations I have adhered to in writing my piece.

I believe my portrait meets and exceeds all my initial objectives in that readers learn about my daughter’s identity from her actions and words in a non-linear and amusing piece. I received the highest accolade a writer could hope for when I read this to my daughter. “Can I have a copy? I’d like to put it in my keepsake drawer.”


Bibiography

King, Graham; (2001) Collins Complete Writing Guide; London, Harper Collins.

McCourt, Frank; (2005) Angela’s Ashes: London, Harper Perennial.

Morrison, Blake; (2006) And when did you last see your father? London, Granta Publications.



Word Count: 1000 words – excluding title and bibliography.

Sunday 21 March 2010

Holiday Guests

Gary opened his bruised and swollen eyelids as far as possible and peered through the yellow flickering light from the tired Tilley-lamp. He’d been mistaken for many people before, faithful husband, dedicated son, conscientious employee, hard working schoolboy but this was the first time he’d been mistaken for... He paused, mistaken for what, a terrorist, spy, influential Westerner? Now, nine years later, Gary continues to divorce himself from history and recalls events in the third person.

A hand grabbed Gary’s hair and pulled, yanked and tugged as a mouth, half-full of yellowing teeth, spat words formed of putrefied breath into his face. “Her Britannic Majesty’s Secretary of State,” he replied, “requests and requires in the name of Her Majesty all those whom it may concern to allow to pass freely without let or hindrance...” A calm, dominant yet menacing voice, the accent bastardised Afghan-American, interrupts from the dark recesses of the cave. “Recite that one more time my friend and, by the will of Allah, I’ll let Tamil cut your tongue out,” he paused, “and we’ll all watch while you eat it.”

Silence. Gary believed he would die and in that moment knew, in death, he’d not be mistaken for a coward. He looked towards his friend Saied, slumped and tied to the chair not two feet from him. How could two Building Society employees from the South of England make such a mistake and end up in an Afghanistan cave, guests of the Taliban? Saied had been born in Pakistan and loved cricket. Wouldn’t it be fun to watch a test-match in the sub-continent? Perhaps a little exploring? Is it safe in the mountains at the moment?

Gary knew the answer to that. He’d never mistake “relatively safe” for “absolutely safe” again. If only he could have the opportunity to make another error of judgement...

“Mr Phillpott, it has been decided that you will serve Allah by telling your government how great we are. You will be released at noon.” Gary heard every word and slowly the meaning seeped into him. “Thank you”, he eventually said, “and my friend?”

“Your friend will serve Allah in a different way. He’s been chosen to demonstrate that true Muslims should not follow Western decadent ways.”

BANG! Blood, skull, brain and hair splattered onto Gary’s swollen face. Never again would Saied be mistaken for a living person.

Sunday 21 February 2010

COUSIN ANDREW

It’s difficult to say goodbye to a cousin, after all we’d grown up together. Andy was the eldest of us, and the alpha male. Two years my elder and a maverick: a role model at ten; someone to avoid at thirteen; a good bloke from the age of twenty-one. Today was the ultimate goodbye.

“He’s not heavy, he’s my brother” drifted from the speakers. Tremolos? Dave, Dee, Dozy Beaky, Mitch and Titch? I’ll check it later but that’s now a song I won’t be able to hear on the radio without switching off. Some of the congregation tapped along as the coffin was carried into the crematoria by six of Andy’s drinking pals. I held my daughter’s hand; my tears mirrored in her eyes.

Andy was the first of my generation to die. Married at nineteen, father of two by twenty-three, divorced at thirty, dead by thirty-nine; a short, fast life. He was bright, good fun and great conservationist. He was also a big drinker until... until his liver packed up and he required a transplant. A transplant that gave him an extra seven years of life; time he spent well.

I remember now, it’s the Hollies. “He’s not heavy he’s my brother” is by the Hollies; no need to confirm the point. It is definitely the Hollies.

The crematoria was packed with friends, family, drinking pals; a plethora of life’s characters. Many I’ll speak with, one or two to politely ignore and quite a few I don’t know. Strangers and friends united in grief, joined by one person’s departure; Cousin Andrew.

“Why are people so happy?” asked my daughter as a late comer slapped an old acquaintance on the back. I tried to tell her but my voice was too croaky. I wish I’d been able to tell her how fond Andy’s friends were of him. He was a friend to everyone.

The controller of the service helped with his accurate eulogy. It’s difficult to know his title. He’s definitely not a Rabbi, Priest, Vicar nor Mullah. Andrew was non-religious in life and death wasn’t going to compromise his principals. After all he’d died before reaching an age when people start gardening and discovering God. Married at nineteen, father of two by twenty-three, divorced at thirty, dead by thirty-nine; not much of a tribute for an eight year old’s role model.

Friday 5 February 2010

Second Lieutenant Joseph Emmerson.

Freda Emmerson, widow and mother, entered her parlour and pulled back the aging velvet curtains. Dust particles danced in the insipid October sunlight as she walked toward the unlit fireplace.

Glancing in the small oval mirror hanging against the chimney breast, her eyes stared tiredly back; her mouth set firm and proud. She patted a loose hair she teased it into place and stared, hardly recognising herself.

Her hand reached towards the mantle-shelf and touched the small brown envelope propped against a copper candlestick. She removed the small beige letter she read it without reading; knowing the words by heart. Letters from the front were pre-prepared and told mothers little. This one told Freda much. The options her son had taken with his crossing out simply confirmed he was well. His signature revealed more. It was signed “Second Lieutenant Joseph Emmerson”.

Joe and his brother Percy had always made her proud. She was proud when Joe qualified as a surveyor; proud when they’d both signed up to fight the Hun. Now she was proud that Joe had been promoted to officer in less than one year. He’d be able to look after Percy, make his life a little easier in the trenches.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a rap on the front door. She replaced the letter in the envelope and placed it against the candlestick.

She opened the door and her life stopped. A uniformed youth was holding two telegrams.

(Joseph Emmerson was born into a mining family in 1890 in the town of Bagsworth. He qualified as a surveyor before enlisting in the Great War as private with his brother in 1914. Awarded the Military Medal and promoted to officer on 8th Oct 1915. Both brothers were killed in battle five days later.)

Thursday 4 February 2010

HELP ME                                                             my quiet voice cries

              W
            H
            Y
            ?

                                                                                                                                                                                  I AM    WHO  AM I?

Monday 25 January 2010

Father of the Bride.

Keith mopped his balding head with a large, red, silk handkerchief and looked around the applauding audience. It occurred to him that he was probably wearing the only morning suit that wasn’t hired. He was pretty sure that his father, two brothers and son didn’t own theirs; why should they? He knew absolutely that his daughter’s father-in-law, husband and best-man were in hired clothes; after much filial pleading and tears he’d reluctantly paid for them.


His gaze lingered on the family and friends of the groom; not a suit, jacket or tie among them. The enthusiastic men and tartily-dressed women, cheered his speech in contrast to his family who were all applauding with a reserved politeness (mind you they’d all heard his speech many times before). He’d used it not just at his other daughter’s weddings but with a slight change and addition or subtraction of a joke or two it was recited at birthdays, anniversaries and even a couple of funerals.

The cheering continued and Keith decided to sit down. He reached for his order of service for no other reason than he felt he should try to look nonplussed; try to look as if he received this reaction whenever he opened his mouth. He was surprised to find he’d picked up a pen and had drawn, no doodled, a rocket; a child-like rocket with flames shooting from the bottom. He wondered why he’d selected to draw a rocket. Perhaps he’d taken his audience into orbit with his oration – but he knew he only ever doodled one of two things, and one was a rocket.

Keith was relieved to hear a distinct reduction in the applause. He took a gulp from his wine glass and was astonished how dry his mouth had become. At least he was not required to do anything else and could relax and try to enjoy the rest of the day.

His daughter’s husband was about to say something; the bridegroom’s speech. He didn’t think of him as his son-in-law, but it was early days and Keith had always prided himself on his tolerance.

The pen drew a large black telescope on the order of service; a large black telescope on a tripod. The groom started speaking. Keith wrote below the telescope; “I spy a chav.”

Thursday 14 January 2010

Reading as a Writer

The following assignment looks at two short pieces.

Alan Bennet. Nights in the garden of Spain.

A plain suburbian drawing room wall. Rosemary is a middle-aged, middle-class woman, sitting on a chair.

 Nobody normally gets killed around here; they're mostly detached houses and you never even hear shouting. So it took me a minute to tipple to what she was saying.
         I said, "Dead? Is it a heart attack?" She said, Oh no. Nothing like that. Just look at me, I'm in my bare feet."
         I really only know her to nod to but they have a lovely Magnolia so once when she was in the garden I called out, "You've had more luck with your agnolia grandiflora than I have." But she's just smiled and said,"Yes." And since I didn't have another remark up my sleeve ready, that was the end of that. I do that all the time, start a conversation but can't keep it going.
         Blondish woman, a bit washed out looking. Nice, tired sort of face. Anyway she comes out into the road and waits for me to get to their gate and says, "I know I don't really know you, only there's something wrong with Mr McCorkindale."
         I was actually rushing because I'd planned on getting the five to nine and going into Sainsbury's but anyway I went in. I said, "Has he been poorly?" She said, "No. I have a feeling he's dead. Come through ... only Mrs Horrocks ... he doesn't have any trousers on." I said, "Well, I do a stint at the hospice twice a week, that's not a problem." Only to be fair I just take the trolley round I've never actually been there when anybody's been going and they think I'm not really ready to administer the consolation yet.
        She had a nice linen dress on, very simple. I think she might have been drinking.
        He was lying on his back on the rug, one of those fleecy hairy things with blood and whatnot coming from somewhere behind his head. And it's awful because the first thing I thought was, well, she's never get that out.
        He had on these green y-fronty things which I'd have thought were a bit young for someone who's retired, but Henry is the same, suddenly taking it into his head to go in for something he thinks is a bit more dashing. Little Teryllene socks. I said, "Should I touch him?" She said, "Well, if you can if you want but he's dead. I've been sitting here looking at him for an hour." I said, "His pants are on back to front". She said, "Oh that's me. I thought I'd better put them on before I fetch somebody in."
        He had a little tattoo not far from his belly button and I remember when they moved in Henry said he thought he had something to do with vending machines.
        I said, "Did he bang his head, do you think?" She said, "Oh no. I shot him. I've put the gun away." And she opens the sideboard drawer and there it is with the tablemats and playing cards. He had a gun because he'd been inMalaya apparently.
        My first thought was to ring Henry and ask what to do but I couldn't face the fuss. I was a bit I was still a bit nervous of calling 999 because I'm never sure what constitutes an emergency. Anyway I thought if she'd waited an hour already I might as well get her a cup of tea first, and as I was running the tab I called out, "The police haven't already being, have they?" She said, "No. Why?" I said, "Nothing."
         Only there was a pair of handcuffs on the draining board.
        The policeman had some difficulty writing. A big boy, nice is, spelling all over the place.
        When I asked what he thought had happened he said, "Well, it's marriage isn't it, the stresses and strains of. Though we don't normally expect it with oldish people, they've generally got it out of their system by then. And it's a bit early in the day. People seem to like to get breakfast out of the way before the shooting starts."
         I'm just signing my statement when Henry arrives back and of course prolongs the process. "I don't know that Mrs Horrocks quite means this, officer. What you said to me on the phone, young lady was ... " I said, "Henry. You weren't there." The policeman winks and says, "Now then, we don't want another shooting match do we?"
        I mean at first Henry didn't even know who they were. He said, "Not the chow?" I said no That's the Broadbent's" Anyway he sits around a bit, whistling and under his breath, and goes upstairs and attacks his computer.
         After the policeman had gone I went up and apologisea and ask Henry whether he thought anything had been going on. He said, "Why." I said, "well she didn't have anything on under that linen dress." Of course any suggestion of that embarrasses Henry, he's such an innocent. He said, " Rosemary, I did don't know what sort of world you think you're living in but there's probably some perfectly reasonable explanation. In the meantime let's just remember that somebody has died. I'm only sorry that you had to be the one who was passing, because I preferred you not have been involved."
        I went out later to get some milk at the garage and there were still one or two reporters outside number 17, a whole branch of the magnolia broken off. One of them said, "Are you a neighbour? Did you know the McCorkindale's?" I shook my head and didn't anything so one of them shouts after me, "You owe it to the community." So I turned round and said, "Yes, and you owe it to the community not to break branches of people's magnolia trees." And of course that's just the point where the photographer takes a picture and it's in the paper this morning with me looking like a mad woman and the caption "The face of suburbia." Whereas the face of suburbia was Henry when he saw it.
         I woke up in the night and I could hear him whistling under his breath. I said, "Are you thinking about Mrs McCorkindale?" He said, No, I was thinking about house prices. Prices are down as it is and something like this isn't going to help matters." He reached over from his bed and took my hand. "You must try not be upset, but if we don't get a 175 we shall have to kiss goodbye to Marbella."
        I keep wondering if I ought to have told somebody about the handcuffs.




Sonnet on your Birth

When I sing my overture to you
Should I expect you'd ever really find
That when the cord was cut you'd journey to
The true, unending nature of your mind
When I watch you careless in your dreams
Should I prepare you for life's transient dance
Where ego and the dollar rule supreme
And myopic view is that of chance
When I see the devil first attack
Should I expect your innocence to wane
Whilst all around the light is turning black
And men in all their wickedness remain
If I am there to catch you when you fall
Should I expect your gratitude at all?
 Jacqueline Dewey
 
 
Reading as a Writer

As a reader I have studied two short pieces from different genres; a modern sonnet from a little-known poet and a dramatic monologue by a leading writer, dramatist and diarist.

I would argue that Jacqueline Dewey‘s poem “Sonnet on your Birth” (HEAD 1996:60) is a first person traditional English sonnet written in rising iambic pentameter. The theme concerns unconditional love a parent feels towards their new-born child, the desire to help them reach their potential and the realisation that this involvement may not always be welcomed. This gives an insight into the poet’s identity as a caring, proud yet apprehensive new parent. The poem comprises three quatrains and a final couplet as the denouement and therefore has the requisite number of lines for the sonnet form.

The poem is written in abab, cdcd, efef, gg rhyming pattern and exact masculine rhymes, with the exception of ‘Dreams’ and ‘Supreme’ (lines 5 and 7); is this deliberate or accidental? The first line of each quatrain has nine syllables and comprises three iambic feet and anapest foot: deliberate or accidental? As the anapest is in different positions (‘my overture’ - line 1, ‘in your dreams’ – line 5, ‘devil first’ – line 9) I would suggest this is an error and not a literary decision. When compared to the sonnets of Shakespeare, and I use his examples as a benchmark, the Bard writes in strict iambic pentameter, while Dewey does not. However, I am certain she has based her poem on two of Shakespeare’s sonnets; sonnet fifteen and thirty-seven. This conclusion is based upon two assumptions; subject choice and anaphora starting each quatrain. While the subject matter may be coincidental the repetition of ‘When I’ is copied from Shakespeare’s sonnet fifteen (KERRIGAN 1995:84).

Although there is much to criticise in “Sonnet of your birth” there is also a little that is interesting. I particularly like the assonance “o” vowel in the third line “cord and journey” and “to, you, you and gratitude” in lines 13-14. I also like consonance of the “d” sound in “should, find and cord” (lines 2- 3). If the plagiarism of Shakespeare’s ‘when I’ is accepted as pastiche, we can applaud the anaphoric use of ‘should I” in lines 2, 6 10 and 14 as a clever device for retaining interest. Dewey tries to keep the piece interesting with implied metaphors, the first in the ninth line where she uses “devil first attack” for evil and the second two lines later when she says “light is turning black” instead of night; neither of which I find attractive. Much better is her use of metonymy in lines 3 and 5 where she implies birth by saying “the cord was cut” and a peaceful sleep with “careless in your dreams”. I find “where ego and the dollar rule supreme” a grating and ambiguous metaphor. “Dollar” could mean money, America or the Western World and each interpretation gives a different meaning to the work.

Although the sonnet is mainly written in general English without resorting to colloquialisms, Dewey uses three words, “overture, transient and myopic”, either in an attempt to demonstrate high English or her belief that they are an acceptable form of poetic diction. Whatever her reason, denotation and her understanding of these words differ. In the first line of the sonnet Dewey uses the phrase “sings my overture”, yet an overture is ‘a single orchestral movement’ (CONCISE OXFORD ENGLISH DICTIONARY 1999) and therefore not sung or maybe she means ‘an approach made with the aim of entering into a relationship’ (CONCISE OXFORD ENGLISH DICTIONARY 1999). If her intention is the latter, then her following lines make little sense. Likewise “our myopic view is of chance” implies her and her newborn can see no other way than leaving everything to luck. This is far from good parenting and contradicts the poem’s theme. More concerning is “life’s transient dance”. Does this mean the child only has a short-while to live? Furthermore, ‘to wane’ in line 10 and ‘wickedness remain’ in line 12 are both archaisms and add very little to the piece. I feel her vocabulary selection detracts from the theme and is neither convincing nor realistic and I consider it amateurish.

I reserve my biggest criticism for Dewey’s failed attempt at punctuation. The sonnet is unpunctuated and a ramble of merging ideas. The poet dispenses with comma and full-stop for end stop-lines. It is almost as if she’s never heard of the possibility of enjambment. For this reason above all others I, as a reading writer, find this poem very disappointing and demonstrating a lack of “writerly” decisions.

Alan Bennett’s ‘Nights in the Garden of Spain’ (BENNETT 1998:72 -p74) is a continuous monologue by Rosemary. She is the central intelligence whose perceptions shape the plot and determine the atmosphere. She is a reliable first person, participating yet innocent, narrator. She is often detached but never impartial or unemotional. She is very close to events yet able to provide an external perspective. The monologue has an element of dramatic irony and the reader often understand the situation before Rosemary does. She is naive and sometimes unaware of the full import of her words. The first example of innocence is where y-fronts are mentioned; ‘Henry’s the same, suddenly taken it into his head to go in for something a bit more dashing‘ (p72).

Bennett creates four rounded, dynamic characters who develop as the narrative progresses; Rosemary, Henry her husband, Mrs McCorquodale and, surprisingly, Mrs McCorquodale’s dead husband. All characterisations are made through Rosemary’s observation and perceptions. Examples include the small tattoo on the deceased stomach and the revelation that he obtained a gun in Malaysia. Henry’s character is that of a domineering and self centred husband; ‘I’d...ring Henry, but I couldn’t face the fuss’ and Henry’s statement to the police, ‘I don’t know that Mrs Horrocks means this, officer,” (page 73) finally his comment that the murder will negatively impact his house price (p74).

Bennett regularly releases snippets of Mrs McCorquodale’s character. When asked if her husband died of a heart attack she says ‘no, nothing like that. Just look at me. I’m in my bare feet’ (p72). The sudden, and matter of fact change of subject could either signify she’s suffering from shock or considers the death an inevitability. When asked if he’d hit his head the reply of ‘Oh no. I shot him’ leads me to believe the latter and thereby revealing a great deal more about both her and her husband’s character. As do the handcuffs on the draining board.

Rosemary’s identity is the most defined. Her use of juxtapositions, her chatty dialogue, her caring actions show her as a kindly, interesting, yet naive person. From the first exchange about the magnolia and her inability to continue the conversation we learn a great deal; she is shy, lonely and neither very clever nor worldly wise. Her choice to talk about magnolias (using the Latin name) and gardens shows the reader she is middle-aged and lives in suburbia (thereby confirming the initial stage directions). Bennett reveals her character through choice of language and revelation of her thoughts. She is caring and this is repeated throughout the text; interrupting her day when Mrs McCorquodale asks for assistance, helping out at the hospice and being angry when the journalist breaks the tree’s branch. She also has the ability to take everything in her stride without being judgemental: examples being; seeing the dead body, the widow having had a drink and not wearing underclothes, the handcuffs and her dealings with the police.

Bennett writes in a distinctive, humorous, matter-of-fact style. The diction, syntax, grammar, figurative speech and punctuation are ‘Bennettesqe”. Almost any sentence could be quoted as all are crafted with Bennett’s wit; ‘blondish woman, bit washed-out looking. Nice, tired sort of face’ (p72). It’s all written to be delivered like knocking on a kitchen door. Bennett’s sentences are all finely crafted without a wasted word. They are funny and often have an absurd juxtaposition of thought; Rosemary’s first sight of the dead body and her immediate concern was how to clean the rug. Or her first meeting with the policeman; ‘Big boy, nice ears, spelling all over the place’. The scene concludes with a climax. It is impossible to read the final paragraph and not want to continue; ‘Only there was a pair of handcuffs on the draining board.”

Having suggested that Dewey’s poem is very disappointing I have the opposite opinion of Bennett’s beautifully crafted and witty monologue. By reading these two pieces as a writer I have learnt to consider assonance, consonance, anaphora, metaphor, metonymy and the importance of correct meter and punctuation. Bennett’s monologue gives a master-class in the use of diction, syntax, grammar, figurative speech and dramatic irony. Most importantly, Bennett writes in Bennett’s voice and we should all applaud him for doing so. Every writer should use this example as a catalyst for finding their own distinctive voice.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

BENNETT A. (1998) Talking Heads 2. LONDON. BBC Publishing.
KERRIGAN J. Editor (1995 first published 1986)William Shakespeare - The sonnets and lover’s complaint. .LONDON. PENGUIN.
KENNEDY X.J. GIOIA D. BAUERLEIN M - Editors (2009). Handbook of Literary Terms. NEW YORK, PEARSON EDUCATION INC.
HEAD A. (1996) Growing up. PETERBOROUGH, POETRY NOW.
CONCISE OXFORD ENGLISH DICTIONARY (1999), OXFORD. OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS.

Word count: 1487 excluding title and bibliography.

Wednesday 13 January 2010

All my Sons – Historical and Cultural Context.

Communism, Consumerism, Capitalism.

I have studied Arthur Miller’s All my Sons in relation to the impact communism, consumerism and capitalism had on both the playwright and the American populous and how this is evidenced in the play.

All my Sons was completed and first performed in 1947, the year the House Un-American Activities Committee began investigating communist infiltration of Hollywood. This period of history coincided with the idea of the “American Dream” where money was important and everyone could be successful. Eighteen years earlier the Wall Street Crash heralded ten years of depression. Miller’s father, like millions of Americans, lost his business during this period and the failure of capitalism is a recurring theme in this and other plays written by Miller. Welland says, ‘Miller was growing up during the depression and no other single factor is more important than this in determining his work’ (WELLAND 1961:6). During 1932 -1938 unemployment in America averaged 20.3% (www.infoplease) and it could be argued that his father’s business failure sparked Miller’s communist sympathies and “All My Son’s” is an attack on both the capitalistic culture and an attack on the House Committee’s Un-American Activities’ Special Investigation Committee. Others, including Welland, suggests the opposite view, namely; ‘not an attack on capitalist business ethic but as a study of the bewildered common man’ (WELLAND 1979 A Study of Miller’s Plays:29). Miller explained his beliefs in 1958 when he addressed the Congressional Investigation Committee; ‘although never under communist discipline’ he had ‘explored – and rejected – the party’s doctrine although he attended communist sponsored meetings’ (WELLAND 1961: 10). However, counter-rumours continue to circulate to the effect that he had been an active member of a writer’s unit of the communist party, under the pseudonym of Matt Wayne, during the time he was writing All My Son’s.

The depression in America ended with the advent of the Second World War. Increase in manufacturing of armaments and war goods allowed America to break out of this circle of deprivation and become the wealthiest nation in the world. Keller’s business was no different and was working to full capacity as demonstrated in his outburst; ‘you gotta appreciate what was doing in that shop in the war...It was a madhouse. Every half an hour the Major callin’ for cylinder heads. (p118)’

America’s new found wealth allowed consumerism and suburbia living to flourish. Keller and his neighbours are part of this. Indeed, although the Lubey’s and Keller’s have lived in their houses for some-time, the Bayliss’ moved into theirs at the end of the war. Miller is very specific with the initial stage directions to ensure that the setting of the house and yard is stereotypical of North American affluent suburbia; ‘outskirts of American town...hedged and planted poplars...two storey house...driveway...cost perhaps $15,000’ (p89).

Joe Keller was forty years of age when the Wall Street Crash affected the nation and nearly fifty when America started providing war machinery to the Allies. Joe experienced poverty during this dark decade and again when he lost his machine shop manufacturing business while incarcerated. During these times he dreamt the “American Dream” of having money and success; ‘once upon a time I used to think that when I got money I would have a maid’ (p103). Miller shows America as a land of opportunities by the way Keller once again became a successful businessman after re-building his business in fourteen months by making consumables; ‘Pressure cookers and assembly for washing-machines’ (p150).

Issel suggests that post war America was a two class society, those with money and those without and ‘the coexistence of wealth and poverty after 1945 bought a central theme of American history into the post-war period’ (ISSEL-1985:135). Lee goes further ‘The new affluent society increased emphasis on materialism. Household equipment would no longer be basic...’ (LEE-1993:126). Keller the capitalist has liberal, if not communistic leanings. He is aware that, but for luck, he could be poor or out of work. Even for those employed, post war pay rates in America were pitifully low and work menial; “I got so many lieutenants, majors and colonels that I’m ashamed to ask somebody to sweep the floor...you stand on a street today and spit, you’re gonna hit a college man’ (p134).

Money became a motivator to majority of Americans and was a commodity to be spent on consumer items and houses in the suburbs. Money and possessions were important; ownership demonstrated wealth and thereby status. Miller uses this theme on numerous occasions. Lydia’s failed attempt to get the toaster to work by inadvertently plugging in the malted mixer (p94-95) thereby demonstrating that families with 3 children can also live the American Dream and own new kitchen appliances; Anne’s dress costing nearly three weeks’ salary (p109) and Sue’s continual attempt to get her husband to earn money from his patients – ‘seems to me that for ten dollars you could hold his hand’ (p94).
Not all American’s were totally committed to money and commercialism and Miller explores this aspect with both Jim and Chris. Both of them initially give the impression of dollar chasing: Jim when he says; ‘I’d love to help humanity on a Warner Brothers’ salary’ (p93) and Chris when he tells Annie; ‘I’m going to make a fortune for you’ (p122). Sue confirms her husband is, in reality, a selfless person; ‘he’s got an idea he’d like to do medical research...Research pays twenty-five dollars a week’ (p130) while Chris demonstrates he is not driven by money and has high morals when he turns down his father’s offer of taking over the business (p124).

Miller manages to combine three of America’s cultural and period themes in the space of four lines; the growth of suburbia, the importance of money, the potential corruption of capitalists. Keller wants Chris to stay and continue to run the business. He offers; ‘to build’...him...‘a house, stone, with a driveway from the road’ (p124) thereby using his capitalist-money to buy a house in suburbia by way of a bribe.

Bibliography

FIEDLER L.A. (1972 first published 1948) An End to Innocence. NEW YORK. STEIN AND CO.
ISSEL W. (1985) Social Changes in the United States 1945 – 1983. LONDON MACMILLAN.
LASSMAN E.Z. (2008 first published 2007) All My Sons, Arthur Mille. LONDON, YORK PRESS.
LEE R. (Editor) (1993) A Permanent Etcetera. LONDON, PLUTO PRESS.
LEICESTER THEATRE TRUST. All my son’s by ARTHUR MILLER. Walter Meierjohann. CURVE THEATRE. 8 Oct 2009 – 14 Dec 2009.
MILLER A. (2000 first published 1961) A View from the Bridge/ All my Sons. LONDON, PENGUIN CLASSICS.
WELLAND D. (1961). Arthur Miller. EDINBURGH. OLIVER & BOYD LTD.
WELLAND D. (1979) Miller: a study of his plays. LONDON, EYRE METHUEN.
WELLAND D. (1979) Miller The Playwright. LONDON, EYRE METHUEN.
WWW.infoplease.com/ipa/a0104719