“There were desperate days when the sand we sifted held no meaning,” he said.
“I looked at the plain glass window and saw nothing but reflection, the image of a man absorbed by nothing but his own self.”
Across the flat, sweeping expanse of the salty marshes, an image of incomplete exactitude did appear. But its vibrancy and coherence were distorted by the dirty smears that rippled out from a single, fragmented crack in the window-pane as much as by the flickering landscape beyond. The fields bore swathes of inquisitive animals perched atop grassy knolls and gently insinuating streams which broached the spongey terrain with effortless perseverance. Through the crack, it seemed as if the wind could whistle in to speak of untold secrets from faraway lands, and that the sun could forge its golden rays into a single, elusive unity.
I stood at a distance, tentatively pawing the still and sultry air that lingered in the train carriage. I had been peremptorily halted by the man’s passing thoughts, the substance of which had come to me clearly and without hesitation. In fact, when I stated, “he said”, a moment ago, perhaps I was being unclear, disingenuous maybe. And I’ll have you know, I am nothing if not clear.
What I should say, rather, is “he thought”. For these articulations were borne in a quite different way to the mild utterances of speech or the harsh declamations of authority that go to comprise “spoken” language. Nor were these articulations simply bodily gestures, inferred on my part from physical movements or subconscious tics. Rather, these messages, if I am able to call them that, came to me not as expected or solicited responses, nor readily anticipated or scalable sounds; no, instead, they came more like great, directionless tsunamis, torrential in their impact and stunning in their implication. For, I should state unequivocally now, that I possess the ability to have unrivalled access to people’s thoughts, that I wander the carriages of trains, and that I am a spectre, a fraction of my former self.
If I am to ride the wave, so to speak, of these undiscriminating outbursts, I have necessarily to install a kind of filtering system. This has come to me over the months. From the early days of emotional disorientation and mental collapse when I was bombarded by a hail of unforeseen leave-takings, unwarranted eruptions, and unthinking recriminations, I have since learnt to separate out all but the most pertinent remarks, a task that has been as exhausting as it has been worthwhile.
Right now, these approaches are nothing unusual to me. For I have become accustomed to the regular assaults on consciousness that fail to administer notice of their impulsive arrival, adapting much like a hotelier who finds one day that his guest has departed without so much as a note of goodbye or a token of thanks. You learn to adjust, to make do, and to press on. I myself have become used to apprehending the passing reflections and momentary reminiscences of the innocent train passengers, finding in them something solid and substantial where before there was only haze and ambiguity.
It is almost as if I am able to capture that transient kernel of truth from the depths of a person’s imagination and memory, that I have access to hidden zones of meaning denied everyone else. You’ll testify to this experience, I know. You’ll testify to that frustrating and nauseating incapacity borne by all but the most gifted of individuals, that inability to retain or arrest those thoughts and ideas that nevertheless imprint an indelible note of profundity on the soul. They come so rarely, but these moments are marked by a gentle lift, a surge of life and happiness that dissolves the surrounding gloom in an eruption that sends out ripples in all directions, circumscribing all and sundry, and impacting upon everyone.
Perhaps these moments only come at night, when the barriers to self-realisation or, should I say, the barriers that fortify the self in all its apartness and isolation, crumble to the ground like sandcastles lying too close to the water’s edge, broken by a crisp wave in the early summer dawn. If you recognise this understanding, however tentatively, you’ll reckon my skill here somewhat enviable. Yet you’d be mistaken. I’ve lost something I can never recover and I’ve only recently come to know it.
For I roam this predetermined space now. Some might say I’m a fugitive, an absentee on the run from truth. Either way, I float along forlornly, touching no one, invisible to the naked eye, contemptuous of nothing but myself. What brought me here was the comforting security of it all, the way the physical train-carriage represented a space of familiar certainty that opposed the wandering thoughts and reflections of the railway passengers which, released from the shackles of human finitude, could traverse diverse and unique landscapes without limit or encumbrance. The way the train hugged the tracks with unswerving dedication, ripping the air and disturbing the grassy verges with regular and unbiased emphasis.
When the right person comes along with some new perspective that can shed light on my own past, I am able to burrow deeper into my subjectivity, to get closer to that something that I’ve let slip. After having met a few of these so-called important figures who have allowed me the opportunity to piece together how I got into this state in the first place, what they’ve said, or what I’ve overheard them think, has triggered something deep down in my unconscious, something hidden from view by a protective mechanism, a defensive barrier.
The man in the brown overcoat whose thoughts had involuntarily entered my stream of consciousness appeared strangely familiar, more so than the other figures who broached my head-space that day. With his face turned then towards the land, then towards the sea, he met my pensive gaze only on occasion, fighting a furrowed brow with the urge to appear amiable.
As for me, I take a train ride everyday, pacing solemnly at a given hour and in a given space, rightly fulfilling my duty by forgoing the air. At times, I feel myself to be awfully numb, as if my mind is subconsciously safeguarding some notion of freedom that refuses examination. At others I find that I am suspended in harmless satisfaction in the old world, invisible to others as much as to the wind that gently and unfathomably goads my skin. It is becoming clearer now though, this state of living. If I return to the beginning, maybe I can show you how.
Friday 2 July 2010
Wednesday 9 June 2010
Excerpt from 'Over the Hill'
Looking back, there had been extraordinary peace and loveliness in those first weeks together that I will always associate with high-ceilinged rooms. I will always remember how strange it was on those fresh-faced mornings, waking up next to a warm, pulsing body, faintly angling my eyes upward as they acclimatized to the glare, that I never once felt anxious or afraid. For the only time in my life I can remember, everything seemed friendly and calm.
As the light poured in through the spacious bay windows, fear was noticeable only for its absence. Faint melodies from the music we fell asleep too would mingle with the incense in the air. The white, crystal patterns on the ceiling would sing with joy. And the world was self-contained and perfect as we honoured each other through our strength. That we had leaned on each other too heavily, perhaps, was never a genuine concern.
I never wanted to leave the room on those happy occasions, but I’d always be the first to awake. I’d lie there watching her morning breath impress itself lightly on the duvet, her jaw slackened to allow flecks of moisture to settle on her perfectly formed mouth. Her red hair would spread itself winningly across the pillow, as determined and passionate as she’d ever been. Sometimes I’d stroke her back and shoulders or gently kiss her cheek and she’d roll over and smile. Mostly, I enjoyed examining her furled body with my own, nestled tenderly among the mattress and the bed sheets, content to let her sleep right through before we tackled the day together.
I’d often wander out of the house on those mornings, down the sloping road which seemed to usher you forward with something greater than the force of gravity, and onto the fields that rolled alongside the house. One could get an unrivalled, panoramic view of the city on these occasions with only the rare passer-by walking his dog and nodding expeditiously.
It was certainly rewarding when, after hacking through the undergrowth covering the alley, the sun broke out through the ruffled clouds and a golden haze unfurled itself over the cathedral spire and the roof tops. As the people merged consummately into one, millions of sparkles would burst effervescently on the water’s surface, standing on tiptoes like bright pins dropped from the sky.
The old house sat atop the hill above the city, demanding respect for the incomparable nature of its gaze. The bedroom I’d recently departed was right at the top of the building, commanding all those who had the good fortune to observe it.
Dragging my baggy jeans through the grassy verges of the alley, I’d often growl at the droplets of moisture that dabbled intrusively at my shins. It was only later that I’d recall these exact same sensations with faint, amused pleasure.
I believe the sense of freshness I noticed when breathing the supple, fleshy air combined with the biting chill about my ankles to summon shivers of delight. I have cause to reflect now that these were among my finest hours. I’d care less about getting my clothes dirty when I knew I’d come back to see her in the warm after-burn of a spring noon with a mug of hot tea and those open, loving arms.
I’d always have to make myself erect and squeeze through the rickety gate to prevent the household dog escaping when I returned home. Brushing up against the cold surface, I’d strike a button or a zip and make a pleasing sound. The commanding oak door was garlanded with creeping ivy and gnarled branches, something I’ve forever associated with the bottoms of gardens and the threads of country lanes, which seem so mysterious and wild in their quiet intensity.
On those occasions when we went out together, hand in hand, our steps were married and our movements shared. She’d always remind me to wrap up warm, generous in her supply of woolly hat and gloves. We’d walk down the hill past the boathouse on the bank, our footfall firm as the dog tailed off to paddle in the reeds, our happiness recognisable for all to see.
A few signs of the pleasure-seeking escapades of the night before would decorate the empty benches in cautiously hazardous ways. Early walkers would pass back over the steel bridge, placing a seal on the calm, unbroken morning. And the light would barely move as the sun rose, soaking up the mysterious, melancholy water below, absorbing our love in a breath.
There was always something wonderfully hopeful about her general air on those mornings; in every look and tone a sense of frankness and honesty. It was not because I could be relied upon in times of stress, but that she could, I thought, that I never ran away. She gave that impression instantly. That it has touched my soul in going by, I know full well.
Making up her hair in the bedroom, a crescent impress of human body on the sheets, I’d half-consciously savour the smell of incense as it filled up the air, forever mingling with memories of the morning.
The items in the room would rapidly take on a different aura from the day before. Slightly askew, they appeared poised to assume different shapes, shedding their solidity and formality. I’d stare at her longingly from the corner of the room, unable to overcome an aching desire to walk over and rub up next to her, touching her smooth skin and so reaching her soul. Her face was pale and soft, an elegant, precise oval, supple, and ever so slightly withdrawn.
One night in fulsome embrace, she’d managed to climax like never before, trembling as if she’d been shot. It had been the spur for a renewed sense of connection between us, one that demanded we have names for each other, songs to share, and memories of games, dreams and childhood to muse over.
On another occasion when I came to visit, my mind slightly subdued, she greeted me at the door with such innocence and enthusiasm that I thought I could spend my entire life there. Somehow the little niggles didn’t seem to matter.
The ghostly figures I passed on the metal bridge seemed to indicate that my happiness would continue, blessing me as if in a dream. I felt strangely light as I approached the house, aware of the sound of my shoes on the pavement going by.
“You couldn’t have come at a better time,” she said, beaming gregariously.
“But you should have called. We could have come and picked you up.”
As she remarked on the weather I’d hardly begun to notice, I entered into the old house once more, prepared to make a good and lasting impression. She always looked for an opportunity to celebrate, no matter how insignificant the occasion. It demonstrated, I thought, her stubborn desire to snatch from life more than it could give. And this time - like any other - the change I’d been expecting hadn’t come.
Long after, I still remember the times when I stood on the granite step and listened to the doorbell ring, smiling as I heard that gentle patter of footsteps in the hall. I’d always check my hair by running my fingers through it, turning the bottle of wine I held in my hands completely around. As I waited there eagerly, the promise of a pleasant, uncomplicated evening would fill up the air, dissolving any sadness I felt inside.
The dog would jump up erratically when I entered the hall, rallied by the striking smell of wholesome food from the kitchen. Warm pools of light would arrange themselves discreetly across the lounge and filter into the dining room, interrupted only on occasion by a weak blaze from the analogue television. Ancient breath from the coal fire would whine and hiss and crack through the evening, and ashen logs would fall like snow flakes through the iron bars of the grate.
I’d often wander about downstairs on these occasions, my steps timed to coincide with the free, gentle chimes of the radio. The whole effect of the house was one of nonchalant wildness. That this reflected on the people who lived there, I firmly believed. I constantly felt the need to secure the house from floating off the ground, to tame it, restrain it before it all got too much. These days I am sometimes caused to reflect that I may have been the one who needed tying down, my sense of vanity grounded too late.
I remember clearly to this day the first time I saw her - her soft, delicate face caught in a flash in the sky. The impression made an instant mark, enabling me to form an image of her I could love. It’s the first thing I think of when I look back at our time together. If I hadn’t turned around then at that particular moment, in that particular place, things might have been different. I may not have caught her staring at me when she thought I wasn’t looking. I may not have savoured that minute sparkle in her gently straining eye. Looking back, in fact, the whole course of events may never have happened were it not for that single selected, memorable day. For that much, the gods are to be thanked.
That night in the apartment, so invested with fortune, so complete with rich and teasing depths, we spent all night watching films in bed. It was an occasion we’d return to in our dual remembrance, sharing our mutual interests and goals. We’d spend hours re-imagining those happy moments when the birds began to sing in the rising light, their optimist’s cry filling up the morning emptiness.
Perhaps we’d repeat those memories too often, our appreciation of them becoming dim. If our thoughts were frequently elsewhere, perhaps we forgot to realise it. As chance dictated, so it would be. If it had been any other way, it would not have been as unforgettable.
As the light poured in through the spacious bay windows, fear was noticeable only for its absence. Faint melodies from the music we fell asleep too would mingle with the incense in the air. The white, crystal patterns on the ceiling would sing with joy. And the world was self-contained and perfect as we honoured each other through our strength. That we had leaned on each other too heavily, perhaps, was never a genuine concern.
I never wanted to leave the room on those happy occasions, but I’d always be the first to awake. I’d lie there watching her morning breath impress itself lightly on the duvet, her jaw slackened to allow flecks of moisture to settle on her perfectly formed mouth. Her red hair would spread itself winningly across the pillow, as determined and passionate as she’d ever been. Sometimes I’d stroke her back and shoulders or gently kiss her cheek and she’d roll over and smile. Mostly, I enjoyed examining her furled body with my own, nestled tenderly among the mattress and the bed sheets, content to let her sleep right through before we tackled the day together.
I’d often wander out of the house on those mornings, down the sloping road which seemed to usher you forward with something greater than the force of gravity, and onto the fields that rolled alongside the house. One could get an unrivalled, panoramic view of the city on these occasions with only the rare passer-by walking his dog and nodding expeditiously.
It was certainly rewarding when, after hacking through the undergrowth covering the alley, the sun broke out through the ruffled clouds and a golden haze unfurled itself over the cathedral spire and the roof tops. As the people merged consummately into one, millions of sparkles would burst effervescently on the water’s surface, standing on tiptoes like bright pins dropped from the sky.
The old house sat atop the hill above the city, demanding respect for the incomparable nature of its gaze. The bedroom I’d recently departed was right at the top of the building, commanding all those who had the good fortune to observe it.
Dragging my baggy jeans through the grassy verges of the alley, I’d often growl at the droplets of moisture that dabbled intrusively at my shins. It was only later that I’d recall these exact same sensations with faint, amused pleasure.
I believe the sense of freshness I noticed when breathing the supple, fleshy air combined with the biting chill about my ankles to summon shivers of delight. I have cause to reflect now that these were among my finest hours. I’d care less about getting my clothes dirty when I knew I’d come back to see her in the warm after-burn of a spring noon with a mug of hot tea and those open, loving arms.
I’d always have to make myself erect and squeeze through the rickety gate to prevent the household dog escaping when I returned home. Brushing up against the cold surface, I’d strike a button or a zip and make a pleasing sound. The commanding oak door was garlanded with creeping ivy and gnarled branches, something I’ve forever associated with the bottoms of gardens and the threads of country lanes, which seem so mysterious and wild in their quiet intensity.
On those occasions when we went out together, hand in hand, our steps were married and our movements shared. She’d always remind me to wrap up warm, generous in her supply of woolly hat and gloves. We’d walk down the hill past the boathouse on the bank, our footfall firm as the dog tailed off to paddle in the reeds, our happiness recognisable for all to see.
A few signs of the pleasure-seeking escapades of the night before would decorate the empty benches in cautiously hazardous ways. Early walkers would pass back over the steel bridge, placing a seal on the calm, unbroken morning. And the light would barely move as the sun rose, soaking up the mysterious, melancholy water below, absorbing our love in a breath.
There was always something wonderfully hopeful about her general air on those mornings; in every look and tone a sense of frankness and honesty. It was not because I could be relied upon in times of stress, but that she could, I thought, that I never ran away. She gave that impression instantly. That it has touched my soul in going by, I know full well.
Making up her hair in the bedroom, a crescent impress of human body on the sheets, I’d half-consciously savour the smell of incense as it filled up the air, forever mingling with memories of the morning.
The items in the room would rapidly take on a different aura from the day before. Slightly askew, they appeared poised to assume different shapes, shedding their solidity and formality. I’d stare at her longingly from the corner of the room, unable to overcome an aching desire to walk over and rub up next to her, touching her smooth skin and so reaching her soul. Her face was pale and soft, an elegant, precise oval, supple, and ever so slightly withdrawn.
One night in fulsome embrace, she’d managed to climax like never before, trembling as if she’d been shot. It had been the spur for a renewed sense of connection between us, one that demanded we have names for each other, songs to share, and memories of games, dreams and childhood to muse over.
On another occasion when I came to visit, my mind slightly subdued, she greeted me at the door with such innocence and enthusiasm that I thought I could spend my entire life there. Somehow the little niggles didn’t seem to matter.
The ghostly figures I passed on the metal bridge seemed to indicate that my happiness would continue, blessing me as if in a dream. I felt strangely light as I approached the house, aware of the sound of my shoes on the pavement going by.
“You couldn’t have come at a better time,” she said, beaming gregariously.
“But you should have called. We could have come and picked you up.”
As she remarked on the weather I’d hardly begun to notice, I entered into the old house once more, prepared to make a good and lasting impression. She always looked for an opportunity to celebrate, no matter how insignificant the occasion. It demonstrated, I thought, her stubborn desire to snatch from life more than it could give. And this time - like any other - the change I’d been expecting hadn’t come.
Long after, I still remember the times when I stood on the granite step and listened to the doorbell ring, smiling as I heard that gentle patter of footsteps in the hall. I’d always check my hair by running my fingers through it, turning the bottle of wine I held in my hands completely around. As I waited there eagerly, the promise of a pleasant, uncomplicated evening would fill up the air, dissolving any sadness I felt inside.
The dog would jump up erratically when I entered the hall, rallied by the striking smell of wholesome food from the kitchen. Warm pools of light would arrange themselves discreetly across the lounge and filter into the dining room, interrupted only on occasion by a weak blaze from the analogue television. Ancient breath from the coal fire would whine and hiss and crack through the evening, and ashen logs would fall like snow flakes through the iron bars of the grate.
I’d often wander about downstairs on these occasions, my steps timed to coincide with the free, gentle chimes of the radio. The whole effect of the house was one of nonchalant wildness. That this reflected on the people who lived there, I firmly believed. I constantly felt the need to secure the house from floating off the ground, to tame it, restrain it before it all got too much. These days I am sometimes caused to reflect that I may have been the one who needed tying down, my sense of vanity grounded too late.
I remember clearly to this day the first time I saw her - her soft, delicate face caught in a flash in the sky. The impression made an instant mark, enabling me to form an image of her I could love. It’s the first thing I think of when I look back at our time together. If I hadn’t turned around then at that particular moment, in that particular place, things might have been different. I may not have caught her staring at me when she thought I wasn’t looking. I may not have savoured that minute sparkle in her gently straining eye. Looking back, in fact, the whole course of events may never have happened were it not for that single selected, memorable day. For that much, the gods are to be thanked.
That night in the apartment, so invested with fortune, so complete with rich and teasing depths, we spent all night watching films in bed. It was an occasion we’d return to in our dual remembrance, sharing our mutual interests and goals. We’d spend hours re-imagining those happy moments when the birds began to sing in the rising light, their optimist’s cry filling up the morning emptiness.
Perhaps we’d repeat those memories too often, our appreciation of them becoming dim. If our thoughts were frequently elsewhere, perhaps we forgot to realise it. As chance dictated, so it would be. If it had been any other way, it would not have been as unforgettable.
Saturday 15 May 2010
Excerpt from 'No Exit'
With black, physically slight headphones slung casually around his neck, a dishevelled, slightly timeworn look upon his face, and a checked cotton shirt peering out from under a dark, denim jacket, Harry Long lumbered along passively as he made his way back to the yawning hole that was the opening to the underground rail network, the beginning of his long journey home. Another day of ceaseless copying and administrative legwork at the office had left him in an agitated state, no longer possessing the energy to occupy the remaining hours of the day with rejuvenating leisure activity, nor capable of thinking much beyond a desperate desire to curl up in a ball of self-pitying angst and recrimination. A pair of sullied, unwashed boots scuffed the pavement, ruthlessly unconcerned by the flecks of swirling debris being trampled under foot, and two lackluster arms lolled about lazily in the stolid evening breeze as numberless commuters rushed in conflicting and confused directions. Bullied and cajoled from side to side, Harry’s thin, flaxen hair waved nonchalantly against the evening sky and his gentle, azure eyes squinted ever so slightly as he forged a tentative way forward.
There was only one path that appealed to him in this atmosphere of frenzied expectation. The fairground of emptied jollity that was the modern urban milieu permitted only one route: onward. Onward to the underground train and directly out of the city. There was simply no time for inertia, no time for suspended belief, anything that moved must carry on, without doubt or delay. Billowing out streams of expressionless travellers and sending off resounding notes of enigmatic entreaty, the portal to the underground beckoned Harry like a hoped-for prophet, promising redemption, transcendence, a way home. Studiously monitoring his footsteps in a surge of renewed vigilance and buoyed by a fuzzy sense of assumed optimism, Harry marched on like a born-again soldier, certain in his goal and unyielding in his efforts to get there.
But reaching the entry to the underground was more problematical than Harry had first anticipated. Gradually brushing his way past nervously dawdling commuters and forcibly manipulating perennially stricken tourists, progress was slow and at times non-existent. Car headlights that beamed at the milling crowds and buses that tore past in haughty disregard, served to stymie forward motion, and emblazoned eyes looked up questioningly as if soliciting an answer as to who was to move first. With little idea of who was coming and who was going, Harry felt as helpless and confused as those strangers he had just laid eyes on, lost in a sea of drifting souls, each of whom felt the nagging need for a leader, a kind of authority figure to release them from the melee.
Harry’s dismay at being prevented from continuing his journey fostered an insidious and rapidly escalating desire to penetrate the disorder. The headphones that clung half-heartedly to his neck had been knocked and made uneven. One of the ear pieces that jutted out from behind Harry’s head further contorted the already messy locks of hair splaying out randomly and incoherently in all directions. Indeed, the appearance of the headphones steadily assumed an almost grotesque aura, the half-protruding contraption beginning to suggest the abnormal growth of some eerie extra limb, now unquestionably a feature on Harry’s violently angled head.
The encroaching gloom of the mid-autumn evening made legible movements even trickier. Stimuli flung themselves at Harry from all directions, and an inbuilt modesty and sense of social duty made all efforts at convincingly exiting the crowd mild and unsure. The burst of purpose that had recently animated Harry’s imagination dissipated almost as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him unable to concentrate, internally congested, and woefully at the mercy of an impotent crowd.
Harry’s plight was soon to be alleviated, though. On the brink of his visual range appeared a dark and diminutive figure whose gambit was to attract Harry’s attention. Slowly accommodating himself to this newly offered opportunity, Harry had hardly enough time to achieve some perspective on the man before being violently hoarded in his general direction. Vigorously turned about, Harry met the gaze of the unflustered citizen, perceiving sharp green eyes, brisk, aquiline features, and a well-trimmed, glossy beard.
‘Sir’, ‘sir’, ‘Coming to the comedy club, sir’, said the stranger, dressed consummately in jet-black attire. ‘I saw you among the crowd and knew you were on the hunt.’
The stranger’s forced mode of expression and artificial manner of address alerted Harry to his function as some kind of events’ promoter. These types were to be found littered around the city at this time of night, shamelessly enticing punters into unheard of venues with the promise of flaky deals and dubious vouchers, willful in their brazen obstruction of passers-by. Harry knew he had no duty to listen, and no need. Yet this promoter offered a rather different impression, tottering lackadaisically from side to side in the evening half-light. Harry was unsure how to counter the proposition placed before him and stumbled incoherently over his words.
‘I…I…I’m afraid that I have somewhere to be, thank you. I must…’
‘But sir, trying to work your way through this mess is no laughing matter. Why not come to the club and enjoy something worth your while.’
Harry was forced to reevaluate his prospects upon hearing this vaguely truthful remark. Indeed, the protracted efforts to extricate himself from the crowd were beginning to unnerve him and the chance to find some release of whatever kind appeared ever more attractive. It wasn’t by any means a conscious decision to shimmy closer to the stranger, but some far flung inspiration persuaded Harry to neutralize his instinctual aggression and at least give him the time of day. For Harry had no obligation to let this stranger interfere in the proceedings any longer than was absolutely necessary. Harry surmised an opportunity to use the man for his own ends and gladly pursued his motivation.
‘Will you just let me…’, Harry fizzed, as he momentarily found some respite next to a vacated news-stand.
‘I have some news for you today stranger,’ uttered the promoter joyously, as if seamlessly metamorphosing into the role of paper vendor. ‘Tonight we are featuring not only a top range of performers and exclusive drinks vouchers, but also open access to the after-party affiliated with the venue. Your evening is catered for, sir. You needn’t worry about that.’
Harry had already planned his evening before this unlikely interruption and was instantly aggrieved by the stranger’s vain assumption that he could gratify all his needs. With an uninterrupted schedule awaiting him at home, it was unthinkable that Harry should ever countenance such a proposal. Habit dictated that he be back by 9 o’clock. Never once had Harry Long been late. The threat from this infiltrator seemed utterly repugnant to him. He felt victimized and resentful, and demanded a way past.
‘Excuse me, I have to be somewhere, I have already told you…’
‘But sir, where exactly do you have to be?’ remarked the stranger with biting emphasis. ‘You cannot possibly be telling me that you have commitments all evening? This is the time for fun. I see you are in need of it. I can tell it from your eyes.’
Offended by the stranger’s presumptuousness, Harry declared his disgust unconditionally.
‘To be plain my man, I am a little taken aback by your audacity. If you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.’
The promoter had noticed Harry’s nervous application for a way through and saw his opportunity not yet wasted. Aware of a potential recruit when he saw one, he pressed on, flashing his eyes moodily and arching his deepened brow.
‘This way, sir, I shall find you a way. If you follow me I can help you get back to where you want to go.’
Harry’s mind had forsaken him and a clouded, murky sensation overwhelmed his thoughts. Willing to assume any help he could get to remove himself from his tiresome predicament, he unconsciously trailed the promoter to the edges of the crowd in the general direction of the underground entrance.
‘This, sir, is the ticket!’
The promoter thrust a leaflet towards his target with such artful delivery that Harry, unaware of what exactly he had to do to shift this intruder who had muddled a way into his life, was inclined to reluctantly accept.
‘Take this to the entrance to my left and you will be allowed free rein in the wonders of the club! I promise, sir, your night will not be wasted.’
Harry stood motionless for a number of seconds, for how long he could not be sure. Instead of facing the entrance to the underground, the wily stranger had somehow managed to direct his victim to a sodden looking brown door, stained and grainy, and rusting at the edges. There was no handle, only a faint, flickering light emanating from behind the gaps.
‘Where exactly is this club, then?’ blurted Harry, unceremoniously attempting to regain some control over the conversation.
‘Why, directly to my left, sir. This door here opens in a little under ten minutes. Were you to trek home at this hour, you would be a little longer than that, I fancy!’
Confused and annoyed by the promoter’s argument, Harry turned away, hoping to find the underground entrance at his feet. Yet the crowd that had up until now prevented Harry’s arrival briskly formed a congealed mass, totally barring vision of the underground network. Strangely, Harry’s recognizable and oft-trodden route back from work appeared distinctly unfamiliar. He was lost, to be sure, but it was an experience he had not known before. Out of sorts, Harry pivoted on his wearied legs and demanded an answer from the promoter.
‘I am duly concerned, my man! Never before have I been lost in this area, and you come and intrude like that and make me lose my way. Please, can you explain yourself?’
‘But, sir, it is not I who have made you lose your way. You chose to follow me of your own accord. Why, you can only have yourself to blame if you are unfamiliar with this district’.
‘This district!’, Harry Long scolded, infuriated by the looseness of the man’s reply.
‘This is where I work! How can I be unfamiliar with my own district?’
The promoter took a careful step back.
‘I believe your temper is escaping you, sir. I merely wished to offer you the opportunity to discover some new terrain in the form of this show which I have spoken about, and you are getting quite hot under the collar. I do believe you need to rest, to have a seat, perhaps, before you proceed.’
Harry could not argue with this suggestion. He did feel remarkably disconcerted and unnerved. But to trail this idiot any longer was unthinkable. Not only was he in the company of an utter fool with little on his mind save the promotion of an unknown club, but he also began to understand the depressingly belittling notion that dependence on this stranger would mean. No, Harry would find his own way; he had no need of assistance.
‘Kindly, my man, I shall go it alone. Take it from me that your duty here is done.’
No sooner had Harry made his decision to leave than he caught a glimpse of the wraithlike figure reflected in the shop-window directly before him. How this was possible he could not know. It was as if the gentleman had fragmented, for a final second, into two discreet entities immediately before his eyes. Accounting for this enigma with recourse to the wearied state he found himself in, Harry jerked about restlessly in a vain attempt to verify his premonitions.
The door to the club that Harry had recently left behind stood invitingly ajar and the prospects of reaching the underground entrance increasingly bleak. Tempted to rest just briefly on the tiled floor of the gangway, Harry noticed a new addition to the opening of the club. It consisted in a small, rectangular sign luminously adorning the frontispiece. It read: ‘Turn on the red lights’. With a faint acknowledgement of this fact, Harry spent his last ounce of energy and, perching on the cold, marble flooring, quietly and silently drifted off to sleep.
There was only one path that appealed to him in this atmosphere of frenzied expectation. The fairground of emptied jollity that was the modern urban milieu permitted only one route: onward. Onward to the underground train and directly out of the city. There was simply no time for inertia, no time for suspended belief, anything that moved must carry on, without doubt or delay. Billowing out streams of expressionless travellers and sending off resounding notes of enigmatic entreaty, the portal to the underground beckoned Harry like a hoped-for prophet, promising redemption, transcendence, a way home. Studiously monitoring his footsteps in a surge of renewed vigilance and buoyed by a fuzzy sense of assumed optimism, Harry marched on like a born-again soldier, certain in his goal and unyielding in his efforts to get there.
But reaching the entry to the underground was more problematical than Harry had first anticipated. Gradually brushing his way past nervously dawdling commuters and forcibly manipulating perennially stricken tourists, progress was slow and at times non-existent. Car headlights that beamed at the milling crowds and buses that tore past in haughty disregard, served to stymie forward motion, and emblazoned eyes looked up questioningly as if soliciting an answer as to who was to move first. With little idea of who was coming and who was going, Harry felt as helpless and confused as those strangers he had just laid eyes on, lost in a sea of drifting souls, each of whom felt the nagging need for a leader, a kind of authority figure to release them from the melee.
Harry’s dismay at being prevented from continuing his journey fostered an insidious and rapidly escalating desire to penetrate the disorder. The headphones that clung half-heartedly to his neck had been knocked and made uneven. One of the ear pieces that jutted out from behind Harry’s head further contorted the already messy locks of hair splaying out randomly and incoherently in all directions. Indeed, the appearance of the headphones steadily assumed an almost grotesque aura, the half-protruding contraption beginning to suggest the abnormal growth of some eerie extra limb, now unquestionably a feature on Harry’s violently angled head.
The encroaching gloom of the mid-autumn evening made legible movements even trickier. Stimuli flung themselves at Harry from all directions, and an inbuilt modesty and sense of social duty made all efforts at convincingly exiting the crowd mild and unsure. The burst of purpose that had recently animated Harry’s imagination dissipated almost as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him unable to concentrate, internally congested, and woefully at the mercy of an impotent crowd.
Harry’s plight was soon to be alleviated, though. On the brink of his visual range appeared a dark and diminutive figure whose gambit was to attract Harry’s attention. Slowly accommodating himself to this newly offered opportunity, Harry had hardly enough time to achieve some perspective on the man before being violently hoarded in his general direction. Vigorously turned about, Harry met the gaze of the unflustered citizen, perceiving sharp green eyes, brisk, aquiline features, and a well-trimmed, glossy beard.
‘Sir’, ‘sir’, ‘Coming to the comedy club, sir’, said the stranger, dressed consummately in jet-black attire. ‘I saw you among the crowd and knew you were on the hunt.’
The stranger’s forced mode of expression and artificial manner of address alerted Harry to his function as some kind of events’ promoter. These types were to be found littered around the city at this time of night, shamelessly enticing punters into unheard of venues with the promise of flaky deals and dubious vouchers, willful in their brazen obstruction of passers-by. Harry knew he had no duty to listen, and no need. Yet this promoter offered a rather different impression, tottering lackadaisically from side to side in the evening half-light. Harry was unsure how to counter the proposition placed before him and stumbled incoherently over his words.
‘I…I…I’m afraid that I have somewhere to be, thank you. I must…’
‘But sir, trying to work your way through this mess is no laughing matter. Why not come to the club and enjoy something worth your while.’
Harry was forced to reevaluate his prospects upon hearing this vaguely truthful remark. Indeed, the protracted efforts to extricate himself from the crowd were beginning to unnerve him and the chance to find some release of whatever kind appeared ever more attractive. It wasn’t by any means a conscious decision to shimmy closer to the stranger, but some far flung inspiration persuaded Harry to neutralize his instinctual aggression and at least give him the time of day. For Harry had no obligation to let this stranger interfere in the proceedings any longer than was absolutely necessary. Harry surmised an opportunity to use the man for his own ends and gladly pursued his motivation.
‘Will you just let me…’, Harry fizzed, as he momentarily found some respite next to a vacated news-stand.
‘I have some news for you today stranger,’ uttered the promoter joyously, as if seamlessly metamorphosing into the role of paper vendor. ‘Tonight we are featuring not only a top range of performers and exclusive drinks vouchers, but also open access to the after-party affiliated with the venue. Your evening is catered for, sir. You needn’t worry about that.’
Harry had already planned his evening before this unlikely interruption and was instantly aggrieved by the stranger’s vain assumption that he could gratify all his needs. With an uninterrupted schedule awaiting him at home, it was unthinkable that Harry should ever countenance such a proposal. Habit dictated that he be back by 9 o’clock. Never once had Harry Long been late. The threat from this infiltrator seemed utterly repugnant to him. He felt victimized and resentful, and demanded a way past.
‘Excuse me, I have to be somewhere, I have already told you…’
‘But sir, where exactly do you have to be?’ remarked the stranger with biting emphasis. ‘You cannot possibly be telling me that you have commitments all evening? This is the time for fun. I see you are in need of it. I can tell it from your eyes.’
Offended by the stranger’s presumptuousness, Harry declared his disgust unconditionally.
‘To be plain my man, I am a little taken aback by your audacity. If you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.’
The promoter had noticed Harry’s nervous application for a way through and saw his opportunity not yet wasted. Aware of a potential recruit when he saw one, he pressed on, flashing his eyes moodily and arching his deepened brow.
‘This way, sir, I shall find you a way. If you follow me I can help you get back to where you want to go.’
Harry’s mind had forsaken him and a clouded, murky sensation overwhelmed his thoughts. Willing to assume any help he could get to remove himself from his tiresome predicament, he unconsciously trailed the promoter to the edges of the crowd in the general direction of the underground entrance.
‘This, sir, is the ticket!’
The promoter thrust a leaflet towards his target with such artful delivery that Harry, unaware of what exactly he had to do to shift this intruder who had muddled a way into his life, was inclined to reluctantly accept.
‘Take this to the entrance to my left and you will be allowed free rein in the wonders of the club! I promise, sir, your night will not be wasted.’
Harry stood motionless for a number of seconds, for how long he could not be sure. Instead of facing the entrance to the underground, the wily stranger had somehow managed to direct his victim to a sodden looking brown door, stained and grainy, and rusting at the edges. There was no handle, only a faint, flickering light emanating from behind the gaps.
‘Where exactly is this club, then?’ blurted Harry, unceremoniously attempting to regain some control over the conversation.
‘Why, directly to my left, sir. This door here opens in a little under ten minutes. Were you to trek home at this hour, you would be a little longer than that, I fancy!’
Confused and annoyed by the promoter’s argument, Harry turned away, hoping to find the underground entrance at his feet. Yet the crowd that had up until now prevented Harry’s arrival briskly formed a congealed mass, totally barring vision of the underground network. Strangely, Harry’s recognizable and oft-trodden route back from work appeared distinctly unfamiliar. He was lost, to be sure, but it was an experience he had not known before. Out of sorts, Harry pivoted on his wearied legs and demanded an answer from the promoter.
‘I am duly concerned, my man! Never before have I been lost in this area, and you come and intrude like that and make me lose my way. Please, can you explain yourself?’
‘But, sir, it is not I who have made you lose your way. You chose to follow me of your own accord. Why, you can only have yourself to blame if you are unfamiliar with this district’.
‘This district!’, Harry Long scolded, infuriated by the looseness of the man’s reply.
‘This is where I work! How can I be unfamiliar with my own district?’
The promoter took a careful step back.
‘I believe your temper is escaping you, sir. I merely wished to offer you the opportunity to discover some new terrain in the form of this show which I have spoken about, and you are getting quite hot under the collar. I do believe you need to rest, to have a seat, perhaps, before you proceed.’
Harry could not argue with this suggestion. He did feel remarkably disconcerted and unnerved. But to trail this idiot any longer was unthinkable. Not only was he in the company of an utter fool with little on his mind save the promotion of an unknown club, but he also began to understand the depressingly belittling notion that dependence on this stranger would mean. No, Harry would find his own way; he had no need of assistance.
‘Kindly, my man, I shall go it alone. Take it from me that your duty here is done.’
No sooner had Harry made his decision to leave than he caught a glimpse of the wraithlike figure reflected in the shop-window directly before him. How this was possible he could not know. It was as if the gentleman had fragmented, for a final second, into two discreet entities immediately before his eyes. Accounting for this enigma with recourse to the wearied state he found himself in, Harry jerked about restlessly in a vain attempt to verify his premonitions.
The door to the club that Harry had recently left behind stood invitingly ajar and the prospects of reaching the underground entrance increasingly bleak. Tempted to rest just briefly on the tiled floor of the gangway, Harry noticed a new addition to the opening of the club. It consisted in a small, rectangular sign luminously adorning the frontispiece. It read: ‘Turn on the red lights’. With a faint acknowledgement of this fact, Harry spent his last ounce of energy and, perching on the cold, marble flooring, quietly and silently drifted off to sleep.
Saturday 3 April 2010
10 Selected Poems - For Becky (Copyright Matthew Allcock)
Revelation
Look at how the eyes melt,
Not straining to make edges out of invisible wholes,
Maintaining a woozy unity,
Like the flush flush of a frosty sea.
Beneath tongue-head orange lobes,
Bubble bold blasts of static,
My home is not apartness,
"Me and You, You and Me".
Look at how the eyes melt,
Surfaces shimmer refracting curves reach out,
Is this light which shrouds the darkness,
Hidden for all to see?
Morning tide fetches the dreamers and sleepers,
Carried by a rushing wave;
Leave me in that twilight realm,
Waiting, waiting...
Out of the Dark
Out of the dark, indistinct murk,
A figure who, in one instance,
Recalls to mind
An image
Of unchanging natural beauty.
Turning a corner and taking leave,
The unbidden aura of your presence
Can yet not undermine the poem nor
The image
I treasure of you in my mind.
The Coast
I took a bus to the coast today,
Not far along wind-beaten tracks,
To rest in open solitude,
Where free expanse affords welcome vision.
Where the horizon beckons like a homeless god,
And the breeze buffets the snaking sand,
And the memories that spring from silence
Lie expectant in my eye.
Clicketty-clack, clicketty-clack,
We move forward, or so it seems,
A gently thrumming, swollen engine,
Affords rhythmic ballast to a restless mind.
And through the crash the breaking waves
Usurp a barren winter sky,
Like so much loose ephemera,
Enticed much like the humble bee.
And when I brush my fingertips
Along coarse-grained, riven sand,
It reminds me of your missing touch,
Of vanished fragments in times just past.
Approaching the shoreline on tracks
Which closely hug the twice-stripped coast,
A beach is the edge of this world,
As much as the time we were together.
An address to another,
One not yet, long ago, over.
An address to another,
Is a figment of a lover.
I think of you everyday,
In much the same deathly way.
Control
One way of holding you
Is to stand in this narrow space
While street lights flicker in
Concave window frames
Against the night sky.
One way of holding you
Is to feel the solid embrace
Of cold, hard marble which
Yields nothing to the gentle
Drops of water trickling by.
One way of holding you
Is to cast desperate glances at
Strangers who merge on
Footpaths with speeding automobiles
And splashing scuttling tires.
One way of holding you
Is to observe your reflection
In the shop-front window display combine
With lifeless mannequins as
You run into the road to die.
If I held on too hard
You told me my wish to see
These paving stones assume
Grid-like symmetry was
A hopeless human cry.
I am that man, old and worn,
Who wanders this street at night,
Gripping with vain hope the
Uneasy fissures in my coat,
And counting the steps I’ve taken
To commit this dreadful crime.
Shades of Red
I could go wandering to catch the shade,
To clutch it, clasp it, and carry it away,
To watch it flicker in ever new array,
Or let it slope off vales that nature made.
I could hold this light and watch it blaze,
Follow the shadows as they burn all day,
Dance in patterns as the sun decays,
Or wait in hope amid the gentle haze.
These shades of red exist to be contained,
In poetry and words, memory and paint,
But nothing can capture your resplendent state.
Those auburn tresses have always remained
A secret so beautiful they blossom again,
For all that you are, I learnt to speak too late.
Experience
Believe me, that morning, or afternoon,
I’ll never forget
Was unanticipated and
Shook the two of us
Like some hard jolt from
Our daily rhythm.
Days would disappear in the
Long ensuing swell -
Call it what you will -
And often we would forget
What each day meant
Before it was too late.
I let the strangeness filter
Away in routine measures and
Familiar doubts and saw you
Pass over me in longing and
Shame and
Loneliness.
Let me live again with you
Through that thoughtless
Embrace and demonstrate
The ecstasy, torment,
And bitter fear of
Experience we’ll never share again.
The Grid
Desperately raking, frantically making,
Critically collating, the time.
Endlessly grouping, tirelessly reducing,
Minutely manoeuvring, the sign.
Successfully ordering, forlornly sorting,
Brutishly bracketing, the cry.
Carelessly categorizing, spuriously selecting,
Torturously tidying, this lie.
The Guilty
The guilty man is locked up.
Imprisoned inside violent cells
The waste and squalor
Of battened hatches
And deceitful, broken looks.
He looks on in regret,
For actions sorely misspent
And time inside
Where no hope
Becomes him, for none is his.
My guilty man is made to check his
Every action, and reflection,
For the time is his and dictated
From without, he never
Moves in truthful ways
Nor freedom has.
Jealousy
Jealousy, that clasps and keeps her even from yourself,
Hold, hold, what duties have you before all who love?
Closer
So cold, beating bitterly against
The wall, shivering as you do.
You beat me as hard now,
Wandering through the house,
The bed is empty
And so cold.
Lost before the morning,
With quarrel and burning
Lights aglow.
Hurting your cry,
So crushed and broken,
Lost before.
Your face in the night,
Bright, expectant flight,
Rushing out for you
To pick apart the lengths,
So long to see
Your pretty face.
Welcome at the door,
Come with nothing but hope,
Your arms and
Bed, resting for hours
Turning to face you and staying and
Staying forever welcome.
The first blessed time,
Brought to my knees,
Star-crossed glimpse across
An ancient sky.
Together in laughter
A hand to hold, the first time.
Closer, closer,
Always getting closer.
Closer, closer,
Promise me it’s closer.
Closer, closer,
For years and years,
Closer.
Look at how the eyes melt,
Not straining to make edges out of invisible wholes,
Maintaining a woozy unity,
Like the flush flush of a frosty sea.
Beneath tongue-head orange lobes,
Bubble bold blasts of static,
My home is not apartness,
"Me and You, You and Me".
Look at how the eyes melt,
Surfaces shimmer refracting curves reach out,
Is this light which shrouds the darkness,
Hidden for all to see?
Morning tide fetches the dreamers and sleepers,
Carried by a rushing wave;
Leave me in that twilight realm,
Waiting, waiting...
Out of the Dark
Out of the dark, indistinct murk,
A figure who, in one instance,
Recalls to mind
An image
Of unchanging natural beauty.
Turning a corner and taking leave,
The unbidden aura of your presence
Can yet not undermine the poem nor
The image
I treasure of you in my mind.
The Coast
I took a bus to the coast today,
Not far along wind-beaten tracks,
To rest in open solitude,
Where free expanse affords welcome vision.
Where the horizon beckons like a homeless god,
And the breeze buffets the snaking sand,
And the memories that spring from silence
Lie expectant in my eye.
Clicketty-clack, clicketty-clack,
We move forward, or so it seems,
A gently thrumming, swollen engine,
Affords rhythmic ballast to a restless mind.
And through the crash the breaking waves
Usurp a barren winter sky,
Like so much loose ephemera,
Enticed much like the humble bee.
And when I brush my fingertips
Along coarse-grained, riven sand,
It reminds me of your missing touch,
Of vanished fragments in times just past.
Approaching the shoreline on tracks
Which closely hug the twice-stripped coast,
A beach is the edge of this world,
As much as the time we were together.
An address to another,
One not yet, long ago, over.
An address to another,
Is a figment of a lover.
I think of you everyday,
In much the same deathly way.
Control
One way of holding you
Is to stand in this narrow space
While street lights flicker in
Concave window frames
Against the night sky.
One way of holding you
Is to feel the solid embrace
Of cold, hard marble which
Yields nothing to the gentle
Drops of water trickling by.
One way of holding you
Is to cast desperate glances at
Strangers who merge on
Footpaths with speeding automobiles
And splashing scuttling tires.
One way of holding you
Is to observe your reflection
In the shop-front window display combine
With lifeless mannequins as
You run into the road to die.
If I held on too hard
You told me my wish to see
These paving stones assume
Grid-like symmetry was
A hopeless human cry.
I am that man, old and worn,
Who wanders this street at night,
Gripping with vain hope the
Uneasy fissures in my coat,
And counting the steps I’ve taken
To commit this dreadful crime.
Shades of Red
I could go wandering to catch the shade,
To clutch it, clasp it, and carry it away,
To watch it flicker in ever new array,
Or let it slope off vales that nature made.
I could hold this light and watch it blaze,
Follow the shadows as they burn all day,
Dance in patterns as the sun decays,
Or wait in hope amid the gentle haze.
These shades of red exist to be contained,
In poetry and words, memory and paint,
But nothing can capture your resplendent state.
Those auburn tresses have always remained
A secret so beautiful they blossom again,
For all that you are, I learnt to speak too late.
Experience
Believe me, that morning, or afternoon,
I’ll never forget
Was unanticipated and
Shook the two of us
Like some hard jolt from
Our daily rhythm.
Days would disappear in the
Long ensuing swell -
Call it what you will -
And often we would forget
What each day meant
Before it was too late.
I let the strangeness filter
Away in routine measures and
Familiar doubts and saw you
Pass over me in longing and
Shame and
Loneliness.
Let me live again with you
Through that thoughtless
Embrace and demonstrate
The ecstasy, torment,
And bitter fear of
Experience we’ll never share again.
The Grid
Desperately raking, frantically making,
Critically collating, the time.
Endlessly grouping, tirelessly reducing,
Minutely manoeuvring, the sign.
Successfully ordering, forlornly sorting,
Brutishly bracketing, the cry.
Carelessly categorizing, spuriously selecting,
Torturously tidying, this lie.
The Guilty
The guilty man is locked up.
Imprisoned inside violent cells
The waste and squalor
Of battened hatches
And deceitful, broken looks.
He looks on in regret,
For actions sorely misspent
And time inside
Where no hope
Becomes him, for none is his.
My guilty man is made to check his
Every action, and reflection,
For the time is his and dictated
From without, he never
Moves in truthful ways
Nor freedom has.
Jealousy
Jealousy, that clasps and keeps her even from yourself,
Hold, hold, what duties have you before all who love?
Closer
So cold, beating bitterly against
The wall, shivering as you do.
You beat me as hard now,
Wandering through the house,
The bed is empty
And so cold.
Lost before the morning,
With quarrel and burning
Lights aglow.
Hurting your cry,
So crushed and broken,
Lost before.
Your face in the night,
Bright, expectant flight,
Rushing out for you
To pick apart the lengths,
So long to see
Your pretty face.
Welcome at the door,
Come with nothing but hope,
Your arms and
Bed, resting for hours
Turning to face you and staying and
Staying forever welcome.
The first blessed time,
Brought to my knees,
Star-crossed glimpse across
An ancient sky.
Together in laughter
A hand to hold, the first time.
Closer, closer,
Always getting closer.
Closer, closer,
Promise me it’s closer.
Closer, closer,
For years and years,
Closer.
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