Wednesday 31 October 2007

Season’s Greetings

A rant, just in time for the 'Festive Season.'

Autumn is often regarded as the most emotive of seasons. The bright glory of lazy summer days or the high activity of holidays in the resplendent sunshine give way to the fading grandeur of woodland in a gaudy yet decaying plumage. It is with a feeling of being reconciled that the year is coming to an end. Yes, Autumn is a season of resigned calm. This is what autumn does to us writers and poets.

Not so, the season of Winter. Winter is an ugly beast that chillingly wants to suck on the marrow of our bones. But there is a most hideous evil at the heart of Winter! I speak openly of none other than the abomination that is called: "Christmas."

Everyone knows that Christmas is bad for you. Normally sensible people who diligently handle their financial affairs suddenly lose all sense of reason and blow every penny. People binge openly. Habitually-temperate individuals are to be seen as drunk as a lecturer with a pay rise, or a poet with any pay at all. Alcohol intake soars, tobacco, otherwise eschewed, is suddenly fashionable, as cigars light up like bonfires, food is gobbled in vast quantities as diets are cast aside, waistlines bulge, five a day comes to mean "meals," rather than "portions of vegetables." Promiscuity is encouraged, with sinister rituals dragged up from antiquity involving sprigs of plants such as mistletoe. Never mind how many children are conceived outside wedlock during this period, the number who start life outside any kind of enduring relationship must be staggering. All the more frightening is proportion where the act of conception has been captured for posterity on a photocopier at office parties.

And then there’s the lies to the children. How many children are dumb enough to believe a fat interloper in a conspicuous costume but with his hooded face covered can enter umpteen different properties all around the globe simultaneously though an antiquated and indeed often non-existent heating system? And then just give things away for nothing in return, no favours of any kind. The fat guy and the sleigh, all the supernatural creatures and the cloven-footed animals with illuminating body parts, it is revealed as the children get older, were invented, and used as a form of behavioural modification blackmail as the year’s end approached. Trust you parents after that? Why should you? They’ll say rubbing belly-buttons makes babies next!

Then there’s the extended family and the problems Christmastime entails. Families are extended for a reason – the reason is they can’t stand being near each other and want to put as much distance between who they share a blood line with. Blood is thicker than water and it usually ends up spilled on the carpet. Families getting together is the biggest cause of family breakdown in the world today. This is not rocket science – they couldn’t break down if they weren’t brought together in a supercritical mass in the first place, could they. It’s a sociological atom bomb waiting to go off.

While all that’s going on, there are questions about the damage inflicted on commerce and industrial activity. Whole industries close down while others, briefly, like fungus, spring up in their place. Just when they are needed most, in what should be their money-making peak of the year, plumbers and electricians disappear. And not only does God not exist, try finding a doctor or dentist at Christmas. Absenteeism is so rife, some companies can’t even tell whether they are actually still operating any longer or have gone into receivership. From the customers’ point of view, as far as public transport is concerned, it may as well have done so. "How was your journey then?" "How do you bloody think it was? No wonder Joseph and Mary had to stay in a stable – we nearly had to break our trip at a bloody Travelodge!"

Almost the ultimate indignity is yet to come. This is referred to as The Christmas Number One. For music-lovers everywhere, this alone is justification to stick a pencil into each ear and swirl it around until you stop moving. (A similar phenomenon with the eye is to be encountered when you are forced by some niece you have discovered makes you watch a DVD of Dude Where’s My Car? or Weekend at Bernie’s II. While on the TV, just to get you in the Christmas mood, there’s Saving Private Ryan followed by Schindler’s List.)

Christmas is as desperate as a famine inside a war inside a plague. Finally there is the social cost. This is best illustrated by the colossal, soul-crushing feeling of desperation when you find that you are actually left out of the festivities, that you have no cringe-inducing parties to attend, no visitors nor people to visit, no presents, no cards and only the wallpaper for company. As if to rub salt in the wound, the televisions companies have started to pick up on this and just as you are sitting through your umpteenth viewing of North By Northwest they spray across the screen a phone number you can call "if you’d like to talk to someone." How would you start such a conversation? "I’m such a Billy-No-Mates, I was going to slash my wrists but I can’t find the kitchen knife so I thought I would call you, you self-pious, do-gooding little bastard."

Christmas begins to blight us now from the beginning of September along with the anniversary of the start of World War II – a re-enactment of the Somme artillery barrage rumbles on from mid October till advent calendars come into use. Then New Year (why does the Year of Our Lord start seven days after the anniversary of His arrival – did someone forget to post the birth announcement? Had they been sniffing too much myrrh to remember till a week later? "Messiah arrived – must make a note." Then it’s back to work, just preceded by carting car-loads of wrapping paper, greetings cards, the odd dodgy present and possibly the odd clingy relative, to the recycling centre, staggering credit car bills or mind-numbing overdrafts until the final embarrassment of St Valentine’s Day. At last, you can remind yourself, Summer is now not far off, once you’ve got past Easter.

Then you’ve got about six months before the whole ghastly spectacle begins all over again. Let nothing you dismay, you merry gentlemen! God rest ye!

The End (-ish)

The Meeting Place

In response to the Nicky J Poole Prize for Futility I have put my money where my mouth is and supply here my own possible offering (parrot, tumble dryer and train journey included, and inspired by the Paul Day statue, The Meeting Place.)

The Friday evening Eurostar glided into St Pancras like an ice dancer, three minutes ahead of time, having left Paris just over two hours earlier. Jocelyn felt her stomach flip and her heart jump at the sight of the white, blue and gold train. It slid into place along the platform and sighed to a halt. This, she realised, could be the most important moment of her life. The most wonderful, or the most horrible.

Either way, she would never forget what was about to happen next.

Don’t go

Wait for me


She made her way from where she had been standing beneath the Paul Day statue to watch the crowds coming up to the ticket barrier. Dozens upon dozens of people, like a ragged, growing tide, began to drag round her. The business man in his smart suit, shoulder bag and lap-top, the family group perhaps back from a holiday, the young woman with a child, the middle-aged woman steering a trolley of luggage, the couples and the singles, like a billowing cloud around her, blocking her view. And still she could not see the one face she sought. Was Dominic going to be there, amongst them?

She was distracted by a cry from her right, as two people fled into each others outstretched arms, reunited at last.

"I expect you’ll forget me," she had said.

That day, she had just been to order a new tumble dryer for her flat. On the way back from the store, the heavens opened, great fat gobs of water splattering. As she dived for the cover of a taxi, they met.

"Share?" he suggested.

The rest of the hours of the day they passed together. As the light faded, Jocelyn realised a feeling of contentment, like she had never known before. She was thinking of the many days to come when Dominic broke his news.

"I have to go away – a long trip. Europe, then the Middle East, India, China and Polynesia. It’s all to do with work, liaising with local offices."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

"That – " she shifted her gaze from his, "… not what I wanted to hear."

"I know. I’m sorry. It’s my job. It will be the big trip for the company. Once it’s done, someone else can worry about the day-to-day details. I was quite looking forward to it. I never took a gap year from college. Now I’m not so sure I want to go."

"It’s part of your work. The thing that keeps you going," she said. Where was that from? "Where is Polynesia?" she tried to sound intellectually curious, detached.

"What is Polynesia? – That’s what I said," he told her, trying to joke. "I thought it was the ability to forget a parrot, when they first told me. Either that or being able to forget about several things at once."

"Are you likely to forget things?"

"Oh, lots of things. I forget almost everything given half a chance."

"Does that included strangers you’ve met?"

"Strangers, yes."

"So you could forget me?"

"You’re not a stranger," he said, "I feel I’ve already known you for ages."

"But you haven’t."

"Don’t misunderstand – I’m sure it will take ages more to get to know even a tiny bit about you."

"How long will you be gone?"

"About two months. Not sure exactly. Perhaps you won’t want to know me then. I mean, if I can’t wash my clothes while I’m away." He offered a remorseful smile.

"You’ll need a tumble dryer," she said.

Thoughts passed between them.

Don’t leave

Don’t forget


His postcard had a picture of a parrot – a scarlet Macaw. It said when he would be back. After that were the words, "Wish I wasn’t here."

Perhaps she had got the wrong date or time. She had washed the sweatshirt she jogged in, not realising she’d pushed the postcard into the pocket, until she found it mangled and shredded in the very same tumble dryer she’d bought that day. Somehow she had forgotten to check before she threw the shirt in the wash after her morning run. The date and time of his return had been on the card and she was sure she remembered them anyway. But what if she were wrong?

What if he didn’t want to come back and see her after all. They had barely had time to get to know each other. Time – something you always have too much or too little of.

The stragglers from the train were clearing the platform. If he had been amongst the passengers she had missed him. More probably, he just wasn’t there. He’d said he forgot things. Perhaps she was one of them. She was positive she had seen everybody who had got off the train. Even when she’d glanced away at the affectionate couple greeting. Hurt and disappointment pricked and stabbed at the back of her eyes. She turned and, slowly at first, but with gathering pace, she began to walk away.

Just as she hurried beneath the statue, her gaze fixed resolutely on the ground, someone got in her way. Before she could side-step, she had collided with the stranger. Why couldn’t the fool look where he was going? She stared up angrily into the eyes of the irritating person blocking her path.

"Hullo," said Dominic.

"Dominic!" She could not believe her eyes. "Did you just come in on the train?"

"Why else would I be at the station?" he smiled.

"But I didn’t see you coming off the platform." She almost stamped her foot.

"You must have missed me."

"Missed you? Missed you? I was waiting at the barrier!"

"I did say, ‘beneath the statue.’ If you’d stayed at the barrier I might have missed you."

I remembered

I’m here now

He put his arms around her waist. She reached up to touch him on the cheek. She didn’t speak, just looked into his eyes.

"I told you I’d come back," Dominic said.

"I never doubted it," she answered in a whisper. It may have been a lie, but it didn’t matter.

She was right. She would remember this moment for the rest of her life.


The end.

Sunday 28 October 2007

"Did you turn off the gas?"
"No! I thought - you..."

Saturday 27 October 2007

The Rains Came

A writing burst, based upon "After the rain."

After the dry season, the winds grew, the billowing cloaks of cloud arose from the horizon like the cape of an awakening messenger, and the onslaught of the downpour began. It was like the entire continent tipped its face to the beaker of the ocean and drew the first of many thirst-quenching drafts.

So it had been for time beyond memory. The reassurance of the seasons, regular as breath, the land, once parched, now slaked, the crop-planting that had waited patiently in abeyance could step forward and take its place, centre-stage. The equilibrium of sufficiency soon reached. And still it rained.

The land began to groan under the deluge. Streams bulged, distended like the belly of a woman with child until they could contain no more, and burst upon the plains and fields. Still it rained. The ground itself seemed to dissolve into brown paste. Passage of any distance became impossible. The rivers strained at the leashes of their banks, and broke free. The countryside began to disappear beneath the inundation.

People fretted. This was not as rains of previous seasons. There was malice in the air and earth was its victim. The very idea of farming, of planning for a harvest months hence, washed away as concern for the here and now pressed. They started to gather food and think of shelter, the most valuable possessions and of the weak and the vulnerable. But, to the rain, there was no shelter. Its places of reach were legion and escape was for no-one and nothing.

And still it rained.

The rain lasted from sunrise till darkness. Tirelessly through the night it continued, till the grey light returned, forever veiled by the wings of cloud that stretched, heavily, rupturing, from horizon to horizon. The thought of dryness became but a memory, the dank smell of sodden fields, sodden houses, sodden clothes became a universe. Slowly, insidiously, the lower ground disappeared beneath newly-born lakes, whose shores expanded in all directions, while the resorts of high ground retreated, like a defeated army in rout. The people and the animals huddled together in these dwindling places, and animal and man looked from one to the other, united in a common cause of misery.

And still it rained.

It was as if the sky itself had chosen to take possession of the land and make it part of a different regime, one where the old principles and processes were swiped away, where water would rule. It rained and it rained and it rained. There was no quarter, no relent. Any appearance of a slight lessening of the constant drip-hammer was illusory. The rain fell as if with a purpose, and would not ease till it was achieved, unconditionally and without mercy. Rain was now in charge forever.

And still it rained. The last of the ground was consumed by the hordes of wave, invading, taking command but taking no prisoner. Only casualties, only victims, who, one by one, attempted wildly to try to defeat the waters by running into them, only to be plucked from view as their limbs weakened. The rain fell and fell and fell, till every patch of earth, every building, every tree, every living creature was overrun. It rained until the ocean was and the land was not, till there was only water. Water held dominion over all and nothing moved upon the face of the deep.

Nothing of the old order remained. This was the new order. After the rain.

The end.

Indelicate

At the recent meeting we undertook a writing burst exercise. One of the unused words was 'Indelicate', which was my choice and a word I have been thinking about for a few days. I finally was able to construct something, please let me know what you think :)

Indelicate

This is the moment of turning,
when the ocean swells
and spreads towards
the shore.
A solitary shell,
waits exposed
in foetal curl,
its delicate surface
sand-scarred
to pitted bone,
and just a
trace of pearl
remains;
a memory
encircling
the point of entry.
Inside another memory sings
of distance and motion,
of white sands,
the taste of foreign skin,
the sharp allure
of the exotic.
It is a song that hums
closer, ever closer
as the ocean
encroaches, slipping
into the open lip
depositing salt,
sand, memory,
enveloping
ridge and curl.
With each stroke
it sinks
deep, deeper
into annihilation,
aware only of
the power of
the waves,
and the force
that drives
it relentlessly
to its own
destruction.

Meeting 23rd October 2007


Meeting minutes from 23rd October have now been circulated. Summary follows:




- Aware 3 - has been proofread and is being sent to print. 50 copies will be printed to begin with. Thanks to Alan for his assistance with arranging this.


- Aware 3 Launch - we have been unable to book Astley Hall for the launch on 27th November. Alternative dates and locations are being investigated. If anyone has any suggestions please e-mail at chorley.writers@4tn.net.


- Low blog usage is a cause for concern. If anyone requires any assistance logging on to the blog, please e-mail chorley.writers@4tn.net, and user instructions/assistance can be provided.




The rest of the evening was taken up with writing burst exercises. We decided to each write two words or sentences on a piece of paper, pick one out of a 'hat' (or an envelope in this case!) and try and write something inspired by the word or sentence. Try your hand at one of these and share the results:




"After the rain..."




"The threat of relegation became greater with every passing week..."




"For a split second it just hung in the air..."




"Indelicate"


And if anyone is feeling especially brave, this is the Nicky J Poole Prize for Futility :


write a piece including : a parrot, a tumble dryer and a train journey. Extra credit will be given for including the new Paul Day statue 'The Meeting Place', see above for details. (I'm not sure what the prize is, possibly just the kudos for having made it!)




Friday 12 October 2007

Domestic Bliss

This story was too late to appear in the next edition of "Aware" (Number 3) on the theme of "Home and Away," so you lucky people are getting it here for nothing.

Fluorescent jackets, two, bright yellow, Day-Glo strips, belts heavy with equipment – night-stick, radio, spray, cuffs – below stab-vests. Fluorescent strip lights, dirty grey, flooded the shadow-less pallor of late-night casualty. The police officers approached the reception desk. The triage nurse nodded in dull acquiescence towards the far corridor, opposite the entrance, leading out of the waiting area to the treatment section. The officers walked through.

#

"Mrs Beryl Rimmer?" said the first officer. The second stood holding back the plastic curtain of the assessment cubicle. The nurse, a plump-ish woman in her forties, finished attending to a dressing on Mrs Rimmer’s face. She’d seen this all before. She stepped round the trolley and squeezed past the second officer, out into the corridor.

"How did it happen?" said the officer.

#

Bob was late. Beryl hated it when he didn’t come home in time for tea. She was always fearful there would be a scene. She would try to avoid it, try not to say anything that might upset him, provoke him into one of his moods. But it wasn’t fair. He would be out enjoying himself, spending their money, having too much to drink. He always seemed to drink too much these days. How was she supposed to get on with her life, let alone enjoy herself, when she didn’t know what time he’d be back? Or in what state?

It hadn’t always been like this. There were the good times. The old times. Back when they were first courting. They couldn’t get enough of each other then. There was no where else either of them wanted to be. Now, it was difficult to be in the same room together, without there being an atmosphere. A tension.

She flipped the shirt over on the ironing-board. She’d done the sleeves, now the shoulders, about to do the back. Her mother had always said, "Be a good housewife, and your man won’t wander." That, and "A happy marriage is one where both of you know your place." All sounded a bit old-fashioned now. The iron was too hot, but she didn’t think to turn it down. As long as she didn’t linger, it would be alright. Get the creases out faster.

She thought she heard his key in the lock.

#

"Had your husband been drinking, Mrs Rimmer?" said the officer. The other took notes.

"Why do you ask that?"

"You said he was late home. Why was that?"

"He can come and go as he pleases. I don’t mind him spending a bit of time with his friends. There’s nothing wrong with our marriage."

"Of course not," said the officer. "Was he drinking with his friends?"

"He might have been."

"Is that why he stayed out?"

"He doesn’t stay out," she said, defensively. "He’s always back at a proper time."

#

Bob let himself in. Beryl was ironing. That was good. He was pleased to see her doing some housework. Perhaps she had learnt her lesson. It wasn’t just for him. There were the children to think of. They needed a good family environment to grow up in. Perhaps she had sent them off to bed early. He didn’t like them to see when he and Beryl had words. "Any tea?"

"Don’t you go expecting to be fed at this time of night," she said. He thought he saw her bite her lip. "I threw your dinner in the bin."

He was angry and disappointed. "I told you I was going to be a little late." He was hungry, and he had told her he wasn’t sure when he’d be home. He had had nothing to eat and here she was, being difficult. Why for once couldn’t she just do the right thing – get him a meal that would keep till he got back. "It was a leaving do. I couldn’t come home any earlier."

"Oh no, of course you couldn’t. Always putting someone else before me."

"How dare you say that," he retorted. "I’ve always put you first."

She seemed unable to contain herself. "You go out, spending our money on yourself and your mates. What about me?"

Bob was surprised. It wasn’t like her to refer to his friends like this. She usually didn’t even mention them, as if she preferred to pretend they didn’t exist. Why couldn’t she be more reasonable? Why couldn’t she be friends with them too? He felt his anger rising. "They could be your friends too if you’d make an effort. "And as for ‘our money’? This is my money. I earned it. And I haven’t spent all of it. Trouble is, my sweet angel, if I bring it home you go through my pockets and steal it and spend it on clothes that make you look like a tart. Most men would give you a clip round the ear for carrying on the way you do!"

#

The police officers pushed into Bob’s cubicle.

"You Bernard Rimmer?" said the first officer.

"Bob," said Bernard. "My friends call me Bob."

"Well, Bernard," said the second officer, "would you mind telling us how you come to be here?"

"It all started when I was a little late getting home from work," he said. "It was somebody’s leaving do. A colleague who’d been with the company for ages. We were giving him a good send-off. Drinks, food, everything. Or, rather, everyone else was. I could only stop for a couple of drinks. My wife, Beryl, doesn’t like me staying late after work. No matter what the reason. Then my colleague – the one who was leaving – bought everybody a round of double brandies. That was very nice of him, that. I bought him one back, knocked one back myself. Then I had to dash off. I had to catch a bus – I couldn’t drive after all that alcohol. That made me even later."

"What happened when you got home?"

"Well, I’d all this to drink on an empty stomach. I’d not had any time for anything to eat. So when I got home I was starving. Beryl – that’s my wife – said she had cooked me some dinner but thrown it away. I’d told her I was going to be late home. There was no need to do that. It’s not right."

"So you hit her," said the first officer.

"It wasn’t like that," Bob protested.

"Let me just go and check with the doctor," said the second officer. "I think he’ll confirm somebody hit her."

"Yes – no," Bob struggled for words. "I did hit her. But it wasn’t like that!"

#

The two officers stood, heads together, in the corridor as the doctor approached them. One turned to the other and said, "I hate domestics."

"Waste of time, if you ask me," said the other. "She should just walk out and leave him and take the kids with her. Divorce him, have the house, all of his money, and be done with it. Get rid of the bullying little creep for ever."

"Just got the results of the x-ray," said the doctor. "Mrs Rimmer has a broken cheek-bone. She’s been struck a very heavy blow, possibly with a blunt object."

"Good enough for me," said the first officer, "let’s go and arrest the sod."

The two officers pushed their way into Bob’s cubicle once more. "Bernard Rimmer, you are under arrest for assault occasioning actual bodily harm. Anything you say will be used as an excuse to beat the crap out of you."

The police officer hadn’t realised the doctor had followed him in to the cubicle and was standing right behind him. "I think there is something you should see first," said the doctor.

"I was trying to tell you before," Bob protested. "When I got home, my wife was ironing. I offered to give her the money I still had from the leaving do when I came in. As I put it down on the ironing board, she trapped my hand with the iron. She burned me! The only way I could get free was to pull the iron off. It broke free and hit her in the face. I was only trying to protect myself."

The doctor pushed between the two police officers and showed them both Bob’s hand.

There, right across the palm from fingertips to wrist, was a livid purple burn, triangular, curved edges, in the shape of an iron.

"His hand must have been in contact with something very hot for quite some time to inflict such a severe wound," said the doctor. "If it had been me, I don’t think I could have stuck it for so long."


Epilogue – Ignorance Isn’t Bliss
"In January 1999 the UK Government’s Home Office published the results of a survey into domestic violence. It was the biggest ever carried out anywhere in the world and involved more than 10,000 men and women.

"It was called Study 191 and it stated, quite categorically, that 4.2% of men and 4.2% of women perpetrate the crime of domestic violence. In other words they had discovered that men and women are equally violent."

For any who wants information about men being victims of domestic abuse, contact http://www.mensaid.com/, help@mensaid.com or call 087 1223 9986.