a one hundred and fourth poem...'kiss me again'

Kiss me again

Flush on the lips

And I shall

Die happily,

My heart bursting

With smiles

And you will

Be free.

a thirteenth reflection... 'creative balance'

Being creative, or attempting to be, is a wonderful thing - for the most part.  It is a great way of finding out who you are, and for generating alternative perspectives on life; it can be very nourishing for the soul.  And yet, because of the introverted nature of aspects of the creative process one must exercise a little caution, and be prepared for one’s artistic vision not to become fully realised.

In 1980, Joy Division (gleefully named after German concentration camp prostitutes) recorded their second LP, Closer.  It is a brilliant record, but also a very macabre one.  And between recording and release, song-writer Ian Curtis took his own life.  Listening to Closer in the aftermath of Curtis’s death, it is hard not to see the collection of songs as a series of oblique, sometimes overt suicide notes.  Curtis perhaps took his art and the creative process that lead to the creation of his songs too seriously; he came to inhabit the space in which songs about loss, wretchedness and death came into being and seemed all too real, all too much.

While Curtis’s songs certainly had integrity, something which artists continually strive for, as well as, as far as is possible, originality and free expression, the price creatives like Curtis have paid for integrity in their art remains over the odds.  Art is a representation of a particular philosophy, or indeed emotion, and however integral said piece of art may seem, there are always other ways of representation, just as there are other ways of being.  The trick for a creative is not to confuse or conflate the two.

Being creative is a pro-active activity, it entails a search for meaning in physical and non-physical worlds, therefore it requires energy and application, it can be exhausting, even frustrating.  This is especially so when one doesn’t realise the particular philosophy or emotion one is trying to give form and expression to.  The superbly named Mairi Hedderwick, author of the Katie Morag adventures, has spoken before of how she finds the creative process frequently depressing for this reason.  It must be remembered that to understand something doesn’t necessarily i) require pro-activity, rather the Zen art of being still and knowing, ii) the creative process isn’t always the only solution to philosophical or emotional expression, it remains after all a version of the internal monologue, which in itself can be a limited discourse.

Indeed to become exclusively absorbed in creative exploration and expression, whether it be in writing, composing, painting etcetera is to perhaps climb too far inside oneself, and in doing so run the risk of a self-indulgent failure, or worse.  Film Director David Lynch suggests creatives always need to have their antenna skywards to tune into the frequency of ideas that flows in and from the world outside and around us, but also that his years of practising Transcendental Meditation (TM) has given him ‘effortless access to unlimited reserves of energy, creativity and happiness deep within’.  There is seemingly a balance here worth heeding when pursuing a creative existence. Or, as fictional science-fiction writer Kilgore Trout (Kurt Vonnegut) opined for artistic types life can seem ‘no way to treat an animal’.

a ninety sixth story...'little england'

The trumpeter stood up, puckered his lips, and blew.  The assembled crowd rose to attention as a breathless rendition of The Last Post issued forth.  It was a sad day, it was a proud day, it was a warm Sunday in November.  There were lots of medals winking in the early winter sunshine, top brass, manicured moustaches, little old ladies wearing big necklaces standing next to their red-faced husbands, silver whiskers twitching with emotion, bushy eyebrows bristling. And when the trumpeter finished, there was silence and rememberence: for the dead who gave their lives bravely, foolishly, or otherwise; for the ones that got away with it, and among the young, idle thoughts of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. 

And then the plane flew into the church steeple.

Lady Jane Fry and Admiral Horace Barnstable were the first to die.  Lady Jane’s carotid artery was pierced by the falling weather vane, Admiral Horace Barnstable suffered massive and fatal head injuries when hit by a falling gargoyle.  The trumpeter survived by virtue of the enormous and cumbersome bear-skin he had been stewing under during the entirety of the morning’s proceedings (the bear-skin was from an Alaskan brown bear who, thank heavens, did not die for nothing).

Flaming bits of wreckage were soon strewn all over the church yard, and war veterans ran amok: one old boy searched his suit jacket for his standard issue pistol that had long since been relieved of him forty years previous, another waved his parade sword in the direction of the steeple in case little, green aliens should appear and descend.  The women hid behind their husbands, their husbands – at least the sensible ones – behind whatever cover they could find, headstones mainly, which was somehow fitting and somewhat ironic.  Meanwhile, a reporter from the Wurlingham Gazette took photos of the chaos from behind a particularly large piece of graveyard architecture (the photos would end up being published on the same spread as Caroline from Chesham, Double-D cup).

All of this time, the church bells had been ringing of their own accord in spastic unison, signalling invasion, and yet the belfry was swiftly becoming an inferno as part of the plane’s fuselage had become lodged there.  ‘Call the fire-brigade!’, shouted Brigadier Swain to his wife, who was shuddering like a bloated bird of paradise beside him.  ‘What’s the number?’, she shrieked in reply as the church warden rode shakily away on his bicycle to fetch the rector.

In the aftermath the body count was seven: Lady Jane Fry (severed carotid artery), Admiral Horace Barnstable (blunt trauma), Lt. Colonel Philip Sanders-Powell (heart-attack), Viscount Alexander Wilson-Higgins (brain aneurism), Vicar Stevens (Act of God), a page boy, and perhaps mercifully, the errant pilot.

The post-mortem on the pilot was carried out some weeks later, and it was revealed from DNA samples taken from the teeth of the deceased that the pilot was a black man, christened Duane.  Duane had been drunk on rum at the controls of a stolen light-aircraft, or so the story went around, and the stolen light-aircraft belonged to Lord SuchandSuch, and it was treason etcetera; all of this when the truth of matter was Duane was just a bloody awful pilot – the plane was his, purchased with his life-time savings and money from an out of court settlement with his ex-employer, the largely Caucasian Metropolitan Police.

Nevertheless, the Wurlingham Gazette still went with the headline: ‘A black day for civil whites’.

... Such is life in Little England.

a ninety fifth story...'franzen'

Franzen thought himself above most things.  He would not even so much as leaf through The Metro on his daily commute in, out of the city - it was an insult to his intelligence, a gossip rag. Neither would he spend the time in transit opening and closing the email program on his smart phone in vain hope of a message, nor had he ever played a game of Snake in his life - he didn't need to. And he didn't feel the need to carry a branded bottle of water with him wherever he went because he knew his body was made up of 90% liquids, and that advertising was 99% guff.

Meanwhile, Franzen was 100% convinced there had to be a better way of living, at the end of the yellow brick road, somewhere over the rainbow, etcetera.  In his three and a half decades living among the human race he had succumbed to something of a philosophical and spiritual malaise, and conveniently he blamed it on everyone else who did not share his appreciation of renaissance painting: bankers, politicians (of any persuasion), law-makers, the potty monarchy, his parents, even his dog whom he addressed in a frightfully condescending manner. His dog, incidentally, was a poodle named Curly.  Curly had an IQ equivalent to that of a five year old child.

Other than Curly there were no significant others in  Franzen's life.  He lived as he would undoubtably die - oh so alone.  But, as he was frequently at pains to point, it was his choice to be alone; he had never gotten over the fact that the only woman he had ever loved, turned out, in fact, to be a man.  The man's name was Michael, he was an executive transvestite.

Franzen had myopia, still he refused to wear glasses in case someone were to misconstrue his ocular apparatus as a fashion statement.  Moreover, he was fond of relating how he was not a victim of fashion, rather that fashion was a victim of him; conversely he was also a self-styled (and self-anointed) legislator in taste.  He would walk into a bar and order two light ales, dressed head to toe in ideal summer wear; he wore a scarf, and spent a lot of money on socks.  And, naturally, he professed to like jazz - evenings, where possible, he passed in the jazz cafe, mornings at leisure in the Patisserie: he liked coffee, but only good coffee.

The friends that Franzen had somewhat miraculously acquired were mostly from far flung parts of the world, Korea, Brazil, and so on.  They were all of them just passing through; they were all intellectuals with expensive tastes, elaborate cares and not enough money to satisfy either; they were all inclined to say how much they hated the city, how they longed for clean air - yet they all remained, a part and yet apart, or in the icy solitude of Descartes.  They were quintessentially defined by what they didn't like, what they thank-God-were-not.  Definitions, divisions, black and white lines, codes, modes, phobias and phobes were everything.  And yet they knew nothing, and Franzen as much as Curly, who, after all, spent half his life barking up the wrong tree, and half his life pissing against parking meters, lamp posts and Franzen's very own trouser leg.

a one hundred and third poem...'good dog'

Julian turned up for work an hour late. 

‘Why are you late?’, asked his boss. 

‘I hate my job’, replied Julian, all sincerity. 

‘Fair enough’, said his boss,

‘Now get on with your work’. 

‘Righto’, said Julian,

And went to his desk,

Like a good dog.

a ninety fourth story...'nose'

‘There’s something growing out of your face’, said Shirley.  ‘It’s my nose’, said Brian.  ‘I know’, said Shirley.  ‘Then why point it out?’, said Brian, ‘you know I have issues about my nose’.  ‘It isn't whether you have issues about your nose or not’, said Shirley, ‘it’s because I think you’re lying’.  ‘Lying about what?’, asked Brian.  ‘Lying about you know what!’, Shirley.  Brian touched his nose.  And then rubbed under his eye.  ‘What do you mean by you know what?’ Shirley was scowling at him from under her new fringe. She was trying not to blink.  Brian sighed, ‘you’re being daft’, he said. Shirley’s nose was twitching, as it always did when she was drunk, angry, excited.  She raised her chin.  ‘Your nose is so long and wonky just now!’, Shirley exclaimed.  Brian sat down on the stair, took out his cigarette papers.  His beard was unkempt.  And his hair was lank, unwashed.  He had dry, red skin under his eyes, a wonky nose, big mother-me eyes.  Shirley liked these.  Swimming pool eyes she called them when Brian gazed at her with love.  Shirley took a wobbly step backwards, bit her top lip and pouted.  ‘Can I have a cigarette?’, she asked after a moment’s silence.  Brian licked the end of his rollie, tapped it on his knee.  ‘You don’t smoke’, he said.  ‘I know’, said Shirley.  ‘Then why ask for a cigarette?’, Brian.  ‘I want some fresh air’, Shirley.  Brian laughed, ‘Where’s your coat?’ he said.  ‘Where did you get that tobacco?’, Shirley said.  Brian stood up and took Shirley in his arms, Shirley melted into his embrace, Brian kissed her on the forehead, then on the lips. ‘No more mention of my nose’, he said.  Shirley sniffled.  ‘Let’s go home’, she said.

a ninety third story...'the city'

I wake up.  It’s grey, early.  A dim light is coming through the curtains, around the sides.  My eyes are heavy and I close them.  Listen to the sound of traffic.  The distant hiss and roar of a jet plane passing overhead.  The white noise of the city.  There are no birds.

When I open my eyes again, it must be half an hour later.  The bedroom is lighter than before, and I can hear the children in the flat next door preparing for school.  I am glad I no longer have to go to school.  I hear a motorbike starting up.  The water pipes in the ceiling. 

The floor is cold when I finally swing my legs out of bed and plant my feet.  The bruise on my big toe still hurts when I flex it.   And the floor needs sweeping.  The city where I live is full of dirt, full of noise – full of people.  But I like it.

The city has colour, thrills, money, buildings, and roads leading everywhere.