a one hundred and fifteenth story...'norman's fifth love letter'

Dear, delectable Rosalind:

My Madonna, my diva, my one and only pain reliever – so glad to know you are alive and well!

You can’t IMAGINE my unfettered ecstasy at finding a letter from you in the mail on my return from the dentist today (and such ingenuous use of the limited space available on a post-it note!).

Yes, I realise NOW may not be the time for US.  But isn’t love too irrational a state of mind to make any sensible judgements about the present, and indeed what is to come? (No need to respond on this if you haven’t any more writing materials – I assume that was the reason for the post-it note).

Being one of two in a loving relationship is, at first, a bit like being blown apart, and then having to rebuild yourself, but in a way that is able to support the other.  It may be that my half of our psychological pleasure palace for two is just a little more developed than your half of it (dare he (I) say such a thing to such a woman – and yet, dare he (I) does (do)!).

By the way, did you ever read Dan Dare as a child?  The boys-own comic about the True British Hero who stood against the invading Martians (‘Treens’) … he was given the moniker ‘Pilot of the Future’, and I guess that’s what I am, a pilot whose plane is heading into the future. You’ll want to be on board, Rosalind, if I get a ‘yes’ from one of those publishers (they are taking their time, which probably means serious consideration).

I’ve always dreamed of being a professional author, as you know, and when my book is published, and then the sequel, the one after that, and so on, perhaps it will make economic sense for an editor to publish my letters (something that happens to all great authors, from Hemmingway to Archer).  And who will be the star of an edition of my collected letters?  Rosalind: You!

Speaking of the future, do you vote?  I can’t remember.  My old school pal, Simkins, is running for election in the local generals (?) next year.  Has some odd views about one or two issues though, and doesn’t seem to advocate much for the Arts; we writers, Rosalind, have to subsist in between creative harvests* (*my term).

And just before I sign off, Bruno was put to sleep this week, you should know.  Still, your letter ended my grief in the manner of a burst of sunshine on a dark, rainy day.

Yours sanguinely,

Norman.

… pilot of the future.

a one hundred and fourteenth story...'norman's fourth love letter'

Dear Rosalind, deary me:

My first love, my last; my best suit, my worst – your silence wears me – but how are you?

I am slow-realiser, Rosalind, and I am slowly realising that it may be my letters are not getting through to you. Or, are they simply getting way-laid in the mail (if so, you won’t be able to answer this, of course, but please, Mr. Postman, Mr. Censor?)?

Rosalind, even the merest scrap of paper with your name hastily scrawled on it (with a kiss?) would be enough for me – there is a place beyond words, after all, where we can communicate should you so desire.  Have you tried Transcendental Meditation?  I think I may take it up, if only to ‘talk’ (‘tune in’?) to you.  But your silence is deathly!  Perhaps I would do better with a Ouija board (?).

Now, Rosalind, I have some bad news to share with you (‘not more bad news!’, I hear you sigh): Bruno (one of my Bullmastiffs – you’ve met him) bit a child when I was walking him around Hampstead Heath, yesterday.  Said child made a frightful scene, not to mention his wretched (and probably filthy rich) parents.  I’ve seen POWs less hysterical!  But what it may mean is that Bruno, bless his canine soul, be put down, or, as the veterinary profession so compassionately puts it, be ‘destroyed’.  This practice completely ignores the fact that Bruno’s death would destroy me too, at least on the insides, where there is already decay.  And what will become of this child now it lives?  A life of milk and plenty, that’s what!

Would you like me to send you a copy of my manuscript (now completed)?  The ending (honeymoon car crash in the French Riviera) may seem a little abrupt, but death comes suddenly to us all (well, most of us, no?); death comes as hard and fast as running face first into an invisible brick wall.

Anyway, I’ve some time on my hands having completed my tour de force (it is, Rosalind, believe me!), and would greatly love to be able to see YOU.  The blossom on the Heath is out, and there’s the scent of summer in the air – it’s really quite romantic.  You might want to help me walk the dogs? (let us hope that I can continue to use the plural in the weeks to come).  Alternatively, I know a delightful café in Hampstead, and it has the most darling waitresses, and hot steaming cups of exotic Brazilian coffee …

Have you ever considered the aroma of food and, or drink erotic?

Yours unwaveringly,

Norman.

…unrequited and yet undeterred!  

a one hundred and thirteenth story...'norman's third love letter'

Darling Rosalind:

My all, my everything, my wet and windy world, my solar system – how are you?

A week has passed, and O! What a long seven days!  I can imagine only the Lord himself hath spent a longer and more arduous time (I am referring to His supposed creation of the universe, including Adam and Eve etcetera). 

Seven days in which I had hoped like a poor fool at some point you would call, or reply to my letters.  Alas, I remain a stranger on the shore (wandering to the aching tune of a saxophone).

Are you really too busy to be in touch?  I suppose you must be, otherwise I know you would have sent me an effervescent reply to at least one of the aforementioned missives.

No word from the publishers (yet), but I have finished the manuscript you’ll be encouraged to know.  Sadly, and perhaps in relief of how I am feeling just now (with mushy pen about to inscribe the agony that would otherwise issue forth from the fleshy, bloody wound of my mouth), I decided to kill off both characters (the man and woman in love) in a car crash on the French Riviera – it was their honeymoon no less!

Woe, woe and more woe: there’s too much of it, Rosalind.  And people forget it takes strength to be gentle and kind.  Either that or they don’t have any strength in the first instance, or an inkling of kindness. 

Remember the last occasion we were together?  Was I not as kind and gentle as a nun or a nurse? (Or a priest?).

You know, I wanted to tell you then that I loved you, I wanted to share my devout and heartfelt feelings for you, Rosalind. And only for you!  Naturally, I could not find the right inspiration, so I write, and write you (and roam, and wait).

I like touching you, Rosalind, when you are with me: a woman’s flesh is soft and forgiving, whereas mine is vile and reptilian (I had a pet crocodile when I was a boy, you know, out on the plantation.  Well, I say I, rather it was a household pet.  We killed it after it bit the legs off the gardener one afternoon - but I did touch it once when it was asleep).

Can I be with you again soon(ish)? And run my yearning fingers through your sweet-smelling hair? And caress your rosy cheek with my homonidean thumbs?  There’s an art show we should go to: I know, well, half know the artist, and doubtless we could get tickets to the opening night – champagne, caviar, the works!

Yours,

Norman

…gentle and kind.

a one hundred and twelfth story...'norman's next love letter'

Dear-est Rosalind:

My dearest one, my urchin one, my sweet n’salty sea-shell, my conch – how are you?

I know it’s only been a couple of days since my last letter, pray forgive me, but I just felt compelled to write again.  I realise you haven’t replied to the first, but still, perhaps you too have been busy?

Busy, busy, busy: that’s me just now.  Trying to get this goddamn manuscript finished for publication (yes, I have three publishers interested in the draft, all of whom say they ‘are looking at it’, and ‘will get back to me with a yes, or no’).  I trust you are as excited as I am at the thought of having a professional author in our future family.

Families? Babies?  Rest assured I adore babies.  Some men of my age don’t, and they sure as hell can’t handle the things on a hangover.  But, me, oh no!  I love babies as much as any woman, as much as I do my two dogs (you’ve met them, the Bullmastiffs), Fritz and Bruno.  Somedays I even I wish I were still one myself (a baby), then you could cradle me in your arms, and I could suck on your breasts (is that too explicit?).

Well, I suppose you’ve been wondering what my novel is about.  Let’s just say (and I realise I may sound a little presumptuous) it could take certain parts of the World of Literature by proverbial storm (I don’t know if a proverbial storm necessarily includes plagues of locusts?).  Anyhow, a critic might say of it: ‘Murikami – eat your heart out!’ (have you read him? Dreadfully over-liked, over-popular and over-rated!), (If you haven’t read him, don’t start now!).

So, to the plot: a man and woman meet in inauspicious surroundings (a grimy city bar), and they end up sharing pizza.  Their fingers touch as they tear and share the slices, and talk about pizza toppings, Italian renaissance painting, that sort of thing.  Then, a crazed ex-mafia goon bursts into the place and sprays bullets into the open kitchen, the man is hit in the shoulder and is taken away in an ambulance … but the thought of this their first meeting (perhaps unsurprisingly in view of the mass murder) never leaves either of them. 

Still, to cut a not very long synopsis short, gradually over the years, and the endless trial proceedings, the two are bought back together, and love blossoms from the darkest, most rootless place.

Like it? (perhaps don’t answer just yet!).

Rosalind:  can I write you more often?  I find on paper words come so much more easily than when I’m trying to speak them.

Bundles of love!

Yours,

Norman

…roaming, and waiting. 

a one hundred and eleventh story...'norman's love letter'

Dear Rosalind:

My sweet, my little piece of treacle, my poppet, my chocolate covered raisin – how are you?

It was mighty fine to see you last night.  You light up my life like a fountain of sparks (pretty ones), and I do so look forward to any moment we can steal together.

On the last bus home – missing you madly already – I thought: Take heart! And don’t worry! You can write her in the morning … so here I am (on paper).

Yes, dearest Rosalind, I love you.  I love you in the purest, most unadulterated way (not in the slack-jawed way of lurv).  My love for you is like a flower, a white magnolia, and it only needs the thought of you to grow.

But Rosalind: call me! Please call.  Your disembowelled disembodied lush voice on the telephone will be as sweet water from the melted snows of Olympus.

The future, Rosalind, you and I – we can write it in the stars (should we wish), and with it, and our love sealed, we would sail over mountains (including Olympus), swim with dolphins (somewhere warm), be king and queen.  Sound good?!

I have a dream!  It’s a dream about you.  A pre-Raphelian dream.  And I’m there too (if you’ll excuse me).  You are lying asleep in a shady bower, beautifully asleep on a bed of primroses, and I, dressed in knight's armour, black and gold, am watching you from a nearby thicket (so far, it may seem creepy, but stick with it!).

Next, a pearly tear slivers from your underneath your eyelashes and settles on your cheek: you are crying for something – the rack of this rough world? And I see it (the tear), and come from behind my thicket, and elegantly (at least for a man dressed head to toe in armour) stride over, take your precious head in my hands, and give you the kiss of life (or wakefulness, I’m not sure). 

Anyhow, to cut a not very long story short – the tear it turns out (in the dream) was shed for me.

Rosalind: have you ever cried for me?  Cried over me? (not literally, of course). 

If so, then do you not love me?

O! For I am sick with love for you!  Sick, sick, sick with the joy of being in love!

Until the next time I can be with you,

Yours (probably) forever,

Norman

… and I roam.

a one hundred and twenty ninth poem...'campaign for real ale'

Helmut brewed beer from

Broken biscuits and old 

Bus tickets, then watered it down,

Served chilled, and

Since 99% of the lunks whose

Bellies it filled understood

Less than 1% how beer should be made, 

Helmut's recipe went multi-national,

Every weekend helping dim,

Colourless people get laid.

a one hundred and twenty eighth poem...'existenz'

Listen:

The past has died, the

Future will never have

Life, and the

Present is forever

Dying.