It’s fine until I walk away. Ouch. That feels sad. I don’t know why.
‘Because we care but we’re moving on’ and it sounds like a song, but it’s what you say.
And as I walk away I carry this strange sadness in my palm and look at it without asking why.
Yellow leaves turn under my feet
hair blows around my ears, and I could be walking anywhere.
There’s something in that connection, between two pairs of eyes.
It’s strange when it begins to change.It is stranger
when you realise it will never totally die,
that you can always look back in the same way; with powerful eyes.
I watch my palm.
It quivers- and fractures the present, leaves a gap, a fissure, a dent.
This spider’s web is built on empty spaces.
Across a pocket, that look is suspended: that delicate thread, that once held our eyes together, holds together life, too.
Powerful gaps. Tug on that- and you realise how weak we are.
It shows up this pretty thing in my palm.
That hug where bodies hold, lean on a million repeats;
the same warm pockets of air, never change. Just as long as you let go.
Now and two years ago and probably in another ten.
It hurts that it doesn’t go away, but it’s pretty all the same.
Echoes of the past reverberate in the distance,
and my present is here.
It rests against deep lines in my palm.
London film festival
I am usually on the peripheries of entertaining activities; hanging around outside or wandering off. I find it impossibly boring to commit myself to more than half an hour of sustained concentration in a controlled environment. I will get to a gig as the headlining act begins so that I won’t want to leave before; otherwise I require a bar which I can escape to; better still is a gig in a bar so that the stage doesn't require my full attention. Poetry readings make me cringe, but if the point is to dance or to talk, I'm happy. The cinema involves a full couple of hours in a small chair in the dark, looking in one direction. Not that I dislike film; I would just rather watch shorts at home. The theatre is desperately more trapping once I want to leave at an inconvenient moment, but they comfortingly give me the opporuntiy to run away halfway through. Undecided, fickle, and impatient. Yes, I know.
On the last night of the London Film Festival, I decided that these oddities of mine needed to be ignored, because I was sure that I'd get something out of this art once I managed to force myself beyond the heavy doors and into a pew. Finding myself on the Embankment outside the National with a plastic cup of wine in hand, I was very proud of my initiative. It was one of those late summer evenings which defies autumn; despite being October, there was a casual positivity in the air as the sun set. An energy brimmed as the London lights reflected brighter on the blackening Thames, and glittering taxis trundled past on the other side. I sat under the bridge watching people in blazers finger a record and book stall as I eavesdropped on the conversations around me, and let the last moments of tickets to a film pass me by. Why would I be trapped in a theatre when I could be outside, breathing in sweet autumn air watching passers-by. My wine made me smiling and chatty, and the last thing I would do is lock myself away from all that hum, in a dark pixilated room. But I dutifully feigned disappointment to myself, so that I felt cultured. Atmosphere and people-watching is far more pleasing to me than performance. I had a sneaking suspicion the potential audiences were also here partly for the quiet din, and I was part of the festival even if I had never had any intention of watching a film. One has to pretend direction in order to reach such aimless freedom and be gifted with such viewing material.
On the last night of the London Film Festival, I decided that these oddities of mine needed to be ignored, because I was sure that I'd get something out of this art once I managed to force myself beyond the heavy doors and into a pew. Finding myself on the Embankment outside the National with a plastic cup of wine in hand, I was very proud of my initiative. It was one of those late summer evenings which defies autumn; despite being October, there was a casual positivity in the air as the sun set. An energy brimmed as the London lights reflected brighter on the blackening Thames, and glittering taxis trundled past on the other side. I sat under the bridge watching people in blazers finger a record and book stall as I eavesdropped on the conversations around me, and let the last moments of tickets to a film pass me by. Why would I be trapped in a theatre when I could be outside, breathing in sweet autumn air watching passers-by. My wine made me smiling and chatty, and the last thing I would do is lock myself away from all that hum, in a dark pixilated room. But I dutifully feigned disappointment to myself, so that I felt cultured. Atmosphere and people-watching is far more pleasing to me than performance. I had a sneaking suspicion the potential audiences were also here partly for the quiet din, and I was part of the festival even if I had never had any intention of watching a film. One has to pretend direction in order to reach such aimless freedom and be gifted with such viewing material.
Superpowers and Snow
As deemed by stereotype and practice, the British and can find little that is more conducive to conversation than a discussion of the weather, perhaps because the exchange is usually brief. It holds us together, makes us a nation of whining grannies with Seasonal Affective Disorder who enjoy complaining about politicians. The next black cloud approaching gives us a certain je ne sais quoi; a sophisticated excuse not to talk to strangers or smile in public, and a great reason to wear unfashionable wellies in all seasons. Global Warming is an absolute nightmare. We don’t know where to turn. With it failing to die off after a spin in the media, we are still (and rightly so) troubled by melting ice and stranded polar bears. It is the new excuse to not look at people no matter how nice the weather is, because they probably have an irresponsibly sized carbon footprint.
I wonder if this weather-concern could be an undiscovered method of maintaining national unity elsewhere on the globe: it is fantastic mutual ground. I might be British, but the climate is an important way of associating with your fellow hated neighbour. It changes our moods, affects how many jumpers we have to wear and prescribes and how horrible the journey to work was. The push to ‘forge national identity’ in Afghanistan may be misled. The oxymoronic forced democracy tactic should be changed in slant to enforced complaining about the weather, if the design is to make people agree on something. Taking it a step further, maybe a global mutual and restrained unity is on the cards seen as we are all in this together.
China seems to be dealing the extreme weather changes on a slightly different tact to Britain, however: instead of self-depreciating social distain, they are claiming that they did it on purpose. Yes, that right: they are not in fact at the mercy of the weather as we know it; instead of worry and guilt, snow storms and droughts are under control, simply an exuberant display of their weather-control-superpowers. Magic and technology in the skies rather than doubt and dreariness are the tools with which China claims its identity as a nation booming. That has to be one sure way of dissociating themselves from other nations. Their conversations about the weather will eavesdrop slightly differently to ours, I would imagine. Circling around a general amazement at the cheek of a leader who wants to manipulate the sky: Fire a rocket and the sky turns white, or blue, or rains… Perhaps organ-extension by association is just being taken past shiny cars and on to the next level of geoengineering. It all sounds a bit like puff and PR: What better way to hit world news than claiming the ability to induce blue skies and snow storms. Does China have the answer to global warming, the G2 wondered this week, with a smirk in the direction of James Bond. This meddling has got to do more harm than good; a global reaction in the form of treacle rain straight from a mad hatter's tea party.
Maybe China is being too hasty with publicity, though. Thousands have been stranded in freezing ice and snow, wondering which bit of the weather was a stunt. That has got to be a bit of a head-spin for the locals: Can you imagine what would happen if Gordon Brown started letting of snow-rockets here? I dread to think, but it might change our attitude to wind and rain. It would certainly make us complain more about where our tax money is going. This all seems to be looking for inspiration from an episode of Danger Mouse if you ask me. If induced rain clouds aren't enough to make a nation proud, it could at least distract inhabitants with a healthy dose of communal self-pity and lethargy.
I wonder if this weather-concern could be an undiscovered method of maintaining national unity elsewhere on the globe: it is fantastic mutual ground. I might be British, but the climate is an important way of associating with your fellow hated neighbour. It changes our moods, affects how many jumpers we have to wear and prescribes and how horrible the journey to work was. The push to ‘forge national identity’ in Afghanistan may be misled. The oxymoronic forced democracy tactic should be changed in slant to enforced complaining about the weather, if the design is to make people agree on something. Taking it a step further, maybe a global mutual and restrained unity is on the cards seen as we are all in this together.
China seems to be dealing the extreme weather changes on a slightly different tact to Britain, however: instead of self-depreciating social distain, they are claiming that they did it on purpose. Yes, that right: they are not in fact at the mercy of the weather as we know it; instead of worry and guilt, snow storms and droughts are under control, simply an exuberant display of their weather-control-superpowers. Magic and technology in the skies rather than doubt and dreariness are the tools with which China claims its identity as a nation booming. That has to be one sure way of dissociating themselves from other nations. Their conversations about the weather will eavesdrop slightly differently to ours, I would imagine. Circling around a general amazement at the cheek of a leader who wants to manipulate the sky: Fire a rocket and the sky turns white, or blue, or rains… Perhaps organ-extension by association is just being taken past shiny cars and on to the next level of geoengineering. It all sounds a bit like puff and PR: What better way to hit world news than claiming the ability to induce blue skies and snow storms. Does China have the answer to global warming, the G2 wondered this week, with a smirk in the direction of James Bond. This meddling has got to do more harm than good; a global reaction in the form of treacle rain straight from a mad hatter's tea party.
Maybe China is being too hasty with publicity, though. Thousands have been stranded in freezing ice and snow, wondering which bit of the weather was a stunt. That has got to be a bit of a head-spin for the locals: Can you imagine what would happen if Gordon Brown started letting of snow-rockets here? I dread to think, but it might change our attitude to wind and rain. It would certainly make us complain more about where our tax money is going. This all seems to be looking for inspiration from an episode of Danger Mouse if you ask me. If induced rain clouds aren't enough to make a nation proud, it could at least distract inhabitants with a healthy dose of communal self-pity and lethargy.
honey flavoured robots, please
The age of technology and fluro-irridescent leggings which has been hampered after, sought after from a past of World Wars and pillaging, Berlin Walls and the wireless, has dawned. What we have to show for our progression is facebook and twittering. We should be heading for the next era of perfection, surely. It has been a while… Why have they not created a vaccination for hangovers or a cure for feeling tired? Why am I not wallowing in milk and honey, with robots tending to my every need? Perhaps what I should mean is, why are there still people in cities across the world walking for miles to fetch clean water, or communities in Africa and India who have to struggle against big corporations ploughing through their homes to get the last dribbles of oil from under their feet? They should be swimming in a syrupy milkshake, too.
The point is, whether or not David Dimbleby can successfully humiliate morons should not be a primary irritation at this point. Redress: Even if we are a fairly carefree bunch, and even if the milk appeals, we know the nonsensical pedalling of the likes of Griffin. We already know that extremist politics with their promise of a pure-blood utopia are a sickening perversion of reality. Despite my seeming disregard for online chatter and picture-swapping, thankfully we seem to be on the brink of instant and near-universal communication which allows us to rip the piss out of such idiots within a loud-mouthed community.
So, while Griffin tries to hark his cronies back to a Golden Age of Churchill, war, rations, and racism, he has got it all wrong. We are having enough fun in our shiny online world. If he wants to get the public on side then he underestimates their intelligence at his peril. The magic of communication has provided us with handfuls of sarcasm to throw around. We have nothing to fear. Utopia is not white, a little sparse, and full of fat red-faced blokes pointing out dithering women and downing ale; Photographs of bus bombs and dead political leaders is erring from your cause. I won’t make any promises, but try robots; you might be more successful.
The point is, whether or not David Dimbleby can successfully humiliate morons should not be a primary irritation at this point. Redress: Even if we are a fairly carefree bunch, and even if the milk appeals, we know the nonsensical pedalling of the likes of Griffin. We already know that extremist politics with their promise of a pure-blood utopia are a sickening perversion of reality. Despite my seeming disregard for online chatter and picture-swapping, thankfully we seem to be on the brink of instant and near-universal communication which allows us to rip the piss out of such idiots within a loud-mouthed community.
So, while Griffin tries to hark his cronies back to a Golden Age of Churchill, war, rations, and racism, he has got it all wrong. We are having enough fun in our shiny online world. If he wants to get the public on side then he underestimates their intelligence at his peril. The magic of communication has provided us with handfuls of sarcasm to throw around. We have nothing to fear. Utopia is not white, a little sparse, and full of fat red-faced blokes pointing out dithering women and downing ale; Photographs of bus bombs and dead political leaders is erring from your cause. I won’t make any promises, but try robots; you might be more successful.
it
She dropped down, and landed on soft leaves which crushed her fall. Catching her balance on bent knees and one hand, she looked up, to find herself eye to eye with something else.
She didn’t move, except to sway with her heartbeat. The eyes held contact, peaceful. She failed to acknowledge what she was looking at for the time it took for her knees to ache. Bewildered, she continued to look for fear of a response if she dropped her gaze. Next her eyes began to ache and noticing, they flickered a blink. It blinked slowly back and shuffled a half step away, maintaining eye contact. It seemed just as stunned and bewildered as she did.
She didn’t move, except to sway with her heartbeat. The eyes held contact, peaceful. She failed to acknowledge what she was looking at for the time it took for her knees to ache. Bewildered, she continued to look for fear of a response if she dropped her gaze. Next her eyes began to ache and noticing, they flickered a blink. It blinked slowly back and shuffled a half step away, maintaining eye contact. It seemed just as stunned and bewildered as she did.
There's Nothing There
I ache. Why do I always ache, deep down, in my spine, in the back of the pit in my stomach. I ache I ache I ache. Is this sadness? State of mind seems so whimsical, so suddenly swayed by little breezes, puffs of air caused by little words, ripples of drops of alcohol from days before; Washing across nerve endings, sending this hot ache through me. I sit and ache, and then I have to write. Words are never happiness for me. They are always lost, discontent, uneven, un-signifying. They are never what they should be, they never add up, like numbers of shapes, like colours or songs. That is the mood which makes me want to play with them, the only medium that will do for this ache. They pretend to mean it, but then shift away: they look pretentious, performing, perforated. Yet too solid for the space they were supposed to build… that something shimmering and aching and lost which smears itself across days and thoughts. And so it is that they seem to be the best way of getting at it.
“There’s nothing there.” He decided, looking rather disappointed.
“There will be. Just look, I’m sure there must be.”
“But there isn’t. I’m looking right now, and it isn’t, I can’t make anything out.”
“Well, according to this it is there.”
Getting exasperated, he replied, “you come and look then, I’m telling you there’s not!” He continued furrowing his brow, straining his eyes into the gap, persuading his mind to pick up on something.
“I’m reading about it here…” she continued rolling her finger across the mouse, hunched over a screen, neck out, her back to him. “…and it should be. You’re looking wrong; it is there. Something real, I’m sure. There is definitely something real.”
He stood up straight, hands on hips and looked around disapprovingly. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”
“Just look for it!”
“It isn’t there! I can’t see it.”
There was a long pause in which he stared into the back of her head, into the scrunched half-ponytail as if she might notice his gaze and respond. He wouldn’t be pulling that expression if she could see him. The mouse rolled up and down the screen.
‘Look without looking’ she said, distracted by something on the screen. She spoke from lips which operated far away from the mind which continued scanning symbols on the screen.
“Do you want me to pretend that I can see, just to keep you happy?” his tone was getting increasingly tense. He pulled syllables out intentionally, like an elastic band; wanting them to snap; safe in the knowledge that elastic bands never really did. He was annoyed at himself for wanting to please her.
She sighed a motherly sigh, one that said ‘ohforgoodnesssakewhyareyousodifficult…’ It lasted about that long, too.
“Don’t sigh at me like that.”
“I’m not”
He pulled a face at the air as if he had an audience with whom he could agree on the ridiculous.
“Look, you can see something. Just put them back on.” She meant the black glasses, with pinprick holes for light to come through. Someone might perceive something outside of the usual forms of seeing or reading with blacked-out vision.
“What, on earth, are you reading?” Exasperation was getting the better of his patience for these silly games. These stupid ideas she was always putting on him, these ridiculous ideas about what could and could not be seen. How dare she make him look like such a fool with these -…“Look, for yourself! I’m not going to stand he like a plum any more, while you read out nonsensical instructions to me, if you’re so sure then you should be doing this. I’ll read to you, if you like, but I am not doing this any more!” His voiced had reached a full level of intensity, a couple of notches away from shouting and well into the region of wounded animal.
She looked up at him, wide eyed. ‘Hey..! Hey, hey, hey,’ she soothed, ‘hey… don’t worry, relax.’ She got up and walked over to him, wide brown eyes still focussed softly and fully onto his. ‘I didn’t know it would get to you so much it’s only an exercise; it’s not supposed to be stressful. If you don’t understand, it’s ok, I’ll ask someone else.’ She put his hand on his arm. ‘I thought you wanted to, what has come over you?’
Her eyes set deep into his were another world from the back of her head. He heard his voice echoing though his mind back to him, repeating stressed tones which overreacted the situation and sounded foolish, repeating themselves back like that. ‘I, don’t know what came over me.’ He smiled with half of his mouth. He laughed. ‘Sorry- I’ he smiled and stepped back into his jovial self. ‘Okay. I don’t know why- what that was- I don’t know why I suddenly felt so annoyed.’
She looked worried. ‘I’m not mad!’ he interjected, trying to sound jovial. He was making it worse.
She continued with a soothing voice which made it yet worse again- ‘I never said you were, it’s ok…’
He felt himself getting frustrated again and said, ‘I’m a bit edgy today, would you like something? I need something.’ Her gaze lingered before she turned back to the desk, ‘yeah, ok!’ she called as he went off into the kitchen.
When he came back in she said she’d figured it out; that it wasn’t something you could see in your mind by looking, instead you had to ‘sort of not look’ because it was not a thing, and that was the best she could do to describe it.
‘Try doing it when you dreaming.’
‘How can I do that?’
There was a long pause.
‘Hmm...’
And another-
‘Good point.’
And another-
‘I once heard that you could practice, and learn lucid dreaming…’ she smiled. A pause: ‘Yes. This is pointless isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ He agreed. ‘Things- life- ideas- I don’t know, whatever all this is getting at: it just ‘is’. There isn’t any way to see it clearly. Especially not someone who doesn’t even know what he is supposed to want to see. I’m quite happy with things as they are.’
She scratched behind her ear, delicately, with her slender fingers, gazing out of the window. She tucked a strand behind her ear and straightened up. ‘I’ve got another idea!’
‘No. I’ve got a headache. Nothing about this conversation has made any sense. Leave it alone now.’ He picked up a newspaper, and left.
Later, she wondered if the anger might have been the edge of the thing which she was after. She had to convince him to try again.
“There’s nothing there.” He decided, looking rather disappointed.
“There will be. Just look, I’m sure there must be.”
“But there isn’t. I’m looking right now, and it isn’t, I can’t make anything out.”
“Well, according to this it is there.”
Getting exasperated, he replied, “you come and look then, I’m telling you there’s not!” He continued furrowing his brow, straining his eyes into the gap, persuading his mind to pick up on something.
“I’m reading about it here…” she continued rolling her finger across the mouse, hunched over a screen, neck out, her back to him. “…and it should be. You’re looking wrong; it is there. Something real, I’m sure. There is definitely something real.”
He stood up straight, hands on hips and looked around disapprovingly. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”
“Just look for it!”
“It isn’t there! I can’t see it.”
There was a long pause in which he stared into the back of her head, into the scrunched half-ponytail as if she might notice his gaze and respond. He wouldn’t be pulling that expression if she could see him. The mouse rolled up and down the screen.
‘Look without looking’ she said, distracted by something on the screen. She spoke from lips which operated far away from the mind which continued scanning symbols on the screen.
“Do you want me to pretend that I can see, just to keep you happy?” his tone was getting increasingly tense. He pulled syllables out intentionally, like an elastic band; wanting them to snap; safe in the knowledge that elastic bands never really did. He was annoyed at himself for wanting to please her.
She sighed a motherly sigh, one that said ‘ohforgoodnesssakewhyareyousodifficult…’ It lasted about that long, too.
“Don’t sigh at me like that.”
“I’m not”
He pulled a face at the air as if he had an audience with whom he could agree on the ridiculous.
“Look, you can see something. Just put them back on.” She meant the black glasses, with pinprick holes for light to come through. Someone might perceive something outside of the usual forms of seeing or reading with blacked-out vision.
“What, on earth, are you reading?” Exasperation was getting the better of his patience for these silly games. These stupid ideas she was always putting on him, these ridiculous ideas about what could and could not be seen. How dare she make him look like such a fool with these -…“Look, for yourself! I’m not going to stand he like a plum any more, while you read out nonsensical instructions to me, if you’re so sure then you should be doing this. I’ll read to you, if you like, but I am not doing this any more!” His voiced had reached a full level of intensity, a couple of notches away from shouting and well into the region of wounded animal.
She looked up at him, wide eyed. ‘Hey..! Hey, hey, hey,’ she soothed, ‘hey… don’t worry, relax.’ She got up and walked over to him, wide brown eyes still focussed softly and fully onto his. ‘I didn’t know it would get to you so much it’s only an exercise; it’s not supposed to be stressful. If you don’t understand, it’s ok, I’ll ask someone else.’ She put his hand on his arm. ‘I thought you wanted to, what has come over you?’
Her eyes set deep into his were another world from the back of her head. He heard his voice echoing though his mind back to him, repeating stressed tones which overreacted the situation and sounded foolish, repeating themselves back like that. ‘I, don’t know what came over me.’ He smiled with half of his mouth. He laughed. ‘Sorry- I’ he smiled and stepped back into his jovial self. ‘Okay. I don’t know why- what that was- I don’t know why I suddenly felt so annoyed.’
She looked worried. ‘I’m not mad!’ he interjected, trying to sound jovial. He was making it worse.
She continued with a soothing voice which made it yet worse again- ‘I never said you were, it’s ok…’
He felt himself getting frustrated again and said, ‘I’m a bit edgy today, would you like something? I need something.’ Her gaze lingered before she turned back to the desk, ‘yeah, ok!’ she called as he went off into the kitchen.
When he came back in she said she’d figured it out; that it wasn’t something you could see in your mind by looking, instead you had to ‘sort of not look’ because it was not a thing, and that was the best she could do to describe it.
‘Try doing it when you dreaming.’
‘How can I do that?’
There was a long pause.
‘Hmm...’
And another-
‘Good point.’
And another-
‘I once heard that you could practice, and learn lucid dreaming…’ she smiled. A pause: ‘Yes. This is pointless isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ He agreed. ‘Things- life- ideas- I don’t know, whatever all this is getting at: it just ‘is’. There isn’t any way to see it clearly. Especially not someone who doesn’t even know what he is supposed to want to see. I’m quite happy with things as they are.’
She scratched behind her ear, delicately, with her slender fingers, gazing out of the window. She tucked a strand behind her ear and straightened up. ‘I’ve got another idea!’
‘No. I’ve got a headache. Nothing about this conversation has made any sense. Leave it alone now.’ He picked up a newspaper, and left.
Later, she wondered if the anger might have been the edge of the thing which she was after. She had to convince him to try again.
Mari To Be Continued... (for hannah)
Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so
pale.—
Macbeth, Act V S I
As Mari sat by the stream, she now had time in pocket to wonder what had led her there in the first place. The water reflected opaque green swirls into Mari’s eyes, as it spiralled over pebbles and gurgled into tiny waterfalls. She watched it make its busy way past her, feeling its way over every surface, streaming away into shady bushes.
She dipped the backs of her hands into the water, holding them out in front of her to watch little whorls of water cross her palms, dissolving the ink that stained her hands, and, she thought, her life.
She was a deep-thinking little girl, and was never quite sure if they meant it when they told her she was like ‘an old women’ with her furrowed brow and hazy thoughts. Perhaps she was – old, that is. Sometimes she felt very old.
Yet there was no one here to listen in except the stream, and the chirruping little songbirds hidden in the leaves’ shadows. She squatted very still on the soles of her feet, her elbows on her knees, her eyes in her palms. The sounds tinkled together to make uneven music which sometimes caught chords and often did not.
She was thinking, deeply again, washing back and forth over her mind, dissolving bits, and letting bits stay dry, as water and memory tended to do… wondering at why she was sitting here, cold and alone, unsure as to the time of day, and covered in ink.
Whilst these ink splodges had led her to washing them off, she thought, perhaps it had been the little hole, that gap in the curtain’s folds which had started everything in the first place. Yes – now she came to think of it, it was the hole in things that got her here, not spilt ink.
She had been lying in bed awake, watching the breeze gently push her bedroom curtain. She liked to imagine birds flying in the sky beyond. Staring absently, she had noticed a black mark. She had wondered what it had been- a spider, a shadow, or maybe a burn or stain. The harder she stared at it the less like anything it looked, and she wondered if it was there at all.
Curiosity over came her, and she made her way slowly to the curtain, thinking with each step that yet the next one would reveal what she was looking at. She edged forwards, her eyes blurring in perspective as she got closer- the colour of the fabric spreading to the outreaches of her vision. Her eyes did not falter to correct her focus. Heavy navy silk seeped into every corner, yet still that spot remained. Without noticing, she had become so close to the curtain that her eyelashes brushed the fabric. And the indefinite dot had turned out to be a little hole. She stepped back and blinked focus back to her eyes, bewildered at what she’d seen. As she had done so, the curtains swung open before her to display a huge circus ring and rolling spotlights which paced and swung about a dusty floor. A very keen-looking little man came rushing over to her, with a big moustache and coat tails which she imagined trailed right to the other side of the ring. He handed her a bunch of enormous feathers as though they were a huge bouquet, and bowed graciously away from her. These feathers had been like nothing she had ever seen before, and she tried to remember what kind of bird might make feathers like this. They were almost peacock-like, with fine soft spindles of silvery white plumage decorating the edges of a teardrop shape, humming around a dark centre pool of black and navy that looked out like a pupil.
Looking down at her hands, newly adorned with such fantastic objects, she saw that she was wearing different clothes, with tight fitting embroidered blue sleeves which reflected her face back to her from the tiny stitched-on mirrors white framed their wrists. She saw that her head was adorned with feathers and sequins, and her face was painted for the performance.
‘Aaand, now… Madame…. Oieseau….!!’ He shouted, to an audience in the darkness beyond the edge of the ring. He had winked at her, and made a juggling motion with his hands, before disappearing beyond the circle of light that now flooded her eyes.
Music riddled away in the background, happily repetitive, running circles through the air. Alone, and looking up at the black and blue striped dome above her, she found herself throwing. The feathers, incredibly light, soared up through the air, the quill arrowed upwards until the feather lost its speed and caught the weight of the air, performing an arabesque sideways slice, and twisting back down vertically. The weight of the quill somehow carried it back to her hands, after a pause in which each looked as though it would never drop and just float away. Her hands were throwing and catching and throwing as though it were the simplest thing in the world, and she watched the air above her, amazed at the beautiful twisting patterns.
Forgetting that she was juggling, Mari had sat down to find some paper in her bag- she wanted to make a note of how this was happening, of how beautiful it looked, try and draw the snaking twist of these weightless streams of white. She found her ink well and unscrewed the lid, and found a scrap of paper which she placed on her knees, while she dipped the quill into the ink pot. Four feathers had come floating down around her, but Mari hadn’t noticed. She looked back up, but there was nothing there, only stars.
For a moment, she continued watching the sky, nib poised. She decided to try and write it down anyway.
Heavy soft feathers swished their slow way back down around her, and cats watched, silver-toothed from the alleyways as the remnants of an incredible bird dusted to the ground and settled. The only sign of life was the plumage, ruffled very slightly by a warm breeze which curved smoothly through the streets. Nothing moved, and the stale glow of yellow street lamps distorted her face to a deadly opacity. Mask on, she looked up, her eyes blacker than before.
She smiled toothily at her new surroundings, strangely confident, strangely possessed. She gave a dangerous and strange smile inwardly to herself, as if she were simultaneously comforting and threatening her little self, tempting it with the mask, the night, the purring which glowed at the seams, beyond the black cardboard cut-out of this backlit scene.
It made her jump. A face, appeared in hers. A frowning face, formed only by the shadows which met the light that shone on it, made her jump and drop her smile. It was topped by a long black hat which stretched into the sky, and she lost her balance. Her heart beat faster and the grey and black lips asked her accusingly ‘white hawk…’ an elecuted voice pronounced, as if from elsewhere, ‘do you know… do you know where…’
She shook her head. ‘I ain’t asked yet!’ it snapped into her, nipping her already shaken edges, and making her jump. ‘Do you know, where…’ it returned to its question, politely. He looked around as if for inspiration, one eye twitching, seeming to sniff the air. She was cornered. She felt in a spot light, huddled on a step in a doorway. The face leant over her and seemed to look at her through the stale breath which she could feel around her cheeks, chocking her throat. Her limbs twitched, looking for a way out. And out of the corner of her eye, she saw a white rabbit dash into the night. That was what she needed to do-
‘No, sorry, I don’t!’ this time her smile was eager and nervous and she jumped up quickly, making polite excuses and trotting away, heart banging in her ears, as he shouted after her
‘White ‘awk! Do you know the WHITE AWK?!’
Cure her of that.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?
Macbeth, Act V S III
pale.—
Macbeth, Act V S I
As Mari sat by the stream, she now had time in pocket to wonder what had led her there in the first place. The water reflected opaque green swirls into Mari’s eyes, as it spiralled over pebbles and gurgled into tiny waterfalls. She watched it make its busy way past her, feeling its way over every surface, streaming away into shady bushes.
She dipped the backs of her hands into the water, holding them out in front of her to watch little whorls of water cross her palms, dissolving the ink that stained her hands, and, she thought, her life.
She was a deep-thinking little girl, and was never quite sure if they meant it when they told her she was like ‘an old women’ with her furrowed brow and hazy thoughts. Perhaps she was – old, that is. Sometimes she felt very old.
Yet there was no one here to listen in except the stream, and the chirruping little songbirds hidden in the leaves’ shadows. She squatted very still on the soles of her feet, her elbows on her knees, her eyes in her palms. The sounds tinkled together to make uneven music which sometimes caught chords and often did not.
She was thinking, deeply again, washing back and forth over her mind, dissolving bits, and letting bits stay dry, as water and memory tended to do… wondering at why she was sitting here, cold and alone, unsure as to the time of day, and covered in ink.
Whilst these ink splodges had led her to washing them off, she thought, perhaps it had been the little hole, that gap in the curtain’s folds which had started everything in the first place. Yes – now she came to think of it, it was the hole in things that got her here, not spilt ink.
She had been lying in bed awake, watching the breeze gently push her bedroom curtain. She liked to imagine birds flying in the sky beyond. Staring absently, she had noticed a black mark. She had wondered what it had been- a spider, a shadow, or maybe a burn or stain. The harder she stared at it the less like anything it looked, and she wondered if it was there at all.
Curiosity over came her, and she made her way slowly to the curtain, thinking with each step that yet the next one would reveal what she was looking at. She edged forwards, her eyes blurring in perspective as she got closer- the colour of the fabric spreading to the outreaches of her vision. Her eyes did not falter to correct her focus. Heavy navy silk seeped into every corner, yet still that spot remained. Without noticing, she had become so close to the curtain that her eyelashes brushed the fabric. And the indefinite dot had turned out to be a little hole. She stepped back and blinked focus back to her eyes, bewildered at what she’d seen. As she had done so, the curtains swung open before her to display a huge circus ring and rolling spotlights which paced and swung about a dusty floor. A very keen-looking little man came rushing over to her, with a big moustache and coat tails which she imagined trailed right to the other side of the ring. He handed her a bunch of enormous feathers as though they were a huge bouquet, and bowed graciously away from her. These feathers had been like nothing she had ever seen before, and she tried to remember what kind of bird might make feathers like this. They were almost peacock-like, with fine soft spindles of silvery white plumage decorating the edges of a teardrop shape, humming around a dark centre pool of black and navy that looked out like a pupil.
Looking down at her hands, newly adorned with such fantastic objects, she saw that she was wearing different clothes, with tight fitting embroidered blue sleeves which reflected her face back to her from the tiny stitched-on mirrors white framed their wrists. She saw that her head was adorned with feathers and sequins, and her face was painted for the performance.
‘Aaand, now… Madame…. Oieseau….!!’ He shouted, to an audience in the darkness beyond the edge of the ring. He had winked at her, and made a juggling motion with his hands, before disappearing beyond the circle of light that now flooded her eyes.
Music riddled away in the background, happily repetitive, running circles through the air. Alone, and looking up at the black and blue striped dome above her, she found herself throwing. The feathers, incredibly light, soared up through the air, the quill arrowed upwards until the feather lost its speed and caught the weight of the air, performing an arabesque sideways slice, and twisting back down vertically. The weight of the quill somehow carried it back to her hands, after a pause in which each looked as though it would never drop and just float away. Her hands were throwing and catching and throwing as though it were the simplest thing in the world, and she watched the air above her, amazed at the beautiful twisting patterns.
Forgetting that she was juggling, Mari had sat down to find some paper in her bag- she wanted to make a note of how this was happening, of how beautiful it looked, try and draw the snaking twist of these weightless streams of white. She found her ink well and unscrewed the lid, and found a scrap of paper which she placed on her knees, while she dipped the quill into the ink pot. Four feathers had come floating down around her, but Mari hadn’t noticed. She looked back up, but there was nothing there, only stars.
For a moment, she continued watching the sky, nib poised. She decided to try and write it down anyway.
Heavy soft feathers swished their slow way back down around her, and cats watched, silver-toothed from the alleyways as the remnants of an incredible bird dusted to the ground and settled. The only sign of life was the plumage, ruffled very slightly by a warm breeze which curved smoothly through the streets. Nothing moved, and the stale glow of yellow street lamps distorted her face to a deadly opacity. Mask on, she looked up, her eyes blacker than before.
She smiled toothily at her new surroundings, strangely confident, strangely possessed. She gave a dangerous and strange smile inwardly to herself, as if she were simultaneously comforting and threatening her little self, tempting it with the mask, the night, the purring which glowed at the seams, beyond the black cardboard cut-out of this backlit scene.
It made her jump. A face, appeared in hers. A frowning face, formed only by the shadows which met the light that shone on it, made her jump and drop her smile. It was topped by a long black hat which stretched into the sky, and she lost her balance. Her heart beat faster and the grey and black lips asked her accusingly ‘white hawk…’ an elecuted voice pronounced, as if from elsewhere, ‘do you know… do you know where…’
She shook her head. ‘I ain’t asked yet!’ it snapped into her, nipping her already shaken edges, and making her jump. ‘Do you know, where…’ it returned to its question, politely. He looked around as if for inspiration, one eye twitching, seeming to sniff the air. She was cornered. She felt in a spot light, huddled on a step in a doorway. The face leant over her and seemed to look at her through the stale breath which she could feel around her cheeks, chocking her throat. Her limbs twitched, looking for a way out. And out of the corner of her eye, she saw a white rabbit dash into the night. That was what she needed to do-
‘No, sorry, I don’t!’ this time her smile was eager and nervous and she jumped up quickly, making polite excuses and trotting away, heart banging in her ears, as he shouted after her
‘White ‘awk! Do you know the WHITE AWK?!’
Cure her of that.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?
Macbeth, Act V S III
Bread Flower
Flowers on street-trees are surreal in an unnoticeable way; they are in a world of their own, an incongruent parallel zone, sitting delicately waiting to be penetrated by life on concrete-paved road, by rushing cars and drunken bar-goers. Perhaps we are the sub-real part: Imaginary politics and imaginary monetary value has paved over and cheatingly established the unknowable for us, forming solid brick-like meaning in our fluctuating, fleshy, watery bodies. The trees don’t need hair braids, or expensive shoes. The sunlight shifting through their leaves doesn’t need fake perfume, and nor do the birds that live off our crumbs in a urine-smelling city built with money and posters of things-you-need-because-you-don’t-have-them-yet.
The sun’s heat gradually swells through cool night air and no shops are open in Osoppo except the two bakeries. There’s something which is real: the smell of bread baking in the morning. The smell of toasted wheat and seeds is something whole; sugary and creamy and salty all at once. Yeasted bread is crammed together by so many different human processes, yet it requires patience. Feeding, watering, warming and waiting to create food that is so satisfying to our mouths. Bread joins the real time outside of clocks, time which varies according to processes and energy, light and heat; rather than mechanics and paced ticking. We wait for bread to grow, bubble into a whole, before sealing it in the oven: Hands, heat, breathing. The bakery opens at 6.30 am, and I can imagine worn fat female palms, stretching away at 4 this morning, throwing slabs of dough onto floured surfaces and neatly rolling spirals into buttered trays. Art and labour, life and food: Home takes on a more succinct meaning with the smell of baking bread. Away from home and breathing the scent deeply, I walk with purposeless certainty, watching the streets as I pass through them.
The sun’s heat gradually swells through cool night air and no shops are open in Osoppo except the two bakeries. There’s something which is real: the smell of bread baking in the morning. The smell of toasted wheat and seeds is something whole; sugary and creamy and salty all at once. Yeasted bread is crammed together by so many different human processes, yet it requires patience. Feeding, watering, warming and waiting to create food that is so satisfying to our mouths. Bread joins the real time outside of clocks, time which varies according to processes and energy, light and heat; rather than mechanics and paced ticking. We wait for bread to grow, bubble into a whole, before sealing it in the oven: Hands, heat, breathing. The bakery opens at 6.30 am, and I can imagine worn fat female palms, stretching away at 4 this morning, throwing slabs of dough onto floured surfaces and neatly rolling spirals into buttered trays. Art and labour, life and food: Home takes on a more succinct meaning with the smell of baking bread. Away from home and breathing the scent deeply, I walk with purposeless certainty, watching the streets as I pass through them.
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