I am hoping the holiday will get my creative juices flowing as at the moment they're all bunged up and nothing but absolute rubbish will come out. I have typed a few pieces and then just deleted them, but I am taking my notebook with me and will scribble as and when I can. I think my head needs clearing of all the nonsense that's in there at the moment. A new start! A clean slate!
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea - if I don't or can't keep it up I will feel like a failure, won't I? Hmm. The things we do.
Wednesday, 23 May 2007
Monday, 21 May 2007
Another Perspective
Today choose a favourite biblical or literary story or a fable or fairytale. Pick another character who appears in the story and tell it through his or her eyes.
Monday 21st May 2007
Why the boy cried wolf:
Because he was lonely
Because he wanted his mother
Because he had ADHD
Because he was naughty
Because he was bored
Because he wanted attention
I'm having a dry spell... words aren't coming out. Will rethink this tomorrow. A more inspiring story would help - will have to look at Grimm or Andersen.
Monday 21st May 2007
Why the boy cried wolf:
Because he was lonely
Because he wanted his mother
Because he had ADHD
Because he was naughty
Because he was bored
Because he wanted attention
I'm having a dry spell... words aren't coming out. Will rethink this tomorrow. A more inspiring story would help - will have to look at Grimm or Andersen.
Saturday, 19 May 2007
Piece by Piece
Today start writing with no thought about what form the material will take, Or, select material you already have and try it out in another form. Pick from short story, poem, essay, performance monologue, creative non-fiction, children's story.
Saturday 19th May 2007
Vera:
I can see the Home Help in her car outside the flat, chatting on her mobile phone. It's a little red car and it's dirty. Some hope of her keeping my front room clean if she can't even wash her own car, lazy trollop. They're all the same, these women, with names like Sandra and Carol. Badly cut hair, ill-fitting jeans, dish-pan hands. No idea how to clean a room properly. The council sends them one after the other. She won't clean the windows right, either. They can't go up ladders to dust the top of the curtains. Won't change the winter velvets for summer chintz. Won't do this, can't do that. How am I supposed to have pride in my home if they won't help me?
She's laughing now, throwing her head back and showing her teeth. A friend, then, or maybe she's flirting. Not her husband. I've seen him in the corner shop. He's a lout. All stained vest and tins of strong lager. He couldn't make her laugh like that. Someone else, she's blushing. I can see that even through the nets. Trollop.
Trish:
The phone rang as I pulled up outside the old lady's flat. I dread going in, the constant criticism, she follows me round looking out for mistakes, a bit missed, a smear of windolene. She once even put a tenner under the hearth rug. A test, you see. I handed it back and she was furious. I could have done with that tenner but my job's not worth it. Our Tony's out of work again, we're up against it. He was ringing to say he's seen a job in the paper, he'd rung for an interview and was going this afternoon. He read out a story about a man from some eastern European country who'd tried to rob a bank and queued in his balaclava, too stupid to push to the front. I laughed and laughed till I was pink in the face. Tony can tell a good story, he always cracks me up, he has done since we were fifteen and started going out after school. He works hard, he's been doing a bit of painting on the side for Mr Jones at number 30, just upstairs from here. A little bit of cash. Mr Jones is on his own now since Betty died. Tony feels sorry for him and sometimes takes him a few beers, sits and has a chat for some company. He's a good man, my Tony. Well, I'd better get in and see what Mrs Pearce wants doing today. She doesn't even know my name, or pretends she doesn't. You can't feel sorry for someone like her, she's bad to the core. Bitter. I keep going though, because all the other girls have been scared off. There's only me puts up with the old bat.
Vera:
Here she comes, that woman. I think I'll complain to the council again. She was sitting there a full five minutes before she decided to come in. That's five minutes she could have been washing my ornaments. She's bright and loud, that woman. Too cheerful. Too much chat. She could be getting on with something instead of chatting to me. I don't want her company, I want her to clean. She can warm up that pie I bought in Tesco before she goes, and put a few peas on with it. I'm going to drop some money in her bag - then she'll have to steal it. They won't send her back then. She smells of bleach, I can't stand it. I'm going to ask for someone new.
Trish:
I tried to cheer Mrs Pearce up. I chatted about the weather and Tony's sweet peas, I said I'd take her a bunch next week, make the place smell a bit better maybe. And I told about some of her neighbours, friends of my Mam's that she might know, just how they were getting on, you know. I know she must be lonely and she doesn't go far, but she doesn't want to know. Just wants to stay inside, twitching the nets, stroking that awful cat. The cat has fleas again. I brought some drops from the pet shop and squeezed them onto his skinny neck when Mrs Pearce was in the bathroom, checking I'd done the taps properly. Poor old lady, she has bites on her legs and they look sore. She thinks it's shingles. I daren't tell her it's fleas or she'll go mad. I might mention it to the supervisor, the health visitor should look at them.
Vera:
The house is too quiet now. The cat smells funny, and there's a greasy patch on his neck. Maybe some cleaning liquid fell onto him when that woman was here yesterday. I rang the council and complained. I told them she was late and is having an affair with someone. I told them her husband drinks. I told them she steals. I told them I don't want their help any more, I'd rather get by alone. She wouldn't even warm my pie, I'll do it myself later. It's been there three days now, it'll spoil if I don't get it eaten.
A health visitor came by, said I've got an ulcer on my leg, I can't see properly so how was I to know? She said the cat rubbing against it was making it worse. I should keep it covered up. She stole from me too. I tucked a five pound note into her coat pocket when she hung it on the back of the kitchen door. She didn't give it back. She left bandages and sticky white tape. I threw them out. I don't want her charity. Meddling so-and-so. Do-gooders, all of them. I'm not going to answer the door next time.
Trish:
There was only me, Tony and the health visitor at the crematorium. No family, no friends. So sad. She wouldn't have me back after the incident with the pie. She asked me to warm it up and I told her I wasn't allowed to heat food - rules and regulations get me down, they spoil everything. I offered to slice it onto a plate, it was chicken and ham, would have been nicer cold. I offered to rinse a bit of lettuce, slice a tomato and some cucumber, make a nice lunch. But no, she would do it herself. She glared at me and shouted at me to leave. She must have turned on the gas and forgotten to light it. Mr Jones upstairs smelt gas at ten o'clock and called the gas board, but it was too late. She had a weak heart, the doctor said, she had infections in the bites on her legs, she wasn't long for this world anyway. But I'm sad she's gone. She was an old battleaxe but she was just a sad, lonely woman. Outside in the bright sun, Mr Jones was waiting by the wall. He'd always admired Vera, he said, a feisty woman, a looker in her youth.
Vera:
That pie would have been lovely. I turned the knob for the gas, the spark button doesn't work any more. When I bent down with the match, I saw stars and just keeled over sideways. I lay there for a bit, the cat rubbing its furry back against my face. I felt sick, then tired, then dizzy... those sweet peas look lovely in that white jug. I can smell them down here.
Saturday 19th May 2007
Vera:
I can see the Home Help in her car outside the flat, chatting on her mobile phone. It's a little red car and it's dirty. Some hope of her keeping my front room clean if she can't even wash her own car, lazy trollop. They're all the same, these women, with names like Sandra and Carol. Badly cut hair, ill-fitting jeans, dish-pan hands. No idea how to clean a room properly. The council sends them one after the other. She won't clean the windows right, either. They can't go up ladders to dust the top of the curtains. Won't change the winter velvets for summer chintz. Won't do this, can't do that. How am I supposed to have pride in my home if they won't help me?
She's laughing now, throwing her head back and showing her teeth. A friend, then, or maybe she's flirting. Not her husband. I've seen him in the corner shop. He's a lout. All stained vest and tins of strong lager. He couldn't make her laugh like that. Someone else, she's blushing. I can see that even through the nets. Trollop.
Trish:
The phone rang as I pulled up outside the old lady's flat. I dread going in, the constant criticism, she follows me round looking out for mistakes, a bit missed, a smear of windolene. She once even put a tenner under the hearth rug. A test, you see. I handed it back and she was furious. I could have done with that tenner but my job's not worth it. Our Tony's out of work again, we're up against it. He was ringing to say he's seen a job in the paper, he'd rung for an interview and was going this afternoon. He read out a story about a man from some eastern European country who'd tried to rob a bank and queued in his balaclava, too stupid to push to the front. I laughed and laughed till I was pink in the face. Tony can tell a good story, he always cracks me up, he has done since we were fifteen and started going out after school. He works hard, he's been doing a bit of painting on the side for Mr Jones at number 30, just upstairs from here. A little bit of cash. Mr Jones is on his own now since Betty died. Tony feels sorry for him and sometimes takes him a few beers, sits and has a chat for some company. He's a good man, my Tony. Well, I'd better get in and see what Mrs Pearce wants doing today. She doesn't even know my name, or pretends she doesn't. You can't feel sorry for someone like her, she's bad to the core. Bitter. I keep going though, because all the other girls have been scared off. There's only me puts up with the old bat.
Vera:
Here she comes, that woman. I think I'll complain to the council again. She was sitting there a full five minutes before she decided to come in. That's five minutes she could have been washing my ornaments. She's bright and loud, that woman. Too cheerful. Too much chat. She could be getting on with something instead of chatting to me. I don't want her company, I want her to clean. She can warm up that pie I bought in Tesco before she goes, and put a few peas on with it. I'm going to drop some money in her bag - then she'll have to steal it. They won't send her back then. She smells of bleach, I can't stand it. I'm going to ask for someone new.
Trish:
I tried to cheer Mrs Pearce up. I chatted about the weather and Tony's sweet peas, I said I'd take her a bunch next week, make the place smell a bit better maybe. And I told about some of her neighbours, friends of my Mam's that she might know, just how they were getting on, you know. I know she must be lonely and she doesn't go far, but she doesn't want to know. Just wants to stay inside, twitching the nets, stroking that awful cat. The cat has fleas again. I brought some drops from the pet shop and squeezed them onto his skinny neck when Mrs Pearce was in the bathroom, checking I'd done the taps properly. Poor old lady, she has bites on her legs and they look sore. She thinks it's shingles. I daren't tell her it's fleas or she'll go mad. I might mention it to the supervisor, the health visitor should look at them.
Vera:
The house is too quiet now. The cat smells funny, and there's a greasy patch on his neck. Maybe some cleaning liquid fell onto him when that woman was here yesterday. I rang the council and complained. I told them she was late and is having an affair with someone. I told them her husband drinks. I told them she steals. I told them I don't want their help any more, I'd rather get by alone. She wouldn't even warm my pie, I'll do it myself later. It's been there three days now, it'll spoil if I don't get it eaten.
A health visitor came by, said I've got an ulcer on my leg, I can't see properly so how was I to know? She said the cat rubbing against it was making it worse. I should keep it covered up. She stole from me too. I tucked a five pound note into her coat pocket when she hung it on the back of the kitchen door. She didn't give it back. She left bandages and sticky white tape. I threw them out. I don't want her charity. Meddling so-and-so. Do-gooders, all of them. I'm not going to answer the door next time.
Trish:
There was only me, Tony and the health visitor at the crematorium. No family, no friends. So sad. She wouldn't have me back after the incident with the pie. She asked me to warm it up and I told her I wasn't allowed to heat food - rules and regulations get me down, they spoil everything. I offered to slice it onto a plate, it was chicken and ham, would have been nicer cold. I offered to rinse a bit of lettuce, slice a tomato and some cucumber, make a nice lunch. But no, she would do it herself. She glared at me and shouted at me to leave. She must have turned on the gas and forgotten to light it. Mr Jones upstairs smelt gas at ten o'clock and called the gas board, but it was too late. She had a weak heart, the doctor said, she had infections in the bites on her legs, she wasn't long for this world anyway. But I'm sad she's gone. She was an old battleaxe but she was just a sad, lonely woman. Outside in the bright sun, Mr Jones was waiting by the wall. He'd always admired Vera, he said, a feisty woman, a looker in her youth.
Vera:
That pie would have been lovely. I turned the knob for the gas, the spark button doesn't work any more. When I bent down with the match, I saw stars and just keeled over sideways. I lay there for a bit, the cat rubbing its furry back against my face. I felt sick, then tired, then dizzy... those sweet peas look lovely in that white jug. I can smell them down here.
Thursday, 17 May 2007
Two in one - Failing and Snot
Yesterday's topic was Failing. An investigation into writing junk, recognising it as such and learning to sort the wheat from the chaff so to speak. You had to write a full page of trite, repetitive, gushing, clunky, melodramatic junk - the worst gibberish you can muster - then read it through, understand what was so crappy and why you wrote against what you think is 'good' writing. Then scrumple it up, delete it, throw it in the bin - along with your belief in failure.
So, nothing on the page to show for yesterday.
Today is charmingly entitled Snot. Lovely, here goes:
Today, for a minimum of one page, write about snot. Afterward, consider how you felt before you began, as you wrote, and once you were finished. Record your responses. Check if any material emerged (ha ha, ho ho, tee hee!!!) that you could incorporate into a piece you are working on (oh hell, am I meant to be working as well as practising?) Or, list other unmentionable topics you could explore as you write.
Thursday 17th May 2007
Snot (I'm dedicating this one to chickenix!)
A tiny finger holds up a crusty green and brown flake. 'Bogey, Mummy' says the two year old on the other end of the finger. It's a bit like wiping bottoms, cleaning up sick, picking up dog poo, removing wet pants from a clammy little body. It's a job you do through love. You wouldn't take possession of another child's bogey (unless you were being paid). Fiona, the pre-school teacher of the littlest ones was not fazed by the presentation of a bogey. If you choose to work with children it's part and parcel of the job.
A head cold brings more snot that you cold imagine. How can sinuses produce so much or hold so much fluid? Where's it coming from? Hayfever means the same problem. That first day in spring when the trees throw pollen from their shy flowers with gay abandon. That fated visit to a National Trust property for a walk in the garden. You spend most of your time going back and forth to the shop to buy over-priced, over-decorated, under-sized tissues in fiddly little packets. Head full of clear, gushing liquid, eyes full of jelly. Oh, for a proper box of Kleenex Ultra Balm man-size. (Do they still call them that? Isn't it a bit sexist by today's standard? By anyone's standard?)
The healthcare industry thrives on our perennial ability to produce too much snot. Decongestants; nasal sprays and drops; tablets and capsules; tissues, soft and medicated. Tissues that won't dissolve if you trumpet a cup full of soggy, runny goo into them. Pseudoephedrine, the magic ingredient, dries up the mucus. It makes your mouth dry and your heart race and can give you nightmares. None of it really works - I know because I've worked there. We, the marketing people, laughed at the ineffectiveness of Strepsils. Expensive, unpleasant sweeties for hypochondriacs. All the free Nurofen you could swallow wasn't a bad perk, though. Liver damage ahoy!
Bogeys, boogers, mucus, phlegm, snot. Hideous connotations, unpleasant words. The Americans even have Eye Boogers, I recently read about them in a rather enlightening copy of US Cosmo I found on the train. Eye boogers - the advice to avoid them was don't wear back eyeliner inside the rim. It's what we've always called 'sleep'. It's unavoidable - anything that is constantly lubricated like the eyeball produces an excess of used fluid and expels it. It's all mucus. Up the nose, in the eye, and errm... elsewhere. Ahem. So basically snot by another name. Charming.
Which me brings me on to the last point in today's exercise - other unmentionables. My novel won't have sex scenes. Allusions are enough. Can't do it, don't want to, won't, shan't. Snot's bad enough - but oh, I'm having the vapours thinking about the rest. Shudder. Willies and such are best left to the fertile plains of the imagination. Look at what happened to poor old Alan Titchmarsh when he wrote a 'tender' sex scene in a novel - ridiculed on TV and in the press and presented with a 'bad sex' award. Bless. Didn't stop him writing more though, nor people buying his books. Hmmm, on second thoughts... "Her heaving bosom flushed crimson with desire. A stirring in his Y-fronts reminded him she was a right goer... "Take me, Derek!" she panted. "Oh, Val, yer a saucy sort" he grunted, advancing on her, one hand fumbling in his pocket and the other reaching for her purple nylon thong ...
Oops, yesterday's trash seems to be repeating on me.
So, nothing on the page to show for yesterday.
Today is charmingly entitled Snot. Lovely, here goes:
Today, for a minimum of one page, write about snot. Afterward, consider how you felt before you began, as you wrote, and once you were finished. Record your responses. Check if any material emerged (ha ha, ho ho, tee hee!!!) that you could incorporate into a piece you are working on (oh hell, am I meant to be working as well as practising?) Or, list other unmentionable topics you could explore as you write.
Thursday 17th May 2007
Snot (I'm dedicating this one to chickenix!)
A tiny finger holds up a crusty green and brown flake. 'Bogey, Mummy' says the two year old on the other end of the finger. It's a bit like wiping bottoms, cleaning up sick, picking up dog poo, removing wet pants from a clammy little body. It's a job you do through love. You wouldn't take possession of another child's bogey (unless you were being paid). Fiona, the pre-school teacher of the littlest ones was not fazed by the presentation of a bogey. If you choose to work with children it's part and parcel of the job.
A head cold brings more snot that you cold imagine. How can sinuses produce so much or hold so much fluid? Where's it coming from? Hayfever means the same problem. That first day in spring when the trees throw pollen from their shy flowers with gay abandon. That fated visit to a National Trust property for a walk in the garden. You spend most of your time going back and forth to the shop to buy over-priced, over-decorated, under-sized tissues in fiddly little packets. Head full of clear, gushing liquid, eyes full of jelly. Oh, for a proper box of Kleenex Ultra Balm man-size. (Do they still call them that? Isn't it a bit sexist by today's standard? By anyone's standard?)
The healthcare industry thrives on our perennial ability to produce too much snot. Decongestants; nasal sprays and drops; tablets and capsules; tissues, soft and medicated. Tissues that won't dissolve if you trumpet a cup full of soggy, runny goo into them. Pseudoephedrine, the magic ingredient, dries up the mucus. It makes your mouth dry and your heart race and can give you nightmares. None of it really works - I know because I've worked there. We, the marketing people, laughed at the ineffectiveness of Strepsils. Expensive, unpleasant sweeties for hypochondriacs. All the free Nurofen you could swallow wasn't a bad perk, though. Liver damage ahoy!
Bogeys, boogers, mucus, phlegm, snot. Hideous connotations, unpleasant words. The Americans even have Eye Boogers, I recently read about them in a rather enlightening copy of US Cosmo I found on the train. Eye boogers - the advice to avoid them was don't wear back eyeliner inside the rim. It's what we've always called 'sleep'. It's unavoidable - anything that is constantly lubricated like the eyeball produces an excess of used fluid and expels it. It's all mucus. Up the nose, in the eye, and errm... elsewhere. Ahem. So basically snot by another name. Charming.
Which me brings me on to the last point in today's exercise - other unmentionables. My novel won't have sex scenes. Allusions are enough. Can't do it, don't want to, won't, shan't. Snot's bad enough - but oh, I'm having the vapours thinking about the rest. Shudder. Willies and such are best left to the fertile plains of the imagination. Look at what happened to poor old Alan Titchmarsh when he wrote a 'tender' sex scene in a novel - ridiculed on TV and in the press and presented with a 'bad sex' award. Bless. Didn't stop him writing more though, nor people buying his books. Hmmm, on second thoughts... "Her heaving bosom flushed crimson with desire. A stirring in his Y-fronts reminded him she was a right goer... "Take me, Derek!" she panted. "Oh, Val, yer a saucy sort" he grunted, advancing on her, one hand fumbling in his pocket and the other reaching for her purple nylon thong ...
Oops, yesterday's trash seems to be repeating on me.
Tuesday, 15 May 2007
In The Beginning There Was The Word
Today write about the first time words profoundly affected you. Describe the situation, what led up to it, the moment of the encounter, your physical reaction, and something else that was taking place in the same setting but had nothing to do with your experience. Feel free to allow your imagination to supply whichever of these elements you can't recall. You might try this as a poem.
Oh, a poem, I don't think so... erm... drawing a bit of a blank today, am writing early as it's my turn to take the boys to karate so will be in late, and then there'll be a flurry of bath, reading, spelling, story, poem, kisses, lights out, my bath, CSI, chapter of book and lights out before 10.30. So writing early, isn't seeming to work. Too much mundane stuff going on in the brain. Oh well, must try. Here goes. Oh no, think the Air Force are invading, two giant helicopters just gone over so low I could see the men inside. Squaddies! Used to hold much allure. Now I see they are just spotty yobs. I'm getting right off the point again...
Words, and accents, have held great allure for me since I was tiny. Elocution lessons with Ursula Aggio (great name, see?) at the end of the street introduced me to poetry at just four or five. Ian Serralier, Robert Louis Stevenson, Hillaire Belloc, Eleanor Farjeon... the pictures they conjured up were magical. "We built a ship upon the stairs, all made of the back bedroom chairs, and filled it full of sofa pillows, to go a-sailing on the billows." Why so many chairs in a bedroom? Didn't their mothers shout at them for using the sofa pillows? Why pillows and not cushions?
The words continued to amuse and beguile me throughout my childhood. A deep love of Enid Blyton grew when I discovered my sister's Famous Five collection. Here was a delightfully old-fashioned writer who knew how to use the English language and who wasn't afraid of a long word or two. No simplistic descriptions here. Now, of course, we cringe at the stereotyped swarthy gypsies, in need of a wash; the narrow-eyed baddies with -gosh- regional accents, using slang. The words conjured up the English countryside at its best - conversational birdsong; rosy-cheeked farmer's wives. The adventures, the friendship, the language of an era forgotten - gosh! I say! George, old boy! Timmy, you darling! So much more expressive than my contemporaries' terms - 'ellish, cushty, cool. Ugh, made me shudder then, still do.
An English teacher, Miss Brewis, loved poetry and passed out pristine copies of The Sheldon Book of Verse. She read aloud and had us chanting the stanzas like mantras. Daniel in the Lion's Den, Hiawatha, The Lady of Shalott. But best of all was this:
Cargoes, by John Masefield
Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.
Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amethysts,
Tpoazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.
Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road rail, pig-lead
Firewood, iron-ware and cheap tin trays.
This poem, those words, mystical, dreamy, exotic, smacking of turquoise seas, unfurling silken sails, flying fish and crescent moons. The harsh contrast to the mundane, unpleasant sight of the familiar made me realise that words could take you away. Words could conjour magic from your mind. I was lost. I still am.
One day, twenty years ago, when having a day in bed with a cold - a day off from school aged about fourteen - I was presented with the radio, tuned to Radio 4, and a new book of poetry for older children - Delights and Warnings. I vividly remember hot lasagne and cold iceberg lettuce on a plate for lunch. Between the morning story, afternoon play, daily service (did we have FM in the '80s?) I read poems like Kubla Khan I spent a day in Xanadu, and with the forsaken merman, and with Ariel fathoms deep, and studying dragons close up. This day stands out in my mind, I relished the words, I studied the syntax, I committed whole chunks of text to memory. The house was quiet, just me, the radio and my poems. Always a serious child.
More recently I have found the same wonder in the simple, spare writing of Anita Shreve. The beauty of a perfect phrase - it stops me in my tracks and I have to go back and re-read that phrase time and time again. I marvel at a mind that would put such perfect words together, that would describe something so aptly with often so unusual a string of words.
I have never had any aspirations to write poetry, have never tried. I just don't know enough about the mechanics of its form. It's like learning a new language. I don't want to learn the past anterior or the gerund. I want to speak the words, try them out. While I still have much to learn about grammar and punctuation, writing things like this allows me to pour out the words in my head, to revel in the beauty of our language.
I still have the Sheldon Book of Verse, the cover's peeled away, it's dog-eared and the pages have yellowed over the years, but it's a precious thing (stolen from the English cupboard under the stairs by Room 3). I think I'll read from it to Henry tonight, something simple, see if I can start that spark smouldering.
Oh, a poem, I don't think so... erm... drawing a bit of a blank today, am writing early as it's my turn to take the boys to karate so will be in late, and then there'll be a flurry of bath, reading, spelling, story, poem, kisses, lights out, my bath, CSI, chapter of book and lights out before 10.30. So writing early, isn't seeming to work. Too much mundane stuff going on in the brain. Oh well, must try. Here goes. Oh no, think the Air Force are invading, two giant helicopters just gone over so low I could see the men inside. Squaddies! Used to hold much allure. Now I see they are just spotty yobs. I'm getting right off the point again...
Words, and accents, have held great allure for me since I was tiny. Elocution lessons with Ursula Aggio (great name, see?) at the end of the street introduced me to poetry at just four or five. Ian Serralier, Robert Louis Stevenson, Hillaire Belloc, Eleanor Farjeon... the pictures they conjured up were magical. "We built a ship upon the stairs, all made of the back bedroom chairs, and filled it full of sofa pillows, to go a-sailing on the billows." Why so many chairs in a bedroom? Didn't their mothers shout at them for using the sofa pillows? Why pillows and not cushions?
The words continued to amuse and beguile me throughout my childhood. A deep love of Enid Blyton grew when I discovered my sister's Famous Five collection. Here was a delightfully old-fashioned writer who knew how to use the English language and who wasn't afraid of a long word or two. No simplistic descriptions here. Now, of course, we cringe at the stereotyped swarthy gypsies, in need of a wash; the narrow-eyed baddies with -gosh- regional accents, using slang. The words conjured up the English countryside at its best - conversational birdsong; rosy-cheeked farmer's wives. The adventures, the friendship, the language of an era forgotten - gosh! I say! George, old boy! Timmy, you darling! So much more expressive than my contemporaries' terms - 'ellish, cushty, cool. Ugh, made me shudder then, still do.
An English teacher, Miss Brewis, loved poetry and passed out pristine copies of The Sheldon Book of Verse. She read aloud and had us chanting the stanzas like mantras. Daniel in the Lion's Den, Hiawatha, The Lady of Shalott. But best of all was this:
Cargoes, by John Masefield
Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.
Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amethysts,
Tpoazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.
Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road rail, pig-lead
Firewood, iron-ware and cheap tin trays.
This poem, those words, mystical, dreamy, exotic, smacking of turquoise seas, unfurling silken sails, flying fish and crescent moons. The harsh contrast to the mundane, unpleasant sight of the familiar made me realise that words could take you away. Words could conjour magic from your mind. I was lost. I still am.
One day, twenty years ago, when having a day in bed with a cold - a day off from school aged about fourteen - I was presented with the radio, tuned to Radio 4, and a new book of poetry for older children - Delights and Warnings. I vividly remember hot lasagne and cold iceberg lettuce on a plate for lunch. Between the morning story, afternoon play, daily service (did we have FM in the '80s?) I read poems like Kubla Khan I spent a day in Xanadu, and with the forsaken merman, and with Ariel fathoms deep, and studying dragons close up. This day stands out in my mind, I relished the words, I studied the syntax, I committed whole chunks of text to memory. The house was quiet, just me, the radio and my poems. Always a serious child.
More recently I have found the same wonder in the simple, spare writing of Anita Shreve. The beauty of a perfect phrase - it stops me in my tracks and I have to go back and re-read that phrase time and time again. I marvel at a mind that would put such perfect words together, that would describe something so aptly with often so unusual a string of words.
I have never had any aspirations to write poetry, have never tried. I just don't know enough about the mechanics of its form. It's like learning a new language. I don't want to learn the past anterior or the gerund. I want to speak the words, try them out. While I still have much to learn about grammar and punctuation, writing things like this allows me to pour out the words in my head, to revel in the beauty of our language.
I still have the Sheldon Book of Verse, the cover's peeled away, it's dog-eared and the pages have yellowed over the years, but it's a precious thing (stolen from the English cupboard under the stairs by Room 3). I think I'll read from it to Henry tonight, something simple, see if I can start that spark smouldering.
Monday, 14 May 2007
I don't remember
This time, begin with the phrase 'I don't remember" and fill p a page. If you draw a blank at any point, repeat the phrase "I don't remember" in writing, until something else forms in your consciousness. Notice if one of these non-memories suggests a section of a piece, an experience for one of your characters, or perhaps a topic to write about. Notice what subjects of non-memories emerge: are they the same themes you often write about? If not, further explore one of the new ones.
This makes about no sense to me but here goes, will try not to write about own shortcomings again... it's getting boring even for me!
Monday 14th May 2007
I don't remember the name of that beach on the Indian Ocean, or was it even the Arabian Sea? But I waded in to the water wearing my yellow swimming costume. I waded and waded and couldn't get any more than thigh-deep. I had been warned of basking sharks, not killers, but babies, more wary of you than you of they.
The water was crystalline, colourless; not blue, not green. The sand on the bottom was white-grey and the shells, oh the shells. I stopped to pick up tiny whorl after tiny whorl of puce, carnation, chocolate, white. Crayola colours. Candy stripes, holiday colours. Out of the water the salt dried on them and dulled their colours; beige, coral, dove. I held them like talismen in my hand.
Occasionally there would be a spiky white shell; a glossy, spotty conch; or something still living, still moving with claws and tentacles waving hello, surprise, panic. I put these gently back and looked on for more. Tiny, perfect razor shells, pointy grey whirls of calcium. Every so often, a trip back to the shore with my haul, dropping them into a sun-bleached basket for the journey home.
And then, suddenly - clear, circular forms all around me. No tentacles, just bulbous discs of jelly, opalescent in the sunlight. Lit from above and reflected by the water below. A slight milky blush to their gelatinous forms. I scooped them up with my bare hands, slippery and slimy on my skin. These were carefully carried to the awaiting bucket on the shore.
My treasure, my finds, my things. From an exotic beach, on an Eastern shore, The Omani waters of the Gulf. I was twelve. My yellow and black spotted swimsuit that made me look like a skinny, brown ladybug was fading to lemon and conker-brown in the sun. My bucket of jellyfish, transported all the way home to England and a bemused Biology master. My shells still with me, now some are glued to my mirror with a more recent collection of mother-of-pearl buttons. Some are in a matchbox, some in a jar on the bathroom shelf. Some still in a carrier bag in the bottom of the airing cupboard, awaiting a home or a project. Some in my son's own treasure cabinet - he's aware of their meaning to me and that renders the special to him. I treasure that.
I don't remember the name of the beach, I don't remember the date we went there, but I'll remember the shells, and the way that I found them, choosing each and every one for their beauty, forever.
This makes about no sense to me but here goes, will try not to write about own shortcomings again... it's getting boring even for me!
Monday 14th May 2007
I don't remember the name of that beach on the Indian Ocean, or was it even the Arabian Sea? But I waded in to the water wearing my yellow swimming costume. I waded and waded and couldn't get any more than thigh-deep. I had been warned of basking sharks, not killers, but babies, more wary of you than you of they.
The water was crystalline, colourless; not blue, not green. The sand on the bottom was white-grey and the shells, oh the shells. I stopped to pick up tiny whorl after tiny whorl of puce, carnation, chocolate, white. Crayola colours. Candy stripes, holiday colours. Out of the water the salt dried on them and dulled their colours; beige, coral, dove. I held them like talismen in my hand.
Occasionally there would be a spiky white shell; a glossy, spotty conch; or something still living, still moving with claws and tentacles waving hello, surprise, panic. I put these gently back and looked on for more. Tiny, perfect razor shells, pointy grey whirls of calcium. Every so often, a trip back to the shore with my haul, dropping them into a sun-bleached basket for the journey home.
And then, suddenly - clear, circular forms all around me. No tentacles, just bulbous discs of jelly, opalescent in the sunlight. Lit from above and reflected by the water below. A slight milky blush to their gelatinous forms. I scooped them up with my bare hands, slippery and slimy on my skin. These were carefully carried to the awaiting bucket on the shore.
My treasure, my finds, my things. From an exotic beach, on an Eastern shore, The Omani waters of the Gulf. I was twelve. My yellow and black spotted swimsuit that made me look like a skinny, brown ladybug was fading to lemon and conker-brown in the sun. My bucket of jellyfish, transported all the way home to England and a bemused Biology master. My shells still with me, now some are glued to my mirror with a more recent collection of mother-of-pearl buttons. Some are in a matchbox, some in a jar on the bathroom shelf. Some still in a carrier bag in the bottom of the airing cupboard, awaiting a home or a project. Some in my son's own treasure cabinet - he's aware of their meaning to me and that renders the special to him. I treasure that.
I don't remember the name of the beach, I don't remember the date we went there, but I'll remember the shells, and the way that I found them, choosing each and every one for their beauty, forever.
Sunday, 13 May 2007
Memory is Imagination
Yesterday's title was 'Diving In' and that's what it felt like. Today's is as above, here I go - hope someone else is going to have a go at this, it feels more creative and purposeful than blogging! Here is a copy of today's instructions:
Begin with the phrase "I remember" and start writing. It doesn't matter whether you stick with one memory or list several. You can retrieve memories from as far back as childhood (or past lives!) to as recently as yesterday. If you get stuck just keep repeating the phrase " I remember," in writing, until something else forms in your consciousness. Don't even be concerned with the authenticity of the memory. Just record whatever comes to you. Don't stop until you have filled two pages.
Sunday 13th May 2007
I remember the red flocked wallpaper on the staircase wall at Granville Avenue. The staircase went on for ever, a swoop of dark shiny wood and red carpet. The wallpaper was velvety and lush. The carpet was soft and deep. I sat on those stairs listening to a record; Top of the Tots, it was called and had pictures of marionette puppets on the sleeve. I must have been three or four. 'Good Morning Starshine' was playing and I was crying. Mum or Dad were mystified. 'That's not a children's song and this is a children's record." I remember the outrage, the moral justification, the sadness that it should be so wrong.
I remember listening to "Like a Rhinestone Cowboy", I think on the same stairs, but maybe in another house. I remember being captivated by the words and wanting to see a rodeo - to see if it was really star-spangled. And I remember Neil Diamond's songs. I think I remember Daddy singing 'Sweet Caroline' to me, but maybe that's a fabricated memory, one I made up when he was working abroad and I used to stare at his photo and convince myself I had forgotten what he looked like, that the man in the photo wasn't the person I could remember. I used to sit in his wardrobe and smell that special Daddy smell. I didn't like getting his letters, they placed him too far away with their flimsy paper, red and blue edged envelopes and exotic stamps.
I remember in that first house being alone in the house with Daddy, him giving me something to drink in a flimsy, tall glass, the delicate, new feeling of the thin glass between my teeth. Biting down. Glass shattering in my mouth. Panic around me, wondering why. Me, wondering why such a fuss, I was just trying it out, see how fragile it was, see what the snap felt like. Daddy, wondering why I should do that, wondering if I was hurt. Wondering what Mummy would say. In trouble as usual.
I remember in that same house a dining set in the kitchen, or was it a conservatory? The dining set make of smoked perspex, the chairs with leather seat pads set in to the perspex. Little gaps around the edge where cornflakes and rice crispies could be pushed in with a satifsying crunch. In that same house, the sitting room with the coal fire, did we really only use that at Christmas? The kittens and rabbits on my bedroom wallpaper, the view of the church out of the window and the peal of the bells on a summer evening when the day had not quite yet faded.
I remember Mrs Thompson next door, in my imagination always hoovering round and round a circular rug that was a series of ever decreasing circles. She became smaller and smaller as she vacuumed her way around. Aunt Martha and Uncle Charlie down the road, picking me up from Aunty Pat's playschool, plimsolls in a bag, and giving me chucky egg and chips for lunch. My horror at Uncle Charlie breaking the wobbly yolk of a fried egg with a crunchy home made chip and winking at me as he pinched another chip behind Aunt Martha's back. My horror at the oozing orange yolk, not daring to tell these kind old people that I disliked eggs.
I remember Aunty Pat's playschool, pretending to drive a car, holding a circular play mirror for a steering wheel, making the noise of an engine revving up through the gears, feeling my lips tickle with the vibration of the brrmm brrmm noise. Fiona wet herself. I watched with glee.
Playschool, nursery, pre-school. The language has changed but the children play the same games. Now I remember my son's pre-school. The same smell, the same kind women doing the same thankless tasks. Helping out on a rota. Changing wet pants, mopping up spilled water, cuddling tired toddlers, singing tunelessly to age-old songs. Humouring neurotic mothers. Story time and a little warm body curled up on your knee, not the usual one, today Jessica, or Amy. Someone new every time, wanting a cuddle, deciding to trust you for today. Listening to a story with thumb in mouth, hair wrapped around a finger. Giggling helplessly with silly boys doing silly actions to 'three little monkeys' and making up words like 'snoozle' and 'snoggins'. You're a snoozle, Andrew. Well, your Mummy's a snoggins. Tee hee.
I remember the wonder of watching my own toddler sleeping. I remember watching with wonder last week my own boy sleeping. When he was a baby I marvelled at his sweet breath, his curled fists, his damp hair. Last week I thanked whatever gods made it so that my little boy was in his bed, breathing deeply, (snoring like a train coming, in fact) and not lying cold like his friend Mathew, taken from his mother in a violent car crash. I remember Mathew singing loudly and tunelessly in the school choir, with such passion and feeling that we all smiled, smiled at his mother who was shaking her head and looking like she'd burst with pride.
The memory plays tricks on you, makes you remember things you wanted to happen or should have happened. I also remember things that would be better forgotten. Words that would have been better left unsaid. Harsh, unkind words from me. Home truths that cut too deep. And throwaway comments from friends, that pierced me like a honed arrow. Words that meant nothing, and yet carried so much meaning, or resentment, or jealousy or pain. Words that damaged, words that hurt.
I want to remember sunny days and the smell of a lily. Laughter and happiness, carefree chatter and picnics by a stream. My sunny, windy wedding day. I want to remember every moment of my son's precious life, remember all the funny things he said, and did. All the times he chirped up 'I love you Mummy' until it was almost irritating. He said it when he was tired, afraid, nervous, or just to fill a silence. I want to forget that too many times I said, 'Yes, yes, I know you do.' instead of kissing him and scooping up another precious memory to squirrel away for another time.
I remember right now that I am loved. That I have made people happy and proud, and while I have done exactly the opposite on so many occasions, at the heart of it when I am gone and people remember me, they will not remember a great life, one of any importance, but hopefully the bad things that I carry in my memory will not feature in theirs.
Begin with the phrase "I remember" and start writing. It doesn't matter whether you stick with one memory or list several. You can retrieve memories from as far back as childhood (or past lives!) to as recently as yesterday. If you get stuck just keep repeating the phrase " I remember," in writing, until something else forms in your consciousness. Don't even be concerned with the authenticity of the memory. Just record whatever comes to you. Don't stop until you have filled two pages.
Sunday 13th May 2007
I remember the red flocked wallpaper on the staircase wall at Granville Avenue. The staircase went on for ever, a swoop of dark shiny wood and red carpet. The wallpaper was velvety and lush. The carpet was soft and deep. I sat on those stairs listening to a record; Top of the Tots, it was called and had pictures of marionette puppets on the sleeve. I must have been three or four. 'Good Morning Starshine' was playing and I was crying. Mum or Dad were mystified. 'That's not a children's song and this is a children's record." I remember the outrage, the moral justification, the sadness that it should be so wrong.
I remember listening to "Like a Rhinestone Cowboy", I think on the same stairs, but maybe in another house. I remember being captivated by the words and wanting to see a rodeo - to see if it was really star-spangled. And I remember Neil Diamond's songs. I think I remember Daddy singing 'Sweet Caroline' to me, but maybe that's a fabricated memory, one I made up when he was working abroad and I used to stare at his photo and convince myself I had forgotten what he looked like, that the man in the photo wasn't the person I could remember. I used to sit in his wardrobe and smell that special Daddy smell. I didn't like getting his letters, they placed him too far away with their flimsy paper, red and blue edged envelopes and exotic stamps.
I remember in that first house being alone in the house with Daddy, him giving me something to drink in a flimsy, tall glass, the delicate, new feeling of the thin glass between my teeth. Biting down. Glass shattering in my mouth. Panic around me, wondering why. Me, wondering why such a fuss, I was just trying it out, see how fragile it was, see what the snap felt like. Daddy, wondering why I should do that, wondering if I was hurt. Wondering what Mummy would say. In trouble as usual.
I remember in that same house a dining set in the kitchen, or was it a conservatory? The dining set make of smoked perspex, the chairs with leather seat pads set in to the perspex. Little gaps around the edge where cornflakes and rice crispies could be pushed in with a satifsying crunch. In that same house, the sitting room with the coal fire, did we really only use that at Christmas? The kittens and rabbits on my bedroom wallpaper, the view of the church out of the window and the peal of the bells on a summer evening when the day had not quite yet faded.
I remember Mrs Thompson next door, in my imagination always hoovering round and round a circular rug that was a series of ever decreasing circles. She became smaller and smaller as she vacuumed her way around. Aunt Martha and Uncle Charlie down the road, picking me up from Aunty Pat's playschool, plimsolls in a bag, and giving me chucky egg and chips for lunch. My horror at Uncle Charlie breaking the wobbly yolk of a fried egg with a crunchy home made chip and winking at me as he pinched another chip behind Aunt Martha's back. My horror at the oozing orange yolk, not daring to tell these kind old people that I disliked eggs.
I remember Aunty Pat's playschool, pretending to drive a car, holding a circular play mirror for a steering wheel, making the noise of an engine revving up through the gears, feeling my lips tickle with the vibration of the brrmm brrmm noise. Fiona wet herself. I watched with glee.
Playschool, nursery, pre-school. The language has changed but the children play the same games. Now I remember my son's pre-school. The same smell, the same kind women doing the same thankless tasks. Helping out on a rota. Changing wet pants, mopping up spilled water, cuddling tired toddlers, singing tunelessly to age-old songs. Humouring neurotic mothers. Story time and a little warm body curled up on your knee, not the usual one, today Jessica, or Amy. Someone new every time, wanting a cuddle, deciding to trust you for today. Listening to a story with thumb in mouth, hair wrapped around a finger. Giggling helplessly with silly boys doing silly actions to 'three little monkeys' and making up words like 'snoozle' and 'snoggins'. You're a snoozle, Andrew. Well, your Mummy's a snoggins. Tee hee.
I remember the wonder of watching my own toddler sleeping. I remember watching with wonder last week my own boy sleeping. When he was a baby I marvelled at his sweet breath, his curled fists, his damp hair. Last week I thanked whatever gods made it so that my little boy was in his bed, breathing deeply, (snoring like a train coming, in fact) and not lying cold like his friend Mathew, taken from his mother in a violent car crash. I remember Mathew singing loudly and tunelessly in the school choir, with such passion and feeling that we all smiled, smiled at his mother who was shaking her head and looking like she'd burst with pride.
The memory plays tricks on you, makes you remember things you wanted to happen or should have happened. I also remember things that would be better forgotten. Words that would have been better left unsaid. Harsh, unkind words from me. Home truths that cut too deep. And throwaway comments from friends, that pierced me like a honed arrow. Words that meant nothing, and yet carried so much meaning, or resentment, or jealousy or pain. Words that damaged, words that hurt.
I want to remember sunny days and the smell of a lily. Laughter and happiness, carefree chatter and picnics by a stream. My sunny, windy wedding day. I want to remember every moment of my son's precious life, remember all the funny things he said, and did. All the times he chirped up 'I love you Mummy' until it was almost irritating. He said it when he was tired, afraid, nervous, or just to fill a silence. I want to forget that too many times I said, 'Yes, yes, I know you do.' instead of kissing him and scooping up another precious memory to squirrel away for another time.
I remember right now that I am loved. That I have made people happy and proud, and while I have done exactly the opposite on so many occasions, at the heart of it when I am gone and people remember me, they will not remember a great life, one of any importance, but hopefully the bad things that I carry in my memory will not feature in theirs.
Saturday, 12 May 2007
Bonni Goldberg's Room to Write
I have been given a book from a dear friend who thinks I should write more (what's more, she's read what I have had published and yet still thinks I should plough on...) I am not convinced of any ability but in the interest of friendly harmony and marital harmony ("For God's sake get something written and earn some money will you?") I am giving it a go. And also in memory of my friend's late mother, Alice, who left this book behind to eventually find me - a small hint at her enormous energy and creative drive.
The book is name checked above and is a series of creative writing exercises to flex the creative muscle of the brain, kick-start the imagination and just get you going with words. I will outline each one daily and then do my bit below. So if you fancy joining in, please start your own. We could form a little purple prose writing circle!
Here goes:
DIVING IN. Today dive into writing by choosing any one of the following words that have more than one meaning: bear, cleave, lie, sewer, tear, or desert. Start by copying the word and quickly, without stopping for any reason, continue writing until you reach the end of the page (in my case I'll just go on until it feels like a page of A4's worth). Making sense is unimportant (thank goodness for that!). Your goals are speed and endurance. if you get stuck, repeat whatever word you've just written until something new spills out. After you finish read the result. Don't forget to breathe, and try not to tense up your hand (or fingers if you're typing) Ready, set, go...
Saturday 12th May 2007
A lie. "I don't love you any more." A bald-faced lie. What I meant was: "I love you, part of me always will, but I can't bear to live this life any more." What I meant was: "I love you so much it frightens me, and I know you love me, but I'm not ready to be half of you, a wife." What I meant was: "I love you. But you make me lonely. I love you, but you make me cry. I love you, but you make me angry. I love you, but you make me feel like someone other than myself. I love you but..." A lie. Words unspoken, words that would give hope, words that would break a heart.
I lie. I lie in our bed and look at you as you sleep. You look like a little boy. You are at rest, unaware that my betrayal is so complete. Unaware that I will go, I have been looking for somewhere new to live. That I have told my friends I will do this. That I have sat over a bottle of wine with my boss and discussed my future alone, asked for more money so I can get on with a new life as soon as possible. Asked for new responsibilities, more time in the office, less time to be alone. Less time to be answerable to you. Less time to deny you my help, listen to your empty words.
A lie. "There's nobody else." He listened. It's as simple as that. I was important. My fragility beguiled him. I was easy prey. He was handsome, kind, important, clever, sensitive. He had clean fingernails. He had soft, cropped hair. And he didn't smell of you. My heart shirred in two when I let him kiss me, but I had to do it. I had to betray you. I couldn't go back.
I lie. I look at this stranger in the hotel room. The rise and fall of an unfamiliar chest, bare and smooth where yours has dark hair. He, blonde; you, dark. He, tall; you, small. He, married. His baby daughter in my thoughts. His wife, unaware. Me, the other woman. Me, the harlot, now.
I lie in my own bed, in my own house now. He's here still, now and then. You have railed and cried. You laid on the floor when I left. You begged me not to go. A lie: "You'll be fine." I knew you wouldn't. New Year's Eve, 2am - the answerphone blinked. I knew what was happening. I hovered over the button. I pressed. I knew, I knew... My mind raced. If I ignored it would the call be traced? Would I be culpable? Would I be punished for my selfish actions? Would I be punished for wanting an end to this misery - yours and mine. An end to the threats, the break-ins, the angry phone calls at 2am, the lies about guns, the lies about drugs... I rang the ambulance.
You lie. You lie on a hospital trolley. You are drunk and maudlin, no more, I know that now. But I make you stay. Learn your lesson. Punishing you, punishing me. The man on the next gurney fishes a shard of glass from a pocket and cuts his arm. "No, don't...Nurse!" I cry. New Year's Eve. What becomes of the broken hearted? He comes home with me, doctor's orders, to my little house, my little shell, my sanctuary. He lies in my bed, alone. I lie on the sofa, more alone than I've ever felt. I brought this on myself. You do it to yourself, you do, you and no-one else, said the song.
A lie. "You ruined his life." A lie. A lie. I keep telling myself, a lie. He did that to himself.
The book is name checked above and is a series of creative writing exercises to flex the creative muscle of the brain, kick-start the imagination and just get you going with words. I will outline each one daily and then do my bit below. So if you fancy joining in, please start your own. We could form a little purple prose writing circle!
Here goes:
DIVING IN. Today dive into writing by choosing any one of the following words that have more than one meaning: bear, cleave, lie, sewer, tear, or desert. Start by copying the word and quickly, without stopping for any reason, continue writing until you reach the end of the page (in my case I'll just go on until it feels like a page of A4's worth). Making sense is unimportant (thank goodness for that!). Your goals are speed and endurance. if you get stuck, repeat whatever word you've just written until something new spills out. After you finish read the result. Don't forget to breathe, and try not to tense up your hand (or fingers if you're typing) Ready, set, go...
Saturday 12th May 2007
A lie. "I don't love you any more." A bald-faced lie. What I meant was: "I love you, part of me always will, but I can't bear to live this life any more." What I meant was: "I love you so much it frightens me, and I know you love me, but I'm not ready to be half of you, a wife." What I meant was: "I love you. But you make me lonely. I love you, but you make me cry. I love you, but you make me angry. I love you, but you make me feel like someone other than myself. I love you but..." A lie. Words unspoken, words that would give hope, words that would break a heart.
I lie. I lie in our bed and look at you as you sleep. You look like a little boy. You are at rest, unaware that my betrayal is so complete. Unaware that I will go, I have been looking for somewhere new to live. That I have told my friends I will do this. That I have sat over a bottle of wine with my boss and discussed my future alone, asked for more money so I can get on with a new life as soon as possible. Asked for new responsibilities, more time in the office, less time to be alone. Less time to be answerable to you. Less time to deny you my help, listen to your empty words.
A lie. "There's nobody else." He listened. It's as simple as that. I was important. My fragility beguiled him. I was easy prey. He was handsome, kind, important, clever, sensitive. He had clean fingernails. He had soft, cropped hair. And he didn't smell of you. My heart shirred in two when I let him kiss me, but I had to do it. I had to betray you. I couldn't go back.
I lie. I look at this stranger in the hotel room. The rise and fall of an unfamiliar chest, bare and smooth where yours has dark hair. He, blonde; you, dark. He, tall; you, small. He, married. His baby daughter in my thoughts. His wife, unaware. Me, the other woman. Me, the harlot, now.
I lie in my own bed, in my own house now. He's here still, now and then. You have railed and cried. You laid on the floor when I left. You begged me not to go. A lie: "You'll be fine." I knew you wouldn't. New Year's Eve, 2am - the answerphone blinked. I knew what was happening. I hovered over the button. I pressed. I knew, I knew... My mind raced. If I ignored it would the call be traced? Would I be culpable? Would I be punished for my selfish actions? Would I be punished for wanting an end to this misery - yours and mine. An end to the threats, the break-ins, the angry phone calls at 2am, the lies about guns, the lies about drugs... I rang the ambulance.
You lie. You lie on a hospital trolley. You are drunk and maudlin, no more, I know that now. But I make you stay. Learn your lesson. Punishing you, punishing me. The man on the next gurney fishes a shard of glass from a pocket and cuts his arm. "No, don't...Nurse!" I cry. New Year's Eve. What becomes of the broken hearted? He comes home with me, doctor's orders, to my little house, my little shell, my sanctuary. He lies in my bed, alone. I lie on the sofa, more alone than I've ever felt. I brought this on myself. You do it to yourself, you do, you and no-one else, said the song.
A lie. "You ruined his life." A lie. A lie. I keep telling myself, a lie. He did that to himself.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
