Teetering...slight return (with an opening digression on my string theory of language)

Writing is a peculiar business, one hamstrung by the nature of the medium in so many ways I have come to agree with the Samuel Beckett school of thought: "Try again. Fail again. Fail better." I have considered individual words to be nothing, rather to be spaces, for some time now. What does a word by itself mean? One must turn to a definition, a cluster of words. It must be accepted that by themselves words mean very little and that any meaning they might have is open to interpretation to such a degree as to render the individual word empty at least. Think "democracy". Think "freedom". Think "love". But put words together in sentences or simply in groups and meaning does start to emerge. After a number of words have clustered together and those clusters have shaped themselves into larger bodies of text then we have what might be now described as a net, something capable of snaring the slippery fish of meaning we are searching for.

So, words as holes, building into strings that soon become a net. That's it (in a nutshell) my "string theory" of language.

Three days after my encounter with Faversham creek, the Oare and the Swale I returned. A compulsion? Not yet, but I have the sense that something has started. The weather was completely different. On Sunday this weird October had continued with temperatures of 19 degrees and sunshine that could only be described as Autumnal by the angle at which it struck. Thursday was far more appropriate to my mood, to the way this whole coast seems to be shaping itself in my mind as a place of blurs and softened edges - fog rolled in off the sea and stayed most of the day.

If anything the tide was further out than before. The creek was nothing but a trickle and was boosted to what might be described as a stream only after being joined by a surging, frothing mess from the sewage works. Up shit creek indeed. Fortified by another pint of Late Red and one of Annette's Baguettes I strode along the Saxon Shore Way and into the misty marshes. It wasn't long before I found myself wondering what exactly I was up to. Was there any purpose to this walk? I decided that I was looking for the place where the creek became the sea. Or rather where the path I followed was no longer a path beside a small tributary but was a path beside the North Sea. But then where the creek, or creeks since the Oare and Faversham creeks meet just before they both become part of the Swale...As I walked and thought it seemed more and more pointless to look for a place, a line that once crossed might mean one thing had become another. Perhaps my whole sense of place, of landscape is entirely conditioned by my city life, by thinking of roads and buildings? Lines and distinct places? Here on the marsh there seemed little sense in such divisions. And then there was the mist that lifted from time to time to allow a golden glow of light into the world, or occasionally flashes of brilliant illumination that brought sudden colours crisply to the attention of the retina, but would then return to conceal what might have been briefly glimpsed behind a gossamer shroud. To make matters worse my glasses would periodically be spattered with delicate droplets as though the landscape were breathing into my face, deliberately hiding itself from my enquiries.




For what it's worth this (above) is the place where the creeks meet the Swale that will soon open into Whitstable bay that at some other point might be said to be the North Sea. And what do we see after such discussion of waterways but an expanse of flat mud.



I will now attempt what might be classed as a sort of Jazz approach to writing where I will try to articulate my sense of being at the edge of things but also somehow at the begging of something and how these feelings might be caused/inspired by the edges of England...

...and it starts with mud. We are said to have crept from the sea, brave fish, gasping for new ways of living, hauling ourselves on hardened fins from the salty oceans and into a world of brown ooze. Brown ooze full of living things. The sea itself a vast cauldron of life, tempestuous or calm, salt filled, life loaded. The sea melting the oozing muddy land, minerals mingling, chemicals reacting, new combinations and creations emerging. At low tide you see them still, those Saxons in their waist-high boots, rubber braces, buckets and spades, digging in the sludge, feeling around in the mud for bait or restaurant fodder. They call to one another like the nesting birds. They say the sea defences along here are not to be renewed. This concrete wall will fail. The flats will return to mud, fall to the rising sea. For remember the sea is hungry and vast. Do not be fooled by its gentle lapping, by the flat calm mud, the distant waters. Be sure the sea has time and will take it. These houses, little more than beach huts, some with their gardens already dipped in brine will fall. The pirates and their flag, their personal concrete wall around their garden will not last as an island of civilisation. No, they will be swept aside some stormy night. See how the shells are thrown high up the beach? See these sandy patches where they have been ground to dust by the constant waves? Regard the dilapidated groins, ramshackle, eroded. Look on my works ye mighty and despair indeed...

The other slight return was the Marsh Harrier. I saw him three times this trip. First on a post. I was so close I stopped mid stride. I ducked behind the sea wall and felt for my camera but the sudden movement spooked him and he flew off, flap, flap, through the mist. I walked more carefully then and was rewarded by another sighting, this time he perched in a tree.



The picture is crap because once again I was far away. This time as he flew off I noticed that the many small birds around began to sing once more. There is a whole other life quite apart from our rushing human progression, a life of feathers and air and small things that matter and are connected. I moved with greater care. This time I noticed the absence of bird song and looked for him - there! A little inland now, standing atop a gate-post. A sulking, hunched, executioner he flew off along the line of a hedge and I did not see him again.

And here we are, at what feels like an ending...

Teetering...

Low tide at Faversham and the creek is a line of sludge with old Thames barges for decoration; paint peelings dandrift to the ground as I brush past, through the boatyards, the washed up dreams of East End landlubbers, then out onto the duck board path across the marshes. There are bright berries on the dirty bushes, lichens and river scum of surprising green for contrast shining in the slanted sun of late October. A fierce breeze blows from West to East bending the tall grasses as the creek fills with seawater. I catch uncomfortable shards of reflected light in the corners of my eyes as I stride along the high path, smelling the sea, my shadow for company.

I am out here again, searching.

A marsh harrier adjusts his wings to the flow of fast air, still apart from these angled maneuvers. For a split second I can see through his eye; a patch of waving stalks in sharp focus, the shivering heart of a water vole as he senses death, teeters on the edge whilst wings fold above. A dip, a dive, the extension of talons and pain. In a moment he is gone, wings flap once or twice as he finds a convenient perch for lunch. Something is over. But nothing much seems to have changed for me as I walk on, step after swinging step, into this landscape I am learning to love.



The tide has turned and water is flooding into the creek. There must be a moment when I am no longer walking along the edge of the creek but the edge of the country. The path just carries on: it is beside the creek. And now it is beside the sea.

Skateboard Lady Rocks Again...

Up The Royal...

On Sunday evening I went out for a walk. It was dry and clear after what had been an unseasonably warm day. I missed the sunset by a matter of moments but decided a sea view with my pint was still going to be a good idea so I walked along the seafront and then up Tankerton slopes to The Royal. The sky was blue-grey and so was the sea. As dusk fell I was reminded of those Whistler paintings of the Thames, especially as the channel lights out in the bay began to blink their red and green messages through the fading day.



Inside the Royal was almost empty. I felt slightly self-conscious as I walked up to the bar and took off my cap. There was a grey haired lady at the bar with a man of perhaps fifty. Mother and son? I ordered a pint of Late Red with a packet of beef and mustard crisps on the side and wandered over to a corner table by the window.

I drifted for some time in the appreciation of good English ale and trying to articulate to myself the exact sense in which being beside the seaside is all about the edges of things; soft edges, mergers, gradations and gradual disintegrations.

The door opened and someone came in.

"Oh 'ere we go. Have you had your lunches you two?"

It was past six. The newcomers bought drinks and blended into the conversation I now found myself listening to.

"He must be getting excited then eh? Your grandson."

"He is. He's got a job lined up out there. Fruit picking. We didn't have such things you know in my day as gap years."

"I left school when I was fifteen."

"Oh, I was seventeen and a half when I left school..."

"Lazy cow!"

"No my dad you see, he said to me go to secretarial college. So I did and they taught you shorthand and book keeping and typing and after, I was seventeen and a half when I finished, you got a better job. And I did, a much better job."

"Hah! And where's it got you? Up The Royal on a Sunday afternoon, half pissed!"

Skateboard Lady Rocks!

Introducing Skateboard lady...

Cat Milk - Best thing since sliced bread?

Two food versus the modern world incidents combined to horrific effect in my world yesterday. I was reading the Bookseller in my new place d'emploi (See there is a literary content to this crap!) and took note of the cover:



A loaf of bread. The line "There's always room for improvement" You open the mag and inside the advert continues with a picture of a sliced loaf. Obviously we are meant to accept sliced bread as an improvement over non-sliced. There's even a cosy little saying "Best thing since sliced bread" to back up the assertion though that is clearly more advertising. Sir! I beg to differ...

Pre-sliced bread is crap. If I want a sandwich then I want thin slices. If I'm making toast that is going to be covered with...hmmm...mmm...let's say Humus - then I want a great slab of bread. Then there's the issue of freshness. Sliced bread has a far greater surface area than non-sliced and is therefore going to go stale at a faster rate. You can get around this by adding stuff to it but that just makes sliced bread even more crap.

Later I was in the supermarket with Finn. Whilst mum did most of the serious shopping we "helped" in the usual way. I spun him round in the trolley. We raced. One of our favorite supermarket pastimes is to find those little wall-mounted scanners they leave around the shop so you can price-check items. I will then grab a random object and scan it. The thing goes bleep and I say whatever comes up on the little screen. I picked up the first thing I layed my hand on and scanned it.

"Cat milk £1.96" I said in a robotic voice.

Cat milk? WHAT THE FU*K!

Poor little blighters. I phoned Jamie Oliver and Hugh Fearlessly Eats It ALL right away.

"Jamie mate. Did you know they sell cat milk? That's right. Absolute bastards eh? Think of the poor little blighters all standing in their little pens with their tiny teats being sucked by rubbery machines. That's right Geez. Pucker."

"Hugh! I was in the supermarket...Yeah I know. Ok Hugh it was a one off. I'm hardly ever there you know. Yeah well I do grow my own runner beans...Arm...Ok...I'll go kill a pig and get in touch with the reality of food...But Hugh, if I could squeeze something into the conversation. The bastards are selling Cat Milk. That's right. The milk of a cat. It's obscene. We have to do something. Jamie's up for it. I'm starting a campaign on Twitter"

Spider Robot Is Fed Up With Painting...

Out Of Step...

Yesterday was another glorious blue sky sunny stunner on the Kent coast and I felt compelled to take advantage of my unemployed state by heading for the woods. The start of my walk took me through a suburban landscape of neat gardens and cars parked up on smart gravel or tarmac driveways. As my barber commented recently - "This part of town was designed with the car in mind. The streets are wide and there's plenty of space for parking." The suburbs offer nature tamed, greenery to be contemplated at leisure from the sagging comfort of a deck chair or to be glimpsed from the corner of an eye as one hauls one's bulk into a Range Rover.

The next phase of the walk took me across land that, footpaths aside, was now designated as a golf course. I tried my best not to get in the way of the smartly dressed lads and dapper granddads who were dotted about. But the signs were vague and I was exploring new ground - I had to stop and ask for directions. I was instantly identified as some sort of transgressor. When it became clear that I spoke good English and had not been living in the woods but was just "Out for a ramble" as one of the lads helpfully suggested attitudes softened. They helpfully showed me the way out and I was as pleased to get off their manicured lawns as they were to see me disappear into the bushes from whence I came.

Finally I entered the woods, the sound of the nearby A299 was subdued and then obliterated by the gentle murmur of oak and sweet chestnut. I walked on a bed of leaves and mosses, each step softened to the dullest of thuds. Birds sang in glowing glades and gossamer threads shone silver across my path. Pretty soon I came close to shoving my face right through a complicated web. I stood for some minutes admiring the arachnitecture. Long silks stretched for five or six meters to enable the web to be positioned in the most advantageous spot, a place clear of foliage - like the path I was walking along!

At first I was concerned that my progress through the woods might be responsible for the destruction of so many webs. But then I realised something else. Here I was, right in the midst of some of the oldest and most beautiful woods in the country. And I was completely, utterly, alone. There were folk sunning themselves in their gardens. There were folk playing golf. Yes it was a week day and most people would be at work but still I found it extraordinary to have such a beautiful spot to myself in such a crowded corner of England.

I continued my walk and met a handful of people. Two were on bikes. The others all had dogs. One lady articulated what I felt to be the feelings of many as her two hounds sniffed at my boots.

"They're wondering where your dog is!"

I didn't have one. I was just a loan freak with a backpack and a picnic. Out in the woods for no reason other than the sheer love of being there.

Later I drank a pint in a pub.

Later still I picked a box full of blackberries - a box I calculated would be worth £5 at London prices.

And then I caught a bus home.

And I listened to the lads talking about passing driving tests and the cars they would buy. I marveled at the power of the Ford Fiesta - the hold it continues to have on the adolescent mind. Cars, girls, all the usual stuff. Could I imagine those boys out for a walk in the woods? No way. The odd round of golf perhaps...

An Encounter With Dan Brown In Tesco (An ‘Omage to H P Lovecraft)

After a series of internal combustions I found myself approaching an edifice of brick and glass I have been known to frequent when in search of microwave curry. I discovered a place to deposit and thence exit my vehicle without difficulty, there being many acres of tarmac available. Some unknown denizen of the depths of Kentish Hell, no doubt bedecked with orange fluorescence, had seen fit to mark the black expanse with lines of white paint, dividing the area into small rectangles, each corresponding to the approximate dimensions of a VW Golf. Why? Only a mind of incomparable size, of a vastness guessed at by the religious ravings of a lunatic priest as he attempted with his own puny organ to comprehend the enormity of the divine consciousness could have begun such an explanation - let alone reach anything one might consider to be a satisfying conclusion.

I shivered and drew my coat closer around my drooping shoulders. Immediately I was aware of a mechanical roar followed by a screech so piercing I feared for my sanity. As I cowered on the ground shaking I imagined I could hear angry voices beseeching me to move. I have racked my poor brains as to the meaning of these voices and have written down what little I can remember with anything that could be said to approach accuracy.

“Gt up oot th fukg wy ya bald cnt I nd tget my kidshom in tim for Iggle Piggle and Upsy Daisy”

The greatest minds of our fledgling linguistic sciences have so far failed to enlighten me as to the meaning of this inscription but I know, I feel it in the bloody marrow of my bones, that there is some great secret hidden within.

More on this at a later date perhaps though I doubt that I will survive the transmission of what followed into print.

I ran screaming across the black and white wastes towards what I foolishly believed was the relative safety of the supermarket as rebel angels blew their horns - a daemonic blasting I feared might shatter the fragile remnants of my reeling mind.

Oh! If only I had known what lay behind those automatic doors that hissed aside with such gentle and inviting pneumatic sounds. There I encountered a frenzied hoard of such debased humanity as has never been encountered outside of the Medway towns before (except perhaps some of the former mining villages of the Northern parts of the country). At first I could not see what was driving these, I hesitate to use the word “people” as such as I saw before me bore little relation to the respected and loved individuals of my former acquaintance, but I have no choice for it was impossible to ignore the truth my eyes presented to me - these were individuals of the human race - they were!

They spoke, chanted almost, an insane mantra that I scribbled down in my notebook even whilst my hands shook so much I could barely grasp a pen.

“Da Vinci Dan Brown Just Seven Ninety Nine Da Vinci Dan Brown Just Seven Ninety Nine”

They scrabbled with crooked fingers at an alter, yes! An alter! For I have no doubt that these people were consumed within the throes of worship. As each reached the alter they screamed in ecstatic delight and grabbed a chunk of it before flinging it into the wire mesh contraptions I now saw each possessed. I had seen enough. No - I had seen too much! I was overtaken by darkness. When I awoke the pandemonium had faded but I found myself incarcerated within an establishment I presume to be medical in some manner since the preferred form of dress appears to be coats of purest white...

My Dressing Gown

I have owned this dressing gown for over twenty years. I didn't buy it myself, I think my mum probably bought it for me at some point - possibly a birthday? I am fully aware that for the vast majority, possibly everyone else who stops to consider my dressing gown for even an instant, will be unable to appreciate the beauty of this synthetic beast. But I love it dearly. The fabric, though synthetic, is soft against the skin. The stripes remind me of Sherlock Holmes and for a while I even began to refer to it as my "smoking jacket".




Neighbours have often commented on the swathes of time I manage to spend reading in the garden. I can imagine the curtain twitchers curling their lips to sneer "He's out there reading again! And just look at the state of him. That dressing gown..."

Work in progress...

“Come and have a look at this” he said and opened a door into the night. It was not quite dark. She followed him out onto the steps and stood there for a moment, breathing the foliage scented air. The house was a presence behind her, a dark mass of stagnant time, just watching. He was down the steps already and only now turned to see if she had followed him outside. They were so strange these English boys, such a mix of confidence and fear. Languid in their movements, louche in their poses and yet so fragile the slightest touch could break their spirit. So unlike the determined Austrian boys, neat and tidy even in the midst of brutality. For a moment she thought she would faint away, saw the piggy eyes so close to hers, the lank blonde hair falling across a distorted face. But the house seemed to hold her on her feet and as the cool summer breeze stirred the leaves again she managed to focus on his slight smile. His hair was red and fine.

Loti walked down the steps and out onto the lawn. He was already away, striding ahead of her, fidgeting with something in his fingers. What about the peas? The disastrous silver service incident when she made her mother cry.

"Kinder - sie werden senden Sie uns weg!"

He just laughed and joked about escapees, not the most sensitive of remarks given the circumstances she and her mother found themselves in, but made out of kindness. She remembered him on his knees under the table whilst his mother scoffed and chided, the way he emerged with a handful and wrapped his handkerchief around them. He was kind and so he would be kind. If she could not believe in this then everything was spoiled just as her mother claimed. They could never be happy, never smile or feel good again.

He did have a name, Michael. She had heard other people use his name. Loti followed him across the wide lawn and around the pond, glancing as she passed through the mirrored surface to see the fish circling ghostly below. It was only now that she became aware of the light. Although it was dark the garden was glowing, there was no other way to describe it. She hurried after Michael and saw he was opening the door that led through the red brick wall of the ornamental gardens into the orchard beyond. Where was the moon? The night was clear and cool. She felt dew on the wooden door as she leant against it and it swung aside, creaking on age-old hinges. Michael was standing at the bottom of an apple tree in the middle of the orchard, looking back towards the house. Why had she leant against the door? She could feel the damp material of her nightdress against her skin as she walked over.

“There – look at that!”

Loti turned and followed his gaze. The moon hung in the sky above the house, a hazy harvest moon, wide and full.

“Oh! It’s beautiful...the way it is shining...”

Her English was still so bad she tried to avoid speaking as much as possible. As she spoke Michael smiled and drew himself up slightly, leaning back against the tree, he reached one hand out to grasp a branch and, raising his arm, pointed with the other.

“In fact the moon does not shine at all. We see it shining but that is simply an illusion. Physics, astronomy, mathematics; these disciplines have enabled us to understand that any light that appears to shine from the moon does not. It is in fact reflected. That is to say the light that does indeed shine from the sun, that is emitted from that fiery sphere, strikes the surface of the moon and bounces off it...”

Oh but it does shine she thought. Just look at it hanging there. It was her turn to reach a hand out and grasp a branch of the apple tree. She drew it close and smelled the bark, brushed a leaf across her face. Then she placed her hand around one of the bulging apples and looked at the light shining off its cheek.

“Not quite ripe yet...” said Michael before trailing off.

His cheeks were glowing too. She could sense their colour, even with this strange stage lighting. Loti had never felt quite like this before. Her vision blurred a little then the orchard swam dramatically before coming back into focus. She just happened to be looking at Michael now and could not fail to notice how lovely he was. Where the light struck his red hair it gleamed golden so that she believed for a stunning instant that what she saw before her was not a boy but an angel, haloed and amazing. Her heart beat hard in her chest. Wild thoughts rampaged around her brain. I am going to be sick or faint or maybe this is how you die. She wanted to thank him for this vision but most of all she wanted to speak his name aloud.

“Michael...”

The spell was broken. He stood up straight and drew his back away from the tree. He placed a finger between his stiff collar and his neck and pushed it from side to side. He looked at the ground. Then he glanced for a brief moment towards her but could not look at her face. His whole body contorted, shuddered with embarrassment. Without a word he hurried away, struggling in his haste to unfasten the old door.

Loti had stopped breathing after saying his name. Now she let the rest of the breath escape from her lips as a deep sigh. She began to wander around the orchard, walking up to trees, running her fingers through the leaves and then leaning against them as he had done.

“Michael...” she spoke his name again and smiled. What a funny boy! She was delighted and seduced by his embarrassment.

Goodbye 20th Century...

"Goodbye 20th Century" - That was the phrase that kept revolving through my mind as we packed up and left London for our new haven by the sea. Why? Christ, you should try being in my mind for a while - rather like a flea market or boot fair. All sorts of crap, some of it interesting, most of it rubbish. All I can say is that Goodbye 20th Century is the name of an album Sonic Youth produced that consists of cover versions of various avant-garde pieces of music. It's the kind of album I put on from time to time and see how long it lasts before my wife comes over and says something along the lines of "What the fu*k is this crap?" at which point I usually have to switch to Chet Baker radio or something...

But there it was like an unwanted Mantra, round and round. And now we've been here for a couple of months and despite occasional panics and the ridiculous fact of being a Fulham season ticket holder who no longer lives in London everything is kind of great. Dizzie Rascal (also newly relocated to Kent) put it sweetly in the Observer Magazine "It's quiet, it's cool." "It's still just about a London borough, I think."

I no longer own and run any bookshops. But I am reading plenty and enjoying it again. I'm also working in a bookshop - a brilliant, excellent, superb little place that I will tell you all about on or around October 1st when I start for real. So far I've just done a few days here and there but I've already met a customer from the Lower Marsh shop, down in Kent for the weekend. I am also writing intermittently. Maybe now the responsibilities of running a business badly have eased I might be able to go back to writing novels badly? We'll see. One thing's for sure. I'm not going to be shy about it like I always have been in the past. I'm going to post stuff up here.

Feel free to let me know what you think...(Gulp!)