Friday, September 25, 2009
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...
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
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...
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..."
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
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.
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!)
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!)
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