Look in the Mirror

As a blogger, I am conscious that all this spraff is, frankly, pretty self-centred, if not indulgently introspective, or – worst – tedious. Are you still reading? Oh, well, either you’re curious, or nosey, or have more time than is sensible, or feel the need to give this poor lonely turret-dweller a modicum of respect by reading to the end of the…

Paragraph two, therefore, begins with an apology. I try to claim that all my writing is fiction, and yet I know that I spend a great deal of time examining my own insides like Wodwo (if that is an unfamiliar creature, read some Ted Hughes) in order to understand the crazy existence in which I am trapped: Life. But this is not the whole truth.

As a writer, I find myself shoogled and shoogling between what is real and what is fiction; what is me and what is perception; what I sense, observe or soak up, and what is presented to me in the harsh reality of what it is to be Human. My chief aim as a writer is to present ideas that will give the reader full scope for interpretation.

 

 

But sometimes, or should I say, always, it is what comes from deep inside that gives the most telling, revealing, illuminating insight. So while I love what Hemingway once said, “If a writer stops observing he is finished. Experience is communicated by small details intimately observed” I must add that a writer also needs to turn the mirror on themselves from time to time.

My next story, therefore, is all about a mirror. It’s also all about ‘how others see us,’ and, most important, it is about accepting that if we cannot see (or love, or forgive, or accept) ourselves, then we will allow others’ prejudice and judgement in. Whether we are artists, writers, poets, or any other kind of person, creative or otherwise, we should not let anyone judge us for simply being ourselves. Least of all, a punitive mirror.

This, and other stories, will be performed at Summerhall as part of the event, Being Human.

 

 

 

from Charlotte & The Charlatan – and other cautionary tales

 

This piece was conceived as a dance piece, to partner another of my ‘cautionary tales’ to be interpreted by Janine Melanie Wyse, “Alice (and) The Elephant.” It should be read over the music of Arvo Part’s Spiegl im Spiegl (‘Mirror in Mirror’), preferably the recording by Tamsin Little on EMI Classics. The concept was based on a discussion about attitudes to mental health led by the charity, See Me….

 

Celia in The Mirror (or, The Mirror in Celia)

 

Celia looked in the mirror. The mirror said: Celia, what do you see?

What Celia saw was illusory.

Tell me, Celia, what do you see? Celia refused.

Tell me, the mirror insisted. But Celia resisted.

Tell me, Celia, what do you see? I see you, do you see me?

Said Celia, can I see you?

The mirror said, no, and then – on reflection – said, maybe. It may be you, or it may be me.

Celia said, I see.

But you don’t, said the mirror, or can’t or you won’t, or – tell me, what do you see?

Celia paused. I see a lion. It roars and bares its claws.

But, the mirror assured her: the lion has the softest paws.

Celia said: the lion defies definition. We long for recognition, a cause.

Said the mirror: in need of applause?

There’s always a catch or a clause. Saying that, Celia went to the window and lifted the latch. A bee flew dreamily through the room.

The mirror saw, and seeing the bee said: Tell me, Celia, what do you see?

Said Celia, I see the bee, but can the bee see me?

The mirror said, I hear its sullen hum, and sense the heavy heft of pollen on its abdomen; upon its legs a smattering of nectar and, within its busy property, a promise of the sweetest thing: honey smoother than oil.

And on its tail, said Celia: a sting.

As if to foil the mirror’s song about the bee, she caught the thing. It gently stung her on the hand. And though it hurt like hell (Celia saw the raw pain in her face) she refused to recoil.

I see your pain, the mirror said, as if it could. Celia could see the mortal pain of the bee was greater than her ephemeral agony.

The bee lives more than just by chance, the mirror said. It holds the balance of the ecosystem sympathetic with nature; it nurtures homeopathic empathy, and survives in dance.

With that, the silent, drowsy bee moved in a gentle motion round and round the up-turned palm of Celia’s hand, until – eventually – it retracted its sting and, with a tender apology, flew to its natural task.                                                                                         

So tell me Celia, the mirror had to ask. Tell me, now what do you see?

Noting her swollen hand (she held it so the mirror couldn’t see) she said: I see an elephant.

In the room, inquired the mirror, or in me? Have I stolen you and made you more than you were meant to be?

No. You are both a memory and yet, a plodding, grey reality of me.

So I am you? the mirror said. Is that what you see in me?

No, you see me, said Celia; and I see you but I cannot be you; I can only be me – but we can only exist in relation to each other.

If you insist, said the mirror. You are unique; you can always get another if you smash me.

Don’t be rash, Celia chided: I need a mirror that can speak. And listen.

But I’m fragile, and my glass is thin, the mirror sang a plaintive song.

Unlike the thickness of my skin, lied Celia: I’ll just plod along, shall I?

Don’t lie, the mirror warned: I see the tears swell in your eyes; for me it’s clear: I can tell mendacity, you see, because I’m in complicity with your image, even though it’s front-to-back for me.

For me, said Celia, it’s back-to-front: you’re a bigger liar than a camera. I see your elephant.

But can you, Celia: Tell me, Celia; tell me what do you see?                                 

And so on, and so on, and so on, and so Celia started to move away.

Don’t go, said the mirror: I need you. Without you I am nothing. A thin glaze, a sheen, a sheet, a veneer, a clear piece of glass transparent as one you might pass through were your name the same as the letters it creates, or your shape as elusive and queer as the things of fantasy that lead you to look at you in me.

Celia, turning, knew the mirror was an empty pane without her and – like the symbiotic nature of the bee, the needy lion, and the elephant – all three relied upon their own kind to remind themselves of their existence. With the mirror, Celia was mindful of her angst. Without it, she was nothing.

Tell me, mirror, are you me? Am I what you see?

The mirror told her: yes I am. If you believe it to be true.                                                

Celia approached the mirror. Trusting its transparency, she passed right through.        

 

 

 

Trams! In Edinburgh? Stop the Traffic…

I’m not a huge fan of writing-competitions. However, because I often use artwork and sculpture as a source of inspiration, one competition I have felt compelled to enter is Inspired? Get Writing! – run annually by the wonderful National Galleries of Scotland.

For the final assignment of a Creative Writing course I took several years ago, I wrote a sequence of poems, Walking on the Water, based on the Antony Gormley statues along the Water of Leith This earned me a distinction from the OU. In the following year, one of the poems, ‘The Paraclete,’ was awarded Special Merit in the National Galleries competition.

The full sequence is due to be published by After Nyne later this year. Sadly, some of the statues of Gormley’s installation, 6 Times, have been removed for the time being; but the one behind Ocean Terminal is still there, being regularly sat on and shat on by the gulls that feature in my poem.

The following year, I received another Special Merit for a poem, also with religious connotations. ‘The Virgin’s Song’ was based on the La Vierge d’Alsace which stands in the gardens of what most people in Edinburgh still call the Dean Gallery. The poem was first ‘published’ as part of the Inky Fingers virtual Open Mic, and can now be read here.

 

This year, I went for ‘third time lucky’ and entered a short story. With the trams now trundling along Princes Street, I wrote a darker take on the theme of ‘traffic.’ For that reason, I used a female point-of-view to illustrate what could be seen as a ‘women’s issue.’ As well as the painting which inspired it, 'La Rue du Tramway' by Paul Delvaux, my story was based on a video produced by Stop The Traffik.

Many might say that, for one reason or another, I have no right to even comment on such things. But I am a writer and, without wishing to sound pretentious, an artist. I believe implicitly in the importance of exploring and expressing deep and sometimes dark truths about people and society.

 

There is a fine line between banging a drum and creating a piece of art that gives people the space to get inside the narrative and create their own reaction or interpretation. I hope this story, when it is read at the Galleries today, does the latter.

The Women in the Window

 

For the women in the window, it felt as if the trams would never come. The lines leading to the Docks (where their predecessors had plied their trade) had long been scrapped. Now they waited on the link to the modern Port. They were part of an industry that had, in recent years, become acceptable. There were also the “private” places in the new part of Town, although these had seen some major clamp-downs lately.

            ‘Damned amateurs,’ the first woman said, downing her espresso.

            Lilly (not her real name), seductively tonguing the froth on her cappuccino, agreed. ‘It’s a profession without protection – literally. A boom-and-bust economy.’

            ‘More bust than boom,’ said Tyger (another blatant pseudonym) chuckling into her hot chocolate. Still a student, she naïvely thought herself above the other two. Vera, who went by her own name, was inevitably wiser. In their game, experience ranked above knowledge and wisdom.

            ‘It was ever thus,’ she quashed the student’s humour. ‘Their licences get withdrawn faster than a Catholic’s cock, but they always come bouncing back.’

            ‘Like protestant balls?’ Tyger enjoyed her own joke, but Vera remained dour.

            ‘They come and go – like their clientele. They rely on occasional bursts of activity: sports fixtures, festivals, summits, delegates from various assemblies.’

            ‘Don’t forget the Church,’ added Lilly.

            ‘I wasn’t. Without Jesus, we’d be even less legitimate.’

            Tyger blew the steam from the top of her mug as she stared out of the window overlooking the gardens. It seemed to mingle in her vision with the mist that lay like a soft sheet over the city. The street rumbled sotto voce. ‘Do you really think he’d hang out in our sort of joint if he was here today?’ she asked, dreamily.

            ‘I know it,’ asserted Vera. ‘The Bible’s full of victims. Anyone tells you this is the oldest profession is talking bollocks. Pimps have been around longer.’

            Tyger had never considered this job in the light of Vera’s implication. To her, it was pocket-money, a nudge up from what most students earned. She remembered how Vera said she’d never let her own daughter degrade herself by working in a coffee-shop. Minimum-wage-slaves, she called them. Tyger was also told that nobody would make her do anything she didn’t want to in the club, although it only took a fortnight for the floor-manager to get her to remove more than she’d first agreed.

            ‘I’ll tell you the truth,’ Vera continued: ‘When these damned trams are back on track, those Eastern Europeans will take your job quicker than you can take your knickers off.’

            So the trams were less about transport, more about traffic. Being from the West, Tyger had heard stories of people trafficked into her city; girls as young as thirteen or fourteen – although these days it was hard to tell. Surely this was different? She asked Lilly, what drew her to the job.

            ‘Self-esteem, I suppose.’ Vera shot her a withering look. Lilly ignored her. ‘I had lots of body-image issues when I was younger. Flat-chested, pizza-faced, depressed. I got into dancing and – well, one thing led to another.’

            ‘Huh,’ snapped Vera: ‘The classic rapist’s defence.’ Tyger wasn’t sure what she meant by that. ‘One thing always leads to another: that’s how we got here in the first place. Sweetheart, don’t tell me you’ve never been propositioned, spat on, followed home or offered substances for favours?’ Lilly admitted she once had a stalker but he was harmless, just a bit sad. ‘And what did that do for your self-esteem?’ Lilly didn’t answer. So Vera started on Tyger. ‘And I bet you’ve been groped at least once since you’ve went topless?’

            There was a strict “no touching” rule and, when it came to drugs, the floor-manager took a zero-tolerance policy. Tyger saw this as an indication of ethical standards, but as she concurred with Vera’s candid assessment, she wondered what else was in store. Through the panoramic window, the mist had dissipated, replaced by a thin, grey light. How had Vera stuck it out for so long – she was at least twice the age of most of the girls? ‘What about you?’ Tyger asked her.

            ‘It’s a job…’ Tyger waited for her to elaborate. Vera opened her bag, removed her contact and began applying lippy. It was clear she had finished the conversation. Vera’s job, to recruit, was no worse than a pimp, but based on the right to choose. To work in a regulated industry, unlike the other “sectors.” And earn decent money, provided you gave what it took.

            But what did it take? And who took what?

            The gentle patter of middle-class conversation continued elsewhere in the café. Three young girls in high-heel platforms tottered in. Tyger would’ve called them scrubbers at school, but who was she to talk. One of them removed her stilettos, put on her flats, and took her place behind the counter.

            In their silence, the women became aware of a commotion on the street. A crowd had gathered below the window.  All three took up positions in each pane. Tyger was reminded of a video she’d seen on youtube, where dancers in red-light windows were cheered on by gathering crowds. Then some kind of caption about being promised a dancing career was projected above. At the time, Tyger had thought: slags. But where had she ended up?

 

            A tram trundled by to the sound of sarcastic applause. ‘Thank god for that,’ said Vera: ‘We might get something decent to work with.’ It was clear that this was the sign for all of them to leave. Tyger watched as Vera scanned the room and clocked the girl behind the counter. ‘What the…’ and before she added an expletive, Vera marched over and dragged the girl, by her hair, out of the coffee-shop.

            ‘Her daughter?’ Tyger suggested.

            ‘Reckon,’ said Lilly: ‘Come on.’

            ‘You go on – I need the loo,’ Tyger finished her cold chocolate and made for the ladies, sensing there might be a better job going behind the counter.

 

Why Write

Writing is hard. I say this for anyone who reads this blog and isn’t a writer, although I suspect that most of you who read this have some kind of creative impulse. What creates this urge is beyond me. I cannot imagine being without it. Creativity is everything to me. Art, in its many manifestations, is something of a religion; my need to be creative comes out of a compulsion which feels like an addiction.

Why do I do it? I find it incredibly difficult and frustrating. I’m never short of ideas, but the fear of trying to articulate these thoughts in well-crafted lines of prose, poetry or script is crippling. I cannot accept that I have the talent, craft, or ability to get words to do what I want them to do. Then there’s the matter of taming my pen so that I do what every writer ought to do: leave rabbit-holes for the reader’s imagination to disappear down.

One of the chief aims of my writing, as I suggested in my wee blurb for the Village Pub Theatre is to ‘mess with the imagination.’ My short play, wonderfully interpreted by Jenny Hulse and Liz Strange (dir. Caitlin Skinner) was designed to leave the audience thinking, ‘what was that about’ – although it may be that the mystery was shattered by the rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ sung at me immediately afterwards. Very touching, if embarrassing!

My story Alice (and) the Elephant is another peculiar piece, open to a wide range of readings. Maybe people who know (or think they know) me will see it as autobiography – albeit disguised or transposed – but I can’t say that it is. A writer cannot see his/her hands. (That statement works both ways: lead us not into writing rubbish, but deliver us from the rubbish we write, since it is Thy will that is being done.)

As I say, writing is like a religion.

Presenting my story at Illicit Ink at the beginning of this month, I had the luxury of sending a recording of my reading to a dance-artist to create a new twist on the tale. I didn’t know Janine Melanie Wyse; we met only the day before for a coffee. But I knew from this brief meeting that, with her unique take on my work, it was going to be very good. ‘Whatever you come up with,’ I told her, ‘it will be great: it’s completely up to you.’ And it was.

Beyond my wildest imagination. 

 

So it is with these obtuse little pieces which I have called ‘cautionary tales’ – whatever they may or may not be about is not for me to decide: it is in mind of the beholder that the meaning must be construed. I’ll let you decide what you think Poppadum Poppy is addicted to. Whether you are right or wrong this is something over which I have no control, and that is fine with me.

As Pilate said, washing his hands: what I have written I have written.

 

from Charlotte & The Charlatan

– and other cautionary tales

 

 

Poppadom Anonymous

 ‘I have to admit,’ Poppy admitted, ‘I’m partial to a poppadom or two.’ The Charlatan knew, though Poppy showed no clue, this was only a partial admittance. ‘I spend a small fortune on pickles,’ she said – which the Charlatan knew was entirely true: comparatively, it was a pittance.

            Poppy’s passion for curry ran rather beyond her purse. Sometimes she could spend a week’s wages – or worse – on ready-meals, take-aways, or home-made curry – if she was not in a hurry. Sometimes she would splash out and dash to a curry-house, then order enough for two. Quiet as a mouse (although looking a little bit sad) at the end of the meal, took the left-overs home in a doggy-bag.

            If Poppy had a dog, or a human companion, perhaps her poppadom fetish might not have been spotted (let’s say, they’d have guessed it, unless she somehow suppressed it.) But poor Poppadom Poppy was more than besotted.

            She first let it slip when a mint raita dip was found at the back of her desk drawer at work. She’d taken to taking in poppadom crisps as a snack. The Office-Bore smirked: ‘Most women smuggle in cucumber!’ Nobody laughed, or understood the joker, but Poppy kept her face the most poker.

            From that point, Poppy kept her poppadoms clandestine, preferring to dine alone. But the Curry Club on a Tuesday at her local Wetherstones Pub was another public outing. If anyone ever suspected a secret desire, what they saw was beyond any doubting. From noon right up until closing time she had poppas and dips for £1.99. If she wanted to ‘add a desert’ to her plenty, an ice-cream kofte was two-pounds-twenty!

            But this behaviour the Charlatan saw (and so did her boss, and the Office Bore) was the thin end of a thickening wedge. ‘Poppy,’ he said, ‘Can I offer a pledge?’ At this point, the Charlatan, seeing her frown, frenetically started to search around for a corny rhyme such as Balti with faulty, Korma with calmer, Jalfrezi with crazy or Chutney with Muttley. (That last one he knew was a little bit crass, but he shitted it out like a chicken Madras.)

            ‘Dear Poppy,’ the Charlatan said, sympathetic, ‘Can I offer advice you might find empathetic? For years,’ he alleged, to curry opinion without any flavour, ‘I have struggled and striven to overcome passions by which I am driven.’

            So she went to a Group where the folk helped themselves (not to curry) to self-help books not on the shelves of the average bookshop or Grocery Store. But after twelve weeks (or steps) she wasn’t sure she had overcome her peculiar predilection, which everyone saw as a dreadful addiction.

            While the Charlatan thought he was onto a winner, to pardon the sin while forgiving the sinner, the truth about Judgement cannot be revoked: there will always be fire when you sniff out the smoke.

 

            The fact is, she wasn’t addicted to curry at all; a far greater contagion held Poppy in thrall.

 

 

 

Getting Out and About

So that’s February done – thank fuck for that. It’s been mercifully short but unremittingly shitty for me. I’ve been treading on eggshells and other clichés; the skeletons in my closet have been rattled, and the cachinnations of the mad woman in the attic have cackled in my ears.

Having to acknowledge the Elephant in one’s Room is hard, and while my skin is pretty thick, I could do with an elephant’s hide.

There is good hide and bad hide. Though it is tempting to hide away when feeling vulnerable, I must not. What’s more, I mustn’t stop writing. Writing is the only way I know to make sense of my own difficult past, to challenge perceptions, and to try to understand the strange and harsh world we live in.

For the first half of March, I fully intend to get out and about, and share my writing with the world (well, the audiences of Edinburgh at least.) To begin, I will present one of the Cautionary Tales that I am posting on this blog this year. You’ll find it below – although the performance at Illicit Ink's 'Underground' show will be accompanied by music, and interpreted by a dancer. Exciting!
 

In the week, I’ll read at the Antihoot in Henry’s Cellar Bar; then the Inky Fingers Open Mic at the Forest Café; and will perform a grisly phone-box tale at 10Red The following week I’ll appear in a slam (if I’m picked out of a metaphorical hat) and at the University's 'Soap Box.' At The Blind Poet, I’ll recite poems printed in two of the three Blind Poetics Collections, the first of which you can see here. http://issuu.com/blindpoetics/docs/final_jan_13

The first fortnight ends with my birthday, which I intend to celebrate. That evening, the Village Pub Theatre will be presenting short plays by writers new to the V.P.T. Although it’s not strictly true that I’m new, having had my twitter-plays performed there and at the Lyceum (oh, yes!) my sketch, Taboo, will clock in at an untweetable 8½ minutes.

We all have elephants in our rooms; all have difficult issues and taboos, and there are plenty of things we’d rather were left unspoken. But the important thing is dealing with it when the silence is broken. The turret window’s open.

Come talk to me.

 

 

Alice (and) the Elephant

from Charlotte & The Charlatan

– and other cautionary tales

 

 

Alice kept an elephant in her room. Everybody knew it, although no-one ever saw it. Though she recognised it might be seen as part of her over-worked imagination, Alice was adamant. Alice had an elephant in her room.

            The elephant in Alice’s room was huge. It started out tiny, a micro-pet, but rapidly expanded. Like Alice’s propensity for fantasy, her elephant grew into something of mammoth proportion. Its trumpet-call went from playful ‘toot’ to a blast of brassy distortion. A boisterous calf, the elephant took up half the room; pretty soon, with increased sloth, the creature became a behemoth and finally, eventually, the elephant filled the room.

            Alice allowed the elephant to fill her room. Like the wild and untamed ramblings of her mind, the elephant, in concept and metaphor, ballooned into a fantasy beyond the obvious and blatant fact: without the room, there could truly be no elephant. But without the elephant, could there truthfully be a room? Alice doubted this.

            And so it was, the elephant became the room. And it was so, said Alice to the elephant: the room becomes you. It’s hard to say if this pleased her. The elephant eclipsed all sensibility; to deny its existence was futile, yet it was argued by those who attempted to do so as a childish conceit and puerile. Alice ignored the dissent, since such opinions came and went but the elephant remained.

            It came to pass that the elephant in the room became a phantom pregnancy. Alice felt her womb’s expansion like a blessing and expostulated with a virgin’s fervour: I am magnified by something mighty! Overcome by grandiose delusion, lacking God for guidance, Alice gave her elephantine pregnancy a name. She gave her own name to the elephant in the room.

            Lo, and indeed, behold, Alice became the elephant in her room. Of its real presence, everyone else was aware. If only they could convince her – Alice – that it was really there.             For Alice had put aside her script and developed a hide so thick that neither fear nor sub-text could penetrate or allow her to hear the voices that had deluded her. What lay beneath her cutaneous surface was eluded – to overcome this ‘that which can’t be spoken’ – by a silence that would never again be broken.

            When she became the elephant in the room, Alice became both elephant and room and as such, no longer existed herself, though her name lived on like a promise with which memory could commune. And as we know, the elephant never forgets.

            As to who begat the elephant, only Alice knew. It began as a pet, a myth, a turn of phrase. It turned into a set of values, a concept – a phase. It became a matter of reproof, beyond proof of the truth. Alice was the creator, myth-maker, the reality; the viewer, the viewed, and the human fantasy that any of this exists beyond the bounds of what lies hidden, hiding or buried by or in perverse imaginations.

            Alice and the Elephant in the room.

            The elephant in the room.

            In the room.

The Word of God?

I hate the Bible. It’s full of such deplorable, misogynistic, racist, judgemental shit it’s an embarrassment to anyone of a humanistic bent. But, god, I love the Bible too. It has some of the most beautiful poetry and inspiring passages of insight. Surely no-one can fail to be moved by the words, in whatever way they are presented. But it is, as I have said many times on this little piece of internet, open to uncountable, incredulous amounts of interpretation.

Many years ago, as a bare-faced adolescent, I read a passage of scripture in Church, and hadn’t the faintest clue what I was talking about. I’m not sure, many years hence, what the passage means, but this month it has come back to haunt me, like a trauma. So I will start this year’s bloggery, which I fancy isn’t going to be an easy ride, with a little bit of Bible. Make of it what you will: it’s up to you.

 

And since we’re onto the complications of interpretation, I will post the first of this year’s sequence, a bunch of rather silly semi-poetical (ie, prose-poem) pieces which fall under the title, Charlotte and the Charlatan – and other Cautionary Tales. The first was published in the second anti-zine, Circus, produced by those wonderful antisocial writers. I urge (nay, I demand) you buy the whole magazine. And look out for more of these quirky tales here on this site.

If you want, you might offer a suggestion to what they mean. God knows, I haven’t a clue.

Charlotte & The Charlatan

 

The Circus finally came to town on a Tuesday afternoon, with a caravan of clichés and a rhythm without any tune. It arrived in time for the Shrovetide Fair (or was it in June, or September? Was it Easter or Christmas? Nobody cared, or any rate, no-one remembered.)

            When the Circus arrived it was later than dead, it was done-for and more-than-delayed; it was rotten and rotted, mouldy and useless, moth-ridden, diseased and decayed.

            Charlotte and The Charlatan went along to investigate. They turned up prematurely. The Circus was typically late.

            The trailers came in dribs and drabs (more drab than drib) slowly but surely. One by one they traipsed; then two by two they were introduced to the crew. The Wizard and Lottie discovered their tales were incredible: neither factual nor true. Far from contrived, or a con-trick, The Circus was simply deluded right through.

            The Head of the Clowns kept his smiles and his frowns in a plastic bag purchased from Aldi.  Suspiciously chipper, he claimed he was descended from Grimaldi.

            The Lion-Tamer, lacking a head, played a mean game of Russian Roulette. As a mimic, he put the Mime-Artist to shame, but suffered (fuck!) from (shit!) Tourette’s.

            The Tight-Rope Walker, aptly-named, was permanently pissed. He was tight as a tic, wired, high as a kite – it was more than his balance he missed.

            The Bearded Lady had had a close shave when the Freaks showed her up as a fraud. The Midgets and Giants took ill-matched sides and ganged up on the Dwarves.

            The Circus never saw themselves as failures – they were, indeed, most entertaining. But according to the Trade Descriptions Act, what the tin said wasn’t what they were claiming. 

            The public paid good money to see, and a spectacle’s just what they got. If they were expecting a show, show-business it was not.

            Were they deluded by grandeur, fooled by illusions, thinking themselves worthy, or simply corrupt? Either way, the Big Top was a big flop, and their departure, likewise, abrupt.

            The Charlatan said, The Circus weren’t failures, but part of a larger contagion. In Society, nothing is certain, not even the claims of established religion.

            Life’s a breeze if you can trapeze; a struggle if you can’t juggle. If your aim is only to please other people, your head can be left in a muddle. 

                The Circus departed, depressed, bankrupt, and Lottie was left with a lesson. Misfortunes and failures, lies and misdeeds, foibles and fears, and worst nightmares remain if you try to be something you’re not. The Circus became a vague memory to some; but for most, it was quickly-forgot.

            They left the town not a moment too soon on a wet Wednesday afternoon, with a caravan of broken delusions, and a rhythm without any tune.

 

http://www.antizine.com/sales/

Kind of Blue

Back in the days of vinyl (where this year’s discussion of all things blue began) and of recording your favourite records onto cassette tape, wondering why you could never quite fit an LP onto one side of a C60, and a C90 left an annoying gap at the end, many years ago I recorded my Dad’s much-played copy of Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue. I didn’t realise that a piece of fluff had got trapped under the needle. Playing it back, the final track (Flamenco Sketches) became more distorted as the stylus gradually gathered the detritus of the record deck. By the end, Miles’ plaintive trumpet could barely be heard beneath the crackle and fuzz.

 

I played it in that state again and again, wallowing in a sort of protracted misery. If you’re going to be blue, why not drown in the depths of it. Similarly, I liked the way my sister’s old, second-hand record player (we were a family of hand-me-downs) played Joni Mitchell (and, perversely, AC/DC et al) slightly slower than 33 1/3rpm. Whenever I play Hejira it feel as if the tempo is just a bit too fast, and I’m always waiting for the blip in ‘Refuge of the Roads,’ where someone jogged the needle during recording. Somewhere, I still have that tape.

 

                There’s comfort in melancholy

                When there’s no need to explain

                It’s just as natural as the weather

                In this moody sky today

It’s very easy to let music drag you into depression, or to exacerbate or validate your mental state. I used allow myself to fall into the trap of musical maudlinism, thinking my emotions were best played out in minor keys. It took a long time to make the cognitive shift that convinced me that being in pain wasn’t the only way of feeling truly alive. For me, depression wasn’t an acknowledged, diagnosable or recognisable illness. It was a way of life, a raison d’etre. And if miserable music provided a vicarious overture to my misery, all well and good. Or, as it turned out: bad.

 

                I almost closed the door
                Cancelled on everything we opened up for

 

For years I suffered from low-level, chronic depression which resulted in episodes, attitudes, and behaviours that I can now describe as black, not blue.  Although I was able to live and work a seemingly normal life, my sense of self-loathing, anger at living, and general hatred of the world and its inherent shittiness was debilitating. I saw it as part of the natural order: this is what it means to be an ‘artist.’ I suffer, therefore I am. It took a cataclysmic event to shake off that attitude, and the shock-waves reverberate to this day.

 

Tonight the shadows had their say
Their sad notions of the way
Things really are
Damn these blues!

 

This year’s sequence, twelve poems about the colour blue and its various connotations, was written at a time when I was trying to unravel the cognitive dissonance of my condition, and although I’m not sure it achieves this, I’m not unhappy with the poems. 2013 has been a mixed year for me as a writer, with some notable successes, but also with heavy disappointments and rejections. The books, websites, and tutors of creative writing encourage us to embrace those rejections, to see them as opportunities, not threats. Easier said than done, in more ways than one.

 

Odi et amo. quare id faciam, fortasse requiris?
nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

 

Often I think of my relationship with writing as a difficult marriage. (I feel a similar way about my adopted home, Edinburgh.) Sometimes love just isn’t enough: if the relationship has, through no fault of love, been undermined, eroded, or unpicked by the perils of the human condition, there is little can save it. Among the writers with whom I associate, even those who are way further up the ladder than me are plagued by self-doubt and blockage. But all writers have something to say; a story to tell, a song to sing.

 

The human condition amounts to nothing more than a song.

 

These days, I try not to listen to sad music for pure effect but rather, within a context; preferring to be uplifted or stimulated by what music means, rather than what it does. If that sounds a bit dry and academic, so be it. The 2^nd Viennese School of composers in the 20^th Century reduced music to the basic component of the twelve tones of the scale; called it dodecaphonic. J.S. Bach – arguably the greatest composer – was a mathematical genius whose music stimulated intellect, emotion, and gut in equal measure.

 

I cannot think of a better way of tackling life than balancing those three centres of being: head, heart and body. I’m not claiming to be completely on top of things mentally. If my assessment here sounds trite or simplistic, that is because mental health (I say health, not illness, on purpose) is a hugely complex subject, and the relationship with music is a minefield. I’ve never taken medication, and hope I’ll never have to. Sometimes, it is enough to clear ones head by going out for a brisk walk. Or failing that (possibly avoiding the Passions) just put on some Bach. And sing, of course.

 

Twelve Tones of Blue

 

 

All the factors of the poem-cycle, taken through a ramble of lines (the same shape as Cantos III, VI and IX) contrive to end where the cycle began, with the ink on a pin turning into a song: an act upon which our existence relies; the creative process and the reproduction in performance are only the beginning.

 

Canto XII

 

 

The winds twelve quarters, the apostolic hardships, the Trinity.

4 by 3 the math; the psychopath, the dodecahedral polymath.

The anima defenses, the menses, the melancholy senses.

 

The minor interval, the chordal progression, the scale.

Transblucency defined by Mingus, Miles, Jaco Pastorius.

Fish to flesh, feather to bone, clay to clod to dust.

 

Enamel slip, animal slype, a plant, a dye, a daub.

China spode, ancient wode, an heiroglyphic pin-print

sanskrit mandala, burden or mantra; ink on a pin. A song.