Pulling on Strings

This Festival, I am mostly appearing in other peoples shows. So far, I have done eight slots in open-mic performances, or as a guest, and may do more before taking part in a play in the last five days of the Fringe – a quirky, amusing piece called Brian. It’s about a therapist to the gods and celebrities who is cracking up. Naturally, I play Brian… not that I’m cracking up, but life as a mere mortal is never less than fractious.

Although I’ve not got my own show this year, I have been repeating some of the phone-box tales from last year’s show, including two stories which make it quite clear what I think of particular journalists. One of these stories was recently published on Dead Ink. You can read it here. It was doubly well-timed, not just because of the start of the Fringe, but with the death of Robin Williams, those gutter-sniping papers were at it again.

When the Samaritans circulated emails warning papers from dwelling on the method of suicide, their advice was blatantly ignored. I did not know Robin Williams, and I did not need to know the cause of his death. I knew some of his work, and would like to celebrate (and commemorate) how his life was a cause of great mirth to many. Sadly, the shits who publish papers think that making money out of someone else’s tragedy is acceptable. It is not. It is immoral, repugnant, and utterly damaging to society.

While not dashing around Edinburgh’s plethora of Festivals, I am also writing reviews for Broadway Baby. One of my five star write-ups was for Warrior, Jen Adam’s powerful piece exploring not only sectarianism, but also the way that the media adds their foetid fuel to the fire of personal tragedy. Yet again, the same old story. Our minds are complicated places, and to play so wilfully with emotions that are not ours to push and pull around is beyond cruel.

Which brings us to this month’s Tale from my collection…

 

 

from Charlotte & The Charlatan – and other cautionary tales

 

Peter and The Ballerina

            The people of Charlotteville waited for the Event-of-the-Year – the Shrovetide Fair – with fear and trepidation. The Charlatan presented a show, and although no-one guessed just how it would go, they knew it would be a sensation.

            There was a puppet, a sad little fellow. Let’s call him Peter (or, in French, Pierre.) Oh, how he loved that Ballerina. From the moment he saw her, he was sure that he’d seen her before. Although he thought her movements slightly wooden, he couldn’t deny he adored her more than Petrarch loved Laura; Paulo, Francesca; or Tristan, Isolde. He longed to hold her, to make her his wife, to love her for the rest of his life.

            However, a darker shadow fell over that puppeted fellow, the nature of which he could never define or explain. While his movements were firmly in his grip and his thoughts were established without a slip, his emotions were totally out of commission – because they weren’t governed by his own volition.

            He emulated the gait of the much-admired Ballerina, yet his mental state was mired in dolorous musical moods. The pair were like melodies tripping over each other. Like the union between two incompatible lovers, her movements were jerky, ironic, impetuous, while Peter’s pathetic mien was ridiculous, dripping, laconic.

            Peter prepared himself for an unrequited passion. But here’s the thing: she took him in. And that’s where the trouble started. There was something missing; it was as if she’d never allowed a lover into her life; or perhaps her heart had been promised to another. When they kissed, it was at the Ballerina’s instigation. But something wasn’t right.

            On a cursory investigation he found the Ballerina’s Boudoir (a tent at the Fair) conspicuously bare. He expected fine linens, exquisite silks, exotic hangings and delicate charms reflecting her form; he was certain the colours and textures of her beauty would be matched in tapestries and curtains – but there was nothing there.

            It seemed she too was governed by a greater force. As a dancer, she moved without emotion, her thoughts created little commotion, but over her body she had little say as to why she behaved either this way or that. Now the Charlatan introduced a third to this triumvirate of characters that he – as puppet-master – put down to ‘Theatre.’ Others of a religious persuasion would call him ‘Creator;’ while those who dabble in psychology would call them archetypes.

            Come what may, the tearful puppet Peter and the wooden Ballerina were not ready for the darkness that descended. A mysterious character entered, unbeknown, although they sensed its presence. The Puppet checked his emotions (although they weren’t his own); Ballerina struck a pose (though not the position she chose) and when Peter said those three, fateful words – you know the ones I mean – it was clear to the gathering crowd that this was not a ménage-a-deux but a battle between three.

            The superior mind, that dark and devious creature, moved among the lovers and at every opportunity undermined the movements of one and meddled with the heart-throbs of the other; playing on their most vulnerable places like fingers on a clavichord; bashing on their weaknesses like hammers on the strings of a piano. As they made music together, it was a motley melody that neither love, nor movement, could sustain.

            They thought, of course, that they could overcome the meagre interruptions of intellect; put aside the assertions of those who relied on their brains; reject the analytical as merely clever. They would never be parted, even if it said in the Charlatan’s script, ‘both depart the scene broken-hearted.’ Ever fond of the over-dramatic, the Wizard introduced jealousy into his tale.

            It was not the first piece of theatre to use a triangle of a devious tyrant, a madly jealous knave, and a seemingly innocent pawn: it’s a classic ruse. But as to who was who, I’ll let you choose. All the Charlatan had to do was pull a few strings to put his Shrovetide Show out of joint. The point is, the audience of Charlotteville were left wanting – not for more, but for answers.

            Did Peter the Puppet kill the Ballerina, or vice versa? Or did something more sinister end the show? The Charlatan, a chancer to the last, told them: look, I cut their strings. That’s why these characters – I mean – things are lifeless and dead. That said, the crowd drifted away, and Charlotte arrived on the scene.

            “Come on, let’s go,” she said, “The Festival’s over.” The Wizard looked up, hoping to find the ghost of Petrushka, or even the Ballerina above the proscenium. But the blackest thought came over him, since neither was there to be seen. What if the Shrovetide Fair was no more than a sad, elaborate dream?

 

 

Faking It

The world is full of con-people, and sometimes you can never be sure who to trust. For this year’s blogging I am posting some pieces called Cautionary Tales, partly because I’m not sure where I can send them for publication. They are all quirky, a touch whimsical in places, and, with meagre moralistic stance, contain little message.

Each is around 500 words long, and flash fiction – if nothing else – is an excellent discipline for a writer. The initial prompt was the call for submissions to the Antisocial Writer’s annual zine. This month’s Tale was published in the Circus Antizine, along with the title-story of this set. It is about a sweet old dear called Melinda who turned out to be a con-woman with a flaw. But she had the last laugh.

Or did she?

from Charlotte & The Charlatan – and other cautionary tales

Melinda the Launderer

 

Millie laundered money. She quarrelled with the cashpoint, fiddled and diddled the lottery, and haggled with the hole-in-the-wall.

            I asked for two-hundred, not twenty; no, I haven’t forgotten my PIN; I want a statement – service unavailable? I want five quid, not ten.

            She terrorised the checkout staff by placing fewer, not less, than ten items in her trolley, then queuing in the baskets-only line.

            The she argued and debated with the self-service tills.

            That is not an unexpected item in the bagging area: it’s my bag – I put it there; no I don’t need your approval, and I don’t have a Nectar Card at all. Not at all – no – not even a little bit.

            She never checked her change at the Post Office Counter; mistakes could always be rectified; and when the bus instructed her ‘Exact change required’ in the absence of a conductor she simply threw in exactly what change she had. 

            I’ve paid my fare; it’s not enough? That’s unfair – okay, I’ll get off one stop early.

            No-one ever challenged her, or asked for proof of purchase.

            I’ve got my goods, what more proof do you need?

            And if she ever needed a refund, you can be sure the product never came in its original packaging, so why should she return it in the condition that she bought it?

            It came that way, that was how it was in the shop; this shop? Of course; it was ex-display! What do you mean, you don’t even sell it; are you accusing me; how dare you; who’d have thought it!

            She became a friend of Paypal, travelled East with Western Union, and docked her ship in E-Bay; kept her pocket-money in a sock, and phished the internet for plastic cash. She cracked more codes than an enigma, learned more passwords than a Russian Spy; cyphered and deciphered those illegible spam-filters quicker than a coffee pot can percolate a caffeinated scam.

            Melinda was a con-woman, a fiddler, a daylight-robber; a launderette, and a scamstress. At eighty-four, she thought was above suspicion – well sort of – more or less.     

            There was one thing Millie hadn’t bargained for: that her brain might let her down in the end. She had a good mind for figures; knowledge of numbers, an unquenchable thirst for ready cash.

            But when she got home with her stash, she could never be sure of the street-name, let alone the colour of her front door. Every day Colin the Constable found her trying every lock; more often than not on a different street.

            He’d take her home, never suspecting the millionaire granny was anything other than sweet.

            I’ll remember you in my will, dear – no I’ll not forget.

            And she didn’t.

            But sadly for Colin the Constable, she pulled off her greatest con-trick. All the money she left him was hookie, and he, being bent as a ten-bob note, himself ended up in the nick.

More Treasure Awaits

Recently my friends at Kalopsia Collective took a wee book of mine on tour, to Norwich and Belfast. They were exhibiting artbooks created for their Octavo Fika display, for which I had previously contributed my pamphlet, Walking on the Water. Their latest venture has been to open another Gallery in the Ocean Terminal. The concept ‘What is Textiles’ is fascinating and far-reaching, combining all forms of art and narrative.

The book I produced for the last Octavo Fika was a hand-made collection of folded chapbooks, illustrating the 26 Sestudes that I wrote (for this blog) based on ‘treasures’ in the Museum of Scotland. It is available on-demand to anyone who asks, for a small price. Or, people can hear me recite a selection of the 62-word pieces (sestudes) at an event called Tricolour in the National Library of Scotland, on July 7^th 2014.

This will be the last of my performances for the summer, unless – like last year – I find myself doing a last-minute Fringe show. But in Edinburgh, anything can happen! In the meantime, here is the next in my series of Cautionary Tales.

from Charlotte & The Charlatan
– and other cautionary tales

The Charlatan’s New Clothes

 

It was time for a change of clothes. “I’m bored with my wardrobe,” The Wizard declared, “It’s time to re-define my image.” Charlotte couldn’t imagine him any other way, but the Charlatan was decided – although this was divided among the manifestations of what he might choose to become.

            Lottie persuaded him otherwise. “You’re stylish, witty and wise. You could be whatever you choose! If you change, it’ll be more than looks that you’ll lose.”

            “Ah, piffle and pish!” he told her: “We shall see. I’ll parade my New Outfit at the Fair, and every man and woman will fill the air with applause; the children will cheer above the roars of all the animals; the flowers, grasses, shrubs and trees will wave their branches and wiggle their leaves; the shingle will tremble, rocks will shake; not a grain of God’s inviolate earth will fail to quake!”

            “We shall,” quoted Charlotte, “See, as you say: don’t let me stand in your way.”

            The Charlatan’s initial task required of him to ask of himself what guise he should assume. He didn’t want anything flashy or plush; bling was not his thing; nor did he go for ephemeral fashion, the ‘latest thing’– for him, the art of dressing wasn’t something to rush into. He didn’t fancy shabby-chic; nor power-dress in a three-piece-suit; nothing too casual, nor over-sporty – and ‘retro,’ thought he, was better off cast in the fires of eternity.

            Having exhausted fashion and sport, he fancied himself as an artist of sorts. Poets, he knew, simply covered their bodies with super-glue and threw themselves with little abandon through the windows of charity-shops.

            The Wizard was after a little more pomp, and decided it would be a romp to hire an orchestra. “It can’t be that hard to be a conductor?” In white-tie-and-tails and a great deal of flair (he didn’t even cut his hair) he won them with his wily charms – until he started waving his arms. He soon learned that a magic wand had a fraction the power of a maestro’s baton.

            His final foray with artistic pursuits was a cape and beret and box of cheroots; he’d sit with his canvass and palette of oils, daubing with gusto a dense impasto of powerful angst and emotion. But the Charlatan knew he was an imposter; his painting was bluster and busy commotion designed to create an illusion as empty as an infamous Emperor’s naked delusion.

            On the day of the Fair, Charlotte awoke the Charlatan. “Oh Lottie,” the Wizard opined, “I’ve got nothing to wear: all the folk at the fair will find out I’m a fraud!”

            But Charlotte assured him: “Just go as yourself – the crowd won’t applaud if you try to be somebody else. To your own self be true, and be true to yourself.” And with that, Charlotte embraced him. “It wasn’t the Emperor’s clothes that disgraced him,” she gently reminded him: “But what lay underneath.”

            “Charlotte, you’re right,” said the Charlatan, with a re-composed sense of belief.

 

 

 

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.