Harrowing Hell

Of the darkness in men’s minds

What can you say

That wasn’t marked by history

Or the TV news today

I fear that starting this entry with a Joni Mitchell quote is courting a spark, given her current state of health. Joni has been an inspiration to so many, including me, and I will return to her prophetic words later in this post. But for now, to engage with her spirit and philosophy seems appropriate.

It has been some years since I left the world of organised religion but, as I have indicated many times, I believe the Gospel story has immense resonance in everyone’s life, if they are willing to engage and understand the universal themes contained within this complex story. At the heart of it is a man who, for whatever reason the authorities and his society saw fit, was despised, rejected, persecuted, and eventually put to death after a cruel trial.

There are plenty of scriptural references to ‘light’ and ‘dark’ which suggest that the general human condition is to favour the latter. This, theology suggests, is why people refused to accept Christ’s raison d’être – to seek light in the darkness through love, redemption, forgiveness, and grace. But as the story has progressed through time and centuries this message has been corrupted and distorted.

The early church created a mythology which became, literally, its credo: a statement of ‘beliefs’ that Christianity was supposed to adhere to, and accept as its creed. There are only three sentences in the Nicene Creed that are indeed credible, or believable:

He Suffered under Pontius Pilate,

was Crucified,

dead and buried.

We then get a strange episode whereby Christ ‘descended into hell,’ thus giving rise to an incredibly absurd depiction of ‘The Underworld’ that even Virgil couldn’t get his head around, as Dante points out in his Inferno. But The Church has the idea that Christ ‘harrowed hell’ to redeem all humankind, before rising to ‘new life’ – whatever the hell that is.

Last week, I was challenged by someone who said that she hoped the pilot, who appeared to have purposely crashed his plane, killing all passengers and crew, would ‘rot in hell.’ First, I said that I don’t believe in hell, so her hope was misguided. I next pointed out that the man who did this was already experiencing hell in his own life. I could not condone his actions, but I was not in a position to judge or assess what led him to do such a terrible thing.

Then I was offered another option: that if God exists (another pointless posit in the argument) then he would condemn this person as evil. Well, again, I must say I don’t believe that either. What I do know is that some very complicated states of mind lead people to do terrible things, whether they fly planes into buildings or mountains, or simply fly too close to the sun.

 

People will tell you where they’ve gone

They’ll tell you where to go

But ’til you get there yourself

you never really know

And when they crash, whether into buildings, or mountains, or beautiful foolish arms, we are all at fault for not heeding the alarms that were ringing in the darkness of our lives.

As I move further away from ecclesiology, I come to understand why The Church and its claims are flawed, and yet have so much meaning. Our secular society is missing a trick, given the deeper truths which the Gospel relates. When Christ was abandoned by his friends in the Garden of Gethsemane, it wasn’t because they didn’t love him. It was because they were human, and humans are scared, scarred, and – well, failing to find a third alliteration – wimps.

In my poetry, I have examined the feelings that Christ may have endured in Gethsemane in my sequence Walking on the Water, published here  http://issuu.com/afternyne/docs/issue5 (see p 27). That Christ – and all who suffer – was harrowed by the reality of hell on earth is laid bare as the waters warp (to quote the Shakespeare poem mentioned in my last post.) Spring, at least here in Edinburgh, has been slow to arrive. And although my friends have not abandoned me, I have felt a keen wind.

 

Critics of all expression

Judges in black and white …

Compelled by prescribed standards

Or some ideals we fight

As Joni points out in this masterpiece, ‘Every picture has its shadow… and it has some source of light.’ So I took that line as a starting-point for my next Cautionary Tale, ‘Hannah and the Shadows’ and played with the idea that, despite our strange and corrupt attempt to dwell in the darkness of life, the light – however you perceive it – will bring you out of all darkness, into His powerful Light.

 

 

from Charlotte & The Charlatan – and other cautionary tales

Hannah & The Shadows

Hannah loved the shadows. She dwelt among the deepest, darkest places of the mind. Hiding behind her public persona, Hannah chose to disown a reality that might reveal her personality.

 

            Hannah loved the shadows.

 

            Standing at the brown brink of water it wasn’t the thought of her reflection; she had no predilection to sink or swim. It was the shadow upon the murky surface that pulled her in. And as she waded in by the weir, she didn’t imagine her fear would overwhelm or wash away the darkness: her shadow would stay whatever the time of day.

 

            Hannah loved the shadows.

 

            As the sun set in the trees she saw the elongating shadow like a chimera; ominous and treacherous ephemera hovered over her neglected intellect. And yet she never let the silhouette of setting sun illuminate the prospect of another day. Hannah loved the darkness better than the light, but try as she might she couldn’t deny the source of her shadow was stronger when either the sun or the moon lingered longer.

            She belonged to the darkness. Hannah shunned the sources of light; the darkness addressed her; the forces malignant possessed her, indignant, held her in thrall; the fall of humanity was a calamity Hannah rejoiced in and concelebrated; the designated angels, cherubim and seraphim, standing guard, hard against the garden gate were there for hate and guilt and fault and blame: the same as those who sat in judgement over all their fellow human-kind.

            For it’s in the mind the deepest shadows fall. It’s not the yoke of light enthrals you. It is the truth appals and calls you to illuminate your mental state: Hannah would not, could not, see how others’ truth can illustrate her darkened slate. It was for her to scrape clean or to smudge or trudge the darkness in. It was her truth, within, within, within.

 

            Hannah loved the shadows.

 

            She hid in darkened corridors, bidden by the doors that shut upon her, followed by another and another – but she never dared or bothered to allow herself to push against their closing – supposing she was trapped in tunnels of her choosing, in a maze of multiple emotions, in a crazy labyrinthine dream. Hannah wandered on unseen, hiding an emotional charade, chiding her façade, berating her competing with the self-defeating beating of her heart.

            A dark, foreboding fear prevented her from penetrating deeper, or of finding any exit whether self-perceived or outwardly-revealed. She conceived if any person wore a mask or sword or shield they could transport themselves in thought and word and deed into a life hereafter. But for Hannah, laughter echoed round that outer mansion in a gloomy reverie.

            Held in her own self-defining palindrome, a prophecy macabre was far darker than the shadows Hannah loved. For on that tipping fulcrum; in that swing of pendulum, within the shrinking gyre of hell-fire it was clear it was the shadows that loved Hannah. And Hannah loved the shadows not in any symbiotic mutuality, for in their grave duality lay a buried dependency; it was Hannah’s tendency to dig away at darkness.

 

            Hannah loved the shadows that loved Hannah.

 

            Hannah dug herself into the ground. And, surrounded as the sinking sand dissolved, swallowed by the earth that gave her birth; she wallowed in the peristaltic drag of soil until her turmoil was complete and whole. Whether it was rabbit hole, badger’s sett or foxes lair, it was to her a box that best prepared her for the logic she admired.

            So mired in sin and all things impropriety could pile upon her, Hannah longed for darkness. But as leaf and bark and bole dissolve and rot or turn to ash and dust; as if we must be re-composed with some resolve to prove or, deep inside, improve, that darkness is no darkness as the shadows lengthen… every picture has its shadows…

            Yet if through miracle, superstition, or imagination; or through moral, mythological, or pseudo-philosophical elaboration, clouds of darkness part and drench the fecund ground with light to end what Hannah’s plight – to slight her right to life – had led her into self-interred corporeal hibernation.

            And as the dry earth parted, and Hannah attempted to draw her final breath, it wasn’t Lazarus, Persephone or any resurrection myth, nor was it death that forced her rise from her deep sepulchre and thrive; nor even light that gave her life renewed vitality. It was the shade that shielded her eschewed reality.

 

  

Friends Remembered

I’ve been thinking a lot about friendship. In my last post (scroll down – you know how this works!) I spoke about the inestimable love of parents. This ought to be a “given” – although sometimes it isn’t – but the love of friends is a far harder challenge in many ways. I have lost friends over the years for all sorts of reasons; people grow up, move away, have kids or simply slip into different circles.

 

Sometimes a friend can actively end a relationship, but that sort of behaviour highlights deeper truths about that friendship. I lost one of my closest friends because the person I married was deeply envious of our friendship. When my marriage ended, that friendship was resumed, and it is one of the closest friendships of my life – not least because the friend understood and accepted what had happened.

 

Betrayal of friendship is a chilling thing. A recent “friend” once said that if anyone ever tried to have a go at me, she would ‘viciously defend’ me. It was a pleasing, if over-reactive, show of solidarity that turned out to be part of a massive deceit. Being fucked over by friends really hurts, and Shakespeare’s biting satire on false friendship is a poem I have quoted several times in my own poetry.

 

Blow, blow, thou Winter Wind

 

BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind  

  As man's ingratitude;  

Thy tooth is not so keen,              

Because thou art not seen,

  Although thy breath be rude.   

Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:  

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:          

        Then heigh ho, the holly!     

        This life is most jolly.             

 

      Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,            

      That dost not bite so nigh      

        As benefits forgot:   

      Though thou the waters warp,             

      Thy sting is not so sharp

        As friend remember'd not.  

Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:  

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:          

        Then heigh ho, the holly!     

        This life is most jolly.

 

These days, with technology and social media, it’s easier to keep in touch with friends. We know that Facebook friendship is hardly a true mark, and the fickle followings on twitter can be virtually meaningless (or meaningful only “virtually.”) Recently, I have been finding out who my true friends are as I have struggled with an unpleasant series of events attempting to make my life miserable.

 

I have found that true friends are those who will stand by you through thick and thin. For many, parents and family do this too; and a similar notion is contained in the traditional marriage vow: for better or worse. Yet although families and marriages can fall apart just as friendships can, there is an important distinction. We choose our friends. Some may say we “choose” our marriage partner, but there is a whole load more complex psychology going on with that kind of love.

 

Just after Christmas last year I had a moan on twitter, saying that, after spending many weeks hand-making poetry gifts for my family, they spent barely seconds looking at them. A friend texted me to say they would treasure any poem I gave them; another friend tweeted to say they’d be honoured to read one of my poems. (I sent the one at the bottom of this page: http://inkyfingers.org.uk/2013/04/23/virtual-open-mic-episode-2/) This friend also pointed out that ‘you don’t get to pick your family, just your friends.’

 

In many ways, our friends evolve through circumstance; our work, study, and leisure associations bring us into contact, and from there, deeper relationships form. To say we ‘pick’ these is slightly disingenuous, but true to an extent. We choose who we spend time with, and yet we rarely actively profess our feelings about friendships; less so, express this vital concept in terms of love.

 

I have posted several songs on my Facebook/Twitter feeds recently, including Carole King’s ‘You’ve got a friend,’ and Joe Cocker singing, ‘With a little help from my friends.’ But one song that never fails to move me is Peter Gabriel, with Kate Bush, singing ‘Don’t Give Up.’

 

This is a profound song and, like all good art, is open to wide interpretation. According to Gabriel, essentially, it is about handling failure, which is ‘the hardest thing to do.’ Despite my failings, I’ve not changed my face, or my name, and have learned that those who no longer want you ‘when you lose’ are not worth having anyway. Friends accept us for who we are, even if – or sometimes, especially if – there are things about us that are uncomfortable, disagreeable, or difficult.

 

After all, who are we to criticise? In another famous poem about hypocritical piety, the line ‘To see ourselves as others see us’ does not mean that we should let others’ criticisms, prejudices and judgements eat away at who we really are. It is about empathy and equality, not judging. Having empathy with those around us means we are less likely to judge others. And treating others as we would wish to be treated is a Golden Rule; a call against hypocrisy that the Gospel writers make clear.

 

The story of the “penitent prostitute” shows Christ saying to all the men (there were no women at the stoning, despite what Monty Python suggests) about to stone an adulterous woman to death: ‘Let the one without sin cast the first stone.’ Once every man has dropped his stone, Christ asks the woman if anyone has condemned her. After she says, no, Christ says: ‘Nor do I.’ This concept forms the basis of civilised society, and is one central tenet of Christianity that I wholly believe in.

 

We have systems in this country for upholding law through judgement, and while they are a better system of justice than in many other countries, they are not without flaw. We have institutions such as Amnesty International to challenge those who think it acceptable to flog, stone, or kill people in the name of “justice” – which is why I have been a lifelong supporter of Amnesty. Sadly, we also have journalists who are a long way from religion’s Golden Rule, let alone from dropping their stone.

 

So I’ll say it again, before we move onto the next of my cautionary tales: true friends (and maybe family too; and possibly lovers) accept – and love – you as you are. If they don’t, they are not worth having… in which case they may be seen as enemies. In which case, you must love them even more. Whether you believe in God or not, this commandment is the basis of all the prophets and the law.

from Charlotte & The Charlatan – and other cautionary tales

Have-a-go Harry

 

Once upon a time, as all good cautionary tales should begin, there was a man called Harry. While nothing especially bothered him, he was quick to have a go.

            ‘You’re always having a go at me, Harry,’ his girlfriend said: ‘You’re not my mother, you know.’

            ‘That’s true,’ he concurred, but he knew the reason why he saw fit to pick on other people.

            ‘Eat up, Harry,’ his mother would say to him as he struggled with his food, toying with every mouthful, complaining if it was too hot. ‘Too hot?’ she said, doubtful of his plight. Tasting his porridge, she’d assure him: ‘It’s just right: here, have a go, Harry.’ But the boy would tarry until his breakfast was cold.

            At the swimming pool, Harry was just the same. ‘It’s too steamy,’ he complained. His mother thought the water was tepid, and considered her son’s attempts wet and insipid; his reticence quite pathetic – particularly when compared to her daughter’s assertive nature.

            This was how Harry approached the things he did or ate: he’d put things off until it was too late. After all, if you leave a task to the final minute, there are only sixty seconds in it. But of his views, Harry took little time to choose what he believed in. Where others might have procrastinated, Harry was highly opinionated.

            ‘You can’t do that,’ he’d say to his sister. She was seen as the golden girl of the family (oh, how he wished she was perfect) because she was cheeky and bold. In truth, she was naughty, and got away with… well, not murder – unless you’ve heard a different version of this tale.

            At meal-times she was always first at the table, and took as much food as she was able; at bed-times, the last to switch off the light, she listened to music late into the night. She’d play kippy from school; broke more rules than the average exception, and at card-games, Harry’s sister was a mistress of deception.

            While she cheated and skived, Harry derived from her behaviour the piety of a born-again saviour. While she somehow kept off the hook, Harry lived his reticent life by the book.

            He stored up his self-righteous views and, as he grew from boy to man, meted out his opinions on anyone who fell short of his upstanding standards. Including his girlfriend who, much as she loved him, resented the way he presented his high-flown thoughts on Society.

            Although she didn’t demur, she felt he was nonetheless having a go at her. The thing is, Harry wanted everything to be perfect but, despite his presumption, lacked the gumption to tell the people who needed to know.

            There’s little real point to this tale, and certainly no happy-ever-after. Harry’s marriage was hardly made in heaven, but it wasn’t a disaster. His wife would say, ‘Harry, don’t have a go at me – and leave your poor sister alone.’

            Accepting he wasn’t so perfect himself, Harry would drop his stone.

POST SCRIPT:

The link to Inky Fingers is currently unavailable, but the same poem can be found here

Birthdays

I’m one of those people who like to celebrate their birthday. It’s one day of the year when one can feel ‘special.’ I’m less inclined to celebrate Mother’s/Father’s Days. Because they fall on Sundays, it’s impossible to send a card timed to hit their door-mat on the right day anyway.

This might seem a poor excuse, or selfish; I owe my parents for my very existence, after all. But since my birthday is on the eve of Mother’s Day this year, I thought it more appropriate to send a ‘happy my birthday’ card to my mum.

Over the past years, since my life went through colossal turbulence, I’ve been in touch with my parents far more than previously. Frequent texts, regular phone calls; letters by email, and even sent through the post are so important for them (especially a worrying mum) to know I’m okay.

There was a time when I was far from okay. I neglected my parents and their inestimable love, and chose to dwell on hatred of myself and the ‘shitty’ world I perceived. It was a cognitive dissonance that led me into a dark, dark place, and the coping mechanisms I employed went badly wrong.

I’m not going to spell out what I did, or why, or what happened as a result, but I will say this. Because I thought my life was broken, I found a way to ruin it. And I might have succeeded on my mission of total self-destruction, had it not been for my family and friends.

What prevented me was straight forward, pure and simple: Love. Not that love is pure and simple; it’s bloody hard. Knowing that my parents (and my friends) love me in spite of what I did has given me strength to re-build my life, earned me a great deal of respect, and made many proud of me.

This isn’t about forgiveness, which is a far more complicated issue, involving judgement and understanding. Sadly, society is far quicker to judge than to love. For anyone who is, or about to become, a parent, whether of their own or someone else’s child, the only way to protect children from all the ‘shittiness’ of the world – perceived or otherwise – is to LOVE them; totally, unconditionally.

We cannot LOVE while venting hatred on those we find abhorrent; nor while whipping up hysteria and paranoia about non-existent threats; nor by channelling energy into judging those who fall short of what we see as our own self-righteous paradigm. Chances are we are all deluded by a cognitive dissonance that leads us to do harm more easily than to seek for good. We can only LOVE with love.

Last year, Stephen Fry was a guest on Radio 3’s Classical Collection programme, and was speaking about Oscar Wilde, a man who was judged harshly by a hateful society, sent to prison, and became a thoroughly broken man. This is what Stephen Fry said about him on that broadcast:

“He was a giant brought down, and it was monstrous, really, how he was treated. When he came out of prison he was a wreck, a ruin, and he said, at the very moment in this Christian society, especially when you should be embraced when you have completed your sentence: that, in Britain, is actually when your sentence begins.

“He was utterly outcast; no sense of redemption or forgiveness at all - which is one of the reasons I continue to write to people in prison and support prison charities because, no matter what someone has done, although I’m not a Christian I do have the fundamental Christian value that the people for whom one has the most distaste are the ones to whom one should most reach out.”

I’ve never believed in life after death; I regard it as religion’s biggest scam. But I do believe (more now than I did ten years ago when my life was in a mess) that making the best of this strange and beguiling existence is the only way to give back to my loving parents what they have given me. And that is LOVE.

In the meantime, here is the next of my ‘tales of woe.’

 

 

from Charlotte & The Charlatan – and other cautionary tales

 

Kevin the Complainer

The complements came in as the requiem was recited: a sea of sycophantic eulogy and euphemistic excuses for what everybody thought: Kevin was a cunt.

                        “Kevin lived life to the full,” they said, meaning he was constantly drunk. “The life and soul of the party,” meant he filled his cup with others’ generosity.

                        “Kevin kept us entertained all day,” – aye right: and kept us awake all night. “He was gentle and thoughtful,” – allegedly, except when pissed; then became an angry, marauding maniac.

                        “Kevin never complained about being ill,” apparently – but when healthy, was a hypochondriac. They called him Kevin the Complainer. If you think he led a colourful life, it was, in fact, a great deal plainer.

                        And that was what made his funeral even stranger. A good (well, bad) Catholic, he knew to keep the priest and his lot sweet as he faced the final curtain. Agnostic about God (but not his illness – of that he was certain) Kevin attended Mass more times in those three weeks after his diagnosis, hedging his bets against religion’s prognosis.

                        “How long have you got,” asked Father O’Flannel.

                        “About three weeks,” said Kev, “At the most.” The priest gave a sympathetic, head-tilted look as he gently placed the host on Kevin’s tongue. Thinking it was a doctor’s spatula, Kevin said, “Ah,” then quickly turned it to “A-men.”

                        Piously, Father O’Flannel replied: “Bless you, son.” If the church can be trusted for doling out salvation based on spurious certainties, then a Doctor of Medicine surely must be believed in? More than a Quack of Divinity! If one was all in the mind, invented by mankind, the other was proof enough. Given three weeks to live, even a con-man like Kevin didn’t need to seek out a second opinion.

                        “But what if he’s wrong?” the Sceptics asked, knowing Kevin’s track-record for inventing more ailments than a fantasy-footballer’s hamstring. Kevin, overhearing, replied:

                        “Who – God, or the Doctor?” He considered the question so pointless. “I’ll find out, I guess, when I get there,” he scoffed, although whether he meant heaven or hell, nobody offered a thought. Not three weeks but a fortnight later, Kevin was dead.

                        “I told you he was ill,” the Doctor said. But as Father O’Flannel read the last rites, with ‘Placebo Domino in regione vivorum,’ that Doctor started looking shifty. He had a secret to carry to his grave: it wasn’t drugs he gave to Kevin the hyper-conman, but non-effective pills. Kevin wasn’t even slightly ill.

                        For two-and-a-half weeks, Kevin learned a lesson of humility as he came to terms with a made-up God and the truth of his humanity. No wonder he never complained in his final hours: his ailment was indeed in the mind, governed by the power of eternal punishment for his life of sin than the various claims of science, religion, or medicine.

                        “Living life to excess,” the Doctor said to Kev, “Will be the death of you.” In Kevin’s case it transpired to prove the opposite that was true.

 

 

Revenge - The Sweetest?

Recently I wrote a short story about revenge. It was one of those pieces where I tried to cram too many ideas and influences into 3000 words, so it probably won’t get published (in which case, you’ll see it on here some day!) The starting-point was a Walter Scott quote which can be found in the railway station named after his writing.

Scott uses ‘sweetest’ here with bitter irony: revenge is hurtful, dangerous and damaging. When meted out on someone with an already broken life, the effect can be devastating. My short-story began as a curious tale about yarn-bombing. The walking-statue of Robert Fergusson was decorated a few years ago (so this part of the story is true) with a pair of woolly leg-warmers. In my piece, the guerrilla-knitting continued in a more sinister vein, as an ex-lover used yarn-bombs, street-graffiti and finally, photographic means to defame the person who had – so the story claimed – done her no wrong.

The final influence for my writing was a form of revenge that I, in my naïveté, wasn’t even aware was a ‘thing.’ There is a video on this which I urge you click on here before you read on. https://embed.theguardian.com/embed/video/commentisfree/video/2015/jan/21/naked-pictures-this-is-what-i-did-revenge-porn-emma-holten-video

Scoring revenge-points when love goes wrong is a cheap nasty thing to do, especially when that lover has done nothing unpleasant to you. That’s assuming there was any love there in the first place. If all a person wants from a relationship is sex, then love is disenfranchised from the start. And anyone who preys on another person in this way is pretty low.

Posting this on February 14^th may seem churlish, but I want to pick up on one thing from the video. 10% of this sort of revenge mentioned is carried out on men. That’s a significant proportion. I don’t want to bang on about victim culture here, but it seems that we can all be vulnerable from time to time, and must defend ourselves from unscrupulous people.

This month’s Cautionary Tale (again, not exactly celebrating St Valentine) is about someone who, through trying to be gregarious, chatty, and friendly puts herself in danger. When a person demonstrates good nature, whether they are a woman, a man, or a mouse, no-one has the right to take advantage of them. My mother used to say, “Two wrongs don’t make a right.” To avenge someone who has done nothing wrong to you makes you less than wrong. It makes you amoral.

I’ll end with a more pleasant conclusion. Last week, a different sort of yarn-bomb adorned the Robert Fergusson statue. It was not just a scarf, but an anonymous act of altruism, enough to melt anyone’s heart. Next month’s story is another Tale of back-fired benevolence, but one that I hope has a happier ending. But here, while I’m being utterly un-romantic, is this month’s amoral misery.

 

 

 

 

 

from Charlotte & The Charlatan – and other cautionary tales

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Deborah Dangermouse

 

Deborah Dangermouse, Dangermouse Debbie, was hell-bent on putting herself at risk. She’d court conversations with total strangers, stickily stirring up situations like a wooden spoon beats up a chocolate-cake mix; whipping up turbulent salutations like egg-white puffed up with a whisk. 

                Dangermouse Debbie cared little for safety, and less for her health; she’d strike up a sentence in mid-conversation, having seemingly picked out her victim by stealth. Bashful and meek, she’d be walking alongside the man in the street, then suddenly pipe up: her little voice giving her co-pedestrian minimal choice. An instinct to overcome reticence, she did this with alarming lack of defence: one minute, quiet-as-a-mouse, not a squeak, then mid-sentence they’d find themselves haplessly having to speak.

                Debbie did nothing through malice or evil intent; her innocent banter came out of a simple desire to be friendly. Fed up with spending too long in the house, cooped up like a chicken, a hermit holed up in a cave, starved of company; a church mouse without any family; a domestic rodent without a cat, all Deborah Dangermouse craved was the chance of an innocent chat.

                Where was the danger in that?

                In the pub, in a queue, in the street or a park: wherever everyday people meet and engage she’d hover and pluck subjects out of thin air: Dangermouse Deborah just didn’t care. For Deborah, danger was so little bother and not a concern, she’d prattle in full-flowing waffle before her poor victim knew what they’d let themselves in for.

                At the bus-stop: The 34’s always late – I got stood up once, on a date – do you know how they work out the timetables – and she was off, full-pelt, non-stop. Woe-betide the passenger who got on the bus with Deborah: the assailed was pinned down to a lengthy, unwanted discussion until he or she reached her stop.

                In the disco: This is my favourite tune – last night was a full moon – did you know there are seventeen moves that are grooved by your average dancer – and before they had the chance to shimmy away or turn their back, Debbie would get them to listen to her full repertoire of fascinating chat.

                In the bar, she’d sidle unsuspected up to middle-aged men who were more selective about who they drank with. ‘I’m Mouse,’ she’d announce, ‘But you’ll probably call me some other name.’ (She got “Mouse” from a worrying mother, who protected her strictly from dangers, warning of single-men, weirdoes and strangers.) All the same, within seconds, Debbie was up to her tricks.

                She’d been accosting unsuspecting folk ever since she was six; by twelve she knew she had greater allure, and by 24 she had plenty in store for the gibbering drunk or colossal pub bore. Her loosening tongue and her loquacious banter created a thirst, for which one opportunist (he won’t be the first) provided a goal for her ultimate danger.

                Oh, Dangermouse Deborah, didn’t you think to look closer at what that man put in your drink?

Musical Intrusions

Last year, the ‘Antifolk’ musician and writer known as Lach was interviewed on the Radio by Janice Forsyth, who expressed surprise at the concept of an ‘internal soundtrack.’ Ask any musician what’s going on inside their head, and they’ll undoubtedly say, “Music, of course,” – although they might not be able to identify what music it is. As a musician myself, I find the aural back-drop is sometimes so deeply embedded, I’m not even aware of it. But I know it’s there. Other times, it is (almost) infuriatingly present. Often I get Bach arias on repeat; the Walton viola concerto, or bits of early Genesis stuck for hours.

Conversely, I find the constant intrusion of music in public spaces intensely irritating, especially in supermarkets. The Co-op (or Scot-mid, as we call it here in the Central Belt) always has the music on too loud, while Morrison’s has a more subtle volume (and often, an amusingly retro choice of music.) But the thing that sets my local Sainsbury’s in high standing above its competitors is the absence of piped music being played in the shop. 

Imagine my horror when, a few years ago, as I was making my selection from the range of Taste the Difference coffees, the sound of a steel guitar came piping through the speaker-system normally reserved for customer announcements!  For a second I wondered if I was being serenaded by Ry Cooder, but it transpired that it was Charleen Spiteri trying to choose between taking a lover, or a friend. 

I was trying to choose between Kenyan or Guatemalan roast. 

By the time I had reached the till, I was wound up to the point of irritable. The loud-speakers seemed to be suggesting (courtesy of the Bee-gees) that I should be dancing.  No, I should be shopping: this is Sainsbury’s, not a 1970s disco.  Not even the appearance of John Travolta in his flared white suit would have cheered me: I was grumpy and sullen as I left with my messages. When I wrote to the manager expressing my dismay, he replied to say that, after the shop closes they play music to entertain the late-night shelf-stackers. That evening, it must have come on early by mistake; it would not happen again.

 These two episodes were the inspiration behind the next of my Cautionary Tales from Charlotte and the Charlatan. I’m greatly honoured that Lach has asked me to read at the Launch Party for his new collection, The Thin Book of Poems, which was published this week. Naturally, I will be performing this story, as well as one of the poems from Lach’s book.

 

The great thing about Lach is his ability to embrace and engage with people from all walks of life, no matter what music is going on in their head. Long live the Antifolk!

from Charlotte & The Charlatan – and other cautionary tales

Melodious Megan

 

There was never a time in Megan’s head when music could never be heard. She thought it absurd when somebody said their head was empty; there was plenty inside even if you denied an appreciation of music. You couldn’t choose it either. A person didn’t decide to have an internal juke-box playing: it just went on and on without saying.

            Megan had a constant musical babble accompanying her thoughts. Like a trickle of water from a dribbling tap, an incessant flow of sound followed her round, as if she was in her own film with a personal playlist. Her film-score came out of the depths of her mind; every kind of music played from the time she awoke to the moment she went to bed (even then, the noise continued somewhere inside her head.)

            There was no theory behind what music appeared in her mind. Occasionally she attempted to think of a melody, but she couldn’t pre-empt it: internally the music took its own course. It wasn’t a thing she could force or control, and while from time to time an ear-worm took its toll it would soon be replaced with another snatch that erased the original catch. Sometimes she would stop to greet a friend, but the music continued of its own accord, emerging subsequently on a different chord.

            Was it to do with being a musician? Megan wondered if a magician’s head was full of tricks and illusions. Did a mathematician constantly puzzle over algebraic solutions? A writer’s mind was full of different personalities, while an actor battled with voices and others’ realities? This idea filled Megan with fear: that a person cannot escape or separate their mental landscape from their profession.

            “It concerns me,” she told Charlotte, “That my internal symphony will be what others think of me.” She wondered: “Is this why people identify with what they do instead of who they are?”

            “You’re not far off,” said Lottie: “We’re judged by what we do. While most keep their inner voices hidden, others have no choice but to wear their foibles on their sleeve.”

            Megan asked, “If you believe in what you do, you should be proud of who you are?”

            “Only if,” said Charlotte, “It’s a true reflection. For most, our outer persona is a deflection of who we are. We rarely see the person behind the mask.”

            “That,” replied Megan, “Is not my greatest fear. When I look in the mirror, it’s not what I see but what I hear that riles me.”

            Charlotte gave a knowing smile: “This thing will not define you.  One day your head will play a different melody; you won’t need to explain yourself according to the tune that others think they hear. Their violence – and your fear – will be replaced with soothing silence.”

            That alarms me, thought Megan: I don’t want the noise to go any time soon. So she put Lottie’s theory on mute. And turned up her internal volume.