Friday, December 21, 2012

About a Boy Called Paul

This started off as a bit of a joke, off the top of my head...  but I immediately got a lot of imagery with it and wanted to see how it developed into a deceptively simple story.  I imagine "Paul" as a boy of between 8-12yo, in pyjamas and dressing gown (think the boy in, "The Snowman", but a little younger).  

It's set in a different reality, and that's the point.  It's about perception.  It's about the world and how we see it, and what we don't see, our expectations, and what we make of it all.  

Paul is invisible to the world, despite all the questions raised about how he lives (compared to our shared reality).  We pick up that he observant and imaginative.  In my mind it's the people in the mall he sees crawling, and he compares them to insects, and it's also about him noticing and being interested in an arguably insignificant, lower species.  I like things to be ambiguous at times, but sometimes I leave things too wide open.  Whatever works for you, is fine.  

Paul is happy in a simple and honest life, people-watching and writing his observations, before reporting back to his alter-ego on the wall.  He seems lonely to the onlooker, but he doesn't show any frustration directly - although there is a clue to some unhappiness with what he's seeing.  Maybe he's happier in his little world, eh?   

The, "big old world" line might seem a bit throwaway, but it's my way of putting a judgmental voice in there; it's not Paul who says he's lonely, or feeling invisible, or vulnerable (or whatever the reader's interpretation is)but the voice of the piece.  Everyone has an opinion.  We look at everything (or we don't) and make a judgment about what we're seeing (or not seeing).  We don't actually get Paul's point of view, and only the reader knows their own personal point of view (although there must be a shared view, obviously), and we also get the view of the 'voice' of the piece.  Basically, the idea is to question reality, our own perception, our shared perceptions, what we choose to interpret and what we choose to believe.  Or else you could look at it as a simple, odd, little story.

When I read this to the eponymous(?) Paul.... he liked it (esp when I explained the imagery), but thought the interpretation was too convoluated (to the point of pretentiousness, although he denied that!) to find.  So, I'm wondering how you, the reader, interprets it.  Please be kind.... honest, but kind...!





His name is Paul and he lives in a Hall.

There’s a painted picture of his friend on the wall.

He waits by the phone but there’s never a call.

He doesn’t mind much, cos he’s having a ball.

Every single day he goes to visit the mall.

He buys some candy from the candyman’s stall.

He thinks about stealing but hasn’t the gall.

And he knows that pride comes before a fall.

He’s not too short but he’s not too tall.

This big old world makes him feel so small.

No-one sees him but he sees all.

He’s fascinated by things that crawl.

His friend likes to read all the things he’s scrawled.

He  thinks the human race needs an overhaul.

He likes his friend and his name is Paul.

His name is Paul and he lives in a Hall.

Saturday, December 15, 2012

Fallen Petals

Written in response to the shootings at Sandy Hook Elementary School on 14 December 2012 and dedicated to all those involved.  I wrote the first stanza in an accidental haiku, after hearing that several hours later those poor babies were still at the "crime scene", but I had more to say.  Whilst I was writing, the news channel I had on were re-showing President Obama's response.  His bible quote, "heal the broken-hearted and bind up their wounds" summed up, for me, how, regardless of religion, anyone would feel - although, one imagines, these heartfelt sentiments are of little help to the families and community now forever crippled with grief.

Fallen petals from the bud
Unallowed to bloom
Lie cold in a cold, still room.

The alphabet stops at Y...
Empty arms and eyes tear-filled...
Horror unconscionable...

Oh, “heal the broken-hearted
And bind up their wounds.”
And let their comfort come soon.

No love enough to fill hearts
Left darkened, shattered, froze.
My helpless symbol – a rose.

 

Saturday, December 08, 2012

Spotted, On the Street of the Stars (Elstree)



Poor old Trevor Howard;
On a cold, grey street
His cold, grey face
Smiles through pigeon-shit.
Whilst a few steps away,
Cliff Richard’s grin beams,
Clear and untarnished.
The birds have no taste, it seems.

Wednesday, April 04, 2012

Recession Song (Song for 2012)


I just came up with the first line of this song and thought I'd continue, to see where it led.  It needs work... obviously...(!)

I'm a prole in a hole, getting by is my goal
I can’t get dole, so pass the bowl,
This situation is killing my soul
What the bankers stole is taking its toll on me

I'm a mess in a dress, I must confess
Was born with less, so I'm not blessed
This situation with this recession
And the government, I guess, is not impressing me

R – what are you gonna do David Cameron?
E – he’s trying to kill this this country
C – you see he only wants to protect the rich
E – he’s using the rest of us to succeed

S – so it’s suicide by means of lack of cash
S - so it’s suicide by killing the NHS
I – I don’t know where it’s going to end
O – Oh they’re leaving us in dire distress

N – nah nah-nah nah nah nah-nah-nah nah

INSTRUMENTAL

(Recession) it's just like regression
(Recession) feels just like oppression
Recession, just a long hard lesson, in:
Class...
Struggle...

This country’s dying (through so much lying...)

The Bourgeoisie is boring me...

Yeah – recession blues...

Sun Shine Wishing (A Year of Living Badly)

I just came across a little song I wrote in 1998 - I'd had a bad 18 months...  It's a bit cliche here and there but hey-ho, here it is anyway...!

The wind is winding down now,
It’s been a hell of a year.
I've broken bones and been left alone
And drowning in my tears.

I got a bruised and battered soul
After my baby passed away.
I’d give everything I own
Just to have him back with me, today.

And I would do anything
To get out of these shoes;
To walk a mile as someone lucky
Who doesn’t know the blues

Oh sun shine down on me
And stop life drowning me

My dad just got sent down
For a crime he didn't do.
My uncle died a painful death
Before reaching 42.

My so-called best friend walked away
When I couldn’t be more down.
I'm up to here in debt
And I need some money now.

I've put on so much weight
That I'm worried about my health.
And I've got a bunch of phobias
On top of everything else.

Oh sun shine down on me
(It’s about time that) life stop(ped) drowning me

Oh sun shine down on me
(Please) end my misery

Before the night-time comes
To take me to eternity

Sunday, April 01, 2012

Observations on an Early Morning Walk: 1 (re-edit)


An early constitutional as the sky merges from night into dusky lilac.
Another “CD”, Dickens, may well have trod these same steps, over a century ago,
Another flaneur languishing within this giant, multi-faceted muse.
These are the hours she merely dozes, with pockets of life bustling behind her stirring streets.

A woman shares my journey, at times; matching my pace.
A cane propels her heavy weight, which, I feel, ages her prematurely.
Tears charge down her cheeks –not in expression of sorrow or joy,
But the effect of the icy February winds that chase down these old veiny streets.

Bars and restaurants erasing last night’s jovialities ease the City’s hangover
(Deftly averted, a pile of half-heartedly cleared vomit).
Our muse still bleary-eyed, nearby cafes set up for al fresco diners -
Optimistically, as it feels too early in the day and the year.

A chesty cough from a vagrant across the narrow street;
White-bearded, red-jacketed – but ‘Pere Noel’ this is not.
He calls to us two identical women: 
“Did you like it luv?!”
Who?  Us?  ’Like’ what?
His hearty laugh fades behind me and I mutter: 
“Nutty bastard....”
Again, I think of Dickens.

Around a corner, a huge glass-topped building arouses curiosity.
Lively whistled morning-songs trill throughout.
Men in white coats, white hats, white shoes, white trousers
Shepherding cold dead flesh all over.
This place of so much life and so much death is no sanctuary for the sensitive vegetarian -
Not that this thought will affect its 800-year history.
Here, deals are made, notes are exchanged and hands are shaken.

Back outside.

Herds of smart part-time City-dwellers march towards offices or refuel inside cafes with steamed windows.
Soon, their buying and selling will pump life into the heart and breathe force into the lungs of London.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Observations on an Early Morning Walk: 1


An early constitutional as the sky merges from night into dusky lilac.
Another “CD” may well have trod these same steps, over a century ago,
Languishing within this giant, multi-faceted muse...
These are the hours she merely dozes, with pockets of life bustling behind the City's stirring streets.

A woman shares my journey, at times.
A cane propels her heavy weight, which, I feel, ages her prematurely.
Tears fall from her eyes – but not in expression of sorrow or joy,
But the effect of the icy February winds that chase through the buildings.

It seems too early in the day, and the year, for local cafes to set up for al fresco diners.
It is optimistic.
Several bars and restaurants are in the cleaning process from last night’s jovialities. 
Outside one, a half-clean smear of vomit is deftly averted...

Breaking the silence, a chesty cough from a man wearing a white beard and red jacket.
‘Pere Noel’ this is not.

He calls to us two identical women: 
“Did you like it luv?!”
Who?  Us?  ’Like’ what?
“Yes thanks...!” I bat back, adding:  “Get that cough checked out!”
His hearty laugh fades as I mutter: 
“Nutty bastard....”
And again, I think of Dickens.

A huge glass-topped building meets me around a corner, arousing curiosity.
The working-man’s morning-song trills throughout.
Men in white coats, white hats, white shoes, white trousers
Push and pull heavy cargoes of corpses all over
A place of so much life and so much death.

It is no place for the sensitive vegetarian, I surmise.
But this thought will not affect its 800-year history;
Deals are made, notes exchanged and hands are shaken.
Just as it always was.

Back outside, herds of smartened City visitors move towards offices or relax inside cafes.
The word “morning” is sung in a variety of notes exactly twelve times before I seek refreshment.
When sated, I grab my cane and head homeward through the diamonds and Leather.

Observations on an Early Morning Walk: 2

Farringdon homeward:

Bleeding Heart Yard

It is 7am and the Diamond District still slumbers.
A long street of priceless, twinkling storefronts with its eyes closed
(or else I'm blindly staring into Aladdin’s empty cave).

Across, and through to Leather Lane,
Market traders stir and begin to display their colourful jewels
Of shining Golden Delicious and such.
A lane trimmed with eateries to suit every wallet and tastebud.

Other storefronts force me to stop and eye their windows’ wares.
A reflection of Middle-Eastern traders playing with remnants of day-old snow,
Firing at each other and laughing like children.

At Clerkenwell Road, two golden gerberas purchased, to brighten my home.
A smiling Belisha beacon earns a returned smile -
Energising me for the final stretch.


Saturday, February 18, 2012

The Tunnel


A voice on the radio had said that it was the hottest day in decades.  However, tearing down this tunnelled path of horse-chestnut trees, Sarah became more aware of the hard goose-bumps on her bare arms.

Suddenly, she stopped, as if a sharp voice had called her.  Sarah paused and looked up at the small spots of sunlight fighting through the spanned leaves, looking like stars.  Was she searching for inspiration?  Or strength?

With feigned courage, as if to confront someone who was actually there, Sarah slowly turned around.

All she saw was her childhood home.  Brooding - yet somehow promising warmth.  Or, more accurately, promising warmth, but actually more brooding and sinister.

As hard as the house had tried to entice her back, the pull of another fate was greater.  With a resolute sigh, she turned back round and faced the other end of the narrow lane.  It was a long walk yet.  She wondered if she might struggle again.  But there was no going back, not now.   

Whilst musing on this, her feet - knowing  she was stalling - and had taken firm and sure steps almost before she had realised.

A few steps on, and her mental peace was again disrupted by ingrained voices, full of hate and negativity.  If the house could not drag her back, then perhaps these cold, critical voices could weigh her down and force her into submission.  Although initially dismissive, they grew, until Sarah fought through an onslaught of tears, until, finally, losing self-awareness, she dropped to her knees and clawed at the dry dirt, digging an oubliette.  Eyes squeezed tightly, she sobbed in the dark, alone, as she had, many times before.

A soft voice spoke out of the gloom.  If she went back now, no-one need ever know she’d left - or about the shame she’d feel for returning.  And it’s certainly less scary than whatever was beyond that sunlit road.  There’s a familiar, twisted comfort in that miserable existence.  Were things really that bad?  Could she really have brought this all on herself, like they’d said?  And, could she fix it herself, by conforming, by being whatever they wanted her to be?

Eventually, Sarah opened her eyes and looked up again at the light beaming through the leaves.  Their glow was slightly dimmer now.  Time was running out. 

With her hair mussed and face messed with tears wiped by dirtied hands, Sarah sighed calmly.  She her head to her right, to the bright end of the path - the unknown.  The sight of it forced her into action.  Wiping her hands on her thighs and her hair off her face, she sniffed.  Glancing to her left, at the house, she stood and marched defiantly away from it, without looking back.

The voices diminished completely.  The house faded into mere memory.

Whatever was at the other end, however life would be - Sarah had taken control; she had taken the necessary, brave steps to leave it all behind.