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.