I stared at her, and my sight crept into those pooled green eyes. I noticed the pattern of her iris and the shade her eyelashes created. The sun seemed stuck behind the skyscrapers, and as its muted rays sauntered across the windowsill and onto my back, they left me with a certain curious warmth.
'Jonathan,' she said, stirring her coffee and putting the spoon back down, 'it's good to see you again'.
My eyes had travelled south and I found myself analysing her hands, they had changed so much. Her fingernails were painted red and the soft delicateness that they once carried seemed now to be only harsh skin. She paid great attention to the coffee between her hands and managed to mutter something, 'I'm sorry.' I looked away. 'Do you hate me Jonathan?' She said softly but slightly impatiently.
'No,' I replied in a manner which shocked her, 'of course I don't hate you. You had to do what you had to do.' She smiled at this and took a sip from her coffee, but pulled back at once, 'Yowch! This is boiling hot, I'll have to let it cool'.
Steam rose slowly from the porcelain mug where the swampy liquid was waiting, and I followed it closely with my eyes. It swirled to the corner of the room and disappeared without any warning.
'You know I didn't mean to hurt you-' she said.
'Spare me the cliches Sybil, you know full well what you did. Let's just not dwell on that, it's been too long and we have more important matters to discuss,' she seemed shocked by my frankness and pushed her back against the now arched chair.
'It's been too long,' she replied.
Just then I felt myself being dragged out of my body, out of this suit, out of this seat, away from this table and this odd cafe. I could feel myself looking directly into her face, as if it were mine, like I was peering from a mirror, into another world. Her beauty was shocking. I had forgotten just how breathtaking she was. Her face still perfectly symmetrical and her nose slightly crooked but buttoned and straight. Her eyes were the same, knives of black and her hair was wild and lose but kept up in a bun, she always thought it made her look Parisian. Sybil's lips were the only thing different. They seemed thinner now, but the more I studied them the more I recalled their taste and I felt myself being dragged back to Earth.
My body clenched and I could feel something stirring above my nose; I realised I was beginning to cry. Stifling the tears and swallowing I looked away onto the table to the right to where an elderly man was sitting, newspaper in spread out in front of him, fanning his eyesight as he fussed around with the pages.
'Jonathan?' My heart leapt from my chest. 'I'm worried about you.' Her voice seemed to offer no solace and just shuddered and fell into the faint smell of blending and biscuits.
'Thank you,' I replied and sent a smile her way.
'Listen it's getting to 3 and I need to be off,' my heart sank, 'but we definitely need a real catch-up. What are you doing say...' She pulled out a brown leather notepad from her brown leather handbag, and flicked through the pages until she was satisfied. 'Saturday evening? We could get a drink - that is, if you still drink of course,' she joked.
Laughing, I meshed my fingers together and smiled at her, 'yeah I'm free, and yeah I still drink. The Arms, at 8? It's not too hard to get to from the station.'
'I remember exactly where it is, okay Jonathan, I'll see you then.' We both stood up and embraced awkwardly, my hand fitted perfectly around her waist - nothing's changed there. Her slim coal shoes ticked as she headed out, the door shook as it slammed shut and began to tremble in the wind once again. As quaint as an Autumnal leaf I floated back into the seat and felt its hard embrace against my sullied limbs.
I lent across the table to pilfer the biscuit Sybil had left uneaten and that’s when I noticed something strange. The mug had been left perfectly on the saucer, but nestled between the saucer and said corresponding mug there appeared to be a scrap of paper. It was quite far under, which led me to believe she had placed it under the mug when I wasn’t looking, or perhaps slipped it from her hand to its underbelly as she took a gentle sip. Whatever the method, this was trickery.
Naturally, I fished it out and began to scan it over. She couldn’t have written it here, there was far too much there to be done so quickly. Dear Sir/Madame, if you have found this then please look outside the café and chase down the man who was sitting with me and hand him this. If you can’t find him then feel free to read it but I’m not sure if you’ll find what I have to say very interesting - unless you’re the sort of person who enjoys meddling in other people’s lives. On the other side there was a more personal message however, one that I do not wish to remember word for word, but lots of regret and apologising.
The crowds outside were starting to disperse as the clouds gathered and formulated a plan to drench the businessmen and tourists. The trembling door gave me a bit of trouble on my exit, I could not fathom whether to pull it or turn the handle and push, after a brief duel with it and quite a rude interjection from the hulking shop owner, I found my feet firmly on cobblestone once again and as they met grey concrete, grey descended over the street. Then grey drops jumped down between the buildings, then I felt them on my hair and trickling down my face. Then, finally, I felt comfortable again.
Thursday, 25 December 2008
Friday, 12 December 2008
There's Something For Everyone
It was outside where things really start to puzzle me, why was William so intense in his letters? And why did he even want to write these letters to me? It didn't seem to make any sense at the time, but I wasn't going to be bogged down by it.
London was particularly gorgeous this afternoon, it was a Sunday afternoon actually. There were no birds in the trees, the sky was a muggy grey fieldish colour that seems to match the cement perfectly. There was, however, a stiff breeze that seemed to rush through the tiny gaps between buildings. Looking up, I took my time to analyse the folds in clouds and the sporadic spaces of sky between them. These were particularly interesting to me, and I noted their size and the patterns they made. I had originally planned to visit my publisher somewhere off in Camden, but I always think it wiser to avoid crowded areas on Sundays. Instead, and I don't know why, I had decided to visit Regent's Park.
See that's the thing about London, there's something for everyone; whether you seek the quiet contemplation of a park, or a winding street you're bound to find it in London. Actually, the more I thought about places I was a fan of, the more I seemed to get lost in thought, and I cast my mind back to an eventful night in Islington.
'What can I do you for?' The woman smiled at us both with cheeky rosy red lips, covering mucky teeth. 'Don't worry Ma'am,' William replied, 'we won't keep you long. We're just wondering if you could give us some directions...' I glanced at William and then back again at this woman of the night.
'Oh, don't listen to my friend here,' placing my hand on his shoulder and turning my face from her I whispered into his ear, 'for God's sake William, try to make the story more plausible'. She got up from her stoop and paced around us, passing her cigarette between her forefingers and cackled.
No, that's not right. How did it go... I can't remember. I'm sure it'll come back to me later. Or maybe it won't? That's the problem with memories, even if you remember it, how can you be perfectly sure it occurred? Well I hope that didn't sound too silly. Let's keep walking.
As I crossed from the station to the park, I thought about everyone we used to talk about, and indeed the fun we used to have with them. This memory was starting to bother me now, I could not remember who the woman was, or even why we had found ourselves talking to her. The oddest thing was that William was pretending we were tourists, or at least strangers to the area. Perhaps he thought he was, I actually remember on numerous occasions how nervous he was when it came to travelling around London. He was never comfortable in London, not from the first day I met him to the day he left us did he once relax.
You know, and I know, that there is nothing more heavenly than reclining in a studded leather armchair, chai in hand, and a dust ridden copy of Waiting for Godot waffling around under your nose. For a good soaking of ambrosia one must achieve an inhuman state of perfection; where the striking pain in one’s heaving limbs becomes like a second nature, because after the exhaustion of suburban subordination a little self-indulgence is the perfect icing on the cake. At once, there is a great flash between my pupils and the cloudy English day pulls itself back a year, once again.
She stopped herself as she neared us and placed both hands on her hips, along the ruffles of her corset. ‘A couple of handsome boys like yourself, lost amongst these parts of town… It’s not safe around here…’ She said, waving her painted nails in front of William’s now nervous smile.
I stepped in front of William and looked her in the eye, ‘we are from around here, ignore my friend - he’s just looking for trouble.’ She sidled past me and clung onto William’s arm, he did not seem to notice her affection and carried on looking around the street.
She tilted her head onto its side and looked melancholically at me, ‘now what’s eating this one?’ She said, chuckling under her breath.
‘I’m not so sure myself, and I’ve known him for a while’ I commented, stepping back onto the steps by the doorway. ‘He just gets like this sometimes, he thinks he’s a poet’, her eyes lit up.
‘A poet! Ooh we’re in the company of a poet.’ At once she pushed herself further onto William’s arm, he finally took notice and flinched with fright. ‘Are you published? Will you write something about me? Oh imagine! Little old me in a poem. A sonnet? A sonnet for Sarah!’ William laughed nervously and his eyes kept darting back to mine, where they were only met with my giggling.
‘Come on leave some for the rest! There’s not enough to go round, have you seen him? He’s all skin and bone.’ I said and proceeded to winch her away from his arm and back to the door. She reluctantly opened it and stepped into the hallway, then turning to us and putting her weight onto one hip, she smiled cheekily.
‘Aren’t you gonna come in?’ I could feel her eyes on me, even though I was looking at William, who by now had really become a quivering mess. ‘Don’t worry William, it’ll be alright.’ I said calmly, he looked at me quickly.
‘What are we doing in this place, Jonathan I want to go home I don’t feel welcome, I feel awful,’ he replied anxiously. I placed both my hands firmly on his shoulders and put my face in front of his.
‘Come on William. You said you needed to meet some of these people. It’ll help your writing.’ I say, slightly patronising him but also encouraging him. He picks up on this sentiment and steps from my grip.
‘Okay. I’ll go in,’ I walk forward, ‘BUT, if there’s any funny business…’ He continues and gestures between the door and the end of the street with his hand, ‘I’m going.’ I nod in agreement to him, and we head into the doorway into the unknown.
London was particularly gorgeous this afternoon, it was a Sunday afternoon actually. There were no birds in the trees, the sky was a muggy grey fieldish colour that seems to match the cement perfectly. There was, however, a stiff breeze that seemed to rush through the tiny gaps between buildings. Looking up, I took my time to analyse the folds in clouds and the sporadic spaces of sky between them. These were particularly interesting to me, and I noted their size and the patterns they made. I had originally planned to visit my publisher somewhere off in Camden, but I always think it wiser to avoid crowded areas on Sundays. Instead, and I don't know why, I had decided to visit Regent's Park.
See that's the thing about London, there's something for everyone; whether you seek the quiet contemplation of a park, or a winding street you're bound to find it in London. Actually, the more I thought about places I was a fan of, the more I seemed to get lost in thought, and I cast my mind back to an eventful night in Islington.
'What can I do you for?' The woman smiled at us both with cheeky rosy red lips, covering mucky teeth. 'Don't worry Ma'am,' William replied, 'we won't keep you long. We're just wondering if you could give us some directions...' I glanced at William and then back again at this woman of the night.
'Oh, don't listen to my friend here,' placing my hand on his shoulder and turning my face from her I whispered into his ear, 'for God's sake William, try to make the story more plausible'. She got up from her stoop and paced around us, passing her cigarette between her forefingers and cackled.
No, that's not right. How did it go... I can't remember. I'm sure it'll come back to me later. Or maybe it won't? That's the problem with memories, even if you remember it, how can you be perfectly sure it occurred? Well I hope that didn't sound too silly. Let's keep walking.
As I crossed from the station to the park, I thought about everyone we used to talk about, and indeed the fun we used to have with them. This memory was starting to bother me now, I could not remember who the woman was, or even why we had found ourselves talking to her. The oddest thing was that William was pretending we were tourists, or at least strangers to the area. Perhaps he thought he was, I actually remember on numerous occasions how nervous he was when it came to travelling around London. He was never comfortable in London, not from the first day I met him to the day he left us did he once relax.
You know, and I know, that there is nothing more heavenly than reclining in a studded leather armchair, chai in hand, and a dust ridden copy of Waiting for Godot waffling around under your nose. For a good soaking of ambrosia one must achieve an inhuman state of perfection; where the striking pain in one’s heaving limbs becomes like a second nature, because after the exhaustion of suburban subordination a little self-indulgence is the perfect icing on the cake. At once, there is a great flash between my pupils and the cloudy English day pulls itself back a year, once again.
She stopped herself as she neared us and placed both hands on her hips, along the ruffles of her corset. ‘A couple of handsome boys like yourself, lost amongst these parts of town… It’s not safe around here…’ She said, waving her painted nails in front of William’s now nervous smile.
I stepped in front of William and looked her in the eye, ‘we are from around here, ignore my friend - he’s just looking for trouble.’ She sidled past me and clung onto William’s arm, he did not seem to notice her affection and carried on looking around the street.
She tilted her head onto its side and looked melancholically at me, ‘now what’s eating this one?’ She said, chuckling under her breath.
‘I’m not so sure myself, and I’ve known him for a while’ I commented, stepping back onto the steps by the doorway. ‘He just gets like this sometimes, he thinks he’s a poet’, her eyes lit up.
‘A poet! Ooh we’re in the company of a poet.’ At once she pushed herself further onto William’s arm, he finally took notice and flinched with fright. ‘Are you published? Will you write something about me? Oh imagine! Little old me in a poem. A sonnet? A sonnet for Sarah!’ William laughed nervously and his eyes kept darting back to mine, where they were only met with my giggling.
‘Come on leave some for the rest! There’s not enough to go round, have you seen him? He’s all skin and bone.’ I said and proceeded to winch her away from his arm and back to the door. She reluctantly opened it and stepped into the hallway, then turning to us and putting her weight onto one hip, she smiled cheekily.
‘Aren’t you gonna come in?’ I could feel her eyes on me, even though I was looking at William, who by now had really become a quivering mess. ‘Don’t worry William, it’ll be alright.’ I said calmly, he looked at me quickly.
‘What are we doing in this place, Jonathan I want to go home I don’t feel welcome, I feel awful,’ he replied anxiously. I placed both my hands firmly on his shoulders and put my face in front of his.
‘Come on William. You said you needed to meet some of these people. It’ll help your writing.’ I say, slightly patronising him but also encouraging him. He picks up on this sentiment and steps from my grip.
‘Okay. I’ll go in,’ I walk forward, ‘BUT, if there’s any funny business…’ He continues and gestures between the door and the end of the street with his hand, ‘I’m going.’ I nod in agreement to him, and we head into the doorway into the unknown.
Wednesday, 26 November 2008
A Chance Meeting
A small, shy smile popped onto my face, and I placed my hand in his. 'Jonathan Small,' I replied, 'call me Jonathan, or Mr. Small, or Sir for all I care,' William laughed, instantly I knew he was a keeper. 'Who did you come with?' My eyes darted from his hair to his feet, then back to his face, 'you don't look the sort for pushy academics,' I commented, throwing my voice from the main room so as not to be heard. Yet he was still shaking, and seemed a bit afraid. 'Come on William, don't tell me you're afraid of these people?' He checked himself again, and fumbled around in his pockets. 'I'll be going then shall I?'
'Wait no sorry! Jonathan, Jonathan. I have a favour to ask of you,' he said quickly.
'Ah, a favour from a stranger? Honestly William, we've only just met, what would your mother say?' I added cheekily.
'My mother's dead,' silence. 'Jonathan you're quite easy to scare,' William chuckled and placed his hands on his hips. 'But, the favour is that, well, I don't know how to say this... I'm a big fan of your reviews, and if it wouldn't be too much trouble, could you possibly have a glance at some of the things I have written?'
'Oh, so you know who I am do you? I'm flattered really, but I don't know when I'll have the time... And there's all the legal mumbo-jumbo that goes along with it too; if I was to say they were fantastic then I'd be endorsing you to my publisher-' I stopped at once. 'What's so funny?' I could see William's face buried in his hands and stifled snorts were jutting from between his parted fingers.
'I was asking for an opinion, Jonathan, not a book deal!' He cried enthusiastically, and fell onto the bottom step of the staircase. 'You REALLY are easy to scare,' he continued, and begun to light a cigarette.
I smiled at him once again, and swung myself round onto the step above him. 'Can I borrow your light?' William did not look up at me but laughed again, 'an artist such as yourself? Don't you need one for every day purposes?' He snickered again, and handed me a silvery grey lighter.
'I am not an artist, you should know that, I'm a critic-'
'oh I forget,' he interrupted, 'you're the ones ripping the art to shreds!' And he fell over laughing. Admittedly, it was funny that someone so new to me could analyse my profession so quickly, I suppose this is the problem with these big parties. I fumbled around in my breast pocket and revealed a battered packet of Marlborough Reds, I fished one out and dropped it between my lips, then lit it. 'Those things'll kill ya,' William commented, with another puff of his cigarette.
'Better me than you,' I added. 'So tell me, who did you come here with?'
William stood up, and placed himself against the open door, peering slowly into the ballroom. 'Look at all those people, do you know, I don't know any of them?' He seemed mesmerised in their dances, 'I wonder if anybody noticed that they didn't know me,' he laughed quietly under his breath.
'They're completely ambivalent to newcomers,' I said, 'and you're avoiding the question.'
He paced over to the banister, and turned to me. 'I came alone. It's what I'm most used to, I was born alone, I lived alone, and now I'm here alone. And I can tell you for sure, tomorrow I'll damn well be alone.'
I watched him head out of the corridor, back to the dance floor, and decided it was best to leave him alone.
I wasn't sure what had just happened, or even who William was, but I knew I would see him again sometime soon.
'Wait no sorry! Jonathan, Jonathan. I have a favour to ask of you,' he said quickly.
'Ah, a favour from a stranger? Honestly William, we've only just met, what would your mother say?' I added cheekily.
'My mother's dead,' silence. 'Jonathan you're quite easy to scare,' William chuckled and placed his hands on his hips. 'But, the favour is that, well, I don't know how to say this... I'm a big fan of your reviews, and if it wouldn't be too much trouble, could you possibly have a glance at some of the things I have written?'
'Oh, so you know who I am do you? I'm flattered really, but I don't know when I'll have the time... And there's all the legal mumbo-jumbo that goes along with it too; if I was to say they were fantastic then I'd be endorsing you to my publisher-' I stopped at once. 'What's so funny?' I could see William's face buried in his hands and stifled snorts were jutting from between his parted fingers.
'I was asking for an opinion, Jonathan, not a book deal!' He cried enthusiastically, and fell onto the bottom step of the staircase. 'You REALLY are easy to scare,' he continued, and begun to light a cigarette.
I smiled at him once again, and swung myself round onto the step above him. 'Can I borrow your light?' William did not look up at me but laughed again, 'an artist such as yourself? Don't you need one for every day purposes?' He snickered again, and handed me a silvery grey lighter.
'I am not an artist, you should know that, I'm a critic-'
'oh I forget,' he interrupted, 'you're the ones ripping the art to shreds!' And he fell over laughing. Admittedly, it was funny that someone so new to me could analyse my profession so quickly, I suppose this is the problem with these big parties. I fumbled around in my breast pocket and revealed a battered packet of Marlborough Reds, I fished one out and dropped it between my lips, then lit it. 'Those things'll kill ya,' William commented, with another puff of his cigarette.
'Better me than you,' I added. 'So tell me, who did you come here with?'
William stood up, and placed himself against the open door, peering slowly into the ballroom. 'Look at all those people, do you know, I don't know any of them?' He seemed mesmerised in their dances, 'I wonder if anybody noticed that they didn't know me,' he laughed quietly under his breath.
'They're completely ambivalent to newcomers,' I said, 'and you're avoiding the question.'
He paced over to the banister, and turned to me. 'I came alone. It's what I'm most used to, I was born alone, I lived alone, and now I'm here alone. And I can tell you for sure, tomorrow I'll damn well be alone.'
I watched him head out of the corridor, back to the dance floor, and decided it was best to leave him alone.
I wasn't sure what had just happened, or even who William was, but I knew I would see him again sometime soon.
Wednesday, 19 November 2008
Meeting
The party was now in full swing, couples glided across the laminate floor arm in arm, entwined with gowns and tuxedos, humming to the band high on the stage. I looked across the floor and could not pick up anyone's eye, and quickly glanced back to the barman, shook my glass at him and mumbled 'another straight please', he glared at me, and raising his hand he ruffled his thinning hair backwards out of his eyes. I turned back to the dancefloor and checked once again for somebody I even remotely knew.
Roughly fifty feet from me was an old friend of mine, he stood nonchalantly with his elbow resting on a nearby end table, clutching drunkenly onto his drink with his other arm, and his legs wobbling around madly. This man was not too old; although you wouldn't think so, and not too short; although you wouldn't think so. I'd always say he was in his mid fifties, or sixties, but with people of his calibre it is possible he could even be younger than me. Quite stocky around the belly, his face was also rosy and pig-cheeked. He seemed to be entertaining the few women around him, all of which seemed more interesting in his interesting choice of attire rather than his so-called jokes. His suit was ragged and unbuttoned, and his hair fell straight over his face. Sharply I necked down my fresh drink, and flushed myself from the bar stool. Now it was my turn to horde the cows, and weaving in an out of dancers I scarcely avoided awkward conversation. There were some who wished to dance with me, and some who wished to kill me; I thought it best to keep my head down.
Suddenly there roared a blast, like a steamtrain crashing into halt, from in front of me. 'JONATHAN, you sunnuvabitch, what in God's name are you doing here!' He lurched towards me flailing his arms out, initiating an awkward embrace, I reluctantly complied and the pungent scent of cheap smokes and gin festered in his cotton.
'Ronald I-' I started to say before he quickly interjected with 'oh call me Ron, we've known each other for long enough - now tell me Jo-' he stopped mid-sentence with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. I shuffled in my shoes, and tilted my head towards his. He was still for some time now, although it was possibly only a few moments, it seemed like hours. His drunkenness had captured the whole room. Slowly, Ronald's mouth closed neatly under his bushy white moustache. His eyes thinned and down came his eyebrows. At once I knew what the matter was. I chuckled, and whispered 'Jonathan, sir.' With an explosion of relief he screamed 'NATHAN!!' At the top of his voice. 'Jonathan! I knew it! I knew it! Hah, you must forgive me child, these sort of func-' and he had trailed off again. Having been in this situation many times I employed my usual technique, laughing for no particular reason, usually I laugh for a couple of seconds, and he seems to carry on for the rest of the night. Needless to say, this particular evening was no anomaly.
Skulking away, back into the gaggle of guests, something caught my eye on the far wall. A metal door with a bar across the middle had slammed shut, wondering what it was, I pushed past the dancers and through the door, onto a strange corridor. At one end there was an empty black room, I could see into it because the door had been kicked down it seemed, and at the other end was a small staircase with a boy leaning against it.
I lent back on the door, shutting it, and minding my feet I employed a slight stroll to meet this mysterious person. 'Well well, what're we doing out here all alone?' I jokingly mutter, I am unsure if this is actually rude or not. He flinches and hurries up the stairs with a cigarette and tosses it to the ground, stamping on it furiously. 'I'm s-so s-s-sorry! I didn't know you couldn't smoke out here! I'm sorry I'm sorry! I tried to get out of the front, I t-t-tried! But the man - he was a big man, and he had no hair - he - he told me that if I went out once, I would not be able to come back in! And I would not want that, no, not in the slightest! It's an excellent p-party, really, t-top notch!' He kept ramming his foot onto the cigarette, even though it was already completely out. As he noticed his foot doing this, he began to slow it down, and ever so mechanically, still with his leg suspended above the floor, ready to pounce on any flames, he turned his body towards me. 'You're not the host, a-are you?'
My eyes climbed the stairs and I saw him, standing then looking terrified. I chuckled and smiled at him, 'no of course not. I just came out here for some time to myself. You needn't be so,' I looked his expression of horror up and down, 'ghastly.' He began to laugh awkwardly, 'and also, do you really think this party is that good?' His laughter had picked up, and soon he was against the back wall clutching his stomach with comedy. 'You can come down you know,' I suggested. At once he went to place his raised leg down on the stair but slipped, and came tumbling down into a heap. I had wisely moved out of the way. He scuffled to his feet and hurriedly brushed dirt and dust from his clothes.
Now, clean again, he extended his right arm with an open palm. 'My name's William,' he smiled.
Roughly fifty feet from me was an old friend of mine, he stood nonchalantly with his elbow resting on a nearby end table, clutching drunkenly onto his drink with his other arm, and his legs wobbling around madly. This man was not too old; although you wouldn't think so, and not too short; although you wouldn't think so. I'd always say he was in his mid fifties, or sixties, but with people of his calibre it is possible he could even be younger than me. Quite stocky around the belly, his face was also rosy and pig-cheeked. He seemed to be entertaining the few women around him, all of which seemed more interesting in his interesting choice of attire rather than his so-called jokes. His suit was ragged and unbuttoned, and his hair fell straight over his face. Sharply I necked down my fresh drink, and flushed myself from the bar stool. Now it was my turn to horde the cows, and weaving in an out of dancers I scarcely avoided awkward conversation. There were some who wished to dance with me, and some who wished to kill me; I thought it best to keep my head down.
Suddenly there roared a blast, like a steamtrain crashing into halt, from in front of me. 'JONATHAN, you sunnuvabitch, what in God's name are you doing here!' He lurched towards me flailing his arms out, initiating an awkward embrace, I reluctantly complied and the pungent scent of cheap smokes and gin festered in his cotton.
'Ronald I-' I started to say before he quickly interjected with 'oh call me Ron, we've known each other for long enough - now tell me Jo-' he stopped mid-sentence with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. I shuffled in my shoes, and tilted my head towards his. He was still for some time now, although it was possibly only a few moments, it seemed like hours. His drunkenness had captured the whole room. Slowly, Ronald's mouth closed neatly under his bushy white moustache. His eyes thinned and down came his eyebrows. At once I knew what the matter was. I chuckled, and whispered 'Jonathan, sir.' With an explosion of relief he screamed 'NATHAN!!' At the top of his voice. 'Jonathan! I knew it! I knew it! Hah, you must forgive me child, these sort of func-' and he had trailed off again. Having been in this situation many times I employed my usual technique, laughing for no particular reason, usually I laugh for a couple of seconds, and he seems to carry on for the rest of the night. Needless to say, this particular evening was no anomaly.
Skulking away, back into the gaggle of guests, something caught my eye on the far wall. A metal door with a bar across the middle had slammed shut, wondering what it was, I pushed past the dancers and through the door, onto a strange corridor. At one end there was an empty black room, I could see into it because the door had been kicked down it seemed, and at the other end was a small staircase with a boy leaning against it.
I lent back on the door, shutting it, and minding my feet I employed a slight stroll to meet this mysterious person. 'Well well, what're we doing out here all alone?' I jokingly mutter, I am unsure if this is actually rude or not. He flinches and hurries up the stairs with a cigarette and tosses it to the ground, stamping on it furiously. 'I'm s-so s-s-sorry! I didn't know you couldn't smoke out here! I'm sorry I'm sorry! I tried to get out of the front, I t-t-tried! But the man - he was a big man, and he had no hair - he - he told me that if I went out once, I would not be able to come back in! And I would not want that, no, not in the slightest! It's an excellent p-party, really, t-top notch!' He kept ramming his foot onto the cigarette, even though it was already completely out. As he noticed his foot doing this, he began to slow it down, and ever so mechanically, still with his leg suspended above the floor, ready to pounce on any flames, he turned his body towards me. 'You're not the host, a-are you?'
My eyes climbed the stairs and I saw him, standing then looking terrified. I chuckled and smiled at him, 'no of course not. I just came out here for some time to myself. You needn't be so,' I looked his expression of horror up and down, 'ghastly.' He began to laugh awkwardly, 'and also, do you really think this party is that good?' His laughter had picked up, and soon he was against the back wall clutching his stomach with comedy. 'You can come down you know,' I suggested. At once he went to place his raised leg down on the stair but slipped, and came tumbling down into a heap. I had wisely moved out of the way. He scuffled to his feet and hurriedly brushed dirt and dust from his clothes.
Now, clean again, he extended his right arm with an open palm. 'My name's William,' he smiled.
Thursday, 13 November 2008
He Looked At Me
'This will be my last letter, it's not to you, it's to anybody. But I have a thrilling secret to share. If you look deep inside yourself, behind those built up walls against society, religion and love, you will find what makes us human; our souls. And whether your soul is God given, built in, or even just a concept, you are like everyone else. And it is our souls that keep us chained to this barren earth and torments us so. And woman, hah, if ever there was proof of an omnimalevolent God, here is one! She, is not of man, she is not of a plain existence. Anatomically incorrect as well, even their hands repulse me, and their sick scent. Beautiful eyes? Beautiful hair? No, it is all false. A trick if you will, something to latch you in, no, I have never loved a woman. And I'm sure if I had known her to this day I would have resented my own shallow born mother. I pity that she was of their kind and suffered from their disease.
Is there anything else? Aye, there is. There was a man I once met, he was the instigator. A fine man, I can scarcely remember how he looked but I knew who held my future in his hands. He did not know of me - and I was overjoyed - and yet, he said I knew him. But I could not place him, I did not know anyone outside your circle, and this man did not know you either. I asked if I knew him from school, he did not know what I meant. He asked me of my line of work, and as soon as I mentioned I was a writer he started to laugh. That's when I knew.
This was he, the man that I had met only once before, in the raging shadows. I attempted to murder him where he stood, but to no avail. I had past a point of no humane return. And I shut my eyes.'
Is there anything else? Aye, there is. There was a man I once met, he was the instigator. A fine man, I can scarcely remember how he looked but I knew who held my future in his hands. He did not know of me - and I was overjoyed - and yet, he said I knew him. But I could not place him, I did not know anyone outside your circle, and this man did not know you either. I asked if I knew him from school, he did not know what I meant. He asked me of my line of work, and as soon as I mentioned I was a writer he started to laugh. That's when I knew.
This was he, the man that I had met only once before, in the raging shadows. I attempted to murder him where he stood, but to no avail. I had past a point of no humane return. And I shut my eyes.'
~
'It was there where I saw people I had never dreamt before. Their figures were mismatched, and they twisted and flickered in all directions. But it was not as simple as this, there were thousands at first; and looking at one others spawned cancerously from shades. I had barely time to think this through, and I was faced with millions. Without any warning or yell, the darkened velvet curtain covered the stage, and deafening screams filled the place. I fell to my knees and bellowed 'You! Curtain! Blockade! Rise, show me the players!' And so it did.'
Monday, 10 November 2008
At Once You See The Light
'I spent my years at Rugby under the careful supervision of the older boys and the schoolmasters. They taught me well I suppose, but there was something missing, something I could not begin to comprehend. As you might have guessed, we were very much force-fed the literary greats from the word go. And as much as I admire Keats, Blake and Wordsworth, there is only so much someone can stand. I needed something new and fresh, and that is where I developed this longing for London. Do you remember my earliest letters to you? I had read about you somewhere and sent you sycophantic letters by the boatload. I imagine you didn't look at them though.'
The words end there, it appears as if William had wanted to continue (below there is a scribbled out sentence and a piece has been torn from the bottom) but lacked the will. Or perhaps something had triggered in his thought, and seized his writing hand. Who knows. But what I do know, is that I have been indoors for too long. I need to go outside. Carefully, I folded the letter once again, and tucked it under a weight inside the box. Then, locking the box, I slid it under my bed again.
The words end there, it appears as if William had wanted to continue (below there is a scribbled out sentence and a piece has been torn from the bottom) but lacked the will. Or perhaps something had triggered in his thought, and seized his writing hand. Who knows. But what I do know, is that I have been indoors for too long. I need to go outside. Carefully, I folded the letter once again, and tucked it under a weight inside the box. Then, locking the box, I slid it under my bed again.
~
Standing by the window, it was clear to me that the city had not died with him. I wondered just why it was so bright, these sort of Sundays always are though. But it's not a welcoming brightness; no, there is something powerful about a Sunday, they permiate your very self and shudder your bones. Is it boredom? Or is it something deeper, do these days force us to recall our childhoods, and the lazy Sundays we suffered then. No matter what it is, you are expected to feel grief, loss or regret.
It is days like these where we remember the happiest times, the laughter, the tears, the cigarettes and alcohol.
All these play heavy on the heartstrings; I think it's time to go for a walk.
It is days like these where we remember the happiest times, the laughter, the tears, the cigarettes and alcohol.
All these play heavy on the heartstrings; I think it's time to go for a walk.
This Life
'For me, it all began a year ago, when I first arrived here. I remember that day all too fondly, it was the start of Autumn I recall, and the leaves around St Pancras were quite golden. I had only ever been to London once before, and it was not best encouraged by the schoolmasters. In fact, I had never been to London properly, I was born there you see. I'm not sure if I ever told you that, but my mother was a Londoner born and bred. Sadly, I never got to knew her. You see, she was born somewhere in East London, New Cross I think, and was destined to live a terrible life. She barely got anywhere at school, and made many enemies whilst failing. Her parents, my grandparents, were apparently even worse. They were your typical working class husband and wife, he - a street sweeper, she - a house wife charged with looking after three terrible children, my mother being the youngest of the girls. Having no skills or qualifications she fell to the street, and that was where my father ran into her. From her letters to him it was clear they were very madly in love, sadly they were not meant to be, he, like me, was educated at Rugby School and could never be seen with her. This particular letter meant the most to me.'
Hidden inside of this long stretch of paper was another smaller, ruffled up note, as I unwravelled it my heart raced at the thought of reading a possibly great love story.
'Alfred,
I understand that you've not been able to stop teaching for a month now, but this really takes the biscuit! I'm here, in this little shack you have so kindly rented for me, in an unknown part of town, in a lot of bloody pain! I've rewritten this letter a lot of times now, and every time they say the same thing, so I thought it'd best to just be honest. There's not a day that goes by I don't think about us getting married in some far off church, and our first house in the countryside, and children, and a family dog, and whathaveyou. But sadly Alfy, the truth is completely the opposite. As a sort of continuation from your last visit, I am now 'with child'. If you ever want to see him or her, or even me, then you know where to find us. Lots of love, Lizzie.'
'My aunt said that after my mother sent that letter, my father visited her twice every week, if not more. All the while my mother had to pretend that my father was actually just her doctor, and not the child's father. The child in question was me. Finally I was born, and as passionately as I had been conceived, my birth was met with joy and happiness. Everyone told everyone the truth, and much merriment was had. After this, my father went back to lecturing at Oxford and my mother went to work in a factory. They never saw each other again. Nothing was ever said as to why, but aunt Denise hinted at some sort of infidelity on my mother's part. Sad really, isn't it? Anyway, as I got older my mother started to lose more. My grandparents passed away, her sister too, and Denise moved across to Ireland with her husband. My mother was left all alone in that great city. So, I see where you're coming from when you're melancholy. Money troubles started to get to her too, and she was forced to sell the house my father had bought her and move out of London, at long last. It was well overdue.'
'Her travels brought her to the West Country where she met a man she cared for dearly, and he cared for her. They married, and I was proclaimed as his son to avoid any confusion. Thankfully there was no confusion to be suffered by a three year old. Then, suddenly, without any warning, my mother's husband thought it best for them to move back to London, as this where he saw that they would live their lives together. On the journey back, and in quite a shocking move, my mother decided to stop in Rugby and find out whether the school knew where my father was now. Sure enough, Alfred was still hovering about in his loft in Oxford, researching and writing. Did he care about me? Did he worry about me? It was strange to think that he had a hand in creating me, and then just left me to my own devices. He truly was a God. Back in London things took a turn for the worst. My mother contracted an awful case of tuberculosis, which prompted her husband to head back to his home to fetch some things so he could spend all his time in London. My mother had been in correspondance with my father since she went to Rugby, and had told him everything, where they lived, their full names, everything he needed to know. Whilst in Somerset, my mother's husband was trampled by horses, or died in a barn fire. Something on his farm, I don't remember the actual gory details.'
'Well, my mother had sent one final letter to my father, telling him to come to London at once. He did, as this was the first time she had said she had wanted him to do anything. However, by the time my father arrived my mother had sadly passed on. In my mother's will she had given full responsibilty of me over to him, so he took me back to Oxford, he kept me well, he looked after me, I daresay he loved me. I can even recall him telling me tales of my mother, and how he would cry in the night as I read him my goodnight story. He had chosen for me to take on both his and my mother's surnames, such is why I am William Alfred Baker Jones. I was born sans the Baker however.'
Hidden inside of this long stretch of paper was another smaller, ruffled up note, as I unwravelled it my heart raced at the thought of reading a possibly great love story.
'Alfred,
I understand that you've not been able to stop teaching for a month now, but this really takes the biscuit! I'm here, in this little shack you have so kindly rented for me, in an unknown part of town, in a lot of bloody pain! I've rewritten this letter a lot of times now, and every time they say the same thing, so I thought it'd best to just be honest. There's not a day that goes by I don't think about us getting married in some far off church, and our first house in the countryside, and children, and a family dog, and whathaveyou. But sadly Alfy, the truth is completely the opposite. As a sort of continuation from your last visit, I am now 'with child'. If you ever want to see him or her, or even me, then you know where to find us. Lots of love, Lizzie.'
'My aunt said that after my mother sent that letter, my father visited her twice every week, if not more. All the while my mother had to pretend that my father was actually just her doctor, and not the child's father. The child in question was me. Finally I was born, and as passionately as I had been conceived, my birth was met with joy and happiness. Everyone told everyone the truth, and much merriment was had. After this, my father went back to lecturing at Oxford and my mother went to work in a factory. They never saw each other again. Nothing was ever said as to why, but aunt Denise hinted at some sort of infidelity on my mother's part. Sad really, isn't it? Anyway, as I got older my mother started to lose more. My grandparents passed away, her sister too, and Denise moved across to Ireland with her husband. My mother was left all alone in that great city. So, I see where you're coming from when you're melancholy. Money troubles started to get to her too, and she was forced to sell the house my father had bought her and move out of London, at long last. It was well overdue.'
'Her travels brought her to the West Country where she met a man she cared for dearly, and he cared for her. They married, and I was proclaimed as his son to avoid any confusion. Thankfully there was no confusion to be suffered by a three year old. Then, suddenly, without any warning, my mother's husband thought it best for them to move back to London, as this where he saw that they would live their lives together. On the journey back, and in quite a shocking move, my mother decided to stop in Rugby and find out whether the school knew where my father was now. Sure enough, Alfred was still hovering about in his loft in Oxford, researching and writing. Did he care about me? Did he worry about me? It was strange to think that he had a hand in creating me, and then just left me to my own devices. He truly was a God. Back in London things took a turn for the worst. My mother contracted an awful case of tuberculosis, which prompted her husband to head back to his home to fetch some things so he could spend all his time in London. My mother had been in correspondance with my father since she went to Rugby, and had told him everything, where they lived, their full names, everything he needed to know. Whilst in Somerset, my mother's husband was trampled by horses, or died in a barn fire. Something on his farm, I don't remember the actual gory details.'
'Well, my mother had sent one final letter to my father, telling him to come to London at once. He did, as this was the first time she had said she had wanted him to do anything. However, by the time my father arrived my mother had sadly passed on. In my mother's will she had given full responsibilty of me over to him, so he took me back to Oxford, he kept me well, he looked after me, I daresay he loved me. I can even recall him telling me tales of my mother, and how he would cry in the night as I read him my goodnight story. He had chosen for me to take on both his and my mother's surnames, such is why I am William Alfred Baker Jones. I was born sans the Baker however.'
Sunday, 9 November 2008
A Welcome Opening
'Can you hear them too? Their strange, maddening cries! As I saw them stand in line, and topple under their own weight I too broke inside. The ghosts of the evening held a queer power over me, and it is difficult to admit, but I believe I held a power over them. And yet - how was it, that when I rolled my eyes upwards and away from their sinful eyes, I developed a sense of longing, of foreboding, of sheer inhuman dread! Yes, they knew of my plight; like him, they chuckled at the futility of it all. Holding myself in these arms is too futile, as well as, also, and unnecessarily futile. It seems there is nothing now that will shelter me, I must find refuge in the nocturnal streets and sideroads. The moon, my only friend, I will set with its sleep and rise with its woe. Is this me? Is this him? Is this him? I have grown unsure over the months, and I am left with only one thing to do. Open my eyes.'
Saturday, 8 November 2008
The Beginning of the End
An old greying woman sharp of face and language, guided me to this compact office, the walls were a disgusting shade of brown, with strips peeling themselves off, however the rest of the room was not aiming for class. Apart from a large metallic filing cabinet, the only other noticable object was a rusty desk and two chairs on either side, in the centre of the room.
She flicked through her notepad quickly, her glasses drifting to the bottom of her nose as she turned every page, so she would push them back up and stutter. She gestured towards the closest chair, and I sat down reluctantly. She turned her back, and still with her face in her notepad, she scuffled outside back into the hallway. Surveying the room I did notice one other thing, a miniscule wallclock, hung next to the window. I could not see through the window, for the blinds appeared to be broken and would not show me the city.
In the back of my head I could hear footsteps, and turning round I noticed that the woman who had so carefully made sure I was safe earlier, was now standing in the doorframe holding a strange keepsafe. It appeared to be an antique treasure box, the sides were gilded with golden leaves and the rest was fashioned in deepset leather. In the centre of the box, on the front face, there appeared to be a small keyhole, crafted of silver. What was this thing, and why was she in possession of it?
Surely she stepped forward and handed me the strange contraption. I inspected it with my fingers and it really did seem quite small. Looking up at her, I muffled a snigger and asked 'Is this the bill?' She did not seem best pleased and sighed with her lip curled upwards, blowing her pointy fringe away. 'That's it. Apparently there are some other things in his flat that the coroner is still inspecting... I don't know how long it'll be until you'll be able to see those. There is no key for the box. I suppose it can be prized open but I'm not sure I want to be a liability-' she paused, and our eyes caught each other's, she then cracked a smile '- and I'm sure you don't want me snooping around,' and with a flick of her pencil skirt she had darted out the room.
Outside, the night had really come down fast. It was now only five o'clock, but these winters are so dark. So, I tied the box up in a package I had in my jacket pocket, and bundled it under my armpit. Here's where I lost my train of thought, I knew I had arrived somewhere near Euston Square, but that was in broad daylight; now there was nothing but dim lamplights to lead my way, and I was growing uneasy. Sooner or later I came across a back alley that appeared to lead to a main road, and decided to take it.
Halfway through the alleyway I paused, ducked under a ladder, behind a doorway and looked around. I slid the box out from under my arm and began to push the lid open with the back of my cigarette lighter...
She flicked through her notepad quickly, her glasses drifting to the bottom of her nose as she turned every page, so she would push them back up and stutter. She gestured towards the closest chair, and I sat down reluctantly. She turned her back, and still with her face in her notepad, she scuffled outside back into the hallway. Surveying the room I did notice one other thing, a miniscule wallclock, hung next to the window. I could not see through the window, for the blinds appeared to be broken and would not show me the city.
In the back of my head I could hear footsteps, and turning round I noticed that the woman who had so carefully made sure I was safe earlier, was now standing in the doorframe holding a strange keepsafe. It appeared to be an antique treasure box, the sides were gilded with golden leaves and the rest was fashioned in deepset leather. In the centre of the box, on the front face, there appeared to be a small keyhole, crafted of silver. What was this thing, and why was she in possession of it?
Surely she stepped forward and handed me the strange contraption. I inspected it with my fingers and it really did seem quite small. Looking up at her, I muffled a snigger and asked 'Is this the bill?' She did not seem best pleased and sighed with her lip curled upwards, blowing her pointy fringe away. 'That's it. Apparently there are some other things in his flat that the coroner is still inspecting... I don't know how long it'll be until you'll be able to see those. There is no key for the box. I suppose it can be prized open but I'm not sure I want to be a liability-' she paused, and our eyes caught each other's, she then cracked a smile '- and I'm sure you don't want me snooping around,' and with a flick of her pencil skirt she had darted out the room.
Outside, the night had really come down fast. It was now only five o'clock, but these winters are so dark. So, I tied the box up in a package I had in my jacket pocket, and bundled it under my armpit. Here's where I lost my train of thought, I knew I had arrived somewhere near Euston Square, but that was in broad daylight; now there was nothing but dim lamplights to lead my way, and I was growing uneasy. Sooner or later I came across a back alley that appeared to lead to a main road, and decided to take it.
Halfway through the alleyway I paused, ducked under a ladder, behind a doorway and looked around. I slid the box out from under my arm and began to push the lid open with the back of my cigarette lighter...
Monday, 3 November 2008
Ascention
I stood there, staring at this place, lodged in between two sidewalls and so expertly hidden in such an obvious place. The building itself was giraffe-like, tall, thin, with a heavy base. It was crooked towards the top and the sign read 'The Violet Crow', this tilted, crooked also, neon sign beated at odd times, and with each beat a soft buzz faintly through itself into the night. Clouds, spindly and weaving, held themselves between each displaced wall and pipe. Why was it so strange, this place, it carried an eerie sort of self-worth and self-depreciation, although strangely compelling all the same.
As frost pestered me relentlessly, I decided to duck in for a short spell, warm my throat so to speak. Inside the place was even more enigmatic than I had hoped. The entrance hall was a tiny cramped cupboard, with a rickety iron staircase, with what looked like leather padding on the top of each stair. Red leather, more scarlet actually, with worn dents and scars torn into them. As I ascended the stairs, clutching onto the banister for what I believed was dear life, I noticed etchings on the walls. Somebody had turned their hand to graffiti art. Most of them were people's names, with hearts or knives adorning them, a possible rememberence. But the most interesting by far, was a miniture crucifix, perfectly carved into the wall next to the centre stair. As the building seemed fairly old the walls too carried a noble age. Each wall seemed constructed out of solid steel, and when I placed my palm against them, I did not feel the cold, but a strange sense of warmth. The crucifix however, was an anomoly. The space around it was all knotted wood, with splinters forcing themselves out of the carving.
Slowly, I clambered to the top and arrived at a large empowering tin door. To reassure myself of my safety I dug my fingers into the sides and peered daringly over my shoulder to review the staircase. Suddenly I realised that I had been climbing for some time, and this staircase was spiralled. I had previously perceived it as forcefully vertical. It then came to my attention that the deathly silence I had tolerated on my way up, and faded into something more welcoming. Slow living room jazz was quietly pumping itself under the doorframe, and with each saxophone note a new light seemed to glow from around the door. Carefully, as to not touch any rust, I turned the knob. The door did not seem to respond and I then noticed the doorknob was not attached to any noticeable mechanism. I shuffled my shoulders to the side of the door and positioned my arms across the side of it, then with a great heave, I lunged to the side turning the door on its pivot. It gradually opened, creaking and shuddering with every new push.
Finally, as I staggered out of the doorframe and aquired some loose footing on the sticky floor, it was clear where I was. This was the place he had told me about. I was here at last.
As frost pestered me relentlessly, I decided to duck in for a short spell, warm my throat so to speak. Inside the place was even more enigmatic than I had hoped. The entrance hall was a tiny cramped cupboard, with a rickety iron staircase, with what looked like leather padding on the top of each stair. Red leather, more scarlet actually, with worn dents and scars torn into them. As I ascended the stairs, clutching onto the banister for what I believed was dear life, I noticed etchings on the walls. Somebody had turned their hand to graffiti art. Most of them were people's names, with hearts or knives adorning them, a possible rememberence. But the most interesting by far, was a miniture crucifix, perfectly carved into the wall next to the centre stair. As the building seemed fairly old the walls too carried a noble age. Each wall seemed constructed out of solid steel, and when I placed my palm against them, I did not feel the cold, but a strange sense of warmth. The crucifix however, was an anomoly. The space around it was all knotted wood, with splinters forcing themselves out of the carving.
Slowly, I clambered to the top and arrived at a large empowering tin door. To reassure myself of my safety I dug my fingers into the sides and peered daringly over my shoulder to review the staircase. Suddenly I realised that I had been climbing for some time, and this staircase was spiralled. I had previously perceived it as forcefully vertical. It then came to my attention that the deathly silence I had tolerated on my way up, and faded into something more welcoming. Slow living room jazz was quietly pumping itself under the doorframe, and with each saxophone note a new light seemed to glow from around the door. Carefully, as to not touch any rust, I turned the knob. The door did not seem to respond and I then noticed the doorknob was not attached to any noticeable mechanism. I shuffled my shoulders to the side of the door and positioned my arms across the side of it, then with a great heave, I lunged to the side turning the door on its pivot. It gradually opened, creaking and shuddering with every new push.
Finally, as I staggered out of the doorframe and aquired some loose footing on the sticky floor, it was clear where I was. This was the place he had told me about. I was here at last.
Friday, 17 October 2008
All Things Pass
Dressed questionably and fumbling in his pocket,
he searches for keys and cigarettes. You watch this.
Silence, like a great mother of Earth, seizes the street.
Unafraid, your feet dangle from the balcony,
swaying melancholically in the cosmopolitan breeze.
Lights jutt from deathly bars through the clouds,
tearing them apart without guilt, or honour.
Windows shake and cars rumble, cats meow loudly.
Souls litter the roads and shoot upwards towards you.
A woman cries out in despair, seeking solace.
You hear all this, and stay there, swinging.
Sounds bounce from brick to brick, glumly.
Steam simmers and boils under the paving,
pushing passers-by further along their way.
Spotlights scour the city, beating themselves.
Inside, nobody is waiting and stained glasses stay put.
An ashtray marked with last night's debauchary,
a note from a lover. Your coffee table as a vessel.
And how could you but forget, how could you remember?
Forget-me-not music blossoms now, pricking your ears,
Lady Moon grins at partygoers, guiding them home.
Studying crater boils, eyes straming, you glance away,
and removing yourself from the rails, you swing back.
Only now does your bed await. Sheets ripped, pillows flat.
Headboard tattooed with women's names and numbers,
memories and misadventures. Smells and sounds.
Finally you bring your body back to bed,
and without a sense of remorse you steel yourself,
and without a sense of time you prepare yourself,
for another night of harrowing truths.
Thursday, 21 August 2008
To Wake As If From A Dream
It’s not dawned on me yet, but I hope it does soon, and what better place to have an epic realisation than at Highbury & Islington Station, wherein so many of my memories were created. The eleven o’clock has just pulled out, and its departure has left me feeling somewhat down, this place gets awfully drab at night time and its headlights, like golden arrows, were what kept me comfortable.
Tomorrow is the start of a new day and another day that you are not here. I can’t really call it ‘new’ as it’s the sort of day I have lived over and over again, over and over again like some sort of sick record. But let’s not squabble over terminology, we know that when the sun rears its ugly head again I will be tucked up in a bed and with a pounding headache.
The rain has picked up, and with every sodden spit I remember another second I spent with you. There was that time, when we sat on the terrace, clutching onto our pens with fevered madness, and our other hands constricting our cigarettes, you first told me about Charlie and his friend.
‘So, Jonathan, I’ve got this idea for a play,’ William smiles at me, eagerly awaiting my acknowledgement. He looks awkward on the roof, he‘s sitting down on his knees, with his back arched and his thighs flat against the ground. As usual, William is wearing something ostentatious; today’s couture is reminiscent of a Etonion, but without the hat. His blazer is royal blue, with gold trim glimmering the edges and around the breast pocket. There is a mysterious emblem placed on this blazer, with what looks like a man making an offering to the Devil. The emblem is particularly unsettling, for it does not look as if it would belong anywhere but on the blazer of a madman. Underneath this blazer, William has on a very pearly white shirt, however it lacks any buttons and instead is held together with stitches. How he puts it on and off is beside me. His trousers and shoes are public school indeed, black and dignified - although the shoes are scuffled and worn in.
‘A play? Hold on a moment, shouldn’t you start with a short story… or even some prose. The most I’ve seen you write is some scribbled poetry,’ I reply, with my head turned to the side, so as not to catch William’s eye and worry him, but I can feel his eyes burning into me. William is cursed with the eyes of a demon, like poignant dead stars swimming in reservoirs. The blue is what makes them most terrifying, it’s not the usual sort of beautiful blue handsome men are blessed with, but a sort of blue you would experience in the sea when you are indeed quite lost. If you were to look deep into them I would fear you’d get lost. His eyes are perfectly spaced apart, with his straight strong nose erecting itself down from his thick burrow. William’s face is also deep and maddening, his cheek bones are chiselled finely and his chin protrudes from them so finely. His brow and hair are an extreme deep black, and though his eyebrows are kept trim and neat, the hair is wild and rough. Although it is short and shaped, his fringe is jagged and cuts across his forehead, causing the sides of his hair to push twist round his face.
‘You don’t believe I can do it, do you?’ He lifts himself up off your elbows and onto his knees, ‘because I can! I really can. I’ve been thinking about characters and a setting… I’ve got histories for these characters and very specific personalities, and I think they compliment each other fantastically.’ I take a drag of my cigarette, twirl the smoke round in my mouth, and blow it out into the sky. ‘Go on then. Tell me about it,’ I smirk. William hops off of his knees and plants his feet onto the roof excitedly, then thrusts his hand into his blazer pocket, ‘you won’t regret this Jonathan, you won’t!’
He pulls out an assortment of ragged papers, and begins to check each corner and organise them, presumably, into the correct order whilst keeping his head nuzzled into his chest. ‘What - what are those?’ I enquire. William pops his head up, and looks right through me. I don’t really know how to respond, ‘William?’ I ask curiously. A small smile breaks onto his face and he begins to snicker. ‘Alright, what’s so funny?’ I ask again. He hurries across the roof terrace and forces the ruffled collection of papers onto my chest.
‘It’s all there. That’s my play.’ He proclaims proudly. I glance down onto them, then slide my eyes across the sky to meet his. ‘All of it? That’s all of it?’ He nods triumphantly and looks at me implying I should also me nodding. There is a brief pause now, William is perfectly still, just waiting for me to look over his play. I’m a bit nervous really, if I am too harsh on it he will be broken, if I’m too nice he may be suspicious.
The city seems still. Even the cars rushing up and down appear to have muted as to make me feel even more pressured by William. Birds are scattered above across the clouds and the setting sun. Now finished, I flick my cigarette off the side, sending it hurtling onto the road below, knowing that as soon as it crashes onto the pavement I will have to turn my attention over to William. ‘Fine,’ I mutter ‘I’ll read it, but give me some time. I don’t want to miss anything,’ William smiles again and rushes through the door away from me.
To begin with, I thumb through the many sheets he has given to me. There must be around thirty or so pages… It doesn’t seem like much I know, but his handwriting his minute and pages tend to be written on a slant, so even more fits in.
Charlie… Twenty three, writer. Rebecca, twenty five, business student. Flicking through the pages these are the only characters that appear. Rebecca says nothing for huge spans of time. Charlie is described as mighty and tall, with strong arms and strong hands. His fingers are compared to constricting marble vines, and the things he says would shake the heart of any well read person. So violent and misanthropic, he’s like a time bomb. The whole play is filled with this. As Charlie descends further and further into this self-inflicted madness, Rebecca appears to drift further and further away. Until Charlie ultimately attempts to murder her… having failed he goes for the next easiest target. Himself.
A train shoots along the rails underneath the bridge, the headlights illuminate the walls on both sides of the track. With it comes a vast gust of wind that pushes discarded newspapers and tickets up into the dark canopy of night, and as they dance up in the air, flickering between the stars, I hold tighter onto the side of the bridge, leaning over the edge so I can peep my head down and look clearly on the rails.
After reading the play, a lot came clearer to me. It wasn’t the terrace that made me so nervous afterwards, it was the play itself. I wasn’t sure whether to tell you about it or not, and just to give you a well done and a gentlemanly pat on the back; but some things have to be said, no matter how difficult it is to say them.
That iron door creaks open as William slides between it and the wall, trying to catch me off guard. ‘I know you’re there,’ he stops dead in his tracks and the door crashes back with a thud. ‘What did you think? Were you impressed?’ He asks, rushing up to me almost knocking me down.
‘Well… I’m a bit worried about the content. Sure it’s dramatic and thrilling but-’ he falls onto his back cursing and shutting his eyes. ‘I knew you’d hate it! You’ve always hated comedy!’ He exclaims, making me flinch and double take in disbelief. ‘Comedy? This is comedy? William it’s horrific! I’ve never read anything so violent in my life!’ William stands there defiantly, looking shocked all over. He paces to the edge of the terrace and places his hands firmly on the bars. These bars serve just one purpose; to hinder anyone with their mind set on suicide. They constrict along the side, grasping onto the next house in a desperate attempt to save someone’s life.
‘You can have it back if you want, William, you can still change it. You’ve got the time.’ There is no answer. The wind picks up, lifting the paper bags littered around the rooftops up into the air and knocking discarded cigarette butts off onto the people below. They all seem unmoved, such is the crowd in London.
Tomorrow is the start of a new day and another day that you are not here. I can’t really call it ‘new’ as it’s the sort of day I have lived over and over again, over and over again like some sort of sick record. But let’s not squabble over terminology, we know that when the sun rears its ugly head again I will be tucked up in a bed and with a pounding headache.
The rain has picked up, and with every sodden spit I remember another second I spent with you. There was that time, when we sat on the terrace, clutching onto our pens with fevered madness, and our other hands constricting our cigarettes, you first told me about Charlie and his friend.
‘So, Jonathan, I’ve got this idea for a play,’ William smiles at me, eagerly awaiting my acknowledgement. He looks awkward on the roof, he‘s sitting down on his knees, with his back arched and his thighs flat against the ground. As usual, William is wearing something ostentatious; today’s couture is reminiscent of a Etonion, but without the hat. His blazer is royal blue, with gold trim glimmering the edges and around the breast pocket. There is a mysterious emblem placed on this blazer, with what looks like a man making an offering to the Devil. The emblem is particularly unsettling, for it does not look as if it would belong anywhere but on the blazer of a madman. Underneath this blazer, William has on a very pearly white shirt, however it lacks any buttons and instead is held together with stitches. How he puts it on and off is beside me. His trousers and shoes are public school indeed, black and dignified - although the shoes are scuffled and worn in.
‘A play? Hold on a moment, shouldn’t you start with a short story… or even some prose. The most I’ve seen you write is some scribbled poetry,’ I reply, with my head turned to the side, so as not to catch William’s eye and worry him, but I can feel his eyes burning into me. William is cursed with the eyes of a demon, like poignant dead stars swimming in reservoirs. The blue is what makes them most terrifying, it’s not the usual sort of beautiful blue handsome men are blessed with, but a sort of blue you would experience in the sea when you are indeed quite lost. If you were to look deep into them I would fear you’d get lost. His eyes are perfectly spaced apart, with his straight strong nose erecting itself down from his thick burrow. William’s face is also deep and maddening, his cheek bones are chiselled finely and his chin protrudes from them so finely. His brow and hair are an extreme deep black, and though his eyebrows are kept trim and neat, the hair is wild and rough. Although it is short and shaped, his fringe is jagged and cuts across his forehead, causing the sides of his hair to push twist round his face.
‘You don’t believe I can do it, do you?’ He lifts himself up off your elbows and onto his knees, ‘because I can! I really can. I’ve been thinking about characters and a setting… I’ve got histories for these characters and very specific personalities, and I think they compliment each other fantastically.’ I take a drag of my cigarette, twirl the smoke round in my mouth, and blow it out into the sky. ‘Go on then. Tell me about it,’ I smirk. William hops off of his knees and plants his feet onto the roof excitedly, then thrusts his hand into his blazer pocket, ‘you won’t regret this Jonathan, you won’t!’
He pulls out an assortment of ragged papers, and begins to check each corner and organise them, presumably, into the correct order whilst keeping his head nuzzled into his chest. ‘What - what are those?’ I enquire. William pops his head up, and looks right through me. I don’t really know how to respond, ‘William?’ I ask curiously. A small smile breaks onto his face and he begins to snicker. ‘Alright, what’s so funny?’ I ask again. He hurries across the roof terrace and forces the ruffled collection of papers onto my chest.
‘It’s all there. That’s my play.’ He proclaims proudly. I glance down onto them, then slide my eyes across the sky to meet his. ‘All of it? That’s all of it?’ He nods triumphantly and looks at me implying I should also me nodding. There is a brief pause now, William is perfectly still, just waiting for me to look over his play. I’m a bit nervous really, if I am too harsh on it he will be broken, if I’m too nice he may be suspicious.
The city seems still. Even the cars rushing up and down appear to have muted as to make me feel even more pressured by William. Birds are scattered above across the clouds and the setting sun. Now finished, I flick my cigarette off the side, sending it hurtling onto the road below, knowing that as soon as it crashes onto the pavement I will have to turn my attention over to William. ‘Fine,’ I mutter ‘I’ll read it, but give me some time. I don’t want to miss anything,’ William smiles again and rushes through the door away from me.
To begin with, I thumb through the many sheets he has given to me. There must be around thirty or so pages… It doesn’t seem like much I know, but his handwriting his minute and pages tend to be written on a slant, so even more fits in.
Charlie… Twenty three, writer. Rebecca, twenty five, business student. Flicking through the pages these are the only characters that appear. Rebecca says nothing for huge spans of time. Charlie is described as mighty and tall, with strong arms and strong hands. His fingers are compared to constricting marble vines, and the things he says would shake the heart of any well read person. So violent and misanthropic, he’s like a time bomb. The whole play is filled with this. As Charlie descends further and further into this self-inflicted madness, Rebecca appears to drift further and further away. Until Charlie ultimately attempts to murder her… having failed he goes for the next easiest target. Himself.
A train shoots along the rails underneath the bridge, the headlights illuminate the walls on both sides of the track. With it comes a vast gust of wind that pushes discarded newspapers and tickets up into the dark canopy of night, and as they dance up in the air, flickering between the stars, I hold tighter onto the side of the bridge, leaning over the edge so I can peep my head down and look clearly on the rails.
After reading the play, a lot came clearer to me. It wasn’t the terrace that made me so nervous afterwards, it was the play itself. I wasn’t sure whether to tell you about it or not, and just to give you a well done and a gentlemanly pat on the back; but some things have to be said, no matter how difficult it is to say them.
That iron door creaks open as William slides between it and the wall, trying to catch me off guard. ‘I know you’re there,’ he stops dead in his tracks and the door crashes back with a thud. ‘What did you think? Were you impressed?’ He asks, rushing up to me almost knocking me down.
‘Well… I’m a bit worried about the content. Sure it’s dramatic and thrilling but-’ he falls onto his back cursing and shutting his eyes. ‘I knew you’d hate it! You’ve always hated comedy!’ He exclaims, making me flinch and double take in disbelief. ‘Comedy? This is comedy? William it’s horrific! I’ve never read anything so violent in my life!’ William stands there defiantly, looking shocked all over. He paces to the edge of the terrace and places his hands firmly on the bars. These bars serve just one purpose; to hinder anyone with their mind set on suicide. They constrict along the side, grasping onto the next house in a desperate attempt to save someone’s life.
‘You can have it back if you want, William, you can still change it. You’ve got the time.’ There is no answer. The wind picks up, lifting the paper bags littered around the rooftops up into the air and knocking discarded cigarette butts off onto the people below. They all seem unmoved, such is the crowd in London.
Wednesday, 13 August 2008
Travelcard
Central London is soaked in history, from Cromwell to Robert Peel, Thatcher to whichever Queen it was that was ugly - but I doubt that narrows it down. Each Tube station dots off into another section of this city, I've always thought it like a spider. Not a very friendly spider though, imagine if you had all those different coloured legs. It'd drive you up the walls. I suppose each person could be described as a small bristle on the spider's leg, but they're not on the map and they don't matter. The greatest thing about this spider though, is that he loves to travel. All about London, I suspect he knows more about this flat city than any of us.
The greatest excursion down his pins was a few long months ago, a girl I knew decided to take me for a spin and perhaps show me her boudoir, who I was to refuse. Her particular leg was the disgusting pink one, I imagine it is the worst for the spider to coordinate with outfits. She sat me down on a muggy seat and said 'now I know you're not from around here, so I'll help you get around,' and she placed her hand in mine. The carriage rumbled and shook, the lights lining the tunnel whirled past. The Underground is still a bit of a novelty to me, although I've spent many grueling hours on it, I don't want it to become a chore. It makes this city even more unique. She grabbed my arm and before I looked down I was standing on the platform, ticket in hand, approaching the machines. I've had a bit of trouble with ticket machines before, my cards always seem to reject me as soon as I touch them.
'Baker Street,' I muttered. 'This was Sherlock Holmes's home wasn't it?' She turned to me with fury in her eyes, 'that's why this place is so awful! Bladdy toursits, Sherlock Holmes was fictional I don't understand why they want to come here.' I chuckled and patted her on the head, 'you Londoners!'
Sunday, 27 April 2008
Your Mother Warned You Of Those Eyes
So you've seen him, sitting all alone and by himself in the corner of the room. His fine pinstripe suit and his curled, wild bright blond hair are what caught your eye, no? How about his chin... Or his face? Chiseled so exquisitely, as if by Athene herself, or at least Persephone. Some woman must have something to do with it. And his eyes, those steaming, maddening, feral eyes; they don't seem to match his outfit at all. Do you remember those soft Spring days, wherein you would sit with your mother and father on the verdant grass and he would regale you with stories of wartime Britain and your mother would relax with a long, spindly cigarette?
'Those men and their ways / blue eyes lost in a gaze,' she would sing. Oh but sing more Mama, sing more; 'but he'll trap you in lies / just beware of those eyes...' Bravo Mama, bravo! We would all cheer at her as she sang.
And boy, was she right. Be careful of him, I've seen his sort around here before. He'll charm you within an inch of your life and lynch your heart on his index finger, then he'll proceed to toss you around until you can't take anymore. Let's just say I know about this from personal experience.
If you think you really like him then by all means go and speak to him, but I won't be around to pick up the pieces...
But you can always spend the night at my house if he doesn't want to take you home. After all, your mother warned you he was trouble.
'Those men and their ways / blue eyes lost in a gaze,' she would sing. Oh but sing more Mama, sing more; 'but he'll trap you in lies / just beware of those eyes...' Bravo Mama, bravo! We would all cheer at her as she sang.
And boy, was she right. Be careful of him, I've seen his sort around here before. He'll charm you within an inch of your life and lynch your heart on his index finger, then he'll proceed to toss you around until you can't take anymore. Let's just say I know about this from personal experience.
If you think you really like him then by all means go and speak to him, but I won't be around to pick up the pieces...
But you can always spend the night at my house if he doesn't want to take you home. After all, your mother warned you he was trouble.
Monday, 21 April 2008
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