Hung Words

(another oldie, from early last year)

There is something I need to remember.

There is something I need to remember, something that keeps slipping away from the cliff edge of my mind, toppling away into the depths below, crashing down among all the other lost forgotten words.

It is nudging me again, a letter here, a syllable there, never quite shape-shifting into a complete word. My mouth starts to form the sound, gags on the unemitted gasp, swallows the crumbling letters, and the word tumbles away again over the yawning fall.

Down there with all the broken neglected words are the broken neglected people, the ones who made mistakes, never learned their lessons, never considered they had done wrong, and a few who tried to find the word before it trailed away, the same one I am losing all the time.

Once, very long ago, so long ago there is no known segment of Time to describe it, I knew the word. That, I can recall. I did used to know it, could utter it, could give myself a second chance.

Never taken, of course.

Of course.

That would have changed everything, would it not? Maybe for the better, maybe not, strange as that may seem. Would He have survived so long, if I had remembered the word, or would He have gone the way of all the others, cast aside once His diatribes grated once too often in minds fast becoming equals to His.

It is in here somewhere, flitting around, hiding behind the longer words, the ones which have many meanings, unclear, confusing, misread and miscued, and easy, so easy, to deceive with. Many of those I have used throughout the ages of my time. To mystify, to trick, to ensnare. This elusive word is smaller, difficult to catch among the multitude of letters strung together into the many syllable definitions of deceptive ideas and motives.

For a moment there I thought I glimpsed it, trying to inch forward, to let its first sound sneak onto my tongue. Once there I am sure I could catch it, speak its name, before it slips away. Or is it being pulled back? Is that the problem? Is something tug of warring with me, pulling the word away, jerking on its long tail, flinging it over that precipice, down again into the pit of churning bones and burning vocabulary, from whence it starts the long struggle back up, fingernails scratching holds on blood-rinsed rocks, weak muscles hauling upwards over shredded tissue and deleted sounds, its eyes ever locked up high at the prospect of rebirth.

Time is short now. He will not wait much longer. This is the final time.

I know.

He knows.

He has won.

But he is waiting to see if the word can be remembered. If my blackened lips can form the two syllables they have never pronounced together. At least not since the Beginning, when I broke one way, and He broke the other. Will my mind still be able to format the two sounds into the one word? Or will it fry my being like sunlight on a mythical vampire?

Wait. Wait. I see it. Crouched behind a concept hidden in the very darkest of the dark quarters of my dark mind.

I have it! It is trapped there, a mistake made, left itself no way out but toward me.

That concept, lying never used, irrelevant to me, a false god to worship if ever there was one. Until now. Yes, I have the word. It cannot back away. It sits, naked, exposed, fearful now of rebirth, scared of its implications. But I have it. My tongue snakes around the concept named Truth, pincers the shivering syllables, swallows first that notion to ease the speaking of the word.

I gorge on the feeling, warmth streaming throughout me. The word follows it, up into my mouth, rolling around between my red-dripped teeth, and is spat forth with the conviction of one realising rebirth can be.

‘Sor-ry.’

 

 

 

Advertisements

The Meeting

(written some time ago, almost cringeworthy to reread but there’s a good idea hiding in here somewhere.)

I met the girl at the market near the church, the one off Rosemund Street.

The moment I saw her I knew she was special: black hair blanketing shoulders and cascading dark caresses over a slender spine, mascara-rimmed Cleopatra eyes magnifying her magnetism. When our stares reflected, cherub-chiselled lips split into a shy smile. Her washed out black dress shimmied in the breeze, too thin in the November air.

I often gazed at the girls around the market, the ones about my age, longing to talk, to fracture my monotonous loneliness. Complications would arise however, if we became friends, revealing revelations shattering the glass-thin sheen of new acquaintance.

This girl though I couldn’t turn away from. I gazed down at my shoes and blushed. When I looked up, she was there: finger-tipping close, skin a pale-white contrast to that bleak outfit , heart-capturing eyes burrowing, reading my mind, perceiving a pandemonium  of confusion.

‘Hello,’ she said.

I wanted to turn and run. But her eyes impaled me on Love’s unrelinquishing barb.

‘Hi?’ she said. ‘Not seen you here before. You new to the town?’

I unearthed my voice.

‘No, been here quite a while. You?’
‘Same.’

I stuffed my hands into my jacket for fear of appearing the fool with twitching fingers. For an eternity-lasting ten minutes we created conversation, my monosyllabic replies to numerous questions seeming to dishearten her not at all.

We wandered around the tables, her pointing at objects she liked, I nodding mutely. Only fingers jangled in my pockets, no coin to purchase with, and cursing the absurdity of my situation, I made nods and smiles my currency of devotion.

The sun lowered in the sky, the stall holders packed away, we agreed to meet the following day, although I said I wasn’t sure I could make it.

The market being for one day only, we named places we both might know.

She suggested the graveyard nearby. I sighed acceptance.

She suggested the large headstone in the middle. I said I knew it well, it had the name ‘Moore’ engraved on one side.

She said we should walk past now just to be sure. And we did. We stood by the pillar of stone, a cold monument to a once warm human. She smiled and my heart smiled back.

‘Bye, then’, she whispered, ‘See you tomorrow.’

I watched her dwindle and disappear into the distance, swallowed up on the horizon by trees lining the footpath. Turning back past the headstone, I walked along to the neighbouring grave, onto the grey-gravelled rectangle, laid down, and faded back into my eternal rest.

 

I was late. I wasn’t going to show at all, trepidation threatening victory over yearning.

She was there before me, drifting dreamily among dismantled bouquets for the deceased.

I looked down, embarrassed by my tardiness. Her hands, encased in lace mittens, ephemerally traced nearby engraved epitaphs. A black scarf lay snaked around her shoulders, barrier to the decaying air of grey, autumnal days.

‘So, you came?’

‘Sorry I wasn’t here. I was distracted, by decisions.’

‘Shall we walk together?’

We strolled back to where the bustling market existed yesterday. Now it was quiet; infrequent individuals entering the diminishing row of dimly-lit shops, with listless lights whispering in dirt-smudged windows, desperate to dispel the inveigling gloom.

Meandering like congruent rivers round narrow streets, we talked, or she did, while I muttered plain replies, overcome by her beatified beauty, and her earthly friendliness. Once more my lack of discourse seemingly troubled her nought and as I glimpsed her eyes, her lips, her face, her soul, my heart craved to speak apposite phrases of affection.

By happenstance we found ourselves returned to the graveyard, and the monument.

She faced me.

‘Maybe we can do this again. Soon?’

‘Yes. That would be…nice.’

‘So, maybe tomorrow. The same time, the same place?’

‘Huh ah.’

The girl turned and wandered away towards the tall tremulous trees at the far extreme of the graveyard. I watched her slight shape disappearing, my aching heart wishing to wander beside hers.

 

We met again. And a multitude of agains. Each walk longer, each conversation an embryonic dialogue. I became settled in her company, comfortable in her presence. And each time, as I sank back into my resting place, I wished death did not have to be so lonely.

 

One frosty morning the girl did not appear.

I was distraught. I searched around the graveyard, retraced my steps countless times, yet no sign was there of the black dressed vision.

As dusk descended I trudged towards my grave. A figure moved out from behind  Moore’s headstone. My heart leapt alive.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I had a choice to make.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’ve made it now. Would you like to come and visit my home?’

Her reappearance had created me lightheaded and giddy. Yet now, should I go with her? Uncomfortable situations would arise; her parents inquisitive, my answers inadequate.

‘Yes, of course,’ I said.

So we walked along the path, towards the trees where I heartbreakingly lost  her each day. On we went, nearly to the gates at the end of the cemetery where my world must surely come tumbling down.

I found I was walking by myself. I stopped and turned. The girl was stood motionless, looking at me.

‘I know about you,’ she said.

I didn’t know what to say. What could I say?

‘Eternity is a lonely place, don’t you think?’ she said.

She raised her right hand and offered it to me.

‘Come.’

Our hands held, the girl stepped back onto a grave, gazing at my questioning eyes.

‘Be with me.’

Her legs faded into the earth.

And we lay back, growing fainter, smiling together.

Together for eternity.

 

 

 

Decaf scribble

(again, long time no write here, too busy with life and trying to edit two short novels, but here’s something written today, encouraged only by a decaffeinated latte…)

THE COFFEE HOUSE

Friday morning early, a coffee house faking Italian charm in a fake seaside town, historical fame long lost with the rising tide and crumbling cliffs.

Three sit with eyes fixated on screens, fingers tapping messages to no-one and blogging viewpoints to a readership only clicked through for reciprocated likes.

A barista chatters nonsense to a line of young women, eager for quick takeaways and even quicker getaways from chat up patter outdated in an age of legal minefields.

Older gentlemen sit, beige-coated, staring at passersby, remembering themselves long gone, chances not chanced, decisions wrong decided; pretty women bring a resurgence of desires with no hope of satisfaction.

A rush retreats, the room sits quiet, each seat an island of discontented content, preferred loneliness here to sat alone in a home no longer homely. A loud voiced conversation begins, phone to ear, private exchanges made public with deliberate intent, a proof they live a life unlike the other lost souls adrift in this coffee ship. Machinery hisses and spurts, milk tops pop, dregs disappear drained, one shot, two shots, extra shots, sprinkles and caramel, a vocabulary voiced across a counter stacked with packaged snacks rated red and red and red, all sold unwarned and unwary.

Classical strings harmonise a background, ill-fitted to a clientele dressed for pubs and clubs, layering the atmosphere warm with the unseasoned heating system soft hummed.

The hour hand stretches up straight, feet shuffle from different corners, timings timed to reach platforms as trains slide home and doors slide open.

Outside hot hand held cups are carried across a precinct still quiet as offices buzz alive with phones and bright screens, elderly women drag two-wheeled trolleys to catch the market full fruited and full bloomed, children toddle coat-clung to cigarette smoking mothers, too young for schooling, too old for early morning sleeps. Retired singles wander life lost, companions lost too early or never found among the rush of chasing money and reputations, shops and malls the only workplaces for them now.

The loud-voiced barista conducts his audience, half appreciated, half detested, a last day employed doubling his volume of adrenaline. Queues ebb and flow, each wave wavered in decisions of beverage and seating, no desire to share a stranger’s life, no wish to change their routined day, for better or for worse; no risk of failure brings no risk of success.

The coffee house churns out another day, another latte, another mocha, another another.

 

A day of new beginnings

The story I’m writing at present, the one I’m working on predominately in local coffee shops, started after a brief conversation with a sales assistant. I used our chat as the first few lines of the story. Yesterday I had three incidents, in coffee shops by coincidence, all of which could be used, and might be used, as openings for new stories or novels.

The first was a silent one. I sat with my coffee around 8.45 in the morning, trying to get my tablet computer to start up and I looked up and saw a woman staring at me. She was seated at a table across the way,  mid thirties, coat still on, coffee steaming in front of her. I recognised her from a few days previous when she had been standing in front of me in the queue for coffees. The barista had seen me and said ‘Your usual?’ The woman looked at me as if surprised someone like me (as old as me?) bought their coffee so often in this place that the assistants knew my order by memory. And there she was, looking my way a few days later. I continued battling with my tablet (see yesterday’s post) and when I glanced her way again a few minutes later she was looking my way again. Now, I know I bear an uncanny resemblance to George Clooney…(that’s humour by the way). With further comings and goings she must have exited quite soon after as the next time I peered her way the seat was empty. But…what a story could develop from this…she comes over and says hello, asks me what I’m typing, or whatever. The beginning of a romance story? A murder mystery? Could be taken anywhere.

About fifteen minutes later I’m head down tapping away now that my tablet is working properly when suddenly a woman waves her hand in front of my face saying ‘Hi, how are you? I didn’t see you there!’ I looked up. I’d never seen the woman before in my life. Once she saw me face on she quickly said ‘Oh sorry, I thought you were someone else…’ etc. A very pleasant mid thirties lady, very apologetic. Now, where might that incident go? Mistaken identities? Her way of forcing an introduction with this handsome guy working mysteriously on his computer? Could be a good start of something.

Then, in the afternoon, in a different coffee shop, actually the cafe area of a local bookshop, I’m tapping away again on the tablet (I had a free coffee on my loyalty card at this establishment) and on the next table was a very attractive young woman in her mid to late twenties, no ring on her finger, computer open, books and folders all over her table. I heard her make a phone call, something about ’10 gigabytes’ I think. Ordering internet connection? It’s a very pleasant seat I’ve got, watching this woman, close to the counter so seeing all the new customers coming in, and next to a window overlooking the inside of the small shopping mall. Suddenly the young woman gets up, comes to my table and says ‘I need to pop to the toilet. Can you keep an eye on my things while I’m gone?’ Of course I say yes. She returns a few minutes later and says ‘thanks’. We go on working until I have to leave. So what might that have led to? Suppose she hadn’t returned? I would be left with a computer. What might I find on it? Or she might come back and offer to buy me a coffee to say thanks. Our conversation would start and ..? Could be another interesting opening.

You can see that February 7th was quite a day one way or another. Considering I’d been going to these coffee shops for near three months and nothing had happened, I’m wondering how much longer I have to go before I have more interesting incidents occurring! Now, do I go back to that book shop cafe this afternoon, at the same time? Will she be there? Would I dare sit near her..?

 

Places to write

As I have explained in previous posts and on my Twitter feed I do favour writing in coffee shops. Where I was once able to write alone at home I find I now need people and noise around me.

A comfortable seat in required and ideally a table at the right height so that I can prop up my tablet and type with both hands. Stabbing with one finger with the tablet on my lap is tiring and slow. I usually get to the coffee shops early, around 8.40 a.m. and often just catch the bustle of the office and shop workers claiming their takeaways. If the queue is too long I take a hike around the shops and come back five minutes later. Most of the coffee shops hit a quiet patch around nine when the office, shop and student customers have all gone. Now its me and half a dozen similar aged men plus a few regulars who traipse in at thus time. Where they are heading for later I’ve yet to discern.

When I first began to hang around these places I made a few notes about the day ahead, I was not writing a story. Most of my time was spent watching the people walking by outside. Then I got an idea for a particular tale, just as I was getting bored with the notemaking. Now I average around 500 words in a forty minute session. I feel I can’t stay any longer, particularly if the place is beginning to fill up and I’m hogging two seats. After forty minutes my legs are crying out for movement too. Occasionally I have bought a second coffee but I usually head home or go around to another coffee house for the second cup. At least my legs get a bit of a stretch.

As I write this, the story has reached around 22,000 words. I’ve no idea how much longer it will go. It might be 23,000 or 100,000. If it’s the latter I might require a new bladder… Right now I just plough on. It’s better than working.

Here’s one of my favourite coffee haunts, in a branch of Waterstones Bookshop. You can’t beat being surrounded by books, especially new ones, the aroma is gorgeous. And the coffee’s good too.

2018-02-02 09.52.21

The best environment for writing is this one, a branch of Cafe Nero. They have a wonderful curved glass window overlooking the pedestrian precinct, great range of comfortable, if a little worn, chairs and a really friendly (and attractive) range of women baristas. It all helps… Oh, and I love their coffee too.

2017-10-19 08.55.27

Sorry for the blur – must have had too much caffeine…

 

Odds and no ends

k24l7j7zgjjnhkw0juhv

I haven’t written here for some little while. My writing time has been spent trying to continue the ‘coffee shop’ based story. It’s now reached around 17,000 words and I’m a bit coy about blogging too much here. I really enjoy the atmosphere of these coffee shops, one in particular which has a wide sweeping ceiling to floor window, a range of comfortable seating and a mix of older guys like myself tapping away on smartphones, notebooks or laptops, younger people popping in for takeaway coffees for their office or shop and the usual casual customer. The noise level is just right, the music instrumental and not loud, the distraction of attractive young women not too distracting, and I’ve been typing away contentedly for 45 minutes right through to the occasional and extraordinary 2 hours. I email the work to myself and pick it up on my laptop at home, I can’t be getting into all these ‘cloud’ things , and then editing it. My little notebook often throws a fit after fifteen minutes and deletes any words which have contractions in them so I have to write things out the long way, like ‘ I will not’ instead of ‘I won’t’, but it’s a small price to pay, and cheaper than buying another small laptop and a new copy of Word.

On other matters I watched an excellent movie or two this last week. Yesterday I caught up with ‘Sicario’, a very dark thriller with Emily Blunt about Mexican drug cartels and US dark op guys blasting them away. Just read the Wikipedia report on it and was pleased to see it was rated a very good movie by most reviewers. Last week I watched ‘Arrival’ with Amy Adams. An excellent science fiction movie which really got your brain cells going. By coincidence both movies are directed by Denis Villeneuve. A very talented guy indeed.

So life goes on; the story may hit a brick wall and be left unread in a folder on the computer, or one day make it to Amazon…then Hollywood…with Emily Blunt…and Denis Villeneuve…Well, one can dream.

 

George Michael: literary giant?

Well, the title might have got you here anyway.

I was watching the video of ‘Last Christmas’ a few days ago and although I have seen it many times before and heard the song many times before for some reason the opening two lines stuck in my mind on this occasion.

‘Last Christmas I gave you my heart
But the very next day you gave it away’

That first line, there’s a whole story waiting to be told to explain those simple words. Had the two people just met? Had they known each other for months, years? What happened to make one of them give the other their heart? Did the other appear to feel the same way on that day? Were they only pretending? There’s a novel there.

And the second line, what made the person give the heart/love away? Did they meet someone else and suddenly realise they had made a mistake? Had they been pretending all along to reciprocate the love offered to them? Again, a story waits to be written.

So in just two lines of writing the author has presented us with a myriad of alternatives.

George Michael: literary giant?