A Hepburn obsession

Yes, I have to admit it. I am becoming obsessed with Audrey Hepburn. I’m sure I must have watched movies with her in over the years but it is only in the last twelve months I have slowly found myslef seeking out everything Hepburn.

The reason is quite sinple. Miss Rios.

Miss Rios is a character I created in my first novella ‘Bobby Olsen’. He, the main character, was first involved with a woman called Gloria, who was a typical New York brunette brought up on the wrong side of the sidewalk, and then with another named Martha who resembled a slightly slimmer version of Maryln Monroe. So when I found Bobby by himself halfway through the story – Gloria having been dumped, Martha gone missing – I needed a different type of female to bring in, initially for just one chapter. I must have googled something like ‘1950s female movie stars’ and then perused through the images. And Audrey Hepburn leapt out – dark haired and slim and the opposite to the other women in the tale. Having referred to Miss Rios as ‘Little Miss Hepburn’ early on, every time I brought her into the story I found myself googling ‘Audrey Hepburn’ to see what hairstyles she sported and what clothes she wore. The only difference I made was to suggest Miss Rios had a slight brown tinge to her skin, hinting at a background in the south of the USA, probably from Mexico.

It is only in recent weeks I have sought out more on Audery Hepburn. I came across the opening to Breakfast at Tiffany’s on YouTube and was stunned by the music (‘Moon River’), the shooting of the scene, and Audrey in her evening gown, big shades and carrying her takeaway coffee and bagel. That led to finding a DVD on Amazon which contained five of her movies, including Breakfast at Tiffany’s, for just £12 ($16). I’ve now watched that plus Roman Holiday. That led on to buying Audrey’s biography – still waiting to be read. And also seeking out photos of her online. I particularly like her phase with the pixie haircut, it offsets her thick eyebrows, piercing eyes and wide lips so well. In my novellas I had Miss Rios with long hair in the first book and with the pixie cut in the second. Today I even have Audrey’s photo set as my screensaver – yes, it’s all getting rather sad…

Anyway, it’s interesting how a character can take you over and how they can develop from simple beginnings.

 

Audrey Hepburn NRFPT 30

 

 

 

Advertisements

Sequel

Well, I’m not sure if anyone still visits here as I haven’t written anything for some time. But I have at last got around to publishing the sequel to my novella ‘Bobby Olsen’. That was uploaded in June 2017 and the sequel was actually finished way before that, in February 2017. It has sat in a folder on my computer ever since. A house move, a relocation to within a five minute walk of several coffee houses, and the distraction of writing another novella, unconnected with the Olsen ones, has led to this delay. Anyway, it is now edited as best I can and available.

What next? I have about 25,000 words of a third Bobby Olsen story on my tablet and a couple of thousand words of another story set in the present day. I’m not sure if either or both will develop further. There is a limit to the quality you can produce just sat in a coffee house so I would need to dedicate time to writing at home, something I have found quite hard to do over the last year. We’ll see what happens.

51FBnS0cRFL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_

 

 

 

Circe by Madeline Miller

 

circe-199408360

A shout-out for this book, published a few months ago. If you buy into the Greek myths you will love this story about Circe, a character most of us only come across when she appears in The Odyssey. The author has researched the myths well and put her own spin and interpretation on various aspects, especially at the end where she both shows awareness of the sparse surviving remnant of The Telegony and makes a slight change to this elusive text.

It is the overall style that will capture the reader, however. It reads like a myth itself, and what greater praise can you give such a book than to say it reads like a translated version of a tale.

Some critics might argue that the author had an easy ride in that she had most of her plot already written for her – some 2,000 years ago! – and most, if not all, of her characters already created and their personalities at least hinted at in various other myths. But it is still a heck of a task to tell the story in a knowledgeable and coherent form, and to keep it entertaining and moving at the same time.

Time now to track down her earlier publication about Achilles…

Personally, I am still trying to edit a story I wrote two years ago and continuing to add another three or four hundred words to another tale whenever I am in a coffee house alone. I find it very difficult to concentrate on writing at home , hence my absence from posting here.

 

 

 

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.’

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

Jack in the Green

This traditional event was alive and well in Hastings, East Sussex, England over the May Day Weekend. Four days of festivities involving parades, dancing, singing, drumming and eating were carried out in the highest temperatures known at this time of year for a couple of decades.

A bit about the tradition, from Wikipedia:

Jack in the Green, also known as Jack o’ the Green, is an English folk custom associated with the celebration of May Day. It involves a pyramidal or conical wicker or wooden framework that is decorated with foliage being worn by a person as part of a procession, often accompanied by musicians.

The Jack in the Green tradition developed in England during the eighteenth century. It emerged from an older May Day tradition—first recorded in the seventeenth century—in which milkmaids carried milk pails that had been decorated with flowers and other objects as part of a procession. Increasingly, the decorated milk pails were replaced with decorated pyramids of objects worn on the head, and by the latter half of the eighteenth century the tradition had been adopted by other professional groups, such as bunters and chimney sweeps. The earliest known account of a Jack in the Green came from a description of a London May Day procession in 1770. By the nineteenth century, the Jack in the Green tradition was largely associated with chimney sweeps.

The tradition died out in the early twentieth century. Later that century, various revivalist groups emerged, continuing the practice of Jack in the Green May Day processions in various parts of England. The Jack in the Green has also been incorporated into various modern Pagan parades and activities.

Enjoy the very amateurish photos taken while juggling cap, drinks, food and sunglasses…

2018-05-06 16.04.35

2018-05-07 09.44.07[1]

2018-05-05 15.00.48

2018-05-07 10.40.47

2018-05-06 15.11.57

Music to cry by

As I continue to try and edit my short novel, if that’s what you call a 58,000 word story, I feel like writing something different. So here are three songs that I have discovered or rediscovered via YouTube recently and have today finally got around to downloading from iTunes. It’s a bit embarrassing to say ‘discovered’ when they all date to the 1960s or early 1970s. At that time I was listening to Bowie and Genesis and Yes so two of these songs passed me by. In the 60s I was only interested in chasing a football on a muddy pitch.

Song One: Different Drum by the Stone Poneys

This is one I only came across recently on YouTube, probably from that ‘recommended’ list down the right hand side. I must have been following up some other tune I’ heard on the radio and stumbled across Linda Ronstadt singing this masterpiece. I remember Linda more from the 1970s as a solo singer and a hell of a beautiful young woman. I love the opening line of this song – ‘You and I travel to the beat of a diff’rent drum’. That reads like the synopsis of a novel about a couple’s relationship throughout their lives. I’ll try and write it one day. The song was written by The Monkees’ Mike Nesmith. It has such a simple but heart-rendering tune I could listen to it on repeat for hours.

 

Song 2: Rose of Cimarron by Poco

I think I chose this song as one of my ‘Music to write by’ tunes so I may repeat myself here. Another one I missed the first time around and only came across after hearing it on a radio program. The song is based around a real character, a heck of a lady if her story is true, Rose Dunn waiting for the man she loved. The song has a fantastic hook line and the version with Timothy B. Schmit is incredible, he has a wonderful high voice which is perfect for this song. Some versions also have beautiful guitar solos.

 

Song 3: Traveling Boy by Art Garfunkel

Now this one I bought back in the 1970s. It was on Art’s album ‘Angel Clare’, a real eclectic mix of songs. This is a very commercial song which suits Art’s voice perfectly. The lyrics have been accused of seeing a passing relationship solely from the guy’s point of view but I guess you have to remember it was written in different times. And, interestingly, it was more recently covered by Rumor, a wonderful British female singer. But Art’s version just builds and builds, a delight.

 

So, get your tissues ready…