I haven’t been out much in the last year…. I’ve done hardly any photography. However, I have been making lots of music. This is animated by Mel Anderson, some of her Tiny Folk. If you’re very observant you can see them going about their business. Most of them are very shy.
I woke up on Saturday morning to find out that, once again, I was runner up in the Faber Quickfic contest. Entering has become a Friday night ritual for me. I like the idea of getting a prompt and writing up something in an hour or so. This week it was a quote ‘We live in an age when unecessary things are our only necessities’ *. This is what I wrote.
Of Necessary Things
Well, I still have my panache! I was able to read Rostand’s thing you know, didn’t get to see it played though. You could say I was otherwise engaged… in Reading. Didn’t read too bad, bit weak in the last scenes I felt.
Panache, what is that really? It’s the feather in your cap… the great flag of attitude. It was all I needed once. I thought it my only necessity, I’d been able to dispense with almost everything else. I was profligate in love, so needlessly in love! Many times you know, many times. The love that was given to me… I discarded that as freely as one loses a glove. There would always be more to come my way, if I kept that frantic feather aloft.
That mad bravado got me where I am. Didn’t work in court though. It was just bluster then. I had everything before that and none of it seemed the least bit essential. Then I was shown what was truly necessary… bread and water, a small patch of sky.
What’s left now then? I’ve got that same old ragged feather, but little else Monsieur, little else. I’m a shabby old peacock now sir, but still straining for the bon mot. Probably the last, yes, most definitely the last. Not necessary, you understand, but I feel the obligation.
Have I mentioned the wallpaper? I really can’t see the need for such vulgarity at my time in life.
Oscar Wilde, ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’. 1891. Ahead of his time, as usual.
I always planned to blog about food… a fitting first for post number 300
Red capsicums (bell peppers) were cheap this week, so I got some to set fire to. After this stage they go into a paper bag to cool down and get deskinned. I throw away the seeds and the other bits of the insides then cut them into small pieces. Finally they’re put in jar with balsamic and ordinary Italian vinegar and a dash of olive oil. Tasty and cheap as well.
Hot off the grill, a few fresh photos.
Today we’re having omen weather, the clouds are making fantastical shapes. They drift and twist before my eyes. I can’t possibly make out what they all mean, most of them are not meant for me. Who are all these shapes meant for? Some are there just to entertain. There’s a really good one of a small dog with a feathery tail. A West Highland terrier by the look of it.
I see my sign, the one meant especially for me. It’s a dragon, a proper Chinese New Year’s dragon. I can see its gaping mouth. That’s really interesting because I saw the same thing last week. I’d never seen such a thing before. Usually my dragons are fanciful seahorses, very rare as well. They’re always shaped like an ‘S’. Once I saw three together, a very propitious omen. Two weeks later my whole life changed.
There’s rules, of course. You can’t spend your days staring at the sky. You cannot look too long. The brain will make sense of the shapes and colour the sky with your idle dreams. There are too many false omens as it is.
You need to catch them out of the corner of your eye when you’re not wishing, not brooding or sad. A clear eye is needed, they’re best noticed as you go about your business. When nothing particular is happening to you, that’s when you can see what will happen next.
This omen sky needs a good clean wind. It’s best not to dwell too much on the future.
An omen, but not meant for me.
When I first saw the patterns made by the crabs I thought it was a message for me alone. Now I know differently. I learned to listen to what the tide was telling me. The beach is their canvas, there are many messages as each crab expresses what it feels.
In my dream it was promised
I will be this next.
The tides have told me
I will live in the sun
And make my nest out in the air
The waves will be a memory
Will be my wide new sea.
The shadow of the hawk
Will keep my nemesis – heron
Away, he will not dare
To land near here
My strong magic
Protects me still
This ocurred in our mothers’ time,
The time of our parents
Beyond our parents.
We watched it fall, that star
Dragging down darkness
Howling as it came.
Soon it grew cold,
Many of the creatures around us
could not survive.
We crabs still
Live upon this beach,
Going, as we do,
About our business.
The Old Man’s Glasses
They came to me eventually, shoved in a box with his wallet, the scratchy faced watch and a mobile phone he never answered. The Old Man’s glasses. He often said he could see his friends through them, old friends gone a while ago. He knew they were already gone because they didn’t get any older. It worked with me too. Even after I’d turned fifty he could still see the child in me.
I tried them on, they weren’t too bad. I guess our eyes were very much of the same type. That was good, so I kept them as a spare pair. My own are fairly scuffed and scratched, plus I’m often too lazy to give them a good clean.
I was back in the town for his funeral, just for a couple of days really. I’d not lived there for thirty or more years. I hadn’t made frequent visits back either. As my parents slowly died I could not bear to be there. Now I can see it’s not a bad place really, not a lot has changed. I remember being happy when I went to university here. The pubs are pretty much the same as they were. I can’t find the record shops we used to haunt, but record shops are rare everywhere these days.
In the streets I see faces, a lot of them familiar, still young. They were the type of girls I adored from afar, or chatted nervously to in the uni bar. There’s young men too, almost comical with their unlikely beards. Hey, I was just like that!
I must be wearing the Old Man’s glasses, I can see what he said was true. I might be looking at ghosts and phantoms, or maybe they’re the grand kids of long lost friends. My Dad was not upset by his visions of the friendly spirits he saw. Me neither, it’s rather charming in its way.
Some flash fiction for a Sunday. I wrote this one on the train going to the shops. It’s not the Faber Quickfic challenge this time, I’ll save that one for later.
Even after I’d turned fifty he could still see the child in me.
Another exercise for the Faber Quickfic contest. The challenge photo was of a young couple dancing, probably from the 1940s. This is what I wrote.
A Good Time Girl
My granny was a Good Time Girl, she told me that herself. ‘Use capitals’, she’d said, ‘it was the name of our troupe.’ She’d fought her war by dancing, church halls, bases, work canteens. The nurses said they liked her, she laughed a lot and joked. Some of the other ladies were not so keen. She flirted with their boyfriends, that was what they’d said. Poor boys who’d died in ’42…. still alive in memory, brought back to life by dementia. Perhaps it was true, back then in some dance hall before the sirens went.
Flirted, well she might. Not too much though, she was devoted to my grandfather. He was Diamond Jack Wilson, always good for a song, a dance, a laugh. The war took him, gun crew in North Africa. Nothing much left to bury, they’d said.
In the end she forgot almost everything. No one there ever forgot who she was. She’d been somebody, she always said that. It was true. It seems recent, but it’s thirty years now since she went. I was a young man at the funeral, surrounded by her old pals, laughing, croaking, sounded much the same really.
Now they talk to me in loud kind voices, as if I’m deaf or daft. Just like they talked to her. Always my first name,that’s annoying. No, I’m Mr Wilson to you, young woman. I’m going to need my granny’s strength, her wicked laugh. I’ve got to start telling them, I’ve been someone, you know.
Tuschinski Theatre, Amsterdam
Both pieces are set in Toulouse, where I was first diagnosed and subsequently cured.
“There’s a journey we must go on and no more delay”
The slightly odd syntax – he’s speaking English for my benefit. The ‘we’ here, well that’s me really. It’s the medical sense of the word, as in ‘We’ve been eating a little too well, haven’t we?’ He’s a doctor, so it’s permissible, I suppose. This will be my journey, he, the tour guide Charon, will see me safely along.
I’ve travelled a lot, I’m in a strange place. It’s easy enough to say that it’s all in the journey, but where am I headed to this time? In walking terms, a hard and dangerous trek is an ‘epic’, especially where there’s been accidents and injuries along the way. Am I in for an epic? Is it going to be a jaunt? Will I have stories to tell at the end of it? I’m staring out of his window at some interesting hills, looks like good walking up that way. I’m glazing over, drifting off. There seems to be a lot of small talk. Do I want to hire a wig? There must be things to sign.
Many journeys are most enjoyable when they’re safely over. That’s when epics are made, not while you’re up to your waist in mud. Is he coming with me? Well yes, he knows the track. It should end well, he says. If not, then it just ends. Tuesday, there can be no delay. The tests are all in, now it is certain.
This place still glows long after the gloom has settled on the medieval streets. I have learned to look up, it’s a photographers’ trick. Any distraction is a good one now. I wish I’d come here sooner. I would have seen it differently, sketched out food reviews, not these failing elegies.
In Toulouse the sun sets slowly, it’s a long shadow across the plains. I’m trying to make a poem, but it isn’t coming easily. I’m counting my sunsets now, watching some of them from my hospital window. I don’t feel all that sick, but the tumour in my throat begs to differ.
I’d like to spend my evenings in Place Capitole with a glass of champagne, relaxing like a local as the buildings light up. This is my own sunset, but I’m not seeing an afterglow. There’s others in here, no one is glowing. You’d think from the radiation we’d be shiny at least, but it turns us all to grey.
The poem won’t work, I’m not really old enough for it. The evening of my years should not be now. Old is a far off time when maybe I can give sunset tours, teaching the tourists to look up.
The vision is a good one, but far from elusive. It’ll still appear when I’m gone.
I’m sorting through my photos now, It seems I was just waning, not fading. The poems, I thought they’d be many, never did get made. Still, I’ve got the time now, waiting for customers for my sunset tour.
Rue du Taur, Toulouse, France.
Some flash fiction I knocked up for last week’s Quickfic challenge.
Red For Safety.
It was so close she could see their faces, but the cries were torn away by the sea. She felt the same old dual perspective, seeing the shore, being there on the shore.
This was how the dream repeated, the timbers being wrenched apart, she feeling oddly calm. There was always someone on the beach, a young woman in red. An immobile figure, not capable of helping, but unable to look away.
Which had been first? Was it the story or the dream? The bay had taken a thousand lives or more, tales of the wrecks were common. Which ship was this? She’d never known its name. Stood on the deck as it broke up around her, it seemed hardly a ship at all. Who was it standing there beside her? That changed, sometimes it was someone from school, other times it was a face she’d seen on the bus. The dream was quite calming, an old friend. ‘ I cannot go down with the ship’ she thought ‘I am there alive on the shore.’
She came to the bay as often as she could, but that was annually now. Her father was gone and her mother barely knew her. The sea might be calm or furious. It had not ceased from claiming souls.
Call it a superstition if you will, she had always worn red to come here. ‘For safety’ she said. She waved, she’d never done that before. Then she turned away and went off to face another year.
The Quickfic challenge had a photo of a person in a red coat looking out to sea. In keeping with the Drifter’s house rules, here’s one of my own photos of the Cliffs of Moher, Ireland.
Been a while since I put up any flash fiction. This was a response to a Faber Quickfic Challenge from some weeks back. The prompt was a photo of a child’s hobby horse discarded in a bin. I got a bit Midsomer… for the fun of it. I might see if I can turn it into a proper story.
The Hidden Man
The morning after Michaelmas Night is never a pretty one, but this was the worst in living memory. There was a body, not the snoring kind you’d usually find in the pub car park, a dead one. ‘Everyone’s a Mummer’ thought Sergeant Miles, ‘twenty seven people disguised in fancy dress, the Hidden Man and a Pantomime Horse.’ That was just the performers. Most people in the village brought along a hobby horse, most had flaming torches too. Now she was looking at a costumed man in blackface. Turned up his toes, as they say. No one was sure how he’d died yet. The local doctor, reputedly one half of the Horse, was yet to appear.
The identity of the dancers should not be revealed, that was the custom. Everybody knew it was Ron from the pub, his brother and a bunch of the other lads. Alright, round them up and get some statements. Oh yes, check who’s missing. There’s a dead Morris Man in the skip behind the mini-mart. We don’t know his name yet.
At least it was a man. In recent years there’d been Lady-Mummers, as the parish newsletter had delicately called them. Given the costumes, it hadn’t seemed to matter much. Someone muttered ‘No good will come of this!’ They’d been right. She guessed that the hobby horse was the murder weapon. It was not home made. ‘At least’, thought the Sergeant, ‘I have an in’.
Her own village secret. She’d been the Hidden Man.
The old bridge at Schowham, Morcestershire, UK.