Saturday, 7 November 2009
Friday, 11 September 2009
A Day at the Races
Here I is, wanderin’ round the edges o’ the track. Meetin’ people brief-like then movin’ on. S’pose that’s just what me life is really. Keepin’ to the edges and movin’ on regular-like. It suits me. Rose is me name. I travels, followin’ grai fairs an’ races. Most of me summer is spent on the road. We’re Romani see, me and me family, an’ today we is workin’. Right busy at Epsom too, and the weather’s real kushti. Sniffin’ the Solstice air I smells wild flowers ‘n’ horse shit. Racin’ season. All of London gathers ’ere and we comes to make sure enough poshes is spent and we gits our fair share o’ it. Even ’is Majesty is ’ere. Racin’ a fine bay ’e is. ’Ad a lil peepsies at Anmer earlier I dids: powerful lookin’. Some of these grai look a bit too spindly-like to be o’ much use off the race track. Us Romani, we’s traders too see, we knows our grai, knows what they is worf.
I peds through the folki in the Tattersalls and the Dee, tattin’ me lucky ’eather to all these bristly gents who ’ave been busy wiv the bookies. Dukkerin’ on a few palms too, easy when you’s selling ’eather to keep their hand a bit longer, glimpse a bit of kushti bak ’ere ‘n’ there. No lies mind you, I only tells what I sees. I’ve got a talent fer this kinda work. Me Ma was the best, famous she were in ’er day. She passed twelvemoon ago… Still follows me roun’ though, whispering chal’s secrets in me ear. Bein’ Romani is like that, we got connections. So when these superstitious types sees me snaking over to ’em, in me fine ’and painted skirts an’ red ’ed-scarf, they makes sure they treats me right.
‘Lucky ’eather, sir?’ I enquires. You kin always tell ’em whose bettin’ large on the grai by how polite they is to the Romani. None o’ yer arrogant sniffs ‘n’ snoots when there’s a few shillin’s hangin’ in the balance. I always gives a big flash of me danners when they bows at me. Me, who they more likely fall over afore they sees me anywhere or anytime else.
‘Lucky ’eather, sir? Best luck o’ the derby.’
‘Hmm,’ answers this tall chal, dressed in a brown suit.
’E’s staring out over the track. ’E turns an’ sees me. I feels ’im shudder. ’E recovers fast enough mind. ’E digs deep in his pootsi fer the last of his coins, git hissell a bit of kooshti bak. I takes ’is poshes but keeps ’is hand a moment longer, enjoyin’ ’is discomfort.
‘I kin see you’ll ’ave some luck today, sir.’ I says, breathin’ in ’is face.
‘Really?’ ’e exclaims, ’is tidy eyebrows raises up and ’is pink skin prickles wiv excitement.
‘I kin do you a readin’ right now, sir.’
Course ’e’s all eager to discover what I’ve seen. They always are. I kin make enough to buy me some fine tuv fer me pipe an’ still keep me going fer sixmoon, just by duckerin’ palms and tattin’ ’eather at the derbies. I tells ’im ’is ’orse’ll come first cross the line an’, after gitten me palm crossed fer me trouble, I swish away to greet the next moosh.
Glimpsin’ a few ladies near the track, at Tattenham corner, I feels glad o’ me light blouse an’ cotton skirts under this glarin’ sun. I can’ help but consider how divi these ladies are, all dressed in their long black chuffas on a baking hot afternoon. I laugh at ’em, “victims of fashion” and passes ’em by. But somethin’ tugs at me, call it second sight, and I turns back and peds towards ’em.
They’s all bunched up close, whisperin’. I kin tell they’s excited. No-one else looks at ’em. I’s like they’re invisible cause they dunna belong. All the other fine ladies is up in them shaded stalls, where the likes of me can’ get to ’em, dressed in their pale linens an’ silks an’ them big ’ats. These ain’t no workin’ women neither, yet ’ere they stands, track-side. Defiant. Then I sees it, death, hoverin’ over ’em, its kauli wings beatin’ the air above their black feathered bonnets. It’s ’ungry.
I watches ’em. Their dark coats all kushti and their ’ats like kauli crowns on their proud faces. All around ’em is dirt. Muddy chals jostle wiv sweaty bookies an’ each other. They is the silhouette of an oasis, standin’ so proud-like in the muck. I never feels respect for the chals an’ ladies at these races. Fools they is, crammed in boxes. But I is fascinated wiv these, an’ what death wants wiv ’em. I feels I should sell ’em me ’eather, they looks like they need some kushti bak. But somethin’ ’olds me back.
The breeze teases their chuffas open and I sees stripes ’idden beneath, flashes of purple, white an’ green darin’ to be noticed. No-one else sees. Only I shares their secret. One of ’em looks up, an in ’er eyes I sees crystals shinin’. She brushes ’em away wiv ’er sleeve an’ ’er eyes flash at me, pale as sister moon. She trembles an’ I thinks she’s gonna faint. But she recovers an’ turns away.
The race starts an’ the crowd pushes forward. I ain’t pushed though. I peds to the front at me own speed. I wants to keep me eyes on ’em. People washes past me. I feels like a boulder in the river bed.
Grai is racin’ past us now, jockeys urgin’ ’em wiv beats of the chooper. I looks across an’ sees one of ’em ladies duckin’ un’er the railin’s. She peds up to the middle of’ the race an’ stands there. One grai swerves an’ races past ’er. Then anover’s roundin’ the corner, a bay, Anmer, I recognises ’is colours. This divi puts ’er arm up like she’s ’bout to put ’er scarf roun’ the grai’s bridle. But the grai keeps goin’. Then I hears a scream an’ she’s tumblin’ through the air. A stream of colours is flappin’ in the breeze behind her. Elegant she looks. ’Overin’ in the air before ’ittin’ the ground an’ bouncin’ like a discarded toy. I sees death again, playin’ her, like a violin, extractin’ ’er last notes.
I stares at ’er lyin’ there. Thick rivers o’ bright red rat is streaming from ’er poggered face. She lies still-like in the grass and mud, ’er chuffa open like broken wings and ’er purple, white ‘n’ green scarf trailin’ from ’er right ’and t’wards the crowd. I sees the colours an’ I jin what she is. Suffragists they name ’em. Seem to threaten these chals as much as we Romani do. Freedom’s a scary ideal to some. Yet they ’adn’t no more power than little childer, these ladies, thinkin’ freedom kin be given wiv a vote. Freedom ain’t given, it’s taken. Me own life kin be ’ard, specially in winter-like. But I is free as a bird, and I ’adn’t got no vote neither. Freedom’s all she got now. Spirit soarin’, laughin’ at ’er poggered self.
Folki is fidgetin’. They dunna jin what to do, what to fink. ’Er lyin’ there. I sees she still alive though. I feels ’er spirit still bound up wiv ’er flesh. Can’ sees why they ain’t lookin’ to her. S’pose they jin she ’adn’t got long. I sends ’er a kiss to speed ’er to the next life. When I looks fer ’em the other ladies is gorn.
The fallen jockey seems dazed-like but no worse. Chals is carrying ’im aways. The grai looks bungy too, fine bay he was, the kings grai, but ’is hind leg is twisted-like. Everyone’s talkin’ ’bout the jockey an’ the grai. Wonderin’ if they’ll ’ave to shoot Anmer. No-one’s talkin’ ’bout ’er. She’s waitin’, fergotten.
I pulls mesell t’gether. Time to git movin’. I’s never right to stay too long. The race is over, best be peddin’ me own way before the chals come lookin’ fer a refund. Crowds kin turn nasty, ’specially when there’s Romani they kin blame.
I peds through the folki in the Tattersalls and the Dee, tattin’ me lucky ’eather to all these bristly gents who ’ave been busy wiv the bookies. Dukkerin’ on a few palms too, easy when you’s selling ’eather to keep their hand a bit longer, glimpse a bit of kushti bak ’ere ‘n’ there. No lies mind you, I only tells what I sees. I’ve got a talent fer this kinda work. Me Ma was the best, famous she were in ’er day. She passed twelvemoon ago… Still follows me roun’ though, whispering chal’s secrets in me ear. Bein’ Romani is like that, we got connections. So when these superstitious types sees me snaking over to ’em, in me fine ’and painted skirts an’ red ’ed-scarf, they makes sure they treats me right.
‘Lucky ’eather, sir?’ I enquires. You kin always tell ’em whose bettin’ large on the grai by how polite they is to the Romani. None o’ yer arrogant sniffs ‘n’ snoots when there’s a few shillin’s hangin’ in the balance. I always gives a big flash of me danners when they bows at me. Me, who they more likely fall over afore they sees me anywhere or anytime else.
‘Lucky ’eather, sir? Best luck o’ the derby.’
‘Hmm,’ answers this tall chal, dressed in a brown suit.
’E’s staring out over the track. ’E turns an’ sees me. I feels ’im shudder. ’E recovers fast enough mind. ’E digs deep in his pootsi fer the last of his coins, git hissell a bit of kooshti bak. I takes ’is poshes but keeps ’is hand a moment longer, enjoyin’ ’is discomfort.
‘I kin see you’ll ’ave some luck today, sir.’ I says, breathin’ in ’is face.
‘Really?’ ’e exclaims, ’is tidy eyebrows raises up and ’is pink skin prickles wiv excitement.
‘I kin do you a readin’ right now, sir.’
Course ’e’s all eager to discover what I’ve seen. They always are. I kin make enough to buy me some fine tuv fer me pipe an’ still keep me going fer sixmoon, just by duckerin’ palms and tattin’ ’eather at the derbies. I tells ’im ’is ’orse’ll come first cross the line an’, after gitten me palm crossed fer me trouble, I swish away to greet the next moosh.
Glimpsin’ a few ladies near the track, at Tattenham corner, I feels glad o’ me light blouse an’ cotton skirts under this glarin’ sun. I can’ help but consider how divi these ladies are, all dressed in their long black chuffas on a baking hot afternoon. I laugh at ’em, “victims of fashion” and passes ’em by. But somethin’ tugs at me, call it second sight, and I turns back and peds towards ’em.
They’s all bunched up close, whisperin’. I kin tell they’s excited. No-one else looks at ’em. I’s like they’re invisible cause they dunna belong. All the other fine ladies is up in them shaded stalls, where the likes of me can’ get to ’em, dressed in their pale linens an’ silks an’ them big ’ats. These ain’t no workin’ women neither, yet ’ere they stands, track-side. Defiant. Then I sees it, death, hoverin’ over ’em, its kauli wings beatin’ the air above their black feathered bonnets. It’s ’ungry.
I watches ’em. Their dark coats all kushti and their ’ats like kauli crowns on their proud faces. All around ’em is dirt. Muddy chals jostle wiv sweaty bookies an’ each other. They is the silhouette of an oasis, standin’ so proud-like in the muck. I never feels respect for the chals an’ ladies at these races. Fools they is, crammed in boxes. But I is fascinated wiv these, an’ what death wants wiv ’em. I feels I should sell ’em me ’eather, they looks like they need some kushti bak. But somethin’ ’olds me back.
The breeze teases their chuffas open and I sees stripes ’idden beneath, flashes of purple, white an’ green darin’ to be noticed. No-one else sees. Only I shares their secret. One of ’em looks up, an in ’er eyes I sees crystals shinin’. She brushes ’em away wiv ’er sleeve an’ ’er eyes flash at me, pale as sister moon. She trembles an’ I thinks she’s gonna faint. But she recovers an’ turns away.
The race starts an’ the crowd pushes forward. I ain’t pushed though. I peds to the front at me own speed. I wants to keep me eyes on ’em. People washes past me. I feels like a boulder in the river bed.
Grai is racin’ past us now, jockeys urgin’ ’em wiv beats of the chooper. I looks across an’ sees one of ’em ladies duckin’ un’er the railin’s. She peds up to the middle of’ the race an’ stands there. One grai swerves an’ races past ’er. Then anover’s roundin’ the corner, a bay, Anmer, I recognises ’is colours. This divi puts ’er arm up like she’s ’bout to put ’er scarf roun’ the grai’s bridle. But the grai keeps goin’. Then I hears a scream an’ she’s tumblin’ through the air. A stream of colours is flappin’ in the breeze behind her. Elegant she looks. ’Overin’ in the air before ’ittin’ the ground an’ bouncin’ like a discarded toy. I sees death again, playin’ her, like a violin, extractin’ ’er last notes.
I stares at ’er lyin’ there. Thick rivers o’ bright red rat is streaming from ’er poggered face. She lies still-like in the grass and mud, ’er chuffa open like broken wings and ’er purple, white ‘n’ green scarf trailin’ from ’er right ’and t’wards the crowd. I sees the colours an’ I jin what she is. Suffragists they name ’em. Seem to threaten these chals as much as we Romani do. Freedom’s a scary ideal to some. Yet they ’adn’t no more power than little childer, these ladies, thinkin’ freedom kin be given wiv a vote. Freedom ain’t given, it’s taken. Me own life kin be ’ard, specially in winter-like. But I is free as a bird, and I ’adn’t got no vote neither. Freedom’s all she got now. Spirit soarin’, laughin’ at ’er poggered self.
Folki is fidgetin’. They dunna jin what to do, what to fink. ’Er lyin’ there. I sees she still alive though. I feels ’er spirit still bound up wiv ’er flesh. Can’ sees why they ain’t lookin’ to her. S’pose they jin she ’adn’t got long. I sends ’er a kiss to speed ’er to the next life. When I looks fer ’em the other ladies is gorn.
The fallen jockey seems dazed-like but no worse. Chals is carrying ’im aways. The grai looks bungy too, fine bay he was, the kings grai, but ’is hind leg is twisted-like. Everyone’s talkin’ ’bout the jockey an’ the grai. Wonderin’ if they’ll ’ave to shoot Anmer. No-one’s talkin’ ’bout ’er. She’s waitin’, fergotten.
I pulls mesell t’gether. Time to git movin’. I’s never right to stay too long. The race is over, best be peddin’ me own way before the chals come lookin’ fer a refund. Crowds kin turn nasty, ’specially when there’s Romani they kin blame.
Sunday, 3 May 2009
Heart Shaped Box
Heart Shaped Box
By Penny Spruce
If chaos theory states that a butterfly flapping its wings in Tokyo could cause tornadoes in California, is it a giant leap of faith to claim that the suicide of a rock star in Seattle caused my marriage to fall apart? Such is the effect of the unlikeliest catalysts.
I met Simon in 1989, in a smoke-filled Goth club where the dance floor was always full and the Snakebite and Black was cheap. When the club closed that night, Simon and I sat outside talking until dawn. Within three months we were engaged.
He frequently told me, ‘You are the only person who truly loves me.’ I thought it was a compliment.
Living together we relaxed. Free from our parents, we spent our weekends in bed playing video games. Our bodies side by side, surrounded by crisp packets and beer cans. Motionless except for our thumbs and minds, we travelled the world of Final Fantasy.
In 1991 Simon fell in love again. It was Sunday evening and we were watching MTV when angry guitars, a hammering drumbeat and those hypnotic lyrics “hello, hello, hello” growled through the mono speaker. Listening to Smells Like Teen Spirit for the first time gave Simon goose bumps; his pupils dilated and seemed focused not on but through the screen and the images of tattooed cheerleaders: he had discovered Nirvana.
We didn’t know anything about Kurt Cobain. We weren’t yet aware of his separation from his parents, which mirrored Simon’s own background in many ways; or the singer’s habitual drug abuse and self-hatred. At the time, we were simply entranced by the song. We sat together, shoulder to shoulder, on our hand-me-down settee, glued to MTV and bouncing with the music. We had no idea what impact this broken man would eventually have on our own lives.
On April 8th, 1994, Kurt Cobain was found dead. High on heroin he had put a shotgun to the roof of his mouth and pulled the trigger. Simon mourned as if Kurt had been his father or brother. He cried harder and for longer than when his sister had passed away, a couple of years before.
Simon arranged a séance for the following weekend. Although I was usually sceptical of the paranormal, I felt a real sense of foreboding about it.
On Saturday at eight o’clock our friends started to arrive; three men, all members of a band that my husband played bass guitar for. He wore a black shirt and jeans, but Matt arrived in Cobain-style plaid pyjamas, with a black scarf tied around his arm. A bottle of red wine and a spliff were shared. Simon sipped his wine while he explained to us what would happen.
‘We’ll sit around the table, one on each side, with our hands laid flat, palms down. I’ll speak. I’m going to contact Kurt.’ Then he removed an elastic band from his wrist and solemnly tied back his long blonde hair. He looked around the room with such sincerity that I had to stifle my laughter.
I thought the guys looked incredulous, but if they did, Simon did not notice. He unfolded the sheet he was holding. On it he had drawn letters, numbers and the words yes and no, in a circle only slightly smaller than the table; a primitive Ouija board.
As everyone sat down, Simon asked me to bring in another wine glass. I could tell that my role that night would be one of observer. I didn’t know, at the time, that I would be playing that part for the remainder of our relationship.
I stood back and watched. The room was silent. Normally Simon’s friends were loud and sociable, but not tonight. We all thought he had gone mad.
Simon started talking; what he said didn’t make much sense. I have forgotten most of it. He asked to speak to Kurt Cobain. Nothing happened. Matt said something and was immediately shushed by Simon.
I watched for a while then wandered into the kitchen to make tea. I heard glass smash and rushed back in.
‘Did you see it?’ Simon raved.
‘Holy shit, how did that happen?’ yelled Dave.
‘Does it feel cold in here?’ asked Paul.
The wine glass was lying broken on the table, the bowl severed from the stem.
‘Get us another glass!’ Simon screamed at me. He slumped forward on the table.
‘Can you get some water, Pen?’ asked Matt, lifting his friend’s head. I just stood there not knowing what to think. Simon was smiling. He claimed Kurt Cobain had spoken to him.
‘I have to listen to the Melvins,’ he panted. ‘I have to write a song for Kurt.’
Our relationship started to feel surreal. I witnessed events as if I were looking through the wrong end of a telescope. Powders and pills seemed to breed in our refrigerator door. I would open the fridge for milk or food, and stare at the unidentified tablets. Shivering from the cold, I would grab what I needed, make the cups of tea or cook our dinner. The act of cooking or pouring would purge my memory and the drugs would be forgotten.
Alone in bed, with a duvet wrapped around me, I would listen to Simon laughing loudly through the early hours of the morning. On the occasions when he did come to bed, his body was an oppressive presence and I would lie awake wondering what might happen if I smothered him with my pillow.
The intimacy between us faded: a casualty of his drug abuse and strangeness. This worried Simon more than it did me. One night, at a club, he pulled a girl for us; her name was Alice. Alice looked like Courtney Love might have done if she had pillar-box red hair. When we got home Simon made us all drinks; he was agitated and excited. He put his Nevermind CD into our HiFi. We listened to the music together and talked for a short time, then, we all went to bed.
Simon wanted to have sex with Alice, but she told him, ‘I never have sex with men.’
He flung himself through the bedroom door and downstairs.
Alice’s body was new and exciting; her skin felt smooth against my own and her hair smelled like summer evenings. Alice whispered things which calmed and aroused me. I knew I should join Simon and I did, eventually.
That night, the three of us slept together, in the one double bed, chaste and angry at each other.
By the autumn of 1994, Simon was smoking grass every day. He lost all interest in his appearance, rarely even getting dressed. He became paranoid and started being cruel. On New Year’s Eve, 1995, he threatened to kill me. We had celebrated New Year at a restaurant in Somerset. I was driving and he was drinking. He drank heavily.
Midnight came and went. I wanted to leave but Simon wanted to stay. I threatened to drive home by myself, so he followed grudgingly. When we reached the car park, he shouted an insult at a couple. The man approached him and Simon looked ready to fight. I tried to calm the situation and apologised for Simon’s behaviour. The other couple quickly left.
‘For fuck’s sake, Penny,’ Simon growled. ‘Can’t you ever take my side?’ His eyes flashed with anger, but his body language showed defeat. We got into our car.
‘I’m going to kill you,’ he whispered, as I turned the ignition key. I tried to ignore him and drove along the tear-smudged roads, shaking. ‘I’m going to murder you in your sleep.’
Somehow we got home. As I ran up the stairs he called after me, ‘you’ll be dead by morning.’
I went to bed terrified. Simon stayed downstairs. I heard every movement he made. I lay in our bed with the same tightness of chest I had often experienced as a child: camphor burner in my room, my mother sitting with me, willing me to breathe. This time it wasn’t asthma, but fear, and a feeling of slow suffocation, stifling my airways. Eventually Simon stopped moving and I got to sleep, wondering whether I would be better off dead.
Our marriage wheezed on for over two years. I never considered leaving. I couldn’t cope with the idea of losing my house and returning to my parents, so I waited, allowing my emotions to hibernate. In the spring of 1996 we had separate holidays. Simon didn’t come back from his. He wrote a letter, giving me the house. It was a Pyrrhic victory.
I thought about all that had happened between Simon and myself. Did I love him enough? How did everything go so wrong? Perhaps like Dorian Gray’s portrait, Kurt was Simon’s inner reflection. The moment Cobain died all the emotional torment and insecurities transferred to Simon and festered and I did nothing to help him.
Kurt Cobain had complained about rock journalists and their “second-rate Freudian evaluation of [his] lyrics, when 90 percent of the time [they had] transcribed them incorrectly.” This period of my life remains hazy, even after pulling at and probing my memories. I am trying to understand what happened and yet, like those maligned rock journalists, I can never be certain that I have transcribed what was actually there or just what I think was there.
By Penny Spruce
If chaos theory states that a butterfly flapping its wings in Tokyo could cause tornadoes in California, is it a giant leap of faith to claim that the suicide of a rock star in Seattle caused my marriage to fall apart? Such is the effect of the unlikeliest catalysts.
I met Simon in 1989, in a smoke-filled Goth club where the dance floor was always full and the Snakebite and Black was cheap. When the club closed that night, Simon and I sat outside talking until dawn. Within three months we were engaged.
He frequently told me, ‘You are the only person who truly loves me.’ I thought it was a compliment.
Living together we relaxed. Free from our parents, we spent our weekends in bed playing video games. Our bodies side by side, surrounded by crisp packets and beer cans. Motionless except for our thumbs and minds, we travelled the world of Final Fantasy.
In 1991 Simon fell in love again. It was Sunday evening and we were watching MTV when angry guitars, a hammering drumbeat and those hypnotic lyrics “hello, hello, hello” growled through the mono speaker. Listening to Smells Like Teen Spirit for the first time gave Simon goose bumps; his pupils dilated and seemed focused not on but through the screen and the images of tattooed cheerleaders: he had discovered Nirvana.
We didn’t know anything about Kurt Cobain. We weren’t yet aware of his separation from his parents, which mirrored Simon’s own background in many ways; or the singer’s habitual drug abuse and self-hatred. At the time, we were simply entranced by the song. We sat together, shoulder to shoulder, on our hand-me-down settee, glued to MTV and bouncing with the music. We had no idea what impact this broken man would eventually have on our own lives.
On April 8th, 1994, Kurt Cobain was found dead. High on heroin he had put a shotgun to the roof of his mouth and pulled the trigger. Simon mourned as if Kurt had been his father or brother. He cried harder and for longer than when his sister had passed away, a couple of years before.
Simon arranged a séance for the following weekend. Although I was usually sceptical of the paranormal, I felt a real sense of foreboding about it.
On Saturday at eight o’clock our friends started to arrive; three men, all members of a band that my husband played bass guitar for. He wore a black shirt and jeans, but Matt arrived in Cobain-style plaid pyjamas, with a black scarf tied around his arm. A bottle of red wine and a spliff were shared. Simon sipped his wine while he explained to us what would happen.
‘We’ll sit around the table, one on each side, with our hands laid flat, palms down. I’ll speak. I’m going to contact Kurt.’ Then he removed an elastic band from his wrist and solemnly tied back his long blonde hair. He looked around the room with such sincerity that I had to stifle my laughter.
I thought the guys looked incredulous, but if they did, Simon did not notice. He unfolded the sheet he was holding. On it he had drawn letters, numbers and the words yes and no, in a circle only slightly smaller than the table; a primitive Ouija board.
As everyone sat down, Simon asked me to bring in another wine glass. I could tell that my role that night would be one of observer. I didn’t know, at the time, that I would be playing that part for the remainder of our relationship.
I stood back and watched. The room was silent. Normally Simon’s friends were loud and sociable, but not tonight. We all thought he had gone mad.
Simon started talking; what he said didn’t make much sense. I have forgotten most of it. He asked to speak to Kurt Cobain. Nothing happened. Matt said something and was immediately shushed by Simon.
I watched for a while then wandered into the kitchen to make tea. I heard glass smash and rushed back in.
‘Did you see it?’ Simon raved.
‘Holy shit, how did that happen?’ yelled Dave.
‘Does it feel cold in here?’ asked Paul.
The wine glass was lying broken on the table, the bowl severed from the stem.
‘Get us another glass!’ Simon screamed at me. He slumped forward on the table.
‘Can you get some water, Pen?’ asked Matt, lifting his friend’s head. I just stood there not knowing what to think. Simon was smiling. He claimed Kurt Cobain had spoken to him.
‘I have to listen to the Melvins,’ he panted. ‘I have to write a song for Kurt.’
Our relationship started to feel surreal. I witnessed events as if I were looking through the wrong end of a telescope. Powders and pills seemed to breed in our refrigerator door. I would open the fridge for milk or food, and stare at the unidentified tablets. Shivering from the cold, I would grab what I needed, make the cups of tea or cook our dinner. The act of cooking or pouring would purge my memory and the drugs would be forgotten.
Alone in bed, with a duvet wrapped around me, I would listen to Simon laughing loudly through the early hours of the morning. On the occasions when he did come to bed, his body was an oppressive presence and I would lie awake wondering what might happen if I smothered him with my pillow.
The intimacy between us faded: a casualty of his drug abuse and strangeness. This worried Simon more than it did me. One night, at a club, he pulled a girl for us; her name was Alice. Alice looked like Courtney Love might have done if she had pillar-box red hair. When we got home Simon made us all drinks; he was agitated and excited. He put his Nevermind CD into our HiFi. We listened to the music together and talked for a short time, then, we all went to bed.
Simon wanted to have sex with Alice, but she told him, ‘I never have sex with men.’
He flung himself through the bedroom door and downstairs.
Alice’s body was new and exciting; her skin felt smooth against my own and her hair smelled like summer evenings. Alice whispered things which calmed and aroused me. I knew I should join Simon and I did, eventually.
That night, the three of us slept together, in the one double bed, chaste and angry at each other.
By the autumn of 1994, Simon was smoking grass every day. He lost all interest in his appearance, rarely even getting dressed. He became paranoid and started being cruel. On New Year’s Eve, 1995, he threatened to kill me. We had celebrated New Year at a restaurant in Somerset. I was driving and he was drinking. He drank heavily.
Midnight came and went. I wanted to leave but Simon wanted to stay. I threatened to drive home by myself, so he followed grudgingly. When we reached the car park, he shouted an insult at a couple. The man approached him and Simon looked ready to fight. I tried to calm the situation and apologised for Simon’s behaviour. The other couple quickly left.
‘For fuck’s sake, Penny,’ Simon growled. ‘Can’t you ever take my side?’ His eyes flashed with anger, but his body language showed defeat. We got into our car.
‘I’m going to kill you,’ he whispered, as I turned the ignition key. I tried to ignore him and drove along the tear-smudged roads, shaking. ‘I’m going to murder you in your sleep.’
Somehow we got home. As I ran up the stairs he called after me, ‘you’ll be dead by morning.’
I went to bed terrified. Simon stayed downstairs. I heard every movement he made. I lay in our bed with the same tightness of chest I had often experienced as a child: camphor burner in my room, my mother sitting with me, willing me to breathe. This time it wasn’t asthma, but fear, and a feeling of slow suffocation, stifling my airways. Eventually Simon stopped moving and I got to sleep, wondering whether I would be better off dead.
Our marriage wheezed on for over two years. I never considered leaving. I couldn’t cope with the idea of losing my house and returning to my parents, so I waited, allowing my emotions to hibernate. In the spring of 1996 we had separate holidays. Simon didn’t come back from his. He wrote a letter, giving me the house. It was a Pyrrhic victory.
I thought about all that had happened between Simon and myself. Did I love him enough? How did everything go so wrong? Perhaps like Dorian Gray’s portrait, Kurt was Simon’s inner reflection. The moment Cobain died all the emotional torment and insecurities transferred to Simon and festered and I did nothing to help him.
Kurt Cobain had complained about rock journalists and their “second-rate Freudian evaluation of [his] lyrics, when 90 percent of the time [they had] transcribed them incorrectly.” This period of my life remains hazy, even after pulling at and probing my memories. I am trying to understand what happened and yet, like those maligned rock journalists, I can never be certain that I have transcribed what was actually there or just what I think was there.
Sunday, 22 February 2009
Stream of Consciousness
Held deep in the midnight womb of the mountain,
Sucking nutrients from sedimentary rocks,
Born from a violent pulsing fountain,
Spluttering pure waters, blind from the dark,
Guided gently by the banks’ embrace,
She crawls over pebbles, babbling and bubbling
After months of silence, finding her voice,
Her upturned face admires, reflecting
Sky, cloud and sun in hurried fragments,
Her slippery tongue tastes everything.
Stretching her legs, she widens her stride,
Covering ground with remarkable speed,
Tugs at finger-like roots at her edges,
Pulling yet holding, scared to be free,
Gathering debris, soft trinkets for her bed,
Absorbs what she can with insatiable greed.
Churning and hissing, her anger apparent,
Gathering cohorts she later rejects,
Dispelling them coldly in furious passions,
Forcing her way in nihilistic excess,
Reckless torrents spearhead new channels
To unknown destinies, lost she plummets.
Gentle now, gathering partners to her side,
Wider she dances in curves a plenty,
Rising fertility swells over fields,
Pike, perch and grayling swim in her belly,
Her mossy flanks alive with dragonflies,
Water abundant with life, so peaceful.
Shallow waters not fresh but briny,
Banks of sand with knife-blade grasses,
Slowly towards the misty firth she slides
While life on its journey, through her, passes,
To return to places, long past, she strives
But the surge behind, her progress, hampers,
Resignedly she joins the sea, the moon
Her new guide reveals the world, a tear
Of raindrops, snowflakes, used fluids;
All souls lost or slumbering drift in her,
Through life and death, eroding currents sweep,
To and fro she rocks the world to sleep.
Sucking nutrients from sedimentary rocks,
Born from a violent pulsing fountain,
Spluttering pure waters, blind from the dark,
Guided gently by the banks’ embrace,
She crawls over pebbles, babbling and bubbling
After months of silence, finding her voice,
Her upturned face admires, reflecting
Sky, cloud and sun in hurried fragments,
Her slippery tongue tastes everything.
Stretching her legs, she widens her stride,
Covering ground with remarkable speed,
Tugs at finger-like roots at her edges,
Pulling yet holding, scared to be free,
Gathering debris, soft trinkets for her bed,
Absorbs what she can with insatiable greed.
Churning and hissing, her anger apparent,
Gathering cohorts she later rejects,
Dispelling them coldly in furious passions,
Forcing her way in nihilistic excess,
Reckless torrents spearhead new channels
To unknown destinies, lost she plummets.
Gentle now, gathering partners to her side,
Wider she dances in curves a plenty,
Rising fertility swells over fields,
Pike, perch and grayling swim in her belly,
Her mossy flanks alive with dragonflies,
Water abundant with life, so peaceful.
Shallow waters not fresh but briny,
Banks of sand with knife-blade grasses,
Slowly towards the misty firth she slides
While life on its journey, through her, passes,
To return to places, long past, she strives
But the surge behind, her progress, hampers,
Resignedly she joins the sea, the moon
Her new guide reveals the world, a tear
Of raindrops, snowflakes, used fluids;
All souls lost or slumbering drift in her,
Through life and death, eroding currents sweep,
To and fro she rocks the world to sleep.
Friday, 6 February 2009
To be seen
Faces in the curtain folds and posters on the wall
And a full-length mirror bolted to the chimney breast:
A mute audience reflecting my awkward adolescence,
Charming, judging faces, eyes all dark and cruel.
I undress slowly, as if I am watched by them all.
Sometimes I feel playful, teasing, testing
Other times I am shy, unwilling, hiding
Under layers of covers, in bed alone and small.
But why do I not tear those pictures down
The haunting posters of beautiful people?
Is it really better to be tormented than alone?
Do I need to be watched to feel substantial?
Like an actor on a stage, to be seen is to exist
I cannot disappear if I subject myself to this.
And a full-length mirror bolted to the chimney breast:
A mute audience reflecting my awkward adolescence,
Charming, judging faces, eyes all dark and cruel.
I undress slowly, as if I am watched by them all.
Sometimes I feel playful, teasing, testing
Other times I am shy, unwilling, hiding
Under layers of covers, in bed alone and small.
But why do I not tear those pictures down
The haunting posters of beautiful people?
Is it really better to be tormented than alone?
Do I need to be watched to feel substantial?
Like an actor on a stage, to be seen is to exist
I cannot disappear if I subject myself to this.
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
Metro
Metro
Sixty feet under lies concrete in holes.
Stiffened lacework exposing a skeleton:
The rusted frame of girders beyond,
Rotting arteries clogged with cholesterol.
Entombed in history, grime of a century,
Pumping life through the city's veins.
Where MPs and bankers jostle with vagrants,
Bodies pressed close whilst spirits drift free.
Tribal allegiances all but forgotten,
Averted eyes see neither foe nor friend.
Breaths like whispers of death from a tomb,
Ghosts burrow deep through fluorescent gloom.
I wrote this during my recent trip to London.
Sixty feet under lies concrete in holes.
Stiffened lacework exposing a skeleton:
The rusted frame of girders beyond,
Rotting arteries clogged with cholesterol.
Entombed in history, grime of a century,
Pumping life through the city's veins.
Where MPs and bankers jostle with vagrants,
Bodies pressed close whilst spirits drift free.
Tribal allegiances all but forgotten,
Averted eyes see neither foe nor friend.
Breaths like whispers of death from a tomb,
Ghosts burrow deep through fluorescent gloom.
I wrote this during my recent trip to London.
Thursday, 15 January 2009
To the Ocean
Let me watch your gentle waves as they wet the sand.
Your foaming surf is glistening silver in sunlight.
As you wash the shore so you wear away all the traces
Of debris: old driftwood, rubbish you dropped here before.
What you have given regained, then given once more.
Softly kissing your cold under-current
My spirit escapes and swims in your shoals.
No liberty compares to leaving the land;
All worries are forgotten, washed clean by your waters.
Let me drown in your calming depths, be your unborn daughter.
Reach For Me
You reach for me; your large hands grasp
Through jersey layers at the body
Grown large, fuller with motherhood.
But that fire once kindled deep
Inside my stomach no longer
Smoulders. Extinguished like my sense
Of self. Now doting on daughters
Not lovers.
We talk of romance: candlelit
Fragrant massages; yet never
Have time, nor energy to break
Our routine.
Instead we languish, watch TV
With beer, chocolates, nostalgia.
Matching loungers with their edges
Rounded off.
The Coral Mother
Beautiful yet fragile
Touch her and she withers.
Look from a distance and
She bustles, full of life.
Giving shelter to all:
Rich feasts, vibrant colours.
She is always busy
Yet always looks perfect.
Touch her and she withers.
First Love Lost
I thought you were in love
Your emerald eyes lied;
I spilt those drops of blood
On sheets like bandages
To bind us together.
No love I got from you
But purer desire.
Now you've gone, you left me
With my grief, tears and shame
And the loss of a dream.
I glimpse your lovely face
Across a crowded room
When I break through you're gone.
I cannot cling to you;
You slide through my fingers.
The Piano
I wrote this for an OU assignment in October 2008.
The Piano
My sister Caroline and I always spent Christmas Eve at Nana and Papa’s house. I remember one Christmas, I was probably eight or nine years old and Caroline would have been five or six, we were making Christmas decorations from sour tasting gummed strips of coloured paper. Both Caroline and I were busy at this task, I was sat on my Papa’s knee and Caroline curled up against his legs. In the warm glow of the electric fire we industriously produced decorations with which we would trim our attic bedroom, later that night. We gorged ourselves on the sweet smells of oranges mixed with freshly baked biscuits and pine-needles heated by coloured fairy lights. We felt warm and safe and loved, snuggled up with our beloved Papa.
Nana sat, her unfinished embroidery upon her lap, relaxed in a large russet armchair at the opposite end of the room. She seemed completely at ease as she closed herself off from the noise and excited chatter of the room.
I put my festive work to one side with a loud rustle and left the room. The hallway was dim and quiet. Six doors ran off from the long hall, the door to the warm living room I had just left, the kitchen door to my left, the front door ahead and three doors to my right. I turned right and walked with springy steps across the soft hall carpet. To my left now the bathroom, to my right Nana and Papa’s bedroom and ahead, the music room. Checking behind me I slowly pushed the music room door. It made a soft groan of protest at being wakened from its inertia, but relented and opened. The frosty air of the room enveloped me and goose pimples rose on my flesh to meet it.
There, in front of me, was Nana’s piano. It was a beautifully polished, mahogany, upright piano; a piano which I was unable to play but of which, nevertheless, I was in complete awe. The piano towered over me, intimidating in its dark, polished bulk. It exhaled the sweet promise of music and the stale must of age. I touched its glossy side with a quivering finger tip, it felt hard yet silken. A thrill of excitement shook me, it darted through my veins and nerve endings, from my outstretched finger, along my arm and across my narrow shoulders until my neck prickled and my ears felt aflame. The untouchable, unplayable piano seduced me with its cool indifference. I felt if only I could play it my life would be perfect. I quietly opened the hinged piano seat with its scratchy and faded beige tapestry covering. Inside were dozens of music books and sheets with a multitude of dots leaping and dipping across the pages. I felt like a musical note rising and crashing across the waves of sound. I felt the soft yet deep melody of the hauntingly beautiful piano echo through my trembling body. In an instant I felt saddened and exhausted by my inability either to create the music or to touch my Nana’s soul, which I suddenly felt certain was trapped somewhere within this perfect piano, so cold and hard and beautiful were they both.
I placed the sheet music back inside the seat and quietly closed it once more. I was so spellbound by the silent, dark piano that I felt unable to return to the comforting warmth of the living room. I loved its mystery and desperately wanted to caress its yielding keys but I had never learnt and I didn’t feel able to break the silence with my discordant notes. The silent piano watched me, its closed mouth, full of cream and black teeth, seemed to wear a self-satisfied smile. The metronome above held its bony finger aloft in warning. Serene on the surface though the piano seemed, it was full of secrets within. Maybe they were secrets which should not be revealed to me, not tonight anyway.
I returned reluctantly to the warm glow of the living room. My Papa was now asleep and my sister sat, smiling, in his lap, in the amber light. As I gathered up my half finished decorations I sat on the carpet next to Papa’s slender legs and I looked across the room at Nana. She was clicking rhythmically, weaving together white threads into a complicated looking embroidery sample, her face hard in concentration, her back straight and tall. I sighed, perhaps in resignation. This woman was as hidden to me as the mysterious notes in the piano stool. I was fascinated by both yet understood neither. I felt inferior to their polished beauties and reflective depths.
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