No Imagination - right on time

Its around here somewhere. It’s here somewhere. Just need to find it. It was here a while back. Need to remember where… How does it feel? How does it feel? To be on your own? With no direction home? Like a complete unknown? Like a rolling stone? Nothing happening. Let the mind go free. Go free? Reminds me; I was looking for that.
- Looking for Godot? It is free: The mind.
It’s waiting.
- Waiting?
Yes. Its ‘Waiting’ for Godot. Not looking.
- I know. I was using irony.
Where did this start? It must have had a beginning. - Once upon a time? No, that wasn’t it; Before that….
- What!? You want the whole thing? No way! You just pay attention to the Here and Now.
But it is so dull. Nothing happens here. It is …dull.
- Wait and learn. Listen to what there is to learn. Await further instruction. This message is bought to you from our sponser...
Dull I tell you.
- In my day we had to make our own amusements.
?
- A matchbox and a piece of string was all we needed.
? …Wha…?
- Put things in. Always need somewhere to put those beetles and bugs. String is simply string; tying is of course the usual option with string. But I always had a preference for tripping.
?
- double-entendre intentional.
Yeees. What was I looking for?
- Hope? Inspiration? Oh no, I know – Freedom.
Yes. That was it. It was here wasn’t it? It wasn’t just my imagination?
- Your imagin…! No dear thing, it certainly would not have been that. Your neurosis..? mmm, maybe. Albeit a freely associated neurosis.
Free. There it is again.. Free association.
- Armadillo
Ah! I know this. Ummm, errr,
- You haven’t quite grasped it have you? Try this : How many Surrealists does it take to change a light bulb? Answer : Badger
I hear that damn tune again.
- It has been on a lot lately. Goes on a bit doesn’t it?
It IS good though. Just listen to those words…
- I may be a tad over enthusiastic but not only listen but perhaps opening the eyes as well. Drastic, I know, but go ahead, open ‘em. You never know what might be out there….
“This time I’m asking for freedom” I would want to ask him about how he puts words togethere and
- Just open them dammit!!!

Running on empty - 6

Since retiring Steve had tried hard to keep himself active and the dog had helped. He also liked a routine, a short spell in the Army had given him that as a legacy. Sundays for instance, he liked to wander across to his favourite takeaway – Smiths Fish & Chips. Danny was a large, almost black alsatian and he appreciated the fish that his owner fed him bit by bit on the way home.
With both pieces of fish eaten, he eschewed the chips, Steve crossed the road to deposit the wrapping only to find that the waste-bin had gone. This upset the routine because the nearest bin he knew of was over by the triangle. With a shrug he gave Danny a tug on the lead and set off.
At least it would gave a chance to see how the garden was developing. He had kept an eye on things from the outset. It was pleasing to see a bit of ground get a bit of life put back into it. Also, the girl who was overseeing the creation and who lived in the caravan might be there to chat. When, through talking, she had learned that he too liked gardening, she questioned him mercilessly about what shrubs he grew. - It turned out that they both favoured the Native species over some of the delightful yet showy cultivars. Roses, of course, being excepted.
Danny could have a runabout whilst they were there and they could take the canal path to get back to on the original route and complete a good walk.
As the evening was a pleasant one he decided that while the dog had his run he could sit and roll a smoke. Danny ran across to the far wall to cock his leg and Steve made himself comfortable on one of the new seats and assembled a cigarette.
The ‘grey-area’ had certainly changed. He mused on the amount of change, admiring the new seats cleverly cut from solid logs from trees that had fallen in last winters storms. The sturdy pergola that followed the curling path now had wisteria growing up one of the supports. From the other end a rose had been twisted around another support and some way across the top and had been donated in its entirety from a house due for demolition. He had heard the tale of how she had begged the owner to let her dig it up (along with a couple of other plants), and replant it. The length of the climber gave thought as to how she had got the damn thing here! Pathways curled and twisted hither and yon. Shrubs dotted all over, some in groups others alone in isolated beds that were freshly dug.
Before he could put a light to the constructed cigarette Danny alerted him to something amiss - the timbre of his bark changed when trouble was at hand. He ran across to the caravan where Danny stood barking.

When she came-to, she could not quite make out where she was, the ceiling swirled, her head ached and she felt sore and cold and she had vomited.
The muffled staccato sound in her ears was something that she thought was coming from within and she struggled with the conflict of information and then lost out to the void once again.
A few moments of darkness then; Hands moved and straightened her, lowering her to the floor. Eyes stared into hers. A dog barked. Her limbs were sorted into a comfortable position. Words were spoken. Mobile phones were used. Other people came and then she was carried and doors slammed and movement and then more people. Corridors. White lights shining bright even through closed eyes. Voices. Darkness. Humming from machines. Light again. Movement and confusion. Voices and then a sharp pain and oblivion.

Running on empty - 5

In retrospect it seemed that the summer had skimmed by with hardly a pause in its endless rush to meet with autumn, now just a breath away.

It had felt a little awkward the first time she had attended the Sunday Service, but she had been welcomed as an equal from (almost) all. After a few weeks had passed she came to look on it as a couple of hours of meditation. A time when she could relax and be herself in the knowledge that these people were not about to turn on her.
Special services came and went and each showed up another facet of the Church as Community. Which seemed right; after all, the mere fact of ‘communing’ with God, gives community a true meaning. She got to know the members and was pleased to accept many of the invitations to pop round for tea - or coffee, or dinner, or just to cut the grass. Best of all she got to hear about peoples Lives and how they had lived them. For her own life she always felt ashamed and did not reciprocate in the exchange.
After a while she switched to the evening service. She found it even more friendly because of the – coffee-round-someone’s-home-for-the-evening; an informal, entertaining round-off to the weekend. Weekends being something of a novelty, she was used to just ‘days’.
It was just a gathering of people at a loose end on a Sunday after church. Most weeks it seemed to fall on Mike Preston and his wife, mainly because they had a big house and, as yet, no children. Other times they went out on a drive. Cecil had a van that could house about six if they sat really tight, and sometimes Paul, who had a good business hiring-out his 12-seater would be available to ferry people out into the country for an evening stroll. Maybe down to the Thames for a bankside walk in the setting sun. Maybe just to the local park to wander through the trees and amble past the old Lodge and admire the history.
Nine of the attendants at the evenings gathering had driven up to the West of town and climbed up the steep incline to the top of the hill. Breathless they had paused beside the church to watch the slowly sinking sun. Some had wandered through the ancient graveyard reading the dates and wondering. Some had flopped onto the grass and let the air wash over them.
It had been a lovely time. The conversation had waxed and waned as they walked, time had flown and all to soon it was time to go home. Goodnights had been said and she had found herself back in her little sanctuary.
It was one of those days when the night seemed to hang forever in the wings but never quite get on-stage, when all was quiet. She layed out on the roof of the caravan and contemplated the weeks work ahead, when she heard a sound and turned her head.
Her mood evaporated as she looked down on Trevor, he waved back and said he was just passing and would she care for a drink; he had a bottle. He held it aloft so she could see.
She had not sought his company at all but he had seemed to be there at every turn. Always beaming in that disarming way he had. Able to foresee a need and be there to forestall it.
He it was who had caught the branch that was about to swing back into her face. He was there when they had climbed over the stile to shorten the route back and had offered a hand, opened doors for her. Had been first out to say goodbye when they had stopped outside the plot to drop her off.
He was a little unsteady. She slid down the roof and joined him, invited him in. She shared the whiskey he had brought. She listened to his 23 year history and found it dull. That he was unused to drink is not in doubt. He moved about a lot, fidgeting and looking around a lot, and staring at her. His voice was louder and he tried to hold a stern countenance but his vocal chords could not do it and he showed himself up. She tried to placate him and leant across the table at which they sat, to touch his arm reassuringly. Secretly hoping that he might be embarrassed enough to go. There was something a bit creepy.. .
It began to get late and she made clearing-up movements. Tidying magazines and washing up, looking at her watch. The whiskey took a hold and his face flushed.
As spoke she bit her lip, realising the double-meaning: ‘I’m ready for bed.’ She said.
He needed no second bidding. He leapt out of his chair and lunged toward her. He fell short, she backed away and that was a mistake.
The snarl that appeared on his face was startling and she backed away. He came at her and without pause grabbed her waist and twisted her onto the couch/bed. As she fell her head caught the wooden end of the cupboard a crashing blow. Such was the force of his throw she fell into unconsciousness instantly.

Continued….

Wilf

Wilf liked fishing. He liked caravans too. He had a host of, err, (interests). If you did not know it upon meeting him, he would tell you within the first thirty seconds, or less. He was like that. Tell you his life-history at the drop of a hat. Indeed it would be true to say that he did not really the need the hat-dropping at all, he would tell you regardless.
My first ten minutes into the new job may well be the most traumatic event in my life…, ever.
Order of Rank – The Head Porter held sway, He had a deputy, appropriately called Deputy Head Porter (this position being held by Wilf); On down the food chain came Senior Porters (all five) and immediately below them came The Porters (many and varied. Encompasses Departments and Areas). - Strictly, on a rung several below the lowly porter, there lurks a ‘Kitchen Porter, but no-one has spoken to one of them in years and rumours of their existence may be stretched.)
Day one – Man down due to flu. Into the breach steps Wilf. New recruit just starting (me) and unto Wilf behoves the role of Teacher of the job. The man was born to this moment.…
Within two minutes I learned of his passion for fishing. I also knew that he had been married (and divorced, twice) had sons, lived alone, went on holidays to fish and had experienced THE MOST heaviest downpour in the whole history of rain. As the shift went on I came to learn much more.
I also learned another thing about him. He knew what to do, he just didn’t do it. He could spend five minutes telling you why he was asking you to do an urgent job when it would have taken only two to do it. He would tell you what he would do if, when you shifted a tray of cups onto the trolley, he was doing it; But he never did it.
I placed trays onto trolleys. I pushed the first one into the lift and dragged the second because as Wilf had pointed out if I pushed it in I would be at the wrong end of the lift to reach the control. I pulled out the first at the appropriate floor and hauled it, under careful guidance from Wilf, and delivered to a spot on the Ward that was verified and scrutinised by Wilf. I returned for the other trolley and delivered it to the Ward on the other side of the building. A job that perhaps in the interest of Patients awaiting their breakfast could have been done at the same time as I had….? Silly of me to contemplate. If he had done that, he could not have mentioned the fact that I had forgotten to stop by the kitchen and lift off the tray of cups so we would have to return and retrieve them because if he had mentioned it beforehand, I might still forget, this way a sharp lesson was learned and I would remember in future to stop at the kitchen…
The same method was used when it came time to collect the rubbish sacks from the wards, something else I needed to learn was the, (don’t forget to put the laundry bags down the chute on the way round) lesson. It went on and on, lessons learned the hard way and talking amiably along the way. Talk is what he did. He got paid for it. In fact, I pay taxes therefore I pay his wages…?
The canteen became a frequent area in which to inform me of further episodes of his life. We stopped by there every time we went off to do another job. The bleep would sound and Wilf, who had charge of the instrument, would answer it and relay the call to me and then we would find ourselves back in the canteen. I bought yet more tea and learned that he had short arms and deep pockets. The other thing is that I came to realise that I just could not believe a word he said about himself. I know for a fact that my co-workers at the time would say the same.
As stories go Wilfs was not a happy one. He always maintained a smiling, slightly fawning, nature when talking at people. (And At is right word, he only ever talked AT you.)
He had led a wide life. Born in Wales and often returns there to spend time in his caravan, fishing from the stream which never fails to flood and endanger the van every year. Tragedy had befallen him early in married life when his son was lost by falling from a cliff where their caravan was parked. He had been in the RAF and had flown as a sort of all-round pilot/navigator/bomb-aimer/gunner and repairer of broken engines under fire, type. The Royal Air Force had lost a good ‘un when they let him go. His Wing Commander had come out specially to see him off and wipe away a tear as he told of how much the service would miss him. Tragedy had struck again when his wife had committed suicide and his second wife had moved in within the week. If he caught a good sized salmon he brought it back with him and presented it to ITU who would auction it off to raise funds for the Unit. He would pack it ice straight from the river. He got a plastic bag of ice cubes every morning from the Hotel down the river about three miles and would haul it back up to his preferred site. A stupid Pilot had nearly caused his death by veering suddenly and causing Wilf to fall over and halfway through a hatch which was open in the floor of the aircraft and headlong he had tumbled, managing only to save himself by jamming his boots in the webbing that held down a crate. His fellow crew had hauled him back from the brink. Why hatch open? Who knows? The divorce was long and bitter, his second wife accusing him of violence (something he vehemently denies, and the red glow in his eyes is only imagined), and an acrimonious end is ongoing. The remaining son does not speak to him but they see each other on a regular basis, once a year when Wilf hands over a cheque for five hundred pounds. The ones that got away held a particular interest for him because he liked to describe them in detail. One fish has been eluding his line for years. It knows him now, but one day he will have it. It is a canny old fish and has been a challenge that Wilf has risen to. It does no good to point out that a salmon lives an average of five years, Wilf has been on his mission for twelve. He has had ailments. The latest of which is a recurrence of one he had about three years ago. It had swollen horribly and would I (the answer here is NOOOO!) like to see it?
And he showed me.
And I ran…
I ran out of the canteen, where he had lifted his leg and described how the only way for him to see it was to sit (in his undies) and use a mirror to reflect the glorious coloured infectious lump, and through the doors and on into the courtyard beyond and there I paused for a moment; I took a deep breath, and I screamed.
I get nods of sympathy from the rest of the crew. They look at me with pity in their eyes and acknowledge that I had become a true Porter.

Running on empty - 4

And come they did. For a while.
Two office blocks had taken up almost a third of the available space that had been left since the demise of the furniture factories.

The small, age-old chair manufacturers had made this part their own. Wood was cut from the nearby hills and in the woods they turned out furniture. The original Bodgers.
Year upon year the factories had grown, merging and growing in stature, they became giant houses of brick to house the new machines that could take a piece of wood and shape it by lathe or drill to exact dimensions on a scale that befuddled the brain. They could produce more chairs than there are people to sit on them in next to no-time. Far faster than a man on a foot-powered lathe in the woods. Household names arose, International recognition. Then it became cheaper to produce the furniture in far off lands, whose forests they now plundered, and where there was space to put them and there is cheap labour.

She lowered herself down the rope another notch. Up here was a good view and she paused once more to look. What she saw was the railway and canal swapping aspects.

The canal continued straight through from left to right and disappeared behind the hills that rose to the west while the railway drove over the water then curled away east and then south, away across the town proper and on through the valley toward the big City. If she had hauled herself back up to the roof she now hung from, she would be able to see the northern end of the valley; the fields that stretched outward and the woods and copses that scattered the land. In the meantime another giant-sized vine-eye awaited a home.
The site below was a hive of activity. A workforce armed with hammers and picks and spades and forks worked the soil and drove in stakes and raked out pathways. Her chosen role was to tackle the wall.
A feature that had been ignored on the plans, but such a gigantic feature could not be left to simply become a mere backdrop. It needed more attention. So it was that a cunning plan had been hatched by the very person hanging from the roof - drilling holes and inserting plugs and screwing in eyelets from which she would later string wires.

Beyond all the frenetic activity at the site she still had odd feelings about it all. The whole thing was somewhat surreal. Used to more mundane things like survival, she had adapted with some shyness.
Adoption had not been on her agenda but that is what seemed to be happening. She had been adopted by the Church.
Something was needed that was for sure. How long could a life of debauchery go on? The overwhelming feeling that had been given was one of forgiveness for sins. Which was odd; It was true that sometimes she despised herself but she had never approached anything without a healthy degree of suspicion: But Sin? She wasn't sure about any of that.
So, in essence the Way of the Christian was as blind as that of the heathen – they both put faith into something outside themselves.
Simple when it is reduced to words. The academic treatise on the nature of Man.
But inside her soul, that very piece of her that these Christians wished to plunder, deep, deep in there she held out a respect for Anyone(thing) who could knowingly lay down a Life to the Greater (foreseen) Good. That was impressive.
The downside was how it made her feel inside. She did NOT want to confront those horrors thank you. The deeds she had done, sights seen and life lived gave pause for thought. They send a shudder through a frame that tries to withstand the pressures of living day to day and taking opportunity first. A world where Love is an alien concept but something that is sought after but remained unspoken as tho’ by agreement.
Inside of course she felt like sh*t!
Inside it was awful.
A sense of WORTH was being instilled where a sense of shame had previously reigned.
Not liking the contradiction that her own mind gave her she had begun to worry about things. Far more used to trying to bury memories and deeds she found difficulty in shaking off the strands of a chance to hand them over to some(one/thing) else. Awesome was not even close.
So the Word hit home and days were spent in close examination of faults and of possible repair.
Look inside to find the face.
Each day bringing new things, new people, new ideas. She began to absorb the fraternity. Began to experience the ‘joining of minds’ set aside for these disparate folk. Each of whom had a story to tell.
The mind was in turmoil. These lovely people had led lives of family and of care and love, they could not relate to a lowly, wretched slut such as her…

Being proved wrong can be a revelation...

...continued

Running on empty - 3

Moving day came and went in a blur of Purpose. No time to stop and think, only time to do.
And when the caravan had been put on-site and plans had been presented, days spent rushing from here to there to visit Architects and Planners and men in suits that shook her hand and looked at the lowly with scorn in their eyes and she had wanted to get out of those places and back to more familiar territory, but the days had worn on with further meetings and breathless introductions and she felt the whole world must now know who she was and didn’t like it at all and still they kept coming – details, attention to detail, give us what we want to know, let us Help you….. – at the end of those awful days, one glorious evening when the sun had hung in the air all day but had resisted the urge to set until now and was dipping below the bridge so the shadows of the girders were projected onto the wall of the factory; she sat cross-legged on the roof of the tiny hut and regarded the area of land which had been entrusted to her.
The caravan looked tiny against the backdrop of the vast wall. She eyed the habitat with suspicion. It represented a far more ‘permanent’ feature than she was used to. The word itself was almost anathema. During the rest of the evening and into the darkness she played with the idea of Permanent, watching as the shadows raced up the wall.

The months passed quickly due to busy-hands. The plans as shown for the garden were simple and consisted of a lot of concrete paths that swirled around a central seating area. The rest of the space was filled with groups of trees. When finished it would have looked fine in any shopping mall anywhere in the world, but for here it was just – wrong. She went back to Arthur and demanded a few answers….
She discovered that some things are open to interpretaion. Some things can be negotiated. She learned that ‘People’, are not always right. And she found a little bit about what Love is in its many aspects.
In lifes’ inimitable way she discovered many other things as well, not least among them was the power of Worth.
With the passing of the seasons came other lessons – Nature is fickle.

The caravan had presented problems to her from the start. As the weeks went by it became an issue. At first she had been thrilled by the idea. A roof to call home. Then the doubts had set in – what is Home anyway? What do I need a Home for? Will I be able to run across town or even to the next city with it?... Isn’t a Home made up of more than one? How do I make a Home?
When the evenings grew darker the temperature took an early tumble and cold swept through the hut, still she slept in the hut and not the caravan, despite the oppulence of a sealed roof and a door that closes to keep out draughts. Other than use it as a kitchen she had loftily ignored its presence. She wanted to maintain that Hard-edged lifestyle to which she had become accustomed. She was, she thought, invulnerable to any further hardship than had already befallen her throughout her life, The simple truth being that she was caught in the trap of wanting something more than her pride would let her, but she pushed that thought away. Pride was NOT an option.

Years in the planning, months of arguments over the design, weeks spent over settlement over the cost (cheaper to do without concrete, better to let the land find it’s own paths.)
It was wild. Much use was made of wild flowers and grasses. A little judicious weeding would be required, much as a meadow should be mowed; Trees had been included because trees are needed. Besides, trees are good to look at, especially if lots of seating for the wayfareing folk to sit and gaze upon them is included. Water was provided by the canal, no need of water-features. Let the framing of the canal through arched panels provide the views. Let the railway take its place with its wild flowers showering the banked earth just before the bridge. Let the factory provide the shelter for fruit trees along the base and climbers to ease and shuffle their way upward and outward to smother the vast expanse of brick and provide a fitting green setting to this lost oasis in the midst of desolation…. And let the people come.

The Secret People

Every now and then somethings catches the eye. This did it for me.

I like pomes.

The Secret People.

Smile at us, pay us, pass us; but do not quite forget,

For we are the people of England, that never has spoken yet.

There is many a fat farmer that drinks less cheerfully,

There is many a free French peasant who is richer and sadder than we.

There are no folk in the whole world so helpless or so wise.

There is hunger in our bellies, there is laughter in our eyes;

You laugh at us and love us, both mugs and eyes are wet:

Only you do not know us. For we have not spoken yet.

The fine French kings came over in a flutter of flags and dames.

We liked their smiles and battles, but we never could say their names.

The blood ran red to Bosworth and the high French lords went down;

There was naught but a naked people under a naked crown.

And the eyes of the King's Servants turned terribly every way,

And the gold of the King's Servants rose higher every day.

They burnt the homes of the shaven men, that had been quaint and kind,

Till there was no bed in a monk's house, nor food that man could find.

The inns of God where no man paid, that were the wall of the weak,

The King's Servants ate them all. And still we did not speak.

And the face of the King's Servants grew greater than the King:

He tricked them, and they trapped him, and stood round him in a ring.

The new grave lords closed round him, that had eaten the abbey's fruits,

And the men of the new religion, with their Bibles in their boots,

We saw their shoulders moving, to menace or discuss,

And some were pure and some were vile; but none took heed of us.

We saw the King as they killed him, and his face was proud and pale;

And a few men talked of freedom, while England talked of ale.

A war that we understood not came over the world and woke

Americans, Frenchmen, Irish; but we knew not the things they spoke.

They talked about rights and nature and peace and the people's reign:

And the squires, our masters, bade us fight; and never scorned us again.

Weak if we be for ever, could none condemn us then;

Men called us serfs and drudges; men knew that we were men.

In foam and flame at Trafalgar, on Albuera plains,

We did and died like lions, to keep ourselves in chains,

We lay in living ruins; firing and fearing not

The strange fierce face of the Frenchman who knew for what he fought,

And the man who seemed to be more than man we strained against and broke;

And we broke our own rights with him. And still we never spoke.

Our path of glory ended; we never heard guns again.

But the squire seemed struck in the saddle; he was foolish, as if in pain.

He leaned on a staggering lawyer, he clutched a cringing Jew,

He was stricken; it may be, after all, he was stricken at Waterloo.

Or perhaps the shades of the shaven men, whose spoil is in his house,

Come back in shining shapes at last to spoil his last carouse:

We only know the last sad squires ride slowly towards the sea,

And a new people takes the land: and still it is not we.

They have given us into the hands of the new unhappy lords,

Lords without anger and honour, who dare not carry their swords.

They fight by shuffling papers; they have bright dead alien eyes;

They look at our labour and laughter as a tired man looks at flies.

And the load of their loveless pity is worse than the ancient wrongs,

Their doors are shut in the evenings; and they know no songs.

We hear men speaking for us of new laws strong and sweet,

Yet is there no man speaketh as we speak in the street.

It may be we shall rise the last as Frenchmen rose the first,

Our wrath come after Russia's wrath and our wrath be the worst.

It may be we are meant to mark with our riot and our rest

God's scorn for all men governing. It may be beer is best.

But we are the people of England; and we have not spoken yet.

Smile at us, pay us, pass us. But do not quite forget.

G.K. CHESTERTON