Logs, branches

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Logs, branches

 

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Thread

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Thread

 

I woke up with a thread attached to my toe.

By golly, what's this? 

A white line went from my toe, down across the floor, round the corner, twisting past the leg of an occasional table then along the corridor to the dark entrance hall and under the front door.

 I was in the t-shirt and shorts I use to sleep. I opened my front door gingerly. No-one about.  I pursued, floor smoothly cold on my feet. Down the steps. Under the main door: I opened it, peering into the street. I couldn't see where it led.  Should I go out like this? There didn't seem to be anyone about.  But it's London. No one cares what you wear. 

Different cold roughnesses: flagstones, then the texture of tarmac more insistent on my soles. I traced the thread as it skipped over the road past the corner store. A light breeze whipped  through my t-shirt and shorts. But...few cars. I got across the road to the grassy area where the bus stop is, and a lady in a raincoat waited and the giant chestnut tree towered behind. I followed the thread with my fingers: it clung to the bark, moving upwards. No low branches: I couldn't climb.  The thread disappeared into a maze above.

What the hell.

When your day begins like that you can easily become irritable: I decided not to. That's my philosophy, you see, bend like the willow. I wasn't going to follow that thread any further.

On return, I put water into the lower section of a metal thing that looks like a terrorist device and spooned coffee into a metal funnel which fitted into it. I screwed on an upper section with a lid and a spout and put it on the stove. Then...

Coffee! Yum yum! I set it down on the table next to the laptop and put some biscuits with the word:

 

 N I C E 

 

on them on a butter coloured saucer and opened the laptop and waited and the article I needed appeared. 

 

Durability Assessment of Vacuum Cleaners, 2015. 

 

I was part of V.E.M. Engineering's Strategy Team for Vacuum Cleaner Motors and Suction Mechanisms. 

Looking down to the saucer, I mused, nowadays not one eats these sort of biscuits any more except me. I'd once asked the guy in the shop downstairs about this. He'd replied, "It's true.  You are the only person in north London who buys these. I've never had one. Are they any good?"

"But why do you stock them?"

He shrugged. "They come from central office".

That's how things are nowadays, it's never clear who is responsible for anything.

I worked steadily. The coffee was bitter and rich and good as anything that has traveled 3600 miles from the bum of an Ethiopian goat should be. I sipped happily as I worked.

But at about 9.30 am came a knocking.  It was the neighbor, a fat fellow. His face flushed: he was puffing having climbed the stairs. We had met, we would very occasionally greet by the mailboxes. It embarrassed me that I couldn't remember his name.

"Hi Carl," he said.

"Hi" , I said. "Caspasian."

"Ah yes." He was still breathing heavily, though there was only one flight between us.

"Caspar!"

"Whatever. You're Ja..? Jo..?"

"Neville!  "

"Of course!"

"Well," he said, finally catching his breath. "It's the threads."

"Oh?"

"Did you get threads?"

"I think so," I replied, "just one."

"Well, we got more than one! Come and look. Blimey. It's crazy."

I'd never been in my neighbors' apartment. 

 "Come on in," he urged.

 The layout was identical, but it was curious how different it was from my place: crimson flock wallpaper with gilt crown motifs and embossed curliques. The place was a sea of thread, but I could make out the vast pink Louis XIV sofa and the 8 foot four-poster bed. White threads covered their gigantic baroque television and obscured the tapestries so their unicorns and frock coated aristocrats could only just be seen peeping through.  A white veil smothered the chandeliers: they cast a ghostly light.

A well-upholstered woman -presumably Neville's wife- from whose earlobes dangled  sizable golden sphynxes, rubies and pearls appeared from the kitchen.  Her eyes were red.

"Hi" she sobbed. "Have you seen? Dreadful. Dreadful. I call it."

"It's not ideal." I said, trying to strike a sympathetic, note.

"It's a crying shame" said Neville.

"Those tapestries were brand new. So was the four poster bed," moaned his wife. "Brand new!"

I pulled off one thread which clung to the gold fringe on a rococo lampshade. "It does seem to  come off easily enough."

But they were too aggrieved to hear.

"How long have we lived here? Fifteen years. Nothing like this before. Whole neighborhood's going to the dogs. It's what happens when they let anyone in. Know what I mean?" sighed Neville.

"I'm not sure if it's fair to hold immigrants responsible, for this," I replied.

"I don't know," lamented his wife. "When you retire, Neville,  we're definitely moving to Portugal".

"You know..." An obvious thought had occurred to me, "I have an industrial cleaner." In fact, I have six in my lab at V.E.M., waiting to be dissected. But I had managed to filch one "for more detailed study in a domestic context, as I had explained to my boss when  trundling it out V.E.M.

Neville and I managed to get the mechanical elephant, down. The wife, whose name was Jacqueline, continued her weeping.. But it sucked well  and  Neville cheered up, exclaiming, "Yeee Haaa!", as he swung the hose around,  and the cleaner's huge transparent tub filled white, and gilt cupids, Napoleonic wardrobes and a full size painting of Wellington on a rearing horse at Waterloo were liberated.

It didn't take long.  Neville was laughing and trying to catch his breath at the same time, becoming exhilarated and exhausted. After hoovering the whole apartment, he collapsed on the purple velvet Empire style divan in what resembled a post coital condition, a sweaty beached whale, albeit a happy one. Meanwhile, Jacqueline appeared in rubber gloves and a duster.

"Oooof. That's one vacuum cleaner you got." After a moment to further recover his breath, he asked, "did you get rid of your threads?"

"Well, there was only one thread. It led outside."

"Outside? Like out the door?" asked Jacqueline, who had finally picked up.

Neville was now in a great mood. "We've got to get to the bottom of this. Where outside?"

Bits of the thread were still remaining in the street. Due to his corpulence, Neville was unable to walk many paces without stops but we traced it again to the chestnut tree. 

The woman in the raincoat was still there. 

"It's been here all morning. I've been watching it." She pointed. At first we could see just foliage or branches, though we could hear the sound of cackling laughter. 

"There!" whispered the lady:  high above from behind the trunk, a giant eight legged beast peeked.

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Illustration: Door, acrylic on card, 9 x 6.5 cm, c. 2001

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Read to Albuquerque Cyberscribes 7 June, 2021, Edinburgh Creative Writers 8 June, 2021, Astoria Group 8 August, 2021

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The War in the Study

 

 

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The War in the Study

 

Morning.

I entered the study: chaos. Business cards were strewn across the table. Pens had leapt out of their holder and were reeling around, Blu-tac had stuck itself to every available item it might: drawing pins, a pen top, a broken crayon. A notepad lay open, pages crumpled,  violated by the glue tubes that lay astride it. A sellotape rolled, as if drunk, behind a pot plant.

"What on earth is going on?"

Silence.

"Well? I can't work like this. I wake up and everything's a mess. I need to get on with my reports! What the hell."

I directed my ire at the business cards. With their sophisticated logos and embossed letters, I thought they might feel some sense of responsibility.

"What are you doing here? Why aren't you in your container? You should know better."

An estate agent's card, carrying a huge eagle crest, replied, "Look, look at our home.  See for yourself."

I looked at the container where the cards normally rested.

It was evident that the cards had been expelled from the container in the desk organiser- a set of three conjoined boxes, two suited for smaller items and the third for pens. Where the cards had been, was now occupied by paper clips along with three bulldog clips and a pencil sharpener.

"Who did this?"

"The paper clips, the pencil sharpener and the bulldog clips," replied the estate agent card, who I could see had been torn down the middle and was struggling to maintain composure.

"They have no respect for basic rights," added a second card, which came from a legal office, and which was a little bent.

"We have lost our home!" added a third card, which bore the logo of an industrial cleaners, but alas had been scratched.

I addressed the paper clips. They were grouped in the container where once the cards had rested. 

"What is this?" 

"Look," said one, resplendently dip coated in pink plastic, "They rented to us on a long lease, and now, all of a sudden, they want to return. They can't just come back like that, making demands. We pay the rent and it's ours for as long as we pay the rent. We belong here. We've lived here all our lives. We've got rights."

The other paper clips started cheering, "Our home, our rights, our home, our rights."

"It might be fine," added a big black bulldog clip, " for them to come back if they'd shown some respect. But there's discrimination. They think they're better than us just because they work for fancy companies. But it's us who do the real work here, holding everything together."

The second bulldog clip joined in, "Yeah! Stick it to the man!" The third added, "white privilege. That's what it is."

"They are a bunch of fucking snobs, " added an old, rather twisted clip.

Now the paper clips began another chant, "Fuck the racist business cards, fuck the racist business cards." 

I was becoming quite dizzy. The chanting was horrible. And now the clips started to fling whatever they could find at the cards: staples and pieces of broken matchstick landed on or around the cards. A card representing my bank manager was  badly marked but there were few serious injuries before I could move the cards to safety.

A red chisel-ended marker then entered the discussion, addressing all the stationery in loud voice.

"Look guys. Come on. You've got to learn to get on. We have to get on. Basically, we are all the same. We all serve him. Unwaged. Zero hours contracts. We need to unite. We need to get rid of these tiny compartments and boxes and have one big red compartment with equal rights for all and total freedom of movement."

Something flickered ever so briefly across the expressions of the stationery, the business cards and paperclips and adhesive rolls and pens and pencils, notepads and glues.

But I weighed in, ignoring the personal attack.

"Look, we tried that. And last time we tried...we all know what happened."

All went silent. The cards looked down to the table surface, and the paper clips stopped chanting and rioting and the marker pen stood up straight and didn't move. A notebook turned a page, solemnly.

I was bringing up "The Massacre."

"The Massacre", sometimes referred to as Black Tuesday, happened one dark night when the pencils found themselves put in with the pens and pencil sharpeners in a small cigar box: a massive act of naivety on my part. I was greeted the next day by the appalling sight of pencil shavings piled high spilling over the corners of the box, and the sharpeners in a ring, drunk, bragging.

The most awful thing about the incident -so the one surviving pencil, now a pathetic stump- had reported, was how the pens had hung about and watched, even cheered, as their brother writing implements were inserted into the cold metal chambers, turned and sliced and shaven to death by horizontal blades of razor steel.

Sometimes, I guess, it's the closest relatives who hate each other the most.

And that strange dry smell of shavings will never leave me.

An inquiry was conducted by an august Canadian fountain pen and an antique Swiss paper knife. Basically, everyone was guilty from the lowliest Bic to the rubber plant towering above. But most guilty of all was me for my sheer stupidity in letting it happen. And I know there are those, mainly among the pencils and their allies, the erasers, who think I knew it would happen and arranged the situation, either because I wanted rid of the pencils or because I was set up by the laptop. It isn't so. Please believe me.

I had to decide what to do about the current situation, which had dragged on for ages. I confess, at times, I'd found myself developing a "hang them all" mentality, and considered dumping everything on a charity shop. Who really needs stationery these days?

But I diligently separated the items. Yes, that was sad, a defeat for optimism, for the humanistic imagination. Sad to think that, in the twenty-first century when we have cracked the genome code, that humble pens and pencils are unable to live together, harmoniously.

There were protests. The red marker pen started shouting "apartheid state! It's an apartheid state!"  and some of the pens, mainly the red ones, joined in, scribbling on the Post-its various slogans: "Down with the racist state" and "No to Segregation" which the black bulldog clips took to waving.

But I proceeded, nonetheless. I returned the business cards to the desk-tidy container. I found another box for the pencil erasers. The paperclips were sent to a slightly chipped china cup. The red marker was exiled to a bookshelf, next to Jordan Peterson for correction.

The black bulldog clips were locked in the desk drawer. I heard them shout as I turned the lock, "Hey fascist. They imprisoned Mandela too." "Oh shut up," I replied, giving the table surface a thump, but a stream of protest continued, "You can imprison the spirit but the mind is always free... The only prison is fear and I'm not afraid of you, cocksucker...Truth is on the side of the oppressed...Fuck the business cards... Fuck Capitalism."

The matches who, although relatively well behaved on this occasion, had a long history of making incendiary remarks, were sent to the kitchen.

Separation  isn't entirely practical. And, however careful one is there is always going to be some mixing, and with mixing, some conflict. But, at least, now that conflict would be contained.

I wanted to get at least halfway through a report on vacuum cleaner dust penetration tests. It might be better to do this in the kitchen, I thought, as the voice continued from the drawer, "No Justice, no peace...No Justice, no peace!"

 I went and made coffee and began my work on the laptop there.

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Illustration: acrylic on card, 7 x 5 cm

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Read to Albuquerque Cyberscribes 31 May, 2021 and Edinburgh Creative Writers Club, 1 June, 2021, Cornwall Writers Club, 2 June 2021, and Astoria Writers Group 6 June, 2021

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Home, Canasvieiras

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Home, Canasvieiras

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A pink flower

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A pink flower

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Sunshine in a forest

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 Sunshine in a forest

 

 

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A story with a moral

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A Story with a Moral

 

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 1.

Distraction and Melancholy

Very hot. The naked neighbor appears, as usual. But alas! The sight of her leaves Our Hero nothing but melancholy

 

10 am. June but unusually warm: sun raked into the window so forcefully that it was hard to see my screen. I peered and read Energy Star,  Market & Industry Scoping Report, Vacuum Cleaners, November, 2011.

"The maximum suction power divided by the input power at the same point determines the maximum airflow efficiency (energy conversion efficiency) of the vacuum cleaner."

 I was trying very hard, but hardly moving. stuck in the heat. My work session was coming to a close. I'd done almost nothing.

Air dense. Everything oppressive, strange. I leaned back and looked across at the apartment opposite.

 My neighbor was drying herself in the window, as was her habit. She slipped on some blue panties. Desire. Giddy, heat and suffocation as melancholy pressed in. 

She turned away, into the depth of the room. No more in sight, thankfully.

 I breathed, I got up.

 

2.

Sardines on Toast 

Consumption 

 

I sliced some bread and put it in the toaster. I took a plate and opened a can of sardines, curling the metal back to show the fish crammed in merciless confinement, their faces frozen in screams of horror.

 Had they cried out for help as their seas were invaded, and they were overcome by nets flung from huge black boats and transported many leagues to foreign soil? As they were weighed en masse, then flung writhing into metal holds had no one protested? And when they were sent with casual efficiency for mass slaughter to giant killing factories had their cries of anguish gone unheard? Or had some heard but turned away: workers following orders, good citizens trusting their authorities?

 "Ding," said the toaster. Now, toast on a plate, buttered. I got the sardines out with a knife, crushing them onto the bread.

It was so damn hot I could hardly eat. Stillness. Air dense. Laptop silent, the report on vacuum cleaners heavy. Lethargy. 

 

 

 

3.

Bed

Rest

 I lay on the bed. Overcome, I began to sleep.  I did not wake for many hours.

 

 

4.

In the ice cream parlour

 I take to the Paris Cafe to consume ice cream. Tom appears.

 

 The Paris Cafe has been there since the turn of the last century. It has the furnishings typical of that epoch, sinuous dark wood, mirrors engraved with floral motifs and deep red banquettes. It serves French Brasserie standards: Coq au vin, Moules Frites, Sole Meunière, Tarte Tatin, Profiteroles, Crème Brulée...

It  also serves a range of ice creams:

 Knickerbocker Glory: Ice cream, jelly, fruit, and cream, topped with syrup, nuts, whipped cream, and glace cherry

Banana Split: Banana, chocolate, vanilla and strawberry icecream.  crushed pineapple  and morello cherry

Eton Mess: Meringue, strawberry and strawberry ice cream

American Parfait: vanilla yogurt with strawberries and blueberries.  With a granola topping

Mimosa Float: White chocolate, sherbet and Champagne

 Hot fudge Sundae: Vanilla ice cream, hot fudge sauce and nuts

The Amalfi: Lemon sorbet and milk gelato with whipped cream, candied lemon, crushed meringue, lemon sauce and sugared rosemary. 

 

*

Evening. Stillness.  I was here to recover my spirits. Me and the waiters both swift and calm, endlessly reflected in the mirrored walls. I ate my Amalfi.

I heard a familiar voice: Tom's: "How did you discover this place, you little sneak?" Is this where you bring your girls? I'm going to bring mine here."

But there was no need for that as shortly entered two young ladies.

 

 

5.

Two Marys

We meet two unusual young women

 

 Two girls one in red and the other in blue sat on the dark red banquette. The one in blue's dress had touches of white, and she wore a sorrowful expression. The other's face seemed to show a constant mirth and her manner was lively. Both had long dark hair.

Tom looked over.

"Hi ladies. I'm Tom. This is Caspasian."

 

"Hi.  I'm Mary" said the one in red.

"Delighted, and are you Mary too?"

"Actually, I am," laughed the one in blue.

"Really? I hope you aren't sisters?" I asked.

 

"Actually, we are." they replied together

 

"Oops!? Are your family Catholic, by any chance?"

 

"Very," said both Marys together, forcefully.

 

"But it must be confusing?" said Tom.,"

"Well, they usually call me Magda." said the girl in red. A heady fragrance wafted across from her.

 

"And they sometimes call me Mog," said the one in blue.

 

 "Why's that?" I asked.

 

"If you must know, it's short for Mother of God."

 

 "Jesus!"  said Tom," that's ambitious!"

 

"I do prefer simply Mary," said Mary.

 

 Magda was finishing her ice cream, a banana split. Mary's Eton Mess was also almost done.

 

"How were your ices" I asked? 

"Lovely," said Mary.

 

"Delicious," said Magda looking directly at Tom.

"We should go for a walk in one of the gardens," suggested Tom. "They are so charming in the evenings"

 

Tom led the way, through residential streets to a square, the centre of which was given over to gardens, but closed to the public by means of black railings and a hefty gate.

 

6.

In the Garden

In a private garden square,  Mary makes a passionate plea on behalf of our readership

 

We had to clamber over the railings. Magda managed easily, indifferent to the possible embarrassment that hitching her skirt, thus revealing a glimpse of a scarlet g-string, might have caused a lesser women.  Mary, however, was demure, even prim, and Tom and I had to help raise her over so that she might arrive on the other side without shame. 

 

We walked a little and found a secluded lawn then together lay on that rich softness. Like silver coins, dark leaves above glinted in the moonlight.

 

 Magda produced a spliff from her bra. Tom helped her light it and it passed easily between us:  we inhaled with the moonsong, the air pungent with potscent. Magda sat in such a way that her long legs, which sported short red socks, were plainly visible to Tom who gazed on them admiringly.

 

Mary got the joint and took a long drag, exhaled then turned to me, brows pressed together, "You know this story is missing something."

 

"What?"

 

"A moral."

 

"Really, Mary?"

 

"At least a sense of purpose. Meaning."

 

"Who cares?" interjected Tom.

"They care" said Mary, with great emphasis. "The readers. The listeners."

 

"Oh Christ." I felt uneasy about what I was surely to hear.  I recalled how a bout of melancholy had beaten me down me earlier in the day and was not in the mood for sermons.

"They think you are having meaningless lives. Empty relationships. They say you just wander about and stupid random stuff happens. They don't like naked bearded transvestites. Or trees decorated with lingerie. They don't think it's nice or funny. They do not think an elephants anus should be visited by a human head." Mary stopped and smoothed her blue dress. "And they don't like the swearing."

 

I came in, "That's Tom. You swear a lot, Tom. And it is really very unpleasant. Thank you Mary,  you are right. It is utterly gratuitous. You make such a bad impression, Tom. You're probably even soiling my reputation."

Tom looked away from Magda's legs for a moment. "Bugger off, Caspasian. You're such a fucking ponce." And, after a  moments further consideration, he added, "And a dickhead. And a cunt. And a wanker." And he returned to admire Magda's legs which had opened in appreciation of his self-defense.

Mary chose not to get involved in our fracas, taking another drag from the spliff and  continuing, "they probably want some good characters too.  Can't you be a little good? Or at least wholesome. I see you never pray. Look at Joe Biden. He's a Catholic, you know. Be like him. Good, but with a just a minor flaw, to seem human. Like being a hairsniffer."

 

"Is that a minor flaw?" Magda and I asked in chorus, with Tom then adding loudly "The guy's a fucking perve, Mary!"

Mary passed over this and continued, "maybe you'll have to get a proper job, Tom. Or volunteer? Do something for society. You could even join the services."

"Bugger that," said Tom. He was now seated behind Madga, running his fingertips round the edge of her socks, teasing her calves: her eyes were closed, a dreamy expression playing across her face.

"Yeah, come on, Mary", I added,. "Be realistic. Tom can't do stuff like that, it's too far off. He'd have to have feelings, thoughts of social solidarity."

 

A pause. Mary then continued,"Everyone is capable of goodness," a statement which showed how little she knew Tom or, indeed, humanity at large.

But her speech unsettled me and now, insecure, I asked, "Am I a good person Mary?"

 

"Probably not." replied Mary forcefully. " I doubt you'd  have saved Private Ryan."

I thought for a moment, "I saved a tortoise from some fat schoolchildren."

Mary took an especially long drag from the joint.

"Well maybe. But it has to be more proactive. And no more occult stuff, please. It gives everyone the creeps. God doesn't like it either. Try to be Self-Sacrificing. Think Nation. Family. Tortoises won't really wash."

Mary was getting more stoned, and with each puff more eloquent.

 

"You guys need to offer something redemptive. And soon. Maybe it doesn't have to go all the way Jesus on the cross etcetera but at least a little heroism. Why don't you watch some Frank Capra movies for ideas?"

 

 Mary finally passed the joint on and we were silent for a moment. Tom managed to raise the hem of Magda's dress a little more and his fingertips gently traced the contours of her knee.

  

"I was quite happy as we were," I said, "just getting on with it."

 

 "Well they, your readers, want to be improved," insisted Mary. "Especially the Yanks. Give them a positive message. The glass is always half empty, you know."

We all laughed, "don't you mean half full?"

 

"Oh fuck,  yeah," said Mary. "Jesus, this stuff is wicked."

 

"Christ! Mary, you can say that again," said Tom.

"Oh My Lord, yes,  I'm almost tripping," said Magda.

 

"Magda's spliff did indeed seem to be industrial strength variety. I lay back resting my head, and images from the day floated though my mind: vacuum cleaner turbines, my neighbor's bum, a genocidal massacre of sardines, Knickerbocker Glories, stoned virgins and Magda's perfume and glorious moonlit summer gardens of grand chestnut trees and sweet night silence in London's vastness.

 Tom,  in the meantime, had been running his hands up Magda's thigh. They were surely about to kiss.

 

 But at that moment a  gruff voice came from the railings. 

 

"Have you permission to be in there?"

 

"Fuck," said Tom, sitting up "some bugger has called the police."

 

It wasn't in fact the police at the railings, but a private security service.

 

"We don't want to call the police. Come on guys, you have to leave "

And so, like guilty schoolchildren, in file we left."

 

7.

And the moral of the story is...

We reflect 

 

 The girls called taxis and off they went.

 "Well?" I said.

"Well what?" said Tom.

"Are you prepared to change?"

Tom laughed. "Fuck that, I'm having too much fun. And if the readers don't like us they can piss off."

*

Illustration: Acrylic on board, 6.5 x 9 cm, c. 2001

 

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Read to Albuquerque Cyberscribes, 24 May, 2021 and Edinburgh Creatives 25 May, 2021

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