Issue #13: January 10th - 16th, 2003On Nothern Skies and a Documentary About Nick Drake
Cantaloupe and Granola Day
Visitors
Son
Me And My Pillow
+++Back to top+++ Back to current issue+++ On Northern Skies and a documentary about Nick DrakeI never felt magic crazy as this We stayed up until half past one am to watch it. When the time came, we sat there quietly, in the rather dark, not-so-silent house watching people who had known him talk about him while views of the places where he had lived filmed on the nineties tried to look like they were filmed in the seventies and his music played. I never held emotion in the palm of my hand I hadn't been so quiet (inside) for a long time, and for that I was thankful to the night and the pictures in the screen in front of me. Sentences formed themselves in the back of my head, it sort of went like that: But now you're here Nick Drake's music is something everyone will discover, sooner or later. The moment will come when you will be struck by the the transcendental beauty of Things Behind the Sun or Northern Skies and all you'll be able to do is hold your breath and wonder where you can find more. And I could tell you about how it was for me, but I won't because it doesn't matter: the late night radio show, the silence and the darkness, the urgent phone call to the girl to find out what that was- they don't matter, just as the torrential rain of the day I bought Way To Blue doesn't matter very much, along with the hazy January mornings I spend wondering how people can ever find something so beautiful depressing, or the hot, worried September nights when I listened to all his records every night to fall asleep, waiting for his pain to wash mine away - I've been a long time that I'm waiting All this doesn't matter very much and the views of England's green and pleasant land and northern skies outside his window didn't matter very much either; even though I thought they explained everything better than anyone's words did. Everything: his music and his lyrics and his giving up on life, which seems to turn his life into a mystery as much as it seems to make everything make sense. Would you love me for my money Of course I don't know what I'm talking about; and the view of night falling slowly on a village in the fields while the wind blows through the trees and the sky changed colours doesn't explain why someone would give an end to their life and if you ask me, he killed himself because he didn't try to not do it - it takes a lot of effort to not be too disappointed by the world, it's hard work, but we have to do it anyway, I often wonder - Would you love me through the winter But of course you didn't ask me why he killed himself, you only asked me about his music - and all I have to say is something I stole from David (but he doesn't know): there's a little bit of Nick Drake in everyone. And this is all that matters. Oh, if you would and you could Because there is a little bit of a fragile, tortured soul who sees too much and wonders how it will live with it all in everyone. Because, as Carol Ann Duffy said, some nights, although we are faithless, the truth enters our hearts - and sometimes, we all see moons and know the meaning of the sea. I never felt magic crazy as this +++Back to top+++ Back to current issue+++ Cantaloupe and Granola DayGram and Grandad both wear plaid polyester pants. I've never understood it. Are they more comfortable that way? Does it match their white shoes better? Does it help them play golf better? In any case it's endearing. I more often than I realize like to think about when it's my turn to be a grandmother. I hope to use words like 'Sweetie' to perfect strangers. I hope to send annual Christmas ornaments to the grandkids and write their names and the year with a black permanent marker on one side. Wouldn't it be great to find out that Gram and Grandad wear plaid polyester pants because they think it's humorous to be old, and now that they're content being old, it's naturally just their turn for polyester. I learned about Erikson's Stages of Psychosocial Development when I was a senior in high school. You would never want to admit to my teacher when she's actually taught you something. She was over-cheery enough already without such satisfaction. Perhaps she's reading this now, and I'll make her absolutely giddy. I've thought about that moment in that classroom more than one hundred times since then. If I was in a movie, you would see on the big screen how the camera would pan to a remarkable close-up showing in all its dramatic splendor a three second scene where I raise my eyes from the book to that certain ponder spot on the wall. The music would swell from the orchestra conductor's electric hands as his hair flopped villainously toward the violin section. "More, more, give me more!" The director then kneels down and whispers to me, the star, "Now, let us see on your face what is happening in your mind." My part is easy, I am not acting. But you as the audience might be tempted to look for imitation tears in my eyes; it was that kind of moment. What bit of wisdom I learned while daydreaming in that cold, uncomfortable high school desk after seizing it, owning it, charting it through my 17-year-old brain mechanics is (more timpani, please) I will be happy when I grow old. Everyone in the movies repeats things twice for effect. I will be happy when I grow old. Following the Erikson's stages throughout a general lifespan, you will eventually end in the "over 65 years old" bracket. This is your cue to look back at your life while you water your houseplants. You get the pleasure of feeling satisfied with what you have done. You've made your millions, or you gave your millions. Unfortunately when you're old, you might not have any houseplants. Worst than that, however, according to Mr. E., you may instead miss the plant and water the cat instead. In other words, you may have to look back and feel a weight of deep despair and regret. I haven't stayed in one house longer than four months in the last two years. So I love plants, but I don't own any yet. I'm too busy scribbling my own theories. I'd like to thank Mr. Erikson for his theory, and the patchwork-of-Christmas-cheer-without-the-spiked-eggnog high school teacher for assigned seating away from my friends. In honor of them both, they will have to excuse me, for I have some serious living to do. I believe in youth. One evening on a walk with myself I sat down in the middle of a field. Luckily for my poetic side, I happened to be bundled with my favorite cream wool sweater that night. "I'm young," I declared to the grass stems and weeds. "I'm young," I scribed it in my memory's storybook. "Show us then," they all said back to me. Ah, never has a field been so razed. What my stubborn, squinty eye look has plastered in my mirror is the declaration that I will not buy a rocking chair just to have somewhere to sit and despair on the life I never lived. This is when cantaloupe and granola presented themselves into my theory. Old age can be symbolized in many forms. Here's mine. I once saw an old woman in the produce area of the grocery store. I remember nothing about her, except that she pointed her nose down and smelled a cantaloupe. The memory itself is delicious. Even better than that, I watched as she held it up to her ear and knocked on its rind, as if checking if anyone was home. Since then I've tried it too, hoping to look oh-so informed in such domestic affairs. The problem with being young is that I don't know what sound a ripe cantaloupe makes. "Well that settles that," I said. And the matter was indeed settled. I announced to my mirror and to any other dimension of me who was interested, the upcoming celebration of Cantaloupe and Granola Day. To celebrate this day, one must be old. The actual day can be any day of the week, preferably during cantaloupe season. Simply drive to the grocery store, pick up a cantaloupe, smell it, and then knock on its rind to see if it's "ripe." Feel free to do any other shopping you need. The granola is for you, but mostly for your spouse. The granola is a symbol of unity with my husband. It represents that we exist together in oneness. My trip to the grocery store that day will not be complete without thoughts of him. It doesn't really matter if your spouse likes granola. You're both old, you need your grains. If neither one of you like granola, save it for the grandkids. They're young, they need their grains. As you drive home and unpack the groceries, the celebration Cantaloupe and Granola Day is complete. Almost. The significance of C and G day starts right now. It will take my whole life long to reach that day. When I buy that ripe cantaloupe and that bag of granola on sale, I will be at the end of a very, very heavy-with-life life. I hope I still don't know what a ripe cantaloupe "knocks" like. Instead I will have the taste of sweet love juice on my lips. I will have diving nature wrinkles on my skin. My muscles will sag; my bones will be brittle from too much falling down. I will have houseplants someday, and I will water them. Good thing I'm allergic to cats, because I have today to celebrate and no time for wet cats. I don't play golf or own white shoes, but you never know when a good pair of plaid polyester pants might come in handy. Perhaps Gram and Grandad wear them to go to the store. +++Back to top+++ Back to current issue+++ VisitorsFor a moment, the oldest eyes on the planet gazed into the youngest. Actually, lots of stars shone, but people were only interested in the one. Most people find it easier not to see the whole picture. The events that were transpiring below were meant to change all that. They didn't, of course, but nobody knew that yet. The baby offered its first squeal, and, in return, the creature that watched it offered its own timeless wisdom. If anyone had been listening, which nobody was, they would have ignored the proferred advice. Which was just as well. Because, translated, it meant 'you're wasting your time'. And most of those present had to believe this was worth something. The greatest myth of history was about to unfold, and they were big players. The owner of the old eyes was a four-legged, white-fleeced oracle. The oracle existed outside our time-span. A symbol of all-seeing innocence, and a metaphor for sacrifice, death and rebirth. Years, centuries, lifetimes meant nothing to it. If the world was destroyed tomorrow it would return, in another form, from what remained of the collective consciousness. Although, being to all intents and purposes a sheep, it didn't think about that much. It thought about how fine the hay tasted and how nice it was to have company on a cold December evening. And it performed the task for which it had been placed in the myth. It stood, and it looked at the little baby. Just 12 days old, and already a King. Not even the Buddha had managed that one. A hand ran itself through the fleece of the oracle. The man who thought of himself as its owner moved closer to the animal, to share some warmth. 'Bloody hell, this water's like a stone' The mother threw a glare at her husband, then regretted it. He had been good to her. Not many men stayed around when you were having somebody else's baby, divine or otherwise. She contented herself with touching his arm and reminding him... 'the child'. And he smiled, and kissed her. He'd tell people she was a virgin, that would shut them up. Across the desert, old footsteps. More archetypes. Three men. People seemed to like them to be present at these births. They conveyed a sense of authenticity. They were tired, having reincarnated, quite by accident, in Babylon and having had to trek hundreds of miles to get there. They were also mentally weary. They were reaching the end of this aspect of their lives, it all seemed so dull. People were constantly pestering them. Only decades had passed since the birth of Mithras, and at least at that one they hadn't had to stop and ask directions. A long journey. Snow had fallen. Snow on snow. Snow on snow on snow. And, of course, they had had to bring gifts. Gold, platinum and silver had been the plan, sadly, there weren't too many metal-merchants in the heavens at that time. They'd managed to find some gold, but otherwise had had to make do with frankincense and....embalming fluid. The third wise man sat quietly astride his camel. From time to time, he would stroke the casket which held the myrrh and worry about it. Caspar and Melchior seemed to think it was a good present, but then they weren't the ones who had to present some uppity Jewish bird with it. He went over the situation again and again in his head: 'I bring gold, to symbolise the dawn...' always, the story ended with him sleeping in the cold, with the camels. He prayed to the creator of all existence to free him from his burden. Above him, the creator of all existence was busy creating more existence, and didn't listen. A minor deity called Yahweh, who had organised the whole shebang, noted his thoughts and tutted disapprovingly. Yahweh had pulled out all the stops on this one. Everything was supposed to be perfect. He wondered if he should have got other archetypes. Perhaps he could have shelled out a few quid extra on The Maiden, The Mother and The Crone. But then, that would have created..complications. Those three never came without conditions. And they were notoriously unpredictable. Then he told himself, once again, that he couldn't expect perfection. He'd made that mistake so many times before. Look at Soddom and Gomorrah. All that was needed there were a few tweaks, but he'd lost his temper and.. Anyway, enough of that... this was going to put all that Old stuff into the history books, where it belonged. This was going to be Big. He smiled, lit a pipe, and sat back to await Glory. Then he dozed. He dreamed of men on crosses, and women broken on wheels. He dreamed of blasphemers burned and of ancient mysteries defiled, and he dreamed of time passing. Tall buildings, aeroplanes, space-ships, life on other planets... ----------------------------------- Tall buildings, aeroplanes, space-ships, life on other planets.... In one form or another...The Oracle would see them come, and see them go. Its advice would always be the same. A quick baaaa, or hoot, or pulse of solar energy. 'You're wasting your time' It would say. But nobody would ever listen. The oracle chewed some more on the hay, and reflected that it was nice to have company on a cold December evening. A picture flashed through its mind - a woman in a golden headdress buried beneath a pyramid of stone. The oracle considered the picture, and dismissed it. It meant nothing, it had no relevance. All would come, all would go. The baby in the crib squealed. Nobody understood him either. Not a lot of people would. The star above said nothing. It didn't see a lot of point. A universe breathed in, and out again. +++Back to top+++ Back to current issue+++ SonPART 1 This was where the world ends. Or the world begins. The last wrap had been well and truly snorted and he was on his way to where there would be no more wraps, no more Monday morning comedown or Sunday dinners spent in the sun trying to swill yourself to a start on Ayinger Pils and Fosters Ice before the football on Sky at 4 o'clock, by which time you had actually swilled yourself to an unintelligible standstill. This was where the world ends or begins, and all I can do is throw up in a layby a mile from the Welsh border. Dad was laughing, calling me something but I don't know what, and Jack followed suit, but it's not my fault, it's not my fault, and they know, because they've been there, and they will go there again, but for now the jokes on me as the bile sticks to my shirt. When Sue came and told me that my mum was on the phone, then I knew something had happened out of the ordinary because it wasn't even 1 o'clock in the afternoon, and there's no way mum would ring in the daytime because the phone bill would be sky fucking high and dad would hit the fucking roof. So there was this twisted knot in the pit of my stomach as I picked up the receiver and listened... And that's all I remember of my first term there, because the next thing I knew I was on a train going home for the funeral of my best friend two days before the term officially finished, and I tried to get drunk on the train because they say that it's the best way of forgetting things but it was impossible because it just felt like the whole inside of my stomach and heart had been pulled out, and I remember having this physical need, an actual physical need, to wail because it seemed like that was the only way that I could draw breath, and the more that I drank, the less I could close my eyes because all I could see was him, all 6'7" of the cunt, and he was smiling at me all the time, which I know is impossible in real life, and this bright light seemed to frame him, make him look angelic-like, and why won't you go away or do something really fucking evil, or at least half-bad, so that I can have a go at you and the light won't seem half as bright then. Just go. That night at my parents house it was impossible to sleep or even close my eyes because he would still be there, so I just ended up sitting there staring into nothing and even if the worlds weight had rested on my shoulders there would have been nothing, nothing that I could do about it because I just could not move from the space I was in. The next morning I called on J and Stu, and we marched in a sullen procession to the Catholic Church, and sat at the back, even though we were probably three of his closest friends, well, maybe it was the fact that we were so close, not just to him, but to his family, and I know it sounds selfish, fucking selfish I know, but we just could not look them in the eye for what can you say without breaking down and losing the plot to a mother who's not only lost her son, but had also lost her husband of the same condition just a few years ago? So we sat, shivering in the back of this hollow fucking church as the funeral cortege lit candles and it was all earth to earth and ashes to ashes and dust to dust as the Priest sent him on his way, and it's easy to condemn and mock these rituals, but when your best friend lays stone cold on a slab, eyes closed like he was only sleeping, and his mother is prevented from slumping to the floor not only by the weight of other mourners but by her faith in the beyond, you have to remember that it's all about respect, and her unerring belief that she will see her son again in the next life will keep her alive in this life, so show some fucking respect, will you? +++Back to top+++ Back to current issue+++ Me And My Pillow9.30 am. I wake up from my dream, usually something about Satan, entrails. I am fondling my pillow. Not in a saucy sense, but in a "it's there, it's tactile" kind of way. My pillow and I have a strong relationship. By 24 I had become bored of living the multi-pillow lifestyle, and I decided to settle down with just one. She is man-made, firm to the touch yet gently yields as I nuzzle closer to her. She is encased (at the moment at least) in a stylish, timeless piece of Habitatery in grey and light brown. I am encased in nothing, unless it's a particularly cold winter's morning, in which case my fluffy socks and tracksuit bottoms get to join in. Pillow, as I call her, has all the attributes so humorously discussed in such modern classics as "why a beer is better than a woman". She's impartial, silent and doesn't mind me farting in bed. Just like a beer, really. Or a shoe, a lawnmower, the leaning tower of Pisa. But none are so cuddly! +++Back to top+++ Back to current issue+++ |