The Conversation of Prayers

The conversation of prayers about to be said
By the child going to bed and the man on the stairs
Who climbs to his dying love in her high room,
The one not caring to whom in his sleep he will move
And the other full of tears that she will be dead,

Turns in the dark on the sound they know will arise
Into the answering skies from the green ground,
From the man on the stairs and the child by his bed.
The sound about to be said in the two prayers
For the sleep in a safe land and the love who dies

Will be the same grief flying. Whom shall they calm?
Shall the child sleep unharmed or the man be crying?
The conversation of prayers about to be said
Turns on the quick and the dead, and the man on the stair
To-night shall find no dying but alive and warm

In the fire of his care his love in the high room.
And the child not caring to whom he climbs his prayer
Shall drown in a grief as deep as his made grave,
And mark the dark eyed wave, through the eyes of sleep,
Dragging him up the stairs to one who lies dead.

Dylan Thomas

No more lies…

The old young woman in a tangle of white sheets, turned her face ceilingwards to peer at her son. Her eyes looked so big to the boy, huge, as if eating up her old young face – an emaciated face, now, all bones and sunken caverns: sharp cheekbones, sharp nose, sharp jaw…and those bulbous brown eyes over the black shadows of her cheeks. Not his mother’s face at all.

‘My glasses…’ says she, her voice little more than the faintest exhalation of sour breath. ‘have you seen them?’

‘No, I haven’t.’ He lied too easily, perhaps, but it was for her own good. He didn’t want her to see the crap she was coughing out of the depths of her rotting body into that bucket beside the bed. ‘I’ll have a look for them later.’

Later? Later than when? Would there be a later? The dead feel nothing. The dead are just dead. She was living in death, right now, feeling the death inside of herself. But not for much longer. Not long, he sensed. And how would he cope with her final dying? This old young woman, become so like a stranger to him, his mummy, mother, mum. What would he do then? What?

With surprising strength, she leaned precariously from the knotted sheets, to touch the bucket on the floor. ‘Here,’ she hissed at him. ‘Look in here. Is that phlegm or blood? Tell me will you?’

He peered into the bucket, saw the black, blood-like jelly , then blinked it away. ‘Not blood,’ he reported with a dismissive shrug of his shoulders. ‘Just phlegm. Now, no more of this stupidness. Rest. You’ve got to get better.’

From under long brown lashes her big brown eyes were abruptly cautious. She was watching him, assessing his response. ‘So not blood?’ she finally managed, in that terrible aspirated wheeze.

‘No.’

‘Thank God for that.’

And while she gave thanks, the boy cursed the bitch God who’d done this to his mother; God had stolen his mother away and replaced her with this cadaverous stranger – this sick creature of tendons and bones, dressed in his mother’s pink nightdress. This old young woman. It wasn’t fair.

He thought, f**k you God! but said aloud: ‘Let me brush your hair for you. It’s a mess from the bed. You look like some ragamuffin.’

Sitting on the edge of the bed he gently brushed the tangles from her hair. He let his fourteen year old mind go blank. He hummed tunelessly to himself. Some of her clothes were draped over the chair in the corner of the room: that black dress with the white polka dots she liked so much, a blue cardigan, and a white brassiere that she’s purchased a month or so ago from Mrs. Miller’s shop. Eventually, she fell into a light, restless sleep.

From the window he saw blackbirds in the trees opposite. There was a strong wind blowing the trees to their full height today. A sudden daze of sun from behind clouds left him blinded and dizzy. He imagined himself with the sun burned as twin points of light in the pupils of his eyes. The wind was blowing out of that sun. It filled the house with whispers, and made the dustbin lid rattle wildly along the sideway.

His mother took a little mushroom soup for tea. It was a canned soup that he’d opened and heated in a saucepan on the stove. She had four, five spoonfuls, no more than that. Not enough to keep a frog going. But then the dead don’t eat. Closing his eyes, he looked briefly into the spinning cavern of himself, hearing the sinuous voices of long dead grandparents. He tiptoed to the door, hoping she wouldn’t call him back.

He wondered if he should telephone his dad? His dad had left home four years earlier, left the boy, left the mother. There was nothing more remote under the sun than that man. The doctors had requested a meeting with his dad before his mother left hospital that last time. They’d spoken their terrible secrets in some cluttered office, and his mother’s dance of death had commenced.

‘She mustn’t know the truth,’ his dad said. ‘You’ve got to be brave and tough it out. Whatever happens she must never know the truth.’

‘Will she stay in the hospital?’ the boy asked.

‘No, she hates hospitals. She’s going to die at home. She’ll be happier at home.’ His dad’s hands were clenched into fists, as if he felt the same desolation in his veins and binding flesh as the boy felt. Hard white hands, they were, with the stains of tobacco on the fingertips; he still wore his gold wedding band. A tall man in a worn flannel shirt, who promised: ‘I’ll be able to help out – you won’t have to face it on your own.’ Which was a lie, of course, because the boy hadn’t seen him for nearly a month.

He tried to watch television but his mind wandered with the wind outside. It filled the void of the world with its wild ruckus. Whispered through the house, which, to the boy’s imagination, became full of mocking voices. He sensed his mother upstairs, darkness gathering in her head, sucking in all the light around her. And within him dwelt a terrible solitude.

Later that evening, when he entered her bedroom to check on her, he found his mother dead. He was deeply shocked by the waxy-yellow appearance of her skin in the fading light. Her eyes were wide open, bulging, but he couldn’t bring himself to close them. He wondered briefly if the dead wait with the unborn in the darkness beyond? He pulled the sheet up over her face, isolating himself from the stare of the dead. For the first time in his life, he felt a little afraid of his mother. Everlasting death was something to fear. He had the doctor’s telephone number on the pad downstairs. He would have to telephone him soon. They would take her away, he supposed, this stranger who had been his mother – this old young woman.

But at least he wouldn’t have to tell her any more lies, he thought. Death ended the necessity for lies. Death ended. Out in the night a dog lifted its head up and howled. He drew the curtains on the darkness with all its various impossibilities, and went to phone the doctor.

Absurdities…

“Dionis” oil on canvass by Paco Pomet

Some more light relief…

Dave is browsing in a pet shop and sees a parrot sitting on a little perch. It doesn’t have any feet or legs.

‘Bloody hell,’ he says aloud. ‘Whatever happened to the parrot?’

The parrot says, ‘I was born this way. I’m a defective parrot.’

‘Oh, dear,’ Dave replies. ‘You actually answered me. That’s quite something!’

‘Of course. I happen to be a highly intelligent bird and thoroughly educated as well.’

‘Is that so? Then tell me, how do you hang onto that perch without any feet?’

‘This is so embarrassing,’ the parrot says. ‘But since you ask, I wrap my weenie around the wooden bar like a little hook. You can’t see it because of my feathers.’

‘Incredible!’ says Dave. ‘You really do speak good English, don’t you?’

‘Actually I can speak English, German, French and Spanish. I listen to the radio and can converse on almost any topic. You really ought to buy me, I’d make a great companion.’

Dave looks at the price tag: £1,000 and knew he couldn’t afford that much, but the parrot said, ‘I’m defective, no one wants me, so offer a tenner. Dave did and was delighted to walk out of the shop with a parrot.

Time passes. The parrot is sensational, wonderful, he has a great sense of humour, he’s interestingly insightful, and a really good pal.

Dave comes home from work one night and the parrot whispers in his ear. ‘I don’t know if I should tell you this, it’s about your wife and the postman.

‘What the hell are you talking about?’Dave demands.

‘When the postman delivered the mail today,’ says the parrot, ‘ your wife greeted him at the door wearing that see through nightie you got for her. You know the one? It shows everything.’

WHAT??’ Dave cries. ‘THEN what happened?’

‘Well, the postman came right inside the house, lifted up her nightie and began kissing her all over,’ reported the parrot.

‘NO!’ Dave exclaimed. ‘And she let him?’

‘Yes. And she let him take off her nightie, and he went down on his knees kissing her “you know what”…

Poor Dave, frantic, incredulous, demanded, ‘Then what happened?’

The parrot shrugged. ‘Damned if I know. I got a hard-on and fell off of my perch.’

GOLD LEAVES

GOLD LEAVES

Lo! I am come to autumn,
When all the leaves are gold;
Grey hairs and golden leaves cry out
The year and I are old.

In youth I sought the prince of men,
Captain in cosmic wars,
Our Titan, even the weeds would show
Defiant, to the stars.

But now a great thing in the street
Seems any human nod,
Where shift in strange democracy
The million masks of God.

In youth I sought the golden flower
Hidden in wood or wold,
But I am come to autumn,
When all the leaves are gold.

G K Chesterton

The original painting was one of J A Grimshaw’s;I find all his paintings evocative.

September Fifth

The sky hesitates between mother-of-pearl and clay;
Everything is revealed, a many-sided mirror
Like a jeweled case discharging its pearl-grey
To white fire – even the trees and the grass
Are coated with a silver lacquer.

Things are thus admitted to the chorus
To stop them playing the hero’s part.

This performance, before approaching Winter,
Is given in honour of a lordly Nature
That guards itself from its own tragedies
And rules in the guise of a savory feast;
Its mask and manner lie in ruin and the frost.

Francis Ponge

A Little Light Relief…

Until a child tells you what they are thinking, we can’t even begin to imagine how their mind is working….

Little Zachary was doing very badly in math. His parents had tried everything…tutors, mentors, flash cards, special learning centers. In short, everything they could think of to help his math.

Finally, in a last ditch effort, they took Zachary down and enrolled him in the local Catholic school. After the first day, little Zachary came home with a very serious look on his face. He didn’t even kiss his mother hello. Instead, he went straight to his room and started studying.

Books and papers were spread out all over the room and little Zachary was hard at work. His mother was amazed. She called him down to dinner.

To her shock, the minute he was done, he marched back to his room without a word, and in no time, he was back hitting the books as hard as before.

This went on for some time, day after day, while the mother tried to understand what made all the difference.

Finally, little Zachary brought home his report Card. He quietly laid it on the table, went up to his room and hit the books. With great trepidation, his Mom looked at it and to her great surprise, Little Zachary got an ‘A’ in math. She could no longer hold her curiosity.. She went to his room and said, ‘Son, what was it? Was it the nuns?’ Little Zachary looked at her and shook his head, no.. ‘Well, then,’ she replied, was it the books, the discipline, the structure, the uniforms? WHAT WAS IT?’

Little Zachary looked at her and said, ‘Well, on the first day of school when I saw that guy nailed to the plus sign, I knew they weren’t fooling around.’

Things I love about the Internet.

Things I love about the Internet.

Firstly, you can access really interesting bits of information like THIS, an article that appears well informed, written by someone who knows their subject. Now, I appreciate, the piece in question is not without bias, but that’s life, isn’t it? The Internet is full of biased advice and opinion – just like real life!

Secondly, if I enter “locomotor ataxy” into my search engine, I learn that it’s an illness, frequently a symptom of advanced syphilis – did you know, the term syphilis was first used to denote the disease in 1530, by the Italian poet and physician, Girolamo Fracastoro? He used it in his epic Latin poem Syphilis sive morbus gallicus. Look it up for yourself, if you don’t believe me.

Interestingly, syphilis was called the French Disease in Italy (and in Germany apparently), while the French called it the Italian Disease. To the Dutch it was the Spanish Disease, while in Russia they referred to it as the Polish Disease; the Turks, as you can imagine, named it the Christian Disease. No nation seems to have wanted to “own” the problem. In Britain we called it simply the Great Pox – proving , once again, that everything about Britain was Great!

Anyhow, to return to my search for “locomotor ataxy”, I learn that: “ a patient suffering this condition, can’t tell where their arms and legs are unless they look, but they are able to feel and locate a hot object placed on their foot.”

Where else but via the Internet would you learn that someone unable to control their arms and legs WOULD feel it if you poured a boiling kettle on their foot?

I just think that’s soooo wonderful!

Being British, the downside of the Internet is probably the USA – there are so, so many American sites, most of them in need of a proof reader or two! Still, you can’t have everything. And they do have one or two good sites, it’s just a shame when you read blog headlines like: “Do you take a shit every morning” or “Igor’s a f**king pedifile.”

Then again, try typing Chekov into your search engine – you might think you’re going to get Anton, playwright and writer, and who could blame you? But more likely you’ll end up with myriad sites on “Pavel Andreievich Chekov” from Star Trek.

Such is life. But the good sites abound.

There’s a good Aussie site HERE.

And if you’re into Tolkien, there’s a good Spanish site on the Hobbit HERE.

What about Crypto-zoology? See HERE.

WISE BLOOD

“Where you come from is gone, where you thought you were going to was never there, and where you are is no good unless you can get away from it.”

Flannery O’Connor

Dark Passage

For those of you who enjoy a glimpse of the darker side of things, I provide this link HERE. The site is called Dark Passage and…well, take a look for yourself.