A Pastoral Pastiche

They encourage me to write while I was in there. I wrote this poem which they said had real promise.

A Pastoral Pastiche

On either side the river lie
Long fields of corn, and other stuff -
Which I cannot identify -
That clothe the hills and seem to meet
The ever lowering sky.
But this I know to be
An optical illusion,
Which causes simple country folk
A welter of confusion.

Now see the weary ploughman treading
Homeward o’er the lea,
Wondering what his dear wife Edith
Will have cooked him for his tea.
A change he hopes from last night -
A great big piece of mullet –
All day he’s tried hard to remove
The fishbone from his gullet.

He wanders lonely as a clown
Who, tired of circus and its thrills,
Longs to take up gardening,
And grow some golden daffodils.
For he was once a farmer’s boy,
Son of the soil – a Shropshire Lad,
Loved  his dear old mother –
But couldn’t stand his dad.

Meanwhile, in ivy covered cottage,
By a mill pond, dank and deep,
A weary woman waits and worries –
At the window see her weep.
Whispers to her dark-eyed daughter –
 Father’s late again, I fear,
 We’ll give the bugger ten more minutes –
 Then you can help me drink his beer.

  Just up and to the left of Dorset,
   A mile beyond the customs post,
   Girl Guides fold their tents in silence,
   And steal off home, to buttered toast.
   They’ve gone, and left their litter scattered -
   What a dirty little band -
  Just one corner of a forlorn field,
  That is forever, wasteland.

Five and twenty transit vans
Driving through the dark,
Porno for the parson,
Cocaine for the clerk -
Don’t go asking questions
It doesn’t do to pry -
Just watch the wall my darling
While the paedophiles go by.

 If I could keep my head, perhaps,
 While all around are in a tizzy,
 ‘Cos church clock’s stopped at three -
  If I could meet with Old Tom Cobley,
 And not to ask where’s thy grey mare?
 A better man I’d be –

 If I could fill each Happy Hour,
 In tavern warm and coach-house bright,
 With foaming porter from the barrel –
  I don’t think I’d go home tonight.

  But ours is not to reason why,
 Or do a runner on the sly,
 But bite the bullet where it falls –
 If we would grace Valhalla’s Halls.
 And so,upon this sceptre’d isle,
 This jewel set in silted sea,
 I leave these questions still unanswered, for
 It’s bugger all to do with me!


Please don't anyone try to reproduce this poem because I have copyrighted it.

           

Should auld aquaintance...

Good to hear that Mr Adams is still around in Illinois - or perhaps it is New England now!
Anyway, it is evidently not in that Guantanamo Bay place or he would not have access to the internet.

I went for a meal, on my own. In a cafe. As I was eating my 'Flying Start' (which is a sort of small English Breakfast), I noticed some big plastic letters, high up on the wall, which said "Children's  eals". The "m" must have fallen off and I began to worry that it might have fallen on someone's head; the sign is right above the till point and the letters look pretty substantial - like they're made out of some thick grey plastic stuff.

Anyway, Ephraim says that I must stop concerning myself over such things - that I am not responsible for everyone on the planet.

I told you I would be back

**************************

Well, I have finally been released into the community. My 'key worker' is Ephraim. I am not sure if he is Egyptian or Turkish, but he smokes some funny cigarettes. Anyway he tells me that I must not tire myself out in the first few weeks, so this will be a short post.

Brian’s cold is much better. But now he keeps making noise in throat like he is trying dredge up something from depths below. But nothing appears. This habit is irritating.


But worst of all  has he passed on to me his cold, despite all precautions I am taking. Brian is recommending me to drink the Lemsip muck which I do, and to help its efficacy I follow by large shot of vodka.

When I have cold, always is it so much worse than cold of ordinary person, and do you know why this is? I will tell you. It is because I have the narrow sinuses. This is fact. When little girl, doctor visit school with nurse assistant and look down throat of every child, and also up nose. Some require no attention, but rest are split into ‘noses’ and ‘throats’, and later, throats have to go into hospital and have removed their tonsils. But noses are attended to on the spot by the insertion of cloth-covered wire up each nostril. Right up. So I think it is going into my brain and I shout out but nurse holds my arms so stopping me from striking this doctor. This is very unpleasant, and is how I know I have narrow sinuses.

I am feeling so shitty and this is reason why my writing to you had been delayed for this long time. But now have I risen up from sick bed to communicate with you.

I am definitely now thinking the marriage is not good idea. This I inform Brian of and he says that is all right, but he has idea. He will buy wedding ring (proper one made of gold, not some old piece of brass what would turn green my finger.) Then we just pretend we are married for when we go out to bus company functions and for neighbours who always are saying to Brian, have you pooped the question yet? (They are meaning has he asked me to marry because they think I am girlfriend). Also Brian is quite handsome a man – even though not very tall - and maybe they think such a waste if he does not betroth himself. But could also be some are suspecting Brian is gay and hoping he will come out of the cupboard.
Whatever.

Do you think this wedding ring is good idea? Of course Brian would not be attempting to defraud Inland Revenue people because to them he would not pretend marriage – only to bus company, and neighbours.

But even though proper wedding is now the dead duck, Brian say he will still clear out motorbike bits from spare room and equip it for himself as bedroom. Therefore will leave me able to redo main bedroom more suitable décor for boudoir of Swedish lady.

But all this is making me a bit suspect. Maybe even paranoical. Because I am wondering if Brian doing all of this so I will stay with him in flat, thinking I am safe because he is homosexual. I am beginning to wonder though if this really is so, because Brian has not brought home any boyfriends for such long a time and he is always asking me to go to cinema with him and to the restaurant, which is okay by me because he does not attempt to grope me in darkness of movie theatre. But maybe he is playing what you call ‘waiting game’, eh?

Now, you maybe thinking – how come is Anna having change of mind? Since when first moving into flat was disappointed Brian was not showing sexual interest in her body? This is true. But Anna has now become more discernable as to who she copulates with. On looking back on life so far she see how readily she has got it on with this man here and that man there, because always she is looking for love. Not just for the sex was all the relations she has indulged in, though you may not be believing this. No – always searching for LOVE was Anna. This has result of going up lots of blind alleyways (I don’t mean real alleyways – though this also is true – I am speaking with metaphor).

But despite the energy and diligence Anna has applied to this task, alas, no such love has Anna found. And so now she is keeping herself pure (well as pure as possible) until real love come along. Naturally she hopes this will be her Georgie. But he will have to get on his skates (as you British say) otherwise she may be overtaken by someone else.

Enough have I now written, and must retire back to bed. (Brian is having to cook by microwave all his meals. But most times he is bringing home the Chinese or the Indian, which we share.)

Write soon and I hope you are feeling better in spirits.

Oh, and yes I did have a watch and listen to those elderly gentlemen playing jazz. Very satisfactory. But I was wondering where they find all the puff to blow hard their instruments without falling down in dead faint. Still they do – and more power to their elbow-grease I say.

Your loving (and still available – just) Anna.

When you and I were young

No words come tonight.
 Confusion fills my head.
So I have been listening to Jazz.
Don't click here if you don't like old Jazz

Altruism: does it pay off?

*************************************************8

Confusion. That’s what I’m feeling this morning. A head full of confusion is what I’ve got. And a lot of it is due to getting up, then deciding it was too early, and going back to bed. A mistake. Like ordering that second bottle of wine.


I had two short nasty dreams. Same theme. I am ‘out of it’. An outsider. I struggle to find out what is going on. There is a college party but I don’t know where it is, or what time they meet. A friend gets impatient with me when I ask him for details. This ‘friend’ is a boyhood pal who was so shy and timid in real life. He is now a clergyman but in the dream he is a popular party-goer. When I press him, he says they are meeting 'at twelve' in the ‘George’ (a pub, but also a dream pun, which it would take too long to explain here.) What? I say, you mean midnight? Of course, he replies. He doesn’t ask me to go with him.
 I decide I’m not going to go because ‘I always end up alone at these ‘do’s’.Why should I put myself through all that again?’

But the confusion is perhaps the worst part: How come he is so popular and ‘well-in’. He has only been at this college for a few months, while I have been here years. What am I doing wrong? What is it that I lack – that others have in such abundance?

I wake feeling depressed.

Once again, I find myself blaming the ‘only child’ thing. I think that when you are an only child you have nothing the measure yourself against, nothing to relate to. You don’t know where you ‘fit in’. You wonder what you are ‘for’, what your place is in the scheme of things. Consequently you grow up not knowing who you are – and that is the fount of your basic insecurity.

Of course, I am talking about myself. How can I presume to speak for everyone who has grown up as an ‘only child’. Nevertheless, I do believe that we share certain personality traits.

It’s well after noon, and I am still in my dressing down. Isn’t that decadent?
I shall finish this cup of coffee (I’ve already eaten the piece of chocolate) and then take a shower. Some mornings it is a real effort to have a shower, so I put it off for as long as I can; in this case by sitting here at the computer.

I have been given permission to go out this afternoon and see my friend, Jim (I’ve spoken to you before about him, Anna). He has been kicked out of his flat and is currently residing at the Salvation Army Hostel. Actually, I understand the facilities there are quite excellent. You have to pay, of course, but the rooms are clean and the food is good. I have made a mental note of this, in case I too am homeless at some future date.

How are Brian’s phlegm levels? I hope you are using that antiseptic hand gel stuff. I don’t want you catching his nasty germs; coming from Sweden you may be more vulnerable to English bugs.

Looking forward to seeing my (germ free) Anna

Love

George

Funny noises with the mouth

************************************************************
A thought occurred to me this morning:


Perhaps before we had language we had other ways of communicating. And then as language developed these older methods fell into disuse, and were eventually "forgotten".

Evolution depended on survival. Could it be possible that we developed "telepathy" – which may, at its most basic level, may have been just the communication of raw feelings: fear at the impending approach of some predator, transmitted as a danger signal to other members of the tribe; grief; sexual desire; love, even; the ability to make our presence felt to others. As we evolved so may our skills:  the transmission of visual images (still and moving) and other  non-language communication.

Now, in our highly sophisticated world of language, we have lost sight of, or "forgotten" these earlier skills – perhaps they have atrophied, like our tail when we finally came down from the trees, and we are just left with a vestigial “psychic coccyx”. (It would be interesting to mount a study to see if there is a correlation between the length of the coccyx in humans and their ‘psychic’ ability).

Nevertheless, inn our technological age, when someone experiences a sudden inexplicable "knowing", we either dismiss it out of hand or we label it "supernatural’"Of course there is no such thing as "supernatural". If it exists, then it is natural.

I wonder,  is it coincidence that people with the least developed language skills seem to be the ones most likely to experience this "psychic" phenomena? I am thinking of adults, but young children often have "imaginary" friends. (My daughter had one – his name was "Mancroft"). Of course this may just be imagination… on the other hand, it could be that young children have not yet been educated out of these other ways of seeing and experiencing.


Another (completely unrelated) thought:

 Did Pope Julius II call Michelangelo "Mick"?
I like to think so:


You sent for me, Your Holiness?


Yes I did, Mick. Come in and shut the door. Take a pew.


Thanks, boss. That was a great sermon you preached last Sunday, boss – the camel and the eye of a needle stuff. That’s one in the eye (if you’ll pardon the pun) for the wankers (sorry, Bankers). Yes, Boccacio was right -


Never mind all that, Mick. It’s about this little job you’re doing for me.

What job would that be, boss

The painting of the Sistene chapel, of course.


Oh, yes, I’m really cracking on with that.

But that’s the point Mick, you’re not cracking on with it.


How do you mean?


Well, don’t you think you’re spending just a little too much time on the ceiling?


Pardon.

I cannot risk Mass in there with you on your back up on that scaffolding. It’s a Health and Safety issue; you do see that, don’t you?’ What if you fell and injured one of the congregation? We’re in a “compensation culture” now, you know, Mick. It’s more than my job’s worth.


I mean, admittedly it’s very nice – all those cherubs and stuff, although personally, I would have preferred something simpler - a plain eggshell blue, for example.  But the thing is Mick… well, I’m not trying to tell you your job – but I was round there yesterday, and you haven’t even sanded down the doors yet!

What?


And then there’s the window-frames and the pews, and the stonework’s going to need a good going over with the wire brush.


Excuse me, Your Holiness - I just quoted for the ceiling.


Now, no excuses, Mick. Remember how you came knocking on my door, with all the spiel “ Just in the area – got a load of paint over from the last job – noticed your chapel could do with a touch up - cash in hand – no VAT.”
We're talking about the chapel, Mick – the whole caboodle.’


Nah! Sorry boss, not at that price.

Well, you don’t get paid until you finish it – the complete chapel.


Now hang on, Your Holiness – we had a contract. A verbal one, admittedly.


(Laughs) Well, you know what they say Mick – a verbal contract’s not worth the parchment it’s written on.


(Mumbles under his breath) Yeah, well you Popes aren’t exactly renowned for paying up anyway… I’ve been done before…


What was that?


I was just saying… I’ve been up there so long; I’m nearly done for. All I want is a fair price for the job.


I’m trying to run a church here, Mick. And what with the overspill from St Agnes’ after the arson, I need every bit of space I can get. I'm sorry, Mick, but it's the whole chapel - or no payment.

 ‘You drive a hard bargain, boss. Tell, you what: my brother’s just been laid off; the recession’s hit the road building real hard. He’s usually on the “black stuff”, but he can turn his hand to anything. How about if he helps me with the downstairs stuff? Another five florins, and we have the job completed Sunday week?


Done.


***************************************
I agree with you, Anna about the selling sex thing. I acknowledge that half an hour is not long to form a meaningful relationship; an hour would be better, although more expensive.


But that is not the point. What about all those ugly folk, who cannot attract a mate? The socially inept? The chronically shy? The psychologically damaged? How would they be able to satisfy their sexual urges if it were not for thes ladies? These "escorts", "call-girls", "prostitutes" - whatever label you wish to append - perform a service, fulfil a need.
In an ideal world (or so we have been brought up to believe) we should all "entitled" to a  loving, meaningful  relationship, with the trust, caring, companionship and  intimacy that this implies.
It is another lie, of course. This is not ours "by right"; we may be lucky, and achieve it. Most people don't. Some, by accident of birth, uprbinging, life trauma, never even stand a chance.

I think Brian's cold may have come at the right time - for you, Anna, not for him. It has alerted you to the downside - the incredibly down side - of marriage. And believe me, phlegm would be the least of your worries.

Anyway, don't come to see me until Brian's cold is better. (If one person catches a cold in here it goes through the whole place.).

I am working on the fiscal problems I mentioned and hope for a good outcome; an outcome that will benefit both of us.

Looking forward to seeing you - post phlegm.

Love

George

Oh Georgie. How much I love you, but you do talk a load of bullshit, sometimes. (I learn word bullshit off Brian. I think it is a splendid sounding word. Like slut, and trashy.). But left brain, right brain - why is it you making such big deal over this? After all, you have right hand and left hand. And you may use different hand for different purposes. But you don't go on about it - do you?
I am telling you previously, you think too much.

And what is there wrong for paying for sex? Nothing is wrong I am telling you. Lady who is friend who used to work with me in video industry becomes escort person. She tell me that she say to client who is nervous and say he feels guilty - she say, Look, honey. You get hungry, right? You go to restaurant for big satisfying meal, right? Well, you don't feel guilty about such behaviour do you? Just because you pay for this satisfying meal? No, well sex is just appetite, like what is food. So you satisfy appetite, and say - My, I am feeling so much better after that - I will leave tip for this nice kind lady what has been serving me. (Mostly, she say clients do not leave tip because they have paid in advance and afterwards wish to exit from premises as quickly as possible by the back door route.) Never mind.

You would be surprised, say my friend, how repressed and with silly notions in head, men can be. One young gentleman say to her - I find this hard to do because I think sex should be a part of love - I mean it should only be done in loving relationship with someone. And how can I form  loving relationship  in half an hour? (which time is all he have paid for - he could have have  full hour but  is too mean, but my friend do not tell him this). My friend tell him - Look at it like you was learning to drive motor-car. You do not go first out and buy brand spanking new vehicle what you might easily crash. No, instead you go for lesson with professional instructor. And you do not say to instructor - I cannot have lesson with you in this car because it is not my car. I do not own it. I have not formed loving relationship with this vehicle. You use car for purpose. And everybody is happy.

Now this man, Mr Freud. Is he not man who say all girls want to have sex with father? And all boys want to have sex with mother? I do not know if I wanted to have with my father, because I never meet him. He buggers off when I am born. Much later do I have sex with mother's boy-friend, but this is not the same.
Anyway, I think people too fussy about who to have sex with. It is no big deal I think. Having sex, I mean. It is just another way of being friendly.

I am glad you do not kill Mr Spider. Of course, you chuck him outside and some bird might come and spear him with sharp beak, then eat him. Then cat come and eat bird. But his is just nature. This is way God designed world - so everything eat each other. That way keep population down.

And all these dreams what you keep having - why not do have erotic dream once in a while? Thinking of me? This would be more healthy than dreams you do have. All this failing exam stuff.

Brian has severe cold in head. He has much what you call catarrh (do I spell correct?) and also great quantities of the phlegm. (What a bloody silly word is this - why do you not spell like you say - which is flem?) Anyway I say to Brian - Kindly dispose of phlegm when you are alone. Because this is not a pleasant business at all. Also I say - Better go back sleeping on Japanese plank which you call futon, because I do not wish you to be blowing your germs up my nose in night. Brian understands and complies with my request.

I am beginning to reconsider again this marriage thing because a wife might be expected to involve self in all sort of unpleasant duties, regarding bodily functions and person hygene of husband. And though I am familiar with workings of Brian's body - and love him too (but not like I love you), I am not sure if this would fill me with joy. I like dressing up as nurse and wearing of rubber gloves, but this only is for play and in fun situations.

Sometimes life can be complicated. But best thing is to forget about it.

I cook pasta tonight. This is adventurous for me because I do not use microwave. Instead I boil pasta in pan for certain minutes. Then I open tin of tuna and deposit on pasta. Finally, I garnish with tomato sauce, from bottle. I am sure Brian will love this meal and it will help to make cold better.

Good news you are giving me about possible home. I still think marriage is preferred solution but am willing to consider other options.

Until next we meet

Your Anna

DORIS - AND A SPIDER

*****************************************************

I awake to hear Doris Day asking me to take her back to the Black Hills of Dakota.
Hang on Doris – I need a pee. And straightaway I am out of bed and into the bathroom. But there is a spider, frantically trying to climb out of the washbasin. Of course washbasins are not designed to facilitate the easy exit of spiders, so he keeps slipping down. But he doesn’t give up. In fact he redoubles his efforts when he hears my approach.
I don’t like killing anything, so I get a glass and a piece of paper and scoop him up. He doesn’t like it; he doesn’t realise it’s for his own good.
Then, I open a window and tip him outside – to freedom.
I have a pee then hasten back to the bedroom – but Doris has gone!

I’ve been having those dreams again, Anna: the “failure” dreams. They are becoming more frequent. It was exams again. The “teacher” was reading out the results to the assembled students. (I was an adult and it was like college or university). When she read out mine, a group of girls at the front gave out a sympathetic gasp. I was embarrassed. I had done badly in “English”: my best subject.
Later, I confessed to the “teacher” – ‘I just have not put the work in’. I felt so dejected, ashamed.
And then, there was Doris – with an invitation. And now she is gone.

I try to analyse these dreams. I know that my unconscious mind is telling me something: something I urgently need to attend to – or perhaps just accept, and face. But what?
My “failure” was years ago: grammar school. Since then (academically, at least), I have been successful. So what is it my unconscious mind is telling me? Perhaps the “academic” setting of the dreams is a metaphor – but a metaphor for what?

I wish Freud were here.

Or even you, Anna.

Where are you?

Calling A for Anna –
Come in A for Anna -
Are you receiving me?
OVER.

Things are never quite what they seem. And even if they were, how would we know?

*************************************************

I overhead part of a conversation last night, between Clive and Eric. There is a path just below my window which, the evening being quite hot, I had opened wide. Clive and Eric, taking a late evening stroll, had paused for a cigarette.


Eric was apparently telling Clive of the time he visited a massage parlour. He had just split up from his wife and was feeling lonely. He told Clive how he had been so nervous – this being his first time – but the girl had put him at ease, and the whole experience turned out so much better than he could ever have hoped.

‘Well, I would never pay for sex’, said Clive.
There was a pause, and then I heard Eric reply, ‘Oh, we all pay for sex. Sometimes with our dignity… sometimes with our freedom… sometimes with our heart. Often with all three.’

I suddenly felt I was eavesdropping on some really personal stuff, and I was about to close the window, when they moved on, leaving that fragment of conversation hanging in the air, along with a faint whiff of cigarette smoke. (It’s funny, but although I do not indulge myself, I often find the smell of cigarette smoke quite pleasant, seductive, even.)

I retired to bed in a thoughtful mood.

I sometimes see my mind as a washing machine, with all sorts of bits and pieces sloshing around inside. And me, sitting with my eyes glued to the glass window, the porthole of my consciousness, watching different items swirl into view. While some pieces never make an appearance, other items appear twice, or even more. It’s all a bit random. As my mother used to say, “Random is, as random does.” Well, she might have – I can’t remember.

Anyway, all I am saying is that I may possibly repeat myself, If I do, just think of it as the same bit of clothing coming around again.

I was thinking – when are you doing anything else? I hear you ask, Anna.
Well anyway, it occurred to me that the prevailing view – the official, the accepted view of the world, of reality and how things are, is predominantly a left-brain view: the view of the scientist. Now I am not knocking science – I have the utmost respect for the scientific method as a tool for finding out about things. But I sometimes wonder whether there might possibly be another reality apart from this mathematical, logical, rationality… or whether reality can ultimately be reduced to ones and zeroes. OR, perhaps these two realities are just different aspects of one reality. And that maybe we are not giving enough weight to the right brain reality. This is a clumsy way of putting it but it’s the best I can do whilst drunk. No, I am not drunk, Anna. That was just an excuse.

I don’t like that dark green cabbage either. No wonder you didn’t eat it. I always think it looks like it is suffering from deep-vein thrombosis, and I shudder at the thought of my stomach (and then my bowel) having to deal with it. But I do like that other sort of cabbage – is it called “Spring Cabbage”? – the one that is light and delicate, and very tasty.

I think you are right in expecting Brian to move his motorbike out of the back bedroom. But I think you are even more right in thinking carefully about whether you really want to get into this marriage thing. By the way, I don’t think Purple Cow actually meant that marriage caused her to develop a rash. What she said was that she was allergic – and that, I think, was a sort of metaphor. Your rash (which I do remember you telling us all about) was something quite different – and responded well to the antibiotics, as I recall.

And, Anna, please do not write me off as suitable partner material. Note that I say “partner”. What need have we for this marriage thing? There are other ways around your little problem of illegal sojourn in our country. After all, you have been here for… how long is it now? And no one has bothered you, come looking for you, have they? And another thing: do not be so sure that I cannot offer you a home. I have decided that I am going to sue my (ex) wife for possession of the holiday cottage we  owned. The one by the sea… on Wosser Point. You remember – you and I spent a weekend there. I know it was a long time ago but surely you cannot have forgotten that weekend!

When Georgina and me divorced, I felt so guilty that I did not bother to fight her over the cottage. (Georgina eventually got all the money from the sale of Wynorin – our marital home.) My solicitor told me I was a fool – but you know me… soft hearted. Well, I have changed: no more “Mister Nice Guy”.

Anyway I have a meeting with my solicitor tomorrow. (That was the news I had for you, which got overshadowed by the mushroom cloud of your marriage bombshell.) I shall take my ex wife to court for what is rightfully mine.

I am off to bed now because I want to be fully alert for tomorrow’s meeting.

Set your sights a little higher than Purley, my love.

Goodnight



George