reading – Page 30 – three good words

August 6, 2014June 16, 2020

34 Willow Drive

34 Willow Drive was a very tidy place, with a neat front garden and perfectly cut grass in the back. You took off your shoes before stepping into the main house, and you took your plate to the kitchen after dinner. Prayers were said before you ate, and on Sundays the whole family dressed up smartly and went to church where there were other families with Sunday clothes on.

In the beginning the other parents were very curious about Caden, and asked Mr and Mrs Corrigan questions, giving Caden pitying looks after those conversations. The children were more forward, asking him if his Dad really almost beat him to death and wanted to see his bruises. The Willow Drive children were fascinated, and Caden was thought to be tough and dangerous since he had survived such violence. Matthew and Stephanie, (who liked to be called Steff, with two fs), liked to brag and show off with him as long as Caden was a novelty. In school they introduced him as a cousin from far away who had a dark past that made everyone curious, but after a few weeks the latest computer game came out and there was Christmas to think of and Caden was like everyone else.

Matthew and Stephanie, who, after the excitement of novelty had worn off, realised that Caden was not a guest, but had actually come to stay, Matt and Steff lost their benevolence and did their best to ignore him. They enjoyed calling him Rice or Riceboy when their parents weren’t listening, simply because Caden liked rice. He’d never eaten it outside the curry shop, and they only went if Aunt Vicky remembered to. When allowed to join in their games, Caden was responsible for all the menial jobs. He was always the servant, the worker, the villain. He enjoyed being the Red Indian most. Others might have thought Matt and Steff’s behaviour mean, but Caden, who had never lived a day in peace at home since Mother left, who never knew how it was to have siblings, who had never had the opportunity of regular meals, clean clothes and a bed that didn’t turn into a trap if someone came home drunk and violent, Caden did not feel the effects of their behaviour until much later. In the beginning he was just content with having another life. He often looked to the sky and wondered if his mother had seen how bad things were and finally found a way to save him. He didn’t know. He went to church and heard about God, but what the Vicar said didn’t really interest him. Caden said the prayers at dinner and made sure to tie his tie correctly before church, (Aunt Vicky had shown him, mumbling there was nothing sillier than a man who couldn’t tie his own shirt, her cigarette hopping up and down while she talked, ashes flying everywhere) but otherwise that part of life at the Corrigan’s remained closed to him. Caden preferred thinking that his mother was on a cloud somewhere, or that the Force actually existed. To Caden at ten, that made much more sense.

Mr and Mrs Corrigan were what people called ‘steady’. They treated Caden as one of their family and never favoured him to their own children, nor their children to him. They worked hard, had strict schedules and did not like being interrupted if they were busy unless it was serious. Every Wednesday, Mrs Corrigan went to her bridge evening and on Thursday nights Mr Corrigan liked to play darts with his friends. He always came home smelling of cigarettes. The Corrigans were not the kind of happy couple you saw on TV, the kind that always laughed and cuddled their kids, living in the big shiny houses. They smiled if you did something well or patted your head. Physical contact, as they called it, was rare in the Corrigans’ house, even between Mr and Mrs Corrigan. They did not hug or cuddle Matt and Steff either, and Caden, who had had too much physical contact for his first ten years, Caden was relieved that no one would be touching him constantly like Aunt Vicky liked to do.

Speaking of Aunt Vicky, she always came at least once a year to see Caden after he moved to the Corrigans’. In the beginning Caden thought it a little tedious to have her come, but in later years he came to enjoy Aunt Vicky’s chaotic visits that always lasted a whole weekend. In his teens he discovered her great talent of making people laugh. She was someone who didn’t expect anything from you except to enjoy yourself and have a good time. She smoked, she drank, she was loud and what Mrs Corrigan called ‘vulgar’, but she was also the kind of person you could ask anything, and Caden took advantage of that when it came to those questions he would never ask the Corrigans. To them, the world was made up of fixed facts of good and bad, order and chaos, enemies and friends, and for a teen like Caden who knew how twisted and out of sync things could be, their answers were always lacking.

At least Aunt Vicky heard you out, maybe asking a few questions in this direction or that. Caden never fully understood them, but at least she asked. And she tended to let him come to his own conclusions. If it was good she smiled and nodded, if she thought it could do with some improvement, she would purse her lips like Mrs Corrigan and continue whatever she was doing. Another thing Caden enjoyed about Aunt Vicky was how she irritated Matt and Steff. They never knew how to take her. She wasn’t fashionable, but she was fun. She wasn’t posh, but she was funny. And she made Caden feel normal again. Having Aunt Vicky come visit always felt like a holiday, a three-day holiday outside his usual life in 34 Willow Drive and by the time Caden passed his GCSEs her visits weren’t something he would have wanted to miss.

August 4, 2014October 9, 2014

(a)wait

It’s so quiet. So quiet. So…
This waiting is killing me, this quiet, silent, waiting that never ends

For something to happen
categories of emptiness

I have no idea what I’m talking about
We sing and swing and live without light

Inside

Out – you go, no, don’t stay, go go go,

Gogo dancers, do they ever get cold?

Inhibition, intuition, into something, into other

me, you, us, them, everybody, anybody,
any body
arms, legs, feet, head,
everything in between
that place that says now now here here
me me me
whereverwhateverwhenever

that part that wants to shout in the street
at 3:30 in the a.m.
I don’t give a damn

fuck it just do it

damn damn damn

damn it go on just do it
all in, all win, all those sins
committed
original

that’s SO original
authentic, real
anyway, every day, all time any damn
and here’s me waiting to

stay stay stay

away, a ray of sunshine
when it’s gone
and it’s all so quiet
a swan, song;

through dawn and day
into the night, bright stars shining
and then lying on a bed in rome, lying, crying

sighing into the night

wishing waiting that maybe, possibly,
somebody just might
get lucky
happy
not frontin’
coz she wants to move

he just wants ta love ya baby
but he’s a hustler too
it ain’t where he been
but where he ’bout to – get back here when the lights come on
I don’t give one damn about Tyrone!
You gonna be back here when the lights come on

come on come on come on

oh come ON!

You did NOT just say that!
Yes I did
Yes I said it.
Yeah I did

And I really, really, really meant it

So take that big
bad wolf that’s howling at the
Put your pants back on! Gross!
Flicking back long blonde hair
Nails all polished
Eyes set on glare

Stare
Stair
way to go
It was heaven
Ya make me wanna
scream and shout

It’s 3 in the fuckin’ a.m. you crazy?
Come back here!

Don’t you dare.

August 4, 2014October 6, 2016

Ellen

It was almost ridiculous where they met again. Ellen was shopping at the deli for a dinner she’d promised her friends. She already had everything at home and now was looking for two or three fine cheeses to round off the dinner. She heard a woman’s voice right then, the kind of self-assured voice wealthy women had, and Ellen looked up to observe this particular specimen. The woman was a tall blonde, with perfectly done hair. She was beyond forty by a few years, maybe more, but she’d kept herself wonderfully well. She was stunning even now. Her makeup was perfect, her clothes of the best quality. The jewellery flashing at her ears, around her neck and on her fingers was beautiful, and her handbag was that particular kind where you did not ask for the price. She was beautiful, rich and powerful, it came off her like expensive perfume, and Ellen saw how others glanced at her admiringly and the shop assistants behind the counter stood to attention, smiling brightly.

‘Honey, what do you say? A little Beluga or would Salmon be enough?’ The woman asked this with a confident turn of her head and Ellen at first didn’t see who she was talking to. He was tall and had the kind of dark hair you knew was expertly taken care of. He was in a suit and there was something in the way he moved that made Ellen look again. She expected the man to be older, his hair dyed but his face betraying his real age – she saw a young, strong neck that had to be at least fifteen years younger than the blonde’s, if not more. Then again, you could never tell with these people. She could have been fifty already, but she did look marvellous, her breasts round (possibly with the help of some surgery, Ellen thought a little viciously) and her figure slender and firm. Ellen was sure she went jogging daily or had a personal trainer or something like that. And what was so bad about that, really? She had the means to keep herself very well, so why not use them? And she really did look good. Was it all that surprising then that she was with someone far younger than herself? Men did it all the time, and now women were catching up too, so why not? Ellen decided it was all rather nice in fact.

There was a short discussion between the blonde and her companion, too low for Ellen to hear and she anyway had to choose, the shop assistant was asking if she could help her. Ellen picked out the cheeses she wanted, hearing how the rich woman chose Beluga after all, enough to pay a fortune for it, but then, what was a fortune to Ellen was probably just peanuts for that beautiful woman. The young assistant packed up the cheeses in perfect wraps of brown paper and string, and Ellen couldn’t help think that the rich blonde would have been able to buy a piece of everything, but Ellen wasn’t her. She had a good life too, though. It just wasn’t as richly expensive, as glitteringly affluent as the blonde’s. Then again, wasn’t it nice to see that a woman at her age had such money and power? Everything about her told Ellen that she had worked hard to get where she was now, that she owed nothing to others and all to herself. It was in a way reassuring. The possibility, at least, was there.

Ellen smiled a thank you at the shop assistant and took the parcel of cheeses. Due to the sudden crowding at the counter, Ellen had to walk the other way, past the rich blonde and whoever-it-was with her. She said ‘Excuse me’ and ‘Pardon’ and moved past the people as best as she could, avoiding the stacked wheels of Gouda, the slim glasses of black olives and the exotic olive oils. She passed close by the rich blonde and her partner, and maybe it was curiosity, but Ellen did take a closer look. It was only a glance, a glimpse of his face, just as they too turned to leave. Ellen could not say if he saw her, but she saw him as he turned. By then she was beyond the shelves and walking without thinking. Her heart was racing so fast, she could feel it in her throat. She finally stopped at a shelf full of chutneys and breathed in deeply. Maybe she had seen wrong. Yes, maybe she had seen wrong. It was a reassuring thought. Yes, she had probably seen wrong. It would be ridiculous to meet in a place like this, especially if he was with that blonde. And who would she be anyway? But she had called him Honey. Maybe she was his mother, but Ellen knew that was wrong. The blonde wasn’t that old yet. Fifteen years at best, maybe twenty if she’d kept herself really well.

Ellen shook her head. No, she must have seen wrong. It was probably a trick of the light and it was really only a glimpse. Anyone could look like anything in a second. Yes, exactly. Ellen exhaled once more and went to pay her cheeses and the baguettes, feeling a bit like a mademoiselle. She had to wait in line and couldn’t help it, she looked along the other two queues. They were there. She was in her expensive skirt and jacket combination and he was in that perfect suit. She was talking to him and he was nodding. Ellen recognized the gesture immediately. It was in the shoulders and the turn of his head. It was in the way his hair fell and the angle of his face, showing a profile she could never forget. Just as the blonde turned to pay with her card he turned and their eyes met. Ellen felt everything inside clutch sharply, snatching at her breath. It was him. It was him. It was him. And he knew it was her, she could see it. ‘Miss?’ the young man at the cashier asked. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Ellen said, flustered, blushing. She paid her cheeses and the baguettes. They walked past her just as she was done. He did not look at her. They stepped through the sliding doors and were gone. Ellen saw that her hands were not steady when she took her card. She thanked the young man at the cashier and walked out into the rest of her evening.

It was him, there was no denying it. She had seen. He was not a figment of her imagination as she had come to believe over the past year, ok, seven months. Six and half. Those days had been too perfect, those weeks had been too wonderful to be real. She must have read it or seen it somewhere. It could not have happened. It could not have happened if she woke up alone that Monday and it was as if nothing had ever happened. Ellen had come to believe that, since it made it easier. She could think about it without wanting to cry if she believed it was a dream, a hallucination, a figment of her imagination, a vision in a dream. Where did she read that? Probably a blurb or magazine somewhere. Anyway, that was how she could bear it, by believing that it really never happened, it actually never took place. Now, that was impossible. It was him. She would have recognized that face anywhere.

Ellen arrived home quicker than she expected. She climbed the stairs to her front door and dreaded opening it, but she was in for a surprise. Her friend Tara was waiting with bags of shopping, grinning, ‘I got bored waiting and decided you need some help.’ Ellen smiled gratefully, and pushed back the sudden tears. She would not cry, definitely not now. No, she would not. And anyway, she had seen wrong. If she wanted to enjoy the evening, if she wanted to keep her smile, if she simply wanted to live in peace, she had to believe that. It wasn’t him. It was someone cruelly like him, but it wasn’t him. There was no one like him. He did not exist. And with that, Ellen opened the door to her apartment, stepped back into her life and started preparing the dinner, laughing with Tara who had new outrageous stories to tell, she really was a great friend, she somehow always knew when to turn up in time and make Ellen smile again.

A week later, Ellen came home from work feeling exhausted. The whole week had been draining. She had managed her dinner quite well, what with Tara making her laugh the whole time, and once Anne, Leon and the others joined, everything was great again anyway. But even after they left the memory was there, waiting like a bear-trap under dried leaves, snapping closed the moment Ellen walked into her bedroom. The tears were back, but she refused. She would not. No. She would not cry. She absolutely would not. She refused to. It would not happen. No tear would pearl and slide, she would not reach for any Kleenex, she would simply brush her teeth, change for bed and sleep. And Ellen managed very well until she was in bed, and turned on the TV and found a rom-com on one of the channels, one of those sticky-sweet movies with that young woman who had that face like a sweet young puppy and just got kicked like one by the bastard friend she had, shouting gleefully ‘He’s just not that into you!’ or something like that, really relishing it. Ellen saw the tears slide down the pretty face on-screen and clenched her teeth. She would not. She would not. But she did. Awfully. She cleaned out her whole box of Kleenex, she just couldn’t stop.

Somehow Ellen fell asleep. When she woke up she saw the massacre of Kleenex on her bed and floor. That was the beginning of the end. Saturday was… not good. It was so bad, she called Tara, but Tara was busy with her own life and never took her calls. Sunday turned up, and it got marginally better. Tara came over with coffee, cake and bottles of wine, and watched all kinds of nonsense with Ellen, one rom-com after the other, the worse the better, until they ended up watching Audrey Hepburn movies and singing drunkenly while draining their glasses and pouring out more wine. Tara really was the best friend Ellen had ever had, she always turned up with her emergency kit of sugar, caffeine and alcohol, coffee, cakes and wine, and didn’t care how long it took or what time it was, she stayed until Ellen stopped crying.

Monday showed up without asking and Ellen had a headache, a bad one, but she felt more like herself again. Tara had already gone home by the time her alarm went off. She had taped a post-it to Ellen’s forehead, Tara liked to do things like that. It was hugs and kisses and Need to talk? Call me!, which made Ellen smile a real smile. Tara was the best, she really was. Ellen crawled out of bed, showered, dressed and went to work, lying that she felt a bit chill when someone asked her what was wrong. It was snowing outside so they believed her.

Even so, every day was a trial. By Thursday, Ellen was exhausted all over again. She didn’t want to think anymore. She didn’t want to remember anymore. She was starting to feel that anger she loved, that anger that she had met him, that she had been so foolish to ask, and listen and answer and actually believe it meant something, that she had been stupid enough to talk to him, to give herself away like that as if she had no brain in her head.

Ellen loved that anger, it brought her back into the life she knew, that life that was hers again. By Friday evening Ellen detected the beginnings of normalcy. That anger was growing and soon, very soon, she would spend her hours and days furiously living her own life, with her own thoughts, her own feelings, her own peace of mind. Maybe she would call David and agree to meet him again, her evenings and nights with him were always very nice and he really was a good man. Yes, she would do that. She would go home and ask David if he would like to come over for some pasta, Ellen was very good with pasta, everyone liked her pasta, people even asked her to make it again. Yes, she would call David and ask him if he would like some pasta and wine, she was sure he wouldn’t mind a few hours to relax and unwind.

July 28, 2014February 11, 2015

don’t listen

A blank page can be an awful thing. It seems empty, but it isn’t. It’s filled with possibilities, words written, deleted, rewritten, crossed out, thought over, emphasised, loved, hated, wanted, reviled – and it never ends either.

I think the hardest part is to not listen. You know, those ‘Are you serious’ ‘Are you sure about this?’ ‘Is that good enough?’ and ‘Is that it?’ that whisper from the blankness of the page, sounding out the words in your head. And then it happens, the whispers grow louder and louder, talk, yell, shout and scream and suddenly you’re saying: ‘No no no no no no no no!’ It’s wrong! bad! awful! horrible! blergh!

Delete. Delete. Delete.

And then you’re back to square one, that blank page, that empty space that somehow is already filled with all the things you don’t want to say, all the things you wish to convey, and really need to get on the page. And the whispers just won’t go away.

So many times, too many times, listening has made me do something stupid – that is, I deleted everything in sudden horrified shame, which also meant all the words were gone, never to be retrieved, never to be seen again.

I stopped that.

I keep everything that makes me hesitate, sometimes even squirm, even the silliest scraps of words on paper. I keep them for one reason: between those words, hidden among the letters, there is usually something real, a thought, a word, a memory that I can use later when I know what it is that I’m after. It’s not always like that. Sometimes what I wrote is just really, really bad.

It’s sieving through the whispers and finding my inner compass that’s so difficult. The whispers like to override that gut-feeling that 9 times out of 10 is accurate, and even the tenth time it was right somehow. The whispers that seem to come out of the emptiness, they can get too loud, and the trick is not easy but possible: just don’t listen. Write it down. Write it all down. Even that sentence you know is silly. Even that word you just don’t want to use. Write it down. See it written out so that you know why it’s so horrible. It’s helped me countless times. In a way, when I see it written out, I finally know what’s so wrong with it. Until then it’s just words swirling in my head.

Then I let it rest for a while. Sometimes for a few days, sometimes a few weeks, it can go into months and years actually, but eventually I go back, and read everything one more time. It surprises me time and again how different the words look and sound just becomes some time passed. If I’m happy with it, I edit what needs editing, re-write, re-draft and re-do until it’s roughly where I wanted to be. Then I start over until I finally feel ‘Yeah… that’s about right.’ This takes time of course, and it can be (very) frustrating, but what really helps me is reading the books, poems and short stories I love best. They’re the proof that someone successfully managed to silence the whispers coming out of the (apparent) emptiness.

At one point I had something of a database of crap sentences, horrible plot twists, stupid little dialogues I wanted to turn into genuine conversations and failed, failed, failed. I keep them though, and go back to them when I can overcome the inner cringe, and sometimes – I can’t tell you how or why, there is a mystery to this craft of ours – I find that seed of thought, of feeling that I was aiming for and work from there.

July 26, 2014October 28, 2015

words words words

Words are tricky. Each one has its own character. Some come all sweet and simple, and suddenly get complicated without you knowing how it happened. Synonyms you never heard of turn up like juniper berries and pepper seeds – the taste, the flavour, is overwhelming. Meanings melt down everything in that one second you weren’t looking. And then there are those words that look perfectly solid, wonderfully whole – and they can’t even hold a sentence. Others transform in one paragraph and won’t fit anymore, no matter how you try to squeeze. They’re too there, too present, sitting there, staring you in the face, daring you to keep them there like oysters on a plate … So after all the cutting and stirring, after hours and hours of tasting, testing, and rearranging everything … it all boils down to which word fits, which one’s the right pinch of salt, and which one’s perfect, exactly what you were aiming for, exactly what you wanted.