celerman

Returning to an abandoned village

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 22:46:00 +0000

(three)

no thing
.............. ex cept
the should be
but isn't
di ..... vide be
........................ tween
too long ago
...................... andnow

A trick of the
me mory

or a lapse of the
............................ light
perhaps

No .............. thing
............................... certainly
to match a re ................ collection
of child
.............. hood

(two)

a familiar sense
of geo
............ graphy

an aware ............. ness
of pointing
in the right direct
................................ ion
of be ing aligned
true
turning the right
............................. way
to face
what is not
.................... now
but was
............... then

A notion that this space is

still

...................... that space

(one)

a dark patch
a once wet
stain on stone
proof of the exist
............................... ence
of it all
of
every
........... thing

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meme

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 21:26:00 +0000

Between hatred and violence lies the hope of something else

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meme

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 10:01:00 +0000

Between the reality of the thing and the imagination of the thing lies a blurred edge

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meme

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 11:59:00 +0000

Between a look and a gaze is the transfer of a lifetime

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meme

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 13:47:00 +0000

Between me and you is a minuteness of infinity

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Meme

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 22:04:00 +0000

Between anxiety and excitement is the memory of an event

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Meme

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Wed, 17 Dec 2008 01:21:00 +0000

Between now and then is a squeeze of an arse

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Memes

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 09:58:00 +0000

Happiness is being unhappy in a community
Happiness is community
A meme is an illocutionary act
We are not what we are
Linguistically, hopeless is not the absence of hope
Everything you do has already been done
Whatever you are doing at this precise moment, chances are you are wasting your time
We have to overdo everything in order to know when to stop.
Social policy that discourages young parents contributes to the breakdown in society
You have to have been there to care
Life only seems fast and hectic when you try to slow down
The police pay tax on petrol
True crime prevention is undesirable
Crime prevention is possible only on a genetic basis
Wanting to live in another country because immigrants have ruined this one, is an irony that no one else seems to see
Nationality is only a name
Describing myself as English is the only thing that defines me as being English
Learning is biological
Only the imperfect demand perfection
The rights of the individual should not be placed above the rights of the community
Learning is pretending
Life is a path and you need to keep your eyes open to avoid the cracks
A student's experience is limited only by its teachers' ambition
Mothers' Day is about remembering; Fathers' Day forgetting
Things get their names in exactly the same way as people
History is the record of our battles to form communities
The urge to buy new things or to travel is motivated by the same desire
Technology deconstructs the boundaries between human and not human.
I have never doubted my own importance
6 billion people can be wrong
Out of a world population of approximately 6 billion and rounded to a reasonable number of decimal places, the percentage of people who think I am important is zero
Cosmetic surgery makes us less human
Clicking on "NEXT BLOG" is a cry for help
Germans know the shape of their country as clearly as we know the shape of ours
Religion is a porn
Porn is a religion
All churches are theme parks
He may not exist, but the power of God is still awesome
Criticism is never constructive. It is simply that some people are able to turn criticism into a positive
The more autistic I allow myself to become, the more the world makes sense.
I always wanted to be alone.
What we want is rarely what we need; rarely what is good for us.
You have been so very good for me.
I have lived on Tennyson, Victoria, Church and Turner streets
Never underestimate the influence of history
It's still a man's world
A man with a body to die for will probably live longer than expected
A woman with a body to die for, will probably die for it
The length of just one second varies according to your age
By definition, things that run like clockwork, don't run like clockwork
The longer things run, the more they lose direction
Seeing is believing
Striving for a comfortable life is striving for a flatline
When I think of Christmas, I can't help wondering why we don't have a special holiday to celebrate the birth of Snow White.
When I watch football I long to be a footballer.
I would have liked to have formed a White Stripes tribute band. I would have called them The Shite Wipes.
I find the word governemtn really difficult to type at any speed
The number 356 is rarer than both 355 and 357
Sometimes governments get things right
Describing myself as a teacher describes every particle of my being
I am a teacher
I used to say I teach, rather than saying I am a teacher because I wanted to be more than just a worker
Wet shave your head at least once in your lifetime
Some children, even if they have a loving, heterosexual pair of middle class parents who read to them every single night, attend parents' evenings and have an annual family membership to the National Trust, will not attain the targets set them by government
Children don't attain government targets just because they are set
Getting drunk is a symptom of an illness, not the illness itself
Not everyone drinks to get drunk
People don't drink because it is available
People don't drink because it's cheap
Abusing your own body is harmful but not illegal
Being good doesn't guarantee success
Failure doesn't mean you are bad
Bad people fail. Eventually. Always.
Shopping is the product
There is no cure for death
Watching a child cry can be pleasurable
Hearts don't break
We are the perception of ourselves
Cutting yourself can sometimes take away the pain
How you feel about yourself shapes how others feel about
We throw away countless things that we once
Elvis sounds like an Elvis impersonator
Having a religion is a disability
Something experienced on television is not experienced at all
When one thing goes wrong it doesn't mean another one will
Without doctors, people die younger. Without teachers there are no doctors
You can't ever save a life; you can only defer death
If you are an addict, the treatment you receive will depend upon the drug to which you are addicted. If we applied the same logic to other illnesses, then people with lung cancer would be imprisoned but people with skin cancer would all go out on a Friday night for a sunbed
Addiction to one drug will lead to prison. Addiction to another will make you one of the crowd.
Getting drunk on a Friday is not as bad for your health as getting drunk on a Tuesday
You become a new person once something is said
Forgetting is a matter of choice
The people we know best will always have the capacity to surprise and appall
The Internet can be pared down to 5 favourites
The promise of a loving kiss can move you to commit any crime
I can't know who I am while I'm worried about who you are
You have to be strong to let a kiss chain you
We are all disabled
Inability is disability
As soon as someone is better than you, you are disabled.
The space we occupy dictates who we are
Species evolve beyond perfection
Species evolve beyond protection
Evolution is a revolver
Species degenerate
Most of what we learn we already know
Gifts take
The word boring is meaningless. It is merely used by the lazy to describe something else.
The things that can change the world for the better have all already happened
As with ants and wasps, most humans are workers
A Freudian strip is much more revealing than a Freudian slip
You can tell lies but not truths
Beauty has to be learned
Truth: Don't look for it, make it
The memory of an event is the reality of an event
Truth cannot be handled
Truth is more than one thing
Bigger is not better... but it is more important
Personal gifts are personal colonialism
New is very easily confused with better
Plants have had a greater impact than people on the planet
We share experiences but what we experience can not be shared
Small communities will shrink to nothing
1 person on the Internet can't say anything important
Total agreement between people is impossible
The Internet is a feminine space, spoiled by men
Where you were born is more significant than who you were born to
Being born in Europe is more significant than who my father is
Being asked to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, is being asked to achieve the impossible
Being asked to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, is being asked to lie
Truth is not law
When society says that something is bad for you, they actually mean something is bad for society
The concept of god doesn't provide answers, it merely imagines life as a question
Sometimes a bad copy is a better copy
Copying is imitation not cheating
You are the only person with true authority over yourself
Mantras are hypnotic
You may tell the story of your life, but your life is not a story
Seeing is not believing
People who believe in God may be right
State education is the process of forgetting
Wealth does not equal success
Indoctrination is fundamental to parenting
Change happens in people's minds
The shortest distance between two points in time is not the only distance between two points in time
Symbolism begins with imagination
Communities take power from individuals and give it to the species
God is the equivalent of the mathematical term x
The desire to live forever is natural but not universal
The desire to live forever is biological not spiritual
The desire to live forever is not a justification for religion
Nothing can be better than something
More but less often, is better than less more often
Being first is not the same as winning
Truth and fiction are like chickens and eggs, only worse. At least with chickens and eggs you can tell which one is which
Truths begin with a fiction
Fictions begin with a truth
The tastes and styles of marginal groups will always be absorbed into the mainstream
The power holders would like you to think that emotional neutrality is aspirational
Suburban living desensitizes you to sensation
Emotions are reactions to sensations
To be precise with words, less is definitely more
Don't do things just because it's your job
When I say, "you", that is different from when you say, "I"
A single reality is finite, but there are an infinite number of realities possible
My reality is not the same as your reality
It's never your job to save someone
In English there is often one word for two things, but never two words for one thing
The sensation of fear betrays a fear of sensation
Reality is not the same as existence
The sensation of reality only proves the reality of the sensation
Asking, "Why am I here?" is a psychological problem, not a spiritual problem
Reality is pointless
Reality is just a sensation
The reason why some people's minds are closed is the key to opening them
Only in their perception are ugliness and beauty different things
Reality is a state of mind
Conform on your own terms
Feelings are more important than ideas
Apathy is death
There is nothing without language
Fire? No. The Wheel? The bicycle, the petrol engine or atomic energy? No, language is our greatest invention
It takes courage to control anger
Thinking is where we exist
We write our own future as surely as we write our own past
Treat the weak and the strong equally
Nationality becomes less and less meaningful the further back you look
Reality is a state of mind
A good teacher has the questions and not the answers
Once started, a relationship can never be ended
Aim to live a deep life, not long life
Never tell anyone to "cheer up".
Walking under a ladder will not bring you bad luck, but it can be dangerous
Masturbating will not make you blind
Talking to yourself is not a sign of madness
All behaviour is addictive
To have self-respect you have to be alternative
To be respected you have to be mainstream
"In the beginning was the word" is true, but it is not how the bible begins
Because the human brain is infinitely more powerful than the human body, frustration is the underlying emotion
Social order comes through submission, disorder through rebellion
The gap between laws and behaviour is the size of societies problems
Selling anything for profit, not just your body, is vulgar
The idea of prison should be enough
Rules don't exist until you break them
Be your own god
God is good means god is an adjective not a noun
Somewhere in time god lost an 'o'.
Always ask yourself, "Why are you telling me that?"
All language is metaphor
Check that you are in control by abstaining
Technology ties you down
The word "sin" is derived from the word "truth". So what was the original sin?
Getting into a stranger's car is as dangerous as climbing on a bandwagon
Language makes you powerful.
You were born to live, not to look after your parents.
Don't get too wrapped up in your own self-importance because in the universe even the big things are tiny
You are addicted when it's the substance and not you that chooses your friends
Terrorists manufacture two things; bombs and racists
Nothing is real? No, even nothing is not real
Meaning is created; It doesn't exist outside of you.
Don't ask what is the meaning of life, ask where is the meaning of life.
Anyone who gossips to you, undoubtedly gossips about you
I don't have the answers
If you solicit for readers you prostitute yourself and your writing becomes pornography
Wherever you settle, live closer to the edge than the middle
Consumption has two meanings. It is both the purchase and use of goods as well as a wasting disease
Shopping is a disease that has to be managed
A simple spelling mistake can render your words meaningless
It's sometimes honourable to lie to protect others but never to protect yourself
Learn to do one thing well
English and Maths are not the only indicators of intelligence
Education is not taught in schools
You wouldn't want everyone to be the same as you, so don't be afraid of anyone who is different to you.
The fear of difference is socially engineered
We are all traveling through time at the rate of one second per second
If you have to say, "I can't" always add "yet" to it.
On a flat piece of paper don't let anyone tell you which way is up.
Question everything
Fat is fucked
I love you.
Cosmetics are made by chemical companies
What you write can always be rubbed out but what you say can never be unsaid.
Don't worry after dark
As a default setting, if you can't decide between your head and your heart, follow your heart.
Regret nothing
Make your decisions based on the information at hand
If you are giving to charity, give first to the environment, then to animals and only then should you give to people.
North is better than South
Learn to enjoy your own company. That way you can be alone without feeling lonely.
The only things of value you will leave behind, are memories and children; work hard at making them good.
If you are always moaning about work, leave. If you can't leave, stop moaning.
Take risks
You are responsible for your own safety
Financial compensation doesn't make things better
Accidents happen
Vote at every opportunity
All language contains magic powerful enough to bewitch you.
You are shaped by the voices you hear and the voice you hear the most? Your own.
It's worth saying, even if no one is listening.
Have no time for religion
Intuition is better than logic
Red is better than blue
Intelligent people are often dysfunctional
Dysfunctional people are often intelligent
Once a day, tell someone how you feel.
Seeing a pattern doesn't mean it isn't random
On a long enough timeline, the survival rate is the same for everyone.
Don't believe statistics
Most people have more than the average number of legs
Don't be afraid of pain.
The pain of true love is well worth it.
Delayed pleasure is better pleasure than instant gratification.
Don't confuse knowledge with intelligence.
Learning is living.
If you wouldn't rent it, don't buy it.
Never forget that old people were young.
Always apologise but never take it back.
Say what you mean and mean what you say.
Everything you need to know about advertising is summed up in this one fact: New York Bagels are made in a town just outside of Rotherham, South Yorkshire.
Scared is another word for excited.
Eating butter can make your breasts hurt.
If you believe in something you are bound to say it.
To take the path to blind faith you must first put your blinkers on.
Those who trust in blind faith are blind to the truth.
If the only reason you're doing it is because Nike told you to, don't Just Do It.
Remember, when people knock on your door, show you the sign of the cross and start talking about religion, that if they came to the door, showed you a light-sabre and started talking about The Force, you would close the door, gather your children close to you and call the police.
Owning a big, expensive car declares to the world that you are selfish and have no regard for the environment.
You are going to die.
The ultimate achievement of medicine would signal the end of the species.
Watch TV: Don't watch TV.
To feel confused is to feel normal.
When you're ready, other people will come first.
Being hungry is not the same as starving.
Wanting something is not the same as needing something.
However much life hurts, however much it gets you down or lets you down, it is never as bad as the alternative.
Disagreeing with someone is not the same as disliking them.
How you feel about yourself shapes how you feel about others.
The difference between fiction and non-fiction is similar to to the diference between flammable and inflammable.
If someone says, "Follow me", you don't have to go.
Learning to be selfish is the first step on the path to altruism.
History is fiction; that's why the word story is in it.
Ordering, classifying and categorising, being methodical, are all so deeply satisfying, I imagine cavemen lined up their flint arrowheads, largest down to smallest, before they went hunting.
The history of words can make the hairs on the back of your neck prickle.
Rituals are always obsessive and always compulsive.
Funny is more attractive than pretty.
Writing is drawing, drawing isn't writing
Everyone likes a drink, no one likes a drunk
God is not.
If the inner voice says something you've not heard before, listen.
Weakness can be a strength.
Strength can be a weakness.
Sometimes, and only sometimes, it is alright to do as you are told.
You learn more, and more quickly, by being wrong sometimes, than by always being right.
Don't trust reality.
It's not always wrong to sell things.
Flocking and herding should be left to sheep and cows; if it's a best seller, don't buy it. If it's busy, leave. If it's common, reject it.
American foreign policy is analogous to Victorian Englishmen who spoke English loudly and clearly in the belief that foreigners would understand them better.
From the point of view of the authorities, work is a purposeful distraction from living the life you really want.
French is just English in another language
Atheists are right to hope they lived a good life.
Saying "I Believe..." is not the same as saying hearts are trumps.
Curtains are not as important as you once thought they were.
The phrase "throw it away" is nonsense - there is no 'away', only alternative somewheres.
Anyone capable of blind faith is capable of any atrocity
You should be wary of anyone who feels the need to promote their goods through advertising
Staying can be as brave and exciting as going
Religion is the result of a faulty meme

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Reflections

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Wed, 30 May 2007 10:35:00 +0000

Reflections

Thought waves
beams of ideas

Intelligence
brightness

Illuminating

Beams of ideas

Light
Dark

Shadow
Umbra
Pen umbra

The subject

my words strike you

The object

of my gaze

Their illumination
casts a shadow

creeps over you

From the darkness
brightness
beams emerge from behind
the hard-edged solidity
of me

My words
reflected back to me
meaningless

My words
laser guided
aimed at you
at your eyes
bulls eye

The enunciation emits
focussed
precision guided meaning

hits
but is missed
missed by you

reflected
refracted
casting umbra and penumbra
lightening the darkness
by the merest fraction

a refraction of words twisted into
near darkness
meaningless
meaning less

A photo taken by a poet without a camera

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Mon, 26 Mar 2007 12:48:00 +0000

[A woman] gone to twist wire/into bouquets/distributed to passers by.
Peter Rumney

In the frame
a stuffed human hand
the perfectly preserved
hand i work
of a taxidermist

It is gloveless
and ringless

Pin sharp
finger print
life line
detail

The ungloved hand clutches
tight in its fist a twisted bouquet
of wire

each stem
...................serrated
each bloom
...................barbed
each thorn
...................pointed

The perverse garland
punctures
...................the palm
slices open
...................the thumb
stabs
...................the sides

of fleshy fingers
revealing stuffing

The bare hand
........................bleeds
hyper real
fake blood
........................weeps
from open wounds
wide enough
........................to stick
your fingers in

In the urban dark
Hopper backdrop
colours of rain
and neon

and yellow lines
reflecting
chopped-off-at-the-knees
feet and legs of passers by

Keenly in focus
galvanised petals
lie in puddles
discarded

a first stone’s throw
from ........................us

Me memes 1-25 key

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Sun, 25 Mar 2007 16:14:00 +0000

1. 10 words that I use to describe myself
2. Names of people I know
3. Places I've lived
4. Old Girlfriends, excluding Carolyn who I forgot completely
5. Teachers
6. Favourite bands at the time
7. Old bikes
8. Things I'd like to live without
9. Best friends
10. Funerals
11. Things I get told off for
12. I don't like...
13. Old mobiles
14. An a-typical breakfast
15. Things people said to me today
16. In the sack
17. Important films at the time
18. Rob Coopers around the world
19. My Christmas presents
20. My new morning routine
21. Previous employment
22. I wish I was responsible for...
23. Things that stop me going
24. British holiday destinations
25. Why I like The Matrix

Me memes 26-50

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Sun, 25 Mar 2007 16:12:00 +0000

List No.26

France

Spain

Italy

Switzerland

Canada

Australia

New Zealand

Antigua

Bermuda

Guyana

Uganda

Kenya

Singapore

Hong Kong

Dubai

Abu Dhabi

List No.27

Baggio
Davis
McEnroe
Borg
Connors
Case
Fowler
Botham
Fowler
Ballesteros

Me memes 1-25

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Sun, 25 Mar 2007 15:57:00 +0000

List No. 1

teacher
father
husband
drinker
talker
listener
son
forgetful
frustrated
excitable

List No.2

Deb
Emily
Jack
Isaac
Bill
Ted
Justin
Ness
Callum
Isabella
Felix
Joss
Nick
Lydia
Elizabeth
Pete
Jeannie
Mark
Nikki
Tess
Louis
Martyn
Yanina
Eva
Ruth
Nick
Gin
Jonny
Jess
Jethroe
Lorenzo
Milan
Remi
Glenda
Gary
Gareth
Steve

List No. 3

Lancaster
Hornby
Melton
Syston
Queniborough
East Goscote
Loughborough
Loughborough
Loughborough
Mountsorrel
Loughborough
Swinton
Loughborough
Loughborough

List No.4

Michelle
Amber
Emma
Sarah
Jane
Katrina
Nina
Suzy
Deb
? (I'm sorry, I forgot your name)Karen
Viv
Deb

List No. 5

Mrs Nixon
Mr Osbourne
Mrs ?
Mrs Rushby
Mrs Freshwater
Mr Wilson
Mr Dyson
Mr Sargeant
Mr Haynes
Mr Smith

Lost No. 6

Showaddwaddy
Madness
The Police
AC/DC
Kiss
Iron Maiden
Duran Duran
Frankie Goes to Hollywood
Depeche Mode
Bryan Adams
Prince
U2
Oasis
Radiohead
Arctic Monkeys

List No.7

Raleigh Striker
Raleigh Grifter
Raleigh Stratos
Raleigh Mustang
Marin Bear Valley
Orange Clockwork
Saracen Killi Flyer Comp
Giant 880 ATX

List No.8

microsoft
apple
ipod
tesco
beer
cars

List No.9

Mark
Guy
Jared
Russell
Jon
Paul
Justin
Mark
Martyn

List No.10

Dad
Granny Turner
Uncle Eric
Mr Merrell
Grandma Joan
Great Grandma

List No.11

shoes in the house
sitting at the computer
coming to bed late
not getting up in the morning
working
not working
not knowing what goes in which recycle bag
drinking too much
supporting liverpool
going the quick way
walking slowly

List No.12

Spiders in the same room as me
the telephone ringing
the dustpan and brush in the cupboard under the sink
being late
talking on the phone in the same room as other people
unanswered questions
comedy that relies on embarrassment
tight t-shirts
things that should be in the fridge when they are not
talking about money
saying no
boxer shorts (unless worn as pyjamas)
trousers without belts
trainers with jeans
eye contact with women
dog licks
being around other people when they are arguing
children not behaving in public
rule breaking
asking for directions

List No.13

List No.14

1 pint Cranberry Squash
4 Toffees
1 handful of chocolate raisins
1/2 pint water
1 Glocosamine Sulphate tablet
1 Cod liver oil capsule
2 paracetamol
1 mug of tea

List No.15

1. Have we got any milk?
2. Or bread?
3. Is it bin day?
4. How exactly are we going to pay the mortgage this month?
5. Do I really need another pint?
6. Shall I get Deb some flowers?
7. I'll give them a call.
8. Would you like a cup of tea?
9. No.
10. Are you looking at me, pal?

Lost No.16

List No.17

Star Wars
Grease
Dirty Dancing
Dances with Wolves
The Blues Brothers
ET
The Matrix
Fight Club
Trainspotting
Shallow Grave

List No.18

Director of Public Health Education
robcooper.com
Osiris games
Former fat guy
Renowned calligrapher
Ubisoft MD
Director of compliance and training
Local artist
A-channel reporter
Chiswick 1st team hockey
On-line editor
Football poet
Halloween sounds
Vintage blues and jazz
Wright State Raiders Head Coach
Honorary Canadian Citizen
Aircraft Photos
Eastern College Athletic Conference Men's Gymnastic Championship

List No.19

3 pairs stripy socks
1 bracelet
4 DVDs: City of God, Betty Blue, Dead Man's Shoes, No Direction Home
2 CDs: The Best of The Pogues, The Best of Squeeze
2 books: Lolita, a collection of travel stories (The Middle of Nowhere)
2 tins for collecting money, each capable of holding £500 pounds
A tin of pub magic tricks
A stripy jumper
A Hong Kong Phooey T-shirt

List No.20

6:30 Classic FM
6:35 Stove top whistling kettle on
6:37 Brush teeth, listen to kettle whistle
6:40 Take tea to Deb
6:42 Put clothes in dryer to warm
6:45 Drink tea, eat cereal
6:52 Dress in the kitchen while kettle boils again
6:55 Drink cup of coffee
7:00 Put on shoes, helmet, gloves
7:05 Get bike out
7:07 Set off for work
7:45 Arrive at work

List No.21

Shop work
Construction
Painter and Decorator
Child Care Officer
Child Care Officer and Climbing Instructor
Child Care Officer and Climbing Instructor and Night Duty Warden
Teacher
Painter and Decorator
Painter and Decorator and Play worker
Painter and Decorator
Painter and Decorator and Teacher
Painter and Decorator and Teacher and Night Duty Warden

List No.22

the bicycle
Pi
The concept of nothing
The Alhambra
One
The End of the Affair
Star Wars
Relativity
Nighthawks
Gerrard's FA cup goal
The four minute mile
The Internet
Digging
Bread
The wheel
Fire

List No.23

friends
inertia
fear
friday nights
loyalty
mum
work
familiarity
money

List No.24

Betwys Y Coed
Ambleside
Cromer
Sheringham
Bowness
Bedgelert
Port Isaac
Scarborough
Morecombe Bay
Whitby
Calver
Buxton
Skegness
Croyde

List No.25

Trinity's outfit
The references to Baudrillard
Alice in Wonderland
The use of generic conventions
The storyboards
When Morpheus fights Neo
When Neo says, "No"
The short wild west scene
The Deja Vu
The ending

Lola

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 14:51:00 +0000

In my years working with children, students have done many things to me. I have had things thrown at me - accusations, insults, paper, pen lids, books, rubbers and blu-tack. I have been told to fuck off. I've been threatened with fists, knives, steel bars and bike chains. I've been punched, kicked and head-butted.

Working in Special Needs Education, inner city comprehensive schools and in areas of social deprivation, these incidents are an occupational hazard. They are not acceptable but they happen: They are imaginable.

But what if I told you that a student once pissed on me? Is that imaginable?

For obvious reasons, I'll change her name. I'll call her Lola because I am playing with you. A student, a girl student, gave me a golden shower. And the name I choose for her is Lola. Imagine that.

Lola was not a nymphette. In fact she was as far from a nymphette as it is possible to imagine. I want you to imagine that. She was tiny, stick thin, painfully bony. That is my anti-nymphette. Yours might be different.

She did have a crush on me though, and around school she would invariably be attached to my arm.

My role in school was varied. I was a counsellor, a social worker, an amateur speech therapist, a play therapist, a drama therapist. I was also a climbing instructor.

We took groups of a dozen kids climbing two or three times a week. We climbed outdoors in the Peak district, North Wales, the Lakes and around the county. We did day trips and residentials. We hostelled and climbed, we camped and climbed.

If the weather was bad we climbed at a local wall. I also worked there at weekends, and the familiarity I had around the place helped the students to feel secure.

The whole point of the climbing was to build self-esteem. All of our students had been rejected by schools; thrown out for bad behaviour. They had been labelled bad. Many of the children had suffered from abuse and those that weren't abused were neglected. They all had language and literacy problems, found communicating a problem. And when adolescence hit they were struck down with depression; depressed because they recognised they could not be like their 'normal' friends.

Lola was all of these.

Louis Sachar wrote that, " if you take a bad kid and make him dig a hole every day, you come out with a good kid." This is a bad mantra. This is how you break people. These kids were already broken.

We took painfully shy, emotionally delicate kids, with a Statement of Special Educational Needs and medical files as long as the arm to which they clung. We took those children and pulled, hauled, dragged, cajoled and persuaded them to the top of vertical walls and cliffs. And the more we did it the stronger they became, physically and emotionally.

The climbing wall was cold that day. Our breath hung in the air. It was indoors, but the ceiling was 20 metres above us and the heat sat up there somewhere. In every way this was an indoor wall, the anti-crag. Outdoors you get colder as you climb higher. At the indoor wall the temperature is proportional to your height. Many of our students never noticed. They remained in the cold air, near to the ground, because despite our coaxing, some children would not let go of the security of the cushioned floor.

We explained that they were safer the higher they went. That it was the landing on the floor that hurt, not the falling. That, in fact, falling felt a little like flying. It could be fun. That, yes, I was qualified. Yes, the knot was right. Yes, the equipment was safe.

Every one of them had a go that day. Although the concept of having a go varied significantly. That is what we call differentiation in education. Every one of our students had a go. For Lola, this meant they climbed and reached the top. For others, it meant that they had got off the ground without us pulling on the rope. Others were hauled like a sack on a crane. For several, having a go meant taking their hands out of their pockets and allowing someone to put a harness on them, fit a helmet and then remove them again. Every time we took students climbing, every single one of them had a go.

Lola was a good climber. She was the weight of a balsa model and she had the flexibility of youth. She was also brave. Unfazed by the height, she would push and pull and reach to her limits. She would fall off. At the time, my youthful ego put her success down to her trust in me. I believed that she trusted me, that I was the only person she trusted. If I told her she was safe, she believed me. That is what I believed.

Looking back now it could just as easily have been different. She was abused as a younger girl. Emotionally damaged beyond repair. She clung to me physically because physical relationships with adult men were the only relationships she knew. She was offering herself to me. She would have let me because that was her learnt behaviour. And she fell off not because she trusted me, but because her self esteem was so low, she valued herself so little, that falling of didn't matter.

Each student had a go, and that takes a while. For Lola the experience was frustrating. She was the only one climbing, the others simply held the wall, wore a harness, hung on the rope. Each of these attempts taking up more and more time. Lola wanted another go. She wanted to climg high, feel the warmer air, get away from the ground to where she was safer. Looking back I can see why she liked it. Her natural instint was to give herself to adult men, like me. We taught her a different way. We didn't abuse her trust. But this made her uncomfortable. It destabilised her world view. It made her nervous and embarrased and hurt and rejected. No wonder she wanted to climb out of that world to a place where the air is warmer.

We gave her one last go. The others were ready to leave quickly. They watched Lola climb while they stood by the door with their helmets and harnesses ready to hand in. Lola climbed easily, gracefully. She had a rope that attached her umbilically to me, but the rope was loose. It was her own strength, her own will that took her up, up and away.

And while I stood beneath her, barking instructions to the group to make sure we were ready to go promptly, Lola pissed on me. From a height of 15 metres she emptied her bladder onto me with no word of warning, no shout of "below" that we had taught, the climbing equivalent of the golfers "fore!". No one said a word.

I stood aside and she continued to shower the matting where I had been. It splashed my shoes and it was in my hair. And no one said anything because it would have been like asking a stab victim why they were bleeding. She couldn't help it. That's what I believed then. Now, I'm not sure she wasn't getting me back in some way.

My Father

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 14:50:00 +0000

If I were to make a list of the people who have influenced my life, an inventory of my own invention, then I don't think my father would be included.

I only recollect him as the victim of a stroke. A gentle word, stroke, that packs a powerful punch; a wolf in sheep's clothing.

My earliest memory is being taken to a relative's house, in the middle of the night, whilst my mother fetched him from a long way away. A bank manager had noticed his strange behaviour and called her. He would probably have died that day if this stranger had not bothered to look at his records and make that call. I wish he hadn't.

I remember him in hospital, visits after school. And I remember him at home. I don't remember the day he actually came home, but one day he must have come home.

Physically, the stroke had left him more or less as he was before. To look at him you would not have been able to guess at his cruel affliction. My father, by all accounts an intelligent man and an accomplished pianist, had lost his ability to communicate; he couldn't write, but he could read. He couldn't talk but he could listen. When he played the piano, whatever tune was in his head wasn't the tune he played. He was a frustrated man, an unwilling mute.

He lived with us like that for nearly ten more years.

I remember him walking in the garden with baked bean cans on his feet, or at least I remember being told that story. I was very young and the difference between stories and memories is blurred.

He started to smoke, and for ten years of my childhood I became the man of the house by day and a frightened little boy by night. I wondered if strokes ran in the family. Every headache became a tumor. As I grew up, I began to blame him.

I resented how he clung on for so long and led my mother to a breakdown. I despised the way he chewed his food. He was the reason we never went on holiday like other kids.

When he died I was sad. Sad and guilty. I lay awake and apologised to his ghost for shouting at him, and for hitting him. When, on the count of three, the door creaked in the dark, I knew he could hear me.

Some months later my mother told me that he wasn't my real dad after all. He was just a man she had been married to for thirty years. A man who had never wanted children.

I began to lie awake and worry about all sorts of hereditary conditions after that, not just strokes.

The Red Letter

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 14:50:00 +0000

Right from my first encounter with her, from the moment she became present to me, a sense of ending has eclipsed all beginnings. She dies, naturally. Or rather she was always already dead, long before I ever heard myself speak her name. This is the only fact I have for certain. The only clear sighting of her. The closer I get to her self, her body, the further I fall into her story, the closer I get to losing this.

It was 1864 when I met her. That's how I know she's dead. People just don't live that long. Even so I ended up having to prove the fact to myself. I know she's dead because I have stood at her grave. Her death only real in the experience of the moment. I looked at her simple inscription and read the words of yet another voice trying to recreate her in my imagination. But as I stood, attempting to put her decayed flesh back on her muddied bones, I realised there was nothing of her there. Nothing beneath my treacherous black shoes save for trace elements and a few bones. The future's archaeological exhibit, my digging was to be done elsewhere. Standing on her well-fed grass I read an inscription so out of date it is now a lie.

* * *

HERE LIES THE BODY OF

ANN WILSON

1845-1907

R.I.P

* * *

We moved into this house, my wife and I, just over two years ago. I'd been working for a magazine in London but, for one reason and another, had decided to devote more time to my own writing. City life had its advantages, its convenience, but a hurried sense of completion had begun to overtake me. I felt as if life was geared towards destinations. I felt as if I was careering towards the end of the road. The question was always there, waiting to be asked: "Where are you going?"

"So where do you see yourself five years down the line?"

"Well, I suppose part of the answer depends upon the company's response to my recent success. I feel I've displayed the correct approach and my work has been of a high standard. I think that if I were not invited to join the senior management team within the next eighteen months, I would have to look at my options. In the longer term I'd like to be able to invest enough to ensure an early retirement, possibly at fifty-five."

Eventually, that kind of communication, always selling yourself or buying others, tired me out. I became uneasy about my own complicity in a system that encouraged such mapping. My life had become a commercial orienteering course, with a time limit and controls. My position, me, I supported all this.

I sold my shares in the company, a bonus following a good year, and then sold our three-bedroom terrace. The profits, and the relative price of rural housing, enabled us to but our dream family home in the country.

The house was, and still is, full of rustic charm and original features, but it needed some renovation to suit my purposes. The roof space had clearly been used in the past. It had a complete staircase to it, not just a loft ladder, and it was boarded and panelled. It had no windows however, and following a readjustment of the designs at the request of the local authority, work began installing a westward facing dormer window. The views across the fields, away from the village centre and the distractions of rural gossip, would be inspirational.

It was during the construction work, knocking a hole out of the roof to be precise, that my involvement in her affairs began. That room's first natural light since the original builders had incarcerated it poured in. In a whirl of fresh air, papers stirred. Discovered under the panelling a newspaper cutting from the Hampton and Westbury Post, dated Tuesday 6th December, 1864. The light had given up a secret, a story waiting to be told.

* * *

Standing proud at its very heart, St. Swithin's church dominates the village of Stourton and its surrounding parish. The church tower stands out from the countryside, commanding a position like the great cathedral at Chartres, only smaller. Reverend Thomas Hardy, the parish Rector, liked to remind his attentive flock on a Sunday that, "the Lord, our Shepherd" kept watch over all of them from that tower. He Himself had been to the top of it and had "seen into every household in the village." There could be no secrets from His gaze.

* * *

My wife rarely ventured upstairs to the attic. My writing had nothing to do with her. I suppose that's what she thought. She wouldn't have understood anyway, and a row would have broken out over those annoying questions: "Is that meant to be us then?"

She seemed to be content to keep house and visit friends, although many friends had too many children and too little time for people like us. She managed to busy herself though and was always in bed long before me. This allowed me the chance to take this project seriously, to become more intense. Pretty soon I didn't even notice her footsteps not mounting the stairs.

* * *

Living in the shadows of candlelight for most of her days, the kitchen was in a windowless basement, Ann usually resented her place. On Sunday evenings, following Hardy's sermons though, she was glad she had a room in the attic. Windowless, and only imaginatively looking out over the fields, she felt protected from this intrusive stare. She would climg the stairs, remove her Sunday hat, her dress, her corset, and lay aside that overtired, overworked and overlooked Ann. Away from the gaze of that ancient building she felt free to explore her own body. She would hold her swelling belly and feel her child moving against her flesh. Her secret gave her an identity, prevented her being consumed. She would sing to it, old field songs her grandmother had sung. And she would love it. Love it without knowing it. Love it without needing it.

This was not a room of her own, though. Ann shared it with Jane, Jane Preece the housemaid, but this didn't interfere with their liberties. Ann in particular felt very lucky to find someone to relate with. She had heard many stories from her sisters of overbearing generals and the loneliness of such company. Even without the complications of her confinement it was common for girls in small households to be isolated. Mrs. Sutton's was certainly a small household. She knew how lucky it was for her to have found a friend in Jane, and how they were both lucky that the only other servant, Tom the gardener, was amiably disinterested in everything bu gardening. The situation meant that Ann had been able to conceal her predicament, free from the rumours of a larger household or an older colleague.

On these Sundays Jane would often lie naked alongside her and they would wish the world to stop. The incessant growing of Ann's belly, the ever-stronger kicks and convulsions, her painful breasts and darkening nipples, reminded her of her position. She was aware of an impending doom, an ending that could not be prevented. She wanted to remain pregnant. She didn't want to have, couldn't have, a baby.

* * *

"Jane," Ann ventured one night. "Will you promise me something?"

"Well, you know, my dear, it all depends. But I will try. Of that you can be sure."

Ann fiddled with her belly button. It looked like the knotted end of a balloon. In recent weeks it had begun to protrude and itch. She looked intently at her companion.

"I hope I never ask you anything you are unable to do. I should hate myself if I ever gave you cause to compromise yourself. I ask only that you write to my mother for me, if anything should happen. I have such very bad feelings at times, such dark thoughts, and I should like for her to have another chance."

Jane smiled and placed a hand on the younger woman's thigh.

"Of course I shall, if you wish it. But please, consider writing yourself, now whilst you can. I should think you far more able than I. Please, write yourself. I shall fetch you some paper.

Jane began to rise, but Ann snatched her hand, preventing her withdrawal.

"No. I fear it would do more harm than good. Perhaps some dreadful news will work instead."

* * *

It didn't take a lot of research to find out that the house we had moved into was the same house that Ann Wilson had lived and worked in so many uears ago. A morning's work at the church records was all it took to trace Ann to Rose Cottage, our Cottage. There were times when I felt so close to her the room would fill with pain. Her screams muffled to avoid attention, invading my privacy.

As close as we were though, as much as I breathed life into her, I could do nothing for her daughter, who never lived long enough to be recorded. It is here in this place that in fear, next to me in space, if not in time, her delicate little spine was almost broken in two. An attempt to hide her from prying eyes.

Out of compassion for her mother, to alleviate Ann's suffering, I gave her Jane Preece. There are no records of her either, but what else could I do?

* * *

Midnight. Pitch dark. She sits, awoken by a sense of unease, an almost unnoticeable anxiety. She fumbles her hand in the direction of the dressing table, finds the candle and takes the edge of the room's blackness. It is as cold as the air outside. Her breath, clouding in great pillows, searches out and flees from the draught-cracks in the panelling. Her bulk is alien to her for the first time. And the the first realisation of the wetness, brought to light as it cools around her buttocks and thighs. The shiver is followed by a faint and yet distinct contraction. It is beginning.

* * *

When Jane finally awoke, woken not by the rising sun but by a sense of its rising, she rolled over to see Ann clutching at her knees, as if to bring them to her chest, but impeded by the enormity of her distended self. She was rocking slightly, and no words were needed. Jane's comprehension was instant and complete.

Dressing quickly, Jane mapped out a plan. She would begin the hidden chores. Lighting the fires, boiling the water, preparing the breakfast. She could leave Ann in bed until the household, until Mrs Sutton came downstairs. But Ann would have to make an appearance, to fit the plan. She must be seen around the house, behaving normally. If her absence were noticed then there would be questions, and as illness could be the only acceptable excuse from duty, the doctor would be called. Mrs Sutton was careful her staff should be treated correctly. If the birth could be kept secret then the baby could be hidden until nightfall, and then, under the cover of night, it could be taken away. Jane already knew where to take it.

Initially everything went well. Ann's contractions were only mild at first and well spaced. Just once did she have to positively lie, as she winced and instinctively grasped her stomach.

"No, ma'am. A little indigestion, nothing more."

She had quickly retreated, promising to take a little time to drink a glass of milk.

"Milk is by far the best thing for digestive complaints my dear. Be sure to take a glass. But mind you don't neglect your duties."

* * *

With me busy writing and my wife doing whatever it was she did, we had less and less time together. We hadn't been physical since we moved in to the cottage. Something had come between us and yet everything we had was part of the plan, mapped out from the day I had proposed to her. I asked her once if anything was wrong.

"Just a little run down." That was all I could make her say, but I knew there was more.

* * *

By mid-afternoon, following a difficult luncheon period, Ann found it hard to continue the performance. She desperately wanted to find a quiet corner, to roll up like a cat and wait to be discovered with a delightful litter by eager children. Twice she had to answer the doorbell. Jane had forced her to.

"You simply must. It will help later, you'll see. It will stop them asking questions of you. Carry on as normal. I shall follow and wait in the scullery. I shall wait and help you back upstairs. Now quickly, there's the bell again! Mrs. Sutton will soon want to know why you have taken so long."

After the second of such trips, Jane realised that the time was close. They would have to hop that she was not required again.

* * *

There was no fear in the room that afternoon. Each had experienced childbirth at home. It was all a natural part of life in an industrial town. But just as there was no fear, there was also no excitement, no expectation. Ann squatted on all fours on the bed, her face buried in her pillow. Jane assisted, rubbing her back, cooling her head with water. She would run her fingers inside her feel for a head, to prevent a tear.

Ann, her buttocks spread apart, bearing down, her vagina stretched white, expelled a girl in a ruch of wet and blood and excrement.

* * *

Dressing as soon as she could stand, a towel beneath her underwear, hidden by her uniform, she answered the door again, only half an hour later.

Reverend Hardy didn't make the connection between the desperately pale and tired servant who opened the door for him and the story he heard as a magistrate much later.

When she returned to her room she wanted to lie down and dream of a full belly that moved of its own accord. When she finally made it to the top of the stairs and enteredf her room she barely noticed the clean sheets, the fresh smell of incense and the absent child. She caught a glimpse of Jane sliding a box beneath the bed and she knew enough.

* * *

She struggled through the following days, taking time off only to replace her bloodied towel. She continued to leak constantly from a wound that could not heal. By Tuesday she was drained and Jane was forced to ask Mrs. Sutton to call a doctor. Ann had been unable to rise that morning, she had a fever, and at times she had failed to recognise her. Still Jane felt she was letting her down, somehow betraying her trust.

* * *

Doctor Scott lifted back the bed covers and felt Ann's baggy stomach. He knew. Touching her was his proof. Ann followed his commands. She lifted her nightdress and unpeeled another soaked towel. She lifted her nightdress and exposed herself to him. The doctor pushed her knees further apart and entered her, his fingers inspecting, cleaning and stripping. He had to satisy himself that nature had taken its course.

The doctor stood back and wiped his hands clean while she looked on. She had seen a man do that before, or so she thought.

"You have recently been delivered, Ann, have you not?" The doctor's tone was soothing, mesmerising.

"No, sir. I am just a little drained." Ann avoided his eyes. She looked all around, blinking hard.

"Now, my dear, you can't hide the truth from a man of science. I know everything. Now, tell me what has become of the child?"

When she gave him the key she felt as if she were betraying Jane. She wondered what would happen to them, but the doctor's words gave her the idea.

"Was she dead when you put her in here, Ann?"

When you put her in here.

"Yes. Yes, of course," she answered and added rather distractedly, "when I put her in here."

Doctor Scott prised the baby from the chamber pot and Ann saw her for the first time. She wondered how something so tiny could have made her so large, left such a hole. She hugged her stomach and imagined the movements she had once felt. She looked at this doubled baby, clutching itself.

* * *

"I'm leaving you," she said.

"But where can you go without me? It doesn't make sense." Her voice was decided. I knew then that I had been waiting, from the beginning, for this. We had reached the end of the road.

"Anywhere. I have another life out there. There can be me without you."

"No, you belong here, your place is here. I've given everything that could be given. What more could I do?"

"But it's a gift that takes. You only gave me what you wanted me to have. You pictured me here. You created this life for me here."

"I don't understand. What happens next? What happens to you now?"

"I'll go to my mother's for a while, then I'll disappear. I'll go far away, out of sight."

"But you were nothing before I found you."

"No. I was something, something you didn't know. Something you have never known."

"I won't let you leave."

"You can't stop me now."

* * *

She answered concisely in court, although her words had huge import for Ann. This was her was of reconciliation. She had not replied to Ann's letter and had therefore allowed Ann to maintain a picture of their relationship based upon her sending away, upon her disgrace. Now her testimony erased that divide. Her mother's presence and her plain answers, answers that conealed much but did not exactly lie, warmed Ann briefly, hopefully.

"I reside in Grantchester, and am the mother of the prisoner. I don't know exactly how long my duaghter has been in service with Mrs Sutton. I last heard from her about three weeks ago, when she told me she was well, and comfortable, and had a good situation. She also said she hoped to be with me at Christmas."

Mother and daughter surveyed each other, warmly. Somewhere she remembered Jane's letter.

* * *

Reunited with her mother, she disappeared from my world. A chapter in her life, in our lives, was over and I imagined I wouldn't see her again. Often I find myself, alone now, looking over the fields at a scene identical to the one she could have seen had she been here now. I try to picture her not as she really was, but as I like to remember her.

The End

Miss Love

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 14:50:00 +0000

I can't believe I got drunk last night. The whole point of staying in was to keep a clear head for today. I simply didn't want a hangover when I had a twelve hour course to get through.

Walking to the train helped a little. The fresh air and the exercise began the process of shifting the alcohol and toxins from my head, my stomach, my joints...

The course was being held in a city centre hotel, a short walk from the station. I didn't feel too bad when I arrived, maybe a little drunk still, but I was OK. I knew the worst was yet to come. I asked at reception and was directed to the conference room.

People were already mingling, filling the room with polite chatter. I ignored everyone and headed for the hospitality coffee. One cup, two cups. I walked towards the water cooler with my third cup nearly finished. One cup of water with a hint of coffee. Another water, clearer now. The water that is, not me.

“Shall we make a start?” The voice of a gentle, white-haired lady.

The room becomes more ordered. People file to chairs. Everyone seems to be with someone. They're not really, it's just that I'm the only one who has spent the past fifteen minutes rehydrating. Most people have at least said hello to someone, shared a little small talk and then naturally, sat down next to someone.

I seek out an unoccupied chair. I take a look around the room, paying attention to the faces of the people I will spend the next 12 hours with. I find it hard to focus. It's not quite 9 in the morning. I should be in bed. My hangover arrives, right on cue.

“Let's begin with a few introductions. I'm sure the older students here will be used to this kind of format but for some...”

Why did she look at me? I'm sure I was looked at, looked at with a knowing smile. Has she labelled me as older?

Never mind. It doesn't really matter. I'll never meet any of these people again. I mean, look at them. I take a closer look at the faces sat on conference chairs laid out in a semi-circle.

“Hi, I'm Sara. I'm 21 and I live in London.”

Oh my god! How did I miss her? I really must be drunk still. Sara is lovely. Shabby chic, slim, confident, for a girl of 21. She makes eye contact with everyone in turn as she speaks. She smiles charmingly. I find myself staring at her. I'm still staring at her when she makes eye contact with me.

Fuck. It was obvious I was staring. I look away quickly and my thoughts scramble as my vision blurs, knocked off balance by the sudden swirl. I'm not paying attention. The fog of the night before doesn't let me.

I become aware that the room is quiet. I realise, slightly too late for it to go unnoticed, that it's already my turn. Six people have gone since Sara, and I haven't listened to a word they've said.

“Sorry. Umm. I'm Rob. I'm thirty-seven and I'm a painter...a painter and decorator.”

“Thanks Rob”, says the course leader, whose name I must have missed.

Shit. A painter and decorator. Why did I say that? That's what I do. It doesn't describe who I am. I look across at Sara, just to check my first impressions. She's gorgeous. And she's not looking at me.

The course leader introduces the first task. It's a getting to know you task. Ask 8 people the same question, a question that begins with, “Have you ever...” I try to think of a question that might suggest more about who I am not what I do. I want to avoid questions like, “Have you ever emulsioned a ceiling?”

“Have you ever been skiing?” It's a good question. It suggests financial success, foreign travel and adventure. It shows I'm fit, coordinated. I'll ask seven people quickly and then Sara. She'll answer yes, I'll ask her where and before you know it we'll be laughing and touching each other's forearms.

Courseleader checks that we all have a suitable question. She picks someone at random. It's a good teacher technique.

“Helen, what question are you going to ask?”

“Have you ever been skiing?”

Bollocks.

..................................

“Okay, time's up. Let's see what you found out. Rob, what did you find out?”

“I found out that 6 people have emulsioned a ceiling and 2 people haven't.” I don't know if Sara ever has, because I never got the chance to ask her. Probably just as well.

“Thanks Rob. Sara, what did you find out?”

“I found out that no-one has learned to juggle.”

I have! I can cascade and reverse cascade three balls. I can do the same with three clubs. I can do four balls. I can catch a ball on my foot, hold it there, and then flick it up and carry on juggling. I have learned to juggle. I've even taught people how to juggle. Why didn't you ask me?

..................................

I survive until the coffee break, although coffee is used here euphemistically. There is no coffee. The course fee only includes the reception coffee.

I go to the toilet. My urine is orange and smells. I wash my hands, then my face. My skin absorbs the moisture. I don't need the hand dryer.

I return to the room and the water cooler. The plastic beakers are too small. They make me look greedy. I can't circulate. I can't talk to anyone. I take a step back from the water dispenser to allow someone else to use it, then I step forward, cup empty, for a refill.

Sara stands with a group of people. She is neither the centre of attention nor in the background. She listens with her eyes, and speaks with a smile. She has nice teeth.

“Let's start again shall we?”

I wish I knew her name.

..................................

The period up to lunch is difficult; Full-blown hangover with associated thumping head, stiff neck and growing nausea. I hear next to nothing, I volunteer nothing and I contribute less than nothing.

Sara asks a thoughtful question, relates the lesson to a personal experience and makes the room chuckle.

When lunchtime comes I head for the toilet again, piss bright orange liquid and leave the building to seek out food and fresh air.

I crave bacon. The salt and animal fat is what I need. I sit on a street bench with the pig in a bap and a bottle of Lucozade. The nausea grows but I know this is good, what I need. I use every remaining minute to walk the back streets. I try to exercise, to exorcise, the nausea. <

I step back into the conference room as Brown Owl is beginning.

..................................

My head slowly begins to clear. I make my first contribution. It's intelligent and subtle. There is a moment's pause and I can sense I have made people think. I've made my first impression. I notice what other's are saying. I figure out that Brown Owl is in fact Dorothy. I continue to stare at Sara, but now when she sees that I'm staring, I can cover my tracks.

At times I play the hungover card and continue to stare as if through her. I out-stare her, looking away only after she has. I make sure that she notices me staring in the same vacant way at others in the room. At other times, I simply smile and look away quickly, as if our eyes met by chance.

..................................

By evening I am feeling normal. I still haven't spoken to her and the longer this goes on, the more I know that I never will.

The class is into two groups for our final task of the day. We have to prepare to lead a short session. I deliver my session to my group with enthusiasm. I make my audience laugh. I am engaging, charming even. Sara is in the other group. I knew she would be, even before Dorothy put our names on the wall.

The evening session draws to a close. Dorothy calls us together in our semi-circle one last time. We are to receive our certificates. Dorothy reads out our names and we step forward to shake her hand and collect the piece of paper. Each person gets a round of applause from the group.

One by one, Dorothy calls our names. It's interesting because we only know each other by our first names.

“Rob Cooper.” I step forward and receive my certificate, signed by Dorothy Prince.

I sit back down and wait for one other name.

“Sara Love.”

A Photo Taken by a Poet Without a Camera

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 14:34:00 +0000

Meme - A Dictionary Definition

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 14:33:00 +0000

I know what you me
an

one me
imitating another me

you are me
multiplied

by me

one me
aning

replicated
in a cultural equation

where me
is me
mory

over

the me
ssage contained in the me
mory

of an in
finite

recurring

me
me

The Woman in the Red Dress

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 14:32:00 +0000

Were you listening to me, or were you looking at the woman in the red dress?

Dressed

in men

struation red

the woman

in the red dress

full

fills

a filthy promise

of a bare

ly revealed

vile

thread

teased

to a

threat

that runs

red

dread

fully

woman

dressed

turns

to womb

man

Weblog

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 14:32:00 +0000

we blog
gers we

ave text
our soft

wares we
are web

loggers
logging

webs chop
ping trunks

chunks of
sol id

web in
to man

age ab
le web

port i
ons logs

of webs
w oven

wood rolled
over

re veal
ing un

veiling
woo den

lice spi
ders creep

ies craw
ling the

rot ten
world wide

web log
we blog

we re-
cord re

cord chord
a gain

sea (a)rch
for un

ity
harm on

y dis
each o!

ther we
blog prod

uce of
the posts

we blog
use less

beauty
log of(f)

webs vis
ible

stick vis
ibly

sticky
the stu

pid est
get stuck

we ran
(we're an)

dumbly
catch our

selves in
logs of

web stu
ped bi

peds sear
ch out

log webs
ab out

(a bout)
wobbly

legs goll
ywogs

well y
gogs blogg

ers webb
loggers

we blog
gers set

traps tag
t raps

post signs
in di

cat ing
dict at(e)

ing we
blog this

way use
ing pig

eon
Engli sh!

re gurge
it ate

it gauged
gorged on

a gorg
on of

views held
tig htly

in our
own we

blog

Kite

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 14:31:00 +0000

My son sheltered
in the ark
of my arms
holding my hands
to get a feel
for the kite
that fights
like a fish
flying

He is frightened
the kite will drag him away
from me
high into the air

I am frightened
the kite will drag him away
from me
high into the air

we hold hands
for security
our hands holding
the handles
harnessing
our feelings
tieing us together

as the kite fights
for the freedom
of the skies
it does not want.

Before you go

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 14:31:00 +0000

Before you go I must:

Guzzle the poison in your kisses.

Permit the penetration of vein-shafts
that sheathe my bloody liquor.
(Inseminating toxins
in each exchange of spittle.)

Let venom-laced lips infect me,
fix one final kiss on my face.
(Your glands release their load
into my gaping maw.)

Allow kisses, like rain on rock,
to eat at my facade.
(Exposing me to microbes in your drool.
I perish in your saliva pool.)

Beg you don't abandon me,
I crave your malignancy.
(My bottle of booze, darling nicotine,
I need your canker drug.)

Two

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 14:31:00 +0000

She is slipping back
And she senses a difference
She will make it harder for me
Then she'll have no one to forgive

She whispers
Two hates
Two deaths
Now she's two wants
At dawn

She has two hates
She gives to keep me
She joins her lover
And she neglects me

She will cheer me
And give a foul look from her eyes
She pretends she always had hate
But she needs me to stay within

Well, she's too early
Today
To pull a present from
out of the dark

She's two
And she's the difference
She gives to let go of every one
Let go of every one

Two

She's gone there for blame
She's gone to bury the living
She hasn't gone there to pretend to be Judas
For a reveller up her skirt

She will tell too little
less than a little
She took my everything
Now it's none she has

She's two
And she's the difference
She heals every one, now she'll do it again

She whispers

Hate is a church
Hate the lower act of God
Hate is a church
Hate the lower act of God

She tells me to leave
Now she makes me beg
But can she be letting go
Of something she hasn't
Now the nothing she's got is love?

Two hates
Two waters
Two deaths
She has not what she should not

Two deaths
Without any one
Mothers
Sisters

Two deaths, and she is identical
She gives to let go of every one

Let go of every one
Two

A Bedtime Story - How Platypus got her Name

noreply@blogger.com (celerman) — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 14:30:00 +0000

Once upon a time there was a person. Almost.

She was the most beautiful,

the most powerful,

the strongest,

wisest,

fairest,

kindest,

of all the almost people in His kingdom at that time.

But she was too good,

too everything,

too much.

On the day of her ripening

He called her to His house and stooped

to kiss

His almost daughter

goodbye.

But this was not a father’s kiss.

He forced His tongue into her mouth

led her to kiss Him back

and embraced her

between His

teeth.

His chin dripping with her flapping flesh

as He hawked out the first chuck of her.

The slag

fell in a heap

on stone far

below. Spattered

into worms that turned

rock into Earth.

He took the time to practice his Chinese burn,

twisted flesh from bone.

He spread her by the ankles,

slit her a gash

He made a wish,

flung her drumstick legs

which choppered

gently

to

ground.

Yet where they fell a tree

shed leaves to dress her wound.

And He was angry with that tree,

would not allow sides to be taken

and called out ‘Sycamore!’

which cursed that tree with seeds the spitting

image of her butchered limbs.

The almost person’s sweet chestnut eyes

yielded to the fury of His thumbs,

plopped out and popped

up as another tree

who kept them in a mace from Him

and won

the name

‘Conker!’

from Him.

Little by little her almost body was disposed

dispossessed

No matter

how barbaric his actions

He could not erase Her.

Lastly,

He placed his hands in prayer

around her head and squeezed flat.

His hard breathe in her ear hole

sent sound swirling in all directions

through the now

almost forest.

And where it brushed the tree tops?

Life

And where it clattered through branches?

Life

And where it skimmed the soil?

Life.

Everywhere the almost person parts touched?

Life

For many days her black blood flooded.

But the trees preserved her from the deluge

until her bleed ceased.

Once the flow stemmed the clotted Earth

reformed.

Rising, spreading, the almost person

hauled her nonself to the riverbank and came face

to nonface with a duck’s bill, slapping and slurping

as if Duck had never been.

The once beautiful put it on

and at last voiced what had been tongue less ‘till now:

“Quack!”

And no quack had ever conveyed more

feeling, more

hurt.

He heard and looked, but could not see

that the bodiless bill was possessed:

“Who’s there?”

Duckbill, the almost person

bit her tongue.

He shrugged

his almost shoulders unable

to shrug off the hint of a babble.

Duckbill pulled at clods and sods to the almost water.

Eager and impatient for her very first time

the once too good laid

waste to a pair of swans.

Unable to defend themselves against beak

their beauty was ruined.

The almost person salvaged feet

and although ugly, made better

time, but was

sad.

Finally, a Beaver’s body,

with no chance against beak

feet,

was overwhelmed

slipped on.

Whole now but mad

fantastic,

her shape frightened

her

under the world.

After a long time she was discovered there:

“Tell me creature, who are you?”

Duckbill strained to make words:

“Quack.”

Pitiful.

And her desire to change shape,

to become

Proteus

was misheard as

Platypus.