tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67436568010313770672024-03-14T06:12:01.501+00:00Ken EdwardsAuthor, editor and musician Ken Edwards' blog and personal website.Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-82508947293549574022024-01-09T09:30:00.003+00:002024-01-09T09:30:40.989+00:00The Spirit in the Dust<p><iframe frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://youtube.com/embed/eI8g0x-vDNI?si=c8xj1mnPL_7PO-PQ" width="480"></iframe> </p><p> Writing is a solitary occupation. You spend hours, days, weeks, months, years on your own, sitting on your arse, churning stuff out, editing and re-churning, re-editing and re-re-churning, in the hope that one day the results of your efforts will be shared with at least one and hopefully more readers. </p><p>Writing for theatre at least holds out the possibility of working with other people – having the joy and frustrations of sharing the creative process. I've never done that.</p><p>However, one of the reasons I am involved in music as well as writing is having access to that shared experience as part of the primary creative activity. There is the possibility of that magical feeling that something is happening and you are playing a part in it but it doesn't come entirely from you.</p><p>Collaborating with four others on the project that became THE SPIRIT IN THE DUST has been extraordinary. It started out with Elaine wanting to work again with the Japanese dancer Yumino Seki, whom we'd worked with before in our band Afrit Nebula. She was writing music and searching for a theme to do with light and darkness, presence and mystery. Together, she and I came up with a narrative: a spirit conjured up out of primeval dust who enters the world of humanity with all the beauty and horror that that entails. I was inspired by a quote attributed to Albert Einstein: <br /></p><p class="font_8 wixui-rich-text__text" style="text-align: left;"><em>"Human beings, vegetables, or cosmic dust, we all dance to a mysterious tune, intoned in the distance by an invisible piper."</em></p><p>Funnily enough, this is summed up in the title of our band: Afrit, a spirit in Arabian folklore, Nebula, a vast cloud of dust in space.</p><p>We started sketching out the music together with our collaborator in Afrit Nebula, Yair Katz, drummer, guitarist and altogether lovely man. We knew Yumino was keen on doing it, but the final part of the jigsaw was bringing in someone to handle the visuals, lighting and technical stagecraft that was badly needed. We turned to Hastings-based film-maker Mark French, whom Elaine had worked with before on film and music, and who had worked with Afrit Nebula before. He came up with the concept of moving images projected onto a translucent curtain that the dancer could interact with. </p><p>Once the five of us were together, it all flowed like a dream. Yumino is an intuitive and improvisatory dancer, working in the modern Japanese Butoh tradition, and her interaction with our music and narrative and Mark's projected images was stunning.</p><p>Amazingly enough, we were only able to rehearse the whole thing through together once before the day of the first performance at the Kino-Teatr, St Leonards, in September 2023. The dress rehearsal on that afternoon was hurried and curtailed by technical problems and time constraints.</p><p>And yet it worked perfectly. To our amazement we had a full house (the theatre has a capacity of about 100) and the audience loved it. It was one of the most magical creative experiences of my life.</p><p>So we're doing it again: at the Kino once more on 20 January 2024, and as part of Brighton Fringe at Fabrica, Brighton, on 23 May 2024.</p><p>Five people, each contributing their own particular skills, somehow combining to create something that was not there before. That is the spirit in the dust.</p><p><br /></p>Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-12991722482744724092023-04-06T09:13:00.003+01:002023-11-19T10:16:41.375+00:00How Secret Orbit came to be written<p>
</p><h2 class="tm6"><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR4hnZUynFXORDk0nPbLpQeFwte4-v-T7Jsum81V6NDtwaqHPwZEVHEDWsdQ0cboKg4Dvnnu2CzkFxuDqyXXbPwgOePnx4iSKthsxop-RUkS_l92ORxZmATLG_9-cLhMwHSvGhpauP7kap8aaPoO3dRjxkaAg8DSBZ8_g8LnCxGjyNMkKGwpAVPRzWLQ/s1055/Secret%20Orbit%20title%20page.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1055" data-original-width="656" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR4hnZUynFXORDk0nPbLpQeFwte4-v-T7Jsum81V6NDtwaqHPwZEVHEDWsdQ0cboKg4Dvnnu2CzkFxuDqyXXbPwgOePnx4iSKthsxop-RUkS_l92ORxZmATLG_9-cLhMwHSvGhpauP7kap8aaPoO3dRjxkaAg8DSBZ8_g8LnCxGjyNMkKGwpAVPRzWLQ/w398-h640/Secret%20Orbit%20title%20page.jpg" width="398" /></a></div><span class="tm7"></span></b></h2>
<p class="1stpara">[CONTAINS SPOILERS!]</p><p class="1stpara">The novel that came to be called <i><span class="tm9">Secret Orbit</span></i> had a long gestation which would be too tedious to detail. For years I’d had a perhaps not very original perhaps pretentious
notion of writing my own Divine (secular) Comedy: Hell, Purgatory and Heaven. All three parts were to be set in different versions of London. <i><span class="tm9">Secret Orbit</span></i> was once the title of another associated project, but eventually came to be allocated (initially as a working title) to the part of the trilogy that represented Hell. Of course, Hell is
always the most fun to write. The title stuck, and the novel got written. </p>
<p class="1stpara">Like the other half-written novels in the sequence, it is structured in 33 chapters, mirroring the cantos of Dante’s original (there are actually coded references to the mirrored canto in each chapter,
though I’ve forgotten what some of them are). </p>
<p class="1stpara">The framing device is a description of the stages of decomposition of the unnamed protagonist’s body as he lies in his London flat for 33 days before being discovered (the main events of the narrative
being told in flashback from this time frame). I researched the science behind this fairly thoroughly so it’s not sensationalist, I believe. Most of the reader feedback I’ve had has been favourable, with some saying
the forensic descriptions of decay were among their favourite bits of the book – one or two less enthusiastic. It was predictable that this was going to attract attention, but I want to clear up a misconception: I did
not intend this natural process to signify Inferno. The true horror is what was going on behind the scenes that led to this posthumous lying in state. The notion of an elderly man who escapes from an institution to which he
has been committed to return to his home, where he dies and remains for a while until discovered comes from a story told me by a neighbour – the original model for Jackanapes in the novel – about another neighbour
in the block of flats where I lived in South East London between 1988-2004. That inspired a short story that I never finished and later incorporated into this book. </p>
<p class="1stpara">So the central character is dead. One review seemed to misunderstand this – portraying the book as a mystical flight of fancy where it was unclear whether he was alive or dead or in some beyond world.
No, he’s dead. And so his story is told by an apparently hired-in semi-omniscient narrator (until the final two chapters, where he is allowed, as a fictional trope, to discover his own voice). There seems at the outset
little to tell. “You were a young man first, and then you became middle-aged and then you became an old man,” says the narrator. “That’s about it. That’s the story, in a nutshell.” The body
lies tranquilly in the dead man’s own bedroom – or not so tranquilly, because he left the TV on before expiring, so a continuing intrusive presence is a ghostly and never ending sequence of game shows. </p>
<p class="1stpara">I was interested in starting with somebody who appears to be nobody: throughout the novel he is [<span class="tm10">forename</span>][<span class="tm10">surname</span>]. Then via a series of flashbacks to begin to discover who he actually is. But only to begin. Because there is no end to this process, once you’re started.
And slowly, in a series of encounters, conversations, memories, his true story emerges. For me as a writer it was a genuine process of discovery – I wasn’t clear at the outset how it was going to evolve. It becomes
plain that in recent months he has been experiencing delusions, very likely symptoms of creeping dementia. He is vulnerable to those around him: some, like the Christian window cleaner, are genuinely trying to help him, others,
like Father Fuck, have designs on him, and both his neighbour Jackanapes and his temporary lodger BJ (Jackanapes’ lawyer), while apparently having his interests at heart, may not be what they seem. BJ claims to have
visited (and lost his wife in) the original Hell, a “real” place in the mountains in Eastern Anatolia (possibly). </p>
<p class="1stpara">The crisis arrives when [<span class="tm10">forename</span>][<span class="tm10">surname</span>], who has daily visits from carers employed by <span class="tm10">Care-plc</span>, an apparently privatised health service, suffers a diabetic emergency, passes out and is rushed to a medical unit where he recovers consciousness but is now trapped in a nightmare. It is unclear
how long he is imprisoned in this unit, but it emerges that he cannot be discharged – because <i><span class="tm9">he was not born in this country</span></i>. And furthermore he cannot prove that he has the means to
pay for his care, doubt having been raised about the ownership of his flat. This impasse has been determined by AI-controlled systems against which there is no recourse. He is transferred to an Interim Detention Facility (popularly
known as the Holding Pen), where he joins other “customers” who are mostly foreign, mostly black or brown, awaiting their fate, which in most cases appears to be deportation.</p>
<p class="1stpara">It’s around now that it has emerged that our [<span class="tm10">forename</span>][<span class="tm10">surname</span>] is indeed a man of colour. He has lived in this phantasmagorical version of the
UK for most of his 80+ years, having arrived as a child from an unnamed island, possibly in the Caribbean. At one time he earned his living as a jazz pianist. He is alone. Most of his “people” are dead. He cannot
prove who he is.</p><p class="1stpara"> </p><p class="1stpara"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTyNbzK5AY328zi--RFvYA6QZr53WVD2g6vhVSd_73Hhd7hKx75TS1l5CQbN3e1Xm4MzeSCe1ci0koPGvxICg7HgaZl5O62wJ2izKL796dilcRRW6bDfAoXdGEParSwyprG_5ZssC2_43TKp32GcaHhxnXxIhaKY2CqDf5PCtgZ0bSQ7hjlCo7H4kzdw/s3493/rust%20man%20cropped.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3493" data-original-width="2280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTyNbzK5AY328zi--RFvYA6QZr53WVD2g6vhVSd_73Hhd7hKx75TS1l5CQbN3e1Xm4MzeSCe1ci0koPGvxICg7HgaZl5O62wJ2izKL796dilcRRW6bDfAoXdGEParSwyprG_5ZssC2_43TKp32GcaHhxnXxIhaKY2CqDf5PCtgZ0bSQ7hjlCo7H4kzdw/w261-h400/rust%20man%20cropped.jpg" width="261" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>
<p class="1stpara">Here let us digress – but it isn’t a digression, it’s the heart of it – into a brief summary of two appalling episodes in the recent history of the UK. First, the one commonly known
as the Windrush scandal. A generation of Black Caribbean immigrants came over in the 1950s answering a post-World War II call for workers, settled, earned their living and paid their taxes for many decades. But when it was
discovered in the 21<sup>st</sup> century that some of them could not produce the documentation to prove they had the “right to remain” they were sacked from their jobs, barred from claiming welfare benefit, threatened
with deportation and in some cases actually deported to countries where they had not lived for decades and had no current family. </p>
<p class="1stpara">The second is the case of the “small boat people” – the thousands of migrants crossing the English Channel in the past few years in inflatable boats, most escaping nightmares in Syria,
Iran, Afghanistan and other countries and claiming asylum. The response of the current UK government has been to seek to intern them in prison camps (the hotels in which they were first housed temporarily while awaiting the
results of their asylum appeals being deemed too good for them), prior to taking measures to deny their claims automatically and deport them, most controversially to Rwanda. </p>
<p class="1stpara">The BBC sports commentator and presenter Gary Lineker hit the headlines in March 2023 when he tweeted that the wording of the new government policy on immigration was language “not dissimilar to that
used by Germany in the 30s”. This caused an uproar – ostensibly because he was meddling in party politics, something incompatible with his BBC work, but actually because he was daring to compare British government
policy with that of the Nazis. </p>
<p class="1stpara"> It seems to be axiomatic among some in our country that far-right politics is totally alien to it. While other countries may have their far-right parties and politicians – Marine Le Pen in France,
Viktor Orban in Hungary, Giorgia Meloni in Italy, and so on, and the parties they lead – Britain can never be admitted to harbour the equivalents. Nigel Farage, leader of UKIP, later the Brexit Party, and Jacob Rees-Mogg
on the right of the Tory party, are never referred to as far-right politicians, despite sharing many of their views with the aforementioned Europeans. This is related to the myth that Britain alone battled and vanquished the
Nazis, and that its uniquely democratic, reasonable, tolerant, restrained character will always prevail against foreign extremists. From this point of view, racism, xenophobia and authoritarianism are foreign to Britishness.
Would that it were true.</p>
<p class="1stpara"> Another objection to Gary Lineker’s intervention was the old chestnut: “Once you invoke the Nazis in online discussion you’ve lost the argument.” This view suggests that Hitler and
the Nazi party were outliers, bizarre once-only extremists who should never be compared to any other politicians or parties or political tendencies; and that such comparisons are always tendentious or malicious. It avoids
the awkward fact that Hitler was initially supported by millions of Germans, and that even today millions of people around the world are similarly ripe for exploitation by the Trumps, Putins, Erdogans, and indeed Farages who
are always there to take advantage of germinal hatreds.</p>
<p class="1stpara"> For fascism, if we can still call it that (some say you can’t, that it is a historical term, but I dispute this), doesn’t begin with jackbooted storm troopers or death camps, and that’s
not what it is at its core. I grew up on the other side of a border with a genuinely Fascist state – Spain until the death of Franco in 1975. There were indeed Civil Guards in evidence in shiny black leather bearing
arms, but mostly it was a question of drab uniformity, hostility to the Other, fear of reprisals for not conforming, petty injustices, huge disparities between rich and poor. My uncle had to be smuggled out of a theatre in
Spain by his friends after refusing to stand for the national anthem at the end of a concert, for fear of being beaten up by Francoists. It starts in small ways, and no country is immune. And I feel that many British people
do not properly understand this, hence the outrage that a cruel policy enacted by their government might be suggested to have something in common with the far right. But what are the planned holding facilities for “illegal”
migrants, whether in this country or Rwanda, other than incipient concentration camps?</p>
<p class="1stpara">So I would argue that my novel, which could be described as “dystopian”, is not as far removed from reality, despite its strange and nightmarish sequences, as one might think.</p>
<p class="1stpara">Back to our protagonist, [<span class="tm10">forename</span>][<span class="tm10">surname</span>]. One of the attendants in the Holding Pen is briefly sympathetic to him: “You British, in’t you?
... Ah, you shouldn’t be in here then, among all them foreigners. I guess you’re just one of the unlucky ones. The problem with you is, you got the wrong kind of skin. You know what I mean? Nothing that can be
done about that.”</p>
<p class="1stpara">Our protagonist appeals for help, and bizarrely is summoned in the middle of the night for a brief interview with a Dr Thomas Hardy, a bureaucratised version of Satan, in the guise of a worn-down English
upper-class senior civil servant sitting alone in his office at the base of the Holding Pen’s concentric circles. Dr Thomas Hardy proposes an elaborate exemption that would allow him to be escorted to his home to collect
any documentation that might help prove his rights. But before that can be put into place, Dr Hardy himself is ousted in a reorganisation at the facility.</p>
<p class="1stpara">The last third of the book documents our protagonist’s ultimately successful attempt to escape from the Holding Pen and return home, only to die, presumably from his ongoing medical condition. It is
as much of a triumph as can be allowed. In his final dream before death he revisits the island of his birth and childhood. In an overheard conversation between the Christian window cleaner and an anonymous state bureaucrat
while they are waiting for workmen to break into the flat and recover the body, the window cleaner, who admonishes himself for not looking out for the unfortunate victim, says: “I mean, he never deserved that.”
To which the bureaucrat replies: “Deserving doesn’t come into it. It’s not a question of deserving, is it? ... Our systems do not support notions such as deserving or not deserving. It’s not a question
of deserving, it’s a question of whether the correct protocols have been followed.”</p>
<p class="1stpara">When I visited Auschwitz, near Krakow in Poland, a few years ago, what impressed and horrified me above everything was the meticulous systems that enabled millions of people to be efficiently killed. It
was always a question of following the correct protocols. What the Nazis would have given for today’s AI systems.</p>
<p class="1stpara"> <br /></p>
<p class="tm12">*</p>
<p class="1stpara"> <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqdDmDe1qrOax6u0BEGGvoYlzLmKJvl8zKLH4sHgrol9hOzDpDpDMaPwFZrkbAZVxR85OMNfF7iovhs-_VU6NmVQBavcrC1OJu0VPHse3Niv0ZNVrDuJRuXThLcyuEtIbRIPCBhXAza-O_H0ERbJuZk4Ci-eAtEjU5dnbMkezQ01icbDE_YDOD5NqMaA/s779/Secret%20Orbit%20cover2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="592" data-original-width="779" height="486" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqdDmDe1qrOax6u0BEGGvoYlzLmKJvl8zKLH4sHgrol9hOzDpDpDMaPwFZrkbAZVxR85OMNfF7iovhs-_VU6NmVQBavcrC1OJu0VPHse3Niv0ZNVrDuJRuXThLcyuEtIbRIPCBhXAza-O_H0ERbJuZk4Ci-eAtEjU5dnbMkezQ01icbDE_YDOD5NqMaA/w640-h486/Secret%20Orbit%20cover2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="1stpara"> </p><p class="1stpara">You may be wondering what happened to the rest of the Comedy: Purgatory and Heaven. Well, Heaven is still a viable project, just about, but has been changed radically from its original drafts of 20+ years
ago. In its current, disassembled, unfinished state it is a SF novel set in a future, half-flooded London, where genetically altered humans are allowed to live peaceably, under the benign but inflexible watch of AI entities
who stay out of the way but keep themselves busy researching the disastrous turns of events that led to this present state. And Purgatory was originally going to be set in a phantasmagorical underground city called Cockayne
bearing a strange resemblance to London in the 1980s, with strong Thatcherite resonances. An almost complete draft of that exists, but I was eventually discontented with it; one day, it will either be revamped radically or
ceremoniously ditched.</p>
<p class="Normal"> </p><div class="Normal" style="text-align: left;"><p><a href="https://www.grandiota.co.uk/ken-edwards.php" target="_blank"><b><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Secret Orbit</i> by Ken Edwards (Grand Iota, 2022) 254pp</span></b></a></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Photos by Elaine Edwards</i></span><i><b><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></b></i></p><p> </p></div>
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}</style></p>Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-14335268998488463032022-11-25T10:23:00.001+00:002022-12-23T09:19:05.515+00:00Not The Jungle Book<p>In preparation for the twice postponed (because of Covid) trip to India Elaine and I had long planned, I read Kipling's <i>The Jungle Book</i> (Vols 1 & 2). Never read Kipling before, I have to admit. My reading was prompted because the location of the Mowgli stories in the book is precisely where we were headed: the forests of Madhya Pradesh in central India. Actually Kipling had never been there; though born in India, he was shipped back to England by his parents at the age of six to go to school, then returned to Northern India in his early 20s. He relied heavily on folk tales repeated by his father. It has to be said that, for all its merits and demerits (it's quite uneven but has some wonderful writing in parts), it is not a particularly accurate guide to the flora and fauna of Madhya Pradesh.</p><p>It is of course quite unlike the Disney film. If you've seen that, or dare I say read the book, which is quite out of fashion, you will recognise some names of species. Baloo the bear, for instance: Baloo (Bhalu) is the Hindi name for the Sloth Bear, Bagheera is supposed to mean Leopard but actually is something like "Little Tiger" and Shere Khan translates loosely as King Tiger. Here's a short video I shot of a nine-month Baloo running across our path to reunite with its mother and sibling.<br /></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzFntF0Orirba1ef8lHhA8HWP3-KDiyKYaP03zTQl2WchMKH7W1Dn-QEPf9jDeCs_2tfCfa-RolzitsJVxXTA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><p></p><p>These bears, we were told, pose the most danger to local villagers –
more so even than the Leopard, because their sight is poor and there is
always the risk of their coming upon humans unexpectedly. Like most
bears, they are omnivorous, but are particularly fond of termites, which
they suck in through the considerable gap between their front teeth.</p><p>Mowgli himself is supposed to take his name from a frog, but this seems to have been made up by Kipling. We did encounter the frog in our cabin during our stay on the outskirts of Satpura National Park. To be specific: an Indian Tree Frog. It was visiting our bathroom. We managed to capture it in a plastic bag and reintroduce it humanely to the wild.<br /></p><p> Our location for the week we were there (flanked by days in Delhi) was truly fabulous. Our cabin was part of Reni Pani Jungle Lodge, a well-run facility with restaurant, swimming pool, library (the only location with limited wifi), where our every need was met. One rule, however, was that as soon as night fell we were not allowed to move freely outside our cabin or the main buildings, but needed to be accompanied by a member of staff with a torch. This was because of possible danger from wildlife, specifically the Leopard. (We had had this experience before on our safari trip in Zambia six years ago.) And one evening we did indeed hear an alarm call from one of the Chital, a small, delicate species resembling our Fallow Deer, indicating the presence of a Leopard nearby.<br /></p><p>We had arrived there via internal flight, Delhi–Bhopal, followed by a three-hour car trip. We had been apprehensive because previous Naturetrek tour reports had mentioned bad roads, but the roads were fine and the ride was smooth, apart from having to dodge the inevitable cows that have priority everywhere, even on dual-carriageway roads. There were also monkeys – Langurs and Rhesus Macaques – on the road!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsO8io2iGlsp0G_7MzjF4q6CCXPhxvMH7q27jZI79kQ6Rhw4PqDAZUa19avFDc9Ug1NvKP-8d2U7THk4VKOx5Km7x0TUSRPfbH8PelW5n8K-JCVRn2gFbVFMehaJmz_0_KvBDaNcIt9C688S8W3heeyB8XB1eltHjlLfzRsgaWpFgf-p4KGuD5jHKgag/s4032/IMG_0909.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsO8io2iGlsp0G_7MzjF4q6CCXPhxvMH7q27jZI79kQ6Rhw4PqDAZUa19avFDc9Ug1NvKP-8d2U7THk4VKOx5Km7x0TUSRPfbH8PelW5n8K-JCVRn2gFbVFMehaJmz_0_KvBDaNcIt9C688S8W3heeyB8XB1eltHjlLfzRsgaWpFgf-p4KGuD5jHKgag/w400-h300/IMG_0909.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p>We had daily four-to-five-hour drives into the National Park, alternating between four morning drives and two evening ones, a nice balance. We were driven in an open-sided jeep by Jesan, the Indian guide assigned to us, whose knowledge of the local wildlife and passion for communicating that knowledge to us was outstanding. (Also an English Literature graduate, so he knew Kipling and quoted Wordsworth to us.) Half an hour's drive took us to the edge of the Tawa Reservoir, where we dismounted and boarded small ferries to take us across the water to the entrance to the National Park itself. Here we transferred to a similar Satpura National Park vehicle with a local driver and naturalist in the front seats – Jesan remaining with us as guide because the local employees had little English. </p><p>Our morning safaris started in darkness at 6.00am, dawn beginning to
break as we crossed the misty water. We were provided with blankets for
the cold (and even with hot-water bottles on the later trips as the
temperature was dropping) but the return was in bright sunshine and we
were welcomed back to Reni Pani with refreshing wet towels and glasses
of iced tea. In the middle of each safari we stopped for a picnic
breakfast and a comfort break. The two afternoon safaris started in
sunshine at 2:00pm with the sun setting before we returned, and on those
occasions the welcome involved hot towels and hot masala tea.<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9OG2elXIuvqBL6dRnNHxcsnueMr8omiazHxD3sZ8_s9y-vDqDJ8sXSyOHS4gDd0HsNs9I8tUofgbX24WZ9-82Ff_0qzjsFAYCh0CnAmbNMdYrQMevEQY61XxYiKqGKuWdztvSgZvbUMc4Qw9E5EnmRizOSoUvBcDWJELdx2NWAz0c3MhnkaG9N0aZVQ/s4032/IMG_0876.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9OG2elXIuvqBL6dRnNHxcsnueMr8omiazHxD3sZ8_s9y-vDqDJ8sXSyOHS4gDd0HsNs9I8tUofgbX24WZ9-82Ff_0qzjsFAYCh0CnAmbNMdYrQMevEQY61XxYiKqGKuWdztvSgZvbUMc4Qw9E5EnmRizOSoUvBcDWJELdx2NWAz0c3MhnkaG9N0aZVQ/w400-h300/IMG_0876.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />It had been impressed on us that, despite the fact the National Park is also called Satpura Tiger Reserve, we should not expect to see Tigers, as they are shy and unhabituated to human beings here, unlike in other reserves in India. However, Jesan reported there had been an alert that one had been spotted on our first day, so he had some hopes and the guides were keeping their eyes and ears open for signs and alarm calls from prey animals.<br /><br />Satpura is covered by mixed deciduous forest and is decidedly hilly, the trails winding up and down as well as side to side, occasionally dipping into a small ford over a stream. Teak predominates in part of the forest; other significant trees pointed out were Mango, Tamarind, Satinwood, Crocodile Bark Tree, Gooseberry Tree and the extraordinary Ghost Tree which sheds its papery bark twice a year.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc08Nn2gXAHveObIaXXVJEWK7J5t9fnv8OWCeYPk-eQ7u5urwZ7U_3RghdHzPaSdG6WeLX0vXcsaRZXiLDJMDcLthk1MqJz5CmziYBzXbHyxHrBYzOpCf9ctJMIaBsV1woO9UP6kR9JIsX_xpQCUnNVRv-xr9Gh7f-aOiDRxRDk9ZD425pd6eWieekjw/s4032/IMG_0944.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc08Nn2gXAHveObIaXXVJEWK7J5t9fnv8OWCeYPk-eQ7u5urwZ7U_3RghdHzPaSdG6WeLX0vXcsaRZXiLDJMDcLthk1MqJz5CmziYBzXbHyxHrBYzOpCf9ctJMIaBsV1woO9UP6kR9JIsX_xpQCUnNVRv-xr9Gh7f-aOiDRxRDk9ZD425pd6eWieekjw/w300-h400/IMG_0944.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br />Among the herbivores we observed in profusion were: Chital or Spotted Deer; the larger Sambal deer (a favourite prey of the Tiger); Nilgai or Bluebuck, the largest Asian antelope, the males being blue-grey in colour; and Gaur, also a favoured Tiger prey. We were told the Gaur is the ancestor of the now extinct Aurochs, the wild cattle that once roamed Europe. Seeing them was like watching a prehistoric cave painting come to life. They are the largest bovid species occurring today. Mature males are almost black, the females and younger males brown. We had a very close view of a herd, with juvenile males locking horns in play fight. Jesan told us these combats are designed to establish dominance relationships and avoid real fights; which, if they do occur, run the risk of death or serious injury.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwhdwmK2KrRLnUizv5N0FDuLncCSyWMcmH1rH2JYY1AQG3BAmJowERSy2Zcmy65hNlD5YKcmgv8G4i0hXz3QA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />We were also keen to see the famous Indian Giant Squirrel, and were not disappointed, with two excellent sightings of these richly coloured, long-tailed rodents in the trees.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_OzmJFW8IpNlE5UbgX56Uo6Zw61yTtLcvNJE2mf3GADyXJzVRWdA2zpLSBwFYh5zBukW5JbRqp2YIETXhtpb8qIUaDsQjuZXrVW3aXofyAl5g_tEEpCBehKqVAQ1opX_NJGVYA1iky_agSiD_z7_3pRfKXgamLqz5L8eEwms_ckpipYruG_t1PelGYw/s4608/100_0263.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_OzmJFW8IpNlE5UbgX56Uo6Zw61yTtLcvNJE2mf3GADyXJzVRWdA2zpLSBwFYh5zBukW5JbRqp2YIETXhtpb8qIUaDsQjuZXrVW3aXofyAl5g_tEEpCBehKqVAQ1opX_NJGVYA1iky_agSiD_z7_3pRfKXgamLqz5L8eEwms_ckpipYruG_t1PelGYw/w400-h300/100_0263.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />We caught a glimpse of a Leopard one morning, stalking the undergrowth about a hundred metres from our jeep and momentarily climbing a tree to have a good look at us before descending and moving on. We also saw Wild Pigs and a juvenile Mugger Crocodile.<br /><br />We had been hoping to spot Indian Wild Dogs or Dhole, but were unlucky in this.<br /><br />There were birds in profusion: the ubiquitous Peafowl of course, but also Grey Junglefowl (the ancestors of our chickens), Quail, several species of Woodpecker, Indian Grey Hornbill, several brilliant species of Kingfisher, at least three species of green Parakeet, Nightjar, Black Kite, Crested Serpent Eagle, Grey and Purple and Pond Heron, Golden Oriole, Drongo, Indian Robin (no red breast). Jesan pointed out a Great Tit and we said "Boring! seen that before."<br /><p></p><p>Here are pictures of a Woolly-necked Stork and of a Treepie <span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto">trying to get into a cocoon for breakfast. (Thanks to Jesan for these pics.)</span><br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdjx7oqLNEGzBna5d8SZOKxFP4DP075qd4NkW6rceHv-ZBiuzTSPz9t49z3vuMUJuExe4_kJO_u5ySROqcipLlj2XL_pCx4-tfHXGGQqjwCLnp5zVF4uE16SaK8saWN--FB3owgbHfMgsOAe4zi8Ybr1gw747CmkKJzYdnX9mlzYYhQSYdA1_ymELHtA/s4608/100_0295.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdjx7oqLNEGzBna5d8SZOKxFP4DP075qd4NkW6rceHv-ZBiuzTSPz9t49z3vuMUJuExe4_kJO_u5ySROqcipLlj2XL_pCx4-tfHXGGQqjwCLnp5zVF4uE16SaK8saWN--FB3owgbHfMgsOAe4zi8Ybr1gw747CmkKJzYdnX9mlzYYhQSYdA1_ymELHtA/w400-h300/100_0295.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlrzh7kDZL2NB0OYaSI0UsDo6WZ_XVDEe5ytgNHmW1A7dhYUyR0hQewqJgcJWWquPwPrzsPa4Jywl3nL9FZwE_lUhasfnfdoVQjrHRNRH5udU79VmLogMLwrPLyfLc62PvEllQdv7S4BErX9lJxYQvA_mqCVPfGSe8hr1OkYjuu0ILMsPArDTIFM5wsg/s4608/100_0284.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlrzh7kDZL2NB0OYaSI0UsDo6WZ_XVDEe5ytgNHmW1A7dhYUyR0hQewqJgcJWWquPwPrzsPa4Jywl3nL9FZwE_lUhasfnfdoVQjrHRNRH5udU79VmLogMLwrPLyfLc62PvEllQdv7S4BErX9lJxYQvA_mqCVPfGSe8hr1OkYjuu0ILMsPArDTIFM5wsg/w400-h300/100_0284.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />But what of the Tiger? We had a report that a female had been observed with two cubs in the vicinity (the animal had been given the name Firebreak Female because of where she was spotted). But despite observing clear, fresh prints in the mud at the side of the path, and once hearing repeated alarm calls from the Langurs in the trees, we didn’t see anything for two days. <br /><br />Then suddenly, on our fourth day trip, it happened. We had stopped momentarily to observe a Wood Spider, in the middle of its immense web slung between two trees, overpowering and killing a butterfly – the most action we had seen that day. The jeep started up again and moved up a hill. As we breasted the top, the female park employee in the driver’s seat suddenly called to the driver to stop immediately. And there she was: a beautiful five-year-old female Tiger lying asleep right in our path – we had come perilously close to running her over!<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dx42c6t_GfHdso7T7BsE9dC8mWdoSdqh8pnMU--TszwG6lCM9wam-Gupu68cnjSmxifCsYZjx0JKL-C84UtLA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><p><br />After two days of hushed stops listening for sounds and combing the undergrowth for sightings, this encounter was almost comical in its suddenness. The Tiger was no more than five metres from the front of our vehicle. And she was not going to have her sleep disturbed. If we made a sound, her ears would prick up, and once or twice she actually opened her eyes and looked at us then went back to sleep. Once she turned over with her paws in the air like a kitten then settled on her other side.<br /><br />We couldn’t get past, and there was no sign she was going to get up. So after about 20 minutes, our driver decided to back the jeep down the slope until he could find a place to turn round, and we said goodbye to Firebreak Female. Where were her cubs? Were they safe? We didn’t know.<br /><br />By common consent, this was the highlight of our trip.</p><p></p><p> </p><p>PS: Since returning to the UK, we heard from Jesan, our guide, that Firebreak Female had been spotted several times with her cubs.<br /><br /></p><p></p>Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-57739310234370384172022-10-14T09:10:00.001+01:002022-10-14T09:10:40.800+01:00Bulverhythe Variations with Elaine Edwards<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirBWCihgCzdmriXtiWXtqQ3cE3PVnDI4wXMwj-t3X7kMr96LuAIzH4a1WcaCj6yF8z7q0jPBEa4jIMflQLi61VJPXulsghlcXL3CdAasUOSFL0kFN8I17qRaDcdEY935NQJM6S1tgnhMxTPuxw4fhteP6AwJkGceMucrBTyjHUiAr42VakyWagb_gSxQ/s830/sp38thumb1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="830" data-original-width="830" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirBWCihgCzdmriXtiWXtqQ3cE3PVnDI4wXMwj-t3X7kMr96LuAIzH4a1WcaCj6yF8z7q0jPBEa4jIMflQLi61VJPXulsghlcXL3CdAasUOSFL0kFN8I17qRaDcdEY935NQJM6S1tgnhMxTPuxw4fhteP6AwJkGceMucrBTyjHUiAr42VakyWagb_gSxQ/w400-h400/sp38thumb1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>Three texts of mine are included in <i>Bulverhythe Variations</i>, a beautiful 66pp photo-book newly out from photography publisher Silverhill Press,
with 32 images by Elaine Edwards taken in the early morning on an
abandoned coastline during the Covid period, both of us meditating on isolation and the breaking of symmetry.</p><p><a href="https://www.silverhillpress.co.uk/bookdetail.aspx?id=38" target="_blank">Have a look and buy it here</a>.</p><p>And there's also an album of Elaine's keyboard pieces which are part of the same project, together with my narrations of my text: available as <a href="https://afritnebula.bandcamp.com/album/bulverhythe-variations" target="_blank">a download and a CD on Bandcamp</a>. </p><p>These are two windows onto the project, a third being provided by our live performance of the music, narration and projection of images – which has happened twice, on 21 May 2022 at Electro Studio Space, St Leonards on Sea, and on 13 October 2022 at The Beacon, Hastings.<br /></p>Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-22430834187006989632022-10-05T09:38:00.001+01:002022-10-09T09:56:59.752+01:00SECRET ORBIT - the first chapter (of 33)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeYyhDymJ9Haq8DEhl3Ps4Nky_JiAJLEWM3yhpqpghaJLHokZGA73BCX8bF_H6AJ-JWnC1BD_5o3s43Jiofp8tW5jEku6wppUzmOGv7FjGXdtycs0MAA4IKdAv7g6F2yweWBn_iIeoWaP-PnkUcjv5Xx9HB66Se6Wc-bnnpB7pZ9oY2ICmZEwTDAJyGA/s893/9781874400868.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="893" data-original-width="558" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeYyhDymJ9Haq8DEhl3Ps4Nky_JiAJLEWM3yhpqpghaJLHokZGA73BCX8bF_H6AJ-JWnC1BD_5o3s43Jiofp8tW5jEku6wppUzmOGv7FjGXdtycs0MAA4IKdAv7g6F2yweWBn_iIeoWaP-PnkUcjv5Xx9HB66Se6Wc-bnnpB7pZ9oY2ICmZEwTDAJyGA/s320/9781874400868.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p> Day 1<br /><br /><br />You wake in what seems to be an abandoned factory. The pipework and ductwork is of an extraordinary beauty. There is no way out. This is the Holding Pen, whence no-one in reality, despite the stated protocols and procedures and mission statements established by the Management, ever escapes. But hang on a minute. You must have escaped, it’s vivid in your memory; except it isn’t, that’s an illusion, because of course there is no longer any discernible electro-chemical activity in that skull of yours, because, frankly, you have the condition known as brain death. That is to say, your brain stem is no longer in meaningful connection with your spinal cord. That trumps everything. So to say “you wake” or that “you remember you awoke” is fanciful. But there you are. <br />The good news is that this is no abandoned factory after all; actually, it looks uncommonly like your own bed in your own bedroom in your own flat. Congratulations. You made it. What do you think of that?<br />Sorry, your response is inaudible.<br />No blood flow, no oxygen, that’s bad. You can’t think how bad. But to get out of the Holding Pen, that’s a result. If indeed you did. The only thing is – can you turn off that damn TV, or even just turn the volume down? it goes on and on, at a level of banality that beggars belief, plumbing new depths just when you thought you’d got to the bottom – the only thing is – no, of course you can’t, you are immobilised by this condition of yours, that is to say death, or more properly brain stem death, and it’s no longer at all possible for that bony finger of yours, not a few hours ago so mobile, so expressive, as were all ten fingers-and-thumbs, to press the off button. A pity you didn’t have it tuned to a more interesting channel to begin with, BBC4, for instance, all those fascinating documentaries, and the added blessing of off-air silence during most of the daylight hours. Well, it can’t be helped now. The only thing is: how did it happen?<br />There is no answer.<br />A dog is having hysterics in the street below, and its owner is shouting at it. No, you can’t hear that either. Nor even the hum of traffic. But you seem fresh. Quite cool. Well, on this first day of your death your body will be rapidly cooling to room temperature. The inexorable dance of entropy kicks in, now that the vital metabolic processes and enzymatic functions needed to maintain body temperature are no longer in operation. You’re not looking too bad, tucked up in your duvet. Appearances can, however, be deceptive. The bacteria that before death were feeding happily on the contents of your intestine, as they have been throughout the eight decades and more of your life, are now just beginning the enormous task of digesting the intestine itself. You won’t notice that yet. The streams in your blood vessels are becoming irregular and lumpy as red blood cells clump together. Once circulation of the blood has completely ceased, gravity will predominate; that is, your blood will tend to flow downward, accumulating in capillaries and small veins in the lower parts of your body. Soon your skin will take on a different hue, with a patchy mottling, as you lie there peacefully. Relax, this is quite natural.<br />Looking back on your life, do you have any unfulfilled goals? <br />What’s that? You don’t know? No, of course you don’t. You were a young man first, and then you became middle-aged and then you became an old man. That’s about it. That’s the story, in a nutshell. Of course, it’s understandable, you are no longer in a position to say anything meaningful about it. Whatever happened happened. There’s no going back. Thank god, it may be said. The very last time you saw yourself was probably last night, in the bathroom mirror. There you were, your reflection anyway, with a delay of approximately six nanoseconds, in your cracked and foxed bathroom mirror. All you saw was an old man you didn’t recognise, who used to come in every morning looking worse than before; but he was you, a representation of you anyway, this is all you know: you remembered you’d come in, you’d lather and scrape at your face, you’d comb the few strands left of your hair, you’d strain to shit. <br />You had a medical condition, several medical conditions, described by one of the doctors as “complex”, but now it doesn’t matter any more, so that’s the good side. Also your worldly possessions, it doesn’t matter about them, the burglar can take them now, you don’t care, do you? If he’s still plying his trade. Or BJ can take them, if he ever returns. The key is still under the mat, he knows that. Do you follow? You’re not listening, of course. Because all that’s left to you is the final darkness, and you welcome it – it’s a relief, it’s easeful, as the poet said. Comfy. No need to worry about the Management either, they do not have dominion over your estate, not any more. You used to always be aware of the Management watching you, didn’t you, that’s a fact, how they would see you come, see you go. How there’s nothing they didn’t notice. You came to realise that. How you had to keep vigilant. Even when you went to post a letter, or something like that, via the short cut through the park, which is merely a dog toilet now. Through the gate in the arrowhead railings, then on to the diagonal path. You remember when it was all daffodils in spring, lovely it was, the way the council kept it. A lovely aspect, this flat has, looking over the park in spring. A typical London park. That was when you had your people, when they were truly alive. The park: a dog toilet now. You had a medical condition, which is to say you couldn’t walk very far, inasmuch as you got tired and all that, so you just used to go out to post a letter and come straight back. Or get the paper. What’s in the paper? Nothing. Rubbish. But no need to worry about all that now.<br />The burglar – he paid you another visit the other night. When was that? Ooh, maybe months ago. It’s hard to keep track. This time he’s taken your medical records, just took them out of the file, can you believe that? Well there’s nothing much left to take by now. It’s unbelievable. You’re an old man, what have you got? Nothing. Your people are all gone now, long gone. Though sometimes you see them when you wake up, right here in the flat, at two in the morning. But this burglar, oh, he’s been in a dozen times if he’s been once. First, the radio: that’s gone. Then you had these tins, which you won in the raffle at the day centre, tins of food, you stored them around the flat. You had one here behind the sofa, and one on that shelf, just hidden from sight, and another, you forget where (this is speculation, of course). All gone! you wake up in the morning, they’ve all disappeared. The chap, he’s been again and taken them, every single one. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Well, never mind him. He’s welcome to anything else if he wants to come back now. He’ll get a shock too, when he sees you. That’ll be funny. Remember what happened? There you were in bed, you woke up in the night because you heard someone buggering about within the flat, you threw your mug, which happened to be by your bedside, at him, but he was too quick for you, and the mug banged on the floor but didn’t break. He ran into the spare room, you toddled after, and you were banging on the door shouting, but he’d locked himself in the room. It was two o’clock in the morning, something like that. Are you going to come out? you were shouting. Finally the door opened, but it wasn’t him, it was not the burglar, he must have left when you weren’t attending, or climbed out via the window. And instead there was your mother, right there in the doorway, who’s been dead these sixty years, so it was very confusing, and she said, There there, it’s all right, just like you remember her doing way back when you were very little. There there, don’t be afraid, and all that. A sort of glow about her. You began weeping, but when you opened your eyes she wasn’t there any more, of course.<br />You used to go down the High Street, but it’s all changed. That department store, which we all remember, gone now, and the draper’s too. An old-fashioned draper’s shop like the one your mother used to work in, back on the island, which is where you were born. The butcher’s used to have this effigy on the pavement in front of it in those days: fat smiling butcher in a straw hat with a blue ribbon round it and a blue tie and red and white striped apron, and he’s grinning and has a ginger moustache and sideburns. As tall as you are and twice as wide. Was there for years. Now it says on the sign “Halal Butcher”. And the chaps behind the counter, they don’t look anything like him. Fair enough, it all changes. Now it’s all shops selling strange vegetables, and artificial hair. And cheap stuff, electronic gizmos of all kinds. Everything for a pound. It used to be class. That’s what you always said, didn’t you? You talked to your mirror about it all the time, which is to say your image, which is to say your self. Antique furniture shops all in a row across the street, on the other side of the park, smelling of French polish, beautiful; not any more. And it changes too fast, and the street’s just full of youngsters, all jabbering. That’s what they do, the youngsters, they jabber at their electronic gizmos. It’s not human speech, you can’t understand it. It goes too fast. They’re laughing but their eyes have no mirth for you. There’s this young white woman with scraped-back hair enters the post office with a baby in a pushchair, as you’re coming out with your pension; you hold open the heavy glass door for her, but she doesn’t even look at you, it’s like you’re not there, like you don’t exist. She has tattoos all up her arm.<br />Crossing the park in the mist in winter, coming home, it’s hard to see anything, the cold grass just fades into bluish nothing on every side. The mist swirls up and the darkness comes up on all sides and just engulfs the whole thing. You’re in the middle of the crossroads, in the part, I mean, where the paths cross, quite frosty. And you’re hearing this call from somewhere, at first far off then coming closer, this man’s voice calling, “’Itler! ’Itler!” There he is ahead of you, looming up out of the mist. And then again, “’Itler! ’Itler!” And now you realise he’s calling his dog; well, your blood’s boiling about it. Now you can just manage to make him out in the fog, he’s a man of some bulk. He’s going, “’Itler! ’Itler!” and the great brutish dog just leaping out of the distance and making a fuss. You want to say to him, You don’t know what you’re on about! You know what he did? You don’t know anything about it! But of course, you never say anything. Not wise. That’s the kind of world we’re in now. Everybody’s forgotten. That’s what BJ used to say. Whatever happened to BJ?<br />Time for a rest from all that, anyway. Best out of it. But is there any way to turn off that great bright gaudy-colour TV, or at least turn the damn sound down? No, of course not.<br /></p><p><a href="https://www.grandiota.co.uk/ken-edwards.php" target="_blank">More details and how to buy the book</a><br /><br /></p>Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-20826930961655074372022-07-31T10:32:00.001+01:002022-07-31T10:33:22.827+01:00SECRET ORBIT - available for pre-order<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaV7cVHXea8e4u6SnzeN0vP07H03c8V89eNQ7xzS3LMj8kDiQP2xJlkIdHfwGSLuLj53tUPkYS9mcJkxX3f5lxO_meW76TP3DNVpG-61R4QPZK1zwFh5tn3NaKUw2KioZMUgeaBeEOjxDqhsg1kSNZ0YuqV4kEO0IJY9Tinavs0qGggcJmZh2WL4njHA/s779/Secret%20Orbit%20cover2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="592" data-original-width="779" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaV7cVHXea8e4u6SnzeN0vP07H03c8V89eNQ7xzS3LMj8kDiQP2xJlkIdHfwGSLuLj53tUPkYS9mcJkxX3f5lxO_meW76TP3DNVpG-61R4QPZK1zwFh5tn3NaKUw2KioZMUgeaBeEOjxDqhsg1kSNZ0YuqV4kEO0IJY9Tinavs0qGggcJmZh2WL4njHA/w400-h304/Secret%20Orbit%20cover2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Today, Sunday 31 July, is the last day you can pre-order my new novel <a href="https://www.grandiota.co.uk/forthcoming.php" target="_blank"><i>Secret Orbit </i></a>AND have your name printed in the back of the book. Grand Iota has had 58 pre-order subscriptions so far, which is pretty gratifying. A mixture of old friends, including some who have never bought a book of mine before, and people I don't know at all. Wow.<p></p><p>However ... after the book goes to press (this week) you can still pre-order it. All pre-orders will be dispatched from late August on. So please do. (The book is officially published in the autumn – looks like the publication date has been put back to November.)</p><p><br /></p>Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-81787482374096762172021-08-16T08:58:00.000+01:002021-08-16T08:58:10.148+01:00Review of my Collected<p> A nice <a href="http://internationaltimes.it/acts-of-subversion-and-commentary/" target="_blank">review of my Collected Poems</a>. By Rupert Loydell.</p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p>Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-58624551602303927012021-02-12T09:17:00.001+00:002021-03-29T10:39:34.253+01:00My Collected Poems – an update<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h-_vK7uRgPA/YCZFuhFCptI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/fhab_TLVcPoSpKz_wCxgpABz3Ef-w0SNACLcBGAsYHQ/s622/KE%2BCollected%2Bthumbnail.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="622" data-original-width="411" height="395" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h-_vK7uRgPA/YCZFuhFCptI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/fhab_TLVcPoSpKz_wCxgpABz3Ef-w0SNACLcBGAsYHQ/w260-h395/KE%2BCollected%2Bthumbnail.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p>My <i>Collected Poems 1975-2020</i> is due out from Shearsman Books – publication date April 2021, so the publisher tells me. Here's a link to <a href="https://www.shearsman.com/store/-p277839529" target="_blank">its page on the Shearsman website</a>. The details are slightly out of date – it will come out at 538 pages, rather than 520. A whopper, anyway.</p><p>It's been proofread, and all is go. The cover image of the rings on a tree-trunk is from a photo by Elaine Edwards.</p><p>More news soon!</p><p><br /></p><p>UPDATE: Out now....<br /></p>Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-64224668802660883282020-12-31T09:07:00.001+00:002020-12-31T09:07:11.828+00:00Collected Poems upcoming in 2021<p>As the annus horribilis 2020 draws to a close, there is one ray of light at least for me – I just received by email a draft of the cover and first page proofs of my promised <i>Collected Poems</i> from Shearsman Books. A 520pp+ monster! It spans my poetry from around 1975 onwards. </p><p>I'm very happy that the cover will feature a photograph by Elaine.<br /></p><p>So I'm proofreading right now, and there will be more news soon.</p><p><br /></p>Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-912679177405535812020-03-30T12:16:00.003+01:002020-03-30T12:17:29.461+01:00COVID-19 diary 30/3/20<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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DAY TO DAY<br />
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I see tiny cities made of gold and stellar formations of uncanny provenance, all wrecked in the flood, even at its muddy rim.<br />
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[pic: Elaine Edwards]Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-43907268942944326002020-03-29T15:36:00.000+01:002020-03-29T15:36:07.853+01:00COVID-19 diary 29/3/20<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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THE NEXT DAY<br />
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But something is not right. The hum of traffic – that’s what I’m still convinced I remember; from morning till evening it was like the constant swell of the sea – is gone, and a great silence reigns. The world ruffles ever so slightly with every possibility lurking below its serene surface. The press of the floorboards on my bare feet is comfortable, the door handle nestles nicely in my palm, air gently enters and exits my nostrils. I open, I go through. I click the door shut. What is this place? It’s where we are.<br /><br />
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[pic: Brian Marley]Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-67954161892740774842020-03-28T11:49:00.001+00:002020-03-28T11:50:21.827+00:00COVID-19 diary 28/3/20<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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DAYS GO BY<br />
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E pointed out to me that just below one of the windows in the house-backs visible from the back of our house someone has over the past week built up a stash of items on the flat roof. A large cardboard box topped by a large tupperware container and a plastic bag. From time to time a man opens the window and extracts items which seem to be food. We speculate that he's self-isolating and has no access to a fridge (those windows face north and are in shadow much of the day). Also visible are a good number of bottles, apparently white wine. <br />
<br />Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-34694806145615982112020-03-27T09:12:00.001+00:002020-03-27T09:12:41.033+00:00COVID-19 diary 27/3/20<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /><br />DAY BY DAY<br /><br />I am moving I am sitting up now. I am hither and thither looking. What season is it? Probably spring. The evidence, such as species of flowering plants or the particular activities of birds (they sing, I can hear them), is out there, beyond this place. It’s impossible to sing without a voice-box. To listen without a brain. We are therefore all real beings with real organs – we confirm the existence of each other. We are here but we are also there. In another place that I sense is out there still, but can only imagine. Out there is a promise, I suppose: the imaginary air of an imaginary place that is not this place, waiting for me until I can feel it for myself.<br /><br /><br /><br />Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-87608335214419652882020-03-26T08:45:00.001+00:002020-03-26T08:45:28.986+00:00COVID-19 diary 26/3/20<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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YET ANOTHER DAY<br />
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A tiny wisp of white cloud drifts across the square of light blue, slowly, right to left. When that has disappeared, there is only blue for a while, interrupted once by the vertical flight of a bird, a dark shape moving too swiftly to reveal its species. Some time later, another cloud appears on the right; as it too drifts across, it seems to tug behind it a larger, glitter-edged one that, as it comes fully into view, causes the smaller one to dim and dissolve into its blue surround. After a further period these clouds, too, drift behind the left of the frame. <br />
Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-41478727006100544732020-03-25T09:39:00.000+00:002020-03-25T09:39:01.326+00:00COVID-19 diary 25/3/20<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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ANOTHER DAY<br />
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Then I’m awake. No, I can’t even say that: “then”. Erase that. Begin again. But I just did. What am I talking about? So then. Light is what I was first aware of, coming in from what I was slow to realise was the window, on the left hand side, flowing onto and outlining the great globe above me. I’d imagined it to be some huge satellite, or was it a mammary to suck on; but it’s only the Japanese paper lantern that hangs from the ceiling above the bed; it’s a bed that I am in, the pale sunlight streaming in on it making a brilliant crescent. It’s white, there’s gold in the picture, there’s blue there too, I’m aware of blue. Pale blue. I remember that lantern from another time. It’s still there! It’s moving ever so slightly, which makes me aware there is a breeze, the window must be ajar. Immense, golden light: like waking in a kind of a palace, or I could be in a cathedral or something, but no, it’s the early sunshine working its way through the slats of the wooden venetian blinds at the window, which have become incandescent in my imagination. I can crush the light with my eyelids, but then when I lift them there it is again. Of course, I’ve seen it many times before. I realise that now. There’s nothing to it. But what country am I in? is it the country I was born in? do I know my name? my sex, age, dimensions, identifying marks, etc? where’s the customary baggage of memories? Trying to establish the facts of the matter. Once again: day one. That is, the day on which I write this. But that would make the day of my awakening, the day I’m describing, day minus whatever. We could equally call <i>that</i> day one, and add the sum to the number of this day. Then I must have awoken in the early hours of that day, or this, but already I’m losing my memory of each detail of my awakening. I need to hold onto this. That’s why I am trying to write it all down now, on this day, which I name day one. I will now write about the duvet cover, with its blue and white ripples, how I can finger it now, how I can grip it with fingers which are my own, feeling the coarse substance between fingers, <i>my</i> fingers, my nerve endings telling my brain I am doing this, and later other things will happen, that’s all to come, but that first vision, at the point of my awakening, is of something insubstantial, something longed for but not attainable, by any effort whatsoever, even if I were able to persuade my limbs, my recalcitrant, recumbent body to move towards it, whatever it is. All right, maybe there’s no sure thing, but what I do remember for sure, what I remember now is turning over in the bed, onto my left side, facing the window and finding to my amazement your warm body close to mine. You were gazing at the ceiling, and then you turned to me, a smile in your face.<br /><br />I manage to nod towards the window: What’s out there? That’s what I’m trying to ask. Actually, I just mime it, no real sound emerges. But you understand. It’s a lovely morning, you say, smiling. Yes, it’s your voice all right, I recognise it now. I consider this for some long moments. So there is an outside, in which it is morning? And it really is you, I’m sure of it, I’m certain I can hear your voice close to me. It’s such a relief to hear that. What I try to say next (but it doesn’t materialise at all) is: I’d always hoped there would be. I don’t manage that, it comes out as: “I don’t remember anything.” It doesn’t matter, you whisper. And I say, and this time I do manage to utter: Have we met? <br />
<br />Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-49062432559289876672020-03-24T10:23:00.000+00:002020-03-24T10:24:33.761+00:00COVID-19 diary 24/3/20<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
A DAY<br />
<br />
Then I’m awake. No, I can’t even say that: “then”. Erase that. Because “then” implies there was a before, a before that contained what? well, I can’t remember. I can’t recall a before. But I think there was. If so – if there was a before – it may have included my death, and before even that, my life. Whatever that amounted to. So I’m told. But who told me? Nobody told me anything. There isn’t anybody. Or is there? So why have I convinced myself that I awoke? That I <i>am</i> awake? But I am. And if I awoke, what did I awake from? Darkness has given way, is giving way, slowly and yet surely, to light. And yet? Light is ever so slow in coming, but I think it is, I think on the left hand side. There is differentiation. There is definitely light of some kind, outlining what? Pale sunlight, is it, a brilliant crescent of it? Light, anyway, penetrating the universe, shining here more brightly, there less. It’s white, but there’s gold in it, there’s blue there too, I’m aware of blue, moving ever so slightly, which makes me think there is a breeze, perhaps the window is half open – I don’t remember opening it – and the window is huge and incandescent. So there’s a window! We’re making a little progress here. A window. Opening onto to what? A sea of pale blue with white ripples around, an ocean to move through? A world? Am I on a world, or in one? But what country am I in? Does it have a name? Have I? Surely I have to have name? What day is it? Are these questions? Is this a day? A day is a day. I’m writing about it. But actually this is the day on which I write this. Let’s number it day one. So what day was it when I awoke? Day one. That’s what I’m trying to make sense of. <style><!--
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{page:WordSection1;}</style>Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-74606443135336212922020-03-23T12:18:00.000+00:002020-03-23T12:18:41.843+00:00COVID-19 diary 23/3/20<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
From the top room of our house at the front you get a good view of the Convent gardens. It looks peaceful this morning. The convent itself is no more, but houses the Holy Child Language School: a Catholic establishment teaching English to successive waves of children from abroad.<br />
<br />
Given my upbringing, this proximity always brings on a chill. Ah, the Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, the most successful and efficient virus yet devised by humankind for humankind. I'm constantly reminded that I'm only in remission, not cured.<br />
<br />
I think we can suppose that all activity has ceased for the time being. Only a few days ago, some flags were still flying and you could see small groups of boys kicking a football around in the grounds, or apparently collecting wood - for a bonfire? But today there is nobody around. And the processions of kids along our street, bickering and bantering and playing music on their devices have not taken place for a while. I don't know when we shall see them again.Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-43628402106448222112020-03-22T11:51:00.001+00:002020-03-24T09:23:47.078+00:00COVID-19 diary 22/3/20<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
<br />
A man makes his way along the front at St Leonards-on-Sea, walking like a sailor, or a bear.<br />
<br />
Solitary figures walking, or some walking together, trying to shield
themselves from the stiff easterly breeze and from the glitter coming in
off the sea.<br />
<br />
Two young men with dark beards and dark glasses, hoods up, one stopping to take a photo of the other with his phone.<br />
<br />
We walked on the moon. That was a long time ago.<br />
<br />
An ADHD spaniel breaks free from its owner, darts hither and thither with no apparent purpose. Another small dog sees and approaches it eagerly, but is shunned by the spaniel, which races onto the shingle, then back to the walkway, runs to investigate a scent by the benches, but gives this no time and is away once more.<br />
<br />
<i>A friend writes: I</i> feel quite euphoric about the whole debacle, and increasingly find I share these feelings with others. So many aspects of consumer capital which I despise have been swept away overnight, and for the foreseeable future; I'm hoping this experience will change societies and economies permanently.<br />
<br />
Two serious exercisers, totally absorbed, run past me, one a couple of seconds behind the other.<br />
<br />
Someone in a tartan coat and woolly hat, surrounded by bundles (homeless?) sits upright on the shingle in the lee of the groyne, cross-legged in the lotus position, apparently meditating.<br />
<br />
Ecstasy<br />
<br />
Ec-stasis, that is<br />
<br />
Standing outside<br />
<br />
Standing outside of yourself.Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-60273070761360826122020-03-22T11:32:00.004+00:002020-03-24T09:24:10.605+00:00COVID-19 diary 21/3/20<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q5cGfQVAtOA/XndMkl0p2SI/AAAAAAAAAQo/ksBAhP6ILCo9a4eyCAnS-_VM6TEaa2a8ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/pussy%2Bwillow%252C%2BRSPB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q5cGfQVAtOA/XndMkl0p2SI/AAAAAAAAAQo/ksBAhP6ILCo9a4eyCAnS-_VM6TEaa2a8ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/pussy%2Bwillow%252C%2BRSPB.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span id="goog_76697311"></span><span id="goog_76697312"></span><br />
Pussy willow catkins are out everywhere as E and I go for a
lovely walk this morning at Dungeness RSPB bird reserve. The visitors'
centre is closed, but the reserve is open to the public, and there are a few other couples, single people and small family groups
wandering around - friendly greetings from a distance being the order of
the day. Greylag and Brent geese and many ducks are about, but the
highlight of the morning is a stoat crossing our path. Only the second
time I've seen one, I think.Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-49880076431492090312019-09-08T09:25:00.002+01:002019-09-08T09:29:01.525+01:00The Grey Area - out in JanuaryMy new novel <i>The Grey Area </i>will be published by Grand Iota in January 2020.<br />
<br />
This is what the cover will look like:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZMRyxcFTR9s/XXS6Cm_SwxI/AAAAAAAAAPw/Rxlm3tN4KdAQPIteoO1wtFjniHM_U3j4ACLcBGAs/s1600/9781874400769.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="787" data-original-width="508" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZMRyxcFTR9s/XXS6Cm_SwxI/AAAAAAAAAPw/Rxlm3tN4KdAQPIteoO1wtFjniHM_U3j4ACLcBGAs/s320/9781874400769.jpg" width="206" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
You can read a few excerpts from it in earlier posts on this blog.<br />
<br />
Grand Iota is running a subscription scheme to enable it to publish this book alongside Fanny Howe's <i>Bronte Wilde</i>, an early novel of hers, now revised and set to be published in the UK for the first time.<br />
<br />
So if you'd like to sponsor publication of my book and Fanny's, please head over to<br />
the <a href="https://www.grandiota.co.uk/forthcoming.php" target="_blank">Grand Iota website</a>.<br />
<br />Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-39419493367106993962019-03-25T10:52:00.002+00:002019-03-26T09:57:13.156+00:00from part four of WILD METRICSEvery day the future comes nearer; every single day that passes, and they pass much more quickly now, it approaches; but it gets no clearer, no more decipherable than at the beginning – the beginning? – what I mean to say is, at the time when I was closer to the beginning, when my senses were more rudimentary. And now as I bring myself to write this, in many ways it gets more difficult, because I am no longer relying on those long-ago set-down accounts of what happened, and when, and wherefore, etc etc; no longer building on those familiar narratives but on the thin air of now. You know, like the cartoon character running from some assailant towards the cliff edge and continuing to run beyond, without noticing for a short while thereafter that there is nothing to support his pattering little feet until he looks down and then of course the shock of awareness, of seeing for the first time the yawning space beneath him, provokes his belated downfall. It’s a familiar trope, perhaps rather hackneyed by now, but an apt one I think. So anyway the awful thought comes that the future, outside the frame, is actually down there. And looking back, well, all of that seemed solid at the time, more or less in focus, and there was a lot of it to build on, but still, it’s now slipping out of reach. Not forgetting that the time to come is far less capacious, I mean there is less of it. So I’d better hurry, or it will be used up.<br />
<br />
Not forgetting. That’s the thing. That would be good. How can we imagine the future if we have no access to the past?<br />
<br />
The future can only ever be imagined. It never arrives. It can be brought to mind by being out of mind, by stepping off the clifftop of memory. Oh, such tedious metaphors – enough. I only have, as my resource, autobiographical memory, which is telling a story, which is in essence a pattern-making activity, a creative response to events that have occurred, or may have occurred. The neurologists tell us that memories are not records stored in the filing cabinet of the brain, waiting over the years to be retrieved. They are built anew each time we try to retrieve them, when we create a mental representation on the fly of something that may or may not have happened, but somehow has left its mark. A trigger can activate the representation by firing a node in the network in which the sources are encoded and which connects them together. Memories are, say the neurologists, about optimising decision-making in the future. But there is no guarantee they represent verifiable facts. They are distributed widely in the brain across interconnections, with immense potential for interference. When they lapse, it is not because storage space is at a premium. They fade when the connections degrade. I am reminded of the difficult last years experienced by my wife’s father, who struggled as he entered his nineties to piece together the remnants of his memories while coping with the frayed interconnections in his brain that would have assisted the pattern-making; and how he tried to create new patterns that didn’t make any sense but at least enabled some kind of temporary stringing-together that would hold for now. It was especially poignant as he had the reputation of being a storyteller, in his prime holding audiences fascinated with his tales of life in rural Norfolk before the Second World War, an activity he called “yarning” that had a tradition in the annals of the family, for one of his uncles had been a raconteur, with a fund of texts he had written that, when performed for entertainment in the evenings, he had called “recitations”, texts that after he died his widow had burned, for reasons never explained; and another uncle had actually written books about life as a mole-catcher and a railway signalman in the Fens which had become popular, and he had appeared on regional television in the 1970s in a regular series of programmes on rural life, being interviewed wearing collarless shirt and neckerchief, a faux-rural garb foisted upon him by the programme makers which he would never have worn in real life. And so my wife’s father had carried on the tradition, keeping family and friends entertained and amused with his yarning, until his brain cells started to die and the pattern-making began to strain credulity. He would ring us up, worried that his wife’s (my wife’s mother’s) bicycle was not to be found in the garden shed, deducing from this that she had been held up at work for some inexplicable reason, what could it possibly be? and had to be gently reminded that the bicycle had gone very many years ago and that his beloved wife had died almost as many years ago, and the world he was attempting to re-create had not existed in reality in all that time.<br />
<br />
In memory, the world is created – re-created – every day, every single moment, becoming new again, bringing into existence the possibilities of new futures, in a fluid state, enhancing survival. Memory is a catastrophic breaking-free, a benign catastrophe, if you will. As suggested by the poet and artist Allen Fisher, who makes an appearance in the pages you have just been reading, and who remains to this day a friend of mine, it is a vital component of the pattern-making we need to do each day as a means of surviving – knowing about it and knowing how we know. With its loss or degradation, all the principalities and echelons of existence are obliterated, their hierarchies flattened, their glitter dispersed, and time shatters to its atoms, its instances separated out so that they can no longer be inspected from front to back and back to front again and be seen as cohesive, as elements in a system that can be worked with and worked through.<br />
<br />
But what of those many pages that bring us up to this point? Where are these vaulted spaces they try to conjure? What is the time that is being evoked? I seem to remember it, anyway, whether through inventive or consistent memory. It is a good forty years since the events that inspired this narrative actually occurred, and the evidence for them is naturally incomplete. So I have laboured to complete the narrative by discovering or inventing connections, trying to fill the gaps with consistent or invented memories, vainly as it happens, because the more you fill in the more new gaps appear, triggering new memory-connections, fractally self-similar, a process, as I have already surmised, that could extend infinitely – within the unknown constraints of the capacity of the human mind anyway – so when might you call a halt and say this is ridiculous, what is the point? Has the point, if there is one, been made? Has it even been reached?<br />
<br />
But then of course the realisation becomes apparent: that the gaps that appear, and keep on appearing in new places however much you toil to fill them, are inevitable and necessary. As Edwin Muir has written of Kafka: “We know the end he had in mind for all his stories; but the road to it could have gone on forever, for life as he saw it was endlessly ambiguous; so that there seems to be a necessity in the gaps which are left in his three stories [<i>The Trial, The Castle</i> and <i>America</i>]; if he had filled up these gaps, others would have appeared.” The process is inexhaustible, that is why it is called process; the framing is arbitrary, the decision to allow ellipses, and in particular the big ellipsis that occurs at the very end of the narrative, to be themselves, has to be made at some point decided by the author because there is no objective point of completion, not ever, no closure, to use a now fashionable word. And then the story can breathe, and live on, live with its indeterminacies, transferred from the imagination of the author to the imagination of the reader and left in safe-keeping there to be done with as the reader may wish.<br />
<br />
And the obvious corollary to all this is the medium itself of the narrative, the question of the language with which it is conveyed, for it needs a conveyance of some kind and I’m doing the best I can here. All I have at my disposal to render these events or my take on these events, which may or may not have happened, is the words you are reading right now, but what are these double entities of moving air and reposing ink? They are slippery and elusive, they do not always mean what you think they mean, their relation to those long gone or imagined events is not simple, their relation to you, reader, is not simple. Their tendency to take over and obscure some imagined truth vies with their purported aim of rendering that truth plain and simple. Poetry is involved in that business, of course, but I’m not going into that here; perhaps I’ll return to it later. At any rate, language, like that other system known as the scientific method, is a different world from the world of the real, it’s a code that enables glimpses of how someone might imagine the real, and thereby have some dealing with or accounting for it, but the real is not really here, and maybe it’s the place I now only dimly remember, where the talking dead are – or is it the place where I am now as I write or where you are now as you read these words, as you turn the page, either physically taking up the edge of the paper and flicking it over or else commanding this movement electronically with a sweep or tap of your finger?<br />
<br />
Another extract can be read at <a href="https://mollybloompoetry.weebly.com/ken-edwards.html" target="_blank">Molly Bloom 18</a><br />
<h4>
WILD METRICS is published by <a href="https://www.grandiota.co.uk/" target="_blank">Grand Iota</a>, April 2019 </h4>
Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-1980554629947631692018-02-01T10:09:00.000+00:002018-02-01T10:11:15.286+00:00from THE GREY AREA: The marsh tripThe bus stop at the Barbican Gate, five minutes’ walk from the Dead Level Business Park, and just past the fork in the road by the abandoned Barbican inn, was deserted. The glass of the panel on the stop sign where the timetable should have been affixed was missing – indecipherable, faded graffiti occupying that space – but undoubtedly the bus departing the Sanctuary Café, Deadmans Beach, at 16:35 – that is to say, two hours later than the service that might have been caught by Edith Watkins on that fateful March day a year and six weeks previously – was due any minute.<br />
The time difference was intended to allow for the change in sunset time, including the introduction of daylight saving, since then. Sunset would have taken place around six o’clock then, and soon after eight now.<br />
But the weather was overcast.<br />
A small velvet bag containing two dice was extracted from a left-hand pocket. The dice were rolled on the low brick wall that bounded the narrow pavement.<br />
The dice showed five (two and three).<br />
The double-decker bus could now be observed, approaching from the direction of Deadmans Beach, its destination board indicating: 201 Moorshurst. It came to a halt, the door folded silently open, the driver waited. Few passengers were on board.<br />
The top deck was selected. Clearly, it was not where Edith Watkins would have ventured – she would probably have chosen one of the seats near the driver designated for those with mobility difficulties – but it afforded a better view of the surrounding environment.<br />
<br />
<br />
So stop number five was the destination, selected by the dice. The bus slowed, and stopped. It waited for the solitary passenger to descend, then went on its way, and eventually disappeared from view. The sign above the bus service emblem showed that this was the stop for Thieves Bridge. Another sign pointed the way: to Thieves Bridge Village, and to the Industrial Ponds.<br />
The weather was not only overcast, but breezy, as it would have been, insofar as we can tell, that inauspicious day. A nearby row of trees waved, and it was cold for the time of year. Yet beyond it seemed peaceful. There was no sound of birdsong or bird calling. An engine of some sort could be heard coughing in the far distance. <br />
And there were fields visible to the west, grey fields where daisies and buttercups were present abundantly, and where one or two horses grazed among them. Patchworked among these, the brilliant lemon-yellow shapes of fields of oilseed rape, now come to flower, stood out, hard-edged against the steel-grey sky. Closer at hand was a meadow of a uniform but stippled white, resembling nothing so much as a shingle beach; but its constituents, on closer examination, proved to be not stones but an excess of daisies, so tightly and densely packed that no greenery was visible between the individual plants, this growth only petering out at the far right edge, where a small yellow patch of buttercups was cornered. This yellow was a of a softer hue than the acid tone of the oilseed rape flower. The fields formed non-symmetrical patterns of quadrilateral forms, their boundaries sometimes marked by ditches radiating from the Old Canal, but the watercourses themselves were rarely visible. All those edges seemed to be going into the ground. The location of the Old Canal itself, to the north (beyond the road), was marked by a line of birches, and beyond that could be seen the distant hills where the presently invisible village of Deadhurst would be concealed behind thickets of tall trees with their freight of rookeries and heronries.<br />
And then to the east, the direction of travel, all was flat and open, as the Dead Level gave way to marshland beyond. On the horizon could be seen the row of wind turbines, their vanes slowly turning. It seemed as though, whatever the vantage point, these structures would always appear to be at the same distance, like the rainbow.<br />
The community of Thieves Bridge appeared to consist of a row of perhaps a dozen custom-built houses and bungalows of all forms and sizes, presenting as an isolated outpost of the Deadmans Beach sprawl. The most modest was a converted railway carriage, painted Brunswick green, to which a timber verandah had been attached; the most ambitious, a two-storey construction of modernist flavour, its plate-glass windows impervious to inspection, a car-port embedded at ground level. Next door to this, a bungalow offered a window display of tightly packed cacti and succulents in pots. One or two of the dwellings were in a poor state of repair and were adjacent to ramshackle outhouses. All homes had front gardens of various sizes and scope, planted with hardy vegetation adapted to withstand the salt breezes coming in along the flats from the coast, and incorporating areas of tightly-packed pebbles and gravel. No inhabitants were visible. <br />
The houses lined one side only of the unmade road, facing the west, a broken hedge marking the other perimeter, and here occasional vehicles were parked on the verge, where there were small masses of white narcissi. At the far end, a footpath intersected this road, and along it a young woman could be observed sedately leading two roan ponies, chestnut intermingled with white and grey, away into the distance.<br />
Then, from the far end of the row, approached a group of people and dogs.<br />
On closer approach, this group resolved into eight or nine individuals, with a dozen or more dogs circling them, all of the same breed: grey, black or peppery in colour, with white socks, shaggy moustaches and sharp pricked ears. The individuals talked and laughed among themselves while their animals darted from side to side, investigated the verges or trotted back to look quizzically at their owners, who were mostly of late middle age or older, evenly balanced as to sex, and of generally jovial disposition. They were dressed principally in fawn, with some exceptions and eccentricities. <br />
Greetings were exchanged. One or two of the dogs approached and greeted in their own fashion.<br />
In response to enquiry, one man, in his seventies perhaps, sporting a heavy salt-and-pepper moustache that lent him an uncanny resemblance to his dog, explained: We’re the Schnauzer Walking Club.<br />
Had they been out on the marshes?<br />
Oh yes, interrupted a corpulent woman with a smiling face, her head covered in a baseball cap, the dogs love it out there.<br />
But you have to be careful, the moustached man warned, it’s treacherous in places.<br />
Yes, treacherous.<br />
The dogs know their way.<br />
Just follow the designated paths, advised the moustached man (who, despite the chill, was wearing shorts, bare below the knee, with hairy shins disappearing into yellow Crocs), and you’ll be all right.<br />
The designated paths, echoed another, a cerise-faced woman, before wandering off to attend to an errant dog.<br />
The Schnauzers, they’re very intelligent.<br />
They know the ways.<br />
It was helpful to be reassured on these points. Further questioning elicited the information that this outing took place every month, regardless of the weather. Had they, then, recently observed anything of a disturbing nature: lost individuals, persons in distress, evidence of trauma? <br />
Oh, said the woman in the baseball cap, fending off a Schnauzer puppy that had suddenly decided to distract her attention by leaping up at her repeatedly, oh, there’s always weird things going on out there. People do get into trouble.<br />
But no dead bodies, we haven’t seen any dead bodies recently, if that’s what you mean, interrupted another man, in a sleeveless puffer jacket. At least, nothing human. And he roared with laughter, as though he had just cracked a joke. And his partner, who walked with the help of a single crutch, a dog lead in her other hand, joined in the merriment, their dog meanwhile reaching eagerly on its leash to sniff another. And all the dogs leapt and trotted. <br />
The party started to move off. Two couples were beginning to load their pets onto parked vehicles. Others moved in the direction of the bus stop.<br />
The Schnauzer Walking Club were left behind, and so, eventually, was the settlement of Thieves Bridge. A look at our position on the GPS-generated map on the phone screen revealed a blue dot on the threshold of a great nothingness. Ahead, in the real world, could be observed sodden fields dotted with sheep each accompanied by lambs, and then empty fields criss-crossed by ditches, and then, far beyond, the grey shimmer of the Industrial Ponds.<br />
<br />
<br />
A solitary woman approached down the designated path.<br />
She was perhaps in her sixties, of medium height, had short, dark, greying hair fringing a woollen hat, and wore a navy anorak over a green jumper, jeans and walking boots.<br />
Hello there.<br />
But she did not respond to the greeting. Close up, it was observable that her eyes were large and lustrous; they looked in this direction but they saw no-one. In her hands she held a dog lead, and kept twisting it round repetitively.<br />
Hello, are you with the Schnauzer Walking Club?<br />
She had stopped in her tracks. It was as though she had heard the greeting, but either did not understand it or did not know where it was coming from. She still did not appear to see anyone in her path. She looked from side to side, then her gaze returned. She continued to twist the strap.<br />
Have you lost your dog?<br />
She looked around her, as if this idea might just have been put into her head, and the dog might reappear at any instant, from any direction.<br />
They went that way. The Schnauzer Walking Club. If you’re with them.<br />
She continued to stand there, apparently uncomprehending. The fingers of her hand went on turning the dog lead over and over, and then a curious fact became evident. She had six fingers on each hand. It was necessary to count them and count again, just to make sure, but when the hands remained still for a moment or two, the number became incontrovertible and the fact was established.<br />
A smile of encouragement was offered to her, and a pointing hand.<br />
That way.<br />
Without warning, she smiled back, as though with thanks, her face transformed for an instant.<br />
And then all of a sudden, her brief smile faded again and, still silent, she resumed her silent walk, past our position, in the direction of Thieves Bridge. And was lost to view. <br />
A little further on, in a hollow just off the path, was encountered what appeared to be a research station, a small compound nestled within the adjacent banks studded with patches of marram grass, encircled by chain-link fencing topped with barbed wire. The compound contained several ranks of wooden frames, each holding rows of samples of metal tiles in a variety of different colours and finishes, deliberately exposed to the sun and wind in what was clearly a scientific experiment. Some of these tiles had already experienced considerable weathering, others had evidently been more recently installed, or were less susceptible to adverse local conditions. There was no information provided about it other than three KEEP OUT notices, spaced regularly.<br />
Beyond that was the shimmer, suggesting the presence of the Industrial Ponds. So it turned out. They were tranquil, with not an angler or any other human in sight. The path went right round the grey trembling water. Once it would have been toxic, but no longer. We had been assured – by Gordon Prescott, among others – that it had been restored to full health, that fish stocks had recovered. The occasional discontinuous ripple, running counter to the prevailing wind, would be evidence of this. <br />
Near the right bank, a pair of mute swans could be seen sailing slowly. There was some observable bird life beyond them; binoculars revealed possibly greenshank, possibly plover. Beyond the far bank, a rook suddenly dived with a rough croak and was lost in undergrowth between some trees. To the south, a double V suggested a pair of herring gulls catching the breeze.<br />
Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. The familiar five-fold peal.<br />
So there were marsh frogs in these waters.<br />
Silence descended, and weighed heavily. But not completely, as was soon evident. A muted hum could now be detected rising and falling, and also, far off, the intermittent call of a ewe. <br />
Then again: Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.<br />
And an echo across the lake.<br />
There was no visible sign of the amphibians. Possibly they were dwelling in the reeds close to the near bank. This region had been described as uninhabited. Clearly, of habitation there was an abundance – but not of the human kind.<br />
The water closest to our position was almost black. There was an object stuck in it – in the shallows. With the naked eye, it was hard to discern detail, but binoculars revealed it to be the wrecked remains of a baby buggy, half-submerged. Of the child, there was no sign.<br />
Without warning, a sudden turbulence broke the surface near the shore. For the briefest of instants, a shiny, mottled dorsal fin was visible before plunging back into the depth. It was undoubtedly a monstrous catfish. It did not return.<br />
And now the perspective started to become unstable. There were density changes in the air, between those distant objects on the opposite bank and the observer; these changes possibly being caused by heat from sources far from this present location: chimneys, vehicle exhaust, roofs or roads. The path encircled the ponds, then led away into poorly mapped areas. A thicket was encountered – the cold wind blowing softly through dwarfed willows – and then terrain that might be described as willow carr, that is to say in transition between marsh and meadow. Marsh frogs were no longer audible. In the open country now visible, tall wooden poles, eight in number, the height of telegraph poles but bare of any encumbrance or detail, were observed to be grouped together; to be more specific, five in one group, three in another. Their purpose was unknown. The spacing between objects increased. From time to time, a plank bridge had to be negotiated over a ditch running between fields.<br />
A sudden movement interrupted the stillness: a hare. The animal leapt from cover and bounded away from our position, being eventually lost from sight in the adjacent field. <br />
And then inaccessible across another ditch, some fifty metres distant, a hoarding came into view, weather-battered, its wooden frame corrupted by rot. In block capitals, it proclaimed:<br />
<br />
DÉJÀ VU<br />
<br />
The lettering was sans-serif, a very much faded tan in colour, shadowed to the bottom and left in a slightly deeper colour, the background creamy but rough. If this was an advertisement of some kind, there was no clue as to what it might be promoting. Its enigma as an object of religious contemplation was satisfyingly complete.<br />
The global positioning system had failed. There was no electronic signal discernible. The path forked; then forked again. There was no basis for any decision as to which fork to take. Therefore this had to be taken randomly. A field was skirted. The oceanic marshland continued ahead for mile upon mile. <br />
A sheep called nearby. After a few moments the call was repeated, sounding closer. On mounting the shallow crest of a small dyke, the animal became visible, a lost ewe sheltering by the ditch in the lee of the slope with its single half-grown lamb. The rumps of both animals, the older and the younger, were caked with dirt. The ewe’s eyes were briefly turned in our direction; she called again. She seemed bewildered. The lamb staggered; it was possibly lame. The flock would be some distance away. A catastrophe had separated these two from it, and it was only to be hoped that the shepherd would eventually locate them. There was, in any event, nothing to be done.<br />
It was no longer clear what manner of path this was. A step to either left or right resulted in the foot sinking into soft mud; and on retreating, the former path was difficult to regain. Hillocks protruded. Animals would be burrowing here. <br />
It could, however, be estimated that we were close to the point where the rook had been observed from the other side of the ponds to dive. At any rate, there were two of them now, to the right of the path, if path it was, loudly squabbling on an isolated tussock. One had a scrap of something in its beak which the other, its eye glinting – it could clearly be seen – coveted. And there was something bulky hidden in that undergrowth, something precious to them, something from which that disputed scrap may have been torn. As one moved sharply in the direction of their battleground, the sweet smell of decay became evident. The birds stopped their fight, froze in their positions, alert to the approach. A step nearer – and they instantly fled, flapping their wings rapidly until each settled on a bush, separated from each other and from the location that had been their battleground. The object in the undergrowth remained still. The scent increased in intensity. Further approach was difficult. It was constrained by vegetation.<br />
The object could, however, now be glimpsed. It was pale, swollen. It appeared to be a torso, or part of a torso. It was difficult to make out its shape. It lay partly covered by the shrubbery. It had the stillness of death.<br />
There were white feathers scattered around. That was a clue. Now it could be ascertained it was the carcass of a large bird, almost certainly a swan, badly decomposed and half sunk in mud. Part of its neck could be seen. We withdrew. No sooner had distance been re-established than one of the rooks walked back towards the location of the carcass, the other having flown off meanwhile. Then with jerky motions it recommenced pecking, extracting what looked like a jelly-like substance. A few feathers flickered in the breeze.<br />
The paths re-forked. Decisions were now once again being taken using chance procedures. But at a further intersection a broken down sign pointed, its weathered lettering showing as “Marsh Farm”. However, there was no sign of any farm. A second look at the sign produced uncertainty as to what its text established. Here, clearly or unclearly, words were beginning to lose their shape. The more one examined them, the less certainly did they signify. There were also no electronic signals apparent any longer. The mobile phone was dead. It was almost as though – absurd thought! – the electro-magnetic spectrum was no longer present.<br />
No buildings, no human-made structures of any size, were apparent. But those cathedrals of cloud, bearing down on this marshland! They made their own structures, changing by the minute, and their depth created the illusion of a mirror of the land below, which itself was an ancient sea, of course, the ghost of a shallow ocean that had retreated millennia ago, hiding beneath it, in the manner of a palimpsest, evidence of even older times, of unimagined undersea forests, now turned to coal and other sediments. Coal, no longer worth extracting, but nevertheless buried there still.<br />
And then, a minute later, there was a man-made structure up ahead, or the semblance of one. It seemed to be a barn, set on a slight rise, sheeted with rusting corrugated iron. Its distance from our position was uncertain, perhaps indeterminate. But if this was Marsh Farm – and how could it have been missed from view such a short time ago? – then there was the possibility of a farmer, who could give advice on our co-ordinates. If it could be reached.<br />
There was now thunder in that sky; it was the colour of bruising. Isolated raindrops manifested.<br />
<br />
<br />
The barn was reached, but at some cost. Although at times it appeared very close at hand, such that one could reach out and touch its side, the approach journey seemed to take the best part of an hour. On arrival, finally, it appeared vast in dimensions. But its wide interior space had been abandoned. There was an uneven dirt floor underfoot, littered here and there with the remains of straw bales, and on this floor our damp footprints appeared. It was reminiscent of a crime scene. But what crime might have been committed here? At least it offered shelter from the rain, which could be heard drumming softly on the roof far above. Wrecked wooden benches tilted. A faint scent of the animals that might have been housed here once – or that of their ghosts – still remained. An opening in the far wall offered a concrete path that led beyond. At the other end of this there appeared to be a farmhouse, but its windows gaped, revealing no content. It seemed as though centuries had gone by, and here with the passage of that time came unknown memories, arising out of their sediments. But the notion of the death of the electro-magnetic spectrum now appeared doubly absurd, for one could feel electricity and awe in abundance. The spectrum, of course, permeated everywhere, but was here simply beyond human vision. Volumes formed, and dispersed with inexorable movement. There were squares, quadrilaterals, multilateral shapes of various shades. Through this disorder, this cascade of consciousness, was it possible to regain some semblance of control? One shape, standing perhaps for human awareness, had to be moved to the “danger” area as though on a computer screen. One had to do this very slowly so that it entered the danger area only very gradually, for if it were to touch the edge too suddenly there would be a loud bang and everything would vanish, not just the computer screen, or even the computer itself, or whatever device it was that all this was mediated by, but the very world, so that nothing would exist except one’s bare consciousness. The field would become a <i>tabula rasa</i>.<br />
The presence of the observer interferes, as it always has done, and always will.<br />
The farmhouse was a mere shell, as could be seen when it was approached, for daylight was observable through the broken glass and empty spaces of its upper floor windows – but its doors and ground floor windows were barricaded against entry. There was no shelter to be obtained here, and so it was necessary to retreat to the barn. And now the storm was fully raging. The lightning and its concomitant thunderclap must have been directly overhead, for there was barely a gap between them. There was a bang. Then there was nothing. And then something again.<br />
It appeared there was a world – out there – that was not the real world. The storm flew overhead. And night was beginning to fall.<br />
<br />
<br />
Hello! Is anybody there?<br />
(There is no reply.)<br />
<br />
<br />
The rain had stopped. The wind, too, had died. The thunderstorm had passed just as quickly as it arrived, leaving a great stillness behind. There was a hint of luminescence in the lighter cloud to the left, which would make that the west, for it was undoubtedly the faint and masked evidence of a sunset. And to the right, the outlines of the distant, easterly wind turbines could just be discerned on the darkening horizon. That meant the way ahead, northward, would surely lead back to the main road. It was only necessary to continue taking the fork in the path that kept the fading light to the left and the turbine silhouettes, insofar as they could be made out in the gathering dusk, on the right. With luck, it would surely be possible to arrive in time to pick up the last bus of the evening from Moorshurst to Deadmans Beach via the Barbican Gate, due at the Thieves Bridge stop at 21:15.<br />
Domestic animals could now be heard again: the distant cries of sheep, the yelp of a dog. A human voice? Perhaps. Location was beginning to reassert itself, with greater strength every minute. The electronic device clicked into life; the time showed glowing in the dim light as 20:48. It was necessary to deploy a torch to guide the way now, to avoid a possibly catastrophic deviation from the path, whichever path was chosen. The world was made of flesh again. Currents flowed through it, and constituted it. Fields were skirted. Something scurried in a low hedge. There was a lingering scent of sewage. We were in open country, and car headlights and tail lights could be seen proceeding slowly in the distance.<br />
With great difficulty, the road was reached, and the recognisable hamlet of Thieves Bridge, unfamiliarly approached from a different direction. There was nobody waiting at the bus stop. It was 21:11.<br />
A single street lamp pooled the stop in light. Darkness was settling all about. In the rightward direction, the road to Moorshurst stretched to the bend; to the left, that to Deadmans Beach disappeared into the night. All was quiet. Presently, a low rumble could be heard. A faint light outlined the small grove of trees at the bend, and from here now approached the welcome sight of the illuminated double-decker bus, its destination board indicating in bright amber digits piercing the gloom: 201 Deadmans Beach.<br />
<br />
<br />
The last bus of the evening was not uninhabited.<br />
For on the top deck as the night greyed, as fields and ditches beyond the glass disappeared, briefly encountered human agencies flourished in their own individual ways, within their own consciousnesses. <br />
The numbers on the bus varied slightly, perhaps two dozen on balance for the duration of the trip (at least as far as the Barbican Gate), plus or minus a few, evenly split between top and bottom decks.<br />
There was muted chatter. Some were silent, even perhaps contemplative. At this hour the majority would have been workers at the end of a late shift. One appeared to be eating shrimps from a small cardboard container. <br />
Car headlights approached from time to time, and in a rush were gone.<br />
From one of the seats behind, there was a humming, or maybe a whining. It came and went, rising and falling in volume, but never loud, never above p – eventually revealing itself to be a woman’s voice continually essaying with varying success a hymn-like tune or dirge. And on occasion (but indistinctly) the tune may have been identifiable as that old favourite “Abide With Me”; but then receding in presence and definition, re-entering the category of indeterminate wail. The memory, the faint echo of the banshee.<br />
At the third stop, a drunken man boarded the bus, ascended the stairs and lurched into a near-side seat. He laughed to himself from time to time. Where he had been, only he knew. He wore a gold lamé, or gold-lamé-effect suit, crumpled, and a trilby hat of the same material. The outfit had probably been purchased at a novelty fancy dress store rather than a tailor’s. His plastic spectacles looked fake too. He uttered vague imprecations to nobody in particular, and at one point attempted, but failed, to harmonise with the woman’s hymn or dirge singing. Following this, he slumped back in his seat, but moments later revived to start a musical performance of his own. With spectacular lapses in intonation, he burst into folksong:<br />
<br />
How many gentle flow-ow-owers grow<br />
In an English country … ga-arden?<br />
<br />
The hymn-singing woman was momentarily silenced.<br />
The drunk tipped his hat, and made his trick plastic spectacles light up, a bright lime-green, presumably at the discreet push of a button in his pocket: a feature that, despite his looking around for approval, went largely unappreciated by the other passengers. He continued:<br />
<br />
How many songbirds ma-a-ake their nests<br />
In an English cunt … <br />
<br />
He paused here, and made the spectacles illuminate another four or five times. There was a brief moment of silence, then the woman resumed her murmured and dreamy rendition of “Abide With Me”.<br />
No more passengers got on.<br />
Fast falls the eventide.<br />
Darkness – and the road ahead. The Barbican Gate.<br />
The voice of a child from the back: Mummy! mummy!<br />
<br />
<br />
Hello, is anybody there?<br />
(There is no reply.)<br />
Hello! Is anybody there?<br />
(There is no reply.)<br />
Who is it?<br />
(There is no reply.)<br />
I’ve got to go now. I’ll be off in a minute. I have things to do, I have to move on. Now’s the time, if you want anything. Is there anything you need?<br />
(There is no reply.)<br />
Who is that?<br />
(There is no reply.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-28345571988282108042018-01-29T09:48:00.002+00:002019-09-08T09:26:57.695+01:00A note on THE GREY AREABefore I continue posting extracts, here's a bit about my book:<br />
<br />
<i>The Grey Area </i>is a novel of approximately 93,000 words, divided into thirteen chapters. Although in part it uses the tropes of detective fiction, and is subtitled “A Mystery”, it is not a conventional crime or mystery novel.<br />
<br />
The narrative is set in a fictional landscape, but one which will be familiar to those acquainted with coastal locations in Sussex and Kent. Most of the action takes place between the village of Deadhurst and the nearby settlement and fishing community of Deadmans Beach, with excursions into the marshlands beyond.<br />
<br />
The central characters are:<br />
• Phidias Peralta, a private detective, who is living illegally in a unit within the Dead Level Business Park, and appears to be fleeing some private demons from his past.<br />
• Lucy White, his assistant, a single mother living in Deadmans Beach with her seven-year-old son George.<br />
<br />
The story proceeds by way of three “modes”, which alternate:<br />
1. The ongoing narrative of Phidias Peralta, which, despite describing events and situations from his point of view, never uses the first person singular.<br />
2. Diary entries by Lucy White – mainly about her concern for her son, who is not doing well at school, and her relationship with his father.<br />
3. Passages of dialogue in which the speakers are not directly identified, although they nearly always involve Phidias and/or Lucy.<br />
<br />
The plot involves an investigation into the unexplained disappearance of a lady in her late eighties, Edith Watkins, who was suspected to be suffering from dementia. It takes the detective into explorations of the hinterland where anything might happen.<br />
<br />
Without too much spoiling, it is fair to say that the mystery deepens and is never definitively "solved", although some insight is gained by the end.<br />
<br />
<br />Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-16764732990577352812018-01-20T10:31:00.001+00:002018-01-20T10:31:27.865+00:00from THE GREY AREA: The Old DickI've abandoned this blog for over a year, but ...<br />
<br />
My latest novel, <i>The Grey Area</i>, has been completed for a few months now. I'd hoped Unthank Books, the publishers of <i>Country Life</i>, would take it on, but it appears they are no longer commissioning new single-author books, although they have not said so publicly. Looks like the same story elsewhere in independent publishing. Very gloomy. Anyway, while I investigate other ways of publishing this book, which I'm very happy with, I'm going to post extracts here.<br />
<br />
This first one you can also find in the latest, terrific issue of <a href="http://goldenhandcuffsreview.com/gh24.php" target="_blank">Golden Handcuffs Review</a>, which is my novel's first appearance of any sort in actual print on actual paper. But check out that issue also for the David Antin feature, for poems by Maurice Scully and Alice Notley, the latest instalment of Peter Quartermain's memoir, and, may I modestly add, my own appreciation of the late, great David Bromige. I am also honoured to be sharing page space with the legendary Joseph McElroy. And there's a lot else.<br />
<br />
<br />
from <i>The Grey Area</i><br />
<br />
The tide was in at Deadmans Beach, and the wind was up. The fishing fleet was ranged on the banks of shingle being encroached by rushing and receding waves: an impressive if heterogeneous collection of chiefly traditionally clinker-built vessels (but some of fibreglass), both larger trawlers and also punts, that’s to say, undecked boats, all with diesel engines, sitting on their greased hardwood blocks or planks, awaiting favourable conditions. Linseed oil dully gleamed and colours faded against the whitening sky. Winch engines and their cables, some apparently half consumed by corrosion, also lay dormant, and among them the detritus of a fishing beach: walls and labyrinths of creels, plastic and wooden boxes or their fragments, piles of greasy nets. Two or three men wandered between the huts; one called briefly to another – but this was all the human life that could be observed. A crushed, stained white latex glove and a dirty, crumpled T-shirt with the Superman logo that had evidently been employed as a rag lay discarded on the intervening gravel. Used plastic bottles were scattered here and there. On the casing of a winch, a hand-painted notice in white lettering on a black ground: KEEP OFF. On the shingle banks, eviscerated fish corpses and emptied skulls stank and were disdained by the ragged flocks of gulls, terns and plovers that edged the moving foam. From the sterns of various boats fluttered black flags on tall poles. Some vessels had names painted on their bows or sterns, for example: <i>Moonshine, Candice Marie, Zelda, The Brothers Grim, David Bowie, Blackbeard, Our Dot & Danny, Little Mayflower, King Hell, Safe Return</i>. Their registration numbers were prominently displayed in most cases, and the following were noted: DB11, DB16 (etc, all the way up to…) DB590 – DB signifying that the boats were registered in the port of Deadmans Beach. All in all, including small row boats and others whose registration numbers were obscured or not present, a total of twenty-eight vessels were counted. <br />
A huge volume of water appeared to be driven repeatedly and relentlessly by the strong breeze – verging on gale – onto the beach. The line of undulations could be tracked like a moving graph against the concrete groyne that marked the south-western boundary of the fishing beach, in the lee of which was suddenly observed a shining black creature – at first glance a seal, but quickly revealed to be a solitary surfer in black wetsuit, crouching, waiting for the right wave to arrive. And so this mysterious being watched the approach of a tall one with rippling white foam at its rim; the foam starting to glitter, for the sun only then began to make its presence felt through the white banks of cloud, the shoreward wall of the wave now being in shadow, and darkening further as it rose. <br />
But the wave seemed to pause. And at the last possible moment the surfer took advantage, and, embracing his electric blue board tightly as one would a newly refound lover, launched himself into the van of the approaching current that swept him inexorably shoreward, showing only a flash of his orange flippers, before it broke over him in a white explosion. Then just as the figure seemed lost, he reappeared in the midst of the retreating water, struck out and began to swim back where he’d come from, following the flowback to the lee of the groyne, where he would turn, shelter and repeat the experience. <br />
<br />
<br />
The fishing community’s favourite hostelry, enquiries quickly established, was the Richard the Lionheart Inn.<br />
Set back from the front and faced by the fishermen’s tar-black wooden sheds that flank the shingle beach, it presented as an ancient inn that had seen better days and had somehow survived misjudged attempts at modernisation on the cheap: a tiled roof, tall chimneys, with weatherboarding at the front and hanging tiles on the sides filling the spaces between modern UPVC windows. Vertical rust-streaks down the wall bearded the cast iron brackets for hanging baskets that bore no blooms at this time of year. Pasted inside the front windows were posters for local bands: Monday nights were blues nights, Saturday nights featured a wider variety of genres, including a psychedelic option. Entry to the bar was via a short flight of stone steps flanked by railings.<br />
Fluttering on high: the red-on-white cross, emblem of the Crusaders. <br />
The south-westerly was beginning to pump up seriously now, and with it came flecks of rain, so entering the pub was a welcome relief, the more so as ale from a respected regional brewery was advertised. The interior was badly lit. The only other customers, seated on high stools at opposite ends of the long bar, were an elderly man with hair in long white ringlets descending to his shoulders, wearing a black jacket, khaki cargo pants and impeccably white trainers, slowly supping a pint; and an overweight woman, who was engaged in shouting at the barman. She too wore white trainers, but quite scuffed, and black trousers, and her anorak was open to reveal a pink poodle on her sweater. She cradled a glass of something with lemon in it.<br />
The low ceiling, crisscrossed by beams, featured giant crabs and other marine creatures trapped there by netting; paddles, flags and lifebelts decorated the walls, also a dartboard, and a noticeboard pinned with photographs and advertisements for forthcoming events. At the far end, next to the toilets, a much scrubbed blackboard advertised the dishes <i>du jour.</i> These included soup, the idea of which appealed.<br />
So what, then, was the soup of the day?<br />
Vegetable.<br />
A deal was struck with the young, monosyllabic barman: soup and a pint, a table in the corner claimed.<br />
Giles, cried the lady in the poodle sweater, addressing the ringleted elder from her end of the bar.<br />
Closer observation now revealed that this snowy-haired gentleman was wearing makeup and eyeliner, and his fingernails were polished in a fetching shade of teal. What’s that, my dear? he said.<br />
Have you finished planning your funeral?<br />
As a matter of fact, yes, Dodie, if you really want to know.<br />
You going for burial at sea?<br />
(Giles turned to our corner to acknowledge the presence of the outside world in this enclave.)<br />
Highly irregular, of course. (Palm vertical on the side of his mouth, he continued in a stage whisper with a wink for our benefit:) Mum’s the word. <br />
So you going to be dumped over the side, then?<br />
Dodie, there will be more to it than that. You make me sound like an illegal catch.<br />
I always thought you were! And Dodie, spectacles glinting, laughed uproariously at her own witticism.<br />
The padre has agreed to be involved, just between us, you understand. There’ll be a ceremony, of sorts. Prayers will be said. I am a man of faith, you know.<br />
I knew you were, Giles, said Dodie, you believe in God, don’t ya.<br />
I prefer to speak about the Author of everything in this world, both seen and unseen. <br />
But you believe in Him.<br />
I don’t know so much about that, but I trust that <i>He</i> believes in <i>us</i>. You understand what I’m saying?<br />
You’re a one, Giles.<br />
If the Author doesn’t believe in us, who else is going to?<br />
I dunno.<br />
The Author of all things knows where we’re going.<br />
And He believes in us?<br />
It could be a She, conceded Giles.<br />
Maybe He or She hasn’t got a clue, was the poodle lady’s suggestion.<br />
Well, you’ve got to trust they do. It’s trust more than belief, you know what I mean? That’s what you call faith.<br />
And you think you’re going to Heaven?<br />
We are, said Giles solemnly, already living in Paradise.<br />
Could’ve fooled me, said the poodle lady.<br />
Deadmans Beach. Every morning when the light comes up here in Deadmans Beach I give thanks for another day that’s been given me. It is fucking Paradise, is it not, excuse my language, mister.<br />
(He received an assurance from our quarter that no offence was taken at bad language.)<br />
Yeah, it is nice here, admitted Dodie. I wouldn’t live nowhere else now.<br />
We all drank.<br />
Are you down from London, then? inquired Giles of us.<br />
In a manner of speaking. And you?<br />
Born and bred in Deadmans Beach, myself. Proud of it. <i>She’s</i> from London, she’s a bloody DFL, he added, pointing with his pint mug at Dodie, who burst into another loud cackle of laughter.<br />
I’ve only been here thirty years, Giles!<br />
You’ve served your apprenticeship then. <br />
I’ll say. And don’t call me <i>she</i>. You’re a very rude man, Giles, I don’t care if God believes in you or not, it’s a fact. Me old man it was (Dodie went on for our benefit), who brought me here when we got married. He was in the fishing trade all his life. But he passed on, what is it, two year ago.<br />
We expressed our sorrow at her loss, and there was a brief silence to mark it.<br />
You down on business then, or holiday-making or what? continued Giles politely.<br />
Our assurance that there was no holiday-making involved met with general approval.<br />
A private investigator? Blimey, that’s something new, ain’t it, Dodie? We haven’t had one of them down here before. But you’re not with the police then?<br />
By no means. And your secret is safe.<br />
Secret?<br />
The burial at sea.<br />
It was Giles’ turn to laugh, which he did quite lustily.<br />
Of course, scattering ashes at sea is perfectly legal, we pointed out. But an intact, unburnt body, that’s quite a different matter.<br />
You are correct, sir, it is against the law, but it happens all the time in the fishing community, explained Giles. Quite regularly you get a church funeral, somebody local, and the bearers may notice the casket is unusually light. You follow my drift? Everybody knows what that means. <br />
The body is not there?<br />
Exactly. The real funeral occurs under cover of darkness. Boat pulls out to sea as per usual a day or so later, when the tide and weather conditions are right – maybe more than one boat, depends on how many mourners, you see. Out a couple of miles, then … well, I don’t need to spell it out.<br />
Understood.<br />
It’s important to us. Well, I was in the fishing for many years. Can’t say I chose it, but I was brought up to it, like. It’s a hard life, but it’s still in my blood, even though I’ve been retired for longer than I care to remember. And so I want to go back to the bosom of the sea when my time comes.<br />
It seemed an apt moment to bring up, discreetly, the subject of our investigation.<br />
Edith Watkins? Giles frowned into his drink.<br />
I remember her, volunteered Dodie. Lady what disappeared.<br />
She wasn’t the one who – ?<br />
She used to go for her walks along here, Giles, you remember, she talked to everybody? Edie, that’s what we called her. Little Edie.<br />
Did she come into the pub?<br />
Not often. I seen her in here with a cup of coffee sometimes. Maybe once or twice. I don’t think she drank.<br />
She wasn’t the one who wangled herself a trip on a fishing boat, was that the one, Dodie?<br />
That is the one, Giles, that was, what, ten or twenty year ago, she was a brave lady. Getting on even then, a bit mad, you know, but anyway she disappeared last year, it was on the news. Come on, you must remember?<br />
Yes, I recall Little Edie now. Haven’t seen her for … ooh, donkey’s years. So is she dead?<br />
The police, we explained, had not been able to determine this, and looked unlikely to, but it seemed that her last journey might have involved a visit to the waterfront.<br />
So what do you think, she might have stowed away on a boat and fallen off the side? exclaimed Dodie with great excitement.<br />
It was necessary to reassure the pair that this was not a leading theory, and that the task at hand was simply to establish her movements on the last day she had been seen alive. Neither, however, could recall when precisely they had last seen her. Nor could they remember any police inquiries last year, and the name of DCI Green meant nothing to them.<br />
Who was it, Giles demanded of Dodie, who took her out on that fishing trip a few years ago, was it old Gallop, you know, Doc Gallop? I have a feeling now it was.<br />
Yes, that’s right, old Doc, bless him.<br />
Would it be possible to speak to Mr Gallop? was our inquiry.<br />
You’d have a job, said Giles.<br />
Why so?<br />
He died.<br />
Buried at sea?<br />
Who knows? Don’t ask, don’t tell.<br />
But his son still runs the same boat, said Dodie, he’ll have known her better than us. Darren Gallop, he’s the president of the Fishermen’s Association now.<br />
So he should be easy to contact?<br />
Comes in here a lot, said Giles. Partial to a pint in the old Dick, is the younger Gallop. Very eminent man these days, though. The <i>Jumpy Mary</i>, that’s his boat. You’ll find him in the book, or just call in here again. He’ll be around anyway, nobody’s going out fishing in this weather.<br />
And as he drained his pint mug the fingernails flashed briefly like blue jewels.<br />
How was your soup, sir? was everything all right? asked the quiet young barman, who had suddenly appeared on this side of the counter with a wiping cloth. <br />
He was reassured as to the quality of both the fare and the service.<br />
Dodie stood down from the bar, zipped up her anorak, concealing the pink poodle from view.<br />
Where you going now, my love? asked Giles.<br />
Never you mind. Nice meeting you, mister.<br />
And you.<br />
I am going out for A Fag – <i>should</i> anyone inquire.<br />
Ooh, lovely, my dear, I’m sure.<br />
I didn’t mean you, Giles. See ya.<br />
Filthy habit, commented Giles when she’d gone. As filthy as the weather.<br />
He motioned to the barman for another pint. We attempted to pay for this, but he would not hear of it.<br />
<br />Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6743656801031377067.post-73686860050678406112016-11-02T18:34:00.000+00:002016-11-04T08:31:01.855+00:00New book, wellness, AfricaJust finished the first draft today of the novel I have been working on, on and off for at least the past three years, and very actively for the past 12 months, <i>The Grey Area</i>. It's come out at just over 90,000 words. It's my take on the detective novel, but it doesn't follow the rules and does odd things.<br />
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At the moment, it's an unwieldy beast, and there are some glaring inconsistencies. And infelicities. When I can bring myself to read it through, I will assess what needs to be done next. I hate reading my first drafts, but I enjoy revising better than writing. It's not so scary. I'm hoping a readable version will emerge by early next year.<br />
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For now, I will put it aside, because on Sunday Elaine and I are off to Zambia. We're going on the safari holiday I've been promising myself since I was about eleven years old (and collecting the set of 50 African Wildlife cards, one of which was tucked into every packet of Brooke Bond tea my mum bought).<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y4FBtOBPQvg/WBr0r7tnBYI/AAAAAAAAAL0/AE_pFnxacCgRyGNzzxLF4L6jRz7SN_EkwCK4B/s1600/bbafricanwildlife.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y4FBtOBPQvg/WBr0r7tnBYI/AAAAAAAAAL0/AE_pFnxacCgRyGNzzxLF4L6jRz7SN_EkwCK4B/s320/bbafricanwildlife.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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The South Luangwa National Park is our destination – one of the most magnificent places to watch wildlife in the African continent, so they say. Lions, elephants, giraffe, African hunting dogs. Hippos and crocodiles wallowing in the Luangwa River. Loads of birds. Night trips enabling viewing of leopards and the like.<br />
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I have never been to sub-Saharan Africa before.<br />
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In reply to those kind people who have been inquiring after my health: I am feeling fine right now. The medical authorities can give me no cause for that <a href="http://www.kenedwards.eu/2016/04/unwellness.html" target="_blank">massive urinary/blood infection I suffered</a> back in the spring. A freak event, it seems. All the tests are coming out negative. That's good.<br />
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I was still recuperating when we booked the holiday, which was a bit of a risk. But I'm glad we did it now. I will post reports and pictures here in a couple of weeks or so.<br />
<br />Ken Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002038301143155008noreply@blogger.com1