Word of That Week

“Metastasised” They said.

That week it was a new word for me. I had to google it.  It means the spread of cancer to distant parts of the body. I’d never heard it before.

And now, I’ve heard it three times in a week.

I sat down in the kitchen, paused the washing up, poured myself a glass of tequila. Tried to understand why the interviewed novelist on the BBC Radio 4 arts show had chosen to use that word, that big awful stupid bloody word, to describe her creative process.

I mean, writers do understand the impact of words, writers do grasp how to use the esoteric power of words, that’s the magic of spelling.

I wondered what self-defeating disgust she was expressing against her own art.

“Metatasised” she said “the characters simply metatasised into the internal drive of the narrative arc…”

I switched the radio off, gulped at the tequila, trying to drown the word in drunkeness.

I’m familiar with “frequency bias”, I’ve heard of “selective attention”, I’ve wikipediaed “confirmation bias”. Over and over again.

The second time that week that I heard the word “Metatasised” was from some second-rate TV celebrity. He was making a pre-emptive denial on YouTube, in advance of channel 4 running a damning exposē of his misogynistic abuse of his co-workers. “Metatasised” he said, “the media metatasised my open promiscuity into very agregious accusations…” he blustered in vain. The channel 4 documentary cut him down anyway, in spite of his invocation of cancer.

“Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon – a cognitive bias refering to the tendency to notice something more often after noticing it for the first time” As if Red Army Faction hijacking, kidnapping, bombing and assasination, as if violent delusions of terrorist revolution, was simply a psychological repetition of a re-repetition. Over and over again. As if a terminal diagnosis could be just clever hyperbole.

“Metatasised” He said.

Earlier that week I had sat with my friend in the clinic at Addenbrookes. That’s the first time I ever heard the word in my life.

“Metatasised” the oncologist said. He said my friend’s cancer had Metatasised.

=============

Bin Day

It vaguely caught my eye a couple of times and I thought it was one of tribe of black crows with white-flecked wings that inhabit my street. But it wasn’t, it was just a discarded black bin bag enjoying a bit of freedom in the Bin Day afternoon.

I think the crows are naturally black, but are developing white flecks on their wings. The crows are turning white, feather by feather. This colour change is possibly due to vitamin and mineral deficiencies, leading to loss of the melatonin in the feathers. Of course the creatures are malnourished, they are urban crows, they are surviving on trash, eating from bin bags. Left over ultra processed ready meal gobets and soiled cat litter pickings a plenty.

From my window I have watched the crows dunking cigarette butts into puddles to rid them of their paper skin, then gobble down the puddle soaked filters like a delicacy.

Then it catches my eye again. The free range black bin bag in the street shudders across the road, like a flurry of ferrets, back and forth in the wind.

And again, contorting into a hunched half torso straddling the white line down the middle of the tarmac.

Wet grey rainy bin day, twilight afternoon midwinter, the crows warily eye a stray black plastic bin bag waddle to the kerb, finally settling down in the form of a metalic grey arrow headed dragon child, curled in the shade of next doors toyota, his squamous wings and gills rhymically fluttering in his sleep.

The Passing Tale of Rimmer and Moomy

His nickname was Rimmer, sometimes just Rim. I don’t know why he was called that, thankfully I only met him a couple of times.

The first time was when his girlfriend invited me out for a coffee. The girlfriend’s nickname was Moomy, I only went the once. I only went the once because Moomy simply couldn’t stop talking, speaking loudly and rapidly, barely comprehensible in her non-native English. I don’t know what was wrong with her to be so aggravatingly and pointlessly vocal, some said it was an undiagnosed mental illness, I think it was cocaine. To be honest, she did look like a cokehead, and she was self-absorbed, overbearing and boring enough to be on cocaine.

Anyway, Moomy invited me out for a coffee through the friend of a friend, and she brought Rimmer along because he couldn’t be left on his own at home, I don’t know why. Moomy was relentless, rambling, arse-achingly dull. Every once in a while Rimmer, whose voice was booming and plonky, would start pontificating himself, like when one disturbed barking farm-dog sets off all the others aroundabouts. Moomy would indulge Rimmer a little, allowing him to run his mouth for a few minutes, then she would shut him down “No minding if him, he just autistico” she would shout and continue with her own tediously incoherent monologuing.

I never went for coffee with them again, between them they made me feel socially violated.

It took me a week to wash them out of my head.

The only other time I spent with Rim Rimmer was when Moomy had flown home to have her anal glands expressed, I think that’s what she said. She said “I cannot NHS fucking stupid. In my country dentist make all anal glands for sixty euro. In this fucking country NHS you wait five years on list for down there is same relief. I no fucking wait for NHS. I go my own country is better than fucking England.”

So Moomy was away for a month or so and she was furiously messaging my friend to visit Rimmer, have drinks with him and check he was okay. The friend, horrified at the thought of spending a whole evening alone with Rim had insisted I come along too.

We arrived at Rimmer and Moomy’s flat as late as politely possible, he showed us to the sofa, and quickly poured us what he called “cocktails” pink gin and tonic in full pint glasses, it looked like he was going to really stretch the evening out. “There’s more where that came from, plenty of drinking here” He shouted as he sat himself down at his computer desk, his chair back facing us. The interesting thing about Rim was, that without the controlling influence of Moomy’s constant verbalising, he himself was an insufferable monologing bore. For two hours, which is when we finally managed to get away, Rimmer spoke incessantly into his computer screen, although I think he thought he was talking to us. The first thing he said was “Back in the day we would make proper cocktails, we made molotovs and let them off in bus shelters”. My mind was boggling, I wish now that I’d been recording him on my phone, then I could be sure of what he actually said. Anyway, here is my undoubtedly unreliable recounting of his speech.

Back in Barn Hill where he grew up, a village outside the city, the teenage Rimmer and his school chums regularly raided a disused factory where there were abandoned explosives. They would drain jam jars full from pierced steel drums of unspecified flammable fluids, priming them with readily available noxious household poisons. They would combine and mix and prime and refine these little glass bombs, then they would take them to bus shelters at night and put a match to them. Rimmer’s friends would crouch in safety behind the bus shelter glass, while he would boldly ignite the jam jars and run. Sometimes the explosions were terrific, shaking the bus shelter to it foundations, sometimes the young men were deafened, ears ringing and leaking blood for days, sometimes he barely got behind the safety glass before the detonation. And sometimes nothing at all happened, and they would walk back home, despondant, leaving the dangerous jam jars behind in the bus shelter for children and dogs to find the next day.

And that is The Passing Tale of Rimmer and Moomy, and why I hope to never see them again.

Grandmother Punk and the Housing Inspector

A Play for Voices

Narrator:In the crazy woman’s filthy flat the new temp from the Council Inspectorate Office was struggling with the old girl’s misconception about him. She seemed to think he was an actual inspector, a surveyor, even. She was asking awkward questions about her  
Crone:plaster condition, waterproofed inner coat and the cracked ballbearings.  
Narrator:Did she actually say cracked ballbearings? He wasn’t sure. He blustered through the memorised set response  
Temp:I need to reiterate that I am only conducting an audit of the property  
Crone:Like the domesday booke
 
Temp:You’ll need to report any repairs to the council  
Crone:An inventory of all King William, Arch Duke of Cambridge and Normany’s, newly acquired lands and posessions.  
Narrator:He hadn’t really been listening. His mind had been elsewhere. On the slow puncture in his back tyre. And the cycle pump.  
Temp:The fucking cycle pump.  
Narrator:He blustered  
Temp:Reiterate…I’m only conducting an audit…report repairs to council…  
Crone:And the installation of the new front door, three years it took them.  
Narrator:She had to have her letter flap hanging off before they lifted a finger. Who would be so low as to steal his shitty cycle pump any way.  
Temp:I need to climb up into your loft hatch  
Narrator:He said. Back on Script now. Check the loft. Check the CO2 and smoke alarms.Photograph the boiler. It wasn’t her that done this to the bathroom.
  
Crone:the paint just started falling off  
Temp:Was there mould?  
Crone:Mould? Was there mould? There was so much mould I had it coming out my ears.  
Narrator:Three house calls back the back tyre had completely deflated. That’s when he noticed some fucker had nicked his cycle pump.  
Crone:I didn’t even need to do any stripping, it just came off in my hand.  
Temp:Reiterate…conducting…report…council  
Narrator:He flustered as he thankfully backed out the front door, She said  
Crone:don’t forget to close the gate, I don’t want the cat getting out

Sequoias Resurrected

Muffled up and walking in the park, that bright harshly cold midwinter morning I was horrified  to see what had happened to the Sequoias.
I’d identified three Sequoias, or Redwood trees,  in my local park a while back. I’d recognised them by their yew-like needles, their tall regular ovoid profile and red spongy bark, and I checked them out,  spoke to them, whenever I passed through the park. But the needles of the Sequoias that winter morning had turned an  awful lurid orange, the colour of the underside of a slug, or the nasty neon of cheap orange squash. It was as if they were shedding their needle leaves, yet as far as I knew Sequoias – Coast Redwoods (Sequoia Sempervirens)  and Giant Redwoods (Sequoiadendron giganteum)  –  were all evergreen.  I made a concerted effort to call on the Sequoias every few weeks over the rest of the winter and watched in dismay as the trees seemed to wither away and die.

Dawn Redwood in Cherry Hinton Hall Park

I thought and read about Coast and Giant Redwoods a  lot for a few months, learning that Sequoias are the largest, tallest and oldest trees on the planet, there is fossil evidence going back 5 million years.  And although native to north west coast  USA, since the 1860s they have  become quite popular transplants in parks and botanic gardens across Europe, indeed Redwoods seem to grow larger, faster  and stronger in European soil than in their native habitat. In the website Redwood World (http://www.redwoodworld.co.uk/) I found an invaluable information resource and exchange, with a county by county list of redwoods in the UK,  there was no mention of Redwoods  in  my local park, only trees in the University Botanic garden and newly planted saplings in private gardens.
Although I thoroughly researched Redwoods it wasn’t clear to me why they appeared to be dying, there seemed no evidence of insect infestation and our local park has no large animals, like deer or cattle, to eat the trees, I began to assume environmental failure.
In googling image searches I tried to distinguish the two species and identify which species  was  dying in my local park. My local specimens were most like the Coast Redwoods (Sequoia Sempervirens), red burnished bark glowing in bright spring leaved green, growing tall, straight and wild in endless sun dappled groves on the internet. I was pretty sure  my park Redwoods were not Giant Redwood (Sequoiadendron giganteum) which seem to exist primarily in freak-of-nature type photographs – tiny human standing by stupidly enormous  tree, or  a cabin made from a single hollowed out log , or tunnelled through for a road, I decided that all those implausibly-giant-tree photographs on the web  are either CGI or Giant Redwoods. My redwoods although clearly mature were still small enough  to encircle with my arms, small enough to hug.
Then, one solitary park-walk in mid-April  I noticed the Sequoias gleaming with that tentative nearly-bursting  leaf-bud mild- halo of green, just like the park’s oaks, ashes and conker trees –  it looked to me like the Redwoods were miraculously coming back to life. Sequoias resurrected. I spent quite a while with one of the trees, noticing new growth, leaf shapes, patterns and sizes, and then I rushed home, giddy to google “deciduous sequoia”.
That was how I encountered the third member of the Sequoia family – the  Dawn Redwood (Metasequoia glyptostrobides), a tree believed to be long extinct, an ancestor to Coast and Giant species , known  only as fossils. Then last century  a stand of deciduous Sequoias were  discovered in China, it took until 1946 for the connection between the  Chinese  trees and the fossils to be made. To prevent final extinction seeds were gathered in 1948 and distributed to universities, research facilities and botanic gardens around the globe.
The Dawn Sequoia  is characterised by its deciduous nature and the leaflets occurring in opposite pairs on the stem, apart from this, for a lay person,  there really is nothing  to distinguish the Dawn from the Giant or Coast Redwood. The outline of the Dawn and Coast  are almost identical  and they all bear the distinctive bright spongy red bark.
All three trees in my local park are mature enough to produce cones  and to have reached  their current size they  must have come from the earliest batches of seed distributed in 1948. I have contacted the Cambridge Botanic Gardens and Redwood World website to see their thoughts, and it will be interesting to see if I can discover the story of these three rare trees and how  they came to be planted here, in a suburban Cambridge park.

Dawn Redwoods at Cherry Hinton Hall

Jean Dark (first posted June 2015)

Short Tale Shrew

The flash fiction below was first published as an honourable mention on the flash fiction website Short Tale Shrew back in 2016.

Film Night at The Rebirth Convention

Body Limits - Bella Basura 2023. Photograph taken at Marina Abramovic exhibition at The Royal Academy
Body Limits – Bella Basura 2023.
Photograph taken at Marina Abramovic exhibition at The Royal Academy

The Delegates gathered, waiting for the ‘Samsara in Cinema’ event. Ouspensky sat broodingly alone, contemplating Ivan Osokin. A few rows behind him The Gautama and The Christ boisterously contrasted resurrection and soul-migration. In a hot-tub, left of the screen, naked therapists breath-worked their birth-traumas. Classically reincarnated deities – Mithras, Persephone, Taliesin, Vishnu, Baldur – sat rapt as the houselights dimmed. The crowded auditorium hushed as the diminutive figure of the Dalai Lama edged onto the stage. “My favourite film” He said simply. And the screen sprang into life, illuminating the film’s title “Groundhog Day”.

Unexpected in October

If I can make a landscape for a dream, let it be this place. Some day soon the winter will fall, but this afternoon in this garden the sky is still clear and brazen blue, the wind still rustles in the leaves not yet turned and birds chatter on in deep greenery, insects still flutter in dappled shade. The sun still warms my face, the grass still growing under my feet, a squirrel climbs to the highest waving branches where glossy green ivy leaves entwine, waiting for the year to pass on. I close my eyes, a tranquil moment for the dead and dying, held in trance-like waiting, the sun still calls my eyes to the sky. I don’t want to lose this moment, I don’t want to go indoors, but the chill air rising creeps up my spine, a flying crow caws overhead, the wonder is breaking, broken by a growling plane that cuts the sky in two. Some day soon the winter will fall again, but now, today, this afternoon in this garden, summer still lingers on, and hope is still strong. If I can make a landscape for a dream, let it be this place.

Turn The Page

This is a reprinting from The Short Answer pamphlet from 2016. “A chapbook of Drabbles – a dozen short fictions of 100 words”.

I decided to reprint this one after having an afternoon of wandering around drinking teas in cafes in town with my lovely friend, Munizha Ahmad-Cooke. Munizha said this is one of her favourites from The Short Answer chapbook.

Turn The Page

Golden Vagueness - Bella Basura 2016
Golden Vaguenes – Bella Basura 2016

Unspeakable beauty, like the floating harmonic deep in keening tinnitus. Words break free, and my sentence struggles away from me, my grasp slipping a grip, like a  hand slipping  a glove. She tears from my skin and flies. Ricocheting my awareness of “I” into a bounding and rebounding silence. A silent creeping vibration, like the tap-tap tapping of a solitary black widow on her dew-luminous web, alone at night. A fly has slipped it’s shackles and fled. A silent creeping vibration of voidness, null, empty and zero.
The one that got away.

Ten Films

A few years back there was a facebook challenge doing the rounds, to write about your favourite films, one a day for ten days. At the time I only managed to complete one day…

Here is the result…

Citizen Kane

Citizen Kane

(Directed by Orson Welles 1941)
I have watched this film many times and there are many reasons why this film makes me weep.
I first came across it as a student while studying for an Ma in Film Theory at the then Polytechnic of Central London  based in Soho. Citizen Kane formed the backbone of a module on Auteur Theory, this is where the weeping starts, and doesn’t stop for two years until I abandon the course.
This protracted film drags us through the tropes and clichés that came to define the Orson Welles oeuvre. Still weeping with boredom, I note that Welles adaptation of Kafka’s The Trial also carries the same ubiquitous extended pans/zooms, dolly-shots and Atlantean sets but isn’t nearly so yawn inducing. The narrative drive of Citizen Kane is a posthumous retrospective of Kane’s life through the anecdotes of those who knew him, it circles around a central enigma: the meaning of Kane’s apocryphal last word, uttered in death-bed solitude, as he wistfully gazes into a snow globe – “Rosebud”. What is the significance of Rosebud? the narrator of the film asks, a question that has tortured film critics and film students  alike for over 70 years.
My interest in the film revived briefly a few years ago when I discovered that Rosebud, along with Standing Rock and Pine Ridge, were amongst the first Reservations set aside in 1889 for the containment of and destruction of Native American peoples in Dakota. The more I read about the “Indian Wars” and the aftermath; the reservations, the forcible removal of Native American children, re-education to white ideals, and the persistent denial of Tribal land-rights (which are still going on at Standing Rock), lead me to believe Citizen Kane was a condemnation of American policy towards the First Nations. Of course, I found no evidence of this theory in the writings of film critics and theorists, and the last time I re-watched the film I really had to work hard, and turn a blind eye to huge tracts, to shoehorn the film to fit my thesis. Still, researching Native American history was rewarding, if heartbreaking, work, and it has given me more to weep and despair about than the MA in film theory ever did.
More recently I have decided that Citizen Kane was a future-shadow, a premonition of the 45th American president, and I draw solace from that image at opening of the film, imagining Donald Trump, an implausible life ending in bleak loneliness, wallowing sick in his unseemly wealth, with only a snow globe for company.

Jonny’s Skull

This beauty used to sit on Jonny Marvel’s mantlepiece, in the Upstairs Lounge at Chalmers Gardens (Top Manor).

Jonny's Skull
Jonny’s Skull. Lifesized soapstone skulll with glass marble eye socket. Sculpture by Jonny Marvel, collected by Dan Cooper. Donated July 2018.

I knew of Jonny from the chaotic cavortings of Theatre Ov Thee Absurd days, and often went down to the old Boatrace to gawp at the shenanigans. I got to know and love Jonny better years later (2004) when we worked together at Libra Aries Alternative Bookshop on Mill Road, lots of cups of tea and hilarious conversations later, the council offered me a flat a few doors away from Top Manor. That’s when we began working together on the sadly-unfinished Sex Toy Library spoken word and soundscape Project.

I must have stared into the skull’s beady glass eye for over a decade of hanging out at Jonny’s. It was just one of many wonders and splendours Jonny kept around his flat.

But the skull always caught my eye. It eyed me, and I eyed it. But we never really saw each other clearly until very recently when  Dan Cooper brought it over to me during the clearance of Jonny’s flat. I had always thought it was grey-ish, Jonny’s lighting style was always atmospheric. But when I saw it in broad daylight I was astonished to see it was almost white. It was to be donated to my Skull Collection, and hopefully exhibited at The Edge Cafe in December, when they are hosting a retrospective of Jonny’s artwork for a month.

I was sad to see it had lost it’s beady eye, but ADie HiDef donated some marbles, so with the help of Toby Ilsley and some blu-tac, Jonny’s Skull may soon be entire again.