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.

Cat Anna

From “the Wall of Girls” series

1.Black Annis

Also called Black Annis
Image by Jenny Clarke
taken from the cover of
Leicestershire Legends retold by Black Annis (Bob Trubshaw ISBN 978 1872 883 779)

Deep in the Dane Hills area of Leicester there is said to be a dark dank cave inhabited by a terrifying woman-creature known as Cat Anna. Her skin is blue, her hair is matted unkempt fur, her fingernails are blood-blacken claws, her tongue long long and sandpaper rough, she is naked apart from a girdle made of babies-skulls.

They say that Cat Anna has her own underground tunnel running from her cave-lair right into the compound of the Leicester Castle, a building of ancient repute. It is not known if Richard III ever walked this tunnel, but I could resist the opportunity to band-wagon-jump the latest Leicester-related tourism-myth.

I have heard tell that there is a certain gatehouse in the Castle wall, that to this very day children refuse to pass through after dark. A place where youth tremble, weep and withdraw, calling out piteously the name Cat Anna.

According to the local folklore Cat Anna lives in a deep dank cave at the foot of the Dane Hills, rehearsing ambush tactics in her head. In her lair she is peaceful contemplating dinner. Her long blackened fingernail-claws click-clack and she thinks again about dinner.

It is said that the trees around the entrance to Cat Anna’s lair are adorned with the empty skins of dead children. Her victims slain, sucked dry, their skins discarded, like dirty linen, strung out to dry out on the death-trees thereabouts.

Children have told me that Cat Anna drops on her victims from the vaulting in the gatehouse arch, like a ginormous bat, enveloping her dinner in her boney  black membranous batwing arms. Scuttling back through the tunnel with boys-bones a-crunching, Cat Anna lurks in the shadows of her lair and devours. She sucks out the very essence, from wobbling guts to slithery bone marrow. Then she flings away their skins, which catch on the up-thrown branches of the yearning yew-trees ranged around the entrance, to dry in the sun, like pork-scratchings, or parchment.

Leicestershire Legends retold by Black Annis

Throwback Tuesday Payback

Meandering through the content on my website I came across this article, it seems to be the oldest blog posting on the site. The book review was written in august 2011, under my old pseudonym Jean Dark, the novel itself was published in 2010. I remember the book well, it was a joy to read and a joy to review. please enjoy…

Dice & Dysfunctionality by Fay Knight

Published 2010 by Shield Crest Publications

The Role-Player/Pagan crossover is a well known phenomena (See Ann Finnin’s The Forge of Tubal Cain for a real life example) and this debut novel by Fay Knight mines that rich seam with surrealism, dark humour and panache.

The wonderful opening line “Kevin already knew he was going to die” immediately catapults us into the skewed world of the “Dice-Tossers”, as one long-suffering girlfriend describes them.

From there the rapid-fire plot loops and swirls and sweeps unrelentingly through all manner of strange shenanigans; UFOs, swoopy bat-like things lurking in the dark, goth clubs, a lost weekend in Whitby, an Old Dear packing a pistol fired up with the vision of a local tele-evangelist as the anti-christ.

And there’s dragon-porn too. A collection of hand drawn images which “go a bit further than Giger’s artwork” become empowered and manifested by an unspecified and possibly accidental Austin Osman Spare Zos-Kia style sex magic ritual. Knight’s writing leaves everything to the imagination and my mind kept flinging up lurid images from vintage science fantasy paperback covers. Not to mention more terrifying dragon-on-dragon variants.

The book is seamlessly written, and the dialogue is particularly witty and sharp-tongued. Characters seem to emerge progressively, realistically as well-rounded, but not always sympathetic, individuals from the initial homogeneity of a role-player clique. At least, some of them do, one or two remain repellently unfathomable, shady strange secretive huddled and whispering in the corner.

This is an enjoyable read for anyone with an interest in paganism or gaming, you’ll recognise many of the characters among your friends. It would also be an ideal yule gift for any sigil-wielding, dragon-loving dice-tossers you may know.

Better still, give a copy to their girlfriend, who’ll undoubtedly snigger knowingly.

Jean Dark

Confectionary Psychosis

Waking early, he groaned inwardly, he hated Sundays. Sundays always meandered, everything went late, still, shut or slow.

And as usual, his larder was empty, he needed to go shopping. A trip to the local supermarket was always a trial, but on a Sunday! Phew! No thanks!

For a start, they never opened til ten, hours to go. And then, the crowds, the Sunday shopping crowds, they did his fragile head in no end.

Dragging around the kitchen in his pajamas, he searched the cupboards again. Still nothing. Just ¾ bottle of home-brand red, a mouthful of brandy and four hash truffles he’d bought for his birthday, but hadn’t yet found anybody to share them with. He poured the Brandy into the wine, took one hash truffle and went back to bed.

Perhaps he could get back to sleep til the shops opened.

Within an hour the munchies had driven him back to the kitchen. Rummaging through the empty cupboards. In blood-sugar free-fall he scoffed another of the hash truffles.

Then another

Sugar sugar sugar!

Then he scoffed the last one, went back to bed.

On a whim, he climbed out of bed, put on his coat and shoes, he decided to walk the streets till the shops opened. He was munchie-ravenous, but maybe a walk would help.

At the Pelican Crossing at the end of his street, he pushed the button and waited. Slow tailbacks of Sunday drivers clogged the road, inching in both lanes of the Ring Road, into and out of the city. He waited.

Slowly at first, then with increasing urgency his attention was drawn into a big blue SUV stopped at the lights. The car seems implausibly big, large and it began to fill his vision with its impenetrable blueness. He felt he was falling into it, into a midnight blue night sky. It took a huge effort of will to pull his eyes away from the overarching hugeness of the SUV’s blue bonnet. He dragged his eyes upwards towards the windscreen. There was a woman at the steering wheel, she had an implausibly huge head, a huge blue head.

The crossing lights changed to green, but he stayed, entranced by the blue headed woman, trying not to stare.

The lights changed back.

He waited, transfixed in ignoring blue.

With deliberate dispassionate curiosity he allowed his attention to focus on the woman’s huge blue head, and decided it was the woman’s hair that was blue, the same blue as the car. Quickly he closed his eyes. Too much. He switched his eyes to the pelican crossing lights, he waited.

The Lights changed, the green walking-man blinked. Repeatedly tearing himself away from the blue vision machine, he stepped into the road. Halfway across the lights changed “Don’t Cross” screamed in his ears and he beat a hasty retreat back to the kerb. He suddenly felt he was trapped, like in the Pink Panther Cartoon – Think Before You Pink! He thinks the Blue Lady in the blue car with blue punky hair glared at him, telepathically. He suspects she has an animosity towards pink and in particular  the Pink Panther, her being so blue and all.

But it meant he was psychologically prepared when the green-man lit up again. He skipped into the road

dudum dudum dudumdudum dudum dudum dudum duduuummm“.

Halfway across the lights changed, green man extinguished. But he didn’t get mown down like the Pink Panther because the ring road traffic was gridlocked and nothing moved.

He slid into the supermarket.

By now he was swimming in a sugar-philic haze, the cakes in the supermarket bakery seemed sentient, calling out to him. Perhaps latching onto the munchie-mania that seemed to surround him, like a famished aura.

In the street again, trudging with 5p carrier bags stuffed with red warning label sugar, fat , carbohydrate snacks, he crossed the Pelican crossing without pushing the button or waiting for the green man, he just stepped into the road.

But he didn’t get mown down because the ring road traffic was gridlocked and nothing moved. The blue SUV with the woman with matching blue head is still there. But the car now is kind of green-ish and the woman is wearing a hat, a huge silly green hat.

Still waiting, still gridlocked, still Sunday.

He hated Sundays.