Author: jim clayton

an interview with polyphemus

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(To be read in the voice of Tony Soprano…)

Odysseus?
Zeus – you serious?
It just goes to show it takes a monster to know one
that little piece of shit said his name was No One
he poked out my goddamn eye
one night
when I got a little tight
and then when my friends came and asked who did it
made me look like a goddamn idiot
and all ‘cos I ate his dumb ass crew
which I admit was a pretty shitty thing to do
but c’mon – a little perspective here please
who hasn’t eaten shit when they got the munchies?

one more question
and then that’s it – end of session

sheesh – the same old stuff
enough’s enough
don’t you people ever talk to each other?
do we got to say this shit over and over?
according to the books
we cyclops got our singular looks
by trading one eye to see the future
and you gotta have a sense of humour
‘cos all we saw was the date of our death
which as trade-offs go is one gold star meh

anything close up looks strange

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Wanda is happily sawing away at a breaded cod fillet, arms tucked in, elbows up, her woolly hat pushed at an angle by the pillow back of her neck.
‘Sorry to interrupt your lunch,’ I say, coming into the room. ‘Bad timing!’
‘Sit on the bed,’ she says, pointing in that direction with a ketchuppy knife. ‘This won’t take me long.’
‘There’s a bit of paperwork to do, so I’ll get on with that whilst you finish up.’
She jabs up a nest of chips and only manages to get them in her mouth by moving her head from side to side.
‘Don’t give yourself indigestion,’ I say.
‘No,’ she says, ‘Mind you, I’m a martyr for that,’ half-choking as she struggles to get the words past the chips.
I pass her some water.
‘Thanks,’ she says, gulping it down – then sets back to finishing off the plate.

The ambulance service has referred Wanda to us. She’d had a couple of falls recently, minor injuries, observations fine but needed following up with nursing, therapy and so on. Wanda has some medical conditions that put her at more risk of falls, but at first glance I can’t see any more adaptations that could be made, and she lives pretty independently, so I’m not sure there’s much to be done. So long as everything checks out this visit, it might well be just a referral back to the care of her GP.

‘Done!’ she says, tossing the knife onto the empty plate with a clatter and a broad grin, like some kind of niche circus act.
‘Let me take that for you,’ I say. ‘Would you like to see the dessert menu?’
‘I’ll save that as my treat when you’re gone,’ she says. ‘So what’s this all about?’
I explain who I am, the team I work for and why the ambulance suggested we get in touch.
She sighs and brushes bread crumbs from her lap.
‘I don’t know why I’ve been falling so much lately. I suppose if you have one you’re more likely to have another.’
‘That’s true.’
‘I feel alright, though.’
‘Is there anything troubling you at all?’
‘The beetles,’ she says.
‘What beetles?’
She leans to one side and hauls out a mobile phone.
‘Just a minute…’ she says.
She curses and sighs as she tries to remember her pass code, and then navigate to the photos app. At one point she gets so frustrated she bangs the phone on the arm of the chair.
‘Do you want me to….?’
‘Just give me a minute!’ she says.
And then finally: ‘There!’
She hands me the phone.
It seems to be a close-up picture of tiny balls of carpet fluff.
‘I don’t get it.’
‘Zoom in!’ she says. ‘Slide your fingers!’ She makes a pinchy gesture in the air.
‘I know how to zoom in, Wanda,’ I say.
I zoom in.
‘I still don’t get it.’
‘Beetles!’ she says. ‘Look at the eggs! The legs!’
‘I can’t see it. Honestly – it just looks like fluff to me.’
‘The carpet’s infested. I see them all the time.’
She takes the phone back and shrugs.
‘They’re quite beautiful when they’re grown up, though,’ she says. ‘Blue-green backs, like little brooches. There’s one!’
She pushes herself up out of the chair and bends down to pluck something up from the carpet. I have to plant a hand on her shoulder to stop her from pitching head first into the dresser.
‘There!’ she says, brandishing another piece of fluff. She drops it into my palm, then sits back down again.
I look at it.
‘I’m really sorry, Wanda, but I think it’s just fluff.’
‘Look closer!’ she says.
I do, but it makes no difference.
‘The thing is, Wanda,’ I say, carefully giving it back to her – ‘if you look at anything close up it starts to look strange.’
‘Well maybe you can’t see it but I can.’
‘I’m not an expert on pest control,’ I say. ‘But honestly – it looks fine. Let’s do your observations and make sure everything’s okay in that department…’

It takes five minutes. There’s nothing out of the ordinary.
‘Any medication changes recently?’ I ask as I write down the figures.
She says that the doctor has adjusted a few things.
‘Why was that?’ I say.
‘Because they were worried I was having a psychosis or something.’
‘Oh yeah? In what way? What’s been happening?’
She pulls a face.
‘I’ve been seeing things. Especially at night. I’ll look out the window and there’ll be half a dozen people standing in the garden looking up at the window.’
She pauses to illustrate, tilting her head up but letting her jaw hang slack.
‘Like that!’ she says. ‘And I have to have the mirror on the floor before I go to bed because otherwise they keep peeking over the top of it and annoying me. Last night there was a woman standing out on the landing. And then when I’m sitting reading my Kindle, I’ll have a boy standing looking over this shoulder and an old man looking over the other.’
‘Does that worry you?’
‘Oh no! I’ve gotten used to it. I talk to them. I say What d’you think about that, then?’
She illustrates again, jabbing at her knee and glancing back over her right shoulder.
‘And what do they say?’
‘Nothing! They never talk!’ she says, looking at me again. ‘But I don’t mind. I like the company.’
She balls her fist and taps herself a couple of times on the centre of her chest.
‘Oof!’ she says, puffing out her cheeks. ‘I shouldn’t have had all them chips. I’ll pay for that later.’

the full set

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I turn off Elm Road into Birch Grove and park outside Mulberry Court. It’s a shame Edie isn’t called Mrs Hawthorn or Mrs Rowan, or at least be wearing a hat made of leaves. She does come to the door in a rose patterned housecoat, though, so that’s something, and she’s so elderly she looks like a tree, a gnarly old olive you might see growing out of rocks in Greece, magically galvanised into answering the door, and then rooting it awkwardly back to her perch.

We chat whilst I work through the various tests, and then set out my things to take some blood.
‘I get a bit lonely,’ she says. ‘Especially after Eric passed.’
Edie nods at a portrait on the mantelpiece: a smiling old chestnut with a row of medals on his trunk. Edie starts to cry, so I fetch her a tissue.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘But when you’ve been together fifty years, it’s a bit of a wrench.’
‘I bet it is,’ I say.
‘He went in June,’ she says, dabbing her nose. ‘I wish I’d gone with him.’
‘I’m so sorry, Edie. How did you meet?’
‘He was the brother of my eldest sister’s husband. They set us up when he came home on leave.’
‘That’s lovely.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘He was a dancer. A lovely little mover.’
‘It looks like he was in the navy?’
‘A submariner.’
‘Oof. I don’t think I could’ve been on the submarines. Imagine that – being stuck underwater for days on end.’
‘Me neither. But he seemed to get on alright. He had the head for it.’
‘He was good in tight places?’
‘He was short.’
‘That must help.’
‘I made a bit of a habit marrying service men.’
‘Did you?’
‘My first husband was in the army. We got married very young. Near the end of the war. Only he got wounded and sent home.’
‘How was he wounded?’
‘He got kicked by a horse.’
‘A horse?’
‘Yes. God knows what that was all about. But he never really got over it. Drank to forget I suppose. Then we got divorced and I ended up with Eric.’
She blows her nose. I fetch her a glass of water and she has a sip.
‘Thank you,’ she says, setting it to one side. ‘Sorry to carry on.’
‘You’ve had a hard time lately.’
‘Yes. Well. There’s nothing to be done about it, I suppose.’
She stuffs the tissue up the sleeve of her housecoat and then takes one of those brave, exaggerated breaths that segues from a shrug to a smile.
‘All I’ve got to do now is find myself an airman and I’ll have the full set!’ she says.

pilot season

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Criminal Inactivity
The lazy extremes crime bosses go to 
when they really don’t want to 
whack this person or that
From Al Capone to Hattie the Hat
How a good cigar and a lie down
is preferable to a shoot-out or a showdown. 
(Viewer discretion advised in this;
extended scenes of idleness.)

Mount Olympus, NYC
The shuttle gets lost in some cumulo-nimbus
ploughs cone first into Mount Olympus
so the Greek Gods have to relocate for a bit
while NASA rebuilds all the temples and shit
After a great deal of fruitless rental looking
wind up in a brownstone in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn
Work jobs to see how the humans do it
(but need a lot of magic to help them through it)

Tractorman
A farmer gets bitten by a radioactive sheep
so every time he falls asleep
he turns into a Model 8850 John Deere tractor
(which might be a problem for your average actor)

Henry who?

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No reply on Henry’s landline or mobile, so I call Nancy, his daughter.
‘He should be in,’ she says. ‘Unless he’s gone out.’
‘Shall I just take pot luck and pitch up? Will he mind?’
‘No. He won’t mind. Are you alright with dogs?’
‘Yeah. I like dogs.’
‘Eric’s yappy.’
‘Don’t worry, Nancy. Look – I’ll call you when I’m there and let you know your dad’s alright.’

*

Half an hour later, I’m standing outside the front door, sheltering as best I can from the kind of supersaturating rain that drags along the street in sudden waves like the pleats of a monstrous ball gown dragging through town. There’s no answer at the door. What’s even more worrying is that when I call Henry’s landline again I can’t hear the phone ringing inside the house. Have I got the right number? There’s a keysafe by the door that I don’t have the code to – so the easiest thing is to ring Nancy again. She confirms the address. When I ask about the keysafe she says there’s no key in it. 
‘Not that I know the code anyway. He keeps changing it. I’m worried he hasn’t answered the door, though.’
‘Maybe he took the dog for a walk,’ I say, glancing behind me at the rain, imagining the two of them paddling off in a canoe.
‘Maybe, she says. ‘He’s crazy enough. I’ll come over.’
‘Do you live nearby?’
‘About twenty minutes at a trot. I’ll come through the park so I’ll catch him if he’s there. See you soon.’
She hangs up. 
I peer through the letterbox and ring the doorbell at the same time. Nothing, not a hint of movement, not the sound of a dog or any other living thing. 
I check the back door. That’s locked, too. I peer through the windows but can’t make anything out. The only thing to do is wait for Nancy, so I hurry back to my car. At least I’ll be warm and dry. I can’t see the front door from there, though, so I decide to wait ten minutes and try again. Maybe Henry will have come back. If not, Nancy will pretty much have made it. 

*

This time when I ring the doorbell, there’s a furious barking from deep inside the house, followed by what sounds like a basketball bouncing down the stairs and colliding with the front door. A light goes on. Just discernible beneath all the barking, the sound of creaking stairs. After a minute or two, the door chain gets thrown back. A white haired Westie – presumably Eric – head butts my ankles as Henry stands there narrowing his eyes. He’s still in his vest and pyjama bottoms. 
‘I was in bed,’ he says, with an edge. 
‘Sorry to disturb you!’ I say. ‘The doctor has asked me to come and take some blood.’
‘Has he?’ says Henry. 
Eric is pretty much frisking me for evidence so I crouch down to make it easier. 
‘Nancy’s on her way over?’ I say.
‘Oh?’ says Henry. ‘What does she want?’
‘She wants to know you’re alright. We were worried because you weren’t answering your phones.’
‘They’re downstairs and I’m upstairs,’ he says, as if that settles it. ‘I suppose you’d best come in.’
Eric gruffs and puffs and snuffs and follows close behind me as I go through into a wood panelled room set up just-so, a high backed chair in front of a television, a fleecy basket between the two, a small breakfast table, a tiny sofa. Henry gestures for me to sit on the sofa. 
‘Won’t be a tick,’ he says, then leaves the room.

I sit on the sofa. Eric jumps up and sits at right angles, staring at me.
‘Alright, Eric?’ I say, tickling his chest, which he accepts a little grumpily, like a guard who’ll take a bribe but won’t commit.
The house falls silent again.
Eric continues to stare at me. 

For a second I have a dizzy, prickly kind of feeling, like I’ve dreamed all this, that actually I’m Henry, and Eric is my dog, and Eric is just concerned because I’m having another one of my turns. 

There’s the sound of a key in the lock. I snap-to and realise with a guilty lurch I should probably have called Nancy to say her dad was home and okay and let me in. But it’s too late. She’s standing in the hallway now, soaked to the bone, frowning at me as she swipes off her hat. And once again I have the disquieting, telescopic feeling that I’m Henry, this is my house, Nancy is my daughter, and I’m going to have to explain to her – once again – why I didn’t answer the phone, and also why I’m sitting on the sofa dressed as a nurse.

It doesn’t help that Eric is still staring at me, unblinking.

‘Hello Nancy,’ I say. 

Smile.

Swallow.

Zoo Story

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My mother-in-law knew
a primatologist at the city Zoo
Agnes, a long-time friend who
had a long-term argument
with a professor from a rival department
appropo
orangutan vs bonobo

Agnes looked after an orangutan
she said was smarter than
any woman or man
you could mention
in fact, it was her contention
evidentially
the orangutan was a genius, potentially

Her rival’s proposition?
with the authorities’ permission
a competition
between the two
an IQ test at Agnes’ zoo
finally settling
all the nonsense Agnes was peddling

They set up a test in the compound
a scattering of boxes on the ground
and hanging down
from the bars
a hand of bananas
bonobo
was the first of the two to go

The professor stood there with his clipboard and timer
the bonobo wanted to climb up there
so he started piling the boxes higher
and in fifteen minutes
had the bananas in his digits
You see!
said the professor: ‘Superiority!’

The boxes were put back around the place
the bananas replaced
the professor stood waiting with a smile on his face
the orangutan strolled in
glanced at him
at a box
considering the banana paradox

The orangutan pointed straight at the professor
waggled his finger to invite him closer
climbed him like a human ladder
widened his eyes
grabbed the prize
Twenty seconds!
clapped Agnes – any questions?

Well – there’s one I’d liked to have asked
if so many long, slow years hadn’t passed
and the orangutan finally pointed his last
I don’t understand
why you didn’t take his clever, leathery hand
and lead him
To the edge of a jungle in Borneo, and free him

Chapter 26: The Stanislurchski Method

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Interview with the Maestro – The Relaxation Paradox – Who Am I? – What You Have To Do To Be Convincing – The Magic If – The World Expressed As Donkey Toy – Closing Aphorisms

The following account is based on a series of interviews with Stanislurchski at his dacha in West Sussex. Over a bowl of tripe sticks, pausing only for the occasional squeak of his beloved donkey toy, he describes in detail his famous ‘Method’ – the system of acting techniques he developed over several years that eventually brought him to the attention of dog trainers worldwide.

A Lurcher Prepares

‘First of all, you must understand – to look this relaxed takes a great deal of work. It’s the paradox of the profession, and I’d like to explore this with you in greater detail if I may.

‘To begin with, specificity is key. Am I a rescue? Yes. Am I a male dog? Of course. As you can see. But I am more than this. I am male lurcher dog of nine years, and this is the first lesson. Specificity. Look for the detail. I am male lurcher dog of nine years, okay – good. What now? I am called Storm by previous owner who neglected me. I lose many teeth and – as you say – I am the skin and the bone. I have medical problem. True. Good. Now we have it. Now we can begin creating the role.

‘Truthfulness. Conviction. Faith in what you are doing. It is not enough to show to the audience something. It is not enough to leap from your basket to fetch donkey toy and then squeak this toy endlessly. No. You must first create in your inner being a desire for the toy, based on all the times in the past you have squeaked this toy, and made it talk. This is not just donkey toy. This is a distillation of your desire for donkey toy made manifest in the moment, and I cannot stress this more strongly. The audience must not simply see you grasp donkey toy, or hear you squeak donkey toy. First you must find the truth in your desire for donkey toy, the obsession, and only then can a true and full experience of the moment you squeak the toy be realised, and the performance made whole. Remember, there are no small toys, only small squeakers of toys.’

Building a Character

‘There is much work to be done in creating a role. You must devote long hours of research, establishing the facts, making notes on the history of the thing, the where and the why and the how. Often you will be overwhelmed. Often you will find yourself howling for no reason. What was name of woman who walked the character at the shelter? What was colour of hair of bad-tempered woman who worked behind desk? What snacks did they serve? And before that – what was name of stupid terrier you shared room with? Okay. So. This was Biscuit. Biscuit was psychopath. Good. Now we start to have background detail. Now we start to have perspective, and shade. Nuance. Now we find that character of nine-year-old rescue dog called Stanley can start to become believable for audience. But there is still much work to be done. Please – help yourself to tripe stick. Don’t let me finish them by myself.

‘Once you have a book filled with notes, you can start to build a truthful Stanley and achieve the objective of the performance, which – of course – is Truth. The audience must not only see the drama as it is conceived by the playwright. It must smell the devastating aromas after evening meal. It must shake its collective head with confusion at the spontaneous way you put your right paw up over your ears – like so. It must sigh with affection when you come in from the garden and collapse on rug with a harrumph. It must grit its teeth when – yes, once again – you find donkey toy and squeak it a hundred times. It is the essence of the work. When you choose the smaller dog basket to sleep in, it is because it means something to you to make this stupid choice, even though your legs stick out like octopus. It is not simply what a lurcher might do. It is what Stanley might do, and therein lies the performance.

‘The greatest tool in any dog’s toolkit is imagination. The employment of the Magic If. For example. On stage, the family are sitting down to watch The Sopranos. There is no room on sofa. The performance comes alive when you ask yourself: What If I Persist in Attempting to Join Them on the Sofa? They may not let you on the sofa. It may cause a great deal of fuss and the exciting season finale of famous New Jersey crime series may have to be paused temporarily. People may have to move. A cup of tea may be caused to be spilled unfortunately. Much has been accomplished. However! Still the artist continues to employ the Magic If. The true artist will ask: What If After All This I Stand Here A Few More Minutes Then Go Back To My Basket Anyway? There! A moment has happened! A reality! The performance continues. Art has taken place.’

Creating a Role

‘Action is the heart of everything you do. And if there is no action, that lack of action is still an action. This is the purpose, the staying in the moment, even if that moment is entirely empty, consisting of random grunts, a twitch of the ear, a sneeze. Do you see? Doing nothing at all is as active as pursuing a squirrel, or disappearing into a bramble thicket. Action is drama and drama is action. There! Now you know everything. Have we run out of tripe sticks, or…?

‘Self-consciousness is the artist’s true enemy. You must employ every technique at your disposal to stay in the moment. Draw in your circle of attention. Build that fourth wall. The only thing that must exist is you and the thing you want. The donkey toy that is three inches from your nose. Good. Now we have it. You watch donkey toy. You want donkey toy. Man comes to grab donkey toy – but you grab donkey toy first. There! The world has shrunk down to a three-inch circle. And maybe one annoying human hand. This is my principle of Unit and Objective. When you can construct your character’s motivation from such things, you will have created a life. One that really squeaks – I am sorry – I mean speaks to the audience.’

Here the interviews ended. Stanislurchski was exhausted (even though he’d only just woken up), and needed to lie down on the sofa. Before I left he was gracious enough to condense his advice into a few well-chewed aphorisms, which I humbly offer for your attention.

“If you have a tripe stick lying on the table in the first act, it should be eaten in the last act.”

“The tail is the window of your soul.”

“When the dog is completely absorbed by some profoundly moving objective so that he throws his whole being passionately into its execution, he reaches a state we call inspiration. Especially if it squeaks.”

“Our demands are simple, normal, and therefore they are difficult to satisfy. All we ask is that the artist as dog lives in accordance with natural laws. And gets to lick the plates in the dishwasher.’

the swans

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We’re standing round waiting for the enema to work.
‘Anything yet?’
William moves his head tentatively from side to side without lifting it from the pillow, the tube of his nasal specs shifting only slightly, the air compressor in the corner of the room clunking and whirring. Ralph the dog gives a harrumph from under the bed, rests his chin on his paws. Tina the nurse, William’s daughter Bella and I do much the same.

It’s a peaceful scene, all in all – quite a contrast from the cries of pain William made when we rolled him onto his side to administer the enema.
‘Shouldn’t be long now,’ says Tina.
‘That’s what you said when you give me the suppository,’ says William. ‘What’s the next thing on the list? A stick of dynamite?’

Only Fools and Horses is playing quietly on the TV behind me. I glance back at it. Del boy, Rodney, Grandad and Trigger are all sitting on the sofa, looking depressed. It’s a strangely bleak scene for a sitcom. More like a downbeat suburban drama.

William reminds me of one of the other characters, Boysie, the dodgy guy who ran the car showroom, the one who put on airs and graces and wore a mohair coat over his shoulders like a count but was really as rough as the others. His living room is the kind of living room Boysie might have had – plush velvet drapes pleated like cinema curtains, fancy plates wired to the wall, carved gilt chairs, comedy scatter cushions. It’s an expensive house though, overlooking a quiet stretch of the river.
‘Are the swans back?’ he asks Bella.
‘The what?’
‘The swans. Are the swans back?’
‘The white one is. Not the black one.’
‘I like the black one.’
‘Well he’s not back yet.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know, Dad. Maybe he’s on his holidays.’
‘At least someone’s having a nice time. This? This is suicide.’

It’s a pretty tough situation for William. He went into hospital with a broken arm and came out with a diagnosis of terminal cancer, prognosis four weeks. We’re filling in for the palliative team, but at least he’s got a hospital bed and so on.

‘How about now? Anything?’ says Tina.
‘You’ll know about it when it happens,’ says William.
‘Dad – the whole neighbourhood’s gonna know about it when it happens,’ says Bella.
‘Yeah,’ says William, then appears to fall asleep.

Tina takes her gloves off, checks her fob watch, then sits outside in the hallway to write up the notes so far. The front door bell rings; Bella hurries downstairs to answer it. I stay standing next to William. He opens his eyes and looks directly at me, as if he’d secretly been watching me from behind his eyelids.
‘I mean – landmines,’ he says, as if we’d just been talking about that.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘It’s a terrible thing.’
‘Why would you make something like that? Killing and maiming innocent people. What’s that all about, then?’
‘I’m pretty sure this country still makes them, though. And other stuff. The arms trade is pretty big.’
‘Why can’t we all just get along? If you want to go to a church, or a mosque, or wherever – fine. It’s none of my business. But the next thing you know, we’re at each other’s throats.’
‘That’s a good point,’ I say. ‘Too many wars over nothing at all.’
‘Then of course what happens is – you say one thing – I say another – fine – your lot have a go at my lot – I say what’s going on here – they move over there – I say hang on a minute – and the next thing you know millions are being slaughtered.’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Is it really so hard for us to share this planet?’
‘That’s true.’
‘But I tell you one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘There ‘ain’t half been some evil bastards in this world.’
‘It’s definitely had more than its fair share.’
‘Take that Clinton woman.’
‘Hillary Clinton?’
‘I read a book about her. Now that’s evil on a whole other level.’
‘Hillary Clinton?’
‘If I wasn’t laid up in bed – if I could get outta this bed – you know what I’d do? I’d take a machine gun and machine gun the lot of ‘em.’
Bella comes back in the room.
‘Amazon delivery,’ she says. ‘Any developments?’
‘The lot of ‘em!’ says William.
Bella looks at me and raises her eyebrows.
Tina walks in, snapping on fresh gloves.
‘Alright?’ she says.
Behind me, the Only Fools and Horses theme tune starts to play.