Author: jim clayton

a yellow goose quill float

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

well

it took us a few years to do it
but yesterday we finally got to it
we decorated the downstairs toilet

the old colour was candy apple red
and we desperately wanted something more relaxing instead
anyway, the walls were all spotted with mould
so we got two litres of brilliant white and on we rolled

There are shelves in there so we painted them too
white like the walls so they looked brand new
and threw out all the old books we never used
and talked about balance and elements
and freed two shelves for ornaments

I found a few things on the windowsill
like this old, glass vase partially filled
with lacquered red and yellow goose quills
dad’s dad used to use for fishing
and then dad too, and sometimes I’d go with him
and we’d sit on the riverbank in the bright sunlight
and silently wait for the fish to bite

I saw the floats now on the newly painted shelf
and had a sudden, dizzying view of myself
a thrill of nylon line playing out forever
a yellow goose quill float sliding by in the river

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damon the daemon

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

damon the daemon
spent his life as a merchant seaman
feeding his love of faith and freedom
endlessly dreaming region to region

damon the daemon
drifted ashore in a hard, dry season
lost his shoes but kept his reason
hitched the whole damned country preaching

damon the daemon
knocked on the cafe door and came in
not a red cent to sustain him
I knew the face but couldn’t name him

damon the daemon
pitched his hat on the hook like a drayman
smiled with teeth as neat as a caiman
hold on to your souls, boys; hot coffee and rolls for a sermon

damon the daemon
leaped on the counter and laid in
gave us all the scenes he’d played in
the dark time, port-side dives he’d stayed in

damon the daemon
eyes as wild as a clifftop beacon
finished his show without more speaking
reaped the rapture he was seeking

damon the daemon
suddenly seeming somewhat beaten
quietly sat; I watched him eating
asked him where he planned on sleeping

damon the daemon
sighed as I slid him a coffee with cream in
spooned it slow like a man done scheming
asked which way for the garden of eden

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the invisible decorator

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

the thing I find most grating
about painting & decorating
is the endless fucking preparation
an eternity of rubbing down and shit
the moment you think you’re done with it – you ain’t
you’ll be twenty years dead in the ground before you actually get to paint

anyway – what is this?
did you think I was thinking of setting up in business?

hear this:

I will never
EVER
be a painter & decorator

I cannot imagine a torment greater

but whilst we’re on the subject
of half-assed DIY projects
and the bristling abuse of inanimate objects
here’s a strange thing that happened to me
while I was painting the downstairs lavatory

(true story)

I flicked a speck of something in my eye
and being a practical, medical kind of guy
I turned to the sink for a nifty little washout
and the shaving mirror to help me get it out
but instead of my reflection I saw grout
like a paint-covered vampire forgetting what reflections were all about

my god – had I completely decorated myself out?

I no longer existed
I just consisted
of a cough, a grimace, a cutting-in brush
RSI and a dose of thrush

I was thrown headlong into an existential nightmare

(but as you’re probably already aware
I’d momentarily forgotten
I’d taken
the mirror down
when I got the place ready for rubbing down)

so – the moral of this story?
this painting & decorating purgatory?
if you find yourself looking at a colour chart
let me give you a heart-to-heart
I beg you – don’t go through with it
PAY SOMEONE ELSE TO DO IT

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camel tales

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

The nurses are busy catching up on admin, chatting about this and that, their day, their troubles, their plans. The conversation turns to holidays and the general mess of it all. Cancelled bookings, weddings abroad postponed, so-and-so who’s gone to visit family in Cyprus, somebody else who got caught in Spain and now won’t get paid for the two weeks quarantine they’ve suddenly got to do when they get back.
‘We were supposed to go to Turkey again this year. Turkey’s lovely. Have you been?’
‘Yeah. Hot and cheap and that’s how I like it.’
‘Cornwall’s nice but you end up spending just as much, you can’t fly there and – let’s be honest – it doesn’t matter how much you dress it up, the North Atlantic’s not the Aegean.’
‘Yeah. You go snorkelling and all you’ll see are jellyfish and tampons.’

They swap info on some patients, visits and so on, then get back to the important stuff.

‘Have you ever been to Egypt?’
‘Once.’
‘What did you think?’
‘It was great. Well I enjoyed it. We stayed on a resort. Sharm El Sheikh. Before the trouble, of course. Everything was controlled on the resort, so you were pretty well looked after. It can get a bit much, getting swamped with demands for money or crappy souvenirs when you go out of the resort into some of the markets. But once you get used to just smiling and saying No Thanks they get the message. I told Steve, I said Steve, don’t keep waving your hands and saying Maybe later like that. They remember this stuff and bother you worse next time. But he wouldn’t have it. It was like he couldn’t help himself. And I tell you another weird thing. Steve has a phobia about camels.’
‘Camels? Why? Did he get bitten by one or something?’
‘No. He’d never seen one before. Just didn’t take to them, really. He said it’s the way they look at you.’
‘Well maybe in retrospect Egypt wasn’t a great choice, then. I mean – that’s pretty much where all the camels live. Isn’t it? I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘I suppose. Anyway – what happened was, we decided to leave the resort and go to a shop on the outskirts. We wanted to get a lilo and some flip flops, and we thought it’d be a bit cheaper. On the road out to it there’s this guy sitting on a camp stool with a big old camel next to him. And of course the man gets up and starts gesturing to the camel, trying to sell us a ride. Steve goes all funny. Keep that thing away from me he says. And he starts walking really quickly to the shop, and I have to make apology faces to the man, and then catch up. So we’re in the shop, and I’m having a nose around. I find some flip flops and I turn round to Steve to see what he thinks. And he’s not there. So I think – what the hell? And I look out the shop window, and there he is, sitting on top of the camel, with the man standing next to him holding the reins about to set off. So I run out there and I shout Steve! Steve! What the hell are you doing? And it was then I notice the man is wearing Steve’s sunglasses. So I ask the man if he’d mind letting Steve down, which he does, eventually. And I get the sunglasses off him, and we walk back to the shop. And I say to Steve, What was that all about? And do you know what he says?’
‘I cannot imagine.’
‘He says The camel made me do it.’
‘The camel?’
‘Yep. He said he could see it looking at him through the shop window, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.’

gun sales rise in the US

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

go on – pull yourself a nice cold colt
you’ll get such a sweet and juicy jolt
when it jumps in your hand
and the wooden grip ticks on your wedding band
man – it’s grand
you’ll soon see the steely attraction
of such a badass double action

as my dear ol’ granpappy used to say
before that hollow point blew him away
there’s nothing like a little extemporary aeration
to improve the ventilation
of the general population

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five litres of tranquil depths

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Painting & Decorating.

About as enticing as Diarrhea & Vomiting. I’m being melodramatic, of course. The thought of it is always worse than the thing itself (unlike D&V, which I’d say is the exact opposite).

But like chores the world over, once you’ve run out of excuses, and through bad planning or bad luck you suddenly and unaccountably find yourself with the time to do it, then actually – it’s not too bad. A bit like going to prison. Don’t think about freedom. Keep your head down, your nose clean, and do your bird (which I’m pretty sure is prison slang for rubbing down).

All of which is to say that I’m not a fan.

*

The paint store we go to is on a small industrial estate on the outskirts of town. We make a special journey here because last time the woman who served us was so nice and helpful. It’s been a while, but that’s the thing about good service. It stays with you.

It’s the hottest day of the year. We stand outside the paint store, reading the notice.
One customer at a time. Wait to be let in. Wear a mask.
So we wait, slowly cooking on the concrete walkway. There’s no shade to be had, and we can’t go back to the car and shelter there because we’d lose our place in the queue.

Eventually, a customer comes out and we’re waved through.
‘Nice and cool in here!’ I say to the guy who let us in.
‘No it isn’t,’ he says. I laugh, but I’m not sure why.

He doesn’t acknowledge us, but strides back behind the perspex shield in front of the till, where he plants his arms right and left and then stares at us over his mask, like a giraffe about to drink at a waterhole but unsure whether we’re logs or crocodiles. He doesn’t say anything else or make any other sign. We go up to the till.
‘We’ve come to buy some paint for the kitchen,’ we say.
‘Well!’ he says, slumping deeper between his arms. ‘It’s a paint store.’
Kath tells him about the colour we want for the kitchen. She points it out on the colour chart. Tranquil depths. It feels wrong to say it out loud. Like we’re being ironic.
‘What sort of finish?’ he sighs, looking over our heads. ‘Matt? Eggshell? Soft Sheen…?’
‘Matt,’ says Kath.
‘No you don’t,’ he says. ‘Not for a kitchen. One wipe and it’ll come off. You want Satin.’
‘Okay! Satin, then!’
Kath hands him the drawing of the kitchen we made, with all the dimensions. Last time we were here the woman had worked out how much paint we needed in no time at all. Made it seem fun, like a game. This time, the guy stares at us, then down at the drawing, then at us again.
‘I bet we’re the kind of customer you dread,’ I say.
He drops his chin and looks over his mask at me, Billy the Kid sizing up the cowboy who just insulted his horse.
‘Honest answer…?’ he says.
‘Yes!’ I say. ‘I like a bit of honesty.’
‘Yes, then,’ he says.
I laugh. The shop seems a degree cooler. I look around, wondering where the nice woman is. I’m worried she’s gaffer-taped to a chair out back, rocking from side to side, desperately trying to warn us.

The man taps out the figures on a calculator. It looks like a toy, big enough to drop on the floor and dance on. Which he looks like he’d much rather do. With his heels.
‘Five litres,’ he says, tossing it to the side. ‘So that’s what you want, is it? Five litres of Tranquil Depths?’
‘Thanks. That’d be great.’
He shakes his head, turns and goes into the back of the shop, about a thousand miles, to the mixing machine there. He jabs a few buttons, waits a moment, walks back.
‘We haven’t got the base,’ he says. ‘I could order it.’
‘How long would that take?’
He shrugs.
‘Maybe Wednesday,’ he says. ‘Maybe longer.’
‘Yeah – but – the thing is, we need it now. I’ve got the time off work.’
‘You could always try the paint shop the other side of town,’ he says. ‘Five minutes away.’
‘I’m sure there’s some other colour we could use. I’m not married to Tranquil Depths.’
Kath unfolds the paint chart.
‘What about Cornflower Bunch? That’s not far off Tranquil Depths. Can you do us a Cornflower Bunch?’
It doesn’t look like the kind of bunch he wants to give us. He shakes his head.
‘Same base’ he says.
‘Would it be quicker if you said what colours we can choose from?’ I say.
He turns to look at me, his head tilting a little to the right, as if just that small movement was all it took to slacken the bolt.
‘We’ve got about a million bases,’ he says. ‘You want me to go through them with you?’
I feel like saying yeah – but you didn’t have the base we wanted, though, did you? but of course I don’t.
‘No!’ I say. ’You’re alright!’
‘I’m guessing it’s the lighter tones that need that particular base,’ says Kath. ‘What about Blue Babe? I think Blue Babe would go? Do you?’
She shows me the chart and points.
‘Yeah. I could live with Blue Babe. Definitely,’ I say.
The man stares at us, neutral as a camp guard.
‘Blue Babe,’ he says. ‘Five litres. Satin.’
‘Yep. That’s it. Fingers crossed. Blue Babe.’
It makes me think of Who Wants to be a Millionaire. That anticipatory shiver of music falling to a general thrum, pending the answer. But if this is WWTBAM, Chris Tarrant is having an off day.
‘Yes. I can do Blue Babe,’ he says.
‘Great!’ says Kath. ‘We’ll take it!’

And we look at each other, flashing our eyes.

We’ve yet to ask about ceiling paint.

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Chapter 14: Summer of Love

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Better at Not Barking – St Adina – A Nightmare Scenario – Foley Suggestion – Shakespearean Caution – Love and The MOD – Love means never having to come back till you’re lassoed

paw print

Stanley’s getting better at not barking.

There. I’ve said it. It’s out there. I’ve had the t-shirt printed and everything.

There is a slight rider, though. He’s getting better at not barking but he’s no angel.

‘He barks when he feels afraid. When he’s uncomfortable in situation,’ Adina says, gently circling her fingers in the crazy wig of hair between his ears. Stanley’s eyes spiral in ecstasy. ‘The important thing is to show he can trust you to take care of situation for him. Then he can relax, and not worry about it. So. If you find yourself in situation, make sure you take Stanley a little further off. Yes? Put distance between you and whatever it is. And if that’s not possible, simply walk away in the other direction. Isn’t that right, Stanley? Hmm?’

And my memory might be a little hazy, but I’m pretty sure he nodded once, emphatically, before meekly accepting the tripe stick she passes down to him like a novice priest receiving the sacrament.

Quite why Stanley is afraid of the Golden Retriever that comes running towards him over the field is a mystery. Even from here you can tell it’s no danger to anyone. It couldn’t look more obviously friendly if it had huge, squeaky paws and a flashing bow tie (although, having written that, I’ll probably have nightmares). I think the issue isn’t the thing itself – a buffoonish dog running towards us straight out of clown dog school, the light entertainment between the Afghans on Horseback and the French Bulldogs on the flying trapeze – but the way in which he appears, which is suddenly, from a thicket of trees just to the right of the path. It’s like being ambushed by a giant tongue.

Luckily, Stan was on the lead at that point – only because there was a hole in the hedge that he’d run through after some rabbits the other day, and it was a job to get him back. As soon as he sees the Retriever he rears up on the lead and barks his bark. It’s such a rich and devastating sound. I’m sure they could use it as a sound effect in the next Jurassic Park movie. The scene where the velociraptor gets croup.

But here’s the thing. If I was a dog running happily over to meet another dog, and that other dog made a noise like that, I’d take it as a sign maybe I should exercise caution, and hang back a little, at least until someone wearing a bomb disposal suit went over first and made sure the scene was safe. But this particular dog is so filled with love for all things, so totally and open-heartedly devoted to finding pleasure in the world, and lapping it up, like a giant, golden bee rushing from moment to moment siphoning up the nectar (and there’s another nightmare I’ll be having later), it takes absolutely no notice, but rushes up to us regardless. I’m tempted to let Stanley off the lead, because I know that by hauling on the lead like this it’s only making him worse – but I think of that Shakespeare quote: Let slip the dogs of war. So I don’t. I look around for the owner. I see a woman in the distance, waving a lead in the air and calling Maisy or Daisy or something, without the least effect. I try walking off purposefully in the other direction. Which would be fine, if Maisy or Daisy (I’ll call her MOD for short) stayed put and didn’t follow. But of course she follows, because whereas Stanley has a darkly nuanced vocabulary of emotions, influenced by his nine long years of abuse, MOD has one mood setting, which is LOVE. Dialled up to eleven.

I feel bad for everyone, particularly MOD. Looking at her, though, I’m not sure it’ll set her back all that much. She is the epitome of Golden Retriever, the essential article, stuffed full of golden things, Affection and Love and Goodness and Forgiveness and I don’t know what, hurrying about the world, retrieving wonders.

I give up trying to walk away, because apparently it doesn’t matter that Stanley has transformed into a huffing and puffing troll swinging a spiky club and threatening bloody vengeance, MOD trails happily in our wake like a hippy at a festival strewing flowers left and right and sticking a few in her hair.

‘I’m so sorry about that!’ says MODs owner, catching up at last and lassoing the Retriever. ‘She’s not the best dog in the world at coming back, especially when she’s having such a lovely time.’

‘That’s okay!’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about Stanley. He’s a good dog, really, but he still has a bit of a barking problem.’

‘Oh dear!’ says the woman, smiling down at Stanley – although her smile doesn’t seem quite as unconditional as the Retriever’s.

‘He’s getting better though,’ I tell her.

hippy

militia-media

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Other people – I jes’ don’t wanna see ‘em / blocking my selfies at the rifle museum / the Texas Tower and the Colosseum / they’re everywhere, like cryptosporidium / upsetting my equilibrium / it’s why I’m on the goddamn lithium

Other people – they’re always there / bumbling & stumbling everywhere / through public gardens and market squares / elevators, subway stairs / shopping centres, thoroughfares / supersonically unaware / of the seriousness of the affair / other people just don’t care

Other people just don’t get it / if they see something fine they can’t help wrecking it / and regret it? / forget it / they’re totally out of credit / their lack of sympathy is completely systemic / other people are pathetic

Other people never do what they say they would / don’t fit in like they know they could / and the likelihood / they won’t vote like they should / is well understood / in the social media neighbourhood / other people are no damn good

Other people are goddamn morons / ganging up in online forums / till we’re hanging on like ol’ King Kong / swatting planes in a high-rise ding-dong / losing our grip, falling headlong / other people are just plain wrong

Other people should be put out to grass / to reap the change that’s coming to pass / we’re drawing up plans and army charts / militiamen with purple hearts / truth serums and polygraphs / it’s comin’ up fast / and then I’ll laugh

Other people can kiss my ass

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a shaggy wolf story

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

The three little pigs / decked out in cheap suits & wigs / strike out on their own for some fancier digs / what with the current economic contraction / the lack of monetary action / less addition, more subtraction / so they take a leap into housing construction

The big bad wolf / AKA Ralph / hairy grin and hairy laugh / takes a long-lens photograph / of the three pigs leaving the piggie shelter / stores it / claws it / hot paws it helter skelter / to his lupine friends in the private sector

The first pig builds a house of straw / not really understanding what straw is for / most of it ending up on the floor / thinking he’ll put the savings off-shore

Ralph turns up / says Yup / this ‘ll be easy enough / and anticipating snacking on crackling / coughing & cackling / shouts the hokey little rhyme / he likes to use from time to time

Little pig! Little pig! Let me come in!
: : : Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin
Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house in

Frankly – it doesn’t take much / I mean – you can hardly call it a house as such / the pig howls, bows down / Ralph chows down / belches, then looks around / for pig number two / to do something horribly similar to

The second pig builds a house of sticks / with a particularly mean & muddy mix / highly inadvisable for any first fix / which makes him money but cooks his chips

Little pig! Little pig! Let me come in!
: : : Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin
Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house in

The house collapses / the pig protests he’s paid his taxes / but by the time a single minute elapses / Ralph’s done eating and stands cleaning his glasses

The third pig builds a tower block / with flammable cladding and dodgy stock / a total health & safety shock / the subcontractors running amok / basically a twenty storey crock / the social housing that time forgot / the pig doesn’t give a backward glance / happily stuffing his saville row pants / with buckshee bucks and government grants

Now this is definitely the best pig yet / this pig I fundamentally get / says Ralph, his mouth already wet / from calculating the gross and net / the chauffeur driven car, the private jet / high tea with a baronet / in an oak paneled room with a string quartet

Little pig! Little Pig! You’re hired!
(Sorry about those pigs I retired)
Come huff and puff on the cigars I’ve acquired

The two of them go into the property business / trotter to paw with a crow to witness / happier than a pig at Christmas / until the courts get brave and serve papers / for gross negligence and other capers / so the wolf goes back on the earlier deal / squeals / shows a hairy pair of heels / leaves the pig spitting on a rotisserie wheel

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