I meet Vicky over the woods. I hear her before I see her, singing along to a backing track.
‘I’m trying to get the words down,’ she says, tugging out the ear buds. ‘Concert’s next week.’
She pulls an eek face.
We fall in together, the dogs running on ahead.
Somehow, in the way these conversations go, we get to talking about rabbits.
‘Someone put a dead rabbit on the footbridge.’
‘Why would they do that?’
She shrugs.
‘I dunno. Some kinda cursey magic thing? Or a dog dropped it? Strange it was so carefully laid out on its side like that, though. I threw it in the bushes. At least it was some kind of burial.’
‘I was walking the Ridgeway this one time, and suddenly out of nowhere a big black rabbit leaped out of the bracken – stopped – looked at me – then leapt into the bracken the other side. It was so weird. It was just like it raised its eyebrows and pointed at me.’
‘A black rabbit?’
‘I know! Maybe it was an escaped pet. If it was, it’d come a long way. There weren’t any houses for miles. Anyway, a couple of seconds later a weasel leapt out of the bracken from the exact same spot – stopped – pulled the same what the hell are YOU doing here? expression – then carried on after the rabbit.’
‘If you’d stayed there longer you’d probably have seen a shit load of other animals. Goat. Tiger. Elephant…’
‘Maybe it was a genetic thing. Or maybe it was just filthy.’
We walk in silence for a bit, thinking about rabbits.
‘There’s a strange guy who lives near the pub,’ says Vicky after a while. ‘Half poacher, half crazy. We were sitting there having a drink. He comes wandering past with a big canvas bag on his shoulder, stops, puts the bag on the ground, dives in with both hands, pulls out a dead rabbit, and stands there looking at us. I didn’t know whether he wanted us to make an offer or clap. But then he moved his hands, and he was holding it in such a way that the head was in his right hand and the body in his left. Like some kind of fucked up magician. Then he put the two bits in the planter, picked up his bag again and carried on. The landlord didn’t seem that bothered, though. He came over with a carrier bag, used it as a glove to pick the rabbit up, tied it up, threw it in the bin. Like this was something that happened every week.’
‘There’s definitely something about rabbits…’
‘Totally.’
‘I went to this patient once. He had two long eared house rabbits. Lops I think they’re called. Anyway, he was sitting in his chair with a rabbit on each shoulder, watching Pulp Fiction. Tarantino’s a favourite he said. But anything with swords or guns they’re pretty much okay with. He told me how well trained they were. Yeah. It’s perfect. Every night we watch a film together, share a pizza, then they climb down, take my socks off, and we all go to bed.’
‘Ew!’ says Vicky. ‘I can’t unhear that.’
Author: jim clayton
meek speak
blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth
wow! sincerely? I mean – really?
THE EARTH! / think what THAT’LL be worth
but just to get you up to speed / I think it depends what bible you read / meek can mean GENTLE / not quite so detrimental / as full-blown meekness / which is more like a worthy kind of weakness / where you worry more and say less / and your capacity for humility is boundless / where you suffer things slowly / in a lowly, holy kind of hopelessness / but forgive me father for I digress
so – yeah! THE EARTH! / awarded to the meekiest first / where the boastful are toast and finally come off worst / and the real stars shining that apocalyptic night / will be all those cheeky, meeky acolytes / who trusting that things would finally come right / met in secret most Wednesday nights / half past six / to maximise their meekiness
anyway / the other thing they sometimes say / the alternative interpretation / vis-à-vis meek world domination / is that EARTH means LAND / which still sounds pretty grand / till you understand / that the word LAND / is entirely metaphorical / not geographical / nowhere contactable / legally contractable / as in THE PROMISED LAND / a particularly smoky, hokey kind of brand / nowhere you can stoop & scoop up sand / and let it trickle through your hand / and say / hey! / this is great! / this was totally worth the wait / then stand up straight / and realise too late / the Promised Land was just a panacea / an angelic analgesia / a landowning fantasia / designed to keep the meek sweet / whilst the earth is surrendered to a supranational elite / who put a girdle round the EARTH three times a week / for lunch in Manhattan, cocktails in Mustique / with an absolutely darling view / of the ripped & ready crew / they specifically hired to be hot / on the shiny deck of their exclusive yacht / that politicians / personal physicians / corrupt police chiefs & tax magicians / can come and go on their own volition / but anyone who might put them on the spot / about such conspicuous wealth and how it was got / absolutely and most certainly can NOT
so anyway – be a good meek
turn the other cheek
pick up your paycheck end of the week
don’t forget the lord is thy shepherd
(and I like my caviar lightly peppered)
entropy & the second law of pizza
There were a hundred reasons not to go to the PigHog poetry slam last night, the biggest one being fear.
I’m not a natural performer. Just about every time I’ve ever waited to go on stage, in a play, or in a band, or a room full of people, I’ve always had the same overwhelming feeling of dread. Not just butterflies, but one giant, robotic butterfly, in mirror shades, who hypnotises me with its gaudy wings as it plunges its proboscis through my chest. Kinda.
I imagine I’d feel just as anxious if I was standing by an open door, back of a plane at 10,000 feet, brave thumbs up, dry smile, waiting for the green light. But in lieu of a generous gift voucher this Christmas (hint, hint) I might never know for sure.
The other reasons not to go were huddled together under that miserable, flapping canvas marked GENERAL MISGIVINGS, being apathy & laziness, fear of change, fear of rejection, fear of failure, fear of the unknown, fear of what other people think – basically fifteen types of fear, all with the same nose and unsettling laugh. The other reasons were harder to identify because they kept moving around and hiding under leaves &c.
All these feelings lumped together into one big feeling of resistance, so strong it felt like a natural principle rather than simply a desire to stay on the sofa and watch TV. So I thought I’d read up about entropy, to see if that might throw some (dark) light on the matter. Or some dark matter on the light.
I’d better come clean here. My understanding of entropy is as miserable as my understanding of physics generally, which is to say, from my point of view, everything pretty much happens by magic. If I make the day without choking, falling over or blinding myself by reaching up to touch the sun, well then, that’s a good day and I’m a fortunate man.
The First Law of Thermodynamics seems to say (and I’m paraphrasing): Energy cannot be created or destroyed but is interchangeable. Which is fine, but it immediately makes me wonder where the original energy came from. The Big Bang I suppose. The kind of scientific idea that would look good in crayon on sugar paper. But the Big Bang couldn’t have come out of nowhere, because – well – see the beginning of this paragraph. So…erm….
Moving on.
The Second Law of Thermodynamics seems to be – BASICALLY – the mechanism by which the universe knows where it’s going (spoiler alert: DOWN). Disorder is the natural state of things, so any ordering that goes on needs energy to initiate and maintain it. Therefore the direction of travel is from disorder to order, and this is Time’s Arrow, which is a nice thing for a universe to have, given the restrictions. But then – wouldn’t it be a bent arrow? Travelling from disorder, to order, back to disorder again?
None of this is easy. In my case it’s just a blatant attempt to draw attention – using inappropriate and ill-considered scientific references – to the effort it took me to go from a disordered sofa state to an orderly appearance at the Pig Hog poetry slam.
Once I forced myself to go, I really enjoyed it. The universe may well be tending towards chaos (it feels like that most days reading the paper), but last night was brilliant. I met some lovely people and heard some great poetry. I’ll certainly be going again – and to other slams – to work on improving my writing and my stage technique.
So up yours, entropy. I’m hanging on to Time’s Arrow by my fingertips and loving it. And I’m absolutely fired up to write a poem about black holes – once I’ve made some pizza and seen if there are any new films on Netflix.
PigHog on Facebook
Thanks to Farnam Street blog for trying to educate me about entropy. (Great blog, btw).
bad buttons
I was feeling pretty nice / sittin’ back with a glass n’a slice / shooting the shit with two cops from vice / over at Giacometti’s joint / hearing their viewpoint / on the new appointment / to the City Police Department / the cute argument / concerning this particular advancement / which I said we were somewhat against / due to certain derogatory comments / certain individuals had caused to commence / in certain city wide supplements / which certain other parties will not be at liberty to overlook / or certain other parties will be coming right off of the book / and threaded on a Coney Island fishing hook
so anyways / things were going great / we were busy cleaning the steamer clams from our plates / setting things straight / telling the waiter to wait / leave the bottle and fetch a crate / when who should crash in lookin’ all teary and anxious / like a pink tornado blown straight outta Kansas / but the Capo’s daughter / Cora / so fired up you couldn’t ignore her
so what am I gotta do? / hey Cora! I hollered You’ve thrown a shoe! / my cop friends laughed but then disappeared smartish / they could tell it was time to get outta there sharpish / hey kid! / I said / I’m jes’ goofin’ wi’cha / come over here’n I’ll order a pitcher / beer or wine or somepin’ sweet n’red / whatever, she said / fuck it / collapsing in the chair like a destringed puppet
so we sat / chewed the fat / talked ‘bout this n’ that / her papa’s state of apoplectic ruin / over how many balls a week she was doin’
it ‘ain’t my fault the dice are loaded / this fairytale shit’s just so outmoded
you seein’ anyone?
I was – my cousin buttons
buttons? I said / shaking my head / giving the table a slap / why that no good piece of crap / you know why they call him buttons I’m guessin’? / one little push and he signs the confession
I don’t know why you’re so down on the kid / she said / he’s done stuff you never did
like what I said, throwing back a shot / I’m pretty hot / tell me what this button kid’s got
well he’s kind and he’s funny / and he works for his money
is that right? / is that why he stays out all night? / how j’ya think he earns his salami? / runnin’ black ops for the Salvation Army?
anyway / PK / this is all academic / said Cora, cracking her neck / then tapping out another cigarette / he’s run off with this broad called Betsy / a pole-dancing yeti / from Pulaski Park, Poughkeepsie
have you told your papa yet? / I said / feelin’ the usual dread / I mean – everyone knows it / you hardly need me disclose it / the Capo has a temper and rarely shows it / but when he does he totally blows it / acting somewhat notorious / running around like a rhinosorious
no, she said / lookin’ the other way / I’m saving it up for his birthday
please welcome on stage…
Buddy Holly is sprawled on the back of the sofa, Eddie Cochrane is staring down at me from the top of the wardrobe, and Elvis Presley is lying on the floor with his paws in the air, waiting to be tickled.
‘That’s so Elvis,’ I tell Pat, leaning in.
‘He’s still quite kittenish,’ she says. ‘You wouldn’t think he was twelve.’
Elvis grabs my hand with his front paws and rakes me with his back, but keeps his claws retracted. His mouth gapes, his eyes deepen to perfect circles of black, and his ears flatten.
‘He loves that,’ says Pat.
‘He totally looks like Elvis’ I tell her. ‘Maybe in his cape years.’
‘I thought about making him a cape once,’ she says. ‘But I didn’t want him swallowing the rhinestones. He eats most everything else.’
‘Okay. Enough now, Elvis. What about you, Pat? How are you feeling today?’
‘Oh I’m alright,’ says Pat. ‘I’m always alright. I don’t know what all the fuss is about.’
‘I think it was because you fainted and broke your hip.’
‘Yes but – these things happen.’
‘Do they know why you fainted?’
‘I got up too quickly. Eddie and Buddy were fighting and I had to sort them out. Next thing I knew I was staring up at them, and when I tried to get up my hip was agony.’
‘Did you have a carelink button then?’
‘No! It’s only since. No – I had to crawl to the phone. It was only on the hall table but it may as well have been the moon. Luckily Ian across the way has a key, so the ambulance didn’t have to break the door down.’
‘That’s something anyway.’
‘I was in hospital for ages. It was torture. My poor cats. I was worried sick.’
‘Did Ian look after them?’
‘No. He’s allergic. If he sees a cat on the telly he sneezes. No – they had to go to a cat hotel, out in the country.’
‘Sounds lovely.’
‘It wasn’t. It cost me an arm and a leg. And I don’t know what they spend the money on because it certainly isn’t food. They were half starved when I got them back.’
I can’t imagine any of these cats half-starved. I struggle to imagine how Eddie Cochrane makes it up to the top of the wardrobe without a hoist.
I run through the usual observations, blood pressure, temperature, SATS and the rest. Everything checks out. Pat’s blood pressure drops a little when she stands, but not precipitously, and ever since the accident she knows to do things slowly, in stages.
‘I’m guessing you like rock and roll then,’ I say, taking the pressure cuff off her arm and nodding in the direction of Buddy Holly, who’s sitting staring at me from the kitchen with such a fixed expression on his face I feel unaccountably possessed by the urge to walk over and open a tin.
‘Not particularly,’ says Pat. ‘I got them all as kittens, and they were so funny, I could just see them jumping around on stage, playing guitar.’
Lesson 3 from The New Bible of Absolutely Bloody Everything
LIII: And there shall descend upon us the Last Great Instagram / rendering through a series of divine filters / that the heavenly host of engineers didst graciously build for us / one final, shining / profile defining / End of Time line / when all the images the dead have taken / will instantly be downloaded upon their awakening / and they shalt hold them up proudly in their phalangeal hands / and stand / for one last panoramic shot / on the slowest & widest setting God has got / and he shalt say thanks a lot / that’ll get me some hits / one more for safety and then that’s it / and great shall be the tumult across the land / and many followers shall be lost / and many smartphones smartly tossed / from the boatman’s boat when the moat is crossed / when the boatman shall laugh / most hammily & uncannily from the pointy end of the craft / at the most photogenic moment / (these things are important)
so endeth lesson three
sad emoji
a matter of life and death
I know I know Mr E; I just don’t know where from.
‘Shall I come through to the sitting room?’ he says, struggling to rise from the dinner table. ‘Or would you like me to stay here? Actually – d’you know what? – I’d like to come through to the living room if you don’t mind. The light’s better there and we’ll all be more comfortable. How does that sound? Alright? Marvelous! Let’s go!’
If I didn’t know any better I’d go through that whole finger-wagging, face-pulling, Wait a minute… I know you….! charade. But I was with a colleague once when he did exactly that, and it was so excruciating I didn’t know where to look.
I was working for patient transport then. We’d been sent to pick up a patient from a busy London hospital, and we’d met a famous actor coming out of a ward.
Hang on a minute! I know you…. Paul said, wagging his finger. Don’t tell me, don’t tell me….
The actor was incredibly tolerant, given the provocation. He glanced at me, as if to say: And what about you? Are you going to join in with this, too? All I could manage was a sympathetic smile and a blush as fierce as a blast furnace. Who knew what family difficulties the poor man was going through? It was a high dependency ward, after all. His jacket was rumpled, his eyes were red and his hair was flattened on one side, as if he’d been sleeping in one of those high-backed chairs with wings. God knows what was going on.
Paul said a name.
The actor shook his head.
Paul tried another.
The actor shook his head again, absent-mindedly straightening his hair, as if that might help.
‘You’re kidding!’ said Paul.
‘No,’ said the actor. ‘I don’t think so, anyway.’
‘Give me a clue.’
‘I’m afraid you’re on your own with this one.’
‘A cop show? Something about ships? That sitcom…?’
‘I’m sorry’ said the actor, and moved on.
‘Typical,’ said Paul. And then shouted after him: ‘I’ll get it when you’re gone!’
A janitor appeared, and quietly mopped my puddled remains into a bucket.
It’s unsettling, recognising a famous actor. You think you know them – and in a way, of course, you do – but then, fundamentally, you really don’t. It doesn’t matter that you’ve seen their faces in close-up a hundred times, internalised their physical quirks, the idiosyncratic texture of their voice, so that if a mimic reproduced any of these things you’d immediately snap your fingers and say Hey! That’s Mr E! But you don’t know them, and they don’t know you. It has all the intimacy and immediacy of a lucid dream, and like a lucid dream, it vanishes the moment you open your eyes in the real world, leaving you feeling wrong-footed, and strangely older.
We chat as I dress his leg.
‘What line of work were you in before you retired?’ I say.
‘I was an actor,’ he says.
‘I thought so!’
I tell him the films and shows I liked him in.
‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘That’s nice to hear! Actors! We’re a funny old bunch! It doesn’t matter how old we get or how sick, we still need to be told we’re liked!’
‘It must be odd, being on show all the time.’
‘It can make one a little self-conscious. You know, I remember working with David Niven once. You’ve heard of David Niven, haven’t you?’
‘I saw him in A Matter of Life and Death. He was really good in that.’
‘He was, wasn’t he? Well – there he was, David Niven, the world famous actor, and I was right alongside him. At that time poor David was pretty sick, coming to the end of his life, actually. And something he said struck me at the time. We were working on a little scene, and afterwards he said to me he was worried because he thought the director didn’t like him. “Of course he likes you, David,” I said. “He loves you. We all do.” “Well, why does he keep glancing down to the side when we’re doing the scene, then? It’s like he can’t bear to look at me.” And I’m sorry to say but I laughed. “David” I said, “You’ve got it all wrong! He’s just checking the monitor, to see how the shot’s being framed.” So, you see – here was one of the world’s most famous actors, who’d won all kinds of honours, who’d won an Oscar, for goodness sake, written marvelous books, a man who’d had the most glorious career, coming to the end of his life, and yet he was STILL worried what some penny-halfpenny director thought of him.’
‘That’s amazing!’ I said. ‘It must be a funny profession. You’ve got to be sensitive enough to portray a character, but thick-skinned enough to take all the rest of it.’
‘Oh – it’s not so bad!’ says Mr E. ‘I can’t complain. Now tell me – how’s the old leg looking?’
‘All done! How does it feel?’
‘Like a million dollars!’ he says. ‘I’d give you a standing ovation, only…’
And he makes a gesture I’ve seen him make many times before, only – actually – this is the first time I’ve ever seen him do it.
‘Great!’ I say, tidying up. ‘I’d sign it, only…’
ghost sheet
- Ghosts are lost in a persistent, inter-dimensional, crystalline time-lattice, so please be patient.
- Ghosts are not in themselves a cause of creaky doors, but they cannot resist taking advantage. Treat accordingly.
- Ghost to Living ratio = 10:1. Libraries have the highest concentrations; abandoned hospitals the lowest.
- Fairground Ghost Trains are ghost-free; actual trains suffer from over-ghosting, especially at peak times.
- Ghosts are tormented by the idea of hats.
- Ghosts have no sense of irony, cliché, personal boundaries, social etiquette. Ghost clowns are even worse.
- Ghosts are confused by whisks, pastry cutters & pizza wheels, and have a morbid fear of sandwich tins, so tend to avoid the kitchen.
- Ghosts are fascinated by cats, interested in dogs, amused by spiders, patronising about birds, withering about fish.
- Ghosts can be frozen indefinitely, but need careful handling when thawing.
- Ghosts are, for the most part, high maintenance / low carbon
- Crucifixes are unsightly, candles a fire hazard, Holy Water makes the place damp and chalk pentagrams spoil an otherwise charmingly rustic floor. To keep your place ghost free, simply air thoroughly, cook pizza and wear a hat.
my monk
I tell Aleksy I’ve applied for another job.
‘What job?’ he says.
‘Kind of a counsellor. Using CBT. It comes with a year’s post-grad training, so it’d be an amazing opportunity. There’s no way I could afford to do it privately.’
He frowns at me steadily.
‘You want to do this job?’
‘Yeah. I think so.’
‘Isn’t it a bit – how do you call it? – conceited?’
‘How d’you mean, conceited?’
‘Well…’
He puts his head on one side, spreads his hands.
‘You have problem. You come to me with this problem. I tell you how to solve problem. Because I know best.’
‘Maybe. I suppose it’s more that you learn some techniques to help the patient break out of unhelpful thought patterns. That’s the idea, anyway. You work on finding a solution to the problem together.’
‘Hmmm,’ says Aleksy. ‘I’m not so sure.’
‘It’s not for everyone.’
‘No. That’s true. You know – one time – a long time ago now – I was feeling a bit difficult, y’know? So I went to this counsellor. And we sat around in chairs talking. Or at least, I did a lot of talking. Until I thought – what am I doing? Coming here to this place, talking to complete stranger, someone I don’t even know? So I stop going, and I sort problem out myself.’
‘Fair enough. Like I say, it’s not for everyone. It’s just one way of addressing a mental health issue. There are others.’
‘I went to monastery,’ says Aleksy.
‘Did you? Wow! A monastery!’
‘Why you say wow? What so wow about monastery?’
‘Nothing – it’s just – it sounds great.’
He shrugs.
‘Well. It wasn’t like I was there for years. Just one month. I spent long hours going into my head.’
‘Meditation.’
‘Yes. Meditation. Because there was this lot of noise in my head. It took long time to clean it all out.’
‘I’ve been using a meditation app.’
‘An app? What app?’
‘Headspace. You get these guided meditations.’
‘And you do this every day?’
‘Every day. For ten minutes.’
‘Is not enough. Ten minutes is not enough. When do you find the time?’
‘In the lunch break. I put my sunglasses on and sit in the car. People think I’m just zoning out listening to music.’
‘Is not enough. Ten minutes wouldn’t even begin to do it for me.’
‘You can do longer. I just always seem to stick at ten.’
‘I have so much noise in there,’ he says, winding his hand in the space above his head. ‘There is such a lot of fuss. Ten minutes wouldn’t do anything.’
‘Maybe I’ll try longer.’
‘You could join monastery like me.’
‘I’d love to.’
And it’s true. I would.
I can imagine Aleksy as a monk. With his shaven head, steady gaze, deliberate movements, his economy of being. I can imagine the monastery, high in the mountains. Attacked by warriors in the moonlight. Aleksy deflecting spears with balletic moves, bodies falling like leaves from the cell window. Aleksy calmly putting on a cloak, wandering the desert in search of justice.
‘Send me the link,’ I say.
cinderella & the pumpkin kid
once upon a crime…
I was given a test / I hadda chaperone the Capo’s princess / but I have to confess / as princesses go she was one priceless mess / in distress / in dis dress / so frocked up you’d never guess / where the princess endses and the big pink dress commenses / I mean – sure, she was gorgeous & glamorous / fifteen kindsa fabulous / but I tink the problem was she was ravenous / because they told her not to eat for about a minute / so they might have a chance to squeeze her in it / but despite the lack of a meatball sub / a pint of coke and a fro-yo tub / there was still no doubt about it / shit / no way was this thing gonna fit /
fuggedaboutit
so wha’d’ya gonna do? / the ditzy dame was through / givin’ it the big boo-hoo / a diva on a divan / sitting on her can / callin’ every goombah an also ran
then the carriages start to arrive / this pink-finned cadillac parks up outside / hooting its hooter / the chauffeur / a small time booster / name of Dylan the Rooster / on account of all the colourful suits and feathers / he wears in all kindsa weathers / and all the lay-lady-lays he likes / from Brooklyn Heights to the New Jersey turnpike / you bitches better get me ready / wails the princess sitting up, shakin’, unsteady / teary and bleary / her makeup all scary and smeary / of course says the maids / looking somewhat afraid / and I must confess / standing back from alla this? / I was too / I couldn’t see a way through / it’d take more than crystal pumps and a sequin shawl / to make this princess bell a’ the ball
but what could I do? / I’m strictly crew
I don’t got no fashion sense / the shoes I use are usually cement
so anyways / the maids / run around like mices / improvisin’ all kindsa clothing devices / and they forms a line to tighten the corset / and a’course it rips the moment they force it / spilling da princesses onto the flooring / where she rolls around roaring / then suddenly outs with this thing / a smart lil’ snub nose piece / she borrowed off her niece / and stuffed in the garter behind her knees / shooting whatever gets in her sights / paintings, statues, fancy lights / because this hotel pad’s pretty bling / or was till she shot up every damned thing / the mirror, the sofa / a taxidermy gopher / everything royally blown & plugged / with random slugs / the silver coffee jug / jumping & spattering / the chandelier shattering / dropping and scattering / till the princess is spent like the gun and knows it / violently throws it / sprawls face down on the bed / feathers flying up around her head / while I creeps slowly outta the closet / wondering how we gonna gets back the deposit
honey – it’s okay / I say / you don’t need to take on this way / the ball isn’t all it’s cracked up to be / the odds look pretty stacked to me / I tell ya what / why’n we go down the road for a spot? / jes’ you and me? / jeans and a T / treat’s on me / c’mon honey / forget the Rooster / he’ll get used ta’ / the idea / an’ disappear / when I make it clear / what needs to be happenin’ here
the princess comes round to my way of thinking / an hour later we’re in a dive bar drinking / throwing back shots and fistfuls of nuts / and we’re there till six when the bar finally shuts / and I take her back to the Capo’s palace in the heights / where he says did the ball work out alright / yeah she says papa it really did / an’ I owe it all to the Pumpkin Kid / and the Capo plants a kiss on my cheeks / says that’s the best news he got all week / there’s nothing means more than my princesses happinesses / fuggedaboutit I say with a grin / sleepily scratching my chin / but you want my advice? / hire yourself a couple more mice
