CREATIVE WRITING
POETRY / FLASH FICTION
TWENTY-SEVEN
amor matris
spring silence
summit
hugo wilson - fight 1
FRUITLESS LABOUR
THE HOPE
SPECTRUM
"TWENTY-SEVEN"
flash fiction - Image inspired words
I’m the king without the crown, the alien invasion of subliminal thoughts, primal ideas.
|
Look for the crossbones in my smile, the tally is not charting my ascension to seventh heaven.
|
With pink marigolds and toothless grin, I’m headed for the stars with anarchistic wired eyes.
|
In the searing blue face, staring in, staring out, my teeth resemble prison bars.
|
Keeping all those words and images, stitched savagely into my cranium, prisoner.
|
My red face is the Puerto Rican passion in me and my yellow eyes seek the fierce Haitian sun.
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I'm a black man, skirting white lines, cutting through red tape, treading my own golden path.
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I am the living art your automated responses cannot compute with analysis and evaluation.
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Forget your 4* review – I’m no movie star. I’m the underground artist you say is a graffiti terrorist.
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I walk side by side with Warhol, wearing my diamond encrusted skull on the inside.
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The man that courted Madonna, danger, neurosis and drugs in one frenzied flurry.
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Pushing the boundaries of art, life, expression – wild, brave, free. I dared to chase the dragon.
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I am Jean-Michel Basquiat and I will not be forgotten.
22 Dec 1960 - 12th Aug 1988.
22 Dec 1960 - 12th Aug 1988.
"AMOR MATRIS"
poetry - there is nothing quite like a mother's love
unwavering
unrelenting
and reckless
in ardour
the unconditional
caring and concern
unfalteringly
fills
broken nights
mending minds
soothing souls
healing hearts
a helpful hand
always held out
for a hand up
when we are
floundering
falling
lifting us up
from the dust
to beyond the clouds
where our spirit
smiles
soars
unrelenting
and reckless
in ardour
the unconditional
caring and concern
unfalteringly
fills
broken nights
mending minds
soothing souls
healing hearts
a helpful hand
always held out
for a hand up
when we are
floundering
falling
lifting us up
from the dust
to beyond the clouds
where our spirit
smiles
soars
"spring silence"
poetry - How one season marks beginnings and endings
The bulbs are starting to break their shells
The buds gently unfurling their colour
Seeds are slowly taking root
And fine young tufts of turf salute the sun
The flowers coyly unveil their vibrancy
The shrubs grow fuller and thicker
Leaves appear in all shades of green
And climbers surge for greater heights
Sometimes amidst all the new life
I think of the end of yours
Heavily loaded. The trigger. A sudden shot in the dark.
The resounding sounding of your death -
- cushioned by the spring silence.
The buds gently unfurling their colour
Seeds are slowly taking root
And fine young tufts of turf salute the sun
The flowers coyly unveil their vibrancy
The shrubs grow fuller and thicker
Leaves appear in all shades of green
And climbers surge for greater heights
Sometimes amidst all the new life
I think of the end of yours
Heavily loaded. The trigger. A sudden shot in the dark.
The resounding sounding of your death -
- cushioned by the spring silence.
"summit"
poetry - overcoming uphill strUggles
some days you feel on top of the world
having conquered new heights
and successfully navigated each impasse
set to thwart your path
it’s not the flag firmly planted
in the seemingly insurmountable apex
that represents the recognition
of human endeavour and triumph
it’s the quiet knowing
that each step taken
in both solitude and fortitude
was of one’s own choosing
having conquered new heights
and successfully navigated each impasse
set to thwart your path
it’s not the flag firmly planted
in the seemingly insurmountable apex
that represents the recognition
of human endeavour and triumph
it’s the quiet knowing
that each step taken
in both solitude and fortitude
was of one’s own choosing
"hugo wilson - Fight 1"
poetry - a visual poem inspired by a painting
"FRUITLESS LABOUR"
flash Fiction & Poetry - UNSPOKEN LOCKDOWN EXPERIENCES
I watched you grow from a blueberry, blackberry, kumquat to lime, as my coconuts turned to melons.
The fruit of my loins quickly took root in my heart, planting an orchard there. Alongside seeds of doubt of pending motherhood; stemming my trust in mother nature, budding fresh fears that sometimes mother does not always know best.
My world was surrounded by silence: no deliberated discourse with a doctor, no chinwag chatter with a chum, not a murmured mutter to a midwife.
The doctor's surgery open only to the vulnerable, hospitals heaving with those on ventilators, mother-to-be groups disbanded and pricey private pastoral care offered solely through pixels.
Eventually, I birthed a new vision; you’d be the apple of my eye, a peachy dream I’d one day blow raspberries with. Whilst the world outside was doling out lemons, I would make lockdown lemonade. The milestone twelve week scan circled in red on my calendar, like a ruby pomegranate.
On the eve of our first digital meeting, things went pear shaped. I was not to bear fruit, and my womb prepared for the early harvest of your premature crop. Though life is never a bowl of cherries, it didn’t seem just desserts that my initial apprehension would now turn to sour grapes.
Ordered over the phone to “manage my miscarriage” at home, no words of wisdom, no women to guide and console. Then, radio silence. In an attempt to “manage my expectations”, I turned to things I had only heard on the grapevine.
But not a soul let slip about the ensuing stabbing pains, smarting pangs of contractions, agonising waves of the unknown, revisiting again and again and again. The world kept shtum about the urine, the faeces, the vomit, the bile, the blood, the sweat, the tears. The ferocious fever, that no one took any interest in, unless accompanied by a persistent cough. No, mum’s the word on all that.
Only when your rotting foetal remains went septic, was I admitted over the medical threshold reserved for a global pandemic. With IV lines ramming my veins, monitors bleated warnings of my low blood pressure. A stark reminder there would be no stork heralding your tiny heartbeat.
Returning home, again, the world fell quiet. You were not to be talked about. I suffered in solitude, stifled and suppressed. Hushed and shushed because nice ladies don’t talk about… you. But the pen is mightier than the sorrow, the silence, the shock. And I wrote a love-letter to you instead. You who was you. And the size of a plum.
The fruit of my loins quickly took root in my heart, planting an orchard there. Alongside seeds of doubt of pending motherhood; stemming my trust in mother nature, budding fresh fears that sometimes mother does not always know best.
My world was surrounded by silence: no deliberated discourse with a doctor, no chinwag chatter with a chum, not a murmured mutter to a midwife.
The doctor's surgery open only to the vulnerable, hospitals heaving with those on ventilators, mother-to-be groups disbanded and pricey private pastoral care offered solely through pixels.
Eventually, I birthed a new vision; you’d be the apple of my eye, a peachy dream I’d one day blow raspberries with. Whilst the world outside was doling out lemons, I would make lockdown lemonade. The milestone twelve week scan circled in red on my calendar, like a ruby pomegranate.
On the eve of our first digital meeting, things went pear shaped. I was not to bear fruit, and my womb prepared for the early harvest of your premature crop. Though life is never a bowl of cherries, it didn’t seem just desserts that my initial apprehension would now turn to sour grapes.
Ordered over the phone to “manage my miscarriage” at home, no words of wisdom, no women to guide and console. Then, radio silence. In an attempt to “manage my expectations”, I turned to things I had only heard on the grapevine.
But not a soul let slip about the ensuing stabbing pains, smarting pangs of contractions, agonising waves of the unknown, revisiting again and again and again. The world kept shtum about the urine, the faeces, the vomit, the bile, the blood, the sweat, the tears. The ferocious fever, that no one took any interest in, unless accompanied by a persistent cough. No, mum’s the word on all that.
Only when your rotting foetal remains went septic, was I admitted over the medical threshold reserved for a global pandemic. With IV lines ramming my veins, monitors bleated warnings of my low blood pressure. A stark reminder there would be no stork heralding your tiny heartbeat.
Returning home, again, the world fell quiet. You were not to be talked about. I suffered in solitude, stifled and suppressed. Hushed and shushed because nice ladies don’t talk about… you. But the pen is mightier than the sorrow, the silence, the shock. And I wrote a love-letter to you instead. You who was you. And the size of a plum.
TO MY PLUM
holding on
for dear life
clinging to walls
disintegrating around you
remnants flowing out
in rivers of cherry red
your warm soft home
the size of a mango
sharp pangs
flood through me
like prickly pears
and pineapple
it's a long way to fall
to be Newton's apple
the great revelation:
life hangs in delicate balance
you're as big as a plum
and my heart breaks in two
that you fell at the final hurdle
and I can do nothing to preserve you
holding on
for dear life
clinging to walls
disintegrating around you
remnants flowing out
in rivers of cherry red
your warm soft home
the size of a mango
sharp pangs
flood through me
like prickly pears
and pineapple
it's a long way to fall
to be Newton's apple
the great revelation:
life hangs in delicate balance
you're as big as a plum
and my heart breaks in two
that you fell at the final hurdle
and I can do nothing to preserve you
"THE HOPE"
flash fiction - when life is messy, Some random encounters are perfect as they are
He was nervously twiddling with the brim of his hat, as he contemplated approaching the girl. He didn’t usually take to wearing them, but he felt inclined for the church meeting. He was still used to the notion of Sunday best, the influence of his grandmother; handbag tightly clutched on her knees in all her finery. That was a long time ago. He wasn’t used to church meetings either. He’d forsaken the religious path years ago – but felt compelled to visit for some familiarity. Perhaps reignite some sort of spiritual existence. He was drowning in secular life choices – so anything to keep him mildly buoyant.
He had initially felt like a fraud, but the way the girl spoke alleviated such self-judgement. She’d openly admitted that she was attending for a sense of community and well being. She probably didn’t even believe in the Trinity or the Gospel he thought. She spoke about Christ consciousness – but it was a bit too vague for him to really understand. She did speak about morals though. And righteous behaviour in relationships – with or without marriage. He liked that. He also liked that she ruffled a few dusty feathers by declaring that marriage was an outdated institution, and there only to serve backward communities and secure financial entanglements. She certainly knows how to speak her mind, he mused.
He’d come along to the discussion on “Love & Union In The 21st Century Church” simply because he’d lost faith. At forty seven years old he was aware that he was jaded and tired. He liked her honesty. She’d given up on online dating, last year, at forty, because it was a minefield and she couldn’t afford to be any further maimed than she already was. He wondered what her experiences had been to phrase it like that.
He looked at her standing in the arch of the door, and despite the previous discussion in his break out group about the futility of initial lust and attraction, she looked pretty. She had spoken about women withering like roses and her anguish at being menopausal might mean she’ll never have children. To her that ship had not yet sailed, but was definitely leaving port. He felt sad for her, looking at her luscious locks. He wanted to pay her a compliment and deliberated its interpretation in a modern context. She had said people should be true to themselves. So he made a firm decision: that was going to be his opening gambit.
He ambled over, made eye contact, hesitated, then opened his mouth. He wasn’t really sure what came out. As stoic as she seemed, he detected a slight blush in response to his appreciative praise. She nodded her head and smiled knowingly, admitting that the pick me up was both well intentioned and well received. He felt a wave of relaxation flood his limbs and exhaled softly in the comfortable silence that ensued. She asked him a few left field questions, more out of a genuine curiosity than investigative probing. It was refreshing. He reciprocated in kind and learned that her favourite flower was lavender and that she’d had an unfortunate mishap on her first skiing trip abroad with friends.
He didn’t feel a need to disclose anything, nor live up to anything – and just stood neutral in her presence. She remarked that she had felt naked and transparent the whole afternoon, and relished the opportunity to meet people and just "be". He wasn't entirely sure exactly what that meant but she liked his energy and remarked he was very accepting. He felt incredibly at ease. They enjoyed the little pocket of time and started to make their closing departing comments as the caretaker closed the heavy doors shut. Out on the steps of the church, they enjoyed the last few remnant glowing beams of the fading sun.
He took out his phone, perhaps to check the time, perhaps to take her number, and realised that he’d inadvertently set off the taperecorder again, initially used for noting the group discussions. He calculated it must have been when he approached her. They’d been talking for 14 minutes and 47 seconds. He told her – quickly adding he wasn’t an undercover journalist and that he’d delete the private conversation. She thanked him for a very pleasant and restoratative near quarter of an hour.
He paused for a moment more, perhaps to get a contact, uncertain of protocol and politeness, but didn’t follow through. As if reading his mind, she told him to only do whatever felt genuinely right. Half acknowledging his messy divorce finalisation he had spoke of before, in the groups, he mumbled something about divine timing. She nodded that this was not it, and referenced her recent dissolving of a relationship and subsequent flat hunt. His heart warmed that although not perhaps being on the same page, they had an understanding of both turning over a new leaf. It was good to talk about the story so far and the new chapters they were embarking on. They both knew that no numbers were required, or desired even.
He bid the girl farewell and set for the solitude of the neighbouring ruins and unspoken wisdom of the ancient stones, waving as she turned the corner to the gravel path leading to the cemetery. As an afterthought, he called out to her enquiring after her name and receiving it, reminded her that Sarah was granted the gift of a child at 90 years old. She laughed, saying she at least had faith in the modern day miracle of IVF as a last resort. She asked about his and he promptly explained the Hebrew meaning of Aaron was mountain. She graciously affirmed he would in time summit new heights if he had belief in himself at very least. They gave each other their blessings and as they both set off, with best foot in different directions, with variable amounts of faith and belief, he mused that they were at least walking away with one thing they hadn’t had before: Hope.
He had initially felt like a fraud, but the way the girl spoke alleviated such self-judgement. She’d openly admitted that she was attending for a sense of community and well being. She probably didn’t even believe in the Trinity or the Gospel he thought. She spoke about Christ consciousness – but it was a bit too vague for him to really understand. She did speak about morals though. And righteous behaviour in relationships – with or without marriage. He liked that. He also liked that she ruffled a few dusty feathers by declaring that marriage was an outdated institution, and there only to serve backward communities and secure financial entanglements. She certainly knows how to speak her mind, he mused.
He’d come along to the discussion on “Love & Union In The 21st Century Church” simply because he’d lost faith. At forty seven years old he was aware that he was jaded and tired. He liked her honesty. She’d given up on online dating, last year, at forty, because it was a minefield and she couldn’t afford to be any further maimed than she already was. He wondered what her experiences had been to phrase it like that.
He looked at her standing in the arch of the door, and despite the previous discussion in his break out group about the futility of initial lust and attraction, she looked pretty. She had spoken about women withering like roses and her anguish at being menopausal might mean she’ll never have children. To her that ship had not yet sailed, but was definitely leaving port. He felt sad for her, looking at her luscious locks. He wanted to pay her a compliment and deliberated its interpretation in a modern context. She had said people should be true to themselves. So he made a firm decision: that was going to be his opening gambit.
He ambled over, made eye contact, hesitated, then opened his mouth. He wasn’t really sure what came out. As stoic as she seemed, he detected a slight blush in response to his appreciative praise. She nodded her head and smiled knowingly, admitting that the pick me up was both well intentioned and well received. He felt a wave of relaxation flood his limbs and exhaled softly in the comfortable silence that ensued. She asked him a few left field questions, more out of a genuine curiosity than investigative probing. It was refreshing. He reciprocated in kind and learned that her favourite flower was lavender and that she’d had an unfortunate mishap on her first skiing trip abroad with friends.
He didn’t feel a need to disclose anything, nor live up to anything – and just stood neutral in her presence. She remarked that she had felt naked and transparent the whole afternoon, and relished the opportunity to meet people and just "be". He wasn't entirely sure exactly what that meant but she liked his energy and remarked he was very accepting. He felt incredibly at ease. They enjoyed the little pocket of time and started to make their closing departing comments as the caretaker closed the heavy doors shut. Out on the steps of the church, they enjoyed the last few remnant glowing beams of the fading sun.
He took out his phone, perhaps to check the time, perhaps to take her number, and realised that he’d inadvertently set off the taperecorder again, initially used for noting the group discussions. He calculated it must have been when he approached her. They’d been talking for 14 minutes and 47 seconds. He told her – quickly adding he wasn’t an undercover journalist and that he’d delete the private conversation. She thanked him for a very pleasant and restoratative near quarter of an hour.
He paused for a moment more, perhaps to get a contact, uncertain of protocol and politeness, but didn’t follow through. As if reading his mind, she told him to only do whatever felt genuinely right. Half acknowledging his messy divorce finalisation he had spoke of before, in the groups, he mumbled something about divine timing. She nodded that this was not it, and referenced her recent dissolving of a relationship and subsequent flat hunt. His heart warmed that although not perhaps being on the same page, they had an understanding of both turning over a new leaf. It was good to talk about the story so far and the new chapters they were embarking on. They both knew that no numbers were required, or desired even.
He bid the girl farewell and set for the solitude of the neighbouring ruins and unspoken wisdom of the ancient stones, waving as she turned the corner to the gravel path leading to the cemetery. As an afterthought, he called out to her enquiring after her name and receiving it, reminded her that Sarah was granted the gift of a child at 90 years old. She laughed, saying she at least had faith in the modern day miracle of IVF as a last resort. She asked about his and he promptly explained the Hebrew meaning of Aaron was mountain. She graciously affirmed he would in time summit new heights if he had belief in himself at very least. They gave each other their blessings and as they both set off, with best foot in different directions, with variable amounts of faith and belief, he mused that they were at least walking away with one thing they hadn’t had before: Hope.
"SPECTRUM"
flash fiction - viewing autism through a different lens
Going for a jaunt round Harlesden, I duck into Starlight Records - start flicking through a few racks.
I see that girl again. The redhead. Like Jessica Rabbit. She likes to thumb through all the records in the rack. I've watched her many times before and edge slowly closer, as not to frighten a hare. If distracted or interrupted, or if she looses her place - she diligently starts again. One might say it's a matter of due diligence. For someone who questions everything, I never thought to ever ask. I don't need to.
"I want to see them all."
Leave no stone unturned. That's the dedication of an avid collector. What are you looking for?
"Nothing. Anything. Something."
The intent lies in an odd undefinable place somewhere between concrete and arbitrary. Do you like anything in particular?
"I like the covers."
Very particular then. This retort makes my head cock sideways, neck jerk back and eyes narrow. Is she flicking through all this vinyl with an artistic eye over a musical ear, I wonder. Anything take your fancy?
"Not all. Some. Most."
I like this take. Some fantastic albums are accompanied by phenomenal artwork. She stops halfway through the first rack.
"This one has a cat."
I take a look. Jimmy Smith - "The Cat". I make the obvious connection. Do you like jazz?
"Nope."
Take it or leave it. Denied access to the usual follow up on musical preference. I try a different take. Do you like the cat then?
"Nope. Black cat. Bad luck."
Bad luck? I test the waters, and saunter over with perhaps the most famous image of feline eyes. Have you heard "Cats" - The Musical?
"Nope."
Another rebuttal. It's game over. Or so I think.
"Yellow eyes. Black background. Probably Burmese."
Burmese? I take a moment. Never heard of such a breed. You can tell that from just the eyes?
"Yup. Yellow eyes. Slit pupils. Usually nocturnal. Filters daylight."
Right. What next? I look her over, her gaze steadfast at the front of the second rack. She pulls out Blink 182 - "Cheshire Cat" just a few albums in. Do you like the album Cheshire Cat?
"Nope. It’s wrong. This looks Siamese."
I think back to the title... Have you read "Alice In Wonderland"?
"Lewis Carroll. Cheshire Cat is usually Tabby. Or Tom."
I double take. How could Blink 182 get it so wrong? I try to rectify this with Cat Stevens - "Teaser & The Firecat". A gorgeous plump ginger kitty. This one more like it? She refuses the leap I make.
"There's a hole in the fence."
I'm taken aback. Mad as a march hare this one. She misses the point. Picks up on another. Is it any better than Blink 182?
"I like his top hat."
And down the rabbit hole we go.
Rack 4. She plays with Fred Astaire - "Starring Fred Astaire". Do you like top hats then? I'm trying.
"Yup. Shiny. Satin. Smooth."
Win. I watch her for a few moments. She's reading the texture and feel of the fabric with her eyes. I expect her to carry on with her initial alliterative reverie. I make an offer. And sensual, and silky, and... soft?
"And black."
Again with the black. This girl jumps around. I take her lead and decide to counter with Barbra Streisand - "My Name Is Barbra, Two". I commit to the venture. How about a white top hat? Nothing.
"Unusual spelling. Usually b - a - r - b - A - r - a."
Never noticed. I go back to what we know. She's now towards the back of the next rack. I spot Leonard Cohen - "Songs From The Road". I take it out and show her. Everyone likes a top hat don't they?
"That's a trilby."
I try to take back my offer by apologetically looking at my shoes. You can spot the difference?
"Yup. A trilby is traditionally made from rabbit hair."
Curiouser and curiouser... She demonstrates this with Frank Sinatra – "In The Wee Small Hours". No prompting needed. She immediately follows up.
"Black suit. Black trilby. Frank's signature trademark."
I choose to ignore her acute observance of 40s/50s popular culture. What's your fascination with black?
"Nothing. Black is not a colour. It's just a void."
I take it in. I reflect a while with Metallica – "The Black Album" in hand, but like the tortoise and the hare, she's bounding for the finish.
"It doesn't reflect light. Just absorbs it."
She flying through the racks now and demonstrates with Pink Floyd - "Dark Side Of The Moon". As tortoise I'm slow to catch her. Really?
"Yup. White light is all the colours of the spectrum."
I show her the obscure title of Swans - "White Light From The Mouth Of Infinity" as acquiescence. Silence. Kind of like this? She considers a moment.
"Funny bunny."
Tangential. Again. I feel like the mad hatter navigating the rabbit warrens of her mind. I take a step back. What colour in the white light spectrum is your favourite?
"Ultra Violet. It's the least visible."
Quick as a flash to answer that. The UV catches me off guard. She's pulled the rabbit out the hat with that one. I laugh gleefully for the first time in a long time. We're on a roll. I know because something has prompted her curiosity.
"What's your favourite colour?"
I look out the window, not as inspired as her. I look at the soft sunlight outside. Remember the date. 15th. Ides of March. Mum's birthday. And death. When spring would really start to have sprung. Shoots starting to sprout. So much life. And potential. And hope. Outside. Wish I'd told Mum "Beware the Ides Of March", when she stepped out to the corner shop to get candles for her own cake - she baked herself. The leaves rustle the trees and I hear her voice: give more than you take, you'll leave this world a happier place. You've left a huge hole in my heart, Mum. A void I can't ever fill. Black void. The pocket of noiseless peace calls me back to Starlight Records. I realise Jessica Rabbit’s not been flicking through records, but patiently waiting for my slow answer. Her eyes fixed on the particles from dusty sleeves, dancing in a sunbeam - silently journeying with me in the vast cosmos of considerations. After clearing my throat, I tentatively answer. Green? She momentarily stands transfixed, deep in thought. Then turns swiftly.
"You'll like this then."
She leaps ahead to rack 7. Every record place seemingly committed to memory, and pulls out Kermit The Frog - "Rainbow Connection". I choke as I splutter: My mum used to sing that to me!
"And me."
She giggles. I mumble the lyrics. "One day we'll find it, the rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers..." - I falter. She finishes for me.
"And me."
She says it so softly, it's almost imperceptible. Then locks eyes with me for the first time, for an inordinately long time. I'm a rabbit in headlights. And dissolve in her multi-coloured orbs. Green, or blue, or hazel, or grey – depends which way the sunlight refracts through the shop front - in a confusing and enticing myriad of ways. I utter my first instinctive non-premeditated question. Are you always so unbelievable?
"Why, sometimes I believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast!"
She laughs. Confident in my knowing, recognition and understanding. There's no rhyme nor reason to this response. It seems utterly daft - but it's absolutely delicious and feels gorgeous. And sounds like a perfect answer. She's the most colourful character I've met in a while. A long, long while. I can't help myself. Do you know how extraordinary you are?
"Yup."
She smiles and goes back to record flicking. Nods an affirmative.
"Extra. Ordinary."
I see that girl again. The redhead. Like Jessica Rabbit. She likes to thumb through all the records in the rack. I've watched her many times before and edge slowly closer, as not to frighten a hare. If distracted or interrupted, or if she looses her place - she diligently starts again. One might say it's a matter of due diligence. For someone who questions everything, I never thought to ever ask. I don't need to.
"I want to see them all."
Leave no stone unturned. That's the dedication of an avid collector. What are you looking for?
"Nothing. Anything. Something."
The intent lies in an odd undefinable place somewhere between concrete and arbitrary. Do you like anything in particular?
"I like the covers."
Very particular then. This retort makes my head cock sideways, neck jerk back and eyes narrow. Is she flicking through all this vinyl with an artistic eye over a musical ear, I wonder. Anything take your fancy?
"Not all. Some. Most."
I like this take. Some fantastic albums are accompanied by phenomenal artwork. She stops halfway through the first rack.
"This one has a cat."
I take a look. Jimmy Smith - "The Cat". I make the obvious connection. Do you like jazz?
"Nope."
Take it or leave it. Denied access to the usual follow up on musical preference. I try a different take. Do you like the cat then?
"Nope. Black cat. Bad luck."
Bad luck? I test the waters, and saunter over with perhaps the most famous image of feline eyes. Have you heard "Cats" - The Musical?
"Nope."
Another rebuttal. It's game over. Or so I think.
"Yellow eyes. Black background. Probably Burmese."
Burmese? I take a moment. Never heard of such a breed. You can tell that from just the eyes?
"Yup. Yellow eyes. Slit pupils. Usually nocturnal. Filters daylight."
Right. What next? I look her over, her gaze steadfast at the front of the second rack. She pulls out Blink 182 - "Cheshire Cat" just a few albums in. Do you like the album Cheshire Cat?
"Nope. It’s wrong. This looks Siamese."
I think back to the title... Have you read "Alice In Wonderland"?
"Lewis Carroll. Cheshire Cat is usually Tabby. Or Tom."
I double take. How could Blink 182 get it so wrong? I try to rectify this with Cat Stevens - "Teaser & The Firecat". A gorgeous plump ginger kitty. This one more like it? She refuses the leap I make.
"There's a hole in the fence."
I'm taken aback. Mad as a march hare this one. She misses the point. Picks up on another. Is it any better than Blink 182?
"I like his top hat."
And down the rabbit hole we go.
Rack 4. She plays with Fred Astaire - "Starring Fred Astaire". Do you like top hats then? I'm trying.
"Yup. Shiny. Satin. Smooth."
Win. I watch her for a few moments. She's reading the texture and feel of the fabric with her eyes. I expect her to carry on with her initial alliterative reverie. I make an offer. And sensual, and silky, and... soft?
"And black."
Again with the black. This girl jumps around. I take her lead and decide to counter with Barbra Streisand - "My Name Is Barbra, Two". I commit to the venture. How about a white top hat? Nothing.
"Unusual spelling. Usually b - a - r - b - A - r - a."
Never noticed. I go back to what we know. She's now towards the back of the next rack. I spot Leonard Cohen - "Songs From The Road". I take it out and show her. Everyone likes a top hat don't they?
"That's a trilby."
I try to take back my offer by apologetically looking at my shoes. You can spot the difference?
"Yup. A trilby is traditionally made from rabbit hair."
Curiouser and curiouser... She demonstrates this with Frank Sinatra – "In The Wee Small Hours". No prompting needed. She immediately follows up.
"Black suit. Black trilby. Frank's signature trademark."
I choose to ignore her acute observance of 40s/50s popular culture. What's your fascination with black?
"Nothing. Black is not a colour. It's just a void."
I take it in. I reflect a while with Metallica – "The Black Album" in hand, but like the tortoise and the hare, she's bounding for the finish.
"It doesn't reflect light. Just absorbs it."
She flying through the racks now and demonstrates with Pink Floyd - "Dark Side Of The Moon". As tortoise I'm slow to catch her. Really?
"Yup. White light is all the colours of the spectrum."
I show her the obscure title of Swans - "White Light From The Mouth Of Infinity" as acquiescence. Silence. Kind of like this? She considers a moment.
"Funny bunny."
Tangential. Again. I feel like the mad hatter navigating the rabbit warrens of her mind. I take a step back. What colour in the white light spectrum is your favourite?
"Ultra Violet. It's the least visible."
Quick as a flash to answer that. The UV catches me off guard. She's pulled the rabbit out the hat with that one. I laugh gleefully for the first time in a long time. We're on a roll. I know because something has prompted her curiosity.
"What's your favourite colour?"
I look out the window, not as inspired as her. I look at the soft sunlight outside. Remember the date. 15th. Ides of March. Mum's birthday. And death. When spring would really start to have sprung. Shoots starting to sprout. So much life. And potential. And hope. Outside. Wish I'd told Mum "Beware the Ides Of March", when she stepped out to the corner shop to get candles for her own cake - she baked herself. The leaves rustle the trees and I hear her voice: give more than you take, you'll leave this world a happier place. You've left a huge hole in my heart, Mum. A void I can't ever fill. Black void. The pocket of noiseless peace calls me back to Starlight Records. I realise Jessica Rabbit’s not been flicking through records, but patiently waiting for my slow answer. Her eyes fixed on the particles from dusty sleeves, dancing in a sunbeam - silently journeying with me in the vast cosmos of considerations. After clearing my throat, I tentatively answer. Green? She momentarily stands transfixed, deep in thought. Then turns swiftly.
"You'll like this then."
She leaps ahead to rack 7. Every record place seemingly committed to memory, and pulls out Kermit The Frog - "Rainbow Connection". I choke as I splutter: My mum used to sing that to me!
"And me."
She giggles. I mumble the lyrics. "One day we'll find it, the rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers..." - I falter. She finishes for me.
"And me."
She says it so softly, it's almost imperceptible. Then locks eyes with me for the first time, for an inordinately long time. I'm a rabbit in headlights. And dissolve in her multi-coloured orbs. Green, or blue, or hazel, or grey – depends which way the sunlight refracts through the shop front - in a confusing and enticing myriad of ways. I utter my first instinctive non-premeditated question. Are you always so unbelievable?
"Why, sometimes I believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast!"
She laughs. Confident in my knowing, recognition and understanding. There's no rhyme nor reason to this response. It seems utterly daft - but it's absolutely delicious and feels gorgeous. And sounds like a perfect answer. She's the most colourful character I've met in a while. A long, long while. I can't help myself. Do you know how extraordinary you are?
"Yup."
She smiles and goes back to record flicking. Nods an affirmative.
"Extra. Ordinary."
GIGI STREHLER
IS
"THE ORATIST ARTIST"
CREATIVE WRITING
SERVICES OFFERED:
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At first I found creative writing quite difficult, learning literary devices such as personification and pathetic fallacy was new to me and I couldn't comprehend it! It made me feel uncertain of myself and believe that I was not good enough to write a fantastic story. Then Gigi came into my life and helped me with those few quirks. I soon began to understand the concepts of writing and Gigi inspired me to keep on persevering!
Timilehin - Creative Writing Student