ECHO 30/12/05

Between branches, close interstices, the ribcages are as fine as filigree – delicate, yet insurmountable, capable after all of defying gravity, carrying the weight in flight, angelic in there amid those budding winter branches – eyes black, opalescent, staring back – do they recognize me for what I am?
The proud red breast of a Robin in stasis there, some other bodily momentum that I can only ever guess at – singularity of purpose – whilst the parliament and alarms gather;
flight bears a deity, the primary coverts bear the wind, the scapulars bear promise, the tail the past, and so on –
I am merely spinning clumsy hands on metal, through alien water, waiting for some clarity again or else another chance opportunity tomorrow, who knows –
but gazing there into that bush, that spindly chapel of activity is like being allowed out of this time or plane and into another one of ultimate calm, a great sphere, the giant breath as these creatures come near, singing, exhaling, upright there on the tips of the branches, their chests pushed out toward the rain, sweet and good oxygen passes across where no human can distract me or play out their jealousies -

ECHO 28/12/05

The panto – working in a strange mind-set now, a corrupted space where my creativity is being held somewhat in check. Why? The actor playing the other ‘high comic’ role (the Jester) has taken to appropriate any gag or small routine I improvise or come up with – examples:
- my comic character turn when we are told the evil witch may be behind us but isn’t, he now apes that;
- my ‘premature’ gag in the slosh scene when our stooge may start to dribble too early the slosh from his giant syringe;
- the ‘let’s moo-ve’ gag given to me by one of the stage hands and taken off me after the first time I delivered it and now appropriated by himself and set in as part if his routine;
- the now infamous ‘bench’ line that he decided would be his in rehearsal despite it being in my script which has never made sense to anyone as to why he says it as well as me;
my silly bouncing and lolloping walk when I am spooked by a ghost in the evil witches lair;
all this places me in a position of not putting anything new out for fear that it will be taken the next time by him and I then have to think of something more to put in – why this need to steal? Where is the actors sensitivity and own playfulness (which actually he does have because I have seen it and he can be very funny without assistance from me!). Is it a desperate need to look good at all times? Insecurity? Some say that imitation is the best form of flattery – I am not so sure, for it makes my life harder!

My Dame -
Roses Theatre

ORNITHOLOGICAL CHECKLIST

Bullfinch -1 Greenfinch – 6
Buzzard – 4 Kestrel – 4
Wagtail – 2 Great Tit – 3
Barn Owl – 1 Dunnock – 1
Robin – 5 Blue Tit - 6+
Blackbird – 8+

ECHO 25/12/05

Christmas Day

Late last night and into the early hours this morning Pol and me creep back to Bish through dense fog. We alone in the world, cocooned in our little old car, barely a soul passes us on the roads as we crawl through the Cotswolds from Faringdon – only the shadows and shapes of trees emerging and above the fog-line we see the stars in a clear sky. My eyes ache with concentration, and that strange fog-blind feeling where there is almost nothing to focus on in your vision yet motion throws up a curve in the road or a sign at the last moment.

8am – alone in the garden dressed in nothing but my thin cotton kaftan from India which I wear sometimes at night. Stillness, quiet, and the cold are a wonder to me in that moment. A stocking has been laid on the floor outside for me to find in the morning, full of little gifts and our tree has become abundant with decorations and presents beneath it waiting to be unwrapped. I realize I am so far away from the two sad Christmases I spent alone in London last year and the year before shuttered away with the noises of Brixton around me and the TV on for company, whilst the two neighbours upstairs belched and farted their way through the day. Standing in the garden I shiver and my eyes fill for the man I was and for anyone else in that position today, harbouring that solitude but putting on a brave face. For me today is comfort, warmth and sharing. Contentment and nature.

ECHO 24/12/05

Loving the garden here in Bishampton more and more. Putting seeds and nuts out and it rapidly grows alive, an energetic space. Blackbirds in teams, bobbing their heads on the lawn or the low walls, occasionally fighting with each other in brief bouts of possession; a pair of Magpies will parade and feed, their chests thrust proudly forward; Chaffinches flit down from the trees, grab what they can and depart whilst Robins wait patiently at the edge of the activity or peer out from the evergreens and spruce waiting for an opportune moment; Wood Pigeon and Collared Doves will venture down; and the Blue and Great Tits and Sparrows hang fire in the branches or take to the hanging feeders under the eaves, an occasional Starling joining their acrobatics. Finally, the bullying but eminently cute squirrels charge in, chasing the birds off as they devour the food and hide other morsels.

ECHO 22/12/05

What is a memory? What is a person’s memory when say they get to later life? What is it made up of? I think of my Father for example. There must be so many little memories in him playing for attention, crossing different continents and countries, different marriages and workplaces, bleeding into each other. Then so many grander ones, or leitmotifs, returning over and over to become the sum of him, some better left forgotten but not allowing themselves to be so, fighting back, immoveable, embarrassing perhaps, crushing others. So many details and frightening elements here, so many tantalizing snatches elsewhere only half recalled in a fog of other overlapping memories getting in the way, confounding the truth, the actuality, the way it was – almost desperate when they get like that, desperate because they are misrepresenting the life –
A black and white cat crossing a garden first thing in the morning –
The distant hammering of workmen knocking wood into shape, chopping elements to make a new house –
The first Barn Owl seen at night in the halo of a car’s headlamps, eyes like two infinite black pearls in a whiteness so pure as to be sacred, and then the tell-tale turn of the head almost 360 degrees to stare at you questioningly before departing with such a definite and exact taking up of space, the huge arching wings and ghostly tremor of itself away from it’s perch into the dark –
The first Christmas tree brought home, carried in arms, an oversized and generous offering with that novel sense of being grown up, of almost being a husband -

ECHO 21/12/05

Another Christmas card arrives for O. This one from an old school chum in Wakefield who has no idea O has passed away. He mentions how the town has changed – become ‘a Honky Tonk town with no decent pubs.’ He no longer sees any of ‘the old boys’ anymore and barely goes out now. His words are hopeful that O will respond; it is sad. Two entire lives, two histories and only one holder of the memories left – and for how long? Pol turns to me with tears in her eyes and promises that she will send a reply and let him know the news, this man we have never met.

ECHO 19/12/05

Dog tired we ache our way into work for the final performance of a seven-day stint back to back – voices are ragged, imitations – each muscle is worn of fat and the joints are throbbing – the challenge of 14 performances in 7 days has been met but not without damage: someone’s knee has gone, another’s back is pulled, my throat feels like ground glass is embedded in it – the director still wants new jokes, further routines to replace the already new ones we thought up only a few days ago – meanwhile, the kids pile in looking at it all for the first time and out we go playing it for all we can, giving them what they want. Surreal.

ECHO 18/12/05

8am Sunday – moon one half loads silver – temperature below zero – Fieldfare first – the sun just threatening behind Badger’s Hill – Starlings gather in a naked tree, silhouetted against the grey – crows and rooks call but all else is silence – walking on with face numb and fingertips itchy with cold, through Fields Farm where the Wagtails chatter and flit over frozen churned mud - and rising the small crest beyond – looking back over the way I came and the view is clear through to the Malverns where the houses shine in the low sun, tin y orange markers above the irregular mist line – the sheep are in the light and other landmarks now begin to glow in the dawn: church spires, copses etc. Voices heard but no-one seen, a grandmother encouraging a child to get a move on – across the country lane and on into the golf course where the V-sweatered men are gathering for their little challenges and business deals without wives and they gaze upon me like I am some alien as I hike on through in my greens, my cap pulled on tight and eyes scanning – beyond this the land rises sharply up onto the hill and turning into the filed at the top, beside the dense woodland, three Buzzards scatter lazily from roost, close, from my disturbance – each takes a compass point and soars upon it –

TRACK OF THE WEEK

Free Money (Live version - RFH 2005) - by Patti Smith, from 30th Anniversary edition of 'Horses' - it was amazing in the flesh (I was there) but recorded it ranks as better than the original - no mean feat but, hey, she is the one and only rock goddess.

ECHO 16/12/05

Caravaggio – Merissi - escaping from the prison ‘guva’ in castle Sant’ Angelo on Malta, stronghold of the Knights of St John. The ‘guva’ being a cell virtually impossible to escape from, or so it was believed, until Merissi did just that – he must have had assistance, but from who? It is not even known for definite why he was imprisoned having been popular enough with the knights to be ordained one himself. No record of his ‘crime’ exists so the assumption is made that it was of a sexual nature.

ORNITHOLOGICAL CHECKLIST

Fieldfare – 5+ Pied Wagtail – 2
Lapwing – 3 Canada Goose – 20+
Chaffinch – 4 Buzzard – 3
Bullfinch – 6 Redwing – 11+
Dunnock – 2 Barn Owl - 1

ECHO 11/12/05

Bristol – cold nighttime air burning into us as we work our way out of a dark place and into one where time is held amid the rusty iron railings and balcony decorations – the resident wino stands outside the hotel with a cloth cap and earphones playing some ‘80s pop – two beautiful skinful slivers together in bed side by side (newlyweds?) as the sun rises on a crisp, clear winters day – the residents move about eyeing each other in the breakfast room, the hubbub of self-service and steamy cups of tea and coffee: two young Spanish students look bewildered, a middle aged man and wife with their twenty-something son who is planning/organizing the day for them all (a visit here, a tea there, another visit over there etc etc) – a city mix of disparate folk which we had all but forgotten – I watch a silent couple in the corner who refuse to look at each other across the table and I wonder: what if when he gets up to make his toast round the corner at the counter, she ups and leaves without a word? What if it happened to me? What would I think? What would I believe had occurred? A kidnapping or abduction? A desertion? Or else a delusion so perfect that I had actually led myself to believe a relationship had existed up to that point when in fact all the time I had been alone – an adult version of an imaginary friend? Sanity at a standstill! Then the seeking for clues, running through the corridors of the hotels asking the chambermaids, the porters, the receptionists all of whom shake their heads pitifully at you and show you ledgers signed by a single person.

Clifden Suspension Bridge

Clifden Suspension Bridge

ECHO 10/12/05

ARGUMENT WAITING TO HAPPEN

coffee lining mouth double, face like Patti’s on the H Street - ageing skinhead fifty plus

Harrington, DMs and the rest purchases spruce for xmas tattoo and march -

the white van drivers screech at OAPs counting each potential heart attack as 50 points

and bored with each other and each other’s wives wait

for an argument about to happen

COLLECTED WALKS

It doesn’t depend on what is given here

With the muddy acre stuck to my boots

And the persistence of duty still waiting

- awkward focus on the 8x10’s

toward twelve magpies whittering

between farce and abrupt departure –

It depends on what I left two hours ago

A secret behind frost tipped curtains

Waiting to become part of the map

To be measured and preserved against the legend.

I thought I was moving north-west toward T.

Where the CIA ditched a secret plane some years ago

And where the corpses of cattle are buried

After epidemic F and M;

the earth still full of marrow and milk.

But I was simply moving west and it threw me

Beyond the village and onto a promontory

Where men were lining up and putting on helmets

And digging into white froth from the remains.

In the folds there is a secret, not a treasure

– gold, silver etc – more the way

the earth formed in this ten mile radius.

It smells sweet of tea or honey between the folds.

This is a surprise, following compass points

between hawthorn and holly.

I weep, staying too long, the tears blot the map

causing dyes to bloom: purple

fading to rusty brown or apple green

- there is a decision to be made, as in any journey,

something practical to be done, achieved,

to be afraid of then to overcome –

A stagnant pond can be crossed via the northern bank,

A patient heron called upon at dusk

To be reliant or combative –

The hedgerows alive for last breath before nightfall,

Conclusions of glory –

Yesterday sings itself along,

becomes marks on the chest of a man.

ECHO 7/12/05

Jumble house on Tewke’s high street – some Victorian treasure trove or secret place behind the wooden door, walking off the street into realm of higgledy-piggledy artifacts and antiques, bric-a-brac from all ages: enthralling, magical – glass and mirrors placed amid giant dressers standing eight foot high, or peeling chests of drawers with their ripe marquetry alive with the shades of early winter there with leaves that have fallen from overhanging trees and remain vibrant yellow/brown/red; Edwardian chemist signs placed on their foot end and rising with huge gold letters up toward the roof, a Hollywood film poster thrown in for good measure; a huge enamel bath-tub big enough to fit a small whale in directs you up toward the side door where crocodiles have been painted on the wooden floorboards; and beyond this the walled garden is like a discovery full of small arboreta, broken glasshouses and odd silver owls placed among the windfall apples.

ECHO 6/12/05

New species of cat-like creature discovered in the Indonesian rain forest, never before seen by local population or recorded by scientists – Indonesian government is already planning to turn the rain forest into palm oil plantation and eradicate the habitat.

4 runs into panto – day begins like this: wake before dawn or perhaps with it just there where the trees part east and the clouds have broken low over the horizon; a thin sliver of pale silver is just there beyond the tree-line – leaving still either in the rain or else the pale winter sun with the Malverns not far west and either snow-capped or clipped by sun-up orange – into the theatre by 8.30am – the light bulbs are still warm around the mirrors in dressing room number 3 and there are the 5 headpieces and wigs (out of 6) that I regularly wear to be the Dame lined up in various states of repair from previous performance – straight into the application of the ‘face’: foundation, powder, green eye-shadow applied liberally and in a large pear shape about each eye, false eye-lashes on next, and then I draw fake eye-brows and lashes beneath the eye to give the camp expression of surprise and mockery, finally the cheeks are rouges into clownish red circles and the heart-shape ‘kiss’ is applied to the center of the lips – from then on we are into the performances (2 per day) and the first of my 7 costume changes – 40 minute turnaround between the two shows – the kids pile in and scream the place down – at the end of the day everything is wiped down, my ‘face’ is removed, the sweat dries on the body, make-up messed and smeared, and back to neutrality beneath waiting to pick ‘her’ up again tomorrow, to play havoc again and cause mini-riots in rows A to E and back.

ECHO 5/12/05

The Tewkesbury Battle Trail – ends up being an inconsequential hour tramping through bits of grey mud out onto car parks and housing estates where numerous burnt sofas have been left out to rot – their foam padding now like molten lava -

ORNITHOLOGICAL CHECKLIST

Cormorant – 1 Pied Wagtail – 3
Kestrel – 4 Blackbird – 20+
Heron – 2 Chaffinch – 3
Great Tit – 4 Song Thrush – 1
Green Woodpecker – 2 Wren – 1
Blue Tit – 5 Collared Dove – 6
Fieldfare - 1

ECHO 4/12/05

Away along the Jubilee Walk again out into the countryside this time heading westward, close on 7.30am and somewhere carols are being practiced unsteadily on a recorder loud enough to be heard coming through the trees, makes it a magical first half mile.

ECHO 1/12/05

Tech rehearsal – mountain to climb in terms of costume and stamina – unreal, a monumental challenge and by the end of the day I feel exhausted and worried that I may not be up to it. Timing getting short away by weight of costumes or else their impractical design, at one stage I can barely see through a wig and yet have to get through slapstick routine – underneath though there is still the little imp waiting to get out. Then at close of the tech, feeling ragged and concerned someone spots a butterfly (see entry 30/11/05) on my ‘slosh’ costume in the dressing room – a perfectly preserved Red Admiral from out of nowhere, certainly it wasn’t there throughout the day as the costume had been moved three times beforehand! Myself, Mark (playing Josh the Jester) and the costumer Clare look at each other amazed. I get goose bumps, weird chills and a sense of overwhelming humility. It would seem we have been blessed.