Weeks of deliberation, weeks of thought, weeks of experiment. Only, perhaps, in the latter days did we (?) succeed. After all the talk, the constant talk, became quite irrelevant in practice. But then I thought that would be the only way with a piece like BLISS. For all the supposition of others, at the end of the day you look after your own work and get on with it; as opposed to watching someone else’s, waiting for them to fall or make an unforced choice. Whilst all the time hiding one’s own insecurity. I come to discover that those who make the most noise in the rehearsal room are the one’s you’ve got to watch on stage. Usually they’ll be looking no further than their own reputation and how they look on the night. Forget the story –

Burnt material on a metal fence –

Trying to control the process too much mean inevitably it will run away from you, evade you as it feels hounded – you can never take the process of playmaking so seriously, otherwise it becomes meaningless. If that seems like a dichotomy, well the whole point surely is play and surprise.

- - - - - -

Crossbarrow; grey waters; tree line bending in the century old onslaught of the wind –

Gentle, rhythmic whistling never falters, the drier sound of the turbine beneath, facing west –

OLDSIDE – muscle shells, cuttlefish pouches in the kelp, a lone curlew’s call, the detritus of fireworks launched – the individual speeds of each turbine tells them apart; some slow, almost giving up; others fast, characterised by pace – and the palpable sense of bleakness, of death even – dark, jagged stones erupting form the Solway, damaged concrete breakwaters like bomb damaged parts, reddish dust and twisted metal – resonance at the core, surrounded by the turbines, an embracing noise – a small group of horses nearby watching the dim orange tethers and the odd grey light late afternoon away toward Galloway -

Alone across the undulating cliffs, a postman toking on a large, fat cigar doing his round, leaving thin, blue clouds behind him –

Workington – October 2006

Workington - October 2006

Oldside, Workington - October 06

- late night skateboard rumble round street corner (E-street choir?); in fact it goes by the name Endless Street (true) – and round they come the three long-haired cruisers come charged low to the ground in tight arc before heading off into the city centre where the squaddies are lining up for a bashing;
- the bright studded patent shoes of an ageing rocker down by the river where the swans gather watching him waiting for either bread or a song, not sure which – his hair dyed blacker than the night and maintaining a similar shine;
- in the graveyard a discarded umbrella, presumably to keep the dead dry?

Glitz by Elmore Leonard (pub. Phoenix)
The Forever War by Joe Haldeman (pub. Gollancz)
Of Mice & Men by John Steinbeck (pub. Penguin)
Survivor by Chuck Palahniuk (pub.
Running Dog by Don DeLillo (pub. Picador)
Destination Morgue by James Ellroy (pub. Arrow)

STATES AT SEA

The house is peculiar – a cross-breed of faded Edwardian wealth and sorrowful 21st century damnation – artefacts everywhere collecting dust or mildew – counting losses and sorrow in there and some quality of darkness – medicinal remedies from years gone by in glass fronted cabinets in the bathroom, white packaging turned yellow and waxy; products no longer available over the counter for fear of side-effects perhaps – the sense of living in a museum, the whole weight of that –

And in the day, accompanied by two large porcelain dolls arranged in one corner as if alive in mid-conversation, my landlady sits (otherwise alone) in her dressing gown at the dining table – her grey hair is uncombed yet she still has the dry dust of make up on; and there is a half-eaten bowl of cereal in front of her - she says she is so unhappy today, so much so she has had to take an Equanol with her coffee to make her feel steady – she is distraught that her recent application to build a conservatory cum artist studio has been turned down by the local council – but further she claims her sorrow is manic depression – repeating the phrase three or for times so I don’t forget it – though in fact I doubt it is anything near mania and closer to simple sorrow and the blues (she is a widow and I’m guessing of no more than a couple of years) –

Did one of the dolls move? Watching me? Trying to catch me out or see inside my soul, listening to my thoughts? It’s hard to tell in the daytime half-light, with the curtains semi-drawn and the radio babbling away in the kitchen –

I am no longer sure what year I’m in here –

There is something predatory in her eyes, not sexually so, something desiring of youth, another chance – it is a cloying thing, an atmosphere of suffocation and lost time – yet she talks opposing that, of hope and of being ‘a good artist; I’m a damn good artist’ - she repeats this phrase also, as if telling me is evidence enough to the world (perhaps it is) – I don’t disbelieve her (though her work is hidden away so I've not seen it), I dare not for fear those two homunculi or avatars in the corner will throttle me in my bed at night, clambering up the stairs in some slow, tortuous movement, their tiny joints creaking with age and dust, their dry lips parting in an odd attempt to talk yet nothing coming out, the squeak of the hinge there and that's all –

She continues: ‘I’m sway to the fortunes of modern life and it makes me so angry; I keep a good ship after all, don’t I? A good ship. You’re comfortable aren’t you? I scrub the decks, keep the thing afloat.’

I answer in the affirmative and she makes a brief smile; I say ‘makes’ because it is not an easy thing for her to do, more an affectation –

She begins to moan about the neighbours being in cahoots with the council because ‘he was once on the local planning team’ so ‘he’ can use his knowledge against her – she believes it to be a typical pattern, a sign of prejudice against a widow and her lodgers – I’m not quite sure how I’m involved (or the other lodger currently staying) as I only arrived two days ago, but somehow I’ve been appropriated – become part of her imaginary ‘crew’ – she goes on to arraign retired wealthy generals and their wives, how they are everywhere in this town and it makes her sick, sick, sick –

She’s probably right on that count, I don’t know -

I realise the room smells of something bitter, like almonds or a spice of some kind but I can’t tell what the source is so I have to assume it’s coming from her, some essence of rancour oozing from her pores, poor thing -

She waves her hand in the air –

‘Anyway’ she says and lets out a long sigh, turning away to look at her bowl of cereal, ‘you must get on.’ Oddly that sounds like an order – and that’s it – she says no more; presumably the drugs have kicked in and are steadying her –


Salisbury

It goes something like this (though don’t quote me):

- you can pocket glitz but you can’t keep it;
- Brighton rocks but be careful of the switchblade;
- three misty mornings in a row and luckily things have become clearer - go figure;
- a 3 legged cat is as good an omen as any (if not better);
- shame that the boys round here have to draw pudenda’s in chalk on the tarmac by the riverside, slandering mothers and daughters alike before charging off on a handbrake turn;
- I am glad the Hampshire malcontents are well behind me, all those blood pools on a Saturday morning in the High Street, shattered glass and teeth in there, too much for eyes and history;
- the bag lady was a quiet saint, carrying her books in a shopping trolley through cathedral grounds – she asked me to christen her Ruth, so I did.

Salisbury