Would in thy palm dissolve…

Conditionality
Provoked by yet another hospital visit — this one more promising than most… — and therefore composed over a watchful, thoughtful night.

…but be sure
I will from henceforth rather be myself,
Mighty and to be fear’d, than my condition,
Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down…
— Shakespeare: Henry IV, Part I

Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth,
Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,
But that our soft conditions, and our hearts,
Should well agree with our external parts?
— Shakespeare: The Taming of the Shrew

smooth is a soft word; soft is not — it speaks
of a lover’s leaving: the latch that drops,
catches and calls; a lapse of the caution
that pulled the stillness of the prior world closed

closed is not ever close — bodies touching
may hold unknowable souls, or stories
consciously untold; can cling to silence
fashioned from flints of fear, pointed with pain

pain is anything and everything we
wish it were not — the short sharpness of a
cat’s playful claw; the ceaseless cremation —
deep within its eye — of stars undying

undying is not living, nor is it
the phoenix’ echoed resurrection — mere
hope-filled fancy for a latch that never
lifts nor falls; for a blade pared soft and smooth

Listen to the waves against the rocks…

It was the top of page 212 that unlocked the floodgates I had been blinking back all day:

For people who are in continual pain, the relationship with bodily risk is different. Pain is not a healthful by-product of healthy exertion or impressive effort: it is a constant companion. You want to limit your time with pain, not encourage it.
    For people who live with fatigue, the relationship with effort is different. Exhaustion is not a healthful by-product of healthy exertion or impressive effort: it is a constant companion. You want to preserve yourself from fatigue, not encourage it.
— Polly Atkin: Some of Us Just Fall

Anyone — and it probably is a one (so thank you, dear reader!) — who has followed this blog over the last eleven years or so (even when it has vanished into the haze of forgetfulness, or weirdly veered down the path less travelled by) will understand my cathartic tears: disability, along with (for me) its constituents pain, fatigue (sans sleep), and an overwhelming desire to walk (when I shouldn’t), are the chief characters found amongst the subplots cunningly pushed through these pages, as they are throughout my life. Since three other motorists did their best to render me immobile (or worse), and (much later) my heart suddenly stopped (ostensibly because of a drug I was taking to alleviate one of the main aspects of the disability caused by those earlier collisions, but actually caused by a congenital genetic mutation), disability and illness have become intertwined both in my life and in my mind (although possibly in different ways). They have also become my necessary guides (although possibly not always in a good way).

Let slip the dog afar…

I posted the following on Instagram late last night:

Any human being that can write such a sentence as that below – especially in the context it bookends… – is a saint: of emotion; of love; of wordsmithery; of so many things that are so vitally important to me. And yet it is just one of thousands that move in the same way: a quality of writing so rarely encountered; a quality of life, a quality of love… ditto.

“I walked for hours in the forest that night though I don’t remember the trees.”

Thank you @paulbesleywrite for the read of the year; maybe even the decade. Still got some way to go (after over a hundred pages, tonight); but feel that I am on the journey with you.

It was yet another sentence in his book, The Search, yet another situation, yet another way of defusing a tightly-packed grenade of emotion carefully, thoughtfully, differently, vividly, and never over-statedly, never explosively. Even the sharpest, toughest, most brutal events are gently smuggled into your brain, and only then do they suddenly evolve from pocket-sized Rembrandt etchings seen in near darkness to the most audacious, brightly-lit, multi-hued Jackson Pollock and Van Gogh canvases.

Farewell, my Little Man…

And so succeeded.
For Felix, with immense gratitude and love…
– we shall not look upon your like again.

Like Jesus, he came down to Earth
for just a few years, and just a few days:
his message unique – delivered in mirth –
that all you need is fluff. Oh! Let us praise

the wonder that was sent to us here:
a cat full of sympathy, caring, and fun;
a creature packed so full of love there was no fear:
just a healthy appetite for life and joy, for air and sun.

He shared his heart, though, far too intensely:
his lives thus counting down as each year passed.
He hid the hurt, of course, that burned immensely,
deep inside; the joy he brought unto the last

so very much more than anyone could ever bring again.
Like Jesus, he came down to us to take away our pain.

And pay no worship to the garish sun…

before the dawn
with thanks… to Barbara Aves (13 March 1936 to 21 December 2020)

the daws drive dark before the dawn;
gather for the final roost
     before the sun has chance to rise… –
no light today; just shadow… –
     mere shadow without end;
     sad margins robbed of symmetry.

     the daws I see
          from nowhere –
          out of nowhere –
               rise:
          solemn airs
               gnarled within the gloom;
          carefree graces
               wrenched without the light.

     so many vanquished stars;
     so many stolen nightfalls;
          from nowhere –
          out of nowhere –
     the clouds I see
          astray, mislaid;
          minor keys unturned.

the silences, eclipses,
the nothings and the nowheres,
the shadows we are made of,
the dark we are afraid of… –
     all shaped the same
     but never visible… –
     as
the daws drive dark before the final dawn.

A long December…

It may be down to the fact that I’m listening to – no: immersed in – Counting Crows a lot, at the moment (a very extended moment that has been absorbing me for many, many days): but there seems to be a preternaturally large number of black birds flecking, piercing, spiralling, twisting and weaving the air, at the moment. (That phrase again.)

Unfinished sympathy…

Seven tsunamis of grief
In memory of Marie Ward: 21 September 1930 to 30 March 2021

The land is dry
And yet the waves come
Silenced as sun
And high as pain
Soundless to hide
Their beginning

The land is clear
And yet the waves come
Unmade as breath
And torn as faith
Formless to hide
Their fashioning

The land is deep
And yet the waves come
Ever as air
And light as flame
Weightless to hide
Their strengthening

The land is hard
And yet the waves come
Stoppered as wind
And brave as tree
Placeless to hide
Their happening

The land is high
And yet the waves come
Darkened as moon
And bright as night
Guiltless to hide
Their mastering

The land is walled
And yet the waves come
Driven as time
And forced as rain
Ceaseless to fault
Their bettering

The land is dust
And yet the waves come
Ravished as death
And barbed as life
Hopeless to hide
Their ending

I find myself again with my dear old friend, William Shakespeare…

I never thought to hear you speak again.
– Shakespeare: Henry IV, part II (IV.v.90)

I was walking back into the arms of a lifelong friend – sadly, one not seen for quite some time. Hence the ferocity, sincerity, and length of the resulting hug. I wasn’t quite sure why I was there, though, to be honest. Although I had enjoyed the plays I had (relatively) recently seen him perform in – Henry IV, part I, Henry IV, part II, and Death of a Salesman – I was not a major fan of Antony Sher; and his presence on stage is therefore usually not enough to pull me in.

This is not why I had avoided his King Lear, though: that was because Michael Pennington’s incredible inhabitation of the role had ‘spoiled’ the play for me: in much the same way as Pippa Nixon’s perfection (in 2013, goodness me!) had ‘ruined’ the RSC’s current production of As You Like It. Which is one reason why a short run of a new two-hander was the occasion for my re-entry into the RSC’s hallowed headquarters – particularly to be enfolded in the arms of my favourite theatre, the Swan – rather than one of Will’s very, very best, in the main auditorium.

With being away from the place for so long, physically and mentally – I had bought too many tickets in the interim, only to cancel them again and again at the last moment because of my health… – I wasn’t aware that Kunene and the King (directed by Janice Honeyman) even existed. However, Michael Billington’s perspicacious review lit a spark deep inside me. Although it would take a while for the kindling to fully ignite.

He knew how to keep Christmas well…

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn’t ate it all at last! Yet everyone had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits, in particular, were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows!
– Charles Dickens: A Christmas Carol

Three months ago, I wrote about my inchoate struggle with food allergies. And then went perfunctorily wheesht… – especially concerning the related battles I ended up fighting as my former fine fettle fell away….

And the courage never to submit or yield…

The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell
Pain, it appears, has no appointed programme; nor consequent sleep any scheduled assignation. Alive (afterwards) to the fact that I had spent too much of my day in writing – itself a diversion from the devouring distress of a deepening migraine, gnawing at my left eyeball like some resolute rodent after rotting fruit – it was, however, the subsequent clumsiness – born of fading concentration; my proprioception misty and maladroit (even at the best of times) – that was the crucial moment’s mainspring: an instant unwinding, a lightning strike cascading through my stricken, confounded limbs; rapidly unfurling its coercion, before reconvening all its clout, condensed, at the accustomed spot, speck… the spike where my circuits were sabotaged so very long ago.

What hath night to do with sleep?
No manner of oscitant opioid, lethargic anxiolytic, or torpid tricyclic would rid me of my wretchedness and wakefulness: an expected early night failing fast; successive struggles satisfying me that the only remedy – however short-lived – should be yet more distraction: my boots, recuperating by the front door, cajoling me, inveigling exercise and exploration; demanding to get back on my feet.

Windmill Hill revelation…

The village yet damped-down beneath the oil of night; the only report, the high-pitched, mock-bark fracas of fox-cub. In the nucleus of nautical dawn, all is grey: green-grey grass; mauve-grey cloud; brown-grey stone; black-grey horizon – the world the colour of mallard, wood-pigeon, blackbird, and rook.

Leaving the Shipston road, the burble of an old valve radio being spun between stations grows with the wheat. My footsteps and stick-falls are silent, here: but still that splashing of song sooner turns trickle; soon turns stream; turns river; turns waterfall – drenching me in an incessancy of resonant comfort; drowned merry in a sea of skylarks. To my right, a crisp rustle of stalk. Then muffle of noiselessness. Only as I move on, the blades once more immobile, threat dissipated or dissolved, does the torrent of Matins restart.

The soul that sees beauty…

Sunday
There is a hierarchy, it seems, to Tysoe’s with-sun-rising birds. As the first sodium-bright slash of dawn slices the horizon, the barn owl – its wings the shade of the night-mourning sky it haunts – yet circles the windmill: peeved, perhaps, that my presence has quiesced the small creatures in the verges, trembling umbellifers, ruffling daisies. The hedges here serenade me with the river-runs of goldfinch; the gossip of sparrows; the bossy robin; the caution of blackbirds. The crops, a sea of skylarks: effervescent; ubiquitous. But none yet leave their roosts. It is the raptors which rise pre-eminently on the cool air: a lone buzzard, one lazy, subtle flap of its wings propelling it yet higher. A glint-eyed kestrel shearing across my path; grasping the dead branch of a wayside oak from which to study me. There is nothing here to interest such a hunter; but yet he waits until I have passed before busy wings pull him beyond my sight.

A male pheasant, paranoid, dull-witted, staggers away from me: its drunken pose and anguished cacophonies aimed at naught; only rendering it more manifest. Thirty paces I tail this manic meandering, before remembrance of cover emerges between those frenzied eyes.

Is this now My Hill…?

As far as I am concerned, the only thing that can be achieved, when both my mind and body are suffused with deep, thick, viscous torment (echoed by repeated, random interference in both ears: stereophonic sussurations of spite…) – as I have stated so many times before – is walking. Apart from summoning lurking asthma, I know there is little worse I can subject my aching frame to. Plus, of course, my depression will ease, the further my journey. And on a morning like this – clear skies and concomitant summer balm; goldfinch twinkling in the hedges; chaffinch in the fletching oaks; buzzard and skylark floating above; sheep lazily grazing (heavy in their winter coats); and cattle uniformly resting in the shallow corrugations of ancient fields – what else am I to do? It is too generous a day to be shackled by sheets and shocking stair-rods of pain.

The first mile is hard: as if battling through stacked mattresses. But, reaching the sown fields, resistance fades, and my limbs begin to move with supernatural ease. Through my second gate, the path flowing beneath me, last week’s fresh cowpats have been grilled by the new heat, drilled by flies; but fudged treachery lies beneath the further stampede of hoof-prints, incised as the cattle migrated to new pasture. Despite the surface-split soil, moisture lurks. I wonder for how long.

Anything different is good…

Introduction
I didn’t know it was National Time to Talk Day until the closing moments of my assessment in Warwick Hospital’s Clinical Health Psychology department – but it seemed such a neat coincidence that my appointment (last Thursday) should have taken place on such a significant date that any doubts I had rapidly faded. By the way, it was Groundhog Day, also. However, I’m still struggling to find an apposite correlation with that….

I like to see a man of advancing years throwing caution to the wind. It’s inspiring in a way.

My hesitancy had concerned the publication of what follows. But, if we’re going “to get talking and break the silence around mental health problems”, as I had previously done, eleven months ago – and without any real qualms – then this is what it’s going to take. Not just wearing “my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at”. But allowing those who care to have a wee peek inside: and see that “I am not what I am”.

When; and the art of existential transience…

For a relatively short time, I sobbed my heart out. But then, being the undoubtedly strange creature that I am – and, yet residing on its periphery, probably reasonably representative of my species… – I do seem to devote rather a lot of effort – as well as lend a disproportionate amount of significance to – mayfly moments such as this. It is as if – recognizing (whilst simultaneously attempting to avoid discussion of) our brittle mortality – we treasure the ephemeral above all else; venerate the transitory beyond rational measure. We see, reflected in such twinklings, I suppose, the entropy that must always prevail (until the only thing remaining is entropy itself); and therefore lend them as much love as we can, until they crumble to the sand by which, when captured in entwined glass globes, we would once (long ago) have measured their brief incidence; before mourning their finiteness. As I did.

All we can do, really, faced with such, is remember. Or, at the very least try to – however imperfectly filtered through our emotions and subjectivity. Surely, otherwise, these junctures lose the import that produced them; and – for a paltry while – that sustained them (and us). And, should our memories – the golden threads which fabricate the texture of our lives; the microscopic building blocks of the richness of our realities: ones we hand down, inadvertently, along with our atoms… – be fortunate, then perhaps they will survive, beyond our crumpled existence, as poor proxies. Thus, many lifetimes hence, those that follow (should they choose) can discern their value, gasp at their truths (again) – rather than simply, reflexively marvel at their endurance, the longevity of the poor surrogates themselves.

¶

I cannot – even were I freakishly nominated as literary ambassador for all humankind – speak, speak to… others’ thoughts (unless similarly committed to posterity: stochastic samples of the privileged and able, perhaps; and, yet, I would hope, as contradictory and wide-ranging as those who selected me… but especially those who did not). All I know is that, pick any part of this blog, and – whether of a walk; a play; a concert; an encounter with the weather, or another soul… – the evidence before you would go a long way to demonstrating that my sole purpose here is in making inefficient attempts at tanning the hide of time, pickling the ineffable, pressing the fading petals of awe between my ever-mounting pages. No better than those proud, possessive Victorians displaying pinned moths by the caseload.

Yes, there are strong hints of their quick beauty; but, once slowed by my dull hand, am I in fact merely robbing the life, the mystery, the essential ‘beingness’ from that which I witnessed? Or should I continue to believe that – in pleasing (only) myself; and providing enough clues with my monochrome words to reconjure the original technicolour majesty, momentarily in (only) my head (should I dare to; care to…) – this is all I should be expected to be able to achieve?

Stumble upon the tens of thousands of still images, archived with a similar objective, and you might begin to suspect that, surreptitiously, I was either stashing them with the aim of posthumous fame; or, more likely, concerned that my raddled brain will increasingly require such prompts. (It would be nothing but vanity to imagine that they hold value to anyone but their creator… – words or pictures.)

¶

And yet I persevere. And always will. Both in cherishing and recording. I feel I have no other option. If I only aim to do so to distract myself, though, then I fail. If all I achieve is to say “I was here”: then, again, there is no purpose. If, however, I write to proclaim my bewilderment at miracles frequently flashing by me – and that I managed to grasp a few of them, momentarily – then perhaps I am on to something. It may not be my “responsibility”, as such. But if I convey just to one other person just one fraction of that I experienced – so that the miracle is extended in time and space – then, maybe, maybe, I have a little justification.

For a short time, I sobbed my heart out. Not, this time, because of what I had seen or heard. But, for the third time in the same number of weeks, because the anticipation of such would lie unfulfilled. Yes, I can watch the DVD of the RSC’s production when it is eventually released; and I can also – as I did, over and over, on Monday evening – listen to the mesmerizing CD of the same performers playing one of the most intimately radiant pieces of music ever composed – instead of hearing it live. But, of course – some of it being down to that adoration of the temporal; most of it due to the ‘happeningness’ I seem to spend half my life waving a tattered butterfly net at… – it’s not the same. (It’s not that the digital domain is sterile – the passions are still utterly crystalline… – just that presence overloads every single one of your senses.)

All those months of drooling expectation; the prolonged crescendo of excitement; the knowledge that something so utterly exhilarating lurks over the horizon… – all dashed. Perhaps it is the anticipation – rather than the event – which renders it so special?

I am convinced that it is a combination of both. I am also convinced that not being able to realize the three-dimensional possibility so readily accrued distresses at least as much as the actualization would have comforted… – and carries with it all the poignancy (if not the force, the tragedy) of a life cut short. At this moment, it certainly feels as momentous – however inordinate I know that to be.

¶

After all, it was just another point in time, a potentiality. And there have been many such that I have chosen simply to pass by. But I selected the ones that would eventually pass me by because they possessed something significant. They were fleeting, rare, coveted creatures that I will now never hold, even temporarily; therefore never stumblingly attempt to memorialize for others (and, in doing so, secure for myself). Scattered amongst the infinite possibilities of my life, they will haunt me: carving yet another notch into the wall of the cell that holds and punishes me (one that is, in my case, simply labelled ‘disability’) – one whose volume seems to decrease, almost imperceptibly (were it not for those sad markers), trapping me tighter with each vanquished wish…. (I could, though, treat them as ‘friendly’ ghosts: letting them help me rationalize, and gain proportion and balance. More straightforward to write than to execute, though…?)

¶

So, I wonder – having tapped single-fingered at my iPhone for the best part of two hours – why do we cherish the transient so greedily? And then why do we – some of us – try to describe it; or at least cement its effects into our emotions? Surely the experience alone should be enough?

And, of course, for most, it is. And yet… we still purchase the CDs; replay the concerts on iPlayer; peruse the reviews; watch the DVDs until we know each line of dialogue, weep and laugh in the same places…. But then, I wonder – an epiphany prompted by an insomniac stroll… – if, “for most”, this is actually what suffices, even excites… – if only a minority of us genuinely crave the imperfections, the risks, the exponentially unwinding possibilities of failure – the spills – that are, of course, driven to insignificance by the thrills. Do the majority actually relish the reproducibility, the repetition, the safeness…?

 

During the hours of darkness – especially two hours after midnight – the village is mine. And, usually, only mine. But it is never the same. And that is as much an enticement as is the pretence of dominion. But, I suspect, many people would find the rich, velvety void of blackness quite scary – never mind lying back on a damp church bench for an hour, surrounded by graves and the rustle of tiny critters.

Very early Tuesday morning, I left home under a trillion pin-pricks of flickering, bright, distant suns: constellations spelled out with clarity and precision; and – beyond the blinding sodium – interspersed with clumps of dust: each speckle an individual. Given long enough, head resting on the arm of one of those benches, the Milky Way also emerges.

As I dragged myself away from the treacle-tenebrosity of Sandpits Road, I saw a canine hind leg skulk around the corner into Main Street. Too large for a fox; and no place for a fox, neither… – there is enough for them in the verdant nature and nurture that surrounds us. But my eyes were temporarily blinded. However, intrigued, I followed: expecting a distant ginger lolloping blur. But, it seems, my depression had momentarily become flesh: for there, a few footsteps away, was a timid black labrador (a shy old friend): dark as the shadows itself. Head hung low, it stood stock-still as I headed for the church; but was gone – home, I hope – when I later returned.

Yet with it came – or so it felt – a change. (And it was then that I remembered that such is our species’ bête noire – not the unpredictable delight I personally revel in.) And when I lowered myself into my customary seat (I can be a creature of habit sometimes…) I realized that my perfect sky had been replaced with an encroaching, enclosing mustard-coloured blur – as if the condensation which had earlier veiled the cars was now obscuring all of Tysoe.

Like the pain that had curtailed my day’s enjoyment, it seemed unlikely to disperse: and so I slouched home, again disappointed. There was nothing new to be discovered tonight; and even the owls had been quieted by this descending, dank wool.

Buddhists believe that “It is only by accepting the truth of impermanence that we can be free.” And the Japanese even have a word for that “impermanence” – wabi‑sabi – although this may be interpreted in many different ways: authenticity; simplicity; naturalness; intimacy; especially an acceptance of imperfection, whether that be of one’s life, an object, or the art we surround ourselves with [pdf]. (It’s probably why I love contemporary jazz so much; or struggle to remember the rare mistakes in a classical performance when there are so many moments of bliss.)

And, so, perhaps I should not really have sobbed my heart out? At the time – so swiftly passed, if not yet forgotten – it felt justified: a cathartic reaction to a spiritual cruelty piled atop never-waning physical ones (which it could, of course, have eased – temporarily). I have learned, over the years, though, to absorb those corporeal pains – they have become part of my material concept of self. Perhaps it is time to start learning, though… – accepting that sometimes the excitement I crave has a necessary bleaker dimension… – how to assimilate the incorporeal ones, too…? Not all unpredictability leads to happiness – although some of it may lead to release.

Let’s think the unthinkable, let’s do the undoable. Let us prepare to grapple with the ineffable itself, and see if we may not eff it after all.

– Douglas Adams: Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency

Tomorrow will be dying…

Here I am, sitting at the garden table, wringing out the occasional, disconnected phrase – with the encouragement of a variegation of beautiful, purring, tiny hoverflies feasting on the pansies, whilst revelling in the scent of proximate herbs, honeysuckle and ivy; sheep bleating stochastically from the Edge Hills; the call of St Mary’s tower punctuating my stop-motion creativity; interrupted by the passing murmurations of neighbours, occasional squabble of sparrows, and annoyance of dogs… – trying to express the joys (and consequential griefs) of being wilfully, ill-fully alive in Tysoe, during an Indian Summer that could dent even my well-armoured atheism.

Yesterday, however, I was a coincident Superhuman. Although – demonstrating the unequivocal effect of medication on the body’s ability to transcend its own physical and mental limits – I must admit that a form of ‘cheating’ was at the root of this accomplishment. Inadvertently, it has to be said. But, yes, I would do it again – despite feeling, this morning, through hyper-overexertion, as if I had gone ten rounds (geddit) with a steamroller… – although it is unlikely such an opportunity will present itself for quite some time….

[The medicine in question has been prescribed to try and reduce the stratospheric levels of my neuropathic pain; and the impact – that is, the frequency and intensity – of my almost-constant cervicogenic headaches. (They’re not really ‘migraines’, in the usual sense: because they are provoked by the huge tangle of nerve damage in and around my cervical spine.) A temporary side-effect of this – which is why some people take huge, ever-increasing, risky overdoses recreationally – is a ‘buzz’, once you reach a certain, individual level. I, though, am at only half the (mammoth) maximum dose – which is where I will stay for the next few months – and have only noticed its energizing effects (initially just a gentle, almost inaudible hum) in the last fortnight: after nearly three months of titrating the quantity I take (because of its potential for ‘evil’). Last week – as I was about nine‑tenths of the way to my currently-prescribed limit – this then-new bombilation lasted a couple of days. But it seems that yesterday – and I’m therefore glad I gathered rosebuds while I could… – was it: my last chance at glory. (Well, until my GP and I decide – if we ever do; and depending on the drug’s efficacy – to head a little further towards its sensibly-imposed ceiling.) So I grasped that chance as if my life depended on it.]

Usually, as the regular reader of this blog will know – however ‘easy’ the average onlooker may think it appears – I struggle intensely to put one foot in front of another: because such an activity exacerbates the already high levels of pain I continually experience – and from the first step onwards. (And trust me, it gets exponentially worse with each succeeding one.) As that poor soul (either the reader or the onlooker) will also know: this doesn’t stop me – when other factors don’t intervene (such as those three-day ‘migraines’) – from battling onwards: always hoping that the reward of a good walk won’t be spoiled by the consequent agony and downtime. Sadly, of course, it always is. (If my abilities were magnified by a factor of ten, yesterday; then the consequences are of at least the same factor.)

Such innate (and well-exercised) stubbornness is probably, realistically, at the root of yesterday’s remarkable achievement – however much its effects were magnified. If I had not already possessed the willingness to push myself, then the drug would have had nothing to amplify. (I obviously cannot speak to the truth of this statement for athletes caught doping: but I think it is not difficult to extrapolate from my experience and draw your own conclusions.) However, it was nice to be reminded of what – many years ago – I could do every day, week in, week out, without harm or effort. And, therefore, for me, my decrepit, torturous state, today, was simply an immensely worthwhile exchange.

I had decided to scale, again, the west face of Spring Hill, via Centenary Way; and then split off, around Sugarswell Farm, to head for Brunchfast at Upton House. This I achieved – despite fighting the slithering mud above Old Lodge Farm (where the thrum of building work melded with the passing cars above and below) – and with time to spare. I therefore spent a happy half-hour sat on a stile above Blackwell Wood, jotting down some initial aide-mémoires about my climb.

Apart from the promising weather and the dispersing school traffic, there was little to mark of my traipse through the village. A couple of brief chats – about the chilly breeze, the forecast, the scudding clouds… – and then no sign of another being until I reached Sugarswell Lane: where the hedge was carefully being flailed. There weren’t even that many birds around until I reached the expansive field of linseed on the other side of the road.

A small portion of this had been recently harvested (the combine now silently parked on the far edge): leaving the soil coated with a muesli-mix of flakes and stalks; but the remaining crop hid small feastings of goldfinches (especially amongst the thirty-three-strides-separated tyre tracks): which I regularly disturbed, despite my best efforts, until they formed a large tinkling charm bobbing and circling above me. They only settled when I did – but what divided them into their separate resting-places, I cannot say.

The only other interlopers here were infrequent, tall, proud stalks of barley – glowing head and shoulders above the main crop – escapees from the margins: where a ready mixture of generously-furnished plants (the agricultural equivalent of those suspended peanuts in our front gardens) would soon go to seed as winter food for non-migrating flocks.

One moment, though, above all, had characterized my ascent. As I closed the gate behind me, before entering the treeline – which I think always looks like a well-organized gathering of broccoli, from the Stratford-upon-Avon road, especially when well-lit – I glanced backward. Or at least this was my intention. I must have stood there for at least fifteen minutes: focusing on various parts of our parish – the sunlit church tower the most obvious… – from the gold-green patchworked plain beyond, up to our idiosyncratic trinket of a windmill. All I could think was how magnificent this view is; how wonderful it is to live here; and how miraculous it was that previous generations had allowed the place to evolve – that glorious medley of stone and brick; of slate and tile – without damaging the heavenly spirit of our miraculous haven.

But then doubt seized me as hard as any physical pain: and I wondered if this majesty could last; if our children will be the last to see, to enjoy, Tysoe at its best. And, yes, reader – despite the temporary drug-induced ‘high’ – I shed a tear or two: because – although I accept that each generation may think their time the ‘best’ – I see the prevalence of money (and its cousin greed) beginning to prevail again: dividing, destroying, dominating. I see equality dissolving; monopolies of wealth domineering and discriminating – …and with the power not just to rend the social paradise asunder, but the village’s physical existence, too. Not only that: but those who would fight such change are being quashed methodically and cruelly. What I saw was entropy made manifest… – and made by man.

Of course, I could thrill in the current material resplendence, and ignore the political shenanigans; roam these splendid pastures, blinkered to their travails, for as long as I am able. But I am not the sort of person who – intellectually – can stand idly by (even if my corporeal existence couldn’t remain upright for a minute or two without agony or vertigo instantly dragging it to bed; or to the floor). I am a natural-born resistance movement of one… – even if all I can do is pen the words that might, one way or another, motivate others to follow….

After a brief, breezy wander around Upton’s mirable orchard, gardens, and woodland, I set off to retrace my steps. Again, the linseed field was dotted with rising goldfinch; but, this time, the challenges of “the slithering mud” were accompanied by the mew of a buzzard, the calls and whistling flaps of pigeons, and the burbling annoyance of a discomposed robin. Emerging from the trees into a balmy atmosphere so unlike Upton’s crisp clarity… again, that view gave me pause; but I was – finally – beginning to wane, and decided just to enjoy the remainder of the walk ahead of me.

This time, as the path levelled out – parallel with the road between Lower and Middle Tysoe, where I had espied a lark earlier in the year – I was suddenly greeted by fifty or so house martins bobbing and weaving along, around and over the tall, untrimmed hedgerow – a rill running alongside it, the obvious attraction – gliding just above the freshly-ploughed field’s surface (as fine as any mole’s tilth), scooping the uplifted insects which had caused me to don my cap. Intermingled with a handful of red-bibbed and deep-fork-tailed, dark-blue-glistening swallows, they seemed unworried by my presence – parting to let me through, and then re-forming behind me – and delighted in their exercise. Sadly, though, of course, as the warmth of September fades, and summer dies away – nothing is permanent… – these birds will leave us; their nests already deserted until next year…. Farewell, summer.

I’m not just talking about books…

Before I say goodbye to – and (attempt to) let go of – the RSC’s sensational Making Mischief festival (all the photographs of which are by Richard Lakos), there are a few things I need to get off my chest. But first – and I should probably give them their own page: so that I can continually refine them, formalize them, and then link to them… rather than keep on reiterating them – a reminder of the Bardic Principles of Theatre and Art (for want of a better moniker):

I appreciate that many simply go to the theatre to be entertained…. I don’t.

     I go to be challenged. I go to have my mind opened; my heart broken; my soul riven. I go to be educated. I go to weep; to grow – emotionally and psychologically – to laugh; to discover my place in the world that is created in front of me, as well as its relevance to the troubling complexities that exist beyond its literal and figurative bounds. I go to be absorbed into that new interior world; to escape from the old exterior one. I go to be distracted from my constant pain with an injection of a different sort of masochistic agony. I go to retain my sanity. I go to witness and admire deities transform themselves beyond the ken of us mere mortals; to mark miracles. I go to be shocked; to have my opinions and beliefs confirmed, or challenged and transformed; to see and hear and feel things that I have never seen and heard and felt before. And may never see and hear and feel again. I go because it is incredible, unreal: but also because I know I will still believe. I go because I know that, each and every time, I will emerge transformed. In other words, I go to connect to everything I am not; to have my life enriched. I go because it is Art; because Art is humankind’s greatest invention; its saving grace; its redemption; and because it speaks to me so directly, as only Art can. I also go, because, to be blunt, it is so bloody awesome!

     And if I hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have experienced some of the greatest plays ever written, performed by some of the greatest actors ever born…. And my life would be so much poorer for that lack; and I would not know that, in the blackest depths of my despair, there could be – there was – salvation. So I will – I must – continue to go: to discover yet more reasons for going. And – of course – to be entertained…!

I would like to supplement this with some words (“yet more reasons for going”) shared yesterday – before the final shows of Always Orange and Fall of the Kingdom, Rise of the Foot Soldier – by Laura Howard (who is (wonderful) in both plays):

When we create or appreciate art, we set free the spirit trapped within. That is why art arouses such joy. Art – whether skilfully executed or not – is the emotion, the pleasure of expressing life as it is. Those who see art are moved by its passion and strength, its intensity and beauty. That is why it is impossible to separate life from art. Political and economic developments may seem to dominate the new, but culture and education are the forces that actually shape an age, since they transform the human heart.

– Daisaku Ikeda: Wisdom for Modern Life (27 August 2016)

I may not agree with everything stated here: especially the words “joy”, “pleasure” and “beauty” (I think their antonyms are equally valid; and perhaps crucial…). And I do not, for one moment, expect everyone who sees art to be moved by it (see above). But I do concur with the general proposition.

When I wrote my original “principles” – almost a manifesto – I was discussing “theatre as therapy”: because of my current war with depression and PTSD (which I am beginning to win, one tailgating truce at a time…). And I felt ‘safe’ in doing so: because I am undergoing formal treatment. However, it occurred to me on Wednesday, at my second viewing of Always Orange, that the play itself contains several ‘trauma triggers’ – although I accept that these are so specific that there will be very few people watching that might be affected by them. This is not to say, though, that those, such as myself, who suffer from PTSD with other origins – but who aren’t being treated – won’t be similarly disturbed.

This is from my original review:

I described Always Orange as “devastating… important and necessary theatre”…. Having written twice, recently… about “theatre as therapy”, this was probably the toughest (but most rewarding) of the three plays to sit through, for me: its depiction of post‑traumatic memory searingly (and, in my case, tear-jerkingly, shoulder-shudderingly) accurate – and perfectly portrayed by the mesmerizing Ifan Meredith, as Joe (“a British man”).

Having seen audience members turn a funny colour when Gloucester’s eyes are gouged out; yet laugh at the decapitation of Cloten – an act that would seem horribly contemporary… – it is obviously impossible to predict how people will react. I myself tittered at the warning sign outside King Lear, at the Royal Theatre in Northampton – “During this performance there will be: Smoke, Gun Shots, Smoking, Flashing Lights, Strobes, Loud Bangs” – because of the absence of any mention of the frequent violence, and the resultant copious amounts of blood that are spilled. And yet, if there is one Shakespeare play that I would not venture near, it is Titus Andronicus…! (But I say this, of course, having been forewarned by both reading the text, and by others’ experiences.)

Before you have a go at me for being over-sensitive – although this is surely a state we all want to be in, if we’re going to be moved to the max…? – I’m not demanding EastEnders‑type “If you have been affected by issues…” paragraphs printed in red ink on the front covers of programmes; nor for leaflets for the Samaritans to be handed out at every show. (I do know that this would be impractical. Mebbe.)

What I am asking – as an extension of considering the physically disabled, when designing access policies – is that we consider how the power of theatre affects individuals – especially those with mental health problems – in different ways: hoping that, firstly (and accepting that there is a suspension of disbelief for many), well-directed and -produced drama will, in most cases, be beneficial in some way. Secondly, though – where theatre deliberately sets out to provoke: as the four plays that made up Making Mischief so successfully did… – we (both creators and consumers) need to be prepared for those provocations to not only upset (which, surely, is one of the many duties of art: “I go to be challenged…”); but, occasionally, cross some sort of personal boundary. And we need to be ready to make allowances; deal with the consequences; and accept responsibility (not that there are – or should be – easy answers…).

The crux of this issue is probably hidden somewhere in the mix of how we are affected (where those “personal boundaries” lie; what experiences we bring with us; and our general sensitivities); the motivation behind the challenge itself (is this a wake-up call; are our beliefs being teased or taunted; or are we deliberately being insulted and/or offended…?); and the context (which is why relaxed performances are such a wonderful thing…). It is therefore a tricky balance to achieve: especially if one wants to (as one should) instigate change (via drama) – and especially when so many people are resistant to it; and only see and hear what they want to.

To my way of thinking: even with such considerations, there are risks that are worth taking – otherwise theatre (as a subset of art) becomes diluted and ineffectual. I would rather be shaken to my core (physically, mentally, emotionally – even in my current, relatively-fragile state), than bored: “I appreciate that many simply go to the theatre to be entertained…. I don’t.” And, yes, this can be achieved with texts that are centuries old: whether reinterpreted through the eyes of a contemporary director; or revised by the pen of a modern playwright. Otherwise, the works of Shakespeare, Marlowe and Jonson; Aeschylus, Sophocles and Aristophanes – although simply reading their words can be transformative – would have been tossed in the bin years ago.

Thanks to the wonderful access policies of the RSC (especially the saintly Jim Morris), I had a reserved seat front and centre for the last performance of Always Orange. I could blame it on the captions at the first viewing; or trying to see through tears at the second; but, this time, everything clicked: as if some sort of automated “aleatoric” jigsaw had finally completed itself in my head with a resounding – yet whispered – “Bang”. (Knowing I would not see it again, perhaps, additionally, my concentration was dialled up even further than normal?)

This is, I think, a ‘writerly’ play – Fraser Grace’s words are “of the highest quality and laser-guided precision (the prologue reads as poetry; yet the craft is invisible)” – almost certainly, if I had the talent, the kind I would like to author. But I wonder if this ‘precision writing’ is at the root of some people’s emotional disconnection with it…? (Ignoring the cardboard boxes – perhaps – and any other ‘Faustian’ parallels – there is a quality to the text that, for me, recalls Marlowe: especially the rapid “tragicomic” contrasts of tongue-in-cheek and transcendent; as well as the intrinsic lyricism and power.)

I admit that (as detailed above), Joe’s scrambled memory and resultant actions speak to, connect with, me with heart-piercing accuracy. I am Joe. The flying metal that shredded my mind (“I’m a mist now”); the paper cuts that flailed my skin; the thunderous collision of books and stage… all too close for comfort. But, if I am the only person (which I don’t for one moment believe…) that sees through and past the wordplay, the surface jokes, the thudding visual metaphors; who is then ‘spoken to’ loudly and clearly… – a bloody immersion in belief; rather than a dismissal of doubt – well, is that how you measure a play’s success (at least on the individual, micro level…)? Or maybe it is just one of those dramas – like Cymbeline, “actually a damnably good read” – that just works better on the page?

Just not for me. This was truth writ in blazing, large capital letters. It hurt like hell – especially when Joe bellowed “I don’t remember anything.” But there is always comfort in understanding: whether it is your own; or someone-else’s shared vantage point and sympathy.

There is a risk, of course, that, in also weeping all the way through Fall of the Kingdom, Rise of the Foot Soldier (and for the fourth time), I was only following the same well-trodden path of “middle-class tolerance” as represented by “good person” Hawkins. And yet my belief (my personal reading; taking all the above into account) is that everyone’s perspective (moulded by nature and nurture) carries some form of validity – even if we violently disagree with it. The problem lies in actually establishing equality… – of perspective; of achievement; of entitlement; of opportunity… – although my emphasis here (from the viewpoint of a middle-aged, working-class, well-educated deaf and disabled man, with ethnicity running through his extended family like a rich vein of gold) may be different from yours. “This is our England.” YMMV, as they say.

But that is where the potency of this play – as it is performed here – lies. The actors in the principal roles (apart from Ifan Meredith as Archie, I would guess) could all be seen to have sympathy (if not empathy) with those they represent. The actors playing the Chorus, definitely not. This dichotomy – “the deep wound of cultural tension cutting through modern England” – for me (“from the viewpoint”, etc.) fuels its impact: propelling the already powerful script – again laced with poetry – into the political stratosphere. However, for others watching, I can accept that they may only see their personal prejudices – whether similar or different to mine – reinforced.

In a nutshell… this is why we need art that forces us to question ourselves. (That’s why “I was glad, though, that I saw [Revolt. She Said. Revolt Again.] twice on the same day”.) If you’re not willing to face those inner demons (not necessarily face them down…), then just go and be “entertained”. That’s fine. But I worry that you’re missing something, missing out on something, in doing so….

Postscript…

I found a shred of paper – a shard from “the sea of glass” – trapped in my copy of the text of Always Orange. “I’m very collected. Thankyou.” But I wasn’t… – not for some time. “I remembered something, from before.”

Tin or aluminium; not titanium…

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

– Charles Dickens: A Tale of Two Cities

Yesterday (Wednesday) was a birthday of sorts… – not the anniversary of my coming into this world (that’s in a week or so – hint, hint); but of me being given my life back, thoughtfully and carefully, and by a very special human being indeed: who has, with his family, also had to endure some very tough challenges. But, for many reasons – although I am immensely and eternally grateful for that great man’s incredible skill and deep compassion; and have been so every single day for the last ten years – it was not an occasion I had been looking forward to.

The circumstances prompting such dejection include a deterioration of my physical health that those who know me will have seen or suspected. And those with a brain (and, yes, if you peruse the images on this page, you will notice that I also possess one…) will have quickly grasped this decline’s bitter, but inseparable, relationship with the struggle I am currently undergoing with my mental wellbeing. What no‑one could have known – because, despite my suspicions, I was only finally brave enough to put myself through my umpteenth MRI scan a few weeks ago… – is that both of these downturns stem from marked physiological changes all too similar to those I endured in the years before (and which prompted) the complex operation that, a decade ago, vastly improved my quality of being (and continues so to do).

As I said to my current neurologist:

Although the experience was actually quite painless – I was discharged thirty-six hours after admission in a much, much better state than I had entered the hospital: having [reclaimed] the use of my left arm and hand (which was now full of sensation again); regained some movement in my neck; and didn’t walk like a drunken penguin – it is the associated risks I do not like. Nor do I enjoy the thought of this having to be repeated over and over again.

[Technically – for those who may be interested in such things – the procedure was a dual-level anterior cervical discectomy and fusion at C5/6 and C6/7. In other words, I have a metal plate screwed into the front of three of my vertebrae: which holds my head on to my body. (Yes, this makes me Steve Austin! Yippee!) Most of the time, though, I forget all that scaffolding is there. However, without fail, every anniversary, my neck feels more bulky; somehow inflamed and heavy… – even though, of course, nothing has really changed; and the implanted alien structure is truly featherweight.]

All last week, we had an orphaned great tit – several times each day, regular as nature’s clockwork – try to enter the house through the same closed windows. It seemed so determined; and would cling to the frames, pecking at the panes, with all its might: not perturbed even when face-to-face with us scary, ginormous humans. It obviously knew the glass was there (although may well have imagined itself duelling with a mirror-image protagonist); and appeared to suffer no harm, physically, when constantly thwarted. It was also growing rapidly: quickly evolving from fluffy rotundity to sleek, smooth adulthood. I was therefore not overly-concerned for its wellbeing.

I sensed loneliness, though. Unlike the many young blackbirds, thrushes, finches, sparrows, dunnocks, robins and wrens who similarly perch on our back garden fence; cling to the feeders; or scrabble amongst the flowers, shrubs and vegetable patch for insects, worms and snails; this one’s long streams of repeated single tweets evoked no parental response; nor did it, to my knowledge, congregate with the many others of its kind – the flocks of further great, blue and coal tits that often visit (although which are now to be found feasting in the freshly-harvested fields… – hopefully now joined by my absent visitor).

I also perceived – probably because I was feeling it myself… – a great deal of frustration. I know I shouldn’t really anthropomorphize – although where would we be without the wonderful Watership Down and The Wind in the Willows…? – but I felt its pain; and now miss its recurring calls. It had become my daemon; and was, I suppose, a manifestation of what I was – and still am – going through.

Of course – as those few loyal readers of this blog will have anticipated – my response to all of this has precipitated more insomniac wanderings through the benighted village. For instance, early last week, stricken with vertigo, I lay on one of the benches in the churchyard, swaddled in my unseasonal body- and neck-warmers, my legs over the armrest, staring directly upwards: revelling for an hour in the bells’ quarterly chimes, as my eyes grew slowly accustomed to the darkness; praying for Perseids. But it was too soon: and I saw only one such meteor – although that was utterly breathtaking. I was, however, rewarded with the sight of a trillion individually-polished gems: some of them lining up to form the impressionistic backbone of the Milky Way. It was thus hard to drag myself away – even though my body had melded painfully with the rigid woodwork. Unfortunately, the rest of my wanderings, that week, were under gathered clouds: with only rare glimpses of what lay above; of what I sought.

Yet, this Tuesday night, lit by an almost full moon – and with even the Plough struggling to make its presence known against such radiance – I felt truly at peace: my long, accompanying shadow a reminder of the miracles that our planet’s journey through the firmament can produce; rendering the church tower a glowing bastion; the golden hands of its clock easily legible; as were the familiar names etched into the headstones. I could have limped all the way to Kineton: such was the energy I was imbued with.

But yesterday, the (inner) gloom returned: reminding me that troublesome decisions have to be made; that I may have to carry out a pilgrimage to my original saviour; that – just as I find a way of life that is approximately practicable, and completely fulfilling, as well as within the limits of my disability – I may have to put everything on hold once more; or attempt to adapt, yet again, to another step-change in infirmity. I honestly feel as if I am that small bird, endlessly pecking away at the indestructible….

But that’s all in the future. Now, it’s just time to pull my boots on, and head out into the night again: acknowledging that there are far too many people in much, much worse situations. If nothing else, being enveloped by the moon’s cooling light is a great reminder of my position in the universe; and of the beauty that completely surrounds us.

Austerity cuts compel the masses to bleed…

Character

THE BARD OF TYSOE (‘Uneven Stephen’, to his few friends)

Stephen is of indeterminate middle- to old-age. He looks like a tramp trying to dress like a teenager (and failing). He writes to survive; but is unsure why people – or how many of them – read his ‘essays’. He is less clever than he believes; and uses long words to impress – as well as a defence mechanism. He walks with a limp (and a stick); and his politics also lean leftwards – alarmingly so. His style is all over the damn’ place, though. He is not a woman… – although he can, of course, be played by one (see footnote).

THE BARD OF TYSOE is sitting at a dining table in a small, rural semi-detached cottage. It could be anywhere aspiringly middle-class. It is dark: therefore very late; or too early. There is a cold, half-drunk mug of coffee on the table, within the half-drunk’s arm’s reach. It smells – as does he – of brandy. He is surrounded by play-texts; creased theatre tickets; a dictionary; a thesaurus; the complete works of Shakespeare; boxes of pills; and small squares of almost-illegible (even to him) scribbled notes, in different-coloured inks.

     The only light emanates from a small desk-lamp and the iPad he is staring intently into, glasses halfway down his protuberant nose. All that can be heard is a clock ticking; and the sporadic, half-hearted, three-fingered pounding of the well-worn keyboard in front of him. Occasionally, he mutters, as he attempts to write. Frequently, he swears. Eventually, a percussive rhythm is established: and he speaks the words aloud as he types.

The daft thing is… that I knew what I was walking into: that I knew that walking through those doors would mean having my brains beaten and scrambled like an oversized egg (an ostrich egg?); my heart eviscerated, then macerated, before being cleverly reassembled and reinstated, yet soggy: a grown-up version of those wonky papier-mâché bowls we made at primary school. I mean – for goodness’ sake… – I’d not only been there before; but I had personal experience from – if you see what I mean… – the other side of the curtain. (Beat.)

My other half (“partner” sounds so officious…) has cared for girls like Joanne; has witnessed their attempts at self-harm; has felt repeatedly powerless against the destructive dragon of Government insult – no Saint George rode in on a white steed to save fair Sure Start… – felt pained and drained by it all; yet, somehow, responsible… – and I had (therefore) shared in its overwhelming catastrophic affect; held hands with the profound loss of hope and meaning. (He tries to sound actorly.) “My dad was a teacher”, too. (Back to his usual voice.) A council estate comprehensive. It was his voice I therefore heard saying: (His tone of voice changes again.) “The real thing is knowing what’s right, and what’s best. And the difference between the two. They can’t teach you that.” It sounded like something he would – does – say.

(Pause. He wipes a tear from his right eye with his hand; smearing his glasses. He removes them; wipes them clear; puts them back on.)

That was why, (His voice cracks a little.) after gritting my teeth through all that pain (no, (Beat. He smiles.) not saying “nneerrrrr…”, thank you…!) – (His face and voice return to the previous state.) not wanting, sat on the front row, to distract; to even make contact… – why, finally, all those tears flowed. And wouldn’t stop. (Beat.) “I cry too easily,” I’d said to the lovely, patient, lady next to me. But this wasn’t easy – how could it be…? This was so true to life, so real. This was hard as fuck… (sorry) – because this happens every day. A thousand times. Every. Single. Day. And, even though we know who is to blame… – (Beat.) what is it: cowardice; lack of thought; prejudice; better-the devil-you-know; laziness, even…? – even though we know who, we won’t get rid of the buggers. We won’t. And we don’t.

(Pause.)

Some of us tried. God knows. (Look at my Twitter avatar: and read the small print.) But not enough. (Not enough people. Not enough effort.) And, now, even those we thought could at least pull together some rusty foil and a donkey – I know: shit Don Quixote reference (just to show I ‘get’ theatre, okay?) – are pulling themselves to pieces, instead. Thank god for contemporary theatre: it – when it’s this good – understands; it ‘gets’ us – shows that we’re not alone. Not like poor Joanne. Sadly, it too flits in and out of our lives. I, personally, need it on a twenty-four-hour-seven-day-a-week-fifty-two-weeks-of-the-year-for-eternity loop; (Beat.) or at least on speed-dial.

Yes: I know I keep rabbiting on about “theatre as therapy” – but, as someone wiser than I said, earlier today (A brief smile flickers across his face.) (thank you, Ms Wilkey): “Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.” (Beat.) (I’d never heard this before. And it’s spot on. So credit where it’s due…. (Beat.) Don’t carp: it’s not pretty. It doesn’t suit you.) (Beat.) And, although I fall into both camps… – rather, I hope, than between two stools… (ugh) – yes, the comfort that comes from knowing your worldview isn’t quite as unique as you’d sorta hoped (but really, really, really didn’t want it to be…) isn’t half as thrilling as being further disturbed. (Beat. He looks up: as though gazing at someone across the table; and smiles, lovingly and humorously.) (This is the point where “my other half”, reading this, says that I “was disturbed enough already”. Hence that “further”…! Natch.)

(Pause. Returns to previous state.)

I don’t want to sit easily within my comfort zone. Not that I have had a physical one for quite some time. And it seems my psychological one is creeping along in that one’s shadow, anyway. And not that I know how to sit comfortably, anyhoo. (Beat.) That I sat still for over an hour, in discomfort and discomfit (not that that’s a real word – unless you’re Milton – and, sorry, John, even if it was, it’s not the same as what you may have meant: it just sounded clever in my head… – funny how these things always sound stupid once I open my big gob…). (Beat.) What was I saying? Oh, yeah: that I sat still for over an hour was testament to so many talented women… – yes: I know that sounds patronizing; but I have balls (last time I looked); (He looks down, wistfully.) and, try as I might, I can’t seem to break free of my genetic determinism. (If I’d have just said “genes”, you’d have thought I was trying to throw in one of my stupid puns. So I tried to show just how multifaceted, how bloody clever I was, instead. A lose-lose situation. Just hopefully not for my dangly bits.) (Beat.)

“What does it show?” you ask. (Yes, I can hear the sardonicism: more-than-half-expecting me to put my foot in my mouth again.) Well, I’m no physical contortionist – as those of you who know me will attest… – but I do love to muck around with words: tying my readers up in knots. (No: not like that.) (Beat.) What it shows – I reply… – is that, in some quarters – hoping not to offend… (which I’m bound to do: me being little old little autistic me… – that’s my excuse, etc.) – is that women are, for me, on the whole (please, please don’t go there…) so much more insightful; so much more honest; so much more caring; so much more creative in expressing these things than the typical (whatever that may mean) man. (Note I said “typical”. A typical masculine, feminine-ending, get-out clause.)

(Pause.)

Seriously. (Beat.) From where I sit, women have got matters – validity, especially – much more sussed than we men have. (I know I’m stereotyping, here: but this is a sodding review – well, it was meant to be… – not a faux-academic paper on feminism. I’m not qualified for that.) (Beat.) Sadly, though, since the worlds (real or imagined) of Graves’ The White Goddess, their (women’s) position of superiority… – no: I honestly believe, at least creatively, thoughtfully, heartfelt-fully, they are waaaay beyond equality (the word you were probably expecting): they are, sadly, just not recognized for it as much as they should be… – we men (and you can put that in finger-quotes if you so wish) have used our greater physicality to subsume them. (Beat.) But not for much longer.

To be blunt: I don’t want the world to be comfortable, either. (Beat.) Both meanings. (Do I have to spell it out? No. Thought not.) (Beat.) Selfishly, I don’t want it to be comfortable for anybody – having also played my own part in requiring such help as Joanne; such aid… – aid that often never comes; or comes in the wrong size and shape; or time….

(Pause. He gathers his breath, and looks up: as if expecting a thought, or maybe even a magical being, to suddenly appear.)

“I don’t want it to be comfortable for those that are already comfortable” is what I should have said: having fought so hard for myself that it was obviously to the detriment (no doubt) of others – my only weapons (I believed… I believe…) being intelligence and intransigence. (Beat.) But, nearly always – or I wouldn’t be facing these doors in the first place: would I…? – even these, fired at close range, double-barrelled, have not been enough. And when I had called on what I used to be able to rely on – had found myself alone, staring into an abyss, filled with an intolerable echoing vacuum – all I really had were doors like these. So I had no option but to walk through them.

The first time, I hadn’t known what to expect. At all. (Of course.) And that’s how it should be. (Of course.) (Beat.) That big gob of mine was smacked about so hard that I lost my focus, a little; forgot to lip-read; thus missed a few of the jokes. (Beat.) I got the punchline, though. Straight to (and through) my heart, my guts, my head. It hurt so much I had to go back for more. So, in between times, I read the script. More pain. (“More masochism, you mean!”) No lesser impact. (Beat.)

Now I knew all the words; and you’d have assumed, knowing “what I was walking into”, I also knew what to expect. But this is, of course – “as those of you who know me will attest…” – why I try never to go to a play just the once. Yes, I’m deaf. (See above.) Not dumb, though. But even with every single one of your umpteen senses working overtime, you’d still have missed something. (It could be that “punchline”, of course.) And I know I always miss lots of things: because – even over nine visits (He smirks.) (sorry: no links, tonight: so no explanations…) – every repeat visit, each new bruising, sheds new light; brings new detail to the fore. (Beat.) And, when you’ve got a script this stunning (sorry, that’s a crap word: but, currently, it’s all I have…): performed by someone whose every single facial muscle is connected to their most raw, honest emotions through some magical circuit not possessed by us mere mortals; someone who can change convincingly into another’s skin at the flick of a switch; whose voice ranges – emotionally, aurally, tonally, subjectively, geographically… effectively… – wider than the chasm between truth and politics; whose eyes shed glistening tears in harmony with yours… – when all that comes together: you really, really, really want to be there. (Again.)

(Pause. His face, which had seemingly flickered constantly with a mixture of hurt and happiness, now fills with utter confidence. The words come spilling out.)

Yes – oh ye of little faith! – miracles can not only repeat, but grow in power. Lightning strikes twice in your heart and brain: and the pain is more than doubled. The thrill: even more so! (He lowers his voice a little.) (The pain of not being there a third time is one of vacancy. (A crescendo begins….) This pain is one of presence. Of beauty. Of truth. And therefore vice versa. Of being hollowed out; and refilled: with all the pieces not quite fitting any more. Thank god. But it is a thrill.) (Beat. We have reached the top of that build.)

I described it as “electroshock therapy”, after my first time. How do you beat that…? Well, don’t ask me, for heaven’s sake. I was ‘only’ watching. Ask the Muses who made it happen. See if they know. (Beat.) Call it a confluence of sorts. A celestial alignment. Five writers, on bloody fantastic, almost indescribable, form. (His voice drops almost to a whisper…) (That would be multiplicative, rather than summational. He said. Showing off again. With all those long words. (…and then rises again.) “I bet he ate a bloody thesaurus for breakfast.”) (Beat.) A director with more coercive, collegiate magic than all of Hogwarts. (No: that – what you’re thinking… – is not my sodding idea of contemporary sodding theatre, thank you very much.) Designed, lit, directed, managed, produced by a team of genies; a team of geniuses.

(His voice returns to normal.) The Q&A opened a little chink. (Helped, subtly, by The Numinous One.) (Beat.) But these were no rude mechanicals. (Titania, cloned, maybe?) To be honest, I don’t want to see too much of what goes on behind that curtain. My road to enlightenment is rather long. (I’d “rather” like it to be infinite, as well. But that’s not how it works.) And I have not yet taken many steps. (He smirks again.) (And, with a gait like this, it’s gonna take a while!) (Beat. His voice returns to normal again; the confidence draining. The light dims in parallel.)

That Q&A also helped salve some of the pain – in the right sort of way. But rubbing such ointment on your bruises just reminds you that, why, how, they exist. At first. Sadly, I know they will eventually fade. But, until then, I’ll keep rubbing. It’s good for the soul. And – being brutally blunt – it’s a relief to have pain that’s externally inflicted. In fact, it’s cleansing – good for what’s left of your soul… (if you had one in the first place… – unfortunately, those who are comfortable prefer to remain so; they relish being undisturbed…).

(Pause. He looks at his left wrist. His voice is suddenly urgent.)

Bloody hell: is that the time?!

(We hear the sound of a switch being flicked. The lights instantly fade to darkness. Through a window we may not have noticed before, the first light of dawn very faintly outlines him standing, then limping off stage.)

Footnote…

This would almost certainly read and sound a whole lot better were it written by Deborah Bruce, Theresa Ikoko, Laura Lomas, Chino Odimba, and Ursula Rani Sarma. It would be more cohesive and appealing were it then directed by Róisín McBrinn, assisted by Laura Asare; designed by Lucy Osborne, and lit by Emma Chapman; had its sound designed by Becky Smith; was stage-managed by Breege Brennan; and produced by Emma Waslin and Helen Pringle – all mixed in with a little dose of mischief from Erica Whyman and the RSC (whose staff – especially at The Other Place – are, quite possibly, extremely accommodating and helpful wizards).

     Sadly, though, I fear not even the awe-inspiring vocal, emotional and physical talents of the goddess that is Tanya Moodie (photographed here by Katherine Leedale) could rescue it from its certain failure as pastiche. You never know, though: she’s so incredibly gifted that she could probably make this rubbish break your heart into a thousand pieces….