The Ambitious Drifter

Words, Images and The Occasional Noise


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Of Necessary Things

I woke up on Saturday morning to find out that, once again, I was runner up in the Faber Quickfic contest. Entering has become a Friday night ritual for me. I like the idea of getting a prompt and writing up something in an hour or so. This week it was a quote  ‘We live in an age when unecessary things are our only necessities’ *.  This is what I wrote.

Of Necessary Things

Well, I still have my panache! I was able to read Rostand’s thing you know, didn’t get to see it played though. You could say I was otherwise engaged… in Reading. Didn’t read too bad, bit weak in the last scenes I felt.

Panache, what is that really? It’s the feather in your cap… the great flag of attitude. It was all I needed once. I thought it my only necessity, I’d been able to dispense with almost everything else. I was profligate in love, so needlessly in love! Many times you know, many times. The love that was given to me… I discarded that as freely as one loses a glove. There would always be more to come my way, if I kept that frantic feather aloft.

That mad bravado got me where I am. Didn’t work in court though. It was just bluster then. I had everything before that and none of it seemed the least bit essential. Then I was shown what was truly necessary… bread and water, a small patch of sky.

What’s left now then? I’ve got that same old ragged feather, but little else Monsieur, little else. I’m a shabby old peacock now sir, but still straining for the bon mot. Probably the last, yes, most definitely the last. Not necessary, you understand, but I feel the obligation.

Have I mentioned the wallpaper? I really can’t see the need for such vulgarity at my time in life.

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Oscar Wilde, ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’.   1891.  Ahead of his time, as usual.


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Burning My Food

I always planned to blog about food… a fitting first for post number 300

Red capsicums (bell peppers) were cheap this week, so I got some to set fire to. After this stage they go into a paper bag to cool down and get deskinned. I throw away the seeds and the other bits of the insides then cut them into small pieces. Finally they’re put in jar with balsamic and ordinary Italian vinegar and a dash of olive oil. Tasty and cheap as well. 

Hot off the grill, a few fresh photos.

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Omen Weather

Omen Weather

Today we’re having omen weather, the clouds are making fantastical shapes. They drift and twist before my eyes. I can’t possibly make out what they all mean, most of them are not meant for me. Who are all these shapes meant for? Some are there just to entertain. There’s a really good one of a small dog with a feathery tail. A West Highland terrier by the look of it.

I see my sign, the one meant especially for me. It’s a dragon, a proper Chinese New Year’s dragon. I can see its gaping mouth. That’s really interesting because I saw the same thing last week. I’d never seen such a thing before. Usually my dragons are fanciful seahorses, very rare as well. They’re always shaped like an ‘S’.  Once I saw three together, a very propitious omen. Two weeks later my whole life changed.

There’s rules, of course. You can’t spend your days staring at the sky. You cannot look too long. The brain will make sense of the shapes and colour the sky with your idle dreams. There are too many false omens as it is.

You need to catch them out of the corner of your eye when you’re not wishing, not brooding or sad. A clear eye is needed, they’re best noticed as you go about your business. When nothing particular is happening to you, that’s when you can see what will happen next.

This omen sky needs a good clean wind. It’s best not to dwell too much on the future.

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An omen, but not meant for me.


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Magical Talismans In Sand

When I first saw the patterns made by the crabs I thought it was a message for me alone. Now I know differently. I learned to listen to what the tide was telling me. The beach is their canvas, there are many messages as each crab expresses what it feels.

Butterfly

In my dream it was promised

I will be this next.

The tides have told me

I will live in the sun

And make my nest out in the air

The waves will be a memory

Contending clouds

Will be my wide new sea.

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Hawk

The shadow of the hawk

Will keep my nemesis – heron

Away, he will not dare

To land near here

My strong magic

Protects me still

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Comet

This ocurred in our mothers’ time,

The time of our parents

Beyond our parents.

We watched it fall, that star

Dragging down darkness

Howling as it came.

Soon it grew cold,

Many of the creatures around us

could not survive.

We crabs still

Live upon this beach,

Going, as we do,

About our business.

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More art by crabs


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The Old Man’s Glasses

The Old Man’s Glasses

They came to me eventually, shoved in a box with his wallet, the scratchy faced watch and a mobile phone he never answered. The Old Man’s glasses. He often said he could see his friends through them, old friends gone a while ago. He knew they were already gone because they didn’t get any older. It worked with me too. Even after I’d turned fifty he could still see the child in me.

I tried them on, they weren’t too bad. I guess our eyes were very much of the same type. That was good, so I kept them as a spare pair. My own are fairly scuffed and scratched, plus I’m often too lazy to give them a good clean.

I was back in the town for his funeral, just for a couple of days really. I’d not lived there for thirty or more years. I hadn’t made frequent visits back either. As my parents slowly died I could not bear to be there. Now I can see it’s not a bad place really, not a lot has changed. I remember being happy when I went to university here. The pubs are pretty much the same as they were. I can’t find the record shops we used to haunt, but record shops are rare everywhere these days.

In the streets I see faces, a lot of them familiar, still young. They were the type of girls I adored from afar, or chatted nervously to in the uni bar. There’s young men too, almost comical with their unlikely beards. Hey, I was just like that!

I must be wearing the Old Man’s glasses, I can see what he said was true. I might be looking at ghosts and phantoms, or maybe they’re the grand kids of long lost friends. My Dad was not upset by his visions of the friendly spirits he saw. Me neither, it’s rather charming in its way.

 Some flash fiction for a Sunday. I wrote this one on the train going to the shops. It’s not the Faber Quickfic challenge this time, I’ll save that one for later.

Copyright J P Horsam 2015

Even after I’d turned fifty he could still see the child in me.


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Good Time Girl

Another exercise for the Faber Quickfic contest. The challenge photo was of a young couple dancing, probably from the 1940s.         This is what I wrote.

A Good Time Girl

My granny was a Good Time Girl, she told me that herself. ‘Use capitals’, she’d said, ‘it was the name of our troupe.’ She’d fought her war by dancing, church halls, bases, work canteens. The nurses said they liked her, she laughed a lot and joked. Some of the other ladies were not so keen. She flirted with their boyfriends, that was what they’d said. Poor boys who’d died in ’42…. still alive in memory, brought back to life by dementia. Perhaps it was true, back then in some dance hall before the sirens went.

Flirted, well she might. Not too much though, she was devoted to my grandfather. He was Diamond Jack Wilson, always good for a song, a dance, a laugh. The war took him, gun crew in North Africa. Nothing much left to bury, they’d said.

In the end she forgot almost everything. No one there ever forgot who she was. She’d been somebody, she always said that. It was true. It seems recent, but it’s thirty years now since she went. I was a young man at the funeral, surrounded by her old pals, laughing, croaking, sounded much the same really.

Now they talk to me in loud kind voices, as if I’m deaf or daft. Just like they talked to her. Always my first name,that’s annoying. No, I’m Mr Wilson to you, young woman. I’m going to need my granny’s strength, her wicked laugh. I’ve got to start telling them, I’ve been someone, you know.

wpid-img_20150322_203336.jpgHad to add one of my own photos. When my grandmother was young, dream palaces looked like this.

Tuschinski Theatre, Amsterdam


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Two Short Pieces

Some flash fiction for a Sunday. Two pieces today, but they’re linked. The first was from this week’s Quickfic challenge. The second came from a Yorkshire Arts Journal submission request…’Afterglow’.

Both pieces are set in Toulouse, where I was first diagnosed and subsequently cured.

“There’s a journey we must go on and no more delay”

The slightly odd syntax – he’s speaking English for my benefit. The ‘we’ here, well that’s me really. It’s the medical sense of the word, as in ‘We’ve been eating a little too well, haven’t we?’ He’s a doctor, so it’s permissible, I suppose. This will be my journey, he, the tour guide Charon, will see me safely along.

I’ve travelled a lot, I’m in a strange place. It’s easy enough to say that it’s all in the journey, but where am I headed to this time? In walking terms, a hard and dangerous trek is an ‘epic’, especially where there’s been accidents and injuries along the way. Am I in for an epic? Is it going to be a jaunt? Will I have stories to tell at the end of it? I’m staring out of his window at some interesting hills, looks like good walking up that way. I’m glazing over, drifting off. There seems to be a lot of small talk. Do I want to hire a wig? There must be things to sign.

Many journeys are most enjoyable when they’re safely over. That’s when epics are made, not while you’re up to your waist in mud. Is he coming with me? Well yes, he knows the track. It should end well, he says. If not, then it just ends.    Tuesday, there can be no delay. The tests are all in, now it is certain.

Afterglow.

This place still glows long after the gloom has settled on the medieval streets. I have learned to look up, it’s a photographers’ trick. Any distraction is a good one now. I wish I’d come here sooner. I would have seen it differently, sketched out food reviews, not these failing elegies.

In Toulouse the sun sets slowly, it’s a long shadow across the plains. I’m trying to make a poem, but it isn’t coming easily. I’m counting my sunsets now, watching some of them from my hospital window. I don’t feel all that sick, but the tumour in my throat begs to differ.

I’d like to spend my evenings in Place Capitole with a glass of champagne, relaxing like a local as the buildings light up. This is my own sunset, but I’m not seeing an afterglow. There’s others in here, no one is glowing. You’d think from the radiation we’d be shiny at least, but it turns us all to grey.

The poem won’t work, I’m not really old enough for it. The evening of my years should not be now. Old is a far off time when maybe I can give sunset tours, teaching the tourists to look up.

The vision is a good one, but far from elusive. It’ll still appear when I’m gone.

I’m sorting through my photos now, It seems I was just waning, not fading. The poems, I thought they’d be many, never did get made. Still, I’ve got the time now, waiting for customers for my sunset tour. rue de taur

Rue du Taur, Toulouse, France.