Sunday, May 22, 2005
: Cellar Door
Several more photographs up. Check the link on the left.
--
To stop a bushfire, we backburn by starting a controlled fire
To pay Paul, we borrow from Peter
To give herself up to her suitor, she plays hard-to-get
To clear away the tears, we splash our faces with water
Life is sometimes so full of lyrical wonder that we don't know what else to do with it than to cast it into irony.
--
To stop a bushfire, we backburn by starting a controlled fire
To pay Paul, we borrow from Peter
To give herself up to her suitor, she plays hard-to-get
To clear away the tears, we splash our faces with water
Life is sometimes so full of lyrical wonder that we don't know what else to do with it than to cast it into irony.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
: Negatives
He picked up his notebook by the spine and flipped it open to a blank page. His pen snapped open in his fingers and he began to scribble furiously, pennign down his thoughts as she sat in front of him, vacantly watching, with one hand on a thin stack of monochrome photographs. She had pushed them to one side, and now, realising that he was not about to pay any attention to her, picked them up and studied them again. How time had passed since these photographs were taken! They appeared so much older now, so much more weary and weathered. The carefree days of our youth carry the most consequence, and one bears witness to this in the lines that form upon one's brow. She closed her eyes and thought of nothing but the texture of the photographs.
He wrote:
The touch of cotton on you is flawed but feminine
Slivers of sunlight cut through the doorway
The sharp angles of the room invite us in
The departing scent of flowers ensures our stay
A neat stack of memories sits discarded here
Carefully positioned, close but not near
Too dear to forget, too daring to forgive
Photographs without which we cannot live
Through the tender fabric I feel your skin
Alive, aware and beautiful within
And in that moment of tender clarity
The light of the room can be seen
Revealing your face and its solemnity
All the while, she pretended not to notice the tears welling up in his eyes, as if he was playing the part of an artist or a comedian and that this was an expected part of such an act. He would soon shed this infirm exterior and slip into the cool cover of ambivalence that she had grown accustomed to, she thought. He sobbed softly, resting his head and hands on the tabletop, and not until she pushed his hand aside and retrieved the notebook to read its contents did she understand the terrible depths of his sorrow.
Friday, May 20, 2005
: Quando.
We raise glasses to one another, wishing one another cursed loves -
silently -
so that we may one day find our way back to one another again.
silently -
so that we may one day find our way back to one another again.
: Photos.
I have put up several photo albums, kindly hosted at dotphoto.com. Comments, though unnecessary, are always appreciated.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
: Marionette.
He found himself behind several large crates, each labeled MR WILSON BARRETT C/O ROYAL PRINCESS’S THEATRE in large stenciled hand. Empty as they were, they yet provided suitable cover for the cloaked form that knelt behind them. Swirls of cool mist unfurled themselves as they turned into the alleyway, and carried the wafting smoke of his cigarette further into the darkness. A soft, almost tender light over the back door of the theatre illumined several puddles, and cast bent and misshapen shadows over torn playbills and rough walls that had, day after day, been privy to players on their humble return to the unremarkable lives of London’s polloi. A carriage rattled by on the main street and all was quiet again. He exhaled, sending gray billow up towards the sky, raised the end of the cigarette to observe its smoldering tip and then flicked it to the ground.
A sense of distinct discomfort came over him at that moment. He did not belong at this particular spot in this alley. He was trespassing on someone else’s domain. It occurred to him that presently, it would be more in character of him to instead be walking along the main street in the direction of Marylebone, minding his own business and certainly not the back door of a theatre of which he has never been in attendance. He was never one for the play houses – St. Bernard’s Publick House would have done for him on any night provided darts, a suitable wager and copious amounts of gin were involved in the proceedings. He was treading the granite pavement along Oxford Street but then it was... yes, the gleam of something remarkable that caught his attention in this hushed alleyway whereupon he entered in search of its mysterious source. But alas, here he found himself absent-mindedly scratching the insides of his coat pockets, waiting for something to happen.
Footfalls alerted him to a presence behind the door and the subsequent creak of the heavy door sent his heart racing. He peeked over the crates and watched as a young lady stepped into the glow of the alleyway and closed the door behind her. Like a capsized green funnel, she wore around her thin upper frame a bodice with capped close-fitting long sleeves and below that, a cartridge-pleated, three-flounced skirt. Sat upon the top of her head was an olive bonnet, and she clutched in her frail, gloved hands a small purse which she tilted toward the light and, with some degree of concern, rummaged through its contents. Acutely aware of this opportunity, as if it had been forced upon him, he suddenly felt compelled to advance towards her despite misgivings over the sinister appearance of this approach. He moved out from the shadows towards her, and removed from his trouser pocket a small knife which he menacingly held forward. It was only then that she realized that she was not alone and looked up at the silhouette descending upon her. She screamed in horror and in the brief struggle that ensued, suffered several hasty but mortal wounds from her assailant’s weapon. It fell to the ground with a tinny clink and he knelt beside the bleeding young actress to search the purse that had abandoned in her final act.
Unable to find what he was looking for, and even unsure of what it was that he was looking for, he remained knelt and motionless, as if immediately repentant for having savagely attacked and slain someone. He had committed a most foul crime and like a marionette, had no control over his body as he carried out the deed. It was as if there was a divide within him between the grim reality of his body and the rebellious thoughts of his mind. He felt an awful tear within him and his heart sank. That scream was familiar, as though it was a cry that had beckoned him rather than the one that had tried to escape him. It was he who had found the knife, and not thrust it. It was he who had touched the body to see if there was any life left in it. Just when the lines between the truth and reality seemed to connect, the back door of the theatre cracked open and with a square of bright light flooded into the alley illuminating both the victim and its cause, a figure stood in the doorway, aghast at the sight before it.
The figure reached him before he had time to rise and turn away and he was caught squarely in the chest by the blunt blow of the man’s shoulder. The two figures fell, one forward and the other backward, knocking the attacker’s top hat off as he hit the ground. He landed against the hard granite floor and before he could regain his senses, found himself being restrained by a tall, lanky man with a gaunt, hirsute face and small, sullen eyes.
“That, Sir, is how the events of the night transpired to be. It is my deepest regret that I could not save Ms. Islington’s life, but it is hoped that my apprehension of the killer will go some way towards relieving her family of a tremendous loss.”
“Your intervention was both timely and courageous, Mr. Faraday. So as I understand it, you were in the hallway that leads to this back door when you heard a scream. You came out into the alleyway and saw this man over here beside the body of Ms. Islington, looking through the contents of her purse. You rushed forth and subdued the man. Then you called for Mr. Caruso, who emerged from within the theatre by this same door, and asked him to contact Scotland Yard right away. Is that correct?”
“Indeed.”
“The bloodied knife is certainly the weapon used to attack Ms Islington and the fresh cigarette I found behind those crates over there leads me to believe that our attacker lay in wait for the victim. A crime of passion can be thus ruled out. The nature of the wounds reveals that our attacker was not familiar with the victim, and this suggests that he may have been hired to kill her or recover something for his employer. I will have him taken away to the gaol where he will confess to his crime. Constable! Yes, make the necessary arrangements for an expedient journey to the Yard. We must conclude this case immediately. Doctor! Thank you for your diligent service. Terribly sorry to have to call you out again so soon for another grisly crime. We’ll have the body sent to the Southwark morgues. And please ensure that they leave the young lady’s personal effects alone. I must have them for my investigations!”
The doctor closed his brown bag, rose to his feet, tipped his bowler hat gently towards the Inspector and departed from the scene. Constable Caruthers left the alley and returned carrying a small paper bag into which he placed all of Ms. Islington’s personal effects. Occasionally he would cluck his tongue and slowly shake his head while he went about his task.
Mr. Faraday stood hands askance, waiting for the slow procession of men to file past as they entered and removed the body. In the meanwhile, Inspector Huxley looked through his notes, occasionally pausing to watch the man, now bereft of his coat and top hat, squirm as he was held in custody by two policeman on either side of him.
“What is your name?” the Inspector asked him, without raising his head.
After a moment had passed, he realized that he was being asked a question and answered calmly, “Thomas Merrick.” It felt strange yet surprisingly easy to say his name out aloud because he was not entirely sure he was Thomas Merrick anymore. Thomas Merrick seemed like a stranger or a charming old acquaintance rather than the murderer who answered. Belying the torment within him, his outer appearance of remorseless tranquility angered the Inspector, who began to write down the declaration.
“Mr. Merrick, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Ms. Darlene Islington. You will now be taken to the gaol where we will seek your confession to this crime. Do you understand?”
How did it come to be that he, as an innocent bystander, would be lured into this lifeless, barren alleyway in a fanciful hunt for a glint conjured up by his gin-soaked imagination only to end up with his hands bloodied and in the crook of the arm of the Yard’s finest? Had he really slain this poor woman in this chance encounter? Was Mr. Faraday aware that what had quickened his step towards the depths of the alley was the scream that immediately followed the spark that initially called out to him? Would the Inspector believe the events of the night as he would recount them? Surely the crew at St. Bernard’s would vouch for him. But having left alone after a poor night at the dart board, not a soul could account for his activities or whereabouts after he departed. He traced his steps from Covent Garden to Oxford Street. It was no use.
“Are you listening to me?” the Inspector repeated, raising his voice.
Interrupting his frantic thoughts, the Inspector’s question elicited a startled acknowledgment from Thomas.
“Very well then. Proceed.” He gestured to the policemen who began to lead their prisoner away. The Inspector turned towards Mr. Faraday, and said, “Once again, thank you for your assistance, Mr. Faraday. If I have any further questions for you, I will get in touch with you personally. For now, you may wish to get some rest tonight after such a harrowing experience.” Mr. Faraday tipped his hat and grinned, as the Inspector, tucking his notebook under his arm to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief, followed the policemen out onto the main street.
As he was being led away, Thomas looked back towards the alley forlornly, and to his shock, observed the very same glint that had earlier caught his attention just moments before Ms. Islington’s fatal cry rung out. He could not make out the source of it and, in trying to struggle to get closer, only succeeded in agitating the policemen who replied by hastening his departure from the crime scene.
The Inspector let himself into a waiting cab and after instructing the driver to take him to Scotland Yard, sat back and mused over the many fine details of the crime: the theatre which, if his memory served him correctly, had burned down twice before, only to be replaced with equally magnificent and capacious structures each time; the way Ms. Islington’s olive dress had gathered to one side from her fall like a flowing curtain being drawn; the murderer’s scent that reeked of musk and alcohol; and yes, most curiously, of Mr. Faraday’s appearance – a single, remarkable gold tooth that sat where his upper left lateral incisor should have been – how it sparkled!
A sense of distinct discomfort came over him at that moment. He did not belong at this particular spot in this alley. He was trespassing on someone else’s domain. It occurred to him that presently, it would be more in character of him to instead be walking along the main street in the direction of Marylebone, minding his own business and certainly not the back door of a theatre of which he has never been in attendance. He was never one for the play houses – St. Bernard’s Publick House would have done for him on any night provided darts, a suitable wager and copious amounts of gin were involved in the proceedings. He was treading the granite pavement along Oxford Street but then it was... yes, the gleam of something remarkable that caught his attention in this hushed alleyway whereupon he entered in search of its mysterious source. But alas, here he found himself absent-mindedly scratching the insides of his coat pockets, waiting for something to happen.
Footfalls alerted him to a presence behind the door and the subsequent creak of the heavy door sent his heart racing. He peeked over the crates and watched as a young lady stepped into the glow of the alleyway and closed the door behind her. Like a capsized green funnel, she wore around her thin upper frame a bodice with capped close-fitting long sleeves and below that, a cartridge-pleated, three-flounced skirt. Sat upon the top of her head was an olive bonnet, and she clutched in her frail, gloved hands a small purse which she tilted toward the light and, with some degree of concern, rummaged through its contents. Acutely aware of this opportunity, as if it had been forced upon him, he suddenly felt compelled to advance towards her despite misgivings over the sinister appearance of this approach. He moved out from the shadows towards her, and removed from his trouser pocket a small knife which he menacingly held forward. It was only then that she realized that she was not alone and looked up at the silhouette descending upon her. She screamed in horror and in the brief struggle that ensued, suffered several hasty but mortal wounds from her assailant’s weapon. It fell to the ground with a tinny clink and he knelt beside the bleeding young actress to search the purse that had abandoned in her final act.
Unable to find what he was looking for, and even unsure of what it was that he was looking for, he remained knelt and motionless, as if immediately repentant for having savagely attacked and slain someone. He had committed a most foul crime and like a marionette, had no control over his body as he carried out the deed. It was as if there was a divide within him between the grim reality of his body and the rebellious thoughts of his mind. He felt an awful tear within him and his heart sank. That scream was familiar, as though it was a cry that had beckoned him rather than the one that had tried to escape him. It was he who had found the knife, and not thrust it. It was he who had touched the body to see if there was any life left in it. Just when the lines between the truth and reality seemed to connect, the back door of the theatre cracked open and with a square of bright light flooded into the alley illuminating both the victim and its cause, a figure stood in the doorway, aghast at the sight before it.
The figure reached him before he had time to rise and turn away and he was caught squarely in the chest by the blunt blow of the man’s shoulder. The two figures fell, one forward and the other backward, knocking the attacker’s top hat off as he hit the ground. He landed against the hard granite floor and before he could regain his senses, found himself being restrained by a tall, lanky man with a gaunt, hirsute face and small, sullen eyes.
“That, Sir, is how the events of the night transpired to be. It is my deepest regret that I could not save Ms. Islington’s life, but it is hoped that my apprehension of the killer will go some way towards relieving her family of a tremendous loss.”
“Your intervention was both timely and courageous, Mr. Faraday. So as I understand it, you were in the hallway that leads to this back door when you heard a scream. You came out into the alleyway and saw this man over here beside the body of Ms. Islington, looking through the contents of her purse. You rushed forth and subdued the man. Then you called for Mr. Caruso, who emerged from within the theatre by this same door, and asked him to contact Scotland Yard right away. Is that correct?”
“Indeed.”
“The bloodied knife is certainly the weapon used to attack Ms Islington and the fresh cigarette I found behind those crates over there leads me to believe that our attacker lay in wait for the victim. A crime of passion can be thus ruled out. The nature of the wounds reveals that our attacker was not familiar with the victim, and this suggests that he may have been hired to kill her or recover something for his employer. I will have him taken away to the gaol where he will confess to his crime. Constable! Yes, make the necessary arrangements for an expedient journey to the Yard. We must conclude this case immediately. Doctor! Thank you for your diligent service. Terribly sorry to have to call you out again so soon for another grisly crime. We’ll have the body sent to the Southwark morgues. And please ensure that they leave the young lady’s personal effects alone. I must have them for my investigations!”
The doctor closed his brown bag, rose to his feet, tipped his bowler hat gently towards the Inspector and departed from the scene. Constable Caruthers left the alley and returned carrying a small paper bag into which he placed all of Ms. Islington’s personal effects. Occasionally he would cluck his tongue and slowly shake his head while he went about his task.
Mr. Faraday stood hands askance, waiting for the slow procession of men to file past as they entered and removed the body. In the meanwhile, Inspector Huxley looked through his notes, occasionally pausing to watch the man, now bereft of his coat and top hat, squirm as he was held in custody by two policeman on either side of him.
“What is your name?” the Inspector asked him, without raising his head.
After a moment had passed, he realized that he was being asked a question and answered calmly, “Thomas Merrick.” It felt strange yet surprisingly easy to say his name out aloud because he was not entirely sure he was Thomas Merrick anymore. Thomas Merrick seemed like a stranger or a charming old acquaintance rather than the murderer who answered. Belying the torment within him, his outer appearance of remorseless tranquility angered the Inspector, who began to write down the declaration.
“Mr. Merrick, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Ms. Darlene Islington. You will now be taken to the gaol where we will seek your confession to this crime. Do you understand?”
How did it come to be that he, as an innocent bystander, would be lured into this lifeless, barren alleyway in a fanciful hunt for a glint conjured up by his gin-soaked imagination only to end up with his hands bloodied and in the crook of the arm of the Yard’s finest? Had he really slain this poor woman in this chance encounter? Was Mr. Faraday aware that what had quickened his step towards the depths of the alley was the scream that immediately followed the spark that initially called out to him? Would the Inspector believe the events of the night as he would recount them? Surely the crew at St. Bernard’s would vouch for him. But having left alone after a poor night at the dart board, not a soul could account for his activities or whereabouts after he departed. He traced his steps from Covent Garden to Oxford Street. It was no use.
“Are you listening to me?” the Inspector repeated, raising his voice.
Interrupting his frantic thoughts, the Inspector’s question elicited a startled acknowledgment from Thomas.
“Very well then. Proceed.” He gestured to the policemen who began to lead their prisoner away. The Inspector turned towards Mr. Faraday, and said, “Once again, thank you for your assistance, Mr. Faraday. If I have any further questions for you, I will get in touch with you personally. For now, you may wish to get some rest tonight after such a harrowing experience.” Mr. Faraday tipped his hat and grinned, as the Inspector, tucking his notebook under his arm to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief, followed the policemen out onto the main street.
As he was being led away, Thomas looked back towards the alley forlornly, and to his shock, observed the very same glint that had earlier caught his attention just moments before Ms. Islington’s fatal cry rung out. He could not make out the source of it and, in trying to struggle to get closer, only succeeded in agitating the policemen who replied by hastening his departure from the crime scene.
The Inspector let himself into a waiting cab and after instructing the driver to take him to Scotland Yard, sat back and mused over the many fine details of the crime: the theatre which, if his memory served him correctly, had burned down twice before, only to be replaced with equally magnificent and capacious structures each time; the way Ms. Islington’s olive dress had gathered to one side from her fall like a flowing curtain being drawn; the murderer’s scent that reeked of musk and alcohol; and yes, most curiously, of Mr. Faraday’s appearance – a single, remarkable gold tooth that sat where his upper left lateral incisor should have been – how it sparkled!
Friday, May 13, 2005
: Lovers Make The Best Partners
You handle our affairs like the government or some large and complex human being that does not know where its shoelaces are. You disregard the opinions of others and insist that every good thing in life has a price. You do not keep promises even when you promise to. Everything I know about us, I read in the papers. The only secret we have left is that we have run out of secrets. We disagree on everything, including the notion that we disagree on everything. We are dysfunctional, but that has never stopped us from making suggestions. The world owes us an apology for assuming too much. We really know nothing.