get wilde.

Several more photographs up. Check the link on the left.

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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.

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

Calm, eternal and perfectly serene.

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.

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.

I have put up several photo albums, kindly hosted at dotphoto.com. Comments, though unnecessary, are always appreciated.

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!

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.

I do not recognise the lock on my gate. Someone has changed it since I’ve been away, but what bothers me is that I live alone. There are times when I am unsure about the beauty of my possessions and their significance in my life, but at this moment of clarity, their worth comes flooding back to me. I am my garden of manicured flowers. I am the bevelled edges of my door. The cement beneath my feet is the cracked foundation of my existence. How is it that I have become a stranger in my own backyard? Have I been evicted without notice?

I consume the grocery store down the street. I breathe the summer air manufactured on my front lawn. I know the books that adorn the shelves in my study, or at least, their titles. I am happy for the protagonist I always imagine myself to be. There is an endless train of thought, but no light at the end of the tunnel. My existence could be meaningless, and I am entirely comfortable with that thought.

The furniture has changed – or rather, it has all been rearranged. Scientists call this a paradigm shift. My paradigm was in the living room and now it has been moved on to some other higher plane. I am experiencing a minor inconvenience. Normal service will be resumed shortly, I hope. No? The defects are inherent in the source? The screen continues to flicker so I switch off the television.

The photos are of strangers. I loved them. I adored my friends that I think that on more than one occasion, I actually became them. I thought their thoughts and stole the words right from their lips. Eventually I realised that I no longer needed them around to feel their presence. Their entirety became my own – and I began to resent them for being so very much like me. I let them go in favour of others whom I could love and ultimately, become. I have no enemies, and more than anything, it is this that I am least proud of in my life. It hints at the depths of emotion to which I have never been.

Though I do not recognise this house, it does feel like home. I do not feel the emptiness I would come to expect from sudden disassociation. Home is not always where the heart is. It is where we least expect to succumb to fear. Fear is not a cowering soldier, shivering in the cold as the artillery shells explode around him. Do not be mistaken. It is the fear of not having it in us to reveal to all who we really are, that I write of.

We are what we love, and that is nature’s blessing and curse upon all creatures.

We held these figures in such high esteem, but we have deceived ourselves. We listened to their songs, their sad lyrics, we watched the pained expression grow on their faces until it devoured us all. We lived their lives. We lived the music we heard and now we carry their burdens on our weary shoulders. The media valued our right to be entertained but now that we are poisoned, we have become the subject of their latest exposé. We are in the spotlight and like any frightened creature would, we will retaliate. We will go straight for the jugular.

There are three kinds of people I like in this world : those who write well, those who speak well and girls in little white tops.

The machines made us. They put us together cell by cell and then fed the electrical impulses into our brains. They made us think and they made us believe that we come first. Now we serve them. We enlarge their population at the cost of our own. In the end, the machines will consume the sun and remain in the darkness. They are not afraid of it. Afraid, like they made us to be.

Yesterday, I had dinner with my father at a quaint little restaurant that had a menu detailing the various parts of our bovine friends and what each one was called and worth. Dinner was a odd idea that popped up at an odd time, and furthermore, in the absence of my mother, who usually decides when we eat out by announcing around mid-evening that nothing has been prepared at the table. So father and son it was, and having been, in our own ways, thoroughly enamoured by the comprehensive list of tender cattle portions, a skewer of various red meats and a braised dory fish were ordered respectively.

Conversation started out the way it usually does between a young adult and an elder statesperson - each party takes turns to gingerly grope about in the dark. Eventually we began discussing the menu, or rather, my complete lack of appreciation for its contents. I asked about everything from corkage to consommé and my father assisted where possible, either drawing from his own experience or continually harassing the waiters for their opinions. I could only smile politely. He said that I should make it a point to master the nuances of etiquette and high culture in order to impress important people. Wistfully, he added that he never had an opportunity to pick up on these things and they have since eluded him.

My father has never struck me as a culture savant. He chews his food noisily, which I personally place as the bare minimum flaw for a person to never be considered for a seat in any hall of connoisseurs. His taste in art is restricted to comments such as 'beautiful', 'superb' and any other word that could be used to describe a delightful little tuna sandwich. I dare not judge his taste in music for it certainly is unique. My cousin is a DJ in New York and he cut a CD of his own trance and house music which his father duly sent to my own. The CD has found its way into my family car and its vile cacophony, into the appreciative cochlea of my father's inner ear where it subsequently manifests itself in the maniacal beat he taps out with his fingers on the steering wheel. He refuses to acknowledge my claims that trance music is strictly for dance floors and has not been acoustically tested on the leather upholstery of car interiors.

But, you don't need to be Roman to do as they do. My father, despite the conspicuous absence of refinement in his life, appreciates its value enough to encourage his children to spread their wings in the world of art and creativity.

He asked me what I thought to be the reason for his children being so different from other kids, a question that many parents ask him these days. What did we get that these other kids didn't? He hazarded a few guesses, such as our nomadic early childhood, our travel experiences, and our family's laissez-faire approach to governance. I weighed each one aloud, but certainly they were not unique enough. "Honestly", I explained to him after some thought, "the reason we are as we are is because we have a father who has the gift of tossing his children in the right direction when they're about to settle for less."

I never knew how much of a fighter my father was, in the literal sense. I've seen him argue with customers on the phone, bank managers in person and deans of colleges online, but apart from his college days as a boxer, I've never known my father to have actually knocked the pants off someone.

Apparently he has. Context: London, England, the winter of 1981. A cab stops outside my grand-uncle's residence and my father and the driver alight. My father hands a small stack of notes to the driver who counts the money and sneers. "You bloody fuckin' Indians," he cries, "You gave me a two pound tip, fuckin' hell." My father is astonished, but replies as calmly as possible, "What did you say?" The driver unabashedly repeats himself, "You bloody fuckin' Indi-" He doesn't complete his sentence. My father already has his fist coming around and he knocks the blooming carnations out of the poor sod. He ends up flat on his back, cursing and swearing. In a flash he is back on his feet, rolling up his sleeves. "I'ma gonna kill you," he mutters. My father doesn't back down. Instead he threatens to call the police and promises to show him a good time until they reach the scene. Within half a minute, the cab is speeding away down the street.

Just then, the cavalry arrives in the form of my panic-stricken grand-uncle, who comes barreling down the stairs and starts volleying questions at my father, who by now has picked up his belongings and is making his way to the front porch.

My father did not accept my claim at first, but came around to it eventually. He refuses to accept credit for the things he does to ensure others heap praise upon his children. Instead he uses vague terms such as 'blessed', 'written in the stars' and something about it being written in my horoscope to explain away his part in raising his children. A parent is unglorified labour personified and I can neither feel terribly sorry or particularly pleased about it. Like most other relationships, it is best admired from a distance - but admiring is not living.

Dinner ended with a toast to one another, our ages apparent in the contents of our glasses. It will be fourteen years before I'm only half of his age. There'll come a time when I'll be able to catch up to him, just as he is gaining on his father, as his father did to his own father before him. But he's not worried. He's already found that happiness in life is not a fish that you can catch. And you know what? I'm not worried either.