The husk cannot hold

"Money may be the husk of many things but not the kernel. It brings you food, but not appetite; medicine, but not health; acquaintances, but not friends; servants, but not loyalty; days of joy, but not peace or happiness."

Henrik Ibsen, Norwegian playwright and poet (1828-1906)


Another quote which I could not trace. If anyone could enlighten me, I'd be really grateful :)

Insolent blue

The insolence of that blue

against the red, the green

why would it shine

while angers brew

at the crime scene

where sad people align

in the blood-giving queue

The insolence of that blue

unsure of what it might mean

while eyelids at last recline

gleaming gay and glinting true

where death flashes on screen

in our own modern fault line

bodies still lying in full view

The insolence of that blue

never-before-seen sheen

sends shivers down the spine

for the sheer numbers he slew

makes us rethink, redefine

what we thought was mean

what we thought was true

The insolence of that blue

the grass was starkly green

in contrast against the iodine

the red, the red we thought we knew

but didn't want to let shine

they say this red is obscene

yet it's to people's eyes like glue

The insolence of that blue

bright glow against the killing

unheeding the comments asinine

radiant amidst the inane spew

refusing the pity and the whine

bravely kindling our mien

because that day is so blue, so blue.

My heart and thoughts go to the brave people of Christchurch and of New-Zealand in this time of great sorrow. Let's remember why there are stars in that ocean of blue.

Rain

Tasting the downpour

nose up in the air

eyes wide open

astart soaring in the storm

unlooking back

drops pelting our visage

gyring cloudwards

Ashen overcast

symmetrised

on leaden rooftops

by mercurial rain

Argent pellicle

kohling our chagrin

ardently, ardently

seeking a silver lightning

so the darkness drops again

Icarused, rusted down

felled into sunyata

galvanised into rain

Irreversible, untraceable

the deluge is nous

we are now whole.

 

Patsy

He didn't remember his mom ever not locking the front door. True, he hadn't come home in a long while, but his mom wasn't what he'd call a charming person. Distrustful, cantankerous, OCD-type of bossy. She even had that sixth sense which warned her of an open door somewhere, and she'd yell “Door!” from the opposite side of the house. So when he called her a week ago, and she had said “The door's open, son”, he hadn't thought it'd be as literal as this, after ten years out of the country.

Ten years. A decade. She had no idea that he had enrolled in the military and had been sent to hell, and had come back, relatively unscathed compared to most soldiers in his platoon. He knew his mom would disapprove, but that was the main reason he had packed his stuff and fled the house in the first place. That and his dad who had been a marine and who had “disappeared”. It was only fitting that he had taken up the torch to fight his father's fight. He knew his mom would shake her head, but she would have to admit he was dashing in his white uniform.

“Mom?” The door opened straight onto the living room. The curtains were flung wide open and flowing in the breeze – an open window, somewhere. Spring was there and it was about time it did. A quick glance around showed him that nothing had changed: same worn-to-the-thread sofa, same TV set, same carpet with subtly-hidden-with-furniture stains. He remembered that time when he had sneaked outside his bedroom to watch football when his mom was asleep. He had made himself a sandwich but had spilt ketchup on the carpet. He had known that it would be useless to try and move any piece of furniture by even a millimetre to cover it up. He had scrubbed and scrubbed in vain, covered it up. In the morning his mom had found out and had rubbed his ears so hard he had felt the heat and the buzzing well into the afternoon. Even greedy Patsy couldn't lick the thing off, and she had given it a good go all through the night. Where was that dratted dog, by the way?

“Patsy?” That old dirtbag must be nearing biblical age now. He dropped his army bag on the floor, next to the sofa. “Patsy?”

He smelt something off, and instinctively went to the kitchen. As soon as he saw the two feet, one shoeless, lying on the ground he started running – only to be stopped short by the full view of the body and by the stench that felt like a wall. His mom had probably fainted or had fallen or something. There were traces of blood on the counter. She lay motionless. The dog was there too. Patsy had clawed her way through the thin cotton shirt and inside the ribcage. She was busy tugging at a whitish piece of something, a rib maybe. The heavy body was jerking at every tug from the powerful jaws. The dog had eaten the nose and ears clean, the half-eaten lips bared in a ridiculous rictus on his mom's face, his mom who had never smiled. Patsy had eaten most of the fingers, and he could easily picture her using her worn-out molars to try and smash the bones. There were several piles of vomit and shit, with earrings and strips of cloth discernible in the goo.

The brute had been too busy feasting, or was too old and deaf to have heard him come in. She didn't seem at all surprised when she lifted her head, looked at him with her slightly-veiled, dropping eyes. She was wagging her tail because yeah, the prodigal son had returned. Her rheumatic walk would have been farcical in other circumstances. Now it gave her the air of a bad sci-fi movie machine. She snuggled her bloodied muzzle in his hand like she used to, licked his fingers. Then she went back to her feast. He suddenly realised that she had left a fragment of bone on one of his fingers.

Something, at this precise moment in time, flashed in his mind. Very calmly, he reached for the holster in the small of his back, pulled his 9mm out, aimed carefully at the dog who, for some reason, had turned around. Patsy bared her teeth and growled. He could see pieces of bones and tendons stuck on her pink and brown gums. He stared straight into her black eyes and shot her in the head, once. Blood sprayed everywhere. Few drops landed on his carefully-polished shoes, and the bottom of his then-immaculate pants. Most of the blood spattered his mom's body. The force of the bullet sent the dog flying across the kitchen, landing with a thud on the opposite wall. He repositioned himself, grabbed the butt of the handle into the palm of his other hand. Calmly, he shot the dog, again. Again. Again. Until he ran out of bullets.

He calmly stepped out of the kitchen, through the living room and onto the porch. The draught through the front door was soothing, eerily embalming his face. He sat down. He had been fighting off the images ever since the flash had come, but now he embraced them. Every child, every woman, every man. Burnt, dismembered, bleeding. Crying, screeching, agonising. Their eyes, their seemingly iris-less, dark-as-night eyes. The hot nights illumined by rockets, home-made bombs. The air raids, the choppers. The sounds, the fury, the tinnital silence. The carefully-crafted, mutually-unintelligible, reciprocal hate.

When he heard the sirens in the distance, he knew he had a choice – several, actually. When he saw the three black and white cars hurtling down the road, he knew he still could make a choice. But he didn't move. The cries of the children, their hands stretched towards him, held him back.

All the officers came out of the car at once, but one was faster than the others and halfway across the front lawn when he spoke: “Sir, I can see the gun in your hands. Drop it!” His fingers fidgeting on the handle of his gun. “Don't shoot! Don't shoot!” “Shoot her, she has a gun, she has a gun!” When he came closer he noticed the blood-spattered shoes. He quickly drew his gun and aimed straight at him. The other officers did the same, two took cover. “Cover, cover! Sniper up at 2 o'clock!” Rookies maybe. Or ones who had been fired at before. “Sir, please drop the gun, now!” His eyes were darting quickly between the gun and his shoes. His dark eyes still contrasted with his light dark skin and his dark grey hair. He was a veteran, like him. “Keep pressing on the wound! We're losing him!” Older than the others. Could've been his dad, for all he knew. “Mom! Mom!” The gun fell between his shoes. The cop was a few feet in front of him.

Immediately, the officer's voice became much calmer. Something had changed. He walked closer, and said: “Rough day, son?”

When he tried to open his mouth he felt a knot in his throat. He managed to say “Yeah.”

“Would you like to tell me why you're crying?”

“I am?” “Flank! Flank! They're behind us!”

“Listen, why don't you come in the car so we see what's what inside the house and then we can have a chat?” He nodded. “We'll have to put you in handcuffs, son, you know it's standard procedure.”

He stood up, and saw everyone tensing. He turned around, his wrists crossed behind him. Two officers rushed inside the house. One picked up his gun. He didn't mind being roughed up. He didn't say a word. “I didn't like my folk, but now I miss them”. They would find, they would understand. He was led inside the car. Forceful hand bending his head. Door shut. Looking at his shoes. Outside. “Tell mom and dad I did my best. Tell them I.” All guns were being holstered. The old cop listening, looking straight at him. Nodding briefly to his colleague. Talking on the radio. They would understand why his mom, why Patsy. They might even be able to explain why the dog did this. But would he be able to understand the ultimate why? Would they? Would they be able to understand the constant cries of the children, the hate, the terror? The absolute, gut-wrenching, mind-crippling terror.

 

Fragment #80

The ground smell, raw and pungent, snaps him back to the now. He suddenly remembers his father saying: “If you fall, son, don't cry, and get up.”

So he dontcrys and getups. Unsure of what next, he thanks everyone around and runs. Runs till the streetlines blur.

He smells metal, earth, his own fear. He stops at the deli, panting; leans on the window but bangs his back, then folds on the floor like a rag doll.

Wipe nose, check clothes – tear on the front, mom will go bananas – bananas! He feels like crying, he does when he's bored, or when he's scared. He feels like peeing, again.

The deli man walks out, takes the boy's hand, pulls him up. Takes his chin, between thumb and index, turns his head left, then right.

Makes a face like Doctor Sullivan. “Come, sonny, we'll clean that up. Your mom's heart won't take it.” Mom's heart is big as a balloon in the sky – balloon! The deli man speaks funny. The deli wife takes his hand. Sits him on a stool in the bathroom.

The mirror shows a boy he doesn't recognise. There's blood trickling down his nose. Tufts of grass sticking out of his hair. And mud all over his face.

Poor boy. He cried too. Not a good day for anyone. Deli wife smells of soap, and lavender – lavender! Her hands are soft and busy. Mom's hands are rough like a brush.

“Why did they do this to you, mh? Can't they see you are what you are. Your mom is a good woman, but she can only do so much, on her own like that.”

Her voice is like a flute, it gets stuck in her apron, in her shoes, in her grey moustache. She brushes his hair, takes a washcloth, she lets her finger under the running water so the washcloth is warm. He likes it – warm!

Clothes will be mended. Stains will be washed off. Bruises will go away, and wounds will heal. But what about her son. He'll always be the special kid that end up beaten up. That's no life for a kid.

He likes her. The lightbulb makes his skin yellow – yellow! – like hers. She could be his second mom. He feels like hugging her, but mom said “No, you can't hug everyone like this.” He feels like crying.

“Does it hurt?” The boy shakes his head. She thinks he's trying to be brave but she can tell he's about to burst into tears. That's no life for a kid. She feels like crying herself.

Always feels like sleeping when his mom washes his face, and the washcloth roughing his face. Eyes closed. Water gurgle. Splash splash. More washcloth. Head bobbing. Whispers. Hands. Lifted, and eyes open light, light too bright. Light!

Hand the boy to the officer, he thought, it's none of your business. Nothing you can do about it. She was a decent woman his mother was, shame. Shame for the poor kid too. Like his life wasn't hellish enough already. “Did they catch the driver?”

Lots of words he doesn't understand. Never needed to understand them, really. His face is still rough from the cleaning. Rough like the policeman's hands. Rough the light he's brought in. It's a policeman's car. Car! And the flute voice says goodbye son. On! On!

“Take care of that little boy, will you, he has no notion of what's going on. Find him a good home. God knows what's going to happen to him.”

 

The blame

When you heard the screech on the asphalt

and realised your brakes didn't respond

you knew collision was bound to happen

perhaps you thought it wasn't your fault.

Perhaps, perhaps you saw my son

on the other side of your windscreen,

with his bright blue eyes wide open.

Perhaps, perhaps he froze on the spot

like the rabbit your bumper caught

last week – but that wasn't your fault.

It all happened in a flash, blinded

by the rising sun – maybe blunted

too, drowsy still in a sleepy slump.

When you heard the deafening thump

you knew one life had come to an end –

and again thought it couldn't be your fault –

perhaps then your heartbeats came to a halt.

You never know what's in the store of Fate,

but I knew, as all moms do, that something was off.

I had badgered my son not too be late

and in doing so I was behind time myself.

You see, my son that day was turning twelve,

and I wanted to organise a surprise dinner

but I had lots to do before the night's glitter.

So I dropped him near the roundabout –

the one which has become dangerous

for they have removed the hard shoulders –

that's why folk now take another route.

So when my son tried in a hurry to cross the road

he crossed yours and though you stomped

the brakes broke and your car flew

like a cannonball on morning dew.

When I got the call and reached the hospital

I mulled “how am I going to tell my husband

what has happened to our only child?”

I was directed by nurses with bowed heads

into a cold white room buzzing with sounds.

White blouses blinding in the blaring sun.

I still couldn't believe what you had done.

I heard my son's voice calling me as in a haze

though I couldn't see him through the wall of tears

only then did I start pondering whose fault it was.

Then I couldn't feel anything but pain –

losing a son isn't like losing a pen –

we can't rewrite any part of that tale,

not even a different, happier version.

This is why, Sir, I'm begging for your pardon

because had your son not swerved his car

and hit a wall to avoid my child

he would have had a blame to bear

with which he would never have reconciled.

Life will never be the same again

for you, for me, and for my son,

because yours gave his so ours could go on.

I will never forgive what he gave,

never forgive you said that he was brave

never forgive that you said at his funeral

that it wasn't anybody's fault.

That no one but ill-luck was to blame.

I wish – oh I wish I could say the same.

 

Where Good and Evil are borne

"We should not be simply fighting evil in the name of good, but struggling against the certainties of people who claim always to know where good and evil are to be found."

Tzvetan Todorov, Bulgarian-born French philosopher, historian, structuralist literary critic, sociologist and essayist (1939-2017)

The irony, which Mr. Todorov might have enjoyed, is that this brilliant quotation of his isn't to be found in a book, but is something he said during a conference. "Nothing is more commonplace than the reading experience, and yet nothing is more unknown," he wrote in Reading as Construction, 1980. Yes, but a sweet irony because he's still remembered.

I had the pleasure of meeting him once, briefly, at a small conference/book signing in the early 2000s. He struck as a man of sharp wit, and of piercing gaze. I still enjoy reading his book The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre.

He would have been eighty years old today.

In the dark of the heart

"They talk of a man betraying his country, his friends, his sweetheart. There must be a moral bond first. All a man can betray is his conscience." 

Joseph Conrad (1857-1924), Under Western Eyes (1911)

"Faith is a myth and beliefs shift like mists on the shore; thoughts vanish; words, once pronounced, die; and the memory of yesterday is as shadowy as the hope of to-morrow [...] In this world – as I have known it – we are made to suffer without the shadow of a reason, of a cause or of guilt [...] There is no morality, no knowledge and no hope; there is only the consciousness of ourselves which drives us about a world that [...] is always but a vain and fleeting appearance [...] A moment, a twinkling of an eye and nothing remains – but a clod of mud, of cold mud, of dead mud cast into black space, rolling around an extinguished sun. Nothing. Neither thought, nor sound, nor soul. Nothing."

 Letter to Robert Bontine Cunninghame Graham (January 14th, 1898).

"Droll thing life is — that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose. The most you can hope from it is some knowledge of yourself — that comes too late — a crop of unextinguishable regrets. I have wrestled with death. It is the most unexciting contest you can imagine. It takes place in an impalpable grayness, with nothing underfoot, with nothing around, without spectators, without clamor, without glory, without the great desire of victory, without the great fear of defeat, in a sickly atmosphere of tepid skepticism, without much belief in your own right, and still less in that of your adversary. If such is the form of ultimate wisdom, then life is a greater riddle than some of us think it to be."

Heart of Darkness (1902)

 

Non Conformiam

"The reward for conformity is that everyone likes you except yourself."

Rita Mae Brown, writer (b. 1944)

I haven't been able to locate the source for this quote...which is a shame because I like it. If anyone knows, I'm takers :)

Outspoken (new version)

I was told to be

out-spoken

but how can I be when

so often

I've been

spoken out

out of the playground

out off the bus

not a sound,

never one sound,

taken out

to avoid the fuss

how can I be when

I'm so soft-spoken

never one word

above the other

never have I given

anyone the f- word

even when

I was down-trodden

and I wouldn't bother

I just want to have fun

but people hold on

so to speak

they hold it up

against you

like you have to be

outspoken

or they tread on

they make a hell

out of a possible

heaven

and you can tell

it's such a burden

such a burden

don't speak out of turn

speak up, speak out

step up or step out

speak your mind

but mind your business

unspoken, unspoken

bespoke silence

speak for yourself

not for others

speak volumes

but keep it down

they want you to be

downspoken

ready to be

trodden upon

and yet, and yet

you can up

you can in and out

speak, speak, speak

your mind, your piece

your voice is unique

no need for their blessing

untrodden

that's your ground

never cease to be

outspoken even

against heaven

outspoken

the only lesson

you'll ever

need to remain

forever

unbroken.

About a year ago I published a piece titled "Outspoken", and it seemed fine at the time, but I read it again recently and decided it was time to prune and graft. It's not uncommon for me to revise, sometimes extensively, but I don't usually publish the revised version. Today, for whatever reason, is different. Happy reading!