I’m very pleased to feature this week a guest post by Paul Wood. Paul is the author of three books about trees in London: London’s Street Trees, London is a Forest and London Tree Walks, and he writes the blog thestreettree.com. London Tree Walks, published in October 2020, features a dozen walks around London from […]Great estates: the changing role of trees in the municipal housing landscape — Municipal Dreams
As part of our Heritage Lottery Funded project, You Are Hear: sound and a sense of place, we are working with volunteers to install listening benches across Essex. These solar-powered park benches play clips of recordings from the Essex Sound and Video Archive, recordings chosen and put together by our volunteers. The listening bench for Coggeshall…
For the next event of the summer term we are very excited to host a panel on ‘Adapting “Our Mutual Friend” for TV and Radio’, featuring Sandy Welch (screenwriter of the 1998 BBC TV adaptation), Mike Walker (writer of the 2010 BBC R4 adaptation), and Jeremy Mortimer (producer of the 2010 BBC R4 adaptation). This event will take place on Thursday 4th June from 6.00-8.00pm in the Birkbeck Cinema, Birkbeck School of Arts.
You can find more more information and see our full summer term programme here.
These rainy breezes which come like
Squall-driven seabirds, bearing a scent of hyacinth.
The eye bending towards the cold mainland
The heave of hill, the grassy banks
Rain-soaked, softened to blur,
Making the landscape look younger
In the rain-filled lens of your eye.
You step quietly, gingerly, like
One bearing lilies, pomegranates
Underfoot, the apple tree
Bending to your music;
Like it’s a visible act,
Like you’re a bride who whispers
‘Ah, Paradise’, playing for time,
A button horse stitched to your bodice
Rearing up, mane like a crested wave.
All eyes obscure, obscure eyes.
Our lord a spectacled lord,
Peering and squinnying,
Spring in his hand, sunlight
Spilling through his fingers, violets
In his hair.
All over the world people are posting short stories about a flat tyre. This is the fault of Ron Carlson and his chapter called A Writing Lesson: Three Flat Tyres and the Outer Story, Chapter 2 in The Cambridge Companion to Creative Writing. Carlson encourages his readers to write a story based on a flat tyre. Here’s mine – a thought and writing experiment. Out of my comfort zone.
It wasn’t even our car. And I certainly had no idea what sort of car it was – maroon red, old – dull. Smelling of mould and smoke, the grey cloth seats sticky-damp And I didn’t even know what that sound was – thought we’d gone over a bump and then a deeper thrumming, an irregular, unbalanced feel to the motion of the car. “Flat” he said, pulling over. I wound down the window, smell of peat, sheep shit, seaweed. He got out, the boot screeching reluctantly as he searched for the spare. I followed, walked up the deserted road, to stretch my legs.
“Really out of our comfort zone now,” I thought to myself, thinking of crispy-skinned fish and frying pans and a warm red fire. It was dead cold. A bright moon with inky clouds racing across. The dark grasses bent and bowed in shivering rhythm to the bitter wind. He was blowing on his fingers, tucking them under his oxters, and then lying on the gritty road to attach the jack to the car and crank it up. The road ran round what looked like the shoulder of the hill – down below, a black invisible sea loch; beyond, dark hulks of hills delineated by the brighter darkness of the sky.
“I didn’t know you knew how to do that,” I said. “How’d you learn how to change a wheel?”
“Everyone knows,” he said, not really listening to me, as he rolled the spare round to the wheel hub. He blew sharply down his nose.
“Fucking spare’s fucking crap.”
It wasn’t actually true, though, what Lee said – lots of people drive cars who don’t know how to change a wheel.. Angela probably could. My stupid mum and her bloke probably couldn’t. They’d ring someone up, they’d sit in the car and wait for someone to sort them out. Poor useless, helpless rabbits. Fuck them.
“It’ll have to do,” he said, throwing the wheel and the jack back inside the boot. He looked up along the road.
“Come here then,” and pulling me towards him. Sticking his frozen hands inside my jumper, on my breasts, my nipples dead tight and stiff with cold. He laughed, playing with them. It was nice. I clung on a bit.
“Better get on,” he said, moving off and getting back behind the wheel, turning the ignition. I ran round to my side and got in.
“How far to O-ban?”
“Oban. Another hour, maybe. We’ll leave the car in a car park and wait for the first bus.”
“What will your gran say when we turn up at her’s?”
“Dunno. She’s deaf anyway.”
“I can’t go back, Lee – they’ll do me for nicking Angela’s phone and all her money and that.”
“Yeah – and this car. We’ll tell my gran we’re on holiday.”
The car thrummed on through the night, occasionally lighting up the bright yellow eyes of sheep that emerged out of the darkness.
“They’re like bleeding zombie eyes, aren’t they?” I said. “Like in the films.”
The heater was on full blast; there was only a rubbish radio in the car and I could only get some kind of late-night phone-in with stupid music. I gave up and just watched the road for a bit – nothing, nothing, a sheep, nothing, nothing, a rock, a sheep…. What would happen when Angela found out that I’d fucked off? She’d be upset, I reckoned. She’d want to find me and sit me in her office and talk to me about myself. She wouldn’t like it that I didn’t want to do that anymore, wanted to go with Lee and have a life. Lee said we could work in hotels for the summer, make some money and then go to Norway. One of his friends was on an oil rig in Norway. Lee reckoned he could get him a job. Lee said I could probably get work there too, because I look older than I am, and no-one could find us. Or Iceland. There were hot springs in Iceland, you could bathe naked in them with snow all round you. Or we could go to Ireland, I told Lee, to my dad’s family – except to be fair we couldn’t – I didn’t really know where they lived, or even their names, really. And they didn’t know mine, I thought, imagining walking up to some door in a terrace of grey brick houses and saying to someone with a weird twangy voice, “I’m Carly.” “Who?” they’d say.
The car thrummed along, a grey line like a frayed edge appearing ahead of us in the night sky. We could just keep driving, for ever, maybe, I thought. Never stop, just keep going, drive past all the people jumping into the road, trying to make us slow down: ‘stay here, we’ll get the police onto you, you belong to us, go to school, get a job, fuck yourselves up like your parents did.’ We’d drive past them all, drive to Norway, no, we wouldn’t even stop there – just drive through the night, just me and Lee, in our crap car with its crappy spare tyre and useless radio, for ever and ever.
This post becomes something about hyacinths. It’s 23.52 – nearly midnight. It’s dark cold, it’s dead winter. I conjured hyacinths out of memory, out of a buried yearning for something to grow, perhaps, some stirring of growth down in the darkness there?
But first I wrote this:
Today, I read fragments of things – a fragment of an article about ‘third camp’ socialists; a fragment of an article about Robert Klein; a fragment of my daughter’s excellent piece about digital mapping. Too tired it seems right now. to read anything through. Maybe give it a go tomorrow. At least I finally sent off student’s reference tonight. I wanted to finish off reading Judith Butler’s article about Can we live a good life inside a bad life – in which she explains her concept of grievable lives. And how this immediately allows us to imagine the ungrievable lives and how that is so immediately a concept that we needed to have. So ‘props’ to JB (I’ve just learnt what ‘props’ means!).
I printed more of my lino cuts of rose hips. Cousin thought they might be pomegranates – a category of scale error, and perhaps not noticing the thorns! But – with another who loves the proper terms for things – cousin’s husband notes the ‘calyxes’ and presumes they are not pomegranates, though not sure what else they might be. We have a short discussion about the plural of calyx – I go for calyses!
Brother brings pink hyacinths growing in a bowl. Just green fleshy cones – about an inch or so high. It’s the fag end of the year – who said that? – I feel the earth’s sullen deadness; I’m waiting for the planet to shudder on its axis and tip again towards sun, light, growth. Grateful therefore for the gift of hyacinths, their green growth nosing out of the earth; marvellous, later, those intricate, curlicued petals, massy, pink, perfumed.
It has to be admitted, though, that the hyacinths are not blue, and so are not perfect. My mum grew blue hyacinths for me – what love to do that, to remember that I loved the blue ones, and make sure I had them. I don’t know now why I have a fixed preference for blue ones. I suspect – responding to hints and associations that may mean nothing – that there might have been something in a poem or a novel or even in Greek poetry – Seferis? Some imagist or modernist perhaps – or just Eliot and his lilacs? – that I wanted to emulate as the forgiveably posturing teen I was.
I used to take bowls of the blue hyacinths my mother grew for me back to Aberdeen after New Year. They filled my student room with scent, through the cold blast of January and February. They scent my memories of those winters – the rain and sleet, the wind, the dark dark dark.
I like dark blue hyacinths best – not the Cambridge blue ones, Oxford blue, despite my years of sojourn at Cambridge. Feel somewhat dissatisfied with the blue hyacinths of today that never seem to attain those dark blue hyacinths that live only in my nostalgia.
I lost my sense of smell and cannot smell the hyacinths anymore.
I miss my mother, winter deadness.
The dark dark dark of you.
Texts for nothing – Samuel Beckett
An orchestral conductor beats a silent bar or so to set the tempo for the orchestra – a ghost measure called the ‘measure for nothing’ – that explains Beckett’s choice of title for 13 brief tales he wrote sixty one years ago, my birth year, actually. At the time of writing the tales, Beckett described himself as struggling to ‘go on’, and wrote these ‘prose stutterings’ which expressed, he said, the “failure to implement the last words of The Unnameable [an earlier work]: I can’t go on. I’ll go on.
The conductor’s arm sweeps, preliminary, gearing up the orchestra – poised, all enter on time, the first breaking of the silence, all the stuttering rehearsals done now, here’s the real thing…
Sometimes the writing is like that – stutterings, a text for nothing.