The Sub-Editor - Seven Spaces

SEVEN PLACES

Can anybody hear me?

Well, here's something I edited earlier (with thanks to A A Milne).

There was once an old sailor my grandfather knew
Who had so many things which he wanted to do
That, whenever he thought it was time to begin,
He couldn't because of the state he was in.

He was shipwrecked; the parallel doesn't end there.
He was out of his depth, exposed and laid bare.
He was lazy, for sure, but that isn't the issue.
Think shame and despair; that might give you a clue.

But, he made the decision to be rid some stuff
Discard all the past that made living so tough.
Discard all the things that got in the way
Just live in the present; live for the day.

As he lay in his bed, he divided the place:
Seven rooms that need clearing to give him some space.
Seven rooms that need clearing to get rid of the dust
To get rid of the dust, well that is a must.

He decided to spend a day on each room;
Get rid of the old; proverbial new broom.
A day on each room; could be done in a week.
But the more he considered it, the more he felt weak.

The more that he thought of the things he should do
The more that his fear and fretfulness grew.
As he thought of the things that he could - just - achieve
He lost faith in the project and failed to believe.

(Back to A A Milne.)



And so in the end he did nothing at all,
But basked in the shingle wrapped up in a shawl.
And I think it was dreadful the way he behaved
He did nothing but bask until he was saved!

The Sub-Editor - Dust

DUST

It's the mornings that terrify me the most; the process of waking up. At night I scratch. I toss and turn. I dream and, in a half-conscious state, the clarity of my thoughts makes me want to bellow and scream.

To wake and reconcile oneself with another day; another day of avoiding the truths that, when engulfed in the black of night, are exposed all too well.

My days are all about avoiding the truth.

I wake - a mysterious, tenuous thing, this daily becoming - but I keep my eyes closed. I curl my body into a ball. I press my hands between my knees: ugly red fingered impressions on bed-warm flesh. I breathe, face-down, into the pillow and the rudeness of being properly conscious again makes me sneeze repeatedly so that when I look at myself in the bathroom mirror, I look like I've been crying for years.

Or, perhaps, it's just an allergy. 

The house is full of dust. Dust on the bookshelves and windowsills, the TV screen and blinds.  On the wooden arms and legs of furniture and in the creases of fabric and cloth. Dust on the base of the upright reading lamp, on the faded, pleated lampshades and the electric fire's plastic coal: on the tops of the wall sockets and framed pictures and prints. Corners and crevices, ornaments, appliances. Not only on horizontal surfaces; it clings vertically too; to the sides of wardrobes and the chest of drawers, the desk, the filing cabinet, walls and doors.

When the low winter sun cuts its way into the house, the truth is unavoidable; the atmosphere inside is heavy with dust - endlessly suspended.  Moving minutely, slightly, in the cold white light. I breathe it in.  I tread it into the carpet. I feel it settling on my skin like snow or a wet mist.

Dust is dead, but it sticks. Like the ashes of a cremated body, it is slightly greasy. The dust in the house sticks to me as I sit and wait. It blocks my pores and clogs my mouth. It dulls my hair and gathers under my nails. It greys my skin and turns the whites of my eyes yellow. 

Sometimes, I use the sleeve of my pullover to wipe away the dust.  Sometimes, I use a damp cloth. I even have a feather duster (albeit synthetic).  I disturb the dust, but I am never rid of it. I dislodge it and displace it, but the minute I turn my back it encroaches once more. Dust on every surface. Dust on the floor. Dust on every object I've ever owned. Dust on every object in the house; not just my belongings, but on those of others who were here and then left.

I am the custodian of dust.

The Sub-Editor - Intervention

INTERVENTION

So, what does it mean to lock oneself away?

And, then, how should that story be told? How do you write of boredom and loneliness? How do fill a page with unfilled and unfulfilled hours?

If, as Larkin states, one must be true to the experience, what precisely is the terrain of that experience?

Perhaps 'to write' is to map experience, but a map is not equivalent to the territory it describes. It remains a highly contrived set of rules and signifiers that allows uncharted land to be conceptualised. It doesn't come close to what it means to move - the body and the soul - through space and time.

Georges Perec's character, Bartlebooth, 'hardly goes out, he scarcely leaves his study all day'. And, Smautf, another of Perec's inventions, 'stays for long periods each day in his bedroom. He tries to make some little progress with his arithmetic; for relaxation he does crosswords, reads detective novels which Madame Orlowska lends him, and spends hours stroking the white cat, which purrs whilst massaging the old man's knees with its claws'.

There is comfort in these descriptions of solitude; perhaps because they describe what the characters do, rather than what they're thinking or feeling.

Our character does not have the advantage of an omniscient narrator. That's why I've decided to intervene. He has locked himself away - he 'hardly goes out', he holes up in his bedroom for 'long periods each day'.

He blogs when he can find the energy but, already, the process - the effort - of arranging his thoughts requires a distance that removes him from the chaos of his emotions.

And, he wonders where the truth might lie: in his words or his silence?

The Sub-Editor - W G Sebald

W G SEBALD

I am reading Austerlitz. W G Sebald. 

It comforts me strangely, though I struggle to say why. As I am strangely comforted by reading the obituaries of people who die young: literary figures, artists, musicians, photographers, all kinds of engineers and technicians. People I admire. People who other people have bothered to bear witness too.

It helps me to believe that a short life isn't necessarily a tragedy: a wasted life. 

And, Austerlitz: a wretched life can still be a worthwhile life, so long as it is properly told.

This is my concern: whether the worth of a life is dependent on how it is told. 

But, I dream of a library, a comprehensive history of humanity, where everybody's life is documented and archived. Forget birth certificates and marriage certificates, death certificates and CVs. I dream of a library where everyone who ever lived has taken the time to write themselves down. Or, someone else has done it for them. Some sub-editor of life.

The Sub-Editor - The Origins Of Photography In Limericks

THE ORIGINS OF PHOTOGRAPHY IN LIMERICKS

There was a young man called Daguerre

Who had talent, charisma and flair.

With a sensitised plate

He recorded the great

As they sat in his studio chair.

A competitor?

Well, that made Talbot sit up and think.
(He'd long tired of paper and ink.)
Photogenic drawing was taxing
His calotype needed waxing
But, at least, it produced lots of prints.

So, thank God for Frederick Scott Archer

Who cared little for patents or barter.

His wet-collodion on glass

Freed photography, at last.

He died in poverty: the fate of a martyr.

I am waiting for the next batch of proofs to correct. Proofs I re-wrote and, now, need to be re-edited - as soon as the authors return them to me.

The Sub-Editor - Nightmare

NIGHTMARE

I am awake, but I can't move.

I want to scream, but I can't.

My voice is stuck in my throat.

I see her there, in the corner of the room, surrounded by dust motes or something celestial.

But I am petrified: totally paralysed.

I know she is dead and I think, perhaps, I am too.

The Sub-Editor - Night Walking

NIGHT WALKING

I dream of a place where I once felt at home; a place of cobbles and rock and stone, built into a hill.  All roads led up to an open moor, wild and raw from the relentless winds that rattle and ravage it, sweeping the landscape and taking your breath. And, after a while, a broken quarry takes you down to earth again.

I dream of a place that is covered in snow and held together with ice. Where silver lights hang from trees and orange candle flames flicker in windows. I think there is music playing there, too.

The pull in my muscles as I head up the hill; tightening in my thighs and aching in my calves. My back is sore from bending forward.  My jaw is fiercely set.  But I can no longer feel my fingers and toes, and my mind is somewhere else.

I have devised a circuit and, every night, I walk it. I always leave the house at ten. Ten pm when the TV news is starting. I learn what I need from the radio (and I'm thinking of getting the paper delivered to the house).

I live on the outskirts of town, a cul-de-sac. If you look at a map the road goes nowhere. But, there is a footpath that crosses an industrial estate, a playground and a public park, and leads directly to the 24-hour Asda.

I walk for a couple of hours each night, till midnight. I walk through well-lit streets and pitch-black alleyways. I walk across tarmac and gravel and grass. I walk under the moon and the stars and the galaxies, but I never escape the sick-thick glow of the neighbouring city's light pollution.

I'm wondering: would it be cheating if I shopped at the supermarket late at night? If I kept my head down and used the self-service tills? The organic supplier doesn't stock all I need.