The crunchy gravel on the path under my feet used to have railway tracks on it. It’s been flattened now, the sleepers and rails torn up to make way for cyclists and walkers. This was never a commercial railway – it was a coal-board owned one. I wonder how many thousands or millions of tonnes of coal sped their way up and down it when it did exist: coal for industry, coal for families, coal for war, coal for pollution, and atoms for peace.
The pathway is picturesque now, the wilderness cleaved back from it’s edges to reveal the rolling countryside around it. Farms and glades that feel inviting and homely, it’s odd to see them from this perspective as my childhood memories show them from different angles. The path is also strewn intermittently with small signs, some of these provide history on the railroad, others point to entrances to the mining villages the trains that rumbled up and down this track would have picked up their loads from.
The bridges, walls and other man made features are neglected, deep green moss and flowers grow from their cracked surfaces lending an ethereal quality to my journey. One bridge in particular evokes a strong memory, it is high and long – crossing a deep natural ravine. I stop for a while and look into the forest from the bridge, eventually I look down – it must be 80-90 feet high. When I was younger, I got really drunk one night and decided to walk along this very same path to sober myself up, I’d come to this bridge and decided to walk down the steep edge of the ravine and see what was underneath.
This turned out to be nothing, but I remember standing at the bottom at around four am with the burn trickling past me and the pale dawn breaking open the sky above; god, this must have been what, eleven or twelve years ago now? I’d gone under the bridge, sat down and fallen asleep. When I awoke, I was no longer under the bridge but was lying next to the sea wall in Culross, new dawn fully upon me, the keen, nippy Western wind blowing across the Forth chilling my face. I still don’t know how I got there, sleepwalk or blackout, one or the other…
This bridge is also important because it signals that I am near the end of my journey. The path runs for around seventeen miles in total, there is an entrance to it a couple of minutes walk from my mother’s house. My destination leaves the path around eight miles after it’s beginning and I veer off onto a country road. Where the path joins this road is near my Grandmother’s house but this is not the purpose of my journey. It has been years since I have traversed this path, but I remember every twist and turn of it so well I could still navigate it with my eyes closed, I’m glad I don’t have to do this as I am met with a surprising sight upon rounding a bend…
As is common in Fife, there are coal-bings scattered arbitrarily around the countryside near the mining towns; large slag heaps made of dry dirt and shale, the waste products of labour, like cairns to a dead industry marking where the pits that produced them used to be. The bings are ugly black marks that ruin the view and serve as little more than a reminder of a time when the means to produce energy was less clean.
This has changed.
The bing I remember as an ugly blackish-red hillock from my childhood is covered in vegetation, weeds, trees, and flowers. I am amazed that life has managed to cling and blossom in the loose stony earth, the bing now looks like a natural part of the landscape, unnoticeable save for the gate and fencing at it’s foot reminding people to keep off it due to the loose shifting soil. It looks solid – no real danger in climbing it now I suppose?
I consider this for a moment but remember the bunch of flowers in my hand – the real purpose of my journey – and see the other hill and winding path I have to climb in the distance, the cemetery at it’s summit. No time for this now.
I walk on down the road, conflicted and unbalanced by the revelation of the pile of shale I’ve just left, proof that no matter how difficult the condition, life will find a way. This gives little comfort as I ease down the road, not wanting to face what I have to face when I reach the top of the hill.
Sunday, 11 July 2010
Chip Shop
Despite my reservations, I am wandering the streets of the town in the company of several people with whom I have little in common. The evening has been dominated by seemingly random forays into pubs populated almost exclusively by large men in vests, with whom I have absolutely nothing in common.
Every glance upwards reveals a sky that has been soaked the colour of undistinguished lager. Every time I attempt to join in the obvious jollity of the occasion I am drowned out by the inadvertant yelping of my compatriots, and I resort to adopting a vacuous yet friendly expression whenever any enquiry is directed in my direction.
We stand in a huddle of indecision outside a brightly-lit doorway, and earnest debate falls around my ears as I watch, with unbelieving nausea, a chef in the chip shop opposite shoo a flaming, but living, pigeon from the window of his establishment. The flying, sputtering lump of flame erupts from the window with an erratic path that is subsumed from my attention by an enquiry from my colleagues regarding money. I answer with rapidity, only to turn my gaze back to find the burning bird has disappeared from view.
After an eternity of boredom we emerge from the club. The pigeon is lying in the gutter, curiously expanded, horribly burnt, utterly dead.
Every glance upwards reveals a sky that has been soaked the colour of undistinguished lager. Every time I attempt to join in the obvious jollity of the occasion I am drowned out by the inadvertant yelping of my compatriots, and I resort to adopting a vacuous yet friendly expression whenever any enquiry is directed in my direction.
We stand in a huddle of indecision outside a brightly-lit doorway, and earnest debate falls around my ears as I watch, with unbelieving nausea, a chef in the chip shop opposite shoo a flaming, but living, pigeon from the window of his establishment. The flying, sputtering lump of flame erupts from the window with an erratic path that is subsumed from my attention by an enquiry from my colleagues regarding money. I answer with rapidity, only to turn my gaze back to find the burning bird has disappeared from view.
After an eternity of boredom we emerge from the club. The pigeon is lying in the gutter, curiously expanded, horribly burnt, utterly dead.
Saturday, 3 July 2010
Lurgee
‘I wrote a poem about her around Christmas 2009, although I was a bit drunk at the time I can remember writing the poem clearly.’ I looked at my single audience member to ensure he was listening before I continued, ‘I forgot all about it but remembered I’d written it when I was off work ill, it was odd, my thoughts of everything good about her began to disintegrate after a while. I re-read the poem and found myself looking at the words but I wasn’t sure what any of them meant anymore.’ Dave looked at me curiously as the last words trailed to a whisper on my lips; his eyes seemed to lose a little focus in the confines of the dingy bar. I’d been telling him about the girl, not really knowing what I hoped to achieve in doing so.
‘What made you write the poem in the first place?’ he asked me. I began to wonder why I was even telling him the story and I had to think about it for a bit before going on, ‘I don’t know, I’ve never been one for writing poems about girls; my subject matter is usually abstract – I thrive on the stifled necessity of existence, consistently drawn by a complex narcissism to the ugly. In my opinion, things of beauty usually speak for themselves and require little further description…’
Dave gave me an odd look again and waited for me to continue, ‘I think it’s about someone getting under your skin when you least expect it, then having to deal with it and rationalise it within yourself: it’s about how you become weak, how you become prone and the ways someone else can make you feel bad about yourself.’
‘If she made you feel so bad about yourself, why didn’t you just walk away from it? Surely it would have been easier?’ It was my turn to look baffled, I allowed my thoughts collect and churn in my head before going on: ‘I thought I had done her so much wrong, so much harm that I wanted to make amends for all of it – I wanted to prove I’m a good person and that thorny words soaked in alcohol mean nothing. None of it made any difference, she accepted my apology on the surface, and apparently, everything is ok. I keep trying to move forward but it always stalls and really, what was there isn’t there anymore.’ I’ve finished my beer so take a long pull of the Glenmorangie in front of me and keep my eyes on the table.
‘Did you try? Did you really try? Were you sincere and did you tell her what this was doing to you?’ I was twirling the Whisky around in my glass watching the oily water cling to its sides; I raised my eyes and looked at him, noticing for the first time how badly his hairline had receded. ‘I told her everything, well almost everything, but opening up to her just made things worse – it seemed to awaken the notion of the degree of control she had over me in her conscience. I guess some people just don’t have the emotional maturity to deal with the truth…’
‘That doesn’t make any sense…’ he tells me, ‘well it makes perfect sense to me, she barely treats me as if I’m human these days, it’s a silly manipulative mind-game – devaluation I think it’s called, designed to make the affected party feel worthless and insignificant, bouts of the silent treatment followed by periods of acting normally again. The trick is to keep the other person on their toes by constantly making them wonder what they’ve done wrong in the hope that they’ll keep grovelling, crawling back…the whole thing is pretty masochistic.’
‘Oh yeah, I see where you’re going with this – reminds me of an ex-girlfriend of mine, I got shot of her pretty sharpish, but you, why are you clinging to this? You realise that there is nothing you can do and it’ll only get worse?’ Dave had a curl of a grin at the corner of his mouth now, smug, like he’d just cracked the enigma code. ‘I know that now, it took me a while to realise, I was so full of fear and doubt about things I might have done to her, but I realised it wasn’t me – she needs hurt in her life to cling to. I’m ready to walk away for good now, it’s time to concentrate on the people who have proved time and again that they are there for me unconditionally…’
I’m twirling my drink again, enjoying the feel of the slippery glass under my fingers, ‘Good!’ Dave exclaims, his trickle of smile breaking into a fully-fledged grin, ‘but one thing…if you realised this already then why did you need to speak to me about it?’ I’m a bit sheepish about answering this, ‘well…’ I say, ‘it’s more to do with the poem…although I don’t know what it means anymore …it’s really good …definitely one of my better efforts…. but it’s a false memory of an idealised person that didn’t really exist. I don’t know what to do with it, it’s wrong to destroy art…’
‘It’s your creation, Gav – you need to decide whether it continues or ceases to exist, that’s all I can tell you, the choice is yours. Anyway…I’m going to the bar, same again?’ I nod my approval at this and ponder the problem until he returns. ‘My God!’ he says, looking with surprise at my face, ‘You’re grinning from ear to ear!’ I realise I am, and I feel good, cold German beer slips down my throat like honey.
***
When I’m back in my flat later that evening, I take the Moleskine journal I penned the poem in from the bookshelf and locate the page it is written on. I remove it, tenderly I suppose, from the journal with a gentle tearing motion. The paper feels strange and oily under my fingers, I sit on the couch, light a cigarette and read it over a couple of times. These were once beautiful words: abstract, ill fitting and raw together in a jumble that made sense to me before when I was weaker. I continue to look at the page for a while, noting the lack of resonance the words now have, they are just dull scribbles on a piece of paper.
I crumple it up, put it in the ashtray which I then place upon the sill of the open window. I take my lighter and gingerly set fire to one of the corners poking out from the messy, compacted ball, it catches and begins to burn, I watch the smoke pour out the window, washing the incoherency, fear and doubt into the night sky on a gentle breeze. The burning smell blows back in and hits me and I’m reminded of scrunched up newspapers used to set fire to piles of autumn leaves – I love the autumn, for its sense of melancholy seems to strike my need for sadness. There is poetry in the dying of the year and mystery as well. It’s summer now, but it will pass soon enough.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UTip94vtNVM
‘What made you write the poem in the first place?’ he asked me. I began to wonder why I was even telling him the story and I had to think about it for a bit before going on, ‘I don’t know, I’ve never been one for writing poems about girls; my subject matter is usually abstract – I thrive on the stifled necessity of existence, consistently drawn by a complex narcissism to the ugly. In my opinion, things of beauty usually speak for themselves and require little further description…’
Dave gave me an odd look again and waited for me to continue, ‘I think it’s about someone getting under your skin when you least expect it, then having to deal with it and rationalise it within yourself: it’s about how you become weak, how you become prone and the ways someone else can make you feel bad about yourself.’
‘If she made you feel so bad about yourself, why didn’t you just walk away from it? Surely it would have been easier?’ It was my turn to look baffled, I allowed my thoughts collect and churn in my head before going on: ‘I thought I had done her so much wrong, so much harm that I wanted to make amends for all of it – I wanted to prove I’m a good person and that thorny words soaked in alcohol mean nothing. None of it made any difference, she accepted my apology on the surface, and apparently, everything is ok. I keep trying to move forward but it always stalls and really, what was there isn’t there anymore.’ I’ve finished my beer so take a long pull of the Glenmorangie in front of me and keep my eyes on the table.
‘Did you try? Did you really try? Were you sincere and did you tell her what this was doing to you?’ I was twirling the Whisky around in my glass watching the oily water cling to its sides; I raised my eyes and looked at him, noticing for the first time how badly his hairline had receded. ‘I told her everything, well almost everything, but opening up to her just made things worse – it seemed to awaken the notion of the degree of control she had over me in her conscience. I guess some people just don’t have the emotional maturity to deal with the truth…’
‘That doesn’t make any sense…’ he tells me, ‘well it makes perfect sense to me, she barely treats me as if I’m human these days, it’s a silly manipulative mind-game – devaluation I think it’s called, designed to make the affected party feel worthless and insignificant, bouts of the silent treatment followed by periods of acting normally again. The trick is to keep the other person on their toes by constantly making them wonder what they’ve done wrong in the hope that they’ll keep grovelling, crawling back…the whole thing is pretty masochistic.’
‘Oh yeah, I see where you’re going with this – reminds me of an ex-girlfriend of mine, I got shot of her pretty sharpish, but you, why are you clinging to this? You realise that there is nothing you can do and it’ll only get worse?’ Dave had a curl of a grin at the corner of his mouth now, smug, like he’d just cracked the enigma code. ‘I know that now, it took me a while to realise, I was so full of fear and doubt about things I might have done to her, but I realised it wasn’t me – she needs hurt in her life to cling to. I’m ready to walk away for good now, it’s time to concentrate on the people who have proved time and again that they are there for me unconditionally…’
I’m twirling my drink again, enjoying the feel of the slippery glass under my fingers, ‘Good!’ Dave exclaims, his trickle of smile breaking into a fully-fledged grin, ‘but one thing…if you realised this already then why did you need to speak to me about it?’ I’m a bit sheepish about answering this, ‘well…’ I say, ‘it’s more to do with the poem…although I don’t know what it means anymore …it’s really good …definitely one of my better efforts…. but it’s a false memory of an idealised person that didn’t really exist. I don’t know what to do with it, it’s wrong to destroy art…’
‘It’s your creation, Gav – you need to decide whether it continues or ceases to exist, that’s all I can tell you, the choice is yours. Anyway…I’m going to the bar, same again?’ I nod my approval at this and ponder the problem until he returns. ‘My God!’ he says, looking with surprise at my face, ‘You’re grinning from ear to ear!’ I realise I am, and I feel good, cold German beer slips down my throat like honey.
***
When I’m back in my flat later that evening, I take the Moleskine journal I penned the poem in from the bookshelf and locate the page it is written on. I remove it, tenderly I suppose, from the journal with a gentle tearing motion. The paper feels strange and oily under my fingers, I sit on the couch, light a cigarette and read it over a couple of times. These were once beautiful words: abstract, ill fitting and raw together in a jumble that made sense to me before when I was weaker. I continue to look at the page for a while, noting the lack of resonance the words now have, they are just dull scribbles on a piece of paper.
I crumple it up, put it in the ashtray which I then place upon the sill of the open window. I take my lighter and gingerly set fire to one of the corners poking out from the messy, compacted ball, it catches and begins to burn, I watch the smoke pour out the window, washing the incoherency, fear and doubt into the night sky on a gentle breeze. The burning smell blows back in and hits me and I’m reminded of scrunched up newspapers used to set fire to piles of autumn leaves – I love the autumn, for its sense of melancholy seems to strike my need for sadness. There is poetry in the dying of the year and mystery as well. It’s summer now, but it will pass soon enough.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UTip94vtNVM
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