Archive for June, 2015

Unfinished comic.

image

Below are chapters from an unfinished comic book. Unfinished as I couldn’t find an artist to draw my ideas. It is very roughly edited, however I wanted to give it a home. I felt at the very least it deserved that. To note: this work is trademarked.
The Corridor
The date is the nineteenth of May, 1998

I have waited to walk down this all my life…I just never thought it would be this soon.

Never thought it would be this long.

I can smell the smoke in the air. Taste the fear in the shadows.

The clock on the wall reads: 1:30 AM.

God why am I hear? What can I do to get out?

There is no way out. I know that…somewhere in the very fabric of me, in the blood that courses through my veins,that there is no way out.

Behind the thin walls I can hear sounds: the endless phlegmatic coughing. Barking like dogs…that is a phrase she would have used…the low rumbling groans and the murmured prayers.

Murmur to a God that doesn’t listen.

The watchmaker God that winds the watch and lets it go. He, she or it then buggers off to let the whole stinking mess wind away.

Tick – Tock- Tock-Tick-Tock.

Louder and louder in my mind and drowning out everything else. Mocking the solemnity of the occasion.

The corridor. The one I know I have walked before.

The shadows are alive with the fear. Animal and primordial fear. Fear of what lurks just beyond our sight. Just beyond our reasoning.

Leaden steps (land of clichés? Possibly.)

Can I ever find the words to say what I need to say? Paragraphs get caught in my throat…

I see a door. My throat tightens like a boa constricter crushing the breath out of it’s pray

I see but the watch-maker God turns away. The night outside turns away. The artifical light flickers like the wings of a death-head moth. Crazed and driven.

I know what is beyond that door.

I know what is underneath that white sheet.

I have always known.

Deep down I have always known.

[door opens- we see a street-scape]
The box:

[scene: London]

The hope of love-the hope of better things to come.

‘I love you’ I laughed

You look at me in surprise and gently reply ‘Do you?’

Back in time in a muesum:

‘These clothes-these fibres represent the hard cold commerce of colonialism’

‘Think of all the women that made these, think of how the empire couldn’t stand without the work of ordinary women.’ I say

‘You always think of the cog that turns the wheel-the little person’

It is the nicest thing anyone has every said to me. In hindsight I think this is when I fell in love with you. Such a simple statement but you have seen my heart for what it is.

History: the collective memory. They make statues to the big men of history.The rest of us are like ants- we work we go un-noticed-unaware.

Love is the spark we hold close to our soul.

We love family- we love friends and if we are lucky we find another to love.

Someone that loves us back- someone that makes it alright to be an ant.

You look to the sky -after taking a bite of the takeway meal you look to the sky and say:

‘Did you ever think that during World War Two they must have thought the world was going to end? The aeroplanes overhead raining down bombs on their heads. They must have thought it was the apocolypse’.

I think you are in tune with history-seeing the humanity behind the horror of mechanised war. Looking beyond the object and towards the subject…

Ah I am in a mood of hindsight for that is not what I thought..I just thought you were sweet. Smart.

Hindsight is such a wonderful thing. We look for patterns, a narrative, something that unifies and explains the moment. Something we can hang our hat on and say that was the moment when everything changed.

We create our own history. We create ourselves. We create reason and meaning. Conscious that all the time it is sometime so simple,when we think someone is so sweet and that their laugh can change our life. In Trafalgar Sq. the empty plinth becomes a place where my art stands: it is the fact I made you smile.

An intangible smile surrounded by tangible objects.

Objects. We collect them we place meanings on them. The western world obssessed with totemistic objects-they represent us they say I was here. I existed. I was. Even the objects we don’t want sit and gather around us-cluttering up our lifes. They grow and grow and grow and as they do we diminish somewhat. They represent us and at the same time they make us empty. Why? Why does this desire make us feel so empty? Because it reminds us of our futility because it reminds us that what we really seek is that intangible sweet smile. The metaphysical realm calls us to seek love and no object can fill the gaps.

‘I love you’

‘I love you too’

Your hair is long and its darkness stands out in stark contrast against your milky white skin.

God I am making you tabula rasa- projecting all my loneliness on to you. Consuming you making you an object. I know this-well my intellect knows this I know the dangers of my misogny. How fucking smug men can be. How much we objectivy women-page three, skin mags-porn vids-porn hub. Desiring you as objects.

As an object of my affection I buy you a gift. A cliche of romance. A box of chocolates. I stand here now buying a newspaper it is two years later and I see those box of chocolates on a shelf. They remind me now of only one thing.

You don’t love me anymore.
Border
Dates- border 1939
Dialogue 2001

I stand in isolation. Somewhere in between. Dreams are all that remain…in the realm of myself. Only one except the man at the border.

Smokes: ‘what we have got to do is write it down. Capture the buzz of the second.

Head: ‘jesus dude. I am fucked if I know how to deal with all this in my skull. I am reaching breaking point.

S: ‘You need a pint. What is on the head?’
H: ‘Everything and nothing. I feel lost. Don’t know what I want to do.’
S: ‘What can you do? There is fuck all left.
Nothing to work towards…especially now I don’t have her.’
H: ‘The muse. The one.
Ennui in a cold climate eh?
God I thought I had the one once. Legs from here to ya ya.’

S: ‘I don’t think anyone understands me. The angst won’t stop…the piss and vinegar..it takes hold.’
H: ‘Destroys any chance you have.’
S: ‘Till all you have got is your own delusion.’
H:’Disillusion.’
S: ‘Dissolution.’
H: ‘Cans at the ready.’
S: ‘Smoke between my lips.’

The ennui of the border guard. Flippant attitudes in the face of mass annihilation. The mechanisation of murder, mass bodies piled high. Soon to be a scar on the European landscape.
Smoke rising steadily from chimneys. No bird sings and the centre begins to snap.
Sweat on the forehead of the refugee,
The coming storm will soon engulf…the breaking point comes soon…
H: ‘The individual is all. So fucking what about society?’
S: ‘Dead in the gutter.’
H: ‘Sitting here at the edges.’
S: ‘Liminal.’
H: ‘Sub- Liminal…No words fly.
S: ‘She loved me once, I felt it, knew it. I loved her…but I couldn’t breach the space between us, I think I put her on a pedestal you know…
I think I made her more than…more than me. Own me. Control me…but I never knew what was in her heart…’

H: ( in kitchen) ‘Sorry dude, missed what ya said.’
S: (dejected) ‘it doesn’t matter anyhow.’
H: ‘It always matters…’
‘I know I loved her once. Two teenagers. My first love. Strong love- hormones and romantic ideas. Foolish but pure. We dreamt of escape…waiting to cross borders and away into freedom…sunshine days…lust filled nights.
Crescents and the smell of cigarettes.
Running down the backyards of home.
God I miss…’
S: ‘…communication is key…and….’
H: ‘Sorry I drifted.
S: ‘Ah it is okay.
I think we are both drifting neither to one stop or the other.’

H: ‘It doesn’t matter, what day is it?
S: ‘Fucked if I know!!’

Somewhere the man at the border. Guards say ‘no.’
The storm behind gathering pace.
Whipping into frenzy. The world will crack and run with blood. The soil will not be able to soak it up.
The mother weeps. Mothers weeping.
The man at the border puts a gun in his mouth…
They refuse to yield..the finger does not.
Man at the border with the gun in his mouth.

Orange light

(Fist bangs against wall: darkened room with light on wall it is the 20th of May 1:30 am 1998)

One: ‘What now – why now?’ What ways can the heart rip?

Ghost: (cold and detached)
‘A facsimile of the moment. Cheap tawdry exposition. Rip it up and start all over.’
(physically rips up actual page. We see a blank page).

O: ‘Why me? Why us?
There is nothing outside these walls
There is nothing outside these walls that can help…
O: ‘What can I say?’
G: ‘Then why say it?

(ripped up. Start again)
Character one in frame and nothing set

G: ‘We are getting nearer…closer to the truth but then memory lies, loss messes with the senses.’

O: ‘Senses are the only thing we can trust.’

G: ‘You have broken the fourth wall. We can trust nothing.’

(two characters-small on a blank page.)
O: ‘Is this just a lie? Have I used the one thing that hurt me the most, just to tell a story? How selfish have I become? Here in my room. Alone. Except for this.

G: ‘Is this what I have become? An editor of memory? Over thinking a past that no longer exists? Rewriting a pain that is dull??’

Both: ‘No closure.
Rip it to shreds.’
(pages in pieces. Words in flux.)

Both: ‘Back to the start.’

O: ‘A lonely joke
Against a wall,
A tumbledown king
With nothing at all..

G: ‘Ah we enter the cheap rhyme.
The poetic soul
Another conceit.
A lonely word
Creating a world
A joke without a punch line
Crowned as absurd.’

O: ‘Am I mad? Has the blank page took over??’

G: ‘Who is truly sane in a madhouse??
Edit reality
Edit sanity
Can we truly start over??
We sit at the border
Inbetween…
Liminal…
Am I ever going to live?’

O: ‘Ah enter melodrama.’
G: ‘I am the editor.’
O: ‘The past talks back.’
G: ‘I have used you.’
O:’As I have you.’
G: ‘lets start again….from the top.’

O: slumped against wall
Radiator at back
Light- orange- comes through the window.
No words, no thoughts…only of her.
Sometimes words say nothing at all.
( tears run down cheek and from above we see the two characters)

G: ‘better…much better…..but let’s try again.’

The sacred heart

image Yeats famously observed that ‘too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart’. It is an acute observation, concerning as it does the way humans lose compassion when they get blinded by a singular idea, goal or ideology. WB could see that Irish republicanism would very quickly become heartless, with a narrow view of ‘Irishness’. It is easy in hindsight to see where my nation would go wrong. Very easy to see that we would adhere to constrictive doctrines with regards identity, politics and religion. Our supposed superiors believed that sacrifice was at the centre of what it meant to be human. The sacrifice of Christ became attached to the sacrifice of those that died in the 1916 Easter Rising (so much so that even today the anniversary of the event has became a moveable feast just like Easter itself!) The poets job is not to live in the realm of hindsight but to react to the world around him or her self. Poetry has an immediacy that isn’t matched by other art forms. It can react and create the moment. Yeats knew those involved in the Rising and had seen first hand the job that sacrifice had done on the heart. Most presciently he saw that this shade of ‘green’ would see a terrible beauty born. I cannot read the poem without thinking of all those buried in unknown bogs, those blown up in some pub bombing, those locked away in laundries, the raped and abused, unfortunately the list could go on. The point is the sacrifice comes at a price and even more so when the symbol of sacrifice becomes more important than the reason for sacrifice. What terrible beauty is born when the image becomes more important than substance? Can compassion flower just because you place a painted heart above the hearth? Can ideology feed the starving? This is where the metaphysical matters. Poetry probes and confronts that which we find unpalatable and uncomfortable. It confronts that ‘other’ within and it attempts to shine a light on the darkness residing just below the surface of the self. I cannot live in a Dawkinish world where I am at a scientific remove from myself. Yeats, through words and images, causes me to confront my own hard heartedness and warns me against singularity. To be holistic, to use that overused word, is key. A single purpose is not enough. That way lies the stone and the heart is too sacred a thing to waste.