Ophelia's Nun

FinsburyParkCarrots

I put this one up on your "Challenge" thread also, olderman.

Get ready for the weekly pack of lies:
"Najaf is back in Government command."
Then, watch the news reports: A lad defies
the camera, gun held aloft in hand,
the temple's golden dome behind him. Some
older men behind him stare at length
upon the lens, some seated, quite at home
to show resistance in a quiet strength.

It was just the same in Saddam's time:
"We have the situation in control."
Control? That's dreams of temples splashed in grime
from bodies ripped apart in dust. 'Extol
the moral highground as you brutalise';
that's their motto there. Bring on the lies.

ruby

Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots
Penny remembered. At that introductory morning session, on enrolling at the Open University, Penny had laughed with the others in the classroom. The lecturer had enthused (while hopping about the tiled floor in his squeaky tennis shoes and matching navy blue cords/v-neck sweater combo), that "Educating Rita" was pretty accurate and that many students found themselves after the Foundation year of study leaving their boring partners and suburban Thursday morning tupperware parties, to go hiking around Bangladesh with a troupe of radical jugglers instead. But, of this, she was sure. She hadn't laughed quite as loudly as some others, though. Yes, she remembered that.

Had she an inkling of what would follow, even then, or was she transposing her knowledge of following events onto her memory of her feelings of that moment? She wasn't certain. Trying to capture the memory of feeling seemed to her to be like trying to remember the thoughts that encircled the brain at the moment of waking from a dream that was still carrying on slightly.

She knew that it had, ironically, been Nigel all along who had encouraged her to take the course. She had been bored from day to day in the first couple of years after work brought them back from a stint in Singapore to their Essex hometown. Nigel was now commuting to London every day; the kids were at school and surprisingly well settled , but Penny's days had been empty, filled with fears that the old depression was coming back. The new house to her was box-like, 1980s built, spacious but cold and square. Everything she'd done to make the decor more homely had only accentuated the soullessness of the place. The antique chests of drawers and dining sets seemed like someone else's furniture to her, hoarded by possessive ghosts. And ha!, when she would go to visit Nigel's sister for daytime company (well, duty, she knew) she'd see the same decor, the same borrowed histories and hear her voice laugh emptily, echoing on beige matt walls to half-hearted gossip about people she didn't even know.

And yes, the course had more than filled a void. She physically felt her mind expand as she'd spent nights in the little study she'd designed for herself, with the pc and rapidly filling shelves of devoured books,
poring over Gillman's "The Yellow Wallpaper" for an assignment to be sent in to the tutor in the post, the following week. She'd stopped meeting the in-laws after about the second year of study; Nigel had mentioned once in the car, quite sternly on one brief moment of togetherness during a Saturday shopping trip, that it had been commented on that she'd seemed sullen on those last visits to his sister, not even smiling and looking bored. Nigel had added that she was turning strange when she rejoined that she was too happy to laugh these days. The kids had started to make noises in the back, to know what was going on and they'd spent the rest of the drive and day in Nigel's boiling silence.

She remembered studying in her room for that essay, the kids being long asleep, and Nigel still at some late night party with colleagues in London. He was at these nights more and more, but she by then was past caring. If he had been here, what would that have signified?

And then in the third year came the summer residential school in York. She'd drifted with her folders under her arm to breakfast each morning, through geese waddling across the rolling Heslington campus, past the Ouse brimming deeply the shadows of Langwith and Vanbrugh, and with other students laughing a new laugh she could laugh herself, deep with resonances of Fauvist canvasses, Yeats's mythologies, all the mysteries of a consciousness suggested in the language of willow rustle and grass glaze shimmerings.

And now, here, in the delicious shade of nodding chestnut boughs, a man in her embrace was looking deeply in her eyes, weaving her golden hair in fingertip tapestries of a beginning touch of love, and the river was lapping, the river was calling, the river was calling, a kiss, a kiss, a kiss, a kiss, the river, an ocean, the waves, a kiss, a kiss, and in that moment she remembered all, and her shoulders felt the press of duty, the dilemma of commitment against the recklessness of touch, the hopelessness of a moment. To kiss? To kiss?

I hope Penny kissed. And was kissed.

ruby

p.s I've so enjoyed reading everyone's work here. May I please join in the exercises?

FinsburyParkCarrots

Please do!

FinsburyParkCarrots

Along my road, a broad green shimmering
of deep horse chestnut leaves resounds pink tongues
of budding coning flowers, clamouring
a babbling parole of lovers' langues.

Still Here

short but sweet...i liked it Finsbury...:)

ruby

Dear Mr Finsbury, is everyone over Mrs Neave or may I still have a bash? (Just checking to see if there are any new exercises.)

FinsburyParkCarrots

Dear Ruby, you may try Mrs Neave and Penny both!

FinsburyParkCarrots

I just wrote this one for us all!


An Exercise in Narrative time

We might all agree that in a narrative text, the component of 'story' (comprising the narrative's events, actions and happenings) follows a chronological order, but we also know that it is a common practice in narrative 'discourse' - the ways in which the story is told - that the narrative sequence of events can be manipulated using devices such as flashback (the theoretical jargon-term for which is 'analepsis') and flashforward ('prolepsis'). A popular text that plays with narrative time is Ernest Hemingway's "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber"; Tarrantino's "Pulp Fiction" is a perfect example of how this technique of temporal reordering is used on the screen.

I would like you all now to try the following exercise. Tell a short story of a character called Peter who goes for a walk in the city of your choice. But don't start at the beginning of the story. You could, instead, start in the middle of whatever action has occurred, then flash back to the circumstances that led to this point, returning to the middle and following chronologically to the end. Also, you could start at the end and work your way back.

There are some extra techniques you can include, such as 'external-analepsis' (which means flashing back - perhaps in the related memories of a focalized character - to events that precede the events of the story).

Good luck!

FinsburyParkCarrots

Poetic Justice

The local residents, it was accused,
were typical of those in cul-de-sacs,
always wanting planning schemes refused
along the main road; always with an axe
to grind about the light the office blocks
blocked out across their lawns. Then, when they fought
to stop the drive-thru, they took well-thrown knocks
that local papers threw (in punch gloves bought
by moneymen) - "The Not-in-My-Back-Yard
Brigaders In Last Ditch Campaign" - as though
their months of work were rushed, to be crushed hard,
the fate of little men: Small despond's slough,
a dead-end-streeters' dusty destiny.
They won. That felt like providence to me.

rarghrargh-brownstar

ill ophelia YOUR nun baby!

FinsburyParkCarrots

For once I am absolutely speechless.



You know, Ophelia is a friend of mine. She paints nuns, among other things. This thread's for her really, me ole mate Effie.

http://www.cannsdownpress.co.uk/CDP50b.htm

ISN

heheheheheehehehe......Ophelia should be a verb.....

(actually it sounds more like a disease)

FinsburyParkCarrots

Originally posted by ISN
heheheheheehehehe......Ophelia should be a verb.....

(actually it sounds more like a disease)

And your next assignment is........



Hey, ISN... do dah Peter's Walk assignment, pleeeease!

olderman

this is going to be fun! i may have to actually excersise my brain!!

ISN

Looking for a Pensione in Madrid is difficult at the best of times, but this summer, all the rooms seemed to be taken in every boarding house in the whole of the city. There were certain areas that Peter didn't want to live in, all nicely detailed in the Lonely Planet guide. So en route, on his quest for a room, he didn't walk through Sol, or Lavapies (the latter had an air of bohemia that Peter found incompatible with a good night's sleep: you know the kind of thing; people out drinking 'til all hours of the night; gangs of ruffians marauding at will).

The guide to the Madrid Metro was similar to the London Underground, in its wild twistings and bright colours: reds, yellows etc, but, unlike London, each stop on the Madrid Metro afforded discoveries of a nature ensured to bring delight to the newest Madrileño unfamiliar with the infinite possibilities that a walk through Madrid could open.

Peter was walking from Plaza España, up through Noviciados, and he'd already passed a bakery and an interesting café. He stopped in the café and ordered a caña and some tapas. Standing at the counter, he found himself to be a magnet, and was soon engaged in discussion with the regulars, one of whom happened to be a Briton. This man was once a model so it seemed, but his jaunty remarks about living in Spain were betrayed by his bleary-eyed look and general decrepitude. (Moving on, Peter noted the incredibly orange internet café for future reference). He decided not to enquire at any Pensiones near Gran Via, but headed up-hill on a parrallel with the major road, crossing the small side-streets, like a surgeon deftly splicing veins.

We find him in Bilbao enquiring about a room in a street overlooking the station, with balconies towering over the junction: an imposing building with decorative architecture on her light grey walls. The room (from the classified paper, Segundomano), is taken. Peter is somewhat relieved, as the landlady seems to be a little too personal, and the other man living there, who might have divided her interests, is leaving for Milan that evening.

The youth hostels were all full, which he knew from his first few weeks in Madrid. He's at the edges of the city, walking haphazardly through streets with little shops and cafés. He sees a shop with blanched leather gourds hanging out to air. One day they will be filled with wine and painted in gaudy colours for the tourists. He backtracks, and comes upon a square, that Sunday afternoon, filled with young people drinking beer, singing, talking together, and playing drums. All encircling the front of a huge church, splayed around the courtyard like a necklace of conviviality. Lingering, he feels part of the happy crowd, which includes toddlers, and Madrileños that would not look out of place in a Benneton ad.

He saunters back to Ventura Rodriguez, exhausted with his search, and climbs the steps to his Pensione. His room is tiny, with just a small sink and a makeshift cupboard. He takes out a bottle of red, and some Jamón and bread, and eating, looks out the window at the rooftops and clothes flapping in a light summer breeze. Picking up Don Quixote, he's not convinced he'll ever finish it. He thinks about his luck in finding the Pensione to move to. It's half-way between Plaza España and Bilbao where his college is.

The street was long and straight, with different vendors on it. The balcony of his new room caught the afternoon sun, and let it flood into the double sized space, highlighting the beautiful polished floorboards. One of the shops was a tobacconist. There were plenty of cafés and a flower stall was set up. It was near the old centre of Madrid, and he'd passed a film crew, but only stayed to gawk for a few minutes.

This area was sure to become as fond to him as his favourite, Ventura Rodriguez, where he would watch the sunset from the top of the hill in Park Ouest, and dream of walking to the distant mountains - 'the mountains of Madrid', and skirt the ancient Temple Debod, with its reflective water apron, to laze in the folds of greenery, and dream his lazy dreams.

He finishes his wine and dinner, and crosses the streets to Park Ouest, over to Temple Debod, and an enchanting late-Summer Madrid dusk.

Still Here

WOW...that was awesome at worst ISN...:D

Finsbury...I fear this may use all of my brain energy, not to mention time...good exercise though, and I cannot wait to read yours...also some others. I will think for awhile before venturing this one...:)

this is by far the most intelligent thread...and I'm always pleased to read anything on this page...:D

ruby

ISN, that was fantastic

ISN

thanks youse two....hehehehehe.....Madrid is incredible.....I walked all over it.....many times.....I love the city.....so many little quirky places to see.....we nearly bought an apartment that was like the inside of a boat....all white and wood....with a berth.....I lived on a street that was called Alfonso Mandable or something.....always gave me the creeps.....Mandable....hehehehe......ah, to be in Madrid.....:)

ruby

Lillian sat on the verandah steps surveying the freshly mowed lawn. She breathed in a lovely breath of satisfaction and tilted her head back so that the sky filled her line of vision. How long had it been since she had breathed properly? And was it possible to unlearn the art of breathing?

She remembered the morning Harold had stood in the kitchen, the sun streaming through the window filling the room with light. He'd grown tired he'd said. Tired of her quietness, tired of her timidness, tired of the life they'd lived together. He'd squandered the best years of his life he'd said, toiling for her and the children.

She had wanted to say, 'You are tired?' But then felt far too tired herself to attempt such a discourse. She'd almost smiled. She might even have laughed out loud, at herself, had Harold not been standing there, his eyes dark, that deep crevice on his forehead almost pulsating. She had always called that particular look, 'Look No. 73'. But only in her head. And had always felt that look number seventy three was not a particularly attractive look, but rather a look of deep and profound constipation.

After he'd left. Not immediately, but a few hours into the morning, she had heard the laughter. It was loud, ringing in her head. Like the sound of two hundred church bells magnified. She opened her eyes, looked down at her hands, fists clenching then unclenching. Her fingers small but strong and wet now. Wet with tears of overflow. The cleanest tears.

That had been almost a year ago now. With Harold long gone the garden had become her domain. Hers alone to nourish and tend. She had let it go, almost to wild. The flowers danced happily now. They too relieved at the cessation of being constantly cut back. Mrs Neave breathed.