Strength & Sadness

Strength and sadness

Constant companions.

Casting shadow and light,

Competing in flight,

Rising, racing,

Undercutting each other,

Always tied to each other,

Each comes from the other.

Sadness, galvanises,

The sense in your core

A forewarning,

Tears shed in care

Love to spare.

Strength can be softening

An offering to others

Whose hands may be tied

Or whose sadness has swept their strength to the side.

It’ll be fine

When you have no real idea

Calm in the face of fear,

Not for yourself

But for everyone else.

Though the pair are poised opposed

The gaps between them close

To nothing.

To be so sad that

All you see is drenched in blue

And still walk one foot at a time,

To be caught under duvet like cement in your bed

And still breathe,

That’s strength.

To drop a hint for help or not tell,

That is still

A well,

Of unknown depths,

Of sadness and its strength.

EMC

Photo by the author, Interior ABC, Glasgow

Take it Easy

Pushing through, improving

When you feel like you’re not moving,

Tethered, same old mooring,

Feels like you don’t know what you’re doing.

 

Like a boulder on your back,

A form of self-attack,

Circumstances may have stalled,

And now you beat yourself down small.

 

‘Should’ can help or hinder,

Indicating mistakes or wrongs.

But magnified, turned inward

can also cast some shadows, long;

I should be better

I should be further

I should know all of the answers

I should have done this

I should have fixed it

I should be creating chances.

 

When all the power’s in your hands

And things are not according to your plans

So the logic goes, who else is to blame;

You set the fire, feel the flames.

Embrace your own autonomy

Your independent thought is free,

That is your responsibility.

But if you’re trying your level best

When the arrows just won’t rest,

Know that you are sound,

Sometimes solutions are waiting to be found.

They may require chipping out and carving, dug with your own muster,

But some assistance or opportunity can come from another.

Supportive words, a listening ear, or two,

Someone who believes in you.

And the light might not always cast itself in your direction,

But keep seeking,

Hand outstretched,

everywhere,

And it may just be met, half way in mid air.

 

A lattice of interlocking light,

Shines bright as kindness keeps alight

Our hearts like stars,

Connected by these threads

Like kites, balloons, or paper planes bobbing on a mobile above your head.

 

Paths leaves scars as you find your way

And in the pause of some relief

Breathe in  deep

Before submerging –

Because it will all come round again,

The rushing, never ending, one of those days, lack of sleep

This time when it’s really what you need,

For passions of whatever kind,

That soothe your heart and give you peace of mind.

 

EMC

 

 

 

 

Mind Control

Worries, stresses, unfettered,

Nerves, blush flushes, untempered.

Heat nicks my pins

Travelling toe to head,

Rushing water in a sinking ship,

It fills me up with dread.

 

Waking from a sleep,

My companion is on its feet.

I’m catching breath on ragged mesh

Tight wound, its marks impressed.

 

We’ve halted in the tunnel,

There’s no info and no signal

The doors are locked, the air gets hot,

And I envy all the couples.

 

 

If this chain reaction flies in full –

It’s the captor, it makes the rules.

 

Crouch down in corner,

Find out here it’s cooler,

Put my mind to work

And mine it for all its worth.

Eyes clamp shut

In myself I trust.

Paint across the conjured canvas,

Place my panic far at bay

Picture the fear flowing,

Hastily away.

 

These ancient mechanisms

Our in built defences

Go too far, strive too hard,

In their attempts to save us.

 

EMC

 

Getting Home

It’s Saturday night, it’s central station

And everybody’s winchin

Seeking some cessation

of the realisation

that fun is crawling to a halt.

But not before it’s been exhausted, squeezed clean of every sweaty droplet.

Burger king does a roaring trade

If chips were water we’d all be sober.

Chips chips burger chips

Fish and chips and curry sauce

Mixed with drips from spirit lubricated lips

Sauce and slaw and oil and batter

I burned this off already, just through my evening’s banter.

Shoes are pinching,

Heels are stabbing,

Feet on fire

Dancefloors made of burning coals.

Where’s my flats I thought I’d packed

Find the toilets

Oh god the stairs.

Try find change while feeling rage at the hell heat in my feet,

And then it’s 40p to pee. It’s a scandal it’s outrageous.

Contemplate peeing 40 times but I’d end up there for ages.

And now there is the final sprint

Running always running

I’m out of breath I’m risking ankle,

Ticket money coat bag fankle.

I made it skiting through the doors

I slip I slide, glad not to fall.

There’s singing and there’s shouting,

Bare feet on grimy floor

The train’s delayed, I need again,

Toilet queue is out the door.

And finally we’re moving

And I feel like going snoozing.

Bundle up my meagre jacket

And make a pillow for my comfort.

Late night lullaby;

Phone calls home

For lifts and food

Ready waiting pizza,

Filters in, improves my mood.

Looking back I might have liked

To keep track of stops encountered.

Tapping on my shoulder

Takes me from my slumber

To find I made a Platform blunder – reading 6 for 9,

It’s too late, I’ve gone too far, I’ve reached the end of the line.

EMC

Photo by the author. 

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In Plain Sight

She felt the ground soften under her feet. It mulched and shifted under sole. Made small by her surroundings, branches reached, waving leaves at the clouds as if in conversation.

Holding onto peeling greening bark, she supported herself. With a cautionary tilt of her head through long brown hair, Laure paused and checked it really was clear, that she was alone, that no-one could see, and began to cry. The well she thought she’d exhausted the day before had refilled of its own accord.

The monster in her heart found its voice in her tears. Air couldn’t reach lung before what remained was expelled. The deficit made her head light and she sat before she fell. Her heart stopped. Not of excitement or fright. She thought this must be what it is to break, to be snapped underfoot.

Trying to count breaths in and out, rhythmically, she reached an uneven compromise. Her hand rested on the half submerged roots of the tree she had chosen, arching into the ground. Blurred branches hung over and above her, a drooping canopy, diffusing sunlight through the green. Raindrops began to fall, bubbling in the puddles at her feet. Some were burst by sharply pointed strikes. They swam into the gully of the roots.

One brisk eye rub and the canopy came into clarity. The criss-cross of intersecting branches looked like it formed a letter. Laure reasoned the shape existed independently, and she only noticed it because it reminded her of the first letter of an important name. A reflection of how her mind was focused on it, searching. She was reserved for that name, it was ingrained, and every object became a mirror of it.

To make sure it really was there, she leaned away from the trunk slightly, knees still bent, to trace her fingers over it. Sure enough, one slope connected to a pinnacle met by another slope, and crossed in the middle, marking the letter A.

The wind blew in and around the leaves as further letters began to form. Branches lay across each other, giving — to As and Ts. Looping round, buds provided the . to is and js. The canopy yielded, lowering. It bent and undulated, pushed out of place. As branches tried out new shapes, they began to find new formations. The canopy of letters began encircling the central trunk, encasing Laure underneath. Temporarily shocked, panic erupted until she noticed that she was not being pinned but enveloped. The part of the trunk she had been sitting on sunk back to create a concave nook of a hollow. She sat in it.

Although contracted, there were still gaps between the leaves. Laure risked a push of the woven structure and found it pliant. She could hide here, and no-one would know. If she wanted to leave, a push and a squeeze under the periphery and she would be free. She pulled it closer.

EMC

Photo by the author. 

 

 

 

A New Day

It’s New Year’s Day,

For once nature is noisier than the neighbours.

Cars still cross and tarmac creaks,

Under the weight

Of too many After-Eights.

 

Birds continue tweeting and feeding,

Unaware of the landmark change.

Their cycle continues,

Much the same.

 

Expectations, hopes, fears;

Leak out of window panes and door frames,

And fill the bracing air.

Solar embers ignite the sky,

Sending plumes of white cloud spinning,

Pigment collision.

At the peak of winter, a peek at the warmth soon to reach us.

EMC.

Photo by the author.

The Falling

 

Director Carol Morley Cast  Maisie Williams, Florence Pugh, Maxine Peake
UK, 2014, 1hr 32 mins, 15

The Falling’s writer and director Carol Morley brings her first full length feature film to screen, marking the culmination of a career making predominantly documentaries, by producing this hazy meditation on emerging adulthood.

In tone and feel The Falling is reminiscent of the Australian Picnic at Hanging Rock (Weir, 1975), which sees a boarding school group of girls on a trip inexplicably disappear. Morley has alluded to Antipodean influences, additionally citing the work of Jane Campion and her first feature film Sweetie (1989). This explored the relationships between sisters, in particular an increasingly tension filled dynamic, reflected in the friendships of Morley’s leading cast, alongside a hint of mysticism in the air. The immersion in the world of a girl group facing the disruption of adolescence also finds a point of recognition in The Virgin Suicides (Coppola, 1999). Alongside Campion, Morley’s dual writer/director roles and visual approach place her alongside UK peers such as Andrea Arnold and Lynne Ramsay.

Graduating from the Central Saint Martins College of Art & Design, Morley has amassed a significant collection of short films, touching upon ideas which find themselves surfacing again here, such as in The Alcohol Years (2000), where Morley revisited her younger years to piece together a five year period between the ages of 16 – 21 which were lost. It is in The Madness of the Dance (2006) however, that the clearest connections emerge.

The Madness of the Dance examines a combination of mass hysteria and individual compulsions such as biting and trichotillomania, so called “psychic rebellions.”[1] A Professor (Maxine Peake) takes the viewer on a journey through hysteria in varying forms across the centuries. It was “the ancient Mediterranean world (that) traditionally believed that bodily symptoms we now call hysterical were caused by a womb which wandered throughout the body.” [2] The Hippocratic era notion of the “wandering womb” finds itself under consideration in The Falling, where this collection of hysteric behaviours finds itself transposed and focused in one arena; an all girl’s school in 1969.

The central pairing of The Falling comprises Abigail (Florence Pugh) and Lydia (Maisie Williams). The intensity of their friendship, exhibited through the carving of their initials into a tree together, lingers in a suggestively romantic area. In the way that girls play with each other’s hair, and share their darkest secrets, there is an intensive intimacy entwined with the friendship. This close bond is disrupted in the light of Abigail’s sexual experiences with boys. In the study of mass hysteria there is often the identity of a natural leader, someone particularly charismatic. It finds here two leaders of the charge, in both Abigail and Lydia.

The film opens with a shot of the water, the lake in the school grounds, reflecting the leaves of several looming trees. Their colours are transforming into those of autumn, setting an expectation of an environment on the precipice of change. The film’s themes are also clearly established, as the water soon gives way to the moon, which leads into a science class on the subject of the egg. Womanhood and adolescence are bound up with nature from the initial opening scenes, providing a context of burgeoning sexuality within which the plot of mass hysteria unfolds.

The film employs techniques such as the use of visual layering and a nippy cutting style. The latter is mostly factored into the episodes of hysteria which manifest themselves through fainting spells. The effect is jarring, and disorientating, creating a temporal discontinuity. The technique is used lightly, but effectively plays on notions of perception, which are also wound throughout the film. The dreaminess lends itself to the quality of a nightmare, as what is real and what is not become difficult to discern.

These edited montages could be a collection of skewed memories, recent or long past. This kernel of a reference to collective memories neatly aligns with Morley’s method for her process of creating the film. In a recent interview she explained how she “…thought about what age the characters would be now or which of them would be dead. And what they would say about the events in the film now…”[3] The often hypnotic transitions between scenes, the layering of flowers to faces to bark to tree, offer a presentation of the fragmentary manner in which the mind can piece thoughts together.

The mood of the film is further buoyed by a score which comes from musician Tracey Thorn. The schoolgirls are part of an Alternative Music Orchestra, led by Abigail, whose compositions gave inspiration to Thorn’s score. School instrument favourites – the recorder, the triangle, the xylophone – combine underneath the drip drop knock on wood of a marimba sound. Through this, a hint is given at the cumulative effect of one fall after another to come.

While the school children insist their affliction is real, the majority of the teaching body beg to differ. This results in a conclusion of psychological cause, rather than physical ailment. An out of shot psychiatrist cross-examines the group, the most discernible nod to Morley’s documentary roots emerging in the interview style which is utilised. While the film broadly alludes to repressed issues finding expression in the hysteria outbreak, the message speaks beyond this. These are girls who are kept contained, regimented, and moderated by the school system and the expectations placed upon them. As these restrictions tighten the underlying discontent flows, and bubbles over. These girls have something to say, and they will be heard.  

Originally written for and published on glasgowfilm.org

For Orlando

It is said that sexuality doesn’t define,

And no, don’t write me off.

But it is written through me,

Entwined on each fibrous level.

Meshed, hooked and looped from eye to toe.

It even began to taste sweet.

So it shatters my heart,

Rips the tissues apart,

When infiltrated by those who have hated.

 

Occupying secret spaces,

We have shared language and masked our faces.

Rites of passage thought wrong,

Wandering the straight and narrow for too long.

Until, you dare to deviate otherwise.

Hands contorted from decades of doors prised,

open.

 

I am tired, but they can’t wake up.

From the playground taunts to the political haunts,

Every word led to here.

EMC

Originally exhibited as part of the Stonewall Season, November 2016.

Photo by the author.