Chapter 23 Well...

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 17:37:00 +0000

This is the best thing I've ever seen.

......EVER......

Green

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 11:37:00 +0000

The woman over the road was painting her front door green. It was nearly two-thirds covered, and the previous coat of red could still be seen sitting below, yet to be completely painted over. Janice Shearborne peered closer through her curtains; the red reminding her of those buses in London she had seen on the television. She could see that it still showed through the green that the woman was applying with short dainty strokes of her brush; her hands protected by bright pink rubber gloves and her thin grey hair pulled up in a bun. Once this coat was done it would probably take at least another two lots of green before the red stopped showing through. That was how many coats it had taken Mrs Shearborne to paint her door.

The brush dipped in again, rising from the paint pot to the door in a purposeful motion. The paint was thin, but the woman applied it liberally, causing it to dribble down the door, over the simple wood carving shapes, streaking through the red. The other way round, thought Mrs Shearborne, and the red would look like blood dripping awfully down, like a doorstep murder scene. She felt her own blood boiling through her thickening arteries, and tried to calm herself.

There was a knock at the door, and Mrs Shearborne flicked back the curtain to hide herself, cursing for she knew that she would have been seen staring out of the window. She ducked back behind the windowsill, hoping whoever it was would just leave. The knock came again.
“Mrs Shearborne, it’s me… your sister writes again!”
The postman.
Straightening her dress and taking three deep, relaxing breaths, Mrs Shearborne shuffled her way from the window, taking her time and not calling out because she knew that Mr Sutcliffe, the postman, would wait for her. He would wait until she answered; he never posted the letters through the door anymore. There was no need: Mrs Shearborne was always in, and he knew that she always liked to chat.

She opened the door. Mr Sutcliffe beamed at her through broken teeth and white tufts of beard.
“Liking the new colour, Janice…”, his greeting came, as he held out a white envelope with her sister’s scroll dancing across the front. Mrs Shearborne took the letter, and managed a cursory “Hello Mr Sutcliffe”, but her eyes did not meet his. He smiled broadly again, and continued his jovial greeting.
“But of course, being a postman, I’m quite partial to post-box red…”
Mrs Shearborne ignored him still, and the quiet of the street became an awkward silence. He turned sharply to follow her curious gaze, to see that the woman over the road was painting her front door green. Now that he looked away from her, he felt Mrs Shearborne’s words stab at him from behind.
“I do wish you wouldn’t always talk in jokes, Mr Sutcliffe,” she scolded him, “It is exceedingly annoying. And, on the subject of my door, it is a hideous colour.” He turned back to her glare; one that only women over a certain age are somehow able to muster. At a raise of one of his bushy white eyebrows, she continued.
“I had thought it rather regal when I painted it, but I have come to find it quite ghastly. I’m thinking of changing it immediately.”
“Well… that’s up to you.” He looked around, feeling like he should make amends to their conversation before he went on his way. “Please don’t change your dress, though,” he nodded towards her ample frame, covered in a bright floral pattern, “It’s very lovely.”
Finally Mrs Shearborne smiled. “Why thank you!” She enjoyed the new way the conversation was going. “I got it last week; very expensive it was too.”
Mr Sutcliffe mirrored Mrs Shearborne’s new happy face with one of his own. “Well, I must say, it really suits you. You look lovely in it… although,” he continued, “I’m sure I’ve seen that dress before.” He paused. “Doesn’t she have one?”, and he emphasised the she with a flick of his head towards the woman over the road. Mrs Shearborne’s face instantly became more wrinkled, darker, and a lot less friendly, and the postman knew that he should have continued his rounds when he had the chance.
“Perhaps...” came her curt response. “I wouldn’t know.”
Mr Sutcliffe looked back at the woman, who had finished the current coat of paint now, and he watched her for longer than he really wanted to, avoiding Mrs Shearborne’s return to her usual icy self.
“Good…” he began, but the door was closed.

Janice Shearborne pottered back through her hallway, and stood in the middle of her living room. It was plain; pleasantly decorated and colourful, but plain. On the mantelpiece, next to the old face that stared back from the mirror, the flowers that she had bought herself at the market last week were browned and drooping. The sideboard was bare, save a small collection of spirit bottles, and one and half bottles of tonic, for ‘decoration’, and the letter in her hand was the only clue to a family that Mrs Shearborne could call her own. When she was sure that Mr Sutcliffe had progressed far enough down the street, she toddled back to the window.

Pulling back the curtain once again, holding the window frame through the material to steady herself, Mrs Shearborne watched as the woman opened her door to go inside. She was about to disappear when a shining black shape slid up the narrow road, parking perfectly into a space right outside the woman’s house. The car’s horn peeped once; a friendly, cheeky sound, and the woman turned, and smiled, and waved vigorously as two small boys seemed to fall out of the car. Through the window Mrs Shearborne heard them shout “Grandma!” in high-pitched unison, and they zoomed over to the woman who nearly dropped paint everywhere as she hugged them. The boys’ parents followed slowly: him suited from work but tie off and collar undone, her in a white dress and high heels, smiling softly at her husband as Grandma swept the boys inside and waited on the doorstep to kiss her daughter lightly on the cheek. Mrs Shearborne watched as the three of them conversed; the daughter and son-in-law nodding and pointing towards the door that sat open. Before long they disappeared inside and closed it behind them, leaving the green to dry, and to sneer back at Mrs Shearborne, rooting her to the spot.

As she watched the sun wink off the small glass arch at the top of the door, the boys appeared in the front window. They looked to be about to plonk their hands, dirty no doubt, against the glass, but their mother was too quick for them and saved Grandma’s window. Mrs Shearborne looked harder through two panes of glass into the front room, watching as the woman appeared carrying a tray crammed with cups, glasses, biscuits and cakes. She placed it down carefully on the coffee table in the centre of the room, for everyone to share. This scene drew Mrs Shearborne in, but something else caught her eye and she looked at the glass a few inches from her large, pointed nose. There she noticed a greasy spot on her window where the tip of that nose had rubbed as she leant forward, peering at the woman over the road. She made an ‘o’ shape with her painted lips and breathed out, misting the window with her breath. She stood back, about to clean the glass when she saw the greasy spot like an eye, and the misted shape a hideous mouth, lined up on top of the door across the road, appearing as if a grotesque green-eyed monster in her window; a wicked, scornful demon. Quickly she whipped a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped the glass clean. The monster was gone, but the door remained.

Mrs Shearborne looked at the letter still clasped, forgotten, in her hand. The handwriting on the front, so familiar yet not seen for months, made tears appear in her eyes, but she forced them to stop. She stumbled away from the window towards the sideboard, and dropped the letter into the waste-paper basket. Without pause Mrs Shearborne took up a glass from the top and filled it: one part gin, one part tonic. There were lemons in the kitchen, she thought, and ice in the freezer, but she didn’t need either of those. She took a large sip that spilled over into a gulp, and looked back out onto the street.

Outside the window, over the road, and inside the house that stood opposite, five people sat and ate, and drank, and laughed, but all Mrs Shearborne could look at was that newly-painted front door, still mocking her. She took another sip, small and controlled this time, and then Janice Shearborne walked slowly through her house to the garage, to find a tin of bright green paint.

Emerging from the Mist to rant...

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 11:10:00 +0000

So... I'm not even going to mention here how long it's been since I last blogged. I know... I'm an awful blogger.

But I'm back. And here's why.

Something happened on Wednesday night that made me so angry I had to blog. And rant. So here it is.

Me and Abbi went to see The Mist at the Gate. First thing's first: it's an awesome film. I recommend it to everyone. It was brilliantly made, original, and the ending is amazing.

But here's the thing. We didn't enjoy it.

Because the majority of people in the cinema LAUGHED their way through the film. But it wasn't funny! It wasn't even meant to be funny (apart from a couple of genuinely funny moments) - it is a serious horror film. It wasn't just once or twice that this happened, from a couple of morons that you sometimes get at the cinema. It was MOST of the people in the cinema, ALL the way through. Even at the end, when the protagonist is (understandably) distraught (I won't spoil why) and bawling in despair, people were laughing. Which completely ruined it; what should have been heart-renching just... wasn't. The totally immature people who somehow saw this film as a comedy destroyed the atmosphere for me, Abbi and anyone else in the cinema who was genuinely into the film.

It was such a shame, especially we'd been discussing, before the film began, how going to the cinema and experiencing a film there is so much better than watching it at home. But NOT when other people spoil it. And unfortunately, this may all have happened because the film is a 15.

Anywho, it completely fucked what should have been an awesome night at the cinema.

*breathes*

Sorry about that... rant over. Blogging resumed.

B&W

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 16:33:00 +0000

This is the first B&W film I've shot in my Holga. Most of the pictures, as usual (shut up, Kier...), didn't come out very well, but I was very pleased with a couple.

'Escher's Cat roams Newcastle'

Like I've said before, I'm really starting to enjoy taking photos of people, especially Abbi...

'Are you going to take a picture, or what?'

'Abbi and Mickey'

Taken with Ilford XP2 Super 400.

Untitled

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 09:59:00 +0000

First off, apologies for not posting for ages. I've really not been writing much lately either, and it's kinda getting me down. However, a certain someone gave me a much needed kick in the arse last night... so here we go.

This is the (tentative) beginning to a short story, likely to be about 4,000 - 5,000 words when I'm done. I'm thinking this might be what I hand in for my Prose Workshop 2 submission, so as ever contructive criticism more than welcome!

Rip into it, guys... ;)

Untitled
A short story (Excerpt)

She looks at Mr Thompson, Mr Thompson looks at her, and everybody else looks at me. The girl, who has just opened her mouth for the what seems like 14^th time this lesson, has deliberately not turned around to face me.

“It’s not that I don’t understand…” I say to the back of her head, loud enough for the whole class to hear, “it’s just that I fail to see the point.”

Now she turns around, and speaks very carefully to me.

“I just think you’re being deliberately… awkward.” Her voice is measured and her eyes stay fixed on mine, wide and accusing. Her heavy make-up draws me in, and I stare back at her eyes, intently, but I wish I didn’t. I want to look past her, at Mr Thompson, but I don’t.

“Why would I do that?” I whisper this time, looking down at my notebook, and the writing in it, that has nothing to do with our lesson.

“Because you don’t get it,” she sneers, “Do you?” I look back at her again to see her pretty face twisted in nastiness. I want to say something back, but I hesitate too long so Mr Thompson ventures in. “Can we just… return to the text please, Jessica?” he says, and she turns back round noisily.

The rest of the lesson I spend staring over at Stacey Carver, three rows forward and two rows across. Usually my view is blocked, but the two people who sit between us are absent today, and I can see Stacey’s legs, dressed in tight jeans and boots, tucked underneath her chair. At one point she uncrosses them; placing her feet more firmly on the floor before putting up her hand and making a point about the character we are studying this lesson. It’s a very good point; one I had noticed last week but couldn’t be bothered to mention it. Mr Thompson says “Well done, Stacey,” and she tucks her legs back underneath, turns around to Rob sitting behind her, smiles and puts a stray strand of hair behind her ear, before turning back to her hunched posture over her desk and her book.

No one looks at me, looking at her.

“James, what do you think?”

He has deliberately picked on me. I try to think of what the question was, of what the class has been talking about, but I can’t. I look around the room before admitting I haven’t been listening.

“Sir, sorry… I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

He puts his glasses on. “You weren’t listening?”

“No.” I say.

A hand goes up, the next row to my right and two tables forward. Without waiting for Mr Thompson to acknowledge the hand, a voice says, “Well, I think…..”

I watch as Mr Thompson sits up in his chair. “Yes Derek, thank you. But I think I was talking to James…”

“Like he’s going to…” Another voice, directly behind me.

“Thank you, Mr Smith,” Mr Thompson says as he gets up from the desk. He walks out into the class, nearer to me. He perches on the edge of an empty desk, between me and Stacey Carver. “Do you have anything to say about this, James?” He points to the book in his hand. I say nothing.

Mr Thompson sighs, takes his glasses off, and cleans them. He puts them back on and says, “I’d like to see you after class please.”

“It’s not like you, James,” he tells me, when I see him later. I’m not sure what he means, but I go along with it.

“Yeah, I guess not…” I suggest. I’m looking out of the window, at the construction work going on across from the block, where the new Centre for Learning is being built.

“James…”

“Sorry.” My eyes meet his, then the floor.

“James…” he continues, “you’re not interested, aren’t you?”

“My grades are good, Sir…” I hope that this is the right kind of answer.

He sighs.

“I’m trying to get through to you…” my teacher tells me, like I’m in therapy or something. He gets up and begins straightening the chairs that my classmates have left stuck out from under their desks. I notice that mine isn’t tucked in either.

“… but you won’t tell me what you think.” He isn’t looking at me while he says this. “So, I’ll tell you what I think. I think that you’re rude, uninterested, and deliberately not trying. She may be a dunce and a slut but I think Jessica White has you spot on.”

“Sir… that’s not very…”

“Nice. No… but that’s what you think too, isn’t it? You don’t like her…”

“Sir…”

“James,” and Mr Thompson sighs, and his face doesn’t show the same emotion that I thought he was feeling, “I have a class to teach. You need to learn this book, and soon, and you need to sit down in the exam and write about it and get a good mark. That’s how this works…”

“And…”

“And you’re making it bloody difficult, to be honest James…” He’s now looking at me, from across the classroom. “You keep disrupting my class like this…”

“I’m sorry.” I tell him. “I am.”

Mr Thompson stops, his hands firmly gripping the back of what happens to be my chair.

“What’s your problem? You haven’t been like this before…”

“It’s the book, sir. I’m… just… not interested in it…”

“Well, it’s our text, so… you need to know it.”

“But I do know it. It’s not hard… the whole class are getting it. Even Jessica. I get it… the exam will be easy. But… I’m bored of it.”

There is a loud crash from outside and we both turn to the window, watching the construction. I turn back, and but Mr Thompson is still looking out the window. He takes off his glasses again, but doesn’t clean them this time. He places them down on his desk, and I notice his eyes look tired.

“I’m sorry, but that’s not the point. I’m sorry you don’t like the book, but we all have to put up with it.” Mr Thompson begins to tidy up his desk, then looks up at me as though he has forgotten that I’m here.

“Um, you can go now James. See you tomorrow.”

“Thanks, sir…” I say quietly, and leave.

I Don't See It

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Mon, 03 Mar 2008 11:18:00 +0000

Another story for you all. I can't take credit for the idea on this one; it's shamelesly taken from an anonymous video posted on PostSecret, and you can see it here. I haven't really changed the original idea at all, but I think it makes for a great story and was inspired when I saw the video to put it down in words. So, thanks to the guy from the video, and hope you all like the story. It's still very much a first draft, so any ideas for improving/changing are more than welcome, as always.

I Don’t See It
A short story
inspired by an anonymous video, submitted to PostSecret
by Christopher Jackson

She puts her arms around me, from behind, and looks into my eyes reflected in the bathroom mirror. Between the slightly open folds of my dressing gown I can see her breasts; soft and warm and familiar. She lets her hands, cold, wander across my chest, playing with the rough diamond of hairs and tweaking my nipples playfully. I watch her in the mirror; she hugs me tight and rests her chin on my shoulder.

“I love you,” she tells me; like it is the first time she has ever said it.

When I was younger I would blurt out; say the words back as though if I didn’t say it immediately it wouldn’t be true. But now I pause; safe in her embrace and in her gaze, enjoying the soft silence that follows those words spoken truly.

“I love you, too.” I say.

She smiles, and closes her eyes. I do the same, just listening to our breathing and the hum of the bathroom light. She lifts her head from my shoulder, and I feel her arms around me slacken ever so slightly.

“I’ve never noticed that before…” she says. I open my eyes, and she is looking at my face.

“Noticed what?”

“That scar…” and she straightens up slightly, not letting go.

“What are you talking about?” I say. “I’ve told you all about it. It was a long time ago, but I did tell you.” I take her hands in mine, still resting on my chest. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the story…”

“I…I don’t know…”

“It’s a great story!”

“I can’t remember… tell me it. Tell me the story…”

Taking her hand I kiss it, once, and turn my head to kiss her lips, twice. “Well,” I say, and I turn back to the mirror, looking at the scar, as I tell her my story.

“Once upon a time…”

“Oh be serious!” she snaps, slapping me on the chest. I laugh and grab her hand, and start over.

“About a year before we got together, I was driving home from work, in a hurry, because I’d been delayed when some stupid intern guy messed up, and of course I had to sort out the problem before the day was up. Anyway, I’d made plans with my wife at the time and was pretty anxious to get home… so I was driving pretty fast, and…”

“Do you ever rush home to see me when you’re late?”

I turn to look right into Sarah’s eyes. “Of course I do…” I kiss her. “Now… shut up and let me get on with my story…” A wink saves me from getting hit again.

“Anyway, I’m driving pretty fast, flying down the motorway… and my mind is already home, getting ready to go out for our evening, and…”
“Shit… you crashed?! I would have thought I’d remember tha…”

“Baby, I didn’t crash!” I turn around now, holding her arms. She looks frightened almost. “I wish…” I continue, “might have been less embarrassing!”

“Embarrassing?” I’m looking into her eyes as she says this, and it doesn’t look like she is looking at my scar.

“Yeah…” I continue, reposition myself into her arms, wrapping them around me and looking into the mirror once again. “I didn’t crash, but I zoomed into the driveway, whacking on the breaks. Into neutral, handbrake on, engine off, keys out… I opened the door and… tripped out the car.”

A laugh blurts out from Sarah’s mouth, immediately caught by her hand.

“You… tripped!?”

“Yeah.”

Another blurt.

“It fucking hurt!”

She’s laughing hard now, so much so that she’s separated herself from me, clutching herself. She has to wipe away tears that appear in her eyes, and soon enough she’s sitting on the toilet. I pretend like I’m insulted. She manages to speak through laughing.

“Oh, don’t be like that…!”

“I could have been seriously hurt…” I say, turning away and crossing my arms, “and all you can do is… laugh.”

“I know… I’m… sorry…” she manages to say.

“I’m just lucky I didn’t put my eye out.”

“What?”

She stops laughing immediately and the look that she gives me is completely unexpected. She goes to open her mouth, turns me around to look at me properly, and then looks back in the mirror, as though searching for something.

“Your eye out…?”

“Yeah…”

“But…”

“The scar on my eyebrow…”

She stops. “No… the other one.”

“What ‘other one’?”

“The… the other one. The other scar on your face.”

I look back into the mirror, moving closer.

“There is no other scar…” I tell her.

“Darling… there is.” She tries to move in front of me, taking my head in her hands to inspect my face. I push her away.

“Get off…” and I move closer to the mirror. My eyes search everywhere, but the rest of my face is fine. “I… there isn’t…”

I notice in the mirror she’s sitting on the edge of the bath. “Mike… there is.”

I look again. She gets up, and this time I let her hold me. Her finger presses to my lip, stopping there for a moment, before moving down; straight at first then cutting across sharply and creeping under my chin. It stops. She looks into my eyes; her finger doesn’t move.

Taking my hand, she repeats her finger’s journey with mine.

“Mike…” she says, and I turn away from her eyes.

I look again into the mirror.

I don’t see it.

People, Debates and Not Writing

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Thu, 28 Feb 2008 08:56:00 +0000

So, a little bit of a diary post - just to let you know I am still blogging (two weeks is too long to go without posting, I'm sorry...) and to comment on a couple of things.

Roberto

I've been trying to take more photos of people recently. Because, let's face it, we're pretty interesting. I mean, I love taking photos of beautiful scenery and interesting architecture (expect more of the buildings when I get my black and white film going) but I've never been one for taking many photos of people. But I should. I think the Holga is wonderful for capturing emotions and moments; when I click the shutter, that's it.

Claudia

Which brings me on to a conversation/debate I had with Kier and Abbi in the Goose on Monday, which almost got me a punch in the face (not from Kier, or Abbi, but from an hilarious drunk. "You talk a lot of shit... trying to impress this fucking girl...") I just don't think he liked my face.

The conversation was about Holga, and why I choose to shoot manual film, with all its flaws and failings, over digital, where you can take hundreds of photos without cost or effort, making sure you get the perfect shot that you want and then deleting the crap ones. It's too complex a topic to go into here in depth, and I am going to write an essay/article on this, which you should hopefully be able to read here soon.

Before that I hope to post a short story I've been working on in the next few days. I really haven't been writing much lately, and it's getting me down a little. But, never fear Dear Readers, there will be more written fun on the way.

Mr. Villis

I love these three photos, but (and this will only give Kier more ground in our little digital vs manual/'real' photography vs Lomography debate) the other nine photos in this latest film were... shite. Unfortunately. Partly due to my lack of photography skillz, and partly due to the fact that sometimes the Holga seems to want to co-operate, and sometimes it doesn't. I think I'm discovering that this is part of Lomo; more on this in my essay. For now, hope you like these.

Oh, and lastly... if any of you get chance, go to the 4th Floor in the Baltic and stare into the black dot. Trust me... it won't fuck with your head at all.

More Holga Fun

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 23:56:00 +0000

So, sometimes you get lucky. Spectrum buggered up the processing on my film, and developed in black and white by accident, so I ended up with the whole film twice, in black and white and in colour, no extra charge. Some of the shots looked better one way, some the other. Score!

Hope you like these - the best from my second Holga film. Shot this time with Fuji Superia 400.

'Fetch'

'Abigail'

'Colours'

'Down to Their Level'

'Sooty'

'The Butchers'

'Crusty'

Plugged Out

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Mon, 04 Feb 2008 10:34:00 +0000

Okay, so I'm not so sure about this one. I'd really apprecaite hearing what you all think of it. I really restricted myself with the idea (which I love) because it meant that I had to do without a) sound, and b) dialogue. I think the story really suffers from lack of dialogue, but hey.

Plus I hate the title....

Her mouth moves rapidly, red lips and white teeth. Words are coming out but all I hear is music. I raise my eyebrows in response, prompting the woman to turn to her friend. The mouth keeps moving, and she flings her arms about, somehow not hitting anybody.

The song ends, and another one begins.

My hand grips the rail as the train comes sharply to a stop, and a carriagefull of people lean slightly in the same direction, then fall back into place. The doors open and I push past to exit the carriage. On the platform I have to manoeuvre around a group of people who have chosen the platform to conduct a meeting, for what I don’t know. I see them discussing something, animated gestures and lots of nodding and shaking of their heads. I walk on.

On my right against the wall of the station is a man playing a cello. Most people walk past without a moment’s glance, but a boy of maybe six stands and watches. I see the musician smile at the boy as I pass.

Near the bottom of the steps that exit the station is man holding his hand out, with the abstract black shape of a dog next to him. I think he is trying to ask me for money. I walk up the steps and out into the rain.

It was sunny when I caught the train, but the wind has pulled a wad of clouds, dark black at the bottom but white at the top, in front of the sun and they have started to leak. The rain is not heavy, but it will be. Removing my hands from my deep pockets I fling my hood up and stomp out into the beginnings of a puddle.

The song ends, and another one begins.

A perky young woman holding a clipboard is standing looking up at the clouds. She looks back down, her face screwed in dismay, but it lights up when she spots me. She skips towards me, smiling broadly, and her mouth opens wide in greeting. It is easy to look down at the floor and she is gone.

Ahead of me umbrellas are appearing above people’s heads as the rain gets heavier. Faces are hidden, and I plunge forward through the shifting crowd. A man, refusing to let the rain move him, holds out a Big Issue in front of me, but I walk past without a word. Something makes me look over my shoulder at him but I cannot hear what he is saying after me. Probably some sarcastic comment.

I’m coming to the marketplace now. Soon I am surrounded by stalls. I do not stop but turn my head side to side, seeing what is on each stall. Sometimes my eyes meet those of the stall owners, and their eyebrows raise and their mouths move and their arms gesture. I turn my head, to see what is on the other side, and keep walking.

The song ends, and another one begins.

At the other side of the market there is a stall selling all sorts of pasties, sausage rolls, and pies. I am hungry so I stop and point to a pasty at the front. The seller takes it and wraps it up, then says something to me. I look up as I am searching for my wallet and he says it again, then puts his hands up to his ears and makes a pulling motion. I hold up my hand and pull out my wallet, finding a ten pound note inside. He takes it from me with an exaggerated shake of his head, and holds out the change. I take it and my pasty, and I leave, scattering a group of pigeons that have gathered looking for scraps. I duck as one of them flies up and past my head. I turn back, and they return to their patch instantly.

I bite into my pasty, dropping crumbs onto the path. I step out into the road and for some reason look to my right, where a car has stopped and its occupant is shouting inside the car. I shrug my shoulders, and he opens his door and sticks his head out, still shouting. But I can’t hear him. I shrug at him again, and walk on.

The song ends, and another one begins.

Across from the marketplace there is a man with a megaphone, ignoring the rain. In front of him is a hand-painted sign that reads ‘Listen to Jesus’. His feet are rooted to the spot but the rest of his body is flailing about as he bawls into his mouthpiece. Maybe it is better that I cannot hear what he is shouting. He points directly at me as I walk past, crouching down low, his arm shaking to the tip of his finger. I escape from the street into the coffee shop.

Waiting inside is my girlfriend. As I walk over she gets up from her table and wraps her arms around my waist, kissing me. Pushing my hood off my head she grins, and tries to say something to me. I break from her embrace and shove my bag off onto the floor, and reach up to remove my earphones.

I can’t.

The song ends, and another one begins.

I pull once again, but they won’t move. I use both hands and try and pull the left one out, attempt to pry it from my ear. But it is stuck. I try the right, and it is stuck. I can’t get out. Panic hits me like scalding coffee thrown in my face, I grab for the chair but knock it to the floor. I fumble in my pocket, hitting the stop button on my iPod, hitting every button, but the music doesn’t stop. I try to pull the cord out off the player. Nothing. Taking hold of the wires in my ears I pull again… as hard as I can, but nothing. I am trapped. The music plays, but I don’t recognise it. I think it is my favourite song, but I don’t hear it. It is just noise now, burying me. My girlfriend grabs my arms, her face a horrible mess of confusion and horror and tears, and her mouth is wide open in a scream I cannot hear.

Educating Creativity

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 23:18:00 +0000

I absolutely love this video. Sir Ken Robinson giving an inspiring talk calling for an education system that truly nurtures creativity, instead of killing it.

The Wink

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Wed, 23 Jan 2008 10:59:00 +0000

An old man sits down next to my mother. There are a lot of old people here, along with me, my mother, and a few other kids I don’t know, with their parents. There are several schools on this route.
“Sit still, dear,” my mother tells me.
I wriggle in my seat.
“I said, sit still!”
I hadn’t moved until she said anything. It always seems to happen that way. I only end up doing something wrong after she has already told me not to do it. I don’t mean to, it’s just the way things work out. Don’t ask me to try and explain it, I’m only six.
My bag is lumpy. We are on the bus after the one we normally get. I couldn’t find my shorts, and I have P.E. today.
“You do know I’m going to be late for work now, don’t you?” she says to me, looking at the people on the other side of the bus. We are near the back, where the seats change from being set out two behind two, two either side of the aisle, like normal, to being lined up along the sides of the bus, facing each other. I can’t see any reason why.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Sorry isn’t good enough.”

The bus stops, and a large lady stands up further towards the back. As she waddles forward the sun stabs in through the window from behind where she was sitting, right into my eyes. I screw them up tight, but I can still see bright orange pulsating behind my eyelids.
“Don’t you think they should have curtains on buses, mummy?” I ask her, my hand up in front of my face.
“They do on coaches,” she explains to me.
“Why not buses?”
My mother looks down the bus, towards the front.

We stop, and further down the bus a man stands up from his seat and gets off. As we pull away I look at him out the window, then to his empty seat, and then into the sun. I hold my bag up in front of my face, until my mother tells me to stop ‘messing about’ and so I put it down again.
“That seat is empty,” I say. “Can I…?”
“Certainly not,” she says, stretching upwards to peer at whoever is sitting next to the empty space. “I don’t want you disturbing that young lady over there.”

A few more stops and a man in a suit gets on and sits down in Fat Lady’s seat. Although he is not as large as she was he is tall, and his head blocks the sun perfectly.
He rests his briefcase on his lap, which looks uncomfortable. I shift under the weight of my own bag.
“Will you please… sit still?”
I do as she tells me, or at least try. It’s very difficult to sit still when you are so uncomfortable. My mother twists around and looks out of the window as the bus passes a row of houses. One of those houses must be very interesting; she looks at them every day. She makes like she has just remembered something, and says to me, “Jackie will be picking you up tonight.”
“I don’t like Jackie,” I tell her.
“Well, tough…” She looks at the back window of the bus, back towards those houses. “I’ll be busy come home time.”
“Doing what?” I ask.

Looking over at the man again I notice how unlike my father he looks. And not because he’s wearing a suit. My father wears a suit. He’s about the same age as this man. Similar build. I think, now, that they may have the exact same briefcase. But my father doesn’t look anything like this man.

I sit as quiet as I can. We stop again, and people get off and some more people get on. The bus is pretty full now. All the children have got off the bus now. I think I am the only one in my school who gets this bus. Maybe all their parents have cars.
Everybody left on the bus is staring forward, at the backs of the chairs in front of them. Except my mother, her eyes darting about this way and that, looking for what I don’t know. And, I notice, except for the man in the suit who looks nothing like my father.
He is looking at me.
I smile at him, and he smiles back.
Then the man winks at me.
I feel my smile getting broader, until it turns into a grin. I laugh, but no one looks at me.

“What’s your name?” the man says.
“Elliot.”
“Hello, Elliot. I have a son about your age.”
This strikes me as an odd thing to say, although I can’t work out why. No one ever says anything like that to me.
“Does he go to Ridley First School?” I ask him.
“No, he goes to Kingswood.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a shame, I think he would be your friend.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I think he would. You seem like a nice young man.”
I don’t know what to say to this, so I don’t say anything. My mother tells me that it is rude to ignore people. As I think this I look at her, and she is on the phone. I didn’t even notice. I look back at the man, and he is still looking over at me, holding his briefcase and smiling.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to ignore you there.” I say.
“Just because you didn’t reply doesn’t mean that you ignored me…”
I smile.
“I’m glad you sat down there.” I tell the man, gratefully. “You blocked the sun from shining in my eyes.”
He turns round, squinting into the sun.
“Don’t you think they should have curtains on buses?” I suggest, when he turns back.
He laughs. “Why not? They do on coaches…”
“Exactly,” I say.
I turn to my mother. She isn’t looking at me.

Dear Everyone...

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Mon, 14 Jan 2008 00:39:00 +0000

May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.

- Neil Gaiman; 2001, 2004, 2007.

The start of a beautiful friendship...

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Fri, 11 Jan 2008 09:59:00 +0000

For Christmas I recieved a Holga camera, and I love it.

Swan; Wallington Hall.

The Holga, for those of you who don't know, is a camera first made in 1982 as a cheap-o, mass-market camera, with a plastic lens and medium format (120) film, and is today part of Lomography. A celebration of the experimental, the personal, the crazy, the spontaneous, the lo-fi, the accidental, the dreamy, the square, and the 10 Golden Rules.

Wallington Hall.

So, these are from my first film. It was really exciting to have to wait to see how these came out, recieving a small green packet over the counter, filled with negatives, prints, and a CD, instead of the instant "Oh yeah, that's good" or "Shit, delete that..." digital photography that we've all become used to.

The reason they are a little dark is that the days I were shooting were pretty dull, and I unfortunately was restricted to using the only film I had at the time, Fuji Superior 100, which is really only good for sunny days. For overcast days you really need a 400 speed film, or more.

Tree through a gap; Wallington Hall.

Having said that, I'm really quite pleased with how they came out, and I'm geekily excited about finding out just what I can do with this camera. Expect more!

Melanie; Valley Park.

To Make You Feel Like a Woman

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Tue, 08 Jan 2008 15:09:00 +0000

A short story
Written for Prose Workshop 1

The mirror is dirty and there is a crack in it. I wet my fingers and rub away some of the grime. Resting both hands on the sink I move my face close to the mirror, running my tongue over my teeth. I can taste the plaque.
Coughing comes from the bedroom. I inspect the hair on my face; tilting my head up and to one side, then the other. I run my fingers across the hairs, up and down along my jaw. As I squirt shaving cream into my hand, a voice calls from the bedroom.
“John…?”
I rub the cream between my hands, spread it over my chin, and pick up my razor. The blades are dull; I keep meaning to replace them. Every day it is harder to shave without cutting myself. Filling the bowl with warm water I dip the razor in, shake it, and begin shaving on the right side of my face.
I can see in the mirror that she is standing behind me now, wearing nothing but my t-shirt. She grabs her hair with both hands and runs them through it, pulling hard so that the black bunches up on top of her head. She looks to the ceiling, then back at me. The light in the hallway is not on, but the bathroom light is enough to show the bruise under her right eye. As she steps forward towards me I can see that it has turned yellow; the same colour as my tongue. She lifts her arms ever so slightly, as if going to put them around my waist, but she doesn’t.
“Go downstairs, and make yourself some coffee.” I say, shaving the spot under my nose. She does what I say and while she is gone I finish off. I am just padding my face dry when she comes back upstairs.
“Get in the bath.” I say.
She shakes her head. I step towards her.
“Sweetheart… get in the bath.”
“After my coffee, please. It’ll go…”
“Now.”
She just stands there. Reaching up I take the mug from her hand, and take a large mouthful. Putting it down on the sink I take her by both hands and pull her into the bathroom. I look at her face, everywhere but her eyes, and brush a stray lock of hair out of her face, behind her ear. It falls back down, so I tuck it back again.
“That’s better.” I whisper.

She sits down in the bath, flinching as her backside touches the cold acrylic, and then tucks my t-shirt under her. Taking the shower head I turn it on and let the water run warm, as I step into the bath. I look down at my girlfriend. She is hugging her knees, and watching the water run down the plughole.
“You ready?” I ask her.
“Go on…”
I squat down on my haunches, and move the shower head over her legs. She tenses, and lets out a gasp.
“Too hot?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
I am kneeling, between her legs, and my jeans slowly become wet as I keep moving the shower slowly up one leg then down the other, then back again. As I do I reach down and feel her legs.
“You do need a shave, don’t you?”
“Mmm hmm.”
When her legs are wet enough I cover them in shaving cream. I examine the can. On it are words like satin feel and sensuous and to make you feel like a woman. I sniff her legs, smelling the cream.
“It smells nice…” I say.
She looks up at me. “You always say that.”
I shrug, and put the can down. “Just stay there.”
Getting out of the bath I go to the toilet and relieve myself. Leaving the toilet seat up, I take my razor from the sink and get back in the bath.
She looks at the razor. “Mine’s in the…”
“I know.” I say.
I begin. The hairs on her legs are not too long, but the bluntness of my razor makes this more difficult than it should be. I watch the white cream disappear with every long, slow stroke. I am smiling, very deliberately. I rinse the cream from my razor, and return to shaving her leg. I am almost finished her left. She says something, but I don’t hear what it is.
“What was that?” I ask, without stopping. I press slightly harder with my razor.
“Nothing,” she replies. I have finished shaving her left leg now. I run my hand slowly up her leg, up the inside, starting at her ankles and stopping in between her thighs.
“You have beautiful legs…” I tell her.
Taking one leg gently I place it to the side, spreading her legs apart. As I begin to shave her right leg I look between them, staring.
“You need a shave there, too.” I tell her.
She shifts her left leg back, slowly. I stop shaving, and look at her for a moment, before placing it back out to the side.
It is then that she begins to cry. She stares downwards, her hair over her face. I continue, trying to ignore her tears.
“I wish you wouldn’t cry,” I say. “You know I hate it…”
“Then why…?” Her sobs get deeper and heavier, choking her words.
“Sweetheart… if you keep crying, and shaking like that…” I am still shaving her, going as slowly as I can.
“Please…” she cries. “Pl…”
Suddenly there is blood.
“Now look what you fucking made me do?”
The cut is deep. I drop the shower head, and it clatters into the bath, still running. The water shoots up into the air and down onto my girlfriend, soaking my t-shirt which clings to her breasts. Her right leg, half unshaven, is covered in a mixture of white and red; the colours slowly diluting and washing away.

Planning

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Fri, 14 Dec 2007 12:37:00 +0000

Something I've really discovered while I've been doing this Masters is the importance of planning. Not that I've never known it was important before, when writing stories or essays or whatever, but I never really used to do it at all. I never knew how. I would just get a general idea in my head, write everything down all over the place in a big Word document, and then reorganise it later (which consequently took probably longer than actually writing the thing in the first place).
Then recently I bought some index cards. I think I'm developing an unhealthy obsession (that's a bit of a strong word) with them. They're just so bloody useful. For jotting down ideas and phone numbers. To hand out to people with numbers, website addresses etc. And for planning.

So for the last few essays that I've written, this is what I've done. Spread out 9 index cards like so. 9 seems to be a good number for a decent length essay. But you can easily add more, or not use some. Then write down some points for your essay. And then rearrange them, or not, as you see fit. Or tear one up if it turns out it doesn't work, and replace it.

What's so great about this is that you can see your whole essay arc in front of you, instantly, and you can change it easily. Then clip 'em all together with a foldback clip, and you're done.

Go on, why don't you give it a go? I hope you all find this useful. Or at least interesting. One of the two will do. Perhaps I just wanted to share my new index card obsession.

Valley Park

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Fri, 07 Dec 2007 15:55:00 +0000

So, I got off the bus at the top of Southfield Lea, and instead of walking the regular way home decided to have a little stroll through the trees in Valley Park.

If you like these, there are some more here!

Monkseaton

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Tue, 04 Dec 2007 14:45:00 +0000

Shot from the hip, taken at Monkseaton station while waiting for the Metro.

Photos!

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Fri, 30 Nov 2007 15:46:00 +0000

I've uploaded a whole bunch of photos onto Flickr. Thought I should seen as I haven't done so for quite a while now. Some of the photos are pretty recent, and others are from waaaaaay back (well, a year or so anyway...)

Enjoy!

What upsets me

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Wed, 28 Nov 2007 23:23:00 +0000

I simply hate that I live in a world where this can happen.

*EDIT* 30/11/07

It just gets worse...

Dialogue

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Mon, 26 Nov 2007 23:24:00 +0000

In tonight's Prose Workshop we studied dialogue, something that normally I SUCK at. Actually, that's not strictly true, which has been kind of the point of the last couple of classes. We're all learning our strengths and weaknesses as writers; what to focus on and what to ignore. Me; I tend to write to much internalisation. And when I do, I get away with not writing much dialogue, so I never know whether I'm any good at it and, more to the point, never practice it.
So, if I cut out the internalisation, I'm going to need more dialogue. And, although I'm not very good at it, what I'm learning is that I can get better at it. It just takes practice. Writing, like anything, takes practice. I can already do it fairly well, but I can get so much better. And, I think I'm getting there.

Anyway, I wont subject you to the first excercise of tonight, because I really struggled at hinting at subtext through dialogue. But the second exerciseI really, really enjoyed. In it we had to focus on the main character of something that we are working on at the moment (in this case, my story about a miserable Parisien flower seller) and have them express a strong desire to a secondary character. However, the secondary character fails to help them fulfill their need, as they are too obsessed about something else. In this way, we can create a scene where the needs of the protagonist are shown indirectly rather than told directly, which makes for much better writing.

(insert bad French and Australian accents if desired)

"So, you can help me, Monsieur?"
"Sure man, whatever." The young student flicks open his lighter, then closes it again. "There won't be a trace of the place left, and I'll be in Amsterdam..."
"Do it now! There's no one here!"
"... have you ever been to Amsterdam?"
"No, but..."
"Honestly, the girls... better than here. Okay, Paris is a more beautiful city, I'll give you that. But the girls in..."
"I don't care about girls! I just want..."
"...and I'm not talking about the ones you pay for, either. If anything, they're the ugly ones."
"But..."
"Man, you should come with me! Ah, but wait... you gotta run this place, right?"
"NO! That's what I'm talking about! If you just..."
"I'd hate to be tied down to a job, man. Love the flowers, don't get me wrong. But I can see flowers anywhere. Hey, you don't have any tulips here? In Amsterdam they have... well, I'm sure you know that, right? Not that I'm going there for the flowers though. You know what I mean..."
"SHUT UP!" the flower seller screams, and grabs the man's lighter. "I'll do it myself!" The man takes his lighter back instantly.
"Sorry, can't have that. This baby's been all around the world with me..."

Distant Writing

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Thu, 22 Nov 2007 21:15:00 +0000

'Untitled'
An exercise in distant writing (that is, shunning all adjectives, metaphors, similies, thoughts, emotions and feelings.)

I'm lying on my bed next to her. The clock says half two in the morning. She is holding a book near the lamp by my bed, reading the collection of comic strips. Every so often she bursts into laughter. Sitting up I look up and down her body, and then over at the strip she is reading now. She laughs out loud again, and I smile. She turns the page.
"I don't get this one," she says. So I explain it to her, and then she laughs again.
I get up and step over her and off the bed. "I'm just going to the toilet," I tell her. She makes a noise in response. Looking at her I smile again before leaving the room. I turn on the bathroom light and relieve myself, leaving the door open.

The idea of this type of writing is to avoid the overuse of internalisation (writing the thoughts, feelings and opinions of the main character), and this exercise that we did on Monday was very useful for me because I have a nasty habit to internalise A LOT. Authors who write like this, such as Raymond Carver and, of course, Ernest Hemingway, use this technique to create emotion through refusing to engage with it. It also allows the reader to find emotion and feeling beneath the surface, instead of being told how to think by the writer. I really like this way of writing; expect more of it from me.

Scene Writing

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Tue, 20 Nov 2007 23:16:00 +0000

Over the past few weeks, I've come to realise something. This Masters is really, truly and honestly improving my writing. I mean, I know that sounds obvious, but it needs mentioning. I can literally feel myself, week on week, learning more and getting better; writing more and writing better. Especially yesterday, when I (and I think everybody in the class) really discovered something about their own style, and their own strengths and weaknesses. We also tried 'Distant' Writing, which I loved. More on that in a few days.

One of my favourite things from this course so far, is this checklist; designed to help you to write scenes that are more engaging and interesting. And on top of that, it actually gets you (well, me) sat on my arse and writing. The checklist was originally written as questions, but I simplified them...

... to fit conveniently on a 3"x5" index card...

... which fits even more conveniently in the accordion pocket of my Moleskine notebook.

Love it. Thank you, Margaret.

Simulation

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 23:13:00 +0000

Those footsteps again; coming back. No-one is talking. We’re all being kept separate; to isolate us – designed to make us feel bored, scared, controlled, powerless. Why don’t I just tell them that I want out. I volunteered, so I should be able to do that, right? I have that power, right?

The footsteps stop in front of my door. The guard looks through the glass again. He looks bored, but not in the same way that I am.

"Tell Dr. Zimbardo I want out. I’ve had enough of this. I want to go home.”

He looks straight at me, barely moving, a robot with black reflective panels instead of eyes. Then he laughs at me. Certainly not something a robot would do, but it doesn’t sound very human either. Would I laugh like that if I was him and he was me?

“You’re not getting out of here any time soon. I say when you leave.”

I stammer, exasperated. “You don’t have that power! Nowhere in the forms did it say you get that much power!”

The guard removes his shades. I don’t think he is supposed to do that. It probably violates the standardised elements of his side of the experiment; that he signed. I think back and remember it. Guards must wear the shades provided at all times when dealing with prisoners, so as to prevent eye contact between the groups.

“You do know you aren’t meant to do that… don’t you?”, I told him.

The guard looks me straight in the eyes. I preferred him with the shades on.

"I can do whatever the hell I want. Because I’m a guard, and you’re a prisoner. That’s how this fucking thing works. Got it?”

- Excerpt from 'Simulation'; a short story based on the Stanford Prison Experiment.
Written for my Literature of Incarceration module.

"Just cut it into cubes..."

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Thu, 15 Nov 2007 22:42:00 +0000

Pablo Picasso got his hair cut in Sheffield in November 1950, whilst visiting to attend the second World Peace Conference.

Kier, just accept it...

Sparklers kick ass...

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher) — Wed, 14 Nov 2007 14:31:00 +0000

I know Bonfire Night was over a week ago, but I've only just been able to upload these. And they're too cool not to be posted.