Monday 29 October 2007

Rock & Roll Lies

Kid Harpoon made me collapse on friday night.

This is my story, and I am sticking to it. Despite potential evidence to the contrary. I care not for what you say, oh security guard. It was definately, definately his fault. No doubt whatsoever.


Dont believe me? Okay, I'll go back to the beginning. I'm sure you'll come to see things my way.

You see, friday was a very long day. By the time I reached the gig (doors at 8.00 pm, Clwb Ifor Bach, Cardiff) I had already experienced a creative writing session, a shopping expedition, a four hour coffee date (yes, date. yes, four hours. yes, coffee, though I only actually had two cups) and a nice hot towel. So, I was rather wound up by the time I reached the gig, but also perhaps more wearied than I realised. And, upon arrival, I found myself accompanied by sambuca & lemonades and some rather lovely indie folk, most notably Jay Jay Pistolet, whose song 'Holly' said at least half of everything I've been trying to say in songs & poetry for the last few years. And it was amazing. By the time Kid Harpoon actually came on, myself and BFB (best friend beth) were happily positioned at the from, ready to dance our little socks on.
And Oh We Did.
You see, the last time I saw Kid Harpoon, he was alone. Just one small indie boy in a checked shirt and battered hat with an accoustic guitar. And he was awesome, so I was not worried in the slightest by inflicting him on the BFB, but... this time he had a band. A band with a keyboard and a bass and a drumkit and a bunch of flowers and A DOUBLE BASS.

Sledgehog: a bass! strings! my little heart thrums for joy
BFB:...
Mike: (who is a. too cool to fully be my friend and b. too cool for me to think of a decent alias for and who made the mistake odf standing behind me during this gig) Sometimes I fear you.

But, it got better. Because Kid Harpoon + band = PIRATE ROCK. I kid ye not. He launched straight into The Milkmaid and, well, its just as well there were some equally excited indie boys dancing nearby. I'm fairly certain that only their excitement prevented clwb staff from calling the little men in white coats to take me.
By the time the (relatively short) setlist reached its end with Manhattan, we were all hot, sweaty, and over the moon. The front row were waving and dancing and screaming each word and I'm fairly sure that even the saner back-rowers were feeling somewhat celebratory. Never mind Berlin, Cardiff was already ours.


This, of course, is all positive. If you're confused by my collapsing story, then I would like you to kindly continue reading. It might even make sense some day. See, BFB & I wandered back to the lovely land of the students union, me singing & dancing as I went, and drank and were merry and then, when she went to collect her friend*cough* from the station, I went through to the SU club night and carried on my game of storm dancing. Until they kicked us out at 2am. And still, all was well. Right up until I was getting in the queue for my coat.

Sledgehog: How peculiar. I feel most unwell. Perhaps if I lean against this nice wall?...
The wall changes position a few times & she passes out

Random Bystanders: Alas! A girl upon the floor! Are you unharmed, drunkard?
Sledgehodg: I'm fine. Fine! I promise!
Gets up, stumbling somewhat, & somehow manages to retrive her coat & get outside. Whereupon she collapses. Again. This time against a handy wall.


At this point, events diverged somewhat...

Random Bystander: So, when you said fine, you meant...?
Dramatic Security Guard: Child! Speak to me! Tell me you can hear me?!
Sledgehog: mutters something incoherent about Kid Harpoon
DSG: Fie! Another dastardly case of pirate rock. I fear it is spreading

alternatively:

DSG: Look at me miss! Are you on drugs?!
Sledgehog: dazed no...
DSG: Are you certain
Sledgehog: Well, I dont think I am. Unless BFB doctored my sambucas...
DSG: call the police! Immedeately. Then, adopting the persona of the demon headmaster Look into my eyes
Sledgehog: Oooh, spinny. Passes out again


...okay, so I wasnt on drugs and neither was it a direct result of Kid Harpoon. To my perpetual shame, I was apparently very very dehydrated. However, this was probably erascibated by getting very riled up & sweaty, cooling down, & then doing exactly the same thing again.


...I wish I was a rock and roll star.

Tuesday 16 October 2007

The Twilight Lands

Extract One:


The moon hangs, low, heavy and sinister, above the moors. Lingering like some suspended doom. It is all I can see in the orange sky, and somehow it makes me shiver though I was not born to fear these shadows. There is little time now until the moon is full. A few days a most. And then the Subs will be their strongest.

The Magi tell us that a festival draws close with this moon, that it is almost upon them. The world is shifting, and old nights seem to have more power than they did once before. The Subs become more feral as the wild moon madness grows.

The moors are dangerous. Haunted. Even when the world was fresh and green, in halcyon days before the plague, the moor had a reputation for the night. The wildness inside the garden, the land where wild weeds still grew. That no amount of cultivation could transform. And something strange hangs in the air tonight. This place is too quiet, even for the uninhabited moorlands. There are no birds about this night.

The stillness hangs, cold around my car. I try to ignore my unease. I am strong and my car is marked, so that it sings with power on the wind. Few would dare attack alone, even when the moon was full. But, even so...

The sky darkens away from Oxford, thinning the glow to gauze of rust. My heating is on, but the car is still cold. I can taste winter in the air. Winter, and something else. A beginning. If I concentrate, I can taste anticipation, suspense, fear. And blood. Fresh blood, at once obvious and overpowering and filling the car with its pungent aroma. It is so immediate that, for a moment, I wonder if the blood is my own. But no. Instead, it seems as though the night is magnifying suggestions. As though it is dragging some twisted animal instinct out from my stomach. The thought makes me ill. And still the suspense lingers in the stillness as the engine sounds fade to the quick, rhythmic thump of my heartbeat.
I can see stars now, through the orange gauze. Orion's belt. Somehow I am so cold I begin to shake.
Then a figure steps from the shadows into the road before me.

My first thought is to keep driving, to avoid it or to plough it down. I know better than to expect any innocent motive from a stranger on the moors. But the smell of blood grows stronger still. The figure has been tracking me. If I listen, hard, I can hear the blood seeping from its body. It is determined, then. This means a message.
I hear no sounds in my ears now but my heartbeat, terse with fear, and the heavy shiver-shake of my breath. It takes me a moment to even realise that I have stopped the car. Then the figure steps into the faint glow of the headlights.
Luke.

For a second my heart stops, but then it syncopates, stretching into a more immediate tattoo. Now, though, it is fuelled by anger. I should have known better than to take the word of a Sub. Particularly one of Lucia's lieutenants. But I was deceived. This is personal now, as well as business.
I wind down the window and he walks, very deliberately, towards me. The night is still cold, but now the tension is concentrated, fixed upon the diminishing space between us. We are the knife-point of the night. I glare at him, but he does not wither.
'What is your message?' I ask.
He shakes his head. Once. I see the blood pooling in the crevice of his collarbone, oozing from a wound beside his ear. I wonder how easy it really is to kill a wolf.
'What do you want?'
My demand again. My impatience is legitimate. Something else is gathering in the air about us now. Something fiercer than the Subs, fiercer than the Eclipse movement. I feel fear vibrate through every molecule of water in the air. Luke merely stares at me. I thrum with the desire to make him hurt. My mouth opens, but no words escape. I hear the horn first.

It floods the sky from a distance, roaring through the silent night like a desperate death scream. Stranger, wilder, than our own war. Entirely inhuman and terrifying. My blood slows to a crawl, sick with sticky dread, and I feel terror racing through me in its place. But now our positions are reversed. Luke leans forward, danger glittering in his eyes.
'Get out of here little girl. Unless you're looking for your death.'
'What about you?'
The question is instinctive. I never meant those words to leave my mouth. For a moment, he looks as shocked as I feel. The horn sounds again, growing closer, and I lick my lips. My breathing quickens. The sky is darker than it was before. The stars are watching, uncaring. And the wild terror is growing. I feel it spreading, a tingling chill, through each fickle finger and toe, creeping, seeping up and through my skin. The air is humid with the taste of blood, the scent of fear and war and death. And, all about, the night is filled with ice. Cold, deadly and dreadful. Before I realise what I have done I have unlocked the car, Luke is inside, and we are speeding, flying, escaping through the night.

It is a wild and fear-filled drive. Darkness presses about us - real darkness, not the sickly security of the city-lit night – and every inch of the bruised sky resonates with menace. The familiar shapes of natural landmarks twist into unknown threats, until shadowy shapes seem to be moving all about us. Following the car, pressing close. In the silence of the car I hear my heart beat out a terror-fuelled tattoo.

Then the horn sounds again. Far away at first, but soon echoing across the night. Resonating with a fierce, feral intensity. My blood freezes in my veins. The sound grows louder until it fills the air around us. My knuckles stand out, white on the steering wheel. The hair stands on the back on my neck. We cannot outrun the sound.
Luke has not moved since he climbed into the car.

And then we hear the howl. Mad dogs, wild geese, the cries of the damned themselves. The horror fills the night. The suggested shapes of shadows begin to separate around the car, chasing us through the darkness. Great, terrible hounds pursuing their prey. Closing in. my heart-beat is deafening. I hear every blood cell as it is pumped. My hands are sticky, slippery with slick sweat on the steering wheel. The air begins to taste of death. Death and blood and winter and fear and... something else. Something impossible to name.

The world is changed, unfamiliar, and I no longer no where we are. Around me, all things have been transformed. I wonder if it matters.
This is older than our war. Older and darker. There will be no trouble from Subs tonight.

The howling comes again and I can hardly breathe. The sound makes my neck hurt. From nowhere a wind rises, swooping about us and joining the chase, buffeting us back into the midst of the hunt. I think that I hear laughter; maniacal and dangerous. And my heartbeat. And the howling. Always the terrible howling. Our pursuers must surround us now, although they make no move to destroy us. Yet. Instead they play like a cat with a mouse. Delaying the final moment of our death. I feel every bloodcell squeezing through my artesties. Every breath tears my throat apart in its desperate panic. I see, touch, smell, taste, hear everything sharper. This is death, and it has come for me.

The horn sounds again and the silhouette of some great thing – half man and half beast, obscures the waxing moon. My breath catches as I taste my death.
The pause.
The break.
Then that terrible, cruel laughter fills the night, shaking through every molecule, and... our hunters are gone.

Somehow we make it back to my island. I think the car does all the work. Luke is hunched up in the back-seat, shaking. I have trouble enough breathing.

We do not speak until we are inside. Somehow his entrance is undisputed. I long to bar the door, to raise the bridge and shut out the night. But I know this will not help. Bolts are bars matter little against pursuers like those.

I stand in my hallway and listen to the river flowing. The water runs fast but easy below my feet. Natural. Calming. I close my eyes and let myself slip inside it. Gradually, I remember how to breathe. If I did not have a Sub in my house I would let my mind ebb away into it. Now I use it to rebuild my mind.

At length Luke speaks. His voice is still cracked from fear. Still shaking.
'My whole body is thrumming.'
The words are wary. This is a warning.
'It screams all over. Every millimetre. I might not be safe.'
'You never will be safe.'
Blunt and to the point. There is no cause for tact or discretion. Even if he did save my life once.
'You're Subhuman.' I tell him..'You should go.'
'I should.'

The gaps between the words feel strained. Awkward. It dawns on me that his whole body is shaking.

'What was that?'
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. For a moment I think he will not answer. But my fears are unfounded. For once.
'The wild hunt. The hunter... or Horned God... and his minions.'
Luke swallows painfully.
'Its old. Old and wild and dangerous. The land is waking up. And that is not necessarily a good thing.'
For either side. The implications hang, unsaid, in the air between us. I wonder if he knows why this is happening. I wonder how he always knows so much. If he stayed tonight I could ask him. But I know that this is self-deception. It is not his knowledge that I long to understand.

***

I submitted an extract from this as my first piece of creative writing across the course. I was quite happy, but when copying it up just now I noticed an editorial error (two the's where I'd cut & pasted) and my confidence...waned...rather. So I thought I'd throw it into the vast excesses of internet life instead.

xxx

Monday 1 October 2007

The Human Condition

There is something rotten in the state of Denmark.

...Not that this, of course, is any surprise to you. Every day the news pours out their tales of mass destruction upon an apathetic western world that turns its face away and does nothing. Or, worse, does the wrong thing. It is all too easy to forget that there is a story for everyone of those homeless, lifeless masses that flood across the TV screen, easy to forget them in the immediacy of daily life or to try to justify their tragedies from some utilitarian perspective. Which is all very well, but makes it easy to forget that they are real people as well as figures, and that their lives are easily worth every bit as much as our own. Because, otherwise, it could break our hearts.

...No, I'm not referring to anything in particular. The world's stage is too big for that. Africa, Iraq, Burma... the list stretches on across human memory. And I fall into my own hypocritical trap there because there is simply no way to imagine the extent of the suffering on Every Single One Of Those Lives. Which isn't okay either.

I watched The Constant Gardener for the first time yesterday and, being in a somewhat susceptible state, spent several hours crying on my mother, Hugger Steward and the House Philosopher. According to him, the amount you can do has to work outwards in a wave affect, beginning with friends and family, then the immediate area, then the country, then the continent before, finally, you can tackle the world. And, while I can see where he is coming from, the argument seems to be a bit of a cop out, if only because it is exactly what everyone else in this self-obsessed country seems to do most of the time. I recognise that on one level there is no point in expanding all my energy to give someone in Africa a few years grace when I could be having the same affect on three people around me, but on another it is infinitely easier to get help here than it is elsewhere. Added to which, of course, I have been innocently defying this system since I was about fourteen via the wonders of t'internets.

But what then do I do?

The friends I am most used to helping seem to need/want my attention less than they once did and, aside from the ones I already have, of whom I am extremely fond and who this insert is No Reflection Upon, Miss L Liar, I find that I am almost bored of the teenage angst scene. Now, at least, I do not feel like going out and finding new angst-muffins to adopt. If they need me, they will find me.

There is volunteering to be done aplenty in my city, and my new year's membership to people and planet which I might actually do something with this semester. There is a hunger strike in support of the Burmese monks today, from twelve to twelve, although there seem to be no demonstrations planned for my city. More, there is Frank Water to be got into the union, which so far is my own personal crusade and... from the depths of my dreams two nights ago... a new story to be written.

A straight children's book this time, age range c.10+, telling the story of Uday whose father is taken and who is forced, with his mother, to seek asylum from the Iraq war in Britain. Running from the continued abuse of his new countrymen he discovers a strange island that no one else knows of, a land that seems untouched by the hot anger that surges through Iraq and Britain. But all is not as it seems and Uday soon discovers that some nightmares can never be fully outrun.

...Or something like that, anyhow. I know the story, its imprinted on my mind, but there are parts of it I still need to learn from experiences. There are some things that cannot be written until they are fully known.


And that, at the moment, is the extent of my answers. I have ideas aplenty, mostly fixed upon the concept of storytelling as therapy, for which the drama society here might help to prepare me a little more, but nothing solid. No definition, no certainties, and no idea as to whether I can actually do anything to improve the world or whether, compared to the faceless hundreds that have died in the twenty minutes it took me to write this post, I am merely another dog howling at the moon.