CHAPTER 16
By Kevin Barry Partridge
THE SEVEN RAYS
“ Zip, I was reading Schopenhauer last night,
Zip – and I think that Schopenhauer was right!”
Rita Hayworth
I’ve had a few perfect moments in my life – moments when the World weaves wonder – wangles magic from the elements and conjures a quintessence of light and matter, sound and feeling that makes the substance of the Earth shimmer with the promise of a new and better day. I don’t know how many there have been, they are unpredictable and transient – ephemeral – they must be, the grimy veils rarely shake off their soot and part, from care of blowing our minds.
The last time I really remember was on one of those fantastical beaches – whose twice transported sand startles then perplexes – transported first on barges from who knows where to the foreshore at Tower Bridge: ‘The Childrens Riviera’ and thence through time and tide upriver to the treasure trove shores of the South Bank. That night I’d seen Bill Bryden’s ‘The Mysteries’ on the stark fallingwater terrace of the National Theatre and decided to walk back through the frowzy desolation that flanks the Thames to my studio on Jacobs Island. Standing on that Misty margin enveloped in “the violet hour,” the floodlights of St Pauls mingling with the mirrored Moon on low tide Thames was a rare and radiant point in time, a fleeting moment of euphoria, those two shakes of the lambs tail when joy floods the senses unrestrained, and one thinks one might just…burst with the unfolding ecstacy of life on Earth…….”Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long”……..how curious, do I remember now some other beach? Yes, what strange dreams I had last night…..”but at my back in a cold blast I hear the rattle of the bones”……that‘ll teach me for adulterating a perfect moment with ‘The Wasteland’….after all this time – still pissing in the stream – no, that isn’t fair, theres beauty there nestled in the muck….like the legends of the Lotus….is there anything left that’s still completely pure?
Aldous Huxley might say I had seen as Adam had “on the moment of his creation – the miracle, moment by moment, of naked existance.” William Blake – that I had cleansed “The Doors of Perception” and seen beyond the Caverns chinks……no that isn’t right….that I had suddenly understood that the cavern is only a convenient illusion….a contrivance for survival? No, I’m slightly scared of that………..that the cavern is infinite: all encompassing? Close but not really right…can infinity be encompassed? I suppose that’s the point, laying here I can no longer imagine anything without an edge or an end, everything seems……bounded somehow. I experienced a communion that day: A concord, a harmony…there are no walls, no doors in that place, no seperation of any kind – but now those words are just words, I know what they mean but I no longer understand them – the barriers have returned. Am I the cavern? Am I back in the nutshell, trapped in my own skull…watching shadows projected on the bony walls and thinking they are real. Babies, I have read, can’t tell the difference between themselves and anything else…I mean they don’t know where they end and everything else begins, that – I think – is what I mean….and maybe thats why I can’t remember…..the armours back on, thank God perhaps……..I know the feeling was real, I did experience some kind of spontaeneous ‘Henosis’ – I felt the connection…the beguiling illusion of seperateness fell from me all too briefly and I knew my place in the Universe: Right at the very centre – or – everywhere, all at once. I‘m not expressing myself very well, John Donne did better perhaps:
“Our bodies why do we forbear?
They’are ours, though they’are not we;
we are the intelligences,
they the spheres.”
But then, if I could think like John Donne I’d probably be up by now, conceit defined, coffee made, ready for a new day, I doubt I’d have had that lean year either… “charm the habit off a nun, that man” – alas for me…….”thought is a bird of space”….not sure even a Metaphysician of Johns standing could do justice to last night. In London I had been alone, but last night…….these aren’t Kodak moments, they can’t be captured, not easily anyway.
Waking up next to the Princesss in our beautiful travelling oaken den is definately a perfect moment, or rather an reveried resonance of perhaps the most perfect I’ve ever known, the space is warm and cosy ….. and her face shimmers in the soft glow of the stove, free finally from the troubles that had cast dark shadows over her features. She’s still asleep – and too peaceful to wake – so I decide to get some food. Those midnight swims will give you quite an appetite. breakfast on the pebbly beach seems best so I’ll keep the truck here. The Lanes are way over to the West so, after plagiarising a brief and poetic note, I climb – slightly bewildered (I should never do anything before drinking coffee really) – the high cliffs back into Kemptown and scour the area around St Georges road for freshness and fruit, and early birds.
Breakfast scrambled from a dozen stores I stagger back – head in haze – to fucktruck, to beach and to beauty, risen now and making coffee and tidying the nest and looking bleary and vague and….content? There, in morning silence, a sort of autoshediastic fruit salad is concocted, croissants are warmed and gather we to dine and opine.
W – “I woke up and you weren’t here.”
M – “Sorry, I thought you’d be hungry.”
W – “I am hungry, but after last night you should have woken me up, you should have taken me into your arms and told me that you loved me and kissed me, you should have told me that you’d be back soon….last night was lovely, but this morning you’ve made me sad – so now I’m cross with you…..if you want to keep me you better learn these things.”
M – “You looked too beautiful to wake, and too sleepy. I really am sorry, did you get my note? I thought that was enough, obviously I was wrong. Next time I’ll know….I guess I was sort of distracted, I’m a bit frantic this morning, I’ve got to start getting ready for tomorrow, I’ve got to get the paintings to the gallery, ready to be hung”
W – “Well alright then,but I’m still cross – men are rubbish – you never understand
….you woke up and I was all sleepy and dozy, and I bet you looked and thought how nice I looked and how perfect everything was – I woke up and you were just…..gone, which means you’re a brute today…….but I’ll help you if you like”
M – “Thanks, that’d be great….what about our Halloween costumes though, shall we just…rent something?”
W – “No, I making mine, I told you I was – you never listen – I already know what I’m doing.”
M – “ What are you two going as again?”
W – “We’re going as ‘Tales of Mystery and Imagination’ by Edgar Allan Poe , well I’m a poem I think – ‘The Raven’ and my Sapphic squeeze is ‘The Black Cat’……oh don’t look grumpy, but you had better think of something good – what about ‘The Tell Tale Heart”…no that story’s a bit horrible and too easy for you anyway…you like abstraction – why don’t you go as ‘ A Dream within a Dream’? .
M – “ Mmm, maybe – that is certainly slightly harder to visualize, I’ll consult my surrealist
costumiers manual….how come you aren’t going as ‘The Black Cat’?
W – ”Because I wanted something with feathers”.
M – “ Well anyway, we should make a start on them, there’s not much time. We’ve got that Film thing tonight, tomorrows gonna be crazy and Wednesday I just want to sleep late if we’re all going back to London for the Party – The Gay Mafia’ll probably turn up and you know what an effort that lot make, so yes, I do want us to look good but no,I don’t want any extra faff on Halloween, I just want an easy day……things always take longer than you expect”
W – “I’m going shopping then…I still need to find a balaclava, and a black polo neck and then I’ll go to my friends and start my costume, shouldn’t take long the feathers come on a sort of ready made trim…you know ….on a strip in rows.”
M – Errr…oh, that’s..good then. Listen, I think I know what I’m gonna make – if you’re bodding about today anyway could you do me a favour and get some things.”
W – “Of course darling, what would you like.”
M – “Some nice cardboard…you know, from outside shops, old boxes I mean….clean though…plain surface, single ply, with those nice sine wavy bits in the middle, don’t worry if you can’t, I’ll look later, but definitely: Some PVA glue, some masking tape, a box cutter…. oh and some clothes pegs and a steel ruler, I’ll write all that down – I think there’s a Millets up by the Art shop, so you can probably get a balaclava there, here’s some money.”
W – “Oooh, Old cardboard boxes? I didn’t know we were going posh”
M -” Oh, I’m taking this seriously…..black cat indeed.”
There’s some more organizing to do, addresses to scribble, maps to sketch and I quickly inscribe some templates for the cutting of card: 8 1/2” equilateral triangles and some carefully angled wing like struts, which The Princess promises to cut multiples of – if she can – to save me some time…because I’m her busy boy. Right now though I can see that She has taken on the impatient “don’t stop me I‘m being efficient” air she dons when there are things to get done, so with a quick kiss I agree to pick her up later….from the Cats. (I should explain: the reason I call her ‘Princess’ is because I met her on the corner of Princess Road, Primrose Hill. She was holding a rather large Arcadian painting and every time she shifted position (because of the frames weight) the picture swayed a bit and I got a partial flash of the road sign – PRINCESS – as if the Universe was signposting her for me – letting me in on a little secret. I still love that painting and indeed the artist – a mister Edward Calvert….because obviously I offered a gentlemanly hand and thereby got to know the lady (our social circles being somewhat different.)
Now I’m busy – back to the pepperpot to pick up the paintings – load the truck, strapping them flush to the wooden walls and a fast slowdrive to ‘Rushtons fine Art’, careful on the corners….again. Quick cup of coffee and do my best to look relaxed whilst chatting to the Gallery people, and soon I’m alone in the gallery space…Bliss – This is what I enjoy…this is where I can start to luxuriate in my own peculiar brand of OCD Feng shui – I know the narrative – the visual flow – I know how I think they’ll look but I have to see them – in situ – before I can really begin to relax…..a little smaller than I remember – epic memory – not so worried now about that missing picture now – could I have found time? I don’t know how, I didn’t know she’d come, certainly not with a back story like that anyway. Still none the wiser, as mysterious as ever, I don’t even know why she dissappeared, why she found some guy more…..more – posh probably, silver spoon, piano lessons, Eton – bullied, buggered and Bullingdon – opened that place on his parents penny. I bet, back with them now …..good, “not very good with money”, I bet he fucking wasn’t.. why would he have to be, he’ll be alright, test run probably…”A little Real World experience…..a brush with the Natives” before they dish out the real cash…. rich people, if you dig back there’s always dirt – traded with the nazi’s, highland clearances….worse – I’m certainly not going to worry about him. Cheeky though, asking me to clean up some other…….and now shes got a girl….actually I don’t care about that, different with a guy but somehow a girl just doesn’t seem to bother me, endless possibilities, I might even ask…….come on mate …actually do something, no point just standing here, just to bring the pictures in and put them roughly where you think they should go….
M – “I’m going to prop this door open, just while I bring them in…sorry about the cold.”
Windy, Brightons always windy…that isn’t true, the seafront’s windy…the parade can be like a fucking disaster movie and a few roads back – calm as can be, unless there’s freezing fog….fuck! I hate that fog. lucky with the weather though – amazing for October even with the wind. I’ll just take two at a time….cheek to cheek, lets hope the paints dry. Oil doe’s take longer but I prefer oil….that smell – people say acrylic……acrylic’s quicker, easier but I like the smell of oil and the ritual….“The process is important” – thanks Miss Maddox, you were right – the process is important. In any case I just don’t think the effect is the same….could have done that extra painting though, if I’d used acrylic…fuck, I didn’t notice that dent in the frame, no-one will notice….at least I finished the triptych, at least I did that.
She was right of course….I should have woken her up with a kiss…..explained I’d be back…no way of knowing though, she doesn’t usually wake up that early….fucking St Georges road, pissing me around….but I should have stayed – I should have let her have her moment, especially after luxuriating in mine so long. Are men selfish? That’s a stupid question! Am I selfish?
We came together last night
first time – looking into each others eyes…and of course I told her that I loved her, and of course I kissed her and held her in my arms, but that was last night and……oh shit I should have put that ‘Last Night’ song on the mixtape for the private view, oh fuck thats a classic, is that a girl group though? Who cares, close enough – FUCK – record shop, portable – I need that song….but, I don‘t know how much difference staying would have made….she might just feel vunerable because she let the facade slip a little…afterwards I mean. Hard for a girl like her, she’s so…imperious “la la” so mysterious “la la” She might look just like Irma Vep “but she breaks just like a little girl”…..was he being tender, or mean I wonder……Fuck sake – surely there’s a time when the games end, “ Treat ‘em mean to keep ‘em keen” that was my mum’s advice. A womans advice about women. Hard to believe really, I mean, must I mum? I wanted to dance the Tango, not the Bowery Waltz……..Apache? No, not unless ‘The Runaways did a cover. I’m sick of the games: Are you really cool enough for me? How about: Do you enhance me as a person? Or: What kind of first impression do you make on people? Where do you see yourself in ten years? Is always good, meaning: Are you going to take me where I want to go? And then the crux of the matter: Do you have enough drive to get there? Do you have enough talent?
Women are fucking arch….they think about all that stuff, I’d like to see the Manual….men? Men are fucking idiots! But are women really ‘better’? I used to think so….more compassionate, more romantic, more….democratic. How we must have hurt each other, down through the ages – ‘Games people play’ is that a good song? Not bad, no good for the tape though…wrong sex.I’ll put the blue one here, there’s still gonna be a gap on the far wall, I wonder if the gallery would let me write something ‘Samo’ style?
….Oh, Esther Williams, where’s a pen…and I‘ll get the Gladys Knight version of the song from that film… ‘Memories’, If I find a portable somewhere in the lanes I can just play them…..Fuck, I‘ve got to find that song, she’ll love that…after last night…redeem myself a little. .. why do things get hard just when they should be getting good….self sabotage, did I…..no – she was wrong to ignore the note:
Princess,
“I was a flower of the mountain yes
when I put the rose in my hair
like the Andalusian girls used
or shall I wear a red yes and how
he kissed me under the Moorish Wall
and I thought well as well him
as another and then I asked him
with my eyes to ask again yes
and then he asked me would I
yes to say say yes
my mountain flower and first
I put my arms around him yes
and drew him down to me
so he could feel my breasts
all perfume yes and his heart
was going like mad and yes
I said yes I will Yes.”
Sorry I took so long coming back to you, my love.
that wasn’t….bad – not for 8 o’clock in the morning anyway, before I’d had my coffee – ‘Tales of Brave Ullysses’, allusions to Penelope, lovers reunited, a coming together…..Leo and Molly Bloom: “AND ONCE AGAIN IRELAND CELEBRATES THAT FAMOUS HANDJOB”….”Oh and she had the hands of an Angel that Nora Barnacle”…..”Well she stuck with me, she did do that” Quoth JJ…… better than the Wordsworth anyway….I should have used the Donne….I should always use the Donne – I need to learn some more poetry, or at least carry a book….she’s high maintenance, culturally, the Princess. They get a goodeducation, the posh, they do get that – maybe she’s never read Joyce…….or maybe she was angry because the quote was from her point of view, did she think I was being flippant ….or did she think I was, yes, putting words in her mouth? But yes she did say Yes……
There’s only so many ways I can mix these up, the triptych has to go on that wall, green at the end next to the door. and the other three on the other wall, whichever way looks best – the sequence is mixed up anyway…..I’ll let them sit a while, see how I feel…..I shouldn’t complain about the “ Do you have the drive to take me where I want to go” line….for women that’s probably top tier analysis….lucky to qualify, she might be thinking are you at least malleable enough for me to mould…. no not mould – modify, streamline……gussy up? “Sly Henrietta Higgins surreptitiously……..”, are the statues teaching the teachers? They should! Did Eve give Adam the fig leaf to cover his shame or just to add a touch of ‘glamour’ a modicum of majesty….damn, that Shirley MacClaine dance was good, that really was a fashion show! I should have have gone into theatre, not like that – not really – like ‘Dionysis in 69’ or something…Maybe, if my childhood had been more …expansive. Expansive “la la” expensive…as long as they’re as close in meaning as in spelling children are going to miss out, how can London be so expensive and so shit, all at the same time? If I ever have kids I’m going to take them everywhere, let them look – really look – at everything…..molded. Were Adam and Eve made from clay? Dust I think…..and a rib.
Can he be molded? Can he be molded is impertinent…..”grossly impertinent”….women should understand we struggle our whole lives to avoid being molded, some of us anyway: Molded by school, by our peers, by our ‘betters’, by ‘the bosses’….I don’t want to be molded I want to invent myself: By force fo will, by Alchemy if I can …..but by ’Bricolage’ if needs must. Can he be molded? I expect the gradations of that line of questioning stretch some way…..right down to “is he likely to ask for a paternity test”…..cuckoo in the nest…Squares peg in a round hole..known a few of those….” Mollys favours, after all, had not been bestowed on Tom alone” no, nor on Leo neither – difficult situation – what do you say? “Oh wow, a whirlwind romance, When’s the happy day? Wedding bells I mean.” Happy some of ‘em I expect….”pun..pinching above their weight”…” penchant above their weight“…….fucking noble truth be told……….oh no she isn’t, no, don’t even think that.
There’s only these three to arrange…….I’m going to tell her she’s the reason I didn’t finish the last picture so she’ll have to help me fill the gap….something ceremonial at the view, maybe she could wear her costume and……perhaps we could make something…something sculptural…and fuck – of course I could write something……
I’m right of course, woman know nothing about being molded….I’m such an fucking idiot…probably worse for them, told how to look their whole lives….Napolean was wrong “Nation of shopkeepers” – we’re a Nation of would be Svengali’s with the ‘sidaM’ touch……like that film, that crazy film…did he know I wonder? Did Hitchcock know, how ‘exposed’ he was? Maybe he did, maybe that explains ‘The missing Five’…..what‘s that other film……Stewart and Novac and a big black cat – Black Cat Novac ….I better get on. I wonder how far they got with the costumes, not far, can’t keep their hands off each other probably. I better up my game. ”Can you keep up” that’s probably what she’s asking. “Are you holding tight enough?” No, you can’t hold on that’s the point, she isn’t a caged bird. “Fasten your seatbelts……..” no that isn’t right either. I think I’ll buy her something….in the lanes……something…theatrical.
“Doe’s he have potential?” that’s a better question, or “Can he grow,?” that’s what she should ask! ”Can he grow at a sufficient rate to succeed and maintain success” that, perhaps is ‘the’ Question.
There that’ll do…”the household Gods have returned”…..but they certainly aren’t Roman, and they all appear to be Women…….just another girlgroup
© Kevin Barry Partridge 2016
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