It’s October, October means Ray Bradbury

 

“He had never liked October. Ever since he first lay in the autumn leaves before his grandmother's house many years ago and heard the wind and saw the empty trees. It had made him cry, without a reason. And a little of that sadness returned each year to him. It always went away with spring.

But, it was a little different tonight. There was a feeling of autumn coming to last a million years.

There would be no spring."
― from "The October Game" in Long After Midnight

I was deeply saddened when Ray Bradbury died in 2012, part of my childhood died too. In my sadness I was thrilled to see writers such as the lovely Joanne Harris (who I also greatly admire as a writer who captures the essence of the human spirit) write with such love about him.

He was, in my opinion, incorrectly classed as a science fiction writer, but he wasn’t particularly. His short stories, especially in what might be considered his “pulp” era, in the 40s and 50s were masterworks of fiction, ahead of their time in both pathos and sometimes unsettling darkness.

He wrote about the human spirit, kindness, love, tragedy, adversity. He made you feel. Made you love his characters, root for them. The fact that his protagonists were often in fantastical scenarios or worlds, was secondary to his craft. And his craft was the poetry in his writing and the fullness of his characters.

I’ve read lots of “tips for writers” over the years, but when I write, I think of it in terms of a reader, what do I want to read? I don’t (usually) want to be left feeling cold, I want to be engaged. I want to read about people I care about, people I feel empathy for, people, who even if they fail, (because life is like that), I know that even with their flaws, their intentions were good, even if their actions sometimes were not. I am a child of comic books, of clear boundaries between good and bad, as I’ve grown older I’ve learn the hard way, there is no black and white in life, just different shades of grey. In a book though, you can create a world of your own. Sometimes these worlds are fairy tales, and remember fairy tales are often dark and bloody, but also sometimes these worlds are steeped in reality, of sadness, violence, or even the mundane, where someone plods through life, but dreams of something better, of true love, of breaking out of monotony, of fame or infamy. All of these types of stories appeal, because they concentrate on people and the anguish, joy, love and missed opportunities of their lives.

Bradbury captured that, the inner darkness, but also the light. There is always hope in his stories. Mostly…

The quote above came from a book I haven’t read yet, I saw it shared on social media, and thought “wow, I wish I wrote that” (I don’t have a highbrow alternative to that statement!). But it’s true. There is something tragic and beautiful about that passage which engages me, wants me to read more. So tonight I bought the book it came from, online, second hand, because it doesn’t appear to be in print.

Which leads me onto my favourite Bradbury Book, The October Country, a selection of dark, borderline psychological horror stories. October is a funny month, it’s the kiss of winter, the sleep of summer. I went for a run and saw the gold of dead leaves slowly falling from the trees and felt an ache of that loss. That soon the darkness will come, the remaining flowers will wither, the days will shorten further, and I will feel the gloom of the season. The October Country is a book for Autumn. I will read it again. As I often have.

I wrote above that there is always hope in his stories.. mostly. Well the October country has some deeply unsettling stories. Like Skeleton, where a man becomes obsessed and terrified of the bones within him. Or The Man Upstairs, a really quite disturbing story of a child’s detachment from reality and how he can moralise committing a heinous crime.. or was it a crime? The Veldt is a masterpiece, exploring technology yet to be developed, but also childrens’ propensity to explore, sometimes to their own detriment or those of their loved ones.

But there are also lovely gentle stories, like the Homecoming, which has the most heart wrenching ending, I wrote a little more about it here. There Was an Old Woman, who refuses to die, even when Death pays her a visit. He gets an earful. And the Emissary, about a bedridden boy who explores the outdoors through the adventures of his faithful dog.

Bradbury had depth and feeling. In one of his later collections, he was in his late 80s I believe, I remember a story he wrote about a mother who lost her son in an accident, but knowing her son had donated his heart, made it her mission to find the recipient. All she wanted to do put her ear to this man’s chest, so she could listen to her son’s heartbeat one last time. So simple yet such a beautiful premise. It made me cry.

Thank you Ray Bradbury, for helping me read, and making me want to write.

The Return of “A Haiku a day”

I spent a very interesting year in 2012 writing a Haiku a day. It’s a creative project I’m very proud of and though the quality is, shall we say, mixed, the output is a lovely tribute to my year. It’s a snapshot diary of events, some of which are not significant, some of which, when I read now, are disconnected from any memory they might have been associated with. The memory or inspiration for the writing has melted away and that pleases me, because I, like you, can take my own meaning from those words hanging in space, with no narrative to go with them.

Writing the Haikus was mostly a spur of the moment thing, I would have an idea, then I’d write it quickly, trying to avoid over analysis or indulgent editing. I diligently followed the 5-7-5 syllable structure and though I shouldn’t necessarily have used metaphors and should have written in the present tense, mostly I didn’t. I guess it doesn’t matter. As long as it conveys something.

Looking at the tags it seemed wildlife played a big part in my year, especially birds. Also death. And the weather, or more accurately, the changing seasons. It was, in many ways, a difficult year, but I learnt the discipline of writing every day and I learnt to be patient, to listen, to watch, to absorb, to feel more and to learn, academically and through my heart. Having the ability to just stop, step out of phase and become a ghost for even a few minutes felt like something of great significance. Modern life and the artificial pressures that come with it become meaningless in those moments. And… Inspiration? It can come from the tiniest thing. It’s often the little whispers, a tiny act, often overlooked or stomped over, which offer the most wisdom. Stop. Listen. Watch. Breathe. Feel.

So, in that I am travelling to Japan tomorrow, the home of the Haiku, the Haiku a day blog will make a little comeback for the sixteen days I’m there. I’ll post a single photo a day and a haiku to go with it. Just for the extra challenge. I have a feeling that the intensity of life, especially in the days I’m working will be more challenging in Japan. Phasing out and being a ghost will be harder, but I’ll try, even if it’s for a few seconds, even if the photo is a spark of neon smeared across the lens through a rainy taxi window. Whatever this turns into, I hope you’ll enjoy.

Mel

Reiko Watanabe, Hiroshima

 

Tomorrow is the anniversary of the nuclear bomb falling on Hiroshima. It’s often the story of the individual which hits home when contemplating the horrors of war and the associated loss of life. In Reiko Watanabe’s case, it’s her lack of a story, the hole left, the emptiness of a future taken from her, the life she could have led, which really hit home for me. She was only 15 when the bomb dropped, helping with fire prevention work with her fellow students. She might be alive today, a grandmother, or great grandmother. We can only imagine the dreams and ambitions she concocted in her youth. The war raged around her, but she had a future.

Her body was never found, she was working by a mud wall, and later, her lunch box was discovered, melted, but still distinguishable and full of the rice and peas her mother had prepared for her that morning. It was all carbonised of course, but it was a tiny glimpse to show she was loved. And missed.

The photo below is by Hiromi Tsuchida, it is Reiko’s lunchbox. I first saw this photo in an exhibition at the Tate Modern, Conflict, Time, Photography and I was both chilled to the core at the power of the weapons we’ve made to destroy each other and moved by the humanity of the portrait of this last memento of a young girl’s life.

I wrote these words for her.

 

Reiko

By the low wall, Reiko diligently performed the fire drill

she briefly saw the white light, In an eerie silence,

Before it blinded her,

moments later the force, hit her,

Vapourised her, leaving the girl,

In the the spring of her youth,

Just a memory to those who loved her,

 

Her future dreams, caught in the shock wave,

scattered, as single words,

Sewn seeds, in the poisoned fields,

The wall she worked by, it fell,

so that even her shadow,

was lost,

 

But her lunch box,

Buckled by the heat, survived,

A memento, a tribute to the love,

of her proud mother, who sent her out,

with precious rice and peas,

to help.

 

Poem © Mel Melis (photograph by Hiromi Tsuchida)

The secret in the book

 

A book of poetry has sat on my shelf for twenty years, I didn’t know about the secret inside it. Sometimes the books themselves have a story.

1937.

It took nearly eighty years for her gift to reach me, her hand written pencil strokes, folded up and slid into the water stained poetry book.

The one she originally had written it for, possibly had left her, or died in the war, or was not all he promised to be, a sweet heart no more.

Maybe she discarded it in pain, threw those words into the darkness, water damaged by rain and ending up in a box or a cellar,

Gathering dust and damp through those quiet dark years, then appearing, pale and dulled by time, surrounded by other dusty discards,

unloved and shoved together, in batteries of loose categories, on that shelf marked “poetry”, in that now closed shop on the steep high street hill.

It was then, decades later, that I caught her book, it arced into my arms. When I bought it, I was poor, the few coins I had, I used to rescue it.

I lifted the sad little thing from the shelf and took it home for a moment of pleasure. A smile is worth the money in your pocket,

a cursory flick through didn’t reveal the secret at first, but I got my smile, and though I was hungry, I was momentarily happy.

And after that first night, the book sat unread, on my shelf, for two more decades, and still those words, the dead woman’s words,

her copied favourite poem, longhand, on love and longing, spoken when she was in the spring of her life, youthful and red lipped, lay hidden,

Secreted, folded and unread on the Children’s Hospital note paper. But tonight, I opened her book and it fell gently to the floor,

Carefully I unfolded it, and I read it, and I was filled with her sadness and hopes for life,

I wonder what her laugh sounded like, I wonder whether she loved, whether she was happy and beautiful,

Nurse Jones, thank you, I got your gift, you poem, and though I am a stranger and we are separated by time, I love it.

© words and photos. Mel Melis 2015. (apart from the words of Nurse Jones and her hand written poem by Dinah Craik, from A Life for a Life, 1859)

I googled the words, turns out it was this beautiful prose by Dinah Craik from her 1859 novel, A Life for a Life

By Dinah Craik

    Oh, the comfort—
    the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person—
    having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words,
    but pouring them all right out,
    just as they are,
    chaff and grain together;
    certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them,
    keep what is worth keeping,
    and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away.

I am the stealer of summer joy!

 

For those of you (not many!) piqued by my confession that I’d finished writing a novel (I’m going back to editing it this week) and asking me for an example of my creative writing, I share this little short story I wrote this week. It’s very much an experiment in free writing, so there are some flaws, it was finished within a lunchtime. I was talking to a friend at work about the summer solstice, why is it celebrated? For me, and in fact for my colleague, the summer solstice seems like the saddest day of the year. The days will get shorter and shorter, it’s the promise of winter before summer has even kicked in.

The longest day of the year is very much celebrated, the further north you go, the starker the difference in the seasons become and the lengths of day and night get more and more extreme. The weather is a strange thing, such an effector of moods, I always think even the ugliest concrete landscape can look prettier when the sun shines.

The tongue-in-cheek title “I am the stealer of summer joy!” was my friend’s light hearted contribution to our discussion, it made me laugh but it also generated an idea for this story, I have permission to use it, so I thank her for that!

The story itself is meant to be darkly funny, surreal and a cliche of Nordic noir, like an Ingmar Bergman film, but I'm not sure if it hits any of those marks in that respect! It certainly is a clumsy exploration of loneliness, and existential sadness, after all we are all really alone right? (listen to me like I know what I'm talking about!).

As for the characters in the story, I don’t know what happens next, for me this is an ending, I could write more, I could make Torstein and Ingrid fall in love, I could have one of both of them die of the malaise hinted at, I could heal the blight on the world and disperse the clouds and rain, but I can’t. For me, this is how this story ends. It feels right to end this way. And yes, I do feel sorry for the dog. You decide if you like.

Anyway, it’s apt, on the even of the solstice, that it is raining today. Cheer up! Enjoy your summer! haha.

Mel

(short story © Mel Melis)

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I am the stealer of summer joy © Mel Melis

Torstein looked through the greasy pane of glass, the rain was pounding relentlessly against the tin roof, he felt each drop like a nail hammered into his back, the morning was dark, malevolent. He squinted, hoping to see something of the barren sand dunes and perhaps beyond, to the roaring ocean, but everything was blurred by the combination of the imperfections in the glass, the smears of soot and cooking fat, and  the rain’s rivulets pouring down. He sat down at the old oak table again. He began to butter a dry crust of bread with his ivory handled knife, the one his grandfather had given him. His grandfather the whaler, he’d scrimshawed naïve scenes of sea creatures into the whale tooth handle, but through years of use, the relief was worn down. He examined it, turning it over in his calloused hands, it felt weighty, a comfort in his hand, of something lost and yearned for, there was the distinctive spiral of a nautilus shell in the fat end of the handle, but other images were lost to time, eroded, like his memories. He sighed, he barely remembered what any of them looked like, that older generation.

He put down the knife, put down the crust of bread, his big hands gently depositing them so they only made the tiniest sound against the dented metal plate. He decided he wasn’t hungry. Eating was a habit, to pass the time, like smoking. He rolled himself a thin cigarette and lit it with a twig from the open fire. He threw the twig back into the flames, it burst and crackled.

“I am the stealer of summer joy” he muttered when he sat down again. He’d heard it in a dream. A recurring dream. In March, he heard it as a whisper, the ice of winter hadn’t melted then, but the watery sun would peep over the horizon, in a shallow arc, promising warmth in the weeks ahead, but the sun broke its promise, something had happened. In April, the clouds gathered and the rains poured. On occasion they’d get merciful relief from the rain, but on those days the sun was always obscured, by the brooding clouds gathered, which would descend from the sky and contemptuously smother the ground, such that there was no distinction between the sky and the earth. The clouds were heavy, tired, filled with dust and would roll into their houses if they left their doors open. A breath would be like a drink of stale water, people walked with cloths over their faces or their wracking coughs would hinder them. The voice in the recurring dream got louder then. “I am the stealer of summer joy” it would tell him. The only voice of joy he’d heard was the one telling him this, sometimes it would be morose, almost pathetic and plaintive, but of late, it smacked of aloof superiority to his plight, shrill and mocking.

The woman in the corner was gently sobbing, he never even asked her name, but he took her in, her family had died, he remembered that much. She wasn’t company, she was just another thing, an ornament of sorts, in the meaningless suffering he was enduring. Perhaps he was the same to her. When she knocked on his door, perhaps a week before, he knew what had happened to her, he felt it, she was alone in the world. So was he. He didn’t engage, he just stepped aside and allowed her into his hut, she curled up by the fire and didn’t really move much. They were both still alone, but two people alone with one fire saves firewood. It was a practical arrangement. He didn’t mind her tears, it didn’t irritate him, when he did hear it, it was a welcome change from the unremitting rain.

His door creaked open, the unmistakably massive frame of Lars stood there, his silhouette blocking the light. “The light?” pondered Torstein out loud. “There is light?”

Lars laughed. “Yes Torstein! Sunshine! The clouds have broken!”

Torstein hadn’t heard the rain stop, engrossed as he was in his smoking. He flicked the stub into the fire. His dog, the faithful collie Wolf watched him, her big friendly eyes devoted to his every laboured movement. Lars laughed, Torstein hadn’t heard Lars’ jovial laugh in weeks. As his eyes accustomed to the light streaming in around his friend’s frame, he saw the grin on his unruly bearded face. He’d missed this Lars. Lars wore his unmistakable high waist dungarees, pulled over the top of his wide stomach, held up with leather braces. He was a cartwright. In his hand he swung a grey clay jug, a liquid swilled within it.

“Do you think the old gods look favourably on us Torstein?” said Lars.

“The old Gods bring thunder and rain Lars, perhaps the new God is blessing us.” Torstein countered contemplatively. “Or perhaps there are no Gods at all.” He gathered himself up and hauled himself to the door, he wanted to see the sun. “Stromberg, he has been to the city, he has read a scientific journal, he says there were great eruptions in the Orient, the smoke has covered the sky in a blanket, this is why we are cold, why we are ill. The sun cannot see through the dust.”

Lars laughed again. “Stromberg is an idiot” he stepped aside and allowed Torstein to get past him, to walk out tentatively, scrunching his face in the pain of a light he had become unaccustomed to. The woman, who had roused herself, intrigued as to the return of the sun also stepped out, she had stopped crying. The sun on his face had filled Torstein with life and questions, like a melting river, something stirred within him, the spirit of fellowship. “What is your name?” he asked the woman embarrassed, remembering his manners after so many days. She smiled. “Ingrid”

The smile fuelled him further, he liked it, being smiled at, but he wasn’t sure what to do with the feeling “I am Torstein” he said.

“I know” she said simply. He reached for her hand to shake it, but she met it with her opposing hand and stood next to him side by side. She squeezed his hand and held onto it. Her hand was soft and precious. It felt warm. He’d forgotten warmth.

The crack in the clouds was widening, the sun was beautiful, it lit the dunes all the way to the beach and they saw the blue of the sea for the first time in months rather than the grey of sea met by the grey of cloud. Wolf the dog had trotted out and sat by Torstein’s feet, her gaze was on him, not the sun, he was always her warmth, even if the sun was extinguished, she would look to Torstein for light.

The three people stood by the little hut beyond the dunes and allowed themselves the privilege of sunlight, and after some minutes, for it was not a surprise to any of them, the crack in the sky closed over, the clouds stirred and wrestled, boiling into a seething mass, and the rains started again. They all huddled inside. Ingrid let go of Torstein’s hand and he immediately felt his heart go cold. The feeling of warmth, the rays of happiness which played on his soul faded and disappeared. He tried to hold onto that feeling, but the cold took it cruelly away. Torstein stoked the fire. He shivered. He looked wistfully into the dying flame, "It is nearly midsummer but my bones still ache with cold" he paused for what seemed like an age as he stoked further, the metal iron scraping against the old stone of the hearth.

“The summer hasn’t begun, yet the lengthening days will end tomorrow.”

“It is the solstice?” asked Lars. “I forget the dates, they are meaningless in this grey place now”

“Aye, the solstice. If we were able to see it, the sun would shine for its longest, but the day after, and imperceptivity every day after that, the darkness encroaches and fills our hearts with melancholy"

“More melancholy” corrected Ingrid with a sullen resignation. Torstein nodded.

The rain battered down on the tin roof again. Lars swung his jug and landed it on the table. "drink! forget this sadness! Kill the pain!"

Lars poured into three tin cups. They each downed a swig of spirit from Lars’ jug, swallowing it like it was liquid fire. As the spirit seared his throat Torstein felt momentarily enlivened, he looked at how beautiful Ingrid’s eyes were, she met his gaze and some recognition of his desire registered, but then the feeling was lost to the rain. They both looked away.

“Enough!” said Lars. He felt frustrated, he was the strongest man on the coast, but he could not defeat the gloom that overwhelmed them. “Keep the drink” he muttered as he left, slamming the door behind him.

Torstein broke the crust of bread he’d previously buttered into three pieces, he offered one to Ingrid, he dropped another one on the floor for Wolf and the third he forced himself to eat. A habit. To pass the time.

“I am the stealer of summer joy” said the voice in his head.

Kathryn Joseph, St Pancras Old Church

 

When I’m home alone I listen to the radio through the night, songs soak into me, some don’t rouse me, but others tug gently at my subconscious, imploring me to wake up and recognise something important. So it was with Kathryn Joseph’s “The Bird”, a little seed planted itself, I opened my eyes in the dark, fumbled for the light and waited for the DJ to tell me who was singing this starkly beautiful song. The Radio 6 DJ not only gave me the right spelling of Kathryn but also said she was playing at St Pancras Old Church, the home of the Hardy Tree, a venue I hadn’t visited before. I jotted quickly in my notebook and fell back into a deep sleep.

The next day I checked my book, to ensure it wasn’t some wistful dream, smiled, streamed the album and bought two tickets for the gig after checking my gig buddy and fellow blogger Rob could make it too. Had he not been able, I’d have probably gone on my own in anycase.

The album, Bones you have thrown me and blood I’ve spilled (available via her webpage) is a mournful and beautiful thing, full of gorgeous metaphor and observation on the unforgiving and indiscriminate pain that life can serve up to the innocent, to the young, to the weary. And of the sadness of those left behind, who endure the legacy of love and loss. It moves you and pulls you in.

It’s stripped down and acoustic arrangements with her piano and collaborator Marcus on drums/percussion is gentle, at times unsettling, emotional, at other times darkly soothing. You might think from this that Kathryn is perhaps a sombre ethereal presence, but as this fantastic article describes, she is gregarious in person, joyfully sweary and full of energy. You can’t help but grin and enjoy her company.

And in her social media interactions she is gracious and kind, she welcomes interaction which made me smile when I got a personal thank you email after I bought her limited edition single online! And I got a hug before the gig which was a lovely surprise!

Up against some incredible Scottish talent, and arguably the outsider choice for Scottish Album of the Year, she only went and won it, deservedly so. Virtual fist taps and chest bumps all round from her growing fan base!

After a great support act from the talented singer songwriter Yusuf Azak (and love this video with his song played over Goldie Hawn dancing!), Kathryn’s live performance was stunning in the intimate church venue, if you like early Tori Amos, Stina Nordestam, Sharon Van Etten or PJ Harvey’s White Chalk album, I think you’ll love Kathryn. As well as the reflective elements, there were fun moments too, her laugh when everyone politely waited to only crack open their tinnies between songs and the moment the church bells struck ten, and she joked that it was like a godlike intervention to censor the swear word in the lovely and sad song “The Crow”.

Another lovely touch was the free printed booklet of the lyrics for every gig attendee, the lyrics are presented thrown together, without punctuation, like memory, a jumble of themes, thoughts and pictures you need to unpick and interpret. Interspersed among the lyrics are photographs and artworks as well as images of Kathryn’s hand written prose, with annotations and edits. It’s a lovely keepsake from a beautiful evening.

If there was an artist I would want to wish beautiful things for it would be her. What a lovely evening. Thank you Kathryn.

Dusk and Dawn –June 2012, “I hear those voices that will not be drowned”

 

Dusk

After the rains, the sun shone,

A jewel of an evening

where long shadows caressed the beach,

And touched the churning sea,

The mottled sand, built in tiny peaks,

Amongst the dunes, unsullied by feet,

I didn’t know you’d gone,

They were calling me, to tell me,

But I was oblivious,

I’m glad, because I saw beauty,

And now when I remember that day,

I face the sea, the sun at my back,

I see a glint of light on the scallop,

I listen to the timeless pulse,

Of the ocean, the cry of birds,

The wind driving at the hardy plants,

Who tremble, like my fragile heart.

© Mel Melis (all words and photos)

Dawn

I stayed up and watched the sun rise,

over the North Sea,

I saw her face in the clouds till

the sun melted it away,

Dusk and Dawn, those funny times

neither claimed by day or night,

A time where for an instant,

the imagination snares reality.