One Word

Once upon a time, there lived a young man - ruddy, energetic, in the full bloom of health - who set out on a journey. His quest was to the find the one word to speak the world. One word, without remainder, to speak the trees and forests,  the plains and mountains, the seas and rivers. One word to speak the seasons, to encompass the mysteries of esoteric secrets, to speak the colours of love and wildness of fury. One word alone, pristine and untouched, soundless but waiting.

He travelled far and wide. He visited the sites of the holy men, daubed with the hues of heaven. He sat with the river avatars in monsoon heights. He talked long and deep into countless nights around dancing fires, listening and imbibing. He was silent in mountain caves as spiders wept silken threads and mountain goats stood imperviously by. He knelt in temples while ornate and holy books were kissed. He opened scrolls and cogitated, chewed and digested.

All the while, the chill seeped into his bones, dust storms scoured his face, and bones creaked. Time settled like a threadbare blanket. Until at last, he settled along the banks of a river, an old man whose youth had vanished.  All his wordly possessions were spread out in front of him. Scroll after scroll piled chaotically, each capturing and tying to earth a word, an idea, a thought.

Beside him a cauldron suffered the licks of fiery tongues. As dusk settled and a sky shimmered with pink, almost imperceptibly, he unfurled each scroll and dipped it into the cauldron. He stewed. The papers dissolved and released their words. Finally, as the sun dipped below the horizon and darkness approached, he drank deep draughts.  Inhaling a lifetime of sounds, he swallowed. And gently reclined until he lay horizontal, utterly spent. There he stayed.

Until at last, a great breath inflated his lungs, his rib cage expanded and his mouth pursed. But not a word to trap the world came. Silence. Instead just a breath slowly exhaling and swirling in freedom. It grew and flew. The trees lining the river rustled green and the river itself stirred. Cubit on cubit from the east flew down the river and white water bubbled. He woke and raised his face  and on his breath, a cross floated and came to rest upright, stark and bare. In silence, he knelt.

This is the word of the Lord, thanks be to God.

Blogged with Flock

AA Gill

One of the great pleasures of my week is lying down on our (gone) off cream carpet on a Sunday afternoon and opening up the Style magazine of the Sunday  Times. After glancing surreptitiously at the Celebrity Sex Clinic column to keep up to date with the literate comings and goings of the rich and famous, it is onwards yet onwards past the 'my husband is a lesbian and i love it' articles and latest news from the catwalks of Europe to AA Gill's restaurant review. By now I have normally also digested the weekly emission of bile from Michael Winner in Winner's dinner. While this is out and proud exercise in vulgarity sustained only by an entertainingly gargantuan ego, AA Gill is all about sophistication and the joy of words. While no doubt he is too  clever by half and someone a little too familiar with condescension, he is my favourite writer by a mile. Every column includes such exotic verbiage that one comes away inspired to read a dictionary. Gill really writes about nothing much at all but so wondrously and with such inconsequence which makes the language sparkle even more. Take this from this week about seeing Wagner's ring cycle:

One of the little Vorspiel highlights is to stand in the corridor and enjoy the Wagnerian dash – more a sprightly trudge – to the lavatories as the first bell rings. Everyone knows that this is a pelvic-floor clencher, and most of the audience is of an age where the elastic is a bit frayed. Towards the end of the second act, you can feel the drip, drip, drip of anxiety, the quivering sphincter of doubt. It’s like being on the motorway and having the empty light flash on, except it’s the opposite. They ought to have those wire cages like they do at airports for hand luggage: you’re not allowed on board if your bladder is fuller than this.

What I would give to write with such a dripping pen!

Blogged with Flock

one and the many

the power of one is the catalyst of the many.

the faith of one is the horizon of the hopeful

the power of one is the chains of the sleepy

the doubts of one are the anchors of the grounded

the grace of one is the possibility of living


lord who is mysteriously three, come multiply our single leavened loaves.

Blogged with Flock

it's ok jack, tomorrow it's crumble

don't worry jack cos tomorrow it's crumble. your favourite. apple and blackberrry with cream. not for ever will there be dry air pumping and dimmed lights flickering. nor will you feel the loneliness of early morning hours and the sterile halls. and that hacking cough will die down, i promise, cos tomorrow it''s crumble for afters, and it's your faviourite. see everyone will be having seconds, chris and mike too, so come on jack have a bit more, it's sunday afterall.

soon you can get up to potter. fix an aeroplane too. and we won't have to be there but to play along. soon and soon, these cardboard upturned hats will be no more and you will need your cap on for the weather. its going to be a beautiful evening for you jack but wrap up warm and have some crumble. its your favourite afterall.

we will miss you, jack.

hub bub

so there's this guy. he sits contentedly upright, one hand nursing a large and as yet untroubled lager. he wears a tattered baseball cap, frayed at the peak so that small threads peered over into a lined face that creased at the mouth and eyes. he is still. perfectly. among the dust of the day and the moving clouds of blue cordite smoke, which eddied around the bar. the atmosphere seemed to slow around him. the hub bub of working men kicking back washed over him gently, almost imperceptibly. he was alone but not isolated. in every way he seemed to fit in. his faded jeans and sweaty shirt was the uniform of the place - the uniform of the outdoors, of people who worked long and hard in the cotton fields all around the district.

i caught his eye and he beckoned me over, pulling a stool closer and raising a large hand to the barmen. beer in hand, we talk.

i ask him 'what is truth'. he smiles and drinks a draught. he plays with the beer mat in his hand, flipping it dextrously from one finger to the next, back and forward, back and forward. i wait. he waits.

bottom of the eight and one down, bases loaded, the pitcher sends a fast one down the middle and the hitter obliges. the ball hits the bleaches high up left and two get home.

he turns towards me and fixes me with a long gaze. eventually he raises a hand leads my eyes to the room. i follow the sweep of his hand around the room - guys playing pool, shooting the breeze. and he said 'listen'