Independence (by Nathan)

The clock ticked relentlessly and time passed. Some days it passed more quickly than others, but Betty’s routine stayed the same. It was twenty years since George had passed, they’d had a happy life, with kids and grandkids, and a caravan in Bridlington that, despite its size, held a lifetime of memories.

The kids had moved away, first to university, and then to jobs that took them overseas. She envied the other women of her age that she saw dragging toddlers around Tesco and treating them to a bun to keep them quiet. She longed for the chance to pick up her grandchildren, Harry and Molly must be at school now. She’d missed so many birthdays.

She filled her days with a routine. Breakfast at 9am was a slice of toast and jam with a cup of tea. She always made a pot and left it to mash. It tasted stewed when you make it in a mug. Later she would venture out to the shops. Sometimes to the corner shop or, if the weather was nice, she’d catch the number 14 into town. Although, it was getting harder these days, the bus was always late and sometimes she and to stand for the 15 minutes it took to reach the high street.

She would chat to the checkout girl, people didn’t think she noticed the tuts and long stares, but she did, she didn’t care, people should take more time to talk to each other rather than stare into those phones all day.

She’d sit in coffee shop and watch the world pass her by, and then get the bus home before the school emptied out and the kids made it too busy.

Sometimes she would chat to two or three people on her trips into town. The girl in the library always greeted her by name and asked how her grandkids were, she always lied and told them how well they are doing.

It was silly really, just a little slip from the step when she’d reached up to dust the cupboard, she’d fallen awkwardly and twisted her knee. A couple of weeks in hospital and she’d come home to an empty house. The kids had called but she’d told them not to worry.

Her leg was so stiff these days that she struggled to walk to the corner shop and couldn’t face the trip into town. Some days were worse that others, and she was extra careful around the house these days.

Anyway, enough of this rambling, she had to get settled for Countdown. She missed Richard Whiteley but still did the letter games, it kept her mind active.

And as long as she had her mind, she had her independence.

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Independence? (by Andrew)

No more to hear your voice

No more to touch your hand

No more to wave goodbye

And yet you live

That handwritten note, meticulous, updated and again, found unexpectedly in a crumpling, manila file. You caught me.

That walk at Scarborough, late afternoon, autumn. But memories of early morning, summer, forty five years ago. My hand in yours, skipping on the beach, virgin sand. The day, my life, ahead. Yours, already, almost half behind.

That drawing. Framed rhododendron heads, three stages of decay. Pen. Ink. You. I’d forgotten it, by the chest in the spare room and caught it with my foot – as you caught me.

You. Again. Here.

Don’t cheek your mother. Money doesn’t grow on trees. Mind you take your shoes off. The story of the orange peel, thrown into Queen’s Dock as they filled it up, mid thirties. You a boy of eight, alone in the city, mother working, father dying. You surviving.

But now YOU’RE gone.  I’m here.

It’s said we don’t grow up until we lose our parents. Independence – but at what price? Who, Mr Quantity Surveyor, counts the cost now that you’re goine? You didn’t reckon that up on foolscap sheet.

Your chair, your brush, your watch, your glasses, wallet, frown. I wasn’t ready.

Independence

Each year we go away somewhere warm for our BoysBookClub and as we go away for the weekend (Malaga this year) we decided a couple of years ago to do something creative ourselves as well as reviewing our monthly book.  We tend to decide on a theme and then you can choose what you do, people do short stories, essays, poems and this year Phil did our first graphic booklet.  The theme this year was independence, chosen after our trip to Barcelona last year and despite having ages to come up with something I was frantically typing the week before, a deadline sharpens the mind I guess.  My effort is below, I was happy with the idea but it could do with quite a bit more work to get it where I’d like but I thought I’d put it up as it was. Happy to hear what you think.

Independence

All things end, life, my life, relationships, the bed I’m lying on will someday be no more, the planet we live on and the sun that warms it, all things end. I think that it took me many years to slowly realise this but this inevitability has a calmness to it, you can’t change it it just is. My life is drawing to it’s end now and the physical decline being hurried along by a debilitating illness means that although I cannot predict the actual time, my time is drawing to a it’s end.

I tend to wake early now, never quite sure of the time as the stiffness means I’m unable to turn my head to see the bedside clock. I try and judge the hour by the light that seeps in through the edge of the plain cream curtains that just reach down to below the window sill. Pam would have hated these curtains, she always wanted heavy patterned luxurious curtains that reached down to the skirting board. She was fastidious about how they were folded back and tied each morning, I can see her doing it now, fussing and brushing and making sure the folds were exactly the same on each side. It’s funny the things you remember about those you love, it’s always these weird little actions and manners that only we know. These dull excuses for curtains will not be tied back and they will not be opened carefully, the staff will breeze it at some point bellowing “Morning Mr Davis” and briskly sweep the curtains aside. I’m not sure why they shout so loudly, ill and fading away I might be but deaf I’m not. I’ve also told them repeatedly that my name is Bryn not Mr Davis, my dad was Mr Davis not me, it’s even written in my care plan apparently but with the dizzying changes of names on their shiny lapel badges I guess they don’t have time for the nuances of care any more. It’s all function, get in, get him up, bag emptied, washed, dressed, medicated, and sat in ‘the chair’ and then move on down the corridor to the next lucky soul.  Continue reading

Amsterdam Movement

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Lithe, easy going, effortlessly gliding; understated coolness moving to a different beat.

Water ever present adding it’s own shimmering, chugging splashes to the palette of the cities movement.

Like looking into the ever changing flickering flames of a late night outdoor fire I find myself hypnotised by a city that flows like no other.

Trams snaking through the middle of ancient streets, utter modernity alerting you to their presence with a timeless 1920’s bell.

A progressive political and social heartbeat, tolerant, boundaries pushed outwards in art, philosophy, architecture, enlightenment shining through still.

I adjust to it’s rhythm, thought processes slowing but clearer, more space as my mind relaxes, body too in no rush, gentle movement and wandering seems the best pace.  Natural not forced and I instantly feel the better for it.

Then I join the flow, turn the pedals, relax and just journey randomly taking the temperature of it’s perpetual movement of which I’m now part.

I stop at a canal-side cafe and settle into the Dutch state of being, gezellig.  Time for my pen to move and distil thoughts.  I sit and watch trying to work out how to capture the moment and the movement that aligns with my soul.

Reliance – by PB

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Following on from our boysbookclub trip to Barcelona where as well as reviewing a book we also took on the task of doing some writing of our own based on the theme of Reliance.  I’ve put up Phil’s and Stuart’s and here’s another one of the pieces done by PB.

The holiday camp next door had portholes for windows and a jaunty ships funnel on its roof, as if all the smoke from the combusting fun had to safely escape to prevent vacation asphyxiation. To the north a silent nuclear reactor, sitting monolithic, casting a long, evening shadow over the caravans. Behind, inland, the rusty Imperial Chemical factory emitting orange, fat, noxious plumes. All that was left was wide expanse. The sky. And to the west the bay, flat-lands and mud, salt-marsh and treacherous, shifting, sinking sands and rolling, curling tides.

Each school holiday the world revolved around this spot on the edge of the ocean. It was still guarded by hexagonal,  piss-infused pillboxes. Some of these crumbling sentinels were losing their own battles. Under them the soft, clay-layered coastline and cliff distintegrated, leaving foundations exposed, teetering on the brink. Others had already made a swift descent to the beach. Now they were making the slow journey to the sea, like giant, unwieldy, concrete, new-born turtles, where the motion of the waves would return them to sand and pebbles.

And a beach littered with huge slabs and blocks, more remnants of coastal fortifications and defences. Why would the Germans invade the country through a caravan site, where good folk take their families for summer, half-term, easter?

But, what i didn’t appreciate at the time was that caravan sites like Quantum Theory, baby boomers and credit cards were a more modern phenomenon, not one the nazi’s had to negotiate.   Their popularity coincided with the post-war picking up and brushing down. From where we were you either headed east or west. And west was where we headed.

The eight berth metal box on wheels was secure. Tethered to the ground, like a barrage balloon, to stop it blowing away in the gusts, gales and winter storms. In high winds it was safe under the sway and the drumming of the rain.

The roof was a ballroom for albatross-sized seagulls that tap-danced across it. If you crawled under, among the grains of dry, sandy earth, you could see the chains keeping it grounded. A hub surrounded by 3 generations, cousins, parents, aunts and grandparents. Fat chips for dinner and ham out of a tin. There were other tins. Tinned potatoes. Tinned carrots. Tinned peas.Vegetables with a metallic edge. Tinned pies. Tinned people.

It was a beautiful place.

After a quarter of a century things have changed. The caravan site, although the same size as it ever was has shrunk. It still smells the same though. According to someone that told me they’d read it, Marcel Proust in Remembrance of Things Past refers to the rush of memories he experiences when smelling a biscuit, a madeleine. My madeleine moment happens whenever i pass a sewage works. I never realised why i’d smile and think of childhood holidays until I returned as an adult.  It can instantly transport me to childhood holidays by the sea and the aroma of the sewage pipe that still carries shit out into the ocean.

The family has dispersed like the tide going out. The stall selling nettle beer in the local village has disappeared.  Further still, in the town, turning away from the empty shops, dilapidated amusements and derelict attractions across the bay there are green hills and purple mountains that weren’t there before but emerged from behind the clouds of growing up.

It is a beautiful place. The always changing constants.

Reliance – by Stuart

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As mentioned previously we try and come up with some of our own stuff at the Boys Book Club for our yearly trip away and this time in Barcelona we had the theme of Reliance to get our teeth into.  I’ve already put Phil’s marvellous Roll of Honour but here’s a different style from Stuart.  We all read our own pieces out on the night and this was delivered with some cracking intensity:

RELIANCE

History never repeats, but it rhymes
Memories are not read only files
They are torn pages rebound with emotion
“You’re a grown fucking man.”
Rely on nothing
No thing
Rely on the silence that allows the words
Surrender to the space you occupy

Roll of Honour – by Phil Dean

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When the Boys Book Club go away for the annual trip we have, over the last few years, done some of our own writing as well as reviewing whatever the book happens to be.  The year in Barcelona we had a theme of Reliance and could come up with whatever we wanted to around that theme.  We hunkered down in a bar and read out our own pieces to each other, it was a special moment for me and a real highlight of the trip.  It’s one thing to critique published authors, it’s quite another to have a go at something yourself over a short time-frame (we had three weeks) and reveal that to others.  Phil is, alongside me, one of the earliest members of the bookclub and he wrote a beautiful piece called Roll of Honour inspired by his visits to the stunning Blood Swept Lands and Sea of Red installation at the Tower of London.  He has published his piece on his blog so make yourself a cup of tea and go and have a read of Roll of Honour 

I’ll post a couple more of our interpretations on here hopefully over the coming week with the authors permission.