I was walking through back streets of Bethnal late one night when out of the corner of my eye I saw a gibbon, slumped rather contentedly against the railings at the side of the road, and in the instant that it took for me to shift focus to that point I imagined how he had arrived there.
It began early that morning, in London Zoo in Regents Park. The primate warden had been doing the early morning feeding rounds as usual, only this time he was a little distracted as he had finally managed to get the penguin warden in to bed that night, something he had been trying to do since her first day at the zoo 4 years ago. So this morning he was chipper and happy, whistling as he worked and in a constant reverie about the future and the new prospects that it held. So pre-occupied was he that as he entered the Gibbon enclosure to hide bits of fruit around their cage that he didn't notice the catch not closing as he went in through the back door from the feeding room, as did one particularly observant young male Gibbon affectionately known as Bart, due to his pernicious nature. More out of curiosity than any intent of escape Bart quickly hopped over to the open door, sniffed and peeked around the corner before scurrying through into the large, brightly lit white-walled kitchen area where his, and all his friends, and all his cousins' food was prepared. As the light was so bright it made Bart feel dizzy, so he quickly followed his nose to the fresh air across the room coming from the cat flap in the main entrance, ducked through the see-through plastic curtain and felt grass beneath his feet for the first time ever.
As I have said, Bart really wasn't trying to escape. But as he sat there looking around at the huge spaces around him, seemingly infinite possibilities of adventure entered his mind, and he scampered off to begin realising them. Within the first 10 minutes of his liberty he saw countless new things, beasts, plants and birds of all shapes, sizes and stenches, with a cacophony of sounds ranging right across his hearing's range of frequencies, and any weaker monkey would have probably fainted with the overload of input, but not Bart. His single-mindedness kept him focussed on the next new thing, the next adventure, and he was soon out of the Zoo and in the biggest, most open green field he had ever seen, far bigger than anything he could have imagined whilst fenced-in in that cage. With a slight sense of bewilderment at the task of crossing this emerald expanse he set off, past young human couples rolling around in a drunken sun-rise, and great panting dogs pulling humans along on leather straps, as though the humans were too lazy to walk themselves. Before too long he reached a hedgerow and a fence, and as he popped through the bars in the fence with an enjoyable ease he saw his first road, complete with a steady stream of cars, vans and trucks. For the first time in his short life Bart was struck with a sense of true, primal fear, and any weaker monkey would have died on the spot, if not turned right around and ran back to the sanctity of the cage. But not our Bart. He took a quick breath, gathered his wits, and hopped along side the moving metal wall, following its direction, until they all stopped moving at what seemed to him as a small red sun floating in the air, at which point he hurried across, underneath the bellies of these metallic leviathans. Once across he decide to continue in the way he had just been going, as there seemed to be more humans that way and he knew humans, and wanted to watch them in the same way they had been watching him since as long as he could remember. So he made his way into Camden town and began some serious people-watching.
Now, in the wild, many primates have learned to sniff-out fermenting fruit that lies in shaded spots on the jungle floors, as when they consume it they get drunk, and who doesn't enjoy getting drunk? Of course, Bart had never enjoyed this particular monkey-treat, but if you've ever been to Camden then you'll know that you don't need a monkey's sense of smell to catch a whiff of the cheap-cider that seems to flow through the gutters, and before too long Bart's inherent senses took hold and he found a discarded, half-full can of White Lightning at the foot of the little, half-dead tree he had been observing these strange creatures from. Carrying it back up with him he sat back in the crux of the branch he had spent the last happy few hours and began to enjoy them even more, as the sickly sweet but delightfully intoxicating fluid glided down his little monkey throat. It didn't take much for Bart to become a rather drunken monkey. In fact before he had even finished his first ever half-can it slipped from his grasp as he gestured at a passing leather jacket, and in a vain attempt to catch it he sent himself tumbling down after it, at which point the leather jacket stopped, and while laughing with the girl next to him stooped down and picked up our pissed friend, and Bart began the second stage of his adventure with humanity.
Somewhat unfortunately for our little hero the couple that picked him up in Camden were, you could say, 'in to drugs' in a rather casual but frequent way. They smoked a lot of weed, and drank a lot of booze, and most days would add something else to the mix, be it uppers or downers or trips or, well anything else really. Today though, at least in the afternoon when they came across Bart, they were confined to the weed and the whiskey. Jumping in a taxi they dragged him off to their friend's flat in Islington, where he quickly became the centre of attention being fed a horrible, hot smelly smoke from a big plastic pipe, and small glasses of an evil tasting brown liquid that burned his throat as it went down, and as the day progressed in this manner Bart's senses became duller and duller, the room span more and more, and he eventually came to the conclusion that fight wasn't going to work, so flight it must be. As his companions were almost as inebriated as he was it wasn't too hard for him to stumble across to the window unnoticed, and he scrambled up and out, onto a thin ledge about 30 feet above the hard concrete below. Normally this would have been no problem for an ape of Bart's climbing ability, but drunk as he was now he botched the climb down right up, and ended up tumbling the final few feet into a scraped-up bundle at the bottom. Un-perturbed and still drunk he stood up, shook himself off and walked, somewhat sidey-ways, along the pavement into the darkening evening.
Before too long he found himself at a small shelter under which a collection of humans were stood silently next to each other. A long, red metal machine approached them all and stopped, with a door opening. Bart followed the humans as they entered the door, and was presently zooming along towards Shoreditch feeling rather sick. In fact his sickness grew so rapidly that he jumped off the bus as soon as the doors opened again, ran to the first dark corner he found and evacuated his little monkey bowels with great force. Once he had finished he was feeling rather worse for wear, and frankly starting to miss his cage, his friends and his family. He stumbled bedraggledly along, leaning against the wall to prevent himself falling on the cold, hard concrete, until he found a well-lit junction, complete with multiple sets of pretty changing lights, and leaning against a fence on the corner Bart watched the varying sparkles and drifted off into a drunken doze. That is when I saw him.
But really, as I shifted focus so that Bart was no longer in the corner of my vision, I realised that he was in fact a simple, black and white striped, bell-shaped metal bollard, common to that part of town.
23/12/2009
The running man
I met a man the other day who looked liked he was running really fast, but he was moving really slowly. It took me a long time to be able to understand what he was saying, as it took him such a long time to say it, but it turned out that in fact he just saw time differently from the rest of us.
He had been born in Northern Africa six million, five hundred and seven thousand, six hundred and thirty eight years ago, and had basically been running north ever since. He was definitely human, though when I looked hard I noticed some slight differences in his appearance; deep-set eyes, a sloping forehead, all-round hairiness. He was also wrapped in bear-furs, though they were so worn they had an appearance of modern patent leather.
He described to me how as he ran trees would explode out of the ground around him, he could witness the whole life-span of creatures of all descriptions as he passed. He had been in a huge fertile plain when he got caught in a vast, violent flooding that left him swimming across the rest of what we now call the Mediterranean sea. He had seen countless cultures, civilisations and eventually empires rise and fall, heard thousands of different ideas on how we got here, who and why we are, and seen the most beautiful works of art created and destroyed. He had experienced the very best and very worst of humanity through infinite wars and recoveries. Most recently he had been struck by the rapid growth of our own huge stone, metal and glass structures, and I think I saw a tear beginning to form in his eye as he remembered the earth he used to know.
It wasn't a short meeting; I spent the best part of a day with this man though we travelled about a metre and a half in that time, and I've related all he told me.
He had been born in Northern Africa six million, five hundred and seven thousand, six hundred and thirty eight years ago, and had basically been running north ever since. He was definitely human, though when I looked hard I noticed some slight differences in his appearance; deep-set eyes, a sloping forehead, all-round hairiness. He was also wrapped in bear-furs, though they were so worn they had an appearance of modern patent leather.
He described to me how as he ran trees would explode out of the ground around him, he could witness the whole life-span of creatures of all descriptions as he passed. He had been in a huge fertile plain when he got caught in a vast, violent flooding that left him swimming across the rest of what we now call the Mediterranean sea. He had seen countless cultures, civilisations and eventually empires rise and fall, heard thousands of different ideas on how we got here, who and why we are, and seen the most beautiful works of art created and destroyed. He had experienced the very best and very worst of humanity through infinite wars and recoveries. Most recently he had been struck by the rapid growth of our own huge stone, metal and glass structures, and I think I saw a tear beginning to form in his eye as he remembered the earth he used to know.
It wasn't a short meeting; I spent the best part of a day with this man though we travelled about a metre and a half in that time, and I've related all he told me.
26/09/2009
The Whistling Man
Somewhere, floating about in the universe, there's a small blue and green planet populated by a multitude of different species. In the northern hemisphere of this planet, towards the western most point of the largest mass of land is a large-ish country that's mainly forest and mountains in the south, and as you get towards the north of this land its scape becomes more and more flat, or boring. Or mind-blowing, depending on how you wish to look at it. Either way, where the hills become plains slightly east-of-centre in this country there lies a city on the banks of the river Spree, a city that only recently was split into two; One side as liberal and capitalist as the rest of the western world, and the other a faux-communist dictatorship as corrupt as it was controlling. But that doesn't really concern us today.
Our tale takes place in a small block of flats to the south of this city, a fairly generic block as is standard to socialist Europe consisting of three sides of a square rising five floors with one apartment to each side on each floor and a partially grassed courtyard in the middle, with a head-height wall separating the garden from the one in the next block. On the top floor in the southern wing of this block was K's apartment, like the rest the door from the stairwell leads on to a corridor extending the length of the flat with 3 doors to the right and one at the end. The first side-door leads to the kitchen; The second (which is remarkably small for any door in any country) leads to the bathroom; The third leads to the bedroom and the end-door opens on to the living room, which in turn has a door onto a small balcony, again as is standard to living-quarters in this town.
K was an old man, and he had lived in this apartment for over forty years. For the last seven he had been an invalid due to a misjudgement of basic physics whilst moving a piano with a friend, and had not left the flat since his last check-up at the hospital three years after the accident. During this time he had depended on the meals-on-wheels that got delivered to his door at five every afternoon (a hot dinner, some microwave porridge for breakfast and a different sandwich each day for the next day's lunch) and his daughter, C, who devoted herself to making his life as comfortable as possible despite having a successful career as an architect and loving husband of her own, though sadly six years after K's accident (and just over a year before we join the action) C had an accident of her own in an unfortunate incident with a BMW at a pedestrian crossing, leaving K with little more than the daily knock at the door to remind him that he did not exist alone.
Having prevented a full-sized grand piano from smashing against the wall with his body after it had fallen down a flight of twenty-two stairs K had been paralysed from the waist down, and since he could not afford to move from his fifth-floor apartment he remained there non-stop, apart from when C brought him to the hospital, dragging himself about using the hooks that her husband had installed for him whilst she was at work or home. Since her death her husband had forgotten about K completely, as had everyone else who had at one point been 'in his life', and his daily routine consisted of waking from fearful dreams at sun-up, dragging himself to the bathroom and on to the toilet, manipulating himself in order to perform those morning bathroom duties (remember he was paralysed from the waist down) and an hour or so later making it in to the shower. After a painful and lengthy wash he would heat up his porridge and drag it and himself to the balcony where he could enjoy the morning sun. At around two in the afternoon he would switch on the radio (which had been conveniently placed on the floor by the balcony for him by C's husband) and relax for the afternoon concert. His favourite composer was W.A. Mozart, and 'Eine Kleine Nachtmusik' was his favourite piece; Whenever that was played he felt himself transported far away from his painful life by the grand orchestration and pretty melodies, as though a little night music brought the sunshine further in to his life. As the music got replaced by the frightening news at four he would drag himself back to the kitchen, eat his sandwich and await the knock at the door announcing the arrival of the next twenty-four hour's food. Having heaved himself to the front door and back to the kitchen his appetite would be already revived, and he would eat the lukewarm 'meat and two veg' messes while watching the ever-changing orangey shadows of the sunset in the courtyard, before beginning the lengthy process of changing and getting in to bed.
Now, even with the most rose-tinted of spectacles this could not be called a healthy existence, and indeed it wasn't. After just-under three months of this desperate solitude K's mind began to crack. It began with an almost manic desire to hear 'Eine Kleine' on the radio at lunch time, and culminated in a complete loss of the ability to speak, combined with this never-ending frantic itch to hear those arpeggiated opening bars, to the point where he was so completely consumed by the need to hear them that he forgot to wash, then to visit the bathroom, and finally to eat so that the as the foil-wrapped packages piled up at his door (at which nobody thought to comment, such is the nature of our privatised lives) his health deteriorated even further. It got to the stage, eventually, where he would wake up on the floor of the living room, drag himself on to the balcony, and muster all the remaining strength that he could to communicate with anyone or anything that might hear him in the only way he could imagine; By whistling.
He had always been a good whistler, but now the tremendous effort that it took meant he could only whistle a few random notes for about thirty to forty minutes, before having to rest for a good couple of hours in order to regain his strength and begin whistling again. Sometimes he would hear a response to his whistles, usually a mimic of the notes he had just sung, but he could never tell if it was a caged bird in one of the other apartments, or kids messing around, or even somebody assuming he was a caged bird and pretending to keep him company; It never worked though. Nobody ever triggered that his pretty melodies were actually a cry for help, and he remained alone with his pain, and his yearning to hear that beautiful piece of music. In fact, it was usually different refrains from that piece that he whistled, though they would only be recognisable to someone who knew the tune as well as he did, as he could normally only manage four or five notes in succession before having to take a long breather.
One sunny Monday morning in August while trying to whistle the famous opening bars K thought he heard somebody continuing the phrase where he left off, and the excitement that he felt surge through his body was almost enough to cause his massively weakened heart to arrest, so that he couldn't respond to the mysterious whistler and simply lay sobbing on his balcony floor, and his collaborator soon vanished from his ears. The come down that he felt then was even more powerful than the initial excitement, and he remained in that same spot on the floor wishing himself dead (not by far the first time he had done so) for a good couple of hours. While he was drifting in and out of consciousness, as was fairly normal these days for his hugely malnourished metabolism, he thought he heard an orchestra playing that famous opening phrase just outside his window and immediately put it down to his over-active imagination. But as he lay there the music continued, and to his delight he realised that it was true! Somebody in the courtyard was actually playing a recording of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik at a very high volume on their stereo! Oh the ecstasy he felt as the violins raced up and down among the 'cellos, swelling and receding as though it were an organic being and he was laying on it's chest as it breathed. His mind became filled with swirling, beautiful colours as the allegro gave way to a repeat of the first and second phrases, the subtle changes in the melody making huge alterations to the patterns billowing under his eye-lids. Before the music ended the spinning colours span faster and faster until, like one of those multi-coloured spinning tops, they blended into a dazzling white, and K began to notice a distinct lack of pain in his body. In fact, as the white light got brighter still he realised that he could really only sense his arms, and then his hands, and finally his fingers as all of the energy he had left seemed to seep from his finger-tips and his hands fell limply to the floor. He never made it to the grand finishing chords of the music.
A few days later, on account of the weeks worth of meals piled up against his door that the delivery guy finally decided to mention to somebody, the police broke in to K's flat and found him lying dead on the balcony, twisted into an agonising contortion but with a huge, content-looking smile on his face. The coroner recorded a death by natural causes.
15/06/2009
Alfred The Duck
Alfred was a duck, who hated being a duck.
From an early age, almost straight after his little beak broke out of its little shell prison he felt a resentment for the strange, awkward, bill-nosed waddling creatures he saw around him. As a young duckling, not content with the simple pleasures of pond life Alfred would look for more complicated pleasures, such as trying to climb a tree and jump in to the pond, or explore the woodland around his little Sussex pond. In fact, it was on just such an outing that he missed the day the vets came to the pond to clip the wings of that season's litter, so that not a week later when he jumped from his favourite branch of the big over-hanging yew tree into the pond, and gave his usual flail for balance, he never actually made it back to the pond. Ever.
Oh what joy he had, swooping high above the little woodland he had been intrepidly exploring for the eternal-seeming 2 months of his life, so high in fact that he saw it to be just that; for the first time he realised how little the woodland was, or, more specifically, he realised how big the rest of the world was. Not having any place in particular to go, or really understanding exactly what it was that was happening to him, he decided to head for the big body of water he saw to the south of him (although, obviously, he didn't know it was to the south). As he was enjoying swooping for the first time, relishing the feeling of the air streaming through each of his feathers, he was mesmerised by the glimmering white, blue and golden mass ahead. So mesmerised in fact, that he was taken quite by surprise at a sudden wave of exhaustion, and veritably crash-landed into a puddle in the car-park of a country pub. (Although, obviously, he didn't know it was a pub. If he had, he may have been endeared by the quaintness of this particular pub, set on the turn of a quiet country lane with a thatched roof and abundance of hanging baskets, and a pretty little hedged-in orchard by the car park).
After what seemed to Alfred like a short nap but was in fact a 13 hour slumber under an apple tree in the orchard, he set about working out how to get air born again. The main problem he had was that none of the trees were near any fences, or had any low branches, so poor little waddling Alfred had no hope of simply climbing up as he had at his pond. He searched in his memory for any clues as to what he was supposed to do, but as all the ducks in his pond had suffered the same fate as his brothers and sisters and cousins (although the links are quite dubious, for this very same reason) and had their wings clipped, none of them had ever even considered flying, let alone tried it. In fact, if Alfred had cared to look back as he flew off he would have seen the huge commotion his new game had caused in his former home, but he didn't. And here he was, with no idea how a duck is meant to get off the ground to fly without jumping out of a tree. He decided to have a look in the building next to his tree.
As with many quiet country pubs this one kept its doors open most of the time, and before long Alfred had shuffled his way in to the main bar, where the first thing to catch his eye was a row of shiny, somewhat fake-looking ducks similar to him flying motionlessly across a pile of burnt tree-branches. Strange, he thought to himself, they look like me, and that looks like what I was doing yesterday, but I'm sure I was moving a lot more when I was doing it.
'Quack, quack quack?' He asked.
Nothing. Not a peep out of them. Feeling a little offended and entirely confused he wandered around the bar and stopped, dumbstruck. In front of him, in all its moving multi-coloured glory was Alfred's first television, still on the sky sports channel from the previous night's enterprise. And even more surprisingly the images that happened to be on it at that moment were those of lots and lots and lots of ducks, flapping their wings and running across the surface of the water, faster and faster until their ugly webbed feet were no longer getting wet, and off they flew. What happened next was more than a little odd, it seemed to Alfred, but he was too excited about what he had learned to really figure out what the men with noisy, smoking sticks were pointing them at the ducks for, and he was already out of the door by the time the Labradors were retrieving the carcasses.
So he needed to find a stretch of water. He thought he maybe remembered seeing something as he tumbled towards the car park the previous afternoon, but had no idea what or in which direction, so he set off down the country lane in search. The first drama occurred when a small, square, very quiet little van came hurtling around the corner, with its white shiny cargo making a terrible racket, scaring Alfred half to death, but it was soon gone and he composed himself, and set off again. The sun was much higher in the sky, and our poor little friend was quite knackered by the time he finally saw a reasonable stretch of water on a small, secluded river. Barely stopping to breath or even have a drink he rushed to the water and began running as fast as he could, flapping his wings and generally making a lot of splash, but not really getting out of the water. Soon though, after a rest and a rethink, he got the hang of it and soared off into the sky, this time remembering to conserve his energy.
As it got closer the huge shiny blue thing just got bigger and bigger, until it looked like it went on for ever. Although the idea of this eternity scared Alfred somewhat, he was still compelled to fly towards it if for no other reason than to bathe in its sparkle. As he got closer still he started to see buildings gathered around the edge of it, even closer and he saw that there were a great many more buildings than he had ever seen before, and a lot of them were bigger than anything he had ever seen. Among the buildings were dozens, hundreds of people walking around, zipping along on funny metal frames, driving around in an astounding array of shapes and sizes and colours of those noisy metal boxes he'd seen at the pond. Spying a nice-looking pond in the middle of a large field he made a slightly sloppy splash-down and caught his breath, looking about at his new surroundings.
The first thing that struck him was the dirtiness of it all. There were bits of coloured plastic and metal in all of the flowers, and around the trees, even just thrown down on to the hard dark grey surface that the humans walk along. The second thing he noticed was that all of the humans walking around this particular pond were boys. Not a single girl or child to be seen. Strange, he thought, as he had seen many families at the pond and thought that they always travelled so; A big boy, a big lady, and 2 or more children. He had never seen boys alone like this, and never ones dressed in such a colourful way. As he watched he saw two of them who had been walking around alone start to talk to each other, and shortly afterwards they disappeared into the nearby bushes, holding hands! Now, Alfred had seen boys and girls holding hands, and sometimes big boys holding the hands of the child boys, and it seemed to him like an act of intimacy similar to when his siblings would preen each others feathers, not something to share with a stranger. He decided to follow them into the bushes and investigate.
Ten minutes later Alfred was waddling down St James's street with his eyes wide open. These big creatures all around him – who incidentally were regarding him with a great deal of amusement as he passed – went to some pretty great lengths for pleasure, something he was quite interested in himself. The two men he had seen in the bushes, while using their bodies in ways Alfred would never have imagined, made sounds of pain mixed with pleasure that held him transfixed. They were clearly enjoying themselves, but the discomfort seemed to equal the pleasure and this is what Alfred picked up on. As he walked along one of the most bohemian roads on the island he was seeing the young people with bits of metal stuck into every available bit of flesh, the boys whizzing along on flat bits of wood with wheels, jumping up onto a bench, falling, and rolling along on the hard floor only to get back up, laughing, and start again. As it got darker he started to see people behaving very strangely, staggering all over the place and shouting what sounded even less like a language to Alfred than normal, though almost all of them apparently happy and enjoying themselves. Having found a nice shelter under a huge wooden structure that jetted out into a massive, scary, shiny black thing that reminded Alfred of the blue thing he had come here looking for, he settled down to a night of some of the strangest and most vivid dreams of his short life.
From an early age, almost straight after his little beak broke out of its little shell prison he felt a resentment for the strange, awkward, bill-nosed waddling creatures he saw around him. As a young duckling, not content with the simple pleasures of pond life Alfred would look for more complicated pleasures, such as trying to climb a tree and jump in to the pond, or explore the woodland around his little Sussex pond. In fact, it was on just such an outing that he missed the day the vets came to the pond to clip the wings of that season's litter, so that not a week later when he jumped from his favourite branch of the big over-hanging yew tree into the pond, and gave his usual flail for balance, he never actually made it back to the pond. Ever.
Oh what joy he had, swooping high above the little woodland he had been intrepidly exploring for the eternal-seeming 2 months of his life, so high in fact that he saw it to be just that; for the first time he realised how little the woodland was, or, more specifically, he realised how big the rest of the world was. Not having any place in particular to go, or really understanding exactly what it was that was happening to him, he decided to head for the big body of water he saw to the south of him (although, obviously, he didn't know it was to the south). As he was enjoying swooping for the first time, relishing the feeling of the air streaming through each of his feathers, he was mesmerised by the glimmering white, blue and golden mass ahead. So mesmerised in fact, that he was taken quite by surprise at a sudden wave of exhaustion, and veritably crash-landed into a puddle in the car-park of a country pub. (Although, obviously, he didn't know it was a pub. If he had, he may have been endeared by the quaintness of this particular pub, set on the turn of a quiet country lane with a thatched roof and abundance of hanging baskets, and a pretty little hedged-in orchard by the car park).
After what seemed to Alfred like a short nap but was in fact a 13 hour slumber under an apple tree in the orchard, he set about working out how to get air born again. The main problem he had was that none of the trees were near any fences, or had any low branches, so poor little waddling Alfred had no hope of simply climbing up as he had at his pond. He searched in his memory for any clues as to what he was supposed to do, but as all the ducks in his pond had suffered the same fate as his brothers and sisters and cousins (although the links are quite dubious, for this very same reason) and had their wings clipped, none of them had ever even considered flying, let alone tried it. In fact, if Alfred had cared to look back as he flew off he would have seen the huge commotion his new game had caused in his former home, but he didn't. And here he was, with no idea how a duck is meant to get off the ground to fly without jumping out of a tree. He decided to have a look in the building next to his tree.
As with many quiet country pubs this one kept its doors open most of the time, and before long Alfred had shuffled his way in to the main bar, where the first thing to catch his eye was a row of shiny, somewhat fake-looking ducks similar to him flying motionlessly across a pile of burnt tree-branches. Strange, he thought to himself, they look like me, and that looks like what I was doing yesterday, but I'm sure I was moving a lot more when I was doing it.
'Quack, quack quack?' He asked.
Nothing. Not a peep out of them. Feeling a little offended and entirely confused he wandered around the bar and stopped, dumbstruck. In front of him, in all its moving multi-coloured glory was Alfred's first television, still on the sky sports channel from the previous night's enterprise. And even more surprisingly the images that happened to be on it at that moment were those of lots and lots and lots of ducks, flapping their wings and running across the surface of the water, faster and faster until their ugly webbed feet were no longer getting wet, and off they flew. What happened next was more than a little odd, it seemed to Alfred, but he was too excited about what he had learned to really figure out what the men with noisy, smoking sticks were pointing them at the ducks for, and he was already out of the door by the time the Labradors were retrieving the carcasses.
So he needed to find a stretch of water. He thought he maybe remembered seeing something as he tumbled towards the car park the previous afternoon, but had no idea what or in which direction, so he set off down the country lane in search. The first drama occurred when a small, square, very quiet little van came hurtling around the corner, with its white shiny cargo making a terrible racket, scaring Alfred half to death, but it was soon gone and he composed himself, and set off again. The sun was much higher in the sky, and our poor little friend was quite knackered by the time he finally saw a reasonable stretch of water on a small, secluded river. Barely stopping to breath or even have a drink he rushed to the water and began running as fast as he could, flapping his wings and generally making a lot of splash, but not really getting out of the water. Soon though, after a rest and a rethink, he got the hang of it and soared off into the sky, this time remembering to conserve his energy.
As it got closer the huge shiny blue thing just got bigger and bigger, until it looked like it went on for ever. Although the idea of this eternity scared Alfred somewhat, he was still compelled to fly towards it if for no other reason than to bathe in its sparkle. As he got closer still he started to see buildings gathered around the edge of it, even closer and he saw that there were a great many more buildings than he had ever seen before, and a lot of them were bigger than anything he had ever seen. Among the buildings were dozens, hundreds of people walking around, zipping along on funny metal frames, driving around in an astounding array of shapes and sizes and colours of those noisy metal boxes he'd seen at the pond. Spying a nice-looking pond in the middle of a large field he made a slightly sloppy splash-down and caught his breath, looking about at his new surroundings.
The first thing that struck him was the dirtiness of it all. There were bits of coloured plastic and metal in all of the flowers, and around the trees, even just thrown down on to the hard dark grey surface that the humans walk along. The second thing he noticed was that all of the humans walking around this particular pond were boys. Not a single girl or child to be seen. Strange, he thought, as he had seen many families at the pond and thought that they always travelled so; A big boy, a big lady, and 2 or more children. He had never seen boys alone like this, and never ones dressed in such a colourful way. As he watched he saw two of them who had been walking around alone start to talk to each other, and shortly afterwards they disappeared into the nearby bushes, holding hands! Now, Alfred had seen boys and girls holding hands, and sometimes big boys holding the hands of the child boys, and it seemed to him like an act of intimacy similar to when his siblings would preen each others feathers, not something to share with a stranger. He decided to follow them into the bushes and investigate.
Ten minutes later Alfred was waddling down St James's street with his eyes wide open. These big creatures all around him – who incidentally were regarding him with a great deal of amusement as he passed – went to some pretty great lengths for pleasure, something he was quite interested in himself. The two men he had seen in the bushes, while using their bodies in ways Alfred would never have imagined, made sounds of pain mixed with pleasure that held him transfixed. They were clearly enjoying themselves, but the discomfort seemed to equal the pleasure and this is what Alfred picked up on. As he walked along one of the most bohemian roads on the island he was seeing the young people with bits of metal stuck into every available bit of flesh, the boys whizzing along on flat bits of wood with wheels, jumping up onto a bench, falling, and rolling along on the hard floor only to get back up, laughing, and start again. As it got darker he started to see people behaving very strangely, staggering all over the place and shouting what sounded even less like a language to Alfred than normal, though almost all of them apparently happy and enjoying themselves. Having found a nice shelter under a huge wooden structure that jetted out into a massive, scary, shiny black thing that reminded Alfred of the blue thing he had come here looking for, he settled down to a night of some of the strangest and most vivid dreams of his short life.
03/03/2009
Trees
When I woke up that day it seemed normal
like the rest
I brushed my teeth, ate toast and got dressed
Put on my shoes, coat, hat and walked out the door
It was then I first noticed things weren’t quite the norm
I could hear an endless murmur
at first it was faint
I accredited it to my imagination and carried on my way
On leaving the paper shop
paper in hand
I noticed the sound was still there
louder, clearer and
it seemed to originate from the trees
I’m used to hearing stuff but this was quite distinct
Should I tell someone else?
But what might they think?
So I decided to investigate the noise on my own
after all
it sounded more like a chat than a moan
I figured the clearest place
to hear with ease
would be a place surrounded by trees
So I made my way
on a bus
to the woods
after discarding my paper
‘cause no news is good
as I approached the forest the sound became clearer
I could make out some words
as still I got nearer
By the time I was completely within
the trees
the sound became a din
‘excuse me please’
I timidly said to the trees
‘I can hear what you’re saying
can you put me at ease?
My education tells me
trees can’t speak
They grow, get cut down
and burnt for heat
Or get planted in lines to look nice and protect
Or grow wild and provide homes
when left to neglect’
‘indeed’ replied an oak
‘or so science says
but your ancestors used to listen instead
they understood that we were here first
we’re part of the life
part of the earth
we can help them to live
find food and shelter
everything was beautiful when we worked together
but humans became bigoted
“intelligent” and proud
with science and industry came humanity’s fall down
now they burn
consume
destroy all that they can
because it’s part of their new god’s master plan
a scheme to create uniform unhappiness
to live a life for money
no matter how crap it is
and forget that their home is a beautiful place
full of wonder and joy
not competition and disgrace
we trees are old
we’ve seen it all
our roots travel deep into the soil
the soul of our planet
we can feel it’s hurt
but to “civilization” this soul is just dirt
to be cleaned up and packaged
sold to some sucker
for more money to fuel the capitalist clutter
if everyone could remember how to listen to nature
the chance of survival for us all would be greater’
like the rest
I brushed my teeth, ate toast and got dressed
Put on my shoes, coat, hat and walked out the door
It was then I first noticed things weren’t quite the norm
I could hear an endless murmur
at first it was faint
I accredited it to my imagination and carried on my way
On leaving the paper shop
paper in hand
I noticed the sound was still there
louder, clearer and
it seemed to originate from the trees
I’m used to hearing stuff but this was quite distinct
Should I tell someone else?
But what might they think?
So I decided to investigate the noise on my own
after all
it sounded more like a chat than a moan
I figured the clearest place
to hear with ease
would be a place surrounded by trees
So I made my way
on a bus
to the woods
after discarding my paper
‘cause no news is good
as I approached the forest the sound became clearer
I could make out some words
as still I got nearer
By the time I was completely within
the trees
the sound became a din
‘excuse me please’
I timidly said to the trees
‘I can hear what you’re saying
can you put me at ease?
My education tells me
trees can’t speak
They grow, get cut down
and burnt for heat
Or get planted in lines to look nice and protect
Or grow wild and provide homes
when left to neglect’
‘indeed’ replied an oak
‘or so science says
but your ancestors used to listen instead
they understood that we were here first
we’re part of the life
part of the earth
we can help them to live
find food and shelter
everything was beautiful when we worked together
but humans became bigoted
“intelligent” and proud
with science and industry came humanity’s fall down
now they burn
consume
destroy all that they can
because it’s part of their new god’s master plan
a scheme to create uniform unhappiness
to live a life for money
no matter how crap it is
and forget that their home is a beautiful place
full of wonder and joy
not competition and disgrace
we trees are old
we’ve seen it all
our roots travel deep into the soil
the soul of our planet
we can feel it’s hurt
but to “civilization” this soul is just dirt
to be cleaned up and packaged
sold to some sucker
for more money to fuel the capitalist clutter
if everyone could remember how to listen to nature
the chance of survival for us all would be greater’
Scott was the pride of his school
Scott was the pride of his school. A fine athlete, he often won the football matches practically on his own, you could say he carried the team. But this didn’t bother him, in fact he enjoyed being the best, and enjoyed the attention that it brought him. He wasn’t amazingly attractive, yet his girlfriend was one of the hottest girls in the school. He wasn’t particularly bright, yet most of the teachers forgave his stupidity, and tried to give him as much extra help as they could, just because he was the school football star. The coach, who was also the head of the P.E. department at his school, had practically adopted him as his own son, much to the disdain of his real parents, and would take him home, bring him lunch, call him up at the weekend to go for a run, or to watch whatever match was on the t.v.
This was his final year at the school, and everyone expected, in fact everyone knew that he was going to get picked to join the junior side of the local premiership team, then onwards and upwards to the 5-figures-a-week salary and public adoration that professional footballers are used to in this day and age. It all just depended on the formality of the scout coming to watch him play one more time with his school, which was happening the coming Saturday, which also happened to be the school-regional finals, and then the contract would appear and everyone would be happy, Scott the most. The scout had already watched him play in 2 matches and had been notably impressed with what he saw, reported back to the club manager and been given the contract to bring down to this match, and if Scott maintained the standard he had displayed previously he was to snap him up straight away, as already a couple of the rival clubs had been sniffing around the school, trying to lure this boy wonder to their side. Like most young men, Scott had always dreamed of playing for his local side, but, like most young men, it could only take a higher figure from one of the other teams to change his mind, and his loyalties. But as it stood, the local club had a generous offer, and everybody was fairly confident that that Saturday night would be spent celebrating City’s newest signing, as well as the retention of the regional school’s cup for the third year running.
After training on Friday, which had gone pretty well for all concerned, before the boys all got showered, the coach came in, sat them all down, and gave a small, heartfelt speech.
‘Boys, tomorrow is a big day for us all. If we win this match, we’ve won the whole league once more, for a record breaking third consecutive year, and proved that we really are the best team in the whole district. I know a lot of you have been getting the notion that Scott is the only reason why we’ve come this far, and once he’s left after tomorrow we’ll be back down to the bottom, but I can tell you, and I know that Scott agrees with me on this, that there is no way he could have ‘carried’ the team this far alone, that each and every single one of you is responsible for us getting this far and when we win tomorrow you will all have a reason to feel proud.
Of course, that said, the game will bring us all another reason to celebrate; by this time tomorrow our Scotty will be a fully fledged member of the City junior squad, a ,massive achievement for anyone and a testament to all the hard work he has put in to training, and of course his natural talent.
Now, I want you all to go home and get a good night’s rest, think positive thoughts, dream football, dream winning football, and be here fresh and ready to kick some St. Martin’s arse in the morning!!
Give yourselves a big cheer;
Hip-Hip!
Hip-Hip!
Now get out of here!’
The following morning Scott woke up t 7.30 like every other day, showered, shitted, ate a bowl of muesli, banana and yogurt, drank a litre of orange juice, and the coach was there to drive him to the school stadium.
‘How are you feeling son?’ asked coach Daplyn.
‘Good thanks coach,’ replied Scott. ‘Slightly restless night, y’know, nerves n that, but I’m feelin fit an confident’
‘Good lad. We’re gonna need you out there today, those St. Martin’s lot have just been getting better and better, and they’re wising up to you now too, expect a lot of cover on and off the ball’
‘It’ll be fine coach. If Smithy and Farrell can keep up wiv us we can beat em. Farrell’s crosses ave been getting much better, an I know I can out-jump any of them defenders. If he can get it in to me, I can get it in the back of the net’
‘Good boy. And don’t think about the scout, he’s just there to watch you play, nothing else’
‘Right you are, coach’
As they pulled in to the stadium car-park the whole thing hit Scott somewhat, and he got a wave of nervousness. The entire rest of his life depended on this very game. The coach must have picked up on it, as he said
‘Remember son, you’re here to play the regional-school finals, nothing else. Don’t think about the scout, he’s just here to watch you play’
None of the other players were there yet, as usual, so Scott set out to do a few laps of the pitch to start getting warmed up. After 3 laps most of the other boys were there, and it was up to old Jones, the school caretaker-cum-team coach to get them all star jumping, toe-touching lap-running and all other manner of warming-up activities. As they were doing this the St. Martin’s bus pulled up in the car-park, the boys filed out and started doing pretty much the same stuff as Scott and his team.
After not too long the stands started to fill up with spectators from both schools, the St. Martin’s supporters on one side and the Lord Williams’s supporters on the other. Scott could see his parents and little sister, and his girlfriend and her friend all sat together on the front row. And 3 seats down from them, the scout. How was he supposed to ignore him now?
The anticipation in the stadium was palpable; with all the blue flags on one side, red and whites on the other, early tentative chants being sung, the team line-ups being read out over the tannoy. When it got to Scott huge cheer went out across the whole North stand, something he had got used to but still tried to ignore, so as not to get carried away and over-confident in his own abilities. It always reminded him of the City matches in a way, each week the same group of people come together with a single mind, putting the team up on a pedestal and pinning all of their hopes on eleven individuals, singing simple tunes with easy-to remember words, forgetting the rest of their lives and problems for 2 hours of worship. In a funny way it reminded him of his childhood trips to church with his grandmother.
Coach Daplyn called the team into the changing rooms for the pre-match pep-talk.
‘This is it boys. The moment we’ve all been working towards all year. I know you’re the best, you know you’re the best. Now all you have to do is go out there and show the world you’re the best!’
At this a cheer went up in the changing rooms.
‘We need to be hard, fast, and accurate. Keep the ball moving, keep yourselves moving, create space and then occupy it. Keep the ball going forwards, keep it out of our half. We’re not going to let those pansy St. Martin’s lot show us up, we can beat them and we will beat them!’
Another cheer.
‘Remember, this is our cup! We’ve had it at this school for the last 2 years and we let those red and white toffs take it away!’
Yet another cheer.
‘Come on then lads, huddle up. This your day in the spotlight, now go out there and shine! One, Two, three’
‘Bill’s is Best, Bill’s is Best, BILL’S IS BEST’ in unison.
The team filed out down the tunnel from the changing room to the pitch. As they were passing under the final arch nobody noticed the commotion above their heads, as a scuffle over seats was breaking out between a couple of large, face-painted drunken men.
Scott was quite near the back of the line, as usual. The coach liked to build up the tension for the crowd a bit this way. As he was reaching the end of the tunnel the overhead fight was climaxing, with the fatter of the two blokes looking like he was losing. Just as Scott reached the daylight the fat bloke toppled, grappled around for anything to save himself from falling, failed, and he went over the edge of the railing. It wasn’t far down to the ground, far enough for the crowd to gasp, then simultaneously draw a breath, the effect of which was so loud that it caused Scott to look up. It wasn't far for the bloke to fall, in fact it gave Scott just enough time to shout
‘SHIT’
before he broke the fall of a drunken, over-weight football fan.
Hysteria broke loose in the stadium like a tsunami. Girls and ladies were screaming. Men and boys were staring, open mouthed, muttering under their breath. The players from both teams just stopped and stared. Coach Daplyn wet his pants a little bit.
The fat bloke just lay there, on top of a crumpled soft something that had broken his fall. Whatever it was, it had sounded weird when he landed on it, like a sack filled with kindling wood and oranges. As he put his hand down to push himself to his feet he felt something wet, warm and a bit sticky his palm. By this time a couple of the players had gotten over the shock and were rushing to see what had happened, what they could do. If anything. Coach Daplyn ignored the darkening patch on the front of his jogging trousers and ran to help them lift the fat oaf off his star player, his surrogate son.
This was his final year at the school, and everyone expected, in fact everyone knew that he was going to get picked to join the junior side of the local premiership team, then onwards and upwards to the 5-figures-a-week salary and public adoration that professional footballers are used to in this day and age. It all just depended on the formality of the scout coming to watch him play one more time with his school, which was happening the coming Saturday, which also happened to be the school-regional finals, and then the contract would appear and everyone would be happy, Scott the most. The scout had already watched him play in 2 matches and had been notably impressed with what he saw, reported back to the club manager and been given the contract to bring down to this match, and if Scott maintained the standard he had displayed previously he was to snap him up straight away, as already a couple of the rival clubs had been sniffing around the school, trying to lure this boy wonder to their side. Like most young men, Scott had always dreamed of playing for his local side, but, like most young men, it could only take a higher figure from one of the other teams to change his mind, and his loyalties. But as it stood, the local club had a generous offer, and everybody was fairly confident that that Saturday night would be spent celebrating City’s newest signing, as well as the retention of the regional school’s cup for the third year running.
After training on Friday, which had gone pretty well for all concerned, before the boys all got showered, the coach came in, sat them all down, and gave a small, heartfelt speech.
‘Boys, tomorrow is a big day for us all. If we win this match, we’ve won the whole league once more, for a record breaking third consecutive year, and proved that we really are the best team in the whole district. I know a lot of you have been getting the notion that Scott is the only reason why we’ve come this far, and once he’s left after tomorrow we’ll be back down to the bottom, but I can tell you, and I know that Scott agrees with me on this, that there is no way he could have ‘carried’ the team this far alone, that each and every single one of you is responsible for us getting this far and when we win tomorrow you will all have a reason to feel proud.
Of course, that said, the game will bring us all another reason to celebrate; by this time tomorrow our Scotty will be a fully fledged member of the City junior squad, a ,massive achievement for anyone and a testament to all the hard work he has put in to training, and of course his natural talent.
Now, I want you all to go home and get a good night’s rest, think positive thoughts, dream football, dream winning football, and be here fresh and ready to kick some St. Martin’s arse in the morning!!
Give yourselves a big cheer;
Hip-Hip!
Hip-Hip!
Now get out of here!’
The following morning Scott woke up t 7.30 like every other day, showered, shitted, ate a bowl of muesli, banana and yogurt, drank a litre of orange juice, and the coach was there to drive him to the school stadium.
‘How are you feeling son?’ asked coach Daplyn.
‘Good thanks coach,’ replied Scott. ‘Slightly restless night, y’know, nerves n that, but I’m feelin fit an confident’
‘Good lad. We’re gonna need you out there today, those St. Martin’s lot have just been getting better and better, and they’re wising up to you now too, expect a lot of cover on and off the ball’
‘It’ll be fine coach. If Smithy and Farrell can keep up wiv us we can beat em. Farrell’s crosses ave been getting much better, an I know I can out-jump any of them defenders. If he can get it in to me, I can get it in the back of the net’
‘Good boy. And don’t think about the scout, he’s just there to watch you play, nothing else’
‘Right you are, coach’
As they pulled in to the stadium car-park the whole thing hit Scott somewhat, and he got a wave of nervousness. The entire rest of his life depended on this very game. The coach must have picked up on it, as he said
‘Remember son, you’re here to play the regional-school finals, nothing else. Don’t think about the scout, he’s just here to watch you play’
None of the other players were there yet, as usual, so Scott set out to do a few laps of the pitch to start getting warmed up. After 3 laps most of the other boys were there, and it was up to old Jones, the school caretaker-cum-team coach to get them all star jumping, toe-touching lap-running and all other manner of warming-up activities. As they were doing this the St. Martin’s bus pulled up in the car-park, the boys filed out and started doing pretty much the same stuff as Scott and his team.
After not too long the stands started to fill up with spectators from both schools, the St. Martin’s supporters on one side and the Lord Williams’s supporters on the other. Scott could see his parents and little sister, and his girlfriend and her friend all sat together on the front row. And 3 seats down from them, the scout. How was he supposed to ignore him now?
The anticipation in the stadium was palpable; with all the blue flags on one side, red and whites on the other, early tentative chants being sung, the team line-ups being read out over the tannoy. When it got to Scott huge cheer went out across the whole North stand, something he had got used to but still tried to ignore, so as not to get carried away and over-confident in his own abilities. It always reminded him of the City matches in a way, each week the same group of people come together with a single mind, putting the team up on a pedestal and pinning all of their hopes on eleven individuals, singing simple tunes with easy-to remember words, forgetting the rest of their lives and problems for 2 hours of worship. In a funny way it reminded him of his childhood trips to church with his grandmother.
Coach Daplyn called the team into the changing rooms for the pre-match pep-talk.
‘This is it boys. The moment we’ve all been working towards all year. I know you’re the best, you know you’re the best. Now all you have to do is go out there and show the world you’re the best!’
At this a cheer went up in the changing rooms.
‘We need to be hard, fast, and accurate. Keep the ball moving, keep yourselves moving, create space and then occupy it. Keep the ball going forwards, keep it out of our half. We’re not going to let those pansy St. Martin’s lot show us up, we can beat them and we will beat them!’
Another cheer.
‘Remember, this is our cup! We’ve had it at this school for the last 2 years and we let those red and white toffs take it away!’
Yet another cheer.
‘Come on then lads, huddle up. This your day in the spotlight, now go out there and shine! One, Two, three’
‘Bill’s is Best, Bill’s is Best, BILL’S IS BEST’ in unison.
The team filed out down the tunnel from the changing room to the pitch. As they were passing under the final arch nobody noticed the commotion above their heads, as a scuffle over seats was breaking out between a couple of large, face-painted drunken men.
Scott was quite near the back of the line, as usual. The coach liked to build up the tension for the crowd a bit this way. As he was reaching the end of the tunnel the overhead fight was climaxing, with the fatter of the two blokes looking like he was losing. Just as Scott reached the daylight the fat bloke toppled, grappled around for anything to save himself from falling, failed, and he went over the edge of the railing. It wasn’t far down to the ground, far enough for the crowd to gasp, then simultaneously draw a breath, the effect of which was so loud that it caused Scott to look up. It wasn't far for the bloke to fall, in fact it gave Scott just enough time to shout
‘SHIT’
before he broke the fall of a drunken, over-weight football fan.
Hysteria broke loose in the stadium like a tsunami. Girls and ladies were screaming. Men and boys were staring, open mouthed, muttering under their breath. The players from both teams just stopped and stared. Coach Daplyn wet his pants a little bit.
The fat bloke just lay there, on top of a crumpled soft something that had broken his fall. Whatever it was, it had sounded weird when he landed on it, like a sack filled with kindling wood and oranges. As he put his hand down to push himself to his feet he felt something wet, warm and a bit sticky his palm. By this time a couple of the players had gotten over the shock and were rushing to see what had happened, what they could do. If anything. Coach Daplyn ignored the darkening patch on the front of his jogging trousers and ran to help them lift the fat oaf off his star player, his surrogate son.
SAYWOTYOOSEE
maibeetheespowim
dusentmaiksens
maibeeitsjusbolox
butisdatanofens
maibeeitshudberitun
inzeperfictens
budifyoodoonotlykeet
froeetovazefens
ijuswontooget
insydyormynd
jumbolyorthorts
waistyortym
idontaveneetrubel
maikineetryme
forzelarstminitorso
yoratenshunasbinmyne
24/02/2009
A caveman's almost enlightenment
As I awoke this morning I was struck by a sense of foreboding, as though today could be my last. I'm not sure why I felt this, and with the infinite benefit of hind-sight I know that it was little more than a feeling. Still, a notion such as this can only lead to a reflective day, and that is what I had.
It started normally, my life-partner had the fire going as I returned from my toilet trip in the nearby woods, (the one to the south today, as the wind is coming in lightly from the north), and we settled down to the usual breakfast of last night's leftovers. After that, as she began sweeping the cave out I set off for the day's hunting. This, too, went as normal. I headed due west out to the river, and climb the gentle slope to my favorite vantage point, from which I can see the great river stretching out to the mountains in the North, the edges of the forest lining the East bank, and the plains before me extending to the very horizon. From here I can see whether the bears are fishing, in which case I would wait for them to leave and try my luck in the river, and I can see when the birds rise and fall in great flocks, as though moving as one above the canopy of the forest, and this indicates larger animals roaming the woodland floor, another opportunity for yours truly to have a little hunt. And if none of these tell-tale signs are forthcoming then there is always the plains, where it usually takes little more than a couple of hours to find a beast worthy of gracing our humble dinner table.
But today something else struck me, something I've never felt before. Or perhaps just never noticed... As | stood scanning the near and far horizons for the usual signs, for the first time I noticed how beautiful the early-morning sunlight looks as it dances across the surface of the river, and how the tops of the trees in the forest, when coaxed by a breeze, sway together and seem to mimic the great lakes of the outer-lands. Further more, as I looked to the north, to where the foothills gently rise to the huge peaks of the mountains, for the first time in my existence I got a sense of just how small I really am, and maybe not the being of significance I had believed myself to be until then.
These thoughts stuck with me as I made my way down the slopes and towards the river, where I had decided would be the best day's hunting. Until now I had always considered me and my kind to be in some way important to our environment, seeing as we are the only beasts to have moved from the woodlands and into caves, we are the only ones who have mastered fire, we are the only ones who decorate our homes and we are the only ones that communicate with each other in a way other than grunts and snarls, roars and howls. But when you think about the size of those mountains, and consider the tales told in the old paintings of far away lands and exotic beasts, then it seems that maybe we are disposable to this planet. We do our best to live in harmony with our surroundings, but you just have to look in any of the rubbish sites in our villages, and compare that to the waste from the animals in the forest and on the plain, to see that we're not quite as clean and natural as we like to think we are.
And as I stood in the shallows, with my spear poised and eyes sharp, I still couldn't shake the thought that when all is said and done our time on this planet is insignificant compared with the wonder of the planet itself, and the time that it has already been here and will remain for. I had always taken it as a given that the world around me began the moment that I was born, a foolish notion I agree but I hadn't anything else to consider, indeed I had never really considered it at all. But now it seemed so obvious, as I watched the salmon jumping up the rapids as they have done since before my kind was around, and the vultures circling overhead, swooping every now and then to investigate the scraps left by the bears, as has happened for a longer time than I can even imagine.
So I caught a pair of fine salmon, and brought them back to the cave much to the delight of my partner. As she busied herself preparing the fish, I retreated to the painting wall with a strange feeling that I had something important to paint, but for the life of me I couldn't work out what it was. As I stood there looking at three generations worth of hunting tales, and images of far-away places of legend and lore, I became inexplicably frustrated, even angry, as I knew that what I wanted to paint would change the view point of my people, possibly forever. But I just didn't know what it was I wanted to portray. I painted the tops of the trees, and the mountains in the distance, and a picture of myself hunting in the river, but I simply could not find the meaning that I knew was in there, somewhere.
At this point I feel I should explain something to you. Being a well developed human being, with many many generations of evolution behind you compared with myself, my tale of my day of enlightenment may seem childish to you, and perhaps a little confusing. But what I haven't mentioned yet is that what you have been reading is my consciousness, or the voice in my head, and sadly my mind isn't yet developed enough for me to hear it. Or I just haven't learned how to listen to it. Either way, you must understand how frustrating it is, both for myself and the poor brute of whom I am an inextricable part and yet so distant from, that he has these slight glimpses of the notions I am pondering but no way of understanding what they are, or where they come from, and while I have the answers (or at least some of them) I have absolutely no way of relating them to him.
It started normally, my life-partner had the fire going as I returned from my toilet trip in the nearby woods, (the one to the south today, as the wind is coming in lightly from the north), and we settled down to the usual breakfast of last night's leftovers. After that, as she began sweeping the cave out I set off for the day's hunting. This, too, went as normal. I headed due west out to the river, and climb the gentle slope to my favorite vantage point, from which I can see the great river stretching out to the mountains in the North, the edges of the forest lining the East bank, and the plains before me extending to the very horizon. From here I can see whether the bears are fishing, in which case I would wait for them to leave and try my luck in the river, and I can see when the birds rise and fall in great flocks, as though moving as one above the canopy of the forest, and this indicates larger animals roaming the woodland floor, another opportunity for yours truly to have a little hunt. And if none of these tell-tale signs are forthcoming then there is always the plains, where it usually takes little more than a couple of hours to find a beast worthy of gracing our humble dinner table.
But today something else struck me, something I've never felt before. Or perhaps just never noticed... As | stood scanning the near and far horizons for the usual signs, for the first time I noticed how beautiful the early-morning sunlight looks as it dances across the surface of the river, and how the tops of the trees in the forest, when coaxed by a breeze, sway together and seem to mimic the great lakes of the outer-lands. Further more, as I looked to the north, to where the foothills gently rise to the huge peaks of the mountains, for the first time in my existence I got a sense of just how small I really am, and maybe not the being of significance I had believed myself to be until then.
These thoughts stuck with me as I made my way down the slopes and towards the river, where I had decided would be the best day's hunting. Until now I had always considered me and my kind to be in some way important to our environment, seeing as we are the only beasts to have moved from the woodlands and into caves, we are the only ones who have mastered fire, we are the only ones who decorate our homes and we are the only ones that communicate with each other in a way other than grunts and snarls, roars and howls. But when you think about the size of those mountains, and consider the tales told in the old paintings of far away lands and exotic beasts, then it seems that maybe we are disposable to this planet. We do our best to live in harmony with our surroundings, but you just have to look in any of the rubbish sites in our villages, and compare that to the waste from the animals in the forest and on the plain, to see that we're not quite as clean and natural as we like to think we are.
And as I stood in the shallows, with my spear poised and eyes sharp, I still couldn't shake the thought that when all is said and done our time on this planet is insignificant compared with the wonder of the planet itself, and the time that it has already been here and will remain for. I had always taken it as a given that the world around me began the moment that I was born, a foolish notion I agree but I hadn't anything else to consider, indeed I had never really considered it at all. But now it seemed so obvious, as I watched the salmon jumping up the rapids as they have done since before my kind was around, and the vultures circling overhead, swooping every now and then to investigate the scraps left by the bears, as has happened for a longer time than I can even imagine.
So I caught a pair of fine salmon, and brought them back to the cave much to the delight of my partner. As she busied herself preparing the fish, I retreated to the painting wall with a strange feeling that I had something important to paint, but for the life of me I couldn't work out what it was. As I stood there looking at three generations worth of hunting tales, and images of far-away places of legend and lore, I became inexplicably frustrated, even angry, as I knew that what I wanted to paint would change the view point of my people, possibly forever. But I just didn't know what it was I wanted to portray. I painted the tops of the trees, and the mountains in the distance, and a picture of myself hunting in the river, but I simply could not find the meaning that I knew was in there, somewhere.
At this point I feel I should explain something to you. Being a well developed human being, with many many generations of evolution behind you compared with myself, my tale of my day of enlightenment may seem childish to you, and perhaps a little confusing. But what I haven't mentioned yet is that what you have been reading is my consciousness, or the voice in my head, and sadly my mind isn't yet developed enough for me to hear it. Or I just haven't learned how to listen to it. Either way, you must understand how frustrating it is, both for myself and the poor brute of whom I am an inextricable part and yet so distant from, that he has these slight glimpses of the notions I am pondering but no way of understanding what they are, or where they come from, and while I have the answers (or at least some of them) I have absolutely no way of relating them to him.
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