shadow

The shadow of your smile lies

Across the smooth white perfection

Of my view.

Like a chasm that splits

A snowfield in two.

A divide between the perfect and the perfect.

A bottomless rift

That will forever divide my life.



d

People as snow

Each snowflake is different from all others they say.

And as I walk down the high street I see

That people are too.

Even as they coalesce into one endless mess

Of variously spiky opinions and

Deliberately contrived attempts

At being different.

As snowflakes make snow,

We lose ourselves in the greater mass,

Melding with a larger identity

And eventually becoming ice.


d

snow and yellow

Today the sky was blue.

And the snow that lay round about seemed so too.

Yet my mood was warm yellow.

Like a daffodil poking through.


d

warm blue water and ice

Tonight I'm listening to the music of Rachel Lauren. Not only is the music beautiful, she is too. Her dark eyes, her smooth skin and soft hair and her figure. And her voice is warm honey. Even when I can't understand it.

She leads  me to wonder about how well suited the two sexes are to considering the gentler, more subtle aspects of life. Perhaps Rachel Lauren is better equipped to see and to explain these things than a man would be. Given that she seems to be part of them already. How much does this define her femininity? How far is Rachel's warm, passionate, liquid soothe from the cool, crystalline and perfectly patterned logic that is supposed to represent masculinity? And how can such things be equally well represented by two such different expressive forms?

What defines masculinity? When is a similarly gentle and tactile comprehension as Rachel's masculine? Where is the divide that renders such sensitivity feminine or masculine? Is it possible for both to see the same perspective, and yet still melt into each other as snow into warm water, by virtue of their difference? And can each still retain their identity?

Are our views on gender too limited? Can a man be as responsive to, and expressive of, sweet beauty, of thing or of feeling, as a woman? And is the difference between them simply that one appears as warm, fluid blue ocean, and the other as well defined and rigid snow and ice, even as each are made of water? And the melding of their respective comprehension creates a pleasantly temperate context that is capable of nurturing both.

Or are only women sufficiently equipped to respond to subtle beauty given that they create so much of it? And men should only look on and do their best to understand? Or is it that men, being outside, are best placed to see and to recognise gentle beauty for what it is? Is cold snow, fixed and watching, better placed to recognise the complex fluid motion of the warm blue water that's lapping at it's edge?

d

The Diary of a lonely, lonely, lonely.........?

There is only so much that I can take. I’m normally quite patient, but it’s that time of year, AGAIN- it’s the same old, same old.

No television, no books, not even a radio. The friend that was here, last year, has moved out. I liked her, she was cute and from Japan. She understood the quiet loneliness. But now she’s gone. But hopefully she’s OK  being looked after somewhere else, hopefully by someone who also cares. I’m sure she won’t be back, but I wonder if anybody will come and replace her. I hope so, but only time will tell.

I hear the rain, and I think, yes it’s plausible, we’ll just get wet. I hear the light pitter-patter of the snow and it’s then I realise, it’s not going to happen now, and I’m in for a long wait. A long, long, wait. Not seeing anybody, except for the occasional visit, but the things I expect or want to happen, don’t. It’s not as if I don’t know anybody, but it’s going to be a long time now.  I should have learnt from previous experience.

One day, I thought ‘hang on, I recognize that very distinctive sound’, another friend maybe, out and about, enjoying themselves, not sure exactly who it was though, as it’s so difficult without seeing them. I’ll keep on listening, it’s about all I can do.

I hear the birds, they are up very early, even for this time of year. I bet they struggle with these adverse conditions. I hear lots of engines, mainly in the morning and lots of scraping noises, and the sounds of snow or ice making crackling and crunching noises, sometimes just after the birds, some a lot later. They are struggling with these freezing conditions, but its ok for them. Later, I hear the sounds of their tyres going through the slush.  

Now I hear voices, children playing, it has got to be fun for them, I think, and it’s ok for them also, this horrible, slippery, white stuff. I hear shouting, laughing, but then crying. Something’s wrong. But, as quickly as the voices started, it’s all gone quiet again, except for the snow landing. Once again, that reminds me of how much I hate this time. Must stay positive & patient. Optimistic. My time will come. Good things come to those who wait. How many clichés have I used and who did say that? That’ll help pass some time.   

I can’t always decide exactly how long it’s been, waiting, waiting, waiting, can’t do a lot else. I’m sure it’s like this for others. I hope it’s like this for others. I do miss going out, oh happy days, good times, they’ll be back soon and I won’t be staying in the same place, waiting for so long.

I think the sun is shining, I can see a little bright dot of light on the floor. The hole in the roof is letting the light in. Oh the irony of it all.  Not every year is the same, but, eventually, when the sun or the moon shines, and there’s no threat of bad weather, we’re all out together, having fun, going to new places, or seeing friends, old and new, at the usual haunts. These current times, which are the ‘not as good times’, seem to be forgotten, maybe on purpose, as if these lonely times are never going to happen again, or is that just my imagination?

Back to reality, sorry, got a bit lost there. I’m sure that’s normal? It must be raining now, as I can hear the dripping, from the roof. It’s a quick drip now, but sometimes, it’s difficult to hear above the racket that the rain is making on the ground, but I still await, eagerly. I can only be positive, in these lonely times, they do have their moments.

The intermittent drip, that sometimes sounds familiar, (when I can hear it).

Sometimes, it’s the only thing I can hear, it can sound like an engine, a tune maybe, a familiar, but sometimes indescribable sound. It passes the time for me, trying to match the varying times of the drip, drip, drip, to a sound that you know that you've heard before.

A while ago, I remember seeing the four legged animals, not just pets, but other animals also getting more attention. They get fed, have the company of others of the same type and have what looks like good times, going out, running, even with snow on the ground. They get treated nicely, at all times of the year. I know that I’m different to an animal, but we are so similar in various ways. How lucky are they?

And what do I get? Nothing like that. I do miss going out, not staying in one place for so long.

Lonely, lonely, lonely. Because of the snow. 

Chris. Work in progress. (Updated, ie: paragraphs & the same font) BIG THANK YOU to David, for his help.

Last snow. By David

Then there was old Mrs Nocneid. Small and dainty, with one lame leg. Wearing the hat with a fabric flower to one side, and sheepskin boots. Picking her way along the pavement, trying not to step on the patches of snow, and standing in the puddles instead. She'd only popped out to get some onions and a loaf of bread.

Her path took her through the cemetery, where she always stopped to consider at least three of the headstones. Each one a portion of her life, wrapped up neatly in granite, frozen in time. Slow moments pondering, and wondering. And remembering, and sometimes dreaming. The sounds of wind and birdsong becoming distant for her, as her pale blue eyes misted over.

Two youths rushed by on bikes, shouting obscenities at each other and weaving in and out of the gravestones as they went.

"Hey lady.. your turn soon!"

"Fuck off Sim, don't be a twat.."

"What..?"

And they were through the gate and off down the path, their noise disappearing with them.

But Mrs Nocneid's world had been ruffled now. And a sibilant wind hissed through the watching Yew trees, blowing snow off the tops of the headstones as it went.

She shivered, her attention pulled unwillingly back from her past to her present, looked around her, and sighed. And the wind sighed with her and became still.

The youths returned, breaking the silence. They were racing each other round the block. Down the path, past the pub, down the high street past the shop, through the cemetery and off down the path again. This time they stopped in the cemetery.

At that moment, bright spring sunlight burst through a passing space between scudding clouds, and the church and cemetery lit up. A cross that stood on top of the roof cast a long shadow over the jumbled headstones, and there lay Mrs Nocneid. She was face up and cruciform, her eyes staring at the sky. Her hat lay some way from her head and her surprisingly long hair lay fanned out on the dazzling snow like a silver halo. She was smiling.

She forgave the boys. 

d

Winter Weekend Walk

M1

North, dark, Friday night

Snowflakes, butterflies   

Swarming, flit, dead, straight, 

Warp speed 

[Brrrrrrrum]

Campsite

Head torch, frosted ground,

Tent up, zip, boots off,

Sleeping bag, hood up

Cold nose

[Brrrrrrrrrr]

Morning

Yawning, steaming tea,

Foot path, stile, long strides,

Drifting snow, knee deep

Up hill

[Wheeeeeze]

Mam Tor

Eye sore, hidden, Hope

Snow balls, fight, big smiles,

Laughing eyes, slide down,

Lose Hill

[Wheeeeeeee!]

Win Hill

Steep climb, breathing deep

Sleet, cold, dark, grey sky

Black and white, crags, snow

Edale

[Silence]

Nags Head

Hot fire, steaming socks

Warm beer, hot stew, good.

Clearing sky, bright stars,

Great Bear

[Zzzzzzzzzzz]

Cold night

Freezing, minus five,

Up, out quick, sun rise

Glowing, red, pink, white

New dawn

[Yaaaay!]

Derwent

Blue sky, winter trees

Dark branch weighs white snow

Stretching up, big dam

Zig zag

[Paaaant]

What path?

Lost Lad, angels play

View from Back Tor, lunch,

Climbing slip, Dove stone

Diamonds

[Ooooo!]

Snow cave

Hard path, aching feet

Melt ice, pass the Salt

Setting sun, blush glow

White Tor

[Cruuuuunch!]

Wheel  stones

Grit stone, climbing high

Cross roads, find path down

Singing song, walk done

Ice cream!

[Hurrrrrah!]

Home, hot bath, sleep well!

(by Sally)

Snow fall. By David

I had a home once. With warm fires and warm people and friends and hot food. And a cat, and children.  And problems with neighbours. 

Village pub characters knew me, and I was always torn between their welcome, and the given one at home.

But it was all false. Built on sand. Built on an acquired attitude, acquired because it was required in order to be able to compete. Make money, forget about earning it.  Quiet periods in some other pub, on the way home from work, when I could be me between being one person at work and another one entirely at home.

Will my wife be an angel or a devil when I get there? Synthetic when the former, insufferable when the latter. 

But my children loved their home. 

One winter, it began to snow. And that peculiar silence fell across the village. A sense of expectancy. Or was it more like a balm on sunburned skin? Or Christmas eve perhaps.  As though all those competitive spirits had suspended the game for a few hours, to watch and consider each other for once.

The cat flap flapped, and in walked Sam. He paused, shook one paw daintily before proceeding to his righteous place in front of the blazing fire. One child read quietly in the corner, whilst the younger, three years junior at six, played with his cars, lining them up across the carpet in a precise grid, only to smash the resulting matrix to pieces by hurling his rubber dinosaur at them. Sam took his place by the fire, and I sat on the floor watching them all.

My wife appeared. Both children stopped what they were doing.  The cat stopped purring.  She stopped, and stood still in the doorway, and sighed. In that moment, in that warm room in that warm home, something of the frozen chill outside invaded and touched us all. Something of the future invaded the present, and in hindsight, made it worthless.

'I want a divorce.'

Dancing orange firelight played amongst the fractal mirrors of frost on the windowpane, and the world felt colder still. My younger son threw one more dinosaur.

-----------

Pink dawn light fluoresced though steam rising ever so slowly from the frozen surface of the canal. A solitary bird uttered a note and fell silent again. Smoke oozed from the stack on a nearby narrowboat.  A heap of sacks in front of me stirred and Angie's face, red and blotchy, appeared from one end. I moved to speak but my beard was frozen to the bench and I had to busy myself freeing it.

A low and watery winter sun appeared, only to emphasise the sagging bellies of low grey cloud hanging over us. By eight o'clock, it was snowing. Big, wet lazy flakes drifting down of their own accord through the quiet air, not driven by any cause or need. I lay there and watched them, and the yellow windows of the narrowboat. Other boats sat further down the canal, each fainter than the other, becoming more grey as mist rising gently from the water obscured the view. In the background, dark hills sat squat and watching.

Angie produced a bottle of whisky from underneath her sacks and offered me some.  She was a good old girl. Heart of gold. 

The smell of bacon drifted over from the narrowboat.  The whisky felt good, slipping down warm and softening the world. A noise came from the boat, and a cat appeared. It paused, and then jumped ashore, tail pointing contemptuously upwards at the glowering sky. Its paws left perfect prints in the snow as it walked by.

Snow

My world was never meant to be real. It was carved out of the imagination of folks who lived in Once Upon A Time. I was around for thousands of years before the Brothers Grimm even attempted to legislate my existence, but somehow they did succeed in giving me an eternal life.

The world was a sheet of white before three perfect drops of red fluid fell from my mother’s womb. Imagine three perfect cherries sitting on top of an ice cream, well that was the aerial view before she let me go.

My plump red body wailed at the shock of the bitter cold blanket onto which it landed.  The man, who found me lying there, agitated, was a huntsman. He was out scouring the forest for wolves. He leaned over me:  tall, strong, boozy breath, sheepskin jacket. His left eyebrow lifted high on his forehead and his right eye winced through the peep hole of the rifle, he considered shooting his find, taking it back to his dusty cottage, and stringing it up by the ankles over an open fire.  

Something stopped him, I’m really not sure what it was, but something did. In a moment of clarity he threw the rifle to the ground and cupped me up into his nicotine stained palms. Of course, I now recognise the smell of stale tobacco as the smell of my father.  Sitting inside his rucksack, the air rattled around inside my tiny lungs and he marched me through the forest.

When we got inside, he wrapped me up in a blanket and plopped me into the washing tub. His moustached face peered down at me and I suckled on his knuckles for some time.

On my seventeenth birthday, my Grandmother presented me with a beautiful red cape.

 The thing about my world is that the snow never goes away, never turns to sludge or melts into oblivion. The thing about my red cape is that it shines as brightly against the white world, as the three drops of blood that came out of my mother’s womb . . .

(written by Rachel Dealtry)

Snow Nomenclature Ocular Widget

(SNOW)

A play for stage

By Graham

Cast

         Brian

(A dash - indicates a pause, while BRIAN listens) 

(Apologies for the lack of proper indentation for the dialogue. It does not seem to be supported in this form)

A Walkers’ hut: isolated, somewhere in Wales. There is a door upstage right, and a single window stage left. We can see the window, but not the view through it. Some tatty curtains loosely frame the window, and partially hide a telephone number scrawled large on the wall, above which is written, ‘RESCUE’. The hut is sparsely furnished: a small table and two chairs, a broken hat/cloak stand, perhaps a solid-fuel stove of some sorts. A broom is leant against the wall by the window. Incongruously, tacked high up on the back wall are two ‘door characters’: a 2, and to its right and slightly below, an E.

BRIAN is obviously very cold. He is well wrapped up and has a thick coat, wooly hat, scarf and walking boots. He is agitated, pacing, occasionally looking through the window, and talking into his mobile.

BRIAN:     I don’t understand.

                   -

                   I do. I do need to understand. I’ll have you know I…

                   -

                   No. No of course not. Why would I phone up for an argument?

                   -

                   That’s right. I just said that, when I first phoned. Look, I do have the right number? Because if I have not got…

                   -

                   Well, that’s right. That’s what I assumed. I mean if I had misdialed. Look, I’ll read you the number…

BRIAN pulls back the curtain, preparing to read the number, but he is interrupted again. He drops it back.

                   -

                   Well, yes, of course. Yes, obviously I couldn’t, or we would not be having this conversation, would we?

                   -

                   Yes, yes, I do appreciate that. I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but I am very, very cold, I am very, very lost, and the weather seems to be getting worse. It will be dark soon, there is no electricity, nothing to burn in the stove. Not that I have any boy scouts to rub together to light it.

                   -

                   Boy scouts. It was a joke.

                   -

                   No, perhaps not. Look, I do. I do want you to come and rescue me.

                   -

                   Yes, it was. It was silly. But it was not snowing when I came out. Not like this.

                   -

                   Not like this.

                   -

                   Yes, I suppose so. Snow is snow, yes. Look, sorry, but… Well, I have to say that I no more phoned for a lecture than I did an argument.

                   -

                   Yes, yes, yes, sorry. – Sorry. So this… app. About this app.

                   -

                   Widget. Okay, widget. – It is an app though, isn’t it?

                   -

                   Okay, okay, okay. Sorry. About this… widget.

                   -

                   So, I download it, from where?

                   -

                   The app store. I download it from the app store. - Not the widget store?

                   -

                   No, I am not being… It was a joke.

                   -

                   Poor taste, yes. Like the boy scouts, yes. Sorry. Once again, I am truly sorry. Please, just come and get me. As quick as you can. If you could. I would appreciate it. My girlfriend would appreciate it.

                   -

                   Yes, it’s her birthday.

                   -

                   I am, yes.

                   -

                   A concert. To a concert.

                   -

                   Oh, well, actually it’s… it’s… Well, as you ask, it’s… It’s Wet Life.

                   -

                   No, Wet Life. I did not mean to say…

                   -

                   No, I didn’t. – They are a tribute band.

                   -

                   Yes, that probably would have been worse, yes. Lucky the real ones have disbanded yes. Look, I think we need to…

                   -

                   That’s right. Yes, I will. I will. I’ll type it in. The app store, yes. Just a minute. Hold on.

BRIAN taps instructions into his phone. He eventually seems to get what he wants.

                   I am, yes, I am downloading it. Nearly there

It downloads. He is bemused.

                  

                   This is not right. It’s snow.

                   -

During the next, BRIAN gets more and more agitated. He is near breaking point.

                   I know you did. And I did, but this is snow. It is just snow. It puts snow… on your phone. It just puts snow on your phone. I have snow on my phone. I do not need snow on my phone. There is snow outside. There is lots of snow outside. There is too much snow outside. I don’t want snow on my phone too. What’s that going to do? For God’s sake, what is that going to do?

                   -

                   Yes, yes, sorry. Once again, I am sorry. But you said it would be at the top. Of the search…

                   -

                   Snow. I typed in snow. S, n, o, w. How else would I type in snow?

                   -

                   Really? Okay, okay. Just a minute. Look, are you sure you can’t find me by this number on the wall? You said you know all the main huts.

                   -

                   I told you. Two E.

                   -

                   No, I know you did, yes.  I will forget about the number on the wall. Yes, right, just a minute.

BRIAN tries again, and appears to find the right thing this time. As he reads out the next, he has to keep taking the phone from his ear to check.

                   Snow – nomenclature – ocular – widget. Oh, I see, widget. And tell me, what does this do, exactly?

                   -

                   No, I am not starting all that over again. I am just curious, that is all. Nothing wrong with that, surely? I mean, I need to know what to do with it.

                   -

                   I see. – I see. – Yes. – Right. – Right. So, let me repeat that. To you. I download the app, I take a photo, of the snow by the hut, and that tells you where I am. – Really?

                   -

                   Nomenclature? No I don’t. I didn’t even know snow had that much of a taxonomy associate with it.

                   -

                   Taxonomy. It’s like…

                   -

                   Fair enough, yes. I will stick to your…

                   -

                   Yes, I will. In future, yes. It is nomenclature, yes. And widget, not app.

                   -

                   I will. Now. I’ll download it, straight away. Bear with.

                   -

                   Miranda, yes. Do you? And me, yes. Bear with.

                   -

                   It is, I agree. Much funnier than my two attempts, yes, the one about the boy scouts, and the other one. Just a minute.

BRIAN is about to start the download when he notices something that really angers him. He is apoplectic.

                  

                   How much? Good God. Is the man off his trolley? Is he out of his tiny little, pedantic, stupid mind? Where have I phoned him? In a mental institution? Some sort of criminalized mental institution?

                  

                   Hello, are you still there?

                   -

                   I am quite aware you could hear everything I was saying. I am very happy for you to hear everything I am saying. Do you know how much apps are? They are sixty-nine pence, that’s what they are. Maybe a pound, maybe two. The first snow one was free. I have seen one for a fiver, I’ll give you that. But…

                   -

                   I know. I hear you. Okay it’s a widget… But it’s still an app. When all is said and done it’s an app. It is not a string of passwords for a Bank of England computer, it is not a list of access codes for the Crown Jewels. It’s a sodding app.

                   -

                   But three hundred quid? Three hundred of our English pounds? No widget, whatsit, wanking, sodding phone app costs three hundred pounds.

                   -

                   Yes, yours does. Yours does. I’ll give you that. Yours does. But what does it do? You won’t, or you can’t, even tell me what it does.

                   -

                   But will it? Will it get me out of here? I don’t think so. I don’t think it will.

                   -

                   Well I’ll ring someone else.

                   -

                   Of course I can.

                   -

                   What?

BRIAN checks his screen

                  

                   How have you done that? How the…? How have you done that? (realisation) The first one. It was that first one wasn’t it? That first… snow thing, it was yours too wasn’t it. You’ve blocked my phone. You have blocked my phone with snow.

                   -

                   Yes it is. It is getting dark.

                   -

                   Wet Life? Yes they are. Well, to my girlfriend anyway.

                   -

                   Yes, the snow is getting… Okay, okay, okay.

BRIAN punches some more instructions into the phone. He waits while it downloads.

                   Right. I have it. I have to say it doesn’t look much. Not for three hundred…

                   -

                   I know it’s what it does that’s important, not how it looks. But I still don’t know what it does. You have not told me what it does.

                   -

                   No, that is not what it does, it is what I do. That is what you told me I do. Take a photo. But what does this very expensive app… Widget. What does this widget do with it?

                   -

                   Right, that’s better. Thank you. I’m listening.

                   -

                   So, let me get this right. I take a photo of the snow. The… widget analyses the snow from the picture and, using snow nomenclature, works out where I am. This all seems rather far-fetched.

                   -

                   What, before I take a picture of the snow?

                   -

                   Instead of the picture of the snow? But you said you couldn’t identify this hut’s location by the two and the E on the wall. How will me taking a picture of them help?

                   -

                   Okay, okay. In for a penny.

                   -

                   It’s a saying.

                   -

                   No, it is not another joke… Oh… I’ll just take the photo.

BRIAN takes a photo of the 2 and E. He waits while it sends.

                   Got it?

                   -

                   What? Do what?

                   -

BRIAN, now totally deflated, puts the phone on the table. Taking the broom, he uses it to push up the E, which swings up, falling against the 2. It is 23, not 2E. He takes the phone up again. He walks to the window.

                   I take it you don’t need me to take another photo? That’s you isn’t it? Coming down the hill. You’ve been there ever since…

                   You f….

BLACKOUT