An extract of Elvie's narration from 'The Red Horse' for Novel Writing -

Isn’t it funny though – they think they’re the main character, more fool them, they think everyone’s watching each muscle they tense, each deep breath, every brush of their hair, every well-placed foot as they walk past on their own individual exploits.  Joke’s on them, I’m the one they should be watching.  But they don’t know that, they couldn’t give a damn if I choose an Americano or a mocha – so maybe the joke’s on me.

No.  No, the joke’s on them.

What joke anyway?  None of this is even mildly amusing, I’m only here to escape that shiny fucking house, and I just walked into the first immodest café I could find.  This place fitted the bill; I wanted to see the kind of people we’re supposed to be now, the Cotswolds family.  And I’m the daughter that goes for coffees in places like this.  Maybe I’m supposed to take boys here.  Maybe boys are supposed to take me here.  Maybe men.  These places with timber beams, dark and aged, looking gloriously authentic.  Old shit like that takes the prices up, easy.  People like the old stuff, the ancient, others like the new and the young – either way they’ll pay a fuckload won’t they.

That’s why people come here, that’s why Tom wanted to move here, I’m sure the brochures raved about the timber fucking beams.  Beams, leather chairs and mugs filled with froth.

I’ve just paid one pound extra for air to be blown into milk.  But the Taylor’s can now, that’s what money really allows you, father, the choice, nay the obligation, to have Bubbles.  Bubbles, that’s all, a child’s game, a child’s entertainment.  Still, keeps the adults amused when combined with caffeine though don’t it.  People will pay for bubbles, they can let out a good-humoured grumble but mostly they just slip that little card into the machine.  And poke away four numbers that deliver them to their livelihood.  Slip it in.  So easy, in-between the legs of greed.  Greedy legs.  Give them a little jolly, deposit your sample, then withdraw, swig it down and leave.  Bubbles, shit what would we do without them?  We need those Bubbles, imagine this world – a world so big and full of people – what would happen if we took away all their Bubbles, no more cappuccinos, no more macchiatos, no more fucking babyccino for lil’ Billy, hardly able to stand but still appreciating those lovely Bubbles. 

There’d be an uprising.

Fuck, what those poor bastards in London wouldn’t pay for some bubbles right now.  Just some oxygen, some clean air, all those bombs, all that smoke that fills up the nostrils, seeps into their tents outside number ten.  And they shuffle deeper into their sleeping bags but they still can’t escape it, maybe they keep their air in there, maybe they put them on head first and try to escape the smoke.    

Special reserves of Bubbles could be kept for those living beside the Squat-holes, for when the bombings start up again.  The Albert’s bound to be hit soon.  The London grandees couldn’t stand to see their favourite Saturday hot spot made into a localized ghetto, I reckon even Lord and Lady Smutwerth would be prepared to sling a homemade bomb over their shoulder and take one for the socialite team.  The Miggs could have some Bubble reserves too of course, the ones that survived – but it couldn’t be as fresh, if the Miggs got some of our Cotswold air the native city people would riot, probably bomb the Albert just to make a point.  The Miggs could have some regular bubbles of Sheffield air, some shit like that. 

That’s not what I’m think about though is it.  No I’m thinking about going back to the Taylor residence, our house – their house. 

This coffee’s shit anyway.

Discovered in the far depths of a notepad: April 2011

In the intricacy of badly laid plans,

in the imbalance of desperation,

in the sourness of deceit,

in the simple-mindedness of sensation,

i lie,

in favour of all the above.

Politics of Subjectivity and Identity - Assignment One

In an exploration of self-identity I have created a visual piece using a close of my own eye overlaid with text taken from my journals over the last two years.  The choice of the eye is fairly self-explanatory, the notion of the eye being the ‘door to the soul’ is an inescapable reality – like many clichés – however, beyond that the choice was rather more personal in that throughout my life my eyes have been remarked upon as my most notable feature.

In using text from my journal I am reflecting the human need to record life, be it through journals, photography, anecdotes, etc, this condition is frequently noted by theorists: “we all make use of stories every day and our lives are shaped by stories…stories to confirm a sense of who we are”[1], in this way, humans are constantly employing narrative as a method of understanding oneself. 

The form of the journal is particularly interesting from a psychological point of view, in search of a substantial self-identity I personally am aware that I use the journal as a point of reference for understanding my current situation.  Essentially the journal is a scaled down version of the perceived necessity for historical education, ‘those who forget the past are likely to repeat it’[2] is a saying which Oliver James notes in his book on child psychology, he suggests that it is important to remember one’s past in order to avoid future transgressions, and this may well be the psychology behind the journal, along, of course, with an indulgent penchant for nostalgia. 

Furthermore, it is interesting to consider the way in which the idea of the journal can evolve, the meticulous recording of oneself, the element of preciousness of one’s chronicled words, the secrecy of ‘the diary’ we have seen emphasized by the Gothic genre over the centuries – all of these elements point towards a personification of the object itself.  There is, over time, an inevitability that a journal becomes a character in itself, not in the dramatic sense but merely because of the boundaries of such a medium, one cannot record every detail, and so in allowing some actions and emotions to be omitted, the writer forms a depiction that does not quite mirror themselves but effectively creates a separate character, perhaps even a caricature, of themselves. 

With this in mind one cannot help but consider the relationship between journal-keeper and journal-‘character’, which is, in my case at least, one of intense scrutiny, such as that of an author over their characters, in the words of the writer Elizabeth Bowen, the writer is a cruel judge who views their characters in a “relentless daylight in which nothing is hid”[3], and perhaps this is the self-deprecating appeal of the journal.

---

[1] Andrew Bennett and Nicholas Royale, Introduction to Literature, Criticism and Theory 4th edn. (Harlow: Pearson Education Limited, 2009) p.52

[2] Oliver James, The F*** You Up (London: Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 2003)  p. 5

[3] Andrew Bennett and Nicholas Royale, Introduction to Literature, Criticism and Theory 4th edn. (Harlow: Pearson Education Limited, 2009)

Felix.

Wet food.

Dry food.

Cat refuses to eat the dry food.

So I’m eating oats – no milk, no water.

And Felix is chewing on my eight-pound rib eye,

with peppercorn sauce. 

[Untitled]

My left temporal lobe is throbbing out your name,

a ticking Morse code of your letters.

What momentary insanity in safety,

I saw a ladder above my head,

I saw a trapdoor under my feet.

But I cut the rope

and I lost the key.

And when all is chill and ache and waiting

my pleasure reflex needs reminding,

needs tantalizing with something moist,

like flesh or at least flesh tones,

like skin or at least skinned knees.

Oh that taste –

                     A toast!

Stand and raise your glasses children,

raise a glass to raising a glass,

to delight and to indulgence,

and to all the shades of purple.

To the soft wet licking

of overrated lips.

Amid the sweet sensation of

scabbed elbows, a bruise on your thigh,

on your hip bones lie the lusting

rub of those overexcited

passions which never got fulfilled.

And you.

      Oh you, oh fool oh lion oh how the times have changed.

Not a month ago your head was lying in my lap

and I was lapping love from your pores.  

This Be the Verse (of the Blameless)

I feel you holding me

– not down or in

but together.

You keep this form in equipoise.

I feel the belt around my waist,

keeping this blood flowing smoothly,

and keeping these organs in check.

You embrace, and you build.

You drew the blueprints to this body,

you shaped each curve, line and crease,

you gave flesh and soul to the cause,

and grafted upon calcium.

You own the rights to this vessel,

you have the planning permission.

I hear that tired falter of time

in your voice

and wish I could show you a mirror

that reflected from within my eyes.

I shall witness myself grow grey

before I ever see it in your soul.

You are life – you are the spark,

you are the origin,

you are nourishment

and in that – you are eternal.

Fiendish -

'As Elizabeth Bowen once remarked, the novelist is a kind of fiend: the novelist exposes his (or her) characters to a "relentless daylight in which nothing is hid.  No human being other than a fiend would treat his (or her) fellow humans, in daily life, in so ruthless, uncompromising a manner." [Bowen: 1970]'