Love; I do believe
That you have tricked me and deceived
You do not soothe; you only vex
I should have only stuck to -
(c) 2009
Sunday 27 December 2009
Sunday 13 December 2009
New Years Resolutsch and all manner of excuses for absences...
It has been on my mind for some time that I not managed to post anything here for quite a while; and it was this evening's post from Icy Sedgwick that made me kick my butt into gear and finally get the hell on with it. Yes, I am aware that my Burgh Island 'review' of sorts has not quite been accomplished yet, but I hope to have that finalised at some point! My excuse is the more I write about it, the more I think about it, and the more I long to go back...
Now the real focus, espesh of this evening, is that I absolutely must get back into my writing. Lots of things distract me from this once simple pleasure of mine; life on the stage singing, hard liquor and hard men (ahem), oh and all sorts of divine distractions that have led me astray. The main thing being the good old nine to five, which always manages to drain the creativity from one's soul and if one isn't careful it will dry you up forever. Creative juices must be kept flowing.
So, ahead of 2010, I have at least one resolution set. What will the others be? I still have two more weeks to decide on those...
GG
Now the real focus, espesh of this evening, is that I absolutely must get back into my writing. Lots of things distract me from this once simple pleasure of mine; life on the stage singing, hard liquor and hard men (ahem), oh and all sorts of divine distractions that have led me astray. The main thing being the good old nine to five, which always manages to drain the creativity from one's soul and if one isn't careful it will dry you up forever. Creative juices must be kept flowing.
So, ahead of 2010, I have at least one resolution set. What will the others be? I still have two more weeks to decide on those...
GG
Wednesday 16 September 2009
1920s Black Beaded Violets Silk Chiffon Flapper Chemise Over Dress XXL by hautecountryvintage on Ets
1920's Antique Vintage Metallic-Daisies Elegant Gold-Lame Lace Couture Rhinestone French Wedding Fla
The Man I Can Charleston With
There is a man - I'll tell you about him:
He's fairly tall, has great panache,
Slicked black hair, pencil moustache,
Neat and dapper, handsome, smart,
A gentleman after my own heart!
A side parting, yes - and moving on,
A smile that outshines the sun.
Brown eyes has he, with visions deep
And soft lips that are mine to keep.
My man wear boaters, blazers, ties
Wears Oxford Bags (he's so fashion-wise)
The occasional monacle for his weak left eye
And a pocket watch to keep track of time.
And do you know - it's such a shame
I have to play this lonely game.
But there's nobody I can blame
For my lack of gents to claim
To fit the description of my beau -I guess that I'll just never know
The man I can Charleston with.
©1995
©1995
Monday 14 September 2009
Rolf Armstrong, 20s glass hoops, and other ebay losses
It really can be quite hideous when one finds something to die for on eBay and gets pipped at the post or finds it just at the wrong time when funds are low before the paycheck has arrived, and subsequently one loses out on things so deliciously magnificent it causes one to despair in ways that are, unforgivably so, the depths of depression caused by materialistic want, and nothing more. Of course, I can survive without these - but, I ask you, do I HAVE to? Really? But they would make life so much better!
Everything you see here are original 1920s items. Unfortunately for me the seller of the Rolfe Armstrong pictures disabled the photo's after the auction, so I have only managed to salvage these small thumbnails. They were just too too divine, and I am a sadder lady today for not having won them!
But ho hum. I did manage to find a 1930s deco wardrobe at the weekend for pennies, so all is not completely lost!
Tuesday 8 September 2009
Of Burgh Island, Part II
So; we get to the Burgh Island Hotel, and the Burgh Island Hotel is divine.
We were led, as I remember it, in a sort of strange calm gentle busy flurry, like late leaves being blown in by a sudden unexpected gust of wind through an open door in the fall, with the soft frantic bustle that just as quickly is at peace once set down by the wind. And so there we stood. If eyes could talk they would have been all a-stuttering in their broken gaze, distracted again and again the second they tried to focus on just one thing; another source of distraction clicking its invisible fingers out from the corner of our eyes to demand our
"Good afternoon" beamed the receptionist, and at last my eyes settled on the reception area. I nodded and smiled. "Would you like tea brought to you in the morning?" she asked. Smiling, and nodding, and saying 'yes please' before taking the large clear plastic keyfob with the name Noel Coward etched in it in frosted writing; two deco seagull styled "m's" hovering in one corner. There was movement; I turned to see a smartly dressed porter standing behind me motioning to my steamer trunk. "This all you have?" he asked. I was too much in awe of the building to repeat the small child reference. I nodded. And smiled. "Thought it was part of the hotel" the Porter exclaimed, and with that, he directed into the elevator with the trunk, whilst he turned to ascend the stairs.
In the silence and privacy of the elevator, I softly squealed in my instant and intense adoration for the place; the elevator stopped with a soft bump and the door was pulled open by the Porter. He gestured for me to go before him through a white door which led us into a softly lit hallway, at the end of which was a huge Art Deco unit with a marble clock on the top. I bit my bottom lip in furious excitement at the sight of it; and finally, a left turn brought us walking towards a full length mirror. The mint green door adjacent to it featured the framed sepia toned portrait of Noel Coward. So, here we were.
In a moment where I thought I would scream out loud, I managed to stifle any such extremity of emotional delirium and instead funnelled it into a small squeak as the door opened and the sight ahead of me was revealed for the first time. I walked through into the small hallway, past the granite bathroom, and into the lounge and dining area of the suite. Alone. At last.
The sea was a soft, muffled roar beyond the panoramic windows. A circular geometric rug sat amongst the purple art deco leather suite; blonde walnut side units – one of which a bottle of Bollinger sat awaiting it’s mass consumption - and a dining table with chairs featured glorious acorn shaped shades. I ran my fingers down the curtains; they were thick and heavy, the embroidery on them like Braille under my fingertips.
The bedroom boasted more blonde walnut in the shape of a 30s dressing table whereupon I instantly decided my Shalimar would sit. The rest of the room consisted of a complete art deco suit which would fulfil any deco lovers dream; but especially a girl’s; perfume, shoes, bags and make up storage were abundant, and all in such style!
So the bubbly was opened, and after all this excitement we decided to be decadent and order a Devon cream tea. It arrived with bells on; the scones were still warm from the oven. Champagne, tea, and a clotted cream tea all in sumptuous art deco surroundings once inhabited by Noel Coward are all very much things that you cannot, in my opinion, very much top.
And so it came to pass that before long we would start the delicious process of getting dressed for dinner, which is something that in this day and age hardly bears any comparison to it used to be (and should be) done.
The tuxedo was donned, and the dress - my 1920s lace dress, bought especially for the occasion, was set to make its debut at Burgh Island. After the last checks in the mirror had taken place, we departed the suite to join the other guests for cocktails and canapés in the Peacock Bar; the sun had appeared, the rain had stopped, and as we made out way down the stairs, the sunlight burst through the little panes of glass that make up the trademark long window of the tower of Burgh Island. Piano music trickled up to us, loudening with every step down we took, and into the Peacock bar we strolled; the ghosts of Josephine Baker, Noel Coward, Clara Bow and Agatha Christie all whispers of our previous neighboring guests, and who had once sat underneath that glorious domed rainbow of glass above us.
To be continued…
We were led, as I remember it, in a sort of strange calm gentle busy flurry, like late leaves being blown in by a sudden unexpected gust of wind through an open door in the fall, with the soft frantic bustle that just as quickly is at peace once set down by the wind. And so there we stood. If eyes could talk they would have been all a-stuttering in their broken gaze, distracted again and again the second they tried to focus on just one thing; another source of distraction clicking its invisible fingers out from the corner of our eyes to demand our
"Good afternoon" beamed the receptionist, and at last my eyes settled on the reception area. I nodded and smiled. "Would you like tea brought to you in the morning?" she asked. Smiling, and nodding, and saying 'yes please' before taking the large clear plastic keyfob with the name Noel Coward etched in it in frosted writing; two deco seagull styled "m's" hovering in one corner. There was movement; I turned to see a smartly dressed porter standing behind me motioning to my steamer trunk. "This all you have?" he asked. I was too much in awe of the building to repeat the small child reference. I nodded. And smiled. "Thought it was part of the hotel" the Porter exclaimed, and with that, he directed into the elevator with the trunk, whilst he turned to ascend the stairs.
In the silence and privacy of the elevator, I softly squealed in my instant and intense adoration for the place; the elevator stopped with a soft bump and the door was pulled open by the Porter. He gestured for me to go before him through a white door which led us into a softly lit hallway, at the end of which was a huge Art Deco unit with a marble clock on the top. I bit my bottom lip in furious excitement at the sight of it; and finally, a left turn brought us walking towards a full length mirror. The mint green door adjacent to it featured the framed sepia toned portrait of Noel Coward. So, here we were.
In a moment where I thought I would scream out loud, I managed to stifle any such extremity of emotional delirium and instead funnelled it into a small squeak as the door opened and the sight ahead of me was revealed for the first time. I walked through into the small hallway, past the granite bathroom, and into the lounge and dining area of the suite. Alone. At last.
The sea was a soft, muffled roar beyond the panoramic windows. A circular geometric rug sat amongst the purple art deco leather suite; blonde walnut side units – one of which a bottle of Bollinger sat awaiting it’s mass consumption - and a dining table with chairs featured glorious acorn shaped shades. I ran my fingers down the curtains; they were thick and heavy, the embroidery on them like Braille under my fingertips.
The bedroom boasted more blonde walnut in the shape of a 30s dressing table whereupon I instantly decided my Shalimar would sit. The rest of the room consisted of a complete art deco suit which would fulfil any deco lovers dream; but especially a girl’s; perfume, shoes, bags and make up storage were abundant, and all in such style!
So the bubbly was opened, and after all this excitement we decided to be decadent and order a Devon cream tea. It arrived with bells on; the scones were still warm from the oven. Champagne, tea, and a clotted cream tea all in sumptuous art deco surroundings once inhabited by Noel Coward are all very much things that you cannot, in my opinion, very much top.
And so it came to pass that before long we would start the delicious process of getting dressed for dinner, which is something that in this day and age hardly bears any comparison to it used to be (and should be) done.
The tuxedo was donned, and the dress - my 1920s lace dress, bought especially for the occasion, was set to make its debut at Burgh Island. After the last checks in the mirror had taken place, we departed the suite to join the other guests for cocktails and canapés in the Peacock Bar; the sun had appeared, the rain had stopped, and as we made out way down the stairs, the sunlight burst through the little panes of glass that make up the trademark long window of the tower of Burgh Island. Piano music trickled up to us, loudening with every step down we took, and into the Peacock bar we strolled; the ghosts of Josephine Baker, Noel Coward, Clara Bow and Agatha Christie all whispers of our previous neighboring guests, and who had once sat underneath that glorious domed rainbow of glass above us.
To be continued…
Wednesday 19 August 2009
The Ghost of Him
If I had had a choice in the matter, I would never have fallen in love with a dead man. The truth is, I did not seek it, nor did I simply see an opportunity and knowingly dive right in. I was fourteen years old and before I could really decipher what love was, he had already flung it over me, like a huge net, which he has proceeded to tug me around in at his feet every day since for the last sixteen years. When I told a friend of mine of the tears shed over this unhappy get glorious, hopeless yet inspiring love affair, and all the things he’d said to me, and all the things he’d done, she said “Tell him to go away.” I told her I would rather cry like a baby every night and be in a permanent state of depression over him, now buried in a cemetery thousands of miles from me, rather than him stopping coming to see me.
I suppose it all sounds very strange. It is very strange. I have always known that. I have always known that most people, when they see his picture, do not break down and cry, or turn away when they see his old house because I don’t want them to stare at the hot salty tears that roll delicately down till I taste them on my lips; nor when they sleep do they hear the things he comes and tells me, or the things he does to me. And I can’t tell them, because they wouldn’t believe me. And even if they did, I cannot bring myself to share such intimate things. I don’t think he wants me to tell of it in any case. So I don’t.
I suppose I could really be sectioned if one were to look deep enough into it. Maybe I have gotten so used to him and the situation I find myself in with him now that I no longer realise how peculiar it is. Luckily I have managed to disguise crying in public over him by pretending it’s from laughter, or if outdoors, a sharp breeze; and even more luckily, it’s often in a dark enough room in the evening whereby no-one would be able to tell anyway. But there has been the odd occasion where not hell or high water could stop the tears; and I cannot explain myself when asked, and so I wonder if I will ever really be ble to be in the same room as someone who by chance mentions his name for fear of furrowed eyebrows that turn my eyes startled and afraid,with my hands to my lips to hide their downturning and trembling, and again those waters that come with the sound of his name. And I do not cry easily. I am made of harder stuff. But not when it comes to him.
I suppose what I am trying to say is that I miss him. I miss him every single day; and today is one of those days when the sun is beating down, and for some reason when the sun is so hot on a day like this, I miss him even more. Something, lost somewhere long ago in the mists of time, comes alive again in the sunshine, and I feel him with me, like smelling a familiar smell, or feeling that someone is following you, though you know you are alone.
But there is no solution, no cure, no remedy. The ghost of him walks; and so it will be, for I’d rather have that little echo of him than nothing left at all.
I suppose it all sounds very strange. It is very strange. I have always known that. I have always known that most people, when they see his picture, do not break down and cry, or turn away when they see his old house because I don’t want them to stare at the hot salty tears that roll delicately down till I taste them on my lips; nor when they sleep do they hear the things he comes and tells me, or the things he does to me. And I can’t tell them, because they wouldn’t believe me. And even if they did, I cannot bring myself to share such intimate things. I don’t think he wants me to tell of it in any case. So I don’t.
I suppose I could really be sectioned if one were to look deep enough into it. Maybe I have gotten so used to him and the situation I find myself in with him now that I no longer realise how peculiar it is. Luckily I have managed to disguise crying in public over him by pretending it’s from laughter, or if outdoors, a sharp breeze; and even more luckily, it’s often in a dark enough room in the evening whereby no-one would be able to tell anyway. But there has been the odd occasion where not hell or high water could stop the tears; and I cannot explain myself when asked, and so I wonder if I will ever really be ble to be in the same room as someone who by chance mentions his name for fear of furrowed eyebrows that turn my eyes startled and afraid,with my hands to my lips to hide their downturning and trembling, and again those waters that come with the sound of his name. And I do not cry easily. I am made of harder stuff. But not when it comes to him.
I suppose what I am trying to say is that I miss him. I miss him every single day; and today is one of those days when the sun is beating down, and for some reason when the sun is so hot on a day like this, I miss him even more. Something, lost somewhere long ago in the mists of time, comes alive again in the sunshine, and I feel him with me, like smelling a familiar smell, or feeling that someone is following you, though you know you are alone.
But there is no solution, no cure, no remedy. The ghost of him walks; and so it will be, for I’d rather have that little echo of him than nothing left at all.
Wednesday 12 August 2009
Part I: Of Burgh Island, Singapore Slings and dancing till midnight
The rain was so heavy and cumbersome that it slapped down on the windscreen like flat open palms. The wipers couldn't keep up; other cars weren't visible, nor were hedges, or road signs. So our journey down to Burgh Island hadn't been the sun-kist voyage I had first imagined, which explained my 'arrival' attire of dainty white summer gloves, a huge wide-brimmed black straw hat, silk sleeved thin woollen top, and cream three quarter-length trousers. "We'll have to carry the trunk across the beach to the island", grimaced the man in the trilby hat next to me, which elicited a small squeal from me as I down-turned my lips and narrowed my eyes at the attire-ruining weather outside of the car. When one goes to somewhere like Burgh Island, one cannot turn up looking anything but as immaculate as the perfect, smooth white lines of Art Deco that it itself portrays, and so the thought of being beaten black and blue by the unforgiving weather scuppered my dreams of arriving looking like I had stepped right out of an Agatha Christie novel.
Down windy little lanes we turned; through puddles that would come to one's waist should one have tried to walk through them; and through quaint little seaside hamlets that consisted of just a shop, an old fashioned garage, and a handful of white houses, we drove until we came across the golf club where we had been instructed to call the hotel from. Mobile 'phones at Burgh Island receive almost no reception, thank goodness, and so it was back to using the british telephone box to my delight. My own experience of mobile 'phones is that they invade those quiet moments that I in particular treasure; what I call as 'not being in'. Where once upon a time if our landline was called and there was no answer, the caller would assume that you were out, away from home, or not in a position to answer the 'phone whether that be in the shower, the bath, eating or cooking dinner, out in the garden, or generally indisposed of, and would perhaps try you again later or, if they were sensible enough, would have previously have arranged a time to talk. Which is how I like it. I prefer an old-fashioned, pre-arranged time to talk. It means that I can dedicate my time to the caller, having ensured that there will be no interruption, or loss of signal, and most importantly on a landline no 'hot-head' which is something I detest mobile 'phones for all the more - and it also means that a conversation I am having with someone else also isn't rudely interrupted by another person 'butting in'.
I don't want a call halfway through dinner, or in the middle of a conversation with my husband about how the day has been when he has stepped in from work; but should I dare not answer my mobile 'phone when it rings, I am left angry messages by frustrated callers who demand to know why I haven't picked up. In their opinion, mobile 'phones should be stuck to our ears and answered automatically no matter what, no matter where you are or who you are with. Technology has made us all, in this modern day, people who expect you to drop everything to take their call, urgent or not. Well, in my opinion, the situation has not changed from yesteryear where sometimes it is simply not convenient to talk whether I am standing at the Grand Canyon and happen have my mobile phone in my pocket or whether I am at the local supermarket. If I don't deem it convenient, I will not answer. And for this reason, I have nearly thrown my mobile away as an act of protest to having my peace disturbed every five minutes.
But I digress.
On receiving our call, the receptionist at Burgh Island informed us of the code we would need for the electric gate when we approached the car park, and told us she would have someone come over in the landrover to pick us up. I sighed; relieved at the revived prospect of me arriving less drenched, and more like the art deco glamour I had envisaged. We subsequently arrived at the gates of a prestige looking block of apartments, where we entered the code to allow us to enter, and parked where the reserved signs were for the hotel.
My old steam ship trunk was loaded into the back of the land rover with the question that would be asked another three times during our stay - "Is that all you've got?" - my response being yes, and how these steam ship tunks could easily fit a small child, so naturally would take sufficient items of belongings for one night.
The driver made polite and entertaining conversation; at least the other couple in the car conversed with him. I managed little words here and there - quite unlike me - but truth be told I was all agog with excitement almost to the point of feeling quite ill, so, lips pursed, eyes wide, I hmm-ed and laughed in appropriate places during the conversation.
The gates greeted us like a wide, white smile; teeth all bared in a broad welcome that made me realise right away I wouldn't ever want to leave. If I had thought so before coming here, it was permanently confirmed by the art deco gates swinging open, and there Burgh Island sat ahead of us, a white, gleaming pearl set against the still grey, steely sky.
Down windy little lanes we turned; through puddles that would come to one's waist should one have tried to walk through them; and through quaint little seaside hamlets that consisted of just a shop, an old fashioned garage, and a handful of white houses, we drove until we came across the golf club where we had been instructed to call the hotel from. Mobile 'phones at Burgh Island receive almost no reception, thank goodness, and so it was back to using the british telephone box to my delight. My own experience of mobile 'phones is that they invade those quiet moments that I in particular treasure; what I call as 'not being in'. Where once upon a time if our landline was called and there was no answer, the caller would assume that you were out, away from home, or not in a position to answer the 'phone whether that be in the shower, the bath, eating or cooking dinner, out in the garden, or generally indisposed of, and would perhaps try you again later or, if they were sensible enough, would have previously have arranged a time to talk. Which is how I like it. I prefer an old-fashioned, pre-arranged time to talk. It means that I can dedicate my time to the caller, having ensured that there will be no interruption, or loss of signal, and most importantly on a landline no 'hot-head' which is something I detest mobile 'phones for all the more - and it also means that a conversation I am having with someone else also isn't rudely interrupted by another person 'butting in'.
I don't want a call halfway through dinner, or in the middle of a conversation with my husband about how the day has been when he has stepped in from work; but should I dare not answer my mobile 'phone when it rings, I am left angry messages by frustrated callers who demand to know why I haven't picked up. In their opinion, mobile 'phones should be stuck to our ears and answered automatically no matter what, no matter where you are or who you are with. Technology has made us all, in this modern day, people who expect you to drop everything to take their call, urgent or not. Well, in my opinion, the situation has not changed from yesteryear where sometimes it is simply not convenient to talk whether I am standing at the Grand Canyon and happen have my mobile phone in my pocket or whether I am at the local supermarket. If I don't deem it convenient, I will not answer. And for this reason, I have nearly thrown my mobile away as an act of protest to having my peace disturbed every five minutes.
But I digress.
On receiving our call, the receptionist at Burgh Island informed us of the code we would need for the electric gate when we approached the car park, and told us she would have someone come over in the landrover to pick us up. I sighed; relieved at the revived prospect of me arriving less drenched, and more like the art deco glamour I had envisaged. We subsequently arrived at the gates of a prestige looking block of apartments, where we entered the code to allow us to enter, and parked where the reserved signs were for the hotel.
My old steam ship trunk was loaded into the back of the land rover with the question that would be asked another three times during our stay - "Is that all you've got?" - my response being yes, and how these steam ship tunks could easily fit a small child, so naturally would take sufficient items of belongings for one night.
The driver made polite and entertaining conversation; at least the other couple in the car conversed with him. I managed little words here and there - quite unlike me - but truth be told I was all agog with excitement almost to the point of feeling quite ill, so, lips pursed, eyes wide, I hmm-ed and laughed in appropriate places during the conversation.
The gates greeted us like a wide, white smile; teeth all bared in a broad welcome that made me realise right away I wouldn't ever want to leave. If I had thought so before coming here, it was permanently confirmed by the art deco gates swinging open, and there Burgh Island sat ahead of us, a white, gleaming pearl set against the still grey, steely sky.
Saturday 25 July 2009
Modern Times
Well, it is not often I have good things to say about modern times - and by modern times, I mean the cold, unsophisticated, charmless world of today, not the 'modern times' we used to gaily refer to - but, for all its faults, the internet has been one of the best things to happen in terms of finding the perfect vintage dress at short notice. In a word, eBay.Surprised by my beau a week ago, I was informed, to my delight and subsequent hysteria, that I was being whisked away for a trip to Burgh Island. That jewel of an Art Deco hotel, sat atop of an island just off the coast of Devon; most famous for one of my favourite authors, that being one Agatha Christie. It is where she wrote Evil Under the Sun and And Then There Were None; and while I gazed at the photo gallery on the website, the memory of the novel came flooding back, and the words she used to describe this paradise came alive in ways that one who loves the idea of a seemingly fictional, fantastical place suddenly finds out it exists, and that it exists unchanged at that.
And so, there came about a desire for a suitable evening dress for the dinner dance that evening. And here it is; antique black lace, a sweetheart neckline, a drop waist, and delicate lace hankerchief side drops. It fits like a dream and looks like one too.
At this time, three days prior to our expected arrival at Burgh Island, I can only imagine myself standing on the terraces, feeling the sea breeze tousle my hair and fairy-kiss my face, while I look out at the sea and at the super white crisp walls of the Art Deco buildings where once upon a time, Noel Coward, Agatha Christie and Josephine Baker to name but a few did exactly the same thing.
And somewhere within me, I feel incredibly saddened; because I know that when it comes to leave that precious untouched little world, far out in the sea, I will have to return here to these modern times. I can feel the breaks in my heart start to rupture already.
Saturday 4 July 2009
By chance, this evening on my return from visiting a friend, I came across a copy of the Sunday Pictorial dated May 4th, 1924.
I was sorting through some of my many hundreds of spare leaves of paper with ideas of novels scribbled in frantic kohl pencil and eye-liner (most likely whilst travelling on a train and influenced by a potential character sitting opposite me); snippets of song lyrics barely legible - scrawled in spidery biro at an angle (the trademark of a midnight, mid-sleep flash of inspiration) and the unfinished lines of poems which awaited their completion (the curse of a spell of writers block).
I was sifting through these papers when I noticed the coffee coloured pages of an old newspaper. And what a delightful read it was. Before I knew it, I was engrossed. 2009 evaporated; its mist stealthily descending out of the open window into the night air, and instead, 1924 filled the room with the smell of my old gramophone rising from its opened lid mixed in with a little dash of Shalamar (the famous perfume being launched a year later in 1925; albeit a little early for the publication I was reading. But we shall ignore that here for the sake of nostalgia).
I was whisked happily, fondly, and oh-so-abundantly back into my own day and age. And here, for your delight and pleasure, are some of my favourites:
"Open Door to the Stage; The Actors' Association wants to make acting a closed profession. The abuses which it is desired to remove are, in no doubt, real abuses, but this is not the way of removing them. The stage cannot be put on a level with law and medicine. In those callings the unqualified charlatan could do infinite mischief before he was found out. An incompetent actor can do no particular harm, and we can protect ourselves from him by stopping away from his performances."
"Nuts And Wine: Gossip For The After-Dinner Hour."
"The suggestion that titles should be taxed has not been acted upon. From that quarter there will be no Sir-plus."
"A woman in America has shot her Landlady in order to get publicity for a book she has written. This is usually a certain way of getting oneself into the noose."
"I hear that a sixty year old brick layer has just gone in for writing poetry. Isn't he rather old to be starting work?"
And finally, an excerpt from Mary Pickford's article "Why I admire the British girl" which we can all take something from. I particularly took Ms Pickfords words to heart, and I rather liked the context in which she had written them. It is then , with the fervent optimism of which they inspired in your own girlgatsby this warm, summers eve, I present to you the words of Mary Pickford:
"Success, I think, is made up of three things - opportunity, ability, and what I might call 'stick-to-it-iveness', because it expresses more than the stately word perseverance.
Opportunity is rather different.
You can will stick-to-it-iveness. You can develop ability. But you must wait for opportunity. Only don't wait too long. It is like one of your London tube trains. It rushes into the station, and in a few seconds, it is gone. Only, unlike your tube trains, there is not a vital opportunity arriving to time-table every few minutes!
Remember that!
You wait for opportunity, but you must also seize it the instant it appears."
Thank you, Mary. One of those kick-up-the jacksie and 'remember to keep working hard at your goals' speeches.
So. On that note - from me to you - go, each and every one of us, and may we all throw our dreams to the skies and hope they find their wings to fly; and in the course of our lives keep eyes peeled and wide open for that opportunity, whatever it may be and whatever form it may come in; so that we might board that tube train to take us to our next destination in life.
I was sorting through some of my many hundreds of spare leaves of paper with ideas of novels scribbled in frantic kohl pencil and eye-liner (most likely whilst travelling on a train and influenced by a potential character sitting opposite me); snippets of song lyrics barely legible - scrawled in spidery biro at an angle (the trademark of a midnight, mid-sleep flash of inspiration) and the unfinished lines of poems which awaited their completion (the curse of a spell of writers block).
I was sifting through these papers when I noticed the coffee coloured pages of an old newspaper. And what a delightful read it was. Before I knew it, I was engrossed. 2009 evaporated; its mist stealthily descending out of the open window into the night air, and instead, 1924 filled the room with the smell of my old gramophone rising from its opened lid mixed in with a little dash of Shalamar (the famous perfume being launched a year later in 1925; albeit a little early for the publication I was reading. But we shall ignore that here for the sake of nostalgia).
I was whisked happily, fondly, and oh-so-abundantly back into my own day and age. And here, for your delight and pleasure, are some of my favourites:
"Open Door to the Stage; The Actors' Association wants to make acting a closed profession. The abuses which it is desired to remove are, in no doubt, real abuses, but this is not the way of removing them. The stage cannot be put on a level with law and medicine. In those callings the unqualified charlatan could do infinite mischief before he was found out. An incompetent actor can do no particular harm, and we can protect ourselves from him by stopping away from his performances."
"Nuts And Wine: Gossip For The After-Dinner Hour."
"The suggestion that titles should be taxed has not been acted upon. From that quarter there will be no Sir-plus."
"A woman in America has shot her Landlady in order to get publicity for a book she has written. This is usually a certain way of getting oneself into the noose."
"I hear that a sixty year old brick layer has just gone in for writing poetry. Isn't he rather old to be starting work?"
And finally, an excerpt from Mary Pickford's article "Why I admire the British girl" which we can all take something from. I particularly took Ms Pickfords words to heart, and I rather liked the context in which she had written them. It is then , with the fervent optimism of which they inspired in your own girlgatsby this warm, summers eve, I present to you the words of Mary Pickford:
"Success, I think, is made up of three things - opportunity, ability, and what I might call 'stick-to-it-iveness', because it expresses more than the stately word perseverance.
Opportunity is rather different.
You can will stick-to-it-iveness. You can develop ability. But you must wait for opportunity. Only don't wait too long. It is like one of your London tube trains. It rushes into the station, and in a few seconds, it is gone. Only, unlike your tube trains, there is not a vital opportunity arriving to time-table every few minutes!
Remember that!
You wait for opportunity, but you must also seize it the instant it appears."
Thank you, Mary. One of those kick-up-the jacksie and 'remember to keep working hard at your goals' speeches.
So. On that note - from me to you - go, each and every one of us, and may we all throw our dreams to the skies and hope they find their wings to fly; and in the course of our lives keep eyes peeled and wide open for that opportunity, whatever it may be and whatever form it may come in; so that we might board that tube train to take us to our next destination in life.
Friday 26 June 2009
Due
I'm due to fall in love again -
My senses tell me thus;
My mind is not my own again
My soul is full of fuss
Between my sheets I turn and twist,
In dreams my torment keeps
I cannot stand for consciousness
I do not want to sleep
My limbs are fire; thoughts run trill
My heart is sober, still,
Until -
My eyes start misting at his name...
I'm due to fall in love again.
My senses tell me thus;
My mind is not my own again
My soul is full of fuss
Between my sheets I turn and twist,
In dreams my torment keeps
I cannot stand for consciousness
I do not want to sleep
My limbs are fire; thoughts run trill
My heart is sober, still,
Until -
My eyes start misting at his name...
I'm due to fall in love again.
Saturday 20 June 2009
Friday 19 June 2009
The Visitor
His prescence
Heavy in air like incense
With the oppressive silence of cathedrals
He moves
With scratching skin
Fierce fingertips forage
My skin; 'like glass', says he
And signing his name across my breast
Raises the digit to trace my mouth
Lips, lychee ripe and cupid curved,
Press full against his hot hands
And hot hands hard on my cheek
My head is turned
His breath
Electric
On my neck
I pull away to see his face -
Then
Lips bruising mine
He feeds
Heavy in air like incense
With the oppressive silence of cathedrals
He moves
With scratching skin
Fierce fingertips forage
My skin; 'like glass', says he
And signing his name across my breast
Raises the digit to trace my mouth
Lips, lychee ripe and cupid curved,
Press full against his hot hands
And hot hands hard on my cheek
My head is turned
His breath
Electric
On my neck
I pull away to see his face -
Then
Lips bruising mine
He feeds
Thursday 18 June 2009
Excerpt from The White Moth
When I was very little, so little I now only have soft, faded, misted memories of that time, like looking at them through a very old warped glass bottle – when I was little, I would sit on the floor in the silence that surrounded me whilst my mother read a newspaper, and tell her “I want to go home”. “You are home”, she would say. “Yes,” I replied, “but, I want to go home”.
Because a home is not just a house; it is not always material, it is not always bricks and mortar. Home is sometimes simply the place where you belong. It is the place your soul yearns for. It is the feeling of warm sunshine on your back whilst you sit on soft, freshly mown lawns with birds tweeting in the background and a soft breeze gently stroking your arm and forehead; soft, fluffy, feather light clouds above you drifting like dandelion seeds across the endless blue.
Home; it could be within a group of people, it could be on the other side of the planet in a place you have never lived before and so far removed from the place you were born – and yet you may find yourself feeling more at home than you ever did in your own home town. Because sometimes home is something only for the peace of the soul; not where your sofa and bed are, or where your mail gets delivered.
And it was that home I searched for, for years before, and for years afterwards. I moved to so many different towns, lived with so many different people, and every time I would never find myself satisfied, and so before long I would be packing my bags again. And I still search; although now, I know I will never go back, I will never find it. The home I seek is behind me; it is the town barely in view still from the window of the departed train, fading further from view with each turn of the wheel, each breath, each year. There is no way back, only the sentence of constant travel further away from it.
And then there is him. The times I have cried out loud for him and he does not come; and mysteriously, those times when I do not, my sleep is flooded with him. Do I know who he is? Or is he just a face to whom I attach the character of a person tailor-made to fit the home-sick spirit which stirs, like an unborn child, in my belly. We sit and we talk sometimes throughout those nights where he chooses to visit. Sometimes we don't talk; sometimes there is no need. And so then, on afternoons where I have little cause for anything else, sometimes I sit and remember little things. Like the way his lips would feel when he kissed my neck; the softness of them against my skin, and then, the feeling of his gentle breath causing that delicious sensation to start as a tingle that trickled down and across my shoulder blades like tiny electric currents, growing into an overwhelming shivering stroke down my spine and culminating in a deep intense aching for him that caused warmth and want in places that only a lover knows.
One day, when my hair is faded and my skin has turned to crumpled paper, and the reflection in the mirror day by day grows all the more unlike the faded photographs of me in some dusty album; there will come a time when I will be able to go home, and after the darkness, I will open my eyes again, and I will be standing on a bright platform, the sun warm on my back. And when the last train departs the station on the long journey back; when I start to catch sight of it, excitedly, in the distance, every turn of the wheel taking me back to where I belong; the breath will rise in me, my heart will swell.
And there on the empty platform at the end of the line, I will see the figure of a man. I will finally feel strong arms around me, and I will smell the old familiar warmth of his skin as I nuzzle into his neck, and I will taste the sweet warm tears that will roll down my cheeks and over my lips. At last, it will be final. I will not have to wake up in an empty room alone afterwards willing myself back to sleep in order to live some more of that precious pretence.
And the mourners will come, but there should be no tears. Let them fly banners and sing on that day; that wonderful day when finally, she has returned to the place she belonged.
Welcome home.
Because a home is not just a house; it is not always material, it is not always bricks and mortar. Home is sometimes simply the place where you belong. It is the place your soul yearns for. It is the feeling of warm sunshine on your back whilst you sit on soft, freshly mown lawns with birds tweeting in the background and a soft breeze gently stroking your arm and forehead; soft, fluffy, feather light clouds above you drifting like dandelion seeds across the endless blue.
Home; it could be within a group of people, it could be on the other side of the planet in a place you have never lived before and so far removed from the place you were born – and yet you may find yourself feeling more at home than you ever did in your own home town. Because sometimes home is something only for the peace of the soul; not where your sofa and bed are, or where your mail gets delivered.
And it was that home I searched for, for years before, and for years afterwards. I moved to so many different towns, lived with so many different people, and every time I would never find myself satisfied, and so before long I would be packing my bags again. And I still search; although now, I know I will never go back, I will never find it. The home I seek is behind me; it is the town barely in view still from the window of the departed train, fading further from view with each turn of the wheel, each breath, each year. There is no way back, only the sentence of constant travel further away from it.
And then there is him. The times I have cried out loud for him and he does not come; and mysteriously, those times when I do not, my sleep is flooded with him. Do I know who he is? Or is he just a face to whom I attach the character of a person tailor-made to fit the home-sick spirit which stirs, like an unborn child, in my belly. We sit and we talk sometimes throughout those nights where he chooses to visit. Sometimes we don't talk; sometimes there is no need. And so then, on afternoons where I have little cause for anything else, sometimes I sit and remember little things. Like the way his lips would feel when he kissed my neck; the softness of them against my skin, and then, the feeling of his gentle breath causing that delicious sensation to start as a tingle that trickled down and across my shoulder blades like tiny electric currents, growing into an overwhelming shivering stroke down my spine and culminating in a deep intense aching for him that caused warmth and want in places that only a lover knows.
One day, when my hair is faded and my skin has turned to crumpled paper, and the reflection in the mirror day by day grows all the more unlike the faded photographs of me in some dusty album; there will come a time when I will be able to go home, and after the darkness, I will open my eyes again, and I will be standing on a bright platform, the sun warm on my back. And when the last train departs the station on the long journey back; when I start to catch sight of it, excitedly, in the distance, every turn of the wheel taking me back to where I belong; the breath will rise in me, my heart will swell.
And there on the empty platform at the end of the line, I will see the figure of a man. I will finally feel strong arms around me, and I will smell the old familiar warmth of his skin as I nuzzle into his neck, and I will taste the sweet warm tears that will roll down my cheeks and over my lips. At last, it will be final. I will not have to wake up in an empty room alone afterwards willing myself back to sleep in order to live some more of that precious pretence.
And the mourners will come, but there should be no tears. Let them fly banners and sing on that day; that wonderful day when finally, she has returned to the place she belonged.
Welcome home.
The Man I Can Charleston With...
There is a man - I'll tell you about him:
He's fairly tall, has great panache,
Slicked black hair, pencil moustache,
Neat and dapper, handsome, smart,
A gentleman after my own heart!
A side parting, yes - and moving on,
A smile that outshines the sun.
Brown eyes has he, with visions deep
And soft lips that are mine to keep.
My man wear boaters, blazers, ties
Wears Oxford Bags (he's so fashion-wise)
The occasional monacle for his weak left eye
And a pocket watch to keep track of time
And do you know - it's such a shame!
I have to play this lonely game,
But there's nobody I can blame
For my lack of gents to claim
To fit the description of my beau -I guess that I'll just never know
The man I can Charleston with.
He's fairly tall, has great panache,
Slicked black hair, pencil moustache,
Neat and dapper, handsome, smart,
A gentleman after my own heart!
A side parting, yes - and moving on,
A smile that outshines the sun.
Brown eyes has he, with visions deep
And soft lips that are mine to keep.
My man wear boaters, blazers, ties
Wears Oxford Bags (he's so fashion-wise)
The occasional monacle for his weak left eye
And a pocket watch to keep track of time
And do you know - it's such a shame!
I have to play this lonely game,
But there's nobody I can blame
For my lack of gents to claim
To fit the description of my beau -I guess that I'll just never know
The man I can Charleston with.
'The Dance'
We have danced before, you and I
In days when there were Castles In the Air
We have danced: I remember it by your eyes,and by the way you part your hair.
These derelict days sometimes summon
A conjuring of my soul
At some musty relic – and I recollect
As if of it, I already knew
And I am captivated by that sweet sudden sense of déjà-vu.
Of that past life, some things remain;
The music has changedbut
The steps are the same.
In days when there were Castles In the Air
We have danced: I remember it by your eyes,and by the way you part your hair.
These derelict days sometimes summon
A conjuring of my soul
At some musty relic – and I recollect
As if of it, I already knew
And I am captivated by that sweet sudden sense of déjà-vu.
Of that past life, some things remain;
The music has changedbut
The steps are the same.
Gone Missing
Did they ever find him?
Radio Inventor Gone.
Patent Notice Reaches Home After Engineer Has Disappeared.
Anthony Bosson, 28 years old, of 113-13 Atlantic Avenue, Richmond Hill, a radio engineer, disappeared from home last Friday. Yesterday his sister, Mrs. Mary Schad, with whom he lived in Richmond Hill, received a letter for him from the Patent Bureau in Washington, announcing the issuance to Bosson of a patent for a radio device.Mrs. Schad reported her brother’s disappearance to the police of the Richmond Hill Station. She said he had devoted years to the development of a special radio, and for many months worked day and night to perfect an invention which he wanted patented, which, according to Mrs. Schad, was meant to “receive normally inaudible signals.” Mrs. Schad reported that her brother was of a uniquely creative type, and was guided in the development of his invention by images he got in dreams.Bosson was impatient to hear from Washington after he applied for the patent, and always hurried home in the evening to see if the expected letter had arrived. Mrs. Schad reported he had been more than usually agitated in recent days.Friday night he failed to come home, and has not been seen by his family or friends since. He had $248 with him on the day he disappeared. He is 5 feet 5 inches tall and weighs 135 pounds. He wore a brown suit and brown overcoat.
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