365 Ways With Words

Speedwell

                                    Arms fall,

                                    Hoped questing slow drowns out

                                    Before destination, before the band plays.

                                    Speedwell thrives by the walking feet.

                                    Soul up; stellar birth,

                                    Down; impaled shrike catch

 

                                    From fields of expressive inspiration

                                    Comes music and toned harmony

                                    The gilded harness embraces;

                                    Fills, sails, caresses, champions.

                                    And the sweet contented bees make a robust honey

                                    From the gentlest of streams, clear and pure

 

                                    A summer's chill descent

                                    Within the cave of unknowing comes:

                                    Devout ropes fray, faithless of knot and mind,

                                    Until the bitter end is reached

                                    –a final empty bite into a dark proof–

                                    Free-fall through sunless air...

 

                                    There is no single root for all,

                                    A tap to meet, confirmed in time, made,

                                    The rains come and they go:

                                    So like day-long flowers of speedwell

                                    We must all be ready to yield

                                    And to flourish

Gunsmoke

It was thick in the air – by the doorway, beside the stairwell, even by the bushes. No greater combination of fighters had graced these precincts for more than a generation. Occasionally they sought cover – a passageway would do nicely, but if none were to be had, then a simple doorway would do. There was always a certain amount of normal staring off, even a bit of quick drawing, but this afternoon no one had pulled the trigger, at least not yet.

This whole thing depended much on the weather. When rays of sunshine basked the ancient stone walls more came to the fight, although conversely it was also better natured. However, during downpours the briefest of exchanges took place, the smoke would clear within seconds, and then everybody would file back indoors somewhat contented.

Sally was the best. Without a doubt. And she had the general acclaim of all: first out, first to fire up, last to leave. What a gal! The strength to maintain this appearance, time and again –not merely to depart supreme, her objectives achieved, and her quota met, but also to actively seek out new fights, to be the toughest– meant all were in awe of her. Quite how far she was willing to go, however, was the great unknown: it caused much fear, and not a little disquiet.

Their second, David, was a quiet man, who enjoyed the game. He came for the chance at a title – longest on his feet, quickest on the draw, best at the kill. And he would regularly take it. At times, he would practically skip home and prepare for the next day of competition.

There was a certain respectful camaraderie between them. Until they fought. Many came and went, but in effect these two took control of the whole scene – from morning to evening, and afterwards, if any one wanted to draw it out, into the night with beers or coffee, they didn’t mind. It was certainly not a youth thing, for there were at times others with stronger wills, better bullets, and refined tactics carefully built up over years, if not decades. But along with age and experience, tact and guile, a true fighter requires energy and enthusiasm. Most of all, they must have the culture of cut and thrust, the stomach for bloody victory at all costs and the desire for the taste of death through gunsmoke. Although most would attempt to exit intact, there are also many caught in the crossfire and couldn't help but limp home wounded. At times the fighting was really brutal.

It was three in the afternoon exactly. Some fighters had already withdrawn, their hearts no longer in it. Others were busting to come out, draw and fire, but were waiting. It was unusual for Sally to take her time, but that’s exactly what happened. Some said this was to unnerve opponents, others because they sensed a weakening – who could say for sure. David took up his usual position, at the top of the small flight of steps before the double swing doors. He was feeling pretty cock-sure. Maybe it was the weather; maybe it was his upcoming birthday, but he felt as ready as ever. It would not be long before the bullets would fly and another fighter would test his mettle.

No one expected the first salvo. From the opposite side of the square a voice rang out: “David, your essay sucks!” There he was, his middle-aged professor, leaning by the side entrance of the faculty, already halfway through his first cigarette.

Damn! David thought. He couldn’t let that one go. He took a deep draw; the deepest he had done for a long time, as if heat and sparks would ignite him within.

“Or you’re not reading it right!”

“It’s not my reading that’s the problem, David, it’s your writing – hell, even your SPG’s gone to pieces!”

SPG? SPG? Now he was aiming below the belt. No one mentioned SPG unless they were really desperate. Everyone knew it was about the bullets. But what was he going to do? This long-distance fighting would eventually have to be brought to close quarters, salvoes exchanged and wounds given and received, so that their smoke would mingle with their insults. His finesse was at stake.

Sally stepped in from right behind him. “The SPG is part of it. It’s intentional – stylistic. Hell, anyone with half a brain could see that.” Her smoking shot passed his ears, perhaps a little too close for comfort.

He didn't want her help, preferring the kudos that came with fighting alone –one-man standing– but now it was here he took advantage.

“SPG is a mere ruse to throw you." He continued. "You're always going on about creativity. Couldn’t you see that?”

To the older professor, this amounted to little more than smokescreen. He knew he had him on the run, and there was little chance of ducking a bullet, if he delivered the coup de grace. But he was distracted and intrigued – why had Sally been so gallant with David, her workaday foe? As usual, her work had been excellent, if a little weak in the conclusion.

Puffing into the air, he continued: “Bullshit! Your essay was weak because you didn’t draw on enough resources. Your points were shallow, insufficiently explored, devoid of adequate definition and, like I said, had dreadful spelling punctuation and grammar. I’m surprised at you, really.”

It was still a fight of long shots. David considered how he could he keep going without closing up and taking it down blow by blow? Was he in danger of losing, within the first few seconds? Should he run over?

Sally again stepped in: “It’s not the first time you’ve been unable to grasp trends in contemporary criticism though, is it? Is this a sign you’ve allowed yourself to fossilise? Lost the edge, have you? Is it time to move over?”

Quite how Sally was able to deliver these shots from a standing position time and again without running into more serious trouble eluded everyone present. This sharpened slanging match irresistibly drew those who had not already ducked for cover: the bullets were flying all right, but surely the fight was now going to get serious. He couldn’t allow a professional insult to whiz through the air without calling the whole thing. He was regularly accused by other colleagues of permitting a break with discipline, but he loved the fights and was not ashamed of his actions.

“I see you’re taking David’s side, Sally. Are you sure that’s wise? I mean, he’s clearly not on form today: if he goes down, then so do you. And I haven’t even got to yours.”

Without moving a muscle, the aged fighter, taking it all in his stride, and with fair and unfair salvoes flying through the air, put all personal and professional questions aside and was prepared to give as good as he got, if not better.

But Sally was not done. “Is that a matter of considered opinion? I mean, really? Or is it more that you have exhibited some hidden agenda? Are you making man in your image, or is there the possibility that in your efforts to acquire consensus you are unable to accept perspectives that do not match your own and resort to mere literary deconstruction?”

Dammit! She had something there. On both accounts. It was no wonder she was so much feared – often a contender’s last moments on earth would be spent staring up at her gunslinger's smirk, her gunsmoke twirling above the corpse. Gallantry was nowhere in her – a killer, through and through, she did it all to kill. With pleasure she’d kill them both in icy cold blood. He had to consider his words carefully: she had that smirk on her face.

But he had none. He had unwisely let this one evade him. Of course, he could deny it, even get mad, but that would only validate her points. He had to think of something – had to! But the effort wasn’t enough. Changing the rules, years ago, from private to public, had done the damage. He knew it. Where others feared to tread, he now injudiciously fumbled.

Pulling back the door, he merely mumbled, "I'll see you later," and fled into the darkness of the corridor to the sanctuary of his office. Sally and David congratulated themselves with a high-five, for they had together easily slain Goliath, and with his own weapons. But now David was taken with unhappiness. What had just happened was impolite and not a little dangerous. How would the wounded man react? He had to see him about the damned essay anyway. Of the two the only triumphant smile was about Sally's wintry chops. She beamed her familiar conqueror’s smirk, aware that the butt of any riposte would now be poor David, a mere chess piece. She’d delivered the grand finale, clean and mean, but David would collect the reward. She was not unhappy about that either. Lighting her last cigarette, it was her ascending gunsmoke; strong, dominant, victorious.

Waiting for the Bomb to Drop

The basement huddle watched the light bulb. Quite why, nobody had worked out. Perhaps, it was supposed, if the big one fell, then power would go first: through this small light came comfort, continuity, meaning and answers.

Limbs tight, they held each other like monkeys, helpless humans on the conveyor of a terrible history not of their making. Revolutions come and go, governments rise and fall, but the little people would have to content themselves with watching – and that was all of them huddled in groups on the floor, like so many Henry Moore underground figures.

Above the breathing, all that could be heard this far down was the tiny ticking of a watch. No one could quite place it. Each minute was a stretch of nothingness, the sort of nothingness that prickles the hairs on necks, the goosebumps on arms.

None of them had eaten; none wanted to. The desire to live, to see blue sky and stars, to experience long green grass and curtained evening views, to feel the sea's wavelets break over sandy toes with a warm hand to hold, all of these were implicit in the next breath. And the next. But they said nothing, their mouths closed, and stared on.

Ears pierced the still – no sound came, no voices hurt. Hours moved them on to another place. One by one, tension overwhelmed nervousness. Or was it oxygen levels? Heads fell against arms and sweated palms dried. Surely they would have heard it. Surely it would have a devastation beyond their comprehension.

But the security of a silent room –a fragile womb, a temporary cheerless home– held them together in silence and slim hope. Panic, that all-devouring drugness, brought them inside, made them lock the gate and bar the entranceways. So keen were they to get in, none of them considered getting out. Here, right here, was the only world. A safe Pompeii tomb of their own making.

One by one, they emerged from internal reveries, unwilling to speak within the churched confines of this hallowed space. A short whisper captured all attentions, a shuffled discomfort drew seeking eyes. The doorway loomed in the bare glare; a monolith of the unknown, the terrors beyond. No one wanted it opened, to see it touched – the very idea! They had to persevere with their little universe; an eternal moment of now. Theirs would be a night and day without end. Their stifling totality, the existance of the little people, would be forever. No one would change it.

The Plan

"If you don't have a plan, you become part of somebody else's plan."

Terence McKenna – Hermeticism and Alchemy 1992

The words are resonant; possibly a little foreboding, but they may also contain prescient knowledge and experience. From one fool to another, they may clang around without disturbing too many brain cells. For the wise they may be the alarming klaxon set off by the ear. For the successful they may be old – the starting point.

But what plan – school, college, work, house, kids, retirement package, endowment? Is that really a plan, or merely a pattern? Perhaps the schizophrenic wino in the park has seen this plan well enough, and has permitted a succession of other more pressing engagements to take precedence.

Of course, all of this is the luxurious babbling of those with idle moments. For as long as there are those who never awaken from the waking nightmares of hunger, disease, oppression and violence, ideas about awareness and self-assertion will remain despicably shallow: how can you have a plan without a future?

But even those that are without may share the same human experience. That immediate circumstances may focus on freedom from want does not necessarily dissolve the very human desires for change, development and growth. Aid, after all, merely begins with the belly.

So, where does Your Plan lead? Outwards and onwards? Or inwards? And, perhaps more importantly, is it the right plan? Does it only concern you, or is it collaborative? Is it based on wishful lottery-winning thinking, or are its foundations in terra firma? And if your plan is derailed, either temporarily or permanently, then can you get it back together again, or is it all over?

Plans, like maps, require terms of reference. When setting out it is as well to have your very own trigonometry to devise exactly where you are along the path, particularly if the going gets tough. There's always the risk of getting lost. But maybe, like a liberated wino, getting lost might be included in your plan.

Perhaps the most important aspect of the quote at the top is that of ownership. If you're not following your plan, then whose plan are you a part of. This question may be less pertinent for crusty Internet drifters and bored middle-aged housefraus than it is at present for the average Ukrainian. As the conflicting plans of Putin, the Europeans and Obama play out on the ground, it may be as well to bear in mind History's lessons – that plans antipathetical to each other, particularly if they are idealogically based, have had a tendency to unravel and end badly. And the situation in Ukraine could spread and end so very badly.

So, what's your plan, then? Is it your creation or somebody else's? Do you always strategically check it, or is it forgotten – stuffed at the bottom of the bag of thoughts and ideas you carry around with you? Is it up to the job, or is it outdated and in serious need of revision? Maybe your first plan is to have a plan. Or maybe the best thing you can do is to be rid of it altogether.

Praktická angličtina

It was too much: the room was stifling. Hot and airless, and in the humidity of a sunless late June Wednesday it had the stale smell of a communal place unused for weeks. The smiles had long gone. He sat opposite, arms folded, his exhalations occasionally becoming minigroans. His dark straight hair, almost silky with a grease-like sheen, fell over his broad forehead and just touched his eyebrows. On the battered table between them sat her neat file and his tall glass, long-since emptied of water. What could she do to keep him interested?

She had finally run out of things to say. The momentum of their time together had simply ground to a halt. The wall clock counted for them – tick... tick... tick... tick... an infinity of hot afternoon time. An embarrassing moment's pause had turned into a few seconds, which had become a full minute. Each second that elapsed became a nail driven into the death of this session, and each one hereafter.

It wasn't that she didn't enjoy teaching, although technically it was 'conversation'. No, she just had other things to do – the family, kids at school, an ageing dog that daily regurgitated, a salesman husband who occasionally put in an appearance only to disappear for another week. So, this job was not a priority of her making, but it paid for half of the week's groceries.

He appeared to be quite happy to sit there. Indeed, if smoking had been allowed on the premises, he would have happily consumed a whole pack in complete silence confident that his time had not been wasted. Occasionally he would tighten his fists; his arm muscles flexed solidly.

She'd given up thoughtfully tapping her pen, shuffling her shoes, pretending to look inside her bag. Now she just stared at him. He stared at her. It was neither friendly, nor unfriendly – neither smile nor frown crossed their passive faces. She thought it would be awkward, but it was not. They both counted time.

Paid for this precious hour, he was given the weekly hour by his company, and she turned up dutifully as arranged from hers. Somewhere, someone was checking a box on a form above which was printed today's date and time and beside which was written the name Mr Nesnídal. And by the holy magic of EU incentives, money counted in hourly divisions appeared in both bank accounts.

They could no longer discuss work, the time, the weather, politics, history, the state of the local football team, what's for dinner, holiday destinations – even her children's health! All of the topics had been completely exhausted and they were left with... well, with nothing. She was bored with it. She was bored to go home to more summer afternoon boredom. She was bored.

Her eyes made a quick glance again at the clock face – 15:27. They had another 33 minutes before they could open the door and both walk into freedom. Suddenly their imprisonment became a panicky stretch. She was nearing the point where she would no longer be able to cope and something would have to be done.

She broke. "I just..." She stopped. His gaze didn't change. What the hell was he thinking behind those deep brown eyes? Their conversations had been difficult at the best of times, but had become harder as the weeks rolled on. Now it was stiff and empty.

"I just wondered..." She wanted to jump up out of her seat.

"Yes?" he replied through a slim mouth, his lips barely moving.

"I was just wondering if you wouldn't mind a fuck!"

Where that particular word had come from she had no idea. Never mind the word, what on earth had she meant by it? Alarmed by her recklessness, she immediately sought to retract, but before her mouth was open she was overtaken.

"Yes." The word conveyed no emotion.

There. She had said something she didn't mean, he had replied with a word he hadn't meant. It would be only a moment before they would both do something they didn't mean.

Sweating together over the desk, he had been swift and steady, rock solid and full. She gasped loudly, trying hard not to moan with the strokes, something bound to be heard in the corridor and stairs. Then she was done, he was done, and they were sat down again, only now a little out of breath.

God! What had she done? She'd never been so loose with herself. In the nights to follow, she would thoroughly chide herself over what had been an unbelievable moment. This was not her doing; how could it have been?

The lesson ended with the briefest of polite passing smiles. Returning to her car, she sat with the engine running, air-con at full pelt, and chilled the hot oven around her. She opened her legs; airy coolness touched her thighs. God! Really, what had she done? She reached over and rifled through her straw bag for her phone. Yes, there it was – Nesnídal, Jan. Hitherto for emergency child-centred cancellations, this number now held significance way beyond mere work. She thought to phone, to apologise, to splutter just in case he thought... Thought what? That she was some crazed slut woman... But that was exactly what she was. Now.

Binary Stars

                                        Binary Stars, circle and tear, naturally close

                                        Their plasma flung far, far out into the vacuum.

                                        Energy jets of a trillion watts

                                        Devour the space between –

                                        A deafening conflagration of all-consuming heat

 

                                        Beyond the black, the powered night sky,

                                        This Sturm und Drang is absent:

                                        On trouble-free afternoon brows there is no sweat,

                                        Not even a murmur reaches the ear,

                                        Flowers grow in a soft storm-kissed park

 

                                        Without desire these birling suns bestill to numb silence,

                                        Their shine stops without attachment, detachment, attachment...

                                        So they pour within each other, atom by atom,

                                        Delighting in each peaceful drop

                                        Photon shots of delicious ferocity,

                                        A companion system – complete magnetic attraction

Poetry

So you don’t like poetry. Well, you’re wrong. You might not have liked studying poetry in school, because it was a bit of a chore, but I would put money on it that really, deep down, you’ll actually like it. And I’m not talking about a ‘Brussels sprouts love’ either, where you’d hate them as a child but by adulthood would be somehow able to force one or two of the bastards down so as not to appear socially unacceptable – no one likes a spitter at the Christmas table. No, writing poetry does you good: like viewing a detailed painting, like biting into a fresh crisp apple, like staring at the infinity of stars… Or like a dose of the salts.

In this short post, I will include two poems of different styles to illustrate two things: that each poem makes a point, and that poetry is the sharing of useful ideas.

Let’s begin with a definition: what is poetry? That’s simple – words. But not just any words. Poetry is the careful assemblage of words that contain expression. So, we’re not really talking shopping lists or doctor’s prescriptions here. Poetic words are the natural outpourings from the human soul. As long as there have been speaking humans on this planet, some of their kind have gone about carefully selecting words in order to convey and express internal thoughts about specific points and ideas. The way this is done is called artistry. A poet writes, the reader reads or the listener hears, and if they are attracted by those words then a thought may be immediately transferred from one head to another. Poetic compositions are therefore the transference of the malleable linguistic manifestations of considered thought. Sounds tricky, but y'all can do it.

Most poems are the written to make a point about the important things of life – love, death, birth, loss, wonder and astonishment, happiness and that catchall term religious experiences. Here’s a good example:

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date.

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimmed;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,

Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,

When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

This, of course, is Shakespeare. He’s rattling on about love, but instead of merely saying three little words, he bathes the whole experience in the things of the real world. He makes comparisons with seasons, death, time – it’s all used for poetic effect. Through the use of these real world ideas the point is made that although he may have fallen in love with the object of his affection when young (in May, in summer), and that eventually this youthfulness will fade, the object of his love, however, will not fade – because of this very poem. “THIS gives life to thee.”  Eternal love. In a poem. Simple point, beautifully put.

All right, so that’s Shakespeare, but how do normal people write poetry? You have to begin with a feeling. Some people start like this: Oh I feel baaad – so here’s a poem to explain just how baaad I feel. And a few minutes later, after the writer has put down their pen, they may get up, stretch, and may then not feel quite so baaad. So, writing poetry can be a cathartic activity. It is designed to act as a way for the writer to understand and then get to grips with his or her problems. The same is often true for love songs, poetry with music. But gushing love poems about moons and Junes and spoons are all well and good, but they’ve been done a million times. Let’s face it, all humans fall in love, all humans fear death, all humans stare at roses or gasp in wonder at the starry sky. Therefore, there is also a distinguishing category called Good Poetry.

Writing Good Poetry is actually not such a tricky business. But first there must be a few givens. The process can be instinctual, but it must also be driven – the poet must persevere until he or she gets exactly what is wanted from the piece. It must be brief and to the point. Some epic poems, like the Iliad or the Mahabarata are gargantuan, but most people are content with a few lines. The idea must also be clear. One could argue that Finnigan’s Wake is a masterpiece of poetic contrapunction, with layers upon layer of meanings, but this is perhaps beyond the scope of all but a few rare birds indeed.

When it is seen good poetry, like good art, good food, good engineering, even a good suit, is obvious. It has been methodically thought through and crafted: I want this, so I’m going to do that.

It begins with an idea – let’s do love. Then, the question is asked, what do I want to say about it? OK, so it’s a squishy feeling – fine. Then how will that be described? What form will it take? Many people give up at this point, but it’s worth pursuing. Love is… warm. Good, but what quality of warmth: warmth of the nurturing womb, of the winter’s sun, of the crackling fireside, of the after effects of vigorous exercise, of a decent curry? There are so many kinds of warmth from which to choose. Let’s say that love is the winter’s sun. Think of the way in which the sun warms the winter traveller, keeping them going when the cold saps their strength. What a great metaphor. Bingo! You’ve just envisioned a poetic point. Now just tighten up the description a little, add an interesting adjective or two and voila! – you have a line of poetry.

When poetry is heard or read then there is usually some satisfaction in its understanding. There is a certain pleasure in taking in someone’s thoughts, particularly if the thoughts are carefully crafted in well-chosen words, and allowing them to change us.

Here’s the second poem, by Philip Larkin, to illustrate the above. Try to capture his idea:

Days

 

What are days for?

Days are where we live.

They come, they wake us

Time and time over.

They are to be happy in:

Where can we live but days?

 

Ah solving that question

Brings the priest and the doctor

In their long coats

Running over the fields

The theme, of course, is death and the end of days. It’s a short poem with a pithy meaning. The chief idea Larkin is putting forward, therefore, is the inevitability of mortality. And you don’t need a massive poem to be reminded of that! But his idea is rather interesting; that with days there is positive and negative, light and dark, life and death. The whole thing is like the eating of a new dish at a restaurant, albeit a rather dark and sombre one. Using the metaphors of priest and doctor, he shows that death, therefore, is rushing towards us. A useful idea? I think so, because it is the springboard for so much more thought about the meaning of daily life. As the poet leads, so we follow.

So, to end, writing poetry –like driving, like playing the piano, like sports diving, like making love– is something that doesn’t come naturally! It must be worked on, it must be nurtured and it must be desired. The result is wonderful. Poetry can not only give you a good points to envision and enable the sharing of interesting and fruitful ideas, it also does you good!

Spring Flowers

This is how it was: the sky was grey and the wind was blowing. Get that into your thick skulls!

He was walking. Fast. OK? That’s it – end of.

The road was narrow. You know, the sort of narrow that happens when it’s overgrown. So there wasn’t a lot of room for him to walk without getting his legs all wet and scratched. Got that?

There’s birds singing and water flowing and it’s looking good. He’s feeling good. Right?

And then he saw the flowers. Lots of them. White ones, yellow ones, even blue ones. On the trees, growing out of the ground, flowers everywhere. It’s spring, so what d’ya expect?

Actually, not quite. There was a field that was just plain green. Not one flower, not one weed. Just green. It must have been sprayed with something, ‘cos that ain’t normal. It was like a carpet. Everything the same. A big green carpet all one colour. God, it was boring!

Anyway, that’s just a detail. Don’t worry about the details. It’s not important. He’s walking and looking at the flowers. His head’s full of thoughts – just da-daa, da-daa, da-daa! And then he looks up.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: looks up and sees what? Well that’s just it – nothing. There’s nothing. A whole lot of nothing: nothing except the wind and the sky and the flowers. He sees it, yeah, but none of it has any meaning any more. It’s like, he’s made a connection, this deep connection with it all: an invisible link, like some sort of chain. What happens here affects what happens there, and so on and so on. But by realising that he discovers there’s no meaning to any of it any more. I'm talking about human meaning, understand? He closes his eyes and it’s just disappeared. And you’ve gotta have meaning, eyes open or shut. No meaning, no life! That’s how it is.

And the whole thing comes crashing down around him – the wind, sky and flowers – everything. Because it’s him, you see? The whole world is him now. He sees the world and it exists. He’s the chain. And without him doing any of that seeing, being, becoming, whatever you wanna call it – well, without him it’s gone. It’s worse than that; it’s as if it never existed. Do you get this? Do you?

Bleak? Of course it’s goddam bleak! Do you think it’s all there for fun?

So, as I was said, if the world’s got no meaning, you see, and he’s connected to it, you see, then nothing has meaning, not even him. Got it? I repeat, he looks at each thing – clouds, trees, every goddam thing, and they don’t exist. And if they don’t exist then neither does he. Because-of-the-connection: underlined! So now, he's now in a state where he knows he doesn't exist. Five seconds ago, they were there and he was there, and everything was rosy, but now – pfffftt! They’re all gone! He's gone! The whole kit and kaboodle.

So what’s he gonna do? Do you get it, you morons? Do you get the dilemma? He’s got to do something, but what? He’s got to get out of this mess, this meaningless world he’s just connected with solely because he’s taken a walk through it. Only now he’s stopped. He’s not walking nowhere. In fact, he can’t move a muscle. He’s a goddam dummy. He’s connected, he’s there, but if it's all gone, and all the meaning’s gone, then he’s not there and he's not gonna know where to go, what to do. Nothing.

Duty? Jesus! Don’t talk to me about duty. What duty?

Free will? Christ! Can you not come up with something better? You’re gonna say, Oh just do the best you can, or some such, ain’t ya?

Pray? I don’t know about that. Some folks say it works. But he didn’t, least not that I know about. Not then.

Look – it’s like he’s lost. And there’s no map. And no places either.

But it’s worse. Pay attention, God dammit! Yeah, it’s meaningless, he’s meaningless, but anything he does is also meaningless. If he tries to do something, anything, then that’s also meaningless. Because of the values, you see. Take away meaning and there are no more values. It’s like the whole Universe, the point of it and everything it ever stood for has just disappeared up the kazoo along with him. And there’s nothing he can do, even if he wanted to. If he stays, he’s ruined – and it’s pointless to move. It’s like he’s holding up the entire Universe on his shoulders, like some sort of Atlas, but its weight is so great that it’s really as if it wasn’t there at all. But he’s still got to hold it. Can you grasp that one? That’s tricky.

But then – ah-hah! There’s always an ah-hah moment, ain’t there? This is great.

But then – there’s a flower, by his foot. You understand? A little flower with nothing to shout about. A fragile little flower. Can you picture this flower? Can you? Can you see it – only one little tiny powerless flower? It’s just there. Right there, by his foot. Oh, he’s seen lots of flowers. All the time while he's walking, flowers here and there and up and down the goddam path, hundreds – thousands – millions of the things. Picked a few and put in vases, too. But he notices only this one.

It’s no better or worse than the others. But it’s here. And it’s beautiful. It’s as if all the other flowers didn’t exist. And that’s the whole damned point, OK?

You mean I’ve got to explain? Give me strength! Look – this flower is by his foot. Got that? So, if it’s by his foot, then it’s nowhere else. He’s looking at only one little flower. Right there and right then there’s no other flower like this anywhere around. This is THE flower. It’s unique – 100%. It has an inner beauty like he’s never seen before. It’s got a gentleness and grace, a spirit and a mind of its own that he’s never seen before and will never see again. And it’s growing right there, by his foot, under the same grey sky and blowing in the same cold wind as every other damned pink, yellow, or white flower, but it’s different. It’s the only one of its kind – of it’s kind, d’ya get me? And he realises that if he’s gonna walk away, take it home, tear it up, grind his boot into it – I don’t know, even eat the goddam thing, then something priceless is gone forever. And he’s not prepared to let that happen, no sir. The incomporable beauty in this flower is beyond meaning.

So, one minute everything’s normal. Then – bam!  Everything’s changed, like someone just sucked all the words out of the world. And he’s left there, like some sort of fly in a web. He just can’t move. He’s got to take it all.

And then there’s a flower, just one flower. Only it’s not simply a little flower any more, no-no. This is the most special, most priceless, rare, unrepeatable thing the whole goddam Universe has ever seen. It’s wonderful. It’s an exquisite wonder all on its own. If he leaves this one thing, this flower, he knows he’ll never find it again. Like I said, there are thousands – millions, but not like this one. Not one. It’s like all the meaning there ever was, all the words ever spoken, the point of life, is summed up right there in that one bewitching little thing, and then some. That’s the importance, right? Life’s meaning, right in there. You got it?

So he’s got to cherish it. He’s got to love it, really love it. Just that one tiny flower. He’s got to stay right there and see it through to the end, grey skies or blue, wind or shine, snow or flood all because of the love. He’s got to stay until either he dies or it dies. And that’s it.

The Bitter Taste of Lemons

The worst was the eldest – the boys’ sister. Her serious matter-of-factness manifested itself into a determined streak. Whither she went, they would all follow. If she wanted a drink, they each took a glass. If she threw rocks at passing cars, they all got into trouble. If she watched Doctor Who, they would all sit trembling. If cushions were piled for somersaults and dangerous long jumps, so they all become willing and daring acrobats. It was not leadership. It was not coercion. It was sibling affection; warm and fresh and free every time.

Under the humming fluorescent striplight, the children assembled in the kitchen around the big square table with the blue and white check Formica top and splayed spindly legs. Mum was out.

What had began as a party game had developed an unnerving edge, an incautious and uncontrolled voyage into experimentation with the sense of taste. Each of them felt less and less sure of the direction this might take. But rules were rules. And with no adult present, not only would there be the opportunity for unbridled fun, but there would also be the opportunity for cruelty. They were two sides of the same free-spinning coin.

It was only days before that their cherished new puppy, a black poodle-cross, had been gleefully tormented. A naturally pleasant beast, it had responded obediently to chocolate rewarded calls to ‘stay’, ‘roll over’, ‘sit’ and ‘come here’, only that the last command was astonishingly rewarded by their sister with a pin between the fingertips, so that as the pup’s muzzle approached, it winced and yelped – at first to hers, and then all their delight. Over the years the poor dog often became similarly baited, but kept its tail wagging temper whenever the children appeared.

They cycled through the park – the four of them, but she always led. Their second-hand Christmas bikes made a metallic chattering snake that would wound around the trees, slide up and down the tricky mud embankments, cross the wide open bumpy football field and then made the twilight journey back home across dangerous roads at red lights. They had friends that they would all meet together, their gang, but in their pursuit of further pleasures the three of them would conspire to leave the youngest behind, his needy and tender extra-youthfulness being tiresome baggage.

The big long slide in the park proved the temporary parting of their ways. A matter of four years meant all the difference between ascending the long steps to the cage at the top, from which the entire world could be seen, and allowing the little be-shorted legs the confirmed security of the steady ground. For three of them, this ascent also carried the joy of separation and lengthy stops to talk maintained the power affirmed by distance. There was also the view. From its lofty heights the busy dual carriageway road could be observed over the park’s yellow London brick wall. Beyond still were houses and gardens, washing lines, trees and rooftops – other people’s fascinating lives.

At the bottom the little one would wait, supporting his bike because he hadn’t learned to stand it up properly. He was patient, up to a point, calling up to them to come down so that they could play together properly: they could swing, they could go round on the witches hat (as long as it wasn’t too high or too fast), spin the roundabout, rock the long horse, or merely see-saw. Or, best of all, they could go exploring – that nebulous searching activity where ‘things’, such as treasure, mystery objects and even money, might be found. But they liked the cage and the detaching power it gave them. As they sat and talked in whispers, so he stood and watched: smiling, hopeful, and as enthusiastic as the new puppy.

But all such lofty pleasure must come to an end, and so the three would descend the long, dangerous chromed slide. Sometimes they would come down singly, the girl’s short skirt sometimes blowing up with the descent, a show she curiously enjoyed. Sometimes with their legs linked around each other’s waists, and sometimes, if feeling particularly daring, they would go headfirst. The scariest was to go down headfirst on their backs: only true and fearless masters of the slide could contemplate such valorous deeds. As raindrops would squeal their descent into a thigh-burn, so sand from the baby’s sandpit would add speed. Their mettle up, the brothers would raise their feet into the air so that the shiny seats of their shorts would give the run an expert buffering. Then all the local kids would queue up to skid off the end, some bumping painfully onto the rears, thereby providing a full afternoon of unbroken hilarity.

The game itself was simple. A scarf was tied around the head so that vision was completely obscured. Then the victim would be permitted to taste whatever he or she was fed. This party game was supposed to be fun – a way for children to take note of their senses, and to engender trust. Unsupervised, it ran into the rocks of power, or, more properly, those that wielded it.

First up were the boys. They set about finding simple things: a corn flake, a drop of ketchup, a celery leaf. Then, swapping the scarf, they tried cake, a slice of onion, and mustard. All of it had to be eaten. Those were the rules. With each focused mouthful, carefully fed on a spoon, there would be squeals of disgust or delight. The little one saw all this with eve-widening eyes, for he knew he would be next – onion, mustard? They were horrific assaults on the senses!

The scarf was too tight. He couldn’t see. The loss of eyesight was at once alarming and physically restricting. He tried to see down his nose, but they knew what he was up to. No cheating! It was tied even tighter. Now he was scared and really didn’t like this game.

First up was Marmite. Well, that wasn’t so bad. He liked it on his toast. Next was a wedge of lemon. He’d never touched, let alone tasted, a lemon – not even of the candied variety. He’d seen them all squirt lemon juice from the plastic lemon over their pancakes on Shrove Tuesday when mum had made thin, sugary pancakes, but he’d never dared touch the stuff. Lemons were unbelievably scary things, full of face-turning acids and tongue-curling sharpness – things to be avoided at all costs. After all, pancakes were better with jam, or more sugar when no one was looking.

The thin garnish sized wedge was spat out as he pulled down his scarf to howls of derision. You’re supposed to eat it, they teased, knowing he would never ever do such a thing. Tears began to well. They were poisoning him. He burned – revenge, somehow, had to be exacted. She would pay.

He still had one more turn, but by this point, the two older boys were bored and irritated and so wandered off to turn on the TV in the lounge. The scarf was duly tied tight again and the last endurance of tasting commenced. It was different: a creamy texture, and salty, but was also sour like vinegar. Still tasting it on his tongue, he pulled down his scarf again, his tolerance over. His sister happily showed him the jar of sandwich spread. It might as well have been fresh dung. Rushing over to the sink, he horrifically spat the remnant out and rinsed the bitter flavour from his abused mouth. Sandwich spread – what manner of evil is this?

After much coaxing, she had to be unwillingly dragged back from the lounge. Her interest, like her smile, having waned she knew if she got it over and done quickly enough then he might shut up and leave them in peace. He tied the scarf, as tight as he could, not knowing how, and then set about his villainy with glee. She would suffer for the taste of lemon and the sandwich spread. From the fridge he fetched his sample and placed the spoon upon her lips. He could tell she was frowning, even beneath the scarf. What was it? She tasted, she thought, but it didn’t taste of anything she had known.

The back gate heralded the approach of mum. As the door opened, she stood still, seeing the foody mess on the kitchen table. They’d been up to something. She was just in time to see her little boy feeding his blindfolded sister with one hand, and holding a tin of cheap co-op dog food, their puppy’s only sustenance, in the other.

NO! she cried, immediately freezing his actions, startling his sister to flee retching into the toilet and rapidly drawing the two brothers from their TV slouch. His revenge may have been served, but now he’d have to pay. He wanted to explain to a sympathetic ear about the poison, but apparently it was he who had done wrong. He wanted to insist his actions were justified, but despite his howling protestations of lemon and sandwich spread, she firmly took their side: Dog food is not for humans. You must not treat your sister this way. Look at this mess. I’ve only been gone five minutes…

The bitter taste of lemons held fast all that day. He would glower when he thought of it, even when she wasn’t around. It held in his mouth for the remaining year. It never departed.

SK Sigma Olomouc vs FK Příbram

So, I wanted to go to the football: not very much, but enough to satisfy curiosity. I could quite as happily have stayed at home, but a friend said he was going with his son. I even convinced another mate to come along. It seemed like a good idea at the time, big lads day out and all that, and once committed I really couldn't wimp out. After all, this was at last the chance to witness the big team of which I have heard so much on home turf in this beautiful Moravian town of Olomouc; the enigmatically named Sigma.

With roots that stretch back to 1919, SK Sigma Olomouc has had a chequered history. Best known for beating the Turkish team Fenerbahçe 7-1 back in the 1991/2 season, their other accolades are less distinguished – being fined for racist chanting in 1999 and again for naughty corruption in 2011 being fined 4 million koruna (that’s 119,952 in current pounds, shillings and pence)! As of writing, they are currently 12^th in the Gambrinus Liga over which Sparta Praha maintains its lofty dominance.

The 12,500 capacity Andrův stadion has at times been the location of Czech internationals, but is modest in size and seating – on this occasion, with perhaps as much as 2/3–3/4 of the seats unoccupied, ticket sales were proudly displayed in the second half as 3582. The southern end was recently reconstructed, housing VIP suites, businesses, a hotel and a football academy with dormitories for talented regional boys who aspire to great and glorious things. The ground has the dubious pleasure of being one of the few modern buildings to grace the ancient city’s skyline with its silhouette of alien ovoid floodlights.

In the grand scheme of things, Easter Sunday's Sigma Olomouc vs FK Příbram probably won’t amount to a whole heap of beans, either in terms of tabloid column inches or TV exposure. About the only thing of interest about either team was that Příbram currently use the Kuwaiti Abdulaziz Ahmad Al Masha'an Al Enezi, or Aziz as he is identified on his shirt, and the Armenian Levon Hayrapetyan, who is also the son of the Olympic champion hockey player Sos Hayrapetyan. Ooooh!

The usual pre-match excitement infected the crowd queuing to ascend the stairs to football heaven, only to be met by a rather disappointing 0–0 draw. Not only were there no goals, but both teams also played rather badly, missing simple opportunities at either end, and not really being able to get enough steam up to force errors or complete set pieces. At best, there was a lot of scrabbling about in the box, but of the two sides Sigma played the worst. I've seen better play in Hyde Park, with jumpers for goalposts.

The home crowd’s performance matched the late spring weather, starting off fine, but descending into misery under the thundery downpour in the second half. Apart from the Ultras, the local shirtless moronic chanting diehards, the rest could quite easily have watched from the slippered comfort of their living rooms, so little noise did they make and such little support did they give I had to turn around every now and again just to make sure they hadn't all slinked off home. As for FK Příbram’s away support, it consisted of four blokes holding a banner labelled Fanatic Forties, whatever that means. The thoroughly drunk bloke two seats away from us whipped out his hip flask and kindly offered slivovice, the local plum brandy, a very friendly gesture to obviously sarcastic English-speaking types. I hope the herpes clears up soon.

The one good feature of the whole event was that beer is available inside the ground. As my friend Mirek dryly commented, if there was no beer then nobody would turn up!

Quite frankly, if this was the best Czech football has to offer, then I'll have to stick to ice hockey, or maybe even take up guerrilla knitting – at least there’d be something to show for an hour and a half’s woolly attention.