Prometheus

Hello. Prometheus was the immortal who in Greek myth stole fire from the gods and gave it to his favourite mortal, humans. His name means 'forethought' and fire was often used as a symbol for thought and knowledge. Zeus, king of the gods, punished Prometheus for this by chaining him to a rock in the Caucasus. He also punished humanity by sending them a woman called Pandora ('all gifts') and  a box. Pandora, a curious person by nature was instructed not to open the box. She could not resist, of course. When she opened the box a great stream of plagues and sufferings and whatnot streamed out of the box to bedevil humanity.
I have written a thing inspired by this myth which I think I thought I'd share with you. It is a chained Prometheus addressing an exultant Zeus and it goes thusly:

PROMETHEUS

They were cold. They were frightened, flinching at half-seen phantasms in the dark. They were left wanting for even the most basic of necessities; left wanting by you, the all-powerful Father. Abandoned. Wretched. Hopeless. Forgotten in the dust by you whom they had been taught would protect them. By you whom they had been taught to love. By you whom they had been taught only became wroth with them when they deserved it. They believed themselves to be less than they were; to be children, subjects to the inscrutable will of the Father, slaves to the whims of the master. They were sad, scared, pathetic creatures, these humans. I heard them crying out and it wrenched my heart. I heard them say:

“Please, Father! I’m hungry!”

“Please, Father! I hurt and I don’t know why!”

“Please, Father! Some curse has fallen upon me! I’m weak, and I’m dying and I’m scared!”

I heard this. Night after night I heard this. I heard the panic, the wailing, the sobbing of these broken-hearted children. I heard it echoing off the sky until the very stars wept at their inability to help. I heard it, and I know you heard it – how could you not? You heard it and you did nothing. Nothing! You left them in their futile misery because “their nature makes them unsuitable for anything more!”

I pitied them in their pointless, helpless plight. How could you not? How could you hear their pleas and see their terror at a world not their own and not do everything in your power to soften their hardship? How could anyone refuse to give them a little bit of warmth and light?

You did, though.

So I gave them a spark, a few embers to distract them from their fears and how they marvelled. How they laughed to see that these demons they feared were nothing more than branches flailing in the wind. They fed the fire and it fed them and they started to stand a little taller.

Those few inches brought them too close to you, though, didn’t they? Too close to Olympos’ lofty heights. Secure in your storm-walled fortress you saw those scant few inches as an unacceptable threat to your power. Uppity servants need to be put in their place, don’t they? They need to be made small so they don’t think they have the power to rise further than the walls of their confines. You had them in their cage for a reason, after all. They weren’t good enough to try their hand at all the joys beyond the four walls you so thoughtfully put around them for their own safety.

You, o most myopic of deities, not only could you not see the wonders this little lump of liberty would make possible, but you actually punished them for daring to reach for it!

Did you really think, foul and impotent godling, that she would be a punishment? Did you really think she, this daughter of my heart, imbued with the self-same curiosity and kindness that saturates my own ichor, would be a burden to these mortals? She is a rock on which they can stand tall, a rocket to launch them to such heights that your Olympos will seem a squalid anthill.

Send your plagues, she will cure them. Have your wars to thin the ranks of men, she and those like her will compose epics on the joys of coming home. Sow your jealousy amongst their hearts; she will drive her race to seek pure and everlasting joys. She will light such fires in the hearts of mortals that the fear on which you depend for your power will soon be nought but ash, a poorly-remembered childhood nightmare.

So rattle the clouds with thunder, scrawl threats across the sky with lightning-charged ink howl with rage from your little throne; it will do you no good. My inquiring daughter will give them all the gifts you denied them. She will forge for them all the tools you feared they might wield. She will lead them to wonders that you in your arrogant ignorance never dreamed possible. She will end your loathsome reign.

One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

On Civility

Hello. The other day I was irritated on a train. I have written a cathartic, and slightly childish, thing which I would like to share with you. It goes thusly:

On Civility

If you can’t be civil, don’t be near me.

Them’s the rules.

And, by the way,

I know I mutter,

Under my gin-stained breath,

With monotonous regularity,

For the most arbitrary of reasons,

That some bloke’s a dick.

And equally, I know,

And feel some remorse,

That, at times,

I don’t even bother

To have the good grace to mutter.

But I still claim the right

To lay down

This forceful

Unilateral regulation,

Because I’m a hypocrite,

A poorly-evolved primate

Who does not pretend

To be a moral example,

So my bad behaviour

Does not absolve you

From the stern and solemn duty

To be a halfway decent human being.

So, please,

If you’d be so kind,

Abide by my rule,

And, no matter how tempting it might be,

Don’t,

For example,

Stand with headphones blaring,

And an elbow in the small of my back,

And don’t

Spend an entire train journey

Blatantly staring

Down my friend’s blouse,

And don’t -

And this irritated me most,

Which is saying something –

Shove me and shout

“Come on, I need to get off here!

And if you don’t hurry

The doors will shut!”

When the way is barred

By people refusing to move,

And I’m trying

With equal fervour

To de-train as well,

You self-absorbed, egotistical,

Myopic, fucking prick!

One hopes you're well,
Yours,
ADWoodward

The Peril of the Department

Hello. Looking for something else on my laptop I have discovered a thing about which I had entirely forgotten. Last year, my department was one of many under threat of debilitating cuts and restructuring from an over-paid and out-of-touch university management. I wrote the following out of anger at this. I wrote it before I had started this blog and so didn't post it then. Since last year the proposals were successfully fought by the department, so the piece is now out-of-date. That said, I think it's still quite good so I thought I'd share it with you. It is inspired by the Cyclops episode from Homer's Odyssey (IX.80-410) and goes thusly:

The Peril of the Department

                Striking the white surf with their oar-blades, my valiant crew and I came to the land of the University Managers, a fierce, suit-clad people who never raise a hand to plant knowledge in young heads. All the aspirations and abilities that grow in that green, red-bricked land spring up, as far as they know, unsown and untilled. Thinkers and writers and groups of young people clustered with new ways of approaching old problems that sprout with the aid of critical-thinking and research skills all appear thanks to the providence of the immortal gods.

                Not so very far from the land of the university managers, and not so near either, there lies a luxuriant island, covered with world-class academics buzzing merrily away in their paper hives and happy, flourishing students sprouting from the sun-splashed lawns. The University Managers have nothing like our ability to see the soul of a thing, no sensitive minds to see the value of a thing beyond the bottom line of a balance sheet. Such visionaries would make the isle a fine colony for the university managers.

                It is by no means a poor country, capable of yielding any crop in due season. However, unable to access its splendid meadows and friendly, intriguing caves, the University Managers, unknowing of the Elysium they destroy, shroud the land with clouds of external fees which they send up like a man with an overly-focussed gaze clears out his attic, throwing away ancient treasures glittering with jewels of the purest beauty. Ignorant of the benefits such artefacts could bring to him and his family, he piles them on the bonfire as though they were dust-covered, empty boxes of Fox’s Teatime Assortment. Such was the pall hanging over this little isle. With such pressure from overhead blocking out the sun, the natural beauty of the island faded and its crops, delicious and useful, were already struggling to burst from the rich loam in the quantities they had in recent years.

                The tide and the wind conspired without consulting us at this critical stage in our journey, forbade us from landing on this still-happy little land that reminded me so much of our homeland of peaceful, verdant Academia and drove us directly to the land of the university managers.

                Springing from the ship, the tall and much-lauded Department, I and my companions landed in this strange, foreboding land, pausing only to pick up a skin of fine, purple-red wine to appease whoever might live in this land that they might grant us the supplies we needed to continue our journey back home, back to sacred, joyful Academia.

                Trembling with the fear the rumours of these monsters had instilled in us, we swallowed our fear and made our way to the great, fearful residence. The bones of previous adventurers driven to these shores by fickle providence crunched under our feet, but we had no choice; our only hope of continuing our journey lay in the mercy of whatever creature made its home in that awful, joyless place. Entering the residence, a lofty cave hacked out of the living mountain by the sweat of thankless slaves, we were appalled. Our hearts sank as we spied banners bearing the ancient, terrible battle-cry of “Efficiency Savings.” Tears ran down our cheeks as we spied the spreadsheets, terrible trophies of battles past. Vomit rose in my throat and I sank to my knees as I saw a terrible sight. There on the floor, mutilated by the strokes of an axe but still recognisable, was the head of one whom I’d known in my boyhood back in Academia. Poor Sussex; hacked to death and abandoned in the corner like the garbage at the end of a riotous feast.

                “What’s this?” A terrible shadow fell across us as the voice boomed around the corpse-stenched abode. We turned and saw for the terrible form of Polyagnosias, King of the University Managers. One horrible eye, capable only of seeing one horrible, lifeless vision of the world, gleamed like a pus-oozing boil from its forehead. The bloated, barbarous creature wore a jacket fashioned the skins of his victims, with patches on the elbows dyed with the heart-blood he mercilessly drains from them. The sickening image stood in malignant mockery of the garb and peaceful mindset of we Academics. The trousers bulged grotesquely with the fetid, stinking masses of the creature’s half-finished meal of “bonuses”, a sickly sweet fruit no honest man can hope to taste. We learned this term from brave men who have faced these monstrosities and fled with their lives weakened and trembling, they shamble about their native homes like the pale shades that haunt the banks of the Styx, unable to continue with the work that used to give them such due to their grief for slaughtered companions whose absence they miss like a butchered limb.

                With the pallid, gaunt faces of these heroes-brought-low capering in their nauseating dance before my eyes, I approached the dreadful creature and looked into its gaze, into that terrifying window both flat and unloving. I proffered the wine which we had brought from our ship and spake thusly:

                “Sire, noble king of this ancient, wooded land, I thank you for not instantly devouring us and taking our meagre supplies for yourself. It shames us to have to rely on another’s mercy to survive, but we have no other choice. We set out with enough supplies on our great ship, The Department, to make it to our destination, with a small amount left over as well. Woe befell us when those being who shape events and control the smallest aspect of our lives placed upon our shoulders a great and massive burden. Those supplies, which without this would have been enough, are now under great pressure. We need your help so that we might return to our homeland where our crops need tending and our young require our experienced hands to set them on the right course for the future. Please take this gift and let it warm your heart towards helping us in this time of sudden uncertainty.”

                The beast seized the wine in its oversized paw and greedily drank it down. It did not pause to enjoy the gift or express any thanks that it had received it. Such thoughts of gratitude do not enter a mind that regards privilege as its due. The beast turned its eye to me and smiled a terrible, grotesque approximation of a grin. It’s mimicry of civility made what I feared seem all the more terrible. With the half-rotten flecks of previous meals visible in its teeth, the beast addressed me:

                “Who are you who rightfully honours me so?”

                “I am Nobody, Lord.”

                “Then as a reward I shall eat Nobody last.”

                With this the beast seized two of my companions and ate them whole and speedily, their cries for mercy as redundant as their attempts to get away from that terrible, reaching hand. Not sated by this first barbarous course, the beast seized another two of my companions and dispatched them in the same way. Gross excess of this sort warms the body and soothes the mind, and so the terrible beast retired to its bed of piled-up treasure, unearned and unvalued, and began to snore.

                The beast had left the entrance to its home unbarred, and left nothing to prevent us escaping and evading a further confrontation which would surely end in us sharing the same grisly fate. But what use would flight serve? Losing four of my faithful companions had wounded me deeply. More than that, though, without them we had no hope of properly steering the tall and well-built Department. We would drift, unable to properly move the oaken planking and swift painted prow through the surf, until some unseen future catastrophe from the gods ended our adventures for good.

                We were resolved. Our only hope of being able to continue under the bright lamp of the sun lay in this cave, lay in our own determination. Lying to one side of the cave was a huge staff of green olive-wood which the beast had cut to carry with it when it was out strolling to support its weight when circumstance, as it so often did, left him with barely a leg on which to stand. Spying this pole, a plan instantly formed in my mind. I called for my companions to aid me in this new task before me. The pole was so large that it took the combined efforts of all the crew-members of the Department to move it and so secure our freedom.

                We moved the pole over to the fire cheerfully blazing under the cavernous hearth and held it in the flames. When the fierce glow from the olive stake warned me it was about to catch alight in the flames, green as it was, I withdrew it from the fire and my companions gathered around. A god now inspired them with tremendous courage. Seizing the olive pole, they drove its sharpened end directly into the beast’s flesh next to it monstrous, sleeping eye while I used my weight from above to twist it home; like a man using a hole-punch to pierce a stack of papers he’d spent years of painstaking research producing while his colleagues work around him proof-reading and ensuring the piece is of the same high quality that secures the reputation and future income of their college. In much the same way we handled our pole with its red-hot point and twisted it into the beast’s flesh until the blood boiled up and the stench of scorched flesh rose up and stung our nostrils. We removed the pole and could see the unused eye we’d released from its binding of healed-over skin, the second eye that grants its owner perspective and which can fade if not used.

                The pain caused the beast to empty its stomach of its foul meal. My companions came tumbling out in rush of wine and foul juices, shaken but ecstatic that what they’d thought was their end was not so. The beast awoke with a yelp and screamed in a voice that could be heard for miles around the following:

                “Nobody has opened my eyes! Nobody has helped me see the justice of using some of my grand resources to help him and his Department continue on their journey instead of keeping it selfishly for my own comfort!”

                All around him the other University Managers nodded approvingly at what seemed like a fine decision which would do much to improve their people’s reputation in the world and resolved to congratulate their king on his noble and praiseworthy action. It didn’t matter to us that the king of the University Managers was now seen as clement and wise, we were simply jubilant to have resolved this dangerous situation. As dawn appeared, fresh and rosy-fingered, we were once again striking the white surf with our oar-blades, back on course to our home of peaceful Academia

One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

Arts Degree

Hello. I wrote the first bit of this way back in January an the rest earlier this week. I enjoyed writing the first bit but when I came back to it after the first session I could not get back into the tone of it. On Tuesday I got sudden inspiration and finished it. I'm quite happy with how it has turned out, so I thought I'd share it with you. It goes thusly:

Arts Degree

Or: Don’t Interrupt My Drinking

I was sat in the pub last week with a beer and a steak and sat by my plate a stack - near collapse, on the verge - a pile of Latin verse. For a while a man had been staring and with a smile he struck a bearing and spoke. My reply, though terse, failed to unnerve him or move him, in fact he just zoomed in and asked: “Can you tell me what the point is: all this toil up in that joint with the purpose to anoint eight thousand more youths (less dropouts) with certification?. They’re so impatient to fill the nation with vagrants who are qualified to debate the neighbours on the literature of Plato – they think they’re so smart but really they’re useless and vaypid.” His fallacy’s quite flagrant. Not least because it’s vapid, the ‘a’ is short, like my patience. I don’t retort because I want my steak and not confrontation. But this paragon of tedious arrogance has had a rapid thought and continues as though he’s not already bored me: “The problem with you – as in you lot, not just you here before me – is that you all think what you learn will matter when you enter the real world and scatter to earn your place in it. Why, that stack of notes right there, I think you’ll just bin it. You’ll never use it again, and so, my studious young friend, I ask: why do you do it? Why do you strive at these tasks?” He then says something he shouldn’t, just one thing: “I think it’s right that the Arts have lost all their funding.”

“Well sir,” I state, a little irate, “I don’t concur. In fact, I believe your thoughts are both daft and actively damaging. And I’m not being disparaging just to get you to leave- though that’s an event whose failure to happen I honestly grieve. No, it’s not just that you bore me and ignore me when I give you hints that your little stint in my presence isn’t a thing that I like; it’s that you’re wrong. So get on your bike and go. But first I’d like you to know the reasons you’re wrong. The list is quite long so I’ll just give you a few. In fact, only two!”

I pick up my beer and soften my thirst. “Reason the first. We ‘waste our time’ and taste the fine thought of minds from ages past to learn how to think; really think not just muse on what we will drink. We do this because – and I do hope you’re following – if we go through our lives just merrily swallowing the things that are said and the words that are spread by those in charge we’ll derail rather fast. Then, when we’re done, this all will have led to a stark inability to speak with facility to see our goals won without tanks, bombs, and guns: speaking is nicer than steel, lead, and fire.

“Reason the second, the more important, I reckon, is that beauty - the wonders that you see and hear and know and feel – is hard to make real. It’s a trophy that’s born from a half-dreamt phantasm. The true artist’s job is in bridging this chasm and in making these joys a concrete reality. This is why we need an Arts faculty. The Sciences constantly give us marvellous tools to help us survive but if we’re really to thrive we need reasons to live. These can only come if we all speak as one and support the Arts.”

Soundly chastised my opponent departs. I pause, then I grin and order a gin. A double with lime and soda. As the young people say: that’s better; rant over.

One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

"Sir," He Said

Hello. Yesterday I was irritated by a daft little man, so I wrote a thing for a spot of catharsis. Now I have it I thought I'd share it with you. It goes thusly:

“Sir,” He Said

“Sir,” He said, “I have a poorly thought-out opinion.”

“That’s nice,” Sir replied.

“I’d like to pretend it’s a question-“

“Oh?”

“And use it to take up a full five minutes of the class.”

“Not just now.”

“But I think speaking and saying something of value are the same thing!”

“I can’t really stop you at this point, can I?”

“No, Sir.”

“I didn’t think so”

“So I’d like to ignore the irritated expressions of my classmates,”

“Right.”

“And their mimes of eager suicide,”

“Good to know.”

“And proceed obliviously on my chosen path,”

“Okay.”

“Because their genuine desire to study this interesting thing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And their attempts to be educated in general,”

“Mmm.”

“Are less important than my belief that this sort of thing makes me seem intelligent.”

And then Sir did not hit him round the head with a shovel.

Not even a little.

Everyone was really disappointed.

One Hopes You're Well,
Yrs,
ADWoodward

Reflections on a Noisy Bar

Hello. I have uncovered a thing that I wrote almost a year ago. I had completely forgotten about it and thought I'd share it with you so you could do the same. It goes thusly:

Reflections on a Noisy Bar

Raucous voices

Sweet enjoyment

Out on the town with all the boys and

A selection of girls

Drinks are downed

Colours swirl

Cosmic highlights of mother-of-pearl

The crack of glass leads to angry voices

Blood drips down your shirt of choice but

It’s alright

That bloke’s a wanker

Let’s you and me go to the bank and

Buy a subway or KFC

No, you’re alright, mate

Your food’s on me

Let’s go back and watch the telly

We’ll just  enjoy some Stephen Fry

You know what, mate?

I fucking love you guys

Let’s do this again some time.

One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

Two Lions, One Perplexed, One Unconcerned

Hello. Terribly sorry I've not posted in a while; laziness / the fickle nature of inspiration and all that. I have written a thing which I'd like to share with you. It goes thusly:

Two Lions, One Perplexed, One Unconcerned

There, standing, lit in joy, he spied her face,

Free and unconcerned, stalking through the grass;

Laughing eyes and wicked grin flew and struck

Like stolen kiss and caused a grievous wound.

She spies him spying ‘cross the way and skips

Into that booming, bass-soaked Calydon.

His haunting huntress, playful prey, had gone,

But not so far as to be lost from sight –

Or rather, not lost until she decides,

Giggling in a hollow, to hide from him.

Now it is him who’s lost. Hope and fear both

Together beat his heart with prophecies,

Wanting and hating their revelation.

Then, darting from her den with battle-cry

His sunburst-girded lioness inflicts

With honeyed fangs another wondrous wound.

Paws come up to softly ward and embrace

And seek a place in shining, joy-gilt locks

To touch with nerve-ecstatic fingertips

But too slow one set, too fast the other

With mirthful glee away the she-cat flits

Quick through the vodka-dripping undergrowth

And leaves the male perplexed to stroke his mane

With sadly empty, clawless, tawny paws.

One hopes you're well,
Yrs,
ADWoodward

On Bread and Games

                Hello. We live in a democracy: a society wherein government rules only by the consent of the people who have the right to demand certain things from their rulers and throw them out of power if they deem those in power haven’t looked after their interests. I know, it’s terrible, isn’t it? Eugh, people getting a say in the fate of their own countries, yuk. This is not a good idea because, as anyone who’s been to a Weatherspoons on Curry Thursday can tell you, people are scum. They’re also sorely in need of a few elocution lessons, but that’s a topic for a different set of poorly-researched, opinions masquerading as an article. Today I’m concerning myself with how to minimise the damage this whole “Right of Nations to Self-Determination” thing can do to the plans of an aspiring oligarch.

                I recommend oligarchy rather than monarchy to solve our country’s problem with mob rule because there’s a lot of work involved in manipulating the fate of nations to suit one’s own needs; it is a complex and time-consuming exercise which will be made much easier with colleagues. The other reason is that the existing governmental system is one with power in several hands so by having a cabal rule your people by your side you can maintain a facade of not changing things too dramatically; this will allow you to strengthen your grip on the reins of power before anyone realises what you are doing. So, you will need a group you can trust to follow instructions. You either need people with shared goals and philosophy or some on whom you have some dirt which can be used to blackmail them. I advocate the latter because ideals might change when a person is given power, but blackmail will only become a more potent means of control once they are in the public eye.

                You will no doubt want to rush straight off to pull down the great pillars of your society and tear up its foundations to make room for your new solid gold swimming pool, but if you want to succeed hold on a minute. Grinding down the institutions of a people to make gravel for your driveway takes longer than one might thing – Rome’s constitution wasn’t irrevocably altered in a day, as they say – so you’ll need some sort of fig leaf or mandate to hide behind while you’re working. I recommend blaming the previous rulers. Whether you’re pretending to restore republican morality or tackle a deficit, you will be thankful for the ability to say “Well, I’m sorry, but this wouldn’t be necessary if they hadn’t messed things up quite so badly. Now bend over, bite the pillow and take your medicine. Oh, you like your medicine, don’t you? You need your medicine because you’re a sick society in need of reform, aren’t you? Oh, take the medicine! Take it! If you stop clenching then we can all be in THIS together, too!” Practice this sort of phrase and remember to vary it; you’ll seem far from genuine if you just repeat the same catch-phrase verbatim each time you’re challenged.

                This is quite enough for your to-do list for now, so I’ll leave you here. I don’t want to blind you with science and in any case I have a date with a bottle of gin. Don’t be scared if it seems like a lot of work, it’s all necessary to get the changes you see as being necessary. But in the interest of balance I will tell you that you can affect these changes another way. You can properly engage with the current imperfect system, organise your peers and lobby your representatives to actually earn their salary, constantly reminding them of problems and what you think needs changing, tell them they’ll lose your vote if they fundamentally change the health service, for example. I didn’t say the alternative method of changing society was any easier, did I? In any case, you’d better get cracking on finding the darkest secrets of your soon-to-be colleagues in office, or writing to your MP or whatever. If you don’t get started soon some other group with educated accents and shiny faces and vast wealth will get in and dismantle the country to suit the interests of their friends.

                Oh? They already have? Hmm. Well in that case make yourself a bacon sarnie, stick on “The Apprentice” and accept your fate like a good little subject. Pan ludique are all we, the ruled classes, really need anyway, innit?

One hopes you're well,

Yrs,

ADWoodward

The Song of the Fallen Queen

Hello. Terribly sorry I've not put anything up here for a little while; I was in the Caribbean. It was a lovely holiday, but this post has nothing to do with that. I thought I'd share with you another thing that was the basis for song lyrics for the play what I was in. this one is based on Euripides' Hecuba. It goes thusly:

The Song of the Fallen Queen

She is a mother and instinct is mighty;

It drove her in her offspring’s best interest,

Like the she-bear with her mountain-side rages.

When one’s child is threatened one’s brain disengages;

No logic, no calm analysis.

Pure action, driven by fear of paralysis.

Doing nothing has grave consequences

For her and her bundle of joy.

When her daughter or her little boy

Needs her she’ll pay no heed to logic,

Or safety, or the binding decorum of man-made laws.

For she knows the high price of the slightest pause:

The life of a child,

Her child.

Not moving, nor smiling, nor screaming, or crying

But still.

Dreadfully still.

And cold.

But if maternal instinct fails her

There’s one thought left to save her:

Punish the infanticide.

That might still the screams inside.

The heart-piercing note of a terrified child

Begging the feminine sentinel to appear

And say “It’s okay now, don’t cry, mummy’s here”

And make the hurting stop

And make them go away

And make everything alright again.

But it won’t ever be alright again.

She’ll never hold her child again.

And that is why she hurt the men

Who tore out her still-beating heart.

Foolish in naïveté

She believed them when they promised sweetly

That they would look after her child,

That they would stand in loco parentis,

And stand guard after her farewell kiss.

But they didn’t.

And now the rage has faded,

And her battle-lust is sated,

She stands by a photograph

Of an eight-year child old caught mid-laugh

And she knows –

More than anything she’s known before or since

That despite her just and cunning revenge

It will never be alright again.

One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

The Song of the Silent Prophet

Hello. Tonight is the last night of the play what I'm in; it's in The Courtyard Theatre, Shoreditch, and I'm sure you can still buy tickets on the door if you particularly want. The play tries (valiantly, I think) to make a feminist point and this poem is the basis of the lyrics to the last song of the play and tries to drive home said point. The myth on which the poem is based is that of Apollo and Cassandra and I'd like to share it with you. It goes thusly:

The Song of the Silent Prophet

Women, as I’m sure you know by now, are objects;

Objects to be bought and traded, pawed at and paraded,

Loaned and hired and at their most ideal, objects of desire.

Women have no voice – why would they need one?

They only need to stay where they’re put and when they’re called, to come.

One such object, a princess of Troy was put in a temple as decoration,

An ornament for mighty Apollo’s sordid delectation.

The petulant god wanted more than just to see her

He needed to own her – it was his right he was owed this prize

She got no say – why would she want one?

She should be honoured to have been chosen.

When she said yes, as doubtless she would,

He’d gift her with unseen sight -

A prize he knew she’d like.

Gods have very good taste.

But in his haste he failed to see

That his charms were not as sweet as he believed

And she said no.

To a god.

To a man.

And in his pique he sought to wreak

A terrible curse to bind her to tragedy

To put her in her place.

He took the gift and twisted it, made it grotesque;

Prophetic joys still filled her mind

But in place of hope-filled ecstasies

Her mind recoiled from haunting shades

There was no respite – why should she get one?

She tried to warn her kith and kin of all the nightmares she had seen

But they mocked her and ignored her and said her daydreams bored them.

Apollo in his gleeful spite had hid her truth from others’ sight

Until her own doom loomed before her

Not one man would heed her warnings.

He needn’t have bothered;

What sane man would have listened to her?

To a woman?

To a slave?

To an object?

One hopes you're well,
yours,
ADWoodward

The Ballad of Clytemnestra

Hello. At the moment I am in a very interesting play. It's about a son trying to free himself from the attentions of the furies - spirits of vengeance - who are haunting him because he killed his mother because she killed his father killed their daughter. Also the daughter kills the wife's new lover, but that's okay because no one likes him. It's on 7th, 8th & 9th of July at the courtyard theatre and if you'd like you can buy tickets for it here: http://www.thecourtyard.org.uk/whatson/261/the-women-screaming-beyond. I wouldn't be so vulgar as to use the sacred space of my blog just to be a commercial whore. I do have a thing for you to read as well. The play uses songs to do what choral odes did in Greek tragedy. I wrote poems which, with a little bit of tweaking by people who actually know something about music, became the lyrics for these songs. I would like to share one of these with you. This one is the ghost of the mother exhorting the furies to do their job and it goes thusly:

The Ballad of Clytemnestra

Hello there, Furies, how are you? I’ve been trapped down in the gloom

But I thought I’d come and ask you why - despite the solemn task that I

Gave you when I made you from rage and hatred -

Why is my son still breathing?

I wondered what was keeping you

And now I find you sleeping, you

Useless, idle twerps.

Don’t you know how I suffer?

But it’s not enough for you to just delay

No! You have to while away the day

While that matricidal little shit

Of a son of mine commits

His crime and spends his time

Changing the wallpaper in MY throne room

While I’m stuck, as I said, down in Hades’ gloom

Being snidely mocked by the shades of mediocre cocks.

So I thought I’d tell you

Why I swiftly sent you

To give me some peace at last.

I won’t let that weapon-wielding arse,

Agamemnon be vindicated in infanticide

Or let the git decide to put his brother’s wife before his own.

You lay there with your dreaming

When you should turn your minds to scheming

On how to give me one thing at which I won.

From the outset I was second-best

Like when Zeus came down to test

His pimping skills on our mother

And the Olympian begat

Another squalling brat

Whose life was heaven-blessed

While I, of mortal seed, was left

In Helen’s whorish shadow.

Every king and every prince of every place in Greece

Wanted her to have a piece

Of them inside of her

And maybe make a bride of her.

I was second-prize.

So just for once in my wretched life

Can’t things turn out as I wanted?

I want Orestes to be haunted

But you just had to have a nap!

I will not take this crap!

So stand up, get in line!

You’re my furies! Mine!

It was my rage that called you back

From slumber underneath the earth

My screams that gave you birth

And still I find you snoring!

You lazy, useless, slothful, toothless,

Awful, hopeless, gruesome, loathsome

Pathetic excuses for a spirit of vengeance,

I demand you find my son and make him pay

But most of all I’d like to say:

WAKE UP, YOU IDLE FUCKING CUNTS!

One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

Indistinct Visions of Four Futures

Hello. Sorry to have abandoned you all recently; I've been just busy enough that I've not had the time to focus and get anything down on paper. In the last day or so, though, I've experienced a small lull in my commitments and have taken the opportunity to finish a thing which I thought I'd share with you. It goes thusly:

Indistinct Visions of Four Futures

                I’m sitting in a friend’s bedroom. It is late and I am peaceful. We have been watching and talking of mildly interesting things of little import, though at this point the proceedings have reached a natural lull. In the quiet I’m struck by a sudden realisation, perfect in its clarity. For each of us I see another, similar figure in the same space. The figures are larger and more indistinct; representative of a possibility rather than a concrete reality. Each figure is clearly in a different, future setting but I cannot see precisely what that might be.

                The first of my companions has paused, leaving a cigarette half-rolled to enjoy idly throwing a lighter into the air and catching it. These distinct actions both seem an incredibly worthy use of his time. If he catches the lighter it’s completely okay because he chose to do it so of course he would succeed. If he misses it’s fine because he is just messing around. He returns to his rolling and his deliberate, practised movements are entirely in accordance with some plan he’s hatched or orders he has received. The translucent animus following his movements seems to be wearing a uniform. I cannot be sure whether it is best dress or combat fatigues or a well-made but slightly over-worn blazer, but it conveys purpose. Whether it is a terrible objective or a wonderful aim I cannot be certain, but the clothes of the image seem entirely suitable for the task at hand. This is a man who will be certain of things and his place within them.

                The second young man is to the right of the first. He is reclining on a bean-bag; smoking a cigarette he was lent; lent because although the lender would not get the same fag back again there is an amicable certainty that the debt would be repaid quickly and without fuss or any uncomfortable sense of obligation. He sits up to make use of the ashtray on one corner of the bed and meets my eyes when he becomes aware of my gaze. He holds it while we share a laugh about something that I can’t quite remember and returns to his squidgy throne. He is the youngest of our group – the hairs on his chin the unshaved fur of an adolescent lion rather than anything approaching an actual beard. He also the most silent, though this is by nature and not by status. I see a confident and content figure occupying the same space as this cub. It is possibly arranging the affairs of its pride with calm, unopposed authority;  possibly improving life for those around it with a subtly jovial presence and a few carefully timed words. Either way this future will be, barring great catastrophe, of positive worth to those who encounter it.

                My third colleague in my evening of positively unproductive time-passing is the one whom I’ve known the longest. With the music idly shuffling between genres it is his ceiling at which we are staring; it is his realm and he is holding court. He is discussing something delightfully unimportant with a knowing and deliberate, patently preposterous patina of pomposity. We are amusing ourselves by not letting him make his point. He is amusing us by rising to the bait. It is an act made funnier by the times we can all think of when it was genuine irritation. He is a legitimately good man: dedicated, loyal, diligent, generous, and ready to listen. This is why I am made uncomfortable by some of what I’m seeing in the nebulous figure loitering about him. I do see all the positive qualities which make me his friend, but they have been corrupted. Pessimism at his chances of success has worn the dedication to listlessness; emotional wounds have built walls around his loyalty; without passion for his tasks his diligence has fled; no one gives to him anymore so generosity is a childhood fairytale; he is surrounded by and has learned from a cadre of closed-eared pseudo-friends. The indistinct figures may just be the idle imaginings of a weary mind, but I am worried nonetheless. The social being learns much from those who surround it, so I hope this dear friend of mine plants himself in loving soil.

                And what of myself? Can the cracked and imperfect lens be used to examine the wielder? I try. I see a man, sat thinking, with a distracted look upon his face. I do not know what it is going through his mind, nor can even guess the nature of the thought. Is it a carefully constructed network of highways linking towns across a vast and peopled plain? Is it a lightning flash, sudden and wonderful, short-lived and evading capture? Is it a vortex, spinning and consuming, sucking all into its Charybdic maw, swallowing the hopeful sailors as they strive vainly for the safety of their native harbour? Or is it an old lapdog by the fire enjoying the warmth, and content for any who wishes to give a pat and bit of ham? I don’t know – I was interrupted by a proffered bottle and a request to put something funny up on the screen. It’s probably (I decide as I take a swig of something sweet and fiery) either all of them or none of them. It might be interesting to see but futures can wait; we’ve got cartoons to watch.

One hopes you're well
   yrs,
      ADWoodward

Pogonophilic Nonsense

Hello. Pogonophilic means 'beard-loving', which will be the theme of this post. Because it's my blog and I can do what I want with it, that's why. Incidentally, you may be interested to know that my browser's spell-checker doesn't recognise the word 'pogonophilic' and, when I right-clicked to see if I'd misspelt it, instead offered me the word 'necrophiliac'. This post will in no way be about that.
I have a beard and I love my beard because it's soft and comforting like a bunny made out of a half-forgotten childhood memory; and because today is the two-year anniversary of the last time I was clean-shaven  I thought I'd commemorate this important milestone by sharing with you a number of the thoughts I've had about the exciting world of beard-wearing in that time.
I suppose I should start off by admitting that mine is not the most spectacular beard in the world, and lends me less gravitas than those of other men and women (I do not ever knowingly discriminate on my blog). My maternal grandfather's beard, for example, made him look like Tsar Nicholas II; mine, by contrast, makes me look like a pokémon that might one day evolve into Brian Blessed. I acknowledge that this particular joke would work better if you could see me, but if you picture a pale creature with the contents of an unblocked bathroom sink's drain glued to its face you'll get a rather close approximation. If you want your image to be more accurate give it a gin-glazed expression and a puerile smirk. Oh, and damn sexy legs, those are an important part of the picture.
I originally grew the beard simply because I'm naturally a rather hairy man and it's a bugger to stay clean-shaven. In fact I'm hairy enough that I was once helping a six-year-old with its maths with my sleeves rolled up when it put down its pencil, stroked my arm and asked me if I was a cat. I'm not.
Despite the fact it's origin came out of practicality and laziness, over these two years my beard has grown on me. (Grown on me! Ha! Oh, what a shining wit I am!) Nowadays I wouldn't be without a beard. There is not a single moment in life when stroking one's beard is not an appropriate response; joy, anger or boredom there's always something it can offer - it's basically the Swiss-army knife of facial features; both because it has many uses and because a lot of the people who resisted Nazism had one. The moments when it is most useful are those in which I am upset or stressed because it's soft and comforting like a kitten made out of Kinder Buenos.
A beard's uses extend beyond being an emotional crutch (which is different from an 'emotional crotch' - my beard has never got drunk, put me in a headlock and shouted about how much it fucking loves me. This is fine, my beard and I have that deep sort of love that goes beyond words. It doesn't need to say anything, I know it loves me; I can tell.)
Like all relationships this one does have its ups and its downs, and its lefts and its rights, and occasionally a sort of spiral motion that makes me dizzy so I have to go have a bit of a sit down and a glass of ribeana (which the browser's spell-checker thinks is me attempting the word 'Caribbean'). The first downside is the fact that when I go drinking, as I am occasionally wont to do, my beard generates an unseemly fascination in some of those around me. I know it's a wonderful symbol of manliness, I know they're incredibly jealous, I know they see that it is soft and comforting like a puppy made out of a mother's love, but can these drunkards not at least ask my permission before they grope my chin? One time a particularly pissed bloke licked it. I felt violated.
But the chief downside is that I now get followed around by the staff whenever I enter a toy shop. I am in fact there because I'm killing time waiting for friends and want a look at the Lego and for all they know I could legitimately have a nephew or niece for whom I need to buy a gift, but no, they take one look at me and think I'm there for a bit of toddler snatch-and-grab! It's not my fault I'm a naturally sweaty man, my house doesn't have a cellar, any sweets I happen to have me are for my own use, and I don't even own a van! But they see the fact my Gillette doesn't get that much use these days and all these valid excuses start being ignored. They never say anything, but they don't have to; I can feel them judging me with their lifeless, glass eyes and mocking me with their neatly upholstered fur. ... I may have got toy shop workers mixed up with teddy bears there, but I think the point still stands.
But despite these minor annoyances I still love my beard because it's soft and comforting like a guinea pig made out of a joke that probably doesn't bear repeating a fourth time.
One hopes you're well,
Yrs,
ADWoodward (and beard)

A Message From Your Friends at the BNP

Hello. As much as anything else recently I've been endeavouring to catch up on the news, particularly political news - solemn duty of all citizens of democracies and all that. This made me remember that I'd written this piece. I thought I'd share it with you because I enjoy it; it's the closest thing to satire I've written. It goes thusly:

A Message From Your Friends at the BNP

I’m here from the BNP to make a party political broadcast. We here at the Belgian Geologists are Nasty party want to warn you about the grave threat Belgian geologists pose to Britain. Belgian geologists – all of them, not just a small minority of extremists – every single Belgian geologist is evil and out to destroy your way of life. Belgian geologists are a naturally backwards and jealous people, it’s ingrained into them at birth. Belgian Geologists - all of them, not just a small minority of extremists – even the little ones you see playing in the park, every single Belgian geologist bases their entire life on one holy book – the Manuel belge de géologie- which if you read it you’ll find is full of gross, outdated barbarisms. I’ve not read it- eugh books- I don’t need to read it, I know it’s evil, my mate Barry told me so.

The Belgian landscape is made up of mud, boredom and occasionally and an irate Colin Farrell, this leaves Belgian geologists very little to study. That means Belgian geologists – all of them, not just a small minority of extremists – even the nice ones at your work - every single Belgian geologist is part of a conspiracy to bring all other geologists down to their level. Now the English are fantastic geologists, as our language exhibits. English contains the word ‘homilite’ which is both an ‘association’ and a ‘borosilicate of iron and calcium’. Belgian geologists don’t have access to such a brilliant word for ‘borosilicate of iron and calcium’, if Belgian geologists want to discuss borosilicates of iron and calcium they can’t use homilite, they have to use another word, a Belgian word. I don’t know what that word is, obviously – I’ve not done any research to back this up. Who needs research when your opinions are informed by blind prejudice and things I’ve barely understood from internet chatrooms? And that’s just one example of the evil of Belgian geologists – which you would all know about if you weren’t blinded by the liberal media who are too cowed by Belgian-geological extremism to bring you the truth! That’s right Belgian geologists – all of them, not just a small minority of extremists - even the ones who are entirely integrated and don’t even know that much about geology - every single one of them believes that if they sneak onto British public transport and suddenly and violently explain the differences between igneous and metamorphic rocks then they will be rewarded with 72 samples of homilites. We can only hope that if it is true there’ll be some great cosmic joke: “I was promised 72 homilites!” Yes but did your holy book state whether they would be borosilicates of iron and calcium, or simply rather fancy synonyms for association?

One hopes you're well,
   Yrs,
      ADWoodward

Smiling Eyes

Hello. In keeping with my self-appointed task of updating this regularly I thought I'd share this with you. I wrote this almost a year and a half ago, but I thought you could enjoy it while I'm working on a few things that should be up here soon.

Smiling Eyes

Oh, shall I see her smile again at me?

She whose eyes sparkle like the starry sky?

Of all things on earth it is this I’d see,

Though offered sun-kissed views that eagles spy.

I’d gladly turn away the wealth of kings,

And eminence I would with scorn deride

If some god would grant my meagre words wings

And give me one more minute by her side.

By what magic might I complete my task,

And so attain this most glorious prize?

Would hiding my oddness with polished mask

Grant the precious gaze of her smiling eyes?

Eyes transfixed by thoughts of such blessed sights

Refuse to close and grant me sleep-filled nights.

But when I do succumb to sleep

I grin in wonder, overjoyed.

I see a vision floating there

With joyous face and smiling eyes.

All nourished by those shining orbs

Of sweet, translucent purity

This fitful sleep I sought so hard

Invigorates my weary limbs,

Electrifies my clouded mind

And sends me springing from my bed.

The energy within that sight,

I sought to keep upon a page

So when my spirit feels like lead

I might return and see her gaze,

And by the things I find therein

Rejuvenate my weighted soul,

And make the world seem good again.

One hopes you're well,
   Yrs,
      ADWoodward

Thunder and Silence

Hello. I have decided, as much to keep in the habit of putting things up here as anything, to share with you a short piece of fiction. If I ever get the time and the idea this might become the opening of something longer; as is I think it's rather good as a piece for its own sake. This started off when the opening sentence came to me in the pub and was written in two spurts of activity across the next few days. It goes thusly:

Thunder and Silence

Thunder crashed around the valley, its echoes shaking the misted glass of the old house. Well-maintained, despite its age, the red bricks of those stoic walls were the only sign of human artistry for a hundred miles around. No broad, flagstoned highways scarred the silent, sylvan, surrounds; indeed no paths at all save the winding, scarce-seen tracks along which wolves stalked the nervous deer. This was a primeval land. No booted foot had dared pick its way through the uninviting undergrowth for three hundred years; not since a grey-robed man had willed a house into existence at the bend of the stampeding river in that sly-shadowed valley.

                Watching the river through the stinging hail, from the warmer side of the lead-fixed panes was a man whose beard now matched the grey of his robe. Lines that had been formed by several lifetimes of studious scowling were being deepened as the man watched the raucous play of the storm-gods with irritated disdain.

                “Go blow yourselves out somewhere else,” he told them in the kind but firm tones of a harassed parent. “Some of us are trying to work.”

There was a pause while the bruise-coloured cloudbank digested this. The next crash, an unobserved observer could imagine, sounded angry and defiant, like a child refusing to accept it was bedtime. A blue-white streak of blistering light flung itself from the petulant sky towards the man and his window. The observer might have thought a lightning bolt would not have been able to look taken aback; they would have been wrong. This one, unused as it was to being stopped by an unseen barrier, managed it quite well.

“Stop that.”

 The words, though calmly said, filled the entire valley. The cloudbank flinched then rumbled sullenly.

“I mean it. Right now.”

The wind suddenly ceased, dropping its hastily-snatched cargo of forest-floor detritus. In the now-thunderless calm the tiny percussive sound of the last few hailstones completing their fall could be heard. The robed man drew breath for another reprimand. The clouds parted instantly and obsequiously, letting a shaft of warm sunlight fall onto the window and the man it framed. He suspiciously regarded the sky for one long moment, harrumphed and returned to the leather armchair and battered scroll he had abandoned.

                He was so engrossed in the arcane spider-scrawl in front of him as to be rendered almost-uninteresting, so the unseen witness might now take this opportunity to leave the wild-haired scholar to his reading and nose about the room, leafing through the draws in search of a spare cigarette. It was cluttered. Books and papers lay where they’d been discarded, half-obscuring the esoteric apparatus that occupied all of the many tables, desks and workbenches. One of the benches was conspicuously free from the academic snowdrifts. It held the studious man’s current project. On this bench, stood under the room’s large sky-light, sat a stone. In the light from the globe hovering a few inches from the ceiling it seemed to have sheen about it. First red, then green, then the blue of deep sunlit waters could be seen from its apparently perfect surface. About the size of a child’s skull, it was held by heavy, black iron vices that were themselves screwed to the work-surface. If stones could escape, someone had ensured this particular one would struggle to do so. If asked what it was, the man would, depending on his mood, answer either “None of your concern,” or “Something fascinatingly dangerous.” If he answered with the latter, he would then indicate the scorch marks along one wall.

                A gnat, bored with aimless flitting, settled itself on the stone. It burst into flame. The smell of a tiny life extinguished without care filled the room and failed to break the man’s concentration. With enough exposure and apathy, people can get used to anything. The light from the globe wasn’t the clearest ever seen, so an observer might have missed the stone’s adding of half a millimetre to its circumference.

                “Jumped-up, new-age rubbish!”

                A scroll, written a hundred years before the birth of the oldest person in the world outside this room, landed in the grate under the undusted mantelpiece where it crumpled despondently. The paper became even more dejected when the robed man felt the evening’s chill and ignited it with a small, precise gesture. The little ember was fed on thought and mild irritation directed down that gesture until a respectable blaze at in the grate, denying all association with the barely-warm little squirt that had recently occupied the space.

                The bewhiskered man turned his attention and his chair towards the workbench. The stone stood still. He frowned. The stone did nothing. He glowered. The stone, if anything, became slightly less animated.

                “Right, you. That’s enough of this brooding-in-the-corner-threatening-the-whole-of-existence business.”

                Two ancient consciousnesses reached decisions, gathered their insurmountable wills and focussed on their opponents. One took a couple of goes to roll up his voluminous sleeves; the other wished it had sleeves to roll up.

                The air in the room took on a dense and pressing aspect, thickening enough to delay the glow from the ceiling-globe and trap the heat from the fire. Sound could not move through that immobile mass. Time was held in place by the full force of millennia of mental mass meeting at high speed. It strained against the steel-clad thoughts blocking its path. The immense wills used the energies of supernovas to force their opponent one proton back.

                The old man felt like one for the first time in centuries; he could no longer spare the energy to maintain his physical strength. The thought that had been sent into the world to create the fire rushed along the psychic highways to defend its native home; the force that had created the house abandoned its colony of mortar to fight for the capital of flesh and bone; the bricks themselves melted to dust then to unbound force to rally the broad-cuffed commander. All reported for duty and promptly charged from synaptic gates to scream their battle cries at the massed opposing legions. An enemy rank fell. Then another. The whole barbarian horde was in full rout! The marshalled thought of three hundred years and more charged across the space and threw its weight at the red-streaked black of the hostile citadel.

                The stone cracked.

                Sleeves fell back to wrists. Now-white hair hung limply down.

                The ancient Sage of the River’s Bend fell backwards and dust settled on his barely rising chest.

                Thunder crashed around the valley and it started to rain.

                                                                                                                                                 

One hopes you're well,
   yrs,
      ADWoodward

Why Can't I Sleep

   Hello. I wrote this a little while ago and those I shared it with then seemed to enjoy it. I've just reread myself and am inclined to agree with them so I thought I'd share it with you.

Why Can't I Sleep?

Is it: the hastily scrawled essays hanging Damoclean above my pillow, waiting to be marked and, free from light, stringy restraint, to plunge?

Is it: disappointment at unwon kudos cavorting in orcish glee, jabbing with gouging pikes of self-doubt and unreal, fever-dreamed success?

Do mind and soul rush down untrod roads, hoping to catch a glimpse of some unknowable, unseen monument to my greatness?

No. ...

So why can’t I sodding well SLEEP?

Why do thoughts spin and make me nauseous?

Why do visions of beauty and joy frolic, teasing, out of focus, of reach, of sound?

Why do my eyes swim with sights of one met but barely met, known but unfamiliar?

All so similar to angsty dross, so in need of exorcising, of recognising it for what shit it is.

Fiction.

Fantasy.

Guff.

You don’t love her – because you don’t know her! That’s why! You’ve hardly met!

And yet...

And yet it IS an intriguing thought – one which one ought to dismiss as idle fancy.

But if you act she MIGHT accept or at least not laugh full derisive in your face.

Mark this place and seek HER face to ask, to test, to see –

Ah...

What that face does to me – it’s a buzz, you see; a joy for me

One quick smile and this boy is floored by she who hoards my dreams and keeps them.

Let her keep them.

Or perhaps we could share them, be a pair, then, and all content lie back and stare ten hours at stars and lights and at each others’ eyes and talk of all the things we ought to have done but didn’t.

We didn’t because I wouldn’t, not if I had the time with you: I couldn’t - I’d be ensnared and scared to tread on this joyous bubble and be befuddled when this flimsy hope takes my weight and takes on shape and becomes reality. That would be really quite Okay for me.

But for now

I dream.

But still don’t sleep.

   One hopes you're well,
      Yrs,
         ADWoodward

How to Help a Small Hope Grow

Hello. On and off again over the last three or so days I've been writing a thing. The following is it:

How to Help a Small Hope Grow

                Not too far from the nearest, joy-filled group of people, there is a shadowy dell, or perhaps the right word is depression. Looking at it from the outside it doesn’t seem particularly deep nor its sides all that steep, but if one were to find oneself at its bottom there would be a certain difficulty in escaping. Perspective is a strange thing: from a slight distance outside one would think it a pleasant enough spot in which to enjoy a few beers and some intelligent chat with friends, even though it’s a tad removed from the beauty of full sunshine or the excitement of the unrestricted gale. But if one takes the time to peer in tentatively, we find ourselves looking down on a fetid quagmire that traps the feet of the playful hopes that unwittingly built their nest on the side of the depression, so near as to be almost unavoidable.

                Hopes are a strange and wonderful species of creature. They have soft coats of varying hues; some are a clean white which might hurt the eyes, some are deepest red, some blue, some green some black but all are pleasing to the eye if seen if seen in the right light. Their eyes are large and darting, full of unfocussed curiosity as they look for new meadows in which to frolic. Their soft feet are unsure when young but as they mature grow into an agility that lets them mount all but the sheerest of obstacles.

                Look! Timidly emerging from its nest is a newborn with fur like a blushing poppy. Its long-lashed eyes shyly search its surrounds for another being with whom it might forge a connection and then perhaps a friendship. It sees the grasping, sodden bog and sags in resignation. It knows it is not strong enough to leap that loathsome dell. It mews softly. It mews its cry of desperation, unable to make the leap itself, needing another, an outsider, there to help it jump but it’s afraid of being scorned by whomever hears and thrown off balance to into the depression to feed it with its death.

                A short distance away, but close enough to be just visible over the lip of the depression from the low, lowly vantage point of a young, helpless hope, there was the top of a brown-haired head. The hair was just light enough so as not to be black and in this light had two locks crossing at right angles in the wind that verged on red. That red cross was aid and salvation to the poor hope, and it mewed slightly louder and longer than before: a salutation, a call to parlay.

                The newborn immediately regretted its rash action. The owner of that hair would not want to be bothered by a thing as weak and pathetic as itself, there were far better things to do with one’s time than help a pink weasel out of a puddle. The hair probably hadn’t even heard the tiny wretched cry. It was probably better this way. Everyone know proper young hopes should be able to solve their own problems, and if this struggling, scared little one couldn’t then it probably wasn’t trying hard enough; bigger problems than a dell get overcome every minute of the day. The hope sagged again.

                But wait! The head has stopped! And now it is moving closer, revealing eyes, a nose, and a concerned but caring frown. It is the head of a young woman in navy blue. The little hope’s heart soared at the thought of someone else taking time out of their day to engage with it. Light sometimes plays tricks with your eyes, but if you had seen this moment of uplift you would have thought the fuzz-covered hope had grown a little larger. The young woman reached the edge of the depression, saw the tiny hope on the far side of it and her concern changed to determination. She reached into a pocket and pulled out a seed. You might think this seed to be a little thing, not worth anything to anyone, but you’d be wrong. It contained the hope’s salvation.

                She stuck the seed into the ground with a decisive thrust of a finger. The hope, definitely bigger now, looked on in anxiety and anticipation. There was a pause. The simple gesture had no discernible effect at first. But then a lone shoot emerged from the soil. It swayed, its tip barely an inch from the loam that had bore it. It swayed, its tip barely three inches from the loam that had bore it, then six, then a foot, then more. Much thicker than it had been, the shoot’s weight bent it down towards the depression and the hope waiting for an escape within it. The hope, itself larger and more sure-footed, stepped onto the vine the moment it touched the earth near the nest. Though shaky, the plant proved a perfectly adequate path for the hope’s egress. A fond, quick lick of the hand was all the thanks the hope knew how to give, but it was accepted by she who watched it with a warm grin as it scampered off to find food and grow into a full-fledged reality.

                The young woman, or others of a similarly caring disposition, regularly comes to the plant to check it’s still there to serve as a highway for hopes. They tend it with genuine concern and chase away the sharp-toothed doubts – vicious, buzzing creatures that seek to gnaw through the plant and leave the hopes once again stranded in the depression. This is a continual task, and not always properly rewarded, but it is thanks to considerate people like this that the hopes which emerge, unsure and barely-formed, can have a chance at growing up and loving life.

                I for one would like to thank them.

   One hopes you're well,

      Yrs,

         ADWoodward