Head Mace

*Inspired by daily human observation* 

Citizens arrest a seizure

exploding out of her chest

Detest the demise of optimism- look aT that crumpled face

bereft.

Raging carnival trying to stay straight

‘Nature welcomes me’

Though not blinded by an attempt on her savage drinking spree.

Moments owned  in contemplation

Detest she caught a Jack Wills scent  immersed is  his idealised rave nation.

How many  t – issues to imbibe.

Called her his inbred so he could remain high

Sensational arrest

No mirror to attest to the beauty she finds.

searched google maps for Scalifax’s finest hearth.

Should she lay down to rest?

Wait for a sudden epiphany?

Her mind can’t take twocker  ignition games from kids still wet behind the ears,

straggling their momma’s rancid pyjamas

Searching for a place to settle in between her knees.

Scrumpy Jack persona

she assumes

Is she really a cut above the estate who try to convince her they have answers to all the clues?

She’s not like them.

This species are not her brethren.

English cider tasters of blood from a irrefutable provider

Knock heads against tombstones and concrete walls.

Green-eyed,Winkie  slept behind a grill gate to keep out the flybys.

Vulnerable heart -veil lifted from day one.

Chinese whispers of some busy blasted scum

Common decency leaves the palm of her hand -slaps a face hard – its body turns

enthralled at the chance to appear overly occupied.

Enjoy chillled !at 6 percent 

Bad move to guide to her to her own whereabouts

She paid for her own calm connotation.

Guideline on  how to  avoid walking  into a web of sin

Tanned face betrays  that her heart hasn’t felt  akin.

There’s nothing of substance behind the beer goggled eyes.

Monotone life

get up

get dressed,

smoke a roll up

take a sip of the brew that simulates a disguise of content.

She’s not one to say she’s any better than these numbed, train fare skivers

Fun when a teenager…..

Numbers on the  increase –

She thinks they should at least have figured out how to suit up and boot up

Yes, use your all your  ties.

Bound up in this place of besmirching death

Positive energy sniffing up the vibes

conflicted as the amish addicted to meth

Red ant crawling up her thigh

more focused than most humans she has the pleasure to relate to

One mighty jump off this stony  hearth would not be

how she would want end her life

not nigh.

Sun in her heart

Moon never far to seduce her into a twisted cadence with

legs defiantly apart.

‘The settle’ calls her home –  shrieks filled with the ego of the Saint Lies -a Spinne.

What business has she pollinating with  the  bees?

It’s her playground too.

She won’t  let the bastards inject their humdrum existence –

unleash their quiet, unpalatable disease.

Point fingers at an indecipherable colour or sound

The ku klux clan live but one gate from the smack head who sleeps with the blood hound.

Remove these walls ineffectively

Family values, Adams apple samples the hit of threes company too

Humour her, she never  preached to know every pelvic beat.

Extend a hand

Forget not

that one gaze will settle reflectively

Don’t make another feel uneasy

Solely because it’s you who feels Queasy.

Smirking at them playing it cool

Do they think she is a brassic , court  jester fool?

Indulge  them she does.

but only because she knows the truth

They live a life that’s  ambiguously impenetrable.

The difference between the simple life and herself ?

Empathy.

Compassion.

An open mind.

Sentiments branded on her – costs three lifetimes in wages to wear her kind of fashion.

Attempts at making her feel she is wrong and potentially illiterate.

It’s beyond a joke – she plays naive – she knows  they are a hoax

She treads through a land full of tossers

Pity not more of them get fired off into a land of terrorist moshers.

Feelings misgiven

This drink was an attempt at a pitch

It’s not her style.

impetigo limper

brewed up to tease pacman eating jack and jills in a ditch .

Irate she  saw integrity  in one other smothered core.

Ineffectual – yapping up intoxicated mummies three day old pyjamas.

Think it’s an accomplishment to shove her mistrials in front of her face?

How many more fuck you’s  and put up’s must to deal with?

Momma doesn’t need their  drama’s?

The issue with people who stick together in stitches

is that without an audience -without a chase

they will dangle that carrot

especially when their  life is on the down

squinting them  into the glitch.

They need her kind more than her kind needs theirs .

Empty out  the contents of a full can of scrumpy poison

One factor in blurring all boundaries.

Is it fair to intoxicate nature with man -made hootch?

She’s repulsed – she sees them all  their stark naked  form

such is her clarity

who to label as a warning ‘ there goes another douche’ ? 

ethics, medics, system of values- it’s an appeal to their humanity.

Need to get out

Get out of this space

She can see she’s playing into this heinous fate.

She makes her rules

She breaks the rules

only because she knows them so  well- lets state she knows how to present the look of

I’m off my face 

Temptation heel to her command

She regrets inaction of  strength she  usually ordains

only this time she lacks

Fuck it , she is done with the cloud of visual  mace

She’ll get hammered at a location ,

on her request,

digest

satiate

Can she have a mirror?

Third eye awaken to  the true head case.

Photocredit Francessa woodman

 

 

 

Devising- bleeding the genres

3 down -5  more to go.

This has been the best week yet on zee Acting program.

We did a fantastic improvisation inspired by Laban’s 8 efforts and movement.

This technique was originally used in dance performance.

From my ahem “intellectual” reading on post-modern performance. Most contemporary artists prefer to think of the theory part of writing and performance as not prescriptive but fluid and as something to provoke the imagination.

The theories exist to be used to merge into something that is relevant to today.

This program is far away from what I’m learning on my MA and this is my struggle with what I’m doing in my MA because, we as an ensemble – group of amateur actors are working towards devising a performance not based on text.

Back to Laban – the whole purpose of the exercise was to move forward and start thinking more about character development. How many ways can an actor develop their character?

For me, it helped me focus more on my physical body and what I could do with it, to create a character with emotional depth.

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This is  the exercise we did:

THE TECHNIQUE

Laban categorized human movement into four component parts:

  • Direction

  • Weight

  • Speed

  • Flow

Each of those parts has two elements:

  • Direction is either direct or indirect.

  • Weight is either heavy or light.

  • Speed is either quick or sustained.

  • Flow is either bound or free.

Laban then combined these parts together to create The Eight Efforts:

  • Wring

  • Press

  • Flick

  • Dab

  • Glide

  • Float

  • Punch

  • Slash

For WRING

  •  The Direction is Indirect

  • The Weight is Heavy

  • The Speed is Sustained

  • The Flow is Bound

https://www.theatrefolk.com/blog/the-eight-efforts-laban-movement/

I loved how I explored character development using my voice, my body and employing Laban’s technique to create a character.

I chose the movement to ‘wring’  and what stemmed from that incongruent action was a character called -Prushka who ended up in an improvisation scene with another character (his chosen action  Punch) who became my workaholic husband with a temper.

We did a short improv scene in pairs of threes.

Us the couple were arguing about our relationship and where it was headed when the third character (developed from the movement of ‘flick ) interrupted us.

Her drugged up character was stumbling across the streets asking where she was. We ended the scene by my character telling my character’s husband we had grown apart and it was over.

I went to help the drugged up girl get on a bus and get home. Instead of dealing with the confrontation – a stake was thrust into the scene and as a Wring character, I made the decision guided by my body movements to leave the relationship and avoid the angry, punchy husband.

Sounds complicated.

I’m sure there is a much more simplified way to describe all this but I have never been one to simplify anything!

This acting program has got me thinking about finishing my MA somewhere else. Sad but true.

As a group,  we seem to be gelling more and getting to know each other.

It looks like we will be devising a piece to perform to a public at the end of March.

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Sat on the train, typing this post and I  can’t wait to get home.

Weird guy with bouffant hair sitting opposite me and staring at me like I’ve got an abscess growing on my nose. 😂😂.

I’m currently redrafting  TMA 3.  I’ve strayed into morality play /Faustian territory purely by accident.

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The piece is set after the 1918 Russian revolution ,in Paris.

RANDOM FACT-  my great grandparents fled the 1918 Russian revolution changed their surname and went to live in the slums of Paris. That is where my Grandad was born. 

 I have three characters who have some of my character traits and a mish mash of other lovely people’s traits I have come across in my life.

Panacea wants to be accepted by family and society: Vladimir by society.  The other character, Eve -has the love and adoration of the society she lives in because of her talent to play captivating pieces of music on the piano.

She has it all except she lacks conventional sight.

With a wee bit of determination and vengeance, Panacea takes Eves essence (talent) and Vladimir’s only access to power and being accepted by his peers is now in the hands of Panacea.

Eve is left with a second sight not normal sight.

I don’t know how magic works!

She can only see the past.

 Things start getting tense when she starts seeing things:

Horrific things.

She starts seeing people’s past actions. Not the good but all the skeletons that people hide away or try to forget by drugging themselves- insert vice of choice here.

Vladimir- her guardian is clearly hiding something.

How are Eve’s past visions connected to him?

Why won’t he tell Eve?

The climax and resolution of the final scene, see the loose ends of the plot coming together and finally, we see how all three characters fit together.

I’m not saying any more than that.

Both Eve and Vladimir ( who seem like the victims of a salacious act by Panacea)  lose everything they wanted and indeed had.

The music threaded throughout the piece (which initially draws the crowd to adore  Eve and propels her to ‘stardom’ )seems to serve as a metaphor for the vices which society still use today to forget and self-medicate.

The somewhat pantomime-like, sarcastic Panacea, in scene one, is a character, I hope my tutor can sympathize with at the end of the piece- with her revelation.

Her motives are utterly selfish and human.

But finally, she is accepted and her nephew is forced to love and adore her because she has the essence and power to help not only society. but also Vladimir forget who he actually is.

Ha ha!  What a raucous.

 Well, it’s all a been a bit of fun trying out new writing styles. Writing should be fun and not some Herculean labor (which it does seem to be at times)

 As long as I pass I will be happy.

 Daisy- ‘the entrepreneur in progress’ is moving forwards in my business.

 That’s a bit of an update from me. My stop has arrived. I’m tired cold and I want to see my family.

I have blogging awards to accept and nominations to do and look forward to catching up on blogs over the week.

I may barricade myself in my bedroom over the weekend and devour every post/blog  I come across.

Have a great week! 

Raise your words. Not your voice

Dedicated to the gangsters inksters of the writing world.

Lifetime member of sudden death writer collective.

Butter them up to increase traffic

 then render them defective.

Noble people not saying what they do. It’s a performance of sorts.

It screams out – this scene has been played out far too many times.

Fucking over a person should be seen in the outdated queue.

What people do to advance their station.

Dishonest injustice.

I hold a person to their words – hence this unforeseen faction.

Beware of compliments paid by rubber silicone lips.

Not everyone understands that stars like Mick jagger don’t screw over those just for kicks.

I’m out of your game.

I am sharper and know your words scream dissident whore.

Sell yourself out to whoever seems to make more of a racket.

What happened to good ole fashioned honesty?

You fit well into the conglomeration Trump bracket.

Direct devices – mouthpiece – save your screams for another.

Fraudsters and clear ass wipers.

Bleached out.

 your ink will never see the light of day. Offended is the weed who loathes the fickleness of the collective of neigh

Sayers

sleuth

Take your numbers and deduce the ifs and the buts,

when all will recognize your true form.

The traitors to writers –  don’t teach our youth this  malpractice – unethical abuse

Power does not come in numbers -it comes from your convictions.

Surround yourself with rats jumping ship as soon as a comet brightens  Haley’s rights.

I say raise your words. This is just what I have done.

I am not a springboard to increase you, smite tribe.

I leave you to  unravel  your cohorts when you have  exhausted their  ink and deemed them a humdrum

I am not yours to use.

*Dedicated to a bunch of Inkster’s. I hope you get what you deserve.

*Title credit to ‘the get down’ series.

 

Mrs Tersable

Mrs. Tersable had the patience of  Hades with a lengthy dose of blue ball build up  syndrome.

Beans on toast, eaten straight out of  a tin can –  this is not how she was used to living, outside of her comfort zone.

She wore wooly jumpers to cover  the razor sharp teeth piercing through her very own flesh.

She was so gifted in signing off with a  ‘kiss kiss’ and a ‘mwah mwah’  tres AbFab darling

 BBC  Nigella’s  best Italian  dish.

Unfortunate event, she was the kind of lady who had to learn how to suck the devil’s cock. Have her ass smacked  and molded into   a fine knight  mare.

The tragedy in her quest to rise to power in a Patriarchal society took a heavy blow on a high voltage setting ,following a trail  to the bully matriarch beatbox  competition at ye olde fayre.

She rose in stature  until she hit her own glass ceiling – a rose always  needs to be pruned. All flowers, eventually, lose their fragrance and bloom.

Every season there will always be another eager seedling waiting to come out and steal  her once-signature odorous  perfume.

It’s a lamentable world we live in when the people who are meant  to be  teachers and mentors,

refuse to listen to their own apprentice or student who  listens , then questions the station ranked  above.

Not all students  climb this far to then  curtsey disabled in  fear, at one vicious bark – all the way on the Yorkshire moors.

What does this say about us as parents, role models, teachers when we refuse to admit our own errors?

We pinch our noses to avoid inhaling one whiff of humble pie, no one saw  you order  a Miss Hannigan chaser.

An associate of those benefit drunks with the DT tremors?

Feedback at any age,gender ,role or title is crucial to evidence   your presence in eternal life learning.

Mistakes are a necessary jigsaw piece to conclude  this game.

It’s not  so much what we don’t say as to how we say it.

Oops, maybe that  15-year-old child shouldn’t have appeared to be marking that essay on the subject of learning to  ‘look  kept while she  is on the game-  earning’.

Bullies come in a plethora of forms – the ones with the sweetest touch can turn on a person like a stye in   the eye.

Manic and wide-eyed .

‘Attention , we  now  introduce you to Sir werewolf faint heart . ‘

His title gives him permission to tear down  the fourth wall but he promptly  decides to use off stage to indicate he has his role – his own part.

So changeable – so  constant.

If it weren’t for experimental  folk, you might believe  that the  very word  had been a word that ‘phantasmagoria -the shouting  star’ ,hurtled down to you from a startling  height in  a –

can you picture it?

A cosmic  sky.

Oh, how  some serfs do like a good old-fashioned backdrop.

Kitchen sink drama – ironing and puffing a cig so soon after a hideous operation tumor  larynx op.

I don’t mind  subjective commentary .

Political and social change is in a state of  osmosis.

Dame Equlibrium!

 Where is she hiding ? be a darling and throw us an adlib  objective  objection – based on some factual,theoretical documentary.

Ego  hypothetically propositioned and the  recent report is he is officially   unwounded.

Id is feeling indulgently  charitable.

Super ego is insulted on behalf of all the marginalized  it  chooses to write about.

Prepared to work with all senses engaged, ready to gain insight and  to ‘show and tell’  how flawed this world truly is .

Just because it says something  black  on white  – doesn’t mean it’s exempt from giving you a bad case of colonic  irrigation ,peppered doubt.

The biggest bullies are the  usual suspect atypical members – they all  have a hidden agenda.

Keep your cool and refuse to cower from the tirade of abuse screamed down the cord of a retro style, dial-up  telephone  – switch  on to radio channel smoothie blender.

Only you can be your greatest ally and defender.

Or,

you could   go on one hell of a  bender.

Never been an option for the author who has fought off more heated bitches in duplicitous  organizations with a questionable gender.

*Inspired by good old fashioned rotten to the core  bullies sitting in apple trees *

the ungrateful one

Higher consciousness.org  broadcasts live video of a man flying in outer  space.

Caption : What are you THANKFUL  for today?

 Solo,

I  go against all those who fold in with

it’s a day to count our blessings.

Slavering ,table drummers –we will rock you with our forks and our knives.

Salacious portions of the second road runner-up to the national bird, cooks amongst natures already  abundant  offerings of food.

No meat!

 Poor hostess.

The feeders  may all come at you in unhinged straight jackets, disturbed little bees in honeycombed hives.

 We don’t get the message – our mother earth  shakes her head in dismay.

Excuse me for the cynical distaste.

Maybe -it’s the Black Friday orders of the soon to be  penniless mourners that leave me to wonder,

if I’m the only one who believes in the promotion that counting one’s blessings should cover more than one  day.

Awareness of what we have and have not.

Awareness of what we know and should know,

should not be chalked up -spelled out in the toddler soup of the day.

Tomorrow -one  damp rag across the blackboard , one teardrop of rain – one scribble away,

can change all we are a boon for.

 One day is not enough to keep up the movement -that unifies us – when we come together to complete mandalas sun – each  our own  beatific ray.

Orphans of humanity  we plead for more.

Callous rant – as rough as  the skin on my feet – routinely  massage cream into them every evening ;

 be consistent with our moral compass .

That is how we can land on our feet- no cat with nine lives or suspicious  minded dreaming.

Consistent

care-

every day of the year.

Call out your own judgments when it flashes past -cognition held up -brain powder – slow  control release,

 regulate the filtering in  and out of brainwash  sluice  glugged down in unrecognized fear.

Fear of what?

Change.

Nothing will change if we don’t make it so.

Sow what we reap -reap what we sow.

I sense a preacher inserted that quote in serendipitously ,only so I could attempt to allow this rant to flow.

So be it.

Of course, I am grateful for all that life has given me – dazzling in wealth of the simple things,

all there- for me to quietly contemplate upon bestow.

The furies, the mad rush, the gluttony,  the ego of humanity – homeless men and children invited in for one meal – one day .

Please don’t touch  the brand new fluffed up hand towel.

Would a homeless person even have the culture to know to wash one’s hands before praying for this feast -making sure to appear humble in the glare of your Lords softened scowl?

Bacteria – one culture – it’s enough to let him wash his hands in the kitchen scullery sink.

What is he to know ?   water is water – surely this should cleanse our conscience   attempt to pummel fists at our conflicting thought process arena- enough well placed blows and we will return to our white sheep – one dip – one vision – contemplative blessed day, lucky are those who can think.

envision a person who swoons effortlessly – a  home is no show museum in an attempt to wow family and friends to incite:

 Don’t you wish you could pull all of  this off on this most  thankful besmirching day?

Newly formed speech bubble  of Radical  congregation thought -branches of hate and envy.

Group Faction fractions,

was never my strongest subject at the school of life in preparation.

Soul hack – stumped and blinded .

I left young – fled.

I knew it was a ploy to mollify me.

I’m no Einstein  at arithmetic but may I be so  bold to ask surely there is more in the power of one?

We have the ability to stand down in peace, for one day, in our millions – united in blessific glee.

Or, do we all have continue consuming archaically stoned ?

Prompted into Martyrdom ,

to accept the first prize of a well acted boon?

In the promise of 50% discounted TV.s and-and Suv cars with 0.1 miles on the clock, ready as an incentive to  live as we  already should ,

with a marked line, curving upwards indicating we have enough and are already happy?

 

The story so far…

I feel like all I do these days is write, read books about writing- and as much as I love to write and learn how to write better, I need another hobby.

I used to blog daily -sometimes twice a day.

Nope – not anymore.

I don’t get to read as many of your blogs as I want. 😦

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Since I’ve started my Masters- all I do is write and read.  oh, and then there is the rest of my life to deal with.

I don’t mind, but I am one of these generally over anxious type of people who will freak out about everything until I’ve submitted my work, and then I will find something else to worry about.

Am I the only person who feels this way?

Where am I up to in my Masters?

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25 days away from submitting my first TMA (tutor marked assignment) to the Open university.

It’s part of an ongoing piece of work I intend to do when I do my EMA (end-of-module assessment)

What am I doing?

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I’m passionate about people, life, my community.

I’ve been doing loads of research on homelessness- particularly teenagers who are homeless in the U.K.

Mind blowing, the local authorities make life a nightmare for these children to get into ‘normal society living’.

The premise of my script is ultimately a good old fashioned love story with plenty of obstacles – the end hasn’t been written yet but there is where I am up to:

Desire is a 14/16 -year-old runaway, she was a full-time, undeclared carer for her parents – her Mum who   has Dyspraxia and her Dad who has Dementia. She struggles with the guilt of leaving her ill parents to look after themselves yet she wants to find her own path in life and be successful – have  a career, relationships, family- all normal milestones. 

She falls in love with the charismatic,  highly talented and artistic, drug addicted – Leo. They are polar opposites. She is not into the whole drug scene and engages with hostels and programs to try and get off the streets. Leo loves Desire because she is everything he is not. He wants the best for her but he is not really a planner. Lives day to day. His mother  had Cancer,and she took an overdose, Leo found her and he has been on the streets for many years. To get by he sometimes is able to get  commissioned work for his  artwork . The drugs get in the way of him being able to maintain a job.

He enjoys the Freedom of living on the streets and he sees it as his home. He knows the system well, he knows how to play it so he doesn’t fall into it. 

Vee, a hostel coordinator at Steps hostel and day care center for homeless teens, sees the potential in Desire and tries to pull as many strings to help Desire get off the streets. Her biggest obstacle seems to be her  need to care for Leo and her love for him.

Desire has a chance to get into a new program, funded by an organisation, to  help 25 young teenage women get their life sorted but she ends up falling pregnant with Leo’s baby at the same time   she finds out her Mom dies of a stroke and her Dad-  unable to keep up with the rent payments on the house, is taking into a state care home. 

Her  mental health starts to unravel quickly. She disappears for a couple of months and then goes back to find Leo  to confront Leo with the news of her parents and to tell him she is pregnant. Leo already suspects Desire is pregnant. Desire finds Leo’s in his  favorite place to get high and chill – he loves reading- the library.

Desire’s dreams of being with Leo start to fall apart when he has to convince her to go into a hostel -full time and to focus on her and the baby. 

Desire is reluctant- as there are so many ways her being pregnant could play out. She could get transferred to a single teenagers hostel. 

In my research, I have found out that unlike teenage hostels- where the rules are rather flexible a lot of young single Moms are cut off from their partners (who often happen to be homeless or on drugs ) and living a chaotic lifestyle.

There is also the worry of social services getting involved. 

What will happen?

I’m yet to write that bit. ha ha! I have an idea – a rough idea. I know the ending already although this may change when it comes to drafting the next part of this script.

The main obstacles Desire will come up against is being able to adapt to living in a more structured environment, in a place where she knows no one,lives with many different girls in various different mind states and in different places contrasting to Desire.

Can Desire forget Leo?

How does Leo deal with not being able to support Desire, in a way, a father -to -wants to?

How does the system support young ,homeless parent- or parents to be ?

How does this story end  for Desire and Leo?

Many people think homeless people choose to live on the streets without knowing the red tape nightmare , internal conflict,external life issues and stress that these people have to deal with on a day to day basis.

I didn’t want this to be an agitprop / political piece.  I have always written stories and scripts about themes that do  come up in politics.

My main obstacle was to create awareness of the complications and obstacles homeless people face but I needed to do this in a way that an audience would engage with , relate to and come from a place of empathy.

Who hasn’t been in love?

Who hasn’t had to make tough choices?

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Life is not black and white. There are many gray shades and people are complicated. We are not a piece of paper with a checklist of criteria who fit into a neat box.

Approaching the current homelessness crisis from this angle is not working!

I’m currently tweaking the visual narrative, dialogue everything!

 I’m still undecided whether it should be environmental theater,  site-specific location or  low-level audience participation interaction in the style of promenade theater. I do know that I envision the play to be staged to the bare minimum.  I agree  with Moliere and many other playwrights ‘less is more’  when it comes to scene setting. Audiences left with their own imagination can come up with a far better setting or set than I can.

deadline submission date: 25 November.

I still  need to write a commentary to discuss the creation-evolution process and any obstacles I came across and how I worked it all out.  😀

 

Societies Ills

 

Sitting with a cup in me hand,rattling my pennies. The wind cuts through my salvation army coat – I feel bare.

Half an hour until the big brother brigade does their rounds, to come  clear off the debris of me, offending society, with my appearance of failure. Glasses fixed on nose bridges to hide poverty’s despicable,  shining glare.

It wasn’t meant to get to this point. I had a home, a family. Believe me, I was a carer. That was many years ago.

I let my parents down. They was ill. They fought a lot. Dyspraxia and Alzheimers is a blinding, rallied up bull  shit way  to steer 30 years of love straight out the front door with a forceful blow.

Pa was getting violent he couldn’t help it – it was the  frustration. The illness works that way . Too much protein in the brain ,the doctor says.

I don’t care much for protein. I just wanted him to get the right meds,  to make him the  man who he used to be

I came home from school one day and the living room had been touched by pa’s hard  handed caress.

‘Put ya fecking glasses on – you thick cow. Turn them around. ‘ere give them to me I’ll show you how.’

Ma was crying. Her perception was off the wire – crazy. Dad went to put on me ma’s glasses and stopped dead in his tracks.

 He had forgotten why he was standing next to Ma- and lashed out – his moves were not shady but he  was hazy.

I couldn’t watch them do this any longer. I had to get out. I wished to start a new life. 16 – find a home I could call me own, addle, get a job and be Miss independent. carefree,sipping on splendour.

I found me a job – I was smart not like them other lasses, herded in like cattle, branded with the letter P. Marked,dotted, scarred, scared, drugged – too skinny to be called slender.

I started washing up pots,owt I could do. I needed a step to reach them. They were that big. I was that short.  The gaffer  he was a bit of twocker- A Tyke.

 He should have been wooing his guests instead of fondling me tits ,grabbing me ass and jerking off with the hand he vowed to his wife to stay faithful with.

I couldn’t take that shit no more. I was no whore. I suppose I could have called me Ma and Pa

I said No. Loud and clear.

Decibels reverberating – Tin Tin like.  I was barking mad.

 Hotel  guests, eating their warm croissants, couldn’t ignore  the tone – it was him that had set that bar.

Didn’t even get me wages. Couldn’t pay me rent. I only had a room but it was my home. A place none could bother me. I could come home kickoff me shoes and read and chill.

 Be at peace.

That were  a few years now. Things change. Time never stops. Drugs, alcohol, overdoses, hospital beds.

None of it worked. I just got older, street smart, I was now living amongst  wild, underfed , hope-starved geese.

No place to shower, they say it takes 3 seconds to make an impression on someone. No jobs – the only job I could get was the hardest graft I ever did.

 Squatting on the cobbles and begging for scraps of bread.

Bread,

dough,

blast me to oblivion ,

 fresh like a baguette- warm ,baked.

 I was safer in  the streets than I was in a seedy local pub.

The pervading scent emanating from these places was  the end of hope and that was my biggest dread. I’d rather  be underground dead.

I got in with some  Christian volunteers – at first, I was in tears. I had Hope, but I had lost faith.

 Pa, he had gone into a state care home and Ma?  well, she had a stroke and I don’t know. It just got harder to think of going back. Mind,  it was me guilt.

At first, it felt like they were recruiting me for their cult. I knew there is no God.  I had seen what mercy truly looked like. Bleak. a dying art.

 I got attacked one night,got meself in a right snicket. I know I wasn’t to blame. Wrong place, wrong time, could have happened to anyone.

 It was me.

Weeks went by , started feeling nauseous, went to A&E – they confirmed what I knew.I was up the duff.

 I knew I had to reach out – me and my child  depart ?   never crossed my mind -not even  from the start.

9 months  passed . The SS got involved – my baby was honey coloured hair and blue eyed. A prize catch ,a  tick off the adoption incentive  target list.

I didn’t stand a chance. They convinced me she’d be better off in another one’s arms.

That toppled me, I came down like a house of cards. Not original but tell it like it is, Bards.

I started living in shared accommodation.Nice people, life been shit. We all make choices – doesn’t make us bad people,right?

I lost the plot, forgot my goals- to become a suited and booted member of society. I had my mobile phone I got  given to me by the charity.

I whip it out. I got a text.

what’s app – it’s free.

Overweening  Lady, with the fine, make up on and pretty, salon styled hair and the sparkly engagement ring. Don’t look at me like that and stare.

Is it so wrong to have a phone and live on the street off and on ? I ain’t got no one to marry me.

”  I’m starting to get ideas for what I want to write about in my first script for my MA. What prompted this stream of consciousness is obviously the content.  One of the themes of the play is centred around  Homeless people. I saw a man – I presume was homeless the  other day begging for my some money and he was texting with his phone. My first reaction was rather judgemental -so I started asking myself questions and this is the result. The register/style  of speaking and writing  I use is inspired by how some  people in Yorkshire speak. “

Daisy Willows