Sunday 17 November 2013

We're all in this together

1956
2013
'Be a good girl,' they said so I put my hands together in prayer because I was told a praying child was a good thing.  So the photograph was taken; by a peripatetic photographer with little sense of setting - in this case against the frosted glass of the kitchen door

The grown up version - a selfie on an iPad - also with little sense of setting but the wise advantage of gravity.  Did I say grown-up?  I suppose it's time. 

Two images, fifty-seven years between and, to my mind, very little difference between them - except my mother doesn't cut my fringe any more. 

There's a great impulse to somehow reflect on the the intervening years: countries visited, children born, trials, triumphs, loves and losses. I leave a marker here.  There have been more gains than losses and if it all ended now, I'd howl in protest because it's been good.  It is good. The heart that beat in that little chest beats still and still is full of excitement and expectation. People still to meet, to know, to love, to grieve over. Mistakes still to make, lessons still to learn. And still trying to be good.  And still failing, happily.

Gabby Young

Tuesday 12 November 2013

Writing exercise

Sir John Tavener oil on canvas (Michael Taylor 2001)
8 June 2013 - writing inspired by a postcard

Today I am going to write and write until the theme is set firmly down.  All night the thoughts came through my mind, so here I sit with my face turned towards my God, my light and my inspiration.

I have all I need and I am going to tell my listeners that there is nothing to fear from death for it is but a passing thing.  The music plays and will play.  I will not tell you listeners that there is nothing to fear from dying, for I do not know you but I do believe that death is but a passing thing.  My gift is is in me, I am filled with it and my only ambition now is to leave as much as possible before my time grows cold.

It has to be Song for Athene which was played at my mother's funeral. 

My hanging man

She watched him climb, hand over hand.  She didn't watch him climb.  Gone were the superstitious days when she thought a mother’s gaze, a mother’s thoughts should be locked on her child as if the creature couldn't exist without constant vigilance.

‘I’ll just take a picture,’ she quipped ‘so his unborn child with have a record of its father’s face before it hits the ground.’  The Facebook series already in composition: Going, going, gone.  Or more satirically:  chain saw masacree – will this mean a pocket-money increase? 

She watched him climb; stop, check himself, assess, focus, make his decision, careful, cognisant of his own safety.  His belt, heavy with tools, chain saw rumbling.

‘Won’t it cut his leg?’ she asked.

‘No, the safety catch is on, it’s only the motor running,’ an artificial calm coming from his father; another type of men’s work: don’t unnecessarily agitate the women unless for strategic gain, don't show your anxiety. Such is the nature of honesty.

She watched him climb.  Up swung the saw; caught expertly echoing the barman’s flaring he used to show off.  Scream, cut, catch the branch, aim, throw to the ground.  The next one: size up, measure by eye, by skill.  Scream, cut, catch, throw. Again, scream, cut, catch, throw.

Her aching shoulders relaxed but her neck remained stretched, stiff, watching.  More climbing, more cutting, catching, throwing.  Until the job was done.

She experienced neither his climb nor his descent.  What she experienced was his growth, his manliness, his care for himself and for the future of his child.  She was satisfied; a man who loves himself will love his child.