Friday, February 04, 2011

EARTH

EARTH
She floated above the floral roundabouts and knew they meant something.
But what, she could not decide. They were nostalgia’s spine. Their significance in previous lives stayed out of reach ……..She floated…………….By an antagonising fraction her hair had grown extremely long. The soles of her feet felt like dough……She floated…….The cloud formations were moving at the speed of the loss of childhood and lit up sunrise and sunset flickering like a strobe, yet it was night, she floated…Her hair grew longer still, it engulfed the globe and could by no means be untangled from it until naked winter’s magnet repels. She has no objection. She never begun to walk through the enormous empty buildings alone, neither will she ever cease to. She is from the stars. Let us call her. Watch the television reader’s face change to hers. Feel her tears of joy in your tap water. Let her faith pour off the pad of your back in the shower…..Inherit her infatuation for silence. See how it need not be dramatic. See her face outside your window and do not be frightened. Will you dance with her in Paraguay? At harvest you’ll need to be nocturnal.
 
She floated above the snow cat and knew it meant nothing.
Remember she is still hatching an we ‘if you will’ are the shell.
I don’t suppose it ill come as a surprise to you that she is reticent to smile.
She is not shallow enough to be ill fated……..How dare anyone say that?!!
 
She is watching the automobile evolve into a streamlined capsule,
The white wall tires and running boards hold no more character in her eyes.
Relativity is the basin in which she bathes.
Still her hair grows longer and longer, stifling the universe and filling up it’s every space.
I wonder if she dreams.
Last night she floated into your room and a child was born and a town gossip died and a deal was struck up and celebrations were postponed and an era lost its way and a marksman held up his Blunderbuss to the macabre Victorian gas lamp and realised in an instant he was enslaved to recurring inevitability.
 
She floated like the feather of a magpie into a candle lit asylum.
She is snuffing them out now.
She is lighting them again now.
Everting are sibling and cousin to her and nothing is her Mother.
…………………..She floated!
 
TIM SANSOM DECEMBER 1991

NERVOUS INTROSPECTION

 
NERVOUS INTROSPECTION
Am I an artist?
Am I a writer?
Why do I write?
What do I write?
What have I been writing?
Let’s have a look at what I have written over the last month.
Why can I not write this evening?
What should a poet be, someone who is filled with things to say and so puts that into poetry? Or is a poet someone who sits there and says’ Now what is it I can write a poem about? I don’t think I like the latter one jot!.
When did I start writing? I mean really writing? Have I started yet? Will I ever?
All this bothers me a great deal.
Do I write because of a wish to be thought of as a writer?
Is that the total some of me and my writing? I hope not.
Am I purely ‘In the business’ of being a poet or a writer? I hope not.
Is it inevitable that I would have written and that I write? I hope so.
It worries me that if I am a natural poet that I should ever dry up.
I’m not worried that I would ever dry up to any length because when I know what I want to write about I do so.
But sometimes I sit there and think’ What’s going on? Why are you not writing? And am I a writer?
And is there anything of worth in what I write? Anything of a consistent style? Any fresh ideas?
Am I writing merely for myself as some diary or sounding board.
I am happy with fallibility and imperfection but I do hope that there is at least something of interest and beauty in what I do or that it has at least some philosophical content which may just make someone think. And if it were to ever heal anybody in any way, well that would be great! Why do I write? Why do I write?……Who am I? I mean really!
I desperately wanted the world to know or at least my immediate community that there are more thoughts in my head than it likely seems from how I present.
And I desperately wanted to deposit at least something to show for having lived.
That’s it I think, those two things, that’s why I write I think.
But am I a writer?
Of course to be a writer is so multi definable.
I have so very much to learn.
Do I have so many styles from poem to poem that I am actually little more than someone who impersonates what it is or at least what it is that I conceptualise to be a poet?
I do so desperately hope not.
I saw a television article today about the poet laureates and felt immediately inferior and irrelevant as though these were real writers enjoying acclaim and reverence and that the world had noticed them and that meanwhile I went on writing my unremarkable writing in deserved silence. And soon after I realised that just because I thought this may be the case did not mean that is was not the case and I suspect strongly that it is and so all that is left for me is to say I shall never stop trying and trying my hardest and that is all that can be expected of me and my poetry will be nothing more or less than a level measure of me and who I have been and who I am and of who I should like to be.
 
When did I stop working out?
Why did I stop working out?
I often fail to see just how it is that my muscles develop so well and so quickly. It seems unrealistic and not parallel to how hard and how long I’ve been working out, but instead of accepting that I MUST have earned it or it wouldn’t be there I actually regard these successes as a hollow victory as though I am in something akin to dream reality. It could just as easily be the following day when I can’t believe how little success I am achieving for all my hard work yet this thought doesn’t torture me like the ’Undue success ’thought And . Its not just working out that has this kind of nervous introspection going on
 
I also got it a lot when I was younger when it came to attracting women.
Is this for real? Does she really actually like me?
Is there a direct correlation between her level of attractiveness and the fact she’s attracted to me or is it meaningless?
In other words is it that given her ready beauty and the way the world cant help spoiling her for it by giving her passes and dividends and compliments and second chances where less striking less pretty looking people would have to make do, is it that she is harder to please and subsequently more selective and does that all mean something of a compliment to me? Or is it that she likes what she likes in a way quite untouched and uninfluenced by her cosmetic exterior? I’ll never ever know and it drives my analytical mind mad as do many other thoughts and considerations, this is what it is to be me.
 
 
What were my sentiments and points of view on this or that topic or issue? What did they used to be a little time ago?
Even in a matter of weeks I am surprised to study the stealthy evolution of how I think but what really fans the flames of my nervous introspective thinking is the question of when is the point at which my mind changes.
If I pick up an old piece of writing I read the sentiments within and I’m just as surprised at how little has changed if that is the case as I am when a lot of change has taken place which says a lot about the nature of me my surprise and the irritation it carries, the point is I want to see the workings that have lead to any result and moreover I want a clear report on which to base my judgement as to how small or large a pat I can give myself on the back for it.
 
 
We, many of us grow up with the na├»ve belief that we have hold of a unique idea only to learn of its mass distributed homogenous existence, we likewise learn that these ideas require no exposure in order to spread but rather they exist already in the many and not just our individual selves. On this subject I should like to know how many people relate to what I have already written here. But that’s as may be.
 
If I start worrying about terminal illnesses, I start to fancy that I may come by such a ghastly fate and how bad the actual reality of that would be. Then, barely more than moments later I start to obsessively entertain the notion that by envisaging it, I run a risk of materialising it. I really can get myself into a right state over that one and very quickly too. As I’m writing this piece I am visualising something very positive so as to overwhelm any negative imagery which in itself is indicative of how unceasing my neurosis can be. Its really quite humorous from a distance but many things appear different to what they are from distances, don’t they?
 
Fifty million people were killed for example during world war two , millions of which were murdered in cold blood and every single one of these people were overwhelmed by their unfortunate circumstances and would have stayed alive given the chance. So anything that I can say about my own death or my views and attitudes toward my own death are academic inasmuch as I will have no choice in the matter as they all had no choice. So it must be reasonable to conclude or at least to suppose that if human life is so very fragile and precarious and that no amount of unwillingness to die prevents death, particularly premature death, that all the detailed and neurotic concerns of those living, must be, have to be unimportant then? Inasmuch that death’s release would extinguish forever those concerns and that pacing and that fretting and analysing. The implications of all this is that the importance of ones earthly worries must be an illusion in the same way that life’s security and continued entitlement is an illusion the same.
 
 
 
Was it always that I wanted to archive? It was.
Was it always that I wanted to commit to a life of documented creativity? It was.
 
 
 
TIM SANSOM 31 ST MAY 2009

Thursday, February 03, 2011

DOVER COTTAGE

DOVER COTTAGE
 
As stark and as barren as a Victorian prison cell, the room watches a relentless continuance of lunacy, misfortune and suffering. The burdened souls whose thinking has been rocked and dislodged from lucidity sit here and smoke their cigarettes. Each of theses people veered from their normal beginnings through chemical imbalance, demonic tyranny, predisposition or even a genius which races with such intensity that its owner is giddy and bewildered and the world misses it. The floor beneath their shoes without laces upon their feet without socks exhibit’s a myriad of cigarette burns just in case an incidental visitor like myself assumes that much else goes on here, here in this room where they sit and smoke their cigarettes. The tall modern chrome ash tray, never cleaned, never emptied has taken many anxious blows, leaving its complexion peppered with dents. It leans to the left, wounded and diagonal like an idiotic miniature impression of a bombed building. The room is dull, insipid and minimal, skinned with dreary magnolia emulsion, aged and flaking. The walls are featureless enough so as to assist as a blanc page to the suppositions and dreads of psychosis, in this way magnifying the vividness of their fancies. The room is void of character and is in that an irony and an opposite pole to its human contents there within who are filled with character. Their illness numbs them into a peculiar freedom, though at the same time their self esteem is vanquished. Untouched, unaffected by the demands and expectations of norms, social cues and routines yet enslaved to rituals of acute detail and compulsively following issues and concepts in their thinking. This dungeon of disregard and inactivity in which society dumps them, compounds their luckless identity and exacerbates their unenviable ruminations. The ill fitting thrift shop apparel appears to be the compulsory uniform of those condemned to grow old here. They, elated above or depressed below any reckoning or concern for their appearance, have quite visibly been left to dress themselves. Done up like sacks of potatoes in their bleak ill matched garments, they cadge a pinch or two until next time of each other . Mood permitting, they roll a burn and watch smoke’s coiling and ascending behaviour.
As Doctors, janitors, co inmates, therapists and half familiar loved ones dance across the paths of their senses as some inane and macabre circus, setting them paradoxical goals amidst a web of gists and notions, beneath a fog of sedation and heartbreak……. they sit, and smoke their cigarettes.
 
 
 
 
 
 
TIM SANSOM OCTOBER 2002

BOY AND MAN (THE ROLLING NUMBERS)

BOY AND MAN ( THE ROLLING NUMBERS)
 
I had visualised a procession of numbers and they were all allotted a brown, blue or dull opal colour.
They rolled up and back down in my mind’s eye if I wished to reckon upon their interrelated proportions or to consider how rapid or how slow they progressed. They kept their vague and watery conservative colours and had distinct and individual personalities. Quite simply these numbers represented human age, my own as it was and as it would be. This conceptualisation was composed and meditated upon regularly from the onset of my having grasped numerical guile. I knew a kaleidoscope of associations for each year old that was and I succumb to particular prejudices where the concluding of decades was concerned . The post war world indoctrinated me as well as consciously tutored me to understand exactly what was meant by being at what time of life and apprised me of the widely accepted and well established prohibitions and prescriptions that one ought recognise as obligatory guidance in youth as well as maturity. I frequently drew comfort upon considering that save falling an ill fait, a far larger proportion of my time was to come than was spent. I made constant references to characters whether barflies or barristers in their being so many times my age and still in their prime so as to celebrate my own abundant future. Or I would take to shaping justifications to see no hurry for accomplishments by squinting in summer fields at the rolling numbers and relishing that the coalman was so many times the day or that I would only be finishing school when this eternity of life so far expired had laboured on to have merely doubled. I am now ten times the age I was when I began to watch and review and speculate upon and analyse the rolling numbers. I can still see them today but they are weary spectres and have many omissions in their entirety of form as they stagger back and fourth at my whim. A life of eschewing counting them, has thinned and dulled my memory and image of their forma potency into an incomplete parade of lame icons. But though the appearance of each one has declined as a result of a tiring brain’s recall , a far greater weakening and diluting force has been more primarily active in rendering them into their current form. Today they represent at the very least half spent and more likely a life mostly spent. So the ambiguous measures of months, days and decades which I enjoyed as a child are now without mystery , defined, and I know those measures. I am driven harder to look further and find comparisons to make my mortality seem an enviable one. In truth I did not believe as a boy that this day would come. I am unchanged in every way that could possibly be of currency or worth from boy to man. I view the world exactly as I did right or wrong. I have the same thoughts, imaginings, theories and contemplations and I feel a replica of feelings likewise. All that has altered in me is that which the clocks of circumstance have demanded and the governing bodies have ordered. If I relate or gesture in a different way, it is owed to the steering of etiquette, customs and the pulls of each transient societal notion of that which is and is not savoury. If my aspirations have evolved or mutated into a different kidney I have done it to placate the sea of those who know best. I am the boy even as the man. Many try to define past, present and future. This is not one such attempt, this is not the science of past, present and future so much as the feeling of each of ,and all of the three immersed within me. There is never present ever. There is only past and future. The past is not real (remember just feeling) and even if it were real it struggles so ineffectively to be relevant. The future is of the ultimate importance and is tantamount to my precious and hallowed life. The rolling numbers are but one of many of the visualised reckonings of infancy in my case. I do not say that they tune me with reality now or then, but they are cognitions which when reflected upon sober me to my unadulterated , unadorned and unconfused self. The nouns that named the fundamental household objects in my early childhood have allotted colours just the same and even many adjectives too. I approach my forty-first year now and muse for hypnotic calm and peace in my free time along those numeric zany ghosts having to believe that the ones who represent the years yet to come are plentiful. If they are not I generally console myself by settling upon specific numbers whose colours mark life already lived and who each compensate for having lost this forma ambiguity by reminding me of the halcyon autumns and the unprecedented avenues of endeavour that have been my story.
 
 
TIM SANSOM 15 TH JANUARY 2005

A DAY AT THE SEASIDE

A DAY AT THE SEASIDE
 
The English coast although I can not compare it with others has on the majority of my visits there made me happy. I used to despise the haven of commerce and tourism that it is bombarded with, but now I have returned to my infant perception of it. So what if the ‘Kiss Me Quick’ element, sneers coldly at my predictable attempts to relish a fixation of nostalgia and innocence as I traipse down the out of season boulevard. I will never see those colours quite in the way I did when I was a boy ever again, but the point is, I shall damn well try! I strongly believe that the present is the past being sarcastic where architecture is concerned in that it gives an example of what decline might be. White facades ,pink facades, European canopies , enormous lonely houses overlooking clusters of click clack pebbles
That have been kidnapped from the beach perhaps five miles along the shoreline and incorporated into the front garden to remind all those to whom which the seaside is a novelty , that that is where they are precisely located. This advertising technique hopes that momentarily afterwards, eyes gaze up at signs saying….Vacancies!…..Vacancies!……Vacancies!…….Without hypnosis who will know if this is ever effective? We observe the steep narrow cobbled back streets do we not? And I hung on tight to Mum’s hand on those first holidays, the wind puffed, our coats all flapping and coloured our cheeks in. It was fresh and we climbed those curious and quaint little streets . I enjoyed the magic…and the chapels. I was scared of reading the epitaphs because I just was alright?
The seafront was the land of milk and honey “Just over the brink” “Look you can see the gulls” “Not far now”……………Geeds navigates and we see the signs, I am very excited, everything is swirling into light blue and then finally crystal , shattering, clear, awesome alien world. God’s fair ocean, two whole thirds of this crazy bogie.
I want to dig sand. Slide ,wrench ,pat, slide, wrench, pat …..Tannah!! “Look Dad!?” “I know”
He says “You’ve shifted tonnes, have a rest son”
If nostalgia was said to be a potent phenomenon to experience I agree. It refers to the untouchable. It refers to the long ago and to the far away. Yet not only me the adult recalling me the boy but me the boy recalling?……Well I don’t know but , yea I can’t ever recall not being nostalgic.
Bed n Breakfast…the most vague memory, in actual fact so vague I am not certain I have not dreamed or imagined it. Bed n Breakfast?………Attentive, middle aged nurses changing white hazy pillow cases in a white hazy room. Obviously a little misconceived, but to my dying day I shall see those images.
This morning we’re going to drive a little. We may have a picnic and play Frisbees by the pill boxes.
Inside they are caked with soggy litter .Oh but those poor soldiers! But I’ll never be faced wit ha crisis such as that. The world is no longer red hot riffles and bullets and paralysed thumbs and forefingers torturously only just losing grip of the sepia photographs of their sweethearts only just before they drop dead at the age of eighteen into dirty [puddles with their aghast and open mouths half submerged and gunfire carrying on regardless on the unkind barren horizon …………..not home in time for Christmas.
No I’ll never be faced with an ordeal such as that . Today the world is “Man About The House” and “Top Cat “ and “Skinheads“ and “Frank Bough“ and “Slade” and “ Ivy Brogues” and Crombies and “James Bond” ah, James Bond! Penicillin fends off historical miseries like that.
Today, is as sweet as a day at the seaside.
We’re going to have a picnic now. We’ve spread down a frilly tartan blanket on Beechy Head. I love hot soup. I love hot soup in a flask. Off with the plastic cup. Then the smaller one without the handle. And finally the threaded top. Wow, steam belches out and is in high contrast with the fresh sea air.
I have to wait for it to cool but I am impatient and I burn my lip. I love my family very much. I loved my family very much then and I love my family very much now perhaps that captivates the incentive for this particular piece of work. I had a very, vary happy childhood. I am lucky.
Bob was a collie crossed with Alsatian. Jet black and full of life. All those cute canine mannerisms poke curious vision at a thrown stick. Always running after thrown sticks that dog, as do all dogs I suppose. One day on the beach we noticed his absence. Dad rolled up his sleeve and walked toward one of those huge timber and sometimes stone divisions that I can never quite remember the correct name for. They are used for separating depths and divisions in the water. He leaned over and sunk his arm into the deep side and pulled out a soaking black ball of fur. How did he know!!? Had he not done this Bob would surely have drowned. Today I am back home and all I have to remind me are some shells I collected. But TODAY today, all I have to remind me is my love for magic.
 
TIM SANSOM OCTOBER 1990-

DARK DAYS IN THE SPECIAL COUNTY PART TWO

DARK DAYS IN THE SPECIAL COUNTY PART TWO
 
 
A prerequisite of long back gardens to the forever pensive if not hallucinogenic mind of a child is that at their far end exists a unique and mysterious place to play. It may that the shoddy and rotting structure to an aged shed affords an exciting enclosure and exudes an awe of escape. Perhaps dense vegetation has thickened to prohibit paths and insist upon others leading to those peculiar tarnished and magical objects which lie point blanc against the finality of the back wall or fence. Sometimes the friends of older brothers contrive dens and covert hideouts of which a portion being blackened by a handful of full terms and summer holidays, mature into alluring relics which appeal to new infant explorers. On other times in other places it is not unheard of big black gardens being blessed with a single, large, shadowy and dignified tree. My own garden was dominated by a beautiful and imposing oak tree. So far as my reckoning was concerned of its kindred semi detached house being a savoury candidate for purchase. I rather regarded it as a secondary exhibit to the tree and not the reverse, which children are inclined to do. I recall its fragrant sap and how its full and wavering branches stole the early morning daylight when with gradual allure it had became my favourite haunt. Armature gymnastic appliances assembled by my well wishing Father hung suspended from its most robust horizontal arm and survived the infantile antics of aspiring and grandiose gymnasts, who were my friends and I.
At Derwentwater school in Acton West London, Mr Shievers, Mr Paice and especially Mr Arnold, upon learning that I was taking up life in Northampton , spoke well of it, made jovial references to its shoe making industry and promised me that the world would spin at a slower, more peaceable pace there. They, being a wholesome generation of astute comprehensive teachers, were all accurate, this was my new world. This small market town is where I would have a new beginning. Here, parents allowed their children unsupervised freedom to develop, their road traffic awareness, their anxieties of being harmed by traffic in the busy capital were perhaps valid and founded. Here we could choose between green and green, Abington park, Eastfield park and the pristine Headlands where dog ends in the gutter were as scarce as the odour of carbon monoxide. Here we arrived to the salvation and sanctuary of Sandiland road and we have four apple trees, that’s two cookers and two eaters. They lift your spirit to the garden’s left whilst the fence opposite is attacked from head to foot by all manner of wondrous botanical inevitability. These things of God in turn peer down upon (apart from a splendid tattoo of psychedelic flora) two successfully transported and replanted conifers, their forma habitat being the Acton town back garden of my nature loving green fingered Daddy.
The oak tree was a loved and cherished feature for us all. It was thought evoking. When introducing new friends to our garden I remember a feeling of vague yet definite pride of its comparatively unusual presence in an otherwise modest setting such as this.. Mrs Perrin during one of those women to women (over the garden wall) chats told my Mother, who had actually planted the tree.
It was the son of the elderly lady that had been the previous owner of our house. My concept of this lady was limited to the contemplations spawned by the bunch of keys belonging to her that we’d found in the dining g room drawer. She died in a local nursing home shortly after our moving in. Some fifty years before when her son was a small boy, he planted the tree from an acorn a small boy innocent as a budding flower and excited by an idea incited by his Father that he deliberate the beginning of something bound for greatness.. When this boy grew into a young man his life was taken from him in a torpedoed submarine during World War Two. He never got to see the majestic and noble oak which had resulted from his careful preparation.and imaginative childhood fun. Excitedly upon learning this, I searched for his name Gordon Metheral in the war memorial in Abington Square……..Sadly, I found it.
 
 
TIM SANSOM MARCH 2ND 2005

LUCY

LUCY
 
Her look was clean but is wasn’t natural if you see what I mean.
Was she dead or alive? I wasn’t sure.
No one singular caring nurses face would come into the picture. Rather there were small feelings of absence dashing in and around a whole central mother ship of absence.
Her poor pink chest plate obeyed the rhythm of the respirator.
Quite a few well intended friends or the persons they came with had suggested that it might help to talk or hold her hand or strike her with something locally iconic because that’s what you say at times like this! except that………I actually believed for a moment that I may have a chance, some peculiar bead of optimism in me thought I might be able to have her glow to the return of my estranged idiosyncratic familiarities and then I saw of myself that I was merely immersed in hope. So then we were looking at a cadaver and the tiny hope dashed was so very different to the tiny hope existing.
Lucy had gone out on the Friday evening to what she called one of her poof’s parties. These guys mostly based up in Kempton are in the business of overdoing it. It seems as though last Friday night was no exception. A cluster of whispers and say so says that they’d been at it on the coke and the mdma and a new legal but actually worse kind of mdma and shit loads of booze and that a few of them late and into the early hours had decided to take her dog for a walk and that was a twenty minute endeavour and that when they returned to the flat, Lucy, who had ‘gone to sleep’ or ‘crashed out’ was actually found not to be breathing and was blue. Apparently one of them then tried in vain to revive Lucy with
All that anxious thumb pads up and down on the bread bin malarkey and so many seconds this and so many seconds that and they did it earnestly for twenty minutes but nothing, not a jot of response and she was rapidly admitted into the intensive care department of the central Sussex hospital.
That’s where I came to see her lying there with nasal tubes and nastiness.
In the waiting area in the hospital there were a dozen or so of us waiting to go in and see her and the hospital permitted two of us at a time. Her Mother, Father and brother along with myself and some other close friends made up the dozen. Some I remembered and others were more recent an addition to Lucy’s life than from the time when I had last lived in Brighton or regularly seen Lucy. They all seemed a good sort and subsequently affected by it all. The first pair were invited in, Adam (A great mutual friend of Lucy’s and me) suggested that Lucy’s Mum and myself go in first, we both of us quickly readily agreed. That takes it back to the tubes and the nastiness. I held her hand, joked and gestured and upon leaving gently kissed her forehead. Lucy’s Mother Ann and myself returned to the waiting room expecting the staff to wave in the next pair, but that was cut short by a Doctor coming out to us to talk, She told us,’ That’s it I’m afraid!’ and although that up until that point we’d all had merely miniscule hope, it was at least hope, and the finality of having it removed brought an understandable wave of sadness over us all and some gave vent to emotion whilst others dealt with the moment differently which is how people are.
Adam rang last week to say that the funeral will be delayed at least until late October ,late October!?
The police don’t seem too satisfied that drugs are what killed her. Her life long friend Jo Ward emailed today to say she’s using the first two lines of an old song of mine to begin an anecdote that‘ll be paid lip service on the day, and the day is even looking like going into November now.
One day during the early summer of ninety-six Lucy and me sat on the beach near the West pier with a bottle of ‘Teachers‘. We looked upon the neglected relic that was the West Pier with the same aspect of slight sadness that day as we were in the habit of. The day was overcast and we happily filled with euphoria together as friends enjoying a devil may care day as the bottle emptied. Events like these happen between people during the late part of their early times together and it is not that both of you are unwitting of the fact that the future will soon by the very nature of things change down a gear or two into unfortunately more responsible and less exciting times. We were both very amused with the ensuing hilarity back at her flat in Lansdowne Street where Lucy in particular was unable to identify which of the two rooms we were in.’ Let’s go into the lounge’ she suggested ‘We’re in it’ I pointed out ‘No, the room with the telly in it’ she retorted ‘ Yes there it is look’ I said pointing to the said telly and then when she saw it we both burst into a very enjoyable fit of wheezing hysterics.
Lucy Molsom was an intelligent, astute, independent, creative, individual, resourceful wonderful human being and I shall miss her very much. She was fantastically stubborn and opinionated which won her the respect and affection of her friends and associates as much as her humour and wit.
Lucy’s funeral finally came on 12th November this year 2009.
It was good to see old friends. If I remember correctly you were as atheistic as many or at least as agnostic as me but……….God bless you anyway Lucy. Your friend Tim xxxxxxx
 
 
 
TIM SANSOM 21 ST DECEMBER 2009
 
 
 

CUTS

CUTS
 
I have always intended to clean up. One day soon I will go through my draws and throw out my shabby correspondence and unwanted trinkets. One day soon I will file everything . But for now it can wait. Its always that it can wait. When I die I will leave behind all manner of mess and junk, because I will never get round to it, because that’s my nature. That will doubtless cause some short lived amusement to the newcomers destined to discover it all, those young and vibrant souls of tomorrow to whom my former existence will mean so very little. I sometimes spend my time wondering what I would concern myself with next if hypothetically, I DID manage to make a tidy and ordered surround about me. I think my neurotic mind would want to continue cleaning up. I don’t ever remember not having goals and intentions. Without that my seat of consciousness almost ceases to exist, it is my self awareness and my self concept to count the pursuits in my life which give me fulfilment and which I am convinced will give me more as I continue to make improvements upon them. If I have been a long time in the practicing in or the accumulating of an endeavour, skill or pastime then so much the better, in fact there is all the reason to continue where I have already had successes and thus build bigger castles and little reason to spend energies elsewhere. For me the subject matter have been songs, poems and physical strength in the main. As a boy I was extremely impressed with the fashionable and gimmick laden interiors of the apartments and dwellings of heroes delivered to regular folk like myself through cinema and television. From the clipped and minimal Bondian lounges, to the regimented oak panel offices of congressmen I was giddy with adoration and envy. And so it was that I came to view my own ‘Apartment’ in the same light. The snag was that I was a five, six and seven year old boy, who not only was in no possession of any such apartment but didn’t even have claim to the full area of any one specific room in our West London house, much less the contents within. So I improvised and pretended to the world but more to myself that I ‘James Bond’ ‘Clint Eastwood’ ‘Simon Templar’ and many others inhabited all the palatial settings they were known to be casting deliberate tunnel vision to my own humble possessions and room area which was a mere quarter of our downstairs bedroom. This room I shared with my elder brother. My world was the desk and shelving that filled the recess in my side of the room and my brother’s was his the same. I would position my books according to the holistic look of their ornate spines along side incidental wireless sets and globes so that I was adequately deluded into believing I was entering or departing some great panelled study or beach side parlour. I would close my vision to the remaining three quarters of the room so as to maintain my fantasy. I would regularly ask and pester my brother to lend his cinema conscious talents by arranging my smaller possessions such as pen pots, stationary and toys in such a way with an artistic flare which he understood would meet with my unorthodox escape. This act of help which he understandably tired of was known as by my own title of ‘Doing me a show!’……’Oh go on Geeds, do me a show?!’…Another neurotic practice I had as a child was something which I came to entitle ‘Cuts’ Cuts were indicative of the cognitions natural to me which wish to clean up so to speak I would cogitate upon the heroes I so emulated and adored, daily and intensely. I would consider their wonderfully unrealistic existences and their subsequent omniscience and omnipotence. I enjoyed to observe and to check the continued absence of a single infraction in their plans, endeavours and business and I hungered it for myself. But being a child and being a hopeless romantic to neurotic proportions, I believed it to be attainable also! Attainable purely and simply by performing a kind of silent self baptism which rid away forever my fallibility. In this I mean that I would through my own invented ritual, conceptualise a rebirth by closing my eyes for a few seconds then reopening them, which immediately enabled me to start a fresh slate of characteristics and resolutions taking me to the status of the heroes of fiction. I was marginally more inventive than to settle for fiction’s existing heroes , I rather created my own. In this I was able to modernise them and to craft them so as to go unnoticed to the nosey and inquiring world yet maintain the vowels I had set them. My obsessive nature was unsuccessful in achieving any lasting duration to any one of these new beings. Instead I became attracted and amused by the variety of them that I could go on generating and so that is precisely what I did. The durations were not only failing to increase, but without question, they were rapidly and steadily decreasing. I began managing perhaps a week but after what now in hindsight must have been only nine or so months I was only lasting a matter of minutes and many times a day. I became weary with this neurotic habit and I came to picture my life as many lives cut up and sliced into unwanted ugly lines which I called ‘Cuts‘.I went to my Father to seek verbal advisory comfort and philosophical support in overcoming ‘Cuts’ but like all obsessions they can not be defeated but they can only be withdrawn from. Those two things aren’t quite the same in the mind of the obsessive whilst in reality those two things are exactly the same. So begrudgingly, I withdrew. But I still seem to want to clean up. Any one that knows me will tell you that I am notoriously untidy and disorganised and I’m sure that they would welcome me to tidy up in the conventional definition with open arms but unfortunately that is something quite different. One winter morning as a young man I was working on a scaffholder’s free holding when I was taken by a huge mound of weathered and industrial rubbish. In a momentary flash I saw that rubbish was constituted of many things in varying stages of decay and that each had a title and a definition which could be found in a dictionary and that therefore there wasn’t really such a thing as rubbish at all. I thought of every atom, every quark, each in it’s own place right and proper and it gave me a kind of obsessive conceptual pleasure and comfort . I had in a paragraph of thinking( Cleaned Up!) the entire world. Such rapid realisations are commonplace and are along with others like them
Often, adolescent inevitabilities. I don’t know if the same can be said of ’Cuts!’ but for me and my personal journey the two fused together pleasingly. It really looks very much like I was a child with ’Attention Deficit Hyper-activity Disorder’ long before the term was coined or the personality type regarded as a medical condition. I happen to maintain the view to this day that this is a personality type and that we all are, who we all are as my son is presenting with the very same traits and I don’t use the word ‘traits’ as exclusively negative so much as gifts.
 
 
 
 
 
TIM SANSOM 25 TH OCTOBER 2008

Wednesday, February 02, 2011

THE BODY

THE BODY
 
This morning I have discovered a corpse, lying half submerged in wet autumn leaves on Ealing Common. The man that it has been for perhaps fifty years before is thin, bald and short. It is an alarming site. I had thought it was perhaps a drunk sleeping. I had supposed from fifty or so yards that it was all manner of things save a dead body. But it is. It is!
I have nudged him too vigorously for there to have been no response and orated as many verbal prompts in vain.
The situation has registered and my adrenaline has began to flow. As my realisation develops my alarm increases.
He was lying face down, I grabbed two slippery vinyl wads of his ill-firing anorak and laid him on his back revealing a site that caused my alarm to increase further. Fowl play! Murder! An oval pool of crimson blood on his upper chest plate. As a result of my having moved his position the bright blood dripped copiously onto his gaunt and chiselled throat.
His eyes are shut, his expression peaceful, his life over.
Whose Father was this? Whose Son? Whose employee? And in what part of London was the dingy council flat that contained his loved ones who by now would be baffled by his absence?
Perhaps not London, perhaps not a man in alignment to any of these contemplations except whose Son? Once he was a child and before that a baby. An innocent, soft ,delicate baby without knowledge of this world nor expectations of the aspects within it that can and do lead to an event like the one that has occurred here this morning.
I do not know if this Man has been shot or stabbed. It amazed me how many times, that in one way or another I would forget that he was positively beyond revival. But he was, he really was.
The taste and mood of this situation was so much more vile than the mood and taste of fiction’s portrayal of such like, and the people of this world, myself included, turn on television sets and watch such portrayals quite regularly for entertainment. What can we be thinking? On television the blows are cushioned by the cleverly edited sound track music and distorted into sensationalism with the all to familiar (goodies-badies )ethic. Reaping the viewers emotions into (being with our hero all the way) so to speak, and revelling in this thing called vengeance. From ‘Aces High’ to ‘Jack the Ripper’ there has been success in transforming something quite awful into something acceptable. This is what a dead man really looks like These are the inane and terrifying colours of a murder. His drams, his nostalgia, his imagination, his love, his anticipation, his humour, his vitality, his plans, his aura…….Extinguished His curiosity, his hope, his understanding, his relief and his perception. ……..Terminated! . And anything you and I can feel he feels no more, or is this not what death is? We do not know, but can we afford to speculate? No, we flee from danger.
So who has committed this vile act? Was it an act of justice? Looking down at him now it is difficult to believe there is such a thing. It is horrible and that is all that matters and I would much rather have found him sleeping this morning but he is not asleep.
As for dignity that he supposedly like the majority of us that dress half as proud attempt to retain through our lives, ,what is there in his current physical position?
A stone’s throw from The Uxbridge Road, that is buzzing with a potentially shallow and disapproving audience. It matters not one jot to him now, and yet I feel embarrassed for him. Embarrassed and upset, though its so obvious to say so I reiterate upset!
What inspirations may be drawn from this ghastly affair? Perhaps to reassess the value of each breath of life? each gift of being? each sweet moment? The ones we ought spend wiser?
And now the police must be informed with haste, that I may not be wrongly tied to this deed!
With nausea and a psychological feeling of dishevelment, I make an awkward, rather asymmetrical trot for the phone box.
 
 
TIM SANSOM 14TH SEPTEMBER 1992

Saturday, January 29, 2011

BECAUSE OF SOMETHING FORGOTTEN

BECAUSE OF SOMETHING FORGOTTEN

I’ve laid in too long this morning and that’s left me depressed. The sleep was poor quality and disturbed with guilt. Some of the guilt is owed to the needlessly wasted morning and some is always there in me because of never acting upon it and giving it reason to abate it is guilt of foundation. My hand is numb where I have had it trapped under my ribs while lying on my left. The weather is non descript. My life is atypically fortunate and forgiving. People all about me believe in the lord Jesus Christ and people all about me believe we exist in an arbitrary, Godless and meaningless existence. Tea is much the same price as it was three years ago. Childhood is becoming shorter at the hand of cosmetics and magazines. I am a hypochondriac and an omnivore. I will never amount to very much and post boxes are still very English. Most new ideas with stealth lose their importance to newer ones. I care more about myself than I do you and so I should. There is no impact or revelation in one supposing that we each perceive colours differently whilst having the same names for them, but I enjoyed the era of my believing in that impact. Road traffic accidents result in varying degrees of misery. I detest sport and the church as specific outlets and pastimes but I would stand in the way of any force wishing to pluck and remove either from the ornate tapestry of our confused and glorious society. I do not feel inspired to go on a country walk presently. In a Zen-like stillness I like to focus upon the slightly imperfect silence of the room and ponder my middle aged flabby body. One does not find a half a dozen handsome pound coins down the back of the couch, one finds an awkward and economically ineffective litter of silly, dirty coins and as a result , leaves them there. The Suffragettes would have listened to me and declared that most likely, I have too much time on my hands, but I don‘t relate to metaphors like that, perhaps I might be better off if I did. I do not now nor shall I ever support Arsenal Football Club and I hope I won’t inconvenience you by saying the same of any other club but I do celebrate the enthusiasm it fills others with. My passions are even more obvious and conventional and live in me the animal not me the hopefully higher being. I think I shall strum in a clipped and deliberate manner, a singular am chord on my acoustic guitar. Hear it’s solemnity and it’s promise of yarn in it’s resonating sound. When it’s very last vestige of chime has abated, I return to the hypnotic silence. There’s talk of a pay rise at work but there’s talk of all manner of things in all manner of places so I won’t put much store on it. I have three accents and my kinder friends call it an adaptive and versatile ilk of virtue and I tend to think I’m easily impressed and egocentric. My depression is lifting because of something forgotten.
 
TIM SANSOM 20TH MAY 2005

Sunday, December 24, 2006

THE NIGHT OF THE SCHAUBLIN

THE NIGHT OF THE SCHAUBLIN


An ugly industrial machine, it hasn’t a mind or a soul, but you think it breaks down to spite you. You think it knows when you’re negative. It was thought up by men in the ground who no longer taste glee nor woe, what thought them up to begin with? This we would all like to know! You puncture the burr from the barrels; they’re hot in the wash on the Monday. All of them whistling and wheezing, ready for the weighing in the morning. I’d never let on to the most that poems and dreams were my wavelength, but sometimes they get a bit greedy and corner me into protest. I can’t help it if they can’t feel drama, I can’t help if it makes them soppy. I respect their perception so they shouldn’t wish me a soldier.
Is it the grill?.......Is it the grill and the cables? The pistons and the wires? The fuses and the plugs and the hinges?....Is it the flash or the coolant?...OR IS IT A MONSTER?
It Is so heavy, it’s spelt in it’s aura. It must be nine tonnes.
Behold!! Now I say this, him in the shirt he says very little.
Does he know his plunger line as well as I know my Schaublin?
We are friends of numbers, friends of situation, friends of a dutiful ongoing saga that will not tolerate the prospect of demise and I take my hat off to it.
The other morning when the half nearly rubbed me out, I was in a vast military hall. Bunting hung from the rafters, bellowing, ‘Once there was jollity here, and nobody over did it with the moonshine’ This hall was so very huge that no man could ever have chartered it, not with any industrial machine………………….Ah but wait my Schaublin has stopped. I must remedy it. That’s better, no but it was colossal and then after that a slight drizzle followed by some more and then some more.
An ugly industrial machine needs to party you know, so Larry and the boys took no notice. Well I’ve said it before, bonfire everywhere.
Who in their wildest dreams would ever have guessed anything save an unglamorous industrial machine? We swapped sanity for the best part of fifty minutes, me and the old Schaublin and that’s what it came up with.


Now you know why machines aren’t allowed to compete in contemporary poetry don’t you? Shave their grey whiskers, shave em RASP I can’t hear you RASP OK! They’re accepting innovation now. In fact one of the old (Stick in the mud) types has actually asked me to give him a brochure on developing new concepts in logic and an insight into Coo Coo Oink Oink surrealism! ‘Hold on Par’ says I ‘ You’re walking and I can see and it’s good and you’ve recently restored my faith in mankind and who knows by dawn you might even get a trot on but please spare us the sprint!!
………………….’I only wanted the brochure to wipe my arse on, not to read you pretentious pseudo intellectual shit’ he retorted. So I said back to him ‘Thank heavens for that, I felt threatened. For a fractional moment I thought you might jeopardise my being acquainted with one of the many types of escapism and retreat. Yeah, the trouble with elitist snobs is that everybody on earth is one and so in that respect the entire specie is kidding itself.
Well my schaublin is rallying well without fault tonight, I wonder if it likes my really gear really now biceps? No just teasing ha ha, I won’t look through those machine’s lenses again.
An ugly industrial machine, it hasn’t a time nor a goal, but you think it won’t die to
spite you. You think it knows when you’re negative. It was thought up my men in the ground who no longer taste glee nor woe, what thought them up to begin with? This we would all like to know.
I like the dirt on the training shoe. I like the laces to fray. Imperfection has stylish colours, let it build up for a while. All of the brawls in the bar-rooms, when lipstick smudges and runs. Life can’t run like Formica, sometimes dahlias are tarnished. Well I’m just an ordinary Joe, look at my hungry fawn cardigan. Of course it’ll tare in a month. Isn’t it beautiful? Quote…..Unquote!
Shallow, vague, cream factory clock, dreary and dreary O’ mean! Stink as a skunk, judder all day, been here since Ovaltine. Gulliver’s toil for perfection, strange Lillyput let him not . Only the glass and page. Only the room of dry rot.
An ugly industrial machine saw an unidentified flying object on the Kentucky porch…………………….Martha!


TIM SANSOM OCTOBER 1990

Thursday, November 16, 2006

JOHN AND MARIO

JOHN AND MARIO


John Hatfield and his elder, taller brother Mario live across the road. They are other people. Their Victorian pillared garden wall belongs to them, other people that they are. It’s somebody else’s garden wall. I don’t know if other people are real or weather they are conscious but if they are its only when I see them. There is something vaguely degenerate about John and Mario. They’re always in some kind of trouble. But the more I hear about them the more I get the feeling they aren’t allies. In fact they each hypocritically disapprove of each others delinquent antics as they learn of them through the grapevine at Derwentwater. My Mum and Dad aren’t other people they are us. Everyone I consider to be us, are every bit as real as me.


There are spectacular stretches of laundry paraded in arcs and crescents all along from the high rear end walls of Horn Lane’s three story houses on other people’s wire. A vast, aged and majestic tree fills up the far end of the Hatfield’s back garden and its thick robust horizontal branches have been lassoed and choked with rope for the two mischievous tykes to swing on many times during many hot summers.


All the kids around hear like to make go carts. They make them out of orange boxes, bolts, carpet off cuts, pram wheels and timber. They steer them with their feet. Joel Joseph who works for the Acton Gazette says if I can go the length of Essex Road on mine and stay inside the central path of pavement cracks all the way he’ll give me ten bob.


We’re not going to hear about skate boards yet for a few years. We might have seen the occasional one on Sesame street but for the time being it hasn’t registered into our consciousness or appetite so roller skating will do us just fine.


I love the smell of caps.



TIM SANSOM 16TH NOVEMBER 2006

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

MAKING SENSE OF SUNSHINE

MAKING SENSE OF SUNSHINE




How grey and overcast do you want?
The South coast out of season.
Whitehawk ,Seaford, Rottingdean, Woodingdean, Rodean, Eastbourne, Molescombe if you’ve the belly for it and even the lysergic acid experience of Newhaven.I don’t care if it sails you to Dieppe, it ought to, it’s the least it could do for you after having exposed your cautious senses to its macabre facades of staid and unnerving ambiguity. Or you can do a twirl in the deft icy breezes speared up from the sea and head out past Hove to Portslade and Worthing beyond if you’re not feeling enough solitude already. What do you think?
What’s the feel of this place?



I don’t feel welcome here.
I’m not supposed to live here.
This is a place for wealthy people to live.
This is a place for happy people to live.
This is a place for people who made the right decisions long ago.



This is a place for people who do not get bogged down with analytical thinking.
This is a place for people living in the nineteen fifties to live.
Or the nineteen somethings anyway. Something good, something romantic.


This is a place much bigger than me in every way.
I can barely make the rent for one of these large lonely Regency bed sitter rooms. The right decisions not these wrong recurring ones.
This is a part of England constructed to maximise the concept of anticlimax as it goes into the off season months.
To a child in July it is………..
To me now it is……………….


Howling winds lick round and lash the stone and bricks of pink and yellow buildings here in winter. Whoever owns them knows more than me and lives their lives in a way more admirable and commendable than I do my own.
The hue and stature of these colossal mansions are tantamount to the vast distance between my failure and their success. Their abundant numbers vanquish me into……………………

Oh I can’t make it work here I’ve tried three times.
I’m going home.


Hove goes on forever with roller coasters of lonesome back streets filled with enormous properties. Most are opal and soulless. Seagulls like ethereal Meshershmits scavenge bin liners, which, half blown away already make this whole place yet one more gradient more inclement.


Three time yes. Once beyond the Palace peer up at The Marina near The Hand In Hand. Once at Lansdowne place and once when I got married at Montpellier Crescent there at The Seven Dials. But I’m off home I can’t make it stick here.


TIM SANSOM 13TH NOVEMBER 2006