Chapter 8: You must go On a Date
I went with the man not of my dreams but of my dares and because Mary said that was the only man who would have me. So I went with him and much to my surprise this young woman came too and he so amazed by her beauty he had only eyes for her and me standing looking forlorn with rage and disenchantment. I was looking at the train ticket he buys for her as she has no money and forgot to buy bring it. I am filthy with this thing and it is not good there is too many beasts like them the blondes who take what they do not need or want. The way he is round her as if in love.
She seems drunk all the evening and me I am sober as hell.
All my desires go underneath me as if the death like beetle has got them there is not much to say after that the night went lonely I was alone aloof again and there seemed to be no point in me staying as everybody had more and more fun as they drunk more and more.
Someone read about teddy bears and others did their own thing and there seemed to be a grave error on whose poems were most good when drunk.
“The one with the teddy bear poems was going to have a collection out with songs and singing.”
The others were as sane as you and me except for the lesbian who thought herself a male but I did not share my opinion did not want to upset her.
The guest poet being in this way gone we got the others to thank the evening for and I am in a filthy mood. I think that is why they never invited me over again? Might be that simple I am not into them anymore there seemed to be a collection of mine out and there is no invites to read them. I am dismissed from their thoughts and there does not appear to be communications or anything as everybody wants not criticism but good will the evening having progressed to such an extent as the lady of the manor having her legs entwined with the poet whose genius was growing as we speak.
The man he is odd he is older than some a grandfather of seven and there he is round her like a pest and me not even bothering to interfere with it. There is nothing we go to the Survivors event and I leave him reading with her clapping his poems. I do not think he is a great poet but he has talent and good luck to him.
I move it in the night there is the wind to creep me round and round there is there whispers the wind in my head and there is there is nothing there. I startle myself by starting to cry and sob but there is nothing to shout or scream to.
At University there she is again this time as Mary. She is a middle aged aristocratic with a bra size of 33 and a bit and she is always talking about her husband’s. She has three children one of who has died because she was disabled. There she is my counsellor and I am always ready and able to see her once a week she comes all the way from Wiltshire has a good sized house and her husband has blood pressure with his head hitting the ceiling every time he walks and he falls flat on his side. She is worried about her husband and has the ability to revive him but she is worried he might die and she might be a wife no more but a widow. I am so sorry.
After quite a time we play the game we usually do and I find out that much to my surprise that Mary does not link or have connections to reality that in her world there is no reality or for example she lived in a fantasy world when she did this and the other for example she has three children and that makes her a carer when questioned she does not know things which would make her a mother.
She is this and the other when she does not understand the first things a child needs. She is absolutely without anything but this greed. The first thing she says about her husband is he is with tights and is wealthy and his wealth is what matters. Although she loved him but the honeymoon is over.
I am doing my art degree and this makes me vulnerable if I figure things out too quickly so I do not even shatter the calm in the atmosphere as we recap the week’s events and share out the counsellors speak out. There is too much of me in this room I have been doing this far too long and there is nothing to share with this wife who has no interest in me other than to rob me blind then I have a boulder thrown at me and then I try to commit suicide.
Because near Christmas I was forced to go and see her this woman who enjoyed me.
She looked startled about this. She actually looked so startled like my mother. Like a hen or something. I wanted just for that moment a fleeting moment. But the thing is not to be a jerk as if this was not enough. I did nothing that day and we cut it short because Christmas Eve and matter of fact she said she was a officer in the remand centre or something. She was going to see me through that as well.
So taking myself to some place safe I took stock and stopped my shaking.
I just had to grin and bear it.
Then Mary she got pregnant.
“After five years we are now at the end of your Masters degree and I am honoured to have helped you with that.”
Mary keeps on holding her stomach.
“What is it Mary?”
“I have gastric intestines.”
“They had to remove my womb.”
“Did you hear in the library there were two couples who coupled like they did mean it?”
“I do not wish to discuss that in our time maybe in the canteen.”
“Well they must be in love or something?”
Mary avoids this but smiles. I am trying today says her face.
I grow over confident and share the details of my psychiatrist with her and soon to be the spoils of war are that I get my masters degree plus counselling with mother on how to improve our relations. I attack her and end in the asylum for the insane. I mean to be counselled constantly is bad if not worse thing that can happen and I am not married to mum.
I do mean to be rude
The thing is beastly is it not? The thing is stranger than fiction is it not? What is happening in England is it not? That there is so much to seek to rationalise what is it for? That the health service we are supposed to have is not working. That the rich are exploiting their trust as they are the trustees of the reason. The punishment is given by the rich and society’s wealth is governed by the rich but they need the poor to do the donkey work. The volunteering system is a form of systematic abuse.
Why is it a systematic abuse because volunteering is a form of gateway to a job and if one is volunteering for years that means you never had a job.
They are over extending their times because mostly they want to chat on their phones to all their friends. The poor are left with their phones to do this the only thing which seems plentiful to them. The food has to be brought from the food banks and all other necessities are paid for by the Save the Children funds. Done to death by the stars as they gallop to their million pounds ordeals to beat the Wogan who did it best of all before he died?
The stars whom we pay to see in there with their gowns and when they have their way with the wicked and the rich they too must die in order that they do not share or show their flabbergast to the world to seek a film role and not get it is the worse form of punishment to the Marilyn’s of this world they dislike it. Her husband was going to place her in the asylum for the insane with her dear mother.
Her husband had been a child star when they wed. He was the one in the river of No Return when Marilyn had her cowboy suit on in the river bed with her was her co star Robert Munchum.
We pay to see her in Madam Taussauds and they think this is a elegant way of doing business and then at the palace there she has a family we pay them at the Buckingham’s all that money and then we pay again to have their house redecorated.
I swear that what she had said was that the visits would cost 25 pounds a go and it would go on decoration and rewiring and now we have to spend several millions of the tax payers money on her palace? And someone in a council house is not granted a extra room to move into if the kids move out?
And you see her kids have moved out of the show case palace and still she has no room to move in. One lives where Margaret used to the rest are in Cornwall and there is another God knows but he is within reach of someone who does the red light district. The other one is sober and does the army. The daughter has a thing about saving the world a most lady like woman with the upmost horsemanship.
She knows the minutes and she does them well and her grace on horseback and hunting is okay too? Of course and she is more beautiful as she is also involved in fashion with the magazine which is Vogue. That is Vogue why Vogue is indispensable reading for all the women in the world.
Back at the palace they have a cash flow problem due to over working themselves they are always at risk.
Her open for all hours means now she is a fire risk and this makes her palace they see show case thing but if we pay 25 a go then we have reason not to pay for the millions this is wiser is it not? I gave you all theme parks. But madam I am not allowed anywhere near them parks. And if you gave the nation the parks sixty years before should we still be paying for them?
That someone has to work and live in a one bedroom and this is a justice? That the poor are encouraged to become more poor and the rich richer because of the economic growth but when the poor have been frozen for ten years with no pay increases. This new slavery has become permanent fixture? What does it take for us to wake up and ask the right question? Who are we doing this for who are we working for what are we paying all this for?
“We take the tourist in.”
“The tourist are not the only ones taken in.”
Another thing went wrong
I was becoming destitute because her marriage had gone she again stripped naked modelling and there she was in the nude during life drawing. I had sold pieces before and had been talked into going to this life drawing class done expensively and with taste. By some homeless charities who specialises in splendid self mutilations and servant like behaviours towards the gentry. We are not allowed too many differing opinions and there is absolute admiration towards these powerful beings that can make us or break us.
The gentleman and woman do pay for this privileges and if there are suicides and this and the other who can blame the charities? No not him again yes there had been some dead people but they were man and they had been this other woman but she had been older than Picasso so there is not much to blame anybody can there?
The gentry who help out and take what they can from the torments of others because they do not realise that we too are humans and not beasts.
“Yes she is splendid.”
“What did you say”?
“I am in agreement she has done a short poise for thirteen minutes and I have the exact angle I desired.”
“Yes of course anything else?”
“Oh please another angle done in a similar manner or differently?”
“Let me sit in the front?” said a male.”
“Yes let us all do.”
“I prefer the side.” I said
“The angle might be better in the front?”
“I am sorry that angle is too rough pubic hair and all that.”
“Yes the bush.”
“Yes it is like it has to go.”
“When the husband dislikes me to do away with the pubic hair when I am modelling.”
“You are back from your honeymoon?” asked the Tutor.
“Yes just back.”
“How interesting did you go anywhere?”
“We went to Paris.”
“I have been there when in my twenties.”
“What happened?” she asked.
“We my sister and me went to all the museums what could have happened?”
“You remind me of somebody who said it snowed in May on her honeymoon she destroyed my interest in maths and English.”
“Some are bad teachers.” She said.
“I would never destroy anybody at all even if it hurts me.”
Hear! Hear we all shouted in her praise.
“Oh that is romantic of him to have taken you on such a trip.”
“One only marries once.”
“Some people marry all the time.”
“I think that angle might suit your purposes the face might reflect the public hair?”
“The thing is that does not mean anything to me.”
“Sex and the face?”
“The face does not express her public hair and versa.”
“She might be right.”
The debate over us got on with the drawing.
“Time is up.” Said another woman had not seen before.
“What I just got used to that one.”
“We might have to do it again?”
“No way had I got college.”
Unlike the man who had done the nude in a rude way. You see models are hard to come by and this one was the apple of society. I was and should be proud to do such a drawing said the tutor. In his drunken manner and all that artist must be able to paint and suffer at the same time and much to his surprise. I had not suffered as expected.
“How does a painter or a poet suffer?”
“Like death’s mask.”
“If only he had not said that a death mask and Freda Kahlo?”
“Yes something Mexican.”
“Something to eat?”
“You have not heard about Kahlo?”
“No. I did a sketch drawing it got stolen but now it is in my style.”
“I think you should go to the museum.”
“Nothing doing there too they disliked me or something?”
“Too like a Mexican they wanted something English.”
This model was easy on the eye and did speak gentry like. Dark hair and all that but what mattered was her complete posture and there was nothing protruding nothing indelicate about it? Well like Picasso said a woman or a man is when out of use in a way doing the crappy art. He had become that when he had been ninety.
I had become this in my forties. There is nowhere to hide one must do life and this and the other. If the woman the wife his wife the one who had been in his dreams. That is there all the time taking the shine? His wife and he taking the world by storms. What can one do but take note and paint her as she wants to as she deserves to be painted?
“Do you see me do you hear me do you see me?”
“I will seek you out and destroy you dismantle you.”
“Bit by bit tear you to ribbons.”
I did a couple of drawings and pastels of her in the nude and she spoke about her husband. I did not think much of it but my sales afterwards went down. I had sold twenty two paintings and then nothing. Banned by the clan for having her husband or something but then back then they still married to each other.
That was the year her marriage broke down. I had no idea that there was a connection with her and me for I am suffering from amnesia and sometimes when the going gets rough I am totally with no memory of the past.
That her behaviour had caused it and cost her the marriage. The marriage that everyone had been talking with their first nights with their constant first nights. The gala nights the constancy of behaving as if the golden couple. But what did matter to them was the show the show of the show and the showers of praise.
Are you going to marry this man?
“I am adult enough to know not to.” Said Moira.
“But that is not being special.”
“Yes I am.”
“Sleep with men and not marry them now Moira that is bad of you.”
“I might have got a name”?
“From the publisher?”
“Whatever made you ask that?”
“I thought I heard the buzzer go.”
“Buzzer I do not have one.”
“There it went again.”
“Well I had it put because of the fire I needed to know I am safe.”
“Well so do I because the thing is odd things are beginning to happen to me too.”
“We did nothing but snuggle.” She added about her date.
“Snuggle is that all.”
I was still a virgin than and nothing made sense to me. I was losing control at being forty.
“Moira I think about it constantly.”
Then one night in this far away land in the times of now there chimed into me this sad story.
“You have liver disease and you might die.”
“I can be made well?”
“If we cut the medication which we dare not to.”
“How long will I live?”
“About two years.”
“But they did cut off my medication and then in the masters while I slept or was lethargic time passed and I passed the exams.
I had got better and was walking down the road and I kept on thinking. I would pay anything not to be a virgin any longer I was in my fifties. I would do anything to shag any men and this had my hair white and I had become to stoop. There was nothing when I went near a mirror I begin to screech. I am so lonely ever so lonely what I am supposed to do with it now? Who did I SAVE the bloody thing for not going out with him when he went out with her and me alone. Unwanted useless! What I am going to do for the rest of my life imagine this me imagine me with a walking stick and still virgin. I can scream.
I have wasted enough time and I went and gave in.
I am no more a virgin.
The blood has flowed and there is nothing but me like everyone else.
“You should never have you will get obstreperous?”
“Fuck off doc.”
He jumps ever so slightly.
“Look it is a fact people of your ethnicity do have obstreperous when their periods stop.”
“I do not care it is quality that matters besides I was dying anyway.”
“Your liver is under control.”
“Yes but how long if I am upset or on medication.”
“Look it is wise to be careful.”
“It is not wise not to live.”
“I want to live. I must live. I want to live the same as everyone else.”
Mr is going to the painting studio
Let me get my paints out while the Second World War is raging on the man of the moving bombers must stand still while I take a painting down or two. The foreground is that way and the side is the angle of the thumb is that and I am doing a thumb sketch of the whole thing with a pen that the batman has just given me. Quarter of an hour while the Germans take time to reload and we do this sketch quicker than they reload.
“Actually they have gone to tea as well sir.” Said the Batman to Churchill.
“That is alright then our intelligence service working.”
The canvases have been moved by convoy and there is too much going on to make me think but be still the Germans and be quiet while the man of the government does his painting. A landscape painter of such renowned that he can be mistaken for a master.
Hitler got on the wrong side because he not as good a painter as I am. His dubs or thereabout not that sort to sell out. I mean the man is a mountebank. Totally lacking in talents which he had.
A master work or two in the fields of Germany while we win the war and make them good. The lesser painters die in their drones but not the governing bodies. Some soldier trying to make believe he also a painter got bombed straight away out he went with only his boots to appear. In his epitaph. His painting sir? The man is too poor to mention.
There he got it wrong he had begun to do a drawing about the men in the trenches and the bomb fell on him. That is because he not in the government sir? Yes nothing can bomb us. But Mr Churchill got out of his paints and not one bomb did fall on him. One could not miss him could they? Painting away in the fields with the enemy approaching. Intelligent services worked for him.
“No actually sir it is all in the timing we can time to a tee when they drop their bombs because how long it takes them to come back after refuelling.”
“They must know that about us too?”
“No we are too clever sir.”
“Yes especially in the arts.” He placed some more turpentine on his brush to make a clearer line.
“Let me get my paints out. This scene is ravishing.”
“No yours are not as good.”
The poets were in the First World War.
From Rupert Brooks to others there is so many of them to read and always there will be this English soil which is forever when I lie in. It is heart breaking and there is this other one quick there is gas and all the poets must put down their pencils and stick a gas mask on.
The lesser poets of the last war only got into their trenches and wrote poems; we have more space in this war we got it made so many have been bombed we can’t go wrong. Wilfred Owen wrote some of the finest poems. Wilfred was only a lieutenant and Sassoon was a captain. Being out ranked Owen did not get the hospital bed to make his trauma go. He did not write his work and did not see the bomb as he grabbed his notepad to write his greater poems in.
At the near end of war poor Wilfred dies.
It is only a week left and he dies while writing his last poem. The thing is when a poet gets a flow going only a bomb can stop it the war having been stopped meant he had no more to say. The publishers were surprised at the quality of his work and did say when he edited them he would be placed at the publishing firm. He was ever so excited but the supply and demand was huge because having all the war raging and working as a poet meant he had to make do with little sleep.
Besides he just found out he was a gay lad and he meant no harm to anyone except in them years it was against the law. Being a law abiding citizen he did not know he could be put to jail because of his sexual feelings. He felt a failure as a man and he did his best not to show his feelings to the captain Sassoon who was a gay married man. I mean his wife very understood of his real needs so she gave him a alibi and I do not know where she was but she did not miss him.
She was having a field trip round the army barracks nursing the soldiers and was doing the war effort with effectual ease. In her spare time she was making ammunition at the munitions company.
Having kept herself busy of course she did not miss her gay husband who was also suffering from over work.
Wilfred Owen on the other hand was doing too much for his poetry having over taken the war effort made him feel a failure as a soldier and tired out.
But due to him being of the lower middle classes he did not have the same treatment as Siegfried Sassoon and Siegfried. He was not placed in the hospice because he was not consider ill enough and being not unkind he said he had to be with his men to save them from having no officer in the field.
A thing loaded with meaning and good intent but if he had only known what it would do to his poetry sells? He would have done it sooner according to today’s editors and publishers. If one does not die or cut off one’s arm then one is not a real author. How is one to write without an arm?
After he was discharged after considerable services to the army which he did with great duty and decorum. Which he served his country with the duty and devotions which is the rights of the soldier. That is why he was a lesser poet because first and foremost he was an army officer. You see it is the duty of the poet to be first the poet then a poet but for an army official to be army official except when one is suffering by trauma which got him writing.
When he left the army he only wrote medico poems. If only Owen had been chosen to be in hospital. He too had been suffering post traumatic stress. But there was simply no room and Siegfried Sassoon had family who can pay for the privileges. Was it because his name ended in a W and Sassoon had the S word who knows.
What mattered was the poet died and the villain of the piece did it the war and all that. We may read his works afresh and come away refreshed by the war paints and all that but what matters is there is not enough poetry in this world.
Yes right sir but what lost the poets is that the war did not last long enough if it had we would have made better poets. Yes sir. But we made up for it in the second world war with paintings and all that. Yes the paintings took off and we have now the best selections in the world. Yes sir.
So many of my paintings sold for the sums of money and I mean to retire on them. Look Mr the war is going down a smoke or two? Smoke yes let me light up.
Meanwhile Hover in America was doing great progress with the cartoons.