daylight robbery
curtains moved...
...shadows behind the nets….
…men in a dark suits rang her bell but she would not open the door…and when they came
every day we knew something was wrong…
…and…
…then came the women brought by their men in large vans and black Mercs parked in the wrong places, not where they should but they didn’t care. Their voices were loud, their children loud too and their mothers wore headscarves in black, hiding their hair. They climbed the stairs, no lift, skipped down, never tiring, to put armloads into the van till it was bursting, strapped chairs up un top and then on to the next one, and special things into the cars. Sounds of laughter, frenzied footsteps echoed in the marble hallways…not what the curtained shadows liked, not tolerable, common this sort of thing, offensive to some who checked their geraniums in their window boxes for the tenth time…not wanting to be seen as watching…not nice…
I’ll have nothing to do with her one of them said….not any more…it’s all her own fault said another, and now look at her…
…too clever by halves, knew it all, have you seen all her books? And the paintings? You see the paintings? No clothes on in some…and no telly, no telly to watch, instead she would read…and what good did it do? All that knowledge and all that knowing…no one wanted to know what she knew and it was no good to anyone here. Her curtains were grey, not washed even once and she smoked all day long, drank whisky in bed…she had no friends here, not one, not at all like us…she just did not fit…had it coming she did…all her own fault…
Ulrich and Tanja, a judge in Ohio…
could I find the right one?
There were thousands of them.
Seventy four thousand by that name on the web…
I could be looking forever…
I know she exists but I could not find where she was. They disqualified her from her life, took it from her and sent her to an institution…
…Herta, who’d grown up in the country.
She lives somewhere still, locked up, no one knows where, no longer has her say, no longer exists… they took it all, so nothing was left…dismantled her life, took all that she had, her money and her belongings, all her collections and her photos, her memories and all the muddle of her living.
Herta collected all manner of things and she would part with nothing, not anything would she give away, she kept it all. And if she collated her collections in the beginning, in the end she failed to keep up with all that she collected. It was all too fast for her and time was running out…she could not keep up with herself, age was faster than she was, and in the end her things ruled her and all her life…not much time for reading even, eyes too heavy from the drink. Her flat a Rumpelkammer, her life a Rumpelkammer and worth nothing. They cleared it all away, all that there was, like gleaning the last flesh from old bones, the black scarved women who lived at the far end of town, sharing the spoils of poor Herta’s life.
Drawings of herself and prints of naked beauties they took and they dragged out her car and her silver and jewels, her hats and her dresses and all her shoes.
They disposed of her books, her Shakespeare collection, mein Kampf that Hitler had written and belonged to her Mum and her Dad, her china thrown out, lace cloths torn up – no one would buy that today – small antique tables and Tiffany lamps, her grandfather clock and a hundred baskets of knitting went to the tip. Her life unfurled for all to see like a movie going back in time…
The baskets she’d hung in the flat from hooks in the ceiling and from the back of every door and when there was no more room for hanging she put them wherever she could find a space. She never finished a piece, not finishing what she was making was the guarantee for more living…the baskets, all a glorious array of colours of bits of scarves and sweaters, of gloves and socks for someone one day in red and green and purple and some with sparkles to make them shine. Nothing was finished, nothing was done and the baskets were stacked…and each piece in a basket…
Herta was clever.
Herta was bright.
Herta was lonely.
Born out of her time.
No one believed her…
…no one believed what she said…
Simon, Rudi, Beth and Betty. Robert, Jim and Britta. Mac on Facebook. Alena on Twitter. Karl, the musician and Kevin who lived in New York. Russ and Joe and Kathy.Jami. Marietta in Cape Cod. I googled them all. Herta, the pilot, one of the first…but who believed who she was? She’d got the proof, she had told us and she’d got all the papers to show if we wanted to see but they were now gone, no longer of import, no longer real…
She sat in her chair and she smiled and she dreamed of her Mummy and Daddy and Rosa and Sis, all dead a long time and Opa whom she’d loved the best. And she saw them all, talked to them too and all thought her mad…she swayed back and forth and she smiled as she watched the carpet beneath her grow dark as the warm ran down her legs and spilled over her slippers…time for her tea…
They had all gone and now all was quiet and the curtains were drawn, all was as it was. Lights shone bright in the marbled halls, soaps were playing…everything as it should be….
I looked and I looked,
There were thousands of them.
Bernd, Tammy and Tay, Norbert and Sara, Kristin and Steffen and Laura…
Could I find the right one?
another world
Mum knew best
and
I knew that she knew.
Mum said that I was born at the wrong time and I believed what she said. I was born in the blinking of God's eye, that's what I thought. Born when he wasn't looking. And that is why I was a dreamer they all said. I didn't know yet what I wanted.I would grow up one day, they said...they also said I was a late developer and in the end it would all sort itself out, it would all be alright. Right now all was how it was meant to be and I believed that too because it was the only thing to do. I could have rebelled. I could have protested but I didn't know what against so it was best to shut up and wait...
I could be a doctor or I could be a singer, an artist maybe or a writer, a model like Twiggy perhaps...I was skinny enough...but Twiggy hasn't got the guts, not like me, go topless I mean...Twiggy doesn't have any at all and mine were small enough, a boyish figure Dad had said when I asked him how I looked. But really, they just right for toplessness I thought. The weather is too cold though and my room only has the heater for the pink. No heating on in our house except for when Dad fetched the paraffin from the garage down the road, so in the end it wasn't worth the hassle, even when no one could see. I did have to try though, make sure that Dad had gone up to bed and wasn't going to catch me in front of the mirror when I would step away from all that they said that was and all that they said that would be...
...now my friend Neith not only had the perfect job she was also prettier than Twiggy. Neith was so wise and so creative. I wonder if her Mum had taught her like my Mum did me or if she learnt it all at school...she learnt to weave a loom and as she wove she dreamed like me. I sat and dreamed, she dreamed and wove and she wove the world anew and all that she conceived in her pure heart she then brought into being. Neith was all things that were, all that would ever be and all that had ever been. And no one had ever laid open the garments by which she was concealed...except her breasts of course...topless...you see... as was right for the time and was the fashion...
...and the fruit she brought forth was the sun...
...and to honour her they lit a thousand lights that burned all night so she might see the thoughts that she was weaving. Neith wore a cobra crown and could shoot an arrow like the best of them. She was in charge of warriors when she wasn't weaving, helping them enter another world when their time had come. Neith outstretched her hands and guided all who wanted guiding and she wove them in her weaving, each a thread to be remembered always...Neith had the perfect job...
...and she picked the perfect colours for the loom that day, varied the threads so she might vary the texture of the cloth. Soft yellows and gentle purples like heather, she thought of the moors and of ice blue skies. Soft winter greens and golden bracken and a girl running, coat zipped and her hood pulled low, jeans torn at the knees and her scarf flying as she dodged tussocks and ice covered pools that snapped and splintered when she missed one. Snow on the wind, it would get cold. Her dog ran ahead, tail held high, showed her where a fox had run or perhaps a deer or a hare. She thought of the girl and her name would be Heather and soon she would have to grow up...a woman quite soon, leave her childhood behind, in safe keeping in her heart for the dreaming...
...and what about me?
...tired just now and cold and titties were freezing...best go to bed 'fore Dad shouted 'night' and pop his head in to check on me on his way to the lav...
...topless 's not right for us, Heather thought...not really, time is all wrong...Gran wears her corsets, Mum made her bras so her nipples would show...and mine weren't quite ready for a bra yet...
I could still be a doctor or an artist...I could be a dancer or I could direct a play...but I could be a weaver and make rugs in soft colours for floors and hangings for walls. I only had to wait until the time was right, just as Mum said...
and...
she always knew the best
and
I knew that she knew...
A marshy meadow – a quiet pond
A lonely road and a hill beyond
In the reedy marsh below the hill
On starlight nights when air is still
Where rushes and cresses grow green and crisp
There goes, dancing, Will o’- the Wisp,
Will o’- the Wisp so gay…
You heard him coming, a long way off on a still night and by the time he’d reached the village they were there in welcome. You could not mistake the song of the traveller, it caressed the world around him as he walked…soft his footfall, stepping time…he came on the same day every year on the 14th of July, it was the time for telling…and leave then the next day…
… every so often Farman the traveller came to tell the news, once a year for sure he would, staff in hand, cut from beech, worn and polished by time, he had carved it himself, a ‘V’ at the top where he could rest his thumb or turn it about to kill an adder if he had to, a bundle slung over his back, his hat pulled low, felted and warm…good even I July and you would hear him singing as he walked towards the village and the all the children came to greet him, grown ups reticent and slow to follow, suspicious, as it was not safe to have a stranger in their midst…and after a cool drink he was offered he began to talk of what he’d seen and what he’d heard. He talked about the king and of the folk he ruled and he told them their crimes and their suffering as well as of deaths he remembered and of births and who’d wed whom…he talked of fireballs in the sky and the comet and all, burnt harvests, of torches in the heavens and four rainbows all at once…how all were afraid in Ireland and Scotland of the fires that drifted across the skies at night and around the sun in broad daylight…he talked of Saints and of bishops, of maids and knaves, of feuds and of wars…they gathered all around him now, hungry for the telling and to know just what was going on…
...and
they listened in awe and gave him a bed for the night.
We see the gleam of his lantern bright,
he said in a low voice,
looking around him
and
gazing from face to face,
Flitting about the quiet night.
He balances on the cattail tops,
Then to the rustling reeds he drops,
And reeds to the rushes will softly lisp’
Here comes, dancing, Will o’- the Wisp,
Will o’- the Wisp so gay…
…and before he gets ready to leave in the morning he listens to what was new in the village and tells just one story more. He tells the story he likes the best, the tale of Lar Swithin, word for word the same every time and every time he comes he tells it. The children wait with baited breath and eyes upon the traveller in faded red, his hat on his lap ready for leaving, about the the teacher, who taught the sons of kings, whose sister died in childbirth, his beloved mother of the fever and his father who was lost somewhere on the moor…Lar was a bit like him, he said, he travelled just the same but he had lots of money so he travelled not on foot. He’d built a church in every county where he stayed and they named each after him…there was rejoicing when he came with gifts of toys and money for the builder, the carpenter and mason and there was laughter but great sadness when he left…
…and
...when he died they buried him just as he’d asked…so he might rest across from those he’d loved by
the church wall so all might walk where he would lay and rain might fall upon his breast…
…and Farman tells about the dreadful storm that came when he was moved and how it stormed and rained for forty days, how fire shot across the skies, how Lar could be seen at night when the moon was setting and the grey mist lay low across the moor. The wind would howl and drive the branches ‘gainst the windows, rain would seep in every nook and every cranny and run under houses in rivulet streams…they had no choice but make of him a Saint, to appease him for the wrong they’d done him…but it was all too late….
…all the churches had to have a bit, an arm in one, head somewhere else, he was sore cut up and put in holy little golden coffins in each church that he’d once built…
…’they couldn’t leave him be, could they’, said Farman, ‘and look what happens every year’, he paused and looked around him at the children waiting…’and who’s turn is it this year for the rhyme today?’ ‘Mine!’ a young boy in grey shouted, ‘mine!’ hand stitched fine leather shoes…’and what would be your name?’asked Farman. ‘Lar sir, from the big house sir.’ ‘Right then, Lar, your turn it is.’ he said….
St. Swithin's day if thou dost rain
For forty days it will remain
St. Swithin's day if thou be fair
For forty days 'twill rain nae mair…
…all clapped and cheered …
… and Farman put on his hat and picked up his bundle, heavy with bread and with cheese now in parting and he got up to make his way away into his new day…
The east grows grey at the touch of dawn.
Presto! Will o’- the Wisp is gone.
For the morning wind blows out his light-
He’ll dance again another night.
When crickets are chirping in grasses crisp,
Then we’ll watch for Will o’- the Wisp,
Will o’- the Wisp so gay...
09/07/2010
