Apr 4
THE REST OF THE STORY
The dried up lake contrived to look both
surprised & embarrassed
like a lady in a bad dream wearing no clothes
whilst singing in church or doing the supermarket shop.
When I say 'lake' I mean the body of water
that lived up in the old quarry.
It always gave us kids nightmares.
Our parents always warned us not to
go there ...but go there
we always did 'cos it was dangerous.
And that was its attraction.
Danger barely tamed and still feral.
It would give us the creeps just looking at it in sunlight.
The police tape looked real pretty
fluttering in the slight breeze like an art installation
that everyone who was someone
deemed important without knowing its meaning
or if it had one.
But hey what do I know?
The lake wore its dead body
like a cheap glass ring pretending it was diamond.
When I say dead body I mean skeleton.
The skeleton wore concrete shoes
as if it had stepped straight from a corny gangster movie
riddled with cliché.
It just grinned at the police
flash photography as if it were a celebrity
famous for being a celebrity.
He still wore a heavy gold crucifix
on a thick chain around its neck
that shone in the sun.
The sun smiled down as if it were smiling down
on a picnic or an ordinary walk in the park
as if it were innocent of the things it seen.
'Hey, I'm Summer being Summer...! ' it seemed to say
'Dead guy eh...what a ******! '
The dead guy was alive in his death
as if he were soaking up being the centre of attention.
And yeah sure it was just another ordinary Summer
when I was 9 or ten or something like that
but this was just the beginning of the story...
...the rest of the story was somewhere else.
*
Guy told me this in Harry's Bar in Venice and all this just added up to how he came to finally live in Bethlehem in Pennsylvania. I was fascinated by the pre-story and his way of telling the story by interrupting his telling by a quirky "...when I say....I mean...." It was worth buying him a drink just to get drunk on that story.
The story was fuel'd by many a Bellini. The guy was a blend between Orson and Ernest as if they had both reincarnated at the same time and simultaneously tried to claim the one body. His name was Sinclair...I had never met anyone with the first name Sinclair before...he was better than a book. È tutto pepe indeed! Wot a guy! Che figata! Che figata!
He was highly energetic in both body and mind and telling stories about their times of being 4 or 7 and 11. This story came forth from man who at 90 was full of zip and zest. I only picked up bits here and there and never found out where his there was.
I was enjoying his speech movements and characteristic tics with that defining "When I say....I mean..." The story went by at a hundred miles ah hour but totally enthralled me and 50 years later still lives on in my mind.
I wish I could have captured his essence and this is only a pale imitation of how wonderful he was. All the imagery is his too and I merely a Boswell to his Johnson.
Once saw THE MERCHANT OF VENICE...in Venice. It bobbed along with several different languages taking up the tale and done in a Commedia dell'Arte style. If that wasn't enough...gondolas glided by with their sixpence worth of kitsch touristy songs whilst a gangster movie blared out of a window and two floors up from that a couple made mad passionate ***....everything blended with everything else....real life and Shakespeare all sharing the same outdoor stage.
The best bit was when she( of the mad passionate *** bit )threw all his clothes outta de window and told him to 'cazzo nel culo!' The real life bit I'm afraid by then was beginning to eclipse the Shakespeare bit( sorry Will ). It was almost as unforgettable as Sinclair's rambling tale of "how we came to live in Bet-LE-ham!"
Venice was almost too luscious for words but Sinclair and his tale of how we got from here to there and then "that" production of TMOV was all just too much for this tiny little mind.
Went back again but nothing as spectacular as "that" ever happened again....guess I was in the right place at just the right on time. The mind going "Heeeeeeehaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"
This be an experimental prose poem letting the prose ramble on in the voice and characteristic stops and starts of the speaker. The whole point of the poem is that you are going to get the whole prelude to the story and then not be told the story!
The danger is indeed very real....the adults know that...the kids know that....even the dead guy knows that! There was a broken worn down sign that you had to get near enough to read and possibly fall in! So the danger could be feral and turn on you with one little mistake or missed step. Hence the barely tamed! The narrator is very fallible!
The dried up lake contrived to look both
surprised & embarrassed
like a lady in a bad dream wearing no clothes
whilst singing in church or doing the supermarket shop.
When I say 'lake' I mean the body of water
that lived up in the old quarry.
It always gave us kids nightmares.
Our parents always warned us not to
go there ...but go there
we always did 'cos it was dangerous.
And that was its attraction.
Danger barely tamed and still feral.
It would give us the creeps just looking at it in sunlight.
The police tape looked real pretty
fluttering in the slight breeze like an art installation
that everyone who was someone
deemed important without knowing its meaning
or if it had one.
But hey what do I know?
The lake wore its dead body
like a cheap glass ring pretending it was diamond.
When I say dead body I mean skeleton.
The skeleton wore concrete shoes
as if it had stepped straight from a corny gangster movie
riddled with cliché.
It just grinned at the police
flash photography as if it were a celebrity
famous for being a celebrity.
He still wore a heavy gold crucifix
on a thick chain around its neck
that shone in the sun.
The sun smiled down as if it were smiling down
on a picnic or an ordinary walk in the park
as if it were innocent of the things it seen.
'Hey, I'm Summer being Summer...! ' it seemed to say
'Dead guy eh...what a ******! '
The dead guy was alive in his death
as if he were soaking up being the centre of attention.
And yeah sure it was just another ordinary Summer
when I was 9 or ten or something like that
but this was just the beginning of the story...
...the rest of the story was somewhere else.
*
Guy told me this in Harry's Bar in Venice and all this just added up to how he came to finally live in Bethlehem in Pennsylvania. I was fascinated by the pre-story and his way of telling the story by interrupting his telling by a quirky "...when I say....I mean...." It was worth buying him a drink just to get drunk on that story.
The story was fuel'd by many a Bellini. The guy was a blend between Orson and Ernest as if they had both reincarnated at the same time and simultaneously tried to claim the one body. His name was Sinclair...I had never met anyone with the first name Sinclair before...he was better than a book. È tutto pepe indeed! Wot a guy! Che figata! Che figata!
He was highly energetic in both body and mind and telling stories about their times of being 4 or 7 and 11. This story came forth from man who at 90 was full of zip and zest. I only picked up bits here and there and never found out where his there was.
I was enjoying his speech movements and characteristic tics with that defining "When I say....I mean..." The story went by at a hundred miles ah hour but totally enthralled me and 50 years later still lives on in my mind.
I wish I could have captured his essence and this is only a pale imitation of how wonderful he was. All the imagery is his too and I merely a Boswell to his Johnson.
Once saw THE MERCHANT OF VENICE...in Venice. It bobbed along with several different languages taking up the tale and done in a Commedia dell'Arte style. If that wasn't enough...gondolas glided by with their sixpence worth of kitsch touristy songs whilst a gangster movie blared out of a window and two floors up from that a couple made mad passionate ***....everything blended with everything else....real life and Shakespeare all sharing the same outdoor stage.
The best bit was when she( of the mad passionate *** bit )threw all his clothes outta de window and told him to 'cazzo nel culo!' The real life bit I'm afraid by then was beginning to eclipse the Shakespeare bit( sorry Will ). It was almost as unforgettable as Sinclair's rambling tale of "how we came to live in Bet-LE-ham!"
Venice was almost too luscious for words but Sinclair and his tale of how we got from here to there and then "that" production of TMOV was all just too much for this tiny little mind.
Went back again but nothing as spectacular as "that" ever happened again....guess I was in the right place at just the right on time. The mind going "Heeeeeeehaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"
This be an experimental prose poem letting the prose ramble on in the voice and characteristic stops and starts of the speaker. The whole point of the poem is that you are going to get the whole prelude to the story and then not be told the story!
The danger is indeed very real....the adults know that...the kids know that....even the dead guy knows that! There was a broken worn down sign that you had to get near enough to read and possibly fall in! So the danger could be feral and turn on you with one little mistake or missed step. Hence the barely tamed! The narrator is very fallible!
