William Edmonds
Wondermint Bits and pieces of writing |
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The first paragraph of 'Absolute Fucking Joy' - a story to be featured in the forthcoming 'Cagoule' Magazine (from the wonderful people who brought you Anorak) The volcano erupted in the morning. Erupted in absolute fucking joy. It showered the homes lying in it's shadow with nothing but a rapturous pleasure. The children of the towns on the east and west side of the volcano lay down on the floor. Some on the wooden floorboards of their bedrooms, some on the grit of the playground and some on the dusty grass of the town parks. They all wept, and the tears ran down ruddy cheeks and soaked into the ground. They collected and pooled as a table of water just under the hard crust of the earth. Some water seeped down and formed the earliest tributaries of what became a great river. Stone walls could not stop it, boulders only guided it and almost immediately willows sprang up along it's banks. Projecting at first into the sky like green fountains then returning their efforts resplendently towards the ground, touching fingertips with the rushing watercourse. The river ran all the way out to the ocean and held it's flow a great many leagues only diluting when it reached the part of the ocean where the sea bed is at it's deepest. The eruption resonated through the hillside, a perfect G major, and gently shook the town. Tremors ran up the wooden house beams like snakes borne of the earth and politely vibrated the couples as they made love into an orgasmic stupor. Absolute joy sung through the county. |
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Why
Why have you filmed this? |
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Calendars
Cottage |
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Hair
Pot belly man, miami beach constant wet black ringlet seaweed lovejoy. |
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Tension
A man comes out of his front door, dumps a bag of rubbish on the pavement and goes back in his front door. He was topless, or was, and most likely still is, |
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September 30th
Leaves |
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Transport
Diggers dig |
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Yesterday Yesterday, which is now the day before, a French girl called me from Germany but I said I was having my photo taken and couldn't help her. I half climbed a set of aluminium step ladders and pretended to read a volume of Moomin cartoons. I thought of skidding on my knees along he dusty wooden floor but instead slowly threw two cardboard boxes printed with my initials into the air. Time moved quickly but contained the correct number of minutes and hours and after a familiar supper we blew on whistles and pulled words out of a wooden bowl that made pictures in our heads and joy in our breaths. Relaxed, we read as the windows sung a wheezing drone till we climbed the stairs to the attic where we slept well until the morning, dreaming of islands forgotten by boats but never by the waves which lap them. |
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Hi, High, Hill!
The weather forecast says heavy rain, storm, snow. The cottage, the site, Low Wray, the rain. Tom, the man, the national trust, his eyes, calm, gentle, honest, slight. The Outgate Inn, creepy, the couple, signs above the bar, she reads them out, he ignores her, looks at the cricket painting, sighs, indifference. You say you are drunk, I hold the torch in the dark. The rain falls through the night, tapping on the tent, the sleep is cold, pushed to one side, against the canvas wall.
We wake, rain, indecision, we buy a map, waterproof paper, we walk. Green and luscious, moss covers everything, so much is green, so much green, around the lake and up. Long walk. I fall, embarrassed. Coffee and Kendal Mint Cake, they talk of hair, on backs, chests and women. Five Hellos. Up from the lake, towards the tarn. Tarn, torn, taw. The sun comes out, we go swimming in the tarn, we rest our feet. Cold in the instance, instantly freezing, clean and bright, slight of breath and blood to the head. I sink my chest, in up to my beard, you stand bottom dipped, arms held safe, we hold each other, sun on the side of our faces.
We remove our pants and walk on free, it feels American. The trees, tall slim, consistent in width, regular in branch, they creak in the wind as if they are regretful of growing so high. You stop to take photos, again and again as if you have never seen trees before. The map comes out, i find it endearing, a constant need to know, you are defensive of my glances, you snare them. Old Joy. We walk, long walk, misjudge our position, miss roads, ignore signs, Hole House, High-Tock-How. Tired legs, feigning tantrums, we trudge on, collective persistence, empty of stomach but wanton of little, a seat, soup, bread, ale. We reach the outpost, walk back slowly, sit by the lake, watch the ducks, they sit like the couple from the Inn the previous night, early to bed, calm to sleep. Jack Mountain and Luigi Milano, home, welcome.
We awake, wash, collapse the tent, you daydream. Taxi to the station, coffee, worry heart, train, we doze, between stops and changes and more coffee and delays. Houses near, with all their worries, concerns and distractions, this feels like goodbye. We get the bus, it is cheaper here, we delay with tea and I leave, bathe and sleep. A distant memory but a resounding feeling, re-sounding still now, in my ears, eyes and feet, still emanating through me. Such an ease of company and a light beauty, at once so temporary in experience but existent in its permanence. An eternal and internal peace and happiness. Trust a feeling before a forecast. |
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The Bike
Sitting in the cafe he cannot stop thinking about the bike. The coffee gives him a headache and noises seem closer than they are. He thinks how mortified at some point must have meant something different.
A black piece of fabric drapes over the drum kit. Not to hide, to restrict. Four cymbals like varying sizes of coolie hats or wide brimmed bowlers, hang from a makeshift frame. Thick rope holds them to a crossbar and they dangle rather shoddily, as if from a child's mobile of the solar system, where every planet is surrounded by brass rings. Although there is no movement in this miniature galaxy. They sit suspended so still and silent. Their stillness emphasised by their silence. The piano, also covered sits still under mustard yellow canvas and black material patterned with large turquoise and white stepped triangles.
As the coffee cools he cannot stop thinking about the bike. He receives an e-mail saying the toothpaste got there. She can now brush her teeth in hospital, he pictures her smile and for a second he stops thinking about the bike.
Raising his head up and slightly to the right he tries to picture the glasses he tried on two weeks ago. He damns his power of imagination for failing in being able to construct faces. Faces he knows well that still evade him, lacking in the nuances and subtleties of topology and movement that make it that face.
As hunger begins to feed in he cannot stop thinking about the bike, and the bag of half eaten bombay mix back at the studio. The brand new, freshly unsheathed sketch book and still shop sharp pencil lay untouched on the table, because he cannot stop thinking about the bike. And the truck. And the police men. And he feels like he should go. Back to the studio, to eat, look at her smile, and try and forget about the bike. |
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