Older Gods pt 5

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Older Gods 5

We stood upon the flat black surface of the sea, as if the world had once been a volcano and was sheathed now in obsidian, unyielding, cool and obdurate. “Go,” echoed in the new formed bones, our sinews hummed like harp strings resonant in that command, but we who had been anchor weight and dense, dispersed, infinitesimal, one, entwined, reformed and filled with purpose, steadied ourselves for a shared eternity. Sparks rose, shocking tingles when our new translucent skin touched skin, our bodies filled with unbloodlike ichor, iridescent blue, flowing in transparent vessels.

Time means nothing in that place where no stars course across the sky, where the no swelling brazen moon lights the night then hides, modest voluptuary, curve still half seen in reflection. We communed, two cores of a pale blue lamp in that colossal dark, bodies touching at the tips. So much more than we had bargained for in the distant past, the yesterday, when we fled from our island shore to seek acceptance and permission.

Slaves to the first law, there was no spending, no little death, but energy flowing to and fro, crown to sole, and reflected back again. Until we learned there was no boundary for satiety in this form, no furtive whispering of secrets, no miserly moments out of sight. Angels twinned, immaculate.

The throbbing command held so long in abeyance hurled our bodies skywards, the ocean spread below us, and we saw the wavetops breaking over the lone God’s far demesne. There, pale pearl floating on the green and blue, the lost loved outline of the home that we once knew, from which we fled, the distant past, the yesterday.

Love. Oh for all the harsh words and the rage before our leaving, we could not bind the love that poured out at the sight of golden beaches, and the crude huts of our fathers, the faint signs of fishing boats. Why did they war, deceived by base desires and the call of man made Gods? How could we, enlightened, empowered by an elemental truth abandon them to their misguided fates and fortunes?

Arm in arm we flew, westward against the wrenching ache to travel north, alighting where the sea kissed up against the sand, in dead of night, all lights extinguished, seeking out the dwellings of our ancient ancestors.

Upon a pallet dying, the skeletal patriarch, the little strength left to him had fled with us across the sea. Silent we knelt, abject but unapologetic, and he with fading sight saw two angels and his lost descendants. He cried once, with frail hands he blessed us, then he died.

There was no time for weeping, the cry awoke the clan, who clamoured in, and saw us alien and naked by the deathbed of their sire. We fled before their anger, as we had fled before.

 

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part six

END

 

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Unsafe Containers – Schoolroom vignette

The DP prompted me to make a little more progress on my novel The Streetsweeper of Between: here is a little developmental extract that will slot in somewhere:

–>

“It is highly acidic, don’t spill a drop.”

Cecilia’s arms were aching, and the heat of the glass bowl was making her hands go red. She was standing on one foot on top of a pile of books, holding the bowl at arm’s length and trying to balance. It wasn’t, she reflected, the most unusual of Miss Bridges’ lessons.

Her governess was holding a candle underneath the bowl, keeping the fluid inside it warm. The bottom was slowly turning black with soot. The slight quiver from Cecilia’s arms made the surface of the supposed acid ripple, although Cecilia doubted Miss Bridges would take such a risk.

“How long do I have to hold this?” Cecilia asked through clenched teeth. She had been at this for almost five minutes and her strength was draining rapidly.

“That’s up to you.” Sometimes Miss Bridges had an annoying way of not actually answering a question, but Cecilia had learned that it meant the wrong question had been asked.

“What are my options?” she tried.

Miss Bridges smiled as Cecilia risked a glance her way. The little flash of approval steadied her on the pile of books for a few moments more.

“You have four. You could drop it.”

“That would damage the school room floor.” Cecilia shot back.

“Very well, then you could drink it down.”

“It is acid I would die.”

“You could ask for help so you could let it go.”

Cecilia paused. She knew her governess’ methods. “Why would someone help me?” Miss Bridges smiled again, “Let’s come back to that one. It’s too late for your final option. You could avoid letting the bowl fill up in the first place.”

With a sigh Cecilia stepped down from the pile of books and placed the bowl on her desk, the fluid inside flowed back and forth with the movement, almost, but not quite spilling over. “So this is one of your allegorical lessons.” Miss Bridges nodded, blowing out the candle and picking off the little bits of wax that had dripped onto her fingers. Cecilia sat down on the pile of books, and rubbed her aching arms. “The best solution is to avoid the liquid building up, which means there is a choice. Once it has built up the best way to let go of it is to find someone to help. I could let it go, or drink it down, but there are consequences to each. And I couldn’t hold on to it because eventually I would tire.”

“A reasonable summary.”

“Could I stop the fluid dripping, so it didn’t need to be caught?” Cecilia asked.

“Possibly, but for most people that would be unnatural.”

Cecilia supressed her own smile, it was unusual for Miss Bridges to give away a clue like that, but there was no reason to let on that she had picked up on it. “Anger.” She said, looking up at Miss Bridges.

“Go on.”

“It is natural to feel anger, but the trick is not the let it build up. Once it has accumulated the best thing to do is get help, discuss it, resolve it. If you let it all go you hurt those around you, if you take it all in yourself, you hurt yourself.”

“Very good,” Miss Bridges picked up a little square of paper and dropped it in the bowl. It turned yellow and began to dissolve. “Now one more lesson for today: next time I tell you that you are holding a pan of acid please be a little more careful where you put it.”

END

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University and Education for the Modern Age

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I have had the privilege of a classical education. It is an anachronism that is still possible in our age of vocational study through a careful selection of school and university, although my own time was almost a quarter of a century ago.

At school I studied Latin and Greek; calculus was taught through half century old tomes or textbooks written by the Second Master and the Head of Maths. The deputy head was called the Second Master and taught maths, which pretty much tells the story.

My higher education college was part of the second oldest university in the country and was founded a hundred years after my school, but still half a millennium ago. Despite providing a first rate educational system, attracting the finest professors and brightest young minds (seasoned with the occasional outlier like me), at its core it was still an almost monastic institution. The senior combination room had no electric light. Scholars signed the vast register with a quill pen and knelt to vow “decency and innocency of life”. Grace was read in Latin, which was fine because back then my Latin was pretty good.

The curriculum may have evolved, but the ethos and the ritual had not. I read the dismal science: Economics, but not in that hard finance, “get a job in the City” way of a college off the Strand or in Chicago. This was the economics of distribution; it was moral philosophy, taught by decaying Marxists and old queens.

It may seem hardly relevant to the education that most young people experience today, and perhaps in detail it is, but its structure, its time of life timing is almost exactly the same, and most alarmingly, it has not changed in five hundred years.

My college originally taught Divinity. Young men, and only men, destined for a lifetime in the clergy passed through its halls. Think of all those curates in Jane Austen’s novels, and you will know the type. Law, mathematics, natural sciences all came later. The arts came later still (although the only first degrees offered are Bachelor of Arts; and if you survive three years without going to jail, being declared bankrupt or walking on the quad lawns then it is upgraded for an admin fee to a Master of Arts). I imagine social sciences were only grudgingly admitted to the portfolio.

Therein lies the true anachronism. The highest echelons of our educational establishment are bound up in rituals and traditions, which are unique, but it is what they have bequeathed to all education that is the problem. It is a system designed for young men from centuries ago, when life expectancy was half what we enjoy today, and yet it is emulated around the world.

The modern student emerges from almost fifteen years of non stop education burdened with debt, and seeking to build a career in an employment market where there is no retirement age and mothers return to work. Hallelujah for the equality legislation, but it has left those at the earliest stages of their working life ill served.

The system is at its most pernicious for young women, which is where the intriguing opinion of Kirsty Allsop becomes relevant (reported in The Independent and The Guardian). In debt, and in need of housing and a job, today’s graduate will rarely be able to draw breath until they hit thirty. For young women their healthiest child bearing days will soon be over. It is an inescapable biological reality. So have we allowed a system dating back to medieval times to govern lives in our times? Do we need, or deserve a system more suited to modern life expectancy and economics?

The timing has knock-on effects as well: fewer children, born later in life exacerbate the challenges of our ageing society. Two children per couple between the late twenties and mid-thirties may forestall the problems of over population, but it will not resolve the problems of increasing costs of the pensions we all feel entitled to, and for care of the elderly, with the medical consequences of longer lives.

Placed against this is the need to let youth be youth. My own university days were formative, challenging and most of all fun. I learned in an intellectually charged atmosphere, with people of all stripes and backgrounds and had the bubble of academic arrogance inherited from school well and truly burst. It was necessary, and it was probably necessary at that point in time.

If we play forward an alternative, where young people are expected to find work, likely lower paid, develop a career from a lower base, and then find time to take a career break, perhaps aged forty, with their own kids heading into the workplace, what are the consequences?

In part the burden, or responsibility, of nurturing minds will fall away from the state, via the education system, and on to employers. The good ones will invest in their raw recruits, as they do today, the poor ones will let them find their own way. In some respects, before mass university participation this was the case anyway. Will the market increase or decrease the disparity between the rich and poor? I suspect things will get worse, the cost benefit equation of search costs to ferret out real talent, against the lower risk of picking from good schools in good areas is never going to favour the bright but underprivileged.

Could the same effect as three or four years at university be achieved through a mandatory government funded gap year, or national service, or joining the peace corps? The rounded person then goes and finds a partner to have kids with, and once those children are ambulatory, or in full time education, checks out of work and completes their own education.

The question triggers other related debates as well. To what extent should everyone be educated to degree level? Are the higher proportions we see in university now, compared to twenty or thirty years ago, getting anything meaningful from the experience? There will be some snobbish decrying of lame universities collecting fees and government subsidy for irrelevant degrees in TV cooking shows and Game of Thrones (much of which I agree with), but the real question is whether the quality of human being that emerges from the end of this process is better than the one we would get by letting the market decide and then allowing them the education that they can afford later in life?

So here is the overall question, and one which I think ought to be a matter of wide public debate. Does the system need an overhaul? Is it time to break the shackles of five hundred years of a system and build something new?

END

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The Patron Saint of Daydreaming

The Patron Saint of Daydreaming

I am the patron saint of Daydreaming (sidebar: procrastination)

So consider long your pilgrimage to my half-built, abandoned shrine

The provisions you will take, the relics you may find

Then strike out in your mind’s eye for than far destination

Draft up your list of longings, as I have scribbled mine

Not in any published form, but in the novel of the mind

Then plan how you will seek me out in search of your salvation

But do not take the primal step, wait first for my sign

Just ruminate and cogitate, if you are of my kind

When I do nothing with your service, then call it affirmation

Ruswa Fatehpuri (Me) 2014

 

I’m also reminded of one of my favourite songs by All About Eve – Freeze – one of those “I wish she was singing about me” songs, which includes the lines:

“You’re like a favourite saint, kept alive in prayer and paint

One looked a lot like you, saucer eyed and stoned and out of the blue”

Although on the point of daydreaming the very dreamy Wishing the Hours Away is more relevant.

End

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There is a Ruswa Fatehpuri chapbook out there too

Older Gods pt4

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Older Gods 4

What needs a God with our forgiveness if we are but the consequence of his long fevered thoughts? Should I beg understanding from my hand burned in the fire?

Yet in the brutal conductivity of brine there was the tang and bitter stinging of regret. Our substance spread and incorporeal was soaked in the welling tears of the lone God’s long held shame.

“Go.” He said, with all the force of one whose words could bring whole worlds into existence, and in that moment we were recreated. The gravity of our souls, our dispersed essence, dragged the cells of you, me, I, us in two spinning crucibles, the crushing weight that tore our limbs apart now forced them back together. Something screamed. You, me, I us; something that gloried in our utter coalescence, the joining and the permanence, tore from the cloud and formed into solidity. “No.”

But there was no strength that we could muster, the shredded last dregs of our belief turned back upon us in a rage, as if all the universe was now remade, and we who sought so long for acceptance of our unity, and found it more completely in this world ending darkness. We were separate once again.

The God was not ungenerous to the pilgrims at his gate. We were not as we once were. Unconstrained by birth and parenthood, our bodies formed themselves more perfectly. Almost androgyne avatars, sexless as the sunset touching on the evening tide, yet every inch of skin now capable of coupling. We who had so fleetingly ascended, transcended now the base clay of massed humanity. That fine honed sense that told me when you walked into a room, the desire that burned within the air that we both breathed, was inconsequential now. Thoughts that flickered in your reconfigured mind, completed in mine. Sensations on my tongue stirred in your senses. We were apart, we were still one.

Sentient, angelic, imbued with the mad God’s sole instruction, and the knowledge we should seek out the freezing wastes we rose from the lightless kingdom, back into the starless sky.

Across the surface of the sea, that echoed like a drum, the lone God murmured his laden plaint:

I have been waiting centuries, at long last you have come.

 

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part five

End

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Older Gods pt 3

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Older Gods 3

Disembodied we connect now more completely, cells in motion swaying in these current pressured deeps. Now there is no you, no me, no consciousness wrapped up in skin, no ties beyond the ones we choose, no master, slave, no kith nor kin. The mitosis of the God’s blood is undone. Collapsed, compressed, at long last we are one.

And yet amid the electric impulse of our joy: you, me, I, us could feel the thread of something left unsaid unravelling. In the paean of this mad and lonely God, this deity trapped in darkness, this Lord bereft and manorless, is the shadow of some immense untruth. We who lost our youth to ageing travel, desiccated by the salt and sun can sense the veil, invisible, afloat upon the sunken waves, the dance of something long desired but always swaying just away from sight.

The God; drunk on our long awaited draught: belief; sensed the poison of suspicion. We glimpsed the shadowed vaults of his vast mind, the galaxies colliding in their stately walk to death, the effigy half hidden in the lightning of his thoughts. The poison fired him, unable to stop his being soaking up all our belief, the venom of hestitation reflected his withheld confession. His rage tore torrent and tornado through our vaporous existence, until expended he fell sobbing in the throbbing quiet vastness, inseparable and one we coalesced again.

“Ask not”, he begged, piteous shadow of omnipotence. “Ask not, for I am so long alone in this hard darkness, and maddened by the very scent of you.”

I have been waiting centuries; at long last you have come.

 

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part four

END

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Older Gods pt 2

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Older Gods 2

I wept this world into existence, gnawed the firmament to anchor mountains and the sky, spat seeds to plant the mother trees. I bound the whole in my own hands, and from my bleeding blisters I made man.

Such curious things you were, so keen to contemplate the nature of your maker, so cunning in your artifice and your joy of making things, eyes always in search of difference, to catalogue and differentiate, as if you were not born out of the spatters of my blood.

I gloried in the variegation of creation, the purple moors, the white capped mounts, the surf, the sea, the infinite shades of blue and green. You counted up them all; assigned a category; classified and codified; weighed, measured and valued.

What right have you to judge, determining the destiny of any but yourself? I made you articulate and ambulatory to leave you free to move, unshackled by silence. What was it in the ichor of your substance and the air that I bequeathed you that made you seek dominion, to raise other gods than me, and in their name impose your will? What made you so arrogant, so beholden to your “me”?

I wept again in horror, and washed it all away. Thinking I had cleansed the world, heedless I let your pestilence spread out unchecked, until aghast I saw brutal scars upon the surface of the earth, the power vested in your filthy pantheon of envy and desire. I raised my hand to bathe the world in fire, but my potency was gone. Without belief my blood ran thin, my bones clashed and rattled in my skin, I roared but raised no wind, the sound echoed shuddering and died within. They laughed. That brothel kin of childling Gods, the man made masters of the world of want looked upon my pitiful predicament and laughed.

So here I fled. The last miles of the world for which I bled, the deeps where the sun I lit no longer shines, and the creatures of my lone imagining will never find. I fled and I have waited, knowing someone would raise their voice against the world where greed now means the same as need. Someone would strike out in search of me. My blood will out and I will rise again.

I have been waiting centuries, at long last you have come.

 

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part three

End

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Older Gods pt1

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Older Gods 1

Raised in the floating barrels of cooped conformity, and ripped on the coral floor of justice by jealous deities, we fled these shores in search of older Gods. We sought the starless sky, absent of the hymnals of our dreaming pantheon. We left behind the lights of harbours and the last vestiges of home. We forged our own and undirected path between the hunger of the north wind, and the waves daemonium. Soft flesh salt dried to skeletal, skin haggard on the bone. Until exhausted, coracles entwined, endoldrumed, flat in mirror black, we floated in unnatural calm, ruined bodies languishing irrevocably alone.

With no whisper from the stifled air, no lapping from the waves, our own voices sucked to silence we heard the hammer of our heartbeats perfectly in time. A fury in the drumming, a persistent double tap, call, response, contiguous, a ritual in rhyme. We pierced the bottoms of the boats, the water drank them down, and we sank ceaseless and willing, the drums called us to drown. We sank. Who can say then if we lived or died, for your hair spread out like thunder clouds, your eyes flashed like lightning chains, but the manic beating slowed until a true and total silence dissolved all of our consciousness, the twists and ties of our like minds were unravelled and undone.

We heard the voice then in the darkness of the sensory divide. In the moment of our separation where our thoughts could not elide. Vibrant and enveloping, bone deep and resonant. Shattering in the certainty that our long search was done.

“I have been waiting centuries, at long last you have come”.

 

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part two

END

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Quote

Leisurely Payme…

Leisurely Payment

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?

No time to plumb the handbag dark,
And choose the card that hits the mark

No time to rummage diligent
Despite the queuing time we spent

No time to see, with groceries packed
The line behind grow long and stacked

No time to turn at Anger’s glare
White knuckles on its cash prepared

No time to make its face go red
With our refusal to think ahead

A poor life this if, fill of care
We have no time to stand and stare

With apologies to WH Davies

In response to DP: Game of Groans