The Transient Nature of Home

 

“How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home.” 

― William C. Faulkner

 

I always had the mentality of an immigrant, so the subject of home was a mystery to me from when I was a youngster. Where was that warm place by an open fire, drinking hot mugs of tea and chatting about all the neighbors in the street. A familiar environment that expected that you only be yourself - but I have had little idea about my 'self' - and so a home escaped me for many years. I finally managed to forge a home in America, with the warmth of a family and friends, all the curious knick-knacks that have been collected through the years, annoying neighbors and several deceased pets. I was always right though - a home is difficult to describe because it is filled with many mundane as well as wonderful things. Everything always seems so transient - I ponder on where my final resting place will be!

Photo by Peter Loud, 1973:

https://www.peterloud.co.uk/photos/Newcastle/Wallsend/Tyne_Pride.html

Text: All Rights Reserved & Copyright David John Drew 2022

Short Story: Grace Under Pressure

 

Grace Under Pressure, by David John Drew

 

The atmosphere within reverberated warmth on a night rapidly descending to freezing point. Through the cold window wisps of wind blew snowflakes hither and tither, then they settled on any available stable surface. The barely visible garden fence grew a fresh, new collar of icy ermine, hardy shrubs hid beneath blankets of virgin white. As far as the eye could see, the land was transformed by the whims of weather – delicately adorned with the breath of a frosty season.

 

Inside, the gabble of numerous voices, lubricated with choicest liquors, wines, or whiskey infused with ice-cubes… seemed overwhelming. Faces reflected in the glittering orbs decorating the Christmas tree in the corner, moving, mingling, and masticating on delicious treats. Abigail’s new ‘beau’ seemed startled at first, even overwhelmed by the unfamiliarity of the characters. 

 

“Diane always comes into work drunk… believe me!” She said. “Terrible… simply atrocious…” replied Steve. “And about this time of year she manages to slip on a patch of ice in the car park, snap a leg bone, skinny legs you know… then claims compensation and spends six months in recovery… we are the ones picking up the slack…” Dot moaned, “Crazy you know!”And she circled a finger around while pointing to the side of her forehead… “Bonkers… Nuts...” Steve was sympathetic, “Some people know how to work the system…” Dot added, “Every year the same old thing… so we are all taking bets on what day she is going do it this year… I’m betting on December 21^st for sure…” Steve laughed, “Dot, your sure to win… you always come out on top!” Dot gave Steve a wink, “Honey, nothing can pin me down – I’m a seasoned strategist!” She gave Steve a sideways knock with her hips, and he nearly lost a grip on his champagne flute, thinking, ‘Yes, and I know were this could all lead… that’s why they call her ‘octo-pussy’ … once a man gets caught in her tentacles he’ll never escape!’

 

James suffered the barely audible monologue of introduction, handshake, or in the case of Aunt Lizabeth, an importune smear of a kiss planted firmly on his cheek. James thought that kiss too much pressure – there was a lust in those lips beyond the normal, acceptable pleasantries exchanged… even in an informal seasonal family gathering like this. He puzzled over whether he had actually felt her hand giving him a firm pat on the buttocks at the same time. He didn’t have time to think.

 

A boy appeared from nowhere, began screaming and commenced a hazardous climb over the leather couch with a large silver fork on which was impaled something that resembled a jelly donut with green icing… “Stop that kid… get off the couch you little brat…” An anonymous voice screamed.

 

Abigail led him quickly, windingly through the throng, by the hand to her father. “Father… James… James… my father, Roger, daddy… well, this is Jimmy my boyfriend…” And she whispered, “Daddy’s a lawyer, be careful Jimmy, don’t perjure yourself!”She walked away giggling, James cemented to the floor without any visible means of escape. Father Roger’s moustache seemed to bristle at the confrontation, and eyes pierced his victim. He wondered where the red smudge on his cheek had come from? A short, solemn silence was punctuated with a terse enquiry, “And what is it you do… ‘Jim’ … or should I call you James?” Daddy’s face seemed to thrust itself too close for comfort into Jim’s, and he stuttered, “Well… just been promoted to district manager at Carpet Warehouse… tremendous opportunity… I love home furnishing… and… and…” He spluttered ungainly as if being interrogated. Despite the earnest reply Roger only nodded and ‘Mmnned’ while looking over Jim’s shoulder and giving a genial wave at another guest. “Faith!” Roger shouted provocatively. Jim slowly rolled his head, in the same way one does with brain freeze… not quite understanding the exclamation, his forehead wrinkled quizzically… straining… to understand beyond the noise of yuletide chant and jovial chatter the nature of the word. “Faith” He repeated, “What Church are you with James?” For a second James thought, ‘that he really loved Abigail, that this, her father standing like an icicle of a specter before him, stood in the way of true desire… and then there was the good prospect of this wealthy lawyer investing in a future business… ‘that idea he had of importing luxury Persian rugs needed an investor’ but as of yet it seemed like a long way down the road… but still, the icicle must be melted first so to speak… ‘ And another second lapsed while he, James, reminded himself of his tendency toward atheism… Time seemed to slow down as he purveyed the absurdity of the situation, weighing up the warmth of the drink and the festivities, the future of a well financed marital bliss with the woman of his dreams, and the cold, analytical decision to disregard the fairy tales of superstitious ancients… 

 

“Faith” seemed to echo through the empty caverns of his mind. Perhaps unconsciously he blurted out, “St. Grobius Presbyterian church in Colingwood… “ And the ice melted in a warm embrace, “Good to have you here son, it’ll be dinnertime soon… have another drink!” James’ knees grew weak at the thought, ‘but it’ll be forgotten – we’ll move on soon to other topics’ – so he began to mingle and add his voice to the rising chorus of party and family, which he hope he would soon be part of. James seemed to be miraculously pushed to a group of uncles, brothers and sons telling jokes, “Why was Santa’s little helper depressed? - I don’t know… Why? - Because he had low elf esteem!” Another round of laughter and giggles… all in good fun. James soon forgot his claim to religiosity. ‘There was more useful spirit in his tumbler than a dry old tome like the Bible’ he thought. He melted back into the crowd and awaited the call to dinner.

 

And James believed as they all sat down to dinner that his fake religiosity had been forgotten, that is until the father turned to him, and in a stern… a terribly stern grimace, asked James to say grace – and James froze… with nothing to say.

End.

All Rights Reserved & Copyright 2021 David John Drew

The Stromata of Death and Life

 The ‘Stromata’ of Death and Life (1)

 

Who am I? (2)

In this

All rolled into One

In the present?

Every line of this face

Becomes a Scar

That leads to the dark

Labyrinth of my heart (3) (4)

A line that reels you in

To a thousand faces –

Where you are lost…

And found again… Yet -

Who am I, but Legion (5)

Beneath mere appearance

And…

Your mind’s eye is forced

To behold

The presence of oblivion

Of death, itself…

Within me,

The “Destroyer of Worlds” (6)

Yes, those

Facets of your illusions

As to who I am… and

What is.

Here we are… here and now, (7)

Beneath placidity, 

The thrice distant

Sound of savage, snarling

Cerberus (8)

The barking consumptive

Hound of Hell. (9)

Your healing hand

And trembling steps

Piercing through

A thousand veils (10)

Into an unknown light

In which

You cannot leave unbroken

Or untransformed; (11)

Who then, are you now?

 

 

Notes

 

1. The Stromata (Στρώματα) or Stromateis (Στρωματεῖς, "Patchwork") is the third in Clement of Alexandria's (150 – 215) trilogy of works on the Christian life. Clement titled this work Stromateis, "patchwork," because it deals with such a variety of matters. It goes further than prior writings by the author and aims at the perfection of the Christian life by initiation into complete knowledge. It attempts, on the foundation of Scripture and tradition, to give an account of the Christian faith as shall answer all the demands of the learned, and conduct a student into the innermost realities of his belief. For me, the Stromata is the ‘Way’ of piercing all the complexities of existence and penetrating to the essence of being.

 

2. Jack Kerouac: “One distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn’t know who I was—I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel… all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn’t know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn’t scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost… Halfway… at the dividing line between the East of my youth and the West of my future…” On the Road, 1957

 

3. The labyrinth is not a maze. There are no tricks to it and no dead ends. It has a single circuitous path that winds its way into the center. The person walking it uses the same path to return from the center and the entrance then becomes the exit. The path is in full view, which allows a person to be quiet and focus internally. The labyrinth is a walking meditation, a path of prayer and an archetypal blueprint where psyche meets Spirit. It has only one path that leads from the outer edge in a circuitous way to the center. There are no tricks to it and no dead ends. Unlike a maze where you lose your way, the labyrinth is a spiritual tool that can help you find your way.

 

4. The Way of the (Spiritual) Heart - God taught St. Ignatius of Loyola about the heart though several mystical visions he received early in his spiritual formation. One such vision came upon him at a time when he was questioning whether he should say three or four prayers to our Trinitarian God—a prayer directed to each Person, Father, Son, and Spirit, and then a fourth prayer to the One God. He was praying outside on the steps of a monastery when he suddenly “heard” God the Trinity as the musical sound of three organ keys playing simultaneously. Another time he received a vision of God the creator as “something white out of which rays were coming.” Out of this whiteness God created light. “He did not know how to explain these things,” he writes of himself in the third person. But Ignatius responded with his heart: “This was accompanied with so much tears and so much sobbing that he could not restrain himself.” The spiritual journey is an attempt to answer the question, “What is life all about?” Here is Ignatius’s answer: a vision of God for our hearts, not our minds. It is a depiction of the Creator as a superabundant giver. He gives gifts that call forth a response on our part, a free choice to return ourselves to him in grateful thanks and love. It is a vision that only a heart can respond to…’ - David L. Fleming, SJ

 

5. A reference to the Gospel of Mark: ‘Then Jesus asked him, "What is your name?" "My name is Legion," he replied, "for we are many”. (Mark 5:9) Every human is a multi-dimensional being, composed of intricate complexities, perhaps many souls, multiple characteristics that make a ‘personality’ –which in many faiths is the subject of ‘healing.’ This is a clear case of identity – who are you, and who are we? This is the ultimate existential question posed by Jesus in Mark 8: 27 – 29 – “On the way he asked them, "Who do people say I am?" And, “"But what about you?"he asked. "Who do you say I am?"

 

6. Reference to Robert J. Oppenheimer who, on the successful test of the first atom bomb on July 16^th, 1945 – quoted a line from the Bhagavad Gita in response; “Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds”. The Bhagavad-Gita, a Hindu scripture, written in Sanskrit, that centers on a dialogue between a great warrior prince, Arjuna and his charioteer Lord Krishna, an incarnation of Vishnu. Krishna teaches him about a higher philosophy that will enable him to carry out his duties as a warrior irrespective of his personal concerns. This is known as the dharma, or holy duty. It is one of the four key lessons of the Bhagavad-Gita: desire or lust; wealth; the desire for righteousness or dharma; and the final state of total liberation, or moksha. Arjuna asks Krishna to reveal his universal form. Krishna obliges, and in verse twelve of the Gita he manifests as a sublime, terrifying being of many mouths and eyes. It is this moment that entered Oppenheimer’s mind in July 1945. “If the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst at once into the sky, that would be like the splendor of the mighty one,” – Robert Oppenheimer’s inability to accept the idea of an immortal soul would always weigh heavy on his mind. – What is the nature of identity or personality in the face of ultimate oblivion or death? Is there a soul, and if so, does it survive death?

 

7. The question of an absolute present in ‘A Philosophy of History in Fragments’ (1993) by Agnes Heller. The crisis of European philosophy of history is defined by the irresolvable contradiction between the absolute present of Hegel’s self-knowing subject of History and the consciousness of the sheer contingency of the historical present. Heller rethinks the meaning of the present as absolute, not in itself but in relationship to the past and future of our present. Our absolute present is thereby revealed as inescapably paradoxical. Just as we live from the afterlife of a departed absolute spirit so the self-consciousness of our post-modernity resides in the self-consciousness with which we endow the past. How do we stand absolutely in the present – even when we see the past, our own personal history melting away… and being forced to look into an indefinite future?

 

8. Greek mythology, Cerberus (Κέρβερος), - the "hound of Hades", (of Hell). A monstrous multi-headed dog that guards the gates of the Underworld to prevent the dead from leaving. Cerberus was the offspring of the monsters Echidna and Typhon, and usually is described as having three heads, a serpent for a tail, and snakes protruding from parts of his body. The fear of death – something which consumes us totally, can we persist at all?

 

9. In Norse mythology, Hel is a being who presides over a realm of the same name, where she receives a portion of the dead. Hel is attested in the Poetic Edda, compiled in the 13th century from earlier traditional sources, and the Prose Edda, written in the 13th century by Snorri Sturluson. In addition, she is mentioned in poems recorded in Heimskringla and Egils saga that date from the 9th and 10th centuries, respectively… The Norse god Odin threw Hel into Niflheim (the ‘mist-world’ or a world of darkness), and bestowed upon her authority over nine worlds, in that she must "administer board and lodging to those sent to her, and that is those who die of sickness or old age." In this realm, Hel has "great Mansions" with extremely high walls and immense gates…

 

10. The Arabian Nights, or – ‘A thousand and One night’ - “A truth once seen by a single mind ends up by imposing itself on the totality of human consciousness.” – The changing of the mind through a deeper perception, it might be observed that throughout life we are in constant process of metamorphosis – form one state to another, constantly changing and being transformed.

 

11. Unchanged: Metamorphosis or transformation is a unifying theme amongst the episodes of the Metamorphoses of the Roman poet Ovid. Ovid raises its significance explicitly in the opening lines of the poem: In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas / corpora; ("I intend to speak of forms changed into new entities;"). Accompanying this theme is often violence, inflicted upon a victim whose transformation becomes part of the natural landscape. This theme amalgamates the much-explored opposition between the hunter and the hunted and the thematic tension between art and nature… The metamorphoses themselves are often located metatextually within the poem, through grammatical or narratorial transformations.

All Rights Reserved & Copyright David John Drew 2021

Broken Trust (lyrics to a Post-Punk Song)

Broken Trust (lyrics to a Post-Punk Song)

Do we come or do we go

Never mind what we want to see

Everything is just one long flow

Its all on show to see for free

 

You had nothing, you were naked

All your lies were laid full bare

All those ideas were half baked

Misunderstood, lonely stare

 

You thought you were very special

You thought you were something good

But it turns out you were rotten

Like a zombie thirsting for blood

 

You’re in love with yourself

You got no empathy

You missed your chance with me

I gave you all that I had

 

You spurned me absolute

Took everything I had

You had nothing, were naked

Using up all your strength

 

Pretended you had something to say

Pretense was your art

Living in your hypocrite bubble

You’re a worm and nothing more

All Rights Reserved & Copyright David John Drew 'Lord Carville' 2021

Short Story: Samsara

 

Samsara, by David John Drew

 

The tiny speck of light in the darkness grew visibly more radiant, then contracted and disappeared – consumed by the surrounding void. The earth’s sun surrendered its mortality to infinite space. 

 

Bensons reflection in the cool, calm, placid water of the lake’s edge was disturbed by a single tear that had rolled down his cheek. Only the intermittent beep of a control signal on the space-craft Ventura IV disturbed the silence. Whatever fragmented thoughts and emotions he still possessed, were gathered… and he walked solemnly back to the shattered vessel, crawled into his bunk and slept off the trauma of the past 24 hours. 

 

Though Arturius, was a habitable planet in the star system of Alpha Centauri, more than 4.37 light-years from earth – it could not mirror Bensons dreams, the embedded thoughts from childhood of human voices echoing in city streets – that fed his imagination, that for a brief time warded off the reality of aloneness. The alien shriek of an airborne reptilian startled him from slumber. A new day on a strange planet dawned, and with it the realization that he had slept with the 11 other motionless, un-breathing bodies of the other crew members. They had survived the ships malfunction, still preserved in their ossuaries containing artificial amniotic fluid… survived physically intact, but not spiritually. They were all dead. Through the thick, impenetrable clear shield he contemplated the face of his motionless partner, Christine… lost in the memory of her smile, until another shriek wrenched through his heart bringing him to his senses, to the thought of survival.

 

Benson surveyed the half-mile long scar that Ventura IV had created in the rich-red earth on its catastrophic descent – he was barely able to control it, maybe only by a miracle he became the sole survivor. Benson was neither a pilot nor an engineer, perhaps it was something as simple as a loose wire. In the hour long approach to Arturius he was the only one to awake from controlled coma – then plunged into chaos. Not knowing exactly what happened would remain in the depths of his mind for the rest of his life. For now, he could only go forward. Benson knew enough of Arturius to survive, enough data had been compiled from several previous space probes to equip him with adequate knowledge, but more was missing – and as a botanist and a scientist this gap gave him the necessary boost to begin a program of exploration. This was also a distraction from the reality of the loss he had suffered.

 

Benson quickly became more than a weed-watcher. As well as cataloguing and naming entirely new species, both plant and animal, he realized that he too was an alien – and a lonely one. Somehow he resisted the natural urge to bury his deceased comrades on the wrecked ship. It was a finality that he couldn’t face. Perhaps he had the capability to create life as well as document it? ‘Necessity breeds invention’ he thought to himself. Yet deep down in his heart, his motivation was simply to love – to have another with which he could speak, to share and to desire. Not be alone.

 

The hand-held laser sliced through the perspex covering of ossuary 2 containing the body of 11429 Evans, female: 26 years, 2^ndLieutenant and co-pilot. Amazingly, even after weeks, her body still warm, nourished by the still-functioning life support system of the ship, yet she, herself was lifeless. Bensons thoughts and actions seemed wrong… even diabolical, but there were no laws or morals on this planet, except that he, Benson, make them up. He had little time to lose before the body would begin to decompose in the warm, moist heat of Arturius. All the salvaged medical equipment was in place, adapted for microscopic work – Bensons work of creation. The dark, impassive eyes of Sarah Evans seemed to communicate a negative in the painstaking labor of Benson. Beads of sweat on his forehead as he buried the body, laid her to her final rest so far from home. The extraction was a success, he couldn’t believe his luck or skill, it had worked. The once invisible ovum began to grow in a jar of nutrient-rich fluid. Benson watched it carefully month after painstaking month. This project consumed his mind and time. Somewhere around the ninth month he lifted the child from out of the fluid and instinctively kissed it – a girl, with a beating heart, just like his own… and then, the impossible but real sound of a voice, a cry… the whimper of a new life. The ships supply of dehydrated, fortified milk was enough to bring the child to the stage of weaning. He named her Esther. She became the light of his life, and he saw the future through her eyes. He taught her everything yet still learned much from Esther’s curiosity. Benson tried the same experiment again in the hope of nurturing a male, in a vision of preserving the human species. The boy died in the 13^th year – and Benson prepared a grave next to where all the others lay. Benson and Esther wept, they knew they were all alone.

 

Benson took pleasure and comfort in Esther. He told her secrets and of the life he had led before on earth, that was now only an extinct memory. In her 19^th year he realized that she was carrying a child of her own – and his. It wasn’t usual for them to be separated for long, but one day she disappeared for an entire day – apparently, Esther had wandered far into the overgrown forest that surround them. Benson worried beyond explanation and finally toward dusk she reappeared carrying a basket of fruit. Arturius provided everything they needed for survival, and over the years he had analyzed almost all the available naturally growing crops to identify whether they were edible or toxic. Complex work even for a scientist, Esther was still in so many ways like a child. She came carrying brightly colored fruit in a basket, ravenously munching on some of them as she walked toward him. Benson said nothing. He grabbed the basket and flung it into the lake. He had never seen such fruit… it could have been poisonous, lethal, life-destroying. Esther dropped to her knees and cried at her father’s violent reaction… she sobbed uncontrollably. Benson looked down dispassionately, then he walked off without saying anything. He went down to sleep on the bunk, perhaps half relieved but also angry. Dark night overcame them both.

 

He woke up with a gasp and an excruciating pain in his abdomen. In the dim light of the cabin he could make out the shadow of Esther standing over him, he mumbled… looked down and saw that she had a knife in her hand… the steel blade stained with blood. ‘No’ he murmured, and she thrust the blade into him, again and again… he managed to say ‘love you’ until he lost consciousness, finally stopped breathing… and died.

 

It was such a long time before Esther would hear that word ‘love’ again. She smiled as it was whispered in her ear by the son she bore 17 years before. Her fingers, colored red by the juice of the strange fruit – taking one, and putting it into his mouth. Adam loved the sweet warm taste. She had patiently waited for this moment, so many years, to have a man of her own. Of having traversed the wilderness of loneliness to an embrace of love.

 

And this is how our race came to be on Arturius. 

 

End.

All Rights Reserved & Copyright David John Drew 2021

Billy Ness RIP

Billy Ness has died aged 96, here he pictured while serving in North Africa during the war. Tributes have been paid to a Geordie D-Day hero and "extraordinary character" after his death at the age of 96. Billy Ness was just 19 when he parachuted into France in the first minutes of June 6 1944 with the 12th Battalion as part of ‘Operation Tonga’. During what proved to be the most significant battle of the Second World War, Billy was shot and wounded twice yet still returned to active duty. In 2017 he was awarded the Chevalier Légion d’Honneur medal, one of France’s highest honours, for his heroism on and after the D-Day landings.

 

Geordie - you had one last bridge to cross, and you made it! 

God bless you, you enriched the lives of many beyond measure and deserve to rest in peace.

Les Ransom RIP

We are sorry to hear of the death of Les Ransom, RASC on 8 Feb 21, 2021. Les was part of 250 Comp Coy RASC that held the Bridge at Arnhem with 2 Para under Command of Johnny Frost until the end.

 

Day by declining day

The light grows dim

Yet their light ne’r grows old!

Perpetual in stature –

Memories remain

As good forever

Their past glories

For us, sustain.

 

Les Ransom, Requiescat in Pace

All Rights Reserved & Copyright - David John Drew 'Versificator Regis' 2021