Now Norfolk ... after London it's Snorfolk!

Quite a change of pace this. We leave London, and the busy world of business, to resettle on the North Norfolk coast and establish a Bookshop and Art Gallery. Everyone's dream, and for a while it was.

 

We were welcomed by the locals, loved by the visitors and, eventually, became a tourist landmark in Cley.

 

For me, I could indulge my joint passions of buying books and pictures. Specifically I topped-up my Ezra Pound and Wyndham Lewis collections and even got to buy Julian Symons's library with many Lewis first editions, reviews of same and related ephemera. I got to talk through my interests with book people and soon became a bit of a scholar on the subject of Pound (more of that later).

 

Perhaps, at this stage, it would be a good idea to give a few lines from Pound so that you can get a taste of my obsession. Let's start with a few lines from Lustra, one of his early books:

 

And the days are not full enough

And the nights are not full enough

And life slips by like a field mouse

          Not shaking the grass.

 

Now let's look at some lines of his that I, at one time, wanted on my gravestone:

 

What thou lovest well remains,

             the rest is dross

What thou lovest well shall not be reft from thee

What thou lovest well is thy true heritage.

 

And a description of his that grips the meaning & understanding in a way that few writers have been able to equal:

 

When a creative personality falls into their clutches

... like chickens in the shadow of the hawk's wing. 

 

That gives you a feel for what in Pound interests me ... the use of language in a way that cannot, in my opinion, be equaled. Forget the politics of Pound. Forget the prejudices of Pound. Appreciate the man as he always wanted to be: a Poet.

 

For me, my writing was beginning to blossom. It was, at this time, that I started my 10 year Pound epic poem (more of that later) and other works, like plays and another novel. It would be difficult to follow the work of Pound with mine, so, at this stage, I will rest on Pound's laurels. But next time, I will show you my diversity, and tell you how Gilbert & George happened by the bookshop.

 

 

Mother me!

A quick recap: the 1960s, for me, was a period of creative exploration with glimpses of a world of bohemia that lit my imagination. But I blew out the flame and took to a life of business; in advertising initially. Then in Government, which is where I left the last but one blog, where I became the Deputy Head of Communications at the National Economic Development Office. But, sitting in my office on the 33rd floor of the Milbank Tower in London, I still hankered after the writer's life.

A few demons had gathered too, which needed dealing with. As always, I used poetry to take them on. Here's me doing just that, with a poem that was published in the March 1987 edition of Psychopoetica from the University of Hull:

CONFRONTATION

Footsteps on swinging bridges
black below, even dank
like drowning kittens in a sack.

Why, why, why
but my memory would not answer such a thing
so the bank burst and I cried.

In a half waking, half sleeping,
sad interlude I imagined
what I would do if I saw

no, seeing wasn't the word
confronting, admitting, yes blaming.

I tried.

The place was familiar; of today,
modern, existing; no Samuel Beckett this.

Did I knock, or just enter?
It matters little, I was standing
on the carpet
and she was in a bloody wheelchair.

You cheat, I thought
I can't hit you like that.

That worried me, the thought of hitting,
although I needn't have worried long.

From her frail self, all skin,
hanging loose, like Oxfam clothes,
she struck out at me
with a walking stick
the one in the cupboard
the one with the snake's head.

Furious striking, making crosses
criss cross patterns in the air.

They never touched or marked
furious striking to prove a point.

You, you, you: I hate you
it seemed to say
a fair reply
to why, why, why.

I'm glad it wasn't real
not a real confrontation
especially as I wasn't sure
what next.


Having got that out of the way, I joined the International PEN Club, hob nobbed with the likes of Harold Pinter and set about another change of life. To the country dear boy, to pursue country pursuits and bury my head in books. Another rich turn in the mosaic that is/was my life. Come back and see me again, soon.

The giving of life, the taking of life

On 26th June 1992 something significant happened in my life: the birth of what was to become my dearly beloved dog and friend: Todd.

 

Last Monday 4th December 2006 Todd was put to sleep and something left my life that can never be replaced.

 

Whatever I wrote, or created from 1992 was influenced by him being with me and giving total love to me.

 

Now onwards is going to be very different: at the moment it just seems empty. 

 

But it will be full again because I am determined to remember him through what I do with the rest of my life.

 

If I make a mark again, it will be because of Todd, if I become a better person, it will be because of Todd, if I help others, it will be because of Todd.

 

Todd was the life giver and I want to give to life because of his life to me and others.

 

We will never forget Todd and because I know he will always be with me that is why I can be confident that life will be full in the future: with him, through him. Forever.

 

 

To Russia with love

 

To Russia with love

Looking backwards, as I'm doing in this blog, allows you the opportunity to reflect on times in your life that were significant. And there was one such time that I can share with you, and in sharing marvel at the difference between then and now. It was November 9th 1985. Up until this point I had been working very hard at trying to run a business, with some success. We had also been providing for our son's education, with even greater success. At this point he had reached the stage where he had qualified for University and was about to embark on studying for a law degree. The first person in our family to had reached that pinnacle. Clearly we were proud and offered him a gift. He didn't want a gift, as such, he wanted to go to Russia. Delighted with the thought, I went with him too. Naturally I couldn't let the occasion slip by without writing about our experience and what follows is the first part of:

 

A Russian journey of myself and my son Dominic.

 

Started well. On time and grey November weather, enough to want to escape. Nearly didn't. Bomb scare at Gatwick. Checking-in area cleared. But we still managed to leave on time - good old British efficiency. Russia is 3 hours ahead of us. We approached it at around 2.30pm our time and the sky started to go black. From bright sunshine we seemed to be entering the start of a bottomless pit. It got worse. I said to Dominic, jokingly, we are approaching the end of the world. I now look out of the window and it is pitch dark. We haven't landed yet!

 

Touched down at Moscow without problems. So much for our dark entry. First impression, the bare trunks of silver birch stretching out of the earth, tightly packed. In the dark they looked like boney fingers from the old men of the earth.

 

Walking down the steps of the aircraft we see the first visible signs of well known Russia - the fur hats worn by the soldiers. They look so smart!

 

Weather quite tolerable. Dry and rather cold - but no snow. All the early warning signs we were given prepared us for a long haul in the customs area, but not so. After some nifty footwork we managed to get through customs in almost jig time. Then, whilst waiting to transfer to the bus, we could observe our new found surroundings. Generally everything is very clean. People go about their business in an orderly fashion, but the one thing that strikes you is the preponderance of military personnel. They are everywhere. Not that that should worry you, in many respects it is very comforting. Perhaps it's just that it is different!

 

Journey to the hotel was uneventful with less than welcome propaganda talk by the Russian courier. Still, it is interesting to know that Russia is the third most populated country in the world with 270m people, it is called the Soviet Union, not Russia, as it is the Union of 15 separate states of which Russia is but one, and that no one owns a house in Moscow, they all rent from the State.

 

So we started a 7 day trip to Moscow & Leningrad (as it then was) and a diary of that special time which captures every moment of our journey. Here follows some pictures to give you a flavour of Russia in the 1980s.

 

My life, on return, was about to enter another stage. From successful businessman to the dole, from no writing to a resurgence. I even started a play which, on reflection, was probably symptomatic of what was going on in my head. Here's the introduction to it:

 

A play where the characters never touch the floor. Netting, or mesh 'floors', at different levels, make-up the set.

 

The play should try to leave the audience with the feeling of 'unease', or questioning. They may even think the play never existed. Certainly the 'meaning' of the production will be difficult to understand, indeed it is better if it is not understood, ever.

 

The characters speak through voice-boxes, so we never know who they are. This small group of actors should change clothes between each other as often as possible, and similarly swop make-up and props, to confuse identity. Three females, three male make-up the cast. Because they will merge together, they, by definition become ageless.

 

The set is lit with shafts of light that change throughout the play, like Venetian blinds casting light and shade. The positioning and movement of the characters is key to the success of the play, rather like ballet or chess. The characters are nameless, but numbered.

 

This may seem like a meaningless mosaic but out of this I was to climb to new heights, namely the 33rd floor of Milbank Tower in London. More of that next time my life takes another turn.

 

"Terry, what are you doing here ..."