Crash Car.

So, this is a piece inspired by Martin Amis's Time's Arrow which is a novel that takes place in reverse. Through this book, you travel backwards through time with what could be described as the protagonist's conscience. It is a very good book, I highly recommend it.

And this is my take on the technique...


Crash Car

When he awoke, it was not with a sudden gasp or jerked motion, but with a spiralling blurry feeling, like when he went under for his knee op last summer. What he registered first was the smell, what was that? Smoke, burnt rubber and sweat were there among the layers, along with something else. Petrol.

As the fog lifted he looked around, rotating just his eyeballs. His head hurt too much to move. Pressed up against him was a white balloon, it restricted his vision, the smoke billowing under the bonnet did much the same. His face felt wet, the rest of his body seemed not to register apart from a dull, low ache. He tried to move, but couldn’t. His legs were pinned together, terminally embraced by the chassis. Everything around him was silent, as if inhaling in eager anticipation, his own breathing the only sound.

And then, with an all-encompassing crunch he was thrown back. The inflatable folded itself neatly and instantly into the steering wheel. The brick wall in front of him began to slide away, he couldn’t take his eyes off it. The metal around him twisted and buckled, a symphonic cacophony silenced by the screeching of brakes. He has his foot slammed hard on the pedal.

 And then he heard her scream. It stopped and started suddenly, as if with the press of a button.

How did she sneak in here? She wasn’t here a minute ago, he would have heard her whining. God he was pissed off with her, she just goes on and on. The radio was blaring, they were shouting over it. The veins on her neck bulged and her eyes were swollen by crying. He stared at her, she looks so ugly when she cries, all snot and spit.

His hands gripped the steering wheel hard as they flew around the corner, red lights first. All around them puddles formed themselves into columns and shot skyward, fleetingly illuminated by the retreating headlights.

                           
                                                                            
And sticking with the backwards theme:

                                                                                   x

Woolf-esque (could be considered a tad penis-heavy).

Ok, so this is basically an exercise in stream of consciousness narrative, which is basically like an inner monolgue. Virginia Woolf was pretty much the don of this, before she drowned herself in a river that is...

Wheelies

The filament sparks to life above my bed, I turn my head to cut out the glare. I hear the curtains being thrown back as I stare at the wall. It’s the same every day, an 8 o’clock start, even on weekends. Even on days when the rain is throwing pebbles against the window and the leaden light barely bothers to show itself at all. Days that, in my previous life, I would have pressed the snooze on and burrowed down for an extra half hour. Not anymore.

‘Morning Jack,’ they say as they throw back my duvet. I feel my carefully cultivated warm air dissipate, I get cold so easily nowadays. I see them stood at the side of my bed, hopefully a woman but sometimes a man. I have my favourites, I tend to like the older ones, the ones with the soft hands and maternal touch. The younger girls make me nervous, they aren’t quite so confident and I harbour suspicions that they gossip secretly about my package or wrinkle their noses at my nightly bowel movements. I sometimes think I catch them indulging in a side-long glance at each other, ‘He’s gone again’ they imply, or ‘it’s not much use to anyone now is it? I wonder if it works at all’.

Before I got really bad I used to get embarrassed in front of someone like this, as naked and helpless as a baby, lying prone in all my dilapidated glory. I used to wince when they put their hands near my manhood. Something which I used to wield as a divining rod in my 20s, which I used to jokingly refer to as ‘the Devastater’, now reduced to just another meaty piece to clean around. Now I barely care at, I sometimes wonder why they bother dressing me at all.

We go through the routine. Pyjamas off, Depend off, hoist sling on, into the bath (which is always a little on the cold side, but hey, who’s judging), hair wash, shave (I was previously trying to grow a moustache but that appears to have fallen by the way-side), onto bed, dry and dress (they always manage to put together my nice clothes in such a way it makes me look like a twat, and my socks never match).

Breakfast is usually chosen, although not be me, from a riveting selection of sloppy Weetabix, mashed banana or flavoured porridge. Sometimes I think that I could never look at a Weetabix ever again, and to top it off, they never sprinkle enough sugar on. I’m surprised they don’t notice the wide-eyed, pleading expression on my face as they spoon it into my mouth. I eat it, of course, against my better taste it’s easy to swallow and digest, and it really is easier to just comply. They dab at my face like a toddler before feeding me my thickened coffee through a straw. After breakfast comes meds, and after that it’s ‘activity time’, an expression so ludicrously pre-school that it used to really grate me.

It usually involves them driving me somewhere and then wheeling me around for an hour or so. Laying out my ineptitude for all the public to see, a big flashing sign over my head, ‘Look!’ it says ‘this man can’t walk anymore’, or ‘Attention! I changed this man’s nappy this morning’, or the old favourite ‘He may look young, but he hasn’t had an erection for years!’. I am strapped, buckled and zipped in, paraded at their every whim.

 

x

Scriptwriting, setting the scene.

Ok, so a new year in uni and new modules. This year we are doing *drum roll* script writing!

You may have guessed that from the title.

So anyhoo, we looked at the stage scene from A Streetcar Named Desire, which is as below:

Chapter One

SCENE ONE

 

The exterior of a two-story corner building on a street in New Orleans which is named Elysian Fields and runs between the L & N tracks and the river. The section is poor but, unlike corresponding sections in other American cities, it has a raffish charm. The houses are mostly white frame, weathered grey, with rickety outside stairs and galleries and quaintly ornamented gables. This building contains two flats, upstairs and down. Faded white stairs ascend to the entrances of both.

It is first dark of an evening early in May. The sky that shows around the dim white building is a peculiarly tender blue, almost a turquoise, which invests the scene with a kind of lyricism and gracefully attenuates the atmosphere of decay. You can almost feel the warm breath of the brown river beyond the river warehouses with their faint redolences of bananas and coffee. A corresponding air is evoked by the music of Negro entertainers at a barroom around the corner. In this part of New Orleans you are practically always just around the corner, or a few doors down the street, from a tinny piano being played with the infatuated fluency of brown fingers. This "blue piano" expresses the spirit of the life which goes on here.

Two women, one white and one colored, are taking the air on the steps of the building. The white woman is Eunice, who occupies the upstairs flat; the colored woman a neighbor, for New Orleans is a cosmopolitan city where there is a relatively warm and easy intermingling of races in the old part of town.

A bore the music of the "blue piano" the voices of people on the street can be heard overlapping.

 

 

This is an example of Mise-en-scène, which is an expression used to describe the design aspects of a theatre or film production, which essentially means "visual theme" or "telling a story"—both in visually artful ways through storyboarding, cinematography and stage design, and in poetically artful ways through direction (stolen from wikipedia).

 

 

And so, this is mine:

 

There are many park benches on this path, but this is the best, it has the perfect shade from the old elm, the appropriately distanced rubbish bin, not to mention the view. The three of them, the bench, the tree and the bin are arranged as if by a wedding photographer, naturally abiding by the rule of thirds as well as lending themselves admirably to a perfect depth of field. Put a frame around this scene and it would develop as a flawless photo.

Many dear-diary moments have taken place on this bench; impromptu picnics, covert embraces and first encounters. Dates have been made, hearts have been broken and problems mused on and mulled over. Over the years, this bench has been marked with many fumbled declarations of puppy love. So numerous, in fact, that they overlap each other, preserving history as rings in a tree.

From this hill-top vantage point you can see for miles, over the children in the park and the bumbling Saturday cyclists. There’s the city, sitting silver in the distance. If you were to look underneath this bench, you’d see a galaxy of aged chewing gum, but if you were to sit down, you’d have the best seat in the house. The veritable centre stalls for the stage of life, complete with perfect acoustics for the bird songs and lilting buzz of weekend humanity.

 

The perambulating scent of summer enjoys the view from this bench. He radiates green and yellow smells; cut grass, sunscreen and coconut-scented high hopes, before lolling among the daises and dandelions, basking in the heady, lazy light of the afternoon.

 

x



What to expect when you're perambulating... (taken from the other blog, I'm going to delete that and stick to one!)

Well, it's that time of year again - the time where I up sticks and disappear to exotic climes for a few (or more) months. I always miss all manner of interesting events, this time being the Olympics, the Jubilee and my niece's christening.

I swear no one plans anything for when I'm here, but as soon as I've booked my flight they're like, "Sweet, she's gone! Let's get married/ engaged/ pregnant/ freaky." It's a conspiracy!

This time I seem to be worringly blase about the whole situation, bumbling along until my flight. People ask "Who are you flying with?", "Are you having a stop over?", "What countries do you plan to visit?", "What's your itinerary?", "When's your return flight?" - all questions I do not know the answer to.

I have booked my first two nights in a hostel in Bangkok and through this indepth and thought-out planning, I consider myself sorted.

So without further ado, I have compiled a list of Jodie's travel must-haves (in no particular order apart from the one in which I took them out of my semi-packed backpack):

1. Passport

Yes, the obvious one, you'll notice mine has a lovely stickered design courtesy of the troglodytes at Camp America.

Check your passport is in date, check you can actually find your passport, check that you (like my brother) haven't accidentally put it through the washing machine causing it to look ludicrously counterfeited and check it is in your bag before you leave.

Also, make sure you have all the necessary visa documentation before you go. The best way to check on this is on the embassy or consulate website or just check in a recent guidebook.

A lot of visas cannot be applied for way in advance (the Thai is within 30 days of arrival) but plan ahead and gather any documentation you may need. This may include a bank statement for proof of funds, a letter from your boss or university, a postal order or a correctly completed visa application.

By being organised early you have time to gather anything you need for your visa applications; be it shockingly overpriced photobooth photos, a feather from a golden eagle or a toenail shard from the lesser-spotted wombat.

2. Guidebook

"My name is Jodie and I buy the Lonely Planet" - there I said it, and you know what? I'm not ashamed.

There seems to be this feeling out there by 'die-hard, found yourself on a beach and never stopped travelling because you're not part of that world anymore, maaaan' people, who believe that anyone who travels with a guidebook is a corporate tosser, a slave to the 'man' and an unadventurous sheep.
And you know what I see to these people? Shove it up your batik you pretentious toad.

Yes yes, it is important not to travel with your head jammed in a guidebook and be open to diversions and recommended routes/hostels/bars. But, when your bus gets stuck on the wrong side of a flooded road on your way to Panama, and you end up in your destination town in the middle of the night, you'll be glad to have a list of albeit out-of-date-price-wise accommodations to choose from (as I did when it happened to me).

Travel books provide the history of your location as well as customs and religious information, as well as addresses of local embassies and police stations, should anything go wrong.

I always travel with a guidebook, but I don't stick religiously to it and remember to put it down to look around. I even go one step further and go into STA pretending to be interested in their tours, take the brochure and steal ideas from them. Win win.

3. Mesh bags and pegs

If you're going travelling, mesh bags will become your best friend. You can use them to separate your smalls, carrying your laundry or even collecting mangoes in.

Trust me, take some cheapie laundry bags; you will not regret it.

As for the pegs, you'll be the jealousy of the hostel as you hang out your freshly scrubbed washing gloriously straight. Just watch their longing eyes as they gaze upon your t-shirts drying stupendously quickly in the warm breeze, whilst their knotted messes hang damp nearby.

You will grow to love the pegs.

4. Bikinis

I always take a load of bikinis with me travelling, mostly because I have a few that stay on when I'm surfing, one that's good for lounging around in and another that allows me to tan the previously untanned places. I was thinking more like different strap locations instead of going tiny, in case that was what you were thinking.

Also, bikinis (and boardies for that matter) are great because they are clothes that dry super quick.

There's no point in carting around a load of frilly knickers when you can totally rock a bikini every day. Plus, washing is a doddle so there's no need to cart round a huge laundry bag of four-times-used smalls.

As well as the very real point that people are far more accepting of a bunkbed-attached washing line full of bikinis than they would be of a polka dot curtain of your M&S undies - I'm looking at you, Liz.

5. Pashminas and cover ups

Pashminas and sarongs are great.

You can use them to cover your wobbly bits, as a sunshield, a temporary towel or blanket or as a scarf to keep you warm.

However, one of the most useful uses for a pashmina is to keep respectfully covered when entering a place of worship. You don't want to be turned away or accidentally insult someone due to your inappropriate attire.

For the same reason girls, always remember to pack t-shirts and at least one long skirt or pair of trousers for when you want to visit the temples.

Also, in some countries western women are seen as fair game with lose morals so try to shun the stereotype by keeping covered and don't show your cheeky bits to anyone unless you really, really like them.

6. A pack of cards

I was gifted these cards many moons ago, although I can't remember who by, and they have been everywhere with me.

I can't even begin to guess how many hands of inappropriately named card games have been played with them or how many fellow travellers have commented on the poor photo choices or bad spelling of the pictures.

Cards are great for playing patience in airports but are also a useful social tool. Everyone from everywhere seems to know a variation of the game Shithead and through arguing over the power cards, you may have just found your travel buddy for the next few days or at least a drinking partner for the night.

Now, whose turn was it to shuffle?




7. Locks

Now, not to be a scaremonger, but people do get stuffed nicked. I myself have had stuff sneakily swiped whilst I wasn't looking.


At the end of the day, if people want your stuff they'll probably take it.


The best way to avoid being the target of a thief is by not advertising yourself. Don't take out your fancy laptop, your top of the range SLR, your expensive jewellery, your original Monet or your Faberge egg, because you're just asking for trouble.

Be discreet or just leave it at home.


Locks can go so far as a detterant for an opportunist but if you have everything under lock and key then people will think, "What have they got in there that's so important/expensive/awesome?" and then Bingo, stuff: gone.


8. Feminine hygiene!

A word to the wise - you won't be able to find everything over there that you can over here. Like, for example, tampons. Now, I'm sure many heavily touristed places do stock tampons, but in Guatemala you cannot find them for love nor money. Something which can be so run of the mill over here is unavailable other there, in turn they had stuff that we don't, such as a weird skin bleaching kit which I really did not want to learn too much about.

So in short, take a supply. The same goes for hand sanitiser gel and sun tan lotion and bug spray.

Many of the locals will not use these products as they have no need for them - a natural immunity to the bugs or a darker skin tone.

I'm not saying become a rambling apothecary, but remember that if you really want it, consider taking some with you.





9. A crap phone

Hello 2001!

Seriously, crap phones are good for two, well three, reasons and they are:

1. They are super awesome as an alarm clock for early morning bus rides and surfs.
2. They act as a relief from the 'ominous, foreboding throat knotter' experienced whilst waiting for your emails to load. Scary stuff. No news is good news, right?
3. Their lights are great for drunkenly finding your way back to your bunk in a pitch black dorm room. Accidentally getting into someone elses bed is not good for international relations. Mr Annan would not be happy.

Also, because it's crap it doesn't matter if you lose it, aside from the incredible reasons above, obvs.


10. A book, or two

If you're anything like me, you will get through a lot of books whilst travelling and through swapping, the standards will vary greatly.

One minute, you're retina deep in one of the classics pictured and the next, you're wondering if Suki ever does get ravished by Henley in the dire chick-lit you've picked up.Examples I have previously read include 'Total Recall', 'The Phantom of the Opera', 'The Total Brewing Annual 2004', 'Mens Health Ultimate Fitness Guide 2006' and the first of a four part explanation of the start of the Second World War (ask me anything about Rommel).

11. Sensible shoes

Just look at these bad boys, they've seen a few amazing places.

However, they are perfect. Light, hard wearing, comfortable and sexy. Ok, so maybe not sexy but they do the job if you fancy a ramble up a mountain or are moving through a city and don't want to get your feet stinking.

I have previously made the mistake of lugging around a pair of hiking boots, but unless you're planning an extreme hiking holiday, I'd say they probably aren't worth it as they take up a load of backpack space and are heavy.

Also, I left mine outside my tent in Nicaragua for two weeks and when I went to put them back on, I realised an entire colony of ants had moved in, eggs and all. I could almost hear them shrieking "Save the Queen! Save the Queen!" as I shook /gassed them out. Lovely.

12. A torch, a camera and a first aid kit (torch and camera not pictured as I am getting them tomorrow for my birthday)

Welcome to your little bag of salvation, your first aid kit.

I tend not to buy the shop kits (honestly, who wants to carry around a foil blanket and a thumb bandage applicator?) and just make my own.

I include immodium (other soupy poopy tablet brands are available), germolene, antiseptic wipes, one of those long plaster strips, nail scissors, Dioralyte and some wound closure strips.

I could have done with at least two of those when I contracted Giardia but unfortunately did not have them. Doh.

As far torches, I have previously gone for the old head torch but have realised they aren't great in social situations what with you blinding everyone you're speaking to. I wondered why everyone looked so squinty eyed and creased. This time, I think I'd prefer a normal hand-held one but hey, I'm not fussy.

And as for a camera, something small and compact is best I think, this time I'm getting a waterproof one! Amazing! Just make sure you take either a big enough SD Card or a USB stick so you can transfer all your photos.

So, that's it and anything else is surplus. Bring on the travel!

x

Tubing and Touristyness.

"Don't worry, the helmets are one size fits all," they said  "I've never met anyone they didn't fit."
Chris and I look at each other, knowing full well that they have clearly under appreciated the Ashdown Cranium Gigantis.
"Well, you're about to see something really special then," we think. But alas, they did fit - albeit on the absolute maximum size. Orange helmets on, we were ready to go.

After hauling my hungover ass out of bed at 8:00am that morning, and inadvertently becoming an emergency alarm clock for an oversleeping Chris, we had hammered it to Goytre for our day of tubing.

After a haphazard introduction, safety briefing and typo-laden disclaimer, we were invited to own up to any recent surgeries or injuries.

*2 second pause*

"No one? Ok, let's go."

After laughing at Chris trying to jam himself into a somewhat inaccurately chosen size M wetsuit, we jumped into the car and drove convoy for a whole 20 minutes to Dinas Rock. We lost the end few cars on the way there due to a particularly and ill-advised slow acceleration through some traffic lights, but they were eventually rounded up.

Buoyancy aids were donned and rings were selected, we began the walk to the entry point, see below:

It turned out to be an awesome day; sunny, dry and such a laugh. See photos below:

Chris getting jammed on a rock.

Us at the end.

Here's a link to the company, Liquid Friction.


It made me think of the last time I went tubing, which was in Guatemala, an experience that I referred to in an earlier post.

Basically, we had just complete the bikini-clad, candle-holding, bat-brimming caving trip and were floating down the river to La Puente, the bridge.

It is the time that I felt the most touristy.

Ever.

So, they we were floating along really, really slowly, there's people on the bridges watching us gleaming western-white in the afternoon sun. We float a little longer (by the end it felt like we'd been floating for hours) and turn a corner. There is a few families of indigenous people watching on the river bank, washing their clothes. The men sit back and keep an eye on the children whilst the women scrub the clothes, little babies strapped to their backs.

They look up to see us pass, clothes in hand. We float by, excruciatingly slowly, the contrast was stark.

At that point, I felt like a big, arrogant and ignorant tourist, probably spending more in a day than they earn in weeks through farming or selling homemade chocolate to tourists. I may as well have been smoking a giant cigar, wearing a golden crown and waving a Union Jack sewn out of bank notes.

They resumed their washing, it was humiliating floating there in ultimate leisure over exposed in my bikini whilst they went about their daily chores, covered up in traditional dress. Us, on a Brucey conveyor belt of Queen, Country, Capitalism and Empire. I was embarrassed.

The current seemed to dwindle almost to a complete stop and the children climbed out along the rocks to us.

"¿Cómo se llama usted?" they giggle, the people in this region speak Spanish and Mayan dialects.
"Jodie," I reply. They giggle again.
"Jooodddiieeee," they repeat in a comically British accent.
We look at each other for a minute or so, laughing and trying to communicate through my rubbish Spanish.
"Adios!" I say, as we begin to drift away.
"Adios!" they chant.
I wave as I watch them disappear around the corner.

And that was it, the moment of sobriety from the cocktail called Wanderlust.

It really put things in perspective.

x

Shipwreck Poem

There's a shipwreck called The Lucy off the coast of Pembrokeshire (near Skomer Island) which I dived a couple of years ago, you can find out some more information about it here.

I remember the day quite vividly as on the dive after this, a seal swam up to me and was playing with my fins for about 5 minutes, it was amazing! Then he swam to the surface and just floated there watching us - incredible.

This poem is actually inspired by the poem 'Inchape Rock' by Robert Southey, which was written in 1820. I remember hearing it as a child and was always struck by the imagery of the bell floating deeper and deeper. Creepy.

So here is my take; due to artistic licensing I left out the fact that once I got the surface, I was really seasick and puked and puked and puked.

So, without further ado (feel free to comment, I don't think you need to join anymore!):

Me in my dive gear on a different dive but you know, it sets the mood.

The Lucy

You tumble back into the waves,

forty metres down, Lucy waits.

She’s sat there since the 60s,

but you’ve never met before.

The hazard orange, floating bauble

sits as surface evidence,

of the hidden, deeper secrets

to which it is shackled.

Her name is scrawled across the buoy

that marks her final resting place,

which you’ll use to navigate to her

in the brimstone treacle depths.

So, you slip beneath the surface

where the warm sun cannot follow,

and from red the colours fade.

You plummet slow to shaded depths.

When you have no point of reference

your mind struggles for a mark,

to put its worried self at ease

amongst the silted, gravy water.

Imagined creatures spiral

in the gloom just out of view,

tantalising your periphery,

fabricating looming shadows.

Your left hand feeds the buoy line,

ripcord-taut against the tide,

its recurring jerks and bucks

warn of skyward rolling swell.

As you sink you feel the fingers

of a seeping thermo cline,

its slicing cold snips at the skin

that sits exposed around your mask.

You see the signal trail of bubbles

from your buddy just below,

this cyclic clue of exhalation

becomes a welcome sign of life.

Down here the only discord

is the rasping of your breath,

through the tanks and tubes and pipes

of your artificial lungs.

As you descend you check your gauge,

work out depth, air and direction.

Take out your torch, its blade of light

blunt insufficient in the smog.

And then,

Her rusted bow.

She seems so solid in the dark,

sat blinking from your torch,

in her nightgown of anemones

that soften all her corners.

The crab and wrasse and dogfish,

are her pelagic chaperone.

She’s tickled by Bristle star,

and flanked by hurried cuttles,

the sea fans hide her blush.

A lace of Dead Man’s Fingers.

In ascent I train my torch down,

to watch her evanesce.

Until she fades from my beam,

And shuts her eyes once more.

x

Barney and the Wenallt.

"I know what'll be nice" I thought, "I'll take Barney up the Wenallt".

So I put him in the car and off we go.

He is loving it; frolicking in the bluebells, prancing in the wild garlic, feeling the breeze in his nostrils. Here is a video of Barney enjoying himself, my favourite moment is when he notices the other dog behind him and jumps around (I apologise for my dog voice):

So there he is loving life when suddenly, he gets a little overexcited and disppears.

Gone.

I call his name, shake the treat box, whistle. I think I was ruining everyone elses' quiet morning walk by polluting the silence with:

"Barney!", "BARNEY!", 'a-chuk-a-chuk-a-chuk-a-chuk' (the shaking of the treat box) *whistle* "Baaaaaaaaarney!".

Nothing.

"No worries" I think, "I'll just do a loop track". So, off I go. 10 minutes in, no Barney. I can hear the cars on the nearby road thinking, "please don't be on the road!".

I imagine him chasing butterflies, hunting squirrels, lapping from a babbling brook, generally having the time of his life. All in slow motion with some sort of string quartert backing track, the heady sun beaming through the trees. I get annoyed.

I walk a bit more. "Baaaaarrrnnneeeyyy!"

Nothing.

15 minutes later I'm nearing the car park, ready to loop again, when suddenly he appears out of the foliage.

He looks happy to see me.

"There you are!" I say, clipping him onto his lead, "Damn dog."

Once we've walked the short distance back to the carpark, the woman in the car next to us (who I was chatting to earlier) says, "Oh, he found you then. I thought he might have run off."

I look perplexed.

She says, "He's been sat by your car for about 20 minutes."

It turns out that after realising he may have got a bit out of control, ran too far and lost me, he circled back on himself, found the car, sat by it and stayed put.

A far more sensible option that wandering around in the trees shaking a treat box.

I think I've made my point.

Well, at least one of us had a good walk...

x