Unheimlich

He is your type.

An archetypal type. Ein toller tüp.

He is the protagonist, so too

His white-hot eyes.

His desiccated heart

And capillaries of ash.

He dresses like money.

His James Dean smile and the

Juiced embolism of his neck-tie

Straightened with canonical fingers.

Those claws of Nosferatu

And that neck of authority.

In love with his reflection

The effect is dopple.

                Gang.

                                Her.

His umlaut is cold.

With his Schwietzer smell

Of electrified defences,

That lemon juice mouth’s tone

a ringing telephone

In an

      empty

room.

He is your type.

An archetypal type. Ein toller tüp.

The Drake Jewel

In the New Year the Queen becomes the moon.

Her face a map, its’ creases sailor’s chart,

Her sleeves crescents, half lighting the night’s sky,

Glistering jewels stars that shine a beacon.

Sir Francis, aft adrift, at Queen’s behest

Navigates favour with treasures of spice.

Courtly presented, a blackened smile splits

The white sea, from his fainèd love to show.

Since she be Cynthia, her lunar tides

Counter-flood her list, with gems of pleasure.

Her gifts a ship’s glass, later foundering,

As the explorer’s mercury cools and falls.

Cameo of alabaster and black

Of white lady, native man, she decked

With Roman mantle, royal crown, they encased 

By forget-me-nots, behung with ocean pearls.

Inverse, Diana. The phoenix whose rise

Sets swift flight to the Spanish Armada.

Under whose slight fingers, the globe will rest,

Lands broken, torn by merchant’s pickaxes.

The audience’s eyes bore holes, and watch

My lady Juno, with current favourite.

She looks to see within his face such dread,

For in this jewel, all the world’s encompassèd.

L'ecriture et la difference

We do not know how to ‘talk’ anymore,

after taking that class on Derrida.

Each word spoken (in parentheses), is qualified. The meaning

dragged out.

Before, our lives were lived, subjunctive.

Could they be re/lived in the present?

conditional.

Your mouth moves, signing those words

that fall                                 on deaf ears.

You. My int         er           loc         ut           or.             

Your O.      Oh?      Oh                                       no.

“It’s not the words that you said, it’s the space
in between                                                      them.”

I picture your phrase on my page

re-written. Re: verbal. Only a

fragment. (Consider revising.)

Poetry Bites- Bus Journey Challenge

I was thinking that I hadn't written anything in a while, apart from poems for a course I'm doing at the moment at the Poetry School in Kennington 

I had two three hour bus journeys going to see a friend and I thought I would spend the time writing. As I was going to be sat in a seat, not at a desk I decided to just write poems on the notes section of my iphone. I've found recently that if I am given a subject to write about, even loosely, it is helpful for me. So I set myself a challenge.

I sent out a note on Facebook and Twitter asking people for topics, telling them I would respond within half an hour once I received their chosen subject. The range of topics varied, but generally centred on comedic subjects. Being in a relatively contemplative mood, I chose to interpret them more seriously!

I've included the majority of the poems below, some of which I think are more successful than others. I haven't corrected any of them yet, but I will, though I thought I'd put them up as the immediacy of them was kind of the point. Some of them are repetitive (I was writing them specifically to send to certain people), but I think that reflects my per-occupations at the time (this always happens with my poetry).

Elements (For Rhodri - topic 'Eloping')

Twin volcanoes
My Vesuvius to his Krakatoa.
Our magma, combined
Creating reactions, chemically.
A sulphur of explosions.

Our families, sedimentary
Us, forever igneous
They attempt to break us
With pick axes, mine us,
And spread us as thin as they.

At the blacksmith's shop
They understand. And meld us
Together, our earthen love made metal
With fire. The Scottish air cools us
While the tears fall like rain.

Me. Meme. (For Matt - topic 'On Becoming a Meme')

Myself. Audio. Booed.
Spread, like a virus
Mailboxes. Clogged.
Witticisms. Well chosen words.
Hard-wired. No defence.

I am the tip of the tongue.
Subsumed in saliva,
The talk of the town.
Faceless, no lips, no teeth.
No way to bite back.

Am I real? A pixilated soul, or
A figment of
Our collective imagination.

Mustard Yellow Tights (For Gamze- topic ‘Mustard Yellow Tights’)

When I was a girl my tights were mustard yellow.
The colour of Dijon. Not French, and heavens, not American.
With ribbing, consoling my legs in their numbing warmth. 

When I grew older, I mourned their loss, not able
To wear my favourite colour, as it was not
The done thing, but sensible black, or sheer with seams.

Then she came, and I could dress her, in double 
Dijon. With a matching dress or hat and, 
Take my pleasures in her innocence.

She did not like the fabric, said it was itchy on
Her legs, would scratch, draw blood that seeped
Into the wool I would starch and boil.

Now I am no longer a girl. Barely still a woman,
And I wear mustard tights, no matter that she hates.
The end will be here soon, and I want to feel it warm and safe.

Flamin hot pickled onion (For Melissa, topic ‘Monster Munch’)

When I was a girl the packs were plastic
With a window, stained with smears
Of grease and crumbs, Smashed.

Before sucking them to nothing,
I would put them on my fingers
And dream of my future husband.

I'd remove them, leaving traces
Upon my hands. An indelible
Smell of false flavours.

Each little bite, tartness, tingle
Created by the monsters in their factory.
Fantasy is better than reality.

Endless Street (For Lauren- topic ‘A Crap Town’)

The coach stalled at the roundabout,
Outside the concrete town
Turned left into the parkway,
And pulled up at Endless Street.

The blue bus curtains twitched
Wide-set eyes looked on the streets
The inhabitants crowd on
As we wait on Endless Street.

No waiter in the cafe.
No landlord in the pub.
No mistress for the post,
As we wait on Endless Street.

The driver says 'too full' 
But none from the town will leave
So we watch the bus depart
As we wait on Endless Street.

Shell Shock (For Clare – topic ‘Peanuts’)

We forget about the shells.
That which encased the nut we savour.
The husk, whose tender strength 
Made, grew our sweet pleasure.

We are impatient to de-seed,
Strip down, strip bare, to
Remove the mahogany skin
And to feast upon the flesh beneath.

The shell is not to be discarded.
Not to compost or to degrade.
But whose shock, anaphylactic,
Must dilate through antidote.

(Hydrogen) Boyfriend

His atomic number is one.

A singular proton

In his private nucleus.

Electrons dancing unnoticed on his surface.

He is programmed for covalent bonding,

But his (electro)negativity

Polarises his relationships

So they are unequal.

Hydrogen is what keeps us together.

Our atoms bound by negative charge

From different molecules.

Yet this is no true chemical bond.

His melting point -259.14 ºC.

Not soft or malleable, but cold.

Exposed to air he vapourises

But yet, is ever present.

Without hydrogen I would die.

No air. No water.

I breathe him in; he breathes me out,

I am his own Hiroshima.

If She Tried

She is that girl

Who catches her coat

On the door handle.

She would not be able

To do it if she tried.

She is that girl

Whose feet find

The one paving stone

To trip over.

She would not be able

To do it if she tried.

She is that girl

Who brushes her teeth

And leaves toothpaste

Around her mouth

Before walking to work.

She would not be able

To do it if she tried.

She is that girl

Who when she gestures

Knocks over a drink

And drenches her neighbour

In a shower of beer and

Mops up with her jumper.

She would not be able

To do it if she tried.

She is that girl

Who wears yesterday's clothes

And gets to the library

Before she realises

The waft of perspiration

And the dark brown stain

Near her crotch.

She would not be able

To do it if she tried.

She is that girl

Who thinks about others

And what they think

Scared of their thoughts

Embarrassed at her actions

That provoke laughter

So she must laugh

At herself.

She would not be able to do it

If she tried.

Zounds (Shakespearean Melancholia) - Oulipo

What misadventure is so early up?

Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest.

Ah, what an unkind hour

Is guilty of this lamentable chance.

Of much I fear some ill, unthrifty thing,

One writ with me in sour misfortune's book.

More fierce and more inexorable far,

Than empty tiger or the roaring sea.

How is't my soul? Lets talk, it is not day.

Thou calld'st me dog before thou hadst a cause!

But since I am a dog, beware my fangs.

Condemned villain I do apprehend thee.

Wilt thou be gone? Never from this palace
Of dim night depart again.

By heaven, I love thee more than myself.

Had I it written, I would tear the word.

Oh blessed, blessed night! I am afeard,

Night's candles are burned out.

Why, I descend unto this bed of death

Cease thy strife, and leave me to my grief.

Nothing will come of nothing.

Singledom, Relationships and the Modern Woman (I am not a man hater).

I am single. I have been single for over a year, after a brief disastrous relationship where we both were entirely unsuited to each other, despite getting on very well and liking and respecting each other. It's knocked my confidence a bit, well, a lot actually as it was one of the first relationships where I felt I was actually really honest. I was going through a very odd head space time when I really was quite unwell which didn't help matters along with other factors I don't feel I can share. Before that I hadn't been in a relationship for a year, before that, despite small flings/altercations, not for a year and a half, and before that for a year. In my 31 years, I have had four major relationships which have totalled six years, so I have spent 25 years single. In many ways I have always seen myself as someone who is single but occasionally has a boyfriend. I do feel jealousy towards those women that have found that person, and also my take on things is of course influenced by my experience. Ask me in a year and if I have a wonderful boyfriend I might think incredibly differently.

I remember distinctly saying when I was about nine or ten that I didn't think I'd ever get married. And I've come to realise consciously now its not that I don't want to- I just don't know if I'll ever find the person to do it with. I had one boyfriend who was incredibly sweet, loving and caring, who said to me that he would propose to me if he thought I would say yes. I broke up with him three weeks later- because I've always wanted someone challenging, which, lovely and kind and sweet and gentle and intelligent as he was, he wasn't 'difficult'. He is now married with a baby to a woman he's far more suited to than me, and I'm very very happy for him. If he and I had married, neither of us would have been happy.

I've been very resistant to stereotyping male and female behaviour. Dismissed out of hand all the 'Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus' shit, partly I think because I have always felt that I wanted to be treated equally to men, and also because I do believe that a lot of male and female characteristics constitute societal learned behaviour. However, I think as I get older I do seem to recognise very definite male and female characteristics, whether they are learned or instinctual. And this is from the woman whose major relationships have been with wildly different men: a vegetarian heavy drinking trainee architect I travelled the world with; a sustainable communications professional who played in a 15 piece folk band, both of whose parents were priests; a successful marathon running high earning sponsorship marketer who voted Conservative(????); and one of the most prodigiously well read, effusive, verbose people I've ever met, a web editor who had a degree in History of Art, played about 10 musical instruments he'd taught himself, acted and had been a journalist. Eclectic no?

I know a huge number of beautiful, intelligent, successful female friends who are single or who have/have had relationships that have damaged their self-esteem. I was recently engaged in an email conversation with a friend who was berating herself for having had a go at her boyfriend for some difficult behaviour due to vagaries of timing, (which it's not my place to disclose). I have known this man for nearly 10 years, and we are good friends, but some of his behaviour I have found hard to condone, and he knows this. We mutually respect not to talk about it- especially since we ourselves have a past. I believe he is working hard to be 'better'. But my female friend was berating HERSELF for having a go at him for some of his behaviour which I agreed was inconsiderate, (though with mitigating circumstances). She had supported him through a difficult time and then needed support herself at a difficult time- which had not been forthcoming. We discussed how we let things build up and build up until it's like a pressure cooker and we blow off steam dramatically, and then feel shit about it. My observations have been that as women we naturally offer a caring, nurturing side, which some men (NOT ALL I HASTEN TO ADD), simply don't realise that we're offering. And then when that support isn't reciprocal, it makes us angry. And many men genuinely don't understand what they have done wrong. It's because we give too much in the hope that we will get it in return.

In situations like this, who is at fault here, if anyone? In my last relationship I really massively gave too much, whilst being totally erratic. And I didn't get it back, or at least not in the way that I needed, though I think at that time I had no idea what it was that I needed. If women become emotional it's so incredibly easy to stereotype us as mental. (I am mental, but that's different). If we become upset (I remember on a trip to New York with an ex standing on a subway platform silently crying whilst he pretended not to notice), we are being unreasonable, over-emotional, weak. As a woman, I would do anything to avoid such a thing ever happening to the person I loved/was in a relationship with. It seems odd to someone who would do that, for that reassurance or comfort not to be returned. But is it that some men just simply can't recognise those signs? And as women should we expect them to? Should we hold back and stop offering that tacit or overt support? That goes against many of ours' better nature, and stops us being who we are, but it may be a good boundary to learn to draw.

I think one of the most satisfying relationships that I've ever had was with an Aussie guy who became a good friend. He was over in the UK touring with his band, and was only in London for around two months. It coincided with a time when I was temping before starting a university course and so I had free time and took him on tours of bits of the city I loved. He was an artist and I took him to the National Portrait Gallery and showed him the Arnolfini Portrait which his mother (also an artist), had told him about when he was a child. We stayed up until 5am drinking champagne, swapping ipods and choosing what the other person listened to, watching black and white films. We read Ted Hughes and John Donne to each other. All the cliches, but you know what, when you do them they are fucking FUN. And the reason why I think that this was the most satisfying relationships I ever had? Because I knew it was going to end, and when. It was about enjoying each other as much as possible, which we did, with zero expectations. As women nowadays, independent, successful, with our own interests, thoughts, methods of self-expression, the one place to so many of my friends we feel we can't define what is going on is through our relationships. We don't ask about the future- to be seen to do so is 'clingy'. We don't want to know about their past per se, many times due to insecurity about not living up to past girlfriends. We're living for the now- even though sometimes we may not want to. We're too scared that if we ask about where things are going, that will be the end of the relationship, which if we're with that mind-fuckingly difficult yet wonderful person that you adore, is the last thing that you want. So we live in a strange limbo, not wanting to live up to the over-emotional insecure stereotype and be modern, whilst ACTUALLY feeling very insecure about our relationships. My last boyfriend didn't even tell the majority of people that he was going out with me for various reasons. I would walk into situations with his friends and no-one would have a clue who I was and I didn't know if I could tell them. I don't think he thought how that would make me feel until I massively exploded (the day before Valentine's Day, which he'd tried to cancel on me, aptly enough), which I then of course, hugely regretted as I was living up to that over-emotional, insecure stereotype. We've talked about it since, have both apologised, but it still fucking hurts.

It seems to be a recurrent theme amongst my female friends that it's the relationships with the men that are more 'challenging' are the ones that we find most exciting/soul destroying- a difficult dichotomy to reconcile. My most recent relationship which knocked me for six lasted only five months. Another nameless friend of mine went out with someone for nine months after having come out of a significant long term relationship and it was the nine month relationship that she found the hardest to deal with which took her to counselling. I'm afraid to say (and I don't think five years ago I would have said this), that I think the sad truth is that we hope to be the one to 'change' that difficult man. Not stop him being who he is, because that is what we love about him, but to create that instinctive caring side that we, as women, harbour. And at the end of the day, in reality you can't change anyone. You just have to accept their good and bad sides. As has been inculcated into me by therapists, psychiatric nurses, friends, you can't change what happens- you can only change how you deal with it. So the next relationship I have will, I hope, be very different. At the moment, for various reasons, I am following Hamlet's advice to get myself to a metaphorical nunnery. But a cloister where I hope my single woman's observations may assist and empathise with the beautiful members of my sex dealing with the head-fuck of being a modern woman.

Le petit mort/Conjugation

I am a fucking cunt

You are a fucking cunt

He is a fucking cunt

She is a fucking cunt

We are fucking cunts

They are fucking cunts

Je suis un putain de chatte

Tu es un putain de chatte

Il est un putain de chatte

Elle est un putain de chatte

Nous sommes putains de chattes

Vous êtes un putain de chatte

Ils sont putains de chattes

Elles sont putains de chattes

Ich bin eine verdammter Fotze

Du bist eine verdammter Fotze

Er ist eine verdammter Fotze

Sie ist eine verdammter Fotze

Wir sind verdammten Fotzen

Sie sind eine verdammter Fotze

Sie sind verdammten Fotzen

Soy un coņo de mierda

Tu eres un coņo de mierda

El es un coņo de mierda

Ella es una coņo  de mierda

Somos coņo s de mierda

Usted es un coņo de mierda

Estan mierda coņos

I Do Not Know How To Write Poetry

You could call this a metaphor,

Or as like a metaphor as a simile.

The whooshing of onomatopoeic phrasing,

Floating, doting on assonance.

Is there time for internal rhyme?

Or should that be rhetorical question?

With five syllables

Then seven so that it shows,

I know the haiku.

An acrostic

Begins

Claiming

Demonstrable

Expertise.

I won't repeat,

I don't repeat,

Repetition is a lazy technique.

So I will write in free verse,

Unleashing the images in my mind.

The shadows of convention

Want to draw my thoughts into

Tight little tropes.

I do not know how to write poetry.

Dr Pettigrew Decides When the River Becomes the Sea

Dr. Stephen Pettigrew was the man who decided when the river became the sea. It had always been a bone of contention amongst British marine biologists and geographers, quarrelling over who had greater rights to research in the area, and the relative responsibilities for marine life. This had led to a war of attrition over a five mile stretch of water around the Essex coast where the Thames bled into the North Sea. Death stares, cold shoulders and whispered insults echoed the dilapidated halls of the University of East Essex, situated on the sea-front by Southend Pier, in a building, aptly, more damp than dry. The argument had rumbled on for so long, the university faculty had commissioned Pettigrew to spend the last three years researching the question so that a line could conclusively be drawn under the issue. When asked to undertake the research he had been certain he could answer the question, dependent upon the salt volumes in the contended stretch of water, calculating what level of salt officially constituted sea water.

Pettigrew was about to present his conclusions on the thorny question at the 19^th Annual Salt and Freshwater Conference the university was hosting. His findings were eagerly anticipated, with academics from the Americas, Asia and Australasia poised to utilise his findings and take them back to their respective places of research. They had made the long trip to the peculiarly British sea-side town; and encountered the salty wind whipping through the courtyard of the University making many of them glad of their sunnier climes. It took someone truly dedicated to the majesty of coastal formation and the effect on local wildfowl to brave the Essex seashore in the depths of winter. Pettigrew was just such a man.

Gunther, his post-graduate researcher sat next to him in the small ante-room he had been assigned to wait in before his speech. Never before had Pettigrew been afforded such a luxury in his up to now, fairly non-eventful career, despite being a well-seasoned public speaker. Before this commission however, his work had been mainly based upon the composition of coastal sediments, which, as it wasn't to do with climate change, (the current global hot topic), was met with no great fanfare. Having remained staunchly ambivalent to the question of responsibility in the Thames Estuary, being drawn into neither camp, he was seen as the natural, if safe choice to settle the argument once and for all. The attention that was being paid to him made him nervous, and he'd shared clammy handshakes and back slaps with both sides of the warring factions, each group certain that he would be supporting their assertions.

The University had bought a little coffee machine and installed it in the room, along with a plate of over-sized doorstep sandwiches, a small glass bowl full of crisps, and even a whole carrot cake. Gunther had delighted in brewing cup after cup of strong coffee, having become used to the instant weak dish-water provided in the post-graduate social space. That might explain the rapid jerking of his knee which was irritating Pettigrew, the young man's leg bouncing up and down to some insistent inaudible rhythm, a combination of caffeine and nerves. This was unlike Gunther. Gunther was from the University of Osnabruck, and displayed all the signs of Teutonic reserve, keeping his head down, gathering information and collating the data needed to measure salt levels, water volumes and calculate complex future predictions of the rates of coastal erosion. The young man was clearly excited to be part of such a high-profile project, which had only grown to national and international attention when the PR department of the university had heard about the project and created a fuss in the media about this seemingly simple question. There had been a large upsurge in interest in Geography and Marine Biology courses as a result of the publicity, and the university were keen to make the most marketing potential from his findings.

Pettigrew had selected Gunther especially for his disciplined, ordered, structured approach to the project. He hadn't been the most enthusiastic candidate, but his strong CV and precise speech (a peculiarity of the Germans Pettigrew valued hugely), had indicated that they would work well together. Gunther's robust constitution also meant he had no qualms about sending him down to Osea Island in the midst of a storm to gather samples, his Germanic stoicism driving him to continue even as the rain lashed his face and the waves crashed upon the waterproofs he had, of course, bought in preparation. Never a word of protest, even when by the time he returned to the lab with the samples for analysis his hair and skin were sopping wet, both from the sea-spray and the perspiration clammily built up inside the shiny plastic coat. Gunther didn't even bother to change, so eager was he to get on with the task, and as he slowly warmed up a light steam would rise from his wet clothes and skin in the hot laboratory. At the end of one such day, when Pettigrew had dismissed him, he noticed the light flecks of salt in his dark hair, crystallized around the hair shaft, distinct from dandruff which came off in large flakes. Dandruff didn't slightly glisten with a jagged transparency like these tiny crystals did. A small piece of scientific perfection.

Pettigrew had always been glad he was a scientist, an explorer of the concrete, the definable, the empirically sound. Where do we come from? Why are we here? Can language ever communicate what we truly want to say? He'd never been one for such pointless, circular discussions with no hard evidence or fact to corroborate anyone's arguments. Having been forced to take morals and ethics as part of his earliest studies in medicine (quickly abandoned for less volatile subjects to work upon), he had written desultory papers on what he thought the tutors wanted to hear, then quickly abandoned such topics to concentrate on the properties of calcium carbonate. Atoms could do extraordinary things, but there were rules, calculations, experiments, requiring pain-staking methodology until there was enough evidence to draw a conclusion. There weren't corridors, avenues, side-streets that you would end up being dragged down, abstract concept after abstract concept having to be defined in physical, biological, cognitive, rational, ontological, anthropological and linguistic terms. He had wondered how humanities professors could stay sane in the knowledge that the majority of the work they taught illustrated that the very subjects they were teaching were built upon shaky foundations.

Pettigrew could see the camera crews lined up at the back of the hall and the journalists sitting impatiently, notebooks in hand in the front of the rows of seats in the freshly painted lecture theatre. Katie, the young PR officer looked somewhat frazzled as she settled a hard-looking female journalist in the seat closest to the lectern, nodding her head with a fixed smile upon her face, eyes glazing over as the woman talked and talked and talked. They had not sent out a press release in advance, wanting to ensure the findings weren't reported before the conference actually took place (before talking to the girl, he had no idea such things happened), and the journalist was making it clear she was not happy about this arrangement. Katie kept nodding and nodding, her face becoming redder and redder with embarrassment and frustration.

What Pettigrew hadn't expected was that his investigation would become an existentialist quest. Having accepted the commission without doing a scrap of research, certain of his sphere of knowledge, he was surprised to find in the recesses of the library that he'd never ventured into that the debate had been raging amongst philosophers for centuries, no, millennia. Ancient Greek philosopher Thales' edict that all began with water, and to water we would return made a mockery of his research. Aristotle, Russell, Nietzsche had grappled with this theory, names that he’d heard of, but never had the need or desire to read.

Questions he’d never considered began to invade his brain like apparitions. How big is a drop of water? When does a drip become a puddle, a puddle a lake, a lake a stream, a stream a brook, a brook a river, a river running into the sea from a tributary? Where is a river's source, where can it truly be said to start and stop, barriers and dams flooding it, water-logging ground, bursting banks, wreaking havoc on houses built on flood plains? These were the questions that now dogged him, kept him awake, until he dreamt fitful dreams where he encountered bearded be-togaed Ancient Greeks and demonstrated to them the modern techniques of reverse osmosis desalination on brackish water.

Pettigrew had taken himself to the Victoria and Albert Museum, fighting through the hordes of Italian foreign exchange students loitering outside the entrance in Cromwell Road, turning right into the Medieval and Renaissance galleries. Moving swiftly past the marble effigies, Corinthian columns and ancient artefacts, he found what he was looking for. The spidery hand-writing, written backward so as to be near impossible to decipher and the faded brown drawings had a strange effect on him. Leonardo Da Vinci's notebook, no more than five inches tall by a few inches wide. It contained the thoughts of a man for whom science, art and philosophy were indivisible. The thoughts of a man whose scientific predictions were light years ahead of his time. The thoughts of a man who could paint, draw, think, feel, see, analyse, philosophise. Da Vinci was the Vitruvian man- arms, legs, torso, face, all in perfect balance and proportion with his beliefs.  

He had stood with his face to the glass for a full 20 minutes, his breath misting on the surface until a young gallery assistant had asked him to step away. He had moved back, but still he’d stood there until his eyes began to hurt. He had then wandered dumbstruck out into the bright Kensington sunlight. How could he have been so closed minded? So sure of his own knowledge? Da Vinci’s genius was not conducted through empirical means, but by imagination, contemplation, sometimes irrationality. Yet he was hailed as one of the greatest scientific minds of all time. Pettigrew began to feel dizzy, and sat himself on one the concrete steps, populated by London pigeons that quickly scattered away from his shaking feet.

Gunther had not been aware of this trip, thinking it a visit to see a colleague at Imperial College in Bloomsbury. In his usual way, he did not ask Pettigrew any questions, sure that if there was something important Gunther would be told and instructed. Pettigrew did not tell Gunther to change any of the experiments, the laboratory time, the research plan that they had developed. Gunther had carried on as normal. But Pettigrew spent more time thinking of those tiny notebooks, venturing deeper and deeper into the philosophy of science, the philosophy of experience, the philosophy of language, staying up all night trying to tie the threads together of what he’d previously dismissed. He tried to think like Da Vinci. He tried to turn off his rationality, to allow the different disciplines to intermingle inseparably in his brain. The simple, agonising truth was- that there was no answer.

Gunther had set up the power-point presentation he’d prepared, given Pettigrew the remote and instructed him on how to move the slides on. Pettigrew had paid cursory attention to him, but feigned enough interest so as not to appear suspicious. He would not be using Gunther’s carefully prepared methodological, evidence based presentation. Pettigrew listened to the over-enthusiastic introduction by the Dean of the University, the warm applause, then stepped up to the lectern. He was aware of the keen looks on the faces in the audience, aware of the eyes focussed upon him. They would not be prepared for what he would say. But he opened his mouth, and began to speak.

---------------------------------------------

He walked all the way along the length of the pier, the wooden boards creaking beneath his feet. He would have once thought about the corrosive effect of the sea-water on the struts, how the water-proofing materials protected the wood from decay, the gradual seepage of the estuary into the boggy, waterlogged Essex marshes. But now all he could think about was the people who had constructed the pier, he thought about those who had walked upon it, what they would have been discussing, wearing, thinking. How they would have experienced what was once the most splendid and longest pier in the world. About the gradual change of décor, from penny arcades to slot machines. He thought of the clientele, once middle-class Victorians in their Sunday best, now youths that loitered in the buildings not yet repaired from the fire in 2005.

He heard a faint voice in the distance. “Dr. Pettigrew!” it cried, the voice half-swallowed back into the speaker’s mouth by the biting wind. “Dr. Pettigrew! Dr. Pettigrew, please stop!” It was Katie, the PR officer who he’d seen wrangling with the journalist. He slowed his pace so the girl was able to catch up with him, but continued, shoulders hunched against the Essex drizzle. He could hear her approaching, her breath ragged from running to reach him after his immediate exit down the winding corridors after his speech was finished, not even taking the requisite time for questions.

The girl finally reached his side, three-quarters of the way along the pier. “I’m so glad I found you,” she panted. He remained conspicuously silent. He was surprised to find he was crying, his eyes silently seeping brinish tears that stung his cheeks and mixed with the sea spray. The young girl noticed this, and didn’t know what to do apart from put her arm around his damp grey suit and lead him to a bench. They sat in silence for some minutes until the silent stream of tears began to wane. He wiped his face with a tissue she provided, imperceptibly calming himself until his breathing settled into a steady rhythm.

“Dr. Pettigrew,” she said softly. “I hope you won’t be offended by me saying that I hadn’t expected quite such a speech from you.” Pettigrew took no offence. He was a fool, a man who had devoted his life to something so specific it would have no impact, no findings for posterity. He was a failure. The girl continued. “The University is extremely excited by your lecture. The Dean would like to talk to you about opening the UK’s first interdisciplinary Scientific Experiential Philosophy department based upon your findings.” Pettigrew felt a cold wave of shock sweep over him. “Subject to funding, of course,” the girl swiftly added. Pettigrew was stunned. He had thought that the speech would signal the end of his career, not the start of a new one.

“We'd agreed that you'd do interviews afterwards, don't you remember?” the young girl said. “They are desperate to talk to you. We've had another request, from Radio 4. Radio 4!” she repeated. The young girl's face lit up, reddened again, this time with excitement. Pettigrew still could not speak.  After a short while he gathered himself, thinking of what he would tell the waiting journalists and for the first time in months, allowed himself a slight smile. Then he stood up, straightened his tie, and slowly made his way along the length of the pier, the young girl wordlessly supporting him with just one hand placed gently upon his shoulder.

Academic work: Elizabethan Silent Language

This is a copy of a lecture I gave at Sheffield University- it may not make sense, but I was proud of it so I thought I'd put it on here. Happy to answer questions if anyone is interested.

Video et Taceo- the Silent Language of the 1575 Kenilworth Entertainments

            The 1575 Kenilworth Entertainments have garnered the reputation as the legendary celebration of Elizabethan spectacle, in an age that is characterised by lavish displays of patronage, pageantry and chivalric devotion towards the queen. For eighteen days from the 9^th to the 27^th July 1575, the queen, her courtiers and guests of Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester were treated to fireworks that apparently travelled underwater, bountiful gifts from Greek and Roman gods, the improbable spectacles of a talking holly bush, a floating barge shaped as a mermaid, and even an Arthurian rapist amongst the characters created for the queen's delight. The entertainments have come to be accepted as an elaborate plea for Dudley to illustrate his material and dynastic suitability as a marriage partner for the queen, whose ability to bear an heir was rapidly dwindling due to her advancing age.

            Much attention has been paid to the public elements of the entertainments such as the marriage of the 'ill smelling bride', (perhaps a veiled reference to the queen), the ill fated masque of Diana and Iris and the meeting of the Savage Man; examining their meaning as Dudley's political and personal negotiations. The two surviving accounts of the entertainments were written by contemporary witnesses Robert Laneham and George Gascoigne, with extensive colourful descriptions of the castle's gardens, grounds and publicly performed pageants and plays including transcripts of key moments penned by Gascoigne and other members of the royal court. The only two recoverable texts about the event deal with these exterior festivities, I would argue, primarily because their authors were not of great enough import to be granted privileged access to interior spaces. Laneham's obsession with the castle's 'arabl, meado, and good ayrz' illustrates a latent insecurity about not being able to describe the interior of the castle.

            One of the most notable recent studies of the entertainments have tended to examine the idea of the entertainments depicting a 'competition for representation' where a power struggle between the Queen and her host took place played out against such a dramatic, public backdrop. Susan Frye has convincingly argued that Dudley sought to push on the Elizabethan neo-Chivalric system of courtly love in a hugely public forum, not only to plead his case for her suit, but a way for him to argue his case for intervention in the Protestant Netherlands (being persecuted by the Spanish at the time). The central tenet of Frye's argument is that in order to make any kind of social or political advancement it was necessary for the queen's courtiers, servants, foreign dignitaries and ambassadors to engage with the Elizabethan discourse of gender politics and manipulate such discourse for their own suit. However, in doing so, in the case of the Kenilworth Entertainments, Dudley's allegorical messages undermine Elizabeth's own position as queen, engendering such distaste that she either shows no response to the spectacles played before her, remains silent, or actually refuses to allow them to be enacted to her in the way intended. The necessity to use gender politics and the discourse of virginity whilst simultaneously expressing desire and advancement sets up a dichotomy it's almost impossible to overcome.

            There are two key aspects of silence that I will examine in this paper. Firstly, I wish to discuss how the queen used silence to express a latent dissatisfaction with Dudley's overt displays of devotion. Secondly, I wish to illustrate that the interior, private messages that may have taken place away from public eyes complimented the public performances, and how a conjunction of public and private silent language of performance and allegory intimated Dudley's desire to form a military and marital alliance. However, central to this will be the somewhat schizophrenic nature of what Dudley was trying to achieve- simultaneously the queen's hand in marriage, but also a desire to be free from bondage as the queen's favourite to make possible his ambition for military advancement. Sandra Logan's 2007 account has argued that the entertainments were a plea by Dudley to the queen to allow him to be free from being her 'fall back' suitor in the complex marriage negotiations between her and François, Duke of Anjou in an account driven by semiotic theory- the opposite to Susan Frye's assertions. The aim of the paper will be to highlight that both of these readings are in some way correct- but also the fact that the two aims are incompatible in the vernacular of courtly love.

            Part of the basis for the discussion will be the Gascoigne and Laneham accounts, along with the 1578 inventory of Kenilworth Castle only recently documented by University of Warwick scholar Dr. Elizabeth Goldring.  The manuscript was only transcribed fully in English Heritage Historical Review in 2007, meaning it hasn't received a great deal of attention for some truly extraordinary findings. A sumptuous list of tapestries, furnishings, instruments and over 50 paintings, (a truly astonishing number at the time), the inventory gives us a unique insight into the domestic interior of the castle, and clearly shows Dudley's desire to assert his dynasty- his blazon the bear and ragged staff is emblazoned upon textiles and objects throughout the castle. It is not known when in 1578 the Kenilworth inventory was taken, however it could be that Dudley's marriage to Lettice Knollys would have necessitated a re-evaluation of his accounts and personal affairs. Whilst it cannot be conclusively proven that the inventory illustrates how the castle would have appeared in 1575, the inventory clearly distinguishes several items that had been purchased or given to the household after the death of Lady Lennox on 9^th March 1578, lending credence to the proposition the other items were in place at the time of the 1575 spectacles.

            Defining something that is by nature, silent, can be problematic. I would characterise this as the most difficult aspect of academic enquiry- the difficulty of pinning down the subtleties of unspoken and unwritten cultural dynamics that must be examined though the written word or material objects- our primary source materials. Alex Davis suggests 'it is a mark of the success of the entertainments that what would be clear to the courtly insider has to be construed from the outside out of hints and suggestions.' Every aspect of courtly life from church services, the objects in and artistic techniques of portraits as well as the choice of clothing, colours, shapes and textures were all shaped by the social, economic and political influence from the world around it. Objects and rituals carried meanings that would not have been and did not need to be transcribed- making pinpointing such silent language a slippery task. Mary E. Hazard illustrates that rather than decorum manuals used on the continent 'Elizabeth's courtiers were not governed by explicit prescription; the decorum of presence required decoding unwritten preventions and unfavourable approaches... citizens were finely attuned to the proxemic decorum during the visit of the monarch.' As ritual and decorum remain unwritten, there is space for those in her presence to act inappropriately and for the queen to gain power through others transgressions.

            Susan Frye asserts that the first ten days of the Kenilworth entertainments- the welcome the queen receives at the castle by the Sibyl, Herculean Porter, the oration by the lady of the lake, the gifts from the Gods, the meeting of the Savage man represent the success of Dudley in manipulating the Elizabethan discourse of chivalry to serve his dynastic purpose and aggrandize his social standing. She also states that the second half of the entertainments- the military skirmish and the episode of 'deepe desire'- Sylvanus and the Holly Bush begging the queen to be a 'suter for him unto the heavenly powers' present the apotheosis of the queen's ability to reinstate her authority. Certainly I would agree that the early parts of the entertainments represent the 'traditional' role that Dudley played as the queen's natural and suitable marriage partner, and the entertainments were successful in cementing Dudley's reputation as the queen's favourite. However, I don't believe those to be an unqualified success; through both the Gascoigne and Laneham accounts we encounter how the queen censures or undermines any attempt to place Dudley's ambitions above her own from the start, through the prudent use of silence and absence. It is when Dudley then addresses the issue of the Netherlands conflict in the 'military skirmish' that will be discussed later that the incompatibility of his desires to be husband and warrior become apparent and dooms his double quest for marriage and military advancement to failure.

            Upon arriving at the castle, having been met eight miles from the castle the queen 'rideth but alone,' and she accepts the keys to the castle presented to her by the Herculean porter without any speech recorded by Laneham or Gascoigne. When Elizabeth encounters the welcoming from lady of the lake, she does not move towards her, Laneham shows that lady 'attending her highness coming in the midst of the pool, whereupon a moouable Iland... she floting to land, met her Majestie.' (The thought of the lady hastily paddling the floating island to meet the queen is a rather amusing one.) The content of the lady's speech, according to Laneham echoes 'how she had kept this lake syns King Arthurz days... most allweyz in the handes of the Earls of Lecyster,' prompting the queen's retort 'we had thought indeed ye Lake had been ours, and do you call it yourz now?' Elizabeth can neuter Dudley's ambition with a few simple words-  interestingly, Laneham only references speech from the queen that shows dissent. Dudley's wealth, property and success had all been granted by the queen- his lucrative cloth trading empire, the very castle where the entertainments took place had been gifted to Dudley, but his obsession with creating a suitable Arthurian dynasty to highlight his marital suitability as communicated through the lady of the lake actually undermines all the queen has gifted him.

            No thanks are given as far as is recorded, she retires to the castle and does not emerge (as we understand) for another 45 hours. Felicity Heal's study on the decorum of progress illustrates 'the circulation of benefits was reified in the welcome provided by the Queen's hosts and in the thanks she offered in return.' Such lack of thanks may have been a humiliating sting to Dudley. The Laneham letter also illustrates other elements of passive resistance- at the Ambrosial banquet the queen eats 'smally or nothing', in contrast to the other guests who 'disorderly wasted and coorsly consumed, more courtly me thought than curteosly.' The Laneham letter seems to have a silent language of its own- without overt criticism, through it's subtle method of undermining court machinations, the account shapes our understanding and provides a critical voice. Laneham's discussion of the violence of bear-baiting 'by playn tooth and nayl a to a side & toother such expen~s of blood and leather waz thear between them' also intimates a silent disapproval of the violence and waste of the entertainments. Laneham's over ebullient praise of Dudley's extravagance; playing flagrant regards as it does to the sumptuary laws renders the expense ridiculous: 'Such a wizdom and cunning in acquiring things so rich, so rare, and in such aboundans; by so immense and profuse a charge of expense... what may this express... But only a magnifik mind, a singular wizdoom, a princely purs, and an heroicall hart?'

            No reference is made to the queen taking part in the following day's events such as 'the divine service and preaching at the parish church... [the] dauncing of the Lords and Ladyez' and we do not know if she witnesses the fireworks that signified unquenchable desire. Without the queen's presence, Gascgoine even says 'on the next day there was nothing done until the evening.' The queen's notable absence could be seen as an indication of displeasure- and means that literally nothing is seen to happen despite clear indication to the contrary. This episode shows that any action or event may lose its intended meaning if the queen does not show approval or concur with the message.  In the subsequent day's meeting with the Savage Man who is overawed by the majesty's presence, again, the queen remains silent- the only recorded response to the encounter is when the queen's horse is disrupted, causing her to cry out 'no hurt, no hurt.' Tellingly, the queen doesn't remain silent at other performances, when she views the country play put on by local players, albeit delayed, she enjoys it, and Laneham shows she 'laught well,' and she rewards the players by allowing them to continue playing it, having been banned under the enforcement of Protestant regulations.

            The Diana and Iris masque intended to have been played is the nadir of Dudley's romantic devices depicting a debate between goddesses Diana, Juno and Zabeta who had been lost for seventeen years (the length of her reign). Zabeta, (a derivation of Elizabeth) is extolled the virtues of marriage, 'O Queene, O Worthy queen/ Yet never wight felt perfect bliss,/ but such a wedded beene.' The play is never put on, Gascoigne claims, due to lack of seasonable weather; however it seems clear that the real reason is in fact because the queen had received word of the contents and would not allow it to be played in front of her. Dudley's decision to attempt to put such a play on is a curious one, as the last time a Diana and Juno masque was played out in front of her in 1565, she declared to the Spanish ambassador 'this is all against me.' Notably, the Gascoigne account publishes the masque in full, whilst claiming to be a 'true copie' of the events, it actually illustrates the way Dudley would have wished them to be performed- rewriting the queen's silent language by publishing what should have been. In censoring the masque, the queen is able to assert her power over Dudley during Kenilworth's precise historical moment, reminding him of his position and underlining the process of re-appropriating control- the precise opposite of Dudley's desired outcome. What this illustrates is that the queen's behaviour and responses are consistent throughout Dudley's histrionic displays, whilst Dudley's desire to re-enforce his message becomes even more overt.

            It is when we come to the episode of the intended rape of the Lady of the Lake by Sir Bruce Sans Pitie that an examination of the interior of Kenilworth Castle unlocks the greatest meaning. The queen, returning from hunting crosses the bridge over the castle moat where she is greeted by Triton and Proteus who recite the story of the lady's threatened rape by Sir Bruse who wants to wreak revenge for Merlin's banishment to a rock due to his lusty advances towards her. Sir Bruse has 'sought by force, hir virgin's state/ full fowlie to deface.' Proteus asserts that the queen's presence as a 'worthier maid than she' has made Sir Bruse realise the error of his lustful ways; with her mere presence the queen has changed Sir Bruse's mind.

            The 1578 inventory's portraits can help unlock the key meaning of this episode. As well as four portraits of the queen and Dudley on display, there were a number of other portraits that illustrate a clear motivation to position Dudley's religious views and his desire to push a military agenda. The portrait list shows a surprising number of sitters that had been involved in religious plot or scandal- setting up a clear religious dichotomy. The portraits include key figures on both sides of the Netherlands/Spanish conflict which had been slowly burning in the Netherlands since 1566. All the players in the early stages of conflict are afforded a depiction- many also, with corresponding pictures of their wives illustrating the formidable power exerted by opportune marriages.

            It is worth a short aside here to mention that Goldring has also recently suggested that the now not extant Federico Zuccaro portraits from 1575 (though we do still have the preliminary sketches in the British Museum), and the unattributed painting of Dudley in the National Portrait Gallery and an unattributed painting of Elizabeth I in Reading Museum are the portraits of the queen and Dudley commissioned for the occasion. Dudley is depicted in full armour in the Zuccaro portrait, whilst in the Reading portrait the queen wears a white dublet, a gift that Dudley had given to her in the New Year. 1575 was the year of the phoenix and pelican portraits, both symbols used the by queen to signify devotion to her people, humility and re-birth, yet neither of these symbols are incorporated into the portraits- again subjugating the queen's representation to suit Dudley's motivations. In the Reading Museum and National Portrait Gallery paintings, the suggestion seems to be that both Dudley and the queen are standing in front of thrones- though Dudley didn't quite have the gumption to commission them facing each other- a noted technique to show a married couple. The fact that these portraits were placed alongside other couples of considerable power clearly illustrates Dudley's motivations that marriage between he and the queen would serve purpose on a military level. As mentioned, Dudley's impresa of the bear and ragged staff was ever present on objects and textiles throughout the castle, including an enormous four poster bed, draped in purple brydges satten, the acknowledged colour of royalty and nobility. The conjunction of the colour of royalty and his emblazon on such an object illustrates the indivisibility of his physical desire and overarching ambitions.

            The inventory shows that on display are portraits of Protestant Counts Hoorn and Egmont, both of whom opposed the entry of the Spanish inquisition into the Netherlands by Spanish Catholic Cardinal Granvalles, (also depicted) and were beheaded in 1568 for condoning iconoclastic riots, causing outrage and precipitating the war of attrition in the Netherlands. Their Protestant allies Counts Hocstrae and Brederodes, William of Orange and their Catholic enemies King Phillip II, the Dukes of Parma and Alva are also represented, along with Elizabeth's ill fated cousin, Mary Queen of Scots. The inclusion of the Queen's cousin's depiction is of great import in terms of the historical context. In the summer of 1575 the Mary poisoning plot had recently surfaced, or been invented as an excuse to prevent her from travelling freely across the country, having been kept under house arrest since 1567 to avoid any possible threat of a Catholic uprising. This made the issue of the queen's sovereignty all the more precarious in her unmarried state without an heir to the throne. Dudley's manipulation of her cousin's image brought both the threat of the Netherland's conflict and Elizabeth's dynastic instability literally home, and is breathtakingly bold. Unknown to those outside the royal inner circle, the queen had been offered the sovereignty of the Netherlands in exchange for support. In the summer of 1575 the Spanish army were in revolt due to a financial crisis – meaning that time was of the essence for a favourable campaign which may explain Dudley's unsubtle messaging.

               All the portraits of those involved in the Netherlands conflict are covered by silk curtains, suggesting the possibility of a show, masque or performance having been created around them. Whilst it is impossible to prove this unless a new eye-witness account comes to light, Roy Strong asserts that Sir Henry Lee used the Ditchley portrait to re-write his wrongs to the queen when he fell out of favour for living with his mistress, Anne Vavasour. Intimate domestic displays could restore favour or communicate an issue that pushes an individual agenda. The inventory also indicates that there were 'cardes or maps of cuntryes' on display, the details of which are unfortunately not recorded. However, it seems likely that they would have represented the Netherlands- Goldring shows that Dudley had map collections at his other residences- at Leicester House, there were a similar number to those at Kenilworth, with four of those of the low countries. The display of such maps could only have served to make Dudley's ambitions more clear and indicates beyond reproof that the episode of Sir Bruse Sans Pitie is a plea asking for Dudley to be free to engage in military activities in the Netherlands.

            The Gascoigne account allows us to understand that the device with Sir Bruse as performed was a truncated version; if it had been performed as intended then Dudley would have skirmished with Sir Bruse in an attempt to protect the chastity of the lady, a clear indication of his military and romantic prowess. According to Gascoigne:

            'it was first devised, that.. a Captaine with twentie or thyrtie shotte should have     been sent from the Hearon House... and that Syr Bruse shewing a great power   upon the land, should have sent out many or moe shot to surprise said    Captayne and so they should have skirmished... At last (Syr Bruse his men             being put to flight) the Captaine should have come to her Majestie at the           Castell window, and have declared more plainly the distresse of his mistress...        And that thereupon he should have besought her Majestie to secure his       Mistresse...'

            The distinction between the two versions does need to be emphasised. Should Dudley have played the part of the Captain and attempted the dramatic rescue of the Lady of the lake then the message would have been far more overt- rather than catching the queen as she returned from the hunt, the intention would have been to draw Elizabeth into the action- for she would have been called down from the castle window to intervene on actions on the barge with the damsel. To be quite clear, the queen would have then been an active agent in the proceedings, lending approval to Dudley's desire that military intervention was necessary in the Netherlands. Laneham shows that the queen has to be asked to remain rather than continue her movement into the castle 'at which petition her highness remaining.' The fact that the play is performed impromptu when she returns from the hunt, with Gascoigne illustrating she does not respond to Triton's oration and the Laneham letter keeping her interesting silent intimates an unspoken understanding that she will not be drawn into the debate.

            Here, Dudley clearly oversteps the mark. This episode, rather than illustrating an acceptance of his position as favourite and the necessity for lavish praise and devotion required by members of the court, provides an overt critique of the queen's foreign policy decision. This seems to be a turning point in the entertainments- it is notable that the next day, the queen re-asserts her authority by knighting five of her prominent courtiers and cures nine people of scrofula, the 'king's evil.' Elizabeth uses the silent language of public ritual as a counter-point to Dudley's allegorical critique – this illustrates that her actions are capable of being transformative- but on her terms, not Dudley's.

            The final part of the entertainments involves the episode of the God Sylvanus and the talking holly bush, hastily performed impromptu by Gascoigne as the queen begins to trot away. It seems this was quickly penned and in contrast to other parts of the entertainments; here it seems that Dudley is re-writing his wrongs, and is a return to an expression of marital desire in a far more didactic way than previous episodes, communicating an understanding that his military ambitions will not be fulfilled. The queen's departure has caused the 'flowing teares of the Gods', a reference to the rain as she leaves. The queen is entreated to 'remember her [Zabeta, from the cancelled marriage masque] did never cease to use imprecation, invocation... until she caused him to be turned into this Holy bush... So he is now furnished on every side with sharpe pricking leaves, to prove the restlessness of his privie thoughts.' The episode follows the conventional lamentation upon the queen's departure, but acts as a way to continue to press Dudley's suit through the voice of Sylvanus, using the gods as a coded way of professing Dudley's acknowledgement of his inappropriate behaviour, with the holly bush metaphor allowing the continuation of the the pursuit of marriage through a subtle reminder of her teasing ways. Dudley's 'privie' thoughts are no longer concentrating on his military desires – which had been communicated in such a public forum. Ironically, such bawdy, private thoughts are not deemed inappropriate in a public setting as they illustrate a return to the courtly love vernacular.

             In conclusion, it appears that through public display, Dudley reveals to us his private dichotomy. Ironically, Dudley's use of public and private messaging seems to be using his privileged, physical proximity to the queen to ask for a release from bondage. It seems that the Kenilworth Entertainments were a turning point for Dudley- after his 1577 offer to go on progress to the castle again was rejected, Dudley specifically disobeys his mistress through his unauthorised marriage to Lettice Knollys in 1578. It is worth posing the question- was Dudley even sufficiently self aware to realise that dichotomy within the messages that he was trying to impart? Dudley's necessity to be by the queen's side actually constrained the possibility of military or social progression, yet the language of the favourite was the only way for him to communicate this desire for further advancement.  Through doing so, Dudley inadvertently rejects all that the queen has gifted him, causing silence and upset. The Kenilworth Entertainments were built around symbolism interlaced with the queen's own self representation; therefore Dudley's suit, which appropriated Elizabeth's representation for his own personal gain, to the detriment of hers, was bound to fail.