O was a complicated, contradictory old wolf of the steppes. He had the twitchy nerves
of a fledgling sparrow and the thumping heart of a galloping lion. He was the
black-hearted anarchist intellectual by night, who by day taught
polite English composition to the parish grammar school girls. He was the
peerless, gigantic cloud-strider, and the regular clerk with the
blinking eyes, nervous stutter, and smart, sensible shoes.
Everyday he stood with his
back to the walls of the modern city, and looked out across the endless purple steppes, whilst his heart beat out of his chest, and his blood yearned for
the yellow painted desert and the other world out there beyond the shimmering horizon.
Before his life had even begun, he had already squandered his youthful health and energy, his hopes and dreams. His
wonderful God-given talent, his whole fucking life! (sometimes he just couldn't help himself, he got so resentful and angry.) On the stunted,
parasitic folk who sheltered helpless in the huddle of huts that grew
fungus-like beneath the walls of the modern city.
Even then, he knew. He knew.
To live inside the city, he must put out his eyes, rip out his heart, and learn how to kill.
To live outside the city, he must open his eyes, follow his heart, and learn how to love.
...........................................................................
One Friday afternoon
at St. Peter's, when he was maybe nine or ten, his little class were asked to write a
poem about a colour. His colour was dark blue. He wanted black, but he'd noticed his friend Ged at the next table was writing that one, so very reasonably he went for something close. But not the same.
See Ged now. Head down, arm arched
into a familiar head support for his creative energy. Security, protection for
his intellectual property.
Remember the day they had painted trees. Ged’s tree grew strong, straight and tall in a meadow in Merrie
Englande. It was sturdy, full and round, glittering green in a clear blue sky,
animated by cheery, twittering birds. His stood all alone, frail and leafless on the barren, purple steppes. Crooked and
broken, against a brooding, malevolent sky. He wasn’t a happy child.
And when he showed Mum his poem in the local library magazine, she was so, so angry. They stood together
in the kitchen. She waved the rolled up magazine too close to his face. ‘You
didn’t write this! You must have copied it! Wait 'til I tell your dad!’
He stood there speechless, helpless, small and alone.
Why
was she so cross with him? He'd expected her to be happy. He thought she'd be so proud.
He has never, ever forgiven her.
People like us.
