The Word Cloud

The question in the title was one asked in therapy a long, long time ago; has popped into my mind this evening ~ and I am still not sure I have reached a definitive answer.

Is this an appropriate subject for a blog in a writing community, as we loom towards Valentine's Day?  Who knows?  Who cares?  We shall see, maybe.

Happy New Year!
I'm playing catch up a bit this week as the film I'm talking about was on last Sunday but, to be honest I'm not talking about it that much. I'm not a massive fan of the Harry Potter series in print or onscreen. Don't get me wrong, I think anything that gets children reading books bigger than the Bible is a good thing, I just don't understand why adults read them. None of which has much to do with this blog.
I've spent a lot of time talking about how directors tend to divert the attention from screenwriters but there is one group that does so to an even greater extent; original novelists. The Harry Potter films are not written by Steve Kloves, they're written by J K Rowling; Great Expectations will always be Dickens, Lord of the Rings is Tolkien etc etc. And to a degree that's pretty reasonable, it's the author not the screenwriter who came up with the story, the characters and their journey, and to an extent the structure, why should the screenwriter take a great share of the credit? Because it's hard. Adapting an existing novel is a very different skill to writing one from scratch, but it's no less difficult, it's just difficult in different ways.
The fact is that a novel needs to be cut down for the screen, but fans of that novel are the target audience and losing too much of what they loved about the book is fatal. Take Bram Stoker's Dracula, adapted by James Hart, the love story between Dracula and Mina is entirely invented, and wholly detrimental. On the other hand the film retains a chase scene across Europe from the book which is equally detrimental because a chase in which one of the protagonists is asleep on a boat throughout works in print but not on film. Most film buffswould agree that the best adaptation of the much-adapted Dracula is the silent Nosferatu, adapted by Henrik Galeen, in many ways it bears only a cursory similarity in plot terms but it captures the spirit of the original.
In my opinion, this is what makes a successful adaptation; being true to the spirit of the book. Great Expectations (adapted by David Lean, Ronald Neame, Anthony Havelock-Allan,Kay Walsh and Cecil McGivern) is considered one of the best ever adaptations of Dickens' work but the ending is completely different in the book. The Lord of the Rings is a pretty faithful adaptation (despite some bizarre additions) but to me (and I know I'm in a minority here) it fails to capture what made the book special.
How do you capture that spirit? Search me, it probably depends on the book. Another good recent example would be Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (adapted by Bridget O'Connor and Peter Straughn), an extremely complex story full of tension and suspense, and the solution to adapting it seems to have been to accept that if the audience is to understand all that is going on the characters would be talking constantly; so just accept the audience's ignorance and focus on the tension. And it worked brilliantly.
As I said, I'm not a big Potter fan but it seems to me that Steve Kloves (who adapted all but one of the books) has done a good job, if nothing else they are films that stand alone as films, dramatic and involving, and, crucially, never feeling like cut down books.  

I have to say, there are some topics which i automatically avoid when talking to strangers about myself. There are probably quite a few who will agree when I say the top two are relationships and religion.

I have to start with religion for this blog to make sense. I'm a christian- baptist for those who are interested. I belive in the Big Bang and the cosmology story. I belive that there is an all-loving God who (for reasons i still haven't worked out) loves me completely and utterly, even when I'm getting everything as wrong as I possibly can. I don't understand why non-christains believe that because you're christian, you have all the answers and can do no wrong. I'm still learning myself, I'm still human and humans make mistakes. I don't pretend to be God- I don't have all the answers but I try to help people when I can. I have to admit; I don't actually know the difference between Roman Catholic, Church of England and Catholic- if there is even a difference.

I have always been a christian. I was brought up in a christian family, decided to get baptised at 7 years old and do not regret it.   I am a hardworking, happy- if a little crazy- teenager with a whole future in front of me.  Once, when I was in a very bad place in my life, I saw what I would be without God; I would be a depressed emo, at the bottom of the class, I would hate life and all that my future held would be misery and death.At every step of the way, God has been in my life and has worked miracles on me. One of these miracles I want to share. It was to do with relationships.

I have never been in a relationship. I've never had a boyfriend (or a girlfriend- I'm not batting for that team, though i have nothing against those who are). I have, however, had a broken heart. Two in fact. I always get weird looks when I admit this, even to my closest friends. I don't go searching for guys to throw my heart at, I don't enjoy the feeling, I can't control it.

The first time, I was at a christian summer camp. I had gone with another church as my church's teenagers consisted of me and my sister. There was a gorgeous boy in the group as well who, for this account I will call Jay. Jay was a normal teenage boy with a large ego to go with it. I was increadibly shy and couldn't say anything to him without stammering so I tended not to say anything. I hadn't really realised what was going on as nothing like this had ever happened to me before. One day, my sister came running up to me and told me that she and jay were officially going out. I smiled and congratulated her, then went into my tent and cried. If anyone doesn't know what a broken heart feels like- it's pretty self-explanitory. My heart felt like it had been ripped to shreds in my chest. I kept as quiet as i could because tents aren't soundproof and no one heard me. I dried my face and kept out of everyone's way as much as possible as we ate dinner and went down to the evening service.

During the pray session, the leader asked if anyone needed healing. I certainly did, so I stood up for prayer. As the people around me started praying, I sent up my own prayer begging god to heal my heart for my sister's sake. I didn't want my pain to hurt her. I was beyond caring for myself- the damage was done. Suddenly the pain went and i was able to breath. I started laughing from relief. I laughed and laughed- and then fell over from lack of oxygen. The people left me when i was breathing normally again and then the tears started flowing. I was glad I was left to cry in piece. Healing a broken heart hurts more than breaking it, but it was worth it because I didn't ruin her relationship (he did, but that's beside the point).

I don't mind sharing this now because the scars have healed. I just wanted to reasure people out there that talking is hard, but God can always help even when none of us know much about him at all.

When he’s around, which is always, he treats me like a child forced to stay inside during a thunder storm. From this window, I watch as the tiny crystal blades of water rapidly pierce the sidewalk, the leaves on the big oak tree, and the swing set. The unrelenting hum of the roof being stabbed as I sit without a scratch becomes overbearingly comforting. The comfort feels heavy and forced, like I should not feel this calm while being the witness to such destruction. He tries so hard to keep me sane, no matter what the reality of the storm would do to my mind and stability without the glass shield.

When the roof’s hum is suddenly interrupted by a steady growl, I’m only reminded of how much greater the threat would startle me if it wasn’t for the safety barricade he surrounds me with at all times. Without, this barricade, I would be able to feel. If only the iron bars weren’t there to separate me from the storm, the lightening would electrify my entire body, rushing fiery energy through my veins, leaving me stunned, rather than blinding my eyes from feeling the sensation it would give me if it weren’t for my imprisonment. Still spellbound by the shock, the thunder would sneak up on me, accelerating my pulse, freeing my chained heart from its cage and sending it fluttering wildly while it violently loses control of freedom that it never really had.

From behind this window, the thunder is only capable of causing a little startle that is quickly eased. If I were in the storm, in reality, there would be no recovering from the unfiltered effects the elements would cause me. The rain would launch at me like missiles, each throbbing shot opening a new wound. The surrounding blasts would then force upon me a new awareness of the pain and injuries the storm was inflicting throughout the entire battle in which I had no chance at coming out alive. The insanity would take over me if I were ever allowed to get that vulnerable. He says that’s why he needs to protect me.

This window protects me from that pain. He knows how easily I scar and how slowly I heal. He knows how I have a tendency of revisiting wounds to reopen them in order to relive the rush of their story. He knows I don’t allow my mind to mend itself, instead I pick apart and explore the black spots that should be left alone. Overanalyzing the scene of the storm sends me into a comatose state. I respect his protection, but I just can’t bear to gaze at my mangled soul through a veil that censors all feeling and detaches me from the very content of my being.

Sometimes if I beg, he lets me crack the window and stick my hand outside, only for a second. The drops sting like acid burning my flesh, and the wind whips across my face bringing tears to my eyes, and then he quickly closes the window again. “Thank you,” I whisper, letting him know that while the ache stunned me like a poisonous shock to my mind, I appreciate the short contact I had with my real self that I have been unable to reach. I also thank him for the ignorance to what reality would do to me without this window shielding me from the natural disasters of myself.

I think he only does it to show me a minor glimpse of the intense ache and destruction he is saving me from. He thinks he’s saving me. He must think he’s some kind of narcotic with the ability to ease all of my aches and happily relax my body into a trance. But he should know, from experience, that the mask of the Oxycontin can only make things all right for a short amount of time before you end up completely down and out. All he is doing is keeping me from myself. Being kept from myself makes everything in my life seem so fake. I lose sight of who I am and what I feel. But maybe he knows that keeping me from myself is the only way to stop the all memories and feelings from ripping my sanity to shreds and throwing me off of my life’s track. He allows me to watch the memories, but not feel them. Feeling them would instantly send me into a severe madness that would utterly destroy me, as if I were being thrown into a thunderstorm or a hurricane. It’s as if he is feeding me painkillers as my only form of life support, giving me his old addiction that he gave up just before giving up. Maybe he knows that keeping me from myself is simply the only way for me to stay alive any longer… but what does he know about living anymore?

When you entered the church

And everyone turned, to see the bride,

My eyes were on you, my precious daughter, not her.

 

With new, long curls in your hair

And flowers in your hands

Pink, white and delicate mauve -

Striking  contrast

Against the rich dark blue of your long silken dress.

And I could not stop the tear from rising to my eye.

 

When the signatures were written

In a very special book

And we all sat and faced the group

Gathered at the front

Waiting to start.

Special friends of the bride, together for years,

Singing, sweet, gentle harmonies

Talking of love.

With such pride in my eyes

It was you I watched

And the tears began to fall.

 

Outside on the grass

The memories of the day

Were to be captured and printed

And you waited, standing close

To one who should be treasured

And cherished

Forever.

Standing together

In matching dark blue – so cool and sophisticated

And beautiful

 

Maybe next time.......

 

 

14/7/11

 

Well, I was just thinking if I had ever known a female equivalent; and although I couldn’t really think of one, I started thinking about other ‘types’ I have known, and I remembered Kim.

Kim was also called Kim, and I got to know her at college and then we worked together for a while, when I had a real job.

Kim was mid height, 5’5; had mid brown mousey blonde hair, was thin and had very big eyes; one might almost say huge eyes, in a very small heart shaped face; she kind of reminded me of E.T in blue jeans.

She wasn’t ugly, she was really quite pretty, but she wasn’t, you know, stunning. She was a nice, pleasant person, but she wasn’t that funny, or witty, or passionate; she was, I felt, sort of a cup of tea with no sugar, rather than black coffee or hot chocolate, if you see what I mean.

But everywhere we went, men fell at her feet. At college, a (very brief) ex-boy friend of mine went do-lally over her (No jealousy here I promise, we were very good friends and I dumped him) – he even sneaked into college at 6 am to cover her desk in balloons and flowers on Valentines day, so he go get out and ‘come in’ later, trying to throw suspicion off himself. Nothing ever happened between them, she was going out with a Greek green grocer; but he made himself quite moon sick over her.

After college, she met one of my old friends – who was always the ‘big man’ locally, heart throb and lead singer of local band, who could have had any girl we wanted (not me, I was wise to his charms, dear reader!) – anyway, he then fell for her and spent months writing songs about her. She was still going out with the Greek grocer, so again, nothing happened.

At our teaching job, she caught the eye of the large, red headed geography teacher, who, for her benefit, lost weight and got fit, and mooned after her as well.

She married the Greek grocer.

 

Is that what men really want then, a nice cup of tea?

 

PS – when the first baby was born, bright ginger!

Well, I've just watched Kate Middleton getting out of the car in her wedding dress and I'll admit it doesn't take much to make me shed a tear but this really is the stuff of fairy tales, isn't it?  In my humble opinioin she is a delightful, charming, beautiful, intelligent young woman, who knows exactly what she's doing and what she's letting herself in for and I'm delighted to see a fairy tale unfolding.  There's a lot of cynicism out there in the world, not least from me but I think this is wonderful. 

After the year I've had, losing my Mum in February, I find myself shedding tears of wistfulness, partly watching that beautiful young woman starting out on a new journey, partly because my Mum isn't here to watch it with me and partly, very selfishly, wishing for my own magical moment which right now, seems so very far away.

But today is Kate and William's day and as a happily married woman for nearly thirty years, I wish them much happiness and laughter.  I am lucky enough to be going to London later today for my own special treat, with my own lovely daughter t0 see the play Warhorse (tissues needed) and a pre-theatre dinner at Michel Roux's restaurant and I will be raising a glass and making my own silent toast to the young couple.

Love.
I might drown in it or die of it.
I might fear it exists only in the hearts of others.
And then I read the words below; from Cyrano.

These words are of no significance at all.
Just shapes and spaces on a white background.
And yet these words are proof of love.
And the power of writing.


                                 * * *

'All these years I have plied you with words, but words are black and white and my skill is not equal to my love. My love has need of colours never seen and words never coined. Aeons of time and even the edgeless universe are not room enough to hold it. I know at least that Death is too small to snuff it out, and that tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow it will still fill the sky above you and hide in the hollow of your hand, undiminished and unending.'

                              * * *

And I cried.

‘Come ride with me’, she said,

 and how could I refuse.The dawn was rising and the early morning Sun kissed her breasts as it’s golden ray’s filled the arched window that sat at the foot of my bed. Dressed only in a white cotton gown, her naked body was visible underneath.She WAS a goddess, a perfect creature, only God in his true splendor could have made such a beauty as she.

As I threw back the sheets that enveloped me, I hastily pulled on my britches before her gentle and most delicate hands pulled me toward the door. Seeming to float down the staircase and across the Cathedral like hall to the front door, half naked, we ran to the stable’s. Mounting our steeds we set off toward the lake, the cold air rushing past our unclothed skin, breath seeming like dragons smoke as it tumbled out of our mouths.

Finally we reached the lake. A fog drifting across in the early morning, birds finally awaking, and the sometime sound of fish jumping. We dismounted and stooped down to the fresh, ice cold waters of the lake. Bathing my lips with her fingers, she suddenly stuck them up my nose, poked me in the eye and kicked me in the nuts. I went down like a baby, clutching my nads and wailing, half in the icy water. As I looked up, she had mounted her horse,and with cursory glance spoke. ‘you ever creep into my bedroom again, ya pervy get!, and I’ll chop it off!’

Fair enough I thought, but hey! he who dares, gets fair maiden.

My Mum died three weeks ago.  I miss her.
Anyone who read my blog before Christmas about meeting myself coming back will know I had persuaded my 87 year old Mum to move closer to me so I could do more for her and see her every day.  She moved on 17th December to a ground floor apartment attached to a nursing home at the bottom of our farm drive, nice and close.  Lovely apartment, lovely people. She was looking forward to looking out of her french windows and seeing our ewes and lambs grazing in the field opposite.   She was only there three weeks before she was admitted to hospital.  Bad turned to worse and she was finally diagnosed with a secondary tumour on her spine.  By this time she was too poorly to have further investigations as to the primary cancer and too poorly for any treatment.  She died on 11th February after five weeks in hospital. 
This has been the worst experience of my life, watching someone you love fade before your eyes, unable to do anything except be there.
My husband and daughter have been beside me every step of the way and together we have come out the other side.
Although we moved her in December and had already sorted through a lot of her possessions, the final clearance of her flat has been a very moving time.  Finding photographs of long forgotten holidays, pets, friends and homes has been a revelation and I am now managing to remember the past with great fondness rather than with feelings of loss. 
So now both my Mum and Dad are gone and despite my wonderful family, a tiny bit of me feels very alone.  This is the first time in many weeks I've felt able to start put my thoughts and feelings into words.  I hope you don't mind that I've come here to share them with you.