Monday 15 May 2023

MEMORY?

 

MEMORY            

 

If memory wiped would I forget how to eat?

If memory wiped would I forget how to drink?

If memory wiped would I forget to run from danger?

              If memory wiped would I know danger?

 

If memory wiped would I know where I stand?

If memory wiped would I know the face in the mirror?

If memory wiped would I know the mirror?

 

If memory wiped does memory abhor a vacuum?

If memory wiped does memory fill the vacuum?

              If memory wiped do I know there is a vacuum?

 

If memory wiped where does it go?

              If memory wiped do I know where to find it?

 

If memory wiped would I miss it?

If memory wiped would I know I miss it?

 

If memory wiped am I dead?

If memory wiped am I reborn


From There is a Place I Go  a collection of 29 poems and two stories published 2023.


An essay.

MEMORY?   

I’m beginning to believe everything is fiction in one form or another, including this essay! 

If everything is fiction in one form or another, memories must be fiction, or partially, so the next question is: are the lies, little, big, white or otherwise, the truth of us?

Do we fictionalize our own lives as we go?  Do we even realize it if we do? Enough of this conjecture, let me tell you a story. Or an anecdote if you wish to name it so.

The aftermath of my father’s funeral.  Sitting with my cousins swapping stories of family holidays, and no doubt so much more but lost now, or maybe in back-up memory. Lost too is what, and how, and who initiated talking about the film shows my dad used to put on for my cousins when small.  My cousin whose own father had died when they were age ranges primary to early secondary.  I say it that way because if I ever knew what their individual ages were when their father died, I can’t bring it forth. So, I’m playing safe and going for general rather than particular. Their father the oldest of six, my father the next one down. When his brother died my father stepped in a sort of surrogate father, the film nights part of that mourning process I suppose. Again, though this is me transposing thoughts onto a situation. It could have simply been fun watching Charlie Chaplin fall over, or Harold Lloyd comically hold onto on a swinging loose pillar hundreds of feet in the air. 

Cousin talk about a projector whirring, the magic beam of light and there on the white sheet draped over window pelmet, the mad cap antics of Charlie Chaplin, Harold Llyod, Buster Keaton.  No doubt others forgotten.  The laughter and the echoing down the years sound of frantic movie piano, a signal to the expected emotions of danger and relief from, for our white sheet comedy heroes.

I listened and loved the nostalgic feeling in the talk.  I listened and of course remembered everything they were talking about.  I was there sitting by the projector with my dad.  Sometimes he even let me wind the film onto the projector.  The memory was embedded in my cortex.  The alcove where the old-fashioned monster radio sat.  My mum back and forth with food and juice, and then disappearing to her own space.  For this was a boys night in.  I didn’t understand why and any future thoughts of ‘mum would have loved this as well’ were for the future, and the thoughts of the man not the boy.  Then again other thoughts running parallel to that—maybe mum was glad to have a space to herself, maybe she wouldn’t have loved the films, and the noise. Peace perfect peace.  I try to balance the two opposing thoughts and realise of course they are mine. I have no idea what my mum thought. 

My dad’s funeral was a day of saying goodbye, of numbness, of saying hello to relatives not seen since the last funeral. Of shaking the condolences hands, many from people I did not know, or not well, but were the characters in my dad’s life story. 

Late afternoon on that day and another boy’s gathering.  Only this time the boys were all middle-aged men loosening black ties, and suit jackets over back of chairs.  My cousins and me lager, or heavy, or bitter, whatever the personal choice, and a toast in memory of my dad.  The women were in the living room on the comfy chairs.  We were in the dining room on chairs that after a while, and despite the drink, the hard back wood of the chair not the best companion for middle aged bones.

As said the conversation turned to the film nights.  Conversation that flowed with the beer and emotions of the day.

‘I remember those films.’ I said.

‘You can’t have.’ One of my cousins replied.

I insisted and the cousins insisted that I couldn’t have.  They were all ten years or more older than me.  They were all primary age during the film nights.  I wasn’t even born when the film nights happened. Not even a twinkle in my daddy’s eye!

I felt so strongly, and part of still feels, I was there. I have pictures of silent movies, of   laughter and food and juice. Of my dad concentrating and so carefully winding the magic film through the projector.

That was a longer story/reminisce than I meant when I started.  When writing it other details popped into my head and made it onto the page. 

Once the memory tap is turned on it’s like a river that needs to be fed with tributaries all along the way and from another source altogether.  Thing is once they flow into the river they are as the one river, one source.

So am I saying the above is part fiction.  There are undeniable facts there. My father did die and there was a funeral, and my cousins were there. We did talk as a group after. Was the part about the lager and beers true or partially true? Was there coffee and tea involved or does it matter?

Is there a storytelling element about the details relayed?  Does alcohol facilitate talk better than tea or coffee?  Even at funeral where emotions are raw.  The truth is I don’t truly remember.  I also don’t remember ninety nine percent of what we talked about, or for how long.

So, memory is partial and selective like fiction?

 Including the part about the dialogue between me and my cousins. Is that what they said?  I wrote the above in a flow as if the tap was turned on my memory and out it came.  It is over thirty years since then.  Had the memory been enhanced by other folks’ reminiscences since, or by the natural human facility for narrative?

Does it matter if the destination of the feeling truth is reached via the winding path of storytelling?  There is an emotional truth there that outweighs the facts.  I must have heard other folk’s memories of events and places and people from before I was born.  Why did that one stick?  Or are they all in their swimming in my sub-conscious battling to get to the shore first?

Was I jealous I wasn’t there?  Did the cinema scope setting make it visual enough and imaginatively fluid enough for me to insert myself into the scene?

This is what I wonder about.  If peeling back the layers of happenings ever gets you to the core, or the very action of peeling back builds another layer.

This intrigues me. 

Its important I feel to be intrigued.  Intrigued leads to questions which like the analogy about peeling back layers leads mainly to other questions rather than answers.

This is good.  I feel okay with that.  Answers stop you in your tracks.  Why should there be answers? A bit like the destination never living up to the anticipation built during the journey, answers like the reveal of the mystery, the whodunnit, or the movie monster glimpsed, are always less than what is felt and imagined.  Is that because the so-called answer is always false in the deeper sense.

I’ve never been bothered that much about the endings of stories. A lot of people seem to upset if answers are not forthcoming.  As if a contract has been broken. 

Our lives are uncertain!  We have bought tickets to this show to be told the answer especially if it reinforces what we already believe. 

I never care much for all the knots to be unravelled and laid out Poiret style.  I love Agatha Christie, both the books and films, but couldn’t tell you half the time, even after watching them numerous times, who the murderer was, or what motivated them to do it.  It was always the narrative and interactions of the family and friends, or detective and sidekick, that kept me watching.  It was their motives which interested me the most. Motives that were fluid like I feel most motives are, and feelings depending on the moment. 

It is human I suppose to try, and grab hold of something solid while drifting in the sea of doubt.  Doubt though is the journey and the catalyst for emotion and action in many narratives.  Even in the most self-confident of characters there must be the niggling doubt of why the world doesn’t always pay heed to this confidence and structure itself around that character’s needs.

So, what is the purpose of memories?

Do they help us on our forward journey in life? Or are they a wave that constantly beats us back to the path? A case of one step forward and two steps back. 

What would happen if the voices inside our head ‘remember what happened the last time now!’ ‘Think before you leap.’  ‘Your mother is not going to be pleased.’  ‘I know every word of this song.’  ‘This beach seemed so much bigger when I was little.’

No doubt pros and cons from having memories of a particular time and place.  They can stop you or make you hesitate with second thoughts from stepping off an emotional cliff side again!  They can also stop you appreciating a beach as it is, rather than it never was.

So much literature is about the past.  Or how the past informs the present. 

Is it not though that the present informs the past?

Scenario: briefly revisiting the memory of dad and the film nights.  You can’t say that is the past informing the present because it didn’t happen. Or at least to me.  So the present, and by that I mean the constant present, from when I was growing up to sitting around that table after my father’s funeral.  My emotional need or thoughts at the time in the present drew on that ‘memory’ not to remember but to salve the present. I created a past in the present which served the present.

Onward to considering if we had no emotional memory at all.  If it was only functional in that we could remember who people where, and how things worked but emotionally where completely in the present.

What would that mean?   Would we actually live instead off remembering how we never actually lived?  Also since memory is selective what is the point of it anyway?  If we need a warm or chilly emotional coat for the present winter moment couldn’t we file them away and plug them in according to category?

Childhood memory!

Rough and tumble of high school.

First job.

First love.

It is in the major moments in life, love, birth, and death that the memory is strongest.  Those moments we step out of the everyday with the feeling of existing for a time in an alternative universe.  Folk around seem different, both in finer focus and further away.  And they treat your differently from the ordinary day.

Bereavement brings lower register voice, the reluctance to impose on you.  In these moments when time seems to pause the memory file can come into play and function as a way forward out of the pause.  Life resumes, the file is closed till the next critical moment and life is lived in the moment.

My science fiction mind coming to the fore here but is science fiction the projection of the present into the future?  So they say but maybe that’s for another essay.

The beach, the sea, the sky as if seen for the first time.  Describing what you see and feel at that moment rather than an amalgam of different memories, opinions yours and others, and the all the baggage of a life lived until then.  Many a time I’ve taken the dog for a walk along familiar streets, and it is as if my brain tells my feet which way to turn, but my senses are on mute.  I have literally been down that road before so many times.

So, let’s presume every time I walk down that road, I archived that memory only to be accessed in times of high emotional need.  Then each walk can be felt anew. 

Would we still be human? 

I feel a play taking shape!  Need to write it now before the memory of the though is archived!

 

 

 

Monday 1 August 2022

THE ILLUSION OF DISTANCE

2022 PS to the article below.  Duns Play Fest ran a very success double festival in April/May 2022.  A live festival followed by an online festival a couple of weeks later.  Many of the plays recorded live and shown at the online festival where they attracted hundreds of views.

My play 'For the Greater Good' was recorded at the live festival and shown online.  I had another short play, 'I'm Not There' also shown at the online festival. There were 252 views of the two plays. I'm guessing that the vast majority of those who viewed 'For the Greater Good' hadn't seen the live version, so a completely new audience of people who couldn't, for a variety of reasons, make the live performances.  

Online performances create an archive of work produced not only for the playwright but the drama community.





An article on writing plays outside the Scottish central belt of Glasgow and Edinburgh.

Published in Southlight 29 2021. 

For the majority of my creative life I have been based in the South of Scotland, initially in the Scottish Borders now in Dumfries having moved here in 2019.  This has thrown up particular challenges getting my work as a playwright known and produced.  

I would like to address some of those but in the main concentrate on the future rather than the past. I am writing this in February 2021 when we are in the midst of the pandemic, which in my opinion has altered the theatrical landscape beyond recognition.  Whether traditional theatre, as we knew it, will ever return, only time will tell.  My view is it won`t, but a silver lining in this is the opportunity to re-shape the theatrical landscape.   

One of the main challenges of being based in the South of Scotland is what I term the illusion of distance, a belief that the South of Scotland is separated not only in miles but culturally from the contemporary mainstream, which basically means Scotland`s Central Belt.  Writers, wherever they are based, need oxygen to survive and all live under the same sky.

I would imagine most playwrights have the feeling the writing is the easier mountain to climb. Getting your play to a stage is akin to reaching that first summit only to discover a whole range of summits still to conquer.  To paraphrase the Godfather though, `This is the life I have chosen. `It’s a fortunate existence where on a daily basis I get to do that which I love. 

I have worked with fine people across the Scottish Borders including Firebrand Theatre Company, Rowan Tree Theatre Company, Cross Country Theatre Company and Treading The Borders Theatre Company, all supporting and making playwriting visible to a wide audience.  Beyond the South of Scotland I`ve had work performed at The Traverse Theatre, The Arches and more.  In Dumfries and Galloway I am involved with an excellent and supportive playwriting group based at the Theatre Royal.  The group has had various readings, involving locally based actors and director, at the theatre, work written and discussed at the meetings.  I have had a play Sins of the Father recently published.

So why does the feeling nag of the illusion of distance? Is the illusion on my part?  I have been pondering this of late and my answer to myself is, yes in part. That said only in part. More needs to be done to dispel that nagging feeling once and for all. 

Change has been coming in the last few years. Before the pandemic there has been sterling work by the Playwright Studio Scotland across South of Scotland.  I was fortunate to be involved with the Playwright Studio Scotland Talk Fest from the Scottish Borders with my play What Lies Beneath by Firebrand Theatre Company. 

In Dumfries we have the innovative Bunbury Banter Theatre Company based at the Theatre Royal, producing excellent contemporary work, both in the theatre and site specific in the community.  They also encourage and support the up and coming generation with their young playwright’s scheme. Recently The Stove Network based in Dumfries produced a podcast of Lowland, a community play, involving local writers and actors. This was initially scheduled to be performed in community spaces but the pandemic intervened.

A lot happening in the South of Scotland but all this commitment, energy and hard work has to be maintained in the new world we find ourselves in.

Further change has been accelerated by the pandemic, not only in the South of Scotland but Scotland wide.  Playwrights through necessity have drawn closer through social media and the proliferation of online performances.  There have always been artists organising readings and performances of new work outside mainline theatre. What is different and exciting is the sheer range of work and playwrights involved, and most importantly that the work is reaching a far wider audience than ever before.  There has been an energy released for getting things done rather than waiting for it to happen or for someone else to decide if it does through the funding mechanism.

During the pandemic I had a play Devil Gate Drive premiered online by Awkward Theatre. This attracted views from across Scotland and abroad.  I have also had a short play premiered by a theatre company based in America and broadcast online coast to coast in America.  I have attended many worldwide performances online over the last few months. 

I`m not saying the future is online.  I love live theatre but I do think online has added another dimension, or opportunity, for writers. 

For myself and others I believe this new landscape offers an opportunity to organise from a local base.  In terms of Scotland each area should stand on its own but be an equal part of a Scottish wide theatre environment.      

This is where future funding needs to come in, for both traditional theatre and online.  It needs to recognize that everyone scrambling and competing against each other is detrimental, energy sapping, and fosters disillusionment, as is funding determined by some pre-determined  criteria.  Let questions and not necessarily answers rise naturally from the writing.  

If funded properly, online can provide opportunities to work alongside traditional theatre to give increased visibility to a broader base of playwrights throughout Scotland. 

A national ticketing system needs to be devised for online theatre.  Many if not all the online performances I attended were free or donation.  This is okay for the short term but not the long term.

Online performances could be part and parcel of a play`s tour. Not a filmed performance but a special online performance allowing for greater audience access.  The world can be the audience.  In the past I have missed many plays I wished to see because I could not make a performance.

I sincerely hope we take advantage of the chance we have to develop this new landscape to the needs of a widest possible variety of writers.  There has been an abundance of energy and innovation during the pandemic. Let`s take that energy and build again from the ground up and locally.  Then let those local initiatives be shared. Let`s dispel once and for all the illusion of distance.   

 

 

 

 

 

Tuesday 5 April 2022

SCOTSMAN NEWSPAPER POEM OF THE WEEK

 Very pleased that my poem 'Nests' is this weeks...

Poem of the Week in The Scotsman Newspaper. Thanks to Asif Khan and The Scottish Poetry Library. The poem was first published in Southlight Magazine which is based in Dumfries and Galloway.




Tuesday 8 February 2022

THE POETS REPUBLIC

 Delighted that my poem 'The Last Tree' has been published in The Poets Republic issue ten.  A short poem but worked on it to get it down to what I felt was its essence.




Wednesday 30 June 2021

SCOTTISH POETRY LIBRARY POETRY AMBASSADOR 2021/2022

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poetry-ambassadors-2021/?fbclid=IwAR0ehGbUBdXHj74qWLI9750GLXUJcjjWeiWgTcC8rDmizc1FObIpq2iPKN

Very pleased to be one of the four Scottish Poetry Library's 2021-2022 Poetry Ambassadors, responsible for promoting poetry in the South of Scotland.

Looking forward to working with my fellow ambassadors and SPL over the next year.
The SPL’s Poetry Ambassadors scheme is intended to cover the whole of Scotland, moving beyond the central belt to take in the entire sweep of the country, its people and its languages.

Link above for further details of the post.





Tom Murray is a full-time writer, mentor and editor based in Dumfries and Galloway. A widely published poet, he is also a fiction writer and playwright. He has mentored over 60 writers across his many residences, which have included Scottish Book Trust Reader in Residence to Scottish Borders Libraries, Creative Writing Fellow to Tyne and Esk Writers, and Clackmannanshire Writer in Residence. He is currently Open Book Lead Reader in the Scottish Borders. He was an editor of the Scottish Borders based literary magazine, 
The Eildon Tree for 11 years. His publications include:  The Future is Behind You (poetry), Sins of the Father (play), The Clash (play) and Out of My Head (fiction).

Friday 25 June 2021

THE PERMANENT ROOM--A short story.

 

The librarian stared across the desk at him. ‘I have to ask sir.  Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’ Said John.

‘If you could please speak the words of finality sir?’

Walking through the rainy streets, and up the forty-nine steps to the library entrance, pushing open the heavy oak doors, John hadn’t paused or hesitated once.  He had woken up that morning finally sure.

He didn’t hesitate now. ‘My name is John Grant and I walk freely to the Permanent Room.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said the librarian. ‘You have chosen a book?’  

John nodded and said.  ‘Art history.’

The librarian looked pleased. ‘This way sir.’

John chose his book from the shelves, Paintings of Vincent Van Gogh, then followed the librarian towards the Permanent Room.

The main concourse of the library was quiet, but John knew the various rooms would be full no matter what time of day.  As they passed the History Room the door opened and a man, approximately the same age as John, emerged. They knew each other but neither could remember where from or the others name. It did not matter. They had books in common.

John stopped to the annoyance of the librarian.  ‘I’ve been there,’ said John nodding towards the book The Wars of Napoleon gripped in the man’s hand.  The man’s hand shook slightly, his face flushed, eyes struggling to focus on John as if a million and one images were vying for attention.

‘It’s my favourite,’ said the man. ‘Waterloo, what a mess though. I don’t know why I keep going back.’

John knew why for he remembered the man now.  He worked in the bank and had advised John about different types of mortgages.

‘I was at the Peninsular War in Spain,’ John said, as the librarian coughed impatiently behind him. ‘Saw Napoleon himself. Or they said it was him. He was away of in the distance.’

The man stepped closer and whispered.  ‘He nearly ran me over with his horse.’ His face flushed even more, and he was smiling.

It had been a mistake going to the Peninsular War John had discovered.  The life of an infantry man was no joke.  John had cut his visit short, far too much blood and guts for his liking.  He needed somewhere to be truly happy and not numb the daily pain by witnessing others even sadder than him. He didn’t like what he had become secretly smiling at others misfortune. 

‘What room are you in today?’ asked the man.

The librarian coughed another impatient cough and John indicated towards the Permanent Room, and John said.  ‘Must get going.’

The man nodded.  ‘I’ve never found a place for me. Not yet. I’m happy for you.’    

The sincere tone took John by surprise.  He nodded towards the book. The man shook his head. ‘Okay to visit.’  The man attempted a smile. ‘Better get back to the grind I suppose.’ He then turned and walked slowly to replace his book on its shelf and headed even slower towards the library exit.

‘Sir?’ said the librarian.

‘Sorry,’ said John.

‘It’s just that I’m on a break soon,’ said the librarian.

Once through the door there were ninety-nine winding breath bursting steps up up to the Permanent Room itself.  The librarian slowly made his way up the steps, every now and then glancing back at John.  This was deliberate as was the winding steps.  A final test and chance to change your mind.

John didn’t.

The Permanent Room itself was circular with a glass dome that looked towards the heavens. Far above the streak of an already gone aeroplane. A raised leather couch sat alone in the middle of the room.

‘The book sir.’ 

John handed the librarian the book. 

‘If you will sir,’ said the librarian indicating the couch.

John climbed onto the couch and lay back staring up through the glass dome.  Clouds you imagine had emptied themselves of all the rain in the world, draining the dregs to drop rhythmically onto the glass dome. 

The Librarian glanced at the page in the book John had chosen. ‘You do realise that this will only work if the character remains anonymous?’ John nodded.  ‘This not being an unnamed character in fiction, research might uncover the identity of this person in the future. You know what they are like, these scholars. Especially with Mr Van Gogh. If that were to be the case…’

‘I understand,’ said John. ‘I will disappear.’

The Librarian sighed. ‘It’s just…This room used to be so dusty with lack of use. Now…

‘I am sure,’ said John.

The Librarian nodded. ‘I commend you on your chosen page. If ever there was a page to live permanently in, you have chosen well.’

John smiled. ‘Have you ever thought about…?’

The librarian said. ‘Close your eyes please sir.’

John did and the librarian began to read from the page.

‘One anonymous source that has come down to us, from a fragment of a letter of the time, is how this person would witness Vincent walking into the night, easel under his arm.  It was a quick urgent walk as if, to quote the letter, ‘the stars above would scatter if he did not capture them immediately.’

The Librarian’s voice began to fade, and John opened his eyes and there in front of him was the Yellow House and Vincent Van Gogh emerging into the night with his easel under his arm.  Vincent hurried straight past John as if not noticing he was there.  John followed close behind and the rest of the page ran though his mind in his own voice.

‘Vincent worked quickly, every now and then staring for a time up at the glorious stars. I must admit I sneaked as close as I could to witness what he had painted. ‘If you want to see properly.’ Vincent said, ‘stop skulking about.’  I hesitated but he urged me forward and I stood at his shoulder, and the canvas was a glorious mirror to the glory of the stars. I admit I had never properly looked at the stars until that moment. ‘Well?’ Vincent snapped. Before I could answer he said. ‘It is…Not what was in my mind.’ He went to rip the canvas in half.  ‘Please Vincent, don’t.’ He looked at me.  ‘You know my name?’  ‘Yes.’ I said.  He looked at the canvas. ‘I will keep it. Now if you don’t mind sir,’ said Vincent and turned back to his work. ‘Can I watch Mr Van Gogh?’  He thought for a moment. ‘Not at my shoulder, and not a sound.’

John sat on the small hill overlooking where Vincent worked. It was damp as if the rain had recently stopped.  He took out the paper and pen from his jacket and wrote the words that would make it into a book one hundred years later.  John didn’t care about that though.  He had finally found his own page, and where he was meant to be, staring up at the starry sky with wonder as if he were newly born.

Monday 7 June 2021

CHANGES

                                         

It was getting more difficult to change the older Joe got.   The first change as a teenager was straight forward and thinking back on it now, he’d hardly noticed it was happening till it happened. It had started to become more difficult in his forties. He’d hardly slept the night of the change and when he’d woken it had taken a whole day to recover.  His fifties change had taken three days to recover. Of course, once the renewed energy had kicked, he soon forget the lying on the floor the whole room spinning and every muscle stretching anew over his bones.

Now in his sixties the memory came back, and he wondered if it was worthwhile.  I mean what else had he to do in life?   What did he need the renewed energy for? 

He had almost decided not to change when the familiar restlessness kicked in.  Maybe there was still life in him yet?

After the restlessness came the familiar shivers and the feeling of his skin shaking loose from his bones.  The ache along his shoulders and down his arms and sides, the stooping and the slowing of the walk closely followed.  His joints next, beginning as always with his fingers, and then of course his toes. His knee and elbow joints though always the worst and this time he wanted to scream with the pain.

His face was always the last to begin to ache, his teeth, his jawline and finally the headaches.  When the headaches came it was time to sleep.

It took him a long time but eventually as the dawn began to rise, he drifted off to wake suddenly to the sound of the church bells announcing nine o clock.  For a moment he thought he had got off lightly but then the room began to spin faster and faster.  He told himself not to move and go with the room. After an age, the room began to slow, and he took his first look at his new skin.  It was bubbling in places struggling to settle. 

He forced himself to sit up turned towards his old skin lying on the bed. All the times he’d changed this was the part he never got used to.  The old skin had begun to deflate and would soon be flat as a cardboard cut-out.  Only then did Joe make the mind shift that he had been born anew once again. 

His new skin itched and ached, but the bubbling seemed less now. With every renewal it took longer for his new skin to settle on his bones.  Never the same fit as his younger skin had been. 

Struggling to stand he examined himself in the mirror.  Not bad. The skin still aged of course but tighter and no longer grey and tired looking.  It would see him through whatever time he had left.  Not many he knew changed beyond their sixties.  That was okay. A last shot at life that’s all he wanted. 

Joe rolled his previous skin up and fitted it into the disposal company envelope.  Everything was so organised these days.  One phone call and his old self picked up and taken away.    

It took a week for the skin to properly settle.  The occasional bubble here and there especially if he grew tired.  Joe could cope with that though.  It was good to have energy again. Things to do, what he didn’t know.  That didn’t matter, it was the possibility that mattered.