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All I want is to breathe
Won’t you breathe with me?
Born Under Punches, Talking Heads, Remain in Light
Ivy
I suppose there must be days when I haven’t thought of you, but I cannot recall even one.
You are present in everything I see. Our lives are already intertwined and inseparable.
I think you must be an ivy, growing over my mind.
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Quicksand, David Bowie, Hunky Dory
“I’m torn between the light and dark
Where others see their target
Divine symmetry”
After the rain
I find the world more beautiful after it has rained.
When the clouds stay, heavy, grey and unmoving, only the suggestion of sunlight beyond.
When the rain is still in the air, threatening to come down again.
When the drops still hang from the leaves and branches, and you hear the tap-tap from deep in the undergrowth.
A world in stasis, waiting between worlds, refreshed after the dry spell but not yet renewed.
Hope rising up from the deluge.
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And the forests dream eternally…
These are some of my new personal favorites and I’m so excited for this new season.
Rebirth and regrowth.
Silver memory
A memory in shadows and light,
delicate and dark,
of our time,
you and me.
Never to be recaptured,
but held forever.
A life in silver,
lost yet found.
Clarity
Sometimes, when the drink has gripped my soul, I see more clearly than I have at any other time. As the saying goes, the scales fall from my eyes, and opaque corners of my soul are illuminated with a brilliant light. Situations that seemed complex become simple. My true feelings are divined. Apparently insolvable problems are solved.
I wish, in these moments, I could reassemble long-gone moments and relive them in a better way, or at least explain them to my then-self in a way that was impossible at the time.
Then, hoping for greater insight, I take another drink. But the veil returns, thicker than before, and I lose all I saw, hopefully to be recalled on another hazy evening.
Alone
You are never truly alone when you know someone loves you.
On and on...
Another chapter of my work in progress complete. That makes four this week, so far. That poor Olympia typewriter needs a rest!
I am slowly approaching the end of the book, and I am a little sad. It’s been the most enjoyable story to write so far. Let’s hope only until the next one.
Respect for the Dead
For your Friday delectation, dear reader, I offer an extract from my 2018 short story collection Dear Lucifer and Other Stories.
The dark horse shakes its head slowly, sending the jet-black plumes in its harness into a syncopated dance. Another, shackled alongside and looking into the distance, waits silently, shining in the bright sunshine. A small crowd of people, all dressed in black, breaks and gets into a line of waiting cars. After grinding a cigarette into the grey tarmac and waiting for a white van to pass, the coachman straightens his black top hat and climbs onto the box of the hearse. He adjusts his tailcoat and takes up the reins.
Slowly, the hearse creeps forward, the horses repeatedly bowing their heads and rattling their harnesses as they take their first steps. The metal-rimmed wheels of the hearse clatter on the stone-encrusted road, and the flowers shiver in the wreath on the top of the hearse. One by one, the cars judder into life and the solemn procession inches along the street. No need to hurry. Not now.
An old man, walking home with plastic bags full of shopping, stops and doffs his cloth cap. A cat, folded under a heavy bush, watches the horses pass and a dog barks, intoxicated on the equine sweat drifting in the half-breeze.
In the leading car, a woman, trying not to cry, looks away from her husband and out of the window, not noticing the crumbling tower block and the anonymous houses staring back at her. A group of children stop playing and even the greasy pigeons, swooping for a discarded burger, suspend their fight for survival to honour a battle recently lost. Only an empty crisp packet, circling on the pavement in a dust tornado, ignores the procession.
As the hearse reaches the junction, cars slow and conversations abruptly end. Faces turn to see the horses and the shaking plumes.
– I didn’t know they still did things like that here, someone says. I thought it was just in the East End.
– Nice, though, isn’t it? A bit of respect for the dead. Know what I mean?
A Turkish man, placing melons into a crate outside his shop, straightens and watches, puzzled. The procession passes in front of the Co-op and the print shop. A drunk emerges from the pub and stops, bowing his head clumsily.
You are leaving the Post Office, thinking of nothing, putting your wallet away. It’s the clip-clop of shod hooves that catches your attention. And a women by the bus stop making the sign of the cross. You want to take a picture when you see the incongruous majesty of it all, but a cloud passes in front of the sun and you are cold and uncomfortable, shuddering slightly.
Who is that in the wooden box with the brass handles? No one you know. You think of your mother. She is still alive, but you will be in a car with blacked-out windows soon enough.
A motorbike passes, loud and fast, and the horses stop, panicked. The coachman sways on his box and gathers himself, gently flicking the reins.
– No bloody respect, a voice says. That’s the trouble with people today.
The old man curls his face and spits in disgust. The hearse moves forward again, up the hill towards the white-painted prison and another world. As the last of the black cars passes, you wake, as if from a dream. You want to talk to someone, to those standing around, but you realise you don’t know anyone. These people, this…community; it’s not your home, even though you live here.
Slowly, the noise builds and the faces turn away.
Dear Lucifer and Other Stories is out now.
L. A. Davenport
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Italian Hillside
Italian Hillside, circa 2015. Pen and ink. It was a beautiful, languid day.
Sad
It is a curious thing that we think it is more true to be sad than to be happy.
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Mona Kuhn (German-Brazilian, b. 1969, São Paulo, Brazil, based LA, CA, USA) -Nephila, 2014 from Private series. Photography
Speak
The most interesting people to listen to are those who do not wish to speak.
Two more down
I wrote two chapters of my work in progress today. After a few days off, it was good to be tapping away at the typewriter. It helps with reinforcing the transitions between chapters to have a clear head.
After the second one, I wasn’t sure that everything I wrote today will stay in, but it was good to let myself go and see where it could take me.
At this rate, I should have the first draft of this book written in three weeks. (Famous last words!)
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Back in the chair
I couldn’t move forward with my work in progress for the last couple of weeks—paid work was overwhelming.
But today I finally got to sit down in front of my typewriter and I managed to write not one but three chapters. I am exhausted but satisfied.
L. A. Davenport
PS, I finally came up with a title for the book. It’s no longer called The Labyrinth. Something much better, I think (I hope!).
Video
Escape Dream Four from L. A. Davenport | Author on Vimeo.
A film for the novel Escape.
By L. A. Davenport, with thanks to the wonderful Tumblr community.
© L. A. Davenport.
Find out more: pushingthewave.co.uk/books/escape/
L. A Davenport: pushingthewave.co.uk
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“Pain and beauty, our constant bedfellows”
~ Nick BantockMagdalena Russocka - secret of the old mill…
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Escape Dream Three from L. A. Davenport | Author on Vimeo.
A film for the novel Escape.
By L. A. Davenport, with thanks to the wonderful Tumblr community.
© L. A. Davenport.
Find out more: pushingthewave.co.uk/books/escape/
L. A Davenport: pushingthewave.co.uk
Video
Escape Dream Two from L. A. Davenport | Author on Vimeo.
A film for the novel Escape.
By L. A. Davenport, with thanks to the wonderful Tumblr community.
© L. A. Davenport.
Find out more: pushingthewave.co.uk/books/escape/
L. A Davenport: pushingthewave.co.uk