dunxd.com

The pen was mightier than the sword once. The pen was a metaphor for power. Those who wielded the pen wielded not just now but forever. The cuts it made had an immortality, or at least longevity as long as the paper remained. The pen represented the flow of will from the writer to his audience in the same way as the sword represented the flow of will from wielder to enemy. Both served as ways to try and change the behaviour of another person.

From the brain to the arm to the hand to the business edge, delivering ink onto writing surface. The pen and paper offer us endless possibilities. A pen can be used to write in any language, using any script. We can use it to draw.

Using a pen is simple, almost as intuitive as using a knife. We can forget about the technology and just watch the ink slide onto the paper leaving behind the result of our efforts.

After thousands of years of using writing implements, the demand for distributing many copies of the same piece of writing created a more industrial tool – the printing press begat the typewriter, the photocopier and ultimately the personal computer with desktop publishing software.
With each development came an increased burden of technological knowledge. In order to use the communication device technical knowledge and skill had to be acquired. With each extra technical skill and piece of knowledge came an opportunity for distraction. This did exist with pens – quills needed cutting, fountain pens needed filling and cleaning and blotting. Typewriters jam, photocopiers need refilling with toner. And computers connected to the internet offer so many possibilities to do anything but write.

I feel the need to return to the pen, even though I can write, sorry, type more quickly and neatly. It is easier to store things neatly on a hard drive than in folders which open suddenly spilling out un-numbered pages…

Leonard Osborne woke with a start. The last words in his head, rapidly fading as most dreams do: What if the best is now past?

The sheets beneath him felt clammy, sticking slightly and abrasing his back as he rolled over onto his side. Tired as he was, the bed was no longer comfortable and he would have to get up whatever the time was. Dawnish light broke through the gap between plain curtains. He hadn’t woken at dawn for many weeks. There had been no need to. He rolled his tongue around inside his mouth. The disturbing and unpleasant taste like wallpaper paste again. The displacing feeling of yet another tiny ulcer formed at the back of his throat. He manoeuvred his body to the edge of the bed and tried to swivel himself around into a sitting position, but got no further than getting his calves out over the edge of the bed before the temptation to lie in the damp greasy sheets started tugging him back.
What if the best is now past? Could he have tipped over the top of the mountain, from the crawl to the top, a pinnacle that may have been reached while he slept, and now was heading down the steep slope back to the sea level of oblivion? No. He had felt pretty much like this the week before. If he had reached the peak of his physical condition it had happened some time ago. Perhaps he had reached a wide gently sloping plateau of mild ill health and gradual deterioration.

Must move my body – he thought to himself. He twitched one foot and then the other. Get the blood cells pumping. Get my brains working. The cold was starting to penetrate his calf muscles, the hairs now raised on drumlins of flesh. A slight motion ground his body over something gritty. Disgust lurched him into the sitting position he had failed to attain minutes before. Lowering his feet to the permafrost concrete floor that sucked all heat from his feet, a feeling greatly relieved by reaching into his boxer shorts and giving his pubis a good scratch, he settled forward for the final burst of contemplation that might actually move him out of the bed and into some form of action in the bleak room. Five minutes of deep bollock scratching later and the light from outside was beginning to look more like day light, less orange tinged by the sulphurous street lights. Perfect timing – he thought. The lights are out. The council has deemed it truly daytime.

With that he pushed himself up to a standing position, and stepped forwards towards the open suitcase across the floor by the wall. His pants and socks were bundled in a turdish pile, turned in on themselves like discarded moebius strips, on top of his casually folded trousers. It is cold enough to wear these for another day – he decided. I am not sweating like in summer – he justified, comfortably avoiding the sensation of slipping his feet into biscuit like fresh socks, but ignoring the slight crust on the sole of one, where he must have stepped in something dropped on the kitchen floor the night before. He briefly contemplated turning the pants inside out, but something of its rebelliousness dissuaded him, and he slipped off his sleeping boxer shorts with their gaping fly and slid up the underpants which would cradle him gently for the rest of the day. More gently, for they had lost some of their springiness through the previous day’s exertions. Now for trousers, to stem the rapid flow of dwindling warmth from his bristling legs into the heat death of the bedroom. Fibres tugging at hairs they were up. The pockets, containing his wallet and mobile phone had flipped around his thighs. Lenny had to take the seat down again and readjust the pockets so they were accessible and didn’t make his hips bulge.

The light was growing with such force it might almost open the curtains on its own, desperate to enter the room and rampage over anyone who dared to ignore the days fearsome birth. I must not stop – Lenny thought to himself reaching over to the shirt wrapped over a coat hanger hooked onto a nail that had protruded from the wall since he moved in to the room. The cold sleeves sheathed his arms. He un-tucked the once stiff collar and buttoned the shirt down from the second to top button downwards. Tucking the shirt into trousers required once again undoing the belt, button and fly giving enough room to half smooth the shirt tails between his legs and the inside of the trousers. Doing the belt back up he tucked the free end into the loops with a finality that said, I am dressed now. All I need is shoes.

On the way to a job interview I saw that I had some time before the start, so I decided to spend some time working on questions I wanted to ask in a local park.

The park had a few benches scattered around the edges. At one end stood a fenced basketball court with a few pairs of people playing one on one. At the end where I selected the bench I would work on a black man played against a strong looking blonde white woman. I turned my back to the court to concentrate on the information I had on the job interview.
Suddenly, over my shoulder I heard a voice. “Oi, Mister”, it said. I turned to see a beige skin boy, about 15 years old, the other side of the fence, who had been watching the couple play ball. “Oi Mister. Are you from round here?” he asked.

“Not originally. I do live in London.” I replied.

“Do you smoke dope?” the lad said. I noticed the rather large spliff he held in one hand, scorched at one end, but not yet lit again.

“Sometimes.” I said, trying to be straight and cool.

“Would you like to buy some?” he asked more gently than one expects of a fledgling drug dealer.

“I’ve got a job interview in a minute. I don’t think it’s the right time for me to do that.” I answered.

“Alright.” He said and we both turned away, me to my papers, and he to the bouncing breasts of the basketball girl.

I started to read my preparatory material. The voice returned. “Do you live around here then?” he went on.

“Not any more. I used to live over on Sandwich Street,” he looked blankly at me, “over near Marchmont Street – do you know that?” I continued.

“Is that Brunswick?” he said.

“I think so. Do you live around here?” He replied that he did, and said the name of some estate that I don’t recall.

“Where do you live now?” he asked.

“The east end.” I offered vaguely.

“Oh. The east end.” he accepted and turned away once again.

I read the rest of my material. I small group of older boys walked over, and I grasped my bag between my knees until they passed.

This would have been the most interesting event of the day if something else had not happened at the job interview.

But I won’t go into that now.

When Friends Reunited first started up there was the facility to add the history of schools. I quickly added the following load of nonsense. Since then the system has changed and only privilidged people can change these things. However, my entry remains and can’t be edited! So it is unoffically the official history of the school. It might disapear from the
William Howard School entry, but it will be here for ever more.

William Howard School was founded in 1734 by William Howard in order to win a bet involving the gathering of the most children in one place. His winning plan, which thwarted the alternative method of his constant drinking partner Lord Dacre (digging holes and throwing dolls in), was to offer an education of sorts to the children of the people of Brampton.

The first classes offered where Drama and Home Economics for the girls, and Maths and CDT for the boys.

The school was a roaring success and soon William Howard had drawn thousands of children from areas as diverse as Alston and Wetheral. Lord Dacre was forced to admit defeat, and paid his forfeit of running naked to the Capon Tree and back with the word “fool” smeared on his chest. Dacre later got his revenge by painting the sleeping Howard’s face permanently red, an act commemorrated in the red face of the statue of Howard at the peak of the Moat.

Despite being founded due to the sin of gambling the school was a success and proved
to be a model for other schools around the world. William Howard could not teach the children alone, and so he recruited many friends to assist in the formation of young minds. Among these were Bonny Prince Charlie and a number of daughters of the Naworth Family. Wordsworth and other metaphysical poets found time to teach occaisonally at the school. These were the halcyon days of WHS.

Many gloomy decades were to come with the split of the school into the White House for good children, and the Dark House for the evil ones. Thankfully in the 1970s this split was overcome, and the two groups were reunited, thus settling the balance of the
universe straight, reuniting the Yin with the Yang.

In 1995 the school was rechristened the William Howard School and Centre, indicating its place as a focal point for world affairs. The link with Uru School in Tanzania proved to be a model for many national governments’ foreign policies, and a number of the participants went on to influence world events of the late 1990s.

The new millenium has seen a reappraisal of the role of the school in Brampton and the world at large. Plans include the formation of an independant state encapsulating the area from the smokers cut to the far end of the playing fields. Rumours of lights in the old White House school have led to exploration and the discovery of yet uncharted areas.

The future looks bright for William Howard School and Centre.

Sat at the back of the plane like ballast preventing the wealth heavy nose tipping down and the whole vehicle hurtling back into the real world. Shoes off, feet swelling, dotted around a half empty cabin. Picking at the calf length panic tights rescuing us from the risk of deep vein thrombosis. Peeling off a toilet seat cover from the dispenser, trying carefully to separate its tongue from the roof of its mouth so it can be dipped into the bowl. The join goes to the front if you are a man so that your bare glans cannot come into contact with the matte surface below. I am going to do a poo in this loo. Standing over the toilet, waiting that perceivable moment between pressing the flush switch and the sucking which might just provide the delight of watching the seat cover whipped off and down the hole. Wiping out the sink with your paper towel as a courtesy to the next passenger. Staring in the mirror at the gaping pores, pustules swollen from dehydration and the drying air, then illuminated by the close fluorescent bulb. The screens in the back of the chair in front, thin options for you entertainment, drilling into the mind of the person on front, or find out where you are as if it mattered. You weren’t really anywhere as 90,000 pounds of thrust propels you over the surface of the stratosphere. The air beneath the wings as solid as anything else that has ever held you steady, pillars of air all the way to the ground, yet at the bottom hardly feeling the tall strain. Reading lights left absent mindedly on here and there. Trying to get comfortable, whether tilted back all of twenty degrees, or trying to lie prone across three empty seats, folded armrests pushing your widest parts out over the edge of the seat, teetering over a one foot drop, while 35,000 feet above the ground. All the atoms that cling together to form your body, accelerated to almost five hundred miles per hour. Killing ten hours to travel half way around the shrinking world. It’s all so mundane, yet the whole thing teeters on chaos and disaster, we are reminded as we pass through x-rays, searches, questioning, being shown the exits, reminded to keep your seat-belt fastened at all times in case of cataclysmic turbulence. Except you end up exploring the hidden cupboards in the toilets.. The ashtray next to the no-smoking sign. The redundant old-fashioned razor blade disposal slot and cups dispensed for the non-potable water. Back to the seats. Return to seat light is on in the loos. Fasten seat belt. How many people are thinking about how to hijack the plane? How many are thinking about how they would stop it? Even to whisper about either thought is to be bound with plastic ties and stiff interrogation on arrival. Better to sing into a movie, or comedy show, so much funnier at in the thin funny air, cleaned and recycled. Constant noise. Hums and blowing. What does it sound like outside? The wing gleams like a smooth computer graphic effect outside the window, partly unreal. Too much sensation and choice inside to focus for more than a few seconds outside. What is it like up front in first class, after they close curtains sealing off the big chairs, and the big wigs/knobs from the rest of us? Are we right to feel jealous, or is it just nylon free nylon socks we miss out on back here at the ballast? I’ve missed the boat from the fact of my age, and the age we live in, from being show the inside of the flight deck and introduced to the captain to my delight. I’d like to say the plane is coming into land now, tray tables and foot rests must be returned to the upright position. But there are still hours left of the flight. I am just getting too lulled to write on the plane…