RIP Dominic Raoul Lucas

In memoriam immortal of MSN, and the genre of ‘adult alternative rock’ with quarter speed scrubbing and Dave Matthews ‘Crash into me’, the best album ever*. *Alongside the rise and fall of Ziggy, and other great albums.

I would like to share some words of a dear friend, and my response, some  six years late, to them. Before I continue, I should put a trigger warning for depression, suicide, and caring for those who are depressive and/or suicidal.

The person in question is Dom  Lucas, someone I liked greatly from when I met him in my first philosophy class in 6th form. It was apparent at his funeral, that a deep and lasting impression was a response he often evoked, even in those who had counted him only as an acquaintance. Continue reading

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THE FIRST POEM I EVER WROTE (voluntarily after the age of 8 or so)

when I was 17 I went on a summer camp where my group was led by a gentle man called Li/Lee Trew. he was following/ influenced by Tom Brown’s school of Nature Connection. on the first morning we were given the chance to get up before breakfast for some sensory awareness activities. we made nettle string and gathered mushrooms by their scent (well, stinkhorn anyway). and in the autumn I made a bow drill under his instruction, and wrote this slightly er… well it is what it is and I was 17 at the time and was self concious of its fertility language clichees but it came very naturally so here it is –

Ode to my bowdrill

I have fashioned you

until you fit like male and female,

like Yin and Yang.

Now the spindle is held in the grip

of my eager bow

and I press it home.

Fire, come bless me.

Back, spinning.

Forward, grinding.

Back, smoking,

the ember comes.

I place it in the tinder like a newborn in a blanket.

Glowing growing coal

feed on my breath until you

burst into living flame.
bowdrill pic

Head Down Days

I hear the alarm, and start to extract myself from dreamt scenarios,

wash off the clinging images, oats down my throat, notes into file, into pannier, arms into hi-vis and bike out of door, down the road and

Peckham Lodge

up the hill, lock it up, roll down trousers, wipe off sweat and into staffroom.

Eight timetabled hours and two more,

then I’m coming home past Peckham Lodge again.

I push aside a stack of undistributed No Borders zines to shelve my ringbinder.

As I check my email media laments that a ship has sunk off Lampadusa, as if it is news.

The thought rises up of my gentle friend

who cooked rice, who rode a cement mixer in silence, who let his companion make the boat, whose head is scarred by an interrogator, who shrugged at the wait for his papers and his roommate’s nightly phonecalls,

and each time I clamp it down before it opens the floodgates.

And I strengthen my doors, to focus on this one thing.

But dammed up and directed the pressure inside me makes me immobile, paralysed,

and then in the classroom I can do nothing while a boy takes his painstakingly scrawled label that the group rejected, turns it into a spaceship, and flies it around the room.

The hope that I can be better, that I will not allow eager learners to be humiliated and sink into passivity, calcifies into grim obligation, as I follow this well-trodden path where my humanity must be administered in strategic doses to nourish my allotment of 30 thirsty young souls to grow and yield a harvest.

I hope at least that I can help them grow wild, interplanted, co-existant, joyous, and I will do this even if the yield is less orderly than that grown in rows.

And I will come back to the rest of the world.

This is from the first term of my PGCE. From my struggle to reconcile myself to my tunnel vision on my workload, and to hope that it will lead me somewhere where I am able again to have worthwhile engagement with people in the world. Returning to this as I stew in the process of regurgitating experience as a neatly packaged learning experience for the consumption of the academy.

regarding your question

You ask like you expect a reply off the cuff,
as if some social small talk could be enough;
but it’s a topic that’s been lying hidden in my brain
that I need to share before it drives me insane.
Can’t give you off the cuff when my heart’s on my sleeve
But if you want to know what I truly believe,
may I tell you my frame, before we discuss the picture?

The world is a sad and terrible place.
I think that’s a truth that we’ve got to embrace.
If we’re to live with it, do what we can with it,
it’s something I’d sooner just face.
What we feel may be what our warped thoughts think,
but reality may not be better, could also be worse.
Critical thinking might be a curse, a quagmire where to be stuck is to sink,
but the lack of it surely is more hopeless still.
I chose the apple, and I always will
seek out the fruits that show possibilities of infinities of change.
We can only hope our futures will not be as they seem.
If nothing is inevitable, everything is possible, we gotta be critical
and we gotta dream.

So, about the teaching. Given capitalism in general, and schools in specific are fucked, it’s going kind of ok.

tree for me

I say “You there, bumpy, you may be the tree for me

may I lie at your roots and bask, to get off task?”

 

I drop down and a weight lifts, my mind can drift

sun warms me and my eyelids fall closed, my limbs repose

it’s a sunny summer evening and I’m free to be,

so I let go nagging thoughts, let the world wash around me.

 

there’s wind and laughing chatter and beyond the urban sea

the eb and flow of engines, that muddle of realities

it’s chaos and it’s peaceful

it is war and it is order

 

or war and chaos and peace and order, chaos, peace, order, war

order and chaos, peace and war

I’m not gonna split em up, I’ve tried before

it gave me hours of inaction and my head got sore

 

reality’s not simple, it never will be,

we’d better get on and accept that, take responsibility

to do what we can with what’s around us, ‘cos perfection is illusory

and meanwhile I gotta take time, yeah take a bit o time

to remember all I can really know is me.

bumpy tree

 

this is a song. wrote it in a park at the end of a day, sometime in early summer 2013. I wrote it quickly in the first draft, and musiced it over a few days – I was in a highly active stage, one where I was feeling quite effective, and so I was recognising my need for downtime and giving it to myself: this song is good for me to help revisit that need when I’ve been neglecting it. I’ve sung it to friends, but not performed it yet. I am intensely self conscious of my songs – they have always been a product of starting with an emotion that I can’t quite pin down, and poking and prodding phrases of chords, melodies and words until there’s something that feels coherent.

I fear.

I fear I will grow up to prop up the crumbling staircases in the castle of capitalism and I fear that I will beat my knuckles to blood and bone against the castle’s walls.
I fear that the fuel that flames in us now will burn out, and its ash will leave us smothered before our fire catches on to sturdier logs.
I fear that over the staffroom tea machine I would recognise no trace of the sparks that are in me now, and I fear that I will burn alone as I watch the blazes in those around me be smothered.
I fear I will straighten out and live orderly between the lines, and I fear my scrawled life will never become intelligible.
I fear that I will grow small in fear of the storm and I fear that I will grow weedy and weak and be flattened as the gusts grow stronger.
I fear that I will find myself rolling without brakes to an unknown destination and I fear that I will wander in the woods so long that when I find a path I will have no strength to follow it.
I fear that I will bury down into my microclimate, and I fear I will grow no roots as the topsoil all around me washes away.
I fear to hope that we will be the fungi, the mycorrhizal network which helps the tree grow strong in the cracks, that our scars will make our knuckles stronger, that when our flames die down we will rekindle them, that our ash shall be fertile, that we shall flourish before we rot, and then we shall shoot up again, and that together we shall make our paths to the destinations we will create, and our roots shall mesh together a habitat where we and all who join us can flourish.
I fear that I will lose hope, and I hope I will not lose my fear.

********

edited and pulled together from rediscovered jottings from a year ago that emerged from a workshop at The Spark, a week of workshops for social change which will be running again next week. in these precarious times, sitting with fear, and accepting it as a flipside of hope is something I neglect too long, and then rediscover, and feel refreshed.

Heavy today, better tomorrow

The world’s crushing in through the screen that I stare at,

my thoughts drain through my eyes slurping out a vacuum,

they leave some stagnant mush where my brain’s supposed to be,

and it fills with the weight of the world’s misery…

channelled through the internet, where what you think  is what you get;

if trouble comes along,  cropping up close to you

you find it echoed, repeated and magnified,  clogging up the view.

I left. To get some air

to let my brain try to care

now it feels it and my tears flow

tho being sad’s pretty pointless, yeh I do know.

I should crack on it’d be more productive

might do my jobs better if I stick to the positive

but while life can be joy it is also bitter

and I feel it slipping by, each day goes quicker

it’s passing me by when I feel like a stone

grey, impervious, surrounded yet alone

then I get words so heavy they choke me

when I feel broken words hover and crush me

words getting stuck where pure meaning flows

they’re the flotsam and the ripples in the river hard to capture

when you think you got them down, the meaning’s seeped away

the heaviness is gone to emerge another day.

well the world’s fucked now, but it’s always been screwed

since adam and eve there’s no time it’s improved

the best there’s ever been is slots of opportunity

and places and times to exist with impunity.

Optimism? Pessimism? I’ll stick with realism,

you just gotta do what you can.

And I need to draw my community around me,

surround me with bonds that make it feel more livable

survivable. We can make it through, we can stay true.

At least we know we care, that we give a shit.

And shit can help stuff grow, if you let it so.

So let’s chill in these cracks, gently push them open

’til everyone can see them, the signs of decay.

Yeah they might put concrete over, but we won’t go way,

the seeds are everywhere, and the concrete shows they’re scared.

When they are gone, we will push through

when they are gone, we will grow anew.

Ever present are living spirits and the struggle of life is beautiful

though hierarchies can give distance, to develop isms that let us demonise.

with empathy we can develop our power to realise we can rehumanise,

and then we’re ready to organise, to link up and  revitalise,

so freshen up what you see  through your eyes,  and spread that feeling til we recognise

that its this society that distorts us and we gotta make it better til we’re free.

IMGP0525

I wrote this over a few weeks. Starting when I’d been on a computer, drawn into the dark places of the internet, feeling down about the kids I work with who are too anxious, for good reasons, like family members  in prison, to go to sleep at night, and then I went out and sat by the canal, and got words out into my notebook, and cried. I carried on working through the words, talking through it as I cycled home from parties where I’d felt my community around me. I was stuck on the ending though, until I came to it refreshed from Nest, [the first official regional burn in the UK]. I’ve come back with a hugely increased self-esteem, and comfort around myself, from my contribution to the event being appreciated so openly and reflected right back at me. My thoughts, writing and creativity are all flowing, after being blocked for  a long time.