| Enoch And I by Simon Kellow-Bingham |
| We like this story because: we all need to be told to slow down sometimes... |
Since the remarkable death of John E Hawthorne many of us have been left to ponder the seeming violent and random effect of nature. I was only asking myself this morning why, in a world run by a fabulous and ineffable God does he still let all my hair fall out? Why is laser eye treatment not an option only because God chose to give me too-thin corneas? Nevermind that. The sun is shining on Worthing Pier as I go to meet Enoch. Enoch was one of John E. Hawthorne’s most notable contemporaries. A writer rather than an artist, with many credits to his name, Enoch remained faithful to his friend Hawthorne and has never been tempted to ‘spill any beans’. I meet Enoch as arranged beneath the boardwalk of the pier. It is a strange twilight world. At the top of the beach there are the rolled up bedding materials of the homeless. Enoch is leaning on a weed encrusted iron support. He wears dark glasses. A black umbrella stands erect in the pebbles next to a tall silver flask. Despite the warm weather he wears a heavy trench coat, thick trousers and boots. I say Hi and introduce myself. He pours me a coffee from the flask. I turn on my recorder. He takes it from me and wades into the sea. I watch as he climbs up one of the iron trusses and settles into a ‘vee’ between two. Now I’m not going to get these trousers wet for anything and no way will you get me into the English Channel in anything less than a submarine. So I wave and he waves back. I sit on the large round shingle of the beach and drink Enoch’s coffee. It’s good coffee, black, hard and with the slightest hint of brandy. I’m impressed. So impressed that I drink the lot. The tide is coming in and when Enoch climbs back down the sea comes up to his chest. He wades in with my recorder held aloft. I offer the flask. He takes it and hands me back my recorder. “Thanks Enoch,” I say, “I understand how tough this sort of thing can be for a friend. Can I start by asking when you last saw John?” Enoch fixes me with that look we see on the dust covers of his novels. “You must excuse me but I am late for an appointment.” He says. He picks up his umbrella and opens it up and stalks off into the sun. “I’m sorry Enoch but does this mean you don’t want to do an interview?” I give chase, trying to remember that a man runs with his arms at his sides, up and down not side to side. “You’ll go far,” He says. About fifty yards on this shingle is what I think. “Play your tape,” He says, “enjoy the weather and thanks for coming.” I shrug and, panting, decide to give up the chase or any hope of a sensible end to this debacle. Instead I retire to a cafe on the sea front and enjoy a grand latte and watch the holiday crowds milling about the resort. Lots of people seem to like Worthing. I heard that Bob Marley visited once because a relative of Haile Selassie had lived here. Perhaps the great Emperor had been in town while in exile to take the waters and promenade upon the pier I had recently been underneath? Who knows? Who (really truly(madly deeply)) cares? I sat and listened to what Enoch had left me on my recorder. What follows is a full and faithful transcription of the words of Enoch. The punctuation is all my own. Thank you Enoch. “No one breathes deeply anymore, everyone is out of breath. People have this asthmatic attitude, their lives are short, sharp and shallow. It’s like life is a cigarette. A few quick puffs and it is all over bar the coughing. Most of the people I’ve met recently have been on a slow burn, toking on life, dragging along, breathless at the fag end of it all. People need to breathe deeper. We all need to breathe deeper. We all want to and we all know how. So why don’t we? I’ll tell you. We won’t let ourselves, that’s why. Somehow we just don’t have the time or the space. But if we all took deeper breaths we would create the time, create the space. We’re killing ourselves before we’ve lived. We don’t give ourselves a chance. But we could, no one else deserves it but ourselves. Wake up. Breathe deeply. Sleep well and eat good food. Gaze at the stars, dance on a beach, breathe deeply and sing out loud. John taught me that, taught me how to breathe. Taught me how life could be lived in capital letters. He couldn’t stand the city. He told me once while he was in college in London that the loudest sound in the city was the low susurrus of lungs panting. I agreed with him then and do now too. People rush to make a living which isn’t living, their tongues swollen and eyes wet. Combustion engines rasp and pollute the streets with poison. It is hard to breathe deeply there. Taste the fumes and spit in the gutter. It’s no use, it burns your throat and stings your eyes. Brains numb under the pressure, shadows appear on lungs, we die. Once upon a time I sat on the steps from Carlton House Terrace to the Mall, looking across St. James’ Park. It was eleven o’clock on a hot June day. The famous ‘Changing of the Guard’ ritual was about to start. I sat under my umbrella on the stone steps watching half-dressed tourists trot up and down. The leaves on the plane trees opposite were grey with exhaust fumes. Black taxi cabs trailed blue smoke. When the red coated cavalry appeared their splendour was dulled. The glory of the spectacle was tempered by the chemical fog that hung in the air. The traffic had been stopped for the brief pageant but the haze of pollutants remained. My face was wet with sweat and breath under a particle mask. It was never much use. An aqualung would have been more appropriate. I quit the city the next day. I had to get into the hills and forests and suck the sweet country air and cough out the carcinogen detritus of the city. I caught the train out to John’s place and sat beneath trees uncompromised by the effluent of expensive spent fuel. An unadulterated sun shone on my urbanly stained umbrella, beneath which I was a city corpse. I beat the ashes of the metropolis from my clothes, rinsed my body at midnight in a mountain stream, starved out the toxins from my soul and did what Johnny had taught me so long ago. I breathed deeply.” © Simon Kellow-Bingham All Rights Reserved www.millionstories.net |
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The
Challenge!
Challenge!
The
Challenge!
Challenge!
The
Challenge!
Prompt #5 Jan 31st 2011
Challenge!
Prompt #5 Jan 31st 2011
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