It's Positively a Fairytale

An abandoned wardrobe with one door propped open in a sun-dappled clearing. Had someone, or something, come out or gone in? There was one winter coat hung up inside, next to some empty hangers, which swung as if recently disturbed by human touch and not by the chilly breeze that ruffled my hair, which had a free-standing mirror been there, beside the wardrobe as you might expect to find in a bed or dressing room, would show a halo of frizz around a oval face, paling in colour, now my solitary walk had been interrupted. 
Standing stock-still, whether in wonder or terror, does little for the circulation, particularly if there's a nip in the air that can make your nose run and your eyes smart, as mine were beginning to do, in defiance of the sunshine that had made contact with my person. But rather than resuming my habitual pace and walking on, as anybody normal would have done, I decided to take refuge in the wardrobe. To tuck myself behind the embossed door that was closed, and looked as if it would forever remain so.
To what purpose? That I can't tell you. Not even now, in hindsight, when I've had time to pull apart the events of that fine, crisp morning. To rest, to take shelter would seem obvious, but I can't say that was my conscious, or overriding, thought. I don't usually loiter on my constitution, not unless it's glorious, as in heavenly and warm, outside, as well as dry underfoot. No, I don't remember there being a thought at all, it was more of a magnetic attraction: invited by its yawning door to look, to get inside.
Where I thought it might smell of mothballs and where I might be able to avail myself of an extra layer. It didn't; it had a mild smell of damp and resin. And I couldn't, for the coat, although realistic, on closer inspection was craved from wood like the wardrobe itself. Though wood of a different kind I thought as it was lighter in tone, like the camel, wool-lined coat my nan used to wear before it was kept as a spare and before it was handed down to my mum. I think she still has it somewhere...? It's amazing the mundane thoughts that pass through your mind when confronted with the incredible.
It wasn't much warmer inside for part of a back panel was missing, through which could be seen the forest floor and was big enough for a child or small adult to crawl under. Of course, a woodland creature, say a squirrel or a rabbit, would have managed it with greater ease. Naturally, I tried, and succeeded after some breathing in and tugging, though I could have gone back out the way I came: through the fixed open door, but this felt adventurous, and I had convinced myself that by doing so I would be transported to another land, like in the C.S Lewis story, or at least to another part of the forest.
Nothing like that occurred (the unimaginable rarely does, which is weird when you can think it, make it up and even believe in it), but I did, after brushing myself down, righting my apparel and straightening up, resume my walk in an entirely new direction, with the back of the wardrobe as my starting point, and in spite of the little adult voice in my head saying: you could have saved yourself the trouble and gone around.
I set off with renewed vigor and warmed by the exercise, not knowing where I was going or what I was making for, which was quite frankly downright dangerous and stupid since I was quite alone and without any provisions should I get lost, although of course since I'm telling the tale you know I didn't, though I will shortly, as in 'sling yer hook', once this story's over. Still, such a move was reckless of me, and unusually so.
The woods, in this part, (I was choosing to delude myself at this point), seemed awash with sunshine, a stronger light than I previously come from so that everything green was shot through with it. I had to walk with my eyes down or shielded with a gloved hand, which meant I very nearly missed the stately witch, and a little further on the majestic lion, who I thought had a kind but troubled countenance, whereas the witch had had an artful expression. It was obvious she had the upper hand, and ruled this land as if she were a cousin of the Snow Queen, since those who find her, and only her, frequently repeat the journey.

Vulnerable to Sightings

The weird and wonderful. The random and the obscene. Where there is life, there's always the chance something might happen...
And it does if you remain with the living, even if you place yourself outside or stay in touch with it half in dream, with that vague opium-like feeling where you can't believe what's unfolding. That which is being closely observed by your very eyes, that which draws you to stare even though the sight is quite revolting, like the poor table manners of modern weaned children as supervised by modern parents. What is this waving of the fork? and the licking of the knife? Both implements held with a strange grip, of the sort I've never seen before: their hands somehow twisted round the handles making it impossible to spear and saw, so that instead they're fed like chicks when they should be much further along in their development. See. Do. See. Do. The parents do the same: inexpertly cut and tear and then throw these morsels into their gaping mouths. The table a picture of debris, as if there had, at some point in these proceedings, perhaps to entertain these youngsters, been an unsuccessful attempt to whip the tablecloth from under the dirtied cups and plates, although to my knowledge this establishment didn't use them, preferring to wipe clean with a disinfectant spray and cloth rather than brush down. Still, an exception could have been made I suppose...the mess might not have been theirs in spite of the bare facts laid out.
This family went unnamed (and untamed) in my record of them. There were too many like them. Then, under observation, as of now. For they are the new nuclear family, to which most humans conform when they form a unit and multiply and begin undoing years of civilisation. Grunt. Point. Stare. Draw with a finger in the sand or with a stick on a wall. Fight over food. Eat with hands. Talk with mouths full.
What I'm trying to emphasise is that they're not as rare as they would have been had they been visible, or an arresting a sight as, say, in the eighteenth or nineteenth century, and as compared to other modern sightings I've given labels to: The Mini-coopered Clown; Countess Dracula; Helium Boy; The Bushwhacker; and The Pop Art Transsexual, and stored along the banks of Memory River.
This river has as many twists as it has turns, which to some of you will sound like the same thing. They're not. Turns are more ordinary, more straightforward; twists are more happen-stance, more liable to appear when they weren't there before and go back on themselves more easily. Twists enter the river and make a current, a small ripple of novelty, and there'll you find their banks are lined with the people to match them: the unusual, the eccentric, the amusing, though they may not have appeared that way to others. It's as individual as saying 'oh, my goodness' or liking tomato sauce sandwiches. On its own, spread on slices of buttered bread and without the chips in-between. Or vinegar on Shepherd's Pie. These guilty pleasures aren't made up, I did both as a child (I don't now – I have others), at home and where, it should be noted, they were eaten civilly. Children can be fusspots, I get that (I was one!), but let's not recommence that argument so soon, as there aren't the words and frankly, I don't have enough breath in my body. It has, after all, very little to do with river banks and those that pitch their tents alongside them. Then move camp as their nature and nature itself compels them to, and which, whilst it confuses, adds to their originality. 
These characters, though real and far from imaginary, that appear at random and I, with my keen observation, take note of are all too strong, for having made an impression they continue to people my inner world and call themselves up uninvited. Set up shop. Set up home. Fish. Boat. Wash their naked selves and scrub their clothes. Make a fire to warm and cook by. It's a very back to basics, nomadic life, which they must like for they've allowed an imprint of themselves to remain here. Though occasionally one or two, worried they're weakening, will renew their thread to me with a live sighting or use a prop to trigger a fresh remembrance.

Picture credit: River Rug, 1903, C F A Voysey

Everywhere and Nowhere

You know what they say: past a certain age you become invisible. If you're a woman. Although at what age? I've never been clear about that, thinking perhaps they meant the age of whiskers, and dry, creased-lined powdered skin with too-bright rouge. I've not reached for the rouge (or the hair dye despite the appearance of white hairs) but have I think sailed past whatever marks you as distinctly visible. As a person that's noticed. I never got much to begin with but I got some, not when I walked into a room, nothing like that, just noticed from time to time, which somehow though it could be self-conscious making said yes! I'm alive.
Okay, so there were occasions I hated that felt observation or level of scrutiny, but only in the way someone might dislike something but also secretly love it, like being tickled, even if I wasn't entirely sure of the reason why. Was it in jest? Was it in admiration? The former I could believe, the latter no. And yes I would also want to run, to hide, to shield myself, to act like I wasn't aware but also let whoever know that I was.
It was a game. A risky game. A dangerous game, maybe. For an innocent to play.
The late teens and twenties are for flirting with life, though now I believe it starts younger – too soon, too soon - with modern traps that aren't as forgiving. Though it's probably truer to say I started late, if I ever really started at all. An all girls' school will do that: divide its pupils into two streams. One, more closeted and shy, the second to the all boys' school across the way. Boys, those alien immature creatures.
No, I was always from a distance sort, if I admired anyone, and my nature, as it is now, was contradictory: wanting to be noticed but be invisible; wanting recognition but not to be praised publicly; wanting to be liked by my peers but not to be singled out by the popular crowd who would only tease and bully. Just whispers and giggles, that sort of thing. This they did randomly; it wasn't sustained. I was too dull, too ordinary, too good even for that. Girls together can be cruel – even amongst your own set. There's always some falling out. Someone out of favour. Our friendships too close, too exclusive.
I mostly ended up in triangular relationships, where either we all got on or one was out of sync with the other two, and felt and knew it too although nothing to that effect was ever said. It would all be subtleties: significant looks, in-jokes from classes shared and the occasional shaded put-downs. We all did it: this one-upmanship and competing with each other for friends, sometimes without realising it because it was so ingrained and because it was worse to be unpaired. Groups were marginally safer but only if you could fulfil a role i.e. the pretty one, the naughty one, the clever one, the sporty one, just like The Spice Girls, but girls being girls could still turn: against each other as well as those outside their hallowed circle.
Girl Power! takes on a new meaning, one that implies girls transitioning to women can be bitches. Sugar and spite. Unless this was caused by the lack of boys. I was grateful for being spared a deeper shade of beetroot red, because public speaking in front of a classroom of girls, under a spotlight I unwillingly sought, was nerve-tremblingly. Going to a mixed college was an eye-opener I can tell you and didn't instil further self-confidence in me because there I was still 'the swot'. On a determined course to ace my studies, which was not as my fellow students may have thought a case of being top but a case of perfectionism because whilst I was good with the written word I didn't excel in examinations, but naturally this didn't endear me to them, and when teenage boys (as well as girls) dislike this about you it's very difficult to build anything with them, any foundation of respect or friendship. And when you're quiet and seen as studious, you're also seen as standoffish when that couldn't be further from the truth. Your shell just needs to be cracked a little. Tap, tap, tap, are you coming out...?
Youth! No, it wasn't dismal, not by definition, but I kept making the same mistake of one or two close friends, which left you in a pickle if their attendance was below 100%, and where being really noticed (by girls and boys) was best avoided, unless you were mooching round a shopping centre or on the dance floor, making and catching eyes.

Picture credit: Paris la Nuit dans un Dancing de Montmartre, Manuel Orazi

The Pop and Sting

What I'm about to give voice to has been done to death, though the subject has never quite died, and I won't if I visit it now put it to bed or even say things that haven't already been said twelve months ago, but it's worth doing over (sensibly) now the hysteria has been tempered. Though with my luck (or gift of foretelling doom),and I add this as a disclaimer, another case will have cropped up to coincide. And as the piranhas feed another will be revealed and held to account, or something more will be alleged to the first, and on it will go...building into a vicious or delicious frenzy, depending, of course on your view, if you have one. But not having one can prove problematic too.
Deja vu? Yes, isn't it just?
The hunters are hunted; the hunted (and once caught) now run after them, bringing with them a battalion that will not only shame but demand censure. It's this excommunication that troubles me, which as I've said has been visited before by persons more qualified i.e. news people, who have put forth better arguments – for and against – in the wake of the alleged incident when the public are less likely to be open to that debate. Now is not the time and all that, but later could be too late. Generally it is; for swift actions will have been taken under pressure.
How in the wrong you can be made to feel if you don't agree, with either the hoopla or the ostracism. Trial by media. Sentenced by the general public – for life or Hollywood's version of it which might mean there's a comeback after an appropriate stretch, but until then the named culprit is shunned, from their person to their work; all work. Justice will be served, and this is it.
Everything the culprit was associated with disassociates itself. If their work involved other people, they might now distance themselves from it or contribute to the rumours, or if it can't be distanced from the scenes in which the culprit starred might be re-shot so as not to risk offending the audience and the industry to which they belong. If it's work of the sort that's committed by the culprit's hand as in bought by fans (books, paintings etc.) then it might be banned, not by a court recognised order but by the general mood of the public, dictated by the most articulate and the strong, to which the rest are expected to follow, and generally they do, willingly, because to think differently (to disagree) would be suicide.
You must, by now, have an understanding of what I'm holding forth on without me, rather unreasonably, clearly laying it out, because I, again rather unreasonably, expect people to be thinking along the same lines as I do, (ah, see we all make that mistake), and so you might ask why the smoke and mirrors? why defend a monstrous person whose acts, like them, are heinous?
That's why the smoke and mirrors. Though the smoke is thin, of the wispy grey sort, and the mirrors don't deflect as they ought. Because that's where you're wrong, and I assumed you would make that error, this is not a defence of whomever, but of their work. Yes, the worst (and the best) way to punish a culprit if they're a public figure i.e. a luvvie, an artist, a writer, is to boycott their art: everything they've been in or about to be in; everything they've painted, sculptured, captured; everything they've ever written. It makes a very public statement (like their art), but isn't it fascism thinly disguised? Like that recorded by history: the confiscation of art, the burning and the banning of books. I, personally do not wish to see these types of punishments resurrected. But I'm too late in saying that, aren't I?
Does a masterpiece stop being a masterpiece the instant the artist is charged with or found to have committed a loathsome or criminal act? That's the question I repeatedly put to myself, as do others, when any news of this sort breaks, and my answer, in essence, never changes: No. Does it fill me with horror and so prevent me from being able to appreciate their talent? Yes, but no. The art, in my view, is not the person: that person we don't know, that person we don't get to see, who perhaps performs deeds we would be horrified rather than inspired by. The gift they access is separate and so I set them apart.

Picture credit: Textile design - Huntsman - 1919, C F A Voysey