The Half-way Inn

Theory, in gauzy pastel robes, looked on, scroll and pen in hand:

An old man, his mind lost, scatters dust. Then sweeps it up and scatters it again.

He calls himself Time.

When black-cloaked Death enters, he stamps his broom and shouts

'Time Please! Drink up and leave, or Death will take you.'

But that moment is not yet – Death comes in the darkest hour -

and so Time sweeps and whistles, whistles and scatters.

Dust settles, dust flies. The Half-way Inn is full.

Life, an angry red-haired woman, is flinging flames;

Cackling at each dart that falls short of the mark.

Small flames lick but do not take hold. Men leap but do not burn.

At the farther end of the room, gold-crowned Fortune, with Chance at her side, deals out cards, with a droll expression.

Who will have luck? Who will have none? Whose fate will she decide?

In a near well-lit corner Philosophy, an inconstant sprite, is holding forth.

Regulars drift to her and drift away; some newcomers stay to listen longer.

One rises to his feet as if to challenge her,

when a wizened man urgently whispers to him:

Disagree and on your way you'll be to the Lords and Hounds of Hell!

Philosophy, whose eyes and ears are sharp, notices his countenance pale

and watches him hastily retreat to where men sing and don't chatter.

Peace sits amongst these merry gentlemen;

their wild carousing a trial to her poor nerves.

She shakes, she trembles. She shrinks away from their carolled words.

Her mind screaming: Peace! I long for peace. Peace At Last!

As too does a man's, not far from her, who has lately taken a second wife. His first not dead.

Her name is Sorrow. A frail young woman who stands beside or behind him,

and who will only speak when spoken to. Her eyes downcast, her hands clasped.

Though sometimes, if he swears to part from her,

she'll appear in front of him on bended knee and beseechingly touch his chin.

He then gives in; and gives leave for Sorrow to remain and shroud his nights.

As his wife, Wisdom, waits at home, for she cannot force him to be wise.

And as patient Knowledge, in the shadows, waits to be his third.

Then Sorrow, at last, might depart, to become the wife of another.

Or she might instead sit beside Regret in her ill-lit corner.

Regret who has wept and wept but now her eyes are dry.

Regret has died. Death will soon arrive to take her.

Even now he's on his way...A hush falls, as the outside darkness thickens.

And brings the sound of infants crying, and their nursemaid, Nature, shrieking.

As she gives all those in her charge evil dreams.

The infants, in the dark, cry for light, for light, light.

Which God, at war with Nature, will not grant.

The door creaks and on the threshold stands dark Death,

with brown-hooded Doubt behind him, and behind him the bright-faced angel, Comfort.

Fear tonight is missing.

'Time Please!' shouts Time, and stamps his broom. Death's cue to enter.

And for paying customers, visitors to the Halfway Inn, to drain their glasses,

leave a coin, and shake Time warmly by the hand.

Only dry-eyed Regret has walked towards Death, for her turn has come to again be led away,

and spare, as she has spared before, a man, or two, or three.

Picture credit: Theory, Sir Joshua Reynolds (source: WikiArt).

Inspired by Tennyson's In Memoriam A. H. H., written November-December 2019

Second Chances

Asking do you believe in second chances is a bit like asking do you believe in fairies. At one time you will and at another time you won't. Neither is as straightforward as you might imagine, because if you want to believe you find you cannot. Believing in either cannot be forced, nor is it true to say that if you believe in one it will follow that you'll believe in the other. Myself, I find fairies, myths and legends easier. And always have done so this is nothing new. But second chances I'm suspicious of. I'll grant them to others but I'm less sure I want them granted to me.

By second chances I mean opportunities perhaps missed or not taken up that come around again, or those that were tried and failed. The problem with 'do-overs' is the past doesn't stay in the past. It's always there, forming a part of your history. You might be different, the circumstances in which the offer or opportunity has again reoccurred might be altered, but still there's always the last time to think of. And if it failed then, what's to say it won't fail again. Or even that the first time can be improved upon.

So you work harder, yes, but that can be a strain and cause ructions. And anyhow I believe, as I've said, there's less of a forward flow in second times; there will always be a harking back or a falling into old patterns. Some things are better left: left where they ended or where they didn't, for whatever reason, happen. Another go may only reinforce what came before or prove what you already knew to be true.

And yet let's be honest I'm making this up as I go along because you don't know when second chances will occur and when they do how you will react. Second chances are impulsive, to be snatched at or flung away. They very rarely come a third time, but in that moment there's very little time for consideration. The decision is made and ruminated upon after, or when it has again all gone awry.

I really couldn't tell you, with any surety, what I'd do if a second chance came along right now. I might lap it up; I might slap it down. I might dismiss it cruelly; I might accept it with unconcealed pleasure. There's no telling.

I would be worried about my own failure however. And I would feel the pressure of getting it right. That worry and that pressure would start instantly, and would shortly be followed by lots of inner questioning and possibly a resurfacing of the same old doubts. Second chances are, for me, red herrings, leading down paths trod, or almost trodden, when really what I should be doing is looking in (and then going) another direction. A second coming of people, of offers are not necessarily there to be taken but to again be refused. They are meant to seduce, yet there's strength in resisting, in turning away and in recognising that whatever it is that's come again is now not right for you. Perhaps it never was and so the decision you originally made, that may have since plagued you, is a plague no more. Your blinded eyes are blind no more. You're done. With feeling regret, remorse or guilt, if those were felt.

But similarly a second chance shouldn't be counted upon. It may not come. What's done is done. And if, by luck, it does come you may regret it came. Words from the wise to the unwise, although none of us are wise in such circumstances when something has again reappeared for us to take, to sample, to redo.

It's the glass half-full, half-empty riddle. In a way. Your view of second chances depends on your attitude to life with its joys and adversities. For myself, half of anything seems too fortunate, and creates confusion within, so my glass is either full or empty; there are no half-measures. It's either all in or all out. Because a second chance is really just another opportunity to stuff up or end on a worse note than before. Though if the latter does occur maybe that note of finality was required. That door now firmly closed; no wonderment remaining. A fresh chapter can begin, where you're less likely to be blown off course and where new patterns will emerge which will be more in tune with the you of now than the you of yesterday. Second chances are a returning to, a revisiting, and should in, my view, only be accepted if you strongly feel the first opportunity was, and has been since, sorely missed. 

Picture credit: Emblemata Dice, M. C. Escher (source: WikiArt).

Written in November 2019.

It's Hard to Explain

There is an underrated film I can watch again and again and again, as much as for the story as for the soundtrack. In younger days that film used to be Grease or the Labyrinth with their sing along, viewer pleasing tunes. And later Dirty Dancing. All popular films, all considered classics, the one I'm about to extol the virtues of less so, and less grown tired of. Much less so for there's nothing virtuous about it, though it must have some sort of cult following for in the last few years it has been televised repeatedly. And less tired of because it doesn't have that quality where watching it too much will ruin it for me. This is no high school romance or coming of age, this is grittier. This is the dark side of Hollywood, where personalities are split between day and night. Between legit and illegitimate. Between love and vengeance. Between attraction and impossible love. Between an attraction that can't go anywhere, for there are other factors at play, and a love that is then impossible as the film progresses. This is dangerous stuff, full of adult entanglements. This is the territory of crazy happy moments and crushing disappointment; of disillusionment: you can't be both, the good and the bad guy.

It wouldn't be true or fair to say these films have nothing in common with each other or in my liking of them, for I'm sure if I thought long and hard enough about them I'd find some common ground, perhaps some similarities. Even so it's hard to explain why I'm drawn to this yet to be named film. Because it's violent; it's bloody. And morally, well, it shakes you as it shakes the foundations of the anti-hero. The moral line gets confused, the moral line gets crossed, and once crossed the choices made have to be followed through on. There is no going back. There's a spiral effect, so that an understated man already doing wrong has to do more wrong. To correct, to balance, to pay back the wrongs others have done by committing further and more violent wrongs himself. His moral code is screwed up. But life has traps, and sometimes to get out of those traps the windows of morality have to be broken. For one to be saved, another has to be hunted.

This film is Drive.

Where Ryan Gosling is at his best. As the quiet, calm in every situation, toothpick chewing Driver. Who knows his skill lies in driving and makes no apology for exploiting it, but nor is he boastful. This is not a man with an ego on display, this is a man with a purpose. He says little, speaking only when words need to be spoken. His driving does the talking; his fists, like his mouth, talk only when necessary: when he's protecting his neighbour (and love interest), Irene, and when he's the loose end driving around.

The character of Driver is the film. There's something about him. There's something inside him (and yes, I pinched that from the soundtrack) that you as the viewer want to understand, but you never can. He's a mystery, an enigma. Cool and sure, or at times, in the presence of Irene, seeming nervy, and in others cool and capable of violence, of spilling blood. He's obviously not passionless as otherwise Irene wouldn't bring out the protector in him, nor Shannon his sense of loyalty, and yet there are barriers. He can seem distant, detached, expressionless. In certain situations he holds back something of himself.

It should be a gloomy film; it's not. Though I don't know why that is...perhaps because the portrayal of Driver is so interesting. He doesn't have to do what he does, but he does. Is he a lesser man because he does? Or would he be a lesser man if he didn't? I'm as torn as him. But is he torn though? It's hard to tell just as it is hard to explain my own condoning of his actions. These are not his battles. Irene's husband is the start of trouble and all the problems that then subsequently follow. Love takes him down this road; love makes the darker side of his personality show itself. And yet somehow his reasoning doesn't seem wrong. This is what had to be done. Irene's reaction to this other side of him: his brutality, his coldness is understandable but comes across as ungrateful also. Like Sarah in the Labyrinth, she seems to lack awareness of all that Driver has done for her. Whereas Driver doesn't seem to realise why she should be so alarmed by his actions. There was always going to be consequences; there was always going to be a leave-taking. The attraction was always going to be hard to explain.

Picture credit: Drive movie poster 2011

Written November 2019.