Vase of Cornflowers and Poppies 1886-87. Vincent van Gogh

A pretty painting, a bunch of flowers.

Most are beautiful, doing well

Some at the top even shed their petals

Fertile and bearing seed.

But look down, see those who wilt

Pressed to the edge of society

Heads hang down, outcast

Soon to drop and die.

Their vase, the world

Is a vain arena of struggle

For all those within

Whether thriving or failing

Are without roots

All are doomed to die.

First jog of Autumn

The new trainers are hard,
Slapping against granite.
I look up to the tall towers
And the stars above them
The glow of lighting,
Flickering televisions,
Turning night
Into individual days.

The Number Ten
Is waiting at route’s end
No more passengers this night.
It bobs by and darkness
Is left to my right.
Now it is my turn
Left,
Through apartment towers
Left again
And along the cod night sea.

The wind fillets my cheeks
Blows my hood back
Cinder crunches under foot.
Above is a hunter’s moon
A bombers’ moon
But the night planes are
Now indifferent
To these docklands
No Viking raiders of
Yesteryear.


I leave the dark waters
I leave the idle dreams
Turn for welcoming home
Breathing has been good
The ankle held up
On this,
My first jog of autumn.

Causality

“You have to lie!” The captain was a large man and he was sweating. The words were coming quickly, heavily accented in Russian. “If you don’t, I am in all kinds of trouble. Paperwork! You have to say you slipped on the wet deck.”
“Okay.” God I was in pain. “But listen. This happened when I jumped between the two ships.”
“No no no! You slipped on the deck!”
“Yes, I’ll lie. Listen though. I tell you the truth now so this doesn’t happen to others, okay?”

I wasn’t taking the injury with good grace. Between expletives, I made it clear that I stumbled as I made the jump.

“Yes, my men are like monkeys,” smiled the captain. “They do it all the time. But for you, the first time.”
“Exactly!” He had got the point. I didn’t want any other poor bastard to be going through this. “If people have to jump, it should have been at the stern where it is flat.”

It wasn’t far between the two vessels but that had to be the case. Falling between ships is a recipe for certain death. The ships were sisters so exactly the same height. But we were jumping from the flat deck of one on to and over the low wall of the other onto its deck. My new friend, Pom, had already made it across. The target for me was to jump onto the wall and step down but I had misjudged badly. From a standing leap I had cleared it totally and had landed in a heap. The pain was immediate and searing. I couldn’t get up. Behind me, one of my friends was being physically dragged across by member of the crew.
“You want doctor?”
I hoped it was just a sprain and would walk off. “No, no doctor. I’m okay, just help me up.” Already the pain was blinding. Automatically I reached for my bags.
“We’ll take your luggage Martin. You just get yourself in.”

I can’t remember now if I was helped into the crew quarters or whether I made it by myself. But I remember looking at the stairs and thinking ‘no way’. Big Vincent read my mind and grabbing my torso, steered me right, towards the crew lounge.
“You just sit down here Martin.”
I sat, first on a dining chair and the pain exploded in my ankle. It was worse than standing up. I felt sick with it.
“Jesus Christ!” I yelled. “Better get a doctor.”

For the most of the week, it had been quite pleasant. Under the supervision of Big Vinny, the boat side navigation, compressors and guns were set up. This job was seen as a good opportunity for me to check out the new technology that has been introduced since my last job boat-side in 1997. Normally I get sick as a dog on supply vessels. The Caspian isn’t the North Sea however and despite being rough by local standards, I barely noticed the rocking of the vessel this week.. But not all was well in this new Acadia. It was clear from the state of the equipment that it had not been tested prior to have been packed. Vital components were missing. Fortunately the cables were of a common type and the vessel was able to help out. With my colleagues on the rig however, it was evident that things were not going so well.

Thursday was a day of waiting. On standby since early afternoon, I had been manning the mike, awaiting instructions from the rig crew. Soon after five in the evening, they ceased answering all update enquiries and even the telemetry link was turned off by them. No distractions were needed. It was becoming increasingly clear that there was trouble and I felt I would be doing more good over there. So when communications were finally re-established, I made the offer.
“Andrew, do you need me across there?”
“D’you know Martin, I was just about to suggest that. I’ll have to speak to the Company Man, see if there is enough bed space.”

It wasn’t until nine o’clock that finally I made it across to the rig. I had a room allocated upon arrival but didn’t get to see that, leaving my luggage in the heliport lounge. Andrew and Olzhas had pretty much managed to get everything finally working. I helped out with the last hour or so of trouble-shooting. Finally we were rewarded with a working system at about eleven pm. Still I could not let Andrew go to bed until he had explained some of the finer points of the survey to me but in the main, the night pasted was a successful acquisition of seismic data. Up to a point. Owing to hole conditions, we couldn’t get the tools all the way down the well. The plan was to get as much data as we could on the upper section, reconfigure the tool string and try again.

It was ten o’clock in the morning when I finally saw the room. It wasn’t impressive. Four man cabin made noisy from the sound of generators outside. I fell into my upper bunk and was asleep immediately.

Eleven o’clock. Voices chatting in Russian. Oh God, the helicopter must have arrived. Two guys were talking loudly as they were dumping off their bags in the room.
“Ja spit [I sleep].” My curtain twitches aside and the voices continue, albeit it at a lesser volume.

One pm. A loud voice, talking to himself, swearing in Russian. The sound of a door being banged open. A second door. More swearing monologue. Water. What the fuck is going on? I pull back the curtain to see water flooding the room. The toilet has backed up. Charming. At least all my kit is up high and there is no way I’ll paddling through that stuff. It isn’t until about half three until the problem solved, the room cleaned and I can get down from my perch. In the meantime, thank you Lord for the company of a good book.

Four o’clock sees me back out on deck. We are just about ready to run in again with a reconfigured tool, hopefully able to get past the small imperfection in the borehole that has prevented us previously. By nine thirty however, it is clear that the caused is lost. The order is given to rig down. I get conformation and speak to the boat. I’m told that they have to complete post-job checks that can only be done in daylight. Fair enough. I advise them to do it first thing then get packed up as there are rumours of a chopper for us tomorrow lunchtime. Olzhas and I pack up the rig equipment. I get to bed about five in the morning.

Six a.m. There is a deep pit in Hell reserved for people who leave alarm clocks in the room and are not there to turn them off.
Six twenty. A new companion. The generators are almost loud enough to drown out the sound of his snoring. But not quite.

Seven a.m. “Martin? You are being transferred back to the boat. Please be ready in half and hour.” At the time, it sounds almost like a relief.

I arrive back on board at about quarter to eight. There is even some hot breakfast left over. Great, I’m hungry too. With a cup of tea I go up to the bridge and see the last of the navigation checks being performed, while having a banter and a moan with Pom and Vince. I regretfully inform them both that I’m to shagged out to help with the rest of the packing up. “Fine Martin. Go to bed.. The bedding still the same. We can handle this.”

Even that morning’s brief sleep isn’t to be the longed-for peace. The sound of heavy engines wake me. Sleep again. Ten past ten. The door opens. It’s Vince.
“Martin, they want us to transfer onto another boat.”
“When?”
“Now. Three minutes.”

So at quarter past ten, I’m on deck. Pom has already made the jump and it’s my turn.

I leap.

The God-Shaped Hole, Birmingham and Marcus Brigstocke

My wife is not a fan of stand-up comedy. In the (very long) queue to see Marcus Brigstocke new show God Collar, she told me that she was only there for my sake. In true Edinburgh Fringe tradition, everything was running almost an hour late so it was a pretty chilled spouse that finally settled into her seat beside me to see the opening night. Fortunately, both of us were well rewarded. Marcus’ show is personal, funny, touching and raises some interesting questions on religion and religious experiences.

The basic premise of God Collar is that Marcus does not believe in God but if God did exist, he would very much like to ask him a few questions. He has harsh words for all the Abrahamic religions, rightly questions the moral examples laid out in the Old Testament and has strong words on Judaism and the Muslim religions too. Atheists however are not immune. One of my favourite lines is “before I read The God Delusion, I was an atheist. By the time I finished it I was an agnostic.”

I have read quite a bit of Richard Dawkins writings while a student but mainly his stuff on evolutionary biology so I haven’t read The God Delusion. Apparently though there is a whole chapter in it dedicated to “the god-shaped hole.” Brigstocke probably didn’t do it much justice when he summarised it as Dawkins saying “some people have silly thoughts and they mustn’t have” but I think I understand where he is coming from. My own experience of “the god-shaped hole” certainly isn’t silly to me.

Personally, I don’t like the phrase “god-shaped hole”. It is a void and I discovered it within myself when I was in my late twenties. I had taken up meditation and while visualising the journey deeper into my own mind I came to the point where I could travel no further. And there it was, like a hole in a floor which contained utter blackness. It is not a comfortable image. If I close my eyes now, I can still see it.

The next question was “what next?” To be honest, I was scared. With every session of meditation the void seem to grow larger in my mind. It felt like I was losing my sense of self, that I desperately had to cling on to my feeling of self because if I fell into that void, I would cease to exist. But cling on was becoming more and more difficult. One evening, literally at my wits end, I prayed and let go. My conscious self fell into the blackness.

Perhaps I had faith before but if I did, it wasn’t based on experience but dogma. For once in the void it is not black at all. Rather I feel a connectivity with all things. A peace and tranquillity that I had not known before. It is a strange but calming sensation. To be honest, I don’t consciously go there much nowadays. Perhaps I don’t have to but it is reassuring to know that it is there if I every need it.

So how does this all link to organised religion? I’m not sure that it does. In God Collar, Marcus says that he can’t imagine God, so he starts with something smaller. Birmingham for instance. Then he imagines the routes into Birmingham and where one is born will dictate the road that one will take towards Birmingham.

For me, it was the A47 via Leicester.

Silence

When I was young
My father would return
From the ships'
Engine rooms.

He would tell
Me to turn off
The music.
He would close
His eyes
And sit
In silence.

I resented this
Until my turn
Came, working
On oil rigs.
Now, I too
Love the silence
That no industy
Can make.

Acid - Dipped

When you think
About him
I know.
When you care
For him
It shows.
It’s been going on
Such a time
But you say you
Still wanna
Be mine.
Well I don’t know
If I can bear
This pain
Just to have it
Happen again.

You’re just
Corroding my soul
So sorry babe
You’ll have to go
I’m just feeling so
Acid – dipped.

If you can’t help it
That’s fine
But that means you
Can’t be mine
So you’ve got
To choose
Because one of us
Is gonna lose.
And I think
He don’t care
For the love
You want to share.

You’re just
Corroding my soul
So sorry babe
You’ll have to go
I’m just feeling so
Acid – dipped.

So please excuse
My jaded love
But I’ve just about
Had enough.

You’re just
Corroding my soul
So sorry babe
You’ll have to go
I’m just feeling so
Acid – dipped.

An Afternoon Drama

“Daddy, where is the lobster? I want to see it!”
“He must of put it back.”
“No, I haven’t,” I replied. I walked over to the tote bag which I use to carry my fishing tackle and pull out a cloth sack. I unpeel it to reveal the dark brown crustacean, claws bound with elastic bands, who was struggling in a vain attempt to escape. It was just as I picked it up to show to the girl that we heard the young man shouting and gesticulating, pointing to something at the base of the harbour wall. All three of us turned to look. I heard the word “man” being shouted and the pattern of black-blue-and pink that the youth was pointing to at the base of the sea wall resolved itself into the shape of a suit-clad person, sprawled out with his feet in the water.

“My God!” I say to the father of the girl. “There’s a man fallen.” Stuffing the lobster back into the tote bag, all three of us start running along the rough stone breakwater. Granton pier is long and it takes us almost a minute to reach the site. I assess the situation. A man, dressed for business in jacket and tie, has fallen off the side of the pier. Beside him is a burst carrier bag, with a ready-made salad scattered from it. Thankfully the fall is not high: the top of the pier is only about ten feet above the level of the water. It is near low tide, otherwise the man would have been in the water completely. As it is, he looks like he has slide down the forty five degree slope of the inner wall with only his feet in the water. A large gash which is steadily oozing blood is visible on the back of his balding head. He attempts to raise himself but slips on the bladderwrack that coats the harbour wall and crashes back down heavily.

“Stay still!” I shout. The man looks disorientated; his movements slow and clumsy. “Stay down and we will come to get you.”
Both I and the girl’s father jump down the initial vertical three feet and start making our way gingerly down the slope. Meanwhile the youth whose calls had attracted out attention is on the phone; he is earnestly entreating the emergency operator to send an ambulance. “Aye, he fallen off the wall…. Granton Pier. He’s cut his head open.”
I spot an old bit of rope that had got lodged in the cracks of the harbour wall and start pulling it out. It is long enough to be useful.
“Here, get the end of it and hold on,” I say to the father. The heavy white rope steadies me as I make my way down the sea wall. I am soon at the side of the fallen man, who is now sitting up.
“Hi, I’m here to help,” I tell him. He looks at me in a glazed way. I give him a quick check-over. Apart from the cut to the head, there is also blood on his left hand. The source is a minor cut. The impact also sprang open the metal wrist band of his watch. The wrist looked swollen. “What is your name?”

The man mutters something I can’t catch.
“What’s that?”
He speaks again. “Joseph.”
“Okay Joseph. How are you feeling? Reckon you can move up the wall?”
Joseph nods.
“Good man,” I smile. “Hold on to this rope and we’ll help you up.”
The girl’s father tightens his grip and Joseph and I start creeping up the side of the breakwater. The seaweed coating the wall is extremely slippery and it is an effort to support Joseph and make progress. But soon the girl’s father has hold of Joseph’s hand and they made it onto the top of the breakwater. I follow after. Joseph, still wobbly, is attempting to stand up.
“Joseph, can you sit down please?” I ask. “We don’t want you falling over again.”
More hands help Joseph to a kneeing position. A small crowd has now gathered. Along with several younger teenagers, a lady with a black Labrador is also looking on.
I give Joseph another check-over. Focus has now returned to his eyes but he still looks a bit dazed. He can move the fingers on his left hand so the wrist is not broken.
“Joseph, I’m taking the watch off your wrist. Can you put it in your pocket?” He does so. Time to attend to the cut. It looks nasty: a five centimetre crescent from which blood is oozing slowly with a lump the size of a duck’s egg already rising under it. I take off my pullover, intending to use it as a pressure pad but it isn’t really suitable, being large and heavy. I eye the scarf worn by the dog-walking lady.
“I’m really sorry to have to ask, but can I have your scarf?” The lady complies cheerfully.
“Joseph, you have a cut on the back of your head. I’m going to have to apply pressure to it.” Joseph nods and I apply the scarf to the back of his head, with my left hand on Joseph’s broad forehead in order to keep things steady.

The next fifteen or so minutes pass quite cheerfully, considering the circumstances. Joseph tells us that he has had these blackouts since childhood. The lady remarks that first aid is one of those things that she knew she ought to know but never got around to it. The girl is shushed by her father on several occasions when she starts to chatter on but in reality she wasn’t doing any harm. I compliment the youth on his reactions.
“You were wondering what I was shouting about weren’t ya?” he grins. “Thought I’d caught a big fish or somethin’!”
We hear the sirens but can’t see the ambulance.
“I don’t want to go to hospital,” says Joseph. “I’ve had enough of those places.”
“Well they can’t make you if you don’t want to,” opines the lady.
“Joseph, I think you ought to,” I tell him. “You are going to need stitches in this cut.”
“Oh really,” says the lady. “I haven’t seen it.”
“It’s about two inches long,” the girl’s father tells her. He continues. “Joseph, what was in your bag?”
“A salad and some chocolate,” Joseph replies.
“Shall we get it for you?”
I veto the plan. “Don’t. It’s very slippery down there and it’s not worth the risk. If it was Joseph’s wallet or something important, maybe.”
“We don’t want you to be the next one Daddy,” pipes up the girl. We all laugh.
“Well, at least the ambulance is on it’s way.”
“There it is,” shouts the youth. “It’s gone to the wrong pier!” Along with the other boys, he starts waving frantically. The fast response 4x4 reverses from it position on the other side of the harbour, about four hundred metres away and drives back onto the road.
Even so, it is another good five minutes before the paramedic is with us.
“He’s taking his time,” says the lady. “You would thing he would jog or something.”
“He’s doing his health and safety,” I reply. “All he knows is that somebody has slipped off the pier. He doesn’t want to be next.”

Another minute goes by.

“That’s a stroll!” exclaims the lady, outraged.
She has a point. The paramedic does not seem to be in a hurry. Eventually he reaches us. I give him my handover and assessment of the situation and he speaks to Joseph for a wee while, in a rather slow and loud voice.
The scarf is returned to the lady. I’m gratified to see a large clot has formed over the wound.
“That’s brilliant,” says the paramedic. “I’ll take over from here.”
And that’s it. We are dismissed. We give Joseph our farewells and best wishes and return to our lives.

Photo credit: Bob Jones