Dead Butterflies

             Writing is like having this big box full of moths, and in amongst the moths are trapped several butterflies. Every time you have an idea, the box opens and out fly a thousand or so moths. Your job is to weave in and out of them with a small net, trying to catch the few butterflies sweeping and spiralling amongst the bedlam. To do so takes incredible nimbleness, dexterity and judgement; after all, it's sometimes quite difficult to tell what's a moth and what's a butterfly. 

              Even if you do manage to snare yourself a butterfly, you then have to pin it down, and quite a few can slip away and escape through accident or carelessness. And even then, even if you succeed in pinning your butterfly down, you've killed it. You've captured its beauty, ensnared it to paper, but you've taken away its motion, its grace, in many ways the things that made it beautiful to begin with.

              The true art of writing, and something I don't think I shall ever accomplish, is being able to breath life back into dead butterflies. Even here, in this very idea, something that in its inception was so pure and perfect has, through the wrong turn of phrase here and there, through the odd clunky phrase, through the regrettable choice of word, become sullied and still; a dead butterfly upon a lifeless page.

Mothman Vs. The Three Terrible Truths

I went on another adventure,

With Mothman and the gang,

We went at night to avoid the day,

Because Mothman's nocturnal

Mothman is a big, moth, man,

Hence the name,

Although I think his real name is Keith,

Keith Walters.

Mothman's a good egg,

But sometimes he goes over the top,

Once I saw him eat an entire cow,

Just plucked it from the earth

Like you or I might pluck an eyelash,

He didn't even eat it all,

Which seemed wasteful,

Anyway, he's dead now,

Because he got hit by a truck

Showing off.

The Death of Adolf Hitler

Adolf Hitler [Above]

Adolf Hitler had spilt beer all over the maps of Russia,
In sheer frustration.

It didn't matter,
He wouldn't need them anymore.

Eva Braun was also there.

Above the rumble of Russian tanks,

Below the waxen candle burnt;

Adolf looked to Eva,

And softly spoke.

"It's all gone a bit wrong, hasn't it?",

He said.

Eva took a big breath,

And turned to her once proud Fuhrer.

"Why?" She asked, her lips mouthing the words.

"Why what?" Adolf snapped.

"Why did you kill all those innocent people?"

*long sigh*

"I was just so sure I would win", Adolf said, thinking back.

"Did you not think what might happen, if you didn't win?", Eva opined cautiously;

"I was just so sure I would win", Adolf reiterated.

Eva looked at the spoilt maps,
The ink of Russia running into Berlin

"You got greedy", she said.

Adolf Hitler slowly raised the cyanide capsule

To his trembling moustachioed lips,
(In real life he blew his head off!)

And took a bite.

He bit off more than he could chew.

Nick Clegg II

Nick Clegg (1967- )


Atmosphere

          Nick Clegg ate a sausage roll, cheekily. It was the peace talks, and he'd been allowed to come because he'd kicked up a fuss, the big baby. Barak Obama was in a corner, shooting the shit with the Chinese Premier. Nick had been left to talk to Joe Biden, who was the American Vice President incumbent, in case you didn't know. He felt a lot like Dougal McGuire, stuck on the kiddy table like this, whilst David talked to the important man about politics and stuff.

          Joe Biden was laughing, because Nick had just said something intentionally funny, and it seemed like a logical response.

          "Yes", Joe Biden scoffed, "That is so true". It was. Nick felt bolstered by the good reception his joke about Chinese people had garnered. He was worried it would be offensive. It was. But not to Joe Biden. Nick felt a connection growing between the two men, the two stalwarts of power. Maybe Joe would be his friend, he thought. His Bush to his Blair; his Jed to his Ward; his Dick to his Dom, but not in the S&M sense. Not this time, he thought. Joe Biden smiled a smile as big as a massive plate and Nick felt the warmth penetrate through him like radiation from the sun causing happy cancer. Nick reached across for the plate of sausage rolls and offered one languidly to Joe Biden, trying not to seem too eager to serve.

          "Would you like another sausage roll, Dad?" Nick Clegg said without thinking.

          "What?"

          "Shit", he thought vocally.

          "Did you just call me Dad?" Joe Biden asked, his smile disappearing back into his face like a startled vole.

          "No", Nick Clegg lied. Typical.

Nick Clegg I

Nick Clegg (1967- )


Atmosphere

          Nick Clegg took a drag on the oddly shaped cigarette, and coughed up some phlegm. Feeling nauseous, he offered it back to David Cameron, who blew out a twisted ring of eloping smoke. It rose entangled to the ceiling, crashing around a chandelier and splintering into a million disparate factions, much like his party threatened to do in the coming months, I reckoned.

          "I feel really sick", Nick said, as the faces of the surrounding circle spiralled above him, cavorting with the nauseating fumes, much like they had cavorted with the bankers and Rupert Murdoch of the past.

          "Don't worry about that", David reassured, passing the doobie to George Osbourne, who only pretended to hold it in; "You're one of us now, and that's what counts". 

          Nick Clegg got sick a bit. It went on his tie, staining the yellow with shame and excess. George Osbourne laughed, nearly choking on the weed-ciggy. He didn't though, because he was only pretending to hold it in. That's not a metaphor for anything, he genuinely didn't like the taste. William Hague was also there.

          "It's alright", Dave said, "It happens to all of us at some point". He offered Nick a silken handkerchief from an inside pocket. Nick took it between bouts, and tried his best to get the sick off. He only rubbed it in further though, and spoilt the nice hanky which had been a present from David's father who was dead now, the stupid git.

David accepted the hanky back off Nick, and gave it to Theresa May to clean for later. She looked unimpressed, but no one cared. Politics was no place for a woman. History had shown that now.

          "So, am I one of the gang now, like you?" Nick Clegg asked hopefully, trying to avert his eyes from Cameron's piercing glare.

          "Not quite yet, Nick", David said, relishing the moment. "First I'm going to need you to take the helm on some of these new saving cuts we've got coming up. We're going to need to cut the money given to elderly war heroes, and also to homeless cats without legs".

          Nick looked unsure.

          "I'm not sure", he said, unsuredly. David Cameron looked down at his shoes. As in, his, not Nick Clegg's shoes.

          "That's a shame", Dave said, looking at his, as in, his own shoes, "and just when I thought we were friends…"

          "Okay. I'll do it", spluttered Nick Clegg through a pickle sandwich. He'd had it in his hand for ages, but hadn't had a chance to eat it till now.

          "Good", said David Cameron, giving George Osbourne a look that could've meant anything, but actually meant "Good". 

          "Good. Then I'll see you at the press conference tomorrow". 

          Suddenly, everyone except Nick got up and left the room, leaving him alone with the still burning embers of the illegal hippie-stick lightly igniting a small glow on the carpet. Nick looked down at the floor and quietly stubbed it out with the heel of his shoe. He then tidied the ashes into a small pile, and left a note for the cleaner explaining how sorry he was. How sorry he was, indeed.

Birth of a Nation: The Depiction of War in American Cinema, from D.W. Griffith’s Birth of a Nation to Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds.

Birth of a Nation: The Depiction of War in American Cinema, from D.W. Griffith’s Birth of a Nation to Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds.

In 1915 D.W. Griffith’s ‘Birth of a Nation’ caused a rather large stir, mostly for being an adept civil war epic that all of sudden became an uncomfortably racist caricature after the interval for no easily discernible reason, but also for being a technical masterpiece in its own right, establishing many of the conventions that were to define the American war epic for decades to come. There is the story of love rent asunder by war, the epic re-enactments of historic battles, fictionalised accounts of factual events, and men who bravely fight and gallantly die for their country. Whilst these themes were by no means new in 1915, indeed, the tale of love between rivalling factions is undeniably Shakespearean, it was the use of cinema as the medium for these literary themes that made the film so innovative, and as such an important keystone in shaping early American war films.

In defense of his film, Griffith wrote that we must sometimes ’show the dark side of wrong, that we may illuminate the bright side of virtue’, and this sentiment seems to be one that has in some ways affected serious depictions of war in American cinema throughout its history. Schindler’s List depicts the horrors of genocide in order to highlight the bravery of the few, whilst Saving Private Ryan graphically offends the eye in order to highlight nobility in the futility of a suicidal cause; a narrative which could be taken as allegorical of the larger conflict. A group of characters coming to terms with the suicidal necessity of their mission for the sake of fulfilling a larger duty is a theme that has cropped up in many post-WWII movies, and is reflective to some degree of the changing perceptions of conflict, brought about by the horrors and seeming wasteful futility of the two world wars.

American films produced within and concerning the First World War often cannot be trusted as independent artistic portrayals. Britain and France in particular led the charge of propagandist war reels and government sanctioned movies depicting the heroism and jingoism of  dulce et decorum est, etc. etc. but America was by no means above this as it prepared to wade into the fray. In January of 1917 Woodrow Wilson had won the support of the senate with the cry of ‘Peace without victory’, and it was mainly by clever manipulation of propaganda through media such as the cinema that Wilson, only three months later, led his country to war with the public’s jingoist war cries still ringing in the soldiers’ ears. He was, as Roosevelt branded him, part of ‘a nauseous hypocrisy’, but cinema’s role as a tool of propaganda in war time should not be overlooked.

In WWII, for the main part, American war films fell between two extremes of comedies or propaganda. Film by this time in America was firmly established as an industry, an imperfect marriage between art and product, the ‘Hollywood’ Sign, had been constructed and copyrighted, and film companies were eager to reflect the general consensus of the public in order to sell tickets. After the Selective Training and Service Act of 1940 introduced peace-time conscription to the U.S., Hollywood sanctioned war comedies from all of its major studios, notable examples including The Three Stooges’ ‘Boob’s Army’, Laurel & Hardy’s ‘Great Guns’, and Abbott and Costello’s ‘Buck Privates’. America’s ability to poke good-hearted fun at itself most likely stemmed from its isolation from the continent, and there’s an obvious degree of catharsis in the humour. It strikes one as being analogous to The Three Stooges unknowingly dodging enemy bullets and shells as they duck and buckle over with laughter brought on by their own laughing gas attack which, if you’ll forgive the pun, rather back fired.  Comedies made up the bulk of early ’40s war films, and all of this was all well and fine, until December 7^th, 1941, when the Japanese military led a surprise assault against Pearl Harbor, and all of a sudden for America the war just didn’t seem as funny anymore.

It is interesting to note that the actual reasons for America’s entry into WWII, and its rather explosive departure, are some of the least cross examined themes within a heavily saturated genre. Michael Bay’s typically loud cacophony of inconsolable noise that was 2001’s ‘Pearl Harbor’ is a good example of America’s attitude to its motives recounted in full technicolor. It is a film that focuses narrowly on one historical event in order to rely on an emotional response to create jingoistic sentiment in the face of horror, never twisting, but selecting the right facts to convey its message in the guise of objective historical accuracy.

At the opposite end of the war, the Paul Newman film ‘Fat Man and Little Boy’ and the lesser known ‘Above and Beyond’ are two of the only mainstream American films that deal with the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, which they do by not focusing on the event itself at all. ‘Above & Beyond’ stars as its hero Paul Tibbets, the man who dropped the first nuclear bomb, and it is a film that romanticises, tenderises, and humanises the story of Enola Gay’s pilots, whilst somewhat skimming over some of the wider repercussions of the film’s cataclysmic ending. It seems to be cinema’s prerogative to tell of the smaller human interest stories within the larger conflict of war, and within American cinema it is selective propaganda, by choosing what to commission and what to financially back, which highlights that imperfect marriage in film between artistic freedom of expression, and sellable commodities. America was rewriting its own victorious history in 35mm and it was not until America became embroiled in Vietnam that depictions of war in cinema began to change in line with shifting public attitudes.

When America began to deploy troops in Vietnam, Hollywood steadfastly and quite simply refused to fund or produce any films dealing with the conflict, with a few fairly unimportant, patriotic and heavily studio-influenced exceptions. It was only after the Tet Offensive, once operations had peaked, when Britain and France were beginning to seek out humour in war with films like ‘La Grand Vadrouille’ and series like ”Allo ‘Allo’ and ‘Dad’s Army’, whilst anti-war protests were reaching their peak, that America felt ready to begin dissecting their involvement in a conflict which did not on face value appear as clean cut as good versus evil. This time round Laurel & Hardy were not to be seen dusting of their old routine.

In a post-’nam age, the legacy of war leaked out of the war-film genre and left its stain upon the rest of the film industry. Right from Rambo, through Travis Bickle, and Big Lebowski’s Walter Sobchak, the long term mental effects and mindsets of Vietnam on its veterans were being portrayed in more than just the films commonly associated with the war genre. By this time the war film could not be further removed from the conventions of Griffith’s ‘Birth of a Nation’, although then again neither could the wars themselves. New structures were being established. A typical example was the ‘Full Metal Jacket’ model, echoed in more modern films like ‘Jarhead’. A group of boys relentlessly training to become marines, a tough as 3D-tetris drill sergeant, and the inevitable death of one of the group in some futile way. Then the part where the group, now freshly graduated from Marine-101 are suddenly in the middle of the battle-zone, all of a sudden not seeming quite as prepared as they were one fade-out previously. All this followed by the waiting, the establishing of relationships, and then the sudden onset of mass slaughter in all its hellish forms. Interestingly enough this model also applies to the 1930s adaptation of ‘All Quiet on the Western Front’; perhaps these modern war films weren’t as removed as all that.

In the ’90s, the popularity of WWII films saw a resurgence and films concerning Vietnam fell by the way side. It seemed that American cinema wanted a return to a war that it could get its head around, and in doing so it quickly branched off into increasingly fictional and detached retellings of an increasingly distant war. Through the years Nazis had been constructed into their own cinematic institution far removed from their historical namesakes, ranking up there with cinematic institutions like zombies and vampires, which film had claimed for its own. The fantastic ‘Dead Snow’, which is about dead, Nazi zombies in some snow, seems a perfect example of this emerging trend. 

However, to my mind, the greatest example of this is Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds, which seems allegorical of America’s changing depiction of war. Basterds is pure unadulterated fantasy dressed up in historical costumes, and Tarantino’s thinly veiled analogy of the genre itself. It is not a coincidence that the cataclysmic setting for the burning and slaughter of hordes of Nazis, including Hitler himself, takes place within the confines of a cinema, as the projected visage of the downtrodden Jewish proprietor laughs derisively from the big screen. The cinema is where the victors have taken the revenge never satisfactorily awarded to them, reliving the horrors in grainy black and white, and cathartically portraying violent fantasy in high definition. America’s ambiguous motives behind Hiroshima & Nagasaki, and its messy involvement in Vietnam, seems to have spurred it on into portraying itself as the main belligerents in the war against Hitler, lusting after the halcyon days of a bygone war where, despite the futility, the horror, and the bloodshed, the righteous seemed so much more clearly defined.

Artwork

Here are a few example of some characters I've been drawing recently for a project that is currently festering at the back of my mind underneath the deluge of other projects that are currently taking away all my time, and dangling it in front of me like a bully with my school-bag full of textbooks shouting "Ha ha, now you won't be able to read!". The bullies of my mind are strange and exactingly cruel creatures, overly preoccupied with preventing my own intellectual self-betterment. 

The pricks.

The Nihilist Gardener, Variation No. 4 - Ukiyo Cjelli

This is the Nihilist Gardener, the quality is fairly low as I couldn't get the scanner to work, so took this photo with a webcam. Post-effects were added by manually adjusting the photo to negative, and then messing around on Pixlr-o-Matic.

Peregrine Toon, Variation No. 2 - Ukiyo Cjelli

This is Peregrine Toon. I made the largest number of variations of this as I couldn't decide whether I preferred the swirling light of this one, or one that kept it more in line with the style of the others. In the end I decided a bit of variation is always good in variations, so opted for the darker, more confusing one.

Rain Dog, Variation No.1 - Ukiyo Cjelli

Rain Dog started life as a doodle in some long lost note-book. Originally he was the most forefront of several shady characters who looked to be emerging from the fog and the rain, carrying shovels and lanterns and other equipment that might suggest they were miners of some description.

Snort Milk, Variation No.3 - Ukiyo Cjelli

I'm not sure if Snort Milk is his name or not, or whether he's a disembodied head who hovers off the ground by squirting rainbows out of his many nostrils, or a wyzzard with with a warped self-image. I just know he's ancient, senile, and a little surreal. 

All of these characters are rough ideas for The Nihilist Gardening Hour, which already exists in a very rough form, but will exist in a much more concrete form some time in the next two years. I'm working very hard at it in my subconscious, developing weird and wonderful characters and extrapolating fantastical plot lines from them. I'm going to start posting more on here about it as the year wears on, just for my own satisfaction, as I see the project develop. In the meantime, I hope that if anybody out there comes across these pictures, they might find some enjoyment in them, and remember to check back periodically to find out more about the Nihilist Gardening Hour.

A Love Poem

Roses and Violets - Jaanika Talata

Roses are rose,

Violets are violet;
It's pretty self-explanatory,
Now please accept this gift voucher.

Insomniac

Kenneth Eugene Peters - Lights after Midnight, 2010

There's only dregs left in the pot now,

As day from night does creep,

And I've only ever seen the sunrise

When I haven't been to sleep.

There's a tap upon my window

As the world shakes off its shroud,

And shadows wash the garden wall

As night falls off the clouds.

The birdsong lilting softly,

The milk cart rattles down the street,

And darkness raises mantle

As the night concedes defeat.

The sunrise takes the hill now,

And raises up its hilt;

Victorious, claims the battle,

As dark the blood that's spilt.

Soft the kettle whistles,

Heralding the day;

And I'm compelled to change allegiance,

Now that night has run away.

Sunset Kingdom

I

Left the bottle and the bud and headed back home;

Everyone needs to check their speed sometimes.

Chasing some fleeting, immaterial, through sepia sunsets

Reminding of something else… 

                                                               something else…

Flurried wisps call out from tree lines,

To come and run through bracken woods

In perfect Winter air;

Peach sky-bowl closing in the infinities of a melon sun.

Strange scents recall from smoke some substantial hold,

Dripping snapshots caught in faded photographs;

Vicarious memories caught in frames, 

Set alight by Sun's soft flames.

Did I just dream these happy scenes,

Slipping on the edge of sunset kingdom?

Or have dreams sullied those colourful waters

With the ripples of a searching oar?

II

Artificial trivialities of dark machines,

Simulated fantasies of forced symbology,

Hold the horizon from my eyes

With bricks stacked up to blotch the sky

And neon signs to stain the colour of a muted night.

Blind! Blind! Groping flesh

Caught within the tangled mesh,

Electric bonds to visual slaves,

Wearing glasses with no lens

To see the viewfinder of their trends.

Captured memories in snapshots, 

a sea of faces with no use for tongues,

swollen, rotting behind preserved white tombs

drowning in the superficiality of their lives.

Once in a while everyone gets the shakes,

I need to settle down, 

Need to apply the brakes.

Flee! Flee! Chase the shadows from your doubt,

Let the sunset in, 

And let yourself get out!

Ed Balls & The Picnic in the Woods: Part IV

For Daniel, for all the love, and support. And crack.

Ed Balls & The Picnic in the Woods: Part IV

By Ted Johnston

Chapter One

Harriet Harman knelt down and sniffed the blood. 

          "Strawberry lace", she said, licking her fingers clean, "come on, he can't be far off". She turned to Ed Balls, who was sulking by a tree, gorging his red, bloody lips on an ice-cream he'd stolen from an incapacitated child, about 5 miles back.

          "What?" he said, because he hadn't been listening. Harriet Harman rose to her full height of about 5"6 and stared into the unwavering cancerous holes of Ed Balls' pupils. She thought of a joke she could make, about pupils and how he had once been Shadow Secretary of State for Education, but she couldn't quite get it to work and it probably wasn't the appropriate time. Besides, Ed would probably kick off, and she couldn't afford another mistake.

         "Come on", she gargled, like a wart-infested witch, or a woman gargling with mouth-wash saying "come on" at the same time, which is what she was doing.

          They all climbed back into the van. Her, Ed Balls, Theresa May, David Cameron, Nick Clegg was there, Jack Straw had bought a bat and had stuck some nails in it, only he'd put them in the right way so it wasn't any more dangerous, but no one felt like pointing it out, as he'd been drinking meths again. Noel Edmonds was driving.

          "Shut up and get in the van, I'm driving", Noel Edmonds said, factually.

          "Alright Edmonds", David Cameron vomited, "but just remember whose fault this is".

          "Alright, alright, let's just go, I saw him disappearing through those trees about 2 minutes ago. He's wounded".

          "You've got me to thank for that, I hit him with my arrow when he came at me from out of those bushes. He won't be going far. We'll catch up with him soon enough", Nick Clegg screamed incomprehensibly.

          "What?" David Cameron vomited, again.

          "Never you mind" Theresa May said, " just drive, Edmonds, or I'm going to ram this pike up your arse then make you bounce on it like your Tigger and that's your tail and you're excited. Capiche?". He capiched all right, he'd seen what she'd done to that family of squirrels back in Dorset. He stepped on the gas.

          So off they went, members of the ousted Labour party and the coalition, all sat drunkenly in the back of a van, wielding ancient weaponry that they'd grabbed cack-handedly from the display cabinets at the Houses of Parliament as they'd all bowled out; and Noel Edmonds was driving.

          They came across him in a little dell, lying face down. A trail of blood led to him, Nick Clegg had been telling the truth, he had shot him with an arrow. Jack Straw was the first out, he jumped lightly down onto the mossy undergrowth hardly making a sound, blood pumping in his ears, and marker pen scrawled across his face, spelling out the words, "Jack Straw". No one knew why. 

          Mr. Blobby whimpered. he was done for and he knew it. He tried to crawl away, but Straw sat down on his legs, pinning him into the mud where he lay. By this time everyone else had got out the van and gathered round in a tight circle. Harriet Harman was the first to strike. She lashed out with her iron mace, striking Blobby across the jaw. Blood splattered everywhere, all the colours of the rainbow. Some of it got on David Cameron's dinner jacket.

          "Come here and lick it off", he vomited. Mr. Blobby screamed, it came out like a strange warble. Everyone laughed. They couldn't help it. Even after all these years, they had to admit, Blobby still had some of the old magic left. Then Noel Edmonds put his cock in his ass. Blobby screamed. Again, everyone laughed, but not as hard this time. Everyone stood and watched in silence as Edmonds pounded a crying Mr. Blobby. Then they all set about him as one. 

          After about an hour the racket died down. Blobby was nearly dead, his head had been caved in by Theresa May's hob nailed boots. But Mr. Blobby was magic, it'd take more than that. Edmonds was still going, it made everyone feel faintly sick, but Edmonds always had been the wildest of the lot.

David Cameron offered Nick Clegg the pistol.

          "Finish him", he vomited. Clegg looked unsure. He stared down at Mr. Blobby, and pity filled his heart. Blobby stared almost blankly up into Clegg's eyes.

          "Please", he managed, barely managing to form sentences. 

          "Please". 

          Clegg closed his eyes, and fired blindly. Blobby's incessant whimpering stopped.

          "Well done". Harriet Harman slapped Clegg on the back, nearly causing him to throw up,
          "You did well".

          David Cameron put his arm round Clegg's shoulder and led him back to the van. 

          "Well done, Clegg. I think you've shown everyone that you're eligible to be part of our little club. Now let's get back to dinner and quaff some more duck's eggs before Boris Johnson turns up and snorts the lot", he vomited. It went everywhere. It was disgusting.

          

          As they all drove home some of them wondered if it actually had been as funny an idea as it had sounded round the dinner table at number 10. No one said anything though, they knew it would be fatal to show weakness in front of Edmonds. Clegg sat staring blankly off into space, Blobby's marshmallowy carcass seared into his memory. He felt sick, but that was probably just the champagne. No one spoke. Nobody looked at each other. They all felt a bit ashamed. When they got back they all made their excuses and left. Then they all went home and went straight to bed. Typical politicians. And Noel Edmonds.

The End.

Whispers of the Fallen Rain

Through the pouring rain,

You whispered to me,

'Life is love eternal, my dear'

But I didn't hear you,

Because you were whispering in rain,

And my house is miles away from yours.

Little things like this

Were the reason we broke up.