Academic journal article Hecate


Academic journal article Hecate


Article excerpt


I look at the words crisp-printed black against the white, and I write the story of while on my way down the garden path to the letterbox to meet the fading blow of the postman's whistle, down a garden path of fox gloves purple scented sticky . . . This is the story of the bees; an apiarist's dream.

A childhood story-book tale of a bee-line race to collect the letters, of how the meaning of this story rests, heavily on its ending, as heavily as a moist thick iced chocolate cake. I'm setting up a scene, setting up a dream.

I begin, I step outside into inside through the doorway of the house picture book pretty, gingerbread ripe on a smarty button bright fine day. The postman's fading whistle-blow rolling down the path like a pungent odour; sweetly promising. I begin my journey; I follow the garden path, a path which is made up of the usual: cobblestones, yellow bricks, sidelined by dark forests inhabited by bears, jungle, dark algae green ponds, misty light. A short walk in the fresh afternoon air to the letterbox to collect . . .

But the garden path is strangely stretching to the vanishing point of the letter box (marked No Junk Mail, No Pulp Fiction).

Temptingly, trails of crumbs, hazelnuts, and jelly babies (gorged-through with ants black like these words) lead off into the direction of: staircases, the jungle, the coined algae pond, of floating messages in bottles. The message I look for, words in an envelope, not transparently exposed through the looking glass of a bottle floating at green-sea, lies at the end of my garden path.

Endings can narratively wind round your fingers take over your pen push out the ink into the wrong direction in neat graphs which map beginnings, middles, and story book endings of pink dresses worn on wedding days. Dresses (and dreams) which never wear out, which you never grow out of. But clothes do wear out and narratives wear down to thread bare warp and weft; repeated and woven like the story of the journey to the letterbox to collect the letters (a narrative of anticipation). The anticipation of an ending a word on the tip of your tongue of words honey sweet which fly out like bee stings or stick like glue (like something nasty to your shoe).


I wash white the page with a few more cliches (to tantalise your tastebuds in anticipation of that thickly iced chocolate mostly moist cake-ending). But now you tell me you're on a special diet? A diet of happy never ending stories with narratives which don't go straight to your hips (or stick to your lips).

Do I leave the path, take that story book trail into the forest to meet the bears the bees and eat honey off spiralled fine pine wooden spoons? Pot bellied proud and round I roll off the yellow bricked path like a beach ball down to meet the waves.

The garden path has disappeared from view, my raft circles below a religious sky on high topped waves. Maybe this is the centre of the narrative pull, in a world in which you are strengthened by magical mushroom steaks to go. A narrative of magical mushrooms; a magical narrative.

But my raft made out of narrative convention whirls round uncontrollably; clinging to my raft I am sucked down like a drainpipe and out over the Niagara falls. Honeymoon swoon I go over as my gold ring is pulled from my finger left.

I am a barrel round rolling over down slow motion intense so fast falling falls water only to find that my conventional raft has broken up into words and letters. I swim rat-wet in the Niagara spray, the words and letters, I find to my surprise, float poorly.

The pages that I write on feel damp and tacky to touch; of pages left too close to an open window on a soft rainy day. Slowly each quiet drip like the tock from the clock fills the blue bucket to brimming edge, the turquoise water dripping from the hole in the roof overflows into a pool.

Under the cool surface the sinking words and letters move downwards like upside down bubbles. …

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