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Strange Famous · 02-17-2005, 03:33 AM

My memories of childhood are often tied to geography, to physical space. All of my most vivid memories come from the summer, and when I was alone. The boy that I was, the man that I am, querulous and unhappy, uncertain and compromised - is tied to the same landscape. This empty garden, with the long wet grass brushing my ankles and soaking my shoes; this stretch of road, between the off license and the house, or between Norwich Road and Bramford Lane. The paths I have walked, I have rarely walked hand in hand. The garden was split into two, the first half lawn, and my sister's slide, thick laurel hedge on either side until they cut it back too far and it never recovered. The shed, the anderson shelter, the old fire safe from the co-operative which was stuffed full of garden tools. The little porch, and the ugly green wellington boots in a disorderly line. The half cracked up coal bunker... half full of coal, even when the chimney got blocked up and plastered over. To the right the mad old woman who used to take in stray cats and ride an electric wheelchair which she didnt need. To the right, the strange guy with the half hearted beard, who let the swimming pool scu, over with shit and filth and filled his whole land with broken white electric goods and dead cars.

And then the waist high dark wood fence, that kept the lawn and the washing line and all of this apart from pond and the dirst behind. There used to be a consevatory, but they tore it down. There were apple tree's, two big ones in front of the pond, and 7 or 8 smaller ones on the top lawn next to the sandpit. One by one they were torn down, the big tree behind behind where the fruit cage used to be, just in front of the back lawn, which came down in the storms of 89 was the last to go. I used to be fascinated by the wasp traps... old sweet jars half covered in plastic and filled with vinegar, and then full of dead insects.

Passed the fence was the pond, about 10 foot by 5, the water was too dark to see the fish sometimes and in winter it froze... I would use a cricket stump to break the ice. Next to the pond is where the greenhouse used to stand, but it went a long time ago, broken glass that wasnt replaced... he used to grow tomato's and cucumbers, but they were never succesful.

Behiond this was two strips of soil, split by a concrete path. To the left they used to grow vegtables... broad beans, runners, pea's, carrots and potato's, but now only the rhubarb was left. To the right was where the fruit cage used to stand... sometimes they paid me £3 an hour to dig over all the weeds, but they never grew anything else there... behind that the bare path of dirt where we used to have the bonfire's, behind that the last big apple tree and the back lawn, the brick wall I used to play soccer with myself against, to the right the sandpit and then the compost heap. Everything pointed to deconstruction and decay, I felt more at home the more wild it became, the less there was around me that meant anything. In the summer you could hear the motorcycle speedway from the Foxhall track, to the left and back were woods, standing on the wall of the sandpit I could se the main part of a row a giant poplars that were filled with crows in the evening, to the left and back - a few more houses and then heathland, behind that a silver birch wood that ran a couple of miles into Bucklesham Road and the golf course there... but I never ventured out of the garden much when I was younger. A soccer goal where I used to play with friends sometimes, and more often against myself. I used to play cricket against the anderson shelter until the wooden door was battered and shattered, inside it was filled with my sister's toys and old carpet. This is a place, a geography, a part of me seems to belong there... I cant tell exactly how unhappy I was looking back, I place my feelings now over myself then, superimposed. Looking bad, it seems lonely, monochrome and sad.

02-17-2005, 03:33 AM	#22 (permalink)
Strange Famous follower of the child's crusade?	My memories of childhood are often tied to geography, to physical space. All of my most vivid memories come from the summer, and when I was alone. The boy that I was, the man that I am, querulous and unhappy, uncertain and compromised - is tied to the same landscape. This empty garden, with the long wet grass brushing my ankles and soaking my shoes; this stretch of road, between the off license and the house, or between Norwich Road and Bramford Lane. The paths I have walked, I have rarely walked hand in hand. The garden was split into two, the first half lawn, and my sister's slide, thick laurel hedge on either side until they cut it back too far and it never recovered. The shed, the anderson shelter, the old fire safe from the co-operative which was stuffed full of garden tools. The little porch, and the ugly green wellington boots in a disorderly line. The half cracked up coal bunker... half full of coal, even when the chimney got blocked up and plastered over. To the right the mad old woman who used to take in stray cats and ride an electric wheelchair which she didnt need. To the right, the strange guy with the half hearted beard, who let the swimming pool scu, over with shit and filth and filled his whole land with broken white electric goods and dead cars. And then the waist high dark wood fence, that kept the lawn and the washing line and all of this apart from pond and the dirst behind. There used to be a consevatory, but they tore it down. There were apple tree's, two big ones in front of the pond, and 7 or 8 smaller ones on the top lawn next to the sandpit. One by one they were torn down, the big tree behind behind where the fruit cage used to be, just in front of the back lawn, which came down in the storms of 89 was the last to go. I used to be fascinated by the wasp traps... old sweet jars half covered in plastic and filled with vinegar, and then full of dead insects. Passed the fence was the pond, about 10 foot by 5, the water was too dark to see the fish sometimes and in winter it froze... I would use a cricket stump to break the ice. Next to the pond is where the greenhouse used to stand, but it went a long time ago, broken glass that wasnt replaced... he used to grow tomato's and cucumbers, but they were never succesful. Behiond this was two strips of soil, split by a concrete path. To the left they used to grow vegtables... broad beans, runners, pea's, carrots and potato's, but now only the rhubarb was left. To the right was where the fruit cage used to stand... sometimes they paid me £3 an hour to dig over all the weeds, but they never grew anything else there... behind that the bare path of dirt where we used to have the bonfire's, behind that the last big apple tree and the back lawn, the brick wall I used to play soccer with myself against, to the right the sandpit and then the compost heap. Everything pointed to deconstruction and decay, I felt more at home the more wild it became, the less there was around me that meant anything. In the summer you could hear the motorcycle speedway from the Foxhall track, to the left and back were woods, standing on the wall of the sandpit I could se the main part of a row a giant poplars that were filled with crows in the evening, to the left and back - a few more houses and then heathland, behind that a silver birch wood that ran a couple of miles into Bucklesham Road and the golf course there... but I never ventured out of the garden much when I was younger. A soccer goal where I used to play with friends sometimes, and more often against myself. I used to play cricket against the anderson shelter until the wooden door was battered and shattered, inside it was filled with my sister's toys and old carpet. This is a place, a geography, a part of me seems to belong there... I cant tell exactly how unhappy I was looking back, I place my feelings now over myself then, superimposed. Looking bad, it seems lonely, monochrome and sad. __________________ "Do not tell lies, and do not do what you hate, for all things are plain in the sight of Heaven. For nothing hidden will not become manifest, and nothing covered will remain without being uncovered." The Gospel of Thomas