Assembly instructions 1. Download pdf file 2. Print pdf file on A4 paper, select double-sided, and ‘flip up’ not ‘flip over’ 3. Sort in order of page number 4. Fold crease 5. Bind in centre using your own creativity; staple, string, ring-bind, ribbon tie 6. Enjoy The Rashomon Effect 7. Repeat steps 1 through 6 many times over 8. Distribute to loved ones, strangers, friends, enemies
02. The Rashomon Effect
The Editorial...
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– From the invention of the printing press to the Amazon-manufactured Kindle in a century. Gutenberg himself would be rolling in his grave if he knew what was to come; how the printed world would be tossed on its head and how the future of the book would pan out. No longer would a novel be something you held in your hand, stuffed in your blazer pocket, or something to fold back the corners of the pages as you saw fit, but instead would be a glass screen and a bunch of pixels. No longer would you pass your local café, the terrace full of early morning risers, drinking their espressos and clutching the daily rag. No, the view of the future is a a bleak one indeed. Starbucks have taken over your local cafés, and it isn’t the daily rags the early birds are clutching, but their mocha frappuccinos while they browse the morning’s news stories on their brand new iPads. And what of the future of the second hand book store? With Apple’s stock rising to the roof beams and Amazon’s Kindle not doing so bad either, how many used books will be about in half a century? How would one go about acquiring a second hand e-copy of Catch-22 I wonder? Welcome to our second edition of The Rashomon Effect. Welcome to Chapter Two.
The Rashomon Effect 03.
The Rashomon Effect was created and edited by Adam Warner Grant Walker Colin Delaney design Colin Delaney cover artist Devorah Hall contributors Ellie Blaney is a ‘no job to big or small one size fits all’ artistic handy(wo)man. She writes, sings, acts, directs, installs art, mimics, does funny voices, tells stories and generally hams it up. In her head she’s always smoking a cigarette and she likes almost all dogs but relatively few people. She’s a little bit fussy about food but pretends she’s not. Amanda Gowland writes by day for a not-for-profit Internet organisation. By night, she’s blogging on Kill them with Cupcakes (http:// amansterdam.wordpress.com) and plotting her cupcake takeover of Amsterdam with Cupcakes by Nomzilla. Ottilie Wright lives and works in the East end of London. As well as hating writing bios she likes cycling on pavements, and teasing tramps. Will Coldwell is a writer and project junkie from London, the most recent one being the poetry zine, inc. (www.inc-zine.blogspot.com). Chantelle Cressman is a fourth-year university student living, studying, and writing in St Thomas, Ontario, Canada. She knows Steve, Dave, and Greg from Canada. STEVE WARNER is based in the UK where he flits between work and sitting about. He likes the finer things in life: whisky, cigars, food and women. submissions We are continually looking for submissions of any form or genre of the written word. Contributors are encouraged to print and distribute The Rashomon Effect in their area. contact therashomoneffect@gmail.com – http://therashomoneffect.wordpress.com 04. The Rashomon Effect
The Rashomon Effect Chapter 2
The Rashomon Effect 05.
...making zines... Photographer Ari Marcopoulos speaks to Colin Delaney about zine-making
I make a lot of zines and books. With the self made xerox’d zines I occasionally pop in an older photograph. Zines are just a good way of getting your work out there. Cheap to make, cheap for people to buy and a wonderful way to look at your work and publish your work, by putting them in order. Just good practice and nice alternative way of distributing your work. I don’t reprint. I just make new ones. I never reprint the same one. Magazines are horrible. Zines are cool... Magazines aren’t horrible, I’m just not interested in them. No, not anymore. Most of them try to cover everything but I don’t think it works. Maybe if they are specialised but the so called ‘cool’ magazines look like they have no direction. They are just running after time. And now with the turn over of the internet, magazines are behind the times, not ahead of the times. I don’t make the zines as magazines, I make them more as books. It’s not a fan-zine, it’s more a small, cheap book. It’s a good way to get your stuff to the kids that can’t buy the hard copy. Image: Andy Warhol by Ari 06. The Rashomon Effect
Hospital Light by C. Cressman
wild creature out of a jungle trap I tore into hospital light into the sterile human world Deny me the silence of the hunt Lure new language from my tongue now like the Marquis of Charenton I will live my own revolution scrawling perversities across asylum walls ink: the blood of my fingertips when all else but skin has been stripped away in vain Deny me the language I’ve been taught Lure strange creatures from my heart one day I will join the frenzied maenads in their Bacchanalian dance and the tooth-and-nail shredding of living flesh Intense ecstasy Endurance fed by insanity roaming the wilderness fawn-skin clad I will find the eternity that I once had
Poems by C. Cressman
Myth of Me in the dream the woman i don’t know will not cease her dying breath her existence somehow immortalized the snakey tendrils of her honeycomb-coloured hair somehow medusa-like the end i long for is nowhere in sight if only i could turn slide through the next doorway to a static sleep if only i could find the finite vision the inner oracle that speaks a language of truth so i could hear the teleological psyche that tells the myth of me but beside me you will not move your dead sleep weight so i can see your mysterious face in vulnerability the embodiment of you as Eros that evades me and dooms me for if i were to look over your shoulder by candlelight i would only lose you to my failing faith to my fear of that ugly end i am always searching for
When You Left I guess when you left I just felt obliged to wish I had let you fuck me because for that you would have stayed longer 08. The Rashomon Effect
This Time by Ottilie Wright
Ash was falling down this time, from the sky, on the people, in the city. Pale pink, at first insignificant ash. But then it settled and people noticed the increasing covering of dust; pink like petals, lightly layering their loved ones, their dogs, their dustbins, their children’s swings. Ash was falling down this time like snowflakes, yet people weren’t standing in awe with mouths agape to taste. This time mouths were firmly shut, gripped lines of lips and clenched teeth. ‘The ash is our sins’, one voice cried out, yet the children laughed and swirled and made ash angels and so this woeful prognosis didn’t seem to ring true. ‘The sin of our pollution’, the voice tried again, as pale outlines collected on eyelashes, shoulders and brims of hats. A dog barked with glee and skirted a tree edge, sniffing and then scenting, turning the pale pink into a patch of dark crimson, whilst people walked carrying their new silhouettes. Yet people cast baleful looks around and at one another and wondered this time what the sign meant. The ponds were starting to scud frothy pink at the edges and fishes were seen to pluck upwards with round circle mouths, mistaking the fine ash for food. The people would know shortly if this was a poison, for then the fishes would rise lifeless and bloat. Yet even for this knowledge they would have to wait, fearful and tender to each other, united in their scant hope. Decisions were made and children were ushered home, propelled forward by flats of parental hands, like little offerings to their squares of domesticity. The next day they all arrived, the scientists, the holy, the politicians and the critics; cascades of controversial thought rolling down the dusty hills, along the furrowed paths of the city, each in turn collecting more props for their inconclusive theologies. They gathered in the square, where the ash still lay, thick and mysterious and each in turn began to half speak, half shout their views. The scientists were angry, as they saw the phenomenon as a vindication of their studies of the corruption of the environment, and demanded change. The holy were sage and self assuming as they preached of the ash being a compelling sign to return to the old devout ways and be forgiven their modern dissolute lives. The politicians were excited and rubbed their small greedy hands, as they plotted ways to extort more money from this unexpected yet highly taxable windfall. The critics expounded both furiously and happily as they saw the ash as an opportunity to vociferate upon the glories and failings of all in the city. The voices grew in pomposity as they grew in measure, till all were speaking and none were listening, as the fishes one by one started to float.
The Rashomon Effect 09.
R.A. Riekki: published author and self-publicist By Adam Warner
Dredged up from the TRE archives, this is a story of self-promotion. This is a story started some time ago when the team was approached by a young American writer with a string of apparent plaudits and a recently released debut novel. This is a story of one man putting himself on the map, by hook or by crook.
Somewhere along the line, the novelist, R.A RIEKKI, had heard about The Rashomon Effect and decided to approach us in an effort to publicise his debut novel, U.P. As a group of young upstarts, we thought an interview with a published author would be quite the coup. As it turns out, Mr Riekki didn’t give me much to work with. When one of my questions, asking about his influences, returned a list of no less than 127 authors, musicians, directors, actors, films, chefs, porn stars, beers, deities and even the fine people Finland, I knew I was in for a rough ride.
U.P. – released some time ago by independent publisher Ghost Road Press 10. The Rashomon Effect
– is, according to New England author Christopher Tilghman, “at once banal and horrific.” Tilghman goes on to say that Riekki’s debut is “part Celine, part Henry Miller, part Cormac McCarthy.” Not bad for a first time author. So what, in Riekki’s opinion, is the book all about? I ask Riekki this question; it’s a casual question – a scene setter, but we get much more than a straightforward response. This is R.A. Riekki, after all. “Speaking of praise,” Riekki boasts uselessly, “Taylor Antrim, author of The Headmaster Ritual (2007, Mariner Books), gave me a great blurb for the book that says, “R.A. Riekki’s ramrod debut gives us four bewildered, lonely, sexed-up and pissed-off species of the American Teenage
Male, guys who know what it feels like to bench-press to Slayer, long for a girl, nurse a grudge, get your first tattoo (and then regret it). U.P. is funny, sad, sexy, and, finally, like a Lord of the Flies moved to extreme Upper Michigan, scary as hell.” I thought Antrim nailed what the book is about in his blurb”. I would have accepted “a coming of age story set in Michigan”.
U.P. is biographical first and foremost with Riekki lifting many parts of the book from his own time growing up the in the cold and desolate surroundings of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Later, Riekki does touch on what drove him to write the novel in the first place, sharing with us an account of violence which he suffered as a young man. “The book is a constant reminder of my youth and its struggles. It opens with antony [the central character who pretentiously spells his name in lower case] being savagely attacked with a baseball bat in Miners’ Park in Negaunee, Michigan. Within a block of that area, I had a horrific incident where I was brutally injured by a local bully and his friends. I didn’t know them. It was just random, meaningless violence, but a violence that I still feel today – physically and emotionally. That emotional sting, though, was reduced by writing the novel. It’s a crazy novel. I couldn’t write the boring novels that fill the bestseller lists and libraries and freshman lit reading lists. I could never write that crap.” Honest as he is, I imagine even
Riekki would shoot his load if Oprah’s book club came calling. One of the things that first strikes me during the interview is Riekki’s selfpromotion in the sometimes rambling non sequitur answers he gives. For the good of the magazine, I force myself to push on, enquiring about his individual writing process. “I wrote the first draft in one week, writing for ten, eleven, thirteen hours at a pop.” Cursed with a stoner’s attention span, I’m impressed. “My writing routine at the time I wrote it was all day and especially all night until I’d collapse with my clothes on without brushing my teeth. I like to write at night. Just silence and absence and darkness”. The questions continue, scripted and hollow. I feel like I’m just being faced by a PR agent, every answer staged in such a way I never feel like I’m actually interviewing the man. But as we continue towards the end of the interview I start to understand Riekki, unemployed with only his writing to sustain him, he needs to be like this; only he can propel his own stardom. Riekki goes on to tell me one of his all time favourite actors has read the book, strangely he refuses to name names, I would push him to find out, I expect he’d fold like a cheap suit, but at this point I don’t care enough to press him for the name, so I ask him about the difficulties of getting published as a first time writer. The Rashomon Effect 11.
“The short response is that it wasn’t that bad, actually. National Book award winner John Casey nominated U.P. for the Sewanee
possibilities of the film and I loved it, that I’m finally at this point where that sort of thing is happening for me. It’s been a long,
Writers’ Series where it was selected as the winner. John Bullock published an excerpt from the book in an issue of the New Ohio Review. Bullock had his novel, Making Faces, accepted by Ghost Road Press, so he convinced me to send the book to Matt Davis (co-founder of Ghost Road) and within a month Davis sent me an email saying he’d like to publish the book.”
long trek to get here, but it’s nice that I’m finally getting heard as an author, because for a lot of years I was unheard. It’s nice to be heard”.
I ask him what’s next for the world of R.A. Riekki. “I have two books coming out next year. Ghost Road Press is publishing my novel A Portrait of the Artist as a Boogey Man (spring 2010) and Hunger and the Ass (fall 2010), I’m shopping around my fourth novel and I’m hoping U.P. is going to get turned into a film. One of the two producers interested in U.P. as a film just took me backstage to an Alice in Chains concert and afterwards I got to gab with Jerry Cantrell and Sean Kinney about my book and the
12. The Rashomon Effect
Perhaps my cynicism is driven by jealousy, although his answers have been trying and arrogant, the man has a three-book deal. He’s a much more successful writer than I am. Perhaps that’s how you need to be: persuasive, with dogged commitment to your cause. You take every opportunity to promote yourself because that’s simply what you need to do. With his last sentence, I finally feel like I understand Riekki. It’s something I realise only as I write it, long after the interview: he’s just stoked, he’s pursuing his dream, he’s doing well. Ron Riekki is a lot of things, but you can forgive him; he’s just doing what he needs to so he can continue doing the thing he loves. After all, success makes bores of us all.
The Slava By Adam Warner
As usual Aleksander arrived at the gates early. There were more men in the square than usual and he had a task on his hands to get within ten yards of the gates. Aleksander jostled his way through coarse beards and coarser language. The stink of herring hung in the air and a strong smell of rotting onion had weaved its way into the greased jackets of those he passed. He stood in this sea of men, their rippling caps pointed towards the huge bronze gates of the Admiralty Shipyards. Aleksander stood on tip-toes and peered through the peaks and the troughs, but could see no sign of movement past the gates. What he could see towering over the walls of the shipyard was the purpose of the assembled crowd: the Battle cruiser Slava, the pride of St. Petersburg. Around Aleksander, the men swivelled their heads, turning to glance at the great clock of the Admiralty building behind them before turning back towards the gates. The shipyard had been closed for some time, still the men turned up each day in the hope they would be able to gain entry to the beautiful ship. These men were of no use on the front; the criminals and cripples of the city. Many had nothing but the work of the shipyard. Aleksander wondered whether it was better to have nothing or the burden of a hungry family. He bristled at the thought and covered his mouth with his oil stained scarf. An audible whisper rolled through the crowd and although Aleksander had not looked at the clock that morning, he knew from the ripple that it had just turned seven. The time the gates should open. The murmur died down and men continued to wait, as they had done every day since the yard closed. At first they had been given excuses, “We’re just waiting for parts. Imports from across the Baltic, come back tomorrow,” or “The iron cladding’s been taken for the war effort, we’ll have some in next week.” The men turned up every morning only to once again be sent back along the Bolshoi Prospekt without a day’s work or a day’s pay. Soon after, the foreman stopped coming out to the gates and they received no more excuses, they just waited; surplus to requirements. Aleksander sighed and permitted himself a glance at the glowing clock face. “Two hours,” he thought. “I’ll sit it out for another two hours before I leave.” He knew that many would stay until it again grew dark, staring solemnly through the gates as small patches of rust on the hull turned into bigger patches. They watched as it slowly corroded. For some of the men, the Slava was all they had; no families and no home except for the vagrant hostels. Men such as these would weep openly, raising their hands to the sky as if God himself might hear their cries and cleave the gate in two. “Like old hens at a funeral,” Aleksander would think. It was such a rust patch that, on this day, caused these desperate men to destroy what they cherished. The Rashomon Effect 13.
It was approaching ten; Aleksander had stayed longer than he intended. He brought his hand up to the collar of his long jacket, aiming to protect himself from the odour of the crowd as he began to push his way to the back and the long walk home. As he turned, a cry was heard from the front of the crowd. “Rust!” Someone called. “More rust!” A tremor of anger rose through the shipyard men. Aleksander stopped for a second; he glanced to his left, looking towards a voice that bellowed from the crowd. “How long?” This question wasn’t directed at the Admiralty, Aleksander knew this for sure; it was a question that was being asked of them. Of all the workers assembled there in the yard. How long would they continue to wait? How long would they continue to watch the ship rot? How long would they starve while all they had slowly crumbled away in front of them? His eyes darted to and from faces. Aleksander could see the frustration and anger. “I have to get out of here,” Alexsander thought. Some had started kicking the heavy padlock that bound the gates, others worked on the hinges, rocking the gates back and forth. He didn’t know whether it was the old brickwork or the rotten hinges, but the gates started to lean and bend towards the ground. In the end, it was subdued by boot stamps. The floodwaters broke and the crowd streamed into the dry dock. Aleksander was carried along in the crush of bodies, nearly going down in the crowd a number of times only to be pulled up by the collar of his jacket by a watchful colleague. Some were not so lucky in the stampede. It was only past the gates and near the stern of the cruiser that Aleksander could force himself against the current to stop moving. He surveyed the madness around him. People were attacking the struts that held the ship in place. They hammered, hollered and whooped with every blow. Aleksander could see they were opening the caisson to flood the graving dock, allowing this sleeping giant into the sea. They smiled. They all smiled and laughed as the water flooded in and the perfectly balanced ship rose. Men streamed aboard to loosen the bonds and ropes of the boat’s oppression. The gates opened fully and the men, using ropes and planks and all their strength, pushed the Slava gently out into the sea. The men cheered and threw their hats in
14. The Rashomon Effect
the air. Even Aleksander could not help but get caught up in the moment. He looked to the heavens and beamed. The boat moved slowly out of the dock and into the harbour. There was no fuel aboard, it drifted slowly and all that could be heard was the gentle creak of the untested metal. She came to a stop 40 yards from the shipyard wall. Not that this did anything to dampen the spirits of the mutinous rabble. They continued to sing and dance on the deck while the men on shore mirrored them. The Slava, however, was not as seafaring as the men that danced jubilantly on deck thought. Rust had taken its toll; iron had been taken here and there for the war effort. The hull of the Slava was letting in water fast. Aleksander was sure he wasn’t the first to notice it. He turned from watching the dancing men on the shore and could see almost immediately that the ship was prow heavy. By the time the stern had started to rise a silence had gripped the men around him. The Slava was sinking. The men were paralysed. The sudden emotional change was too much. These brothers could do nothing but stare with open mouths as the water took hold and the rising stern pitched those on the deck into the sea. All that could be heard in the harbour that cold winter morning was the shriek of tearing metal and a rush of water finding the cavities in the hull. Some dropped to their knees and watched with bleary eyes, hands clamped to their mouths in horror as the Slava’s gradient reached twelve o’clock and it sunk into the bay. The Slava disappeared from view, leaving nothing but the men that had boarded her splashing about in the freezing water. Aleksander moved silently with the crowd out through the broken gates and into the square. None of the men said anything to each other, they barely even registered one another, the loss was too profound. Aleksander looked at the great clock face of the Admiralty building but didn’t notice the time. He started the long walk down Bolshoi Prospekt without a day’s work or a day’s pay.
The Rashomon Effect 15.
Who wants flowers when they’re dead? By Grant Walker
When J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye was published in 1951, it was received to mixed reviews. While some criticised the novel, labelling the story ‘immoral’ and the book’s protagonist, Holden Caulfield, ‘arrogant’ and ‘immature’, others heralded the book as a ‘tourde-force’, calling it ‘a modern masterpiece’. The book splits opinions as much today as it did upon its publication nearly sixty years ago. Critics, family, friends and just about everyone I know who has read the book have polarising opinions about it. By 1981, thirty years after its publication, Catcher was not only the second most taught book in U.S. public schools, but also the most censored. During my mid-teenage years, I was not the avid reader I am today. Books didn’t appeal to me as much as music and video games, but it turned out I was just a late bloomer. In my days as a factory worker, when I was nineteen, it was books that saved me from mental collapse. Elmore Leonard, Kurt Vonnegut and indeed J.D. Salinger were my saviours. They helped me through those drury days like nothing else, kept me sane, and caused me to fall in love with literature. The Catcher in the Rye was the catalyst for this torrid love affair. I remember the first time I read J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. It was grade 11 English and we were required to write a book report. As always, for us unliterary types, we were given a suggested reading list. Apart from a few detective novels and the odd Stephen King book, I had not done much reading by this point in my short life. Browsing through the list of classics on offer, a number of titles popped out as familiar, but none really peaked my interest. And then I saw it. I had remembered spying Catcher on my father’s bookshelf some years earlier, along with other literary gems such as Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer and Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses and decided that book, if any, would be the subject of my report. I knew it to be the story of an angst-filled teenager on a voyage of self-discovery and that was enough for me. To cut a long story short, I wrote the report with great difficulty. Along with reading, it was also my writing which, at the time, had not been given the proper attention that it deserved. On my first read of the book, the story itself didn’t stand out as much as the central character did. Holden Caulfield, to me, was a rebel and a realist. There were society’s views on how one should act and, according to Holden, that was conformity. Holden didn’t hold much regard for conformity. Rather than a book report, I wrote a character study of sorts about Caulfield. It was he who interested me the most, not necessarily the structure of the novel or the plot itself. I believe I received a D for the assignment. It is the teacher’s notes which stand out in my memory more than the grade itself, with old Hudgins’ bold red pen scribbled all over the paper. ‘ENJOYABLE, BUT THIS IS NOT WHAT I WOULD CONSIDER A BOOK REPORT, MISTER WALKER.’ It turned out he wasn’t a fan of the book either. 16. The Rashomon Effect
Lassie come home and why I killed her
By Amanda Gowland
This is a story about how I killed a girl. When I was eight years old, some bitch stole our dog right out of our backyard. The kid had balls alright, she walked right out of our yard, down the street, and into her house with my Collie on a leash. She told her mom she found the dog wandering around the neighbourhood. Every day for seven days, I’d perch myself on a chair behind the front door, staring out into the street in hopes of Lassie making her way back home. The guilt of thinking I had somehow not closed the latch properly was breaking my poor heart, still vulnerable at such a young age. On day seven of Lassie-watch, a mini-van pulled up in front of our house. I pressed my head against the glass of the door, the condensation evaporating suddenly as I suspended my last breath in my lungs, too scared to let it go. The door of the van crept open and out jumped Lassie. A lanky girl slid out from the van, her white knuckles gripping the leash as the dog gagged against the resistance. Her mother walked around to where the girl stood. “Let go of the leash. NOW.” Without looking up, the girl unfurled her hand slightly and Lassie lurched towards the house. I fell out of the front door, the chair slamming into the floor behind me. “LASSIE” I bellowed, tears in my eyes. She leapt up at me with that kind of bladder-spilling excitement that only dogs are capable of, her claws scraping down my shins as she pawed and danced in front of me on the front yard. “DOG STEALER!” I screamed at the girl. I hated her stringy hair and knobbly knees. “Apologise,” said her mother, shoving her towards me. “Sorry” she mumbled, “I just really wanted a dog. Wh--” she stopped suddenly, “Why did you name your dog Lassie anyways, that’s the stupidest name I’ve ever heard!” “Did you rename my dog?” I growled through clenched teeth. “Yeah, TIFFANY,” she shot back, her face laced with smug self-satisfaction, “And she likes it better. I can tell.” I looked over at her mother, her face now stricken with the knowledge her daughter was a fucking moron at age eleven. “Can you wait here for just a second please?” I cooed at her mother. I walked back into house and opened the door to let the dog in. The chair was still on the floor, one of its legs had snapped off from the fall. I grabbed the blunt end and cupped it in my palm, the length of it resting against the back of my arm, hidden. I walked towards the girl, slowly, a smile full of pity plastered on my face. When I was a few feet in front of her, I lunged, flicked my chair-leg dagger from my bent-up wrist and plunged it into her heart. She gasped, eyes-wide with surprise and collapsed forward, the splintered and bloody chair leg protruding upwards from her back like a flagpole. “Your daughter’s a fucking moron,” I said to her mother. “Tell me about it,” the mother guffawed back. “A month ago, she brought home some dirty baby and told me someone left it in the mailbox. She called it Tinkles.” “We’re both better off then, I guess.” “Yeah, pretty much.” The Rashomon Effect 17.
The Haiku The haiku has been massive in Japanese culture for a thousand years and the ancient structure has caught the imagination of many western writers since its first recorded translation in 1836. Originally court poetry, it was the preserve of emperors and scholars and consisted of a number of exact elements. Apart from the 3 line 5-7-5 syllabic structure it would also include seasonal references and an audible pause at the end of each line. Over the years, due to the difficulty in translating a strict Japanese syllabic structure into English, the rigid rules have softened and although the pattern is still distinctive there is some flexibility. As a wise man once said; the message is more important than the messenger. Below, The Rashomon Effect’s pick of over a 1000 years of haiku and some written by our resident haiku poet Steve Warner.
BASHO On a barren branch a raven has perched autumn dusk
ALLEN GINSBERG A frog floating in the drugstore jar: summer rain on grey pavements.
The quiet pond a frog leaps in the sound of water
JACK KEROUAC The low yellow moon above the Quiet lamplit house
SOKAN O moon–if we should put a handle to you what a fan you’d be
STEVE WARNER By the stream green shoots on willow roots in dark water
SHIKI For love and for hate I swat a fly and offer it to an ant
The longest day druids at the stones glastonbury mud
Whitecaps on the bay: A broken signboard banging In the April wind.
Under a frosty moon kicking through the leaves lights of home
18. The Rashomon Effect
The old man and the Piano by E.Blaney The man strides into the room; everything about him seems purposeful and tidy. His grey hair is Brylcreemed neatly to the side and combed flat, his grey trousers and light blue v-neck jumper sit comfortably around his tall and full frame. He sits at the piano and draws himself slightly closer. He removes his hearing aides and places them on the top of the instrument. His fingers flex and he places them over the familiar keys and begins to play. He keys beautifully; his fingers following the notes in his mind. His wife enters. She stops by the door out of sight and watches him with a mixture of frustration and love. “Frank” she says. “Frank” she shouts. He continues playing completely unaware of her presence and begins to falter slightly; a note here and there missed or out of tune. She watches helplessly as his fingers quicken, trying to reclaim the rhythm that has escaped them. She watches as the tension rises up his back and his proud head and shoulders slacken until, turning out of the door, she can watch no longer. She retreats into some other part of the house and waits until he is finished. She calls, “Frank”. As she re-enters the room she calls his name again and crosses to his stooped frame on the stool, touching him lightly on the shoulder until he turns. She takes hold of his face at the chin and says directly. “Frank, it sounded wonderful.” He reaches for his aides and puts them in adjusting them while they emit a high pitched squeal. “Really?” he says. “I thought I might have missed one or two?” He looks at her hopefully. “No dear,” she replies, “it was perfect. Tea?” she says with a little sigh as she walks towards the door.
The Rashomon Effect 19.
Home
Part One By Will Coldwell When Petr Drunns awoke that morning he had no idea that his house had moved. He awoke in his usual sluggish nature, rolling about on his face for half of an hour before stretching, sniffing loudly and removing himself from his bed. He dragged himself over to the bathroom where he examined his puffy eyes, then pulled on a shirt and trotted downstairs to the kitchen. Petr always set some water on the boil before he did anything else for breakfast, as he felt it was the most mundane task, yet the most necessary; a cup of tea being the obvious precursor to any extended activity. While he had some eggs sizzling in the frying pan he popped his head into the hallway to check for the day’s post. Indeed, amongst the cab cards and charity requests there was a letter addressed to him. Stamped on the reverse was Hardcastle and Stawkins LLP. There was no worth in indulging in this fact, Petr thought, as it would merely delay the realisation that would come from opening the envelope. While thinking this he slipped his finger under the seal, and slid the neatly folded, cream coloured sheet of paper from its sheath. And so it read:
Dear Sir, It has come to our attention through the endeavours of your neighbour, Mr. Rodrik Angleson, that he is currently victim of a most severe property encroachment, as a result of your premises. It is evident that the two metre side path on the west-facing side of Mr. Angleson’s home, which previously separated the two properties, is now wholly filled by your house. The occurrence of such an infringement is only compounded by the cement work which fuses your east wall with his. Mr. Angleson has informed the council’s encroachment officer of this event, and following their advice, has employed Hardcastle and Stawkins LLP to rectify the situation. We have taken the liberty of arranging a preliminary meeting for legal proceedings next Monday the 17th at 3.00pm in our offices. We strongly recommend that you attend, as failing to do so will no doubt result in us reaching a higher level of legal action at a far more aggressive rate. Please do not hesitate to contact us; our details are on the letterhead.
Yours sincerely, Mr. Gregory Stawkins, Director
On reading this the first time, Petr blinked several times, as he was still not fully awake, he then read it once again, just to be sure he was reading the letter correctly. He then briefly experienced that feeling one gets upon finding themselves accused of something they have no knowledge of, causing them to suddenly doubt their own innocence. Of course 20. The Rashomon Effect
inevitably, as a law abiding citizen, this is always followed with the satisfaction of all parties jovially realizing the error that has been made. “What hoax or horseplay could be the cause of this letter?” Petr thought, having calmed himself of that momentary flush. Nevertheless, his doubts of the absurd had not been fully reproached, and ignoring the eggs, which were now cooked beyond his preference, he walked hastily to the front door to confirm the situation, deciding breakfast would not be savoured fully with such doubts playing on his mind. The door flung open to a beautiful morning, however it was of the sort where the clear blue sky deceived one from behind the bedroom window, and only the cool breeze and musty smell in the air told truthfully of the likelihood of rain later in the day. Petr tutted, for he often fell fool of this meteorological trickery, and many a morning would find himself halfway down the garden path before realizing the climate was not sympathetic for shorts and sandals. This was the case today, but not considering himself fully dressed yet, Petr felt he had gained something at least from venturing outdoors in his undergarments, noting to bring an umbrella and anorak with him later for the journey to work. This thoughtful digression was suddenly interrupted by a realization: Petr’s house, which previously stood alone, was indeed now perfectly conjoined to his neighbour’s. It was as if they had always stood in that way; as a neat, semi-detached suburban coupling. In fact, the ivy covered houses expressed such a look of tranquil normality that no passerby would ever consider that they symbolised the most absurd occurrence one would ever imagine of a property. Standing before the houses, Petr took several steps closer, as if some closer inspection could perhaps explain what had happened. Of course, it didn’t, and Petr found himself speechless, looking around, perhaps for some kindly passerby who might shed some light on the situation. But it was still early, and of course the street was still quiet. The only activity was from three pigeons pecking at some chips spilling out of a newspaper wrapper at the foot of a dustbin. The rustling sound they were making caught Petrs’ attention momentarily, distracting him from his shock. After jerking his head from one to the other for a second he directed himself straight for his door, and scurried hastily back into his home, slamming the door behind him. Petr’s return to the kitchen was acknowledged by the brief upward glances of his wife and daughter, who were so fully absorbed in their breakfasts of muesli and fruit, that they did not think to question his distress, nor wonder what he was doing outdoors in such disarray. ‘Good morning dear’, said his wife. Petr concurred, but bit his tongue before informing her of the morning’s incident. “How could I expect such a delicate creature,” he thought, “of whom life’s comforts are my sole responsibility, to bear the burden that her husband is in possession of a house that is squatting illegally on another persons land?’ He swiftly concluded that their fragile well-being was best not to be disturbed, especially at so early an hour, and that these troubles should be kept to himself, until he could come to a solution. However, before he could direct the conversation to small talk, he felt the letter being tugged from his hand by his daughter, who flapped it in the air about her head. “What could this be about father?” she asked inquisitively, “A letter from a law firm?” Before he could snatch it back and make his excuses, his wife plucked the letter into The Rashomon Effect 21.
her possession, and unlike his daughter, took the time to read beyond the header before questioning its contents. “What on earth is this Petr?” queried his wife. She accentuated the first letters of the ‘what’ with such an outward breath that they were barely audible, and although the flourish with which she delivered it gave the desired emphasis, it almost sounded as if she had simply begun her sentence with ‘hat’ but for a faint whisper that preceded it. Before Petr could try to calm her, she had marched outside, where she soon realized there was no lie when the letter stated their home of two decades had shifted by two meters unnoticed. She gave a little gasp, before buckling onto the lawn in tears. His daughter, who in her youth did not quite grasp the gravity of the situation, put her arms around her mother and walked her inside, darting a look of culpability at her father. “But what are we to do?” Petr’s wife cried as she was led into the drawing room. “The authorities will surely knock our home down! We have not the means to compensate financially. How could such misfortune befall us? As if our lives are not stretched as it is!” Indeed, Petr was working a considerable amount of overtime at his job as a clerk at the central train station. His salary could not be allocated any further, not least for a lengthy legal process. “How could you have let this happen?” asked his wife when he came back inside, “you know we cannot afford any mishaps at this point in our lives.” Petr stuttered, he could not think of a way to explain that nothing in his power could have prevented this freak occurrence from happening. In any case, as the man and the householder, he could hardly pin responsibility on his wife, less still his daughter. Instead he reassured her, “I will speak to Mr. Angelson. We have lived beside each other for many years and always been on good terms. Remember how he complimented that blueberry crumble you so kindly baked him when his wife had fallen sick? I am certain that this can be resolved from neighbour to neighbour and he will soon realise his hastiness in commissioning a letter of this nature.” This seemed to satisfy his wife, as still sniffing slightly, she returned to her cereal. Their daughter still glared at him for making her mother cry, but he sensed some of the edge had been lost on the look she cast him earlier. He would have his breakfast en route to work, Petr thought to himself, and on his return converse with his neighbour in person, regarding his unruly house. As he returned from the workplace Petr reflected on what a struggle his job had been that day. His role was quite a straightforward administrative one, and if anything he generally found that it underworked him, and he frequently impressed his superiors with his efficiency. This day, however, he was so distracted by his recent misfortune that he was confronted by his manager, Mr. Sterk, while staring into space. This surprised even Petr himself, and he was grateful that his clean track record in the past allowed him to appease Mr. Sterk from any serious complaint, nevertheless he was grateful when the day was done and he was able to hurry home and discuss the case with Mr. Angleson. “Rodrik, hello.” “Mr. Drunns.” After a silent pause, the door was held open and Petr stepped into the Angelson’s comparatively disciplined home. He followed the host’s suit in taking a chair in the drawing 22. The Rashomon Effect
room, and noticed Mrs. Angelson standing nervously in the doorway. Mr. Angelson waved her away and leant in towards Petr, waiting for him to start the proceedings. “I received a certain letter this morning,” started Petr, “informing me of your desire to take legal action over the movement of my house.” “Indeed,” said Mr. Angelson, “I do not understand how you thought such a thing would go unnoticed.” “Yes, but I had no part to play in any of this business,” Petr pleaded, “how do you imagine I moved our house without raising any attention?” “I do not wish to dwell on how this unfortunate situation came to be set in motion, it is not the cause with which I am concerned, simply the effects.” Mr. Angelson sat up, adjusting his tie. “As you can see, it is these effects that are causing my wife and I a considerable amount of distress. We felt that the most succinct way to end it was to immediately hand the matter over to our solicitors, I’m sure you understand.” “But can you not see how I am helpless to undo that which I had no role in the doing of?” replied Petr desperately. “How do you imagine my home moved onto your land? No man could possibly initiate such action.” “As I said before,” Mr. Angelson explained calmly, “I am not concerned with the action, more the consequent lack of action. In fact, I would be quite content if your home moved daily; that would not prompt me to raise any questions whatsoever of your integrity, but when said home deposits itself on my land, I am left little choice, as a man, but to act.” “Rodrik, I implore of you. This infringement is nothing compared to that which my family will suffer in the event of legal proceedings.” Mr. Angelson cut him off abruptly, “I don’t know what more I can say. My position is clear; it is now up to your own initiative to resolve this as peacefully as possible.” Petr went to engage Mr. Angelson once again, with stronger words, but then thought better of it. He wished his now prosecutor good evening and made the brief walk back into his own home, a walk which was now apparently a good two metres shorter. Petr’s wife and daughter did not take kindly to the news of this result. In fact, as the weeks leading up to the preliminary hearing went by, their resentment grew. Petr’s wife, now adamant that their home would be lost, cancelled the next book club meeting she was due to host, and took the opportunity, when questioned on her reason for doing so, to inform her friends of her woes. Petr’s daughter too became the subject of mockery at her school, as from mother to mother their story was leaked. She received taunts that she was a ‘gypsy girl’ and many more an insult regarding the uselessness of her father. His family spoke to him less and less, and the icy silence of the evening meals were punctuated only by a request for a condiment. Petr’s managers had also noticed his increasing distraction, and on the last day of the week Mr. Sterk took him to one side to remind him that his position was not unassailable, and he that should think seriously over the weekend about how he planned to embark on the next week. Petr of course knew that the next week would undoubtedly lead to more firm words from his managers, as it would be on Monday that he would be fully enlightened of his legal position regarding Mr. Angelson, and he did not have high expectations of a satisfying resolution. to be continued... The Rashomon Effect 23.
Polarbear Spoken word artist Polarbear defines his craft: Poet? Rapper? or writer? By Colin Delaney Art by Goonism
‘I’m a nerd’ opens Polarbear. A confessional not about his social presence but rather his obsessive nature over word choice. The British spoken word performer whose passport reads Steven Camden, says ‘anything that I share with an audience has been considered, reconsidered and gone through with a fine toothed comb.’
99% of them would probably paint a picture of a skinny, white, whiney, middle/upper class student type who has no real worries if he’s got time to fret over how to express his melancholy through words. That stigma is a bitch. If people want to call it poetry I’m alright with that but that’s not something I imagine myself ever calling it.’
He gets obsessed with the rhythms of speech and rhyme patterns. ‘Cadence, meter, breath and patterns are all really important to me’. As a result his words flow effortlessly, even if sometimes it feels like his tongue tumbles them out. That’s the point.
He stumbled into spoken word via hip hop.
‘Do I feel like a rapper? Sometimes (less and less).’
‘ Do I feel like a poet? No.’
He started rhyming at 16 on the quiet and openly since he was 20. And by the time he did his first spoken word gig he had been working on musical projects for years.
‘At no point did the word ‘poetry’ come into it for me. I had and have no designs on being called a poet or being thought of as one. Of course, it doesn’t help that if you asked the entire population to describe a poet then
‘At the time I had no idea what spoken word was but quickly became excited by it. I wasn’t a rapper grafting for a break who turned to spoken word for a way in; there are enough of them already.’
24. The Rashomon Effect
In collaboration with producer Afrosaxon, and vocalist Stac, the project Afrobear has seen a swag of hip hop tracks, though lots
swearwords and all - the lyrics to ‘Straight Outta Compton’. Polarbear drops just once that the boy’s name is his, Steven.
lost in the hard drive fire of 2005. ‘I’m getting older now so I’m less and less marketable [as a rapper] which means the likelihood of something coming out that’s not self-released is less and less.
So why is spoken word so underground while hip hop permeates every corner of mass culture?
From the rap world, his influences are some of the finest and freshest MCs: MF Doom, De La Soul, Pharoahe Monch and Aesop Rock. About the benefits of spoken word of rap, he says, ‘the freedom of no sound behind you always seemed to me to be an opportunity to set a bar where you are making music from words and that music could go wherever it liked at any point.’ Sometimes however he wears his influences on his sleeve. ‘Music is My Medicine’ is a homage to N.W.A rhyming patterns as well as the band’s important role as an outlet in so many frustrated youth. “Once upon a time, in a land where the men tattoo love and hate both on one hand” it begins, to tell the story of a boy caught in a dysfunctional family. After his mother tells the kids their father has left, the boy brings to the kitchen table the N.W.A tape he hid for fear of taking a lick from his old man. Into a wooden spoon mic, the three remaining family members vent -
‘I think it comes down to attention and stigma. It’s easier to listen to somebody speak over a beat because it’s what we’re now used to. When a person just starts speaking it’s less compromising and we feel slightly on edge because it feels unusual. The Rashomon Effect 25.
This is crazy of course ‘cos spoken word is one of the oldest forms in the world but we grow up now thinking that if someone is
capture me.’ Admittedly, his content is not as grim as Bukowski but no less honest, run through with that same fine-toothed comb.
speaking on their own they’re either: a) someone really serious b) a comedian or c) actually crazy. Poets can be all or any of these things I guess but the forums for people to simply listen to spoken word are virtually non-existent next to the platforms for music and rap.’
‘I try to tell the tales of the million stories you walk through on your way into town, the lives behind curtains and the TV screens of windows at night. Stories are brilliant and I just don’t think there are enough being told that feel relevant to where I’m from.’
‘It’s always going to have that niche feel to it and to be honest I’m sure most poets celebrate that. Why would an artist want to reach a level of saturation with their form? It makes no sense unless you are a creative businessman rather than an actual maker.
A standout of Polarbear’s work is ‘Jessica’ - a love story that begins as a schoolyard crush that touches on football, freckles and licks from your mother’s shoe and unravels through the years to graduation, marriage and parenthood. It’s paced elegantly with grace and poise, humour and honesty. Idealistic? Maybe but it’s the idiosyncratic moments that ground the story to reality. When you put this down, Youtube it.
‘What do I consider myself to be? A writer.’ Not just rappers, Polarbear also namechecks Neil Diamond, Nick Drake, his Granddad, Diego Maradona and Charles Bukowski as influences, before adding, ‘I get really inspired by people who can do something I can’t do. Carpenters amaze me, the really good ones.’ It’s Bukowski that resonates. Bukowski’s insight into the daily duldrums and ho-hums of working class life roughed up every dirty follicle of detail to the surface to display in plain view. Having grown up in Birmingham within the educated working class Polarbear too finds inspiration in the everyday that has triggered quotes in the media like “Polarbear’s everyday tales” and “Finding the beauty in the day to day”. ‘I never set out to be an everyman type character. [But] characters are what 26. The Rashomon Effect
‘For me the story was always less about this girl and more about the fact that I could be capable of finding something that was constant. That I could allow myself to have a fantasy of a life that didn’t go horribly wrong and not feel cheesy for saying so.’ ‘Jessica is just a girl’s name I really like and that I use a lot ‘cos the nerd in me likes things seemingly crossing over and being referenced.’ For a guy who stumbled into spoken word (as he states, his second ever gig was Glastonbury 2005) and doesn’t consider himself a poet and less of a rapper, Polarbear collected a wide selection of projects; music, performance pieces, club nights and a one-man film ready to debut. A writer he is.
Broken
By Polarbear
To those of the broken homes x-rays showing up close two broken domes they sip cans while they’re smoking cones, but always shows respect with well spoken tones family moans, they know it’s a tragedy many a night a dem spent up in casualty if it’s a fight then you know he had to be getting involved for the underdog happily but young paws can’t fight laws of gravity lay in the gutter feel the moment of pure clarity that’s the vision make a decision hear the voice in the back of the mind, time to listen stop aftershock of the brain a few twitches in a room with umpteen new stitches, and yes the nurse was cute but you’re stupid another mug of a thug she can’t do with and maybe, just for a second your eyes meet but then she gets you back on your feet and out on the street she may have seen that beneath the foolish meat there lay a boy who was warm, cool and sweet it doesn’t matter battered and clattered and as a matter of fact you’ll probably see her next week, cos underneath warm glove lies a fist that’s ever ready to throw when eyes pissed and there’s no bull of a man denies mist when the flames reach boiling point, the fire kissed And they say, ‘he’s mad at himself’ and they say, ‘he’s crying for help’ and they say, a whole lot of stuff as they watch from afar what they don’t live themselves The Rashomon Effect 27.
Notes/Ideas
– The Rashomon Effect –