Ticket To Ride, Book 2, Chapter 20: Hold the best of him and don’t be false…

East Finchley SignTwenty

Livy’s mind slipped back to that December day in 1967. She and Trudy were back from Blackfriar’s Bridge and her mother had put together a small surprise party for her birthday.

“Happy Birthday love,” she says.

“Oh thank you so much mum, Livy replies, “is this all for me?”

There’s a birthday cake with waxy numbers in the shape of 10. Beside it is a box the size of a typewriter and a smaller box the size of a pencil  or pen holder.

“I can guess what those are, “ says Livy as her father walks into the room noticeably drunk.

“A fools paradise is all that bloody is. You’re just a stupid little girl.”

Livy looks to her mother for redemption or at least a kind word in her defense. Say something mum, she thinks.

“And you the bloody blind leading the blind, you daft cow.”

Her mother says nothing. Can’t say anything. The repercussions would be more than she could bear. She’s broken, and can’t be mended.

Oh mum, Livy thinks, if only he weren’t here, how wonderful it could have been.

“What about Trudy?”

“Forget it Livy,” her father says and takes the typewriter to the rubbish bin.

 

10218780_1Present Day (1979)

East Finchley, council flat, mum. Brick, grey skies, orange flowered, threadbare couch and that God awful painting of the toreador. Three years and I’m back.

“Livy I miss your father,” said Livy’s mother.

“He was a bastard  mum.”

“Please don’t say that Liv.”

“He was.”

“Drop your sulky teenage attitude for a minute.”

“There you go mum, let me have it.”

“Hmm?”

You’re sticking up for yourself.”

“Oh, I guess I am.”

“I’m so much more grown up when I’m not here.”

“Try to be that for me now.”

“I’m sorry mum, it’s just that I don’t have much good that I remember. He was a drunk and so damn angry all the time.”

“I wish you knew how wonderful he could be. It’s just that he got old too young. And well, when you came, he didn’t know how to be a father and felt inept. He wasn’t good at little girls.”

“Are you saying if I was a boy…”

“I’m not saying anything of the sort. It’s just that he’d closed himself off to me and you represented a challenge he couldn’t face. Your grown now and I want you to know that neither of us would have had you any other way, but he was closed. He tried but he was closed.”

“But you went away with him.”

“Livy I…”

“Let me speak this time mum. The valium, the naps, the wine, you let him take you with him and I was alone most of the time.”

“I remember you loved books.”

“Books were all I had, and Trudy.”

“But whether you remember or not, your father spent a lot of time reading to you when you were a child. He gave you that love.”

“I wanted love not books.”

“Don’t be disrespectful.”

“Children want love mum. Little girls want to love their daddies as much as their mommies. I’ve stayed away from men because he was what I thought they were.”

Livy’s mother began to cry.

“I’m sorry love,” she said to Livy.

“It’s ok mum. I’m ok. I just don’t want you to slip into some phony soft reverie of him. He hit you mum.”

“That’s enough now Livy.”

She began to cry harder and moved toward Livy and they hugged. Livy became the mother.

“I love you mum and I don’t want you to cry,” Livy said.

“So stop now lovey.”

“Just be ok without him mum. Hold the best of him and don’t be false.”

Livy reached into her pocket and pulled out a poem.

“Here mum. I just wrote this. It’s nothing, but maybe something.”

 

80

when I’m 80

I may,

God willing,

forget,

all the ages I’ve been and all the things I’ve done

and be spared the pain of

wishing to return to places I can’t go back to

and being with people who are not who they once were or,

are dead.

when I’m 80

I will,

God willing,

remember,

all the ages I’ve been and all the things I’ve done

and feel the joy of a life lived.

Advertisements

A mosaic of haunting – soothing – mellow – and unforgettable sounds…

fox“Fox Elipsus is a mosaic of haunting – soothing – mellow – and unforgettable sounds that move all of those who look for depth truth and beauty in music. It is full of the peaceful and passionate political environmental and human messages of John Lennon and Gandhi. Fox believes in peace and love and these songs are as passionate and moving as his beliefs.”

My name is Fox Elipsus. I love doing this more than anything you could imagine. From the moment I started doing this professionally I knew I had found the thing that I would spend the rest of my life doing.

I was born in Oxford, England. I am partly Persian, mostly English, and a little Irish too. I speak a few languages, I have been to a lot of countries, including parts of Africa and Asia. My life has given me a unique and unbiased perspective on the world and ideas about how we might work towards peace and fair government in the future.

I try to make the most honest, heartfelt, personal, important, and powerful music imaginable. My music is meant for all age groups, all races, and all nationalities. There is no age group or demographic that likes my music more or less than any other. That gives me hope for the future.

I intend to play a show in every country of the world. I work 24 hours a day, every day, on bringing my dream and my music to life. If you would like to help, e-mail me at elipsus@gmail.com

I am trying to bring meaningful and deep messages back to music, similar to John Lennon. I’m from Oxford England (yes I have an accent) and I have an insatiable drive to reach the world with these words and songs. I hope the world will listen for a moment or more. Something amazing is happening. In the space of a few months I have found thousands of new fans that are soothed and inspired by my music, all over the world. It is growing rapidly, and I want you to be a part of it from the start. I am looking for friends, fans, supporters and promoters. Please listen.

http://www.elipsus.net

Easter Sunday – 15 Oxford Road, Goshen, NY sat on an acre of springtime green…

egg_huntEaster Sunday – 15 Oxford Road sat on an acre of springtime green…

by Philip Scott Wikel

The house that surrounded them at lunchtime was an extension of Olivia and Morgan’s inner life. 15 Oxford Road sat on an acre of springtime green. An entire wall of the living room was filled with books ranging in their subjects from the influence of sea power on ancient history to the collected essays of H.L. Mencken to the essential Basho and a modest attempt at creating a library of the classics. Paintings, in some places floor to ceiling, chronicled the developments and pinnacles of several movements; Olivia’s favorite being the Impressionists. For Morgan it was the Fauves.

Philodendrons, Boston Ferns, and Ficus trees gave the house the feeling of a jungle, especially at that moment in April of Dylan’s eighth year. And Dylan liked being eight, especially since today was Easter Sunday and they’d just returned from the annual Easter Egg Hunt.

The hunt was held around the imposing stone structure of the Presbyterian Church. The grass of the grounds was as green as Ireland and the spires of grey stone in the center of this was no less magnificent to the citizens of Goshen than the Eiffel Tower. It seemed that every kid in town was there if not every kid in the world and the hunt was alive with the same excitement as the classic foxhunts of old England. All of Dylan’s friends were there but today it was understood among them that it was every man for himself. There were only a few golden eggs to be found and golden eggs were not something one could share.

“All right,” Dylan said to Franklin and the boys as they awaited the whistle from Mayor Whittingham, “may the best man win.”

The whistle blew and they were off. Every squirrel in the vicinity dashed for points north, south, east, and west as the hordes descended on the trees, bushes, stones and benches around the church.

“Remember the Alamo!” one boy yelled as he made his way to the front of the pack and toward the thick shrubbery where it was guaranteed there’d be treasure. Dylan took a slower tack. He watched the crowd fan out over the grounds and then made note of the places being overlooked. He then systematically inspected each patch of bushes and stones the others had passed. In one he found a baseball, in another, a Yo-Yo. He was down to two patches now. His father, not understanding his plan, yelled, “Over here Dylan!” Dylan glanced at his father and smiled but continued toward his aim. In the first patch there was a bag of Jelly Beans “this is getting sweeter,” Dylan thought. From there he moved to the final patch. He saw, in the corner of his eye, another kid breaking away from the crowd. Dylan quickened his pace and made it to the spot just seconds before Skeeter Hanlon, the town bully. He felt his heart pounding out of his chest as he reached down through the bushes, pushed aside a stone, and wrapped his sweating hand around the Golden Egg. “It’s mine he thought. I’ve done it.”

Dylan turned toward the crowd looking for the Mayor. Dylan bolted in his direction, catching sight of his father as he ran. He held the egg up over his head and smiled. His father smiled back, then moved in the direction of the church, the mayor standing on a makeshift stage near the front door.

“You’ve done it young man,” said Mayor Whittingham, shaking Dylan’s hand, “now hang tight until the rest are done with their search, and I’ll present the Grand Prize.”

News of the discovery traveled fast and many of the children abandoned the hunt, leaving many treats undiscovered. A crowd gathered around the Mayor and a reverent hush came over the green lawn. As the Mayor extended his hand, Dylan stepped up to the stage and saw the eyes of all the kids he knew from Sunday School, and quite a few more. Mr. Whittingham broke the seal around the egg, removed a slip of paper, and read:

“The finder of this Golden Egg is entitled to anything priced up to $100.00 at Lippincott’s Toy Store”.

“Yes!,” Dylan exclaimed as his parents and Grandpa Felix made their way to the front of the crowd.

“You did it kid,” his father said, “you’re the man of the day.”

Black Boys on Mopeds by Sinéad O’Connor

41g93ABZ+dLOn a lighter note:

There have been a few people since the 60s and 70s who’ve tried to wake us up. It’s too bad they’re so few and far between.

Black Boys on Mopeds by Sinéad O’Connor

Margaret Thatcher on TV
Shocked by the deaths that took place in Beijing
It seems strange that she should be offended
The same orders are given by her

I’ve said this before now
You said I was childish and you’ll say it now
“Remember what I told you
If they hated me they will hate you”

[America’s] not the mythical land of Madame George and roses
It’s the home of police who kill black boys on mopeds
And I love my boy and that’s why I’m leaving
I don’t want him to be aware that there’s
Any such thing as grieving

Young mother down at Smithfield
5 am, looking for food for her kids
In her arms she holds three cold babies
And the first word that they learned was “please”

These are dangerous days
To say what you feel is to dig your own grave
“Remember what I told you
If you were of the world they would love you”

[America’s] not the mythical land of Madame George and roses
It’s the home of police who kill blacks boys on mopeds
And I love my boy and that’s why I’m leaving
I don’t want him to be aware that there’s
Any such thing as grieving.