A Passionate Hallow

 

Hallow there…

This was made by HOLSTEE, whose tagline is “Lifestyle goods, designed with a conscience.”

You can find out more about them here: http://shop.holstee.com/pages/about

I think it’s marvellous, and have had it as my profile pic on Facebook for the last few months, as a constant reminder.

Change is constant. I find the Holstee Manifesto, as well as other inspirational affirmations, to be very useful in keeping me optimistic and motivated to pursue fulfillment. Which seems to be a pretty good contender as answer to the question: What is my purpose?

Last time I wrote I was trying to help launch a new local magazine called ‘Dharma’. Unfortunately, I couldn’t raise enough advertising revenue to make it viable, which is a shame because there was no shortage of wonderful local people willing to contribute articles and columns, or be subjected to interviews. I would have enjoyed writing about local arts, and curating what I hoped to be a real community magazine. But it was not to be.

So it was time to move on, and quickly, because I’d invested time in the project with no financial gain to show for it, and the need to pay the rent is as constant as change.

Through all the personal change of the last year and a half and beyond, despite the necessity for earning a steady income to keep a roof over my head, my inner self keeps resolutely reminding me that my own self-defined purpose is the most important thing in my life. To pursue fulfillment. Now, obviously my kids and my lovely, beautiful Natasha are of utmost importance to me and bring me much fulfillment, but unless I satisfy my own unique passions, I will never achieve absolute fulfillment, if there is such a thing. I will always be left wanting.

We all have passion: a thing or things that uniquely define our personal sense of well-being and fulfillment. My passion, the thing that drives me, is an overwhelming urge to create.

You see, as a child, I never wanted to be a train driver or doctor, politician or scientist. I always wanted to be a writer. Always. I have very vague memories of my childhood because I was usually lost in my imagination rather than paying attention to the world around me, but I remember reading just about every single book my little primary school had. And I remember, in secondary school, literally running towards the library on the regular school visits.

I was writing too: usually classic fantasy quest stories with dragons and magic swords, or sequels to my favourite books, films or tv shows.

That innate passionate excitement over realms of the fantastic overruled all attempts by my teachers, and anyone else, to convince me to get real and work towards qualifications that would lead me to a respectable job. I did an A level in English, took a year off to explore what it meant to be eighteen, then dove into a Popular Music course, following the whim of creativity.

It was only making babies (ah, that ultimate, wondrous whim of creativity), and learning to be a father that finally provided enough of a distraction to push the urge to create into secondary position.

Now I’m 36 and no longer live with my children, though they do come and stay with me twice a week. That innate passionate excitement and urge to create hasn’t gone away. If anything, it’s increased, and is screaming at me to get the hell on with it. If not now, when?

This urge to create goes beyond sating it in my spare time, if I can help it. I want to spend most of my time immersed in story and music: there are a lot of tales to be told and songs to sung. I’m going for a career and I believe I can do it. Why shouldn’t I? Remember: it’s all I’ve ever wanted.

I’m not looking for personal fame or glory. The ambition, beyond the pure joy of being in the endless magnificent moment of creativity, is that perhaps some people might enjoy, be excited, and inspired by my creativity, as I am by that of others.

So, I’ll work enough to keep a roof over my head, I’ll try to be the best father I can be for my children, and the best companion I can be for my love Natasha, but I’m going for fulfillment. I’m a writer and a musician, and no amount or lack of money is going to change that.

The late Steve Jobs, CEO of Apple Computer, said this at the Stanford Commencement Address in 2005:

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.”

You can watch the entire address here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UF8uR6Z6KLc

or read the transcript here: http://news.stanford.edu/news/2005/june15/jobs-061505.html

It really is a wonderful speech and well worth watching or reading in full.

Steve Jobs’ words, and those of the Holstee Manifesto, and of other inspirational affirmations, resonate like bells in my mind and won’t let go. My heart and intuition is telling me to act upon my passion now, to go all out without all but the most necessary compromise, to believe in myself. And so I shall.

Soon I’ll be launching my new website, which will serve as a hub for my online presence, which includes:

Google+ http://goo.gl/WmCm3

Twitter http://twitter.com/#!/Leigh_Wright_

Facebook http://goo.gl/UVN3S,

Tumblr  http://leighjwright.tumblr.com/

8tracks http://8tracks.com/leighwright

I have a collection of four short stories called ‘Creeps‘ that I promised myself would be done in time for Halloween. It’s done, and I’m in the process of creating a simple self-published edition now. Available soon.

Have you heard of ‘All Hallows Read‘? Last year, Neil Gaiman suggested the wonderful tradition of giving a scary book to someone for Halloween. You can find out more about it here: http://www.allhallowsread.com/

As a gift for All Hallows Read I made the first story from ‘Creeps‘ available to read online. It’s called Haven.

Here it is: https://leighwright.wordpress.com/2011/10/29/haven-2/

I’ll be taking part in this years National Novel Writing Month (#NaNoWriMo) http://www.nanowrimo.org.

The goal: to write 50,000 words in 30 days, starting November 1st. I’ll be writing a dark fantasy story set in my home town Glastonbury.

And that’s just the start.

I’m making tentative steps toward creating my first musical release. I have a novel started years ago that, sitting at 75,000 words, is perhaps a little over halfway done. There is an infinity of expression to fulfill, and there’s no time like now. 

Life is an adventure for every moment that I can make it so. May yours be too!

Happy Halloween/Samhain/Adventures

Leigh

: )

Hallow: “to make holy or sacred, to sanctify or consecrate, to venerate”

HAVEN

 

NOTE: HAVEN has since been revised and updated, and can be found here.

 

He drives fast. He drives with purpose.

He is having the time of his life.

Perhaps you have mistaken me, for I do not mean that he is enjoying himself, oh no. I tell you indeed that Todd Fabini is in fact as miserable as miserable can be.

A year ago today, on Christmas Eve no less, Todd’s wife and daughter died somewhere out on these infinite roads: a tragic accident in icy conditions. 

He hopes the demons of the road show mercy and take him too.

He drives fast. He drives with purpose.

The roads are slick with drizzle as he drives through the night, down unfamiliar country roads at racing speed. So far the tyres grip the tarmac as tightly as his hands grip the steering wheel.

The almost full moonlight illuminates the landscape with wonder, but slithers off Todd’s grim face as if afraid of what it might become. He navigates the road with frantic eyes and a maelstrom mind. 

He deliriously wishes he could go back in time to be with his beloved wife and daughter. This time he would go with them for that last-minute Christmas shopping. 

This time he would drive the car and ensure they all returned home safely.

A lightning-flash image of Jen and Lilly lying on mortician trolleys, naked and pale, covered only by thin white sheets.

They must be cold, he thinks.

And their eyes… 

Their eyes more empty than you can imagine. 

Todd flinches at the memory, and there the demons almost take him. Almost. He makes adjustments by instinct. The car squeals in protest, but continues on.

                                                                           * * *

‘Give it a year,’ Mike had begged him. ‘Give it a year and you won’t have forgotten, but it’ll be easier to live with. Promise me you’ll not do anything rash till then.’

Formerly a man of honour and reason, Todd had made that promise of a year’s abstinence from self-destruction and had kept his word. He had tried to get on with his life. He had gotten on with his life: his job, his friends, and even, briefly, a lover. He could engage himself wherever necessary, sharing a smile or even laughter, but it was always superficial. Gaping despair gnawed relentlessly at the tattered veil of sanity he wore loosely around him.

Now the debt is paid, the promise spent. It is Christmas Eve and all honour and reason is gone. What remains is a different man: a shadow man, a hollow man. The pretence of his life is over. 

What keeps him, you might ask, from simply twisting the wheel and smashing himself against a tree or other suitably hard object? Is it fear of survival, of being pulled from the wreck with horrible injuries from which there would be no escape?

Perhaps, but perhaps it is more than that, for do we not intuit that some destiny lies ahead for him down this dark insidious road?

He drives fast. He drives with purpose.

There are lights out there in the darkness, the moon’s monochrome glow pierced with flashes of green and red. Todd has no idea where he is and does not recognise the building ahead, all aglow with Christmas lights, but his face splits into an involuntary grin as the car’s headlights illuminate a sign: 

              H A V E N

Caught by whim, he pulls into the modest car park. The building has no obvious amenities for wayward travellers. Why it lies out here in the middle of nowhere is a mystery.

There are no other vehicles in sight. He sits in silence for a few moments, window wound down, listening for signs of life. He hears nothing but a wind more insistent than his own breath. 

He steps out of the car and walks towards the building. Cracked golden light streams from frosted windows, mingling with the Christmas lights that dangle from the roof. A painted sign hangs at a right angle from the entrance: rolling countryside shrouded by mist, with a majestic Tor rising above the vapours like a stubby finger pointing towards the heavens. The name of the establishment burnt into an aged wooden plank chained below the sign. 

This is a pub, he realises. The door yields to his pull and he steps inside. 

No Christmas light or decoration in here. Cosy but sparse: a low ceiling supported by beams of ancient oak, the décor a worn red and brown. Tall round tables litter the open-plan room. Faded red leather sofas line the plain walls. A stage squats at the far end, dominated by a sleek black grand piano. 

A modest bar stands to his right, and he walks towards it. Except for our incorporeal selves, it appears that Todd Fabini and the barman are the only ones haunting this establishment tonight, but in truth there is one other.

Todd attempts a smile at the barman, but it is really more of a grimace. The barman seems unperturbed, however, and smiles back warmly. Despite seeming to be approaching his twilight years, perfect white teeth and dazzling azure eyes give the man a startlingly youthful visage. His voice is as smooth as fine silk. 

‘Greetings. What’ll it be?’

Todd surveys the bar for a moment, though he already knows what he wants. ‘I’ll have a double of your finest whiskey.’ 

Curiously dressed in an immaculate black pin-stripe suit, the barman prepares the drink and slides it over on a napkin. ‘This one’s on the house. Take a seat over by the stage. The entertainment will be starting shortly.’

The barman disappears through a curtained alcove before Todd has a chance to thank him or inquire about the nature of the entertainment. With a shrug he takes his drink to one of the tables in front of the stage.

A small, almost insignificant part of him wonders just what the hell he is doing here. The rest of him feels curiously calm, the anguish of this day fading to a dull throb in the back of his mind. 

He is ensnared. 

Lucky that we are disembodied, or we would be caught too. But do not think for a moment that we are beyond the perception of the inhabitants of this place. They know we are here. They simply do not care.

Whiskey, even a double, is not a drink that lasts. Todd drains his glass and has almost regained his faculties when a faint but insistent odour- the scent of some exotic spice, perhaps, washes over him. Gentle and sweet, invigorating and intoxicating, he has never experienced anything like it.

A panel in the wall behind the stage slides back, and she moves into the room: a Being of overwhelming beauty; the living embodiment of the exotic scent that sends soft waves of ecstasy tingling through him.

She does not walk, she flows. Her elaborate movements an art form, her flawless skin the palest pink, legs bare beneath a gossamer dress a perfect match for her enchanting emerald eyes, sublime elfin features embraced by wild poppy-red hair. 

She meets Todd’s gaze, and he is mesmerised. If he were able to express how it feels, he would tell us that his heart, mind, and soul have been laid open. His thoughts, fantasies, insecurities, hopes, dreams and nightmares all there for her pleasure.

An alluring smile dances about her lips as she sits before the piano and begins to play. None, not even the disembodied, can escape the utter abandonment this siren-song brings. How can we describe such a visceral experience with mere words? The piano resonates, following no concordance of musical structure that we have heard or will hear again. She sings without words, the meaning so clear and exquisite, yet drifting beyond the grasp of reason or memory to remain eternally elusive.

We are lost… 

The whim of the song carries us where it will. We are helpless but to be changed by the experience. Forever more we will upon occasion feel a deep melancholy that harkens for that song: that we might experience it again, that we might give ourselves entirely to its utopian melody. Yet the song was not meant for us. We are but privileged witnesses, impossibly powerless in our bodiless omnipotence. 

Then it is over and she stands, drifts over to Todd, kisses him tenderly, then whispers in his ear.

Are we privy to those words? Some sense of rationality returns to us, and yes, we hear what she says: ‘Go live your life, Todd Fabini.’

Words so simple yet laden with such meaning. This is the legacy that we are left with as witness to something that perhaps we should have left well alone. But curiosity is such an intrinsic thing, is it not?

Todd leaves without looking back, his passing as if in dream. 

The moon is hidden now, enveloped by cloud, leaving the night lifeless and cold. The wind whistles obscenities through the landscape, passing through the empty space that only a moment ago was filled with a building adorned with festive lights, beckoning. The pub and its inhabitants are gone, yet somehow we are not surprised. 

Todd gets into his car and sits there a while. It is Christmas morning, though that is meaningless to him. His grief is gone. It has been replaced, consumed by something else that has been evolving in the hollow within him since the death of his wife and daughter.

He would have killed himself rather than succumb to its warm embrace, he realises. If not for her: her flawless beauty, fathomless wisdom and limitless benevolence, he would have ended his own life rather than allow himself to embrace his evolution. 

What a dreadful waste that would have been. 

She has freed him from the constraints of grief, fear and uncertainty. She has shown him the light and it is golden and pure in its intensity.

His mind is a whirlwind of thought:

His wife and daughter should not have been taken from him. There is no justice, and it is pointless aspiring to a sense of goodness in this cruel world that binds us to a pitiful existence of suffering. 

Better to take.

Better to inflict

We leave Todd as he turns the ignition with a maniacal grin.

We retreat, frightened and changed, longing for the comfort of our bodies, homes, family and friends.

We do not know exactly what Todd plans to do next, and we would rather not think about it. But there is one thing we do know:

He drives fast. He drives with purpose.

Copyright ~ Leigh Wright 2011     From the forthcoming collection Creeps.