Of Summer, Covid-19, Love and Loss (Poem: July 2021)
Photograph AHF 2021
Shall we sing tales of how the hours were spent, Alone with nought to keep us safe, but fears? For Summer’s wonder must we now repent, and curse the days we had to dry the tears?
It seems we took the chance to throw the towel, A gauntlet versus viral’s killing spree; Beneath the sun we bathed to wash afoul, To rinse the eyes of horrors all could see.
So thus we smiled, we read, we talked, we wrote – uncarved, the distance holding fast like stone; Our souls combined as one by one we note an end to cares for which we now atone.
In naïve hope, we dreamed the battle won; Believing nought that death had just begun.
Shaking, she stalks the hallways: Brindled Fury. Jaundiced, bubbling Not even beneath the surface Un-stable and seething. Trying not to keep composure Trying not to keep explo…
Sure; So sure of righteous entitlement Sure that someone else bears the blame (Actually they do…) Sure to wear her best face forward, Sure to put her happy frown upside-down; Trying not to keep losing grip of the only thing she values — sure!
Every mistake is logged and noted, Trimmed and trotted – An allusionary illusion of false control. Brindled Fury blazes, A super-novic shot of novocaine Direct to the jugular. No vocative hero stands a chance As she burns to ashes The very bridges that she stands upon.
Crying, she holds her head in painful pose, Erratic movement, Must hurt to be so suddenly unveiled A lightning flash; Unbridled: Fragility – that her fragile mind won’t let her see –
Mottled, sallow, shallow, sickly. Unhealthy as the world to which she screams, A toxic sludge of slurried slurrs Character Assassination Bystanders, innocent collateral damage – Or witnesses to the crime.
Yet unclear the very same is undefined, Rattles deathly – furious chimes of a brindled clock-face – can’t unwind, Can’t rewind, Can’t pre-wind, Unravelling beneath the weight of time; Which never grants itself enough.
Unimaginably profound pity flows; There is no hate, there is no anger, (Not direct or targeted) No fury… But merely understanding that fact – She doesn’t have a choice. She doesn’t know her actions. She doesn’t have a voice.
She DOES have a chance – but not the wherewithal to take it.
Exhaustion weeps, then, from every ounce, Energy expended beneath the heavy lids.
I am sorry I cannot help you more. But there is nothing more that I can… Help.
Living in a Covid-19 world sucks. I don’t think this is something that we need to argue about. More and more of my friends and colleagues have been struck down, as have students I’ve been working with. Globally cases are soaring and everything seems to be a little bit crappy. (Note the use of casual British understatement!)
Yet even before Covid-19 there has been a family of viruses that plagues humanity, especially us asthmatics, year on year without fail. A virus family without a cure, without a care and without a conscience. A family of Rhinos that rampage through our immune systems like the proverbial virus in a pharmaceutical shop!* It turns us into violent (-ly sneezing), mucus-filled balls of misery and makes us crave foul-tasting medicinal hot drinks and single-handedly take out half a forest’s worth of tissues.
I am, of course, talking about the common cold (a large number of which are caused by a variety of Rhinoviruses and other Coronaviruses).
Fair warning, some of this piece is a pity-post because when I started writing I felt like hell and wanted to vent my frustration into the universe. Woe is me etc. etc.** Underneath that, however, is actually quite an important point about those of us who live with chronic lung conditions such as asthma or COPD and how we often struggle through the Winter months at the best of times. This is made even more complex by Covid-19, mask-wearing and unpredictable weather caused by global warming.
A bit of context. I have be asthmatic pretty much all my life. I was diagnosed even before I have my first memory I think*** and it is just something that I live and deal with. I dream of a day when I will finally be able to breathe like a normal person. Alas, short of the singularity, that seems unlikely, but a girl can dream. Anyway, to a greater or lesser extent, asthma has been a pain in my proverbial chest-cavity for an exceptionally long time and I would absolutely not recommend it. (It was actually quite a challenge when I was a child as my father smoked a pipe and I am pretty sure that didn’t exactly help the situation.)
Unsurprisingly, winter is the most difficult time of year. Cold mists constrict the chest, while artificial heating removes all consistency in temperature, and closed windows cause a built up of dust and stale air. Oh, and let’s not get started on rain. It isn’t all bad – I paint a somewhat bleak picture, but I do love the snow and there is nothing better than a walk in the crisp freezing-cold of a dry winter afternoon. If I were ever to live in a warner country I would truly miss this time of year.****
It isn’t easy though, speaking honestly. Asthma is one of those conditions that is so common that people tend to go ‘oh, it’s just asthma’ but in 2016/17, 77,124 people were hospitalised in the UK, while in 2017, 1,484 people died from asthma-related illness (according to Asthma UK). This is not helped at all by the ‘common cold’ and the sometimes devastating effect it can have.
I’ve had more than my fair share of wheezing my way to the bathroom and coughing up half a lung just for daring to try and talk in the morning. I can sit and do literally nothing while my chest rattles and I struggle for breath. On top of which, conventional asthma medication does next to nothing to help with symptoms caused by an external virus.
My asthma is mild – relatively speaking.
So when Covid-19 first reared it’s (actually rather pretty, for a virus) head, I was naturally very worried. Once it became apparent that this wasn’t just any old flu, but actually something to take notice of, my anxious ears began to prick. I was actually lucky, health-wise, during the Winter of 2019/2020. My main concern was finding a job after leaving teaching and when I did I thought I would be settled and sorted. Then the cases, the deaths, started to rise.
Fear. Genuine fear for my life. Before there was a vaccine, before there was any hope. I was careful and I followed the rules. Did I really think I would die? – No, probably not. Did I think I could be very very unwell for a long time? – Definitely. I was lucky.
Many people weren’t.
As mentioned already, for asthmatics and the like, winter can be challenging. ‘Any old flu’ can really do a number on you. So Covid was a whole new level. For some reason I actually resisted self-imposed isolation and social distancing. I think I didn’t quite understand how bad it was, I was new to a job and wanted to show my willingness to work even in tough times, working from home sounded like a pain; and truly many people still reckoned it would all just blow over in a couple of weeks.***** Eventually lockdown started to happen, masks were everywhere. We all kinda know the rest.
What I didn’t, though possibly should have, and expect was that during much of 2020 and the winter of 2021 I was actually healthier in some ways than I’d ever been – illness-wise. Masks, sanitiser and social distancing meant that I didn’t have a cold or anything for the best part of two years. It wasn’t until December 2021 that I became really unwell thanks to a combination of staff-room illnesses and a stress-weakened immune system.
Despite this, I still cough and wheeze on a fairly regular basis. It’s part of how my lungs (don’t) work. I also sometimes really struggle to wear masks due to being literally unable to breathe.****** God forbid you coughing in front of someone nowadays!!! *cough cough wheeze* It’s not Covid, I promise, I just can’t breathe properly! *cough cough*
Some people look at me like I’ve just pointed a pistol at their face and asked them if they have a taste for lead poisoning!
I’m not sure how much of a point I’ve really made with this piece. We all know how challenging Covid has been. Asthma, meanwhile, is a bastard that has made the last two years much scarier for some of us. Sometimes, then, it is just nice to poke a little bit of fun at the big things. If you enjoyed reading this at all then I’ve probably done something right. If not, well there’s no accounting for taste! 🤪
Perhaps I don’t really need to make much of of a point at all. With one exception, perhaps:
Please, during the winter months spare a thought for those in your life whose lungs are uncooperative, who are coughing and wheezing all over the place – they might well need you do to them a solid and pass an inhaler!!!
—
* This isn’t a thing is it…? Have I mixed up my proverbs again?!
**I’ll definitely feel better after doing so, right? Right?!
*** There are actually two candidates for this. Either it is one morning when I drew a masterpiece on the brick wall of the living room in chalk while my parents were sleeping – much to their delight. Or when I inadvertently downed a whole glass of whisky thinking that it was apple juice (it took me until my 20s to actually appreciate good blended whisky).
**** I do want to have Christmas in Summer at least once in my life, though! Maybe when I am rich and famous…
***** Couple of years later and look at us now! How little we knew what lay ahead. And still don’t.
****** Unlike you, Karen, who just wants to make a fuss for nothing! You know who you are! (I still will wear a mask if asked, by the way, because I’m not a selfish idiot.)
Originally written as a song when I was much (much…!) younger, this piece still resonates with me today. Explicit links to the holocaust and other genocides are fairly obvious throughout, with a similarly strong anti-war sentiment. Beneath that, though, is similarly an attempt to grasp at a feeling that modern society is itself (or at least might be) a long pathway to a place that we don’t really want to get to as a society – nor as individuals. Perhaps it is a warning, perhaps a reflection… perhaps both or neither.
Walking down past the old railroad, Destruction painted in the very name, Where in the flames they were consumed, And left there, writhing, crying out in pain. But I keep walking on and on, With a peace that they could never obtain, And, with sombre tears, I pass alone.
Then I see your face, And I know it’s all lost.
Later on, down the same road, On the horizon I see a distant cloud, and suddenly, like a swarm in front of me, a hoard of people gather around. But all of them are blind, And cannot hear the sound, Of death forging on ahead.
Then I see your face, And I know it’s all gone.
Opening, slowly, the heavy gates, I see a living hell, Smell the burning souls, tortured, With no voices left to tell Of the horrors that happened there. Somewhere in the darkness I hear a bell, Signalling a change that comes too late.
Then I see your face, And I know that I’m to blame.
Dedicated to my wife Helen Houghton-Foster (Poem: June 2021)
A view across Wastwater Lake. I am the white dot in the middle!
The golden sheen embossed the Summer sky, while swimming through the crystal waters fresh, and time itself goes ever trundling by, dancing, rhythmic thro’ transcendental flesh.
Could love and peace, so tranquil, be as days, of perfect, playful, light and symmetry? Is testament enshrined in glist’ning rays to bounce anon flights of youthful fancy?
Why Yes! For surely heaven’s hosts adore, with laughter, that which floods and swells our breasts, in time we spent upon the rocky shore, of Wastwater; gentle rippling ne’er rests.
The hardest choice I ever made: to go, to leave that place where mem’ries mirrors flow.
In memoriam of early Summer walks – (Poem: June 2021)
Photograph AHF 2021
A sweeter Sunday never could be found, Than in the place where sun-light meets the sea, And waters flow and grasses grow unbound, Midst gentle waves that wash our troubles free.
Whence, though it blazed with basking brilliant light, We strolled among the flowers, wild, in bloom, The blossom glances up to lofty heights, Or falls and meets where endless ends resume.
Yet though we strive to leave a lasting mark, Upon the whims of nature’s siren song, We are but passing, raging ‘gainst the dark, That creeps or moves our restless minds along.
Tonight I sleep with you in time well-spent, With cherish’d dreams that let me rest, content.
Shapeless rumbling low and keen, A hum of white noise Against the blue background Of a careless enlightenment.
Staring round at daisies, Dandelions. Budding awareness on the brink of new beginnings, A lasting light that breaks the Barriers, Of mind, Body Nature.
Old as time, routine as the lights that stop and start the flow, Unseen programming that belies… What? Faith? Truth?
Perhaps the knowledge of a better way, Unfelt By crooning songbird’s wing? Midst which the bumbling, Featherless, Fearless, Flight of fancy carried off beneath gentle breezes.
There is no silence. Darkness barely brushes The Surface of teeming enternal spinning, Forraging, Living.
What of the bigger best laid schemes? They bite at words and numbers, Meaningless. When before and after, One way or another, anyway, It turns around again. Nothing. A November kiss On barren lips That fades and shifts beneath; Ephemeral tales told of yore And yet… Forgotten. Under lock and key. Buried long ago, Beneath the trees.
As some might have guessed from my previous posts, I quite regularly find myself on horror binges. More than that, though, I sometimes actively search for unique and interesting horror – I don’t care whether it is violent, scary, psychological, English-language or anything, I am just always on the hunt. One of the most interesting I have seen is Ari Aster’s Midsommar. It blurs the lines between arthouse horror, disturbing human-condition exploration and cult-based mystery in a beautiful depression and grief-filled, drug-hazey understatement. I absolutely love it and will always recommend it to someone in the market for something different!
We’ve all had holidays like this, I’m sure…! 😛
The Tl;Dr Version (No Spoilers)
What an exceptional film – clearly influenced by the likes of the Wicker Man, but yet also unique and with its own distinct flavour. The cinematography and filming is excellent, suitably creepy and unsettling without actually straying too much into unnecessary gore or violence. 9/10. Acting is good, if a little stilted at times because of the writing/nature of the film, Florence Pugh really standing out as a representation of pure grief and despair. 7/10. Being honest and critical, the story is a little convoluted at times, with a few unnecessary additions and filmed sequences that do not really add to the overall whole but rather somewhat unbalance the pacing. 7/10. The ideas and the concepts though are really interesting and the empathy you develop not only towards Pugh’s character, but also towards the cultists themselves is startling. 9/10.
Overall, then, a solid 8/10 and a definite recommendation.
The Detailed Version (Spoiler Alert)
I have a slight confession to make: it has actually been a while since I watched Midsommar and some of the details are a little faded at this point. An excuse to re-watch it you say? Well yes, definitely, except that I currently do not have a spare 2hrs and 20mins! I know to start the detailed version with a negative is perhaps a little unfair to what I think is a great film, but I think it is important to get out of the way before moving to the good bits!
The pacing and runtime of the movie is, to be honest, a little too much. Extended sequences where nothing at all happens, random sub-plots (clearly designed to showcase extra details of the cult) and lingering slow-motion shots sometimes makes the film drag as you wait for the next thing to actually happen. The viewer knows what is about to happen and is left just that little bit too long waiting for it to actually get there.
This is somewhat compounded by the occasional stiltedness of the writing/acting. In fairness to the actors and the film in general, some of this is stylistic rather than a comment on acting skill and ability. As an exploration of grief and descent into… I don’t want to say madness, but certainly letting go of social norms, it works in principle but over the whopping run-time it does begin to trudge along.
Right. I’ve paid dues to the negatives. Now to the positives. Starting with: Florence Pugh. I absolutely adore her – and am totally terrified of crossing her. Since Midsommar she has become something of a household name due to her portrayal of Yelena Belova (the new Black/White Widow of the MCU), but at the time she was just at the beginning of her journey to stardom. This was a perfect choice. It made her more relatable, without the reflection of previous characters in her repertoire, and really helped me with immersion. Her grief and shock, alongside the above-mentioned downward spiral, are tangible and real. Jack Raynor then balances this perfectly with distant and insensitive boyfriend, while Vilhelm Blomgren acts as the bait to lure in the prey. Indeed, Blomgren is so good that you actually forget that he is technically the cause of multiple deaths. Unfortunately the other characters are somewhat more forgettable, and rather than fearing for their deaths the viewer ends up actually rooting for them.
But herein lies the main point – this is not a story about the entitled Americans, but about the community and its victims. Central to the plot is the anthropological oddity that is the Hårga commune, not only for the characters but for the audience as well. I found myself not really caring about anyone other than Dani and the cultists. Intertwined with this, the examination of grief and those left behind by suicide and death – highlighted by the contrast between Dani’s family and the cult – was excellent and provided much of the raw emotion that drives a film such as this. Aster has claimed that the film is a ‘breakup movie’ but for me at least this undersells the setting and background that shape the narrative and, quite frankly, are what makes it work.
You really cannot discuss a film such as Midsommar without drawing some parallels to the Wicker Man and the connection that these two most definitely have – whether they want to or not! The rural, cult-based, pagan, not-quite-horror-and-yet feeling is somewhat unique to these two films – probably because it is actually something that is very difficult to achieve as a filmmaker. In both, cinematography is key to the immersive experience, with stunning vistas and creepy cult goings-on. Yet Wicker Man, famously, was a low-budget mess that later rose to cult excellence with numerous production issues and recuts. Midsommar is clearly in a different league and, while I do think it could have done with a little more editing, it was clearly made with care and love for the craft.
Thing is, folk-horror is a niche that, while receiving something of a comeback in recent years, still sits on the periphery of the horror repertoire. You have to be in the right mood for it. Then, even if you are, you need to be willing to sit with the slow burn. This might be a problem for a viewer looking to sit back, relax and settle in for a scare.
Midsommar does not do this. It makes you think. It makes you question what you would do in that situation. It makes you invest in characters that you least expect. It is tense and scary, but in much the same way that simply being a human being is tense and scary. It excels not in the fear of a ‘big bad’, but in the realisation that being human is hard and sometimes, just sometimes, the idea of moving to a remote location with minimal technology is exactly what we all desire – and who knows what could happen if we got there.
An Ode to a 24hr Blood Pressure Monitor (Poem 24.5.21)
Regular as a clockwork balloon, The huff-puffing signifier of health, Fitted by surprise, on a Monday afternoon, Beeps away with no pretention of stealth, All to prove a point we already know.
Not like there was any choice in the matter… Irregularities in my own ticking cocoon, Belie an unseen hand chipping away, Dancing along to her own mad tune, Silently plotting (clotting?!) day on day, While tomorrow’s rhythm remains a mystery.
Rolling with a fait accompli accompaniment… Set by the Watchmaker, in flesh was hewn, Magnificent singularities of mortal coil, That fight, by sun and star and moon, Inevitability, routine, the endless toil, Always and on until there are no more.
It would have been nice to have a warning…
Commentary
One of the challenges I have been facing in 2021 is the discovery that my blood pressure has been dangerously high for quite some time. This poem was written out of frustration and annoyance when I was fitted with a 24hr blood pressure monitor without any prior notice. I received a letter inviting me for an echocardiogram that turned out to be something else completely. I was rather miffed. However, after a series of tests etc. I have finally figured out what’s what and am on a treatment plan, which is great. Much unlike the damned monitor on my arm when I wrote this piece!
AHF Writes 