BURNING BRIDGES
.
A head full of notions, a heart filled with feelings mixed and plentiful, as tired limbs stand once more upon the wooden bridge that dominated my childhood, and peppered my recollections. Jet-lag grips my sinews like a vice, as eyelids falter and the lengthy journey takes it's toll upon my weary flesh. Even the comfort and luxury of business class accommodation could not halt the furtive ramblings of my wandering mind as a series of memories, like snapshots from the lens of my brain, play themselves out and all thoughts of sleeping off the long hours of boredom fly out of the window.
There are downs to living on opposite sides of this beautiful Earth as I am finding out right about now, my light travel bag carefully accommodated in my pristine bedroom which has the same appearance that I recall from those distant days, as though sealed in a time capsule and awaiting my return. I've travelled light, no intention of staying longer than the time needed to honour the written word of deceased hands, ready to face possibly the final insult in a lifetime of missed opportunity and faltering attempts at peacekeeping duties. At least I still have Raymond, who has not changed since my last visit here some five years ago, all but a few more laughter lines perhaps, and a soulless look to those sallow eyes that are tinged with signs of glaucoma, his stubborn resistance to ever wearing spectacles that 'Make me look too old, too young'", as I remember him saying in his glory days. A proud and resolute man, fiercely loyal to the slavery that had him willingly incarcerated within the walls of my family home through course of what seems like his entire lifetime.
For years he tended to my fathers every needs, the eccentricities of my Mother's ways and my childhood memories are filled with our little secrets as he allowed me the freedom of my tender years to play and laugh where my parents demanded that their children be neither seen nor heard. Standing on the bridge, gazing down upon the giant koi carp that surface for air, fixing me with inquisitive eyes as they gulp and dive, I can see my reflection staring back at me. From boy to man, from innocence to experience, a lonely pathway trodden in those formative years when all a child craves is the love and affection of those who created him. I sigh as I think back to a lifetime of longing to be touched, to be held and caressed by my Mother, to be treated as anything other than a consequence of business, a body to carry on the family business and uphold the traditions passed down by decades of toil. If she could have paid another person to go through the pain and trauma of childbirth back then, I swear she would have jumped at the opportunity.
Rebellion is a funny thing, it can be all consuming as a mind sets a course to follow in any direction other than the ones laid down against one's will. As tiny bones grew and the summers came and passed with painful monotony, I made my decision to buck the trend, to stand my ground and be the man I wanted to be rather than the one that was expected of me. Long nights arguing with an authoritarian in his antique library, hands beating wildly upon the old Mahogany table, flushed cheeks and raised tones that could neither deter nor prevent my departure from the family prison that this land had become. Boarding school irritated me to the point of no return and following the embittered footsteps of siblings into the family empire with gold painted letters of conformity etched upon the gaudy glass doors of my own office was never a road of possibility despite the pressure of my peers.
My return here today cuts like a knife, rekindling memories so long now locked away in the troubled confines of my mind. Brooding, seething, bursting with anger, I had made the break and wished a fond farewell to those who, despite their inadequacies, I still very much loved. And those summers of my youth on this bridge, far enough away to be out of earshot, entombed in the beauty of Mother natures ample bosom, sitting on the wooden deck, dipping toes into the icy water as the fish nibbled at them inquisitively. Raymond used to sneak me out tall pitchers of lemonade and my favourite biscuits, telling white lies to pacify the probing questions as to mmy whereaboutshis dapper gait and brylcreemed hair shining in the afternoon sun as he winked and turned towards the house to act as my protector. Now his hair is silver grey, his limbs move slower than they used to, the pain of arthritis in those ageing hips, and tearful eyes as the realization of his master's passing truly hit home.
A privileged childhood that I never asked for, by the age of twenty one I was a fugitive in my parents eyes, five thousand miles away on an entirely different continent, penniless and starving but for a desire to succeed and a will to make something of my life. Time has made me less bitter towards my past, as I place my hands upon the old wooden rails to the bridge of memories. I knew one day this moment would come, curious perhaps as to how I might feel as I unlock the bedroom doors, and retrace those hidden doors I used to escape through that my parents never knew existed. What treasures will await me that were left within so many years ago?
Those few phone calls exchanged with my parents in their latter years had shown that wounds no matter how deep can heal with patience and understanding. Five years since my mother's passing, I'm home once more to face the doubters, the pointing fingers, the hangers on who clamber frantically from the dark recesses to claim their pound of flesh. The truth is that nothing has really altered, and I've been an orphan all my life, desperate for love, craving understanding, needing to be held. Love is a two way street, though it seemed as though I was constantly swimming against the tide of resentment in a one way street. I wish I'd had the opportunity to really talk to my Mother before her passing, to ask her if she truly believed that keeping me at arms length with the milk of surrogacy to quench my needs replacing the warmth of her own flesh as the only faces I ever saw in those early years were a succession of hire for pay nannies who despised me for my privileged ancestry and loathed me for my bloodline.
Raymond stands at the far end of the bridge, a raised index finger to catch my attention and the makings of a gentle smile that signify we are ready to proceed. I could do without the mass grieving, the shallow words and meaningless handshakes. Crocodile tears are as worthless as the muted smiles of disbelief when the reality of your place in a dead man's life are read out on the written page by a suited viper who takes great pleasure in your humiliation. Right now I have the urge to kick off my shoes, roll up my trousers and sit on the bridge with my hands resting above me on the wooden rails, toes in the water as I did when I was a child. Perhaps those fish will come and nibble my toes once more and transport me back to days when life within the mind of this child was preferable to the real thing. Maybe I'll sit it out here, choosing to await news of the family anger and undoubted splits that will occur like grain splits in a severed oak. Rebellion rests uneasily within my heart, and you know, deep down, I know my father would not approve.
.
.
.
Written July 10th 2010
Photograph taken on July 3rd 2010 in the grounds of Scotney Castle, Kent, England.
.
Nikon D700 85mm 1/50s f/8.0 iso200
Nikkor AF 85mm f/1.8D. UV filter. MetaGPS geotag
Latitude: N 51d 5m 27.44s
Longitude: E 0d 24m 36.92s
Altitude: 0m
BURNING BRIDGES
.
A head full of notions, a heart filled with feelings mixed and plentiful, as tired limbs stand once more upon the wooden bridge that dominated my childhood, and peppered my recollections. Jet-lag grips my sinews like a vice, as eyelids falter and the lengthy journey takes it's toll upon my weary flesh. Even the comfort and luxury of business class accommodation could not halt the furtive ramblings of my wandering mind as a series of memories, like snapshots from the lens of my brain, play themselves out and all thoughts of sleeping off the long hours of boredom fly out of the window.
There are downs to living on opposite sides of this beautiful Earth as I am finding out right about now, my light travel bag carefully accommodated in my pristine bedroom which has the same appearance that I recall from those distant days, as though sealed in a time capsule and awaiting my return. I've travelled light, no intention of staying longer than the time needed to honour the written word of deceased hands, ready to face possibly the final insult in a lifetime of missed opportunity and faltering attempts at peacekeeping duties. At least I still have Raymond, who has not changed since my last visit here some five years ago, all but a few more laughter lines perhaps, and a soulless look to those sallow eyes that are tinged with signs of glaucoma, his stubborn resistance to ever wearing spectacles that 'Make me look too old, too young'", as I remember him saying in his glory days. A proud and resolute man, fiercely loyal to the slavery that had him willingly incarcerated within the walls of my family home through course of what seems like his entire lifetime.
For years he tended to my fathers every needs, the eccentricities of my Mother's ways and my childhood memories are filled with our little secrets as he allowed me the freedom of my tender years to play and laugh where my parents demanded that their children be neither seen nor heard. Standing on the bridge, gazing down upon the giant koi carp that surface for air, fixing me with inquisitive eyes as they gulp and dive, I can see my reflection staring back at me. From boy to man, from innocence to experience, a lonely pathway trodden in those formative years when all a child craves is the love and affection of those who created him. I sigh as I think back to a lifetime of longing to be touched, to be held and caressed by my Mother, to be treated as anything other than a consequence of business, a body to carry on the family business and uphold the traditions passed down by decades of toil. If she could have paid another person to go through the pain and trauma of childbirth back then, I swear she would have jumped at the opportunity.
Rebellion is a funny thing, it can be all consuming as a mind sets a course to follow in any direction other than the ones laid down against one's will. As tiny bones grew and the summers came and passed with painful monotony, I made my decision to buck the trend, to stand my ground and be the man I wanted to be rather than the one that was expected of me. Long nights arguing with an authoritarian in his antique library, hands beating wildly upon the old Mahogany table, flushed cheeks and raised tones that could neither deter nor prevent my departure from the family prison that this land had become. Boarding school irritated me to the point of no return and following the embittered footsteps of siblings into the family empire with gold painted letters of conformity etched upon the gaudy glass doors of my own office was never a road of possibility despite the pressure of my peers.
My return here today cuts like a knife, rekindling memories so long now locked away in the troubled confines of my mind. Brooding, seething, bursting with anger, I had made the break and wished a fond farewell to those who, despite their inadequacies, I still very much loved. And those summers of my youth on this bridge, far enough away to be out of earshot, entombed in the beauty of Mother natures ample bosom, sitting on the wooden deck, dipping toes into the icy water as the fish nibbled at them inquisitively. Raymond used to sneak me out tall pitchers of lemonade and my favourite biscuits, telling white lies to pacify the probing questions as to mmy whereaboutshis dapper gait and brylcreemed hair shining in the afternoon sun as he winked and turned towards the house to act as my protector. Now his hair is silver grey, his limbs move slower than they used to, the pain of arthritis in those ageing hips, and tearful eyes as the realization of his master's passing truly hit home.
A privileged childhood that I never asked for, by the age of twenty one I was a fugitive in my parents eyes, five thousand miles away on an entirely different continent, penniless and starving but for a desire to succeed and a will to make something of my life. Time has made me less bitter towards my past, as I place my hands upon the old wooden rails to the bridge of memories. I knew one day this moment would come, curious perhaps as to how I might feel as I unlock the bedroom doors, and retrace those hidden doors I used to escape through that my parents never knew existed. What treasures will await me that were left within so many years ago?
Those few phone calls exchanged with my parents in their latter years had shown that wounds no matter how deep can heal with patience and understanding. Five years since my mother's passing, I'm home once more to face the doubters, the pointing fingers, the hangers on who clamber frantically from the dark recesses to claim their pound of flesh. The truth is that nothing has really altered, and I've been an orphan all my life, desperate for love, craving understanding, needing to be held. Love is a two way street, though it seemed as though I was constantly swimming against the tide of resentment in a one way street. I wish I'd had the opportunity to really talk to my Mother before her passing, to ask her if she truly believed that keeping me at arms length with the milk of surrogacy to quench my needs replacing the warmth of her own flesh as the only faces I ever saw in those early years were a succession of hire for pay nannies who despised me for my privileged ancestry and loathed me for my bloodline.
Raymond stands at the far end of the bridge, a raised index finger to catch my attention and the makings of a gentle smile that signify we are ready to proceed. I could do without the mass grieving, the shallow words and meaningless handshakes. Crocodile tears are as worthless as the muted smiles of disbelief when the reality of your place in a dead man's life are read out on the written page by a suited viper who takes great pleasure in your humiliation. Right now I have the urge to kick off my shoes, roll up my trousers and sit on the bridge with my hands resting above me on the wooden rails, toes in the water as I did when I was a child. Perhaps those fish will come and nibble my toes once more and transport me back to days when life within the mind of this child was preferable to the real thing. Maybe I'll sit it out here, choosing to await news of the family anger and undoubted splits that will occur like grain splits in a severed oak. Rebellion rests uneasily within my heart, and you know, deep down, I know my father would not approve.
.
.
.
Written July 10th 2010
Photograph taken on July 3rd 2010 in the grounds of Scotney Castle, Kent, England.
.
Nikon D700 85mm 1/50s f/8.0 iso200
Nikkor AF 85mm f/1.8D. UV filter. MetaGPS geotag
Latitude: N 51d 5m 27.44s
Longitude: E 0d 24m 36.92s
Altitude: 0m