Proud of Pride

Last week was a bit mad.

I got a last minute opportunity to attend a writing workshop in Sussex that would lead to a reading in the Literature Tent at Brighton’s Pride. Too good to pass up, even if it meant driving up for a long weekend, driving back down to get Beloved Aspie through some minor surgery, then driving back up in holiday traffic to attend the event. That’s a seven hour round trip that became nine second time round.

It’s been six years since I lived in Brighton, and I’d completely forgotten how wonderfully crazy Pride makes the city. I came in on the train, from staying just outside, and the first thing I registered was the wide ranging age group, all in a party mood, some wildly dressed with feathers that touched the roof of the carriage. There were teen girls, middle aged women with groups of friends, old men, young men, and a bunch of teen lads who probably shouldn’t have had the beers they were drinking. But when one of them staggered in the aisle as the train jolted, his apology couldn’t have been more polite or sincere.

At Brighton Station we were met with police and barriers, and an old Buddhist friend who was in charge of operations to keep people travelling safely.

From then on it was smiles, and laughter and music and a general carnival feel as I made my way to Preston Park and the stages and events there.

The Literature Tent was delightfully busy with a whole range of work being read and shared. As members of the workshop, we got to read an individual piece first, then together offered a collaborative letter to Russia. It was just such fun to stand there with such diverse people and have a moment of truly believing in equality. 

Feel free to call me naïve – but in a world where I feel I am constantly battling for recognition for people with autism to be treated equally -  I am so impressed with individuals who take huge steps to be themselves and respected for it. And don’t forget, things are very different in other parts of the country: all of the UK is not cosmopolitan and attitudes fluctuate widely.

I will definitely be returning to Pride next year, in style! My face hurt from smiling so much and my heart was a whole lot lighter and more hopeful for being there.

And I got a t-shirt for Pride in Derry, N Ireland in a couple of weeks: ‘I can’t even think straight.’ True on so many levels.

www.butiloveyou.co.uk  @SineadGBoys

Conceptual Art: Artist vs Writer

On my mission to spend quality time with Beloved Aspie (BA), yesterday’s beautiful sunshine took us to Hestercombe House and Gardens in a glorious corner of Somerset. The finale of the visit was a look around the Gallery. (That’s a lie – the finale was a mega chocolate brownie in the caff before going home). 

Anyway…you need to know that I have been an Art student, studying Fine Art and Art History, and almost went to Art College instead of University and Law. As such, I can find an appreciation for most things though I own my own tastes.

And in fairness, BA has his own posters and prints that he likes, though they are highly likely to involve Dr Who, Superheroes, or cats, and he has a keen eye for sparkly gems.

Off we go to the Gallery rooms, BA dutifully appraising the catalogue notes and locating the exhibits. One was a fairly chunky bronze of a pair of binoculars; another was a wooden stile painted bright blue; another was a spade, hanging on a wall, made of beautiful wood; another a swarm of bees masquerading as a mantel piece clock. In a separate room was Tracey Emin’s ‘there is another place’, a neon tube of writing on the wall.

BA was impressively discreet about his misgivings.

 

We embarked on a conversation with the volunteer invigilator who told us this was their first ‘modern’ exhibition and as such, she’d had to do a lot of research so that she could talk to visitors, who had some interesting comments. This led to a discussion of conceptual art.

The problem for me, I told her, is that some of the finished pieces are so far removed from the original concept that they are not, of themselves, interesting or beautiful to look at. I fail to see the point if the object offers no attraction and I have to read an essay about its meaning.

Then it got me thinking. If I applied the same idea to writing novels, how would that work?

I could spend my months in advance doing copious research, writing up notes, creating my characters, mulling over the plot in my head, then, when it’s ready I could write my novel in 4 words

…but I love you

And leave the reader to work out the rest.

Never mind flash fiction or the 50 word story – let’s unleash a new form – the conceptual novel. I’m sure I could write a few of those, in fact I’m just working on ‘The’.

It's all in the timing

The Walking Dead scares me to death. Nightmares. Running to the bathroom in the night. Don’t glance at the mirror in the dark (well, you don’t know who’s looking back).

How? Why?

I know it’s about zombies. They are everywhere all the time – a constant in the show. Yet, I jump, scream and hide behind my fingers like a five year old seeing a Dalek for the first time. The camera zooms in for the close-up in the eerily quiet empty place – zombie swoops in –I jump out of my skin. Every time.

It scares me so much I have considered simply not watching it. No can do. I need to know the next bit of the story. I need to know who lives. I am addicted.

CUT TO hubs saying, “There’s that English zombie thing on telly tonight. Second series. Maybe it’s good. Want to watch it?”

“No,” I say, “they look too much like the Exorcist. Can’t do it.” (That’s another story…)

We watch another drama, but the zombies are playing on my mind, my imagination, my addiction?? 

As our programme finishes, I say, “Well, maybe let’s watch ten minutes and see how it goes.”

And we did.

I wasn’t remotely scared. Not even when the fully-blown zombies attacked and ate people. So here’s the question: given my viewing history, why not scared?

The first answer: In the Flesh is The Walking Dead meets Eastenders. Hubs sings the tune, ‘da, da, da, da, da, da, aaaargh!’ Beloved Aspie has joined the conversation, “Surely that’s no different from the normal Eastenders?” (In fact the next morning he tells me in his considered opinion that they have merely over-humanised the zombies, hence not scary.) 

What it is really about is timing: how the script writer draws you in and catches you out. Done right – you’re on the edge of your seat. Done wrong – the thrill never comes.

Compare to a somewhat corny movie on the same evening, White Girls. Two black detectives go under cover as white women to catch a kidnapper. Painful and obvious. But…even though the plot is transparent and I can speak the next line before the actor, it is so well timed that you still find yourself laughing at the jokes.

Timing (and no doubt, good camera work) will keep me thinking for a while yet. I’m puzzling over how to be mindful of it in my writing of longer pieces. I’ll leave you with this.

Next day, BA and I are out for a walk in the woods and a visit to a National Trust place. We get back to horror movies and the Blair Witch project (another that got nothing from me). I return to In The Flesh, describing the scene where the woman is out in the silent garden calling for her cat in the dark, no cat coming, but of course you know what is…rabid zombie from nowhere is on her like a flash. Did I jump? No.

BA replies, “ you didn’t tell me about the rabbits.”