Factory
Factory “And when I see working men
pale and mean and insect-like, scuttling along…
and never looking up,
then I wish, like Tiberius, the multitude had only one head
so that I could lop it off…” DH Lawrence, ‘Democracy’ “Churchill no different, wished the workers bled to a machine” Manic Street Preachers, ‘The Intense Humming Of Evil’ I know I’m not perfect. Don’t believe a word of it. Courtesy forces the words; I know nothing of the sort. My best friend; we’re not perfect by our standards, but by everyone else’s we are. Yet narcissism breeds self-hatred, coming upon us at the strangest of times. Breaking my back on a production line, wondering why there is loathing so instinctive, so innate that even I cannot analyse why. I am shallow and fickle and there is a limit to how often but I’m an artist can be used as an excuse. So easy to damage. Yet I had to rip him apart. *** “I do not want to rise above the working-class, I want to rise with them” Eugene V. Debs My father, forced into menial work through poverty; the most intelligent person I know, denied the chances I choose to waste. This premature ageing wrenches my heart; Joan, polka dots beneath a grimy shift, thick glasses balanced on a bulbous nose and clumsy smile. Christine, teeth like Daffy Duck; John, trundling around with trays, bowed to his barrow despite being seven feet tall. Once more, I’m led into reverie, and the meaning of words in a richly textured song. You’re the light, you’re the light; when I close my eyes… you’re the light when I close my eyes…(Darius Danesh, ‘Colourblind’). A second Pop Idol essay germinates in a swiftly stultifying mind. *** The hushed mutterings aren’t a surprise. That’s the one that thinks she’s… I never find out exactly what I think I am, but I’m sure it’s something good. Women rarely hold my interest, and, typically, I’m drawn to the male quarters by wolf-whistles through an open door. I don’t feel above this – staying here would change no one’s life – but, resolutely alone, I see their contempt. I’m hassled by dead-eyed teenage girls, a group of tormentors who never left my mind. A single protector, Vera, the third most popular mispermutation of my name. Scars dark on pale skin, hers the reverse. Fresher, deeper, like healing grafts; gangrenous fishslice cords, thickening fillets sewed onto profoundly unresisting skin. Remembering Mal’s fury at the oppression of these girls, obediently donning saris in tropical heat, I’m absolutely sure that, beneath the grubby Hi-Tec and dough-stained shift, she’s wearing full shalwar kameez. I’ve lived in Nelson all my life and picked up five words of Punjabi. Her hoarse mix of English and Urdu is beyond me. Despite her maternal hand on mine, pity, and humility, meet contempt. I wanted to have more faith than this. The end of Factory. Exterminate the underclass. *** Voici un principe d’esthétique (vous voyez que je ramène tout à mon métier), une règle, dis-je, pour les artistes: soyez réglé dans votre vie et ordinaire comme un bourgeois, afin d’être violent et original dans vos oeuvres Flaubert, letter, 25 December 1876 I’m loath to live between extremes, but compromise draws its pulley on. *** What are you doing here, I hear him ask, what are you doing? Living a real life. It would make little difference to surrender music, journalism; even the slow-forming, scarce-admitted dreams of writing, encouraged by praise from those who don’t know me well enough to lie, from whom it means much, like Ant, like Will. I see him shocked, aghast, wondering what he has done. Why be out here? But then, why be in there? And what, what is he doing there? A trumpet I never thought could sound so loud. A burst of Verdi on the radio, and when the most uncouth asks what it is, I’m tempted to reply facetiously under my breath. But when she exclaims, awed, it’s beautiful, beautiful, this type of music, I’m struck. A type, a whole genetic map, laid out for the blind. *** An Arab, suffering, thorns in its side. Precious hands blistered and split, ‘Faster’ lacerating my throat. She, undisputed, is my love, yet it’s only with her that I misread. First Emin, now Larkin. Trying to work out how many days each mouth has. Why be art here? I’m loath to live between extremes, but, poised, she kisses me and waits. Hands outstretched, hands on my skin and holding me so gently, so beautifully still.
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