{of the corvid heart}

Gambits by D.W.Crockett

THE LEFT VENTRICLE

ventriculussinistercorvidus

(i) a book of writing by daniel crockett, composed late at night on trains

(ii) for more work or to contact Daniel, please visit http:thisrichtapestry.blogspot.com

(iii) for tali spearman, on her birthday, 2008

Gimcrack (i) I’dliketotellyouaboutthehourIspentinthepresenceoftheGimcrack,achild.Ihavekeptthisinformationconfidentialforoverthirtyyears,noteventellingmywifeorassociates.Now,uponthenearingofmydeath,Ifeelitmustberevealed.KefflerHouse,whichstoodemptyuntiltheGimcrackarrivedtotakeupresidence,wasbyfarthegrandestinthevillageoverwhichittowered.Thearchitectureimposing,gothicandunsubtle.TheGimcracklivedaloneinthisenormoushouse.IwascalledtovisittheGimcrackbecausethatismyjob.Iamadoctor.

The background under which the Gimcrack finds himself wealthier than his adult neighbours, and solitary in his confinement, was notuncommon - orphaned, and left the house and all within it by his lately deceased grandmother. However, the abnormality starts (and would thatit endedhere!)when itwasdecided thatonce reaching theageof ten, theboywouldcomeof age inmindandbody, andhe shouldbegiven title.Atthis juncture, and having been provided with funds released monthly for his disposal, several adults of the village were paid to help the Gimcrack.

The letter that called upon me to visit Gimcrack at the house was concise and did not extend too much detail over theproblems that required a doctor. The problems Gimcrack was facing were unknown to me, although I was wellprepared for those that often beset orphaned children, the type of which I have dealt with many times over the course of my career.

So it was, one morning during the winter of 1958, that I left my home to begin the hour-long journey into the mountain foothills whereGimcrack lived. Unlike the lowland plain and the city where I made my home, the hills were still wild and the mountain people verydifferent to those on the flat. I occasionally was called upon to work out in the villages, for my reputation had soared considerably in the yearsdirectlypreceding. Ihadbeen the recipientofaHaifa-Campbellmedal formyservices tomedicineandmentalhealth,andas suchwaswell regarded.

I proceeded therefore to the village of Keffler, the address laid out on the dashboard of my car. On the way I passed manyrural scenes, each typical and unsurprising, such as a maid milking a cow on a stool, two ravens on a fencepost, and a grim manriding a horse close in to a hedge. My first surprise, it was great and the first of many, came upon rounding the corner into Keffler.

The house loomed massive above the village, an awkward bastion that gave instant impression of might. The giant balustrades that marked ei-ther sideof thegatewaywere located in theheartof thevillage, completelyobvious toanyandallwhoventured there.Thevillage seemed tobecom-posedofascatteringofhouses,perhapsfiftyatmost.Toallintentsandpurposesitwasanormalcountryvillageapartfromthemonoliththatalready,Inoticed, was shading part of the main street from the sun with its bulk. Imagine that, I thought! Living in the shade for part of a daysimply due to the magnitude of another’s ambition. This was before I grew older, and became more aware that we all live in shade cast by others.

The village was surprisingly quiet, for an afternoon of weak winter sun and faint warmth. Two women sat on a bench, their oxbloodshawl the only thing in common. The one was young, the other old. I raised a hand in salute as I passed, yet neither seemed to notice, theyounger one stared with preoccupation into the distance, the older seemed transfixed on the younger. I passed by them in my car, slowedto a crawl now, confidence dented by their lack of response. It is these small things that can define a day, would that have been the sole contributor!

Split-tongued and sullen Anearnestfellowwithwhomtoshareacopse,Thejackdaw[][][][]Letter from an ignored man ErinShroudfeatures,everywhere.ErinShroudislikesomegargantuanmastodonofdesire–everysinglepersonIknowwantstobewithher.ErinShroudisthefirstpersontobeofficiallycalled‘perfect.’ErinShroudhasnodetractors–howcouldshe?ErinShroudisfuckingmagnificence,fromthebuttonsonhercoattothefeatherinherhair.Ican’trememberatimewhenIdidn’tintimatelyknowErinShroud,becausethattimeisinsignificanceitselfcomparedtoher.ThereisnoIinShroud,butthereisinErin.Ihavethoughtthatacountlessthousandtimes,yetI’veneverhadthecouragetotellher.ErinShroudmakesnosoundwhenshewalks,butinherwakeproblemsareresolvedanddamageisrepaired.

ErinShroudcontainseverything.Sheconquerswithoutliftingafingeroropeninghermouth.ErinShroudneverfrowns,andalthoughsheneversmilesjustlookingatherfacemakesmethinkofsmiling.ErinShroudisajoytobehold,butsheisalsoajoytothinkabout.WithErin,nothingeverrunsdry.ErinShroudisalady,butsheisnotmylady,becausenoonecanpossesshereminence.ErinShroudinventedglory.Iwonderwhatsheeatsanddrinks?ErinShroudliesback,withalittletinklinglaughter.ErinShroudistheguardianofchance,thegatekeeperofparadise;itisshethatholdseverykey.WhoisErinShroud?Whocouldinspiresuchdevotion?Whoisthisworthyrecipientofobsession?ErinShroud?Why,doesitmatter?[][][][]Tar Swallows Backagainandnotdiverted ToBognor,orthe Pontin’satBenacre

Gladyoufoundyourwayacross Theacresofshingle AndOrfordNess

Nowteachmehowtotakewing Becausedownhere I’mdrowninginthetar

Amity Despite the good intentions, you cannot shake the feeling of revulsion as the people come pouring in. Although the atmosphere is friendly, warm and wholesome, you give a shudder, drawing your hood around you in a cowl for protection. Why this inability to feel pleasure? Why this lurking dread?

You chat with the arrivals, the people, all of them rosy and smiling and on the way to being drunk. You feel drugged with sedatives, the ceaseless chatter of your mind spoiling every conversation and colouring every comment. Why this disgust? Why this feeling of oppression?[][][][][][][]Dinnerwitharichlady Let me tell you about eyes and ice. Eyes so perfectly hellish that they reach out with tentacles and snake around your head and neck, seeking an entrance to your brain. Eyes black and bottomless, so obsidian that at their core your mind conjures a hearth, for such blackness in nature is unthinkable. Right at that black core your flames flicker, but you cannot sustain them for long. To do so, to place warmth at that frozen core, is unthinkable and your flames flutter and die. Before you, above and beneath you, is an abyss: a silent, apocalyptic infinity. You realise, not for the first time in your life, that you are utterly, irrevocably lost.

Unforgivably, the tendrils that spring from the core find their way into your mind, and the realisation that life cannot revert, that you will never reclaim the soft, warm place that you hanker after, looms. You are hopeful, and your own eyes (pale and weak in their comparison) take on that pathetic, entreating glaze that cannot be masked or quelled. Hopeful for a retreat, hopeful for an escape. And then those unnavigable seas of darkness turn their attention elsewhere. The crisis: the feeling once they have passed away is, if possible, worse than when they wholly bound you.[][][][][][]KipperGarten Never cry on dull days but under storm-clouds Take the knife that split the magpie’s tongue

Middle Ground On the middle ground, this vast (if empty) plateau, you are safe and secure. Better still, you are accepted. You can relate. The ground is warm and soft, and absolutely dull. The vegetation is ankle high, and you could stroll through it all day. In the middle ground, the occasional spot of inter-est can sometimes be found – something creeping or sliding along at ground level, sometimes an earthworm, sometimes a viper. You can relax. The middle ground and its vegetation is soporific, so you lie down to sleep, never really waking up. With some people, you will always inhabit this middle ground.

Then there are the crevasses. In the crevasses, you are always alone, even if others are nearby. The crevasses are dank and unpleasant, and yet everyone stum-bles into one now and again. The crevasses make you appreciate the middle ground, understand the need for it. At the base of the crevasses, spindly demons lie. They are your antithesis, your nemeses. Avoid them at all costs.

Way up above the middle ground, when the crevasses are tortuous memories and from where the dull pallor of the middle ground is obvious, lies the open sky. Despite the altitude, the air is rich, and there is a great feeling of absolute potential above and around you. Yet although the open sky is right above you, and locating it should be as simple as glancing upward, coming to fly is an inconsistent and arduous process. Yet once reached, who knows the heights to which you can climb? [][]Tembulence

Air, gathered in fitful starts, leaks like tree sap,spotting our greatest woundswith a bosky crust

I will grind you, between leather-capped tipsscrape up the fragmentsand re-cast your form

I know your combination,like the tree roots knowthe press of the earth about their lumpen limbs

Upon a high mountain Ihappened,atlonglastandafteraroadfraughtwithmanydangers,uponthecaveofanancienthermit.Thispropheticfigurehadswornnevertoemergeintocivilization,andIchanceduponhimbyfollowingthetrailoffootprintsthatledupwardintothemountains(Nothis,ofcourse,forthevowwastrue,butthoseoftheservantthatdeliveredhisfoodandwatereachweek.)

Inrecentyears,greattechnologicalmomentumhadbeenachieved;thereforethehermitwasoutofdate.Asascientist,Iwishedtochallengehisisolatedworldview,andmyaimforsometime(uponfirsthearingofhisperiodofremovalfromtheworld,infact)hadbeentoscalethemountainandconfrontthewisdomofthehermitwithdiscourseprovinghowinvalidhisperspectivehadbecome.

Ilookedforwardtoourmeeting,asthevowofthesagedidnotextendtosilence.Asoneofthewisestmeninthecountry,amanwhohadonceoccupiedtheveryacademicchairthatIsought(andhadbeenassuredthatinduetimeIwouldsitupon),thehermithadturnedawayfromhispositionofinfluenceandpower.Asaseniorgovernmentadviser,hehadfundamentallydisagreedwiththedirectioninwhichthepoliticianswereleadingthepeople.SoitwasthatIsoughttochallengehisview,foritisonlythroughevolutionthatourcountrycanprogress.

OfwhichcountrydoIspeak?Thatdependsonyou,thereader,forIcaninhabitanyspaceandcrawlintoanycorner.Weall,itappears,‘evolve’inasimilardirection,simplyatdifferentrates.Thisancientscholar,whoseoft-reportedspeculationIwishedtoargueagainst,hadpubliclyclaimedthattheevolutionofourcountrywasbynomeansaprogression.Hiswisdom,hemaintained,wasbasedfundamentallyaroundatheorycalledtheVerit-Apolloideaofnaturalbalance,ofwhichIassumeyouallknow.

Calculatingthebalancebetweenhumanenvironmentandnaturalresources(notsimplyproductiveresources,butallresourcesthatcouldbeclassedasnaturallyoccurring,unforcedbyhumans,neithermanufacturedorprocessed)VeritandApolloruledthatoncethehumanenvironmentoutweighednaturalresourcesapointcalled‘DevelopmentCessation’wasreached.Fromthismomentforth,accordingtothefantasticallycomplexequationsofthetwoprofessors,itwasdownhillalltheway.

Frankly,IdismissedthefindingsofVeritandApolloasnonsensicalpie-in-the-sky.Firstly,theirequationwasinsignificantduetotheimpossibilityofcalculation.Second,theirconclusionwasfraughtwithinaccuracy.Surely,thewayforwardformycountrywastodevelopindustryandconsumption,tokeeppacewiththeWest,todissectandprofitfromournaturalresourcesinanywaypossibletoservethepopulace.ItwasthisthatIlookedforwardtodiscussingwiththehermit.

SoitwasthatIfollowedthelittle-wornpaththatleadupthroughthesandstoneoutcropsandvagabondplantsthat,likethemanIsoughttosee,hadretreatedhereintothisinhospitableclimatetoescapethepressbelow.Afteralongandrockyroad,Ieventuallycametoasmallrise,overwhichthegrounddroppedawayintoabowl.AsImountedtherise,thesageappearedsuddenlybeforeme,sittingquiteuprightonalarge,smoothboulder.Hisappearancewasquiteoffsetting,andnothinglikethepressphotographsIhadseenorthetimewhen,asayoungwoman,Ihadseenthismanlectureinpublicinagreatuniver-sityhallthatseemedtostretchintoinfinityonallsides.Inthosedays,thismanofthoughtandtheoryhadbeenimmaculate,carryingwithhimagreatpresenceofmindandpower.

Themanthatconfrontedme(orrather,slowlyraisedhiseyestogazepenetratinglyatmebutmovednotanothermuscle)waswildandunkempt.Surprisingly,perhaps,thishadneveroccurredtome.IhadexpectedanolderversionofthemanthatIhadonceseen,perhapswithsilverhairandbushiereyebrows.Themanhadalongbeard,silverinplacesbutfleckedwithmudandothersubstancesIcouldnotguessat.Thebeardcreptdownhissidesanduparoundhisface,obscuringhisfeaturesbutsomehowmagnifyingtheforceofthatstare,andthoseeyes.

Theysaythattheeyesaretheonlythingthatdoesnotage,andinthegazeofthatmanIcaughtthatsamefire,thesamepiercingsurveillanceanddesiretocomprehend,withsuchferocitythatitrobbedmeofmypoiseandIfalteredinmystep.Ihadpreparedquiteaspeechforthearrivalatthesummitofthemount,yetIfoundthewordshardtovoiceinthepresenceofthehermit.Atlast,Imumbled:

“AlexanderSharma,Ihavetravelledalongtimetospeakwithyou.Willyou,esteemedmanofwisdomandtheory,grantmeanaudience?”

Thehermitlookedbackupatme,fromhisseatedposition.“Rareindeedisitfortheyoungtoclimbthishillsidetolookuponmyancientface,andhearmyoutdatedview.Whatisyourreasonforbeinghere,highupinthemountainandawayfromthecity.”Andwiththis,Sharmaflunghisarmsinanall-encompassingspreadasiftosaythatthecitywasallaround,surroundingus.Frommyloftierposition,Ilookeddownuponagreatvalley,andtosomeextentwhatSharmasaidwastrue.Beneathus,betweenpocketsofsmog,agreatmanybuildingssoaredandfoughtforeminence.Barelyapatchofgreenorbrowncouldbeseenbetweentheendlessstreetsthatgradually,asspacebecamesqueezedbetweenvice-likefingers,climbedthehillsides.

“Certainly, my visitors are usually not bedecked in such finery.”

At this I bristled, for I was wearing my official uniform, bestowed upon me by the central government to recognise my achievements and my position. Along one breast I wore medals for my discoveries and services, and my boots and lower garments betrayed the dust that attempted to inveigle itself everywhere to the extent that they still shone. I was proud of myself, and my pride made me bristle.

“So you, Dada Sharma, you prefer the rags of a hermit?”

I used his nickname, for few outside close circles of government had known him as ‘Dada.’ To call him as such was a deliberate insult, and a deliberate showing that I was within the circles of power. I noticed his eyes widen at the use of the name.

“Relax, relax. I am simply not used to your finery, just as an old man is not used to what the young will wear. I see you carry news for me, it has been some time since news has reached me in my isolation. We should talk for a while, but first, do you understand that you are nothing?” There was no sense of challenge. It was as simple as a request to pass the salt.

I did not, and so I left him. []The effigy “Hear this, the word said by this, the picture.” The effigy begins its procession. We are all in thrall to the effigy, for its procession is never-ending. The highest honour would be to be picked to carry the effigy on a leg of its journey, although the reward is instant death. It is said that the bearers of the effigy, upon their ultimate sacrifice, go at once to meet the woman that the effigy depicts. Those that carry the effigy, and it takes several hundred at once simply to lift its frame and move it on its eternal quest, see inside the mechanism and understand the true secrets of the device. It is understood that exposure to these kill a person, not simply upon seeing them for the first time, but witnessing their might and then being forced to turn your gaze away. This would explain the constant upturned faces of the bearers, and the grim and silent figures that wait for one or other of the straining men and women to fall away from the procession. They are swiftly ended, before the madness can engulf them. Beneath the effigy, who knows what unfolds? The effigy is constantly followed by a procession of people who wait in the hope that they are picked for service. They get used to the chant, understand its intona-tions and cantatas, and eventually chant along with the bearers. Once they have mastered the chant, they are ‘noticed’ by the figures in black, who elect the bearers. It is a good system, they tell us, for anyone can join at any time. Even the weak, the young and the old are given their chance, but they rarely last long beneath the crushing weight of the effigy. Unfortunately, in my dreams, I wish for the effigy to tilt to one side, and fall to the ground, the frail mechanics robbed of their life and the great fraud exposed for what it is. The power, I hope, would be returned to us.[][]A narrow country road by midnight Upon turning into a country road that you thought you knew all too well, it being a quick and simple shortcut back to your house from the party at which you had dined and drunk, things take a turn for the less ordinary.

The first sign that matters are not quite right is the disconcerting glimpse of a goat’s head, lying at an awkward angle as if chucked, by the side of the road. You see the spectre in perfect clarity, but only for a fraction of a second, so you are left wondering about your own mind. How unfathomable, you consider, doubting your rational ability, until the next sight forces you to slow the car to a crawl.

Two cloven feet stand in the middle of the road, severed directly above the hoof, blood staining the sparse remnants of white fur. With a shock, you realise that the fur is the same of that sprouting from the dismembered head that you might have seen. You are not sure whether to stop, but the idea of touching the feet and finding them still warm is repellent. It would mean leaving the security of the car.

You decide to continue and drive over the hooves, feeling your back left tyre crush one. The sound is unlike anything you have heard before. As you roll downhill, the road becomes more and more narrow, the vegetation hemming you in until it begins to scrape the bonnet and the wings. Funny, because the road, though narrow, is usually passable. As you descend further into the night, even as the power of the car begins to waver, you know with awful certainty that the hands reaching out for you will grip like a vice.

My life support machine Taking your body as a tree The feet the roots The torso the trunk The arms the boughs The hair the leaves Can I climb you?[][]The Oxblood Shawl The girl in the first picture is no older than eighteen. The old woman in the second four times that, perhaps more. The two pictures share some characteristics. They are taken looking across a country road, a panoramic view (although a different one in each) behind the solitary female subject. Each woman carries a reddish shawl, casually draped across one shoulder and nestled into an elbow.

Their posture is different. The girl stares right at the camera, enthralled. The old woman seems distracted by something behind the camera, and it looks as if she stares away into the distant. Her age is obvious, and yet all the hallmarks of beauty are still there. The girl is clearly beautiful. Even in the grain of the picture her smile is toothsome and radiant. Her hands on hips, she cuts an attractive figure. The pictures are of a very different quality. The first is ancient, the impression of the girl faded. The second is more recent, now. Besides the eyes, the only similarity is the shawl. High up in the sky though, behind each, a lone bird hangs in the air. []The agapanthus path Walk the plank with Friedensreich Slowly traipse the agapanthus path And lose sobriety in yew groves, On barrows and in wykes Borrowed syllables, and narcissus My love lay weeping in the marsh Down amongst the toadflax stems Winking flowers as stolen gems And a heron stares unmoving, proud Gun grey chest a burry choit Colour echoed in the clouds Damage marked in her gait As she takes the agapanthus path In the footsteps of Friedensreich Hearken to her keening call Society a well-worn gall

Abandoned now at last to fate

My life support machine Taking your body as a tree The feet the roots The torso the trunk The arms the boughs The hair the leaves Can I climb you?[][]The Oxblood Shawl The girl in the first picture is no older than eighteen. The old woman in the second four times that, perhaps more. The two pictures share some characteristics. They are taken looking across a country road, a panoramic view (although a different one in each) behind the solitary female subject. Each woman carries a reddish shawl, casually draped across one shoulder and nestled into an elbow.

Their posture is different. The girl stares right at the camera, enthralled. The old woman seems distracted by something behind the camera, and it looks as if she stares away into the distant. Her age is obvious, and yet all the hallmarks of beauty are still there. The girl is clearly beautiful. Even in the grain of the picture her smile is toothsome and radiant. Her hands on hips, she cuts an attractive figure. The pictures are of a very different quality. The first is ancient, the impression of the girl faded. The second is more recent, now. Besides the eyes, the only similarity is the shawl. High up in the sky though, behind each, a lone bird hangs in the air. []The agapanthus path Walk the plank with Friedensreich Slowly traipse the agapanthus path And lose sobriety in yew groves, On barrows and in wykes Borrowed syllables, and narcissus My love lay weeping in the marsh Down amongst the toadflax stems Winking flowers as stolen gems And a heron stares unmoving, proud Gun grey chest a burry choit Colour echoed in the clouds Damage marked in her gait As she takes the agapanthus path In the footsteps of Friedensreich Hearken to her keening call Society a well-worn gall

Abandoned now at last to fate

Trevisker Valiance High up in the hedgerows, fanned by an east wind The Tamarisk dances with branches like combs[][][]Austral Symphony What gauche sounds they make, This reptilian flock A crescendo, part cheese-grater sharp Part mellifluous They knock, drone on my supine head Caving lesions in And challenging The notion of sweet birdsong For now, do dada Becomes a harsh caw-caw and the boundary between tone and raking claw eroded, splits[]Cursed water It’s been three weeks or more Since I dragged you from the well You shed the viscous oil of night Rub the salty rime from ancient eyes And now you flail about As if your folds of flesh Hide a set of air-starved gills And your motion casts a spell That plagues sincere intention And threatens to cast your battery south To snuff the wick with fingers rough And be called below to hell Forever watched by lidless pupils Stretched to pay on racks of bone For you cover decades in a leap And judgement stops the clock

THE LEFT

VENTRICLE

All words ©Daniel Crockett 2008For further work by the author, please visit

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