# Forty-two



## StephenMcG (May 18, 2010)

Waking from an hours sleep, dreamless sleep, I thought of a comment that I’d heard the previous day whilst traveling from  Euston Station to London Bridge. It was a curious phrase this woman used. It was abstract of coherent meaning, and I thought of it sporadically through the day. It recurred once again on my pillow that smelt heavily of smoke. My eyes were heavy and my limbs were weak. Age was creeping around me like a sniper. For months I’d felt a linear perspective of my weight, vitality and years. Suddenly: without warning I felt the wound of a bullet, and my limbs became incapable (though willing) of my demands. I felt the relationship which had always been so strong and prosperous between me and my limbs atrophying. Diminishing a dead weight on a cheap mattress stained with semen and menstrual blood. It occurred to me that growing old didn’t leave me feeling more refined and knowing, and that the relationship with one’s body was essential to the self. I am forty three a week today.
   I work as a freelance photographer, based in London (the place to be). The phone rarely makes a sound these days, save the irksome tune of a low battery. Life is becoming tiresome and my relationships with women becoming more dysfunctional. Nights of decadence and frivolous sex, the women getting younger by the month if it lasts that long.
My mint plant that sits on the window-ledge in the kitchen has grown three branches towards the light that now suffocates the shorter sprigs. I don’t have the interest to plant it. I’ve found the contrast of relative growth and death quite attractive. Perfectly balanced you may say. But time is running its course and the mint is desperate for rich fertile soil. Light has created the most beautiful shape of this plant: it has grown like an arm that stretches to the window, craving to climb through it to the garden. I watch it every morning while the kettle boils and tell myself that things must change. I must  achieve sanitation before my whole head turns grey. Today they only brush against my ears and a few at my hairline which women (particularly young women) always comment on. They always mention George Clooney as though it will cause some satisfaction for me. I’m not entirely sure who he is if I’m honest, I’ve been meaning to type his name in on Google but there are always more important things to do, like watch my dear mint plant in its curious life while the kettle boils. The race between my hair and lifestyle has become an obsession. I watch business men on the Underground with contempt. Like soldiers in their crisp uniforms and stripy or dotted ties. Their phones always ring, answered with usually forced low voices to make them sound serious. There is nothing serious about what they do. My mint plant is serious, it is desperate at least. How grey is their hair? is my first question. They are never alone on these journeys. I have apparitions of their wives and children usually tugging at their crisp sleeves demanding something sweet. A new doll or a Ken to satisfy the blonde figure. I wonder of the inventor of Ken, as Barbie would naturally come first in the Garden of Eden for plastic toys. Of that I am sure.
   I still can’t move my legs and I just caught a strong sense of Cinnamon that I burnt whilst going to bed last night as I inhaled my twentieth cigarette. I thought it would raise the morale in my flat, that specific flavour: cinnamon. Although mint can be quite refreshing apparently. I remember a man from my youth who suggested the Army as a good career move for me due to my physical and mental attributes. ‘You could rank highly in the forces’ is what he said. It didn’t interest me when I was younger, I considered it a marriage to an institute that is apparently hard to rid yourself of. Lying here now the prospect of running about the earth of war-torn land interests me even less. I was always more of a fist fighter in youth with a certain amount of glory in the ring. There is a photograph on my wall which I can see from this perspective. Muscles bulging after a boxing match with blood sprayed all over my vest and face. I remember feeling intensely vacant at the moment the shutter of that camera moved, and now it seems visible proof that twenty years ago I was vital and courageous. My parents ring me quite frequently and tell me to visit them, but I haven’t even the courage to walk in their house which is full of love and concern. What can I say to them? ‘
Oh, Jessy, yes. She’s twenty-one and we have sex when she’s not away at university. I have an obsession with the suppleness of her body which she knows nothing about. My phone hasn’t rang for work in almost seven months, although, I have a great collection of Man Ray style portraits which I sometimes masturbate over when Jessy hasn’t visited for more than five days. ’ 

It invariably ends up as some dreadful masquerade.   

‘I’m very well, I might be having an exhibition of some work I’ve been doing lately, it’s not really stuff you’d find interesting: human form and that sort of stuff. I have a mint plant too’ (and fail to mention the peculiar shape of it).

I often pictured myself lay like this during my twenties with a tense disquiet. 
   Jessy is coming over tonight expecting me to cook. She always enters the flat rambling about the Tube system and it’s people. ‘The intolerant’ she calls them. I suspect they are the same people who interest me while I travel on the Tube. She’ll clear up around me and make comments about my potential. I always retort with some excuse for the squalor while she teeters around. I can picture her now stretching to open the window as the kitchen wells with the smell of burning oil: her stomach arched over the sink showing me the the seam of her knickers. I’m chopping onions on the top of the small fridge as her small lean arms slither through mine, she makes childish noises of affection and I catch a whiff of her sweet perfume. She is beautiful in the dim rising light of my energy-saving bulb. Her narrow shoulders roll against my broad back, feverish with tension. Her face radiates in the heat of the burning stove. I am wearing blue striped linen trousers loaded with grey decaying slippers. I feel almost ghastly in her presence, and I get that sense of balance I mentioned of the mint. 
   Her study is music, the cello. I saw her one Sunday afternoon in the vicinity of the National Portrait Gallery. Her arms writhing with splendor creating an atmosphere that brought light to the day. I sat watching her for twelve minutes as I rolled and smoked two cigarettes. She wasn’t aware of my presence as her eyes stayed fixated on the neck of her instrument. Her pale skin reflected the creeping sun between clouds which washed her out leaving the vision of a ghostly figure escaping itself. I believe it was this moment I began to desire her. It was certainly a short moment after that I approached her. 
   She was placing her cello carefully in it’s brown leather case. The music she played was a piece composed by a fellow student at the Birmingham Conservatoire. A very open ended subject. Questions rolled unforced on my behalf, for her music had woke me and so gave a natural interest. My shoulders relaxed. I took her for coffee in a quiet restaurant to discuss the possibility of photographing her portrait. Professional intention I told myself. Possible subject for a prolific exhibition I told her. I almost convinced us both. It’s a curious thing when you approach women for an artistic purpose, giving them easy indirect complements about their beauty. I knew I couldn’t be quite so obtuse with this girl, she was young but had a quiet confidence which I believed to be founded on degrees of learned and natural intelligence.


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## The Backward OX (May 21, 2010)

I read it through and confess I did not understand it. It might be a specific style of writing with which I am unfamiliar. Then again you might be barking mad.

But who am I, to judge? We’re all mad, in our way.

So, to work. Regardless of style, there are one or two matters I need to draw to your attention.



> I felt the relationship which had always been so strong and prosperous between me and my limbs atrophying.


Placing the verb ‘atrophying’ - which, in its simplest terms, refers to what the narrator felt about a particular relationship - at the tail end of such a long and complex sentence is poor syntax. 

The overall concept of the first paragraph, of growing old at forty three, would need some serious justification, which here is non-existent.



> I must achieve sanitation before my whole head turns grey. Today they only brush against my ears and a few at my hairline


 
What the f*ck does that mean?



> the possibility of photographing her portrait.


 
A photograph* is* a portrait. 




I’ve only now looked at your other posts. I should have guessed. *rushes off to wash hands*


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## Baron (May 21, 2010)

The Backward OX said:


> A photograph* is* a portrait.
> 
> 
> 
> ...



A portrait may be photographic but it doesn't follow that a photograph is a portrait.  If you must be pedantic you could at least get it right.


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## StephenMcG (May 21, 2010)

The Backward OX said:


> I read it through and confess I did not understand it. It might be a specific style of writing with which I am unfamiliar. Then again you might be barking mad.
> 
> But who am I, to judge? We’re all mad, in our way.
> 
> ...



Backward Ox.

Look up the definition of 'portrait'-

'a painting, drawing, photograph, or engraving of a person, esp. one depicting only the face or head and shoulders'.

It doesn't exclusively mean a 'photograph'. Growing old is something we are all doing, regardless of your feelings on that. Yes, you too Backward Ox.

And for your little snidey remark at the end "*rushes off to wash hands*" -

You have to assume that someone has a week left of their university degree, works long part-time hours, and wasn't sufficiently educated. 

Thanks for your time.


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## Baron (May 21, 2010)

StephenMcG said:


> Backward Ox.
> 
> Look up the definition of 'portrait'-
> 
> ...


 
Steve, Ox is probably the most ancient member on the forum.  He thinks a 60 year old is a young person.

I think you should take a look at cutting the fat on this one and you'll get more from it.  For example:



> Waking from an hours sleep, dreamless sleep, I thought of a comment that I’d heard the previous day whilst traveling from Euston Station to London Bridge. It was a curious phrase this woman used. It was abstract of coherent meaning, and I thought of it sporadically through the day.



"I woke from an hour's dreamless sleep to the thought of an overheard comment from the previous day, on the train journey from Euston to London Bridge .   I had continued to give sporadic thought to the curious, abstract phrase the woman had used ."


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## Reese (May 23, 2010)

"Her pale skin reflected the creeping sun between clouds which washed her out leaving the vision of a ghostly figure escaping itself. I believe it was this moment I began to desire her. It was certainly a short moment after that I approached her."

Why was that? Because she was a "ghostly figure escaping itself?" Why? Why did this lead to you desiring her?


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## thewordsmith (May 23, 2010)

While I am not, at the minute, prepared to do a review of this piece (which, while having numerous problems, is not nearly as bad as some of you seem to think!), allow me to point out the difference between a photograph, a portrait, and a photographic portrait.
Consider that, while a photograph may well be a portrait not all photographs are portraits and not all portraits are photographs - it they were, we would have no idea the appearance of Napoleon Bonaparte, Louis XVI, William of Orange, or George Washington. Yes, it feels slightly redundant to say photographic portrait, but it is not necessarily so. 
Now you may all apologize to the OP for your vitriol.


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## The Backward OX (May 23, 2010)

thewordsmith said:


> While I am not, at the minute, prepared to do a review of this piece (which, while having numerous problems, is not nearly as bad as some of you seem to think!), allow me to point out the difference between a photograph, a portrait, and a photographic portrait.
> Consider that, while a photograph may well be a portrait not all photographs are portraits and not all portraits are photographs - it they were, we would have no idea the appearance of Napoleon Bonaparte, Louis XVI, William of Orange, or George Washington. Yes, it feels slightly redundant to say photographic portrait, but it is not necessarily so.
> Now you may all apologize to the OP for your vitriol.


 
Dictionary.com
*por·trait*

   /ˈpɔr
	

	
	
		
		

		
			





trɪt, -treɪt, ˈpoʊr-/ 

 Show Spelled[*pawr*-trit, -treyt, *pohr*-] 

 Show IPA 
*–noun* 1. a likeness of a person, esp. of the face, as a painting, drawing, or photograph: _a gallery of family portraits. _


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## moderan (May 23, 2010)

Ox, sir, that doesn't prove your point. Nowhere there does it say or intimate that photographs and portraits are one and the same. It merely gives an example of a type of photograph that is a portrait, and also mentions paintings and drawings as portraiture.


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## The Backward OX (May 23, 2010)

> the possibility of photographing her portrait.


Let me put this to you, Mr Under-utilised Journalist:


Her SUV

Her cat 

Her portrait.


He can photograph her SUV, he can photograph her cat, but why would he bother taking a photograph of her portrait? 


“Sir, sir, sir! Me, sir!”

“Yes, Smithers, very well. Why would he bother taking a photograph of her portrait?”

_“To use up the last of the film, sir?”_


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## moderan (May 24, 2010)

Perhaps he wanted a photographic record of the portraits done in oils, that hang in the hallway. There could well be other reasons. You may hem, sir, you may haw, but you're far too large to wriggle off that hook.
In any event, that does seem a very small thing to be focusing so much attention on. I myself have both a portrait done in acrylics, and several photographic portraits, done both in old-fashioned Polaroid film and newfangled pixels. I even have a self-portrait, drawn in pencils, and subsequently photographed. Would that not, I submit, be a portrait of a portrait?
Don't you have a monster story to do, or something else reasonably  productive?


> I took her for coffee in a quiet restaurant to discuss the possibility  of photographing her portrait.


 And yes, the sentence should probably read something like:


> I took her for coffee in a quiet restaurant to discuss the possibility  of photographing her for a portrait.


You're right about that. The rest is hairsplitting.


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## Baron (May 24, 2010)

moderan said:


> Perhaps he wanted a photographic record of the portraits done in oils, that hang in the hallway. There could well be other reasons. You may hem, sir, you may haw, but you're far too large to wriggle off that hook.
> In any event, that does seem a very small thing to be focusing so much attention on. I myself have both a portrait done in acrylics, and several photographic portraits, done both in old-fashioned Polaroid film and newfangled pixels. I even have a self-portrait, drawn in pencils, and subsequently photographed. Would that not, I submit, be a portrait of a portrait?
> Don't you have a monster story to do, or something else reasonably  productive?
> 
> ...


 
Back to the mad tea party?  Looks like you have Edna instead of Alice.


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## moderan (May 24, 2010)

Yeah, it's that dormouse. Slipped me some bad stuff.


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## The Backward OX (May 24, 2010)

Ah. The magic of the Edit button.


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## mark_schaeffer (Feb 26, 2017)

_*Forty Two*

Waking from an hours sleep, dreamless sleep, I thought of a comment that I’d heard the previous day whilst traveling from Euston Station to London Bridge. It was a curious phrase this woman used. It was abstract of coherent meaning, and I thought of it sporadically through the day. It recurred once again on my pillow that smelt heavily of smoke. My eyes were heavy and my limbs were weak. Age was creeping around me like a sniper. For months I’d felt a linear perspective of my weight, vitality and years. Suddenly: without warning I felt the wound of a bullet, and my limbs became incapable (though willing) of my demands. I felt the relationship which had always been so strong and prosperous between me and my limbs atrophying. Diminishing a dead weight on a cheap mattress stained with semen and menstrual blood. It occurred to me that growing old didn’t leave me feeling more refined and knowing, and that the relationship with one’s body was essential to the self. I am forty three a week today.
I work as a freelance photographer, based in London (the place to be). The phone rarely makes a sound these days, save the irksome tune of a low battery. Life is becoming tiresome and my relationships with women becoming more dysfunctional. Nights of decadence and frivolous sex, the women getting younger by the month if it lasts that long.

My mint plant that sits on the window-ledge in the kitchen has grown three branches towards the light that now suffocates the shorter sprigs. I don’t have the interest to plant it. I’ve found the contrast of relative growth and death quite attractive. Perfectly balanced you may say. But time is running its course and the mint is desperate for rich fertile soil. Light has created the most beautiful shape of this plant: it has grown like an arm that stretches to the window, craving to climb through it to the garden. I watch it every morning while the kettle boils and tell myself that things must change. I must achieve sanitation before my whole head turns grey. Today they only brush against my ears and a few at my hairline which women (particularly young women) always comment on. They always mention George Clooney as though it will cause some satisfaction for me. I’m not entirely sure who he is if I’m honest, I’ve been meaning to type his name in on Google but there are always more important things to do, like watch my dear mint plant in its curious life while the kettle boils. The race between my hair and lifestyle has become an obsession. I watch business men on the Underground with contempt. Like soldiers in their crisp uniforms and stripy or dotted ties. Their phones always ring, answered with usually forced low voices to make them sound serious. There is nothing serious about what they do. My mint plant is serious, it is desperate at least. How grey is their hair? is my first question. They are never alone on these journeys. I have apparitions of their wives and children usually tugging at their crisp sleeves demanding something sweet. A new doll or a Ken to satisfy the blonde figure. I wonder of the inventor of Ken, as Barbie would naturally come first in the Garden of Eden for plastic toys. Of that I am sure.

_*Ken and Barbie in the Garden of Eden*

Waking from a dreamless sleep, I thought of something I’d overheard traveling from Euston Station to London Bridge. My mint plant sits on the window ledge. It has moved towards the light in a way that suffocates the shorter sprigs. It doesn't care than I'm forty-three tomorrow. Or that I can no longer get a brush through my hair. That age was a spider, a lifeless weight on a mattress stained with semen and blood. Or that Barbie had appeared first in the Garden of Eden.


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## Sebald (Mar 9, 2017)

What a debate. Newbie, so It's the first time I've read one of these. I had no idea they would be so lively. Steve, your rambling story really grew on me. It really has something that kept me inside it. I agree you could maybe trim here and there. Some nice moments of self-realisation and wit (possibly push them even further eg regarding the mint plant, turn 'the peculiar shape of it' into 'the particular shape of it'). The understatement makes it even more humiliating, somehow.
I'd take out the George Clooney reference. Just my personal taste, but I find it jarring to come across real names in fiction. Same for 'Barbie' and 'Ken'. They break the spell you've worked so hard to cast.
Mr The Backward Ox, your critique was hilarious.
Seb


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## Jay Greenstein (Mar 10, 2017)

> Waking from an hours sleep, dreamless sleep, I thought of a  comment that I’d heard the previous day whilst traveling from  Euston  Station to London Bridge.


You open the story with data on things that happened before the story opened? Why? If it matters, start the story where it begins. Story happens as we watch. And the reader comes to us for story, not history, or an essay on the philosophy of someone that know nothing about.





> Suddenly: without warning I felt the wound of a bullet, and my limbs became incapable (though willing) of my demands


Seriously? Someone gets shot and they "feel the wound?" In the midst of excruciating pain they know it's from a bullet? You're reporting a traumatic moment as dispassionately as if s/he noticed a shoelace untied.

You're explaining this a without a trace of emotion, so while the reader may be informed, they have no reason to identify with the character. Have your computer read it to you and you'll hear what the reader does. And I know that's not what you hoped they'd get.

As for why, you're using the report and essay writing skills we all learn in school. And they're designed to inform, not entertain, because that's the writing style employers desire in their workers. It's fixable, but until you pick up a few tricks the pros take for granted, you can't write like one.

The local library's fiction writing section is a great resource, and worth investing some time in.


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## Sebald (Mar 12, 2017)

Taking her picture. To discuss the possibility of taking her picture. Isn't that how people actually speak? Steve, your story certainly provoked strong reactions. I like fiction to be a bit startling, and I hope you carry on. Seb


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