Seems to me, that lately I've been writing quite a bit about the past. Not just in the postings you get to see on this here page, but also in the notepads I use for the book I'm working on. Even trawling the paragraphs of the half started drafts for blogs I never actually upload, I've noticed less about London and The Road and more anecdotes that are set in St. Kilda and The US. Some Storytellers harvest in fields rich with fantasy, prediction and preemption. Their homes have windows that looks out into the forward distance and they are able to gaze out them with ease and at whim. My window looks out into Golders Green - a Jewish neighborhood so very similar to the one I grew up in. How's that for my life imitating my art?
Writing of The Past allows a dissemination that benefits from both perspective and hindsight. The Future is just the justification of the efforts and actions of the present. I don't wish to be a waiter justifying myself to you. However, I am happy to disseminate my path and journey to you. Recount the ridiculousness and amusement of it. Show you the futility of my attempts at gained wisdom.
Whilst not exactly dealing with her specific future, one writer that did purvey in fantasy off in the forward distance, was the great Enid Blyton. During the middle of the last century, this English children's writer churned out an overwhelming and extraordinary amount of work. It's impossible to exaggerate the weight of her output. Just look it up online if you are unfamiliar with her.
Today, there is much intellectual posturing (also available online) about the low literary worth of her works. Folk with lots of those little letters after their names, feel that the simple and, at times, invented language that fills her pages inflicts harm upon young, developing minds. There's further allegations that her work is littered with bigoted themes and belongs to a less politically correct time. Admittedly, it has been well over 15 years since I have even glanced at one of Blyton's books, but I can't remember feeling either of these sentiments to be true. Perhaps the younger and less aware version of myself could not be truly conscious to such subtleties of bigotry, however, there is no doubting the literary value of her work. I can state here with proud certainty that Enid Blyton, and her countryman Roald Dahl, were the earliest artistic influences in my life. Their works provoked and sustained my imagination and fueled a desire to quest more experience from this world. Anyone that is able to do this to and for The Young, has to be a true artist; and a literary one at that.
Blyton wrote several series. From groups of young detective/adventurer types, to naughty boarding-school girls, she wrote in a way that expressed a true love for her reoccurring characters. Perhaps this love was why she wrote so much - a desire to spend her Present in the Future of those she cared so much for. Personally, I fell in love with casts of The Magic Faraway Tree series and The Wishing-Chair series. I grew up with sisters so very close in age and proximity and we often shared or stole books from each other. This is what probably steered me away from her detective stories and towards her more feminine, fantasy works.
Around the house, there seemed to be an endless supply of books from either of these series. I can still see the light green, hardcovers, decorated with water-colour paintings providing just a taste of the tempting and fantastical adventures that sat inside it’s binding. The central theme of all these books was easy to define - Escape. They were all about young children with a burning desire and need to remove themselves from the reality of their days and of The Tree or The Chair that was an immediate gateway to a so far away world of fantasy and wonder. You don't need to be a Child Psychologist to work out why this was so appealing to my younger self.
I no longer wish to escape. I no longer require the possibilities inspired by someone else's stories of a little boy running off with the circus (another one of her oft used setups) - I've already run off with the circus. I'm out here right now. I went and did it for real. Turns out that it's everything I hoped and so much more. Perhaps this is why I find it so difficult to write in and of The Future. I'd much rather just live it first and then craft an edited down version of it for you later. Enid Blyton inserted fantasy into a fictionalised version of The Future; I insert fantasy and fiction into my own Past.
So this is why, as I sit here beside the electric drum-kit in the music studio that my housemates have built in the front room of our house, I can't tell you about the endless cast of South Americans that live in said. It's why I find it so difficult to tell you about the bus-driver who stopped his bus mid-route last night and refused to proceed because someone had hurt his feelings. I want so badly to complete stories about the fascinating panorama that is Chelsea and enthrall you with more failed tales of my attempted conquests.
But I can't. Not now. But the distance will come.
