Memoirs of J.D.Saward
Being a quasi-fictional representational interpretation of a life well-lived.
Volume 1: The Black Pages – 1954 to 2013
I know there is a delight in journey where a character overcomes difficulties and in so doing discovers a particular manifestation of strength in himself that takes us beyond the perceived limits of our own constrained lives. We want the character to win. But even if he loses, we are still interested in the fact that he endured the journey and rose above some poor perception of how things are, along the way, and we trust that if we realise the heights of our own consciousness and energy patterns we too will transcend the mundane. This is a story of such a character. Such a journey.
Be told right now. In this story the character does not win the prize. The character put his all into the journey. Nevertheless he has not overcome the very real obstacle that lies in his path. We must be able to accept that, should we wish to proceed to enter deeply into the unravelling of this tale.
Do not join in here if you are seeking some semblance of hope to arrive into your mind from outside yourself. This story conveys no hope. It is a tale from the dark place. A tale told in black pages that reside unflinchingly and without regard for the sanity of their host, in the human soul.
We join this account at the point where the character written into those black pages (or is he in fact the author of such) has exhausted all avenues of appeal. The judgement has come down. He sits in the prison awaiting his fate. While he waits he tell his tales to a spider that has wandered along under the door of the cell.
Perhaps that spider is us. Perhaps we look forward to learning what he will choose for his last meal. Perhaps we join him in that meal. Perhaps we in fact know ourselves as inseparable from him.
Perhaps we wonder if we would have done better than he; made more efficacious decisions along the way; beaten a path around the gallows; and found the way to be free.
This story is my offering as I contemplate the menu I am offered for the last meal. The character, you see, is me. There is no way around that. The writer only knows his own world. Each word he writes reveals his soul. That self-revelation, in the end – and the end will assuredly arrive – or has – is the only gift he has to offer, as he waits for the hangman to arrive.
For now, consider that this moment where the character (me?) sits in the prison sharing his soul with you (the spider?) is way down the line in the future. It is a tale told in past present and future as if they are all one. Be patient with that meandering between the tenses. The wrapping up together of all experience into one moment is part of the tale and perhaps this and even more will become clear as we proceed.
I give you the gift of this tale. The gift of this tale is not given lightly. But it is all I have to give.
The Black Pages. Entry One: 15/9/14
I was born in the little town of Darlinghurst. (The spider listens intently). Darlinghurst is surrounded by wetlands and there are only two roads in. One of those roads is guarded by a Troll.
Or so we believed as we wandered around the marshes in our short grey pants, slinging stones at frogs and poking sticks into snake holes, and on a good day, finding a raft made of corrugated iron that would skim across the surface of the waters for a bit until it encouraged us to place our entire weight on it and then for sure the devil came along and tipped us into the quagmire and that is why, Mamma, we are late for Tea.
We enjoyed to share those days together, my brother and my sister and me. We did not know that days of childhood would fade away. We saw adult people and perhaps they somehow resembled us but for all we knew they were cardboard cutout apparitions and held no place in our future. We could hardly find our way through the eternity of the summer holidays, let alone imagine a life as adult.
One time my brother and I snuck away from the house leaving our little sister in the pantry where we had lured her with the promise of smarties, only to lock the door and barricade her in while we made wicked witch noises through the louvres. When we heard her whimpering we [more coming]