The Artist's Spirit

He threw me to the ground, so devastatingly sure in this action that he spared not even a moments glance to watch me crater against the bar. He left me lying there in that shadowed, stained, and pungent nether region where so many forgotten things meet their end. And honestly, I didn’t entirely blame him. I knew why he had done it, but still, naivety had woven the fanciful hope that in all we had shared he might have come to love me not for what he wished me to be, but for what I was. Now it seemed clear, as tepid pools of clumsily-spilt beer slowly soaked and wrinkled my body, that I had been a fool.

It began a little over a year ago. What a busy day it had been. The skies, finally, had switched out a few weeks of uninspired greys and dull patters of rain for a touch of uninterrupted sunshine. That rare warm light streaked magnificently through the storefront glass, and with it, a certain liveliness had come to fill the place. I tell you, the British do love their sunshine. Like famished bears drawn out by the peeping of spring, these islanders vacate their dens in droves to lap up each glimmer of sunshine that occasionally trickles onto their temperate pocket of the world. Poor fellows, caught in this eternal cat-and-mouse. And here was one of them now gawking sceptically in my direction. Khaki chino shorts; a graphic tee emblazoned with what looked like a monkey in dance, peeking from between the flanks of a tattered jean jacket - almost certainly thrifted. And the wavy blonde hair intentionally biased to one side and disappearing into a bruised up fedora. I had seen him before. Well, not him specifically, but others of his tribe. It was obvious he belonged to that odd brand of young, bohemian-type creative - the uniform gave him away. So many of us had ended up with his kind, and today this one clearly had designs on me. His lanky fingers reached out. Greedy, unfurling, clasping. I felt myself become unshelved, the agitated dust lingering on sheets of golden light. He would do just fine!

"She’s exactly what I’m looking for, darling" he gestured with an air of nonchalance. The royal lilt to his tongue balanced out rather nicely with his somewhat beggarly garb. In any case, the left breast-side pocket of that pre-loved jean jacket would become a familiar place, just as soon as the clutz could remember where he had put his wallet.

From that day on my pages were his and his thoughts were mine. And what amazing times we had. Whether sitting up in bed passing away drab afternoons or blowing billows of smoke to a view of snow -dusted hills from Matthew Jones’ balcony; whether sitting with one leg tucked on park benches - beneath the serenade and song of robins and starlings, or even when lying awake at night with the gentle hum of Maria's breath waving on beside. On her more tired days she ventured a snore, buton every occasion he wrote, and he wrote, and he really did write! Epic poetry, prose, rhymed poems, blank verse, and even the odd doodle. For as long as I had known him writing had been his heart's occupation. We filled many pages, but he was desperately ambitious and I knew I wasn’t his first - the bedside drawer was something of a graveyard. The tale was simple - despite his best efforts, the lad had still not risen to the heights he thought himself destined for.

The Pub ~

Then wandered in that fateful night in Mulligans, Friday night’s usual pub. The lights had been dim, the atmosphere vibrant with the hum of directionless conversation, and pints of beer were being emptied to the drains in a uniquely British fashion. A tally of the drunk would have left very few out. Matthew Jones sat across the table, regaling the group with tales of his romantic exploits. Theresa, a quiet soul, suffered him between frequent visits to the ladies room. Dre, notoriously vocal in his manner, let loose bursts of laughter that occupied an exalted place in the din. And my Tom…. though his body was there his pauseless mind wavered between madness and hopelessness. His emotions simmered, nearing a boil with every cold and silent beer he threw back. Nobody else seemed to notice, but I could feel the chaotic drumming of his heartbeat on my back. I had felt that same ominous drumming half-a-year past when Thomas Sr, his father, had declared something about "sissy poets", "mental masturbation" and "waste of a life".

At last, erupting in hysterical exclamation, Tom spouted: "I don't have enough I just don't have enough! Who am I kidding, I will never have enough!"

"Calm down, Tom, calm down. Wha's the matter with you?" Matthew sputtered.

"I will never be a successful poet, the odds are stacked against me! My parents were right, I just don't have enough. I should have quit long ago. No one will take someone like me seriously!”

"Now, now, where's this coming fro…" the screech of Tom’s chair severed Theresa’s condolence as he paced his way out into the cold night. They had never seen him so distraught. He had a penchant for dramatic flair, but this had been unusual even for him. All three hurried after him, Theresa stumbling awkwardly as she did so.

Meanwhile, only Susan, the waitress, had noticed Tom snatch me out of his jacket pocket and fling me to the ground. She would be the one to rescue me from that decrepit floor. She would be the one to start it all. Susan, it turns out, knew the pains of being a struggling artist all too well. Hers had been a different art. The universe had seen it fit to gift her a voice I can only poorly describe as beautiful. But she hadn’t exactly grown up wealthy, far from it, and her mother had been less than impressed with the idea of a singing career. And now, caught in the limbo of middle age, her voice was only ever heard by the melancholic and heartbroken on sombre Saturday nights. She must have sensed some faint echo of her younger self in Tom. But, she didn’t know what I already knew about Tom, she couldn’t have. I wonder if she would have acted any differently if she had...?

Flipping open the front page Susan had immediately found what she was looking for. Tom had jotted down plenty of information beneath the "In case of loss" notice, even an address. That was the first thing he did on that first sunny day we had together. But as fate would have it Susan didn't immediately get in contact. Instead, she waited, and the following morning she posted this message on an online forum.

Sat 26. Susie Myers 09:09

"I'm tired of this story. I'm tired of seeing kids cheatd out of their dreams and ignored… I was one of those kids I know how it feels to not get the support you need. I'm starting this campaign to raise money for a young writer named Tom, I want him to get the opportunities most of us artists never get. If you can spare anything then please consider supporting this campaign. He doesn't know we're doing this. I'm planning on it being a surprise. Let's help make someone’s dream come true….."

And the rest was history.

The contributions began with a trickle, garnering the goodwill of the artistically inclined people within Susan's circle. Then serendipity took the stage, playing on those inconspicuous networks that every artist of every make is strung into, whether they know it or not. The £5000 target was eclipsed within the week, shattering every expectation of Susan's. But donationsonly kept growing, the whispers bouncing between groups of writers and authors and performers of all sorts. It really was a phenomenon!

The Reunion

Tom wept in disbelief when Susan and a few of her friends showed up at his doorstep two weeks later with an unbelievable story, a check for twenty thousand smackers, and a testimony of support that would move even the coldest heart. But the situation had been unexpected in more ways than one. Behind Tom extended a white-pillared porch framing a grand timber door. Above this, on the second floor, a large bay window stood tall. To the sides were more windows, Georgian-styled, these ones complemented by the creepers which had steadily grown from the exceptionally kept garden that appeared to circumscribe the house. Tom looked to be, well… not in need of very much financial help.

"Perhaps I'm missing something," Susan had pondered. "His family might be rich but maybe he doesn’t have money of his own..? Does he live with his rich parents?" “Does he actually need any of this money?” So many questions that no one could comfortably ask. But, however you shook it, it seemed that money was not Tom's problem. How awkward. I, of course, watched this all unfold knowing there was more still to be found out. Things had already been set in motion, and there was no putting a stop to it. Susan went on to reveal that an extremely well-known community of poets and writers had invited Tom, who’s campaign they had supported, to take the stage at their largest event of the year. He knew exactly what this event was. How popular and special it was. What it might do for a poets career! He smiled, he cried and he thanked profusely. He was overjoyed and clutched me as Susan handed me back to . The day couldn't come soon enough, and soon enough it had arrived.

On stage

There he was on stage, my Tom. A diffused spotlight shone down; the crowd was silent with eager anticipation - pre-warmed by Susan's hearty telling of how this had all unfolded, and also by the pure magic of the little song the organisers had teased out of her.

Tom pulled me from his pocket, a little black book. He snapped away my elastic and stirred through a few stained pages before he began to recite.

It wasn't long before the embarrassing truth which I had always known became known to the world. Attendees exchanged quick looks, the sort given to confirm a shared and unexpected experience. Others, intermittently, smiled coyly or otherwise swallowed their lips. Others still simplywatched the performance with blank expressions. And when he was done all clapped in unison.

Tom, passionate as he was, had never possessed so much as a lick of poetic talent!