I’d like to say my voice could guide out of all situations, like Blair Witch, or house haunt, or Julia Roberts teaching you what decorum is. That training, which was yearly, CV-missed grades in speaking, like there’s one correct way of doing things, is enough to diffuse, undo or do-up, depending on needs. That being dulcet could talk into Pattinson’s elastane, or unravel the cotton fixing Ethan Hawke’s shirt buttons to his shirts.
But being effectively accent-less, undefined by a family place setting or a county isn’t actually worth anything, particularly. It’s a universality American films seek the undoing of, and I unsuccessfully merge with lilt and patters, perks and spits. I’ll never sound like somebody else. I was taught generically, to sound like everybody English. And I wait to meet somebody else who was.
This song weaves between films, tv shows and films until, ingrained, it plays Ben’s bed or Jim’s shirt and Mike’s hand and it fills every meal plate up and makes conversation whir, and stirs every almost whim, and could make anybody come, stay, would sieve any leavers out so that seriousness lingers. Linger. Which is another The Cranberries song. Six degrees and separation of.
Your in between, almost decisions weren’t right in past lives and aren’t right now and Biblically speaking what you’ve done is technically unforgivable but named characters in those stories generally get out of binds, finding wise words at particular times, following despicable deeds, in shrubbery, so hang tight. Maybe you’re exceptional.
Jack asks for my definition of exceptional so I read him the dictionary one, Google “exceptional thesaurus”, after unthinkable synonyms, forgettable possibilities which wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for the lists of other people, memories and links that John’s made, Jenny’s written down laws. And Jack’s not satisfied, wants the one word I can’t find, don’t have, and I tread the stalemate cautiously because my boots don’t have good grip on ice or spilled drinks, even though they’re a brand from a popular walking boot store. Some things are indescribable, impossible reviews, un-label-able, wordless. Synonym-less. Despicably shit but redeemable, seemingly, upon asking nicely at exactly the right time, to the right man in the correct sky with the proper literature under your belt.
Every competition you entered as a kid you got rejected from, couldn’t win stuffed toys from cereal packets or chocolate bars in tombolas. And the essay you write doesn’t sound much, wouldn’t hold up to writers, men accustomed to hoop jumping, women have degrees now.
The lottery’s seemed such a sure thing, and pocket money’s funded weekly trips, and mathematics helped with the choice of numbers, in that you learnt which your favourites were in Mr. Harrison’s, Mr Tucker’s lessons. It’s the epitome of hope now, chance materialising in seconds.
Jack asks if you’re going and you ask what you’d stay for and you show him the ticket and he says, “How Willy Wonka, Charlie chocolate of you,” when he hoped this was Esio Trot.