Quiet time.

The very first piece of origami I can remember doing was a simple box. It was my old headmaster, a man called Peter Higgins that taught an entire year group how to do it and it is something that I have never ever forgotten since. Simple in its premise, the aim is to turn a single sheet of A4 paper into something useful- and useful it was as I have made one for every girlfriend I have ever had at some point, as well as using them myself for simple desk tidies and trinket holders. 

This week I've been thinking of loss. We had some bad news that a dear friend of the family- one of those faces from every special occasion- had passed away. At the funeral I found myself swept up in the emotion, the turn-out and indeed, the humour of the moment as a brass band began to play outside the crematorium mid-service. I should say, there was an element of doubt as to whether it had been pre-arranged by the man himself- such was his reputation for bringing a smile and a bit of mischief and I'm sure he would have appreciated the sentiment of it in against the saddening backdrop of the military standards. I wasn't alone in my smiling and from what people were saying afterwards, it seems everyone had the same flash-thought as the drums and trombones struck up. 

To me, Wilf will always be remembered. I will remember the way he scored his charm across my sheet of paper and once that mark has been made, it can never be undone- even paper has a memory. So I did what I always do- I made a box and took the quiet time to do a bit of considering the many good moments to be cherished. For Wilf then, and for Peter Higgins my old headmaster, here is my origami poem. 

Thanks for reading, S

Quiet time.

Give me one blank sheet and I’ll make you a picture

Measured out with the precision of a cross legged boy.

It will be a paper box, a collection of memories

All thoughtfully gathered with a hard scored crease.

I was ten, in assembly and the headteacher’s gift

Was to give us a way to collect up our thoughts.

I bring the top corner down to the side, trim the excess

Take my new perfect square and fold it in half,

Bring each half of this to the middle again.

Unfold, turn the paper through ninety degrees

And repeat, you should now have a squared gatefold sleeve.

Bend  the top corners inwards but just to the first crease

Then the middle edge back up to rest over these

Again with the bottom, you’re aiming for symmetry

Pull the middle lips out and you should start to see

The shape of the box I remember from childhood

Taught to me in assembly hall years ago

That man may have passed now but back then he marked me

Took my blank sheet of paper and scored on his line

With a mountain fold, peaking to see a potential

That would help me reflect in the fullness of time. 

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Scraps

 by Ashley Lister 

***

 Dear Walls Sausages,

I am writing to ask if your sausage skins are compatible with water silicone lubricants?

Signed,

a curious sausage lover

***

Sometimes, when I’m between bouts of writing, teaching or exercises in muffin baking (that’s not a euphemism), I practice origami. I usually make origami football shirts – because the folding sequence on those is easy to remember. I like making them from five pound notes – that is, when I’m trusted with five pound notes. If I don’t have access to such large sums of money, I use scrap pieces of paper that already have some writing on them.

***

Idea for a comic strip – Musty: the vomiting tramp. The title is self explanatory. Musty is a homeless Blackpool man possessed by the malevolent spirit of Margaret Thatcher. He goes round upchucking on seagulls and giving BJs in exchange for Subway sandwiches.

***

Obviously I don’t always have access to five pound notes. We live under a government filled with Tories so the chances of keeping hold of a five pound note long enough to fold it into a shirt are slimmer than an anorexic’s slice of Christmas cake. Under those circumstances, if I’m not able to get hold money, I search for scraps of paper from around the house.

***

Idea for a children’s story – Cuthbert’s Special Friend!

It was a dark and stormy night when Cuthbert first discovered ‘the visitor’ growing out of his anus. “I hope it’s an alien who will talk to me and enjoy being squeezed occasionally,” he thought brightly. “And not just another haemorrhoid that bursts too easily when I’m tugging on it…”

Maybe this can be illustrated? Scratch and sniff?

***

Specific origami paper is prohibitively expensive. Consequently, I end up using those scraps of paper that have previously been used before. Sometimes these scraps contained scribbled ideas for stories…

***

Idea for an erotic historical novel: Schindler’s Fist!

***

…sometimes these are drafts of letters that I should never have sent…

***

Dear Jim,

Can you fix it for me to be touched by a creepy old cigar-smoker?

Signed,

a child who grew up suddenly in the 70s

***

…and sometimes they are simply the remnants of partially completed things-to-do lists…

***

Start with an inappropriate sexual innuendo

Moan about the Tories

Make nob gags

Include an inappropriate reference to haemorrhoids

Steal a vulgar gag about sex in a film title

Do a Jimmy Savile joke

Remind everyone reading that you appreciate them visiting this page.

***

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Precision Art

It just goes to show doesn't it?  That beauty, creativity and a gentle touch can bring out the best in something as simple as a piece of paper.  Typical traits of a Geisha really.  Shame that, I really don't agree with the principles.

The total of my origami experience is the paper plane and on of those boxy paper choice makers (sorry can't remember their proper name) that we used to make at school.  But the beautiful creations that I saw whilst looking for images of origami take my breath away.  Take a look on-line.  Just type in "origami" in your search engine, and see where it takes you.  Mind you I have always found people who can do intricate things like that a bit of a marvel.  ;-)

This week, I confess, I know little about this topic, and being as previous posts this week have pretty much covered what it is all about, I thought I would write a little poem from the perspective of the piece of paper.

Ode to the Origami Artist:

I was plain, 2 dimensional
Til you took me in your hands
Began to mold me with your gentle touch
Creating something new, as was your plan.

With every crease, a new edge appeared
Defining something more
But even I could not have dreamed
Of what you had in store.

Patiently you tuck and pleat
And fold and crease again
Til slowly, carefully, lovingly
I emerge as an elegant Crane.

You took something plain, 2 dimensional
Bent, tucked, folded, creased
Created depth where there was none
Gave me form, figure and release.



Sorry it's a short post this week.  Thanks for reading.

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Beware: Idle Hands

When origami used to be mentioned, like many others, I would think of paper cranes, butterflies and fish. However, these ‘first-to-mind’ associations changed a few years ago after reading Don Paterson’s Rain.  Now, when origami is mentioned, I think of a single poem from that collection: a blank poem consisting of just a title (‘Unfold’) and a name (Akira Yoshizawa). The poem is in memoriam and once the reader discovers that Yoshizawa was considered to be the grandmaster of origami, this poem, which initially seems to say nothing, takes on a very different meaning…

Yoshizawa once said “When you fold, the ritual and the act of creation is more important than the final result. When your hands are busy your heart is serene.”

Such sentiments have woven their way into therapeutic practices; Occupational Therapy (OT) exists within most psychiatric hospitals – or did before Cameron began his destructive reign – not because clay ashtrays will cure mental health issues, but rather the process of making may offer an hour of distraction.

Ideally, inpatient services would offer more than clay-shaping and paper-folding – talking therapies that give the chance of real change – but, in rundown wards where daytime ‘routines’ centre around the blurred chatter of the television, money becomes the reason for why more isn’t offered. So, for the moment at least, all we can hope is that OT remains in our hospitals, giving brief relief, until the government realises that those with mental health issues deserve more – that their lives are worth more than the subsequent costs.

*          *          *

To bring this post back to poetry I’d like to share a poem with you from The Naked Physician: Poems about the Lives of Patients and Doctors (Quarry Press) and reproduced on The British Journal of Psychiatry’s website.

Origami – Poems by doctors

(Arthur Clark)

At first, a long time ago,

there were only the folds of your armpits

and your buttocks and groin and eyes,

then the folds of the palms

whereby Madame Ricardo purported to know your future.

Much later came two folds on the forehead.

The folds at the eyes extended,

the ones between the nose and lip grew deep.

More folding. Vertical folds crossed the horizontal,

summers folded onto autumns, and the year

was folded by year and put on year away.

Vast sorrows were folded onto minor triumphs,

tucked under the slip of memory and lost.

Then I began to see the process,

in long shadows, by altered evening light,

as a process, and how each folding

brings you closer to perfection of the finished piece.

Thank you for reading,
Lara

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The Magic of Origami

He drags his finger nail down the edge of the crease to sharpen the fold. This was more than just a paper bird. His pupils dilate as if had just seen his one true love for the first time. He starts the next fold.

A book entitled 'the Magic of Origami' lay open on the table next to the photo ID Simon used for work. Life as a number pusher for the local council had recently become a stone. No longer could he just sit there day after day, oblivious of the world's powers.

An impulse buy from The Works on Church Street. Something to do in the evening instead of vegetating to Coronation Street. A hobby. This was to occupy his mind, but it turned out to be so much more.

The first time he didn't understand, thought the feeling was pride at achieving something he had never done before. Soon he realised that in fact he was exhilarated, almost aroused by each new fold.

He began to imagine that he could put a little bit of his soul into these paper models, give them life. In that moment his two hundred and eighty sixth butterfly flapped its wings for the first time, the electricity surging through his body was akin to ejaculating twenty times in one go. Nothing had ever felt so good.

Soon he had created his own paper zoo. Each creature larger and more complicated than the one before. Each new life giving a bigger and bigger rush. This was all he wanted to do.  This was all he started to do. This was everything he did.

Now he only sleeps when his body can take no more. Eat cold foods that require no preparation to minimize the time he is away from his children, his creations.

He finishes the last fold on the latest section of his new wife's left hand. She will love him and share his world. She will understand more than these doctors.

He takes out a fresh sheet of paper and begins to fold.  He drags his finger nail down the edge of the crease to sharpen the fold. This was more than just a paper bird. His pupils dilate as if had just seen his one true love for the first time. He starts the next fold.

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