About montag

My name is Montag. Except, it isn't. Montag is the protagonist of Fahrenheit 451, a sci-fi novel that was written by Ray Bradbury in 1953. It is set in a future where old books are burned but where this isn't a bad thing - it is law, and everyday normality. The story describes Montag's gradual awakening to the subtle barriers that his society erects in the way of free thought. Modern society may be starting to resemble the insidious dystopia that Bradbury imagines. This blog is an attempt to explore that idea - and have a lot of writerly fun along the way. M xx

Gentler Days

I’m fondly
Remembering
Gentler days.
I would compose
Poetry
On paper
Feeling the
Sensual curve
Of each letter
And
Meditate
Upon slowly
Forming words
Curling like
Smoke
Up to heaven

I imagine
The beautiful flat
That I shared with friends –
Late nineties
In Kew village.
Sunlight always flooded
Our small kitchen.
Holy.
And in this reverie
I am cooking
(As I always did)
To the sound of
Helen Mayhew
Announcing dinner
Jazz music
Of my dreams.

There was
Love then.
Pain too of course.
But time
Reduces the equation
Of life
And the lowest
Factor is
Always
Love

Purge

In respect of a particular type of emotional exorcism, all I can do is write. Some folks, I guess, turn to paints and oils for distraction, others maybe to drink and drugs (I’ve already done that and it seems to have made things worse).

So, I write. I attempt to purge the obsessional poison out of my system by means of the tap-tap-tap on the plastic piano. I descend upon this battlefield of the soul armed with metaphor and simile, protected only by the metal jacket of wit and self-deprecation, and fired up with the flyogaric of my internal turmoil. The forces which confront me are many – perceived serendipity, connection and affection. They overwhelm my calm, unexpectedly breaking through the order which I had lovingly cultivated for years. It is like an earthquake of the self. One minute all is serene; blue skies and summer. Then – the very ground heaves and splits beneath your feet. The buildings – solid stable structures in which you sleep in – come crashing down around your ears and you are lucky if you make it out alive. These are very formidable forces which I pit my feeble weaponry against.

I will try. This weekend, I will leave everything at home, Mlle Shrodinger. I don’t want to know, don’t want to hope. I need to slay this thing. So if when I return, things are still in that quantum indeterminate state, then I will slay it anyway. I will remove the possibility of my being able to open the box. It will forever then remain a mystery. A possibility. Potential never realised. That is my strategy. I hope that I will win the fight.

Samsonesque

I feel a little like

Samson

Today.

I’ve squandered the

Panoply of talents

That were

Scattered around me

From birth

and now

Metaphorically

Blind and

Enfeebled

I am an object of

Only ridicule

The question is

Do I have

Any last

Superhuman

Effort

Left within.

Moments and Being

It’s not about the photograph
Arty well-crafted snapshot purporting
To demonstrate how cool things were.
It’s not about the hype:
This will be/is/was cool
Nah.
It’s about the moment, people
It’s about the love
The all pervading oneness
An ineffable symphony
Of being and joy
Those who are/were there know it
Like no pixelated representation can
Describe.

Cohort

We were
Thrown
Together
Children
Together
So strange
Getting to know
Strangers.
We grew
Got cool
Adopted the fashions
Of our times
Hairstyles
And jeans
Our names reflected
Our era
Gary-Sharon-Tracey
Amit-Leroy-Dave
Jackie.
Our era
My cohort.
I learned about obscure
Rock from you
Kiss – UFO – Bowie
You learned reggae
Dub and funk
Then we flew
All off to our lives
Some created new young families
Others to university and success.
I see you now
You don’t recognise me
But I know you are
My cohort.
Though weary lined and grey
I still detect the remnants of
Your youthful smile
I imagine your hair
In the Farrah Fawcett curl
Know the songs you love
The television memories
Imprinted in your mind
We are disparate, different
And strange
But in another way we are one
You recognise me.
I recognise you.
We are
Cohort.