Category: Book

In a word: Stern

It’s what I’d always expected of my teachers, having to stand up the front of the classroom and look like they were in control.

These days, not so much, but back in my day, teachers, and particularly the men, were to be feared, and stern expressions were the features of an effective teacher.

So, in this context, it means a hardness or severity of manner.

Whilst in a sense that was frightening to us kids, another form of the word also can be used to express a forbidding or gloomy appearance.

Grandfathers also have that stern look, but it’s more forbidding, more authoritarian, more severe, more austere, well, you get the picture.  A six-year-old would be trembling in his or her boots.

There again, in facing up to either possibility above, you could stand firm with a stern resolve not to buckle under the pressure.

Of course, not a good idea if you’re facing a tank (with a stern-looking tank master)

Then…

If you’re standing at the end of the boat, not the front, but the rear, you would be standing at the stern of the boat, or ship.

Oddly, when issuing instructions to go in reverse, not something you would say if you were on the bridge, you would instead say, or possibly yell, full speed astern, because you’re about to hit an iceberg.

Or some idiot in a jet ski who likes to think he or she can beat the bullet (or 65,000 tonnes of a ship that has very little mobility).

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovered his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little, Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Sydney

Beyond the Icons: Five Hidden Sydney Gems on the Road Less Travelled

Sydney is one of the world’s most beautiful cities, but let’s be honest: once you’ve seen the Opera House sails sparkle and crossed the Harbour Bridge, you might feel like you’ve checked the box.

But for the traveller yearning for authenticity—the one who prefers the local pub to the tourist trap, and a hidden bush track over a crowded promenade—Sydney holds secrets. If you’re touring New South Wales and looking to uncover the true soul of the Harbour City, you need to drive past the postcards.

Here are the top five things to do in Sydney on the road less travelled, reserved for those willing to venture just slightly off the beaten track.

1. Trace Ancient History at Ku-ring-gai Chase National Park

While the Royal National Park gets most of the glory (and the weekend crowds), the vast, stunning wilderness of Ku-ring-gai Chase, located in the north, often slips under the radar for international visitors. This is the perfect spot for a Sydney day trip that feels like a true escape from urban life.

Why it’s on the road less travelled: This park is not just known for its phenomenal bushwalking and sprawling waterways; it is a repository of irreplaceable history. Ku-ring-gai is home to some of the most significant and well-preserved Aboriginal rock art and engraving sites in the Sydney basin.

The Must-Do: Head to the captivating West Head Lookout, which offers panoramic, uninterrupted views across the juncture of the Hawkesbury River, Broken Bay, and Barrenjoey Headland. On your way back, stop and walk the short loop trail at the Basin Track to view Aboriginal engravings of marine life and human figures, remnants of the Guringai people who have called this land home for millennia.

2. Harbour Views Without the Crowds: The Hermitage Foreshore Walk

Everyone knows the walk from Bondi to Coogee, but Sydney’s most exquisite harbour views are often found on the quieter paths along the Eastern Suburbs. The Hermitage Foreshore Walk, connecting Nielsen Park to Rose Bay, is the perfect example of secluded city beauty.

Why it’s on the road less travelled: This 1.8 km track meanders through lush, protected rainforest, leading you to tiny, secret beaches that feel utterly remote, despite being minutes from million-dollar homes. You get postcard-perfect views of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and Opera House—but from across the water, framed by trees and exclusive little coves.

The Must-Do: Pack a picnic and stop at Milk Beach, a glorious sliver of sand that is largely inaccessible except via this track or boat. It is one of the most romantic spots in Sydney, ideal for watching the yachts sail by without the presence of tour buses or selfie sticks.

3. Step Back in Time (and Ruin): Cockatoo Island

Located right in the middle of Sydney Harbour, Cockatoo Island is a UNESCO World Heritage site and one of the world’s most unique islands. It’s an industrial ghost town, a former prison, shipyard, and reformatory school, offering a fascinatingly gritty contrast to the polished surrounding suburbs.

Why it’s on the road less travelled: While easily accessible by ferry from Circular Quay, most tourists jump off at Taronga Zoo or Manly. Those who make the short trip to Cockatoo Island find a raw, sprawling historical site where the massive industrial machinery and sandstone penal buildings have been left largely intact.

The Must-Do: Take a self-guided audio tour that delves into the island’s dark convict past and its role in building Australia’s naval strength. For the truly adventurous, book a waterfront glamping tent or apartment for the night. Waking up on a silent, historical island, watching the sun rise over the harbour, is an experience few visitors ever get to claim.

4. Explore Inner West’s Industrial Transformation: The Tramsheds

Sydney’s Inner West is famous for its hipster cafes and vintage shops, but the Tramsheds in Forest Lodge offer a specific culinary and architectural experience that screams “local.”

Why it’s on the road less travelled: This is not a standard food court; it’s a beautifully restored Rozelle Tram Depot, built in 1904. The massive, soaring industrial space, complete with old tram tracks and repurposed steel infrastructure, now houses a selection of artisanal retailers, high-quality restaurants, and providores focusing on local Australian produce.

The Must-Do: Skip the chain restaurants and grab lunch at a specialist venue like Bodega 1904 or pick up fresh seafood. The atmosphere is buzzing but intimate, giving you a real feel for Sydney’s industrial heritage fused seamlessly with modern dining culture. It’s a perfect pitstop for lunch if you are driving through the Inner West towards the city.

5. Discover the Tranquil Waters of Pittwater via Ferry

For a Sydney experience that truly requires a sense of adventure (and a slightly longer drive north), head to Church Point or Palm Beach and leave the car behind to explore the hidden waterways of Pittwater.

Why it’s on the road less travelled: Pittwater is Sydney’s serene northern counterpart to the bustling Harbour. It is edged by protected national parks and sprinkled with tiny, virtually car-less communities only accessible by private ferry or water taxi. This area feels less like Sydney and more like a secluded holiday destination.

The Must-Do: Catch the little commuter ferry from Church Point across to Scotland Island or The Basin (part of Ku-ring-gai Chase). The Basin offers brilliant, calm, lagoon-like swimming and excellent walking tracks leading to lookouts over the pristine water. This ferry journey itself is a charming slice of local life—you’ll be sharing the trip with residents doing their grocery runs and kids heading home from school.

Your Sydney Adventure Starts Now

Sydney’s iconic sights are worth the visit, but the true brilliance of the city lies just beyond the tourist trails. By taking the road less travelled, you don’t just observe Sydney; you immerse yourself in its history, its wild geography, and its genuine, local spirit.

So, ditch the guidebook, fire up the GPS, and go find the hidden beaches and industrial ruins that the locals try to keep secret.

Have you discovered a hidden Sydney gem that should be on this list? Share your favourite off-the-beaten-path spot in the comments below!

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life.  Again.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 181

Day 181 – Writing Exercise

How can you trust a person you know is telling you outright lies?

…

There’s nothing worse than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I got there by trying to prove myself among a group of four colleagues who had been working together for years.

They clearly didn’t want a fifth wheel.

And they certainly didn’t like the idea of a forcibly retired field agent looking for a quiet berth to see out his service.

The section head in charge told me quite clearly that the department had made a mistake, that his research team did not need another member, and they certainly didn’t want an ex-field agent.

He was miffed because the department head had decided my knowledge and expertise were too valuable to toss on the scrapheap.

No one else in that group had seen field service or understood those who came from it.  To them, the information they provided was 100 per cent useful, when in my particular case, it was not.

In that first meeting when I arrived, and listened to the broad outline of what the team provided, I could have categorically proved that information, sometimes poorly researched, had caused actual deaths of top-line agents, and taking into account my last personal experience, it had led to me unwillingly landing on their doorstep.

Such was the arrogance, I wanted to personally throttle two of them, but I decided it was neither the time or the place.  It was a matter of head down, minding my own business, and only consulting with the others when necessary.

And then only with extreme reluctance.

Which led to the seminal moment.  There was a cafe not far from the office, one I discovered the day I first arrived, where I needed a strong coffee before walking through the door.

The waitress, Angelique, according to her nametag, was bright and cheerful, the exact opposite of what I was feeling.  It was hard not to feel her enthusiasm, and it had lightened my mood.

So much so, I preferred to spend my morning and afternoon breaks in the cafe rather than be ignored in the cafeteria.

Sometimes the others, singly or in pairs, never the whole four at once, would come in.  I deliberately sat where I could not be seen very clearly and observed them.  Those conversations when they sat close enough were priceless.

Angelique brought my coffee and her surprise cake. I always let her decide which cake. Then two of my colleagues came in.  They did not look happy.

Nor did they see me, but then they would have to be deliberately looking for me.  They sat two tables across on the other side of a dividing hedge.

Angelique went over to them and took their order.  Two cappuccinos.  Perhaps the automatic coffee machine in the cafeteria had broken down.

“I’m telling you, Sandra, Roger thinks he’s a spy.”

“Roger jumps at shadows.  Don’t you think it’s time to cut him loose?  He’s never going to leave his wife.  She controls the money.”

“He says it’s complicated.”

“All married men say that.  As for Stevens, he was a spy, could still be a spy, but the reality is, good spies don’t get sent to our corner of the universe unless they failed badly.”

“You don’t think he’s been sent to see why some of the briefings were not quite up to the mark.  I mean that Paris mission…”

My last job.  Not up to the mark?  It provided out-of-date information, a critical schedule change that was missed.

“Roger approved it.  He said he checked it.”

“How, Eva?  He was with you?”

“I’m not to blame here.  That’s up to him to juggle things.  He would have postponed, like he has before, when things get tight.”

“You need to dump him before he takes you down with him, or worse, sets you up to take the fall.”

“He wouldn’t.”

Sandra just shook her head and said nothing.  The coffee arrived.

“Anyway,” Sandra said, “it might well be a moot point.  Roger has a plan to get rid of him.  It worked with the others, and this guy looks about ready to quit anyway.”

“You think so.  I wouldn’t underestimate what he’s capable of if he were an agent.  I’d like to know just how many people he’s killed.”

“You’re just morbid.”

“No.  Practical.  Mark my words.  There’s more to him than meets the eye.”

…

I was a spy, for want of a better word.  It was made very clear when the department head came to visit me before discharge from the hospital that I would not likely be sent back into the field

It was when he pitched the research job.

By then, I needed something, anything to take my mind off the nightmare.

I went to see him a few weeks later, at his request.  It was the second time I’d been in his office, all dark wood and leather furniture.  The polished almost made my eyes water. 

The cigar smoke did.

“That position I was talking about, it has taken on a new aspect.  The ops manager has completed his review of your mission and found that the briefing reference material was lacking.”

“Wrong.”

“By and large, it was right, except for several crucial details.  The question he raises is whether or not it was deliberate.”

“A traitor?”

“An incompetent fool, more likely.  But that’s for you to determine.  We’re sending you there.  I know the chap who runs it.  He’s going to fight this and make your life hell.”

“So another MacCallister then.”

That was a story.  The man I had to impress to get into the service.  The man who failed 80 per cent of his charges in the first week.  He and I were chalk and cheese.

“Worse.  MacCallister knows when he’s met a worthy opponent.  Roger Ballins doesn’t.  He’s broken every new person we’ve sent.”

I shrugged.  “He hasn’t had the Berkeley twins find his breaking point then.”

The Berkeley twins were the department’s interrogation team.  We all went through what was called the ‘break test’.  It was near the end of the training, and the cause of a lot of the remaining candidates failing.

“Not yet.  Let’s hope it does not come to that.”

…

So, Roger had a plan.  It bothered me that the two of them had no concept of what secrecy was, or had a modicum of training in how to maintain a certain level of anonymity, given the job they were doing.

It raised the question of whether they frequently discussed their research out of the office.  I doubted anyone was aware of how bad security was at the section.

Especially when it involved another employee, in this case, me.

If their plan involved overloading me with work, it wasn’t working.  Roger had been subtly dumping new requests in my in-tray every morning, and then asking the same afternoon what the status was on them.

The daily meetings each morning saw the others clearing requests while I was not.  Roger hadn’t said anything yet, but that might be the next phase of the plan.

My first day, he’d started with the spiel that it was a tight-knit crew who had been working well together for years, and there was no need for another.

For that reason, I just didn’t get to work with any of the others, and any requests I made of them were either ignored or I was given the excuse that they were too busy.

That then led to them spreading niggling half-truths woven into far larger tales of my aloofness, inability to work in a team, confrontational attitude, and lack of interpersonal skills.

Sadly, half of that was true.  I didn’t want to work with them, and even less so now after overhearing them.  I wished I hadn’t.

I stewed over their comments on the short walk back to the office, and it was no surprise to find Roger waiting for me when I returned.

“Where have you been?”  It wasn’t asked in the politest of tones.

I quickly glanced at the others who had their heads down.

“Out for a head-clearing walk.  It’s marvellous what the London Transport diesel fumes can do for the mind.”

I couldn’t tell him I was up the road having a coffee break.

“You might think….” 

It was as far as he got.  The department head chose that exact moment to walk through the door.  An unannounced visit.

The four others suddenly looked more alert and on their guard.

He looked at me.  “Stevens, you are here.  I was told operations sent you to apply your field experience to improving the relevance of the briefing papers.”  He swung around and looked at Roger.  “I’m sure you’ve been using Stevens as an expert resource to assist the team?”

“I … well.. I was not aware that was the intention.”

He shook his head, then turned back to me.  “Just what has he been using you for?”

“Research, which is what I assumed I was here for.”

“God no.  Operations assured me they would pass on my request that every briefing now has to pass through you to ensure that it’s relevant and correct from the field agents’ perspective.”

He turned back to Roger, who was almost cowering.  “Operations sent me the memo, and your name was on the distribution list.  Go and find it and take the time to find an excuse why you haven’t implemented a direct order.  I’ll be in the cafeteria.  Stevens, you’re with me.”

A last look before I followed him out, it looked like the gang of five just got a very swift kick where it hurt.

Good.

….

“Roger was a washout from the training program about ten years ago, sold operations on the idea that a person who understood the field agents’ perspective would add value to the research process.  Trouble is, he was never in the field.”

“Maybe it was more about resenting the fact he was washed out.”

Coffee in the cafeteria had a very distinctive taste, and one I could see wasn’t appreciated.  I wondered if that meant he would do something about it.

“Maybe he’s just an incompetent fool.  What have you found out?”

“Eva did the Paris report, sent it to Roger.  Thing is, they are having an affair, and if I overheard the conversation correctly, he was too busy spending time with her to check the report.”

“Are you listening at keyholes?”  He seemed surprised.

I was going to tell him that spies were notorious for listening at keyholes, but thought the better of it.

“There’s a Cafe not far up the road.  God knows how many others heard the same conversation.  They don’t seem to know much about security.”

The surprise changed to annoyance, but that was the moment Roger came in, saw us, and came over.

He waited until he was told to sit.

“I’m sorry, sir.  It was buried in a pile of requests.”

I didn’t believe him.  He would have seen it and filed it, hoping no one would ever notice.  Especially the department head.

“That’s the first strike, Roger.  What were your conclusions in the investigation I asked for on the Paris mission?  You’ve had three months.”

“We’ve been busy.”

“You told me categorically that you had sufficient staff to handle the workload.  That was obviously a lie.  I sent someone down to help, and you still seem to be overwhelmed.  That’s the second strike, Roger.”

There was no comeback for that, and it was interesting to see someone else squirm under the intensity of the department head.  Rumour had it he was once an excellent interrogator who didn’t need the usual tools of the trade.

“I … we .. “

“Go back to the office, Roger, before you register that fatal third strike.  I need a little time to consider what we need to do moving forward.  I have to say I’m extremely disappointed.  Go.”

I doubted Roger liked the idea of being dismissed, and it was going to make my position less tenable, being present at his dressing down.

“They might all resign,” I said.

“That wouldn’t be the worst outcome.  There are at least a dozen other candidates that could instantly fill their shoes.”

“I think the problem is not with the staff, it’s the person in charge.”

“Then you can take over and restore some discipline.  Problem solved.”

“Temporarily.”  I had no wish to be running a section full of resentful people.

“Fix this for me, and we’ll talk about where you go next.”  He took another sip of his coffee and made a face.  “This is terrible.  We’ll have to do something about this, too.”

…

We went back to the office, and the department head sent Roger off on stress leave, then announced my promotion to acting section head.

No one said a word, but the expressions said more than words could.  Each of them blamed me for his removal, and especially Eva.

After the department head left, I called a meeting.  I seriously believed they would simply ignore me, but then they shuffled into the room and sat in their usual chairs.

I looked at each one of them and could feel the resentment.

I looked at Eva.  “Just so you know, I was sent on that Paris mission.  I was lucky, I lived.  Just.  Three others died, and believe me when I tell you, being there and watching them die because someone didn’t do their job properly, well, you are very fortunate I didn’t throttle you the first day I got here.”

“It was not my fault.”  Petulant.

“What do you call fucking your section leader when he should be critiquing your work?”

“How…”

It was said to shock her, and it had the effect I was looking for.  She was arrogant, but arrogance only lasts until the reason for it is broken.  As long as Roger was there, she felt bulletproof.

Now I just had to dispel the notion I had overheard them earlier.  She was clever nonetheless, and I was not going to underestimate her.

“The department carries out periodical checks on staff who are in positions where discretion is paramount.  A foreign agent could quite easily use your illicit affair as leverage.  You do understand what leverage is, don’t you?  The internal report on your report actually suggested that you had been compromised and forced to provide flawed information.”

It was the last nail in the coffin that held her invincibility.  I don’t think any of them had been told of the importance of their work.

There was still a little iron in her tone, but the facade was cracking.  “I would never do that.” 

“You wouldn’t have a choice.  The fact that you left yourself open to the possibility is bad enough.  The real problem is that your mind wasn’t on the job at hand.  The fact that Roger let it happen is even worse.”

She didn’t ask the bigger question: why didn’t she get the sack, which is generally the first option in situations like this?  Instead, she went with, “What’s going to happen to him?”

“You should be more worried about yourself,” Sandra said.  “I told you the bastard would drag you down with him.”

Her friend was right.

“You are very lucky not to have followed him out the door.  Instead, your first job will be to write a report on the complete process beyond the reference paper you wrote for the Paris Mission.  I want all the sources annotated.  You need to tell the truth, and it’s the only chance you will get to keep your job. Am I understood?”

I saw Sandra squeeze her hand.  A tear escaped from watery eyes.  The defiance was gone, replaced by recognition that she was in a very bad place.

“Understood.”

“As for the rest of you, next week you will be attending security briefings.  From now on, not one word of what you do, where you work, or who you work for is to be repeated outside this office.  In a month, we will be changing offices.  I assume you’ve told just anyone who would listen all about this place.  Now you have to tell them that the unit was disbanded and you’ve been reassigned.  Security will also be a lot tighter, and breaches of it will be dealt with summarily.  Anyone who does not want to stay under the new conditions can give notice by the end of the week.”

The four were visibly shellshocked.

“Any questions?”

Sandra looked at me with what I would call an unfathomable expression.  I’d seen it once before, from a person I misjudged.

“How many people have you killed?”

For some reason, I had been expecting it.

“I’d like to say none, but when you are in a life-or-death moment, you are taught to make an instant decision based on the imminent threat to your life.  The simple answer is only when I absolutely had to.  It doesn’t pay to have too many ghosts of your enemies haunting your dreams.”

Question time over, I sent them back to work.

…

There’s an old saying, “A leopard cannot change its spots”, and unfortunately, Eva was a prime example.

I had hoped that she understood her situation, certainly she did what I had requested and wrote a report that told me that the section was lacking certain specific resources that a simple check would have uncovered.

It means that the section, when it is relocated, would have a resources manager whose sole job will be to keep everything up to date.

Aside from that, it wasn’t hard to see that she had not broken off the relationship with Roger and was in fact, reporting back to him what was happening.

Roger probably believed that he was coming back at the end of his stress leave, a question I asked the department head.  A reply came back to tell me he had been reassigned.

So, he was lying to Eva, but that wasn’t really the issue.  She was violating what was now a golden rule.  No telling anyone the nature of our work or the existence of the office.

Which, unfortunately, led to a request to come to my office when she arrived.  We had just started at the new building, where security was very tight.

She knocked on the door, a half hour after the appointed time.  Some of that arrogance had returned, probably fed to her by Roger telling her that I had no real authority.

I did admonish her for lateness.  I could overlook a lot of minor indiscretions so long as the work ethic was there.

Operations had received an anonymous letter about certain aspects of the section that apparently were not within the department’s guidelines.

It was supposed to be a reflection on my ineptitude in running what a functioning section was, and had now become a disparate and dysfunctional group without proper leadership.

A list of infractions followed.

As soon as she sat down, I handed her the document.

“Quite a damning expose, don’t you think?”

She glanced at the document and tossed the file back on the desk.  “I wouldn’t know, it’s the first time I’ve seen it.”

“But it doesn’t relate to certain events in this office.”

“It appears so.”

“And you had nothing to do with it?”

“No.”

“And you have broken off all relations with Roger?”

A very subtle change in expression.  A seasoned interrogator would pick up on it.

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you spoke to him?”

“The day he left the office.”

“You do realise that when you signed your new employment contract recently, you agreed that the department can, at any time, instigate standard personnel checks to determine your security status.”

The eyes changed, just for a second.  People needed time to process a question and then work on a suitable and believable response.

“That may also include a lie detector test.”

“Are you deliberately handing me grounds for a harassment case?”

I shrugged, opened the top drawer, pulled out a folder and pushed it across the desk.

“You tell me.”

First reaction, she did not want to reach for it.  From the moment she uttered that previous statement until I pulled out the file, she had been smug.

She had also been lying to my face.

I was willing to accept the four of them at face value and treated them all equally and equitably.  I hadn’t expected to get that particular letter, but I knew Roger well enough to know he would retaliate in some way, and that he might reach out to Eva.

“Sandra was right, Eva.  Roger didn’t care that much about you, so he was willing to take you down with him.  I have to say I misjudged you.  I’m usually a better judge of character.”

“What’s in the file?”

“Photographs and a transcript of your conversation.”

“How many people know?”

“The Department head, head of operations and me.  We were expecting it.  You had to know that we would be monitoring you.”

Smug expression gone, but there was still defiance.  She sighed.  “What happens now?”

“You find another job.  You’ve proved that you can’t be trusted, so it cannot be for any government organisation.  Unfortunately, when the authorities came to arrest Roger, he decided not to come in quietly.  There was an exchange of shots, and he didn’t survive.  He left behind a confession that also explains your actions, and that this latest development was your idea for revenge.”

“And now he’s dead, and the lies earlier you will not believe anything I say.”  She shook her head. “Am I free to go?”

“As far as I’m concerned, you are.”

“But…”

“When you leave here, you will be met by a woman.  I suggest you make the time to hear what she has to say.  It may be the only way you will get to see light at the end of a very dark tunnel “

She stood.  “You’re scaring me, now.”

“Good, because that same woman told me that fear was going to be my only friend when the chips were down.  It’s why I’m still here, and still breathing.  Take some advice.  Listen to her.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet them or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except, of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact that, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street who look like someone we knew and make the mistake of approaching them like a long-lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away from what they perceive as a stalker, or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then, according to the circumstances and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me, one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognise was murder. The photo of the man on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated by what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer, the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room. I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realise what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low-profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, had no children, and, according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company; I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably, more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with several other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with several other delegates at the pre-conference get-together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bulletproof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me? I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain-killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes and took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I would still be considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try to explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in and out of consciousness. A nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told me what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have another visitor. He is from the British Embassy, I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realised then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit, the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old, which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome, and he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently, for them, it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact that you were shot had made it an all-around embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologising?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted on speaking with you first.  I have come, basically, to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document, which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter that could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush-hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that?  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible, so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man, Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri or Sorrento, if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, who had announced herself as the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it: “The patient has recovered excellently, and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed, so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long, wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful, though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him. She checked the door and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then that I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have several witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed-circuit TV, we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her notebook back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti, and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologise for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you, it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest, one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger-happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realised if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry, but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest, he escaped. Once we realised we had made a mistake and reviewed the closed-circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough, no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officers’ weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you, Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrongdoing?”

“I have apologised. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank you for your time and cooperation, Mr Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 25

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

Rolf Mayer had always had a dream to travel to other planets, and when he heard that the government was putting together a team of scientists with the express intention of building rockets, he gathered up his few belongings and traveled to Pennemunde to join the group being led by Werner von Braun.

At first, he had been turned away, but a chance meeting with von Braun changed his fortune.  

But, when Adolf Hitler came to power, it seemed that quest to reach the other planets became a quest to build a military weapon that would devastate an enemy city.  He had expressed his opposition to the project, but that was silenced when some Nazi party officials came from Berlin to give those scientists with reservations an ‘attitude readjustment’.

From then on all of the scientists knew when their allegiances lay and that there would be no time for traveling to the stars, even though, secretly, he drew on the experience and knowledge of the rockets they were building and testing to design his own rocket.  One day.

Then, as if only weeks had passed, the war had been declared, and the scientists had to work harder on creating a weapon which, in its first instance became known as the V1 flying bomb.  V, of course, stood for vengeance.

Later, when the enemy had bombed Pennemunde out of existence they moved to Nordhausen.  This place was different, underground where it could not be bombed, but there was something rather sinister about it.  Slave labor, prisoners from a local concentration camp were forced to work there, and the souls that he saw were not fit for work, or for anything else.

At Nordhausen, they worked on the V2 rockets, rockets in the true sense of the word, and it was abhorrent to him that they should be used for wholesale murder rather than their true purpose.  A promotion to Haupsturnfuhere in the SS and making him responsible for the horrific crimes being committed against humanity was the last straw.

He had enough information to create his own rocket based on the success of the V2, and it was time to leave, get away from this place before it killed him too.  There was only one problem, the real SS was watching, everyone and everything.  They trusted no-one, not even their own fellow officers.

Mayer was one of the scientists lucky enough to get a billet to the town nearby.  It was quiet enough, but he believed everyone living there knew what was going on, and worse, they knew about the concentration camp and the evil that went on inside.  Worse still, he knew everyone was watching everyone else, and reporting back to the SS anything out of the ordinary, including newcomers.

One such man came into the town, dressed as Obersturnfurer with one other SS officer in a car.  Everyone knew how impossible it was to get fuel, or if you had a car, a permit to use it except for essential services, or if it was requisitioned.

They were SS, so no one questioned why they were there.  But that didn’t mean that whispers of their presence didn’t filter around the town.  Just the very mention of the SS gave most people cold shivers.

Mayer heard about the two mysterious visitors when he arrived downstairs where he was lodging.  

“They were asking about the people staying here and wanted to see their papers.  I think they’re looking for someone, someone from the factory.”

“Nonsense.  They’re probably here to see some of their friends up at the camp.”

With that, he dismissed the visitors from his mind and went up to his room.  He unlocked the door and went in.  A moment later he realized his room had been thoroughly searched, and the mess left as a warning.  Had someone told the SS of his discontent.  He hadn’t said as much, but attitude and body language would have told a different story.

Then the door closed behind him with a bang, and the moment a hand touched his shoulder he jumped in fright.

There’s been a man behind the door.

“I suggest you do not speak or do anything that might bring attention to us.  Am I clear?”

Mayer nodded.

“Good.”

Another man, dressed in the uniform of a SS Standartenfuhrer, stepped out of the shadows in front of him holding a folder, the folder that contained his drawings and specifications for a more advanced V2 rocket,

Condemning evidence of him being a traitor to the Reich unless he could put a different spin on it.  He waited to see what the Standartenfuher had to say.

“This is damning evidence of your traitorous behavior.  We received information that you were stealing secrets from the Reich?  For whom, Mayer?  The British or the Americans?”

“I did not steal anything.  I work on the plans here in my spare time, away from that place.”  He realized the moment he said it, it might not be the best idea to be critical of anything, because it was always taken as a criticism of the Reich itself.

“Are you displeased with your working environment.  No one else has raised such issues.”

“No, no,” he added hastily, “it was not what I meant.  It’s just difficult to think clearly on problems when we’re under so much pressure.”

The Standartenfuhrer shook his head.  “Enough Mayer.  You are coming with us to explain yourself.”

“You need to clear this….”

“We don’t need anyone’s permission, Mayer.  We walk out of here, into the car, and not a word to anyone.  Any trouble I will not hesitate to shoot you.  Understand?”

Mayer nodded.

This wasn’t good.  Arrested by the SS.  There could be only one outcome.  It wouldn’t matter what he said, it would be the cells and then the firing squad.  He’d heard the rumors.

The other SS officer went first, the Mayer, then the Standartenfuhrer, down the stairs and past the owner of the boarding house.  The Standartenfuhrer stopped, and said, “This man’s papers, now.”

The owner stepped back into a room and came out a minute later and handed the Standartenfuhrer the document.

“No one is to be told what happened here.  Not unless you want us to come back and arrest your family.”

“Yes sir,” the owner said, very scared.

The proceeded to the car, got in, Mayer in the back with the Standartenfuhrer, and they drove off.  Only two people saw the whole event, and because it was by the SS, they were not going to tell anyone.

“Where are we going?” Mayer asked.

“Headquarters.  You will be wise to sit, be quiet and say nothing under any circumstances.”

Headquarters was in Berlin, at least that’s where he went to be made an officer of the SS, as a Hauptsturmfuhrer to give him the necessary authority to take charge of certain aspects of the production process of the V2 rockets.

And that included work on improving the guidance system.

But, he noticed they were not going north, but south.

© Charles Heath 2020

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 26

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

 

When I woke, I was outside the warehouse near an ambulance, and when I opened my eyes, I could see my mother, looking close to hysterical.  Further back, behind her, was Benderby himself, looking concerned.

A voice was saying, on the other side, “Just take it easy.  You’ve had a nasty knock to your head.”  I tried, instinctively, to move my hand there, but it was not responsive.

That scared me.

I tried wiggling my toes, and it felt like something was happening.  That was a good sign, wasn’t it?

Then I realised there were more people around the gurney I was lying on and a lot of chatter about a break-in and possible casualties.  There was only one, wasn’t there?  Me.

I went to say something to that effect when I stopped.  Not a good idea to say two masked assailants came to interrogate me about a map.  Firstly, my mother would be annoyed I was wasting my time on frivolous matters with Boggs, and secondly, everyone would think the blow did more damage to my sanity.

If they were calling it a break-in…

“What happened?” I asked.

I moved my head sideways further and could see the Sheriff standing next to Benderby.  The sheriff moved closer.

“We think one or two unknown persons got past the perimeter security, disabled the alarm system, and broke into the warehouse where you were.  One of the night security guards was doing his rounds when he found you on the floor in the main office.  Can you tell us what happened to you?”

One of the paramedics answered for me, “We need to stabilise the wound, check for concussion and any other side effects before you can question him.  That might have to wait until we get him to the hospital.  Now, I need everyone to stand back.”

And he meant everyone, including my mother.  I guessed they would let her come to the hospital with me, but if not, I was sure Benderby would bring her.  He actually had his arm around her, talking to her.  I didn’t think she liked him that much or was I just delirious?

I was about to tell the paramedic to tell the sheriff to go check on Boggs, but that would only lead to uncomfortable questions, and since Boggs had been so cavalier in putting the assailants onto me, I wasn’t very happy with him.  But I did wonder if they had gone back to him about my lack of co-operation, and what they might do to him.

Or, I just remembered, maybe nothing, because they thought it might be an elaborate hoax.  I was beginning to think that myself, despite Boggs giving me a copy of the map.  When I looked at it, on the surface it seemed to be the same as the one Osborne was peddling.

Whilst getting my head bandaged, I saw one of the sheriff’s men come running up to him, speaking and gesturing wildly.  I thought I heard a name, but the paramedic chose that exact moment to accidentally wrap the bandage around my ear.

Then I heard it, sharp and clear, perhaps as an answer to a question by Benderby.

“It’s Boggs.  Looks like someone gave him a severe beating and left him outside his house.”

The result of an equally forceful interrogation, or had it been a warning not to waste people’s time?

It would have to wait.  I had problems of my own.

© Charles Heath 2019

What I learned about writing – What can be explained is not poetry

The Unexplainable Truth: Why Yeats Said ‘What Can Be Explained Is Not Poetry’

W.B. Yeats, the towering figure of Irish literature and a Nobel laureate, often seemed to speak in riddles that contained profound universal truths. One such truth, delivered not from a stage but in a quiet moment with his son, Michael, cuts directly to the soul of creativity:

“What can be explained is not poetry.”

This deceptively simple statement is not merely a critique of literary analysis; it is a philosophy of art, a defence of mystery, and a guide for how we must approach the most cherished parts of our existence.

If poetry is built from words—the very tools of explanation—how can the final product simultaneously resist understanding? The answer lies in the fundamental difference between information and resonance.

1. The Reductionist Trap: Explanation as Destruction

When Yeats dismisses explanation, he is pushing back against the modern impulse to dissect, categorise, and summarise. Explanation seeks clarity, certainty, and a definitive endpoint. It wants to give you the meaning in a neat bullet point.

But for the poet, this act of definition is fatal.

Think of a poem like Yeats’s own “The Second Coming.” If you were asked to explain it, you might say: “It is about the breakdown of societal order, historical cycles, and the fear of a looming, savage future.” This is factually correct. But by the time you have finished this explanation, the poem itself—the terrifying rhythm, the shocking image of the “blood-dimmed tide,” the sheer visceral dread of the “rough beast, its hour come round at last”—has completely evaporated.

The Elements That Resist Explanation:

  • Rhythm and Sound: Poetry operates on the level of music. You can explain the notes on a score, but you cannot explain the feeling of the music’s vibration in your chest.
  • Ambiguity: A great poem holds multiple, often contradictory, truths simultaneously. Explanation forces a choice, killing the rich tension that gives the poem its power.
  • The Ineffable: Poetry deals in the realm of the subconscious, the spiritual, and the deeply felt human condition—areas that words can only point toward, never fully capture.

As the great poet Archibald MacLeish wrote, “A poem should not mean / But be.” If you can swap a poem for a paragraph of summarised meaning without losing anything vital, it was never truly poetry to begin with.

2. The Domain of True Art: Mystery and Aura

If explanation is the enemy, what elevates language into poetry? It is the successful creation of Aura—that inexplicable shimmer of authenticity and power surrounding a work of art.

Poetry, painting, and music—when successful—establish an immediate, emotional connection that bypasses the logical mind. They don’t give us facts; they provide us with an experience of being human.

A true poem resonates because it touches a nerve we didn’t know existed. It uses familiar words in unfamiliar arrangements that create a shock of recognition: Ah, yes, I have felt that thing, though I lacked the words for it.

This resonance cannot be taught, explained, or quantified. It is a mystery that the poet labors to create, and a mystery the reader must consent to receive. The poem’s job is to compel you to stop asking why and simply start feeling.

Art as a Sacred Language

For Yeats, an artist and a mystic, poetry was a sacred endeavour that tapped into universal symbols and mythic memory. This is why his poems are so dense with swans, spirals, gyres, and masks. These are not symbols to be easily decoded; they are portals meant to shift the reader’s consciousness.

To demand an explanation of a spiritual experience is to completely misunderstand the nature of the sacred. Yeats viewed poetry in the same light.

3. Beyond the Poem: Embracing the Unexplained Life

Yeats’s dictum is not just a lesson for the classroom; it is a profound commentary on how we live. The things we value most highly in life are often the things that defy bullet points and clear definitions.

If we can fully explain something, we often lose our sense of wonder for it. The minute we treat life as a logical equation, we forfeit the magic.

Love, Grief, and Beauty

Consider the deepest human experiences:

  1. Love: Can you truly explain why you love a particular person? You can list their qualities (kindness, intelligence), but those are merely the ingredients. The love itself—the specific, irrational, overwhelming devotion—is the chemical reaction that cannot be explained. If it could, it would be a transaction, not love.
  2. Beauty: Why is a specific sunset breathtaking? You can explain the atmospheric condition, the refraction of light, and the Rayleigh scattering effect. But none of that science touches the awe you feel when watching the sky turn orange.
  3. Grief: Grief is not a set of stages to be rationally completed; it is a primal force that washes over you. No explanation can contain the depth of loss.

These are the poetic aspects of life. They are what make living rich, maddening, and profoundly meaningful. They require us to accept ambiguity and to tolerate the fact that the most important truths lie just beyond the reach of language.

The Call to Wonder

Yeats’s quiet lesson to his son remains a powerful challenge to us today: In an age where every phenomenon is instantly broken down by algorithms and summarised in 280 characters, are we losing our capacity for wonder?

If we insist on explaining everything, we risk reducing the rich tapestry of existence to a dry instruction manual.

True poetry—in literature and in life—requires us to put down the defining pencil, step away from the summary, and simply stand in the presence of the powerful, beautiful, bewildering thing that is.

The challenge of the reader, the lover, and the appreciative human being is to honour the mystery that remains when all the explanations have failed.

What truths in your life have you accepted as unexplainable? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 180

Day 180 – Rest periods for compulsive writers

…

The Inescapable Itch: How Compulsive Writers Finally Unplug (and Why They Dread It)

For the compulsive writer, the blank page isn’t just a workspace; it’s a nervous system. To stop writing is, in many ways, to stop feeling the pulse of the world. But even the most prolific ink-stained wretches occasionally find their pens running dry, or their minds fogging over with the static of over-output.

How does a writer whose baseline is “compulsive” actually step away? And more importantly, is the silence of a break actually a form of creative death?

The Williams Paradigm: The Panic of the Still Moment

If you want a masterclass in the agony of the “break,” look to Tennessee Williams.

Williams was a man possessed. His plays—A Streetcar Named Desire, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof—seemed to bleed out of him in a fit of architectural necessity. He didn’t just write stories; he exorcised ghosts. For Williams, the act of writing was a frantic attempt to outrun his own inner demons.

When Williams wasn’t writing, he wasn’t “relaxing” in the way modern self-help gurus suggest. He wasn’t taking a spa day or practising mindfulness. He was vibrating with a specific, high-frequency anxiety. He famously equated the downtime between creative bursts with a kind of spiritual oblivion.

He didn’t take breaks by choice; he took them when the exhaustion became too heavy to carry. But in those quiet intervals, the “boredom” he felt was actually a confrontation with reality—a reality he found far less interesting and far more terrifying than the worlds he built on paper.

Why the Break Feels Like a Grave

For the compulsive writer, a break feels like “death” for three distinct reasons:

  1. The Loss of Control: When you are writing, you are the god of a small, contained universe. You decide who lives, who dies, and how the dialogue flows. In the real world, you are subject to the messy, boring, and uncontrollable whims of traffic, groceries, and small talk.
  2. The Shadow of the “Interior”: Writers often use work as a distraction from the recursive loops of their own thoughts. When the writing stops, the inner monologue—usually the one questioning your worth or replaying old embarrassments—gets the megaphone.
  3. The Identity Crisis: If you define yourself as a “Writer,” then a day spent not writing is a day you aren’t “being” anything. You feel like a malfunctioning machine.

How to Take a Break Without Losing Your Mind

If you are like Williams—wired to the page—you can’t just stop. You have to “pivot” your compulsion. Here is how the pros handle the hiatus:

  • Change the Input: If you can’t stop the output, change the channel. Switch to a medium that doesn’t feel like “work.” If you write prose, spend your break painting, gardening, or cooking. You are still creating, but you’ve let the part of your brain that handles syntax rest.
  • The “Low-Stakes” Journal: Give yourself permission to write in a way that doesn’t count. Take a pocket notebook where you are forbidden from writing anything “publishable.” Write about your lunch, the colour of the sky, or how annoying your neighbour’s dog is. It keeps the muscle moving without the pressure of the performance.
  • Embrace the “Restless Walk”: Williams often found his best ideas while walking. If you’re bored, don’t sit still. The brain that is compulsive needs movement. A three-mile walk can settle the nervous system while allowing the subconscious to keep filing away plot points.

The Verdict: Is It Boredom or Fuel?

Is it boring? Yes.

But here is the secret that Tennessee Williams eventually realised: Boredom is the soil in which the best ideas take root.

When you are constantly writing, you are mining your storehouse of ideas until you hit bedrock. You are repeating yourself because you haven’t given yourself time to experience anything new. The break, as terrifying as it feels, is the process of refilling the well.

You aren’t dying when you put the pen down. You’re simply waiting for the tide to come back in. And trust me—if you are truly a compulsive writer—the tide always comes back. You’ll be back at the desk before you know it, pen in hand, wondering why you ever missed the silence in the first place.

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