The dog was drowning, yelping, and calling to its owner. I had gone out for a bike ride to clear my head, was writing at home, thought it will be nice to cycle down by the River Tyne. I was on my way back and saw that a crowd was gathering, splinted across and down the bank. One woman was on the phone, the fire brigade on loudspeaker warning people not to jump in, but a man was already down the bank, shirt off and threatening to swim out. I couldn’t believe I was about to see a dog drown, the river is so wide, the current strong, and the dog in destress. They called his name, the dog and the man, to come back and to not jump in. I knew there was nothing I could do, there was enough people involved and I started to circle back along the path and I couldn’t bare to watch the dog drown. The path narrow and now quiet, I heard a shout and looked to the river, there was now just me and the dog, both heading in the same direction, but the dog swept by the current and drowning still. Behind and in the distance I could see the crowd walking and running to catch up.
A man on the opposite bank was shouting, telling me that there was a narrow bit coming up, a bank I could climb down. I had no choice; it was now down to me to save the dog. I put the bike down and climbed down the bank till I was at the rivers edge. I started shouting ‘DOG’ and ‘COME ON DOG’ and it started to swim towards me. I thought I’m going to save the dog and I kept shouting and shouting, my voice from my diaphragm, loud and sure. The dog paddled towards me, now in the centre of the river, deep in the currents but if it just swam a little further it would be in my side and could climb out. But it began to panic, twist and turn. I thought now I’m not going to save the dog, I’m going to kill the dog, I turned and looked up at the bank and thought fuck, what should I do now.
Why am I writing this in a blog when I’m supposed to be writing a blog that links to Mycelial. Another story pops into my head. Last week I was cycling home through Benwell, and a group of pigeons on the path and close to the road got startled, scattered and one flew right instead of up and ran head first into the spokes of my back wheel. The hit jolted the bike but I managed to stayed up right and not under a car. I had to keep cycling as I was deep in traffic. I’d seen feathers and imagined it was badly injured or dead. I’d killed a pigeon, maybe. At the lights I checked my back wheel and hoped not to see it stuck in the spokes. I checked my legs for the splatter of blood, but nothing and I cycled home.
Again, another story appears. I’m walking Buster, again down by the river, but a different part a hawk came out of the trees on the other side of the road, flying low and with grace and heading my way, what a sceptical. As it crossed the road a car hit the hawk, clipped and it landed dazed. Me and Buster looked at the hawk and the hawk looked at us. I thought, what to do. So I talked to it for a bit and wished it well. I looked back and it was stock still but upright. On our way back I was glad to see it wasn’t there, but as we turned the corner I saw it in the middle of the road, hopping. But then it stopped to look at me, me at it. Then a car appeared and indicating it was turning, a collision was about to occur, I walked on, I couldn’t watch or warn the driver.
Why am I writing this in a blog. When the pandemic hit I started writing short stories called Girl in the Pink Jumper, she was me walking with Buster, observing and imagining the worlds of those I met. When I started writing with Open Clasp I never called myself a writer, even though I wrote the plays produced (the first was co-written). I left school at 16, and when my world was full of rage, punk and living in a bedsit with my first girlfriend at 17, I wrote a few poems but hid them, felt so embarrassed (they were about Margaret Thatcher and what I wished for her). Later in life I went to university as a mature student at 32, doing Drama. I did a Creative Writing module with Julie Darling, and she was the first person who said I could write and got a first for a monologue I’d written and performed.
When I co-founded Open Clasp I was learning on the job and I needed to develop and learn the craft of playwrighting. So I did a p/t MA in Creative Writing and got a distinction. It was here that I fell in love with short stories. I love how they leave you thinking, and the end is where it ends. They feel political. When writing Mycelial I talked through how I wanted to write with the director and producer, both encouraged me to just write what I wanted, in whatever style felt right – I was writing in response to the groups worked with, those from Aotearoa/New Zealand, Ireland and the Northeast of England. People involved in sex work and at the time living through a global pandemic. Creative Writing was at the heart of those online workshops, the co-creators wordsmiths.
Like the Girl in the Pink Jumper Mycelial is about people observing the world around them at a time when it stood still, when ships bobbed around in the sea and everyone was told to stay home. Its was a unique moment to work with groups on zoom, special and intimate and it was also unique to write in. With Mycelial my chosen form to write was through short story, it can be likened to that, so it’s a play on form. The Bath in the Window, Rocket Girl and Mo the Cat and Post Lady and the Homicidal Dog, three of twelve characters for our audiences to meet and greet, individual and yet linked by the Mycelium.
Back to the Drowning Dog – its owner appeared shaking and unable to get down the bank, but her son was now on the other side. Another man, again shirt off was chest deep in the water, the dog paddled to him and then away. The owner shared that its easily spooked by people and bikes.
But I’m glad to share it got out and onto the bank opposite, her son grabbed the dog and I drove across the bridge and handed the son the lead.
I cycled home and wrote this blog, then in my head and now on the page.
Catrina
Open Clasp's Blog 