It has been forever since I wrote on this blog! Today I felt like writing and thought I’d lay down some of the thoughts and feelings going around in my head, being in my mid-twenties. I’m later 27 this year and my main goal is to be working towards a career in an area I think I could feasibly work and thrive in and also get my live performing off the ground. A few of my friends are now deciding to settle down and start families, and a few are engaged or married already. The last few years since university have flown by, but kids are now also on the menu for many; I myself have decided to never have children but when I try to condense the reason, I end up thinking of loads:

1. I love my financial freedom, and freedom generally. I’ve sort of carried on the student lifestyle since leaving university, and will carry on doing so if I get a position I hope to apply for in September, doing librarianship studies. I like to have my own money and freedom to go after my creative pursuits, which I could never do if I had kids.

2. I’ve never had a paternal instinct. That’s it, really! I’ve never felt like I should be a parent or would be a good one. I think I’m okay with kids, but don’t really know what to say to them.

3. Risk of potential problems. Obviously if you have a child, there is an inherent possibility that something will happen to them, or by them. There is a lot of responsibility that comes with raising them, and worry which comes with it, for at least 18 years. This is basically something I’m happy to miss out!

4. People without kids are generally happier. It’s true, and all the survey’s show it. There are better prospects for long-term relationships for those couples who don’t reproduce.

5. Global overpopulation. Obviously the world and country is so overpopulated, and it’s only getting more condensed all the time. Not reproducing is better for the environment and the world as a whole. The last thing my country needs is an injection of a bunch of geeky white kids!

Thankfully nobody, including my family, particularly expects me to have a family of my own being in a same-sex relationship, so adoption or surrogate would at present, be my only options. I’m very lucky to have that natural barrier. But I love being childfree and would be interested to see if my attitude will change at all in five, ten years time. That’s one of the reasons I’m putting this here and it’s a good way to mark the resurgence of my blog as I inch towards 30. More posts to come!


Elan Mudrow


The heated horizon

Produces an allure.

My eyes follow

its linear line, moving with

the melodic narrative–

There are other voices—here

Where hills make outlines.

Harmony is horizontal–

A dialogic freeway.

It is the rain

That stops streets

And plays with the oil

Leftover from sentences

Blocks and paragraphs

Stories—cities, maps, the membranes

Of the lay out to thought


The horizon burns, it must.

To maintain its fix.

Pierces a way inside

Leaving me to forget

How notes are placed

on top of one another–

They are not static, all is noise

Counterpoint and polyrhythms

Bouncing off other events–

Experience, a lose few chapters

Their print flying off, landing

On edges, never settled

Remaining, vibrating

Rubbing itself in tension

Spewing multiplicity


The horizon ignites

A promise of finality

Of oneness with meaning

A road that flirts with following

Doesn’t know where it leads.

Only a traveller has a…

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In an old village that lies just outside the parameters of Suffolk County, there is an oak tree which sits on the edge of a fenced path. For near on a century, the tree has presided over all that which is other-worldly. The small church around the corner represents a pre-Anglican Christianity that certainly pledges its allegiance to another place, the worlds to come. The dual worlds: anguish and beauty. But there is more to the story than mere religion. The village is Borley, Essex. The tree guards the Rectory from onlookers. But the Rectory cannot guard itself, and only its structure, made of brick, can survive the flames. Borley Rectory was home to many who came and went, but it remains ‘the most haunted house in England’, and this place ought to be heard about.

There was something that really captured my attention about the story of Borley Rectory as a child. I was forever innocent and confused about the nature of hauntings, ghosts, ghouls and poltergeists. Goings-on which fitted outside of my daily life occurred principally in my imagination, aided by library books and the occasional encouragement of TV. I sat on the floor for hours and poured over my books on ghosts and mysteries, each with a certain smell and pace to go with it. Various different ghosts held my interest; now, I have a picture in my head for each one. There were the pale sketches of the spectres of the American Civil War, dying to this day, falling on swords and torn up by guns. There was the ghost in the chapel with the metal-monster face, a thrill which far pre-dated the horror movies of our modern age, death shrouded within a celebration of death. As with the emotional and intellectual investment within a film, drama, action or horror, there was a perceived truism about this image which left me unsettled, even as I read at the same time about its photographic fakery. Then there was the story of the phantom ship, probably The Flying Dutchman, the picture I still remember vividly in this age of image. But, back to Borley.

In 1862, religion was a great respect. The Rectory was built in this year for the rector of the Parish of Borley, and was in a multitude of senses, truly Gothic. Previous to this, there had been another Rectory on the site, destroyed by fire, which we may now note as a sign of foreboding [if such signs are allowed to exist at all]. Photographs of the building from on-high show it to be colossal, at least that’s what it looked to me upon first impression, with a stick-like fence surrounding the structure, somehow making the photograph seem older than it probably was. What safer haven for ghouls than a series of networking rooms, underground basements (perhaps tunnels), the echoes of lost souls inhabiting spaces where sixteen tried to settle? There are stories from this place, and many of them permeated these walls.

The stories were predominantly those of particular hauntings that occurred in and around the Rectory in what we might now term “collective hysteria”. People in the village heard footsteps in and around this giant house. A horse-drawn carriage driven by a headless horseman would do the rounds on Rectory grounds, and a nun was spotted at twilight on some errand or perhaps indulgence, a reverberation from years long gone. Stories get out. One that got out was about the nun and involved her being ‘bricked up’ as a punishment for having a secret affair with a monk, supposedly beneath the Rectory floors, a story probably made up by one-time owner Harry Bull, told to his children on chilly nights sat by the fire. Collective hysteria even reached me; I tried to imagine what the nun might’ve felt, air and life escaping for the sin of love.

But the juiciest stories from the Rectory concerned the poltergeists, the disruptive forces which seemed designed principally to creep them all the hell out, rather than make a simple nuisance. The footsteps were back. Windows shattered and lights flickered. Winter in ’29 was tough. The rumours reached Sudbury town round the corner; then it was all over the Daily Mirror. Then, the Society for Psychical Research [SPR], which attracted Arthur Conan Doyle and William James to its cause at varying points, became interested, who sent a paranormal investigator to, well, investigate. Harry Price was the one and noted mysterious stones that were thrown around the house and objects inexplicably moving about. Another family left the Rectory.

Shortly after this happened, spirits communicated the new occupiers, leaving strange messages on the walls. There are photographs of some of these messages. Being dead must greatly impair one’s ability to write because the scrawls are essentially childlike, though not altogether ineffective in their disturbed-ness. “Marianne, please help me get out” read one. Was it the nun? Was it a con? Another spirit which somehow acquired the name of Sunex Amures claimed that he would duly reveal the hiding place of a murdered person within the Rectory, and that he would set fire to the Rectory on March the 27th of 1938. Bricks seemed to float in mid-air, and someone got mysteriously locked in a room. Menace had truly arrived.

Sunex happened to be off by eleven months. On 27th February 1939, Borley Rectory was burnt down, and an insurance company concluded post-investigation that the fire had been started deliberately. That was the end of it all. The publicity Borley Rectory gained was, in a way, its downfall and I suspect many confined the ‘hauntings’ of the place to another age, to a Victorian mind-set. A few more sightings occurred in the years after before it was finally demolished in 1944. Many afterwards believed the Harry Price investigation, and the sightings and hauntings, to be bull, probably including the original patron of the Rectory Harry Bull, had he still been around to witness the events. Possibly the older, simpler tales of nuns and ghosts from lost centuries appealed more to the collective imagination of the time. For me, it was all good.

In the days before I was critical, before I widely used the internet, the place held a marvellous fascination. I didn’t get tired of my books, or of the stories. Living in Suffolk, I was able to visit the village of Borley and I recall going once to find the grounds and former site of the Rectory, but finding only modern farmhouses and a grey memorial to the fallen dead of the World Wars, the host of real ghosts, of which there are many up and down the country. I looked in vain for the seemingly ancient Oak that had dominated that photo, which was the definitive image of the Rectory, for me. Now, the demonic gothic house lies in my past and in my mind, along with all the imagined musty smells, images of broken China and of cricket on English lawns in summer. This, then, is a memory of a boyhood interest which still holds a certain magic or at least something other-worldly. It is less of a lament; more of an ode to what was once my favourite half-truth.

March 2015

In 1990, Banga-boys gather on the street corner;

Spring Bank West.

Pauline’s Gift Store, which was in itself an accidental pun,

Sits closed for dinner time.

And everybody round here thinks them sandwich bars,

And coffee-based café’s can STAY in the big city, thanks.

This is the sort of place where the Kurdish families

Will take over the chip shop, not start another kebab place,

And the motorway’s designed for the traffic of the 1950’s;

Speeds of up to 70,

Smash in a container on the backseat,

And a 2 minute 15 second break in the engine procession.


In 1990, a flock of gulls flies over

the dentists practice.

A new kitchen is installed at 112 Newland Park.

It’s hard to point at what’s changed in this landscape,

When you’re part of it.

It’s sometimes easier to note what hasn’t changed in this city.

A football crowd in 1990 is just as annoying

As in 2015.

And Beryl has still got that old typewriter

In the attic.

By now, we’ve even forgotten

Why we put our loved ones in the ground.


In 1990, a coach which left at 8am arrives 25 minutes late

For the bingo hall on the edge of Whitby.

Grannies, with


Gossip in a way mundane, but pleasing,

Slightly monotonous, but moral,

And they buy each other cups of tea, saying “I’ll get it next time, alright chuck?”,

Merely to make a fuss; just to break up the afternoon.

Across the street walked a guy, now forty,

On a lost weekend. One camping trip

Amongst many that year, with

Paul, Adrian and Jenny. He considered how the elderly over there

Would know nothing of the drugs

He would soon be taking.


And when it was time,

He came home to the maisonette,

And perched on a seat by the window.

Lighting up a cigarette,

He added to the 55 years of tobacco grime

That has gathered from smoke floating up to the top of the ceiling.


The crowd were making their way back.


March 2015

Curtains close, It’s three.

The shop has a couple of hours life left

And the bookies wife left

Tea in the fridge.

The water – eventually, it calls all those

That live in this town. Clerks, porter-maids

The lot of them.

The desolate, the super-grannies. broken bastards

And even the simple minded.

Like an orbiting mass that swallows all that it surrounds,

It floods their heads at night, and the folks of the city role down the stony streets

To their host, the coast.

When the sun comes up – well, it’s the usual drill, isn’t it?

Bicycles clank, kettle’s are stuck on,

Basins become littered with a week’s facial hair… the lunchtime bell.

After a bit, any electricity

In the air starts to wind down

And the pubs serve up their final dessert.

The begin begins. It seems to be three again.

Decadence is a real thing.

We’ve seen it, with our own eyes.

But our eyes become blind to the things we



European decadence leaves a trail…

A trail of leaves in a rusty park

Is something eternal. But the people are

Thanking their lucky stars. Stars? Yes

Don’t think they have aligned and colluded for you

You are the residue, the growth inside

The festering tub. And the tub has to be

Washed out every once in a while.

But before this, there is



It is in this that we may set a scene.

Children in white, crosses round their necks

Run from Chapel to the fountain square,

Catholics give wine to their children, but only on a Sunday.

Disgrace can be decadence, but it’s not always. So the woman who

Champagne’s in the morning and wanders the high

Streets at midday is feckless. But we can allow for it.

She’s forgotten her Chinese handbag,

And it’s not even



Meanwhile, men on scooters begin to think the Colosseum

Was made just for them. It’s not a monument to a

Fallen empire. It IS a falling empire, funded by gift

Shops, German tax dollars, Scandinavian exchange rates.

The sun beats down, as ever – or so

We’re told. Everybody likes a little pizza.

And that gorgeous piano is there in the apartment block



But nobody can play it. Many who did

Play have forgotten – and the young today?

Well, they’re concerned about their hair coming through,

Electronic drugs, loves, and getting through tired,

Old religious practices, than learning the piano.

This is what European decadence sounds like, to both ears.

A failed composition, but with the machine

That engineers it’s existence still turned on. Gas is on low.

Except for the gas of the chatter about class,

And good breakfast places, the secret loves of

Mary the receptionist, and do you think

That name will last forever?


March 2015.

They met monthly

By the knitters at their desks and tables

Swapping fables, about

Their lives living alone,

How it always seemed slightly cold at home

And telling how good it is

To find a cappuccino haven

Or a boozy den

To talk, flirt, smile

And keep everything at bay for a while.


Time by time,

The venue would be different

‘How did you sleep last night?’

‘The neighbour kept me up, coughing,

And coffee by coffee by coffee,

I got through the day at work

And the thought of him and her

Put me off for another month.’

A month is nature’s most consistent cycle,

It’s when worlds shimmer and progress gets made.


‘Me, I think I’m just sad’,

The other replied.

‘I had to wait the other day and watched TV through someone’s window,

And I dream of authority, the parents of my youth,

Teachers, my reckless soul lost on life’s path.

Once a month, it’s nice to have you at my side’.

They each had a car

Which could take them relatively far,

Anarchy of this kind reigned in the country

Where our projects are ours & we build on what’s broken down.


And their projects were theirs

That’s what created the separation,

Forms the kind of relations,

You get living in the city

Meeting monthly for coffee

Pretending to be civilized

And it’s not that we’re not

But life wasn’t always this planned

And another month has gone –

Downhill for you, uphill for me.