Hello and welcome to the ninth edition of ‘Zenrei’s Zone’, a newsletter dedicated to creation and contemplation. This time, there’s another short story, radio show and a film update.
Enjoy and thank you for reading! Any support, from sharing to subscribing, is deeply appreciated.
And please share with others! It’s really encouraging to see growth and win some small battles in the attention paradigm:
Empathy & Eternity
The filming for Empathy & Eternity is now complete. Taking place over a week, myself, a videographer (James Montgomery), producer (Tahra Sebti) and composer (Juliet Merchant) ran around Tenbury Wells, Boraston and Burford tracking my father’s evacuation there in 1939 and time until 1945. It went incredibly well, with the three of them doing incredible work and feeling the magic of the place despite the time constraints.
Familiar and new people in the villages were incredibly receptive to the project and went out of their way to help us. The film is now entering the post-production stage, and I look forward to sharing the results of our hard work with the world. Thanks again to everybody who helped support the filming.
Bars Across Borders
A new episode of my radio show hosted on community station Threads is now available on Mixcloud, exploring Mandarin-language hip-hop.
Scallies and scallops
Here’s a short story I wrote last month about a performer in Southport. I hope you like it - any feedback is welcome as I’m new to writing and keen to improve.
Marine Lake Cafe, Southport
A white shimmer flew languidly over the arcades and lacemade cafés of the old Victorian town. Far away, the town’s promenade extended into the sands, littered with doughnut eaters and fortune-telling machines. Further still, the Irish Sea glimmered unwaveringly, beaten by the afternoon sun.
Picking at a chip butty harvest, the seagull glided over its domain - past the faded glory of the tearooms, past where they sell the Blackpool rock and soft serve, past the old arcade Silcock’s. Eschewing the boarded-up bars, it settled upon the obsidian black of the cast iron which supported the pier. As it rested, it surveyed the scene sprawled in front of it - for below the pier, next to a lake, was a canopied stage. The stage had “Afternoon Teas” and “Family Entertainment” signwritten in the old lost letter type of the fairground. It was filled in olive green and shadowed in mustard yellow.
The stage cradled an interesting scene. A cream-leather clad, sequinned middle-aged man in a dark black wig. Despite the British summer heat (which, although disputed by some, does in fact exist) he shuffles and swoons on the stage, his thick chest hair and tanned skin displayed in the cut of his costume. Much like the endless sea, he glimmers - whether this is him reflecting the wider endlessness around him or his silver is hard to say. Accompanied by a backing track from a medium-sized amp whose knobs he flicks to change tunes, he croons his likenesses lyrics to the crowd:
“We’re caught in a trap…
I can’t hold out
Because I love you too much, baby”
The audience is receptive - they tap and clink their lager and stout filled glasses in approval from their wooden round benches, all of which have a parasol in the central hole. Some of the older listeners sway nostalgically from side to side. An unhurried teenage server weaves in-between with pints and promises. Kids run amok with firetrucks and juice. This is a familiar scene. Every weekend during the summer, crooners provide the entertainment advertised on the back of the old canopy.
The singers that perform at Marine Lake Café have different repertoires, but it’s all the golden oldies that everyone knows - Stevie Wonder, The Beatles, The Four Tops and so on. Amongst the regulars, though, Elvis is the most captivating. Unlike the others, who wear shorts, gilets and shades that keep the performance very much anchored in the realms of a free summer’s day performance in an old seaside town, Elvis dresses in full regalia. His studied presence mimics the King’s manners with pinpoint accuracy. Indeed, there is something in his performance which transcends the others - something which breaks free of the realms of northwestern karaoke and approaches the Graceland glory of the original King.
The end of Elvis’ set is met with a mild but enthusiastic applause. His well-imitated thanks signs off his remarkably authentic 45 minute performance.
The Caravan
Elvis walks off the stage, leaving the mic and wires set up for his late afternoon performance an hour later. Leaving through a back gate, he walks toward his static caravan, which is parked underneath the pier. A group of seagulls flies away from in and around the understructure upon his approach.
His key is hidden in the hollow wooden steps that lead up to the caravan. He doesn’t keep them on him when performing, lest their shape show in the costume and dissolve the illusion. His large sun-familiar hand slides a piece of the wood away from the side of the steps and retrieves the key. He jangles the key in the rusted lock, and the door creaks open.
The caravan is somewhat musty from having been closed for a few hours - although the lakeside is family friendly, the odd scally might have a go at getting into any cars and caravans that look doable. The must dissipates as it meets the sea air and the strong, musky perfume that Elvis puts on his wrists and freshly shaven face and neck before his set.
To the right is the sleeping area, beside which is the small wardrobe. The man sidesteps the narrow corridor to reach the wardrobe. As he does so, the leather groans.
Twisting his hair to the left and right, he prises free the gently glued thick black head of hair to reveal a short, mousey brown cut streaked with grey. Then, he carefully pulls off the top half of his outfit - first the upturned collar rises over his now exposed head, then the sequinned torso. He holds it before himself and examines it for a moment. He places it carefully on a coat hanger. He closes the wardrobe and his eyes meet old cutouts of Elvis by a mirror. He does not remove the makeup - too much of a faff for an hour-long break.
Elvis never left his flared white leather trousers on for a moment - this would have been done by some who may feel tinge of melancholy after finishing their songs and a desire to retain a piece of the magic. Instead, Elvis undid the laces of the leather trousers and deftly let them slide down, putting them next to the upper half and changing into a pair of Lonsdale shorts.
……………
No-longer-Elvis sidestepped back past the wardrobe from the bed and to the kitchen area and, flicking on a power switch, put the kettle on. The kettle had an old, limescaled heating element that tasted of the hard sea. He made a brew, set it on a small white plastic table, and sat down in an old beige armchair. Outside, he could hear seagulls that had settled back on the tarred cast iron supports of the pier. He too settled for a moment.
His mind wandered through the faces of the crowd and the dance of the servers who navigated it - the odd comment he’d got here and there, someone holding his gaze, what different tables were eating and drinking and how much that cost, any tips he was given and what food he’d get with it. And sure, he thought, looking back towards the door and narrow corridor to the bed, a static caravan supported by cinder blocks may not be a home befitting the King, but it seems about right for him. He gazed out the window, tired but resilient. Collaged phrases from songs passed through his mind, punctuating a quiet slideshow of sensations and memories that could not be seen in his face. He slowly drank his brew, the steam rising to meet his bronzed face and the wrinkles and scars of past summers.
He finished his brew. It was now quarter to three. On in fifteen.
Now, the same sequence plays in reverse. Rising in a swift motion from the armchair, the man takes a few steps and then sidesteps the narrow corridor to reach the wardrobe. He takes out the leather trousers, which groan, and slides them on before tying them. Gently, like a crown, he lowers a thick black head of hair onto his skull, and glues it on. Then, he puts on the top half of his outfit and upturns the collar. He closes the wardrobe, checks his makeup, and his eyes meet old cutouts of Elvis.
Ready to perform, he opens the creaking door and steps out into an endless summer.