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The Watchman


By Guy Wilgress Hudson

ISBN: 978-1-78382-038-2
Published: 2014
Pages: 130
Key Themes: Mental Health, Poetry, Illustration, Journal


One manís odyssey through a Carrollian window to the shady depths of his domestic well. A map upon which to follow the myopic meanderings of a fool, dispensing with pearls of wisdom along the way. Illustrative and Burlesque it captures one manís journey through heavens to a hell reminiscent of Alice in wonderland's epic landscape of the mind.

By Simone Gordon BA(hons).

About the Author

The Watchman was the brain child of my psychiatrist. We discussed some poetry, that of Poet and Writer, Ben Okri I think. My good Doctor suggested I might keep a poetic Journal. I said I would have a go. This is the journal as I kept it page by page. It was hand written in a book presented to me as a Birthday gift.

I deliberated from the beginning on the process of keeping and maintaining a journal and to attempt to introduce a hopefully poetic edge to the time I was spending living out my existence. I noticed that I had a writing practice of always beginning the session at the top of the next clean page and double spacing my lines. The lines were all short with little use of punctuation. I tended to write no more than about ten lines per page.

The more I subjected control; the more it became diffi cult to maintain control.

I dispensed with reading over lines and then entire pages. The only time I recall reading through the journal was on the hoof and read aloud to various friends I loved and occasionally stayed with.

Later I typed out and edited each individual page and began to add illustrationís to the printed A4 Pages that I affectionately call my ĎDoodlesí. As the project was nearing completion I was referring to The Watchman as a work of spontaneous Perfectionism.

Book Extract

Ok. Begin again. Thatís what I must do. Have done in fact. Itís all about taking your time and gently winding down into the groove of the piece. Here we commence the tale. We are lost at sea. Please donít mistrust me at this early stage. Trust me like a friend and should I break that bond of trust we share and you donít trust my story then cease to call it a story at all. Call it something other than a story.

You could name it a Factory. Now there is a story. This is bad. I must admit to being a fraud. In the Buddhist sense of the word. It all looks like Lunatic ramblings already. I did believe you canít write madness. Madness writes forever. I feel the urge for a creative masturbation. So you cannot write madness; madness cannot write.

I am mad. Well my sick note that I personally carried from my good Doctors to the DSS building every month carried a diagnosis of Psychosis. So this is the beginning of my story. Itís a madhouse story written by a mad man. I must remember now you canít write madness. I will try in that case to not write a mad story. I wonít tell you my life story so donít worry about that one. I am mad. Ask anyone who knows me.

Actually most people that know me tend to think Iím a bit too sensible and quiet to be mad. I am really very mad. Completely insane in fact. An arch lunatic on the quiet. Please donít broadcast this and consider now that for the sake of my reputation I would rather you keep my Schizophrenic diagnosis to yourself. Just tell people Iím a bit eccentric.

Iíve found love. Itís simply the best feeling Iíve had all night. Thatís not what this story is about though. This is the tale of a man. Understand my friends that despite your intelligence this is not my book. Itís not about me. Itís the story of a man like I said. His name is George. I like George. Heís very malleable. He also is a bit stuck in his ways. So allow me to turn you all on with the story of George.

George lives very much in a muddle in his mind. His mind resembles a car scrap yard like those you used to see. Scrapped cars litter a yard. These are the relics of the manís past. He was a man well accustomed to popping his life into the driving seat of an old rusty rust bucket and taking her for an imaginary spin. Heís really quite a man is our George. He would like to be a daredevil. George imagines many things and remembers most of what he imagines. Itís just the ticket for the old fool to take a bike ride out of the village and create, create and redo a singular phantasmagorical narrative. It goes a bit like this.

George is on a strop and cycling like the clappers along a slightly descending country lane. He hears the vehicle approach from the brow of the incline. He knows the sound of the motor. Itís one of those camper vans. A blue camper approaches from behind. The regular pulse of the air cooled motor reverberates in the quiet lane surrounded by fields of cereal crops. The van, as George already knows will slow down as it draws level to him. Heís freewheeling now. The girl whoís leaning out of the passenger window shot at our George. She shot an arrow straight through his heart. We need you George sheís saying followed by you are George Lamb arenít you George?

He brings the cycle to a stop and looks at the girl. What is it you want from me? He says. To come with us now George, we need you to help us save the planet. George being George looks way out across the Cereal fields for a moment or two. I will is all he can utter. George quietly watches as the VW Camper takes off in to the azure glare in springtime. He stands with his peddle Iron between his legs and watches while the bus of fools with him on board takes off.

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This product was added to our catalog on Thursday 20 February, 2014.