Exercise to produce a word association spider diagram - see tutor tutorials for more info
How the hell has it come to this he wondered, standing, hands clasped in front of him, intimidated by the oppressive atmosphere of the court? When the summons had arrived he’d been incredulous. All those years ago, such a thing was unthinkable. The art student he used to be had looked out on the commonplace world of the 1950s and just knew there was something more to be had than its lingering post war greyness, and all he he’d been doing was to claim his share.
The art school’s efforts to stimulate his imagination had had a perverse effect: the portfolio it expected couldn’t be found when the time came, but the jazz band he’d joined was going great guns. Standing up there in the front line, weaving his clarinet’s thread into that magical sound against the insistent rhythm of New Orleans, it seemed as if he’d arrived in paradise. Of course there were the girls out on the dance floor too; hot and sweaty, writhing and spinning, their skirts flying outward and upward as they twisted and turned, the fleeting glimpse of underwear tantalising the wild young man with a prospect even more enthralling than the creation of music. There were boys there of course, some of them jiving, but with a preponderance of girls crowding round the band at the end of each set it was like picking cherries off a tree.
They were all young, musicians and fans alike, but hey, this was the dawning age of the teenager whichever side of sixteen you were. Nights were for living and days for sleeping off hangovers. Who could have predicted that the thoughtless self indulgence of a misspent youth would have brought him to this un-cool place where authority is given to people in strange gear who can control his every move? Of course he was too old now, balding and portly, for the antics of youth, although he wasn’t above putting out a hand with its nicotine stained fingers to grab any opportunity that came his way. Everybody does it, he would tell himself, though neither of his ex wives had seen it that way. Even this lot - he looked around the assemblage of officialdom - couldn’t claim they’d always kept their hands to themselves.
The media, God, how he hates the word even as it passes through his mind, was voracious for scandal, even if it had to fabricate some itself. Take the most eminent man present; even the messiness of his private life had been gleefully exposed by the gutter press, and his appearance on television hadn’t done much to improve things. But he didn’t topple. There he was, as good as new. Even death doesn’t protect, look at Jimmy what’s his name. Dropped posthumously, like an incendiary bomb and lighting fires all over the place. He wonders how many innocuous vicars had their adultery exposed whilst the odious man’s celebrity had protected him in life. There’s nothing fair about it all: even this.
What had he done to deserve the judgement that was about to be handed out? He’d had a hell of a good time whilst purloining the black man’s heritage and turning his emotionally charged music into a white man’s imitation: pale and civilised. It was too late now.
“Step forward.” Officialdom’s voice is in his ear. He hears his name spoken quietly to the august figure in whose presence he now stands.
“Spelman isn’t it.”
“Yes sir.” A strip of red is being expertly placed round his neck.
“For services to music.” The ribbon lies flat against his chest, pulled taut by a heavy medal.
“I heard you play once, at a Trinity May Ball in the 60s.”
“Thank you sir.”
And then it was over.
How the hell has it come to this he wondered, standing, hands clasped in front of him, intimidated by the oppressive atmosphere of the court? When the summons had arrived he’d been incredulous. All those years ago, such a thing was unthinkable. The art student he used to be had looked out on the commonplace world of the 1950s and just knew there was something more to be had than its lingering post war greyness, and all he he’d been doing was to claim his share.
The art school’s efforts to stimulate his imagination had had a perverse effect: the portfolio it expected couldn’t be found when the time came, but the jazz band he’d joined was going great guns. Standing up there in the front line, weaving his clarinet’s thread into that magical sound against the insistent rhythm of New Orleans, it seemed as if he’d arrived in paradise. Of course there were the girls out on the dance floor too; hot and sweaty, writhing and spinning, their skirts flying outward and upward as they twisted and turned, the fleeting glimpse of underwear tantalising the wild young man with a prospect even more enthralling than the creation of music. There were boys there of course, some of them jiving, but with a preponderance of girls crowding round the band at the end of each set it was like picking cherries off a tree.
They were all young, musicians and fans alike, but hey, this was the dawning age of the teenager whichever side of sixteen you were. Nights were for living and days for sleeping off hangovers. Who could have predicted that the thoughtless self indulgence of a misspent youth would have brought him to this un-cool place where authority is given to people in strange gear who can control his every move? Of course he was too old now, balding and portly, for the antics of youth, although he wasn’t above putting out a hand with its nicotine stained fingers to grab any opportunity that came his way. Everybody does it, he would tell himself, though neither of his ex wives had seen it that way. Even this lot - he looked around the assemblage of officialdom - couldn’t claim they’d always kept their hands to themselves.
The media, God, how he hates the word even as it passes through his mind, was voracious for scandal, even if it had to fabricate some itself. Take the most eminent man present; even the messiness of his private life had been gleefully exposed by the gutter press, and his appearance on television hadn’t done much to improve things. But he didn’t topple. There he was, as good as new. Even death doesn’t protect, look at Jimmy what’s his name. Dropped posthumously, like an incendiary bomb and lighting fires all over the place. He wonders how many innocuous vicars had their adultery exposed whilst the odious man’s celebrity had protected him in life. There’s nothing fair about it all: even this.
What had he done to deserve the judgement that was about to be handed out? He’d had a hell of a good time whilst purloining the black man’s heritage and turning his emotionally charged music into a white man’s imitation: pale and civilised. It was too late now.
“Step forward.” Officialdom’s voice is in his ear. He hears his name spoken quietly to the august figure in whose presence he now stands.
“Spelman isn’t it.”
“Yes sir.” A strip of red is being expertly placed round his neck.
“For services to music.” The ribbon lies flat against his chest, pulled taut by a heavy medal.
“I heard you play once, at a Trinity May Ball in the 60s.”
“Thank you sir.”
And then it was over.