David Poulter







EVOLUTION: A Story of the Unconscious



“Is the unconscious conscious? Are there entities living in the mind-scapes of life? Hatching out from our creative processes. Flitting undetected from being to being. Surreal ethereal angels and devils. A creative thought form universe.”


The fence is broken, an interwoven design spoilt, underneath the sycamore tree. There is a line of gardens, running back to back up an incline, and a row of trees following an ancient boundary; old marshy farmland converted into a modern housing estate. Purchased by my father, number 66, of red brick, with deep foundations and solid fuel central heating. A large kitchen connected to a lobby, with cement steps, lead to a shaded passage, giving access to the front and back .An adjoining pantry and coal house of the same size seem initially no more than big cupboards, but on further inspection are practically small rooms. At the rear, a big, beautiful, gently sloping garden, ditched at one side, raised at the other and artfully overgrown at the edges. Nearby the A19, a duel carriageway, cuts through rugged pastureland. The plans for an extension thwarted due to an archaeological find – a mummified figure sitting up in a stone pit: hominid? Caveman? Who knows? Were we around at the time? Perhaps, but maybe not as people.





The Hunt: a race, then frenzied activity. Their camp is by the coast or towards it, a boggy landscape; within it are no real reference points to the present. Hunting: animals do it. But within consciousness when is there a conscience? It’s spring and animals are turning into men. With a trot, a run and pursuit the prey is anything consumable: hares, deer, foxes. Perhaps ultimately each other. And the reward of this quest? Food. The honor of being the provider. Prestige, power, security. Love? Perhaps the need for love, the desire to be needed – the first stirrings of human ego. Next, sheer glee and relief, as their quarry is cornered, caught and killed, there is almost compassion for a split second; consciousness vibrating. Do you ever feel like an animal? Then a disagreement ensues, theft, a fight and murder. No pity or guilt, only perhaps a brief reflection on a full stomach.





At number 66 promotion and advancement are in the air, but as yet no new position or job has been secured. Just the possibility and the promise of a big family, a big car and a bigger house, along with health, success and happiness. To achieve these goals: stress, hard work, discipline and duty. Sacrifice and suffering are passed on sometimes, things are desired, but to gain them the price is sufferance. A child is battered unconscious and almost beyond. There is recovery, but like a plant that has been stood on, weedy.


A moment’s consideration: an October evening while filling the coal hod. A pair of amber eyes staring through the slatted fence, my father fleeing indoors. Later, sitting in the kitchen with a rum toddy – inebriated analysis: the ancient past? Troglodyte? A demon? A neighbors’ dog?


Mind chatting in my own void – before my conception and birth – in an imaginary yet synchronized conversation with my father to be. Myself: competitive, antagonistic, and aggressive. His talk is sweet, caressing and caring. But the reality after being born proves the opposite.


An aberration: puberty. For myself the desire for women, but the lack of comprehension for anything adult. Uncaring, callow and arrogant. Abstract, unrealistic and injured. Schizoid. Midlife for my father – routine. The beginning and observance of my waywardness and total incompatibility with him. Nostalgia for his own past and what might have been. Bitterness, jealousy, the fear of not being loved and respected. From my birth, I displaced him – the result: the pram slappings, the beatings, the pleasure from psychological and physical torture, the relief and guilt. The need for violence to gain ironically a foothold in sanity and respect. My father and I – the distrust and anger, hatred and love passed between us down through the ages.


At the top of the garden, one rib left, buried, epochs old, rotted down, dried out, compressed, powdered, and diffused. All that’s left from my father from another time.

The explosion of wood, splinters underneath the sycamore, a violent encounter, the interwoven design shattered – a repetition through time. This is where I murdered my father millenniums ago.














David Poulter ( b. 1965) gained a degree in Fine Art from Leeds University and practiced and taught art for many years. To see some examples of his work visit:




He moved to Taiwan in 2004 where he wrote the book “The Idiot” published by Chipmunka Publishing sponsored by The Arts Council.





He currently teaches English in Taiwan and visits New Zealand to be involved in creative and ecological pursuits.






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