Astonishingly, even though time has sped up to the point you’d
think I was 80, as the days just flick
past (whilst of course, the individual moments continue to feel presently
eternal and stuck, especially if I am unhappy), I still managed to do some writing
exercises over Christmas and New Year.
And one more this evening. But
presently am stricken by both a cold and a downer fit, so decided to just post
up what I have, so I can feel like: yes! I
got some actual creative writing done, its not just me book reviewing the
entire time, now! I’m still having
quite a strong urge to write, but can’t settle to anything longer than a
paragraph, or with any continuity or real thought needed, as my work day and
learning curve and the adjustment of it all is still doing me in. Some days I think I’m handling it all so well,
becoming competent etc. Then the next
day, invariably, will be bad – I will handle some calls vaguely, or actually
incorrectly, or I will just feel so tired that it’s a massive effort between
the calls to remain alert – or during the calls, to keep the thread. Ahhhh.
One day there will be more of me in some ways, and less in others,
eh? And we’re not just talking about my
stomach size!
Ok, the way these exercises work are that they are
basically freewrites based around an initial word, that I free-associated to
get a chain of ideas. Then I wrote a
paragraph or so on the memories and thoughts that came out.
The weirdest thing I found, what with the tiredness I’m
perpetually sheathed in, is the vividity and strength of the memories that came back – most of this
is memories. Some of it was so outright
personal and heinously graphic that I’m keeping those bits for my fabled and in
another dimension novel, or some short stories or something – but reading them
back just now: way too personal, some
of it, to go up here – would feel like I shaved off some of my skin and muscle
with a fruit parer and offered it to you…with no idea whether you’d even like
it. You might not: what a waste of
mutilation if so. So those bits will
stay with me till I can figure what they’re for. The rest so far – not much, just a little –
is here. Hopefully 2016 will be the year
I follow Time Traveller’s example, and manage to do little and often. She wrote WHOLE BOOKS that way! I’d be happy with some coherent short stories
and paragraphs. A routine, a habit. A tucked away bit of myself that’s not
affected or afflicted by work pressure or family. Anyway, here they are – the original
word, then the Association Chain, then the paragraphs that came out of
them. Hope you like.
www.visualphotos.com
CHILDS FEET HANGING OVER BALCONY CASCO ANTIGUO SAN FILIPE PANAMA CITY REPUBLIC OF PANAMA
Ecclesiastical – priest – Father Tracy – rosary – comfort of
certainty – childhood – airy balconies – dangling my feet over the edge – now
space, all gone
Purple swishing robes and censors swaying, with Jesuitical Father
Tracy sitting black and mute, understanding in a little side room at Farm
Street Church. Proffering me a rosary
he’s given, all crystal and glittery, and to this day I have it and wear it
when out of hope and needing the belief of someone else, someone for whom doubt
was dealt with. Like in childhood, when
everything just was, me on the balcony at Grosvenor Hill, with my little table
and chair, sitting in mild summers and writing my school stories happily,
knowing to write was my destiny. And
with Sarah Joseph, and her long beautiful wavy hair; scaring my mother as we
sat on the tip of the balcony, our feet over the edge, swinging, feeling so
secure and so free in the sun. (Would
never do that now, terrified at the thought alone. That was 6 floors down – what on earth was I
thinking, hanging off the edge with only a handrail to hold?) And now all that past, all gone – amazing to
think that it only exists now in my head – that there is literally a hole in
the air where my home used to be – that there is nowhere to put my feet – that
if I appeared there now, I would simply fall like rain, and splat like a
tomato.
Captain Corelli’s Mandolin – books I never read – shortness of life
– greenness of grass – brightness of sunlight – smell of roses and honeysuckle
– hand in hand under tall trees
Yes, I never read that book, ever – I bought it and sold it
without ever reading it. It lulled me to
buy it, then Nicholas Cage and the war put me off….or am I thinking about the
film with the postman? Life is too short
to read books that don’t scream to be read for one reason or another. The greenness of grass, instead, begs to be
viewed and touched, and lain in, rolled around in. Under the brightness of sunlight – lying on
the back under trees, watching the sky through the leaves, and feeling the
perfection of everything in that moment all taken in and transmuted into one
golden moment of beauty and love…not hippie love, but love of clarity of
vision, of wholeness, of understanding and not.
The mythical beauty of flowers, of all they represent – Jane Seymour
wandering in the advert gardens of my childhood, advertising Le Jardin perfume, wafting in white, and
boho clothes. Skinny as I never will
be. Roses and honeysuckle wandering in
gardens with my mother and Stanley and Alias Troubadour and Fry, all those
wanderings, congealing in the brain to one big sloshy wandering of
everafterness, of unending strolls in the sun.
The year Stanley and I met and we had this one walk in the sun, in a
park far away, and lay down under one tree – possibly the last time I ever did,
to this day – and watched the sun as it stayed, while the leaves and branches moved
irregularly in the small breeze. I felt
still, I felt moved, I felt swayed with the Earth as I lay on my back, I moved
with it and with all its trees. It was a
delirious and slow and unsettling feeling: almost an ecstatic one. He held my
hand, and we lay there silently, an atheist and a believer in all the gods and
goddesses and creatures, and I swear we felt exactly the same awe and mesh with
it all. His hand and mine, sunk into the
Earth. Part of us must still be there.
Blackberries – magic – alignment – mathematics – Fermat’s Theorem –
documentaries – Alias Troubadour – squished on sofa – unease, weariness,
despair
Blackberries, Blackberry Juniper – powerful and deep with
juice and squishy richness. Knowing that
magic does exist, having experienced its touch on my forehead one summer long
ago when hungover and ill. Seeing the
full alignment of all and everything until the skulls on people’s faces and
their mortality stood out above all; as ordered as everything else. It is mathematics, the making of perfect
patterns of alignment, the language of perfect rhythm that I glimpse in
documentaries on Fermat’s Theorem that I glance of off and cannot
understand. And Troubadour, sitting with
one leg awkwardly, endlessly to the side, all contorted on the sofa. Even remembering him gives me a feeling of
deep despair and guilt; weariness and unease.
Unease I can’t seem to lose. I
don’t think I ever will. I had to sell a
part of me and my ideals to leave, I
will never get it back, and I have to accept the feeling that gives me.
Trains – resting, scenery flying by – trees – sunlight – cows –
sheep – reading – studying – sleeping – being in-between
On a train going where – to my mothers? Always to my mothers, passing by the mother
to go and see the mother…passing over the mother, through the mother, gently
rocking in her arms, the father nestling me in steel, where I study or read,
and watch the shadows of trees, the glint of sunlight, the cows the sheep the
way haystacks look weird now…last weekend, the weariness over me, but still I
got out my folder and delighted in writing directly over the coursework, onto
the page, answering the questions, filling out my life and tastes, till I felt
so tired I closed it all, and rested my head on the side. Every time I opened my eyes, more scenery had
passed, and sadly, the trees were less and less, and the grey blocks more and
more. But until then, until we arrive –
I am in-between, neither one nor the other, I am free to roam, eyes over the
green, and remember the fox I saw on the siding on the way to Catherine’s? It looked straight at me, and I couldn’t read
it’s eyes. It was so different, but so
present. It held me, assessed me,
thought what it thought in its language (that I really need to learn) and ran
off. I never forgot it. Interrogative fox.
Romance – Mills and Boon – dreams of adolescence – being thin – the
wall under the bed of friends messages – alias GoodHeart – clean – bathrooms
buffed to brightness – films – curled up on sofa with Stanley watching
The romance we dream of, all us girls, who doesn’t? Mills and Boon, Silhouette Desire…we don’t
really want someone that corny, or to really think of us, somewhat archly, as
‘enchanting’ or ‘intriguing’, but we do want romance, and candlelight, and
dancing in a candlelit circle to Rachmaninov’s music – what was it – the
Russian Dances? Symphonic Dances? I forget.
The dreams of adolescence when you lie in bed, thinking what a great
lover, you or I will be – how to touch someone intimately, and to know all
their secrets will be like melding – it will be forever. I lay there, being very thin, a concave stomach
– which I don’t have now, do I?! Lay
there dreaming the dreams of touch and hug; of reading the messages under my
bed sent to me by others, written in lipstick, biro, eyepencil, all those
different names and messages – a boy long gone wrote about the Summer of Love – 87 or
89? I forget…First boyfriend, GoodHeart,
to whom I lost my virginity in his red room in Mile End. I always end up in the East End sooner or
later. He was kind, and clean, and
reminds me, for this reason, of bathrooms only ever seen in adverts, where
people are buffed, and so are the walls, and all is clean and tidy and lovely. The perfection of film, the set dressing of
perfection – would I be good at that?
Curled up on the sofa with Stanley watching the black and white League of Gentlemen – falling asleep in
a perfect haze of contentment. Stanley
is like a one man nostalgia machine, and if you flow with him, you really can
be somewhere else for a short time. A
holiday taken in the mind. One of many trust
games I go along with now without thinking, knowing I will be safe. If only there were more time to look backward
with…
Sophistication – models and Chanel – Sapphire – blue dress and
perfect posture – wishing I was her: unemotional and poised – clarity of
perfect clear Quartz crystal – altar – the extra light after a spell works well
Unattainable airbrushed perfection of models; dreams of
Chanel that other people have – I don’t seem to have those. I have dreams of regular people being perfect
as they are, with a bit better makeup if they want it – or better hair or
clothes. Sapphire and Steel – her perfect posture, her small smile of
knowing and poise – how I do wish I was her (my 3 paragons: Moll Flanders for
amoral can do, she will never be at a loss; Barbara from The Good Life, for total perkiness under duress; and Sapphire, for
poise in all circumstances, for her calm and intuition, her flair and
presence). She has the perfect clarity
of clear quartz crystal; like the shining faceted crystal I have on my altar –
or used to have, at Oversley, when I was there.
After a spell went particularly well, the whole room used to glow more
brightly; colours would be more intense and vivid. A feeling of warmth and a lovely fragrance
would permeate all. I wish I could have
that back; I can’t seem to focus these days.
I hardly ever spell a thing, too tired.
Things spell me though – flowers and trees can get me everytime. Sometimes I really do feel part of them has
come away with me for a while, and sits with me whilst I go about my business,
comfortingly green and thriving. So
beautiful.
Silky – the 20’s, F.Scott Fitzgerald – beautiful damned people who
are tender in the night – old Penguin editions with pale green and orange – old
musty bookshops – searching carefully, cross legged on the floor – ‘I don’t
know, that’s your collection’, in a fusty old 2nd hand bookshop in
Worthing – wondering if I will be married to someone like that one day –
annuals, pulpy paperbacks smelling of forests and undergrowth
Stanley got me the Collected Short Stories of Scott Fitzgerald;
where women wear the sheerest of silk stockings, while they dance with
dissipation, and late into the night smoke and chat, while men swarm, drinking
too heavily. In school, reading Tender is the Night; still remembering
Nicole and Dick Diver – she who could only ever be alone in the bathroom, and
breaking down in there. Reading The Beautiful and the Damned, a lovely
old Penguin with a black and white photo on the front and a pale green spine;
because I couldn’t get enough of Fitzgerald when I first discovered him. Sitting cross legged in musty old bookshops,
second hand bookshops; anywhere at all, searching faithfully through lots of
piles of old books, moving piles from side to side, to reveal the ones behind. In Brighton
that time, finding lots of fantasy books, in my first flush of reading
those. Ages ago, on holiday with my
parents, in a bookshop in Worthing; one woman says to the man she is with, when
he shows her a book and asks her opinion on whether he should get it: ‘I don’t
know darling, that’s your collection, not mine,’ and I remember thinking – will
I be married in this cosy way at some point?
Other bookshops, other places – girls annuals, scary story with that
creepy face in Judy 1981 (I still
have it, it still scares the hell out of me – one illustration, the malignancy
of the eyes); the brilliant copy of The Charles de Lint book about forests that
was so attic-ed and mildewed that it smelt like a forest! Inhaling that book was almost as much
pleasure as reading it…
Dinners by candlelight – 70’s films – Hammer House of Mystery and
suspense – my dad – in Mayfair, holding his cigarette, sitting in the chair –
rearranging furniture for no reason other than boredom – saying he can’t
remember his childhood – now: thin and rickety, vague, face worn to set
softness, eyes ambiguous, can’t read him – never could
When I think of dinners by candlelight, I get a soft focus
image, and women in diaphanous chiffon dresses, with gently flicky hair; I see
70s films, Hammer films, the Hammer House
of Mystery and Suspense that managed to be both Tales of the Unexpected and gothic at the same time. Women with heavy eyeliner and hair pinned in
strange buns; Susan George walking through Prague
– was it Prague?
– before getting shut in an asylum.
Watching it with my dad, who sits in his chair, upright, holding his
cigarette in his hand, and telling my mother to stop hovering at the door and
come in to sit down if she’s watching it, or go away – ‘Woman!’. Sometimes he would rearrange the furniture
for no reason other than boredom and the cussed desire to show the place was
his and no one else’s. The contrast
between him then and as he was the year before his death was marked – then:
firm face, intelligent eyes, rigid posture – the man who owns the house, bosses
the women, quizzes me on classical music. I used to love to do well at the
quizzes – could identify most pieces from 3 notes at the beginning, and random pieces
to a composer from their sound. And then in early 2008 – bent, thin, where his
arse should be flesh just hangs slack and flat.
He barely dressed, barely moved around the house. Had allowed himself to waste away almost
entirely. He sat vague in his chair,
listening to The Bill or Eastenders, the same few pieces of
classical music were played over and over.
I would ask him questions and he creased up his face deafly: ‘what?!’ in
a resigned, bored and irritated way. He
waited to die, it seemed like. Then he
got his wish. It’s a shame, and it made
me angry for a very long time. He could
barely walk, as he had exercised so little that his muscles atrophied. I think it’s a curse on his side of the
family – which I share in spades; it’s the depressive fatalistic part of his
nature. Sad thing is, I don’t conquer it
either. Good thing is, I have never yet
given up. I don’t say that as judgement,
I’m younger still than he was. And
things get heavier as you go on, I am finding.
Less clear; or depressingly clear.
But…if he fought, he fought entirely in private and I never saw it, or
evidence of it. Perhaps I didn’t know
what to look for, I may’ve missed it.
Today I’ve been talking to him.
He’s totally gone, I feel, but occasionally I chat to the idea of him
anyway.
Lastly…this strange little thing: A Dream -
The other day, we
fell asleep on the sofa, me all sleeping on his chest and him all flaked out
with his arms round me, after one of our exhausting unravellings of a
misunderstanding, and all was well again, and I had the weirdest dream - that I
was in the middle of space, constructing this perfect skeletal pyramid out of
crystals and light - and that each argument Stanley and I have was one more
adjustment in this perfect work of cosmic art - I was aligning the light itself
and checking refraction and I was so pleased with the angles and the symmetry
and the way it shone - it all made perfect sense and was beautiful - I woke up
still snuggled and smiling my head off, and feeling like I had dreamed the
truth of us. It felt really significant, hugely important - you know the
way some dreams do? Such powerful shafts of sparkling white light I was
building with, it was the strangest dream....just me and the stars and me
building, patiently aligning and watching it all come together really slowly,
like cleaning my mind with lasers...It still feels strong now (I often have
massively vivid dreams when I fall asleep in his arms. I wonder if people affect each other’s dreams
when they are closely in contact. And in
what way?)
I can still see the
pyramid now. But this is the end of this
post.
Fluffhead is
asleep, Stanley is doing his own thing in his room, and I will make one more
cup of camomile tea with honey. I will
sit upstairs in the dark and listen to this rain and wind, feeling secure and fortunate
and dry, warm. If it rains much harder
this will move from Tlaloc or Indra or Yu Shi – Master of Rain!, to being the
province of Thor. Herne runs over the
wet grass tonight. Moving so fast. Feeling the writing feeling tickling me, but
now too tired to take it further. I
listen to 2016 and its dark rain. As
always, I’ll watch and see what happens next.
(Just for anyone who now has Sapphire and Steel in their heads, plus the state of modern politics and the world as presented to us by the news...I give you this appropriate still from the opening - and iconic - credits.)
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
ReplyDelete