Coffeehouse 4: Semi-Comatose

As I blundered in at 7.10a.m., I was the only one in the coffee house.  It felt like MY house.  The two baristas talking quietly in Polish at the far end (the Redhead with the wit, and the quiet braided brown haired one who is very skinny and has the world’s sweetest smile – I think her doppelganger in another dimension is a fairy girl: she smiles at things and they bloom, open out).

Now its 9.30a.m. and its packed in here.  Jonah and his mother, her sister, two friends.  He is immersed in a tablet, watching YouTube.  They have the volume down low, but its annoying the hell out of me.  There’s a ton of noise in here, but it’s white noise (raucous laughing and loud women talk; a man with a voice that carries like Simon Callow; music piped a bit too strongly, and the inevitable hissing and shushing of the coffee machines).  But the tone and pitch of whatever Jonah’s watching on YouTube is bugging me – it’s cutting through everything, a heavy saturated sound.  Lower, more pervasive.  I try hard to ignore it.

On my other side are two mothers with exceptionally cute and odd looking children (one of them looks like Federico de Montefeltro, warrior prince of Renaissance Italy – see pic – yes, the kid has THAT nose; and the other one looks like Benicio del Toro).  The mothers look English as anything, so the fathers’ must be Mediterranean or Latin through and through.

I am (as ever) feeling displaced this morning. I feel a bit of a fraud for being here.  I have no money, but luckily my loyalty card was up to 9 cups – 10^th one free.  Now I’m doing the surreptitious tap water from home sipping thing.

It’s taken me two hours to get to writing.  Quentin (yes, that’s his actual name; he’ll never read this, and we should celebrate the Quentin’s of the world, surely?) who comes here every day from 7-8 a.m. before the rest of his working from home day, commented with surprise that I was reading and not writing.

I told him I couldn’t wake up yet. Still can’t.  I’m in fog today.  I spent the 2 hours reading my latest copies of ‘Prima’ and ‘Essentials’ magazines cover to cover.  Folding back corners of pages with crafts or recipes I like, and colour schemes of happy combos I find pretty and harmonious to the eye.  When I have a quiet moment at home I tear out/ cut up the magazine’s best bits and add them to various folders which I have indexed by section.  The whole collection is named ‘Life By Magazine’, and its where I go to get crafts and recipes to use when I have no inspiration, or where I just look at the colours to rest my eyes and therefore my mind.  Its anal, deeply satisfying and does actually come in useful. For instance, in the next week I’ll consult the folder called ‘Occasions’ for the Fathers Day section and see if there’s anything cheap and cheerful I can make for Stanley, soon.

While I’m reading away I’m thinking of writing and assessing my consciousness level.  It’s really low.  The Thought Police are alarmed and send for the Thought Ambulance.  Tiny Gnome Thought Paramedics paddle my head with stampy feet and throw ice water over me.  I blink blearily, and carry on considering ’10 Ways With Mince’, wondering if I can do the unusual Lebanese Lamb recipe with the rather tasteless soy mince, by using extra Harissa for flavour.  Would Stanley like that?

On the one hand, these thoughts are useful.  On the other, this ain’t how the Next Great English Novel will get written.  Or any novel.

Deciding my consciousness level is 2 iotas higher (plus the fact there are more massively yelling babies in buggies here, mysteriously being ignored by their groomed heavily chatting mothers, with no obvious embarrassment or callousness, weird) I have no choice but to waken a notch more.  I take out my Ovate Grade study lessons, and in about 5 minutes flat seem to have read one.  But, hmmmm, it’s telling me to go off and make a Crane Bag.  I can’t do that right now.  Impasse.  No fabric in coffeeshop.  Have vision of ripping off my jeans, saying, “This fabric is hardy enough, this will do!” – the mothers won’t bat an eyelid, they are all being very loud and very insular, I could probably run about naked and be ignored today.

So.  I put my Druid stuff to one side.  Apparently I am not awake enough to feel spiritual today.

I’m wanting to read on my Kindle.  I don’t want to work today; my head is full of golden syrup, just slowly sludging from one side to the other, giving my brain cavities with its sweetness.

There’s a lone dad in here, checking his Android phone, and his small bored toddler is tearing strips off the dad’s copy of The Times and eating them.  I try and catch the dad’s eye (are there still toxic chemicals in newsprint?) but he looks up in time, and does his best not to explode in anger, though he seems pretty irritable.  (He’s been all jerky and snippy since they sat down.)  He takes the paper away and the tiny boy looks confused and bereft, his small eyebrows rising into his hair.  The dad starts to get ready to leave, gulping down the rest of his coffee, and tiny boy stands to attention with his hand out, waiting for it to be held.  This melts the dad’s crossness.  He unpurses his lips, and takes tiny boy’s hand.  They share a lovely smile, and leave in identical blue anoraks and blue jeans, black Doc Martens.

I can feel my eyelids trying to close.  My focus swims.  I feel dizzy and lightheaded.  Some days are like this all day.  If I come to a stop at all, it’s like I’ve gone into suspended animation. There’s some kind of Autopilot Me on watch, so I don’t fall down, trip over stuff, or spill hot drinks down myself; but mostly I feel that soft fluff of sleep moving centre stage in my head.  If I close my eyes for just a second, my whole body goes to sleep.  I drift.  It’s most unfortunate I’m getting this on my morning off.  It’s bad enough when I get this flopsy looking after Fluffhead (I end up pacing the room just to stay conscious; I cannot sit down or I just fade out), but on my morning off?  Iniquitous!

I think of the Dennis Palambo advice - 'write about the dog', i.e. whatever is in your head now, concerning you.  How much can I say about SLEEP?  What I'm wanting is an absence of responsibility and consciousness.  Where I want to be there ARE no words, or not like here.  Hmm.  The dog is sleep.  The dog is asleep.  Lucky dog.

I read an article on my Kindle about what inspires some writers, where they get their ideas from. It’s interesting that the things are so small.  Looking at a room, a snippet of conversation, the hint of a ‘what if’ thought.  It must be because I’m so brain frazzled and tired that none of these sorts of things do it for me anymore.  I make those same sorts of observations, then think “yeah…and?”  And I fluff off.  Thinking about cushions and sleeping.  (Lay me in my little boat, light the little light, this is the way to the Garden In The Night…)

Jonah is now watching Thunderbirds, which I hate (creepy as all feck).  I try instead to tune in to the conversation going on to my right – a woman dressed very plainly but smartly in a black suit jacket with shift dress, and the bald suit with her, sweaty head, nodding at her as she speaks.  Looks like a job interview.  She’s confident.  There’s a bit of tension in her posture, straight back, shoulders a bit hunched – but her face is open, and she’s enthusiastic.  The man listens intently.  To his credit, his eyes are nowhere near her chest, which is capacious.

But Jonah’s mum’s sister starts talking loudly about how her cleaner is starting again this Friday.  I want to be irritated by what she’s saying, as well as her boomy voice (she’s one of those loud women who punctuate every sentence with ringing, thigh-slapping laughter – and by god, its getting old after 45 minutes of it almost constantly: woman, I want you to take a sedative or something…).  Thing is, I can only manage crossness at the voice and the laughing.  I think I would love a cleaner.  I used to say if I ever won the Lottery or anything, I would ‘keep it real’ and iron my own shirts and mop the floor etc.  After 3 years of hardly any sleep, I say: BULLSHIT.  Please come and do my mopping and ironing, someone!

I yawn hugely and watch Jonah cram a whole almond croissant in his mouth, creating a large crumb fallout field.  Yup.  They need a cleaner.  (Loud sister slaps thigh, booms laughter, points at Jonah.  Jonah, tip your milkshake on her, go on, please?)

God, I don’t want to work today.

For some reason, my head is filled with a vision of...of all things…a mythical, imaginary Parisian café.  Where I sit outside, looking like 70s film star Corinne Cleary, in an old style rainmac (collars!) sipping the French equivalent of an espresso from a china cup.  It’s a dim overcast day, there’s a definite chill in the air, I’m…also close to a river, and can hear water lapping nearby.

I sit there, looking incredibly awake, but detached and cool (sophisticated is the word I appear to be after here), with my wavy perfectly controlled hair, and my clear dewy skin.  My slightly downturned but not sulky mouth.  I cross and uncross my long shiny mythical legs.  I seem to be waiting for someone.  A man, obviously.  In this vision, I clearly have a very exciting life.  Plus, in this vision, I think I can wear high heels without spraining my ankle.  And exist on a diet of lettuce and apple peelings (and tiny Frenchish espressos).

I wonder why I always descend into fantasy?  Don’t answer that.

I give in.  I’m going to read.

I ask Jonah’s mum to turn down the volume on that tablet of his.  She complies with an outward sweetness and inner seething at the implied criticism that I am so very familiar with in us females.  It’s a result of the way we are brought up.  If you are brought up to constantly pay attention to the needs and desires of others, you get resentful.  It’s not natural to be taught your own needs are selfish and always second.  ‘Specially when people keep exhorting you to ‘take care of yourself’.  Gets confusing and irritating.  And add that to feeling your children’s behaviour reflects on your mothering utterly (as your mother probably taught you) and any hint of criticism of your child, especially from another woman…and you have an internal volcano there, simmering away.  I try to smile genuinely at her, to show I mean no harm, I just need some quiet.  What I want to add is “please turn down your steroid sister, as well, please?”

I open my Kindle again and sink into a fluffy fantasy written by someone else.  Today the Great English Novel will have to wait.

Jonah empties his strawberry milkshake onto the tablet screen.  Much noise ensues.  Followed by silence.  No boomy laughter now.  There’s a mercy.  Can’t help smiling, a bit.

Public Diary: Can't read; the Brilliance of Faraway People; and Being 'On File'

I’m having a very odd week.  I can’t read[1]. 

There’s been all this kerfoofle going on in my mind about the blog, for a start.  I have been amazed to watch the stats (obsessively, Stanley says; no doubt correct on this occasion).  There are people reading in Japan!  I don’t know anyone in Japan!  Wow!  And its one of my favourite countries![2] 

There are people reading in Finland!  I definitely don’t know anyone in Finland.  This is unbelievably exciting.  I always thought that writing (and then being published) was the best way to communicate with anyone (anyone that can read, I add, of course).  You don’t get interrupted, you have time to put your thoughts together…and one day, someone far far away, might read your thoughts and feel a sliver of fellow feeling (which is always a good thing – I can think of few things so worthy as realizing someone far far away is Just Like You).  I’m still waiting for that papery moment.  But it’s astonishing that people I don’t know, most definitely far far away, are taking the time out of their busy days to read my waffling here. 

I know who the person in Qatar is (hello you!); I know who the people in New Zealand are (hello all of you!)…but I only know who some of the people in Australia are.  A mystery!!   

Germany!  India!  Ireland!  The USA!  Who are you all?  And thankyou!  You move me to possibly an excess of exclamation marks!!!! (Though of course, there is no such thing.)

I’m only sorry I don’t have anything earth shattering to say today.  See, I was thinking, after the being nagged into this (etc – won’t go into all that again), that I would finally unleash all my lofty opinions and important sounding thoughts (I am one of the ones for whom the expression Legend In [gender] Own Lunchtime was invented).  Until I realised I am about to possibly not have any, anymore.  Because of time restriction.

This is due to the other reason why I can’t read (or provide a cogent book review or something, today, which was the plan).  Because it’s an Annoying World in many ways, I have to go and get a Saturday job any minute.  You know, money. 

This has filled me with further tiredness because I find Wonderful Fluffhead to be an exhausting job.  He’s Wonderful, and cute and such an interesting little person; but he’s a 24 hour gig.  I usually get some time off on Saturday, thanks to Excellent Stan (as he does on Sunday – got to be reciprocal, entire basis of enlightened self interest ).  In my time off I would write my stories sometimes; read sometimes; do yoga; go for a walk unencumbered and just for looking at things.   Or sit about squinting out of the window and watching the seasons change with all the plants and birds I still can’t identify yet, this being my first garden…And now I might have to Go And Be With People, and be smiley and helpful and grateful for the money.

This is where it gets grumpy and confusing.  See:  I used to be a receptionist.  I was a Very Good one.  I very much like to genuinely smile and be helpful and get paid for it.  I dislike being micromanaged; told how incredibly important I am to a company (its first impression etc), and then being paid possibly the lowest wage in the office.  That’s hypocritical.  The idea that only people who directly bring in wealth are worth money.  Atmosphere and ambience are priceless.  If I was indifferent, ambivalent or just flat, in my job, I am something a possible client would remember.  I’m in there somewhere; I’m a factor in their decision to deal with the company or not.  Support staff and how they are in person or on the phone are what underpin a client’s decision to work with a company – or stay with them.  You can do all the contract negotiation you want and be the lowest priced (and probably least efficient and most irritating to deal with), but Good Customer Service is completely priceless.  Managers and Directors forget this. 

Then there’s the fact I dislike all the fuffle that happens when a receptionist needs to go to the loo (‘can’t you hold it till I’ve finished typing this document?’); or on holiday or off sick (companies never have this cover satisfactorily sorted – there’s usually only one coverer; and if she is sick or on holiday…you just can’t go till they come back; or if its sick, you do, but they aren’t happy).  You are never very high on the company’s list of people to be cared for.

And, like any person hastily being thrust back into the job market, I’m not going to get a chance to have a look about for a pleasant place to work (something I believe in, like a…health food shop, or – wow – an art gallery, something dimly lit and reverential)…I shall have to go straight back to what I was doing, as it’s the quickest route.  Offices pay more than shops (as a general rule), so it’s back to an office for me, if I can find a Saturday one.  Saint Mum may get pressed into service if it ends up with me needing to do two days instead of one. 

Sighing.  People. I am fond of saying to people who know me, that most people either bore me or scare me.  The other ones are my friends or friends to be.  Other people like to point out to me that I’m anti-social, and a bit misanthropic.  This isn’t strictly true.  I think humans are integrally good and very interesting (no Original Sin for me, terribly unfriendly concept).  I never get bored of thinking about people or watching them.  I just get bored with individual or grouped ones that I can’t communicate with properly because of semantics, or whatever paradigm is stuck in their minds that sometimes they aren’t even aware of.  (I’m sure I have loads too, before anyone thinks I imagine I inhabit the only non glass made house in history.)  Or they have had such hard lives that they are filled with complex layers of defences, that require years of patience to get through to locate the real person.   

I try and try, then I get bored (if it just isn’t working), or scared (if their paradigm includes aggression and world domination, or a simple personal level sociopathic disregard of other people and their freedom to be different to the speaker).  I overthink most things, and no interaction with anyone is just a throwaway interaction for me.  It’s just the way my brain has become wired over time.  I constantly attempt to moderate it (it takes up far too much time to overthink), but it’s a work in progress.  The world is always waiting to catch up to me whilst I tinker.

When I’m not tinkering, I like to rest.  Sleeping was a great rest, once upon a time.  A period in which no one demands anything of you at all.  That blissful just sliding off feeling. Mmmmmm.  Since the last trimester of pregnancy with Fluffhead, when it got impossible to sleep in virtually any position, sleep has gone away.  It rarely happens properly anymore.  I doze; I have spectacular fifteen minute or one hour power naps.  (Stanley likes to point out to me that I do sleep, he sees me doing it.  That’s not the issue though – the quality of it is.  If I always have one ear out, and I’m a light sleeper anyway…)

So, barring sleep, I escape into books when Fluffhead sleeps.  I read regular modern lit, pulp trash, modern and old classics, magic (the actual kind), American romances (very different to English ones, with a massive and I mean massive sub-genre selection out there in those).  Text books, history books, biographies etc.  At the moment I’m in the middle of nine separate books, in case of mood change.  And I can’t get my mind around any of them right now.

Partly thanks to the wonder of having Japanese, Finnish and German readers.  I’m just astounded with the idea of these faraway persons at their computers in rooms I have never seen (or maybe they are outside at a café – and what’s the weather like?), with whole lives I know nothing about (are they happy, are they distracted, are they feeling well or ill??), casting their minds over my dribbling here.  It’s a flummox, it really is.  A lovely flummox.  And partly due to my good friend Worrying, with this job hunting.  See.  People are great.  I just have such trouble actually dealing with any of them on a regular basis!

And I almost did get an ok job.  Wandered into a very nice looking local business yesterday, and made use of my Articulation and professed keenness for filing to express my perfect fit to them.  Proper marketing job it was, all on spec and everything.  Backed up, after this hopeful meeting, with a sparkly email and updated CV when I got back home.  The Manager was going to go away and consider things.  Today received very lovely email, not your usual knock-back form-letter.  But bottom line saying they were already over budget for staff.  However…I’m on file.  Ah.  ON FILE.  The bane of the work-seeker.

Ah well.  At least I have some faraway people to yak at.  Hello faraway people!  Wish me luck, I shall carry on trying to get a job.  And now, as Fluffhead sleeps, I will attempt to read.  Wish me luck for that too.  If I get time between the job hunting, I may write tomorrow.

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[1] It’s not like when Alias Troubadour at first lost his ability to touchtype after a stroke, and I went to the keyboard to type an email and I swear I felt that ability lingering in the air just above the keyboard.  I can’t touchtype, yet for a few seconds, my brain knew exactly where the keys were, though I had closed my eyes.  When my mind said: ‘Foofle, that’s not possible’, even while another bit was saying, ‘WOW, this is amazing’ and getting ready to type, I lost it.  It seemed to just disappear.  Bit of a magicfail of mine there.  Still can’t touchtype.  Do ok nonetheless.

[2] This is partly due to one of my parents earliest housekeeping jobs being as live-in housekeepers for the Mitsui Bank in their then offices in King Street, London.  My experience of Japanese people as a tiny person was that they are lovely.  I wonder if Leo will ever see this.  He was my favourite – he used to smile at me so kindly, as I wandered about in my little home-made dresses, when they had a family-do thing in the office. We used to get invited, isn’t that nice?  I used to get fed sour tasting little rice snacks.  When I worked for a Japanese company as a teen, it wasn’t so nice.  But then, I was the menial inventory girl; not that many menial staff are treated with much humanity anywhere, so I count the former experience with more weight than the latter.