I lived in India once.
I even like typing those words. I should love to go back for it seems so long ago. We were so young, and I think that made us brave. Everything we owned, packed up into two huge rucksacks, as well as Ems in her backpack, one and a half and with a curiosity that was infectious. The journey to our new home was an adventure. Coach and plane, rickshaw and coach and a walk through the most beautiful pinewoods, up a rickety road carved into the mountains. It took me a few weeks to settle in, to cook on a fire, to wash our clothes by hand, to get used to the simplicity. But with so little we suddenly needed less.
I think about that a lot now.
I called in to see my Mum today. She sat in the chair and sobbed. Like a child. It’s been two years to the day since she had her stroke. How do you console someone who feels their life has been cruelly fucked over? My dad looked a broken man. My mum looked an old lady, somehow diminished. I held her in my arms, like suddenly I was her mum. And sometimes there is something almost child like about her. I tried my best to remind her of everything that is good in her life, that things could have been much worse, that in these two years , she’s made remarkable progress.
But , as I left the house and got in my car, my upbeat facade broke. My throat felt tight, it’s all too much sometimes. I wish I could make it better.
‘Chintzy chintzy cheeriness, half dead and half alive’……thats what springs into my head, each time I think of what’s happened, of her, of them, of the whole fucking sad situation.
I sat on the steps , in front of the Sacre Coeur. And as I watched Paris I knew that we had already created our own memories. Snap shots, images we would replay for years to come.
In the grey moonlit room, shaded like a black and white film, gentle kisses down my back, so ethereal I could scarcely believe how urgent they made me feel.
Drinking cold milk and eating chocolate biscuits as we sat on the floor at the end of the bed, like children.
Before he left that morning I slipped from the bed to kiss him for the last time. My sleepy nakedness against his dressed and ready to leave awkwardness. And then he was gone.
And after that I watched all of Paris and her skies and I felt new.
I’m excited today. We have finally got a shop !
There’s lots to be done to make it habitable. Rewiring, plastering, decorating.
Suddenly I will have to become organised, professional, efficient. That could be difficult. What I’m really looking forward to though, is arriving every morning into my own little domain. I’m imagining the waft of coffee, some cool sounds drifting about and being surrounded by hopefully, interesting stuff. I will attempt to sort out all the hundreds of books, to organise and display. I think it’s going to be fun.
My friend Robin says I should wear a cloak to work. A long black one with an emerald green silk lining and lots of pockets. He says I should produce things with a flourish to astound and amaze my customers. An antique glass eye perhaps, to thrill an 8 year old boy, or a carved old love token to thaw an embittered farmers heart.
He could be on to something. I might just try it.
Just that….nothing.
I could swear, that sometimes helps…..fucking bloody hell.
I can see it only in pictures. Feel it in moments passed which act as metaphors.
Standing on a high open place. A bleak hill, covered in heather and peat three sixty. A massive, cloud rolling landscape above the earth. Feeling tiny and insubstantial. Air being sucked from lungs and replaced by the wind. A muon, a speck of nothing and as such, liberated.
Or a warm, close-up place after fucking. Womb-like light through tumbled over covers, a burrow in a bed. Warm skin touching warm skin. Limbs mishmashed and bone fusing nearness. Feeling like I’ve been reaped, gently turned over , warm earth opened to the sun in summer fields.
But then there’s the darkest one. The one I dread. Paralysing me in that dark nothing time hour. When everything takes on a sinister monochrome twist and sleep won’t come and words get stuck and skin feels cold. A miasma of every insecurity held , all hurtling in at once. And nothing feels near or safe. And nothing gives comfort. Overwhelming every last thing in my life from back then and into tomorrow.
Sometimes I wonder just who I am.
A luxury, I know , afforded to me by my status as a westerner and therefore part of the smallest richest part of human civilisation. I have time to navel gaze and ponder. I am grateful for this pretentious luxury of reflection but it is burdensome too.
It sometimes seems to me that there is an inner me and an outer me.
Preposterous I know, philosophically impossible, certainly.
I could say, outer me = happy, caring, spontaneous, gregarious. Inner me = sad, misanthropic, perverted, bizarre. But there are no boundaries, no inner / outer debate.
Nature v Nurture ? Give me a break . We are what we do. We are what we say. We are skin and bone , water and 8 pints. Contained and defined by both body and mind .
It’s all there, in the mix and can’t be separated.
”The sheets need changing ” he said , ” they’re dirty ”.
The dirt was my blood. Not that I minded changing them, it was just the implication. He hated blood. To him it represented pain , maybe death, but for me it was an affirmation of my life. An earthy comfort. A sign that despite what else was going on , at least my body was working. That monthly cycle made me feel good in some kind of obsolete way.
I didn’t want to forget those inner, animal workings.
It was my link to the moon.
It was a lovely time. Mellifluous days. Days where you awoke with a smile and wanted to live.
We walked for miles. Dry tracks through dense forests. Pine needles under foot and the most delicious fine sandy earth, like dust, it crumbled through our fingers. As we lay on our sides , I made small mounds, traced roads with twigs. After patchy dappled light we emerged into a golden field and we were mole eyed and dusty.
On it’s own , in the field. You couldn’t deny it’s sexuality. A solid lump of stone, hewn yet smooth and huge. Bigger than both of us both put together, me standing on your shoulders. It had a presence. The day was red hot and we sat down and pressed our backs against the cold stone, the dry hay-like grass scratching our legs. We drank wine out of the bottle, passing it to and fro, laughing and spluttering and not caring about wine stains or grass stains or dirt in our nails. The combination of sunshine and wine and toots from your little brass pipe put me in a parallel world. I thought about people who had lived before me. I thought about the universe. I laughed. I had an idea. I began to collect and you lay on your back and watched me, smiling and after a while you followed. Bunches of beginning to dry bracken , long grasses with fullripe ears, buttercups and little white flowers that we didn’t know the name of. We twisted them , fingers sticky with sap and the oranges we’d eaten. It was lovely work, it felt so real . Soon we had a green ribbon , a spiky garland , fresh smelling from the new breaks and twists in stems and crushed leaves. At first it wasn’t long enough, the height of the stone made it look thinner than it was , a strange perspective. Its trunk was wide and we needed more .But finally it was done, a lush green belt around this old old stone. We stood back and admired our work like innocents.
That day was simple. It was a day that I wanted to last, where everything had been just right.
Opening my eyes, his face is inches from mine, with a look of stars, of twinkly thoughts. I don’t know who he is. I’ve never seen him before , a small man , old , he looks Chinese. His skin is thin and papery and smooth. I laugh and he laughs back. I feel my spirits rise, my enthusiasm pushed higher.
An open space by the sea, stone paving like some ancient place. Around me , poles with long thin flags attached….but the poles are suspended, off the ground, they’re spiralling in the air , rising higher. Like falling sycamore seeds but in reverse .The wind’s getting up. I can feel the excitement. It’s insistent, urging me to make a move, tugging at my clothes, pushing the hair from my face.
I’m running. Running air and space around me. Suddenly taking off. It’s easy, I can do it. I just do it. It starts with a magnificent leap. My legs are supple, I’m bounding , huge metres high and wide strides. Treading air. My body is loose, it comes naturally. The next thing I know, I’m flying. I really can do it. I can fly. I’m up there, with a bounding, flying ease which feels so fucking cool and free and NORMAL. I’m laughing. This is me.
