1993 : Sitting by myself, wearing white leggings and big T-shirt; bare feet up on the opposite seat, boots under the table and a pile of library books in front of me. I’m watching a man with dark hairy arms, in the seat next to my feet. He has a pinky ring on his left hand and a sturdy beard buried in The Scotsman. Long hairs seep out of the neck of his cotton shirt. I wonder about his hands, how the long fingers would feel on my neck, tangled in my hair. Men like women with long hair. The glint of gold on his collar bone brings me to my senses; I can’t bear a man in chains. A child is grizzling further up the carriage - please let them get off at Berwick. Farmers are out hosing their fields. Still in the flat countryside of England, windbreaks of young trees laze in the beating sun. Fields of rape-seed turn the landscape into a painting with pylons etched between long looping power lines like suspension bridges.
Our table is littered with Yorkie bars, plastic glasses and orangeade. We were lucky the train was empty. I’d forgotten to book seats and had been worried but soothed with the idea of us all in separate carriages. Lee, Paul and Claire spread themselves out around the car but are now sitting together playing cards.We have become civilized travellers. I used to be the-mad-woman-on-a-train, screaming at my children under my breath, between my teeth and kicking their feet under the table. It was a case of, ‘Sit there, be quiet, give him that, leave her alone, don’t say things like that, look at the sheep, there’s the seaside, don’t, you’re the oldest, don’t talk to him then, play cards, shut up, leave me alone, give him some paper, see the mist rolling in, no you can’t, just because, shut up and sit down, Jesus Christ, you’re disgusting, blow your nose, I don’t know, another hour, watch my coffee, WILL YOU GIVE HER SOME PAPER!
'‘There’s the sea!’ Claire stands up. We’re coming up to Berwick. I like coastlines; see myself as The French Lieutenant’s Woman standing on the edge of land, pointing my tragic but beautiful face out to sea, watching for my future; waiting for something to happen. I want a house where the air is on the move: not stagnant - well-travelled air and a great expanse of sky. Sometimes I stand on the pier at Tynemouth. I’ve never been further than one night in Amsterdam.
Lee is 16, Paul 12, Claire 11…and I’m still alive. I dreamed the other night that I was smoking; I haven’t smoked for six years. The skin on my fingers is white/pink – nicotine stains long gone, nails white-edged. I dream a lot; sometimes they’re so strange I fear for my sanity – not the usual crazy feelings but real questions. I once dreamed that I halved Claire in two, put the bottom half inside the wardrobe and sat the rest of her up in bed. A day or two later a loud knocking on the door made me so afraid of what I’d done. I imagined a social worker at the door demanding to see my daughter. I tried to put her back together but the bottom half had withered slightly. Selotape held her together for the interview, which I don’t remember and everything turned out all right! I don’t know why I halved her in two.
A gypsy told my fortune last week. I saw her coming but couldn’t make my body avoid her. She grabbed my hand and talked fast with a strong Irish or country accent into my face. I couldn’t break free and could feel passers-by watching us as we stood beneath the hot air vents in the shopping centre. She said everything would be okay, that someone long-dead watched over me, that a man loved me and I would move house but not far. I kept asking her how much it would cost and she continued talking. As she tucked a small bunch of lucky white heather into my fist she asked me for three pounds. I couldn’t speak throughout the spiel, my chest was bursting into my throat. She took the money and I walked hard for the Haymarket exit, stumbled into Northumberland Street gasping for breath, trying to hold off tears. Why am I crying? I said to myself over and over again.
I glance at the children, ‘Look at the cows, they’re lying down. That means it’s going to rain.’ Lee is teaching them to play Chinese Patience. They’re not listening to me. I press my face to the window as the train curves. I can see its head and tail until my breath clouds the glass. Berwick is behind us now, only half an hour to Edinburgh. We spent a week in Berwick when Claire was one – she had her first birthday in a sand pit. The beach was impossible; it reeked of rotting seaweed, fumes waving up the cliff to keep us away from the edge. How many edges can there be in any one life?
Showing posts with label musings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label musings. Show all posts
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Sunday, November 23, 2008
RETURN OF THE WOMAN IN WAITING
The fridge is dead! Well that didn’t last long, did it? I expected longer than a month for my fifteen quid. I had a cup of tea and worried about the food that I’d have to re-home for a while; everything in the freezer was soft already so it must have happened last night or could’ve been days ago for all I notice stuff like that. So, I eventually got up and had a look at the plug, thinking that I’d check the fuse – that’s when I realised that I was holding the microwave plug and that the fridge was unplugged.
Now that’s the kind of thing that happens when the assigned electrical sockets don’t work and you have to move stuff around; the fridge plug was stretched across so that I had to keep pulling plugs out whenever I wanted to use the toaster or microwave… and the washing-machine is sticking out so the plug can reach another socket above the counter. I am a woman in waiting, again; waiting for the workmen to come out and plaster, remove gas pipes sticking out of the living room floor from an old fire, and of course the electrical sockets in the kitchen.
But I do love my new wee flat and I apologise for being absent from this blog for so long. As I moved in, I was furiously writing, keeping up with the National Novel Writing Month, and trying to compile the photo album for my sister-in-law’s friend – I fell behind on the Nano but eventually finished the album. I’ve got into the habit of painting a couple of doors while still in my nightdress – there are a lot of doors, seven of them in the hall and previously painted a very dark pink so now need two coats in order to cover it; that makes fourteen doors, just in the hall! I hate painting doors but I’m a quick worker and am half-way there, thank God.
I’m still moving, still picking up bags from Musician’s flat on my way to work and wondering if I’ll get the bookshelves in the lovely wee car – I got my bed in it! Who would ever have thought that you could get a single bed in a Clio?
Now that’s the kind of thing that happens when the assigned electrical sockets don’t work and you have to move stuff around; the fridge plug was stretched across so that I had to keep pulling plugs out whenever I wanted to use the toaster or microwave… and the washing-machine is sticking out so the plug can reach another socket above the counter. I am a woman in waiting, again; waiting for the workmen to come out and plaster, remove gas pipes sticking out of the living room floor from an old fire, and of course the electrical sockets in the kitchen.
But I do love my new wee flat and I apologise for being absent from this blog for so long. As I moved in, I was furiously writing, keeping up with the National Novel Writing Month, and trying to compile the photo album for my sister-in-law’s friend – I fell behind on the Nano but eventually finished the album. I’ve got into the habit of painting a couple of doors while still in my nightdress – there are a lot of doors, seven of them in the hall and previously painted a very dark pink so now need two coats in order to cover it; that makes fourteen doors, just in the hall! I hate painting doors but I’m a quick worker and am half-way there, thank God.
I’m still moving, still picking up bags from Musician’s flat on my way to work and wondering if I’ll get the bookshelves in the lovely wee car – I got my bed in it! Who would ever have thought that you could get a single bed in a Clio?
Thursday, October 23, 2008
A WOMAN-IN-WAITING
10 days off work, spent away from the television and in front of arty projects I can sell either on ebay or in local shops – that lies ahead of me. But, November is National Novel-writing Month, so I’ll need to do that too. How am I going to get this lazy old body to take part in all these things?
If only I could be dragged through this creative mud, wouldn’t it be fabulous? It might change my life completely and I would be completely delirious – why can’t I set it up? I tell people all the time to make changes in their lives, sometimes five or six times a night; I must take my own advice.
Life with the car is better because I get more things squeezed into the hours in my day, when I can be bothered and if I don’t take any notice of the weather – which is howling behind my head as I type, so I might not go to the garage and have two new back tires. I can’t stay here till it’s time for work because there’s no food; shopping is a necessity.
The fact that I’m living in a junk shop, surrounded by bags and boxes of stuff doesn’t make me get up and tidy it; that would be wasted effort because it’s going to be moved soon enough. My bed is an island in a sea of God-knows-what and I’m waiting, waiting, waiting for the phone call about the keys of my new flat.
The thought of paid holiday is very exciting but I’m pulled down by imagining all the intrusions; if I’m not careful I’ll spend it all doing things for other people and not arty-crafting and writing. I’ll wave my magic wand and forbid myself from running family around; I’ll get up early and have long, long days; I’ll wander around the loch taking pictures, notes and pick up leaves for art.
Only time will tell, but there might be some interesting posts as I beat myself up…and, I think I’m going to take the bluebeard novel to Nano – there’s loads of sex in that, so there might be little clips of that! But now I have to go out in that weather for lovely food.
If only I could be dragged through this creative mud, wouldn’t it be fabulous? It might change my life completely and I would be completely delirious – why can’t I set it up? I tell people all the time to make changes in their lives, sometimes five or six times a night; I must take my own advice.
Life with the car is better because I get more things squeezed into the hours in my day, when I can be bothered and if I don’t take any notice of the weather – which is howling behind my head as I type, so I might not go to the garage and have two new back tires. I can’t stay here till it’s time for work because there’s no food; shopping is a necessity.
The fact that I’m living in a junk shop, surrounded by bags and boxes of stuff doesn’t make me get up and tidy it; that would be wasted effort because it’s going to be moved soon enough. My bed is an island in a sea of God-knows-what and I’m waiting, waiting, waiting for the phone call about the keys of my new flat.
The thought of paid holiday is very exciting but I’m pulled down by imagining all the intrusions; if I’m not careful I’ll spend it all doing things for other people and not arty-crafting and writing. I’ll wave my magic wand and forbid myself from running family around; I’ll get up early and have long, long days; I’ll wander around the loch taking pictures, notes and pick up leaves for art.
Only time will tell, but there might be some interesting posts as I beat myself up…and, I think I’m going to take the bluebeard novel to Nano – there’s loads of sex in that, so there might be little clips of that! But now I have to go out in that weather for lovely food.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
WOMEN-IN-TRAINING
My dead friend’s daughter has started blogging, and is posting her childhood diaries; she’s just reminded me of a scene between me and Roseanne in Manchester. We were both pregnant; I was six weeks ahead of her, relaxing after a bath one evening, when her husband came panicking at my door.
‘She needs you. You have to come right now.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘She’s locked herself in the bathroom. I don't know what's wrong with her.’ For all the rush to get me up there he didn't seem really worried. She was standing up, moving around and not in any pain.
So I got dressed and followed him up the road, and it was quite a walk. When I arrived she dragged me into the bathroom and pulled out a breast.
‘Look at this!’ she squeezed the nipple and little white bubbles appeared.
‘Oh, it must be milk,’ I said. We stood there, glued to the spot, wondering at this change – I don’t think she was even showing then, must’ve only been a few months. ‘You’ve dragged me out of the bath for that?’
Innocents abroad didn’t do us justice; we were twenty-two in 1976 and hell-bent on living life. We’d met a pregnant woman and wanted to be just like her – and that was that; we told our men that babies were on the menu and they had no say in the matter. Unfortunately, some months later, I decided I didn’t want to spend my life with this particular man and orchestrated an argument so I could walk out with no comeback.
Stupid, dumb but definitely not blonde, we stumbled through that year; she got married and gave birth, I gave birth and got married (to a different man). We knew nothing about ourselves or our bodies and were disgusted when a midwife suggested we breastfeed – it wasn’t fashionable then and we thought she must be from the 19th century. I don’t know how we survived…how the kids survived us is a miracle!
‘She needs you. You have to come right now.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘She’s locked herself in the bathroom. I don't know what's wrong with her.’ For all the rush to get me up there he didn't seem really worried. She was standing up, moving around and not in any pain.
So I got dressed and followed him up the road, and it was quite a walk. When I arrived she dragged me into the bathroom and pulled out a breast.
‘Look at this!’ she squeezed the nipple and little white bubbles appeared.
‘Oh, it must be milk,’ I said. We stood there, glued to the spot, wondering at this change – I don’t think she was even showing then, must’ve only been a few months. ‘You’ve dragged me out of the bath for that?’
Innocents abroad didn’t do us justice; we were twenty-two in 1976 and hell-bent on living life. We’d met a pregnant woman and wanted to be just like her – and that was that; we told our men that babies were on the menu and they had no say in the matter. Unfortunately, some months later, I decided I didn’t want to spend my life with this particular man and orchestrated an argument so I could walk out with no comeback.
Stupid, dumb but definitely not blonde, we stumbled through that year; she got married and gave birth, I gave birth and got married (to a different man). We knew nothing about ourselves or our bodies and were disgusted when a midwife suggested we breastfeed – it wasn’t fashionable then and we thought she must be from the 19th century. I don’t know how we survived…how the kids survived us is a miracle!
Sunday, October 12, 2008
BIRTH V DEATH
Oooh X-factor is back and aren’t they just fabulous? I love Austen, and Laura and Diane, and Alexandria. Me and my sister-in-law watching together in our own homes, texting what we love and hate…we hate Daniel. He seems a nice guy but I don’t know why he’s there; I think there were quite a few would’ve done better in his place. I feel that the judges were diverted by his sob story; I’m surprised at Simon, but then it wasn’t his choice to bring him to the live shows.
And…he made it through, though I knew that the girl groups were the weakest of the bunch; individually they’re good but they’re all over the place. I feel a bit like that. I was driving home from Asda last night and suddenly Anne’s death hit me; we’ve all been a little matter-of-fact about it and haven’t taken the time to really think. I found myself crying in the car as I turned into my street, and it wasn’t the music, it was just time it caught up with me. Oh the weeping and wailing will turn up smack on time tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.
My sister-in-law, Sid, said she can’t drive; she is quite aware of how grief bounces back and back. Her driving test triumph was only a fortnight ago so it wouldn’t be a good idea for her. I bought my son, Musician, a new black jacket. TocToc will be stuck in Loch Lomond, his kids are off this week. Musician came out with age-old complaint, ‘Why is it we only see people at funerals?’ It is an awful truth.
My 19yr old niece is labouring as we speak – one in and one out, isn’t that always the way? And tomorrow is my eldest child’s birthday; that’s another reason why he doesn’t want to come to the funeral; he wants to spend his birthday with his family, and he hasn’t seen Anne for a couple of years. I won’t be able to forget the date of this funeral. Just think of the mixed tears from that birth and death, and Anne’s son left alone in the world – though he’s still got all of us, but is now forced to be a man on his own at twenty-seven. Whoever said life was easy?
UPDATE:
It's a girl - it was difficult - dangerous; pre-eclampsia but i think all is well, for now.
And…he made it through, though I knew that the girl groups were the weakest of the bunch; individually they’re good but they’re all over the place. I feel a bit like that. I was driving home from Asda last night and suddenly Anne’s death hit me; we’ve all been a little matter-of-fact about it and haven’t taken the time to really think. I found myself crying in the car as I turned into my street, and it wasn’t the music, it was just time it caught up with me. Oh the weeping and wailing will turn up smack on time tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.
My sister-in-law, Sid, said she can’t drive; she is quite aware of how grief bounces back and back. Her driving test triumph was only a fortnight ago so it wouldn’t be a good idea for her. I bought my son, Musician, a new black jacket. TocToc will be stuck in Loch Lomond, his kids are off this week. Musician came out with age-old complaint, ‘Why is it we only see people at funerals?’ It is an awful truth.
My 19yr old niece is labouring as we speak – one in and one out, isn’t that always the way? And tomorrow is my eldest child’s birthday; that’s another reason why he doesn’t want to come to the funeral; he wants to spend his birthday with his family, and he hasn’t seen Anne for a couple of years. I won’t be able to forget the date of this funeral. Just think of the mixed tears from that birth and death, and Anne’s son left alone in the world – though he’s still got all of us, but is now forced to be a man on his own at twenty-seven. Whoever said life was easy?
UPDATE:
It's a girl - it was difficult - dangerous; pre-eclampsia but i think all is well, for now.
Friday, September 26, 2008
A REVIEW
A lovely thing happened on my way to the blog; someone had been in for a browse and left this comment: ‘Stubblejumpers Cafe said... Hi Irene, Your blog is featured this week at Stubblejumpers. Kate.’ Now, isn’t that nice? So I went along and discovered this wonderful site with an amazing range of stuff:
Tarot readings, with real questions, from real people; reviews of blogs, books; from a Shaman to roast suckling-pig, the mixture is heady and wonderful. I was so enamoured of her site that I popped over and got one of my own; I mean, they offered it free!
It’s different from a blog in that it doesn’t move; it’ll stay exactly where you put it, no matter how much you add to it – you can control that part of your life at least. I’ve been playing and procrastinating over there ever since and now have a lovely new website/showcase for my meanderings which links to all my blogs.
But, How is the novel going? I hear you ask. Well, I saw it last week and it was fine, just kind of hanging out, chillin’, but not allowing stress in the door. It was waiting for a boat trip because Loch Lomond is an adventure that needs to get underway before anything else can be done.
I’m anticipating the arrival of my new wee car (new to me) and the keys to my new flat; I’m suspended, frozen in time, surfing until I’m invisible – just waiting. You could say I’m pregnant and paused.
Tarot readings, with real questions, from real people; reviews of blogs, books; from a Shaman to roast suckling-pig, the mixture is heady and wonderful. I was so enamoured of her site that I popped over and got one of my own; I mean, they offered it free!
It’s different from a blog in that it doesn’t move; it’ll stay exactly where you put it, no matter how much you add to it – you can control that part of your life at least. I’ve been playing and procrastinating over there ever since and now have a lovely new website/showcase for my meanderings which links to all my blogs.
But, How is the novel going? I hear you ask. Well, I saw it last week and it was fine, just kind of hanging out, chillin’, but not allowing stress in the door. It was waiting for a boat trip because Loch Lomond is an adventure that needs to get underway before anything else can be done.
I’m anticipating the arrival of my new wee car (new to me) and the keys to my new flat; I’m suspended, frozen in time, surfing until I’m invisible – just waiting. You could say I’m pregnant and paused.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
HOW IS A JUDGE TO JUDGE?
I treated myself to a writing magazine yesterday on my day in the city, waiting for my new glasses for driving – preparing for my new wee car. So, I settled down to read some of the mag and was horrified by a ghost story in it; a competition winner that would never have got near the final five if I’d been the judge. It wasn’t seriously bad and most of the flaws, well the ones that bothered me, were in the first five paras; I had to do a double-take almost immediately and found myself talking out loud in disbelief:
seven sentences in a row began with ‘The’, and this followed being annoyed at the many short sentences from the first seven-word beginning, the repeat of ‘as’ within seven words. Not a good start, you would think, for a competition entry – but it won!
How could this pass for any kind of excellence? On one hand you might think that it’s good for all of us who work at editing and polishing but not if you get a judge like that who must have disregarded a host of better work for this effort; you can’t rule out subjectivity in creative writing – the judge must’ve liked and got carried away with the story…but he certainly didn’t do his job, in my opinion.
seven sentences in a row began with ‘The’, and this followed being annoyed at the many short sentences from the first seven-word beginning, the repeat of ‘as’ within seven words. Not a good start, you would think, for a competition entry – but it won!
How could this pass for any kind of excellence? On one hand you might think that it’s good for all of us who work at editing and polishing but not if you get a judge like that who must have disregarded a host of better work for this effort; you can’t rule out subjectivity in creative writing – the judge must’ve liked and got carried away with the story…but he certainly didn’t do his job, in my opinion.
Monday, September 15, 2008
AND IN THE MORNING
Last night in my dreams I found the most wonderful stuff on an indoor market stall; there was a set of dishes that fitted together, some kind of condiment or jam thingy. One of them opened like an oyster and had a kind of pop-up detail inside with little ducks and water lilies. I asked the price and was amazed at the £2.98 tag, so naturally I couldn’t wait to buy it. I’d taken a china teapot with a cane handle to use as a bag and had carefully placed it on the table so that everyone around could see that it was mine, that I’d arrived with it – I didn’t want it to get mixed up with the ornaments and ceramics for sale, but I thought I could always show them my money inside. It was gone.
‘Where’s my bag?’ I looked around at the man behind the table and two women browsing. ‘My teapot is missing.’ I felt ill thinking of the £200 I’d been carrying around since pay-day, but then remembered that I hadn’t brought it, only some cash, in the teapot. ‘How am I going to get home?’ No-one said anything or made any helpful suggestions.
I waited for a bus and jumped on the first one to come along, only just scraping the money for the fare from my pocket. So that was alright, till I thought of asking where exactly the bus went; it wasn’t going anywhere I wanted to go – not even through the city centre. It seemed the longer I stayed on the bus the farther I’d go into nowhere but I didn’t have the money for another bus ticket. I wondered about flashing the ticket I had and saying it was a day-tripper.
There is no satisfying ending to this and I have to inform you of the truth, do the Dallas thing – I woke up.
‘Where’s my bag?’ I looked around at the man behind the table and two women browsing. ‘My teapot is missing.’ I felt ill thinking of the £200 I’d been carrying around since pay-day, but then remembered that I hadn’t brought it, only some cash, in the teapot. ‘How am I going to get home?’ No-one said anything or made any helpful suggestions.
I waited for a bus and jumped on the first one to come along, only just scraping the money for the fare from my pocket. So that was alright, till I thought of asking where exactly the bus went; it wasn’t going anywhere I wanted to go – not even through the city centre. It seemed the longer I stayed on the bus the farther I’d go into nowhere but I didn’t have the money for another bus ticket. I wondered about flashing the ticket I had and saying it was a day-tripper.
There is no satisfying ending to this and I have to inform you of the truth, do the Dallas thing – I woke up.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
MISSING MUM
When I was looking after my mother I didn’t have time to wonder when she would die; a client who calls me for tarot advice often asks me when her mother is going to die. The first few times she asked this I got a perverse pleasure from saying, ‘…not any time soon.’ There is also a man who puts this question to me about his wife; he’s been waiting for her death a long time. This all sounds bad but I really do understand where they’re coming from and just how difficult it can get – and how madly insane you can end up; the day I got my mother into a wheelchair taxi and onto the ward I had my clothes on inside-out and back-to-front, and my hair hadn’t been brushed for days.
I think that one of the hardest things to manage is that decision of just how much you can or should stand in any situation, especially when mental illness is a factor whether we’re talking about plain old senility or something more serious and dangerous – and senility can be full of missiles and snapping teeth! I know, I’ve been there, but it’s the insanity and total confusion of the whole scenario that drives you onward, until there’s no difference between you and the person you’re looking after – I know that I was off my trolly and when a social worker answered my plea for help I fell into her arms in the kitchen. I had a crazy mother on one hand and three teenagers on the other; there was no escape and up until then, no help that really helped.
It makes me sad now, thinking about that time and I thank the gods that it didn’t last long; she went out like a whirling dervish, my mother, and it’s taken years to relegate the memories into something softer. It’s easier to see the real woman she’d been; the mother and wonderful grandmother is now slipping out of the cracks to catch me in tears.
I think that one of the hardest things to manage is that decision of just how much you can or should stand in any situation, especially when mental illness is a factor whether we’re talking about plain old senility or something more serious and dangerous – and senility can be full of missiles and snapping teeth! I know, I’ve been there, but it’s the insanity and total confusion of the whole scenario that drives you onward, until there’s no difference between you and the person you’re looking after – I know that I was off my trolly and when a social worker answered my plea for help I fell into her arms in the kitchen. I had a crazy mother on one hand and three teenagers on the other; there was no escape and up until then, no help that really helped.
It makes me sad now, thinking about that time and I thank the gods that it didn’t last long; she went out like a whirling dervish, my mother, and it’s taken years to relegate the memories into something softer. It’s easier to see the real woman she’d been; the mother and wonderful grandmother is now slipping out of the cracks to catch me in tears.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
COUPLING
Ooooo, Harrison Ford or Richard Gere? Well I choose both and add Bruce Willis, James Woods, Rob lowe, Bon Jovi, Tim Mathieson, Bruce Springsteen and of course the beautiful bald black guy from Weeds – not to mention the beautiful bald black guy from Dexter. I didn’t plan on adding younger men but those last two just popped into my old head so it can’t be helped; there are tons of luscious young men out there but I don’t want to be slavering over them – that would be unseemly. I’m happy with the wrinklies, and they are much more interesting to me, what with their malleable and fabulous faces; I don’t want them for sex – I just want to look and admire their regal standing, their greying and white hair…well okay I’d do the sex thing if I had to but these days I really can’t be bothered. It’s enough to look at men and sometimes I like to listen to them but only if they’re lying, playing a part; they’re more reliable that way.
I have always fallen for ugly men, or at least men with interesting faces; my friend Carrie has had to drag me away from some serious mistakes – alcohol had that effect on me, though how do we know that she was right? Just because she judged these men and found them wanting in the attractive department; she was drunk too - I might’ve missed my soul-mate because of her actions! I was drawn towards men with problems; there was a guy in a wheelchair in a Newcastle nightclub, a guy with one arm at Berwick holiday centre, and almost a guy in crutches in the queue for another club until Carrie stepped in.
Now, I’d rather write about sex than actually take part in all that heaving, sweaty exercise – been there, done that loads-a-times, nothing-new-to-be-had. How could I ever be bothered again? I can’t imagine. Maybe I’ll pick up a nice old gent when I’m eighty and he can perambulate me in my wheelchair, lift and lay me in my single bed, bring me my Earl Grey and chocolate biscuits. It won’t matter what he looks like as long as he’s kind and has lost his sex-drive. I don’t want to give up any of my power or precious time to someone else’s pursuits, so that man would have to give his life over to me completely and be my slave, and leave whenever I wanted to be alone. So really, all I'll need is a male live-in carer who also wants to be alone to write his novel or paint his art – what a perfect couple we would make!
I have always fallen for ugly men, or at least men with interesting faces; my friend Carrie has had to drag me away from some serious mistakes – alcohol had that effect on me, though how do we know that she was right? Just because she judged these men and found them wanting in the attractive department; she was drunk too - I might’ve missed my soul-mate because of her actions! I was drawn towards men with problems; there was a guy in a wheelchair in a Newcastle nightclub, a guy with one arm at Berwick holiday centre, and almost a guy in crutches in the queue for another club until Carrie stepped in.
Now, I’d rather write about sex than actually take part in all that heaving, sweaty exercise – been there, done that loads-a-times, nothing-new-to-be-had. How could I ever be bothered again? I can’t imagine. Maybe I’ll pick up a nice old gent when I’m eighty and he can perambulate me in my wheelchair, lift and lay me in my single bed, bring me my Earl Grey and chocolate biscuits. It won’t matter what he looks like as long as he’s kind and has lost his sex-drive. I don’t want to give up any of my power or precious time to someone else’s pursuits, so that man would have to give his life over to me completely and be my slave, and leave whenever I wanted to be alone. So really, all I'll need is a male live-in carer who also wants to be alone to write his novel or paint his art – what a perfect couple we would make!
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER
When The Witchcraft Act of 1563 was passed, an estimated 4,000 women were executed in Scotland over a period of approximately 150yrs; chief investigators of the witch-hunts were the clergy acting on a phrase that had appeared in a new version of the bible, Exodus XX11, 18 ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’. At that time 4,000 people was a huge number; the population for Glasgow in 1691 was less than 2,000.
King James V1 thought that women were more susceptible than men to witchcraft mostly because of Eve falling to the serpent’s deception in the Garden of Eden. The last witch-burning in Scotland took place in Dornoch in 1722. Apparently, these epidemics of mass-sanctified murder have never been really explained or analysed to anyone’s satisfaction. That something so nonsensical and plain stupid could be sanctioned by leaders, royalty and church is bizarre. Compare that to how hard it is for the authorities to put mass murderers to death in the US; oh how they wish it was easy - as simple as it was to burn witches.
King James V1 thought that women were more susceptible than men to witchcraft mostly because of Eve falling to the serpent’s deception in the Garden of Eden. The last witch-burning in Scotland took place in Dornoch in 1722. Apparently, these epidemics of mass-sanctified murder have never been really explained or analysed to anyone’s satisfaction. That something so nonsensical and plain stupid could be sanctioned by leaders, royalty and church is bizarre. Compare that to how hard it is for the authorities to put mass murderers to death in the US; oh how they wish it was easy - as simple as it was to burn witches.
Monday, September 01, 2008
SUFFER THE WOMEN
God bless the Kirk; I’ve just been reading that the establishment of a theocracy in Scotland followed a peculiarly masculine and mysogynistic theology – John Knox in his ‘First Blast of the Trumpet against the Monstrous Regiment of Women’ called them, ‘the porte and gate of the devil.’ Imagine that!
I was trawling the bookshelves in a Govan charity shop, and complaining about the price, as usual, when I fell upon this fabulous little local history pamphlet that was compiled and published for an exhibition at The People’s Palace in Glasgow Green. It’s titled, The Scottish Women’s Suffrage Movement, which I think might put people off at first glance unless they were in the mood for a history lesson – but it immediately grabs your attention by the selection of the comments above. Oh, I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to live then, and there.
Women found guilty of gossiping or quarrelling were forced to stand in public with a metal brace (branks or jougs) around their head and a mouthpiece to depress the tongue, which when combined with the ducking stool was very unpleasant – to say the least. Also, a pulley was constructed to duck female adulterers in the river Clyde. There is no mention of male adulterers, yet.
Even on the Sabbath, there was no peace or rest for women, not in church - they had to bring their own stools in some places! They were prodded awake if they fell asleep during sermons; Beadles were appointed to poke them and punish any children causing a disturbance. Searchers prowled the streets to ensure the compulsory attendance at church. In the 16th and 17th centuries the Kirk had a lot of influence on the civil law and because of this town midwives were not allowed to give assistance to unmarried and pregnant women unless the father of the child had been named; women had no power to refuse a man anything - if their employer or any man took a fancy to them they were doomed and the only thing to save them would be infertility. What a thing to pray for.
Working-class unmarried women were not allowed to rent rooms or houses and the only work permitted was that of a servant. Doesn’t this just break your heart? I feel myself wanting to go back in time to save these women…and I haven’t got to the witch-burnings yet!
I was trawling the bookshelves in a Govan charity shop, and complaining about the price, as usual, when I fell upon this fabulous little local history pamphlet that was compiled and published for an exhibition at The People’s Palace in Glasgow Green. It’s titled, The Scottish Women’s Suffrage Movement, which I think might put people off at first glance unless they were in the mood for a history lesson – but it immediately grabs your attention by the selection of the comments above. Oh, I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to live then, and there.
Women found guilty of gossiping or quarrelling were forced to stand in public with a metal brace (branks or jougs) around their head and a mouthpiece to depress the tongue, which when combined with the ducking stool was very unpleasant – to say the least. Also, a pulley was constructed to duck female adulterers in the river Clyde. There is no mention of male adulterers, yet.
Even on the Sabbath, there was no peace or rest for women, not in church - they had to bring their own stools in some places! They were prodded awake if they fell asleep during sermons; Beadles were appointed to poke them and punish any children causing a disturbance. Searchers prowled the streets to ensure the compulsory attendance at church. In the 16th and 17th centuries the Kirk had a lot of influence on the civil law and because of this town midwives were not allowed to give assistance to unmarried and pregnant women unless the father of the child had been named; women had no power to refuse a man anything - if their employer or any man took a fancy to them they were doomed and the only thing to save them would be infertility. What a thing to pray for.
Working-class unmarried women were not allowed to rent rooms or houses and the only work permitted was that of a servant. Doesn’t this just break your heart? I feel myself wanting to go back in time to save these women…and I haven’t got to the witch-burnings yet!
Saturday, August 23, 2008
POSITIVE THINKING
I’ve been thinking on the positive wavelength for a couple of months now, more fiercely since I watched the movie The Secret – and it’s working; I am attracting all sorts of great stuff to me! People I hardly know are offering me things; two lovely women who have recently started work beside me have offered furniture, a microwave, coffee-maker – one has presented me with beautiful baking trays, signed by Antony Worrall Thompson himself! Before that another workmate brought me in shoes that she couldn’t wear, then a lovely blouse and then a pair of lined curtains for my new flat!
Yes, I’ve even got a flat out of all this positivism, oh The Universe has definitely got me in its sights – I hope I’m not looking too needy. But I do need a lot of stuff. I don’t think I’ll ever remember all I lost in that fire; I had the cupboard packed full of all kinds of arty-farty bits n pieces, photographic equipment and everything that comes out of that. I know that I’ve lost all the black n white negatives along with the enlarger. A few little accoutrements survive for my new darkroom but I’ll need to visit ebay for another bargain enlarger. I can’t wait to have my own kitchen again – so I can black it out and play.
The Artist’s Way is written with The Secret in mind, which was working on me long before I saw the movie, but I stopped doing my morning pages and working on the book when I found the collaborative writing site Protagonise; I always go off on a bender when I find something new. So, I’m heading back The Artist’s Way and will pick up where I left off. I’ve promised myself that I’ll keep the TV turned off this weekend, and hopefully every weekend – with the odd exception of particular programmes. I’ll be good. I’ve given myself a 10,000 word task to be done by Tuesday so let’s see if I can make it.
Yes, I’ve even got a flat out of all this positivism, oh The Universe has definitely got me in its sights – I hope I’m not looking too needy. But I do need a lot of stuff. I don’t think I’ll ever remember all I lost in that fire; I had the cupboard packed full of all kinds of arty-farty bits n pieces, photographic equipment and everything that comes out of that. I know that I’ve lost all the black n white negatives along with the enlarger. A few little accoutrements survive for my new darkroom but I’ll need to visit ebay for another bargain enlarger. I can’t wait to have my own kitchen again – so I can black it out and play.
The Artist’s Way is written with The Secret in mind, which was working on me long before I saw the movie, but I stopped doing my morning pages and working on the book when I found the collaborative writing site Protagonise; I always go off on a bender when I find something new. So, I’m heading back The Artist’s Way and will pick up where I left off. I’ve promised myself that I’ll keep the TV turned off this weekend, and hopefully every weekend – with the odd exception of particular programmes. I’ll be good. I’ve given myself a 10,000 word task to be done by Tuesday so let’s see if I can make it.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
TWITTERING IN CYBERSPACE
So, where is all this going? Is it because I want to be a legend in my family way down the line? I would be reaching back at them through eons; imagine something from a space movie, kids doing biography projects or some kind of social history through the ages like The Flip-side of Dominic Hide. Actually, I just caught a repeat of that last week…must look for the second part on BBCi before it’s gone, but it might’ve been on another channel, in which case I’ve probably missed it. That character’s reason for going back in time to 70s London is to study bus routes!
All my witterings travelling in time; I can just see future scholars trying to understand my choice of similes in the race to avoid clichés – it’s like a complete second language in idiom. I will not be explained; I want to be different, unusual and absolutely unexplainable; I want to be indecipherable by future literary historians; I want to make them laugh with a quizzical smile on their faces. What would they make of my Ode to Chocolate?
Right now, I’m doing this for me, and just like Everest, it’s there to be climbed; this mountain of Ethernet and the blogging world is the melting pot we were promised in the 60s – pop songs can be prophetic! I must find a YouTube link for that song so you can listen to it here. It’s an added bonus that my heirs will be able to investigate this for whatever reason – I should do a rant about the price of everything then they’d have that information at their fingertips. I remember searching for prices of food and cigarettes in the 70s; it was for a project (probably a novel) I was working on in the late 80s that proved very difficult.
The autobiography is great fun; I love searching for just the right movie clips and music to create the atmosphere of the late 50s; it’s keeping me focussed on one particular time, seeking out the memories, those early and vague glimpses of my life then before I slip back farther to who my parents were and where they came from, though now that everyone is gone my memory is more than a little hazy but I don’t want to dig deeper – someone else can do that. I am forcing myself to stand still in that period until there is nothing left, before I go on to the fun and naughty tales of my older childhood.
And blogging now; all this twittering filling cyberspace can only get better; I have read some younger bloggers and been astonished at their wonderful writing which I’m sure is because blogging exists and is cool in their world. Blogging is doing education a favour in that its encouraging reading and writing, thinking and commenting in many ways and forms that might not have happened.
All my witterings travelling in time; I can just see future scholars trying to understand my choice of similes in the race to avoid clichés – it’s like a complete second language in idiom. I will not be explained; I want to be different, unusual and absolutely unexplainable; I want to be indecipherable by future literary historians; I want to make them laugh with a quizzical smile on their faces. What would they make of my Ode to Chocolate?
Right now, I’m doing this for me, and just like Everest, it’s there to be climbed; this mountain of Ethernet and the blogging world is the melting pot we were promised in the 60s – pop songs can be prophetic! I must find a YouTube link for that song so you can listen to it here. It’s an added bonus that my heirs will be able to investigate this for whatever reason – I should do a rant about the price of everything then they’d have that information at their fingertips. I remember searching for prices of food and cigarettes in the 70s; it was for a project (probably a novel) I was working on in the late 80s that proved very difficult.
The autobiography is great fun; I love searching for just the right movie clips and music to create the atmosphere of the late 50s; it’s keeping me focussed on one particular time, seeking out the memories, those early and vague glimpses of my life then before I slip back farther to who my parents were and where they came from, though now that everyone is gone my memory is more than a little hazy but I don’t want to dig deeper – someone else can do that. I am forcing myself to stand still in that period until there is nothing left, before I go on to the fun and naughty tales of my older childhood.
And blogging now; all this twittering filling cyberspace can only get better; I have read some younger bloggers and been astonished at their wonderful writing which I’m sure is because blogging exists and is cool in their world. Blogging is doing education a favour in that its encouraging reading and writing, thinking and commenting in many ways and forms that might not have happened.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
CONFESSION
My name is Irene and I am a blogaholic! There, I’ve said it. Oh, the loneliness of the serial blogger. I switch on in the mornings, check email, wonder why no-one has left me any comments, then swing right on over there to the blogs; checking stats is also becoming addictive – when I first got a site-counter at Blogger I was all over that map and it was soooo exciting, but I got bored with the non-readers, all those searchers looking for granny-sex.
I set up a new blog with Wordpress last week, BUBBLES IN TIME; working on compiling an autobiography, and it’s great fun – especially the YouTube searching for just the right music and film clips. So, a few days in and I’m twitching, looking at stats, and wondering what to do next – set up another blog! And suddenly the name Fatty McSlob arrives in my head…and within minutes there it is, FATTY McSLOB in the flesh; ten minutes later it has a post and I’m satisfied, for now.
Wordpress is a whole new world of blogs calling to be read; they come to me from tags, I can pop next door, just like at Blogger, and then there is the blog networks in Facebook. OMG I wish I was unemployed or retired or rich – possibly in reverse order! I spent hours in Facebook blog networks yesterday, reading about full-time bloggers and how they make money. I think I want to be a full-time blogger when I grow up. Maybe I’ll just create ebooks and sell them on the blogs! Just think of all those tangents!
So, going off on that tangent, I should do a little ebook research just for the fun of it; I suppose it’s the next step from reading blogs, isn’t it? Mmmmm, and I’d have to blog about the experience and spout opinion, yes, good idea. Maybe I should get a dongle and take the laptop into work – I’ve been thinking of that anyway, taking it with me to work then I can write properly between calls instead of using a pen and notebook. I could stock-pile blog posts instead of the bulk-crocheting I’m doing now; it would be tidier than the craft work; no glitter all over the phone or glue gumming up my desk.
I really want one of those little laptops; it would sit very nicely on the side. This is small but an even smaller one would be much lighter and I’m all about if you don’t need it then get it out of your bag.
Some people can’t read off the screen but I seem perfectly comfortable with it; I know I’d be too miserable to print stuff out. I think the laptop has become my security blanket, and if I got a smaller one I could take it everywhere with me – not that I actually go anywhere these days, but it sounds good. And reading blogs is a bit like having a huge collection of short stories or serials, for free.
I set up a new blog with Wordpress last week, BUBBLES IN TIME; working on compiling an autobiography, and it’s great fun – especially the YouTube searching for just the right music and film clips. So, a few days in and I’m twitching, looking at stats, and wondering what to do next – set up another blog! And suddenly the name Fatty McSlob arrives in my head…and within minutes there it is, FATTY McSLOB in the flesh; ten minutes later it has a post and I’m satisfied, for now.
Wordpress is a whole new world of blogs calling to be read; they come to me from tags, I can pop next door, just like at Blogger, and then there is the blog networks in Facebook. OMG I wish I was unemployed or retired or rich – possibly in reverse order! I spent hours in Facebook blog networks yesterday, reading about full-time bloggers and how they make money. I think I want to be a full-time blogger when I grow up. Maybe I’ll just create ebooks and sell them on the blogs! Just think of all those tangents!
So, going off on that tangent, I should do a little ebook research just for the fun of it; I suppose it’s the next step from reading blogs, isn’t it? Mmmmm, and I’d have to blog about the experience and spout opinion, yes, good idea. Maybe I should get a dongle and take the laptop into work – I’ve been thinking of that anyway, taking it with me to work then I can write properly between calls instead of using a pen and notebook. I could stock-pile blog posts instead of the bulk-crocheting I’m doing now; it would be tidier than the craft work; no glitter all over the phone or glue gumming up my desk.
I really want one of those little laptops; it would sit very nicely on the side. This is small but an even smaller one would be much lighter and I’m all about if you don’t need it then get it out of your bag.
Some people can’t read off the screen but I seem perfectly comfortable with it; I know I’d be too miserable to print stuff out. I think the laptop has become my security blanket, and if I got a smaller one I could take it everywhere with me – not that I actually go anywhere these days, but it sounds good. And reading blogs is a bit like having a huge collection of short stories or serials, for free.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
BELIEVE IT OR NOT
My God is the universe and all its mystery; its coincidences, synchronicity and magic – I live for happy accidents. I absolutely do not believe that there is a man up there with a great white beard surrounded by blooming cherubs. So what does God look like to me? A ghost of a smile like the Cheshire Cat in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland perhaps; or a wisp of a breeze that flips things into movement in my peripheral vision; or an eternal computer that has every permutation programmed into it…and we live in a world where magical realism is alive and very well.
My God provides beautiful scrambled eggs with cheese, directs me in and out of danger to learn lessons; I am capable of enormous feats of strength and courage because I am open to all eventualities. This world has always been cruel and magical; there are just many more instances displayed in an international arena that make us think it’s escalating – we are myriad and dangerous entities with only self-control to guard against the dark side.
My God plays me like the Greek gods in the movies played with their pet mortals, and I am set on a multitude of paths according to my own choices. We all get to choose: left or right; up or down; in or out; on or off. I am observed and judged – the path I need most in certain times will appear before me, but always with a choice.
My God will eventually lay down the knowledge I need to navigate my way to the success I hope for. All those years ago I chose to go to Manchester – I could have picked three other cities. I also chose to have babies and actively set about making it happen. I selected all the paths that have led me here; one day I will spend time imagining the ones I rejected.
My God does not lay a hand on me, either in anger or love; existence does not mean preponderance in menial and domestic notions – I, and I alone am responsible for my emotions and perceptions, without influence. My lethargy is mine; it comes from my experiences and feelings – I own it. I am to blame for not doing what I really want to do, and I am happy to confess. All the while I am in learning mode I move an inch or two in a positive direction.
My God has a thousand possibilities for my future and has put me in control of my destiny – I accept that and hope that the choices I make take me as far as I am allowed, within the confines of this body. My body is nature and therefore deteriorates in time.
My God spreads a wealth across the universe, where possibilities depend upon imagination and creativity – it is ever-expanding into infinity.
My God does not need: worship; gender assignment; race or creed attached; hymns written or sung; churches built and laid with gold; prayers or punishment; marches or pilgrimages; politics or pontificating. All that is assumed is kindness and generosity; is that too much? For many humans it apparently is!
My God does not have apartments in the name of Heaven and Hell; they were invented by us, men, and humans. Heaven and Hell are a control feature for the invented church to have power over the common masses – to frighten the hell out of them! Heaven and Hell are abominations and absolutely do not exist in my universe.
My God knows the way of the world and the limitations of Earth. There is no use in speculation because that’s all it could ever be; the only good outcome of speculation is education and learning. I am ready to accept my place in the way of things and already have an image in my mind of my end here; I see myself flying into the black universe, back to where I belong – home.
My God provides beautiful scrambled eggs with cheese, directs me in and out of danger to learn lessons; I am capable of enormous feats of strength and courage because I am open to all eventualities. This world has always been cruel and magical; there are just many more instances displayed in an international arena that make us think it’s escalating – we are myriad and dangerous entities with only self-control to guard against the dark side.
My God plays me like the Greek gods in the movies played with their pet mortals, and I am set on a multitude of paths according to my own choices. We all get to choose: left or right; up or down; in or out; on or off. I am observed and judged – the path I need most in certain times will appear before me, but always with a choice.
My God will eventually lay down the knowledge I need to navigate my way to the success I hope for. All those years ago I chose to go to Manchester – I could have picked three other cities. I also chose to have babies and actively set about making it happen. I selected all the paths that have led me here; one day I will spend time imagining the ones I rejected.
My God does not lay a hand on me, either in anger or love; existence does not mean preponderance in menial and domestic notions – I, and I alone am responsible for my emotions and perceptions, without influence. My lethargy is mine; it comes from my experiences and feelings – I own it. I am to blame for not doing what I really want to do, and I am happy to confess. All the while I am in learning mode I move an inch or two in a positive direction.
My God has a thousand possibilities for my future and has put me in control of my destiny – I accept that and hope that the choices I make take me as far as I am allowed, within the confines of this body. My body is nature and therefore deteriorates in time.
My God spreads a wealth across the universe, where possibilities depend upon imagination and creativity – it is ever-expanding into infinity.
My God does not need: worship; gender assignment; race or creed attached; hymns written or sung; churches built and laid with gold; prayers or punishment; marches or pilgrimages; politics or pontificating. All that is assumed is kindness and generosity; is that too much? For many humans it apparently is!
My God does not have apartments in the name of Heaven and Hell; they were invented by us, men, and humans. Heaven and Hell are a control feature for the invented church to have power over the common masses – to frighten the hell out of them! Heaven and Hell are abominations and absolutely do not exist in my universe.
My God knows the way of the world and the limitations of Earth. There is no use in speculation because that’s all it could ever be; the only good outcome of speculation is education and learning. I am ready to accept my place in the way of things and already have an image in my mind of my end here; I see myself flying into the black universe, back to where I belong – home.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
TAKING OVER THE ASYLUM
I’ve just been watching Fight Club again and come to the conclusion that we have to drive into the skid if we ever want to get anywhere. I don’t mean capitulate and fit in with the norm: I think we should run away with the extraordinary. You know the old detective saying, ‘if the only thing left sounds crazy, then that’s probably the truth!’ So, the yellow brick road and the wisdom of the green wizard is the way to go.
Normality has never really existed in my life; I did everything backwards and now I’m coming home to roost, amongst my similar friends – my familiars. One is a witch, one had a sex change including a clitoris on the National Health, and another is a psychic who swallowed Wikipaedia. Walk this way and don’t be afraid.
Fear has no power over me – I swat it like the fly that it is. I made my way to a cemetery 15 years ago, expecting to find a man who had attacked my17yr old son; I was prepared to kill him softly if he wasn’t already dead (from the whack on the head my son had retaliated with) – it was 3am and I was strolling in the moonlight, with the dog while my son (who I’d left behind) babbled his terrible warnings about how dangerous this man was. I told him that Glaswegians run from no-one. The bully had gone; there were a few spots of blood on the pavement. The anti-climax is still with me.
I know I would survive disaster and end up an old warhorse; there would be monuments erected, in time. Quite right too. But I wouldn’t be the one sending soldiers over the top; if anyone had to go I’d be right there with them. Honesty and courage used to be a basic instinct when I was growing up: now it’s missing in action and should be posted MIA all over the bloody place. My son thinks that my kind are mad. When the druggies smashed the windscreen on my car I was out there with a hammer demanding they come out and fight; they thought I was mad too and stayed in their holes.
How are we to live in this increasingly wicked world? By standing up and getting as bold as them; the muggers, rapists, murderers, robbers and violent cowards all have one thing in common – dishonesty; they think they’re hard, but they’re in denial. In Fight Club they’re looking for a way out and start beating themselves to a pulp; there is an energy and honesty there and courage to face pain and the unknown. The scary part is the success of madness, but someone has to push to create change, and often madness is very well disguised.
Normality has never really existed in my life; I did everything backwards and now I’m coming home to roost, amongst my similar friends – my familiars. One is a witch, one had a sex change including a clitoris on the National Health, and another is a psychic who swallowed Wikipaedia. Walk this way and don’t be afraid.
Fear has no power over me – I swat it like the fly that it is. I made my way to a cemetery 15 years ago, expecting to find a man who had attacked my17yr old son; I was prepared to kill him softly if he wasn’t already dead (from the whack on the head my son had retaliated with) – it was 3am and I was strolling in the moonlight, with the dog while my son (who I’d left behind) babbled his terrible warnings about how dangerous this man was. I told him that Glaswegians run from no-one. The bully had gone; there were a few spots of blood on the pavement. The anti-climax is still with me.
I know I would survive disaster and end up an old warhorse; there would be monuments erected, in time. Quite right too. But I wouldn’t be the one sending soldiers over the top; if anyone had to go I’d be right there with them. Honesty and courage used to be a basic instinct when I was growing up: now it’s missing in action and should be posted MIA all over the bloody place. My son thinks that my kind are mad. When the druggies smashed the windscreen on my car I was out there with a hammer demanding they come out and fight; they thought I was mad too and stayed in their holes.
How are we to live in this increasingly wicked world? By standing up and getting as bold as them; the muggers, rapists, murderers, robbers and violent cowards all have one thing in common – dishonesty; they think they’re hard, but they’re in denial. In Fight Club they’re looking for a way out and start beating themselves to a pulp; there is an energy and honesty there and courage to face pain and the unknown. The scary part is the success of madness, but someone has to push to create change, and often madness is very well disguised.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
WILLPOWER
Sylvia and I had a great night in on Sunday; we spent four hours rabbitting on about our school-days and old friends, family and God-knows-what-else. The only strange thing about it (to some people) is that I was in Glasgow, and she, in the vicinity of Chesterfield. Boy, can we talk on the phone; we had toilet and coffee breaks, and she had a bottle of wine and probably about a thousand fags – we broke off before the call reached the hour limits so it cost nothing. The sensible, older woman – that’s us. Yeah right!
In my hermit stage I spend an awwwwwwwful lot of time watching TV. I was conscious the whole time that I was missing my CSIs – isn’t that terrible? I think that this is my worst anti-social period to date. I enjoy being with my friends, talking and relaxing, laughing, looking at the phenomena of fashion on the high street; I love to hear about people I used to know, finding out where they went and what happened to them, but – I seem to be addicted to drama on the box. I don’t watch soaps or reality programmes or most of the fashionable sit-coms or comedies – DRAMA is the thing. I am losing my will to live.
It’s time to turn the telly off and read, and write, and craft, and think, and LEAVE THE HOUSE! Time to go out among the great washed and unwashed, fashionable and downright real people, in the streets, through the parks and art galleries, over bridges with stops for photo-shoots - to listen and learn. I say this from my comfortable position in my bed, with the lovely laptop upon my knee, and all kinds of refreshments at my right hand – even a cat within stroking distance.
This room, prison and necessary evil has everything I need within easy reach, for instance, upon my table: TV with video & DVD player; slow cooker; little grill; kettle; phone x2; coffee & Earl Grey; water; Slimfast; (milk & butter that needs to go back in the fridge – what an effort) bread; scissors and accumulated letters – it’s a big table. There’s also a baking-cooling tray that the laptop sits on. Why do I need anything from the outside world? I can be perfectly sociable from here. Just remembering an EM Forster short story called, I think, The Machine Stops, where life is reduced to an existence in a tiny room. What’s wrong with that?
I’ve been to the doctor and asked for help to lose weight before I kill myself with type 2 diabetes or something and he suggested a SPORT’S CENTRE!!!! My God, the very idea of it! But I suppose I have to force these things on myself; it’s an awful imposition on my horizontally-creative lifestyle, and I resent the time it will take – maybe I should create a whole new character to experience these vile activities…yes, I’ll give her a name and let her get on with it.
In my hermit stage I spend an awwwwwwwful lot of time watching TV. I was conscious the whole time that I was missing my CSIs – isn’t that terrible? I think that this is my worst anti-social period to date. I enjoy being with my friends, talking and relaxing, laughing, looking at the phenomena of fashion on the high street; I love to hear about people I used to know, finding out where they went and what happened to them, but – I seem to be addicted to drama on the box. I don’t watch soaps or reality programmes or most of the fashionable sit-coms or comedies – DRAMA is the thing. I am losing my will to live.
It’s time to turn the telly off and read, and write, and craft, and think, and LEAVE THE HOUSE! Time to go out among the great washed and unwashed, fashionable and downright real people, in the streets, through the parks and art galleries, over bridges with stops for photo-shoots - to listen and learn. I say this from my comfortable position in my bed, with the lovely laptop upon my knee, and all kinds of refreshments at my right hand – even a cat within stroking distance.
This room, prison and necessary evil has everything I need within easy reach, for instance, upon my table: TV with video & DVD player; slow cooker; little grill; kettle; phone x2; coffee & Earl Grey; water; Slimfast; (milk & butter that needs to go back in the fridge – what an effort) bread; scissors and accumulated letters – it’s a big table. There’s also a baking-cooling tray that the laptop sits on. Why do I need anything from the outside world? I can be perfectly sociable from here. Just remembering an EM Forster short story called, I think, The Machine Stops, where life is reduced to an existence in a tiny room. What’s wrong with that?
I’ve been to the doctor and asked for help to lose weight before I kill myself with type 2 diabetes or something and he suggested a SPORT’S CENTRE!!!! My God, the very idea of it! But I suppose I have to force these things on myself; it’s an awful imposition on my horizontally-creative lifestyle, and I resent the time it will take – maybe I should create a whole new character to experience these vile activities…yes, I’ll give her a name and let her get on with it.
Monday, June 16, 2008
TRAVELLING BLOGGERS
I’ve just found myself getting quite upset at the death of a fellow granny-blogger; I hadn’t been in there for ages and how strange to click over there today to find that she’d died yesterday morning. Funny how you become attached to people through writing; it seems to be an instant connection that blasts away the rubble so that the friendship and bond is almost immediately grasped. I haven’t been back to read as much as I planned but I will. I now have two links to travelling bloggers: Maya’s Granny and Julia Darling.
This reinforces the importance of blogs to me; the family of a blogger will always have an amazing chunk of their loved-one’s spirit; their opinions, ideas, character and personality will shine out so that generations can meet and know who they were. I often wish I had something like it of my parents; they really were strangers to me – I only saw what they wanted to show me…which is what my children experience from me.
Children are always so involved in their own angst and plans for their future and present that the question of who their parents are doesn’t arise until death intervenes. The idea that these blogs will be part of family trees and social history is quite mind-blowing.
This reinforces the importance of blogs to me; the family of a blogger will always have an amazing chunk of their loved-one’s spirit; their opinions, ideas, character and personality will shine out so that generations can meet and know who they were. I often wish I had something like it of my parents; they really were strangers to me – I only saw what they wanted to show me…which is what my children experience from me.
Children are always so involved in their own angst and plans for their future and present that the question of who their parents are doesn’t arise until death intervenes. The idea that these blogs will be part of family trees and social history is quite mind-blowing.
Friday, June 13, 2008
THE NONSENSE OF TRAVEL
Next stop is Kilpatrick; it lives under the bridge, huddled and flat beside the river. The next stop Anywhere, anytime; next stop Heartbreak etc, next stop Childhood and my ball stuck behind the railings and I’m going to be late and The Granny will kill me! Change conductors at Dalmuir – scary.
CASH IS SPENT, advert on billboard. What do people do in Singer? Next stop Drumry, and the sun also shines. I’m going straight to work, so I’ll have time to dally on Paisley Rd West, have coffee in Subway, might even buy a sandwich for dinner later. Must get wool for the sunset.
The city is approaching and I remember the photo I took of a rain-splashed bench, all dazzling with colours flashing off the prisms as the sun glared. I do believe in faeries. Westerton brings me nearer to Partick and a subway to Subway. I need an iPod.
CASH IS SPENT, advert on billboard. What do people do in Singer? Next stop Drumry, and the sun also shines. I’m going straight to work, so I’ll have time to dally on Paisley Rd West, have coffee in Subway, might even buy a sandwich for dinner later. Must get wool for the sunset.
The city is approaching and I remember the photo I took of a rain-splashed bench, all dazzling with colours flashing off the prisms as the sun glared. I do believe in faeries. Westerton brings me nearer to Partick and a subway to Subway. I need an iPod.
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