This came in the form of an email from Daughter of Signs and one is supposed to send it on to people. Well it looks just like a “meme” to me, so:
Three jobs I have had in my life: Turkey Inseminator (I’ve written about this, key “turkey” into search box to read), audio typist, nursing auxilliary in psychiatric unit.
Three shows that I watch: (assuming this means telly). Doctor Who, Late Night Review and I really can’t think of anything else that I regularly watch. I used to love Black Books with Dylan Moran. Comedy things like that, Peep Show and The Office.
Three places I have lived: Village near Berlin (as a young child), Primrose Hill (older child), Bethnal Green (first flat post bedsit).
Three places I have been this week: Shrinky in Brighton, Tesco Express and Health Shop (both in my village).
Three people who email me regularly: presumably I’m not counting the nice people at Amazon, Ocado (I haven’t used but they don’t give up) and the tireless individual who emails me almost daily about village happenings. Well I’m not going to name names, am I? You know who you are.
Three of my favourite foods: Oysters, chicken roasted with lemon, herbs and garlic – steamed greens on the side, fish and chips with mushy peas and (a recent addition) curry sauce.
Three places I’d rather be:
walking on the north beach on the Isle of Iona,
in a high-ceilinged, bay-windowed room in Hackney in 1990, singing with my two little children:
“Mama says no play; this is a work day,
up with the bright sun, get all the work done,
if you will help me, climb up the tall tree,
shake the papaya down.”
or
“When I was one, I banged my drum
the day I went to sea,
I jumped aboard a pirate ship and the captain said to me,
“We’re goin’ this way, that way, forward and backwards,
over the Irish sea,
With a bottle of rum to warm me tum
and that’s the life for me.”
and in Dayville’s Icecream parlour in Finchley Road circa 1975, eating hazelnut icecream with hot chocolate fudge sauce.
(but here on the Edge is good too, just saying).
Three friends I think will respond to this message: Ms North, Icemaiden and TPE. Why do I think they will respond? Blind faith really, the best kind.
Three things I am looking forward to: winning the competition I just entered, meeting with writing companions in Feb and March, seeing the Daughter on Sunday.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Burns Night
What a terrific poet he was. Read some of his stuff today if you can.
"For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that."
"For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that."
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Sartorial
I still favour my trademark purple shellsuit trousers but have to say that pyjamas are coming a close second, and it is only a pity that one can’t go out in them. I was given a splendid pair of polka dot pyjamas for Christmas, but the ones I really feel connected to (it does take time, I find, to build a proper relationship with clothes) are my red and white flannel ones with tinsel threaded into the weave. I bought them at Peacocks in a post-Christmas sale, so they were reduced from £8 to £4, in other words cheap and fun, and I didn’t think (though I should perhaps have guessed) that one day they would occuply a significant place in the Signs sartorial repertoire.
I bought them in order to go on a cinema outing organised by a friend who was conducting an Artist’s Way group. We were to go dressed in pyjamas, preferably bringing a teddy bear with us. This was to give us connection with the inner child. Are you still here? So there I was in the car park at the back of the cinema somewhere in darkest east Sussex. I spotted one other person from the group looking miserable. He said he felt ridiculous and embarrassed, even though all he wore was loose jogging bottoms, and he had no teddy bear. I linked arms with him, which made it worse. He didn’t want to be seen with me in that get-up. We joined the others in a burger bar. They were dressed in their PJs and ordering chips and cola, but I sensed that nobody was feeling as comfortable in their clothes as I was. Years of practice I suppose, pyjama days having been a way of life for some years since getting M.E. It seemed a small step to go outside in them. The small teddy bear (a gift from my daughter) in my top pocket added a slightly delinquent touch and made me think of Courtney Love gone off the rails after the death of Kurt Cobain.
The film we saw was called Confetti. We ate popcorn, we laughed in the right places, it was good to have something other than ourselves to focus on. At the end we bustled out of the cinema looking like a group of people who had come dressed in pyjamas. The embarrassed one needn’t have been, no-one paid us any attention. I am not sure that anything changed in terms of the relationship with my inner child (it is actually my inner adult who is elusive), but the pyjamas became my preferred leisurewear. When I grow old I will not necessarily always be wearing purple.
I bought them in order to go on a cinema outing organised by a friend who was conducting an Artist’s Way group. We were to go dressed in pyjamas, preferably bringing a teddy bear with us. This was to give us connection with the inner child. Are you still here? So there I was in the car park at the back of the cinema somewhere in darkest east Sussex. I spotted one other person from the group looking miserable. He said he felt ridiculous and embarrassed, even though all he wore was loose jogging bottoms, and he had no teddy bear. I linked arms with him, which made it worse. He didn’t want to be seen with me in that get-up. We joined the others in a burger bar. They were dressed in their PJs and ordering chips and cola, but I sensed that nobody was feeling as comfortable in their clothes as I was. Years of practice I suppose, pyjama days having been a way of life for some years since getting M.E. It seemed a small step to go outside in them. The small teddy bear (a gift from my daughter) in my top pocket added a slightly delinquent touch and made me think of Courtney Love gone off the rails after the death of Kurt Cobain.
The film we saw was called Confetti. We ate popcorn, we laughed in the right places, it was good to have something other than ourselves to focus on. At the end we bustled out of the cinema looking like a group of people who had come dressed in pyjamas. The embarrassed one needn’t have been, no-one paid us any attention. I am not sure that anything changed in terms of the relationship with my inner child (it is actually my inner adult who is elusive), but the pyjamas became my preferred leisurewear. When I grow old I will not necessarily always be wearing purple.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
here and now
Inspired to take to my bed in style today. All this really means is that I have my laptop perched on a pillow and a mug of green tea on my bedside locker, brought to me by Mr. Signs who is working at home today. And the view from my window of neighbours’ rooftops and black branches against a white and curiously bright sky satisfies me in ways I find hard to describe; the here-and-nowness of this forest place that I love and feel connected to, yet could also quite easily leave, move away from, and perhaps will, but not yet. The dressing table mirror partially blocks the view, but reflects the face of a large-eyed sun that has centre place on a wallhanging from Mexico. Outside and inside the room there is nothing my eyes want to shy away from. I can hear that downstairs the television has been switched on, Barack Obama is about to be inaugurated. A good day.
I missed a shrink appointment, not strong enough to go. He sounded sad. As my dear father said when he was on his way out (but we didn’t know), all things have an end, except for the sausage, which has two ends. So wise, so true. This is the beginning of one end, and the sausage was never really properly realised, let alone eaten. Such is life and so it goes, and just as well for we live, believe it or not, modestly. Shrink, though new to the problems that face PWME, has been a witness to issues that brought me to look for help. For this was not simply a life-enhancing journey I embarked on. I will need to find other ways of dealing with people and situations that are malignant and harmful to me and things are, perhaps, a little clearer, even if not resolved. I am thankful for true friends and those of my family who know me.
And later:
I watched the Inauguration with Mr,.Signs. The almost businesslike tone of Barack Obama, the fact that he did not come out with a string of memorable slogans, felt just right and satisfying. And I loved the address by Joseph Lowery and hope God did too because he was the one being spoken to, and he has quite an earful to take in, not all of it as good as what came out today. But if you are God I imagine you just, like, deal with all that.
I missed a shrink appointment, not strong enough to go. He sounded sad. As my dear father said when he was on his way out (but we didn’t know), all things have an end, except for the sausage, which has two ends. So wise, so true. This is the beginning of one end, and the sausage was never really properly realised, let alone eaten. Such is life and so it goes, and just as well for we live, believe it or not, modestly. Shrink, though new to the problems that face PWME, has been a witness to issues that brought me to look for help. For this was not simply a life-enhancing journey I embarked on. I will need to find other ways of dealing with people and situations that are malignant and harmful to me and things are, perhaps, a little clearer, even if not resolved. I am thankful for true friends and those of my family who know me.
And later:
I watched the Inauguration with Mr,.Signs. The almost businesslike tone of Barack Obama, the fact that he did not come out with a string of memorable slogans, felt just right and satisfying. And I loved the address by Joseph Lowery and hope God did too because he was the one being spoken to, and he has quite an earful to take in, not all of it as good as what came out today. But if you are God I imagine you just, like, deal with all that.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Via Negativa
I’m not going to try and analyse why this should cheer me as much as it does, and it has to be said that I was already dosed up with cheer from last night: for we went to see the daughter play piano and sing, youngest brother on guitar with his songs, and various other young, gifted and energetic on a barge in Battersea; and for uplift and cheer it doesn’t get much better than that.
Perhaps there is a connection to be made, and I am not about to make it intelligently, for which no apologies. And I have also to refer to recent dialogue with my sister who, seeking to do me some good, sent me a list of Ten Steps to Happiness. Me, a veteran of Lightning and other Processes that seek to change your life by reprogramming the way you think about things! Me, who gets up each morning (circumstances allowing, and lets not be too literal anyway) and says ok world, what shall we play today! Me of the two-fingered salute that delivers equal amounts of fuckyous, peacebabys and hey kids, lets get creative and party! "Have you been practising the Ten Steps," she asks. Have I been practising! Sister, not only have I done the advanced course, I have re-written the whole programme. And to cut a swathe through volumes of verbiage (which might have made me a bloody fortune), much of it can be summed up in the above image and by the old adage of Do Your Own Thing as long as it doesn’t involve giving me Good Advice and telling me like it is.
Lets get radical and practice a bit of negative thinking along the lines of Life is Shit And Then You Die, actually quite liberating when you think about it because from that point, everything else that isn’t a complete slap in the face is a bonus, and it’s more rock an roll which by anyone’s standards is a good thing. Not to mention that one of the best friends I ever had was a miserable, pessimistic sonofagun who had a poster of a naked woman all tied up in barbed wire stuck on the wall by his bed (whereon the sheets were never washed) and he still grizzled about it looking too much like Ideal Home. But he had a mind that sparked and sparkled and gave money to every beggar who ever begged for whatever reason on the grounds that if he were ever in that position it would be the least someone could do. Nice is not necessarily Good, and vice versa. And Positive Thinking does not necessarily amount to a creative life well-lived.
I reserve the right to change my mind about all or any part of this tomorrow.
Thank you.
Perhaps there is a connection to be made, and I am not about to make it intelligently, for which no apologies. And I have also to refer to recent dialogue with my sister who, seeking to do me some good, sent me a list of Ten Steps to Happiness. Me, a veteran of Lightning and other Processes that seek to change your life by reprogramming the way you think about things! Me, who gets up each morning (circumstances allowing, and lets not be too literal anyway) and says ok world, what shall we play today! Me of the two-fingered salute that delivers equal amounts of fuckyous, peacebabys and hey kids, lets get creative and party! "Have you been practising the Ten Steps," she asks. Have I been practising! Sister, not only have I done the advanced course, I have re-written the whole programme. And to cut a swathe through volumes of verbiage (which might have made me a bloody fortune), much of it can be summed up in the above image and by the old adage of Do Your Own Thing as long as it doesn’t involve giving me Good Advice and telling me like it is.
Lets get radical and practice a bit of negative thinking along the lines of Life is Shit And Then You Die, actually quite liberating when you think about it because from that point, everything else that isn’t a complete slap in the face is a bonus, and it’s more rock an roll which by anyone’s standards is a good thing. Not to mention that one of the best friends I ever had was a miserable, pessimistic sonofagun who had a poster of a naked woman all tied up in barbed wire stuck on the wall by his bed (whereon the sheets were never washed) and he still grizzled about it looking too much like Ideal Home. But he had a mind that sparked and sparkled and gave money to every beggar who ever begged for whatever reason on the grounds that if he were ever in that position it would be the least someone could do. Nice is not necessarily Good, and vice versa. And Positive Thinking does not necessarily amount to a creative life well-lived.
I reserve the right to change my mind about all or any part of this tomorrow.
Thank you.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Puffing and Pootling
Awake before mid-day but afraid to move a muscle in case it set off symptom alert. It made me think of a story I was once told by someone whose mother decided to gate her for an extended period: after school she was confined to her bedroom and the rest of the house was wired to set off an alarm if she so much as put a foot anywhere downstairs. So she learned how to slide down banisters, climb on the furniture and sneak out of windows without being detected. The eye of the ever watchful M.E. guard goes deeper than that and won’t be so easily outwitted.
I crept around a bit, squeezed some juice from an orange and half a lemon, drank it, lit a candle for Son of Signs who had exams today, had two puffs of a hand-rolled cig before putting it out and then had a bath.
It’s ok, I said to M.E. guard, I’m not going anywhere.
Too right you’re not, he leered.
I pootled around the place (Signs Cottage is not big and the stairs are steep so pootling is best confined to one room, usually kitchen) and heated up a bit of veggie couscous. Look, healthy. See? Lit up another cig and put it out; pretended I was going back to bed; checked emails and blogstuff; planned to go for a walk just as darling daughter rang en route to a teaching assignment so talked to her instead, and just as well because it began to drizzle in a most grey and depressing fashion and talking to daughter was better for the spirits; casually picked up my A4 notebook and pootled back down to the kitchen where I covered one page, then another, then another.
I’m watching you, said the guard.
Don’t worry, I said, I’m just scribbling.
Covered another page.
Went for a Chinese in the village with Mr. Signs. We had: sweet and sour pork, Cantonese duck, prawns with ginger and spring onion, vegetable curry and some Chinese beers. Neighbour over the road invited us over for a Burns celebration next weekend – poetry, songs and haggis.
I say this in a whisper: I am planning to go to the Smoke on Sunday to see daughter playing the piano and singing on a barge somewhere on the Thames.
And I am planning to cover more paper with words.
And my name is Sister Nicotine of the Two Fingers. Two Fingers for short (thank you, Cusp).
And here’s tae us, sweet sister North.
I crept around a bit, squeezed some juice from an orange and half a lemon, drank it, lit a candle for Son of Signs who had exams today, had two puffs of a hand-rolled cig before putting it out and then had a bath.
It’s ok, I said to M.E. guard, I’m not going anywhere.
Too right you’re not, he leered.
I pootled around the place (Signs Cottage is not big and the stairs are steep so pootling is best confined to one room, usually kitchen) and heated up a bit of veggie couscous. Look, healthy. See? Lit up another cig and put it out; pretended I was going back to bed; checked emails and blogstuff; planned to go for a walk just as darling daughter rang en route to a teaching assignment so talked to her instead, and just as well because it began to drizzle in a most grey and depressing fashion and talking to daughter was better for the spirits; casually picked up my A4 notebook and pootled back down to the kitchen where I covered one page, then another, then another.
I’m watching you, said the guard.
Don’t worry, I said, I’m just scribbling.
Covered another page.
Went for a Chinese in the village with Mr. Signs. We had: sweet and sour pork, Cantonese duck, prawns with ginger and spring onion, vegetable curry and some Chinese beers. Neighbour over the road invited us over for a Burns celebration next weekend – poetry, songs and haggis.
I say this in a whisper: I am planning to go to the Smoke on Sunday to see daughter playing the piano and singing on a barge somewhere on the Thames.
And I am planning to cover more paper with words.
And my name is Sister Nicotine of the Two Fingers. Two Fingers for short (thank you, Cusp).
And here’s tae us, sweet sister North.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The Body Electric (2)
It’s getting bad again. I know why, I think – it’s the frequent trips to Brighton, especially at a time of day when I should be lying down. Why do I always think I can get away with things? I had a reasonably good spell over the Christmas hols, but driving distances on a regular basis is not good. I have asked Shrink to give me an earlier time to see if this makes a difference. If not, I may have to stop going altogether, and how will he afford his citybreak holidays then? And damn his eyes anyway for still speaking about this as metaphor.
So what I am doing about all this is:
a) taking drugs (Co-prox never lets me down)
b) drinking
c) smoking
d) swearing
e) eating mince pies (found some leftover spelt pastry in the fridge).
In other words I’m being positive. But The Writing suffers and therefore so do I. Shrink is very sanguine about this because I have been writing down dreams and reading them out to him, and the last one had us both in bed together watching a performance involving a group of people doing strange things in a gymnasium, it was a bit avant garde for me but he seemed to enjoy it, both in the dream and in the consulting room.
I know I have had this thing for twenty two odd years, and I know that I am actually one of the luckier ones (for which believe me I am every day grateful). But there is this creature who every day wakes up with me and says that today is the first day of the rest of your life and everything might suddenly, inexplicably, be fine.
I am making ridiculous plans for things that I know I am unlikely to do. But I make them anyway, and perhaps some of them will bear fruit.
So what I am doing about all this is:
a) taking drugs (Co-prox never lets me down)
b) drinking
c) smoking
d) swearing
e) eating mince pies (found some leftover spelt pastry in the fridge).
In other words I’m being positive. But The Writing suffers and therefore so do I. Shrink is very sanguine about this because I have been writing down dreams and reading them out to him, and the last one had us both in bed together watching a performance involving a group of people doing strange things in a gymnasium, it was a bit avant garde for me but he seemed to enjoy it, both in the dream and in the consulting room.
I know I have had this thing for twenty two odd years, and I know that I am actually one of the luckier ones (for which believe me I am every day grateful). But there is this creature who every day wakes up with me and says that today is the first day of the rest of your life and everything might suddenly, inexplicably, be fine.
I am making ridiculous plans for things that I know I am unlikely to do. But I make them anyway, and perhaps some of them will bear fruit.
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