Author: Ellen Bell

We’re both reading her. I’ve done so lots of time. She’s a new author for him. And he rarely reads books so it was lovely to see him enjoying her yesterday afternoon in the car park will browning his back on his new stool. I haven’t read her for a while. And now I’ve got three novels out of the library to enjoy. She makes me smile. I see myself and my friend H. in them. He does too.

It’s our summer holiday, he said. Mind you, I shall still draw every day. How can I not?

I know enough to know how it should be done. I’ve read good writing. I know it. But all too often I cannot find it in myself. I did the first draft yesterday, and in my head it is still clunky. I am about to address it now. Will it be as clumsy as I remember? There is still so much to reach for. Is that a bad thing?

Sit with me a while.

I’ve called her every Friday as usual for weeks now and there has been no answer, just that automated answering machine voice telling me to leave a message. Is she still there? Has she gone home, or has she gone forever? I think about whether I could’ve done more. I am loathe to call her daughter, I almost don’t want to hear the reality of her situation. She has been fading, in mind if not in body, for a long time now. It has been too much. A delicate being. I miss her. I think of all the women I reach out to, as much for them as for myself. Do I fall short?

I am nervous about writing today, but then I always am. Be brave. I must be brave.

A yacht was taxing out of the harbour as I walked by this morning. Oh, the freedom of it, that sailing out into a great expanse of calm blue. How I longed to be there, on board with them. Little things still please. Like the cat sitting in the window in the house at the top of the Buarth, or the car that passed me on Llanbadarn Road towing a small wooden fishing boat behind it.

We were scratchy yesterday. Let us be kinder today.

Walking isn’t the same pleasure it once was. I must and do accept this and try to find other things to focus on such as the smell of the air when I first walk out, the temperature, the feel of the wind on my face and so on. It is a kind of paying attention that I see as a gift that comes with the discomfort of my hips. It is the same when I do yoga, I concentrate of what is going on, what it feels like. Perhaps this is the generosity of old age. A mindfulness. A mind full of life. I smelt elderflowers and old roses as I walked along North Road this morning. The seagulls (or not seagulls) were noisy above me, screeching and hollering across the sky. And the sea roared too. It wasn’t cold but the wind was gusting, pulling and pushing at my stick. I feel vulnerable then and at its mercy. And that’s OK too. It’s a state of being alive. Another review to write. I wobble and worry about what I state, seemingly so confidently. I am not. I just do my best. Always.

I love the inexplicable. I saw it the other day when I was walking along North Road. It was a piece of paper, orange and cut into the shape of triangle and then tied with some string onto a signpost. I have no idea what it meant. I just liked it.

The homeless man who has long made his home in the large shelter along the Prom has returned after it’s renovation post-storm. He keeps all his belongings so neat. I walked past and his bag is placed squarely at the foot of his sleeping bag and his food and water supplies in a small orderly huddle on the ground. A gentle man and a gentleman, I think.

Two resignations last night. Will he ever go?

I walked through the Castle Park on my way home having forgotten about the smell of them. I’d been distracted by the two figures that I saw ahead of me in the gloom (is it already getting slower to grow light?) . A boy and a girl? I couldn’t tell. I slowed my pace so that I wouldn’t catch them up. And then I caught the scent of the roses. They are going over (as his mother used to say) but the sweetness is still there. I love it. It reminds me of making rose petal perfume as a child. I loved the notion of it even if the mixture we concocted was appalling. The two men (for that’s what they were) walked slower than me, even with my hobbledehoy walk and stick. They were Asian, small and dark haired. I didn’t see their faces. They were both in shorts and one had a baseball cap on and a sweatshirt that on the back read – Korea Army.

I watch her a lot, we both do. She seems fragile yet strong. Like iron in mind perhaps and tender in body. She is over a hundred after all and yet she still walks around the estate every day, her heels rolling over the edges of her shoes, leaning on her stick, that same rain mac on whatever the weather. I watched her the other day. I was lying on the ground in the car park reading and trying to get a bit of sun-warmth out of the wind and I heard her walk by on her way to the wasteland that we call our garden. She sits there every day on a pile of discarded fencing. She perches on the end her hands on her knees and mostly drops off, occasionally raising her head only to let it fall again. That day I heard her talking to herself. I couldn’t hear the words, perhaps she was praying. I think of her and wonder what she thinks about. Her end must be near and that makes her sanctified in my eyes. I called out to her as she passed by on her way back but she didn’t hear or see me. She cannot. Both those faculties are going or have virtually gone. She doesn’t know me. She asks him what my name is all the time. Is she your wife? she says. I dreamt of her last night. I was holding her hand. It felt young and vital. And I was glad of it.

I needed to put myself in the space. To see what I could or couldn’t do. I was very nervous. It made me scratchy. Poor love, he always gets the brunt of me. We went. And the quilts hanging down protected my anonymity and I drew. I did it. And it was, is, enough for now.

As promised, here it is. I went to draw. Well, we went. I had no idea what to expect. And it was difficult. I hadn’t reckoned on it being so dark once the show was on, nor that the seats would be so uncomfortable. But it was amazing. Much smaller than I’d remembered and there weren’t the elephants, lions, tigers and plethora of clowns and trapeze artists of my youth, but there were some wonderful horses, three amazing tumblers and strongmen ‘from Tangiers’, a tightrope walker and a very funny and athletic clown ‘from Brazil’ sans big face makeup, ruff and big shoes. Drawing was a hit and miss affair. Everything was fast-paced and noisy, and I couldn’t see what colour I was using or what marks I was making. But it was exhilarating and I found myself exclaiming in wonder several times just like a child.

We’re a couple of old crocks, he and I. Our last two drawing visits to the coffee shop have involved long, detailed conversations with our fellow coffee drinkers about hearing aids and hip replacements. The first took place last Friday where the builder who used to do work for his ex-girlfriend’s second home in Borth was sitting at the next table. He was just off to collect his new hearing aid from Specsavers. He’s a little younger than him, but they shared ‘deaf’ stories never the less. The hip replacement chat was yesterday. I had cried when we’d got there. Self pity over the discomfort of it had got to me. An hour later the small man (or ‘chap’) as he would call him, came in using a crutch. We hadn’t seen him for a while either in the shop or on the Prom. He’d had the op. Best thing I’ve ever done, he told him. I was waved over to come and listen when I saw them talking after going to the loo. He’d seen us at the hospital for my last appointment, apparently. Had I noticed him? Maybe. Anyway, he was full of praise for the care he received. And the pain, he said, went right away. My issue is that he is 73 and I’m not yet 60. Is it something I did? But I am opening my mind to it. The pain comes and goes, as does my self-pity (which is the worst of it). I walked this morning in the rain (the smell of wood smoke a compensation for the wetness) . And I will continue to do. Won’t I?

More about the circus tomorrow.