Author: Ellen Bell

He often tells me stories, or more like anecdotes, as we drive. That is, in between my sleeping. I usually know them very well, having heard them countless times before. I don’t mind, I like the flow of the repeated tale, it’s a continuum of sorts. They are generally inspired by landmarks that we pass, a cafe he and his mother used to frequent, or somewhere they stopped off at so that she could wee and so on. I hadn’t heard this one before. I think it was sparked off by my trying to think of how I might disguise myself in the gallery so that I wouldn’t be recognised and thus interrupted. Wearing his sunglasses was all I could come up with. So followed the tale of Sinatra. He was a local boy, notorious for singing in the pub whenever he got drunk, hence the nickname. Apparently he could sing but one particular landlord got so irritated with him that he was barred. Sinatra thought he would go in disguise to this particular pub and the landlord would be none the wiser. So he put on some dark glasses and all was well until he got drunk and the singing started then out he was thrown. Bless him. He was quite harmless, he said, adding that he’d often heard him singing on the bus.

I spoke to her on Friday. It’s been a couple of weeks. She’s been down. It’s the rain and being stuck inside. Her daughter persuaded her to go to a sing-a-long. She didn’t want to but a car was booked and off she went. And she enjoyed it. She didn’t know the words but recognised the tunes and could hum along. I didn’t want to take anyone’s usual seat, she said to me, but one kind lady invited me to sit next to her, so that was alright. She sounded better for getting out. Winter is hard. Hard on all of us.

She thought it had been a good summer. She talked of how often she sat in her garden.

I think he is a content man. I hear him coughing as he smokes through his window down below. He has his online poker, his mother for company if he wishes it, friends he goes out for a meal with and his travels. Yes, I believe he is content. Is it about accepting the narrowness?

Walking along Llanbadarn Road three young men come out of the darkness to walk behind me. They are talking and laughing loudly. One asks another, ‘Do you want to be a pilot then?’. ‘Yes’, the other replies.

He bought me an advent calendar. I love them. A childish thing. A fey thing. But nice. I think.

They were coming towards me along Northgate Terrace, six of them, students, some of them were holding food cartons, probably bought from the pizza place on the corner. Two of them, a girl and a boy were making a kind of high pitched keening noise, like a mouse transfixed by a cat, and terrified. Demonic creatures, said one of the girls behind them.

The session was lovely. I drifted in and out of sleep while she worked on me. Her hands were hot, and sometimes when I opened my eyes I could see hers were closed. The room, a shed in her small back garden, was warm and scented, with what I am not so sure, but it was nice, comforting. It was neat and clean, as was her house, and dotted around its walls and shelves were buddhas, chakra symbols, crystals, drawings of seers, and crystals, huge things. I felt safe. I unwound. I love having my feet massaged. It is a bliss for me. At the end she fed back to me my body’s various weakness. It’s funny I’ve always thought of myself as healthy, well. It seems I am not. Old age perhaps? I gave myself to the treatment and felt better for the succumbing. I will return.

Another interview today. I am slightly nervous, firstly about the equipment and then about how forthcoming she will be. I’ve made assumptions, I shouldn’t. Be open, let it be what it will be.

The house is all cleaned, washing done. Work now.

We hugged when I left. And all night I smelt of her. Patchouli.

Some people call it vim, or refer to it as get-up-and-go. I’ve lost it. I hope only temporarily. I start my walk and it takes so much effort to move. My legs are unwilling, slow to respond. Is it the cold? Or the fast perhaps? I’m enjoying the simplicity but the morning hunger after just 3 oranges can be yawning. It is good though. I want to know what it is like to make do with less. And then to eat is marvellous. I taste every nuance. Morning comes. Thank god. The winter is beginning to bite and yet those young ones are out there in virtually nothing. I saw one girl in a mini skirt, bare legs and a sleeveless top. Is it alcohol that makes them impervious to the cold? And there am I walking by in a huge winter coat, thick mittens and a woolly hat. We are on a different plane. And they talk so earnestly to each other. A couple were ahead of me as I made my way home. She was in dungarees, one strap hanging loose off her shoulder eating a takeaway burger. He was talking as she ate. Realistically….., he was saying. I didn’t catch the rest. It floats off into the ether. The smell of baking bread from the three town bakeries, namely The Hot Bread Shop, Slater’s and The Pelican Bakery continue to be a source of comfort and pleasure to me. I love to think they are in there creating warmth and succour. And I fantasise about becoming one. One of Slater’s bakers was outside the door when I walked past. A huge man in a black t-shirt, he was looking at his phone and nodded at me. Is it a heavy job? Do they get inured to the pleasurableness of the smells and tastes?

Ho hum. Much work to do. Tea made. Admin done. Must make a start. Speak tomorrow.

No moon this morning. Full dark. And rain. It is a challenge stepping out into it. The Prom was inundated with students whose merriment is alien to my mood. They don’t see the bleakness. Why should they? Up to all sorts of capers, they lollop on benches, shout, dart and snog. Two lads were clambering over the metal railings of the children’s sandpit, late paddling pool due to a surfeit of sea water left behind by big spring tides. Another lad walking past hollered at them. Who is it? one of the clamberers shouted back, I can’t see you. A girl was wailing outside Pier Pressure. A wailing then a low moaning. She was lying on the ground with several of her friends around her. Two policemen stood behind their van, seemingly unconcerned. Was she OK? I heard one of her friends say that they’d called an ambulance. And lo, there it was dashing to the scene. The ambulance medics and the police must get jaded by it all. All the excess, the high spirits, the chaos of youth. I have forgotten what it was like, if it ever was like that for me.

He seems more cheery this morning. Life is busy. More work is coming in, we both like it that way. There is an energy that cuts through the listlessness of the coming winter. He likes a project and so do I. But not too much. Too much and it begins to feel out of my control. All will be well. I will get it all done. I always do.

I look out of the window and morning is coming. Just. A tinge of blue. Thank god. Sometimes it feels like it is never going to come.

Oranges for breakfast after two days of rice (one meal of millet just to break the monotony). They were lovely. I really tasted them but the fullness soon goes. Time for a drink, something warming. Dandelion and honey perhaps. No coffee yet. Or tea. Next week. I can wait. How glorious it will taste then. I like this simplicity. It suits me, it always has.

May there be peace today.

He flashed his torch, full beam, in my face. A policeman with no hat, on foot. I smiled at him. Can I help you? Have you seen a blonde? he asked. A child? I asked. No, he said, a young woman. She’s escaped from the hospital. Did he really use that word? Escaped. Perhaps he said escapee from the hospital. I cannot be sure. She’d taken an overdose, he said, and she ran away. The police were dotted everywhere. I could see a torch light down by the rocks under the pier as I walked past along the Prom. I am in two minds. She has committed no crime. She should be able to leave the hospital whenever she chooses. She is no danger to anyone else. Ah, but she is a danger to herself, they would say. Aren’t we all? I just don’t know. She is clearly unhappy. If it is too much for her, this life, this mortality, then shouldn’t she be allowed to remove herself from it when she chooses. Or is this my Samaritans training speaking? Poor love. If you see her, the policeman said, just call us, 999, OK?

A beautiful moonlit night. A harvest moon, I think. Full light. It shimmered its rays on the rocks. I was wobbly. The fast is taking its toll. And I soon grow tired of rice. I may alternate it with oranges. We shall see. My walking was slow. I do feel better otherwise and would’ve slept well if it wasn’t for the call. It is work. I am glad for it. But sometimes I’d love to be left alone. I acquiesce, always.

What is the difference between an aroma and a smell or a scent and a perfume? Is an aroma always about food or drink or can it apply to any kind of smell? And is smell always noxious and a scent or perfume always pleasant? Who knows? I want to talk about smells. I have a strong sense of smell. A boon sometimes, a curse at others. It is particularly acute first thing in the morning when I walk out. Out into the air. Yesterday morning there was a most marvellous smell of woodsmoke. So autumnal. It was so very evocative. Evocative of childhood walks on a Sunday afternoon in the park, wellies on pushing and dragging my feet through clumps of wet leaves, pushing through rain-soaked bracken, seeing deer in the distance in the later afternoon haze of mist and on-coming rain and looking forward to getting home to soup, warmth and the cosiness of candles and a fire. It was all there, in that smell. The smell of bonfires. Today I smelt the artificial rather musky smell of a cheap men’s deodorant. It was along South Marine Terrace. There was no one to be seen. He had gone but his smell had lingered. What must we smell like to dogs, to animals? It was so pungent. Unpleasant, and lingering. Then further along I caught a whiff of a woman’s scent. Again cheap smelling, too sweet and cloying. Had there been an assignation? Earlier, before I’d got out of bed, I’d smelt fried onions. Freshly fried onions. It must’ve been our neighbour below making himself an early breakfast. He does that sometimes or he makes a curry for later in the day. It stinks. It pervades my room, taking over. I went back to sleep a little cross. It had gone by the time I woke. I have to be more sanguine. I like having him there beneath me, us. He is a comfort. It is just the smells sometimes of his cooking, his cigarettes. A small thing. A slight inconvenience. I can bear it.

New regime today. First trial day. Brown rice fast, less standing preparing food and another hour in bed. All needed. He isn’t so sure about the fast and pulls a face. Our shop was cheaper. I will see. 10 days is the plan. It made me snappy this morning. Sorry. Work now. Before I have to go up to the studio. Quick, quick. x

It was a dream. I was staying in her house, her children were everywhere and she had a new man. I was given my own room and wanting some privacy I thought I’d lock it. Which I did, along the side of the door but she burst right through, right through the middle without a by your leave. She was bored. He, her fella was bored. They lounged on the sofa in my room, and all the children who’d followed her in did the same. She wanted to go shopping for a clutch bag. I turned to see if her husband was interested in doing the same thing, he wasn’t. Her home space had changed, everything moved about even the exits and entrances. I was very disorientated. Her youngest son talked me through it. It was ordered but unfamiliar.

Daylight is just beginning to come through and it’s almost 7.30 am. Where did the light go? Yesterday was so nice. She is a delight. We talk of nothings and it is so easy. And she is so pretty, so petite, so light. The cafe was good, though initially it looked a little rough. Few people were in there, just a farmer in his wellies and another man in the corner. The windows were steamed up with the baking. But it warmed up and I relaxed. It was just new that’s all. And the sun came out and stayed with us all the way home.

Work now. I must write. I don’t know what yet. I will re-listen to our conversation. It will come. And it will be the best I can do. I promise.

This is a quick note. A quick hello before I have to dash off. Morning tea. We are to take tea with a friend. A friend of my father’s who has become, since he has died, ours. She is a treasure. A sweet one. Tender. Tears are always at the back of her eyes. She is visiting her sister’s house, clearing it out. A painful process. And we are travelling to see her. A while away. It’s OK. It will be worth it for all that he struggles with such obligations. She is so gentle, a quiet presence who calms me.

The interview went well, I think. She was warm and responsive. Now all I have to do is form it into something marvellous. Will you help?

I can see blue sky. The promised dryness didn’t materialise. It poured. I walked with my bleakness in my pocket and endured. The smell of bread helped. And the sight of the sea, ever constant. I think of him each morning. Taken, thrown against rocks. Had he gone into that water willingly? They hadn’t reported him missing for over 24 hours. Hadn’t he been missed? Did they live such separate lives? Is this bleakness ubiquitous? Carry it with me. Know it with me and lighten it, if you can?

Tomorrow I write. With love.

I tried to work it out as I walked, stiff-legged and slow, what the all the water in my knees might be about, symbolically. Have I become too rigid in my ways, do I no longer see a wider view, other alternatives, have I become stuck, am I stagnating? Is that what it is, stagnation? And if so what can I do about it? I want to be healed, to have some marvellous seer or prophet come to me and place their hands on me and heal. Do I ask too much? Let it be so. I will walk free then, I will climb stairs, I will run, I will bend over double. All will be fluid. All will be lithe. I will be return to my physical self. Can I ask this? With all that the world holds, with all that the world battles with, can I ask this small thing?

More peeing has to be done, into phials and bottles. More water. Water everywhere. Outside the rain pours down. Wild. He is out there in his waterproof trousers.

My first interview today. I am nervous. It is still not set in my mind, my approach. I want to leave a door open to see, to see what they bring. I am so blessed with this opportunity, such richness coming to my door, my studio. I am humbled, as always.

I miss my writing, my sewing, my work when outside demands come in. But it is good. I am earning from this precious space. A little but something. And a royalty payment came in yesterday. That’s nice.

He was a small weight. A moving weight. A solid littleness, fragile of rib and head. Not yet able to support himself. He pulled on the teat, there is power there. I am humbled again. Not joy but peace. There was peace in holding him. He settled me.

The rain abates for a moment. Breathe. All will become clear. It will. I promise.

All I want to do is sleep. I am deprived of it. I will catch up but for now I am a little like a zombie. The day must be got through, work done, domestic stuff done and then rest. It was marvellous. To see her, to see them. My heart is full with it. Such a long way, over 600 miles he drove. We talked, bickered a little, laughed, shared stories, drank coffee, tea and hot chocolate, stopping at countless motorway services. I lie in bed afterwards and the car is still carrying me. I am in motion, still. But the day calls. And work. A quick hello and to say I’ve missed you. A milky grey sky. And with wind. Too much wind. The winter is upon us. Such a lovely family. I am replete. x