Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.
There’s one that I’ve been going to see for years now. I like her a lot. She’s become a healer. She does my feet and I drop into a snoring sleep. They are cavalier about encountering the intimate crevices of our bodies. Taking it in their stride, they wax, shave, pluck, exfoliate, soap and moisturise us. And I lap it up. My body yield without demur. I even like their chatter, so distinct as it is from my almost wholly internal one.
Autumn and then winter bring them. And we are laid low. He was unwell in the night and then tells of the coffee shop manager throwing up the night before. They are carried on hands and transferred to door handles for others to pick up. They are everywhere all of the time. Some we are touched by, others we are not. Life kills us daily.
I don’t know why hearing about her made me feel calmer, safer even. It came from a Sunday Times newspaper article that he read out to me. A journalist had been trying for a baby and after six miscarriages a friend had given her the phone number of a psychic in the US. The scenario was a familiar one for me. I’ve seen several. Was that what made me calm? The familiarity. And of course, there’s a lot of body language and face ‘reading’ – sometimes they can’t pick up anything at all. But sometimes what they have to share is apposite. As the journalist found. There’s no proof, there never is. But for me it’s the connection with something other than this that warms me. I miss it.
The radio presenter was saying this morning how, over the weekend, she’d asked her two little girls what they would do if they had one wish. I only heard what her eldest had said, and that was that she’d like to speak all the languages of the world, including those of the animals. It’s an interesting question. In the fairy tales there are usually three, the final one invariably used to cancel the mayhem caused by the first two. I thought about what I would ask for. The end to war and strife and conflict. But then again isn’t it better to wish for an end to poverty or hunger. It’s hard. War is the most appalling to me, but that is probably because that is most ‘visible’. I don’t know. It’s too hard to make a choice. And asking for happiness for all – what would that mean? Some people’s happiness is another misery. Maybe. An end to pain? Help me out.
I’ve been bagging-up things, clothes mostly, for the charity shop. I put off doing it. There are to many things to consider usually, such as will I wear it, will I need it, can I afford to replace it and so on. And yet, in principle I really like this sloughing-off of stuff. I feel temporarily lighter, less burdened. More will come in, inevitably. Sadly, even. I could just stop, couldn’t I?
She told me over the phone something of their struggles. Well, his mostly, for hers can no longer be known. I understand from what I know of him how much he would’ve battled with her gradual slowness, I might even say, bovineness. She told me he often shouted at her, and even dragged her along the floor. It sounds terrible, but caring isn’t a skill that everyone has. Or should I that wish to care? There was little intimacy between them. They stayed together because is what people of their generation, usually did. I am sorry. Sorry for both of them. She is in a home and, from what she told me, is not fighting it. I hope that they are both more content. And may her end be a gentle one.
The wind is a beast. And it howls. I am agitated by it, unsettled, anxious. I am a beast too. A mouse, a shrew, a tiny thing wanting to be safe, cosseted and warm. I must accept its horrors. It has its place.
I know nothing about him, apart from the fact that he used to work for a telecomms company and has two young children who come and visit him at weekends, though it has been awhile since I’ve seen them arrive or leave. I passed him yesterday. His hoodie hood was down, as it usually is when I see him. We didn’t greet each other. I am led by his reticence. Perhaps I shouldn’t be but he always strikes me as either a shy or sad man who wishes to be left alone. I can see his flat from mine and when I look early on his lights are often on. He sleeps badly, I think. I try to not make up stories about him, it feels an act of intrusion. We call him ‘Smoker 2.’ And yes, I do think he is sad.
It was worrying the trees before I left growing fiercer as I walked. There’s something marvellous about being out in it. It’s a confirmation of aliveness of life, of being part of something bigger than just oneself. It’s the force of it, I think, it is without care, not mindful of what it does and to whom. I like that.
The radio presenter announced that it was ‘make your bed day’, adding that there are all sorts of good reasons for doing it, not least that it could be seen as the first ‘achievement’ of the morning. I always feel better when my bed is made. It establishes an order, neatens up the mess both internally and externally left by sleep. And how I love a crisp, fresh, neatly-made bed.