Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.
There was an image on the front page of The Guardian of two Palestinians, sitting on what looked like wall. They were clearly man and wife. I forget the exact headline but it said but read something like: we walked for two days only to find our home is gone. Bombed out. Obliterated. Gone. I cannot know how that feels. Though I have an inkling. Poor loves. Who will help them? Oh, I wish the world were kinder. Can it ever be so? What can I do? Show me.
He asked her. I was unsure how she’d take it. Was it too maudlin a suggestion? Was it inappropriate to ask now, just after her suspected TIA? She seemed taken with the idea. Endorsed it, even. I am glad. I want the thought to give her some ease. Now I just have to learn their names.
I thought about it as I bathed this morning. Should I ask her, or get him to do so? And what are my reasons for offering? Such things are always loaded. I don’t want stuff but I do want to honour and care for what she honours and cares for. I want to draw them naturally. That impetus is always there. Always, sadly. But I also want her to know that they are safe. Would it help?
I’ve thought of them. Are they home yet? And if so, what is that home like? I caught a picture on Instagram of a bombed-out tower block from there. Nothng remains but its shell and rubble. Blown-through. Blown out. Blown away. My heart is heavy for them. So heavy.
I caught a glimpse of the video of them over his shoulder as he was watching it on his iPad. Thousands of them walking, trudging, and carrying their meagre belongings with them back home. A semblance of home. A home that is at least, for now, theirs, albeit it a bombed-out home, a devastated one. It is theirs. What will they find? I cannot imagine. Or how it will feel when they do. I no longer know what to pray for, except that as many of them as possible find some shelter, some peace and something like an ordinary, fruitful life again. I wish them that. As I wish it for all. Let this be an end to the fighting, the killing. Let it be an end.
Another storm is coming. It’s been a winter of storms. We have it easy compared to some, but still such weather makes me edgy. I find it hard to concentrate. I prickle with fear.
I know it’s irrational. Not all fear is, but this one definitely is. It isn’t important.Just techology stuff. But it gets under my skin. What’s it about? Not understanding? Feeling foolish? Being rejected? Found wanting? Not up to it? All of those things and more. I do my best but usually by a system of hit and hope more than anything. Give me courage today.
It’s part of the title of a Hubert Parry song, Radio 3 were playing it this morning. I think about my end and his often these days. I am, after all, immersed in death. And an acquaintance of his, perhaps friend, has been diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver and his body is failing. It is everywhere. But then it always has been. Let me know mine end. Does the writer mean to know what that end will be or when? Or is it a plea to know that an end will come. All things pass. They do, don’t they, even the anxious and terrible things. Let it be. All of it.
There are some books that I’ve given away and had to re buy, sometimes several times. It’s almost as if I don’t want them, be it viscerally or intellectually, but they want me. There’s still something to be learnt from me, they seem to be saying. Jonathon Frantzen’s The Corrections, is one of those books. I came across a quote from it today and realised that I will have to get it again having given it away a year or so ago to make room for my research books. It is a convoluted novel, but, even having only got halfway through it (twice), I can see it’s relevance to me and my work, and indeed, its sometimes brilliance. Is it because there is no one in there to like? Possibly. But to need that is puerile of me. I will endeavour with it once again. I promise.
I dreamt of beauty last night, beauty encapsulated in a sylph. She swam past me in the water, naked, a mermaid, sans tail, her skin was white her hair a pale yellow. She cut through the water like an eel. I watched her husband watching her. He knew her beauty, had perhaps even tired of its perfection. He watched lazily, almost bored by what he saw. She was his and yet she wasn’t. Of myth. A seal woman.