Author: Ellen Bell

I wanted to see the blue moon. It was cloudy. But then, for a brief moment, there was a glimpse of it through my studio window before I went out for my walk. Was it blue? It was certainly cooler in colour than yesterday’s yellowy-orange. I saw it again as I walked towards M&S’s car park on my way to the river and the harbour. And then it did look blue, a white blue with a smokiness to it. I made a quick drawing before the clouds came. As I drew I saw the insistent flashing blue of a police car sans siren on the other side of the old school building. What can be the necessity for all that luminescent hysteria? This a small town. Where are the criminals?

We’ve begun watching again. I’ve seen it many times, as have I read the book. A cliche, I own, but I do know it by heart. I follow its nuances like an old friend. The cinematography is smoky, hazy particularly in the Swiss scenes but it works. As does its dated-ness. It’s all in keeping. And it’s slow. I need that, crave that. Such yearning. It reflects mine. Always.

Another crane fly to be rescued. It was lying on the floor of my studio. Was it dying? I picked it up carefully and took it to the window and watched it fly away, seemingly undamaged. The fluttering of its life in my hand unsettles me a little, I don’t like it. It’s an intimacy I don’t relish. But as its deliverer, it must be so.

It on the wall of my bathroom. It had been there the throughout the running of my bath. Mostly still, it only started to skitter and skud across the wall when I got near. I opened my palm and, mindful of keeping my fist loose, I grasped it and closed fingers. I felt its fluttering and flapping. A heartbeat, urgent and scared. I opened the window and threw it out into the night air.

It rained hard yesterday afternoon. The postman rang the doorbell. He was drenched. He makes for a graceless figure, heaving his cumbersome body about, breathing heavily and barely raising his head in greeting. I comment on the wetness and how uncomfortable he must be. He grunts an acknowledgement and continues rummaging around in his back. There’s a letter as well, he says, handing it to me. I thank him and shut the door.

I’m still reading Simon Gray’s Coda. He is in Crete with his wife, attempting to escape (my word) from his dying. He doesn’t, can’t. None of us can. I like sharing his experience though, the good and the bad. I remember Greece, as I remember Italy and Spain. That’s what holidays become, memories, or at least a fictional account, a selective recollection. It doesn’t matter, really. It’s the sensations I revisit mostly. And he describes those so well – the food, the smells, the sounds, the air, the weather – all of it. Those places filled me up. I had time to absorb them. It was good. And I felt good.

He read in the paper that Graham Thorpe had killed himself by ‘walking under a train’. At least, I think that he is what he read. It doesn’t matter whether the verb as to walk or to throw or to lie. He took his own life, violently because living was more than he could bear. I think of him and his family. And I think of another who took her life in the same way. A beautiful girl with piercing blue eyes. She didn’t think she was good enough. Bless them both. Some say that we are given the lives that we can manage, I’d like to think that was the case. But I suspect, for some, it is not. So much pain and joy in one planet in one universe. How can any of us bear it?

He talked about how much he respected me. It was nice to hear it. I value his judgement. And I know how he rates decency, morality and goodness. Do I have those qualities? I try to. My thoughts can go rogue if I am tired, particularly or hungry or scared. But I try. Respecting each other is so important. Not sexy but crucial. I think.

My thoughts continually stray to holidays, those we have gone on and those to which I aspire. The heat, the sun, the escape, the being someone new in a different environment – I long for it. But there is work to do and money to save, so we shall stay put and be grateful for all these blessings, not least, each other.

I need to open myself to wonder, more. Fear closes me down, narrows my vision. It shrinks me and the life that I have been granted.

The mornings are growing darker. I don’t want to go out but I do, knowing that the smells, the sounds, the quiet will, in time, entrance me. I open myself then. And wondrous things happen. The fox, the hedghog, the birds, the wanderers, they are all part of that dark-ridden magic. And it’s mine.

I moan and whinge. Weekends always bring this on. It’s my own fault. The housework must be done, and I want it done swiftly and for it not to span too many days. So I cram it in, early and it both tires and irritates me. BECAUSE I WANT TO GET ON WITH MY WORK. And yet, I need, nay crave order and neatness and cleanliness and drawers that are tidy and clothes that are ironed and food on the table and I also need these for him too. And it takes time. So why moan. Accept. Try it. And count your blessings while you are at it. You have a home, you have order, you have means and good, meaningful which will get done and well. Believe, trust and accept and you will be a nicer person to both live with and know. Amen.

I’m re-reading Simon Gray’s Coda. He writes of his cancer diagnosis and of the doctor’s telling him he doesn’t have long to live. In much of the book he is in Crete with his wife. I can see it, hear it and feel it. I know it through his words and my own memory (though I’ve never actually been to that particular island). I want to escape. I know why. This writing is hard. I don’t know the path yet. I am inching along in the dark, mostly. All I can do is continue and keep writing. (I can still fantasise at the same time, of that blue sky, warm sea and nothingness). If I was dying (which of course I am) would we go?