Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.
It was a huge articulated lorry. I’d seen a similar one before. ‘Pretty Little Things’ was emblazoned on its side, embellished with a repeated motif of pink, what looked like, ‘My Little Pony’, pink horses. The transferred PVC signage had begun to peel away. Underneath this array of ponies was the strapline ‘Delivering Happiness’.
Sometimes, like this morning, it utterly assails me. What am I frightened of, exactly? Writing? Yes. The words not coming? Yes. Being judged? Yes. Being found wanting? Yes. Feeling stupid? Most definitely. What to do? Face it. Face all of it. Bit by bit, word by word. And? The courage to continue (and even, maybe, possibly joy) will come. So go. Take yourself to the page and write. Simple.
I saw a hedgehog this morning. What a joy it gives me to encounter such beings. It was sitting in the road, waiting. Its only movement, or sign of life was the slight vibration caused by the beating of its heart and in and out of its lungs. And then it stopped waiting. Hauling itself up onto its legs it trundled towards where I was standing on the pavement and proceeded to take its rest in a clump of grass. I was glad. A car would’ve flattened it.
Yesterday I saw the fly that had been swirling around the first floor of the flat for what seemed like days. He was dying. Though he was not yet dead. He lay as if dead (why I am referring to him as a he, I don’t know) but every now and again he would buzz himself back to life and whirl around in a circle on the floor. I put him out of the window in a vague hope that the breeze would carry him off, aloft on its zephyrs.
She was only 46. A single-mother with two children. Her death was sudden. She had cancer but they’d been trying for a new treatment. There was a hope. Small. But it was something. It was never administered. She went into a hospice and died three days later. I met her once. She was a child then. Earnest. Open. I imagine his grief.
I dreamt of them both last night. There was a big party. He was exuberant. Talking of having a personal-trainer. She was there too. A Norwegian. Bossy. His daughter spoke to me, though I cannot remember what we talked of. There was a joyfulness of the event, that happened inside and outside, where there was big marquee. What the celebration was, I don’t know. There was no grief. No one had died. No one was lost. Not that beautiful daughter.
I weep for them all.
I’ve finished another book about dying. That’s not to say that each one I read doesn’t have merit or that the individual story isn’t moving and real, but there is, nevertheless, a layering of that sense of disquiet, of fear and of sorrow. Layers of it. This particular layer was Jenny Diski’s. I’ve read it before but that was quite some time ago. The end of it is abrupt (though it is followed by two afterwords by the Poet and the Daughter). She died in 2016. I do a quick scan of my internal calendar of years. Where was I living then? Did I read it in the paper? Did I stop a moment and mourn? I’ve always loved her writing, though what her daughter refers to as her ‘fury’ has also always unsettled me. I often think about whether she would’ve liked me. Not that it matters. But somehow it does. Rest in peace.
It hurt. She didn’t mean it. She can be chaotic, they all can. (As indeed can I). It was a tactless thing to say. It bruised. I cared. I wanted to help them go beyond their safe, cosy familiarity. Perhaps I was wrong. Teaching is a hit-and-miss craft. And it doesn’t matter if they don’t see or appreciate my place in all of this. I need to let it go. My ego hurt, that is all. I am not important. They are. And I hold them there, in my heart, along with the other wounded. Grant them strength.
He’d gone to so much trouble. I’d asked him not to but I would’ve done the same. I was sorry if our visit had taken too much of his precious energy. The kitchen table was laid with such things. There were strawberries, baby tomatoes, purple grapes, chocolate orioes, raisins coated with yoghurt and bakewell tarts. We sat around the table drank tea and coffee while he perched on the piano stool. We talked about loss and death while I drew him. His house filled me with joy. As did he. A singular, special man. What a gift to know him, to be allowed into his home, his life, however briefly.
We sang on the way home. Bridge over Troubled Waters at full pitch as we came down the mountain towards Tal yr Llyn. Once home I made supper while he read me Carol Midgley’s back-dated articles. It was nice to laugh. And to hear him do so.
A lovely day. Thank you.
Another diagnosed with cancer. Another good woman. No real details, just an acknowledgement of having the disease and getting ready to take the treatment. I’d noticed she’d been distracted of late, her mind was elsewhere. I wish her well and think of her often. I’m still reading Jenny Diski’s account of the same. Her stories of the treatments, which she likened to the ‘clubbing of baby seals’, make for discomforting reading. She died. Many don’t, at least not as soon as the predictions often say they will. Will or is it a life-force, a determination to survive no matter what. I see both defiance and a grim acceptance in the group of women I’ve been working with. Some look so ill, not from the cancer but the poisons that have been pumped into the bodies. Poor loves. I wish her well and think of her often.
I think about his dying alot. The thought of will he be alive in the morning often plays through my mind. It’s not morbidity. I am just being realistic. And open to the fact that he could go, any day. Will you be there in the morning? I ask him when he tucks me into bed. Yes, if I have anything to do with it, he says, adding, I don’t want to go yet, I’m having too nice a time. I’m glad. He is happy. I can see that. Yes, there are the usual gripes and temper tantrums, but they are generally over small things and more often than not about being irritating with himself because he can’t do something or other. I am glad that I’ve played a part in his contentment. It makes a life worthwhile, that.
I seek it, long for it. I am aware that it is within me. It is there, somewhere. And that the stress and physical tension I feel is self-made and self-generated. It is mine. I create it, trigger it. All of it. I give myself pain, unnecessarily. I know this.. All of this. And yet I long for the other. I believe others have, display it. I think I see and am the presence of it. They would probably dispute it. We are all actors. Let it rise to the surface, the fretting serves no purpose. It depletes my energy, hurts my body. Let me breathe and pay attention to the moment. All will come and all will be done.