Category: Writings

Five minutes to seven and it is almost light. Not for long, he’d say, but try to enjoy it. So I shall. He is out. He’s gone for his walk and I’m glad. It’s been a few days now and he gets all mouldy when he goes back to bed. It has never solved his lowness, ever. And I? I walked as usual, in the dark but with a wind blowing. Dry and cold and with lots of people about. I am weary with this infection. We toyed with going to A&E last night to check it was OK. My arm and wrist are also red with it. Is it the poison finding my bloodstream? All these physical changes, it freaks me sometimes. What next? And liquid seeps from my the infection. It stinks. It is a watery stuff, that smells of rotting animal flesh. Is that coming from me? Is it still anger? At what and at whom? There is so much I cannot fathom. A putrid infection they used to call it. And that is what the smell is, putrefying flesh. My flesh. My poison. My anger. It will out, clearly.

He said he’d bumped into the man we’d seen all those years ago in Cambridge. You know, he said, the one who’s wife is in a home. Anyway he’d met him in Tesco’s. A gossip, apparently. And this time it was all bad news, he said. It was about the doctor who lives down the road. He with the neat and tidy bodger garden which he clearly adores. He’s got a brain tumour and they’ve given him 4 months. Poor love. His poor family. A small man. A lover of cars. he has how many 6 or 9 or more? All with his same initialled number plate. How does he get to drive them all? he asks. 4 months. And it won’t be nice. I remember how it was with my father. You lose them before. Way before. At least there is no pain, though plenty of discomfort, I remember he just couldn’t get comfortable. He just wanted to go in the end. I prayed that he could. Open the window and let him out. Us out. Me out.

I finished the piece. Writing today. I want to find my joy in it again. Begin at the beginning. She was entrancing, alive with it. Help me to do her justice.

There is always another way of looking at things. So, we’ve had a shock, though as the days have passed we have both become calmer and more sanguine about it. However, I thought about it as I walked through the rain this morning listening to the pittery-pat of the drops on my umbrella and in a way it is a good thing to know all this, at least it gives us, me, time to put things in order, and to make my goodbyes. It may all be nothing, the consultant may be wrong or I may not have such a virulent strain of it and I may yet die an old woman. Who knows? Who can ever know? The knowing, such knowing is not ours to have. And if it is, what a precious thing that is, to be able to prepare to put ones’ house in order, how I long to be able to do that. The mess she left behind was exhausting. I don’t want that for my loves to do. So we just have to wait and I will meanwhile begin to pay proper attention.

My finger seems to be getting a little better, or am I imagining it? My arm aches though, is the poison travelling up the vein? And my wrist is red. Is it all connected? It would be nice to feel well again. This infection makes me a little queasy and the ABs continue to be horrid.

I dreamt of a lover. The desire, though never properly expressed, was intense, as was his. He was beautiful, slim, dark, tousled-haired. I felt his bones, his skeleton, his skin and the heat of him. Rare dreams these days.

Work to do. Washing to hang out first, then coffee, then work. Next week he is 72 and we will have been married (on and off – but symbolically together) for 21 years. No mean feat. Ah but how I love him.

According to Ms Hay’s book the middle finger represents anger or irritability and an infection there doubly so. And yet. And yet, am I angry? I feel detached from it, if I am. And if I am what about? Yes, I get irritable now and again, but it soon passes. I don’t have the powerful feelings I used to have as a youth, at least I’m not aware of them any more. Things don’t bubble up, burst forth like they used to. Or perhaps I am better at smothering them, hence the infection, which I may say is very sore. I had to succumb to antibiotics. Ugh, I hate taking them, though I know that they, penicillin more specifically, have saved many lives. And they are not vegan. What am I to do? The nurse says I have no choice that the infection may spread to the knuckle. I am caught between a rock and a hard place.

She was lovely again. It was bliss lying there have my feet done, warm, smelling of hemp cream and drifting in and out of consciousness. I feel safe with her. There is a roundedness to her, a centredness to her and she too has her trials. I can see it.

Do I have it? Will I die? It moves further away, away from my grasp of reality. Everything is shifting, nothing is solid, nothing is certain anymore. A quick clean of the house and it tires me out. Then work. Then home. She answered today, in a rush because Country Cars is coming to collect her at 9.45 to take her to Lampeter. She sounds a little excited, thrilled at her new adventurous spirit. Bless her. Little triumphs to some, huge one to others. I know this kind of woman. I read of Fanny in Mansfield Park and know her too. More than I realised. Her ambitions are small, her need for quiet and an ordered household immense. Coffee begins to taste good again. But still all is not quite well. Will we have to wait long to know for sure?

She used the word suggestive in her letter, saying that my symptoms were suggestive of it. It feels right. It makes sense. It was a shock. For both of us. Neither of us slept. It wasn’t what I expected for my life. I thought it would be long. So be it. Yesterday I talked about the power of acceptance, so this is to be my test. I don’t want the treatment. There is no cure, so what is the point? All that discomfort. I would rather live as well as I can till….till what? Well, we don’t know. She wrote that the MRI will confirm it, one way or another. I hope he keeps steady. Reading about it doesn’t help. I just need to wait, we both do. Wait and see. Meanwhile, there is work to do. And later, I hope the nurse can do something about my septic finger.

A grey morning. Been up to work, shopped and now have two hours to do a modicum of work before I have to go up again. I am detached. Tired. Watching. What will come?

Somedays I feel like I have little to say. I was sad yesterday. I am still mourning the loss, the loss of making. No, not just that but of having somewhere to place, to direct what I make. I am glad what I had then has gone. It wouldn’t do, not now. But I have, as yet nothing to replace it with, and have not done for these 12 years. Not really. Oh, I’ve made work and done some things that have pleased and excited me, but not like before. It’s the beauty, the creation of something beautiful, exquisite. I miss that, terribly.

Old age brings a recognition of the power of acceptance, of acquiescence. Sometimes it is the only power we have, to say, if this must happen then I will willingly succumb to it, manage it, make the best of it, detach from it, watch it, observe what it brings and what it dispenses with. Help me to learn it, the fighting is to no good, it diminishes, not empowers. So be it. Make me yield, make me grace-ful.

They have chosen, I have my work cut out. Just back from work. He was an astro-photographer and a little chopsy, though, to be fair he’d been up all night watching and filming the meteor shower, so I must be compassionate. The sky looks blue, a light azure with traces of pink. A good day is promised, I think, though a little cold.

My poisoned finger throbs but it has reduced a little. Many things hurt, so be it. I will learn from the sensations and await the healing. He says he will call the hospital. He is impatient for news. So be it. All will take its time and all, in time, will out like the poison, eh?

First coffee in nine days. Good to smell it, though I feel a little bad I didn’t hold back another day. Some days one just needs the comfort of it. Yes?

I found it in the road. A gold horse, though more like brass. It looks welded. It was a bright thing, a shiny thing. A compensation for the lowness of yesterday morning. All that standing. The tiring-ness of it, of being in a musty dusty bookshop, jaded. It doesn’t feel right anymore, much of it. My body doesn’t, my mind doesn’t, it’s all out of sorts. And now my skin is tight, as if it’s being pulled stretched taut across the whole of my body. I must just go with what is happening, acquiesce, watch, observe and learn, if I can.

A day at home, please. To work. To concentrate and then rest. And food too, I no longer know what to eat.

It had been forgotten. A pushchair. A good one, clean, and neat. It was just by the old phone box at the top of South Marine Terrace. Surely it hasn’t been left? Surely it will be missed.

The man I see working on his computer in his living room cum study cum kitchen in the ground floor flat along Mill Road was at work again this morning. He sits staring intently at the screen, his blind slightly open to the night. What does he work on at this time? Can’t he sleep?

The TED talk was about the difference between joy and happiness, the speaker felt that happiness was internal, self-led and joy was something one shared, one felt with the whole of humanity. An interest thought. Certainly joy is more whole, more complete. We need more, please. Can it be self-driven? Possibly.

He didn’t get back to sleep after waking for a wee. Poor love. He gets so down-hearted. I am a little today too, though I didn’t tell him. It’s the hurting. I must raise myself. There is no time for the doldrums.

The sea was a mill pond. And the moon but half. Enough though to light my way a little.

She said yes to one and no to the other. Heigh ho. It wasn’t a closed door though.

I must just wait. The work will come through. As will the beauty. Just give it time.

What could it have been about? First one police car then a second and then a big van load of them, their blue light flashing all the way down Great Darkgate Street. Then they all got out and went to a flat along Northgate Parade, pressing the bell first before they all filed in. This sleepy town where nothing much happens except the occasional drunk student throwing up outside The Angel. What do you think? I asked him at breakfast. A drugs haul? Raid, he said, and no, they wouldn’t have rung the doorbell first but bashed in the door. Perhaps they are more solicitous here.

Two of them were just leaving the flat when I walked past on my way home. A female officer was the last to come out and I watched as she gently pulled the door to. Who knows? Better watch out for The Cambrian News then, he said.

It was his funeral last week. A private affair. I understand that. This town can feel like it owns people. It would be the same with him. My decision, our decision will thwart them. They won’t be happy, those professional mourners with their black ties and black suits ever ready. They must’ve reached their decision as to the cause of death. Let it lie now. People still speculate. I hope I didn’t add to it. I didn’t want to. I still think of him. Rest in peace.

The work was done, though my laptop started to go haywire. She will need to be seen to. Not yet, please God, not yet. Let me finish what needs to be done, first. Please.

Still dark. So dark. Dark upon dark. A trace, a hint of blue. We talked of Spring on the escalator and then a man, a postman, was behind us, our intimacy laid bare. I felt exposed. I would’ve hung back. I forgive him.

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.