I found out yesterday that I have to return nineteen books to the library. Nineteen, of the, what have become precious, tomes that currently fill my bookshelves. It threw me completely. But there is nothing for it but to return them and hope, possibly beyond hope, that they will let me renew them and carry them all the way (200 miles or so) home.
We were in a coffee shop. He’d gone off to collect his coffee from the counter and on his return to the table he was scowling. He’s just farted, he said, inclining his head towards the man who was sitting behind him, a really loud one, I just heard it. He also told me how the same man had stared at him really aggressively, and how he’d stared back. Perhaps he may not be well, I said, remembering how the man’s wife had, on leaving to go to the toilet, told him what she was going to do in a slow, laboured way. Yes, maybe you are right, he said. Perhaps he has dementia. We both watched him then, when he and his wife rose to leave. He looked far away, unresponsive, lost. Poor love.
It was only a dream. We were on a bus, he and I and I lost him. He must’ve got off somewhere, I remember thinking. I wasn’t concerned. Perhaps I should’ve been. Then a man telephoned me. I don’t remember answering my phone, just hearing his voice. He’s had a stroke, he said, and there can’t be any rules any more. The rules have to stop. He sounded angry with me, as if he held me responsible for his condition. Was I? He put him on the phone. I had fun on the bus, he said.
It haunts me. And it is the same whenever I am to begin writing something new, something that is yet inchoate. And now that fear is increased by the spectre of a new, additional supervisor. He looms over me as I try to begin. I must get over this. Push all of it aside and just begin, write what is mine, what is in me, find my voice and all those other platinudinous things…blah, blah. Just write, Ellen. That’s all, Just write.
I am hurting again. My back has been pulled. Overdoing it, he says. The hurt makes it stiff, rigid, umoving. And I am sorry for it. Things were improving. So be it. I shall sit and work, hot water bottles on my back and tummy and wait till it passes. I am blessed, regardless, now and always.
Just liquids. No solids. I’m to give a try. It might work or it might not. I have a choice, others don’t. So far the hunger is at bay. Perhaps it won’t come. Outside it rains and rains.
It’s not important. None of it is. The fact that the fridge has broken, or that my body hurts, or that I feel that I am not working hard enough. None of it matters. Not in comparison to their hunger, or the tsunami that threatens. Nothing matters but those real life things. Let me not forget…
Tomorrow I am going to get it seen to. It’s a long way to go to be flushed out, to be made clean, to start afresh. I want it. And then? A new regime? Who knows? It doesn’t seem to like food. Shall I just do without? What a luxury, eh? To be able to choose to deny oneself. The irony is acute, I know. Let them be fed. Please.
I am so acutely aware of the insignificance of my daily, nay hourly concerns. Such as the fridge. Which, appears to be on the blink. (It leaked a ton of water and I through such a wobbly. To my shame.) It is nothing. They are nothing compared to not be able to feed your starving baby. Oh, my heart bleeds, I feel it. So much despair. Please let the aid get through. Soften those hard, hard hearts.
It’s more a question of allowing oneself to be happy, really. Especially when the world is filled with so much unhappiness. I talk to him about it. How would you being unhappy on their behalf help them? he asks with his usual wisdom. Nothing, I say. And it wouldn’t. Can’t I be happy and still remember – still pray for the end to violence, to hunger, to war? It all sounds so platitudinous. I can be more specific. France talks of recognising their state. I hope we follow suit. Take a stand. Feed them. Honour them. Save them. Now. Please.