After two dry days, the rain has returned. It’s an autumnal rain that drizzles down the windows. And it comes with the murk of darker mornings. Not yet November it feels like it. So be it. Down into the tunnel we go to wait for Spring. My desire to sleep, to hide, to hibernate is strong. Sometimes, it’s overwhelming.
I’ve always been, or at least, felt cowardly. I am not brave. I sense my fear daily. Life is too big for me. It always has been. And probably, always will be. But nevertheless, I do face my fears. Like now, sitting here at my desk getting ready to return to the article I began yesterday. It was a hacking-out piece of writing. I hated it. Today, after hours of mulling, I am ready to begin again, with, I hope, more authenticity, more openness. I may fail. But I will try to succeed. Is that courageous?
What can we do in the face of it? The early morning news speaks of Irael bombing Iran. Where will it end? War upon war. Such belligerence. Have we learnt nothing?
They disappear. I try to catch a hold of them, the dangling string of an idea of them, but it’s too soon gone. There are glimpses of something through the day, a smell, an outlook, a face but nothing concrete, nothing that holds together of that world I’ve inhabited so fully for – what was it? – a minute, a minute and half? I know that there is complexity, that I do remember. They always involve a deep, layering of experience of knowing of belonging, that often it is a wrench to leave. I want to know them more, know their wisdom. How?
I was listening to Radio 3 just before getting into my bath. John Shea had announced that he was to play Handel’s Gloria, the “famous one”, and it was just beginning to start when it went off, on both my radios (one in the bedroom, the other in the adjoining bathroom). It wasn’t silence that ensued but a high-pitched squeal. This was followed by a series of bleeping noises. I’d heard someone talk about radio signals being hijacked for naferious means. Was this what was happening? Surely the BBC protects itself against such things? I let it be for a couple of minutes, hoping that John Shea and Handel would return. They didn’t. I switched radios and channels. A mystery.
The Prom looked ravaged this morning as I walked. Shail, pebbles and stones were strewn across the road and pavements. ROAD CLOSED signs had been erected and sections cordoned off. The shelter seemed to still be in one piece. It hurts to see it so. Its wounded. And it will be left that way for some time now. For they know that other storms will follow. We all do.
She calls it ‘rat’. ‘It’ is rataouille. When he calls her each afternoon he asks what she had for lunch. This usually excites much mutual groaning. Oh, not again, he says, when she describes a mush of cheese and leeks or cheese and broccoli. Rat is the worst. A dish that seems to be the Home’s kitchen’s failsafe for the ‘vegetarian’ residents. She isn’t, vegetarian, that is, but isn’t partial to red meat so often opts for it. It rarely satifies. She doesn’t complain. A strong woman in other respects, it is hard to understand why. The complexity of living in and managing such an environment is beyond our knowing. We must respect her decision. She can air her complaints with us, however, and that is just fine. Yesterday it was turkey. And you never know next Friday it might just turn out to be lemon sole. There’s always hope, even in ‘prison’.
I’m reading about grief. Stories about grief. Stories about dying. Some tell of after-life experiences. They are light-filled, warm narratives. Do I believe them? I don’t know. I baulk at sentimentality. But there is something, isn’t there? Something?
Was it that that knocked me sideways or the aborted attempt at getting a flu jab? The force of his personality, and now the force of his grief, unsettled me. I carried, it and him in my head as I walked into to town to have what I thought would be an injection but was denied it at the last minute. After that I just couldn’t bring the day together. I frittered away the time on admin and nonsense and felt shitty about myself. A waste. A wasted day.
It doesn’t feel like home. The landlord has been in and stained the floors. I don’t know it, as I did. There is an alien feel to it. I know that this is nonsense, histrionic, even. But there it is. I need to get used to it again, with all its new stickiness. He says he feels the same. We’ve been away, on and off, for almost a month. We are creatures of habit and we’ve been knocked off course. It will start to return, that normality we expect from life, though for others there is no such thing. These are little things, minor irritations, and the landlord meant well. I acquiesce to the imperfection of it all. I promise.