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?
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.