It’s the publicness of it. And the sense that I don’t belong. That I am not like the others who are there. It is all my imaginings. And he would say so what? So what? What does it matter? What does any of it matter? I think of those in Aber’s cemetery. All long gone. As have all their fears, hopes and ambitions. Small fry. Small stuff. And my stuff is small. Nothing counts. Not really. I need to detach. To put it all in perspective. Just do my best. I am small. So small. Shall I embrace that?
They are rare. The come once in a blue moon. That is not a complaint. Such days are often hard won. And a gentle peaceful line of a day without incident is generally more easily lived. Yesterday was a diamond. The sun shone. I was resigned and yet open. And it opened. People were kind, responsive. As was I. It is enough. Today cannot keep such flow up. I understand that. I am happy for a peacefulness. I wish others the same.
I know travel can be disorientating. And I certainly find it so. I am not at home, I am adrift, unanchored. And yet, I am made alive (once the tiredness abates) by the newness of the placesin which I land. Like now. The city sounds outside are marvellous to me. And then there is today. I am so separate from what it happening to my life. This big thing that I am making, generating and yet I’ve no idea where I am supposed to be and with whom. I cannot get a handle on it. Shall I just yield to this? Allow it to unfold. It will happen, it will pass too. I worry too much about what people think of me, all those imagined judgements. Embrace the strange, E. Embrace the uncertainty. Let it come. In them lie your changing, your metamorphosis. And end.
It was a mighty stink. He mentioned it first, smelt it first. I was in bed. Lying down. The smell took longer to reach me. Meat. Someone was cooking meat. And it stank. Was it coming from the flat below or from across the walkbridge. I thought it would never go. Fried onions superseded it. Then I must’ve slept. (Not before soaking a tissue in perfume and holding it to my nose).
I’m reading Tom Lubbock’s book about his dying. Such accceptance. It is noble, not brave, I think but above that. Spiritual even. I am awed.
I do my best. Sometimes that is all I can say. Nothing more. I see the holes. I see the mess, the not-quite in all the things I do. I have my limitations. I am sensitive to opinion, even when not overtly expressed. But I am also wrong in my interpretations. I know this. I just keep going on. Doing my best.
I’ve finished Marion Coutts’ book. I struggle with finishing books. Not because I can’t see them through, but because it requires that stepping out of a story that I have lived. It’s end is mine. She writes fiercely. There’s something feral about it, and I suspect, her. She catapults us to his end too. And then its over. New story. His.
I remember a herbalist telling me once that my heartbeat was like a tight guitar string. I am taut. My body is rigid. What’s wrong? he asks in his soft, still-in-bed voice. And I snap. I haven’t spoken to anyone for four hours and during that time (since getting up) I’ve got more and more tense. His concern makes me snarl. I can’t tell you. I shout. Wanting him to understand but not making myself at all clear. I cannot say what it is. It is all and everything. And all I can do is wait for it to pass. Whatever it is. Fear. Uncertainty, which is much the same thing. Wanting to run, to sleep, to do anything but bring myself here to this desk to work. So be it. The sun is beginning to show. The day must be lived, like the next and the next. Until there is nothing left. For me at least. Amen.
I saw it from my studio at about 1.45 am. It was huge, burning yellow and orange. A half-shape, not neat, but ragged and blurred. It burnt through the black, scorching. A hot place. Far away.
Ah death. I think about it, I write about it, I hear about it, I see it and I encounter it. We all do, but I am alert to it, watching. Waiting. I still walk to that cottage, that house on that island as I fall to sleep. Last night I saw another bedroom. It was on a lower floor. The bed made up. A big bed that filled the whole space, virtually. The landing outside was higher, the bed and the bedroom was slightly beneath me as I looked in. The duvet cover was floral. Pretty. Light. A little old-fashioned. Daylight was coming in from somewhere. A windo, that I couldn’t see? I climbed farther. My bedroom, the white one of my imagining was on a higher floor still.
The cut down the briar bush yesterday. The scent had been lovely, sweet, heady and pure. Some of it may come back, said one of the gardeners as she swept up the debris. It looks denuded, hacked. I loved its wildness. Yes, it was taking over but everything on this old school’s environs is being over-neatened, manicured like an American theme park. They do their best. For the meantime, the wildness outside our bedroom windows remains, though nore building has been mooted. The birds roost there, butterflies drink from the huge buddlieas, cats prowl and life teems in the undergrowth. I didn’t like it at first, now I do.
It floors me, sapping my energy and taking away any sense of achievement by a task done. I know the fault if mine. Always mine. But it is a hard pattern to break. I feel so clumsy, so awkward, suddenly the language I use and own, is not mine any longer. I am speaking foreign, a gobbly-de-gook of sounds. Oh, give me grace. Let me learn to stand back. It doesn’t matter, he says, over and over again. So what, is another. So what. If only. I got irritable with her, as she, no doubt got with me. She was the first one that I spoke to on the helpline that hasn’t been all patience and kindness. It’s not the way I do it, she said. Just help me. I wanted to implore. Help me to understand this. She didn’t. I fudged through.