The Met Office promised forty mile an hour winds this morning. Forty it wasn’t. I went on the Prom, and even kicked the bar. The students have gone, or are going. The parked cars are sparser but there are still lit windows in the night. Christmas comes but I feel little of it. The carols are nice though, and the candles. It is enough.
I’ve always loved advent calendars. The traditional ones, that is. Not the rather over-the-top ones with chocolate and even make-up. My favourites are those that remind me of my childhood ones, made of card and with little windows that you open to reveal a picture. Anything secret like that, always charmed my inner soul. Did we share one as children? Probably. Oh, and that little door that revealed Christmas Eve was the cream. I have one now. It hangs on the fridge door. It’s not of a nativity scene but a Roger de la Borde commissioned illustration of a polar bear. It’s nice enough. And, I do get a tiny frisson of pleasure from pushing the little window open. He bought one for her. A mini version that she can have on her table beside her. I hope it gives her some pleasure too. She said that she used to keep the same calendar year after year. She’d push the little doors shut at the end of each advent and re-use it. I like to think of her. And I do so often.
They’re on their way home. Parties are being held, bedroom lights stay on through the night, The Pier is open late and the Prom resounds with inebriated shouting. Exams are done, essays handed in and suitcases are being packed. They’re going home. I see them when I walk in the early hours. The other morning their were three, or was it four, girls tripping bambi-like in high heels and wearing sequinned dress cut up the thigh (no coats, naturally), they giggled as they stumbled towards Penglais Hill with one boy, unfamiliar in his suit, offering them physical, if not, moral support. I enjoy their raillery. I like that they are having fun. It’s like living a parallel life. I always wish them a safe passage home to their beds. In my head, that is. Let them be safe. Let us all be safe. Please.
I treasure mine. I do. I don’t miss the lusting, that unrelenting appetite for another. Nor do I miss the physical intimacy. It is enough with this platonic, tender loving. It is all I’ve ever really wanted. The rest was chaos. It took me to places I didn’t want to go. It was unholy. And I long and search for holiness. Cleanliness. And I oh so love to sleep alone. In those white sheets. Celibacy holds me. It is cool, pure and kind. Sex isn’t. I never found my way with it. I wanted it love and it never brought me that. Ever. I am grateful for this self-containment. Forever so.
I lived in flats many times. I like it. I like being part of a community that I don’t necessarily have to become intimate with but I enjoy watching its comings and goings. I give names to these strangers, I make up narratives about their lives. At this time of the year I see lights shining in their windows. There are Christmas trees, garlands and wreaths on doors. I live vicariously through their home-making. One such is the family across the bridge from me. I can see into their first floor window. The room has a proliferation of decorations. Tinsel hangs from the walls, there’s a tree and the child’s (aka Moaning Mathilda) cut-out snowflake shapes have been stuck to the window. It is sweet. I like the care and the wish to celecrate with light and innocence. Last evening I caught a glimpse of the mother. She had a pair of reindeed antlers on her head. They were lit up with fairy lights. Perhaps she was wearing them to please the child. Or maybe, just maybe to excite her partner. Who knows. For all it’s naffness, I like it. I really do. (And I never got that crescent snow scene that I so hankered after).
It didn’t rain as promised this morning and I am glad for it. My leather gloves have become hard and rigid from all the drowning they’ve had. I made a drawing and then continued to walk along North Road and up the hill behind Alexandra Hall. The wind was building as I walked. I love that sight as I gain the crest of the hill and look down onto the sea. I was magnificent this morning, all churning and wild. Glorious.
Sometimes it feels like my heart isn’t working very well. Yes, I can scale that hill in Bath at quite a rate, and carrying a bag, but with mornings like today when I am on my feet cleaning for what seems like hours it does struggle to work. My legs get heavy and my breath is laboured. It passes. Fresh air helps as does walking. But it catches me short. I need to take care, know my limitations. And travelling and all the disturbed nights that it brings are not good. I don’t thrive physically, even if mentally I find it so thrilling. Time for rest now.
I called him. He didn’t recognise me at first. He is a stiff man, rigid, taut. Or at least that is how he has always seemed to me. I have to push through my instinct to avoid. And yet, I want to know him. And my feelings towards him are warming. I am beginning to see beyond the outer coolness. His son has it too, and I suspect, his daughter. They show little. But he warmed to me too, even making a joke about Northerners. I want to learn not to judge or, as I say, avoid people who are not like me or don’t reveal how they feel. I am safe with them. And they are safe with them. I feel immensely protective towards both him and his wife. They are going through a fearful time. And there are no clear signposts as to how to deal with it. Can I help? Probably not, but I can listen and pay attention. And draw.
We visited his sister yesterday. It was a good visit. I drew and they chattered away. There is ease now. They are beginning to really know and love each other in a way that I suspect neither did before. Something has been released. Perhaps Cis’ death his allowed this intimacy to blossom, who knows. Either way I am glad. She is happier, though maybe that is the wrong word. Too strong, for one must acknowledge how much she has lost. Her life is reduced, immeasurably. She has lost her beloved husband, her home and her indepence. She cannot walk or even get out of a chair unaided. But she can read, she still has her wits and her wonderful humour. And she is so loved both by family and, as it appears, by the carers who tend to her needs. I am glad for that too. She is accepting of it. Just as she accept that tat that they hung on her on door as a gesture towards Christmas. Would I in her situation? She is gracious, where perhaps I wouldn’t be. I can only admire her for it. All of it.
Some mornings it is just there, that underlying dis-ease. What’s wrong? he asked when I went in to wake him for breakfast. I tried to come up with explanations – I’ve a lot to do, a lot of my mind, it’s the winter, the cold, the unexpected rain and so on. And yes, it is all of those things but the truth is I can’t put my finger on it. I’m just frazzled. Is that OK? Perhaps I should just yield to it, and not struggle to smother it. Let it be and maybe it will pass. Who knows?