Once Upon a Time I thought this...

Going through my old notebooks, typing up the novel, I came across the following:

• A Newspaper clipping on Balcombe Vidaduct 
• A to-do list from the days when I used to have lunch breaks 
• A spider-diagram from the days when I used to have ideas
• A game of hangman starring my friend Laelia
• A list of birthday presents to be acquired for an ex-boyfriend
• The following weird snippets, which sentimentality and loyalty to a former identity drove me to type up and retain... they felt sort of relevant to this time of year.

NATURE. THE WILDERNESS

Always present in a capacity of strangeness, of non-urbanity. When we are far from it, it is delivery, or abandon. When we are amongst it, it is honesty, or a distanct forgotten something - to be connected with, defined, related to.

We lose ourselves in the city, as unnumbered, writhing lost-things. We can dissolve our minds here. On being suddenly lost amongst nature a strangeness comes - the upshot of such learned, conditioned infacility.

But nature always yields connection. Through fear, desperation or desire, ultimately we find union in the manner it chooses for us, not one we chose for it. Seasons, climates, droughts and plenty - to be reminded of what we do not control is a step from our surrender to it.

Surrender can be found in an hour, found in a weekend, found in a year. This is the internal inclination that distances the natural world from the honed predictability of the urban landscape, the singularity of which cultivates on a lack of necessity. In the city we function. In nature, we relent from habit, release persona and connect. In connection your purpose is another's. Another's purpose is yours.

AUTUMN

Autumn comes first with one cool morning. The sun naps another 5 minutes and I suddenly notice the breeze - a novel movement of air and I ask myself, was it there yesterday?

Consciousness seems more abrupt on waking. I'm warm in bed, but the air slices through the cracks in the duvet, and I recoil at its touch. Outside, in the half-hearted light, beneath a white, forgotten sky, everything is damp and somehow darker.

The dew lingers, the air thins, and when it whips through me - on a station platform, round a street corner - it whispers ' come away'

Change is here. An awakening less fevered than passion, more an instinct of history spurs me into movement, to find a new place. 

Another movement and my heart migrates and the change is within, a pain, an unpointed yearning - just a clear beginning and end. Every year it comes, and every year I follow.

Gigs, Work-Addiction, Seasonal Shifts.. and Being a Secret Slob

GRANDADDY FANS AND FANS OF GRANDADDY

This week was weird. I think I made it weird, actually.

There I was, sitting in the sweatiest, hottest, gig in London, swooning from a big glass of wine, completely and contentedly solo amongst the crowd and awaiting my favourite band, ever, in the world, just staring at people.

These are people I have something in common with. They’re fans of the band too. A band that unformed and reformed and unformed again at the end of the night – a band that unformed and reformed my adolescent soul and entire adult musical predilection (Wham! being the exception).

There we all were, eagerly awaiting a moment we thought we’d never see – the band back together – and all I could see were twatty specs.

Please, someone, tell me when it became the mode for all regular glasses to look like you were lining up at the IMAX about to visit some 3D screening of the latest Hollywood  blockbuster. Whatever happened to a nice, rounded pair of tortoiseshell frames?

Oh.

And there it was. That moment when you realise you’re a type. Right now I’m sitting here, stood up by a friend that frankly, I’m a little worried about, in a Clapham North pub on Friday night (eugh) drinking red wine and blogging about what? Glasses?

Holy crap. It’s like a little egocentric freezeframe just happened. If this were a movie then it would probably start moving again as I get over myself. However, it isn’t, and I’m just a tad drunk already.

Anyway, back to the point of this, which believe it or not, was NOT twatty ‘I work in media’ glasses. It was rather, on how I got to thinking how very, very important the band Grandaddy have been in my emotional formation, and how very important they had been in the emotional formation of almost every other sweaty little bumpkin at that gig.

I couldn’t quite understand how people look so very different – some ordinary, some very good-looking, none downright odd - outwardly and yet share such fundamental good stuff on the inside. It was warming, really! And even if they just liked the band a little, or just went along for a bit of fun, or were dragged, it still felt nice to be reminded of how much  you can have in common with the person you least expect.

  

THE NIGHTHAWKS

Later, on the journey home, I stared ruefully at the various slumbering victims of night-tubing. Where was their stop? Would they make it home? Or would it be the night bus from the middle of nowhere?

I found myself noisily trying to stir them at various stops (socially demographing all the while… it’s amazing how telling that pashmina can be) I know I’d appreciate the same, having ended up in Colliers Wood a multitude of times when I lived in Tooting. It’s not far on the tube. It’s a bitch on the night bus, especially when you’re worried you’ll fall asleep again.

But the night bus isn’t all bad though. When I moved to Sydenham last year, I stubbornly continued with my social life around Clapham, Balham, Tooting and their environs, which entailed the late bus to Elephant & Castle, and a late bus back out of town to get home.

I do not enjoy this bus. Especially not in the middle of winter, but it was here that I met Eddie. Eddie was wearing a puffa jacket, I wasn’t wearing enough. We fell asleep on each other, on that long, toe-numbing trundle to suburban London. It was just before Forest Hill when we both awoke, sedated by booze to discover we were sharing body heat on one of those intimate two-seaters on the top deck.

Now, I’ve no idea what Eddie was talking about, really, but we talked. I told him about being a radio producer and excitedly, he told me about what he does. Everything. Everything? I asked. Everything. He replied. Somehow, I took this to mean music, and told him I was always looking for new and custom stuff to use in trails and competition beds, if he had a PRS registration.

And that’s how I ended up with ‘Eddie Does Everything’ in my purse, and a mobile number. Why I’ve kept it these all these months, I’m not quite sure. It’s just funny to open your purse and be reminded that if you really want to you’ll find some random, stupid connection with anyone. Even if you just invent it. Heartwarming a la my Grandaddy gig experience.

Whilst we’re on the subject of late nights, let’s extend this to early mornings. I’ve decided that there are some benefits to being that douchebag at work – the one who’s in before everyone else, the one’s who’s there after everyone else, the one that just generally trumps the lot when it comes to hardcore work-based dedication. It’s just generally not quite as good as the benefits of NOT being in work all the time.

The douchebag is usually me. There are lot of pathologically pathetic people in my company who also feel inadequate should they start work at 9am / leave at 5.30pm / take a lunch break. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing that people care so much about doing the perfect job, but let’s face it…. There’s a point where it becomes more about your self-opinion than the work you’re getting done.

In the scheme of things, I’m all for integrity and high personal standards, but when you’ve been flat out on adrenalin, deadlines and resolving unpredictable, last-minute problems for 14 hours, everyone else has come to work, finished work and gone to the pub, and you still don’t feel quite content with things… YOU HAVE GOT TO FUCK IT OFF FOR THE NIGHT.

Frankly, it’s easier said than done, but worth doing anyway. The empowerment of just resuming your own goddam life heavily outweighs the benefits of the moral high ground, the late-night reduced section of the Co-op, AND even the promise of pouncing upon some M&S Food goodies after the sticker man has been round.

This week, I’ve rolled in at 9am every day. I’ve felt guilty, I’ve felt out of control, but basically nobody has given a crap, and I’ve got the work done. A LOT of work. I’ve been waking at 5am, switching the alarm off, waking at 6am, switching the alarm off, then waking at 7am by sheer chance. Exercise has been off the table. I think I must be a bit ill.

It’s either that, or frank awareness that however much I love my job, there are more important things in my life right now. My sister, our family, my friends, namely. Perhaps, also the rather wonderful man I appear to be seeing. Yes, a real man.

THE SUMMER THAT NEVER CAME

Come with me now…

…. You’ll have to imagine the birdsong.

This picture was taken on Thursday. I’ve taken my sister’s post-chemo days off for the rest of the treatment in case she wants some company or whatnot, but in the morning I went running at a nearby Ash plantation at Beckenham Place Park.

There I was, galloping along, a little hypnotized by the album I was listening to, when I was struck by the feeling I’ve been waiting for. I’ve been waiting for it for a long time.

It’s September – it’s a chill in the air, a moisture and however warm that sun is, it’s perceptible. It feels like a lifting of something heavy just above the eyes. It’s change, it’s movement, it’s relief.

I was racing along with the sun in my eyes and it felt like I was dancing through the patchy woodland light. My heart was soaring, my feet barely seemed to touch the ground. I was just running outdoors, free as a lark in the September sunshine, and it felt AMAZING.

It made me realise that such an everyday delight had been gone from my life for so many months! It’s just the simple joy of being alive.

I may have mentioned before that August, perennially, is my depressed month. It’s no big deal, but I feel as gloomy as sin at the end of August – numb of mind and spirit – so that when the change comes – usually with one lot of rainfall, and the air changes, I’m elated and alive again in September. It’s my most creative month. I come to life in the Autumn. I write prolifically, run, draw, talk, revel in music, enjoy all the things that have slowly ebbed away from me over the hot, confusing summer months.

This year has been different. Spring is my other opus-time, but the natural pattern of things has been scattered throughout 2012.

This is how it has gloomily been, on reflection:

January… heartache, writing escape, further heartache. Small dramas about money, friends etc.

Easter… Heartache pales in comparison to cancer. Realisation that the most important people in our lives are NOT invincible.

June… The whole world has changed and will never be the same. But we are doing OK, together and we will not take each other for granted ever again. Heartbreak: The finale.

August…Falling in love. Quite unexpectedly.

September…Waking up. A little more bad news so far. Not going to share it. Can’t really, as it’s not my news to share. But I’m going to do everything I can to make it OK.

And here we are, thick with resolve, brazening emotions high and low, swooping like migrating birds into the season. This feels like the summer that never came, for there has been more than a hole in the year, this year. There has been no summer, no season, for although they took that cancer out of my sister and she is strong and fighting, it has changed everything.

It has been like one world ended, and another has begun. In this new one, my eyes are open and I know, every day, with a nagging fear and swelling love, how lucky we are, how fragile life is and how we must cherish each other. That is a big, stinking cliché, no doubt. But that is what cancer does to families. It is clear as day and true and real as any stinking cliché. That’s WHY a cliché’s a cliché and not a platitude.

So I’m calling this the summer that never came, because the shift has taken place. This feels like a brand new world and this month of change, always so bright, beautiful and poignant, makes it all the fresher. The blackberries are beginning to ripen – I already saw a woman out picking. The shadows are longer, making everything look like a picture postcard. I ran into a field and came across ten dogs being walked in a group. It was a little dog-party and it made me feel so happy. But then, dogs do. It’s just their sunshine outlook.

OH. THAT HAPPENED FAST

That was my sister’s measured comment on the phone, when a clump of newly grown hair made the jump from head to hand.

Later, I knocked on the front door and received no answer. Letting myself in, I followed a steady thudding through her sun-dappled kitchen to peer into the garden. There she was, the day after some pretty hardcore chemo drugs, pumped on steroids, swinging a mallet and steadily breaking up the remainder of some concrete slabs. I think she’s channeling Ripley from Alien.

At any rate it was the most wonderful thing I’d seen in a while. For some reason, that matter of fact disregard for any sort of victim behavior made my heart soar. She was Scarlett O’Hara ploughing Tara. My sister, playing the good old “Fuck Cancer” card. What a bloody legend.

And the link here isn’t too tenuous to talk about ‘Jing’ the Chinese energy I have learned about this week. From what I can glean, it’s the life-force that brings vitality to body and mind. I know this only because the man I’m doing sex with told me… and he knows Kung Fu. He went away on a 2 and a half week trip and left me with the challenge of making some serious novel-writing progress. He also told me that men can give the ladies their Jing with a bit of how’s your father, so I’ve taken his parting gift to heart and been super-creative all week (even if it hasn’t applied to getting into work on time)

Actually, it’s quite possible my creativity is the only damn thing I can do to stop myself thinking about him, not that I’d dream of letting him know that of course. Novel-writing is a great distraction, it turns out.

POSH AND STINKY

This week I ran past this charming canal… along to the parcel delivery office to pick up what I thought was a letter. It was a massive course starter kit from the NCTJ on this Distance Journalism course I’ve decided to do.

It was a hot day, and had been a hot run, but I was short on time and need to get some things from the Co op, so I braved it on the way back, and just tried to stay away from the few other customers in there at that time of day.

It was a quiet, but as I was queuing at the till, I’m SURE a retarded man told me I smelt bad. I DID smell bad, by the way. I’d been running for an hour in 25 degree sunshine and was now carrying a giant box of books. I just chortled away and agreed, good-naturedly. I had definitely gone beyond a ladylike glowing at any rate.

But whether or not he genuinely was addressing me, or the moon, is sort of irrelevant to my point.  The fact is I moved to Sydenham just because I feel comfortable doing this here, and nobody knows who I am (except the guy in Costcutter. And the staff of Penge Food Centre).

My flat has a group of tattooed drunks lying on the steps every day. There’s rubbish down every alleyway and my flat – in spite of my Glade Sense n’ Spray Air Fresheners that fart out musk at every movement – always just smells a little bit damp. I can let the side go, and let myself go a bit, because nobody looks fancy in Sydenham. Everyone is just a bit normal and scrappy. Loads of people have hygiene issues, alcohol issues, debt issues, asylum issues, literacy issues… but it’s a nice, friendly place and I don’t have to tart around like a media bitch when I’m here. THAT is why I love it. That, and the many trees.

So, back home in the shower, it sort of amused me that I was scrubbing down and buffing myself up for that Classical BRITS that evening. One of the stations I work at was going, obviously, and I was heading along to loiter in the corners and get to know my colleagues a bit better whilst they inappropriate and unguarded.

I imagine most people make this transition in a day  - from slob to shiny and back again. I think this is the most tiring part of any day. I would get so much more done if I could just shave my head and wander into work wearing jeans and a T-shirt. No undies. Cave lady, wurgh…. And yet, I’ll never quite let myself. When it matters, I am impeccably presented. And it DOES matter. A lot. As my mother will tell you I’m sure, when she’s hassling you to put some earrings in / lipstick on / show off your waist. She is completely right, of course.

AND ANOTHER THING MY MOTHER KNOWS…

Oh… and she was right about something else this week… just quickly. Vice Versas anyone? They’re like giant white and brown Smarties – some sort of chocolate in a sugar shell – the reverse on the inside to the outside. Clever. Anyway, they’re back, and I’m sure my Mum used to love them, so I got some.

Just thought it was worth noting amongst all the other mental crap of this week. I genuinely, genuinely wanted to call home about it.

IN SUMMARY…

In summary? I think I have joined the world of strange people trying to tie everything together neatly when the only true connection is my addled mind. 

It’s been a weird blog post this week, but in loose rhyme form I’ve learned the following:

You CAN make a connection, in spite of twatty specs,

You have to leave your work at work  - make time for love & sex

Change is always poignant on lovely Autumn treks

A sunny outlook changes all, just keep your Jing in check.

Oh.. and maybe....

And there’s something quite affirming, about being a total wreck.