Last night was, well, odd.
>PLEASE DON’T READ FURTHER UNLESS YOU ARE COMFORTABLE WITH EXPLICITLY SEXUAL MATERIAL. Thank you
I have a dream
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Monthly Archives: July 2009
Perception; A picture of Michael Foot and tramp
I find myself re-reading the thing again. I remember, one time (or maybe it was a few times over a few days, or a week, or a month but, in any case, it was quickly) reading as far back as I could go, being intrigued and interested and savouring it all as if I was the only person reading it; as if it was written just for me or I had found something secret that no one else knew about, like an old diary or papers full of writing, hidden away from public view.
But the re-reading is slower. Now I have a ‘thing’ to hold on to during the imagination. A voice. A real, live person. The smile. The hands, the hair, the look.
And, strangely, because I didn’t think it would be possible, the words take on an intensity that I can hardly bear. And that’s why it’s slow. The intensity is almost too much but I find that it makes it even better; better but harder.
But now I think each story is different than I had thought before but that, of course, is not so true. It may be different in my own head but the story remains the same it is only my perception of it that is different and my perception means nothing to anyone else except me. It certainly doesn’t make the story or the protagonists different or change their view of the story in any way.
I have mentioned before how a voice can make a difference to me (take Alan Bennett as a good example) but, I suppose, and I had never noticed this before, so does the physical person.
Margaret Atwood, whose Canadian accent makes each English word a new word for me, I like not only for her voice. She is kooky with her frizzed hair and her round face and, somehow, perfect for the books she writes. Maya Angelou, the truly great American poetess, who still fills me with some sort of awe, just to write her name, because of her voice and the fact that she is, as one would expect, or, rather, not as one would expect but as she is, a rather large and imposing lady suiting, so perfectly, her voice and with a power that is both from her voice and her physique that made me the gibbering idiot when I wanted to say that I thought she was great and that I loved her and her power with words.
And Joan Armatrading, who, when I first met her was this rather small lady, so shy, so quiet and with her voice so deep, so powerful who has, actually, grown into her voice, if you see what I mean.
And so, the person and the voice are important and are what is now making me re-read so slowly and deliberately, trying to understand more than I did and knowing that is futile, really, since who can know anyone else by anything they do or say or write or sing.
And so I read and picture and imagine. There are bits that, although I know I have read them before, seem new and interesting and different, like they’ve been added just now, today, for me, to make it worth the effort to re-read (even if it is no effort on its own, just effort because of that intensity I mentioned before). And, somehow, more meaningful. And, again, I realise that it is my perception.
And, of course, it is our perception that makes the world as it is, not the world. The world remains constant, constantly changing of course but changing in a way that is the same. We change, however, or, rather, our perception changes and the re-reading points this out so clearly I wonder why I hadn’t realised it before now; why anyone hadn’t realised it before now – or perhaps they did and I was just late to get here. Perhaps the joke’s on me and everyone else has realised this, almost from birth.
And now I feel quite stupid for not understanding this much better. Not that it matters as most people who read this (few they may be) don’t know me and so, will nod sagely or laugh or whatever it is that one does when one knows the truth and reads about someone else just getting there.
And I thought I would post a picture of Michael Foot because he came up in conversation, recently, and I said that he looked like a tramp. And it might seem that this is unimportant (and, in reality, it is) but it is important to me. And I’m sorry that the picture didn’t come out in the same way that I had saved it but I hope you get the idea.
Finally, death!
And, finally, we talked about death. And it seemed fitting as it was the end of the conversation. We had talked about death before – about how he was living in the flat of a woman who had died not twelve months earlier and, whether it was true or not, how he had hoped that she may not have died in her bed – the very bed that he was now sleeping in. We came to the conclusion that it was less likely, these days, as everyone seems to go to hospital or an ‘old people’s home’ to die.
But here we were, at the end of a very pleasant afternoon, saying goodbye, in that stretched out way that one does when, in reality, one doesn’t want it to end but is unsure how one can keep it going, one of us having already said we must get back, as if that were really important, which, of course, it really wasn’t, but how one doesn’t want to ruin something that has been going so well and, in order not to ruin it or run out of conversation or say something that will annoy or upset the other person, although neither of us would have said anything, I’m sure, we cut it short but then linger over this goodbye, by adding some question, which, of course, is normal and innocent enough.
And, it didn’t start off as death at all but rather holidays and then drifted into one of those conversations; a conversation that had been going all afternoon, through life, through love (both now and past), through politics, through everything, in a flow that was not forced or stilted and rambled on, much as this post is doing because we were busy (or, rather I was busy) finding out more about a person that I liked (and here, I thought about the word a lot because, in reality, it was a person that I had fallen in love with, not in a way that I was in love with V but only for the words that we had between us because, until this point, there were only words and, like being in love, I have found, over the time, a strange yearning, like I would have for a lover but, instead of this desire being for the body and a physical thing it was the yearning for more of the words and I eat each one as if I haven’t eaten at the table of literature for many years just like the insatiableness (I don’t even know if that is a real word) one has for a lover’s body and so, in the end, love would be better than like but I didn’t want you (my dear reader) to get the wrong idea) and wanting to say things that I don’t say to others because he knew me but in a way that no one else really does, since he had a perception of me that came only from this, this here, and wanting to explain myself (as if, by explaining myself, he would quickly see the things that I may have missed or, even better, that others may have missed) and the reason I was here and not having enough time and rushing through explanations in a terrible way.
And, holidays led to one thing and another (but quickly so that it wasn’t something deliberate) to death and, in the main, other people’s deaths, or, rather, lingering deaths that, because of the health care and drugs and such-like, is now more common than, perhaps 30 or 50 or, certainly, 100 years ago (see the link above) but, as a conclusion, we decided that a quick death was preferable, like a heart attack or a stroke that was so debilitating that death was swift and, one would hope, less painful. Worst was the death of the mind, since the mind is the person and that is what counts.
And that is what counts.
And, lest you misunderstand this post, the hours we had spent talking and laughing and so on, about the important things and the trivial things was, and I hesitate to use this word as many people consider it over-used, nice but I will as it fits. Again, I thought about the word a lot. I wanted to say wonderful or fabulous and they fit too but, again, it gives the wrong impression when, in reality it was comfortable and made me feel warm and was, well, nice (although I could have added ‘really’ in front of it).
And, even though I know that he will probably read this and may be disappointed that, given all that I said during the afternoon, what I did fail to add, was that I understood (or, at least, I thought I did) the person who was convinced that they were going to die, as I have and have had the same feelings except that, in my case they haven’t yet come true and, perhaps because I don’t have anyone to tell them to, I’ve never mentioned it and, in any case, it seemed crass and presumptive of me to say anything, like someone who knows you’re gay and says things like, oh I have a friend who’s gay, as if that makes it alright and gives them a green ticket to understanding me, which, of course, it doesn’t and is what I hate people doing to me and, therefore, there was no way that I was gong to do it to him.
So, just in case you (my ‘word lover’) read this rubbish that I have written, please don’t think that I was being disingenuous or secretive or closed. It just didn’t seem right. And I didn’t want to spoil an afternoon that I had enjoyed and felt so comfortable with, in a way that I don’t often feel and for which I want to thank you and have found it so difficult to explain using words which is what, after all, we both love.
How to be needy for something impossible
V asks me if I am well ‘or at least, better than me, which is no great feat, to be honest’.
We haven’t spoken or emailed for almost a week, now. Having left the flat (though there is still some finishing off to do), there has been no real need and also, me; because it would feel far too needy and him because of (my imagined) him having a good time.
And so am I to believe what he wrote?
I know him so well. I know that, even if he were to be having a good time, he would tell me how dreadful it was. Conversely, if he were having a terrible time, he would tell me how good everything was going. Or, maybe, I’ve got that the wrong way round? And, how would I know?
So here I am, in this limbo world not knowing the truth and in a position where I will never know the truth and, therefore, I can never trust anything he says even if it were to be the truth.
Of course, I must reply. I shall say I am sorry that he is not having such a good time and that I’m sure it will improve. I will say that, in spite of part of me hoping that it won’t, the same part that is glad that he’s suffering and still, even though I know I should not, hoping that, eventually he will realise what he has lost. The same part that is wanting his suffering to be worse than mine because then it’s ‘all right’. God forbid that my suffering should be worse than his.
Even if there would be no suffering on either side, this part of me hopes that my ‘not suffering’ will still be better than his ‘not suffering’. Is this the competition thing or just jealousy?
And to think, recently, over the last two days, I had convinced myself (nearly) that he was already living with someone else; someone who could fulfil his every need in a way that I cannot, right now. I had prepared myself for the inevitable. Maybe it’s not happened? In a strange way, that’s almost worse.
Of course, I could have emailed over the last few days and had thought to but, again, I don’t want to seem too needy or, in fact, needy at all – even though the reality is that I am needy, needy of him for his life, his vitality and his undying love….and that’s where it all starts to fall apart again, crumbling into ashes before my eyes.
I am needy for something that I believed was but that is not and may not have been for some time, if ever. So, I am needy for nothing possible.
I’ve been thinking that I don’t really like Telecom Italia very much
The engineer phones me (about a day late). As my Italian is abysmal, he does try some English. We, more or less, make each other understood.
He thinks it may be necessary to come to the house. To be honest, they should have phoned me yesterday. However, he is very pleasant and tries to be helpful. Apparently they will make an appointment.
I wonder how, in the main, the engineers can be so nice and the call centre people can be so bloody crap. I guess, if they were engineers and had to actually see the people they deal with they would be nicer.
And so, once again, I am without ADSL and, so, no email or internet connection at home.
It all started Sunday night and although it had been working fine about half an hour earlier, when the break came, it was just too late. And I keep forgetting that Telecom Italia are not Infostrada and it will not ‘fix itself’ within an hour.
The next morning the same problem and I thought that if I don’t phone them now it will just continue not to work.
>I phone. It is just after 6 a.m. I have problems conversing in English at that time in the morning, even with the dogs, so Italian was, well, shall we say ‘interesting’. However, I made myself understood and the guy on the line said some stuff of which I probably caught about half. Basically, my understanding was that it was going to be fixed within four hours.
I put the phone down after I thanked him.
Then I reprocessed what he had said and had this horrible feeling that they were going to send an ‘tecnico’ round to the house within four hours! And, forgetting what day it was and that I HAD to be in work today, I toyed with the idea of not going in at all.
And then I remembered there was a reason why I had to wear a suit. We had a visitor and it was important that I was there, even if my presence was, in fact, not strictly necessary since I would sit and do nothing – except, maybe, make pleasantries with this guy, talking about his flight over; the hotel; the weather; and considering that he was someone that I didn’t much like, it all seemed so bloody pointless and not really important after all.
So, I phoned TI again. Again, Italian; again, difficult but possible. Certainly, as it was about 20 minutes later, it was a bit better. I explained that I wasn’t sure if I had understood what the guy had said to me and were they going to send this ‘tecnico’ round to my house because I had to go to work? She assured me that they weren’t. So, that’s OK then.
The annoying thing was that I had written a post and had emailed it to myself at work – it being better to re-read it before posting and do it during the day when I am, probably (hopefully) more cognisant. And, now I couldn’t. Damn.
Ah well, I thought, I could put it onto my USB key and take it to work that way. I recently got a new one as a gift (my old one being small and only working intermittently). But I couldn’t find it. Where the hell is it, I thought? Ah, I remember taking it to work.
I had no time to check at work, really, just a quick scout round my (very) messy desk. Not there. Later I even did a quick search of my desk drawers. It must be at home, somewhere.
I get home. I am excitedly expecting the internet to be obtainable. I am, of course, sadly misguided, this being Italy and the company being Telecom Italia and all. I phone again.
The automatic message says (I think) that the problem will be fixed on or before Wednesday! I’m not sure and I don’t want to believe it anyway. I wait. I get to an operator. She tells me it will be fixed tomorrow but at the very latest by Wednesday. I am incredulous. I want to be able to say that the four-hour promise was obviously pie-in-the-sky and, since they had my mobile number (I had given it to them in call 2, someone could have phoned me and add that it is totally ridiculous that, having come back to them as their customer (albeit without a choice in this) that they had, once again proved that I had been right to move to Infostrada and that, at the earliest opportunity I would return to Infostrada. I wanted to – but my Italian language skills restrict this to :- two more days? (said with the appropriate incredulous tone).
She is sorry (but doesn’t mean it, you can tell) but it is something to do with the central something or other and it is more complicated. And I know, in my heart, that, even when they say they have fixed it, it will not work in my home and they will have to come round and look and then, probably, do something at home or, after five minutes checking, something somewhere else.
I search for my USB memory stick. I remember the box it was in (I have not used it yet). It was quite large and silver in colour. It is nowhere to be found. I am frustrated.
A calls and I agree to go for a quick pasta dish at his house (F is not there because the call was unusual – it being Monday but without F he is looking for company and I am, after all, very obliging and there is only ironing that I must do but, damn it, I can’t pass up food just for that).
After the engineer phones (me knowing that I probably won’t have Internet access much before the weekend, if I am lucky) I check my desk for the umpteenth time for the USB stick. I find a small, not large, box that is more white than silver, under some papers. It is the key! I feel a little happier about the situation.
I still, very much, hate Telecom Italia.
I just can’t quite figure it out.
Conservative leader condemns equipment for troops in Afghanistan as poll reveals public backs conflict
So reads the subtext below the headline on the front page of the Guardian on-line.
For me this is stunning news. The public ‘back’ the conflict. This reads as if most people (and I define ‘most’ as being the largest group) agree with the war in Afghanistan. Well, don’t you?
But, then, when you get to the article, this part appears:
>Opposition to the war, at 47%, is just ahead of support, at 46%, according to the ICM poll for the Guardian and the BBC’s Newsnight.
Hmm. So, in this poll, it seems most people were opposed to the war. I suppose the 7 percent missing were ‘undecided’ but I’m not sure this counts as support, does it? Certainly, the people actually supporting it were only slightly less than those opposing it and, if you add on the 7 percent of missing persons, then you get over half – but supporting it?
It just doesn’t read quite right to me.
Don’t come into my head
In spite of an earlier post (which, to be honest, I just can’t be bothered to find), there is, after all, another side of me.
It is well hidden from the rest of the world. It is dark. It is gloomy. It is cold. It is like a deep well, with straight, slippery sides that go down to the centre of the earth
It’s not a new thing that has happened recently. Rather, it is an old thing from way back, if not all my life.
>I keep it in check. I know it’s there and I know it has power over me but I try to push it back. So far, I have succeeded and sometimes, holding on to the reality that ‘is’ rather then the reality that very well could ‘be’, is a struggle.
If I am honest with myself, I have relied on V too much. The first time I thought that, perhaps, he ‘didn’t really understand me’ (although, given that I keep it quite well hidden, why should he?) was about 6 or 7 years ago. It sticks in my mind. Although I often have the feeling of being lonely whilst with others, I had never really felt this with V until this time. It was his response – ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be alright’, in an unconsidered way, that made me feel all alone. Strange how these little things stay with you, isn’t it?
It’s the overwhelming feeling of dread; of panic; of impossibility that gets to me. Of course, like my imaginary conversations, the things do not exist, except inside my head. Or maybe they will exist? And there’s the rub.
Sometimes, I feel, I want to take my brain out, give it a good wash and get rid of these stupid things which cling and grow like some sort of fungus on, say, an apple that is going bad. In fact, in the Tate Modern, there is (or was) a video film that I really loved which showed a bowl of fruit over a period of time, going bad. The fungus started as specks and grew and grew as the fruit collapsed and became smothered by it. I wonder if I loved it because it was how I feel about my brain?
There are times, when some good thing happens that this deep, dark well seems many miles away and other times where I am already in the well, clinging for life by a finger of one hand on the edge of the well; looking behind me and down to the bottom which, without doubt, I cannot see because, without doubt again, there is no end; no bottom; I shall just keep free-falling forever.
And, if in previous times, when I hang so precariously, I have come back from the brink, it may have been because of some (misguided?) sense of responsibility to others around me (for example, V). Right now, what is the reason that I should fight it? For whom? And wouldn’t it be easier to succumb to the inevitable and allow myself to let go and slip into the darkness without a care in the world?
Sounds a little depressing, I know, but you should be in my head for a moment! Or, rather, you shouldn’t.
The voices in my head
Alan Bennett, with the exception of the one monologue I saw with Mrs Bucket, has never really been one of those authors I would wish to read. I don’t know. It’s a bit like Hockney or Lowry. It’s a form of racism on my part, I suppose, against people from ‘The North’.
It’s not that they look any different, although they seem to, once I know they’re from the North. It’s when they speak. I apologise to those of you from the North (and here I should stipulate that it’s not the North in general but, rather specifically, Lancashire, Yorkshire and parts of Cheshire and Derbyshire) but I’m afraid the accent really doesn’t do it for me – and I lived there for a number of years!
So, although I wasn’t so interested in hearing him at the Hay Festival this year, I went because, if I am being frank (and here, if nowhere else, I should be so), I thought he was dead already or, at least, nearly dead and I further thought that if I didn’t see him now, this time, I probably would never see him.
And, as I posted (or twittered, or told someone, or something like that) he was, actually very good. He is old and pasty (but then, to me, he’s always seemed old and pasty – so no change there) but he didn’t look like he was going to die any time soon and, for good measure, he was well worth seeing and hearing.
>He was highly entertaining and his flat, monotone, Northern accented voice was quite perfect for the short extracts of stories that he told. It made them seem funnier; gave them an edge that, related in a different voice, would have been missing.
When I got home, as I was about to finish ‘We Need to talk about Kevin’, for the umpteenth time, the next book I picked up was Untold Stories! This was quite freaky. If you had asked me a month back, if I had any books by Bennett, I would have been certain that I had not even one.
I suspect that this came from L, one of the many books that she was giving away when she left Milan for London.
I am enjoying the book and find it both interesting, funny and an interesting historical book – historical in the respect of it being details of the minutiae of ordinary life which, of course, is not ordinary at all at a time that is seemingly (and is, in fact, truly) my early years of life. But then, he is a storyteller. I would probably write something like:
My mother became ill. I ferried my Dad to the hospital very often. We didn’t really talk that much. I did find out, however, that my Grandfather who, supposedly died of a heart attack actually committed suicide. I was quite shocked.
He does not. For him, of course, these are a load of pages with descriptions and details that go to make up a complete picture.
It’s interesting that, as I have posted before, it’s the voice that really works for me. As I read the words on the page I can hear him saying them; the same dry, flat voice with that Northern accent, that makes the story more real and more alive. Whereas, with most voices that I subsequently read, it’s the enjoyment of the voice itself that is the key, I’m afraid I cannot quite say that I find his voice enjoyable per se but, still, the voice does make the story. Of course, that’s only in my head
And from this (and more recent posts and another to follow) I am becoming increasingly concerned that everything that I find worth blogging about seems to be in my head (even if there are slight connections with the real world). Either my head is very large to contain all this rubbish or my ‘head life’ is taking over from real life!
Showing my true feelings (not)
I am confused by my feelings. On the one hand I am angry – very angry. On the other, I couldn’t care less. On the one hand – ‘I never want to see you again’ and yet, ‘It’s your problem, you deal with it’.
And the stupidness of the whole thing beggars belief which is why there’s a part of me that couldn’t care less.
In addition, of course, one must take into account my stubbornness. I wonder if it’s a trait that I have developed because I am stubborn or because I am Taurus since, although I take Astrology with a pinch of salt, I do enjoy the fact that certain people (those who believe) will immediately see me as an Earth sign and that I like my home comforts, good food, good wine, etc. and as having positive traits?
>Indeed, I see them as positive traits too and am pleased to have them. But, did I see them as positive traits because that is what I am supposed to be or because they are positive traits? Even stubbornness I see as positive!
Anyway, back to the issue. I will do….precisely….nothing. Of course. I will neither say anything nor do anything although I might do less than something that I should and, therefore, by my inaction, make an action. In fact, the problem will fester with me for, possibly, quite some time. The inaction on my part to do ‘the something’ that I should, may continue beyond even that, as it may have become a habit and I shall do it without really knowing why or, even, that I am doing it.
And there are also other, related things that, in future, will now happen or, rather, that I shall do or not do as a result. Many (although, at the moment, I can only think of the one) of these will, probably, have a detrimental affect on me – the old ‘cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face’ thing, at which I am a practised master. I have, after all, had 40+ years of experience at it. Or is that the stubbornness thing really?
If it is the stubbornness thing then it has nothing to do with being Taurean (unless you believe in that stuff) but all to do with how I was brought up and, possibly, my genes – which all comes back to my parents. But don’t get me wrong, they are not to blame for this but, in my opinion, to be proud of this.
If you believe in this stuff, then the fact that I am Taurean makes me stubborn anyway and there is no talking to you.
And, the funniest thing about all this (although ‘funny’ is not really the right word) is that the person who is both the cause of this and the victim (if, again, that is the right word) will, in all probability, know nothing of it but might think me a little strange for a while.
There, that shows them, doesn’t it!
A striking moment of clarity
I was ironing. Having been away so much, there are many things to do including the small mountain of ironing. I hate ironing almost as much as cleaning. Let’s face it, I am not really domesticated. The dogs are probably better than me. I am doing a bit at a time since to do all of it in one go will just be too much!
However, ironing must be done if I am to have any clean stuff to wear and, in this weather (yesterday, when I got in the car after work the temperature read 43 degrees, so it’s quite warm), it is necessary to wear a lot of clean stuff after a lot of showers.
I have the telly on (MTV as we get it free here) but, really, I am paying no attention to either the telly nor the ironing. The ironing is automatic and the telly plays music that I, generally, don’t really like.
As normal, I am playing through conversations in my head as I have nothing else to distract me, really. Of course, the conversations were not conversations that had actually happened but rather ones that may happen but, if I’m honest with myself, won’t happen and, anyway, if they did happen, the other person wouldn’t say the things that I had predetermined they would say so my replies would not be so certain and, most probably, I wouldn’t be so sharp or so clever.
The basic nature of the conversations is this:
V wants to get back together.
V says he’s sorry.
I say (without completely closing it down) that that will be very difficult.
I say that he needs to be honest and open with me.
I say that to do that, he first needs to be honest and open with himself.
V asks what things he needs to be honest and open about.
I say that that is the point. I cannot tell him, although I know some things, but that, to be honest and open, he has to decide to tell me everything and I will know if he has.
This is a stupid conversation as this will never happen.
Suddenly (and I really don’t know why this happened), I think of another situation. I think of my parents who, apparently, are or, at least were, waiting for me to ‘come home’ asking for their forgiveness (for what, I really don’t know). I think how stupid they were and little they knew me, even if I was their son and even if they did raise me for almost 18 years before I left, for good.
And then, I realised, in one of those moments of complete clarity that, in spite of my efforts not to be like them, I was, in fact, doing the same thing. I was waiting for V to come to his senses and come back begging to be together.
And, then I realised that, of course, he is not coming back – begging or not – and that my life has been in this limbo state, waiting for him to appear on my doorstep whereas, in fact, he has already moved on and, damn it, so should I.
It won’t be the last time that I will enact these meaningless conversations and, for certain, I am catching myself wanting a man again, which makes me vulnerable but I know that, as these future enacted, made-up, incredible conversations happen, I will be able to stop it following this ‘moment of clarity’ by remembering that, in fact, the situation is not going to happen. It will get easier each time.
The wanting a man part, though, will not. At least, not for a while. The problem with that, other than my previous track record in this situation, is that, this time, a) I really find so few men attractive and b) how the hell do I tell whether they’re gay or not, at least here, in this land where men don’t seem to have a problem with their sexuality and, therefore, have no need to be give off the right signals? Or, rather, give off signals that I find perplexing and unclear.
And the point of this post? None at all really!