Children See, Children Do

I encountered this video by NAPCAN, an Australian organisation, while researching some extremely interesting stuff for work I'm doing on families and branding. It makes for striking viewing and illustrates how influential parents are on their offspring. 

While I steer clear of all but one of these traits, I'm afraid I sometimes turn into the screaming woman in the car. I feel like crying. It's a dreadful potential legacy, and I don't want L to inherit it. I feel ashamed.

Now, then

I'm reading a book based on memory (SJ Watson's brilliant debut, Before I Go To Sleep) and wondering what life would be like without the capacity to recall one's history (a theme that I think is covered in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which I haven't seen yet). There are things I suspect I would (should?) like to forget – things that I had in fact blocked out for a while – but if I did properly erase all of that stuff, would I be doomed to repeat mistakes and wonder why it was I feel X about Y? 

The clincher for me would be the lack of being able to experience the warm glow – and sadness – that comes with nostalgia, something that I am wont to feel with a vividness that can knock my breath from me. There are places that are so evocative that just being there is time travel. The old, the gone, the usually-forgotten, spring back into life if I mentally or physically 'go back', and I can be 5, 10, 15, 20, 25, 35 years younger, in the switch of a synapse. It happened several months ago, as I walked near a place in which I had worked during my late 20s and 30s. Everything seemed to rush back, a waterfall of memories and feelings, wonderful and wretched. A lump formed in my throat as the trees, pavements and some of the still-standing businesses, bars and shops wove a silent web around me and threw me hurtling back to when my life was something entirely different. Time didn't stand still; it came back on itself, looping so unexpectedly by making me relive situations and conversations that I was taken aback. How did I get here from there? I still wonder. When recalling the not-so-good times, it's not triumph over adversity that I feel, but a sense of cautious relief.
Visiting my childhood home also gave me a powerful burst of nostalgia. I clearly recall the 70s wallpaper (most people would find it unforgettable, to be fair); the paint better suited to a curry spice kit than walls, the sunlight streaming into the front room, the relative darkness of the back. The thud of a tennis ball against a wall, a large orange Spacehopper bouncing on the hard ground, a slippery paddling pool, a Wendy house where I secretly gorged on soft brown sugar (don't ask), a 'blue moon' rose bush my parents sourced for my birthday, a light grey trim phone, the sound of the early morning milk float, two deliveries of post before noon, a serving hatch, an Austin Allegro (apple green), a beautiful ginger cat who grew with me and made me cry for months when his mouth swelled with a tumour; the huge radiogram with its SW, LW, MW and possibly FM wavebands... The ability to keep facts and conversations in my head, when now I have to stop and calculate to know what day it is and how old I am. That kind of thing.

The childhood house has changed beyond recognition; the saddest sight for me was seeing that the previously tenderly-kept front garden, home to the beautiful blue rose bush and myriad flowers and shrubs, had a new lease of life, if you can call it that, as a dirty concrete driveway. The house was an unkempt mess. The road was littered. I have mentioned this in another post, so won't repeat it. Nostalgia, in that case, was replaced by intense disappointment and sadness, plus a measure of anger. 
There are many songs written about the past, about fond memories and regret (notably the one written by Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails, covered so poignantly by Johnny Cash, as per my post on March 6)... It's Cash's delivery – the fact he is talking about himself, his life, albeit through someone else's words – that gives it such intensity. Without his memories, the song would be just lyrics; the video, showing him at his prime and as a frail dying man, would be just pictures. Instead, it grabs the listener/viewer with its stunning rawness. Long live nostalgia. I'm certain it helps to make us – and keep us – human.

Shiver

This is not a good song to drive to (it was on the radio yesterday as I sat behind the wheel, and, yes, the car was moving). Did you know that if you type "hurt" into Google, the top hit is this:

Forgetfulness or madness?

I cannot believe I asked my friend about his cat, his old faithful moggy, only to be told that he had already told me about the poor animal's death. I feel bad.

I half think he maybe didn't really tell me.

I half think maybe he did and I was in the throes of something that managed to occupy all of my headspace.

That is not good.

RIP my sweetest friend

M died today, suddenly following a bout of gastro-intestinal stasis (GI stasis). The onset was shockingly quick. It is all surreal. Part of the reason I am blogging this is to pay tribute to a small dearly-loved friend who was a daily companion with whom I spent more time than any other living thing in the past few years. She was a present from my dear S, who has now come home early from a visit to his mum. M was his first pet and she loved him and he did her.

To have a 'wild' animal sitting by you on a sofa, giving you kisses, snuggling, sitting on your feet as you work (how will I work without her with me? She saved me from loneliness many a time...), resting her paw on your hand (as she did for the first time on her last night with me) is an amazing experience borne of trust. She was clever, bright, fun, sweet, gentle, absolutely beautiful, literally softer than silk, loyal and a blessed spirit-fairy-like lapin. I loved her immensely. We both did.



The other reason for me to blog is this: if anyone is Googling GI stasis or anything along the lines of a rabbit not eating or passing waste matter, take my advice and see a vet immediately. I did as soon as it was apparent that M was unwell (she missed an evening meal and I thought she might have some in the night but she had gone into shock by morning)... her decline was extremely quick, as is the way with rabbits.

I really cannot believe it... she was bouncing around at Christmas and lying next to me on the Saturday evening. I took her to hospital Sunday morning after noting she had not touched her evening food. She died at 9.45am today.

I am suspended somewhere else in the land of 'It's a lie'. She was just three-and-a-half and had otherwise been healthy and active.

I will miss her beyond words.

Thump

I was hit by a wall of sadness this evening. It came from nowhere and swamped me, a fierce wave of emotion that smacked my solar plexus and made me catch my breath. OK, so I wasn't in the world's best mood (poor kip, painful knee, raw skin on my face, sore arm post-flu jab, being unexpectedly kicked across the room while holding a pad, which f*cking hurt my leg!).

But, it was when I saw the little chairs at the side of the room, the small plastic seats that infants sit on, that something happened inside me. It was odd. It was as though a plug had been pulled. I felt as though I might weep loudly, and never stop. I just swallowed and batted back the tears that had started to form.

This was, I think, about people, justice and my faith in karma. Baby P justice, justice for the innocent Asian man killed by two fuckwits who got 'life' (13 and 17 years in jail before parole comes up for consideration – how in hell is that life?!), justice for girls raped in D R Congo. And on it goes.

The one thing that keeps many people going is that there is justice, divine or otherwise. But how can we have faith when apathy reigns and we let inhumane behaviour go on as we quote the tough lives of those who are responsible as the reasons why. This tolerance for the intolerable surely makes us culpable? If you don't know something's happening then you can't stop it. But if you do... like with the case of Baby P, and still nothing happens to change it, where is there to go? Is this just anarchy, albeit diluted? Do we have any control over anything? The thought that we don't and that we have no one to really rely on (and by that I mean the 'authorities'), is chilling.

I couldn't drive. I am frustrated with myself, with things that have affected me, with powerlessness, with things beyond my control. I sat and cried. There was nothing else to do.

The details are the devil

Baby P, Peter, the little boy whose face has been on many front pages over the past fortnight, is on my mind. When I can't sleep, I sometimes think about him, his situation, the stepfather, the mother, the lodger...

I let myself try to imagine how lonely it must be to have no one in the world. To feel lost. To be cut adrift. To have human needs and feelings and to have them unrecognised, to have them unmet. To be small and have dark secrets. To feel utterly helpless. To not know how to escape. It makes me weep.

As more details emerge, especially the testimony of the lodger's 15-year-old girlfriend, I find myself even more unable to fathom what happened, how another person could possess such a capacity for callousness and evil. I hope there is a hell.

Sad yellow flowers

I saw a funeral procession going ahead of my car yesterday. As I turned, I could see that the leading car held a white coffin, probably child-sized. The cars behind were black, shiny and sleek, filled with adults whose faces were hidden with veils and grief.

I could see an arrangement of flowers at the back of the first car. At first I thought it was an initial but as the car turned, it was apparent that the blooms had been made into the shape of a yellow dog with a blue collar. For some reason this choked me.

The sight of the coffin alone had made me feel philosophical but here was a person, possibly a young one, who had owned a dog, their pet, and was now never going to walk or play with it again, or do anything ever.

Enough

My kung fu teacher yesterday said that I have no presence, that there is nothing in my eyes, that I look vacant/vacuous (I'm not sure which little insult he chose) and that he would not be surprised if my eyes roll back in my head, "as there was nothing there".

This little commentary, in the pub with about six other people, happened after I was telling a few of my friends there about being asked for ID (they had been talking about trying to buy alcohol when they were underage). He thinks that if I had any presence, I would not have been mistaken for a younger person. Well, fuck presence. I am seriously considering jacking it in – and telling him why. Kung fu is meant to relieve me of stress, not be a source of it. Maybe I am just not cut out for it (how many times have I said that?)...

I've arranged a day out for the class tomorrow [that was like pulling teeth] and now don't want to go (I am repeatedly deemed a "rubbish" social secretary even though I am the only one who has ever bothered to organise anything new; at least I make a bloody effort).

Another later conversation with someone else, which I won't go into here, ended in me feeling as though I'm a pain in the arse what with insomnia and so on. I suppose I am, at times.

I wish I could expand on all the reasons I don't sleep, but I don't want to. Suffice to say anyone going through similar wouldn't have much fucking presence and might find their energy is taken up with just getting through the day. It's all made me feel insulted and worthless. I slept for about three hours and feel like utter shit today.

Untitled

Ever get the feeling you are, at best, mediocre at various aspects of your life? I feel as though I have the anti-Midas touch at the moment. Thing after thing... erodes the confidence after a while.

Oh well.

Sorry the blog's a bit melancholy at the moment.

Gary Glitter

He won't get on a plane because he thinks he will have a heart attack.

Let's shove him on to the fucking plane.

I'm listening to the radio – so many people are calling in saying they know people who have suffered at the hands of sickos like Paul Francis 'Gary Glitter' Gadd. They talk of their children and grandchildren. And mostly, the abusers were people who were trusted. These people ruin lives. They wreck children, who carry the wreckage with them for life.

Poor me etc...

This has been a strange week so far. I haven't felt so ridiculously low in ages. There are various things causing me worry and I don't know where to start. I had work to do yesterday – a bit of work – but not as much as I had planned. I'd marked certain assignments in my diary and have had to Tippex them out. The pages stuck together.

So, my diary is now nearly empty but I'd arranged a few social things that may now have to hit the dust. It's not fun having time on your hands when you didn't expect it and haven't budgeted for it. I will of course be chasing new work but I've lost about a month's salary, at least, and have nothing booked in bar a few days' work over the next few weeks. There are no guarantees that work will come my way... talk of budget-cutting is all too common.

So, after doing my remaining bits of work, I sorted out a pile of letters, paid the taxman, shredded a load of documents and then switched off my computer. It gets a bit depressing, constantly flicking your eyes up to your inbox. I set fire to one letter – a rejection – and held it over the sink. At first, the flames were slow but they gathered pace quickly and I had to turn the tap on as I dropped the burning paper. The embers smelled good. I put the damp remnants in the bin, ensuring there were no flickers (I once emptied an ash tray into a bin at work, many years ago, and the whole thing went up in flames – it was pretty impressive...).

After 5pm, I lay down to have a think. I was shattered after spending the day trying to remain polite to the people who have pissed me off and messed me around. It's made me cry on and off since Monday. I haven't done anything to deserve such treatment at work and feel utterly disposable.

Most others don't understand – they'll just say that they, too, have money worries (while telling you about their next holiday abroad, knowing full well they will be paid at month-end). It amazes me that people think journalists are well-paid. Believe me, it's not the case.

I know the thing to do is to aggressively chase new work, and that is what I will do. These hiatuses show me I need alternatives and perhaps represent a doorway from the mundane and known to new pastures. I've been through much worse but that doesn't make this situation any easier.

One money-related problem is that I'm not sure I'll be able to afford my kung fu classes – they keep me sane despite my moronically bad performance. Though I think I must be one of the least coordinated people in the history of the world, I challenge myself to go. Even when I think I'll give it a miss, as I'm not getting anywhere, I somehow find myself drawn to it.

Sometimes I manage to draw down into the things that really do need to come out and I belt the pads hard. My technique, as my long-suffering instructor N says, is usually wrong. He is right, of course... it must be maddening watching people flail like squid in a weird ballet of ineffectual movement. But I try my best, though I am sure appallingness is the overall impression I give, and that – at times like these – makes me shrivel.

Wet eye mask

I cried and cried last night. I have no idea why, but melancholia took over and I started thinking about certain conversations and events from my childhood.

I'd always tried to do my best. I tried. I was always the second cleverest in class. That my friend was better than me made me competitive but I could never reach her. I eclipse her in terms of what I can now do (I work with words; she is best at numeracy). But I was never quite as good at school, and that's where we are made. Will I ever be good enough? Good enough for me?

It was one in the morning when my sadness got worse, and I cried quite loudly, not caring if GFG heard through the floor. My life seemed to be flashing in front of my eyes. I switched on the lamp and reached for a tissue, feeling tiny. My eye mask was soaked with tears; I still wear it even though these last few mornings have not been madly sunny.

This morning, there are shadows beneath my eyes.

Muggy, fuggy

My head feels as though someone has piped in a load of plasticine and followed it up with some glue and treacle for good measure.

My arms are heavy and my shoulders ache so much that I could hardly lift them to wash my hair last night (due to strenuous kung fu). Echoes of my tiredness at its worst sneaked back into my not-very-distant memory, making me glad that those cruel days and nights are now fewer.

So, at least I know what has caused the arm ache. But, as for my head... There are several possibilities. It could be the weather, the warm, humid, soporific, slow dance of weather that has sat around my being today. Or it could be a poor night's sleep, not helped by said weather. I need a storm. I want a mad, lashing, crashing storm. One where the sky is split once then twice, then explodes again into a furious mass of fiery energy. It all seems pent up now. Waiting.

Another possibility for the dullness in my head could be as per my last post – a sort of 'it's my birthday in a few days... hmmm' kind of thing. What can I do about that? Not a lot. I don't care for ages. They don't bother me. I say something along the lines of 'Oh, I'm 38' now and then, but what does it really matter?

The third reason is a bit odd but I had a dream that I was walking through a particularly rough part of London. I had a gun with me. I was a spy, I think. I can recall the weight of metal in my hand, the coolness of the steel, the rough pattern moulded into the part you hold. In the dream, the gun was like part of my hand, it would save me from the baddies. And so I went, at an exhausting pace, from corridor to room, hiding under tables, in cupboards, behind walls, like some kind of James Bond. When I woke, I felt as though I had been living it. It was like a film.

Maybe it's all of the above and once the storm has come and gone, taking with it any silly birthday woes, and I've had a better night's sleep, the fug will lift, leaving behind it a warm, fresh sensation, like when you stand in torrential rain in the tropics (or a stupidly hot London), smelling the earth and air, and are able to breathe again.

Could it be the upcoming birthday?

But I feel a bit fucking poo. And, really, I don't care about age. It means sod all to me.

However it is a marker of time: time to look back – and forward – can cause rawness.

(But I am aware, not-so-deep down, that it is a cause for joy.)

Mad, sad world

And yet another story that is just too despicable. A mum, her daughter and son, killed by the mother's former boyfriend. The focus of the case has been on the pretty, talented daughter, Kesha Wizzart, who decided to stay at her mum's place as she had arrived back home late (she normally lived with her father). But then, she was raped and murdered. It's hellish.

The fuckwit responsible got 38 years minimum. I hope he rots in jail.

What is happening in this world? Is it really getting worse? Is it just that all these cases are coming to a head at once? What??

Yet another one for the hellbound handcart

Poor Kate Beagley. She was on a first date, did all the right things, and a pathetic excuse for a human being killed her.

The lowlife Thing has been sentenced to life and must serve a minimum of 30 years. Again, I hope he is in with a bunch of feral inmates who are psychotic and have sisters that look like poor Kate.

The news is so depressing of late. So many murders. Was it always this way? Should we stop reading the news to preserve ourselves? Or do we owe it to the people who have suffered so horribly to know what they went through/are going through – to form an opinion and speak out? As long as hearing bad things angers, motivates and disgusts, rather than desensitises, I think we need to know.

Cava shield

is the answer tonight

and I am nicely marinated in it

a pickled brain

is sometimes

rather pleasant

when life

is a bit too

ready to throw

ball
after
ball

after ball

at your face

Madman

What an evil man, this so-called nurse was. I can't bear that he murdered these patients – people with whom he was entrusted. Again, yet again, I find myself hoping that there is a hell. A proper, scorching, terrible hell. He'll be sentenced tomorrow. Let's see what they decide is an apt punishment...

Fingers crossed.

UPDATE: He has been jailed for a minimum of 30 years. I hope he meets plenty of inmates who are rather fond of their grandmothers...

Dream girl

The girl was about five, immaculately dressed in white and pink. She stepped forward and started to sing. But no words came out. Her mouth moved, she carried on, trying. But nothing except the odd shadows of words emerged. She was there to sing for the Queen. The Queen didn't seem interested.

I watched the child curiously while noticing two kittens there in front of me, in a box. I picked them up and they lay still, content, as I stroked their fur. They nestled into me, warm and silky. I remarked, to no one in particular: "Look at how my kittens have grown."

Then a parachutist came into view, except he was taking off, not landing. Bizarrely, his chute was open; he seemed rocket-propelled. He was scared. Those around were nervous. I was concerned about the little cats and held them close.

And then, the alarm bleeped me awake. I told myself I must remember this dream: it means something. S came back into the bedroom and I told him the first part about the voiceless child, and it made me cry.