Monday/Tuesday I felt like the maddest person alive: my brain was in a state; I was wanting to end my relationship with Perlilly; my job seemed untenable; I felt like I couldn’t remember who I was before New Year, before I went to India – what I did, or what I consisted of. I felt like everything had gone wrong.
We got down to talk.
Underneath it all, there seemed to be something about me being annoyed at this noise she makes when chewing her lips. I expressed that, and one or two other things, and the next day I felt supremely happy – even in my work; that was a shock. Since then, it’s been more or less okay.
I don’t trust my head at all. It tells me things, and they seem to be true, but when (or rather, if) I take a deeper look and try to get down to the root of it, it’s like there’s always something else there, and the original thing disappears. The feeling of wanting to quit, of wanting to change or run away is the leaves, the nests, the branches of this weed of a tree – I’m aiming to prune them, these things that I’ve grown in my mind, these things that I’ve built on top of the original discomfort, when they’re not where it’s at all. The roots, the foundations – seek them out, and that weed of a tree will crumble and fall, for it was never real in the first place.
I’ve got to write a story – I’ve got eight days and two and a half hours to come up with a decent short story of at least two thousand words. It’s for this publisher who’s offering the chance to win a genuine book deal; the publisher with whom I was published three years ago in their anthology, Bracket. They’ve chosen twenty-five writers out of the fifty-five they’ve published over the years and asked them to come up with one short story every month for the next ten months, and at the end of that time they’ve going to choose five people to offer deals to, to each publish a book of short stories. They reckon half the twenty-five will take up the challenge, and a few’ll drop out along the way – which means maybe ten will stay the distance, which is pretty good odds when you get down to it. I’d like to be one of the final ten. I’d like to be in with that fifty-fifty chance.
That means I’ve got stories to write; it’s not been easy coming up with ideas. Of course, I’ve got lots in the pot from over the years – and maybe that’s where you come in. Click on the enclosed links to check them out and see what you think has the most potential for development (some are finished, some are works in progress). I’d be interested in all feedback!
Sunday 17 February 2008
Monday 11 February 2008
Feb 11th
Ok. So. Last time you heard from me I was just strangely on my way to India, not really sure why I was doing that, and not really wanting to go. That was a bit weird. But go I did – never really warming to the idea, and practically crying into my complimentary peanuts for being such a schmucking idiot for buying a ticket to a place I didn’t want to go, at a time that I didn’t want to go anywhere – and, there you have it, I had two weeks over there. I’m still not sure what to think about it; I’d thought, after three or four days of wondering what the hell I was doing there I’d sort of got into it, and sort of discovered one or two things – about myself, about my feelings, my life, my spirituality – but, since I’ve been back, I’m not even sure about that; it’s like my mind just sold me a big long cock ‘n’ bullshit story over the course of several days and I bought into it – you know: you should get back to meditating, praying, giving up sex, getting serious about God, once you get back – but what have I done about it? Nothing. In reality, I’m much more of a movie man – but caught in this in between. I don’t know what I am/what I want/where I fit. If only I could accept the reality of who I am and stopped buying into silly ideas I get in books or from my own head! :-) Am I making any sense? Probably not. Well, it has been two months – two months! – and that will therefore necessitate a lot of meaningless junk until I figure things out…
In the meantime I’ve moved into a new house – very nice place, nice area, nice people; felt at home pretty much immediately – joined a Master’s program – for about thirty-five minutes – lost all – and when I say all, I mean, man, the whole fucking everything of it, the shebang, the kitchen sink, the absolute enormous entirety of it – regard and care and motivation for my job – and gone a bit weird in my head, and in my ‘relationship’, and in my life. I need to write; maybe that’ll get things back on track. And I need to write for other reasons too – possible full-on book deal involving a work of short stories; the ever present threat of my own silly travel-idea book, that it’s slowly dawning on me may be another silly, silly headspun story – but mostly just ‘cos if my fingers don’t move and I don’t go “blah blah blah” I’ll probably get stuck like a rubber in butter and slip slide down Marjory Lane in the style of a certain amateur Welsh rugby official who lived opposite me when I was a binman in Cairo during the Gypsy Wars of 2006, oh Arthur. If you catch my drift. And so…
India, India, India – I’ve been before – in April 2000 – and maybe it was for this reason that it didn’t really do anything for me. Or maybe because it was Kerala, and Kerala’s not really India – hardly any poverty, no fingers-hanging-off lepers, no beggars pursuing you for hours through homeless city streets where bent-limbed children place their crooked arms in your hands and pitying eyes say, “white man, you can spare it, I want some money.” Or maybe because I’m done with travelling, and it all the seems the same to me now – it’s just people, and buildings, and elsewhere/here, and money and life and food – and that’s what I was mostly thinking, why the hell am I doing this, why am I going away alone, when I don’t really want to, when there’s no real reason to, when I don’t want adventure, aren’t inwardly compelled, aren’t seeking to learn anything? Why indeed? Out of habit, I guess. And because I’m just ever so slightly silly, I guess. I used to go away to learn things, to experience things – but, to be honest – and I’d love to be wrong in this – I really think I’ve played that gig now, way enough times to have got the drift, and to have mastered it, and graduated, and time to move onto something new, done done done.
That’s what I was thinking the whole mildly inwardly whimpering first few days: why can’t I just be normal? Why can’t I just do things the normal way? This isn’t normal, this toin-cossing [sic], this doing out of mad habit, this lack of thought, this sign and psychic following, this unadventure adventure – why can’t I just be normal? And even now I’m saying it.
Like I was saying it my third night there, when I thought to catch a two-day train North to Varanasi, but after six hour and sixty miles I was going nowhere fast in the sweaty Indian midnight night and even then thinking about hopping freight trains and lost in a minefield of indecision and unable to get anything straight that same crying out again – even after swearing to myself to be normal – lost there up and down on Kottayam station not knowing what to do, where to go, why why why? And tossing a million coins, and in the end giving it up, and writing possibilities on bits of paper, and praying to choose the right one, and when it said, “Go back to Amma’s ashram” – oh, happiness at doing the normal, sane and sensible thing – and then in that moment a Southbound freight train comes and I go racing down the station to jump aboard the second massive, massive engine – there being nowhere to sit on Indian freight wagons (perhaps wisely, as in England) – and in the black night I’m whooping it up once again atop seventy mile an hour noise and dim and fumes, the joy of it, the adrenaline, the madness, the worry (of getting arrested, again) and, when it slows down I jump off (remembrance of the last time) and hide in a bush and then think, hey ho, across these fields into the unknown Indian middle-of-nowhere night and who knows what we’ll find, tromp tromp through almost pitch dark what turns out to be paddy fields and then leaping across the path up to my waist in stinky water and everything’s soaked and this is me loving it, and this is me being normal. A dog barks and I wonder if someone’s coming, and I’m the only person there, a silly backpacked English happily skipping down roads suddenly remembering they have snakes in India, but not really thinking about it, and then laying once again under mosquito-ravaged sarong waiting for another train to chase, and pooing in the bushes, and photoing it, in silly-ness delight, and then tromp tromping down tracks and chasing another train, and clambering aboard with woe-begotten third class stood-up-all-day Indians in the two a.m. night and four hours later I’m back where I started, satisfied with the adventure, ready now to be normal, and in so many ways that was the best thing I did out there – the thing that gave me energy, and kicks, and joy – but also so much the thing that I wanted to – wanted to tell myself to – stop doing. But I want to do it! Well I did. But why?
And back in the ashram, then, where I spent most of my two weeks – save my first night in Varkala, getting bored, and my last three nights in Trivandrum, seeing Amma there, and awaiting my plane – and back to eating curry three times a day, and napping lots, and wondering here and there, and reading spiritual books, and thinking lots, and writing in my diary (the diary I left on a train upon returning to England) and, all in all what I decided was this: well, first of all, that my spiritual life seemed to be dead, and that I should accept that, it’s over, finito, done; and then, that, wait a minute, what am I doing here anyway, aren’t I supposed to be with Mother Meera; and then, ho, hum, this all seems rather grand, I need to get serious about this – ‘cos, God look at Amma, and how great this all is, and the magic you can get into when you take it seriously, and what’s the point of anything in the world anyway, and, yes, as soon as I get back I’ll set myself up a little shrine and meditate everyday and say my prayers and, I can do this, I can do this, I can – yeah, just like people say with the gym, with healthy eating, with good habits. Have I? No. I’m good at procrastinating on a laptop though! Oh wireless! Oh broadband! Oh the amazing things you can download from bit torrent and how many movies there are that I haven’t watched – or have watched but want to watch again! How many albums, and how they need organising, and…I’m back, and nothing’s changed. Except I seem to have a little bit – oh, I don’t know anything about any of this any more! How I wish I’d never heard of spirituality and didn’t have this split down the middle me who’s a fool to himself and just not sure not sure not sure of which way to turn…
I’m in bed; I’ve been here most of the last two days. The weather’s lovely and I’ve done nothing to take advantage of it – hell, I’ve just come back from 35 degrees; I’m hardly gonna rejoice at a bit of non-rain! – and…I’m disappointed in myself. I’m supposed to be writing – I’m supposed to be at work, too, but I don’t seem to be able to manage that – and, although I am writing, I know it’s not making any sense. Such is life; c’est la vie; I don’t even care because this is me moving my fingers and it’s been a long time and, anyway, do exercises in the gym look anything like football? Well, no. So that’s that. In India I thought I should get married, commit to one woman, stop flying about from place to place; in India I thought that might be possible – but back here it don’t seem so. In India I thought I could get my job back in track – one hour of the reality I was fleeing to the safety of the library and Internet Explorer. In India I thought I could balance worldly life and spirituality; thought I could give away all my money; thought I might make it up with my mum. In India, in India, in India – my head was a liar. Aaaaaagh! (Don’t worry, I’m not really aaaaaagh! I just wanted to say it). In India, in India, in India.
I was a Master’s student for about thirty-five minutes last week; Wednesday I went down to Sheffield where I was due to begin an MA in Creative Writing; hand over £3000; do some classes and write some papers and books. I met the admin, I met one of the tutors; I found out what I’d missed by going on holiday in Week 1 – see! – and went to catch up on it; this week’s lesson was based on some book of poetry – oh, I love poetry! – and the author was going to be there and I guess we were going to discuss it. I went, and I read – and within about three seconds I was thinking, what a load of shite, I’m not spending my time and money and effort to read shit like this, and then have to talk about it, and pretend that I get something from it, and have it mean something to me; it was cack! And my stuff’s much better anyway! And why the hell would I want to read poetry! What a load of tit wank arse – bollocks to this, I’m off. I left Sheffield forthwith and, via a wholly unsatisfying stopoff in Meadowhall, came back satisfied with my daytrip and discovery and feeling rather smugly pleased with myself, thank you very much.
I’ll tell you know what hit me about coming back to England from India: that this country is goddamned dirty! And – let me explain – I was as surprised by that as you might be, what with India obviously being rife with pollution, and how they just shit and piss everywhere – and still wipe their arses with their hands, despite now having t’internet and mobile phones and all the rest of it, technology not quite stretching to toilet paper as yet – and throw their rubbish all over, and how it stinks, like shit – but England, man, there’s a different kind of dirtiness here! It’s in the people, man; the people are filthy; I just thought, my God, they’re so vulgar, and crass, and loud, and obnoxious, and disrespectful, and tired-looking, and uncivilised, and stressed out, and tense, and drunk, and unintelligent – that’s the kind of dirty I mean. There’s no finer time than those first few hours off the plane to take a really good look at your own country, before it all seeps back in to you and you forget what it’s really like, lose your overseas-eyes, see that, yes, compared to the Chinese, for example, we really do have enormous noses, bulging out, 3D, Pinocchio-style those first few hours, oh we’re a big-nosed, messy and screwed-up bunch (you North Americans included). Oh England! Oh India! Oh cow shit and smart-shirted, hair-parted, white-toothed and polite Indian boys and dangling off trains and curries cheaper than air and mad old drunken England with your clean streets and everyone running tiredly at a thousand miles an hour, I know not why. Oh England!
I had a lovely Christmas, thanks for asking; the best ever. I was ever so close to Perlilly; I think I really felt something there. I think, too, I got cured of some of those silly old mum issues – ha! and there’s a tale for you, if I ever get around to telling it! – and cried one or two letting-it-out tears and it was all rather wonderful and good and great. But, boy, it seems like a real long time ago. And, boy, why is it I feel like I’m splitting apart, and can’t make any sense of anything, when not too very long ago it seemed like everything was being just fine and dandy, and in so many ways even more’s been cleared up since then? I guess I’m cyclical fish monkey wardrobe man, coming round like once a year February flu, the old is jettisoned and the new appears and nothing can last forever, expression ceases and rises and falls and these skins are shed and underneath it all the onion’s tears shine silver bright in the clown’s white night while baby teeth and hair and eyes tinkle tinkle to the deck and those new ones emerge in the aftermath; one day you’re young and bright-eyed, the next…lo! a wrinkle – where did this face come from in the mirror, I hardly recognise myself, all the skins I’ve shed I’m dying now – slowly, slowly – and I never did get to the end or figure anything out – and all that time I spend just thinking the answer was around the corner; it never was. The corner’s around the corner; everybody knows that but who can actually live it? The corner’s around the corner. The fruit corner? Nutella? Oh, if only I could eat chocolate I could make myself sick and then I’d have something else to think/worry/abscess about! The fruit corner, you say? Now there’s a fine idea.
I went round to my brother’s/my old house after Christmas, to pick up some stuff, and there was this not there from my mum (I’ll quote it verbatim, ‘cos it’s that good, it really is): “RORY CAN YOU MAKE SURE YOU LEAVE YOUR KEYS FOR WELBECK STREET BEHIND. YOU CHOSE TO LEAVE AND YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO COME INTO THE HOUSE WITHOUT STEVENS PERMISSION. IF YOU WANT ME TO GET LEGAL ABOUT IT, I WILL. ALSO, MAKE SOME REASONABLE ARRANGEMENTS WITH STEVEN RE YOUR THINGS. I AM GETTING A SKIP SOON – NEED I EXPLAIN FURTHER. MUM.”
Well that’s a doozy! Naturally, I went into a rage, stomping about a bit and saying, “bitch! what a bitch!” and having an urge to smash things – which I didn’t follow, just observed within my head – and – in that head – how could she be like that, what kind of a family have I got, if she wants the keys, wants me to move my stuff, why doesn’t she just ask me instead of threatening to “get legal about it”, chuck it all away, why why why? What’s the point in these people – what can I possibly get out of it except headache and heartache and mad mad bullshit? Who’s got a mum like this? Why are people so insane? Where’s love and caring and being nice and don’t they treat the dogs in the street better than this – and don’t the dogs in the street treat me better than this? Well my brother’s a goofy fuck and no mistake and he’s devoid of feelings and you can’t really blame him, he can’t see anything clearly, he’s so much under her apron-stringed thumb – but why is he okay to inhabit this half-built three bedroomed home with three unused rooms all to himself despite working not and just fannying around the last seven years doing nothing and being miserable and weird and pissing everybody off and I can’t even leave two boxes in a dusty corner despite all those empty words about, “you’ll always have this place” and – sorry, Ma, but you’ve done this before, and I’ve forgiven you, and surely this is the last time, not even a Merry Christmas, never mind a Christmas invite, there’s something wrong with you – you’ve got a slightly twisted nature, it’s not you’re fault – but I don’t need it anymore, goodbye. Some people bring good things into your life and that’s okay; some people just look to rub shit in your eyes and mouth, and hope you’ll take it – and some people do. I have done – but I’ll take it no more. I’m a nice guy; there’s nothing wrong with me; I live my life well; I don’t even say boo to a goose without feeling instantly pained; I can’t take the blame for this. “It’s in your nature,” I hear the wise words say; your nature’s yours, not mine – please keep it. And so long.
All my things are here with me now; I’ll be beholden to this woman no more. Some people are just mad.
I wanted to tell you about this astrologer I saw in India – I wanted to, but I don’t think I will – but, needless to say, he said some interesting and, yeah, sure, relevant things, and gave me stuff to think about, which may be a good thing, or may be a bad thing, I just don’t know. I also wanted to tell you about the way my feelings have changed – but I don’t think I’ll do that either; I’m making no sense tonight – and not that I care about that, but I’m reaching the end of my patience with this. I also wanted to tell you about my magnificent arse, and the way it shines in the dappled moonlight, and the trumpet’s worth of foreskins that I sold to my mad uncle Viktor last Tuesday (later finding out they were worth about a billion, billion dollars) and about how he came to see me and planting a bilberry bush inside my left little nostril and watered it twice a day for the next seventy-four years until it sprouted magic onions that bring us right back to the beginning of this tale being as they smelled of fish.
In the meantime I’ve moved into a new house – very nice place, nice area, nice people; felt at home pretty much immediately – joined a Master’s program – for about thirty-five minutes – lost all – and when I say all, I mean, man, the whole fucking everything of it, the shebang, the kitchen sink, the absolute enormous entirety of it – regard and care and motivation for my job – and gone a bit weird in my head, and in my ‘relationship’, and in my life. I need to write; maybe that’ll get things back on track. And I need to write for other reasons too – possible full-on book deal involving a work of short stories; the ever present threat of my own silly travel-idea book, that it’s slowly dawning on me may be another silly, silly headspun story – but mostly just ‘cos if my fingers don’t move and I don’t go “blah blah blah” I’ll probably get stuck like a rubber in butter and slip slide down Marjory Lane in the style of a certain amateur Welsh rugby official who lived opposite me when I was a binman in Cairo during the Gypsy Wars of 2006, oh Arthur. If you catch my drift. And so…
India, India, India – I’ve been before – in April 2000 – and maybe it was for this reason that it didn’t really do anything for me. Or maybe because it was Kerala, and Kerala’s not really India – hardly any poverty, no fingers-hanging-off lepers, no beggars pursuing you for hours through homeless city streets where bent-limbed children place their crooked arms in your hands and pitying eyes say, “white man, you can spare it, I want some money.” Or maybe because I’m done with travelling, and it all the seems the same to me now – it’s just people, and buildings, and elsewhere/here, and money and life and food – and that’s what I was mostly thinking, why the hell am I doing this, why am I going away alone, when I don’t really want to, when there’s no real reason to, when I don’t want adventure, aren’t inwardly compelled, aren’t seeking to learn anything? Why indeed? Out of habit, I guess. And because I’m just ever so slightly silly, I guess. I used to go away to learn things, to experience things – but, to be honest – and I’d love to be wrong in this – I really think I’ve played that gig now, way enough times to have got the drift, and to have mastered it, and graduated, and time to move onto something new, done done done.
That’s what I was thinking the whole mildly inwardly whimpering first few days: why can’t I just be normal? Why can’t I just do things the normal way? This isn’t normal, this toin-cossing [sic], this doing out of mad habit, this lack of thought, this sign and psychic following, this unadventure adventure – why can’t I just be normal? And even now I’m saying it.
Like I was saying it my third night there, when I thought to catch a two-day train North to Varanasi, but after six hour and sixty miles I was going nowhere fast in the sweaty Indian midnight night and even then thinking about hopping freight trains and lost in a minefield of indecision and unable to get anything straight that same crying out again – even after swearing to myself to be normal – lost there up and down on Kottayam station not knowing what to do, where to go, why why why? And tossing a million coins, and in the end giving it up, and writing possibilities on bits of paper, and praying to choose the right one, and when it said, “Go back to Amma’s ashram” – oh, happiness at doing the normal, sane and sensible thing – and then in that moment a Southbound freight train comes and I go racing down the station to jump aboard the second massive, massive engine – there being nowhere to sit on Indian freight wagons (perhaps wisely, as in England) – and in the black night I’m whooping it up once again atop seventy mile an hour noise and dim and fumes, the joy of it, the adrenaline, the madness, the worry (of getting arrested, again) and, when it slows down I jump off (remembrance of the last time) and hide in a bush and then think, hey ho, across these fields into the unknown Indian middle-of-nowhere night and who knows what we’ll find, tromp tromp through almost pitch dark what turns out to be paddy fields and then leaping across the path up to my waist in stinky water and everything’s soaked and this is me loving it, and this is me being normal. A dog barks and I wonder if someone’s coming, and I’m the only person there, a silly backpacked English happily skipping down roads suddenly remembering they have snakes in India, but not really thinking about it, and then laying once again under mosquito-ravaged sarong waiting for another train to chase, and pooing in the bushes, and photoing it, in silly-ness delight, and then tromp tromping down tracks and chasing another train, and clambering aboard with woe-begotten third class stood-up-all-day Indians in the two a.m. night and four hours later I’m back where I started, satisfied with the adventure, ready now to be normal, and in so many ways that was the best thing I did out there – the thing that gave me energy, and kicks, and joy – but also so much the thing that I wanted to – wanted to tell myself to – stop doing. But I want to do it! Well I did. But why?
And back in the ashram, then, where I spent most of my two weeks – save my first night in Varkala, getting bored, and my last three nights in Trivandrum, seeing Amma there, and awaiting my plane – and back to eating curry three times a day, and napping lots, and wondering here and there, and reading spiritual books, and thinking lots, and writing in my diary (the diary I left on a train upon returning to England) and, all in all what I decided was this: well, first of all, that my spiritual life seemed to be dead, and that I should accept that, it’s over, finito, done; and then, that, wait a minute, what am I doing here anyway, aren’t I supposed to be with Mother Meera; and then, ho, hum, this all seems rather grand, I need to get serious about this – ‘cos, God look at Amma, and how great this all is, and the magic you can get into when you take it seriously, and what’s the point of anything in the world anyway, and, yes, as soon as I get back I’ll set myself up a little shrine and meditate everyday and say my prayers and, I can do this, I can do this, I can – yeah, just like people say with the gym, with healthy eating, with good habits. Have I? No. I’m good at procrastinating on a laptop though! Oh wireless! Oh broadband! Oh the amazing things you can download from bit torrent and how many movies there are that I haven’t watched – or have watched but want to watch again! How many albums, and how they need organising, and…I’m back, and nothing’s changed. Except I seem to have a little bit – oh, I don’t know anything about any of this any more! How I wish I’d never heard of spirituality and didn’t have this split down the middle me who’s a fool to himself and just not sure not sure not sure of which way to turn…
I’m in bed; I’ve been here most of the last two days. The weather’s lovely and I’ve done nothing to take advantage of it – hell, I’ve just come back from 35 degrees; I’m hardly gonna rejoice at a bit of non-rain! – and…I’m disappointed in myself. I’m supposed to be writing – I’m supposed to be at work, too, but I don’t seem to be able to manage that – and, although I am writing, I know it’s not making any sense. Such is life; c’est la vie; I don’t even care because this is me moving my fingers and it’s been a long time and, anyway, do exercises in the gym look anything like football? Well, no. So that’s that. In India I thought I should get married, commit to one woman, stop flying about from place to place; in India I thought that might be possible – but back here it don’t seem so. In India I thought I could get my job back in track – one hour of the reality I was fleeing to the safety of the library and Internet Explorer. In India I thought I could balance worldly life and spirituality; thought I could give away all my money; thought I might make it up with my mum. In India, in India, in India – my head was a liar. Aaaaaagh! (Don’t worry, I’m not really aaaaaagh! I just wanted to say it). In India, in India, in India.
I was a Master’s student for about thirty-five minutes last week; Wednesday I went down to Sheffield where I was due to begin an MA in Creative Writing; hand over £3000; do some classes and write some papers and books. I met the admin, I met one of the tutors; I found out what I’d missed by going on holiday in Week 1 – see! – and went to catch up on it; this week’s lesson was based on some book of poetry – oh, I love poetry! – and the author was going to be there and I guess we were going to discuss it. I went, and I read – and within about three seconds I was thinking, what a load of shite, I’m not spending my time and money and effort to read shit like this, and then have to talk about it, and pretend that I get something from it, and have it mean something to me; it was cack! And my stuff’s much better anyway! And why the hell would I want to read poetry! What a load of tit wank arse – bollocks to this, I’m off. I left Sheffield forthwith and, via a wholly unsatisfying stopoff in Meadowhall, came back satisfied with my daytrip and discovery and feeling rather smugly pleased with myself, thank you very much.
I’ll tell you know what hit me about coming back to England from India: that this country is goddamned dirty! And – let me explain – I was as surprised by that as you might be, what with India obviously being rife with pollution, and how they just shit and piss everywhere – and still wipe their arses with their hands, despite now having t’internet and mobile phones and all the rest of it, technology not quite stretching to toilet paper as yet – and throw their rubbish all over, and how it stinks, like shit – but England, man, there’s a different kind of dirtiness here! It’s in the people, man; the people are filthy; I just thought, my God, they’re so vulgar, and crass, and loud, and obnoxious, and disrespectful, and tired-looking, and uncivilised, and stressed out, and tense, and drunk, and unintelligent – that’s the kind of dirty I mean. There’s no finer time than those first few hours off the plane to take a really good look at your own country, before it all seeps back in to you and you forget what it’s really like, lose your overseas-eyes, see that, yes, compared to the Chinese, for example, we really do have enormous noses, bulging out, 3D, Pinocchio-style those first few hours, oh we’re a big-nosed, messy and screwed-up bunch (you North Americans included). Oh England! Oh India! Oh cow shit and smart-shirted, hair-parted, white-toothed and polite Indian boys and dangling off trains and curries cheaper than air and mad old drunken England with your clean streets and everyone running tiredly at a thousand miles an hour, I know not why. Oh England!
I had a lovely Christmas, thanks for asking; the best ever. I was ever so close to Perlilly; I think I really felt something there. I think, too, I got cured of some of those silly old mum issues – ha! and there’s a tale for you, if I ever get around to telling it! – and cried one or two letting-it-out tears and it was all rather wonderful and good and great. But, boy, it seems like a real long time ago. And, boy, why is it I feel like I’m splitting apart, and can’t make any sense of anything, when not too very long ago it seemed like everything was being just fine and dandy, and in so many ways even more’s been cleared up since then? I guess I’m cyclical fish monkey wardrobe man, coming round like once a year February flu, the old is jettisoned and the new appears and nothing can last forever, expression ceases and rises and falls and these skins are shed and underneath it all the onion’s tears shine silver bright in the clown’s white night while baby teeth and hair and eyes tinkle tinkle to the deck and those new ones emerge in the aftermath; one day you’re young and bright-eyed, the next…lo! a wrinkle – where did this face come from in the mirror, I hardly recognise myself, all the skins I’ve shed I’m dying now – slowly, slowly – and I never did get to the end or figure anything out – and all that time I spend just thinking the answer was around the corner; it never was. The corner’s around the corner; everybody knows that but who can actually live it? The corner’s around the corner. The fruit corner? Nutella? Oh, if only I could eat chocolate I could make myself sick and then I’d have something else to think/worry/abscess about! The fruit corner, you say? Now there’s a fine idea.
I went round to my brother’s/my old house after Christmas, to pick up some stuff, and there was this not there from my mum (I’ll quote it verbatim, ‘cos it’s that good, it really is): “RORY CAN YOU MAKE SURE YOU LEAVE YOUR KEYS FOR WELBECK STREET BEHIND. YOU CHOSE TO LEAVE AND YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO COME INTO THE HOUSE WITHOUT STEVENS PERMISSION. IF YOU WANT ME TO GET LEGAL ABOUT IT, I WILL. ALSO, MAKE SOME REASONABLE ARRANGEMENTS WITH STEVEN RE YOUR THINGS. I AM GETTING A SKIP SOON – NEED I EXPLAIN FURTHER. MUM.”
Well that’s a doozy! Naturally, I went into a rage, stomping about a bit and saying, “bitch! what a bitch!” and having an urge to smash things – which I didn’t follow, just observed within my head – and – in that head – how could she be like that, what kind of a family have I got, if she wants the keys, wants me to move my stuff, why doesn’t she just ask me instead of threatening to “get legal about it”, chuck it all away, why why why? What’s the point in these people – what can I possibly get out of it except headache and heartache and mad mad bullshit? Who’s got a mum like this? Why are people so insane? Where’s love and caring and being nice and don’t they treat the dogs in the street better than this – and don’t the dogs in the street treat me better than this? Well my brother’s a goofy fuck and no mistake and he’s devoid of feelings and you can’t really blame him, he can’t see anything clearly, he’s so much under her apron-stringed thumb – but why is he okay to inhabit this half-built three bedroomed home with three unused rooms all to himself despite working not and just fannying around the last seven years doing nothing and being miserable and weird and pissing everybody off and I can’t even leave two boxes in a dusty corner despite all those empty words about, “you’ll always have this place” and – sorry, Ma, but you’ve done this before, and I’ve forgiven you, and surely this is the last time, not even a Merry Christmas, never mind a Christmas invite, there’s something wrong with you – you’ve got a slightly twisted nature, it’s not you’re fault – but I don’t need it anymore, goodbye. Some people bring good things into your life and that’s okay; some people just look to rub shit in your eyes and mouth, and hope you’ll take it – and some people do. I have done – but I’ll take it no more. I’m a nice guy; there’s nothing wrong with me; I live my life well; I don’t even say boo to a goose without feeling instantly pained; I can’t take the blame for this. “It’s in your nature,” I hear the wise words say; your nature’s yours, not mine – please keep it. And so long.
All my things are here with me now; I’ll be beholden to this woman no more. Some people are just mad.
I wanted to tell you about this astrologer I saw in India – I wanted to, but I don’t think I will – but, needless to say, he said some interesting and, yeah, sure, relevant things, and gave me stuff to think about, which may be a good thing, or may be a bad thing, I just don’t know. I also wanted to tell you about the way my feelings have changed – but I don’t think I’ll do that either; I’m making no sense tonight – and not that I care about that, but I’m reaching the end of my patience with this. I also wanted to tell you about my magnificent arse, and the way it shines in the dappled moonlight, and the trumpet’s worth of foreskins that I sold to my mad uncle Viktor last Tuesday (later finding out they were worth about a billion, billion dollars) and about how he came to see me and planting a bilberry bush inside my left little nostril and watered it twice a day for the next seventy-four years until it sprouted magic onions that bring us right back to the beginning of this tale being as they smelled of fish.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)