Oh, I'm so sick of living in damn paradise! Plucking mangoes from the trees and listening to this gently gurgling stream! I want some concrete 'round here, some noise and some machinery. I want to scatter the most important things in my life for miles around and make it a draining headache to get to them. I want lights on bright twenty-four hours a day and for this blessèd air to stop smelling so stupidly pure and let's get a bit of lead, a bit of smoke, a bit of grime in it. I can't stand the silence and the goodness and the shimmering leafy trees anymore!
What I did this week
Well, I guess the highlight of it was my little day out on Wednesday, which I didn't know was going to happen, but did. See, it started a few days before that, and me keeping hearing the word 'Penistone' – that's penniss-tun, not pee-nuss tone – and thinking that it meant something. Finally, on Tuesday, I saw it one last time and thought, "right, I'll go there" (knowing that it's on the train line somewhere near
Well, an hour later I was there and the sun was shining on me and this quite quaint and charming little place barely ten minutes across but with its own market and even a cinema. It never ceases to amaze me to find places like this around here – like the gem that is Hooton Pagnell barely a stone's throw from my own South Elmsall – and even more so being so close to Barnsley, supposedly one of the worst places to live in Europe; you imagine the stench of it sort of covering everything in the surrounding areas with some grim layer of shite – but no, not sweet little Penistone (nor, for that matter, some decidedly marvellous countryside neither; perhaps Barnsley is doing is all a favour, sucking up all the brain-deads and crackheads and wastrels and keeping them contained within its walls so the rest of us may live in peace; perhaps Wakefield is doing the same). Anyway, I digest – just as I did after I'd eaten a large and lovely bag of chips in order to fortify me for my journey; I'd discovered, you see, that not too far from Penistone was the northern most section of the Peak District, with its moors and views and hills, and I thought a bit of frolicking there might be the order of the day…
I saw a sign for the Trans-Pennine Trail, thinking that might take me somewhere pretty, and followed that; soon, I was once again leaving my working city mind behind and feeling myself slow down to the rhythm of my legs, the wheels, the butterflies and bugs, digging the country air, loving how pretty everything was, giggling to myself at my latest silly journey; soon I was saying, for the millionth time, "ah, this is the life" – and then realising, wow, it's only being in nature that can do that to me, not once, not ever have I stretched out and smiled big 'n' true and put my hands behind my head and thought, yes, this is it, in the middle of some city, or staring at some building, or rushing somewhere, adrenalising it, getting caught up. Ah, this is the life surely only applies out here, in this air, in this quiet, in this sun on my neck and insects on my wrist and, my, how suddenly the world has slowed in its ceaseless spinning and turning and why do I feel so good all of a sudden, something's changed…
I rode for about five miles, to the sealed up entrance to some three-mile long railway tunnel that ceased trading about 26 years ago, all those dead Victorian navvies that gave their sweat and limbs in dynamiting through rock and hill perhaps thinking they shouldn't have bothered; I felt for them, but it was also kind of cool, and I was wishing I could get down into it, how great would that be to go skulking off into the darkness and have to feel your way along five-thousand feet of ancient black passageway all blind and unbeknownst to the monsters down there? How terrifying! How cool! But, alas, of course, it was all sealed off and further adventures denied in the names of health and safety and not risking your life, etcetera. So, instead, I got back on my bike and rode then up ultra-steep hills high above the bowels of that ghastly catacombs past reservoirs and valleys and then to the other end of the tunnels and a welcome break at a surprisingly little stream where shoes and socks were jettisoned and lying in beautiful, gorgeous rocks – oh, how I love rocks! – it really was, ah, this is the life! Stream and valley and sun and water and gently and clear and quiet and relax…never anything finer; absolutely marvellous!
I lay there for a long time; I cleared out some silted-up channel that looked a little sorry for itself and felt happy again to see the waters flowing, my child-glee on haunches to watch that man-made current alive and free once more. I balanced one little rock and loved it; I cleared some garbage from the bank and out of the water; I leapt around a little, showing off, jubilant in my remembrance of barefoot sprightliness among my beloved river-rocks. I was happy there; I loved it; I rode on once more. I didn't know where I was going, just following my nose before thinking it was probably time to turn back soon, Penistone receding far into the distance behind steep hill climbs and the onset of the falling sun. I had a little look at the guarded tunnel entrance, marvelling at the coolness of the breeze that swept from it through heavily padlocked gates and railings. I rode on a little more, just to see what was around the corner. I found it.
Towering high to my left, high up on the hillside was what looked like a fairly sheer hundred-foot tall cliff face – climbability! I hid my bike behind the wall there, left my sweater and then began the ascent through heather and field and sheep. Oh, how I used to love to climb those hills in my hitch-hiking days, deep in Arizona or Montana or wherever I happened to be, just dropped off, just there, and then spying that big old rocky old steep old hill thinking, right, I just want to get to the top of that! Some lovely memories of hills outside Bisbee or Superior (from where I walked to Roosevelt Lake) in Arizona or that mountain in Montana, racing to the top up pathless paths, just for the hell of it – and then less so in Sedona, for example, that 2000ft climb for no real reason, trapped the night up there, scaring myself half to death twelve dozen times over – but it had been a long time and I guess I wanted a little something of that back. So off I went, quite a long way, and then up the cliff face – at the third attempt, too old/wise/afraid/can't-be-bothered to really want to scare myself again, that wasn't the point, and then out there at the top staring at miles in front of me of empty moorland, all heathers and streams and muddy little bogs and solitude. Bloody brilliant! I raced off into it and soon the world was far behind and, for all I knew, there was nothing ahead of me for another twenty miles.
You get up there, and out there, knowing that there's no-one around, and then you know what it means to be "supremely alone." Those were the words that came into my head; that was how I felt. I felt big. Ecstatic. Alone, and supreme. Yes, indeed, it is a supreme feeling…
I found, then, a mile in, some large rocks, obelisk-like, reeking of Stone Henge (but not that big) or the meditation seats around Crestone. I remembered
"Woo-hoo," I said.
I started sheepish, looking out for others, so aware of my nudity. The cold was bothering me so I ran a little and it died away. The running made me feel good, almost primeval, and I started to forget my nudity, my lack of coverings. I ran faster, feeling light and free away from the shackles and burdens of my clothes, my clodhopping hiking boots, their weight. The heather was soft to run on, the ground squelching black and soft beneath me; holes and hills buffeted me along and I just kept running, no longer fearing for my nakedness, thinking only of where my feet would land, how fast I could go, how good it felt, how big I was. My body was good! The feeling was excellent! I'd only ever done this once – in
I went about an hour like that, trying over and over to reach the top of the moor, to find the place where I look out onto the other side and see what was there – but it just kept going. The afternoon was well and truly fading by now, and I'd had my naked fun, lost all trace of hesitation, forgot even that I wasn't wearing clothes. I turned around and began my big stride back – and then thought, oh, how am I ever going to find my clothes in this? I don't know why, but I hadn't thought about that before I'd set off, I'd simply gone; now, it didn't seem so easy, and my first attempt took me way past where they should have been. I retraced my steps to the furthest place I'd got to and tried again – and failed, again, to find them, or to find anything that looked familiar, anything that I recognised. I laughed and thought, hell, I was gonna get rid of those boots earlier, and giggled at the thought of me making it back to civilisation, balls in hand, begging some rags or riding naked through the Pennine night, or sitting there on the train wrapped in my sweater making excuses about tickets left in trousers on moors and knowing how hilarious they would all find it. I got my back-up plan – the sweater left by my bike, and a soggy pair of shorts I'd fished out of the stream that although I'd filled them with garbage, including a baby's nappy, would still be better than nothing – and felt happy with that. I laughed about it, and implored the skies, and when I realised I had no idea where I was in those thousands of square metres of identical looking moorland and hidden streams and heathers I took myself back to the cliff face and thought I'd start from there – and when I got to back where I'd started I realised I was about a quarter of a mile off target even then. The sun was getting low and I thought I'd give it one more try.
I stood for a while, though, atop that cliff, looking down upon the road and one or two houses, and wondering if perhaps someone could see me, spying there through binoculars, wondering about the naked man, the beast of the moor, the crazy fellow with no clothes on lost up there so close to dark with the cold setting in. The thought amused me; I liked it. I wondered if they'd send for the police; I wondered, too, if aeroplanes could see me, this whooping mad pink shape leaping around from bush to stream to bush. By now the soft and cushioning heather had turned sharp and nasty, cutting my tender feet, making me long for my shoes, for it to be over. And yet, happy still, in the madness of it all…
And did I find them, once I'd regained my bearings from that cliff-top (or so I thought) and zig-zagged once more across that land? Was that them another half a mile or so later, ahead of me, in that grassy hollow? Or was it a mirage, this two hour search done me in, a cruel stone or rag masquerading as my cords, my shirt, my shoes? I approached carefully, I didn't want to get too glad – but it sure looked like them, the place where I had left them. Joy began to sweep through me; I warded it off; I didn't want egg on my face as I picked up that rag, that stone, that glint. Joy kept fighting through, though; it had to be them. I neared. I got there. It was.
Ten dark, hilly miles back to Penistone, a bottle of water – first in eight hours – and a fish from the chippy. Distance biked this day: at least twenty, and a lot of it up some serious hills; distance walked: about eight – and a lot of it naked! I ache, I stink, I'm dirty, it's late. Eleven in the pee-em I get home, ten hours after departure, back when I had no idea what Penistone was, where it was, what was out there. My toes are full of black, boggy mud. I like that. It was a good day. This is the life.
The biggest tragedies in my life
That my knees and hands hurt from too much computering
That I don't get to play football more than once a week
That I lost a thousand pounds on my last car (meaning I've only four grand in the bank instead of five)
That the back brake on my bike needs adjusting
That I'm very occasionally slightly unhappy
That I sometimes lose lives on Pacman when I shouldn't
The biggest tragedies in the lives of others
That they go home to abusive, violent, smelly partners
That they have no food, and watch their families die
That they will never know love or joy
That they live in daily fear of guns or bombs
That they have no limbs
Mr Onniss T. Factor is back again, saying, "talk about Y..."
Y, oh Y, oh why? Why did I do that? Why did I stop? What's the truth of that matter? And where did all go wrong? Or, at least, where did it all go? Y – who shall remain nameless – you were jolly nice to me, and we were lovers; we had great sex, we ate nice meals and watched TV; we…but that was about it; I guess there wasn't more than that. Yes, I suppose, that's what it all came down to – there wasn't more to it than that. You need to be able to look someone in the face and give your all to them, no holding back, just look at them and know…they're the one you want. I didn't want you – but, the thing is, wasn't it just your face that I didn't want? I mean, don't get me wrong, on certain days I could think you pretty…but on the whole? No, it just wasn't there. And that's not your fault – that's me realising that I'm shallow. But don't you need to find someone attractive? Does anybody really marry someone they're not attracted to, who they can't look in the eye and love the way they look, who they can't say, "you're beautiful, you're gorgeous"? Is that even possible? Always, that's how it was for me – that image, the lifting back of the veil, there in front of the altar, and me not being able to, not being able to have that feeling of falling into you, your eyes, your face – which is what I somehow equate to love. But should I trust my feelings or should I doubt myself, put myself down as shallow, as being swayed by things that aren't really important, that soon fade, that are mere superficial? Tough question – and one I don't know the answer to. Your hugs were good, your body was great – but that will soon fade too, as will mine – and your personality just swell; very compatible; lovely. I liked being in your arms. I felt love, and I felt love from you. It was only when I opened my eyes…
What if I were a blind man? What would make my choices then? Love, surely; feelings, pure compatibility, emotions, connection, mind. What if I couldn't see your face – how happy I'd be then! But I can, so how can I say? But saying that, though…I feel such a fool. How did I ever get to be so shallow, so swayed by things that just don't matter? What happened to the Rory that was all heart, all soul – only love?
But what if the heart's truth is somehow reflected/mirrored/told in the eyes? If I felt something real, shouldn't that somehow transfer itself through my soul to my brain, over-riding, overcoming? Don't they say "love is blind"? And I say again, does anyone really get with someone they don't find attractive? How could they?
No, I feel reconciled – even if, sometimes, I miss you, now that you are no longer speaking to me – and even then there's a clue, because I don't really care, don't really pine; I miss your sex, the contact, your skin – but your company, your love, a future of companionship and children? No, it's just not there, not now, not yet. How does one even know those things? I haven't a clue. Maybe we never do – maybe it just happens and it's not worth thinking about…
And now Onniss knows that I'm thinking about Z…
Indeed I do. Z is one of your first loves; you loved her when you were fourteen, and then later at sixteen, but you never had the courage to tell her so, to make a move; you've regretted that ever since (not because you think it could have lasted, but because it could have been for a time, and could have taught you things, and would have been done). You came back into her life around five years ago, and made something of a move – one brief night of 'shenanigans' – but you were too wild with your spirituality to see things clearly and she was too mixed up with her own, very different stuff for the two of you to be able to communicate. You lost touch again, until earlier this year; you were more grounded, more able to see things as they really were, and you laughed at yourself for the way you had been…
Yes, even though I still felt things I could see just how incompatible we were, how very different our lives and our personalities, how impossible it would be to share them, in any sense of the word.
But still, you felt things…
Yes, and I've felt them again. She feels good in my arms; I'm attracted; I like her a lot – despite her madnesses, which are probably even madder than mine! But the attraction is there. But…
But…
But I don't trust myself; I can't be sure of my intentions. I've seen now how I can be with a woman, and how I can lose myself in the chase, start dreaming things, start imagining that she's the mother of my children, "the one", and then…watch as it all crumbles once I've had my way, got what I needed in a physical sense. Not even 'the conquest'…actually, I don't understand it all myself – but it definitely seems to be there, and I don't really like it. Why do I want a woman like that? And how is it I'm so able to fool myself in that way, thinking I want more, turning on the charm, making them think it too (I do believe it) and then watching the bubble burst once the connection has been made, the passion consummated? No, I don't like it one bit and it makes me very wary indeed. I wouldn't want to do that to Z – I wouldn't want to risk it – and yet, at the same time, I would. How I wish it was olden days and men spread their seed as much as they could and women took genes and tried for the best! No hassle, no complications, no getting wrapped up in the future and pension plans and child support agencies and unfulfillable promises of fidelity and eternal love forever and ever! How I wish I didn't have to think beyond tomorrow…
I remember this one time – and I've never told anyone this – five years ago I was at Z's place and her son, then three, was laying there and I was struck so hard in my heart thinking that he should have been mine. It felt so real at the time; it really touched me deep. Now, though, I don't know – I mean, maybe there was something in that but…I guess I used to feel so many things, so strong, and – I just don't know if that's enough to make them real, to make them mean anything. I used to think I could save the world, for Christ's sake! I used to think I could be a Christ, my God! [lol] I mean, then, how can I trust my feelings on anything when I have the propensity to get so deluded? I'll be the first to admit I seem to spend half my thinking time in some crazed and fantastic make-believe world. I tell myself a lot – but who knows how much of it is true?
I don't even know why I want a woman in the first place; it seems to be this burning quest, this question that won't leave me alone, keeps seeking to force me to make some sort of choice between this one or that one – but why can't I just be single, just be free to not think about lifelong partners and babies and settling down and all the rest, like so many other folk?
Tell me Momma's story again…
Momma's story – yes, the one that started it all; the one following my Paris days with E, when I was bouncing backwards and forwards with her after our breakup and not knowing which way to turn, and Kestrel saying, "try not to come up with an answer now, probably in six weeks you'll know" – and on that exact day me being appointed to call Momma and her saying, "she's not the one; another will be coming before the end of August, a soulmate, forever and ever" and, again, that feeling right. But I meet no-one – except Y, who sort of appears around this time, but probably before this call, I can't quit remember – and then in my madness at wondering just how the hell this was going to happen I cry out, "just tell me in a dream!" and I have that dream where that little imp/sprite character comes up, gives me some wisdom and then says, "by the way, Z is your soulmate," just like that. I guess since then I've just been on this mission – wherever I've liked it or not. So I found her – didn't even have any contact details – and we eventually got together, and we were happy for a long time, and very, very compatible, and everything was groovy – and you know the rest. But that's what kicked it into gear – and that's why it's such a big thing with me, since our split. I guess it's the feeling that I'm supposed to be with someone – that I should be with someone, even though I can't say I really want to be – and maybe that's for reasons beyond my knowing, I just can't say. But I do just wish I could let it go. God, I don't even want a woman that much! So why must I think about it all the time? Why must I ponder these impossible riddles, trying to seek and answer, trying to narrow it down and get the clues to add up, lost, without markers, without guidance, without a map? I don't even know how you're supposed to tell! I don't even know what the criteria is! Is it how you feel when you look at them? Is it how you feel in your heart? Is it how you feel with them after one day, one month, one year – because that will surely change, for better or for worse – or is simply, "who will have you"? I honestly haven't a clue – and I honestly do crave for a simpler day when choice wasn't an issue, when one was grateful to have anyone, and when one took the plunge and stuck with it, through thick and thin, whether they liked it all the time or not.
Does that answer your question?
What question?
Bank Holiday
Marvellous! Lazy afternoon on the couch while the world is shopping or stuck in traffic, Charlton Heston hogging several channels and even more hours on the TV - fall asleep in the middle of Planet of The Apes, wake up for the end of Ben Hur, just carry on where you left off - and, best of all, athletics! Oh, those prize specimens of man, their bulging muscles and supernatural feats! I mean, how the hell do you jump eight or even nine metres!? Memories of those teenage years: Cram and Coe and Ovett; Said Aouita and various Kip-Ko-Kenyans coming from behind to triumph 1-2-3 in steeplechases, in bright-toothed victory; little gray haired choirboy Jonathan Edwards jumping further than anyone in history - must've had some Divine help - and then Ed Moses and Butch Reynolds, Carl Lewis, Heike Dreschler, Linford and Roger and the world's most famous Canadian, Ben Johnson. Oh, I could go on forever! Marvellous, I tells you - marvellous!
Final thoughts
It's now a month since I've eaten chocolate, cheese, biscuits, sugar or crisps - I think I've done very well considering how addicted I was! Now if only I could apply that determination to my computer addictions...
Does anybody know what the world records are for a) riding a bicycle non-handed; b) juggling devil sticks without dropping them?
No comments:
Post a Comment