July 2012
Words. Gathering on paper.
An evening is drawing in. A Sunday one. A lazy weekend has happened.
And you have brought yourself into focus again.
A fallen man.
Your letters arrived yesterday. Perfect timing. As I had given the weekend away. To myself. And could bathe in your thoughts without leaving the water. I’m getting quite good at what some people would call ‘nothing’. Nothing pleases me. I please myself.
I heard the postie draw up. Handbrake on. The crunch of gravel. And the ffffffft of some words being pushed into my house.
I knew it was you. I laid in bed a while. Sated in the knowledge of what was to come.
To the step. To read. And look. And be curious about the words that are now in my hands. They delay any activity.
I can see the sea sat there. An ever changing view. My pew.
I safely stowed the letters between my ceramic cup and the concrete of the step. My Saturday gently ran away with me after that. Hanging out washing, decapitating all the roses so I could make rose water. Numerous more cups of tea. And some avocado on toast. You have to travel to a big supermarket to find one of those things round here. Food of the gods.
I pulled a blanket from the sofa and disappeared into the grass in the garden. The two vegetable patches are the only tame spaces. Everywhere else has gone awry. I might need to borrow a strimmer to get to the washing line. But it means I can take all my clothes off and let the sun stroke my belly. Obscured by long grass. Hidden from view.
I sprawled on the blanket and reread The Symposium. Which I have now passed to you. Maybe you have read it. I first read it whilst in the monastery...
‘Her feet are tender, for she sets her steps not on the ground, but on the heads of men.’
And it wasn’t until I’d read the last few pages that I noticed Sir Humphrey Stanley. Stood, poised, in ink, on the front of an unopened card still in the airmail envelope from this morning. More words. Hidden inside him ‘Face on face, in temperate rains, windswept fresh, salty veins of waterwash, a-mixed with hair, the air pulls molecules, out of time in threads, and beads and trains, out there the sky engrained, nurtures seeds.’
I’ve told you before that you have somehow unlocked this writing thing. I’ve written whilst travelling, describing what I see. But this is something new. There are a lot of things I have to say. I think. About misfortune. And disaster. And what brings us home again. But I haven’t met anyone yet that makes me want to show myself or these thoughts.
Sometimes intellect and reason pull me back from expression. My voice gets caught in my throat.
It’s almost as if I have come to the window….
It’s ajar.
And obviously I can see through it. But something is stopping me flinging it open and sailing on through it to the grass outside. Shouting out words as I fly through.
So if we ever do meet…..and I am hiding myself inside some walls. Please feel free to kick the door in.
I played the piano for a bit. Got lost in the woods. Came back and put some lairy techno on, danced until it was late and I collapsed softly into the sofa. Slept long. We had tea. I think (it takes two to know). Did some gardening. Potatoes, swede, cauliflower, leeks, beans, kale, courgette, broccoli, lettuce. And some lucky dips, all doing well. I have been talking to them with love. On Sundays they get the pleasure of Sunday Service on Radio 6 whilst I weed around their bushy heads. It’s usually Jarvis Cocker. But he has been awol for the last few weeks so we’ve had Sid Vicious and the guys from Hot Chip and a couple of other peeps manning the church and our songs.
My church. My place of contemplation. A cottage high up in the Highlands. A garden. A red step. And an ever changing sky.
I couldn’t stay in Brighton after he died. Whilst everyone carried on, regardless. Their bucket and spades no use with the big fat pebbles. Tuppaware boxes full of salad. Beaming smiles and engagement rings. The Palace Pier roaring on the horizon with it’s high rides and happy lights.
And I couldn’t wander round Canada with my backpack forever. I tried. Until I received a letter from the government. I had overstayed my visa and overstayed my welcome. The monastery had welcomed me and my white hot mess of a mind for months. And with a steady routine, soft guidance and my surrender, I found some cool and calm insight. A different way to be. Like manna from heaven. But in true Buddhist fashion the wheel kept turning. Birth. Death. Re-birth. And the letter proved that change really was the only constant.
Scotland called. A new life called. It wanted tending. Like the veg patches.
And this works well. For now. Contemplating love. And loss. Whilst my fingers and heart are in the dirt trying to create new roots. Highland skies pierce through it all. Watering. Bringing the light, the cool breeze. Tending to me along with the vegetables. Reminding me of the beauty in all that growing.
I return to the red step. And smoke. Now watching the line between the sky and the prickly North Sea.
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And here is the nub of it. With a peaceful mind. And trust. And no expectation. Whatever we create. Is new.