21st July 2017

At the end of the tunnel was a door.

At least, that’s what they told me,

the people, the people in the darkness whispering

all around me.

I believed them,

I had to, they were all that I had,

I couldn’t have made it without them,

yet I have made it to the end of the tunnel

and I cannot see a door.

I have reached out my hands

to the dark wall, I have quashed my fear,

I have reached and I have touched things I never thought I would,

but the door,

the door is not there, or

if it is, I cannot find it.

20th July 2017

There has been rain, yet it is still stuffy. The residual heat has not yet released from the warm earth. All the windows are either open or on the latch; my cat likes to sit by the open window sniffing the air, guarding her territory or scouting for prey. Last night, while we were watching Kon-tiki, she leapt through the living room window pursuing a moth. She kept capturing it in her paw and then losing it, and then she lost it for good behind the TV and I have no idea now whether it hid for a while before making its escape or gave up its tenuous little life back there amongst the wires. Whichever, it is gone. It is so strange seeing my cat with violence in her eyes, the excitement of it, the swiftness of her movements both precise and spontaneous like a well-trained dancer. Sometimes she gets that look in her eyes as she looks down on me, her feet planted firmly on my chest, when she sometimes visits us in the night, and I wonder what she is thinking, how she perceives this strange moment of mastery, whether she is considering a pounce, a nip at my nose. But she always does the same thing which is to sink awkwardly down and curl into a little curve, bend her head and suckle on her own chest. My violent little kitten.

19th July 2017

A long lunch with a friend and I’ve reconnected with my humanity. There is no problem that can’t be solved over a table with someone who will listen and challenge, who can make you laugh, with whom you can share a mad joke. Sushi was eaten, tempura too. But best of all was the connection with another person, in all our frailties and sad hopes, green tea and soy sauce and friendship. The best thing in the world.

17th July 2017

Listening to f(x) in the sunshine and wishing I didn’t have to exist in a world of such linear thinking, where so many decisions are safe and not bold, where people do what most people do because most people do those things. I walk an imagined labyrinth, just to break my own linear thinking.

16th July 2017

There’s a section on the M6 heading north, just around junction 37, when the scenery changes and you know you are in the Lake District. You know you are in the Lake District even though there is no lake and no sign of any lake, the lakes are all elsewhere. No: it is the hills. There is something about them, they rise all soft and rumpled like the skin of a pug, there’s a velveteen sheen about them that is just wrong, you know it’s wrong even if these are the only hills you’ve even known, even if they’re the kind of hills which generate a feeling of comfort, a sense of home. They are still wrong. Their nakedness is wrong, their smoothness an aberration. Somehow you know that at this latitude, with hills like those and weather that forms lakes in massive abundance, that those hills should be covered in trees. And they’re not. The reason, of course, is plain in the form of all those little white dots scattered around munching everything that grows above hoof level, but it’s not sheep that interest me in this view. It’s those strange hills, the streambeds like runnelled scars, chunks of flesh torn from the bone. And it is bone they most remind me of, old bones found in the woods or the wilderness, denuded of the flesh that makes them into something more – a human, an animal. Bones so old they’re covered in moss, the kind of bones children find and play with, not knowing, really, what they are. Is this the source of the discomfort? As though these hills, with their cropped nakedness, are just the bones of hills, remnants, the ghostly echo of something once fulsome with vivid life?

15th July 2017

In the supermarket this morning I was thinking about the desire for things we do not need, the way in which it shapes and directs us, and whether the supermarket is merely a reflection of it or a source of it, a chicken or egg kind of question. Supermarkets have changed since I was a child. When I was a child the supermarket was about the size of a ‘local’ or mini-market or whatever the term for such a thing might be now. Our local supermarket had four aisles, an equivalent amount of space that might now be taken up by beans and ham and breakfast cereal and coffee. The ham section in the supermarket is a constant source of wonder to me. Who knew that ham could come in so many forms, so many different shapes and flavours, sources, such an array of cost and packaging? My supermarket has an entire section dedicated to ham, not a great comfort if it’s beef that you desire. I wonder about the burgeoning fascination with avocado and quinoa, and where the desire for these things have come from. Is the desire manufactured by the supermarkets? Or do the supermarkets respond to a desire? It seems an unsolvable question. If avocado was not in my supermarket, would I want it at all? Would I miss it? Would I feel that I was missing out by not having it?

[in fact I do not like avocado at all]

This question is not limited to the exotic, the unusual fruits and vegetables that aren’t commonplace here. The question is as valid for ham, for cereals, for coffee, for pasta and rice and potatoes (the array of potatoes is almost as impressive as the ham). When I was a child and we went to the supermarket, we might be able to choose between two types of ham and if we chose one of them I didn’t feel bereft of the kind we did not choose. I am not sure if we need all this ham. But if we don’t want it, what do we do about it? We could not buy it, of course, yet the fact that it is there, that we could try it, generates in itself a desire which directs us to purchase it. We eat the ham. Are we better for it?

12th July 2017

I have been reflecting some more on my list of things to give up or stop doing, the idea of letting things go is quite appealing. Yesterday I gave up checking my personal e-mails, just for the day. I didn’t surf the internet except for work (and even there, only a little). At lunchtime I went to the library and failed to find the book I wanted to read (Wittgenstein’s Tractatus) or a movie I wanted to borrow (L’avventura, or Solaris). I did not borrow a book, I simply wandered around looking for and not finding things. Maybe not finding things is something I can add to my list. On the train I read my book, but I didn’t plug my ears with music. It rained a lot. I lay on my back on the sofa and looked at the ceiling. I looked at the square of light I could see through my window: it was grey, featureless. That was how my life felt.

I realised there are some other things I can give up, my list is growing. Last night I added to it:

  • Not knowing
  • Missing out
  • Being unprepared

The first and the last are the ones I am least adept at, especially as the internet – such a noble idea – is a random desire generating machine which allows us to seek out things we would not otherwise be able to seek, and to know things we would not otherwise be able to know, or at least not so easily. Once, as one of my colleagues adeptly pointed out, to find the paragraph or two of knowledge we were seeking we would have to read an entire book and we would find our knowledge but we would also find a bunch of other things we weren’t expecting and the richness of knowledge which came from that is becoming a thing of the past. Now we can simply ask Google or Bing and Google or Bing will tell us exactly what we want to know, but the context, the peripheral knowledge which might lead us to know something more deeply, with greater nuance, is omitted.

The internet is most successful at enabling us to buy things we do not need.

Being unprepared, I think, is my Achilles’ heel. Or, rather, being prepared. I am always preparing, planning, scheming and making lists. Like this list. I am already making a list of things to do when I’m on holiday in 2 weeks; and then again 3 weeks after that. I am thinking about what to do for my daughter’s birthday and for Christmas, and I am thinking about the fact that my boss is retiring soon and what will happen when he does. In the back of my mind my own retirement looms, though it is at least 20 years away. I am planning meals days in advance. I am planning my work, my reading, what I’ll write about. I am thinking about how I will think about what I am doing for the rest of the day. I cannot stop planning. Planning is why I have a freezer full of food I’ll probably never eat, and food in tins and cupboards full of flour. Planning is why I have 1,000+ books on the shelf, about a quarter of which I have not read and might not ever, Planning is why I have a drawer full of socks, and Tupperware pots and pans which haven’t seen the light of day in years. Just in case. Planning is why spontaneity takes me totally by surprise, why I have never spent an afternoon boozing in the garden, or taken a day off work to sleep, or indulged in any other slovenly or self-indulgent behaviour. I am beginning to wonder if I’ve missed something fundamental by this. I am resisting my desire to make a plan to be spontaneous.