The young deities discussed Laws of form, and meter just, Orb, quintessence, and sunbeams, What subsisteth, and what seems. One, with low tones that decide, And doubt and reverend use defied, With a look that solved the sphere, And stirred the devils everywhere, Gave his sentiment divine Against the being of a line. "Line in nature is not found; Unit and universe are round; In vain produced, all rays return; Evil will bless, and ice will burn.
Uriel, Ralph Waldo Emerson
A snapshot - not so long ago in a country we hope won't send us far away:
It was 10:00 PM, the moon was sitting so low;
if I stretched, just, up, up, and balanced on the cracked toes of my mud-caked trainers, maybe, I could jump and perch myself on the sharp, silvery edge. This heavy, luminescent and momentarily awe-inspiring but
imperfect circle ( I am reminded: its craters and fissures, the dust - all of these things scratch at my brain in my mother's cynical voice, to ensure I do not break the cardinal rule of believing in a joyful magic) shines implacably on me. To feel the lady's pull, like the tides; to lie back, drug-sick from my many (unfortunately, verily needed) tablets, in the cashmere blackness of the chilly night - with all of London laid at my feet - insert dreamscape here. I need to be safe though, and to ensure I get my wishes right. (a brief aside -always be quite specific and careful with what you wish for - for years I dreamt of a Christmas in England, just like Dickens wrote it - unfortunately I did not specify whose Christmas it would resemble and it has been Christmases in the workhouse and the Cratchits without the prize turkey for the past years). The bright sprinkled mass of lights below may not exactly be London in an accurate geographical sense. Google maps tells me I am in Budapest so I think it is a little bit off tonight, as I distinctly remember it was raining this morning when I had my trashcan-fire smoked tea and digestive biscuits watching the London bound traffic. I think it may be time to put our ancient Motorola out to pasture, she's become a bit capricious! Technically our homestead in St Albans is about 15 minutes away from London and since I couldn't tell a left turn from a northwestishly-winded direction
and I truly do not know exactly what place I am standing and sharing this story with you.
In any direction, in any dimension for that matter, the life we are invoking in London (o but to live in Pimlico - nothing beats walking along the Thames with my husband and Boo - mansion block flat of course :) seems impossible at the moment, but actually, I wonder, is there a word for when what seems impossible right now you do truly believe in your soul will happen, eventually - being, in your belief, only temporarily impossible? Is this little tête
à tête with you my self-delusional tendency kicking in once again? Or is this truly a good time to believe in this concept of suspension of disbelief? I'm getting tired and feeling cranky, so regardless of direction, or adverb, magic spell, definition, whatever - reality - choose one and keep them all, I really don't care. Hell, it's my story right?
The climb tonight is so tough, even though we had done it dozens of times before; it was hard for me every night, but tonight especially. We looked and felt like pack-mules and the pain was really getting to me, shooting down my legs and up my back and on top of this I was starting to get a migraine and I would kill for a salad I just didn't know how much longer I could do this without falling apart mentally or physically and winding up in hospital aaaaahhhh. Deep breaths.
So where were we? Sorry, my mind wanders - most days being a cozy, mazy, muddled, snarl of ribboning WTF?! Pinballing around my brain is suddenly something that seems quite profound, rumblings of TS Eliot, and his etherising some Zombies - but ah - the moment is gone, Gesturing in the air as is if swiping away a thought on my imaginary phone ; I am thankful no one saw - the boys already thought I was strange. So I just mumble something to myself about the dangers of technology (predictions that AI will most likely destroy the human race). I get the usual blank stare someone might use on a child when they were being fantastical and just plain weird. Thankfully most people who know me have found it best to just ignore me when I am in my own world- I am never unpleasant, no, just... frequently somewhere else - and who would blame me, fairies make great drinking buddies.
I think the things that made me me - what defined me - as an artist - a writer, a musician, an actress: my tools - my
macbook with whom I shared my secrets -long gone (with all of my writing, pictures, etc) my special
Gibson SG guitar sold to pay for Holiday dinner with friends, my
Roland keyboard, lent with my normal (
stupid)grand faith in others to a friend who right off the bat destroyed it through carelessness, (and no she didn't offer to replace it) not to mention my husband's vintage
Vistalite drum kit and all his production
ProTools tools and instruments -years to acquire, all Lost, with everything else we ever owned. I would be remiss if I neglected the wardrobe I had been carefully curating for years, vintage, designer, bespoke- the
Louboutins, oh the
Louboutins) the
Vuitton (my padlocked hatbox I miss the most), all gone. All the things that you never anticipate being so important but really missed when they are gone: books(this one is particularly painful for me), stupid collections like my medievel hoard of leather, armor, chain mail, and all sorts of knick knacks, candleholders, everything a magical castle would need (wow I sometimes realise I have lost more than I thought - bummer) and then there was Gwyd's squirrel & skull collection (less creepy than it sounds), all the kitchen bits (I had finally built up my set of copper-bottomed chef endorsed pots and pans, I had the industrial
Kitchen Aid mixer, the specialised cooker, 2 sets of china, alot of crystal). It breaks my heart all of this loss - it is like a fire swept its way through everything in our lives but it was not only the physical loss - the emotional loss was much worse. Even now the small but so important luxuries, beauty and fashion meant so much, now my daily style inspiration is whatever is warm and dry, I get discarded toiletries (that believe me are treasured) and I desperately long for perfume. Food is now a luxury - never-mind wine, and while we had a bonfire, it is just not quite the same as fragrant, mysterious candlelight: one burns, the other warms, I was not sure which was which.
It was starting to get really cold at night so we were laden with bags of clothes, blankets and pillows (and what was left-over from dinner to recycle as breakfast, the volunteers liked us so we got extra treats when possible).
Centre closed at 9:30 and the rules were strict - eat and wash, socialise a bit, clean up after yourself and then - get out. 3…2…1… and we were out of their minds. The volunteers had real lives. I suppose I hadn't expected the 'us' and 'them' scenarios. Them being the ones who truly cared, or at least felt bad, or did a good job at pretending. They went home to warm houses, turned up the telly to watch 'Britains got Talent' or catch up on 'Eastenders'. They could go into their kitchens to make a cup of tea, possibly light the fireplace, cuddle up on the couch. A normal evening, wouldn’t you say? I lived that way most of my life, comfortable, luxurious, safe. I was one of 'them'. At the time I never thought about it. Of course, I was aware of people who needed help and tried to do my bit - sending food to the food banks, donating money, supporting the local groups who needed help maybe to replace a church roof or fund the air ambulance and I always donated to disaster reliefs and especially the animal charities, RSPCA, Dogs Trust,etc, etc. But I never thought past the surface I suppose, I did my bit and went home, just like 'them'. I always felt pity for the homeless, but as you know most people would say they were there by their own hands - drugs, alcohol, crime, madness; and they would be right, for a bit. I never imagined I would even step a toe into their real world. It was an eye-opener I could have done without. I am still scared. But, it wasn't all crazies and crooks, there were others out there with us, from Russell Group Universities, and from investment banks, those on permanent holiday due to the blessings of a trust fund - some very normal people who like us, had encounters with tragedy and misfortune. It seems inconceivable that in such a modern, civilised society that these things can happen, but truly, no one is really safe. I suppose if you are lucky enough to have something to fall back on in an emergency, in a real crisis, in a totally unexpected run of very bad luck that you never ever imagined would happen to you, then you are ok. As I can readily attest, there are scenarios that play out bad, and then worse, and sometimes, you fall so far that even your fail-safes can't save you and you are at the mercy of the world. You become one of 'us'. And the world can be cruel. Not only 'nature, red in tooth and claw' torturing us with deadly weather, dangerous plants and wild animals, but society and its preconceptions and prejudices. They can be much more deadly to already shaken self esteem. But I digress.
I am tired, aching, it's past my time for a painkillers- but I have nothing to drink, and my feet keep slipping on the wet stones that line the path up the hill. Up, up, up. I need to rest and let Boo sniff around for any night creatures that happen to be around for her amusement. We rearrange our gear and share a pathetically tobacco-light fag between three people while Boo does her business. Finally we get to the top. Our path leads up to a mini forest - and after we make it up the hill, we need to make it through the jungle of the woods. Luckily tonight we have the moonlight to help guide us, normally it’s the flashlights we cherish if we have batteries, or the light of our mobiles- if we have been able to find a place to charge them; sometimes we have to make it through in the dark and wind up bruised and battered, wandering through in the pitch black - not something I would recommend. We push through the overgrown fence, pulling it gently out, and then replacing it and rearranging the brush so that no one notices us. The lovely quiet turns suddenly to a roar; our woodland lays atop the motorway and the noise is an unbearable rush as I feel a migraine coming on, but it is just another thing to adjust too. We trip and stumble over the tree roots and try to avoid falling in the holes that lurk all around, and pray that no one else has found our spot and taken all that’s left of what we own. We finally get to our version of a welcome mat, a dirty stuffed toy - a unicorn, that hangs in the tree that signals us to turn right and be very careful of the deep hole that could easily break a leg if we tripped and fell in it. The raggedy unicorn, a symbol that used to mean something to me quite different than it does now: a sign of magic, fantasy, good luck. Not anymore.
Finally 'home' we dump our gear on the ground and start to divide it between us. Unfortunately, our tent leaks so all of the blankets and pillows we had had turned moldy, and given my health and the fact of being the only girl in the group (yeah sexism!), Gwydian and I get the most linens, we and try to arrange them in the tent in the low, misty light while trying to figure out what to do with the existing diseased bedding. It is starting to rain again so we need to work as fast as we can, well as fast as the boys can as Boo and I sit on a stump and watch; I am certainly the liability of the group, physically not able to do much as the constant walking we need to do every day just to survive is enough to leave me practically immobile by the end of the night. While the boys pick up the slack and don't complain I do feel a bit of stress sometimes in my direction. I suppose this is the point in the story where you assume I became a drug user, an alcoholic,…a thief….I am sorry to disappoint you but those things never came into my head. (Although one day I was so dying for chocolate I did contemplate petty crime, in my mind,but it was overcome!) But believe me, I saw more than I ever wanted to about what lies behind our facade of safety from criminals. They are there and they see you. But that is a story for another time.
St. Albans. Close enough to London - posh enough, filled with many lovely people who have done so much for us - still the city of the world is but a few steps in my dream. I can see us finally with our visa, finally living - walking along the Thames, writing, performing - the life we wish for, art, comfort, luxury (I will never lose my longing for luxury, I'm a Libra!) love, happiness. That is all we want, and we are happy to share, always have been, maybe too much. Let me have these dreams - isn't it enough penance done for some unknown slight to trek up this neverending hill of dirt and sharp, jutting stones in pursuit of a moldy duvet and heavy, wet wool blanket - luxuriating in a tent on the motorway side? The rush of people safe in their little cars off for a night out, or a night in - fireplace, wine, bath, superking bed, husband at my side and beagle at my feet - I'm there. I try to imagine myself just melting back into the nights before - no more fear, pain, stress. In my head I could dance around, but alas as the apex of the hill is reached I must fly back down to the real. Tonight, it is what it is. It is mean and it is dank and it is so fucking hard. I would never wish this on even my worst enemy (ironically, it was my best friend that sent us down this rabbit hole, one wholly evil deed and our lives disappeared - but I wish her no ill - the karma of the world will deal with her eventually - or so I'd like to believe). Good night and sweet dreams. xxxx
Here ends the first chapter of the saga of our whole fabulous life England: Po-oof. Gone.
