Day 264
Life is all about change sometimes. In our house we know a fair whack about that, as it happens. We rarely live anywhere longer than five years. Careers are updated or totally changed on a regular basis. I can't even keep a room looking the same for more than six months without all the furniture needing to be moved.
We live in a space of flux and progress as regards our inner selves, too. I am not the woman I was ten years ago, not remotely. I'm not even the woman I was last year. We are physical, emotional and intellectual nomads - always on the move.
Two years ago, I was a student, my younger son Sam was anti-school and working at Costa Coffee, and my fella was in I.T. in Bristol. One year on from that and I had finished college, and both husband and son were unemployed, but hubbie had started training as a Psychotherapist. Update another year to now, and fella has been working in Belgium, Sam is at college, and I am writing books and selling paintings.
Yet more change is on the horizon. For reasons that are his business Steve is discontinuing his psychotherapy, and the job is Antwerp is up in the air. Sam is pushing 20 and is starting to mature into a much more aware young man. I have gone through a complete identity crisis which - talking of change! - the bloody menopause has not helped. And yet, out of all of this I can only see the glimmers of light on a new horizon. My pulse quickens at the thought of "what next?".
Do you love, as I do, being driven down an unknown road, gazing out of the window at unfamiliar sights, drinking it all in? This is my life - a long drive down an unknown road. I trust the future and what it will bring because I have faced death and am not frigthened by it. There is safety in that. The future can bring what it likes, and the less I know about that the more surprised and delighted I often am.
So many times now we have been in a situation that could easily be labelled as unfortunate, and yet it has never really been so. Afterwards we have always found ourselves looking back and saying "look where we are now, thank goodness that happened because it led us here - how lucky are we?". Providence, serendipity, fortune favouring the brave - however you wish to call it - this is a marvellous thing. I am sitting on the cusp of change right now. I can feel it's bite and the familiar tingle in my solar plexus.
An unknown road beckons my husband, and where he goes, so go I. We are fellow journeymen in this life together. External changes usually demand internal ones - lessons learnt, ideologies shifted, old habits discarded, a cleansing if you will. We hold each others hands through it, and often provide the push for uncertain feet to move forward. Sometimes we have to drag each other. But we go, we travel, we move on, always together.
This time next year, where will we be? I love that I have no idea at all. So much potential, so much unplanned, unexpected, or out my control. The universe has the map to my life, not I. When it offers me riches that were more than I asked for, anticipated or imagined, I take them and say "thank you".
Yes. Say "thank you" and jump. That about sums it up, I think. If you relinquish some of the control and expand your horizons to include the unexpected, you may get more than you dreamed.
I always do.
Friday 28 May 2010
Wednesday 26 May 2010
Seeing is believing and vice versa
Day 262
I still can't see (I am on my sixth different contact lens trial), but I can't see quite a bit better than I couldn't see before, if you see what I mean.
Can't see the keys of the computer but can see the screen, which is a definite improvement. Can see to drive, but can also see how blotchy my legs are now that summer skirts are de riguer. You win some, you lose some.
When I was regularly doing visualisation exercises a few months back, I always pictured myself running up a mountain, with pain-free feet, and lots of energy - not purple in the face, bent double, gasping for breath and requiring air-lifting back down again, which would be the reality of running more than ten yards DOWNHILL now. I also always saw myself bare faced - ie: no glasses, which I've needed since I was 12 and need even more now I am at bifocal stage.
I have great faitnh in the propensity of visualisations to produce results. Ergo, despite the fact that every year or so I try out a pair of lovely, soft, wafer thin contacts which my eyes reject completely, I suddenly find I can wear them in moderate comfort. This is revelatory. Lens are now half the width of a cobweb, it would seem.
This pair have the best vision so far, but have earned themselves the nicknames itchy and scratchy. But I am determined. I have a vision about my vision, so to speak. In My New Life I feel the need to present my face to the world. Open. Undefended. Unhidden. Naked, even. It seems important to do so, therefore I persevere. Glasses can seem like armour, after all.
There are ups and downs, of course. Now I am trying out lenses I frequently poke myself in the eye in an attempt to push non-existent glasses further up my face. Wonder if I can see to put on make-up? What kind of make-up should I wear now that it can be seen?
I had a friend who always put her make-up on in the dark because she said that if she was going to be wearing it out at night, it needed to be strong enough to count. If she could see it in the dark then it was the right amount. I can't begin to tell you how wrong she was, or how scary her blusher looked (which always ended up vertical, for some reason) whenever we went into a pub. I always attracted dirty looks, as if I had been vigorously slapping her about the face and giving her black eyes before we came in.
I worry that this is how I will apply make-up now that I see with very different vision. 20/20 is not all it's cracked up to be. Being short sighted I have always been able to do things that required detail and precision because I could focus perfectly TWO INCHES FROM MY NOSE! Make-up was always put on without glasses, of course, and therefore, I got very close to the mirror. My blending was perfect. Only thing was, I never really knew what it looked like from a distance. And it was usually hidden behind glasses anyway, so I couldn't really tell. What if I am to make-up what Jackson Pollock was to paint ?
I once went to dinner at friends house, and - because I was feeling vain and with a chap I wanted to impress - I left my specs at home. Normally, not a terrible move but this time, disastrous. The table was lit with only one candle and even the perfectly sighted were struggling to see. Also, my mate served a whole salmon, and I spent a lot of time storing the bones in my cheeks for later removal in the loo, c'os I couldn't see to fillet the damn thing at all. I'm lucky to be alive.
But there are things I look forward to. When it rains I will finally be able to feel it on my face rather than that disturbingly violent splash one gets, when a raindrops ricochets off the inside of ones glasses straight into the eye. And I will be able to open the oven door without my glasses being totally clouded over by the steam from the fan oven. I am reminded of those glasses in the Hitch-hikers Guide to the Galaxy, which go completely black when danger is there so you don't frighten yourself to death. I imagine a small robot trapped inside my oven door going "danger, Will Robinson", which dates me, I know.
I will be able to have a hairstyle with a damn good fringe, without looking like I start from the nose down like something out of Sesame Street, and I will be able to go on roller coasters without worrying whether the centrifugal force is enough to keep my glasses on. I probably shan't because I am terrified of heights and a real wimp about those sorts of things - but I could.
So until next wednesday, itchy and scratchy will get a fair trial, m'lud. At the moment the jury is out, but the stakes are high as are my hopes.
Well - that was the 'can I use a computer in these lenses?' test. Not too bad. I think I need to do the 'can I watch telly in them?' test now. Toodle pip dudes.
I still can't see (I am on my sixth different contact lens trial), but I can't see quite a bit better than I couldn't see before, if you see what I mean.
Can't see the keys of the computer but can see the screen, which is a definite improvement. Can see to drive, but can also see how blotchy my legs are now that summer skirts are de riguer. You win some, you lose some.
When I was regularly doing visualisation exercises a few months back, I always pictured myself running up a mountain, with pain-free feet, and lots of energy - not purple in the face, bent double, gasping for breath and requiring air-lifting back down again, which would be the reality of running more than ten yards DOWNHILL now. I also always saw myself bare faced - ie: no glasses, which I've needed since I was 12 and need even more now I am at bifocal stage.
I have great faitnh in the propensity of visualisations to produce results. Ergo, despite the fact that every year or so I try out a pair of lovely, soft, wafer thin contacts which my eyes reject completely, I suddenly find I can wear them in moderate comfort. This is revelatory. Lens are now half the width of a cobweb, it would seem.
This pair have the best vision so far, but have earned themselves the nicknames itchy and scratchy. But I am determined. I have a vision about my vision, so to speak. In My New Life I feel the need to present my face to the world. Open. Undefended. Unhidden. Naked, even. It seems important to do so, therefore I persevere. Glasses can seem like armour, after all.
There are ups and downs, of course. Now I am trying out lenses I frequently poke myself in the eye in an attempt to push non-existent glasses further up my face. Wonder if I can see to put on make-up? What kind of make-up should I wear now that it can be seen?
I had a friend who always put her make-up on in the dark because she said that if she was going to be wearing it out at night, it needed to be strong enough to count. If she could see it in the dark then it was the right amount. I can't begin to tell you how wrong she was, or how scary her blusher looked (which always ended up vertical, for some reason) whenever we went into a pub. I always attracted dirty looks, as if I had been vigorously slapping her about the face and giving her black eyes before we came in.
I worry that this is how I will apply make-up now that I see with very different vision. 20/20 is not all it's cracked up to be. Being short sighted I have always been able to do things that required detail and precision because I could focus perfectly TWO INCHES FROM MY NOSE! Make-up was always put on without glasses, of course, and therefore, I got very close to the mirror. My blending was perfect. Only thing was, I never really knew what it looked like from a distance. And it was usually hidden behind glasses anyway, so I couldn't really tell. What if I am to make-up what Jackson Pollock was to paint ?
I once went to dinner at friends house, and - because I was feeling vain and with a chap I wanted to impress - I left my specs at home. Normally, not a terrible move but this time, disastrous. The table was lit with only one candle and even the perfectly sighted were struggling to see. Also, my mate served a whole salmon, and I spent a lot of time storing the bones in my cheeks for later removal in the loo, c'os I couldn't see to fillet the damn thing at all. I'm lucky to be alive.
But there are things I look forward to. When it rains I will finally be able to feel it on my face rather than that disturbingly violent splash one gets, when a raindrops ricochets off the inside of ones glasses straight into the eye. And I will be able to open the oven door without my glasses being totally clouded over by the steam from the fan oven. I am reminded of those glasses in the Hitch-hikers Guide to the Galaxy, which go completely black when danger is there so you don't frighten yourself to death. I imagine a small robot trapped inside my oven door going "danger, Will Robinson", which dates me, I know.
I will be able to have a hairstyle with a damn good fringe, without looking like I start from the nose down like something out of Sesame Street, and I will be able to go on roller coasters without worrying whether the centrifugal force is enough to keep my glasses on. I probably shan't because I am terrified of heights and a real wimp about those sorts of things - but I could.
So until next wednesday, itchy and scratchy will get a fair trial, m'lud. At the moment the jury is out, but the stakes are high as are my hopes.
Well - that was the 'can I use a computer in these lenses?' test. Not too bad. I think I need to do the 'can I watch telly in them?' test now. Toodle pip dudes.
Saturday 22 May 2010
sing it with me -"everything's coming up roses.."
Day 258
"I'm so excited,
I just can't hide it,
I'm about to lose control
and I think I like it"
This is me, singing away, inside.
c'os....
I GOT MY FIRST COMMISSION! (applause, cheers, fx)
Well, not my first, obviously - I've been asked to do many things over the years, but they were very nearly all from family and friends, or people who knew my family or friends.
THIS WAS FROM A STRANGER!
Which makes it more official, somehow.
And more exciting.
And WAY validating.
Which is so bad it's good, which is wicked, so therefore really baaaaaaaad!
Chappy came round yesterday with his lovely wife to see my stuff. Showed them all my canvases to see if any of them would be suitable for their friend as his wedding present, and anything else I had left in my portfolio.
They really liked the canvases and have taken some prints to show said friend and he can choose which one he likes. Yay!
Also, loved a small print that I had overpainted, and have commissioned a larger version on canvas. Double Yay! (yay)
Charging them a small fee because they will be bringing me more work in and I am unknown, and I am sure we're all gonna be mates (so they get mates rates). Besides, think a lot of art is horrifically over-priced, and therefore, too out of reach for most people.
"I'm so excited...."
Also got a sewing job to do for my lovely mate Denise, over the road. She makes costumes for film and theatre etc, so she's very useful to know sometimes. Gonna be sewing on lots of hooks and eyes for her to help her meet a sudden deadline. I don't mind - it's boring work, bit I can sit and listen to the radio while I sew.
I'd do it for free to help her out, but she wants to pay me, so I'll take that too, thank you so very much.
Funny how, once you find your direction in life and start just getting on with it, things fall into place to support you. I've always thought that was a particularly nice thing about life. Good job, whoever's in charge there.
"I'm about to lose control..."
My picture book is still being considered by a publisher and has not been rejected yet, people want to buy my paintings, and my kid's story book is in demand by the little 'uns I've farmed it out to for feedback. (and I'm only up to chapter seven - they are nagging me for the next bit, c'os they want to know what happens next).
I am queen of the happy bunnies in happy bunny land on happy bunny day. And.......
I'm hungry, so I'm off to fry an egg.
"I'm so excited,
I just can't hide it,
I'm about to lose control
and I think I like it"
This is me, singing away, inside.
c'os....
I GOT MY FIRST COMMISSION! (applause, cheers, fx)
Well, not my first, obviously - I've been asked to do many things over the years, but they were very nearly all from family and friends, or people who knew my family or friends.
THIS WAS FROM A STRANGER!
Which makes it more official, somehow.
And more exciting.
And WAY validating.
Which is so bad it's good, which is wicked, so therefore really baaaaaaaad!
Chappy came round yesterday with his lovely wife to see my stuff. Showed them all my canvases to see if any of them would be suitable for their friend as his wedding present, and anything else I had left in my portfolio.
They really liked the canvases and have taken some prints to show said friend and he can choose which one he likes. Yay!
Also, loved a small print that I had overpainted, and have commissioned a larger version on canvas. Double Yay! (yay)
Charging them a small fee because they will be bringing me more work in and I am unknown, and I am sure we're all gonna be mates (so they get mates rates). Besides, think a lot of art is horrifically over-priced, and therefore, too out of reach for most people.
"I'm so excited...."
Also got a sewing job to do for my lovely mate Denise, over the road. She makes costumes for film and theatre etc, so she's very useful to know sometimes. Gonna be sewing on lots of hooks and eyes for her to help her meet a sudden deadline. I don't mind - it's boring work, bit I can sit and listen to the radio while I sew.
I'd do it for free to help her out, but she wants to pay me, so I'll take that too, thank you so very much.
Funny how, once you find your direction in life and start just getting on with it, things fall into place to support you. I've always thought that was a particularly nice thing about life. Good job, whoever's in charge there.
"I'm about to lose control..."
My picture book is still being considered by a publisher and has not been rejected yet, people want to buy my paintings, and my kid's story book is in demand by the little 'uns I've farmed it out to for feedback. (and I'm only up to chapter seven - they are nagging me for the next bit, c'os they want to know what happens next).
I am queen of the happy bunnies in happy bunny land on happy bunny day. And.......
I'm hungry, so I'm off to fry an egg.
Thursday 20 May 2010
I'm sorry I haven't a clue
Day 256
I seem to coming out the other side of my identity crisis, which is always a nice thing to be able to say. Steve's six week contract finished yesterday, and what an emotional six weeks they turned out to be. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
I have learned that without someone to relate to, or something that duty demanded I do, I felt rudderless, adrift, confused, guilty, and panicky. In retrospect I realise that I have never lived entirely on my own. I have always been a girlfriend, or flatmate, or parent, or wife. Although being a single parent felt like being on one's own, I realise now how much it wasn't.
I don't have a problem with solitude, ifn fact I really like it - I'm not scared of the dark or panicky about burglars or anything like that. It's more that I have never had a space, since I was four years old, where I free to find out who I was, what I wanted, or how I like to live that was not dictated by somebody else's needs or demands.
After my sister was born and my mother became ill, she ruled our house like a concentration camp. I lived in dread and terror, and self-expression was the quickest way to incur her wrath and make my life miserable. I hid a lot and was silent about my thoughts as often as I could get away with.
When I left home I went straight to trying to please a boyfriend, then a child, and so on. Where was the space to discover myself? In my illness, that's where.
Twenty years is a long time to be ill. I have spent months of my life bed-bound, with only my thoughts and feelings to negotiate, or for company. Many times my hormone levels or bouts of post-natal depression have altered my mind, and my behaviour patterns to extreme levels, and I have had to learn how to cope with myself as an unlikeable or even scary and dangerous person.
I had to learn how to know myself, to forgive myself, and to rehabilitate myself. I thought I knew who I was, the hard way.
Turns out I missed a trick along the way.
With nobody else to relate to or even to consider, I am finally starting that process of perfect selfishness that should have been my right as a child. Six weeks is not long enough to have got more than a flavour of it, but that is a good start, and - if nothing else - I am practised at finding my way though difficult things.
I missed my husband while he was away, but I have been missing myself for a lot longer. I know I am strong-willed, creative, funny, forthright, soppy, maternal, honest and easy-going, and a whole host of other things - I have not lost sight of everything - but I am only now discovering what I really like or dislike.
Without reference to someone else, what time do I like to go to bed, and how long do I prefer to sleep? What eating habits suit me best, that does not include cooking for the family all the time? What do I like to drink, and when? What chores am I happy to do and which are just, well, chores?
Such simple questions - you would think anyone would know the answer, wouldn't you? Well, not me apparently.
So now Steve's back in what I have recently begun to feel is my space and I am bumping into all my old habits of fitting around others. This time, however, I am awake to this and can catch myself when it occurs. There is a freedom awaiting me when I get past this that will far ouweigh all the discomfort it has cost me.
Onwards and upwards. That, at least I know, is how I want to live.
I seem to coming out the other side of my identity crisis, which is always a nice thing to be able to say. Steve's six week contract finished yesterday, and what an emotional six weeks they turned out to be. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
I have learned that without someone to relate to, or something that duty demanded I do, I felt rudderless, adrift, confused, guilty, and panicky. In retrospect I realise that I have never lived entirely on my own. I have always been a girlfriend, or flatmate, or parent, or wife. Although being a single parent felt like being on one's own, I realise now how much it wasn't.
I don't have a problem with solitude, ifn fact I really like it - I'm not scared of the dark or panicky about burglars or anything like that. It's more that I have never had a space, since I was four years old, where I free to find out who I was, what I wanted, or how I like to live that was not dictated by somebody else's needs or demands.
After my sister was born and my mother became ill, she ruled our house like a concentration camp. I lived in dread and terror, and self-expression was the quickest way to incur her wrath and make my life miserable. I hid a lot and was silent about my thoughts as often as I could get away with.
When I left home I went straight to trying to please a boyfriend, then a child, and so on. Where was the space to discover myself? In my illness, that's where.
Twenty years is a long time to be ill. I have spent months of my life bed-bound, with only my thoughts and feelings to negotiate, or for company. Many times my hormone levels or bouts of post-natal depression have altered my mind, and my behaviour patterns to extreme levels, and I have had to learn how to cope with myself as an unlikeable or even scary and dangerous person.
I had to learn how to know myself, to forgive myself, and to rehabilitate myself. I thought I knew who I was, the hard way.
Turns out I missed a trick along the way.
With nobody else to relate to or even to consider, I am finally starting that process of perfect selfishness that should have been my right as a child. Six weeks is not long enough to have got more than a flavour of it, but that is a good start, and - if nothing else - I am practised at finding my way though difficult things.
I missed my husband while he was away, but I have been missing myself for a lot longer. I know I am strong-willed, creative, funny, forthright, soppy, maternal, honest and easy-going, and a whole host of other things - I have not lost sight of everything - but I am only now discovering what I really like or dislike.
Without reference to someone else, what time do I like to go to bed, and how long do I prefer to sleep? What eating habits suit me best, that does not include cooking for the family all the time? What do I like to drink, and when? What chores am I happy to do and which are just, well, chores?
Such simple questions - you would think anyone would know the answer, wouldn't you? Well, not me apparently.
So now Steve's back in what I have recently begun to feel is my space and I am bumping into all my old habits of fitting around others. This time, however, I am awake to this and can catch myself when it occurs. There is a freedom awaiting me when I get past this that will far ouweigh all the discomfort it has cost me.
Onwards and upwards. That, at least I know, is how I want to live.
Tuesday 18 May 2010
24 or A Day In The Life
Day 254
Phew! what a lot can change in twenty-four or so hours. This time yesterday I was a miserable, sleep-deprived wretch who hated the telephone, and today I think A. G. Bell must have been some sort of God, and who cares about sleep, anyway!
Let us roll time backwards... (wibbly wobbly lines fx)
Steve had booked his Eurostar back to Antwerp for stupid o,clock on Monday morning, so this necessitated us getting up at 4 to drive to Bristol to catch the early train to Paddington. "We have to leave at quarter past" he said, leaving me wondering why he hadn't set the alarm for earlier then. As it was, we left at twenty past, as cleaning his teeth seemed the right thing to do (call us over picky, if you like, but that's us).
"What time is the train?" I enquired, as a speed trap flashed at us hurtling past. Quarter to five I was told. Yikes. It's always taken me half an hour to get to Bristol, but Steve does it every week and reckons it's twenty-five minutes. Now bend me over backwards and call me Susan, but I still think that is rather a small margin. Especially as he still had to get his ticket.
We screeched in, Steve hopped out, I waited.
After a while, Steve trundled back out of the station, having run like the blazes, and on the verge of a heart attack, but having missed the train by seconds, none the less.
So we drove back to Bath so he could catch the next train, at an additional cost of fifty quid.
When I got home I fell into bed to try and catch up on some sleep. The precious four hours I had previously got had been filled with dreams of the house being on fire, and having an intruder, then suddenly switching to Afghanistan, where I was being shot at, so not a restful night.
Woke up suddenly (like you do for certain, particular noises), as the cat had got trapped in the bedroom and was scratching around preparing to pee on a library book. Don't know which one of us was more startled as my half asleep body jerked to a standing position, screaming "don't you dare!". On reflection, I think it was probably the cat.
Checked my watch and realised I had twenty minutes to get to the opticians, so hurried along like a good 'un. Got there bang on time, to be told that they had phoned and left a message telling me not to bother early that morning. I, of course, had slept through it.
So I went home and ate some food and tootled about tidying up and such. Tried to get a bit more sleep in the afternoon, as still exhausted, when woken by the phone, where a pleasant sounding machine asked me to make a will. This was not me at my best. The pleasant machine may need trauma counselling, because I really let off a bit of steam.
I shall digress for a moment here to inform you that I have A PLAN!
It is this - I was moaning at the weekend about how many ruddy phone calls I get per week from Indians offering me things I don't want, haven't asked for and am perfectly capable of researching the variables of, should I wish to change. The latest was some scare mongering about computer viruses and the guy told me he knew what was on my computer and got very incensed when I pointed out that that was illegal, and constituted a breach of privacy, and could I have his supervisor please?
Steve advised me to just say "no thank you" which just shows how often he's had to deal with them if he thinks that would work. So my plan is this. They clearly don't know me well or they wouldn't keep calling me Mrs Dowltun (It happens so often I'm starting to wonder if someone else lives here), so they have no clue as to my nationality. This means I can adopt any accent I like - the more unintelligible the better.
So the next time someone calls I shall reply in a mix of scottish, welsh, geordie, and scouse, but with a lot of drunken slurring bleeding all the 'words' together. Something along the lines of "Aye well ah canna be oon verra sticky bin a loss gud neva eh?" should do it. What do you think?
So, back to yesterday. Sam was trying to catch up with his photography project workbook as it had to be in today, and was carefully cutting out contact sheets by the hundred while we watched 'Vicky Christina Barcelona' together. To be fair, he obviously has some dedication because he carried on working all the time Penelope Cruz was snogging Scarlett Johannson, and there aren't many men who wouldn't be dribbling.
I decided to help him by sticking into his book what I could before the Pritt Stick ran out, so he positioned everything up and went to the computer to finish getting his research material together. We left the TV on in the background as 'noise' but it was on the style network, which is all crappy programs about hairdressers and such. At two in the morning Sam requested a channel change, even though we weren't listening to it really, as he felt he had had enough style advice for one night (and probably one lifetime).
At four in the morning both the Pritt and I ran out of substance.
I had difficulty switching off and getting to sleep but managed it and slept for at least five hours. Got up, made a cup of hot lemon, ran a bath, fed the cat, hurled some celery at the guinea pigs, closed the door on the mess in the kitchen, went groggily to the bathroom and sank into blissful bubbles.
Phone went.
Jumped out to answer it and left a puddle of water on the end of Sam's bed as his is the upstairs phone. Silence on the other end. Oh well.
Back to the bath. Hot lemon, bubbles. Nice.
Phone went.
Jumped out, soggy bed, etc., etc., answerphone message from our handy man who'd lost the email address of our landlady. Resolved to sort that out later.
Back to bath. Bubbles pretty much gone. Water only warm. But nice.
Phone went.
Now it gets exciting. This time it was my old college. First thought was "What has Sam done now?" followed by second thought of "I'm sure I returned all my library books?" In fact it was a secretary asking my permission to hand on my phone number to someone who wanted to buy one of my paintings.
Hell, yes!
At our end of term show, two of my small paintings had been bought by the college as leaving gifts for two of the governors, and this particular gentleman loved his and wanted more!
Danced back into the back. Quite cold. No bubbles. Who cares? Inane grin keeping me warm.
Phone went.
Jumped out blah blah (Sam's mattress now needs a very big tumble dryer).
It was the gentleman in question, who shall hereto be referred to as Carlos (c'os that's his name). It seems his son did the same course as me, so he is a big fan, and he liked my work because it's full of colour, and he's Spanish. He even liked my motto, which is "Why use five colours when fifty will do". He has my picture in his study and his friend (who's getting married) loves it, so he'd like to get him something I've done as a wedding present.
Yes! I can do that. I can do stuff to commission too, honest. (dream sequence, walking on clouds fx).
Fell into bath after arranging a viewing of my stuff for later this week.
Phone went.
It was my friend Diane (I can't keep calling her 'the leper', can I) inviting me to a gallery viewing and a coffee tomorrow, and can I bring more of my book, as they must know what happens next. Which is wonderful, but not nearly as wonderful as having someone to share my news with immediately! I was so excited I was probably rude.
Gave up on bath after that - I shall smell instead. Who cares. I have a fan.
Yesterday I was tired, miserable, and uninspired. Today I am an up and coming author and artist. People like my work and want my work, which is a whole lot better than just me thinking it's good. I have a reason to clean the house, which I had been putting off for some considerable time, and plenty of adrenaline-energy to do it.
Twenty four hours,
.........and there it is - My New Life, peeking out after all.
.
Phew! what a lot can change in twenty-four or so hours. This time yesterday I was a miserable, sleep-deprived wretch who hated the telephone, and today I think A. G. Bell must have been some sort of God, and who cares about sleep, anyway!
Let us roll time backwards... (wibbly wobbly lines fx)
Steve had booked his Eurostar back to Antwerp for stupid o,clock on Monday morning, so this necessitated us getting up at 4 to drive to Bristol to catch the early train to Paddington. "We have to leave at quarter past" he said, leaving me wondering why he hadn't set the alarm for earlier then. As it was, we left at twenty past, as cleaning his teeth seemed the right thing to do (call us over picky, if you like, but that's us).
"What time is the train?" I enquired, as a speed trap flashed at us hurtling past. Quarter to five I was told. Yikes. It's always taken me half an hour to get to Bristol, but Steve does it every week and reckons it's twenty-five minutes. Now bend me over backwards and call me Susan, but I still think that is rather a small margin. Especially as he still had to get his ticket.
We screeched in, Steve hopped out, I waited.
After a while, Steve trundled back out of the station, having run like the blazes, and on the verge of a heart attack, but having missed the train by seconds, none the less.
So we drove back to Bath so he could catch the next train, at an additional cost of fifty quid.
When I got home I fell into bed to try and catch up on some sleep. The precious four hours I had previously got had been filled with dreams of the house being on fire, and having an intruder, then suddenly switching to Afghanistan, where I was being shot at, so not a restful night.
Woke up suddenly (like you do for certain, particular noises), as the cat had got trapped in the bedroom and was scratching around preparing to pee on a library book. Don't know which one of us was more startled as my half asleep body jerked to a standing position, screaming "don't you dare!". On reflection, I think it was probably the cat.
Checked my watch and realised I had twenty minutes to get to the opticians, so hurried along like a good 'un. Got there bang on time, to be told that they had phoned and left a message telling me not to bother early that morning. I, of course, had slept through it.
So I went home and ate some food and tootled about tidying up and such. Tried to get a bit more sleep in the afternoon, as still exhausted, when woken by the phone, where a pleasant sounding machine asked me to make a will. This was not me at my best. The pleasant machine may need trauma counselling, because I really let off a bit of steam.
I shall digress for a moment here to inform you that I have A PLAN!
It is this - I was moaning at the weekend about how many ruddy phone calls I get per week from Indians offering me things I don't want, haven't asked for and am perfectly capable of researching the variables of, should I wish to change. The latest was some scare mongering about computer viruses and the guy told me he knew what was on my computer and got very incensed when I pointed out that that was illegal, and constituted a breach of privacy, and could I have his supervisor please?
Steve advised me to just say "no thank you" which just shows how often he's had to deal with them if he thinks that would work. So my plan is this. They clearly don't know me well or they wouldn't keep calling me Mrs Dowltun (It happens so often I'm starting to wonder if someone else lives here), so they have no clue as to my nationality. This means I can adopt any accent I like - the more unintelligible the better.
So the next time someone calls I shall reply in a mix of scottish, welsh, geordie, and scouse, but with a lot of drunken slurring bleeding all the 'words' together. Something along the lines of "Aye well ah canna be oon verra sticky bin a loss gud neva eh?" should do it. What do you think?
So, back to yesterday. Sam was trying to catch up with his photography project workbook as it had to be in today, and was carefully cutting out contact sheets by the hundred while we watched 'Vicky Christina Barcelona' together. To be fair, he obviously has some dedication because he carried on working all the time Penelope Cruz was snogging Scarlett Johannson, and there aren't many men who wouldn't be dribbling.
I decided to help him by sticking into his book what I could before the Pritt Stick ran out, so he positioned everything up and went to the computer to finish getting his research material together. We left the TV on in the background as 'noise' but it was on the style network, which is all crappy programs about hairdressers and such. At two in the morning Sam requested a channel change, even though we weren't listening to it really, as he felt he had had enough style advice for one night (and probably one lifetime).
At four in the morning both the Pritt and I ran out of substance.
I had difficulty switching off and getting to sleep but managed it and slept for at least five hours. Got up, made a cup of hot lemon, ran a bath, fed the cat, hurled some celery at the guinea pigs, closed the door on the mess in the kitchen, went groggily to the bathroom and sank into blissful bubbles.
Phone went.
Jumped out to answer it and left a puddle of water on the end of Sam's bed as his is the upstairs phone. Silence on the other end. Oh well.
Back to the bath. Hot lemon, bubbles. Nice.
Phone went.
Jumped out, soggy bed, etc., etc., answerphone message from our handy man who'd lost the email address of our landlady. Resolved to sort that out later.
Back to bath. Bubbles pretty much gone. Water only warm. But nice.
Phone went.
Now it gets exciting. This time it was my old college. First thought was "What has Sam done now?" followed by second thought of "I'm sure I returned all my library books?" In fact it was a secretary asking my permission to hand on my phone number to someone who wanted to buy one of my paintings.
Hell, yes!
At our end of term show, two of my small paintings had been bought by the college as leaving gifts for two of the governors, and this particular gentleman loved his and wanted more!
Danced back into the back. Quite cold. No bubbles. Who cares? Inane grin keeping me warm.
Phone went.
Jumped out blah blah (Sam's mattress now needs a very big tumble dryer).
It was the gentleman in question, who shall hereto be referred to as Carlos (c'os that's his name). It seems his son did the same course as me, so he is a big fan, and he liked my work because it's full of colour, and he's Spanish. He even liked my motto, which is "Why use five colours when fifty will do". He has my picture in his study and his friend (who's getting married) loves it, so he'd like to get him something I've done as a wedding present.
Yes! I can do that. I can do stuff to commission too, honest. (dream sequence, walking on clouds fx).
Fell into bath after arranging a viewing of my stuff for later this week.
Phone went.
It was my friend Diane (I can't keep calling her 'the leper', can I) inviting me to a gallery viewing and a coffee tomorrow, and can I bring more of my book, as they must know what happens next. Which is wonderful, but not nearly as wonderful as having someone to share my news with immediately! I was so excited I was probably rude.
Gave up on bath after that - I shall smell instead. Who cares. I have a fan.
Yesterday I was tired, miserable, and uninspired. Today I am an up and coming author and artist. People like my work and want my work, which is a whole lot better than just me thinking it's good. I have a reason to clean the house, which I had been putting off for some considerable time, and plenty of adrenaline-energy to do it.
Twenty four hours,
.........and there it is - My New Life, peeking out after all.
.
Friday 14 May 2010
I've gone all jelly and custard
Day 250
Feeling a most ungrateful cow today. My husband is home and being thoughtful, kind and helpful. My son is mostly not here or in bed, so making much less mess than usual. I should be happy but I'm not. I feel confused, rather blank, sluggish beyond words, and as if some lifeline to myself has craftily been severed while I slept.
Every time I start to get an inkling about who I am, what I want to do, and how I want to live, Steve comes home and I bury it beneath a mountain of habitual thinking and behaviour. HELP! I am the jelly woman. I have no spine. My brain has been replaced with marshmallow. My blood has all the passion and purpose of flat lemonade. I am a kid's tea-party wrapped in skin.
I have trapped myself in a way of thinking that flattens out all other thoughts. Today, for instance, I have absolutely no clue what I feel capable of or how to proceed - I only know what I think I SHOULD do which is finish painting the bathroom, but my CFS is making me too exhausted at the thought. I feel like I'm in a bubble and the life that is really mine is on the outside, just out of reach.
Is this the most outrageous self-indulgence? I don't know. You're quite welcome to think so and you may be right. I am too busy bumping into my self-imposed barriers to care. I am aware, however, that the world out there is full of people with REAL problems, so I give myself no sympathy here.
Hamlet said "There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so" and he had a point, you know. Mrs Shakespeare didn't raise no idiots, as they say. I suspect Mrs McDonald (my mum) might have though.
Perhaps I just need some more time. I have been a parent for twenty-eight years, after all, and that is a long time to embed a pattern of thinking that demands you consider others with your every thought. Maybe one month of freedom from that is not quite enough to consolidate.
See what I'm doing here? I've been through shock and denial, and arrived at acceptance and excuses. I wonder what bargaining is going to look like? To Steve - give me more time on my own or I'll spit in your coffee? To Sam - clean up after yourself or I'll convert to Judaism and you'll be long overdue for a bris? Bit extreme, perhaps, and not really me. Oh well.
Do you remember Worzel Gummidge, who had different heads he put on according to the occasion? What a whizzy idea, I sure could do with that. A whole head that gets things done, then I put it aside and put my ME head back on again. Bish-bosh, job done. Clarity of thought kept in the head with the good hair. That would be nice.
So, I don't know - a bit of a dogger mucka of a day really. (Had to get that in - new swear word sent to me by Matt, and loving it). Might substitute the 'M' though, unless the day improves.
Feeling a most ungrateful cow today. My husband is home and being thoughtful, kind and helpful. My son is mostly not here or in bed, so making much less mess than usual. I should be happy but I'm not. I feel confused, rather blank, sluggish beyond words, and as if some lifeline to myself has craftily been severed while I slept.
Every time I start to get an inkling about who I am, what I want to do, and how I want to live, Steve comes home and I bury it beneath a mountain of habitual thinking and behaviour. HELP! I am the jelly woman. I have no spine. My brain has been replaced with marshmallow. My blood has all the passion and purpose of flat lemonade. I am a kid's tea-party wrapped in skin.
I have trapped myself in a way of thinking that flattens out all other thoughts. Today, for instance, I have absolutely no clue what I feel capable of or how to proceed - I only know what I think I SHOULD do which is finish painting the bathroom, but my CFS is making me too exhausted at the thought. I feel like I'm in a bubble and the life that is really mine is on the outside, just out of reach.
Is this the most outrageous self-indulgence? I don't know. You're quite welcome to think so and you may be right. I am too busy bumping into my self-imposed barriers to care. I am aware, however, that the world out there is full of people with REAL problems, so I give myself no sympathy here.
Hamlet said "There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so" and he had a point, you know. Mrs Shakespeare didn't raise no idiots, as they say. I suspect Mrs McDonald (my mum) might have though.
Perhaps I just need some more time. I have been a parent for twenty-eight years, after all, and that is a long time to embed a pattern of thinking that demands you consider others with your every thought. Maybe one month of freedom from that is not quite enough to consolidate.
See what I'm doing here? I've been through shock and denial, and arrived at acceptance and excuses. I wonder what bargaining is going to look like? To Steve - give me more time on my own or I'll spit in your coffee? To Sam - clean up after yourself or I'll convert to Judaism and you'll be long overdue for a bris? Bit extreme, perhaps, and not really me. Oh well.
Do you remember Worzel Gummidge, who had different heads he put on according to the occasion? What a whizzy idea, I sure could do with that. A whole head that gets things done, then I put it aside and put my ME head back on again. Bish-bosh, job done. Clarity of thought kept in the head with the good hair. That would be nice.
So, I don't know - a bit of a dogger mucka of a day really. (Had to get that in - new swear word sent to me by Matt, and loving it). Might substitute the 'M' though, unless the day improves.
Right - boring myself rigid now with my negativity. Have written up to chapter 6 with my new book so am decided, am absolutely decided, that I will continue with that today and sod everything else. Phew, done it, made a decision that comes from outside the barrier. Only took half an hour and fifty lines.
After all - I have readers waiting for the next chapter, (well, my friend Diane, the 'leper', and her daughter Ella, does that count?) so should really crack on. The public is SOOOOO demanding (picture me with hand on brow, fainting from the pressure of fame onto a crusty chaise-longue, wearing my head with the good hair, natch)!
Saturday 8 May 2010
****
Day 245
I have just discovered my most favourite swear word.
It is Fuck-a-doodle, bugger me, balls!
It is almost sublimely poetic, don't you think?
I have just discovered my most favourite swear word.
It is Fuck-a-doodle, bugger me, balls!
It is almost sublimely poetic, don't you think?
Wednesday 5 May 2010
Shaken not stirred
Day 242
My friend just had a delightfully humbling experience. A few weeks ago she told me that she and her daughter were going along to an audition at the Theatre Royal, where some lady is putting on a production of Ben Hur using the locals as extras. Her little girl Ella was really excited and I think that, secretly, my friend was too. However, I saw her last night and found out that, yes, she has a part - as a leper! What a scream. This is definitly going to end up more Life of Brian than Charlton Heston. Can't wait.
Always stayed behind the scenes myself. Used to do the set painting on the school plays which was brilliant, (our after-show parties were legendary). Worked my way up to being in charge. Did Sweeney Todd one year and had everybody on their hands and knees, half a potato in hand, printing cobblestones over the backdrop from Monkey the previous year. I think this is where I learnt to improvise.
(Can I just say that I found trying to replicate damp stains on old wallpaper the most challenging. Getting them dark enough to show up in all the lighting effects without just looking like mud was stretching, and I'd love to know how it's done in less than 13 tries.)
They filmed a Bond film near where we lived once. I think it was 'The world is not enough', but I'm not a big fan of cheesy so I'm not sure. Anyway, they left most of the set behind in the woods where we walked the dog. Some foreign army checkpoint, with tanks etc. It was great seeing it all close up. Everything was painted MDF and I wished I'd been able to paint rusted metal and concrete bunkers and barbed wire fences as well as that when I was set-painting.
It stopped dead two inches out of shot which was a bit peculiar. Also, a lot of the tanks were pretty crap when you got close, and full of empty beer cans and fag ends and only half there. A lot of the trucks had no wheels.The magic of cinema certainly is magic. Smoke and mirrors, guys, smoke and mirrors.
I wish I could apply some of that to my home at the moment. Steve is now coming home every week so he can attend college on a Saturday, and Sam is back from Malta. My house is a mess again, and I have been pushed off the perch of trying to find out what I want to do, in favour of being bombarded with what I have to do. Is there a way to use MDF and paint in my kitchen so it looks like no-one's been in there?
I retreat to the hole in the wall where we house the computer. It is freezing and I am covered in blankets. I finish chapter 3 of my book, rewrite chapter 1 and start on chapter 4. 'Word' plays up and I keep losing sentences. Perhaps my computer has an opinion and is editing for me? I certainly have an opinion of the bloody computer, so fair's fair, I suppose.
I mix up some more paint for the bathroom so it is less scrambled egg and more delicate primrose, but have not the strength to paint it yet. I leave the paint on my arms and my apron on. Smoke and mirrors again - it looks more like I did something that way. Besides, not convinced about the yellow - it now looks like Brie and is still making me hungry.
I had a part in a school play before I got transferred into the set painting. I was a widow in The Government Inspector. I got a bit carried away. I thought 'I'm poor, so I probably have lice and fleas and a runny nose etc.,' and I spent my whole ten minutes on stage scratching and sniffing and hawking to the best of my ability. I didn't get asked again.
In retrospect, I think my performance may have had too much smoke.
My friend just had a delightfully humbling experience. A few weeks ago she told me that she and her daughter were going along to an audition at the Theatre Royal, where some lady is putting on a production of Ben Hur using the locals as extras. Her little girl Ella was really excited and I think that, secretly, my friend was too. However, I saw her last night and found out that, yes, she has a part - as a leper! What a scream. This is definitly going to end up more Life of Brian than Charlton Heston. Can't wait.
Always stayed behind the scenes myself. Used to do the set painting on the school plays which was brilliant, (our after-show parties were legendary). Worked my way up to being in charge. Did Sweeney Todd one year and had everybody on their hands and knees, half a potato in hand, printing cobblestones over the backdrop from Monkey the previous year. I think this is where I learnt to improvise.
(Can I just say that I found trying to replicate damp stains on old wallpaper the most challenging. Getting them dark enough to show up in all the lighting effects without just looking like mud was stretching, and I'd love to know how it's done in less than 13 tries.)
They filmed a Bond film near where we lived once. I think it was 'The world is not enough', but I'm not a big fan of cheesy so I'm not sure. Anyway, they left most of the set behind in the woods where we walked the dog. Some foreign army checkpoint, with tanks etc. It was great seeing it all close up. Everything was painted MDF and I wished I'd been able to paint rusted metal and concrete bunkers and barbed wire fences as well as that when I was set-painting.
It stopped dead two inches out of shot which was a bit peculiar. Also, a lot of the tanks were pretty crap when you got close, and full of empty beer cans and fag ends and only half there. A lot of the trucks had no wheels.The magic of cinema certainly is magic. Smoke and mirrors, guys, smoke and mirrors.
I wish I could apply some of that to my home at the moment. Steve is now coming home every week so he can attend college on a Saturday, and Sam is back from Malta. My house is a mess again, and I have been pushed off the perch of trying to find out what I want to do, in favour of being bombarded with what I have to do. Is there a way to use MDF and paint in my kitchen so it looks like no-one's been in there?
I retreat to the hole in the wall where we house the computer. It is freezing and I am covered in blankets. I finish chapter 3 of my book, rewrite chapter 1 and start on chapter 4. 'Word' plays up and I keep losing sentences. Perhaps my computer has an opinion and is editing for me? I certainly have an opinion of the bloody computer, so fair's fair, I suppose.
I mix up some more paint for the bathroom so it is less scrambled egg and more delicate primrose, but have not the strength to paint it yet. I leave the paint on my arms and my apron on. Smoke and mirrors again - it looks more like I did something that way. Besides, not convinced about the yellow - it now looks like Brie and is still making me hungry.
I had a part in a school play before I got transferred into the set painting. I was a widow in The Government Inspector. I got a bit carried away. I thought 'I'm poor, so I probably have lice and fleas and a runny nose etc.,' and I spent my whole ten minutes on stage scratching and sniffing and hawking to the best of my ability. I didn't get asked again.
In retrospect, I think my performance may have had too much smoke.
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