Yesterday I posted, by hand, my application to University. I am fifty-two years old - clearly a late developer or a truly great procrastinator. Probably both.
I am quaking in my boots at the thought of what the next four to seven years will bring. Would I have felt the same making this step in my late teens? Of course not. I'm not sure I had the common sense or life experience to be as scared as I am today.
And I really am scared in case they don't want me. I don't know how I'd handle that - it seemed so unthinkable when I first hatched this plan. In my head the problem was about my readiness for them, not vice verse.
But honestly, until I have a piece of paper in my hand confirming my place in September, there is a small corner of my stomach that will never digest food properly again, its sole function now being to churn continually.
At eighteen I would have had that extraordinary brash confidence of youth, and assumed that nothing was as bad as living at home with my parents. I'm sure I thought that one day I would go to Uni, then another day I would leave, educated and ready to take on the world - I doubt I even considered what occurred in between. I think a hazy notion of freedom is the most that intruded on my consciousness.
Now, of course, I'm only too aware from doing my Foundation Course, how much it could take to get from fresher's forms to flinging a mortar board in the air.
So I'm really, really, REALLY scared in case they DO want me.
Because then I will have several years of total honesty, vulnerability, and putting myself completely on the line. If I am to have any integrity in my work it has to be a product of turning myself inside out. There is no room for cowardice or, frankly, what is the point of going?
I don't need a degree to set me on a career path. I need all those moments in the classroom, and the hours strung out over homework, all the input from tutors, and the examples of my classmates. I need the disasters even more than the breakthroughs, for one seldom comes without the other.
I'm aware it may not be fun.
I don't think it's supposed to be fun.
But I will feel more alive in every second of it than I have for most of the last fifty years. Even now, just typing this, I feel a vibration deep in my chest cavity, as if some long forgotten thing is suddenly singing.
In today's society, there is much talk of reaching one's full potential, while at the same time acknowledging that the brain is so underused that it is impossible to do so. But there is a space - between living a 'good enough' life and becoming that sci-fi super being - where one can genuinely find oneself.
It can be a place of peace and contentment and joy, but, as any athlete knows, it is also a place of stretching to the limit, pushing and reaching and achieving something previously unknown to you. A place of such focus, that it calls forth everything within you and brings it to bear, leaving you exhausted but complete.
That is where writing takes me.
That is where painting takes me.
I meet myself coming the other way and am strengthened and renewed by the process.
And, frequently, exhausted.
And so I am utterly scared of embarking on such a journey and, at the same time, terrified of being denied the opportunity to do so.
In four to seven years, I hope at least to make more sense.
Wednesday 25 January 2012
Tuesday 17 January 2012
It's have-a-go day
Right. Step one for applying to uni is to get my old tutor to review my work, my statement and my portfolio. Sorted - happening on Monday.
Then send in the application and cross my fingers.
What if they don't want me?
What if they don't even want to interview me?
Aaaaargh! Can't think like that.
Quick - divert, divert, do something pro-active.
Bought this book to aid my journey - The Creative Writing Coursebook. It is both terribly good and utterly terrifying. Have been doing the exercises and will try this one now.
Deconstructing Beds... by Alison Fell.
Write 100 words prose description of a bed you slept in as a child. It needn't be perfect Virginia Woolf-type prose, as it is only raw material, but write in sentences rather than note form, as the verbs will be important later.
Right, here goes then.
My bed was the bottom bunk in a room shared with my elder brother. I liked the enclosed space of being on the bottom - rather like I imagined a four-poster bed would feel, and besides, I was scared of falling out of the top as I had seen Adrian do. Next to my pillow hung a curtain that covered an alcove housing an old harmonium. The curtain had strange, abstract patterns on it, and each night I would stare at the blocks of bold colour and imagine myself and the bed shrinking down, down, down, until my bed was the size of one of the blocks. Then the air currents would carry my tiny bed drifting up towards the ceiling. I was always asleep before I reached the top, the weightless sensation lulling me unconscious, and the patterns seeming to pass below me like vast, multi-coloured elevators.
Right, that's more than 100 words but I reckon that's OK.
Next step.
Write another 100 words on the bed you currently occupy, what's in it, what surrounds it, what do you do in it, etc.
Well now, some of that is none of your business, but in for a penny, in for a pound.
My bed is a king size over soft yummy monster that takes up almost the whole room. This is fine because we have a dressing room elsewhere, so sleeping in and 'sleeping with' are really the only things that need to happen in this room. I made the headboard and covered it myself with a scrap of William Morris fabric bequeathed by Joe's granny. I have lots of extra pillows, feather of course. I know they don't hold their shape as well as sponge, but when did life become too short for plumping? My cat sleeps all day on my bed so there is always a warm patch waiting for me, which is a shame because I like it cold.
Ouch! Just went to bathroom to fill up my glass of water and got a static shock off the tap because I have been on the laptop. S'not fair.
Write a final 100 words on a fantasy bed, a bed where money is no object, a bed that can be made of anything you like.
I used to dream of a bed made of hot air when I was a child. Strong jets of warmth held you up about a foot above the surface, and massaged you like a jacuzzi while you slept. This is no longer my fantasy. I don't want warm air anywhere near my face. I want an open window and a soft breeze permanently billowing the gauze curtains that drape near the head of my extra-large bed. There is room for the cat and a dog at the bottom, miles from my feet. The view of the Mediterranean/Adriatic/Aegean/Pacific (I don't care which), shimmering violet in the dawn light and framed by the forest/mountains/bougainvillea etc., makes this my favourite place to be. The pillow cases stay air-conditioner chilled all night, and the patchwork quilt was made by Kaffe Fassett last time he dropped by, but most importantly, in this bed, no one ever, ever snores - least of all me.
Now print this out and cut it all up into small words and phrases. Make sure you separate cliches like 'book' and 'shelves' or 'chest' and 'drawers. Spread them all out and PLAY. See what short sentences you can assemble without worrying about meaning or narrative. Be intuitive. Keep normal syntax as your only guiding rule. Keep an open mind and allow themes to emerge. If you can, use all the words.
Ok, now I've spent about an hour (should take two) and used half the words (should use more) but this is what I've come up with so far.
My cat, my favourite coloured monster,
chilled, unconscious, sleeping in a scrap of patchwork, snores.
Strange - all day I like the sensation, while you, below me,
seeming made of shrinking forest feel always abstract.
Stay.
I was strong, rather like feather mountains,
my bed a warm fantasy,
drifting permanently on the hot, night air.
In this room I want a child,
bequeathed by an all night billowing, plumping, down, down, down,
in a bed of weightless sponge.
My want colours the whole room violet.
A soft harmonium gauze dressing the bed,
and the patterns that covered it - blocks of Bougainvillea - the only shared thing.
When I was sleeping with my pillow,
housing the cat, Adrian, and enclosed,
I imagined my tiny room become too lulling,
and jets of scared shame the size of space, of being, framed my view.
I held you, waiting so cold, like a king on my bed.
When did life, like vast Adriatic elevators
carry my feet towards the curtain, the open window, out of my self.
Always asleep, of course,
I made the bed before I reached the fine, four surface.
You, like me, had to pass the time on it.
Well that's my stab at it - why don't you have a go?
Then send in the application and cross my fingers.
What if they don't want me?
What if they don't even want to interview me?
Aaaaargh! Can't think like that.
Quick - divert, divert, do something pro-active.
Bought this book to aid my journey - The Creative Writing Coursebook. It is both terribly good and utterly terrifying. Have been doing the exercises and will try this one now.
Deconstructing Beds... by Alison Fell.
Write 100 words prose description of a bed you slept in as a child. It needn't be perfect Virginia Woolf-type prose, as it is only raw material, but write in sentences rather than note form, as the verbs will be important later.
Right, here goes then.
My bed was the bottom bunk in a room shared with my elder brother. I liked the enclosed space of being on the bottom - rather like I imagined a four-poster bed would feel, and besides, I was scared of falling out of the top as I had seen Adrian do. Next to my pillow hung a curtain that covered an alcove housing an old harmonium. The curtain had strange, abstract patterns on it, and each night I would stare at the blocks of bold colour and imagine myself and the bed shrinking down, down, down, until my bed was the size of one of the blocks. Then the air currents would carry my tiny bed drifting up towards the ceiling. I was always asleep before I reached the top, the weightless sensation lulling me unconscious, and the patterns seeming to pass below me like vast, multi-coloured elevators.
Right, that's more than 100 words but I reckon that's OK.
Next step.
Write another 100 words on the bed you currently occupy, what's in it, what surrounds it, what do you do in it, etc.
Well now, some of that is none of your business, but in for a penny, in for a pound.
My bed is a king size over soft yummy monster that takes up almost the whole room. This is fine because we have a dressing room elsewhere, so sleeping in and 'sleeping with' are really the only things that need to happen in this room. I made the headboard and covered it myself with a scrap of William Morris fabric bequeathed by Joe's granny. I have lots of extra pillows, feather of course. I know they don't hold their shape as well as sponge, but when did life become too short for plumping? My cat sleeps all day on my bed so there is always a warm patch waiting for me, which is a shame because I like it cold.
Ouch! Just went to bathroom to fill up my glass of water and got a static shock off the tap because I have been on the laptop. S'not fair.
Write a final 100 words on a fantasy bed, a bed where money is no object, a bed that can be made of anything you like.
I used to dream of a bed made of hot air when I was a child. Strong jets of warmth held you up about a foot above the surface, and massaged you like a jacuzzi while you slept. This is no longer my fantasy. I don't want warm air anywhere near my face. I want an open window and a soft breeze permanently billowing the gauze curtains that drape near the head of my extra-large bed. There is room for the cat and a dog at the bottom, miles from my feet. The view of the Mediterranean/Adriatic/Aegean/Pacific (I don't care which), shimmering violet in the dawn light and framed by the forest/mountains/bougainvillea etc., makes this my favourite place to be. The pillow cases stay air-conditioner chilled all night, and the patchwork quilt was made by Kaffe Fassett last time he dropped by, but most importantly, in this bed, no one ever, ever snores - least of all me.
Now print this out and cut it all up into small words and phrases. Make sure you separate cliches like 'book' and 'shelves' or 'chest' and 'drawers. Spread them all out and PLAY. See what short sentences you can assemble without worrying about meaning or narrative. Be intuitive. Keep normal syntax as your only guiding rule. Keep an open mind and allow themes to emerge. If you can, use all the words.
Ok, now I've spent about an hour (should take two) and used half the words (should use more) but this is what I've come up with so far.
My cat, my favourite coloured monster,
chilled, unconscious, sleeping in a scrap of patchwork, snores.
Strange - all day I like the sensation, while you, below me,
seeming made of shrinking forest feel always abstract.
Stay.
I was strong, rather like feather mountains,
my bed a warm fantasy,
drifting permanently on the hot, night air.
In this room I want a child,
bequeathed by an all night billowing, plumping, down, down, down,
in a bed of weightless sponge.
My want colours the whole room violet.
A soft harmonium gauze dressing the bed,
and the patterns that covered it - blocks of Bougainvillea - the only shared thing.
When I was sleeping with my pillow,
housing the cat, Adrian, and enclosed,
I imagined my tiny room become too lulling,
and jets of scared shame the size of space, of being, framed my view.
I held you, waiting so cold, like a king on my bed.
When did life, like vast Adriatic elevators
carry my feet towards the curtain, the open window, out of my self.
Always asleep, of course,
I made the bed before I reached the fine, four surface.
You, like me, had to pass the time on it.
Well that's my stab at it - why don't you have a go?
Monday 2 January 2012
"Update, update, read all about it ...."
Hello?
Sorry, it's me here...
Yes I know it's been over two years but there are reasons. Maybe not good ones, but reasons nonetheless.
But I'm back, so where were we? Oh yes - trying to create a New Life!
So - how's that working for me?
Pretty good, as it turns out. To be fair, it still looks just like the old life - still ill (thank the peri-menopause for knocking me back five years in my recovery) but, oh, the light at the end of the tunnel is beaming down in all its radiant fullness and I am beaming back.
For instance, I sold four paintings in the summer - big, expensive ones at that - AND got a commission. All in the space of four weeks. Made well over a grand. Yay!
Now I'm not a simpleton - I know that £1200 for two or three months work is pretty pants by today's standards, BUT it is tangible proof that my paintings have value to total strangers - and these people are even willing to part with large sums of dosh to acquire them.
This is validating, edifying, and encouraging to me, and we can all do with a bit of that sometimes.
My lovely hubby Steve finally has a job, which also means that the financial dung heap we were living in is now merely a 'learning experience' fading into memory.
And please don't think me callous but my son has left home, and this has brought about the biggest positive change of all.
Allow me to explain - I ran away from home at 18 going on 12, to escape the life dictated by my parents with many threats and far too little bribery, and eloped to London with a boyfriend, a suitcase and two pounds in my pocket. Seven years later, I managed to get away from the surprisingly abusive and domineering boyfriend, but by then I was a single parent.
Fast-forward to last summer and I'm helping Sam to pack for Uni in Bournemouth. I'm tearful for me and excited for him - thrilled about the opportunities and challenges he is going to face, and wondering how much of a gap his beautiful, sunny energy is going to leave at home.
For the first time, it is just me and his father. Alone. Together. A couple. In the same house, but not as parents anymore.
We seem to have done it backwards because now we are finally having 'our time'.
I am a little scared.
Then Steve's new job takes him away for a few nights at a time, so I am truly alone for the first time in my whole life. I've been alone before, but only as an interlude, a small interruption of my wifely/motherly routine.
This is different.This life stretches out before me as a blank canvas beckoning. There are no calls upon me - I can fill the time entirely as I wish, so I use it to begin discovering myself anew.
It is heady and glorious. I revel in it. I am sickeningly lazy, followed by bursts of ridiculous activity at unaccountable hours of the day and night. I sing Karaoke until two in the morning. I lay in the bath until noon. I eat nothing but battered onion rings for lunch. I drink a whole bottle of Mojitos. I enjoy being me.
I notice that my life suddenly IS new - unprecedented, unexplainable, unexpected.
My husband and I find a new contentment and calm between us. We laugh a lot more. We have far fewer worries. It feels like none at all.
I am fifty-two. It took this long.
Louise Bourgeois said "I have been to hell and back , and let me tell you - it was wonderful"
I know what she means. My 'hell' has made this all the sweeter.
I am still ill. My feet twinge with pain at every step. But I dance on them anyway.
Sorry, it's me here...
Yes I know it's been over two years but there are reasons. Maybe not good ones, but reasons nonetheless.
But I'm back, so where were we? Oh yes - trying to create a New Life!
So - how's that working for me?
Pretty good, as it turns out. To be fair, it still looks just like the old life - still ill (thank the peri-menopause for knocking me back five years in my recovery) but, oh, the light at the end of the tunnel is beaming down in all its radiant fullness and I am beaming back.
For instance, I sold four paintings in the summer - big, expensive ones at that - AND got a commission. All in the space of four weeks. Made well over a grand. Yay!
Now I'm not a simpleton - I know that £1200 for two or three months work is pretty pants by today's standards, BUT it is tangible proof that my paintings have value to total strangers - and these people are even willing to part with large sums of dosh to acquire them.
This is validating, edifying, and encouraging to me, and we can all do with a bit of that sometimes.
My lovely hubby Steve finally has a job, which also means that the financial dung heap we were living in is now merely a 'learning experience' fading into memory.
And please don't think me callous but my son has left home, and this has brought about the biggest positive change of all.
Allow me to explain - I ran away from home at 18 going on 12, to escape the life dictated by my parents with many threats and far too little bribery, and eloped to London with a boyfriend, a suitcase and two pounds in my pocket. Seven years later, I managed to get away from the surprisingly abusive and domineering boyfriend, but by then I was a single parent.
Fast-forward to last summer and I'm helping Sam to pack for Uni in Bournemouth. I'm tearful for me and excited for him - thrilled about the opportunities and challenges he is going to face, and wondering how much of a gap his beautiful, sunny energy is going to leave at home.
For the first time, it is just me and his father. Alone. Together. A couple. In the same house, but not as parents anymore.
We seem to have done it backwards because now we are finally having 'our time'.
I am a little scared.
Then Steve's new job takes him away for a few nights at a time, so I am truly alone for the first time in my whole life. I've been alone before, but only as an interlude, a small interruption of my wifely/motherly routine.
This is different.This life stretches out before me as a blank canvas beckoning. There are no calls upon me - I can fill the time entirely as I wish, so I use it to begin discovering myself anew.
It is heady and glorious. I revel in it. I am sickeningly lazy, followed by bursts of ridiculous activity at unaccountable hours of the day and night. I sing Karaoke until two in the morning. I lay in the bath until noon. I eat nothing but battered onion rings for lunch. I drink a whole bottle of Mojitos. I enjoy being me.
I notice that my life suddenly IS new - unprecedented, unexplainable, unexpected.
My husband and I find a new contentment and calm between us. We laugh a lot more. We have far fewer worries. It feels like none at all.
I am fifty-two. It took this long.
Louise Bourgeois said "I have been to hell and back , and let me tell you - it was wonderful"
I know what she means. My 'hell' has made this all the sweeter.
I am still ill. My feet twinge with pain at every step. But I dance on them anyway.
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