Revelation after an admission....

I have not been here for a while. After finally admitting to my partner that I had a blog on the net and then refusing to allow it to be read, I did not feel like coming here.

In the last week or so my lack of motivation with my blog has occupied me - why?

Then there was a party, a fortieth. My partner and I turned up after he had played a concert as lead violin and had had to perform a solo; we were dragged through the door with all the guests waiting for him to play. As he prepared, running up and down the scales at a breathtaking speed I began to look around the room.

There was the birthday boy, Steve, a cross between Jon Bon Jovi and Heathcliff, horribly passionate about music, a inveterate collector and a good man; his partner, Andrina, at his side, a rock-hippy-chick, cool lady and wonderful singer. Her sons had played their guitars, keyboards and sung into the microphone/speaker set up to much applause. Nathan will be a star, the music he writes and his voice are amazing, but that is for another time. At the fringes, were the friends; all had some musical talent or other. Even Steve's parents play.....and then there was me.

Standing apart, watching and listening; surrounded by people who could display their talents without blushing.

It hit me why I didn't want to let anyone within my circle of friends or my partner read what I put here. It’s because this isn't me; at least not the me that I am with them. Here I am a different me. I fear that if they read any of this, the observations, misgivings and the doubts that the form that they see would come into question and suspicion.

I am a spy, a sneak, a fraud. An observer who at some point might, could put down what happened, who was there and what he saw. Can you be natural with someone who you know notices every change in your face, each hesitation in your voice and will fabricate/speculate your motives and explore all possibilities....ever tried to feel innocent after being introduced to a Police Officer?

You feel sweaty, your smile fixes, you comment on how difficult a job it is, how interesting it must be and finally how you couldn't do it yourself. All the time remembering that you did thirty-five in a thirty zone that morning, your road tax might be due but for some reason the date escapes you making your palms sweat and didn't you have that black pen from your work desk tucked into your pocket? You intend to take it back and every ounce of willpower is brought to bear to prevent you confessing.

Writing changes how they see you. I am guarded. At the party, no one asks me what I do or if I play a musical instrument, (I don't!). When one of the guests asks me how my degree is going I smile and say something mundane....changing the subject briefly before excusing myself for a top up of my wine. I saw a puzzled expression from the enquirer and later my partner would tell me how he was quizzed, well away from the others, as to whether I was "still writing".

While skulking in the kitchen I remembered the incident of the poem.

I was fourteen and, as fitting for that terrible age, I was confused, angry at the world, frustrated and above all an insomniac. My average night was three hours long. In the wee hours I would put together poems, notes, anything in fact to take my mind away from the silent house and lack of anything interesting to do, (this was pre-twenty four-hour television or the internet). In fine weather, I was often walking at four in the morning around the lanes and fields where I live...my dog loved these delicious adventures.

I wrote constantly and secretly. Then Mum found a folder stuffed full of poems and read them. That night the sisters were sent to bed early, going suspiciously without protest. I was called into the lounge, the television was switched off and I had a sinking feeling that I had done something terrible; I sifted my memory for recent involvement in murders, thefts, international money laundering...

The poem they read aloud was about death; a suicide. Standing in the small hours, holding a long thin carving knife to my belly, staring out into a clear night, over the black fields and hedgerows I had imagined the slow insertion of the metal. It was written like an escape, a purgatorial, painful, corrupt body being skinned of the undeniably perfect spirit; ending with the blade dropping a moment before the body. The shade lifts free and travels into the moonlight and freedom.

My Mum was horrified in that calm way that only Mothers can do. My Dad let her do the talking, glancing at me. I explained it was like acting, putting on a character and walking about the room imagining how to move, talk, think....it took an hour for them to understand or at least believe that they shouldn't contact a doctor and have all the sharp objects locked away.

I waited and, dwelling on the sideways glances that I received for weeks after and the constant enquiries "how are you feeling?" - "everything alright today" - weighted with worry - I destroyed all my poems. It is that feeling that makes me not reveal my blog to my partner or anyone close.

Here I can be angry, depressed, and dangerously silly or just plain bored. If they were here, I would be inclined to write for them, because of them; concerned that a comment might cause a serious conversation or the hateful "I never knew you felt that way".

Once I had revealed that I had a blog and then said no to my partner I felt guilty coming here.

The party distilled this and showed me that I hide. Of course I wonder what they would think about my writing. But, as yet, I am not brave enough to allow them to see. To me writing is a solitary, silent, private activity where, if you keep in mind that someone will read it you begin to write it for them...rather than to explore for yourself.

And I have too much written to burn all my work again and start again because the monster and angel I can be might shock someone.....

Over writing and self-pressure.....

So I confessed all; after days of agonising, thinking, drafting the words then deleting them. An email to my tutor, Nina, told her that my second assignment wasn't ready, wouldn't be ready and was falling apart at the first draft writing stage; and I mean the first draft.

Every time I sat down, candle lit, radio burbling away via the internet and with the partner safely tucked into bed it all fell apart. It is as though the characters in my head simply walked out of the room on me. I tried several scenarios, starting points and changes in the plot line. I re-wrote the back-story. My main character, a male, was a retired postal worker, shop keeper, farmer etc but no matter how I approached it it all dropped away leaving me hanging in mid-air.

I put everything aside and stepped back. For a few days I thought about stopping the degree completely. This filled me with dread. The thought of all I have learned and experienced coming to nothing felt so wrong.

So I did what felt right. I walked away from the writing and immersed myself in Christmas and the New Year. I have continued to read, that's something I will do until my dying day.

After the decorations were down and I was back to work I emailed Nina and confessed.

It is strange feeling that you are letting down someone you have never met, going off course. She emailed straight back assuring me that I was not the only one and an extension would be fine. It felt like a weight had been shed; two days later the main character became a retired teacher and he, Albert, was born into one thousand words in a single sitting. I could see him, feel his bad knee, a rugby injury, and know that he didn't take sugar.

At the next sitting I got scared at two thousand words - it was going too fast, too much detail, out of control after writing nothing; so I put the piece aside for a few days to let it fallow.....something I love doing because it becomes someone else’s writing and you can see the obvious easily. But also a scary moment, because then you get the "what if I can't see what happens next and they've left again?"

Tonight, I returned to my Albert and his dog and now I am overwriting; going well over the words limit because it feels right. At the point I have stopped, he should be delivering his decision to his daughter, who sits with him in his little thatched cottage, but he isn't. He's sipping his tea, deliberating, being his own man; character. So I have put him aside so that at the next sitting he'll be ready to finish the story and so will I.

Overwriting and honesty seem to be the lessons from this piece; write until the story has finished THEN edit it down to the word limit (or at least close too). Funny how things come along, and with the frustrating, difficult and painful a lesson. Confess as early as possible to your tutor, even if you haven't met them, as soon as possible because the worst kind of pressure can be self imposed and cut off the flow completely.

Images, echoes and Angels.

It has been a hard Christmas. My partner and I went to my Sister's for the day; my Mum and Dad, Uncle (yes a strange one as tradition requires), my two nephews and my Sister's partner.

The meal was sumptuous; ginger-bread stuffing, a revelation! Heaven when eaten with stuffed leg of turkey and my partners Port and chestnut sprouts. We talked about cooking, food, tradition and family. My partner lost his Mum and my Sister's partner lost hers this year. Each time I looked to one of the chairs around the table I expected Joan to be sitting there smiling and tucking away a huge plate of food; her gaze straying to the dessert.
Then as we relayed out into the bright sunlight on the decking outside, for some to enjoy a cigarette and others fresh air, I expected to see Mo standing there in her red blouse, the one with a Chinese style collar, flashing Christmas badge on her breast, trim leg trousers she loved and smart shoes with the buckles, smoking, smiling and laughing.

I felt that we were gathered more closely. Two of the three centres of our respective families gone. We are gravitating into my parents, the Universe resetting itself, as naturally as water flooding or tide falling.

We pulled crackers, laughing at the jokes, ate a full feast, talked of those elsewhere and drank good wine. We went round the table listing what our gifts were; prompting each other with mock offence when a speaker forgot a stocking filler here or a joke present there. We exchanged gifts, watching the nephews, one 22 and the other 10, getting excited at a bottle of good whisky, DVDs and a full Lego collection - the Police Station series - respectively.

The crowning moment was the simplest gift of all. A tasteful wooden frame, wrapped in tissue paper and passed to my parents. My Mum unwrapped a picture of herself, my Dad and the Angelic Joan smiling out on a shared holiday. The tears flowed from my Mum, without sobbing, her chin crumpled up, eyes reddened and she took the tissue from me that I had carried for this very moment. When she handed the frame to my Dad he smiled, water pricking his eyes and fought himself every inch of the way. I handed him a tissue, he took it without looking up. When I drove them home later Mum commented she was the only one who cried and my Dad agreed; pride and amnesia being his refuge, despite all the tears shed, unashamedly, so recently at funerals.

My partner sat for hours with the two nephews building Police cars, motorbikes, vans and finally the station itself. The adults chatted, smoked, drank and remembered. I felt like I had reached the age where I was a spectator; unable to actually enjoy and live in the moment. I could watch over them and enjoy the pleasure of others, more innocent maybe. Of course, it might have something to do with the control freak in me - the fact that through all the pleasure and excitement I was the only one who carried tissues, knowing that tears would flow and guessing where they would be shed.

My parents safely driven home; Dad's pain endurance taken to his limit so Mum could enjoy a few vodkas and the relaxing atmosphere; her knowing that we were all keeping an eye on him. I return to find my partner still building and playing with my nephews. On the television there is a home movie playing a previous New Years Eve party - the theme being Musicals - there is Les Mis characters floating past the camera, followed by three Pink Ladies from Grease and on and on. The camera swings around to a curly haired mother superior sitting on a chair, a huge crucifix hanging from her neck and a novice Nun sitting at her feet. It was Joan, smiling as always, supported and surrounded by her mad, singing and daft family; they urged her to start singing but after the first verse they all joined in with "How do you solve a problem like Maria". She giggled, laughed and beamed through the song, her round face glowing in happiness and pride. We all watched and at the end my nephew waved at his Grandmother.

The next disc was my Sister's fortieth celebration. Groups drank, sang and laughed in the shadows and pools of light; people waved when challenged by the camera, poked their tongues out and generally played the fool - it was a great night.
Then there in the dark a huddle of four figures around a central table, light bouncing of half full glasses. My parents, conspiratorially leaning over their drinks, were deep in conversation, sharing secrets and laughter with Joan and my partner's Mum, the Mighty Mo. The camera swept past, moving to catch everyone in the room. It was a glimpse of Mo's profile, her eyes gleaming with mischief and the silhouette of her hair, greying but a luxurious mane which swept back from her face and curled to a stop at the nape of her neck. I gasped and covered my mouth with my hand, swallowing hard. My partner called out "there's the Mrs Woman, My little Mommy Bear" his affectionate name for her. It was Christmas Day and we had seen Joan and Mo despite everything.

It was magic. Echoes of happier times. Dressed up, together in laughter and smiles, with celebration and love tangible in the air.

At home later I sat alone in the dark watching the news; the tree lights making the room twinkle while the awfulness washed over me. My partner in bed, a nightcap easing him into sleep. I was sober and thinking. Not a good state to be in when you are an insomniac.

Both women had their own versions of faith. To think of them standing at the bar, with the others we have lost this year comforts me, blasphemously being served their favourite tipple by a bearded youth. But I think that they believed that we are the Angels here. Sometimes we stretch our wings, lift our faces and fly, even for a few moments; we smile at someone and help to lift a great burden, reassure a stranger of a hinted at insecurity enough to sway them back to laughter or stop to watch someone safely make their way to sanctuary, down some steps or through a doorway, curling wings around them just in case they fall.

We should see every old lady as our Grandmother, each Woman as our Mum, every human being as someone to protect, help and gift. So naive in this dark and sinister world! Thoughtfulness and living in the moment would allow us time to see this; to regard each person we see as someone we care for.

That old cliché of "how would I like someone to act if that was my Mum who had fallen" means a lot - we all know what we would expect and want. Maybe that's how people like Joan and Mo see Angels and live in the moment.

Another Funeral.

A week and one day ago a strong, cheery, welcoming and wonderful woman lost her battle and slipped away from this place. It is easy to be morbid and angry when a family member dies but when my Sister spoke about her Mother in law's struggle with illness, played out over fifteen weeks, I was sad but relieved when she was at peace.

Joan Mullins 1927 - 2009 was a tremendously wonderful individual; she welcomed our family into hers unconditionally. Hers consists of five children, multiple grandchildren, step grandchildren and great grandchildren, step grandchildren. When you add in cousins, second cousins and then honorary uncles, aunts and friends the chance of remembering all by name is difficult.

Joan was never without a smile on her face. She would conspire at family meals out with my Dad to an extra dessert. The would goad each other about what they would try, usually swapping bowls half way through. She with her walking stick and him in his wheelchair they were a pair of challenged-chucklers. With my Mum she struck up a close friendship during weekly trips to the supermarket, started to help Joan out but which morphed into laughter, friendship and support.

The strange thing for me was she knew my grandmother.

It is an odd feeling when someone comes into your life, who is not a blood relative, with whom you can talk about someone who died over thirty years before. It felt odd and at first I was reticent about it. Then a strange thing happened; the more she talked the more I saw my grandmother; Nan.

My Nan stood five feet ten to my grandad's five feet two - she was a striking woman. Joan spoke about her with warmth and kindness, remembering a strong lady who suffered no fool gladly but was quick witted, easy to move to laughter and practical. For the first time in years I could see her standing in her simple kitchen, wearing her overall, hands reddened with hot water soreness. It was gift that I shall be eternally grateful to Joan for. We didn't talk for long or at any great depth but that little insight was such a comfort that I will carry it forever.

I have written before about how each funeral is unique because each of us are one of a kind. With Joan this was also true.

Her life story was told; raised eyebrows all round about her surviving diptheria at six years old when she gained her strong and loving faith; the work during the war, the meeting of "her Rob" a husband with whom she had five children all of whom they taught to sing and, crucially, to sing together in harmony.

The service was full of hymns, prayers and consoling statements about her faith. Even for someone like me who has no definitive belief but who thinks of himself as a constant questioner it felt right and while there were tears there was enough celebration and laughter to lift out of grief and into hope.

At the wake, I looked around the room at nearly two hundred people; mostly family. I saw the twinkling of eyes as stories were told, the same mischievous glint that Joan had. Rockets of laughter with plumes of giggles lifted from the murmur as one of the Joan-isms was shared. But it was the warmth and love that filled that room; effortless, unconditional and welcoming that made me think of that lady. Each one of her children, grandchildren, step grandchildren and on and on has a little piece of her love of life and laughter. Some of us were lucky enough to come into the family by marriage and join in with these harmonies.

Joan will be missed but when you look around a room like that and see the love, goodness and easy laughter you realise that, faith or not, there is something deeper being passed on through good people. It is an immortality of a kind tangible as stone.

Shy!

Dorchester, our County town, had its Christmas Cracker Night with hospitality, Carol Singers and stalls. It was so wet that by the time my partner and I got half way down the first road to be cordoned off we were soaked. Stall holders dashed out from under the awnings to thrust plastic cups of mulled wine or freshly baked mince pies into our hands, then dashed back. A choir stood outside St Peters and battled valiantly against the cacophony of rain falling, tumbling and gurgling; the latter down drains. All we needed was a mob of disgruntled villagers a few flashes of lightning and a monster to chase!

We wandered, trying to smile through the cold and rain, determined to enjoy the late night shopping, good cheer and start to a festive period that, without our Mo, would be difficult enough. It happened a couple of times when we turned to each other in a shop or next to a stall and said "she would've loved that". This will be a constant throughout the festive period, because she loved Christmas.

But we battled on, looking at this, wandering to that or should I say sloshing back and forth because by now water had slipped into our shoes and was making headway into hat and collar. Faced with an onslaught of water of Biblical proportions we did what we always do being book-aholics and headed for a bookshop. Passing through the electronic monoliths that stop shoplifters, or at least detect them, I was dimly aware of a seated figure to the left; by the time we had shaken off some of the water, had some sympathetic looks from other shoppers who'd already dried off and glanced along the piles of books on elevated stands in front of the book shelves, we were halfway down the shop.

We drifted - I was convinced that we were steaming - from book shelf to book shelf moving along our usual path, pausing at the classics, looking at the biographies and humour and then coming to rest at the Sci-Fi; my partner's favourite genre. Nothing took our eye although there were new releases, knock down deals and of course the "recommended" chart. We did buy the latest Hairy Bikers Cookbook - my partner being a marvellously adventurous cook - it being justified as necessary (i.e. not to be wrapped as a Christmas present) because it has the recipe for Beef Wellington promised for Christmas Dinner. Only half drowned now and steaming less - I think - we moved back towards the monoliths through a shoal of oncoming drowned shoppers, dripping their way in. A voice called out.

"Fancy a book that's a romp of fun, drugs, smoking and rock n roll? There's no sex at all," the speaker cupped her mouth in her hand as she spied a child nearby look round. Adding more quietly to us, "I wonder if this town can take this kind of thing but you guys look like a pair who could handle it." Her voice was guttural, low and obviously female; in any other context it would have been seductive. Here in harsh shop-light and cold air it was piercing and playful.

Her face was bright, smiling and glowed with fun; I instantly liked her. Craig took the book offered and read the cover. "Thankyou for not Smoking by Arlo Flinn". As he looked through the first couple of pages of the paperback she chatted to him lightly, outlining what it was about. I could tell he liked her - I liked her!! - so it was a done deal. I said "go-on" unnecessarily, because I could tell he wanted it. Her face lit up. She offered to sign it for him.

She was the author. Despite my desire to write I closed up like a clam! She was published and sitting in Waterstones signing copies of her work - WOW! I was suddenly terrified that my partner would mention my writing and the degree. She asked Craig's name and wrote inside "To Craig....thank you! Arlo Flinn" then beaming warmly she handed it back to him. I took the book and escaped back to the till almost leaving any remaining dampness in my clothes back in the doorway!

I paid and we walked out wishing her good luck.

We made our way up the street and into the drizzle. I wanted to walk back and say that I wanted to be a writer and ask her a million questions. I wanted to say all those things about what I wanted to write. But I knew this was a cliché of the worst kind; mention that you want to be a writer to anyone and you instantly get treated to the "I've often thought I could write a book" or "I've got these stories that would make a good read" etc. etc. I imagined confessing to this author and her fixing her smile and thinking to herself "Oh no not another one!!"

I am probably doing her an injustice. I had a feeling of being inadequate not felt so strongly since I was a child - it was hero worship and fear that the words "I want to be like you" might slip out in a squeaky voice.

I wasn't jealous. I was scared. She was a giant, a towering figure of proved strength and power. She had done it, written her ideas down, edited it, published it and now she was selling her vision....her book.

I didn't realise that I was walking alongside my partner without saying anything, alone with my thoughts until a voice said, after reading my mind. "That will be you one day!"

I laughed and almost believed it.

Inaction and desire....

I have it; my tutor's assessment. As with all courses, this is the worst bit. An unknown personality waiting in the dark ready to pick apart your work and suggest without limit; to stretch you, challenge and increase your knowledge and methods. It's also exciting. My toes curl when a tutor suggests cutting this or that and my reaction is always emotional, petulant and necessary. What parent would give up their dreams for a child without a fight/tantrum or at least raised voice. After five years my partner is beginning to see the pattern and understand it.....sort of.

The chant is usually "this is a good assessment."

I started work, correcting areas highlighted as drifting and cutting where, once Nina, my tutor, had pointed it out, were obvious. I read it through and agreed with her page notes. The analysis, her written assessment, is more challenging and having read it through twice I can see how a Level Three course differs from a Level Two. It feels as different as jogging does to marathon running....

I feel like I am warming up for a big race with the opponent as myself; my nature and resistance. I want this and fear it. The coach is Nina, with her advice, suggestion and knowledge. I shall return to the Assignment and work through it again (probably several times) before moving on to the next set of exercises and Second Assignment. So WHY am I doing this rather than working on it now? Not sure, not ready to...this is my inactive phase...when I leave my brain to absorb the Assessment and ready itself for what has to be done. Inactivity is as productive as action.

My desire for writing is growing, boosted by my employment. I promised myself that I would not be one of those people who placed his grievances with his employer here for all to see. Mainly because I have the long game to think about, mortgage, money and boredom (i.e. boredom for those reading this, after all there is only so much complaining anyone can take) but each time I get frustrated at being ignored, looked down on (I am a technician and not a Manager, a totally different breed in the modern Civil Service) or told yet again something so obvious that the object is a device to denigrate the one being told, I look to my writing.

It brings me Joy. It is here where I can do what I please. I can write anything I see, tell stories that might excite, shock, amuse or terrify. To move people the way I am moved by words.

If you took away my mortgage, living costs etc. - and told me that I could do only one thing for the rest of my life but I would never gain anything from it - I would write. Of course I include reading too......can't live without books.

Desire, real desire, that burning compulsion, can be dangerous and wonderful. So this is what this "bit" of writing is, my desire, despite the inaction, to bring words to form on a page and tell a story; might not be great or inspiring, but it's a story - sort of.

Need....

A terrible day, weather wise. Things are moving on and along with others we are considering Christmas and starting to hit our funds buying presents. It is hard to not walk around the shops without seeing gifts that the recently deceased Mo would've loved. The trick was that both Craig and I spoke immediately about it to each other; seeing something and almost enjoying the fact that she would have loved the silliness of this seasons tat or that joke present for a friends over-active dog. Remembering the joy she took in the little things seems to help as well as hurt.

Dorchester is our county town and is re-inventing itself with building work and changes in the shops; I like it. It feels relaxed and charming. There is space for everyone and with the abundance of trees, even when it is overcast and drizzling it has a calming effect. Where we live, Weymouth, is a very different matter...but that's a rant I shall enjoy in a later post.

We have noticed that since Mo's death we cannot fail to notice little old ladies; not exactly the Politically Correct term. But nevertheless they are diminuitve, not youthful and female. The ones that tug at our heart-strings are those that are infirm or in need of some care; but then any of them seem to pull at our emotions. Today, along a side street was a small, hunched, bespectacled lady moving towards a waiting taxi; the driver had brought the vehicle as close to the pedestrianised road as he could get it and he stood waiting, door open. She made her way towards him, up a steep incline, lifting and pushing her zimmer frame - wheels at the front - in painfully slow steps. I didn't turn to look into Craig's eyes as we passed. I didn't need to. The taxi driver looked down the street and as we got to him he smiled at us with emotion in every crease of his face and his lips pressed together. We looked back; she had barely taken two steps, during the time it took us to walk fifty yards.

We were three men watching this poor woman, head hung over, glasses perched on the end of her nose, stepping as best she could towards us. We were powerless. I wanted to pick her up, throw her over my shoulder and, taking up the zimmer in the other hand, carrying her to the taxi and out of the drizzle. The taxi driver's dilemma was clear. If he left his vehicle he couldn't make her walk any quicker and any encouragement could be seen as patronising; offering to take her handbag and lighten her passage could cause her distress. So with us passing by and him rooted to the spot we watched her struggle. It was awful and inspiring.

After shopping, posting a letter - the balance of Mo's funeral expenses and the collection from the service, plus a little more, for the Salvation Army, all to the funeral home - we came back onto the same street going in the opposite direction. The woman was ten feet closer, maybe more, with more than that to go; her steps were a little stronger now and her head was held a little higher but we could see that she strained every sinew. The driver stood in the same position, looking at her walk. You felt that he was not just waiting for her, to take her home, but was watching over her and it reminded me of something.

Whenever Mo came for dinner a certain amount of Rose` wine was drunk rendering me unable to take her home - two miles away. So we got into the habit of sending her home in a taxi paid for by us. My only proviso was that the driver did not drive away from her house until she was inside the doorway; my comment to Craig was always to tell them to "see her to the door...to the door!"

They always did and I always checked; she became known for it, with all the taxi drivers knowing that her two boys would be bloody annoyed if they left her fumbling with her keys on the doorstep and they never did.

Seeing that taxi driver, waiting, keeping an eye on this woman made me think about the little kindnesses. The uncomplaining driver would get no more for his trouble, might be late for his next fare but his patience without causing the poor woman any anxiety was a true kindness. Something that was given to Mo and something we need to thank the taxi firm for