Letting Life Last Longer.
Well, I don’t want to say that the fairy is back again because, I don’t believe that this is the fairy talking at all. She has wandered again and has travelled further and further away in correlation to my life being flipped closer to being totally upside down. But, I do believe that my life has rotated the whole one-hundred and eighty degrees to make it stand on its head and this only means that, if it rotates further, it will get closer to the life in which the fairy exists.
Thanks to the wandering of the fairy and my life being flipped around, I now have far too many tales to tell. I no longer know where to start.
I could talk about feeling at home in the most unlikely and foreign places or I could describe various perfect days of sunshine and joy. Do I write about my second mission as a spy (this time for The Japanese)? Or do I share my experience of floating up to heaven on an evening song?
I feel overloaded with stories to the point that my brain has begun to push some of them out to make room for the new ones that keep materialising on a daily basis. Every moment of the day has turned into a moment of something and I had forgotten, until very recently, what moments of nothingness are actually like. These instants, are the most important points in time in our lives. They give us the space to breathe and to stop to look at the clouds. They allow us the freedom to wander aimlessly and to process our thoughts and emotions.
I had not realised just how much I had missed the Nothing Moments until the lack of them had completely run me down to the ground. Running around, generally being ‘Busy’ in a caffeinated daze for too long, as I have learnt, is a way to both mush up the brain and starve the body of the care and attention that it needs to survive.
Clarity is actually kind of all right and completely essential once in a while. (It beats illness and total confusion anyways).
Taken 18th April 2012:
Atypical Acquaintances.
I seem to have a strange, uncontrollable, at times very impractical but mostly very amusing, skill in attracting interesting characters (the correct term is probably ‘wierdos’) and letting them think that I want to talk to them and spend a generous portion of my time with them.
Even when I have my most practiced and most convincing ‘I’m a Londoner, don’t mess with me and I have somewhere to be that is far more important than you’ face on, I still get approached by complete strangers with an unlikely yet fairly intriguing conversation topic.
It was about a week ago that this ‘gift’ of mine began to really shine when, a gentleman with years, slightly more advanced than my own, decided to approach my friend and myself, who were quietly getting some very productive work done (with the help of our, quite foul, bottle of white wine).
After making the mistake of not declining his plea to sit next to us, we semi-abandonned our work, directed more of our attention towards our wine and began a session of life story dispensing. His childhood was spent, as he described it: ‘like Billy Elliot but without the dancing’ and he now is the editor of a well-known music magazine. I was disclosing some information about my vague living locations when he interrupted me to ask whether I knew his friend who lives in the same, but very generalised area. He gave me nothing more than one of the most common male names to work with. So, I admitted that I did know several people who go by that name and live within close proximity to me. At this point in the conversation, his wild, chemically induced eyes lit up with excitement and joy, he reached for his phone and rang his common-named-friend with the good news, that he might have met someone who might or might not know him.
The friend answered and was immediately passed on to me. I apologised and attempted to explain the situation but was greeted by a polite man who, being as britishly-mannered as myself, also apologised and asked if he could ring the magazine-editor-and-owner-of-the-phone back later (he did use his name, but for his sake, I have chosen not to). His only reason for not having a chat then was that he was, at that moment, on camera, shooting a music documentary in Dublin.
It turns out that he is the keyboardist in a very celebrated band that I have seen in concert on multiple occasions (therefore I have many photographs of him on my hard-drive…).
So, after all, in some sort of way, I do know him but I don’t think I will begin our next conversation by letting him know how exactly. I don’t think any long or healthy relationship has ever been instigated by one person saying to another “I have photos of you on my computer”.
Taken 21st February 2012:
Watching the Waiters.
Observing people around you is so much easier and simpler when everyone else is too submerged in their pools of hecticness to notice you staring at the telling lines on their faces and the characteristic scuffs on heir shoes, attempting to piece together their lives. Even those whom only two coffees and a half a table lie between you, have no time to look back to observe you or even care that every part of their appearence is being pulled apart in order to be diagnosed as a notably important aspect to the way they live their lives.
Sitting in a busy international train station, hidden behind a mammouth-sized frenchtastic bowl of coffee, is the ideal position to be in for subtle observations and generally being a fly on the wall.
The majority of people in the vicinity are rushing madly in the direction of their destination while the rest of the surrounding world wait, sit and consume as quietly and un-noticed as they can. Most of the sitters are also being (or, like myself, pretending to be) doers by taking out their various instruments of communication (rarely without opening a game of solitaire) and devices to write with. I have done the same but, being limited with my choice of things to write with, I use the paper napkin that was served with my coffee and a pen that was sitting next to me on the tube. Admittedly, this doesn’t exactly aid the concealment of my actions and makes the fact that I am writing very obvious but everyone within sight is just far too engrossed in their own matters to give a damn.
The only other around me who seems as interested in their surroundings as myself and not completely absorbed in their onward journey is a boy of about five or six years, balancing on his knees haphazardly upon his chair across the room from me. He seems to be the only person around who has acknowledged my existence and noticed my possibly insane-appearing stares and pricked up ears. He, unlike his father beside him, is clearly not panicked or worried about finishing his lunch before the time arrives when they need to join the mad rush towards the trains. When the boy tugs on his father’s sleeve in order to make a complaint about the strange and slightly creepy girl on the other side of the cafe who is smiling at him and obviously writing something about him on a napkin. His father is simply not interested and tells him off for getting distracted from his bowl of lasagne. I avert my gaze anyways partly because of the potential restraining orders that are now on my mind.
The gentleman who was sitting opposite me and was seemingly fluent in four or more languages judging by his phone conversations, did notice my presence once in the hour and a half that we sat face to face.
When eating a particularly troublesome section of his salad and catching, in his hand and lap, the lump of avocado that fell not too elegantly from his mouth, he very self-conciously scanned the room in search of judging eyes to try and discover who he had disgraced himself in front of. Upon meeting my gaze and sinking deeper into a puddle of embaressment, he facially apologised to me for his questionable eating skills and proceeded to do everything in his power to avoid catching my eye again.
(It would probably have made him feel a little better if I had let him know that the reason that I stopped writing was due to the fact that I had to use the last bit of my napkin to clean up some of the coffee that I spilt down my front just a few minutes before).
Taken 7th February 2012:
Simpleminded in the Snow.
I refuse to believe that there is anyone in the world who, when they open their curtains to find freshly fallen snow, doesn’t have a split second infantile skip of the heart and a fleeting thought about hurtling down the nearest hill on a sledge.
It is true that growing up, far too often, means the end to the joy that snow brings with its slipping and sparkling and it becomes the beginning of worries, practicalities and all the other useless bores that don’t contribute much to the world going round.
However, I strongly believe that, however deep down and forgotten it is for some, that there is a part of everyone, that still has the urge to throw snowballs at passing members of the community and that just wants to lie on their back and make an angel. It may only surface for the brief moment that occurs between the opening of curtains and realising that the busses won’t be taking you to work that day but no matter how matured one becomes, the child within us longs for that instant of magic and the promise of a snow day.
This year’s snow made me realise how I have aged but it also brought to my attention the fact that I have, at the same time, clearly not aged enough.
Sitting and warming up slowly after a long outdoors-standing-day that reached beyond the point of numbingly cold and ventured into the regions of deep lasting pain (particularly for fingers and toes), true winter arrived. Upon witnessing the first glistening flakes floating down from the sky and seeing them settle comfortably on outdoor tabletops and pavements, one of my very first thoughts was the question of how I was going to get home. Looking back at this moment makes me feel far, far beyond my years but I have the reassurance that my following thoughts did not match the maturity of the first. Instead of packing up my things and immediately setting out into the frozen outside world to make sure that public transport would still be running sufficiently well to get me back home and to bed, my logic worked slightly more for the short-term. At the time it made far more sense to stay put in the warm and well stocked pub and not worry about what troubles the future might bring.
As was to be fully expected, this did not exactly turn out to be the wisest of decisions. I did make it home that night but unfortunately for my pride and the inhabitants of the house that I ended up at (who I would like to show my eternal gratitude to), it was not exactly my home.
I think the main problem of the evening for me, and the cause of my hazy adventures was not the quality or strength of the beer on offer. It was the fact that, in my mind, I had pre-made the decision that I would, instead of finding a form of public transport that would bring me home, find a sledge and somehow slide through the wonderland back to my front door. All basic logic aside, this would have been a genius plan but, unfortunately it did not quite work out as it should have.
However, I am enormously grateful for the affirmation of my blizzardy childishness and I live in hope that I never stop getting lost in the snow (but I also live in hope that, in the future, I manage it with a little more dignity).
Taken 5th February 2012:
Mewing Musings.
Seemingly, ever since birth, I have had an unnatural and, at times, slightly worrying interest in cats. In the past few years, this obsession has lost its shine considerably but has remained as a deep feeling of respect.
Due to me growing up with a father inflicted with cat allergies, I have never owned, or spent any considerable amount of time living with, a cat. For many years, my father was stricken with guilt and reminded several times a day that without cats, my childhood would be a miserable one.
Having been denied ownership of a cat, I admittedly resorted to becoming a cat (making social interactions with unimaginative people quite impossible). At a reasonable age of about 10 (it may have been earlier), I discovered the use of real words as opposed to mewing and purring. I may have left the realisation of the concept of actual speech a little too late as I still haven’t got the whole talking thing anywhere near, never mind under my belt.
But, when cats talk, they say nothing, but by looking into their eyes (for those few hours in the day when their eyes are actually open), you can tell that they are continuously calculating and considering their surroundings. I feel that this is one (far from positive) connection between us. I have my suspicions that, in my last life, I may have been a cat. Maybe my lack of will for sleep in this life can be directly blamed upon the fact that ninety percent of my last one was spent with my eyes shut, purring in front of a fire).
Until this week however, I actually had very little knowledge of the day to day life of a domestic feline. I still have no idea what they do during the day or the night but I am now an expert at Kitty Meal Times and Cat Attention-Seeking Time (and how the two more than often correspond). I am also very informed about the 5 o’clock in the morning Nibble Toe Time and the I Will Appear Too Lazy To Go Through The Cat Flap And Demand That You Open The Door For Me But Actually We Both Know That This Is Just Proof That I Wear The Trousers In This Relationship Time.
I have been a dog owner barring a five month period of meaningless existence between the death of an old one and the finding of a new companion, therefore it came as a great surprise to me when while looking after two cats, that they neither came when called, or ate the leftover pasta that I kindly put into their bowls.
This week has led me to the conclusion that cats are definitely not dogs and that people that are more comparable to dogs tend to be, in general more agreeable personalities. Yet ‘cat people’, being more independent and free-spirited have a tendency to live far more interesting lives.
I’m not sure which I’d rather be: happy or living a life. Which is the purrrfect way of life?
Taken 25th January 2012:
Taken 17th January 2012:
Surveying Switzerland.
Who is this fairy who never sleeps? Well, you might well ask.
I have been told that I was once her or she me. Either way, we were some sort of entity but we lost touch.
We haven’t spoken for months. I can’t quite remember whether we had a falling out or whether we just drifted apart. Anyways, I was lucky enough to catch sight of her shadow yesterday and there was an almost-outcome which is the following:
Wandering aimlessly with a camera strapped to my mind is my remedy that can cure everything. It gives me a freedom. Freedom from time restraints, freedom from identity, conformity, society’s ideals and whatever realities that were previously pressing down on me.
My feet carry me, my camera protects and empowers me and all the worries, intentions, stresses, responsabilities, and pressures of life are left in the house a few miles away with the doors locked, the alarm on and the cats using them as a scratching post.
For, when I am wandering, I could be anyone. My personality is neatly concealed beneath my very large winter coat, my story is sealed in my rucksack and I am left alone to peacefully observe.
Ofcourse, others also observe me and speculate on why I, seemingly without reason, parade around the square of the Cathedral pausing every so often to look up at the 12th century part of the magnificent structure, study it for a moment, shake my head and shuffle over to another part of the square or to the 14th or 16th century parts of the building only to repeat the process of head shaking and move on again.
I guessed that the population of Geneva were also not particularly used to or comfortable with seeing people lying in the middle of a courtyard with a camera balanced on their nose (28mm just isn’t wide enough!). But I don’t mind my audience and their obvious (and probably very rational) worries for my sanity (and potentially their safety) because I use far more than my designated weekly hours of observing others and their amusing habits and therefore, it is only fair that I get more than my fair share in return.
Taking advantage of my logic concerning the matter, I now feel very justified, considering the events of the morning, to now spend my time in this Tea Room/Chocolatier listening to the conversations around me and establishing the stories of the conversees.
Luckily, most of the languages spoken around me were ones that I have a reasonable understanding of.
Three elderly French-Swiss women sat in front of me in their shawls, beads and unconvincing wigs gossiping loudly (it seemed quite critical that the conversation went on at a very high decibel and with plenty of “Quoi?!” and “Qu’est-ce que tu as dit?!” so that eventually, each one of them had a similar account of the details of one of their grandson’s schooling successes and the neighbour’s new mistress).
On my right, sat a couple of American financial piles capitalist stereotype discussing the millions of dollars that they were single-handedly responsible for bringing to their respective companies in the past few months.
Just behind me, a gaggle of middle-aged fur coat and diamond wearing Polish women sat, giggling about the affairs of the furriest and sparkliest of the four. Eruptions of hearty yet feminine laughter occassionally burst from their direction at a noise level to rival the hearing-aid-on-the-wrong-setting parley from the other side of the room.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t actually keep track of the subjects of any of their discussions but I still had an enjoyable inventive time, a great coffee and well needed hot chocolate.
Upon leaving, I noticed a woman sat in the corner of the tea room with a notebook laid out in front of her. I was sure that I saw her glance at me, catch my eye and immediately and rather too hastily return her attention to her notebook. I returned to the cold and damp outdoor world accompanied by a pocket of curiosity about my observed story and judged life.
Taken 22nd January 2012:
Taken 27th January 2012:
Apathy of A fool. (A Pathetic Post)
I have not been captured by MI5, MI6 or even MI7 in relation to giving away their most guarded secrets about the art of disguise but I have been captured by a rather menacing and crippling bout of apathy.
It has had its claws firmly latched onto my brain and legs for almost three weeks now and does not show signs of letting go. It has forced me to bed at reasonable hours and made sure that I am not making my body do anything too strenuous. It has also introduced a system where I eat (far too) regular meals which is proving problematic alongside the severe lack of physical activity but is also pretty enjoyable.
All in all, this extreme laziness is actually making me look after myself a bit better (skimming swiftly over the lack of exercise) but it is hundreds and thousands of miles away from making me productive.
This desire to do nothing has been such a strong and pressuring feeling that it has even taken me close to two weeks to write the above. I am not saying that I have taken any particular care over my words or claim to have been sitting with a pen and paper in my hand for the entire time because it has been directly thanks to my extremely short attenti
Anyways, my greatest of apologies for taking so long to give myself a kick in the arse and here is a photo of some neighbours of mine. I don’t know them but this photo makes me want to, taken 13th December 2011:
Adventures of Anonymity.
Today, I was sent on a top secret mission to ensure that a certain person of great (potential) importance to the future of the world had a safe and thoroughly uneventful journey to his headquarters in central London.
The difficulty was that I was not to be noticed or recognised by the mark and he is not ever to be informed of the operation that took place.
I had to act undercover.
I tried not to be too conspicuous in my effort to be in disguise. I resisted the ankle length trench coat that I had considered and the dark sunglasses (I decided that, seeing as though it was already dark outside, it had been raining for most of the day and I was underground anyways, the dark sunglasses might have drawn more attention towards me than they were worth in terms of hiding who I am and I didn’t really need help from people who would have assumed that they were just helping a blind girl in a ridiculous coat).
I failed to find a suitable beard in my house, so covering my identity in facial hair was unfortunately out of the question.
In the end, I settled on finding and wearing my most masculating clothing and topping the look off by wearing a hat of invisibility (a generic hat that covered my hair) and a pair of ridiculously large headphones.
My hooded fleece nicely covered my chin and mouth when it was needed and I replaced my normal choice of a brightly coloured canvas bag with a dull, beaten up old backpack.
Although my disguise was flawless, I started to become a bit jitterry and a tiny bit paranoid about being recognised and found out by my mark (this may have had something to do with the three large cups of coffee that I had consumed before the adventure which are still making me regret them).
I did have a moment of near failure for the mission. I lost sight of my mark in the mass of people. As he was considerably shorter than the crows surrounding him, I half expected such a difficulty to occur. I tried to catch a glimpse of him and get to a closer distance from him by going in, what I knew was the right direction but, unsure of the decisions that the mark might have made, did not know for sure.
It was the right way but luck was against me and the train, that I should have followed the mark in, sped away just as I got onto the platform.
In this instant, feelings of failure washed over me and I felt that my once potential career as a secret agent was over. But, as the train swiftly drifted out of the station, I caught sight of what I was sure was the silhouette of my mark standing in the last carriage!
Relief! I was satisfied enough by this sighting of the mark heading, on the right tracks, in the right direction, to end my panic and forget my woes of probably not making it into MI6.
Less than a minute later, I was able to jump aboard the next train. Two stops later, as we slowed to a halt, I stood by the exit, completely prepared for the coming leap to ground level.
Rushing into the drenching rain, I searched for the mark, following the arranged route. As I reached the street of his final destination, I spotted him through the darkness and the weather, standing under the heavenly and heartwarming gleam of a streetlamp.
He had arrived at headquarters and I had remained anonymous.
The eagle had landed and the mission was accomplished.
I proceeded home to shake up some martinis.
A few totally inconspicuous outfits that I will consider using in the future, taken 18th November 2011:
Welcome to Winter.
I did not exactly wake in time to witness the first light frost that coated the outdoor world this morning but I was assured of its existence by two separate sources. Sure enough, there was a definite chill on all the floors in the house and an icyness in the wind up on the hill, so I welcomed the first real day of winter with a bit of over-excited Wrapping Up Warm.
I found my warmest coat, scarf, hat and hole-covered gloves and set out into the world, feeling toasty and smug about the fact that I had sneakily conquered the wrath of the weather.
However, on my arrival back home, after an evening of revelling in the joys of the season, I was reminded that there are other things that come with the arrival of winter that are not as pleasant as being snug beneath thick, warm layers of clothing. Greeted by a house-shaking cough and a mucusy rumble, I was informed of the imminence of Winter Illness. Now that my mother had the dreaded cold, it is sure to soon pass on to the other members of the household, myself included. This is the end of my stretch of good health that lasted so long, I was becoming very proud of myself. This is a goodbye to easy-breathing with my mouth shut and a (not very welcome) greeting to piles of tissues, tickley throats and sleepless nights…
Taken 11th November 2011:
Muddled Memories.
Memory can be a very fickle phenomenon. It can be altered far to easily by other inputs such as photographs, the stories of others and our own imaginations.
For example, there are many days and events that I remember very clearly, despite being a very young child at the time. However, many of these occasions of recollection can be illustrated, following my full description, in the contents of the drawer of old photographs under the bed in the spare room.
One of the only ways that I can be sure that my memories are genuine is by making sure that there is no photograph taken from the same angle of reminiscence. (This is how I know that I can remember my third birthday party because there is no photograph showing two (to me) huge cakes right in front of my face).
I also know that I remember the dark spiral staircase in the tower of the castle I visited at the age of two (accompanied by my parents). Firstly, there is no photographic evidence of it and secondly, I can still feel the fear that I felt, unknowing of what could appear out of the pitch black passage that lead to the rooftops.
But, from that same trip, I also have a strong memory of standing independently on the battlements of the castle having climbed up, dragging a slightly younger friend along with me, while our parents fussed over packing the car. (As soon as they noticed our absence and saw us toddling along the un-barriered ramparts a few too many meters in the air, they very promptly retrieved us and returned us to ground level).
Although I feel I remember parts of this story, I am almost sure that this is because it has been turned into a story over the years and one that I have heard repeated at least twice or three times annually since it happened.
I often find a memory floating around aimlessly in my mind that is, in fact, not even mine. If someone describes an event that has happened to them so vividly that when I am listening to their story, I imagine myself in the place of the narrator, occasionally my mind later cross-wires its self and claims that memory as my own.
This condition seems to be hereditary.
There is a video currently ‘trending on the internet’ of a man chasing his dog through Richmond Park. This dog has bravely decided to confront a heard of deer and they have created a stampede through the park followed by the small yapping dog and his slightly larger yapping owner.
Whilst watching this video as a family for the second (or third) time, my father starts to recall the time when his old dog decided to do the same thing in Richmond Park but without it ending in the favour of the dog (the heard of deer, including a very butch stag, turned on him instead). My father was very convincing in the telling of this tale until my mother kindly let him know that he had not actually been at the scene and it had been her who was walking the dog on that momentous occasion. He then refused to believe that it was not his own memory and became convinced that it must have happened twice in exactly the same way and that it was nothing to do with the fact that he had heard the story told many times before.
Taken 17th August 2011:
Socially Stucked.
I am running out of things to say in the real world.
Seeing as though I have enough trouble articulating and it is a constant struggle to find something vaguely interesting, never mind worthwhile, to say to others, socialising is becoming problematic.
When someone asks me how my week has been or what I have been up to, I have a list of easy answers to offer such as “Yeah, not bad”, “Could be worse”, “Not very much” and “Oh, you know, stuff”. But then, If I feel like making this conversation progress further than a repeat of the first part in reverse, I have to think of something interesting to tell them.
In the past, when conversing with a friend or acquaintance, I might have told them of an observation that I had made concerning the weather or of a creative design I had come up with for a device to capture and store scents. I might have let them know that there had been a change to my garden or that I had spent the previous day sitting in a certain cafe. But now, the response I get, more often than I find believable, is “Oh yeah, I read about that in your Ponderings.”
This empties out my brain and causes me to realise that, if my fellow conversee has read what I’ve been writing, I really have nothing original to tell them about that they haven’t already read in very similar wording.
And oh crap! I have also now disclosed my previously secret list of starting-conversation-ending-conversation-easy answers!
Taken 20th November 2011 to catch me some words and conversation topics:
Magical and Mist(ical).
I was travelling by foot, accompanied by others who I was leading, completely following my nose, to a shared destination. The route to this destination was totally unfindable when I chose to listen to my brain but, as often seems to be the case, on following my aforementioned nose, the route materialised.
It did, however lead us very directly through a dimly streetlamp-lit park in the not-quite-depths of South London on and dark and cold November night. This would normally ring alarm bells and trigger a panic switch in the minds of most but, on this particular misty midnight, the bells were silent and the switch untouched because we were suddenly transported to a true dreamland where caution and fear didn’t feel necessary.
As we entered the park, all of us (being over the height of 5’5) were able to make out the other entrance in the distance. However, it felt as if we shouldn’t be able to see our toes due to the thick layer of silvery, swirling, ghostly vapour that had formed there between our eye levels and the ground.
I was floating through a foggy pool of chilly, pearly white beads of water that drifted, as if with consciousness, away from me and towards the damp grassy patches of the park that omitted far less heat than my body, wrapped in winter garments.
There was a silence and eery peacefulness that, with the low-forming clouds, hung in the air. Like with a flock of pigeons on the ground, I wanted to run through the mist to watch it scatter and fly away but it felt too much of a shame to disturb its peaceful lingering.
These sensations and these moving memories give more to me than if I had taken a photograph but for you, it might have been helpful if I had done so…
As a form of compromise, here is a photograph taken, not on a misty night but on a hazy day, 13th November 2011:
