Pavlova

On the evening of the dinner party my Father was always demoted to little more than a fixture. He was reduced to a useless mass that took up space in the living room with the rest of the inefficient males. It would be a good few years until I joined their ranks, till then my games took on a new dimension. I used to play at being a spy. I’d hide in the same places, but report my observations into the freckle on the wrist of my right arm.
I’d be forgotten about while my Sister and Brothers were sent to bed. I’d be left to observe the drunken stumbling of the adults around me. After a few close calls I’d realise that it no longer mattered if they saw me or not. If my Father saw me walking about he’d mention bed, take another sip of red wine and then carry on talking to his friends.
If I went into the dining room to grab a bite to eat, my Mother would put down her glass of white wine and call me to her. She’d place a hand below my chin and lift my head, then use the other to crush me to her waist. She held me in a way that with one swift twist she could have easily have broken my neck. She’d then turn to her friends and carry on talking. Her grip would loosen. Eventually I’d be allowed to wander off with a large piece of homemade Pavlova.

Filed under: Drinking, Family, Food, Home, Youth, childhood

Demijohns

Whilst my Mother cooked I used to hide below the stairs next to the dusty wine racks; below the hem of winter coats. I used to write my name on the tops of the empty demijohns at the very back. Used to suck on a mint cream that I’d stolen from the jar on the counter. Used to listen to the CD player that my Mother kept in the kitchen as it blasted out Enya at full volume. It was either Enya or Crowded House, or some other CD that was increased to such a level that one could hear it above the extractor fan.
My mother had found the fan a delightful novelty when she had first ordered the fitted kitchen, but quite soon its usefulness was outweighed and it became simply bothersome. The problem was that it lacked a switch and was mercilessly attached to the lighting in the room.
I used to hide myself under the dining table too. Listen to the noise of my parents as they argued about the theme for the party. I used to scoot out from under the table, enjoy the brief intimacy of a tablecloth as it brushed over the back of my neck.
I used to surface as my Father laid his heavy, awkward hands on my Mother’s shoulders from behind. Watched as he attempted to massage her too forcefully, digging his fat fingers into her shoulder blades. He’d always mask his mistake. Pretend that he was being cruel on purpose, but inside I knew that he wanted to be gentler. It was in his eyes, there was sadness. He wanted to relax her, rather than put her on edge. My Father has a hard time being gentle, he was a slim man but his hands always seemed to defy the fact.

Filed under: Family, Food, Youth, childhood

Squeeze

Personally speaking I try to squeeze every drop of life from a day. She’s never been like that. Whenever she leaves me she bats her eyes and makes the sign of a telephone with her hand when she says goodbye. I get really pissed off at that. I can’t quite make out the awkward dose of ill-acted senselessness. Simply put, she’s ceased to be significant to me. She’s now as real to me as that hand-telephone she holds unringing next to her ear.
I’m hoping that she’ll soon get bored of me and leave me to my crazy flirting with strangers that comes to nothing and my crushes that last a week and no longer. I’m also hoping that the latest crush Jen found that poem I left in her library book before she returns it. Page 130. If she doesn’t then it becomes a message in a bottle. No doubt someone will find it, next year, when they decide to take a module in Poetic Theory but I’m sure it won’t mean as much to them.
As it begins to snow I realise that these girls, like others, don’t quite see the world the same way I do. They’ve never paid enough attention to the details; never asked too many questions of existence. I realise this and giggle and begin trying to catch the snowflakes on my tongue. I’m thinking how each is unique, like me.

Filed under: Existence, Strangers, Women

Aspirations

Piya and Conner were the beginning of caring for me.
We didn’t have aspirations. We didn’t care if we were compensating for families that didn’t care for us. We were just three kids looking for something to belong to. Closer than friends. Closer than siblings, because for all we knew we had stronger loyalties. Our brothers stabbed us in the backs as soon as they could reach. Our sisters clawed our faces at a crossed-word. Home was a battleground that we avoided, daily, for as long as we could. Ours was a world of distraction. We didn’t care for anything but each other. We were more than a family. We were part of one another.

Filed under: Conner, Friends, Home, Love, Piya, childhood

Universe

In the song Around The Universe, by The Beatles there is a section at the beginning that speaks to me. One of them says “You all right richie?”. Every time I hear it, it makes me smile.
A lot of the time I think about what it means to be content. To have that mantra of enlightenment run through me. A lot of the time I need that smile it gives me.
Contentment is being ok with yourself and everything. Utterly unchanging. Nothing is going to change my world. Except me.

Filed under: Existence, Love, Travel

Butterflies

I told a girl once that I could feel butterflies in my stomach. Told her that every time I looked at her pretty face, I got a feeling of trepidation that seemed to make me all light-bellied, a smile appearing on my lips, tugging at each corner.
Each time came a reply of annoyance. She turned to me and said ‘eat something then’ or ‘you want to go to the doctor for that’, but I’ve never doubted we have the same feelings for each other. We split up mid-winter.
I never mention the butterflies now, but still each time I see the woman I love I can taste pollen and wings.

Filed under: Love

Radio

When I am at my most drastically unhappy I like to stream the radio through my computer and flitter about until I reach radio 4. It means I can write with the laptop and still have something going on, some person talking to me. I can’t bear to be on my own. You all know that by now. I don’t cope well with absences.
I’m a writer and we need to have language filtering through us. In winter you wear a jacket; when I want to write I wear the noise around me. Coffee shops always heave with chattering people in the winter. Fuelled by caffeine and lust, I watch people interact with each other and live through their lives like a parasite. I’m in love with them all and would love to get closer and know them. Often I do.

Filed under: Coffee, Lonely, Winter, writing

House

When I got here, when I off the train, walked the long walk to the front door, when I turned the key and stepped in, my heart faltered and the beast wriggled in delight. I felt like I was opening the box of the world’s ills. If I had a choice I’d shut the lid and leave it here forever. Home is so sad, is what Larkin said ‘shaped to the comfort of the last to go’ well in this case, it isn’t. Its shifted furniture; moved in new televisions and hi-fi’s; the doors open differently; some doors are locked; my room is nothing more than a music studio. I feel like weeping for that now disbanded ‘joyful shot at how things ought to be’. Gone is the home, this is the house.
I’ve tried to think of where home is. Where my heart is, or longs for. I love Bath, but it isn’t a home. This is a world of sorrows and I’m a wandering kid without the wanderlust to enjoy it. How do they know how I feel? These people who tell me that it’ll be ok. If they did; they wouldn’t lie to me, they’d understand that the longer I stay here, the less ‘here’ I am, the more ‘elsewhere’ the more ‘anywhere’ I become. There is only so much absence you can handle, before you start to fade physically.

Filed under: Home, Lonely, Travel

Hours

Telephones are a strange idea. You’re listening to a voice on the other end of a wire. It usually unnerves me, but with Much it is different. I’ve talked to her for hours now and we could go on talking. I’ve woken up after a night of talking, my throat is slightly raw and I still have that fluttering feeling. A little while ago I cursed that feeling, but this time I think it is shared.
In as much as Much is honest and sweet, I can’t help feeling scared. I’m more than easily hurt, it wouldn’t take much, but then Much is more than capable of anything now. She could reach out, climb out and become something real. She could turn around and shatter me. There is no help for the helpless, I have to settle the feeling otherwise it’ll eat away at me.
When it gets to that point that going on is so much pain that giving in seems easier. I can’t help but think, ‘why the hell did I come so far?’ And I keep going, gritted teeth, coat braced against a wind that tears through me. A road like this is a daunting thing, but when you think of what you are reaching out for and how far you’ve come, there really isn’t any other option.

Filed under: Future, Love, much

Starting

We first learn of love when we call it a name, someone’s. That is true enough, but we also first learn of pain because grief strikes where love struck first. We walk with open wounds. Love has never been easy for me. It’s like faith. I could never believe in a god because I couldn’t fathom his intentions, his designs. It’s the same for a girl who likes me.
Lord knows what she wants, why she wants me.
Yet nowadays I’m catching a glimpse of splendour when I just close my eyes slightly. That way that on long car rides, you squint until streetlights burst into stars. I’ve just stopped thinking and I’m starting to live. With life comes love, which means it is a natural thing, nothing to be feared. I still get stuck on how like death it is, but I don’t want to dwell on that.

Filed under: Love, Travel, much