Connection

OUR BIGGEST PORES are on the bottoms of our feet. Designed, when barefoot, to connect us with and to take up the energy of the earth. Balance, alignment, soul.

Jacko makes his way back to his wife and granddaughter this weekend, so his children tell me. His final journey of this life. He too will become part of the crust beneath our feet.

It's not about me, I know. Yet all of a sudden I crave connection. To walk shoeless. To gather my son up and squeeze him even more fervently. To hug someone else and let them hold me tightly without worrying that they're taking liberties with my heart and me.

It's about time boys were given boys' names in this family, Jacky states out loud, as my delicately-featured, long-haired son makes explorations: beneath his robotic bed, inside his waste paper bin.

Jack is not my father. But such insulting endearments are designed to make me feel as if he could be. He knows, I am certain, how much over the decades I've appreciated, needed that. To feel part of something special. To belong somewhere constantly safe.

He would tell his own son what a fool he had been to let me go - biggest mistake of his life - even though I was the one who left.

Thank you Jack, for all of that. For loving me.

Queen's Park Rangers are playing someone or other on the tele. He tells us that he ate porridge for breakfast. But he's lying, so the nurses he serenades with Scottish auld time tunes inform us. That, and he's been caught smoking roll-ups from his bed. Outwardly frowned upon. Inside smiling that he's still got it.

Full of energy as always. The Highland Fling. Yet small, shrunken, jutting and spindly, as he has been getting more of in recent years.

Travel well Jack over the next few days without your machines. I love you. We are always connected. My bare feet on this earth. Your charming caustic wit.

Jack's 75th birthday back in 2010. He knows how to party.

xx

Along the merry way

I’VE BEEN WRITING and not writing here for some eight years. That could well be a record for anything I’ve done or not done. Except breathing, and being some girl that likes horses, neat handwriting and imagining things.

This began as company, when I moved my life to a new place, knowing next to no one and nada. Smoking endless reefers atop my keyboard to relieve the boredom, dreaming up romantic touch typed writerly dreams. Pleasantries tapped out, amusements, experiments – generally lolling about here often times for the lack of anything better to do. And pontificated, or my ego has, scathed and ranted in some perceived justification of whatever my crackled heart yearned for then. At the very least, I hope it can be said that I did so creatively :)

Life is fucken hilarious when you look back, which is just as well. And pretty wonderful too. Aah yes, the joys of feeling and self-expression. Which is why – although many times before now I’ve been tempted to delete this blog, to remove all evidence of some of the seemingly trivial shit my mind and fingers dallied themselves with through much of my fourth decade – I haven’t and am unlikely to. I kind of like it sitting here as a reminder of forever growing up, honing skills, fucking myself up and getting unfucked again along the merry way.

Listening into other peoples’ conversations over a cafe lunch today, I was reminded of how much I used to think I had to say. I don’t have anything particularly poetic, witty or inspired for you just right at this moment, but nevertheless, perhaps I can squeeze out at least another eight xx

We can rebuild her

THAT GIRL IN THE right-hand column there, I vaguely remember her. Upon peering at my own reflective murk these days I actually catch myself gasping momentarily, wondering whether it's the mirror that needs a bloody good clean or my eyes some form of greater assisted sight. It is neither.

It's a strange thing giving yourself over to somebody else to survive from, to take from you whatever they need to be nurtured, physically, mentally, emotionally, financially, time, all of the above. And it's awesome and wonderful and like nothing else I've ever experienced and tiring and easy to forget yourself and the sparkly conversations you used to have. I was shallower then.

I think some form of normal transmission is resuming however, physically I mean. I've been catching glimpses of my ankles this week and there's hope. Dare I say it, but I'm sure down there be seen some resemblance of tapering and shape. Now, if I could just get about a year's worth of sleep back, I reckon it would do wonders for my face.

In the meantime I've begun showing love to my feet, which I've always pretty much detested until now. I've decided it's mega important to love your body and all it's parts. It seems that I've just moved it up to the ankles. Well done me. Wish me luck on my journey further northward, won't you.

Naturally, convention has gone out the window. Again. I don't mean for things to happen this way, it's not a goal to be the one who is 'one of these things is not like others' or anything. It's just the way things pan out, but I've come to that place of peace where I actually like it. It's pretty fantastic being me.

Duly, with age and the slopping face comes what many likely perceive as madness, but I am thriving on it. Inhale and invite more. Living by intuition is true freedom. I wish more people understood how immeasurably grateful I am every single day not to be so much constrained by BS stressful, socially acceptable, stick it up your a-hole, rational thought. Einstein says it's the way to go, and he was one really onto-it dude, no argument.

An exceedingly clever chap. I agree with him, so he must be right.

So, I just figured I'd write something here to see how it felt. Now signing off, tipping my hat and into my bed I melt. Sayonara for now.