I suppose I should do
some writing: I’ve been meaning to for a long time. Haven’t written anything
since Mexico ,
and that was nearly two months ago. Hard to believe. But then, a lot of things
are hard to believe these days…
I was there. I
remember that. Sitting around Kayle’s house going out of my mind. The Pacific
roaring outside. The scorching hot beach. All the confusion about Janna and
Craig and what the hell I was supposed to be doing. Should I head on over to the
mainland and check out towns I’d heard of and hoped might be good? Should I sit
in the hot springs
and try to find God? Or patch things up with Yandara? Or…
I was going bonkers,
wasn’t I? Every day just the same. And then I finally said “fuck it” to the
whole damn thing and bought a ticket to Cancun .
Slept a couple of nights there, in the airport, in the bushes, on the beach –
kind of saw giant turtles, and kind of didn’t – and next thing I knew I was on
a plane to Spain, all my passport worries effortlessly dissolved in typical
Mexican chilled-outness.
But was I really going
home? The weirdness of landing in Cancun and
then getting that email from Vicky offering me a possible job in Cabo teaching
English. Why couldn’t it come just a day before? Why had my dream been to stay
another 24 hours, and not 48? Or another dream the next night?
All these weird quirks
of fate. Because of that ending up in Madrid ,
and then Paris , instead of Birmingham
and Leeds . And everything hinging on a) my
kiss with Cat, and b) Janna finding out. The whole goddamn course of my life
changed, all over one little late night fumble I didn’t even want.
A weird moment on the
beach: I’m sitting there and two girls walk past, chatting. The only bit of
their conversation I catch: “…you’re not going home…see you tomorrow.”
I shudder and wonder
if I’ll ever get out of there. And now, two months later, how do I feel?
Confused. Should I
have stayed? Could I have stayed? I was stuck but…
Well now I’m back in Leeds , and working, and things are more stable and I’m
not so confused and it seems to be getting better, in certain ways and…
I landed in Madrid wondering what
would happen next. There was a great glorious sense of freedom about it. Happy
to be back in Europe . Feeling surrounded by
sophistication and intelligence and good bread and cheese.
I could just get off
this plane and start walking, I thought. Head on up to the Camino Santiago.
Join the trail.
The world is mad, the
openness and possibilities when you’ve got a sleeping bag and a bit of cash and
you don’t care about anything.
Euros in my pocket
look deceivingly like pesos and I’m splashing them willy nilly after so many
months of spendthrifting not realising what they’re really worth…
Several hours in the
airport and all I can really think about is Paris . Blag some internet time and consider
the options. Buy a plane ticket and land there that night, and head to Eve’s.
And, weirdly enough,
it’s nice to be there with her. She’s funny, and fun, and I still find her
attractive. I get her to eat the iboga and help her through it, and she says it
changes her life. Immediately gets her off her pot addiction. Seems to sort
lots of things out.
Weird. The timing. The
whims that took me there. The feeling of being somewhat guided to her.
But what am I, in this
is the case? My poor bedraggled body just being dragged confused around the
globe to do little things for people.
“It’s not all/always
about you,” Shawn would say. But surely some of it must be.
Yes, I want to go back
to England .
And this is a good way to do it. Dip a toe in Spain ,
where the language is the same, and not have to face the full sharp shock of
emerging into London
weirdness. I don’t know if I could have handled that: it was hard enough at the
airport in Cancun , seeing all those miserable,
complaining Brits, hearing their accents. If I’d been exposed to that before
I’d bought my ticket to Spain …probably
I wouldn’t have gone back.
But I did.
Eve left for the
countryside and I had her apartment in Paris
for a few days. Probably stayed too long there too, once more overcome by
confusion and paralysis and wasting too much time tapping keys and clicking on
things, mostly to pretty much no avail. I didn’t know which direction to head
in. I eventually figured I’d go see Mother Meera and booked a place for her
darshan that weekend, and found a ride. Mothers sorts it out. Especially when I
go to her emptyhanded and headed.
But on the Friday
morning I wake up with the word “Trethun” repeating in my brain, and weird word
though it is, I know what it means: Trethun is the name of the railway station
in Calais, and so I cancel my plans for Mother and get a ride to the ferry;
hitch onto it with a nice German, despite all the immigration crisis stuff in
the news; make it through my final passport control, with further remarkable
ease; and next thing I know I’m in Herne Bay.
It’s nice. The sun is
shining. There are people everywhere. Matt and Easterly and the kids. And it’s
a shame it’s so rushed but –
Oh yeah: that was the
whole thing about why “Trethun” was so amazing: for after I cancel my plans for
going to Germany I get the email from Rhodesy at County FA saying there’s a
fitness test on the Monday and if I want to go for promotion I have to be
there, it’s my one and only chance. And not that I should be eligible for
promotion anyway, but somehow he’s squeezed me in, six months late. So that all
makes sense. Thank you Mother…
A too brief weekend in
Kent .
No time to stop in on London
friends. A ride all the way up there with a nice guy off blablacar, who drops
me in South Elmsall . I do the quick walk up
and down. Note how it’s weird that there’s no ‘energy’ there – no little bits
and pieces of myself as there seems to be scattered all across North America,
despite so much more time there than anywhere else – and eat some long dreamt
of fish and chips, which are kind of disappointing.
Everyone’s incredibly
ugly and fucked up looking, and even the children have faces deeply wrinkled
from all the scowling and frowning and probably explosions of temper. Children
who already look like old men.
A train to Wakefield . A quick walk to
Thornes Park Canterbury .
Now I’m a few hundred miles away and within a week of being mental on a beach
in Baja suddenly I’m with some West Yorkshire
soccer referees about to run around an athletics track.
I haven’t even been
home. I don’t even have a home. Everything’s completely mental and yet pretty
normal too, sort of in the flow.
But can it really be
that I went from Baja to Cancun to Madrid to Paris to Kent
to Yorkshire to this running around a track
and about to take my referee’s fitness test all in a week, and all without any
advance planning?
Well, it is.
And so I run –
wondering if it’s even possible, after so many months of so little physical
activity – and wouldn’t you just know it, I sort of ‘win’ (having completed the
furthest distance in 12 minutes) and that’s that.
Now I’m on a train to
Ian’s, and back to my old boss’s house, and my old bedroom, and my old job too.
Maybe a rest day the
next day but, I think, the day after that I’m back on the bikes and back to
cycling around Leeds and, I swear, it’s like
I’ve never been away.
But, I certainly don’t
say that in a good way: what I mean is, it’s like the last two years I’ve lived
never really happened, were just a dream, and what was the point of it all just
to end up back here? It’s kind of pretty horrifying. But because it feels like
a dream, not really.
It’s hard to put into
words, you know? Because, what it feels like is: “did that really happen?” Did
I meet all those people, go to all those places, do all those things? It’s
almost intangible. I have to constantly remind myself that it actually happened.
But there’s absolutely nothing to show for it, and everything’s the same as it
was two years ago, except for the knowledge that some time has passed, and that
I’m no longer feeling a longing for America: that seeing all these weird
English people wearing ‘California’ t-shirts no longer has the effect it once
had on me. Not signs, nor stirrings in my heart, but weariness of what it was
actually like, and a sort of distaste, like the smell of some food that has
once made you sick…
But: confusion there,
too. Because all of a sudden – after the relief of being once more on European
soil, and digging Spain and France and even Kent, and being so glad to be out
of Mexico – after, even, several months of saying how much I hated America –
I’m suddenly walking around with a head full of California, and it really,
really makes me want to be there. I spend two solid days with “California
Dreaming” playing on constant loop in my brain. I gnash my teeth at the sudden
realisation that I didn’t exactly make the most of my time there. And I wonder
what the fuck am I doing back here in Leeds .
Everybody is so goddamn ugly! Like – holy shit – offensively so. Was I ever really happy here? Was I really seduced
by my goddamn crippling nostalgia to think I could be happy here again? It’s
disgusting: everything cracked and grey; people scowling and smoking everywhere.
Shouting and swearing. And such crazy rank materialism on a scale I feel I’ve
never seen before. All they do is shop! The whole thing is so concrete and
base. And the grey, the grey, the grey…
I cycle around and the
ground is grey and the sky is grey and all the faces I see seem grey too. Maybe
their goddamn auras are grey; I dunno.
Really: what am I
doing here?
But there must be
answers to that question, being as I’d longed for it for all those months. So…
1. I was going mental,
and I’d been going mental for a pretty long time. Ever since I came back to California in January,
probably, and I didn’t like it. I wanted an escape from it, and my solution was
“to be normal”. To work. To “be among sane people”. To get back ‘home’.
2. But, before that,
there was Grand Junction ,
and the realisation that I was happy there. And being happy there brought my
mind to a strange conclusion: because if I was happy there, in that normal
town, living a fairly normal life – being in a house and just hanging out and
playing a bit of soccer and not really doing anything that exciting – then
maybe I should just go back to Leeds, where I was also happy doing similar
things (in 2011/12), but which also had added bonuses, such as being able to
legally work and healthcare and all those other “growing old” concerns that I
was having, such as how to ever do the woman and family thing, and the
overwhelmingness of contemplating going about that in America, as an illegal
alien.
So, in a nutshell: if Grand Junction was good, Leeds (or Exeter ) would be better, right?
3. In retrospect,
there probably wasn’t much way I couldn’t
leave America .
Like I say, I was going mad. And I had mucho de longings for Mexico anyway.
And once in Mexico, it was probably only a matter of time before I headed back
to England: I’d had it in my head the whole bloomin’ journey, even before I’d
got into the States, and you know me when I get something into my head…
4. The woman. All
those thoughts of Laura. Deciding over and over that she would be the answer
to my problems, that I’d been a fool not to settle down with her long ago, just
running away, just avoiding commitment and being childish and missing out on
something good because of my fear of love and being trapped and all that jazz.
Always, I thought of her, and when I was on my knees in need of an answer, that
seemed to be it. But she wouldn’t return my emails and so there was no way I
could know what was going on with her – with us – unless I actually got to see her.
5. I guess I’ve
already said it but, you know, I suppose I hoped it would be something – just
as I always do. And all these ideas I get in my head – knuckling down, getting
some sort of career, writing, maybe the iboga clinic – that seduce me and I
build up and actually think I could accomplish, with just a little bit of
application and motivation, like what certain people seem to possess. I must
have it in me somewhere…
But there I am, back
in Leeds , and stunned and staggered by the
sheer greyness and brute ugliness and rank materialism and all the shouting and
cross words and it just doesn’t feel like me anymore, or, even, that it ever
was. Leeds isn’t what it used to be: I’m not a
student; and all my friends have gone. All the things that made it so great –
no Harry, no Ali, no squash league, no gadabout carefree days hanging out with
young ones and typing and dreaming of dreams now fulfilled…
And it’s like that bit
in 1408 where he despairingly shouts, “but I was out!” and, having worked so
hard to get into America, I can’t believe I’ve tossed it away so easily, to
come back to this grey concrete nightmare, and once more be a cog in the
machine and breathing pollution and cigarette smoke and still no word from Laura…
Laura
But, eventually, Laura does respond to my texts and we arrange to meet at a chip shop in
Outwood. I cycle over there like a madman to make it on time, but she’s thirty
minutes late anyway. Not like her, and I fear it’s some sort of punishing me,
or showing she no longer cares, or maybe because of some current man, and
perhaps she’s only coming to tell me it’s all done once and for all and she’s
happy now with her fella and – you never know – got a baby on the ways anyway.
Not that I’d mind all
that, on one level – not if she was happy, because that would genuinely satisfy
me – but then it starts to grow in my mind: damn, I wish I’d known this a few
months back, before I left places that might have been good for me, and set my heart
in this direction…
But, not at all:
that’s all just in my head. Her last relationship’s over – that was the reason
she hadn’t been contacting me – and the fish and chip dinner is decent. It’s
nice to be with her again. Same as it ever was, really: super comfortable and
fun; her occasionally being unnecessarily mean, cos of previous hurts (real and
otherwise); and me wavering between the two extremes of wanting to marry her
immediately and right now, and trying to work out just what it is I see in her
and feeling horror at the thought of such a life with her in Yorkshire.
She’s a settled kind
of person, you see. Likes to be close to her mum and dad. And that’s fine, and
I do like them, but…all that concrete and grey, and where she lives is a
million times worse than Leeds . We run in such
different circles. And my running don’t seem to suit her much anyway.
I go a bit cold and
bored near the end. I’m confused. I don’t want to share my feelings with her
because I don’t want to confuse her, get her hopes up, reel her in only to let her
down (again). But not saying those things probably makes me distant, and makes
the feelings dwindle, and then I wonder what I’m doing there in the first
place. Is this really what I left American and Mexico for? And, of course, all the
horror of contemplating a committed life with her. The push/pull. The urge to
merge, and the urge to flee. Same as it ever was.
But, weirdly enough,
she wants me to go back to hers and stay the night. I’m tired, so I think, why
not? We share a bed that night but nothing physical, and the next morning I
wake and go lie on the couch and kind of roll around with all my confusion
inside, feeling this pull to her but recoiling at the thought of staying here
in this goddamn place and committing to her and her life. Despite all these
years of kind of wanting it, I just can’t
do it: and in so many ways it’s easier with other women, because I guess it’s
not like I’m ever committing to anything long-term. But with her, I just know
it would be for keeps: that there’d be no reason to end it. She’d just go on
loving me and it’d be comfortable and nice and, I don’t know why, but I don’t
think I could handle that. Not here, in Yorkshire .
Not in her part of Yorkshire . Not surrounded
by all the red brick and scowling faces. Not by these accents I can barely
understand, that I find so weird. And her friends, and her pub-going life, and
people that still drink, and things that just aren’t me.
So once more I’m going
crazy, but when she wakes up we get to talking and I suppose we get down to
some truths, and the truths are somewhat surprising: she wants a baby; she
wants to get pregnant; she’d really like to get pregnant by me; and, if she had
a choice, she’d probably rather have a baby than a relationship. Something
about that frees me up: I feel okay with the idea of making her pregnant; I
feel that would fulfil something, and maybe something that ties in with a
strong feeling I had a couple of years back, sort of weeping for having denied
her that at maybe a more suitable time in her life. A woman wants a child: it’s
a pretty primitive and basic urge. And now she really wants it, and she’s
prepared to let go of the idea of the whole picture – wanting and holding onto
the man, too – especially this man, so slippery and ever wanting away – and
just go with the basic requirement.
For my part, it
suddenly makes sense. The urge to merge, but the inability to contemplate
commitment with her. The freedom of acknowledging the reality of what I feel,
and being okay with that. Yes, I’ll make you pregnant. But I don’t want any
part of it, beyond that. It’s true: for all my years of thinking I would want
day want children, what I feel now after touching some of those existential
depths in the last year – and spending time with various families – is that
having children is not for me. I wouldn’t want to wish life on anyone. It
wouldn’t be fair, knowing what I know now. And, to be frank, it just looks like
a total hassle, what with all the screaming and the retardedness, and then the
teenage years of being total bitches. My current place of residence is home to
two teenagers and the way they speak to their parents is bloody horrible, and
certainly no great advertisement. I really can’t see the appeal. On every
level, nothing about it works.
But, if someone’s
gonna do it – if they’re at the place where it’s what they want more than
anything, to the extent that they’re searching for sperm donors and know what
they’re getting into – then I don’t see too much problem with half the genes
being mine. I mean, I do see problems, and they’re certainly things that have
bothered me, that have given me cause for hesitation – the moral question of
single parenthood and fatherless children – but then there are
counter-arguments to that too.
Anyways, some weird
kind of nutshell, that: she wants a kid, and I feel okay with that – more or
less – and, in some sense that I can barely make sense of, it feels like the
right thing to do. Feels like it would satisfy the requirements of this on/off
fourteen year relationship, like on some sort of karmic level. If it can
happen, of course. She’s 41 now. But healthy, in good shape. Like she says,
“it’s now or never…”
Weirdly enough, she
tells me she knew I was coming back. That, right about the time I got back to England , she’d
said to some friends, “Rory’s back; I can feel it.” I hadn’t had any contact
with her in months. And so, I wonder, like with Eve and the iboga experience
that seems to have done her so much good, have I been pulled once more across
the water by fate or destiny or these women or my own soul duty karma kind of
thing, despite wondering what the hell I’m doing here in this weird place?
Sometimes feels something like that…
We had sex the next
night: it was an odd and interesting experience. I’ve had sex for a lot of
reasons in my life – for pleasure, for bonding, for love – plus all the less
glamorous ones, such as obligation and boredom and mistake and ego – but this
was something completely different. It wasn’t so much about the pleasure or the
pleasing of someone else: it was like, at the moment of orgasm, I experienced
what it was like to be a fish or something fertilising some eggs, and nothing
more. Like I say: interesting, and totally out of the blue, not related to what
we’d been talking about or what I’d been thinking about. She wasn’t even
ovulating at the time – so I was told – so it certainly wasn’t something I was
expecting. But, there it was: the reality of the situation in all its primeval
glory. Just a male human animal squirting his jism into some female
reproductive organs.
And that was sort of
freeing, too: no real pressure to prolong, to get someone off, to make it
mindblowing and amazing and emotional, as I usually feel; no, all I had to do
to succeed was come inside her, and let nature take its course. We did it 4
times in about twelve hours – by far the most active I’ve been in years and it was as perfunctory and
easy-going as any mutually-arranged transaction should be. Made an agreement to
do it the next weekend, when ovulation was expected, and after a week of
mulling over the moral implications, and toing and froing somewhat with that,
did.
It’s been ever so
interesting: after all that time of thinking about her, and convincing myself
that I wanted and could have a relationship with her, now that’s it’s here I’ve
noticed no inclination whatsoever. I feel a bit bad for that – because of
expectations that she wouldn’t like it if she knew I wasn’t feeling some sort
of personal attraction and desire for her and her time and company – but it is
what it is. Like I say, I feel free. I can give her what she wants – what she
truly wants, and maybe what she always truly wanted, but perhaps didn’t realise
it – and not have to feel guilty for not giving her what she thought she
wanted, and what society tells me I should be doing. I can fulfil my role and
my duty, without sacrificing my soul. I can give my part of the bargain – and I
do believe we must have made some sort of deal, and some level, at some point
in a past I don’t consciously remember.
Anyway…
Obviously lots of
thought around all that, and wondering more about the nature of procreation,
and tying it all in with a clip on a show I saw about a flower that mimics the
smell of decomposing flesh and faeces in order to fool and attract a certain
beetle, which then spreads its pollen. And how strange it is to be doing this,
when I’ve never in my life felt more strongly opposed to bringing more beings
into the world, having spent these weeks in Leeds shuddering at all the goddamn
pushchairs and pregnant bumps, and all the grown people already here, nothing
but ants crawling in the dirt, running hither thither, gathering and carrying,
for little apparent reason.
But, like I say, if a
woman wants some genes, she might as well have the good stuff, right?
What else?
1. Leeds .
Life in Leeds . Cycling around in my dayjob
delivering parcels and breathing all the fumes and looking at the faces. It
seems to have settled a bit the last few weeks - my horror at it all – and I’ve
begun to enjoy various things and not notice so much the ugliness of the people
and the awful materialism. Which is, of course, both comforting that it’s
adjusted, and disturbing that I’ve begun to grow accustomed to it.
2. Work. Work has been
good; it’s been good to be working. All that time on my hands in California and Mexico wasn’t good for me. I knew I
missed working but now I’ve realised just how much: it settles a man’s mind; it
takes his thoughts away from himself. It’s good to have a reason to get out of
bed, and to not have to always be thinking about what to do tomorrow. I know
now: I either ride the bike, or referee. I also did some work for a friend of
mine, analysing some government feedback. In fact, I’ve gone from not working
at all to working nearly all the time, which was maybe a bit much, but has
settled down now. Too much time; not enough time – some sort of balance, I
suppose, would be nice…
3. America . And
how I’d been so happy to be hating it while in Mexico
– and how then when back in Yorkshire – not
even when in Paris or Kent – it came flooding back into my brain. Woe, then,
for no longer being in California, and the seeming impossibility of getting
back there – and yet, still making plans for it, should the urge arise again,
and better plans, too, having now realised the benefit of work, and seen the
emptiness of England. Except…that was the first few weeks I was back, and
things have changed now. Truly, it was mental – I could barely see Yorkshire
when I was first here: it was like everything I was looking at was overlaid by
images of deserts and scenes from my American travels – but all that has now
passed. No longer hating, no longer longing. Just here.
4. And now, thinking
of that Guerneville vision the night I slept in Armstrong Woods, how I woke up
and found myself back in England in the middle of a pedestrianised shopping
area and how concrete and material everything was, and how base and ugly the
people too – and the significance of how clearly it’s come true. At the time I
thought it was a warning to forget about England , so clearly did it fill me
with horror, but then I wonder…well, maybe it was a sign to come back here,
given how realistic it was…or something.
I don’t know what I
wonder. I guess I just hate the idea that I made a mistake leaving North America .
I furrow my brow.
Everything pointed to Mexico ,
didn’t it? And I can always go back there easy enough. Things were pointing my
way out of America
too. So…
I guess nothing really
pointed my way back to England ,
except my own thoughts and desires, and my habit of being a slave to nostalgia
and to unrealistic expectations, of both myself and of places.
So…
5. I think sometimes
of Grand Junction .
I really liked it there, and I really liked Colorado too. Maybe I was a fool to move on.
Maybe I missed some opportunities – the bike shop guy, or Boulder – but…well, here I am, doing what I’m
doing. And perhaps there’s a way back in, if need be.
6. It’s weird all this
talk of America ,
after all my negativity about it. Though, truth be told, I was never negative
about Colorado , only California . And it is nice to be back among
seemingly sane people, and people that don’t say such mad and ill-informed
things all the time, and cops that aren’t power-crazy and mental and who shoot
people and issue tickets for piffling reasons. There are great things about England : the
freedom; the way people cross roads; the way I can ride my bike without
worrying about stupid police. It’s just a shame about the weather. And the
concreteness. I dunno.
7. Maybe I’ll never
feel at home anywhere, and maybe that’s okay. Leeds is all right for the minute
‘cos all my life is is work and coming home tired and eating and doing this
little hobby I’ve discovered and working through my to do list. Part of my to
do is to really and truly whittle down my possessions – just in case, ya know,
I do have to quit this nation once and for good (or, at least, for a decent
stretch of time). Things that draw me back: I don’t want them no more.
8. I’m off to Exeter in a couple of
weeks; that should be interesting.
9. The other thing
that drew me back was the idea of refereeing. Probably more attachment to silly
things that don’t really work for me but I just didn’t want to now have given
it a try, to make it somewhere with it. This year’s a big year because, if I
don’t get promoted this year, I know it’s all just pie in the sky and I don’t
have what it takes. If I do, I’ll be within touching distance of the upper
echelons. I do sometimes think I’m good enough but, wow, I’m so disorganised and
slovenly when it comes to all the things outside the game, and that’s maybe
reaching make or break point. I just don’t have it in my to deal with all the
bureaucracy and egos.
10. I haven’t done
yoga or meditated since I left Mexico ,
and not only that, I can’t remember being the kind of person that would. It’s
weird, to go from thinking about God all day long to not giving It a second
thought. I work. I come home tired. I sleep early and what free time I have I
spend either frittering on the computer or indulging in my new hobby. I suppose
it’s about time I had a vacation.
11. I haven’t written
either, until today, but I do think about it often. Maybe another book. Maybe
more than one. Maybe that whole last two years of mine – “The Man Who Followed
His Dreams” – might be good to write up, and good for me too.
12. In a nutshell:
possessions to be cleared; woman to be impregnated; refereeing to either
succeed or fail at; money to be earned and back account filled up; life to be
observed and learned from; and at some point in the future, even more freedom
and then whatever that way comes.
Family
Oh. But I haven’t
mentioned family. So now I will: family goes something like this…
I saw my dad. I walked
in his shop and we didn’t hug and it was like I’d never been away. He didn’t
ask me about my travels or what I’d been up to, instead he launched into his
usual thing about telling me what he’d bought, what he’d sold, what money he’d
made, and which women he was knocking off or mistreating or not bothering with
anymore. Then he lit a cigarette and said we should go for some food and that
was about it.
My mum I went and
visited for a few days: it was nice and relaxing being out in the country and
took the edge off all the weirdness of being back in Yorkshire and having
zoomed so suddenly out of Mexico .
I can’t say we spent any real quality time together but it was chill and she
left me to my own devices, which I suppose I like. Just good to have some
downtime, you know.
I have a brother, but
I shouldn’t think we’ve any interest in seeing one another.
And that’s my family
for you.
What Else 2?
1. Did I mention that
my eyesight seems to have gone like 10% worse immediately after arriving back
in Yorkshire ? Things kind of blurred, and
worryingly so. I don’t understand it. I, naturally, wonder if it has some
‘psychic origin’, like that mad swelling I got a few years back when my jobs
and workmates were making my soul sad. Is there something I’m not seeing?
Hopefully life’ll tell me so if that’s the case…
2. Did I mention that,
especially when I first came back up to Yorkshire ,
I was really struggling to understand what people were saying, always having to
ask them to repeat things? At work I have to ask for lots of surnames; but it’s
amazing how often I hear totally the wrong thing. Yorkshire
accents seem so strange – and yet I never had a problem with American accents,
or heard them as unusual, or thought them different to my own (even though they
are). Just felt natural to me, but Yorkshire
seems weird. Why can’t they talk properly? I wonder.
3. Dreams. Nothing
that’s hit me as if to say, go here, do this, leave that. But a few that felt
significant. One of John Milton. One of all my teeth falling out, because I’d
drunk something I shouldn’t have. And one of me driving a car that was wildly
out of control. That one’s something of a recurring subject, and not exactly
difficult to dissect – though this time it came with a slight twist, for
usually the car’s got brakes that don’t work, or I’m piloting it from a distance,
and lose it when it goes round corners, but this time it was speeding in
reverse, and totally wouldn’t stop. Something to do with having gone really,
really backwards, in this latest return of mine?
4. I think sometimes
about rejoining facebook. I’ve got a backlog of little ideas and thoughts that
don’t do away and are exactly the kinds of things I would have want to have
shared. But, for various reasons, I haven’t done it yet. The creative must come
out one way or another though, I’m sure.
