Leaving Baja

Tomorrow, after nine months in Baja California

I leave for pastures new

As ever in my life

It’s been a

Strange

Wonderful

Confusingly amusing

Time

First half as a school teacher in dreadful Cabo San Lucas

Second as a hot springs bum living barefoot in shorts

I flew in last August

Freed from my year-long UK gloom

And stepped into a whole new role as

School teacher to a bunch of Mexican kids

Went to Costco to buy shirts and trousers

Was shown my desk, my books, my laptop

Worried about how the hell I was going to be a teacher

Sleepless on the night before the kids arrived

No plans, no ideas, except –

Get to know them and take it as it comes

And trust in my inherent smarts and –

Whaddya know? It works

The kids are great

They speak wonderful English

They’re smart and polite and mature and articulate

They’re much better than the kids back home

And for the next five months we

Well

Ya know

We do the teacher/student thing

Sometimes imparting knowledge

Sometimes nothing more than a glorified babysitter

Sometimes frustrating

Questioning education itself

(Mostly me, though sometimes them)

And oft times lots of fun

The sharing of ideas

The seeing young minds spark

The learning from them

The investigations of literature and good movies and

Our differing cultures

All in all, Mexican school kids amazed me

In all those months, I didn’t see one cross word between them

An entire school of friends

A real questioning of the notion that

Teenagers are overwhelmed by hormones and emotions

And it makes them crazy and awful

Unless, of course, the suggestion is that somehow Mexican kids have

Different hormones and emotions than English kids

And that’s why they’re better here

But somehow I suspect it’s something different

Something to do with families

The idea of families

And the way its carried out

I think I do a pretty good job

Give my all to trying to help them

Enjoy it when in the classroom, in front of the class

See development and improvement

But then, of course, there’s the other side

Just as there was when I was a teacher in England

Loving the kids, the time we’re together (more or less)

But struggling with the administration

With other teachers

With bureaucracy and box-ticking

And mostly ignoring all that

And doing instead what I believe is right

Which is probably what got me fired just after Christmas

My own ingrate and grating personality

My inability to do things the way others want them doing

My insistence on turning off classroom air conditioners

Despite being repeatedly told not to

(It often made hearing quiet kids’ voices impossible

And sometimes froze them too)

My shunning of useless but expensive text books

The school had made everyone buy

Even though everyone – students, teachers –

Felt they were rubbish

And I felt education more important than

Following silly orders

Or perhaps it was some other manifestation of something

The way I spent the Christmas holidays not wanting to go back

Wanting to continue being free in the hot springs

The way I could very clearly see that

My heart had gone out of the job

The way I was only doing it because I’d said I would

And thought it would be good to finally see some commitment through

Not wanting to let the kids or the school done, but –

Life is weird...

All because of a bag of bad raisins...

But that’s another story

One I suppose I’ll tell if asked;

In any case

On January 9th, my five months as a Mexican school teacher came to an end

And my five months dwelling in hellacious Cabo San Lucas

A city built only to serve the needs of fat Americans

A city little more, really, than a roaring highway

A bunch of dust and fumes

A Wal-Mart and a Costco

(The “M1-on-Sea”)

With little escape from the noise of traffic and nightclubs and dogs

I felt sorry for people who had paid all that money to vacation there

Wondering if they knew what they were getting themselves into

As they themselves wandered ugly streets

Searching for good times

What an awful waste

How sad for them

But then...

The people we’re talking about here

Seemed the very worst kind of Americans

Almost another species entirely

Grotesquely fat torsos hovering over stick thin legs

Necks and backs bent

In unnatural postures

Shuffling along, barely able to walk

(A life at the wheel, at a desk, in front of the TV?)

I saw them in Wal-Mart

(I shopped at Wal-Mart! I never thought I’d stoop so low!)

Scanning the shelves gormlessly

Empty, stupid expressions

Searching, lost

Cabo San Lucas

Made me completely racist

Racist against Americans

Racist against a certain type of American

(Though I think I may have used that brush to tar the lot of them)

And it made me wonder –

Was that emptiness

That lostness

That fear

What the Mexicans saw when they looked at me too?

For, in content brown Mexican eyes and faces

(And lovely Mexican hair)

I never saw those lost expressions

The anxiety

The uncertainty as to what life was about

That I saw in weird American expressions

I wanted to get a t-shirt made:

“No soy Americano, soy Ingles”

Just to make it clear

I wasn’t one of THEM

But did they know it anyway?

Or did I look the same

As I too compulsively shopped for beans and tuna and

Something to fill the void?

Poor Americans!

Poor silly fat Americans!

All fatuous and shallow and –

Well, that’s enough of that

(For now, anyway)

What else did we do in Cabo?

Well...

We made a good friend

And sometimes one friend is enough

To make life tolerable

And played a lot of tennis

And a lot of chess

And boardgames, and ate, and

Spent time with the lovely family

And that was grand

Also...

We lived in a tent

After trying an apartment for a month

A great little house, actually

In a desirable neighbourhood

Convenient and with everything one would want

And it made me crazy

Sitting within those four walls

The noise of neighbouring air conditioners

And neighbouring dogs

(The number one improvement to Mexico, surely,

Would be to exterminate all the dogs

Or, at least, have them de-barked)

And I had to leave

Went up a hill

Above and behind town

Up a sandy arroyo

Pretty much back in pristine nature

No dogs

No traffic

Only the occasional sound of Cabo nightclubs

When the wind was blowing the wrong way

And the wonderfulness of sleeping in a tent

Of waking up in a tent

The cool breeze

The naturalness of it all

Infinitely better

Though perhaps slightly weird

To be a uniformed school teacher

In a posh private school

Living thus

But, oh well

It suited me

It was what I needed

I tried the other

Couldn’t sleep

Went half-crazy

So a tent it was

And I was much happier that way

And also freer to leave town on weekends

Zoom direct to the hot springs when school broke on Friday

And sometimes stay right till early Monday morning

Wake up around 4.30

And zoom the 90-minutes back

(School started at 7

I was often there for 6

And getting up at 4.30/5 was neither unusual

Nor unwelcome

The perfect time of day in this Baja autumn heat

A few chill hours before work

And an early night by 8/9

Nothing else to do anyway

In the Baja darkness

In the CSL night)

And...

What else?

What else did I do in Cabo?

August through December

Two thousand and sixteen?

Well...

That may be about it

I don’t really remember

I do remember lots of evenings at the school

Ostensibly preparing classes for the following day

But also diverting in internet ways

Debunking the flat earth

Playing games

Reading about soccer

All my usual things

That I do when I can’t think of anything else to do

And which pretty much stopped

The moment I came to the hot springs full-time

Oh –

I also remember soccer

Playing soccer with the kids

Sometimes instead of lessons

(Well, they would only have been dancing anyways)

And that was wicked fun

Some beautiful moments

Life in the old legs yet

But

Beyond this

Not much more

Not a glorious time, looking back

And actually somewhat lonesome too

(Not lonely, nor even alone

But definitely “lonesome”)

(A problem which disappeared once I came to the hot springs

Once I put myself in a place that suited me, that was me

Where I felt, as a friend so aptly put it,

Very much “a fish in water”)

Plus –

I wrote not

Even though I wanted to, and had the time

And you know how I get when I don’t write

The pipes get blocked

My head gets weird

And

Conversely

When I finally do do it

As I did so memorably on New Year’s Eve

The pipes are cleared

My head emptied and expunged

My heart set free

My soul doth fly

And, so often,

The very nature of reality gets changed

I felt twelve-feet tall after that session

(I’d been a squashed little mouse beforehand

Lowly and flat)

And it’s no surprise that things shifted so soon afterwards

My confession to the Universe

That my heart wasn’t in it

A surefire “go ahead”

For t’old Universe to pull some levers

Put a plan into action

And work it so wonderfully

With some bad raisins and –

Ah, writing!

Ah, my blesséd friend!

Ah, the thing I think about more than pretty much anything else!

The writing that I’m doing now

That is also making me feel wonderful

Even though it may be devoid of any merit or purpose

(Not for me to judge)

And so –

When I came to the hot springs

Finally

Around January the Twelfth

My plan to spend three days contemplating things

Clearing my head

Awaiting an answer as to what to do next

What should happen? When lazing in those glorious pools

But

The re-emerging of long-forgotten book ideas

Some books I’d even started

Some more than 20,000 words in the bag

One after another – five of them, to be precise –

Presenting themselves

Writing themselves

In my floating brain

Sentences and paragraphs

And me saying,

Yes, okay, we’ll do it – one day

(Always holding them off at arm’s length

For although I love them

I’m also afraid of them

Afraid of the work

Afraid of what it will mean)

Three days I said I’d come to the hot springs

Three days to get an answer as to the next direction

And by the time the three days were up

So glorious had that time been

The pools

The beauty

The weather

The people

That I forgot all about the question

And the notion of moving somewhere else

Became ridiculous

For why would a man want to go elsewhere

When he was already in paradise

And had everything he needed?

So I stayed

And dedicated my time to building and perfecting hot pools

(When I’d arrived, there’d been three-quarters of one;

Within a few weeks

There were six

A whole range of temperatures

To suit every kind of bather

From the self-boiler

To the six-hourer, such as myself)

It was a great, healing time

For

I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this before

But, much as I always loved the hot springs canyon,

Returning there as I had done in 2009 and 2015

And now this year/last

Was also a source of pain

And a trouble to my soul

You see

My time there in ’99 had been so divinely glorious

So full of experience and learning

Life-shaping moments

And friends

That whenever I returned

I was always harking back to that time

Always seeing it as it was then

Always noticing the differences

And everywhere I looked

Ghosts

Ghosts of my former friends

And ghosts of me

Former versions of me

Younger

Freer

So full of life and optimism

Learning lessons now old and discarded

Jumping into pools joyfully naked as a babe

The whole of life ahead of him

Having made none of the mistakes I have made

These past eighteen years

And me now so clearly

Strapped to an aging body

Closer to the grave

Stumbling down a one-way street

And in the mirror of that ever-youthful canyon

So clearly changed and running out of time

I mean –

I know that seems unnecessarily bleak

And no doubt I’m exaggerating it somewhat, to make the point

But ghosts is what I saw

And old memories is what dominated

And sadness is what I felt

Mixed in there with the

Present-day beauty and wonder

And –

The point is

That was the way it was

But coming back here in January

Something else happened

I was so happy and even blissed out

And enjoying all the new people

And the building of the tubs...

Those old memories became superseded

New memories superimposed

My mind updated

The ghosts banished and extinguinshed

Everything brought up to date

A head no longer stuck in 1999

But right here in the present

Happy to be in the canyon as it is today

Happy to be in this body as it is today

Running

Jumping

Splashing in the water

Swimming in the pools

Drinking the river

Discovering new things and ways

And that was pretty groovy

Supremely groovy

Incredibly good

Though, of course, not totally good

For, as time passed, I began to see the flipside too

The flipside of the local Mexicans

Who I had always idealised and romanticised

(“The only angry people I’ve ever seen in Mexico

Are gringos and Europeans”)

(See also: ‘The Myth of the Noble Savage’

A must for anyone who’s fond of using the words

‘Indigenous’ and ‘Native’)

And the flipside of my own inability to connect with other people

My intolerance at hearing, over and over again

The same old sentences and conversations

(New Age chatter I would have been a happy part of

Fifteen years ago)

And, of course, those dear blesséd empty-headed Americans

Who cruise in

Sit in the water next to you

Ask you where you’re from

And then use that as a springboard to

Go into a forty-five minute monologue

About some boring thing from their life

Or someone I’ll never meet and have no interest in

Or, more likely, to leap from one yawnsome topic to another

Barely related

Silly tangents

With zero consideration for the listener

Or –

OMG! Is this what I’m doing here?

Indeed it is!

Just

Self-absorbed

Meandersome chattering

About things that are of no interest to you

Non-sequiturs

Complaints and –

But then:

You’re here out of choice

I’m not forcing it on you

And to give myself credit

I’ve avoided about fifteen hundred words of complaining about others

Which I’ve actually been carefully nurturing and brain-brewing

For quite a few days now

So –

All in all,

Everything’s groovy

I came in January

I had marvellous times

I got my head updated

I cured my lonesomeness

I figured out what I wanted to do

I chalked a bunch of things off the list

I even did some work

(A job offered, serendipitously,

The day before I got fired)

For important people back in England

Unwashed

Barefoot

Shirtless

Sitting under mango trees

Among cowpats and abandoned buildings

Finally doing that

“Working remotely in exotic locations” thing

So many of us dream about

(And earning about four months’ worth of Mexican teaching salary

In three easy weeks)

I’d done the same work in rainy grey England

Enclosed by four walls

And gone mad with it

But working outdoors in the Mexican sun...

The work felt marvellous

And then the beginning of March came and I got...

Bored

Restless

Wanted to do something else

Go someplace else

I guess fulfilled with my hot springs life

And ready for more

For

Beautiful as this life is

There’s only so much nothingness a guy can take

Especially when spring comes around

(March generally gets me feeling

Ready for action

After my winter hibernation and slumber)

And yet

I was tied to it

Committed to await the visit of lovely friends

Flying in from England and Canada

Filling the whole of April

I didn’t do much the rest of March

Save my hike across to the Pacific

At the beginning of the month

(Notable desire ticked off the list

Perhaps the fulfilment of everything here)

(You do realise, don’t you, that a great deal of my life is simply

“Ticking things off the list”?

I do them because I think of them

And because I want to see what’s on the other side of that thinking

Or, at least, be free from thinking about them

And know that doing them is probably the best way to reach that place

A place of both

Freedom and emptiness

But, again, that’s another story...)

March passed

Things got kind of sucky in places

But perhaps that’s a good thing too

Makes the leaving of here easier and more tolerable

And will hopefully make the being away from here

Easier and more tolerable too

I’ve been ready to go almost six weeks

But I guess had some things that needed accomplishing

Needed seeing through to the end

Or other things that needed to fall into place

And the visit of my friends

Was great and good

Awesome times

With the kiddies

In the pools

Swimming with whale sharks

And seeing my first ever dolphins

(From gloom to surprising spontaneous joy

In the blink of an eye

Just like everyone always said it would be)

Now, I suppose all is done

Everything accomplished

All avenues explored

And as the heat grows more oppressive

The time is surely here

And I at last have a clear picture of the next step

The answer and direction I originally came for

Those first three days in January

And so

Tomorrow

I say goodbye

Get back on the road

Venture into the unknown

And move towards

That

Relationships

Relationships. We all grow up thinking we'll have one, and a good one at that - but, conversely, we've all heard that fifty percent of marriages end in divorce, and if we were to factor in the number of long-term non-marriage relationships that end in separation, the number would be much higher. Let's face it: if we're single and we've had at least one relationship, that means we're currently operating at a 100% 'failure rate'. Even if we cracked it at only the third or fourth attempt, that still puts our 'success rate' at only 20-25%. The statistics are kind of damning. And if you're a hip, still young, good looking single, as millions are, you're probably wondering if you'll ever find someone (in this world of millions of hip, good looking singles, just like you).

It's an interesting conundrum to consider: if statistics, our actual life experience, and the world around us tells us that happiness in a long-term relationship is unlikely and elusive, why do we believe in it so strongly? Why do we think we have it coming? Where does this idea come from? Do we blame fairytales and Hollywood, for all their happy-ever-afters? Or perhaps that one-in-a-thousand couple we know that do make it - who do 'live the dream' of "soulmates" and "truly adoring one another" - and therefore put into our heads not only the desire to have what they have, but also the notion that we deserve it too.

And yet: how often do we go beyond the question of the kind of person we want to be with, and ask instead the question, "am I the kind of person I want to be?" How often do we ask ourselves if we're truly in a position to attract that dream other we can spend the rest of our lives with, and if that's really what we deserve and are ready for?

Relationships are tricky. The older we get, and the more we refine our tastes and personalities, the smaller the pool we have to choose from. Our tolerance for others decreases, as well as our ability to make the necessary compromises that living closely with another requires. Maybe we've been single so long we've grown used to it, and ultimately find the presence of another, though welcome, an intrusion and, at times, an annoyance not worth the bother. And yet, we want another. Someone to share our thoughts and lives with. Someone to hold. Someone to laugh with, and to ease the pain.

And then: suddenly I wonder how this would read if I changed all the "we"s and "our"s to "I"s. To personalise it. To make it true to my experience. I mean, who am I speaking for, with these grand, sweeping collectives? How can I generalise? And what about all those who don't fit the criteria?

Am I really not just talking about myself, and a small selection of people I know who match what I feel?

Damn, it's hard to write this type of thing, when one has the kind of mind that also likes to try and think a little deeper. No wonder Elephant Journal or those other lightweight blogs have never published anything I've sent them (I've never sent them anything).

In any case: what was I saying? Something about something. Blah blah blah. I'm alone, and destined ever more to be so - not because of other people, but because...of me.

But at least I'm not alone in that.

Lol. ;)

...

What are the components of a relationship? What is it that needs to be in alignment in order to make them work?

Perhaps when we're young we don't think to ask questions like that: we go with immediate and obvious things, such as physical and sexual attraction, fun, and whether or not we feel "love" (whatever that is), and get an often enough dose of fireworks or butterflies.

Of course, when we get a bit older, we realise fireworks tend not to last too long and, pretty as butterflies are, we probably want more from a life partner than something lovely and fluttering to point our eyes at.

The last few years - well, the few years before I seem to have mostly forgotten about the idea of a relationship - I tended to think that having compatible lifestyles were the most important thing - which is not too far from my mother's advice of making it with someone who is first and foremost an excellent friend. Shared interests and outlook, et cetera. The rest, all being well, will follow.

But, still, there's more to it than that, right? There's...

Physical attraction
Sexual chemistry and compatibility
Intellectual connection
Shared sense of humour
How and where to live
Having or not having children
Ideas of raising them
Getting on with the other's family
Beliefs about work and money
Plans for the long-term and the future
Cultural compatibility
Psychological, energetic, and emotional connection
Commitment
Religious and/or spiritual beliefs
And probably lots more...

Is that making it unnecessarily complex? Or does that reflect something of the truth of the situation?

I mean, we want it all these days, right? Our partner is not just our bedrock, our foundation, the thing we build our lives on - how unromantic! - but also, surely, a great deal more: our prime source of entertainment; our shopping buddy; our dance/drinking partner; and the one who has to fulfill all our needs and whims, whether it's humanly possible or not (he jests).

I've thought about this a lot, about how unfair it seems that others want so much, when it appears so unrealistic. And I wonder about other times and places: about other, more traditional cultures, and about men from the past, like Einstein or Charles Darwin, who surely loved their wives, and had happy relationships, but didn't look to them for their all (eg, scientific and philosophic conversation and fulfillment). And yet...

It's like a bug, in my head and in the head of many others. That mental checklist, whether we're aware of it or not, and how perhaps even ticking 17 out of 21 boxes ain't quite enough...

...

If I could, I'd make a little grid - maybe 5x5 - and in each box write one now-laughable reason why someone might break up with someone, or not get with them in the first place (imagined or, more likely, otherwise), then I'd say, "Let's play relationship break-up bingo!" and offer prizes for anyone who could complete a line or even a full house (no one could get a full house, surely).

But, I can't: I'm on an iPhone 4 sitting under a mango tree, tapping away with my thumbs, just kind of seeing if, sans laptop, I can still satisfy my incurable need to transcribe the words of the invisible, ever-demanding bee that lives in my brain (if you know what I mean).

In other words: you'll have to use your imagination. Sorry. ;)

...

Why write all this? Why write all this now, when I don't really think about this stuff anymore. Tried it, you know, and don't seem to be very good at it. Mostly let it go.

And yet, the words are there, and the idea to share them here, and to see what happens.

Why, it can only be that "pesky bee", and reasons presently unknown; that's all. ;)

Frayed nerves

Everything is madness, everything is insane. Two weeks of la familia cinco, just about getting through but nerves frayed and driven to the edge, and then ONE DAY off, of hiking up the canyon, and I come back to find EVERYBODY looking for me, and talking about me, and gossiping, and wanting this or that. (Or were they really looking for me? Or perhaps just not asking, “have you seen so and so?” as anyone would.)

In any case, it’s all bobbins and too much for my poor brain; not sleeping; bad dreams; an almost vision but sort of crazy; and now the Canadian girl comes, after a twenty-minute conversation, and several hundred whatsapp messages, 95% of them written by her.

It’s two months since I finished Matt’s project; probably about that long since I wrote that status update of how happy I was. But even then, I knew some of it had passed, and I guess I have to go right back to Pearl’s time here to knowing that I was truly blissful. Then the silliness of her in La Paz. Then slightly resurrected by Tammy. But, all in all, driven mad by the gringos and the villagers and my own stupidity and tightness, and children, and yacking Americans, and all this time no one to talk to, to listen to my woes, to nod as I let it all out – except this computer, which I have utilised (for good purpose) far too seldomly.

Phone chess and I even got to watching movies and being bored and hanging on for Matt and Easterly and now Carolyne – and yet...perhaps it’s all worthwhile. Taking it to the very end. Leaving when I hate it. Leaving when I can stand no more and can’t wait to get out.

Will I be free from the lure of this place? I doubt it; not totally. Just as I’m not totally free of the lure of the US. But...

Goddamn, everything’s so fucked up and crazy! How am I to manage even one more week of this? And then...

Allende. Look at plane tickets. Make something happen. Anything.

Another poo to fix everything?

Three more days with Matt and Easterly. Things gotten a little bit weird, what with all the plane ticket shenanigans, and them starting to be a little bit frayed. Perhaps itchy feet. Perhaps that thing that happens when you’re two weeks away from home. Perhaps not enough to do around here. Perhaps a little too much under one another’s feet.

But still, Matt made it up the canyon finally, all barefoot and shirtless, and that was pretty glorious. We talked about stuff, including my writing, and he encouraged that idea of walking up the canyon with solar panel and computer. But then this morning I read again about Shawn’s “way down the line” reading and I wonder...

What will Carolyne’s coming signify? What of my draining of my Mexican bank account? What will I do come May, when all visits and notions of future are over? On t’table are: Montreal (random, unlikely); mainland (finally); peyote desert (possible); England (what!); and the unknown.

Probably I’ll go up canyon for the two days between these guys and Carolyne. Or maybe I’ll head over to Cabo and play tennis and chess with Philipp.

I’m a strange bird. A bird who doesn’t really need to plan. A free bird who can take it one day at a time.

Soon I’ll be shod of the car. Soon I’ll be back to merely carrying my load. Soon I’ll be away from these hot springs, I suppose, and the headaches of old Canadian women, and Mexicans charging me endless money for my walks in nature.

Up the canyon feels different to by the hot springs. Don’t know why I haven’t spent so much time there, when that was always where I used to go.

Because I’m lonely, I guess. Because I got into my ‘pool boy’ role. Because I knew sitting by the hot tubs would bring more people into my life.

But where did I meet Shawn and Lindsay and Shane? Up the canyon, right? Didn’t need no hot springs soaks and sifting through endless Californians to land those guys.

Though there were no hot springs then. And, in any case, it’s all immaterial: what’s done is done. Tied to El Chorro because of car and phone and computer. Technology no improvement on my life. A pile of comedies and movies – almost all of which I’ve already seen – providing means to fill the time, prevent thought and feeling from arising, and keep me here longer.

If I’m watching Stewart Lee, wonderful though he is, surely I must be bored?

Well, we knew that already. We’ve known that since early March, a good six weeks ago – pretty much the same length of time I first spent in the canyon, when so much happened.

Oh yes, how life changes.

I need a poo. A poo sorted me out the other day: maybe it’ll do the same today.

Hope so.

Uncle Rory's Time-Travelling Tent

Uncle Rory’s Time Travelling Tent

Peony, Gilbert and Clemmy were sitting in the kitchen listening to The Flight of the Conchords.

“What’s your favourite Flight of the Conchords song?” said Gilbert.

“Mine’s the one about the Hiphopapotamus,” said Clemmy.

“Why’s that?” asked Gilbert, inquisitively.

“Because they keep saying ‘motherflippin’’. That’s such a funny word.”

“I’m the motherflippin’!” shouted Gilbert.

“No, I’m the motherflippin’,” said Peony.

Just then Mummy walked in the room, carrying a mop and a bucket and with a certain expression on her face. You know the one: the one that says, ‘okay kids, it’s time to do some chores’.

Gilbert tried to make a break for it. He ran towards the front door.

“I’ve got some homework to do,” he said, as he slid past the moppet and buck.

“Moppet and buck?” said Peony. “Don’t you mean ‘bucket and mop’?”

“Sorry,” said the author.

“No problem,” said Peony. “Now can we get back to the story?”

“Sure thing,” said the author, “but where was I?”

“You were just about to type a sentence describing how mum was going to try to get us to do some chores,” said Peony.

“Thanks,” said the author, tapping keys on the keyboard, and enjoying the sun in the hammock.

A cool breeze blew, rustling the leaves in the trees; softly wafting the clothes on the line; gently rocking the hammock.

Birds tweeted. The Gilbert not in the story came to see what was happening, leaning over daddy’s shoulder.

“How about drawing the waterfall?” said mummy. “I’ve never seen it. Could you describe it?”

Gilbert walked back into the kitchen. In his head he was thinking about a chicken taco he had eaten three days previously, while on a roadtrip through the desert. Actually, he was thinking about four or five chicken tacos, all at the same time.

That was the kind of guy he was: not one of those kids who could only think about one taco at a time, and not even only four or five, but even as many as six or seven.

One time he even thought about eight chicken tacos and a plate of nachos. But that was a pretty special occasion, and he wasn’t sure if he could do it again. Probably if he sat down and made a special effort. Probably if he concentrated really hard.

Probably if there was an event in the Olympics for thinking about chicken tacos Gilbert would win it.

“I must ask daddy,” he thought, “when this silly writing competition is over, if they have ‘Thinking About Chicken Tacos’ at the Olympics. Or maybe the Commonwealth Games. Or at least there must be a Kent Local Championships.” And in his head he pictured himself standing on a podium in his blue and white striped track suit bending over to receive a medal from the Queen while the national anthem played; while TV cameras zoomed in on his proud smile; while the crowd stood cheering and applauding; while the commentators told all the millions of viewers at home how amazing his achievement was; and while the whole world watched as he was crowned ‘Champion of Thinking About Chicken Tacos of the Entire World and Universe and Beyond.’

Meanwhile, back in the story, Peony, Clementine and Gilbert had an idea.

“You know what?” said Clementine.

“What?” said Peony and Gilbert.

“Well,” she said, with a delicious little cunning happy smile on her face, and a twinkle in her eye, “do you remember how Rory said that his tent was a time-travelling tent that could take people back in time?”

“Oh yeah!” said Peony. “I think I know what you’re going to say.”

“What’s she going to say?” asked Gilbert. “Is she going to say that we should eat some bean-a-ritos and play Marco Polo in the river?”

“No,” said Peony, “I don’t think that’s it. I think she’s going to tell us that – “

“Let me speak!” shouted Clementine, really really loud, so that everyone jumped, and even the neighbour’s Mexican dogs were startled and afraid, and wondering why people had to make so much noise.

“Sorry,” said Peony.

“Pish,” said Gilbert.

“Hey,” said mummy, “am I just going to be standing here with his muppet and bock – sorry, I mean ‘bucket and mop’ – while you guys whisper over there about how to get out of doing your chores? It doesn’t seem very realistic that you would have all this time to talk while I’m just standing here, now does it?”

She glared suspiciously at the author and knitted her brow. The guy typing felt a little quiver of fear. Well, he’d pretty much always been frightened of strong, beautiful women, just about his whole life. Maybe it was something to do with the nurse who had delivered him, the way she’d held his feet just after he’d been born; the way she’d shushed him the first time he wanted to cry.

Or maybe it was that dental assistant when he was eight years old; the one he thought had pulled his thumbs until they were really, really long, as though they were made out of elastic.

Though probably that was just the laughing gas.

In any case, he knew he’d made a booboo: he knew that she was right. It wasn’t realistic at all that mom would have made her entrance and then been silent while the kids figured out how to escape that damned and dreaded mucket and fop – I mean – well, you know what I mean: ‘pucket and – no, that’s not it – and –

Oh no: no one can figure out where this sentence is going; what we need is –

“Stoooooooooooop!” cried Clementine. “It’s simple: mum came in, put down the bucket and mop – see,” she said, “it’s not difficult to get that right – and then she said something about how she’d be back in a minute to put me and Gilbert and Peony to work –”

“Gilbert, Peony and I,” mum interrupted – and she was right.

“– because,” continued Clementine, “she had to go and help daddy with his diarrhoea, after he’d woken up in the night and realised he’d shit the bed and made the sheet a little bit brown and – ”

“Hey,” said the mummy, who wasn’t in the story, “no swearing.”

“But you swear, mummy,” said Gilbert, “remember when you saw that snake and said – “

“Yes, okay, Gilbert,” said the mummy who wasn’t in the story, “we all know what I said when I saw the snake.”

“You said – “

“Enough!” said mummy. “Please don’t remind me of that. At least, not till later: it’s just that we’ve got a story to tell and it really should have made more progress than this. Not your fault, kiddies, it’s this silly author, forever getting distracted by real life versions of characters in the story but also outside the story, as well as talking about his own sitting in the hammock typing away, which is kind of immaterial to the main thrust of the narrative, which really ought to moving along quicker than it is, and –“

“I’m lost,” said Clementine. “I don’t know what’s happening. Which one am I? The one in the story or the one outside the story? Which one is Gilbert? Which one are you?”

“I’m lost too,” said Peony. “How many of me are there? I think there’s two, but maybe there’s even more than that.”

“Oh, you girls,” said Gilbert. “it’s easy: first of all, there’s the main narrative of the story, which currently has the three of us sitting in the kitchen having just talked about our favourite Flight of the Conchords song; then mummy walked in with the splocket and flop – I mean, ‘picket and dop’ – and now we’re listening to Clementine tell us her idea about how to get out of chores while mummy helps daddy clean up his poorly bumpipe after his nighttime diarrhoea adventures. Meanwhile...”

“Wait,” interrupted Peony, “so which one are you?”

“I’m the one who keeps walking in and out of the house to see what’s going on while everyone else writes, and while an imaginary version of mummy tells the author where he’s going wrong.”

“But why is the author even in the story?” said Peony. “Shouldn’t authors be invisible, like good waiters, merely there to serve the reader, and not get in the way?”

“That’s mainly true,” smiled Gilbert, “though some writers do find it fun to put themselves in their own story.”

“Well I don’t like it,” said Peony, “it seems a bit egoistic to me. Also tends to complicate things a bit. Also – “

“Can we please get on with the story!” shouted Gilbert. “All this diverting and talking about people commenting on the story when they’re supposed to be in it doing cool things is driving me batty. Hell’s teeth, man! Just get on with it. There’s only fifteen minutes left and you’ve barely even made any progress at all!”

“Goddamn,” said the author, shaking his head and trying to ignore the cries of the real life Clemmy as she whined about how she couldn’t think of anything to write, “this really isn’t easy at all.”

“Waaaah-waaaah-waaaaah,” said Clemmy, sounding actually quite like an eighteen month-old baby, and not a five-year-old girl at all.

Daddy looked up from his work and shook his head.

“The death of thought,” he said, wisely and sagely, while Gilbert glared at the author.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Gilbert, “I’ll count to three, and if you don’t get back to the main point of the narrative – which, I’m guessing by the title, is something to do with a time travelling tent – I’m going to go around the side of the garage, pick up one of those rusty machetes, walk back here, and chop off one toe for each minute of my life you waste, you rotten curséd scoundrel, you.”

“Gulp,” said the author, trying desperately to usher his thoughts in the right and necessary direction – and yet, even now, still writing about things outside the story, such as this imagined ushering of thoughts and –

“One,” said Gilbert, holding up an imaginary knife and relating clearly with the expression in his eyes what would happen if the author didn’t stop this madness – even this current madness, which is still not the story at all – and –

Just then, there was a enormous smash of glass; and the appearance of two boots crashing through the window; and a masked man in a cape and hat, holding a sword, came swinging on a rope and landed next to the hammock.

“It’s Zorro!” cried Gilbert, gleefully, and clapping his hands together.

“That’s weird,” thought the author, “he came swinging on that rope through the window from the inside (I hope by the way that when mummy is reading this – assuming that she agrees to do so – that she utilises the italics).”

“Enough!” cried Zorro. “Unhand that computer! Give it to me! You’ve proved yourself categorically and undeniably unsuited to the task, and despite being given multiple opportunities, have refused time and time again to the tell the really rather excellent story of what happened when these three darling and wonderful kiddies had their chore-avoiding adventure with the time-travelling tent!”

The author quivered. He quivered so much he tipped over the hammock and fell face down in the dirt. Sand got in his mouth. And some poo.

“Pfff,” he spat. “Diarrhoea. Daddy’s diarrhoea. Daddyrrhoea.”

“Ha!” laughed Gilbert, “that’s actually quite good.”

“Best thing he’s written all day,” smiled Zorro, “but now it’s time for a real man to take over the reins.”

Zorro reached down for the computer. Cracked his knuckles. Looked at the keyboard. And then started to cry.

“Actually,” he said, “thing is...I don’t know how to type. Nobody ever told me. Not my mummy. And certainly not my daddy – he left home when I was three years old; I never saw him again. I...”

Zorro blubbed. He lifted his mask and wiped multiple tears from his eyes.

The children looked at him with sympathetic expressions on their faces – well, the girls did, anyway.

Just as Peony was handing him a piece of toilet paper (unused) Gilbert came running at him with the machete.

“Yaaaaaaaargh!” he screamed, “all I wanted was a simple story of how Peony and Clementine and I travelled through time to escape doing chores by sitting in Rory’s tent and going on amazing adventures through dinosaur times and even into the future where there are flying cars and laser weapons and people have robot bodies and heads that live in jars and you silly grownups have had to go and spoil it all with your meta ramblings and existential woes masquerading as pseudo-clever pontifications when it would be so much easier just to get on with it and – “

“Okay then,” said the author and Zorro together, both now crying – both holding one another in a consoling embrace – “you do it.”

They held out the computer to Gilbert. Gilbert threw down the machete – poor old Zorro half jumped out of his skin – and took in his hands and began to type.

“Once upon a time,” he wrote, “Peony, Gilbert and Clemmy were sitting in the kitchen listening to The Flight of the Conchords.”

“What’s your favourite Flight of the Conchords song?” said Gilbert.

“Mine’s the one about the Hiphopapotamus,” said Clemmy.

“Why’s that?” asked Gilbert, inquisitively.

“Because they keep saying ‘motherflippin’’,” said Clemmy.

“Wait a minute,” said the author, “isn’t this just the same story again?”

“So it is,” said Gilbert, with a strangely wicked smile upon his face, “but that’s because...”

“Hold on,” said Clemmy, “does that mean...?”

“Oh my God,” said Peony, “all this time I thought that the unnamed author typing in the hammock was Rory but...”

“That’s right,” said Gilbert, with an expression of triumph, “I fooled you all. The writer is me. The Gilbert in the story is me. And the two Gilberts outside the story too. There are loads of us. We are everywhere. We are legion, and legendary, and leisurely (American pronunciation) too.”

Mummy said the f-word. So did Peony. And so did Clementine.

Zorro fully removed his mask, only to reveal another Gilbert.

“Quick,” shouted Clementine, “let’s go to Rory’s tent!”

So she and Peony and mummy and daddy – who was clutching his buttocks, so as to keep them from exploding – raced across the yard as fast as they could, while about seven dozen Gilberts chased wildly after them.

They got to the tent. They unzipped the door. They gasped as they saw – no! it couldn’t possibly be! – yet another Gilbert lying in there asleep.

“What’s going on?” cried Clementine, “my poor old brain won’t take this!”

Just then Rory came strolling in after peeing in the grass.

“Quick,” he said, “get in the tent – we haven’t got much time.”

They all dived in and he zipped up the door behind them.

The Gilberts were getting closer and closer – though you’d have thought they’d have been there by now, what with the tent only being about three seconds away, and when you factor in for the delay of the stopping one they saw Gilbert, and the little bit of dialogue but...

Well, they weren’t. There was still time. Just like in a movie – or, indeed, in an episode of Zorro.

“Thing is,” said Rory, calmly, as though they had all the time in the world, when they clearly didn’t, “Gilbert’s having a dream. He’s dreaming that he’s writing a story. And the story has come true – in a way.”

“What do you mean ‘in a way’?” asked Peony.

“What I mean,” he said, ignoring the clumsy way the author was using dialogue as a plot exposition tool, “is that we’re all actually inside Gilbert’s dream, including the Gilbert that was writing the story.”

“So, in a sense,” said Peony, “we don’t actually exist?”

“That’s correct,” said Dan Brown, “and neither does the Gilbert who is writing the story. He’s just in the dream. And when the dream is over, the story is too.”

“So everything will go back to normal?” asked Clementine. “All we have to do is wake him up?”

“Yes and no,” said Dan Brown, looking idly at a cup, “the problem is, if we wake him up now, there will be too many hydrogen atoms in the superheated magnesium coil sprocket, and that could literally mean the end of life on Earth as we know it.”

“You mean – ” said Peony.

“Yes, that’s right,” whispered Dan Brown, while simultaneously peeling the skin off a second-hand onion, “the dissolution of the coil sprocket would cause such a distortion to the space time continuum that a black hole would form right there where the snake hole is, and –“

“You mean –“ said Peony again.

“Indeed,” he nodded sagely, and everyone understood, even though it was far from clear where that sentence was going.

“So what should we do?” asked Clementine.

“Oh, that’s easy,” said Dan Brown, “since this is a time-travelling tent, all we have to do is go back in time to just before Gilbert fall asleep – probably via dinosaur times first, so as to have lots of adventures, and give a sense that everything was going to go wrong – and, either tell him to dream of something harmless, like cheese or chicken tacos – or both, if we so wish – or just not let him fall asleep in the first place.”

“How would we do that?” asked Clementine.

“Just sat fire to his socks or something,” said Dan Brown. “No one can sleep while their socks are burning.”

“Just like the song,” daddy mused, “’How Can We Sleep While Our Socks Are Burning?’”

“Midnight Oil?” said Rory.

“No thanks,” said daddy, “I never drink oil after ten thirty” – and they all laughed.

Meanwhile, the screaming crazy horde of Gilberts and Zorros was getting closer – which is hardly surprising, really, when you consider how much story time has passed, and how short the distance they had to cover was.

“Okay,” said Dan Brown finally, after a little siesta, “all we have to do is this: all think of a date – the time a couple of minutes before Gilbert fell asleep should be good – and while we’re doing that can someone play this drum so as to jump start the time travel mechanism that makes the whole thing work? It will need to be someone with excellent timing and rhythm.”

“Clementine can do it,” said Peony, “she’s great on the drums. ‘Clem-in-time’, they call her, she’s so metronomic and accurate.”

“Okay,” said Dan Brown, the hero of the whole thing, and he handed Clementine the drum. “Just go like this – bang – bang – bang – bang – and we’ll all concentrate on getting back to the right time and everything should be okay.”

Clementine started banging out her rhythm, just as the hero Dan Brown had shown her.

Then, suddenly –

“Quick!” shouted daddy, “they’re almost here!”

Clementine banged. Everyone squeezed their eyes tight shut in concentration. The tent started shaking and juddering and whirling, just as though it was travelling through time.

“Hold on!” shouted Dan Brown, heroically, “this is the crucial bit!”

The tent was full of stars. Angels and demons swirled and hovered around everybody’s heads. Black holes and supernovas blinked into and out of existence. Daddy did a poo.

Then everything was silent.

Everybody said, “wow”.

There was no noise whatsoever: no screaming Gilberts; no tweeting of birds; or tapping of keyboard; or mummy saying the f-word over and over again.

“We made it,” said Peony.

They all looked down at Gilbert lying on Rory’s amazing mattress, and smiled.

“I think I’ll take a nap,” said Gilbert – the real Gilbert – the genuine, actual Gilbert – and not one of the phoney ones at all – and everyone laughed and shouted “nooooo!” and he looked at them confused.

“Why not?”he said.

“Oh,” said Peony, “it’s a long story. And not a very good one, I’ll wager.”

“Hahaha,” everybody else said. “Great joke, Peony. ‘I’ll wager.’ Hahaha.”

They were all smiling and relieved, just like at the end of a corny TV show when all the danger has been averted and nobody cares anymore or acts like real people.

Still, at least there wasn’t a ridiculous twist in the tale, like other corny TV shows.

Or was there?

“Oh my God,” said Dan Brown, who had unzipped the tent and was looking into the yard.

“What is it?” everybody asked, all at the same time, in perfect unison.

“Peony,” he said, “what time were you thinking of when I said, ‘let’s all think of the time just before Gilbert fell asleep.”

“Well,” said Peony, “I must confess, I think I thought of dinosaur times also. Maybe just a little bit.”

“And you, Easterly?”

“Er...dinosaur times too.”

“Matt?”

“I was thinking about going back to the time just before Gilbert fell asleep.”

“Really?”

“No. Not really. I was thinking about whether or not travelling through time would sort out my diarrhoea. And dinosaurs.”

Dan Brown rolled his eyes. He asked Clementine, Rory, and even the sleeping Gilbert, and they all said that they had accidentally been thinking about dinosaur times.

“Why?” said Clemmy, “does it matter?”

“I’ll say,” said Dan Brown. “Take a look at this.”

He threw back the tent door. Everybody gasped.

Outside the tent was a T-Rex, a brontosaurus, and a whole flock of those big dinosaur birds that begin with the letter ‘p’ that nobody can spell.

Pterradactyls – or something like that.

“The f-word,” said mummy, “eff eff eff eff eff.”

“Don’t worry, mummy,” said Gilbert, “everything will be okay.”

They all stepped gingerly outside of the tent and looked around. Dinosaurs were everywhere. They were the only humans around.

“How will we ever get out of this?” wondered Clementine.

“I don’t know,” said Rory, “but probably it’s going to be a really excellent adventure. I’m sure it will all make a great story one day – or maybe a whole series of great stories, if we end up travelling to loads of different other times first, before we finally make it back home.”

“Yes,” said mummy, “for example: Victorian times; Roman times; Egyptian times; that sort of thing.”

“Anything’s possible,” said Peony. “Anything at all.”

“Well,” said Dan Brown, “it all depends on who’s writing it.”

Everyone laughed – even the T-Rex, whose massive eye was right next to them all.

“Hahahahahahahaha,” they said.

What a weird, lame ending for a story. 

Car dreams and stress

Monday 10th April, 7.38am

On Saturday morning I woke up unhappy from various things, and also from a dream of a car setting on fire. Immediate waking thought was: shouldn’t drive today. And then I wrote, and felt much, much better.

In any case, I drove, and the car broke down, and after several hours of intense mental and emotional activity and stress, from about 11am to 5pm, something broke and I finally became relaxed. The pressure to please others, to give Matt and Easterly the ‘perfect holiday’ went. They didn’t care about anything. The kids were loving whatever happened. All my little plans and intentions: nothing mattered.

I was exhausted and beat, felt queasy, sick, couldn’t eat, still couldn’t sleep – but something had ‘let go’.

They’re happy. I no longer care so much. I see them enjoy all – even the lack of water – and everything’s fine.

Just got to get car running so we can enjoy the rest of our time to the max, however it may look, and kick back as they’re doing.

They don’t need me to provide for them. The hot springs and Baja is enough. Dusty old Baja. Mad old dog-filled Baja. This crazy house: they’re loving it all.

As Matt said: all this stuff going wrong and shenanigans and stress is normal for them, they’re used to it. Three kids and a busy life and all the coming and going.

Not me. I keep things simple – and when they get complicated, I fall apart.

Am I really peaceful, or do I do nothing more than (mostly) avoid things that would take away peace?

Moments like these, these guys – even with their smoking and drinking – seem much more accepting and joyful than I.

Makes ya think. Though probably I’d be the same in their position. Just as I was with Pearl and the break-in.

Makes ya think – but I shouldn’t let it make me think too much. Just nice that that drive to please, to organise, to sort everything for them, has faded.

Gracias Dios. Y ahora...hoy!