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orange gas bottles
coin-sized interior pain
pawprints on window
soaring strings
condensation under toast
small print
a noise like whispered moving feet
the corner of the wrapping paper caught in a drawer
someone elses letter
escapee washing
determination
longevity
doubt

No time to blog

The book is gathering pace. Coupla articles to write this week. No time to blog really but thoughts spring up involuntarily. Horrified to hear about developments in the UK - anti-teen 'mosquitos'in city centres, fines for non-school attendance or holidays taken out of term time, fines for incorrect placing or mixing of rubbish, schools promoting Nintendo's Brain Gym, anti-psychotic medication being given to children under 6, entrenched racism, the cost of freedom of speech being riots over China / the Olympic torch ... since I left the UK seven years ago, London in particular seems to be swerving down ever more dangerous spirals of panic.

My main beef with this is that the more we regulate, the less people take personal responsibility. The more rigid and didactic our governing bodies become, the less we interact personally or engage with their message. It becomes simply a format for resentment, breeds anti-social behaviour, turns people away from collaboration and consent.

The process of education for instance. Did you know that you are legally obliged to educate your child, but no law says this must be at a school? Increasingly education has become the responsibility of teachers and governing bodies, and parents are left out of the loop, when in fact their involvement is what makes the difference between a child who goes on to succeed (in relationships, in jobs, in personal development...)

We are failing our kids, neighbours, family and friends when we shut our doors to one another for fear of making a mistake, (cultural or otherwise) or to avoid being ridiculed by our teenagers, punished by our local governors, or fined for inappropriate behaviour by the State.

Oooo, and it's only Monday morning...

What do you wanna be?

I was at a party once, when I was asked what I would prefer to be, if I had the choice – rich, famous or beautiful. It is not such a daft question as it sounds. I often used to interview pampered rock stars, and their answers to this question were quite revealing, as it became clear that they lived a rarefied existence where such navel-gazing was commonplace. However, everyone present would feel able to venture an opinion, and clear differences emerged.
By far the biggest majority of people say Rich. In our material times, having enough in the bank to pay for daily needs, doesn’t amount to a feeling of satisfaction. We either want the outward signs and trappings of success; like fast cars, and homes in exotic locations, or we want enough to fulfill a personal dream that seems elusive without cash; whether that means owning a football club or a Fabergé egg. Some people see wealth as a way out of their otherwise dull existence, and imagine they would attract a better mate, or discover that it opens doors that previously seemed barred, although many say that being rich would simply take away the worry of providing for family.
After rich, people are divided more equally between famous and beautiful. Here the debate becomes heated, as arguments arise as to which of the three answers is ‘correct’. Some lateral thinkers amongst you will have worked out that all three are interlinked; after all, with riches you can pay for plastic surgery and may become infamous. With great beauty, may come media celebrity and wealth. Fame often comes with a pricetag, and can pay for the appearance of beauty. At this point it becomes obvious that no one answer is right, all are sides of the same coin.
The most memorable answer came from a bass player in a little known ‘indie’ band called Bark Psychosis. “Beautiful¬- like having a beautiful soul, yeah?” Faces changed as if to say “Wish I’d though of saying that!” Those who boldly stated Rich, then often wanted to justify why they wanted money, and give it a more altruistic sheen, like giving money to charity to redistribute world wealth, or pay for Grandma’s eye operation.
It seems that what we wish for is really linked to what we fear most. Our most potent dreams are to compensate for our human flaws. I wanted fame. Perhaps to avoid being that nondescript kid at school who was neither clever nor funny nor popular enough. And my adult fears are no longer about money or my looks. I have given up worrying about both; probably since I have been homeless and penniless at least once, and with a partner, three kids and a new crop of grey hairs I no longer worry about being left alone. (Some days, I positively crave being a solitary gin-sozzled old crone, with the freedom to act crazy in the supermarket queue.)
Of course, if my fame were linked to a world-class achievement like discovering a cure for cancer based on eating sugared almonds in bulk, I could justify craving notoriety. But, hey ho. I’ll settle for publishing the first Booker prize winning comedy sci-fi novel, I guess.

Age appropriate

Sometimes you have a birthday and feel that the age doesn’t suit you. Personally, I was okay up to about 40, but every digit after that seemed worrisome. I began to think those things your mother used to say – Can I still wear this? Is the bar brightly lit? Do you say ‘groovy’ anymore?

And ageing is clearly sexist. Women can’t do ‘rugged’. Less men feel compelled to base their job prospects on their looks, and subsequently get into plastic surgery as a form of career maintenance. The cliché of the boss running off with the young secretary clearly isn’t about her dictation skills.

The downhill slide is more noticeable if you had a perky frontage previously. I was astounded to discover recently that scientists believe breasts were impermanent pre-Pleistocene times; they inflated and deflated like summer lilo’s. In fact, men would have actually found them a turn-off since they signalled a woman was already impregnated. And, once they had served their purpose for baby’s nutrition, they would have dwindled away.

Imagine the horror! Not only crows feet (read: laughter lines) and chin hairs (read: erm, chin hairs) but disappearing boobs to signal that the prime of your life is over. So, maybe we should be grateful for evolution – for turning breasts into our life-long pals. After all, there isn’t much that a push-up bra and a pair of high heels can’t solve.

Ageing must work from top to bottom for a reason. Babies grow proportionately from their head downwards i.e. first the brain and nervous system develop, then the limbs elongate and strengthen, until the child can sit, then stand, then walk. Similarly, we age that way – face and hair show the first signs of deterioration, but we are left with lovely knees. Who among us hasn’t had that awful shock when admiring a shapely pair of legs only to be startled when an ancient toothless crone’s face is attached? No? Just me then.

Perhaps there is a clue in the way our relationships need to develop. As babies, our wide-eyed innocence is designed to appeal to the parents nurturing instinct, and ensure that we are looked after to grow into adulthood. As we age, find a life partner, and produce a family, there comes a time when attracting a mate is no longer useful. Our looks decline so that we can concentrate on more cerebral tasks without distraction. Luckily, our eyesight often fails too, so we have no idea how rough we look.

I have decided that if this is the game plan, there must be a way to see the positive in it.

As Jenny Joseph said:
“When I am old, I will wear purple,
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me....
...And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.”

Hoorah! Roll on my disreputable years to come.

When there isn’t time

You marshall thoughts like dominos, careful
to avoid one last tap. The page erupts in its blaring white
signal of the endless now. Knowing that

you should really set out to collect them from the school gates
or there will be tears. Put down the cup, the mouse, the pen
and drag on the non-slip boots, all too mundane for poetry

but woven into your day since the redundancy tossed
you back into the maelstrom of your four-square life.
It bites, that ankle-nip you tense for but can’t avoid.

How can there not be time, as if poems grow
like nine-month conceptions, after the futon excitement,
after the furore becomes the roar of daily traffic. Bald

bellies over combats disturb you in the plaza
the careless presence of a child only a skin’s wall away
from harm. There is no time, this time, to tell them.

Conjunctions over coffee, but I am removed from the room
floating with the smoke skeins, mere inches above
each separate insistent forehead. The world turns

on a pin; a dream of longing packed into a sci-fi movie
in that square inch in my periphery, above the coffee-cup rattle
and her face where time has passed while no-one noticed.

To make a difference. To be remembered. To be eternal
in the blush of youth, an echoing chain gang of family passes
through generations in the shape of a tea-stained birthmark.

The baby hiccoughs. She leans its head on her arm
like there is all the time in the world to worry about him,
but not now, when her own pulse races, and skips.

I take their bags. Coats. There will be time to write
after they have learned trigonometry, epidermal layers,
and the intricacies of conveying their hearts desires

to me, as though I could fulfill them. If only. The cats
yawn, removing themselves from their feline Ouroboros
to make space at the PC. I must read more Vonnegut.