At first, we like a winner Until boots are filled too high The smell of musk becomes too much And needs to be demoted to ordinary guy
Nothing really belongs to us but time, which even he has who has nothing else.
Baltasar Gracián
Today I’m feeling: Lethargic Today I’m grateful for: Samuel Beckett (again). I watched about half of Endgame with Michael Gambon and though was enjoying it very much it just made me think that reading it would be a better experience. Its absurdity is very English and reminds me of Vivian Stanshall, Gormenghast and Cacophony-era Rudimentary Peni. Philosophically dark and disturbed, tinged with my favourite laughless humour. I’m grateful to be English! The best thing about today was: Reading Anton Chekhov’s short story called A Happy Man. A simple text with a very obvious ending but the set-up was nice and satisfying. I think I felt comfortable knowing what was going to happen and enjoying the happiness of the happy man in question. It’s a reminder for us to be happy in our times of distress and discomfort. What was out of your control today and how did you handle it? I woke up tired and though could have spent the day productively resigned myself to a three-hour afternoon nap. It was a nice day to have been doing something but I found myself absorbed in nice dreams. I wondered if it was possible to just keep dreaming after you die. Something I learned today? I learned about a friend and their story (though told to me second-hand) and can empathise with their behaviours which I dislike. They are in a situation which is a little similar to one I have experienced a couple of times in the past and was difficult for me to deal with but I know now how to avoid arriving there. It’s not really my place to offer advice though I will try to help by perhaps directing their thoughts to other things instead. Distraction can be a good use of time as things may sort themselves out without any action necessary. What’s the weather like? This rather dull small talk topic I mention often when writing perhaps because it is still curious to me. Growing up in England the weather was strangely important, maybe it is everywhere. I’m nostalgic for the extremes of English days as they would bring excitement to the mostly dreary bitter days. Now I’m living in opposite-land though more often comfortable at a lack of having to consider what clothes to wear. This morning though I was slightly bleary-eyed, sitting in the sunrise and considering how perfect this day was. I felt awesome.
I took this picture because sometimes the things I plant are out of control. I like this tree at the front, I’ve never seen anything like it and have no idea what it is. Its branches grow in weird directions and its flowers are bright red. Amy wants to cut it back but I’m interested to just let it be and seeing how it develops. I know we’ll probably have to cut it down completely at some point if we build more. Behind are the trees Amy’s mum planted before we built anything, now tall and wide and the tallest is now completely overwhelmed by a climbing plant that has a smallish beginning down by the entertainment area. Again, I’ve let it go wild and enjoy the excellent shade it gives and the gorgeous fat buzzing bees its flowers bring but there’s a chance it will stop the tree from getting enough sun. I figure I will cut it soon though it will undoubtedly make a return.
Our tendency to compromise Our choreographed shedding of inhibitions Our sheer ordinariness With some notable exceptions
Our eccentricities are conformist We are neither ‘sir’ nor ‘card’ Everything in moderation We neither work nor play hard
Far from wild and reckless We rely on rare risk takers We are cautious and unadventurous Not really movers and shakers
Oh, our English dis-ease That others misunderstand as such As long as they don’t bother us Thank you very much!
Almost all this text is manipulated from pg 551 of ‘Watching the English’ by Kate Fox – so, being English, I must talk about the weather…
35 and Relief
Sweat trickled down my chest My eyes were sweating too The storm clouds soon disappeared The skies now a whitish blue I never thought it could happen To feel my sweating teeth Thank god the temperature dropped To 35 and relief
Giles in the World
In economic globalisation We seldom wonder where Our vegetables are grown Nor do we even care Trade among our nations Faceless labour makes Can you name your farmer?* And what their effort takes
*This inspirational line is also from ‘Watching the English’ which I had just finished reading and then started on Ursula Le Guin’s Dispossessed, whose introduction page led to this….
New Settler
A self-exiled society Had taken one step away Yet he had taken two
The certainty of isolation He lived his life day by day Without his common crew
A sacrifice for greater good To show them a better way Stood upright and true
Asserted his true condition Wherever his hat may lay Somehow, he always knew
He stood by himself With little left for him to say And nothing left to do
Gratitude Journal
I am so happy and grateful for all the heat discomfort I felt yesterday as it was hot and sticky from waking up in the morning until night and into today. It made me appreciate aircon rooms and cars and the pleasure of being able to cool down again.
This is about the fifth day of unbearable heat and humidity. It’s been hotter before this year, but the humidity is making things feel much worse. I don’t like to complain about it, but I am very thankful when I can get back into aircon, though I would much prefer fresh air. Ha – sometimes I miss England – or the chance to go to the beach and cool down like is so easy in Australia.
We’ve been back at school for more than a week now, and no one has asked us to do anything in particular, so I’ve been plowing through my book, catching up on other reading that I skipped during the holiday, as well as writing more poetry, which has been quite fulfilling.
Last night, I read about Dave Drayton’s P(oe)Ms and really loved the idea of writing a poem for each Australian Prime Minister and using an anagram of their name. I can see in my old poems that I was much more playful with words, even to the point where I can’t even recognise exactly what the literal meaning or intention of some of them were. I notice that I am not quite as clever these days, though I do probably make my points much clearer.
I still have an aversion to reading other people’s poetry though – it just doesn’t seem that interesting. Like making improvised music as opposed to listening to it.
On Monday, I felt particularly ecstatic for some reason. Perhaps getting back into my short exercise routine before work and the pleasure of lots of free time to fill as I wish. But yesterday, the edge wore off a little bit, and despite enjoying it, something still felt not quite right. I wonder what it is, what changes? The food I ate? The interactions with others? The temperature? The environment? Did I drink enough water?
Some days just don’t seem to be a good feeling, and it is difficult to identify. It certainly wasn’t a terrible day, and nothing out of the ordinary happened. I just wasn’t feeling it as compared to the day before. I sometimes consider I have mild bipolar, but it doesn’t affect me to be debilitating, and when I feel down or exhausted, I just write off the day, deal with it as best I can and console myself that tomorrow is a new day.
I’m thinking to call Sharon and ask her about Granny’s diaries – I wonder what they contain. I did see them once and don’t recall anything specifically, but it may be interesting just to see what was in her mind. Or would it be boring? Anyway, I should find out just for curiosity.
I’m filled with ideas and enthusiasm most of the time and finding again the things that seem to bring me joy. Life is pretty good for me right now – and when I say right now, I mean as I sit here writing this. Tomorrow may be different, tonight, or even the next five minutes. So, I’ll just enjoy this right now. Another coffee and another chapter of my book.
“In the end, only three things matter: how much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.”
– attributed to Buddha
In the end (what end?) none of this matters, but I played along anyway.
How much you loved.
Sometimes I loved too much, other times, not enough. I have loved different people but shown it in different ways. Does that mean the love was different? I have become more careful and selective with my love, perhaps to the point that I don’t love anyone or anything deeply anymore. This is a countermeasure against loss. The extreme loves of youth are more tempered now. I don’t feel like this was a conscious decision but a naturally evolving one. It has come with stronger self-confidence and self-esteem but also at a loss of close connections with people.
I grew up with a strong independent single mother who was already tired of dealing with other people and their bullshit. I have become like her. We are loners but not lonely and not lone wolfs. We are just happy by ourselves or, in my case, with one very special person around. All my acquaintances I still call friends, I just don’t interact with them so much. This sometimes gives me a false sense of understanding as, in my mind, they are the same person as the last time I met them and nothing should be different. I still have this feeling after what could be years without speaking. Obviously, that’s unrealistic.
I could dream about meeting an old girlfriend as if it was just a current continuation of that relationship from that time. Never mind, we would be twenty years older, married with kids since. Those feelings are still in my memories but reality is much cooler.
I’m surprised sometimes that I know I won’t have those butterfly feelings again. Experience and understanding (and time) has calmed them. I am no longer crazed and tempestuous but I am still alive and capable. It’s a double-edged sword. Those feelings were special and wild, extreme highs, but dampened by such extreme lows. Perhaps some of my father’s manic depression got passed on.
Now that I have balance I guess I’m somewhat boring.
How much I have loved? I loved myself selfishly 100%. I loved others occasionally, but 100%.
How gently you lived.
My memories of youth don’t seem particularly gentle but the deeper I go, under the piss and vinegar, there is a big softy. I was a teenage asshole, sometimes even to my best friends. I was less an early 20s asshole but still could be a mean son-of-a-bitch. Having now lived in other countries around the world I believe I was very well suited to the typical British contrarian and sarcastic humour. I can fall back into it instantly I meet an ex-pat, sometimes so obviously I kick myself for it. It does, however, still make me laugh.
So whether with the simple act of aging or with growth and understanding, I am living much more gently these days. I gave up eating meat when I was 14, something that I believe inspires a gentler life. I was quite aggressive about it at the beginning but don’t even think about it anymore and thankfully it’s so acceptable these days that it’s barely a topic for discussion. There was always a tension about it before, having to constantly provide justification for what was perceived as different.
I was mostly thoughtful on the inside but could let my emotions get out of control. I’m still envious of more balanced people I grew up with, especially some who had to deal with me. I know we’re all a little fucked up in some way but I do often wish I knew then what I know now (and was able to act on it). It’s ironic that folks said that I was mature for my age. I must have been a very good deceiver.
When I was 30 and getting divorced I went to the psychiatrist and got diagnosed with mild depression and started to take a low dose of medication that stabilised a lot of my out of control emotions. When I revealed this to my mother, she then revealed to me that my father had suffered from manic depression (now known as bipolar disorder). I guess things started falling into place.
It still took me another 10 years or so of growth to get to a point where I was mostly and consistently happy and this reflected in my attitudes and behaviors. Of course, by this time a lot of small unique habits had developed which often have me reflecting how much like my mother I have become. It’s neither good nor bad, it just is.
I saw an online post about how we spend our second 40 years dealing with our first 40 years. I certainly spend a lot of time reflecting on those first 40 years. I also feel that, despite being 13 past the mark, my first 40 years haven’t been completed yet.
Looking back over these words I wonder if I even know what living gently means in the context of my life. Living gently feels like I should be a monk who is careful not to step on an ant, something I was reminded of this morning when I crunched a snail under foot in my driveway – those damn snails are everywhere.
How gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.
I’ve been thinking about this one for a few days already. Letting go was always difficult when I was younger though something I seem to have improved at. However, when I think deeply about this the only ‘things’ I consider in my life (in connection to this subject) are people. After having moved across the world a couple of times already, things such as books, albums, videos, comics, furniture, clothes etc are all replaceable. Sometimes the fun in having (and losing) those things is more about the search and discovery of them again.
The ‘things’ I feel more attached too have personal meaning, such as old letters or photos but in consideration, I haven’t looked at my old letters since I left England in 1994. They are in the pile of things that I do want to go through again and perhaps document before I shuffle off.
So, that leaves people, particularly friends and girlfriends. With that I can only say that I have gotten better at it over time. Teenage/early 20s are typically messy and I was not mature and confident enough in myself to deal with letting go. Possibly this relates to a subconscious search for a mother figure to replace my mom and not having a father around to learn from.
Letting go also sometimes meant pushing away, and that is not graceful at all. I tried my best at the time.
I’m finding it hard to write more about this without going into painful detail. Perhaps considering things that I don’t wish to share about other people as much as about myself. I have few, if any, regrets but also can be nostalgic for certain times and places with certain people.
Finally, we cannot hold onto anything, nothing is actually meant for us, it is just our internal impression of it.
Gratitude Journal
I am so happy and grateful to have to chance and opportunity to learn and grow and to try to better understand this thing called life. Many things are making more sense to me even though I struggle to be the better person that I want to be. I am so happy and grateful to have the time and space to think and consider things. I also need to put these things into action. I have the time and space to do that too.
It’s becoming obvious that I’m not going to be able to keep up with regularly posting updates here as time seems to slip on by. I’ll do my best to keep note of things and get to them when I can but not sure how I’m going to be able to keep them concurrent with events from 1994, of which there is still a mass of writing for that year in my diary.
If I just limit myself to a paragraph per note I’ve made this post is going to get quite long. I’ll try and be more concise.
So, our final morning in Dorset sees me going through some boxes of things my mother kept over the years. I’m interested in the photos more than documents such as birth and death certificates and old school reports. In particular are a couple of school photos I’m guessing from when I was 12 and 13. You can just see my hair starting to get more punked up, for which I got so much shit at school at the time, from teachers and older kids who nicknamed me Sid. I never got on with that nickname as I was more into Johnny Rotten but it was difficult to tell kids that as they were kicking and punching me for their random pleasure. The thing with these two photos is you can still see the light in my eyes, just starting to dull in the later one. These years were the start of what later would be diagnosed as mild depression. The transition from middle to high school was particularly traumatic as I had a whole new bunch of older kids to pick on me though I soon found some allies.
Before we know it we’re up the motorway again, back to other old haunts in Southampton. We’re staying with Amy’s cousin Ting, who has been in England so long she has the thickest English accent I’ve heard for a while – so much so that I barely recognise her on the phone sometimes.
Amy heads off with Ting to do some shopping as they are cooking together at a friend’s house that evening, whilst I head over to see my old pal, Chrissy.
Chrissy was the wife of Steve, whom, if you’ve been following so far, was the inspiration for writing the 1994 diary after his untimely death the previous year. I caught up with her briefly in Sydney a few years before as she was attending someone’s wedding there, just a suburb or two away from where I was living at the time. It was good to catch up again and talk shit like we did in the ‘good old’ days.
The afternoon is made more pleasant by the arrival of Steve and Chrissy’s daughter Rebecca, who was less than a year old the last time I saw her. I am shocked at the resemblance to Steve and can’t stop looking at her face. It’s like he’s right there again.
I also make quick friends with their dog who despite being somewhat shy took to me for some good pats, strokes and ear rubbing. But soon enough it’s time to leave.
I head back to drop the car at Ting’s and get out the maps app so as to walk to the pub where I will meet more old timers and down a couple of pints. The air is very cold but the exercise warms me and I look into people’s houses as I pass and wonder what their lives are holding for them today.
I stop off for some hot chips as I’ve not eaten much today and it would be preferable to line my stomach with something traditionally British and stodgy to soak up any alcohol intake.
There are some bands playing tonight, including some old friends but I’m not so interested in the music as I am in talking. Rich introduces me to his partner Geraldine and later Rob and his partner Emily turn up. A couple of other hopeful attendees find themselves busy elsewhere so they’ll just have to come and visit me in Thailand one day.
A jovial atmosphere and pleasant conversations quickly end this all to brief meet up but it’s much along the lines of that last night in Sydney, with certain friends you can just pick up on conversations with even years of interruption between.
The following morning we’re off to London. Amy wants to go shopping. I’m not particularly thrilled at that idea but I’ve set myself a task to track down a book I’m looking for. We’re also booked for a dinner in the evening at the Shard near London Bridge.
I’ve always enjoyed London as a place to visit but never, when living in England, felt the urge to live there. So, even rush hour tube trips have some sense of adventure to them. I’m constantly reminded of the Clash as we pass by certain stations and wonder at the motivations they had as they went from small house suburban London city to mega hotel New York city. Man, they wrote some tunes.
One thing I immediately notice is how much more multicultural London is than Sydney. Although not so used to hearing the English accent anymore it seems that in many places we visit and pass by that people aren’t speaking English at all. It’s a little unsettling and really cool at the same time.
This point is highlighted even more as we head for a pub lunch and I’m annoyed at myself for not understanding the bartender’s accent. I forget to apologise for my difficulty as her’s is a Lubjiana accent, so I ask her more about her country. She’s busy though but I think she wasn’t offended at my ignorance in the end.
We pop into Waterstone’s bookshop and finally I find the book I’m looking for, ‘Churchill’s Secret War’ and take this final chance to pick a couple of books about The Fall. I wasn’t going to buy these originally as I figured I could find them digitally but they were there, I was shopping, this was possibly the last day I’ll ever be in England and so they ended up in my luggage. Amy felt the same and bought a couple of massive cooking books which definitely means a rejig of our bags later tonight.
We’re starting to flag now and consider changing our plans for dinner tonight. It’s another beautiful sunny cold day, particularly bitter when the wind rushes through small side streets. We decide to head to the Shard early and see if we can just go up and take some pictures. We end up on the 34th floor at the small bar there and decide to splash out on a bottle of champagne and 6 oysters. These kinds of expenses usually bother me but I decided to relax again and enjoy this indulgence despite the fact the cost could probably build us a swimming pool in Thailand.
We reflect on our lives as we stare out across this old city and talk about how people think we are lucky to be able to do this and that. But we have worked hard, had a plan and always pointed our way towards it. I guess those comments are somewhat driven by the social media construct where friends generally only see you having fun, what appears to be, all the time. We know we have made the right choices along the way, the choices that have got us where we are now.
The following morning we are greeted with snow. What a nice surprise. The Mexicans we meet at the breakfast table in our guest house are equally thrilled and we watch them as they step out to take funny photos. We do the same a little later as we stuff our suddenly heavier re-jigged bags into the car and head to the drop off point. Unfortunately, our phone direction finder leads round in frustrating circles and we decided just to figure it out following the signposts instead.
Amy decides on one last shop at the airport, so I get in the mood and pick up another book about the rules of being English, something I mentioned to Amy when she smiled happily to the guy in the take away the previous night. I told her it was not usual for someone to smile at other people in England and the guy probably thought she fancied him. This is overplaying it a bit and is also the exact thing that attracted me to Amy in the first place. That was in Sydney though, where smiling is an everyday occurrence. I’m sure the English can often go a whole week without a smile.
The English confound me more on the plane to Bangkok. It’s another A380 but this time jammed with ‘bigger’ English people looking for thrills in the ‘land of smiles’. Despite leaving at midday, it’s an overnight flight as we fight against earth’s rotation and the English are up and at the crew galley all night long refilling on free booze. I did this once when the experience of flying was still new to me. Free booze must not be missed but I found it impossible to get drunk and to drink enough to be able to sleep. I would just end up with a frustrating headache at the end of the flight, so I never drink on planes now.
And then occurs the most English thing I can imagine. There are two meatheads sitting directly in front of Amy and I and they were constantly bouncing in their chairs at every toss, turn and minor readjustment. I glance the Sun in the lap of the one who is coughing consistently and roll my eyes. Midway through the flight, Amy needs to get out to go to the toilet so I get up and step into the aisle. Being half awake I was a little clumsy getting up and knocked the chair in front of me where the now angry boofhead looks around and proclaims, ‘Was that on purpose? I think it was, wasn’t it?’
I’m perplexed. My only reply is ‘Sorry?’ and I look behind me to consider if he’s actually talking to someone else because his words just don’t make any sense to me. Amy is bewildered too but trots off to the toilet as I stand and wait. The two meatheads decide that they’ll settle themselves down with more whiskey and the event passes. I still can’t imagine what leads to the guy’s question, if I knocked his chair on purpose, what was the reason? We’d had no previous interaction at all. It just seemed a typically antagonistic English response, a show of never back down, one-upmanship.
Those two guys ended up rushing off the plane to get to their destination of my more booze, sun and you can guess what else.
Our day has only taken 12 hours and we transfer at Bangkok for our flight home, finally my last flight for this period. There has been so much travel and rush over this month that it has been almost impossible to sit and relax and reflect. Probably for the best. Even mum’s funeral seems like something surreal and dreamlike that perhaps didn’t even happen.
This final flight is curiously filled with French and various Middle Easterners and I watch on as people struggle to find their seats. It’s a little strange really – it’s not that hard, is it? The numbers ascend and the letters go across. It seems to take an age for some people though. I wonder if their brains are wired differently, something that will soon be confirmed as I adjust to life in Thailand.
Back in Chiang Rai, we rush to sleep, eat, advise our builders, eat and sleep again. Another day disappeared into the mosquito-ridden night.
Record of the week: Squeeze – Up The Junction Highest entry: Amii Stewart – Light My Fire
3rd May 2022 – What the world never needed. A disco version of Light My Fire. At least it’s not got Jim Morrison singing it, I suppose! Squeeze – when New Wave still had potential. Great storytelling songwriting performance. It’s hard to comprehend the deep meaning songs like this held, as part of our cultural growth, the collective zeitgeist for those exposed to it and how, now, it’s forgotten and meaningless. Or it feels that way at least. But maybe I’m just in a funny mood.
I think about the impact I might’ve had on some of the people I’ve come across in my life and some days it feels like that moment may have disappeared forever, ineffective, meaningless. Then on other days, I consider how every little bit counts, that they may not be specifically recalled but one’s actions always have an effect, no matter how trivial and small.
I guess I’m projecting what I’ve been reading today back onto this time and a song by Squeeze!
17th June 1979 Dunno 2p 2p
18th June 1979 Rubbish day – really crap! 2p
3rd May 2022 – If I could go back in time, I would slap myself and tell myself to write more detail!
19th June 1979 Boiling hot, as it has been recently But there’s a LOW coming 2p
3rd May 2022 – I was watching some video recently about the foibles of the English and one point was that we always talk about the weather, not just as small talk but as main conversation points. Of course, you can analyse all the possible reasons for this but my main thought was that this doesn’t seem to be an idiosyncrasy peculiar to the English.
20th June 1979 Er.Hum.Er.Yes.Er.Erm.Um.In one word Dunno 2p 11p
3rd May 2022 – I can hear this only spoken in an English accent. Imagine Basil Fawlty. I feel comfortable enough to make this stereotype.
21st June 1979 1. Anita Ward – Ring My Bell 2. Tubeway Army – Are Friends Electric? 3. Roxy Music – Dance Away 4. Blondie – Sunday Girl 5. Earth Wind and Fire – Boogie Wonderland 2p
22nd June 1979 Seemed pretty long and hot. Went t’ chiropodist got another pad 2p 2p
23rd June 1979 1 year, 1 month, 17 days since Ipswich won the cup. 2p 30p*
3rd May 2022 – My ongoing effort to write something about Ipswich every Saturday. I was already finding ways to cheat the system.
1994ever 