Over the years, I have noticed a tendency amoung the more…colourful members of society to single me out for attention in a crowd. You know the ones I mean; the people that sit there gibbering away to themselves, holding discourse with pigeons and plastic bags and wondering why no-one else joins in. It seems to be a recurring theme that when these court jesters decide it’s time to engage in genuine social intercourse with other sentient beings, they will zero in on me. On a bus, on the streets, on a train, doesn’t matter. Apparently, I’m their man.
I don’t know why the loonies always pick on me. Perhaps they sense some latent kinship. Perhaps they recognise in me the signs of someone who could be one bad day away from where they currently reside. It’s a fair point and I can’t say I blame them. I’ve been to parties where talking to a plastic bag seemed like the most attractive option. I’ve caught myself in heated debate with myself in public. Sometimes it can seem like you’re the only person on your wavelength.
Here’s an example from last Saturday night. I’m walking through the centre of the town I live in. I’m heading home after a really good day spent with my son, Jack. I haven’t slept in 30 hours, so I’m a fair bit knackered (look it up, Americans) and all I want is to achieve a warm, comforting interface with my sofa. I’m not the most gregarious of people at the best of times and when I’m tired and set on a determined course, most people can see to get out of my way. Not so, the bizarre woman who singled me out for her whacky attentions. Where others saw a black-clad, grumpy looking cruise missile, she saw the perfect foil for her amusing mental quirks.
She was standing outside a pub as I lumbered past. She was short, plump and had wide staring eyes. They were, by turns, slightly mad and slightly terrified. She looked like a cross between Hannibal Lecter discussing fava beans and Bambi watching his mum take both barrels. There were a dozen other people available, but clearly none so enticing as me. Maybe it’s the words ‘I’m bored with humanity, please entertain me’ tattooed across my forehead.
She approached me, strangely cautious. “Excuse me, do you think it’s okay to whip your woman?”
I stopped walking. As you would. Okay, I thought to myself, this is different. I tried to remember if I’d ever been asked that before. I may have been asked, back in Art College in ’88, if I thought it was okay to paint your woman. But that was purely rhetorical and we’d had too much mescal.
I looked at her, doing my best to appear to be giving the question its due consideration. “No, I don’t think so”. I was assuming she meant leather whips and not whipped cream, which would elicit a wholly different answer from me; something in the affirmative involving strawberries and belly buttons, probably.
She nodded, mulling over my answer. It was impossible to tell if it was the answer she was looking for and I could already see the next question marching from her brain to her mouth. “Do you think it’s okay for your woman to whip you?”
Ah. We are in the land of equal opportunity. That’s nice. Again, though, I was forced to answer in the negative. Don’t get me wrong, I have no moral objections to two consenting adults playfully beating the shit out of each other. There isn’t much I do have moral objections to. It’s just not my bag. Punishment without sin is bad enough. Punishment as sin is just plain dumb.
So once again, she absorbs my response in all seriousness. I can see that this bizarre survey isn’t over yet and I’m now starting to remember how tired I am. I realise that I’ve been given a choice between going home and crashing on my sofa, or standing in the middle of the street on a cold, October night discussing the merits of S&M with a fucking nutter. It occurs to me that I’ve made the wrong choice.
The next question comes dancing. “Do you think any kind of whipping is good?”
At the time, I didn’t even consider the question. In retrospect, however, I’m forced to wonder what other kind there is. I mean, we covered both sides of the male/female whipper/whippee question. One could easily extrapolate my view on homosexual whipping from the available facts. Were we about to bring animals or inanimate objects into the arena? What the fuck was this woman getting at?
Instead, I snapped. “Why are you asking me this?”
She looked up at me with those weird Hannibal Bambi eyes. There was a definite increase in the Bambi levels. “Sorry. My head’s not quite right.”
No fucking shit, lady.
I did my best to smile, but in my exhausted state I probably resembled Hannibal Bambi; minus the Bambi. “It’s okay,” I said magnanimously, “I can relate to that.” She smiled, offered her hand; I shook it and went on my way.
So there you are; one example from many. It’s happened so many times that it’s a running joke between me and my son. I attract them and he finds it hilarious and irritating in equal measure.
I do often wonder what separates us from the pigeon whisperers. Maybe they’re the sane ones. Who knows? What pushes a person that little bit further? I had a nervous breakdown last year, but even then I never reached the stage where I wanted to keep the company of shopping trolleys. I just got a little more eccentric. I’m English, it’s required.
Is it genetic? Are some people simply predisposed to buckle under the weight of it all? Or do we all have our limit? Are these people merely a vision of our future?
In the end, does it really all come down to one bad day?
Friday, 12 December 2008
Friday, 28 November 2008
Silent Night
The sound of choral singing drifted up from the streets below, reaching him where he sat staring at the roaring fire before him. It was one of those classic carols, the very notes of which evoke warm memories of Christmases long since passed. Whether you want those memories or not. He smiled to himself and the smile went unnoticed; as did most of his smiles these days.
“...God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay...”
The singing stopped, replaced by laughter and congratulatory murmurs, as the carol singers finished. He stood and drifted over to the window, gazing down at them, bundled up in their coloured hats and scarves. They were moving from one house to the next, selecting a carol from their repertoire of about five. Having just finished singing to his neighbours, the group moved swiftly on, passing his house and hurrying into the drive of the house on the other side. They did not look up at him.
He didn’t mind too much. There really was no reason why they should. This house attracted nobody anymore.
The carol singers soon began the next old favourite on the other side of him. Again, he felt those nostalgic stirrings, unwanted and unbidden. It was like this every Christmas. There was no reason to suppose it would ever be any different on those Christmases to come. The pattern had long been set.
“…Glories stream from heaven afar. Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia! Christ, the Saviour is born…”
He returned slowly to his chair, gazing down at the rug on the floor before letting his eyes return to the fire. The deep snow outside acted as an excellent buffer for the sound, bouncing it up clearly to his room. He was hoping that they’d skip Silent Night this year. She’d always loved this one; loved for him to sing it to her softly, in her ear on Christmas Eve as they lay on the rug drinking Port. The old Christmas ritual. The old life. Before she left.
He was confused again, uncertain of what had happened; of how he had come from there to here. He couldn’t remember why she had gone, just that for some reason she no longer seemed to enjoy him singing softly in her ear anymore. He had vague fragments of memory and tried desperately to put them together into something coherent and revealing.
He remembered her lying on the bed, still and curled into a foetal position. He had tried singing to her then but she had only wept. He remembered a gathering of people, and she was there. They were standing around, dressed in sombre shades and chatting in respectful quiet. Hadn’t he known them all? He couldn’t remember. He had stood behind her that day and sung into her ear. She had just stood still, gazing out of the window, her face blank and her eyes circled. Once she had turned her head slightly, taking a sharp breath and whispering his name, and he thought perhaps she was about to come back to him. But then her face had darkened again and she had gone back to staring.
Then she went away, and he was here, alone. If only he could remember! If only he could remember what he’d done wrong! But it was no good. There were no answers, just the waiting. Just the cold comfort of repetition and the waiting. Just this bewildering new Christmas routine and the loneliness and the waiting.
From the distance, a few houses down, the singing continued.
"...Bless all the dear children, In Thy tender care. And take us to heaven, To live with Thee there..."
He smiled to himself and the smile went unnoticed; as did most of his smiles these days.
“...God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay...”
The singing stopped, replaced by laughter and congratulatory murmurs, as the carol singers finished. He stood and drifted over to the window, gazing down at them, bundled up in their coloured hats and scarves. They were moving from one house to the next, selecting a carol from their repertoire of about five. Having just finished singing to his neighbours, the group moved swiftly on, passing his house and hurrying into the drive of the house on the other side. They did not look up at him.
He didn’t mind too much. There really was no reason why they should. This house attracted nobody anymore.
The carol singers soon began the next old favourite on the other side of him. Again, he felt those nostalgic stirrings, unwanted and unbidden. It was like this every Christmas. There was no reason to suppose it would ever be any different on those Christmases to come. The pattern had long been set.
“…Glories stream from heaven afar. Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia! Christ, the Saviour is born…”
He returned slowly to his chair, gazing down at the rug on the floor before letting his eyes return to the fire. The deep snow outside acted as an excellent buffer for the sound, bouncing it up clearly to his room. He was hoping that they’d skip Silent Night this year. She’d always loved this one; loved for him to sing it to her softly, in her ear on Christmas Eve as they lay on the rug drinking Port. The old Christmas ritual. The old life. Before she left.
He was confused again, uncertain of what had happened; of how he had come from there to here. He couldn’t remember why she had gone, just that for some reason she no longer seemed to enjoy him singing softly in her ear anymore. He had vague fragments of memory and tried desperately to put them together into something coherent and revealing.
He remembered her lying on the bed, still and curled into a foetal position. He had tried singing to her then but she had only wept. He remembered a gathering of people, and she was there. They were standing around, dressed in sombre shades and chatting in respectful quiet. Hadn’t he known them all? He couldn’t remember. He had stood behind her that day and sung into her ear. She had just stood still, gazing out of the window, her face blank and her eyes circled. Once she had turned her head slightly, taking a sharp breath and whispering his name, and he thought perhaps she was about to come back to him. But then her face had darkened again and she had gone back to staring.
Then she went away, and he was here, alone. If only he could remember! If only he could remember what he’d done wrong! But it was no good. There were no answers, just the waiting. Just the cold comfort of repetition and the waiting. Just this bewildering new Christmas routine and the loneliness and the waiting.
From the distance, a few houses down, the singing continued.
"...Bless all the dear children, In Thy tender care. And take us to heaven, To live with Thee there..."
He smiled to himself and the smile went unnoticed; as did most of his smiles these days.
Sunday, 12 October 2008
Memory Palace
Insomnia strikes again. Sleep doesn’t often come easily to me and tonight is one of those nights. I haven’t been tossing and turning, that’s not my style. I simply lay still, eyes closed and occasionally letting out an irritated sigh. The trick is to try and remain calm and not register the frustration that is bubbling under the surface. Once you do that, once you release the creature, you’re doomed to fail.
Of course, this is easier said than done. After all, the curse of the insomniac is the fact that once the lights are out, the eyes are closed and you are plunged into darkness and silence, you are at the mercy of your mind. Nine times out of ten it is this treacherous organ that shakes my cradle and keeps me from peaceful slumber. For the most part, any notion of control over my own thoughts seems laughable in the darkness. This is the playground which allows my mind to run riot like a demented bully. It is difficult to ignore. One needs a distraction.
A few years ago, I stumbled upon a very old technique for enhancing the ability to recall facts. It dates back thousands of years and is referred to as the ‘Memory Palace’. It is a system whereby one creates a construct within one’s mind, of any size and design, preferably something familiar, and fills this construct with memorable tableau to which one can attach facts, figures or whatever you need to remember. The associations enable you to recall whatever is attached to each tableau you pass as you wander the halls of your palace.
Now, to be honest with you, I’ve never used this technique to remember anything. In fact, I adopted it with quite the opposite task in mind. I use it to forget. Over the years I have built this thing in my mind, adding halls and rooms and corridors and filling them with various objects that hold some meaning to me. It really is the greatest of distractions when all you have is the silence and your thoughts. It requires focus to navigate the palace, maintaining its layout consistently with each visit, and there have been many times when I have drifted to sleep within its confines, all other thoughts forgotten. It is my method for imposing order on the chaos.
In my mind, there are always things worth forgetting.
I don’t let anyone into the palace. The very nature and purpose of it, for me at least, requires that it be almost vacuum sealed against any intrusion from the outside world. Once the outside world leaks into it, it ceases to be the sanctuary I need it to be. It becomes as chaotic and swamp infested as the mind I’m trying to escape from.
However, I recently discovered that someone was in there. I was wandering around, concentrating on the details and making sure my mind didn’t drift, when I found myself looking at a very familiar face in these unfamiliar surroundings. It was someone I know, in fact it was someone I love, but I was surprised to find them moving idly around this particular part of my mind completely unbidden. It’s a first.
We blinked at each other.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hi,” came the casual reply, coupled with that uniquely shaped smile I fell in love with.
“What are you doing here?”
“You invited me.”
“I did?”
“Well, you must have done.”
I thought about that for a moment. It did kind of make sense. Still, this was making me very uneasy. I thought I knew everything that went on here. How did they manage to get in without me even knowing it?
And why was the unease seemingly fading the more I looked at them in the context of this place; the more I realised that this person, whom I had already let into my heart, was simply accepting an invitation I’d made before we’d even met?
“It’s nice here.”
I smiled, despite myself. “You like it?”
“Sure. It’s comfortable.”
“Think you could be happy here?”
“Yes. It’s very you.”
I looked around. There was certainly no disputing that. It was very me indeed. I turned back to my welcome guest. “Now you’re here, sweetheart, it’s even more me than it already was.”
I was surprised to find how sincerely I meant that.
And so the Memory Palace has a new addition. I guess the place needed brightening a little. After all, it was designed by me.
I spent a long time seeking refuge in this place, alone. I had distraction; I had some semblance of peace. But I was missing something. Something vital. Not anymore. Now I have the most secure and eternal sanctuary of all. Now I have love. I've even begun sleeping a little better.
In my mind, there are sometimes things worth remembering.
Of course, this is easier said than done. After all, the curse of the insomniac is the fact that once the lights are out, the eyes are closed and you are plunged into darkness and silence, you are at the mercy of your mind. Nine times out of ten it is this treacherous organ that shakes my cradle and keeps me from peaceful slumber. For the most part, any notion of control over my own thoughts seems laughable in the darkness. This is the playground which allows my mind to run riot like a demented bully. It is difficult to ignore. One needs a distraction.
A few years ago, I stumbled upon a very old technique for enhancing the ability to recall facts. It dates back thousands of years and is referred to as the ‘Memory Palace’. It is a system whereby one creates a construct within one’s mind, of any size and design, preferably something familiar, and fills this construct with memorable tableau to which one can attach facts, figures or whatever you need to remember. The associations enable you to recall whatever is attached to each tableau you pass as you wander the halls of your palace.
Now, to be honest with you, I’ve never used this technique to remember anything. In fact, I adopted it with quite the opposite task in mind. I use it to forget. Over the years I have built this thing in my mind, adding halls and rooms and corridors and filling them with various objects that hold some meaning to me. It really is the greatest of distractions when all you have is the silence and your thoughts. It requires focus to navigate the palace, maintaining its layout consistently with each visit, and there have been many times when I have drifted to sleep within its confines, all other thoughts forgotten. It is my method for imposing order on the chaos.
In my mind, there are always things worth forgetting.
I don’t let anyone into the palace. The very nature and purpose of it, for me at least, requires that it be almost vacuum sealed against any intrusion from the outside world. Once the outside world leaks into it, it ceases to be the sanctuary I need it to be. It becomes as chaotic and swamp infested as the mind I’m trying to escape from.
However, I recently discovered that someone was in there. I was wandering around, concentrating on the details and making sure my mind didn’t drift, when I found myself looking at a very familiar face in these unfamiliar surroundings. It was someone I know, in fact it was someone I love, but I was surprised to find them moving idly around this particular part of my mind completely unbidden. It’s a first.
We blinked at each other.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hi,” came the casual reply, coupled with that uniquely shaped smile I fell in love with.
“What are you doing here?”
“You invited me.”
“I did?”
“Well, you must have done.”
I thought about that for a moment. It did kind of make sense. Still, this was making me very uneasy. I thought I knew everything that went on here. How did they manage to get in without me even knowing it?
And why was the unease seemingly fading the more I looked at them in the context of this place; the more I realised that this person, whom I had already let into my heart, was simply accepting an invitation I’d made before we’d even met?
“It’s nice here.”
I smiled, despite myself. “You like it?”
“Sure. It’s comfortable.”
“Think you could be happy here?”
“Yes. It’s very you.”
I looked around. There was certainly no disputing that. It was very me indeed. I turned back to my welcome guest. “Now you’re here, sweetheart, it’s even more me than it already was.”
I was surprised to find how sincerely I meant that.
And so the Memory Palace has a new addition. I guess the place needed brightening a little. After all, it was designed by me.
I spent a long time seeking refuge in this place, alone. I had distraction; I had some semblance of peace. But I was missing something. Something vital. Not anymore. Now I have the most secure and eternal sanctuary of all. Now I have love. I've even begun sleeping a little better.
In my mind, there are sometimes things worth remembering.
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