Two months in the life of miserable old, me: Part 6

Saturday 6th February

I realise that in saying my sister is in France for a month, I might mislead people into thinking she is some sort of aristocratic spinster off to the continent for a small tour. I guess it’s indicative of the age that we live in, that she, a recently retired secretary, should be able to enjoy such excursions. Anyway she did ask me to housesit, prior to her departure, and I’m glad to have this getaway, this sanctuary that her house, which she originally shared with my deceased mother, offers.

My sister like me is somewhat cold and cynical, an outsider and misanthrope in many ways, an intelligent, wise woman. Never having married herself, she is even somewhat above me in that regard, in that I, for all my scepticism on life, did throw my hat into the ring, did try to live the dream, did try to mould out of the bread crumbs thrown to me in life something of substance, something magnificent, something esoteric. That desire to hew out of the rock face a sculpture both bold and revealing, to testimony my life, to sow my seed as a man, that vision seemingly never deluded her as a woman, and as I with egg on my face, and my sculptures, schemes and bread buns all gone to ruin – as my life waned and my fortunes fell, she was as ever, wise, cold and removed in her spinster-like way.

I’ve often talked to her vis-à-vis my life, my marriage, separation and so on, and she seems to understand it all, and has often suggested to me divorce, never being one to worry about what anyone may think, and always valuing personal happiness as life’s highest goal.

She isn’t keen on Anna either. No love ever having been lost between the pair, the last time the three of us got together, we partook, on the suggestion of my sister, of a slap-up Chinese meal. My sister and I both love Chinese, but as we’ve aged and come to learn that the stuff in no way enhances your figure, we know that it’s best not to splurge on it. And being somewhat strong willed and disciplined we can control our appetites.

But Anna is different. As we sat there that night, the three of us at the table, full and plentiful with dishes – orange chicken, barbecued ribs, beef and peppers, egg fu yung, egg fried rice, chips, king prawns, prawn crackers, crispy duck pancakes – as we sat there, this magnificent banquet before us, Anna, depressed, clinically depressed, by both her life in general and this visit to my sisters, Anna, as a means of escaping the almost suicidal feelings in her heart, set about tucking in to every tray on the table; single mindedly engrossing herself with it, eating relentlessly without thought, without looking at us, like one absorbed, barely stopping for breath; and as she did this, my sister and I – with only a few spoonfuls of rice and a piece of chicken on our plates, disciplined, refined and controlling in the way we ate, like a pair of po-faced robots not disposed to pleasure – my sister and I both watched on as she single-handedly ate up the table, the feeling of suicide written all over her downcast face, the desperation in her eyes as she tried to bury and conceal her low spirits, desperately slogging her way through all the dishes on the table.

And as I saw all of this, I also saw the look upon my sister’s face, and saw how just like me, she watched on with cold contempt in her heart as Anna ate up. And as much as I felt an involuntary contempt for Anna, I also felt dislike of my sister, for being so sterile, for watching on as Anna, clearly terribly depressed, gave herself up to gourmandizing, more so because my sister I think loves Chinese herself, but being strong-willed and cold can control her appetites, and more so because it was her idea to have Chinese in the first place. Whatever it is, I felt sorry that my sister and I couldn’t both just give ourselves up to the feast, and so join Anna, and accept we’re human, instead of cold-heartedly being above her and ‘sitting out’ the meal. And in this, in this calculated, cold, sterile behaviour of my sister and I, in my nasty thoughts and feelings toward my poor wife, then, and now as I write, I think I and indeed my sister achieved a state of dehumanization akin to the sort of mentality that saw through the horrors of Auschwitz; or indeed displayed by the psychopathic Hannibal Lektor, in his civilized, refined savagery, in the cynical and inhuman way he went about intimidating, killing and butchering people, in the way he gourmandised so refinedly on human flesh.

Anyway, as I sit now on the moving train, heading into Darlington, with a café latte in my hand, as I sit casually and look out on the dark and pregnant Saturday night, I feel rejuvenated by the process of travel, by the simple human joy of escaping somewhere, of journeying.

Separation from Anna for a few weeks does not worry me: it will revitalize both of us. When I first met Anna, I brought about an end to three or so years of intense loneliness and misery; but I recall how, some three months into our courtship, one Saturday evening Anna came around to my flat; and at one point, when I had to go out to the garage to procure something, I found myself alone in the dark night, and I stumbled upon a small wooden bird table, that I had made, a year or so earlier. And there and then in the garage, as Anna waited inside, I fell into reverie for my old life, when on a dark, cold Saturday night I would come out here alone, and calmed and relaxed on the weekend, work till three o’clock in the morning on crafts such as the bird table, listening to the radio, alone and under the sovereignty of the glorious star-bedecked night. I felt such regret for my former, lonely life and I remember feeling such strangulation of the soul, as in mid-reverie, Anna, who had wondered what had become of me, came out to see me, and with a look of annoyance and questioning on her face – as though she couldn’t comprehend what I was up to, as though my former life, the garage, the bird table, the solitude, the stars were incomprehensible to her – that really irritated me, asked what on earth I was doing out here, and told me to come back in immediately, and watch telly with her uptight and conventional personage.

Yet the idea of divorcing now is almost as unthinkable and unstomachable as having sex. Shackled to each other as we are, the thought of severing our bondage and operating as separate entities might seem enticing. But a few imaginary wanderings down this road to freedom is enough to strike me, and I presume Anna too, with horror. With there being no chance, utterly none, of finding another partner, physically woebegone as I am, and unwilling, and uninterested to fall in love, and being too wise to do so anyway, I see myself alone in a one bedroom flat, dull, insipid, blandly upholstered and lacking in the dirty and unorganised kitchen, bathroom and bedroom, the reassuring touch of a woman. I see my days spent in sterility and loneliness, looking out on a future which to the thirty-something divorcee may offer a fresh start, but which for me offers only a barren end; and for some reason the main image that I see, is of myself, in my underpants, getting older and wrinklier, my skin going krinkly, my body worse for wear, and my underpants now taking on specific significance: the thought, as I see this half naked man, that he is incontinent, the idea of him going to the toilet, being repulsive, odourous and manky and all that one can see in him; this ageing, lonely, awful man, the physical downfall of his body strangling his soul, his ageing body closing in on him, grasping and strangling his spirit till he can take no more.

It would be a non-existent future, and as equally as the thought of being dumped in the middle of America and there left to roam, might appear to a young man full of verve, exhilarating, and exciting, a blessing to travel across that continent and enjoy oneself, equally for a man of my age, it would mean sheer misery and loneliness, it would be awful to find myself alone in a foreign land; and rather than feeling freedom I would only feel the doom and desolation of the situation. Staying with Anna is the honourable thing to do, the manly thing. On our death beds we will be able to breathe satisfactorily. And even though it may often seem we are just wishing our lives away, willing away our days in order to realise the freedom of the end, there are occasional good points in our life, our daughter Joanna being the main one, and the thought that one day we may be grandparents.

*************

Later on, I stepped out of a cab and as it drove off into the night, opened up my sister’s gloomy, lonely, empty house. I stepped inside and shut the door. As I switched the lights on and slowly walked around, although it was empty and gloomy, I felt at home, have memories here and could smell, in the kitchen, living room and landing, the odours, the presence of times past. There is something in the air, pervading it, impregnating it, which tells me I can rest at peace here, I am home.

I wandered upstairs and saw the bedroom my mother once occupied, and reflected that it’s been almost two years now since she passed away. And picking up a small wooden carving of an Indian elephant that my father brought home to us after having served out in Burma during world war two, I held it in my hand awhile, and was left contemplating on all that our family once was.

Saturday 7th February

Wop! The sea air! The salt, the salinity! God I feel alive! I had no idea how unhealthy I was! Wop! How it hit me, restarted me. I can see why in Victorian times, they brought the invalids, the ailing, the consumptive here. God it’s good.

I got up early this morning and headed off down for a walk along the beach, my sisters house being by the sea. As soon as I stood on the promenade, the windy, salty, fresh sea air seemed to surge at me and to cleanse me, so that I breathed in great lungfulls of it, stood there for ten minutes just revelling in the joy of breathing deeply and invigorating myself, seeming to wake up parts of my body and mind that had been sleeping and dormant in the unhealthy atmosphere of my land-locked existence. It was like a natural drug, the fresh, palliative, saline air.

The North East coastline is one of untouched natural beauty, and as I walked along the wide and empty white sands, on this overcast, gloomy, drizzly day I felt refreshed just to be out alone, to look out on the choppy, grey, boundless sea so purifying and relieving to the eye. It is so amorphous and simple, so devoid of all signs of humanity; as if to look out on those boundless, gloomy, dangerous seas is to remind oneself of the sanctity, the joy, the relief to be found in giving oneself up to oblivion. The rain, the drizzle, the grey clouds; the occasional, solitary man or woman out walking their dog; a misty Sunday morning in the cold heartland of the North East, my soul, left to be free, purified, alone – this I would take any day over the sun-scorched, summery, baking hot beaches of more warmer climes.

When I returned home this afternoon, I was exhausted and satisfied and with a hot cup of tea and a bacon sandwich sat down and watched the history channel. Although TV is by and large utter dross, it almost seems worth it when you can isolate yourself from the malaise of it, and seclude yourself in the peace, quiet and comfort of the history channel. What a pleasure it is to watch a programme on World War two, followed by an hour on the Incas, an hour on the Romans, an hour on how the Tudors lived. There seems to be a never ending supply of these well-made documentaries, and they present such an intellectual feast to those fascinated by history such as I. Why history should so intrigue us I do not know. Perhaps we sense within it, some sort of clue to the meaning of our existence.

Watching a programme about a secret mission during World War two, I saw the dead body of a British soldier, dug out of a make-shift grave that it had been thrown into after the soldier was executed by enemy forces. It was a strange and profound sequence of old, shaky camera footage, a soiled soldier’s uniform was dug out, like a Guy Fawkes doll, flimsy, weak, collapsing, the hands tied behind his back with barbed wire. A flimsy, floppy, mummy soldier; strange that it was not just a soldier’s uniform that was uncovered; but rather a uniform with just a vague sense in the way it was positioned that a man once occupied it. The soldiers dug it out, and with dignity and respect – greater than ever, in proportion to the sadness induced by the sight of the sad, shrivelled Guy Fawkes doll they have uncovered, the last remains of a fallen comrade, executed here on foreign soil as he attempted to undermine the Nazi war stratagems – lifted it onto a cart.

Above and beyond the history programmes however are the natural history programmes, and if ever there was a worthwhile and thorough use of televisual technology it is here, in this sphere. There appears again to be a wealth of first class programmes on this topic, so painstakingly put together, so brilliantly presented. And perhaps more so than the history documentaries, these programmes interest me because again, they seem to be hinting at the meaning of our existence.

Later tonight, influenced by imagery of World war two, I went and dug out all the old family albums. Not that nostalgia is any great thing, but occasionally it is worth a trip down memory lane. Starting with the earliest, I saw photos of my beautiful mother, dressed resplendently in a land girls uniform, looking proud and fierce, a dark and handsome young woman. Then one of my father, in his vest and army shorts, dark, rugged, mean and angry, boldly looking at the camera, a shot taken when he was on tour in Burma. And so on into photos of my brothers and sisters, as children, as teenagers, as youths, at home, at school, at college. And some holiday snaps as well. Of a rare trip we took to lake Windermere, a camping holiday we undertook, my father in charge, my three brothers and two sisters and myself all young men and women now, my mother and her dog Liker as well. And in those snaps I saw us all, my siblings and I, having come of age now, and my mother and father showing the first signs of relief and quiet joy, in realising themselves through the rigours of child rearing. Yes, that was a happy holiday, and sometimes the happy family is not the young one, but the one where the children are grown up; and as well as seeing the happiness of youth and maturity on the faces of my siblings, I saw the quite joy and regret on the faces of my worn out mother and father, as if they have accomplished their harrowing fate in life, and can look with pride and relief now upon their independent children.

Tuesday 9th February

There also appears to be a never ending supply of well-made documentaries illuminating the lives of people who have deformities. Whether we see the plight of a man born without arms, attempting to ban the drug that caused his affliction; or the outlook of a young dwarf girl as she attempts to come of age in the world; or again the fate of a mother and father struggling to raise their two children, both of whom will never grow and never live without wheel-chairs – whatever it is, I do appreciate these documentaries, their civilised, socially responsible, ethical point of view, their unflinching spirit in the pursuit of truth, the way in which they portray their subjects with a mixture of pathos, generosity and hard truth, so that we come to better know the unfortunate person, and see them for what they are, see the humanity, the good and the bad in them. It is one of the commendations due to our society I think, that we are able and willing to make and view such programmes. Yes, a never ending supply of them, and all so well made. And of course what makes them so intriguing is that, they seem, boom-boom, to offer us a clue as to the meaning of our existence.

I went over to my sisters this afternoon and evening. She has three children, and the eldest Mark has, since birth, been plagued by a facial deformity. Twenty or so now, and working full time as a plumber, he is a quiet soul, thoughtful, and in his tall, manly frame, his broad shoulders and muscular chest, something of a gentle giant. As he slowly downed his pint of beer, saying little, occasionally entering the conversation, persistently exuding a feeling of calmness, never subdued or introverted, but silent and gentle as if he meant no ill will, I was struck by his presence, his gentle giant presence, as if buried underneath all his quiet and disfigured exterior, there lies something, an energy, a passion, a rage even.

And in the way that his cooler younger brother supported and acknowledged his few words in our conversation and made him feel listened to; and in the way that his brother’s girlfriend, a fashionable, sexy, little lady subtly showed him tenderness, love and affection, I got a glimpse of how the family of those affected by such accursed fate, rally around their unfortunate child or sibling, how they are simultaneously supportive but not defensive; and as well as this I saw how woman, even as young as this fourteen year old girlfriend of my nephews can be incredibly tender, supporting and mature.

Later on after I’d returned home, I went for a midnight stroll around a boating lake, in a nearby park. It is a grand park this one, and often during the day I come out and sit on the benches on the hillside above the park; looking down on the grassy verges and out to sea. Tonight, on this cool, starlit evening, I walked around the boating lake, crammed full of swans, my big woolly gloves on, the breath coming white and visible from my mouth. I stood awhile contemplating the lake and a few people a little way off. I got the impression they were homeless people or drug addicts.

There were two men and a woman. One of the men, middle aged and squat figured, was wading into the lake, asking the young girl if she wanted him to catch her a swan. In appearance a man of humble birth, in speech a man uneducated, illiterate perhaps, I wondered what circumstance in his life had made him homeless, given him that desperation of soul, the inability to cope with the everyday, that the average working class person, whom in appearance he so resembled, manages to deal with. Yes, had I have seen him with his wife in their council house, bearing all the good sense of a simple workman, or downing a cup of tea on the bench of his allotment before he got back to his labours, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Instead he was a vagabond. As he waded into the lake trying to joke with the young girl and impress her with his semi-illiterate banter, I felt only contempt for him. I expected the same from her, but that kindhearted young girl laughed pleasantly, and in encouraging the man to get out, displayed a real affection for her fellow druggie.

And in an age where so many girls are obsessed by being models, where we’re so rich, and fortunate, and our problems are so sterile, I was taken by this young girl, taken by her and this admittedly fleeting and probably unrevealing glance into her life. She is a down and out, on the road to doom. But even here she is no prostitute, no heavy-eyed, heavy-set, mentally scared harlot; instead just a druggie. And in the simple, genuine kindness she displayed to the illiterate and hopeless old man, and in the light in her eyes and gentle smile on her over-skinny and over-aged face, as I passed her in the moonlight and she said jokingly ‘hello ghost’ I was given a momentary insight into an alternative life. As if these people, so sick of our conventional society, choose to avoid it; and living as vagabonds, only dare come out at night, in the magic of stars and moons, in the soothing and soul-calming darkness, that eclipses so dramatically the sterile Disney-land world we live in. Here to be free and happy like nocturnal creatures of old, like primitive man in the days before sunshine.

Saturday 13th February

I haven’t been making the most of my days, watching too much Television, going out to town and mooching around, instead of visiting castles and museums or doing something of worth. But I guess I just can’t be bothered.

In town today I passed by an open air fashion parade. From the screams and cries of young girls, I sensed, as I happed to turn a street corner, that something must be going on: then I approached and saw the thing for myself. Not feeling at all at home at such venues, I skirted, fairy hastily, around its exterior. However, although I felt ill at ease, doomed almost, as I, like a scurrying mouse, hurried past it, I did take time to cast a brief glance over the whole scene.

The fashionable presenter, a hyperactive, noise-polluting, manic depressive young man whipped the crowd up with his inane commentary and thoughtless dribble, and the young girls who walked the catwalk did look happy. But by and large the majority of girls in the vicinity whom I caught a look at, appeared dispirited and annoyed, irritated by it. They just loitered in the vicinity seemingly downcast by the presence of the parade. Many others seemed, like myself, to simply be skirting around it, and with good sense in their heads, totally ignoring it. And that only left perhaps a hundred or so girls, yelling and screaming raucously in the little crowd, and by this time, now that I’d witnessed the reaction of a seeming majority of girls hereabout, I began to see that those in the crowd were amongst the most contemptible; for not having the guts to admit that the parade annoyed them, they stood there pretending to be happy, yelling as loudly as possible to try and prove to all and sundry that they were comfortable with it. Which meant only the models were happy, and actually they seemed, as I saw them standing behind stage smoking, sick as sausages. What an amazing world we live in.

There is an old, homeless woman whom I keep bumping into. She is quite a sight. Probably attractive when young, her face is very aged, but remains, I might say, cute. She has jet black hair, styled a touch in the manner of the American Indians of yore. She is small, wears a black jacket, and even though it is mid-winter, a short skirt and sandals. Everywhere she goes she has bags in all her hands and she waddles, from side to side and walks slowly about town with these, her only possessions.

I first saw her in McDonalds; then the day later near the train station. Then I saw her in McDonalds again. The day after I happened to be walking down Pilgrim street and raising my head I saw a black, waddling figure up ahead of me. She is as black as a Raven, and seemed to dominate my horizon that day, as she waddled towards me. As if she was the only person in the street; as if she is symbolic. I looked at her. We exchanged a meaningful glance, as if she knows who I am, recognised me from earlier. Then unbelievably today I saw her again along way distant from my previous sightings. This time, completely out of the blue, as I sat on a metro pulling into Heworth, who do I see on the platform but the black raven, that wise looking old woman.

I don’t know. I feel she is symbolic, I feel she knows something of me and my fate. I feel she is going to tell me my destiny. Many of these old timer homeless people have suffered torrents in their time. I knew of one man, whom after losing his family in a tragic fire, was only able to live out life as a homeless tramp and down-and-out. And perhaps some such sorrow forced this woman into her current plight. She just looks so wise, so unearthly, as she slowly, calmly walks through the crowds, never rushing as all about her, as if she knows more than we do. I feel I will meet her again.

But by and large life has been uneventful. You might as well read a comment I left on the confessions website:

I haven’t spoken to another human being in four days. I haven’t touched one for much longer either. Surely that’s not healthy. Surely not. I’ve spent my days either isolated and alone in the house, or going to town and being around shoppers; or worse still, sitting in Mcdonalds with a vanilla milkshake, looking like a sad old man with no friends, all in the hopes of socialising.

Four days, it’s not right. I don’t even have a dog or a cat to stroke/touch/talk to. I’m so lonely, so alone, so bored! Even the other day, when I rang up the gas board, all I got was the answering machine. It’s not right I tell you.

It’s not right. And so has it been. I’m thinking of ringing some old friends to see if they want a game of tennis. That would be a social outing, and in any case I don’t want to miss out on my weekly dose of the sport.

Yes how lonely and alone I am, how depressed. And in this mood, the last thing I want or need to do, is to go to the fridge and eat some more chocolate, but that’s exactly what I’ve just gone and done.