Nostalgia : a wistful yearning for the past

Going to wrap my journeys up, all of them, in bus tickets printed in alphabets that I don't understand, in the taste of Spanish cakes and Korean spice, in the smell of otherness as I step off the plane, train and out of the van door, bouncing on a hotel bed and sleeping on a mountain floor, I'll put the thoughts of wandering in my dreamland, until I repack my bag and start moving, all over again.

nostalgia (n.)1770, "severe homesickness" (considered as a disease), Modern Latin (cf. Fr. nostalgie, 1802), coined 1668 by Johannes Hofer, as a rendering of Ger. heimweh, from Gk. algos "pain, grief, distress" (see -algia) + nostos "homecoming," from PIE *nes- "to return safely home" (cf. O.N. nest "food for a journey," Skt. nasate "approaches, joins," Ger. genesen "to recover," Goth. ganisan "to heal," O.E. genesen "to recover"). Transferred sense (the main modern one) of "wistful yearning for the past" first recorded 1920. 

A Breton light

Just before bedtime I cannot resist crossing the road and taking the pictures of the meeting place of storm and sunlight, sea and land, bruised shadows kissing the blue goodnight. Sleep tight.

Afternoon tea and other stuff....

Bitter black tea with a cinnamon twist philosophizes with a crumbling butter biscuit. The beverage and the snack keep perfect company with a sullen afternoon, a greying sky. Venus is partying with the sun today, the astrologers write reams about once-in-a-lifetime while I think of the teacup handle that my grandmother held, placing my fingers on bone china that she touched. Everyday we trace a pattern in the physical world, sew a hem of particles as we move. I like used things that have their own material history, think about my body meeting the one that came before through this object, a wordless rendez-vous. This afternoon, I leave a trail of biscuit crumbs, sip and listen to the washing spin.

Hungry, but not.

Hungry, but not. It is the evening now. Train travel home on a journey from a course. Via a hotel room, tucked into the eaves, warm baths and bad TV. Outside the window, the cloudless sky is navy blue, dark azure, nearly black. Bartok on the Ipod. Have spent days in movement and drama - fleshy art crafted from muscles and minds. Hands danced against locked yellow light. In the train carriage, a stark bob bissects a passenger's chin. A fat bespectacled lady rustles her evening paper. A biscuit box is opened. To eat or not to eat? Have consumed an apple. Sushi for lunch.  Heat. Heat. Heat. The sun has stolen my hunger.  Would like a cup of tea and something sweet, made with salted butter, just a pinch. Bartok bangs on piano keys, up down, up down, rhythms rolling. "Le train est a destination de..." says a voice, falling from the speakers, reaching our ears. I could stay here forever, bound into this train, watching the bob and the newspaper rustle.  Suited men carry cases as we leave another station. We are off. We. Are. Off.

Packing on a rainy day

It's raining again. Chill air, damp bones. The cold creeps into every corner. We are wishing, wishing on spring.  Meanwhile, I pack my bag. I am very fond of these preparations. Tucking objects into space, nestling miniature containers in tidy rows. Moving has been etched into my bones. I seek to balance the equation of a minimum weight to a maximum sense of home, bringing little pieces of everything with me, perhaps, carrying little pieces of me everywhere: hibiscus teabags, two butter biscuits, green notebooks, a sample of silken bath oil. Following the roots of the verb to pack, I am taken to carrying together in a bundle, and the making of secret arrangements. The latter definition suits me fine. I am arranging the objects for the comfort of my journey; putting stuff into private patterns.

what will happen next...

On Sunday night, overlooked by my grandma's Japanese doll, life falls in lines around me. I wonder to myself, what will happen next.

The manuscript has been sent, the washing turns, clothes tumble in a watery spin. The travelling has paused, just for a little while and I stare at the sudden spring sky. I look at my feet on our old living-room rug (that we keep on promising we will replace). I examine the lines that divide our space, straight things moving from A to Z.

I think of promises and deadlines; words typed on top of Spanish mountains. My toenails are red and pillar box bright. I think of building and climbing and mystery, and how the lines of our existence generally curve. 

I am working on stories and a project that makes me laugh. In between the workshops and the eating of garlic aioli (served with steamed vegetables and a bite of salt cod), I imagine an entirely new tale. I scrub floors, unexpectedly. 

On Sunday night, I murmur, quietly to myself, you know, it will happen next...

Things found on walks

On my travels again, with the rain in my stride. Early in the morning, I make the time, find the time, just because, to take photos of the metalwork I meet on my path : swirls, hearts, spirals, manhole covers; malleable and shiny beauty, incidental light.

The end of the week.

I wanted the end of this week to be done. Wanted to pack it tissue paper, like old-fashioned layette, all folded at the corners and the scent of clean things. I wanted to be gentle with the end of the week. Wanted to wrap it up in brown paper, bind it up with string and hot red sealing wax, slightly melted at the edges. I wanted to send the end of the week to a desert island, let it sit alone on an empty beach and whisper to the waves, and the old blue whales. I wanted to meet it later, so much later, when time would lead to laughter and a sense of understanding, when we could have a drink, knock our glasses together and say we were old friends. Old friends. Instead the end of week and I stand, two soldiers on a no-mans land, facing each other, staring blindly, legs wavering, half-smiling. We are waiting for the weekend, almost ready to shake hands, we are waiting for the weekend, tomorrow.

the first days of spring

In the first days of Spring, I make a bouquet of flowers for a friend. Take a broad brush, mix inks and water; strokes of blended color mingle on paper.

                                           

In these first days, I take many trains and, despite suitcase carrying and workshop running, cannot resist pausing to stop for just a while, just a little while, a tiny perfect while, to photograph pink cherry blossom. Endless blooms drip from winter branches. Trees yawn against an aquamarine sky. I dream, fall into the beauty.

                                           

 In the first days of Spring, I wash in hotel bathrooms, admire green tiles and consider how water unpeels travelling days. 

                                               

In these days, I wonder about the necessity of play, a need to spin in serendipity. I weigh possibilities and measure the spring, which seems to be disguised as summer. Breathing through change as seasons unfurl, the earth turns as I walk on.

Late at night

It's late and they are sleeping. I am tucked into the sofa; lost in revisions. Midnight wishes, I'm waiting for the pumpkin, or should it be the golden carriage. The words keep spilling, endlessly. I cut, shape, paste and add and add. Nothing ever stays the same. Bones ache, but I buzz endlessly, read Virginia Wolff and Issac Bashevis Singer, fall from one world to another. Words come and I scribble in a green and blue notebook. Handwritten letters to be turned into typed fonts. The manuscript will be ready soon. I'll come to an end and it is strange this last rush, different from the flesh and blood making of a play; so internal. Books just exist inside your head. Nobody can see the making. It's only manifestation is an utter mess of papers that flutter in piles, all over the house. Soon, I'll take a vacation, make bread and play. Breath real deep from the inside out. Then, it will begin again.

January morning 2: On the train

On the train, two teenage girls, in beige and black puffas, describe late nights, sleeping and lost loves, whilst a third, quiet girl listens. She scratches freshly washed hair with a bitten nail and fervently texts someone, somewhere. Under the citric glow of the carriage lamps, we speed through the early morning winter darkness. I drink black coffee, eat a spelt bread sandwich and dream of another day.

january morning 1: the pieces of my dream

As I lie in early January darkness, the pieces of my dream clamber from the sleep abyss, climb up using ropes, hands, legs and strengthened pelvic floor muscles, pulling themselves into my morning and an attempted awakening. The dream pieces struggle alone, chaotically, smells mingle with sound, until I put them together, join the pieces ensemble; trying to remember who went where and why, which dark-haired woman put on plays and lived in China and held my hand softly as I explained ? Why does the sun set so beautifully behind the University Georgian buildings, casting a cherished golden haze? And, who is the twinkle-eyed boy that I am chasing, chasing, chasing in the corridors? I grab some of the pieces and lay them in a line, try to create an order, a narrative, a something from the pieces. Then, I get up, get dressed and drink Chun Mee green tea as my family sleeps. The morning has begun.

winter

Winter is here, dark nights, cold rain, the wind blows us along the seaside streets. We pull out the sofabed, hide under the duvet and watch black and white films as the Christmas tree lights flash, red, green, red, red. Winter, the low sun casts our shadows like zebra stripes on the mustard sand. We push ourselves to walk alongside the waves that roll as thick as lion's manes. Winter, our eyes are tired when we wake in the morning, fill our mouths with hot Chung Mee green tea, sumatra coffee and long to lie in bed. We eat homemade bread, that I bake weekly, dough rising in tune to the smell of pine needles scattering over the toy-ridden floor. Winter, our bedroom is filled with boxes, brown cardboard masking endless delights. Winter, soon we'll be crossing the Channel, sliding over great waters to England, to family and friends, to tuck ourselves into a red-brick cottage, eat, drink and make merry. Winter, you are a half-loved season, sucking the blood from our too tired bones, wrapping us in cheery darkness, lit by a twinkling star.

June, July, August

Three months of summer have almost passed by, our worlds spinning, colliding, transforming. Nothing ever stays the same. Everything is moving. We've organised a funeral, grieved the loss of a close one and spent nights dreaming, quietly of death; long lost relatives and friends haunting sleeping hours, a kindly reminder of our ephemeral journey, our brief blink of time on this turning earth. Cruel nature. I listen to PJ Harvey let england shake on boats, London tube trains and in our van. I smile, shed a tear and sing along. At the side of the road is a chateau, with a For Rent sign à louer.

We escape the grief and drive down South, the little one gets freckles on her pale white nose, whilst the elder turns a sophisticated brown. We admire graffiti walls and flowers in Saintes.

We swim.

The water heals our bodies and minds. Wet, soothing, fingers and toes slice through turquoise matter; in structured swimming pools and free form lakes.

I work on the revisions to my manuscript - a little - I long to write on this blog, imagine posts and telling stories, things described in verbs and nouns, black and white attempts to capture an existence. I want to write about the thesaurus, old friends, death and healing; the utter unpredictability of life. Instead, I wash and fold clothes in the forest heat, wipe ice cream from noses and wander. I love this slowed down summer time, when tasks are unsqueezed from between writing, my hospital work, lecturing, school. Days breathe slowly, unhurried; in and out from the diaphram. Breathing deep from the belly. Folding clean clothes is a pretty life in clover.

We travel through the Spanish mountains in the Valle d'Aran, visit medieval villages with Roman walls built into Christian Churches (the stuff of ley lines and palimpsests), share food with old friends, sing songs about Eskimos and ask "Is that Brian Eno?". We eat menu del dia, with red wine served in pottery jugs, have garlic soup, catalan tomato bread and patatas bravas, café con leche and want churros with hot chocolate, but never quite find the time. Next year. Last night we watched a documentary made by Banksy about street art, ephemeral stuff, made in moonlight, guerilla-style, in your face, ART. The film also explores the trash/cash flip side of the art world, is Thierry really an artist or did Banksy make him up?

This from my collection of station graffiti. Pictures taken from trains in June. Little grubby urban hideouts were viewed through carriage windows at the start of these three moving months. June, July, August 2011; months of boats, vans and swims, the tumbling revolutions of life and death. But, that story is for another day...

wednesday

Wednesday has been a day for roasting vegetables; scarlet red tomatoes, courgettes green as christmas trees and pale yellow onions coated in olive oil, burnt to an umber brown. I added orange lentils, bouillon, let it all simmer, bubble at a gentle, almost not there heat. Wednesday has been a day for afternoon naps that sent me swimming into soupy slumber from which I have not yet emerged. We've painted, made fairy cakes and stayed in our pyjamas. Wednesday is ten days since I've finished my manuscript, sent my book off. Ten days in which I've worked, ate, slept and trudged through fatigue; tiredness, heavy as mud, carried with joy at the gift of my left life. Wednesday has held me, focused on the body; food, sleep and the presence of two little girls. I don't plan, but soothe, pamper my brain which has been focused non-stop for over eight months. I am trying to come down slowly from the top of the mountain, sit and smell the flowers, rather than fall with a bump. My mind constantly strays to the inner world of my book, hankering for more, planning the next story. I itch to write, scrape more words onto the page, imagine, conceive, put down. Instead, I cook, walk, read books sat on red velvet cafe cushions, buy expensive cheese and drink champagne.

right now

Right now : feeling tiredness travelling to the bottom of my spine, curves levering into curves. Bones ache. Near the end of my writing marathon, drinking green tea, eating brewers yeast; taking slow steps to the finishing line. Focus. Breath in, breath out. Last night, we sneaked off in our VW van, watched a mackerel sky turn Barbie pink and mustard yellow; felt like I was falling into newborn stars. We slept by a bush, overlooked by the sea and were rocked to sleep by the the sshh of waves. Sleep as deep as cobatt blue. I dream of vacations where I don't take work and my three year old sleeps; the holiday joys of doing nothing, floating on the mist of morning tea.

Preparing for the forest

I like to prepare for the forest. To prepare is to make ready beforehead for a specific purpose. I like to prepare for the forest. I enjoy the beforehead as much as the journey and the holiday; it is the leading-up to, the equiping and the planning, the composing and constructing of an expedition. I have always enjoyed packing. Transitions; the pieces inbetween. The packing is the warm-up, the laying of the table, the awakening of a dream. I fold small trousers, bend tiny socks and roll tights into balls. I place clothes in suitcase corners as I dream of trees. I put together the ingredients for miso soup and special breakfast porridge. As I drink green tea, I pack Chinese Heaven dollars to surprise my girls, envisage secrets and paints for idle moments. For writing, I select sharp pencils and tie the knots around the folder that contains my manuscript. Words will be stitched into pixeled screens, characters and plots determined. The book is almost finished now. I think of birds cries at dawn, black coffee drunk on frost and wearing wellies kissed by icy grass. I think of a horizon of trees, infinite green and the freedom of a running child. I gear up, arrange the outside and the inside of my world for life lived at the pace of trees.

trying to ride the wave

In January I have written and redrafted these words, tried to find the black letters of the Roman alphabet, the verbs and the nouns to describe and to relate my cold winter days. This month is about perspective and focus; walking through the forest and smiling at the bears. Ignoring. Accepting. Bearing Up. We've had three phonecalls to announce three losses, three sets of mourning for three January weeks. In between there has been flu, travelling to Paris and - in a room reflected to infinity inside gilded mirror frames - eating long slices of baguette draped in apricot jam and coffee served in stout silver pots. In this first month I have wept, giggled and sweated with a fever as I lay in bed. In January, I have finished the first complete draft of my book. I put a full stop at the end of a page, where the story had, unexpectedly, reached it's end. Today, I printed up the pages, felt the ache of legs curl into my lower back. Tonight I am exhausted, holding on tight to this wild moving mass of our lives, trying to ride the wave.

when the year turned

When the year turned, I awoke to a marble white sky, streaked with ashen grey. In the blanket softness of early morning children sleeping, I listened to the answerphone and knew that she had gone. She had held on until another decade began and fallen to another world at 5 o'clock in the morning, after nearly 90 years of spheres revolving. When the year turned we caught ferries, crossed the water and held each other. Red earth became intimate with our smartly polished shoes. We said prayers, ate egg rolls and squeezed familiar flesh; we recognised the living blood running through our veins. When the year turned, we said goodbye to her. We fell and we stood tall and we walked on. Turning, when the year turned.

working through

I am working through the tiredness. It's sat in my bones this part week, clouding my vision, numbing my brain as I fall from stretched arms into tracing words, from a train to a tissue-wiped nose. Today we drove along the bay, watched the sky turn from ash to pencil grey ; drift back into cobalt blue. The sand was a somber muddy brown, then a startling, mustard yellow. The sea moving from milky green to a dark dangerous blue. Crouched in the rain, a man in a cadmium raincoat dug for seashells with a rake. Sheltering from the storm, we ate buckwheat pancakes filled with cheese, mussels and chips and drank dry cider and orangina. We giggled as I drank two coffees pretending to be dessert. I came home and showered while the little one slept. I put sweet lavendar oil on my tired skin, enhaled the comforting smell. I wrote emails, grabbed dates and time and refiled my life into a respectable chaos, embracing the beauty of the disorder which is mine.