June 5, 2011 § Leave a comment
Aha! I have been gone long!
Oh, my friends – what a wonderful time I have been having! My worse leg is now in a cast that I can take on and off, and is making the leg straight again. So I have been learning to walk! At the hospital they are pleased, and I, I am wild with happiness at my good fortune! I have walked a little in the lanes and watched the summer flowers waving in the wind. I have felt again the deep peace of sitting in Nature.
Oh, I shall be writing properly again soon, about all of our little dramas and what is happening, but for now I must simply feel the earth on my bare feet now that I can stand without aid – and lift my voice in praise to my most loving creator, who sees into the deeps of my heart at all times, and is wishing me all good things!
May 22, 2011 § Leave a comment
Order has not been restored, although Indie and I have become much closer. Last night we filmed ourselves dancing about the room, wearing two of his great wooden African masks – I shall try and upload them, for it is very funny. I am glad we have become close, although it is a little like the blind leading the blind also. We are both so in thrall to the intoxicants, the drink, the smoking. I try as hard as much as I can to abstain from these things around him, as he is trying to be in recovery. Now, his eyes are becoming alight and curious again, like an animal once abused who has finally found a safe home.The thought of his lost love causes him great pains, and we have spent many nights talking until the birds begin to sing about the mysteries of love.
Jette is having a little fashion show at an alternative club tonight, it is a wild place, and there are many painters including myself who exhibit there and perform poetry and things on certain nights. The barman is gruff and sulky, a great bearlike man who I do not think really likes any humans; but the people who run the evenings for bohemians are most easy to get on with. Phi in particular is smiling always, he has a great shock of hair and is wearing thin bright purple jeans all the time. Mattias is in tweed nearly always, a pipe or french cigarettes upon him, and the smoke curls out from under the rim of his trilby, as though his face is formless and demonic in the half light of the bar. He wears his straw yellow hair as though it were a second hat, and has a curious monotone way of speech as though his tongue were of lead.
May 19, 2011 § 2 Comments
England is a beautiful country. Of course, there are many beautiful countries in the world, I would love to see the great mountain forests of America, and the vast red deserts and rock formations of there and the Australian Outback. I would love to sail down the pure Arctic rivers, past the little villages on the edge of inhospitable icelands. I would love to be in Italy, and marvel at the ancient hills, dusty roads with their shivering poplars and olive trees. Oh, to travel, the most marvellous thing!
I love capital cities so; Prague, where the Winter is biting cruel but yet still full of tourists jauntily sipping the hot, sugary wine in the charming and beautiful Old Town. I love Krakow, Paris, Dublin not so much, but still good, and now London. What a crazy city London is, what a lovely, vital, filthy, immense, dangerous sense of history, as though it were lead, weighting and warping the air around it. The many books I have read of historical (if perhaps, a more fictional) London are full of wonder, how it has swallowed up all the towns around it, fed its monster with villages and suburbs. The great river, dirty and ancient; with its ships and barges bringing fish and meat and all things from the coast to the leaning tenaments. The cramped alleyways, single glass panes streaked with grime, little cellar theatres and gin bars and green parks frequented by very hardy birds.
I am here because it is not life to remain always in the one place – whether in body or in mind. If a person’s body cannot travel, can their mind wander plains unknown even on this Earth? I wondered with my legs when they were bad what I might do, but resolved to travel the world anway, even if it was on two sticks. But what about the people who need to carry the oxygen and things? Or are paralysed from an accident? How is travel happening in their spirit? I do not know.
My life was stifled and small in my home place. The air is freer here, there is not the sense of oppression I am feeling often. In London, you can be anyone! You can be artist and political and say what you think! You are not subject to the law of a country run by religion – what a silly thing this is – to use any church and its ancient ideals as the seat of government in a modern Earth. The things I am doing here are simply to be true. I know that I am not destined to be great artist, or writer – but I can hope that by expressing all these art things that are the bedrock of my soul, that my seconds here are more meaningful and devoted to happiness than not. In my art also I am coming closer both to other people and to God, and this cannot be a bad thing.
May 19, 2011 § Leave a comment
Indie is out of the hospital and back with us – I do hate to see the pain he has wrought in his soul like twisted metal, but he looks a little better now and is going to alcohol counselling from now on, I am hopeful that this is the start of a new life for him; although I have asked him if he is going to be attending auditions again; and he waved me away like an insect, perhaps it is too raw to think about picking up the thread of his dreams again; but is this not the best way to quench a thirst? To dive into the river?
Jette has still not unbent enough to apologise for her part in the row, and is like a little whirlwind in the house to avoid everyone, slamming doors like a poltergeist. But I have seen Penny, and although things were most awkward, heartbreakingly stiff and formal, I had to cast my pride away and say sorry for being most drunk and stupid. She says I must not worry about a thing, but I sense the distance like a wall of ice between us.
My lover for her is like a candle spluttering, half extinguished by winds. Sometimes I do not think it is merely I who is the ghost in skin, who cannot give of themselves to love because I am living in another and more fantastical world, but many people who are like me; who wish to find love in their heads, in their ideas, and cannot hold the reality of flesh in their arms. Idealising people into who we wish them to be, and not who they are.
I am casting it out with painting, how creativity is the vanquisher of sorrows! They are more experimental than my usual work, and play with bolder colours and abstract lines, there is no focus to them, however, and I feel this is an expression of the lack of focus in me also. Perhaps I am keeping my paintings like a diary instead!
One of the other reasons I named myself Cairo is the meaning of it, that is Victorious. I will be, I am victorious in life. I am winning all the little battles that rage in my heart, my mind, although sometimes the armies are thick and heaving, and it is hard to see who is best. But I, in my little room, with my diaries and canvasses and the so tiny songbirds outside who sing soothingly to me in the darkest places, I am the victor. I must be – else, what meaning can there be in such a cramped and insecure half- life?
May 18, 2011 § 3 Comments
Since this awful row I have been in limbo. I am so angry at myself, I feel like the ungrateful child, I have hidden my face from God in shame. How can I have let this distract me from my ultimate joy, that I am to be healed in my legs? How can I have let this row steer me from my gratitude? I am so happy for myself, perhaps after all this time I almost cannot believe it, my good fortune, and seek to distract myself in case it is taken away from me again. I do not know. I only know that this has knocked me a little from my course, and I have spent an hour in church this morning trying to put it right.
Oh, but how I wish I could be simply happy! I am radiant with love for God for putting my legs right, and torn by love of a woman. How silly of me to let this conflict get to me so, I should be only thankful and rise above the rest. Without the human love, though, do we wither? Sometimes I think that oh! Without the steps of a loved one upon the soil, what a hollowness there is in everything! But I must put this longing from my heart and only look at the beautiful flowers of the emerging Summer, and let my heart fill with joy again at the happier twists and turns of my life.
May 16, 2011 § 1 Comment
Today has seen the collapse of our house. I have tried to visit Indie in hospital but the big cast for correcting the muscles in my legs makes it difficult to travel, I wish I could sit there with him today, listening only to the sounds of lives spared and not spared. The fierce industry of hospitals, their many denziens scarred by the process of living.
I became drunk last night and have had the terrible row with Penny, in the kitchen, there was much shouting as I told her we all are knowing that her boyfriend is not nice to her, is maybe even hitting her. She threw things. Jette hear us arguing and comes downstairs, and is horrible and tells Penny the truth that I am hating her man because I am in love with her. I stammer, and wool is suddnely thick in my mouth and I cannot deny the thing. It is as though a cloud above my head has split in two, and rain is now pouring upon me in a shower of little needles. A creeping horror steals into me, raising the hairs on my skin, a cold shadow falls across my heart even though my face burns with anger and misery.
The air that has gone still, full of tension, like a heatwave. Penny’s face has closed up like a prison door, and I feel my heart being locked out of her forever by something as solid and impersonal as iron. She turns on Jette like a little lioness, and shouts things that have long been kept silent in her; Jette is a jealous bitch who has no happiness, who is a ghost of a person, who has no emotions or lasting love because she cannot handle them, she is immature and stupid and selfish, she has no real thoughts or art of her own and so must scorn the work of others even though she could never in a hundred lifetimes hope to create its equal. Jette recoils as though lashed by a whip; her face is so proud, but it falls horribly like a landslide, and everyone runs out of the room in tears but me.
So, there is silence, there is water on the floor, and china shards. The people next door were having a barbeque but have gone curiously silent to listen to us ruin ourselves; slowly, their voices begin to carry again through the window, and I pick up the broken things and wipe the floor, as though I am robotic. Penny’s room, next to the kitchen, is quiet. Jette is blasting out loud music from upstairs, and I left the house and walked slow and painfully down the road to the little cafe that keeps my paintings on the walls, to still the furious beating in my chest and drink some more.
May 14, 2011 § 1 Comment
Indie is in the hospital.
His drinking became so bad, he was even drinking first thing in the morning – the doctors have taken him there today to look after him, and say that his alcoholism is being a cry for help. We have known that he has the depression badly sometimes, but breaking up with his boyfriend was as they say the last straw. He is going to go to counselling and an alcohol rehabilitation program. I am praying for him.
Jette is not praying for him, and is being her usual self, cynical and hard. I did not even tell her that my hospital visit went so well, because she would take my news like a butterfly and crush it between her fingers. Penny I have told, and her smile for my good fortune was as the lovely sparkle of the Sun when He is playing on the water, sending me into a little trance – but even with her things are changing for the worse.
She does not love me, I think, at all. I think she has only been kissing me drunkenly to upset her Dutch man, who is straying from her. I have not helped myself by being drunk and stupid, acting out and getting into fights, ranting about the past. sometimes I just cannot help it, I am trying so hard to be happy and thinking the positive every day, but when I am drinking, the past comes out like a stain and darkens everything around it.
I am holding my good news like a precious letter to my chest, to keep it safe, and almost more, to use it as armour against the ravages of the world. Stupid, stupid, the grief of the world turns for everyone, and my present happiness is but the lid on the whole rotten barrel of myself.