ZONES

Exhausted, but not yet ready for bed. This hour after partner and child have retired has become a treasured space. Sometimes I write, sometimes spin a record. Often both. 

Right now, Tangerine Dream are soothing me with Stratosfear for the hundredth time.

If I can raise the energy I’ll go for a walk. Takes effort, this deep into autumn. There is a feeling of ‘should’—for mind and heart and to get back into the body after being in others’ lives all day. But I probably won’t, tonight. Bed beckons.

Waking, inevitably, I lift my head and see the green numerals of the old clock radio on Cal’s side. I always hope it will be later than it is. The dream of longer sleep. Perchance to have a wee. The delights of middle-age, wherein restful slumber becomes a mythic quest. Unending, never fulfilled. Imagine a time when your bladder made it through the night. Is there a country song about that?

There’s an app on the computer dashboard for clocks. Pick a location, anywhere, and  it shows you their time. I have a few set up. A local one for reference and one for the UK, where Cal is from. I know the time difference, but always get confused when daylight-saving cycles shift gear.

Much harder for North America. Different zones. For simplicity’s sake I have two, east and west. The calculation is trickier and not self-evident. My American friend told me she subtracts a day then adds eight hours. But is that east or west? Sometimes I delete the clock and re-install it so that when I pick the city the hands spin backwards to the intercontinental time. Right now, it’s coming up to 7:00am in San Francisco, ten in DC. Time zones to represent my blogging friends. Do I presume too much? Some feel like friends, for sure. Others are more cautious acquaintances. I’d like more, and more depth, but I don’t want any more. Friendships require work, energy, input. Tonight I’m depleted, headachey, chardonnayed.

Sometimes I post a comment and get an immediate response from Portland or Boston. It always feels pretty cool to have this little dialogue across the world in real time. My grandparents used to mail three-inch reel-to-reel tapes to family in the old country. A conversation measured out in months. I remember a bunch of aunts and uncles, the men in suits, standing round a microphone my grandfather had plugged into his open reel deck. He positioned them around the homemade mic stand and did a practice run before the real recording. Bess, take those beads off, they sound like static. I always thought they became more English when they were compiling these stilted messages to their un-migrated brethren. Thinking about the destination of the magnetic tape erased years of Australian twang. Or maybe it was that tot of sherry. Sweet.

Tonight, I could suggest skyping or face-timing to one of my blog friends. What would they sound like? Would I suddenly become more Aussie? G’day mate. Just so they weren’t in any doubt.

I won’t be suggesting a link-up though. They might be disappointed in me or I in them. And we’d have the same laboured conversations about the seasons or differences in word usage and secretly snigger at each others dialects.

Almost out of tape, so signing off now. Love to all of you over there. Hope to plan a trip soon. Enjoy the warm weather!

Time to go clean my teeth. Maybe there’ll be a little orange dot on the bell by the time the ablutions are done. Instant like-ification. Maybe even a comment. But I won’t engage now. I’ll be in better form in the morning, with a coffee, though my respondent will probably be at lunch or dinner or asleep.

Tssssss…

IMG_5628

Advertisements

WATCH

Got a new band put on the watch yesterday. The old one had curled up from years clasping my wrist. Looked all right on the outside, but inside it was worn and stained, the leather disintegrating under the surface. Looks horrid, Cal said, cracked and scaly. It reminded me of my legs. Old man’s legs with papery skin. Running about a tennis court doesn’t result in fresher, younger epidermis. Not to look at anyway; it must be doing something for the muscles, surely.

Played a couple of mixed doubles matches, standing in for a chap who’s injured. Last week the opposing team were all so young you could see the outline of school uniforms on the tennis kit. I did all right for someone giving away multiple decades; the sets were even but we lost by a few games on count-back. It not being my team, I didn’t care much as long as I played OK, which I did.

Afterwards there is supper. A couple of Men’s teams were outside singeing sausages and drinking beer. We were inside with cheese and crackers and dips and grapes and lemonade. Someone’s mum put this together, I thought.

They were nice kids, and not quite as young as I thought. Three in first year uni and one in second. He was the captain. I asked what they were studying and one, a girl built like a willow-wand but with the heaviest serve of all the women, grinned and challenged me to guess. I got two straight off and one with a bit of help. Smartarse. But I could not guess Twiggy. 

Politics, she said. How depressing, I thought, but didn’t say.

Got home and limped to the shower. Three close sets on a Thursday night. Jeez.

Horizontal at last, but legs aching so much I couldn’t sleep. Got up and did a few laps inside the house, trying to avoid cramp. Kept the lights low, to fool myself I was a few laps away from Lethe. Clocks grinned in the gloom as I passed them. Reckon they were mocking me. Eventually I took half a pill. Fuck it, I need sleep.

A Sunday morning game with a mate has become a ritual. Sometimes I manage to beat him, mostly he out-runs me. Younger legs and years of playing competition squash. He’s an executive. Knows how to get the job done. Last week it was a war of attrition; at six-all we agreed on an honourable draw. This week he rolled over me. My body was still grizzling about the mixed doubles. Recovery times lengthen, relentlessly, until you tear or break something and it ends. Now that’s depressing.

But I love it (though less when I’m crap, like Sunday).

When I got home the boy asked, could you not play next week as it’s my birthday?

There was a hesitation. I was thinking, the party is not until the afternoon, what’s the problem. A childless moment that passed. Sure, I said. We’re having pancakes, he said. Excellent.

It’s a significant birthday, though he won’t let us talk about the obvious. Thirteen. That last syllable serves up all kinds of complications, and soon he won’t want to spend time with his boring oldies. Tempus fugit says the smug new band on my watch. Shut the fuck up, I snarl. But somewhere I feel hourglass tears falling.

hourglass

Springboard provided by pinklightsabre

DOUBLE FAULT

It’s dull outside. And cooler too. The stillness is a little uncanny after the hot winds of the morning. I umpired the boys tennis match and could feel the sun on the back of my neck. Did I put sunscreen between collar and cap? Lately I’ve been worried about melanomas, especially on the forearms. That’s the place that gets the most sun, other than your face.

Sunscreen didn’t really figure when I was a kid. We’d joke about the first burn of summer and boast about how much skin we could peel off after the radiation subsided. Didn’t wear hats, either.

Hot on the back and windy too. The courts are raised, at the south end of a large oval. The northerly whips across the grass and through the cyclone wire fencing, shredded into turbulent spears. One end of the court gives plus twenty kph, at the other the smallest boy can hardly hit the ball over the net.

Our team won because the opposition only had three players. We fiddled the rules so that all four of our lot got one set each instead of two. Winning by forfeit isn’t satisfying but it’s winning none-the-less. Last time I took him he didn’t get a game in two sets and I was angry. How could you be that bad? I didn’t say anything but he knew he’d been rubbish. By the time we got home, he’d forgotten (maybe) but I hadn’t. Not the crapness, nor the loss, nor my disappointment. Always remember your failures. But don’t worry about sunscreen. Family lessons. Terrific.

I’ve just delivered him to a friend’s sleep-over birthday party. The family has a pool, which the kids love because they get to mess about and the parents love because it tires them out. Later they’ll play video games and try to get away with watching an inappropriately violent movie and my bloke will go along with it but won’t necessarily enjoy the entertainment.

He asked whether he could run through the stuff he was taking. Big trip: Saturday afternoon to Sunday morning. I said, sure, but I’m legendary for forgetting stuff. Anyway, we thought he had the bases covered. Swimmers, towel, toothbrush, clothes, phone (a new item, to go with Big School), sleepwear, book. Book? Well, he said, if I don’t like the video game I’ll go and read. Or if they are noisy until really late. The first weeks of secondary education have been full-on.

As we walked down the street it started drizzling. Guess we won’t be swimming, he said. It’s actually quite nice, I said, swimming in the rain. Peaceful.

Dropped him off, said hello to the host parents who are good friends, and the other parents. Offered a drink, but said I needed to get back.

Back through the drizzle, as refreshing as sorbet. Back to the stillness of an empty house and my turntable and vinyl to pierce the tranquility. And maybe a book.

IMG_5139

OBSTRUCTION

Here, idyll.

Surf in the distance, its soothing pianissimo thunder punctuated by the occasional foreground car.  Ultramarine sky.

But not one idea has done more than hover like a seagull over the shoreline. No stories, insights, flashes of inspiration. A brain made drowsy by a surfeit of summer. Or other things.

I’m a nighttime person, generally. Not that I sleep in. Middle-aged aches and a querulous bladder argue against bedly indulgence. So often the time after the boy and his mum head bedwards is when I imagine writing. Thinking fuzzied by the mealtime libation, ideas fogged by alcohol and the muddy lethargy that comes from watching summer sport on TV. An evening person, perhaps, but self-sabotage arises locally—a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc or Australian Open tennis evening sessions.

Lack of discipline is the most common get-out clause for writers trapped in a low orbit. As I trek through Irvin Yalom’s recently released memoir—a hero, I hate him—and read about his ‘mornings writing and afternoons exploring’ (Bali, Seychelles, Paris, Lake Como, Holy Homer, what a life) I recognise that under my sneering envy of his privilege lies an uncomfortable truth. I’ve never been willing to claim the keyboard. Really make a commitment and shoulder whatever sacrifice is required. The recent Rearview Mirror series at Vinyl Connection is my first attempt at greater-than-weekly writing in almost five years. Pathetic.

The surge of envy is entirely equal to the slough of self-hatred.

Self-confidence is vital in any endeavour. Somehow the ‘I can’ voice must overcome the stabs of doubt and the whispers of ineffectuality else the child is stillborn. Dead before arrival. Often thoughts and ideas appear on my inner screen like distant fireworks—brief explosions of light and muted cracks, low on the horizon and soon extinguished. Reading how Yalom spends time before sleep pondering and playing with plot and story ideas for the next day’s writing gets me thinking (again) about the ephemeral nature of my own sparks. A proper writer can bottle that lightning and tap it the next day like plugging into a wall socket. It’s not just practice, though that would help (as would a simple way to capture fleeting images). I remember lying outside at midnight in rural Jamieson, many years ago, sharing the rug with a friend as we gazed up at the Milky Way. She always seemed to be looking in the right place to see the meteorite. My sightings were peripheral; by the time my eyes flicked to the silver pencil-trail it was gone.

Yearning to decorate the sky, yet so muddily earthbound.

Brainbound, more accurately.
How to interrogate this process, despite its crushing familiarity.

An idea comes.

A writing idea, ‘cos that’s my thing.

Then something shuts down. Like a clamp, like a blanket. Like the night of an impenetrably empty space. As Piglet put it so eloquently, ‘A great big… Nothing’.

Invoking Pooh’s timorous wee friend is no accident. For all my ability to channel Owl-like pomposity and nihilistic Eeyore pessimism, it is the ever-fearful Piglet who is my enduring talisman.

An aside. I’m recalling the story where Piglet gets a bath—much against his wishes—and is highly uncomfortable until he has escaped and rolled himself in sufficient dirt to recover his familiar grubby persona. That feels a bit like me and therapy, to be honest.

Back to the brain. The shutting down syndrome. It’s a cerebral trauma response, where overload leads to stasis. Nothing revelatory there; the process is one I’ve been working through myself and with clients for decades. (Three ironic cheers for The Wounded Healer!). But we are not veering off into a psychological paper for two reasons. Firstly, I’m not remotely well-read enough on emerging research in neuropsychology to offer anything helpful, and secondly, I don’t want to. Correction: I am not able to. Even this level of disclosure has a part of me quivering with terror.

What’s to be done? Is this brain plaque capable of being dissolved by therapy and (or?) other healing processes?

Or writing? Around twenty years ago I purchased a book called Journalling For Joy. Ten years ago I took it out of the paper carry-bag. Still haven’t opened it though.

It feels like a race against time. Enough healing to write—really write, according to the desire of my crumpled heart—before the natural and unavoidable ageing process dusts away vocabulary from the mind’s blackboard, leaving only vague smears of regret… that’s the goal, I guess. Avoid regret.

Unless, of course, there’s a future in writing about not writing?

IMG_5006