Good morning to you. We will say it again and again - thank you so much for such brilliant, inspiring responses during this last month. Reading them all has been an absolute pleasure. And here's your penultimate Message.
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These are some things I'll miss if I die too early…
* mornings like this one, when everyone’s asleep and I’m sitting curled up in the armchair in the kitchen with a mug of hot coffee writing about things that bring me pleasure, but there’s an opening in my chest too and I’m writing direct to the page, concentrating on writing what I see as the truth.
* the chance to live by the sea, to find a country that will absorb me and take me in without being judgmental, that will have water I can go walk by and watch.
* the excitement of meeting new soul mates, who I want to talk to every morning, sit with over long meals telling jokes and ghost stories, fiddling with candles and laughing.
* the pleasure of choosing and trying on new clothes, when I know I look good and can walk down the street and return smiles, when flirting is just fun, that glance between you that says ‘in another life, then maybe, you and me’.
* seeing my name in print and sneaking up on strangers who might be reading my words. That moment when my work takes off without me and I have to run to catch it up, and when I read it, it’s as if it has nothing to do with me and I think – yes, this could be true.
* the heat of the sun on bare flesh, a full glass of red wine, oily spicy food that drips down my chin, stealing looks at people I love, that feeling of pride bursting through my chest when friends do well and are happy, the sparkle of clear water as I break through a clean swimming pool. Good sex, good food, good chat, good poetry. Good.
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Well now, I do wish you had been here yesterday – I lifted my second Great American Apple Pie out of the oven. It was BEAUTIFUL, really nice and crusty and well …..LOVELY. I say second because the first one was so good (and here I am, boasting again) that I didn’t think I’d be able to repeat the performance.
ReplyDeleteTo try the first, last Sunday I invited members of my family along for tea – and they brought a couple of friends with them. They had just started enthusing when the fire alarm went off really loudly and we had to abandon the pie and rush outside. When we were allowed back in again, we found the fire people were (a) licking their lips and (b) remarking on what a lovely bit of pie they’d just had!
This second one I’m giving to a lady who is today celebrating here 95th birthday and who told me just the other day how much she liked apple pies and hadn’t tasted one in years. Bet she’ll never ever have had a better one (but here I am, boasting again).
I’m not going to pretend it’s that simple, though if you follow the instructions you’ll quickly get into the swing of things.
My guide was a children’s cookery book I picked up from one of the local charity shops. You’ll be amazed at what is usually on offer, and the shops are ken to offload books which, of course, take up space and don’t fetch much.
It soon became the ladies’ custom to lean out and whisper – we’ve got a few new books in – and I just couldn’t turn their offers down.
Result? I’ve probably got the world’s largest collection of such books, or I’m a substantial runner up, anyway. So happy cooking, guys.
Reg Peplow
Here are some things I won't miss when I'm dead.
ReplyDeleteGetting in the wrong queue in the supermarket. Shopping in the supermarket. Impenetrable packaging. Being put on hold. Automated voices offering me options I don't want. Questionnaires giving me a set of answers to a question which doesn't include my answer to that question.
Pimples, spots and boils. Feeling ill. Feeling tired when I can't rest. The crinkly skin on my elbows. Bruises. Being sick.
Caraway seeds. Gristle. Hard bits in a baked potato. Tinned spaghetti. Lumpy custard. Alcopops. McDonalds. Sticky bits on kitchen worktops. Skin on milk. Sour milk. Mould. Dust.
Economy seating in aeroplanes. Aeroplane toilets. Aeroplane food. Flying in aeroplanes. Wailing babies, especially in aeroplanes. Clothes that don't fit. A body that doesn't fit. Extraneous facial hair. Ear hair. Nose hair. Body odour.
Cold days in August. Sunburn. Advertisements for Christmas in August. Advertisements for summer holidays in December. Advertisements. Sending Christmas cards. Fireworks, except in early November. Loud noise. Wasps, mosquitoes, hornets, midges. Slugs.
Filing. Paperwork. Junk mail. Spam. Late payments. Unexpected bills. News media telling lies and half-truths. Technology designed for communication that I don't understand how to use.
People who think they know what other people need. Abuses of power. Deceit. Rhetoric designed to avoid taking responsibility.
Scraping ice off car windows on frosty mornings. Filling up with petrol. Checking the oil, screen-wash and coolant. Prangs. Crashes. Black ice. Tail-gaters.
Eating too much. Drinking too much. Hangovers. Ignorance, my own and other people's. The size of the gap between rich and poor. The existence of the gap between rich and poor. Cheap wine.
People who are famous for being famous. Prison walls. Misunderstandings.
Lipstick and boob tubes on six-year-old girls. Kissing whiskery old aunties. Wet patches. Scary memories.
Uncle Tony. My old headmaster. You.
The local bookshops are full of titles along the lines of ‘1001 Books to Read / Films to See / Places to Visit Before You Die’. They’re not just recommendations, mind; they’re things you must do or your life will be a complete and utter failure. Pressure, or what? In order to set the balance straight and put things into some sort of perspective, I would like to propose a series of ‘After You Die’ titles. Here are some preliminary suggestions:
ReplyDeleteBooks to Read:
Jeffrey Archer, ‘Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less’. Currently available used on Amazon for, coincidentally, a penny. A penny more than it’s worth.
Coleen McLoughlin, ‘Welcome to My World’. Unknown novelists can sometimes be a delightful surprise. Never having heard of the subject of an autobiography, however, is generally a bad sign.
Samuel Richardson, ‘Clarissa’. A book so huge that you could hollow it out and live in it. Life’s too short, so leave it until afterwards.
Films to See:
‘Renaldo and Clara’. Bob Dylan and chums shamble about in glorious shaky-cam. For hours. If you’re not a fan, it’s not for you. If you are a fan, it’s still not for you.
‘Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves’. Rumour has it that Sean Connery comes in at the end, but it’s best not to wait around to find out.
‘First Knight’. If you make the mistake of watching this before you die, you’ll wish you were dead by the half-way point.
Places to Visit:
Luton. They have re-branded the airport ‘London Luton’ as people didn’t even want to go there in order to leave.
Marks and Spencer. A physics-defying environment in which shelves are bafflingly re-ordered every fifteen minutes.
Oxford Street, London. Since Purgatory became overcrowded, lost souls are now consigned to wander here.
When I was fourteen, I went to my sister’s twenty-first birthday party at the nurses’ home. This man who made a point of chatting to me and told me that he was from Iran kept refilling my glass. I remember two distinct things: firstly, that as I lay in my sister’s bed feeling like I’d never felt before, he came into the room and put his hand down my knickers; secondly, as I lay on my sister’s floor in a pool of vomit, she was shouting ‘Speak to me, speak to me!’ but I never said a word.
ReplyDeleteWhen I was fourteen, we bought cider at the Kasbah and went to the Basement disco. As the evening went on, it got hotter and sweatier and the smell of Brut turned sour. The walls were lined with orange plastic chairs and you had to be quick to get on one for the fight. The last song was always the same: Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me, I would cling to the most dangerous boy in the room and then the lights would go on.
When I was fourteen, I had a boyfriend who thought he was Johnny Rotten and put Domestos on his hair to bleach it. He had an SS50. I revved the throttle with my right hand and let the clutch out with my left; the bike reared up vertically and I fell off the back. Three years later, I was riding my Z200 back from Brighton and a man dressing in shabby brown clothes walked out in front of me on a blind right-hander and as I swerved, he stepped into my path. I missed which was good because I was doing 80.
If I had died too early, it wouldn’t have been all that surprising.
Oz, this gave me a really good laugh :-)
ReplyDeleteIn my fifty-five years of living in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, I had never witnessed anything like it. The mother picked a small, quiet neighbourhood and used a neighbour's front yard to give birth to her baby. Mrs Billingsley said she witnessed the birth. My husband Mike and I saw them at 7.30a.m, when we were out bike riding. The baby was twelve hours old.
ReplyDeleteI have never seen a new-born moose so we parked up our bikes and walked on over. Keeping a safe distance, we sat there for a while. The baby was curled up under a white cedar tree, front knees tucked high under its chin, while the mother stood waiting. After half an hour the calf tried to stand. Its back legs held up fine, splayed slightly too far apart. It was the front legs it couldn`t get to work. A couple of times it collapsed like a drunken fool. Eventually, the calf moved from resting on front knees to standing up straight, tentatively, it walked across the lawn to suckle from the mother.
I heard the dog but didn't sense the danger. It ran into the front yard barking loudly at the mother. She pressed her ears back, raised the long, brown hairs on her shoulder hump and began stomping the ground. Mike stood up and ran. Once he was a safe distance away he shouted: "Get away, it`s going to attack." I watched as it kicked the dog down and began to stomp. I distanced myself from the violence and saw this scene for what it was. A desperate act to protect another, no matter what. That innate urge to put somebody you love first, regardless of the personal cost. I was filled with so much respect for that violent tenderness, I began to weep.
chocolate, of course, those Lindt filled dark spheres that break as soft as egg yolks on my tongue, and salt on the rim of a tequila glass, a glimmer of toothpaste I notice over my teeth as I drive, blackcurrant and vanilla from a good red wine, rice-paper, hot green chillies,
ReplyDeleteplastic bubble-wrap, crushed velvet, a baby’s skin, just mown grass on a summer’s day, the shaved blades hovering between heat and cool, the bark of trees, sand under my feet, soft hair, scratching his back, and even though it hurts, the ache of my fingernails after I’ve cut them,
mist through trees, double rainbows, a clear horizon across a sea, any sea, sun rising over water, mountains capped with snow, a path leading into a forest, stone framed windows with leaded lights, smiles, the blink from a cat, the motorway lit at night, sunsets, skipping pebbles
a bottle of champagne opening, laughter reaching me from another room, what I think is silence and isn’t, the post-van pulling into the drive, the sound of the name my husband gave me, a train whistle and the rush of air as it passes, footsteps through leaves, splashes,
chanel no 5, sea-salt on the wind, bacon frying, the smell of books as I walk through the door of Borders, sheets brought in from the line, a pine-scented kitchen floor, the smell of blue in the woods in May, sun-tan lotion in a bar as the sun goes down, fresh coffee,
and breath, breathing in slowly, the flow of air that fills my lungs, my belly, the moment held, the moment before breathing out, my own flesh and blood relaxing, surrendering to pure necessity, how it starts again, and how, when I notice all this, I smile, in awe of this miracle I am
A magpie glides in, black and white wings tinged with luscious green, held in the stall position until at the last second, lifting his feet, taking a grip of the topmost growth of the cypress. He lands so deftly that in seconds he looks as if he has been there all day.
ReplyDeleteBeyond his new vantage point, with a flurry of casting off and frantic wrestling with tangled ropes and lowered rigging, signalling his own season's end, one last skipper moves from his mooring to a safer winter berth before the dropping tide leaves him stranded.
Outside the other window, the first car of the day takes the steep part of the hill.
It sounds like Mrs Padget's long wheelbase Mercedes heading for town. She will have to rush all day so that she and her seven staff can close up the Whole Food and Health shop at 5.00 p.m. to attend the ceremony of switching on the Christmas lights. Then reopen at half past to make some real money for the only time this year.
From the distant kitchen come unmistakable sounds of the first tea of the day being made. Now calls will be picked up instead of being diverted to the answer machine.
Phil asking if its OK for him to come this afternoon at three to make the final adjustments to the oil supply of the new Aga.
Marge saying she wants some brandy if Laura is going shopping. She does not add that she is making her puddings, teasing with the thought, that at eighty five she may have started tippling.
The Blanchards coming back after receiving your mailie, saying they won't be able to make next Friday but the fifteenth will be fine.
I wonder how long it will be before someone finds me.
A magpie glides in, black and white wings tinged with luscious green, held in the stall position until at the last second, lifting his feet, taking a grip of the topmost growth of the cypress. He lands so deftly that in seconds he looks as if he has been there all day.
ReplyDeleteBeyond his new vantage point, with a flurry of casting off and frantic wrestling with tangled ropes and lowered rigging, signalling his own season's end, one last skipper moves from his mooring to a safer winter berth before the dropping tide leaves him stranded.
Outside the other window, the first car of the day takes the steep part of the hill.
It sounds like Mrs Padget's long wheelbase Mercedes heading for town. She will have to rush all day so that she and her seven staff can close up the Whole Food and Health shop at 5.00 p.m. to attend the ceremony of switching on the Christmas lights. Then reopen at half past to make some real money for the only time this year.
From the distant kitchen come unmistakable sounds of the first tea of the day being made. Now calls will be picked up instead of being diverted to the answer machine.
Phil asking if its OK for him to come this afternoon at three to make the final adjustments to the oil supply of the new Aga.
Marge saying she wants some brandy if Laura is going shopping. She does not add that she is making her puddings, teasing with the thought, that at eighty five she may have started tippling.
The Blanchards coming back after receiving your mailie, saying they won't be able to make next Friday but the fifteenth will be fine.
I wonder how long it will be before someone finds me.
mikemay@supanet.com
They made me take off my bra and the gold chain round my neck. It had been my grandfather’s and used to be linked to the fob attesting to the passing of time. He died before the war could get him. My grandmother died of cancer as did her son, my uncle. Dad hung in there until the pacemaker batteries died. Mum’s willing herself away.
ReplyDeleteAs the tunnel closed over me and the tock tocking dulled my senses I figured I’d had a good run for my money. I’d seen the world, known love, never lost it, shared my life and my words. I was at peace with myself for those few minutes. I get the same feeling every time I take off in a plane. Then I forget.
But it’s different now. How much time is left to do all the things I must do? An essay to finish. What madness made me commit to such research? But commit is commit. All the sins know that. Do I need to revise them? Leave them part of the story. A novel. Almost there. At least I’ll be saved the rejections. Maybe I’ll have time to be there for Mum. And to see our daughter’s graduation. But there are so many papers to go through, mess to clean up, arrangements to make. And there’s the dog.
I’ve put the gold chain back on. It just links to itself. No interfering fob anymore. Time is today. Every moment. Move on. Regrets? Not really. In fact, none at all. Not even the smoking, but I’m glad our daughter doesn’t. Maybe I put her off. Maybe I saved her life, for a while at least. The chain gleams in my fingers in the way of old gold. Tonight, I’ll be getting back the results.
Padre nostro che sei nei cieli,
ReplyDeleteSia santificato il tuo nome …
He drops to his knees in the dimly lit chapel. The thud of his jeans-clad knees hitting the wooden floor mirrors the pain he feels on his kneecaps. Anything. Anything is better than the pain inside. Any soreness and hurt his body suffers helps him distance slightly from the devastation he caused that day, in that life. Nothing can erase it or make it better, but any distraction that allows him to forget it for only a split second, keeps him from drowning.
He joins his hands in prayer. What a blast He must be having watching him bowing his head humbly, begging for forgiveness. Her forgiveness, not His. He has tried to spite her, thinking that he is better than her, that he deserves better. But he is nothing. He is dirt. He is selfish and ambitious, bringing only hurt to the people he loves, causing them to suffer because of his stupidity. Now, He has brought him to his knees to face his shame, his guilt.
He wrings his hands not able to join coherent thoughts into a prayer that could overcome the sense of fear and terror in his guts. There are still stains of blood under his nails. He has rubbed his hands till his own blood started to replace hers but he still feels they are dirty, sticky, bloody. Blood was seeping in between his helpless fingers, bubbles of air tickling his palms when they burst, when he tried to stop her bleeding. To stop what he had started when he betrayed her.
He lights a candle. Whether for her aching body or his drowning soul, he doesn’t know. He tries remembering the good moments, but not even one comes to mind …
Brigita
brizitka2001@yahoo.com
Your Messages has been a wonderful new experience for me. It's been fun to be part of this. Thank you, Sarah and Lynne.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteFabia remembers the years – the long years between twenty-five and fifty-five – when she lay awake every night and worried about dying young. There was so much to do, then. So much to fit in to every day without even stopping to think about what she really wanted from life.
ReplyDeleteShe was lucky; the brunt of the housework did not fall on her. But even so domestic labour was a serious undertaking back then: the household ran on a timetable which ate up the hours and the days. Then there were the children to worry about, the business of keeping herself presentable and her husband happy; the sustaining of a place in the little society they frequented.
And all the time, gnawing away at her, the longings she suppressed as though they were shameful. The urge to give expression to herself, to say what she felt to be true and important about life. The desire to define an identity separate from that of the middle class, Middle England wife and mother. Things she could not imagine that there would ever be time for, unless she lived a very long time; an unimaginably long time.
But she did. That never-ending round slowed and stopped: the children grew up and moved away, her husband died, the world changed. She was granted empty hours, days, years to express herself. She said what she wanted to say. Her wish came true.
But now she wishes she hadn’t hurried through the years when she was important to people, surrounded by noise and activity. She wonders whether women in the midst of life have time, these days, to read and write and think. She wonders whether her children will visit this month.
Now, when she lies awake at night, she hopes that she doesn’t live too long.
plemingcrow@aol.com
When my sister died, it was Spring. The sun was shining. It was early morning. The bulbs were just peeping through the earth. She chose a beautiful day to die I said, but then, she was very beautiful.
ReplyDeleteI miss her.
When my mother died, it was New Years day. Ice crunched beneath my feet. The dawn lay starched and the air was hard to breathe.
I miss her.
I miss the sound of my mother’s voice and singing joyful harmony with my sister. I miss the phone calls and long conversations about nothing and everything. I miss sharing my life with them. I miss the way their hands were gentle to the touch. The way they accepted me, in completeness.
When my son was rushed in a screaming ambulance, the kind you only witness happening to others, I lay beside him on the floor of a hospital, on some random mattress, taking each breath he took, willing his survival. I willed a lot!
Now he’s fully grown, I miss him. I miss familiar sounds, familiar to him. When I hear his songs or we sing together, I miss him more. I miss him when I read his poems, or he reads mine and he tells me how proud he is of me.
When my daughter asked me questions like; why is it dark inside my nose, will my shoes grow, and why am I small, I answered her. When she excelled, it was no surprise to me, I hugged her.
Now she’s fully grown, I miss her. I miss the familiar words, familiar to her.
When I hear her songs or we sing together, I miss her more. I miss her when I read her poems, or she reads mine and tells me how proud she is of me.
Chris Hoskins
chris.hoskins.poet@btinternet.com
The warm sea water gently licks my ankles, each playful approach and retreat burying my bare feet a little deeper in the cool, soft sand.
ReplyDeleteA house basks beneath a clear summer sky. Its windows reflect the sun-dappled ocean, like so many sets of spectacles. It’s a house that reads, its golden aura draws me inside.
The living room’s filled with overstuffed sofas, upholstered invitations to chat, read, or nap. A patchwork of oils adorns the walls; vibrant, earthy colors radiating energy and life.
Smells of freshly baked bread and simmering soup guide me towards the kitchen. A journal rests on the wooden table, the breeze rustling its leaves, a mug of steaming coffee holding it open.
“Well, hello.” I know that voice. I turn and see myself, decades older, eyes sparkling like I’ve been laughing for hours. “Welcome.”
He wraps his arm around my shoulder, leading me back to the lounge, where Larry’s ensconced in one the sofas. An ancient black cat purrs his lap. She looks up towards me, thwonks her tail once, and nestles her head back into her chest.
My niece floats down the staircase, clearly my sister’s child, her smock streaked with the colors that sing from the walls.
“These canvases are yours?” Yup, they’re called The Scenic Route, based on stories her mom and I told her.
“And your mom is … ?” I hesitate to finish.
“Swimming with the grandkids. They’ll be back for lunch.”
When I count to three, you’ll be back in the room.
But I love it here.
One.
Where exactly am I?
Two, wiggle your fingers.
Involuntarily waving goodbye, longing for guidance.
Three. You’re back, refreshed and alert. When you’re ready, open your eyes.
I savor the words my older self whispered.
“The path is yours. Just keep writing.”
bob [at] bobzyeruncle [dot] com
www.bobzyeruncle.com
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteThese are some things that I've got wrong with me ...
ReplyDelete* I've had a cold now for almost four weeks. A cold is such a minor thing, but this one isn't ...
* It started with a sore throat which I still have today. It gets so dry it makes me gag at times. I feel low and miserable.
* Then I had the sneezes and runny nose. Sorry, you're probably thinking that you don't want to hear about this, but bear with me. That led to red, peeling skin. Very festive with my white face.
* Now the cough. I keep everyone awake at night. The coughing gives me a headache and my lungs feel raw.
* This morning I awoke with a sticky eye. It took ages to open. The left side of my face is puffy, and my eye is bloodshot.
* I know that a week after my cold has eventually gone I will be lumbered with a cold sore for at least another two weeks. Ho hum.
I can't read properly (one eye closed puts a strain on the other one) but I thought that a short 30 words couldn't hurt. I ran off Sarah and Lynn's message for the day. It is so comforting. So full of cheer. It brings a smile to my face. It reminds me of all the good times, the fun times. I realise that I've been feeling sorry for myself and I'm missing out on this wonderful life.
I dose myself up, put on my sunglasses, and take the dog for a walk. It is beautiful outside. Life is wonderful. I feel better now. I shall feel a little better tomorrow, and by the weekend there'll be no stopping me. Thank you to you both.
There is never a time to die. Never a time to leave behind the joy of life, its challenges, its black and white moments. I want my dreams to come true.
ReplyDeleteMy dreams of a white cottage with blue shutters at the edge of the sea. The sound at night as the wind lashes it into formidable waves, its murmur in the morning in gentler mood.
A time to stroll along the Embankment, the grey river alive with interest, stalls groaning with books; view the house where Catherine of Aragon stayed when she arrived from Spain. Sit on a hard seat at the Globe Theatre and absorb the skill of the actors, acknowledge the genius of Shakespeare.
Eat on the balcony of a fisherman’s cottage in Crete under a cloudless sky. Feed Tippytoes, the stray cat and imagine adopting her.
Return to the farm in Llangybi where the children rescued a lamb not realising it was to be slaughtered the next day. Laugh at the way they crinkle up their town noses at the smell of dung. Welcome visiting cousins who eat the last of the fruitcake and moan at our isolated habitat.
Groan as my husband propels himself under the T.V. when Wales score a try, spills beer and crisps over the carpet. Suffering his black mood if they lose.
Drink too many cups of bitter coffee sitting outside a café in Paris. Marvel at the elegance of Parisians.
Play CD47 ad nauseam. This harpist transports the beauty of the instrument right into the soul.
Attend two writing groups where laughter is raucous, only positive criticism accepted.
Long for ‘Cranford,’ to begin on Sunday evenings. Miss Jenkyns dies too soon. Her facial expressions spoke for her and I shall miss her too much.
Re-read, ‘We must talk about Kevin.’
‘What if I miss some things if I die too early?’
ReplyDelete‘Nobody dies too early; everybody is dead on time when it comes to dying.’
‘Of course there are people who die too early. Most of the world’s population dies too early.’
‘Who says so?’
‘I do.’
‘We should care about rare animals and about us.’
‘Yes, and about the population that dies too early.’
‘Why is it that everybody wants to live by the sea?’
‘Don’t know. Almost everybody lives by the sea. 44 percent of the world population lives within 150 kilometres of the coast.’
‘And why is it then that I tend to meet people who don’t live in coastal areas?’
‘That’s probably because of you. Or you meet the wrong people.’
‘Like you?’
‘Yeah, like me.’
‘Perhaps everybody-people just move to live by the sea.’
‘I think everybody wants to be Italian.’
‘Because of Madonna’s shirt?’
‘Ye, everybody wants to be loved.’
‘Or to be Canadian, or Greek, or Swiss, or Brazilian, or Irish, or British, or US-Citizen or…’
‘Who wants to be of Bangladesh or Iraqi?’
‘Don’t know, but I know that everyone wants to be smart, intelligent and sexy.’
’I don’t. I am happy the way I am.’
‘Ye, but you are smart and intelligent.’
‘And?’
‘And what?`
‘And sexy.’
‘Sexy is shit. Sexy is most often not sexy at all.’
‘Everyone wants to take pictures of everywhere they are. Just imagine how many photographs there must be of everybody in front of the Colosseum in Rome.’
‘Or in front of whatever.’
‘Why is it that everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die?’
‘Is that so?’
‘Ye, it’s like everyone wants to be Radiohead at new music strategies, but still earn money.’
‘Everybody wants to have a good life.’
‘Definitely.’
jp@pamphlet.at
You’re six and you can’t wait for reading time at school. The teacher passes round books by Enid Blyton and C. S. Lewis, and finally you realise what all the fuss is about. The hours spent repeating the alphabet, recognising letters, putting letters together to make sounds, sounds which form words, words to copy and memorise, getting confused because ‘no’ can start with ‘k’, and ‘to’ can be spelt ‘too’ and ‘two’ and mean three different things. The naming and the doing and the describing words; the whole collection of different dots, squiggles and signs that live amongst the words on the page. All to be remembered and understood, practised at home and tested on Monday morning. Yippee! Finally you’ve realised the importance of it all and you devour books like sweets. Books about giant peaches, rabbits with watches and princes who turn into frogs. Pages of symbols leap into your eyes, making your head whirl with images and sounds of people and places you could have never before imagined.
ReplyDeleteYou’re eight and your teacher asks you to write a story. When it’s done your head is still full and you realise you have many more tales to tell: mice in toadstools, dancing fish, flying gnomes. You write down these stories and when you’ve finished you stick the pages together with Sellotape and make them into a book. You number the pages and divide them into chapters. You give the chapters names and list them at the front of the book. You design the cover with felt-tipped pens. You write the title and your name in big colourful letters. When you’ve finished you hide your book amongst all the other books on Mummy and Daddy’s bookshelf. Every night you pray that one day someone will pick it out to read.
Sarah C
missec99@yahoo.com
If I died today these are the things I would miss:
ReplyDeleteThe touch of my partner’s hand on my cheek as she remembered that I loved her despite always looking at a computer screen and sleeping alone. The brush of my other partner’s lips as she leaves the house to claim that she might die before she returns.
Seeing a book in print that has only my name on the cover; one that I didn’t self-publish on lulu.com. Watching Jasfoup the demon take flight across the world of popular culture.
The taste of a vanilla milk shake made with vanilla ice-cream on a hot summer afternoon as I sit next to the firepit, on the bench I made from an old fireplace.
Watching the waves roll in on a rocky shoreline and crying because I can; because the tears are disguised by flecks of salty water landing on my face.
Struggling through three more weeks of my leg in plaster, then three months of physical therapy, to experience the pleasure of performing just one more roundhouse kick to the head of a fellow trainee at the jitsu class.
Watching my daughter blossom from a sullen ten year old into a sullen teenager and independent adult; watching my two adoptive nieces blossom into the powerful women I know they will be.
My dog and her daily “look, mom! There’s a cat, mom! Look! A cat!” when the cat lives here too.
Albertioni’s “Adagio in G Minor” and lying in a warm bath with a book as it plays through an empty house.
The exquisite pain on the blade that will slice the flesh from my back on the 17th June 2019, ending with a jolt of surprises as the cold tip nicks the edge of my heart and stops it dead.
Supposing you were to miss it? The last one. It does happen. Just as you arrive, breathless, it leaves, you see through the window your empty seat, pre-booked, and you stand alone on a bare platform the weight of your luggage unbearable.
ReplyDeleteBut supposing it dawns on you slowly that this really is the last one of all, your only opportunity and you’ve missed it, because you weren’t ready, were messing about, washing up the breakfast things instead of slamming the door, leaving everything and running. You realise that everyone else has gone, not only the laughing happy people who kept you going, whom you love more than life, but also the people you smile at as you take your daily walks, even the ones who don’t want to smile back because they’ve got out of bed the wrong side. All gone.
Now leaves are falling, smothering the railway lines, the sun’s going down, darkness everywhere, you’re shivering as you stand there holding your single ticket, even the waste bins are missing, nowhere to discard the small piece of card that’s useless now, because you’ve missed your train.
Supposing you feel words crowding into your ears, like bees buzzing, all the words you’ve ever heard, written, spoken, read. They’re in your throat too, choking you.
There’s no doubt now that you’ve missed it, but you didn’t know how final it would be. You’d always tried to persuade yourself you could catch the next one, but you knew in your innermost being that you never had a chance. You’d always known.
Supposing now, right there on the bare platform, a screen’s being erected by invisible hands. A film begins, and you recognise your life. It’s fascinating and you sit on your luggage and watch time passing, until suddenly the film stops.
Hello Diggles - I really like this post of yours. It made me breathless.
ReplyDeleteThese are some things that I won't miss when I die too early ...
ReplyDeletethe fact that ... I live on the nineteenth floor and because the lifts are vandalized regularly and the council's slow to fix them, I'm stuck in my flat for days. I can't walk far. My legs can't manage it. The so-called view (that's a laugh) from my draughty living room window of the motorway. Of people going places I can only dream about.
The fact that ... dampness is a way of life now. Right down to my polyester trousers. Sometimes I don't make it to the bathroom in time - if you get my drift.
The fact that ... the weather here seems to be permanently stuck on a 'wet and windy day in November.' Once in a while I'd die for a 'June' or even the odd 'April.' I'm not fussed.
The fact that ... everyone around me is healthier, happier and richer than me. That includes my carer - and she's from Poland. She's only been in this country five minutes and already she's saving up for her own place. I've been saving my pennies for nigh on twenty years - and I still can't afford my own place.
The fact that ... my hands and feet are always cold. But my temper's hot. It's like a furnace at times. Inequality fuels it something rotten. I'm jealous of all those optimistic bastards who have a reason to get out of their pit in the morning. I don't. My pupils push through crusty rims and I say to myself 'God, another bloody day to endure.' And I'm not even religious.
The fact that ... I haven't reached my prime and already I'm past it.
The fact that ... I won't be here to grow old gracefully.
Louise Laurie
Louiserorie@aol.com
You know, I have a big problem with this list fetish. An inventory of stuff to do before you die sounds dangerous to me, a self fulfilling prophecy. What happens when you get to the end of it? What’s to get up for in the morning?
ReplyDeleteMy friend went to the hospital once and came away with a list that read: surgery, radiotherapy; chemotherapy, hysterectomy and (for good measure) chemotherapy. After six months she got to the end of that so she tried another doctor who said her immune system needed to be: detoxified, cleansed, oxygenated, alkalized and (above all) supported.
His happy little manifest came attached to a full daily dietary workout for her insides: bloodroot, burdock, sheep sorrel and slippery elm, lima beans, St. John's wort and verbena, hyssop, red raspberry leaf, angelica, shavegrass, sweet violet, cleavers and red clover.
A much more appetizing inventory, don’t you agree? Shame it was all in the shape of hard little pills that stuck to her poor, dry lips and could barely be swallowed, or brewed in the form of teas her failing organs couldn’t process. We came to the final item on that list on a hot July day last summer and she said: Fuck it. I’d really like a bit of lasagne.
So I consulted Delia (finally a useful list!) and made great piles of it. Rich and creamy with pancetta and chicken livers, home grown onions from the vegetable patch, grated nutmeg and red wine, topped with bubbling Parmesan.
Me, I’ve stopped making lists now, they’re just one damn thing after another. I’m a dedicated scrap of paper, back of an envelope type of girl. But if you still insist on doing it, please, please at least make it a really long one. Life’s much safer that way.
barrattalbans@hotmail.com
I sit in the doctor’s office and listen quietly as he explains thoroughly, making sure I understand. When he’s finished he looks at me expectantly, but when I answer, he is visibly startled. This is not the response he’s anticipated. Again, he tries to make me comprehend the gravity of the situation.
ReplyDelete“I’m sorry, I’m not having the surgery,” I state calmly.
“You’ll die.” He answers.
“I’ll die anyway, someday. I’ve seen what this surgery does to people. They’re not the same when it is over. Personalities have changed; they are dependent and cannot do the simplest tasks. I won’t live like that.” I answer again.
“Perhaps you would like to discuss this with your husband…”
“No, I will not discuss this with my husband or anyone else. I have made my decision. I need your assistance in living the rest of this out as best as I can. I do not want my family informed. I know I can rely on doctor patient confidentiality, correct?“
That evening while he was watching television and I was cooking dinner he asked what the doctor had said. I mentioned menopause and blood pressure and new medication to help me sleep.
“Let’s go away this weekend, maybe up to the mountains.” I said. He wasn’t really listening but I had already started planning.
I woke up early the morning and went for a walk. Did some writing, and then called a friend for lunch. At lunch I ordered what I really wanted and then dessert besides. When I walked outside I could smell fall in the air and already there was the changing colors starting to appear on tips of the leaves. The sky was azure blue.
I was going to die and I knew it, but first I was going to live.
If I die too soon I won’t miss the things I will miss if I live too long.
ReplyDeleteThere will be a time when I will miss sailing my own boat. I will have the memories of long views and successful landfalls. The satisfaction of knowing exactly what is where and how it works and how to mend it if it doesn’t and how to manage if I can’t mend it.
The satisfaction of using free wind in the sails and the feeling in the hands and feet and ears and eyes and bottom that the boat is in the groove and as responsive as a thoroughbred (but not so stupid).
The memory of new places found by chart and compass. The feeling that I have arrived by my own effort and skill is as fulfilling as a good painting to an artist or the completed poem to a poet. Walking the foreign streets and noticing the strangeness. Wanting to tell people ‘I sailed here in my own boat.’ Realising they will mostly be land people and have no way of knowing what this means.
The relief of port after a rough passage when everything, including me, has been tested and not found wanting. Of the peace and quietness when, at last, I can sit with a drink in my hand and look at my boat and realise all is well. Perhaps salt caked and damp, but good.
The particular pleasure of slow sailing in wind that is just enough to keep the sails filled and quiet. Not hurrying, but knowing that a well chosen tide is pushing me along towards my destination. Everything in its place and doing its job as it must.
So perhaps there isn’t a ‘Too soon’ to die, provided I don’t notice what’s going on.
Favourite Haunts:
ReplyDeleteStarbucks and Prets. Can’t imagine such ‘life savers’ not existing. Given one last request before going through the Gates, I’d be around there in no time sampling all the great tasting sarnies and pastries whilst choosing which flavoured coffee and hot chocolate to wash them down with.
Hobbies:
Poetry and Literary events – as many as possible before departing. The word ‘therapeutic’ comes to mind when I listen to live poetry – the sensations I get from this is similar to that I have experienced whilst watching figure skaters synchronise their movements across the ice with absolute consummate ease.
Art – painting and exhibitions. Wouldn’t have been happy leaving this world without seeing some Jacob van Ruisdael paintings close up; too beautiful to miss and miss them I shall. Was pleasantly surprised by the Constable exhibition and taken aback by the intricate details of each landscape. Standing in front of such huge canvasses has been thoroughly enjoyable. Dying young can have its drawbacks – would have left sadly only knowing the opinions of an art teacher on a Constable landscape. Would I have been able to face Constable without telling him the truth? As for Van Gogh – if only I had had the opportunity to see his paintings before getting an early chance to meet him. Much more convincing than to say, ‘I wrote a poem about you Van Gogh, about your “Sunflowers”. Did study your art in great detail but didn’t get a chance to see one of your exhibitions when I was living…’ Could have serious repercussions.
Future possibilities:
The aforementioned artists plus Rembrandt, Frans Hals and Picasso; my loving grandma and great granddad; Rock Legends; Alexander Bell – must remember to tell him about the mobile and ask what he thinks. Will speak to Newton about his successful apple theory.
Colleen
coll@literaryspot.com
It might not be too long now, they tell me.
ReplyDeleteI am trying to make a memory box for the family, something my husband and boys can look into later and find the essence of me. Precious words as well as photos, thoughts that I may never even have expressed out loud. Today the social worker has asked me to complete two lists. It is so hard to think about the things I will miss in life, but easier when you balance it with the things which won’t be missed so much. After all, life isn’t perfect, is it?
So here goes.
Things I will miss if I die too early:
Atlantic surf, crashing onto wide open sandy beaches.
The chance to use foreign languages in their native lands.
Thai and Indonesian food.
The sight of my husband and children sleeping peacefully.
The drive to learn and the opportunity to reinvent oneself.
Bookshops; you can never have too many books.
Retail therapy of little treats
Those special friends who have stuck by me through difficult times.
The serotonin boost of chocolate in all its infinite varieties.
Truly waterproof mascara.
Estee Lauder perfume
The internet.
Things I will definitely not miss if I die too early:
The dirty, chaotic mess that our city is in danger of becoming.
Hospital; my second home.
Being undervalued and underpaid.
Disability and the prejudice and discrimination which exist towards it.
Bullies who ruin lives.
George W. Bush.
Bananas.
Painkillers and Prozac.
The smell of petrol.
Ironing and hoovering.
Trashy celebrity gossip magazines.
The unpublished novels locked away in a secret place.
I could go on and on.
But when I do die, if there really is an afterlife then my baby daughter is waiting there for me.
I will no longer have to miss her.
I flicked the light on as I entered the room.
ReplyDelete“No, no, can you turn it back off? I like to watch the change from day into night.”
“Night? It’s just gone 4 o’clock,” I replied, flicking the switch off.
“You know what I mean. This is the last winter I’ll see so indulge me.”
“Don’t be so morbid.”
“It’s true, though. The last winter and the last Christmas.”
“We’d better make the most of it then,” I replied, as airily as I could manage.
“Christmas isn’t what it was when we were kids. I won’t miss it- repeated Christmas specials on the box, having to be polite to family members you don’t even like and everyone expecting you to be so bloody jolly all the time. Festive spirit, my arse.”
“We could do something different this year. Go away, maybe.”
“Yeah, maybe.” She glanced away as she spoke, a sure sign that she did not believe that it would happen. “It’ll be the everyday things that I miss: seeing you get water all over yourself every single time you do the washing-up, for example.” A trace of a smile formed around Cathy’s lips.
“I’m glad it amuses you.” I paused for a moment before continuing. “What about those plans you had? Travelling around the world, going bungee jumping and white water rafting?”
“They’re not real; they’re just fantasies. I’d miss things like taking the dog for a walk; I’d miss the dog, come to that. What would you miss?”
I glanced outside. “Can we put the light on yet?”
“No. Not until you tell me what you what you would miss.”
“Me? I’d…well…I’d miss you, Cathy.”
She smiled once more. “The thing I’d really miss is seeing your awkwardness when you try to express how you feel”
I flicked the light on as I entered the room.
ReplyDelete“No, no, can you turn it back off? I like to watch the change from day into night.”
“Night? It’s just gone 4 o’clock,” I replied, flicking the switch off.
“You know what I mean. This is the last winter I’ll see so indulge me.”
“Don’t be so morbid.”
“It’s true, though. The last winter and the last Christmas.”
“We’d better make the most of it then,” I replied, as airily as I could manage.
“Christmas isn’t what it was when we were kids. I won’t miss it- repeated Christmas specials on the box, having to be polite to family members you don’t even like and everyone expecting you to be so bloody jolly all the time. Festive spirit, my arse.”
“We could do something different this year. Go away, maybe.”
“Yeah, maybe.” She glanced away as she spoke, a sure sign that she did not believe that it would happen. “It’ll be the everyday things that I miss: seeing you get water all over yourself every single time you do the washing-up, for example.” A trace of a smile formed around Cathy’s lips.
“I’m glad it amuses you.” I paused for a moment before continuing. “What about those plans you had? Travelling around the world, going bungee jumping and white water rafting?”
“They’re not real; they’re just fantasies. I’d miss things like taking the dog for a walk; I’d miss the dog, come to that. What would you miss?”
I glanced outside. “Can we put the light on yet?”
“No. Not until you tell me what you what you would miss.”
“Me? I’d…well…I’d miss you, Cathy.”
She smiled once more. “The thing I’d really miss is seeing your awkwardness when you try to express how you feel”
keith_safc@hotmail.com
(forgot to put this on the original!)
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteThese are some things my mother has missed since she died too early:
ReplyDeleteSeven hundred and eighty-nine sunsets (so far).
The birth of her first granddaughter (the next day).
Reading nice books.
Bournville dark chocolate.
Two grandsons starting school.
Playing card-games on her computer.
Writing four-page, single-spaced, emails.
My sister’s career change.
Katie Price’s autobiography.
Having broadband.
Holidays in Scotland with the family.
The murder of Alexander Litvinenko.
Posting messages on the ItalianWordWrite Forum.
Seeing her grandchildren as sheep/innkeepers/Joseph in various Christmas plays.
Doing jigsaws.
Ellen MacArthur arriving at Falmouth after breaking the round the world record in Kingfisher II.
Drinking cherry brandy at Christmas.
The Da Vinci Code furore.
Pluto being demoted to ‘dwarf planet’ status.
Hurricane Katrina.
Her elder granddaughter breaking a leg.
Speaking Italian.
Sleeping in until lunchtime.
Saddam Hussain’s execution.
Google Earth.
The deaths of Freddie Laker, Richard Whitely, Pope John Paul II, her aunt Margaret, and other interesting people.
Kelly Holmes winning two gold medals.
The London bombings.
Three interminable series of Big Brother.
Cream cakes.
Gordon Brown becoming Prime Minister.
The completion of the Channel Tunnel high-speed rail link.
Her brother.
The birth of her fifth, and (probably) last, grandchild, a girl.
Watching David Attenborough on the telly.
The shooting of Jean Charles de Menezes.
The release of Mac OS 10.5.
Petrol prices going over a pound a litre.
The disappearance of Madeline McCann.
Bird Flu.
Two Harry Potter Books.
Chatting to her neighbour.
Me being involved in a minor car accident.
The discovery, in America, of some long-lost relatives.
Coffee.
Rides in her wheelchair.
Being bathed by someone else.
Being unable to hold a conversation without stopping to catch her breath.
Spending twenty-hours a day on oxygen.
Emphysema.
The chance to give up smoking.
Leigh
leigh.forbes@blot.co.uk
“If I die too early what would I miss?”Good question indeed. First and foremost my children
ReplyDeletemy blood, my precious stones and innocent they are, who would take care of them in my absence, which can substitute and replenish a mother’s affection? There will be many who come forward with a tongue of sugar coated bill, try to gain entry into the flat with all facilities, grab all the wealth and ditch; look at the world, when you are struggling and virtually groping in the streets, nobody to your rescue. In many cases, I have seen where, in the event of the mother’s death the step mother who is a total bully, or the children are tortured or left to their fate.
Grownups and elderly can take care of themselves. Mother missing her children and children losing mother’s affection is another curse. Husband, nearest kith and kin, no big loss.
I would be definitely missing my Mentor, or my Guru, and his divine compositions, yet He would
Not miss me for He is Avatar knowing the past, present and future .Through His Magic wand he
Would be viewing my position. My dream of England again and again, the vastness of America where again many famous poets are nurtured, my dream of flying high in the sky
all I would be missing very much. My granddaughter’s babbling talk, dancing posture,cute eyes, costliest miss.
When recently somebody was posed a similar question in the missing list, right from Diamond
Ring, down to golden ornaments and silk saris, the silver vessels and her pet dog and her flats,
She made a mention of all these except her children, perceptions differ of course.
Yet it was serious, impromptu, not for fun.
Radhamani
poet_radhamani@yahoo.com
pearlradhe.blogspot.com
These are some of the things I'll miss if I die too early...
ReplyDelete...the opportunity to have a proper lie-in. One where I wake up when my body wants me to, not because the baby needs feeding, or somebody has lost something.
... seeing the children into adulthood, when they develop the potential I see in them today. (Will I guess right?)
... playing my violin as part of an orchestra again, and joining a dance class. It used to be fun in my teens.
... finishing my travels. Peru to see the ruins. Egypt to see the treasures. Cruising ice-scapes with penguins, whales and polar bears. Seeing the Northern Lights, stroking reindeer and ataking a sleigh ride with my family. And I want to do the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal. I'm working on the presumption that I'll be retired so while I may not be exactly fit, there will hopefuly be enough money, and no time restrictions, so that I can do it slowly.
... falling in love with my husband again after the children have gone and he stops being the most qualified babysitter I know and, returns to being my best friend. Perhaps we can start this on the Circuit.
... those days when the words and images are so strong in my head that I have to remind myself that there is a world out there that expects me not to crash the car and to produce an edible dinner.
... being published. It's inevitable you know!
But at this moment in time, I have my family close, healthy and safe. Sometimes thinking of the potential harm in the future can be frightening. So if I died early, at least I'd know that they were okay.
It was a difficult birth, my wife and I were both exhausted. So many different messages we were given, as she slowly dilated to ease this new body into the world.
ReplyDelete“Baby’s doing well, lovely strong heartbeat.”
“We’re seeing a little distress, we really need to get things moving.”
“No need to worry, baby will be with you soon.”
“The consultant has been called.”
“You might want to step back here, your wife will be fine.”
Then bright lights, blood, screams.
For the first time in years I prayed. Begged. Bargained.
“Dear Lord, take the baby but spare her life. Please, please …”
I passed out. When I came round I was slumped in an armchair in the corridor. A nurse put her plump hand on my shoulder, squatted down so her kind face was level with mine and asked me softly if I would like to see my wife now.
“Is she dead?” I asked.
“Dead?” she said. “Why, no dear. She’s very much alive and looking forward to seeing you.”
I fell to the floor on my knees.
“Thank you, Lord, for answering my prayer. Thank you!”
I was surprised when the nurse chuckled. Birth and death, I suppose they see so much of it, it’s all the same to them.
In the room the lights were dim, like in a church, or a funeral parlour. It was deadly quiet. She was sitting up in bed holding a bundle of rags. I held her to me but she kept thrusting the bundle at me, cooing at it like it was a real, live baby.
“My poor darling,” I said, stroking her hair. “We still have eachother.”
I disagree with the nurses colluding in her fantasy. I’m taking her home today and she’s not bringing that bundle of rags.
Deborah
Deborah7@ntlworld.com
... not having to write my name and e-mail address in a separate box everytime I post.
ReplyDeleteHarriman
rosewood100@btinternet.com
... the opportunity to have a proper lie-in.
These are some reasons why I don’t want to live for ever.
ReplyDeleteInfinity is frightening. My mind cannot conceive of doing anything for ever. That’s why I also have a problem with life after death. If something never ends – why did it begin?
I think I would get bored. If you go through life and pack in everything you want to do; what is left? You can’t just do everything again. A life with no new experiences has nothing to offer.
Why would I want to live for ever if the people I love aren’t with me? My life would be nothing without them. I don’t want to face eternity on my own.
History would start to get really confusing.
Because, like a rose on a stem, everything has to wither and die eventually. The bud flourishes and opens into a beautiful flower, but then the petals slowly have to fall. They cannot defy gravity. They do not exist outside the laws of physics.
I don’t buy into the idea that all disease and infirmity will be eradicated. Even if it was, there’s still the option of self harm: deliberate or accidental. Eternal life would be a succession of bits dropping off and ceasing to work.
I have no desire to be cryogenically frozen while someone tries to find the elixir of life. Apart from anything else I suffer from claustrophobia.
If everyone lived forever there would be no room for new life. Life has to be a cycle – we have to die to make room for others to live. Not being willing to let go is selfish.
Part of me just doesn’t want to be around to see the results of global warming and international terrorism.
Because life, like all beautiful things, is only beautiful because it is transient.
Death missed many things.
ReplyDeleteShe missed being able to heal the wounded and the weak. In her previous life as a mystic, she had healed many. She missed the looks on their faces as the pain went away, the thanks and gratitude that was showered upon her.
She had been able to heal with her touch, to take away any pain or malady with one moment of contact. She missed that so much.
Now, when she touched someone, her touch brought only death instead of healing. The end of a cycle instead of a new beginning.
Sighing, Death looked at herself in the mirror: long black hair that hung straight past her shoulders, framing a face with pale skin and sapphire eyes. She missed being able to get a tan, she missed her green eyes that had flashed like jewels and had ensnared the hearts of men with one glance.
When they had come to her and told her what she had inherited, she didn’t believe them. The power to kill, the power to end a life with one touch, seemed horrible to her. They had told her she had no choice; them with their long black robes and their movements slow and graceful.
“It is the natural order of things.” One of them had said. “In your life you were able to heal. Now you are able to give death to those whose time is short.”
She looked at her hands, at her fingers. Capable of so much but not capable of touching someone in a gesture of love; she had not touched another being in decades. Never aging, she remained alone, unable to touch or be touched.
She missed that most of all.
Sighing, Death shed a tear for herself and went to look for the next soul.
Jamieson Wolf
jamiesonwolf@gmail.com
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteSee a penny, pick it up, all day long you'll have good luck.
ReplyDeleteYou could:
1. Find one of the few shops left that still sells penny sweets. (You're unlikely to be lucky enough to spend a penny anywhere else these days, not even many public conveniences.)
2. Toss the penny and, when luck turns it up heads, you get to buy the next round.
3. Con a quid out of someone using it for lucky magic coin tricks.
4. Introduce your children to gambling at a young age by winning on the penny falls.
5. Find fortune on your side when you're in A & E for less than five hours after one of your kids finds the penny and inserts it in a mouth/ear/nose/other orifice. (Delete as appropriate.)
See a penny, pick it up, and keep on picking, you're rat race struck.
You could:
1. Develop a stoop from the weight of all that money and trying to keep it safe.
2. Buy a big car or two on life-tying H.P. and heat up the rest of the world for free.
3. Buy a big house that you'll never spend any time in because you're so busy working. (Still, at least your cleaner will enjoy the new furniture and your best bottle of Bourbon.)
4. Have more children, not because you've any time to spend with them, but at least then you'll have someone (besides the Government) to leave your wealth to. In the meantime, work even harder to pay for all those little extras for the kids: designer trainers, their own televisions, expensive extra tuition to help them join the rat race too.
5. Teach your children that money is God and buy them their own gold giant hamster wheel.
See a penny, pick it up, though money can make a good life come unstuck.
Sarah James
lifeislikeacherrytree@yahoo.com
She loves her new T-shirt. The red stripes remind her of the deck chairs on Margate seafront when she was a kid. When her dad took her on holiday and bought her pink rock.
ReplyDeleteShe remembers sitting in the deck chairs and wondering what would happen if she walked in a straight line towards the sea. She knew that the hot sand would worm its way between her toes. And if she didn’t stop when she reached the water, there would be a mouth-watering chilliness as the waves lapped at her ankles.
She’d imagined the water creeping up her legs as she walked forward. The sharp gasp of breath she would take, as a bigger than usual wave caught her by surprise, and sloshed around her waist. She’d never actually gone any further before; someone had always warned her of deep water and pulled her back. But that didn’t stop her imagining.
She knew she’d feel the sun burning the back of her neck and something wriggling over her toes, and she would try hard not to imagine crabs spidering around her feet. She’d caught some in a bucket last week. Had kept them for a day, fed them tuna sandwich and let them go when they went home.
She would feel the water wash over her shoulders and wrap around her throat. She imagined taking a deep breath and walking onwards, right across the sea bed to the other side.
She remembers imagining that journey. But now she neatly folds the red and white striped T-shirt, and lays it on top of her neatly folded white shorts and her red flip flops. She rereads the note and tucks it under the pile of clothes so it doesn’t blow away.
And she retraces the steps she imagined thirty-five years ago.
nicky@sharra.plus.com
It seems the whole world is asleep except me. I shouldn’t be awake this early, but I couldn’t settle and I don’t want to lie down. There’ll be time for that later.
ReplyDeleteIt’s cold outside and the grass is wet with the heaviness of the dew that has almost, but not quite become frosted. I want to feel the iciness of it against my toes and so I slip open the door and step outside. It feels good, wet and cool and I feel connected to the planet. Me and gravity. Pulling together. I wonder if I will return to the earth beneath my feet when the time comes, as it will soon, or whether my spirit will rise up into the atmosphere and float unconnected and free. It’s a good thought, floating free, and I wish I could believe it. I could do with some comforting thoughts to wrap around my fragile body.
I’ll miss the grass - the greenness of it. I breathe in the scent it throws up at me – it’s a good smell but I can’t describe it. I’ll miss the trees even more, their black branches defined sharply against the pale watery light of the winter sky. I could never grow tired of watching the trees or of hearing their gentle sighing in the breeze. I used to imagine they absorbed all the woes of the world and that was what I could hear, but now I know they’re just trees, beautiful, but nevertheless just trees. This morning there is no noise. The air is still. Is this what it will be like? Always.
My feet are cold now and I turn to go back inside. How many mornings like this will I see before the silence of the morning becomes the silence of eternity.
The thing about the fear of dying too early and missing certain moments of life is the inability to accurately assess what will be missed or what might be considered dying too early.
ReplyDeleteFor example, on somedays, it might be wonderful to sit curled in an armchair in the kitchen with a hot mug of coffee writing about what brings pleasure while everyone's asleep. But if one of the everyones in the house is someone who isn't home, the morning armchair coffee in the kitchen might be the too early beginning of a long day waiting for a return home.
About that pleasurable moment where a piece of writing writes itself without me: I wonder, who's the being that thinks this is me writing or not writing?
Is the best moment one where one doesn't feel a self judging the moment being good, and if that's the case, how can the moment be missed?
Look at mother here, she's bored to tears, but in a good way. Her life no longer troubles her, she can't remember the details of each day anymore, but has a storehouse of memories in sharp but distant definition. She's fearful of dying too soon, but a missed moment is usually one that hasn't happened yet so she has something to look forward to--if it's already here, she'll feel sorry to miss it when it's gone. She's never sure when she's missed something till it's done. But then she puts them into her folder of good memories. If someone persuades her she's had many good moments, she'll believe it after the fact, but not during.
It's difficult to think that I won't be here. Death happens to others, so far. Perhaps missing those moments is because I fear I won't be missed when I die.
Considering my somewhat lacklustre application towards all things involving making an effort, my current, self inflicted torment is justified.
ReplyDeleteMy earliest aspirational yearnings arrived just after my fourteenth birthday. Suddenly, the craving to write a book (any book) consumed my innermost desires (I had the hots for Frances Stevens at the time, and she always buried her head in a novel at lunchtime). Detailed images forming desired outcomes coloured my mind; I visualised myself hunched over a brown Silver Reed typewriter (my sisters 9th birthday present), perched at the kitchen table, complete with half a Silk Cut dangling from the corner of my mouth (my parents may have gone ballistic at that, but at fourteen, you’re bullet-proof, right? A weird concept anyway, as I’ve never smoked in my life). Repeatedly, the imagining centred around my enthusiastic pounding of the fragile, plastic keys, punching the immortal words ‘The End’ upon a pristine sheet of white A4, the last of several hundred added to the neatly stacked manuscript perched on my left (next to an overflowing ash tray, naturally).
Not only were the words contained on said manuscript to be a work of breathtaking immensity, catching fire in the imagination of a grateful public starved of storytelling genius, it was my destiny, my calling, in replacing my idol (at the time), Stephen King, the planets most prolific, wealthiest (and luckiest) author.
Those future memories became a beautiful lie, the most perfect of deceptions.
My only problem following that particular dream happened to be fundamental. To this day, whilst retaining the burning desire to create anything to get my name in print, I’ve never written a single word.
However, the Silver Reed eventually produced work of a publishable standard. That work is now a worldwide bestseller. My sister is deserving of that success.
So this is happiness: this flick-flack surge
ReplyDeleteOf life; watching the world slide by to Miles
Davis's The Doo Bop Song; smiling at
Strangers who, after a snake-blink flicker
Of hesitation, engage and smile back;
Noticing the dew-damp, meadowland grass;
The clear sky spanning wide above; velvet
Branches stretching to reach higher than all
Albert's shrine of gold that glistens in the
Sunshine; a vapour stream sharp-skating through
The blue: piercing, like the pang that I feel
When I think that this moment, like that fading
Trail, might be just as ethereal
But this is real, this surge, this inner thrill;
The last yellow leaves fluttering like autumn
Bunting in the breeze; a spaniel bounding
With sheer coat-rippling, ear-flapping joy
Across the russet expanses of park;
The boys’ cries rising like birds on the air;
The muffled crunch of mulch under the wheels
Of my bike; the faintest tinkle of the bell
Each time I bump over a stick or hump;
Cold air on flushed cheeks; hot chocolate dates;
Quizzical squirrels twitching translucent tails;
And the restful cedar on top of the hill
Whose stoic green boughs have stood fast, and
Do still, as cyclists and time fly by.
If asked to explain I would describe the
Slow-cantering horses heaving magnificent
Breaths; grand rows of planes with dappled trunks and Kamikaze leaves that hit the ground with
Heavy thunks; dedicated old men braving
The Serpentine come rain or shine with
Resolution that would be quaint elsewhere;
Ducks parading like head-girls round the pond;
The tourists I see standing in awe of
Such a splendid space created for you
And for me, protected for posterity;
The sweet smells of damp earth and evergreens;
And the light so pure it cuts through to your core,
Because this is what happiness means.
claudia@pelagos.myzen.co.uk
I found your list last week. It’s been six months and it’s only recently that I’ve felt I can look at your belongings. I started with the impersonal stuff, old bills and bank statements, slowly building up to bagging up your clothes to take to the charity shop. I thought I’d better wash them first; no-one wants a dead man’s dirty clothes. It was when I was checking the pockets of your winter coat that I found the folded piece of paper along with a 20p piece and an old tissue. I nearly threw the piece of paper away along with the tissue, thinking it was an old list from one of your trips to the DIY store, but I wanted to see your handwriting again so I unfolded the paper.
ReplyDeleteI didn’t see the words to begin with, I was admiring the feathers you made out of the height of the hs and ls, but then I read the title: Things I Wish I’d Done. I expected it to be the DIY chores you never finished, that brick outhouse top of the list, but I was mistaken. If it hadn’t been in your handwriting I never would have believed you had written it. Despite 40 years of marriage, I didn’t know you at all. You must have written the list when you knew you were ill, why didn’t you share your dreams with me? They were so modest, there was still time.
I’ve since decided to live your lost dreams for you. My life is one big lost dream without you and a little adventure will do me good. So tomorrow I fly to Barcelona to visit the Sagrada Familial. I hope that you are with me and together we can admire the beauty of a job half done.
alisonbarwell@aol.com
For years Henry had thought of life as eighteen out of twenty-four hours of a day in midsummer. He found this way of looking at it neat and helpful.
ReplyDeleteCould you please make a diagram now? Just draw a circle and put the 24 hours of the clock onto it. Henry imagined that if he was born at 6 am one morning, at 7 am he would be 4 years old, at 8 am he would be 8 years old, until at midnight he would be 72, which he considered a good age. If he stayed on into the small hours of the divine day just passed, he would have time to ponder and doze a little before finally falling asleep. He knew he wouldn’t see the dawn.
He couldn’t remember when the idea first occurred to him – maybe when he was in his thirties, and by his reckoning it was perhaps 2 o’clock in the golden afternoon when there were many hours of the day left to him. He was at the height of his powers and success and health. He enjoyed married life and his children. He looked back on his youth when the sun was overhead and was glad it was now afternoon. In the morning he hardly knew what was going on after 9 o’clock, and between 10 and 11 the heat had been rising…
Soon he noticed the shadows were lengthening and it was time for the pre-dinner glass of wine at 6.30 pm. Then supper at 8 o’clock. He began to notice with regret how the minutes slid by, but soon he stopped playing the game. The News at Ten, bedtime at 11. He didn’t notice midnight come, but looking at the clock just now he saw that it was a quarter to one.
judytattersfield@tiscali.co.uk
For years Henry had thought of life as eighteen out of twenty-four hours of a day in midsummer. He found this way of looking at it neat and helpful.
ReplyDeleteCould you please make a diagram now? Just draw a circle and put the 24 hours of the clock onto it. Henry imagined that if he was born at 6 am one morning, at 7 am he would be 4 years old, at 8 am he would be 8 years old, until at midnight he would be 72, which he considered a good age. If he stayed on into the small hours of the divine day just passed, he would have time to ponder and doze a little before finally falling asleep. He knew he wouldn’t see the dawn.
He couldn’t remember when the idea first occurred to him – maybe when he was in his thirties, and by his reckoning it was perhaps 2 o’clock in the golden afternoon when there were many hours of the day left to him. He was at the height of his powers and success and health. He enjoyed married life and his children. He looked back on his youth when the sun was overhead and was glad it was now afternoon. In the morning he hardly knew what was going on after 9 o’clock, and between 10 and 11 the heat had been rising…
Soon he realised the shadows were lengthening and it was time for the pre-dinner glass of wine at 6.30 pm. Then supper at 8 o’clock. He began to notice with regret how the minutes slid by, but soon he stopped playing the game. News at Ten, bedtime at 11. He was unaware when midnight came, but looking at the clock just now he saw that it was a quarter to one.
judytattersfield@tiscali.co.uk
Thinking about dying young certainly makes you count the blessings in your life – and maybe question some of them too:
ReplyDelete• Speculating with a few close friends over what we would choose if we had just one wish. Would it be about love, career, friendship or health? Do we really want it to come true?
• Laying the table for two with candles, flowers, wine, hopes and dreams. What kind of mood will he be in tonight?
• Taking three deep breaths in and out at the start of my favourite yoga class. Will I allow myself to relax today?
• Laughing with my father over the Four Candles joke. Or was it Fork Handles?
• Doing the High Five with my daughter, her face shining with enthusiasm and anticipation of a new project or achievement. Isn’t she beautiful with her whole life ahead of her?
• Buying a six pack of beer in preparation for the build up and excitement of a big Portsmouth v Tottenham clash. Will I ever understand the off-side rule?
• Waking at seven in the morning after a good night’s sleep and hugging a mug of tea. What did I dream? Does it hold any significance for the day ahead?
• Discovering that eight, my lucky number, is the sign of infinity. Why did it take me 51 years to realise this? What other secrets of life am I missing?
• Cuddling up for a 9’o’clock television programme – the chores complete and an hour’s mindless relaxation guaranteed. Are other people such slobs? Should I be trying to expand my mind?
• Taking ten minutes in the day to listen to a meditation tape and get into a state of total peace and calm. If only I did. Why do I find it so difficult?
maryatkinson@clara.co.uk
30 November 2007 07:02