Mapping The Territory (11)

MAPPING THE TERRITORY (11)

The fucking thing missed us, and spun into space.

Mapping The Territory (10)

MAPPING THE TERRITORY (10)

The woman was mad, I had nothing to lose. The world at an end; I would tell her the truth.

'It's not that I'm glum,' I began to explain. 'I just feel numb, and I so hate the rain. I wish I could say there is nought to regret, but I've lost my cagoule and I fear getting wet.'

'My dear, do not fret. I, too, loath being damp. (All my joints start to ache, and I suffer from cramp.')

I tried again (this time, speaking plain).

'Thing is . . .

'The past has a habit of haunting me, and, the future just causes anxiety. Is it so bad to wish our world come to an end; that we all go together and don't have to fend for ourselves when the ones we have loved are no more?'

'Child, your attitude's proving a terrible bore.'

'Hey, but listen up, lady, I speak from the heart. This living, this living's a terrible art. The one thing we know is we're going to die; it's our one certainty (and the thing we deny).

'If that planet hits earth then our destiny's sure; we all burn together and grief is no more.'

I decided to leave it at that.

Mapping The Territory (9)

MAPPING THE TERRITORY (9)

'Now, listen my dear, you are so damned austere,' she said as she rose from her bed (alas, not another woodshed).

We'd secured lowly shelter from cold winter weather beneath a peculiar rock. 'A good chance,' she had said, 'to take stock.'

'Of what?' I had asked. 'You know we can't last if that planet is heading for earth. We will shatter and burn, unless it soon turns.' 

I was filled with a dubious mirth.

'How strange is your reason; pray, think of the season. (My goodness, how gloomy you are.) Our new 'sun' brings nothing but hope and good cheer. (I wish I'd remembered to pack some strong beer.) 

'My dear, as I say, that it's coming our way fills my soul with excitement; I'm thrilled. (There's no way that it signifies ill.) Burning bright in the night; what a sight to behold. Now, lift up your eyes, be courageous, be bold.

'You may think that the end of the world is soon nigh but I challenge your view, and I'll testify why:

'This 'planet' you see is God's message to us (don't look like that, child and, please, don't make a fuss); yes, God's promise to us (and, we know who we are). Be proud, and bear witness: his new Christmas star.'

Mapping The Territory (8)

MAPPING THE TERRITORY (8)

'Don't look sore, my dear, there is nothing to fear.'

It appeared Mother Courage was back; sucking hard on a tube from her sack.

'Really, nothing's the matter. . . '

(As I coveted her catheter; a rather nice blue plastic Camelbak bladder.)

'You see,' she piped up:

'The sun has gone down and the moon has come up. The evening star's moved into place. Orion's upstanding, the Great Bear's reclining; such a comfort to stare into space.

'So what if one planet's out of place?'

I said:

'You're deluded,' then concluded (in a bid to be clear) 'you cannot ignore facts just to assuage your fears. You cannot turn your cheek to ensure a good view. Bad luck will endure, never mind what you do.'

Mapping The Territory (7)

MAPPING THE TERRITORY (7)

The sky turned red, and the moon came up. (The Priestess imbibed a preprandial sup.)

'My child, do you see (I'm convinced it's not me) that one sun's gone but one still remains? You know, I've been wracking my brains. What on earth could it mean? (You accept what we've seen?)

I was tired of her endless refrain.

So, I said:

'Well, it's clear to me, I'm surprised you can't see that the end of the world is now nigh. Take stock of your life; say goodbye.'

The Priestess looked up, then drank deep from her cup; she'd procured a good whisky, I saw.

'Are you kidding, my child? You will drive me quite wild if you say that the world is no more.'

I was shocked, and tried to look sore.

Mapping The Territory (6)

MAPPING THE TERRITORY (6)

I'd heard said that the Priestess was obsessed with semiology; had applied to reading tarmac yet another tired theory.

I, myself, am sick of theory: such a bore, so dry and dreary. (What's the use of methodology? I ask you quite sincerely.)

Anyway.

We were walking up hill. The sun was striking hot. I was nigh on giving up; throwing in my weary lot. By my side, she held her stride, but the heat was so oppressive that she hitched her dress up high revealing thighs that were impressive.

I looked away.

'Is it me who's seeing double, I must say I've had some trouble with my eyes in recent years - course, it could be all those tears that I've cried for girls, like you. Now I regularly see two.'

I ignored her.

'Yes.

'When I cast my glance aloft, the horizon's rendered soft, but that ain't the thing that bothers me, my dear. What perturbs me all the more and, my child, I can't be sure, but do we always have two suns this time of year?'

I stared up at the heavens, and gasped.

'Do you see?

'I have watched the sun and moon occupy the sky at noon now and then throughout the ages of my life. (There's a theory that their union portends strife. . . )

'But, the detail's in the shadows; things are lit from left and right. While I hate to be alarmist, I believe it's not my sight.'

Mapping The Territory (5)

MAPPING THE TERRITORY (5)

We kept on the go, and I held my head low but the Priestess remained irrepressible; her presence depressingly miserable.

'Well, my child, what a lark! I've been quite in the dark when it comes to the pleasures of hiking. I must say that I find it quite striking; my aches are all gone, mind and body are one. This exercise thing's to my liking.'

I said nothing.

'Come, come, don't be surly, it's really quite early. The day's pleasures still lie ahead. So what if I hogged the bed? A lady like me is quite fragile, you see. Sleep badly; I suddenly see red.'

She glanced at me sideways.

'Ooh, yes.

'I sleep light as a feather; regardless of weather I wake in a terrible sweat. My scalp is all itchy, my breast-plate is damp. The nape of my neck is soaked wet.

'Of course, you'll be wondering the cause. Let me whisper, dear child: menopause.'

I replied:

'Fine: so we're dealing with your needs, are we, not mine?'

Mapping The Territory (4)

MAPPING THE TERRITORY (4)

The Priestess was amazon, it didn't take long; her flat-footed stride echoed mine.

'My sweet, do you have any wine?

'Without lemons and ice, gin and tonic ain't nice. And, I must say, we've walked a long time.'

She rolled a fat cigarette and lit it.

'Well, I'm destined nowhere, so get out of my hair,' I responded: a truculent child.

'Now, now' said the woman, quite mild. 'You must cultivate grace, and not over-react. All I did was make manifest a veritable fact; that you've spent your whole life either walking or running away from the truth and towards - simply - nothing.

'Oh, you covered your tracks well; we thought you hard-working but, when all's said and done, you were only just shirking the things that - on earth - really matter.

'That's what makes this whole mess so much sadder.' She pulled out a filthy hanky from the arm of her dress, and wiped away a tear.

'My heart weeps for you, notice, my dear.'

I turned to face her.

'Can't I travel alone, don't you have a nice home you could go? I beg you, please leave. I don't care for the tricks up your sleeve. I know I'm at fault. Why else would I bolt? Just go, and allow me to grieve.'

'I would if I could,' as she stared into space. 'But, the fates have decreed I must equal your pace. We are destined to travel together.

'Chin up, things can only get better.'

Mapping The Territory (3)

MAPPING THE TERRITORY (3)

So, we walked on together; the sun on our backs. And, she's wily that woman; I shouldered both packs.

Her sack was quite heavy; 'what is it you carry?'

She answered, 'just hand me your flask'.

But, between breaths (and stumbling) she managed a grin. 'I always prefer to add tonic to gin. My bag, dear child, is crammed full with tins. I want only ice and some limes.

'Don't you miss the old days, those good times?'

I said nought; and, the Priestess opined:

'So, I see you've attempted ten steps to nowhere; let's consider them, child. (Quit that look of despair. You're much prettier when you smile.)

'To begin with you opted for optimism. It failed, so you coveted pessimism. Then (regrouping) you tried being enthusiastic. Well, when that didn't work, then, you made yourself sick. You found yourself bloated, and came out in spots so you gave up on eating and drinking: the lot. You got terribly thin, I remember.

'Four steps to nowhere.

'You decided to study; exceeded the best. But, fast-forward to jobs and you failed the test. Teamwork, it would seem, was anathema to you. So, you tried going freelance; were lonely and blue.

'Six steps to nowhere.

'Meditation is fine if one clears the mind, and, yoga is good for one's haunches and hind, but you always forgot that you had to keep breathing; your brain never stopped, your emotions kept seething.

'Eight steps to nowhere.

'The wine-tasting club only left you a lush. And, your time with the shrink - well - I see why you blush.

'Ten steps to nowhere.'

I stepped up my speed and left her behind.

'Now, child,' cried the Priestess, 'pray, don't be unkind.'

Mapping The Territory (2)

MAPPING THE TERRITORY (2)

I maintained a good pace, my eyes fixed on the track; regained my composure (refused to look back).

Through scrubland and dust, tufted grass, fallen trees, I continued to walk; thus, to do as I pleased. I forgot the Priestess and her candid advice. (The woman was bonkers, and not very nice.) When the sun fell to earth and I entered twilight, I began to consider where best spend the night. I put down my pack and unfastened my shoes and reminded myself I had nothing to lose.

If the world were as flat as they all once believed, I would walk to its edge, and fall off, quite relieved. If the world were a sphere (as we all now proclaim) I would walk round and round it until I was lame.

(In the end it would come to the same.)

I re-laced my boots, and I quickened my step and - the moon sailing high - I discovered my bed; a clean metal trailer, a private woodshed.

I lay down and stared at the stars.

I woke as she fastened her bra.

'My child, I've secured you a map of the land. Pray, please do not thank me. I know where you stand. You consider me stupid: an idiot hag. (By the way have you got any wine in your bag?)'

'Who are you?' I said, though I knew in my heart that the Priestess appeared when one's world fell apart.

She looked at me hard.

'I'm the facts you can't face, and a heart-felt embrace; I'm the things you refuse to confront. I will show you the truth, tell you lies as a ruse, and reveal an incredible stunt.

'Travel with me.'

Mapping The Territory (1)

MAPPING THE TERRITORY (1)

I had walked forty days with the sun on my back as I carried my life in an old canvas pack: the sun with its brazen and brilliant gold glow. 

My body was strong, but my spirit was low (though I walked without pause, I had nowhere to go). I was busy with numbers and figures and facts when an old hag appeared; stopped dead in my tracks.

'My child,' said the Priestess adjusting her bra, 'how dirty your face is, how weathered you are. How filthy your nails, how tangled your hair. Now, it's all very well to pretend you don't care but - and, take this from me - you should always look fair, for a time might occur when you want to go back. Do you have, for example, fresh pants in your sack? Do you have a perfume? Do you own any slap?'

'I just need a map,' I replied. 

'Tut tut,' mused the Priestess, 'you're tetchy, I see. Now do as I say and try mimicking me. You'll not find me rude; I aspire to be gay. So, what do you want with an Ordnance Survey?'

'Okay.

'I must study the contours of where I have been, and turn into symbols the things I have seen. I must navigate valleys of death and observe the high-peaks of joy and the mountains of love. . . '

'My dear,' said the Priestess (a terrible grin), 'it's time that you lost this pathetic chagrin. Just emulate me and you're sure bound to win. Self-love's not so awful a thing.'

I circumnavigated the bitch and carried on walking.

Smoking Women (10)

SMOKING WOMEN (10)

Smoking Women (9)

SMOKING WOMEN (9)

Smoking Women (8)

SMOKING WOMEN (8)

Smoking Women (7)

SMOKING WOMEN (7)

Smoking Women (6)

SMOKING WOMEN (6)

Smoking Women (5)

SMOKING WOMEN (5)

Smoking Women (4)

SMOKING WOMEN (4)

Smoking Women (3)

SMOKING WOMEN (3)

Smoking Women (2)

SMOKING WOMEN (2)

Smoking Women (1)

SMOKING WOMEN (1)

Cigarette advertising might be banned, but the women in adverts still hold their hands in ways to suggest they're having a smoke. 

Broom (15)

BROOM(15)

I was sat in my chair with no thoughts about cleaning (despite the fly-shit on the walls and the ceiling).

The one with the Hoola-Hoop had my attention:

'This life that I'm living was not my intention.

'I have failed, but I managed as best as I could; I behaved pretty well and learned how to look good, but, things never worked out quite the way that they should.

'I was doomed from the start, it would seem. And, whenever I tried to redeem myself or my life it all ended in strife; it's a nightmare. (I wish I could dream.)'

'Did you ever dream?' I asked.

'Well, therein lies the problem, my sense of direction has never been very acute. (The fact that I couldn't read maps or road plans was ignored on the grounds I was cute.)

'But, as a woman starts ageing, her beauty starts fading; I suddenly found I was old. My poor navigation had no mitigation. Not cute, just an idiot, I'm told.

'So, I reached for the slap and began to make-up. I would put on a face, after all. I would never admit I was so ill-equipped. I would masquerade boldly; walk tall.

'By the end of the day, though, it's easy to see through foundation and powder and rouge.

'It's not easy to paint out a bruise.'

Broom (14)

BROOM (14)

I was white-washing walls (so the office looked bright) when the one with the hoola-hoop gave me a fright.

Collapsed in the corner she was, with her mouth a bit slack and her eyes almost crossed.

I said:

'hey, why not give that ring a quick swing?'

She said:

'I can't, I'm just feeling too thin.

'I am thinking too many portraits have been taken of me; the result is I'm feeling quite shaken. (My image is all and my soul is forsaken.) I'm blurred at the edges, you see. And, I'm no longer quite sure I'm me.'

I study her hard and I see what she's saying; she is out of focus, her seams are all fraying. The woman is wasting away. Her colour is gone; she's all grey.

I said:

'Well, please, no truck with the negative; you really have to be positive, and don't worry you're now monochrome. We can always hand-paint you, re-touch and highlight you. There's really no reason to moan. At worst, we can always gold-tone. Yes, that's what we will do to ensure that we fix you.

'And, if gold is too dear then selenium, I hear, will turn you a purplish-brown. (My God, why on earth do you frown?)

'It's a solution, isn't it?'

Broom (13)

BROOM (13)

I was stood on a stool with my new feather-duster, detaching old cobwebs with what power I could muster when the one with the hoola-hoop swooped into sight, gyrating those hips with immense speed and might.

She said:

'You know those old photos of French boulevards; the ones where you really do have to squint hard? The ones that took ever so long to expose; so long that one wouldn't be wrong to suppose that Parisian roads - nay, all capital streets - were devoid of life; yea, untrodden by feet?'

I tried to look cool but, I have to admit, I've a deep-seated loathing of all arachnids.

'Yes. You know about Talbot and that French guy - Daguerre? The first to go public; the first who would dare to suggest they could turn three dimensions into two . . . '

The sight of a spider got me all of ado.

'Well, I often retreat to the fire escape, for a smoke and a think and a bit of a break. . .

'CCTV's always interested me but, now I can see, that my own institution's got its eye trained on me. It's installed an old camera: a pin-hole, in fact.  (Made out of a beer can and some sticky black tape.) My fear: though the camera is less than precise (and it takes several months for the pic to take shape) is that, despite long exposures removing all trace of the people who pass at a brisk walking pace, I am - regular - sat on the stairs . . .

'Now, won't it be awful if after six months, a latent image has registered me sat, all hunched-up? The untrained observer might wrongly deduce that I'm under-employed, and at a loose-end when, in fact (for the record) I actually spend more time than I paid for at work.'

Broom (12)

BROOM (12)

I was trying to construct a kind of prayer as I brushed off the dandruff from the back of my chair. (Is it art or love that I strive for, I thought. Or, am I more interested in the bike I just bought?) Who cares, I'm most sad that I'm losing my hair. At this rate, just two years and my pate will be bare.

So, I turned to my girls (who know much of this world). I said, 'tell me, my dears, what's it mean to get old?'

The one with the hoola-hoop winced as she said, 'your skin starts to sag and your face gets all red.'

The one from Exotica was somewhat oblique: 'Enlightenment; that's the thing we all seek.'

The artist who always remains on the train, was slow to reply (no signal again). The one who is always delayed on the track said, 'you get old and the world wants to give you the sack; it will never forgive you the youth that you lack.'

And, I suddenly thought, what becomes of the dead (and I felt myself miserably consumed with a dread). Do we know if we've landed in heaven or hell? If only the dead could come back and re-tell of what happens to them when they croak their last breath. (God, I'm scared to death of dying.)

Broom (11)

BROOM (11)

Well, it's the end of the week.

I can hardly speak.

It's not just my vocal chords; I tell you, I'm asking the Lord how his potentially wonderful creation resulted - post-industrially - in such a spectacular abomination. . .

I'm exhausted and depleted; I'm feeling quite defeated.

And, it has to be said that despite their unfriendliness (their evident uncleanliness - their total lack of female-ness) the women on my team (for all their confrontational prowess) seem to have it right.

They have an innate kind of existential insight that I think I might lacking.

I so desperately want their backing: their endorsement and support. (I think I need them more than I ought.)

The one with the Hoola-Hoop asked me the other day: is it for love or for art that you generally pray?

I had to say I never pray, but she's made me nervous.

Should I be praying?

Broom (10)

BROOM (10)

I began to defrost the mini-bar (discard the old cheese and the mouldy jam jar). The refrigerator was stinking, but, it's still got me thinking . . .

This is what I'm currently pondering:

The girl from Exotica loves the thought of the one with the Hoola-Hoop's mobile institute . . .

I mean, how is that for a team?

I confess, these young women exceed all my dreams. Yes, they moan and they snipe (don't use feminine wipes) but I feel like a cat with the cream. (I'm so happy I think I might scream.)

The fly in the ointment - my one disappointment - is the artist who runs for the train. I am tired of her old refrain. Yes, of course, we regret British Rail was disabled but that shouldn't determine how her days are timetabled.

Get a Student Rail-Card and cheap tickets aren't hard to acquire, to purchase or buy. (So, right now, I am asking 'just why' the artist can't make a nine-forty-five start; why the artist can't leave after three. Why the artist is always quite testy and tart; why the artist seems not to like me.

All I want is a happy family; a convivial community.

Broom (9)

BROOM (9)

I was emptying the bins and recycling things, when the girl from Havana observed:

'I think it's so cute, this mobile institute. Can I come along, too?' she purred. (I noticed my teeth felt all furred.) 'Because, you'll need a spare driver, a spare pair of hands and I'm never more happy than when traversing new lands. I'm, for certain, a victim of wanderlust. Come, let's do it together: Monte Carlo or bust.'

She punched me rather heartily on my left upper arm. Christ, these ethnologists have no idea of the harm that they cause.

I think it's Havana (but, it could be Savannah); whatever, our girl is a veritable trooper. I looked at her briefly, and said:

'I believe that you're very well read.'

She said: 'I'm a professional researcher (you're envious, I betcha). I do what I want when I will. There ain't nothing surpasses free-will. But, you gotta be tough, abrasive and gruff, and, you're better off on the pill.

'Yes, children will just cramp you style,' she said with a feline-fanged smile.

Broom (8)

BROOM (8)

If we fail to attract the numbers required, we'll all be redundant: released, or, retired. 

The one with the hoola-hoop rocked on her hips, she crumpled her forehead and chewed on her lips. 'I could do with not yet being fired (even though I'm despondent and tired.)

'You see, though I've always been partial to German rye-bread, I subscribe to the Bible when all's done and said. I believe in a doctrine, when all's said and done; I can't live by yeast-products alone.'

I rubbed my hands with antiseptic gel and raised an eyebrow as if to say, well?

She replied, 'I need butter and jam, or some well-cured ham. I need goats' cheese and Marmite and all. I need fish from a tin, some olives in brine. And, of course, Waitrose's own falafel. 

'I live by myself - all alone. You must see that I need an income.' 

'Then, tell me, how should we recruit?'

She thought for a while: 'a mobile institute?'

'Just what do you mean by that? '

She said, 'being sedentary turns you to fat. I suggest that we get up and go: a pedagogical sort of road show. 

'We'll sow the seeds of passion for photography; revive the cult of heliography. What we need is a bus or a van. (We can hire a driver: a man.) We'll travel the ends of the earth (a car seat will do for a berth.) Yes, I see it quite clear. (You're excited, my dear.) We must get on the road very soon, with a kitted-up mobile darkroom; like Fenton devised (oh, they'll be so surprised). Indeed, with our pop-up facilities, we'll rival all the universities.

'Believe me, we'll always recruit from our peripatetic (empathetic) institute.'

Broom (7)

BROOM (7)

I was cleaning my keyboard with a feminine wipe when the one with the hoola-hoop started to snipe (again).

She said:

'Well, we took ourselves off on an Easy Jet flight. We walked through the day; slept rough every night. (A porch on the first day, a woodshed the second: by the third night a wooden play-house kind of beckoned. So, we swept it clean with a broom and, despite being cramped, we had just enough room to sleep like proverbial logs. We were, after all, tired as dogs.)

'We traversed eighty miles in just over three days. Up mountains, down valleys: I remain quite amazed that we never felt mardy or hungry or sad. Yet, one day in the work-place and I'm feeling quite bad.

'My stomach is cramping, my face is all flushed. (By the way, there are crumbs where you've polished and brushed.) My face is all flushed and my sinuses ache. My sense of well-being is always at stake in this place.

'Tell me, why should this be?

'Is this normal, or, particular to me?'

Broom (6)

BROOM (6)

The other, she said, as she hoola-hooped:

'The problem, dear Broom, is that we've all been duped. I can't help but thinking our raison-d'etre's sinking; we were promised a lie - that's the truth. Our professional life is a spoof.'

I was cleaning the windows with Windolene. (The desktops, already, gave off a good sheen - thanks to beeswax and elbow-grease. Such hard work: I took off my fleece.)

She continued:

'You see, I had an epiphany. We were bagging some routes, my boyfriend and me. The sun was shining, the grit was dry. As we belayed some classics I thought I might cry. I was happy enough to die.'

She stared out the window and sighed.

'And, as for the future, I don't give a toss. (I've experienced too much and suffered such loss.) I have nothing I wish for, and no expectation. But, when I'm out with my partner my only sensation is something akin to a sense of elation.

'I'm afraid I need nothing more. As a consequence, work seems like a bore.'

Broom (5)

BROOM (5)

As I de-scaled the kettle and washed up the cups, I spotted our girl in Havana (on reflection, perhaps, it's Savannah?)

Whatever.

I spied her curled up in the corner, as I rinsed out those filthy mugs.

You see, our girl from Exotica doesn't like teaching. So, she's convinced our superiors her skill is researching. You'll rarely see her around. For the most part, she's outward bound. But, her ethics are sketchy, her strategy crude. (Rationale, let me say, is verging on crude.)

She uses old cameras to spectacular ends (to aesthetize difference with an old, plastic lens). Now, doc-phot has recently taken a bashing (and, it has to be said, I endorse all that thrashing).

But, I have to admit that I found it astounding when she said she shot subjects in their natural surroundings.  It's something to do with an anthropological grounding.

Broom (4)

BROOM (4)

'Dr Broom,' said the other, 'let me give some advice. The one thing we ask is, you're reasonable: nice. And by reasonable (nice) what we all have in mind is: you're compliant subservient yielding. Just, kind.'

I selected the speed on my Miele vacuum, plugged in the machine, began hoovering the room.

'Take me,' she continued above all the noise. (And, I have to admit that the woman had poise as the hoola-hoop span round her waist and her hips. So I switched off the Miele and considered her tips.)

'Take me, Dr Broom, I have but one desire; to not come to work, but stay home by the fire. After all, I have lectures I need to prepare and this open-plan office is driving me spare. Now, please, Dr Broom, pray don't get me wrong but the journey to work is both tiring and long and I've yet to appreciate what I can gain from colleagues who gossip and moan and complain. . . '

I noticed the hoola-hoop seemed to be slowing but, a quick change of gear, and she soon had it going - again.

'Yes. I've yet to appreciate what I can gain when the talk in the office is always the same.'

About to switch the Miele back on when - blurry-eyed sad - she gave out a groan.

'Dr Broom,' she beseeched, 'you must realise that we've lost all we worked for; we coveted and prized. We worked hard to avoid a professional life of ambition, achievement, convention and strife. Toiled long to escape the commercial rat-race. And, now, I discover I'm stuck in a place that requires I subscribe and conform. (All I want is escape from the norm.)

'So, to cut to the chase, I'm not cut out for working a full working week. I would rather be slacking.'

Broom (3)

BROOM (3)

Well, I've always found something particularly difficult about relationships and their concomitant commitment.

But it seems that, now, I am head of department I'm sorely struggling with the email attachment. 

As previously mentioned, timetabling's disabling. 

When, at last, I disabled the problem, I emailed my staff the new programme. 

But, I forgot to attach the excel sheet. (Wasn't long before they informed me of that.)

But what should a bachelor do, when commitment is what he eschews? Attachments are hard (they put you off guard). 

Perhaps I'll try texting in lieu.

Broom (2)

BROOM (2)

'Dr Broom', she said, 'may I give you a tip? It's meetings and things that we all like to skip. We've all read our Sennett. We endorse all his views on the pitfalls of teamwork; managerial ruse to ensure that the buck stops with us.'

I paused with my dustpan and brush.

'Indeed. Team meetings perpetuate the worst fallacy; that we're anything but a dysfunctional family. It can't be denied we're a kind of community but it doesn't include the idea of solidarity. It merely provides managerial immunity from accountability and blame'.

Contradiction, I knew, would sound lame so I carried on brushing as I felt my face flushing. (As for her, she was rushing for the train.)

Broom (1)

BROOM (1)

Now, I have to admit I find classroom timetabling a bit of a bore and just more than disabling.

But, perhaps, I am jumping the gun.

I must tell you, first, what has gone on. I've become the new head (when all's done and said) of a Fine Art Photography programme.

I am, that's to say, the new broom.

Yes.

I'm the newly-appointed head of department, and it seems that my staff is deficient regarding its want to appease and to please; to commit and collaborate with ease. Sure, I don't doubt its skilled expertise. But what's lacking is joie-de-vivre.

And, it scoffs at enthusiasm.

Hen's Basket

Hoola

HOOLA

I, Priestess (15)

I, PRIESTESS (15)

Garage clearance.

It seems my abode rests on sound foundations, so I'm burning my journals: melancholy meditations.  Thirty years of musing (for the most part bemusing). I've borrowed a brazier.

It's repetition that makes the diaries familiar; thirty years of reinterating thoughts all too similar.

Time to grow up and move on.

Four trips to the tip: I got lost the first time, but I threw away things that were and weren't mine. (The hoover was heaving from swallowing dust - and spiders and snails, cobwebs, paper-rust).

Now. . . .

De-cluttering a place mostly leaves me elated but, this time, I felt quite defeated, deflated. 

To throw things away is a sort of life-edit. (Keep what served you well and still does you credit.)

But you cannot ignore the alternative version: the irrational and messy illogical person (in boxes and plastic bags).

I'm so pleased that person's now gone.

I, Priestess (14)

I, PRIESTESS (14)

Well, I think, I got lost in translation or transmission.

Going home.

Never fear, I'm back; just consider it some kind of omission.

Remission from narrating. Writing life can be hard. We remember so little, but, what we remember - our memories - reminds me of lard.

Blocks your arteries and constricts your blood flow.

Stifled and strangled as they are, memories dictate what you think; who you think you are, what you know you think.

Mojo, and kitchen-sink.

'Supposing truth is not continuous, but is discontinuous, untrustworthy, mottled, pitted, full of irony, ambiguity, paradox, failure and instability'.

Let's tell some stories.

(ref: Rick Moody 'On Counternarrative' in (ed) R Rugoff, 2013, The Alternative Guide to the Universe, London: Hayward Publishing)

Going Home's Such a Lonely Ride (2)

GOING HOME'S SUCH A LONELY RIDE (2)

Dehli to London (Gatwick).

Got my passport and boarding pass, credit card and purse; all that I need and nothing that I'd wanted. Eight hours to endure from the time of take-off. Then, the M23, and home via Dorking.

Home to everything I'd tried to leave behind.

My boyfriend left me at the check-in desk. He didn't wait to watch me untie my boots and walk barefoot through the security checks. He never saw my searching look.

It was a night flight.

I sat next to a couple. The wife was keen to talk and her husband went to sleep. He snored a bit while we kept up the chit-chat. She had stories to tell; Asia suited her so well. I worked hard to stay interested but felt tired and bloated.

I tried to remember what I knew; that to stay whole you have to hold on to the past; the geology that is you - petrified forms that define you - and not get scared.

Finally, thank God, we descended and landed.

My mother and father were waiting for me.

Going Home's Such a Lonely Ride (1)

GOING HOME'S SUCH A LONELY RIDE (1)

I am cold: a frozen tundra. But, my eyes are itchy and hot from crying. 

I never planned it this way.

The funeral was in All Saints; a lively church, so the ten-penny brochure claims. It's typical of my sister to bury my father, an atheist brought up by got-the-high-ground Methodists, in an Anglican cemetery. (I know for a fact that, though he died intestate, he wanted to be cremated and have his ashes scattered. Probably in Canada, but I have no real idea. We haven't spoken for fifteen years.)

But, I left her to do it, to struggle through and sort it. My sister arranged the funeral, with the help of her partner and some neighbours of my father's, who felt better placed to put on a benign face once he was dead.

So, it'd be churlish to criticise and, besides, if I pointed out her denominational confusion she'd be the first to laugh and, then, point back that none of it mattered because he was a secular humanist. Or, so he always said, she'd add.

Nine people attended the ceremony, including the vicar and not counting the organist. The latter sounded like he might still be practising as he oozed out the notes of Psalm 23 at a rate, in a key, that left us confused and chorally mute.

We were surprised to see our mother there. She'd dressed nicely for the occassion but, after fish and chips and a half pint of Guiness (once the interment was complete), she forget herself for a while and related tales from when they were still married. (We're talking thirty years ago.) She was full of bitterness and bile. My sister mastered a weary smile.

My wife was too ill to come today. (For many months, now, we've had nothing to say.) When, I get home tonight, I'm going to leave her.

I'll miss my mother as well as my sister.

But, it just seems I must get away.

I, Priestess (13)

I, PRIESTESS (13)

Kind of thought - all in all - I was doing just fine; earning enough to enjoy my spare time.

Then, Yahoo took the trouble to email me. (Updating my 'contacts', apparently.)

Burst my bubble.

The business of living involves carefully ignoring the things that make you weep; the things that just get you too deep.

I was trying to ignore the fact that my brother had died. Yahoo's deleted his details on the grounds he's 'retired'. 

Should I laugh or should I cry?

I, Priestess (12)

I, Priestess (12)

While focussed on shrinking, I couldn't help thinking of the men I've adored who just couldn't stop drinking. 

Each one found too hard this project of living; already and always eternally sinking. 

Silently drowning; not bothered with shouting.

In the end, each was sunk in the pond.

Teach me.

Were they right? 

Or, terribly wronged?

I, Priestes (11)

I, PRIESTESS (11)

Well.

The politics of dieting are powerfully disarming but, honest to God, quite frankly I'm starving.

That said.

You won't find me grumbling; I'll not be complaining. An eating disorder's a form of campaigning; a means of insisting your voice will be heard (however self-harming, ill-judged or absurd).

Where once excess fat was a feminist issue it is now the concern of ecologists, too.

Afterall, how on earth can the planet be saved if we all stuff our faces with the food that we crave? If we use up resources on multiple courses of mass-produced produce (and over-rich sauces)? If we fly in our fruits from far-away lands, and feed our desires from kiosks and stands that only sell meat that's industrially-processed?

Anorexia's the answer.

Subscribe and feel blessed.

I, Priestess (10)

I, PRIESTESS (10)

The council dump was still playing on my mind so I made a list: things I should leave behind.

It seems to me - if you want to be free - the answer is glaring, you just stop consuming.

So, I'm currently considering anorexia (it's more effective, much cheaper, than bulimia).

Now, the regular thinking on dieting and shrinking is that girls just want to be thin.

Well, that's fine.

But, it's wrong.

There's something redeeming in giving up eating.

(I suggest you read Simone Weil.)

I, Priestess (9)

I, PRIESTESS (9)

The trip to the tip left me sick with unease, so I shot a few pigeons and cut down their trees.

I couldn't dismiss, though, the sight of that trash piled up in those crates; it gave me a rash. (I've applied steroid paste to calm my hives down but consumption ain't cured by prescribed cortisone.)

A culture of waste, that's what we've become (a secular place built on late-capitalism). A terrible place with no space for free-thinking (therein lie the pleasures of drugs and hard-drinking).

I wish I believed in some god or some system, where numbers made sense or bad luck had a reason. A meaning to life, a blue-print or template; I'd pray for forgiveness and accept my own fate.

But, when I trod - by mistake - on a snail on the lawn the random nature of life left me feeling forlorn.