Stepping In The Salad (11)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (11)

'Ah-ha,' mused the Priestess, extracting a tick. 'So conceptual these days that it just makes me sick. Did you make something pretty or was it just smart? (How I long for some simple pictorial art.)'

'Well.

'We made pictures of vistas without any sky, and horses in kiosks (though, don't ask my why)

'We wrote short lists of words using sans-serif font, like:

'Equality

'Liberty

'&c

'Enfant.

'We drew circles of mud and trod lines in the grass. We kicked down all the cairns that we found on our path  . . .

'A form of neo-brutalism, then? How interesting.'

Stepping In The Salad (10)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (10)

'The thing about walking; you can't keep on talking, especially when going up hill. We wandered in silence, our bodies in balance, our minds quite untroubled and still.

'But, the thing about speaking; it don't mean you're thinking. Ascents gave us time to reflect. 4000 feet high, with the sun in the sky, re-engaged with my dulled intellect.'

The Priestess yawned and mumbled some truism about the recuperative powers of meditation.

'It was then we began to make art,' I added.

Stepping In The Salad (9)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (9)

'So . . .

'We made our pledge (as he clung to his hedge).

'We'd cherish the union we'd found.

'We promised to stick to each other's side and walk ourselves into the ground.'

'Til death do you part,' said the Priestess as she mixed a Bloody Mary. 'At any time at all did it feel a bit scary?'

'No.

'And, I'll tell you why.

'As I walked by his side I forgot all anxiety. Dispatched of my sadness and fear.  I felt very strong (my stride was so long). I saw life with a bright clarity.

'It sounds sort of cheesy, I have to confess, but I felt only happy: remarkably blessed.'

Stepping In The Salad (8)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (8)

'As he hung on the gorse I, too, felt some remorse. After all, it was he who had saved me. 

'So what was I doing considering death? It was he who had given me life when bereft. It was he who had shown me where happiness lay. (And, it was after all, such a beautiful day . . . )

'I said, "why not let go of that tree?".'

'Did he?' asked the Priestess.

'Yes.

'And, then as we sat on the cliff and ate lunch I put to him what, in effect, was a hunch. I said, "all would be well if we just kept on walking; just doing our thing" (which is moving and talking) . . .

"Consider the facts and, then, let's make a pact. There's no need for this Deep Misery. The joy we have found is both hallowed and sound; let's keep going, just you and just me".'

'As we did,' mused the old hag.

'Somewhat different, I think,' I replied.

Stepping In The Salad (7)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (7)

'I ran to the Downs ('til I reached Seven Sisters). My tendons were swollen, my soles worn to blisters. He followed me there, and he stood as I stared at the sea far below. . . .

'No, I wasn't that scared.'

'So dramatic, my dear. Do continue, I pray.'

'I stared at the sea, which was turquoise blue, but, I couldn't decide what was best I should do. I knew I could jump; I am ever so brave.  But, I couldn't commit to a watery grave.

'It was, after all, such a nice sunny day.'

The Priestess snorted.

'For his part he didn't much care for the edge, so he stayed on the path and held tight to a hedge. "Look here,'' he opined as he clung to the gorse. "If you were to jump I'd be full of remorse".'

Stepping In The Salad (6)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (6)

'It was love at first sight beneath the full moon, but everyday life brought its gloom all too soon.'

The Priestess squatted and looked all agog; adjusted her bra and, then, swallowed some grog.

'The bounds of constraint wrap around domesticity. Too much for the feint, her name is Deep Misery. . .

'Deep Misery works in insidious ways. She anticipates plans and scuppers your days.  She appears quite benevolent, but works clandestine. She worked hard to unravel the love I deemed mine.'

'So, what did you do?'

'I decided to leg it.'

Stepping In The Salad (5)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (5)

'Oh . . . .

'The man is a boy (and so not a girl). We met in a pub in a small place called Firle. We talked as we drank from a pitcher of wine. It was then - in an instant - I wanted him mine.'

'So, what happened, then?' enquired the Priestess as she hoisted her flesh-coloured knickers and smiled.

'Well . . .

'We slept out that night; affirmation of life. Watch the stars cross the sky, you forget all the strife. You forget about all that is petty and grim.

'I knew, for a fact, all I wanted was him.'

'Tell me more.'

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.

The Sub-Editor - Pause

PAUSE

So, she's back: our omniscient narrator.

I don't know who she thinks she is, this self-appointed interventionist. But I recognise her.

The last time I saw her she was sitting on a wall, a dry-stone wall in Yorkshire. She had insisted I come for a walk. A stomp and talk, she called it.  Stretch the legs. Blow away the cobwebs. She was full of the latest book she'd just read: Wanderlust. As with all her enthusiasms, she had now turned her attention fully, comprehensively, to walking - as a consequence of her reading - with renewed and exasperating vigour. (Although, to be fair, it wasn't only a fair-weather occupation of hers, this walking, this stomping, the stretching of the legs. She had always walked when she was pre-occupied. When asked, as a child, what she'd like to become she answered with naive sincerity 'a bag-lady'.)

It was a glorious day, the season shifting into autumn: crisp and fresh. She began by telling me how she loved the touch of the breeze on her forearms and face - 'like a gentle embrace', she said.  But, then she began talking of scopic regimes, launched into the fact that photographs aren't ever what they seem. A photograph is one-dimensional and static.  To live is to be fully sensate, fully embodied.  She turned her face to me and said, 'I'm scared that for me, all that's too late'.

I stopped in my tracks, not knowing what I'd heard, except that it was bad. And she turned and looked at me, and laughed.

We ate our sandwiches in the shelter of a wall. A dry-stone wall in Yorkshire. And when we had finished she hoisted herself up and sat on it, letting the breeze caress her face and blow away the cobwebs, as she drank from the water bottle.

As children we used to play this game. We called it the pause game. These were the rules: you had to describe the scenario in which you'd like to die.

In retrospect, I suppose it was a morbid game for children to play.

As she sat on the wall she said, 'let's play the pause game'.  I shook my head as I lit a cigarette, and refused to look her in the eye.

'Come on,' she said, slightly goading. 'Give me that, at least.'

But, I said nothing.

The day didn't end there, but I have no memory of what followed. We would've continued to walk, to stomp and talk. We would have reached town and continued, passed the Co-op and the Inn on the Bridge, on to the station. We would have laughed as we waited for the train, and kissed before I embarked. But I cannot picture any of that.

So, my sweet sister, let's play the pause game now.

I would stop it all there, with you, fully embodied and fully sensate.  Provocative, over-dramatic and irritating, as usual.  Pre-occupied and scared and, as usual, pretending not to care.

Really, I would stop it all there.