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.)