my dream

was so strange and long last night. I dreamt that i went to a large and strange hospital and checked myself in as mentally unable to cope. i queued with lots of people who all seemed fine. 'you will have to stay here all night until 6 30 am' i was told, 'the fee is £12'. 'Can I leave when I want to?' I asked. 'you can, but you will be observed to see what is wrong with you' I was told. two choices lay before me. going home or checking in. I checked in. tomorrow would have to cope without me. I paid my twelve pounds from a twenty and I was given two tablets to take. then I sat in what was like a large waiting room full of people in dark casual dress, like an x factor audition waiting warehouse. I did not want to talk to anyone at all. I wanted to sit quietly and be observed. there had been a hurricane and I found my self at my sister's grave searching for the photo I had left. it had been swept away to another grave. I tried to find someone in the hospital who would remember my sister. the priest who was observing kept on watching me. I cried openly and he came to see me. 'what is wrong?' he said. I am sad I told him. I do not like these people they are all the same. the tablets you have taken should mean you have a nice time while you are here. he told me. then things will seem different in the morning. I cried and cried. I am not well, I thought. admit me. I stayed all night. the tablets made me slur and I could not talk properly. I did some errands and felt quite useful, maybe the priest will just give me a job instead I thought. maybe I am not mad, just useless. I did not get a job. I performed errands. the priest touched my arm. you will be OK he told me.
some people were not ill this was cheaper than finding a hotel for the night. they sat around singing and playing guitars.
I was back at the dark graveyard in the night, in the rain, a car nearby doors open. I kept on finding strange pictures of my sister, ones that did not look like her. I tried to make the photo right, it was still dry.
 somewhere in the dream my life became a strange howling landscape with various props from my life; my childhood. I cannot remember which props but like a few toys I recall; some memories which played over and over like voices crying out from my subliminal. I could see the frame of this landscape stretching far like a grey desert; but I cannot recall the voices; objects or visual memories that were present in this, my personal disparate universe.

this dream slips away now and I can't remember the finest details, the dialogue. but when I woke and felt so sad I could not tell my sister how wonderful she is and precious, and loved,  I  thought of how while alive we must not forget to do this to our loved ones and to ourselves.

tears cried

tonight i cry with fresh tears for the death of my sister, my nephew's mother, my daughter's god mother my son's most amazing aunty. i cannot beleive that se has gone and it is horrible and sickening and cruel that i have to again admit it is true.

different days and different faces

how can two days be so different?
yesterday i woke up able and with different eyes
today i wake up disabled and with views distorted.
can it be the myriad of vague and strange dreams that i can never quite remember but in which so much happens?
how can each day be so different?
can not each day feel the same?

because she could not stop for death

I have woken up today with the weight of death upon me. I think that may describe what I feel. an anxiety that sits between my eyes, in my chest and in my stomach. yesterday two relatives of sorts gave birth within hours of each other to new baby girls. the flurry of activity and newness birth always  emanates even when you are not in the circle sat uncomfortably in my energy. a grief grew anew within me like a small seed which will grow and grow deep within. i feel it will grow until its stalk chokes my heart and the leaves and branches suffocate me and force their way out of my mouth through my throat.
 birth, a new and hopeful moment so utterly opposite to death. death that cannot be undone.
birth feels a traitor to me this morning though these words cannot truly express what i mean.
i feel death near me. beside me on the sofa and i wish i could only feel her presence.

it is four months and 2 days since she died and the the weeks have been thick and heavy with the fog of incomprehension and disbelief. still no word from her. somehow these births and new beginnings take her further away from me. i wish that i could feel her in some way. but then god never listened either. i think today is a hard day. while some are ok today is not.

Emily Dickinson's poem (not accurately copied dash-wise)

because i could not stop for death
he kindly stopped for me
the carriage held but just ourselves
and immortality

we drove slowly- he knew no haste
and i had put away
my labour and my leisure too
for his civility

we passed the school where children strove
at recess-in the ring
we passed the fields of grazing grain
we passed the setting sun

or rather- he passed us
the dews grew quivering and chill
for only gossamer my gown
my tippet- only tulle

we paused before a house that seemed
a swelling of the ground
the roof was scarcely visible
the cornice in the ground

since then-tis centuries-and yet
feels shorter than the day
i first surmised the horses heads
were towards eternity.

my sister had a real affinity with Emily Dickinson's language and expression and i find thesae words don't comfort but somehow express the way i feel about things today.

close your eyes and it will go awayc

today i want to close my eyes and keep them closed and hope that when i open them everything that is driving me crazy will be gone. namely, clutter. everywhere i look, besides children there is mess. a kitchen cupboard hangs off its hinges and my bedroom is wall to wall piles of things....clothes....homeless stuff. my house is full of walls jutting here and there. my living room has too much furniture in it and in an attempt to persuade my other half to get a new one, i have taken the feet off my sofa and an extension of it so now it looks even shabbier and worse and a huge corner of sofa stands up in the corner of the room. the curtains look greasy and shabby. it feels like kids are everywhere.everyday i try to do things to make it feel better but nothing works.

my sister was a writer. i once told her i wanted to write but couldn't find a way to start writing. not even sure of what i wanted to say. she told me to write about moving into my house, my neighbours. i tired but never got far. i still listen to her words of advice. even recently i said to her that i had read a poem by a famous writer who i can't recall, who said, if you can't write then you are not a writer...if you don't spill words then give up trying basically. my sister said 'rubbish'. somehow her dismissal of this depressing assertion made me still hopeful that i may one day be able to unlock the writer within.
now she has gone and i just thank her for her support. even though i still can't unleash myself.

sore tail bone ripped off toenails and painfully high phone bills

sometimes the injuries we sustain in life seem, if not so painful, then possibly metaphorical and almost symbolic.

a few weeks ago i took my children to a birthday party in a ball park. my daughter was invited so was paid for to play, my son of one did not have a wrist band and i decided to not just encourage him to play for free- i could not be rebellious today, and bought him a wrist band for near £5. having paid, i was determined for him to have some fun. inside the ball park i went with him, helping him through the 2-4 year old section, pushing him through big soft holes to crawl accross net bridges and swing on soft swings. then i sat him on my lap, and whoosh down we went to the balls waiting invitingly below. thump. the pain was deadening and blew me hot and cold. instead of what i gratefully and excitedly imagined, a soft welcome to my poor backside, my coxcyxx thudded unprotected onto the hard mat at the bottom. oeooo i yelped and went on to my knees. my head rushed with blood and i felt quite sick. i looked around to see if any one had noticed, mothers glanced up then went back to their phones. i crawled out and spent the rest of the day on strong painkillers and too much wine (we went on to a bbq) luckily there was a walking stick in the car which i used to help me get out. 

so now, some two or so weeks later, my lowest spine bone hurts on sitting and hurts on rising. it hurts right now.

over the weekend, i idily pulled a toenail, as we are sometimes wont to do...it peeled neatly accross, then ahhh, it hit skin and refused to be ripped further without the threat of excruciating pain.i hobbled around for four days..with a half ripped toenail that seemed to catch on anything:discomfort in sitting, rising from sitting, and walking. 

the metaphor? the symbol? both rest and action hurts in my life right now. it is difficult to find a comfortable place to be. 

the next pain rung in this ladder of unfairness?

i got a basic phone from orange in May. I got a contract for 10.50 a month for 300 minutes and unlimited texts. the cost to 25th may was £5 or so. today my phone was barred from making calls. i phone them up. until you pay it will be barred they say. pay? i say what do you mean? you have gone over your minutes by 200 or so minutes they say, your bill is £158.

a heavy leaden weight sits in my stomach and i feel quite sad by life. 

 

a la caravan

how to describe? I am not sure i can. as i sat on the steps of the caravan...feet in pouring rain,  probably a glass of wine in my hand, a cigarette in the other... thinking how it could all be so nice .... still seeing the other me who walks stridently and healthily and happily along with happy healthy children and happy healthy man beside...who laughs and talks, is focused and successful and in control. not sitting here clutching various props to keep herself up...not struggling to tolerate the incessant needs of children and permanent activity or else! not seeking to pacify a grumpy partner who finds children noise difficult to cope with. this me, the real me cannot believe that a long weekend away from home could be so unrestful. well i suppose with the TV not working, budget meals  and the pouring rain it is quite believable it could be so difficult.
i try one evening to escape. a chilled bottle of wine, a glass, a note pad.... i take the baby in his pushchair on the first calm evening to the beach where the sun starts it's setting process- filling the stony expanse of beach...estuary bed with dazzling last light and reflecting in the puddles of the river left behind.
the children see me go and follow me.. . theri playing can wait... i am please they come they can get some nature. I call my man and ask him to join us, I cannot face the three of them alone. the hope of clarity and peace fades but who knows perhaps another kind of contentment can take it's place.
he appears as i struggle with my now wide awake one year old on the pebbles, helping him to walk on the hilly stones. the other two run off on the expanse of stones and watch a small child screeching as her grandma extricates her from a muddy bit. they leave the beach  with the child's wailing going on and on.
i suppose rather prematurely, I pour myself a glass of wine. the kids play in the dying sun. this could be nice. seconds later...'i am stuck in mud'... shouts my daughter with deep pleasure in her voice- she is a mud lark. but not now, i think. my partner angrily goes to wrench her out leaving her boots behind. covered in mud he storms back to the caravan. i tip away my wine and follow. defeated. and then a i sit on the caravan steps and watch the silently wailing blue gray sky with dying strings of  yellow yolky sunlight free itself up to the horizon and i wonder how often in a life can a person feel so utterly powerless against the tide of life,  of circumstance...of place.
home again. i am once again struck with the tedium of the day. the anxiety in my chest will not abate.
there seems to be no respite in this version of my life i wonder how the other me is getting on?