The words in this song are sampled from an interview from Children Talking, a 1961 BBC radio show, in which Harold Wilson travelled around the UK talking to children (with a variety of accents - rare in those days, I'd imagine) about their lives. I love the song and the album it comes from.
May has been a fairly busy month so far. When the month began, I was in Valencia - my first holiday abroad for three years. I think that will be covered in another post but a very brief overview would read: 'I loved it'. I have some pictures coming, but I'll share this one (borrowed from APB, with thanks). This was the view from our bedroom:
We arrived back in the UK to 8°C - a slight shock to the system from 25°C! Post holiday blues hit nearly as soon as I got back to Bristol but didn't last too long. The sunshine this week has helped (although the only time I've had in it were the hours yesterday - work's been manic).
Last Saturday I went to Foyles. Bookshops, like the library, are places that make me feel both very safe and excited. I felt passionate - I'm really missing passion. I'm not really getting it from (m)any area(s) of my life and, as Frank Turner sings, 'life is too short to live without poetry'. It's find poesy or die, I guess. I bought a book by Anais Nin, who I've discovered recently thanks to an a former Royal Mail van in Montpelier, which has one of the most inspiring poems I've read recently graffiti'd on the back. I also bought a rather amusing mug. I struggle to believe that The Chatterley Trial took place in 1960. That's in my Mummy's lifetime! The mug features an image of a poster from Foyles soon after the trial: 'Lady C out of stock. Back in tomorrow', and the quotation below, from a member of the prosecution:
Can you imagine? WOMEN reading literature that contains not only 'C's and 'F's but SEX. Full on sex. That the female ENJOYS. It's incredible.
*
The Harsh Yellows hit last Sunday evening and lasted through some of Monday into Tuesday. I can't explain them. I'm trying to clarify what it is, so that I can understand it at least. I fully realise how incredibly self-centred it sounds but, quite frankly, I have no partner or children to think of, and I'm not wholly selfish, so I think I can justify a little when it's something that's with me constantly. Sometimes it feels like a part of me is a bit broken. I'm definitely feeling aware of an id/super-ego/ego balance. It's one part of me that's a little broken; the others are fine and very strong.
This year, I've tried to be very honest with myself. If I think 'I'm not enjoying myself' or 'I'm not that... it's not the kind of person I am', I'll just leave, or make a sensible decision. If, say, I'm out and not enjoying it, and thinking 'I could be at home with some tea and toast now'... that's what I'll do.
What am I? An introvert - that's actually a very suitable word. I love my time alone, I love to sit and read (or watch Boardwalk Empire again...), I love spending time with the right people. I'm not a fan of big groups or of small talk or bullshit. But that doesn't necessarily mean I'm shy. I can handle a work meeting with executives, I can give a presentation (preparation required) and can talk to strangers, without much of a struggle. But I don't need company to thrive, I don't need constant conversation.
So, in that respect, I think it's perfectly acceptable to spend, say, Friday and Saturday nights alone. But then there's another side: slight loneliness. It's not because I'm an introvert. I could go out with people that aren't really 'my kind of people' - who I'm not entirely comfortable with or whose interests differ significantly from mine. However, why should I? I don't need something that, for me, isn't 'real'. Sometimes, I think I'd either have to go out on my own, if I fancy it, or stay in and hide a little - maybe there is a slightly anxious side but it's not at all dominant.
People seem to think it strange that I don't excel in larger groups. I know that some people think I'm rude or aloof or boring. Not entirely true. I prefer smaller groups and one-to-one situations and I invest in my friendships. This is the crux. When I get close to someone or let them in, it's because I feel a connection with them. And I've really really learnt over the last six months or so that some of those people obviously don't. The friendship was important to me but not to them. I suppose I have to accept that that's what they're like - and, in one or two cases, I guess that they got what they wanted from the 'friendship'. Job done. They've not really done anything wrong, either. It's my fault I invested more in it than they did and didn't recognise I'd be a bit burnt if and when they disappeared completely. And I'm very aware that I don't communicate well sometimes - I don't come across as I should, and so they, inevitably, see me in more of a negative light.
Anyway, it's too hot to carry on with these muddled thoughts. I can think of one or two people who would say: 'chill the fuck out. stop over-thinking things'. And to them, I say: 'I'm sorry. But I have to live with myself every single minute of every day, and if there are some aspects of me I need to reflect on, or think through, then I will do that'. If I struggle with myself I'm not going to be able to do or achieve things I want to. I don't want to fill gaps with meaningless activities or people. I don't want someone else to complete me. Another person (say, a partner) should be an extension of myself - not some way of trying to fill a hole ('teehe, sex pun').
If there's something missing or something that isn't quite right, I need to work through it on my own. Identify it, recognise and understand it, embrace it, fix it (if needs be). A large part of that is understanding.
Weather like this (clear, blue sky and sunshine, even if it's not overly warm) improves my mood but also serves as a reminder. The words 'sunken lawn', 'park barbecues' and 'cheeky cigarette' remind me of being a Lady of Leisure (or, a student with a dissertation, assignments and a job). I don't think that's all, though. What I'd like to do, what it'll achieve and what I can do shouldn't, and won't, be forgotten.
I love that I've just written that sentence. It's true, though. I picture my 'quotas' of certain necessities and luxuries. For example, if I've not left the house one day, my cabin fever quickly sets in and I imagine that my 'room' and 'social' quotas are lacking. Last week, I think I exhausted my stamina and mental concentration bars. I think this week I've already used up my bravery.
The more complex ones are harder to top up but loud music, a strutting walk home and great one liners seem to have done the trick. A friend from work masterfully made me cry with one text message, then laugh with the next. I think that says more about my topsy-turvy self than his genius, though.
I'm pretty happy February's drawing to a close. If I could make requests of March I'd ask it to be more like December and January than February. And if it even gets close to resembling September I think I may have to attack it with some scary mclairy spiky heels.
My eloquence is fast fading. Perhaps I need to top up my food quota.
Pogo - master of taking the essence of a film or mood
The title of this post is a quotation from Jeanette Winterson's live webchat with the Guardian last week. I love Jeanette Winterson. I'd read Oranges quite a few years ago and rediscovered her in 2010, when my then boyfriend recommended some of her others the day after we met. I've since read The Passion, Sexing The Cherry and the wonderfully moving Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?, which my friend Alice has just read and also adored. Alice has been working on a great literary web venture, which I will link to when it's a little more complete - I don't think the site is finished yet. Jeanette's webchat was great to follow - I find her views incredibly interesting and feel embarrassingly ignorant when I see how passionate and well-read she is.
I've been meaning to post a small continuation of the post about love for literary characters. Thinking about it more made me question whether unrequited love can sometimes be similar to literary love - it's a fantasy in which the inflicted tends to fill in the gaps or unknowns. Maybe that's true of requited love also. Having not been in love for years, I can't really say.
The final few mentions then.
My same sex desire was for Sappho in Sappho's Leap by Erica Jong, which I really must reread. Sappho's love (both of song/words and a man she hadn't seen for many years) drove her on through all the strife and trials faced in Greek mythology. As a quick background, Sappho was an Ancient Greek poet from the island of Lesbos. Little about her life is known but I've been told that her affairs with both men and women (very common in Ancient Greece - their attitudes towards sex are very interesting and probably sensible), combined with the name of the island she's from, gave birth to the word 'lesbian' as a term to describe a sexuality. Only fragments of Sappho's poetry and songs survive but many were shaped around love. The legend tells that she jumped off a rock to her death due to her unrequited love for Phaon, a young man. Erica Jong gives Sappho a voice - much like Margaret Atwood does for Penelope in The Penelopiad which I've also read recently.
I think I had strong feelings for the passionate 'violet-haired, pure, honey-smiling Sappho'. She showed resilience and faith and had some great lyrics, as well as one-liners such as 'are you challenging me to grant you the gift of my virginity?'
I asked a friend from work his thoughts on falling in love with fictional characters. His first answer was 'Lady Macbeth'! When I implored him to be serious, he admitted to having loved Trillian from The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy. I read that years ago and can't really remember her character. I think she was quite gutsy by comparison to Arthur Dent who could, at times, be a little pathetic. That may be harsh, though - I'm not sure how strong I'd be if I learnt my world had just been 'built on' and all I had was a towel.
It's great to have some more ladies on the list. I'm sure I've loved as many ladies as men. I'm currently listening to Dickens' David Copperfield and Miss Betsey Trotwood is incredible!
This post feels slightly wordy, yet it's difficult to post images and clips when thinking along literary lines. This lovely little song can be a reward for anyone who may read this, plus it fits in very slightly. Julia blames Hollywood. I blame literature and happy endings.
I've had these lyrics floating through my mind for two days. It's beautiful but sad.
I wrote my name in your book
Only God knows why
And I bet you that he cracked a smile.
And I'm clearing all the stuff out of my room
Trying desperately to figure out what is that makes me blue.
And I wrote an epic letter to you - and it's twenty-two pages front and back
But it's too good to be used.
And I try to be a girl who likes to be used
I'm too good for that; there's a mind under this hat.
