annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary
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Jan 8th
Lots of things on this date. Son is 12 years clean and dry; Hil is 40 (happy birthday); David Bowie would have been 73, Elvis's birthday too, and M, my Sammie's beautiful Romanian key worker, is 42. Lots of love there, not for Elvis, actually, not bothered by him, but all the others. Bowie's last album saw me through a long dark winter, 2016 - I can't even remember why I was so fucked up that year, but I was. I walked the beaches, moving further and further west each day, collecting driftwood to burn on the fire, listening to Blackstar, which seemed to be imbued with death in a way I've never been able to articulate, but which I found comforting then and still do now. It wasn't a distraction from dying, it was an acceptance that death will come, though that's not in the lyrics, I don't think. This is a track from it
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sE1Zcngd3VA&w=560&h=315]
I also had his words echoing in my head when I was fighting suicidal thoughts 'You're not alone' It was ages later that I realised they were from this song - Rock and Roll Suicide, ffs. But they helped me. I walked on that lumpy shingle, in the biting cold wind, full of despair and isolation, balancing huge pieces of smelly, wet, sea defence on my shoulder, with his voice urging that 'You're not alone - gimme your hands - you're not alone - I've had my share, I'll help you with the pain.'
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oDwGVNUrxM0&w=560&h=315]
So I love him and I always will. I hope he is resting in peace and I thank him for the music (ooh, should have put that in my list - will do anyway).
Today's task for the #64millionartists was to write a winter haiku. Immediately this came into my mind so this is what I posted:
We walked on the pier
In icy winter winds
Now I walk alone
I thought it was a bit cryptic so I added:
My daughter died in the autumn after many years of Multiple Sclerosis. She was born within the sound of the waves and we walked there a lot in her last years, often reading “Sea Fever” by John Masefield. “I must go down to the sea again/ to the lonely sea and the sky...”
and a photo of us on the pier in the wind. I get myself all stirred up with facebook posts about Sam. I think I want to, I want to talk about her all the time and to remind people of her and to remind them that I have lost her, I am a grieving mother. So I post something then at once I feel ashamed of myself for putting it all on display like that. But I don't take things down. If people don't like it they can unfriend me or block me, or just think I'm crass. But now 230 people in the 64m artists group have 'liked' it and 29 have left comments and some of them made me so angry, not because they were awful, really, but because I need to be angry. It was saying things like 'You're not alone, she walks with you,' 'She will be with you every step of the way.' Obviously kindly meant, but actually, fuck off. She's not with me, is she? She is now a bag of ashes on a shelf in my glass fronted cabinet, surrounded by her favourite things, waiting for us to make a decision about the next place. She's gone.
Anyway.
I made it to Wednesday yoga, with the awesome teacher who loves me (she told me so today) and I was so glad to sink into it. It took a while as I'm still quite snotty, but I managed to let go and find such deep relaxation... Bliss.
Then to meet J-B, she who gave me the cats, and off to the marina to have a late lunch, hours of chat and a walk along the undercliff path in the falling light. Yes, they have cliffs over to the east. I like her. I'm doing good at deepening relationships with a range of new people. I have this mantra that I spotted somewhere and wrote down on a piece of paper that I keep by my bed and say out loud as often as I remember: "I draw to me everything I need for a joyful. balanced life." I like it. I'm not expecting joy to descend upon me out of the sky, but actually it does, in tiny bursts. Little flashes of wow-ness. Pretty damn cool.
After that I got stuck in traffic for fucking ever. It literally took me forty minutes to get down a 200 yard street - there are only two routes going east/west, due to the river and the need for bridges to get over it. Two bridges, two roads. Accident on the top road, gas leak, leading to repairs and traffic lights on the coast road... rush hour (if ever there was a misnomer). But I sat and listened to podcasts and stayed pretty chilled.
Today I am grateful for:
- David Bowie and the music he gave us
- Yoga, blissful yin yoga with lovely E.
- I am grateful that she actively wants to give me extra care - like when we did the last relaxation (Shavasana) I put my jumper back on and already had a blanket which I put over my legs, but she came with another one to tuck right round me. Just me in a class of about thirty. Thank you, E.
- The satnav took me straight to where J lives, so easy, a route I wouldn't have thought of, but clearly the best one.
- Which led me along roads I haven't been down for years, reminding me of good times, bad times, mad times
- I had trouble parking, multi-storey car park at the marina, very tight bays, couldn't get out of the car, had to try elsewhere, then had v bad panic attack, including double vision, which lasted bloody ages and I am so grateful for how J was while it was happening and afterwards
- J-B took me to a great cafe I'd never even heard of and bought me lunch
- I'd brought Shirley who was as good as gold
- We talked in that way that sometimes happens when you both get right to the deep stuff, the trauma, all the old shit, but in a kind of good way.
- We walked along a different beach, so still and silent and misty
- I am grateful for finding good people in this horrible world
- I am grateful for a really open and great comment on yesterday's blog
- That I didn't lose my shit when sat in traffic
- That the satnav took me a weird route through that jam to, I think, sit in the shortest gridlock
- By this wall that made me think of my brother, in a good way, as he was the one who told me this kind of thing was called bungaroosh
- Having a warm home and a warm bed on a cold, damp night
Good night xxx
12:33 a.m. - 09.01.20
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