Day 133 - Toads of Death

Nemotoad/Nematode

Oh, that pond. It welcomes me so heartily. Every day that first plunge steals a little bit of breath, but after that, it's just a noticing game. Today, my elbows felt the cold like little pinches, especially the left one. I felt that wrinkly skin all present. I stayed in a long time. The water must be up to 5 degrees again by now. It is silky and very calm. A coot has started to nest on the lifebelt. There's been nestage there all winter but she (or he?) has started to build. He (or she?) sat on the nest making sharp sounds as I swam past. Just in case, you know.

A lovely breakfast with Ruth. So refreshing to see her. She is wise and inspiring and passionate about all sorts of things. We talked about which seeds she was going to plant, and the merit of growing food not for the sake of saving money, but for the sake of the pleasure of growing it. Ruth has a plan. The plan involves nematodes - (which I spelt Nemotoads) the toady nemesis of the slug. They are worm creatures you buy and put in your garden. When you water them, they come alive and set out on a slug hunt to feed their hunger. If this was a science fiction story, they would of course take over the world. It's not, though, so they won't. Shame. 


We talked about other things too. Her down-to-earth wisdom showed. And we drank maté and ate mini-macaroons. But not until we'd picked up litter. We joined a team of Parkland Walk volunteers at 11am. Armed with litter-picking claws and bin-bags, we started behind the bus stop on Muswell Hill. We looked like we were doing community service for shoplifting in Dixons (oh dear, Dixon's doesn't even exist any more, does it? Or is it Curry's that doesn't. I can never quite remember.) Anyway, I've decided maybe I nicked an iPod. Or an iPod sock (even shitter) and perhaps Ruth tried to make it out of John Lewis with a decorative cushion stuffed up her jumper. Perhaps not. Anyway, people looked at us that way. 


It was fun, though. I found a blue hoody that I really should have washed and kept, and a suitcase. We didn't manage to open it. There was something in it. I decided it was a single, skeletal finger which had been stitched together so it wouldn't fall apart even once fully decomposed. A small ring finger. No ring. There is a story in it. Probably a better story if we don't open the case. Not yet, at least.


I am grateful for the closeness to nature. We scrubbed about in undergrowth. It smelt funny, as in bad funny. We picked up hundreds of tiny pieces of cellophane. Many from cigarette packets. Some from god knows where. There were many buds budding. Green ones, brown ones, tiny pinkish red ones. The hawthorns already had leaves. There was burgeoning going on all over the shop, and without that session, I would have missed it. There's a killer view from there too. From the back of M&S in Muswell Hill, it's amazing, and just below it is the Parklands Walk. Not has high, but broad and beautiful. I am grateful to Ruth for calling it quits at a healthy time, so we could go back for more tea. 


While I was at her house, I picked up a folder full of love letters from times long past - from Christophe Challange, most of them, but there was a folder of them from other people too. All that time ago, when I was a different person. I think I've managed to convince myself that I have never had love affairs, been loved, been in love, but it's just not true, is it? Not at all. Christophe was a very special love affair, though. Very special indeed. It was so often conducted at distance, that relationship, so the letters are comprehensive. I shall read them through. Christophe was - is - an artist. He has always had a determination about his art and a commitment to it that I can only admire. 

www.christophechallange.org

I found myself talking about him to Sarah Lonton the other day, remembering the time when his wife Rachael (this is many years ago, and if I understand rightly, he is happily married to someone else now) called me to talk about him. I refused, in the end. Gently, saying that I no longer knew him - she knew him - and that I'd happily meet with both of them but not just with her. It didn't go down well, but for me, at least, it was the right thing to do and say. 


Anyway - now he's back in my mind for other reasons. I dug out these old love letters from long ago times (most of them addressed to Judy Moon - my name at that time) because a person contacted me on a dating website doing a project about people and objects they were given by lovers - objects that mean a lot. I've moved so much that I own pretty much nothing from that time - but I kept these letters. I have no idea what they'll say, but maybe they'll waken in me some memory of love that used to be. Not for a personal purpose with Christophe. Not at all. I never really managed to be a nice girlfriend to him - always bickery and harsh, I was. We found that out a second time once and I was sorry. But just for the sake of it, and for this project, and to see what it awakens. She's the only person I responded to on the dating website before disappearing from it. See, my heart's really not in it. I dislike that kind of dating so very much. Gah! Anyway - enough of all of that. I'm nearly 41. Time to shut up.

Just add womb

An afternoon of (fake) coffee and (genuine) talk with Hari, off of the yoga group. He has a history as big as a huge pie, and I hope he's going to write it. He also shares some of my trepidation about the group, but in a different way. He's got a lot out of it, though, so it's a bit different. The more I hear about them, their sexual initiations and their philosophies (such as 'sex between women is cool, sex between men is spiritually wrong'), the more I throw up my hands in despair. And they do sharing partners, apparently, which I don't object to in itself - it's everyone's choice - but I do object to it coming handed down from a horny old bloke who gurus the place up. Spread your seed in the name of spirituality. Or if not seed (it's tantra, innit - no seeding intended) then just putting your cock around a bit. Still, perhaps I missed a trick. Perhaps my old yoga teacher was grooming me for a threesome with him and his girlfriend (also allowed). Perhaps I could have had the time of my life. Or not. 


I suspect my goodbye to the group will have to come sooner rather than later. I'm on the hunt for new teachers. Perhaps I'll try the Sivananda. Lord knows how I'm going to afford to train with them, but magicaller things have happened, more recently than one could imagine. Here's hoping. I'll have to get working, though. And I'd better swot up on my Greek Tragedies. I don't yet know enough. I have a rehearsal on Friday involving them. Get your shit together, love.

I ate a faceful of red meat earlier. And spinach. And peas. Loading up on iron for energy and feelgood folic acid. And then I watched Australia. I'm most of the way through. It is, in my opinion, a delightful film. I love it. I love the broad brush-strokes of it, and the beauty. The child in it is incredible. I defy the most upturned of wombs not to twitch a little seeing his huge, long-lashed eyes and childish grace. Hugh Jackman's very pleasing indeed and I'm a huge fan of Nicole Kidman. I think she rocks. But it's the magical, epic, fairytale touches of glitter in this film that please me most. Jackman in the bush shower, romantic kisses on the plains, tragic moments, happy endings on their way, thwarted, almost there, scuppered again (etc). 


Back to Australia, then. Long sleep tomorrow. I'm testing myself. How long can you sleep? Not too long, I hope, but we'll see. Grateful, as always, for the very good friends I have. Very good people in my life. Sometimes I'm not able to see why they're there, but I am always grateful.