Day 466: Little Gifts

Sometimes, it’s the littlest things that are so wonderful – a text from a beloved friend, out of the blue, just to say hello, I’m thinking of you, lots of love. What a lovely little gift that is.

My day has been packed full of lovely people, in person or on the other end of the phone. South African Mel helped me have my first ever (I think) double swim. I may have had one before, but it's gone, if I have. By the time she got there, I'd already been in and was dressed and ready to go. Soooo I undressed and got back in. It was delicious. The water was smooth and silky and warmcoldwarm with storm rain. It rained between my dips, but not during either. 

sex

We met and talked to Barbara, from somewhere Germanic - Austria is my guess. She was interesting and wise. She spoke about youth and age. Before her elder years, she says, she had no idea quite how much of her (and most people's) life was driven by sex. Not in a salacious nympho way, but just so. Sex; having it or not having it; procreation; love (in that way). It's not sex all on its own, but a lot of things are connected to it. Mel and I then added fuel to her fire by being caught talking about just that - our love lives or not. That got us all talking again. I like this woman already even though it's only our second meeting. Interesting creature. 

sex

Ruth was up when I got back. My tent had survived the storms, mostly. I took it down. It's ready now. I think I need a ball of string and some spare tent pegs. Lovely chats and plans and exchanges. And tea. After that, I whizzed out. I overheard a man talking about his favourite poet on the phone. I accosted him and asked him who. Alice Oswald, apparently. His favourite collection was ... oooh, I can't remember. The early ones. I'll look them up.

sex

Lilley filled me up with her wisdom and baby tales and husband stories and general Lilleybrilliance. Talented Kat, who's currently in a brilliant show at The National Theatre (The Amen Corner - amen to that - it's ace) gave me a rich afternoon. I had a job interview, of sorts, and then whizzed back to walk and have supper with Ruth. We ate garden-grown things, which is such a pleasure. The pale mange-tout that have sprung up are weepy good, crunchy and sweet and full of alive goodness. The spinach is shit-hot too and there are tomatoes, beans and berries to come. Get IN!

Workworkwork tomorrow. Yes. And earplug shopping. Important, important stuff. Sex.

Day 465: Proper Damp

WOW. I managed to scrape myself out of bed about 5.45 this morning, dress and get out onto the Heath by 6.30 to some yoga, or so I thought. I did do a bit, but goodness me, the weather was fantastic! I was treated to droplets as I got on the bike in Muswell Hill. I got to the Heath and looked for a flat spot to do yoga. I found a flat-ish one, but by that time, the thunder was booming overhead, the hill had lightning dancing all over it and the rain was angry heavy. I was delighted. Like a fool, I spread out my mat and started with the sun salutations. Only foolish because yoga mats + rain = really fucking slippery. 

My squeaky slitherings made me laugh. I persevered by scrapping the mat and going straight on the grass. Good too, but very wet indeed, and as I hadn't planned for this or dressed for it, I had no spare clothes. In the end, I stopped. I walked up the hill to the massive purplish tree and found another flat spot, which will be beautiful for future morning yoga sessions. It's within the reach of that beautiful tree and it's halfway up a hill, so it offers views both ways. Wherever the sun is coming from, I can salute it, or I can enjoy it on my back or allow it to cook one side of me. It's all in the plan. 

The storm was powerful. The thunder didn't rumble - it sounded like it was breaking the sky - the soundtrack to the end of the world. I love rain. I love storms.

I'd listen any day, letting the smell of dry ground welcoming water fill my nostrils with damp dust and enjoying fat drops running down my face and neck. If we're going to go, can I go like this, please?

The rain had stopped by the time I swam, which was a shame. They weren't allowed to let us in the water while the storm was going on, though, in case we got lightninged and cooked/electrocuted in the water. There was a jaunty cameraderie caused by that concept. I got talking to lovely Briony, who's facing something big with determination and clarity. I like her and I admire her. Every day so far, my ponding has been peppered with wonderful women who make me very happy to be there and to be part of it all. 

This afternoon, I get to don my beloved dungarees and get down in the garden. Weed-pulling, hedge-cutting, harvesting, clearing. General good stuff. I'll go and do that, then. Wish me luck. No need for luck. I have padded knees.

Day 464: All Mushed

Every day, each time I walk around the back of the building, I am blown away by the flowers and the prettiness of where I live. Often, when I’m looking for somewhere to live (and it has been quite often over the last few years), I make a list. On it are things like: on a hill, high up, good light, flowers/nature easily reachable, lovely, easy-going people, quiet (etc). I realise I’ve really got what I was looking for with this place.

Standing on the balcony (fire escape) I can look out over the shared garden, with its beautiful flowers and, since the weather turned nice, a fairly regular turnout of neighbours with babies. I’ve met the lovely Claire and her wide-eyed boy, Guy, a couple of times over the last few days. They are both ace. Looking out from there, I can also see the hills and a corner of Preston Park. When I leave by the front, after passing even more beautiful flowers (big pink ones, lots of lavender, purple hebes which have more scent at dusk, unless my imagination is running away with me), I'm in Dyke Road Park. The top garden there is stunning - it's a mixture of very neat and thought out and a little bit wild. The very top rose beds have a sticky, buddy, flowery weed twining in and out between them. It starts fantasies in my head of Beauty and the Beast-style fairy tales. Further on, past scrappy but sweet-scented bushes, it opens out onto a wide green space. They use it for sport, and I use it for yoga. There's a fence, then, and another similar expanse. You can see the sea from all of it. 

I love doing yoga there. My stretching is peppered with dog greetings. Sometimes, I'm meditating and one will come up and look. I haven't yet been bounded up to and mercilessly slobbered on, but I'm holding out for the day that happens. 

In the aching interim between this post and the last, I've been hugely blessed. Some of it feels wrong to talk about with specifics, but BOOM was a biggie and I'm humbled, properly humbled. I'm also very grateful for friends so good that they forgive me things that aren't perfect. Very grateful indeed for that, and them.

I have an exciting few weeks coming up. Secret Garden Party, getting paid to twat about in a creative and pleasing way. I have SO many ideas. And a lollipop lady costume. I can't WAIT! And then back, and I get to be in London and Brighton for a bit, doing pleasing things. And then Germany, doing mask and theatre and good things. And then Brighton again, where my lovely friend Jochen will be, being very understanding and patient (I'm SO glad I get to see him). And then Bristol, for work. And then... fuck knows. Brighton, I hope. I love it there. 

Right now, I'm really enjoying listening to a little bilingual family at the table nearby. My second of the day. The first was German-speaking. The little girl had a very American accent in English and the father had a very serious-sounding German drone. He was warm, though, and playful, despite the tonality. This family is more exciting. There's a father, a girl and a boy. All of them, father included, have perfect accents in both languages. They switch between languages in a very satisfying way. I'm loving listening. Why is 'speaking other languages' such a source of joy for me? I don't know, but it is and always has. Loving it. 

Day 463: Boom

Blown away with gratitude.I don't have words. That is all. 

Day 462: A Thousand Arms

I LOVED that I did a workshop that sent fear and resistance coursing through my veins and that I found that I got masses out of it and feel good, positive and changed afterwards. That's good, isn't it. There were some very lovely people on it and we did things that, once again, beloved friends of mine (and indeed probably the majority of people I know) would balk at (ha... 'balk' - onomatopoeia at its best). And I loved it.

What a blessing the pond was those two days. Three, in fact. Three days in a row, I had the pleasure of the silky-smooth water, the sweet green of its surroundings, the wonderful wildlife and the company of such a wide range of women. On Sunday, even as early as 8.30 in the morning, there were about 50 women in the pond, ranging from girls to ancient elders - I didn't notice anyone considerably over 80, but the pond keeps you young, so I may have been wrong. 

I love the easy community of these strangers and more and more I realise how much I love being able to be pragmatically naked, without shame or any kind of a statement being made. It's not a nudist place - nudism as such is not allowed, in that you have to be costumed when swimming and topped and bottomed at the very least when sunbathing - but changing is allowed and there's no way there's room for everyone in the changing rooms on days like that.
In the summer, I find the shock of the cold water almost more noticable. It isn't more intense, of course. It's much more intense in the winter, when it steals your breath and sends your blood speeding to reach your vital organs to make sure they don't shut down. In the summer, though, the air is hot and the expectations of water temperature are high, so when I get in, I'm always shocked at how cold it feels.

It's all in the mind, though. On days like these, the cold doesn't come close to taking my breath away. It just feels cold. There's a thing to remember for 'life'. Ha! Maya is back. The rope and the snake. The stories we tell ourselves and the things we believe for want of the stepped-back perspective that offers objectivity. Drama is more compelling, so often, than plain old reality.

I'm grateful for a stranger's compliment at the ponds and for the energy with which it came. Just perfect.

Fabulous picnic in Ruth's back garden with very pleasing Sarah Lonton and David on Saturday night. We'd intended to go to Alexandra Park, but a Red Bull event closed the car parks and in reply to our question about where, nearby, it would be possible to park, a young boy at the closed entrance spoke the heartbreaking words 'They haven't told us to tell anyone anywhere else'. Heartbreaking and heartwarming. I'm so grateful I no longer need to wait for 'them' to tell me to tell people something, rather than having an idea, finding out, coming up with a solution, and, most of the time at least, being happy to take responsibility for what I do say. I love not being 20 any more. It's ace. 

cat not included

We had our picnic at home and then walked up to Alexandra Palace. We partook of the view and of some dogs and flowers again, and then we went home for a cup of tea and a Mrs Crimble's before they left. Can't get more party than that! It was perfect.

Lovely to see Ruth last night, and to walk with her, getting some alone time and a trip to the park, where we saw flowers and dogs (albeit from afar, the dogs) and enjoyed overhearing three young boys being seriously unstreet and pleasingly child-like. They were at an age (ranging between 10 and 13, I'd say) where it'd be more usual, in my recent experience, to hear them telling each other to fuck off. Instead, they were marvelling at the fish in the pond and making hollow (and somewhat pointless) boasts, my favourite of which was 'I'll put my bike in there'.


I'm delighted, this morning, to see that the rose I was given yesterday, which hung limp and sorry after an evening in the car and a journey home on the train, has perked up beautifully and opened on my dresser, all sweet and crisp. Lovely.

Day 461: Meh?

A sweet, sweet pond, silky on the skin, calm and soothing, with a smell like old shoes and compost and organic goodness. Yellow flowers lining the edge. Green all around. Smiling women. When I got there, there was a hoard of almost teens (maybe they were teens - it's hard to tell) brought there with a parent or two. It's a completely different atmosphere when kids are there. It's not the peaceful calm of some mornings, but it's very nice. They were all divey, this lot. Always impressive.

There were mid-range ducklings, still small, still mildly fluffed on the edges, but definitely no longer heron-fodder and very cute. No heron, shag or kingfisher in sight, but lovely Sheila came. We chatted in the water. I was very grateful to hear her stories and touched to hear she and her daughter had enjoyed yoga practice over the summer. There's a reason to do things that doesn't have to have anything to do with me. Thank you for the yoga mat too. Nice and thick. I'd forgotten. I did a padded almost-headstand. A bit leg-wavy, but improvements every day.

Fabulous meeting with the Everybody's It/Village Hall crew who are doing Secret Garden Party in a week or two. I shall be a lollipop lady, among other thing. I'm excited about the prospect and about the people. There will be a lot of pleasing ridiculousness. I must make a list. I'm very, very grateful indeed that this is my job.

Thank you, too, for a fabulous opportunity. Yesterday, I was offered a FREE PLACE on a mask workshop in Germany, an international one. It sound SO good. Three languages, playing for a week, even travel is funded... I want it want it want it. It clashes with the visit of a beloved friend. I think that rules it out. I can still be grateful, though. I'm seeing if they'll let me go for all but 2 days of it.

I haven't been my best self, or anywhere near as productive as I wanted to be today and I'm sorry for that. Not one of those 'live life to the full' kind of days, though it started well. It was something of a failure.

Speaking of which, here's a man with a very nice face and a soothing demeanour talking about the Failure Bow (stubbed toe rather than whizzing arrow).
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=cXuD2zHVeB0
I don't need to word it up too much. He does that for himself. Enjoy, and see you tomorrow for a richer, helpier day.

Day 460: Chains

The day has been rich with smells. Good ones, mostly. This morning, taking my (slightly late) prana walk through the park, I was met with grass and general morning smells. Later, whizzing on my bike towards Seven Dials, roses accosted me up the nose, from really far away. I was impressed! And scooting down the hill towards the station, something else was busy blooming and giving off scent, all summer and shouting about it. 

The two-day-old cooked kale in a tupperware smelt less good, though not as bad as it will smell when I get back to it on Sunday night. It's sitting balled up in three carrier bags on my bed, having been fished out of the bin for smelling like a massive, constant fart. My plan was to remove it from the flat and throw it in a bin, but that plan failed when I entirely forgot about it. Kale is a superfood: super good when it's fresh, but with kryptonite powers of stink after no more than a sweaty hour or two in a tupperware. 

So I've had this idea that I'd like to try out. I love supermarkets. Their smells, their sounds, their bright lights and routines make me feel safe, but not in a productive way. When I'm not sure of things, I know that a short trip around Sainsbury's will make me feel somehow capable in the world. Capable of shopping for cheese. Not what I want as my epitaph. I also whore myself out to chain cafes as a place to work, pretending it's for the free wifi, but I've anchored this habit so strongly that even when I find free internet without having to buy a drink, I seek one out. Quite honestly, right now, that's not where the money I have needs to be going, and it can only be contributing to the not-so-lean-ness I'm currently enjoying (I'm being avoidy of the f-word, but a little bit rounder than before or not, this is a body I'm mostly pleased with).

Aaaaanyway. The idea is another '100 days of' experiment. This one would be 100 days of Freedom From Chains. No, I'm not giving up S&M (or taking it up in order to give it up again). I'm wondering what would happen if I declined to spend time or money in any establishment that's a chain. Any shop you can use the indefinite article in front of. This would extend to internet giants too. That means finding an alternative to amazon or Waterstones online. I'm loving the library action Brighton is affording me anyway, but you see the point. 


I honestly think it's going to be really difficult for me, but really beneficial too. Maybe I shouldn't assume. Maybe I can just stay curious and see what happens. The exceptions I can think of are charity shops. You can say 'a British Heart Foundation' or 'a Shelter shop' but the contents are very different and it'd be very useful to be able to requisition smart gear for a corporate job or a winter jumper, when the time inevitably comes. I think it'd be wise to keep even that to a minimum, though. How often do I need to trawl the aisles of Age Concern? Possibly not as often as I do.

In addition, I give myself grace if I'm on a job somewhere and the catering is done by a chain, or we're staying in a chain hotel that's fine. I'm not paying in those cases anyway. Where there's a choice, though, I'll opt out. Better all round. And on the rare occasions that I'm sociable enough to go to someone else's birthday do, should it be held at a chain, I might concede, as opposed to shouting 'Fuck you, Birthday Boy! I will not set foot inside a Pizza Express, not for you or anyone else!'. I might not. 

Why do this? Mostly to broaden my experience. I've spent time in a number of different countries over the past year. If you wanted to, you could make your whole experience almost entirely uniform and bland. Apart from minimal local touches and a change in currency, a Starbucks serves you the same dose of corporate familiarity wherever you are. A complacent cappuccino with chocolate sprinkles, £2.40 for fitting in. 

There are more whys, but it's after midnight and my unconsciousness is calling me to its restless bosom. Or the pillow. Night then. 

Day 459: Open Your Mouth

It’s been too long again. In the interim, I had the pleasure of Catherine Chapman, at a meeting fitted in before rushing off down to Brighton. I was all excited about that and it was so good to see her. Aaah, good yoga people. Very good yoga people.

I realise I’ve got a bit fat since I came back from Montreal. Not proper fat, but I’ve definitely put on weight. Time to take it off again, I think, mainly because it was off because I was eating better, more regularly and less, and that made me feel good. There have been days recently where everything I’ve eaten in a day has contained sugar or chemicals (or both). It’s not good, is it. It’s time I felt better again.

See, the joy of blogging daily is that all the small things are still fresh. It’s not the momentous things that bring me the most joy, but the insignificant little trifles (and the people, of course). Many of those seem to have disappeared, as I scrabble around in my mind to find the things I want to say. So some of the bigger ones, then…

On Monday, I did a show with the Alphabetties, the first show I’ve done in this country for ages, and a really pleasing one. It had so much stacked against it and perhaps because of that, it was a delight. We were at Upshot. Headlining, and going first, were Dylan Emery and Ruth Bratt, Showstoppers both, very lovely, massively fucking talented improvisers and people I have a little bit of warm awe about. Dylan is always friendly and delightful when I see him; I don’t really know Ruth. They were so good to watch. It’s good to watch what they teach embodied and to see that they’re flexible, playful, embracey of ‘mistakes’ and sharp as little secretive kitchen drawer knives that will lurk behind a vegetable peeler and slice off your whole fingerprint without you even noticing. I mean that in a good way. They pick up and play.

a gob

Knowing myself, the fact that they were playing (and stayed all night – how nice of them) would normally send me into a frenzy of ‘I’m not a good enough improviser’ blah blah blah, boring shit, the result of which is often a shoddy, thinky, semi-paralysed show. However, last night, by the time we went on, I felt quite relaxed. I didn’t feel like going on – I could happily have sat – but I’m so glad I did. I didn’t do the show of my life, but it felt like it could be a turning point show nevertheless. For the first time in ages and ages, on stage, I had so much fun. Just playing. We did all sorts of things that you’re not ‘supposed’ to do, but we played well together. We were listeny and loose and we had a good time. I’m not saying this in itself should be the only ambition for performing, but it’s a great attitude to take into improvisation and I’ve been missing it for a while.

And I got a taste of being back on stage and really playing. It’s been far too long. Some of the malaise I’ve been feeling is to do with not doing enough of what I love and I do totally love performing and now I want to do more and more. Please.

And on Sunday, courtesy of Heather and Joe of The Maydays, I spent an hour in a darkened room while the sun blazed outside, singing and making general noises with a load of people I hadn't really met before. I LOVED it. Just loved it. It was entirely what I needed and it was very pleasing, being able to sing and use my voice without any self-consciousness, in the dark and as a massive experiment. There really is no wrong. Yes please thank you. This is how things can be and I'm very, very happy about it.