Day 22: Gratitude beyond measure

Divine mother Kuan Yin

Last night, I prayed to the divine mother to lift the heaviness that's been at my back and to let me take the steps I need to take. 

I got all humble. I spoke out loud. I asked nicely - not too beggy, but most definitely heartfelt. I offered myself to her. I was grateful in advance. 

Unnamed divine mother
(equally divine, obvs)

This morning, a lightness in my body and in my heart. Still sleepy and slow, but what a difference! No paralysis. A different filter altogether. New eyes. 

I'm beyond grateful for this. I'm beside myself, but in a 'still there' way. Thanks for the listening ears of source (not sauce - sauce-ears not practical) and for the holding. I'm VERY grateful indeed. 

Step time.

Day 21: Phooooo

Phooo. This is what is. This is what demands to be worshipped today. 

Deeper, wider, less forgiving is my mental river

I'm holding onto gratitude like a boat-smashed swimmer clings to a makeshift raft.  The eyes I'm seeing through paint it as a hunk of deck that just about holds my weight and the irony is that gratitude is a speedboat, a hovercraft, a beautifully crafted tallship, a spaceship, even, that can carry a city of people to safety, or a whole planet.

Perception is a beast of a thing. It is reality - in that it's as real as reality gets. Do you remember those 70s walls made out of glass squares? I feel like I'm looking at life through one of those walls now. You could just about tell if there was someone standing on the other side, but only if the light was right. 

Pema Chodron in a hat

And I haven't posted for a while, which never helps. There's a sanity in writing, whether it's worthy of being written or not, whether it's useful, good, valid text or shit-in-a-bag, laughable titwank that shouldn't be formed into sentences. It doesn't matter. Writing it matters, to me, anyway, and knowing I'm going to press the Publish button and share it. There's something about its publicness that gives it power, and that breathes life into it. 

Pema Chodron teaches a whole workshop based on the hopi elders' prophecy about pushing off into the middle of the river  (I've pasted it right at the bottom of the post, if you want to read it). I think I'm an edge-clinger. I don't think I've pushed off. 

The workshop suggests that pushing off into the middle is counter-intuitive, challenging and terrifying - there is no guarantee of safety there - but that holding on is the most painful. It's still a fight and a challenge, but a lonely one that can never be anything but a battle.

The river's flow, even though it flows too fast and takes you over rocks and rushing over weirs, is flow nevertheless. It's possible to relax and let its power carry you. Holding on is thankless and futile. In time the bank too will have gone or changed its shape. And in the middle are the other brave souls who have taken the leap. 

It's not a pretty sight, the realisation that my courage has scuttled off to hide. Not pretty, but no doubt useful. I'm not entirely sure what to do with it right now, or which direction to turn its face in when I coax it out of hiding. All I can do is trust. 

Relief?

Trust that this fighting has been the right thing up till now; that there is a place for me there, or somewhere. That even if I hold on until earth I'm clinging onto heads off to the middle of the river before I do, there is still value in it, and the water will take me when I finally let go. 

And pray. Pray for the courage and the heart to take the leap, to let the cleansing happen, even if I might drown in the process. Trust and prayer. And hopefully, somewhere, a little bit of fucking humour, please. 


Here is a river, flowing now very fast.
It is so great and swift that there are those who will be afraid;
willing to cling to the shore.
They are being torn apart and will suffer greatly.
Know, that the river has its’ destination.’
The elders say, ‘Let go of the shore.
Push our way into the middle and keep our heads above water.’
They also say, ‘See who is there with you and celebrate.
At this time in history, the time of the lone wolf is over.
Gather yourselves.
Banish the word struggle from your vocabulary.
All that we do now must be done in a sacred manner and in celebration;
for we are the ones we have been waiting for.

Day 20: Eeeep

Sultry tiger face. Attractive algae. Fine contrast

Big breaths. Big boots. An incantation for a delightful time and for all the energies that are needed to be present in droves. An enigmatic post full of spirals and butterflies. 

And a tiger. 

Two photos of live animals in the water. 

The bobbing heads of cold, happy people.

May the tiger be present, and the cold-water swimmer, and the out there spirits that do listening and holding really well. And no expertise. None. Thanks. 

Day 19: In Honour of Dogs

Sisterly bliss

I'm wiggling in my seat because my girls have learnt 'stay' today. Only in the kitchen, with no distractions and some very stinky liver and a dose of boredom, but still, they will wait at one side of the kitchen until I call them. This is progress! They've been sitting for ages and they recently learnt to catch liver slivers in mid-air. Now they can wait and stay. We are advancing. 

Poster girl

That's not to say we've won in our relationship. Yet. We're working on it. They're still on lead walks at the moment, and they're desperate to fight each other, but that's not cool on the lead, so they're not allowed. When they're at home, they nibble rather than biting. When they're out, they bite the shit out of each other, bowl each other over, pin each other down. 

Mouse is a dab hand at the 40-mile-an-hour tail grab. Baba is more of a chest bump kind of a girl (Baba got beef. Mouse needs to use agility and cunning to match her, but she can). 

Mouse being cute as fuck with a little lap-sit

I'm learning that this level of intensity is not pure play, but also contains some serious pecking-order establishment, and while playing is to be encouraged, tearing a piece off each other isn't. We're working on it. 

I am grateful for their lovely bodies, their lean and lovely bellies, their soft ears and their almond eyes that gentle themselves as they relax. I'm grateful for the smell of them, even when it's a bit pungent and very dog. I love their responsiveness and I'm delighted that the phrase 'I can see you with my eyes!' gets them to stop doing whatever it is they're doing, like chewing my Peruvian ex-poncho rug or coming in to start another fight. 

Anyone for ears?

We're not out of the woods. I may still need to love these beauties and let them go where they can have more experienced care, more space, more time and perhaps a regular man in their life (Lord knows we could all do with a bit of that!) But I haven't given up on us yet. 

And if we do part, I wish for them to be loved as hard as I love them. I'm sure they will be. They are the most delightful pair. And if they are, and they are happier, we will always have shared this... play bows and belly rubs; learning together and failing at a few things; love, respect and affection. And ears. We can never forget ears. 

Day 18: Play!

Get Katy's book. It rocks.

Play, play play play, plaaaaay!

When it's good, it's really good, and yesterday, it was ace! I did a two-person improv workshop with Katy Schutte and it was fabulous. Check out Katy's very cool book, The Improviser's Way, which I have. She has a nose for the joyful, and the book reflects that. 

I got to play with my beloved improv partner, Simon Veal, king of believable, obvious (which is a fantastic thing) and inspired improvising, and someone it is a joy to be on stage alongside. 

Simon makes scenes feel like breathing lungs (also a good thing, just in case you weren't sure). Being in a scene with him is a spacious thing, a place where what needs to be said gets said; sometimes, it's a simple action that calls us back to something that was mentioned in passing earlier on, and that makes it suddenly significant and immensely pleasing. He's the master of simple specifics that make things real and he's a proper delight to play with.

Girl dogs busy being doe-eyed at their second home
while I'm away

It was also a gift to be in a room with a handful of other playing pairs and others who'd come bereft of their other, gathering nourishment to take home and feed to their improv partner or group. Some properly fabulous players. So pleasing to watch people who enjoy playing together. 

I'm staying with my marvellous cousin Ruth, who is 79. She's down to earth, creative, courageous and pragmatic. She gets on with things and and eats things up (sometimes the same things - she fashioned a groundbreaking casserole today to feed a small heap of guests and will eat it up tomorrow). 

This keeps popping up

She is also very funny indeed, generous and loved by all around her. She still swims in the Kenwood Ladies' Pond daily and walks for miles, fills endless black sacks with rubbish on the Parkland Walk and gives her time, love and money to anything she holds as important. I love and admire her. She can't hear it, but I do. 

The dating thing was so-so. Nowhere near as much fun as the play. I think there' s lesson in that. Stop being so fucking earnest, Claybourne; stop worrying, and play!

Day "17": Have a Carrot

I've got out of the habit of writing the blog, which is a shame, because I bloody love it. It's like taking communion. It's a little ritual that takes the spirit of whatever is into my body and makes it feel alive again. A ritual that reminds and one that nourishes. 

What a face! 

Rituals are perfect for that. It's not that the dance or prayer or laying out of candles MAKES a thing happen, nor that the ritual of burying a loved one means that the goodbye is any more complete than without it, but that the act of ritualising it makes the senses ready to receive what they need to. It's like sweeping the floor before guests come or laying out the red carpet. It's a language of its own. 


Today, I spent the day with the wonderful, magical, fucking lovely Tiu de Haan. She helped me buy a Very Smart Jacket and some respectable (and lovely) boots. I shall cut a finer figure thanks to her. 

My doggos at their home boarding place. Sweet little faces.
Handsome girls.

Tomorrow I do a workshop with the Fabulous Veal (my improv partner, Simon), led by Katy Schutte, who I know only through others who love her. I'm scexcited. I am rusty as an old bucket on the improv front, but looking forward to playing and not leading. Looking forward to learning and stretching a bit. And looking forward to having a go on Veal (in an improv way). 

And on Sunday, I'm doing a dating thing. Not so much to meet someone in an active way, but to put myself out there. I may not be 'ready', but I will be by the time the wheels get in motion. I'm thinking of this as cleaning the chain and checking that the pedals are on. Who knows what will come of that. 

It's good to be back, cocking about with words and pictures. It's good to be home. 

Day 16: It's not about you

I bloody love this face, I do

This is the thing I couldn't remember from the other day:

"It's not about you."

This came through loud and resolute, like a chant.

"It's not about you. You've got it all back to front. It's not about you."

It's an insistent voice that doesn't sound quite like mine.

Your feeling unfulfilled, unworthy or frustrated is just what is. It's not about you. 


Your feelings of joy and satisfaction, a heady rush of love or thrill of praise is just what is. It's not about you. Someone disappoints you and you feel betrayed and hurt; it's not about you. You let someone down and feel guilty; it's not about you. 

That's not fatalism or shirking of responsibility, but spiritual pragmatism. You still get to choose what you do, but lose the judgement, lose the shoulds and exhausting fucking standards. Just do what you need to do. It's not personal. It's not about you. That conviction is quite simply a waste of time and a huge distraction. 

Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche
in his youth

Pema Chödrön tells a story about her teacher, Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche, conducting a wedding blessing. In it, he turns first to the bride and hits her repeatedly* over the head with a washi-washi - a sacred thingy that makes a shaky noise - and says "Pain is not a punishment. Pleasure is not a reward" three times. Then to the groom he says "Pain is not a punishment. Pleasure is not a reward" three times, also hitting him on the head in time with the words. And then to both of them: "Kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness, kindness."

 * And gently! I've just been reading about his provocative and quite upsetting behaviour so I felt the need to point this out. He was giving a blessing, not being a dick. Aaaand we're back to 'I'm being provocative on purpose and that just happens to involve me doing whatever I want for my own gratification" narcissists, as per Day 7: Ego Menagerie. 

And dressed as Elvis

 I joke about things being 'my next tattoo' but that, seriously, that is a reminder I need to hear every single day. That's a candidate for the backwards-written forehead tattoo, like the writing on an ambulance. Every time I look in the mirror, I need to remember this. My feeling bad today is not a measure of my worth in life, my success or my standing. It just is. My feeling good today, or having success, is also by the by. Move on. 


It's not just the Buddhists who say this (unless Rudyard Kipling was a massive secret Buddhist). This is from the poem 'If', which you'll find in full here. 

... If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;...

After a list of such wisdoms, it ends saying that if his son can do all of them, 'you'll be a man, my son.' You'll be a human being human. You'll be a person being real and fallible and wise. You'll be off the vicious hook you spend your time polishing and hanging off. Thanks RK. You were on the money.

Thanks, Rudyard Kipling, for your wise
words and your stunning eyebrows

So my holding back from doing things I want to do out of fear, or some sense of it being 'not my place' to do certain things, or because I don't think I'm good enough, is, frankly, a big old bag of shit. It's not personal. It's not about me. 

Somebody I thought I loved doesn't love me and it hurts. It's not about me. I don't love somebody who thought they loved me and that's painful for them. It's not about me. "Feel it, grieve it, love it, bless it. Just know that it's not about you."

Past traumas happened and made shapes in my life that I'm working to address, and right now, that feels tough. "Good. Well done. Keep going. It's not about you". 

I could waste my life on striving for perfection (and suffering from its lack) where it's not even possible to conceive of what perfection could possibly mean. "That's distraction. Be kind, make friends with that part of yourself that's hooked on that. Give it a lollipop  (made of juice and stevia and generic edible virtue of course) and a kiss on the forehead and send it out to jump on the trampoline for a few minutes till it feels better."

Except if you're me, and then it probably is because,
you know, I'm special. Gah!

In a culture where we're encourage to find out passion, make our mark, strive for our goals and be our own unique brand in everything we do, where we're suckled on individualism from the very start, topped up with comparison and fed a diet of consumer addiction to measure our worth and social standing, this is a hard sell, but it's also a massive relief.

This is permission to just feel it, whatever it is, and treat yourself with respect, to be the cell that joins with others to make up the minute pin-prick area of fingertip that's busy being shoved up a nose. It's not about you. Just keep going. It's not about you. 

And just in case you were wondering, it's not about YOU either.  

Day 15: Water Blessings

This post is dedicated to the river, to the fat flow of it, to the banks that hold it even after rains and to its cold welcome. Despite my 'getting in face', there's a bliss unlike any other about being received by this moving entity. It's a gift. It feels like coming home. 

Thank you SO MUCH, Lindsey, for making this your
Facebook cover photo. No, REALLY. 

I always forget to ask permission. My lovely friend Rina Golan teaches that you should always ask the water spirits for their blessing before stepping in, and in return they will carry away anything you don't need. 

Another lovely friend, Bridget Quinn, who visited me in London and came for a dip in the Ladies' Pond, said you must always put your head under, so the water can cleanse your hair and take away unwanted energies. We decided against today. The river was dark with field fun-off. Yesterday's rain was heavy. 

Checking on the water's roar

We were blessed with dancing raindrops and a distinctly yellowy, uplifting quality to the bright sunlight. It caught the contours of every delicate drop. It lit the leaves and made rainbows in the sky. 

After, a leafy walk with patient dogs, their (very pleasing) bodies alert with the smells of rabbits, tantalising pheasants just out of sight, but well within the reach of a nose and all kinds of concoctions carried on the wind, maybe miles away. 

If I may say so, there is only one way to start the day, and muddy or clear, temperate or fucking freezing, the water is that way. 

Day 14: Fighty Flow

I had a bit of an epiphany today in the car. At a red light, I wrote it on my hand. I was on my way to dance in Bristol (Natural Dance with the fabulous Leigh Tolson).  I sweated the writing right off my hand. It will come back. Or not. 


And the dance. Oh, the dance! I was greeted by Kath Jones and Ruth Blake, who danced me inside in unison. It was delightful. I wore my black 1920s tassel dress this evening, so I was swinging and bouncing and loving every second of it most of the night. 

Not quite that fighty. Also, I'm female

I had a proper fighty, physical dance with someone (I'd never spoken to him). It was really, really good. He was strong and so am I, and we danced and played with force and resistance and it felt sublime, refreshing and exhilarating. I still haven't spoken to him. 

I shared lots of dances tonight, most of them quite tender and playful. I've been absent from the class for three weeks missed it so much. Dancing with people is such nourishment for me and feels very easy at Leigh's. I missed the pure physicality of the dance and the immense DJing and killer space-holding that Leigh waps out every single time. 

I'm glowing, knackered and wide-eyed. But I wasn't going to miss another blog post.

Day 13: Missed

In many tower blocks, there is no floor 13. In many airlines don't have a row 13 either. Not they are officially superstitious, but that passengers have expressed a desire not to sit there, so they skip from 12 to 14.

Somewhat dramatic. I'm not this weird-eyed

I did not post yesterday (day 13). I don't think it was anything to do with bad luck, though the post that didn't make it into the world might disagree. I'm not missing it out, as such, but sitting it up on the shelf until the inevitable day when I'm feeling well prolific, or have too many topics to talk about. I'll retrospect it. If we're lucky, I'll travel through time. 


I'm feeling saucer-eyed with weird at the moment, and not quite where I want to be. Quite not. It's not an excuse - the point of this blog is to worship whatever is, to "bless what there is for being". What there was last night was sleep. What there is now is about to be the same. 

That's more like it

It is, though, a good time to write. When things are really that way out. When things look like they're in need of repair and they can't possibly be used until they're fixed. 

In fact, the usage is the 'fixing'. I suspect that when I properly accept this truth: that there is nothing to fix, nothing to shun, nothing to reject being with - then my life will take a very different shape. 

Not because 'things' will stop happening; not because perfection will finally have landed at my door, but because that's kind of the point. Shut-downness today: thank you. Challenge: take a seat. Irritation: can I interest you in a biscuit? (I never have the right biscuits for Irritation. This fact drives him mad). 

Once that's down, it's all just movement and dancing.

Day 12: Out of Body

I've spent quite a lot of today out of my body. It's a place I'm quite familiar with and one I feel like attempting to describe. 

Much too spooky

It's a bit like... have you ever been about to faint? There's a moment just before it happens - it probably already happening, in fact, but it feels like you're on the lip, just about to go - when you're aware of something being about happen in that body there, but you feel a slight detachment from the body in question. 


Sometimes time slows down and you have a little time to plan - to check for things not to fall onto, for example, or to make a note of where your phone is in case you need to call someone to come and help you. I realise that perhaps that's MY experience of fainting because I'm quite good at jumping up out of my flesh suit into a space just behind it. 

For me, it's like I'm standing on a low step just behind myself. I'm close enough to sense that person. If we were in a horror movie, the outside version of me would be nuzzling the corporeal one's neck, almost, and everyone would be feeling a little bit uncomfortable. 

What the fuck?

From the inside, it's a bit like looking through my own eyes through perspex. I can see out, but there's a separation. There's definitely a slightly grainy, slightly slow-moving quality to that out-thereness, and a difference in acoustics. 

It's meta, that's what it is. It's being aware of a constant meta-narrative of 'here this is, happening (so where am I?), trying to focus on the external and feeling drawn by something shiny and strong at the inside of my brain. A little bit of meta, wherever I am.

I've been calling myself back in by sensing specific body parts, especially lower ones (legs, feet, bottom on the seat etc), making sounds, and contracting a few muscles to see what changes. Making room inside my legs for that distant feeling to pour down and fill them up, and becoming curious about the sounds in my space. I haven't had a full reconnect yet, but I trust that it will come. 

If not, I'll take the advice I've been given and sit with that state like a guest or a person in a waiting room. There are different takes on this. Is it wise to sit with that part and have a cup of tea, or is that inviting it to stay for too long? Either way, it should feel accepted and easy - any sense of trying to banish it will only make it more determined. 

I'm going to a gig tonight. Looks like I have an unexpected guest. I wonder if it likes hip-hop. 

Day 11: Oversharing

This guy is part of the whole

Wow. My ego/fear/overwhelm voice is so strong that when I move close to something I want, it tells me I would be better off not in this world. It doesn't say 'than to do x'. It says 'the world would be better off without you'. It's pretty forceful. 

This, in this moment, is one of the things that is, and if I'm to be true to myself and to this challenge, I must worship it. I must thank it for showing up and shouting, and letting me know that I'm onto something. 

I must bow down in humility to all the work it's done to keep me from harm and I must take it by the hand (paw?) and show it that it's barking at shadows. 

There are other things here too - gratitude for lovely exchanges, for understanding, for all my needs being met. 

This one is like the party guest who's drunk too much and takes all the attention, whether that be in holding court with loud stories, crying into a bottle of gin in the kitchen or throwing up down the back of the sofa (where lots of people are sitting). Anything for attention. 

Pema Chödrön goes on and on (she'd agree) about nurturing unconditional friendship with the self. That means loving myself when I'm in the midst of listening to that destructive voice, when I'm facing real truths about things that need to change, when I'm standing up to old stories and when I'm breaking under them. 

Monsters have less substance than they
believe themselves to have

Just like in a relationship with another person, I can't wait until that person changes, realises I'm right or comes to me bathed in apology. I get to make the first move. I have to. It's a leap into the unknown. 

hearts and flowers? you're spoiling us

The love for that fallible friend has to come first and fully, as fully as is possible in this moment, and then it has to be watered and given Baby Bio and sung to sweetly. 

So here's to a loving lullaby tonight, a bit of heavy metal, maybe, or a chant. Here's to a song and a word of nurture and to a big old dose of heart (see below)

Here's to worshiping the what is that we don't want to be, and doing it with the same sacredness as the bits it's easy to love. 

Massive fucking heart. Thanks, Latto.

Day 10: Non-Blog Blog and Mermaids

This one looks a bit like a bed

This is not a blog. This is an afterthought. A beforethought. A beforebedthought. It's late, I'm tired and tomorrow I'm up early to do all the things before a river swim at 8.30 and a visit to a new place at 10.15 (better get my shit on after the frozen swim). There's been frost every morning for a good few days. It will be a shock to the system. I'm excited. 

I've spent a lot of the day writing a job application for a job I really want. I really, really do want it, so much so that it freaks me out. I've been freelance for more than eight years, but this job would trump the lot (lower case, people). 

This looks a bit like my belly.

So I'm applying. I'll do my best, I'll send the application and I'll let go of the outcome further than that (I want the fucker, ok!). I'm a sucker for an interview, though, so if nothing else, I hope I get that. 

And whatever happens, there it is, I've outed myself. I really really want something - specifically, I want to be able to say that I am the director of the Ministry of Stories.* Not for the sake of saying it (though it does have a ring to it) but because I believe in what they do, I think I could do the job well and I'd be proud to be involved with them. 

This looks ridiculous, and quite pleasing

So I wiggle in gratitude to the courage to put myself out there, to want something publicly and to risk ridicule from my imaginary jury if I don't get it. And for doing a blog despite doing crazy-eye. And for my bed, who is singing my name like sirens sing to sailors. I'm on my way. 

* I was desperate not to say that, because that really IS putting it out there, but that's kind of the point.

Day 9: Doggo Dance

I can't find a picture of them doing prawn, so here are some of
them doing hugging instead.

Today I am celebrating a back that makes me look like a liar... this morning I took about 5 minutes to stand up from my chair, this afternoon I was walking like a proper hiker and this evening twisting and stretching as we did impro games. 

I am DELIGHTED to be able to move again. I'm delighted now to be sitting on my sofa with a stretched out dog on either side of me, all legs. Like massive, hairy king prawns. With ears. 

I love that when they sleep, especially like that, their paws twitch, sometimes individual toes, and they do that semi-silent barky thing. You can see the diaphragm being activated for a proper bark, but all that comes out is a little whiney grunt. 

Face and leg biting = main job of dogs

I also love how they smack their doggy little lips when I stroke them, and how they bite each other's legs and make Chewbacca sounds, and how Baba makes a happy howl and rubs herself all over any boy dog she likes (I might do well to take a leaf out of her bold book).

These beauties are the source of so much stress and anxiety for me - they don't come back when I call them and sometimes run off - and the source of so much love, heart-softening and sweetness. 

You cute bastards.

I'm definitely not the best dog-mama out there, and I love them and do my best with them. We're finding our way together at the moment, and even when it's hard, I need to remember to appreciate their pleasing doggo bodies and their sweet affection. 

They are still scared of chairs and farts and my coat and sometimes me, even though I feed them. Even AS I feed them. But compared to how they were when I got them, they have definitely grown in confidence. Whatever happens, we have had quite a journey.

Thanks for the complexity of them. Thanks for the dance, doggos. 

Day 8: Varying Degrees of Panache

This is salsa?

I'm watching this and trying to persuade myself not to go dancing tonight. It's not the dancing itself - I'm sure I can listen to my body and be gentle with it - it's the hour-long drive either side that compresses the bit that hurts.

If salsa class was like that video, I'd be IN! I love the mirror bit at the start.

Today, I was in receipt of brilliance, kindness and sanity at the hands of Jo, an NHS physiotherapist at Frome Community Hospital. I was booked for a different issue, but given that i couldn't walk properly (and that the two issues are almost certainly related) she agreed to look at my back. 

This is not NHS Jo

After lots of calm questions, she announced that there was nothing she could do and that there was, in fact, nothing that needed to be done. The pain fits with the fact I have little or no disc in L4 and L5. It will heal itself as long as I believe it will, and keep it moving gently. She explained that we get all careful with ourselves because we think that 'it hurting' is the same as 'it doing damage', but it's not. Relax, take anti-inflammatories, get on with things. Perfect.


She said something like 'self-efficacy'. I can't quite remember. I do remember feeling quite delighted as I left. Waddling out to the car, getting caught by twinges and making little grunts, I got the giggles. It all seemed quite laughable, and so I did laugh. The woe of 'I can't do anything' was totally transformed by the physio-alchemist Jo. Nothing to worry about. Carry on!

Welcome to The River House

Frome has done Halloween with varying levels of panache. 

The River House, who are quite generous with their cool, did this! Waiting staff, kitchen staff, everyone was getting the treatment. I found the whole thing so pleasing, I had a second coffee (the first one was pretend). 


They had hand-shaped bloodstains on the door too... like Titanic, but in gore. Despite everything I said on Day 5, it was a nice touch. I mean, they didn't stage a slaughter... they'd just had a laugh murdering up the cafe. 

Very pleasing indeed. Top Hat Man is half cooked.
He was having his make-up done between lattes.

That's what pleased me so much. The Day of the Dead faces are properly pleasing in themselves, but it was the joy seeping through what they'd done. It made my day. I've been enjoying it since this morning! Thanks, River House.

Ellenbray, on the other hand... I think 'Could try harder' fits here. I mean, they did something, which is good, but I can feel this 'oh, shit, we forgot... we'll just... why don't we just cover the massive Lego police bloke in bog roll and... well, that'll do, won't it?" I mean, is he a mummy or a ghost? He's not very threatening, is he? It could just as well be a student prank. A lame one. Having said that, I got almost as much delight from this, just in a different way.

3/10, could try harder

So happy Halloween, all. Nobody's rung my bell (I think my house looks a bit scary anyway) and the dogs are calm, though Baba has just knawed her way through a dried salmon dog chew and the kitchen smells of old fish and dog-breath. Nasty. I mean, I gave it to her, obviously. She didn't go out and get it herself with her pocket money. Or steal it. Or order it off the internet or something with her dextrous claws and my debit card. So I take responsibility for the ming. I just thought I'd share it. Dead fish smell for Halloween.

PS - I didn't go dancing. I've saved my sore arse for tomorrow. I'm off for a little wiggle upstairs now though, while my co-dancers pound the hall floor, sweat with abandon and (with any luck) have a bit of a shout. I might just wrap a bit of bog roll round my face as I move, call it a costume. Trick or treat myself. Sorted. 

Day 7: Ego Menagerie

There are no good 'Narcissist' images, so here are some
animals looking a bit machinatory. Or not. They do that!

I'm very aware of my own need for this post to be 'good', so I'm outing myself. 

Some lovely people have been reading and saying flattering things and OHHHHH, doesn't my ego love that! And that's okay. There's no harm in enjoying people enjoying the blog. The only harm is in then deciding to write the blog for that purpose and engineering it to harvest the praise. 

That's tits in a bag. It's the opposite of the point. I shan't. Or if I shall in any way, I'll make sure I can't pretend to myself or anyone else that it's not the case. 


I am a born pleaser. Or a made one. Which reminds me: I was watching videos about narcissists, sociopaths and psychopaths the other day. The difference, apparently, between a sociopath and a psychopath is that a sociopath is the product of nurture: abusive upbringing, neglect and early betrayal are among the things that can rob a human of its natural empathy and hard-wiring for connection and create a sociopath. 

Is this piglet about to fuck you over?

Psychopaths, on the other hand, are born that way. They don't have the receptors to register other people's pain and their ethical compass exists only as a reproach thrown at them by others. They're not entirely sure what it means. They can pretend, if it serves them, but they don't have that organ. 

And narcissists, oh, you tortured torturers! Narcissists are driven by a need to serve the self even at the cost of others. They're master manipulators, practised revenge artists and charming as fuck when they want to be, BUT they suffer, at least a little bit, when they do harm.

Narcissism was described as an inner emptiness that needs to be filled with external fuel, be that a trophy job/partner/child/lifestyle, money or other people's energy. They're great at galvanising others into action. They're successful people, often, clever, charismatic and driven ones, but not happy ones, in the main.

What about this charming guinea pig/hamster thing?
Is she gathering information on you so she can shaft you?

Because as Queen of Wise, Anne Lamott says about focusing on the reward of being published instead of the act of writing, 'there's not enough out there - there's not enough love in the world', you won't sell enough copies' (etc)... It has to come from within, and if that's not possible, it's an exhausting addiction to keep trying to fill it with another lover, another public success, another act of making yourself bigger by making another smaller. Like bailing out a sinking ship, only... backwards. 

This need isn't reserved only for narcissists, but it's a quality they have more than there outer casings would suggest.

I've had a number of significant narcissists in my life - lovers, family members, friends, and many of them in a teacher/leader role, often with a spiritual bent. 

That's common because spiritual leaders are very compelling and the role attracts a steady stream of fodder in the shape of students and seekers, all willing to cough up their deepest fears in their quest for enlightenment, only for that to be processed into manipulation leverage. 

Many people seeking spiritual development (and narcissists, in fact) have had trauma, neglect or exposure to narcissists in a significant role in their early development*, which makes them even more likely to be drawn to authority figures who have those familiar traits. 

* Healing Developmental Trauma, by Heller & Lapierre, is a fascinating book, though the audiobook version is read with such jolly woodenness that the Amazon reviews are (very pleasingly) full of discussion about whether the relief or early trauma patterns the book affords is worth the re-traumatisation the narrator causes. 

Cute but deadly, apparently.  Classic narcissist. Do not approach.

Narcissists are also great at surrounding themselves with buffer people who clean up the carnage they wreak. I saw this in full flow in a course I recently left. I spoke to people in that role who were very aware of they dynamic but unable, for the moment at least, to break away. Or they just didn't want to, but there was definitely a familiar internal conflict in most of them. 

And it's really bloody hard. They often have something good to offer, something people really want, but at a cost** that I'm not willing to pay. I'm thankful to have moved away from that particular situation, and I'm calling in earlier and earlier radar warnings should I find myself compelled again. 

** An energetic cost as well as a financial one, this time. I couldn't recoup the latter, but I've got my energy back tenfold since leaving. A satisfying sign. 

Dapper As Fuck. Watch out. He'll eat your soul.
You may enjoy it. (Artist Yago Partal)

This one was particularly useful. It had to become intensely painful before I broke away, but after the months of back-and-forthing and an arduous decision-making process, it's felt fabulous to have done that.  Here's too that lesson logged, and gratitude - for the experience and the choice I made, and in advance to my future self for choosing a different path much earlier any time it becomes necessary.

And who knows... 20 posts down the line, I may have discovered my own narcissism (there are lots of types... it's kind of fascinating). I don't think so, but perhaps I'm blinkered to my own pathology. 

Ah well. If I'm not, what a relief, and if I am, just think how good that post will be: poignant, searingly honest, moving and humbling. It'll be a like magnet, and my fuel cup, for that moment at least, will overflow. 

So, you know... Every cloud.