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On my desire to live elsewhere and a vivid dream described
I know the score.
Listen, like a psychologist, let the story run, let her expose its detail and meaning.
We are in a large house. We invite 16 people over, 30 or more come. We are in the States. Huh! (So North America beckons once more).
It is midday.
A house warming party, we have friends from home too, with their kids. (Sounds fine to me).
Then it turns into something else. A crying child who feels they only get their mothers attention if they cry.
I take her coffee and ‘pain au chocolat’. ‘I don’t eat chocolate in the morning’ comes the complaint. (Same rule applies with the kids, yet she bought the things and they are eaten for breakfast).
She gets eggy bread too. Though she doesn’t get the ‘Eggy Bread Face’ treatment.
They weren’t Quentin Blake. Must be the ‘Artist’s Way’ catalyst. They get faces that are graphic.
I catch sight of the sea from the kids’ bedroom. The tide must he in. Foam and fluff from the top of broken waves wisps and curls up from the bank of pebbles 350 yards away like fiery plumes from a volcano with a grumbly tummy. I’ll go and fetch the binoculars, take a lingering look. I’ve been warned that guests bringing small children are due at 10.00.
adieu
On the Writers Group
I have buzzed and been angry since it left. Had the writer’s been Henry Miller, Jeffrey Archer, Salmun Rushdie, Michael Crichton, J K Rowling and Barbara Cartlan would I be so rattled now?
Perhaps, perhaps not.
You can learn more in a self-help group. Take what you want from it. I won’t be told. The frustration was in feeling gagged. There was a lot of awful writing presented. But what do you do? What do you say? Most offered bland white-wash approval. I thought, we aren’t here to pat each other on the back. I want to make money from writing. I fear some of them are just coming in out of the cold, one guy is certainly out to make ‘new friendships’ you could tell where his priorities were during the tea-break – he sidled over to the ‘new girl’, gave me the cold shoulder and concentrated his efforts on her. Not on her writing, but on her. Made me cringe. Made me angrier still.
The group is run be a pro, a wonderful women, a performer, a former opera singer, playwright with work in the West End.
Mum of two. She has the warmest of smiles. The kind that makes you feel loved and understood. I can see why she fell in love with her husband on site. They share the same calm warmth and expressive faces. He’s an actor. He was the year above me at school, the year above me at university.
We had similar careers ‘til then.
That’s when I started to ‘shadow’ my creative ambitions. Oxford Graduates are attracted by fat pay checks into all kinds of things. I had promised myself U.C.L.A to direct, promised myself R.A.D.A. to act. Promised to pursue ‘creative happiness’ only to turn my back on the BBC and wash up on the shores of a London advertising agency – that I loathed on touch.
Twisting the dial from jolly to sad to bonkers …
I’ve switched the jollity of Amelie for the dour drama and tragedy of Samuel Barber’s ‘adagio for string’.
I guess I’m feeling tragic, like a tragic failure. I must make money from something soon. Even if it means taking the guitar into Brighton and busking in the Lanes. This cash will make no dent in the gargantuan debts I’ve built up, what I want is … I don’t even want the cash. Little notes popped in my guitar case saying ‘nice songs, nice voice’ would do. Smiles of appreciation. A small group taking a break from the shops to enjoy ballads I composed in my teens.
There’s something I just cannot do anymore
I can ‘get my hand in’ if I draw for a few hours, but I have not been able to click into a songwriting pattern at all. I play some chords, get the beginning of something but seem unable to marry the words to the music. Is it lack of passion? Do good songs only come from youth?
I digress, I digress. We slip into something that isn’t Adagio For Strings. Time for an anarchic pick me up. On goes …
Bjork: ‘Human Behaviour’
‘If you ever get close to a human
and a human behaviour
be ready to get confused
There’s definitely no logic
To human behaviour
But yet so irresistible
There’s no map
To human behaviour’
Did I know this is what I wanted? I might have taken one of several Bjork discs or remixes from the shelf behind me. This is what I got. This is what I’ll be for now.
Caffeine Buzz
I’m breaking a rule. I may be about to commit to ‘The Artist’s Way’ and do it by the book, but my New Year Dettox is being screwed ragged. I am sipping from a mug of espresso. The entire pot is mine. This is going into a body that that taken a month to come off a chemical mix of high dose paracetomol, caffeine and alcohol.
Someone just poured lighter fuel into the box of fireworks and lit the match
Wrong place, wrong time background music drives me insane with distraction. That was then, when I was bubbly over with caffeine. Now I need the music in order to concentrate – something has to suck away part of my concentration otherwise I would. I would. Not be able to sit here for more then ten minutes without being distracted.
Life bursts in over my shoulder
Something about something I said or didn’t say, explained or didn’t explain. Is the house a mess or not? I’d described it as ‘relative’, we have guests on our doorstep. They wouldn’t care too hoots. It is ‘relative’ – relatively tidy for a house where both parents work from home, where there are two small children and it is four hours into the morning of the weekend …
This must stop
It doesn’t. It was about to., I was about to. But Bjork will go on. Will come out with:
‘There’s More to Life Than This’
‘Come on girl
Let’s sneak out of this party
It’s getting boring
There’s more to life than this’.
If it is possible to be caffeine drunk that is me right now.
The Yoga Lady too
She’s a mum and she’s my ‘Yoga Lady’ from the Southover Grange piece. Her husband is here. I’m not embarrassed. I aske her to do something. To get down on the floor. Cor! Oops! Head flat, bum raised, arms out. I do a sketch. We get into a debate about where bits of Lewes would, could or should be placed on her torso. Hubby doesn’t like the idea that everyone drives into Lewes on her bum (butt).
And I need to get milk, and we are out of coffee … and I haven’t this or that ot ….
Oh Feck!!!
(As they say in ‘Father Ted’ Ace Brit Comedy)
Feck!! Feck!! Feck!!
Krakow Flying – a dream analysed
My wife and I are on a journey; we’ve been married just over a month.
During a stop over in an East European like city (Prague/Kracow or some such) I go on a look round using an invisible flying machine. I’m able to fly by breathing in or breathing out, steepping off roof tops, flying over rivers, above canal banks, down ravines and over the edges of dams. I’m a little apprehensive about loosing it while in mid air, but never do, though I sometimes become under powered and sink almost to ground level. I wonder sometimes if I step of a cathedral or fly over the wall of a dam that the sense of vertigo might result in my loosing my concentration and I’ll fall.
What happened ?
A group, a family group, which might include my father-in-law (Polish) and my wife, are on a flight. We stop to transfer to a smaller aeroplane. While walking around a cathedral (catholic) I mount some back steps and take off across the roof tops to see more of the town. No one sees me airborne. Though I land, against my will, in the middle of a cross country bubble-car race and consequently cause the winning bubble car to loose time and possible loose the race. I’m unable to get airborne again so walk off in the direction of the airport. I assume I miss the flight. OR did I return ? I may have said to my father-in-law that there was nothing to worry about because I had learnt to fly. I was going to take a plane up to fly us wherever we were going.
Where ?
A town. Lots of old buildings, like Oxford, or Krakow. With a periphery main road (like York or Canterbury).
Who are You ?
A traveller. And while I wonder the town a tourist.
Who are you with ?
The others are still at the cathedral or went back to the airport without me.
How am I as DREAM EGO acting/behaving in this dream ?
The tourist looking around. Testing my skills at flying myself around town, between tall walls, off roof tops, over traffic. It’s a feeling, not mechanical. It’s a matter of self-control. Enjoying the surroundings Away from people I can fly, but when I’m being watched (have to perform) or if my dropping to earth is going to cause problems for others then I lose concentration and float to ground.
What relation does this dream have to my personality ?
I fly when I’m doing my thing, away from others. When people watch to see if I’ll fall I come down to ground. Not crash, just on their level.
What does this dream want from me ?
I’d prefer to fly than walk. That tells me to ignore their views. nor to seek their pleasure, but to get on with my thing.
What are the various feelings in this dream ?
Flying like this is no longer a surprise. I’ve always wanted to do it. I’d like to fly higher and faster and be more sure of controlling it. It’s a sense of private satisfaction, curiosity satisfied, private and pleasurable. Flying over dams or stepping of buildings is a test of my powers. Am I sure of myself ? I don’t fall. In such situations as a teenager I would have crashed to the ground ! I’m frustrated when I touch down on the way back to the airport not only disrupting some local contest, but also being left to walk back and miss or delay the flight.
What relation does this dream have to what is happening now in my life ?
It’s fine to fly, but it’s private. IF I want to succeed at doing something I enjoy I must be able to face up to criticism and the views of others, without loosing the ability to fly. Working from home is the flying feeling, especially when its more creatively orientated. Coming literally down to earth is the bread and butter work I do, though I should be able to take it with me into the air !
Why did I need this dream ?
I wonder where my life is going. AM I in control ?
Why have I had this dream now ?
I’m having to get the right balance between flying and walking, things I do for myself and things which earn me a living. One day they will be one and the same thing. I’m also concerned that if I’m too preoccupied with my own thing the “Family” might fly on without me.
What relation does this dream have to something in my future ?
The quest for work which brings me the same satisfaction and uniqueness of flying.
What new questions arise as a result of this dreamwork ?
How can I keep control of the flying ? I need a fuel gauge or more fuel !
Who or what is the adversary in the dream ?
My father-in-law … at arms length. No one. They let me get on and do my thing.
What is being wounded in this dream ?
Still unable to keep up the momentum when I need it … over the last hurdle.
What would I like to avoid in this dream ?
Never being able to fly again. Engines cutting out resulting in a precipitous fall. My flying taking me away from Darlingest or causing her hurt.
What is being healed in this dream ?
Wanderlust
What or who is the helping or healing force/agent in this dream ?
The flying is a relief, an escape, a chance to get way from the communal, down to earth pleasures of tourism. (everyday life).
Who or what is my companion in this dream ?
No one.
Who are my helpers and guides in life and in my dreams ?
Wanda at home. I could do with a partner, a mentor, someone to share my ambitions with.
What symbols in this dream are important to me ?
The catholic cathedral. Was I thinking of converting to Catholicism, IS there something I believe in which atheists don’t ?
What actions might this dream be suggesting I consider ?
Learn ways to stay airborne for longer and take Wanda along with me !
What can happen if I work actively with this dream ?
I’ll go up and stay up and come down when I want to !
What symbols in this dream are important to me ?
Flying.
What is being accepted in this dream ?
That I like going off on my own. That I like to fly above others. That I like taking risks whilst remaining in control. That sometimes I’m brought down to earth against my will. So I need more fuel and need to know better how to operate my flying machine.
What choices can I, and will I, make as a result of having this dream ?
Get the right balance of activities which will keep me airborne and teach me how to operate the controls.
What questions does this dream ask of me ?
Where was my wife ? Or is the dream only related to work ?
Why am I not dealing with this situation ?
To easily distracted. Must know when I am pursuing a subject because it may advance my career and when I am pursuing a subject as a hobby.
What choices can I, and will I make, as a result of having this dream ?
Reduce my activities to bread and butter and career movers and try and keep the right mix of flight and landing !
What actions might this dream be suggesting I consider ?
Make sure I take off with enough fuel to get me back and in full knowledge of how to control it.
What do you want to ask us your dream spirits ?
Take me further !
Why are you sometimes afraid of us, your dream spirits ?
I’m not.
On Henry Miller and self-discovery
Who am I? Where do I belong?
Rain on the attic windows . Bed the night before pre-11.
No wonder I’m up at 5.00 a.m.
A dream remembered
I wanted to recall a dream, get a brief from my psyche on my current mental state (as if I wasn’t already aware of it). It was a common theme; they are almost taking on the significance of a recurrent dream.
(Photo credit: U.S. National Archives)
The dream
We, a troop of soldier buddies, are holding a badly defended barracks cum out post on a Pacific island.
The Japs are on the coast but are leaving us alone, we become complacent and relaxed. A gate guard leaves the wire mesh compound to take a leak and is leapt upon by a Jap and his throat slit. I, and others, retreat hurriedly to the cover of a set of tumble-down outhouses but are quickly overwhelmed. I wake before the inevitable.
Analysis
What could be clearer? I feel trapped, hemmed in. But by whom? Or what? The Japs (the enemy) are they TVL? Home? What do they represent to me? Curiously enough as Japs I see them as Mowden Hall school boys playing a serious game of “Japs and Commandos.” They are “us,” just on the other side. They are more canny, more conquering, more determined than my lot are. The wire-mesh fencing is an inadequate defence
Our attitude is too laid back
So? Am I saying that I am ill prepared? Poorly defended? Weak? Enough of this.
When I first woke (4.30am) I was reflecting on the ebb and flow of my moods. Swings from impatience and anger to cynicism and contentment.
People provoke me by looking too closely over my shoulder.
I remember (to my shame) an outburst of anger when a fellow student at the SCA tried to learn more about a particular project, how impossible I was to work with and never settled down with a creative partner and how techy I get when anyone (except the client) wants to play around with my programmes.
[23 years on from this event and 18 years on from this diary entry I find I am 8 months into cognitive behavioural therapy. deep feelings of hurt provoked by my parents divorce when I was a child have wounded me; I cherish praise, loathe criticism. I seek applause, or retreat, or fight it.]
Volume 4 of Anais Nin’s Journal
I wish I could have begun with her childhood diaries, or at least 1931 in Louciennes, Paris. I can commune with an ageing woman who evidently attracted much attention from younger followers.
One thing which could soon influence this journal of mine will be an increasingly descriptive stance on the world and the people around me and not deep and tedious introspection.
No longer the book of self-analysis but the book of observations.
As a teenager I was clear in my mind that I was a born observer.
I stood apart from the world the better to see it. I would go to parties not only to take part but to tick off another experience and then write about it. Adulthood brings with it a crusting over of earlier enthusiasms Adulthood brings with it a crusting over of earlier enthusiasms, unless of course the indulgent world encourages and develops those early desires.
Character sketches. Like drawings.
Can I do them? I must.
Can I picture the people with whom I am familiar , let alone newcomers?
Dad, for instance, (give me two years and several million words), or Mum, neither of them simple people in analytical terms. Are any of us? Dad would hate me to say it to his face but Dad is taking on many of the traits of Granny. Surly, though (as yet) not so specifically commanding. I have few doubts that his desire to have me and Darlingest resident in Eden Hall are selfish as house sitters and pet providers while he’s away, as part-time cooks when he’s home and as free labour as decorating continues to be necessary, The traumas of his current break up with wife No 3 could turn into a Hardy-esque catastrophe , if only he wasn’t so public school and conservative. He stamps his foot and thinks P will return to him to cook his meals and do his washing. He sulks and becomes ill to persuade N to give up things which matter to her so that she will nurse him. Selfish and egotistical people don’t change Selfish and egotistical people don’t change.
I have little doubt that through-out school he was the horrid dictatorial prefect that I became at 13 before a rebelliousness and individuality was given free rein, no doubt let loose because there was no parent ready to counsel me and contain it. It made me kick the system. I wouldn’t credit him with the wit or adventurous nature of a Flashman, more the rule observing nit-picking Granny.
Everything must be just so.
Thankfully he has in recent years chilled out. Though clambering over the carpets of Eden House in bare feet must be one indicator of the Granny who is trying to get out, as is the need to park cars out of view should he look through his kitchen window. Mum is an artist Mum I honour with the title of artist crushed by the middle class moves of the North East. Had she left the area to study art, had she travelled more in her youth, had she never committed herself to the first gallant youth in a sports car who turned her down, had she never given up her own ambitions (more worthy and lasting if less profitable than my father’s), then perhaps she’d now be the cranky, Bohemian, artist she wanted to be. (and the kind of nutty arty types she gravitates towards).
A recent one week intensive course in fashion drawing at St. Martin’s School of Art released a natural flare which had previously been confined by a rigidity of formal technique (art as geometric drawing). Suddenly her work has more life (though she’s yet to find her own style, her personal Voice, if she ever will. Years of running the house, four kids, a daily help and various au pairs meant that a clichéd pride in the house put crisp tidiness before the liberal jumble of books, pots and pans, newspapers and prints you find at the P’s in Barton. They have always been the kind of family to whom I have aspired to belong. Not pushed by greed, never threatened by what the neighbours will think. Continental, laid back, pots and pans in the sink. Continental, with J, whose wit and intellect I admired long before I met Darlingest.
I don’t have the nerve to be as blasé about money as Henry Miller, though in my better moods of “truth” I believe it matters little to what I hope to do with my life, though a little (enough) to have our own home, to run a car and to ski each year would be welcome. What in fact I crave is enough money to do more of this, precisely this, whether it makes a bean or not!
A diary is not book-keeping with words
Finding Anais Nin and Henry Miller (at last) as allowed me to escape the book-keeping approach to my earlier diaries. Then the intention was to do little more than catalogue the events of the day, the week, the year (the cycle).
Now, hopefully I can do much more.
Here I can let vent, discuss, record, consider, practice my observations, try lines, invent words and phrases. Now, reading like a graduate, I can put notes in here (not in the Arch lever files). As before I will dip in years later and find (or not find) reflections on those years gone by.
[This visit comes over seven years later – 9th January 2000. & I return on 27th February 2010]
Dare I compare myself with the likes of Anais and Henry?
In my teens and early twenties I shared much of Anais’s sexual hunger (I adored the erotica she wrote and knew her for this alone for a decade or more). Today I relish the gutsy frankness of Henry Miller, flavoured by sticky fingers and his insatiable appetite for cunt. He didn’t have to intellectualise about loving a person the way we did. I hardly enjoyed (or enjoy) sex for sex’s sake.
There must be a person at the other end.
“There’s nothing wrong with it if both people enjoy it opined Suzi on one of our very few affair like reprieves in September 1989. She was justifying her repeated infidelity, a trait I worried about in her when I first met her aged 15 in 1978.
If I’d known Anais Nin in my youth (20’s) I would have been her Hugo making money not in the City, but in the cash crazy world of advertising in the 1980’s. Hard when my inclination was to scrap it all and do a Henry Miller . If only my hunger had been to find a personal voice and not a public (and paid) one. Though I’m struggling with “Tropic of Capricorn” after the narrative and journalistic rumpus of “Tropic of Cancer” I am still inclined to pick out a few truths.
I am still keen to hear someone else’s voice justifying and provoking my difference:
“At this a faint smile panned over his face. He thought it extraordinary that I should remember such things. He was already married, a father, and working in a factory making fancy pipe canes. He considered it extraordinary to remember events that happened so far back in the past.”
And so Henry Miller goes on to indulge his memory on a rock fight that killed a boy when they were only 8 years. Like HM I relish dredging up, reliving and reviving childhood events. I love to dissect the pain and pleasure of past relationships too, especially the passion and punches of yours truly and ‘Suzi Bean’.
Mind Bursts 