To the pike
21.26 (awake at 7.00am up at 7.20am)
Very sunny. 20 degrees. Sun burnt. Freckles out.
Sydney away with his dad. Sad that he is gone. Naoise in the shower. Sitting up in bed writing. Cannot really be bothered with this, it is bank holiday Monday. Spent a lovely day walking up to the pike with friends. Heard the twites. Saw a kestrel or it may have been a sparrow hawk hovering above the ridge of the hill.
I am staring at the screen, not really knowing what to say or write. Perhaps today I don’t want to share. I don’t always want to write about what it is that I am thinking. Its been an intense week, I am looking forward to a lazy day with Naoise tomorrow. I might even lie in. All the routine has gone, drinking too much alcohol, eating sweet things, trying to compensate with exercise but its not good. Need to get back to the discipline, else I will spiral out of control. Drink water, sleep early, read books, concentrate on caring for the children, don’t think too much, carry on. Run.
Took some photographs of the graphiti cut into the stone of the pike. 1988. What happened then? How old was I. Think. Looked up what music was popular. I was only talking to Syd the other day about Vanessa Paradis singing Joe Le Taxi and how young she was when she sang this song. Only fifteen years old. The words are still etched on my brain. I would have been 17 in 1988. I would have been in the first year of my A Levels, Art, Human Biology, History (The English Civil War) and resit GCSE Maths. Learning to drive my parents car. 1988. Wigan Pier, alternative night every Wednesday. A hooded white top with tassels. Black monkey boots and jeans cut off as shorts with tights worm underneath. The Stone Roses- She Bangs the Drums, James- Sit Down With Me.
A kiss. An amazing kiss in Manchester, in a place that was once a derelict building now luxury housing. Exciting days meeting at the cafe in the Arndale Bus Station, sauntering around Aflecs Palace, looking through vinyl record stacks, not being able to afford to buy anything but a return bus fare. It was enough, just to look, to try on, to put back, to hold, to kiss.
What is the relevance of this ? Why am I writing this? Need to rest. Not even a cooker buzzer to tell me to stop. Writing off the subject, or am I exactly in the right place. When I start to write about my maternity I slip into the past, I slip into my childhood and adolesence. Perhaps allow myself to revisit this place, this time, and what relevance this has to now. Looking back I hardly recognise myself, all has changed.