Begging on the telephone

Today has not been a good day for me - I feel grumpy - I have felt grumpy most of the day. Not really sure why - maybe because I have to go to work tonight - it is my last night though so that is something to look forward to (no more sleepness night walking miles up and down corridors, cleaning and caring). Maybe I am already a bit tired although I actually feel ok, my throat is still a bit iffy but otherwise I feel at last the grotty cold is starting to subside.

Then my day got worse. I ended up begging some snotty little boy on the phone to please deliver us some gas when all he did was basically read No off the screen. Now we do still owe the gas company a little (from monday £100) not a huge amount and all winter we have hugely economised with gas, often being cold, taking showers rather than baths and trying to make it last. It is now into the red (or black on my tank) and we really need a delivering. (Please bear in mind that we have paid them £50 per month, every month and it has been a bloody cold winter).

He would not move, he would not compromise, he would not even listen, he would not let me speak to his boss, he didn't empathise in anyway, in fact it was obvious he didn't give a crap. I was so angry and so upset I cried. I got off the phone and wept. How have I been reduced to this by an uncaring company and a little 'twat' on the phone.

So we turned off the heating, made plans to not have any baths in the near future and hope that the gas will keep going a little while longer. Gas heats our hot water and we cook on it. What else can we do?

By the way, according to little 'twat' Calor Gas has no system for helping people who are having difficulty paying large heating bills, according to 'little twat' they just have a debt recovery department. Well big thanks!!!

After calming down and feeling a bit silly for crying - I had a think.

You have to fight, in this country at this time, in our situation, you have to fight for everything. We are poor (that is ok most of the time - I don't need to buy stuff all the time and consumerism has its major faults) but it doesn't mean I can't be proud, I can't be intelligent, I can't try.

So we rang back and got the managing directors address - will it help? Who knows but if it doesn't I really am prepared to take it further - the press, the TV - well yeah - because we are not the only ones, we are not bad people, we are just in a bad situation. So here goes - a nice but firm letter to the MD asking for flexibility and compromise - a little help yeah.

I would rather hold my head up and try to fight than just be a bloody victim all the time. Will he care or help - watch this space.

The Case of Matching Underwear

Firstly I start this blog with a massive apology. JC I fully and completely apologise. I was wrong (as I often am ) and you should take absolutely no bloody notice of me in the future or ever again!!! Well certainly when it comes to clothing advice anyway.

When JC and I first became friends she used to say that she only wore matching underwear (sorry for putting too much info out there JC but need to for this blog!) and I thought it was well, very anal. What did it matter what was under you clothes as long as they were clean and comfortable. But I was wrong.

Recently I have purchased a couple of sets of matching underwear - nothing expensive and from Adsa but pretty and feminine. And there is the rub - wearing matching underwear makes you feel pretty and feminine. It makes me have that little smile inside when I think about it. I don't even mind too much at looking myself in the mirror in them. I think about my pretty underwear and I think about sex (in a good healthy way - I hope) and I think I am pretty, I am a women. This then leads to other positive thoughts. I do have a voice, I can have my dreams, I can get a job that I want. I have value. All from £9 worth of underwear you ask. But yes, it works for me.

As I walked the dog on the beach this morning, in my matching underwear (and believe me my dog walking coat, Deputy Daug hat and big black boots are not sexy at all - just warm) I thought about my mum who always used to tell us to wear clean underwear in case we had an accident. And it was a nice memory and made me smile. And then I smiled as I thought about my pink flowered bra and matching pants (even though I wanted to pull them out of my bum - I managed to ignore the impulse -well you do have to have some class even on the beach and anyway someone is always watching when you think you are alone).

So what have I discovered, that a simple thing like matching underwear can make me feel better, better about myself and then better in the world.

Matching underwear can help me be 'fortified by optimism'.

What I want to learn in 2011 is that the little things can make life alright.

The little things can make life good.

The little things can make life worth living.

Life has its ups and downs (2010 has felt like lots of downs and not enough ups) but I have learnt in January 2011 that wearing matching underwear can make me feel good. That wearing matching underwear can make life feel good. One little lesson for the month to help the world seem easier. Gotta help - hasn't it??

Dix

ps obviously I look nothing like the picture on my blog - it is just an illustration (and anyway I have never worn a thong although I am told they are comfy - think I will give them a miss for now, perhaps an experience for later in the year??)

News, news, news

Firstly I didn't get any of the jobs I applied for (see previous post) and although I was initially upset that I didn't even get an interview I then though hey, maybe somebody is trying to tell me something. At the moment I am going to enjoy the summer holidays with 'boy', do a few hours at work (nights but only one so that should be ok) and write. If I see a job I really want then I will go for it if not I will at this time wait for inspiration. Maybe something will come up. I know that I should probably be more proactive and I understand that our financial situation means I should be looking for a good job but hey it will surely come with time.

Secondly me and JC and Luna and one other lady called N are going to get our work published. And I am now starting to feel really excited. It feels like it is really going to happen. I have to get my work together to fill 20 pages (approx a5) but feel that this will be great something to show people, something concrete to hold and keep me motivated. It is so inspirational to be with the others and putting our work together - to have positive motivating inclusive criticism (if you know what I mean) and to work with people who see me as a creative person first and all the rest of it second. We met up and talked writing and politics and religion and it was fantastic. The work showcased was amazing (JC's long poem is unbelievably good and so inspired) although I am a little jealous that she can create something like this is one go - even if I could it would take me weeks to create a piece of work like that.

So watch this space for news on our soon to be self published book - Cherry Picker.

Mog

A most peculiar dream

I had this dream a couple of nights ago and just can't make 'head nor tails' of it. Any ideas greatly appreciated?

I called it Ear Wax

I had this dream the other night.

It was strange.

I kept rubbing my ears because they felt odd. My hearing was muffled, like listening through water.

And as time went on (and in a dream time is always unreal and often controlled by the dreamer, often controlled by me) my world was becoming quieter and more distant and my ears were itching. So I began poking around in them and bringing out little balls of green grey ear wax. Each little piece rubbed between my fingers into squishy balls that left my ears feeling clearer but still muffled and slightly sore.

Eventually I just wanted to free my ears from their congestion and to hear fully again.

So I lay down on the settee on my side with my left ear exposed and really went for it. I raised my index finger on my left hand and dived into my ear. It went into my ear, initially exploring the outer cavity, peeling away the little wax balls but then delving deeper, my finger pushing through the flesh of my ear canal. The flesh began to separate and my finger squashed through into the inner ear. It felt like pushing through soft meat or warm plasticine or warm wax.

My finger went deeper and deeper until it nearly reached up to my knuckle. And just when I thought I couldn’t reach any further I felt something semi-solid, something slightly firmer just touching the end. I tried to press a little harder and just get a grip on what I could feel. Just delving a tad deeper to get a hold.

And suddenly I felt the object stick to my fingertip. I began to slowly extract my finger, keeping it as still as possible, hoping that the object would stay clinging to my fingertip and come out of my ear.

And it did.

Slowly and carefully it slid out of my ear canal and finally popped into my outer ear, filling it so much that momentarily it hurt, stretching my outer ear cone to extremes.

As the blockage was picked out of my ear the sound became suddenly loud and I was relieved to have removed the muffling.

I picked out the object and immediately felt the shape of it. It was square and about 3 mm thick, square or rather oblong – a strange rubbery rectangle. I took it out of my ear and placed it on the palm of my hand. It was bout 50mm long and 35mm wide.

It was strange. The top side felt slightly un-straight, definitely not parallel with the bottom being lower on the left side and slightly higher on the right.

But the oddest ting of all was the fact that it was a deep midnight blue. There was nothing pastel or uneven about the colour, it was strong, intense, complete. A slightly off kilt, midnight blue rectangle that has come out of my ear. It shone like wax or soap or even waxy soap and still felt warm but was cooling rapidly in my palm.

I remember that I wasn’t surprised or worried, just amazed and interested.

Why did I not question a midnight blue waxy block in my ear?

And what is the significance if there is any, or if you believe in dream interpretation of a dream like this?

My Liverpudlian Dream

I had this dream a couple of days ago and wrote it down. I am not at all sure what it means and would love some feedback. Is it just a story? Is it about creativity? Or is it about sex? (I know JC will think it is but hey maybe, maybe not).

I met a man who was from Liverpool, he lived in a house above an interesting looking shop or warehouse. He lived on the second and third floor and his lounge looked over an amazing square that was cobbled and had just a few people walking on it and the fronts of interesting shops and a pub with a swinging pub sign.

His flat/house had a long corridor from the front door (up a narrow long flight of stairs that was dark) apart from one very small oblong window right near the top. The window was high up near the ceiling.

In my dream I wondered why was I going into a strange house with a man I didn't know? These are questions that are nevered answered in a dream.

The man is dark haired with blue eyes and a pretty average face - a little Fred Flintstone looking if you know what I mean but he did have a friendly face. A kinda square and friendly face and he was definitely a Liverpudlian although I don't know if we were in Liverpool.

I can't remember the specific conversations we had but I know we talked about art and writing and being creative. I asked him lots of questions especially about the amazing art that covered his living room. I knew it was modern and bright and colourful and I really like it. In my memory it was like a 'Hockney swimming pool' but I can't remember the exact details. The whole room felt creative, he felt like a creative person but I don't remember what he said. Maybe he was a teacher - I'm not sure.

But what I do remember is that he told me to keep writing, to believe in my writing. He also told me I can paint if I want to. I just need to paint what I see and to keep trying until I am happy with my work.

When I woke up all I wanted to do was go back to sleep and return to the dream. It was a nice dream. It felt good.

An Unverving Dream

Last night I had a really clear dream. I am not sure how I got to the point but I was in a church (this is a church that I know) although it was much nicer than in reality, much cleaner and more inviting. The Vicar was there. Again a man that I know, a local Father although not the Father of the Church I dreamed about. The Church in my dream is a mixture of the Church I used to attend (a lovely family church that holds good memories) and my local Church as a teenager, which does not hold good memories. The Church where both my parents had their funerals and are buried.

It was a strange dream. When I got to the Church the Vicar (as I called him) passed me a gift and a letter. The gift was a Kite, all wrapped up and new. I was very brightly coloured, red, yellow and white, still in its wrapping and with the card still stapled on the top. It felt strange to get a Kite in a Church and yet I didn't ask why I was being given a Kite. I have recently purchased a Kite and tried to fly it. (I was trying to fly it with a young man who will hopefully become part of my life as we are trying to Foster him), but don't know if this has meaning in the dream, I guess it does.

I never unwrapped the Kite in the Church just put in down beside me. But the letter felt more significant. It was a blue handwritten envelope, neat handwriting, large and clear. I opened the letter and read it.

I remember reading the letter, I remember the look of the words on the page but can't remember what it said, just that I felt very emotional, really happy but also very sad. The Vicar just touched my arm to give me comfort. At this point I looked up.

And there sitting in the Church a few feet away from me sat my Nanny Lou. My maternal grandmother. I have not seen her for 41 years, she died when I was seven and yet she was so clear and she was smiling at me. I could recognise every part of her face, her eyes, her hair, her skin, the shape of her body. It was so real and so beautiful. And it felt lovely and warm and comforting. Like she was there and loving me and holding me. Although I never got close to her. I can't really explain how it felt. Just that it seemed so really, so lovely, so comforting. And I looked straight at her with this letter in my hand and it was wonderful.

At this point I woke up (5.15am) and for a moment I felt happy and loved and comforted and in a wonderful place. I wanted to return to the dream and be back with my Nanny but I couldn't.

And as I lay in bed I suddenly began to feel strange. To feel drained and unhappy, as if the dream, far from being good was a pointer to something terrible that is going to happen. I can't explain why I feel like this. It was so odd to go from almost euphoria to utter misery in such a short space of time.

All day I have felt incredibly tired and drained (I have woken up to write this). I have lacked energy and sharpness and just felt like I am being told that something in the future (the near future) is not good. I have dreaded the day. I felt like I was looking for signals to tell me what was coming. I was often aware of the dream and the memory during the day. I found myself smiling at the memory of my Nanny and then shivering at the feeling that followed. A terrible contradiction. I know this is really OTT but it feels like I should be grateful to wake up tomorrow. That is how strong the feeling is. My body had ached today, I struggled to have any clarity of thought and absolutely no enthusiasm. I just want to go back to bed to sleep and yet am almost fearful to do so.

I like to dream. It has often helped me sort out problems and definitely helped me find ideas for my writing. But this was not nice. I very rarely have nightmares and even they have not left me with the feeling that I have carried today. This was not a nightmare, it was beautiful and yet it has left me feeling devastated. Even writing this is giving me butterflies inside.

I hope tonight will be better. I hope that I can sleep as normal.

The Steet (Dead Man Walking)

The man was walking down the street. He wasn’t going anywhere in particular. He wasn’t returning from an exciting rendezvous. He was just filling his day in a meaning less sort of way.

The man didn’t walk slowly but he didn’t walk fast. He kinda meandered along, his steps evenly spaced. Sometimes his feet straddled the pavement cracks, sometimes firmly striding up from their centres.

He didn’t look up. He didn’t look down. He didn’t look left. He didn’t look right. He just stared straight ahead.

But seeing.

He manoeuvred around the obstacles of the street.

He manoeuvred around lamp posts; Council rubbish bins; empty Tesco carrier bags; discarded KFC boxes; cyclists; dog poo and people.

He manoeuvred around men and women and dogs and cats.

He manoeuvred past children walking, running, cycling, on skate boards and screaming.

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t acknowledge them.

He just kept his regular strides past them down the street.

He strode on.

The man was called Brian.



DiH

A Promise

Every day I think about things I want to put on my blog, ideas, opinions, pieces of writing, photos etc. And every day I don't achieve this. My promise is to try and blog at least twice a week. It means that at least I am writing something at least twice a week.

A couple of weeks ago I attended the MA end of year show at Uni. Some of the work was very good, in fact absolutely amazing. A video piece on memory and reality just blew me away. I just had to watch it and watch it and was lucky enough to see the artist to speak to him. I picked up a novel written as part of the Writing the Visual and managed to read the first 3 chapters but ran out of time. I so wanted to read the whole book - it was good - very good. Some of the work was not so good (or I had real trouble engaging with it - or even understanding it). The trouble is now I really want to do my MA. Next September it would be lovely to be studying again, even if only part time, to be able to put together both written and visual work would be so good. But it is only a dream. My current financial situation will not be sorted in a year, it may not be sorted in ten years!!

This year has been pretty awful for me - my illness, my mental state has been difficult, teetering on the edge of 'that kind of madness'. I know I am lucky that my friends and family have supported me and not allowed me to dive into the abyss but it still sometimes seems very welcoming. It still sometimes seems the answer. I miss Uni so much. I miss the creativity, I miss the conversation, I miss being an aged art student. It felt the most like 'being me' that I have felt since being a child. I wish I had worried less about fitting it and just lived the dream to its fullest extent. But hey, that is me always worrying I am not good enough, always seeing how good others are and missing my own potential.

I have been off line for a while, my hard drive failed. Now it could have just been one of those things and I guess that is what I thought it was and then something really strange occurred to me. The last photographs I uploaded were from the disused mental hospital in Norwich. I published a couple in my last blog. But some were very haunting, they appeared to hold the pain of past patients and were almost painful to look at. Did these photos make my hard drive fail?

A friend managed to save most of my data - he managed to rescue many of the photos but guess what most of the ones from the hospital have gone - only 3 remain - and they were the two I published and one showing my car. Even typing this is making me feel a bit 'creepy up the spine'. Ah well - I will never know and unfortunately I will never get to look at the photos properly.

I really should be in bed as I am very tired - I just want to sleep but didn't want to go to bed without blogging something. I will end with some of my 'words'. A piece I started a while ago and carry around in my latest handbag notebook. I think it is a work in progress.

Contradiction

am i a contradiction?
light and dark
bacon and cream
like chocolate
glass half empty
glass half full
am I
that kinda girl?

do they love me?
do they hate me?
normal.
am i
normal?

i wake to a heavy pain
that turns to feathered happiness
am i
that kinda girl?

do they hate me?
do they love me?
normal
am i
normal?


running, walking
smiling, frowning
unable, static, still
and eating
eating
bread and brown sauce,
cookies and ice
is that the kinda
girl I am?

do I love me?
do I hate me?
normal
am I
normal?

am I
a
contradiction
or
normal?

By DiH

And this is me today (2) - Dreaming

DREAMPOEM



in a corner of my bedroom

grew a tree

a happytree

my own tree

its leaves were soft

like flesh

and its birds sang poems for me

then

with warning

two men

with understanding smiles

and axes

made out of forged excuses

came and chopped it down

either yesterday

of the day before

i think it was the day before

By Roger McGough

I found this poem today. I read poetry whilst sitting on the toilet. The thought repulses my friend, she is probably right, but poetry is right for this occasion, when you don't have long and but like to read and take your mind off what you are doing. Poetry on the toilet gives me little insights into wonderful language bytes that would otherwise be 'wasted' (sorry terrible pun). Anyway it got me thinking about dreaming and how I love to dream. I love to dream when I am asleep and am lucky enough to remember most of my dreams and I love to day dream even though I feel guilty about wasting time.

Sometimes my dreams are so real that I can not distinguish them from reality. I have dreamed someone is dead and then been really surprised to see them alive and breathing. Or dreamed I have done things and been generally surprised that I haven't - even accusing people around me of undoing them.

Back to dreaming per say. I realise what I liked about the poem is that someone is sums up how I feel about my dreams. But for me it is not two men who take away my dreams but my illness. When I am in the 'darkness' and sit and sit and sit for hours and days to think- the dreams are taken. When I long to escape into 'the corner of my bedroom' into 'a happytree' it is gone. It escapes me and makes me even sadder. And dreaming feels like a tree, somewhere strong and grown with age and experience, somewhere to be whoever you want to be, to be whatever you want to be. And when dreams are gone it is impossible to pin down th day when I stopped dreaming - 'i think it was the day before'.

I love the idea of a happytree - I might make a happytree to hang in my study, I will put pictures and ideas and nice things on it and pin my dreams on it.

That will be nice.

D