'A POUND OF FLESH'....WRITTEN ON TYPEWRITER MY GRAN GAVE ME IN 1983 IN MANCHESTER. TAUGHT MYSELF TO TYPE WITH BOOK FROM SMITHS.
...at least I think it was his forehead. To a sheltered 19 year old, going on 12, this was well outside my comfort zone.This was a 'trust' exercise. 'I don't know what's expected of me?' I squeaked in the
improv session. 'Nothing!' Bellowed my American Prof. With fragile inner boundaries, and now no external ones, I thought I'd never breathe again, and then my dangly dongly earring got stuck in B's pink beret. This was the beginning of a long haul over life
rocks, and some. Life didn't. Rock much for me then. I was stuck in a teen terror time warp. But I tried to loosen up. Sometimes I even managed to shine, though that could have been nervous sweat.
DID IT MY WAY, YOUR WAY, THEIR WAY AND THEN MY WAY AGAIN....
A reunion prompts mixed memories. I've just been to 2, over the weekend. Both, frankly, laid alot to rest. We do what we do at the time,
because we don't know another way of doing it. Or perhaps we copy someone else and do it like they do, until we don't want to do it that way anymore? And maybe, years later, we might do it another way, drawing on bits of what we did in the past, stirring it
into the present, like cake mix, as and when it suits.
My puffy, overeating, permed hair self started to find its little voice amidst the 'working as a waitress in a cocktail bar' era. It
expressed itself in home spun songs, and later behind a radio mic.
DID YOU CHOOSE ME, OR DID I CHOOSE YOU?
I always wonder
how many of us act, broadcast, write, paint and design out our narratives because were were not seen/heard/read or acknowledged by those families, carers and communities that were supposed to/did their best to launch us. The drama/radio choice was part
accident, and part design in my case. A thoughtful kid, I balked at the barrage of 'proper' careers my contemporaries were choosing to chase at school. The idea of pension planning and getting a 'proper job', seemed something for grown ups. And I wasn't one.
SO BLEUHHHH TO THE DEMON DOG...
I started this blog, over two years' ago, in the depths of depression. It was the only creative thing I really wanted to
do. I wanted to go to both these reunions for more joyful reasons. When you've been in a dark night, and survived: the fear that took you there is less monstrous; less of a demon dog, more of a puppy like niggle pain.
I was still nervous though.
TWO/THREE/FOUR/FIVE BITS BECOME ONE....
I am sure most of us, when facing
our past, whether real or ghostly, experience something of self doubt snapping at our heels. I put on extra concealer, but still wore sensible shoes. My feet have never been my finest attribute. There is something about (as my wise friend A put it) 'reclaiming
and assimilating that younger self with the older one, and knowing it to be good enough, both then and now'.
I blew dust off the guitar yesterday, and sang on 'ole tune. Neighbours did not