Two Lefts

or part hurdy blurp in a series where I wave my idealism about.

I think one of the many reasons I am not a parent (apart from never meeting anyone who looked like their gene pool could overcome the Nessies lurking in mine) is as I get older the more I realise just how hard it is.  Being a parent and doing it right is to accept a job that takes up every waking moment, most of your sleeping ones (not to mention giving up on any privacy in the bathroom) and try and make yourself unnecessary.  You get it right if your kids don’t need you to drive them.  Merely accepting the passenger seat and keeping your hands off the steering wheel in their lives as they grow must be the hardest thing of all. 

 

I think I am rather lucky that my parents really planned.  Not just in the taking their time to decide if they were ready for kids but actually discussing how they were going to raise them.  Admittedly, the rest of our lives has been a rather fly by the seat of our pants affair but the groundwork was laid and the template was created.  All questions would be answered.  If they didn’t know the answers they would get a book to ensure they COULD answer. (we have quite a collection of reference books still from a time when they really weren’t cheap. Including a tome on trees. Apparently I went through a phase of pointing at every single tree I saw and asking what it was.)  And if they didn’t know or couldn’t teach me what I wanted to know then they would find someone who could.  So despite my family struggling on a low income I had my choice of lessons in things. 

 

So what did I pick beyond the usual dance lessons, Brownies, music tuition etc etc?

 

Religion. 

 

Now, I come from a very non religious family. None of my nearest and dearest, as far I know, have set foot in a church unless for a wedding or funeral for probably decades.  Sundays are more likely to involve a trip to a church of DIY (Homebase) to gaze at kitchens we can’t afford.  The only god bothering that really takes place in Hopeless Heights is the inadvertent calling on the deities for assistance while wading through the weekly Everest of the laundry pile.   But when I was about 5 or 6 I informed my rather confused parents that I wanted to go to my local church and Sunday school.  To their everlasting credit, my parents appear not have not blinked at this and my firmly atheist father would drop me off at the church, go and play snooker and then retrieve his child, who was  no doubt bubbling with extremely strange religious questions (the main memory I have of these Sundays is seeing a picture of God in the big beardy dude in robes persona and really wondering how he could sit up in heaven and see everything. Was he floating face down above the clouds?  Where was he when there were no clouds? If he WAS floating like that how did he see what was happening near his feet? )  and my father listened, and never said a word about how he thought it was all complete nonsense.  The more I think about that, the more amazed and proud I am that neither of my parents tried to force any of their personal beliefs on me.  Despite me having church connections on and off right up till my teens. Sunday School, Bible Class, Girls Brigade, I did the lot.   (I am not sure if I ever fully believed but the community of it kept calling to me I think. Much village life revolves round a church so it is an easy thing to grow up in.)

 

Then I helped out in a Religious Education class at school. All these different ideas, all these ANSWERS, my parents trained me well.  There were books, quizzes, puzzles.  I thought I was getting answers but really, I ended up with more questions. It was like flipping open the bonnet on humanity and poking about in the engine wondering how it goes.

 

So I went and did a degree in religion and social anthropology.  A completely non-vocational degree but naturally my remaining parent accepted my choice (though was still mildly baffled by the draw of religion for me)  and did her best with (lack of) money.  And I loved it.  There was a world that expected you to have a brain and use it.  I realise now how important that is for someone state schooled. In a state school it doesn’t require much to be a big fish in a little pond.  It is right that you experience that world and spend time with people of varying abilities but at the same time I feel like there should be a true challenge in a life as well, as a next step.  The chance to spend time with people of similar or stronger abilities and from different locations.  To be the little fish in the big pond and grow. Even if you are one of the breeding poor so feared by Tory peers  True, it doesn’t necessarily have to be university but we should be providing options not taking them away. Decent vocational qualifications. Retraining schemes for the unemployed.  The government should really be working on being the hands off parent in the passenger seat here.

 

I am not sure where I am going with this.  I am never really sure of anything except I want to ask more questions (and the right pond perhaps.)  I just know that watching schoolchildren protest about cuts to education around the UK, not touching the poppies on the Cenotaph in London and attempting to protect a police van from vandals, well, perhaps youth isn’t as doomed as we think it is.  I see a lot of young people asking questions, good questions. And they do deserve both answers and education.

 

I think I better make the next blog post a long ramble about my cat.

Birds Of A Feather

It is just me and my mother and my sister now.  A strange tangle of blood, bad habits and complete frustration at the foibles of the other two.

 

Yet as I sit in my sister’s living room, typing this and listening to them talk, I can hear in the piss taking and general rudeness round the bag of crisps they are sharing, just how many times they say “I love you” to each other.

Least Travelled

On Twitter there is a tag called tweetyour16yearoldself. Reading the tweets

is funny, heartbreaking and sometimes surprising. 

I would hesitate to give advice to any 16 year old now. Even me, if I could reach back from this great age.   I accidentally fell into agony aunting teens online some years back and safe to say, once you remember the sharpness of that age, the feelings that seem barely contained by your skin, you realise some advice might stick but the majority will bounch off the prow of the good ship Troubled Teen and neither of you should probably worry. 

And to be honest?  Most of the teens I meet are a lot more together than the adults.  With age comes uncertainty. So if you give a teen a list of the choices and possible consequences they will often surprise you with what they decide to do.  Most of the stupid choices come from kicking against a know it all adult I suspect. 

 

Sometimes I wish I could regain the fire that made me make any decisions.  Me at 16 actually had more of a clue.  She wore what the hell she wanted. Dyed her hair red, grew her nails to a demented length and painted them crazy colours (that you couldn’t buy in Boots in those days. If you wanted bright blue nails you went and bought the nail varnish in the sex shop in the Virginia Galleries in Glasgow.  Thank you the nice goth in the shop. I think you were called Chris. I have never forgotten laughing my head off at dancing vibrators with you.) She was an artist.  She was kind to strangers. She had a posse of pets that she had taken in since previous owners didn’t want them any more. She tutored younger kids in reading. She took part in school shows. She collected for charities and did all those dread sponsored things. She was a moody wee cow but underneath the really appalling make up was a good person.

 

That Kiz was a bit of a wonder frankly.  Remembering who she was is almost a revelation.  She was surprisingly individual despite growing up in rural west central Scotland. She was not stupid but not that academically gifted. A teacher tried to bully her out of a class she was failing. She not only turned round her really dreadful marks but passed a prelim in the subject. She was even cornered by the teacher outwith school hours and shouted at for passing that prelim as his chances of chucking her out the class then had sunk to nil. And still she stuck out that subject and got a pass at the end of the year. Not a brilliant pass but good enough. I am not sure the Kiz now has that much steel.  Not enough steel to tell the teacher where to go but she had enough steel to roll with the verbal punches and despite tears, to do what the hell she wanted to do.

 

Why did she do that? Well she had a plan. She was going to go to uni. She nearly got laughed out the careers office with that one. The careers advisor looked at the startling manicure and suggested she should maybe give up on the uni idea and go train as a beautician at the local college. She didn’t.  16 year old Kiz kept on trucking. Ditto 17 and 18 year old Kiz. She took the passes from her standard grades gifted from 16 year old Kiz and she turned those into Highers. And remarkably even a certificate of sixth year studies (advanced Higher I think it is now)

 

And she bloody well made it to university. Which was a surprise all round. The following degree was also a surprise. For the surrounding adults and still is for the ageing Kiz.

 

I think my 16 year old self was a bit of a gift for me. She made things possible that no one believed would happen. No matter the cock ups I make in my life I am pretty thankful that stroppy 16 year old me kicked her way up and out and gave me a chance of education and meeting all the people I have in my life.  At no age could I have dreamed of the experiences I have had thanks to that wee madam.

 

In fact, screw me passing advice back to her.  If she could fire forward in time and give  me some advice I would be pretty grateful.

Sleeping Dragons

Some times I spend more time wondering what people don’t write rather that what they do. The person they let out on the page. 
Probably because of how much already I am stopping myself from saying.

 

I spent the last few weeks furiously angry and kicking screamy. In my head. The utter rage at how powerless the folk at the bottom of the pile in our society still are.  I want to believe things will work out fine and indeed I may survive these cuts, these redrawings of the us and them lines.  We are all poorer  but it is ok if someone else is worse off than you.  Less keeping up with the Joneses and more crushing them underfoot. 

 

This is why all the politicians  keep saying the word “fair”, clanging it over all our heads like a comedy anvil. It concusses and doubles our vision just enough that we don’t really see what is being done here. 

“Fair “

Fair?! Cutting benefits to the poorest and most in need is fair?  Frightening the old, the sick and the disabled that “fair” is going to leave them wishing someone would just open the damn workhouse and be done with it. There aren’t enough jobs but cutting will convince people to go find one.  Along with a leprechaun and a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow no doubt.  

 

I don’t have answers but I don’t think the  “cutting of the waste” speeches David Cameron gave in the election run up should have meant the people. 

 

There is a lot more I could rant but I will stop there. And leave you wondering what it is I didn’t say.

Of Better Times

My friend was going south for a short holiday. So I said “Bring me back some sun, sea and sand please!” Sadly it didn’t fit in his suitcase but I am making do with this photo of it he took especially for me. I figured it was too good not to share.

*turns up monitor colours, leans against radiator and dons shades* Join me?

Written In The Sky

Not much to say so just pretending I am still here, watching the clouds and sea twirl in front of me. Almost hand in hand.

(spot the Scot. I never expect sunshine at the beach!)

Creature Comforts

*

While standing in the shower* I could see this post so clearly. Oh for a waterproof iPhone* to take in with me. Or a little transcribing minion like the ones Barbara Cartland had. Especially since the witty, well crafted piece in my head went down the drain with my hair rinse*. Nuts. Back to the beginning I think. My blogging mentor the Mr London Street (do read his blog* if you haven’t already, it is definitely one of my favourites) often asks for words to build a blog post out of. I am hopeless at giving him a useful word so decided to ask for one instead. “comforts” is his choice. Apparently the plural is very important. So naturally my brain wandered off doing a list*.

Well, less a list and more beeping every so often in the back of my head “wait! This is one of your comforts Kiz! This right here!” at all the usual suspects. Melty chocolate*, smack you in the face mature cheese*, cups of tea* exactly the right temperature to gulp without the roof of your mouth coming off and steam escaping your ears with a comedy parpy whistle noise. A warm radiator* to park your arse against on a cold day. Not having to remove your arse from said warm radiator for most of a day*. Someone you love*, looking at you and you can see that almost invisible softening round the eyes, that slight blurring of emotion over their features that tells they love you back*. Even if they are driven utterly demented by your not so charming quirks on a near daily basis. (no matter what anyone says, the fact they bought me shoes* for my birthday does not mean I don’t need another pair,ok? Let me be clear about this)

I suspect writing a list is a comfort in itself. If you can list well, things are real then aren’t they?  For some reason lists seem more truthful than any spraff. We are reassured and hang our faith on bullet points. Hence our need for meetings with a listed agenda, the numbered bulletpoints of the following report. The need to detail in order, our loved ones trangressions and the domestic crimes on post it notes of the flatmate. We believe lists. I note newspapers and even the BBC spend more time on lists (top ten movie stars blinded by the flash expressions! Rich list! 10 things you need to know about cheese making! 5 things that say he is cheating on you!) than the articles these days.

This may be why most of my About Me is lists. The slightly bewildered person in front of the keyboard wanted to come out from behind the screen and be real. But in a neater more coherent way than the rather sad reality.

Can you see me yet? No?

That might be another comfort now I think about it.

PS. I have gone back and marked all comforts with a * in this post.  Just in case I feel the need to put them in a bulletpointed list later.  You never know.

Holding On

(photo taken at Jupiter Artland, just outside Edinburgh. Rest of the collection can be found here)

 

I wrote this post a few days ago when I felt the change in the seasons. The onset of autumn with the occasional crisp sunny days barely hiding the nose of the snapping chill of winter and shortage of daylight about to descend. I am no lover of of these seasons. The dark, the cold, the miserable drizzle of a british winter. (don’t even get me started on the snow of last year. Safe to say I will never ski, climb mountains or snowboard unless forced to at gunpoint. Even then it would have to be a really big gun. And possibly several spears.) I feel the change in me. The weather gets in my head and generally pishes down on my mental landscape. Watering the misery and depression quite nicely. I know I am not alone in this. Lately there have been a lot of down tweets and posts as we all struggle to adjust the turn of the year. Still. I swore I wasn’t going to post this since I felt a) time I did a cheery post b)ahoy there, the bandwagon and c) so much for remaining a mystery. All you need now is the tale of how I spent most of my childhood with a phobia about cooked vegetables (look, there was soup, BAD SOUP AND I CAN’T TALK ABOUT IT OK?) and that will be it. No more layers or attempting to seem interesting. Just me. Holding on.

But, bugger it, nothing else has flowed out the typing fingers so I think this is what you are supposed to have.

—————————————

In the card game of life I think most folk are not really playing with the full deck.

The ones aware of this develop great bluffing skills and a Poker face Lady Gaga would be proud of. The unaware ones sit at the table playing a completely different card game to everyone else and think they are winning. In the scheme of things they probably are.

Me? I spend a lot of time dealing with the uneasy feeling that I am playing Snap while everyone else is playing Texas Hold ‘Em.

Where am I going with this? God knows. This is one of the wonders of mental problems. You start off with what seems like a tremendous idea then it sort of peters out. Whether this is because sanity departs halfway through or actually arrives to kick you in the back of the head is uncertain. Either way I spend a lot of time, cards in hand, doing mental jumps across the tops of the carriages of the crazy train. Your body doesn’t actually have to be physically doing something as stressful but your mind certainly feels like all of you is. Just getting up and getting dressed while your mental state is clinging to the moving train or trying to play a decent game of sanity poker feels like the Kryton Factor in the Wild West.

On good days I feel like Indiana Jones swinging into my life, juggling meal requests, preventing the cat from climbing the curtains with a spring onion clenched in her teeth, while finding maw’s lost shoes, doing laundry and being caught by the google car in my pj’s fetching the bin in. Bad days I am lying on my face on the traintracks. Right at this second Indiana Jones days do exceed faceplant days but the really distressing thing about this is you never know. Not till you wake up that morning.

But generally you won’t see any of this. If you are aware enough to know this about yourself you are usually aware enough to attempt to hide it. There is an element of shame, and an element of just not wanting to name the elephant in the room. If you do admit to it then the more you have to deal with it. Coping mechanisms dealing with the fallout (or in my case, fall down) are a lot easier than the actual main problem. Because there isn’t really a main problem. There are lots of little problems all knotted up into one really big one. Start unravelling yourself in a bid to fix it all and you end up wondering if you can ever come back. Unravelling problems often unravel the person. You are your mind. Your experiences create you. If the biggest ones are negative experiences… well, then who are you other than your problems?

And so I survive.

One thing I can be certain of, I am one of the lucky ones. I fall often. (both physically and mentally!) And there is always someone to help me pick myself back up again. People who will wait out the carriage jumping. Who stand by with tea, cake and understanding eyes. (And a few extra aces.) Who will be at the other end of the phone line and the next stop on the internet. Who will be the safe space while I pull myself together.

Which is probably the real point of this post. The one thing I really should say.

Thank you.

Secret Wishes

This is a snap of my Maw’s birthday cake before the Big Bad Wolf puff scattered a waxy Jackson Pollock over the top of the icing. As I was resizing it for the internet I realised we had slid over into what would have been my Dad’s birthday. A lifetime since he died but somehow as time goes on it gets harder rather than the easier they swear it will become.

Well in some ways it does become easier I suppose. I don’t remember his voice. I would have difficulty remembering his face without photographs. The shape of him, his presence, it has all faded to a haze, a space I can’t see the edges of any more, but never can stop feeling the emptiness of it. The mental iceberg of him I used to crash into unawares at odd moments, refreshing the grief, is gone. Now I search the thready memories I retain in the hope, if I can just tug on the right one, he will rise darkly again out of the fog of my mind. His full self without a struggle to mentally rebuild him.

Most who remember him well say I am very like him. Not in looks but we apparently share the same taste in books and films, the same expressions, the same irritating habits (according to Maw, who tells me in various levels of irritation) Perhaps I miss him more now because the world I have is the world he would have really loved. He was a tech fiend who loved all kinds of music, taking photographs, Lord of the Rings. He liked a drink and making the world about him his friend.

Yes, my geek dad would have loved the 21st century. He would have dived in headfirst into this world along with me, iphone in one hand and dslr in the other, I am sure of it. Every new piece of technology I see I wonder what he would have thought of it. I suspect this will be the final thread that will hold on to the remaining pieces of him in my head.

This is what I wished for when the candles went out anyway.

If You Go Down To The Woods Today…

I really would recommend you keep a safe distance from the Gulliver who carries this.

A little way from my friend Grum’s gothic country retreat is the rather amazing sculpture garden, Jupiter Artland. A place well worth donning wellies and tromping through the rainy woods for. Something you won’t usually catch me doing with a cheery grin on my face, that’s for damn sure. The power of art and nature. Tis a mighty thing indeed if it can stop me whinging. Sometimes it can even prevent me starting. (though don’t tell anyone, I have a whinge rep to protect)

Today, Sunday, is the final day of it’s opening season for this year. If you are anywhere near, lob the kids in the car with some sort of tech toy and speed welly waddle your way down. You won’t regret it. And there is a gormley piece in there, funnily enough. *keeps flogging the emerging theme*