Month: June 2015

9.16am

Screen space friend, you don’t talk back but you are my friend because you help me order my thoughts. Thoughts that run like the river at the back of the house.

Naoise noticed how much colder it was as we left for school, after only ten foot of scootering he came to a frozen stop, and refused to move. Parents and their children passed me and gave knowing and empathetic looks.

I scooped him up onto my shoulders so that we could get going. Its hard to carry a child on your shoulders and a scooter under your arm.

All is grey today, no sun at all. On the walk to school, I pointed out the one speck of blue behind the cloud cover. Naoise remembered the pigeon egg that we saw on the canal footpath the day before. I hadn’t wanted to pick  the egg up and have a closer inspection because we could see that there was blood inside. He also remembered the blue shell of the egg that we found in the wood at the weekend. I can’t think where we put it though.

Naoise scootered for the second half of the school run. He scootered at high speed down the pavement, I had to slow him, its scary how fast he can travel and I fear that he might fall over the top of the bars of his scooter, or veer off into the road and under the wheels of a passing car.

The lolly pop man always makes a passing comment. A jolly comment. Jollying us all to school and across the road. He is a kind, observant man. Ordinary. A great philosopher. He notices that I am struggling to keep up with the pace of Naoise scootering. We cross the road and thank the lolly pop man for making our passage safe.

As we walk up the stone steps I notice all the weeds growing in-between the cracks in the stone walls. I notice the pram hugging the corner. I see a friend, I wish I could talk to her but she is busy and I am busy and there is not much company this week.

Caw Caw Caw the crows sing.

The hawthorn blossom has fallen onto the tarmac of the playground. I wanted to take a picture but my mobile phone had run out of batteries. Naoise had been playing games on it a at the breakfast table,  prior to leaving for school.

Syd is still at home unwell. I tried. I tried. I tried to get him to school today, but he is pale and slow and has a headache, he must be feeling bad if he has what I have, I talk to him about resilience. Lectures don’t seem to work, I wonder why I bother with this line of conversation. I can’t give up on him though. I spoon feed him medicine, tuck him in bed, make sure he is fed, tell him I love him, try to be kind and patient. It makes me feel bad that I cannot nurse him more, but I simply do not have the time this week I have to write a job application.

Beep beep beep beep the oven buzzer sounds.

 

11.30pm

An encounter with a sweaty mouse emerging under the freezer in the kitchen. Running backwards and forwards to Hebden Bridge to take the car to be fixed at the garage. Worrying about the high increase in rent demand by the landlord at the studio and its potentially catastrophic affects on the community of artists working in the building. Trying to concentrate on writing a job application. Trying to find the time to write a job application. Catching the bus. Waiting for the bus. Catching the bus. Cooking. Washing up. Looking after a poorly child. Blowing my nose repetitively.  Consoling an artist on the phone who is desperately angry and upset about the rent increases at the studio. Feeling like I am in a Mike Leigh film. Collecting Naoise from school. Making Naoise his tea. Naoise panicking about a wobbly tooth in his mouth. Naoise crying, trying to comfort Naoise. Panicking about Naoise tooth, wondering if I should be taking him to the dentist. Waiting for a bus. Panicking that the bus won’t turn up. Teaching life drawing. Running to catch a bus. Placing plastic gogo figurines in a line along a shelf. Eyes hurting.

 

22.22pm

Almost midsummer. It is still light outside. Not that warm, but warm enough for Naoise not to want to wear a top in bed. He is bare chested sleeping beside me. He is sucking his thumb, holding his snuffly, red cheeked and completely relaxed. Sometimes the breathing becomes a snore or the rhythm becomes deeper. I wonder what he is dreaming about.

Syd is still unwell. He has just gone to sleep complaining of aches and pains all over. I still feel unwell. Nose running constantly and a permanent headache has inhabited my forehead.

I can hear Syd snoozing.

Last night both boys shared my bed. Naoise was squashed to the side of the wall. I had to move him and place myself in the middle for I feared that he would get hurt by Syd smothering him with his body. Syd is getting very big and heavy, he occupies the space of an adult yet he is a child. Man Boy, oh Man Boy how I adore you, but I will be glad of a better rest tonight with only my little boy to hug.

I wonder what Syd is dreaming about.

I was questioned today by a friend as to why Naoise is the focus of this blog. I don’t really see it like that, I guess he is more visible but thats because Syd really objects to being visually included in this space. Naoise is more willing to contribute, but he too has reservations about the process of being subject. Perhaps it is just an age thing. The youngest requires more mothering more maintenance. Well that isn’t exactly true, yes a teenager can dress themselves, cook for themselves, take themselves to school, work independently but they still need love and nurture and attention. They still need a parent to get annoyed with. They still need reassurance and guidance and structure, They need a timetable and a promise to keep by.

Am I lost behind a screen? Can I see this project ? What is me and what is art? Have you stopped asking because you just read ? Do you think this is all of me? Am I lost behind a screen ? Light pouring in, eyes aching with the pull of the light, the screen as skin, a boundary. Is the screen porous ? Like skin it is a membrane, a protective surface, it holds things in, contains me and my thoughts. Has my body and mind become dispersed within these sentences. Where am I ?

I am sitting in bed with one small boy sleeping beside me and one man boy sleeping next door in his bottom bunk. The man is out walking the hills getting some air, escaping. I want to escape, I want to walk, and run, and climb and jump, but I cannot. I have no energy at all. I save and preserve what little I have. I move slowly like a sloth. I try to keep to what it is that I need to do. I try not to get distracted.

The tarmac is skin. The tarmac is hard and black and pitted. You run on the tarmac, kick a ball, imagine a universe, pretend to be a dinosaur, make plans to marry your girl friend, scooter in circles, smile and wave. Sometimes you fall on the tarmac or bump your head. You come home with a bruise or a scratch that wasn’t there before. You catch freckles in the sun when I cannot see you, when I cannot be with you. I am away at home, at the studio or out on the hill. I am doing jobs. Domestic jobs. Art jobs. Admin jobs. Pointless tasks. I am existing in a weird in-between world whilst you are at school .

I wait for you to come out of school and I love it when you come out of school, all bundled up with coat and bag and drawings clasped in your hand. A face that points and recognises me. MUM. MUM. Always the same. Greet me, give me your stuff, go off and find your scooter, fly off to scooter with friends in the playground above or below.

Today you scootered and scootered. You pulled up himalayan balsam with your friend and squished it under your feet. Then to the willow scrub. I was tired and sat down on the ground beside the dog. We sat together me and the dog being patient and tired and wishing we were at home. Naoise played and played in the willow scrub and I waited, and waited for you to comply.

Shame. Body. Watching. Watching and the pleasure of watching and adoring my sons. Watching the light fall on their skin. Looking closely. Intimate. Looking. Looking at each hair growing. Seeing. Knowing. Holding close. Kissing. Kissing their necks and cheeks and hugging.

Carrying Naoise home. Carrying Naoise home together with a scooter and bag and coat. Feeling pain. Pain from the weight of child and stuff.

The Screen. The Tarmac. The Skin.

Shame, what shame ? What did she me when she said I should feel no shame ?

Do I feel shame? Is this collective shame? Shame from the outside in? Society shame? Mother Shame. Artist Shame. Shame to use intimate thoughts. To tell. To speak . To voice an opinion. To wait. To be patient. Always waiting. I am at the end of a long list of needs. I am. I try to push myself to the beginning of the que but its impossible. There are always needs, demands, wants and frustrations to iron out. Not always my frustrations. the others. Testosterone. Need more Oestrogen to calm things down. Peace. Peace is needed. Calm and peace and quiet.

Wait. Wait.

Thinking of the words of Waiting by Faith Wilding 

 

 

 

09.59am

I can’t concentrate. I need too. I need to write an application, oh the bore of it.

Grey but warm summers day.

Naoise didnt want to go to school today. He kept saying I am not well enough to go to school today, my belly hurts, I have growing pains, my head hurst. Over and over and over again. I kept ignoring him over and over and over again. Consolation is not always the solution. He has to go to school. Thats the deal. Thats the routine. That is life. Thats our life. School often feels as if it is an interruption, or just a structure. I wish I felt happier about the contract. I don’t feel negative about the school. I don’t feel that enthusiastic about it either. Its just a thing that has to be done.

We read the book. I feel a ridiculous sense of achievement if a/ we have managed to read the book and b/ we have managed to actually get to school on time.

I am proud of my son he is all of those tacky things, my universe the centre of my heart, my world, my landscape. I told him this as I walked to school with him on my shoulders. As I spoke my words of love to him he hugged my neck, wrapped his heavy body around my shoulders. You don’t have to use words. You don’t have too.

A body against a body is probably the best way to say love. A hand hold. A help.

The washing machine is reaching its crescendo. I remove a pan lid and its glass that is making an awful din to the tune of the cycle.

Syd is in bed ill. The blind in his window is drawn shut. I bought his phone and iPad downstairs I want to make sure that he has a really good rest.

Watching screens is not resting,

This screen. This magic screen. We pour our hearts into it. A mouthpiece, a body. This screen that I talk too. Its an imaginary being. A friend. A place. A container. It contains, provides a scaffolding for thoughts. I don’t divulge everything that would be a confessional that would be a betrayal.

Chug chug goes the washer, and the cars pass and you cannot stop time. On friday me and Naoise watched a gypsy caravan drawn by two strong horses clip clop past the house. A lot of possessions in the back bulging out. The wooden decorative patterns of joyousness. The pattern of life slow. My house contains a lot of stuff. I need to let go of this stuff. Its good to carry little. To be if one needs able to fill only a gypsy caravan with the most important things.

There is no solution to this life…..but it is love, it is love that binds us and connects us and it is not just about me and my family. This isn’t a christian thing, a religious statement, a gender specific statement……I do yearn to be connected more than ever, Griselda and Bracha are right. I may not understand the martixial theory, I know I need to, I need to put the energy in to find out, do the research the donkey work. The books are on the shelf, they just need deciphering. Its ok though for now to remind myself that I always need to find and to have and to save some energy for others. Its vital to remain connected to those that I cherish and those that I have yet too find….

The chalk markings in the playground are gone, washed away by the weekend rain. Well not all quite gone, there are some left, the ones that were protected by the roof of the sky platform. The hawthorn blossom is fading, petals of white and pink are blowing off gnarly trees. The catkins are out and the lilac. All change, nothing every stays put. Children grow. Seasons come and go. I get older. The washing machine chugs around. This is it. This is it, it does not get any better than this. A mundane day with a structure. The cars pass, the spin gets more intense. The sun shines and hides.

The washer is beeping. The washer is sounding the end to my writing for today. Beep beep beep. It is as insistent as the oven buzzer. I need to tend to other things, try to make some changes, just play with some words and fill in that darn form woman. Wish me luck.

BEEP BEEP BEEP…..BEEP BEEP BEEP

 

21:32pm

The battery on the computer is low, five percent. It will fall asleep soon. Naoise is asleep beside me. I have read him book after book after book till he settled.

The evening is as damp as the day. Soon it will be midsummer. It is still very light outside but its a grey light.

We all walked. We walked up the hill over the moors and back along the canal. Syd played with a red ball all the way. Throwing it. Catching it. Kicking it.

The funniest part of the walk was when Naoise decided to round up the lambs in the field,  he can run fast when he really wants too. Syd thought it was all very cruel.

One little shepherd isn’t going to hurt the flock.

We trundled home. The weather wasn’t great, drizzly. Two dogs one sandy one dark chased us along the perimeter of the fence, barking, snarling tails hanging back aggressively. We worried that they might jump over and attack us. We averted our eyes, kept on walking. Walking.

We saw a couple of  bunny rabbits, some swallows, swifts, a curlew singing, a grey squirrel..crows.

I wasn’t going to write anything today. I was going to write I refuse to live my life behind an electronic screen.. I was going to write boring mundane lists of stuff I do, sort lego, turn on washing machine, sort out recycling, cook dinner, tidy sofa, sort lego. So dull and boring and repetitive.

Naoise turns in his sleep. A train passes on the tracks.

Patrick and Syd are watching a film downstairs. I am enjoying this moment of peace. Nothing more to say.

16.58pm

There is no sense to this project, it has lost its structure again. I just fit in writing when I can. Need to rein it in, set a time, when I woke early, when I wrote first thing, that worked, but I couldn’t sustain it.  Could I, should I, write before sleep? That would make more sense? Then at least I would have the day behind me.

Syd has gone to the gym. Patrick and Naoise are on there way home. Its good to be home alone.

I spent the day with Syd in Manchester shopping for some clothes for him. It was a soul destroying activity. Shopping is pretty miserable. I can never understand it is meant to be an enjoyable activity. Everything is so expensive and it all looks the same to me. I sat on the floor in one shop and just gave up and looked at a book whilst Syd perused the aisles, he didn’t like any of my suggestions. I sat on the floor and had a good look at all the aimless shoppers.

A little girl kept telling her dad I am tired, I am tired, she must have been about four. Her dad ignored her pleading. She saw me sitting on the floor and decided to sit beside me. Her parents smiled. She was interested in what I was doing, she wanted to look at the pictures in my book. I am reading The Summer Book by Tove Jenson. I showed her the pictures of Finland. She was interested but disappointed that there were not more pictures. I read her some of the words, she looked up and said to her parents Mum, Dad, don’t leave me she suddenly seemed to realise that I was a complete stranger. I reassured her that they  would not leave her. I wished that I had had some paper so that we could have drawn. A lovely, brief encounter with this trusting little girl, I do wish that I had a daughter as well as my sons. Syd returned with a stash of clothes to try on and I went to assist him.

Syd chose some green shorts with little whales squirting water embroidered onto the surface of the material and a navy blue polo shirt. I liked the whale pattern. I liked that he was holding on to boyhood to fun, to pictures not just logo’s.

It was a difficult trip. I panic about shopping. I am skint and everything is over priced. I try not to spend anything, but thats virtually  impossible in a city. I feel decadent just buying my son a couple of items. I notice all the homeless people begging on the pavements. There are noticeably more and more people living on the streets. It is obscene. What has happened to our society? How can we let this be?

When I sat down reading my book in the shop I looked at all the kitchen objects and frames and home decor thingies for sale and I wondered what the hell is this all about. Its totally meaningless. Money being exchanged for non essential house clutter. Nik naks to contemplate what ? Things to accumulate dust. Crappy consumerist clutter.

I was happy to go home, to speed home on the train.

Last night I went out for a walk. I wasn’t getting along with anyone. Syd was out. I thought it best to take myself out. I thought about calling for a friend but I felt too miserable to burden them with my woes. Instead I drove to The Bridestones above Todmorden, past the golf course, past the deer farm, along the winding road and its stone walls.

I stopped the car in the lay-by. I noticed the hand painted don’t tip rubbish signs. I got out, rang my mum as I walked towards the ridge and the stones. Past bog cotton waving. Past pressure. Past a wooden bridge. A path walked between the grass. A couple eating a picnic on  the stones. I talked to mum. I told her my woes. She listened. As I am talking to her I notice a barn owl. It has a distinctive flight, soft, airy, light, a large wing span, white, ghost. Diving for mice, then lifting again. Its the first barn owl I have ever seen here in the ten years that I have been living in this place. Lovely to spot it as I talk to mum. She is thrilled to hear about the flight of the owl.

The sun falls red behind the rocks. I imagine camping up here, watching  dawn break as well as sun set. I imagine my ancestors watching the sun. Watching the sun. Simple passions. Watching the sun is like watching my sons. I am drawn in by their beauty. The sun and my sons.

14.29pm

There are clouds in the sky today. There is a change in the air. The weather is breaking. There is blue and there is sun but there is a build up of pressure, a thunder storm is inevitable.

Naoise is lying on the sofa watching Octonauts. Octonauts to the HQ.

Naoise is lying on the sofa at home because he was sick at school. Really sick, so that slight temperature and complaints of stomach cramps were illness. He is happy just chilling and holding his snuffly pillow.

There are flies zzing around the front room, quite disgusting.

A man just cycled past bare chested, tattooed and sweaty. Its rarely this hot in the Pennines, so when it is you have to embrace it. The asian woman who works in the older peoples home across the road walks home from her shift. Its not a fly z zzz zing its a wasp that keeps colliding with the glass pane of the window. Its cleaning now having a bath, washing its back legs against its body.

Jumping Jelly Fish….Gotcha…Yoahhhhhh….Peso Quasi has been stung meet me in the sick bay…….

I cut the top of my finger pushing marigolds into the soil, I examine the red, a thin slice. Its sore as I type.

Naoise made a lovely paper clown model, it has a shock of red hair and the expression on its face reminds me of my mother.

Last night there was a red red sunset, the whole sky was full with it. There were bats and swallows chasing around the pub beer garden where I sat with some dear friends. I shouldn’t have been out, I shouldn’t have been drinking, but I was. I was. We sat in the falling light till we were too cold to stay outside any longer. The pub was surprisingly busy for a Thursday evening.

We talked about our shared love of Cornwall, about art projects and gardening and Spring Watch. We talked about the abundance of wildlife in my friends garden Tawny Owls, Deer, Fox, Badgers, and how maybe Spring Watch should be filmed in their domestic wildlife reserve….We talked about brewing our own wine, elderberry, damson, rhubarb. We talked about Tin.

I made an imaginary womb out of a cornish pasty with a tin lining and a foil sea stretching in front. There would be telescopes made of used toilet rolls to watch out for invading pirates.

We talked about Penzance and Newlyn, of swimming in the sea. We talked about caravans. We talked about our shared love of The Wicker Man and I recounted me and Syd’s boat trip to the Summer Isles. They talked about seeing dolphins plenty of them near Cardigan Bay in Wales.

Why have I written all this ?

I wanted to write about Naoise skin about the soles of his feet dancing on the tarmac ground. About him playing outside. I wanted to write about what I imagined that he did in this space outside. Outside at school.

Yesterday he carried with him a little plastic toy safe which holds pretend gold bars inside it. He told me that when he was older he wanted to buy a big house and a sports car for him and his girlfriend and his boyfriend to live in. He would buy it with his bars of gold.

On the way back to our house along the canal path we spoke through the wire fence to the kind man in the nursery gardens who showed us all the gold teeth in his mouth. The children were aghast.

Mummy remember we have to pick up………

Explore, Rescue, Protect

 

11.41am

Another day of blue and cloudless sky, unusual weather for Yorkshire. So good is the weather that I have very almost reached the bottom of the laundry pile. I have even washed a heavy cotton bed spread that I attempted to dry outside in the yard by hanging it onto a folded metal laundry rack. The rack collapsed and the metal snapped under its weight.

Im sipping hippy tea, green with some lemon, its ok, I’ve run out of all other caffeine alternatives no bags and no ground coffee. It will do.
I have been awake since 4am. Dawn was just breaking and the start of my period awoke me. I thought it was on its way. How could I forget, but I seem to each month I erase this happening from my mind. My belly was swollen, I had hoped that it was water retention as opposed to substantial weight gain. My whole face was swollen with it too. I was becoming moon.

It was not just my period that awoke me. It was a vivid dream. A dream about Syd. In my dream, he shaved all of his hair off using the number one setting on Patricks electric razor. His hair was a mess of long clumps and short tufty areas and bald patches. So real this dream felt that I went into Syd’s bedroom and stroked the top of his head to check that his locks were all safely in place. All was in order.

Sip the dreadful tea that tastes of detergent.

Naoise went to school on my shoulders today and I stupidly carried the scooter too. He was tired. He did try to scooter a little in the playground but quickly gave up. He arrived quite happily in the class room and embraced his friend with a big boy hug. Naoise loves it when he has a friend coming over for tea, the day must go quick with the knowledge of it.

Syd will be at the gym tonight…so I will just have the two little ones to concentrate on. I plan to take them to swing on the side of the hill just above the canal, its a lovely spot and you can catch the sun there too.

The courgette plants have been toughing up outside in the yard, they are growing like monsters, they need to be transplanted into the allotment, they are hungry for earth.

I still feel crap and haven’t any energy for running, and hardly any for walking. Each step is an effort, my legs are heavy as lead. I will make a slow walk to the supermarket to get provisions, that and a very slow evening walk is all that I managed yesterday. I hate to be lacking in energy its very frustrating. Least my head seems to be working much better today and I am able to put one sentence in front of another. Manage some cohesion. Just as well as I have job applications to complete…and I cannot avoid the task any longer.

I am dreaming of pushing my empty pram up sun lit hills, maybe tomorrow I can find a little window of opportunity.

I went to replace the toilet roll in the bathroom and as I was doing so two unused nappies fell out. Its funny that I hang on to these last two. Naoise and his friend used to like to use the last of the nappies to pretend that they were babies, I don’t think that they would fit into them now. I wonder if I should do a Damien Hirst and preserve them….the nappies that is, like his shark in formaldehyde. How dangerous could two nappies be ? How dangerous could two oversized boys dressed in nappies be ?? !!

Beep beep beep beep…..beep beep beep beep the oven buzzer sounds fifteen minutes gone.

 

 

12.13pm

I am still unwell but at least I am on my feet. I spent 24 hours shivering and sweating out a fever.

The train passes on the track. The ravens craw and craw. The swallows high pitched squeal.

Its a beautiful day. Sunny and blue skies and not a cloud.

I am boiling an egg.

Least I am on my feet today. I managed to drop Naoise at school. I managed to get the shopping in  do the washing up,  put the clothes out on the line, hoover the rug, sort the recycling.

I don’t have any energy for this though. My brain is numb.

8.05am
Temperature. Aching muscles. Awake in the night…morning. Attic window open summer outside swallow swift rook singing, the cars on  the road  the river and trains rattling past on the tracks

Moving difficult.

Syd looking after Naoise, he loves the responsibility, I.worried Naoise wouldn’t.wake. I.worry about the scootering, all haphazard.

Dry toast and coffee.have perked me up. Illness is boring.

The summer air at thewindow.

School run..maybe I.can.manage pick I Naoise up..fever dissipating.

10.21am

Don’t take photographs of me mummy Naoise requests.

I am stealing moments again, moments without his permission. Again I need to question my approach, draw him into the project, so it is less against resistance and more working together, collaborating, co-operating. Sadly we seem to struggle to collaborate or co-operate with anything at the moment….yesterday I changed his trousers three times and his top four times before he was content and happy. Is this fussiness or just him being particular. He likes his clothes to be soft and baggy….not much to ask for I suppose. Its hard not to feel just a little bit wound up though when each simple task seems to take so much thought and effort.

 

Your hair is as wild as the hay meadows. It sticks out at every which way. I suggest that we brush your hair, and you recoil in horror, stepping back away from me and the brush in my hand. I suggest that you brush your own hair, but you dismiss this option as well. Option three, the last, is to just leave it as it is, wild and unkempt.

We leave for school just on time. You are standing on your scooter but you are too tired to push, so I am pulling you along. We pass the beach hedge which is no longer brushing us with its beautiful arms as it has been hacked back by a mechanised trimmer. This is the wrong time of year to cut back a hedge. It looks as if it has been to a very cheap, incompetent hairdressers. Its all gone wrong, violently wrong.

Syd will be back today, I will collect him from school as he requested. I tried to telephone him numerous times whilst he was at his dads, just to hear his voice, check in on him, but he did not want to speak. At least the messages will tell him that I care.

What began as a sunny blue day is shifting to grey, there are now more clouds than blue. I ran through the meadows, for now the buttercups and the grass grows long between the sheep shit fertiliser. I started a sleeping lamb as my feet stamped past its grassy hollow. It was quick to jump from its slumber.

There are swallows and swifts, not as many as I usually see, apparently the cold weather in April and May put them off migrating here.

Up the Pexwood Road I speak to the man that lives near a washing line that I used to film in the winter time. He asks me why I no longer film the line….I say its because the pegs hang still now, it was the movement of the pegs in the wind that interested me. He tells me a potted history of his life. Its incredible how open and honest a near stranger can be. We share creativity, he is a musician. So I can talk about Syd and his passion and the differences between artists and musicians and the beauty of Scotland versus West Yorkshire and what is success and what is happiness. I need to move on though I am enjoying my conversation with this man….I need to run. The time between school drop off and collection is relatively short. I am always pushing to complete all the tasks on my list.

Today I won’t manage the studio. I need to manage this home. I am determined to tame the wildness. Regain some composure, some sense of order. You cannot really control life but you can get your house in order. Order makes everything else easier to deal with. The washing machine is tumble drying a white sheet, the line is full of clothes, no room for a sheet.

I am pleased that I got Naoise to school today on time and his school book read too. Success. It is so so challenging just willing him to school. Really must try and try to get him settled down to sleep at an earlier time, He always seems to wake up in the evening, last night he wanted to draw and draw, but he was good when I eventually got him to bed in-between trying to avoid a barage of conflict and arguments he fell quickly to sleep as soon as the three books had been read.

As usual I had planned to get back up but on nights like these its easier to fall asleep and escape into the unconscious than to walk into an inevitable argument with an adult.

Perhaps maintaining a relationship with a live in partner whilst  bringing up children is simply about resilience and endurance. I have no idea how I got to where I am. This is it. I have been questioning whether the it is enough?

The children are abundant wiht love. Love is unending and easily given. I scratched my eye on a branch at the allotment, and Naoise threw his arms around me to check if I was ok. He is the kindest little boy, he would make a great nurse, he is a great nurse. Both boys bring me great comfort.

I wanted to begin to talk about the number 14, how soon I would have been a mother for fourteen years, but this will have to wait.

The dryer is chugging away, the buzzer on the oven is sounding. I need to get on with the rest of my day.

Beep Beep Beep Beep……beep beep beep beep………

Articles for reference….think more about The others ….try to define otherness…..

Four years, 4o negative tests: why being young and infertile sucks , Rebecca Seal, The Guardian, Saturday 6th June

 

 

15.29pm

Oh so long, so long to find a moment to write today. As I write this I wonder why? Why write when I could walk? The sun is bright and the sky is blue and there are less shifting clouds today, the trees wave but they wave with a gentle calm.

The tumble dryer is tumbling. The line has been full then emptied and is now full again. I have been a busy house woman today. Catching up always trying to catch up. I am behind, behind.

One small success. A tidy teenage bedroom. I have vacuumed piles of dust, removed dirty underwear trapped down the side of a bed, found uneaten chocolate eggs from easter time, golden coins from christmas, empty bottles and cans of drink, a plate, a glass, a can opener….lego, lego, lego, boxes, books, dressing up clothes, a collapsed wardrobe hanger. I have placed clothes back in drawers. I have folded up clothes. I have stripped his bunk and placed the dirty sheets in the washer.

I have noticed that his bedroom is changing. Posters of his favourite bands have been blue tacked to the wall.

I found a very big house spider which I scooped up into a glass, looked at then placed outside. It most probably will find its way back in but its a warm day to be finding a new home.

Patrick and Naoise are away at an organised fun day. I cannot say that I feel I am having much fun. Pleased to be getting things done, but fun, NO. I keep hearing John Lennon singing in my ear….Woman is the nigger of the world.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CtY5bv-oxLE

Others.

We yearn to be connected.

Griselda Pollock, 2nd June, 2015, Motherhood and Creative Practices conference, London South Bank Centre.

I yearn connection. I yearn.

I watched the History Boys with my boys, a TV adaptation of the Alan Bennet play. It was amazing. Even Naoise followed the story line, laughed at the right moments.

I yearn for my eldest son when he is gone. When he is gone, being here in this home is lonely. I miss his presence. I miss his soundtrack.

Have I forgotten the yearning. The yearning to connect to others. This is a very inward looking project. I need to look out. Look beyond the self. I do want to look beyond just me, and make it we. MeWe.

Have I dug down too far into my own selfhood. Is this selfish?

I thought that I should push the second hand pram from the studio up the buttress to Heptonstall and Sylvia’s grave. I thought about filling the pram with potatoes to make my journey heavy. Heavy baby, heavy heart. Then I thought it should contain nothing, just air. Air for the baby that I yearned for but will never have. I thought I would place my smart phone inside the pram, it could record what it sees. Its eye an imaginary child’s. I shall try to do this.

What shall I do when I get to Sylvia’s grave, say a prayer (I am not religious), read out a poem, read her some of my words. I will do that I will read some of my words to the remains of Sylvia.

Beep beep beep beep…the oven buzzer sounds.