Dad when he is happy.
Looking at myself in the mirror and knowing that I look the way I want to look in the clothes I decided to wear that day.
The look on Will’s face when he likes the way I’m dressed.
Will when he is so totally absorbed in what he is doing that he isn’t aware of anything else, not even of me. He is so beautiful then.
Getting something – anything at all – exactly right.
Not Mean, but Be (Part I)
Today Ms M. gave me a poem. It is by Veronica Forrest-Thomson, who I have never heard of.
‘I’m not surprised,’ Ms M. said, ‘because very few people have heard of her. She was a brilliant young woman, but died an early death.’
The poem is called Cordelia: or, ‘A Poem Should not Mean, but Be’.
Ms M. said, ‘I’m not giving it to you just because of your
‘So are we. I’ll phone Doris. When you didn’t come for supper she went to fetch you. She’s waiting, in case you turned up there. We were thinking of calling the police.’
‘Dad!’
‘You might have had an accident. Anything could have happened.’
‘I’m all right. I can look after myself. I’m not a child any more.’
‘Maybe not. But you’re still my daughter and I’m still responsible for you.’
‘Well, I don’t feel like your daughter.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means, a father would have talked to his daughter about getting married before he decided.’
‘We would have done—’
‘Not we, Dad! You!’
‘O, for god’s sake, Cordelia, I’m marrying Doris, not some stranger.’
‘Yes, Doris. My aunt.’
‘She helped to bring you up. She’s as much your mother as she is your aunt.’
‘I know.’
‘So we might as well be married. We should have years ago. It would’ve been better for all three of us.’
‘Years ago, maybe. When I was little. Before I knew. But not now. Now it’s worse.’
‘Why? I don’t understand.’
‘Neither do I. It just is.’
‘All you’re thinking about is yourself. You’re being selfish.’
‘I’m being selfish! What about you?’
‘Look, there’s something you’d better understand. I’ve always loved Doris.’
‘What about Mum? She was just second best, was she?’
‘Don’t be insulting! I tried to explain when we were at the horse. I loved your mother. She saved me.’
name, but because of what it says about a poem: that it should be and not mean.’
I said, ‘I’m not sure I understand that.’
Ms M. laughed and said, ‘Exactly. Time you found out.’
It is not an easy poem. There are references to people I have never heard of – dead artists and writers, mostly, I think – but I did understand quite a lot of it. I can see that it pretends to be about Cordelia, who can never lie, in Shakespeare’s play King Lear. But it is really about Veronica F-T herself. I think many poets do this in their poems: pretend to write about someone else while actually writing about themselves. I have not tried doing this myself yet, but perhaps I will. I can see it might help me to say things that would be too embarrassing to say if people thought I was talking about myself. And perhaps when you pretend to be someone else, you can say things to yourself you cannot say when you are just being yourself. (Has this something to do with a poem ‘being’ and not ‘meaning’? Now I’ve confused myself.)
The beginning of the poem and the end are easy, and I like them, not because they are easy but because of what they say. They are written like popular verses on greetings cards:
To those who kiss in fear that they shall never kiss again
To those that love with fear that they shall never love again
To such I dedicate this rhyme and what it may contain.
Sometimes when I leave Will after we have made love I worry that I will lose him, or that something will happen to take him from me, and that I will never find anyone else I want to kiss as much as I want to kiss him and who I love as much as I love him. And that is also why I like the end of the poem and must try to do what it says:
The motto of this poem heed
And do you it employ:
‘But you were never in love with her. Not like you are with Doris. Is that it?’
‘Doris is the love of my life. That’s the long and the short of it, and you’ll just have to accept it.’
‘Oh, thanks!’
‘Listen to me. Listen! I’ve done all I can for you, and I’ve done the best I can. And I’ll go on doing it. But if you think I’m going to ruin the rest of my life for you, young lady, you’ve another think coming. You’re old enough to cope with that now, so buckle to and get on with it.’
‘All right. All right!’
‘And now, if you don’t mind, I need to phone Doris. She’s worried sick.’
‘See. She comes first now. Not me. Not your daughter.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Cordelia! Grow up, will you!’
He picked up the phone.
I ran to my room. Sat on the bed, hugging the Waitrose bag like a magic talisman, trying to fend off another attack of resentment and anger.
I could tell there was something more than a book inside. I emptied it onto the bed. Along with the book, out fell the pottery egg and the card which said CALM.
That made me laugh out loud. Silly Ms M.! Lovely Ms M.!
Sitting cross-legged, I took the egg in my left hand, held the card in my right and stared at it. Breathing it in, so to speak. Be calm, I told myself, be calm. At the same time, I rubbed the egg between my fingers, turning it over and over, round and round, like a prayer bead. As I did so, the sensation of Ms M. massaging my feet returned and soothed me again.
Why is an egg egg-shaped? I asked myself. An ovoid wedge. Streamlined. Perhaps the shape makes it easier for the hen to lay comfortably? Or is it that shape because it’s best for the growing embryo? Head at the wide end, feet at the thin end. An egg. New life.
Calm, I thought. Stay calm. I’m being difficult. Why am I
Waste not and want not while you’re here
The possibles of joy.
I suppose I have just done what Ms F-T doesn’t want me to do: think of the meaning of her words, but I really am also trying to think about how a poem can ‘be’ and not ‘mean’. Unfortunately, I have not got far with this, and will have to ask Ms M. for help.
>> Not Mean, but Be (Part II) >>
Sleep
When I was a child, I got up as soon as I woke, and never wanted to go to bed until I couldn’t stay awake any longer. I only slept because I had to. Sleep was something that just happened. I didn’t think of it as ‘part of life’. But when I was about thirteen I used to stay in bed as long as I could, till twelve or even one at weekends and holidays, and I still do. (Though I still want to stay up late at night.) This annoys Dad, who calls it ‘lolling about’, i.e. wasting time. Will is of the same opinion, which is why he drags me out of bed for a morning run three times a week. Really, if we live together, I think there could be trouble between us on this subject. If I go on lolling, that is. Perhaps I’ll ‘grow out of it’. Doris says it’s a temporary phase and typical teenage behaviour, i.e. so much is happening to your body and your mind during your teenage years, you need extra lots of sleep in order to cook up enough energy to cope with the changes. As usual, this biological rule doesn’t apply to Will, or if it does, he ignores it. Doris says he’s just one of those lucky ‘constitutionally active’ people (there are times when I wonder if he isn’t hyperactive), who don’t need much sleep. Dad is a six hours a night person, Doris an eight hours person, Will can get by on four hours. At the moment I’m a twelve or more hours person, and sleep has become one of my favourite activities.
being difficult? Why do I behave badly when I’d rather behave well? Human beings can b
e so crass, so ridiculous sometimes. And so stupid. Fighting is stupid. Wars are stupid. People behaving badly. Why are we cruel to one another? Why can’t we just calm down? What’s so bad about being good? What are we so afraid of that we behave badly? That we might be put upon? That we might have to admit we’re in the wrong?
What should I do now? I wondered. I played possible scenes in my head. Remain where I was and let Dad and Doris do as they would? Go to Doris and talk things over with her? Ask Doris to come here and talk things over with her and Dad? Go down to Dad and talk to him? Do none of these, but call Will and ask him to meet me somewhere, anywhere, knowing he would console me?
Only one scene seemed right, only one seemed fit, only one was the good thing to do.
I went downstairs. Dad was in the kitchen, washing up. When he’s in a fume he always does chores. If you find him wielding the vacuum you know he’s in a major rage. Washing the dishes means brooding sulks.
He said nothing.
Suddenly, I felt famished. I prepared some bread and cheese and tomato, sat at the table and started eating.
I knew Dad wouldn’t make the opening move. He never does.
He finished washing up, dried his hands, and made for the drinks cupboard. Bad sign. Bad move. I’d have to be quick if I was to save the night from turning even worse.
‘Dad,’ I said.
‘What?’
He took a bottle of whisky and set it on the worktop while he dried one of the glasses he had just washed.
‘I’m sorry.’ (Is it always so hard to say that simple word?)
Of all of life’s everyday experiences, I think sleep is the strangest, the weirdest, and the hardest to understand. I can see why I have to breathe and why I have to eat, and why I have to move my bowels and pee, and why sex is biologically necessary as well as the human function that gives me the most pleasure. I can even understand why I have to blow my nose and pick it sometimes, and why I have to vent private gases in the form of belches and farts, and why I have to wash my body and clean my teeth. With the beating of my heart I am comfortable. With thinking I have no problem. But sleep!
Why spend on average one third of our too-too-short lives comatose, flaked out, dead to the world, unconscious, footloose in dreamland? (Perchance to dream – aye, there’s the rub, as Hamlet says, though I don’t find dreaming a rub at all, I find it very entertaining and one of the reasons why I’ve come to enjoy sleep so much, but this is another topic requiring a disquisition all to itself.)
I know there are all sorts of high-powered biological-evolutionary-psycho-physico-medico-socio-emotional and no doubt spiritual reasons why we need sleep. I have read all about them in Human Beings Explained and though I’m much better informed than I was before I don’t feel I’m much the wiser, as I find at least half of the explanations about as clear as pea soup and not much more interesting. But what HBE doesn’t explain or even mention are the benefits I like most about sleep, which I shall therefore list here and might even dress up and send to the writers of HBE, who do seem to need some help in this matter. As:
Item Sleep is good because it isn’t just a lovely rest for my body but is a rest from the many and horrible pressures of my life at the moment. It’s a rest from being pushed for exams, it’s a rest from expectations and exhortations to ‘do well’. It’s a rest from Dad, especially when Dad is in one of his off or brooding periods. (I’m quite sure he suffers from male PMT
No reply.
‘It was such a surprise. No warning. I wasn’t prepared.’
He brought the glass and the bottle and sat down opposite me. Good sign.
‘Give me time to get used to the idea. Okay?’
He poured himself a two-finger noggin. Bad sign. Once he got started he wouldn’t stop till he was beyond hope. How I detested and feared his binges. I suppose it’s because of them and the trouble and pain they’ve caused that I hate even mild drunkenness – the kind people call ‘having a good time’. Having a bad time in my language.
‘Did you phone Doris?’
‘I did.’
He drank half his noggin.
‘Is she coming?’ (She was the only one who could keep him sober.)
‘Told her not to.’
(Mild panic.) ‘Why?’
‘Thought you wouldn’t want to see her. We’ve had enough upset for one day.’
(Desperation.) ‘But I expect you’d rather be with her than not?’
‘Correct.’
He downed the second half.
Time to risk all. If I failed I’d be no worse off than if I did nothing.
I pushed my plate away, reached across the table and took his hands in mine. (As much to keep him from the bottle as out of affection.)
‘Dad, I know I’ve upset you. I know I’ve behaved badly. But will you do something for me?’
He looked at me for the first time since I’d come into the room.
‘Depends what it is.’
‘Go to Doris. Stay with her tonight. We can talk tomorrow.
far more than I suffer from female PMT, or maybe, come to think of it – and o lordy what a thought! – he’s suffering from the male menopause, in which case all the gods and their angels help us.) It’s a rest from having to be ‘on’ and looking right and satisfying various people, not least of which (whom?) is Ms M., and not excluding myself. It is also a rest from horrible world events.
Item It’s a rest from Will. I know I shouldn’t want a rest from him, but I do sometimes. I feel guilty confessing this even to myself, but it’s hard work loving him, and maybe everyone needs a rest now and then from giving love and even from receiving it. In fact, I think I find receiving love even harder work than giving it. (I haven’t thought this thought before until this very second as I write it down. I can see this is such a big topic it requires a separate disquisition.)
Item When I’m asleep I just ‘am’. I’m not trying to be anything else. And if my dreams are anything to go by, there’s an awful lot more of me and I’m far more weird than I know when I’m awake and am busy-busy being the me that I am when I’m conscious.
Item In my opinion, when you dream you’re thinking in a way that’s different from awake thinking. What is the difference? I wish I knew. I mean, I wish I could work it out, but when I try I get stuck for words to describe what I think I think. Except that a dream is like thinking being acted out, with me as both the actor and the audience. A dream is not words. Sometimes there are no words at all, like in a silent movie. Sometimes there’s talking. But the dream itself isn’t words. I feel I’m actually doing whatever it is that’s happening – or is being done to me – while at the same time I’m observing what’s happening or is being done to me. This is thinking in action.
Thinking when I’m awake is more like reading a book. The ‘thinking’ is the words running along in lines and making
I’d rather be on my own. Mooch around. Sort myself out. Will you? For my sake.’
He sighed. Looked at the bottle, looked back at me. His hand wanted to reach for the whisky. I held it down.
He said, ‘That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?’
(Honesty is the best policy. If I lied, he’d know and I’d lose.) ‘You getting drunk. Yes.’
‘I feel like getting drunk.’
‘More than you feel like being with Doris?’
‘Maybe.’
‘If you’re going to marry her—’
‘I am going to marry her. Make no mistake.’
‘It won’t last long if you go on boozing.’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Doris won’t stand for it. You know that.’
Eyes down. No answer. (Good.)
‘And if you love her. The way you say you do. Don’t you think you owe it to her?’
He raised his head and stared at me with the defiant look of a child who won’t admit what everyone else knows is true.
‘Please, Dad … You told me to grow up. I can only do t
hat if you treat me like a grownup and talk to me like a grownup.’
He pursed his lips and said nothing. I felt I was his mother rather than his teenage daughter and he my teenage son rather than my father.
‘Dad? … You’ll have to make a choice. You know that. These last few weeks you haven’t been drunk at all.’
He nodded, a reluctant admission. (Good.)
‘Because of Doris? Because of getting back together?’
Another nod. (Gooder.)
‘I’m glad. Honestly I am. You’ve no idea how much it hurts me, the times you’re – Well, maybe you have.’
‘I’m not that blind. I know.’
He cleared his throat and looked away. His hands started to sweat.
sentences and paragraphs and pages. I’m hearing them in my head. And though the words might make pictures in my mind, like watching a film or a play, the thinking itself is made of a flow of words. Or it starts as a sudden flash of an idea that ‘makes sense’ all at once without me ‘thinking it’, but then I have to think in words in order to understand it.
Item But the weirdest thing about sleep is how it starts and how it finishes. I lie down to sleep and am conscious that I’m lying down. Then without knowing it, without being aware of the moment when it starts, I’m asleep. I’m asleep and don’t know I’m asleep. I’m not aware of myself. I just ‘am’. But then comes the moment when I ‘wake up’ and right away, instantly, I am myself again and know that I am me. Did the me I’m aware of when I’m awake go away while I was the me I am while I sleep? And how can this awake me be right there being me, all systems go, the very second that I wake up, as if it’s been waiting all the time I was asleep? Old Shakes calls sleep ‘the death of each day’s life’, and I’ve read that sleep has been called ‘the little death’. I sometimes wonder if the big death, our one and only Death, is like a Big Sleep, and if so, who I will be then, just as I know when I’m awake that I have an asleep me who is different from the me I am when I’m awake.