Photograph by Alan Taylor-Shearer
(as it always is).
But although it was created by his editor it linked to his newly renovated
Staging Post etc., and covered so many aspects, that by the end
of the reading, my brain had the healthy ache of a good workout session.
It included reflections on the work of Edith Sitwell and Dylan Thomas,
amongst other topics, with a rap from Mr. P and a tour of his attic,
poetically as well as visually!
It triggered off so many other ideas and urges to experiment and tweak
what's already in progress but I am trying to be original or, at least,
not completely derivative.
All this necessitated a trip into Kings Lynn to buy, amongst other things,
picture frames, black paper and card and then get back to start cutting
and devising.
This time also with the realisation that there was no deadline to meet
or need to cram all artistic endeavour into concentrated compartments,
each vieing for my time and energy.
That night I went to bed with sheets of white paper and scissors
and cut and snipped the way we used to at school, around Christmas
time, when we made streams of angels all holding hands or circles
folded into segments that, when opened, looked like snowflakes.
Tuesday -Odd day! The CPN visited No 1 son to talk about recommencing
treatment now he's moved from a military to civilian setting.
We all try to be upbeat prior to his arrival but behind the facade
we walk on glass shards and keep looking, covertly, at him to try and
assess his stress levels.
The initial assessment the previous week involved me as well as son and
wife and ended traumatically.
This time I stay out unless he really wants me there.
I know he gets embarrassed about what I might think and it's no good
if he's holding back so unless he says "Stay"......
Part of me hopes he won't.
The unbearableness of trying to stay composed, matter-of-fact,
while watching him chew his already excised fingernails, holding himself in
until the moment when he's asked to go back and remember.
His eyes glaze, he's dumb, zoning out, not with us anymore.
Wife tries to bring him back but he's out of his seat and stumbling passed us.
I follow.
We stare into each other's eyes.
I see my child retching, twitching. He doesn't see me despite my efforts to
focus him, get his breathing under control.
He is seeing horror, desperation, human scraps - those whom he waved off,
promised to welcome back, who instead went down in flames.
There has been four years of panic, insomnia, dislocation, alienation and
a million dreams shattered - for all of us.
The two older boys were shielded to a degree by boarding school but
the youngest, although not privy to the full horror and protected as far
as possible, sensed the problems, pondered on the silences when Dad needed
to be left alone, when Mum pretended to maintain her fragile optimism
while struggling with a recalcitrant body.
He took refuge in day dreaming, unable to focus or concentrate and found
solace in the cyber universe that didn't make emotional demands.
He has learnt early about the vulnerability and hurt that can come from
trusting outsiders and that there is security within the family and distance
from those who take advantage and heap on another layer of pain.
Wednesday was a relief and was spent making a mini set in black paper and
cardboard to photograph cutouts, silhouettes, and lighting effects
a la Edward Gordon Craig.
I was exasperated by 'none' sticky sticky tape that refused to adhere,
patterns that won't stand up, lay flat, disentangle their filigree parts without
tearing.
What seemed so simple!
Waited for night fall to play with lighting, shadow, texture.
A delivery arrived of a beautiful posy in the name of a delicate
daughter-in-law but not for her to enjoy.
Tomorrow she's off to Stevenage for the funeral of
a favourite aunt and staying over to support Daddy and grieve.
She took herself off, with ipod, to her middle son's vacant room to cry
and soak herself in soul music.
I tweaked yesterday's stew with paprika and cumin for "Man of the house"
and self, "Small fat old woman of the house", serving it casually in bowls,
then made rhubarb crumble, gluten and lactose free, for "Woman of the house".
On Tweetdeck No 1 grandson's darling ranted about the vicissitudes of
communal living and its constraints. Grandson is offering, in chivalric
manner, to 'speak' to she-who-has-offended-his-lady, in no uncertain terms.
I Tweet restraint - "....the idiotic, like the poor, are always with us......"
( Yes, I know two parts of the triangle are in the same house but it means
moving.)
In between all this No 3 grandson burns his finger touching a hot griddle,
as a diversion, and first aid is given.
I blub with anxiety as d-i-law announces she's staying away longer,
afraid my presence is proving too much, and blurt out my fears.
We blub together and embrace, reassuring each other that all is intact in
both our worlds.
When everyone else has gone to bed and darkness has fallen, I carry the
set and screens to the breakfast bar and with No 1 grandson manipulating
various types of lamp, and offering sound lighting advice,
I finally get my shots.
The set is already up for grabs and could be starring in other productions.
No 3 grandson and his father have ideas for interesting uses of their own.
Watch this space, or rather 'YouTube', 'facebook', Twitter et al.
I am considering its rental potential.
Thursday was going well. Son and d-i-law had set off for funeral so there
was just No 3 gr.son, who is home schooled, plus his brother still comatose
in his lofty pit, and myself.
We opened the grow house as the sun warmed up, walked down the drive
to see if the flag was raised on the mailbox and collected the post.
I got back to the house and made the fatal mistake of congratulating myself
on feeling loose and relatively pain free.
I made bread, times two, and scones, times one, checked my emails and
opened my post.
There was sudden, unexpected pricking behind they eyes on opening
the envelope from the Royal British Legion and finding two crosses
ready for a repeat of last year's dedications.
Soon, it was lunchtime but in all I did there at the back of my mind was
the mini-theatre and possible variations. I made a salad sandwich,ate it
and then was over whelmed with tiredness and a desperate desire to
curl up and sleep. It was impossible to shake off or succumb to but
I fought it.
However, it meant very little was completed during the afternoon.
Son returned alone and with Ibuprofen and coffee the ennui began
to lift.
I am determined not to be stuck with the cooking of evening meals
so after a hectic search for the car keys, son was dispatched
to the 'chippy'.
Creativity surfaced again and i considered a large sheet of black mirrored
card before turning it into two columns as a support for the 'tree'.
A cereal box covered with black paper became a support of the 'arch',
simple silhouettes, reinforced, created characters and voila!
New ideas.
I played with them using a halogen forehead lamp and realised quite
quickly that I must get more black paper/card/gaffer tape as a
matter of urgency - for whom?
For me, that's who.
Am plagued by ache in ribs, knee, hips. God! everywhere hurts but I
must wait for darkness so in the meantime another Gayton sunset
photograph can be taken, as an after thought perhaps, then monochrome
takes over.
Eventually, the yawning intrudes, I give in, come to bed and then write
up this journal.
If it doesn't make sense it's because I gave in and went to bed with
Lord Peter Wimsey, just for a change you understand.
Friday was a funny day.
Unrelenting rain pounded on the conservatory roof. Definitely a day
for staying in.
The ennui seemed to affect us all and the pain was pervasive, making
it difficult to settle to anything for any length of time. I crack on, however,
with the 'Monotheatre' as I've called it. The black and white pictures,
on the laptop, are interesting but playing with effects gives the option of
experimenting with accidental colouring.
I seem to do nothing but move from one seat to another and yet the
aches grow.
Half an hour in one place and rigidity sets in.
I am steadily turning to stone.
Today, I made soup for lunch out of odds and ends from the freezer.
The ice cream boxes that fooled grandsons, contained portions of
pre-roasted vegetables or the remains of a can of sweetcorn, that all
went into the pot.
At least, today, I didn't need to make bread.
I settled in the conservatory with paper and scissors. "Man about the
house" joined me with his ipad and I was diverted by his roaming
on 'YouTube'.
There was an interlude of the kind of deep, demanding laughter that
leaves you exhausted and your facial muscles pleading - "No more!"-
where you get to the point of being laughed out.
The evening ended with a print off of a picture of No 2 grandson sitting in
his dressing gown with two 'Pringles' sticking out of his mouth
like a duck's bill.
This will be his birthday card - "The Greater Duck Billed BillyFish at rest"
a million dreams shattered - for all of us.
The two older boys were shielded to a degree by boarding school but
the youngest, although not privy to the full horror and protected as far
as possible, sensed the problems, pondered on the silences when Dad needed
to be left alone, when Mum pretended to maintain her fragile optimism
while struggling with a recalcitrant body.
He took refuge in day dreaming, unable to focus or concentrate and found
solace in the cyber universe that didn't make emotional demands.
He has learnt early about the vulnerability and hurt that can come from
trusting outsiders and that there is security within the family and distance
from those who take advantage and heap on another layer of pain.
Wednesday was a relief and was spent making a mini set in black paper and
cardboard to photograph cutouts, silhouettes, and lighting effects
a la Edward Gordon Craig.
I was exasperated by 'none' sticky sticky tape that refused to adhere,
patterns that won't stand up, lay flat, disentangle their filigree parts without
tearing.
What seemed so simple!
Waited for night fall to play with lighting, shadow, texture.
A delivery arrived of a beautiful posy in the name of a delicate
daughter-in-law but not for her to enjoy.
Tomorrow she's off to Stevenage for the funeral of
a favourite aunt and staying over to support Daddy and grieve.
She took herself off, with ipod, to her middle son's vacant room to cry
and soak herself in soul music.
I tweaked yesterday's stew with paprika and cumin for "Man of the house"
and self, "Small fat old woman of the house", serving it casually in bowls,
then made rhubarb crumble, gluten and lactose free, for "Woman of the house".
On Tweetdeck No 1 grandson's darling ranted about the vicissitudes of
communal living and its constraints. Grandson is offering, in chivalric
manner, to 'speak' to she-who-has-offended-his-lady, in no uncertain terms.
I Tweet restraint - "....the idiotic, like the poor, are always with us......"
( Yes, I know two parts of the triangle are in the same house but it means
moving.)
In between all this No 3 grandson burns his finger touching a hot griddle,
as a diversion, and first aid is given.
I blub with anxiety as d-i-law announces she's staying away longer,
afraid my presence is proving too much, and blurt out my fears.
We blub together and embrace, reassuring each other that all is intact in
both our worlds.
When everyone else has gone to bed and darkness has fallen, I carry the
set and screens to the breakfast bar and with No 1 grandson manipulating
various types of lamp, and offering sound lighting advice,
I finally get my shots.
The set is already up for grabs and could be starring in other productions.
No 3 grandson and his father have ideas for interesting uses of their own.
Watch this space, or rather 'YouTube', 'facebook', Twitter et al.
I am considering its rental potential.
Thursday was going well. Son and d-i-law had set off for funeral so there
was just No 3 gr.son, who is home schooled, plus his brother still comatose
in his lofty pit, and myself.
We opened the grow house as the sun warmed up, walked down the drive
to see if the flag was raised on the mailbox and collected the post.
I got back to the house and made the fatal mistake of congratulating myself
on feeling loose and relatively pain free.
I made bread, times two, and scones, times one, checked my emails and
opened my post.
There was sudden, unexpected pricking behind they eyes on opening
the envelope from the Royal British Legion and finding two crosses
ready for a repeat of last year's dedications.
Soon, it was lunchtime but in all I did there at the back of my mind was
the mini-theatre and possible variations. I made a salad sandwich,ate it
and then was over whelmed with tiredness and a desperate desire to
curl up and sleep. It was impossible to shake off or succumb to but
I fought it.
However, it meant very little was completed during the afternoon.
Son returned alone and with Ibuprofen and coffee the ennui began
to lift.
I am determined not to be stuck with the cooking of evening meals
so after a hectic search for the car keys, son was dispatched
to the 'chippy'.
Creativity surfaced again and i considered a large sheet of black mirrored
card before turning it into two columns as a support for the 'tree'.
A cereal box covered with black paper became a support of the 'arch',
simple silhouettes, reinforced, created characters and voila!
New ideas.
I played with them using a halogen forehead lamp and realised quite
quickly that I must get more black paper/card/gaffer tape as a
matter of urgency - for whom?
For me, that's who.
Am plagued by ache in ribs, knee, hips. God! everywhere hurts but I
must wait for darkness so in the meantime another Gayton sunset
photograph can be taken, as an after thought perhaps, then monochrome
takes over.
Eventually, the yawning intrudes, I give in, come to bed and then write
up this journal.
If it doesn't make sense it's because I gave in and went to bed with
Lord Peter Wimsey, just for a change you understand.
Friday was a funny day.
Unrelenting rain pounded on the conservatory roof. Definitely a day
for staying in.
The ennui seemed to affect us all and the pain was pervasive, making
it difficult to settle to anything for any length of time. I crack on, however,
with the 'Monotheatre' as I've called it. The black and white pictures,
on the laptop, are interesting but playing with effects gives the option of
experimenting with accidental colouring.
I seem to do nothing but move from one seat to another and yet the
aches grow.
Half an hour in one place and rigidity sets in.
I am steadily turning to stone.
Today, I made soup for lunch out of odds and ends from the freezer.
The ice cream boxes that fooled grandsons, contained portions of
pre-roasted vegetables or the remains of a can of sweetcorn, that all
went into the pot.
At least, today, I didn't need to make bread.
I settled in the conservatory with paper and scissors. "Man about the
house" joined me with his ipad and I was diverted by his roaming
on 'YouTube'.
There was an interlude of the kind of deep, demanding laughter that
leaves you exhausted and your facial muscles pleading - "No more!"-
where you get to the point of being laughed out.
The evening ended with a print off of a picture of No 2 grandson sitting in
his dressing gown with two 'Pringles' sticking out of his mouth
like a duck's bill.
This will be his birthday card - "The Greater Duck Billed BillyFish at rest"
in his natural habitat.
Off to bed to cut more patterns from more paper. For what point?
Saturday and Sunday passed almost without incident although three males
together seem to find it difficult to function in any sort of practical
coherent manner. They rove from one diversion to another and are
resistant to the benign controlling hand of matriarchal me who is attempting
to bring some sort of order to even the most mundane of daily tasks,
all without success. The constant reminders of what needs to be done
so we can see the sink or fish out sufficient crockery and cutlery to eat with
is met with equally constant mananas.
I leave them to it and retreat to my civilised little corner, only venturing out
when need drives me to it.
However, the tempo increases with the realisation, by them, that Wife and
Mother will be back on the Monday, and a frenzy of clearing, cleaning
and tidying brings them and the place back to a semblance of order.
These are my weeks now - elements of routine interspersed with scary
but healthy doses of unpredictability.
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