kraige (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} josephinebaker) wrote,@ 2006-12-16 15:43:00 |
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rude awakening
oh, this december sunshine is making me nostalgic. the cold, harsh light making shadows on everything, the crisp grass stinging at my feet through cloth converse, breath-that's-steam. perhaps because days such as these are rare to behold - when the winter and the sun join forces so melancholically - that they stick in my heart, make me pine for the last time, or the time before that. funny how memory gilds instead of sours. i am always certain, whenever nostalgia sets in, that the times i'm evoking were good - better. which suggests either my life, or all lives are a steady slope downwards (and of course in a sense they are) - or that memories (mine at least) are suspect.
maybe it's just the case that life-lived cannot bear appraisal til it's behind us. we cannot grasp that we're happy until we're not. wasn't it kierkegaard who said 'life must be understood backwards; but... it must be lived forward.'? yes, yes. heartbreaking.
at 10am this morning the door buzzer was honking like a goose from the landing - so i sprang out of bed thinking it might be the last of my xmas parcel deliveries. on the occasions i have missed first delivery it has taken me about 8 months - after an assault course of jumping through all kinds of hoops - to get what is owed me back. so i have developed some kind of reflex consciousness, in the vein of pavlov's dogs,which responds thru sleep to the buzzer with the panic of an armageddon. were a tornado to tear thru the street, taking the roof off the house with it , you could almost guarantee i would sleep on; i sleep as though preparing for my coffin. but that vile, trumpeting buzzer alarm cuts through my sleep with a razor. in seconds the blood is pumping through me as though i'm being gang raped - like a car that goes from 0-90 in 2 seconds i am on my feet and bounding down the stairs, checking all the while that my genitals are tucked in.
how annoyed must i be when at the door there is no brisk postman handing over a box, under a grey december sky but a red cheeked creature dressed in what my mam would call a smock, and a sun blaring at me like a floodlight? in my undies, and with my hair flattened like a dead crow - i stand blinking at this man - and wonder somewhere in my foggy consciousness if he's not a priest.
'hello - i just wondered if you'd ever had a visit from us before.'
i just stare and blink. though i respond to the doorbell physically as tho someone just switched on the christmas lights, it takes my smarts a good while to catch up. i'm barely thinking 'what the hell's going on here' much less responding to what he's saying. blink.
blink.
'erm, i'm a jehovah's witness. do you have the time to talk to me?' he goes on.
ah, now i get it. a jovo! i remember them - i didn't know they had them in london, though there's plenty swanning round yorkshire.
'well i just woke up actually. i would need time to come round.' i say
'ok,' he says ' perhaps another time.'
and with that i close the door, stomp back upstairs moodily and switch the coffee machine on.
10am on a saturday morning is no time to be talking god. the very most i would expect of myself was that my eyes weren't glued shut, and if they weren't they'd be vacantly squinting at kids teevee, or studying the notice on a cigarette packet over and over: smoking when pregnant harms your baby, smoking when pregnant harms your baby, smoking..... all the while my soul is whirring somewhere i can't reach.
wonder why they insist on doing god's work so early in the day. surely it can't be beneficial to their cause. on top of the fact that almost noone wants to be bothered with the subject of god at all nowadays, the reputation of the jovo is that of nuisance. why confound your rep by waking folk up? perhaps it's their plan to snare people when they're still cloudy with sleep. people are so dizzy from their beds that they acquiesce to whatever's thrown at them - and by the time they wake up fully they're rejoicing down the kingdom hall.
anyway i was rattled for a few minutes then grateful. i hadn't seen 10am in many a week, and with the daylight hours dwindling to their fewest, my retinas needed as much light as they could possibly sup. after a coffee and a few fags i put my coat on and went walking into woolwich. i needed to buy a few xmas presents, and the weird mood of the morning was making me nostalgic. by way into the town centre i pass thru somerfield not to buy things but for the wizard-of-oz effect. however drab the day outside - the harsh lighting of the supermarket renders everything technicolor. it's a jolt on the nerves, then back to black and white.
with my shopping done, i return to my flat. en route i pass the house of a gay. i am always intrigued by his window, which he decks out like a myspace page, with pictures and paraphernalia. there is the obligatory rainbow flag, staring out from the bottom, then above it a portrait of princess di. these are the window's staples and never change. the other things in the window come and go with the seasons. for instance - after the london bombings there was a page from the sun newspaper with the headline: never forget, or something like that. the world cup brought an england flag, the elections a 'vote lib dem' placard; on world aids day he'd fashioned a large scale red ribbon out of some red material he must have had round the place - an old, spent arse-tampon or something.
today the window-used-like-a-myspace-page had christmas lights, a notice that said: gay is not a stick to beat me with, a cd cover given away with a newspaper to commemorate live aid 25, with the godawful, gaudy depiction of a big white hand holding a small black one on it, and a picture of leona from the x factor.
beyond the display i can see him, sitting on the sofa and smoking on a cigarette, next to a christmas tree. i always see him doing the same thing. just sitting and smoking - and staring into the distance. if i ever get to meet him i expect to tell him that he's in the wrong line of business; that he might denounce his career as gay, cigarette smoker - and consider arranging mannequins in the shop windows of harrods instead. and if he's lucky i might tell him all about myspace. i'd have to check he wasn't on heart medication first tho.
oh, this december sunshine is making me nostalgic. the cold, harsh light making shadows on everything, the crisp grass stinging at my feet through cloth converse, breath-that's-steam. perhaps because days such as these are rare to behold - when the winter and the sun join forces so melancholically - that they stick in my heart, make me pine for the last time, or the time before that. funny how memory gilds instead of sours. i am always certain, whenever nostalgia sets in, that the times i'm evoking were good - better. which suggests either my life, or all lives are a steady slope downwards (and of course in a sense they are) - or that memories (mine at least) are suspect.
maybe it's just the case that life-lived cannot bear appraisal til it's behind us. we cannot grasp that we're happy until we're not. wasn't it kierkegaard who said 'life must be understood backwards; but... it must be lived forward.'? yes, yes. heartbreaking.
at 10am this morning the door buzzer was honking like a goose from the landing - so i sprang out of bed thinking it might be the last of my xmas parcel deliveries. on the occasions i have missed first delivery it has taken me about 8 months - after an assault course of jumping through all kinds of hoops - to get what is owed me back. so i have developed some kind of reflex consciousness, in the vein of pavlov's dogs,which responds thru sleep to the buzzer with the panic of an armageddon. were a tornado to tear thru the street, taking the roof off the house with it , you could almost guarantee i would sleep on; i sleep as though preparing for my coffin. but that vile, trumpeting buzzer alarm cuts through my sleep with a razor. in seconds the blood is pumping through me as though i'm being gang raped - like a car that goes from 0-90 in 2 seconds i am on my feet and bounding down the stairs, checking all the while that my genitals are tucked in.
how annoyed must i be when at the door there is no brisk postman handing over a box, under a grey december sky but a red cheeked creature dressed in what my mam would call a smock, and a sun blaring at me like a floodlight? in my undies, and with my hair flattened like a dead crow - i stand blinking at this man - and wonder somewhere in my foggy consciousness if he's not a priest.
'hello - i just wondered if you'd ever had a visit from us before.'
i just stare and blink. though i respond to the doorbell physically as tho someone just switched on the christmas lights, it takes my smarts a good while to catch up. i'm barely thinking 'what the hell's going on here' much less responding to what he's saying. blink.
blink.
'erm, i'm a jehovah's witness. do you have the time to talk to me?' he goes on.
ah, now i get it. a jovo! i remember them - i didn't know they had them in london, though there's plenty swanning round yorkshire.
'well i just woke up actually. i would need time to come round.' i say
'ok,' he says ' perhaps another time.'
and with that i close the door, stomp back upstairs moodily and switch the coffee machine on.
10am on a saturday morning is no time to be talking god. the very most i would expect of myself was that my eyes weren't glued shut, and if they weren't they'd be vacantly squinting at kids teevee, or studying the notice on a cigarette packet over and over: smoking when pregnant harms your baby, smoking when pregnant harms your baby, smoking..... all the while my soul is whirring somewhere i can't reach.
wonder why they insist on doing god's work so early in the day. surely it can't be beneficial to their cause. on top of the fact that almost noone wants to be bothered with the subject of god at all nowadays, the reputation of the jovo is that of nuisance. why confound your rep by waking folk up? perhaps it's their plan to snare people when they're still cloudy with sleep. people are so dizzy from their beds that they acquiesce to whatever's thrown at them - and by the time they wake up fully they're rejoicing down the kingdom hall.
anyway i was rattled for a few minutes then grateful. i hadn't seen 10am in many a week, and with the daylight hours dwindling to their fewest, my retinas needed as much light as they could possibly sup. after a coffee and a few fags i put my coat on and went walking into woolwich. i needed to buy a few xmas presents, and the weird mood of the morning was making me nostalgic. by way into the town centre i pass thru somerfield not to buy things but for the wizard-of-oz effect. however drab the day outside - the harsh lighting of the supermarket renders everything technicolor. it's a jolt on the nerves, then back to black and white.
with my shopping done, i return to my flat. en route i pass the house of a gay. i am always intrigued by his window, which he decks out like a myspace page, with pictures and paraphernalia. there is the obligatory rainbow flag, staring out from the bottom, then above it a portrait of princess di. these are the window's staples and never change. the other things in the window come and go with the seasons. for instance - after the london bombings there was a page from the sun newspaper with the headline: never forget, or something like that. the world cup brought an england flag, the elections a 'vote lib dem' placard; on world aids day he'd fashioned a large scale red ribbon out of some red material he must have had round the place - an old, spent arse-tampon or something.
today the window-used-like-a-myspace-page had christmas lights, a notice that said: gay is not a stick to beat me with, a cd cover given away with a newspaper to commemorate live aid 25, with the godawful, gaudy depiction of a big white hand holding a small black one on it, and a picture of leona from the x factor.
beyond the display i can see him, sitting on the sofa and smoking on a cigarette, next to a christmas tree. i always see him doing the same thing. just sitting and smoking - and staring into the distance. if i ever get to meet him i expect to tell him that he's in the wrong line of business; that he might denounce his career as gay, cigarette smoker - and consider arranging mannequins in the shop windows of harrods instead. and if he's lucky i might tell him all about myspace. i'd have to check he wasn't on heart medication first tho.
