IN THE BLOOD

IN THE BLOOD

 

The candle flickered in the silver-plated candlestick in the Giant Tipi filled with family and friends celebrating my daughter’s wedding. As we waited for her and her father to arrive, I looked into the flame and had a sudden flashback to my husband’s Modryb Anne and the story of the candlesticks and the Polecat.

       It was the late 1940s, and Modryb Anne lived on a farm in rural Wales. On Saturdays my in-laws would visit for tea. While the adults gossiped, their young son sat transfixed in front of a glass box,staring at a stuffed polecat devouring a blooded blackbird. Modryb Anne promised Rhys that ‘after she had gone’ she’d leave it to him. When she became ill, his parents visited more frequently and cared for her. No other relatives visited.  She died in her cottage, surrounded by her beautiful Welsh oak furniture. At the reading of the will, indeed Modryb Anne had kept to her word, and left Rhys her beloved polecat. To his parents who’d spent so much time caring for her in her dying months, she left two candlesticks. To the family who never visited she left the oak dresser and the other valuable items of her small estate.

       Fast forward thirty years. Rhys and I met in the Barry Summer School and a few months later were married in a registry office in Pontypridd with just four guests. We had both been travelling and had little savings. Soon into our marriage we were scratching around for items we might sell to help pay the bills. The polecat and the blackbird sat in their fixed tableau in the corner of our cottage. ‘It’s going to have to go,’ Rhys said.  And off it went to London  under his arm, doing the rounds of the Portobello Road market. But Londoners weren’t interested in stuffed animals from rural Wales, and Rhys came back, with mixed feelings.

     ‘You don’t have to sell it,’ I said. I’m sure we can find something else.’ But he was adamant. Off he went to Cardiff, to do the rounds of the antique shops. After a morning of rejections, he found himself in a shop in Pontcanna.

       ‘It’s the blood. People don’t like blood on their taxidermy,’ the owner told him.’

       ‘But it’s nature. It’s real,’ replied Rhys. ‘

       ‘It may be real to you, but the average punter likes their stuffed animals, bloodless. Owls. Owls are popular.’

        ‘I don’t have an owl.’

         ‘Sorry, mate. Then I can’t help you.’

As Rhys got to the door of the shop he bumped into another customer.

         ‘Oh no. You’ve beaten me to it. I’ve been looking everywhere for a polecat.’

         ‘I haven’t bought it, I’m selling it.’

         ‘You can’t do that.’ The owner said. ‘I want a cut.’

         ‘Stuff you!’ said Rhys, handing the glass box over to the buyer in exchange for cash.

 There was a roar in the Tipi and I came back to the present as Rhys entered, not with a polecat, but with our beautiful daughter on his arm. The candle in the silver-plated candlestick holder gave me a giant wink.

 

Janet Daniel

October 6 2014.

CABINET OF CURIOSITY

Creative Writing in the Museum, a weekly university class, started again last week. We are looking at collections in the museum from the perspective of  works of art. Homework was to describe our own cabinet of curiosity. I'm not really a collector of things, so I took a different stance.

Open the door to a dancing girl

in a polka-dot dress in Notting Hill,

on a blood-sloshed street, where race riots swell.

A sticky rock, with ‘Londoner’ written through

despite forty years with a different crew

of Welsh adoptees. Around the rock

a hospital bangle with a baby’s grip,

a first shoe, a mousy lock.

A puff of clove-scented smoke crackling holes

in a father’s tweedy gaze.

A vial of Spetses sea  sparkling

in an ouzo haze , its azure light warding off

the evil eye. A snatch of Atlantic sky sweeping

cross a caravan floor, musty, cramped,

perfect holidays for a family of four.

A painting of roots, a husband’s smile,

a wedding  ring, a home-made birthday card,

A space

made ready for the final objet d’art-

a mother’s  urn, green and red,  a ceramic hip-

long past it’s wear-by date.

Janet Daniel

September 26 2014

SHINGLES SAGA: WEEK 6 REVISED

A twist of tears, like a blue bag in a crisp packet.

Breast, sea-salt sore, rubbing

at its shore line.

No baby’s lips to draw down

the swell but milkless tit.

Shoulder, pummelled, hot needled like sun burn,

sitting clogged, heavy on the ocean floor.  

A thousand nerve endings swimming,

jangling loose like a jelly fish sting

from a raw and sodden heart,

shivering in grief.

Not terminal

SHINGLES SAGA- WEEK 6

A twist of tears, like a blue bag in a crisp packet.

a breast, sea-salt sore, rubbing.

a back, hot needled.

a thousand nerve endings jangling,

dangling loose in a raw and sodden heart,

shivering in grief.

Not terminal, 

PRIDE: The FILM

'Pride shows how disparate groups of gay and lesbian people were inspired by Ashton, a gay man from Portrush in County Antrim, who was an active member of the Young Communist League, a fact overlooked in the film, apparently so as not to alienate American audiences.
With a soundtrack that features the Smiths and Billy Bragg, the uplifting film is in the mould of Billy Elliot, Brassed Off and The Full Monty. But it is only when the credits roll that viewers learn the fate of Ashton, to whom the Communards' Jimmy Somerville paid tribute in his song, For a Friend. "I´ll never let you down, a battle I have found," Somerville sings. "And all the dreams we had, I will carry

'Money raised for the miners was seen as a declaration against Thatcherism but it was also a corrective to the power base of the president of the National Union of Miners, Arthur Scargill, who had determined that any funds raised in the US and London in support of strikers should go to his favoured pits in Yorkshire and Kent, leaving south Wales to fend for itself. Finding groups sympathetic to their plight was therefore crucial to the mining communities not favoured by Scargill.

"We sought to broaden the struggle beyond the picket lines to what we called an anti-Thatcher broad democratic alliance," recalled Hywel Francis, MP for Aberavon, and a former member of the Communist party, who helped forge links between the gay community and Welsh miners.
By January 1985 there were 11 LGSM groups around the country. Ashton died just two years later but he lived long enough to see his dream that gay rights should become part of the political agenda realised. The 1985 Labour party conference saw a motion to support equal rights for gay men and lesbians go down to the wire. It was carried only due to the block votes of the National Union of Mineworkers and its allies.'
Quoted from James Doward's review in the Guardian of 21 September 2014.

What Doward does not report in this article is the prejudice first met by the London lesbians and gays support group from the striking South Wales miners, and which was prevalent at the time in Valleys communities. At first the miners committees refused to accept their help. They did not want the association. It is not entirely clear in the film how support gathered momentum.' The Lesbian and Gays Support the Miners' challenged the prejudice, and showed themselves to be a mixed band, with the charismatic, communist Ashton at the forefront making the links between the oppression felt by both groups.

I absolutely loved the film, found it empowering, moving, funny, and uplifting. My daughter (aged 3/4 at the time of the strike) thought it 'Unoriginal clichéd rubbish.'  She'd seen Billy Elliot some years ago, and thought  the theme had been done. Perhaps it's because my husband and I lived through and supported the strike in small ways, and I had been involved in 'FALL OUT 84' (see earlier blog entry) this summer, that the film spoke to me, with some great performances; specially from Imelda Staunton and Bill Nighy.

Why not see for yourself what you think? It's currently on general release.

SHINGLES SAGA

Week 5. As time goes on I'm learning that lots of people of around my age have had shingles recently. Can that be a coincidence? I know it's more prevalent in the over 60s. But almost everyone my husband or I have spoken to have had it within the past two years. It's not infectious-except if you haven't had chicken pox, then you could catch chicken pox from my shingles. One friend told me that once the rash had faded, the nerve pain went on for two years. TWO YEARS!
        At the weekend I made a decision to stop taking the medication. It wasn't working and making my whole system upset. Since then, although my nights are still mixed, I am starting to pick up. Yesterday I went out for the first walk I've had for five weeks. Although wiped out afterwards, it felt like a big achievement. I was wondering if I was starting to become agoraphobic.
        I have been back at work for three weeks, seeing on average 8 or 9 clients a week, in the afternoons and evening. That has helped me to focus outside myself for part of the day. I've always told my clients that you may not ' feel'  like doing anything when you're ill or low, but the very act of doing something, however small, generates its own energy and can help you start recovery. How glib my clients must have thought me! I now personally know how hard it is to take that first step when you feel so wretched. I hope this experience will make me less glib and more appreciative of my clients' difficulties.
        I've learnt a lot about myself and those close to me during this testing time. I know not to assume people don't care if they don't text or call you back! I probably have unrealistic expectations of some people. People have busy lives and their own problems. But also, there is a tendency to overly rely on technology for communication. It can let you down. In one case it almost stymied a close relationship. But, thankfully that's been mended after a couple of healing conversations. I can't thank my husband enough for the care and love he has shown during this time. He deserves a medal putting up with my grumps and humps, listening, feeding and caring for me.
        Writing has been my other constant companion throughout this episode. It's a pity that  'Writers in the Park' inspired so little interest. However, there may be the possibility of a more informal group starting up locally.
           I now need to move forward, manage the pain for however long it may last, take up my interests and re-enter the world of the well.
          This may not be the last episode, but here's the latest of Shingles Saga.
 
   'You still here,? I asked her at 4am, as she used her pin cushion to prick me awake.
   'I'm here for the long haul,' she replied, pressing my ribs.
   'You are so cliched,' I said.
   'Well, you taught me how,' she replied, poking me in the back with a sharp needle.
   'Can't we call a truce?'
   'Not quite yet', she said. We'll have to see how the Scottish Referendum turns out first.'
     
 

SUFFERING AND ART

One of my oldest friends, who I've quoted before, gave me some feedback today on my writing. 'One thing about this illness,' she said, 'It's got you producing some good writing.'
        It got me thinking.  Did she mean that my writing was mediocre or just not very good before, or has being in this state sent me into a realm of experience that by its very nature opens a door to produce more intense art?  better art?  
       You hear of artists suffering for their art. I've always thought that referred to the artist in the garret, skiving off others, on a diet of baguettes, clove cigarettes and illicit love affairs.
       But on another tack what hard work it is to produce a good piece of art, creative writing, a musical composition. For some, art is a form of relaxation. That's never been the case for me in my relationship to writing. I find it's very hard work to write.  And very hard work to persevere. Hope to ever get it out in the public eyes starts to fade when rejection emails fall into the inbox, or there's no response at all (perhaps worse).  That no longer matters so much to me, as it's the act of writing that enables me to reflect, express, and explore all manner of ideas and feelings.
       One of my friends at the Pontardawe  Script Cafe never edits anything, and I have to say her scripts are often original, funny and fresh. She goes with her muse. Writing doesn't seem like hard work to her. So is it just me?
       But what about suffering as a source for art? Clearly many writers and artists dig deep into their own pain- psychological, emotional and physical- and those sources of suffering can produce masterpieces that move and inspire viewers. readers audiences. The artist's suffering can universalize and normalize the human condition.   Johnson ( the writer, not Boris!) said something about writing helping him to enjoy and endure life.
       My attempt to set up, 'Writers in the Park' a local writing for well-being group, due to start next week, has had very little interest, and it's free! Perhaps it's because it's free, people don't think it can be any good. There's still a week to go. Still possible.
        In the meantime, if you've been following the Shingles saga here's a very short episode, fresh from last night.

 She peeped round the door of the bedroom. It was still dark. My eyes wouldn't open.
     'How's the bed of sea salt and granulated sugar?' she asked, as she slipped back into bed with        me. I tried to push her away, but it seems she's very comfortable with the current sleeping arrangements.

I'd love to hear what you think about  suffering and the artist.
       
       
   

SHINGLES DAY 28

It's feeling like ground-hog day. Although the porridge eruptions have diminished and the rash is fading, the pain that runs through my nervous system goes on and on. The painkillers aren't helping. In fact they're giving me stomach ache. It is now nearly four weeks.

Today, I decided I needed to do something different rather than laying in bed and feeling sorry for myself. A friend sent me a card with a suffragette's photo. The caption read,

'Things are getting worse. Send more chocolate.'

Taking a tip from what I tell my clients, I'm trying to practice a bit of mindfulness, staying in the moment, and acknowledging what else is happening that makes life living ...  Boy, that box of Lindor milk chocolate truffles really helped. Thank you Rhys!

HOSTAGE TO HEALING

She's awake before me, the third time last night, prodding me in my back with her electric shock treatment, like an errant cow she wants to get into the truck, but who's not cooperating. As I turn to do her bidding, she punches me hard in the ribs, under my left breast, and into my side. She watches as I wince and try to catch my breath.

Hauling myself up, my hand reaches for my Nokia. An hour later than it was last time. A peep of street light beneath the white blind. I fumble for the extra-strength paracetamol, the extra-strength ibuprofen and swallow hard. Like an illegal immigrant trying to cross the Calais border she finds her way of sliding in-just beneath my skin- creeping and crawling into her hiding position. She dribbles her trail of iced spittle along my inner spine to lubricate herself into deeper cavities. She reaches my stomach, and turns it sour, sinking sick.

But she has something else to show me. She squeezes me tightly as we wander down to the garden entwined in each other. Come on, I think. Let's see what healing this garden can do.

SHINGLES - Day 12

On reading my shingles poem, my old friend- she Estragon to my Vladimir- suggested I might start up 'shingles nights' with 'speed grating.' She got it.
     I've been very fortunate, am rarely ill, and never get flu. I did have a hip replacement three years ago and that has given me a new lease of life, becoming more physically active, and no longer carrying pain. However, having shingles,a minor condition, has made me wonder how I'll cope when I do get a serious condition. We all do eventually get one, even if it's sudden death. That for me being much preferable to a long lingering illness in pain. Most of my friends over the age of 60 have already started having 'a condition.' It may be a dodgy hip or knee, cancer, heart problems, broken bones, depression, anxiety, permanent coughs, dementia, loss, grief, all linked with pain in some way or other.
     It's always been my motto to try to live today as if it is my last. Well, at least try and make the most of life's opportunities and relationships, anyway. The challenge for me now is the unfolding realization that old age = conditions. But, 'condition' has a range of meanings.  Perhaps, the more important word is the one that qualifies it.
      What my present condition has provoked is a huge internet shopping spree. I've been trying to avoid Amazon, because of their growing reputation for worker exploitation and tax avoidance, but finding it very hard to do so, because it is so easy to order with just one click.
      I've bought pans for jam making, a skill I've had a lifelong aversion to, like the W.I. My feminist condition influenced me to the point of prejudice.  It wasn't the jam-making exactly, it was what it represented. It was a stupid aversion as I love home-made jam and the Women's Institute nowadays isn't all jam and Jerusalem. The organisation is an active campaigner on environmental and social justice issues. My husband is out now picking blackberries. Because of course-I can't- not in my condition.
      I've ordered shoes that cost more than an hour's  couple-counselling work and two pairs, just in case. A hat for my daughter's wedding, a man's wedding suit and 60's tie, a cushion for my son for Christmas, new underwear, coach cards, and registration fees for websites offering house minds abroad. Having shingles is proving to be a very expensive condition.
      Shingles has also sent me into the realms of fantasy condition-scouring Trusted Housesitters,  Mindmyhouse, Travelzoo websites for free winter holiday homes, retreats, exotic holidays, city breaks, adventures without pets, considering having pets, and I'm no pet lover.
      I also have a 'thirst-for-a course' condition. I've considered intensive German courses in Berlin,  learning Italian in Sicily, art history in Bologna, circle dancing in Greece.
      Then there's the writing condition. That seems to have speeded-up as I rewrite a poem for said daughter's wedding, a poem for said son's 30th, edit and type my husband's father of the bride speech, and of course write a poem about my condition.
       'Keeping family & friends abreast of my condition,' condition. That's taking up a lot of time because they all seem genuinely concerned about me. This is an extremely joyful condition.
       Well, it would seem that all -in- all shingles has been a productive, positive, if somewhat expensive condition. Pity about the pain.
     
     

SHINGLES

I had to cut short my holidays in Switzerland because I've got Shingles, a virus that lies dormant in the body of someone who's had chickenpox. and can be triggered by stress. Apparently it's very common among people over the age of 60. Below is the first draft a poem about the experience.

A wave of infection floods

neural pathways along my western front,

up-sweeping along its blad beaches

creating a tidal line of porridge pebbles,

iridescent, erubescent.

Eight thousand mils of aciclovir and co-codamol a day

spill me into a sleep of centuries

but no sleeping beauty,me-more

a hibernating selkie.

The ugly beast awakes, itchy, raw,

rummaging for fishy food,

half-full bottle of shiraz

from my bedroom shore

and, eurax

to rub gently on to wounds of scabbing sand.

Janet Daniel

24 August 2014.