Just possibly things are looking up around here. I finally got back through the doors of the school for the postponed meeting, which went well, and met properly the woman I will mostly be liaising with as we say in the world of work... who I liked and who was warm, friendly and obviously pleased I'm joining the team. She told me I love these kids. I smiled, said that's what they need. We met one in the corridor, a girl who had a headache and thought she'd like to put ice on it. F discouraged this, recommended drinking water instead. The girl agreed. I told F I thought putting ice on my head would give me a headache not cure one. We explore a few possible rooms for me to work in, returned in the end to the originally suggested very small one known as the No Worries Room! Maybe we should rename it the Worries Room... still, the right general vibe I guess. It's very small, but we figured we could just squeeze in two easy chairs, and there's space to paint or draw or use clay, and it has it's own adjoining toilet, always a plus, and handy to have a basin to wash painting stuff up. I had not been sure painting would be an option but I'd kind of like to offer the possibility.
I got the Census Collector job. Dazzlingly speedy response! Have had to provide references, documents, a photograph, all in a very short space of time, but that's fine. Let's get on with it I say. I have got the full 7 weeks' work which means I ought to make over £1500 gross, which is really quite a marvellous prospect at this moment in my life. And the weird thing is the area I'll be working includes the area where the school is, and I discovered today there's an entirely wonderful route over there, cross country, without having to drop down to the main road. I went by the main road and it took me 40 minutes, came back the scenic way and it took 20. Scenic is a bit of an understatement. It's jaw-droppingly beautiful and the route goes through the entire area I'll be Census collecting in. L and I went to look at a house over that way when we were house-hunting to move up here from London. Having earlier in the day decided to make an offer on the house we did in fact buy, we were persuaded by the estate agent just to have a look at this one. The position was so awesome, we were briefly entirely confused as to what to do, and in our confusion got utterly lost. I remember stopping the car in exasperation and anguish, just gazing out at these vast expanses of steeply sloping fields, feeling in some weird hybrid of heaven and hell. We were right not to move there then, as it's quite remote, and we didn't know anyone here then, and I think would have felt isolated, but my God it's beautiful. I'll take photos when I'm over that way knocking on doors, and put some up here.
I also had a call from one of my therapist friends with a potential referral of a young person for therapy. He's passed on my number to the parent, so we'll see if they get in touch. Even the possibility makes me feel better. In fact all of the above makes me feel the beginnings of a picture of a future emerging, even if for now just the short-term future. It's a start...
Wednesday, 9 February 2011
Tuesday, 8 February 2011
Monday, 7 February 2011
After Slumber
My memory my capacity my feet and my redbush
My bank account my notebook my collarbone and my view
My indigestion my slippers my speculation
My passport and my bicycle my blindness and my ribs
My dissonance my heartbeat my cooking my cough
My neighbour my salt my history and my houseplant
My withdrawal my exit my yawn and my emptiness
My floorboards my uncertainty my paracetamol my hands
My hair and my diary my trousers and my sky
My diffidence and my thirst my suffering and my steps
My fountain pen my keys my torch
My height and my conclusion
My reward my door my plans my breath
My independence and my skin
My peppermint tea my speculation my irritation
My eagerness and my tongue
My skin and my ribs and my history
My indifference and my trees
My recalcitrance my insurance my loss and my ticket
My water bottle my endeavour my notebook and my text
My blankness my tissue my collapse
My walking shoes my memory my pursuit
My obsession my regression my box and my paper
My toothbrush my muscles my tiredness my mask
My mind and my hair and my sky and my dust
My air and my bones and my trouble
My porridge my knees my coldness and my silence
My book my earplugs my memory my blood
My hands and my tears and my email
My hopelessness my gracelessness my rain and my welcome
My apple my heartbeat
Like lions after slumber in unvanquishable number
Oh yeah.
With heartfelt acknowledgements to Green and Scritti Politti (1982)
My bank account my notebook my collarbone and my view
My indigestion my slippers my speculation
My passport and my bicycle my blindness and my ribs
My dissonance my heartbeat my cooking my cough
My neighbour my salt my history and my houseplant
My withdrawal my exit my yawn and my emptiness
My floorboards my uncertainty my paracetamol my hands
My hair and my diary my trousers and my sky
My diffidence and my thirst my suffering and my steps
My fountain pen my keys my torch
My height and my conclusion
My reward my door my plans my breath
My independence and my skin
My peppermint tea my speculation my irritation
My eagerness and my tongue
My skin and my ribs and my history
My indifference and my trees
My recalcitrance my insurance my loss and my ticket
My water bottle my endeavour my notebook and my text
My blankness my tissue my collapse
My walking shoes my memory my pursuit
My obsession my regression my box and my paper
My toothbrush my muscles my tiredness my mask
My mind and my hair and my sky and my dust
My air and my bones and my trouble
My porridge my knees my coldness and my silence
My book my earplugs my memory my blood
My hands and my tears and my email
My hopelessness my gracelessness my rain and my welcome
My apple my heartbeat
Like lions after slumber in unvanquishable number
Oh yeah.
With heartfelt acknowledgements to Green and Scritti Politti (1982)
Monday Morning
Awake between 3.30 and 5.00, ruminating on the frustrations of communication with the school, on how to be gracious about my poet friend's partner's offer to advise me about the correct storage of my father's letters (an offer which includes an invitation to show them to her), and on my mother's deteriorating memory. And once again vague discomfort in my stomach has me reaching for the antacid tablets, the wind in the chimney has me reaching for the earplugs.
Now the wind continues its fretful utterance down the chimney, and a car alarm whines thinly somewhere nearby, and banks of dark clouds with thinner patches blow across the struggling sun, the light changing moment by moment. My tea mug is emptied to the last cooling inch, and I have been looking up archive storage solutions for the letters, wondering if I can afford any of them, if they are really necessary, if the best thing isn't just to scan them all then put them away in a big white envelope. The idea of scanning 73 letters, many of them running to 4, 6 or 8 pages, fills me with a kind of miserable lethargy. Or maybe the miserable lethargy comes first, makes such a task a mountain. Partly it's that I have no knowledge of how to use the scanner, a new toy of L's.
Yesterday I walked in the afternoon in the wind and the mud, buffeted and sloshing down the field to the swollen and surging beck, slithering back up the hillside where I want my ashes scattered, where L and I had our handfasting, read our vows and poems and cried and cried. And I couldn't see a future, though I could see the buds swelling purple on the trees in the clough. I climbed the steep hill, thinking that I don't know what I want my life to be only not this, fighting tears, not wanting to encounter a neighbour or a stranger, wet-faced, crooked-mouthed. Saved the tears for later, at home, with L, who probably welcomes them, easier to respond to than the silent and repressive misery that usually precedes them.
The car alarm finally stops needling my ears and now attention reverts to the wind, which builds to crescendos of urgency, then fades to weary lulls. I feel hectored, nagged, pushed and pulled by its insistence. Can't relax. Bushes and trees tremble and dance, telegraph wires bounce, the clouds keep moving along, moving along.
Later someone unknown and unnamed (so far) will phone me for a 15 minute telephone interview for the Census Collector job. A little ray of hope of at least getting some kind of meaningful money in the bank without having to ask my mother for it. The whole country must be asked questions, and some, like us, will enjoy it, others will complain and delay, or refuse, or just always be out. For today I will be asked questions on the phone, and will endeavour to give the right answers.
Two friends had significant funerals to go to last week. C's mother was sent off kindly in a wicker coffin with fresh flowers, though painfully her siblings had arranged the whole thing without C. And K said goodbye to her friend, and was happy that she had done her best for G, is now spending all available time with G's daughter, whom she describes as 'vulnerable', but is able to call the experience a privilege. Respect to K whose capacity for giving is a thing I can only look on at in wonder.
Now the wind continues its fretful utterance down the chimney, and a car alarm whines thinly somewhere nearby, and banks of dark clouds with thinner patches blow across the struggling sun, the light changing moment by moment. My tea mug is emptied to the last cooling inch, and I have been looking up archive storage solutions for the letters, wondering if I can afford any of them, if they are really necessary, if the best thing isn't just to scan them all then put them away in a big white envelope. The idea of scanning 73 letters, many of them running to 4, 6 or 8 pages, fills me with a kind of miserable lethargy. Or maybe the miserable lethargy comes first, makes such a task a mountain. Partly it's that I have no knowledge of how to use the scanner, a new toy of L's.
Yesterday I walked in the afternoon in the wind and the mud, buffeted and sloshing down the field to the swollen and surging beck, slithering back up the hillside where I want my ashes scattered, where L and I had our handfasting, read our vows and poems and cried and cried. And I couldn't see a future, though I could see the buds swelling purple on the trees in the clough. I climbed the steep hill, thinking that I don't know what I want my life to be only not this, fighting tears, not wanting to encounter a neighbour or a stranger, wet-faced, crooked-mouthed. Saved the tears for later, at home, with L, who probably welcomes them, easier to respond to than the silent and repressive misery that usually precedes them.
The car alarm finally stops needling my ears and now attention reverts to the wind, which builds to crescendos of urgency, then fades to weary lulls. I feel hectored, nagged, pushed and pulled by its insistence. Can't relax. Bushes and trees tremble and dance, telegraph wires bounce, the clouds keep moving along, moving along.
Later someone unknown and unnamed (so far) will phone me for a 15 minute telephone interview for the Census Collector job. A little ray of hope of at least getting some kind of meaningful money in the bank without having to ask my mother for it. The whole country must be asked questions, and some, like us, will enjoy it, others will complain and delay, or refuse, or just always be out. For today I will be asked questions on the phone, and will endeavour to give the right answers.
Two friends had significant funerals to go to last week. C's mother was sent off kindly in a wicker coffin with fresh flowers, though painfully her siblings had arranged the whole thing without C. And K said goodbye to her friend, and was happy that she had done her best for G, is now spending all available time with G's daughter, whom she describes as 'vulnerable', but is able to call the experience a privilege. Respect to K whose capacity for giving is a thing I can only look on at in wonder.
Sunday, 6 February 2011
Last Night In Leeds
The reading yesterday in Leeds was interesting. It was lovely to hear George Szirtes albeit a little too briefly. He is witty, warm and wise, with a charming slight squint, and read with mastery and gravitas from his vast oeuvre. He read powerfully from his translation of the enormously long poem One Sentence On Tyranny, by Hungarian poet Gylua Illyes, another part of which is featured on his blog. And from his own The Burning of the Books. He brought a welcome stillness and depth to the proceedings after the fire and speed of Clare Pollard and Clare Shaw, the pain and passion of Lily Mosini. Great to see Clare P, to hear her read after being taught by her in 2009, and her poem The Skulls of Dalston almost had me in tears, but sadly she didn't seem to see or hear me as I greeted her when she walked past my seat towards the end of the interval, and I ended up feeling a bit invisible and silly.
If you click the link and visit GS's excellent blog you will learn more about the event, which was essentially a benefit for Iranian poet Lily Mosini and her partner Elia who are threatened with deportation.
The Carriageworks is a striking venue, part of the massively expensive Electric Press development in Millennium Square - using an old printing works and 'carriage manufactory' to house a theatre, an enormous number of bars and restaurants, and, somehow in the middle of it all, an outdoor ice rink, which could be observed surreally from the Carriageworks bar. The meeting room where the reading took place may have been the least striking part of the venue however. It was overheated, overlit, and the evening was accompanied by the constant background babble of Saturday night voices from the bars and ice rink. Still, a powerful occasion, and money was raised for Lily and Elia's legal defence through ticket sales, a raffle and an auction of for example a pair of Simon Armitage's Levi 501s with a poem written in the pocket.
If you click the link and visit GS's excellent blog you will learn more about the event, which was essentially a benefit for Iranian poet Lily Mosini and her partner Elia who are threatened with deportation.
The Carriageworks is a striking venue, part of the massively expensive Electric Press development in Millennium Square - using an old printing works and 'carriage manufactory' to house a theatre, an enormous number of bars and restaurants, and, somehow in the middle of it all, an outdoor ice rink, which could be observed surreally from the Carriageworks bar. The meeting room where the reading took place may have been the least striking part of the venue however. It was overheated, overlit, and the evening was accompanied by the constant background babble of Saturday night voices from the bars and ice rink. Still, a powerful occasion, and money was raised for Lily and Elia's legal defence through ticket sales, a raffle and an auction of for example a pair of Simon Armitage's Levi 501s with a poem written in the pocket.
Thursday, 3 February 2011
Afternoon West Yorkshire
The cutlery sticks up at odd angles,
wooden spoon, tin opener, bread knife
its blue handle ready to be seized,
Excalibur in a wooden IKEA drainer.
The wind mutters and sighs in the chimney,
an empty egg-box on the work-top,
the kettle cooling, mint tea stewing in my cup.
The suspended animation of 3.30pm
when outside parents pull up to collect
their four-foot offspring
and Cheryl the lollipop lady
shines in her high-vis coat.
wooden spoon, tin opener, bread knife
its blue handle ready to be seized,
Excalibur in a wooden IKEA drainer.
The wind mutters and sighs in the chimney,
an empty egg-box on the work-top,
the kettle cooling, mint tea stewing in my cup.
The suspended animation of 3.30pm
when outside parents pull up to collect
their four-foot offspring
and Cheryl the lollipop lady
shines in her high-vis coat.
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
Forward
I have just heard that my meeting at the school tomorrow morning has been postponed til next week. Having already been put off since early January, and having spent several hours today and yesterday preparing, and (as you know) being desperate to start earning some money, I am not amused.
I have however just filled out an online application to be a Census Collector. How this takes me back. In 1991 I was a Census Enumerator in West Twickenham. I used to cycle over there on my trusty blue touring bike (the one that soon after got nicked from the shed), and bang on doors all afternoon and into the evening, encouraging old ladies and young go-getters to fill in their census forms. Getting inside people's houses is always interesting... This time I won't be cycling, and I don't know if the area I get given will be as benign as West Twick. I hope so. Anyway they're paying £8.02 an hour (don't forget the all-important 2p), so for 25 hours a week, I'll make £200.50. And then a £75 bonus at the end if you get everything done and return your little bag of materials intact. So that's my April spoken for. But easier than trying to get permanent work hereabouts at the moment. And the money will pay the mortgages for 3 or 4 months, so I'm quite happy.
The other work I've been waiting to hear about, teaching small groups of students at the School of Medicine in Leeds half a day a week, isn't going to happen til September now, but hopefully some time in the next few months I'll get an interview for that, and get it lined up for the autumn. Supposedly it's teaching skills relating to leadership and management - like team-working and conflict resolution. But to be honest I know almost nothing about it. I'm hoping to go and sit in on a session some time so I get more idea. A friend who works there has put me onto it and assures me I could do it standing on my head.
Is it boring or is it interesting having to find work one way or another? A little of each I guess. I am still a psychotherapist really of course, and it is to be hoped will get paid again for my services some day soon. Like if the school stop fobbing me off and actually get this thing going they've said they want to do.
Meanwhile we had an adventure trying to find the home of the guy with the tickets for the reading on Saturday. Way down a small dark road, right by the river. We stepped onto a little bridge and looked down at what must have been the door, but could see no way to get to it other than a daredevil leap. Eventually found another door and tapped on it. It took the guy a full minute and a half to unlock all the bolts and locks, but it was the right place, if not quite the right door. He assured us there was a gate from the bridge where we were... Hmm. It was dark I guess. Anyway we have the tickets, hurrah! Looking like it might be Wagamama's for the meal as no Pizza Express bargains available (expired in January). A big bowl of noodly soup with stuff floating in it (prawns, tofu, vegetables) is a thing to look forward to.
I have however just filled out an online application to be a Census Collector. How this takes me back. In 1991 I was a Census Enumerator in West Twickenham. I used to cycle over there on my trusty blue touring bike (the one that soon after got nicked from the shed), and bang on doors all afternoon and into the evening, encouraging old ladies and young go-getters to fill in their census forms. Getting inside people's houses is always interesting... This time I won't be cycling, and I don't know if the area I get given will be as benign as West Twick. I hope so. Anyway they're paying £8.02 an hour (don't forget the all-important 2p), so for 25 hours a week, I'll make £200.50. And then a £75 bonus at the end if you get everything done and return your little bag of materials intact. So that's my April spoken for. But easier than trying to get permanent work hereabouts at the moment. And the money will pay the mortgages for 3 or 4 months, so I'm quite happy.
The other work I've been waiting to hear about, teaching small groups of students at the School of Medicine in Leeds half a day a week, isn't going to happen til September now, but hopefully some time in the next few months I'll get an interview for that, and get it lined up for the autumn. Supposedly it's teaching skills relating to leadership and management - like team-working and conflict resolution. But to be honest I know almost nothing about it. I'm hoping to go and sit in on a session some time so I get more idea. A friend who works there has put me onto it and assures me I could do it standing on my head.
Is it boring or is it interesting having to find work one way or another? A little of each I guess. I am still a psychotherapist really of course, and it is to be hoped will get paid again for my services some day soon. Like if the school stop fobbing me off and actually get this thing going they've said they want to do.
Meanwhile we had an adventure trying to find the home of the guy with the tickets for the reading on Saturday. Way down a small dark road, right by the river. We stepped onto a little bridge and looked down at what must have been the door, but could see no way to get to it other than a daredevil leap. Eventually found another door and tapped on it. It took the guy a full minute and a half to unlock all the bolts and locks, but it was the right place, if not quite the right door. He assured us there was a gate from the bridge where we were... Hmm. It was dark I guess. Anyway we have the tickets, hurrah! Looking like it might be Wagamama's for the meal as no Pizza Express bargains available (expired in January). A big bowl of noodly soup with stuff floating in it (prawns, tofu, vegetables) is a thing to look forward to.
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