In Praise of Solitude (by Jane Flett, published in Oh Comely!)

I moved in with my boyfriend a year ago and it's still a surprise to wake up and not be alone. I don't mean this as a Mills and Boons hyperbole. I mean physically, tangibly, literally: not alone. Another person in the vicinity. Another person, all the time. Most of the time, this is a delicious, squidgy thing, full of red lightbulbs, baked bread and duck-down duvets. But it's been useful for my ability to write.

In the first moments of waking, I used to loll across the bedsheets, tottering through the glorious corridor on the cusp of unconsciousness. I'd remain very quiet so as not to disturb the flitting thoughts, hoping if I did they might seep inside. I'm a fan of the morning's first ideas and their peculiar, elbowy, dream logic. They make for good fiction. But they're never tangible. They dart in and away again like mayflies not long for this world: one chance to mate. One chance easily scuppered by alarm clocks or coffee or conversation. Or kisses. I'm not complaining. But by now, I thought I'd have written my book.

The truth is, I'm terrible at writing when company is an option. The thoughts - which if alone, I'd leave to percolate - bubble from my mouth long before they're ready. I no longer roll over ideas on my tongue like oysters; instead, I talk, I vocalise every thought that enters my brain, and notions that might have been interesting sink like soufflés at the behest of the oven door. In truth, the only time when I stop talking is when I am alone. And then I start to think. And then, eventually, I write.

This was why, last month, I looked at my wads of half-written stories and missed deadlines and decided to take myself to a writing retreat. I couldn't afford a real retreat, so I signed up to trade labour for accommodation. In the countryside near Reading, I ended up with a small flat annexed to a manor house, the keys to a trailer tractor, sprawling grounds of fallen wood to clear, and a door that could firmly close.

My phone had no reception and when they asked if I wanted the modem brought within reach, I declined. I didn't speak, aside from the occasional 'whoosagoodboy,' and I waited for the responses to all the endless chatter that bounces around my head. For the first day there wasn't much, except for a persistent earworm rendition of Disney's Under the Sea. Then, somehow, things started to slow down. My thoughts found other thoughts and coalesced to form stories. They could be as ridiculous as they liked because there were no eyes to read them.

At night, I stared at the four walls and wrote things down. In the morning, I lay supine at hypnotised until all the sleep had drained away, eking out that moment for as long as possible. Then I sat up and stretched and went looking for a rake. I'd like to say that I finished my book and it's with an agent now, waiting for the next thing to happen. Well, no. I did , however, rediscover the pleasure of solitude. The quietness of a date for one; the silence of a room without my voice always talking. I'm already planning my next trip alone. Maybe this time, I'll get things finished.

Love Letters to Strangers

I love writing letters. There was a time when I used to catch up with all my correspondence at my favourite pub, the Backyard. There I'd be, with my glass of red, my stationery spread all around me, going at it with my cheap, disposable fountain pen (I lost my uncheap undisposable ones along the way - well, I lost two, gave away one). I know my friends love receiving handwritten letters (rather than emails) but what surprises me, is that others can't let well alone, and must needs come and ask me, what are you doing? And wouldn't it be faster/more efficient through email?

Well, listen to what Hannah has to say.

And think how many broken hearts you can mend when you just randomly decide to write a letter to someone because they crossed your mind.

Suffering For Our Art

I went looking for this story today, and I couldn't believe I hadn't included it in this blog. Wow. Yes. So after all this time, another update. Life is strange, no?

It's a school, it's a frigging school, the kids are walking past in their teenagerly nonchalance, and some of them glance at us a little puzzled as we sit there puffed out from the uphill climb to get here. I stare into space, Jackie curses eloquently and Simon, peacemaker that he is, tries to smooth things over.

We have taken to blaming the sat nav (satellite navigator, for those of you who are unfamiliar with these funky abbreviations) for everything, most times unfairly, but this time, with considerable justification. We were meant to be heading towards the Musee de Matisse. Instead, it led us to a school, a perfectly ordinary school, with the kids just having finished their morning session. And there we sit, like paedophiles-in-training, staring at them staring at us.

"You have reached your destination," the electronic male voice tells us confidently. We experimented briefly with Yoda and Darth Vader voices - but none of these were clear. And when you're navigating you'll take clear over amusing any day.

When Jackie programs the actual address iof the museum in (by street this time because it is obvious the sat nav has no clue where the Musee de Matisse is) we find we are 9 miles off. And there is no way in holy hell any of us are going to walk 9 miles to get there.

"I wonder if Matisse appreciates all the trouble we are going through to get to his place," Jackie wonders idly, as we puff our way back into town to refresh ourselves with an extremely overpriced Orangina each. Then we find our way to the Chagall museum instead, which is apparently nearer. If that bloody sat nav hasn't fooled us again.

The Chagall museum is the only art museum in Nice with an entrance fee. 8.5 Euros each, to be precise. But Chagall is breathtaking - his reds are basinfuls of blood, his blues are the colour of the sky in the South of France, his greens are emerald dreams. We wander around speechless, reading the little notices next to each painting which explains the imagery - mostly Jewish - he seems to like cockerels and Hanukkah candles. And there is the creation of man, and there is Moses, and there is Adam and Eve...and he likes to look through windows a lot. And there is a short filmlet of the mosaic he designed for the Plaza in Chicago. The New World. In 1977.

He kept changing his mind, refining it even to the last minute. The poor sod who actually had to cut the tiles sighed heavily at all the changes and extra work, but went gamely ahead. When you're dealing with a Master, you submit to the Master. Every whim.

When Chagall finally says: "I am giving you so much trouble - I am hard on you but only because I am hard on myself. Some people are so easily satisfied." He shakes a bony finger at the notion.

An artist is NEVER easily satisfied.

Then we make our tired way back to town - to have lunch. We are all starving by now. A nice little cafe with an old man waving at someone near us (I nearly wave back cos I think he's waving at me, I seem to make that mistake a lot here). This cafe is cheap and cheerful and everyone seems friendly. A baldy smiles engagingly at us as he bites neatly into his baguette.

Then as we're walking back to the carpark (we think we'll give the Matisse museum a miss for today) we run into a little adventure.

There is a police car with sirens blaring inching forward in front of the cafe. This is unusual as testified by the fact that everyone is craning their heads to look out. A police car attracts attention here. Simon is chugging on cheerfully ahead, in front of both us as usual, and I notice a man trying to hide behind a car. He looks so innocuous that I can't believe he is what all the commotion is about. He passed us a little while ago, hurrying but trying not to appear to hurry and suddenly a tall official looking man barks out:

"Arrestez vous!"

The crouching man straightens up and goes without a murmur. The plainclothes policeman stuffs him into the noisy police car. Simon steers us off into the opposite direction in the meantime. Jackie has visions of Simon (who was closest to the guy) being dragged into a hostage situation. But really, for an arrest, it was severely anti climatic.

We giggle a little hysterically, recount what we each saw, and try to figure out what crime this guy must have committed.

Robbery?

Drugs?

Can't say. He looked harmless enough.

Anyway we finally find our way back to the car (and the massive parking bill) and decide we will spend the afternoon at the beach. But stop at the supermarket first. To get a few essentials. Like an adapter (Jackie cannot use her straightener and her hair is getting curlier every day) and...snacks. We get tarts and eclairs and cakes.

All we do is eat. And look at art. (hey, I just realised that art rhymes with tart)

And then we're on the beach unloading our booty and watching some poor sods windsurfing not very successfully. Jackie and Simon are reading. I am writing postcards.

Just another ordinary miraculous day.

But Jackie will never forgive that sat nav.

Some Last Words

So, it's been a year. I bet you never thought I'd make it this far. I know I never did. This is the day it all officially ends. I could go on...but I said I would do this for one year. Sometimes it's good to put things into a receptacle, made of crystal, to hold it in, to contain it, as it were.

And so, with all my love, I say to all of you who came long for the ride (even if you never said anything, merely showed up on my site meter)...thank you. It's been an honour and a privilege knowing my words were read.

Though not just my words. Mostly other people's words as well. Which were so much more profound than mine.

I know this year has changed me beyond belief.

Fare thee well.

So the sea journey goes on,
and who knows where!
Just to be held by the ocean
is the best luck we could have...

Why should we grieve that we've been sleeping?
It doesn't matter how long we've been unconscious,
We're groggy, but let the guilt go.
Feel the motions of tenderness
Around you, the buoyancy.

-Rumi-

Goodnight My Angel

Goodnight my angel, time to close your eyes,
And save these questions for another day,
I think I know what you've been asking me,
I think you know what I've been trying to say,
I promise I would never leave you,
and you should always know,
wherever you may go,
no matter where you are,
I never will be far away.

Goodnight my angel now it's time to sleep,
And still so many things I want to say,
Remember all the songs you sang for me,
When we went sailing on an emerald bay,
And like a boathouse on the ocean,
I'm rocking you to sleep,
the water's dark and deep,
inside an ancient heart,
you'll always be a part of me.

Goodnight my angel now it's time to dream,
And dream how wonderful your life may be,
Someday your child may cry,
And if you sing this lullaby,
Then in your heart ,
There will always be a part of me.

Someday we will be gone,
But lullabies go on and on,
They never die,
that's how you and I will be.

Ripeness is All

Men must endure
Their going hence, even as their coming hither:
Ripeness is all.

King Lear, William Shakespeare

A Brief Snapshot in Time

I bellyache a lot about the time I was a PR, saying it was the job I was most unsuited for and the one which made me the most unhappy. I'm remembering the broad strokes, but luckily, I kept a blog, which captured moments, when I was actually, for want of a better word, happy.

All wrapped up in my little cocoon, reading Anne Sexton, writing speeches, sipping hot chocolate with whipped cream, I feel a strange tug in my belly. So here is what I wrote on September 8, 2007.

It gives you some idea. Of the time that was, the person I was.

I'm curled up in one of the armchairs, a mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream cradled in my hands, reading my Anne Sexton. My laptop stands open in readiness for me the write the speech-du-jour, but I'm lost in the words. All around me, there are meetings happening, interviews happening, people discussing business plans, a few chatting over a coffee.

Starbucks. My new home. My new office. I am alone. I feel part of the crowd. Pretty people. Sexton talking to me from the pages. I disappear into her words.

An hour later I emerge from the torpor and tap out a few words on my screen. No cigar. So I pull out a notebook and write out an affirmation. This is the speech I want to write. This is how long I want it to be. This is how long I want to take to write it. This is how I want it to sound. Got it? Good. I rewrite the affirmation a few times to drive home the point.

Then get back to the screen.

I need some music.

Out comes the trusty iPod. There's Michael Buble singing Home followed by Amici Forever's So Far Away. How particularly apposite.

The model nearby is showing his portfolio to an agent. She has brown streaks in her hair and looks like she was once a model too. Pretty. She asks him if he's attached and he hems and haws and pretends. Finally admits to a girlfriend in Thailand. He's told that he must, under no circumstance, betray that he is already girlfriended if he is to take this job. It would offend his fans. He seems obssessed with a particular Korean model called Rain. Turns out, his girlfriend is obssessed with Rain.

I glance at his vapid pretty face and wonder if he would have fans and if they would be so dumb. But yes, fans are undiscerning after all. Once they decide to obssess about you, they will obssess about you.

I should know. Look at my boss. Four appearances in a reality TV show, in which he never smiled, spoke stiffly and calmly jumped down the contestants' throat for a misstep, and he has acquired a fan base. He has a boyish face and he's pretty smart, but even he's disturbed and amazed at the reaction of these girls. (We stumbled on a chat site that has discussed everything from his eye colour to underwear size).

So anyway, fans will be fans. Empty inside and seeking to fill the emptiness with some idol's perceived perfection. Ah well. Haven't I done it like a million times myself?

Feet of clay, Hal my boy, feet of clay.

So anyway, now I have my affirmation set, I start tapping with purpose. The speech emerges on the screen. I read a few times, edit, and think it's time to give myself a break. A barrista has come up to clear the tables. I smile winningly at her and ask if I can just order from where I'm sitting.

Sure, Ma'am, she winks. I wink back. I love this place. My new office. A little expensive (you can't get a simple drink for under RM10 and my parking comes up to nearly RM20 when I spend the whole day there) but you know, you gotta give something, to get something.

So it's back to Sexton and I feel my heart twist and turn as I follow her words, without wine, without artifice, telling it like it is. My friends wonder why I'm so obssessed by this suicidal poet. I think, suicidal poet forsooth. She was a poet. And that's what matters.

I want to get a book of Lorca. And his In Search of Duende. Love. Darkness. Love. And the world spins on...

Then it's back to the computer screen. This time, I've got to look at my boss's comments to incorporate into the second speech. His speech. I do it in about 10 minutes. Then it's back to Sexton. In between, of course, I check my Facebook to look at the Status Updates and see what all my friends are up to and what new applications they have loaded. It makes me feel connected somehow. In between, I answer all the emails coming to me from the office. I edit what they ask me to edit, unearth old files they ask me to unearth and send on.

And I think, all you need is a wifi connection, some good coffee, your Facebook, a book of poetry.

Who wants my job?