#please unmentioned friend go touch grass

[idliketochill]

stultifera navis be upon ye

[davidastbury]

There is only one age - and that is young. Somehow we have a concept of ‘growing up’ but it is a delusion, as fragile as burnt sheets of paper lifted from the ashes, as hard to sustain as sweeping fallen leaves on a windy day, as unsatisfactory as the hard stare in the bathroom mirror.

Eventually it falls apart - the struggle begins to ease and your own youth greets you like a loved friend; the person you rejected; the one who embarrassed you; the one you thought you didn’t need.

And from now onwards you will never be anything other than your authentic personality, and along with all the other miracles you may even look kindly at the years of separation.

The Healing Words ... 1965

Lorna once told me that Ian had saved her life. It was difficult imagining Ian as a hero in any shape or form, and she must have seen how puzzled I looked. We were alone, sitting in the back-room of the bookshop, where we took our coffee breaks, and for some reason or other she wanted me to share her thoughts.

Nearly all the staff were young, most still living at home, and naturally talk during the breaks touched on family chat. Frank’s dad was an MP and he had stories of trips abroad - others had memories to share; memories of holidays, cars, pets, hilarious mistakes and so on. There was a lot of laughter and any stranger looking in on this, would have concluded that we were a nice bunch of young people.

But Lorna did not join in; she sat silent and sometimes looked up at the clock and walked out. I could only guess that the family chat gnawed at a private pain - that she couldn’t bear hearing it.

Ian must have picked up on this too, because on that one occasion when alone with Lorna - when for no reason she told me that he had saved her life - when she told me, with her eyes as wide as a child’s, that things at home were bad and that Ian had saved her with a few astonishing, healing words ...

‘Lorna, please believe me - believe this if you never again believe anything I say - there is no such thing as a happy family.’

Why struggle with the heavy dough of Dickens - or the worthy seeded bread of George Elliot? Why munch through the bland oven-bottoms of Trollope - when you can have MY offerings?

I am the Ryvita of modern literature. Crunch my croutons and snap my crackers. Enjoy my oaties and crispbreads - my delicious shortcakes and scones, my hobnobs and ends, my pink wafers!

Ever ready and smiling; my only pleasure is in luring you away from stodge into the pure air of cadence and ambiguity - longings, broken gates, broken hearts - Madeleines and memory.

The Train

This is where he used to stand everyday waiting for the train. The spot was carefully chosen; he had taken note of how the drivers slowed down and pulled up; he would be nearest to the doors - the first one aboard.

Young people wait for their trains - they are impatient for its arrival - they are eager to get away - to be carried into their futures,

He liked the window seats facing the engine. He liked the sensation of going forward into the future - dictating his demands - not being pulled backwards, as if a helpless passenger.

Roughly halfway on the journey the train would go through a long tunnel. The windows turned black and the everyone looked shabby and haggard in the weak lighting. They stared at each other, wishing for the sunlight to return - as if waiting for depression to end.

For him, blinking in the new brightness, there was something to anticipate - the next stop - ‘she’ would appear! Sometimes she got into his compartment and sometimes she didn’t. They never spoke; she hardly looked at him, but he could still see her even when he looked away.

And after that the train doesn’t stop again ... just the relentless rushing uncertainty ... taking him towards his future.

The designer Judith Leiber died recently at the age of 97. She was a Holocaust survivor who somehow got through the horror and, starting a new life in the U.S. became famous as a handbag manufacturer - her designs were unique, every First Lady from Mamie Eisenhower to Laura Bush carried a Leiber bag at the inauguration ceremonies.

She married Gerson Leiber, the artist, in 1946. They did not have children.

They died hours apart. The day before she passed away he whispered to her - ‘Sweetheart, it’s time to leave.’

A Photograph

A friend had once taken several photographs of her in the local park. They were both nineteen. She doesn’t remember much about that day, except that it was very cold and the light was fading. It was a long time ago.

Only one picture has survived the upheavals of house-clearances, flat moves etc, and to her, it wasn’t one of the best. But looking at the photograph now, from such a distance in time, it all feels different and she experiences a rush of tenderness for the girl - the girl she once was. She stares at the picture and feels an ache flood through her. How could she have failed to see this before - not been affected by the luminous whiteness of the winter-pale skin, the trusting eyes, the expression of curiosity and kindness.

It breaks her heart to see this innocent girl, standing on the grass, surrounded by sharp, leafless branches, and dark opaque bushes.

At Such A Distance

Two metres - is that okay? A hundred metres - two hundred metres - still see me? How about fifty years - still see me?

And keep in mind, when you are close to someone, really close, you cannot see them clearly, but when apart you cannot see anything else.

Gus Barker was a relative of Henry James - part of a group of talented young people, cousins and friends - who had grown up together and as young adults, spent their summers as guests at the Temple’s house in New Hampshire. Among them was Henry’s brother William, Oliver Wendell Holmes, John Gray, the three Temple sisters and others. They all had the glow and sweetness that great wealth and privilege bestows, and the self- confidence that they would cut deep and satisfying grooves for themselves through life.

Like the others, Gus Barker would have achieved distinction - he would have equalled the others - novelists, judges, psychologists - but he rushed to take part in the American Civil War. He was wounded and discharged; healed quickly and, against advice, insisted on returning to his regiment. Very soon afterwards the news reached Albany that Gus had been killed by a sniper at the Rappahannock River in Virginia; he had just turned twenty.

One Of Those Stories

We all carry so many improbable stories in our minds! The ones that are so deeply improbable that you eventually begin to doubt ever happened. They aren’t polished by retelling and sharing - they are kept shut away - untold, unmentioned, even embarrassing. They may be trivial but their oddity gives them an aura of importance - an unmerited depth and significance.

This little anecdote fits the bill.

Department store - he’s complaining about the long delay in delivering furniture he has ordered. Only one item has arrived - and it wasn’t what he’d ordered - it had to be collected. So he was complaining.

Complaining wasn’t easy for him; he actually felt sorry for the young man having to listen - how he tilted his head in sympathy; widened his eyes at the right moments and so on. He produced receipts and delivery notes - and the collection note for the unwanted item - and explained about the colour change that had been offered and agreed upon. It was a long story and the very telling began to affect him - it was as if he was lapsing into a childhood mode; he started to speak too quickly, stumbling over his words, becoming breathless. Like a child, he felt that the story needed emphasis, as it would crumble and become hopelessly undermined if he slowed down, as if the facts would melt away and he wouldn’t be believed.

The sales assistant interrupted him and politely asked him to wait a moment - he would get the manager. A few minutes later she appeared - just as he was arranging the documents in the correct sequence. They were introduced and he started again to explain the situation. Then - there was a sharp movement - as if his vision had changed without moving his head; as if about to faint - and then the soft blur of her grey eyes as she leaned forward and kissed him.

Kaş

Kaş is a little town on Turkey’s Mediterranean coast - the beautiful ‘Turquoise Coast’. The Romans loitered there for a while and then left leaving an assortment of tombs, fallen arches, sturdy roads and the like. Being an archeological philistine - ‘one pile of rocks is much the same as any other’ - I gave my attention to other attractions.

I used to visit a seafront cafe nearly every day. Looked at from the outside it would remind you of France; a sprawl of chairs and small iron tables spilling over the pavement; a frayed awning flapping; free standing tin frames advertising ices; a menu board with illegible chalked scrawl; a festoon of light bulbs on a sagging wire. The waiters wore black waistcoats and white aprons, completing the illusion of - ‘la belle France’.

The proprietor was a tiny, bird-like old man. He wore a loose fitting suit and tie - I have a picture of him somewhere - very neat and well groomed, with the grandeur and dignity you often find in the truly ancient. But he wasn’t the boss any more - that was in the hands of his two sons (or sons-in-law, or whatever). These were bulky, badly shaved men, scowling through their jowly middle age. The old man wasn’t giving up easily, he continued to behave as if he was still in charge. It was amusing to watch the two sons go along with this - kidding the old man and pretending to hear his occasional rants. It was easy to see that they were related by the insults they fired at each other. I tried to understand if the old man knew that they found him a bit of a joke - and if he actually knew, wouldn’t playing along to their deception be the finest satisfaction?

And then, early afternoon, a group of boys arrived - one of them was clearly family - he had the same wiry shape as his grandfather - I remember how his school blazer was too long in the sleeves and how he and his gang of pals took over a corner of the terrace and a waiter brought them tray-loads of ice creams.