Between July and September of 2007, before the move which brought me to my new home, a worker’s cottage in the factory district of a Chiltern town, I’d got into a rhythm of posting chapters of a memoir, on this very blog. I produced a series of vignettes, not always in chronological order, covering my life from conception to just before the commencement of puberty, or is it adolescence? One or both. I’ve been stuck at that brink, in my mind, for a couple of months, unable to move forward. I always stumble on reaching a particular point: arguing with myself what should be mentioned and what should not.
What was the point of offering this memoir anyway? As regular readers will know, at a certain point I restricted this blog to invitation only, about sixteen members. It felt risky to expose my life openly to all comers, not because of any threatening incident, but the mere possibility of one, which I had seen happen to someone else. But now I’ve lifted that restriction, and the only protection is a little anonymity where names are occasionally changed to inhibit the brute power of search engines.
This morning I awoke thinking of the blog as a fire, that wonderful discovery of the ancients which serves so many purposes. To warm, illuminate, cook, consume and destroy. Metamorphosis, energy built-in to the universe. I write here to use up energy! That is also why I go walking, wash dishes, keep the place clean. There are things we must do for survival, and there are these things we do because we want to be creative, or get up to mischief, which is the same thing. Or simply “raise our game”—tennis or golf if you will. Or the game of life. Including the endgame.
Yesterday I hung out washing on the line, though we could have draped it indoors on clothes airers and dried it just as efficiently with less exertion, for in any case it had to be brought in before nightfall, not quite dry. But the sky was bright and the breeze brisk. As I stood between three lines pegging out sheets, I was transported to Conrad’s Nigger of the Narcissus, or the unnamed sailing ship of his hero’s first command in The Shadow-Line; for these sheets were the sails! I was the captain, assessing the strength and direction of the wind; taking responsibility for my ship with unceasing alertness. That moment in our tiny backyard symbolizes life: to gather our strength and set sail on that adventure which only Nature and imagination can complete. (The Shadow-Line in particular covers this theme of energy. All the crew but two are stricken with a deadly fever, and the ship is becalmed. Their sails must be frequently trimmed to try and catch every little zephyr, but who is to do it?)
Ah, Life! You really do need time to stand and stare, to see the pattern of your life’s work in its pathos, humour and intricacy. Never mind fiction: from life we may trawl wonders like a fisherman casting his nets into the deep.
What I write about doesn’t matter too much. What is to hand? Will it burn? Chuck it on the fire, stop it from going out. Every day has its demands. We wake up, we stir ourselves. We must be fed and dressed. We must deal with those things which force themselves on our attention, perhaps with threats. Or failing that we have to fill our day with meaning.
I propose to continue my series of memoirs shortly, skipping twenty years and continuing at a point thirty-five years ago. At that point, I’d gambled a house, a career and almost a marriage too; not staking them on a number at roulette, but on a dream, an iridescent bubble that suddenly popped leaving nothing behind.
That was the point when homeless, in a battered van, with wife and two small children, I arrived at the Commune. (to be continued)
Comments
V
I tend to avoid “plowing thru the verbiage”. But it’s ok. I’m beginning to find it interesting.
Charles Bergeman
Vincent, What I inevitably take away from reading your posts is a strong sense of caring. Caring for all aspects of life, for the reader, and for the subject of your composition. No matter what the subject, I am compelled to read it because of the care you take in organizing your thoughts, understanding your topic, and appreciating the perspective of your audience. I feel I get more out of it than simply consumption. Perhaps it serves to ignite something in me that needs warming.
Paul
Suspenseful ending… Photo, at least from the outside and with certain visual impediments I’ve got going, reminds me of an apartment I had just outside DC in a complex of brick buildings erected in the 1940s as housing for people churning out the weaponry of WWII. Roomy – and with a shower that could have been a weapon! If you weren’t ready for it, it plastered you to the floor of the tub where you had to yell for assistance helpless and naked, pinned by the spray like a soldier by machine gun fire. OK, so I exaggerate a little on the last point.
Jim
Glad to see/hear you back at it, I been missing it, nice to hear these things, I enjoy thinking about you Vincent, over there running around, more or less amuk, but civilly amok, thanks for returning to it.I can’t wait to hear the parts of the time that you are skipping, what you decide to publish, very difficult decisions, I know for me, there is much that can’t be told, maybe never can, is that a shame or what? What would life be like if we could tell everything?
Vincent
Thanks for your pointing out the verbiage, Siegfried. I know I live dangerously sometimes when the words go too abstract but I like to liver dangerously and thanks for sticking with it. Charles, this is not the first time that you’ve written a comment that’s the answer to my unspoken prayer, you agent of angels, you! You make writing worthwhile, even if you were the only reader. Paul, sorry that the suspense may be dashed by the following post! Brilliant description of an over-pressurized shower-head.
Jim
you were prophetic in your remarks (have I not called you an Old Testament prophet?) about things that cannot be told. I have tried and discover precisely that. I physically cannot tell what I wanted to tell.All in all, it will be easier to overcome my scruples and continue my memoir where it left off: at the beginning of puberty, for there are some nice things to tell and I will stick to those. As for the rest – most of the adult years as well as late adolescence – I’m hitting barriers which may never be overcome.
Kathy
you said: “Ah, Life! You really do need time to stand and stare, to see the pattern of your life’s work in its pathos, humour and intricacy” so true! I really like this quote. Thanks.
Paul
VINCENT, LOL, brilliant summary of my description! Sorry can’t keep up right now, just checked back here and no time to read further like I usually do – a lot going on on more than one front, don’t know as I’ll even get my next post up today….
a wayfarer’s notes 