Come here... go away

We wrote occasionally a few months ago. She agreed to go dancing together but changed her mind.

I proposed a meeting simply to chat; she agreed, but never got back to me.
Then, four or five months later she wrote out of the blue to say that she was now ready for that proposed meeting, in the place agreed, and on the very next day without fail.

I looked forward to chatting. Something, I supposed, must have changed... I wondered what. She told me she was a good listener*, so I thought I might be able to share some of my struggles in the hope that they would be thereby alleviated, which is what friendship can sometimes do.

I put that word in italics to focus attention on what it might mean. I think it must surely imply some kind of relationship based on reciprocity, respect and interest. I mean a two-way process. One cannot establish a friendship with a statue, icon, alter, or mirror, as Narcissus discovered.

When we sat down for our cup of tea she told me that she had come because of her desire to visit the venue rather than to see me. I was an aspect of the experience, but not essential. She assured me that she would have been there without fail even if I had been unable to attend. 

She spent our time together telling me that she had no intention of getting involved with anyone and had no need for any kind of relationship apart from her family ones. Relationships, she said, always turned sour. 

By now I was wondering why she had contacted me and why she thought I might be interested in knowing her reasons for not wishing to get to know me or anyone else.

From a philosophical standpoint, to contact someone with whom one is not in contact with the sole intention of telling them one does not wish to have a relationship with them is a formative contradiction. Summoning someone in order to dismiss them. The notice that says "do not read this notice", and so forth.

From a humanistic standpoint, it was perhaps unfeeling? I had already understood that I was not within her desiderata several months ago and I was fine with it. 
Did I need reminding?
Anyway, inter-alia, I had never actually proposed any kind of relationship other than a dancing partnership (rejected), so she was preempting.

Since she had come all the way over to my house (ultimately) to tell me that she didn't care for my company, perhaps the subtext was that she might potentially care? Perhaps she wanted to elicit some kind of reaction. I could perhaps play the part, but I think an agreement would have to be forged before proceeding. One cannot simply presume to know what people want. It would be abusive.

- Narcissistic people do presume far more, and she was certainly drawn to that personality type, having sustained a long relationship with a narcissist.
I met someone recently who confessed to me that she always chose abusive partners. She was aware of it but continued to do it on the dating scene.
She was effectively choosing these dashing but toxic personalities for sensual reasons, dipping her toes in the water and then fleeing. I suppose that's an option, but the type of men she was getting involved with can be vindictive and obsessive so it is a dangerous game. -

Or was it no more than the fact that having accepted a proposal once (reluctantly?), she now sought to establish her righteousness by keeping the letter of her word, with no interest in her interlocutor, who had a mere walk-on role in the drama?
Who can say!

I sometimes analyse events and scenarios in this manner to help me understand why for example, I am left feeling empty rather than uplifted... or vice versa.


* We should surely be wary of characterising ourselves and rather let others do it. We of course have an opinion of our qualities and faults, but that is often quite distant from the way we are perceived by others (net of the sycophants, who will always validate our greatest conceits).

Shoelaces and Eau Savage

 

In the day, I had a friend and his name was Chris Clark. I met him when we went to Oxford together so I suppose he lived in the Birmingham area.

Chris knew stuff and had connections. He was very confident about most matters, and he had a small van. I think his father looked after him in the area of vans, unlike my dad, who washed his hands of me when I was nine.

The first thing I discovered about Chris is that he had a great interest in fashion and personal cleanliness. He was very critical of me in both of those regards so I made an effort to improve. 

We had Doc Martin boots, which Chris officially "endorsed" (a word he used a lot). But the laces were not to be the ordinary brown or black ones. Chris used to shrink in horror from such an unthinking show of conformity. The laces he had secured were red, and I soon managed to find some (to fit in and because I liked them also). Acquiring such things, in the day, was not a simple matter. Especially for a young man who was standing at the very boundary of taste and pushing hard.
Later, he found some pale blue ones that he absolutely loved. He was very stylish indeed and I tried to copy him in many things.

He was also theatrical, and he would shrink in mock horror and proclaim eugh! with great emphasis if he saw anything or especially a vestiary item/combination that offended his sense of taste. His aesthetic extended into all areas of life: products, ideas, foods, beverages... he was also critical of people if they were resolutely unwashed and unkempt.

He knew about Jim Beam whisky (no one knew about such things in 1975) and so we drank some in the van, which was parked, that first night, in the centre of Reading.
You see, we were on an adventure to find a house to rent and then to live there with the other boys in our band, being Steve (drums), Mike (keyboards), and Dave (bass). I played the guitar and Chris played the flute and saxophone. He disapproved of people who played brass instruments because they were dirty, always spitting into their horns and smoking cigarettes (he said). A lot of his banter was just good humour and studied hyperbole.

We eventually gave up on Reading because it seemed too miserable to be sitting in the carpark at 10 pm with the long night before us so Chris proposed that we go to Oxford where he knew a man who would put us up for the night. 

And so I met Reid later that night. Reid was absolutely fascinating to me: he was Canadian and very handsome, with curly blonde hair and freckles. And he was training as a luthier so there was a workshop in his house where he was making a renaissance lute. I had never seen such fine craftsmanship... and he was young too - about the same age as Chris and I. I felt out of my depth, but Reid was very personable and so was Chris.

So that was the start of my life in Oxford, where I remained for five years.
We found a shared house soon afterwards - just for the winter holidays because the students were vacating their let over Christmas, but we had a stroke of luck and managed to move into the downstairs flat in the same house when our tenancy was up.
One of the many odd but likeable things about Chris was his penchant for Eau Savage. He insisted that men should wear this costly perfume as a statement of style (or perhaps to cover unseemly odours?). Of course I bought a bottle and used to wear it, for a season. I am very easily influenced

.
He also liked to wear voluminous overcoats and he used to name them.
Once, he lent me one called "Muriel" when I was on a difficult mission involving a young lady. He instructed Muriel to keep my body and soul together. I shall always remember that. No one used to say such things in 1975.

Chris was girly in many aspects of his persona, but he used to like many manly things too, although more for theatrical effect than conviction perhaps. He had an Indian girlfriend at a time when no one had relationships with different race persons. She was very pretty and delicate; always hiding from her parents, who could not know or suspect anything. I suppose she wasn't allowed to go out much. Chris was very proud of her delicate and dusky beauty. She was the perfect accessory for such a refined and genteel boy. Perhaps he loved her. He was certainly loyal.

All in all, Chris was one of the most interesting people I have ever known. I was fascinated by his constant attitudes and positioning. His vocabulary also was very consciously chosen and distinctive. He went on to attend a school of fashion in London but it turned out that he was already making his own clothes. It was easy, he explained, showing us some perfectly cut and stitched corduroy jeans he had somehow cobbled together. He was making clothes for men and women even back then when we were still in our teens. His father was a business executive as far as I can recall. I don't think it was a family concern.

The last time I saw him I was in London by chance in a market and I was with my wife. It was only a fleeting encounter. I have often tried to find him online but without success.

On rereading this memoire I discovered that I had  actually written Christ every time (every time) I had intended to write Chris. I think it's significant.

Earwig

While this residents' group is mainly dealing with the important matter of missing cats, where they might be, have they packed their toothbrush, and why they have run away, if indeed they have run away rather than simply minded their own business and gone where they please, I wonder if anyone has seen my earwig? I'm looking after it for a friend so I am concerned that she will return from her holidays to face the devastating news that Henry has run away.

He is a handsome fellow, quite tall, with a burnished brown jacket and trousers. He has a small collar and perhaps a trailing leash, because I cannot find it in the house (though of course it is only a short length of cotton).

Henry told me he was going to Stratford on Avon two days ago (he is a Shakespeare fan) but he has not returned as expected.

He might be carrying a cane and wearing a monocle.

He is not chipped and tagged due to the refusal of the local veterinary authorities to perform the necessary procedures.

TIA

Optimistically

 

I need a door sign (the photo shows my late father, Edgar, wearing my hat and standing at his own door, several years ago).

I have a large ship's bell at the door, but most people continue to simply knock. They are intimidated by the bell. Some people do dare to tinkle it - and it is eminently audible - but no one will actually clang it properly. If the bell is sounded to its full voice, it can be heard quite far afield and certainly in the shed, being a place wherein I sometimes am.

Since a man arrived at my house - and he a martial fellow - knocked meekly on the door and then, when I failed to appear (because I was in my workshop and unable to hear a light knock at such a distance), simply left, causing problems because he was here to fix a leaky radiator, I have decided I need a sign.
The signs outside Owl's house (in A.A. Milne's "Winnie the Pooh") would be almost perfect. 

As far as I can ascertain, the one beside the door reads

"Plez cnoke if an rnsr is not reqid"

While one on the door reads

"Ples rnig if an rnser is reqird"

I am writing "rnig" from memory, although the online text does not contain that misspelling. It may also be that Ernest Shepard's illustration does not precisely match the text, but I have been unable to find a legible image online.
In this sort of exercise the misspellings would have to be retained in honour of the old book. My mother was very fond of it and I - like my sisters - became fond of it too when I was a teenager. It even became fashionable for a short while to quote from it and to imagine ourselves characters in the quaint and innocent scenes depicted, but these were surely vain and fanciful notions. I wonder whether those sorts of books truly are written for children? And do they deserve the honour they receive?

Adults love them. The original Shepard illustrations have changed hands for princely sums at auctions. But it is just nonsense, all of it. A grounding in a life of meaninglessness, adoration of vain imaginings and foolish speaking.

While another book, truly deserving of honour and celebration, lies unopened and despised.

In truth, I think I will make a different and more useful sign:

Please ring the bell.
If I don't appear (garden/shed/out/dead), try "clanging" the bell by pulling the cord vigorously to one side.
Thank you


Of course, if I am out or dead the clanging will not produce me, but it might alert a neighbour, who can then say "he's probably gone on one of his walks", optimistically.