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2018 – Dream
There’s a group of us, men and women, in black paramilitary uniforms, carrying guns, running along a road in the city at night. Someone gets shot at, so we dart into an old hotel, as we enter, we realise there’s no one in it.
We run up a couple of flights, then through a long corridor to a large room. I turn the lights off as we all take defensive positions around the room and back down the corridor. Near the end of the corridor, the lights from the foyer just about illuminate the semi-silhouetted figures against the wall, their guns are at the ready. A couple of spotters stand to the side of the large windows as they try to work out where the shot came from.
One of the spotters quietly calls out, “Someone’s entering the building, I think it’s just a civilian.”
I’m suspicious, so reply, “I’ll go check them out,”
I make my way to the lobby where I can see a woman, wearing a long beige heavy coat, is walking up the stairs. She exudes grace, her hair is in a 1930s style, and she’s wearing a dark burgundy beret.
I point my pistol at her, and say, “Excuse me”.
She smiles, and seductively whispers, “That’s not very polite.”
I lower my gun. She walks slowly back down the stairs toward me. As she gets closer, she points a gun at me, so I raise mine. It happens in a moment.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Why did you stop me?” She asks.
I get the feeling she is going to shoot me. But I’m feeling very connected to her. We’re looking into each other’s eyes. Even so, I am still trying to squeeze the trigger of my pistol, my hand is shaking slightly with the strain. I’m wondering if the bullet will stop her from firing her gun too. It’s imperative I shoot first and pull the trigger without her realising what I’m attempting to do, but no matter how hard I try I can’t squeeze it hard enough. I hear a gun go off in the distance, I wonder if it’s hers, but we are both still standing, guns pointing at each other.
I’m aware there’s a man now standing to our side.
* * *
2018 Universal Dream Studios – Part 1
A voice over the Tannoy calls out, “Okay everyone, that’s a wrap”.
The woman in the beret hands her gun to the man opposite her who takes a camera contraption from his forehead.
“When does your shift end?” He asks.
“I’ve got a few more hours left then I’m off. Why, what are you thinking?” She says.
“Do you fancy coming out with me and Dave, we’re going swimming in the backdrop sea later?”
She smiles, “Sure, I’ll see you there.”
The group of soldiers amble out along the corridor, some are smoking, and some playing with their guns.
There are a few oohs and ahhs coming from them as a figure comes out of one of the rooms. It’s a Queen Elizabeth II look-alike holding on to her crown and running to get downstairs. “Sorry everyone, it’s a busy day, night, whatever,” she says. She grabs a cigarette from one of the “soldiers”, takes a drag, and says, “Thank you, sweetheart,” as she mounts the banister rail in a side saddle position and slides down it while waving regally. Everyone cheers.
* * *
1979 – Karate – Part 1
John didn’t want me to do Karate so when I came home, I’d put my karate uniform, called a Gi (pronounced like the word “key” but with a G), into the boot of Mum’s car. She’d then wash it for me, ready for my next session a few days later.
* * *
1979 – Wilson’s School
Art at Wilson’s back then was not a priority subject. The woodwork and metalwork rooms were bigger than the art room and on top of that, the art department was positioned as far to the rear of the school as possible. Mr James, who was our art teacher, wasn’t too bothered though. He had a job, he did what he had to do, and as long as he was left to his own devices there wasn’t a problem. At one point, I pushed my luck too far with him, so he took me into a side room and, whilst giving me a pep talk, he wandered up and down the room, whacking a cane against his hand. I didn’t pay much attention to his words; I just heard the thwack of the stick against his skin.
As much as people disagree with corporal punishment, I have to say that moment did affect me. It scared me and definitely caused me to modify my behaviour. Consequently, over the next few months, I started concentrating on drawing, but one day, without looking up, he barked, “Smith! Come and see me at the end of the class.”
* * *
1979 – Wilson’s School Dinner Hall
I’ve gone back to the dinner ladies to ask for seconds. If there was any food left over, they were happy for it to be used up. I mean it wasn’t as if they were going to take it home with them. For me though, having spent so much time in hospitals and institutions, I had a palette perfectly suited to school dinners, so I often asked for seconds. They probably thought my mum didn’t feed me so were always obliging, plus of course, it was a compliment to their cooking.
On this occasion, though, I decided to show one of the dinner ladies a poem I had just written. Instead of saying, “What a load of crap”, which it was, she started showing the others there and saying how sad it was. “Oh, that’s beautiful Simon,” they said. Even now I can, shamefully, remember the start of that poem. It was a poem about looking for somebody to love me, someone to fill a hole inside me. I think it started “This poem is to somebody, but to nobody it seems, I write with all my heart this time to the person of my dreams”. It would take years for me to realise the significance of those words, maybe that’s why the dinner ladies reacted as they did. It wasn’t a good poem, but it struck at the heart of many people’s dilemmas. When it comes to relationships, the elusive romantic illusion that we yearn for, and the reality of relationships are often very hard to come to terms with. But it was also a call to be loved, rather than to love, and that would be something I’d eventually have to come to understand were very different things.
* * *
1979 – Home
By 14, if Mum ever tried to hug me, I’d wince and move away. I was very much detached from home life as it was no longer a place of great connection for me. Even though Mum and John’s acts of kindness existed they were largely unappreciated by me.
Life mainly took place outside of home. I also had familial connections with others, such as Rob and his family, or my Mum’s cousin Paul and his wife, Ann. There was also another couple who’d spend time with me too; they were neighbours also called Ann and Paul. There was karate, and my friend Peter who shared an interest in tropical fish with me, and of course other friends too. But for all of that, there was a feeling something was missing. At the time, I thought it was because I didn’t have a girlfriend, but that was just a dream.
* * *
2018 October – An Italian Café Eastbourne
I’m chatting to a friend over a coffee who I’ve bumped into in the café. She’s waiting for her husband.
“I’m reading Nietzsche again,” she says.
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“I don’t know, maybe it’s to make my mind work in a more focused way. I did my degree in Philosophy,” she says.
“Sometimes people read philosophy because they are trying to find answers to things about their psychological issues,” I say.
“Yes, that’s true,” she nods.
“I don’t think philosophy or religion can fill you with meaning,” I say, “Because feeling meaningful or buoyant is a feeling. If you don’t feel it, then the question is – why don’t you feel it now when you did previously?” She’s looking at me and glazing over a bit, I’m on a roll so I carry on regardless. “The answer to that isn’t probably related to philosophy or metaphysics.”
With a look of, “finally,” on her face, she interjects, “Yes, not only that, a lot of people do philosophy or psychology to try to solve their own problems as well, but they won’t find their answers there either.”
“It’s funny,” I say, “I got into Psychology and Philosophy but what I needed was psychological help which I got through therapy.”
“Did it work?” she asks.
I make a gesture of presenting myself as a perfect specimen.
(As an aside, chapter 27 came about because of this accidental meeting of our minds.)
* * *
1979 – Secrets and Lies
Most of my friends and their parents were sympathetic when I told them about the arguments between John and myself. Of course, they were only getting my side of the story and probably knew that too. So, when I told one of John’s close relatives that Mum was secretly washing my karate suit, she decided that instead of going to Mum first and maybe sorting out the issue with her, she’d go straight to John who was, predictably, very angry. Consequently, a big argument ensued, at the end of which Mum persuaded John to give me a chance, especially as over the last month or so, my behaviour had improved, which, she suggested, was partly to do with the karate lessons.
Whilst the truth was out, and in some ways, things were resolved, the fracture between John and Mum was even bigger than it had ever been.
Mum was also very angry with me because I hadn’t been wise enough to keep my mouth shut. Still, she agreed that she was very surprised this relative had grassed her up too. From the outside, it’s easy to see that secrets and lies often cause bigger problems in the long run. But there are times when it’s better to lie, especially if you’re a secret agent of course.
* * *
2018 Universal Dream Studios – Part 2
As the woman, the soldier and David drank cocktails by the sea, her eyes caught David’s for a moment, and they looked at each other longingly.
Her phone bleeped so she looked down at it.
“Hey, Sylvia, did you hear what happened to June?” David asked.
Still looking at her phone, she said, “Hold on, I’ve got one coming up.”
Just as she was going to answer David, a man passed by with one of those camera devices strapped to his forehead. Sylvia looked at him, squinted her eyes slightly then turned away. At first, he kept looking toward her too but once he was out of earshot, another guy nearby shouted, “It’s okay, he’s gone”. She waved a thank you at him and went to continue the conversation, but the sky darkened, and a fleet of alien spacecraft flew over.
She sighed, “Never a dull moment hey?”
* * *
1979 – Karate – Part 2
There are many different styles of Karate. Normally a style comes about because a student of one style becomes very successful then, either because the teacher they followed dies or there’s a disagreement between them, they branch off. From that point, variations of the original techniques occur over time so eventually, distinct differences develop. Most people do not join a style of Karate based on working out which is best, they join for other reasons, such as its locality or a friend recommending it.
Like most ideologies, religions or political positions, the main reason we choose them is rarely based on logic alone, but on time and place. It’s where we find ourselves at a particular moment in relation to their availability.
You might think advertising is there just to convince you to buy something you haven’t already got but does it not also reassure those who’ve already purchased the item? The same is true within the martial arts world, practitioners tend to believe whatever they are doing is the best, but the truth is far more complicated.
* * *
There were two symbols sewn to my karate suit. The first was the Kanji calligraphy, which was written vertically near my left chest area (no doubt placed near the heart on purpose). Unbeknown to me at the time it was shaped like a Samurai sword safely held in its scabbard.
The second symbol was the Kanku. This was sewn on the left sleeve halfway up the upper arm, which was lucky for me considering if it had been lower down, I’d have had to grow my arms longer.
Zen monks would put their hands together with an opening between their thumbs and their forefingers so that they made a circle through which they could gaze up to the sky and meditate. There are lots of other meanings ascribed to the symbol such as the outer circle representing continuity or cycles of life, while the smaller circle in the middle represents the universe. There was also a more graphic interpretation whereby the symbol represented hands where strength was where the wrists were and peaks where the fingers met.
The reason I wanted to spend so much time on this was to show that within Karate, a discipline that appears initially to be just about fighting has other layers that most of us can connect with too. After all, do we not all look to the stars through our limited field of vision, and wonder what it’s all about?
I knew the poetry I showed to the dinner ladies was somewhat lacking in, well, poetry, but in every move and turn of Karate, there were lines and verses that resonated with a kind of poetry deep inside me.
* * *
1979 – Poetry, Sketchbooks and Photo Albums
At 14 I started getting into writing poems; the first one I wrote was inspired by one I’d read in a newspaper about Elvis. Although I tend to cringe at most of the “poetry” I wrote during this time, this one was no exception. Nowadays, I find it hard to understand what initially acted as a catalyst for me to start writing them in the first place. I probably found the process cathartic and I may have thought if I was suffering then maybe the rest of the world could suffer too by having to be subjected to this rubbish. After all, a problem shared is a problem doubled. Mum would often say, “They’re very deep,” which roughly translated as, “What the fuck was that about”. However, I would have still taken that as a compliment. As the months went by, I wrote enough poems to fill a hard-backed exercise book, on which one of the kids at school drew a skull and crossbones. Even that filled me with pride, so I left it on.
To help me carry my poetry and sketchbooks I acquired a holdall which resembled the official karate sports bags that people had at the karate club. I couldn’t afford one of those, so, to let the world know I did karate I wrote BKK British Kyokushinkai Karate in capital letters using Tippex type correction fluid; which I have to say, looked rather incompetently scribed, but to me, aged 14, I didn’t care. I’d saved a lot of money. I’m sure one day we’ll find a hormone that causes delusion, and when we do, we’ll realise that teenagers are full of it.
A few months later one of the other boys at school photographed me doing some karate moves. Given I had only been practising it for about nine months and had just got off the second white belt onto a blue one, I think we can safely say it was rather grandiose of me to be doing any kind of demonstration, but I was besotted by Karate. It filled my every waking moment and the guy taking photos was just practising his photography skills. To be fair, he mainly wanted to photograph me breaking some tiles with my arm, which he did, and then he got me to jump off a bench and do a flying butterfly kick where both legs kick out sideways simultaneously. In the photo, I looked like a plane coming into land which was apt because a few weeks later I was brought down to the ground when I overheard a couple of the other karate guys at the club saying, “Did you see Simon’s photos? He’ll be ok, as long as there’s a bench nearby?”
As much as I was upset by being slagged off it was a good lesson. In the adult world, pretence is not looked upon well, but sadly that still didn’t stop me from carrying my karate photos in my bag of tricks. A pleasure many an unsuspecting stranger would have forced upon them at any opportunity.
These days I have Facebook and my website and this to show off on, so that saves me carrying a bag.
* * *
2018 – The Respect I Yearned For
When I look at teenagers, I often see them as cockatoos, strutting about with lots of plumage. I had no confidence in how I looked when I was a teenager, so I probably thought I could be attractive in other ways. But the thing is, I don’t think a lot of what I was doing at that point was about attracting girls, it may have been more about trying to gain some respect from adults. I knew that compared to other kids at school I wasn’t as academically capable. I also realised that in the world of karate, I was nothing, but for my age, I was quite good at drawing, and to my mum, I had a talent for poetry (which I didn’t), but I could feel that being good at things might get me some of the respect I yearned for.
* * *
1980 – Raynes Park Karate Club
Shihan Arneil 7th Dan (he’s now a Hanshi, a 10th Dan) used to teach kids on a Saturday morning. This day he took us out to the field.
“Take off your Gi tops,” he said.
So, we all folded our tops as we had been taught and tied our belts around the rolled-up garment. He then took us through one of the katas.
“Listen,” he said, “You can’t make your Gi make a noise, can you? You can’t try to impress people with a trick. You are like parrots who have lost all their feathers. All they have is their song.”
* * *
1987 – Therapy – Tavistock
Therapist: So, you’re feeling very regretful?
Me: Yes, I feel awful. I know people say we shouldn’t regret anything, but I do.
Therapist: Why shouldn’t we regret things? Surely that’s a motivation to improve ourselves.
* * *
1980 – Significance
Perhaps I wanted to feel significant because I keenly felt a lack of expectations from others due to my disability. On the bus from school one day, I passed two old ladies whom I then sat behind. As they spoke, I overheard them saying it was such a waste of time sending me to a good school like Wilson’s as I would never be able to do anything useful with that knowledge. No doubt such low expectations would have got to me, but after meeting my father many years later, I could see wanting to shine was in my DNA. Maybe it’s in all of us to desire significance in the world and while it’s easy to see it as precociousness, and no doubt it was, that energy or drive to do well in the world is both a cause for good and ill in many of us, not just someone with a disability. Even at 14, I understood that others saw my disability as the main drive and influence in my life whereas I saw it as a part of who I was, but it certainly wasn’t the only one.
* * *
1979/80 – If Only I Had
At 14 I had become aware of the importance of significance in the adult world and was also conscious of an emptiness inside. It’s not surprising that people call their partners “my significant other,” especially in a world where the notion of a well-functioning partner is seen as the main route to happiness.
As children, we hear, “And they lived happily ever after,” repeated on an almost nightly basis, but as most of us come to find, our relationships generally do not automatically bring happiness. In fact, for many, they stir up deeply uncomfortable feelings which can often be a painful experience. The expectations around relationships are so high that it is no wonder that many of them flounder. At 14 though, I was sure a relationship would solve all my troubles and life would feel complete… if only I had a girlfriend.
In a way, I probably held on to that myth emotionally throughout my whole life, even if I was aware it wasn’t true. Indeed, when I first started writing this, I was desolated at the thought of losing my partner and later, Miss Lovelight, worrying I might be alone for the rest of my life. That isn’t to say companionship is not a large component of what makes us happy but to see any single component as a panacea is not realistic for most of us.
* * *
Cardiff – Italian Restaurant
I’m in a restaurant in Cardiff. The waiter is a short stout Italian man in his 60s. He’s making us a Zabaglione and as he stirs it, he says, “You know, when I came to Britain over 40 years ago, I had no expectations and I have had a wonderful life.”
He pours the zabaglione into two long-stemmed glass dishes.
“There,” he smiles proudly.
“But you know,” he sighs, “my children, they expect everything, and they are never happy. If they get something they don’t appreciate it, and if they don’t get something, wow, then we hear about it.”
Given what he said I felt slightly worried about expecting it to taste okay, but luckily all he heard from us was how lovely it was.
* * *
2018 – Universal Dream Studios – Part 3
David looks at Sylvia, “Do you ever wonder how big Universal Dream Studios are?”
Sylvia, confidently answers, “It’s all in the creator’s mind, it doesn’t have any dimensions in the sense you’re thinking about. If he wants a new planet or a galaxy, it’s there immediately.”
There’s a pause, then David says, “Yes, I guess you’re right, but still, he must be in a space, and how big is that?”
Sylvia laughs, “Who said he’s in a space?”
* * *
1980 – Peter and the Ghost Train
Peter who was the kid I’d got lost on Roundshaw that first day we visited it, shared an interest in tropical fish with me. We’d grown up together because our mums were friends but now in our teens, we’d meet up independently of them. Sometimes we’d go to the tropical fish shop together. We’d then have to get back to our homes within a certain time so the water didn’t get too cold, or the air wouldn’t run out in the sealed plastic bag. It must have bought out our maternal archetypes as we’d have to nurture our new pets, keeping them close to our hearts inside our coats all the way home.
On other occasions, we’d go swimming together and, for the life of me, I can’t understand how it came about, but we’d travel to Crystal Palace Sports Centre, especially when we had other pools much closer by. One of the things that drew us there was a secret abandoned platform in the station that could only be accessed by crawling past a panel. It was as if we’d entered a dream world or a film set. We’d climb down to where the tracks had been and play on the lines, only worrying about the possibility of a ghost train coming. We’d look at the old signs and posters and feel the presence of those who had frequented this place. It was empty, but it was full of ghosts to us, and for that, it was truly magical.
* * *
1979 – Sutton Market
There was a big market at the bottom of the high street in Sutton. Sutton was the nearest large town to where I lived. Like most outside markets there were lots of stalls where a very wide selection of goods was sold.
I’d often end up talking to the guy who owned the leather goods stall, his name was Jack and he’d come all the way from Ascot to Sutton to sell his wares. I’d gone to him originally to buy a belt with a big buckle, the kind Elvis wore in his later years. The one I chose had written on it, “The Right to Bear Arms”, which I no doubt thought was slightly funny in a “post-modern” way.
What was special, to me, about this stallholder was he’d seen Elvis perform at a couple of college concerts before he was famous. “You know,” he said in his slightly Anglicised American accent, “Elvis wasn’t that special at that point, it took him a while to develop into what you know as Elvis, to us he was a lot like the other kids performing.”
One day I brought an oil painting to him I’d done of Elvis. It was still a bit wet which pissed him off when he got some on his clothes. However, he was so impressed, he tried to sell it on his stall. It didn’t sell, but when I’d come to check on its lack of progress, he would get me to mind the stall for him, a chore he’d pay me for with items from the stall. In a way, it was my first job, and I liked the feeling of being accepted and useful.
One day, I told him I hated “Punks”, or something like that. He looked at me for a moment and very seriously said, “Hate is a strong word, you must always be very careful about using it for a group of people. It’s how the Nazis got people to agree to kill millions of innocent people. Don’t let me hear you say you hate people again, okay?” I was a bit taken aback and nodded. But his words have never left me. Nowadays I say, “I have a bit of an issue with such and such,” but we all know what I mean.
One cold day he got me to try selling a box of cheap plastic belts by calling out something like, “Come and get your cheap belts here,” but I only managed to sell two. He probably hoped I might get some sympathy sales, but the belts were so rubbish even I didn’t stand a chance. Whilst I was doing that, my mum’s sister-in-law walked past, stopped and said hello, so we chatted and being proud to have a job I told her I was working in the market. (Kind of).
It was a very cold day and after my brave attempts at selling rubbish, Jack gave me a sip of brandy. I didn’t like the taste but a few minutes later my whole back got hot. I’d never experienced such a sensation. It was yet another introduction to the secret world of adults.
When I got home, John told me I’d been spotted in the market, and how ashamed he was I was working there, mixing with the lowest of the low. “I better not find out you’re working there again otherwise I’ll cut your pocket money, do you understand?”
“There’s nothing wrong with people who work on the market,” Mum said indignantly, at which point John stormed out of the room.
“Don’t take any notice of him, he’s had a bad day at the bookies, and he’s had a couple of drinks. If he cuts your pocket money, I’ll give you some,” she whispered.
I continued visiting the market and given it wasn’t technically a job I’d just socialise a bit, help a little, and get given some food and drinks but slowly, over time, I stopped going there as much. Then one day Mr James the art teacher barked at me to see him later.
* * *
1979 – Meeting with Mr James
After the class, I stayed behind as ordered but couldn’t help but wonder what I’d done wrong now.
“Sit down Smith,” Mr James said nodding at a seat. So I did as I was told for a change.
“I’ve noticed you’ve been working on your drawing skills lately and I was thinking you might want to try life drawing classes at the local college.”
“What, with real naked models?” I asked in shock.
“Yes,” he said, obviously wondering if he was making a mistake.
Feeling beyond relieved I said, “Yes, that would be great.”
And so, a couple of weeks later I enrolled in the Sutton College of Liberal Arts Life drawing Saturday morning classes and from then on, I didn’t have time to work at the market anymore.
* * *
1979 – Sutton College of Liberal Arts – Life Drawing
Right next door to Sutton Library, and joined by internal doors, was Sutton College of Liberal Arts. As I entered the building there was a reception area, then a staircase up to the first floor where the canteen was situated, and on the floor above, there were the art rooms. When I walked into the art area, a scruffy man with curly hair and a big smile of yellowed teeth asked what I was there for. I nervously said, “Life drawing,” so he pointed me to a doorway at the end of a concertinaed dividing curtain. I went in and there were a few people in the room sorting out their sketch pads and pencils sitting on little wooden contraptions, which I’d later come to know as donkeys. The teacher came up to me smiling and gently asked if I was there to do life drawing. I said yes, and she asked me where I wanted to sit. “I prefer to sit at a desk please”. So, she helped pull a table into place and put a chair in position and then I got myself ready. The man in the room next door was being loud and funny but our room had a serious solemnness about it. I was obviously in the real art room.
There was a changing cubicle in the corner from which a woman came out in a blue dressing gown. I started to feel a little nervous. She was young and looked pretty.
“Hello class,” the teacher said very calmly, “My name is Melody, and I am going to be your teacher for this term. In a minute, I shall pose the model. I would like you to draw what you see, and I shall come around and help those of you who wish to receive help.”
She sounded and looked a bit like a character from a Janet Austen novel. She had long brown hair tied back in a bun and her features seemed very delicate. Everything about her came over as considered, and there was a serenity about her, which was something I had never come across before. In a way, she was everything I was not.
“Jean,” she said, “if I could get you to lay down here, please.”
The model took off her dressing gown. My eyes passed over her, and then something unexpected happened. I suddenly lost all interest in her as a sex object. There was no feeling of titillation, just a feeling of wanting to get on with the drawing.
I still have that drawing somewhere, it wasn’t very good, but it showed promise and somewhere in that first session Melody and I made a good, “student-teacher” connection. I was not only struck by her demeanour, but I could tell she had a lot to offer in terms of technical expertise. I was filled with respect for her, and I think she had a real desire to help me develop.
As the model got up from her pose, I could see some deep indentation in her chest where her fingernails had rested. They were a message from her to us that no matter how hard we looked, there was a whole universe unravelling within her, within the stillness portrayed before us.
* * *
1983 – Chelsea Art College – Life Drawing Class
I very rarely ever felt sexually or romantically interested in the models in our life drawing classes, not that that stopped me from trying to chat them up given any opportunity. This time though, in this old room, with the autumn light hard upon the walls, I was immediately struck by the beauty of the woman modelling for us.
I sat on the floor, my sketchbook on my lap, trying to capture whatever it was about her that was stirring in me. There wasn’t enough time though, there never could be. After she went, I felt a sense of loss. A few days later she was posing clothed for another of our classes. I wanted to ask her if she’d like to meet up, maybe for a coffee; I even wrote that on a small piece of paper, but, uncharacteristically of me, I knew it wouldn’t be the right thing to do, so, I didn’t do or say anything about it.
A few weeks later she was in the canteen so I asked if I could join her. We got talking and as the conversation developed, I realised that she was very political, especially in terms of women’s and anti-establishment issues. By the time we’d finished talking, I was almost petrified as one wrong word might have been my last. But still, the conversation rolled naturally and so we arranged to meet up at her squat in Brixton for dinner one evening.
After that, we saw each other a few times, just as friends. Although, when she told me she’d written a poem about me my heart rushed but, try as much as I could to get her to show it to me, she wouldn’t. The next time we spoke she told me she’d met a man who she felt was ‘the one’. By then I no longer had any aspirations that we’d ever get together, especially given in terms of politics and intellect, she was so much more advanced than I.
A year later I was at a friend’s house, and we were talking about life drawing when my friend’s uncle said, “That’s strange, I’ve just read a poem about someone with short arms drawing a naked model. I’ve got it with me, do you want to read it?”
As soon as I set my eyes on the page, I could see the model’s name. The poem spoke about the feelings she had when we first met. How she felt my desire and the contrast of her beauty against my imperfections. At one point, she described my finger as “horrible”, and I realised that’s why hadn’t wanted to show me the poem. When I called her to tell her I’d seen it I think she felt a little ashamed, but of course, I was bowled over by having a poem written in a book of poetry about me. As you can see, I’m easily bought off. But then with lines that spoke of my breath being on her face, and her flesh being stirred, who could blame me?
* * *
1980 – Equal Footing
Within months of starting life drawing classes, I realised when it came to Art, I’d be able to compete on an equal footing with others. In terms of karate, even if I had fantasies of having success in it, I understood I had my limitations. There would always be the possibility of teaching, but that would sit too close for comfort to the saying, “There are those that do and those that teach.”
So, at 15 I found I was able to gain a bit of self-respect when it came to drawing, but at the same time was happy to be involved in practising karate even though I’d never be any good. Those two directions became important throughout my life. One may be good at something, and one may love doing something, even though one isn’t that proficient at it, but choosing which one to focus on can often be an interesting quandary.
In my mid-20s, I decided to focus on music; it’s something I had no formal knowledge of nor was I ever likely to be successful in, but I thought that the pleasure of doing it was so great it made it worth concentrating on.
At thirteen I had lots of empty space around me, but by fifteen I was beginning to fill that space with things I could be good at or at least feel passionate about. I began to experience the pleasure of living.
In my thirties, I worked in substance abuse centres and could see how a lot of the clients had lives that solely revolved around drugs or drinking. Half the battle for them was to start living again and to see the pleasure in life. The thing is though, even when you do that, you’ll still have to face emptiness and psychic pain at times. There’s also a danger of going too far in the other direction, I mean by “living” life too much to the full, so much so that one doesn’t have time to feel the sadness, loneliness, and emptiness which we must all feel sometimes, even in the best of situations.
At fifteen I didn’t turn to drink or drugs, however; either I’d feel depressed and not know how to cope with it or would focus on finding a girlfriend to solve all my problems or worse still, get involved with girls I didn’t want to be with, just so I could distract myself.
* * *
1986 – Tavistock – Therapy
Simon: I hate feeling depressed.
Therapist: Do you not think it’s important to feel sad at times? I mean depression and sadness are a bit different. There are lots of different versions of sadness and depression but trying to get away from it could be a bit like not facing something that must be faced if it is to be less dominating. Perhaps it’s a part of you crying out to be heard.
Simon: I see what you’re saying but I still don’t like feeling like no one cares or feeling lonely.
Therapist: I don’t think it’s as simple as that. Let’s say someone keeps telling you they care for you. Do you think you might still feel those same doubts?
Simon: No.
Therapist: [Laughing a little] I think you know what I mean. These feelings are coming from you, from a part that feels like it is punctured, so no matter how much air is pumped in, after a while you will keep feeling deflated.
Simon: So, let’s say we find what’s punctured me, will working that out suddenly fix me?
Therapist: It’s more of a slow process, it’s not so much about intellectually recognising something and then it goes away, it’s not like in the movies. It’s partially about understanding yourself as well as experiencing the relationship with your therapist, me.
Simon: I don’t understand, it’s not like a real relationship, I mean you’re paid to talk to me, you might care a little, but it’s not the unconditional love that I want. I can’t see how that could work.
Therapist: Do you not think it’s interesting that you see me as someone who is like a stone, someone who is just here for the money? It must be hard to feel cared for if you can’t accept there’s any care here. Are you interested in trying to find out why you think and automatically feel like that?
Simon: Yes, I suppose so.
* * *
1986 – Tavistock
Therapist: Have you ever heard that saying, it goes something like ‘The knife that carves out pain leaves a vessel for joy to run through’, I think there’s a lot of truth in that. In time, you may come to see pain as less of an enemy than you’re seeing it now.
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2018 – Joy and Sorrow
I just looked up that quote, it’s from Khalil Gibran’s chapter, “On Joy and Sorrow”, from his famous book “The Prophet”. If you can, it’s worth reading. I shall reproduce it below.
Then a woman said, “Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow”.
And he answered:
“Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the self-same well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at a standstill and balanced.
When the reassure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.”
“On Joy and Sorrow”
From “The Prophet” by Khalil Gibran
* * *
2018 – Dream
I’m walking through a crowd of people on a beach. I catch a woman’s eye, she looks familiar. I feel an overwhelming feeling of love and pain. I look towards her again but she’s looking away. I feel like she’s scared to look, if she does, I know we will be in danger. I decide it’s best to look away and keep walking.
The phone rings and wakes me from the dream. It’s the garage wanting me to book a time for my car to be serviced.
I go back to sleep.
I’m on a bed with a woman. I feel like we love each other. I want to kiss her.
The phone rings and I’m woken again!
I sigh, “Oh fuck it! I might as well get up, I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”
* * *
