Growing Old

Being Old 

When I tell people my age they always says, "Ooh, you don't look it". It doesn't help. No it doesn't help because I feel it. I have macular degeneration in my right eye, I am quite deaf in my left ear, my right should is very painful and my left hand also. When I walk I have sudden spasms of sciatica  and my lower back hurts. I am unable to bend down. If I do get on the floor for any reason then I am afraid I will have to stay there until help arrives. I have stopped having showers because I am afraid of falling. That used to worry me but you know what my father never had a bath or a shower ever, that's right not ever in his life and he lived to be 89.

So I am 80 but I don't look it so that's OK then.

My Brother

I shall write about my brother in spite of yesterday's post.

 When I was three he left home to join the army but I remember one evening when my parents were out and the four of us were together. I must have done something wrong. I was crying and he said to my sister, "You shouldn't cuddle her when I have chastised her."

The next memory was when he came home on leave. He was enamoured with me. I didn't know what to do it felt strange especially as there was no physical contact in the family. My mother had told me when I was five that I was too old for cuddles.

He took me to the toy counter in Woolworth's and asked me what I wanted. In my head I wanted nothing and everything. I was afraid 

that he was going to spend money on me. I can't remember what I asked for. They were all cheap plastic toys. I was confused and felt uncomfortable because no one ever took any notice of me except to say "Be quiet or don't do that." 

I think he wrote to my mother from Egypt and one time there was a photo of him with his army mates. "That's him in the middle," said my mother pointing to the fattest. "No it's not he's on the end. It says on the back," I said.  My mother burst into tears, "He's so thin." 

He was too you could count his ribs.

He never came home to us. But shortly after that he came back to England from Kenya to a military hospital in Grayshott in Hampshire.

Was it Kenya or Egypt? 
 He came out of hospital and was discharged from the army with a pension. He married a much younger women who was petite. I remember she had to buy children's shoes. I was a bridesmaid.

NB I was also a bridesmaid to my sister and cousin. Three times a bridesmaid never a bride.

Mundanity ( yes it is a word I looked it up)

My life seems mundane in comparison to the women who write in Ms.. 

"Where do memories hide? The pine trees sing.

In language of course, the four pathways reply.

What if the words be lost? the pine trees sigh."

       Afterwardness by Mimi Khalvati

This is the first time I have ever been moved deeply by poetry. 

 Yesterday I spent an hour writing in my head about my brother. This morning I read these words and wonder why is my writing so mundane.

I COULD WRITE A BOOK

I read the article in Mslexia 86 "GROUP DYNAMICS" and it got me thinking that I could respond with all my experiences of writing groups - and reading groups and music groups and women's groups and , and , and.

That was a light bulb moment. How many times have I said in a conversation, "Oh don't tell me about XYZ, I could write a book".

I can list just a few - divorce, moving house, gardening, driving, demonstrating, holidays, camping, estate agents and now the list is boring.

My thoughts ran on. "Of course I couldn't write a book, could I? No but I could write an essay on each. And then what? "

The light bulb went out at that point. So I went back to reading Myslexia. On the next page was The Pitch Calendar 2020/21.

Now there's and idea.

I LIKE THIS BULB IT  REFLECTS MY THOUGHT PROCESSES

Vocabulary

I love the term that Arnold Bennett used, "The interestingness of ordinariness". 

I have subscribed again to Mslexia. When reading the stories I find myself puzzled by the vocabulary used. It feels contorted, strangled and bizarre. I used to think that it was just me and I couldn't think or didn't know enough words to write this kind of literature. I thought that my straight forward simple use of language was poor and pathetic. I was puzzled by the prize winning stories which I could barely understand which used words I had to look up in the dictionary.

The classics novels and poems, I can understand. Is it a modern fashion, some kind of, "We need to be different trend, or look how clever we are?"? 

So I have stopped torturing my brain trying to think of  unusual words and I have returned to my old way of just letting the writing flow.

TRUTH

When I write I feel as though there are judges peering over my shoulder. I am afraid to write the truth. That is the truth about my feelings. I can write the facts as I see them but TRUTH?
I feel as though I live my life according to other people. Is that why I want to be alone? Although even when I am alone there are are the voices telling me what and what not to do. Or even what and what not to think.
There is my mother of course. Most people have a mother in their head. In the mirror too but more of that later as they says on TV. Even now as I write this trying to reach my inner self  I am feeling judged.
My first concern that I have uncovered in living my life in reverse ( see my other blog) is that I have never felt unconditional love. I have given it to my children and grandchildren and great grand children but I have never felt that I was on the receiving end. Does being unconditionally loved give one confidence?  Confidence to act to make decisions, to speak ones thoughts and ideas?
Often when I have spoken out in meetings or to friends I have been put down.  It feels as though my very thoughts are wrong. A few times in my life I felt so strongly about an issue that I spoke out publicly and was prepared to defend my corner.  It was always about the nuclear issues or the environment.
Remembering my childhood to work out why I feel unloved and ignored I am beginning to understand. I was the youngest in a family of four. I had two brothers and a sister. I was treated as a baby . In fact I was always referred to as "the baby". Even at the age of forty when I was a grandmother my father introduced me to people as "the baby".
Nothing was ever explained to me. In those days children were seen and not heard. I heard though. I listened. I knew what everybody thought about everything, especially me. It was clear that they thought that I was stupid. They referred to me as "our Freda" with a kind of inference, "You know what she's like".
My nearest sibling, a brother three years older tortured me with Chinese burns and the match burning twice "joke". He ridiculed me mercifully in front of his friends. 
When my sister was planning her wedding they thought they were keeping it a secret from me. But I heard everything. They ignored me so much that I became invisible to them. Then one day my sister said, "Oh what a shame. Shall we tell her?"

                      This is IRIS my great granddaughter who reminds me of my childhood self .
I did have a secret life playing outside.

                        Myslexia arrived

It always happens . I read a few pages and my mind is buzzing with ideas. I don't know where to start.
The first article suggests that as writers we could/should help the fight of global warming by writing about it and changing the vocabulary about it e.g. change global warming to global heating. this makes sense and I think some people are doing  this.
I want to write to day but all my ideas are jumbled. So I am making a list and some kind of order may appear.
1. Sylvaine's  house and the book "Sylvotherapie : Le pouvoir energetique des arbre "

2. Kidsgrove writing group

3. Short story  Ethel Fleda's Blog

4. Language - Arnold Bennett's quote - the interestingness  of ordinariness

5.Chris Packam's TV programme on trees