SPRAY PAINTED SHIRTS, SUN AND SEASIDES
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This morning lavender is the first scent. Fine drizzle hangs in the air as a magpie sounds its rattle.
Alt text says this week’s photo is a stuffed animal in the air. I say it is Ronnie jumping for joy on a walk between Birchington-on-Sea and Cliftonville.
It was a perfect walk. Made so by the company of my sister, the coast, the sun, the chips, the ice-cream. I loved it all. And no shin splints! It was one of the longest walks I have done for quite some time and I felt proud that I could do it. I am contemplating making sure that any walks that take me again beyond the 16km mark should feature chips and ice-cream. I joked to my friend Lyn that maybe those treats were what stopped my legs aching the next day. In reality my regular weekly walks have been helping even though they are nowhere near as long as that. Sunscreen, I recommend sunscreen for such walks. I forgot mine and had to make amends to my neck with aloe vera gel afterwards. Luckily it worked.
All in all, a wonderful week in Kent. A trip that included the celebration of a special birthday with a lovely friend, time to catch up with my family and the chance to see the Manic Street Preachers in concert at Dreamland, Margate.
I don’t currently fit in my spray painted ‘Alienation, Boredom and Despair’ shirt, and all that’s left of my ‘Generation Terrorists’ long-sleeved t-shirt is James’s signature on a cut out piece from the bottom so I wore a newer t-shirt purchased for the occasion. I like merchandise. I remember liking my white jeans that James once signed too and I wonder what happened to them. I have a feeling that signature faded dramatically in the wash.
So much has happened since my fanzine writing fandom for this band and I wondered what it would be like to be in the crowd as a fan again. Ace. It was ace. We parked up just as the soundcheck was happening and when we heard James sing, “If you tolerate this” my sister, Kath and I belted out, “Then your children will be next” and heard a thank you from the other side of the fence. I laughed later when The Anchoress joined The Manics on stage for ‘Little Baby Nothing’ and I remembered that in my youth I had ignored ‘Culture’ when designing that sprayed shirt!
Standing a few rows from the front at the concert I took some moments to remember my barrier leaning days and to revel in the fact that intros to my favourite songs still send a special kind of reverberation of anticipation through my body. And Suede were good. The energy of Brett Anderson was admirable and I remembered more lyrics than I thought I would. ‘Trash’ made the whole theme park seem to sway in time and the air was alive with the words.
My last supervision session for my Coaching Diploma took place at a high table on a spinning stool in an Airbnb. I note that here simply because the wisdom of that space has been so valuable to me and I love the fact that I could join in miles from home. Rereading my letter to my supervisor before this final session I remembered the feelings of nerves that had been present in my body when I read it to the group in the Autumn. Nerves because the space was important to me and my new journey mattered, and I wanted to be the best I could be. And suddenly there I was in a room decorated in different shades of grey completing another step on my coaching path. And yet it’s not sudden at all, it has been measured and planned and this mixed with hard work has led to success.
I’ve met some wonderful new people since September and there is a culture of support and learning that is buoyant and celebratory. People that champion each other and celebrate one another’s successes as well as their own. That’s a great kind of community to be part of.
So much has happened since I wrapped up the last academic year, and it felt fitting to have a poem published by Ink, Sweat and Tears that was written at this time last year.
I’ll read that poem for you now:
HIS NOSE IS SO VISIBLE AGAINST MIDNIGHT BLUE
The moon is a Punch in the sky.
A boy is carrying a bruise.
And nobody is talking to either of them
about ordinary things.
She says she cannot trace the shape
of the puppet you are seeing
in tonight’s moon,
yet to you his nose is so visible
against midnight blue.
You are craning your neck
outside a stranger’s house,
talking to yourself
to filter out the murmur
of voices that cannot be deciphered
through walls and air.
You want to hold every scrap of him
in your head.
You want her to see.
She is urging you to move on now,
says everything will come full circle.
But right now the moon is a punch
and a boy is carrying a bruise.
And you don’t know
if you can wait for the moon
to wane and wax
become whole again.
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