My own personal star-disco...

So last night…I went outside to get the SP in and I paused, as I always do, to look up at the night sky. And…wow. Just…wow.  There was this huge star – right in front of me – and it was flashing, pulsing…unbelievably huge and unbelievably flashing and unbelievably pulsing.  And I thought…plane…or space station or whatever.  But no.  And so I checked out the other stars and they were all doing it too – it was like being in some enormous cosmic disco. 

I’m not talking twinkling, by the way, but full-on flashing.  And they were so clear, so bright…  And I thought how odd it was that, while I can barely see something right before my nose, I can see these stars so clearly when they’re so very far away.

And, I confess, I had a bit of a moment of ‘what the hell?’  As in, am I seeing the last hurrah of the universe?  Am I going to watch that huge star explode and set off a chain reaction?  And I felt…curiously calm about it.  

But then I thought…maybe it’s just me and my crappy eyesight.  So…

‘Hey, James. Come out here,’ I called.  And he wandered out.

‘Look at the stars.  What do you see?’

‘Huh?  They’re flashing.’

‘Ah, you see it too?’

‘Yeah. Weird huh? Atmospherics or something.’

And he wandered back inside, back to Facebook.  But I was mesmerized, entranced. Whether or not it could be easily explained away, it was so beautiful.  I wanted to share it yet there was nobody around with whom to share. 

So I fired up Twitter quickly, scanned my timeline, expecting to see exclamations of awe, explanations of atmospherics or whatever and…nothing.  People were getting excited about some sewing show on TV.

-          Why are the stars flashing?  I asked. 

-          Bad contact. Thump the sky. They’ll come on properly, said one wag.

-          Seriously, if you have dark sky, look up.  I said.

And, out of the 3339 people who follow me on Twitter, three did.  Just three people got up and went outside and looked.  And, you know, that kind of shook me.  There was the sky, doing this amazing *thing* and barely anyone could see the wonder of it.  But hey… I may not plug myself into the TV but I certainly float around anaesthetized in other ways.  And then I thought, hellfire, Jane, what’s with the judgemental stuff?  You like stars, they like…felting. So what?

Anyhow. Eventually I realised I was freezing cold standing out there, and going star-blind, so I came in and ran me a big deep very hot bath and slathered on the last of the Connock body oil – which makes your skin feel sooo silky it’s untrue.  Because after all that looking, I needed a bit of feeling.  And I went to bad and let my mind wonder through the universe…going far enough to be able to look back at Earth and see it quietly pulsing

And this morning I checked up the flashing star thing and Google told me that it is caused by ‘disturbances between your eye and the star.  If disturbances are as big as the star, the star will appear to twinkle.’ And that if you hitch a ride in a spaceship, there is no more twinkling, cos you’re outside the atmosphere.

So, given all the stars were ‘twinkling’ there was a lot of big disturbances out there. But we’re still here, eh?  Aren’t we? 

And then this morning, at the gym, as I put my iPod on shuffle it played me first this...

followed by this...

Stars eh? 

The R word (no, not that one)

I wasn’t going to blog.  At least not for quite some time. Sometimes I do wonder about it, all these words endlessly, pointlessly spewing.  I decided to shut the fuck up.  But then – ho ho – I got a direct message:

Just out of interest, have you ever done a blog on the fear of rejection? Sep 30, 7:56 AM.

Have I?  No, I don’t think so, not directly.  I answered – but didn’t get a reply.  So I figured maybe I should. Write a post, that is. Cos I know a lot of people who seem to let the R word drag them down, stop them reaching for the stars.

I dunno. As a freelance journalist, rejection is so familiar, it could be my mother, sister and aunt all rolled into one.  You pitch ideas – they’re turned down. Sometimes you don’t even get an email saying ‘no thank you.’ As a book writer, you get it in shedloads too.  I have files upon files on my PC of unpublished books – proposals lovingly worked and reworked; some progressed into chapters over weeks, months.  Only to be rejected.  It’s par for the course.  You have to keep trying; you can’t always expect to get it right first time. Sometimes you look back and you think, ‘Yeah, that really was shit; what the bejesus was I thinking?’.  Sometimes you look back and think ‘Feck, that was fabulous; why didn’t it sell?’ 

Funny thing; the ones that really get me, time and again, are the ‘nice’ rejections, as my agent calls them.  I’ve had a bucket of those for Samael, my YA novel.  The ones that go on about how wonderful the writing is, how gripping the plot, how different and exciting…blah blah..except…there’s always an except.  And a rejection, however nice, is always a rejection. Except…hmm…not always.  ‘If you ever rework this, do let me have another look.’  And, yeah, sometimes you need to rework; to shift things slightly and then try again.

What do you learn from it?  Bottom line? Keep trying.  If it’s worthwhile, don’t give up.  You have to be honest with yourself. Maybe it isn’t right, maybe something needs to be changed, to shift. Or maybe the timing is wrong. Or maybe – hey - it’s just bad luck, Fate, the malign universe, whatever.  But you have to keep trying. I know a writer who won’t submit his work because he’s scared of being rejected.  Well, okay, his approach means he won’t be rejected but he sure as hell won’t be published either, will he?  It’s like the lottery – the odds may be high but if you’re not in it, you sure as hell can’t win it, can you?

But I suspect my shy DM friend isn’t thinking about work.  I imagine she’s thinking about relationships.  And, ah, that is slightly different.  But, come to think of it, not that different.  Fear of rejection is, bottom line, fear of losing face, right?  And, honestly, is it so very awful if you lose your face?  What is a face after all?  A construct, a mask we present to the world. Is it the *real* us?  No. 

People bang on a lot about relationships. About ‘the rules’ and so on. About having to ‘play the game’ - like a relationship is a game of chess. And, on some levels, yes it is…(who was it that said it was actually war – was it Ovid? And, of course, chess is civilised war) but you have to start playing in the first place.  If you don’t lay your pieces on the board, you ain’t going nowhere…except back to Spider Solitaire. 

So, to those who fear rejection, I would say…don’t.  Embrace the possibility. What’s the best that can happen?  The other person will say ‘Yes!’  What’s the worst that can happen?  The other person will say ‘No.’ And then you will either lick your wounds and move on, or wait and try again. 

I wrote this a few days ago but this morning I was thinking about it again and wondering if this post would be any way helpful to my shy querent. So I thought I’d ask my oracles for some clarification. iPod oracle said this: except, hmm, it's not on YouTube... and this...and, grrr, neither is Kathryn Williams, Up North.  

But this is:

"Does it really matter, 

As long as you're not afraid to feel?"  

And that's the bottom line, really. You have to feel. Or you're dead. 

But I still wasn't sure this was enough.  So I turned to the Beagle oracle and he wagged his tail like it would fly off and hurled himself at me and covered me in licks and snuggled up so tight there wasn’t an atom of space between us.  Hmm. “If you love someone, tell them so - in no uncertain terms.

My Karaoke song would be...

Well I was going to write something entirely different  today but it felt a bit maudlin somehow.  Then I found I’d been tagged by the lovely Erica for the ‘karoake meme’.  Say what?  What song would I sing karaoke?  Okay, I’ll admit, I’ve never done karaoke, not once.  Never had the chance.  Would I?  Sure. After all, I’m no stranger to making a complete arse of myself in public, am I?

But what would I sing?  When I think back to me singing, my first thought is hymns. I used to love singing in church for some strange reason, Christmas carols in particular – The Three Kings will still bring a tear to my eye today.  But you can’t do karaoke carols, can you? 

I do have this clear as day image of racing onto the dance floor, aged 18, every time Gloria Gaynor came on.  I will survive.  Now there’s a song and a half.  Young, passionate, desperate, with skin so thin it ripped at the slightest scratch, I’d dance and sing my heart out to that; in my skin-tight red jeans and Oxfam “vintage” spiky heels; fuelled by Southern Comfort and heartbreak.

But since then?  No, not really.  I sing in private though, all the time.  When I’m driving alone I let down the windows, turn the volume up high high high and belt out all sorts.  When I’m walking in the woods, with my iPod stuck in my ears, I am wont to sing along to Kate Bush’s Lily (which sends shivers down my spine)  – complete with arm actions – it’s a fecking good job I don’t meet anyone or I'd be typing this from a padded room.  And no, I can't sing that high.

Borderline by Kleemass on DeviantArt.com

But now? Hmm.  I rather like the sound of Rock Band for Xbox – might have to investigate that.  And, while my general musical inclinations lie with rock, nowadays I do most of my lip-syncing to Zumba dance tracks… So, I guess it would have to be this.. and yeah, I can do all the voices!

Now then.  Who do I tag?
Milla (if she says The Smiths I will strangle her).
Lulu
Mags
Tattie
Tee

So girls...hmm, all girls...funny that.  Okay, my lovelies - get to it! 

btw, Gloria is dedicated to a very lovely friend in particular who will survive...and to all of you really - because we will, we do, of course we do...

Me, myself, I

So I was going up to London for the Stoke Newington Literary Festival. So I spoke to my oldest bestest friend Jane.
‘Um, I’m coming up to London next weekend…’  Pause.  ‘Could I?’
Pause. ‘Damn. I’m going to Istanbul.’ 
‘Oh.’  Remembered my manners quickly.  ‘How lovely.’
But really. Damn, damn, damn.
‘Never mind. I can crash somewhere else, no problem.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’ll put the keys in the post.’
Oh my.

So there I was, in London, solo, for the weekend.  It was like being in my 20s again. I had the keys to the castle - a flat of my own, albeit borrowed. 

Now, let’s get this totally in context.  This is not some cruddy old flat.  Jane’s place is tucked away down a leafy street behind Essex Road.  It’s the bottom half of a Victorian house so I suppose it’s not really a flat per se, but let’s call it that for the sake of argument (and because the word maisonette sounds unpleasant – frankly anything that ends –ette always sounds a bit dodgy and smacks of “feminine hygiene” to me, but that could just be me.) Actually I don’t like the word ‘flat’ either but…

Anyhow, this is a clean, pristine flat. It is a flat that is not covered in dog-hair; a flat that does not have partying ‘energies’ on the stairs; a flat that has nice normal rooms, not spaces that deserve labels like ‘doom’ and ‘despond’.   I walked in, kicked off my flipflops and just sighed with total utter decadent pleasure.

There were flowers.  There was a lingering scent of Jo Malone rather than the stench of stale dog sick, fetid trainers and damp.  I dumped my bag in the bedroom and threw myself onto the big wide bed with its fresh white Egyptian cotton sheets and – oh oh oh – its memory mattress.  The silence was intoxicating.

I padded upstairs into the open-plan kitchen, living room area and flung open the tall wide windows.  Sunlight streamed through and tickled my toes.  Opened the fridge and, bless her soul, Jane had left me a whole shelf of veggie heaven (falafel, dolmades, halloumi, veg curry, various types of tofu).  Smoked tofu with almonds and wild garlic? Basil tofu? Seriously? 

Jane has the soundtrack of our shared past pretty well covered and so pretty soon I was trying to decide between The Cure, Bruce or Kate Bush. Shuddered a little over David Cassidy (no, I never did, nor Donny Osmond FFS); The Specials (did, but only live – they were cracking live); The Smiths (don’t get me started). 

Now don’t get me wrong.  I love my family, I really do, and I even have a sneaking softness for the Bonkers House. I do love Dulverton too.  But, but, but…sometimes it’s just lovely to be me.  Just me.  Not a mother, not a wife, not someone trying to juggle a gazillion balls at once.  No responsibility. Nobody to please. Nothing that has to be done.  A holiday from life, from reality.  You know what I mean, don’t you?  If you don’t, I’ll take it you don’t have children – or are male.

So I put the music up high. Had a long hot shower (without anyone yelling that they needed this or had I seen that?). I did my tarot.- and, frankly, didn't believe it.  Made a pot of coffee. Stretched out on the sofa, wiggled my toes and just sighed with pleasure. 

The path up through the woods

We are all on journeys. I had paused on mine and made camp for around twenty years or so. Then, about five months ago, everything shifted. It was time to pick up my knapsack again and start up the narrow track once again. I’ll write about it properly one day; from the very beginning. Not right now though.

When you’re ready (or maybe when you’re really not ready) the path will shine. People, animals, things appear like beautiful gifts. I was blessed. I am blessed. Then, sometimes, these angels and gifts vanish – unexpectedly, blindsidingly – and it’s as if you’ve been abandoned in the desert, without a map, without food or water.

But then. Just as you feel you can’t go on. That you really are alone. That there are no messages; no miracles; no magic. That the sweet companions of the road have abandoned you. That really there is only oblivion. Then. Then. Then.

Something happens. And you pick up your knapsack again. Sad but resolved.

She emailed me. ‘I knew you’d post,’ She said. ‘This is the next stage of the journey and this time, you should share it.’ And She reminded me that I’d signed the Pact. So I’ll try. I’ll try, try, try again.

And last night I dreamed that I knew the way. That there was a path and it was narrow and it was steep and it went up through the woods. But it was signposted, clear as day, and people were meandering up towards it. But I knew, suddenly, that it was easy, so easy. I knew I could do it and I started to run, laughing, knowing I could run the whole way up at an easy lope. Run up that hill and not lose breath, not once.

And then, this morning, a friend messaged me and said. ‘I dreamed about you last night and it was the strangest thing – a light hovering above me, all around me, and it changed from blue to orange and it smiled and it was you.’ But of course it did. Of course it was.

I’m not entirely sure where the path will lead along its way but it’s going to be interesting. And, if you’d like to come along, you are very very welcome. I can’t tell you about the Pact. Not yet. You have to wait – and trust – just like me.