A celebration of commonality

All I want to do is make connections with people. Join up the unspoken sighs we privately share and express them vividly in my own language. Like when I ordered a ‘wee’ bottle at the theatre and spoke to a barista about the respective softening of our Scottish accents.

A wee, friendly conversation might be a normal everyday occurrence in any other city, but in London this was a borderline epiphany. For a few minutes, I experienced a kindred sense of belonging I hadn’t felt in years. All she did was ask me which part I was from.

Stonehaven? Is that right? I’m fae Barrhead myself. Softly spoken and yet miles apart, a celebration of commonality by a cash till.

8.08am to Hendon Central

Sitting amongst the cheery chatter of keyboards in north London, I wonder why I’m so fixated on matters outwith my control. My mind rattles around like a broken trolley, swerving and spiralling in different directions. I feel like I don’t make any decisions of my own.

Juggling two books and a barren phone, I wake up earlier now and go on the tube. Reading about an outsider artist from Chicago and the perils of hypervigilance, I rattle past 1930s suburbs in the sunshine. Its a non-linear journey with no tangible end in sight.

Alas, change is always partial and always by degree. Like what did people do in offices before they sent emails to one another? I need to be far grander in my ambitions than merely taking up space. I want to live passionately and make huge, spectacular heroic mistakes.

Nothing will change otherwise. Nothing will change at all.

Running up that hill

Don’t feel guilty. What most people don’t understand is that they are characters to someone else, that there are layers.  We get so caught up in just one, that we don’t allow people to grow and change.  We stick them in boxes immediately, and if you’re not writing it’s fine.  I’ve never had someone discover my blog, although I’m sure if they did, there would be hell to pay.
Keep writing – you could go somewhere.

Jane is one of my beautiful forgotten acquaintances, a waif thin blonde poet from Los Angeles. She was an enigma in many ways, but we both shared a love of confessional writing. I particularly loved getting messages at 03.06am. The wonders of millennium technology back then was still remarkable to virgin eyes.

I don’t think either of us had had any real sense of how we existed IRL. We were complete strangers to one another in that respect. Our correspondence was a weird abstract friendship that could only have flourished on paper. 

Looking back I find it amazing that someone so young could be so warm and insightful about the realities of life. How is this even possible? She was barely even twenty when she wrote this.

I don’t recognise myself reading my old emails. I barely write at all now. You run out of things to say, or come to the realisation that everything you want to say has been written by somebody else.

It’s the fear that stops you from writing, the fear of someone you know or might meet will judge you negatively. Without them realising, there are layers upon layers that make me unrecognisable to the man behind this prose.

Like my old emails I forget about what I’ve write about almost immediately. I now abide by false narratives to preserve my pride. If you want to grow and change then you have to run up that hill alone.

The Big Suit

Typecast again after another audition, I walked home across the river through a vision of high capital. I looked powerful and resolute as I caught myself in the mirror, approximately one inch taller at 6ft 4″. I was the man for all things. You can trust a man in a suit. He has authority and purpose.

A blonde Russian beauty made eyes with me at Bank station; a petit Indian businesswoman looked twice at Moorgate, and a man in his early thirties asked me directions to Aldgate East.

It was a power trip compared to my life in trainers, but the suit hid the truth. It betrayed what I was really thinking. I don’t know what I’m doing here. Living in the centre of the empire and dressing up like I’m a king.

 

 

Songbird

Lewes

Listening to a robin sing this morning, I kept looking amongst the branches until I spotted a red breast fluttering near the crown. Spring sunshine was pouring over Lewes’s suburban lawns and ruinous Abbey grounds. I hadn’t heard something so beautiful and unforced in a very long time. ‘A bird sings because it has a song’ or so the saying goes.

East Sussex is geographically far removed from my home in Aberdeenshire. Its the southern end of the green isle, but it felt familiar today only warmer, prettier and less remote.

Standing on Lewes Castle grounds, I remember being an eight-year-old boy, accompanying my mother to Aberdeen’s zoology building. I would bring along my binoculars and pack lunch box to RSPB meetings: a meal composed of ham sandwiches, crisps and two bourbon chocolate biscuits wrapped in tin foil.

We drove there in a poky blue Volvo and the conveners always had southern English accents. I always remember this because they were markedly different from the kids and teachers at my local school. Bird watching shaped my early childhood until the age of ten. But it stayed there for some reason, like many sweet things that drift away in the pursuit of conformity.

Gone are the speckled breasts of thrushes, goldfinches and robins. Living in a big city estate with no garden, birds are now crows roosting over defecated cars. Unlike my RSPB years, I don’t hear any songbirds when I leave the house in the morning. I only hear the caw-caw-cawing of scavengers and a 24/7 motorised world.

It’s funny how far south you have to travel just remember how you used to experience spring.

Dark glitter

Bumping into my face every day, I walk down towards Old Street station on a weekday morning. During rush hour you feel like you’re marching your life down the tube. Going eye to eye with a petit woman in a scarlet coat, I utter ‘excuse me, excuse me’ before heaving my way inside.

Come evening and walking home on foot, I like to claim some of my life back. With my blue sonic buns keeping my ears warm, I depart from nearby Palestra, a technicolour glass mountain in South London and head north of the river.

Crossing over Blackfriars Bridge, I take my first steps towards the crystal empire, one that sparkles over demolished warehouses and future proofed roads. A military helicopter drones over the river and casts a security shadow over the city. I feel strangely enthralled by its presence. It’s hard, aggressive and brutally exciting.

Weaving past tourists in cagoule jackets, I navigate past St Paul’s Cathedral towards the Barbican Centre. Streams of scarfs and bobble hats march past me, splitting through a demolished hospital and cobbled lanes. The Georgian corner pubs are packed full of businessmen drinking pints of honey and I dare not go inside.

Cutting through the Barbican tunnel, I navigate over pelican crossings and storm past commuters with stringy headphones. A Tinder match alert vibrates in my pocket (Anita, 27, 3 miles away) as I stream another pop song. I still prefer to receive messages from existing friends.

As I stay on course and arrive at Old Street roundabout, I am confronted by a large inanimate object telling what ‘auld lang syne’ means. Sullen commuters are now pouring out of the station towards the glass pyramids on City Road. Forever a maelstrom of human energy and piercing noise, I feel exhausted just watching the traffic.

I’ve lived here for five years now. I have nowhere else to go. The dark glitter pours over me as I complete my journey home.

Little people in little houses

Earlier today I spotted a man standing on the tube watching a film on his laptop. My headphones were jammed full of noise candy at the time, listening to sweet, sweet songs I don’t even like. This endless thirst for distraction is never ending.

Sometimes I fear we consume so many stories that we don’t take part in any of our own. Have you seen it yet? Don’t say anything, I’m only on episode four…Come home, throw open a picture book and close the door.