Day 354 - Turning Point

 TURNING POINT

Prompt - Turning Point : Write about a point in life where things turned for the better or worse

I'd been awake, but not awake, for about three days.  After twelve days in a coma the doctors thought it a significant improvement.  I wasn't so sure.  Total unconsciousness kept me away from thinking, and the thoughts that I had now were the sort I would have struggled to cope with even if I was fully alert.  But my half asleep state, flitting in and out of awareness, I didn't have the power to resist.  

So it was I found myself revisiting moments from my past, both recent and distant, that had defined how I would end up in this hospital bed, recovering from the bullet which had shattered my left shoulder, and the brain damage incurred when that projectile hurled me back down the stairs I'd just run up.  Now I looked, over and over, at the bad decisions that had taken me into that multi story, to be taken out by a member of a rival gang.  They were not the highlights I wanted to see, but the ones that what had survived of my conscience wanted me to see.

I saw myself, aged fourteen, allowing myself to be persuaded into running small drug deliveries around the estate.  Yes, I was just a kid, but one bright enough to have a pretty good idea of what I was getting into.  There were enough examples of how to get it all wrong, including my own big brother.  From there it might be seen as inevitable that I'd end up here, or dead, but I knew better.  That along the way there were times when I could have said no, could have got out.  I always thought about it.  I always took what seemed like the easier path.

I could have said that I didn't want to go on drugs pickups to the coast.  I could have said that I wouldn't carry a gun.  I could have said that I didn't want to coerce those desperate women into selling their bodies.  I should have said no.  I didn't, and new here I was.  Half conscious, under police guard, safe.  For the moment.  I needed time.  I needed hours of being aware, of getting mentally sharper and thinking through my situation.  In my most lucid moments I wondered if I could fake the ins and outs of wakefulness I'd been experiencing, to buy myself a bit of time.  To let me work it out.

Because I knew one thing, the underlying theme behind that showreel of my errors.  I didn't want to be that guy any more.  It wasn't who I wanted to be.  And getting shot wasn't an experience I fancied repeating.  My life was going to change, and it was going to happen here, in this bed.  

Day 353 - Games

 GAMES

Prompt - Games : Write about the games people play - figuratively or literally

She sits at her table and plays solitaire.  When one game ends another begins.  She cannot walk far.  She has little desire to socialise with the other residents.  She takes her meals at the little table, where she deals her pack out dozens of times a day, and sits looking out from her little glass palace.  From there she sees, watches, pauses the cards in mid air whenever someone emerges, enters.  She can see the main door.  And the paths which lead to the two annex buildings.  And the path down the side that leads to the kitchens.  And the benches on the lawn.  And the summerhouse.  Nobody leaves or arrives but with her knowledge.  

And from that knowledge comes information.  From information comes power, of a sort.  The power to play other games.  "I'm not one to talk, but..."  It's not just the cards she sharps.

Day 352 - Motivational Poster

 

MOTIVATIONAL POSTER

Prompt - Motivational Poster : Look at some motivational posters online and write a poem or journal entry inspired by your favourite one

Today may be a fabulous day.

And why not?  The one thing that should never surprise us about life is how surprising it is.  There have certainly been times in the past where it felt like every day was much the same, and therefore this day would be basically the same as the last.  I let myself get into that frame of mind where it felt as if there was little variation, so my expectations were low, which in turn desensitised me to the little things, the small differences that always exist and give variety to our existence.

Of course there will also be big moments of change, some of which come at us totally unforeseen.  they may be positive, or negative, or some kind of mix of the two, and so they might not always feel like they are for the best.  But if your life is in a rut, or at least feels as if it is, then change is always good, for it opens up opportunities to experience life in new ways.  And while the experiences themselves may not always be enjoyable, they add to the store of memories which build up into a highlights reel of our past.

Even if life is largely enjoyable, as I find mine is now, there are still highs and lows.  There is still the humdrum necessity of existing and keeping regular life running smoothly, like shopping and cooking and cleaning.  But there are also moments of joy.  Moments that turn an ordinary day into something extraordinary.

I am in the habit of making myself write down three (or more) things about my day that have given me pleasure.  Some days it's a struggle to come up with anything original, so I fall back on something I ate, or watched on TV, or just the pleasure of going for a walk.  On other days the list stretches out, for there have been lots of little moments to celebrate, even something as trivial as a parcel arriving in the post. (In lockdown the postman was often the hero f the day!)  

So it's worth waking up and reminding yourself of those few words of French.  You do not know, for sure, what's going to take place when you get out of bed.  And it might indeed be something fabulous.  As long as you're open to the possibility...

Day 351 - Roller-coaster

 ROLLER-COASTER

Prompt - Roller-Coaster : Write about the ups and downs of life

Holding pace, plenty space

Cruising smoothly along

The tarmac unwinds as you wish

The journey's like a song

But motorways have crashes too

Pile ups, jams and crazies

Fog and rain and ice and snow

Can have you pushing daisies

And life's not like a motorway

It's filled with turn and twist

At times you follow signs for roads

That don't even exist

Sometimes you climb up to the top

Then the road will fall and bend

And when you reach the valley's depth

It's not easy to ascend

But there is always some way up

And you learn to be a goat

You take whatever route you can

When life's got you by the throat

Accept that that this is no smooth ride

Enjoy the bits you can

And there's another view atop that hill

That wasn't on the plan

Even dirt tracks have their place

For you don't know what you'll find

Take the road that falls to you

And to yourself be kind

Day 350 - Teamwork

 TEAMWORK

Prompt - Teamwork : Write about working with a team towards a common goal

The pools were closed, the votes being counted.  Exit polls, hints, wishes, dictated our minds towards the likely result.  the one we wanted, needed desperately, or to be disappointed again, only more so, as we were in 2014?  We had done our bit.  Now we had to wait.  It was late, dawn wouldn't be far off, but nobody wanted to leave, not without some hint as towards the outcome.

So we hung about, tried to party, but too nervous for that.  Too tired.  This group had been together now, in the most part, for almost a year.  We had been part of the campaign strategy decisions.  We had wept blood over the wording of communications.  We had phoned, mailed, emailed, post on social media.  Persuaded, cajoled, influenced, argued.  Long days, long meetings, late nights and early mornings.  Coffee and smiles and words of encouragement.  Pitching in together when required, irrespective of role, place in the (fluid) hierarchy, age, gender, race, sexuality etc.  We were a team.  We had bonded in the pursuit of our common goal, common passion.  Independence for our country.  

There were mumbled conversations, occasional laughs.  A barking sneeze silenced the room and brought on a communal giggle.  We needed something, anything, to break the tension for a bit, and that was as good as we were likely to get.  There was a sense of satisfaction that we'd done our best.  And a sense of frustration not knowing if it was enough.  A sense of fear that we might have failed again, despite all the polls in the run up to the day.  

At this time in the small hours we all knew one thing.  Whatever the outcome we were all in this together.  So there would be group hugs, group tears, before we'd drift off to our beds.  Or, more likely, group celebrations, adrenaline fuelled, knowing we had done what was required of us by our country.  And by each other.  

There was a loud shhhh from across the room, the multiplied then died away to reveal one voice, projecting from the suddenly loud TV.  This was to be our first real indication.  We all held hands.

Day 349 - Magnetic

 MAGNETIC

Prompt - Magnetic : Write about attraction to something or someone

"Oh, bugger!"

The exclamation was accompanied by the sound of a tin rolling it's way along the pavement towards Stewart's feet.   He bent down, picked it up, looked at the label.  Butter beans.  He liked butter beans, thought he should really have them more often.  But he'd better return these to their owner.  The woman who'd sworn was looking at the burst bag in her hand which had released its contents on to the tarmac.  

"Can I help you with that?"  The woman looked up at him and he had a chance to examine her properly.  He'd already noticed how well she filled out her jeans, that her red shiny boots gave a welcome quirk to her outfit, and that her blue jacket had a military cut to it.  Now he turned his attention to her face, and that gave him a strange feeling.  Did they know each other?  Where from?  She was so familiar, but hard to pin down.  A lovely face, a soft, warm face, oval of shape with a stub nose, full mouth and dark eyes, framed by a chestnut bob.  It was a face he both knew and wanted to know.  

"Bloody bags.  I usually have at least a couple of the canvas ones with me, but today I swapped my bag," she said, vaguely indicating her crossbody handbag, "and left them in the other one.  These paper supermarket bags are rubbish if you'd got anything the slightest bit damp to carry."

She stopped talking, looked at Stewart properly for the first time.  And smiled a smile that made him feel wobbly.  "Thank you.  It's been that sort of day." she said as she took the tin from him.

"Let me see if I can make it a better one then."  The words fell out of him before he could stop them.  Did he really just say something that corny?  Was he going to ruin this before it began?  "Do you not have another bag, because I'm like you, always have a couple of those canvas things on me, just in case.  You can have one if it would help."

"Oh I couldn't."  Why am I saying this she thought, because I definitely could.  Would.  This man seemed so familiar, but where from?  Lovely black curly hair, that hint of stubble that always worked for her, looking slim in his grey jacket and blue jeans.  Almost elegant, except that there was something windblown about him.  And, she'd automatically noticed as he proffered the tin, no ring on his finger.

"You sure?"  He tired to make it sound like she'd be doing him a favour.

"Well, if it's not a problem.  Thanks, that would be really great."  Then, as an afterthought, "I'll owe you one."  Was she being too obvious?

He brought a bag out from his pocket, unfolded it, so she could read the words on the side - Left Field Shuffle.  "You like them?"

"Eh?"  He looked at the bag.  "Oh yeah, love them.  They were giving these out free at the concert in Grandfield.  Great gig.  Were you there?"  Was this where he knew her from?

"No, missed out.  Had to be away for work.  I was really pissed off about it because I've wanted to see them for so long.  Now you've made me jealous."

"Aw, don't be, they'll be back.  Maybe we'll both be there."  That really did sound like he was pushing too hard.  "You know, like, if we were both going to the same gig, you know."  Now he sounded pathetic.

She laughed.  Nice laugh he thought, I want to make her laugh more.  

"I know what you mean."  

Did she?  Was that good or bad?

"Let me help get these up."  If in doubt, resort to doing something.  They both squatted, reaching for the scattered shopping and putting it in the bag.  Hands met over a cauliflower.  "Sorry."

"No, it's fine, really it's fine."  The final items made their way into the bag.

"I like cauliflower.  And butter beans."  Oh jeez, he was sounding like a child again.  "I mean they just happen to be stuff I like."  Stop It! he told himself.

"Making cauli and butter bean curry tonight.  Supposed to be chickpeas but I think this is better."  She stopped, started again without considering.  "Just for myself."  As if he really needed to know this information.  

"I'm Stewart by the way."

"Lorna.  Do I know you from somewhere?"

"I thought that.  Like I already knew you from somewhere before."

"Where do you work?"  They exchanged employment details, the areas where they lived, the sort of places they went to.  And found there were several in common, so maybe they had, maybe they hadn't.  

"Look, am I stopping you getting somewhere?"  He realised this was a dangerous question.  Why was he giving her an out?

"No, not really, just on my way home."

"Oh, me too.  So would you have, em, well, would you like..."

"To go for a drink now?"

"Yes, yes that's what I was going to say."

"I thought you were, although it's a bad habit finishing off other people's "

"Sentences?"

They laughed.  Together.  They went to the pub.  Together.  And they thought about having a cauli and butter bean curry.  Together.  They already knew there'd be so much more.

Day 348 - Night Owl

 NIGHT OWL

Prompt - Night Owl : Write about staying up late at night

My teenage years.  Twenties.  Even thirties.  Perhaps, occasionally, forties.  Late nights weren't a problem.  Get up late the next day and I was fine.  But then age starts to have it's impact.  In part that's the obvious gradual physical decline, and consequent loss of recovery powers.  Or indeed staying power, for the simple keeping awake bit becomes harder too.  But also because the idea no longer holds the sense of pleasure it once did.  There needs to be a recovery, and why not spend more time in daylight anyway?  Responsibilities beckon, life is that bit more serious.

So late nights become more infrequent, the body becomes less and less able to adapt to the ones you do have, and whole notion spirals away.  Friends come to dinner and the party breaks up well before one am.  The prospect of a late night show is less the draw that it might once have been.  

I have never really been that much of a morning person.  It's true that I used to get us to the gym for seven in the morning on a regular basis, but that was almost twenty years ago.  We've changed, our lives have changed.  Very much the opposite of early risers, I am rarely in bed before midnight, with the light going out around twelve thirty, and very rarely after twelve.

So I am something of a night owl these days, for the mornings tend to be short, but that still doesn't mean that very late nights, the early hours sort, are on the schedule.  Except for one reason nowadays.  Occasionally I get the chance to watch 'my' NHL team playing live.  But the face off is usually at midnight, or even half past.  Which means, if I'm to watch the whole game, staying up to three and beyond.  That's not all that many hours after my regular bedtime, and way earlier than many of the late nights of my younger days.  But the impact on my body is far greater.  It seems to take about two or three days before I feel totally back to normal again.  

This is odd, for I am not always a great sleeper, and there are still plenty nights when insomnia gets a hold of me.  So my body should be used to going through the day with less sleep than usual.  But the impact of those hockey games goes beyond what you might expect.  So maybe it's about the time you get to bed?  Or the quality of the sleep, for I will either be feeling despondent or euphoric when I get under the duvet.  Watching sport, where the result matters to do, has it's impact on the body too.

I'll still watch the odd game when I can.  But I have to accept that doing so on a regular basis would be a disaster for me.  I really am too old for this kind of thing...

Day 347 - Classic Rock

 CLASSIC ROCK

Prompt - Classic Rock : Pick a classic rock love ballad and rewrite it into a story or poem

The song is Love Hurts by Nazareth

#Love hurts, love scars

Love wounds and marks#

Dan McCafferty's sandpaper vocals needed to rub the edge of Sandy's despair.  Although maybe the whisky helped more.  He took another gulp, the sting in his throat preparing the tear ducts for what was to come.

#Any heart

Not tough or strong enough

To take a lot of pain, take a lot of pain#

He was wounded.  Marked.  He thought he'd be tough enough. Strong too.  But it still hurt when she told him.

#Love is like a cloud

Holds a lot of rain

Love hurts

Ooh, ooh, love hurts#

He'd been rained on.  Golder shower more like.  She'd pissed on him.  Drenched him in the downpour of rejection.  Play rained off.  Play postponed indefinitely.  Play was now a memory, a past without future.

#I'm young, I know, but even so

I know a thing or two

I learned from you

I really learned a lot, really learned a lot#

But he wasn't young.  Middle age had settled in him like dry rot, so that now he was flaky, crumbly, in danger of collapse.  This wasn't supposed to hit you like this when you were fifty odd, was it?  He remembered the knock backs he suffered when he was young, but they didn't hurt like this, did they?  Maybe for a few days, but he bounced back, reassembled himself, walked on into the next bit of life.  But when you're past the half century you know.  That the next bit might be the last bit, that there aren't so many chances left, that it all has to count now, for you don't know how long you've got.  Already this year he'd heard of the death of two guys he'd known in school.  It made you think, he thought.  Think that there had been all those years, and experiences, and people and friends and lovers, but had he really learned a lot?  If he'd really learned then why was he like this now?

#Love is like a flame

It burns you when it's hot

Love hurts

Ooh, ooh, love hurts#

He'd been burned, and no matter how much he cried now the flame was going to be hard to douse down.  Forever charred at the edges.

#Some fools think of happiness

Blissfulness, togetherness

Some fools fool themselves, I guess

They're not foolin' me#

Tears flowed in response to the singer's high pitched angst.  He'd let himself be fooled.  He'd wanted to be, hadn't he?  Maybe he'd even needed to be.  After so long without hope it wasn't possible to keep the fences up for long.  Wires snapped , fence posts bent, gaps became gaping holes.  She'd walked in, walked over, walked off.  

#I know it isn't true

I know it isn't true

Love is just a lie

Made to make you blue

Love hurts

Ooh, ooh, love hurts

Ooh, ooh, love hurts#

Harmonies gave way to the wailing, piercing guitar, the sob strings that released a strangled wail from his throat, made shoulders rise and fall like he was on those strings.  

#I know it isn't true

I know it isn't true

Love is just a lie

Made to make you blue

Love hurts

Ooh, ooh, love hurts

Ooh, ooh, love hurts

Ooh, ooh...#

He thought he'd loved.  He thought he'd been loved.  He should have listened to Dan

He pressed Replay.

Day 346 - Underground

 UNDERGROUND

Prompt - Underground : Imagine living in a home underground and use that as inspiration for writing

You can't see me here.  You don't know that 'here' exists.  I want to keep it that way.  There are bad people out there, people who would do bad things to me if they could only find me.  So I remain hidden, in an obscure district of an unexceptional city.  Underground.

It happened like this.  I visited this place many years ago, on a tour of disused nuclear bunkers (I was always a strange young man).  This one stuck in my head for the long discussion I had with the guide about how much work it might take to fully reactivate the place.  I asked that in all the bunkers I went to (seven in all, since you ask), and this was the only one which seemed simple enough to make habitable.  There was electric power, unmetered it seemed, running water, working sanitation and drainage.  There were beds and showers and fridges and freezers. 

 Ventilation shafts would require a lot of work to function, so, for tour purposes, the unfiltered shafts leading to the nearby river bank had been uncovered.  Temperature wise it felt tolerable, although my questioning suggested there might be extremes of both hot and cold depending on weather conditions.

At the time this was all based around a nerdy fascination for that tense Cold War period that had spawned these creations.  At the time I didn't know, couldn't begin to imagine, that this information would save my life.  And not from H bombs.

It's a long story.  I'll keep it short.  I'll keep out the worst, you don't need to know that.  But I've made mistakes in my life.  Too many mistakes.  Mistakes that brought me here.  The wrong people leading to the wrong life.  Get rich quick, get out quick, I thought.  But once you're in with these people the getting out becomes more difficult, and it was them who got rich.  That pissed me off, made me rash.  I tried to be smarter than everyone and ended up hiding from them all.

I worked for an organised crime gang.  We had powerful rivals that were a constant threat.  I devised a plan to bring them together, unknowingly, so that they would fight, I walked off with the already-laundered cash they both thought they were coming for, and tipped off the police.  It all seemed so perfect.  It wasn't.

The rivals didn't fight, but quickly figured out who had brought them face to face.  The police arrived to find nothing going on, except a bunch of guys who they thought hated one another, but were united in saying that I had been responsible for three murders, and they had evidence.  Liars.  I'd only murdered once.

So there I was with a big case of cash, two gangs out to kill me, and the police ready to charge me.  If only my overconfidence hadn't got the better of me, I could have been out of the country and away.  By the time I realised my passport details were known to every customs officer.  My face and name was spreading through the underworld, district to district, city to city.  Honour among thieves.  I had nowhere to go.

Except here.  I knew the tours had stopped, had read that the bunkers had either been closed up, or converted into luxury holiday apartments for weirdos.  A bit of internet searching in a library helped me find out that the one I remembered the best had been closed up four years ago, and didn't appear to be used or inspected on any regular basis.  It was worth a try.

I travelled by bus, always short hops, always changing direction.  Checked it out cautiously.  The surface entrances were both sealed closed.  It would have taken explosives to shift them, and calling attention to myself was not on the agenda.  The ventilation shafts looked as impregnable as you'd expect from the purpose they had been designed for.  My last hope were the shafts on the river bank.

It took me a couple of days to find them, for I never wanted to be seen in one place for too long.  Invisible from the opposite bank, set darkly into the clay above the water, they were only found by scrambling down the banking, hanging on to the tree roots and bushes that also provided me with concealment.  Once found I then had the task of working out the tools I'd need to get in, which might change as I got down further, hit more obstacles.  Finally I'd had to hope that nobody had closed off either of the huge airtight shutters that would seal in the occupants in the event of radiation in the atmosphere.  They'd have left them open to keep the place aired, wouldn't they?

Cutters of various weights, screwdrivers, a cordless drill, a crowbar, sundry other tools, had to be purchased, each one in a different town, and conveyed, as inconspicuously as possible.  All while avoiding the possible gaze of police or criminals in on the story.  It took almost two weeks.  I feared that I was wasting my time.  But, without any better options being apparent, I kept at it.  With eventual success.  

You can't see me here.  Nobody knows that anyone is down here.  I am safe.  For now.  I shop for food at night, I stay underground most of the time.  Unless I have some very bad luck, or someone decides this place needs to be inspected, I have a place to stay, to sleep, to exercise, to hide.  

I also have that one unanswerable question.  What next?

Day 345 - Random Act of Kindness

 RANDOM ACT OF KINDNESS

Prompt - Random Act of Kindness : Write about a random act of kindness you've done for someone or someone has done for you, no matter how small or insignificant it may have seemed

Not long left now.  I've known for nine months now, so there has been plenty of time to prepare myself for an end which, surely, is only days away.  I manage the pain well enough to remain the right side of lucidity, so that I can still manage to write, as I have done every day now for many decades.  The difference being that now there is only one subject I can deal with, in it's many variations.  Death.  Not long left now.

Will I see my life flash before me in the moment when it comes?  I doubt it.  So it's a sensible idea to look back on what has gone before in the days that lead up to that finality.  In the past few days I have written about so many aspects of my life.  Including the bad, but mostly the good.  What use is there now in recalling the times when things went wrong, when I clashed with others?  Far better to dwell on the happier moments, and fortunately there have been many.  

The best of these have been with my family, and I've already covered how wonderful and enriching my relationships with my wife and children have been.  I've looked back at the successes in my career, the satisfaction of knowing I contributed.  I've been over all the joy I had from the arts, be it music or theatre or comedy or paintings or photography.  And savoured the highlights from that long ago time when I played sport, and all the great sensations of joy to be had from watching sports where you can feel passionate about the results.  

I've written about all of these, and more, but not that one brief moment which I still see as the greatest moment of my life.  Which came at one of it's lowest moments.  It has nothing to do with any of the above, it is an event I have rarely mentioned, and within the big picture of my life it would probably not be seen as anything of great significance by and observer looking in.  They'd be wrong.  For it provided the most special example of the one thing we all need in our lives more than any other.

Let me take you back fifty four years.  I was twenty two years old, recently graduated, moved across the sea to Ireland, took up a job that I thought would be the beginning of my career.  But which proved to be a false start.  After less than six months I resigned before I was fired, and sank into a mire of self pity.  Not wanting to admit to anyone back home the mess I had dropped into, I stayed on, no job, money running out fast.  So fast that I soon had none left to pay my rent, or even to buy a plane ticket back.  Walking along a damp city street with nowhere to go and one of my bags fell open, irreparably split.  Belongings scattered across the pavement, people walked on by.  Except one.

Brian he said his name was.  I never found out any more about him.  He saw the state of my bag, the state of me, and came to say hello, why didn't he give me a hand and help me get on my way, did I know where I was going?  I watched as he stuffed my now filthy clothes back into the seemingly hopeless bag, took off the belt from his trousers, and used it to bind the bag back into some semblance of bagness.  

"Now there, that'll do for now, won't it?  I see by the look of you that times are not of the best for you right now.  So here's what to do.  Keep going along here now, take the second on the left, it's called Glassford Street, and go up it until you see a door with glass in it, and a kangaroo on the glass.  Go in there, tell them Brian sent you and you'll be sorted.  Bye then."  And off he went, hands in pockets to maintain his dignity, and I never saw him again.  I did call after him, but he ambled on, and by the time I'd got myself together he was out of sight.

I'd had no idea what I should be doing, or where I should be going, so I took up his suggestion.  Maybe I'd be sorted.  I found the marsupial, knocked, told them Brian sent me.

"Oh he did, did he?  You'd best come in then."

I did, they fed me, they listened, they told me to go home, told me to face down my shame, gave me the air fare.  They picked me up.  As I left I said

"Please thank Brian for me.  By the way, who is he?"

"We've no idea.  Could be anyone."

But he wasn't anyone.  Brian had given me something so much more important than all that practical assistance and advice.  Hope.