(2018 – Based on memories and kind of unfinished and clumsy. Pen rambling)
At seventeen I left this country
Couldn’t wait to get away
I travelled down to London town
To check out other ways.
I innocently wandered through
The dark, crazed streets alone
I met the first black man I ever knew
Who offered me his heart and home
He was a beefy boxer
Twin brothers, he had earned some fame
They heralded from Jamacia
Pete Wilson was his name
He gave me pride in knowing
That his culture could also be mine
‘Respect the noble warrior’
The lesson of that time.
He shared with me another side
I side I would have never known
If he had not seen me wandering by
And stopped to say ‘hello’
I got a place in college
to study art and muck around
I had to leave that lovely man
’cause he tried to catch me and wrestle me to the ground
I’d fallen in with my own folk
He understood that lovely bloke
My college years had just begun
Years of innocence, abuse and fun
We lived all over South London then
Crashing out in the early morning
Playing with the city and living out our aimless dreams
Filling up with flying ambitions
And chasing our irreverent dreams.
Thank you Pete, for holding my hand as I met that wonderful city.
Forever grateful.Someone to hold my hand
(2017 – Surprised by how contemporary this piece of writing feels for me now.)
‘Welcome to the restless confusion of coming into a new era.
Listen to the jangled tones of realization.
Can we evolve fast enough in this ancient new tangent?
What we have been saying for years appears to be changing the world, but not as I’d envisioned exactly.
Madness invades the integral core of my pumping brain.
Power so huge I cannot get my arms around it. Cannot grasp it.
Are there other worlds outside this idyll now that are worth exploring again?
I have reached this age when I am turning and facing myself.
And I do not see anything there at all.
And when I think of who I really am, I cannot really face it, accept it or become.
Become into being
(Desperately needing purpose still.)’
I said I’d be a warrior,
But I did not do that.
I said I’d make Christmas presents,
But I did not do that either.
I wanted to write to him,
But I did not do it.
I said I’d sell my car,
But I did not do that.
I have not paid the gas man.
I have not paid the optition……..
(2016) At this point I began keeping hand drawn day diaries…there is little real writing or drawing to share in this scruffy, well worn pocket book. Names and addresses of all connections, painstakingly, copied out into the back of everyone of these ‘book best friend’s that follow. A single-minded, female traveller needs nos. to call. They were precious. A pretty, far flung lot! I began experimenting with keeping a parallel writing book. The next one in the pile.
This gallery of endless lists will gives a real sense of the type of world I inhabited back then! So many mini adventures recalled. So many tales waiting to be born again.
I arrive in Berlin with the easy going Aussie, that I keep bumping into all over the place, and two Spanish ‘runaways’ and their little baby, Luna.
Aussie mate goes off to find his Berlin connections and I never see him again.
My new lovers place.
We arrange the guest wagon for my companions and I stay, in his ‘sharing experiment’!, in his, beautiful, bauwagon.
Meet everyone in Muesli Eke, make food, built a sweat lodge etc….made plans to go to Poland, rebuild the wagon togther etc.
One of the Spanish lassies decides to go back to London, mum and baby stay on and move into Lotta’s wagon.
I began to feel very ill. My back and stomach, also a fucking vaginal infection. Felt very weak.
Our trip to Poland.
A flying round trip. 300km, another 450km, then 600km back to Berlin.
1st house – Kopeknice.
Curious family arrangment.
One father/two Mum family!
With 10 children.
A fiddle-playing, bearded, almost silent, pipe-smoking, hat wearing, farming, earth druid with his two artist wives. One a gifted illustrator and the other an incredible texile artist and maker of cloth and clothes. They had their children, all to him, alternately. The kids just about ran the farm. And in the summer the whole family would go on tour as a travelling theatre around Poland.
The house that my man’s freinds were thinking of buying.
Very big, very beautiful, hand-hewn, Polish, traditional farmhouse in the mountains.
2nd house -near Lublin.
Stunning, self build, octaganol house, a French connection.
The tiny, cold, smokey cottage of a manic depressive freind.
An artful cottage that a beautiful, pocelain doll of a young woman built herself with only her Great Dane for company! She also made the most stunning items out of leather. A deal tougher than she looked.
The wood ‘trip’.
The mandala house and domes.
Visit to a silver-haired freind.
Garlic from the local farmer (‘genuine Poish family’!?)
Drive in the rain, rain, rain.
The artist couple.
Feeling very pissed off with my lover and not really understanding why.
To a freind who was not around.
Jerry’s and the teenage kids.
Rock n’ roll with much toking. A bath and bed.
Help with sculptures….the basket man.
Back to Berlin.
And suddenly there he is, in bed with Anna, in front of me, being a couple, at 3am in the morning, after I have driven them all the way back, looking far more comfortable with her than with me….
And so total hell ensues.
I felt really, really, really hurt and jealous. Not nice. Like an inadequate, clumsy, comical frump chauffer, for their honeymoon.
3 days lost to confused depression.
Did not know where to go.
Very good, but the personal tensions every where around (they were both there too) spoiled it for me.
Drove home alone.
More depression. Packed everything.
He came back. We talked a little.
Went to bed. Could not stand sleeping next to him. Tried top-to-toe! Tried writing.
Unpacked his congas and put everything in Millie.
Walked into the forest.
Slept there, half awake in the wind.
Listening to the trees until the grey dawn.
The bakery was closed. Did some Qi gong in another part of the forest.
Went to find Silka.
Remembered ‘shaman’me, the rainbow warrioress again. The strength to believe in life again.
Lovely joint and tea with my street-alchoholic neighbour. He is writing again and he has shaved! So sunny again, now, after his manic, alchohol cold-turkey shit.
I am off.
My lover cried.
I felt love again for him.
Relief that it was all over.
I was going.
He became cold and empty. She was sick, so he went to her, then wanted me to bring breakfast for one last meal togther.
I went to the bakery.
We sat in ‘her’wagon and I felt completely numb as I watched them play with the baby. Kept thinking about my possible pregnancy.
Drove to one of his friend’s houses for information and a basic chat. She suggested that I call him from hers and tell him.
I hated him for being so polite and reasonable on the phone.
Was unreasonable and drammatic.
Ate chocolate and had a deep bath in her fancy bathroom. YUM.
He brought a pregnacy test over.
It was negative.
Relief. Also a weird sadness as I had already begun to frame motherhood quite positively!
Left for the East Side Gallery and to find a Goa connection who had said he lived there.
Took Millie to the car wash.
Together we watched as the old girl came out all shiney.
And then I got in her and left him there.
The pain went.
Drove to the East Side Gallery.
I found my old freind. He,also, lived in a beautiful bauwagon. Apparently, exactly the same thing had happened to him when he was driving around Switzerland. His girlfreind got it together with a freind of his, as her drove them around.
It took him 3 months to get over it.
A shared experience.
A good feeling.
Slept in Millie, -35C, under 3 duvets.
And then today my period started. Began to actively sell Millie. Walked all around Kreuzburg, much more familiar now. More confident. Bumped into a few folk that I had met already. Nice chats. Went back to the posh flat, she said I can use her phone again to sort out advertizing. Lovely woman.
Life is fast and great.
“POSITIVA CUM(a) HEIR!”
As another new freind, on another wagonburg, shouts, daily, for her dog.
Thank you all those who have been showing me kindness.”
“And, suddenly, I find myself alone.
All the razzmatazz and laughter of Edinburgh behind me.
I parked in a camping site and felt the rubbish and the main road.
Strangers came and went around me.
The lake and the trees were amazing,
But the scars that people had left behind screamed through.
Alone is different.
A whole different vibration.
I feel sad, deep down –
And although I need to use this time to create, I feel lost, no time.
I am a telephone with no receiver.
A channel open-ended.
And I find myself wondering again what is it all for?
You can stand out alone. Live the life. Show others the way.
Don’t get lazy ’cause it dosn’t matter now….it does.”
We might be going to a party in the country.
I’m looking forward to leaving the town.
It’s raining, raining all the time
and it doesn’t really get me down.
Just humming a gentle ‘ohm’
The time just tick-tocks on.
I am waiting for the OZ connection.
What a happy song I am singing
as I sit, in patchwork bundle,
Rain on tin-roof splash and thundle….
The one who bore me
Cannot adore me,
So I have found another
All is one and one is all.
The karmic ideal.
You will fall, and keep on falling if
you loose respect for life.
You’ll feel the sharp edge of the knife.
For in this slower, less desired,
there is a humble spark that’s fired…
I ramble on of things that in vain,
I am expressing in the rain.
My madness, ‘madness’ is not,
because I know I’m truly free.
The only thing that’s binding me is
(2015 – I am unsure now whether I wrote this or not! Think this is a friends words copied out into this diary….I vaguely remember writing this out in a dimly lit room, a friend silhouetted against a trees-in-sunlight, rectangle window. She was holding a guitar and it was summer.)
“I walked alone in the forest,
But the dark silence did not hold my fears.
I sat high in the mountains,
But the quiet solitude was not born of loneliness.
I swam deep in the oceans,
But the world that lay beneath did not threaten me.
I floated down the river of madness,
But the rushing waters did not drown my purpose.
I wandered for a year in the desert,
But the heat of the sun did not destroy my body.
I walked through the fires of hell,
But the devil’s flames did not consume me.
Now I wander in the city street
And the greyness of the water is trying to steal my spirit.
I sleep with a need to dream
Colour awakens my soul and
I am alive again.”
I hitched a ride on a silver cloud,
Over the ocean grey,
And there I met an old, weary seagull and I asked him the way.
He turned his yellow beak to me,
“Go with the eagle, fly with the wind.”
And he flew away.
But I looked in his flinty eye and heard his cry, cry
As he flew away.
I hitched a ride on the old river,
But then I hit a stone,
And there I met great, king salmon,
Fighting against the flow,
So I asked him which way to go.
“You’ve gotta fight “, he said, “To reach the peace where you began.”
And he swam away.
But I looked in his dry-but-watered eye
And I heard his cry, cry
As he swam away.
I hitched a ride on an idle dream,
And let it take me where it will.
But this hitching, moving on, moving on, moving on
Barely covers the pain of standing still.
I met another dreamer and I asked him the way.
“I don’t know what to say.”
And I looked in his eye,
And I heard my cry, cry
And we walked away.
(2015 – This song came to me like a kind of magik. A friend was playing the didgeridoo and the words just came. All of them, fluidly and without hesitation. I call it ‘touching the muse’. It happens sometimes. This song has a wandering, folk melody, that also came out complete and defined. I have taught it to a few folk and have often sang it in public since. This song speaks volumes about me and my soul journey. I may, at a later date, include an audio file.)