Days of Gratitude - The Height of A Snowdog Obsession

This was the height of the obsession.  The next gratitude post will also see these heights.

But now I have finished.  Seen every dog.  The obsession isn't quite over.  Blob Thing is documenting the whole thing on his special obsessive project blog, Blob and the Snowdogs.  That's going to take a while to complete.

It's not all been Snowdogs though.  Nearly.  But not quite.  Seeing them has provided an excuse to see the county too and go places I've never been before.  I was glad to find the Shipley art gallery.  There are some fantastic things on show there.  Glad to walk by the sea and by rivers.  Glad to be able to be out and to be feeling better than I had all year about being out.

They have been good days.  I'd recommend Snowdog hunting.  Except that after tomorrow they will all be collected from the streets of Tyne and Wear and the hunting will be impossible.  I met a woman on Tuesday who was trying to photograph as many as she could - but she had only picked up the map that morning.  I hope she has had some awesomely fun days chasing dogs around the county.

7^th November

Grateful to have got through a 2 hour assessment thing with sanity relatively intact.

Grateful to have been able to get out in the afternoon and find a few more Snowdogs.

8^th November

Grateful to have seen 9 more snowdogs (and the base of a missing one).

 And on the way, grateful for door knockers and handles, gorgeous views, sculptures, ferry rides, a zip wire, the sea and the river, and a really good cheap day.

Here seen - Tynemouth Priory from the north and the south. It was a good day for much walking.

9^th November

Grateful for snowdogs,

art galleries, 

the Angel, 

parks, bus routes, charity shops, succeeding in today's photo challenge, and generally grateful that there are things to smile about today no matter who people voted for in the US and no matter what policies here mean for disadvantaged people and no matter what horrors are being perpetrated elsewhere

10^th November

Grateful for the sun on the sea this morning.

Grateful to have completed two more daft photo challenges. And also that I have now seen every large Snowdog - except for a missing one and the one at Kielder. Finding them all has been a joyful process.

11^th November

Grateful to encounter this dog. This is Splodge. He's a full size Snowdog but isn't on the official trail.

Don't worry - it won't be too long before I stop posting Snowdog pictures!

Grateful when out collecting a wheelchair later to have met this friendly cat. And then to meet another. Their friendliness was cheering.

Another Photo Challenge - A Cat, And A Gorilla In A Tutu

I asked again, "What shall I photograph today?"

"A cat," she said.

I said that this challenge was much too easy.  A cat.  I see cats everywhere.  They're easy to photograph.  And the challenge was rejected.

"I will not do this challenge."  [And yet, of course, I did.]

She did not hesitate.

"A gorilla in a tutu."

I decided that this challenge was improbable.  What were the chances that I would see a gorilla that day, let alone one wearing a tutu?

At this point I wish to freely confess some things:

1. I have not yet photographed a gorilla in a tutu.

2. My plan to create a gorilla in a tutu from scratch has not yet come to fruition.

3. The giver of the challenges went out on one day.  She found a gorilla in a tutu and took a picture.

4.  I have not given up on this, the only uncompleted challenge.

Yes, you heard me correctly.  I didn't photograph that gorilla.  But that's not the point.  The giver of the challenges says that successfully completing her tasks is not the point.  Success is an added bonus.  And that's all.  The point is to go out and see things, have an adventure, explore, have fun, take photos, see new places, and generally to be myself.

And on the day of the gorilla I found adventure.  I didn't find a gorilla.  But I found success.

At this point I wish to freely confess some more things:

1. I thought I knew where I might find a gorilla in a tutu.

2. I needed to go into the centre of Newcastle.

3. I needed to buy a specific kind of pizza afterwards that cannot be found in the centre of Newcastle.

4. After my adventure finding a white dog three days earlier - and in the process photographing several of the North East Snowdogs - my brain was hitting me with a desire to see more Snowdogs.

Each of these four items conspired to create a plan in my head:  I would go and find that gorilla.  I would then go to my appointment.  And then I would head to Tesco in Gateshead for that pizza.  But would I walk a few minutes and then ride on a Metro for a few more minutes?  Oh no.  Not me.  That would be the sensible way.  I would find another route.  A route that would take me past five Snowdogs before I reached the centre of Gateshead and found two more.

What I didn't know when I set out was that I would accidentally find myself at the top of a multi storey car park.  What I also didn't know was that I would accidentally find myself listening to Kathryn Tickell part way through a sound check for a concert.  This was quite an adventure, the kind of adventure fitting for a tenth day of challenges.

I set off into Newcastle city centre before my appointment.  After a year of putting it off, and a couple of curtailed attempts, I was finally getting myself inducted into a recovery college.  Since the NHS has no intention of giving me the help I need - and I keep getting apologies that I fall through the gaps in services - I thought perhaps the college might have something of use.  In any case it might have some creativity courses that I would be able to join.  It turns out that there is very little for me right now but in January there may be more and it may become a very good thing to be a part of for a while.

The first thing you see when you leave the Metro at Monument is art.  There is quite a lot of art on the Metro network.  Oh God help me.  As I typed that my brain decided that it wants to see all of it.  All of it.  On however many of the seventy stations it may be present.  I am hoping that the art will be restored to the Metro at Central Station.  There was an amazing mural on the platforms, and on the escalator there was tiled art.  Both seem to have vanished.  I hope they return and it's not a case of someone thinking that plain white metal is more appropriate than art.

Climbing the stairs from Monument station, the art is hard to see.  But the reflection of the Theatre Royal makes up for that.

On the ground at the top of the stairs the art is easier to see.  It's all based on a printed circuit board.  I like it.  Perhaps the other art related to the station is more familiar.  At the bottom of the stairs is a painting of fourteen famous people looking out of a carriage window.  And on ground level there is Parson's Polygon.

Trivia gleaned from Wiki:  Monument Station is one of only three in the world where the track passes through in a pretzel configuration.  I bet that kind of trivia makes you feel immensely glad that you clicked on this page!

I thought I knew where I might find that gorilla in a tutu.  I honestly did.  I was completely mistaken.  So I walked towards my nonexistent gorilla, passing on the way this piece of meat outside one of the market stalls.  It's a ham.  And I can tell you from the free sample I tried one day that it's stunning.  If ham should be anything, and I know vegetarians would argue that it shouldn't, then it should be like this.  Incredible flavour.  It's expensive stuff but it makes the cheap stuff that's prepackaged in a supermarket with added water taste like nothing.  Maybe one day I will treat myself.  Maybe.

Onwards to the gorilla.  And there it was.

But no!  Calamity!  Sadness upon sadness!

It wasn't wearing a tutu after all.  Not anymore.  If indeed it ever had been wearing a tutu.

Not only that, it wasn't a gorilla.

If I'd been challenged to find a bear in an oversized T-shirt I would have succeeded.  As it was, failure was staring me in the face.  I didn't have any other ideas about how to find a tutu wearing gorilla.  At that point I knew I would just have to rely on luck.  [Later an idea came about making a gorilla.  But that was later, and as previously confessed, the gorilla is unmade.]

I looked across from the bear.  A man was standing there and he seemed to be laughing at me.  Or was that just my own paranoia, arising from being worried about the appointment that was fast approaching?

I tried to relax.  I tried to not be sad about the lack of a gorilla and yet I searched the whole market for one.  And failed.  It wasn't a good feeling.  But then I looked up and gazed at the ceiling.  That's always a sight to bring cheer.

I looked up again, and saw an owl.  How many of you knew that an owl lives in the market?

It was time to go to my appointment so I left the market without a shot of a gorilla.  On the way out I looked down and saw a plaque in the pavement, commemorating a very important event. 

Just think what would have happened if Mrs Howard hadn't adjusted her hat.  Can you even begin to imagine the consequences of that?  It was a chance adjustment but the chain of events it caused just go to show.  I think that in 2021 there should be a city wide celebration and all the people of Newcastle should wear crazy hats and that there should be a mass hat adjustment party.

There are several plaques like that one on the ground in that part of town.  They all commemorate similarly earth shattering* events.  It is good to see them.  What wasn't so good to spot recently is that the plaque commemorating the visit of Garibaldi to a nearby bookshop has fallen off the wall on the corner of the market.  It also tells of the visits of Louis Kossuth and William Lloyd Garrison to that same bookshop.  I guess it was a special bookshop.  I can't imagine Garibaldi coming all that way today just to go to Waterstones.  Perhaps those three men would be more intrigued by the radical bookshop in Durham that I'd visited when in search of a tree with a rainbow ribbon tied around it.  No, I didn't think I'd find the tree there.  But I hadn't ever visited the shop and wanted to see it.

I walked into the small shopping arcade opposite the market.  And I looked up.  Newcastle is a wonderful city for looking up and down.  Looking straight ahead is usually less exciting although it is necessary if you don't want to collide with people.  Or with road vehicles.   Today while waiting to cross a road in Sunderland I saw someone nearly get killed as they walked straight in front of a bus.  Ten seconds later I saw someone nearly get killed as they walked from the other side of the road straight in front of a van.  Those people were obviously not looking forward well enough.  Fortunately the drivers of the vehicles were looking forward carefully.  Sometimes people act so stupidly that it's a wonder any of us are still alive.

Then it was time for my appointment.  As I waited I looked at the words on pieces of paper left on the table by a previous group.  There was a quote by Vivekananda, who is credited as being the first to take the ideas of Hinduism to America in any big way.  I happen to own his complete writings.  These words speak truth to me, a truth that it's taken me a long time to really begin to discover.

You have to grow from the inside out ...
None can teach you, none can make you spiritual.
This is no other teacher but your own soul.

It's that last line that has taken me so long to start to live.  I relied on other teachers for too much.  Not anymore.  I've taken big strides in this over the course of this year.  And I have to say the whole thing can be daunting, scary, utterly uncertain.  And it can be staggeringly exciting too.  I feel that I am finally on the path.  I just don't know what the path is or where it leads.  It's not doubt.  It's adventure.  As the Quaker Advices and Queries says, "Live Adventurously."

And so I left my appointment.  I hadn't photographed a gorilla.  Or a cat.  But that didn't matter.  An adventure was about to unfold before me.  There was a lot of ground to cover between here and the pizza.



* and equally fictional



[1805 words]

Over The Rainbow - What She Found In Another Land. Autism and Gateshead.

I had completed my photographic challenge.  Finding a rainbow flag had been a simple matter.  But a challenge is not the end of an adventure.  Not necessarily.  And I had some time to spare before having to be at a meeting that I subsequently walked out of, unable to cope.  I was presented with a choice:  Go and eat some lunch or go and see something I have never seen before.

The latter choice won.  In finding the rainbow flag I found myself close to the Redheugh Bridge.  Counting from the sea this is the seventh bridge over the Tyne and the last to cross from central Newcastle.  I realised that while I had crossed it before by car and bus I'd never crossed on foot.  That needed to be remedied.

The centre of the bridge has this plaque to commemorate its opening, 33 years ago.

The plaque says "New Redheugh" and indeed it is.  The bridge is actually the third Redheugh.  You can still see on the Gateshead side of the Tyne where the second Redheugh bridge began.  For those who like numbers, the main span of the bridge is 160 metres long and the road is 26 metres and 6 centimetres above the mean water level.

From the walkway you can look down the Tyne and see some of the other bridges.  In view here are the King Edward railway bridge, with a train to London, the excitingly named Metro Bridge, Tyne Bridge, and just about visible is the Gateshead Millennium Bridge.

Unfortunately there isn't a walkway on the other side of the bridge.  Or perhaps it's fortunate because it there had been I'd have probably walked back across it and then missed out on a walk along the river.

From Redheugh it's easy to cut down paths to get to the riverside.

Sometimes I have to feel sorry for the pictures on structures.  This poor cat!  The grime oozing down onto it from the bridge was not pleasant.

Down towards the water.  A couple of massive rivets from a previous structure, sadly uglified with graffiti.  A bit of ugly tagging.  And possibly the worst spray painting of a band's name in the history of spray painting.  I'm sure Johnny Marr would be thrilled to know someone had made such a mess of this thing by adding the name of his old band.  (sarcasm!)

I will let many of the photos speak for themselves.

I was happy to pass more rivets.  These ones not spoiled by unthinking people with spray cans.

And so the walk led under the King Edward Bridge.

In the distance, beyond Redheugh, you can see Dunston Staithes.  It was there that ships would be loaded with coal.  A railway rain along the top of the staithes for unloading goods trains straight into ships.  Today it's a bit ruinous having suffered a couple of fires but there are moves to restore the structure which is still promoted as the largest wooden structure in the world - a claim which certainly used to be true but which is doubtful now.

And so the walk led under the Metro Bridge.  A few days before I had photographed this bridge from above while out meeting a challenge to photograph a white dog.

The riverside at Gateshead includes a sculpture trail.  I was pleased to see a few of the sculptures on my walk - a walk which was more hurried than I liked due to having to be at that meeting.  I was realising again on the walk a little more of who I am.  Being out with a camera, with plants and with interesting things to discover, was filling me with life inside.  Even though it was cold.  Even though it had started to rain.  Even though I was tired from fighting off a cold for so long.  Being there was giving me life.  And I had a meeting to get to.  In an old office block.  In a room with horribly noisy strip lighting.  It was a meeting about something I think is important.

But I couldn't cope with it.  My autistic symptoms were hitting me in such a way that I couldn't focus past the lights and the noise and into following the conversation round the table and my verbal processing skills had dropped to zero.  In the hour before I walked out I had managed to take in pretty much nothing.  There must surely be a way for a meeting of autistic people to be designed (in this case by the NTs in charge) so that not everything has to be through vocalised words.  There was nothing written - or drawn.  And in that environment writing things down yourself or using some form of AAC would be impossible.  All of which means that many autistic people - including myself on that occasion -would automatically be excluded from meaningful participation in the group for autistic people.  I don't at this time have a solution to that.

In any case, I had already decided to withdraw from some things I had agreed to be involved with.  For my own sanity.  For my own well-being.  And so I can focus my limited energies on exploring and building which I need to explore and build.  It would still be nice to be a part of things.  But certainly not the part that I was walking towards.

When I am out, I notice the same thing over and over again.  I am someone who belongs outside more often than I allow myself to be.  I am someone who craves natural light and natural darkness.  Someone who needs nature.  Someone whose brain needs - desperately needs - to unwind in a place with connection to earth and sky.  I'd felt it very clearly the previous day on a cliff top.  And the feeling was even clear on a path by the river in Gateshead.

Give me the outside.  Give me nature.  Give me exploration.  Give me silly challenges!  Give me a camera on my phone.  And give me a chance to write.  There are other things that lift me of course.  But for now I need to focus myself on that exploration, taking photos, and writing.  Perhaps other creative forms too.  Maybe it will lead to big things.  Maybe it won't.  Maybe it will eventually lead to an income.  Maybe it won't.  That doesn't matter.  It really doesn't.

It's not as if I would ever get an income by applying for normal jobs and attending interviews.  Who the heck would employ me on the basis of an application form?  And even if they interviewed me, who the heck would employ me on the basis of my near inability to function in an interview situation?  I won't be gainfully employed through "normal" routes.  Perhaps I won't ever receive financial recompense for my writing or my pictures.  But I won't be financially worse off by focusing my energies into these things for which I am discovering a passion and purpose.

And even if someone did magically employ me in a normal job role I am pretty sure I wouldn't last for long in it.  Because my functioning is so variable.  I wouldn't cope for long.   Such is my disability.  I just can't do these things.  It's taken me a very long time to be able to start to accept that and it's only really since receiving this autism diagnosis that I've been able to begin to come to terms with the fact that with all the good will in the world and with all the self help books and training courses available there are just some things I can't do.  And some of the things I can't do are things that most people take for granted.  I now know that I have a disability for life.  And all those things for which I felt shame and guilt on account of not being able to do?  Shame is gradually being replaced with acceptance.

That's not the end though.  Yes, there are things I will never be able to do.  There are things I will only be able to do sometimes.  But it doesn't mean that I am a useless shit - a name I used to call myself a lot.  It means I am different.  Not less.  There are things I can do.  There are passions I can have.  Even these things I might not be able to do consistently.  I haven't quite accepted that yet.  I can write - with a solid gifting if not any skill as yet.  I can point a camera at things - with a solid gifting if not any skill.  And there are other gifts then.  All part of the me who I am learning to accept, embrace, and allow to escape and thrive.

That was quite a detour from the path by the river.  I did indeed see a few of the sculptures.  They are not all the most obvious things in the world.  These animals for instance are raised up above the path and it was only by chance I spotted them.  These goats were crafted by Sally Matthews in 1992.

The arch is easier to see.  Because it's so big.

Then there's this.  It's just about visible from the path above, hidden among the trees.  Anyone passing is likely to miss it.  Even if they know that sculptures exist in the riverside park.

Climbing down the bank to it was a challenge - covered in leaf litter so it was difficult to see if the steep slope was actually safe to put a foot on.  But I was very glad to have made the effort.  This cone, by Andy Goldsworthy, is pretty lush.  I understand that this four metre pile of steel plate is on the site of a foundry.

Climbing up the bank gave an opportunity to take a picture of a fungus.  One of the joys of this time of year is fungi.  Friends have posted their fungi pictures online and some of them are absolutely gorgeous.

And so back to Newcastle.  Over the High Bridge.  In a hurry.  I had spent too long and didn't want to be late for that meeting.

Just time to snap one photo, looking back in the direction of Redheugh Bridge.

So that's what I found in Gateshead.  A distant land and one to which I would not be returning.  At least not until the next day.  My challenge had been to take a photo of a rainbow flag.  I'd done that.  Five minutes after getting off the Metro.

But that wasn't really my challenge was it?

My true challenge was to live.

My true challenge was to allow myself to live.  To truly live.

I think that, at least for a while,  I had succeeded.



[1800 words]

A Writing Challenge - To Make A Change From A Photographic Challenge

So I asked her, in addition to all the photo challenges, to help me with my writing.

She has given me writing prompts before.  Half sentences to write from.  Some of them I still haven't used.  Some I haven't finished.  And some I've tried to work with.  Some have come out badly.  And some I'm actually quite pleased with.  Some I want to return to one day.  And the tale of Gerald eating the washing is complete.

This time she said, "A week on, I suddenly realised how traumatised I was by"

This morning I decided that a postcard was the source of the trauma.  This afternoon, with only that tiny sliver of knowledge about the situation, I sat down and wrote and by the time I had positioned the cursor I knew the name of the person who sent the card.  As I typed I learned more.

Mostly this is pretty free written.  But it took a while to work out what should be on the front of the postcard.  In my thoughts, at one point it was a tourist card from London, then it became a card of a hill in the Lake District, then an old card of a motorway service station.  And then it finally was set as a 1970s postcard of the shopping square in Crawley town centre.  I know that the giver of the prompt will appreciate that.  I found a card online and used that.  But then I wanted to post the card myself and didn't want to borrow someone else's photo of a postcard.  Fortunately I happen to own exactly the same card.  So the photo below is my own.

I have also shared this story on another site that I friend pointed me to a couple of hours ago, probably at about the same time as I sat down to write.  It seemed fitting to share it there too.  If you want to see the post there it's at  https://niume.com/pages/post/?postID=151744

So here's the story.  Only very, very slightly edited afterwards.

________________________

A week on, I suddenly realised how traumatised I was by Niamh's postcard.

I had nearly thrown it away without noticing it was there because the postman had inadvertently tucked it into the middle of some colourful touts for pizza parlours, ice cream parlours, and maybe massage parlours too. It was only when chucking it all into the recycling bin outside that the postcard slipped away from its surrounding sales leaflets and had fallen onto the ground, wet from the rain. I'd reached down quickly to pick it up, as if a little rain would somehow damage the rubbish, and it was only when picking it up that I spotted that it was what it was.

The picture on the front of the card was not one I would have been in a rush to see. It was a photograph, probably from the 1970s, of Queen's Square in Crawley. I hurried back inside and dried off the card with a tea towel, hoping that any ink wouldn't be too smudged. I looked again at the photo and smiled, my smile a mix of pleasure and half remembered pain. In the background was the old Co-operative building and on the right were names from a shopping environment that is no more. Woolworths. Littlewoods. Freeman Hardy Willis. I knew those names of course, but they had vanished from Crawley by the time I visited the town.

There was really only one person who would have sent me a card like this. Niamh. She whom I had loved in spite of everything. She whom I had lost. She whose words had nearly broken me. Niamh. After five years. Years of regret, of recovery, of release, and of a new happiness and a new beginning. Niamh.

And then I read what it said. “Hi Grace. I saw this and thought of you. Do you remember how we used to add colour to that square? It was the best. If I'm ever up your way I'll look you up and we can laugh about it. I hope you're life is still shining. I love you still my Grace. Stay strong. Niamh. XX”

It was true.  We did add lots of colour to the place and I confess I let out a big laugh. Because Niamh still couldn't get her apostrophes right. And because we did add colour to the square. We would go there on sunny days with a picnic hamper and we would wear the most outrageously bright clothes we could find and it didn't matter how strange we looked. And we would lie in the middle of the square with parasols and poetry books and would sing the poems to each other, inventing the tunes as we went along or singing the sonnets of Shakespeare to the tunes of nursery rhymes. We would laugh and drink lemonade and the people of the town would stare as they passed. And for a time we would be happy together.

I laughed again and then stopped and thought. The card led to too many questions. Too many. Did Niamh really still think of me as her Grace after so long? Were her words really a veiled statement? Would she be visiting the North East? And would she be looking me up and wanting to see me again? And what for?

And come to think of it, how did Niamh know my address at all? I thought I'd made sure to cut all my ties to the life I'd had in the south. I had left behind the few friends I had there. I'd not told a soul where I was going. I'd changed my bank accounts. I'd even changed my surname by deed poll. A new start deserved a new name.

Too many questions. And no answers. But there didn't seem a lot of point worrying about it. Worry wouldn't provide the answers. So I resolved to forget about the card if I could. Under my bed I kept a single box of items I'd kept from that old life. Some photos, a few souvenirs. Nothing special. I wasn't even sure why I'd kept them. But I had kept them and decided to put the postcard into the box. I looked through the contents for a few minutes. There were a few pictures of Niamh of course and I could see a part of what had attracted me to her in the first place.

I remembered our first meeting, during a terrorist scare in London. The railway terminus had been closed and we had both taken refuge in a cafe nearby. We had been sitting at the same slightly dirty metal table. A bit of grubbiness was preferable to standing in the street. She had been drinking a black coffee and I a mug of tea and somehow we had got to talking. About the miserable weather. About how the threat of terrorism was getting out of hand and how we hadn't seen it like this since the IRA put down their weapons. Time dragged on and we weren't being allowed back into the station. The journey home that night was going to be awful. Niamh had offered to buy me another drink and I'd been happy to accept and then we got talking about each other. I noticed her smile and when she laughed I felt warmed inside. Or was that just the tea?

And that was that. We found we had things in common. Something clicked. And we exchanged telephone numbers with the promise that one of us would call the other during the week. I can't say for sure whether I actually planned to call her. Or whether I thought she would ever call me. In truth I thought I'd probably never see Niamh again. We had shared a couple of unpleasant hours in a bomb scare, made pleasant by also sharing in each other's stories and smiles.

I didn't call Niamh. Of course I didn't. I was scared to. And she didn't call me. Not during the week. And not during the week after either. It was twenty-three days before she called. I know. I checked them on a calendar afterwards. She called, apologetic for not calling earlier. She said that life had been very busy and there had been a family emergency but that she had enjoyed our drinks together and wondered whether I'd like to meet again somewhere for more drinks. Preferably not during a bomb scare. Preferably in some place less crowded than a London cafe during a bomb scare. And preferably somewhere with clean tables and more comfortable chairs.

So we had agreed to meet. Not in Crawley. That came later. We met there several times. The first time we were there we both noticed its sense of unremitting greyness. Everything we saw was so normal. Nobody was flamboyant. Nobody looked crazy. Everyone seemed average. Average and grey. So we had arranged to go back. And be abnormal. Flamboyant. Crazy. To shine like stars in the middle of Queen's Square. And each time we had become more crazy and attracted more stares.

I remembered our first meeting. I remembered Crawley. I remembered that last time when our harmless play led to the local police threatening to arrest us if we didn't move on. They seemed to think that only alcohol or drugs would lead to flamboyant and crazy behaviour in a place like Queen's Square. As we walked back to the station – she to return to Croydon and I to Arundel – we decided never again to return to Crawley. If it couldn't cope with our brightness then it shouldn't have to.

I smiled as I remembered the happy times. What followed was a disaster for me. Niamh could light up my mind and my heart and do so with the song of a rainbow. But she could also light them up like a furnace and burn away every comfort I possessed within. I chose not to consider all that and I placed her postcard on top of the photos, closed the lid of the box, and pushed it back under the bed.

A week later, while drinking tea, I consciously noticed that I was thinking about Niamh and that the words of the postcard were in my head. And then I consciously noticed that I'd been thinking about that card a lot. I hadn't forgotten about it at all and those questions had been going round in the back of my head without me even noticing.

How had she known my address? Why had she sent the card? Did she think of me as hers? God forbid that. Would she ever turn up in my life again with more than a postcard? Please. God. No.

Maybe it was just innocent. Maybe she had seen the card and smiled at the memories. Maybe there was some reason she knew where I was and I hadn't cut myself off from my past as thoroughly as I'd wanted to.

Maybe.

I wanted to believe it. Maybe.

I wanted to forget about it.

But this was Niamh and there was no forgetting what she put me through, not even after five years.
I realised I'd been subconsciously worrying for a week. That the card was out of sight under the bed. But not out of mind.

I realised that the card had brought my past into my present, five year old wounds reopening. I realised that, even if the card was an innocent gift, the words had sliced into me and drawn blood.

I knew that Niamh was not over.

And I knew fear again.

I sat and shook. And cried.

Niamh was not over.



[1615 words plus all the blurb before the writing]

Photo Challenge Nine: A Rainbow Flag, Plus Pride, Prince, And The Ruining Of Art

I didn't have to ask for a challenge.  She told me.

She said "A rainbow flag."

I was quite thankful.  This would be an easy challenge.  It was so easy that I even considered making it harder for myself.  So easy that I already knew where I would find rainbow flags.  I do not possess such a thing.  Not a rainbow.  I do possess a pride flag.  But it's not the rainbow flag for gay pride but the three colour flag for transgender pride.  I am happy to possess such a thing and it was really touching when a stranger gave it to me last year at the Northern Pride vigil service organised by Northern Lights Metropolitan Community Church - the church I left, with no ill feeling, at the start of this year.

I would have to go out and photograph a flag.  But that's easy.  Newcastle has the gay triangle.  It's not a place I go.  I am not into clubbing.  I'm not into pubs.  I'm not into noise.  And in all honesty it just doesn't appeal to me.  Plus I've heard too many stories of transphobic (and biphobic) abuse in the gay triangle and understand that I'm far more likely to receive verbal abuse there than I am outside of the gay triangle.  I did once go with someone to the Pride Cafe, only to discover that it had closed down.  But that's it.  I got invited to join a gay art group once.  I'm sure it would be fun and I'm sure the people involved like it.  But I said no.  Because if I want to join an art group I'll just join an art group - unless perhaps if I could find a lovely autistic art group.  That might be a good thing.  An idea has been wandering in my head that I will one day run something similar - an autistic writing group, or possibly a neurodiversity art group.  I wonder where that idea will wander.

Back to the challenge.  Simplicity itself.  I got off the Metro and headed to the triangle.  Certain of success.  Easy.  Thankfully.  Yes, I was glad of the simplicity and that I wouldn't have to walk miles like I had when seeking a white horse the previous day.  Glad because minor illness was stalking me even though I was telling it to go away and seeking an injunction to keep it at a distance.  Glad too because I had to be at a meeting that day and so did not have much spare time.  I had a little though.  Enough for a rainbow flag.  And some to spare after that.

On the way to the triangle I passed the Dog and Parrot pub.  That's a place I've been to once before.  There was a talk and discussion there centred on philosophy and mental health.  On the upper floor.  The decoration there was interesting.  Each wall was painted the same shade of dark back.  So was the ceiling.  And the floor.  Some people must like that kind of thing.  On the wall of the pub there is this tribute to Prince:

And there is this:  Pop quiz.  What do each of these three refer to?

The route passed the Centre for Life.  I would blog about this place except it's expensive to go in.  Do you think if I asked very nicely and told them that they would receive a couple of nice blog posts they would let me in for free for the day?  Do you think they would if I told them that Blob Thing and Winefride would enjoy the place?  Probably they wouldn't.  That's a shame.  I just know Blob would enjoy learning about life.

In Times Square, outside the museum, there is this sculpture.  I rather like it.

No visiting the museum.  Not that day.  It was time to walk on to the gay triangle.  And straight away, on the very first building I see, there was a rainbow flag.  I'd thought there would be.

What could be better than a gay pride rainbow flag?  No, don't answer that question honestly from your own viewpoint!  In my view, and for the purposes of this blog, something better than a flag is a flag represented in street art.  In a back alley there is this one:

And on the main street there's this one.

I'm quite sad about this.  It was placed there before the Winter Olympics in Russia in 2014 and represents the oppression of queer people there.  A situation that has not improved in the two years following the games.  There was such hope that by highlighting the problems in Russia the government there would be forced to act and improve their human rights record.  Hope.

I'm sad about this street art because of the people who have ruined it with tagging.  I am not a fan of tagging - although I freely admit that some of the more complex examples have merit.  Some of it is rather good and the colours and designs can add to an underpass or a plain hoarding.  Some of these tags I've even photographed and they're elsewhere on this blog.  There's a large quantity of well done tagging and street art here, all from the North East.  Yes, there is so much decent art in the North East.  But so much crap too.  Some of it is particularly grim.  [I wonder if anyone local will ever read this and understand the joke in the last sentence.]


I especially had it when it's just a bit of black spray paint. It's ugly.  It increases ugliness.  There are so many pleasing things in Newcastle - and in every city in the UK - that have been blighted by tagging.  So you can spray your name on a building?  So what.  F**k off please.  Yeah.  I love street art.  I think it can improve a place greatly.  It can have a message - such as the above art does.  [Art, but is stencilling graffiti at all?]  Or it can just be a thing of beauty, such as all those pictures I saw in Sunderland last weekend.  Street art can make me smile.  Looking at that website linked to above was a joy.  Street logos can make me smile too - and you'll often find me taking a picture of someone's logo on a lamp post or the back of a sign.

But tagging your name in a bit of black paint?  No.  I'm sure there's a whole tagging subculture.  But like I say, to anyone who would spray their name in a bit of black paint, f**k off.  And I don't care if you've climbed to a difficult spot to spray your name.  You've made something ugly.  You've helped contribute to the need for Newcastle Council to spend a quarter of a million pounds a year removing ugly tags. Congratulations.  [sarcasm]  Slow hand claps for you all.

Artists sign their paintings.  You're signing nothing and without the painting your crappy little signatures are just muck on a wall.  Muck.   And as for tagging your name on top of some art that added something to a street?  Whoever did that was acting in a very shitty manner indeed.

So.  My ninth day of photographic challenges was over.  I had succeeded.  Which was never in any doubt.  And it wasn't time for my meeting yet.  Adventure called to me.  I looked.  And behold, I was near the Redheugh Bridge.  And I realised that I had never walked across it.  Adventure beckoned.  And who was I do refuse it?