I Returned To My Home. But My Home Had Disappeared.

Today I'm using a prompt because I'm away from home and in a rush.  It's a push to have enough time to keep up a daily post.  But I'm determined.  I'm not going to miss a day.  Not yet!

72. Where That Place Used to Be: Think of a place you went to when you were younger but it now no longer there or is something else.

Bradford.

The first place I lived that wasn't Crawley.  I spent one year there at university.  Just a year.  But it was an important time for me.  I packed a lot into those three short terms of study.  This photograph was taken on my first day there.  Eighteen years old and hunched back.  It's going to take a lot of work to overcome that.

I discovered I hated my first course and had the ability to work out how to change to one where I was far happier.  That period was hard.  I'd wander the streets of the city in the middle of the night listening to depressing music

I joined a university animal rights group and was active with it for at least three weeks!  There were three of us.  I was one.  The second was a woman.  I had a big crush on her although would never have said.  The third was her boyfriend.  I met them a term later, accidentally.  A friend dragged me to see his friend - in order to borrow weed - and it turned out his friend was the woman.  She was naked in bed.

I became a campaigner.  Against the Poll Tax.  That worked out well enough.  Against the lessening of student grants and the introduction of loans.  That didn't work at all and we could never have dreamed how expensive university education would become under successive governments.  I protested against Thatcher when she was in the area.  Protested against the Tory controlled council led by Eric Pickles when they were cutting funding to women's refuges and other charities.  For a while I hung around with the Socialist Worker crowd until I became disillusioned by them attempting to hijack every protest and make it seem like it was their party.  I'm glad to see that the Socialist Worker people in Newcastle don't do that.  They just seem to muck in.  Had I stayed in Bradford I'd have been part of a group forming a new student political party.  If that ever happened.  And in those animal rights week we had a well attended candlelit vigil against vivisection at the university and ran a public meeting attended by several hundred people.

I was a hiker.  Those were excellent days.  The hiking club was brilliant, organising several walks each week in the same area.  We walked throughout Yorkshire, made it to the lakes and had a long weekend in Snowdonia.  I will always remember that last cheese and wine party at which all of the surplus funds were spent.  I will always remember a few details of the people and the evenings we spent in a Bradford pub singing folk songs.  I'll remember the time we invaded a Bradford Irish Society ceilidh and I won the raffle.  And then there was the time we walked back from Ilkley in the night and reached a stone circle on the moor just before midnight on Halloween.

I had friends.  And many people knew me.  Once someone was shocked because we walked the length of the campus and everyone, without exception, said hello and called me by name.  That's not an experience I've had since leaving Bradford.

I learned of curry houses and knew them well.  My first Bradford curry was eaten on my second night of college.  I was with a bunch of second and third year Catholic students and we'd gone out feasting after the chaplaincy bar closed.  I loved that bar.  At the time it was a safe space.  Perhaps, had I stayed in Bradford, I would have lived out the rest of my course living in the Catholic chaplaincy.  Although I wasn't a Catholic.

I learned of drunkenness and hangovers.  I had my first drunken night on my third night of college.  I didn't know better.  I'd hardly drunk anything before that day and I think that night I more than doubled my lifetime consumption of alcohol.  So many bars.  So much cider.  So much surprise to be woken up at half past two in the morning, collapsed in a public toilet.  I walked back to the university hall.  Felt fine.  Chatted with a couple of people who invited me to share their bush for the night.  They cheered me when I got back.  There was much sarcasm.  That led to my first hangover.  My second was a month later.  My third was ... well, there hasn't been a third.

And the biggest way Bradford changed my life?  Halfway through my year there I converted to Christianity.  I got born again.  Full works.  If that hadn't happened I wouldn't have left Bradford after a year.  I'd have finished the degree I was enjoying so much.  I'd have got a first.  Almost certainly.  I wouldn't have gone to a theology college.  Wouldn't have met my wife.  Wouldn't have done everything that led from Bradford to Newcastle.

My room at Bradford was number four, block P, in Shearbridge Green.  I have many memories of that place.  I loved it there.  I "said the sinner's prayer" in room number three, occupied by an Irish guy named Ian.  I spent much time with the guy in room seven, who was the brother of one of my brother's best friends.  In that block of twenty-five rooms we got to know each other well, shared our two self-catering kitchens.  We went through highs and lows.  Had triumphs and mistakes.  And yes, I made quite a few and did things that I am still ashamed of if I think of them.  Each of us had tales to tell.  We drove to Brighton overnight.  I got stuck in a water fight that lasted for hours.  I knew the city very well for a first year university student.  Loved it.  Loved the people I met.  I went to dawn prayer meetings in cemeteries.

And Shearbridge Green is still big in my mind.  At least, it was.

Last year I returned to Bradford for the first time since 1995.  I'd returned for one day then and ended up playing a guitar and worshiping God in my old church so they could test the new sound and recording system.  Towards the end of that time they stuck in a cassette tape.  Recorded my voice and playing.  I still have that tape.  Last year I returned again and decided to seek out my old haunts.  I wanted to see Shearbridge Green again.  I'd have been a weirdo.  Rung the doorbell.  Said, "I used to live here twenty-five years ago. Can I come and see inside?"  I walked up the hill to the University with eagerness.  Walked through the campus.  And arrived at my old home.

Except.  It wasn't there.  Shearbridge Green had been demolished.  Shearbridge Green was a car park.  My home was gone.  Later I walked in the city centre.  I thought I might visit that pub, the one where I had sung so many folk songs.  Except.  It wasn't there.  My old haunt had become a betting shop.  Here it is.  My old home.  Dead centre of the picture.

And here, as much as I can make out, is the spot above which I slept for three terms.

My home was gone.  I walked away.  Very sad.  It was as if my past had been ripped away from me.  Perhaps that was a good thing.  The events of living there led to my twenty five year Christian walk and overall it might have been better had I never started walking that way.  Perhaps it's symbolic too and perhaps it's apt that I write about it today (Friday).  One week ago today my parents' house sold.  Someone will be letting it out.  They moved into that home before I was born.  That house, just like Shearbridge Green, is lost to me.

And that's a good thing.

Because that was my past.  And what I want is my future.

My future isn't my old home.  It's not Sussex.  It's not childhood.  And it definitely isn't Shearbridge Green.  Seeing that car park hurt.  More than I would have imagined.  But it healed too.  Seeing it was a break with a past that is no more.

Guest Post: Joshua James, Spirit Medium and Healer. My Story.

This was free written on paper, Nexus Art Cafe, Manchester on 9th March.  Typed up with no alterations at all, 10th March.  At this point it's possible that I will miss a day or two of posting on this blog.  I'm visiting Manchester and haven't got a lot of time for writing and posting.  While I gave myself a little leeway I'm not sure I gave myself enough.  We'll see.  It's possible I won't have time to write again until I'm home.  But I could always borrow a story I posted elsewhere towards the end of last year.  I haven't posted it on this blog or on any of the blogs I was creating last year.  We will see.  I don't want to miss days but a post a day for a year is always going to be a challenge.

Image taken from here.

Joshua James.  Psychic.  Spirit Medium.  That's me.  I'm gonna be famous.  Want your fortune told?  Come to me.  Want to get a message from you mum?  I'm your man.  Believe me.  Come to one of my shows and you won't leave unchanged.  That's what one reviewer said.  Look it up.  If you like.  It's on my Facebook page.  They wrote that they'd never spent a better ten pounds and that I'd made them a believer.  That's what I'm here for.  And twenty pounds is nothing compared to the comfort.  Price of fame - I had to charge more but it's still a bargain.  And with every ticket you'll get a two pounds of voucher for my book.  I'll even sign it too.  For free.  Photos cost more.  Great book.  You'll never forgive yourself if you don't buy a copy.  And some for your friends too.  "Joshua James.  My Life With the Spirit World."  The stories will amaze you.  All true.  All of it.  That's what you get from me.  Truth.  Truth and revelation.  No charlatan tricks.  No fakery.  I'm no Psychic Sally.  I'm the real deal and you wouldn't catch me with someone feeding me messages.

Joshua James.  Psychic.  Medium.  Healer.  Yes, healer.  I only discovered my healing power a while back.  Thirty quid a session.  Can't beat it.  And while I can't claim you'll be totally well in a day I can say that if you come back regularly things might surprise you.  Lisa Colgan said so.  Said I'd cured her asthma, her bad back.  And her depression too.  All in only twenty sessions.  And you know you can trust Lisa.  She's got a good heart and mentioned me on TV once too.

It's down to her I got my next gig.  I'm playing the West End.  Seven nights in a theatre there.  They're gonna love me.  Of course.  I'll start with something simple.  A few words for the sick.  Then get on with the fine art of contacting the dead.  It'll be excellent and then I'm pretty sure I'll get a TV show.

It's all be worth it.  The years of struggle, rejection.  The times I got laughed at for saying it's real.  I used to play in local halls I did.  I was a half decent conjuror and mentalist.  Used to play to mainly empty rooms exposing the tricks of people like Psychic Sally.  Awful woman.  That's what I think.  I thought it all nonsense.  Cast myself as a follower of Houdini, James Randi, and the school of skeptics.  My friends kept telling me I'd make more cash if I fleeced the vulnerable.  But I kept telling them no.

Those were hard years. The Humanists would pay me thirty quid for an evening.  That was about it.  I went on tour once.  Paid for it myself.  Lost a lot of money because nobody wanted to know about Sally.  One time I played in Manchester.  Same night as Sally.  She sold out one of the big theatres.  I sold seventeen tickets.  I had a happy audience of course but happiness doesn't pay the rent.  Sally had no rent worries.  It was all so unfair.  Of course it was.  People are completely gullible.  Don't want to know they've been fooled, fallen for a false cult of spiritism.  "Joshua James Exposes The Charlatans" wasn't ever going to be a hit show.  But I was proud of it.  There were jokes too and demonstrations of fake mediumship, and fake healings that some people thought real even when I said they weren't.  I could hold an audience.  It's just I didn't get an audience to hold.

Everything changed a couple of years back.  Made a discovery.  I discovered that if I truly believed it was true then it might be.  I read Psychic Sally's books.  Saw her life.  Saw how she wrote about it all even while faking those messages and getting messages from people who weren't even dead.  And I decided.  I wanted a house too.  Wanted to be able to afford nice food.  Wanted to be on TV.  So I decided I would choose to believe.  Present it all as true until it became true.  In the middle of a drunken binge I realised I could change my act.  That I'd be more loved as the real thing.  That there wasn't room for two Derren Browns but plenty of room for another Sally.  One called Joshua.

So that's what I did.  The exposer of frauds became the fraud.  The monster slayer became the monster.  New show.  New act.  Totally.  My old friends laughed at me.  Called me scum, a traitor to reason.  That was fair.  I was that traitor.  Totally.  I own it.  But I didn't care.  The Royal had booked me without a second thought based on a five minute proposal.  Tickets sold out in a week.  And I became psychic.  Medium.  And lately a healer too.

Imagine my surprised expression when halfway through my second fakery show everything became real.  I received a gift.  Was given second sight.  I saw the dead.  Truly.  Saw the dead.  Lots of them.  I could have kept up that show all night, there were so many dead people.  It was brilliant.  You can read about it in chapter eight of my second book, "My Moment Of Truth."  Only twenty quid from all bookshops and two pounds off at my shows.  Chapters nine to twelve bring my story up do date and there some fabulous, totally true stories.  My psychiatrist tells me they're imaginary, that I just want them to be real and that I know so many magic tricks that my brain can just pretend.  She recommends anti-psychotic drugs.

But I know what I see.  And I'm going to be rich.  I can tell.  I can.  Because I'm psychic.  It's a gift.  You'll realise it too.  If you come to my show.  You might even be blessed with comfort.  You never know.  It's what you all want.  So come.  Be amazed.  And tell your friends.  Spread the word.  My name is Joshua James.  The real thing.  The best.  Psychic to the stars.  To Lisa Colgan anyway.  And I do it all for you.  The money is very good.  But I do it just for you.



(1043 words)

Some Found Diary Entries About The Mystery Of Babies (And Sex)

I found a book in the street today.*  I'm going to try to get it back to its owner if I can find him.  Inside the cover are the words, "Henry Rodgerson.  My Diary."  There was no address and I confess I read from the diary in order to try to return it.  I haven't been able to locate Henry.  Perhaps you can help.  These are the final two entries in the book.  If you have any ideas let me know.  I want to return the book if I can.

Thank you.

That's me.  About six weeks old and already looking happy!

March 7th 2017

The greatest mystery of life is this:  Where do babies come from?  They just seem to appear.  One week a woman is walking in the park alone.  The next she's in company.  Baby in a pram.  And then she'll gather with others.  Eight babies.  Eight prams.  And eight women, all sharing this special secret knowledge.  Babies.  I was one once.  At least that's what I've been told.  I don't remember it.  Perhaps they're right.  I was that small and helpless too.  I can't quite imagine it.  Maybe my parents were privy to that secret knowledge too and maybe they knew of deep mysteries.  Not me.  I've thought long and hard about these things.  Am I the only one who doesn't know?  Is there some kind of global conspiracy against me?  I mean, I know where to find a pram.  That's easy.  I even know where I might find a woman with the necessary skill to push the thing.  Women are everywhere.  I know that.  Everywhere.  I don't understand them though.  The only woman at home was mum and she's mum.  Not a woman like the ones in the park.  And there weren't any of these strange, somehow different creatures at school.  But I see them now.  Everywhere.  In shops, in the street.  I even see them at church and have talked to some of them too.  They don't seem very different but I can tell most of them are another species.  Because of their clothes.  Sometimes it's hard to tell.  No.  I don't understand what women are meant to be at all.  They're a bit like men.  Are they a new invention?  Did a doctor invent them round the time I left home?  I don't know.  Some of them look too old but I can't tell for sure.  Do women appear in the same way as babies?  Another secret.  How do I find out?  Anyway, I can find a pram.  Find a woman.  But a baby?  Where on earth can I find one of those that isn't already in a pram?  Why do they all know?
Long.  Hard.  Difficult.  That's how I've thought.  Yesterday my dad gave me a clue and it's what I'm going to investigate today.  I asked him about babies.  Again.  I keep asking him and he just goes silent.  Mumbles incoherently.  Or says to ask mum.  I ask her and she does the same.  But says to ask dad.  It's not fair.  I don't think so.  I mean, they know the secret.  Why don't they want me to know?  I'd quite like a baby.  They're so cute.  Except when they cry.  And so pink.  Except when they're other colours.  People are different colours.  Did you know that dear diary?  I was amazed to find that out when I left home.  It's okay though.  Doesn't matter.  It was a shock though the day I first saw a person who wasn't pink.  Now I'm used to it and wonder why I only saw pink people at school.  Anyway.  I asked dad again yesterday.  And asked again.  I want answers.  I want a baby and if there's a special shop I want to know where it is.  So I asked him.  Over and over.  Forty-seven times.
It was at this point he snapped at me.  Looked mean.  Shouted, "Damn you stop asking about such disgusting things."  I don't think babies are disgusting.  So I asked again.  "Please dad, you got me.  Where do babies come from?  Where did you go to get me?"  Dad boomed.  "For God's sake Henry.  Didn't you listen to Secks Ed?"  Then he stormed out.  Slammed the door so hard the walls shook.  I've never seen him to that before.
A clue.  Secks Ed.  Secks Ed.  Funny name.  I know someone called Ed.  But his first name isn't Secks.  Secks.  Secks?  Funny word.  What kind of a word is that?  Secks Ed.  And then in the middle of the night I realised.  Secks.  I've heard the word before.  In hushed tones.  It was a long time ago.  I was still at school.  Fifteen years old.  There was a rumour.  All of us were going to meet Secks Ed.  Maybe he was a clown.  Big red nose.  Perhaps he'd read us a story or teach us about another country.  Or tell us about politics.  No wonder the tones were hushed if he was going to mention dangerous things like politics.
This morning I remembered.  I never got to meet Secks Ed.  Never.  I would have to find him.  And so later I'm going to the library for the first time.  See if they know Secks Ed.  They might know his address.  I'm excited to find him.  I'll tell you why I didn't meet him when he visited my school.  Did he say something about babies?  I can hardly believe it's possible.  Circuses and maths.  That would be better.  Much preferable and I'd like to have seen his big red nose and ...


[at this point a page has been ripped out]

... the library.



March 8th 2017

Oh my God.  No.  That's awful.  The man at the library gave me a book.  He said that Ed wasn't a person at all.  His first name was on the front of the book and it's actually spelled S - E - X.  When I got home I started to read the book.
THAT happens?  No.  No.  NO.  God no.

I don't want a baby any more.  Awful.  Truly, gut-wrenchingly the worst thing I've ever seen.  Disgusting.  Horribly, horribly disgusting.  The pictures are even worse.  I feel very ill.

Say no more.  I'm going back to bed.





*All information in the opening paragraph is false. The diary entries were free written in a Writers' Cafe session on March 7th.  The session was based on The Guinness Book of Records but some of us moved far away from the books.  How I got from the world record Rubik's Cube solve to the free writing is a tale that I don't need to tell here.  Especially as I want to write about the Cube at some point.  I put this disclaimer here just so you know I'm not publicly posting the private diary of someone.  As if you ever thought I might.

Can We Talk About The Wonder Of Life Please? A Transgender Plea.

Written in a cafe after having one too many conversations that go like this:

Them:

"Hi Clare.  Transgender.  Transgender.  Surgery.  Transgender.  Do you still have a penis?  You're so brave.  Why are people worried about you being transgender when I'm not?  Transgender.  Transgender.  Transgender."

Me:

"You said all that last time we met.  And the time before that.  Could you stop asking me about my penis?  Can we talk about something else please.  Like writing, sunshine, tea, social justice, concepts of spirituality, books, autism, disability, art, singing, the amazingness of living in Newcastle.  Anything.  Let's talk about almost anything.  Because it's more interesting than my penis."

Them:

"Transgender.  Transgender.  Penis.  It was great talking to you.  Bye."

After one such conversation I got grouchy and wrote this.  It's (almost all) in haiku.  At least, it's a 5-7-5 syllable arrangement.  I know there's far more to a traditional haiku than that.  This writing follows metre but not content.  A friend often writes in haiku and I've recently learned that when I'm stressed it can be a very calming way to write.

When you talk to me

Don't obsess on my gender.

Instead, talk to me.

I'm not a gender.

The state of my genitals

Is my own affair.

Please don't question me.

Don't make your every sentence

"Clare is transgender."

Well, I am.  So what?

It don't really matter.

Let's move on, shall we?

It's not a worry.

Not to me.  No, honestly.

It's just what I am.

Not on the radar

Unimportant.  Bare, dull fact.

The most boring thing.

So please, when we talk

Let's talk about something else.

Something passionate:

Of creative fire,

Of autistic ecstasy.

Let's talk about us.

Soft toys, reading joys,

Woodlands and wilderness days,

Lives of adventure.

Speak of sunrises,

The varieties of gods.
Rejoice in dreaming.

I'm grateful you care,

But don't reduce me to gender,

Ignoring the rest.

And you dare tell me

You're somehow superior

For not rejecting me?

Look up from my groin,

To my heart.  Beating.  Strong.

My mind.  Find me there.

Seek me.  The real me.

Infinite complexities

In six feet of flesh.

It's there we can meet

That's where relationship lies.

Not in my knickers.

So don't talk transgender.

Don't see me first as "trans Clare."

I beg you.  See me.

Transgender And Being Myself. I'm Not Trying To Be A Man's Fantasy Woman. So There Jenni Murray!

Some free writing for today.

So Jenni Murray has come out.  She's said that "men" who undergo sex change operations cannot be "real women".  That's what it says in The Telegraph anyway, a paper using language to imply that transgender women who have surgery are actually men.  A paper using language that doesn't quite understand what the operation is, that it isn't a "sex change" at all.  For many trans women - and trans men too - surgery just allows them to have a body that closer matches their gender.

Now.  If "men" who have such operations can't be real women, what of me?

I had an appointment with the Northern Regional Dysphoria Service today.  I've been attending the clinics for three and a half years.  Today I attended with a request:

DON'T refer me for a second opinion that I would need in order to begin the necessary procedures and jump through all the hoops that would lead to surgery.

Just don't.

So what of me Jenni Murray?  What of me Germaine Greer?  What of me Julie Bindel?  What of me all you who would exclude post-operative transgender women from being one of you?

Hey Jenni, in what way am I modelling myself on a male view of what a woman should be?

I don't wear make up.  Don't do my nails.  And there you are telling trans women that we can't be women because some of us, some of us, are into that kind of thing.  Well hey there Jenni, I know lots of cisgender women who are into those things too.  They won't go out without their face caked in makeup and lotions, and they're totally into worrying about what clothes to wear.  By your reasoning Jenni doesn't that mean that cisgender women aren't women either?

And what do you make of me who claims that "woman" title of herself and isn't even going to have that surgery?  What do you make of me who is now content to keep her penis and to stop fighting for a nouveau vagina, some luscious labia and a hand crafted clitoris?  I'm a woman Jenni.  No matter what you say.  Even if you think that show you present, Woman's Hour, isn't my hour at all.

Guess what Jenni.  I'm a woman.  And I'd be a woman with surgery.  And I'm a woman without it.  For me, surgery is irrelevant.  It might remove some aspects of dysphoria but it wouldn't change who I am.

You're right though.  I don't have the shared experience you had.  I never had my first period.  I never could look forward to being pregnant.  I could never share in any of those things which, regardless of my gender, I was barred from on account of being unfortunate enough to be born female with a dick.  You're right.  And you're right too that I was accounted some privileges that I wouldn't have had if I, like you, had vulva, vagina, womb.  You're right.  I've missed out on lots of things, good and bad.  And I've experienced other things, good and bad.

But guess what Jenni:  I'd do pretty much anything if it was possible to go back and be born with your kind of genitals.  I'd give up almost everything if I could have those shared experiences.  I would.

Because no matter how hard done by you feel being a woman, no matter what advantages a man might have in our society - and disadvantages too, don't forget them, if Laura Bates of the Everyday Sexism project talks of them then you can too - no matter.  No matter.  I'm going to claim this:  I'd far rather have had your disadvantages than my outward male privilege.

I don't say that lightly.  It's just that growing up female in a "male" body is a pretty shit experience.  Growing up male in a "female" body is too.  As is the experience of non-binary people - let's not forget them or exclude them from your binary discussions.

Yes, I tell you Jenni Murray, you had it good and if I could I would live my life again with all the advantages you have through not being transgender.

Conclusion:  I am a woman.  I am a woman who had it worse than you Jenni.  Because I didn't even have the privilege of being able to begin to be myself.  Don't exclude me Jenni.  Don't exclude those like me.  Include us.  Embrace us.  Show us deep compassion.  Because you're the lucky one, not me.

Having said that, I count myself as very lucky indeed.  Because I am able to live my life now.  I am able to accept myself and find acceptance from people around me.  They know I am a woman.  They aren't like you, telling me to walk proud as me even though you say I'm not me at all.  What you seem to say is this: Be yourself.  Except that's not you.

I was going to write today about my decision to not have surgery.  My reasons.  MY reasons.  Just mine.  They are right for me and I'll totally support any transgender person who comes to other conclusions about their body.  Each of us has to be free to work it out for ourselves.  Each of us has to take as much time as we need.  It's taken me three and a half years of considering every aspect of the decision before arriving at this point.  And who knows?  There may come a day I change my mind and know I need the surgery.  That's okay too.

I was going to write about my reasons.  Something positive.  Something beautiful about the wonder of life and being and all the things I want to give my energy too.  Something about the way I used to suffer bad dysphoria about this body and now don't.  Something about the power of womanhood, no matter the shape of the woman.  And then along comes the woman the BBC puts in charge of their flagship programme for women and she claims that this shape I have isn't a woman's shape at all.  Hey Jenni, I charge that you have an image of what a woman should be and that your image isn't enough.  You're playing into a man's view of a fantasy woman - as someone (and sometimes something) in possession of a certain physiology.  And hey Jenni, get this.  If you charge that transwomen aren't women because some of us try in the short or long term to live up to an image then you are guilty of just the same thing.  You might not care about make up.  But neither do I.

You say you aren't transphobic.  You say I'm not a woman.  I hate to break it to you Jenni.  You're transphobic.  Or at the very least, you're MEphobic.  Phobic of this woman with a penis who doesn't really even know or understand what a "fantasy woman" is meant to be.  Phobic of this woman who just gets on with life and does her best to be herself.  Phobic of this woman who knows that some women happen to be really into fancy clothes and makeup and that many are striving for that fantasy body.

Jenni.  You're phobic.  Of a woman who claims to be a woman.

You're phobic.  Because you deny me my truth, deny me my identity, deny who and what I one hundred percent know myself to be.

Anyway.  This post was me being public.  About my surgical decisions.  I hadn't planned to talk about Jenni Murray.  I'd have ignored her completely had she not been presented of Woman's Hour.  [Which woman's hour is it anyway?  Obviously not mine.  But which woman?  Why isn't it women's hour if it's meant to apply to women rather than just one woman's perspective?]  I don't want to talk about people who deny me.

I wanted to say something else too:  That it is MY decision and mine alone to talk about surgery, lack of surgery and the ongoing state of my genitalia.  My decision.  Not yours.  Not anyone else's.  If I want to talk about it that's up to me.  And if anyone wants to listen or not listen that's up to them.  My decision.  It's not up to you.   It's NEVER up to you.  My genitals are not an acceptable topic of enquiry and never will be.  I don't go around asking you about your genitals do I?  I've never approached someone and said, "Hi Bob, do you think you'll decide to get circumcised soon?"  or "Hello Lucy, have you started your period yet and how are your labia looking these days?"  Neither of those questions is quite as personal as one that boils down to "When are you having your penis chopped off?"  Yet I don't ask them.  Other people ask me.  Regularly.  I wish they wouldn't and have taken to telling them not to ask but very often the kind of people who ask me about my penis/vagina situation don't take kindly to me asking them not to.  Just as the people who consistently misgender me go into all kinds of self-justification when I ask them not to.  Rather than just apologising.

I wrote a series of haiku - or near haiku - after such an encounter last week.  I was going to share it.  Perhaps I will tomorrow, which will make three posts about being transgender in a row.  An annoying statistic because it's the least interesting thing about me.  Thanks to bloody Jenni Murray I've just free-ranted for 1500 words and that's more than enough.  I wanted to start writing a story tonight too.  Something very jolly about a dolls' house.  And lots of death too.  Which takes a little of the jollity out of the story.  That'll have to wait too.

Signed, yours faithfully,

Clare.  A woman.  With a penis.  Without a desire to swap it for anything else.  Unless there's an option for something more useful.  Like a bullshit detector!

Why Don't You Get Your Kicks Out On Route 55?

A prompt today.  Click on a random Wikipedia article.  Write about it.

If you want to try it, here's the link.  You never know what you might learn.

I realised too late that I've taken prompt number 68 when this is only day 66 of the year.  Never mind.

I have to say this: I am not pleased at all with the results.  Perhaps that's because I'm not passionate in any way whatsoever about the subject of the article.  There is no good reason why I would be.  Prompts are all very well.  If they're interesting.  There is a more interesting prompt for day 67 and I think tomorrow I may write from it.  Yay.  The day will match the prompt number.  I think a little bit of cruelty may be involved!  Because I'm like that!

Today's post isn't going to go down in the annals of classic literature.  It is what it is.  And for today that is enough.

Route 55 public domain image from here.

She's not so famous as her cousin
Weeps, wails, wishes there were songs
About the ways men have explored
Her entire length, her body
And felt moved to write about all
She has given to them.
She cries, believing that will never happen,
Not to her: Dull, short, featureless.
She wonders why there's any point trying
To be someone noteworthy.
Men have called her cousin "Mother,"
They've made documentaries about
How they crossed every inch of her flesh.
Her esteemed cousin's in novels, she's historic.
She's Will Roger's favourite.
Her cousin excites people so much that
They choose to go to her to get their kicks.

But she, nobody pays attention to her.
Men use her, oh yes, they use her.
And then forget her.
Because she's not Route 66.
She doesn't cross a continent.
Isn't ever going to have sports teams named after her.
She's not going to win awards
Or span the mighty Mississippi.
She'll be anonymous until her dying day.
Because she's just plain old Utah State Route 55.
Just one thousandth the length of her worshipped cousin.
She knows her place.  Knows her Price.
Intimately knows that small town she circles and protects.
She's proud of Price,
Proud to see everyone getting along in Utah.
Glad that Carbon County is diverse,
Still a place where it's easy to not be Mormon.
Route 55 is satisfied with all that.
And yet, sometimes dissatisfied with her lot,
Longing to be something more than
A three mile ring road.
She would see the world, break from Utah
Stride out West to the sea.
She desperately longs to be the glory road.
Then she remembers one thankful thing:
She's not dead.
Her cousin was murdered. Thirty years back.
The price of fame.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Utah_State_Route_55

Words Arising From A Rally Calling For the UK To Remain In the EU

I passed through Newcastle city centre today.  Gathered at Gray's Monument was a rally.  Speakers spoke, as they do at rallies.  I stopped.  Listened.  A couple of people who recognised me said hello as they passed.  Among other things the speakers called for the United Kingdom not to leave the European Union.  Now I believe that it's a done deal.  We're leaving.  Whatever we may think about the result or the tactics of either side.  It's done.  We voted.  I can get behind a campaign to be nice about Brexit and not throw out those millions of EU citizens currently living in the UK and generally doing good for our economic outlook.  But a campaign to overturn the referendum?  No thank you.  You are free to disagree with me and campaign.

Also gathered near Monument was a much smaller rally of anti-EU people.  And when I say anti-EU they weren't your run of the mill people who voted to leave and so have been unfairly insulted by some of the pro-EU campaigners - called racists and other horrible names that in most cases don't apply.  This small rally seemed to be of wildly right wing nationalists.  The sort of people you might expect to turn out at the fascist patriots rallies or line up with Pegida.  You might expect.  I might too - but I don't claim it as a fact.

I stood and listened to the larger rally before wandering off to sit in a cafe for a while.  I listened to someone from the smaller rally too because he had a very loud voice and shouted from not far behind me.  In the cafe I planned to try to read.  Instead I wrote these words about the speeches of the pro-EU brigade.

And because I wanted to try it - and because I stood on a stage last night and performed a scary piece of writing - I've made a video.  I've never tried this before so bear with me as I make my first attempt to learn a new skill.  This was taken on my phone.  Hold the phone in one hand.  My notepad in the other.  Perhaps one day I'll learn the skill of memorising my writing at speed.  For now, there's this:

What do we want?

REMAIN!

When do we want it?

NOW!

On the city Monument steps they scream to remain.
Wave their EU flags,show their slogans of "We was right!"
We're going to fight, and fight,
and I'll fight until my dying day.
And we won the referendum really.
If you count those who wouldn't vote, didn't vote.
And those who couldn't.
We won!
It's so unfair to say we lost
Just because the other side polled more votes
In some kind of democracy.
We'll put up candidates in every council,
Change the system.
Force another vote, and another, and another,
Until we get our very own righteous result..
And we'll self-righteously stand right alongside those who,
In damning right and left will lay down
Their placards.  "Labour.  Party of Racists."
We'll gladly sell our souls if it means we can remain.
They bitch about the lies that were told,
While their own leaders didn't shout out truths,
And they damn the Brexiteers, the nay-sayers
With dark platitudes.  As if sixteen million xenophobes
Put a cross on a piece of paper.
In a way I'm with them.
I wanted to remain too, wish the vote had gone the other way.
But.  So bloody what?
I wanted a time machine for Christmas.
Wished I'd been born with a vagina.
I wanted Jeremy Corbyn to know how to connect with the masses.
And though she's dead I wanted
To tell my mum I performed on stage last night.
I wanted all kinds of things I couldn't have.
But what's done is done and the question isn't
What kind of tantrum to have.
It's what to do with the hand we're dealt.
No royal flush.  It's a pair of threes.
So let's play the hand.
We're leaving.  Brexit is here.
Let's cut the bitching.  Refuse the slander.
Who voted in or out?  Who cares now?
Let's just get on with it.
Live out our British Brexit values
Of tolerance, acceptance, and hope.
Of Welcome, charity, and our famous generosity.
Let's make this the best bloody Brexit we can.

Guest Post: Blob Thing Writes About A Recent Adventure

I'm ever so excited.  My person is letting me post on her writing blog today.  It's about time too.  My life hasn't been as thrilling lately as it used to be.  Last year she took me with her on a thousand adventures and then, after my sister was born, she took my sister took.  Then she gave me a blog of my own and I used to write that every day for a while with my person's help.  Then I got to write it less.  It doesn't mean I had less to say.  Quite the opposite.  And then we got to this year.  Can you believe it that my person has only taken us out a few times?  Can you believe that she hasn't let me write my blog?  Not once.  It's ever so sad and she claims that she hasn't got enough time but I've seen the amount of time she wastes watching rubbish TV shows or playing games.  She could be putting her time to much better use.  I'm sure you'll agree.

So who am I?  Some of you will know already.  My name is Blob Thing.  I am a small pink autistic soft toy.  I was created by my creator on New Year's Eve 2015 in an evening of inspiration.  I became a close friend for my person and helped her lots.  Then in the middle of 2016 my sister was born.  Her name is Winefride and she was named after a Saint who had her head chopped off and then reattached.  Winefride is autistic too.  Some people would say she's severely autistic because she's pretty much nonverbal.  But I love her lots and am very proud of her.  She's even happier than I am.

Photos.  You need photos.  Because some of you might not know me.  You really should.  I'm worth reading!  I say so.  Take a look at blobthing.blogspot.com and you'll find the adventures I got to write about.  I want to write more but I have to be very patient because my person is doing her own thing.  I think I'm going on an adventure today.  My person is taking us to The Sage and I think we're going to be dancing with swords or something.  It sounds very dangerous.  I don't want to get my head chopped off.  I suppose it wouldn't matter too much because I haven't got a body for my head to be chopped from.  The executioner would be very confused.  I'd lay my head over the edge of the guillotine and would just fall into the basket still alive.  Even before the blade came down.  There are advantages to being a small pink soft toy.  Think about that next time your head is in a guillotine and you're being tried on charges of heresy or treason.  Think of it too next time you're on the gallows.  How your neck is between your head and body and is very squishable by the noose and how if you were me you would live to write and adventure another day.

Photos.  Yes.  I'll show you some pictures from the adventure we had last week.  It was so good to get out.  So good to see the world again.  There's plenty to do at home but I like being in the open.  I like walking and exploring and Winefride gets very excited about all the new things.  This first picture is of me.  So now you know what I look like.  We had to cross the dangerous stepping stones at this point and I was very glad that we didn't fall off.  I worry about Winefride because she doesn't quite understand danger and I keep a tight hold of her reins so that she doesn't get washed away by any rivers.

This next picture is Winefride.  She's sitting at the entrance to a little cave.  I confess that it was me who got into difficulties there.  It looked very exciting and I just had to go in and explore.  I got a bit stuck and couldn't climb out on my own.  I even stopped smiling for a moment because I thought I might die in there.  I was very lucky because my person helped me to escape.  She might have saved my life.  Or possibly there was a tunnel through the cave and I might have emerged above ground by the home of the forest goddess who lives nearby.  She's a giant rabbit.

Doesn't Winefride look amazing.  She is wearing three badges.  One is an autistic pride badge.  The others were ones she found at the Greenbelt festival we went to last year.  We had lots of adventures there.  One hasn't got any words on and Winefride likes the pattern it makes.  The other badge shows the Camper Van of Dreams that we visited.

Another picture of me now.  We had to navigate past this difficult waterfall.  My person loves it there.  She likes to sit or lie on the rock right by the water, close her eyes and lose herself in the noise of the water.  She likes waterfalls.  I like them too.  She should take me to more waterfalls.  

It was time for a break.  Winefride and I reached a play area.  We love play areas.  On Winefride's first day out we went to a play area and my person got addicted to the zip wire.  We played on everything and Winefride's first day was very special.  It didn't even seem to matter too much when we nearly got arrested by the policemen.  You can read about that on my blog that my person should start helping me with again.   We played on a swing in the play area and my person even took a little video of the fun we were having.  We held on tightly and didn't fall off.  We like slides too.  And climbing frames and getting dizzy on roundabouts and we've been on boats and eaten ice creams and then there was that time I did everything in my power to escape from Fleetwood by tunnelling out and fleeing to another town that proved to be less of a paradise than expected.  I've met gods too, and fought supernatural creatures.  It's all there on my blog.  And it's all true even if my person's memory is faulty.

After playing we continued on our adventure.  Things took a turn for the worse.  Our merry path became more and more dangerous.  Vultures flocked overhead and we could hear wolves in the woods and an old lady with a wart warned us of progressing any further.  But I'm very brave and Winefride doesn't understand danger and my person had to follow us because I forced her too.  Our optimism wasn't even dampened when we found this signpost.  See.  We're still very happy.

We got through Hell.  Of course we did.  Otherwise I wouldn't be able to tell you about it.  Very often I find that suspense stories and thrillers aren't particularly suspenseful or thrilling.  The hero is put into all kinds of situations that should lead to near certain death.  So what?  If we know they are alive at the end of the story we also know that they escape their doom.  So the cliffhanger at the end of the episode isn't really a cliffhanger.  It's only truly exciting when the hero is allowed to die.  And stay dead.

Here's Winefride with one of the monsters we met in Hell.  He was surprisingly friendly.  I suppose that since everyone in Hell is going through a bad time they just get on and help each other through it.  Hell can be a much more charitable place than heaven and its residents can be so much more forgiving.  My person says that the people she's found most likely to not forgive her are the same people who are most likely to reject her.  The ones with a religion that talks of forgiveness all the time.  It's a curious thing when people with a forgiveness creed are sometimes the most judgemental and the ones who bear the biggest grudges even when someone is sorry for doing or saying something wrong.  We're autistic.  And my person sometimes has big troubles arising from mental health that mean she hardly knows what she's saying at all.  Sometimes we say things wrong without meaning to at all.  Because we don't quite understand the rules or see things differently and we just make big social mistakes.   My person says that the people who have cut her off completely when she said something wrong are mostly Christians.  I find that statement to be very sad.  I wouldn't believe it if my person wasn't saying it.  She's made mistakes.  But she's doing her best and is always very sorry when the mistake is pointed out.  Too sorry because she can get physically ill from being so sorry.  There are Christian ministers who have never spoken to my person again after she said something wrong even though she apologised and was very, very sorry.  I don't think those ministers are Christians at all.  And according to the Lord's Prayer which they pray so often they aren't going to be forgiven by their God.  Sorry ministers.  If there is a real Hell you're going to it.  As a result of your own prayers to your God.  You need to repent because my person is just like most people.  Very fallible.  But trying hard.  My person is telling me to stop talking about it now.  Actually she told me to stop talking about it ages ago.  But I wanted to say what I wanted to say and I don't want to stop now.  I'm going to.

Here's me in another part of Hell.  This skull was quite friendly too.  Apparently it was worn briefly by a certain Skeleton Detective.  I wonder if I'll ever appear in a book about him.  His name is Skulduggery and he's lovely.  Except when he isn't.  I wonder if he wants this spare skull back.  If he does he should contact me and I'll tell him where to find it.  I'd quite like to take him out for tea too and maybe his creator and my creator could share a lunch somewhere and then play some improvisational writing games together.  My person would like that.  Derek Landy, if you're reading this - and I know that's incredibly unlikely - get in touch.  My name is Blob Thing and I'm a fan.

I'm not going to tell you how we escaped from Hell.  I'll just tell you that our escape included a close encounter with a tortoise.  I'd share all the information but my person wants to get on with doing other things.

I'm glad that my person has allowed me to write something today.  It's been far too long.  I love my person dearly but I need more adventures and free rein with my creativity.  Never mind.  We're going to see my creator in a few days.  Perhaps while we're there my person will take us out on an amazing adventure.  Show us something we have never seen before.  That would be wonderful.  I'll let my person write her own post tomorrow.  Please person.  Can I write my blog again one day.  Please.

The Man Who Worshipped Trevor Noah

I went there for some peace and quiet, fool that I was.  I wanted to sit in comfort, sip my drink, open my notebook and be inspired to write something passionate, something that would make the world sit up and listen.  I didn't get my wish of course.  As it turned out I could hardly write a word.  A few hasty scribbles.  Two crossed out lines.  Three more attempts ready to be consigned to the bin.  On another day perhaps that missing inspiration would be found as I sat in the sunny window of that Newcastle café.  Perhaps I'd be able to watch the people pass by, see their faces, clothes, and the way they walked.  Their smiles as they talked with each other.  Their pained expressions as if their lives had fallen apart, perhaps as a result of being mistreated via cruel government policies.  When DWP assessors have (allegedly) asked people why they haven't yet killed themselves, what hope do the poor unfortunates passing by have?  Perhaps a man and woman would pass by having a very public argument, swearing at each other, calling each other worse names than I can think of and then storming off in opposite directions still effing and snarling.  I wonder.  If one of that pair had stormed into the café.  Sat on the seat opposite me.  What would I do?  If she sat, slumped into her chair and burst into tears.  Or if he sat, glared at me and said "What the f*** are you looking at you c***?  She's just a f***ing b**** getting pregnant like that."  What would I do?  I can tell you this:  I wouldn't cope well.  I wouldn't have a clue.  At least, I think I wouldn't.

From a cafe trip. A different cafe.

That didn't happen of course.  I didn't watch the people.  Instead I gave up.  Put my pad of paper away.  Played with my phone.  Gulped my drink.  And left.  Frustrated.  That's one story.  It ends there.  But there is another.

The other is the man who caused me to be even more frustrated.   The man who robbed me of any chance I had of finding peace.  Yes, him.  The man at the next table.  He had his phone out the whole time I was there.  That wouldn't have affected me at all of course.  But he wasn't texting.  Wasn't reading.  Wasn't even playing a mindless or mindful game.  He was watching videos.  One after another.  With adverts in between.  And with the volume turned up high.

I tried to ignore him.  I failed.  I put on my headphones.  Switched the noise cancelling on.  And still I could hear those videos.  Loud.  Now, if I weren't English and if I wasn't so scared of people I might have acted.  Don't say I'm not scared.  I am.  I know it might not appear that way a lot of the time - like yesterday when I pretended to find lots of fun in strangling people and stomping on the heads of kittens.  Ooh.  I'm a terrible monster.  Or at least, from time to time, I can create some despicable people for the purposes of fiction and performance.  A monster is much more enjoyable than a Mary Sue.  If I was someone else I might have got up and asked him - or told him - to turn the videos off or the volume down.  Advise him of the benefits of headphones.  But I'm not.  Instead I suffered.  Martyred myself.  Perhaps everyone in the café this morning barring that man were martyrs.

I suffered.  Complained.  Updated Facebook.  And left.  That's another story.  It ends there.  But there is another.

The videos he was watching all came from the same source.  The Daily Show.  It's an American TV show currently hosted by Trevor Noah.  It's known for being decidedly left wing.  It's known for not pulling any punches when discussing politics and politicians.  Trevor Noah is a comedian who grew up, of mixed race, in apartheid South Africa.  Before taking over as Daily Show host he used to appear sometimes on UK panel shows.

Under other circumstances I'd have happily watched the videos.  Hey, there's an idea.  Why didn't I just get up and ask the man if I could watch the videos with him?  Stop being frustrated.  Find something to laugh at.  I've watched Daily Show monologues sometimes.  I have friends who adore them.  And, I confess, in the last week I watched an old Trevor Noah one man show filmed in a New York theatre.  It was a comedy.  I have to say that mostly it was more interesting than funny and sometimes my interest strayed.  Perhaps that's because my sense of humour very often doesn't match up with that of many people.  Perhaps I was just in a bad mood.  I had, after all, melted down that morning and was struggling with the after effects of that.  I watched to the end through stubbornness, a refusal to give up on what was meant to be good.  When the end came it took me completely by surprise.  It felt like he was half way to explaining something.  Half way.  And all of a sudden he was all "Thank you New York, you've been great.  Goodnight."  I was waiting for a resolution or at least a punchline and none came to me.  It was as if someone had ripped out the last chapter of a whodunnit.  And yet, and yet.  I'm still going to watch another show he made.  It looks a lot more interesting.  And I'm still going to listen to Daily Show monologues sometimes.

So I didn't ask to join in.  I got up and asked the man to turn off the video or turn down the volume.  I was scared but I did it anyway.  I'm glad I did.  He wasn't aggressive.  Not at all.  Instead, he looked at me with sad, puppy dog eyes and said, "But don't you love Trevor?  Isn't he a dream?"  I have to admit to being surprised.  There I was thinking he was watching in order to witness incisive wit and a stream of insults of the Trump government.  I hadn't expected this total crush.

I said I thought Trevor to be alright.  I didn't tell him that I'd been a bit bored with the one man show.  I also admitted I didn't fancy him.

"Oh.  That's a shame.  Me?  I love him.  He's so clever and he's so handsome too.  Not just handsome.  He's my pin-up boy.  Literally.  I have pictures of him on the wall.  And that voice, oh god wow that voice.  Melts everything.  Just listen."

He turned the volume up a bit more and pointed his phone my way.  Trevor was discussing Trump's policies on immigration with regard to mainly Muslim countries the USA doesn't sell lots of weapons to and also with regard to the wall Trump wants between the USA and Mexico to keep Mexicans out because they're rapists (Trump said).  I watched.  Trevor made a joke.  I was expecting him to mention Trump's campaign promise to defeat ISIS within thirty days.

I'd have happily sat down and had a good moan about US government policy.  And about UK government policy too.  About the pained expressions on the faces of the people I hadn't watched from my window seat.  I'd have told him how the night before someone had exhorted a group of us to "give Trump a chance" and how any chance I gave him had been squandered within a week as he continued to say and do mean things to anyone who didn't fit his perfect picture, some of whom had voted for him.

But the man didn't want to discuss politics.  He wanted to discuss Trevor.  Just Trevor.  His passionate obsession.  I guessed that Trevor was fortunate to be living in America.  That way the man in the café couldn't be his stalker.  Had he desired to be such a thing.

"So why don't you love Trevor too?" he asked me.  "How come you're not hot for him?  How come you wouldn't like to hold him in your arms and be kissed by him in his dressing room after The Daily Show?"

"Well, er, why should I? Not everyone is going to admire him as much as you."

"But why don't you?  He's so gorgeous.  I wish I could meet him."

"Well.  If you must know, it's nothing personal about Trevor Noah.  I'm sure he's handsome in his own way.  I'm told he is.  But I'm a lesbian.  So he's just not my type."

"That's no excuse.  He's Trevor Noah.  He could sway you to the other side if you just listened some more.  He nearly swayed Sandi Toksvig.  He did!  She said so.  On television.  And she wouldn't fib.  Not Sandi.  I love her too.  Wouldn't that have been just brilliant if she had decided to fall head over heels in love with Trevor?  And all because he spoke some Xhosa.  He should have said some more and then she'd have turned.  I just know she would.  He's just so wonderful."

"I don't think he'd ever turn me.  Just the thought of it makes me shudder.  I'm sorry.  But I'm a women only kind of woman.  And I'm not much into them either.  At least, not in that way."

"But what if Trevor said he was really a woman.  Would you fall in love with him then?"

"Er.  I haven't thought about that question before.  I'll have to give it some thought."

"Okay.  Fair enough.  Just think though.  Trevor and Sandi.  Wouldn't they have made the perfect couple?  I can see the wedding photos in my head.  I've designed them you see.  And if Trevor was a woman Sandi wouldn't even have to change.  That would be awesome.  I've designed them clothes for that too.  Here, look."

And the man pulled out a large hardback book from his back.  On the cover he had written, "Trevor Noah is the best man on earth."  He opened it up.  There were pages and pages of reasons.

"And this is the bit where I watched that rerun and saw Sandi nearly become straight.  And this is where I designed them clothes.  Took me all day."

He showed me two pages.  On the first was a picture of Trevor and Sandi dressed up for their wedding.  They were holding hands.  I had to admit that the man wasn't bad as an artist.  Surrounding the picture were lots of notes on how and where the wedding would take place.  He flicked on a few more pages and showed me the second.

"And this is when I realised that if Trevor was a woman Sandi wouldn't have to start fancying man."

A second wedding picture, this time of Sandi and Trevor both in the most fabulous pure white wedding dresses.  The shading he had got into his picture was astonishing.  The notes about the same sex wedding seemed very different although I noticed that both contained a Xhosa musician singing the Danish national anthem.  And why not?

"Wouldn't it be amazing to meet them on their honeymoon and become very good friends with them?  Maybe even with benefits.  It won't happen of course.  But you can't stop a man dreaming.  Anyway, I must stop all this chatting.  I've got another five monologues to watch before leaving this place.  You're welcome to sit here with me and I can point out all the funniest parts.  I know them by heart."

I declined the offer.  I had places to be.  I invented them on the spot in order to have an excuse to leave that didn't seem rude.  I'm glad I talked to the man.  I didn't find out his name.  And I never did get any peace in the cafe.  But I've been able to remember our one-sided conversation with a very uneasy smile.  It's been a pleasure to share it with you and stamp on any confidentiality he might have been expected.  I wouldn't have done it ordinarily.  But when the conversation isn't real and you don't pretend it ever took place perhaps you can't breach confidentiality.

Yes.  I'm glad I talked with him.  I just hope I never see him in a cafe again.


[1971 words]

Requiem For A Broken Friend On A Night When I Think I Can't Write

I am not up to writing this evening.  I feel like I'm flat-lining.  Tomorrow will be better.

This was free written in a cafe a week ago.  I found some relative safety there after shutting down and failing to function in the wild streets of Sunderland city centre.  It was a very unpleasant experience.  While in that cafe I suffered another unpleasant experience.  As I started to climb the stairs to where the toilets were to be found somehow my chain bracelet got caught on something and it broke.  In such a way that it would be hard to repair.

I wore that chain on nearly every day for eighteen months.  It wasn't meant to be jewellery.  On August 21st 2015 I arrived at Autscape, a conference/gathering for autistic adults.  My first Autscape.  It was there I saw the chains.  In a pile.  Designed to attach to name badges and "interaction badges" worn round our necks.  I wouldn't have dared to use them otherwise.  I wasn't free.  Then I saw someone playing with the pile.  It must have felt so good, not only physically but in pretty much every way.  Later I saw her playing with one of the chains and I felt very jealous because it was what I would have wanted to be doing had I been able to allow myself.  At that point she was told off for stimming with the chain.  Far too much of an autistic thing to be doing at a gathering for autistic adults.  Ooh, I'm a cynic!

Later I played with the chains too.  She led by example.  I followed.  Still later she became a completely awesome friend.  And I wore that chain nearly every day.  The feel of it on my wrist helped.  Playing with it helped.  A lot.  Chewing it helped too although chewing bits of metal isn't advisable.  Fortunately she has since given me plastic bracelets that I wear most of the time.  I chew them everywhere.  At home.  When shopping.  In cafes.  On the bus.  In social situations.  Such stimming is a massive aid to me getting through the days.  I wish I'd discovered it sooner.  In addition to the chewy plastic I also wear a bracelet she made.  It bears the inscription "Autistic Pride" but all in capitals.  I didn't use them here.  Didn't want to be seen as shouting.  My metal chain was a security and a source of relaxation.

And last Monday it broke.  I was in a bad state that day.  I wrote about it that night and a few days later posted what I  had written.  What a day to lose that chain.  I'd improved somewhat by sitting in that cafe.  I had a quiet spot and had already written a piece that I actually think could stand up in performance.  To an understanding audience who don't mind me swearing at them.  And not as a single piece either.  Part of a set so something lighter can be performed afterwards.  Something about happy bunnies and sparkly unicorns.

What follows is not good writing.  I was a right mess when I wrote it.  The writing helped me but that doesn't mean it's good.  However, I am not up to writing tonight so I'm posting it.  It's better than the alternatives.  Something free written in another cafe about philosophy groups.  An atrocious thing written in that same cafe filled with more atrocious dog puns.  Or the five prompts free written from in a cafe today, none of which are in presentable form.  Yet.  Five prompts.  With instructions to write about each for five minutes.  I didn't quite stick to five minutes!

The prompt "garden furniture" turned into some words about garden furniture.
The prompt "Marilyn Monroe" saw her had she not died, playing Sheldon Cooper's mum (although the age might not be quite right) or making cosmology documentaries.
The prompt "Marilyn Monroe" then saw me think about needless possessions, hoarding, and how crazy we are.  Perhaps I'll return to that and transform it into something worth reading.  I don't know what form it will take.
The prompt "The Earth's Core" turned a little strange. So crazy it all went a bit mantle.  But it did explain the earth's rotation.  Incorrectly.  Perhaps I'll return to that too.  A short story seems possible.
The prompt "eagles" turned into a blissful child and adult memory that I recreated when I got home.  Perhaps I'll return to that writing too.  I think something to perform could come from it.  With a prop!  And no swearing at any audience.  Perform it at Edinburgh.  Do the fringe.  Have an audience of one.
The final prompt was "fireworks" and I wrote down seven memories but didn't expand on them at all.  Did not speak of the teacher who had never had a car accident but had witnessed many.  Did not speak of being able to see thirty illuminated red crosses.  Did not speak of Jean Michel Jarre's London concert, or the New Years of childhood, or the time I saw someone hit by a firework at a public display.  I wasn't able to write about such things today.  I think I was worn out from the efforts of prompts two to four.  In any case, I'd run out of drink and my body was informing me of the nearness of lunchtime.

If you do read what follows please don't be worried by the ending.  I was having a bad day and you shouldn't be troubled one bit by the fact that the next day my GP surgery decided to raise up a flag and say that I am at moderate risk of suicide.  Really.  I'm not.  I want a long life.  In any case, more chains are on order now.  And they're different colours.  Deep joy!  Honestly, I'm okay.  Nothing to see here.  Move along.  Move along.

Read on at your own risk.

Requiem For A Broken Friend

Farewell dear friend,
I will try not to weep.  For me.
You died in my hands today.
My fault, my clumsy fumbling,
And you shattered.  Fell to your death
As I walked to a toilet
In an unknown cafe bar.

Farewell dear friend,
Killed so young, by dark tragedy.
Just a day before we two
Might have celebrated together.
Drank a toast to your birth and
The many meetings and meaningful relationships
Begun the moment you breathed
For the first time.

Farewell dear friend.
Eighteen months is too short a life.
But you lived it well
And comforted me through hell
Had wild tales to tell
Then you shattered, fell.
And we, more unfortunate, left behind
Will never hear your metallic voice again.

Farewell dear friend.
Just a cheap chain, or so they said
But my daily companion, continual solace.
My playmate of playmates
Safety of safety
And he who gave me strength.

I wore you.
Four times wrapped on right wrist.
Regaled in your off-colour love.
I wore you.
And in your touch was peace,
The certainty that you would
be the same each day as the last.
I wore you.
And centred around you
The world shrank to coherency.
I wore you.
What now? What the hell
Am I meant to do?

So farewell dear friend?
I killed you. I am to blame.
Not manslaughter.  Chain slaughter.
Have I inadvertently
    killed myself too?
One death leads to another
I can't live alone.

Farewell dear friend.
Farewell

Death And Life At Sea - A Continuation of A Fallen Life

Note: This post follows on immediately from yesterday's post.  You can find that under this link.

I have been told too that I should return to my private detective, whose first case was posted within the last week.  You can find that under this link.  I also want to continue the story about the stranger on my bed.  I posted the first part of that a few days ago.  You can find that under this link.  I also need to write about The Cafe of Stolen Dreams.  And I have a novel to write too.  So many possible writing projects.  When I began this blog two months ago my only project was to write from a prompt every day.  I am amazed how much has changed in just two months.

This is the first time one post on this blog has followed on from another.  I guess it won't be the last.  Here it is.  The second short chapter of a story.  It began with suicide.  Happy stuff!





I awoke to find myself in someone else's bed.  I could tell it wasn't mine.  The light was all wrong, the covers were too scratchy, and my own bed tended to stay still.  This one was rocking gently and I couldn't tell whether the movement was soothing or nauseating.  I opened my eyes to find a man staring down at me.  He had four long scars running down the length of his face.

"So you've woken up all by yourself.  You're in a strange room and a man like me is with you.  What do you do?"

"Hey, what?"

"What do you do?  Serious question."

"Er, er.  I ask you where I am."

"Is that the best you can do?  How disappointing.  I was rather hoping you might use some magic power to transport yourself onto the deck or that you might see how sinister I look and decide to engage me in mortal combat.  It's been a while since anyone did that.  But no.  Where am I?"  He asked the question with a sarcastic leer.

"Okay then.  Who are you?   And how did I get here?"

"Pulled you out of the water didn't I?  I am Captain Jonas and you're on my ship.  Saw your body floating out in the sea and thought you were dead.  Maybe you were.  But then you had a heartbeat so I stuck you in the spare bed for safekeeping.  Thought it up to you whether you live or die.  You seem to be having difficulties making that choice for yourself but don't let my face scare you, I'm a kind old fool and thought you should have another chance."

It all came back to me.  My suicide.  My miraculous resurrection on the rocks and how I had subsequently drowned.  Or maybe I hadn't.  I couldn't have drowned could I?  Not totally, because I was here now.

Jonas kept talking but I hardly took in the words.  Something about death and life and turning of wheels.  I looked around at the cabin.  It contained two other beds, both with the same rough grey fabric that covered me.  Decoration was sparse and the grey paint on the walls was disheartening.  The only break from the grey was two pictures hung next to the door.  The first was of a whale.  The other of a blue wizard's hat and at the bottom of the picture I could just see that it was being worn by someone.  I lay back on the bed.  Started to drift away into sleep.  Until Jonas said something that brought me back to full alertness.

"Your friend wasn't so lucky."

"Wha .. wha ... what friend?"

"That other woman who was with you.  Sorry to have to tell you.  She's dead.  Won't be coming back to life any time soon either.  Not with the state of her.  I really don't understand how these things work.  There she is, all puffy and her skin a total mess.  Looks like she's been sleeping with the fishes for days.  And there you are, all bright eyes and perky in the first mate's bunk, with your skin all smooth and gorgeous as if you had only been out for a quick dip.  Say, you're not related are you?  She's all puffed up and it's a very sorry sight but she looks a bit like you.  Stuck her down in the freezer until we get to a port if that's okay.  Don't tell me you were out with your family and lost them all.  Not that.  Oh, why must I be so insensitive all the time?"

I understood.  My corpse from the rocks had obviously washed out too and been picked up with me in some freak of currents.  The bloated flesh was odd but I guessed that stranger things had happened.  Somewhere.  At least once.

"Can I see her?"

"Later, later.  There's plenty of time for that.  We won't be in port for a day or two unless that changes.  First off you should eat.  Must be hungry after nearly drowning and all.  I've put out some clothes for you on the other bed.  Yes, yes, you're naked.  I've seen it all.  Too late.  But I don't care about any of that and don't suppose you want to stay that way.  They're not much to look at and won't fit well but they're better than nothing.  Can get a bit cold on deck too when the wind takes us."

"Thank you captain.  You're too good to me."

"Nonsense lass.  Nonsense.  It's nothing.  Shame about the other one though."

"Was it bad?  How broken is she?  How bad do her injuries look?"

"Injuries?  Oh my no.  No injuries.  You don't get injured in the sea unless something eats you or you get stung by jellyfish or electric eels or find yourself caught up in the propeller of an ocean liner."  He laughed heartily.  "Injuries indeed.  My, my, you do have some funny ideas about the sea don't you?!"

Maybe I didn't understand after all.

"Please, I need to see her.  Need to know.  I couldn't eat a thing without knowing."

"Calm yourself.  Calm yourself.  Get yourself dressed and I'll take you down there.  She's not going anywhere.  And then afterwards I'll tell you what's what and you can help me clean the net.  It'll do you good.  Otherwise you'll just be thinking about it.  Why you're alive and the other one is very, very dead."

He left me then.  I got out of the bed.  Examined my body.  Everything was where it should be and I had to admit my skin really was quite gorgeous and smooth.  Where it should be?  Not quite.  It should be smashed up on the rocks and then washed into the sea.  If indeed the waves dislodged my corpse from those spikes.  That's where I should be.  Quite dead.  But nothing had gone to plan since I jumped from the cliff.  Nothing much had gone to plan in the year before jumping.  Otherwise I guess I would never have wanted to die so much.

As I dressed into Jonas' clothes I reflected that, having died twice, I didn't want to do it again.  I wanted to live.  Find a future.  Turn from all those things which had gone wrong and forge something new.  New town.  New people.  New everything.  I could do it.  Why not?  If others could sort their lives out why not me?  I didn't know why I wasn't dead.  Twice.  A rush of gratitude coursed through me and I burst into tears.

Once I had composed myself I left the cabin and found myself in a simple galley kitchen.  Jonas was there.  He took one look at me and burst out laughing.  "I'm sorry.  You do look funny though.  Dwarfed by my clothes.  And grey really isn't your colour.  I'll find you something in a bit to hold up those trousers.  Can't have you having to hold them up yourself all the time, not that I care.  Come on, I'll take you down to the other one now."

He led me out onto the deck of the boat, helping me climb the steep ladder from the galley although I didn't really need assistance.  On the deck I saw several fishing nets and various equipment that I hardly understood.  There was a wooden building at the front that looked close to collapse. Inside I could see the top of a steering wheel.  And that was it.  Everything was painted in the same grey as the cabin.

Jonas opened a trapdoor that had blended perfectly with the deck.  "Get a move on," he said, "I don't know about you but I want my lunch and if we don't hurry it'll be dinner time already and we'll be wanting to turn the clocks for a ham sandwich."

We climbed down another ladder.  This time I was offered no assistance.  In the room below there were several large freezers.  They all had their doors open.  All were empty.  And in the middle of the room were two smaller chest freezers.  "One's for my food.  The other's for just in case," Jonas explained.  "Wouldn't want the just in cases to get mixed with my food would I?  Even so they nearly didn't give me the second one.  Took weeks of arguing.   Seriously though?  Would you want to keep your fish fingers in the same box as your human fingers."

He laughed again.  I didn't.

"Sorry.  I guess that joke was in bad taste.  She's in that one on the right.  I'm off now.  Make lunch for us while I still can.  And then you can tell me about yourself and I can fill in the gaps."

Jonas left and I opened the freezer.  Laid out flat inside was a human corpse.  Bloated, distended, discoloured by the water and by having been dead for a while.  I could still see her face though.  It was mine.  I looked closer and reached in to check.  There were no obvious wounds.  No breakages.  Nothing to show where I had been impaled or shattered on the rocks.  I realised with a start that this wasn't that corpse.

The miracle had happened again.  I really had drowned.  Days ago probably.  And this was my corpse.  Or at least my second corpse.  Somehow I stood here.  Alive.  While I also lay here frozen on a fishing boat with no fish.  Somewhere, presumably, there was another version of me.  I stared at myself a little longer.  Closed the freezer.  And sank to the floor, uncomprehending, not wanting to face the questions that would come.  Perhaps my death would become harder than my life ever was.


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