The Lost People

How do you define yourself when you lose the people you care about? When you've spent a life shaping your self around other people, around their thoughts and wants and values and needs? How do you work out who you are when they go? When they die. When they're taken prematurely, or when it just seems that way. When you have so many friends that you have to run the risk of losing more than your fair share every year. This year there have been three, but one has made a larger impression. He was the most wonderful person, and he didn't deserve to go like that. His girlfriend of two-and-a-half years has been leaving comments on his Facebook profile. I've been looking at his profile every day; it's as if I feel that by staring at it and willing him back, he'll come home to us. 

And you can lose friends in other ways too. Sometimes it's harder to lose those who don't die: those who fade away, those who leave, those who disown you for leaving your religion or who stop speaking to you because they're jealous of your relationships. When you've spent your life shaping yourself around people who go away, what happens to the shaped parts of you? Do they leave with them? Do you gradually become stripped of your self, bit by bit, piece by piece, as the people who know, love and define you leave? 

/

I didn't know how terrified I was until the phone rang. 

My First Meme

1. Where is your cell phone? On a Persian rug

2. Your significant other? Exists

3. Your hair? Unnatural

4. Your mother? Once had braids

5. Your father? Travels frequently

6. Your favourite thing? Julie Andrews

7. Your dream last night? I'm not sure I had one. The night before I did. The night before, I had many.

8. Your favourite drink? Coffee

9. You're proud to be...? I cannot be proud of something that is not mine to be proud of. 

10. What Room you are in? The one with the colourful mattress.

11. Favorite food? Hoummous

12. Your fear? Empty shoes

13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? There is no point in attempting to contemplate the future. 

14. Where were you last night? The same place I am in now.

15. Something that you aren't? Iranian

16. Something you want? I want for nothing. 

17. Wish list item? See above 

18. Where you grew up? I'm not sure I have

19. Last thing you did? Sat down

20. What are you wearing? A corset, a ripped skirt and a small top. 

21. Last thing you ate? Yoghurt

22. Your pets? I have none.

23. Your job? Work is worthless.

24. Your life? Is where you live. 

25. Your mood? Tired. Irritated. 

26. Missing someone? Never

27. Your car? Is still in the driveway of my old house. 

28. Something you're not wearing? Shoes

29. Your favorite color? Deep blue, like the bottom of a lake. 

30. Favorite item of clothing? Corset

31. Favorite person? My husband. My fiance. My life. 

32. Favorite Vacation? Vacations are even more worthless than work. 

33. When is the last time you laughed? Today 

34. Last time you cried? There are no tears in Bralingyr. 

35. Who will resend this? Not applicable. 

36. One place that I go to over and over? Outside

37. One person who emails me regularly? Maxx

39. One place I would like to go right now? Voodoo

40. One person I think will respond? Not applicable. 

41. One TV show I watch all the time? I have no need of television.

Latscho Drom

If you see a feather, 

Suis-le, suis-le. 

If you see a feather, 

Latscho drom. 

If you see a feather,

Suis-le loin de moi. 

If you see a feather, 

Latscho drom.

Te aves baxtulo, 

Suis-le, suis-le.

When you see a feather, 

Latscho drom. 

If you see a feather, 

Suis-le, suis-le. 

If you see a feather, 

Latscho drom. 

West End Final

The man shouting 'Evening Standard' is sounding like he's saying 'Free Light Sternum'.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I sometimes wonder if my creative days are over; if the flame of inspiration has finally burned out. That's what they all used to say to me at Essjes; "You've got to slow down; you've got to stop, or you'll get burnout." Apart from the obvious grammatical issues, it always confused me. Or perhaps 'bemused' is a better word. Yes, I might die young. Probably will, in fact. But what's wrong with that? What is so terrible about living a short but fulfilling life, rather than dragging the whole sorry process out over decades? These days, I don't want to die. I feel like I've wasted two years, and I want to make them up: I want to re-become. 

I was nearly there, in Souten. I was nearly who I wanted to be. Or nearly on the way there. And then along came Arthur, and then Outilschmidt, and then marriage; and now look at me. Fat, dumpy, needy; and, worst of all, comfortable. I'd almost rather be working in Shooze; in a place further down the career ladder where I didn't ultimately give a shit about my job, but where I could be myself at the end of the day. And during the day, where I could be someone totally different from myself. 

The wind seems to believe I'm thinking in the right direction.

She must become herself again, or there will be no point in her continuing to live.

It's been so long since I did anything of any purpose in the world. I fucking hate myself, hate what I've become. A shell. A shell with no principles. I can understand why people turn to religion. When I was religious, even though I didn't believe the cuntwallop they spouted, I had a reason to act in a way befitting to a good religious girl. Quite what that reason was, I'm not sure I could say. Belief. So much of what we do depends on belief. I'm heading for the gate in the field because I don't believe I can jump the fence. But is that the only reason why I couldn't? As a kid, I tried all sorts of things, believing I could do them. And I rarely, if ever, failed. Now look at me. The confidant girl, full of belief, of faith - her own and others' - has switched these for love and trust, neither of which comes naturally to her. She has become Me, and that is someone I definitely do not like. 

IWANTTOFUCKINGKILLYOUKILLYOUKILLYOUKILLYOUALL

I am a raving psychopath and my name is Betty.

A Friday

Was at the old church in Pushton, and there's a garden out the back. In the garden was a small kennel-shaped thing, painted red and yellow. I wasn't really paying much attention to it, or to anything else, but the man on the platform was being boring, so I was watching the trees outside (this was frequently the case). It got to the end of the meeting, and a small girl crawled out of the kennel on her hands and knees. She looked about... I don't know... somewhere between 2 and 4. She had light brown hair and Japanese-English features. Someone said "Sabrina's awake!" and everyone turned to look. By this time, many people had left the hall already, I'd already said goodbye to Laurienne in the car park and been cornered by Emil and Derek in the toilets. I was back in the main hall trying to make my mother leave. Anyway... Sabrina's mother (tiny Japanese woman) left quietly, without her daughter. An old woman called Maud began talking quietly about what had been happening. Her daughter Amy was explaining to me and everyone listening that Sabrina had been in the kennel for two years and hadn't woken up before today. We were all watching her crawling across the lawn. A man went outside and picked her up, took her over to a hole in the ground nearer the hall itself, tied a rope around her ankles, and lowered her into the hole. She smiled and giggled. He did it again. Then he kept doing it, over and over again, faster and faster, she looked more and more scared, her features started to melt away to reveal a rotting skeleton child, and I woke up.

/

Sitting in her usual spot on the train - the floor in between two carriages - she had her weekly breakfast. She held firmly to the belief that a person needed no more than three meals a week, and this was what she had: breakfast on a Monday, lunch on a Thursday, dinner on a Saturday or Sunday. It may have accounted for her slim figure; 'to die for', pepole often seemed to say. And she nearly had. She smiled conspiratorially to herself, trying to ignore the nagging toothache that was creeping through her right jaw. 

#

The meeting with Seraphina passed uneventfully yet interestingly, as was always the case. They started off in a coffee shop owned by Seraphina's friend, but when marriage and Beltane celebrations had been discussed and she had brought up the next subject of conversation, it was agreed that they must go somewhere more private.



The look of pain that flitted briefly across her best friend's face made the girl sad to have told her, but not regretful. Seraphina could be trusted with anything, of this she was as sure as she was of the very fact that she lived. They talked about Lea, and Seraphina could not quite conceal the pleased glint in her eye when the girl explained that, whilst she loved Lea dearly, there were things she could never discuss with her; almost anything, in fact.



"They're organised, Seph", she said in a shaky voice her friend had rarely heard before. "I recognised two of them; I can't remember where from, but there was only one place I ever saw them... or one situation, I suppose..." Her voice trailed out, and Seraphina stayed very still before advising her to continue. They talked in euphemisms, as always: 'please him', 'friends', 'other ones'. It had always been their way to have a code, generally made up as they went along. Smiling, she remembered a chat from a time long ago:

'He's a fucking him.'

'A him-him?'

'Well, yes. But not like him him-him.'

They had continued until the words began to take on that weird, ethereal quality words had when you looked at them for too long, then they had stopped and moved on to something else. Barry the Busman, as he had been known to them, had teased them about it for a long time afterwards. Secretly, Barry the Busman had known, and they had known he had known, and that he had kept an eye on them subtly; and for this they had always been grateful, though they would never have dreamed of admitting it.

Admissions, she thought, plodding towards the station, clutching the piece of paper on which Seraphina had inscribed her most important morcels of advice, did not come easily to the clandestine.

~

'This is fascinating', she thought. Then, a little while later, 'I need a pee.' Such irreverent things fluttered through her mind, occupying her grey matter cells as Ant's coffin lay on the altar at the front of the hall. She assumed it was an altar, anyway. Never having frequented a 'normal' church, she wasn't really sure. Colleen and Bill came in, with a tall boy she had never seen before, but who bore such a resemblance to Ant that it had to be his brother Thomas. Colleen looked terrible, as could be expected. More than terrible, she thought; positively Glaswegian. The thought made her smile, and she glanced around guiltily. More than a couple of times already she had been in danger of giggling, and she was sneaking another clandestine glance at her watch when a rotund reverend approached the pulpit and began to speak.

It was obvious that he was trying not to cry. Colleen was shaking; shaking like the woman she had once known who shook all the time. Like a Polaroid picture, thought the girl, and the song started playing again in her head. At least it was all on a theme, she pondered, as Hey Ya was replaced with Big Girls Don't Cry. Not that she was going to cry, of course; it wasn't her style. Thinking of Ant dead... well, people did die, didn't they? It was a fact of life. He hadn't been the closest of friends; she'd lost far more precious people in her time; and she stood by her belief that losing people who were still alive was far worse than losing people to death. For death brought with it no apprehension, no uncertainty, no prospect of subsequent unexpected reunion. Thinking of Leila or Sidhe hurt far more than thinking about Ant, though in a different way.

Despite convincing herself she was entirely unaffected, she was pleased and comforted when Steve walked past, resting his hand on her arm for a moment and glancing at her just long enough for her to know he was there if she needed him. She knew it had been Bernadette really, the reason why she had been taken in to the family, but Steve had accepted her more than willingly, and for this she was very grateful. Bernadette wasn't there: a good thing, really, for she was one of those people in front of whom she would have felt ashamed about appearing too strong. Though Bernadette would not have been surprised, she thought, as the music started and people began exiting the building. Cutting through the crowd, she scuttled off to where Carys was waiting in the car, still as dry-eyed as she had been for a long time now.

'What's the matter? You're not letting her get to you, are you?' 

Heather made no answer. 'Have you ever read Tess of the d'Urbervilles?'

'I saw the film. I'm not much of a reader. Nor are you, though. Why do you ask?'

'Oh, I don't know.' She did know, he thought, but didn't want to say. 'I had to read it when I was at school. Not for O levels, it was before that. I was nearly fourteen.'

Puzzled, Edmond said, 'Did you enjoy it?'

'When you don't read much, things you do read stick in your mind. But it doesn't matter. I'm going to bed. Are you coming?'

For the first time since he had met her he sensed in her an absence of trust. It seemed to him that perfect confidence had existed between them but did so no longer. She hadn't lied but she had hidden the truth and for a little while - only a very little while, he hoped, only this evening - she had separated herself from him.' ~ p. 165

`

She was, to all intents and purposes, the perfect employee. Hajar had emailed her that morning, asking her to work overtime - two days' worth of overtime in one day, in fact - and she had replied with an enthusiastic 'yes'. She had demanded no recompense; partly, thought Hajar, because she knew one would come; but also partly because none was needed. She wasn't that kind of girl. Then, about halfway through the afternoon, tagged on the end of an email about the work she was doing, Hajar found a discreet note explaining that she might have to take another day off, and apologising. This was out of character: Hajar read on. Two of her friends had died within a week of each other, it explained. Separate incidents; very strange. She may or may not go to the second funeral; if she did, she hoped it would be alright to take the day off and apologised again for the inconvenience. Hajar marvelled at her most senior employee's tone. No fuss was made; this was not her style; but equally, she was so strong it seemed almost inhuman. Hajar thought back to the day before, when she had arrived at the office, joking with Les about her morning run, chatting with Skye and Callie about Jeremy Clarkson, laughing at Tom's jibe when she said she would be away on Thursday. No one but Hajar knew she would be at a funeral. The girl was impossibly strong, thought Hajar again. Impossibly so. Sighing, she sent a sympathetic but non-fussy email in reply, wondering what her favoured employee was doing right now. 

She was, in fact, walking to the nearest village to pick up the shopping. Bralingyr was located quite literally in the middle of nowhere - which was why she and Lothario had chosen it as their home - and travelling to the shop usually meant taking one of the hourly buses that rumbled past on the quiet country road. Not today, though. Today she had decided to walk. It was only four miles, after all; and already she had seen the most beautiful deer, so large it was almost the size of a horse, watching her through the trees. On she had hurried, past the self-proclaimed 'character offices' holding a marketing firm and a lawyer's bolthole, past the farm gates, down the long lane. She crossed the road at Stone Hall and walked past the Star garage, debating the wisdom of stepping inside for a coffee. She decided against, did the shopping and hopped on a bus home. 

Arriving back, she realised why people had been smiling at her all day. It was out of character for a small village in Yakmount, where mostly the people looked like miniature rainclouds on legs, grey and grunting, seemingly unable to make humane conversation. She sighed as she noticed her spotted pyjama bottoms still adorning her legs; her dress, hanging half off of her fairy-like frame, looked like a skirt with a couple of tassels. She had no bra on; at this revelation, she baulked, having grown up amongst the Roma, an intensely modest people. She did, at least, have three layers on, as well as her purple jumper. Her hair was quite obviously the product of a manic home-chopping episode, though few would ever realise quite how manic such times were. Lothario would laugh, she thought, putting the milk in the airing cupboard before remembering the fridge. 

Yawning deeply, she plopped down in the largest wicker chair and picked up the phone to call Lea. Another day, another lapse of brain, she thought to herself, and dialled the number she felt terribly guilty for not knowing by heart. 

Growing Green

Lea is one of my closest friends, and the only person with whom I am ever 'girly'. Today she sent me a message regarding the shop she runs - a beautiful place from which she sells all sorts of exciting things - saris, corsets, ouija boards... which may explain the customer she had today: 

'...just had some woman in fast talking, trying to confuse me and haggling to the point of nearly breaking me down to prices I could scarce afford. She said she was a gypsy and said she'd give me a charm, and then claimed to be one of the seven sisters... That's a bit cheeky... Or have I just invoked a cursing?'

To keep her mind at rest (and the gypsy woman's at unrest, if haggling with my friend she shall be), I replied: 

'Ask her which of the three she is, and tell her you have a friend who is first and third. If she's invoked a curse I'll remedy it... war of the gypsy women!'

Of course, I would never turn against one of my own. Not without good cause, anyway. But I imagine Lea's feeling both more confused and (hopefully) less worried. My work here is done.

Prayer of a Gypsy Girl

Amaro Dadus

Saro jives dray o tem opray

Be sherrafo tiro nar

Avel tiro

Be kaired tiro buti

Oprey o poor sardrey o tem oprey

Del mandi to-divvus amaro divvesko morro

Ta fordel mandi mandi's pizarripens

Sar mandi fordels wafor mushes lengues pizarripens

Ta ma sik mandi o drom te temptation

But lel mandi abri fon wafodupen for tiro se o tem

O ruslipen ta o corami

Cana ta ever-komi

So covar ajaw.

The First Three Minutes (and the last)

I reacted in pretty much the same way. I’m not so good at taking anything seriously, at least not in front of other people. “You have three weeks”, they said. “No I don’t”, I replied. “You are going to die in three weeks”, they said. “No I’m not”, I replied. “I have to do my A-levels.”And I did. And now, three years on, heading a department of an advertising company, researching Psychology at one of the UK’s top universities, I’m still trying to keep my secret secret. My fiance knows. My two best friends know. And that’s about it. My employer has no idea, my research teammates are in the dark. I don’t intend to go out wih a bang, to a fanfare of people who’ve been hanging over the edge of my deadly precipice, awaiting the moment when I’ll fall and all the while trying to catch me. For most people, it will be very sudden, and totally unexpected. For a select few, it’ll be utterly unsurprising, and they will have been preparing for some time. As will I. As will I. 

A Letter

Darling, 

I love you. And I'm sorry about the boxes. There are so many and they are so full. You may read anything you find, though I don't recommend it; keeping the contents to yourself afterwards will hurt too much. 

Why am I doing this? I don't know. I just think it might be necessary. 

If I'm not here when you get back, it's not because I don't want to be.

Remember that.

I love you. I want to say how much, or what it's like, or the way I feel when I see you, but there are no words and I don't know how. 

I love you. Remember my pie. 

Forever Yours, 

VC

Grace

'There are many Graces, Gilles, more than you know, more than you will ever know... Grace has not changed, she cannot change. What you have seen is one of the ghosts she keeps inside her; the Grace she might have been.' ~ p. 285

¬

The woman behind her couldn't help noticing that she pressed the button to open the door with the utmost care, quite obviously in no rush. She waited, three fingers placed in a triangle on the raised word 'Open'; and, when lit, she pressed it gently, once. Waited again. The door opened. She stepped down; onto the step first, then the platform. Strode across to the other side, sipping her coffee. Sat down. Stared intently at the track, removed a small piece of paper from the book she was carrying, and began to read.

 

Afterwards, the woman would wonder why she had been quite so enthralled by the person in front of her; why she had paid attention to her every step. She would receive no answer, for none was needed.

 

The girl got on the next train and cut across the crowd between the carriages, heading for the open door of the cramped toilet. Luckily, there was no leakage today; unusually. The girl smiled, amused that on the day she was leaking, the toilet was not. 'Period costume', her husband called it. She looked at herself in the mirror, pulled out a powder compact from her bag. Creating her mask, she saluted the door with the middle finger of her right hand as someone tried it to see if it was locked. Her make-up took no more than thirty seconds, then she was out again, smiling at the woman who had rattled the door as she walked past, plonked herself gracelessly down on the floor and opened her book. 

Turn Around

The hair falls, blonde and long: 

A cherished doll. Birdsong

Echoes through the dale as

Twilight casts its gaze and vixens wail. 

Sparks driven out as spikes driven in

Places gone, things untold; people she's been. 

An openness; the silky vapour

Evaporates, yet cannot escape her

Cocoa eyes, wide as the day they met. 

He sees her yet. He hears her yet. 

Though she says no words, casts a glance

Over her shoulder, flying askance

Ringlets quiver in the breeze, 

Yet in the shadows of the trees 

No man appears

And yet she hears

A pheasant's cry: the yellowest canary

Its song a desperate scream, contrary;

Muntjacs dance with target tails, 

But the vixen, ever hidden, wails. 

Hush... Father Earth is Sleeping

Frozen Carrots and Onion Tea

She dropped down onto the floor and picked up her kitsch lips phone to call Carys, fishing a suspect-looking object out of her tea first. She put it on the floor and studied it. What was it? A slice of onion, she thought. She grimaced, hoping the flavour had not yet pervaded the brew itself. 

Carys picked up after three rings. "Hi!", she said cheerily; "I'm just painting the fence! Lovely day!" Carys' introductory sentences often ended in exclamation marks; you could hear them down the phone line. Grunting noises ensued as she juggled paintbrushes, tins and phones and cups of tea, then a happy sigh. Carys was ready to converse. 

"So," she asked, "how go the plans?" 

"Fine: it'll be at Bralingyr, obviously. Everyone's coming, as far as I know; though Eve's being elusive. She hates social occasions almost as much as I do, so I wouldn't be surprised if she didn't turn up..." 

"She'll be there. It's Beltane; how could she not be?" 

The conversation continued; they'd use the back garden down to the river; lanterns would be strung from trees; people would bring food for a picnic. Those who wanted to would stay over, though this would probably be mainly Lothario's friends. 

Arrangements were made for Ant's funeral the next week. He'd died young, wrapping his car around a tree, forgetting cars have no hippie sympathies and aren't good for treehugging. She would be travelling down to the sea, though it was far away, to see him off. His life was worth that, damn it. 

Carys was going to work; She hung up the phone feeling a little brighter. Walked into the kitchen, picked up a carrot from the fridge. Bit into it: frozen. Sighing, she made another cup of tea; no onions this time. Retreated into the music room and sat down on the bed to read. 

Playing Sleuth

I have been reading too many detective novels recently (this one at the moment), and have decided to play sleuth for my own benefit too. 

A child went missing some time ago in the Eddas region of Seifa, a country not too far from my own. At the time, I thought very little of it, whilst wishing the missing child well and hoping for her safe return. Yet a while after this, whilst on a social networking site, I noticed that a man I had known as a child (or rather, I should say, a man who knew me when I was a child) had been in Seifa for a while. I made no connection until lying in bed one night with my husband Lothario, who pointed out that it may not be entirely coincidence that Genoise went missing at the same time as the man was in Seifa. So now I am sleuthing. So far, I have discovered very little; but this does not mean I will find nothing. Many negatives in that sentence, but nevermind.

Wish me luck. I will need it.  

Facebook Nonsense

Adding people on Facebook required me to type words in boxes, 

just so they knew I wasn't a robot. Here are the words:

MILLVILLE during 203 Diving money United phia Elkins Tragedy Pattin 780,000 Drandt oldied winds reported 0-1 munity 

Wendish drops Ill

Well hello there

Hi. I'm Heidi. I'm like a mini-person, though there's a high level of debate amongst my friends about whether I'm actually a human being at all. 

 

I like long words and short showers, hot baths and cold days, stormy weather at the beach and calm people to converse with. 

 

I live on caffeine. And air, obviously. And water, which is useful. 

 

I would love to own a bookshop, mainly so that I could be Bernard from Black Books. I am more like Mac from Green Wing though, in some ways; and also rather like Alan Statham. I can name all sorts of British birds, because I was very boring as a child and liked to watch them. 

 

If you have no idea what Black Books and Green Wing are, you really need to see them. Now. Along with Dylan Moran and Bill Bailey generally. 

 

I befriend anyone who is unlucky enough to cross my path, and make no distinctions between five-year-olds and fifty-year-olds. Because really, they're all the same. People. 

 

I am terrified of human beings, but manage to function among them because I have to. I have numerous jobs, though not as many as I did when I lived in London. I think living in the City made me work more: there's an attitude of stress that you can cut with a knife. Now I live in the countryside, and I'm a little more chilled.