You really don't need
it after a hard and sweaty day at work.
It's been another deliciously patterned week containing very little of moment and yet full of the diversity of incident that make for a rich life. I am pleased to be moving away from adrenaline inducing intensity to a different, more gladsome intensity of finding joy in the day-to-day business of living.
Take the weather - a typically English choice. Well, the hot weather has now arrived and, of course, we are all complaining of the heat and the pollution. Though I have to admit that wandering around the centre of London on Saturday night when the air was warm and balmy wearing only thin cotton trousers, a polo shirt and sneakers was a delight after months of restrictive, heavy clothing.
But, of course, as soon as the weather gets better, a whole new set of
troubles start. For example, the transport infrastructure starts breaking
down. Tuesday morning, it was a trackside fire causing problems near Kings
Cross. Wednesday evening, there was a fire alert at Euston Station compounded
by a track failure (what does that mean?) near Moorgate. The Tuesday incident
added a mere 20 minutes to my inward journey. Wednesday added over 40 minutes
to the journey home. Thursday night, the Angel tube station was closed because
of a fire alert but this did not affect me. Gordon Bennett.
You really don't need
it after a hard and sweaty day at work.
Swimming at lunchtime really does have its bonuses. Not only is it cooling and
refreshing but it's also having a good effect in taking some of the stresses
out of my body. Anita, my aromatherapist, gave me a going over on Thursday night.
Apparently, my muscle tone is much better
which must be down to the yoga and the swimming. She agrees with me that, in the
last three weeks since I saw her, I've certainly done a lot to become more centred
in my body and less fizzy in my head. Mind you this is not entirely surprising
since the last time I saw her was when I was wrestling with the prospect of telling
Ross that I wanted to change the nature of
our relationship. And, since I bit the bullet with regards to that one, much else
has fallen into place.
We are getting on well, by the way. I'm looking forward to visiting him next (Bank Holiday) weekend. We've discussed the sleeping arrangements and it seems that there's little chance of avoiding sharing a bed. Ross was quick to say that sleeping together didn't mean that we had to have sex. I appreciated what he was offering (a safe space if we both needed it) but I'm afraid I laughed uproariously. Well, the idea that he and I could share a bed and not fiddle with each other's bits is completely off the wall. We may as well admit now that we still fancy each other stupid no matter what the status of our relationship.
I do feel antsy about the idea of us having sex, however. I want to. Yes. I lust after him. I want the touch of him, the taste of him, the smell of him, the sound of him and the sight of him. I need a confirmation of his positive feelings for me and I need for them to be communicated at the extremities of the spiritual sex that we have when breathing and sweat and bodies merge.
And yet. It's very desirable. He's very desirable. Desire, my instincts tell me, can be dangerous. It can cloud your vision of what's right and wrong. I don't want to cause damage. Hell, I don't want to be damaged. And I'm not sure what signals and messages we are sending each other if we say that we are leading separate, independent lives and then roger each other into the next dimension the first time we see each other.
It's worth saying a brief word about energies. One of the things that I've come to acknowledge of late is how much time I've spent in the company of young men and their energies over the past few years. And, frankly, though they are upbeat (generally) and frolicsome, they are demanding and draining and exhausting. I'm seeing that I do need, for all sorts of reasons, the company of my peers and the company of women. In fact one of the reasons that I enjoy yoga is that it is attended mainly by women who are around my age or older. They have a relaxed approach to it all and they don't do what they don't want to do - which is refreshing for me who is gripped by a compulsion to do more than my best at everything. The group as a whole will not be forced to anything and on some occasions, if a particular posture is unpopular, Davina, the leader, will be left demonstrating on her own whilst we all sit quietly and observe. I find that quite healthy.
To other matters. Frank Sinatra is dead. I love his vocal qualities as much as I love those of Ella Fitzgerald. He had ease, he had poise, he had elegance, he had swing. When Richard and I had our Affirmation Ceremony in January of 1990, I used Let's Take it Nice and Easy and You Make Me Feel So Young as the soundtrack. It's worth taking a moment to salute the artistic achievement.
Less so at ENO. I was there again on Saturday night for a performance of Purcell's The Fairy Queen. I know that the piece is problematic in that it doesn't really have a proper book. So, the decision to scrap the surrounding dialogue and just give the music was supportable. And the use of dance was in keeping with the masque. But it was such a dated Euro-trashy conception - all mixed historical periods and tacky drag and scenery you could see behind so that you could literally deconstruct it. I really would like to have seen someone like Philip Prowse or Peter Greenaway give us a sumptuous modern response to the genre.
The performers gave their uttie. Best vocal moment went to Yvonne Kenny's glorious and moving rendition of the plaint Oh, let me ever, ever weep. But it was thin gruel by any standards.
A final thing before I go to Quaker meeting and then off to the South Bank to meet up with uk.glb people to go to the Anish Kapoor exhibition at the Hayward Gallery - I now have a fabby lounger for my back garden. This has been a bit of a saga. I looked around with mum and dad when they visited a couple of weeks ago and found one that I liked in Homebase priced £130. Or, in other words, too much. Last weekend, my next door neighbour, Kathy, and I went out to near Harlow to the garden centre there and found the same model at the same price. Hummph!!
Kathy suggested I tried a local place that was reputed to be cheaper. So I did and, by
the looks of things, it probably operates on the fringes of legality. However, I bought
the self-same style of garden lounger for £32. So, I'm well chuffed and I don't care
which lorry it was. 