Journal Entries
Poo and Plops
Posted Oct 17, 1999
Age 6 or 7 ?
From time to time I take the mirror from Mum and Dad's bedroom and lock myself in the bathroom. I place it on the floor. It tilts. I then make a bed of loo paper, squat over the paper and watch myself pooing. I watch as the dough like lumps slip from my bum and drop lifeless onto the floor. Part of me as it emerges, squeezing out as my anus stretches like the shutter bit on Dad's camera when he takes the lens off. It might be alive, being part of me, but when it breaks it dies.
Curiosity satisfied I wrap the plops (small ones) and poos (bigger ones) in the loo paper and flush them away.
My books on the body don't tell me anything about this.
From time to time I go to hospital to be x-rayed. I’m not allowed breakfast, then I have to swallow a jug full of white gloopy stuff. They then watch it in my tummy. When it comes out it looks like poodle poo.
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Nurse Katey - Potting Training and other matters
Posted Oct 17, 1999
Nurse Katey
I remember Nurse Katey for three things: potty training, (how to make a small boy me go), tying one's shoelaces (took practice) and how to avoid peeing on the cloakroom floor (she had it all wrong). Oh yes, and being the person to whom my baby sister Joanna was a bridesmaid). And then we never saw her again. No. I saw her when I was 18 and again in my early twenties.
Beadnell, the cottage. Mid 60's (the year, not the temperature). I'm upstairs in Mum and Dad's room. My bed is in the corner. There is woven matting on the floor, woven squares with a four leaf flower pattern in them. I'm on the potty. Nurse Katey, in a navy blue uniform with white ruffs, crouches down to my eyeline and grimaces. She's in pain. I haven't a clue what she is playing at. She does it again. I think she wants me to do the same. I mimic her. She encourages me. I grimace even harder, screwing y face up into a ball. And of course it works. I do a log like shit. Unfortunately it is longer than the potty is deep. I'm stuck. Nurse Katey grimaces. I grimace back. But is no good. I lift my bottom from the rim of the potty and try to push a bit more without toppling over. Nurse Katey tucks her arms around me to save me from falling on my face. The log leaves my body and I resolve never to use a potty again. I don't.
Orchard House. The hall downstairs. Sitting on the stairs. Nurse Katey wants to tell me how to avoid peeing on the floor. She suggests that I should sit on the loo, that way when I wee there won't be any accidents. I know this won't work, I know this is useless. I know from experience that if I sit down to do a wee I end up squirting piddle out between the gap between the loo seat and the loo bowl. I have to use both hands to stop myself falling INTO the toilet so when my tidily fills up it as straight out across the floor.
I sit as told, try hard just to dribble, but have to let go, and as I predicted, I consequently squirt a jet of pee out across the floor. Keen not to disappoint Nurse Katey I unravel a bundle of loo roll and use it to mop up the mess. Sadly, because the entire cloakroom floor is polished wood, there is a sad, dark stain on the wood anyway. Next time I'll stand. A few little dribbles has to be better than a few long squirts.
Compared to Potty Training and Dribbles on the Cloakroom Floor, tying shoelaces should have been a doddle. It wasn't. She sits in front of me and shows me how. When I try myself I try to see my feet from her point of view. I can't fathom it out for a while. Grandpa did it, he leant over my shoulder and did up my laces. That makes more sense, I can see now how the fingers go.
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Teenagers Break Up
Posted Oct 17, 1999
August 1979
Deadlines. I've set a deadline. A cut-off point. A point of no return. Something to build towards. The end of the game. All this jabbing and pumping. All this book reading. SN and I have taken the experimentation as far as we could care. Hasn't she used my body as much as I've used hers ? Blame it on Shere Hite. Blame it on the pill. Blame it on FF - she was the one who told me SN was on the pill in the first place, probably just to deflect attention away from her. A clever diversionary tactic which transferred my allegiances over night.
SN has left school having taken an A/0 in Biology. It's like having an affair with an older woman. Her goals are now so different to mine, so stuck, so adult, so clearly spelt out. She's two months younger than me ... two months ? Like Mum and Dad look what happened to them. Same age relationships never work (look at my parents). An age gap is crucial. SN's already too grown up for me. I'm in no hurry to have a job. I can understand why Dad left. He stuck on 32 for a decade while Mum wore herself out bringing up 4 kids. Had it been his intention to marry a woman 10 years his senior ?
SN and I would end eventually. She knew it. I knew it. It began to suffer from predetermined terminal illness. That note. Getting it into the open tarnished what fun remained. We wouldn't let go, not unless we had to. We continued to service each other in bed, took it in turns, tit for tat. I do that she does this, no giving, all taking, bargaining and routine. Admit it. I'm keeping SN on 'til things develop with VL - if they develop with VL.
It's like using stepping stones to cross a river in a blind-fold. I'm not going to move forward 'til I know I have a sure footing in front.
I hope SN'll meet a doctor at the Freeman Hospital. That way we'd part on equal terms, feeling mutually satisfied at what we'd got out of each other ... how I'd describe the whole relationship, mutually satisfied. We took everything in turn. I gave a bit of that, she gave a bit of this .. time of my life. It was my schooling. Practice makes perfect. Self-inclined. Harmless and free. A good grounding in sex. All teenagers should be so lucky. Here on in I'd be master, the one with the know-how.
Our split was comical when it came. Imagine a Buster Keaton sketch. Imagine him in a motor-bike with a side-car. His girl is in the side car. What happens at the junction ? He takes himself off in one direction and she takes herself off in the other. She screams as the self-propelled, side-car grinds to a halt on the hard shoulder til a copper comes along and gives her a hand. A few years later she marries him.
That note reminding me to get VL's address was a frank confession, revelation. It was like an entry in a private journal. The problem with a diary is that it gives life to passing thought. Hidden thoughts. Ideas and meaning that would never be expressed openly. I remember my earliest Five Year Diary being gathered up and read out in the Junior Common Room at Sedbergh. I was ridiculed as it ridiculed them. There was neither wit, nor charm, in it just privacy exposed. My clumsy words had no edge to them. It was like threatening a gladiator with a banana. Never put your thoughts down in writing. Never reveal your motives. I've found that out.
I tried to cover myself, but there was no reason I should want VL's address unless I intended top ring her, or write to her.
Mum had bought me the moped from Auntie Judith. It was a Mobilette, a 'sit up and beg.' It got me into school, got me around. Unlike a bike you don't build up a sticky sweat and who wants to turn up at a girlfriend's house smelling like a rugby scrum ? It saved Mum having to come and fetch me home in the dark and was compensation for having failed my driving test.
Alistair Laidlaw and I used to put in some extra swimming training at the Jesmond baths after school. we'd go past the Church High School on Tankervill Terrace in Jesmond. Alistair had stopped to chat with VL. I kept out of their way and made small talk with VL's younger sister Helen. Then, a few weeks later, flush from the successes of singing in the Caucasian Chalk Circle rehearsal At the Central High I felt confident so pulled up to chat to VL. She was waiting for her Mum to pick her up from school. She said they had a holiday home in the Lake District.
She said Dufton. I said we live in Appleby, 5 miles up the road, we promised to meet up at half term. Here was an answer to hours of fell walking in the drizzle. Someone our own age to play with.
Mum ran SJV and I down to Scotch Corner where we were met by Dad,
I'd already established that VL was at Dufton. She promised to be around by 12 the next day, SJV's birthday. OCT: 1979
I was a bit dull with VL. Especially with others around. I took her across the courtyard and unlocked the Keep. We were alone for 20 mns. I showed her around. We got together on piano and guitar. VL stays for dinner with cousins. I sing with her. We got no closer.
At the R.G.S. Christmas Disco six weeks later the 'big tit' won the fancy dress competition. It was an enormous papier-mâché breast made out of chicken wire.
I'm not unfaithful. physically. Worse. I'm putting my intentions, vague, misinterpretable scribblings, in writing. When SN asks me about the note I'm not quick to find excuses. I say I'd leant VL a manuscript, Mozart's Sicilienne.' We both play the flute, I said. If I'd got VL on the hook I'd have ended my relationship with SN then and there. Too much shagging to sacrifice for that.
I'm inclined towards VL. I'm bending that way. She's sending me to sleep every night. I can see that smile sitting in my lap, bubbling like a water-fountain as I play with myself. I imagine the perfect time, the perfect place. Her first time. My understanding.
Hang on to SN while I plan the next move. Why go celibate for a couple of weeks ? I'm 18. Every day counts. Sex is like swimming training. I miss it if I got without it for more than a week. You keep fit through practice, practice makes perfect, miss a week and it takes a month to get it back. That's how I feel about sex. And now I've got VL (OP) to think about. I can be her first. I can get it right. Do it the Shere Hite way. How every woman wants her first time to be. Do they ? That's what research says. Private. Tender. Intimate. Gentle. Not being pressed for time. Satisfying.
I'm aroused. SN has found a note in my wallet. There's a bulge in my pants. The note was written months ago. Should I tell her that. Would that make it worse ? I can feel it. Underneath the stars and stripes jockey shorts. The bulge. Making its presence known. Showing who runs my life. Provoking me. I re-hitch myself. Shove my hand down my pants while SN reads it then asks, accusingly.
We're at the Sixth Form Disco. I've come as Wonder Woman. All tinsel and crepe paper. Black rubber swimming-trunks I wear to play water-polo have been hitch up over a pair of red-tights. Not becoming. Not on the make. Just a laugh. A silly way to look when someone wants to make a fool of you.
'Have you got it yet then ?' She said.
Some tickle. Some itch. I rub a slippery fluid between my fingers.
'When did you see her ?'
Would I tell her that I'd met VL months ago ? That she'd been round to Appleby ? That I had every desire, every intention to follow it up, to pursue her ? No.
It's nothing. I wrote that ages ago. I'd forgotten about it. I said.
So why have you still got it if you don't want to go out with her ?
It was a statement. A warning. A fact. 'Keep of,' she was saying.
Silly SN She knows what it is. Had I got VL's address by now ? Had I followed it through ? Was I seeing her ? Questions she didn't ask. Questions which were on her mind. I could see them throbbing on her forehead like fresh spots.
You meet one person you can meet another. I was on the look out for the next best thing. I was fed up with what the photo had to offer, and more importantly the rut of a relationship with SN. Each year you trade down. As they get older. Age faster. They race ahead.
VL. SJV's age. Not on the pill, not serious, no interest. She had spunk. Like a vixen on heat. I felt it. She'd come at me earlier on. When I'd been hidden behind the coats re-hitching my tights. Like a small girl showing off her party dress. Being noticed. Wanted to be noticed. Showing herself to me. Cavorting. Alone. She gave me a twirl. Would I be hers for the night ? Would I break away ? Would I ? Would I ! She was alluring. Could she do it ? Temptress. Fluttering her wings. Spreading her scent. Detaching and attaching. This is the boxing ring of teenage discos and the RGS Christmas Disco is the ultimate contest. VL boasted about her dress, like a small girl showing off her party frock to aunts and uncles. But my night was sorted. I didn't want to spoil the classroom shag SN and I had planned . VL could wait. VL would wait. I put her down on the reserve list. For a later date. When it was time to move on. When she was old enough.
SN finds my note. She would wouldn't she. She isn't the kind to snoop. Not the kind to seek out jealousies. Not like I am. Fate took her fingers and placed them in my wallet. I was lending her a fiver. I'd forgotten about the note. SN and I had things sussed, with both her parents working going back to her place after school had become a habit. SN reminds me of VL, draws my feelings to he surface, gives it life, gives it opportunity. She tells me to look her up in the telephone book under Laing; they live in Wylam, Northumberland. Out of town..
Here it is in writing. I'm plotting to get out of our relationship. Have it planned . It's a teenage crime. And SN is condoning it. I feel crushed by her forthright attitude. Like an earwig caught under her shoe. I wriggle away from the dilemma, feeling guilty, feeling grown up, feeling that losing my virginity had never made me adult, but two timing had. The heady mix of good and bad is toxic. Toxic waste. The hurt I give SN increases my ardour for VL. Now I know how Dad feels as he skips through one wife then another - his life has been spent triple timing. Risk taking. Thrill seeking. Looking for his mother.
SN is the victim. Her finding the note makes me feel better. It's as if it's self-inflicted. She didn't need to ask me about it. She could have slipped it back into my wallet. She could have screwed it up and thrown it away. The rigours of teenage life. Trial and error. Doing the rounds. Playing the field. For an hour we revelled and revealed amongst a mess of teenage fancy dress. Wit and big headedness, shy costumes, nosy costumes, the formal and the scruffy. Couples grappled and fought, jealousies and passions came to a head. SN and I found a classroom and made love behind Mr Mitchell's desk. I got a spelk in my bum as we shuffled like an amoeba on the verge of division. I deserved it. My body was on the job, my mind was on VL.
When Had I met her ? When had I written that note ? How long had I been carrying it around with me ? Was I going to do anything about it ? Why hadn't I done anything about it ?
I can hide how I'm thinking for now, I don't want to. I can keep SN 7 in the saddle 'til I know I have somewhere to go. The curse of youth. The curse of choice. The curse of lust. And want. and love, and black and white ...
It isn't something I want to hide. I'm in lust with VL. SN asks me as we pull on our coats to go home.
"Why do you want to get VL's address ?"
The immediacy of my response shows that a reply was on my lips, that VL had been on my mind all night. It's obvious what I've been up to. Why not keep it a secret ? Unspoken ? Unexpressed ?
She asks. I tell her. I tell her that VL's parents have a cottage in Dufton, in the Lake District. That she'll be over there in the summer and that we'd planned to meet up. I tried to make it sound matter of fact, as if VL were a bloke, that I couldn't come to anything, but it would, inevitably.
I have holidays to consider. SN doesn't. I have time on my hands. SN doesn't.
SN found the note. She reminded me of what my intentions had been. She initiated her demise. I unbuckled her belt. Slammed on the brakes and sent her through the windscreen, figuratively speaking. Sal could have read the diary and found out more, but she didn't. That would have displayed paranoia and that paranoia would have killed off anything we had left together.
That note, tucked away in my wallet where I could find it, like a knot in a handkerchief or a biro-scribbled not on the back of my hand. It showed that it had mattered. It showed that I intended to do something about it. It declared my intent to be unfaithful, showed that I was biding my time. Having been unfaithful, showed that I'd turn around to SN and ditch her. It showed that I was dwelling on it, that I was planning moves behind her back, that I was already being unfaithful, that I'd been sleeping with her while my mind was already inside VL that I was no longer making love with her, but with someone else. In this tiny revelation it made SN realise that during the last 6 months of our relationship she had been a blindfolded participant in a game of Twister. Though I hadn't cheated she could see that I had out manoeuvred her and it would be Checkmate in 6 moves.
Our promise of being together long had always been false, hadn't it ? We'd said "I love you," because it was expected of us, but we didn't, did we ? She'd known that hadn't she ?
A couple of 17 year olds can't say they love each other then expect to be bonded for life ? I had the deepest respect for SN. We were like partners in a tennis tournament, the best mixed couple. Closer than that, like players in a rugby match, in the scrum. In a mixed rugby match. We were team mates. We learnt and rehearsed the best moves together. Our relationship had guts, it was athletic. We tried everything out together. We played sex like a sport.
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Latest reply: Oct 17, 1999
Cracow Flying Dream
Posted Oct 17, 1999
A DREAM 20/2/94
We're on a journey. During a stop over in an East European like city (Prague/Cracow) I go on a look round using an invisible flying machine. I'm able to fly by breathing in or breathing out, steepping off roof tops, flying over rivers, above canal banks, down ravines and over the edges of dams. I'm a little apprehensive about loosing it while in mid air, but never do, though I sometimes become under powered and sink almost to ground level. I wonder sometimes if I step of a cathedral or fly over the wall of a dam that the sense of vertigo might result in my loosing my concentration and I'll fall.
What happened ?
A group, a family group, which might include Zbigniew and Wanda, are on a flight. We stop to transfer to a smaller plane. While walking around a cathedral (catholic) I mount some back steps and take off across the roof tops to see more of the town. No one sees me airborne. Though I land, against my will, in the middle of a cross country buble-car race and consequently cause the winning bubble car to loose time and possible loose the race. I'm unable to get airborne again so walk off in the direction of the airport. I assume I miss the flight. OR did I return ? I may have said to Zbigniew that there was nothing to worry about because I had learnt to fly. I was going to take a plane up to fly us wherever we were going.
Where ?
A town. Lots of old buildings., like Oxford, or Cracow. With a periphery main road (like York or Canterbury).
Who are You ?
A traveller. And while I wander the town a tourist.
Who are you with ?
The others are still at the cathedral or went back to the airport without me.
How am I as DREAM EGO acting/behaving in this dream ?
The tourist looking around. Testing my skills at flying myself around town, between tall walls, off roof tops, over traffic. It's a feeling, not mechanical. It's a matter of self control. Enjoying the surroundings Away from people I can fly, but when I'm being watched (have to perform) or if my dropping to earth is going to cause problems for others then I loose concentration and float to ground.
What relation does this dream have to my personality ?
I fly when I'm doing my own thing, away from others. When people watch to see if I'll fall I come down to ground. Not crash, just on their level.
What does this dream want from me ?
I'd prefer to fly than walk. That tells me to ignore their views. nor to seek their pleasure, but to get on with my own thing.
What are the various feelings in this dream ?
Flying like this is no longer a surprise. I've always wanted to do it. I'd like to fly higher and faster and be more sure of controlling it. It's a sense of private satisfaction, curiosity satisfied, private and pleasurable. Flying over dams or stepping of buildings is a test of my powers. Am I sure of myself ? I don't fall. In such situations as a teenager I would have crashed to the ground ! I'm frustrated when I touch down on the way back to the airport not only disrupting some local contest, but also being left to walk back and miss or delay the flight.
What relation does this dream have to what is happening right now in my life ?
It's fine to fly, but it's private. IF I want to succeed at doing something I enjoy I must be able to face up to criticism and the views of others, without loosing the ability to fly. Working from home is the flying feeling, especially when its more creatively orientated. Coming down to earth is the bread and butter work I do, though I should be able to take it with me into the air !
Why did I need this dream ?
I wonder where my life is going. AM I in control ?
Why have I had this dream now ?
I'm having to get the right balance between flying and walking, things I do for myself and things which earn me a living. One day they will be one and the same thing. I'm also concerned that if I'm too preoccupied with my own thing the "Family" might fly on without me.
What relation does this dream have to something in my
future ?
The quest for work which brings me the same satisfaction and uniqueness of flying.
What new questions arise as a result of this dreamwork ?
How can I keep control of the flying ? I need a fuel gauge or more fuel !
Who or what is the adversary in the dream ?
Zbigniew ... at arms length. No one. They let me get on and do my own thing.
What is being wounded in this dream ?
Still unable to keep up the momentum when I need it ... over the last hurdle.
What would I like to avoid in this dream ?
Never being able to fly again. Engines cutting out resulting in a precipitous fall. My flying taking me away from Wanda or causing her hurt.
What is being healed in this dream ?
Wanderlust
What or who is the helping or healing force/agent in this dream ?
The flying is a relief, an escape, a chance to get way from the communal, down to earth pleasures of tourism. (everyday life).
Who or what is my companion in this dream ?
No one.
Who are my helpers and guides in life and in my dreams ?
Wanda at home. I could do with a partner, a mentor, someone to share my ambitions with.
What symbols in this dream are important to me ?
The catholic cathedral. Was I thinking of converting to Catholicism, IS there something I believe in which the atheist Pelczynskis don't ?
What actions might this dream be suggesting I consider ?
Learn ways to stay airborne for longer and take Wanda along with me !
What can happen if I work actively with this dream ?
I'll go up and stay up and come down when I want to !
What symbols in this dream are important to me ?
Flying.
What is being accepted in this dream ?
That I like going off on my own. That I like to fly above others. That I like taking risks whilst remaining in control. That sometimes I'm brought down to earth against my will. So I need more fuel and need to know better how to operate my flying machine.
What choices can I, and will I, make as a result of having this dream ?
Get the right balance of activities which will keep me airborne and teach me how to operate the controls.
What questions does this dream ask of me ?
Where was Wanda ? Or is the dream only related to work ?
Why am I not dealing with this situation ?
To easily distracted. Must know when I am pursuing a subject because it may advance my career and when I am pursuing a subject as a hobby.
What choices can I, and will I make, as a result of having this dream ?
Reduce my activities to bread and butter and career movers and try and keep the right mix of flight and landing !
What actions might this dream be suggesting I consider ?
Make sure I take off with enough fuel to get me back and in full knowledge of how to control it.
What do you want to ask us your dream spirits ?
Take me further !
Why are you sometimes afraid of us, your dream spirits ?
I'm not.
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Latest reply: Oct 17, 1999
Tuesday 5th October 1999
Posted Oct 17, 1999
I'm feeling guilty about drinking again. I drank enough Perrier before I went to bed and during the night not to suffer, but I should not have had a double gin and tonic and half a bottle of wine the night before. It hasn't taken] long for an old routine to find its way back into my life.
For the first time in a long time I was loath to get up. 6.15 and I had to make a move to take a bath, have breakfast and drive to Cheltenham. Zozo was up and had to be settled in front of the TV. No time for sandwiches but I wanted to get the rubbish out. One of my jobs. With no time to spare I find the car covered in frost. This has to be dealt with before I set off. Can't ever remember a frost this side of 5th November since leaving Newcastle 20 years ago.
Panic all the way to Cheltenham. See how hopeless my situation is as I go through Cheltenham town centre. Each time Radio 4 tells me the time a traffic light goes red, a lorry pulls out in front of me or a pedestrian decides to activate a level crossing. see no train on pulling into the car park so get a ticket and join everyone on the platform. The train is running 8 minutes late. I would have missed it. Thanks Virgin for being reliably late. .
This is where I fill my journey. I wanted to stay put through to Plymouth.
K2is back in the office. Still full of 'flu, but back anyway.
My day? Not a busy one. I keep myself busy though doing this sort of thing and trying out different websites. Huggy Bear is off to Ohio. hat is the weather like? I plunge straight in, via UK Met Office to linked sites, a few false start to a US Host, then eventually to the Ohio University Met site which gives the kind of detail which would have an A' Level Geography student wetting their knickers.
Posted some dreams. These were ready to run. Took a while to convert to intelligible English. Have a book back home with 50 or more dreams. I had to give up the dream diary. I found I could recall 3, or 4, or more dreams a day and some of these unfold into such complex adventures, and then take hours to interpret that they were reaching out across my waking hours to meet with my dreamworld as I nodded off.
With some reluctance I took off for Bristol Broadmeads for a break. This diary thing has become as addictive as a computer game. A stiff coffee with a shot of vanilla woke me up. A parakeet was on the loose. I bought the Fishman a birthday card and got that and £10 posted off to him. Will have to get Poppy's gift wrapped and sent too.
Finally took a call from Manchester Man on a promotional video for Media Training. I don't believe in it. But what else have I to do? I long to be run of my feet, to be flying the world over collecting stories, to be exploiting the skills they have here. Dare I test how likely this is to happen before getting moved into a new home? Then what? Bristol has a few production companies but it isn't London.
At the other end of the day I find myself preparing diary entries 20 years older than this. I get so wrapped up in it I decide to place one more entry from 1979 before catching the train. I must put it all into the present tense, I must correct the spelling and grammar and I must ditch some of he tiresome navel gazing that my earlier diaries typically contain. On top of this I have to get the narrative straight. too often i refer to events that happen years later. These events can wait.
Making an entry read well in this way is a lesson in its self. My worst fault as a wrier is to go back once I've written something perfectly well off the top of my head and muck it about. Not any more.
Being confronted by a copy of the Daily Mail on the delayed train to Cheltenham is about the best thing that could have happened to me. It is piffle, playground abuse at its worst. No wonder oiks who read this nof thing are encouraged, after a few drinks too many, to be abusive. All that journalists appear to do in this bog-paper rag is hurl abuse. They slag each other off, nothing else. Still, caught a bit about randy adults committing adultery on flights abroad and women who felt compelled to pack in their weddings days before the big event. This, if nothing else, could help me turn diary truths into trashy fiction. Like, where could my relationship with Suzi Bean have gone? A baby boy in France born September 27th 1985? He'd be 14. He comes to find me. Then what? That fling with Christine in Rochefort in 1978. A girl called Sandrine now 21! Better still a friend of my niece Dancing Girl who will be 21 in February 2000. What other dirt can I create from reading the Mail?
You see, good things come from wrecking one's usual routine, good things come from buggering up one's routine, from doing things differently. It isn't just change for changes sake, it's like being a fly trapped in a car - you end up bouncing off so many different surface you don't know who you are or where you are coming from.
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Latest reply: Oct 17, 1999
Sunshine
Researcher U96658
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