Performing

I have been realising recently that my desire for an audience for my poetry and creative writing is at least partially about a need to be loved. And of course this does not truely satisfy as the audience is never enthuasiatic enough or big enough and it all passes too quickly. I am lucky enough to have something of an academic audience which I do value and could value even more, and my books could sell more copies and my audience be bigger but so what?. So I don't really need to have another audience. So there is ego stuff involved. I/you probably need a bit of ego to put ourselves forward in any case. But the important stuff is the quality of what we communciate. Not just the word but how we say them and our presence and contact with our audience. So much of that is not about ego at all. It is about being, about soul. I have dreamed of being a piano player in a tea room. It is probably beyond my grasp. Do I quit playing piano? No it feeds me and it is an expression of me. Also it is a (spiritual) discipline. I only play my best when I deeply relax and let it flow through me. Usually better at 6.30 am than 6.30 pm. Recently I have begun doing early morning yoga and then sometimes, if everyone else is awake, piano. A magic time, a communion. A few days ago at my friends' house there was an old out of tune guitar with only 3 or 4 strings on it. Encouraged by Freddy who is 6 we had a thrash session - me on guitar him on drums. A rhythmic impressive sound and great fun. That was a great performane!

New mystic

Paul was back in his regular favourite café Fuel and being served by a new waitress called Gina, who was thin as a rake with long curly ginger hair, skimpy top, short skirt, and impossibly high heels. Paul felt rough – it was his first visi9t to Fuel, first visit anywhere since he had got himself discharged, perhaps prematurely from hospital. - Rough night, inquired Gina, placing his cappuccino in front of him. Paul nodded, he didn’t really want to speak; it hurt too much. He sat down in his favourite bay window seat and hunched over his cappuccino. - Bloody ’ell Paul…. What on earth….oh it was Ashton wasn’t it? His usually voluble friend Mickey was almost lost for words. Paul nodded. - My lads picked him up? (Mickey was a policeman.) Paul shook his head. - Why not for Christ’s sake? - No evidence, whispered Paul. - No evidence? Paul shook his head again before replying, - No witnesses, faulty surveillance camera…. His word against mine… - So you beat yourself up then! Paul smiled briefly before wincing. - You sure you should be out? Paul took a box of medicine from his coat pocket and shook out a large painkiller in response and swallowed it with the help of his cappuccino. - So what now? Paul shrugged. - Do you want me to sort him out? ...I will. - No…. or at least not yet …. Let him think he is free. - Free to mess up? - Yeah. - OK. - And. - And? - And I’m not sure he is the one. - Oh. - Yeah he’s clearly got it in for Rachel but I can’t see why he would take it out on her in that way. Frame her yes, even attack her but not a poisoned cake, that’s beyond him. - You know I think you’re right. - I am, but the thing is, who then? - I think we need to dig more deeply into Rachel’s background… Find out who might hold a grudge against her. Paul knew that Mickey was right but he did not relish putting Rachel on the spot in this way. However, if it was the only way she was going to be cleared, to be free of prison and free from the courts then so be it. Mickey left soon after, leaving Paul staring into the patterns left in his cappuccino cup. His Aunty Maud used to tell people’s fortunes from tea cups. People would drink her tea and then she would pour out the remains leaving some of the tea leaves behind and describe what she saw. She was long since dead but had been one of Paul’s favourite relatives on his mother’s side. Maud had run a popular B and B in Southport. Paul smiled as the memories flooding through him of long ago family summer holidays at Southport. Playing football with his dad on the beach followed by table football in a local café and then tea at Maud’s. Paul’s eyes blurred with nostalgia. His cappuccino cup went out of focus and he noticed a curious shape emerging in the froth. It was of a boat, long and thin, a canal boat. Rachel owned a canal boat moored near Altrincham. Paul had often cycled along the tow path past it. Maybe it had some place in the mystery, maybe not. Worth following up in any case. App came into Fuel at that moment. App was thinner than ever, if anything more mono syllabic, wearing a ‘You’re a winner’ Pet Shop Boys T shirt. App was a computer geek who often did bits of work for Paul. Paul waved him over. - Nice T shirt. - Latest Pets. - ‘Know (Paul was as ever slipping into Apps’ abbreviated way of speaking.) - App waved to Gina for an Americano and his usual brunch of a bowl of wedges. - - App can you dig out all you can find about Rachel? - App nodded. - Not the latest stuff about her arrest but anything… Anything that might point to her falling out with someone…someone bearing a grudge against her, whatever. - Will do. - Thanks. Time for Paul to go. - See you. - App nodded in reply and opening up his laptop. Paul was at a loose end. He was too sore for a bike ride and too vulnerable to meet with Martha. He’d found her care of him in the hospital and afterwards almost overbearing – even though he had liked it. He felt it might make him too dependent on her, too vulnerable altogether. Paul just could not allow himself to be that way with Martha. The price he felt was just too high. About the only person he could stomach spending time with right now was his old mate Frankie.

Sleepless in Nairobi, poem

Sleepless in Nairobi Sleepless in Nairobi Again Can’t really blame the ancestors Or the food Or the drink Or the lack of sex. Sleepless in Nairobi And I’m thinking of you Those tender moments Hearts on the train Love on a bike/ Prayer in a ruined abbey. Sleepless in Nairobi And the TV is dull So are my books And my texts home. Sleepless in Nairobi I’ve been here before And I want to come home But there’s no plane tomorrow And my work is not done. Sleepless in Nairobi And the pen falls from my hand And I collapse on the bed And meet my oblivion.

Kenyan daze

I am off to Kenya next Tuesday and in that last minute daze of practical things like currency, sun cream, anti malaria tablets, clothes and the more work related stuff of finalising a programme and figuring out what materials to take etc etc. According to the DNA researchers all of our ancestors originally came from Africa and most then followed a variety of routes to bring us where we are now. The earliest human type skeletons were found in the Rift valley in Kenya. So when people say 'Africa has got under my skin' maybe they are experiencing a resonance with their African ancestors! It will be good to get out of England and see my life here from a distance. I don't relish the long flight from Amsterdam to Nairobi and back but it passes. I don't relish the Nairobi traffic either but it is a sign of modern times. I do look forward to meeting my Kenyan students again, well on in their studies and eating lunch out in the warm sunshine and being dazzled by the bright colours and meeting new people.

Living mystically

I had a whiff recently of what my recent working life had been about. This is difficult for me as I was brought up not to be full of myself. To have pride was seen as a sin and to be dangerous – ‘too big for your own boots’, ‘don’t get above yourself’. I am after all a grammar school small town kid made good whose parents decided I needed elocution lessons before going to Uni. That was so shameful and embarrassing. But, I need to understand as clearly as possible what I am doing and what affect I have on people for their own sake as well as mine. I recently saw the proofs of Brian Thorne’s new book and he unasked said some lovely things about me. Since I respect him and his opinion I have to listen to these words of his: “Among those present at the 2004 conference was Dr William West from the University of Manchester and it is appropriate at this point to pay tribute to Dr West for his part in the struggle to endow the spiritual dimension in therapy with the importance that it merits. Dr West is currently Reader in Counselling Studies at Manchester and for nearly 20 years he has researched, practised and written extensively on spirituality and therapy. At the same time, he has been a source of inspiration for numerous doctoral students who have been pioneers in this fascinating and often demanding terrain. A humanistic practitioner himself who has been much influenced by the person-centred approach, Dr West has ploughed an often lonely furrow but his books Psychotherapy and Spirituality and Spiritual Issues in Therapy (West, 2000, 2000) have done much to bring about the situation today where what was until recently regarded as an esoteric and eccentric area for scholarly enquiry is now seen as at the cutting edge for therapists and spiritual explorers alike. His most recent edited book Exploring Therapy, Spirituality and Healing (West, 2011), which contains many papers contributed by former or current research students, provides ample and persuasive evidence of the major influence Dr West has exercised and the single-minded determination with which he has committed himself to a field of endeavour which was assuredly not guaranteed to enhance his professional advancement. (184-185) From Thorne, B., (2012, at press) Counselling and Spiritual Accompaniment. Wiley-Blackwell. So what comes to me now is that I have made a difference and it has come out of my living as a spiritual being and finding ways of loving the people I work with and encouraging them to follow their truth. This has been very strange within a university setting! On the other hand this following of inner truth is what universities can be about. I think I have stretched the patience of some of my colleagues no end and I sometimes lack a sense of proportion. But my heart is usually in the right place. Part of this whiff is that my work is not over. Some of the future is becoming clearer (watch this space!) some is not. The not is that I feel there is work for me spiritually beyond academia and I don’t understand this yet. I was given this morning the phrase Living Mystically. Am not sure if it is a book, a course or a way of being!

Journeying

Journeying When you are in it you can’t see it Looking back you sometimes seem To catch a pattern. When I die You’ll tell stories about me For a while Probably not my story But who cares or controls? I can’t But I feel At times The arc of my days Death is coming towards me Not moving fast But steadily and purposefully. I used to fear death Wanted to bargain with God I now know I have no power No control Only a life to lead A life that matters More precious than ever.

New Mystic(3)

Meeting Dave Ashton at Ashton’s local – the Black Dog in Levenshulme had seemed like a good idea at the time. Paul had felt reluctant to engage with Ashton but knew he had to if he was ever going to help Ruth get out of prison and clear her name. Ashton was playing pool by himself when Paul arrived, so Paul put down a fifty pence piece on the cushion of the pool table to indicate his desire to play the next match. - So it’s Mister Whitely isn’t it? - Yeah that’s me. - And you want to talk to me about -? Paul glanced around the pool room which was virtually empty apart from a couple of young men deep in conversation in the corner near the door. - Scram you too, snarled Ashton. They looked up in surprise but quickly headed off. - You’ve been asking questions about me and I don’t like it. - I’m trying to get to the bottom of why Ruth Stern has been arrested. - Oh that Jewish scrubber. Paul tensed up and hearing Ruth so described, - Don’t speak of her like that, he said in a quiet voice. - Don’t you tell me what to do, sneered Ashton, making a move towards Paul. Paul stood his ground but a noise to his left distracted him momentarily and Ashton wacked him with his pool cue. That was a poor start to an eve poorer and one sided fight that ended with Paul lying on the floor bleeding. He had sustained quite a beating. His nose was broken and bleeding, a tooth felt loose and by his difficulty in breathing he must have several cracked ribs. The carpet he was lying on was grubby and if he could have smelt it none too fresh. A boot thudded into his guts. ‘Here we go again’. His body assumed a foetal position with his arms wrapped around himself protectively. - We’ve called the police, called out the landlord who had been very absent up until now. Ashton grunted and barged past the landlord out into the street. - You OK mister? Dumb question, Paul groaned. - Call an ambulance! Ten minutes later Paul was been examined in A and E by a familiar nurse. - Not you again Mister Whitely…. This time we are going to have to keep you in. That nose will need surgery…. You are lucky it’s not worse. Coming around from the anaesthetics was not a good experience even though Martha was at his bedside. - Oh Paul…poor you….whatever happened? - Gob be’ up. - Got beat up, Paul nodded, by whom? - Athton - Ashton? My god…. Anybody see it? - Na….na one willin’ to say. - He can’t get away with this. - He wonk. Martha stroked his face tenderly or rather the unbandaged part of it, - You rest now sweetheart. I’ll come by later. Paul tried to nod his head but groaned at the pain involved. There was a real camaraderie among the four men in the recovery ward. They were all much relived to have come through their surgery, seemingly OK and they were bound together by their mutual suffering. This was expressed in a certain amount of banter and an openness to one another that is rare among English men, pretty made easier by the fact that they would soon go their separate ways to other wards or home. Paul enjoyed their presence as he was unable to listen to the music brought in by Martha, nor was he able to concentrate on his Guardian newspaper. It took a few days for Paul to finds his mind was working well enough to grapple with questions around the murders connected with Ruth. He was not good company to be with in this time during which he stayed at Martha’s flat and pushed her tolerance of him to the limit. After a week he knew he had to get back to his own place and get back to work. His nose was still sore, as were his strapped up ribs, he was still on painkillers but it was time to move again. First stop Fuel café for a meeting with Micky Flynn and the Fuel regulars.