Sneak preview of the new book
As the manuscript comes back from the copy editor I thought
I’d share a few of my favourite bits for the first third of the
story.
This is from about the 7th day in a Bulgarian Hospital, I’ve got a surplus of inedible food in my room.
God, I’m bored, the majority of the view from my pillow is the grey opposing side of this L-shaped building. On this dark, ominous winter morning the lights through the windows are more obvious, none of which have blinds or curtains. I notice figures this morning, looking out at the snow, I suppose. Then my eye is caught by things falling past my window, is it snow build-up falling from the roof? No, it’s bodies, carcasses, it’s like 9/11 on a smaller scale. I get out of bed to get a better look, at the snow and what is causing so many people to be staring out of their windows, fifteen storeys of backlit panes obscured by patients. This is the sort of snow covering that you see in pictures of North American national parks. The pines are sagging with the weight, I can be in awe of it with not a hint of annoyance, I’ve not gotta be anywhere today. Best of all, my room remains at, well, room temperature.
Something else falls past my window. My eyes follow it down to the ground. Below are dog and cats, they are being fed by food flung out. Theirs are the only tracks to be seen in the snow, paw trails and wagging tails. Brilliant, I join in immediately. The cold air rushes in so I can’t look out to see the lucky recipients of my six-day supply of chicken, but I watch as the other inmates toss bones, skin and flesh, all of it devoured by grateful strays. Maybe they’re not strays, it’s just the word on the street is that on Sundays food miraculously falls from the skies and a congregation of animals await this feeding. From the overhang of the hospital roof the path directly below is mostly clear but if food falls beyond that it sinks into the drift. The crafty cats have taken control of the clear area and are defending their territory. This strategy has the dogs diving into the banks of snow to sniff out the plunder that penetrated deep. It’s a feeding frenzy, not the animals, they have more than enough to go round. It’s us within who are throwing out our surplus supplies with frantic vigour. As flying chicken has caught the eye of the bedridden, we’ve all jumped on the bandwagon and are hurling our fodder from the window. Man, the dishwasher will have an unfeasible stack to deal with tomorrow morning .
A winter morning at the local market
Back in the real world it’s the Friday gypsy market in the local town. It starts to snow but my tyres astoundingly find traction on the icy road, even on the slow incline out of the village. We get stuck behind a herd of cows, four hooves plodding in a low gear for traction control and steaming in the cold air. It’s the kind of traffic delay that only enhances a relaxed life. The market is sparsely attended. I see the guy I bought my communist coat from, he has a pair of snowboarding boots, they are my size too but annoying with clip-on fastenings rather than the strap bindings. The price is right but I haggle it down on principal to under £20. Will, I wonder, they still work in the more common and conventional bindings? By some serendipitous luck the stall opposite is selling a snowboard. This is more than a coincidence; we’re not talking some Aspen pawnshop here or even a mountain-town garage sale. This is a place where commodities consist of remote controls without TVs, Nokia phones without batteries, angle grinders without guards, glasses without lenses, jacks without winders, a six-pack[RD2] of four candles and forks without handles. To see two corresponding things in sight of each other, and items of sporting leisure too, is most uncommon. I take the boots to the board, and size them up against the bindings. Yes, the board is actually complete with binding, both of them and they are not broken. I think I can make this work. Then as my focus zooms out beyond the fasteners I notice the design of this dark blue snowboard. There on the tip, or foot if you are ‘goofy footed’ as I am, is the word Graham. What the actual fuck? I mean, it’s not a particularly glamorous name, down there with Colin and Kevin, and someone, presumably called Graham, decided to have his name built into the design, impregnated beneath the resin of protection, and it’s written on the bottom too. Thankfully, my international fame and notoriety has not made it to the awareness of the gypsy traders, no stall is selling one of my covers without the pages, so the seller is unaware of the coincidence. I’ve got to have it, haven’t I? My mate, being quite knowledgeable about boards, says it’s not in the best condition, but then, I reason, neither am I, I’m not the best boarder either but my name’s on it and I get it for the same price as the boots.
Testing my new purchase
I take my snowboard up to the top of my garden with some rudimentary home-made bindings. With numb fingers I fasten the board to my boots. Not quite ready for the half-pipe yet, but despite my vague attachment I get some momentum if not direction. I can’t help but think I’m being watched; in the summer I can see only rooftops from here but with bare winter trees windows are visible down the valley. What are the hardened Bulgarian locals making of this malarky?
‘What’s he doing now?’
‘He never goes up that end of his garden unless he mowing.’
‘Never occurs to him to grow tomatoes.’
‘Perhaps he’s going to cultivate the soil, I saw he bought a shovel.’
‘That was a snow shovel, anyway you don’t cultivate soil that’s under half a metre of snow.’
‘Look, he’s fallen over.’
‘No, he’s sitting down.’
‘In the snow?’
‘He’s strapping the plank to his feet.’
‘It’s got his name written on it.’
‘How do you know that’s his name?’
‘I saw it on a DHL package he put in the dustbin.’
‘Perhaps he thinks someone will steal his plank.’
‘He’s a strange one.’
‘The gypsies like him though.’
‘Now what’s he doing? Is he skiing?’
‘He’s not walking, sideways, going quite fast.’
‘Now he’s definitely fallen over – face first.’
‘Can’t see him at all, buried in the snow.’
‘Oh, he’s up again. I think he saw us.’
Choosing paint for the landing
I get some laminate flooring for the landing and some vivid yellow and green paint in two different cans, it’s not like shampoo and conditioner in one bottle, just can’t do that with paint. Reminds me of the kind of prank played on an apprentice: ‘Go to the stores and ask for a long wait and tartan paint.’
Screw subtle shades, I’ve lived in magnolia hell for years trying to sell my house in the UK. I want strong vibrant colour; I want the walls to reflect my personality, defined and opinionated, unwavering and resonating, not some insipid please-everyone hue. This is going be a landing of wilful vitality.
The landing complete, hanging out
This hammock chair I bought somewhat impulsively on the first day of the Glastonbury Festival probably about ’98, 1997 was the notoriously wet one but actually we found the following year was worse, they just downplayed it, or Coldplayed it, it’s all a bit of a blur. I was walking past the Central American stall, stoned, The Division Bell played from within their cave, and I was drawn into the den of temptation, desirable handmade hangings, carved wood, braided rope, woven threads. I was invited to sit in the chair by a trader who said nothing more, knowing he had created an environment that sold his wares for him, no sales pitch needed. When the album faded out I left with said chair that I’ll own forever and ever. In my ownership it has hung in environments of my own making, I took something of the trader’s creativity with me. I’ve not been able to sell books from my own stall so effortlessly but I have gained something from this hammock chair and all the well-being that it’s revolved within has surely had an ongoing healing effect. Welcome to your new home, may many a day be seen with momentary and seasonal awareness from this point of view.
I didn’t know I was going to sit in it now, didn’t know I was going to doze off, didn’t know where my train of thought would go, didn’t know this would be such a reflective moment, didn’t know the collection of thoughts was going to unwind in such a positive [RD7] way. I didn’t know what would occur when I sat in the chair, didn’t know I’d stop planning ahead, didn’t know I’d stop dwelling on the past, didn’t know I’d pause my all-consuming present. I just washed up my brushes, remembered a mounting hook I already had and suddenly everything stood still. I’m so pleased I didn’t invite anyone round, this time all to myself with no pressure to be anywhere for anyone.
That wasn’t a virus on my laptop, it was a preprogrammed pause from the ongoing onslaught of life. Liberating, free from the infinite internet and its endless stream of everything, everything but this. What the connection can’t give you is an undistracted moment, it’s an oxymoron, an opposition to its design. It will take time and awareness away, replacing it with a synthetic substitute, an illusion, an omnipotent demand for attention. From here in the hammock chair it’s all so clear. I am suspended, time is suspended, the only thing occurring is here, it surrounds me and I revolve within it. There is an enchantment to our existence on this planet, it’s constant but is witnessed so rarely. I last saw it as I walked out the hospital into the white world under a bright blue sky. Since then there has been much progress, many purchases and interactions, but it’s taken this chair to be back there again. And twice in ten days is pretty damn good, some never see it, ever, others dedicate their lives to feeling it. I just have to remember it’s there for me, even if I’m not always there for it. But, man, the moment and I have wondrous and insightful times when we are together.
