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Write of Spring – Misery Gutz
I wake wiped. I really must have covid this time, I think for the 100th time. I’ve never had it. I’m just knackered, I worked 9 to 5 and the rest last week and then had a weekend ‘off’, filled with two gigs.
This was a weird Winter. It was both short and long at the same time. To track how many days it’s been since I’ve last smoked, I’ve been ticking off the days on a little calendar painted by peoples mouths and feet. Still, the months have blurred, the weeks passing with the blink of an eye as I tick the last 14 days off all at once. And yet the cold weather seems to have lingered for so long now. I long to bathe my skin in warm air without feeling the need to hide in a jumper. This is a familiar yet vague memory now, far off.Â
The lack of cereal and oak milk forces me out of the house. Groggy, the cold air hits me but today is different as there is a warm sun greeting me as well. It is March. I do not have time, but still I decide to take a detour through the park because I don’t care.
Most of the trees still stand bare, but one has pink blossom. The familiar black iron gate housed in Victorian brickwork is the same, the black bin too, but now there are bright yellow daffodils flanking either side of the path. Daffodils are so hopeful. They have come too early for the warm weather but they know what’s coming. They shine with the sun. They love the sun so much they even look like the sun.
I walk past a few clusters of daffodils, carefully planted in flowerbeds months before, by somebody. I’ll admit it I want to smell them but at the same time I don’t want anybody to see me smelling them. I am 30 years old for god sakes. I’ve already got long blonde hair, the last thing I need is to be seen smelling daffodils. I have important work to do.
The urge to smell the damn daffodils seems to have overpowered my manly insecurities and I am nose deep in the things and that sweet smell evokes relief! I definitely don’t have covid if they are smelling that good. God I could stay here all day but that’s enough, don’t want to trigger my hay fever… and I’m back, brisk manly walk, can’t help but smile though. I wonder if anyone saw me, no I don’t think so, normal people going about their day… wait no that old couple on the bench are laughing at me as I am slightly skipping with elation after smelling the hope, the joy, the Winter is fucking over, the sun, the new life that daffodils bring. Fuck it if they are laughing at me, let them have a good old laugh, I bet they were having a good old smell of the flowers earlier the buggers.
I don’t mind people laughing at me these days. You get used to it. I used to think it was because I was a weirdo. Now I just realise that everyone else is a weirdo. Let them laugh, let the weird weirdos laugh.
I notice some crocuses have come out to play as well. Some a vivid indigo, some jet white. Maybe I would own more white clothes if they stayed as white as these. There’s a few daisies except they are completely yellow, and some buttercups too. They make me hungry for scrambled egg and butter, with greens.
I really need to get a stride on now. I have important work to do and so far today all I’ve done is look at the flowers. I’ll cut through the centre of the park and make a beeline for the supermarket where I’ll complete my ultimate quest of buying cereal so that I can continue my life. I do not yet know what emails me await me today, but I can be sure they are of great importance, and must be importantly attended to.
My shortcut through Christchurch Park takes me over the eponymous ‘Hippy Hill’, the centrepiece of the park and a long frequented resting place of the Ipswich community. I must stop in order to soak in this familiar view, which I so often clung to in lockdown. It is close to my house and was a welcome escape in those strange times. The sun is inviting me to enjoy her warmth, and though the wind is brisk I think if I was just a little bit lower to the ground it would be bearable. I risk it.
Atop the hill, sitting somehow gives a wider panoramic view of the landscape than standing. Maybe it is because I have accepted that I will be here for a while, and so I allow myself to enjoy each part of this vast scene. The bare trees partly obscure one of the empty tennis courts. The path that leads there slopes steeply downhill in front of me. In the distance, I see more splashes of daffodils. I try hard to take everything in but the more I look I am blinded. The more I focus the more I miss. I close my eyes and plunge into darkness.
Now I can feel the wind, a steady 10 or 15 mph on my face, my arms. It’s cold yes, but as I breathe it deep into my lungs I can feel it is clean air, and I am grateful for this breath. I am reminded of how rare our earths atmosphere is in this universe, and I feel grateful (again) for this chance to be alive. It is ok to feel grateful more than once in a train of thought. Without sight, my ears become louder and I wonder how I was missing these rich sounds just a few minutes before. I hear the same wind that I felt moments before, moving through the trees and bushes, and I hear the leaves dance.
I try to decipher the bird song. It is a regular occupation of mine and a near impossible task which I am hopeless at. Still I love to have a go. I’ve been listening to bird calls on Youtube. I hope that one day I’ll be able to tell their songs apart. I think I can hear a blackbird, but really I can’t be sure. I don’t know what they are saying to each other and yet I know that I agree.
This is new… I am touching the earth now. It is not a decision I have made, but I know it feels good and I don’t want to stop. The grass is soft and swishy! The earth is soft too but it’s also rough and kind of crusty. With my eyes tightly shut and my mind focused on the tips of my fingers, I discover a small, short yet long, knobbly bobbly little stick. I find another one. I am an explorer in this brave new unsighted world, where tiny objects are large in my mind and my brain feels childlike. Children love to touch the world but it’s something we lose (or forget to do) as we get older.
Touch was lost even more with the pandemic. I have re-programmed myself to touch nothing, open doors with my elbows and generally avoid contact with anything. I would always hold the cardboard of my meal deal rather than caressing the soft wrap, or tip the crisps directly into my gullet rather than handle their crinkly textures. Touching the grass right now and exploring these twigs, almost feels wrong. But instinct tells me it is right. I push my hands firmly against the earth and I’m reassured by her stability. I let her gravity hug me in response. I am glad that I am still in love with the earth.
I am truly immersed in this new landscape of touch, sound and of course the smell of the daffodils which is faintly in the air, its detail stored in my short term memory (or maybe lodged in the crevices of my nose). From this sensuous place I am curious to discover what I can see to add to the picture in my mind. I open my eyes and the landscape is the same but changed from a few minutes before. It’s in 4D now. I see the trees and I can feel the wind moving their branches way up high at the top, I can feel where the edges of her rough bark meets the smoothness of her bare tree, and I can smell her ancient oak. All from sitting still on Hippy Hill.
I’ve said it before but it’s something I can’t say enough, let me proudly shout it from the clouds, I am grateful to be here on this earth. But now I really must get on with some stuff. I take the firmness I felt pushing up through my hands and arms and let my feet and legs bear my weight instead. Spreading my feet and toes to embrace the earth, I bugger off.
Now my senses are alive I can’t resist, I forget the cereal and make a beeline for the local Turkish/French patisserie Bon Bon, where I buy a cone pastry with chocolate whipped cream and gorge it on the high street like a hungry, happy animal. Let the weird weirdos laugh! I am alive.