Trying to write but the after effects of all this morphine and stuff means I’m not getting anything and a bad head from concentrating, so just leaving the blog for a few days, try and take photos… See you all soon
Not out today, thought it might be but bit of regression. It was 10 years ago that I was on for the huge stoma operation, the removal of the bowel due to ulcerative colitis. Something i’ve really noticed is how much more responsibility nurses have, how even more capable they are. I just had a student doctor fail im getting a tap thing in my hand. Rather painful, only looked a couple of years older than the children I do art with, I suppose he is. Now if he’d learnt about Picasso…
Today’s photo is of my medication record on the bed.
It’s like living on a place where time has slowed, routines, strange noises from humans and equipment, a need for fresh air, to eat something that tastes like food. Have a taste im my mouth from the stuff they give me that makes everything taste like it is full of thick fat. Soon it will all be gone and I will sit writing at the pc again!
Today my achievement will be if I walk 10 feet. Just a few days ago it was much greater. Illness slows down the world around you. The usual is on hold, I want to get out get home but I know it’s stupid to rush. So I am asking questions trying to make note for a hospital interlude om my next story!
Todays photo is of my hand with the ‘taps’ attached.
I’m waiting for an op on a double hernia. It’s been 10 years since I was last in and I have my fancy phone to connect with the world. I’m reading Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia quite a wonderful book, the trouble is I tjought I was only going to be in for a day then the specialist told me 3 to 4 days and i’ve nearly finished it, time to try the e-book app I think.
So blogs and photos may be a bit limited!
Today’s photograph is of the waiting room which I got to know quite well!
Today’s photograph was taken in the backs behind my flat of goalposts, at 12.30 on a bitter cold white day with an icy east wind.
Yesterday would have been the 105th birthday of my father. In a few days time it will be my 59th birthday and this weekend the 9th birthday of my friend’s daughter Saleena, who spends a lot of time here, or used to, but as she is getting a bit older is spending more time with friends.
Not having children it has been fascinating to watch her (and her year younger brother’s) development. Because they are not mine but have spent a great deal of time with me, I can see them fairly dispassionately. I was very interested in what they were like when they were 18 months old, as that is when my birth mother gave me up for adoption and I was taken by my grandmother to a Dr Barnardo’s home in Bristol. I have no recollection of that time, there is something, but I don’t know if it is just knowing what happened, and a story I tell myself. I wanted to see what understanding of the environment around me I may have known. I have a couple of pictures my birth mother gave me of me with her, but little has been discussed, it is the past.
Last Sunday I watched Big Fish on Film 4. I’ve seen it in two bits previously, but this time watched it all the way through. I like it better than any other of Tim Burton’s films, I don’t know the book and would be interested to read it. It tells of a man whose father is dying, his father has usually been absent, but when home told the most fantastical stories about his life, which eventually the son didn’t believe and wants the truth before the parting. Of course he finds that the stories were real, just a bit enhanced to improve them. Big Fish has a sentimental aspect that I think is necessary, it aims arrows at the senses and finds the bull’s eye, certainly enough to bring tears to my eyes!
Is that as writers, artists, photographers we are doing, enhancing the reality we see around us and in our lives to make them preferable to what actually happened?
I don’t remember my father ever telling any story. He wrote very fine music, was a talented amateur watercolourist, a brilliant mathematician, member of the Royal Astronomical Society, but not a fantasticalist (is that a word, if not it should be). In many ways the father in Big Fish and mine were complete opposites, and yet had the same goals in working for us as a family. I remember how proud he was after I got my 2/1 BA(hons) degree in Fine Art, he understood that having a top quality degree in pure maths and spending his working life teaching at a college. It isn’t really until one is at an age that we knew our fathers and mothers that we see the world closer to where they saw it. My father was 49 when my parents adopted me, so I knew him as an ‘older’ man and I was only 25 when he died. Big Fish showed an ‘adult’ relationship between father and son, and yet the child-father relationship could never leave, until the father became dependent on the son to complete his story.