Icarus also flew // goodbye 2015.

When I was back home a few weeks ago, my Mum read me out a poem: Failing and Flying by Jack Gilbert ‘Everyone forgets,’ the poem starts, ‘that Icarus also flew.’

We were sitting upstairs drinking tea on her bed, the sky dimming outside. Our back-door-neighbours’ Christmas tree blinked on and the sound of my dad putting cutlery away travelled up to us from the kitchen. We’d been sitting there for a few hours, the two of us, talking about I can’t even remember what. Things as they are now, I think. Life as it is now. 

‘Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew,’ Mum read. ‘It's the same when love comes to an end,/or the marriage fails and people say/they knew it was a mistake, that everybody/said it would never work. That she was/old enough to know better. But anything/worth doing is worth doing badly...’ 

And so it goes on. A meditation on transience and falling and the way we often write whole experiences off as ‘failures’ because they didn’t last forever, or didn’t work out as expected.

That word – failure – is something we talked about quite a lot last year: on our early morning drives up to work before I moved to the city (I’ve been missing those conversations). We talked about the famous ‘man in the arena’ speech by Roosevelt where he writes that: ‘credit belongs to the man in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood...’ and who, ‘if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly.’ We talked about Brené Brown, who writes about that idea of ‘daring greatly’, and how she used to take strength from the question: ‘What would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail?’ but recently she’s been asking herself a new one: ‘What’s worth doing even if you fail?’ 

Driving back and forth from the city to the sea, we (my Mum and I) asked ourselves that. We talked about the importance of ‘owning your own story’, and the difficulty of loving people, and the risks of letting yourself be known, and this predicament of feeling things so very very deeply and not knowing what to do with it all. 

‘What’s worth doing even if you fail?’

‘Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew...’

♥

It’s eighteen days into the New Year, and I’m still caught slightly off-guard at times by the year that just passed. It was a bit of a strange one, 2015, I have to admit. I’m left looking back on it still feeling a bit confused, unsure what to take from it now it’s finished. 

It was a year of many ‘favourite’ things. I got to hear one of my favourite authors, Kazuo Ishiguro, in Edinburgh, for example (he signed my knackered copy of Never Let Me Go and my hands shook). I ate filled baguettes in Paris and saw the Eiffel Tower from my train window. I got to teach classes on some amazing writers. My sister got engaged and asked me to be her maid of honour. Two of my favourite people flew over from Atlanta and stayed in our house for a few days. And after years of soaking up their music, I finally got to see Mumford and Sons live in Glasgow with my siblings. (Our throats catching, we sang out the words to their songs. Their lyrics are fuelled with a kind of longing for something better, something real. A determined sense of hope, in spite of what’s passed before.) 

Alongside all that though (and more), it was a year of feeling quite achingly unsettled. Bereavement. Uncertainty. Heartbreak. Loss. I probably ended up crying more in the past year than I ever have, and right from the get go. (Outside, inside, in toilet cubicles, on stairwells, at home, in the new flat, on trains, ferries, busses, taxis, planes, cars... goodness me! I just need to have a good sob on a tram, a unicycle and a bin lorry now, and I’ll be able to publish an illustrated guide to weeping in transit. ‘Find out, via easy-to-read graphs, how pathetic you will feel tearing up on the following... how ‘Romantic’... how exposed...’). 

It was a year where I lost my appetite more than once, and my voice shrunk down to a whisper as I started to falter: ‘what am I doing wrong here?’ ‘What do I do now?’

♥

I don’t have a tidy way to round off the past year in words. But I would like to try and draw a line under it. A few days before New Year – after too many days lazing about in pyjamas eating Lindt chocolates – I wrote myself a sort of ‘motivational speech’-type thing in my journal, in an attempt to shake myself back in the game. It went something like this: 

"Storm Frank is a’blowing outside your window, Melissa. And may he be blowing winds of change! (Or at least mild behavioural reform/refocus.) Wake up to your life, O Sleepy One! Wake up to it and read the books you want to read. Write the novel. Stop stalling. Remember: you are stronger than you think. Stop waiting on trains that aren’t moving. Get off them! Get off and run, run, run, run, so the wind is in your hair, and your calves and your heels and your lungs all shout: you are here, you are here. Don’t switch off. Don’t disengage. It’s a false kind of thinking that says strength comes from being detached. Remember that. You were brave. Don’t start doubting yourself now. Don’t get frightened. 

Stop looking at your phone. Switch it off! The world’s out there, so pay attention. Speak up. Think. Walk. Eat. Make your bed in the mornings. Leave the house on time. Stop snoozing the alarm. Go to sleep before the birds start singing. Be mindful. Take more baths. Pray. Don’t let failure scare you off trying. It is painful but it's not the end of all things. And it isn’t always your fault. Just don’t get stuck. Don’t get stuck. Don’t get stuck. Pick up the pieces. Shake the dust off your feet, nod your head, and walk on. 

'I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,' writes Gilbert at the end of his poem, 'but just coming to the end of his triumph...' Notice the triumphs. You can do this. Stop looking down. Look up." 

♥

(The beautiful pictures are by: Elicia Edijanto. And goodness, this was a long post. Next one will be shorter, promise.) 

Dear December, nine to eighteen: if life hadn't got in the way.

Dear December,

Hello! I'm still here. Though I'm going to sleep very soon because it's quite late. I will get back to writing more regularly. Promise. In the meantime though, here are three things I might have written about if things hadn't been so busy the past week and a bit: 

[one.]

I might have written about the afternoon I tried on jeans in GAP. My current pair have scuffed knees. After trying a few pairs on (none of them fit), the weight of the week made the idea of heading back out into the rain and starting to think about dinner too heavy. So I just hung out for an extra ten minutes, sitting on the changing room floor, curtains pulled shut to my right, legs stretched out in front of me (the soles of my socks touching the soles of the socks in the mirror), head resting back against the wall: listening to other customers moving about and feeling vaguely disenchanted with the music in the store (‘All I want for Christmas is you...’ ‘It’s lovely weather for a sleigh ride together...' ‘It’ll be lonely this Christmas...’). I'm not a Scrooge, but Christmas music can have this way of making you feel very small if it catches you at a funny moment, don't you think? 

[two.]

Or I might have written a longer post about looking through old photographs in my Grandpa’s house last Wednesday (sitting with my duffle coat on the whole time because the heating had been switched off all day). Feeling very weird being in his living room without him there with us, sitting on the end of the sofa bemoaning something or other and cracking puns (‘Are you all right?’ ‘Just down the one side. Heh heh.’)

There are boxes by his window. The pictures have been taken down off his wall. There are gold hooks sticking out of the wallpaper. His shoes - thick, black, comfort-fit - are still sitting by the sofa. (I couldn’t stop looking at his shoes. Glancing away and then glancing back. The laces were splayed out across the wooden floor. I couldn’t stop looking at them, the thought occurring: did he not have his shoes with him? Did he leave the house in his slippers?) 

It's been a month now. We were there so my Dad could sort through papers, so I could pick out something from his cabinet to keep: a little crystal swan maybe, or a bowling club pin. By accident we came across the handful of old polaroid-type pictures of my dad and uncle when they were little. If that’s to be my last time in his house – sorting through those photographs, laughing at the 70's hairstyles – I guess it was quite a nice evening to end on. (The time before that, rain was bouncing off the roof and we were all dressed in black, huddled in the hallway, waiting for the cars come and take us to the church. The gaping front-door let cold air wrap round our ankles.) 

[three.]

I could maybe have written about standing in my sister’s kitchen on Tuesday there, trying to artistically smear lemon icing onto the gingerbread cookies she’d made while I was sleeping, and thinking that this – the fact that here I was: standing in my pyjamas in her kitchen, being watched by the 217 cats she and her fiancé own*, the sound of her and our (tall) little brother playing Guitar Hero in the next room – 'this' is one of the things I’m most grateful for this year. This. Us. If I’m uncertain of who or what I am in other areas of my life, I’m so glad I get to be ‘sister’ to those two. 

(Note: *slight exaggeration. There are only three cats.) 

A song a day:

I won't link ten songs, because this post is already quite long. But here are three: I came across 'Shut Eye' by Stealing Sheep yesterday and quite liked it; I actually quite like this cover of 'Lonely This Christmas' by K.T. Tunstall, even if it is a bit of a downer; and I've found the words of 'Pieces' by Amanda Cook quite powerful the past few months... if I could live like I believed them, I think things would be rather different.) 

Pictures by: Julie Morstad

there's a colour in your eyes that nobody knows but me.

For a while there, the world lost its colour. Everything looked a bit grey and washed out. September was quite a disorientating month. It shook things up and, for one reason or another, at various points throughout its days, it left me crying in random places – on a ferry, wind in my hair, while waving goodbye to three figures I love on the pier; in the car during rush-hour, slumped at the steering wheel after a heart-open conversation, a salt-trail winding down my throat; in my room, packing books and vests and shoes into bags and boxes, the thought properly hitting me: ‘I am leaving tomorrow. I’m leaving, I’m leaving. And what happens now?’; on the edge of my bed that first night after clicking on the stars my Dad had unpicked from my wall back home and helped to string up here, in my new room in the city. 

(‘You need your stars, Lissa,’ my Mum said when I was in a quandary about bringing them. ‘I know that for myself. Sometimes, you just need your stars...’)

♥

I was talking to my new class recently – in our workshop on ‘setting’ – about how there’s not really one ‘true’ way to see the world. Your surroundings look (and feel and taste and smell and sound) different depending on what day, and through whose eyes, you happen to be looking. 

‘What would your character notice about this place if they’d just had a fight?’ I said, getting them to close their eyes for a moment. ‘Or if they’re worried about an exam? Or if their heart has just been broken? What would they notice if they had good news? What would they see if they’re falling in love?’

At heart, studying writing – as in how to go about doing it, as well as just ‘what’s already been written’ – studying writing forces you to look quite closely at yourself. Or at least, it should do I think, if you’re hoping to write anything with resonance. You have to be willing to live and also observe yourself living. How am I reacting to this? Where can I feel it? Oh look: this is new – and what does that stir up in me? And how is it changing me?

Well, I observed myself recently being unobservant. My eyes were dried up. They were downcast and heavy and I’d mentally written the whole season off as grey and difficult. When actually – I looked up a few weeks ago to find myself staring at, swooning over, a sky so deeply red that everyone who stepped off my train pulled out their cameras – actually the world is quite beautiful right now. I mean, look at it:

Things aren't suddenly awesome now I’ve noticed the scenery. I don't mean to imply that (life isn't so simple). It's more - I'm just writing as a reminder to myself that: well, even so – in the midst of it all, the leaves are still crisping up (scarlet, gold, mustard yellow). The light keeps breaking through, turning chimneys and branches and window boxes and TV aeriels into something lovely. Something glowing. The world, your life, it’s bigger than ‘this’. Than ‘now’. Than ‘that’. Than ‘this feeling’. Take heart. 

The world is still turning. Look at it. 

Notes:

All pictures by me, from here and there over the past month: around Glasgow, and also back home when I've stayed for the weekend. 

I listened to this album, The Quiet Darkness by Houses, while I was writing. Recommended by my brother, Evan. The title is a line from one of their songs. You should give it a listen.

♥

I think that possibly maybe I'm falling for you

While I was waiting for my sister on Thursday (we were going to see a ballet), I had some dinner in the window seat of a fish and chip shop down the street from the theatre. What with the rain-soaked pavements, and the diner-type restaurant, and the fact I was alone with my book and my yellow mug of tea... it really would have been the ideal opportunity for a passerby to walk past the window and – a pause, an intake of breath, a meeting of eyes – fall in love with me. 

He would have walked past the window a few times, fighting with himself, with his natural shyness – hardly noticing how wet he was getting from the sudden deluge – until – ‘What have I got to lose?’ – he’d have run into the cafe – the bell on the door jingling – and walked over to my table – me looking up, wide eyed, surprised – and, in a half-whisper: ‘I don’t even know your name – but - it's just - I just had to say...’

Of course, this didn’t happen. And as far as I recall, the door didn’t even have a jingly bell on it, and it wasn’t really pouring with rain: just drizzling. And actually, if someone did decide to run up to me when I was by myself, I’d be absolutely terrified and incredibly suspicious and would probably shout for help.

But it was a nice thought. 

♥

(Post title from: this song)

harrogate sightings.

Last week I took a trip to Harrogate with my family. We stayed on Strawberrydale Avenue, in a skinny four-story house(quaintly named 'Stawberry House').

There were many paintings of strawberries all around the house, and strawberry-red rugs on the floor, and, just to keep the theme going, we ate a number of strawberries while we were there. Delicious.

♥

Here are a couple of pictures from the week:

Patches of falling sunlight in the park. We wandered round here on our first day, past flowers and fountains and squirrels with feathery tails. We followed the sound of music until we came to a bandstand where a burgundy-clad brass band were playing.

Three wee boys (not really) listening to the music in the park. They kept nudging each other and whispering ...and then they gave up the pretence and started chasing each other during the band's rendition of the 'Out of Africa' theme tune (a beautiful film which I only just watched this week!)

The sun stayed out for a while, then it started to rain (on and off) in showers. I liked this couple. They were sitting close together before the rain came on, and then, when it started to rain quite heavily, the husband tucked his arm around his wife's shoulder, popped open his umbrella, and then and pulled her close to keep her dry. She kept smiling at him, and they looked genuinely happy in each other's company (a rarity).



Confetti in the grass. Hearts and flowers and horse-shoes. There must have been a wedding before we came.

Emilie (my sister) trying to blend in with the manikins in a shop window. They were a bit paler than her. And a bit without-bodies.

A rather sad-looking statue in a doorway. Amazing how such a simple shape can covey such strong emotion.

Windows in York (I liked their curtains).

I love how bunting is strung almost everywhere in England (or at least, everywhere that we drove through). It's so jolly. I took this particular picture (from an open-top York tour bus) because I noticed on the window that 'jacket potatoes' was a plural, but 'panini' was not. (Or so I thought!) Turns out (according to google) that panini is actually the plural form for the Italian word 'panino' (meaning 'small bread roll' ...apparently). So there you go! 

Another set of windows spied from the bus. I liked the love heart, and the little notes they had pinned up at the window. I might borrow this idea. 

Evan (my 'little' brother, who the next week found out that he got into university!) and me having lunch (with Emilie) in a quirky restaurant/bar called 'The Pitcher and Piano'.

Quite possibly the best sandwich I have ever had the privilege of tasting. (Pan-fried halloumi, grilled flat mushroom and roasted peppers in a toasted ciabatta. I must try and make this at home!)

Flowers in Strawberry House garden (and my new ballet-style shoes).

'Oh look, this is a shiny teapot. I can see myself in it. I wonder if I can take a picture of myself in it  --- oh, it would seem that everyone else wants to get their picture taken in it too -- budge up -- big grins -- ready? -- cheeeeeese!' (from left: my dad, Andrew; my mum, Lorna; me, Melissa; and Evan, Evan.)

I fell in love (although I was lost to them already) with the bunting that kept popping up everywhere, and with the patchwork-style landscape of England. Hills and hills of fields and hedges. Didn't manage to get a picture of them, though. I was too engrossed in my book  to remember (I was reading 'I Capture the Castle' by Dodie Smith - beautiful).

birthday noticings

A few things I spotted on my (twenty-first) birthday last week:

[one.] Stars and candles on the breakfast table. (Birthday breakfasts are always a big thing in my family. Menu this year: orange juice, granola with vanilla yoghurt and berries, roll and sausage with or without brown sauce, numerous cups of tea ...or coffee, if you so desired.)

[two.] A flower box in Glasgow's west end. If I ever live in France (somewhat unlikely as I don't speak the language, but who knows! I might just marry a French man and learn it) then I will have a window box of red geraniums. If I never get round to living in France, I'd still quite like the window box.

[three.] A photograph at the Oran Mor (where we went for 'A Play, a Pie, and a Pint') with this underneath. I was taught by Louise Welsh in first year. She marked my very first official short story (a somewhat melodramatic - but lovely to write - tale about a circus elephant and true love).



[four.] Another house spotted just outside the Botanic Gardens (I'd like to have lots of potted plants leading up to my door at some point in my life, as well as the window box... maybe even in the same house. I just need to get over my bee-phobia).

[five.] A self-help book in the Oxfam bookshop with Smiles as the author (very suitable sir name). Unfortunately I was too busy taking a picture of 'Smiles' that I didn't notice the book of essays by C.S. Lewis sitting beside him until I got home and looked at this picture. Drat!

[six.] A devilish looking Ford sign (I'm learning how to drive in a Ford by the way. It took me four lessons to learn this information myself. Turns out when you start driving lessons everyone likes to ask: 'So what kind of car does your instructor have?' Not the kind of information I pay attention to. 'Em... a blue one?')

[seven.] You know your 'little' brother, is not so 'little' anymore when he is quite a bit taller than your mother. 

[eight.] These daisies were in my Gran's garden. I agree with Kathleen Kelly in You've Got Mail that daisies are the friendliest flower.

[nine.] Possibly the largest apple pie I have ever seen in my life.