🧠(((25.01.24)))-LONELINESS MONOLOGUE & OTHER RECYCLED Shhh!t- Thinking Thursdays w/ Chasey Delaney 🧠
Just the first (upcycled old drafts and NEW personal voice-over AUDIO) reading of Stuff That Makes Us Think in my Series LET ME THINK ABOUT IT!??
WELCOME! thank you for being here and my first promise to you is that NEXT THURSDAY will be less ‘spontanious’ and much more Thought Out. My last promise to you is that I promise not all content in here is from Christmas time 2023 and I hope I can promise you will have something to think about - maybe inspiration - after the monologue at the end of this newsletter…x
What started out as ‘Thorough’ Thursday: - - productivity update (podcast, poetry, pictures & links) soon became THINKING THURSDAY - Let me think about it. Ha!
Well, this is the very first Thorough +THINKING Thursday (thrown into one because its almost 1.30am and that’s my deadline!) and I’ve set myself up for a fall already.
First with that word thorough because I find it difficult to pronounce and secondly, starting with the biggest, most thorough task of updating you on my productivity of late. That in itself doesn’t sound sustainable! Let me explain what I actually mean by ‘productivity’ in my world.
Places I might have been. I went to the library and was surprised to see a huge Santa Claus returning to the square outside the building and almost as tall. I didn’t have my phone with me to take my own photos, which was a shame so I’ve took the liberty of stealing a copy of some from the local newspaper’s website Manchester Evening News and Google. Thank you very much!
Books I have been reading. I am just under halfway through reading a book that I own and have had for a few years now. It’s Haruki Murakami’s Dance, Dance, Dance. I love it and have taken many notes from it and written them down in my journal. It’s hard to believe it was published in the 70’s or 80's. It reads like a dream and is right up my street. I’ve talked about my indifference towards his most popular book, Norwegian Wood in the past so won’t bang on about it again here. I’ll just leave a little Beatles video here as a nod to the author and because I quite like the song too
I picked up a good selection of books from the library and the first one I have spent some time reading is the biography of Lotte Moos who was a prolific storyteller, writer, activist, suspected spy, ex-prisoner, eighty year old active Poet and in her own words, a “lifelong refugee”. Written by her friend and publisher, David Perman.
I plan to write an essay about what these things mean to me and how they’re working out in my life (or not!) on *NEW*JustClingingOn. Join me on my ‘new space’ journey. The old stuff is possibly still available to read at JUSTCLINGINGON(old) Go Check Me out.. I might not let you down, in the meantime - and sticking with the theme of upcycling, remending, recycling, reusing, *cheating-a-bit* I have stumbled across this from my old Google Keep Notes. I might have used this on this very newsletter (not this you’re reading - one from TDC - The Daily Chase - ages ago but let’s face it that’ll be in Archive now behind paywall anyway.
THIS HAS ALWAYS STUCK IN MY MIND AND GIVES US CAUSE TO THINK ABOUT:
LONELINESS (a monologue… by me).
If you wish to read along with me a couple of words have been corrected in audio which may not have been edited out in this: LETS GO!!! x
I was on the tram and I could smell the soap coming from an old man who was getting off.... I felt a nostalgia for my granddad. It would have been gramps' birthday today 8 November 2023,. He might have been about 75 now. Maybe 80. I lost count the day he died. I can't even remember how old he was when he left us.
I just remember he scrubbed up well and always stunk of soap. The older generation were more basic and ground in their ways. I don't like the smell.
It wasn't Imperial Leather although even that doesn't match my stuff these days. It's kind of an odd stink. It makes me think of loneliness, but so does every fucking thing.
I pictured the old man washing his face and skin in freezing cold water from a small bathroom sink. Maybe a strip wash with a rough green towel trying to cover the obligatory stench of piss and the decay of old age.
The old man waved to an older lady who called out his name. Away he sauntered with his freshly polished walking stick and beige leather loafers with cream stitching and slacks the colour of the shit I had this morning.
I empathised with his lack of taste. I imagined his Sainsburys outing the only dose of daylight he would get that week.
To fill one plastic shopping bag with supplies, carry it home and fill the cupboard. Stick the shiny kettle on while cooking a single lamb chop under the grill on top of the old style gas cooker. Turning the chip pan on full heat to melt the last meal's lard.
Stirring his cup of tea vacantly. Taking it back to his armchair in front of the TV. Not thinking of switching it on. Slumping down in his same old spot. Un-crumpling yesterday's newspaper to finish the crossword while his brew cools down.
Looking around at the empty dusty room. Clean enough for guests to view only because of lack of use.
The old lady thinks about him on the tram and for the rest of the day. Wished that they'd had time to chat. Longing for the company. She goes home and feeds her cats. Slips into something like an apron and slippers gets the plain flour out ready for baking.
She screws open the cap on the bottle of vodka that she still hides behind the radiator cover, even thought she lives almost alone. Her temporary lodger doesn't enter the lounge or kitchen ever, yet... just in case he did. She feels better keeping her business private.
She takes a swig, then another straight from the bottle. Fastens the lid then things better of it and pours another measure into a mug with the Queen's photo on it. Later she fills it up with Yorkshire tea and takes it up to bed with her.
Lying under the covers she finds by flicking through the remote, an older TV channel that she doesn't mind ignoring. Setting the remote down by the side of her legs on the bed.
Closes her eyes and one single tear slides down her face as the bum bum bum to Eastenders theme tunes jolts her from her reverie... looking up just in to see the end of Arthur lying face down in the fucking cabbages on his beloved allotment.
Let’s Think about Loneliness for a bit.. (and those who are lonely - like you, or me - or the Grinch maybe. ) Send us Your love xxxxxxx
