We All Have Our Lives . (or: A Secret Life)	pix:
	Intro... I recall an incident in ‘ITEM-2’ below in which, as a small kid, I was assaulted by an old woman. After something like that, anyone might ask: how was it possible that you didn’t develop an intense and lifelong hatred of old women? Curiously, this did not happen (as demonstrated in ‘ITEM-5’), though by then I was well big enough to look after myself. But I'm mystified why things turned out that way and can only guess that fear is not so much of the ‘axe man’ as of the original means by which one comes under his ‘axe’ – ie, being caught for the crime, or indeed committing the crime itself. And I vividly recall my early efforts to avoid re-offending – efforts which led to some interesting repercussions (as will be revealed). It’s some years since I read a biography of Rasputin – Ah Rasputin! What could be more gripping? Can there be anything concerning Rasputin that’s not gripping? Could a Rasputin have existed anywhere but Russia? A detail about Rasputin that especially fascinated me was that as a kid he could tell instantly when someone was lying, or had committed some offence. Because of this, he assumed others were equally able to judge him - which meant he grew-up very well behaved, ever aware that any misdeed would be immediately detected. I reason from this that if I'm concerned about whether a person is guilty of some offence, then I might stand a chance of noticing. But if I'm indifferent or unsuspecting, then I'll probably not notice – even if that person’s guilt stares me in the face. When, back in the sixties, I was leading a kind of double-life: ie, one ‘public’ and one ‘private’ (as I describe in ITEM-6), I was always under the impression that everyone in my ‘public’ life suspected about my ‘private’ life. I was aware that they didn’t know – how could they? – but I always felt they suspected. It was as if, had one of them been bold enough to confront me on the issue, they might have said: ‘Look, we don’t exactly know, but we’re pretty certain what you’re up to. So why don’t you just come clean and confess?’ (As if it was any business of theirs!) That was the kind of question I read in their looks sometimes - as perhaps only a guilty person might (though there was no guilt in what I was doing, merely that it was something I knew would be disapproved of – and so kept private). And I was never certain whether or not they suspected the truth, just as they – so it seemed to me – were never certain whether or not what they suspected was true. Do you follow? If not, read on… all will come clear – eventually. ---------------- ITEM-1 Today I began by writing: ‘We all have our lives, and we do what we can with them.’ That’s what this whole article is really about: We all have our lives, and we do what we can with them. Sounds banal, but in fact it is profound. My life could end in a few minutes, or it could continue for decades. For the purpose of preserving peace of mind, I assume the latter. But there’s no assumption in the statement: we didn’t choose to exist, it just happened. Some Buddhists might dispute this, but here I’m taking an atheistic approach, which is the only one I have a clear perspective on. Everything else is too alien to me, weirder than absurd – and pernicious too: ie, how much death and horror, throughout history, has been the consequence of religious belief (not counting events for which religion has been merely an excuse)? There are, as ever, exceptions: there’s nothing pernicious about Desmond Tutu, Donald Soper (deceased), or Bruce Kent… quite the reverse. No one could be more plain speaking or less hypocritical than those. And maybe if I examined them, I’d find the same for the teachings of Jesus, Mohamed and Buddha. So (forgetting religion for the moment) this is where we find ourselves – here, in this world, alive and breathing. Lucky us! Some, most, are not so lucky: living as they do, and knowing of no possible alternative, a depleted, shanty existence; a slave of one sort or another, blindly scraping what little value they can from their plight; or disabled - unable to do or comprehend much; or stuck in a war zone, bombs exploding all around; and so on… for us in the UK, though, all is well, even if we’re poor it’s not too bad. But I’m not really so interested in examining this kind of man-made luck. More to the point is the kind of luck that has caused us to exist in the first place, to have the brains to contemplate the fact, and the flexibility to make something of it, to enjoy it, relish it, celebrate it! I’m just one success amidst trillions of failures. And this is from several points of view: not merely by being the one favoured spermatozoa that made it through against the odds, but all the zillions of other minuscule details that made me possible, the slightest alteration in any of which - stretching right back through history, back and back to before even life began on Earth - would most definitely have resulted in me not existing, ever! The details are countless – like diverging probabilities – and tend towards infinity. Yet, somehow, by some curious feat of self-deception, I feel as though I can take that in - just as I take in the fact that even if the universe we are in is finite, the space beyond it definitely isn’t. Is anything else possible? And in 11-dimensions, according to the latest theory (I think?). But I don’t intend to talk about galaxies and space. It’s not what this item is about. I’ve talked about it enough – and well, flying saucers too… sometime I’ll discuss the flying saucer phenomenon, but not here today – except: in Aussie, staying at a hostel in Canberra, there was this amazing young English guy, a genuine flying-saucer geek who knew about them, so it seemed, just about everything there was to know. Was he an eccentric? Definitely. At least, he gave my brain a brief stimulating zap. And eccentricity is, my brain declares from its weird perspective, to be welcomed – always – if only for the new angle it exposes! But what I’m discussing here is: ‘We all have our lives, and we do what we can with them.’ So this startling phenomenon is presented to you, to me – not most, sadly (not those trapped, for instance, in some hellhole of deprivation, or with an incurable disability), and what do we do with it? Well, I’ll tell you: We waste it! Generally speaking, we throw most of it away like something unwanted, something we’re burdened with. So what should we do, and how can we get ourselves to do it? My answer is: Who knows? I could say: This problem has been the puzzle of my life (maybe too of many people’s lives?). Which in a sense is true, yet this is a kind of tautology because it’s like saying: This puzzle has been the puzzle of my puzzle. But what it should say is: “This existence is the light - of my life.” The concept of life being a puzzle would appear bizarre to any non-human creature, I guess. But are we really so different – I mean is it all down to our almost unique intellectual brain? Today on the cliffs, over near the Firehills where it’s usually deserted on a weekday this time of year, a bloke coming towards me pauses when he gets to me and asks the time. ‘Got the time please, mate?’ he says, all innocent and cheerful. I knew, several metres of stride before he actually reached me, he was going to do something. Don’t ask me how I knew, I just somehow guessed. I thought: this bloke is going to do something strange or unusual, or at least different. He’s not going to simply walk past like most people, perhaps murmuring ‘Hi.’ or ‘Wotcher.’ No, there’s something else on the cards here, I thought. ‘Got the time please, mate?’ He says. ‘Summer or GMT?’ I reply (intending to joke – he looked ripe for a bit of fun). This confused him briefly, then he said, ‘Either, I suppose.’ I look at my watch – why I wear a watch is a puzzle to me, I don’t need to know the time, certainly not when I’m charging out over the cliffs, wandering along muddy paths, across fields, through woods, valleys – time is irrelevant in such locations. So long as the sun’s high, who cares? ‘It’s just after 15.30,’ I say. He looks bewildered, but nods. So I add: ‘Summertime.’ ‘Cheers, mate.’ He goes. And off he strolls as before. Soon I’m on the Firehills, surrounded by yellow gorse, which smells like apricots, and ahead of me in the far distance is Dungeness, and inland the Romney marshes, and beyond through the haze and out of sight, I know, are the white cliffs of Dover. And that’s what I did with this afternoon. Very pleasant too, I might say - an afternoon well spent. ---------------- ITEM-2 In Item-1 I illustrated at the end what I was able to do with my life for one afternoon. How many more afternoons do I have? Could be 10,000 or none. But that particular afternoon will not happen again. Why did I do what I did? I really don’t know, is the true answer. Something caused my brain to decide, as it frequently does, to order my body over to the cliffs - it equally might have sent me to the beach or wherever else to enjoy the fresh air, peace (birdsong, distant collapsing waves, wind in the trees…), to take in the views and other scenery, the sense of freedom, the feeling alive… and so on and so forth. In March I spent a few unique days in London – March 2006 already fades into history for ever. But couldn’t I have caught a plane to Miami, or Barcelona, or Athens, or Sydney… and couldn’t I now be wondering around the Parthenon or along the Great Wall of China? That’s freedom for you - so it seems - at least so far as practical circumstances are concerned. As for friends and acquaintances, I could visit and pester people I know in various locations too: in the UK, Aussie, the US, Denmark, Spain… and you can make friends anywhere; hostels are brilliant for making friends. For instance, arriving at a remote hostel on Oahu (Honolulu island) I’d been lucky and was in time to grab a low bunk. Later, when all except one high bunk was claimed, a guy with a beer-gut and no longer young wonders in, and when he looks at me pityingly I cannot help but relinquish the bunk. It was a worthy trade-off – what was it to me to scale the distance to that top bunk? Nothing – I was agile, light and youthful. And for that little sacrifice, I was chauffeured for several days all around the island to places I would otherwise not have seen - pineapple plantations, amazing shark-infested coastal areas, jungle, etc - for this guy was a real-estate millionaire and had hired a posh car. To him, he explained (unnecessarily), hotels and motels were ‘cold’ isolated, impersonal places; whereas hostels, where everyone lumps-in together, like a big family – or at least where there’s the chance for great conversation, jokes, tales, recommendations for places to visit… are warm, vibrant and alive. It was on the west coast there, thanks to him, that I enjoyed the greatest swim of my life in waves that would dwarf this house - and on a beautiful wild dune-flanked beach of tiny pebbles, which to fall on was softer than the softest mattress. And I could be there again now. It is only something in my brain that’s stopping me. I can do only what my brain can do – within, as always, the limits of practical circumstances. As readers of this site will have gathered, I’m one of those supremely fortunate people whose ambition is to have no ambition, and for whom avarice is to want less dependence on material things - within the limits, that is, of being able to do the kind of things I describe here. So despite everything - pressure, propaganda, bribes, glamour, ego - I landed on my feet. To this day I don’t get depressed, or bored, or ill, or overwhelmed by work or anything else; I spend almost all my time contented - either wandering about, reading books, or mixing with people I like - and carry the reassuring knowledge that I’m free, within reason, to do just about anything, or go anywhere, I choose. All I have said of my circumstances is fact. And I truly appreciate my position - especially when I see other people less fortunate; for one cannot alter one’s history, one’s upbringing or the whole situation when one’s life begins (see ‘Sartre’). There is an aspect here in which the brain resembles a computer. A flawed ‘operating-system’, upon whose function subsequent software depends, will become more problematic with time. In the same way, I contend, ‘Errors’ - in the form of adverse childhood experiences - will affect the way someone thinks, feels and behaves; they will influence how the person conducts their life, and above all what they can and can’t do. I can’t go to Australia right now because my brain doesn’t wish to. If it did wish to, then I could go; but as it is, I can’t. What could be clearer? Well, actually the ‘I’ part of my brain could challenge the stubborn part and overrule it – though in this instance it’s not going to. There are numerous circumstances where to overrule it would be impossible – because no part of my brain would wish it. This power to overrule varies, of course, for an individual as well as between people, and does so especially in line with particular childhood adversities or privileges – as well as, to a lesser extent, with those from other times, including the present. Despite my lucky situation, however, I confess that I still have an Achilles heel or two. Unless you are amazingly, fabulously lucky, you will have had these thrust upon you at some crucial stage in your life. Worst of all is when you are not conscious of them. But that’s another topic (pertaining perhaps to psychoanalysis and related matters). At least a couple of significant events come immediately to mind which I experienced as a kid and which have probably made some impact on how my brain, and therefore my life, has evolved. Although it isn’t easy to explain these, because they’ll probably appear trite and mawkish, I’ll attempt it nonetheless. * * * * * * * Aggression, Authority and Power There is aggression towards the body, the brain, and the universe. I remember once reading that the great Buddha had said: “To smack a child is to smack the universe.” I thought this a very astute comment – mainly because as a kid I hated, like most kids, being smacked (and have ever since, for that matter – including the erotic context). I can’t remember being smacked by my parents – though my dad chased me once when I hit my brother on the head with a rake. Imagine that! I got away too – and by the time I returned, everyone had cooled down. Whew! I do, though, remember being smacked at school. Odd how clearly one remembers those days, now so remote and faded into history – and I’m going back more than half a century here. Imagine being smacked on your first day at school – and at the very beginning of that day too. As things were to turn out, it was a telling start, like an omen, and one I don’t entirely regret because of the huge lesson it taught me at such a young age about the blind, hypocritical, brutal, world of Man – as will be revealed. The episode remains in my head to this day, so lucid and… well, so sad. I might have over-dramatised the event here, but that’s how I remember it. I could relate much more, except it would be tedious and irrelevant: I cried when my mum left me on that first day. I was 5-years old, and stood lost amidst a rabble of kids all jostling and shouting. I had met none of them before (though somewhere about there must have been several who I knew). The chaos seemed to go on and on, as did my tears. Then a girl (whose name I later discover is Barbara) puts her arm around me, affectionately, calmingly; I stop crying and cling to her. It is a wonderful feeling to be befriended like that in all the turmoil. Beautiful, pure, natural, spontaneous human empathy. Then, like a bolt of lightning, something catches me by the back of my neck and hoists me clear of the floor. The pain is excruciating, I almost choke. I am so high above the other kids that I capture in my brain a permanent snapshot of the view: across the long hallway, over the swarming heads, beyond a huge central chimney to the wide double doors at the far end. As abruptly as I left it, I hit the floor. Now I am pulled into an empty room. The door slams shut. The shouting and mayhem is muted, distant. My upper arms are in agony. They are being crushed in the hands of an old witch (who I later discover is the headmistress); her grip is like a vice. I am standing in front of her, while she sits on a chair staring into my eyes, and breathing foul breath into my face. She is shaking me violently. I am limp with fear, like a rag doll. This witch swings me over her lap, and hits me several times, quite hard, commanding in a harsh growling voice, ‘Don’t you ever touch a girl that way again.’ I don’t cry - not a murmur - I am in shock, unable to respond - frozen, petrified. Shortly, I find myself back in the mayhem, numbed and silent and still, moving only with the push of the mob, unable even to think. How long did it take me to recover? Maybe I still am… * * * * * * * Six years on now, I am 11-years old. It is a few weeks into the start of secondary school: a geometry lesson with the headmaster. A kid called Steven - a nice kid, a good friend - whispers some puerile comment that touches my sense of humour and I laugh. The head barks out at me to go and stand outside his office. I leave the room, and I wait a gruelling half-hour or more. When eventually he arrives, my legs are almost dropping off. Without a word he waves me into his office, indicates for me to bend double, and pushing me lower wields three sharp, vicious strokes with a small thick cane. He sends me out to stand where I waited before. This time, instead of my mind going blank, a whole cascade of thoughts crash through my brain. Stunned to the heart, I remember that first day when I was 5, and I swear to myself that come what may this time I will take revenge. If I’d had a gun at that moment, I would most definitely have used it. Every now and then, somewhere in the world, a kid goes wild and shoots several people in his school. This happens especially in the US where guns are as common as mobile phones. I always feel for that kid more than his victims, because he is the real victim. I know precisely – or sense that I know – his predicament, and why he did what he did. Those actually responsible for the deaths he causes are never even blamed, let alone charged. Now, of course, as an adult, I would be incapable of even thumping that ignorant prick who caned me when I was 11. It would be an altogether inappropriate approach. But nowadays when I see a kid of 11, I am struck by how small and frail and vulnerable a kid that age is, and I am appalled that any adult could bring themselves to inflict violence on a kid so feeble and defenceless – never mind what that kid might have done. Yet these idiots, these bullies, these ignorant sadistic maniacs, exist virtually everywhere and in the most powerful positions in society - but especially in schools… what in the world could be more incongruous? What is it that inspires people in authority to behave with such cruelty? This is another topic, as is why in the first place such people seek to work with kids, and are even encouraged by the Establishment to behave in this sadistic way. The whole issue is, of course, tied up with power – and a peculiar blind insanity akin to what torturers know. Luckily, the two instances I mention above are the only times these sadistic types have ever presented a direct problem for me - subsequent instances have had little effect. And although a stable background gave me a fairly impervious mental constitution, which should have protected me from those assaults, I believe it did not prevent even such brief and isolated events as I describe from leaving a lasting impression – or from having profound implications. How could they not? I hardly need add that these, and other lesser experiences, permanently influenced my perception of authority – which is clear from the perspectives revealed in much of what I write… perspectives which, until they read about them, elude many people – ie, those not witness to such confrontations as I experienced - but these perspectives are real enough as can be seen from their consequences around the world.  Armed with this perception, this truth, I have noticed throughout my life that virtually all authority conforms, if not literally then metaphorically, to the same approach. This is not wish fulfilment - seeing what I expect or hope to see - but is an entirely objective appraisal. Although it may sometimes begin with gentle persuasion, if it fails to get its way then authority is ultimately ruthless, unrelenting and brutal. This has been demonstrated over and again throughout history; from major international disputes (just look at Iraq and Afghanistan), to minor domestic ones – right down to the most minuscule situation (like those I’ve mentioned which happened to me). I’ve seen all this so many times, even at first hand in an industrial settings – as described elsewhere on this site. Conclusion: to exercise authority is equivalent to assaulting the universe. If this strikes you as absurd or naïve, then think about it carefully for a few moments – you may be surprised. And reflect on this too: Who the hell do these people in authority think they are? How did they acquire their status – and what does that status count for? What right do they have to wield orders? ‘Authority’ is almost always synonymous with ‘crime against humanity’. Think on that as well. There are exceptions to these generalisations – though not many. See also... ---------------- ITEM-3 “We all have our lives, and we do what we can with them.” That sentence now, compared with at the start of ITEM-1, is beginning to take on a new significance. How much was my brain permanently influenced by what happened to me in those crucial few minutes when I was 5-years old? How might my life have been different if this event had not occurred? Is it possible for such a fleeting experience to permanently change a person’s most basic responses and perceptions – even their subconscious? I don’t know the answer to these questions. I do know, though, that I’ve never been able to take the initiative in forming close relationships with women – it’s always been up to them to make the first move. Luckily, several have – though it wasn’t until well into my 20s that I could respond positively. Before then I was always inexplicably nervous, overcome with a strange apprehension, the nature of which was a complete mystery, a curiously absurd sense of impending menace. It never occurred to me to search out the cause of these inhibiting influences – not that it would have made a scrap of difference either way. And it could be that events such as I’ve described had nothing whatever to do with it. But it strikes me now as an amazing coincidence if they didn’t. Since, naturally, I frequently became ‘involved’ with other people in those days, fellow students etc, the lack of relationships with women was never a big deal for me. Besides, I was tied up with academic and technical interests then, which I enjoyed and which occupied most of my time. All this was just as well when considering my ‘unrefined’ nature, my lack of fashion sense and laziness with appearance and other details to do with ‘presentation’ - long fingernails, scraggy hair ... So the kind of sexually ambiguous life I’ve followed since leaves me uncertain, upon reflection, whether I would have chosen things to be any other way. In the early days, though, as I entered my teens, nearly everyone was normal and predictable, almost seeming at times scared to be otherwise. Later on, however, I noticed that to some, luckily, being ‘normal’ was kind-of boring – and it struck me this way too: “Vive la différence!” To be a maverick in any sense, I reasoned - especially in the raving sixties - lends extra colour to life, imbues a little zap that would otherwise be absent. And so it continues to this day – which leads me to wonder: how can I regret negative events that may have unwittingly inspired this positive outcome? Even so, I still totally condemn the impulsive aggression of which I was a victim - and doubtless many others too (probably with a whole range of consequences, as varied as the individuals involved) - and which was the accepted way in the 50s; perhaps a kind-of hangover from WW2. Numerous unlucky kids around the country would have fared far worse than me, of course, yet how many of them rebelled as a result? I’m referring now to what happened when I was 11. I took revenge in many small ways. This was made easier with the help of an accomplice who was eventually expelled for long hair – a power struggle between him and the head, which the head seemed to think he’d won but actually lost because my friend was delighted (and nothing unpleasant ever transpired as had been threatened). So with this help I nicked a whole cupboard-full of paper and exercise books, etc. And after I left I hardly needed to buy any paper at all for about 8-years from age 15 - while taking, in succession, three different day-release courses - right up to when I began polytechnic. In addition, there was the removal of hundreds of brass radiator caps, bleeding radiators, turning gas on – many times over, together with other misdemeanours for which it was virtually impossible to be caught. Often, the head would announce in an assembly that the culprit of whatever scheme I was onto would soon be caught. Needless to say, I never was caught. Also, so far as I can recall, I didn’t once complete even the smallest piece of homework. I soon went down a class – several in some subjects, frequently finding myself in a class of kids who couldn’t even read – and for most of the last year I played truant. I didn’t study for exams, or worry about failure or anything else. And through it all I was really quite happy – that is, as happy as can be expected for one subjected to compulsory schooling against one’s will. ---------------- ITEM-4 It’s probably true that by using an appropriate strategy I could have liberated myself, as with any phobia (if that’s what it was), from my ‘irrational’ fear of girls I soon grew to accept - but how is a 13-year old expected to know this? Or even a 23-year old? The phobia, having no obvious cause, seeks justification, reinforces itself, becomes ingrained, and ultimately nurtured – until, by the time you’re 14 or 15, it can even be viewed as a great advantage. This is a kind of natural, automatic application of positive thinking: whatever you are, whatever your handicaps, if you can’t change anything then be positive and make the best of it. I first met C when he joined my class at primary school. I must have been 8-years old, him several months younger. C was from a fairly wealthy family who lived nearby, so we soon became close friends. Before long, we did everything and went everywhere together. In fact we were hardly ever apart. People became so used to seeing us as a pair that if ever I was alone they’d ask what had become of C - my other half, as they called him. I remember noticing one day that actually C was quite an attractive kid. This pleased me a lot, I recall, because it feels good to be with attractive people, and it meant that I was conscious of him in ways other than is usual for a kid – at least this was how I saw it at the time; so instead of merely accepting and taking his appearance for granted, I appreciated his companionship even more. I recall this friendship now because it was remarkable in several ways. For one thing, it was to continue for three years until his family moved away – and even then, at just 11, the last summer before dreaded secondary school, I was invited to their new place for a week - 60 or 70 miles away. That holiday turned out to be almost divine. I can remember everything so clearly, in such amazing intricate detail that I surprise myself: the big garden and orchard, the fields of wheat at the back and across the road, the paddock, the long estuary with a lighthouse, the spooky unfurnished annex that was supposed to be locked but C, as ever, found ways around that, as with every obstacle. I remember thinking: “When I grow-up and have kids I want at least one of them to be exactly like C.” Yet when I returned home, expecting not to see him again for some while, if ever, I felt not the slightest sadness or remorse. This serene separation was just another typical aspect of that amazing friendship – which was free from jealousy, envy, possessiveness… in fact I’d say that everything about it was near perfection. And for another thing: we never once quarrelled. Although C was younger than me, as well as shorter and perhaps less strong, he was always, it occurs to me now, naturally in charge. At the time I scarcely sensed this, and it must have been fairly marginal, but I remember joyfully acquiescing to anything C decided, or asked of me, without a thought of anything so limiting as status or ego. Yet this could not be said of me for other circumstances, or with other kids. So all through those three years - a long time for kids that age - our friendship only developed and bloomed. I had accompanied C and his family on holiday the year before too, with a caravan they had – C and me shared a tent. At no time during those years did either of us tire of the other. And we became so familiar with one another, so together, so close that the notion of privacy ceased to exist, and without a second thought we would even accompany each other in a toilet cubicle. At the time it all seemed so natural and unremarkable – though in fact it was magnificent because we were liberated; so liberated that we didn’t even realise it. But I recall that detail to indicate how secure and trusting we were with each other, and how uninhibited – this was a freedom that embraced a whole range of circumstances. There was nothing sexual in our relationship – at least, not overtly - any more than one would expect between brothers, say; and during that final holiday week, we even took baths together. Afterwards, when back home without C, and with no real prospect of seeing him again, he simply evaporated from my mind as though our time together had taken place in a story, an enchanted tale from the chronicles of pre-history - yet there was no doubt that we had infused one another with a warmth that would sustain us both for years; certainly me, at any rate. But I was not to know at the time that all this was to form a kind of prelude, an overture. It was more than a year later, when I was just 13, when I fell hopelessly (surprise-surprise) for two girls – both at once. Precocious or what? Even I am astonished when I think back. These girls sat together in my class at school, and one day the more striking one, who was petit, as they say, and had very long light-blond hair, actually invited me to her house for the coming Sunday afternoon. I’d been too enamoured to realise, as I was to recall, that her invitation was made in a mocking, sarcastic manner - presumably in response to my meagre and timid advances in the form of scribbled notes on scraps of paper - and was not expected to be taken-up. Fortunately (I thought at the time), by some fluke, these girls lived near one another; unfortunately, however, this was about 7-miles away, out in the wilds, in a westerly direction. So driven was I by my unfathomable mad infatuation… and so bursting with ardour and energy - that I was determined that nothing was going to stop me, and I set out on my bike that Sunday hardly noticing the strong headwind. The journey was one of the toughest ordeals I’ve ever undertaken. I became increasingly as drained as I was apprehensive the closer I got to my destination. When I eventually arrived, I was completely, utterly knackered; and all I could do was lay on the grass verge of this quiet country lane to recover. So I lay there beside my bike for some time looking up the rutted driveway to the farmhouse. But the longer I waited there, the more uncertain I became of whether I could go those last few metres. It was like being on a high diving board: you climb with enthusiasm, you walk to the edge and look down, and you pause, and the longer you pause the harder it gets, and all the while everyone is watching and waiting… This girl, A was her name, would never have conceived how she affected me, how she stirred in me such a painful yet delightful mysterious yearning, such an unfamiliar flutter in my chest whenever I caught sight of her. Of this she could have had no conception (so I reasoned at the time). It would have confused her totally to have learned of my feelings. She was prim and vain and spoilt and arrogant and… dazzling! What strikes me now as most curious of all, is that despite my obsession with her I had no thoughts or plans for coaxing her into some hayloft or any other such place. In that regard, I can now reflect, I was unbelievably naïve and innocent. What was more, we hadn’t even spoken to one another - except those brief few words ending with her ‘invitation’. No, I’d been much too shy for that. True, we had, as I said, deftly passed a note or two during lessons (actions I was at pains to conceal from anyone else), but apart from that nothing; we hadn’t even touched hands. I think I imagined that the fear of her I sensed at school would vanish once I could meet her in an informal setting. Perhaps I hoped she’d take some kind of a lead? Yet there I was, slumped by the roadside, with my fear redoubled. All the same, I couldn’t - after biking all that way - return home without somehow letting her know I’d made the effort. But what could I do? Suddenly, I was petrified at the idea that she might invite me in, embrace me even and… who knows? And at the same time I was so anxious to be with her, to just look at her, to… who knows? So I was riveted in this crazy dilemma. Mournfully, I looked up at the overcast sky, at the big grey and dark-grey clouds drifting rapidly past above the line of tall leafless trees along the edge of the lane. I sat on the grass verge and listened to the crows, and the wind roaring in the treetops. And time ticked on: I don’t know how long I was there, half-an-hour, a little longer maybe? Nothing came by, no cars, no people. So I just sat there watching the crows, wishing I was one of them. Finally, I stood up and got on my bike ready to go home. Then, suddenly nervous and struck by a curious impulse, instead of heading down the lane I rode up the drive to the imposing old house. Without hesitation I laid my bike on the ground, went to the door and rang the bell. Within seconds, a small, elegant middle-aged woman appeared at the door, “Yes?” Then straight away behind her A appeared in a flowery summer dress. I’d never before seen her like that. She was resplendent – no other word for it – but she held a severe tight-lipped expression. “Yes?” the woman repeated. I could only gape at A, who then, with an exasperated expression, said irritably: “You can look round the farm if you like.” and immediately disappeared. The woman watched her go then turned to me, smiled briefly, nodded and closed the door. I stood there a second, bewildered, an immense wave of disappointment sinking through me. As I picked up my bike, I was hit by an equally powerful sense of relief, like a purge of energy, refreshing and invigorating. Feeling intesely dejected and sad, I was at least free again, and I leapt onto the bike and sailed back down the track onto the lane - both laughing and crying inside. The conflicting emotions seemed to tear at me, like two enemies in mortal combat. It was like fighting my way through a thicket, so it seemed. I must have covered several miles in this confused state. But the further I rode, the freer I began to feel, as if the disappointment and anguish was falling away onto the roadside - and the harder I peddled the more it fell away. Soon, contentment began to return, and with the wind now behind me, I even started to sing, which was very unusual for me: I remember especially ‘The Lion and the Unicorn’, but I sang other childrens' tunes too. On the Monday back at school, we glanced briefly at one another - she was with the other girl, M, who half turned away as if to avoid me - but we never spoke, not a word, none of us, and never did ever again, not even a furtive glance. And I was cured – pretty-well permanently, so it seemed. Because - not including several minor events - my next encounter, which was real this time, took place with my rebellious accomplice, the one who later helped me nick paper and was expelled for having long hair. And after that, a momentary interlude with good old Jack Taft (who was younger than me and features in ‘Mrs Jolly and the Intercom’) - until I managed to lure his strikingly handsome friend, R, who was… well, gorgeous. And throughout all this new territory, I was never once so much as slightly nervous, not even of being detected – it reminded me of my time with C, but now with 'forbidden' ecstasies, the promise of which was only hinted at with C... but I rush ahead of myself. ---------------- ITEM-5 So, for a long time, I was unable to relax in any situation where there was the risk of a relationship developing that was more than platonic - with a female, that is, because I never felt uneasy in this sense with male contemporaries. Contrary to what it may seem, this apprehesion has nothing to do with sexual orientation - I’ve known several gay men, for instance, who’ve claimed no reaction of this sort in the company of women (straight or otherwise) - which most enjoy, since they present no threat (as straight, or even other gay, men might). But this probably explains why I’ve never minded being with elderly women. Notwithstanding that they are physically innocuous (generally, they neither tempt nor threaten in that sense), older women can appear, regardless of myriad wrinkles, quite attractive. Their age seems to imbue them with elegance, and frequently with charm too. They are usually wise, and often tolerant (of weird people like me, mainly) and sometimes they have a refreshing broadmindedness, even openness (as, for example, is this whole ‘itemised confession’ for me) – but above all, I think, they foster an inherent kindliness, a respect, appreciation, a generosity of spirit that befits the wisdom implied by their age, and which is rarely found in young or middle-aged people. For a bonus, you might discover intimations of juvenility, mischief, even excitement and unpredictability: the promise, astonishingly, of challenge to the status quo - perhaps of outright subversion! Author, actor and playwright, RH Ward - famous for his ‘Drug Taker’s Notes’ 1957, in which he describes some gripping experiments with LSD including a remarkable essay on consciousness – wrote a splendid book of 18-short childhood reminiscences entitled: ‘A Gallery of Mirrors’ 1956. One of these is called ‘Miss Kranz’ – a veritable grumpy old woman too, it seems, but a fascinating and invaluable acquaintance for all that. Here’s an extract: “My own introduction to her was made when I was about six years old… I very well remember the astonishment, and the fascination, of that first meeting… I had already heard from my grandmother that she was “an eccentric person”, whatever that might mean… She accepted the eccentric Miss Kranz simply for what she was, eccentric certainly, but at the same time a fellow human being, and thus an opportunity for tolerance and hospitality. For both these virtues needed to be exercised where Miss Kranz was concerned; she could be rude and “difficult”… I was always made vaguely to feel that it was regrettable that I was male, but I bore her various reproofs, many of which I secretly thought unjust, since they were amply compensated for by Miss Kranz herself and the mysteries of her house… She was over eighty when she died (she was found by neighbours on the floor of her extraordinary drawing-room, where she had lain dead for several days), but she still retained that delicate beauty which, when I had recovered from the shock of her general appearance, I remembered had preoccupied my childish eyes on that first meeting. Her hair was already grey at that time, but her complexion was as clear and fresh as a girl's, and her dark eyes seemed to be luminous with youth. She had a thin, high-bridged nose, a small, ironical mouth (but her rare smile showed that her teeth were discoloured and broken), and her chin was firm and wilful. Her face as a whole had a delicate severity which it is difficult to describe, a quality of refinement and even of spirituality which seemed to light it from within… She bound me in her spell at first sight. But I remember little of that earliest encounter, beyond the initial impression she made upon me as she appeared round the corner of the house; only that she took us indoors, pressed upon me some chocolate, found among heaven knows what irrelevances somewhere in the drawing-room, and very stale indeed, and began to talk to my aunt, probably of books and plays, certainly of nothing interesting to a boy of six.” * * * * * * * Mrs W (also known as MC) lived about half-way along our street in Huntingdon. She was old, wizened and had only one leg. Yet she would zoom about on her crutches, grinning like a hyena, as though she was still a sprightly larking youth. When me and R (otherwise known as the afore-mentioned Jack Taft in ‘Mrs Jolly and the Intercom’) came to know her properly, she had become too weak to gallivant around as she had been used to. We befriended her soon after I acquired the old Ford (mentioned also in the story). One day, as she passed slowly - and, it looked to me, painfully - by, seeing me and R there in our drive with the battered old pale-blue Ford, she stopped and asked if, for ten-bob, I’d take her on Sunday afternoon to Papworth St Agnes - a remote village about 4-miles away. We were delighted, of course, and it was immediately agreed that the three of us would go. She was not without a certain reputation, Mrs W: something mysterious and shady in her past, not criminal but unorthodox. This is precisely the kind of thing that fascinated us boys, and so began a wonderful friendship which lasted several years – including trips of 80-miles each way to the seaside resort of Hunstanton - until suddenly, unexpectedly, she died. Reflecting on the wild stories she would relate, of ‘the old days’ involving chamber-pots and mischievous children, and big old mantelpiece-clocks and being chased by policemen… when me and R would laugh and struggle to breathe – reflecting... her death was a huge loss to us. So when a few years later I took my two grandmothers to Cromer for a week – my perceived altruism was not quite what it seemed; though to go into that, or any more of this ‘tangent’, would be to betray the principle issue at hand. But these were the circumstances that turned this particular Achilles heel of mine on its head – making it, instead of a problem, an asset, or even a gift. ---------------- ITEM – 6 ..Confession.. Revelation.. Declaration So, this is what happened: Before I was 16, I’d had four longish-term boyfriends, several brief ones, and a handful that were fleeting. Of all these, I was (usually marginally) the oldest, and in all but one the seducer too. One of these friends remained loyal for almost a year, a fairly stormy year I might add (but perhaps the richer for it?), and another, P, who I met next, remained with me even longer. P worked in the rubber factory of my story ‘The Button’, in the company’s test lab. He was gorgeous: dark-blond, waif-like, vaguely effeminate and truly stunning (he should have been a girl!). He had an older brother with black hair, deep blue eyes, and who was more beautiful even than P – but this brother had a girlfriend, so I remained (contentedly) with P, which I probably would have anyway. In those days, I reckoned to be able to win over pretty-well whoever I chose, though it wasn’t too difficult to discern who to leave out – those unlikely to acquiesce. At that age, with the right approach - and if, like me at the time (though I didn’t realise it), you’re not too bad looking - I’d say you can probably woo just about anyone. True, some of my acquaintances were perfectly straight, and at first mildly reluctant, but with some deft persuasion, an appropriate setting, a carefully chosen moment, a few well-tailored compliments – the magic can be made to work. And once cast, the spell takes a while to wear off. Who wouldn’t fall for it – and willingly? Well, there are some, of course, but as I say: you leave them out. As for mistakes, rejection is tough and could earn one a tarnished reputation – not these days, of course, but back then it was wise to be reticent… unless you’re the very brave Quentin Crisp! Curiously, although I lived a double life through most of my teens – of lovers on the one hand, and everything else on the other – I never took more than moderate trouble to conceal what was going on. Indeed, I was often quite careless – but either people failed to notice or else ignored what they could so easily have discerned. I think my carelessness was due to my sensing of these activities as entirely natural, leading to a 'Who cares?' or 'So what?' kind of conclusion. But it’s extraordinary the lengths to which one will go – like biking to that farm. I think I was about 18 or 19 when I enrolled for (and attended) a whole 1st term of evening class in Applied Maths ‘A’ level, just so I could get to know this kid I found so attractive. I used to help him with the maths, which he found a struggle; and we did become very good friends, going places together, always at each other’s homes, etc - until I revealed how I felt about him. He was genuinely stunned, and from that moment he avoided me. Nothing I could do: gifts, whatever, made a scrap of difference. I dropped the course and that was that – I was doing more advanced stuff with electronics. But that was the only time I remember failing. And except for that one stormy relationship early on, I never fell out with anyone. Rather, I and whoever I was going with would drift slowly apart, seeing less and less of one another. And most of my lovers remained good friends for ages afterwards. No regrets and no recriminations. So over the years I’ve had things fairly easy so far as relationships are concerned. But not that easy, I suppose. And maybe it's best that way, because what comes too easily is not as appreciated - and if there's one big important secret for a life predominant with joy, it is to Appreciate things. I recall a benedictine monk on television saying that our most valuable gift is Gratefulness. Solid athiest that I am, I'm certain he's right. So life has not been especially difficult or easy. My unconventional attitudes and behaviour has, though, I believe, enriched my life enormously: the people I’ve met and mixed with, various activities I’ve been involved in, and so on and so forth – none of which would have happened had I been, or tried to be, ‘normal’. And I’ve enjoyed some several-year-long relationships with both genders, all as deep and rewarding as I can imagine most other people’s relationships often are. I have to say, though, that my liaison with S was the most soft, gentle, composed, wonderful experience of all – but then, she was a Quaker. And if I’d had my way, I’d have lived with her for the rest of my life – and a very contented life it would have been too, I'm sure. And I guess that’s the difficult part: seeing someone whose presence you greatly value, drift away, or being lured away. That’s the downside, I suppose, of leading a life like mine. Then again… As Hesse so poignantly observes: “Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death…” And you never quite know what’s just around the next curve... ----------------- ITEM-7 Children of a future age, Reading this indignant page, Know that in a former time, Love, sweet love, was thought a crime. William Blake (1757 - 1827) ...well fine, but what about lust? Back in the 60s when I first saw this little protest poem of Blake’s, I was deeply intrigued. I knew instantly that I belonged to that ‘future age’. I imagined I was on a fabulous psychedelic train journey into some glorious future - but with only a few enlightened others, so it felt, resembling a secret club from which most were excluded, and there was plenty of room to move around (creating certain advantages). Slowly, over the years, as the influence of the hippie-60s faded and the glitter began to tarnish, it was warming to notice some positive residual effects: increasing numbers were joining this journey - some leaping aboard with enthusiasm, others dragging reluctantly along behind but clinging on nevertheless, and a few (as ever) staying doggedly put, effectively tailing away into the past. Then – much too late for me - came the outlawing of institutional violence against juveniles here in the UK (ie, outlawing corporal punishment), and more recently of blood-sports. (Though war and massacre are still very acceptable, so it appears!) But the last line of the poem, if it were made to rhyme, could be adjusted to apply to thousands of aspects of life. It strikes me as extraordinary how so many people, especially while still quite young, allow themselves to get drawn into the past, adopt absurd notions, prejudices and rituals that no-one can rationally explain (but which slowly destroys them from the inside), join pernicious hierarchies whose function is solely to serve those at its top – and as if that wasn’t enough, attempt to chain as much else as they can of the world to their arbitrary anchor in time, as though theirs is the only place worth being at and staying. We are all victims of our past – I’ve explained my own predicament above – but almost everyone is capable of self-analysis, of refreshing their outlook, and moving into Blake’s glorious future – whatever it is written to apply to. The end of corporal punishment was an important shift forward. The end of oligarchies will some day be another, as will the abolition of slavery (a different kind to that which Wilberforce confronted, but slavery nonetheless - by programming, and often self-inflicted) - and slavery it absolutely is: shackled by a crippling rent or mortage (we have to live somewhere), many of us are sentensed to decades in some office or factory! Some will say, for instance: ‘But corporal punishment was good – so how can that be moving forward?’ or present an equivalent challenge; and an argument will ensue on the merits or otherwise of either side. The answer to this is simple – Hesse pressed it continually – it is: listen to your own heart. Abandon all loyalties and allegiances, obey no-one – for the answer is yours alone. Martin Buber said: ‘In disruption, in unease, we must begin to become.’ No need for disruption or unease, just follow your own conviction - if that leads to disruption and unease, then so be it. I followed mine and nothing untoward happened, so one can get lucky after all!