The River Tees

This is a picture of the River Tees, not far from the village of Winston.  It's one of my favourite places right now, far enough from anything that all you can hear is the babbling of the river, the wind singing in the trees and the birds arguing with each other.  I come to places like this to clear my head and put current circumstances into perspective.  When I lived in Lancaster, I used to drive to Heysham or Morecambe to sit by the sea and do the same thing.  Its the one thing I miss about living in Lancaster (apart from a couple of friends).  Not being near the sea.

This one's the same place, looking up river.  Until today, I had thought that I was coming to the river because I can't easily get to the sea, not under the current day release conditions anyway.  Today a new thought occurred to me.  Today I realised that I used to go to Heysham or Morecambe because I couldn't come and sit by the Tees.  Today, while the maniac charged about killing rabbits and chasing pheasants, I realised that this river is in my blood.

This is another of my favourite places, a little further east along the river, in the woods near Piercebridge.  The perfect place for a quick smoke and to just (and this might sound daft) let the beauty of it fill you with the strength to do what you have to do.

If I were to drive a little further upriver, to Barnard Castle or Middleton, to sit down with the old fellas and tell them who I was, they wouldn't give a rat's arse.  But if I told them my grandfather was Maurice Collinson, or my great-uncle Jack Hind, the reception would be entirely different.  Collinsons and Hinds have been part of Teesdale for centuries, working the land, building the community.  Sadly, Jack was the last Hind to live in Teesdale, but the Collinsons soldier on.

In coming to terms with what's happening to Gran I have to come to terms with my own heritage.  And part of that heritage is this river and the valley it meanders through.  There's something about it that's important to me, something vital that I've only just discovered.

And for the record, the maniac really did kill a rabbit.

One final, unconnected piece of news: the freak has a new suitor.  He's called Khan, he's very handsome.  But he would be, wouldn't he?  All her suitors are good looking fellas.

I Need More Coffee

To get more coffee I have to go downstairs and put the kettle on.

When I go downstairs, I have to confront the reality of Gran's situation. Of my situation.  I have to face the reality of who she is now: old, frail, helpless.  I have to try to help her while trying to maintain the illusion of her independence.  I'm naturally softly spoken (people call me a mumbler) but I'll have to shout to communicate with her.  I'll have to lift her onto the toilet, and lift her off when she's done, and try to make it feel like she did it on her own.

When I go downstairs, I have to accept for another day that this amazing woman, my Gran, has all but left the building and what's left is just the shell.  I love her, and I'll do anything I have to for her, but christ, I could do with another cup of coffee before then.

I Don't Usually Do Hallmark Days...

I certainly don't do mother's day.  In the past I've always felt that if you need to be told by a greetings card company that you should tell your mother what she means to you then there's something seriously wrong with you.   Yes, I know that Mothering Sunday is traditionally a Christian festival dating back to the Roman Empire, but that's not what it is now, is it?  These days it's just another way to part fools from their money and I'm more than capable of parting with my money on my own, thank you very much.  So, as I say, I don't usually do mother's day.

But this year I did.  With everything that's going on with Gran, especially after Friday (we both thought she wouldn't be waking up on Saturday), I want her to know how much she means to me.  I want to write it across the sky in thousand foot neon letters for the whole world to see.  Given our history, everything that's gone on between us, I want her to be in no doubt how I feel about her.

Of course I cant do thousand foot letters in the sky, so I settled for a daft little present and cooking Sunday lunch for the three of us.  But it turns out daft little presents and roasted meats doesn't quite do enough (for me) to be sure she knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt.  So I'm doing a bit of bloggery to make a public statement.

I love you Mum.  Happy Mother's Day.

The Tao of Eldafto

AKA Who? What? Where? When? Why? A user's guide.

In the spirit of trying to do more with this place, I present The Tao of Eldafto. Out there in the Fleshiverse, the meat suit answers to the name Gavin White. Like the planet he lives on he's “mostly harmless”, but probably best avoided until fully caffeinated.

I'm the creator of the ongoing experimental flash fiction fantasy serial Twixt the Warp and the Weft, which started life as a writing exercise to entertain a friend and just kept growing. It's still growing now, even as I write this, sat in a dodgy cafe waiting for a hot beef sandwich. No, that isn't a euphemism, I really am. I'm under no illusions, it's not great writing. I have no aspirations to be a great writer. But to tell a good story? Now that's something I can hope to achieve. You can find out more here.

Last year I wrote Nourishment, a short story about internet grooming, which was published in the anthology Quickies by the #Flashtag collective in Manchester. You can obtain a copy of that anthology here.

I am intermittently writing a novel. It may contain vampires. It has the working title “Choices”. I wouldn't hold your breath.

I've decided to spruce this place up a touch, use it for more than ill-concieved ranting and occasional bits of nonesense. Or maybe that's exactly what I'll use it for. I haven't decided yet. If you choose to come back, expect fragments and snippets, nonesense and experiments. Anything that'll help me stay sane.

So that's the “who” and the “what”, the “where”, and the “when” comes with as “as and...” pre-installed.

Which brings me to the “why”.

To try and stay sane, that's the long and the short of it. Here's the sob story (or at least the abridged, slightly romanticised version of it). At the dog end of last year my grandmother had a fall and was taken into hospital. Visiting her, two things became instantly clear. The first was that we had to get her out of there as quickly as possible, or she wouldn't be coming out at all. The second, that she couldn't continue to live alone.

I returned home and started putting my life into boxes. The important boxes I put in my car, the less important ones into a spare room. I made arrangements with a good friend to take care of the house, put the freak in her basket and returned to the house of my youth (#thehousethattimeforgot), in the town I grew up hating*.

(The freak, incidently, cried the most pitiful, heart wrenching moans you could possibly imagine for every single inch of the one hundred and twenty two mile journey. She took a long time to forgive me, and only really started to see the positives in her situation when she caught sight of a squirrel. I'm currently waiting for her to bring me one.)

So the question is, why am I telling you all of this? And the answer is, I'm not. Not really. Sometimes a situation only becomes real when you've said it out loud. So I'm using a public forum to talk to myself, to try and understand how I came to be where I am. To remind myself (and maybe draw a little attention to) some of the things I'm doing. I spend twenty hours a day in the company of a white box, waiting for it to bark, to tell me my gran needs something. Believe me when I tell you I need to find ways to stay sane.

My name's Eldafto. Good evening.

(*I've been back three months and I'm just starting to realise that I still hate it.)