The Problem with Afternoons

No one would willingly exchange places with me for a glimpse of my world view, of my perception.

Perhaps the view from my window they would be even less inclined to see, to bare witness to. In the mornings of more average days the sky is a tepid grey, like sullen dishwater clouded with soap and scraps. The birds drift listlessly along the skyline, entangled in the froth of the clouds. They call out their names in shrill cries, the sharpness of their beaks indicating that they are gulls, and yet I’m a few miles out from the sea. They torment me with their freedom, receding into the distance, into the sun that isn’t there to paint a warm picture. Instead, I paint it, skidding over the canvas with a tarnished brush, a chip on my shoulder.

No one wants my perception, for indeed, like the sky outside, my view of the world around me is beginning to lose its color, and the birds are beginning to lose their shapes, their wings small spots of ink, blotches in the willowing wind.

Not exactly a cheery postcard I’m drawing up, folks.

The real beauty of all of those things I have described is in the change of each state, the transition into light and rebirth. The mornings change to sunny afternoons, the birds encourage me to go outside and to trace the clouds as if they were merely white ribbons tied around my fingers .Indeed, the sky becomes a more startling shade of azure, emerging from the smog of AM hours and bringing with it a brisk breeze, a can do attitude. The world feels revived, not so much a water color but an oil painting rich and earthy with streaks of mustard and dashes of olive green, the view coming into focus, into high definition. The colors no longer speak of something stagnant, the once wispy and furtive hues suggesting decay. Now the boldness of the painting implies something of summer, of hope.

This has been the effect, at least In my immediate neighborhood of the lock-down restrictions being lifted slightly. The sunlight beckons, inviting, and people no longer cling to their door frames but instead propel themselves forward with something akin to lust, to desire. It’s a gravitational force and it’s remarkable, really how the ideal of exercising as much as you like, never before a liberty so preciously utilized becomes a must, becomes an instinct. No longer shackled to the windows and having spent so long wary of the outside, it's heartwarming to see a few of the more senior citizens emerge, as if from a brief hibernation, embracing the changing season with something tender and candid, small snapshots in time.

Time. A small miracle. All around I see Tempus Fugit, the passage of lost hours now being counted by some invisible clock, a deft tempo that allows for all who had felt some sense of agony at waiting impatiently to feel more liberated, less afraid of the world that beckons, previously fearful it had been a trap. The summer is ours again! We think, and we rejoice that as long as we remain cautious and vigilant then this gift will not be taken from us, and we will not have been deceived by the fruit that for so long has been forbidden.

I feel a smallness. A vulnerability. Looking to all those who now roam the streets more freely, I feel simultaneously at ease and also in a way solitary, still alone though restrictions are no longer so strict. I recall to mind some lines of a poem I wrote recently about being in Isolation, and the outcries from the public about how confusing guidelines were and how they could prevent certain services being readily available, such as communication from the mental health sector. ‘If words were all it took to undo my state of melancholy, I’d study them for hours, unpicking the stitches, marking the adjectives with red tape, smiley faces… words aren’t enough, rendered useless in over-saturation… we sit in semi patience starved of something unnameable, yet the sallow in our cheeks, the thin lipped nature of our smiles tells us it is there.’ I wish I didn’t still feel a sense of doom, of despair, and I could reach out and speak to someone about how I was feeling, be that a friend, a family member. The support is there, but the shame is also only too visible, too prominent.

I still feel weak, that appreciation of the view and of my life is wasted when I have no control, no way to ensure where my path might lead. That’s normal, but now the pressure’s heightened, and I just want to talk to someone, to feel authentic, to feel necessary. These sunny afternoons are languid presents, wrapped without a thought owing to the gift seeming to compensate, to hold all the answers. Philip Larkin wrote of Afternoons as the summary of routine and of time no longer cherished, and I fear if I take things too lightly, I’ll look up in a few years time and no longer be able to see anything through my window, the reprieve over and the glass too misted with damp and mildew.

Am I allowed? Am I allowed to sit in my garden and let my fence be the sum of my existence, rarely leaving the patch of grass and watching as my world grows smaller? Is it ok to take a coke and a book and to lose myself in it and then forget what the purpose was of finishing something, of finding comfort in finality? Maybe I should leave these long winding spaces for retirement years, the leftovers, and then I panic, flushed, knowing I’m not even twenty, retirement isn’t what I want to think about, I’m just procrastinating about having to think about next Thursday and where I’ll be. I don’t know who to ask who can grant me answers, who can calmly offer me perspective.

‘Returning to more words and questions, I sit in solitude, unpicking the loose strings and untying the knots in my tongue.’ I wrote that when I realized that my narrow mindedness was encouraging me to think selfishly, to warp my idealism so that I could only think in obsoletes, in half sentences. I was in a rush because I feared that not doing enough with the time I had been given meant I was letting someone down, myself, and I ignored the simple pleasures of the sun and of time moving, manifesting itself.

My window frames a square of chimneys and weather-vanes, of tutting crows and childish chatter from a few doors down, from kids not old enough to worry about the world yet and whether it spins on an axis, whether it’s just plain wrong and incorrect. I crack it open wider and hear the jangly cadence of an ice cream van, of a driver I’m sure is grateful that he’s getting a bit more business after months of nothing, the pause every few streets as the music swells to a stop and he greets a new customer, a new face. To the right are trees, tall and imposing as their branches drag down darkness and nightfall, only visible through the spots from the street lamps though they whistle eerily when caught by the wind. In the daylight they are bashful, meek and unassuming as dog walkers cut past their trunks, ignorant of the malevolent intent that surrounds them in darkness.

Everything has a story, a name. My worldview is cynical , sometimes unforgiving of the very things that make me human, that make me alive. I’m afraid to succumb to the drowsy offerings of the rising heat of the outside world as summer arrives, not wanting to lose myself in free schedules and no plans. Hades entreated Persephone to the temptations of the underworld, to its delights with a perfectly round pomegranate, its seeds glistening like ruby beads, inviting her to taste and to stay claimed to darkness, to the unknown. It was a trap, a trick that could have been foiled if she had chosen to bide by her own convictions, to live without temptation. I don’t want to be lazy, to be lax in my attempts to figure out where I’m headed, and the constant need to ask why, to know. I have learnt, however, that it does you no good to believe every blue sky is a distraction, that every worry free day is a curse, a deception. Enjoy the little things, the contrast of colors and people, and hold on.

If you are too frightened to give in to good moments and sunny afternoons, you may not be looking in the right direction to see the painting finished. It could turn out to be your greatest inspiration, after all. Larkin wrote grimly ‘Their beauty has thickened. Something is pushing them to the side of their own lives’. Though as time passes it can be harder to assume that something is beautiful, and that something can be cherished, it doesn’t make you weak for seeking out enjoyment, for seeking out happiness. Don’t let your fears dictate your joys.