Notes on an Irish man

I thought I saw my love in Dublin. I was walking out of Trinity College with Anna, and as we approached the covered gate I saw a man who, for a moment, bore the face I have wanted to see for sixteen  months. The resemblance was so uncanny my heart dropped into my shoes instantaneously. His hair, his face shape, his expression – all were the same. As he walked closer to us I saw without question that it wasn’t him, of course, but this is the first time this has happened. My keen eye has been on the lookout – in London, in this town – and I’ve seen a similar haircut, a glance, heard a laugh, spotted a signet ring, all of which would unravel a ribbon of memory, but nothing like I felt on Wednesday when I saw this man. I don’t know what it means – perhaps nothing – but it has been on my mind today.

My other thought today may sound utterly incongruous, but I’m starting to see its relevance to this period in my life. I have been thinking about my film star boyfriend, inspired by Michelle’s recent post. Ask anyone who knows me and they will tell you that I have a passionate (and sadly unrequited) love for Pierce Brosnan. It’s the blue eyes, the hairy chest, the 6’ 1” package of Irish charm and confidence that dazzles me. In true six degrees of separation style, I once went on a date with a very handsome artist who worked as a first class air steward to pay his mortgage while he painted portraits. Over dinner he told me how Pierce Brosnan had been on one of his flights across the Atlantic – it’s a wonder the date continued after I’d grilled him for every nugget of information about PB (apparently he was incredibly charming and friendly with everyone).

My love had an extensive wardrobe of Saville Row suits, and I remember him telling me the story of how he’d had a suit made from the same fabric PB had chosen from the same tailor. He delighted in telling me (knowing of my sweet girlish crush) that his tailor had commented that his measurements were the same as Pierce. The connections are more than obvious to me now – my love was my very own Pierce Brosnan, so stylish and charming and devilishly handsome.

So today I googled for pictures of PB, harking back to the days when I swooned over George Michael and (heaven help me) Michael Douglas. Are our film star crushes normal in our thirties I wonder? Am I like my teenage self, trying to construct the perfect man for me in my head, one with the qualities I admire and the facial characteristics that make me melt. I take it all lightly this evening, in the hope that this is a part of my healing and not some terrible betrayal on my part of the love that has burned so brightly, and painfully, in my heart for so long. Listening to one of my dear friends talk tonight about how waiting for a man to call is such torture makes me nervous of ever doing that again, makes me fearful of revealing myself to anyone, of letting them know my past, my old crumbling pains – and I know I’m not ready, not yet, maybe not ever – but still, these are the thoughts swirling around in my head this evening. Ghosts, Pierce Brosnan and the possibility that one day, perhaps, I may be ready to let another man look at me.

Sunday Scribblings: Bed

An ocean-going bed; the life raft I was cast out on when he left. I bought it in Ikea the week before I left London; my sister helped me construct it when I couldn’t even hold a screwdriver. It takes up most of the room, the sloped ceiling requiring you to bend down when you get under the covers. Always there are white sheets and bedding on it; in another life I would festoon my bed with throws and cushions, but that was before, when I had reason to celebrate. This new bed is sturdy enough to carry my dreams into the future, contained in its solid oak hull.

Queen size bed. Big enough to hold my memories and a six-foot ghost. His body may not have slept in this bed but the sheets and duvet I wrap myself in nightly still bear the imprint of his bones. I don’t know when I will be ready to invite someone new into my bed. I have been thinking about how its vast emptiness reflects all that is missing in my life: no sex, no cuddles, no coffee and papers on a Sunday morning, no sleepy kisses. No secrets whispered in the night, lying side by side, breathing the same air. No love.

Temple and fortress. Refuge. Safety. This is the place I regrew myself, layer by layer. I have spent a lot of time in this bed these last sixteen months. Grief is exhausting, but for the longest time it was only those bitter tablets that could get me to sleep. When the light is too harsh, when the air stings your throat, you retreat back into the bed-womb, hibernating until the cold snap is over, cocooned in the cotton sheets and feathered pillows. Nesting.

Reading room. Library. Workspace. Prayer mat. Mine is an all-purpose bed, yet one that is still closed for business. Maybe one day the refurbishments will be completed.

Sleepy thoughts, written last night… in my bed. For more Sunday Scribblings, go here

The broken record

I’m almost reluctant to post this tonight as I worry this blog is going back to its old ways, the days when it was gloomy (maybe it always is?) but sometimes it’s hard to shake off the grief on my shoulder. God, how I loathe that word – grief. I wonder if it’s perhaps more depression these days – though I do have bright moments, smiling days – but this blog tends to reflect the darker places I inhabit rather than the lighter. I was talking with Madeleine last night about how we present just one facet of ourselves on our blogs, how, if you were to meet me in person, you’d perhaps wonder where the sad eyes were, and indeed she and I have got to places in our lives where we can laugh at what has gone before, the ridiculousness of it all.

Today has been so overcast with heavy clouds I’m already missing the sun. It reflects my mood perfectly. I’m struggling with corporate work I don’t want to do, I’m worrying I won’t have enough time to complete these chapters… I’m wondering if there is any light ahead in this tunnel I feel trapped in. Yet I’m trying to live moment-to-moment – right now, I am sat at my desk and the table lamp is on. I have a cigarette between the fingers of my left hand – I have a glass of wine to my right. I’m thinking about what I should make for dinner. Right now I am okay. But in the next moment I may not be; that’s the worry that consumes us isn’t it.

I know these thoughts are swimming in my head because the anniversary is coming up. The anniversary of the last time I saw him. I should be used to this by now, yet each month it gets harder and harder. I feel the guilt that I am still here, the guilt of all the things I didn’t say. I feel the anger that he is not here for me to shout at, that he abdicated all responsibility and slipped off into the night. And I feel so very sad that I cannot see him anymore, that there are no more feathers, no songs, no coincidences happening to let me know that there is more to life, to death, than I can see. I worry that this is really it – an existential crisis on a Wednesday night.

Thank you if you are still reading this. I’m writing it for myself really, but it would be foolish to pretend I post words for the hell of it – the connections with others means a lot. I know tomorrow, next week, next month will be different, but I’m so very impatient to get there. But you won’t be there is the next thought in my head. I’m bored of this now – won’t you please come back?