The nowness of everything

For the last three years, I have been living with cancer - shamefully, I had kept the symptoms of my bowel cancer to myself - even in my diary, I had been dishonest in my record of how things were - I had never scrawled - I bled badly today - I had used any number of coded euphemisms - I had been cowardly and irresponsible -

When I was told my prognosis, I entered a pale world, one centred entirely upon myself -

When I came round from my operation, I was overjoyed - I had woken up - I ran my fingers over my belly - there was no stoma -

I had to wait for ten days or so to get the results of the lymph node biopsies - the weather had been wonderful - East Stoke had seemed like paradise - the river had been full of darting fish, like tiny silver arrows - the green of the water meadows ravished my eyes - I looked at the small bluish white scars that marked my laparoscopic anterior resection - I wondered - how could anyone not fail to be amazed by being alive in this world?

I think of Dennis Potter's words, in that glorious heartbreaking interview with Melvyn Bragg - But now the nowness of everything is absolutely wondrous -  

Sometimes, to me, it is like a gentle sadness, like soft music - the pathos and transience of things - this melancholy makes all the sensations I now experience all the more intense, all the more wonderful -

Today, I had my three year surveillance colonoscopy - at Semi Colons, we say - I'm due my scope - the nurses, as ever, were kind and calm - they were aware of my anxiety - they did not think the less of me for it - I saw the strange gleaming landscapes of my large bowel upon the screen -

By the grace of God I was declared clear - my next scope will be in five years time - when I came home, I looked at the apple blossoms, scattered upon the newly cut grass - I felt dizzy with the world - I looked up at the few blossoms remaining upon the delicate branches of the tree -

The apple blossoms were - the whitest frothiest blossomest blossom that there ever could be - 

I had no more words left me then, that moment, looking up at the shining tree -

Listening to David Bowie's The Next Day, entering the hospital world

For the last two weeks, whenever I was driving somewhere, I made a point of listening to David Bowie's The Next Day -

The songs seemed especially poignant - sung just for me - songs for a time when I am leaving gentle Wareham for the hospital world -

I bought the CD around the time the date for my colonoscopy was confirmed - the gentle nurse joshed me about the Picolax I would have to take - this potent powder, dissolved in water, would wash out my bowel -

I can remember the first time I had a colonoscopy, three years ago to the day I'm writing this - I had almost cracked up in the dark hospital car park - the screen had shown my tumour - I did not have the courage to look up at the cancerous polyp -

Now, it's time for further surveillance - so, this afternoon, like a nervy Dr Jekyll, I will drink the lemony fluid -

Walking past bee boxes, entering a silent, magical, room

By late afternoon, the sky over Karabortlen was a flawless blue - delicate clouds moved very slowly through the shining air -

We decided to go for a walk in the valley - Ken and Phil had to stay behind - they were up to some devilry with Ken's PC -

Jane and Lorraine were ahead of me, keeping an eye on the two dogs - I shut the wrought iron gates to the garden - I imagined myself clasping a flaming sword -

I had never seen the valley so beautiful, so full of colour and light - there were banks of brilliant white daisies,  sad crowds of poppies, with their dark red, sexy, petals - pine woods flowed over the hills and mountains - orange trees were in delicious blossom -

I saw fields, brimful of glowing yellow flowers - the stream beds were still full of clear icy water - the trees shone with bright new leaves - goats with silky coats nibbled at tufts of grass - when the goats moved on, bells tinkled at their throats - gentle cows grazed in the shade of an oak tree -

We passed by long lines of blue bee boxes - you could see, and hear, the purposeful bees, humming and circling and flying to and fro -

We followed Hammy's example, quietly and stealthily slipping past the bee boxes - we saw a young nervous horse in a field -

Jane and Lorraine gossiped and laughed - I dawdled behind - we made our way through an olive grove - I felt as though we were entering a silent, magical, room - the silvery green leaves rustled, very slightly, in a warm, scented, breeze -

Buying fish in Akyaka

We had decided to have a fish supper - Jane's kitchen is a delight to cook in - there are wickedly sharp knives, deep saucepans, mysterious implements - a cast iron frying pan of immense size invites you to conjure up fiery curries -

In the vegetable garden, there's a green riot of coriander, parsley, mint, rocket, mangetout - vines cloak the walls of the garden - you can pull up enough garlic to encircle Lucy Westernra twenty times over -

We'd had a breakfast in Akyaka -  we ate walnuts in honey, splashed dollops of strawberry jam over warm village bread - the beach was a few yards away - there were only one or two bathers upon its dark sands - the holiday season had yet to begin - I saw no yabancis - straw sunshades were heaped upon the shore - a small boat crossed Gekova Bay -

We found our fish in a kiosk near the fishing boats - I looked at the snub nosed boats for some time - there were nets heaped up in drying tangles on oily decks - the icy river ran into the bay -

Some slender glittering fish caught our eye - the two Turks behind the counter regarded us with casual disdain -

An unshaven worn man in a black tee shirt scurried out - cigarette in mouth, he gutted the fish with expert movements - his tee shirt said Thailand Arts and Crafts -

Had he gone there? I thought for a moment - a sleek cat watched us -

Jane was told to give him one lira for his work with his cruel knife - later, I baked the fish in tin foil - thick slabs of lemon flavoured the delicate white flesh - a salad accompanied the dish, as did Ken's stories of wonderful crumbling palaces in India -

The artists' picnic 

Every Saturday, Jane goes to the house in the woods at Akyaka - there, she meets with fellow artists, improving her skills in congenial company - Teoman Ata, a figurative and abstract artist, welcomed me into his atelier - Jane had told me what a wise and gifted teacher he was -

There, in the shade of scorched pines, I chatted with Teoman - Cezanne was one of his favourite painters, as was van Gogh -

Hanging up inside the octagonal wooden house was a geometric landscape, depicting the mountain slopes above Akyaka - Teoman had painted this in the style of Cezanne - Teoman smelled of turps and tobacco - he had a neat beard and Jean Luc Goddard glasses - he'd been imprisoned for three years in the 1980's - his name had been on a list of Marxists -

One Thursday afternoon, Jane had a picnic for the artists in her garden - they were all women, save for Teoman and a man who had been a chemist - the retired chemist was a shy burly man, who spoke good English -

We all painted a collective oil painting - Teoman set up an easel in the garden - he cajoled anyone he could find to pick up a brush - I painted the oleander blossoms -

We drank glass after glass of tea, and ate the luscious cakes - I wanted the afternoon to go on forever - I loved the conversation, the colours of the marvellous garden, the songs of the birds -

Eating kofte ekmek in Karabortlen

I sat with Steve, outside the kofte ekmek place - it was early evening - the small street was flooded with warm, soothing, light - we'd parked next to the bakery - you could smell the newly risen bread -

On the little table were two ashtrays, next to a small dish of green chillies - above us was a large, laminated, poster - you could see, in huge and terrible detail, all of the kofte and kebabs on offer -

A woman with shining black hair came out to take our order - she had a calm, gentle, smile - she used her fingers to tell us how many lira we were charged for the three kofte ekmek we ordered -

Our orders were wrapped up in old editions of Milliyet - we'd also asked for salads - I loved snarfing the delicate shreds of lettuce, the shards of fiery onions - we picked up a couple of the wicked green chillies -

There are 52 shops in the village, Steve told me - and this one makes 53 - it's new - 

Across the street, I could see the village mosque - next door to the mosque was a tiny barber's parlour, with room for just one chair -

I drove back to Jane and Ken's in the falling darkness - by the time I reached the bridge over the dry river bed, I had to put on the headlights -

I flooded the atrium with light, swimming in the pool afterwards, under the icy stars -

I slept that night without fear - in my dreams, I flew in the sky over fields and rivers - I saw people, far below, whose faces I almost remembered -

Listening to a song about someone's life

One morning, when I was looking after the dogs for Jane and Ken, I'd awoken alone in the house - I opened my eyes an hour or so before dawn - the walls of the blue bedroom were still lost in darkness -

I thought I heard the sound of flutes, very faint, yet very clear - the music crept into my soul - I was ravished by the music - I wondered if I was awake, or in some lucid dream - I felt my soul start to drift away from me - you could see it, like a yellow feather, floating through the air -

I lay absolutely still - the music stopped abruptly - it was as though the substance of the world had settled into a new shape - I could no longer see my soul, swaying from side to side above me -

Later, when Jane and Ken had returned, I told them about the music -

That music must be for someone who's died - they sing a song about them, Jane said -

I thought about my own life - what song would my life shape?

I remembered all of the funerals I had attended - the last one I had attended had been one for my uncle Vic -  Vic had worked, man and boy, for Southern Gas - our voices were small and reedy when we sang the hymns -

There were two pieces of music played over the chapel's loudspeakers - The first piece of music was Every time we say goodbye, sung by Ella Fitzgerald - the second piece of music was the Dam Busters' March - 

The Dam Busters' March was played when we filed out of the mean chapel - there was a photograph of Vic, placed in its frame on top of the coffin - it showed him smiling, wearing an apron, in his kitchen, doing some baking -

My heart ached when I thought of that moment - the music - the photograph - the frigid beauty of the flowers upon the shiny wood - the feathers, rustling in the air above our heads -

Harvesting wheat, and what it portends

I once read a short story by Ray Bradbury called The Scythe - each blade of wheat the narrator cut  represented a human life - I often thought of that huge wheat field, under a strange red sky - I saw in my dreams the wooden house, with its mansard roof - the blades of wheat rippled in the wind, forming unsettling patterns -

I was twelve or thirteen when I read the story - the anthology it came from was called The October Country - I bought the paperback secondhand, from a shop in Forton Road - the shop was a glorious treasure trove of junk - the proprietor crouched behind the counter - there were gas masks, old foreign coins, glinting radio valves, small towers of damp magazines - a skinny boy could dream of finding treasure there -

All of this came back to me - the story - the scent of the yellowed pages of the Ballantine paperback - the image of the wheat field - how I felt when I was reading the story - when I walked, before breakfast, down into Jane's garden -

There, just a few yards away from me, over the fence, was a field, full of wheat - not yet ripe, the green blades of wheat stirred in the warm breeze - there was a gnarled tree, blessed with new leaves, in the middle of the field - I could hear Aytin's dog, barking at a tractor -

I looked at the feathery blades of wheat, at their emerald stalks - wild grasses were mixed in with the wheat - I could see purple banners of wild sweet peas - I could hear birds singing - I was wearing a loose shirt and linen trousers -

I turned away before the patterns I saw forming had fixed their shapes - I thought of the carelessness of life, of its sweetness - I knew that if I turned around, I would see my story marked out there, in the bright green wheat -

In the evening, in another field nearby, a young boy drove a tractor, cutting the wheat - the fallen wheat lay in rows, like fallen people - I resolved that I must be brave -

Mugla Old Town, dreaming and listening

Whenever I'm in Turkey, I visit Mugla - I lose myself quickly in the Old Town's maze of narrow alleyways - white washed walls reflect the sunlight - your shadow is a dark twin, scurrying past ancient doors - fig trees shade small gardens, their generous leaves motionless in the burning air -

The stone houses have terracotta roof tiles - the houses all seem empty, or, perhaps, their occupants are dreaming, hidden away in dark bedrooms -

I'm aware of the severe blue sky above the alleyways - I can feel the sun through the cream coloured baseball cap which shields my head - a postman walks, very slowly, up to a set of high wooden doors, kuzulu kapi - guarding a mysterious courtyard -

Mugla is set in a shallow bowl, ringed by mountains - the silent alleyways of the old town zig zag up the lower slopes of a barren crag - venerable mosques soothe your soul -

I wandered aimlessly and joyously, for an hour or so - an artless yabanci - I never looked at my watch -

I heard music from one house - a radio was playing - I listened, caught by the glamour of the song - the strange words were full of passion and longing -

I set off, towards the shops and workshops of the lower town - above me, on the summit of the crag, I saw a white flagstaff, with a huge Turkish flag - I thought of what Jane had told me about Ataturk -

I could hear the soft voices of the country boys - sent from their lonely villages to Gallipoli - their voices were like the voices of birds -