What We Attract

Interestingly, the world still appears to be falling apart in 2020. Nothing has changed. Everybody is still carrying on. Keeping on keeping on.

Do you think these days will be read about in history books? Will my grandkids ask me what I was doing when Brexit happened?

Yes dear, I was eating my crumpets and having my tea and planning to add toilet roll to next week’s shopping list. I expect when Germany went down in WWII people were cooking dinner and serving up rationed potatoes, just like any other day.

People just keep on keeping on, because, honestly, what else is there to do?

Other than be informed and try to help as much as one can by spreading awareness and donations and showing love. It’s easy to show love when love abounds, and hard to show love when all you see is moody hatred.

I live in Crewe, as I have said a million times, and more often than not, in this awful town, I experience negativity. There is a lot of poverty and uncouthness here, so when I am greeted nicely or experience something good from someone, I am genuinely surprised.

I think you also attract what you put out. I generally go about my day very negatively. Stressed and frustrated and expecting people to swear at me. The other day at the post office, I had a mountain of parcels to post and my boy began to cry in his pram as I was halfway through dealing with the cashier. The queue behind me grew longer and heavier and more impatient, the air became muggy and hot and I was sweltering under my coat and imagined my son must also be doing the same which is why he was fussing. He began to bawl loudly and the cashier next to mine said to the customer behind me, ‘If we could get that young man to SHUT UP, I could help you better’.

Folks, I was mortified and ashamed and stressed and upset. I was doing my best to finish my business quickly and hush my son simultaneously, and a bit of empathy would have meant the world. In that moment the heat of shame and anger crept around my face and as soon as I snatched my receipt I stormed out, muttering about how I despise Crewe and every single filthy, uncouth, ill-mannered, insensitive, horrible chav in this depressing grey shitty town.

There.

I felt ashamed afterwards for saying those things because it made me no better than they were.

Do we really attract what we put out?

March

 

The sun has not yet risen completely, it struggles through some pinkish clouds, a colourful backdrop to the silhouette of a cherry blossom tree, now downy and pink. The car door of a 2005 Nissan Micra opens, a black boot with the toe worn away is pulled into the driver’s side, the door slams shut. Engine rumbles. BBC Radio 4 starts, 7:25am with a discussion on whether or not Britain should stay in the European Union.

I don’t have many thoughts on the matter. I know most politicians are arguing their cases based on personal gain. Nobody really cares about what will happen to the rest of us. Are we safer? Are we more susceptible? I’m inclined to stay, mostly because I don’t like massive change. The last time we had such a big change, bombs were being thrown down on London.

Boots walking on the pavement. Sometimes trainers. Sometimes wet, sometimes dry. Sound of ice scraper scraping away frost off the windows of my Nissan Micra. Ice chips flying over the edge of the windscreen, breath clouding as red-cold fingers tap the ice scraper on a red brick wall, and slip it into the car door pocket.

Knocking on a wooden door.

Bags and shoes clattering down a narrow corridor. Two boys clambering into my car, shoving each other as they do.

“Don’t talk to strangers!”

“Have a nice day!”

A blue scarf is wrapped around my neck, a light blue jacket, slightly rumpled, adorns my shoulders. I carry a black backpack, containing my laptop and all my study books.

Into the glass library, hot cup of black coffee swirling, loud tapping on a keyboard.

A cough. Two coughs.

Chatter over books.

Chatter over chips about books.

A pile of books falling on the table, feverish thumbing through the pages. Hours stretched out in the Glass Library on the sofa, the light from the laptop screen heavy illumination in the dimness of the library at midnight.

The frost stops.

I say goodbye to my family who are going to visit my dad for Easter. I didn’t go with them because I am bogged down with assignments.

D and I travel to March, a small town with one high street and a quaint little museum. We have a Subway, buy some books from a charity shop, and drive on to Sutton Bridge. It’s windy and cold and barren, and nobody walks along its narrow streets. Lots of houses are run down and empty, graffiti scrawled on their broken walls. We drive to Hunstanton beach the next morning, and a storm drives us indoors, wet and shivering. We have jacket potatoes and tea. King’s Lynn  is empty because it’s Easter Sunday, so we watch Zootropolis in an ancient picture house. The seats are red velvet, and the ceilings are heavily designed, stained glass windows adorn the balcony looking out over the black and white tiled lobby.

The clocks go forward.

The sun shines.

The blossoms open their pretty pink and white petals to embrace the deep blueness of the sky.

I am again sitting in the dark, typing away, twenty two years old and not a day wiser, each click of the clock a loud, muffled thump as the last second of March ticks by.

16_canvas2000.jpg