John:

‘It is important to feel the anger without judging it, without attempting to find meaning in it. It may take many forms: anger at the health-care system, at life, at your loved one for leaving. Life is unfair. Death is unfair. Anger is a natural reaction to the unfairness of loss’

Elizabeth Kubler-Ross

We were always the bookends of the family. I was always the youngest child: precious, indulged and protected by some kind of angel.  You were always the wayward one: always off doing something that was, in your own mind cool; but to the rest of us an ill-advised venture. 

I idolised you.  I don’t know whether you ever knew that, I think you did, in some deep, unfathomable way.  Our Mum worked shifts, weighing and checking boil-in-the-bag food.  You brought me up, got me up for school, and cooked my dinner when I came home at midday.  It’s because of you I don’t like tomato ketchup, as you used it to thicken tins of beans.  But no matter, you were a reliable presence in a mustard jumper and gray sweat pants. 

It was when I was a teenager when you became a more glamourous, exotic presence.  It wasn’t the fact that you had a girlfriend (your second, I believe).  It was the fact that you began writing for a local newspaper.  This led to you writing for the NME, whipping an acerbic tongue across the fragile dreams of indie bands.   You bought a stereo to review albums and this led into djaying.  I was attempting to revise for my A Levels; which I failed miserably with a backdrop of old school hip-hop coming from your bedroom.  It’s hard to understand the complexities of Bismarck’s foreign policy; when all you can hear from the bedroom next door is Biz Markie.

 

I became a writer myself, progressing up from the local rag to section editor of a local arts mag.  Your were progressing to bigger to better things; not just as a journalist but as a DJ.  You were part of the divine madness of The Hacienda, amongst other places.  I was coming out of writing and becoming more interested in being a teacher and a performance poet.  Still massively interested in music though.  In a way that was that little neural link that kept firing between us. I can remember my Mum and Dad going out to the parish club on a Saturday.  It was here, I heard stuff like Yes and ELP: although prog isn’t quite my bag, I was interested.  I also heard stuff with eloquence, intelligence and wit; such as Steely Dan and Joni Mitchell.  Later on, old school hip hop, but things like The Smiths and Prefab Sprout.  I also think you were one of the first people to write about Half Man Half Biscuit. 

You moved to Manchester, acquired a succession of ever more exotic girlfriends.  An American singer, tall, black, sassy: like a friendly version of Grace Jones.  A tiny Geordie, who worked in the trendiest record shop in Manchester (and supplied me with cheap CD’s),.    What’s not to love?  You visited us, occasionally. Quarterly, usually.  We talked about our lives, confessing our thoughts and sharing music to tea and biscuits.  I visited you, occasionally.  Usually on a six monthly basis.  I like Manchester and I had vague, unformed, plans to move there, once.  It never came to pass.  I like it, but it’s busy, wired like a teenager on coffee.  And anyway, I couldn’t afford the suburbs. 

You visited us every Christmas Day.  The day usually panned out in a familiar, annual fashion.  Mum cooked Christmas Dinner, which would be boiled into oblivion.  You generally rang about half twelve, having slept in after a heavy evening of drinking/djaying.  We usually saw you about two, just as Dad was getting pissed off and was deciding to sit down to dinner on his own.  We swapped pressies and talked, swapping secrets.  I felt an awful sense of loss when you left, but I always knew I would be seeing you again in the Spring.  Always knew. 

The last time we saw you, was Christmas Day, 2004.  The day passed, pretty much as it would do any Christmas.  A few small changes: you acquired both an iPod and an MacBook.  My musical suggestions went straight into waveforms.  You were able to rip me a CD, there and then; rather than give me a mixtape.

Oh brave new world, that hath such people in it.  

I listened to it, walking to work on a dark, cold, icy morning a few days later.  I didn’t know then, that it would be the last time I would physically see you.

I could and have gone over that day in microscopic detail a thousand times.  I cannot recall a word, a phrase, a look, a concept that would have offended you.  We parted as friends, with a hug and masculine expressions of love.    You haven’t contacted us, though we have tried to contact you.  Phone calls, letters and invitations go unanswered, into some sort of nameless, wordless void.  During that time, I have had seven house moves, three serious relationships and one marriage.  Have you a concept or inkling of the damage that causes a missing piece in a family machine?  The empty place at the table?  The extra, unfilled teacup?   

There are rumours, from my brothers about what has happened to you.  I’d rather hear it from your own mouth.  I’d listen, I wouldn’t judge.  Whatever it is, it’s not a problem.  However, this open door swings both ways.  Fourteen years is a long time to be absent.  You might have missed a chance and the door may never swing open again. 

But you’re my brother.  I think of you every day in some way, but Christmas most of all.  My hand is open, but the choice to take it is yours. 

Oh, and by the way: Merry Christmas. 

Blackberries:

‘So it is with blackberries. If you pull too hard, you may get the berry but you will lose the sweetness of it. On the other hand, if you leave it, it may be gone the next time you come by. Each person must find this point of equilibrium for himself’

-        Robert |Finch 

Black Pool.  Black Lake.  Black River.  Blackberries.

So, the inevitable happened.  I let three things flow into one thing and then it completely overwhelms me.  Firstly, the loss of a part time job at the beginning of this year.  Then the death of my Mother in law.  And then the subsequent fallout of trying to look after two grieving people’s emotions; whilst trying to avoid the radioactive dust of my own.

I know, heady cocktail of emotion isn’t it? 

This is not going to be a blog post with a small moment of triumph at the end of it.  I am still in some form of recovery, finally overcoming suicidal thoughts and treating the loss of possessions – from a gnome to a mobile phone – as some kind of major disaster.  I am in some kind of therapy, which I understand to be some form of CBT. It’s not the Rogerian therapy I was hoping for, but when you’re drowning, you’ll throw yourself into the nearest boat, regardless of the flag. 

However, sometimes the answer to your illness is at the end of your own fingertip.  Too much pressure will destroy it, but the lightest pressure will pluck it.  I am, of course talking about blackberry picking. 

There have been a lot of books in the last few years, which deal directly or indirectly about depression.  I’d recommend the lyrical brilliance of Helen MacDonald’s H Is For Hawk.  The bucolic ache of The Outrun by Amy Liptrot.  On a more practical basis, Saved By Cake by Marian Keyes is a cookery book, written out of a severe portion of the blues.

But no, blackberries.  In response to the impending facepalm of Brexit and the chance to eat healthier; we’ve been making our own chutneys and jams.  Like everything else in our relationship, it was a collobrative process.  These mainly took place in the late Summer, early Autumn days when you could still get away with wearing a t-shirt and a pair of trackies.  I go out, with an assortment of old ice cream tubs in my backpack.  Sometimes I would take my iPod, sometimes not.  This generally depends on the location.  I love Shaun Keavney, but I have no desire to get hit by a car; whilst I’m standing on an A Road, looking for blackberries. 

I go out for hours, sometimes to the extent that my wife would wo nder where I was.  I’d literally work my way through the village, down the backlanes and into the park.  Back up again, around the garage (always looking in for reduced food) and up the hill, across the railway bridge.  I’d come home, drenched in sweat, hands like a hangman.  But feeling relieved that I’d felt something, achieved something.  At this point in the system of the down, feeling a spark was just as good as the rumble of the engine.

It’s a sensory process, picking blackberries.  If it’s something you ever plan on doing, I would advise you to wear gloves.  This means you can test the ripeness of the fruit, but also means you can become adept at moving the thorny branches out of the way.  Watch out for spiders.  They don’t really bother me, but they will be there.  Sometimes these will accompany you home.  Washing one days picking, I saw at least three spiders rise from the lavender sea of the ice cream tub, like arthopodic submarines.  These met a watery grave, lest they disturb the fragile psyche of my wife and son. 

Make sure you cover up, that sun is fierce. In the late Summer days, the sun hangs dazzling low, poking through leaves and temporarily blinding you.  The Japanese have a word for it, Komorebi.  Once home, relax with a cup of tea.  Boil the berries once washed with jam sugar.  That in itself, is some sort of mystical process that I’ve only witnessed at a distance. I leave these arcane processes to Mrs McCready.  But like some sort of Preserver’s Apprentice, I’m learning quickly. 

This combination of a symbiotic/organic/sensory process has led to my brain, rebooting, reformatting.  I’ve actually enjoyed reading for the first time on months.  At the behest of my wife, I’ve read two Marian Keyes books.  I’ve also read a great little book about the history of redheads. Back to Japan again, Tsundoku means ‘books you’ve bought, but not read’.

 Music, is returning to me.  I’ve got that little auditory spark back, of hearing a great tune and wanting to download it immediately.  Current favourite is the new John Grant album; which is a grower.  It has taken several listens to appreciate both the rich, bitter tone of both his voice and writing. 

John Grant suffers from depression.  See also Marian Keyes.  It’s weird that something so corrosive is part of your psyche.  It’s also eldritch that you become drawn to people that are so like yourself.  That’s not to say you have to live there, or experience stuff that may send you over the edge.  I recently had a clearout of books, DVD and CD’s that I consider may send me over the edge.  There was a point when I watched It’s A Wonderful Life every Christmas, just to feel some sort of emotional release.  I’m past that now.  I’ll be watching The Apartment, which has better jokes. Or Die Hard, which has bigger explosions.  Or In Bruges, which has more swearing. 

If you want a point where everything began to make sense, it would be one Saturday in September.  I emerged from a bush in the park, wearing a pair of old trackies and a Liverpool FC shirt.  I’ve got scratches down my arm and I’m wearing a pair of gloves. A little girl on a swing enquires: ‘Excuse me, but what are you doing?’ She must have read too many Enid Blyton books, inquisitive little moppet.

‘Picking blackerries’, I said.  Because, ‘Re-acquainting myself with my own soul; through the process of making jam’ would have sounded weird.   Wouldn’t it?