Honesty:

‘To believe in something and not to live it; is dishonest’

-        Mahatma Ghandi

‘It felt as if there was something missing’.  The snow fell again and covered the landscape in an unfamiliar blanket of white crystals.  ‘It felt as if there was something missing’.  I looked at my last blog and I realised I wasn’t entirely being honest with you and by extension, myself.  ‘It felt as if there was something missing’.  A chain of events, one approaching a first anniversary led to an unhealthy state of mind. 

A year ago, we suffered a miscarriage.  We were told on the first NHS scan that our child had died, for reasons unknown. I was expecting to become a Dad; this was a welcome, overwhelming surprise.  However, it was loaded and salted with the risk that it might all go wrong.  I felt numb, unable to vocalise or feel it.  I remember some angry tears, but these were brief and unproductive.  I couldn’t really vocalise it, I felt as if Mother Nature had cheated us in some way.

There followed a few weeks of whispering in corners at work and DM’s on social media.  We always knew the awful inevitable process would happen. I watched my wife go through a few days of what was some grotesque parody of labour.  Miscarriage is an unspoken process, people daren’t speak of it. No, not in front of the children. But it’s the worst kind of cosmic joke.  The box we were given (containing a candle, a balloon and a prayer) seemed somehow inadequate.  It’s a lovely gesture, but seems sometimes like a consolation prize in every sense of the word.

I continued to stay silent. Not a tear.  I slipped into default male stoicism.  My main concern was looking after my wife and stepson, being a grafter.  Dead, but alive at the same time.  I gave them space to vocalise their feelings, but I didn’t give myself that privilege.  I continued to work in a job I hated.  I overate, which has always been a problem for me.  Always will be.  Food is fuel, but at the same time, stuffing your mouth is a way of stopping yourself from screaming.  The dayjob continued.  Hey ho, get up every four days and feel exhausted every other four.

My wife needed more support and I applied for a career break.  My employer was amenable to this, but the actual process would take three months.  I mused this over for a good four days.  I then decided to resign and become my wife’s full time carer. My emotions about leaving; were the proverbial mixed ones.  Sad to be leaving some nice people (and some annoyances in human form), but happy to be leaving something that was slowly killing me.

A few months later, I saw the local coffee shop was looking for staff.  This was New Year weekend and I felt it was time for a new start.  I loved the time and space that being a carer gave me, but at the same time: lazy and unproductive.   The nagging voice of conscience was nudging and interrupting my happiness.  I got the job, but it was more about mopping floors and cleaning toilets than it was about making coffee.  I felt I was learning, but I also felt I hadn’t been given a fair shot at the actual joyous process of a flat white or a cappuccino.  It would take time, I reassured myself as I came home every night with unsold bread, cakes and paninis. Free food is free food, after all.

My employer emailed for a meeting the day before Valentine’s Day.  This caused the creeping realisation about what was inevitably about to happen.  I handed my wife her presents, whilst at the same time being poked in the psyche by my own fear. The following day, I walked into my employer’s office.  Handed in my shirt, apron and name badge (which wasn’t mine). I would be charged for these, had I not.  I was asked to work my final shift.  I refused, caught the next bus.  The whole process had taken a little over twenty minutes. 

And then the snow came.  Twice, we were snowed in.  We put candles in a box and watched an orange splurge work it’s way across the weather map.  We listened to local radio and developed a drinking game; which involved us cheering and taking a slug of tea or coffee when we heard a local school was closed.  We watched both series of Agent Carter. And at the back of my mind, that insistent buzzing again.  I could feel myself, slipping and sliding down the icy path towards depression.  The two events, recent instances of loss and the unique unfairness of each one began to fall into place.  The fact that I hadn’t vocalised either, began to bubble.  And the last ingredient: It felt as if there was something missing.

I put a block on all of this.  I had an honest conversation with my wife and the pus came out of the wound.  She was quite right, as she was on a great many things: I hadn’t been honest with myself.  I need to vocalise my feelings.  Becoming honest with myself in words rather than in print.

Honesty is a much underrated human value.  It’s the first strand in the DNA of love and friendship.  I needed to vocalise what I was feeling; to process two very different kinds of loss.  One, takes up much more in terms of memory than the other.  Together, they were lethal to me.  I could have gone down the slippery slope, again.  I could have piled on the weight, again.  I could have been swinging between happiness and sadness, again.  Had I not been honest with myself.

In the end, it’s all about space.  We lose things, from objects to people; all throughout our lives.  We all need something to fill that black, aching void.  I needed words, a sentence to fill the hole. 

Friends:

‘I don’t need a friend who changes when I change and who nods when I nod: my shadow does that much better’

-      Plutarch

I make friends easily.  This probably explains why I have so little of them.  Leaving aside the honourable exception of my wife; I wouldn’t say I had a ‘best friend’, in the traditional sense.  Then again, what is a traditional sense, these days?  I reckon it is a combination of both personal and technological revolution that has brought this about.

I know my type, when it comes to friendship.  At school, I gravitated towards the geeky types, those who worshipped Tom Baker, slightly more than Kenny Dalglish.  These days, that wouldn’t be seen as out of the ordinary.  Low level geekery is almost a precondition of being a member of the human race.  I would postulate here, that geekery is a just a mild form of being an erudite human being.  I could count on the fingers of one stump; the fascinating conversations I’ve heard about books and art I’ve had with my workmates.

Of course, you grow up and get married, move away, lose touch.  This, alongside cancelling magazines subscriptions and choosing the cheapest supermarket; is the sad payoff for being a responsible, respectable, fully-functioning (sometimes) adult.  The people, who are with you, aren’t always going to be with you.  The geeks I associated with in primary school, I haven’t seen for over twenty years.  Sometimes, you move one way and The World moves the other.  I have no reason, inclination or desire to see them again.

Maybe: it’s technology that sent us down this solipsistic path.  I was a late developer when it came to social media.  Friends Reunited (ask your stepdad) was more my thing.  The latter caused several embarrassing interactions.  One geeky friend from secondary school got in touch with me.  I had to think of the connection that we had.  It was illegally copying ZX Spectrum games.  I looked at his profile.  It was him, sitting on a manky duvet, in his underpants, raising a bottle of whisky.

Ah, yesterday leave me alone. 

Twitter was my thing for a while, and then I moved into Facebook.  I needed assurance from my wife that it wasn’t the wild, scary place I thought it was.  Both have been incredibly beneficial for me.  Of course, I met her on Twitter.  But I’ve received advice from a brilliant Australian writer, swapped Panini stickers with a local newsreader.  My best friend, I would say: is someone I met on Twitter. In a traditional sense, I don’t physically see her that often.  We ‘tweet up’ every now and again.  That is the kind of parameters social media puts on friendships.  Conversely, when things have been bad personally, when the tsunami of shite that one human suffers in one lifetime becomes too much; we’ve both turned up in a dry, clean, warm blue boat.

Up in Liverpool, I have several friends.  And for that reason (and several others), we don’t see each other that much.  All of these are former work colleagues.  We exchange Christmas cards and birthday cards, the odd text message.  Most attended our wedding.  This is friendship at the true, modern level.  A piano playing the same key; rather than the full blown sympathy of what a ‘traditional friendship’ is.  I am sure, if I can make the time on a visit up North, wearing my big coat, I’ll see them again. 

At the same time, there two friends (in the loosest sense possibly) who are currently persona non grata.  I’ve known one nigh on thirty years, attended gigs with him, almost moved in with him at one point.  We’ve had more than a few share of arguments too.  Both him and his wife, seem to have cut me loose.  No contact for three years, plus the modern sigil of disinterest – the unfollow.  I have a fair idea why this is. At the same time, I don’t fucking care.  I feel certain I will become a character in her next novel.  Again I don’t fucking care.  I have a certain allergic reaction to people taking me for a bellend.  Some friendships aren’t worth either the mental and physical earache. 

So, here I am.  Typing away on a Spring morning in Devon, where the unseasonal  snow is melting.  I’m happy, in love, content, my mind is running and humming quite nicely on a new software update.  I’m not entirely friendless.  My wife’s friends and family have become my friends.  They offer the important things in life.  Support, hospitality, laughter, rock buns, babysitting.  Of course, I am being flippant.  I also know, that if I needed their support or friendship they would be there. 

Ultimately, friendship means different things to different people.  It’s like looking at a work of art and interpreting it one way, then the next person interprets it another.  No truth is cardinal.  That way, leads to chaos, unhappiness and a general, lingering sense of unsatisfaction.  Much like buying an Everton season ticket.

No-one is entirely friendless.  Conversely, apart from love; nothing is forever.  Friendship: it’s a tricky business. 

Depression:

‘I’ll never forget how the depression and loneliness felt good and bad at the same time.  Still does’

-        Henry Rollins

My middle name is Martin.  My eyes are blue.  I have a scar on my left leg, a mole on my stomach and the toenail on my right foot has been removed.  I also have depression. 

I don’t know when I could mark the beginning of this, the actual wick of the fuse.  I had a very good childhood, more or less.  I wasn’t indulged, but I had everything I asked for.  I was an intelligent kid at school, but didn’t really put in the work for the exams; until much later in life when I had both perspective and wisdom.  That’s when you really appreciate Shakespeare and still can’t get your head around Jane Austen.   

I was told at school that being a writer ‘would be a very difficult career option’ and I would be better ‘training as a lorry driver like your Dad; would be much easier’.  I ignored this advice and slowly, carved out a modest career as a journalist, then a writer and performer, then a teacher, then dead end jobs to pay the rent. 

If I think of anything, it was the need to be loved that brought it on.  I didn’t have my first serious relationship till I was in my late twenties. I ran from that as it began to get serious.  In a space of about three years, I had four, possibly five serious/semi-serious relationships with people who were uniquely unsuited with me; always ended by them.  Still, at least the sex was regular.

In addition, my ‘best friend’, slowly, by stealth, ceased contact with me.  This concluded with her sending me a long, rambling email of my failings as a human being and saying she didn’t want to see me again.

It’s very easy to mistake love or friendship for something else.  It’s a trick of the light, to let someone get close and watch them fade away; when you really need them in proper sunlight.  I felt let down by these people and I think that fuelled the fire that was already burning within me.  The fire that never really goes out.    But at the end of the day, I have that Catholic work ethic.  ‘By the sweat of thy brow, shalt thou break bread’.  That sort of shit.

I came out of teaching, more by other people’s choices than mine: let’s put it that way.  I was in a perfect teaching job; I said something that someone didn’t agree with.  I went part time and finally left, missing the maelstrom of madness and infidelity that closed the place permanently.  Which is a shame really, I’d like to have seen that.  I trained to be a counsellor.  I was very good at it.  I had a nice placement, where they appreciated me and me asked me to stay on after I graduated.  Which is roughly at the point I was working my redundancy in the day job.

Ah, The Day Job.  Putting bets on for a living.  When that ended, I needed a job.  That Catholic work ethic again.  I was in a relationship with a woman who had three kids. Of course, I needed to feed them/take her out. I took a series of low-paid/mind-numbing jobs to support this process.  Which neatly dovetailed with the slow, gradual fade-out of that relationship.  Something had to be done, to fill that gaping hole, that almost suicidal need to be loved.  I engineered a relationship with an old school friend. 

If there was one event, one last splash of petrol that fuelled the smouldering embers of the blues, it was her.

Ah Her.  Irrational, needy, spiritual Her.  Who asked me to move in and get married, when I didn’t really want to.  Who got into an argument with the neighbour, who then sent The Police to our door.  The pressure was racking up at work.  One slip of the mind.  It was inevitable, like falling on ice.  I was diagnosed with ‘mild depression’. I took time off work, which led to more arguments and spending money that I didn’t really have.  The visit from De Bizzies made this more of a ‘severe’ thing.  I contemplated suicide, but there was no Clarence to save me.  My Doctor prescribed Fluoxetine. 

If you’ve not taken it, beware.  For me, it put my emotions on a low level.  A sort of slow, deadening of the soul.  Sometimes, this forced its way to opposite ends of a dull spectrum.  Factor in the constant feeling of being sick and a complete disinterest in sex.  Which is a bit of killer when you’re engaged to someone you don’t really fancy in the first place. 

That relationship ended.  The event that preceded that was me deciding to come off anti-depressants.   I think sometimes, that person used it as a chemical cosh.  A method of controlling me.  Sometimes, I think I needed it.  This person then bothered me for six months – phone calls, emails, letters.  The full range of lunacy.  I lived in a nice flat, in a boho area.  I did The Boho Dance – galleries, films with subtitles, plays.  I could have, quite easily got into a relationship with anyone out of a selection of people.  But as soon as I felt them getting close, I closed, bolted and nailed the door. 

Of course, the happy ending to this is I met by wife.  I often feel we have lived a lifetime in a few years together, but I love her and my stepson very much.  I still have depression, but I understand the root cause of it now.  I felt myself slipping into it recently, as I lasted a mere four weeks as a Barista before I was dismissed during the probationary period.  I could feel the wheels of the car of my mind whining.  And I decided: ‘this shit isn’t happening’.  I decided to embrace, the blue-eyed man in the mirror as a functioning depressive.

What does it feel like?  Everyone’s experience is different.  Depression is like a Magic Eye Picture; different people both see and feel different things.  For me, it’s sort of reality turning off, withdrawing from people and losing interest in things I love.  You sort of feel like the spare piece of Lego, that never really quite fits.  These periods can last for minutes, hours, days.  But knowing it, recognising your triggers makes it easier, lessens the pain ever so slightly. 

You know that old phrase about ‘Recognise the devil within you and conquer it’?  That’s depression. 

And in a sense, I’m sort of drawn to it.  It’s here, in the music I listen to: From The Smiths cobblestoned misery, via the bitter humour of John Grant’s organismic self, through the bucolic sadness of Nick Drake, arriving at the anger and pride of Kendrick Lamar.  My depression comes down the iPod, through the ears and into the soul.  So fucking what? 

In a sense, there is openness about depression we have never had.  At the same time, there is the dismissive/pretentious/insensitive reporting of it in the newspapers.  It’s far too easy to crack a joke about it on a panel show. So, if you recognise this article as a mirror of yourself, say hello.  If you know someone who has depression, talk to them as a human being.  Not someone who has recently escaped from the local unicorn sanctuary. 

My favourite food is chicken, my favourite book is 1984, my favourite painting is Guernica and I have depression.  I accept all of this as part of my soul.    

Village:

‘The notion of the world as a village is becoming a reality’

-        James Wolfenstein

On reflection, I’ve always lived in a village.  I was brought up in Kirkby.  Now, technically this is a village.  Mentioned in The Doomsday Book, it has a Norman church, a weeping stone and more cottages than can you can throw lumps of cob at.  Today, it has several famous sons and daughters, an industrial estate that rises and falls with the tide of industry and a much undeserved reputation for loose morals, crime and general banjo pluckery.  Hence the old Scouse joke:

Q: Why wasn’t Jesus born in Kirkby?

A: Because they couldn’t find three wise men and a virgin. 

Time changes, empires fall, and jobs are left.  Removal vans are packed and books are assembled in alphabetical order.  I now live in Lapford, an archetypal sleepy English village in mid-Devon.  Once upon a time, it was home to the Ambrosia Creamery.  We have one pub, which we’ve still not visited.  We have two ghosts, one of which is Thomas Becket, who comes through the village annually to avenge his murder.  I’ve never heard him, but I have seen several paranormal investigators, lurking about like unicorn hunters. 

These things, I see, coming downhill.  We live at the top of said hill, overlooking Dartmoor.  We drink a lot of tea, so I generally falls to me to get a pint of milk.  The nearest shop, in the broadest sense of the word; is a garage twenty minutes downhill.  This concept, like most things, plucked at the strings of my nervous system.  Not just the journey, but the outlandish, almost alien concept of walking in the road.  I’ve mastered it now, staying to the right on the way down, left on the way up.  Moving in as close as the kerb as I possibly can, when a car, a lorry or the one bus that services the village trundles or rumbles by.

You get used to the gentle, sensuous sloping of the ground beneath your walking boots.  Any other form of footwear is a form of foolery, you could call it Tootsercide. However, you get used to that, take in the landmarks of houses, the church, and the pub.  Occasionally, you notice something just that little bit out of the ordinary, such as the time I saw pheasants hanging from a garden gate.  You don’t get that in Kirkby.

See also: the mere concept of nodding acquaintance.  I had people I saw in Liverpool, but never knew their name.  I have them here too; the people at the bus stop mostly.  I’ve chatted to them about the disadvantages of storage heaters, the redevelopment of Exeter Bus Station and the general lack of public transport.  We generally arrive at some sort of democratic consensus, just as the bus arrives, to take us the fantastical destinations like Crediton or even Exeter itself.

Ultimately, living in a village is like getting a hug.  It’s comforting and secure, slows the pulse and soul down to subsonic levels.  I firmly believe that living in Liverpool would have brought on some sort of collapse, either that of the cardiac or cerebral variety.  It’s affected my writing too.  I usually place myself in the window, cup of tea adding the merest hint of steam across the laptop’s screen.  When I need inspiration, I look out of the window, down the hill and across to Dartmoor.  It was Winter when we arrived and the sky is lightening, imperceptibly.  The birds that hop and skip across our path are changing at much the same rate.  Generally, this gives me the little push of inspiration to start, push or finish that article. 

Which lead me to where I am now.  It’s a late Spring morning in Devon, the sun is determined to poke through the clouds, Winter is determined to have that last word.  Seasons are like old married couples, they live in a form of loose harmony that sparkles with as much love as disgruntlement.  I can see the beginning of that hill and the green triangles that slope upwards towards Dartmoor.  Often, this view has given me that last little push of inspiration to get a piece of writing finished.  Not coffee, or incense or beach walking.  These seem to me now as arcane processes.  Maybe they were things I left behind in Liverpool.

I had visions of being the token Scouser.  I had the vague idea of not fitting in, that maybe fresh air and green fields would be too much for me.  I had visions of people not understanding me, maybe my pronunciation of the phrase ‘purple chicken’, would be too much for people. That I would have been like a Tarbuck 2.0, playing the jolly Scouser for the assembled crowd.  ‘Arr Ey, Werz Me Giro?’, that kind of bullshit.  And slowly, like red and blue insects, I met other Scousers.  Our neighbour. And then: member of staff in a branch of Waterstones in Exeter used to live round the corner from my old flat in Lark Lane.  We’re everywhere.  There’s a song about that. 

Ultimately, village life has calmed me down, infected me, and changed me for the better.  Reality peeps in occasionally, but I now when I get off the bus and walk uphill (every other hour), or get out the car and lock the door, I’m home.  The shopping is packed away, the kettle (or occasionally the Nespresso machine) goes on and I am home.  Liverpool seems a long way away, geographically and mentally.  There is a small ache when I visit, but not enough to move back into that delicious form of madness on a full time basis.

Where you were born, shapes you.  Where you live makes you.  A city makes you hard, on edge, deeply suspicious.  A village makes you calm, relaxed, acceptant.  A village is not a Panglossian system of living, nor is it an Orwellian one.  It’s on a level of something, unlike incest or folk dancing; you should try at least once.

Music

‘Music was my refuge.  I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness’

-        Maya Angelou

If I could pinpoint when I first heard music, I would say somewhere in the late 1970’s.  Judging by the light and political mood, possibly 1978/79.  My Dad is a van driver; I’m with him in a Commer Van, something that is ugly and utilitarian.  It’s a step down for him - he usually drives 8-12 wheelers, big, greasy dirty things that carry us to the airless corners of Britain.  A job for him, a holiday out for me. 

We have the radio on.  AM, Radio City.  The local independent station.  Now, I’m used to music.  But this is something different.  Something urgent, joyful, bright and brash.  Like someone has opened a door to sunlight and is trying to shut it at the same time.

“What’s that Dad?”

“That’s The Beatles, lad.”  Lady Madonna, to be precise. 

I’m hooked in. From this point on, I become slowly obsessed with music.  As I’m say, I’m used to it.  My Dad sometimes plays Country and Western at home, in the car, in the lorry.  I find this music a little too sad for my nine year old tastes.  My brothers play heavy rock. Prog, something maybe a little bit literate like Steely Dan.  Saturday night, my parents go to the parish club, a peculiar Catholic tradition of piety and getting pissed at the same time.  At home, I’m slightly terrified of Yes; slightly enthralled by Donald’s Fagin’s Burroghsian hatchet jobs of hipsters, druggies, shaggers and lovers. 

I become one of those kids who tape the Top 40.  It becomes one of my Sunday traditions.  Mass, an hour of smoke, guilt and hypocrisy.  With some music.  Lounging around the house till teatime.  Sometimes a ride out with my Mum and Dad.  Music in the car.  Home to Sunday tea (Spam butties and cling peaches with evaporated milk).  And then me, sitting on the floor taping the songs I liked from The Top 40.  I develop the eclectic taste in music that has stood me in good stead/infuriated people ever since.

I now consider cassette tapes are an archaic format.  I bought the cheapest possible (four for £1, Kirkby Market), which generally means they unravelled after a few plays.  I binned a load of tapes when I moved, not having either the equipment or the inclination to play them.  See also the large donation of vinyl I donated to the charity shop during a house move.  I’m not a vinyl junkie.  It’s an inflexible format.  Admittedly, it displays cover art to its best extent.  But it’s as outmoded a way of delivering universal messages as handing someone a scroll. 

And then, I experienced the mystical process of learning to write and read music.  I have a musician friend’s son who can do this.  I’d love to be able to do it - but in the same way I’d love to be able to fly or play in midfield for Liverpool FC.  It’s an aspiration, not an essential component of living.  Music in school was played on Casio VL-1’s. Thirty five years later, you can’t turn one on, without hearing Da Da Da by Trio.  Occasionally, we sang music.  A hipster teacher made us sing I Am A Rock by Simon And Garfunkel and Eleanor Rigby by The Beatles.  I can remember struggling to get through both without crying.

In that respect, Music became an interior life for me.  A safe world, where fucking no-one would laugh at me.  And occasionally, I would let someone into this secret garden.  A friend, a lover, a colleague.  Maybe I was desperate to share it with someone.  Like I’d ordered the most sumptuous meal of my life (which I had in a restaurant in Dublin – I doubt it still exists) and asked someone to be seated, take a fork and join in.  This was a facile process, like a prayer with to an empty universe.  And yes, I had relationships.  I offered my heart, my life to a few people and got jackshit in return.  And then, completely in media res, my wife turns up.

My previous relationship was completely toxic, like plugging my circulatory system into a gigantic lake of shit.  I spent a few years, literally hiding in a quiet corner of Liverpool.  I used to walk on the beaches, within the easiest reach.  It was the obsession with music that kept me going, kept me warm on cold winter nights; when the windows of a flat in a Victorian house I lived in, used to become opaque, ghostly, cradling me from the world and all its slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune.

My wife, when I met her on social media (I know, very millennial) saw something in me that I didn’t immediately (and even now, sometimes still don’t) see in myself.  I had to learn the language of love, like a character in a Shakepeare comedy, a kitten on the keys.  Music was the easiest means of communication.  We used to literally send each other YouTube clips of songs sometimes, the words being so distant and the emotions themselves becoming so overwhelming. 

When we actually met, it became a buzz in the background.  I remember coming home from work late one night, as autumn was sliding into winter and everything seems to lose a bit of buzz and rez.  Inside the rough Scouse boozer that approached where I turned off to my flat, Sweet Love by Anita Baker was playing.  It had become my earworm, as I realised I was falling in love with someone I’d barely knew.  I recorded it on my phone and sent it to my partner.

Later on, we got married to it.  My wife walked down the aisle, a symphony in green as Anita Baker twisted the air conditioned breeze into shapes that Wyndham Lewis would be proud of.

My wife, to her credit has introduced me to a lot of music.  Not all of it I like, but that is a relationship in a nutshell.  We spend a lot of our time in the car, travelling from our home on a Devonian hill for an equal variety of both short and long journeys.  She’s introduced me to a lot of stuff I was aware of, and have since gained a grudging, growing and grumpy acceptance of.  This includes early Elton John, Abba, and Billy Joel.  This is a continuing process, happily. When Apple uses the phrase ‘Family Sharing’, I’m not sure this is what they had in mind.

However, I had a dayjob slowly twisted the knife.  I used to listen to music on the way to work.  You could say that about a good 75% of the population.  It was the way of inuring me for another eleven hours in that job.  I was using music to deafen myself to what was really happening, what I was really feeling.  And it was only later, when I left that job I realised I was suffering from depression.  Loss of Interest in Things You Once Found Pleasurable doesn’t really cover a mechanical obsession with music, a sort of middle ground between listening and not listening. 

And then came, the real crash.  My wife became pregnant.  Our twelve week scan revealed our daughter; River McCready had died.  I became emotionally numb; I can remember every single detail of that day.  I can remember buying a takeaway deal from Marks and Spencer, feeling numb and separate from a shopping centre on a Friday afternoon.  I can also remember a lyric from Let Me Show You The Way by Thundercat, buzzing and bouncing around my head:

Just hold your face, into the light

Though right now, you might know why

It made sense, on a day when little else did.  I think I am still processing it, now.  My mind is still buffering it, loading the files on a mental cloud.  What I did notice was the buzz that music gave me; I was still listening, floating somewhere between 6Music and Radio 2.  Recognising, but not enjoying it.  It was that moment before a car crash, where you can vaguely recall the moment before it happened. I was in one when I was five – I can remember the car approaching us.  It was like the last tangible thing, before I wondered why the car was upside down and blood was pouring down the windows.

Events continued, both internally and externally.  My wife needed some extra support, plus I had reached the absolute and utter limit of what I was prepared to accept in my job.  I applied for a sabbatical, but this wouldn’t take place for three months.  I made the decision to leave.  Then as quickly as the ink on my resignation letter dried, we had the opportunity to move to Devon.  As we say in our house, it would be rude not to.

We spent the next few months, travelling across the country from Liverpool to Devon.  That buzzes of music again, in the car as I became acquainted with cheap hotels and motorway services.  And I could feel my ears and soul opening to something beautiful.  I could feel music, pulling me close, pulling me under again.

And then, the actual epiphany.  Like most epiphanies, it took place in the place you least expect.  Equally, like the actual root of the word, it took place on a road.  Not the one to Damascus, but the one to Exeter.  I got on the bus, turned on the iPod, and scrolled to the last compliation I did.  I enjoyed every song – it utterly made sense, this insane, unconditional love, returning and renewing itself on an hour long bus journey. 

I am a heart a hopeful human being.  There’s always one Beatles album I’ve never heard, there’s always one Shakespeare play I’ve not seen.  Perhaps music itself is a reminder of the hopeful nature of the human condition. Perhaps, it’s emblematic of the transient nature of things you love.  Well, most things anyway. 

I’m back where I belong.  In the space between the notes, but no longer lonely.