I've been scribbling down bits of thought in my A4 spiral bound notebook over the past days. Here's a collection of these scribbles.
November 13. My mum came to me today in a waking dream. Two days since she died. I was on the Metro, an urban commuter train that plunges underground towards the centre of the city. Nothing out of the ordinary. I was in a daze. I had music on my headphones, Muse, from the Swordfish soundtrack. Uplifting sounds against the tide of bleak sorrow. The train was busy but the seat before me was empty. Abruptly I can see my dead mother sitting there... gaunt, a starved skeleton with waxy flesh.... but rapidly the flesh of her face began to fill out and gain colour as the wasted muscles returned. Her hair became blonde again and grew long and flowed luxuriously around her shoulders. Her face became young and beautiful. She leaned forward, grabbed both my hands in hers, smiling she kissed me on the cheek and said "Thank you." And then she was gone. I got off the train and stood in the station for 10 minutes, playing the track over again. It was an incredibly real and vivid experience.
November 15. Sitting in Tyneside Coffee Rooms waiting for my long time friend Richy. It's the second time I'll be meeting him here in 2 days. He's there for me, when I need him most. It's 20 years since the Tyneside became a regular haunt for me and Richy, both age 19. And 20 years since Richy knocked on the front door of my parents house, for the first time since he was 11, desperate and needing help, and changed my life forever: a good thing.
I've known Richy for 33 years. He's as solid a friend as you could ever wish for.
Apart from a recent refurb, the Tyneside is exactly the same as it ever was; it even has many of the same staff, 20 years later; they own it, they're proud of it...and this age of corporate hegemony in every city centre, the Tyneside is a welcome bastion of independence. Still serving mugs of coffee. Still serving ham & cheese toasties. Like they always did. I take some comfort in this, and, reflect on the epic arc of my life in these last 20 years...all the things that have occurred whilst the Tyneside slid graciously along.
November 16th. The house is full of Norwegians. Mum's brother and two sisters and their husbands. My aunts and uncles. My family. I am not alone. I am not alone. I am not... alone. My beloved cousin Kenn-Ole arrives in 2 days. It is great to have them here. The house has been horrible since mum died. Empty. Soulless and alien. Now there is life.
It's weird and sad that I'm unable to step next door and seek comfort and support there. Pete lost his father at the same time as I lost my mum. He's down on the south coast, dealing with everything there. He's coming all the way back for mum's funeral, then back south again for his father's. Strange days.
November 19th. The day of the funeral I woke up feeling sick with dread. This was the moment of finality. Today they were going to burn my mum's body down to ash. I was desperate to escape this feeling so I went for a fast and hard walk through Jesmond Dene. Saw my old friend the tree, the one that I've gone to all these years of my life, and I stepped up close and gave him a big hug. Then I went to a cafe on St George's Road... it began to rain, and a beautiful amber light flooded the place. Pat, one of the family friends, she texted me to say there was a rainbow over Jesmond. Mum. I smiled.
The funeral was beautiful. Pete (next door), Uncle Erling, Alex (my chilhood friend) and I carried mum's coffin into the chapel. The service was long with many people and with many tributes. We played the Girl From Ipanema, and a Nordland Folk Song with classical music.
The wake was a feast of traditional Norwegian dishes and cakes cooked up by my sister, with help from our aunts. It was a wonderful sight. A definitive final gasp of what the house used to be like... full of people laughing and eating good food. Mum would have been very proud. However, for me, the night was ruined by a phone call... the police in Bristol rang to inform us that our house in Bristol had been burgled. I was gutted. I felt like I'd been kicked in the teeth.
Mike and I drank beer and carried our glasses and spare cans down into the impenetrable darkness of the Dene, late at night. Both of us know the place so well we don't need to see to know where we were, or where we were heading. We walked fast and talked fast and it was a good solace to have Mike there as company. Over the past five years that I've known him he's become ever more the loyal and reliable friend.
November 20th. The day after the funeral was supposed to be a day of reflection and coming to terms with what I've just been through with mum. Instead, it was a half day in Newcastle, before having to barrel back to Bristol to deal with the burglary and secure the house. In the morning I met up with my cousin Kenn-Ole (chap that did front cover art for Yellow Dawn) and rode the Metro to Tynemouth. The previous night I'd said, "I want to go on the train for nostalgia. I want to walk along the coast in rain and howling wind."
I got what I asked for. Rain and howling wind. Pete met us there, he'd driven and was going to be our ride back. We headed down onto the pier and walked slowly along, hands hugging luke warm take-out coffee and gritting our teeth and squinting against the icy onslaught. It was good though. It suited my mood perfectly. The pier is over 1/2 a mile long, a vast stone monolith lying on its side that stretches out into the North Sea. Halfway along I saw three slim figures heading towards us, coming back from the far end. Getting closer, I realised one of them was Lucille, Alex's mum... she'd been at the funeral yesterday. What are the chances? I asked. We said hello but the weather was too extreme to stand around and chat.
Coming back from the pier, Kenn-Ole and Pete and I trudged up to the main drag, near my old school, and stepped into the salt & vinegar warmth of Marshalls fish and chips shop. Best fish and chips, ever, period. The wind had died down and the rain had been replaced by weak sunlight so we grabbed take-out boxes and sat on a sandstone wall of the priory overlooking a 50 metre drop to the beach below. It was heavenly at first, delicious tasting food and good memories... but then an incredible sadness swept over me. I'd never be able to share this with mum again.
We drove home. Jo and I packed and got ready to leave. I went upstairs and sat in mum's room for a long time, staring at the bed that hadn't been touched since they took her body away. The indentation in the pillow from her head was still there. I cried then. A natural release of intense emotion.
And then we were on the road, driving back to Bristol, back to my home. But it wasn't the soft landing I needed. It was a long and gruelling drive, and there to welcome us was a messy, damaged and violated house.
Later....
Numb, is the best way to describe this period of my life.
I'm walking around, I'm doing things that living people do... but I'm not really here or there or anywhere. I'm this compressed nugget of consciousness, squashed down and curled up, cold with nausea and nervous tension. I can't believe what is happening and yet I can also utterly accept it. I'm just gliding, I guess.
Sorry if I sound like a sob story. It's not my intention. I'm not craving sympathy or woe me, but Jesus Fekking Christ, what did I do in my past life or this life even, that has warranted such a brutal kick in the face when I'm already sprawled on the ground.
I only have to survive 2 days in Bristol before we're due to leave on a trip to Bruges. Booked months ago. Now the timing is literally perfect. I can't wait. Bruges. Escape. Release. Decompression.
But meanwhile I'm in Bristol...
I drift around the city in a daze, reminiscent of the black days of 2006 and 2007...
I go to the cathedral and light a candle for my dad, as I've done many times in the last three years. But then I light a second candle, this one for my mum, and I place it beside dad's candle and the emotions tear me up. I croak out, "Hey Dad, meet Mum,"
There's a brief but rewarding rendezvous with Simon and Hagen, cut short because I have to get back to the house.
The burglars ransacked the house and stole stuff. Most of it can be replaced on insurance. And I suppose the damage could have been a lot worse but, they damaged the window in a way that meant it can't be locked... and we're about to go away for four days. We can't go leaving the house unsecured. Jo and I buy various items from B&Q to try and secure it but nothing works. We're both starting to panic. I ring Matthias... and he comes to our rescue. Jo and I drive to Bath, collect him and his tools, bring him back, and 8pm on a Saturday night, he cuts a sheet of heavy chipboard to the size of the window, drills massive screws into the walls and secures the board in place with thick timber batons. There. That'll fucking keep them out.
Smiles all round.
And thank you Matthias for giving us the peace of mind to leave the house and not worry, too much, about it getting burgled again.
We stop off at the Upton Inn for drinks. It was a lovely moment to share.
Tomorrow we're up early and off to Bruges.
I can't wait.
Later....
Bruges a small medieval city in the Flemish part of Belgium. Tried going there last year but for some reason it just didn't happen.
I'm here now, sitting at a small circular table in the reception lounge of our hotel... it's a nice little spot to sit and read or write in my notebook.
Bruges is a fantastic place.
There was a vast rainbow hanging over the city as we approached. Hello mum, I smiled. She knew I was coming here.
Later...
Once we checked into the hotel and got settled, Jo rang her folks. I found myself standing there feeling strange... that she still had parents to share this trip with. It was an odd moment. Later, I composed a text on my phone and sent it to the mobile number still stored in my phone under "mum". Strange, maybe...
Later...
Sitting at the circular glass topped table in the hotel, getting a little sozzled on the local brew. Zot! Feeling fluffy. A version of one of Depeche Mode's classics is on my headphones. The reception / lounge occupies an area between two buildings; the hotel is formed of a sprawl of interconnected structures. Above where I'm sitting the roof is of curved translucent plastic. Heavy rain is hammering down and regular flashes of lighting are turning the pages of this notebook bluish white as I write the words down.
It's barely stopped raining since we got here but that hasn't spoiled a thing. Surrounded by such an incredible array of medieval buildings, it helps to lend a certain atmosphere. And I'm well wrapped up when I go out.
Later...
Yesterday I proposed to Jo with the diamond ring I bought several weeks ago.
"Be with me forever and a day," I said, placing the ring in a box in her hands.
She looked stunned, as if slapped.
Then she laughed and threw her arms around me, "Yes, yes, yes!!!!" she said.
Later...
I went to the Basillica of Holy Blood. Stepping through heavy wooden doors I entered a plain stone chapel that is almost 900 years old. I was overwhelmed and awed by the atmosphere of sanctuary and peace. It was beautiful. I lit two candles for dad and my mum with tears flowing freely down my cheeks. I sat there for a long time, dealing with emotions.
Later...
Being in Bruges is helping me to heal. I don't know how I feel when I return to the UK. Will I step forward with renewed strength or will I fall back into despair and grief?
26th November I'm back in Bristol. Sitting in Boston Tea Party. Outside is pissing down with freezing rain. This time yesterday I was in Bruges. Long journey back but not unpleasant. I thought I would feel sad today because Bruges was so amazing and little moments keep flashing up repeatedly inside my mind. But I don't feel sad at all. I think I'm healing. Having this time off work has been a god send. It's given me the freedom to do what I need to do, the space to go through my emotions without interruption, and to experience this profound moment of my life without distraction.
Sonja texted me this morning to say there was a rainbow above the city. I dashed upstairs to take a look and I saw it looming over the house. "Hello mum," I called out, my hand open wide and extended from my arm toward the pane of glass. "Hello mum," I whispered.
The police man with a van came round today and fitted extra locks on our windows.
27th November. I'm drifting. In a surreal point of space and time. The normal routine of waking, going to work, evenings at home or with friends, the short weekend interval... all of this no longer applies. I'm in a detached bubble of space and time. Tomorrow I return to Newcastle for a week. Dealing with financials and the Will, and the huge tasks that are to follow.