Recently in Ego Category

I walked straight into a plate glass window on Friday.

It wasn't the highlight of my week, but seems fitting a party to the strange syndrome of behaviours offered up to me by my body these four days gone by. Mild disorientation, sensorily unique headaches, neck pain, considerable body heat and a couple of aggressive mood swings in the testosterone-driven raging-silverback-gorilla sort of direction.

Transparent walls aside -- apparently this marriage of biology and silicous oxides runs in the female line of my family -- these are the mild symptoms of mild brain inflammation caused by a vaccine, and the thought that there's two more shots of this intravenous liniment to go isn't the most exciting thing in my Universe.

Still, if the antibodies are already on the go, then tomorrow's shot will either result in few further symptoms, or complete anaphylaxis. While occasional drama spices up the daily run, I hold out for the more probable scenario.

I've decided that things will be back to normal today, though the likelihood of my body agreeing with my stubborn mind makes the temptation of staying in bed, in the buff, all day long, the most attractive recourse possible. Alas, stuff beckons.

Oh, but it was strange.

Out in the sunshine, walking father Thames in the fresh air and awash with summery vibes, there were moments when I wanted to curl up and cry on the pavement for no good reason, punctuated by my own amusement at the fact that this sudden volatility of mind so isn't me.

Then anger and frustration, and wanting to smash my knuckles into the piles of broken rock and glass on the beaches at Battersea to put my mind elsewhere, toward a crimson decoy, something tangible. Preservation algorithms threw slag at the low tide instead, a limitless volume for transiently limitless feeling.

Then on the street, miles down the road, I chanced upon a proverbial angel, and my inconstant choler, as capricious and fickle as she was potent, fled with her burgundy skirts hitched above her ankles in the face of his genial smile and allusive embrace.

Once in a while, friends will pitch up at just the right time and place to crush a demon, unaffected in manner, straightforward and sincere, unaware of how you feel and utterly resplendent for it.

And whether or not you let them know it, they become heroes.

Just as beds are only nice to be in when you choose to be in them, a good night's sleep is only really possible when your dreams don't begin before your eyes have even closed; vivid and violent, mired in a dark haze of bloodied, ethereal humanoid shapes whose bodies seem to shear apart at the skin with each pulsing movement they make towards you. Pulsing. Pulsing. At the same rate as the blinding pain in your head. And then you become aware that this frustrating staccato of movement and hurt and decay is simply a function of your beating heart. That you're not in hell, that you're just very ill, a little delirious, and having very little fun in the process. Then off you drift again, shifting around miserably because no change in position takes the pain and freakish visions away, but it's all that you can do to try to find a moment of comfort.

And that's the stylish way to spend five days in bed when you'd far prefer to be doing something else. What frustrates me about this particular malaise is that there's nothing I can do about it; 80% of adults in the developed world carry it, approaching 100% in metropolitan areas and gay communities. The majority present no symptoms, some are badly affected on first infection and generally fine thereafter, and some, like me, like my friend Frank in NYC, are completely clobbered the first time around, and then have to deal with latency; periodic flare-ups that aren't ever as bad as the first time, but which take you down more memorably than any bout of influenza each time they occur, or just sometimes, periods many weeks long when you just feel tired and ill, but without any obvious symptoms. Say hello to glandular fever, infectious mononucelosis, kissing disease.

My first time, back in 1996, had me on a drip and cooling fans with a maximum temperature of 41 ºC (106 ºF); if you had taken a small mace to the back of my throat, used both hands to twist it around a few times, then used a barbed fork to pull the mangled tissue inward to close up my throat completely, that would be a fairly accurate image of the back of my mouth that first time, the vile looking exudate notwithstanding. Now, as with every other subsequent flare up (perhaps one every one and a half years, but double that during times of stress, yay Ph.D.), my throat didn't tear itself open, but my temperature shot up to an impressive degree, the lymph nodes in my neck, knees and spleen became painfully swollen and I got a blinding headache that made keeping my eyes open painful, the sum of which was no sleep, intense discomfort, and the unpleasant bleeding-monsters delirium.

Today will be my first full day out of bed; the headache will persist for a couple of days, and I'll feel tired for a fortnight at least; I'm familiar with the pattern. Chronic fatigue syndrome (yuppie flu) is associated with this particular bug, and I'm glad that the tiredness and lack of willingness to do anything at all only ever creep up on me when I'm really stretched to the limit, a luxury real sufferers don't have. I may seem otherwise robust, active and healthy, and I am, but if science could find a way (well, there is a way, but it involves chemotherapy for cancer treatment and total B-lymphocyte destruction; I'll thank you not to point that syringe at me) to remove this element from my existence, I would pay through my nose and abstain from all vices forever. Except one perhaps, but he probably doesn't count as a vice.

Today is the day; the United States is going to the polls, and the big question is whether the country will once again make a mockery of the democratic election process.

I have my thoughts about what is going to happen, but until all is seen and done, there's no point in dwelling on something that is entirely out of my hands.

I've voted. That is all that I could do; if the country re-elects an incompetent, I will be enormously disappointed, but knowing that I voted for the other man - the democrat, whether he is an ideal candidate in my eyes or not - is enough; I now have a right to complain each and every time Bush fucks up in the future, though really, I'd rather not have to complain at all.

Go, Red Sox!

It is a curious mixture of emotions that has been doing the rounds of my head this evening; despite the concerns I've expressed previously, I have again been able, tonight, to sit down to another meal in the company of my dear grandfather, discussing the current state of things, politically minded as he is, as well as, inevitably, how things used to be.

Every time we speak, I think about recording all the things we share -- his memories of the wars and hostile occupation, the quirky stories and simple, inspiring recounts of our family's past, all the things that he enjoys recounting tirelessly, and which don't even begin to bore me -- but I don't; it just doesn't seem appropriate.

Part of me wants to hold on to it all permanently, and part of me just wants to remember, and though for many years my mother and I have both thought about writing some of it down, it's not something we've ever come to do. I don't think we'll get the chance; he'll be returning to Pakistan shortly, and will soon be too frail to travel. I'll be saying goodbye to him tomorrow, and I've been told it may well be the last time I ever see him, though I know well enough to keep my faith in the present.

Tonight he gave me a catalogue, dated 1935, of the teak and mahogany furniture produced by the family woodmill in Rangoon during the decades that preceded the invasion of Burma. Though bound in leather and of doubtless quality for its day, its neglected pages are yellowed and moth eaten, crumbling in places, the binding failing. And on the back page are three dignified silver prints; my grandfather, Ahmed, as he was in his teenage years, his older brother, Yacob, and in the centre, looking every inch the grand patriarch, my great grandfather, Binyamin. I'm not sure what it was that I felt, but when I came up here to my room, the only thing I wanted to do was lie down, bury my face in my pillow, and cry.

Times change; people die; memories fade; all we are left with is history.

One of the things about him is his lack of willingness to trust people with his heart.
One of the things about her is her lack of willingness to see that some people just can't help themselves.
Neither is at fault, but both exercise an unintentional disservice toward the very essence of loving.

I kneeled by his wheelchair, holding his hand, wearing a smile, and I chuckled as I looked at him; born in 1918. Nineteen bloody eighteen. What in god's name am I next to this? He looks my way and all I can come up with in the moment is "You must be so proud." Eight kids, all now grown and given rise to the nineteen that I know of as my maternal cousins. They, in turn, have already begun, here and there, to do that whole baby-making thing; my family is a giant snowball in the rolling, and this man, along with my grandmother, set it on its way.

He smiled, and dismissively flicked his hand and rolled his head in that idiosyncratic south-Asian way that says neither yes, nor no, and by-golly I enjoyed being asked all the same. As with the Queen Mother, his age has long mellowed a once rather harsh and highly opinionated character into something entirely amiable, and that is how I've always known him, but whereas he was, only a short time ago, very active and pretty boisterous too, he is now quiet, frail and more dependent upon his family than he ever was; he's still strong, I see this, but the nature of his vitality is changed - he was hit by a fast moving car as he left the mosque in Karachi a few months back, and surprisingly, he lived.

When I heard the news, I felt my concern physically, down in my stomach, but he was okay and I let it go. When, some weeks later, I found in my room some pictures of him in hospital, battered, swollen, but smiling, I burst into quiet tears for my poor grandfather, the stubborn, lonely and proud fool who insisted on living alone, back home in Pakistan away from us all. And I loved him all the more for being such a goat, because I knew that I'd be just the same were I to live to such an august age.

So today, I put him on a plane bound for Los Angeles, not knowing whether I'll see him again or not; I expect to, as is our nature to do, but rue the fact that I haven't any control over what will and what won't.

Being conveniently placed at the airport and having said my goodbyes, I was able to wander over to arrivals, where I met my friend, Robin, on his arrival from the US, as well as his hosts-to-be during his stay in the UK. My hello turned into a rather wonderful afternoon with the three of them, out in the sunshine, with good food, drink and conversation, and a dreamy musical set which I clearly know too little about to go into. On parting company, I ended up walking down the Euston Road in a most fantastic downpour, dried out on the cruiser back into Cambridge, and was promptly kidnapped on arrival for desserts and drinks on the outdoor terrace of the local Café Rouge.

I like being kidnapped, when it's voluntary, and particularly where it involves warm apple tart and chocolate ice cream. I also like good company, and meeting new people, and taking it easy when everything else seems such a stress. I even like going to bed exhausted. Blogging when exhausted? Bleh - you can bloody well check my grammar for me.

Swimming in icy water on windy day surprisingly uplifting and clearly good for the soul.

May facilitate onset of pneumonia. Or hypothermia. Or both, if lucky.

When I'm alone, I don't feel insecure, or feel compelled to worry about anyone else. Being happy becomes less complicated, and comes more easily, which is probably why some of my most poignantly happy moments are borne of my own solitude, with a little atmosphere mixed in to make them memorable.

There are people out there who don't cause catastrophic shifts in that kind of easy field of calm; comfortable people who make the best of any situation, rarely complain in earnest, and who know how to trust. It would be nice to connect with one, but at least I can count a couple amongst my friends; these people make me smile at a moment's thought; would that I could take them into my arms and hold onto them forever.

Someone obviously swallowed more river water this evening than was good for him; that, or it was doped with prozac.

It was while I was suspended upside-down from a capsized canoe this afternoon that I became aware of my increasing distaste for excessive introspectiveness. Of course, excessive anything is only excessive because there's too much of it, and I've recently found myself reminded of just how important balance is to just about everything in my life -- a lack of balance might well account for why I was upside-down in the first place, though I'm happy to point out that that was just a drill.

I enjoy getting out and facing new challenges, whether they amount to taking on novel activities, meeting new people or simply starting down roads that I've never been down before. It is nice to be alone, it is nice to be able to enjoy one's solitude, but it's also nice to belong, or at least feel that you do, and of late, I've come to realise that I've been spending a little too much time on my own planet at the expense of sharing experiences with other people. One of the things that has kept me there is the fact that I've become used to feeling that it isn't my place to experience too much pleasure, let alone my right to let people in to share it with me.

Then there's my difficulty accepting that some people do actually like me, that they're not just being there because they're polite and generous with their time and doing their duty in showing charity to the deficient. I'm rational enough to get past what I see as an ill state in my own way of thinking -- my self regard -- but I have to believe that there have been times when it has held me back, or made me unfairly and needlessly distrustful of people's wonderful genuineness. Am I so afraid of being seen as occasionally naïve when I do misplace my trust? Burned fingers can take bloody ages to heal.

When I first arrived in Cambridge, it didn't take very long to fall in with a number of people who I was able to consider my friends and partners in crime, but just a few short months along the line, I made some mistakes in my personal life. While the decisions I made, or allowed to be made for me, seemed fine at the time, they led to my gentle withdrawal from the circles I was quite comfortably moving in; slowly, the people whose lives I knew plenty about became people who I was just 'familiar with', and then they became people I could only really claim to recognise by face and name alone; friendships devolved into nods and smiles, in passing, on the street. A slow descent into a long and murky winter; on my doorstep, the colourful leaves on the trees withered and fell, and there was no spring.

Now that I'm alone, I see that I should have done things differently; knowing, as I do, that life goes on, I find that encouraging.