Happily Imperfect 2015

No Big Deal

It’s early evening. Two men sit In a car parked outside a warehouse. They are deep in conversation.

“It’s definitely a sliding scale, right? I mean things that are important to you might not be important to me so how do I decide?”

“Are you telling me you can’t decide what’s important in your life? Or don’t know what the last important decision you made was? Seriously?”

“Hey, look. I know what decisions I’ve made but I’m just not sure I’ve changed my mind on something important, like, ever? No big deal really, yeah?”

“Bullshit, brother, bullshit. You might not be willing to admit it to yourself but there must have been something, somewhere, at some point that you changed your mind about. C’mon man, you know there must be, why can’t you just tell me? Stop flapping and spill.”

“Jesus, alright lemme think… hang on, what about you? If this is such a big deal then you must have an example, c’mon man, help me out. Heh, who knows maybe you’ll inspire me, you could be my muse…”

“Ha frickin ha… OK, so I’ll tell you one thing but let’s be clear, this stuff is important to me, yeah? I mean what I’m about to tell you isn’t a decision I took lightly, I agonised about this for a few days, kept me up nights it did, so don’t get all pissy about it when I tell you, alright?”

“Hey chill, we’re just talking here, yeah, it’s all good, no need to get uptight, just talking, it’s all easy man, no big deal. Make a decision, change your mind, all good with me.”

“Goddammit, this is my point, your always backing away from this stuff, you never commit, never really speak your mind, always lost in your own damn world! Like the other day, I was trying to tell you about that weird job I did last week, how weird the building was and you just started banging on about that damn movie you never shut up about…”

“The Shining? I still can’t believe you haven’t seen it!”

“Yeah, and next thing I know I’ve forgotten what we were talking about in the first damn place, pisses me off … anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that you need to start taking some accountability, you know, be more aware of what your actions? I bet there are loads of decisions you’ve made you’ve hardly even thought about, right?”

“Well maybe I’m just the kinda guy that doesn’t dwell on this stuff, I just go with the flow yeah? Life’s too short and man, you need to learn to lighten up, so we all make decisions, we all change our minds, I get it, it’s human nature, but it’s not like all over the world people wake up every day and think ‘whoa I wonder what scary big ass decision I might have to make today’ and then spend the rest of their damn day thinking about changing their minds like that’s some big deal as well. Unlike you, most people just let life happen man, you really need to take a step back.”

“I give up, seriously man, you need to re-assess your priorities.”

“Hey, my priorities are all straight, I’m not the one yakking on and on about life moments and how important they are, fuck you man.”

“Damn straight they are important, jesus, all I’m saying is that sometimes you need to stop and think, make sure you’ve thought things through, fuck me, why is that so hard to understand? And you wonder why people don’t wanna work with you?!”

Silence falls in the car, the men stare out of the window at the falling rain

“Right. Fuck this. Enough talking, let’s do the job.”

“Yeah. Fuck it. Let’s do it.”

Idea from 642 Things to Write About

May 11, 2015

The Truth About Polyamory

Poly Means Many: There are many aspects of polyamory. Each month, the PMM bloggers will write about their views on one of them. Links to all posts can be found at www.polymeansmany.com.

I tend to research new things. I like to have a sense of what I’m getting, whether it’s buying a new car, starting a new hobby, or changing my lifestyle. So when I first heard about polyamory I found some articles, read some blog posts, bought some books and generally tried to absorb what I could.

At this point I should mention that my approach to such research isn’t really all that deep, I’m more a skim reader than an in-depth researcher. So I’ll be the first to admit that even after doing some reading, a lot of what I’ve learned, I’ve learned through trial and error.

It’s safe to say I’ve read, and continue to read, a lot of articles about polyamory, and whilst it might just be Baader-Meinhof (frequency illusion) kicking in, there does seem to be a change in the frequency of hearing about poly more mainstream places – magazines and newspapers, rather than on personal or collaborative blogs (like this one) – or maybe I’m just more attuned to seeing those articles and find out about them because I have a few poly people on my Twitter timeline. Regardless, I’m glad that the general awareness of polyamory is being raised.

Now that I’m a couple of years into this lifestyle I find myself casting a different eye over the articles that I do read. I tend to shy away from the types of articles that only cover a very specific relationship structure, or come at things with a fixed view of the world. But, I know that’s me applying my own filters, so I read them anyway as there is always something to learn, right?

When the Guardian published an article called A tale of two lovers (or three, or four): the truth about polyamory I was intrigued; Would this be another article that I agreed with, or another article that stated things with authority about this lifestyle?

The author of the piece, Emer O’Toole, writes honestly and openly about her experiences and the journey she’s been through and, whilst it is different from mine, it was refreshing to read a piece that steered away from the ‘rules of poly’ style writings I so loathe.

The article is a good read, and there are a couple of thoughts I wanted to pick out:

“Like monogamy, poly needs work. But, perhaps unlike monogamy, it also helps to have some theory. You can’t just imitate the patterns you see around you.”

This, for me, was the most daunting thing when we first started ‘being poly’. How do you know if you are doing it right? I guess Kirsty and I were lucky in that we had some poly friends and knew a little bit about their background. But without any societal patterns to follow, it’s hard to know if things are going well, or not.

“And it certainly isn’t positioning monogamous people as more blindly traditional or less emotionally evolved than you.”

My pet peeve, in general, is this sort of thinking. I experience it in many places, the presumption that my statement of X automatically means I am opposed to Y. I don’t identify with, or understand, this way of thinking but I know it exists.

For the record, I want to live in a world where your relationships are yours to define, live and let live and all that.

“Instead of feeling as though I’m living within a restrictive set of rules, guiltily desiring secret things, I feel as though we’re writing the rules together.”

This, for me, is the takeaway thought from this article. For many people who are pondering a change to their relationship definition (be that an open relationship, polyamory or anything else that breaks away from the unwritten rules of monogamy) this is probably the driving factor. Somewhere, deep inside, you aren’t happy with your relationship but how do you change that?

The hardest part of becoming poly, for me, was being completely honest with myself about what I wanted from life and it continues to be something I find myself evaluating.

Like Emer, I find that being poly isn’t a fixed thing, there isn’t an ‘end state’ that is predetermined. I know that within my relationships we chat of being in a ‘big happy poly family’ and maybe one day all sharing a big poly house, but equally we are all aware that our relationships tomorrow might not be in the same form, or the same structure, as they are today.

That, for me is why poly works for me, it’s not a fixed state, there is no single definition of how it should work. You talk to your partners openly and honestly, set your own guidelines and rules, and as you all evolve, as the relationships morph in different ways you talk some more and adapt. Ultimately, life is happier because everyone is getting what they truly want from it.

If you’ve read this far, then please go and read the second half of Emer’s article where some of her friends describe their relationships. For me this is a better example of ‘being poly’ than anything I’ve written (or will write).

May 4, 2015

Visiting the Merlion

Talcum powder is at the top of my packing list.

Internal debates about camera lenses and electronic devices have begun. Laptop or iPad? Prime and Telephoto? Neither or both? One or all?

Flights are booked, same hotel in Chinatown as last time, which means the same street bar on the corner. Race tickets are bought, three different stands this time so something new there.

Plans to stay on UK time being pondered. How much daylight would I lose? How much of Singapore do I want to try and see? Plans for what to do whilst we are there are underway.

I need to buy a new ‘Eddie’ shirt (?).

Beyond that it’s mostly just pack and go.

7ish hrs to Dubai, a few hours layover, then 7ish hrs to Singapore. I wonder if I’ll sleep on the plane this time?

I’m excited and happy to go as it’s largely to mark a landmark birthday (50th) of one of my close friends. We are a small group, there are only five of us in the ‘inner circle’, and four of us will be in Singapore.

It’s not until September, Glastonbury is first, but it’s something to look forward to. I loved Singapore the last time I was there, and I really can’t wait to go back.

Must remember the talcum powder.

April 30, 2015

The rivers flow

My home town of Dumbarton sits on the River Leven, the second fastest flowing river in Scotland, don’t ya know. The Leven is the main outlet from Loch Lomond and flows from the Loch down the valley, through my home town where it joins the mighty River Clyde.

The Clyde dominates the history and culture of Glasgow and the West of Scotland, the shipyards, the Cutty Sark (built in Dumbarton), a working class powerhouse. It’s only now, as a grown man, that I realise the history the river has played in my own life, but it all really starts at the tributary where the Leven meets the Clyde.

At that tributary is Levingrove Park, most often the sight of a hurtling golden retriever, crashing her way from car to water as fast as she could. The park isn’t far from the town centre so throughout my childhood and teenage years I was never that far from it. It has changed over the years but the layout remains the same, border by the Leven and the Clyde.

The Leven flows through Dumbarton, the high street car park sat on the banks and still suffers the occasional winter flood because of it. Lunches eaten by the riverside sound idyllic, but this was a 70s concrete place on the downturn, more often than not the next bench along were the town drunks, getting some fresh air before heading back into the bookies. The upside was the wide churning river, always alive, always moving as it flowed past with a quiet power.

When I was about 14, a friend took me fishing for the first time. That year the summer was dominated by hazy mornings and golden evenings on the Leven, exploring the quieter stretches, finding the hidden sand banks and deep pools, the gentle burble of the river around my waders as I clumsily flicked out a fly. Occasionally I even managed to catch a fish but those successes were few and far between and, looking back, I realise they weren’t really why I enjoyed it so much.

I have a tendency, when I get into something new, to throw myself in to the deep end, learn as much as I can and generally get my geek on – my recent aquarium adventures are an excellent example – so the entire spectrum of processes and gadgets and new things that spinning and fly fishing brought my way were fascinating.

The lurid lures, whizzing reels and the repetitive nature of spinning appealed, a simple and bait free way to fish. Just attach the lure (the spinner), cast it out and reel it back in past where you think a fish might be lurking.

Fly fishing was similar but more technical. The casting requires timing the back and forth of the line, feeling the subtle pull as it pulls out behind you on the back cast, the flick of a wrist sending it unfurling out on to the water, and if successful, to gently place the fly over the spot where you last saw a fish rise.

I even learned how to tie my own flies, practised the various knots and casting techniques, learned to spot good (fishy) water from bad (no fishy) water, and slowly honed down my enthusiastic purchases and collate of ‘stuff’ to a fairly streamlined setup that could mostly be contained in my fishing waistcoat.

A small bag housed a flask of hot chocolate (I was still naive to the wonders of caffeine), some soon to be squashed tuna paste and ketchup sandwiches, a bag of crisps and some form of chocolate bar.

That was all I needed; on weekends my friend and I would meet at the arranged time, hop on a train and travel up river, disembark and slowly fish our way back down until the sun was setting. On the occasional after school evening we’d grab our spinning rods and cycle down to the easier to access parts of the river in Dumbarton and spend the last few hours of sunlight trying to avoid snagging our lures on the logs and detrius accumulated on the river floor.

For me fishing was a quiet, contemplative hobby. Whilst I went fishing with my friend, the nature of fly fishing is solitary and at times, even though we were in a suburban area, the tranquility of the river was a wonderful solace.

The calming effect of water has remained with me through my adult years. Moving down south to a flat on the edge of a man-made lake, holidays to Spain and the rolling Meditteranean sea holding my attention for hours on end. It was the same beach I stood on as I mourned the death of my then mother-in-law, taken too soon.

Home again, the far reaches of the Clyde never far away, and on to a life rebuilt in Glasgow, cycling the (Forth & Clyde) canal path, and taking new partners to revisit the places of my childhood, the park and the Leven, Loch Lomond, the mighty Clyde.

April 27, 2015

Water Falling

The menial chores were easiest when she was lost in herself, a place she had visited more or more since it happened. Deep in thought she slowly moves around the kitchen, putting each item back in the proper place, wiping down the surfaces, filling the sink for the stack of dishes waiting to be washed.

She watches the water stream from the tap, the bubbles forming in the steam. She is trying to block out the noise that had gathered in her head, trying to forget the vivid images that taunt her.

It had seemed like the right thing to do. She had always hated settling, accepting that she had limitations, and even though it scared her she was proud that she pushed herself, tried new things and to hell with the fears and phobias! Or so she thought.

Her mind flips back, the slow grinding of the lift as it rose and rose, floor after floor before the doors slowly opened. She steps out and turns the corner, in front of her the floor to ceiling window revealing the distant horizon, building tops below peeking through the morning mist. She was on top of the world.

They were already there, her companions for this day, adrenalin junkies who seemed to exist on the edge of society, drifting from high to high. She nodded hello, found a space and started her preparations.

She checked and double checked her kit, triple checked it to be sure, pulling on each strap and buckle. There was little room for error today, the riskiest jump she’d tried, but she felt good, everything was as it should be. Her chute perfectly folded, her goggles snug, jumpsuit fastened tightly, helmet and camera ready to go. A last check by one of her jump buddies, thumbs up all round.

She paused and with a slow, deep breath fell into her ritual; studying her nerves as she looked out to the horizon, visualising her first jump, the fear she’d felt and the burst of adrenalin that stayed with her for the next few hours, the unadulterated joy as she landed back on earth.

A tap on the shoulder. Go time, and then she was at the edge, the wind buffeting her as it raced in through the open window, chute in hand. Go! And she was leaping out into nothing. The first few floors speed past, blinding reflections from office windows tracked her fall into the mist below.

Water droplets streamed across her goggles as she plummeted through the grey. Her jump was measured in seconds but with no frame of reference everything seemed to slow, she caught herself wondering if this is what death was like, an enduring, roaring nothingness. What was it like to die painlessly? she wondered. To slowly ebb and fade into the beyond, a quiet end to cacophony of life. She hated that thought, she’d rather go out screaming and screaming, her final voice confirming just how alive she was in those last moments, maybe it would happen on one of these jumps … with a sudden jolt she yanked herself from her daydream and checked her stopwatch.

The numbers screamed out at her.

TOO LATE TOO LATE TOO LATE!!

Panic hit, she flung her chute out too fast, too tight but it started to unfurl and she gasped hard as it caught, yanking her straps tighter. Still in cloud though, still falling too fast, she desperately searched for any sign of the ground below her.

Suddenly she broke through the cloud, the ground loomed up at her, still too fast. She glanced up to see her chute still not fully deployed. She tensed, adrenalin screaming through her system, she was slowing but not enough.

Still too fast. Still too damn fast.

On her second base jump she had watched someone else go through this, a chute delivered too late, not catching properly, a novice who seconds later made a sickening impact with the earth. Six feet under.

And now as she fell, time seemed to slow as she tumbled and spun out of control towards the ground. She could see every detail, each rain drop that surrounded her, hear every car horn and siren of the busy city. Soon thoughts of friends and family flooded her view. Tears formed and flooded her view.

The ground readied to meet her.

She remembers wondering what her final noise would be. Such grotesque.

Back in her kitchen, she snaps back to reality with a twitch of her leg, the one that had taken the brunt of the remaining fall after the chute finally caught in the last few feet of her descent.

Standing there in front of her sink, all odd socks and unkempt clothes, she takes a deep breath, shakes her head and takes the first plate in the pile. She dips it in the hot soapy water, scrubs it clean then reaches over to place it on the draining board.

The edge of the plate catches on the side of the sink and was slips free. Time freezes and everything else disappears as she stands transfixed, watching the plate spun and tumble to the floor, the pattern glinting and gleaming as the sunlight catches each surface in turn.

Shards fly.

She drops her head and the tears fall like rain to the sink below.

April 23, 2015

Stolen Bike

Saturday was not a good day. It started with a broken bottle.

I’d ordered a replacement bottle of vanilla syrup, a little bit of decadence for my weekend coffee, but it arrived shattered and oozing syrup everywhere. Not a great start to the day.

I tidied it up, washed down the other items that were delivered in the same box and took the remaining, sticky, mess down to the bins.

I live in a block of flats with a basement garage under the building where some of the residents can park their cars and a side room where the bins are. The basement is used by many people to store unneeded or bulky items, and their bikes. There were several bikes down there the day I took mine down and locked it to one of the metal brackets that are bolted to the wall.

So it was some horror that I realised that my bike was no longer there.

I looked around, bemused, at all the other bikes still there and then back to the spot where my bike should’ve been. Not only was the bike gone, the bracket had been removed from the wall.

I walked around the entire basement, just in case it had been moved (somehow). It hadn’t.

It was gone. Stolen.

I felt sick to my stomach, a feeling that didn’t really leave me all day.

And that’s probably what impacted more, not the fact I have to replace my bike (that’s why I have insurance) but the fact that my bike had clearly been targeted. Ugh.

Anyway, in the vague hope that anyone who reads this might be able to help the bike was a Specialised Comp Disc Cross Trail, it’s black & white and has/had Shimano clip XTR pedals.

April 20, 2015