In The Mood,

In The Mood, or, Hell is for 'Heroes' I feel that sense of morose sadness coming upon me again. Like a bitter-sweet melody. Corny, but that expresses it perfectly. Like distant music, imperceptibly, drifting in on a breeze. Like a forgotten song. Unknown worlds, modes of being, lives lived elsewhere, at the very edge of consciousness. Anywhere out of this world. Sometimes I think I must hate this world. But everywhere can seem interesting, almost quaint. This flat. Untidy, poky, unkempt. Even the odd cobweb. A single mouse running around occasionally. It’s very discreet. An elusive pet for almost no upkeep. Horrible little disease carrier, and noisy little fucker at night, the downside. My only companion for months now. Except for the dreams. As persistent as ever. When you’ve lived quietly for a while, with not too much stress, not too many interruptions, dreams seem to develop a life of their own. The vivid becomes very vivid. Your very own utterly surreal home movies. More like an alternative world. Often times I’ve been imagining what it would be like to go back in time, to see old stores etc. This likely stems partly from recalling the two grocers on the corner of the street where I lived growing up. Thinking back to that, and becoming aware once again of the unreliability and imprecision of memory. And of language. Vague snatches of images. Some pillars, the rows of shelves, perhaps a door near the back of the shop. Just asking to be explored as a kid will, but out of bounds. I was a terrible thief growing up, but rarely tried it on with these shops. Too close to home. My mum, remarking on the solidity of the old council flat we lived in, said that they had been built in 1938. Well perhaps that’s how long it took to complete them, because I once saw a photograph of the whole area from the Law Hill, taken in 1932, and our row of flats was in the process of being built. I find it impossible to picture that time as a reality. I do understand it’s all relative. That a knowledge of history helps, not least local. But the irony there, is it can increase the sense of frustration. Of distance from it. As if the reality of it can come so close, but never quite close enough. You know everything you can think of is a kind of fiction. The reality of it forever out of reach. And if you were there, it would be no more remarkable or tedious or demoralizing than the present, forever culturally based. Our perception of ourselves dictated by ones place in the socio-economic system, or so it would seem. Everyday demands. Making sure the bills get paid. Or just striving to keep body and soul together through the random demands and sadistic peculiarities of an arbitrary school system and aberrant guardians. No question of the reality of the world and ones everyday experience there. The world too much in your face. Or yoo much with me, if I was a poet and lived in the 19th century. Then you just wish it would go away. It’s so easy to fall into the fantasy of the past as being a more pleasant period. Like dreaming of living an idyllic life in the country. You have to ask yourself where the impulse comes from. Is it solely based on a kind of wishful thinking – an inability to face 'reality?' A form of escapism? That sometimes we can feel we’ve screwed things up so badly we turn into a kind of Billy Liar? We all want to be heroes or at least seen as heroes, just as he did, to make up for the ordinariness of his life. What if your life is so extraordinary in a way, you didn’t recognise it? So much so, you would do anything to lead an ‘ordinary life?’ Whatever that is, exactly.