the grazed knee / the brave soldier

 

the year is two thousand and nine. the meaning of the word "play" has just been learned, and the demonstration of it gradually becomes more continual. friends present themselves and the clarification between right and wrong manifests within more and more decisions. not only that, but caution. a third of the height of the average man and with double the curiosity it's easy to acquire injury. bruises appear in purple blotches and then the first ever graze of the knee. the blood is a peculiar sight when never seen before, especially when coming from one's own skin, and it brings a pain unfamiliar. i can remember mine. i had fallen from a bike. my cheeks flushed for fear that others older and more superlative had seen and would apprehend, as it had clearly not been a successful ride. but, no. there was mum ready with kind warm hands to lift me away from the accident. to carry me into our home. and she tended the wound and mended my hurt pride. 

"brave solider", she said.

☞

good eve dearest reader. we have passed 150 posts! of course, it's technically nearly 180 (i have a few archived) so there's really no need for celebration. i at least won't be. the sunny weather has been a marvel and i'm sure that you've relished at least a little of it.

this particular edition has been a month in the making; writing, editing, constructing. the reason for this is that doing justice to the person & story is totally imperative for you to understand him more clearly. hence, this is the first blog post that is split into two parts and is rather lengthy. therefore! as per usual, settle in with a much earned cocktail/ mocktail/ iced tea and enjoy today's two-part story: the grazed knee & the brave soldier. 

☞ PART ONE ☜

the grazed knee

i knew i liked tom the second we met. he was rude, abrupt, awkward and would often bite at comments that were intended as comedy. that being said, it was clear to us both that we communicated in the same way- i was rude, abrupt, awkward and often my jokes were cruel when they were intended as comedic- which made it (adversely) easy to spend time together and be on the same page. but as time went on i attested him more and more; the obvious attraction he felt towards me was domineering, and he turned bitter when i chose to partner "the guitarist" over him. 

when i shaved my head with two friends, many people turned up to support us. i remember seeing so many happy faces- their grins and their pride at such a dramatic and drastic change. i remember seeing my mum crying at the back, and her words of how brave i was. and i remember tom afterwards, the only person to tell me i looked like shit. it's funny, you'd think that would be hurtful but really it was the only decent thing i heard that day, because everyone telling me i looked amazing i then saw as a liar. not because of the short hair no, no just because i no longer looked like myself.

after that our lives were pretty much void of the other, and i let him hold a space in my heart of moral incomprehensibility. he was a difficult man to get to grips with at the best of times, and although i was certain i understood him more than most i was still wary of his generally miserable demeanour and honest commentary. people steer clear of what they cannot understand; fear of the unknown continues into humanity, too. 

2009. i'm playing, with friends and we're learning right from wrong. i have new bruises in random positions, and i've just grazed my knee falling from my bike. flushed cheeks, a little blood, you know the rest. i was a gawky kid, pretty nerdy. i had a huge dictionary that i loved with all my heart, chatty as ever, you can probably imagine. i think most of us had obsequious mothers that would patch up our grazed knees and tell us what brave soldiers we were. i don't know about them, or you dear reader, but the thought that i had "been through the wars" and obtained such an inauspicious wound was a great comfort, and when our injuries were acquired, they were acquired together.

history lessons detailed instances of comrades in arms, the honour and glory of battle. english lessons covered war poetry "we turn back to our dying" they'd say.

religious studies talked of conflicts between denominations, etc, etc.

we fought as one, my comrades and i. playground or battleground? what did it matter. we were a collective. and if you showed me each of their faces now, every person in my year group from school, i could genuinely name them all. there's never been a time wherein i haven't been surrounded by fellow soldiers. our fights were mostly civil, and we were always unified in our armies. if any of us were to graze our knees, we would be greeted by corporal, general, major. we marched together through our transitions.

around the age of fifteen we took our exams and we began to plan for our future. we decided on haircuts that suit us, bands we resonate with, political opinions and friends who were to remain beside us. 

at sixteen, we chose subjects that interested us, we considered relations and we cast out our parents. 

at seventeen, we learned how to fuck and explore our bodies and minds and thoughts of death. 

at eighteen, we thought we've made it and we progress onto the real world (or so we think) and at nineteen we become stagnant. 

from twenty, we reached the end of this transitory period and began wondering not about ourselves but instead about others. collectively, we all continued through this process together and became a large hive mind of hormone and havoc. 

we, being the crucial word here. dear reader, how different would your transition have looked if we was instead i? 

☞PART TWO☜

the brave soldier

at fifteen, we did not choose a haircut that suited us. we found The Fall, Arcade Fire, Radiohead and they resonated with us. we aligned ourself with Labour and settled on their values. we had two good friends, had.

at sixteen, we didn't choose any subjects that interested us and we joined our father as arborists & lumberjacks. we considered relations, but barely.

at seventeen, we were chaste, yet our thoughts of death overwhelmed and consumed. 

at eighteen, we were completely alone. 

and on the day we turned nineteen, we began our pilgrimage across spain. 

there's a religious passage through Spain called El Camino- you may know of this from a popular series' spin off movie, but the majority of ancestors will know it because of James. one of Jesus' main disciples, he lies buried now in a Church in Santiago De Compostella. translated, El Camino means "the way", and the northern route tracks essentially across the diameter of Spain itself. it's been done before by millions, and one such fellow documented his cycle through the journey and the book reached an interested reader who happened to detail the story onto his son. 

when the flight was boarded, the typical fear that the usual traveller feels was non-existent. the in-monumental nature of travel breeds a contented mind, and the few hours spent in the air were the opposite of tumultuous, especially with nobody at home for us to miss. we packed only the essentials; three t-shirts, two walking trousers, three pants, three socks, soap, shampoo, toothbrush, toothpaste, copy of Tom Waits' book "Low Side Of The Road", compass, sunscreen, towel, sleeping bag, phone, wallet, charger. the bus from the airport drove into Bilbao, wherein the worst spaghetti bolognaise was served in what was posing as an Italian restaurant. we didn't start the journey for two days.

we began in the rain; weighty, harsh, bitter rain with an intention of hurting. to get out of the city was the first objective. to gather supplies for the road, and then abandon the central hum. flat, grey, littered with goal post power lines- a target to hit with steps, something to reach that signified progression rather than the false promise of the mountains that never seemed to approach. the miles-long road was odd, somehow- vacant except for delivery trucks, only apparent due to the lack of any other vehicular transport. naïvity was to be expected within the first week, and the rhythm demanded for such a journey prohibits unnecessary digression. 

the change in self began following the tenth day, or around that time. the days began to lose any elements of structure and plan- priority lay with planting one foot after another, and the drive to continue loomed large. occasionally the sound of a tractor operated by a distant farmer occupied thoughts that the silence couldn't fill, and the cold six o'clock mornings pressured for a quick start. the same faces would crop up from time to time; those who had opted for a slight change in route but would appear at the similar hostels of a night time. no words were exchanged, though, aiding the easy solo venture but providing a welcomed sense of familiarity. we became meditative, all life back home forgotten and cast aside. 

in our discussion, he detailed perfect imagery of his travel and his journey. to try and acquire the correct descriptions i would often halt his dialogue quickly so as not to miss anything, and in these brief pauses his rough fingers would come to provide a barrier between his closed mouth and the open air- as though preventing any further information from quietly escaping without his say so. at the time maybe i should've taken notice of this, but i neglected quality and prioritised quantity of word, and so he burnt out quickly. see, reader, a solo venture to a foreign land at the age of nineteen would've personally filled me with immense dread. he painted a beautiful picture of independence and bravery, narrating a stroll through unknown territory that i assumed to be a pleasure from his positive prose. tom said once that his three month trek across a new country wasn't something he considered to be "a big deal". i found that fascinating when he said it and assumed the statement to be a falsehood- but no. i suppose if you've spent the majority of your life incredibly lonely anyway, then what's three months more?

after two years of absence, i would see tom around sometimes. usually he would be sat alone, and i would approach. before he even looked up he would be smiling- he says it was because he could hear my famous red heels clacking on the floor and know it was me. he was still argumentative and unbelievably taciturn, but something about him had softened. he had missed me, and i him. i had missed his unapologetic nature and subtle wit. i had missed his struggle to retain decent eye contact and his resoundingly British references he knew only i would enjoy that confuse and estrange others without meaning to. i had missed things i didn't even realise, and only then did i really appreciate him for what he was.

the first time he slept at my house we talked for hours, listing the prime ministers in order and discussing songs of import. "dais why does everyone hate me?" i heard the whisper fade to darkness. i had never seen him weak before. offering no answer and no reasonable comfort, i let the sentence permeate the air. 

the year is 2009. right and wrong- what are they again? friends? play? and it's not a grazed knee. instead, the upper thigh. a pencil sunk deep, so deep he says he can still remember feeling it touch the bone. instead, front teeth. a table full-force in the mouth after trying to run. instead, the brave battles alone. and mother did not know. and comrades did not show. and the war continues to this day. the war on my brave soldier. my lonely, different, miserable, kind, misunderstood, wonderful, brave soldier.

"There's no discharge in the war!"

sincerely, the caravan girl.