Everything Was Beautiful

...and nothing hurt

I’m going to get a tattoo of that Kurt Vonnegut quote one day. Or rather, two tattoos: one on each hand. On my left hand, just under the knuckles (with the script starting under my little finger - ie. for me to read as I look down), will be ‘Everything was beautiful’, while the right hand finishes up with, ‘and nothing hurt’ (acknowledging the obvious irony: hand tattoos tend to be pretty painful). In the time it takes to say the whole phrase out loud, and maybe even for the following few seconds, it sounds true. And as you read it, it feels true. That’s why I want it permanently inked onto my hands. I look at my hands a lot.

Until now, I’ve been hoping that, out of the ageing process with its accelerating, collapsing concertina push of time - eerily echoing a final, wheezing outbound breath - would come a simplicity of purpose. Chasing stuff; worrying about things; understanding reasons; coming up with, maintaining and justifying opinions, would all slowly fade out like that last, massive piano chord in A Day In the Life, and I’d be able to relax into neutral coloured, loose fitting linen clothes with big, square pockets, twice-weekly hot yoga sessions, a pile of self-help paperbacks by the futon, and perhaps an optimistic top knot.

I thought you just roll over the brow of the hill at forty, and by fifty, you’ve picked up enough speed that you don’t have to pedal anymore. There’s enough forward momentum to just coast, right ? All you have to do is ignore the paintbrush-blur of time flashing by on either side of you and look straight ahead. But where are the brakes ? I don’t want to get to the end of the road this quickly ! How do I steer at this speed ? How long will it take those two workmen to carry that massive pane of glass across the road ? Is that a herd of Gallimimus pounding the concrete behind me with their clawed feet ? And who’s the old guy with the woolly hat overtaking me in a bathtub-on-wheels as a studio audience roars with laughter ?

Where is that simplicity in the daily admin ambush ? In life insurance applications that Proust would find ‘a bit long-winded’ ? In ageing parents, with their brittle hips and habits, their forgettings and utter bewilderment at a world that seems to be perpetually closing up shop, impatiently waiting for them to leave ? How do you hold onto any sort of dignity when - negotiating the return of faulty goods with a virtual assistant - even basic AI gives you the impression it has something it would much rather be doing ? How do you stay calm, when every visit to the doctor is starting to feel like an invitation to remove your trousers and underwear and go and stand in a minefield ? And all the while, the media - social and otherwise - yaps at you like one of those tiny dogs that seem to grow out of a glamorous Nan’s armpit.

But that’s as it should be I guess. Like a cat demanding scritches, life noses its way back into your lap, and it might not be as furry and warm as you’re expecting. Sometimes it might not be a cat at all, but a sinister ventriloquist’s dummy, a slippery eel, or the baby from Eraserhead. It feels harder - and possibly riskier - to be curious. You start to see how cynicism and entrenchment can seem like common sense as the years pile up. Life probably hasn’t got more complicated; we’ve just become less flexible.

Apologies. It’s been a month. Or two. I write to you weary but - like a one-armed pirate’s fiddle - unbowed. I think we might have just bought a house overlooking the field where I’d sledge as a kid. It’s old - and like my favourite humans - it has lots of awkward corners. There’s a big room to make music in, and some smaller ones for living - I think - the rest of a life. I’ll hopefully be banging my head on the doorframe between the kitchen and the conservatory again many times in the coming years. There’s a big, gnarly old tree to sit under in the back garden, that will doubtless outlive us all. We’ve never had a tree before. There’s a cat flap for Oldboy to ignore. I don’t think that the garage door opens. My brother is buried in the church not one minute away from our front door. My parents are five minutes away (if we need to get to them), or twenty-five minutes away (if they walk to us). This gives us time to wash up and take the pants off the radiator, as they shuffle up the village.

I’m caught between anxious excitement, a feeling of coming home, a queasy nostalgia, a weird sense of shame at ending up where I started, great joy at finding such a perfect space in such a beautiful setting, the deepest gratitude to the various people whose kindnesses and generosity have made it all possible, and utter despair at the thought of having to paint another ceiling.

There’s another Vonnegut quote I find comforting. In his many commencement addresses to graduating university students, he would urge them “[…] to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.'” What a simple idea; to stop and acknowledge a joy: nine words taking just long enough to say that we can’t just whizz past a notable moment before our GP asks us to drop our trousers again.

An impromptu evening around the dinner table with family, playing records and telling stories. Reading the right book in a sunny corner for a few hours. Watching someone emerge blinking from a Parkinson’s memory-smash-and-grab to recall a cherished detail from their youth. A charity shop corduroy jacket, perfect fit. Getting a thank you email from a graduating student. The lighthouse sweep of her smile. Dawn on the A41 with Claire M Singer’s ‘Solas’ on the car stereo. A cat asleep on its back.

None of these are VE Day, the moon landings, the 2012 Olympics or even the night-bloom of a fireworks display, but each individual, tiny joyful spark does help to balance out the stuff; the things; the reasons and all those fucking opinions; you’ve just got to give it weight, even just for a second or two, before moving on.

Focus solely on the challenges and life can feel like a slog, but there are enough flares, wheels and rockets fizzing about to illuminate those darker moments. The tricky bit is that they’re revealed to you one tiny spark at a time; it might take the span of a life to edit it all into a display, so they’re easy to miss - or at least to forget - when they happen. But, if ‘To do’ lists prod us into getting shit done, ‘That was nice’ lists might remind us why we bother trying.

And the top knot ? In consultation with my hormones, the consensus seems broadly to be, ‘You’ve got three years. Choose a hat, grandad’.

Thanks for your patience. It’s good to be writing here again. The internet often sucks, but if Substack isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.

Additional musical niceness:

• Sampha - Lahai

• Gazelle Twin - The Entire City

• Kitsos Harisiadis - Lament in a Deep Style 1929-1931

• Kali Malone - All Life Long

• M Sayyid - Error Tape 1

• Swans - The Beggar

• John Hollenbeck Large Ensemble - Eternal Interlude

• Claire M Singer - Saor

• Claire M Singer - Solas

• While You Live, Shine (Netflix) - music people, watch this !

A quick reminder:

Sweet Billy Pilgrim’s postponed show at Guildford St. Mary’s Church has now been rescheduled for the 16th March.

Previous tickets are still valid, or can be purchased from here.