22 November 2020

Where do we go when we fall asleep

 


British Summer Time ended, but my body doesn't seem to understand that the clocks have changed. I stopped setting my alarm, hoping this would help, but it hasn't — I wake up at 4:30 and don't want to go back to sleep. I make my protein powder and berry slurry, eat fruit and meditate for twenty minutes. I think maybe at some point I might try to sleep again, but I don't. The kids wake up and it was half-term so nothing is happening anyway. The virus still, of course, but that's just the way it is now. 

I've kept waking up in the middle of the night — this week it was once to the screams of one of the girls who was having a bad dream. Everyone was fine and I sat in the kitchen with the range hood light on, and ate a piece of toast, scrolling on my mobile phone and thinking to myself, I should be scrolling on my phone, I should be sleeping.

After watching some very convincing videos by some very skinny distance runners on YouTube, I've been running more mileage with the goal of hitting my sub-three hour marathon before I turn forty. To run fast over a long distance, you need to run a lot, they say, and then the video cuts to a shot of them running, skinny, through some remote and beautiful place. My running is not remote or beautiful. I get up and it's still dark and I lumber out, thinking, well, one mile first, that's all you need. Sunday mornings are the hardest, the long runs, but there is nothing happening before ten anyway, particularly during lockdown. If you get out early enough, you can run on the canals without anyone, but if you wait like I did today, you have to deal with groups of very slow runners, in packs or herds, who are impossibly annoying if you meet them after sixteen or seventeen miles of steady work.

At the beginning of this, the first week I’d run sixty miles, I had pain in my left testicle or groin or upper leg, a pain that I couldn’t quite place, but over the days, it had settled in the testicle and it became clear I needed to go to the doctor. Given the timing, the Covid spike again, I called first and spoke to the GP who said I needed to come in and get examined, which I did in my mask. He did the exam and ended it abruptly, saying I could pull up my jeans, and washing his hands, asked, ‘Where are you from?’

He wasn’t concerned, he assured me, but I need to have an ultrasound just to double-check, but because the hospitals were rammed with people from Covid, it might be six or eight weeks, and I acted as though this was fine because I'm good socialist and think that of course, the people with the most need should be served before me, despite my unsettled feeling when I sat on the sofa that I could feel, if I thought about it, a growth, even though I knew it wasn’t.

The ultrasound came sooner than was promised, and I went and sat outside of a window called ‘Ambulatory Care’, a term I had never heard before, and a young woman who pronounced my name correctly called me back. The ultrasound technician was a middle-aged man, but the nurse and another young woman would be there with us, he said, as chaperones. I thought about how that word made me feel foreign, like I was a high school dance and someone was watching to see where my hands were when I was awkwardly dancing.

I didn’t, of course, have cancer, and I pulled up my trousers and walked out of the Queen Elizabeth Hospital thinking that this was, whatever the outcome today, my future: finding lumps and having pain in new places and tests that would mostly be okay until some time when they weren’t okay. Thirty-eight is a strange young age, that’s still young, but not that young, and your body begins to feel less precious and sexual and mysterious, and franker. Here is my body, me pathetically holding a paper towel across my stomach while three people look quizzically at a computer monitor and we casually discuss the reasons I got a vasectomy, what, ten years ago now, is it.

My dad likes to remind me of one time I said that runners would rather talk about running than run, but when he reminds me of it, I think condescendingly about myself then. I can’t describe running as something I want or don’t want to do anymore; it feels more like a responsibility, or impulse, or inevitability. When it isn’t in my life, it leaves an absence. It's like marriage: I don't choose to run every time I run, I chose to run some time in the past. The sun came up this morning and my body felt good, if tired, and I thought about inevitability and how the road seems to narrow the older you get, but how you can run faster and further and steadier when the path is narrow. You don't have to follow the line, the line is the path. The end might be coming, eventually, in the future, but for now, for this season, there is more still to be done.

18 September 2020

I know I said the end was near


There's been a strange kind of humidity in the air that reminds me in a way of Malaysia. In Kajang, in the kampung, it is was never cold, or even cool, but sometimes, near dawn, you could think that it was. It was always humid, so the heat seemed to suspend itself in the air, and as I said goodbye to whoever was in the house when I left on Tuesday morning, I couldn't tell if I was hot or cold. By the time I was at work and pulling my mask out of my bag, I was sweating, but once I stopped moving it settled back into that liminal space between hot and cold, where I looked out the window of my office and stopped working and just stared for a bit. 

We've had our coronavirus scares over the summer, each one seeming more unlikely in retrospect then at the moment they happened. There was one night I started coughing and couldn't stop. There was the time everyone had a slight fever in March. This week, it was Mia's sore throat that we were told required a test so she could go back to school. I spent the day trying to get through the government website and in the end just went to a testing centre on the University of Birmingham campus, walking past the school of education with Mia in her pyjamas, holding her hand. The whole experience feels like the beginning of the end of everything, where we start to realise that the systems don't work and the fires that happen every year are getting bigger and there is no one to help us. You can't say that though, can you, when you have people looking up at you, expecting you to do something. Mia's sore throat passed and she went back to school — I went on the radio to talk about it, and the DJ said the experience of trying to get her a test sounded like it had circus music in the background. It did, I said, except that if she were actually really ill, I would have been terrified, the truth being worse actually — I was terrified, I just got angry to hide it.

Our yearly anniversary of coming to the UK passed and I made a point to plan something for it, fish and chips, and Beyond Burgers for dinner, not because I'm particularly happy to mark the date anymore, but because we needed something to celebrate this year. I wanted to ask Yoko if she regretted all of this, but I knew the answer wouldn't be simple and the question itself was the sort of thing I would think about, not her. I want black and white answers — no, I would say now with everything that has happened in the last three years. Conclusively, it wasn't worth it. In Japan, I lived the consequences of my decisions — here, I've forced them on everyone around me, my partner, my family, my in-laws, my own parents. Anything that happens is the result of that choice, any difficulty — a form, or a customs fee, or a lack of good-paying jobs, or planes that won't fly — don't exist if we weren't here, if I hadn't made this choice on behalf of all these people. Here, every problem is a British one, every car driving too fast or silly law or incompetent leader or stabbing: they are all British, primarily British, occurrences. How else can you read it as a foreigner. If we weren't in Britain, it wouldn't be British.

The truth is not that simple, of course, no one ever said it was despite my urge to make a consistent narrative in this novel I've been writing about my life where I used to be the protagonist. Now, my children, who are capable conversationalists and see my weaknesses and can exploit them, are the main characters. They say things like your tattoo has faded beyond recognition, what did it even say. They say I said something and when I dispute it, it turns out I'm actually wrong. I did say the thing I said I didn't say. I've become like the father from some Russian novel who is always in another room, absent except in flourishes, a necessary plot device, but not the most interesting person most of the time. And for all the talk of coming to the UK, this is not their story — it's mine and it's a story that's run its course without an ending. It just trailed off. No one remembers Japan, the blue and white Mini-Cub I rode to and from work, or their Mum's apartment before we married, where she had her whole life together that I just crashed into, a sloppy American tourist breaking glasses by accident and sputtering out Japanese verbs and taking whatever opportunity was presented. The story they know doesn't start there; it started here, in the same country that they are in now, with no dissonance in the narrative, Japan and America, places that you can visit, or see on TV, but not real in the way they are for me, like a deep trench underneath me as I tread water on the surface. Nothing is British here, it just is the thing it is. There aren't British problems, they're just problems.

We finished our dinner and although I kept turning back to my own nostalgia, there was nothing really to say. Here we are, another day in a pandemic, something we have lived with for so long it feels normal. I slouched down in one of the chairs we bought for camping, having eaten too much, Yoko starting a fire from dried branches and wood we have leaned against the back shed. The kids playing on Tik Tok, the sun setting, and the house on Victoria Road, the thing they've only know, glowing in the late light. In another world, this wouldn't be our reality, in another world, things would have kept going like we had agreed when we first met and I was less effective in my ambition. When I ran, but I ate meat and prayed and wasn't so crazy. I'm sorry, I say at some point during the day, when something else minor, something British, has not gone right and we are on the edge of things falling apart again into bitterness and frustration, the veneer of patience and duty that can slip down suddenly and expose the rotting undergrowth of resentment. It's a tension we've lived with for years, I realise, the consequence of entering this cave, and losing our way. It's not a cave, but if it helps to say that, to conceive of it that way, I'll say it. I've never said the right thing, and now I can't even try. I'm sorry, it's my fault. I didn't know. You can say, in some other world, it wouldn't be like this. What else can you say.

11 September 2020

My money's on you



The kids are all back at school now, despite the pandemic and the concern that there will be an outbreak again and lockdowns. There are rules in place everywhere, but they are changing back and forth — the girls didn't need masks in the corridors and then they did. They are reliant though and all of the discourses of confusion, if you want to call them those, the things that older people say about not understanding what the rules are and why they are changing, don't seem to be picked up by the children in the same way. They accept it and do what they're told and like every September for the last seven years now, they leave in the morning, up the different roads to their different schools, needing less and less help every day it seems. 

My third book is finished and I've been working through the proofs while the project editor emails me like I'm a child completing a homework assignment. I've missed the deadline, but only because I put the wrong date in my diary, not because I'm trying to be obstinate. The proofs are late and I feel guilty, but am distracted by everything else. This week it was all my photo files on Flickr and the feeling that someone could have just downloaded every photo I have ever taken over the last 15 years.  The children are now not children really, and have opinions about what others can see about what their past lives. They have friends I don't know about, friends who found some embarrassing picture of them as a baby. I read back through the things I've written and feel a sense of terrible dread, that I treated them the way I promised I never would: like they were just characters in some novel about me. 

These are distracting, unuseful thoughts, the result of the same narcissism where I worry about the effect of my actions on others because of how it will make me feel if they are disappointed in me. Everything is about you, Stephen, isn't it, I hear some antagonist say, the same one that says jump when I run over a bridge in the early morning. None of this is about me anymore: the book, the family — it's about the project, the artefacts made up of all these words that come out of me when I was soothing myself and coaxing those words out by saying, Don't worry, you can fix it later, just write now, just let it happen. All I can see is the errors and clumsy sentences. I get angry with my manic self for lying to me. You said I would have time to fix this, you said I would be better in six months. The manic me borrows from the depressed me, and never pays the time back. Here, I've left you with this mess — it's not like you could have done any of this yourself.  I find a passage where I am writing confidently about Bhaktin, but I think to myself, what do I even know about Bhaktin. I wrote about him when I was doing my PhD, I had some grasp of it then, or at least I thought I did, but why do I think I still do. I reread the same sentence five times and although I know what it says, I can't tell if it makes sense.

I've been going for long walks, long for me at least, an hour or so to do a loop around the edge of Harborne, to avoid getting fat and feeling like I'm stuck in the house. I think irrationally that I should quit academia, or get a job in market research, or move back to Japan, or become a community organiser, or just take any job I can that doesn't require me to think all the time. I go to sleep and wake up in the middle of the night inexplicably, hungry. I go downstairs and eat my breakfast with the morning still hours off. I try to meditate and repeat the routine I have since 2016 when it started to get worse. I mark some essays and wait for the sun to come up. The sun is coming up, of all the things that seem to be displaced this year, at least here in Birmingham the sun is still coming up and not obscured by smoke the way it is in California now, or how it was in Malaysia when Sumatra was burning. The sun has come up and the book is still due. 

06 September 2020

Civil Twilight


The air changes in Britain around the end of July and suddenly it starts to feel like autumn, even if it's hot for days and days as it is now with climate change. I couldn't sleep for a week this year, and I felt like the summer became a liminal space, me waking with surprise to find Yoko still here and the children going about the day like all of this is normal. It was my holiday, but resting has been out of the question — this is my fault, blame me for making it harder for myself than it needs to be. I come from a lineage of men that fidget in any queue, that pace outside of public restrooms where people seem to be taking too long inside. We talk to managers, we complain about teenage staff. Of course, now, I just think it, think that I would do those sorts of things if I were in some way more unhinged than I am, but I've managed to just internalise it. Surely I've lost a year or two of life to worry and senseless passive rage.

The lockdown eased, but not entirely, we decided this was the year to go camping. We got tents and supplies and headed to the peaks to hike and look up occasionally at the clouds to tell if the rain was coming or not. Most of the time, three days out of four, it was raining, of course — this is Britain after all, and it should be expected, but we did our best, eating well and being patient with each other. We came home and unpacked our equipment to dry in the sun and there was a downpour and it got soaked again. 

Now that the summer is ending or ended, civil twilight — the proper name for dawn when the sun is six degrees below the horizon — is later than it is in June and July, but still, you can get up around five for a run starting at quarter to six and be okay. There are no cars and it seems lighter when you get outside and find your rhythm. Of course then every minute of the run it gets lighter and lighter and suddenly you wish you had your sunglasses. This morning at least, I felt that way, when I got up and set out for a twenty-mile run. At six, the canals are quiet and when I do meet runners, they're not, the sort of people running two together and not making any space, the sort of people I find myself cursing at under my breath. At six in the morning on a Sunday, it's only the people that care, that have invested something and you can ignore them, or give them a knowing wave when you pass, but they never get in your way. I found my rhythm today around the fifth mile and made my way south towards Alvechurch, so far that the towpath stopped being paved around the point I turned back. The sun came up slowly and the all of a sudden and I drank through my Camelbak and was home, peeling off my clothes in the downstairs toilet before anyone else had woken up. 

On Friday I went back to work for the first time since July and it felt eerie in the way that this is what it is now. A colleague was leaving and of course, we couldn't shake hands or hug like you normally might, but this is all fine with me because there are now clear rules about simply not touching others and you don't have to do any guesswork about what is or isn't expected of you. I had files open on my computer that I was supposed to work on, but I never got around to it seriously. There is so much bad news now that I've lost my expectation that things will be better. I said last night, to Naomi as I was talking about my run and coming home, 'I'll see you in the morning' and after a beat, we both said at the same time 'hopefully', and I immediately felt guilty for all the pessimism I've brought to the Pihlajas of Harborne over the years.

Obviously, good things can happen despite the pessimism. Everyone is healthy and happy in the house, despite death being one the edge of our experiences: terminally ill family members, or pre-cancerous blemishes, or knife attacks, or the virus, of course. This morning, at around the fourteenth mile I felt good for a moment and my pace ticked up. Nothing remarkable, but I ran one mile fifteen seconds faster than the others. It came out of the blue and I wondered why I was just suddenly energetic. What had gotten into me. It faded, of course, but having felt it, having it come up, reminds me that it is still there, ready to come out of me as long as I didn't give up. 

07 August 2020

Making Weight


Town, the city centre, feels like the beginning of something, like whatever is going to happen now has started, but hasn't really started yet. I had to give blood and was early, so I walked into the station, to see what was open, what was left. John Lewis is closed now, but the American sweet shop wasn't, and I went in looking for graham crackers for the kids, because we are going camping in a few weeks, and the whole point of camping is eating s'mores. The restaurants were open, with the signs about social distancing and masks and hand sanitiser and I walked up to the blood donation centre wondering what this would be like in a year or two years. What would be left.

My heart rate is a constant concern for the blood donation attendants. A heart rate needs to be more than fifty beats per minute for me to donate, but every other time or so that I go, the nurse takes my wrist, and counts while watching the clock and then looks at me concerned. She'll need to get someone else to check and the person who comes into check sees me and knows me: oh it's you, and I give my story again about running a lot and this and that and she takes my wrist to check again. I can get my heart rate up if I think about something terrifying, so this time I imagined running from that explosion in Beruit, like I was there and the cloud of smoke was coming to consume me. I tried to breathe hard and tap my feet, and after a minute the nurse looked at me and said, fifty-two. Just barely then. I can go back to my normal anxiety.

I'm on leave this week, which means I'm not supposed to be working, but there is no way to avoid it. The emails still come in even if I shut off the notifications and my book proofs need to be gone through and I have marking to do at the part-time jobs I keep up. There's a low grade of worry that also seems to be persistent. It used to be about my visa, but now it seems to be replaced by my taxes, which I've never worried about before. Some institutional work that I have to do that I don't feel confident about and how I fear making a mistake — apparently I have that space in my head like a cavity for a tumour to grow and even if I remove one, another one will replace it.

After the lockdown started in March and I finished my lonely marathon and was still eating like I was running thirty miles a week even though I wasn't, I gained some weight and felt heavy, like the world and my family and marriage were all being dragged down. The one thing I could control, my eating, I controlled for 82 days, a rational number I thought for losing 100 grams a day and getting back to my goal weight. I obsessed, of course, and magically, after 82 days, was exactly where I wanted to be: I had made weight. I stepped off the scale, like I have again and again over my lifetime, fifteen years now, and thought, well, there we go.

Now what. I get up early and go for a walk. I keep counting calories until I don't want to anymore. Yesterday, for example, I said I didn't want to play the calorie counting game. That seemed to be enough, but also it was the beginning of a stage that will inevitably include gaining weight. Another round of self-talk about feeling or not feeling full. Will I be doing this at fifty, I wondered. Sixty-five, when I retire, if I make it that far. It's a ridiculous way to think, of course. I can remove the app from my home screen. Take a break. Try not to think about it. It'll come around, don't worry. 
 

17 July 2020

How it decomposes


The lockdown ostensibly ended a few weeks ago, although it was hard to really sense what had changed since the children were still not really going to school and I couldn't get back to work. Everything was the same — I woke up before 5:30 to the sun coming through the window and went downstairs to weigh myself and meditate and write some different things in my bullet journal: my weight, and the number of words I had written and how much I had eaten the day before. I turned over the compost in the garden, breaking up clumps and mixing in the grass clippings. I got a haircut on the first day I could, even though that seemed extravagant and unnecessary, a thing that had been the focus of the lockdown and what everyone seemed more concerned about than anything. Was what you were doing needed.

At the beginning of all of this, I watched the numbers closely, who had gotten ill and how the deaths were trending, until it finally became normal and a thousand people dying a day was okay. The perception of things kept changing, what you thought was bad and unacceptable then became acceptable. In the US, you can see it in the way that numbers of dead and infected have been discussed. A few weeks ago they said the numbers might get as high as a hundred thousand a day and that sounded impossible, but then every day they have been creeping up and it seems like a smaller number than it was. How long before you can accept anything in life, any hardship that is placed in front of you. 

For me, it's still just a number. I've only known people in my periphery who have gotten ill and I said to Yoko that I wanted to see it, that I wanted to know what it was actually like. I don't, I'm sure, given the actual chance, I would immediately regret saying what I said. If there were a hundred thousand people injured in car accidents, how different would that look. There could be people at the scene taking pictures. We could look at it and know what it is exactly. Instead, now, it's just a cough and a fever that one day turns and you have no oxygen in your blood anymore and then you die or you don't, depending on a number of factors that we don't really understand yet. We, the newsreaders, the people who follow different news outlets and blogs and then report back to our Boomer parents who doubt everything they read now. Say things authoritatively because we read them somewhere.

Last Wednesday, I walked up to the supermarket, to Waitrose, to buy some things and in the course of the walk, I decided it was time to shave off my beard. I don't know why exactly, why that moment was the moment that was chosen for me, but walking home, the sensation felt like something I needed to hold on to or it would pass and I would lose the courage. I opened the front door, left the bag in the kitchen, locked myself in the toilet, and shaved it all off. More than a year of growth, a whole personality, gone like that. I looked at myself and my chin was shorter, my face shrunken down from the pandemic hair around me. Ten years younger, or more. Just like that. 

With no restrictions, I can run on the canal and not worry so much about how it's perceived. The marathon was cancelled again, but it doesn't matter anymore. I get up and meditate and eat and write my numbers in my book and then run. My heart rate monitor broke, but it didn't matter suddenly. All it had taught me was that I could probably slow down when I was tired. And that slowing down when you were tired, without any good explanation, made you run faster in the end. My knee hurt and I rested. I got to the end of my miles and instead of pushing another half mile, I stopped, turned off my watch and walked the rest of the way. What does the number matter in the end, it's just me and I don't have to care, do I. The rain started to fall a bit and it didn't matter.

25 June 2020

Seventy-five percent


My office at Newman is a time capsule for March 2020. The computer, when you turn it on, opens five tabs of webpages that I last had opened when I left, whatever day had been my last day. I have left some notes for myself for events that never ended up running. Someone has been in to clean a few times, you can tell, and there are letters for me piled up and a book sent by a publisher, but everything else is the way it was. I sat in my chair for a moment and then gathered up the books I needed and left. I got halfway home, walking through the field on the backside of campus when I realised that I had forgotten to get my linen sport coat, the whole reason I had gone in the first place, but it didn't matter now, I thought. It's too hot even for linen. 

I'm editing a book where one author has written extensively in their chapter about Covid and I've wondered, reading it, how dated it will be in a few years. If people will remember the specifics of this time when everything stopped, of lockdown, of two metres distance between people. There is no one image to rally around, no single moment when it happened, like the way you remember where you were on 9/11 and you saw the plane hit the building, the second one because all of the cameras were trained the towers by then. Maybe it will be when you realised it personally when you knew something was wrong. I remember for me, it was that Sunday before the lockdown and the kids went to church even though I didn't really think they should and I went to pick them up and everyone was having coffee together like normal. This is madness, I thought, what are they doing, but even five days before I hadn't thought anything — we had all gone to breakfast to show our support for the neighbourhood pub. I stood in the church, staying away from everyone. One of the women who I normally hugged wanted to hug me then as well, but I was standing too far away and it was clear I was uncomfortable, visibly upset. She rubbed my arm instead, the way you treat someone who is particularly concerned about a political issue that you don't really care about. And then, a week later, it was here. 

My rescheduled marathon was cancelled after it's become more and more clear that this pandemic is not going away before September, despite how much anyone wants to pretend. I felt as though I received the news on a long run, like something you think you hear, but when you pull off your headphones, there was actually nothing. You keep running anyway, what does it matter why you're running. You're not going to stop running now, are you. Of course not, you're ticking off boxes in a plan, tracking changes in your body with metrics like body weight and fat, and heart rate and everything else. The heart rate monitor tells me I am running too many junk miles. The scale tells me I am 61% of the way to 75.9 kgs, that magic arbitrary number I've been chasing for years and years. Some time ago I was convinced I would never have to diet again and then here I am, doing the same thing I have written about for years — stripping naked in the morning to weigh myself. The same scale. The same feeling of my naked feet on the tile. The same looking up at myself in the mirror and thinking, it's okay, you're okay.

Junk miles are the miles you run at 70-75% of your max heart rate. They aren't your best, and they aren't easy. They make you miserable and tired. They open you up to injury, but they are the miles particular kinds of people run naturally. The kind of people that always want to do a little better than whatever they've set out to do. Seventy-five percent is as hard as you can go for a while, for a long time, but when you run like this, you're miserable, you're always on the edge of pain. You can keep going but you don't want to. I'm been running at 75% for years now; it makes sense that I've also been miserable for years. I heard a story of runners who retired and then ran their personal bests when the training schedules were eliminated. I've been thinking about this as I slow to a walk at the end of a run and pull off the chest heart rate monitor. Do I need this at all. Did I ever need it. The sun is well up and I feel it in the grateful way you feel the British sun. You can't put a number against that feeling of a slow easy pace, just the feeling of your body pushing blood through your veins and a road ahead that you could run for years and years.

14 June 2020

So that grace might increase


The lockdown goes on — I am counting the days in the bullet journal I started at the beginning of February and every day passes and it's now somewhere in the eighties I guess. Now though, it all feels normal and the little graces, like the opening of Cafe Nero today, feels like a small gift. There are placards up about how often everyone is washing their hands and how we can all feel safe. The economy has shrunk so much the numbers almost seem meaningless — what does any of that mean to anyone until you don't have a job or can't eat or can't get the things you need. I have a new computer that I got because I can't travel and the money in the budget needs to be spent. It's unequal like everything else. Someone, somewhere out there is dying, but the Pihlajas of Harborne, with all our other problems, have been untouched so far. 

I gained weight for the first two weeks of the lockdown, as I finished my solo marathon and stopped running and was just eating and eating further into a stress spiral. Then like that, I took a different tack and decided to instead drop weight, to make that my obsession and have been filling the bullet journal with charts and notes, to take all the mystery out of it, to analyse it so closely and carefully that when I am losing weight in the future — because I will be losing weight in the future — I will have a plan, it will be clearly laid out for me so that I don't waste my time wondering about how much I need to eat. I have been going for long walks. I've been drinking protein shakes. I've stopped being hungry. The Galaxy watch tells me how many kilocalories I've used and praising me in a way that I find more comforting than the other apps and devices I've used in the past. It understands me. It tells me it's not good to have too many restrictions. It says some weight loss plans are harder than others.

I've been trying to write about my dreams in my journal as well — I'd heard this was something that Bobby Byrd does, writes poetry in the morning based on his dreams. Mei has gone back to school, two days a week, and last night I dreamt she was young again, two or three and her body was covered in growths. I didn't know the name of the disease when I saw it in my dream, and googled all day trying to find it, find its description and a photo of it and finally did: Neurofibromatosis. Of course, Mei is fine, and the dream was just my own insecurities playing out from this active memory of when I was paralysed at the end of the PhD and we were moving and Mei had the most awful eczema and Yoko was washing her in the shower and Mei was crying and Yoko was saying in Japanese, We will not lose to this, again and again. I don't remember having any agency, I remember just listening and feeling a pit in my stomach — I was gaining weight then too, wasn't I. 

The other things, all the work, the books, the three books I'm writing or have written or have edited, the funding bid, the student meetings, have been filling the bullet journal as well and I have been dutifully ticking things off as they come up. At the end of the year, there is an imperceptible moment where the tide has turned and the requests and meetings start to thin out more and more until there are almost none and you have to begin thinking about next year and whatever it will be that you have to do next. What will the Pihlajas of Harborne do when there is some freedom. Now, with none, we do what we can, we go for long walks up towards Hagley Road, and stop to buy iced coffee, which we can buy, a small grace. I fall asleep on the sofa, watching TikTok videos, and shopping for things I don't need online. Before money stops having meaning, I should get a thing. Jeans or a new computer monitor. It is all ending, it's just a matter of how long we can hang on. 

05 May 2020

Should we keep on sinning


There was news this week leaked to the press that schools might reopen for year sixes and Mei, having been putting on the bravest face for this lockdown, was happier than I have seen her, jumping up and down and texting her friends. It's just a report, but we need something to look forward to now, even if it doesn't happen. I keep dreaming every night — Yoko and I are lost somewhere in the car and it's raining. The phone isn't working and I can't bring up a map, but Yoko keeps driving. Or I am somewhere, a mall that was near my house when I was a teenager and I am trying to get an Uber back home, but I don't know where I live. There are sometimes other people with me, but sometimes I'm alone. I wake up and wander downstairs to scroll through my phone, look at the death count here and in the States, and wonder how we'll all remember this in ten years.

I had been training for a marathon since the autumn. I was supposed to run it this last month in Wales. I had trained through the winter, running in Germany when I was there and then in Sweden, when I hurt my back the very last day I was there. I remember still, in the middle of March, saying to someone, I wonder if it will be cancelled. I kept training through to the end though, as the restrictions started to come in more and more and it got to the point that they didn't even want you to run on the canals anymore. And then when it got cancelled, I kept gaining weight, running slower and slower, my shorts getting tighter and tighter. 

Still though, I thought I would run the distance, avoiding the canals where I would have preferred to do it, and instead just run up and down Woodgate Valley nine times, with my Camelbak and some of these vegan jellies I had gotten to eat. I didn't think I would run well — all three months I've had in my mind that I could probably run a three-hour marathon given the right conditions, even though these would clearly not be those conditions. I started out anyway, early on the morning of the fifth of April, like I would have in Wales, but with my headphones in and carrying my water and running back and forth through the woods.

Things went well for about thirty minutes and then it all started to fall apart. I wasn't running fast — I was fat and bloated and the water was heavier than I thought. I was running the steps per minute that I wanted, but I was still slow and my water started to go. It was warmer than it had been, and when I got to the eighteenth or nineteenth mile, I had nearly run out of water, was sweating and exhausted and decided I need to end at the petrol station where I could get water, rather than my plan to walk home after finishing in a flat space. But it became clear as I was going that I wouldn't make it, and when I turned back on mile twenty-three, I knew it was over. I tried to take a sip from the Camelbak and there was nothing there. I came over one of the hills and there on the trash can, leftover from the night before, some party that must have happened in the woods, was a rockstar energy drink. I took it without thinking — it was almost completely full and I poured out some to see there was nothing else in it, and drank out of it. 

My kids are old enough now that I can say what I want sometimes without scaring them. They know to account for my pessimism. Naomi asked me, for a school project, if I believed in life after death and I said, of course not. She said why, and I said, what were you before you were born? You were nothing, and she wrote that down.  

I barely finished, hobbling to the petrol station where I had to ask the attendant to get water and sports drink for me, because they weren't letting anyone in the shop. I sat on the cement and felt again the crushing sense of failure that this year has been, realising that I needed to ask Yoko to come pick me up and drive me home like a child. I sat in the sun and waited and she came in our grey Picasso, a towel over the seat for me to sit on, and an apple. I'm sorry, I said, thank you. 

There must be nothing when you die. How will you know when you're dead anyway: you feel your arms start to go numb, but that's nothing new. Your vision has narrowed this much before. You just press on, you keep running, you'll be fine. The dreams are strange, but everything is strange now. What was I before I was born, I think that in my dream too, standing in someplace that dissolved into something else, that underground supermarket in Helsinki or is it Mundelein in Illinois. The mind soft assembles a reality to offer you, that it thinks you might accept. This seems real enough. There are some familiar parts.

30 April 2020

Growth mindset


In a lockdown, the past becomes whatever you want it to be. What do you remember. Sat on a longboat south of Birmingham, I drink coffee while the girls drink juice. They are wearing lifejackets and I am in jeans and a shirt that are tight because I have been gaining weight for the Spring. I can't stop eating. Outside of the picture, somewhere, are Yoko and her father. Yoko spent the night in a B&B and I slept miserably, hot and claustrophobic on a narrow bench, six inches separating me and my father-in-law all night, while the three girls slept in the back of the boat. I kept worrying something would happen, the boat would sink, that my father-in-law would need something or do something, and the night went on and on. I can make a list of three or four moments from the trip, looking at the pictures. I don't remember the rest of it.

The days come and go and I wake up every morning with a brief moment of forgetfulness. What had been dreams and what had been real. I dream now, every night, that Yoko is somewhere else, and I am back in high school or at work or in Japan. My watch buzzes me awake and then it is all there again. Yoko is sleeping next to me, the grey light is coming through a crack between the curtains that we never manage to close completely. It's still lockdown. We still don't know when it will end. We don't know what the end will look like.

The girls wanted to watch home videos and there was one of us in Torremolinos, in Spain watching the sunrise, before Mia was born. I'm on the edge of the video, once sitting in a swing looking out and once, holding Mei in the distance. Yoko and the girls are playing and I am watching quietly, unhappy, aren't I. Or another video of us driving through America in 2012 for my sister's wedding, and as the shot pans to the back, to the girls full of excitement and energy, you can see me and hear my music playing. I'm listening to No Knife, and I am trying, I realise now, to recapture something of being young, of driving all day or night to some show and yet, here I am in this situation, with three kids and my wife, my PhD mostly done in England with no clear future ahead of me and no way back to the past. I chose to listen to all these emo bands, like I was articulating some seventeen-year-old's feeling, even though I was 30. I can't tell what I was thinking — I was trying not to think anything.

The girls bubble and live on — it's a kind of grace. The sun too is a kind of grace, the warm weather which last year was a sign of global warming, of the climate crisis, seemingly put on hold while something else burns metaphorically for a while. I am unhappy now, I can say that without worrying about the consequences. I can tell you why and can even tell you about the past, all the things I've wanted over the years that never happened, how on that longboat trip I had thought Yoko and I might have a night together away from the kids with nothing on our minds but each other. Of course, that was a ridiculous thought, it was never going to happen, but I had it anyway, I still wanted it. I still felt I wanted it.

When you can name something, when you can say what it is, you gain power over it. I write endlessly, for years and years I have been, about how words give structure to feelings and experience. How categories, how naming things creates and solves problems. You pull out the map you've drawn and point to a place: it's here, but here is still just your drawing, some impression of some place that never will be real. Another day ticks by, so what if you can articulate your feelings. 

02 April 2020

Sickness and Health


The weather is turning now, or it should be turning. I look at the forecast for Sunday, when I'm planning to run my marathon early in the morning, when I can social distance myself from everyone and run slow and heavy alone. It's going to be warm, almost. What is a summer that you watch through the window glass. What will any of the future hold. We were worried about the singularity last year — now, I just want bread flour and arborio rice.

We took a trip to the Cotswolds in January 2012. Naomi had Scarlett Fever, she was quite ill. It was an illness that I didn't think people got anymore, and could barely believe, but there it was. That year was the final year of my PhD — we had just had Mia and I had the sense of being up to my neck in water, with it rising, standing on my toes, wondering how much more was coming, when I would go under. We planned this holiday for January because it was Yoko's birthday, but the trip made less and less sense the closer it came. Still I had made the plans and stubbornly refused to cancel — I had done this before when we went in our honeymoon and Yoko was ill, but we went anyway. We couldn't lose the money, could we. That was the one thing we couldn't lose.

The car wouldn't start on Tuesday night. I had packed up the reusable shopping bags and taken a list of things to buy at the supermarket. There was still something in the battery, but not enough for it to turn over, and I opened the door of the house shouting in that the car wasn't starting, I was stuck. The lockdown goes quickly from being annoying to be a crisis — what if we don't have a car anymore, what if the car has a flat. A neighbour came out to help and it took five tries to get it to work, and then it turned over and I physically felt the pressure leave me and I wondered why I ever took something like the car starting for granted.

I promise now to never take it for granted, but it's ridiculous. Like how I said a prayer, a kind of prayer, when I put the key in after shopping and willed with everything I had in me that the battery wouldn't be dead again. Please. And it started and I thought again, I will never take this for granted, and of course, I will take it for granted.

When I was younger, I got pneumonia once. I remember very little about it now, except that I felt something from my parents I don't ever remember feeling again. It was a kind of love, now as I think about it, that a parent feels for a sick child. A prayer even if you don't pray — a will, that sheer will for your energy to flow out of you into your child to make them well. Take me instead of them, even if it's ridiculous, even if the child is not that sick, but you think it, don't you. You think stupid things when you're scared. I remember getting a shot that was big and necessary and I remember my father holding me. 

Most illnesses you survive, of course. Even Scarlett Fever and when you look back at the pictures, depending on what you want to remember, you can remember what you want. I don't know what I want to remember now. I have wanted forever to be positive, to put a positive spin on the hard times, all the hard times, there have been. Each year there was something, wasn't there. We made a practice of not telling the truth because it was too hard. I keep wanting to cry, I'd been crying weakly, pathetically before the lockdown. Now, there is no context for it. I wake up from a dream about a world that doesn't exist anymore. I was on a plane, and I wake and think, oh there are no more planes. It was just a dream. 

30 March 2020

Before everything


Mei says, The start of Week Two, while stretching her arms above her head and I think, yes, it is isn't it. It's been one week or two weeks, or two months, or two years — it doesn't seem to matter. Someone said on the TV that we might be like this for six months and I thought, what is six months. September? Who even knows what a month is, time is just a construct.

The apocalypse was never far off when I was young — I lived in constant fear of the rapture, that Jesus would appear in the clouds and take my family and hopefully me, on to paradise. I've been told a story about when I was young, sometime before I can remember, of coming into the house and telling everyone excitedly that Jesus was coming back. My parents ran out with me into the garden, the American backyard, and there over the trees, a Mickey Mouse hot air balloon had appeared. This story is supposed to be funny, but it's not funny to me anymore, because now all I can think is how, in this time that I don't remember, had I known a story of Jesus coming back. How primed had I been from two or three or four to think that in a moment, everything would stop, that a trumpet, an actual physical trumpet, would be blown and Jesus would come back to either take me away or not, depending on some set of rules that I could not, of course, understand. How fundamentally unstable does that make a person. 

That end never came. I wonder now about the people that were the most whipped up. There was this kid called Lance and his parents were prophesy junkies who thought the rapture was even more imminent than my family did. I wonder if this crisis has them back into it, reading Revelation like they can figure out who the beast is now, and what each of the seven heads and ten horns, and the crowns on the horns, represent. I'm sure, somewhere in my family's basement there is a three-ring binder from a course his parents taught at the church, explaining what each of these things represented in the early-mid-nineties, when it must have been Madeline Albright or Bill Clinton. But who is the antichrist now. What things can you count as multiples of ten or seven or what could be added up to be six-sixty-six. It was credit cards then for a while, wasn't it — the beast was everywhere. 

Marking time in a lockdown is not simple. The weekend came and went and as I think about what we did, I can't remember. I suspect this will be the whole experience. We were in lockdown for three or four or six months. We fought sometimes and cried sometimes and laughed sometimes. We did a lot of drawing and school worksheets. We didn't think about the future for a while. We tried to stay out of each other's way as much as we could. Or some concrete things: I finally cleaned a stain on the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. I finally fixed my bike brakes. Naomi and I made dinner. We ate together and put aside some of the frustrations. There's no point in making any decisions anyway if we are here for now in suspended animation. I will get paid this month, yes? And next month too? Then we will be okay. 

Things feel okay now, but it's hard to tell. They say deaths are a lagging indicator in a pandemic, so more people can be dying even when things get better. And any number can mean anything you want it to mean. There is always something that will have killed more people than this virus. And Jesus could still be coming back, we can't rule that out. This is just another chance to be right, another series of three-ring binders to fill with cloze test nonsense answers. It turns out you can count anything by ten or seven or six. It's Monday now, the thirtieth. Make of that what you will.

25 March 2020

I wish we'd all been ready


When the lockdown order came, we had been expecting it. These are unprecedented times people are saying, but then that is starting to sound trite even after a week of it. It all came so slowly and then all at once. A week ago, I was still going to work, I think now. A week ago the kids were still in school. A week ago, we could go to the pub. Writing about it now, in the midst of it feels melodramatic. We can't go outside except for essential goods and that suddenly feels normal after only a day and half of it. Now we say things like, I hope there is bread in the supermarket, but if there's not, we'll manage. We feel like things haven't gotten that bad, that they could still get worse, but that we could still be okay.

I went to Sainsbury's in Selly Oak on Saturday afternoon to get Yoko a card for Mothering Sunday and some other things, some fruit and veg and some bread, whatever we could find. People were not panic buying, but there was no toilet paper and some of the refrigerator cases had blinds pulled in front of them because they were empty. I got apples and bananas and cucumbers and found a card for Yoko, although I didn't know what to buy. There were no bagels at first glance, but when I got down to look in the bottom shelf, there were two wholemeal bags, and a man, seeing me on the ground asked me to get one for him. I gave him the one I had, and he said, Thanks ever so much and then Oh, no, these are wholemeal my wife isn't that healthy. I took both of them thinking, is there any time for that now, for not liking one kind of a bagel over another.

I ran on Sunday morning, twelve miles up the canal, and finally, the weather was good — crisp and clear air and the water from the canals reflecting up in the underside of the bridges. I passed people running and had the sense that the air they were breathing out was the air I was breathing in, that I was closer to them than I had ever been aware. I ran under Galton Bridge and when the watch ticked over 6 miles, I turned to go back, thinking that the lockdown order was coming and this might be my last run for a while.

You want to think back to remember some happiness from the past. What had it been like to be able to do anything and choose not to. What were the concerns about money, about planning for the future. What had stopped you from doing anything. 

Before all of this, we had been paying a woman forty pounds for fifty minutes to help us talk to each other and make sense of where we've found ourselves at this point in our lives, like Tom Sawyer and Becky having unwound kite-line as they ventured into the cave. For years and years, we've unravelled it, heading deeper and deeper into the dark, and when asked to pull on it, to remember the way back, the line's gone slack. I pull and pull hoping at some point it will become taunt, that it will finally catch on whatever we anchored it on. And then what's the point of catching on that anchor, of finding a way back if the tunnel collapsed at some point. You can say you never should have come in, you never should have started, but none of that matters now. We are where we are, sat in the dark together.

I ran again this morning, joking as I left about government-mandated exercise. The girls are all in high spirits, watching films, and chatting with their friends on the phone. Every night they make a presentation about their days, which are clever and funny and then we read the Hobbit out loud and I obsessively check the news on my phone, until I am completely mad. We go to sleep and then wake up and maybe we will think about the future at some point, about what it is we want, about what love is, really, about what we want. For now, it's just another day. The sun has come up and for now, we can go into the garden and sit in it and be grateful.

09 March 2020

In these final hours


Every long run this year has found me caught out in the rain and wind — this is the peril of training in February in the UK. The other day I got up too early on a Saturday morning to run twenty miles, the peak of the training schedule which you hit twice in this particular plan. You pull on your shoes this early in the morning and you set out alone, but you can't think about it too much. You can't think as you huff up Victoria Road, you can't think that you have almost three hours of this ahead of you. You just have to go.

This run went well until mile thirteen where I may or may not have hit the wall, but the real problem was the torrential downpour that started right as I came back through the city centre and was trying to cross a bridge. Suddenly, out of nowhere, there was wind and big, heavy drops of rain and I lost a minute on mile fifteen and then sixteen and then seventeen and then up the hill back to the house eighteen and nineteen. I got home and my hands were frozen, and I spent the next hour reliving it in my mind, looking at the data my smartwatch had recorded, thinking about heartrates and race pace.

I was alone during the Chuetsu earthquake in 2004, the year before I met my partner and wife and everything changed. I was watching Magnolia on a VHS tape and sitting on a used sofa, in my apartment on the Agano River and I remember wondering what to do. Should I go outside. Should I shelter under the table. I wanted to call someone, but there was no one to call, I realised. I just sat through it, feeling the building shake and thinking it was too much like an amusement park ride. It felt fake. And then it stopped. My apartment building — Heights Riverside, spelt in katakana haitsu ribasaido — which was old and rusting, stayed standing and I looked out the window into the night to see if anything had changed and at least in that small fishing village on the edge of Niigata, nothing had.

Everything in that apartment was used or had been given to me. A woman from my company, Mrs Nunogawa, took me to some house where she was helping a friend move and she gave me flatware and something to hang my washing on. She found me a car, a Nissan Alto, for 50,000 yen that needed snow tyres I couldn't afford, and which had a load of VHS porno tapes stuffed in a paper bag underneath the driver's seat. I was still faithful then, still worried about things like purity, and when I put the first tape in and saw what it was, I shut it off immediately and threw it all out, feeling guilty and afraid and excited.

I keep trying to remember that year, 2004, 2005, remember what I was feeling without fifteen years of everything that's happened obscuring it. I was alone a lot wasn't I. I was wandering around the back streets of Niigata on the weekends, trying to get out of the debt I took on moving there. I had been teaching English at a church in Fukuoka and I felt like Jonah, but without a call I was running from. I was starting then to realise that terrible yawning black hole thatbwould eventually swallow me: there never was a call was there. Whatever I had planned, whatever future I thought was in front of me when I was so certain and so young, had been an Evangelical fever dream. None of it had been really real. And now, in the absence of that, there seemed to be nothing left to lose, I thought I had lost it all.

You remember yourself fifteen years later and wonder how you could think that, but that's it, that's what I was thinking. I was twenty-two.

I have my students define love sometimes because it's hard and it makes the point that useful concepts are difficult to articulate, that words are a mirage. What is love. You think about this when you're on a long run and you've filed through whatever backlog of thoughts you've had for the week, the arguments you need to avoid, so you have them in your head. When there's little left to think about, when you've been alone for two hours on an empty canal towpath outside of Birmingham on the other side of the world from where you started. You're shaking out your mind like a piggy bank, trying to make that last coin align perfectly and come out in your hand. That perfect truth, whatever it is before the rain starts up again and your body takes over.

10 February 2020

A Fundamental Unhappiness


In February 2005, I was in Niigata and teaching in elementary schools every day until four in the afternoon. This is fifteen years ago now. I had nothing going on, and would ride down to Bandai in the city sometimes after I got my motorbike and didn't have to pay to park. A friend told me that everything has changed there, that money came in and there are far more high-rise, luxury apartments, but then, all of the golden era money, the eighties and the unlimited flow of cash, had dried up and it was the beginning of another lost decade. I made enough money at the time to buy the two new Bright Eyes CDs that came out that month, but I'm sure that I wasn't happy about paying whatever I had to pay for them — two thousand yen each, it must have been. I can remember getting them and opening them up and then listening to them for months on end.

When you're asked to think back, to remember something specific, all the mundane details of life, of fifteen years, are essentially gone. There are some stories I've told over and over again through the years that have highlights and laugh lines — these stories gloss over the things I actually said, but don't remember saying. The cutting things, the blunt things, about wanting or not wanting to have kids. About whatever my expectations were when I went to Japan, or came to Britain, or married. I'm thirty-seven now, so I imagine that I saw the world the way that I see it as a thirty-seven year old, but of course, I did not, did I. I saw it how I did when I was that age — it was neither right nor wrong.

It was raining and windy yesterday, but I went out running anyway. The marathon training schedule said I needed to run 17 miles and I mapped a run longer than that to be able to mark the distance the same forward and back. When I left, it was not bad, but I came up to Greenfield Road and a tree had fallen and there were men cutting it apart and clearing the road. I ran down to the High Street and back up on to my route, keeping a decent pace for the first six miles and then slowly my legs began to give out, little by little until I got to the turn-around point and thought, there's no way I can make it back like this.

As a rule, when you're running and tired, you need to engage in positive self-talk, saying this and that about the nature of pain and accepting that things will get better if you press on. They will, of course, get better, you can make it through almost anything, but I hadn't prepared for this run — I hadn't eaten properly or brought water and I thought, as I came to mile fifteen, realising that I had got too far out and it would be more like nineteen miles in the end, of course it's going to be okay, but what if it's not. What if it isn't and I collapse here on the side of this canal. I haven't seen another runner in thirty minutes, but surely someone would see me.

Of course, it was fine. The road was still closed at Greenfield Road and I got home, inside of the house with the girls watching whatever it was that they were watching and I realised my hands were seizing up and I drank all the water I could, pouring sugar in it, and Yoko asking if I was okay. Of course, I was okay, but I couldn't answer. I sat down on the toilet seat and told myself I was okay, that I had made a dumb mistake. It was just a dumb mistake, wasn't it. I made my way to church and sat in the front row alone while the processional came in and I thumbed through to the first hymn, and then I wasn't okay. We sat and stood once or twice and it was getting worse and when we stood again for everyone to recite the creed, I slipped out the side of the pew, said I was sorry to the sidesperson and went to the bathroom to throw up.

You should, when asked, be able to recall a specific happy moment from some period of your life, but I find it hard to come up with something, particularly when the parameters are narrowed. Recall a happy moment from that February in Niigata. I can, I'm sure that I can, but the inability to answer quickly is unsettling. I remember an awkward conversation I had in my little blue Nissan Alto. I remember it always being windy. You can make a narrative out of the absence of a specific answer. You do it when you've given up, when you don't want to have to do something anymore. You say to yourself, I can't remember because I never have been happy. You know that isn't true. Of course, it isn't true. You were happy. You just can't remember anymore.

30 January 2020

Testify


I stopped eating meat for the first time in the autumn of 2002, having been to an academic talk about the sexual politics of meat. The year had been tough for me, for a number of reasons that I don’t need to go into here. I don’t know what was particularly effective about the presentation, but at that point in my life, everything seemed to be up in the air, while at the same time, I was still young enough to think there was some safety net below me. and at the next dinner with friends, I said that I was thinking about giving vegetarianism a try and one of the first year students started laughing — You? There’s no way you can be a vegetarian.

That was true, basically. Vegetarianism didn’t match my character in any way. I was a loud, fat, white, American male college student who loved Jesus. I had every right to eat meat, all day every day. Still, my vanity at the moment, my own bloody mindedness, somehow caused me to dig in, to want to show Shirley that, no, I could actually do it. I went some six months without meat that time until the next year when I graduated from college and everything went weak in the knees for a few months and I never seemed to find my footing again.

As a child, I was terrified of the apocalypse — that Jesus would come immediately and I, at 12, would either be left behind in the tribulation to fend for myself because my family, the really spiritual ones, were taken away. Or worse, that I would be taken too, and somehow miss out on the rest of life. I was fervently religious, evangelical, ready to argue about pro-life issues at the drop of a hat, with imaginary people whom I had never met, the liberals, the gays, the atheists, the vegans.

This is relevant only because I really believed it, and I remember really believing it. I remember thinking the world was a particular way that it turned out not to be and I remember the feeling that you have when you have to rethink not just one thing in your life, but everything. I’m not sure where and when I really realised it, but I remember when it started: sitting across the table from a seventy-five year old Japanese man to whom I was supposed to be teaching the gospel at a small church in Fukuoka, in Japan, in 2003. Where I finally thought to myself, what if everything I know about the world is wrong.

I came back to vegetarianism when I returned to the UK in 2014, when I was sat round a table with a bunch of colleagues I was trying to impress and it turned out half of them were vegetarians. I told my story from college and went a month without meat until having two sausages in February and realising that I didn’t need it anymore.

And then sometime in 2018, that summer, I started to cut out milk and butter and was at a party where someone asked if I was going vegan and I said I was trying. They said something about how it was impossible to be vegan because you had to bring your own food everywhere and about not being able to give up butter and cheese — this cake we’re eating has milk in it — and I went on to say the sort of thing I’ve been careful not so say in polite company now, Yeah, but if some cow was in front of us and we could see it being inseminated and giving birth and the baby being taken from it to be slaughtered, we’d probably be less like to want to have its milk, wouldn’t we. This cake wouldn’t taste so good.

That same summer my brother and I went to Paris and walked some 50 or 60 kilometres in three days and found vegan food everywhere and then I lived in an apartment by myself in Sweden for a month and cooked plants only and wrote and wrote and it was over then, I had converted. I didn’t, it turns out, miss cheese at all.

Now, my own daughter is 12. I don’t know what to say to her about anything, because I remember being 12 and being terrified of my parents, of doing the wrong thing, of making them unhappy. She’s a vegetarian, and I’m proud, of course, but I worry as you do as a parent, about your influence on your kids, about the things you say, what they’ll remember when they’re older. I don’t eat meat, I’ll say, you do what you want — it’s of course never that simple. I want it to be, but it’s not. The other girls still want chicken nuggets and I buy them and feel guilty. I want you to not want this. But not because I want you to not want it. I just want you to not want it. When you say it, it’s madness, isn’t it. I want you to want this for yourself.

16 January 2020

The low lights


The winter is not as cold as it should be and I'm running still. My knee stopped hurting at some point, but when pain goes away, sometimes you can't notice it. You have to think back on it, think back to a time when you might have expected to feel it and there is nothing there, no memory of it. There is one place I had always felt it, going up the first hill on the way out towards the university — I can think of it because I had always started thinking that I had somehow overcome it and then it would be there, and I would think to myself that I should stop. Now, without the pain, the anticipation of the pain is also gone and I run and run and run and am unhappy with my time and my weight and everything that I think I can control, but the pain, the thing I can't control, is gone.

I'm staying in a 150 year old house near town in Växjö, the town I can never pronounce until I get here and hear a Swedish person say it and I think, ah yes, I have have not been saying it right, have I. I know it well enough now that when I arrive I don't need to pull out my phone to make sense of where we are and all my past, my last times here alone and with the family, come back in the ways that old memories do. The summer I ran and ran early in the morning went swimming in the lake before seven, the way you can here, just pulling off all your clothes and running into the water, it slowing you down until you fall into it and it catches you. 

03 January 2020

Fall on my enemies


I was in Costa on the second of January waiting for coffee while my kids, two of them now old enough to be left alone in a store, bought donuts in the shop two doors down. A man, an older man, was asking to see the manager in the queue ahead of me, and we all watched as the manager came out of the back, a man younger than me, but tired looking, and he listened across the counter, nodding and eventually shrugging. Whatever it was, the attitude of the person who had at the counter, or the thing that he wanted which wasn't available, could not be solved. The older man sat down with a woman who must have been his wife, who was also tired it seemed and I wondered how many times she had to sit, waiting for him to talk to the manager. She must, in some way, also be on his side. She must be — how else can a relationship survive.

Since my running through the cemetery in Germany in November, my knee has been full of doubt. I worried, when it was at its worse: perhaps I have bottled it, all my plans of running this marathon in Wales in April, shot on my overeagerness to get stronger. Every morning that I set out on it, I felt the sort of pain that makes you wonder if the knee will give out entirely. Of course, it won't and you can read all about your patella and the pain you might feel in it from overtraining, or undertraining or whatever. Luckily, it's the kind of pain that you can run through and the kind of pain that diminishes if you keep running, but are careful to not run too much or too hard. After six weeks, as I pushed up the hill to the house on Victoria Road and I thought about how much weight I must have gained over the holiday, the knee was remarkably absent in my narrative of failure and that itself is a kind of middle-aged success. At least my body has not entirely failed me.

The miles or kilometers stack up, depending on how you count them, and I managed to finally talk myself into something about running I have been trying to learn for years and years: you can't always run as fast as you can. That in fact, most of the time you need to run slow or you won't be able to run fast when you need to run fast. You need to run slowly to build your capillaries in your legs, to get the oxygen throughout the whole body. You can breathe as deeply as you want — if the oxygen doesn't move through you, you can't use it. I kept running one day even though my watch had failed and when I came home and checked my time, I had run as fast as I needed to without knowing it. You only need to run fast on race day.

The girls did get their donuts, the vegan ones that Greggs is doing now and we wandered around the British strip mall, me staring at my phone — news of the world burning or drowning or war and the girls sorting through clothes and cards. We bought pasta and made it at home, Naomi and me. I was terrified of being a father when I became one, when I was twenty four, but it's twenty-twenty now and I am thirty eight and I own a home and will have a teenager this year. Naomi made sauce from scratch and I watched and helped boil the pasta feeling elderly, a sliver of my future. Is the pasta done, I asked, and we each pulled one out, ate them and agreed they were done.