Brake. Read. Chill.

Good Friday 2012.

I've been going out of my skull a bit recently and it's only now that I have realised the extent of how stressed I was. Last week was pretty demanding, physically and emotionally. Physically because not only did I do a gym session on Monday, but also badminton with Beverley on Wednesday, tap on Thursday and a wonderful hike around Clydach Gorge on Sunday - five hours of walking, but it was so worth it. (And gave me ample opportunity for photography!).

Emotionally because of ongoing sagas concerning the sale of dad's house. (Don't get me started...) In fact last Friday afternoon was just one exhausting exchange of phone calls, emails etc, trying to sort a problem that has arisen with the property. Luckily, I had already arranged with my friend Jonathan for some reiki and crystal therapy that evening, and man, was it never more needed. With the amount of fraught energy that was emitting from my being that evening, I'm surprised the crystals didn't spontaneously shatter from absorbing it all. But the evening put me back on track again; the therapy combined with the company of Jonathan (who has been a good friend since I met him in 2000) calmed my soul.

[and I believe it's worth plugging his website again here - Greenfield Therapy]

But this week I've been on a bit of a downer - apart from Monday when my friend Kath and I went for afternoon tea at The Washington Gallery in Penarth; what a lark that was! (And great to catch up with her too - we only really get to see each other about once a year).

Aside from this, I found myself unable to focus properly apart from on immediate mundane activities (such as work - ugh). I felt bereft of creativity and the more I dwelt on this, the more frustrated I became. There was a nagging feeling that things needed to be done, accomplishments to be made, preciously life slipping away unlived. Basically my mind was a mess and had to be silenced with large quantities of cheap vodka. That only worked to a certain extent - next day I'd be back to square one, accompanied by an alcohol-induced pain ripping through my head.

What was to be done? Only one thing for it really - to put the brakes on. And chill out.

So that it's what I am doing today - putting some time aside for myself. As the landlord is in Vietnam for the fortnight, the house in Roath is quiet and I have it all to myself. So I have ensconced myself in the bright conservatory, overlooking the small secluded garden, and settled in to do nothing but read all day. I'm currently engrossed in Anne Rice's pulpy but enjoyable 'The Wolf Gift', with the strains of Rameau's harpsichord music gently tinkering in the background. And it is working - I feel more relaxed and at ease than I have done for what seems like forever. I've stopped worrying about the creative hiatus - that will follow when it is ready.

So the moral is - whenever you're stressed out, put the brakes and take some time out. With a good book, it seems. Or not so good - heck, any book as long as it's engrossing.

My only concession to the above is taking the time out to write this. And to have a Fray Bentos Chicken and Mushroom pie for lunch. But then it's back to The Wolf Gift....

Oh and here is the Afternoon Tea that Kath and I partook of.... classy, aint we!

One soup... and... another soup.

"It's not discrimination, lads, honest!"

The time - early 90s. The place - Barclays Bank, Hessle Road branch, Hull.

The reason; Barry and I were making enquiries about mortgages and how much we could possibly get between us to buy a house together.

We never did find out - the branch's computer crashed as it got confused trying to work out why two males would want to do such a thing. The poor guy behind the counter was getting progressively red-faced, clearly wanting to reassure us it was nothing to do with our lifestyle. Honest, lads.

In the end he had to give up and and sheepishly suggested we try the main branch in the centre of the city. Or somewhere more gay-friendly. Like Amsterdam.

(Ok, that last bit was made up.)

Ultimately, Barry and I never did end up buying a house together. Through a number of circumstances our relationship ended after I moved to South Wales in 1995 to go to college in Newport. But we have remained great friends and visit each other whenever we can, which takes some doing given that I live in Cardiff and he just outside of Grimsby. When we do manage it though, it's just like old times (without the sex, obviously) - out come the French and Saunders/Victoria Wood/Ab Fab quotes that we have burned into our memories. It's a bit sad really - I can barely get through my times table but can quote every single line from Vicky's "shoe shop" sketch flawlessly. Flatter now!

Barry was my first long-term relationship. I remember meeting him for the first time outside the Westgate Shopping Centre in Oxford for a Young Friend meeting. It was November 1990. The other two guys there buggered off fairly early so Baz and I got chatting. I liked him from the start as he was completely non-scene (and I was getting scene weary by this time), intelligent and had just a superb sense of humour. Four months after that meeting we were renting the upstairs of an old lady's house in Botley. Our first home together!

We made the move up to Hull in 1992 after he had finished his degree at Westminster College (and we spent a month inter-railling - that was quite an experience). I loved living up there; we had a good circle of friends (the Hull Gay Men's Group!) and it wasn't too far to get to places like Manchester or Liverpool, just along the M62. Barry set up the Humberside branch of the LGCM (Lesbian and Gay Christian Movement) and we had some great meetings. (The Christian bit was lost on me, but the food, drink and company was always good!). And then there was my 25th birthday party, featuring Barry's infamous memory-wiping, hangover inducing punch that must have contained every alcoholic beverage known to mankind. And more. Needless to say I was not well the following day. Or week.

So I went back up north last weekend to visit him at his new place in Ulceby. And despite having a house full of flash Apple products and a brand new sporty Peugeot (well earned mind - he's one of the hardest working individuals I know) he hasn't changed much. Which is great - I wouldn't change a thing about him!

We went to Yorkshire Sculpture Park near Wakefield which had an excellent exhibition of Joan Miró sculptures. In the grounds of the park we walked, chatted and laughed about times past, and took photographs. Then I bought us lunch at the café there - tomato and basil soup. And I just couldn't resist it. Staggering toward the table where he was sitting and waving the tray around dangerously, I croaked,

"Two soups!"

44

For the last five years I have been somewhat obsessed with the number 44, and I'm not sure why. It began when I started seeing Stu - he was 44 when I met him. The number 44 bus goes past his flat in Rumney. I began seeing 44 all over the place and wondered why it suddenly had such resonance for me. I knew I would be turning 44 five years hence and it made me think that this would, perhaps, be a significant age for me... I was all a-quiver with anticipation.

Then the day came - I finally turned 44 on 10 March 2012. (Strangely enough, I got up early that morning for a call of nature - the time? 4:44). Did I awake to a brave new world, my mind ablaze with enlightenment? Or had I simultaneously changed sex, Orlando style? Not exactly. Well, not at all to be honest. I did, however, wake to a lovely present from Stu; a rather nice checked shirt which I put on and preceded to mince round the flat singing Monty Python's 'I'm A Lumberjack', much to his annoyance.

As it turned out, it was an excellent start to being 44. After dropping Stu at work (and having an obscenely large fried breakfast at Sainsburys) I drove to Oxford to meet my sister Marcia, just arrived from London. From there I drove us to Radley to see our brother Kevin, who had kindly taken dad's lurcher Sue into his mobile home after he had died. We were joined by our older sister Denise, travelled up from Hampshire, who came bearing a rather large carrot cake that just had to be eaten there and then otherwise it would go in the bin. (It suddenly hit me what the number 44 might possibly signify - my waist size, if my calorific intake continued thus far).

From there it was into Abingdon and to the charity shops, followed by lunch at Throwing Buns in the Market Place. This excellent little eatery occupies the building that I used to work in back in the late 80s when employed by the Thames and Chilterns Tourist Board. It was a little odd being sat in the room where once I backed up computer data on discs the size of manhole covers. But the food was delicious and freshly prepared... yep, 44 waist size, here I come. It was refreshing to find such a nice little independent cafe in a town that is steadily being cannibalised by overpriced coffee shops.

Denise left to head home, so Marcia and I cruised back to Oxford with Rossini/Respighi's La Boutique Fantasque joyously blasting from the car speakers. We went to our favourite area of the city, the wonderfully alternative Walton Street, where we walked toward Port Meadow, eyeing up the gorgeous architecture and chatting about what our dream homes would be like.

We wandered round St Sepulchre's Cemetery (more photo opportunities there) and had tea at Manos, where I had been last year (see previous blog entry). I then accompanied Marcia back to Gloucester Green, having a bitch about Anthony Hopkins along the way, where she caught the coach back to London. At the bus station some random woman complimented me on the checked shirt. (More to the truth, she was rather taken by the little toy bunny I had place in the top left pocket... she even called me 'sir'. Odd).

And from there it was back to Cardiff, singing my little heart out as I drove along the M4.

So I've still no idea what the number 44 means for me - if anything. All I know is that 44 is looking pretty good as an age so far. Especially when my two excellent sisters are involved!

Blissed out and ever so slightly moist

Once in a while I get one of those moments that really makes me glad to be alive. That first kiss from my very first boyfriend. Seeing the original 'Nighthawks' by Edward Hopper at the Tate Modern. Standing on the beach at Pittenweem as the waves rolled in at midnight in 2003. The joyous expression on Stu's face when I took him to the Eddi Reader gig for his birthday last year. Receiving my degree award from Betty Boothroyd in 2004. That post bungee-jump rush.

Last Wednesday I had another such experience at Chapter in Cardiff - watching Earthfall's exhilarating dance piece 'At Swim Two Boys'. Fusing dance, live music and archive film, this is an adaptation of Jamie O'Neill's 2001 novel about the developing relationship between two young men in 1916 Ireland against the backdrop of World War I. The set was simple; a corrugated side of a container as a backdrop with a ladder that descended to a shallow pool of water. This is where the main action took place, performed by Daniel Connor and Murilo Leite D'Imperio; two amazing, versatile and physically fit young dancers. Their movements were dynamic, sensuous, and extremely energetic... and that's the reason why the audience front row had to be given plastic sheeting to cover themselves with.

You see there's water involved. Rather unusual for a stage performance. And these two guys don't so much swim as thrash about in it. Extremely energetically. And within the confines of the small space that is the Stiwdio there's not many places the water could go. Certainly not over the guys who were supplying the music, protected by a large sheet of perspex. So over the front row it went. And the back row too. But given there were only two rows (the Stiwdio is very small) the back row got a fair soaking too. Myself included.

But I didn't care; I was absolutely hypnotised and enthralled throughout the hour. Not only by the sheer stamina and talent of these guys but of the whole production - from the music, to the use of archive film (projected onto the backdrop), to the dizzying emotions that emanated from the ensemble. From elation to heartbreak, to (blush as I say this) raw lust as these guys stripped to nothing but briefs*... by the time I staggered back out into the streets of Canton I feel like I had emerged from a dream. A tangible, profound, erotic and, in the literal sense, very wet dream.

By which time I was dying for a pee. For some strange reason.


*pause for a breathless moment here

The Pickup

Here it is, my first foray into poetry...

Enjoy.

THE PICKUP

Air. Fresh air. No longer can bear

The stifling confines of a smoke-filled,

Cheap thrilled, neon bathed cave of 

Sweaty sinew and pound-pound-pound

Drowning sound of rhythm and bass;

The air out here is sweet to taste.

I breathe deeply, freely, gladly,

Ears buzzing madly from 

Numbing noise within; electro-clash din arousing

Bodies to thrash, muscle to flash,

Throbbing crimson glistening on flesh

Exposed to attract, dared to distract.

The phasing pulse recedes as I fall

Into a dizzying corridor of brick and mortar

Mind in slaughter, chemically crazed

I perceive another in my space, dead ahead

Posed with masculine grace,

Breathing fire, illuminating a face of pure desire.

This vision of perfection commands my stare,

Silhouetted there; t-shirt, jeans, torso tight,

Sweating from the fight in the madhouse, 

Released to rest, to burn his lungs 

A creature no longer young yet commanding time.

Presence of prey perceived; eyes flash into mine.

Arrested in stupefaction, body turned stone

Under a Medusa stare, deadly attraction. 

Wordless beckoning, our flesh and bone, 

Fraction by fraction close in proximity. 

With motionless traction the walls draw in 

To entomb, we twins in a concrete womb.

Aching lava scorches my veins, fire searing 

My brain, base hunger fuels my sex,

Anticipating his touch, inches away,

Craving to be enmeshed in firm flesh, 

Bodies to combine, flex, sway,

Lapped in waves of sweet lust; to play.

Peeled away from the trashed neon mass

From the heat and noise retired

Us, me and him, poised to commit

The most ecstatic sin.

The synaptic pistol has fired.

Let the games begin.

© 2012 Lance Eggleton

Minding Amy

Last year our creative writing group at IPO/ONS put together a publication of short fiction under the title 'A Winter Bizarre' which was sold at our respective workplaces for charity. Here is my contribution; a story adapted from a longer project that I have had in mind for quite a while. This piece is called 'Minding Amy'.

Enjoy.

MINDING AMY

On Horses, Canaries and Flattened Laundries

It is with much regret that the subject of my earlier post has now ceased to be. Or at least is in the process of it. Sadly, The Old Laundry at Penylan is being demolished as I speak. Or type, rather.

A bit melodramatic perhaps as this was to be expected; I never really thought the campaign to save the building was strong enough to take on the might of the developers, and that is a real pity. But it is sad to see such a quirky building disappear to be replaced by what I imagine to be a dull residential block of flats, no matter how "architecturally sensitive" to the area the developers may claim them to be. But then that's the direction I imagine our society to be heading anyway - the all the quirkiness ironed out to be replaced by reliably dull, bland homogenisation. I fully expect to be bulldozed any day now.

But it's been a pretty good week; as I mentioned in an earlier post, Stu and I went to see Spielberg's adaptation of Michael Morpurgo's 1982 children's novel War Horse at the Cineworld in Newport on Tuesday. It was pretty much as I expected; a solid Hollywood movie but one that is old-fashioned in nature. There's little flash but a lot of drama, the dialogue veering on the side of cheesy (Hollywood-cheesy that is), great leaps in logic and cinematography by Spielberg's regular DOP Janusz Kaminski that gives the film a bizarre artificial aspect, especially in the early scenes which look like they have been filmed in the studio even though the actors are on location. But I have to say, it was never less than entertaining and kept me enthralled for the two and a half hours. But I didn't cry as some said I would - dammit, I am not letting that guy manipulate my emotions like he did with E.T.!

Finally, a little something about a book I have just finished reading. My fabulous sister Marcia bought me Sandi Toksvig's wonderful Hitler's Canary for Christmas, a book based on the experiences of Toksvig's father during the Nazi occupation of Denmark during World War II. It's written simply (from a young boy's point of view) but is intelligent, thoroughly gripping and, of course, Toksvig's fabulous humour permeates the proceedings. And I learned a lot about a side of World War II I never even knew - so much is made about the UK, France and Germany during this time but what about the smaller countries? They have tales to tell too. A brilliant book, thoroughly recommended.

Thus ends Lance's reviews of the week. I'm off now to knock some vodka down my throat and heat up a rather fine home-made chilli while practising my tap-dance steps in the kitchen. Sans tap shoes though. Last time I did that the landlord's red kitchen tiles were peppered with silver streaks. He was not happy.