Guilt

A retrospective post – a journal entry – now that I have enough distance to appreciate it as a useful document of a temporary emotion.

I want to talk about guilt. Guilt is taking over my life, and I don’t think I’m the only one. Third-generation inherited Catholic guilt. The guilt of being born into a first-world country in a first-world family, whatever that means these days. Biscuit guilt. Toilet guilt. Relationship guilt.

Too many times repeating the word ‘guilt’ until it sounds alien.

I feel guilty about things I haven’t even done yet. I feel guilty for entertaining the idea of having children, when our planet is already insanely overpopulated. I feel guilty about not living life to the fullest while I have a perfectly functional body and mind. Not everyone gets that chance. I feel guilty about how I am spending my time; what would my boss think of this? My friends? My family?

Should I be earning more to be able to do a certain thing, like adopting a mistreated animal, and if I had enough to do one good thing, surely I could be spending it on something even more ‘good’, like building schools in underdeveloped countries.

Surely I could have done something, made more effort, to make that relationship work?

Smoking and dropping cigarette butts. Getting a cat and letting it shit anywhere outside, most likely on other people’s, or public, property. This is stuff everyone does, so is it just a choice I have made to feel this way about it? Is it right?

Chewing gum and, even when disposing of it ‘properly’, knowing that it is a small contribution to the landfill waste that doesn’t decompose for god-damn ages, filling our planet with crap and gunk.

What is the point of guilt? How can we use it?

In Britain we seem to use it to get active in small ways. You see shudders of guilt-inspired activism on social media sites. ‘Sign this petition’, ‘Tell everyone’, ‘Come on guys, let’s stop this now.’ Knee-jerk reactions to a constant flow of seemingly well-intentioned propaganda. What next? Not a lot, it seems. A brief follow-up email. We don’t really see the change. And would we, if we lost those little fights? Would we notice?

At the moment, guilt is beginning to rule me. I feel guilty for not doing well in the different roles in my life, and instead of manifesting itself in an activist way, this guilt is driving me to paranoia and hopelessness. Why? How? Is it just a pride issue over getting up from the guilty place and making that journey back to where you are supposed to be?

The guilt of not writing. Of missing birthdays. Of not saying thank you enough, and soon enough. Of not spending time.

Guilt I recognise as being imposed from an outside body, and guilt I cannot separate from my own beliefs.

The guilt of how I treat my body. The guilt of not reading enough.

Guilt over decisions I have tried to enforce in my life to make positive changes, that seem to be working out for the worse. Of assuming a superfluous status. Of demanding too much. Of doing too little. Of being unaware.

Have awkward conversations

I still question
whether it’s a weakness
to retain words inside you
when they boil up your throat
flap about your brain
because there’s no civilised way out.
We’re taught to behave
to eloquate
articulate
formulate
anything but retaliate.
How some people can look with only a slight smirk,
unerring in the face of complete dissatisfaction,
derogation, insult. When anger would engulf someone smaller
like me
they stand still and let it wash over them
as if they were pleased to be there.
As if there were nothing more pleasant in life.
How trite, how lucky we are to live life,
and these moments are so small, such trifles in the face of the great infinity.
How wise, how enlightened.
I always thought it was a weakness to
let them get away with it;
whatever it was.
Racism, sexism,
crossing of social boundaries,
heinously antagonistic political views.
I thought, “No, fuck you,
how dare you think you can say that, do that,
you must hear that you are wrong,
and discover it, and feel ashamed,
and never do it again.
I have made the world a better place.”
And, of course, I haven’t.
The decided will not notice what you think
if it doesn’t fit their picture.
This is not is your target audience.

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A group of men are chasing a little girl down a street. It is night.
They are fast. They are frantic.
She is small.

She turns and blows a cloud of bubbles which
stretch and push into the markings of a cheetah
formidable muscle forming around them
not solidifying but preserving their energy
for the moment they will need so strike.

Ghosts of Partners Past

They say that every time you end a relationship, a ghost of the person stays with you. Every time. Can you imagine the noise? How crowded, how busy your space would be? And never mind you, how busy must those ghosts be? Do they have to split their time haunting all their other exes? Do they split their time or their essence? If their presence gets thinner, I suppose you can tell they have been through and ended another relationship.

Let’s not forget, you ended things with them for a reason. You decided not to spend the rest of your life with them. Surely they do not remain willingly either. Surely neither of you can move on while they linger. Do you get a say in who stays?

How do you quantify a relationship anyway? How long do you get to make up your mind before you have to either break things off or get stuck to a soul for eternity? Or both? And what qualifiers let you know that someone is an essence you do want to be doused in for the rest of time? Do vampires ever really know what they’re getting into when they turn someone? Why am I writing vapid questions like Carrie Bradshaw?

Perish the thought… can you ever leave yourself? And if you do, what kind of ghost are you left with?

I am followed by no less than Stephen, Stefan, James, Jamie, Ryan, Aaron, Nathan, Martyn, Chris, Tom (sorry, Thom), Pete, Pete, Pete (shut up), Jamie, Carl, Brindle, Mark and… phew, no, that’s it. So, that’s seventeen, if you’re counting, and some of them are rowdy fucks. God help me if they were all to surface at once. I think I’d be surrounded by the most intense of British unease of difference of character; the poets, the thugs, the clowns and the cheaters.

That sounds like not much that’s nice to say about you as a collective. Which is a shame, really, given my ethos of honouring the connection, of respecting one’s past decisions. Maybe I’m not so upstanding after all. Maybe I don’t practise what I preach. But there’s time.

Hell in the rehearsal room

Six years ago I had the displeasure of working with an insidiously passive-aggressive actor. Native to small towns rich in comfort-zone entitlement, this thankfully rare breed was one I had not quite encountered before, but one I certainly hope never to encounter again, and one that perhaps others have also met. There is fresh breath in sharing these experiences.

We that tread the boards have all met our fair share of the more common and harmless eyeroll-inducing diva, making inappropriate comments and demands that can be calmed and washed under the bridge. This is not they.

Scene: I had co-written, and was producing, a play. One of the cast was less than pleasant. Consistently late or absent for rehearsals with no reason or apology, including the tech-dress (turning up halfway through, in trainers, for the photo shoot, amongst a full set of Victorians, distracted and distracting as hell, subsequently demanding detailed feedback as though we were watching his performance and his alone as it would be in the show. Critical of others’ performances past the point of suggestion, forgetting that he was playing a minor, one-scene role, stealing off with other actors for private chats pre-show to make his own directorial enforcements and generally contributing a sickening kind of uneasiness to the room, this man was unbearable. But we bore it. He was alright as an actor when he didn’t let his ego take over (in case you doubt that they know best – improvisation needs to be capped when your director shows you the yellow card; if you don’t trust the script, you’re not doing your job properly.) We were as civil and professional as we knew how to be, and gave him as much as we could. We arranged extra workshops for him. Which he was late for. We exchanged hopefully reassuring glances and quiet words with the rest of the cast.

The main sticking point was the recording of the show. He wanted a copy, and he wanted it now. Now, as a general rule, we didn’t do that. We made theatre. I ensured recordings were made wherever possible for my personal portfolio, and, as a second priority, for the company (this had previously only mattered to me, and could, of course, have encroached too far and spoiled the live experience.) We were but three women, we worked full time, were in the middle of a crazily intensive six-shows-in-six-months programme, and we did not then possess that magical unicorn that poops out time enough to edit and send off copies of all our shows to everyone involved. Additionally, the company ran on volunteer power, and the kindness of friends, and our running and resources were heavily dependent on those people. Records of various shows and the means to edit them lay with the different people who could provide us that help at the time, and so editing the footage, even collecting it, meant coordinating our ‘days off’ (I’ve heard of these) with those who held the footage. I mention all this not to labour a defense but hopefully to shed some light on the process for others experiencing similar problems from either end. The task sounds simple enough, yes, if we were working 4/5 day weeks with regular hours and didn’t run a fucking theatre company in every spare minute we could grab. Days off consisted of the odd hour on a random day of the week in which I might lie in a little longer because I was physically exhausted, or one day in a few months when I actually had a full 24 hours in which no doctor’s appointments, laundry, rehearsals, meetings or chores were inescapable. On these days, because they came so rarely, I often literally needed to sleep all day. My brain required a few YouTube kicks before I made it downstairs, and after that everything was just a blur.

This ugly soul sent me a hideous, threatening email a whole year after the show closed, to reinforce just how angry he was that we had not yet provided him with a full video recording of his performance; a voluntary role he accepted without that caveat, which he then raised during the run. Such was his fury that we could not immediately deliver on his last-minute, never-promised request that he vowed a vendetta to upend our script, our experience of the show, and our reputation.

We would gratefully have accepted his withdrawal from the project at this point, and needless to say, certainly would never be hiring him again.

So goodnight unto you all, aggressive, strained egos seeking out a target. Take your leave. And everyone else – it is not.your.fault.

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Missing:
; Not misplaced,
rather deliberately hidden
and buried and forgotten and set aside
is too tender a phrase
for what’s required to unfind
your sense of humanity
when confronted with the past of having
left a child behind
in a place about to be an un-place
uninhabited by un-people.
Un-children.
Not misplaced but missing it so
dreadfully terribly un-much.