Thoughts On and From My Notes in My Notebook

Sounds, chess, writing, thoughts,

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Hello peeps,

I don’t want to write a day to day diary. I used to keep one religiously from the age of 15 when we moved from inner city Manchester to rural Norfolk. I finally felt safe enough to write what I thought. And I wrote daily until I met my husband, and sporadically after that. But I stopped. And somewhere around the time I became ill, I resented the life represented on the pages within, and having teenage and tween children I didn’t want them to read what I’d written, so I disposed of them. Sometimes I regret it, but most of it was teenage angst all the better for never seeing the light of day again.

So, I want to write thoughts and discussions not daily mundanity. I expect it is going to take time and practise. Hopefully my brain can keep pace with my aspirations and not end up mired for months or years on end as before. I spend a lot of time in the wee small, not so dark, as I live on the edge of a town, composing words. Words in stories, writing, and rewriting. One day I may even commit them to paper. I need to get back into the habit of having a notebook and pen by the bed.

It feels good to write again even though I feel as though I am back in a literary infancy. I am small and young (in wordage rather than life) I need to gather my gumption and actually DO stuff.

I’ve started reading again and it has helping me move beyond myself again. Back into who I used to be. I am now wanting to write again. I’m feeling less ‘bound’.

Excerpt:

I am sitting in a Conservative Social Club, the ‘Conservative’ has been long since dropped from the sign but, even so, it is still referred to as such. R even joked that we should have boycotted the event because of it. I say ‘event’. I’ve begun to carve out ‘me’ time. On Tuesdays in ‘the season’ J and R play chess in a league and we travel around the local area to various pubs, clubs and venues for people, mainly men, of various ages, mainly old/elderly sit in near perfect silence hunched over chess boards quietly battling each other cordial enmity. Rooks and bishops chasing pawns and knights. Queens ripping up the squares in defence of the decrepit King who merely shuffles lamely. It’s rare to have phone signal, rarer to have wifi. I bring books to read and tomes to write in.

It has been a good few months now and I feel it is okay to write without being judged. I don’t understand why I think others would judge me. Though some have tried to read what I’m writing, standing way too close and leaning into my personal space, and then when rebuffed (a hand over the page and a gentle glare directed their way), have taken to berating me for something else, liking sitting nearly next to the recycling bin (two chairs away) or leaning on another chair to write. The ‘crowd’ are as neuro-divergent as they come. So many struggling with the social side just longing to sit and abide by the rigid rules of chess. It is not my game. I lack any semblance of interest; I admire those who have but it’s not for me. My protestations are always met with surprise.

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So, I sit here in the glorious quiet, where I can’t waste my time away doom scrolling or playing games, just being myself. Alone with my thoughts, not being judged for being different and feeling myself relax. Thoughts that used to sludge - I verbed sludge! They sludge. Oozing around my mind, dropping thoughts like mud as they meandered with no purpose in this thing I call a brain. - Thoughts that used to sludge now flow. Just a gentle summer trickle, not yet a winter waterfall but time and practise will help.

The noises here are odd. It is quiet in the rooms themselves. I hear the gentle creak of the chairs as the participants wiggle to get comfortable. Some wooden, some plastic, sometimes even leather covered. The small scribble of pens as they mark each move, a coded notation that enables games to be replayed move by move and analysed on the kitchen table the next day. The gentle placement of piece on board as battle moves are made. Occasionally someone will rise out of their seat and slowly pad around the room assessing others’ boards, nodding heads, rubbing chins, heads tilted sideways slightly as they recognise various openings or strategies. It’s calming. Sometimes though, there is a ‘gathering’ upstairs or elsewhere in the building. Heavy footfalls will reverberate through the building structure and muffled voices are heard. Occasionally something heavy thuds on the floor causing me to jump. Sometimes, there is a kitchen next door and then we have clattering pans and the extractor fan is working hard. Doors bang.

Initially these noses were discombobulating. I longed for my headphones to block these extra intrusions. But, surprisingly, I can manage. And I have grown to like them. I need to move myself now and then and add my shuffling shoes to the noise around me.

My shoes often squeak on the thin floors. Even concentrating careful to roll heel, to ball of foot, to toes, and carefully shift my weight slowly and evenly, I squeak quite loudly. J is often winning quite nicely in pieces and also time. S, the team captain, often wins quickly and prowls the room. Hands stuffed deep in his trouser pockets, assessing the other games, eyes hawkish, mouth set. I often can’t tell if R is winning my knowledge decidedly lacking, he will catch my eye and raise his eyebrows, and I will smile encouragingly back.

Even after 32 years of marriage I have no idea what he means!

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