The third meander...into the past

We cleaned out my Grandmother-in-Law's house today, and God, I never knew Dettol could smell so good.
We found some amazing discoveries - cologne-soaked tissues, a 1st edition painting from the early 1930s, and even - in the back of a wardrobe - the container for my Grandfather-in-Law's ashes. I'd never known a house to be so well-kept, but somehow cluttered, with scents and times and memories that I'm not sure even my Father-in-Law remembers. I found my other half's grandfather's documents in a bedside cabinet, his Navy membership booklet, vaccination records, six copies of his photograph. We found a Victorian hand warmer (you know, the ones that ladies always tuck their hands inside when it gets cold) in a forest green velvet, all beautiful curls and rosettes like a May Queen's hair, and bonnets with ribbons to match.
The sad thing is, even if I asked my Grandmother in Law what these things were, she won't remember. She's got dementia, and sometimes she's exactly sure where she is, other times she has to ask every 10 minutes what we're doing at her house. She was a seamstress, evidenced by the ancient-looking sewing machine in the makeshift lounge, the numerous spools of thread, needles, ribbon and fabric we've found. So I guess we just have to wonder what stories lie behind most of these things. Why she made them. Who they were made for. How she learned to make them, what she learned while she was making them.
I found an old picture of my fiancee. He looks so young in it, such round cheeks...but it isn't him. The two people could very well be twins, but they are not the same man. Peter has changed since then. He's focused now. He's stronger now. He knows someone loves him now more than life.
I've never cleared quite so much dust and...stuff as today, and I work as a cleaner. But I've also never been so taken out of that little world we like to preoccupy, to forget there are other people and other pasts, other stories.

The second meandering, with my dog

I always remember the last scene of 'Marley and Me,' when John Grogan runs his hands up and down his labrador's body, stroking his otter tail, webbed feet, strong ribcage and velvety ears, and I always remember what he said: 'I'm looking again. It all kind of blurs into one, you know?'
I know. I can't think of any lab owner who wouldn't.
Labs are not a normal breed of dog. Never believe anyone who tells you otherwise. They're almost like baby substitutes, big, Bambi-eyed, bandy legged barrels, ambling through your living room with effortless grace prior to smacking their head on the French doors and sending your Relentless can flying sixty feet across the room.
Sometimes, when I'm sat still and Millie, my four year old lab, is trying to amble into the (I flatter myself) tiny triangle of my lap, like she did when she was a puppy, I remember those words and I have to touch her again, stroke her warm, soft ears and smooth black fur, look at her eyes and try and describe them - people always want to give them a delicious colour, chocolate brown or ice blue. Not Millie. Gravy brown. Thick, dependable and adorable gravy brown. That's Millie. Not special at all physically, but you couldn't have a family meal without her clinging to the plate. Like gravy itself, I guess.
It frustrates me sometimes. Knowing that time passes. Knowing that I can't, for the life of me, capture today, that moment when I'm lying next to Peter and I can't capture those tiny wings of freckle beneath his eyes, invisible unless you know they're there. His Mum's eyes, a warm ice blue, like the ocean in travel brochures, beautiful but welcoming. His face, always so lovingly pale, and his long eyelashes, his small ears. I can't capture him, but maybe that's why I try. I can't capture my brother's face, the twin of my grandfather, heavy with freckles, the brightest blue eyes, my mum's tan face and my Dad's hair. My Mum. Tanned, beautiful, but sturdy, strong, Cornish. Dark curly hair, so like mine, but my face is all Dad - plump, pale, a strong nose that makes me look haughty, whether I will or no, and my Dad's eyes. My Nan's eyes.
I can't capture this family tree at all for you. But it's enough to know it exists. It existed, at one time. How's that for a cultural artefact?
Maybe no-one cares what my family's faces look like. Maybe they won't care in the future either. But people care, or should care, that people see these things and love them. That's what writers communicate. That's why we do what we do.

The first wandering

It's weird. Having thoughts is okay, but having to type them, to watch them come up on screen - it's almost like you have to validate them, and you feel like tacking footnotes on the end just to justify the way you feel, because you feel like your opinion isn't enough, somehow. You're not ready to fly yet. It almost makes you feel like you're not ready to write yet, that you've got no preordained right to the words streaming almost magically from your keyboard to the screen.
You get false confidence, too. You start picking apart essays and criticising critics, feeling you're making some sort of difference, then you pick up a book and - sure enough - there it is, your carefully wrought theory in 200 words. But maybe there's a reason for this. Maybe the golden age of theory has passed, for now, until you think of something that isn't in the books.
One phrase, however, has kept me going, and I can only hope it inspires other writers: "go forth and make trouble," an inspiration I owe to Patrick Ness, who wrote "A Monster Calls," which I can't help but wish I could give to my twelve-year old self. Another book that inspires me is "The Book Thief," by Markus Zusak, a truly marvellous challenge of the novel form, narrated by Death, focusing on one particular little girl in one particular street during the darkest of times - the second World War. It's remarkable. Beautiful. I can't even describe it properly.
So, I guess that's it for the night.
Go forth, fellow writers, and make trouble. Even if right now all you want is a hot bath, warm pjyamas and a bed. Make trouble. Make love. Watch that cringeworthy film and write an even more cringeworthy poem about it. Develop a familiar that whispers jokes in your ear. Live. Write.