Stand By Me

today

I am really trying.
I do.
But sleeping has gone worse.
I sleep... But I don't lie down. Despite that it is probably my favourite position.
Now I even wake up earlier.
And again, coffee. Managed not to boil it. Three italian biscuits and some extra crumbs. Paracetamol and ibuprofene. Because it's Monday.
Ashtraypathy.

The weekend has passed. One week already. There is some development in my status. I realise now that I have moved away from being injured and being pampered to being injured only.
That's it.
It is a bit like the end of the honey moon of an arranged wedding.
Too soon. Too predictable. Too sordid.

My face expression has changed. I do not inspire liking no more; or compassion.
I am resigning from it.
I am accepting the pain.
I do not remember how I use to put my socks on before. Now I just keep them on.  I do not remember how I used to manage the whole 'getting dressed' thing before. Now I just pin my underwears to my trousers with clothes pegs before putting them on. Yes, bending once rather than twice does make a difference.

Something has changed.

I can't lie down.
But I have ambition so I stand.
Vertically, I mean.
I tried standing horizontally but it is apparently as close as lying down as it can be.
It's a bit like being on a diet and eating a slice of pizza with another slice of pizza placed on top and thinking that the stomach won't see the difference. It does not work.

So I stand. But being on a boat with cracked ribs and having to stand for most of the day and night can be a little annoying.

The Stand-On Vessel*

 

 

The whole romantic idea of the boat herself, with this cosy twist given to home, with the fire going and the kettle whistling, with the pitching and tossing, with the encens encensing, with the shipping forecast on the radio going on about Forth, Tyne, and Fisher, variable, becoming cyclic, cyclonic or even bubonic, 3 or 4; Easterly 5 or 6 in North. Rain then showers. Moderate or good, becoming poor later, the whole enjoyment of a moment of calm and rest, even though I don' t have a sofa, is terribly compromised, because, let alone lying down, I can hardly sit too.
To my great concern, as the narowness of a narrow boat tends to inspire resting, sitting, being seated, giving feet a rest, grabing a chair or a log, ensconcing, hunkering, perching, parking, relaxing, sqatting, not ploping down though.
But no; I have to stand on the boat. It's a new perspective. I look at things in the distance for longer.

Everything looks different. I feel more celestial... I stand... stand... Stand!
My legs and arms, however, are getting strange.

Still. Thinking of stillness makes me dizzy. I have REM singing Sitting Still in my head... I always thought these lyrics made no sense. Now? Even less. Michael Stipe & co, you are becoming my number one band who's annoying me right now... The Buffalo Springfield swaggering, singing Sit Down I think I love you, comes second... It's despair now... What do they all have to gather in my head, it's like a party with too many chairs and not enough girls, a musical chair game you always lose...
No Otis, no, please. I can't whistle anyway.

I cannot believe this is happening to me. Don't get me wrong.  I don't even like sitting. For exemple I'd rather stand on the tube. People think I am a nice guy because on the tube I give way  to pregnant people and elderlies and families when a seat gets freed. People think I am a good audience at the theatre, because I always give a standing ovation at the end;  I even suffered through most Shakespeare's plays, again, standing. It's not that. It's because sitting is dull. In fact sitting is dangerous. And because standing is good. Because standing is good. Even Dr Block told me that, twice. Standing is good. Standing is good.
Standing is good, it is healthy; it cuts by loads of % the chance to develop cardio-vascular diseases... There is even a disease that is called the sitting disease... No joke, I am serious here. It is apparently the product of the modern sedentary lifestyle. A normal person will sit about seven and a half hours per day. Per day! It's too long. It should not be. Seven and a half hours per day. I can hardly do three.

I cut down my sitting time. Radically. It might be a good thing; but my lying down time is inexistant. There is no justice.
Nevertheless I am doing right for my body. I am healthy.
Being on a boat with cracked ribs and having to stand is healthy.
I might just pick up smoking again then...

And then

 

So I guess I am a bit frustrated today.

It is again a dilemna I am facing.
I want to find a zone of confort. I want to rest. I want to lie down. I am good at standing, but I think I lie better. I might even prefer lying down. I want to lie down. I demand to have some lying down. But 'I want never gets'. It is utopic, in both senses of the word.
If I remembered what my my Ancient Greek teacher told us (I don't even remember if I studied Ancient Greek), I would know that 'Utopia' has two meanings.
Instead, I watched the Mad Men and they explained it in season one. It means 'the good place' and 'the place that cannot be'. It is where I want to be. But I cannot go there because it does not exist.
It is lying down when I want to sleep. It is sitting when I want to eat. It is standing when I want to stand. But instead I stand when I need to sleep. I stand when I eat.
And I sleep when I stand.
And that, is dystopia.

As I said I am resigning. I am quitting the world of the seated.
I shall not sit or be seated, lie down or get laid (hum).
I shall stand still.
I shall be as pathetic as a standing army.
I shall look like a fisher man anytime I stand next to a pond.
I shall stand in the rain. I will be wet. If Audrey Hepburn were to stand next to me,
she would be sexy.
I won't stand up for that.
Until then, I'll stand by.

And maybe someone will stand by me. As Bill Withers once told me, I can lean on him when I'm not strong, 'cause he'll be my friend, and he'll help me carry on. On a boat with cracked ribs, I can spend an afternoon leaning on someone's shoulders because today, after hours of standing by, my arms and legs feel funny.

I leave with this one

B.

*It is the rule 17 in the International Navivation Rules. It happens mostly when two boats are in sight of each other and crossing ways. If I don't give way, I stand-on. It is kind of complicated to know whether I am the give-way vessel or the stand-on vessel but to be short I am not the stand-on vessel when crossing with under powered boats, working boats and Dominique. If I am to cross way with Dominique, if he is cruising a boat or anything else, I'll give way. No matter what;

Bruising for a Cruising

Today

I am awake. I slept.
Coffee, italian biscuits and paracetamol.
Ashtrayspotting.
I have to get used to this.

Rain and gusts of wind kept me on my toes last night. The pitter patter was nice at first. But there is only so much a man can take apparently. A good rest for exemple, considering my newly aquired status*, would be most welcome.
Living on a boat does not necessarily allow this. In many ways. I might talk about this another time.
Don't get me wrong though. I am a devoted narrowboater.
I want to believe in living with "less" to access "more".
I want to believe in other ways of living, where we don't need constant supply of "modern commodities"  such as electricity, water and broadband internet connection. And landline.
Landline? When did I last received a call on a landline... When did I last have a landline?  Do kids know what a landline is these days?

I'll be brief here, but landline, honestly...

In my brief encouter to landline (about twenty-one years, at which age I then got my frst mobile phone), I must say that it has not been always easy. Anyone who grew up with four sibblings like I did might know that, more than anything else, landlines bring discord. When a phone call needed to be made, there was always a sister or a brother using it.
The rule to get it quick then, was to be subtle. A blunt "how long you gonna be?" never worked... in fact it seemed to trigger an extra twenty minutes wait. At least.
A sly "mum is calling you in the kitchen" opened bloodthirsty retaliations.
Eventually the line'd be free. The tribulation started. A landline does not call a person, it calls a home. A palette of ready-made sentences were needed:
"sorry to disturb, I know it's dinner time but please could I speak to..."
"oh... they're not here... could you take a message, please?"
"Could you ask them to call me back between x am and y am, please?"
"Could you pass on that message, please?"
But really, above all, the threat of the bill waved by my then not so trans-parent dad, just when I managed to get hold of the landline, was probably the richest. It is a bit like being told to close the fridge, to keep the cold in, the exact second I've opened it to choose the yogurt I want to eat.
As a consequence, I probably haven't dated as many people I could have.
So no.
No regret.
Landline shall not be missed on a boat or anywhere else.
But confort and the ideal I make of it. Yes, maybe.

Therein lies the rub, as the bard would say.
I want to have confort and I am prepared to create and sustain this level of confort. I delimit where my threshold of tolerance is. And I have to stick to it. It teaches constance and earnestness. To be true to the choice.
But with cracked ribs, boy. The threshold wants lowering. The bed seems to be too high. The steps, so steep. The sofa, so... I don't have one.  Dry land, a step too far.

But what really hides behind the corner, trying to catch me when I am most vulnerable, ready to confront me coldly, it is the duty to move the boat.
I am a constant cruiser.
I did not choose the name though. I would have gone for something else but that'll do for now.
I am a constant cruiser. So I need to cruise. It is like a contract between me, the British canal system which is a bit like my landlord, the International Navigation Rules, and the element.

Constant Cruisin' (for a bruisin')

 

Every other week I need to leave where I have moored, two weeks before and on my way to the following spot. If space is to be found there, then I would moor. If not, then I continue cruising. Until I find a space. A sixty feet long space, mostly water based, to live a normal life. A two weeks long routine opens.
After four years cruising London and nearby surrounding towns, I understand what a cyclic routine might be. It is knowing where the corner shop is, but not just in one corner. It is knowing the quickest tubes and buses route to the possible destinations to reach within this two weeks cycle. It is knowing where the launderettes are, how much it will cost, and knowing which ones would do it for me (!). It's keeping good relation with the local communities and shop keepers, because smiles are nice and being greeted when entering a shop is a decent aspiration for a landa city-dweller who grew up in a small village.
All that, in twelve different neighbourhoods.
I am a constant cruiser and as I said, I did not choose the name, because it means a hell of a lot more, to be a constant cruiser.
But with cracked ribs, I feel that I am to disown this title. For a while.

Today, I thought I would move the boat. To Victoria Park maybe. Or to Angel.
But I won't.
And I know that I might get in trouble for that. Not real trouble of course. I might get a patrol notice for overstaying. I tend to get a lot of them since May 2012. Moored in Angel, we regretably gathered one saturday morning, at the bow of the vessel, lovely Thursday's Child, to be merry and happy, to feel that the sun had finally pierced through eight months of thick winter clouds.
Not to the likings of a specific neighboor who has their house by the canal. They complained. They complained formally (anyone who has cruised for long enough and moored in Angel regularly will know who I refer to). On this, more recently, we could read this Pulitzer type article on the respectable Islington Gazette about dirty and noisy canal boats (Thursday's Child' moment of fame. No royalties paid yet though).

And then..

 

It is a dilemna that I am facing right now.
I am aching to move the boat but I can't, especially after Dr Block's warnings and my prime witness' advice. And the risk to catch a cold is too big. I know about sneezing now. Doctor was right.
I am also aching.
I might as well just stay.
Who cares? Well, I do.
I want to be a continuous cruiser. I would like to change neighbourhood and enter another cycle. Another routine. I believe in the good practice. Keeping moving, to let spaces free. To find free spaces. The river and canals are navigations path, not camping spots. I don't dry my underwears on a line between two pines.
It looks like I am going to settle here for a while. But under the circumstances, I'll settle for anywhere.
It looks like I am a bit upset. Because I am not sure what to make of staying. Overstaying.
Why do I care? I have always cared about that. It is kind of the condition number one to be a constant cruiser. Moving.
Maybe because I feel that, with cracked ribs, I let down a certain good practice.

Today I look through the window. I feed the swans with coconut crunchy oat. They like it.
And I wish to see boats passing. Boats cruising.
I wish someone would care moving. And someone else. And someone else. That would make me feel better.
Restaure the balance a bit.

Irma Thomas wished that someone would care. On a boat with cracked ribs, I can spend my afternoon wishing that someone would care cruising, because today, I won't.
 

I leave with this one

 

B.

 

* see my first post for precision if needed

Anyone knows Georges Moustaki?

Today

I come to the conclusion that the next few weeks will offer their cocktails of little revolts against my patience and calm demeanour.
Therefore I will relate; as long as necessary.

Today...
... I haven't talked yet. I went to the shop round the corner, I got the stuff I needed. I paid. I did not speak.
I grumbled.
I watched an episode from the Mad Men. I did not learn much. I liked The Mama's and the Papa's at the end.
I slept.
I woke up and ate three italian biscuits and warmed up some coffee. I managed to avoid boiling it like I usually do. It was nice.
I smiled.
I did not smoke. I gave up again.
I looked at the ashtray instead.
My phone rang. I looked at it as well. I did not pick up. I haven't given up phoning though.
But I have an excuse.
I bruised my ribs. I bruised them badly.So badly that I don't even want to complain. I even went to work. Twice this week. In denial of rush hour and the horde of mad puppies (analogy taken from Mr Mills) running wild in the corridors of the school.
Mistake. I realise it now. I have a status. I am injured, damaged, hurt, spoiled, wounded, altered, affected, impaired.
I have cracked ribs said Dr. Block.Along with "with patience and paracetamol, you'll be fine" to which I answered approximately "...". To then hear "but make sure you don't get a cold, snizzing would hurt you".
Thank you doctor.

The accident It was Sunday. I fell. I did not scream. Then I got given a drink and carried on. There is always something to do on a boat. I live on a boat. And there is a lot to do. I usually do a lot of superfluous things on the boat because I get professionals to do important things like fixing important things, but I like to repeat that there is always something to do on a boat. I am finding out that with cracked ribs, there is not much, even superfluous, to do. I like building things. I have a good relationship with my hands and they are ok with it. On Sunday for exemple, I extended my garden. Mostly with succulents but also with pepper and sage. The roof of the boat is turned into a little suspended garden, a travelling and ephemeral rebellion against the city. I was standing in the suspended garden. A second after, I am half lying on the boat moored next to me. I fell from the garden... A man witnessed this. From his second floor's terrace overlooking the canal, in the heart of Hackney Wick, he shouted "are you alright" I think he said... "'you're gonna be bruised". Stirling observation. I fell. After four years on a boat, this is the first time. Not a single time have I felt in the water or on the boat. I am quite feline when it comes to my sense of balance. Even without moustache. So what happened? I stopped asking this question. No one can answer. The only witness could not be of any help. he was too focused on giving me good advice: "You should sit and rest". So I sat and rested. I am still sitting. I sit on the boat, rocking one side to another. And then..  So I guess I am a bit bored right now. Today... today living on a boat with cracked ribs is boring. It is painful to crawl out of bed. The minute I am out of bed, I realise that it was more confortable. So I crawl back to bed. It is also painful but more annoyingly I do not find the position I had that was so confortable... so I crawl out of bed again. So I sit. With an angle. To open the chest a maximum. To get as much air as possible without having to physically to do it myself. Because breathing is funny these days. Today I also hear that Georges Moustaki will not sing again. So I went on youtube. The first link that I can open with my 3 network connection relayed by an under achieving dongle is this. Ma solitude This is something I can do today. Listening, it is still quite boring, but it saves a little my mind from rocking sideways, too. An afternoon spent with Georges Moustaki... On a boat with cracked ribs, I can spend my afternoon listening to Moustaki...  I shall leave with this one. B.