inventory of subpersonalities – commentary

The minute I heard the word ‘subpersonalities’, I was fascinated to find a concept that allowed me to explore different aspects of myself as if they were actual people.  The idea of different inner ‘me’s is something that I had been aware of for a little while.  My name lends itself to multiple nicknames, and it fascinated me why people chose a particular diminutive (interesting word) and what it meant to them and to me.  I also recalled my childhood love of playing roles from The Great Escape; I was fascinated by which role was chosen by which sibling, and by the potential revealed in those early choices.  I was aware too, of the odd diversity of my reading, which over the last two or three years has encompassed all my childhood favourites, mountaineering literature from the 1950s, Russian history and culture, stories from Bletchley Park, and several times, The Happiness Project.  The choices seemed so disparate as to belong to different readers, yet they were all me.

Since I started writing extraplorer, I’ve had the phrase ‘inventory of subpersonalities’ in my head as the starting point of a kind of poem.  Now that I’ve had a look back at the sheet of paper where I first drew and labelled them all, it occurs to me that it might prove interesting at some point to give each one an actual voice and see what happens.

A couple of notes on the poem:  The mixture of capitalised and lower case first letters is intentional as the words appeared in my mind complete with the variation in these aspects and I think it is significant.  Also, originally I just wrote down the list of subpersonalities, but it seemed incomplete.  Then I added the story of their discovery, but still the list itself seemed too clumsy, too concrete for something experienced as fleeting, shifting.  The addition of the inverted commas made the poem coincide with my inner feeling.  This makes the subpersonalities relational.  You can hear the poet identifying them, rather being faced with a flat kind of list.  This made the poem feel complete in a way that I felt happy with.

The inventory of subpersonalities might initially seem a bit spooky – after all we are reaching towards the fringes of our consciousness – but really it is merely a development of our ordinary everyday experience of the different roles we play – daughter, sister, worker, friend.  Some of the ones in the poem are everyday – (‘businesswoman’ for example) and some are metaphorical (‘enigma code-breaker’, sadly).  Each image holds a kind of magic and fascination that is big enough to grow into, or evocative enough provide a warning (it is not healthy to spend too long as an orphanage worker or speck).

my favourite café is dying – my library is alive

Yesterday I did something unheard of.

Instead of making my the café where I have gone to write for the last x number of years, a café so well-loved and frequented that I believe I may have worn a groove in the paths from my home to its threshold, I went to the library.

It had been little while coming.  First they painted the beautiful big communal room dark blue.  It altered the quality of the light, made it always a little bit sombre.  Then slowly slowly things changed.  The low-energy light bulbs cast less light.  The manager moved on and the new one…. Well, these things happen.  He introduced fresh flowers but when I visited they were always dead.  Then one by one the staff abandoned ship.  I saw the way that things were leaning, I made calls, encouraged from the sidelines, Canute-like failing to hold back the approaching tide.  The replacement members of the team were sweet, but somehow insubstantial.  No history holds them together.  And then on Monday, with the wifi more wi-foe, and the toilets neglected and the broken lightbulbs not replaced, and the cookie turned to dust…

That was it.  We had broken up.  A hastily proffered replacement cookie disintegrated into crumbs on my walk home.   There was no more left to say.

My city is not well-provided for cafés with large airy spaces and happy staff and a perfect cup of tea.  Too many are haunted by the spirit of the formula.  Faith has been put in track-records and not enough in the personal.  But insinuating itself into my consciousness had been the reopening of our library.

I hadn’t gone to the opening; couldn’t bear the potential disappointment of seeing old, worn, wabi-sabi beauty trashed by a new-kid-on-the-block.  So my visit yesterday was my first.  I tiptoed over the threshold, breath held, hands metaphorically in front of my eyes, peeking, and – sigh of relief – it was beautiful.  Not quite old-leather-armchairs-beautiful, but really, quite extraordinarily home and familiarity and sit-down-with-your-book-ish.

So armed with tea (yes, allowed in a travel cup), I took my place by a vast window, looking out to a park rustled by autumn winds, and I wonder about the change of seasons.

in the goldsmith’s workshop

Last weekend, tucked away in a corner of my city, surrounded by beautiful handmade jewellery, a goldsmith friend and I worked together to create something in writing about her work.

A goldsmith’s workshop is a metaphorical and literal treasure-house.  Scattered all over the place were tools, little bags of silver wire, strange little ladles and dishes.  As we talked, she showed me gem stones from distant mines and pearls from seas in far flung places. As our conversation explored the events and moments in life which are marked by things made in precious materials, the goldsmith told me a story, one of the many secrets of the workshop…

The goldsmith had a customer who had recently become divorced.  Still distraught, she brought her rings to the goldsmith; could they be remade, she wondered?  Hidden in the liminal space of the goldsmith’s workshop, the customer and the goldsmith worked together to melt down the engagement ring and the wedding ring that had symbolised love, and commitment and hope and friendship.  As the metals turned liquid, so tears flowed down the face of the customer.  Something was dying; pain, disappointment and loss seeped out of the cracks of the broken heart.  In the crucible of the molten gold, impurities from the former life of the rings burnt away.

And then the process of re-creation started.  Moment by moment, the customer and the goldsmith designed something beautiful from the raw materials of the old.  What had been was no more; what was left was a becoming.  Slowly the customer watched the goldsmith work with her designs and her hopes to create something new.  Wonder took the place of tears, and then joy and hope and delight.  The new ring slipped onto her finger and with it new meaning, shaped from the wisdom of experience, for a new life.

The fire crackled, the conversation went on…