I am third onto the bus, and spread myself and accompanying bags out spaciously over the seats. Yes, whacked out. I shall return home, to.... what? I could go to rest, a late afternoon siesta. Only it will be useless. I'll lie down for about two minutes, and it'll all start up. The whirring, chugging, rotating, deep down inside a part of the body that most people choose to ignore. It will build, and build, going ever deeper, over ten minutes or two hours. Finally, warm ripples of energy will take me over as they rise wave upon wave to the top of my head; or a silvery liquid will slowly make its way up the length of my spine. Or there will be an outburst, a spasm of energy, which will pull me half way down the bed.
It is good that I have the house all to myself at the moment! Even loved ones might find it all a touch disconcerting.
I take a look at my companions on the bus. All dressed up in their own particular ways for the cold outside. I am past comment, opinion, judgement: we are who we are, and that's it. My brain seems full of soft warm bliss, refusing to take part in such ways of thinking.
A woman gets on the bus with her daughter and younger son. The boy is in a wheelchair, physically and mentally impaired. The woman's purse snaps open, spilling coins all over the floor; the girl hurries to pick them all up. As we travel further, I notice the girl gazing out the bus window, alone in her thoughts and her world, while mother occupies herself with the boy. I wonder whether she gets enough attention from her parents, or whether she is unwitting victim of her little brother's all-consuming problems. CEN, it's called: childhood emotional neglect. Check it out.
There was a time when our bus route was proudly run on smooth-running, swanky electric buses. In recent times, though, they have been replaced by old, beaten-up boneshakers. Some double-deckers, even, looking as if they've been bought at bargain basement price in a London transport sale of goods from the 1950s. Today, we are rattling along, juddering and shaking as we go. The vibrations get things going: other than jumping off at the next stop, I have no option but to submit. I am taken over by a now-familiar feeling, a mix of unspeakable sweetness and near-despair. I can manage despair, and have come to respect it. Far better than feelings like certainty, which leave no room for growth.
As we continue to get tossed about on the pothole-ridden road, the sensations only intensify. I recall years gone past, when a great fascination was aroused by tales of teenage girls having orgasms while riding their horse. I'm sorry, girls, I take back my lustful delight. It's not always such great fun after all.
It's almost dark now, and we are nearing my stop. The afternoon's events flash through my mind as we turn the corner at the hotel into the final stretch of road. It's the thing to do, isn't it? The question. It happened twice during my little afternoon today, at the bank and at the outdoor shop. "Have you got anything else planned for the rest of the day?" seems the required question nowadays if a shop worker wants to keep their job. I sometimes mumble something about the day not taking up a lot of space in my future memoirs, while I stuff eggs and bananas into my shopping bag. Maybe one day I'll actually tell them. "Have you got anything much on for the rest of the day?" "I am going home, where Princess Kundalini may rise up in splendour. The lovely divine Shakti will meet in tender embrace the mighty Lord Shiva, and they will dance in tenderness and joy at the centre of my heart." One day, one day......
Photo: Andrea Davies
