Love working with the crazies — hate that crazy system!

One Private Universe on the Edge of the World

I could get to work and back along the beach, which made all the difference to my state of mind;—one morning I was taking a breather on a bench overlooking the ocean before starting my shift when a guy walked past with his hood up, mumbling persistantly; he had obviously come from the hospital so I kept an eye on him; he walked down to the edge of the water and for a moment I thought he wasn’t going to stop – but he turned and started strolling along beside the breaking waves. I contemplated him: hood up, still mumbling, and clocked the absurd disparity between his intense intro-spection & the limitless possibilites of the open ocean rippling calmly in the morning sun – first thing that came to mind was the phrase: “One Private Universe on the Edge of the World;” thus the germ of this painting was born.

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2007. Acrylic, Watercolour, Sand & Feltpen on Paper. 40 x 30cm. For Sale.

MeanWhileSleepSmile

I was working the night shift when they brought in this straggly-haired elf of a lady, old & small & sweet, they’d found her at the bottom of a cliff but didn’t know anything about her because she couldn’t speak: she’d bitten off her tongue. They didn’t know if she’d done it on purpose, or accidentally during her fall, as I said: they didn’t know anything. She was assumed to be high risk and put on the second highest level of supervision, meaning someone must be watching her at all times, (the highest level means someone has to be within arms reach at all times.) So I was assigned to watch her. She’d walk over to the window and do these tai chi-like movements that I felt were some kind of prayer. She was incredibly shy & nervous. Eventually she fell asleep, and for the first time since she arrived I saw her smile:—her situation was horrific, yet here she was, glowing like an elf in some peaceful dream, wearing a smile that was completely serene.

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2007. Acrylic & Watercolour on Paper. 40 x 30cm. For Sale.

HyperVent

This painting was not directly inspired by any particular experience, in fact it arose from a desire to blow some paint about (I got quite light-headed, hence the title: “HyperVent” from hyperventilate.) But it comes from the same period and speaks to me about my own experience of madness: the blinding chaotic burst of uncontrollable experience, the many beings surrounding the brain, the swimming eyes – but, beyond all this, the calm observer lurking in the shadows… the unflappable centre of the true self… it is this sturdy centre that is my saviour, yet I wouldn’t know it half as well without my wobbles!

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2007. Acrylic, Watercolour, Feltpen & Pencil on Paper. 30 x 40cm. For Sale.

Percy

I actually painted this whilst working on the ward, I’d raided the activities cupboard in an attempt to relieve the stifling boredom, and spread out a bunch of paper & paints on a table in the lounge. One of the ladies asked me what his name was and I told her I didn’t know – did she have any ideas? “Looks like a Percy to me,” came her answer – and so he was! This lady was among the first on the ward to interact with me: It was my first day and I was sat on a chair nervously guarding the door (this was before they made it a ‘locked ward’) as she muddled up in her nightgown and said: “Do you mind if I talk to you?” I could see a fellow HCA smirk and back away, so I wondered what was coming but still said “No, not at all.” She looked immensely pleased, I got the impression no-one had agreed to converse with her in quite some time, and then I found out why: “I’ve never had a cup of tea…” — “Oh really? Would you like one?” — “…I’ve never been on holiday, I’ve never watched TV…” — “Well, that’s great actually but there’s a TV in the lounge if you’d like to…” — “…I’ve never had a cup of tea, I’ve never watched TV, I’ve never been shopping, I’ve never been on holiday, I’ve never worn a dressing gown, I’ve never had a cup ot tea…” —!— This went on indefinitely… I actually quite enjoyed it.

Pinkurple Profile

I painted this at the same time as ‘Percy’ – not much to say about this, I just wanted to paint something pretty to stick up on the sparsely decorated walls. The ladies liked it, I told a few of them they were welcome to take it after it had been on the wall for a while, but no-one ever did.

Elephantine Snail

This was drawn for me by a young lady who had a history of making accusations of misconduct against carers. We got on pretty well, she was difficult to manage at times but it was just like dealing with a slightly troublesome child, so when she asked if I would take her out for a walk I agreed; she was deemed quite a high level of risk so we could only wander around inside the hospital, I took her down to the vending machines and passed the Occupational Therapy department then back to the ward; when we got back the nurse in charge asked her if she’d had a good time, she looked at me mischevously and said: “I especially liked it when me and Sam got lost in the cupboard together.” !!!

Throw-a-wayKey

The male & female wards shared a dining room, so at meal times a carer from each ward would stand in the lobby outside and make sure no-one tried to escape. We’d often sit on this big window ledge, eating a few smuggled nuggets of the patients’ food & chatting. We had these folders with sheets inside for keeping a record of the comings & goings of those patients who were allowed in & out, I sat and doodled this on the back of a blank sheet one morning, I showed it to the guy next to me and he said (perhaps a little predictably) “You want to keep that to yourself mate or they’ll have you in here.” I was probably considered a little odd by most, but respected for having a way with people; among my nicknames were ‘Gandalf’, ‘Mop-head’ & ‘Jesus’!

Robot Destiny

Soil-people

The scrawl on the left is one of the many notes I made mid-job, when such absurd little sayings would pop into my head and I’d be compelled to write them down. The scrawl on the right is one of many little notes handed to me by one of my favourite patients. She had done some awful things in her time as a result of her illness and had ended up on our ward because no-one else would have her – though we weren’t really equipped to deal with such challenging behaviour and she ended up being under constant supervision for weeks. I wrote a letter advocating for her, as it was my opinion that being watched constantly was actually the source of some of her problems (especially when she didn’t get on with the person doing the watching!) and they did eventually scale back the supervisions, which mostly worked out for the better. I found her to be quite an amazing lady; I can’t really go into any details but she was very creative, perceptive & knowledgable & had lived a very interesting life. This is another one of her notes:

Snails making for Magic Mushrooms

She had this entire mythology about snails, in particular one special snail called: “Snalien” …

She was room-bound in a previous home due to some reasonably serious misdemeanour, the windows only opened a little so she had them as wide as they would go and was looking out into the garden, a snail crawled up the wall and started slithering into her room and she freaked out and closed the window on it; she felt bad about her impulse reaction and opened the window back up – a third eye came poking out one of the cracks in its shell and she realised it was no ordinary snail: it was SNALIEN! She put him on some plasterboard which he ate to heal the cracks in his shell, and thereafter he was her friend and came to visit on many occasions. One time when they’d doped her up and she’d crashed spread-eagled on the floor she woke to find he’d been keeping her company in the night: traced in a perfect outline around the spot she’d been laying was a shining snail trail (like the chalk outline where a murder victim once lay.) It was glittering transparently… shimmering with friendly meanings.

There were many more stories of encounters with Snalien, even a creation myth,
but I’ll have to make a more concerted effort to remember them some other time.

Is that the Question?

I’ll leave you with a poem she gave to me,
including its notes, and a final doodle…

         O MYSTIC ROSE
         DID SOME SILLY BEE
         WITH DIRTY LITTLE FEET,
         STICK HIS PROBOSCIS
         UNDER YOUR COVER
         FERTILISING YOU?

         IMMACULATE CONCEPTION
         OF EARTH MOTHER
         THROUGHOUT ALL

*Mystic Rose is the Mediaeval name of Mary Mother of God.
*The word “silly” in Mediaeval times meant wise –
applying to Witches, Healers, Seers & Prophets.

She wouldn’t believe me when I told her I loved her poem.

         Companion comfort
         Can you feel the desperation in this calm hug
                                                                    Goodbye?

         Hello!
         I’ve laid here too long, it doesn’t help—
         Take me out in the sunshine for a walk.

Willow trees line the banks of this sweet little river, they evoke graveyards and drooping grief, yet steady and natural and stroking in the wind: sad but reassuring. We squelch over to them and walk for a while, parting their branches like beaded curtains – imagine a forest of willow.
         Sit on a bench by a pretty pond and take out our packed lunch; fork sun-dried tomatoes onto pesto coated sunflower loaf; watch a moorhen’s insistent neck-jerk as it propels itself through the water: “Did you know moorhens have no legs? That’s why they jerk their necks – like trying to ride a skateboard without touching a foot to the floor, or trying to make yourself weigh more by bouncing on the scales…” Believable lies are fun to tell and fun to find yourself believing: she smiles without feeling stupid, for I’ve touched upon the child inside.
         Two small girls run passed us giggling, elfish and magical and somehow unreal; then another two girls, trailing echoes of an adult’s shouted orders in their vibrant wake; mother dashes passed, apologising to us for some unknown but acceptable reason, looking desperate and foolish, the little girls’ innocent abandon and sense of fun seemingly unable to penetrate her concern – but part of her is simply enjoying the chase; and her concern is a pretext for play…

The pond and the sweet little river and the life of the ducks all calling to us: we want to splash the clean brown water onto our backs and ruffle it through our feathers; we want to travel these watery low-ways with small eyes and small bodies shining wonder onto the sights; we want to become ducks for the day and set about devising a plan that might carry us there: beyond imagination – or so far into it that it matters not.
         We build little wings out of found feathers and attach them fan-like to our ears. We paint our noses yellow like beaks and practise quacking at each other. We fill a large white bowl with some water from the pond, turned bronze and light-filled. We find a secluded spot not far from the source that splashes and bubbles and gurgles. The bushes hide us from prying eyes and deaden the soft steady sound of the drum (*bom bom bom bom*). We quack softly at each other. Our pupils expand to give our eyes the appearance of puddles of unknown depths stared into on a starry night. We lightly knock our beaks together and flick water from the bowl at each other, shaking our heads and ruffling our wings in preparation for flight. We continue banging the drum; slow, steady, soft; taking turns, giving life to the heart of this newborn imagination. We stare into the bowl, into the water, into the faces of the ducks we are staring back at ourselves… without noticing any transition: the reflection is gone, the sound of the drum disappeared.

A carpet of light slowly undulates; I watch the ripples emanate from my sitting place, extreme comfort; I feel perfectly supported all round, only slightly disconcerted by the droopy wiggles of my feet dangling below me in uncertainty. My left leg twitches and I slowly rotate to the right; I am met by the sight of my beautiful mate, reflective green flourishes marking the spectacular curves of her neck: “Quack.”

“Quack-quack.”

We swim side by side, an eye on each other and one on the bank and the sights beyond, effortlessly drifting; pushing slightly every now and then, or using paddled feet like rudders to stay on course, riding the flow with as little interference as possible; revelling in the beauty of our surroundings and the simplicity of living in this mode of being; perceiving anew this well walked river. Stopping to entertain some well-meaning children throwing bread into the water: it slips down my gullet and expands into a sickly feeling in my stomach – I give them a few golden quacks none-the-less (some of my best yet) and we continue drifting.
         Obnoxious vocal noise and loud music reaches our hidden ears as we meander into a busier area of these town-centre pleasure-gardens; a group of teenage children are drinking dubiously procured booze and egging each other on to jump the river; they spot us, bypassing our calm beauty to see only an opportunity to impress one another and shock the old codger sitting peacefully on the bench: a half-filled beer can sails through the air and hits my companion. A nervous fluttering of distressed quacks mixes with the disapproving mutterings of the fearful fellow on the bench. I get up and chase the perturbed teenagers: they laugh and jeer but know well enough to keep running from this odd character with his yellow nose, trailing feathers come loose, agitated by their quick release but soon calming into soft see-saws as they sail slowly to the ground, touched by the faintest gift of gravity.

My companion is nursing a bump on her head as I return, flustered and red-faced, having let the wayward teenagers off with a stern shouting, ignoring their insults-at-a-distance and turning away with as much grace as a yellow nose could muster.
         We take some time to present ourselves more subtly, wrapping the remaining feathers in the old cloth we cleaned our faces with and taking a few small sips of pond water to help us remember… the rest of the water is returned to the ground to help make the memory long.

Walking back through the willows we see the old man on the bench, he is standing now, the bench has a yellow ribbon warning ‘wet paint’ tied from arm to arm. There is a small pot of varnish with a brush balanced on top sat upon the nearby wall. He looks at us with a curiously potent mix of sadness and fondness. We say “Hello” and he acknowledges our greeting with a nod. I catch sight of a few words engraved in the plaque fixed top-centre on the back of the bench:

“Your smile would light up the day.”