Telephone Nostalgia

It suddenly occurs to me that it's been months since anybody called our landline.  Except for my mother, of course.  Day after day, when I check the phone after coming back home, the display is always the same.  0 Calls.  0 Messages.  Come to think of it, hardly anybody ever phones at all.  I do get the occasional call on my mobile but even then, they have become an increasingly rare event in my life.  So much so that when the landline or the mobile ring, I jump, wary, assuming it's either a wrong number or someone demanding that I do something.  I no longer consider the possibility of  hearing  "Hi, Katia.  How are you? I just wanted to hear your voice and catch up".   

I often call a dear friend who lives in London – so we don't get to meet very often –  and a precious friend who resides at the opposite end of the country, and I haven't seen for over ten years.  But I call them.  Although when they pick up the phone, they sound pleased to hear my voice (either that or it's wishful thinking on my part), the fact that I am always the one to initiate telephone contact makes me wonder if they simply put up with my quirk because they're fond of me, but that among the rest of Western humanity, it's a custom that has gone the way of letter writing and non-digital cameras.  

One London friend sometimes calls me on my mobile, and there's my American aunt who sometimes rings me on the landline.  Other than that, it's text messages and e-mails.  Maybe it's the kind of friends and acquaintances I keep.  I can't remember the last time anybody called and actually spoke to me when inviting us over for lunch, dinner or to suggest coffee in town.  It's either a text message or an e-mail.  No tone of voice suggesting the person's mood or state of health, no opportunity for a brief moment of warmth with words exchanged a viva voce.  Just emoticons.  I, too, used to include emoticons in my messages, but I do so less and less now.  I actually dislike emoticons.  Intensely.  Centuries of languages, poetry, the Renaissance, the Enlightenment, the Sturm und Drang, millennia of words in all shapes, colours, sounds and subtle nuances and I get a lazy, bland 😀🤣👍👏🏻or 😘.  A fellow blogger I've become friendly with, recently removed the Likeoption from his blog.  As I understand it, his point is that if we enjoyed what he's written, then he would like us to express it in our own words.  And not resort to a lazy "Like".  I must admit, I often find the lengthy process of leaving a fully-worded comment a little trying but then, once I have made the effort, I feel like saying, "Thank you, my friend, for forcing me to use my imagination and my brain."  

I don't particularly like social calls on my mobile.  The reception quality is often capricious, there is the background noise to contend with if I am in the street, and my ear gets hot after a while.  Moreover, I am never able to concentrate fully when on my mobile.  At home, on the landline, on the other hand, I can sit down and give him or her my undivided attention.  

I get frustrated with the ping-pong of social text messaging or WhatsApp-ing.  I wish I could just continue the exchange in good old-fashioned human speech.

Text messages are very convenient for brief messages, or if you don't know if it's a suitable moment to call someone.  But then what's wrong with phoning and saying, "Is it a good time to talk now or shall I ring you back?" Text messages have their place.  But sometimes I would like to hear the person's voice, assess their tone, detect their mood or their humour – without a standard computerised emoji sign posting it.  Also, I like to hear a friend say, at the end of a telephone conversation, "OK, big hug" or "Love you" or "Mwah" instead of the obligatory "x" at the end of a text message or e-mail.  

I prefer face to face contact to talking over the phone.  But, when meeting is not possible, a telephone call provides a personal touch a text message or e-mail simply haven't.  And, for all its convenient brevity, I find it much quicker to call someone and get an answer straight away, than using my large, clumsy finger pads on the screen of my smartphone – and waiting for the other person to respond.  

After I have cooked a meal and entertained guests, I would far rather receive a thank you call the next day, than a text message.

Yes, I too, am guilty of overusing texts and e-mails. I guess because people don't use the phone to make a voice call, I am often reluctant to ring them for fear of disturbing them.

As they say in Russian, when you live with wolves, you start howling like a wolf.

Well, I don't want to howl anymore.  I want to talk to people.  I want to hear their voices, in all their nuances.

Scribe Doll

 

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A New Life

I'm Ivan Musto and today was a strange first for me as I celebrated a near-solitary birthday, my 90th - a milestone, I guess. Let me explain the surrounding circumstances which culminated in an unexpected result.

The day started normally enough in my little flat on the 17th floor of a nondescript, shit-coloured tower block where I live alone in west London. I delayed getting up as much as possible and eventually surfaced at about 9 o'clock shivering and shuffled into the cold kitchen. Central heating is way beyond my means and I didn’t put the paraffin heater on to save money; the pleasure of warmth in the dead of winter has been reserved for later on. A huge pile of washing up stared back at me from the sink and dirty clothes were lying on the floor beside the washing machine. I ignored this evidence of my virtually extinct domesticity and turned on the ancient transistor radio. For company.

I was jubilant when I found the last clean mug in the cupboard and made myself a coffee. I glanced at my only item of correspondence of yesterday: my quarterly bank statement which helped to underline that I am existing without the means to enjoy a decent lifestyle. Lifestyle, my eye, whatever that concept is. Yet again for the nth occasion in my life I thought, "Bugger this – more economising necessary”.

No birthday cards as my wife, Karen had passed away many years ago and I have now outlived all my close friends as my final surviving chum, Nicolai died a few days before Easter and I just about made his funeral despite my arthritis and other sodding health issues. No other relatives that I know of except for my only offspring, Katarina who has lived in Australia since the early 1980s with that well-connected husband of hers. She stopped visiting Britain when Thatcher got the heave-ho as our Prime Minister and so I haven't seen my daughter in nearly two decades. She phoned me out of the blue I think about two years back on her way to some ‘big shindig at the ambassador’s residence in Canberra’ (as she put it) to say that she’d be sending me ‘eecards’ from now on – whatever that means. I don’t expect a call from her on my birthday anymore – that’s a far-flung memory in keeping with the distance between us.

Anyway I had the old black bakelite phone removed in early September. The pain of recollection now outweighed the joy of reminiscing so it had to go. It saddened me as this ancient bit of kit had seen good service in a variety of houses and flats over the years where my family had lived. Back in 1940 when we first got the phone installed it had been a precious lifeline between my new wife and I when we were parted just after marrying during the Blitz. But we did manage to squeeze in a 2-day wartime honeymoon. That was truly glorious and for 48 hours the passion in our togetherness by the Lincolnshire seashore in summer enabled us to forget there was a war on. But then Karen was transferred absolutely miles away to Scotland to work for the RAF in Aberdeen and I was stuck in Kent on a radar station near Kingsdown on the south coast. But we had been very fortunate as our love had lit the spark for an incredible intimacy between us that lasted throughout our married life until her death from cancer in 1995 and I can recall as if it were yesterday how many sweet nothings from separated young hearts was poured forth through that familiar receiver at the time during the war. Despite the physical separation we had devised a way of staying close.

But I am widowed now and when I looked at this object connected with intimate verbal communication I was regularly reminded of my late wife and the happiness we had shared over the wires during the war. What with being apart for many months between our simultaneous periods of leave when you lived day-to-day never knowing if you would survive the hostilities or not we turned phone sex into a fine art and probably made the operators blush. We didn't care as life was precious to us as we were so much in love and we had so much to look forward to as our entwined existence had this magnificent zest to it. Everything had promise. But that was a lifetime ago - and besides now that I am of a certain pensionable age I could no longer afford the cruel bills that always seemed to contain extra hidden charges and I was tired of receiving an endless stream of calls from mindless people trying to sell me things I didn't need. Or, for a 'larf', some local ruffians got a kick out of phoning my number at all hours and insulting me because of my age. Old age.

All this just confirmed what I have felt for a long time: that I have become an established lonely old git who is to be avoided and has entered into that dubious sector of society classified as 'surplus to requirements'. This train of thought is complemented by something else that I find upsetting: that the span of my consciousness on this planet of ours is proving to be like that of a favourite book of mine, 'The Go Between' by L.P. Hartley and where I feel that my past can be compared to that of living in a foreign country where things are different there. Even though I strive to keep up with life today and want to get on with everyone around me as I have always loved people - all people, I am at sea with modernity as everything's a blur. No clear divisions anymore and I find it bewildering. I know that if Karen were with me, she would help make sense of it all. How I miss her and the inner strength that comes from the closeness of being with someone you love and who loves you back in return. But I find myself looking at the vacant spot on the sideboard where the phone used to be and recalling the thrill of our inseparableness.

At the moment, I am writing this availing of the unused portion of an ancient school copybook of Katarina’s from when she was aged nine in Form IVC and I was feeling quite triumphant for a moment this morning as I was conscious that I still have my faculties intact – despite my decrepit and outmoded state. As I sipped away quite alone in this tatty kitchen of mine, the warm sweetness of the tasteless instant coffee was strangely comforting. I cradled the mug in my hands allowing the feeble heat to spread gradually through me and I did not know whether to be uplifted or dismayed when I heard, ‘Stairway to Heaven’ played on the radio.

It seems as if my life has come full-circle where ‘make do and mend’ which was the mantra when growing up in England in the 1930s during the ‘Depression’ and then throughout the war years of the 1940s will find ready application yet again more than seventy years later in the early part of the twenty-first century during this recession that dares not speak its name. Come to think of it, this relentless economic struggle of mine has etched itself into the entire arc of my life and I’m still grubbing for money in my old age: my childhood, adolescence, when I first got married, those so-called middle years and right now where this post-maturity age is it as nothing else comes after. Well yes there is if you want to be pedantic – death, of course and then if you are of a spiritual nature, the afterlife as some people say. A lazy expression if ever there was one as I have always felt it should be called the ‘next state’, the ‘next phase’ or possibly and less popular perhaps, ‘nothing’. But who am I to argue against the ‘great and the good’ who decide how we live and die and how we should nurture or torture our souls now or in the hereafter.

Over the years thanks to my local public library, I have read widely and continued doing so during my former working life as a tree surgeon. After a relatively happy working life among trees I was let go three weeks before my 70th birthday so in a way I can look on my entire retirement so far as borrowed time. How have I got through it? I'm not sure but as a positive I have greatly enjoyed such easy access to books and fortunately my eyes (with the help of my oft-misplaced spectacles) can just about handle those little squiggles on the page as my daughter would say when learning to read as a young girl.

I came to understand that my job provided a much-needed outlet to the open air and I got a real kick out of the daily experience the miracle of nature served as my escape from the confines of living in an urban sprawl. But still something niggled for far too long. I have felt as if I owned a prized possession that was never properly made use of and was continually restricted by forces way beyond my control: my imagination. Instead, this creative aspect to my thinking which can effortlessly soar over boundaries of geography, language, ability, gender and social position has been hemmed in by the tyranny of possessing inadequate cash – the damning full-frontal evidence that is contained on the pages of a bank statement – the latest chapter of my self-induced monetary despair sitting only a few feet away from me on the table there. My failing was to hold back this imagination of mine from vaulting over these very-real financial hurdles. So, in a way, reading books then became my substitute creative life as I felt unable to write anything longer than a letter let alone a short story or even a volume or two.

They say that you should embrace old age without regrets but that’s complete bo**ocks as far as I’m concerned as I’ve many. I won’t bore you with a spreadsheet of a ho-hum life up to now but I do lament that I permitted a lack of money to act as an insuperable mountain to stop me delving further into a world of wonder and exploration. It’s almost too late now but I should have railed against this cruelty of a kind of deprivation and been more courageous in striking out for something new. When I think on how lack of money put the kibosh on my life's grand schemes I could weep.

Later on, accompanied by the estuary tones of a woman narrating the 1 o'clock BBC news and after feasting on a luncheon of a few sardines enrobed in olive oil, an apple and some good old-fashioned tea, I take a nap; it helps to pass the interminable hours. On waking to a metallic grey threatening sky, I summon up the courage to venture out on this special day and realise that I have not spoken to anyone yet on my birthday. It’s well into the afternoon on this bitter October day. As I put on my coat and scarf, I wonder if anyone else even cares about this highlight of mine.

Even though I needed a few things and something decent to read I had another agenda for braving the outside world. I had set out in the hope of acquiring a small gift on this special day of mine: to have a half-decent friendly conversation with another individual. This was to be my present to myself and I did give it my best shot but in the end my trip was a complete shambles from the socialising point of view. Defeated, I plodded back home from my outing to the local library and supermarket where I got the vibe it was frowned on to exceed perfunctory verbal exchanges with silence the preferred option. I so wanted to talk to someone, anyone about my birthday but the veiled woman at the checkout barely acknowledged my presence never once making eye contact and the young librarian with a cropped haircut and a tattoo on his neck didn't attempt to disguise his impatience with me when I took a while to find my library card.

My well-thought out tactics to encourage warm verbal spontaneity between two people were thwarted and I trudged back laden with a few groceries plus the local rag and two books. I was so disappointed and noted it was getting dark with spots of rain falling. Luckily I made it into the whiffy foyer of my block before the heavens opened, a renamed tower in memory of some overblown Latin American politico recently-deceased revered by our out-to-lunch local bigwigs on the Council who seem more in tune with their brothers' difficulties in far-flung lands than problems on our own doorstep. I detest taking the lift as it is always dirty and smelly but I’ve no choice as I can no longer traipse up all the stairs to the umpteenth floor. My dodgy right hip and left knee have restricted my freedom of movement lately. I hate to admit it but I can feel my body slowing down and over the last 12 months or so I have become aware of my physical deterioration. I'm also a little frightened as I've no experience of being 90 before and I am coming to the realisation that my rebellious streak at resisting the usefulness of a walking stick or Zimmer frame is probably misplaced. I have however yielded in another area as it were by permitting a hearing aid for my left ear to overcome deafness.

The lift reaches my floor uncertainly and I mind the wretched gap beneath my feet exiting gratefully but unsteadily as I'm getting jaded now. Further down the dreary corridor I bump into a neighbour living across the hallway from myself, Mr Winston Jackson. I instinctively rejoice at the prospect of coming into contact with another person I am on nodding terms with but then I groan inwardly for very good reason. Just for my private benefit, I call this man, ‘Alright’ Jackson as that word – ‘alright’ – appears to be the only item in his vocabulary, uttered with a faint Jamaican twang. When I informed Mr Jackson that it was my 90th birthday, he grunted a non-committal "Alright" as the eyes of this middle-aged man narrowed and his head nodded just a tad to register fleeting irritation with the information I had imparted. No smile or good wishes were offered. No warmth was forthcoming.

He then proceeded to stand there with the hint of an amiable expression playing about his face but not bothering to further our conversation. I then attempted to inject some daft humour into our lopsided dialogue by telling Mr Jackson that I was going to raise some additional income by selling my soul on the interweb but it backfired badly and he responded with a scowl and a strongly disapproving "Alright". I then remembered that my fellow resident is a member of a certain West London Congregation. Oh dear. Mr Jackson then usually signals that his patience with me is at an end by muttering something inaudible as he edges away from me looking relieved when he makes his getaway. The door to his identikit flat slams resolutely shut. I linger for a moment and strain my ear for conversation, any conversation. I adjust my hearing aid to its highest setting and I hear raised voices from inside their flat: Winston and his wife must be arguing as usual.

In almost twenty years of living on the Mozart Estate in west London this is the norm of social interaction with the community and my neighbours. The supreme irony of living in this part of such a heaving metropolis where old people are unwittingly exiled within their own back yard as it were is anything but sublime as the supposed connection with a celebrated Austrian composer might have one believe. For me, exchanging a few consecutive sentences has become a victory for free speech. I peep out the windows at the end of one corridor and I can see it’s almost dark now as I turn to enter my deserted flat. Once inside, I put the lights on and cart the heater into my tiny lounge setting it on low to take the sting out of the chill around me but I keep my coat and scarf on. I fetch the radio which is still on only turning it off when going to bed. As I begin to read my paper I hear some presenter reporting dramatically on a stabbing yet again in our esteemed capital city. Unusually this broadcasting voice is almost posh with crisp, clear enunciated diction - the way I recall how airwaves crackled in the past with 'received pronunciation'. I have become fascinated by this slavish addiction of ours to the modern phenomenon of 24-hour reporting and how a regular fix is required. Mass mindless addiction to a never-ending tickertape of prattle as I see it.

But really at my stage in life I couldn’t give a toss anymore about the immediate reporting of such lurid details which in my opinion is another way of announcing the petty failures of all our pitiable lives on a nationwide basis. But this background sound whether musical or a voice talking has become a reliable companion of late nevertheless. It helps keep the abyss of loneliness at bay - the bane of advancing years and boy does it creep up on you quietly because one day you suddenly notice you're alone. And don't even think of consulting a thesaurus for synonyms of the word isolation or you'd probably want to top yourself. Old age is a scary place as it means unyielding obedience to decay and this inevitable godforsaken loss of connectivity to people. Please believe me.

On an inside page buried among the type of nonsense I have waded through in numerous newspapers over many decades, I come across an article that catches my attention. It’s about a new group of people coming together and calling themselves the ‘MEWS’ – the ‘Mozart Estate Writers Society’. Something in this notice appeals, I’m not sure why – maybe it’s the play on the word mews – a small and unpretentious appendage attached to something bigger – a bit like my tenuous connection with life really – that I can identify with. Easily. And then of course another word that rhymes with this acronym: muse. So this London MEWS could well become a muse, an inspiration for hopeful scribblers like myself who will attend.

The MEWS organisers announce they will be based at St. Saviour’s School which fortunately is nearby within 10 minutes’ hobbling distance for me. They want to meet every fortnight to review each other’s literary offerings and are looking for budding authors gathering for their first confab on the 30th of this month - less than a week away. I am grateful that they have resorted to publicising their activities using the old-fashioned medium of this weekly publication because if they had availed of the interwebnet-thing this blurb would have passed me by completely. Another aspect to age that I’ve gotten used to since retirement: discrimination and exclusion - both deliberate and the unintended - thanks to the cold contemporaneity of our lives today as it does it in spades as far as I’m concerned.

The chimes of Big Ben on the radio herald the passing of another hour and I make a mental note that I must stop these internal rants of mine. After all, I’m preaching to a converted audience of one - myself. Nothing will change. Or, will it? I pause and look up my eyes catching sight of a few family pictures on the mantelpiece including one of Karen and Katarina as a toddler taken in Regents Park in London in the 1950s. For many years despite us being cash-strapped we were generally happy as a family and my wife was truly wonderful and yes, I probably took her for granted. I remember much laughter in our home. But they are gone now from my horizon of existence and all that is my former life. Slowly, a germ of an idea takes hold of me and I think, "Could I begin to consider myself as a writer?" And really daring for me: what does destiny hold for me now?

Again, I consult the Mozart Estate Writers blurb and I appreciate the welcoming tone, "We extend a big hand to all writers on the Mozart Estate - young and old - who would like to see their work published. So, come on down". It's a while since I've seen my age group included so openly in a public event of this sort albeit using borrowed language from some infernal TV game show. But I feel that a touch paper somewhere in my sub-conscious has been lit and I pluck up the courage to wonder if a publisher might be interested in my handwritten tale spread over nine old school copybooks gathering dust on this small table in the corner of my tiny sitting room. I change the channel on the radio to something classical and fortunately my ear picks up the opening bars of ‘The Lark Ascending’ by Vaughan-Williams. I sit back on my frayed utility sofa of 1960s vintage and the heater burbles away as it reluctantly releases its warmth. I loosen my coat and take off my scarf. Gradually, I can detect this tiny thread of hope begin to flow through me and I decide to take my manuscript along to the new writers group to seek some feedback. You just never know. Perhaps I can even make new companions and call them my MEWS muse friends! But then wise-cracking humour was never my forté. But I can feel something vaguely familiar stirring inside me and it reminds me of my youth long time past: excitement about the future.

No longer will the dread of a meagre bank balance hold me back as I won’t have many other opportunities. I’m well beyond that biblical three score and ten so I’ve overdrawn badly here about to enter into a third decade of extra life. Oh, and my story – let me give you a taster: thanks to a handful of old family papers along with some faded photographs and supported by a little research I did at the local library into my ancestral history earlier this summer, I came across details of my (paternal) great grandfather, Jacob Alexandrovich Musto who decided to go to Russia in the 19th century and after a series of exploits serving in the Tsar’s army rising through the ranks to become a general, how he mastered the local lingo and amassed a fortune, apparently acquired a large family, got caught up in the Revolution of 1917 and then for some reason ended up playing a piano in Hollywood. But you’ll have to come along to the forthcoming authors' meetings to find out more. MEWS here I come – my muse for an exciting future devoted to creative writing. All of a sudden, I feel as if my life could resonate with promise all over again and I can't wait.

 

Note: this is a work of fiction and bears no resemblance to any actual or historical event(s), place(s) or person(s), living or dead.

©Nicholas Mackey 2013

(First appeared in Red Room, 27 November 2013)

 

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New Year Resolutions?

I've binned my 2018 New Year's resolutions. Unopened.  They were past their use-by date.  Somehow, they ended up being kicked under the bed or falling behind bookcases, where dust grows in tumbleweed form, buried under dictionaries on my desk, or accidentally stepped on and crushed. 

 

No matter.  They've served their purpose.  They've made me aware of my true intentions.  Of where my focus truly lay and of where it was lacking.  

 

As I threw them all into the recycling bin, I wondered if I should form new resolutions for 2019.  Where would I put them, so they wouldn't get lost again? On top of the tower of books I hope to read, ever-growing and neglected in favour of all the books I feel I have to read for my work? This novel won a prize.  I'd better read it in case I can pitch a translation proposal to a publisher.  Next to the address book with the contact details of all the friends I've lost touch with? I must call or write to them.  I haven't seen them for ages.  But first I must finish this translation.  And then I have this other book deadline.  I haven't got time to see them right now, anyway.  I can only take one day off this month and I have to go and see my mother.  That reminds me, I promised to buy her those Italian biscuits.  Or in my writing folder? I must definitely write tomorrow.  Or possibly over the weekend.  My own stuff.  I'm too tired now.  I can't think straight.  It's past 9 o'clock and I've been translating since early morning.  But I really must write.  I know I've been saying this for months.  Oh, and I must remember to buy some more potatoes.  And do we have any yoghurt left? I'd better check the fridge...  When did I start writing this book...? Oh, I had no idea it's been this long.  How about sticking a list of resolutions to the mirror?  When did I last look at myself in the mirror? I mean really look at myself? I look so haggard, so tired, so grey.  Or perhaps I can add it to my list of travel plans?  Yes, I'd love to go there but not this weekend.  This weekend I really need to work.  I'm so behind already.  Besides, can I afford to spend the money? What if publishers don't offer me another translation project after this? 

I once saw a cartoon on Twitter.  A woman approaching an aged writer sitting at a café table.  "I'm a huge fan of your intentions," she says, shaking hands with him.  I've printed it and stuck it on my wall, where I can see it.

 

For 2019, no New Year's resolutions.  No more living in the future.  As Mame sings in Jerry Hermann's fabulous musical, "It's Today!" The time is now.  

 

No more planning.  But doing.  

 

Take a deep breath.  Focus on my intention.  Direct it... Now.

 

I wish all my readers a happy, healthy, prosperous, creative and fulfilling 2019!

Scribe Doll

 

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The Island of Always

My new novel The Isand of Always comes out today. It's a sequel to, or perhaps more an extension of, The Marriage of True Minds, whch was published about ten years ago. 

You can find out more here:

https://www.istephenevans.com/theislandofalways/

 

If you read it, I hope you enjoy it!

 

 

 

 

 

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