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3. More Essays: More essays from my back catalogue will be coming your way. More filth, more jokes.
“We’re not very good with groups, are we Hanif?” Said the physiotherapist.
There were a few of us, four in wheelchairs, and two walking, accompanied by three physiotherapists for a café visit. One of the women in a wheelchair was weeping silently. Another was dribbling, and the other said nothing. Of the two men walking, one could only say a few words in a foreign language, which he repeated constantly, along with what sounded like bird chirping noises. Sometimes at night this man walks into my room and starts talking at me. It is a startling, if not frightening thing. Probably my radio is too loud, and before I turn it down, and even after, he just stares at me. I don’t know what to do until he walks away and closes his door.
This strange caravan tumbled towards the river, near the Arts Centre where I worked at the end of the 70s and early 80s, a place that I considered to be my real university, and where I learned about theatre, dance and literature, and spent time amongst writers, directors, actors and producers.
One of the physiotherapists said to me, “have we been here before Hanif?” I didn’t know what to say or where to begin. So of course I felt melancholic being there, by the river again, in this spot where I had spent so much of my life, looking at this view and trying to become an artist.
A year ago, I couldn’t begin to conceive what a hell my life would become. I could never have imagined it. So it wouldn’t be unnatural for me to wonder, as I sat by the river, what the fuck I was doing here, and whether I would ever escape. These moving people were sad to be amongst, and I was one of them now, falling forward in my chair, with my head drooping on my shoulders; it felt too heavy to hold up. Was this really me, I kept thinking, was this reality? But it was. I am still living in the hospital, and there is no prospect of me going home anytime soon. I am waiting in kind of limbo before I go to the new rehab.
Carlo sits here in my room with me wearing his baseball cap, T-shirt, shorts and trainers. He is so beautiful, brown and young. I lean forward in my wheelchair dictating these notes to him, watching the planes cross the sky. I can feel myself becoming increasingly impatient and short-tempered. It is such agony to be me at the moment. I want to punish those around me, while knowing that no one can be blamed for putting me in this situation. I had an accident, that’s all, a random contingent event, which had no connection to logical meaning, which is why it is so difficult to understand.
I see a lot of friends, more people in here than I saw when I was well. I was a more solitary person before, and certainly more cheerful and satisfied. Here in my bed, in the evenings, I am happy to greet friends and Isabella offers them chocolates.
These talks are convivial and sustaining, there isn’t a single person, though, among my friends who is not depressed about the state of our country. All unanimously seem to think that our city, along with the rest of the country, is going down the toilet, that there is so much inequality, underfunding, and failure, that there is nothing to look forward to politically or socially. I am by nature a pessimist, and I am too cautious to think the things in Britain might improve. But that is just me, not all my friends are necessarily pessimists, but when it comes to the state of the country, and what has happened to Britain after Brexit and thirteen years of Tory rule, all are despondent and disillusioned.
We would all like to see a Labour government after the next election, as I am sure many people in the country would. But I don’t know anyone who is particularly enthusiastic about Keir Starmer and the prospects of a British renaissance. The place seems to be shabby and falling apart, and the problems are so intractable, there is little hope. I write this as a question rather than as a statement, wondering whether there is any optimism out there, and whether the tiny demographic of me and my friends, is the exception rather than the rule.
Hanif
Your Questions
JANE WILEY
I would really appreciate it if you could find it in yourself to write to us about any progress you are physically making
HANIF
Dear Jane, thank you for your question. I am having physiotherapy in the hospital, as well as privately, and it keeps me from deteriorating, and exercsies my muscles. I am exercised in my hands, legs and stomach most days, and I also do my exercises in my wheelchair with my son Kier. I know these are good for me, though I complain, but I am not sure whether I am in fact improving, or just remaining the same. There is not much I can do for myself at the moment, I still cannot hold a pen, type, stand or open a book. Apparently progress is incremental; I have to work on myself everyday. I guess it is a bit like writing. Love Hanif.
HEBP
David Bowie is a great hero of mine. At a friend’s party the other weekend I said I think he’s the coolest man ever to have lived. My friend took great delight telling me about how Bowie had flirted with fascism which I’d not heard before and did surprise me. Having googled it afterwards I see it was in character as the thin white duke and I read the comments as being provocative but also commenting on the role of populist dictators and how they mesmerise the populous rather than being supportive of fascism, but I know I’m biased and likely to put a positive spin on anything Bowie did. I wonder how you feel about that.
HANIF
Dear Hebp, during the time that I knew David Bowie in the 1990s, I don’t think I ever heard him talk about politics, or take any interest in anything political. He was interested in theatre, dance, art and music, but I never had him down as any kind of fascist. He was too unserious to be anything so ridiculous, he was also married to a black Muslim woman, so I doubt whether he had any neofascist prejudices. I am aware that the Thin White Duke character was supposed to have these tendencies, but as I have already said, I wasn’t aware that Bowie had any cruelty in him, or any desire to persecute any particular section of the population. He wasn’t that kind of person.
AKASH PANDEY
Do you think grief can be processed and dealt with in writing? Or is writing a temporary distraction from grief?
HANIF
Dear Akash, people say that writing and other forms of artistic expression are cathartic. I am at the moment working with a good friend of mine on a memoir he is writing. Everyday he sends me a new section of it, Isabella reads it to me, and when she has left the hospital I ring him and discuss it at length. The writing of this memoir, which concerns his teenage years, has provided him with a whole new perspective on various important incidents from his youth.
Our discussions have helped him to reframe that which he thought he had already absorbed. So I can say, at least from recent personal experience, that his writing, particularly the discussions we have around it, have enabled him to develop and grow in his self-understanding. It has been a pleasure for me to be a part of it. So this is a good example, and a practical one at that, of someone using art to see oneself from another angle. This is something that he wouldn’t have been able to do alone. I have been able to help him, as others have helped me, see myself. So his writing has enabled a conversation, it is the presence of at least one other person that has made this possible. With best wishes Hanif.
ERIC SINCLAIR
I suffered a severe stroke in 2004 and for a while lost my physical voice, which was more cruel than losing power in an arm and a leg (which I also lost). I can therefore appreciate the utter frustration you must feel in your present position.
Have you found your present challenging position a source of inspiration for creative writing in unexpected ways?
HANIF
Dear Eric, thank you for your lovely letter. I was saddened to hear of your condition and I am sorry to think of your suffering. But I was thrilled to hear that you have joined a choir and that you have written a book. These traumas to the body and mind force us to find new solutions and creative possibilities. I hate everything that has happened to me since Boxing Day last year, my suffering seems interminable, but at the same time I have forged new kinds of relationships with my family and friends, and have created this blog which will become a book. These are small compensations, but they are compensations nonetheless. All the best, Hanif.
JACKAMO
What was Derrick Branche like?
HANIF
Why do you ask? Do you know him? I often wonder what has happened to him. Did you know he was at school with Freddie Mercury, and was in a band with him?
Dear Hanif,
For now let me focus on the hospital update. As ever, I am grateful to know what is happening. I wish the news were better. That goes without saying but it must be said. I am so sorry. What you write rings true. Your descriptions and comments are triumphs on behalf of all who care for genuine living even in the darkest moments. So much of our existence derives from accidents, good and bad. Your sense of the beautiful shines through, all the same. Brief glimpses, and so all the more genuine. I do try to stay away from or divert pessimists talking politics. You are toughness itself. The situation in the U.S. is every bit as frightening as anywhere else. I pay attention. I know I must. But gifts like yours illuminate the darkest of times. I hope your friends are faithful in reading you. Whatever went before, you now offer special illumination. A brief but decisive mention of Carlo's beauty carries infinite weight. Continue the explosions in the night sky.
Dear Hanif, Thank you for this latest installment of your blog. I do admire your ability and willingness to write so compellingly about what must feel like a never ending nightmare. You manage to describe how grim it is without lapsing into self-pity.
A lot of the time I share yours and your friends' feeling the country and perhaps much of the world is in decline and decay. What gives me some hope and purpose is firstly working with people in health and care who truly care about the people they treat and look after, and knowing that both of my grown up children are making a positive difference in the world. Secondly, being politically active in a very modest way. Even though Labour policy is by no means all I would want it to be it feels better to be actively doing what little I can to influence from within.