Dear Readers, a small note before we begin. Since my accident in December which left me without the use of my hands or legs - a considerable inconvenience - I have been writing, via dictation, a weekly dispatch, which you all read and respond to with such love and thoughtfulness. You have kept me alive. As we approach six months, and as I prepare to come home, I kindly ask that if you have the means, it would mean a great deal if could support my writing by becoming a paid subscriber, and keep this show on the road.
There was a time when I was homeless in London. I slept within a dense thicket of bushes (which have since been cleared away) at the foot of the bell tower of St Sepulchre Without Newgate, a couple of minutes walk downhill from St Paul's Cathedral. The outer surface of the tower was exfoliating thin layers of stone that would fall and then shatter around a slimy drain at its base, close to where I lay my head at night. In this spot, a few feet away from a busy stretch of pavement, and practically next-door to a police station, I was so well hidden that, had I been killed by a piece of falling stone in my sleep, my body might have lain there undiscovered for days.
My sleeping situation at this time was a metaphor made flesh for the profound isolation that I experienced, surrounded by thousands of people, just outside the old Roman walls of the English capital, and yet unnoticed and unacknowledged. I had prematurely become a ghost. The eddies of passing conversations swirled around me. Very quickly the participants in these conversations became more real to me than I was to myself. I began to experience a creeping dissociation from my own identity, to a point where my own name and history seemed alien, as if they were something I had dreamed. There is no combination of words I know of that can fully articulate this state of steady mental deterioration. There are realms on the margins of human experience that defy linguistic description.
One night I was sitting on a bench outside St Barts Hospital. It was around 11pm. A middle-aged woman sat down next to me. She confided that she had been to see her brother, who had undergone an operation on his heart. Afterwards, he had found that his feet were bent perpetually upright towards his shins and he could not point them downwards. I made some thoughtless comment about the operation marking the end of his career as a ballet dancer. Thereafter, I hastily attempted to save some face with an uninformed take on acupuncture - a needle applied to one part of the body can trigger a response in another part that is seemingly unconnected. Maybe that is what has happened here.
“I knew you would know what to say,” said the woman.
A bus pulled up to a stop. She got up, said goodbye and disappeared inside.
The exterior of St Sepulchre was being restored and cleaned. Along the walls there were grimy marks that resembled the tightly-compressed peaks and troughs of a heart monitor, or a monochrome abstraction of a tall pine forest. I had come to believe that it was a message from God – literal writing on the wall – not directed at me specifically, but some outer sermon that was intended for Londoners at large. When I walked past the church a year or so later, I assumed that it would all be scrubbed away, but it was still there.
This Thursday just passed, I cycled five or so miles to the reptile shop to purchase locusts for my elderly chameleon, Frederic. On the counter there was a small plastic tub filled with a couple of inches of water. A pair of small grey snakes lay puddled together beneath the surface.
I often talk to the owner of the shop about anything new he has in. It's how I found out that the turtle, who lives in the big tank underneath the counter, is really into strawberries. I asked him about his latest acquisitions. He told me they were Elephant Trunk Snakes. They are aquatic and native to Malaysia. They can grow to be eight feet in length and they are non-venomous. I never knew such things existed.
I cycled back home. I showed Frederic the boxes of locusts and told him he would eat. The sight of fresh food brought out the brightness in his black eyes.
Frederic is dying. He is not sick, or visibly in pain; he eats and drinks and engages with his surroundings. He is suffering from that most unresolvable of problems – old age. He has lead a very adventurous and active life. In his dotage he is easily tired out; happy to let the world pass him by. I have seen this gradual winding down before in other chameleons and I know how it ends. I look after him and give him my attention. We will navigate through it together.
Chameleons converse using fluctuations in colour, skin patterns and shape. While they do not use colour changes explicitly to camouflage themselves, I have noticed that, when they are perched on someone, they will sometimes change their approximate tone to match the tone of that person's clothing. I regard this change as deference to what the chameleon perceives as the mood of its host – so a kind of social camouflage.
When Frederic is happy, he is pale blue. When he is angry, he will turn the colour of a roiling storm cloud. If he feels threatened, pronounced vertical banding will kindle down his flanks. You might even get 'the mouth' though he will not bite you, unless you are the vet, of course. When he was younger and less tolerant of my occasional incursions into his territory, he would lower his head and rhino-charge me along a branch. His predecessor, Sebastian, had to be dragged away from fighting his own reflection in the floor-to-ceiling bathroom mirror. He took similar umbrage to any Christmas lights that slowly changed colour.
When Frederic is unhappy, he will push his tongue into his chin, causing the skin to bow outward, like the bulbous protrusion at the head of the keel of an oil tanker.
His verbal communication is limited to the odd discontented puff of air that generally follows him being moved, against his will, from a comfortable position, or in one memorable case, when the sun went behind some clouds, which he perceived as being my fault. Sometimes he will issue a contented inner tick – the same sound that water makes as it percolates through the dry soil of a potted plant.
Recently, he seems to have worked out that when I put things in my mouth, that is the same as when he is eating. He will make little opening and closing motions with his mouth in anticipation of being fed as well. When he is thirsty he will push his tongue between his lips. When he has grown bored of the windowsill, or is too hot, he will turn around to face me and gratefully receive my hand as I move to lift him off.
Frederic and I have spent a lifetime learning how to effectively communicate with each other. Now it is almost over.
I would love that Nigel. I'm coming back on the 20th. I hope to see you soon. Thank you for being such a good friend. All love to you ant the family. H xx
brilliant exegesis on conversation, something my husband prizes doing with everyone, everywhere. Sometimes I lose patience with this; finding him blocks behind me on a walk because he's stopped to talk to someone or someone's dog. Aliveness is yours, dear Hanif... in the fullness of life despite the setback, you remind us always of its preciousness. Hail Hanif! love, Louise
I feel like small talk is such an easy target for most people to dismiss as vapid or inconsequential, but when we really listen to what the other person is telling us (both implicitly and explicitly) there is so much value to be had in these little chats. Small talk tells us how our conversation partner reacts to small inconveniences, what they care about enough to bring up and so much more. We connect with our innate similarities and get to explore our own humanity through others. No conversation is too small to be deemed unimportant.
Secrets yes. I held something secret from mum and dad all my life and who knows who does know - no one- whether they can’t read everyone like a book once dead. So it is shared and safe really if that was true. Or I could tell them in a dream (conversation) - this is another way. You sound very settled in yourself have you accepted something or maybe just trust that things are unraveling. That is a huge family (your Dad). Cairo is a beaut no wonder people tell him the lot. I will leave you with some tv pointers - if you do like politics you will like once upon a time in Ireland it is very very good and I’ve just realised brought to us by people from all sides of the conflict but in a kind of interview conversation - it is very powerful. It’s hard to be innovative but this is. Slowly things have changed - that desperate state seems to be more of a hopeful patient (not intentional) state. Lots of love Hanif from a tiny village in North Yorkshire that goes close to the hills and Roseberry Topping and Teeside xxxx Maddi
Indeed, when you are old and discapacitated enough, you discover that conversation and dogs are the best treat in the world. Best wishes to Cairo and you, from Buenos Aires, Argentina.
A book you might enjoy-and I think it might be a fine one read aloud- is Did Ye Hear Mammy Died? by Seamas O’Reilly. It is a memoir, never maudlin, always entertaining.
Great to hear you so upbeat in this piece. Always inciting resistance, provocation and joy; recognising the everyday profoundnesses of conversation. Wonderful x
So glad to read you are feeling more at ease (if that's the right word) with your situation Hanif. Miss S is entirely right. Hoping you can come to the UK soon. I am sure you will be able to experience the same sense of freedom and joy. Gunning for you anyway.
Many threads, so encouraging to all to pick up their thread and weave it into the fabric of their particular mosaic. Your mosaic I guess as I’m writing/seeing my early summer garden in so many greens and yellows and bits of orange (secrets? Dreams?) peaking out among my overgrown wild bushes.
Thank you for your strength and struggle...I am not in your physical challenge but sometimes my days feel as captured by my immobility. Love, admiration, keep on keeping on dear man!
Hanif, with the warm weather, the change of seasons, it’s evident that you’re feeling better - you’re expressing yourself better! For that, we’re thankful. For your spirits to be picked up, we can also include Miss S. Hurrah for Miss S! You had a crush on her from the first, and now she’s coming back to use the pool, and she’s stopping in - good for her! With all the local news from Rome and some sugary delights … what’s not to like!
Loved this. Like reading a Hanif Kureishi novel and discovering all the wonderful ideas and secrets inside—yes, I believed you were spilling secrets about the hearts and souls of men. How marvelous that you are still sharing, Mr. K.!
I am grateful with and for you, that you have found a way outside of your head through this accident, and deeper into communion with others. That sentence was a revelation! I was so pleased for you and took it as a miracle of the workings of God. Yes, well, I had just been praying the rosary and the Divine Mercy chaplet. You were near to mind during my prayers, and I came to your site for the first time in some time.
So, is the main picture up right now, of ponderous thinking Greeks, or of Christians? Anyway, love and respect and may you find your way home to England soon. You will have my continued prayers.
I tried to edit the word love. When I did, I could not save my entire comment. I hit cancel, so please live with the misspelling, as well as my run-on sentences and poor grammar. I have a good friend who is German, and a teacher. I would get such poor grades from her, if I were her student. Ha. The crosses you bear, as a professional writer, from some of your admirers. Thank you.
There was a time when I was homeless in London. I slept within a dense thicket of bushes (which have since been cleared away) at the foot of the bell tower of St Sepulchre Without Newgate, a couple of minutes walk downhill from St Paul's Cathedral. The outer surface of the tower was exfoliating thin layers of stone that would fall and then shatter around a slimy drain at its base, close to where I lay my head at night. In this spot, a few feet away from a busy stretch of pavement, and practically next-door to a police station, I was so well hidden that, had I been killed by a piece of falling stone in my sleep, my body might have lain there undiscovered for days.
My sleeping situation at this time was a metaphor made flesh for the profound isolation that I experienced, surrounded by thousands of people, just outside the old Roman walls of the English capital, and yet unnoticed and unacknowledged. I had prematurely become a ghost. The eddies of passing conversations swirled around me. Very quickly the participants in these conversations became more real to me than I was to myself. I began to experience a creeping dissociation from my own identity, to a point where my own name and history seemed alien, as if they were something I had dreamed. There is no combination of words I know of that can fully articulate this state of steady mental deterioration. There are realms on the margins of human experience that defy linguistic description.
One night I was sitting on a bench outside St Barts Hospital. It was around 11pm. A middle-aged woman sat down next to me. She confided that she had been to see her brother, who had undergone an operation on his heart. Afterwards, he had found that his feet were bent perpetually upright towards his shins and he could not point them downwards. I made some thoughtless comment about the operation marking the end of his career as a ballet dancer. Thereafter, I hastily attempted to save some face with an uninformed take on acupuncture - a needle applied to one part of the body can trigger a response in another part that is seemingly unconnected. Maybe that is what has happened here.
“I knew you would know what to say,” said the woman.
A bus pulled up to a stop. She got up, said goodbye and disappeared inside.
The exterior of St Sepulchre was being restored and cleaned. Along the walls there were grimy marks that resembled the tightly-compressed peaks and troughs of a heart monitor, or a monochrome abstraction of a tall pine forest. I had come to believe that it was a message from God – literal writing on the wall – not directed at me specifically, but some outer sermon that was intended for Londoners at large. When I walked past the church a year or so later, I assumed that it would all be scrubbed away, but it was still there.
This Thursday just passed, I cycled five or so miles to the reptile shop to purchase locusts for my elderly chameleon, Frederic. On the counter there was a small plastic tub filled with a couple of inches of water. A pair of small grey snakes lay puddled together beneath the surface.
I often talk to the owner of the shop about anything new he has in. It's how I found out that the turtle, who lives in the big tank underneath the counter, is really into strawberries. I asked him about his latest acquisitions. He told me they were Elephant Trunk Snakes. They are aquatic and native to Malaysia. They can grow to be eight feet in length and they are non-venomous. I never knew such things existed.
I cycled back home. I showed Frederic the boxes of locusts and told him he would eat. The sight of fresh food brought out the brightness in his black eyes.
Frederic is dying. He is not sick, or visibly in pain; he eats and drinks and engages with his surroundings. He is suffering from that most unresolvable of problems – old age. He has lead a very adventurous and active life. In his dotage he is easily tired out; happy to let the world pass him by. I have seen this gradual winding down before in other chameleons and I know how it ends. I look after him and give him my attention. We will navigate through it together.
Chameleons converse using fluctuations in colour, skin patterns and shape. While they do not use colour changes explicitly to camouflage themselves, I have noticed that, when they are perched on someone, they will sometimes change their approximate tone to match the tone of that person's clothing. I regard this change as deference to what the chameleon perceives as the mood of its host – so a kind of social camouflage.
When Frederic is happy, he is pale blue. When he is angry, he will turn the colour of a roiling storm cloud. If he feels threatened, pronounced vertical banding will kindle down his flanks. You might even get 'the mouth' though he will not bite you, unless you are the vet, of course. When he was younger and less tolerant of my occasional incursions into his territory, he would lower his head and rhino-charge me along a branch. His predecessor, Sebastian, had to be dragged away from fighting his own reflection in the floor-to-ceiling bathroom mirror. He took similar umbrage to any Christmas lights that slowly changed colour.
When Frederic is unhappy, he will push his tongue into his chin, causing the skin to bow outward, like the bulbous protrusion at the head of the keel of an oil tanker.
His verbal communication is limited to the odd discontented puff of air that generally follows him being moved, against his will, from a comfortable position, or in one memorable case, when the sun went behind some clouds, which he perceived as being my fault. Sometimes he will issue a contented inner tick – the same sound that water makes as it percolates through the dry soil of a potted plant.
Recently, he seems to have worked out that when I put things in my mouth, that is the same as when he is eating. He will make little opening and closing motions with his mouth in anticipation of being fed as well. When he is thirsty he will push his tongue between his lips. When he has grown bored of the windowsill, or is too hot, he will turn around to face me and gratefully receive my hand as I move to lift him off.
Frederic and I have spent a lifetime learning how to effectively communicate with each other. Now it is almost over.
Great piece Hanif! We’re coming to see you at Chelsea and W on your return! Love Nige
I would love that Nigel. I'm coming back on the 20th. I hope to see you soon. Thank you for being such a good friend. All love to you ant the family. H xx
Yes! Has the bureaucratic dam truly broken? Is the skow to sail? Back on the 20th, you say?
brilliant exegesis on conversation, something my husband prizes doing with everyone, everywhere. Sometimes I lose patience with this; finding him blocks behind me on a walk because he's stopped to talk to someone or someone's dog. Aliveness is yours, dear Hanif... in the fullness of life despite the setback, you remind us always of its preciousness. Hail Hanif! love, Louise
I think this is my favorite of all your dispatches that I’ve read so far. It’s really beautiful. Thank you.
I feel like small talk is such an easy target for most people to dismiss as vapid or inconsequential, but when we really listen to what the other person is telling us (both implicitly and explicitly) there is so much value to be had in these little chats. Small talk tells us how our conversation partner reacts to small inconveniences, what they care about enough to bring up and so much more. We connect with our innate similarities and get to explore our own humanity through others. No conversation is too small to be deemed unimportant.
Hanif..you made me snort with laughter at the idea that conversation is anti capitalist! Let's raise the roof with conversations ..keep going..
Secrets yes. I held something secret from mum and dad all my life and who knows who does know - no one- whether they can’t read everyone like a book once dead. So it is shared and safe really if that was true. Or I could tell them in a dream (conversation) - this is another way. You sound very settled in yourself have you accepted something or maybe just trust that things are unraveling. That is a huge family (your Dad). Cairo is a beaut no wonder people tell him the lot. I will leave you with some tv pointers - if you do like politics you will like once upon a time in Ireland it is very very good and I’ve just realised brought to us by people from all sides of the conflict but in a kind of interview conversation - it is very powerful. It’s hard to be innovative but this is. Slowly things have changed - that desperate state seems to be more of a hopeful patient (not intentional) state. Lots of love Hanif from a tiny village in North Yorkshire that goes close to the hills and Roseberry Topping and Teeside xxxx Maddi
Indeed, when you are old and discapacitated enough, you discover that conversation and dogs are the best treat in the world. Best wishes to Cairo and you, from Buenos Aires, Argentina.
A book you might enjoy-and I think it might be a fine one read aloud- is Did Ye Hear Mammy Died? by Seamas O’Reilly. It is a memoir, never maudlin, always entertaining.
I so admire your upbeat attitude to your situation, and I hope you manage to get back to London soon. All the best 😊
Now you know why I have been a dental hygienist for 50 years. Once you get to know them, people talk!
Great to hear you so upbeat in this piece. Always inciting resistance, provocation and joy; recognising the everyday profoundnesses of conversation. Wonderful x
So glad to read you are feeling more at ease (if that's the right word) with your situation Hanif. Miss S is entirely right. Hoping you can come to the UK soon. I am sure you will be able to experience the same sense of freedom and joy. Gunning for you anyway.
Really special ‘letter’ today, Hanif!
Many threads, so encouraging to all to pick up their thread and weave it into the fabric of their particular mosaic. Your mosaic I guess as I’m writing/seeing my early summer garden in so many greens and yellows and bits of orange (secrets? Dreams?) peaking out among my overgrown wild bushes.
Thank you for your strength and struggle...I am not in your physical challenge but sometimes my days feel as captured by my immobility. Love, admiration, keep on keeping on dear man!
Hanif, with the warm weather, the change of seasons, it’s evident that you’re feeling better - you’re expressing yourself better! For that, we’re thankful. For your spirits to be picked up, we can also include Miss S. Hurrah for Miss S! You had a crush on her from the first, and now she’s coming back to use the pool, and she’s stopping in - good for her! With all the local news from Rome and some sugary delights … what’s not to like!
Loved this. Like reading a Hanif Kureishi novel and discovering all the wonderful ideas and secrets inside—yes, I believed you were spilling secrets about the hearts and souls of men. How marvelous that you are still sharing, Mr. K.!
I am grateful with and for you, that you have found a way outside of your head through this accident, and deeper into communion with others. That sentence was a revelation! I was so pleased for you and took it as a miracle of the workings of God. Yes, well, I had just been praying the rosary and the Divine Mercy chaplet. You were near to mind during my prayers, and I came to your site for the first time in some time.
So, is the main picture up right now, of ponderous thinking Greeks, or of Christians? Anyway, love and respect and may you find your way home to England soon. You will have my continued prayers.
I tried to edit the word love. When I did, I could not save my entire comment. I hit cancel, so please live with the misspelling, as well as my run-on sentences and poor grammar. I have a good friend who is German, and a teacher. I would get such poor grades from her, if I were her student. Ha. The crosses you bear, as a professional writer, from some of your admirers. Thank you.