“O God, thy sea is so great, and my boat is so small.”
– old Breton fisherman’s prayer
Exile’s a funny thing.
Some of you know why it has been so long without me writing, and without me needing to tell you. I have been in London now since June, drawn inexorably into its glittering grey web and feeling my marrow corrode like rust as the year draws on. The summer heatwave here cast an aura that threw my vision into cloudy kaleidoscope, a kind of hope-blindness, but winter is on me again and you know the steady tumour of lead that grows against my heart in those long months. I am becoming a loose collection of join-the-dots from one pain to the next; these ribs creaking, this heart in its death-throes, these bones in their aching, premature dotage. That scrawled letter left to untender mercies of gale and sea, the silver sheen of a Milagro tossed in the river, dissolved in the magic of a thing purposefully cast away. I think I threw my soul after it. My lungs won’t stop hurting.
I live in a funny little L-shaped box room just outside the heart of the city. I can reach out and almost touch both walls. There is a window to the rooftops but it is tucked out of the way behind a partition, turning the thing into a sort of eyeless cave. The walls are very thin and the colour of sour milk and lined with Russian literature, and people wonder why I am insane. The sounds of everyone else jammed into this plasterboard carve-up – a halfway house for fellow addicts – are so close they are like hearing my own thoughts. They are just as chaotic in their habits as I, and so half-finished poems breed paper legions across the floor, stained with cerulean and burnt umber. Music comes from the rooms beside and below me. Sprawling herbs are conquering the garden in irresistible green silence; the bathroom mirror was covered in pithy quotes scrawled in old lipstick, but we were told to wipe them away. You are not allowed your own furniture, and sometimes your own thoughts, on pain of eviction.
I have to get out in the days or I find myself lying on the bed with my body warped in a kind of contraction, sinews straining and hands clenched into fists, wanting to vomit nails. Often now I walk for hours simply for the dull rhythm of my feet hitting the ground; for the sensation of muscles flexing and swinging, tuning out the feathery static of the brain’s stuck channel. Like the ponderous shapes of women walking the halls of a labour ward, hands pressed to the small of the back. Walk it off until the pain recedes one way or the other, until the thing curled within you breaks into life or dies there, caught in the suffocating hollow of your body.
Exile. Known intimately to addicts and other misfits whose feet are ribbons from long walking the razor’s edge. I feel it standing on a crowded platform, commuters jammed together like a bunch of grapes in which I am inexplicably a stone. I feel it walking down the street when no one seems to see me but the beggars, as though we have the ability to see each other’s ghosts while still alive, submerged in this thin, cold stream running parallel to the river of warm bodies. I feel it in conversations I can barely start and certainly don’t know how to continue without stuttering into the embarrassed silence of someone who isn’t even there and still takes up too much room. Adrift in my little boat on God’s great sea when no harbour will take me for long, but then I never did like staying in one place. There is a peculiar grace in momentum, even as the waves are sometimes tall and black with horror.
Exile, without purpose, is not survivable.
And then a warm and holy thing fell into my hands, smelling of wax and burning leaves, and I became an apprentice beekeeper with my boat anchored in honey, if anywhere. The hum of the hives is a living book of secret hymns, and I am slowly learning the words. If you seek asylum as the outcast living then find the hives, you will meet other pariahs there, standing around a bucket in waterproof clothing. We are there when addicts take Communion with tea and biscuits for an hour in the beige side-rooms of methodist churches and service centres that reek of hand sanitiser and unwashed clothes, lined with faces like collapsing walls. We are there with change and cigarettes for fellow ghosts that haunt the tents on Tottenham Court Road. That, I suppose, is Manna in my personal desert.
Anyway. That’s where we are. This is the point from which I sail again.