In search of headspace.

Life is a bit full at the moment - and so reflective times have been precious.

Some years ago I saw an interview with Germaine Greer. When asked what her favourite pastime was she replied, 'thinking.'

I get that - thinking is the most wonderful, creative, energising way to spend an hour or two. If only those hours were more easily available.

The problem - for me at least - is that my current thinking is less creative and more like cogitative soup. One thought doesn't lead logically to another, in a way that might disentangle a problem or two. Instead ideas leap on top of each other like mating frogs, without allowing any breathing time.

I tried writing things down. At least the creation of lists gives an appearance of organisation. But when I tried to write my reflections (often a useful way to make sense of muddled feelings) all I could come up with was general angst.

Soon after that, I needed to cut the grass. Hurrah - an hour for thinking, while I trudged up and down the garden with the lawnmower. Surely there would be logical thought in the sanctuary of my garden. I even put a notebook in my pocket, ready to stop and jot down anything inspiring.

So why could I think about nothing more exciting than to wonder why my socks always fall down under my wellies but not in my shoes. Then I contemplated the lack of intelligence of toads: they hop off into the long grass, while if they were truly bright they'd leap over the mown stuff and hide among the weeds. Then I wasted energy on raging about the dog that had jumped over a fence and left poo on my lawn.

I gave up. Decided I needed a shower. Then, when I was at my wettest and soapiest, I had a flash of insight ... if I tackled this task, then that would become easier ... and then everything would unscramble. Hurrah! If only I could remember what that first task was when I got out of the shower ...

I give up. I'll just carry on snatching thinking time when I can. And if anyone knows of a waterproof notebook please let me know.

Here I go again.

The bags are packed (a wheelie suitcase this time, not a rucksack. I am assured that there won't be many unruly tracks). The tickets are printed and checked. The bank informed I'm going awol. It's almost time to go.

I understand that internet access is expensive and slow in Cuba - I'll drop by here from time to time, of course, to pass or an adventure or two, but my visits are unlikely to prolonged or regular. (I'll not tell you all of them - my daughters have been known to drive by here and there's no need to alarm them). Of course comments will be welcome - I promise to read them but I may not be able to respond.

Nor will I be able to do much on the twitter front - so if anyone feels energised to publicise a post or two, that would be wonderful. And if you don't -  that's fine too. I'll read blogs when I can, but can't promise to keep up with the chatter or even write anything meaningful. I'll do my best to catch up when I get back.

For I'll be ... I don't know where. I have five nights booked in Havana, and then I'll take a bus somewhere and see what happens. All I know is, it will be warm, and wonderful (sorry, probably shouldn't rub that in). I'll travel with notebook in one hand and pen in the other, scribbling stories as I go.

You never know, there might be another book when I get back.

(Meanwhile, I've titivated the website - nothing drastic, just a little play with the colours and boldy bits. If you have some online time to fritter: click here. And if you fancied following the link on the website and 'liking' me on Facebook - I'm told it makes a difference to something-or-other, but I've no idea what!)

Diaries.

Do you ever reread old diaries? Not the writing notebooks - those are full of ideas (or snippets, or general passing thoughts-that-might-be-stories-one-day). But diaries, where you write about things you did that day, and maybe how you felt about them.

I keep a diary at home - and never read it. As I've no-one to turn to and say, 'you'll never guess what happened today,' my diary is where those thoughts and general daily rubbish get dumped. And no - I don't reread them; once they are on the page they are gone. My head can move on.

But the travel-diaries are different. I'm beginning to go through the diaries from Nepal - firstly, to think about whether they can be shaped into a short ebook, and if so, then how. But almost immediately I am caught up with something I'd forgotten - generally little things that feel unimportant in context of a wider story. Such as the man in leather jacket and trousers, at the domestic airport in Kathmandu, taking his baby daughter (about 4 months I think) to look at the planes. The boys playing football outside a temple in Tansen. The sign outside a health spa in Pokhara that offers a back, neck and ear massage (no, that's not a typo!).

These details feel as important as the big stories (like the tiger). They are what makes each day different, and special. I can't imagine how tedious my day-to-day diaries are at home - and nothing would induce me to go over those. But the travel diaries excite me every time I open them. They take me back to the people and the smells, the mayhem of the city streets and the glorious silence of the mountians (and yes, they scratch my itchy feet, just a little.)

And you - do you keep a diary? And do you ever reread it?

It can be fun, being invisible.

Sometimes the invisibility of ageing women can be a nuisance. I speak, the room whirls round me, then the same words come out of the mouth of a man and everyone drools. But there is little point in foot-stamping; that changes nothing.

(I recall talking with Paul, my mentor, about this - and he was appalled. He'd never noticed older women . . . I rest my case.)

It has evolutionary advantages. The only logical reason for women to live so long after the end of their child-bearing years is to raise children. So - say your village is attacked; if those caring for the children are invisible then a few dead men matter less.

And it has its advantages. For instance, earlier this year I drove down the west coast of America. I found myself in a little cafe in LaJolla, sipping a cappucino, while three women at the next table seemed totally unaware of my scribbling in a notebook, looking up every now and then to check who was speaking. And here, roughly, is a transcript of a corner of their conversation. I shall call them A, B, and C.

A. 'Well, I had this job, in Silicon Valley, and it was so paid, well you know what they pay there, thousands, hundreds of thousands. We had this wonderful house, in the mountains; it was just darling. But then they effectively asked me to choose between work and family (she shrugs), so here we are.'
B. 'Oh, that's such a wonderful story!'
C. 'Oh, and you are such a wonderful mother.'
(They talk about the wonderful things they are doing with their children.)
B. 'I've gone back to school, so I can help little B with his math.'
A. 'Oh, that's so cute.'
B. 'And I've given my daughter a diary, so she can record the way she feels.'
C. 'Oh it's so important that daughters feel good about themselves.'
A. 'Oh self-esteem is the most -'
B. 'I talk with my daughter about her feelings all the time.'
A. 'I want to go to meditation with my daughter.'
C. 'Meditation is wonderful. The pregnant mothers I work with, they do this meditation together, and go into this womb-like trance, and then they all stay connected to each other, sort of embraced by the process.'
B. 'Isn't that just beautiful?'

And so it went on. (In my notebook I commented that this was another reminder of the things that obsess us when we are removed from the necessity of foraging for our own food or keeping ourselves safe.) I have yet to weave this into a short story, but I can't help feeling that all this mutual adoration hid some serious envy. I'm not sure I believe A's tale of deciding to leave Silicon Valley for her family; and, if it's not true, why does she feel a need to make this up? What is B's daughter really writing in her diary? And what do the pregnant women in C's medication class think when in the throws of labour?

On a lighter note - a lad on a bus intended me to hear this: he clambered on with a large musical instrument, bumped into everyone on his way to the back seat, and the turned to his friend and shouted for us all to hear, 'Have you heard, like, Verdi's fucking requiem; it's fucking great!' (I think he wanted me to be shocked.)

So - what have you overheard recently? And does it find its way into stories, or simply simmer in the pages of your notebook?