I read the note regularly over and over, just to see if anything might have been over looked. A hint in its syntax. A small, insignificant emphases that might suddenly catapult me into understanding, an inkling as to why. Why are we hiding? What are we hiding? I've found nothing, am still finding nothing and, yes, sure that's fine, I mean, its still OK by me. How long will this be my course of action? That would really be good to know. In the fast accelerating run up to Christmas. I am quietly going out of my tiny mind here, entirely on my own. Withdrawn, isolated from the people I know and love. The world I am familiar and would celebrate with. I can't even log onto zoom anymore.
Lying low, I know that is not easy for anyone, but for me this is a daily agony. Weeks and weeks and weeks since the whole lot of us went incognito. I've stayed faithfully within the confines of my loft apartment in docklands. Online deliveries dropped off in the entrance lobby of the apartment block, keeping me fed and watered. I've had to let Irita, my truly wonderful housekeeper go. Because I can't have people coming in and out from outside on a daily basis. This lack of a housekeeper has probably been the hardest thing. Irita, was my companion, my female confidante. I also loved my apartment being immaculately clean and tidy. I still love it. Unfortunately I do not possess one gene of emotional investment in dirt removal. From the perspective of cleanliness alone, Irita was an absolute godsend.
I've invested in countless pairs of black Marigolds and Neoprene gloves. Plus applying a level of discipline upon myself, somewhere between forceful and severe, in order to bend the knees, get down and do it for myself. Dear Administrator Geraldine, do you really grasp what you were asking of me - of all people?. Black, my signature colour - fundamentally unforgiving of dust and grime. All my outfits were never meant to be worn with an apron. Let alone the black latex ones I have. I've since bought green overalls. Though somewhat sack like, they do snazzily pull together with a broad leather belt and large chunky buckle, into instant land girl.
Emotionally on edge, I struggle on so many levels. Mostly its to do with invisibility. No longer on Instagram or What's App. I've had to stop doing my podcast. I feel sooo starved of the street, my performance arena, my physical theatre. The inhalation of car fumes, the smell of takeaways from fat vents, the hustle and bustle, of just simply being out and about, noticing folk, who'd notice me, acknowlede and greet, the small exchanges that prove I'm still alive.
The phrase 'not to attract undue attention'. Gosh, does that woman realise that this is my whole raison de etre, it is who I am to my very bones. I attract attention to myself. Human beings are naturally orientated towards bringing attention to themselves. It brings their existence into sharper focus. I've transformed myself into a magnet for it. I can suck a gaze dry from fifty paces. I do not like being ignored. Though I'm not there to be pawed, like some rare species of exotic animal. I'm either in total control of a situation, or I walk. I know how to prepare and declare myself for interaction with my people and my world. Through this I know what my power is, and where it lies.
Toning it down, yes, toning it down, after so many years of consciously learning the best way to tone it up. Well that's tricky. How exactly do I do that, without losing my grip? I no longer recognise myself in the mirror. As it is. I have, I'll readily admit, had to let myself go a bit. My black hair has turned more salt and pepper. This Avril, well, to me she resembles an empty vessel, hollowed out, plain faced, as unadorned as an Amish woman. Only on my good days do I make an effort and put makeup on. Even that makes me look like some pasty faced travesty in drag. There is something in doing things just for oneself that I find eternally dispiriting.
I've decided, today, in Christmas week I am going to venture out during the day. Fuck you Administrator Geraldine! I met you once at a social evening, and you made a point of encouraging me to forge my own way. So, I have forged my own way. Today I am fed up with the forced anonymity. In the mornings I stare blankly, with an increasingly yearning intensity into my walk in wardrobe. Rail after rail, shelf after shelf of beautiful couture black dresses, costumes, hats, the accessories, lining all its walls. A carefully coded fashion library. Pondering quite how 'not attracting undue attention' might be applied to one's décolletage.
A black signature colour - never thought of as subtle is it?. Blending into the background only during the pitch dark of evening. So I have done a bit of late night stalking. If I want to go out in daylight, however, I must be discrete. Out of sheer desperation, today I delved into the darkest recesses of my walk in wardrobe, in search of an old battered trunk. I had it for my boarding school, run by nuns. It's the one my Father sent me away with. Primarily so I didn't have to witness the endless string of his short lived affairs. Affairs with women who seemed not much older than me. I was not a stupid girl, though he'd keep referring to me as such. I was well aware what was going on. The abrupt changes in dress sense, the dyed hair, all the insignia of a middle aged man misremembering his youth. My Father, bless him, could be so utterly pathetic.
Anyway, that trunk, once I'd unearthed it, contained one or two unexpectedly painful surprises. An advent calendar, one my Father had given me at the beginning of my first autumn term. I so hated him at the time, I refused to even open a door, let alone consume its contents. It looks very sad now, so stained and crushed. It was here, along with my rosary, communion book, satin confirmation dress, and a number of shapeless pinafore dresses, that I found a whole hat box of head bands.
Was I so in love with these that I formed a collection? No, I did not. I had, and still have, long and usually wildly unruly hair. Hair that straighteners were made for. But at the time I had no access to such a thing. The nuns forbade it. They'd castigate me for indulging in even the smallest vanity. Yet it was they who were so obsessed with how I looked, keeping my hair tidy and out of my face. They'd tried pig tails and other such restraints, before settling on head bands as the ultimate solution.
These head bands lie in their box, as though wriggling snakes had shed their crumpled skins in there. Coiled, curved and arched in a variety of widths, colours and styles. Crimped crepe ones, shiny satinette, velveteen, but mostly homely floral (yuk) printed fabrics. One for every rite of passage imaginable in a convent school. On the QT I'd transformed a few into leg garters, with badly ruched up rosettes. These felt transgressive at the time, concealed beneath my plain pinafores. Until they were spotted in gym class by another girl, who so disliked me she ratted to the head. All hell broke loose. The words 'precocious whore' spat from their mouths. From then on the nun's were on a persistent mission to 'save me' from myself.
The nuns ultimately failed in their objective to rescue me, but they did set a vital precedent. Clothes, the surface decoration of appearance, would become my ultimate salvation. Not by restraint or demure self denial, but by embracing impulses with relish. Via succumbing to vanity wholeheartedly, I became whole as a woman. It was my religious devotion, one that I prayed for, performed my exculpatory rituals to, prostrated my plain unadorned self before. Drinking from the stream of novelty, worshipping individualism through fashion and it's idolatry. The inherent transience of this requiring me to live, often in their one sole moment of arising. I got very adept at riding the wave, however brief its tenure.
And now, it seemed to me, it might be once again the time for head bands, for a return to dowdier humdrum camouflage. Perhaps I could see this as broadening my presentational range. I've run up a simple pinafore dress, made from a patchwork of fabrics from the school ones. It looks fine, an eccentric bit of 'peasant couture', with contrasting pockets and matching head band. It reminds me of Marie Antoinette, dressed up, pretending to heard sheep. In more normal times I too would have gone for the full Bo Peep, but for now, I must contain my radical impulses. The purpose here is to blend in, not stand out, to be the blandest of bland. So I can then go out and not be noticed.
At first, I haven't ventured far. Just to the mini mart around the corner for a pack of almond fingers, a secret vice! I wasn't out for long, ten to fifteen minutes at most. I felt a mix of excited transgressive feelings and guarded apprehension. With each advent day, I've gone further and further a field. Until today, I'm well on my way to the Mulberry Estate, where I suspect a couple of my friends might be hanging out. I felt tense with the anticipation of doing so, as I lightly knocked on their door. Only when the door tentatively opened did I know I was right. Performing a huge Ta da! I screamed 'Hello Boys, can I come in for a chat, and a seasonal tipple?'
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