Invisible

Sometimes when I venture out for a newspaper or a carton of milk I feel as though another tiny part of me has disappeared. This gradual body depletion is difficult to quantify as I know I’m still virtually the same person I was yesterday, with the possible exception of an extra grey hair or newfound wrinkle. It’s as though the more routine and predictable my journeys are the more insignificant I become. Perhaps I should attempt to halt or even reverse this slow disappearing act with a naked one-man-band impersonation in the dead of night?

It also seems as though the less I interact with my surroundings the more the invisibility is accelerated.  A hearty ‘good morning’ or ‘lovely weather today’ with any complete stranger tells me I’m still here. It’s when I refuse to engage with my fellow humans or choose to hide myself under hats, and behind sunglasses that the situation is exacerbated.

Certain senior citizens can slip through our observational nets without even trying. Their body language, gait, and dress all conspire to render them a kind of walking background noise.  A particular brand of adolescent filters out these urban ghosts because they refuse to accept or believe that one day they too will be shuffling towards Tesco’s with a beige and orange shopping trolley wondering if they remembered to lock the front door or turn off the cooker. Either that or they see no personal advantage from elderly interaction.

If I stopped going out would anyone miss me?  I could always don a disguise such as a false beard or wig and discover for myself. I’d frequent my usual haunts and say something like:

                “Whatever happened to that middle aged guy who used to come in here day after day for his paper and carton of milk? The newsagent might scratch his head or frown and say:

                “Oh you mean that quiet fella who wore the same drab clothes? Dunno, praps he moved away or died?”  Not exactly a heartfelt eulogy is it? Mind you, I could always stick up for the mute fashion disaster with some heartfelt anecdote or even suddenly unmask myself with a jubilant “Fooled Ya!”

I think some days we feel more anonymous than ever, wearing our transience or disconnection like a heavy overcoat.  I also think we prefer to make a conscious decision to emerge from our prospective dwellings ‘camouflaged and unremarkable’ or not at all, because we don’t wish to stand out and be noticed. We can’t all be in the limelight at the same time. Sometimes it’s infinitely more preferable to watch a firework display than to try and be the firework itself.

A few years ago, I wrote a poem  about an elderly man who was released from a mental health establishment to fend for himself in the community. Sure, he was told he had the backup of a CPN (Community Psychiatric Nurse) twenty four seven, but this man had fallen into a daily routine so entrenched that no one was ever going to alter him. Unlike me, he was extremely visible, until one day he completely disappeared. Below is my tribute to him.

Noel

Noel Coward lives in our street.

Each day at nine he promenades

wearing his best Oxfam smoking jacket,

recently died fawn slacks

And beige slippers

First he pats his pockets, 

before taking out an imaginary cigarillo

clamping one hand to his forehead,

mouthing “ooh silly me” and,

realising fags are normally filter first

removes it, bows and re-inserts.

Once lit, he stands at the pedestrian crossing

on Prospect Road parodying an old prostitute,

soliciting winks from passers’ by,

Taking great sucks of his pincer’ed butt

Like a reverse breathalyser

Blowing pseudo-smoke rings at traffic cops

His gait is something to behold.

Not quite John Cleese from the ministry 

more a speed skater in slow-mo

who trips over an imaginary toe

and slews to a teetering stop

I heard he feigned death

in Granton Park,

doing a very convincing heart attack.

Trouble was, the pretend Paramedic

Arrived too late

As did the imaginary undertaker, leaving

an eight-year-old girl feeding swans

to mark the body

face down in the lake

with two soggy rounds of bread

and a mouldy bap