Looking down, looking up

(this is not quite right, but it’s something I’ve been thinking about on and off and I wanted to get it down in some form)

My Grandad once advocated to me the idea of walking around with your eyes on the floor. He explained that that way you would never tread in anything nasty, you would rarely, if ever, fall over and you wouldn’t make a fool of yourself as you crossed a crowded room. He explained that he had been doing it for years.

Listening to my elders I practised this technique myself with some diligence during the middle years of my childhood. True enough, I never trod in anything nasty, while my contemporaries’ feet constantly found their way to any excrement in the vicinity. I rarely fell over, and I was great at that game where you don’t tred in the cracks.

Much later on, I became aware that this trick has some limitations. Aged fifteen it suddenly seemed like there was some value in being aware of all the interesting things around you and in meeting some of the strange, wonderful and often fearful stuff that came over the horizon, head on, rather than head bowed. I spent some time trying to lift my gaze.

My Grandad spent his late teens and early twenties scaring the shit out of himself, flying high above Germany at night, trying to plot a course that would guide his plane to the right place to drop bombs on factories, fortifications and civillians. Then he had to guide his crew back again without getting mincemeated by any of an array of hazards armed only with some maps, a ruler, a compass and a steady stream of woodbines (which funnily enough were probably the thing that killed him in the end). I guess after that he was happy to spend his time being thankful to be on the ground, looking down at it in silent reverence. All his medals meant something, but just having your feet on something firm that didn’t shoot at you, meant more.

My late teens were spent learning that there were lots of opportunities to link, stare at and sometimes gain limited contact with the soft curves of ladies and that this activity was best served with head held high. I learnt to challenge the urge to shoe-gaze except when safely home with good pals and weakened blood-sugar levels. I didn’t do anything heroic, but sometimes I wanted to.

But it’s weird. These days, I find myself on a new trip – increasingly thinking about ‘could-bes’ – ideas half-glimpsed taking shape out of the sky and the forlorn hope of putting down something I can be proud of. Sometimes I’m still meeting gazes, brow furrowed in determination, fists clenched and the threat of old violence just under the surface, but it’s not always like that. Not as much. Increasingly the face I display to the world is accompanied by big grin, glint in eyes and the ever-present possibility of a manic laugh bubbling over to upset all the conventional, frustrated and angry people that I meet. The rest of the time I like to look up. I look at the tops of buildings, at the bursts of blue sky, at the possibilities stretching out ahead. The air is much cleaner up here (but you tred in more stuff).