Ladders of Former Lives

I have always considered myself to be pretty outgoing, but I am struggling to make friends lately. I guess I better work harder on my “ice-breakers” because it seems that “hey there, do you remember your former life” doesn’t really do me any favours.

Sometimes I am okay with being on my own, especially when the night is a bit windy and the moon is shining bright. Other times I feel lonely and out of place, lost in my own head with no one to talk to. I’ve always considered nature to be flawless, but this time something clearly went wrong. A glitch in the system? Maybe… I wonder if there are many others like me out there somewhere…

The only explanation that I can come up with is that the way everything turned out is my penance for all the things I’ve done and didn’t do when I was Brian. I still definitely feel like Brian, but I am starting to forget the physical sensations of being human.

Tonight I flew all the way from Kew Gardens to Kensal Green in northwest London, just to see my old house again. Victorian terraces with their instantly recognisable rooflines and essential bay windows still look the same, relentlessly crumbling away, brick by brick. A huge maple tree at the end of my street is starting to shed its leaves, covering the ground in bright yellow, orange and red patchwork right out of a post-impressionist artwork. Autumn is here.

Here comes Dale, a middle-aged architect and his trusty labrador Buddy. They live across the street and still like their jogs done before sunrise. I remember hearing them talk to each other early in the mornings just outside their door, waking me up from my slumber. Dale used to be obese, but he managed to lose probably half of his weight thanks to Buddy’s relentless need to go outside. It took nearly 5 years of daily exercise and a strict diet, but Dale did it. Every time we met each other on the street or at a neighbour’s house party, he loved to mention that Buddy had saved him from staying home and turning into a corpulent couch potato. Buddy was always near and he always smiled with his beautiful labrador smile when he heard that. Maybe Buddy is like me?

I haven’t been here since the accident and I was secretly hoping to find no new tenants in my house. Knowing how quickly London’s rental market usually moves I had no illusions about this though. Maybe there is an open window somewhere so I can sneak in?

The lights are off in the whole house, so that’s a good sign! Mr Aldridge had probably scared all the potential tenants off with his greed: asking for 6 months rent in advance is ridiculous even by London’s standards.

During the 3 long summer months that it took me to figure out flying and hunting, I was thinking about this house a lot. 6 years of my life were spent here, with many beautiful afternoons in the garden and plenty of rainy days in that green armchair in the front room, reading something by Hemingway. Or Salinger. Or Fitzgerald. Many sleepless nights, stressing out about something someone said, did or didn’t do at work; playing different scenarios in my head and always ending up awake into the small hours. Humans seem to be forever cursed with being stuck in their own heads, with no chance of ever seeing any kind of outside perspective. We worry about things that seem unbearably complicated when in reality many times we just wind ourselves up and then drag ourselves down. This perpetual machine of self-doubt and anxiety never stops. I keep saying “we”. That’s funny.

It looks like old Mrs Puwalski stopped watering the flowers outside her ground floor flat and they all wilted in the summer heat. I remember her walking to the corner shop one day. It was hot outside, but she was dressed as if she had an audience with the Queen of England. Or at least the Mayor of London. Smart, albeit a bit old-fashioned pale pink jacket, a long chocolate brown skirt, matching brown leather shoes with small rounded heels and a little hat, the kind you only ever see in Britain. She was even wearing bright red lipstick and purple eye shadows and had a faded chrome cane in her right hand. She smiled at me and I remember thinking to myself that she looked absolutely wonderful and I wish I would look like that when I would be 90-something. She told me she is on a mission to buy a birthday cake for her husband’s 95th birthday. She wanted to do something special today. I felt a lump in my throat: I knew that her husband Edward died several years ago and Edna Puwalski was all alone in that house filled with old photographs of bygone times.

God, I wish I had experienced true love during my short 27 and a half years! I thought I came close one time, but it turned out Linda wasn’t interested in “a serious relationship right now”. I vividly remember her dropping the cliche “it is not you, it’s me” one windy autumn day when we were about to get into a cab in central London. That half-hour cab ride was the longest in my life. I haven’t seen her since.

I’ve never stopped believing that there is definitely someone out there for me, a beautiful soul that I can share eternity with. I just always had so many other things going on: studying art history at uni, struggling to find work afterwards, trying to paint and find galleries to work with, failing that, taking up an office job at a marketing agency, hating that but still appreciating the ability to afford rent and food that wasn’t baked beans and ramen noodles. I was absolutely sure that I had plenty of time to make art and find love - I just needed to make some money first!

I was convinced that “good things come to those who wait”. So, I waited. I tried to calculate my important moves precisely. I stood still a lot of the time while I was doing those calculations.

I think Jack from number 4 got a new car, but I have no idea what it is. Looks expensive, fast and very yellow. I think he saw me just now as he was leaving for work. Who starts their morning commute so early?! I was never a “morning lark”, you can even say that all my previous life I was surely a “night owl”. Ironic, right?

I’ve always thought Jack should try and find a different job, preferably one without all those high stakes, long hours and a cancelled social life. I was never quite sure what exactly was his position at the “evil corporation” that called itself JP Morgan, but during 6 years that I lived next door to him, he went from being this idealistic and optimistic young man to a nihilist misanthropic caricature of a human being, always underslept, overworked and grumpy. In contrast, his clothes became more expensive, his cars more sporty and his fuse shorter than ever before. I suppose this is the balance of modern life: in order to get rich, you have to get stressed and grumpy first.

One evening we were having a nice get-together in our garden with Jack and a few of my old art college friends. It looked like smooth sailing till our conversation got to student debts, loans, credit cards and mortgages - all those “adult” things everyone is supposed to do at a certain age. The crowd was quite drunk by then and full of passionate thoughts that needed expressing vigorously. Both my friends had no clue Jack worked in a bank, so they went on rambling about how “those bigots in their high-rise castles rip everyone off and enjoy living off other people’s misery while investing in oil, guns and god knows what other awful ventures”. I could see a dark cloud slowly descending onto Jack’s head.

“You actually have no idea what you are talking about, do you? No one would be able to afford anything if it wasn’t for banks! Banks help you get things you crave; they make your life convenient and comfortable!” - Jack was fuming. “You can sit here and talk shit about banks, but without them, you won’t be able to do much at all with your life”.

Both my friends were quite shocked to get such a reaction to the otherwise harmless ramblings of a bunch of self-employed free-spirited XXI century “hippies”. The party quickly dissipated after that and when Jack was leaving, he said to me that he was sorry he ruined the evening.

“Brian, I think I’ve actually said things I’ve learned that I have to say, but I am not entirely sure I believe in these anymore. I don’t know what to believe in these days. I have money, but I don’t find any pleasure in spending it. I have some sort of status, but I don’t think it means anything. And I see people going broke every single day, unable to pay their interest, losing their homes, losing all hope… I used to want to change the world for the better. I thought I would be helping people when I joined that non-profit all those years ago. And now here I am, drinking on a daily basis and working 80-hour weeks to help perpetuate this unrelenting greed of my superiors”. He was slurring his speech and it took him a couple of tries to say “unrelenting”.

We haven’t spoken since this party, mainly because Jack was always at work and I could never get him to hang out with me again. He did send me an invitation to his birthday party back in May. Unfortunately, it coincided with the day I died.

I can see the sun rising, just a sliver of light on the horizon for now. I feel it is going to be a glorious Thursday. I can hear the songbirds starting their morning routines, chirping away, practising those scales. I’ve always wanted to learn to sing. I think a voice is the most beautiful and expressive instrument there can be - and everyone’s is unique! However, it seems that learning to sing was meant to forever stay uncrossed on that dusty old “to do” list.

This all might sound quite entertaining, but there were plenty of days during the last 3 months that I wished I wouldn’t be able to remember any of my former life and just enjoy being a bird. A barn owl, to be precise. A pretty average looking one as well, maybe slightly on the chubbier side. I’ve seen myself in the window reflections many times now and it still feels bizarre. Especially the wings, they are nothing like your hands, they are so much …. er…. I don’t know how to explain this. I do enjoy being able to turn my head around almost full circle, which is very convenient when sitting in a tree and trying to follow a tiny mouse in the tall grass below. They taste absolutely awful, chewy and bland, and I have to puke out their bones once a day, but at least they are in abundance in London. I don’t want to leave this city; I want to stay here as long as I can.

Victorian terrace houses have always had mice as their custodians, building tunnel systems that spanned whole streets and interconnected all the houses. During my sleepless nights in the house, I remember hearing them running around behind the walls, talking to each other in their squeaky voices, probably discussing how awful all that processed human food tastes nowadays. I’ve discovered one of their portals behind a drawer when trying to repaint the kitchen wall (Mr Aldridge gave me his blessing, but obviously refused to chip in for the paint). A pack of stale rice that was probably in that drawer for a year or so had a neat little hole in the bottom and a trail of rice was leading to the hole in the wall. I left that bag there when I reinstalled the drawer.

The light just came on in the extension, softly illuminating the cloudy roof panels. It only took 3 months for Mr Aldridge to find new tenants! I wonder if they like the bright green wall paint in the kitchen? I was pretty happy with myself after repainting because the rest of the house had those excruciatingly boring eggshell walls and my eyes needed at least one bright wall to focus on.

It is still fairly dark outside, so it is easy for me to hide in the garden, on top of this laurel bush. It was to my shoulders when I moved in, but now it has nearly reached the top of the awning. My favourite chaise lounge is still here! I’ve spent many blissful summer days here, reading adventure novels, drinking cider and imagining what kind of glamorous and exhilarating life I will be living soon.

The kitchen looks more or less the same, except for a new washer. And the dining table is now facing the window, right against the wall. And there is a woman in the kitchen, making coffee! She looks about 30, maybe a bit more, with curly blonde hair tied in a knot on top of her head. She is wearing a dull grey morning robe, that looks like it could use some repairs. I can see every little mole on her neck, every wrinkle on her forehead. I cannot believe how good my vision is now, considering it was absolutely terrible before. I couldn’t tell a squirrel from a cat when I wasn’t wearing my glasses. Now I can see a vole from half a mile away.

I want to smell the coffee, but all the windows and the sliding door are shut. I used to love that smell! I wonder if this is something that you take with you into your next life? I wonder if the scent of freshly ground coffee would make me smile the way it used to? I know I cannot technically smile, but I can smile inside.

I am smiling now because the woman is trying to find the Start button on the microwave and pressing them all in frustration. It is still the same old oven from God only knows when, probably the early 2000s, when making everything “digital” was so fashionable. With time all the writings on the buttons faded away, leaving a very confusing interface of plastic nonsense. I’ve only ever used one button on that microwave - and it was the one in the bottom left corner, the elongated rectangle with a scratch on it. Who would ever use any other buttons on a microwave anyway?

One of my friends was called Matteo - and he was an excellent cook, always looking for new recipes and getting a real kick out of spending hours in the kitchen, perfecting his next masterpiece. We were meant to become flatmates at some point and he moved in for about 2 months, criticizing my kitchen setup every single day. He cooked the most delicious meals and we had a wonderful time together till he got his heart broken by his girlfriend of 4 years and decided to leave for good, struggling to heal in London.

Every time Matteo saw me heat up some Tesco Basic sausages and mash in the microwave, he used to say that I will be condemned to eternal suffering in hell or turn into some unintelligent animal in my next life for such behaviour. It was obviously a joke, but now, considering the circumstances I cannot help but wonder if I am an owl because I was too lazy to learn to cook properly. Same issue as with singing - I’ve always thought that I will have time to learn to cook when I would be a bit less stressed about earning a living and trying to make something out of myself.

“You are in the future all the time; you don’t live in the present” - Matteo used to say to me. I still remember his smile and his kind brown eyes like it was yesterday. And the way he used to encourage me to paint more. “Just do it, stop overthinking it, stop trying to impress, just express how you feel right now, put it all out onto the canvas, throw caution to the wind”. I miss Matteo…

The woman living in my house is called Cass. I know this because I’ve just noticed a letter from Brent Council on the kitchen table. Cassandra Ridley is late on her council tax payment this month. Ah… When you are late with your payment, they will make sure to inform you of your devious behaviour right away, but when your bins are overflowing and the local park looks like a prime spot for junkies they are “currently unavailable, please make sure to leave us a message and we will get back to you as soon as possible”. Stupid Brent!

Cass has been staring at her phone for about 10 minutes now, forgetting to blink regularly and rubbing her eyes from time to time. People and their glowing smartphones look so strange when you are no longer part of the cult. I am sure I was addicted to my screens like the rest of humanity. I am glad owls don’t have Facebook or Instagram. When flying here earlier tonight I saw plenty of people walking down the streets of London with their faces illuminated by the phones in their hands. It looks truly bizarre, especially if you imagine for a second that you have no clue what a smartphone does.

I can feel the warm rays of the morning sun making my back tickle. The songbirds are united in a pleasant choir practice and there is a squirrel running down the maple tree in the next garden. I feel a sudden urge to hunt the squirrel but it passes quickly. Maybe there is still a tiny bit of human somewhere inside of me? Maybe this is all a very very strange dream?

I wish it was a dream and I would be soon woken up by Dale and Buddy going on their morning jog together. I would drink a cup of Taylor’s Rich Italian coffee, do 15 minutes of exercise, throw a quick glance at the unfinished paintings (and criticize them vigorously out loud), jump in the shower (and criticize the water pressure), eat a banana or an apple and go to catch the Bakerloo line to Oxford Street, change to Central line till Holborn and spend the next 8 hours coming up with “innovative” ways to sell granola bars to fitness-obsessed and strong painkillers to the elderly, “restorative” shampoos to the ladies and “invigorating” shower gels to the men.

I’ve tested the dream theory plenty of times now. Unfortunately, this life seems as real as lives go, with the same need to eat, sleep, feel pain, fatigue, hunger and all the other primal feelings.

I’ve tried talking to other birds, but most of them were petrified of me. Swans and geese looked at me funny, with their heads tilted and their eyes straining to see the full story. I’ve talked to the owls in Kew Gardens and I thought some of them even replied something, at least they were making all the noises that I think owls are supposed to make. But I couldn’t understand a thing. And they couldn’t understand me.

All our lives we try to say something, to be heard, to be recognised for our thoughts, ideas and actions. We worry what other people think of us, what they say behind our backs. We question their beliefs behind their backs and wonder when will we finally meet someone who understands us completely and loves us for who we are instead of who we seem to be. And then, all of a sudden, we realize that not many people really care about others, they mostly care about themselves and their needs and wants. Everyone keeps worrying about what others think of them while they mainly think about themselves.

I am starting to really like Cass! She just brought out an easel from under the stairs! And not just any easel, but MY easel, the one covered in thick layers of paint and with one leg splintered and taped over. It makes sense that most of my things are still in the flat, Mr Aldridge would most probably rather die than pay extra for rubbish removal.

Cass has finished her first cup of coffee and went to the coffee maker for the next one. A fellow caffeine addict, greetings to you! I wish she would turn the easel around so I could see what she is working on.

Oh, and there is a guy in the kitchen now! I am so glad Cass is not yet another lonely person in London, thank God for that! He looks scruffy but handsome, lanky and a bit awkward, but he has a kind smile and a Nirvana t-shirt. I used to love Nirvana with all my heart!

Cass is now in his arms and they seem happy. I suddenly feel like some creepy voyeur. What if they start having sex right there, on the dilapidated old brown sofa? That would be awkward for everyone involved!

Thankfully, after a long and passionate kiss, the guy disappears back into the bedroom and Cass is left to her own devices, with a cup of coffee in her left hand and a medium-4 brush in her right one. She looks beautiful in the early morning light, with her hair reflecting the sun and her eyes fixated on the canvas.

There is a pigeon sitting on the fence near the window and making those “oooh ooh” sounds. I think it is mocking me! Go away, you bastard, leave me be!

I’ve only now noticed something familiar in the next room so I’ve changed my position to investigate. I am liking Cass even more now - because she has excellent taste in art! She put up two of my paintings in the hallway and the living room, I can see them through the window! How sweet of her! I remember painting these last winter, depressed and anxious. They turned out alright, all things considered. One has a smiling blue dog on a leash, looking up at its owner. I was trying to imitate George Rodrigue with this one. The second one is an abstract painting that I called “Entropy”, inspired by one and only Vassily Kandinsky.

Also, all of my favourite books are still on the shelves. In fact, I am starting to feel like I’ve never left - the flat has changed so little! Looking at it from outside, knowing that I won’t ever be able to hear those stairs creak again and feel the floor shake slightly with each passing train makes me sad.

I will never be able to admire the perfect light provided by the milky roof panels of the extension, enjoy the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the texture of acrylic paint on the canvas, smile at overworked and underslept people on the tube, hail a cab in Camden to go home and then change my mind and go to a local pub for another quick pint of cider. See a beautiful girl in the pub and feel my heart flutter and skip a beat. All those little things that we are so used to taking for granted become the things we miss the most.

I grew up in a mostly atheist family and I always thought of religion as part of history class rather than something spiritual. I’ve never felt the need for it and couldn’t really understand why people went to church and spent their time talking to a guy in the sky. I guess people just cannot stand the idea of nothingness after they die, so they have to believe in heaven: a place where they will be free from all the human suffering, reunited with their loved ones. There is also hell, of course, which, to be honest, sounds like a much more entertaining place. But reincarnation? Who could have thought!

I remember reading somewhere about a guy called Ian Stevenson, who dedicated a substantial chunk of his life to reincarnation theory research. There were some incredible stories about children speaking languages they couldn’t have known, people recognising places they couldn’t have visited and so on. I found it quite fascinating and even considered painting something about it. Then life got in the way.

Cass is opening the sliding door to the garden now, so I need to find a better vantage point. Up here, on the pear tree is fine, I don’t think she can see me. She is talking on the phone to her mum. She is telling her not to worry - she has plenty of savings to lean on till she finds a new job. I know she is not being truthful here (and so does Brent Council) but this is a white lie. You don’t want your parents to worry about you, ever! They did their fair share of worrying since you were born, they deserve a break!

Then Cass talks about Chris. I assume Chris is the lanky guy in the Nirvana t-shirt. He is apparently out of work at the moment because his band is going through a rough patch, but they will be okay, I promise, Mum!

I hope to see my parents again one day soon, but the thought brings me a lot of anxiety. No one is meant to see their mum and dad grieving their only son. I need to gather all my inner strength for this trip to Devon. One day…

I can see it! I can see the stupid ladder! The old, rusty, crooked ladder, covered in paint. It is still right there, leaning against the wall of the garden shed. I cannot believe they didn’t get rid of it! Oh my God! I hate that stupid thing and I hate myself for getting so fixated on fixing up the flat. This was my way of procrastination: I cleaned and renovated instead of painting and drawing. Because painting and drawing were hard and unpredictable - and I felt vulnerable and exposed every time I picked up a brush or a pencil. But when you just paint the wall, the result will be there regardless of your talent or artistic ability or determination. It will always be easier to do easy things and convince yourself that you are being productive. It will always be easier to postpone the hard things till you are suddenly no longer able to do them. Because you are an owl!!

All our lives we are climbing ladders. First those ladders on the playground: you get to the top and your reward is an exhilarating slide on your bum. Then comes the school ladder, gruelling climb through puberty, awkward teenage romance, essential bullying and excruciatingly long lessons taught by mostly boring and underpaid teachers who don’t really care anymore. Then comes uni, if you are lucky enough. Then the career ladder. Then the property ladder. Then the investment ladder.

No matter how high we climb, we always want to go higher. The higher we climb, the further we’ll fall if the ladder is as unstable as this one. A few meters of flight, painful landing, hitting the back of your head just right. And that’s it! Disqualified before you’ve even started to enjoy the race!

As if hearing my thoughts, Cass is now looking at the ladder. Please don’t use it! Please, please, please! It is dangerous!

I can now see that there is an orange t-shirt on top of the awning. It must have been drying outside on the rack and the wind decided to play a game of fetch with it. Cass has picked up the ladder and is now trying to find a convenient spot to climb it and get the t-shirt. You wouldn’t believe this, but this bright orange t-shirt has a picture of an owl on it! A beautifully stitched owl, with one eye closed as if winking at you.

This is my moment! I need to save Cass from hurting herself!

“Hey Chris, CHRIIIIISS, come here! There is an owl in our garden!! AN OWL!!!! THIS IS SOOOO COOL!!! She has my t-shirt!!” - Cass was ecstatic.

I threw the t-shirt onto the chaise lounge and landed safely back on the laurel bush.

“Wow, she is beautiful! What is an owl doing here? This is so strange! Maybe she recognised the owl on the t-shirt? Is that possible?” - Chris was even more agitated. He wanted to run back to the house to fetch his phone and take a picture, but Cass held him close and told him to enjoy this magical moment and take a mental picture instead.

And so, they were standing there, with their arms around one another, both equally unemployed and totally in love, smiling and looking at me.

And then Cass said: “Hey, this ladder seems awfully broken, let’s throw it out before someone gets hurt!”

London, 23 January 2022