Me again.
You’ll notice there’s been a slight hiatus. Sorry about that. Moving house, planning the wedding, working etc.
We made it though, and it’s fabulously new and big and wierd and awesome and other. I love it. The house is tremendous. I wish, in a distracted way, that you could see it.
You’ll also notice that I’ve decided to do some more ‘drawing’. As always I have grandiose plans for this that won’t come to anything. Bugt regardless of whether they are any good, wouldn’t it be great if I managed to ‘produce’ a drawing every day for a year. I suppose that this blog is a kind of living record, a memento – a memoir, even.
And if I’m going to fill it with interesting things as well as swearing and moaning about the small stuff, I need to produce said content. I’ve always liked drawing, even though I’ve never had any real flair for it, or instruction. It just calms my mind. It’s more meditative than writing, that’s for sure, which – despite everyone else in my life’s conviction that I’m some kind of literary genius – I find difficult to the point of impossibility. When I’ve tried, consciously, to ‘write something’, I find it incredibly hard to start, difficult to love, impossible to stop fiddling with and easy to disown. I only see the bits I’m not pleased with. The flaws, clichés and generalities. The rushing. The /wanting/ something good to be in there, somewhere. But there isn’t anything in there; it’s only echoes.
Anyway, it strikes me that this little online bolthole might actually be growing a purpose of its own. I’ll use it as a record of my life. I’ll be honest, life since Mum passed away has lacked a little purpose. I’m also struck by the idea that I’m the last one around who can reliably recall /anything/ that happened in my family before Mike’s arrival on the scene in 1990. I was born in ’79 and your aunt in ’81, so there’s a lot of years in the middle that are just a dotted line. I’m the only one who can fill those pages in. Maybe that’s my purpose. Maybe I should make that my purpose. There it is again: maybe.
I have just realised that for the first time ever, I’m writing this to the child I don’t yet have and have not yet planned to have, but will probably have one day. That might be the definition of shouting into the void. How strange. Hello, you. How’s tricks? I hope we’ve met, and we get on. You’re probably as much fabulous, complicated trouble as your mother, so we should be fine, you rascal.
Maybe I’ll write this to you so that you know the story of life before you were born, as soon there won’t be anyone else who can tell you the real tales of when your Dad was your age, younger and older. Mike’s a great, great man, and his family are wonderful, but they are not necessarily my family. I’m related to them by marriage, and since my Mum passed away, that relationship’s changed. I’d like to say we’re really close, and we are, but we’re not quite as close as we were. We’re being men about things more than we did while Mum was alive – closed off and uneven with eachother. We still love eachother, but in a male way, because we’ve both simultaneously lost the single biggest female influence on both our lives, and are spinning a little bit. Mike’s anchored himself to Bashley and his allotment and his neighbours, and I’ve concentrated on our house (possibly even the one you’re going to be born in - who knows?). We’ll be alright, but we need to tell you about the times before. I’ll do so in due course, I hope.
I love you, whoever you turn out to be.
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