Oh God, here he comes.
I shouldn’t be surprised to see him. After all, he attends the opening of every art exhibition occurring in this city. He is our own version of a bona-fide patron of the arts – but unfortunately he is also our own version of a weird uncle.
Even in a crowd of colourfully dressed artists, funky students and eccentric art aficionados, it is impossible not to spot him. An older man of average height, he could easily blend into the crowd, goes to great effort to ensure this will never occur. His messily parted hair is dyed a brassy hue which makes no attempt to pass itself off as natural and his eyes are hidden behind oversized tinted sunglasses. Draped from his sinewy frame is a garish Hawaiian shirt, three buttons gaping to reveal a multitude of sparkling medallions, oversized crucifixes, bulky chains. His wrists hang thick with bracelets and his fingers are studded with rings; gold and silver bands clasping stones which are surely too big to be genuine? With him though, you just can’t be sure.
What you can be sure of is that he is usually responsible for at least one red dot alongside a painting at most openings. His house is said to be crammed full, paintings stacked in piles and all walls groaning with the weight of canvas and board. Despite this he still comes to openings, still acquires work. He drinks the free wine, holds court and critiques the exhibition with whichever poor souls he can corner. He is self-absorbed and rather painful - yet he bought one of my wife’s paintings at her last exhibition, raves about it whenever we see him and so I force myself to smile warmly as he approaches. Love comes at a price some days……
Thank you to the marvellously bohemian Stephen for this suggestion. If you would like to suggest an adverb or adjective and see what 300 words it generates, please feel free to get in touch. My email address is listed on my profile.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
The catalyst question.
The application form had been simple up to that particular question. Name, address, age, date of birth – and even at the age of nineteen, I was already used to answering these questions. The next question was different though. I read it and words failed me.
Why do you want to do this?
Underneath the question was a line; one blank line to hold one neat answer, but there was nothing neat or concise in my head - just a nebulous boiling mass of emotions and reactions.
Because.
Because maybe I can.
Because maybe this is a chance to be good at something again.
When I was nine I had been good at swimming. I had entered my school swimming gala at the local baths and had won every race despite being unable to dive, despite everyone else being able to dive. I had even won the freestyle competition swimming breast stroke whilst everybody else swam front crawl. The bus which took us back to school afterwards went past my house and I had agreed with my mother that she would watch out for us. She would look out of the window as we passed and I would hold up a hand, signal to her if I had won. The reality was that the coach was moving too fast and I could not signal to her in time, could not count off the number of races I had won because there were just too many wins. Because I had won them all.
It had been many years since that bus ride past my house, many years since I had been good at anything other than disappointing, falling short, underachieving. In a family of two children, my brother had grown into the role of the A grade student and I had become the C- child - the 'could do better' child, the 'has potential' child. I had potential but lacked anything resembling motivation and I watched from the side as my brother excelled at school; watched him realise his young potential and make our parents proud. I watched as he made the niche marked 'success' his own, all the time knowing that I could not compete or keep pace with him academically. Eventually I gave up even trying and I forfeited, dropping out of his race and finding other competitions to enter, darker niches to occupy. Finally I was good at something again but this new success was nowhere near as celebrated or accepted as its predecessors. This new success won me no accolades, no admirers and it came at a price. It culminated in my leaving school to avoid being kicked out and I went out to work, clung to a dead-end job in a dead-end department by the skin of my teeth and drank my salary and overdraft every month without fail. I had no plan, no prospects, nobody to answer to - and for a while it was fine but at some stage it stopped being good, stopped being okay. At some stage it began to bother me, make me question myself, my decisions.
Somehow I found myself talking to my mother, a woman I had neglected and generally mistreated for the past two years. She was doing volunteer work with a crisis organisation in her spare time; an organisation designed to accept rather than judge and listen rather than advise. Despite the fact that I had was a master at listening to absolutely nobody, she asked if I had thought about applying to volunteer with that same crisis organisation. For some reason she thought I may be able to do it and bolstered by her support, I had called them one evening. Now I found myself with their application form in front of me and it all came down to that question, to that one concise line onto which my life and intentions had to be condensed.
My mind was a maelstrom as I picked up my pen and wrote just four words along that line. The four words I plucked from the air were more of a plea than they were an answer and I completed the rest of the form, mailed it back, got on with my life as I waited for the response. That is how it all began. It was no miracle cure, no divine conversion and no overnight fix, but it began there - with that question and those four words on that one line.
In total I spent ten years as a volunteer with that organisation. It was a ten year period which taught me tolerance and patience; a decade which gave me a sense of perspective and, eventually, a sense of self-worth. Of all the things I could have been good at, this was certainly the most unexpected. It was serious and sobering and certainly not what I envisaged doing for fun at the age of nineteen. Nevertheless it gave me an insight into the frailty of humanity, a glimpse into the society in which I lived and the lives of those who lived around me. It taught me what I could accept and what I was not prepared to accept, tested my physical and emotional thresholds week in, week out. It was rarely easy but it was always fulfilling and it shaped who I am today more than any other experience. With no word of exaggeration, I cannot imagine whose words you would be reading now if I had not picked up my pen and completed that application form back in 1991.
What began with a struggle to answer a question quickly grew, evolving and mutating into more than was ever expected. It became something new, something which offered me redemption and the strength and confidence around which I could eventually build a life. Finally I was good at something which did not get me into trouble; something which brought calm to my head and my life and something which eventually brought me here, to this moment, to this page.
And it is good to be here - good to look ahead to the days, challenges and questions to come and not to fear their arrival.
Why do you want to do this?
Underneath the question was a line; one blank line to hold one neat answer, but there was nothing neat or concise in my head - just a nebulous boiling mass of emotions and reactions.
Because.
Because maybe I can.
Because maybe this is a chance to be good at something again.
When I was nine I had been good at swimming. I had entered my school swimming gala at the local baths and had won every race despite being unable to dive, despite everyone else being able to dive. I had even won the freestyle competition swimming breast stroke whilst everybody else swam front crawl. The bus which took us back to school afterwards went past my house and I had agreed with my mother that she would watch out for us. She would look out of the window as we passed and I would hold up a hand, signal to her if I had won. The reality was that the coach was moving too fast and I could not signal to her in time, could not count off the number of races I had won because there were just too many wins. Because I had won them all.
It had been many years since that bus ride past my house, many years since I had been good at anything other than disappointing, falling short, underachieving. In a family of two children, my brother had grown into the role of the A grade student and I had become the C- child - the 'could do better' child, the 'has potential' child. I had potential but lacked anything resembling motivation and I watched from the side as my brother excelled at school; watched him realise his young potential and make our parents proud. I watched as he made the niche marked 'success' his own, all the time knowing that I could not compete or keep pace with him academically. Eventually I gave up even trying and I forfeited, dropping out of his race and finding other competitions to enter, darker niches to occupy. Finally I was good at something again but this new success was nowhere near as celebrated or accepted as its predecessors. This new success won me no accolades, no admirers and it came at a price. It culminated in my leaving school to avoid being kicked out and I went out to work, clung to a dead-end job in a dead-end department by the skin of my teeth and drank my salary and overdraft every month without fail. I had no plan, no prospects, nobody to answer to - and for a while it was fine but at some stage it stopped being good, stopped being okay. At some stage it began to bother me, make me question myself, my decisions.
Somehow I found myself talking to my mother, a woman I had neglected and generally mistreated for the past two years. She was doing volunteer work with a crisis organisation in her spare time; an organisation designed to accept rather than judge and listen rather than advise. Despite the fact that I had was a master at listening to absolutely nobody, she asked if I had thought about applying to volunteer with that same crisis organisation. For some reason she thought I may be able to do it and bolstered by her support, I had called them one evening. Now I found myself with their application form in front of me and it all came down to that question, to that one concise line onto which my life and intentions had to be condensed.
My mind was a maelstrom as I picked up my pen and wrote just four words along that line. The four words I plucked from the air were more of a plea than they were an answer and I completed the rest of the form, mailed it back, got on with my life as I waited for the response. That is how it all began. It was no miracle cure, no divine conversion and no overnight fix, but it began there - with that question and those four words on that one line.
In total I spent ten years as a volunteer with that organisation. It was a ten year period which taught me tolerance and patience; a decade which gave me a sense of perspective and, eventually, a sense of self-worth. Of all the things I could have been good at, this was certainly the most unexpected. It was serious and sobering and certainly not what I envisaged doing for fun at the age of nineteen. Nevertheless it gave me an insight into the frailty of humanity, a glimpse into the society in which I lived and the lives of those who lived around me. It taught me what I could accept and what I was not prepared to accept, tested my physical and emotional thresholds week in, week out. It was rarely easy but it was always fulfilling and it shaped who I am today more than any other experience. With no word of exaggeration, I cannot imagine whose words you would be reading now if I had not picked up my pen and completed that application form back in 1991.
What began with a struggle to answer a question quickly grew, evolving and mutating into more than was ever expected. It became something new, something which offered me redemption and the strength and confidence around which I could eventually build a life. Finally I was good at something which did not get me into trouble; something which brought calm to my head and my life and something which eventually brought me here, to this moment, to this page.
And it is good to be here - good to look ahead to the days, challenges and questions to come and not to fear their arrival.
Friday, February 19, 2010
300 for 1. Happy.
In a house of three people, I am the only morning person.
Our two dogs are more like me. They greet every morning with wagging tails, bound through the house and the garden with unbridled excitement. My wife and stepson are different though - they stumble from their beds to eye the new day with sleepy distrust, see mornings as a necessary evil which must be eased into, endured. Not for me, this easing and enduring - the way I see it, mornings are exciting times laden with potential. They are the pad from which we launch ourselves heavenwards into a brand new day and if I had a tail, I would be wagging along with the dogs.
Most mornings I wake immediately and hit the ground singing. Whether in the shower, getting dressed, making coffee or packing my bag for the coming day; all activities are usually accompanied by a song. From the moment I wake there is a track simmering in my head, straining to escape my lips and flit into this brand new day. Whether blasted loud and proud into the room or held close as a breathed melody, these songs are the soundtrack to my morning – and if ever there is something wrong, my silence will inform you long before my words will. Only on the rare occasion that I am unhappy, sad or preoccupied will there be no songs accompanying my footsteps as I go from room to room starting my day.
My wife likes that I sing. She likes that my mood is light, even if she struggles to understand why. Time again she asks how I can be so happy in the mornings and time again I give her the same answer: This is life - glorious, breathtaking life. What’s not to like?
Thank you to JennyMac for this suggestion. If you would like to suggest an adverb or adjective and see what 300 words it generates, please feel free to get in touch. My email address is listed on my profile.
Our two dogs are more like me. They greet every morning with wagging tails, bound through the house and the garden with unbridled excitement. My wife and stepson are different though - they stumble from their beds to eye the new day with sleepy distrust, see mornings as a necessary evil which must be eased into, endured. Not for me, this easing and enduring - the way I see it, mornings are exciting times laden with potential. They are the pad from which we launch ourselves heavenwards into a brand new day and if I had a tail, I would be wagging along with the dogs.
Most mornings I wake immediately and hit the ground singing. Whether in the shower, getting dressed, making coffee or packing my bag for the coming day; all activities are usually accompanied by a song. From the moment I wake there is a track simmering in my head, straining to escape my lips and flit into this brand new day. Whether blasted loud and proud into the room or held close as a breathed melody, these songs are the soundtrack to my morning – and if ever there is something wrong, my silence will inform you long before my words will. Only on the rare occasion that I am unhappy, sad or preoccupied will there be no songs accompanying my footsteps as I go from room to room starting my day.
My wife likes that I sing. She likes that my mood is light, even if she struggles to understand why. Time again she asks how I can be so happy in the mornings and time again I give her the same answer: This is life - glorious, breathtaking life. What’s not to like?
Thank you to JennyMac for this suggestion. If you would like to suggest an adverb or adjective and see what 300 words it generates, please feel free to get in touch. My email address is listed on my profile.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
300 for 1. Colourful.
It was the latest trend, the current fad and the essential accessory of 1983. It swept through Staple Hill Primary School separating the wheat from the chaff, the boys from the men. If you did not embrace this fad you risked being labelled a baby and that was a stigma I would do anything to avoid. I was nine, I was in the third year and I was popular and reasonably cool. I thought I had it all, knew it all – and if there was a choice to be made, a decision which marked you as either all-grown-up or still growing up, there was only one choice I was making.
The trend which swept my school in 1983 was swearing - and I did not so such much embrace it as hug it to death.
Lunch time began with the ringing of a bell and we would spill out of our class, go to the prefab building to eat our packed lunches. We would talk as usual but our vocabulary was altered now. We included a quiet ‘fuck’ to test the waters and when God failed to strike us down, we grew in confidence. We added a ‘piss’ here, a ‘bastard’ there and it grew from there. Before long, swear words accounted for 50% of every sentence, every conversation. We were big fucking kahunas as we strode across the playground tarmac effing and blinding our heads off. We had arrived - we were officially cool kids.
And eventually we were officially busted. A teacher heard our colourful language and reported us to the head, who called our parents. My parents sat me down and read me the riot act and made me promise that I would never ever swear again.
Did I keep my promise? Of course I fucking didn’t.
Thank you to Veronica for this suggestion. If you would like to suggest an adverb or adjective and see what 300 words it generates, please feel free to get in touch. My email address is listed on my profile.
The trend which swept my school in 1983 was swearing - and I did not so such much embrace it as hug it to death.
Lunch time began with the ringing of a bell and we would spill out of our class, go to the prefab building to eat our packed lunches. We would talk as usual but our vocabulary was altered now. We included a quiet ‘fuck’ to test the waters and when God failed to strike us down, we grew in confidence. We added a ‘piss’ here, a ‘bastard’ there and it grew from there. Before long, swear words accounted for 50% of every sentence, every conversation. We were big fucking kahunas as we strode across the playground tarmac effing and blinding our heads off. We had arrived - we were officially cool kids.
And eventually we were officially busted. A teacher heard our colourful language and reported us to the head, who called our parents. My parents sat me down and read me the riot act and made me promise that I would never ever swear again.
Did I keep my promise? Of course I fucking didn’t.
Thank you to Veronica for this suggestion. If you would like to suggest an adverb or adjective and see what 300 words it generates, please feel free to get in touch. My email address is listed on my profile.
Friday, February 12, 2010
300 for 1. First.
Some time last week my friend Tracie wrote a posting in which she jokingly concluded that most readers begin to zone out after 150 words. These last six months have seen me write many postings, most of which have been well in excess of that 150 word count – and I am willing to bet that you are conditioned by now. Indeed, such is my faith in your powers of endurance that I am willing to bet I could double that word count and you would take it in your stride, cope without so much as breaking a sweat.
So I can talk the talk; that much we’ve established – but can I walk the walk? Can I keep your attention and make my point all in three hundred words? I thought it would be fun to find out and here’s what I propose.
If you go into my profile you will find my email address. Note it down.
Now think of an adjective or adverb that appeals to you. Mail me your choice and when I have a decent selection, I will aim to draw one at random every week (numbers permitting) and write a 300 word posting around that chosen adjective or adverb. I will ensure that everyone knows who suggested the chosen word and link to that person’s blog as a token of my gratitude for their participation.
There are a few word/subject limitation projects flying around this virtual universe of ours, so I’m well aware that this is by no means an original concept. Having said that, I think this could be a fun way to give people more involvement in the content they read and I hoped you might feel the same way. If you feel inclined, I would love to hear from you with a suggestion.
So I can talk the talk; that much we’ve established – but can I walk the walk? Can I keep your attention and make my point all in three hundred words? I thought it would be fun to find out and here’s what I propose.
If you go into my profile you will find my email address. Note it down.
Now think of an adjective or adverb that appeals to you. Mail me your choice and when I have a decent selection, I will aim to draw one at random every week (numbers permitting) and write a 300 word posting around that chosen adjective or adverb. I will ensure that everyone knows who suggested the chosen word and link to that person’s blog as a token of my gratitude for their participation.
There are a few word/subject limitation projects flying around this virtual universe of ours, so I’m well aware that this is by no means an original concept. Having said that, I think this could be a fun way to give people more involvement in the content they read and I hoped you might feel the same way. If you feel inclined, I would love to hear from you with a suggestion.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Remembering Michael.
I had been to this building once before. One day last summer and seeking brief respite from another fearsomely oppressive blue day, I found myself passing under its imposing archway and walking alone through its cool stone halls. I explored its aisles, its nooks and its crannies; photographed its stained glass, its intricate carvings and I left feeling refreshed, revived. I stepped out of the dimly diffused light and contemplative air, re-entered a day which seemed to shine brighter now. Before there had been nothing but slumbering moist heat, but now there was an edge to the sun and a sharpness to the day. It spoke in a whisper, imploring you to seize it, embrace it, live it; to not be content with merely letting it pass
Today I am back in this building but this time I am not alone. Now there are hundreds sitting beside me, behind me, ahead of me. Some talk, some are silent but the building remains as I remember. The stone is still cool and the air still contemplative, another fierce day of light held in obeyance behind thick shields of stained glass. We sit in our rows in patient silence, wait for the service to begin and for the lines of his life, his protracted death to finally come together; to finally reach one concluding point.
He had been living in the UK for the last seven years, working as a teacher and hoping to one day be discovered as an actor. He was deliciously and stereotypically gay; sinfully skinny, stylishly attired and as camp as a row of tents. His facial expressions, his gestures and speech; all were overblown, melodramatic and it was no surprise that London had made him feel more welcome than this blue collar swathe of Australia to which he now returned one final time. I had only ever known the London version, introduced to him for the first time in 2003 as the new amour of an old friend from back home. He had shook my hand and smiled at me, told me that I was cute and that her and I made a beautiful couple. I liked him immediately.
Today the service begins and his life is unraveled for one final inspection. People who were closest to him take it in turns to rise from their seats, walk forward to his coffin and turn to face us. They tell us their tales from his time in their lives. They speak of moments I was not part of, emphasise qualities I was only fleetingly aware of and we sit, listen, remember. Some heads buried deep in thoughts, some held in hands and some obscured by handkerchiefs. Everybody has a piece of his history and everbody has their memories of him.
My memories are from a time five years ago, housed in the final months of a life I had lived on the other side of the world. His old friend from back home had recently become my wife and soon afterward she had left London and returned to Australia, unable to endure being separated from her son any longer. Our marriage was conducted by email; by telephone calls and letters - and some days were a struggle during these months. Life was on hold and I was listening to the music, waiting for an answer on my residency visa. How long it would take, nobody could say. What that answer would be, nobody could say. I was treading water, doing my best to keep my head dry and some days were better than others. Some days were harder than others and when I was struggling; when I felt the waves rise and threaten to overwhelm, he was one of my three anchor points. He was one of three people from her past who existed in my present - one of three people I could talk to who knew her, knew us. Knowing him had helped me through those times, speaking to him had helped me through those times. His support had helped and he had helped. Before, back then, no longer. In the past now - the tense appropriate for a life now passed.
It had happened on a Tasmanian road on December 3rd. In a car and travelling with his mother, they collided with a truck and were reduced to wreckage. His mother survived the crash but he did not. They are both here today, both at the front. His coffin is carried past us at the end of the service and it looks small, too small. His mother follows behind, her face a mask which cannot hide the truth; that no parent should be asked to bury their child.
Today the final song plays as the cathedral begins to empty; a haunting Irish ballad which fills the air as we file slowly towards the archway, out to the wide open grass outside. For all but one of us, life stretches ahead of this moment. How long it continues, how far past the horizon it will stretch is something only time will reveal. Seize it, embrace it. Live it. Do not be content with merely letting it pass.
Today I am back in this building but this time I am not alone. Now there are hundreds sitting beside me, behind me, ahead of me. Some talk, some are silent but the building remains as I remember. The stone is still cool and the air still contemplative, another fierce day of light held in obeyance behind thick shields of stained glass. We sit in our rows in patient silence, wait for the service to begin and for the lines of his life, his protracted death to finally come together; to finally reach one concluding point.
He had been living in the UK for the last seven years, working as a teacher and hoping to one day be discovered as an actor. He was deliciously and stereotypically gay; sinfully skinny, stylishly attired and as camp as a row of tents. His facial expressions, his gestures and speech; all were overblown, melodramatic and it was no surprise that London had made him feel more welcome than this blue collar swathe of Australia to which he now returned one final time. I had only ever known the London version, introduced to him for the first time in 2003 as the new amour of an old friend from back home. He had shook my hand and smiled at me, told me that I was cute and that her and I made a beautiful couple. I liked him immediately.
Today the service begins and his life is unraveled for one final inspection. People who were closest to him take it in turns to rise from their seats, walk forward to his coffin and turn to face us. They tell us their tales from his time in their lives. They speak of moments I was not part of, emphasise qualities I was only fleetingly aware of and we sit, listen, remember. Some heads buried deep in thoughts, some held in hands and some obscured by handkerchiefs. Everybody has a piece of his history and everbody has their memories of him.
My memories are from a time five years ago, housed in the final months of a life I had lived on the other side of the world. His old friend from back home had recently become my wife and soon afterward she had left London and returned to Australia, unable to endure being separated from her son any longer. Our marriage was conducted by email; by telephone calls and letters - and some days were a struggle during these months. Life was on hold and I was listening to the music, waiting for an answer on my residency visa. How long it would take, nobody could say. What that answer would be, nobody could say. I was treading water, doing my best to keep my head dry and some days were better than others. Some days were harder than others and when I was struggling; when I felt the waves rise and threaten to overwhelm, he was one of my three anchor points. He was one of three people from her past who existed in my present - one of three people I could talk to who knew her, knew us. Knowing him had helped me through those times, speaking to him had helped me through those times. His support had helped and he had helped. Before, back then, no longer. In the past now - the tense appropriate for a life now passed.
It had happened on a Tasmanian road on December 3rd. In a car and travelling with his mother, they collided with a truck and were reduced to wreckage. His mother survived the crash but he did not. They are both here today, both at the front. His coffin is carried past us at the end of the service and it looks small, too small. His mother follows behind, her face a mask which cannot hide the truth; that no parent should be asked to bury their child.
Today the final song plays as the cathedral begins to empty; a haunting Irish ballad which fills the air as we file slowly towards the archway, out to the wide open grass outside. For all but one of us, life stretches ahead of this moment. How long it continues, how far past the horizon it will stretch is something only time will reveal. Seize it, embrace it. Live it. Do not be content with merely letting it pass.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Opening the cupboard.
It was the German writer Johann Wolfgang von Goethe who said 'enjoy when you can, and endure when you must'. I often find myself nodding sagely at his sentiment, because this blogging lark is a mixed bag at times. Granted, there have been days where inspiration has flown freely and where this is a great ride - but there have also been days where endurance has been called into play; where inspiration has slowed to a trickle and I have needed to dig deep to find even a trickle. Sometimes my blogging bucket is positively full and overflowing - but then there are other days where inspiration is fleeting; where finding a decent topic is like panning for specks of gold in a fast flowing river.
This seems to be the way of the e-world; a constant ebb and flow of ideas and inspiration to adapt to, work around. Not today though - today is a rare exception to the rule. Today is a no-brainer and involves neither inspiration or perspiration, because today is all about acknowledging and forwarding. Today is the day after Saturday and before Monday - and there's only one kind of posting I ever write on the day between Saturday and Monday. So, my fellow internet personas, welcome once again to Awards Sunday.
What do you mean it clashes with Superbowl Sunday? Don't worry - we were here first and I'm sure they'll be happy to move it to Tuesday once they realise the double booking.
So yes, my friends. Today - if just for this one day - let us flip Johann Wolfgang the bird and instead open our hearts and spirits to the soaring words of his little known brother Johann Koolandthegang. Let us celebrate good times - let us even 'come on' if we feel sufficiently enthused. Join with me, my fellow virtual personas. Take my imaginary e-hands and let us form an imaginary circle of trust, of kinship. Let us don our imaginary glad rags, pass around an award or two, maybe even open a bag of Twiglets if we start to get a vibe going and feel like getting down with our bad selves.
Three items on the agenda. Firstly, thank you very much to Nancy - she of the black-wearin' and blog of notin' fame - for inferring that I was an alright follower and offering such a pretty award by way of a bonus.
This award came with a tag condition. What I'm meant to do is answer 31 questions, then add one to the list and forward the award and the tag together. Thirty one seems like rather a lot, so what I've done is select ten from Nancy's list which will hopefully placate her and enlighten the rest of you.
1. What are you wearing today?
Shorts and a tee.
2. What are you listening to right now?
The dishwasher finish its cycle - and a weekly podcast I follow from the UK
3. What's for dinner?
Oh, we're going healthy tonight. Brown rice and roasted vegetables.
4. What's the last thing you bought?
My father's birthday card.
5. What is your dream job?
It used to be to be a football journalist. These days, probably something to do with psychology or counselling. Or writing, of course.
6. What are you going to do after this?
I am walking up to the supermarket in the rain to get some supplies and try to cool down!
7. What are your favourite movies?
Amongst others..... Goodfellas, Godfather 1 & 2, The Lives Of Others, Kadosh, Platoon, Dune.
8. What do you do when feeling low or terribly depressed?
If I'm feeling low, I try to get home. It's always better at home. As for terribly depressed, I'm lucky - can't remember how that feels.
9. Favourite dessert/sweet?
There's something wrong if I don't order the lemon tart.
10. A word that you say a lot.
Fuck. I know, you'd never have guessed, right? That noise you can hear is my mother disowning me.
This particular award has done the rounds recently, so a lot of people I could have passed it to have already received it. This made my decision to send it on to brand new faces much easier - so I did! I have picked three relatively new finds who I enjoy visiting and whose names also regularly appear in my own comments. In no particular order, thank you to Miss Overthinker, Tracie and Veronica. If you want to do the tag, all good - but regardless of that, please accept this bauble with my gratitude.
Seeing as I'm doing requests right now, JenJen asked for 5 things which made me happy. Seeing as you asked so politely, Jen......
1. Manchester United losing.
2. Football in general.
3. Music.
4. My family.
5. Looking out of an aeroplane window and seeing Melbourne as we begin our descent to land.
Time to bring this show to a close. I have saved the sweetest award for last, which was very kindly donated by Kristen over at Wanderlust. If you like cupcakes, friends and boats at anchor as the sun sets, this award is right up your alley.
The condition is that you list ten things which make you happy. How about you take the five from above, add the five below and we'll call it quits?
6. Espresso coffee.
7. Watching my stepson grow up.
8. Dogs. My own, my in-law's dog, my friend's dog - just about any dog, really.
9. Finishing a posting, pressing send and thinking yeah, that's what I was aiming for.
10.Living a life right next to the ocean.
The rules say I should hand this award on to ten people. The problem is I had already decided to pass it to three only, long before I read the rules. If I backtrack now, you will just think me weak and easily swayed - and that cannot be allowed to come to pass. Therefore please put your hands together and join me in counting to
1. Deidre at Decoybetty
2. Foxy over at the fox den
3. Kitty at Kitty Tells It As It Is
Feel free to eat this award, sail away in it, do something with it or nothing with it. Similarly, feel free to tell the world ten things that make you feel good about life. Or not. Whatever floats your boat.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, concludes Awards Sunday. Thank you for your company. Now, if someone would be kind enough to see if those guys in helmets and padding are still hanging around? After all we may as well offer them the rest of the day for this 'Superbowl' thing of theirs......
This seems to be the way of the e-world; a constant ebb and flow of ideas and inspiration to adapt to, work around. Not today though - today is a rare exception to the rule. Today is a no-brainer and involves neither inspiration or perspiration, because today is all about acknowledging and forwarding. Today is the day after Saturday and before Monday - and there's only one kind of posting I ever write on the day between Saturday and Monday. So, my fellow internet personas, welcome once again to Awards Sunday.
What do you mean it clashes with Superbowl Sunday? Don't worry - we were here first and I'm sure they'll be happy to move it to Tuesday once they realise the double booking.
So yes, my friends. Today - if just for this one day - let us flip Johann Wolfgang the bird and instead open our hearts and spirits to the soaring words of his little known brother Johann Koolandthegang. Let us celebrate good times - let us even 'come on' if we feel sufficiently enthused. Join with me, my fellow virtual personas. Take my imaginary e-hands and let us form an imaginary circle of trust, of kinship. Let us don our imaginary glad rags, pass around an award or two, maybe even open a bag of Twiglets if we start to get a vibe going and feel like getting down with our bad selves.
Three items on the agenda. Firstly, thank you very much to Nancy - she of the black-wearin' and blog of notin' fame - for inferring that I was an alright follower and offering such a pretty award by way of a bonus.
This award came with a tag condition. What I'm meant to do is answer 31 questions, then add one to the list and forward the award and the tag together. Thirty one seems like rather a lot, so what I've done is select ten from Nancy's list which will hopefully placate her and enlighten the rest of you.
1. What are you wearing today?
Shorts and a tee.
2. What are you listening to right now?
The dishwasher finish its cycle - and a weekly podcast I follow from the UK
3. What's for dinner?
Oh, we're going healthy tonight. Brown rice and roasted vegetables.
4. What's the last thing you bought?
My father's birthday card.
5. What is your dream job?
It used to be to be a football journalist. These days, probably something to do with psychology or counselling. Or writing, of course.
6. What are you going to do after this?
I am walking up to the supermarket in the rain to get some supplies and try to cool down!
7. What are your favourite movies?
Amongst others..... Goodfellas, Godfather 1 & 2, The Lives Of Others, Kadosh, Platoon, Dune.
8. What do you do when feeling low or terribly depressed?
If I'm feeling low, I try to get home. It's always better at home. As for terribly depressed, I'm lucky - can't remember how that feels.
9. Favourite dessert/sweet?
There's something wrong if I don't order the lemon tart.
10. A word that you say a lot.
Fuck. I know, you'd never have guessed, right? That noise you can hear is my mother disowning me.
This particular award has done the rounds recently, so a lot of people I could have passed it to have already received it. This made my decision to send it on to brand new faces much easier - so I did! I have picked three relatively new finds who I enjoy visiting and whose names also regularly appear in my own comments. In no particular order, thank you to Miss Overthinker, Tracie and Veronica. If you want to do the tag, all good - but regardless of that, please accept this bauble with my gratitude.
Seeing as I'm doing requests right now, JenJen asked for 5 things which made me happy. Seeing as you asked so politely, Jen......
1. Manchester United losing.
2. Football in general.
3. Music.
4. My family.
5. Looking out of an aeroplane window and seeing Melbourne as we begin our descent to land.
Time to bring this show to a close. I have saved the sweetest award for last, which was very kindly donated by Kristen over at Wanderlust. If you like cupcakes, friends and boats at anchor as the sun sets, this award is right up your alley.
The condition is that you list ten things which make you happy. How about you take the five from above, add the five below and we'll call it quits?
6. Espresso coffee.
7. Watching my stepson grow up.
8. Dogs. My own, my in-law's dog, my friend's dog - just about any dog, really.
9. Finishing a posting, pressing send and thinking yeah, that's what I was aiming for.
10.Living a life right next to the ocean.
The rules say I should hand this award on to ten people. The problem is I had already decided to pass it to three only, long before I read the rules. If I backtrack now, you will just think me weak and easily swayed - and that cannot be allowed to come to pass. Therefore please put your hands together and join me in counting to
1. Deidre at Decoybetty
2. Foxy over at the fox den
3. Kitty at Kitty Tells It As It Is
Feel free to eat this award, sail away in it, do something with it or nothing with it. Similarly, feel free to tell the world ten things that make you feel good about life. Or not. Whatever floats your boat.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, concludes Awards Sunday. Thank you for your company. Now, if someone would be kind enough to see if those guys in helmets and padding are still hanging around? After all we may as well offer them the rest of the day for this 'Superbowl' thing of theirs......
Friday, February 5, 2010
Distillation 1 : First Date.
Arrives eventually. Sorry I'm late - spent last night on a boat and by the way, not had a chance to wash, but got heaps of deodorant so should smell okay. Respond with a joke about numb arse from sitting on stone steps for this long, add cheesy smile for emphasis. Smiles back at me. Nice smile, nice face. Nice everything so far. Hope she likes me. Breakfast in this part of the city? On a Sunday? Tough call in this area and anyway, isn't it technically elevenses by now? House of Lords grounds will have to do. No thanks, you can keep your juice and yoghurt coated biscuit. I'm okay with my Marlboro for now. Not really a breakfast man, let alone an elevenses man. Back to the plan and back to The Tate. In we go. Pop Art here, Op Art there. Is there a difference? Apparently so if you know about art. Silly me. Gets up right close to the pictures, gets her face right into them and sees stuff I don't for much longer than I would. Memo to self: probably unwise to refer to them as squiggle pictures. Handy places for first dates, these galleries - plenty of opportunities to check someone out from behind as they look at the paintings. Talking easily now, nerves long gone. A smile here, a smile there. Still nice smile. Still nice everything so far. Hope she likes me.
Cheers Tate, thanks for the memories. Deep down into the bowels of the city. On the Victoria, off the Piccadilly, up the escalator and it's hello sunshine and hello Leicester Square. Drink or two? Sounds good. Text your brother? Wouldn't want him worrying. Lunch? Little hand's on the three but sure - if breakfast can be elevenses then we can just call lunch threeses and be done with it. Morroccan chicken for the lady please. I'll have something that makes me look cosmopolitan and worldly rather than the cheese and bacon burger I really want to order. Hope she's worth the sacrifice. Hope she likes me. Mustn't talk with food in mouth. Munch, sip, converse. Munch, sip, converse. Plate emptied. Place knife and fork together and relax. Split the bill in half? Oh alright then.
Trafalgar Square? Five minutes tops – cross a few roads and you're there. Just got to wait for the little green man and outofinterestwouldyoucallyourselfatactileperson? That's code for can I hold your hand in case you wondered. Okay, just so we’re clear was that technically a shriek or a laugh - and what sort of an answer is what do you think? Seeing as you're putting me on the spot, I'd say maybe you are a tactile person? Great - hand please. What? Oh - yes the green man means we should walk. Thanks for the reminder - got kind of distracted for a second or two there. So anyway, here we are. Fountains and a big lion statue and still a fair few pigeons but nowhere near as many as there used to be and...... yes - seeing as you asked, I would like to kiss you now, yes. Not that hand holding wasn't good but this kissing thing sounds good too, maybe even better than hand holding. Very better as it turns out. Drawing a few glances from passers-by now and this must be how it feels to be an Italian tourist. Does this count as one long kiss or several in quick succession? Probably doesn't matter really. Pretty certain she likes me.
Cheers Tate, thanks for the memories. Deep down into the bowels of the city. On the Victoria, off the Piccadilly, up the escalator and it's hello sunshine and hello Leicester Square. Drink or two? Sounds good. Text your brother? Wouldn't want him worrying. Lunch? Little hand's on the three but sure - if breakfast can be elevenses then we can just call lunch threeses and be done with it. Morroccan chicken for the lady please. I'll have something that makes me look cosmopolitan and worldly rather than the cheese and bacon burger I really want to order. Hope she's worth the sacrifice. Hope she likes me. Mustn't talk with food in mouth. Munch, sip, converse. Munch, sip, converse. Plate emptied. Place knife and fork together and relax. Split the bill in half? Oh alright then.
Trafalgar Square? Five minutes tops – cross a few roads and you're there. Just got to wait for the little green man and outofinterestwouldyoucallyourselfatactileperson? That's code for can I hold your hand in case you wondered. Okay, just so we’re clear was that technically a shriek or a laugh - and what sort of an answer is what do you think? Seeing as you're putting me on the spot, I'd say maybe you are a tactile person? Great - hand please. What? Oh - yes the green man means we should walk. Thanks for the reminder - got kind of distracted for a second or two there. So anyway, here we are. Fountains and a big lion statue and still a fair few pigeons but nowhere near as many as there used to be and...... yes - seeing as you asked, I would like to kiss you now, yes. Not that hand holding wasn't good but this kissing thing sounds good too, maybe even better than hand holding. Very better as it turns out. Drawing a few glances from passers-by now and this must be how it feels to be an Italian tourist. Does this count as one long kiss or several in quick succession? Probably doesn't matter really. Pretty certain she likes me.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
A trio of losses. 3 : 1982 into 2009.
He was driving in the Paris to Dakar rally when he disappeared into thin air. Somewhere near the border between Mali and Algeria his tyre tracks evaporated and for six days he was absolutely nowhere. The media reported his mother to be 'extremely distressed' and my brother and I joined the significant majority in lapping it up and laughing like drains.
I was ten and my brother was two months removed from turning eight - and like so many people in Thatcher's Britain in 1982, all we could see was the comedic value in this story. Maggie's son couldn't even follow a map. Maggie's son was as stupid and useless as Maggie was. Maggie's son was probably dead and it served Maggie right because Maggie was horrible - because everything that was wrong with Britain was Maggie's fault at this time in the early eighties. Now she was being punished for her sins, being force-fed her just desserts and it seemed appropriate. It was perfect; the bloodthirsty and vengeful example of karma that the climate both inspired and demanded back in 1982.
My mother endured our tasteless jibes and bad jokes for two days before she lost her patience and then her temper. She called us in to the lounge room, sat us down on our velvet sofa and gave us a resounding telling off. Whatever our opinions were about Maggie as Prime Minister, we were just acting like nasty little boys who were obviously too young and immature to see the truth, she said. The truth, she went on to explain, was that Maggie was not the Prime Minister in this particular scenario. Her job was irrelevant and all that mattered, all we needed to remember was that Maggie was a human being; just a mum who loved her son and was worried sick about him right now. It was no different to the pain and worry she would feel if one of us were lost in the desert, our mother concluded.
I was still a well behaved and studious boy at this time in my life. It mattered not that that I felt my mother had overreacted and was being unfair in curtailing our fun - she was still my mother and her words still carried weight back in 1982. I listened to her, did what I was told and I apologised, promised to behave better in the future before scuttling away shamefacedly. I accepted her viewpoint but what I failed to do back then in 1982 was understand her viewpoint. That understanding did not arrive for some time - specifically some twenty seven years later, one summer evening in 2009.
Twenty seven years later and Thatcher's Britain is long gone, replaced for me by a life in Rudd's Australia. I am older, taller and wiser these days; finally settled, calm and content after years of confusion and upheaval. I have finally found my place in this world - yet this day is the exception to the rule. Today I feel displaced, panicked - for today I am late picking him up from his cricket practice and I arrive to find the oval empty. Today I arrive and there is no sign of my stepson or his team and I realise that if he is not here, I have absolutely no idea where is is. Today I have lost him - cannot find him anywhere - and I am long passed worried now, making serious progress towards frantic now.
I cannot stop thinking about Mark Thatcher. About Margaret Thatcher and my mother's words from 1982. I think about my wife; about how much she loves that boy, how much I have come to love that boy and how impossible it would be if his were the tracks that suddenly evaporated, if we were forced to cope with his disappearance from our lives. I try to calm myself and listen to my rational inner voice which tells me that I am being stupid, alarmist. It tells me that I will either find him or that he will turn up safely with a perfectly reasonable explanation for his disappearance. One of his team mate's parents will will have picked him up, dropped him home by the time I get back - or he will be on his way to that friend's house, call us from there and ask us to pick him up. There will be a simple explanation, a valid reason. Definitely, absolutely. Without question.
I keep telling myself that - yet the more kilometres I cover as I chase hope from oval to oval and house to house, the more I struggle to stay composed and rational. I go home, check with my wife to see if he has returned yet, find out if he has called yet. He has not called, not returned and I get back in my car, retrace my steps and revisit locations. I look again, look harder - but all I can see is a picture of Mark Thatcher and all I can hear are my mother's words from 1982. It has taken twenty seven years for understanding to reach me but it does so at that moment and I am finally old enough, mature enough to see the truth which escaped me in 1982. Twenty seven years on and that understanding finally hits home with force.
I am wrung out, worn out and fresh out of ideas by the time I finish my third circuit of all known haunts. All I can think to do is check back home one more time - and my heart skips a beat and jumps into my throat as I turn down our street to see his father's car parked outside our house. It is then I see my stepson, leaning on our fence and waving at me nonchalantly as I pull up. He is maddeningly oblivious, inappropriately carefree and I have the strongest urge to tell him off for something, for anything. Instead I find myself striding towards him, embracing him, holding him for the longest time. He apologises for worrying me and I hear it in his tone as he speaks - he does not get why I am making such a fuss. I know instinctively that he is confused by my reaction, that he can accept I was worried but unable to understand why I was this worried.
I allow myself a smile as I close my eyes, drag a few more seconds from our embrace. He may not understand now, but I am sure that it will come to him in time. It may take a year, it may take twenty seven, but something tells me it will reach him eventually.
I was ten and my brother was two months removed from turning eight - and like so many people in Thatcher's Britain in 1982, all we could see was the comedic value in this story. Maggie's son couldn't even follow a map. Maggie's son was as stupid and useless as Maggie was. Maggie's son was probably dead and it served Maggie right because Maggie was horrible - because everything that was wrong with Britain was Maggie's fault at this time in the early eighties. Now she was being punished for her sins, being force-fed her just desserts and it seemed appropriate. It was perfect; the bloodthirsty and vengeful example of karma that the climate both inspired and demanded back in 1982.
My mother endured our tasteless jibes and bad jokes for two days before she lost her patience and then her temper. She called us in to the lounge room, sat us down on our velvet sofa and gave us a resounding telling off. Whatever our opinions were about Maggie as Prime Minister, we were just acting like nasty little boys who were obviously too young and immature to see the truth, she said. The truth, she went on to explain, was that Maggie was not the Prime Minister in this particular scenario. Her job was irrelevant and all that mattered, all we needed to remember was that Maggie was a human being; just a mum who loved her son and was worried sick about him right now. It was no different to the pain and worry she would feel if one of us were lost in the desert, our mother concluded.
I was still a well behaved and studious boy at this time in my life. It mattered not that that I felt my mother had overreacted and was being unfair in curtailing our fun - she was still my mother and her words still carried weight back in 1982. I listened to her, did what I was told and I apologised, promised to behave better in the future before scuttling away shamefacedly. I accepted her viewpoint but what I failed to do back then in 1982 was understand her viewpoint. That understanding did not arrive for some time - specifically some twenty seven years later, one summer evening in 2009.
Twenty seven years later and Thatcher's Britain is long gone, replaced for me by a life in Rudd's Australia. I am older, taller and wiser these days; finally settled, calm and content after years of confusion and upheaval. I have finally found my place in this world - yet this day is the exception to the rule. Today I feel displaced, panicked - for today I am late picking him up from his cricket practice and I arrive to find the oval empty. Today I arrive and there is no sign of my stepson or his team and I realise that if he is not here, I have absolutely no idea where is is. Today I have lost him - cannot find him anywhere - and I am long passed worried now, making serious progress towards frantic now.
I cannot stop thinking about Mark Thatcher. About Margaret Thatcher and my mother's words from 1982. I think about my wife; about how much she loves that boy, how much I have come to love that boy and how impossible it would be if his were the tracks that suddenly evaporated, if we were forced to cope with his disappearance from our lives. I try to calm myself and listen to my rational inner voice which tells me that I am being stupid, alarmist. It tells me that I will either find him or that he will turn up safely with a perfectly reasonable explanation for his disappearance. One of his team mate's parents will will have picked him up, dropped him home by the time I get back - or he will be on his way to that friend's house, call us from there and ask us to pick him up. There will be a simple explanation, a valid reason. Definitely, absolutely. Without question.
I keep telling myself that - yet the more kilometres I cover as I chase hope from oval to oval and house to house, the more I struggle to stay composed and rational. I go home, check with my wife to see if he has returned yet, find out if he has called yet. He has not called, not returned and I get back in my car, retrace my steps and revisit locations. I look again, look harder - but all I can see is a picture of Mark Thatcher and all I can hear are my mother's words from 1982. It has taken twenty seven years for understanding to reach me but it does so at that moment and I am finally old enough, mature enough to see the truth which escaped me in 1982. Twenty seven years on and that understanding finally hits home with force.
I am wrung out, worn out and fresh out of ideas by the time I finish my third circuit of all known haunts. All I can think to do is check back home one more time - and my heart skips a beat and jumps into my throat as I turn down our street to see his father's car parked outside our house. It is then I see my stepson, leaning on our fence and waving at me nonchalantly as I pull up. He is maddeningly oblivious, inappropriately carefree and I have the strongest urge to tell him off for something, for anything. Instead I find myself striding towards him, embracing him, holding him for the longest time. He apologises for worrying me and I hear it in his tone as he speaks - he does not get why I am making such a fuss. I know instinctively that he is confused by my reaction, that he can accept I was worried but unable to understand why I was this worried.
I allow myself a smile as I close my eyes, drag a few more seconds from our embrace. He may not understand now, but I am sure that it will come to him in time. It may take a year, it may take twenty seven, but something tells me it will reach him eventually.
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