Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.
I wish my thoughts to have more power, to effect a change, to make a difference. I think of that man, that brave man fighting to preserve his country’s sovereignty and security going to the US to find some kind of peace promise. I think of him and wish him the best that can be found so that the killing can stop.
It was always a disappointment of a day when I was small. After the excitement of Christmas Eve and the anti-climax afforded by Christmas Day there was nothing left to say by the time Boxing Day came along. What did we do? Visit people, I suppose. I remember the languor too well. This day I shall work. For the time being I am happier doing so…..
I go in to wake him up for breakfast. He is fast asleep, his mouth open and I think that is what he will look like when he dies. Let it not be yet.
I cannor explain it. It goes deep. To my core. I long for all of them, both real and memory. All of those to whom I am connected through blood and shared history. All of those whom I loved and continue to love and to whom his Christmastide has always belonged. I miss you all. Too much.
Thinking of and remembering him as I walked this morning, has helped me in my gloom. There was desire there once, and I am glad for it. And it was he who introduced me to Chris Rhea. And I remember that other flat he had and him coming home to me in that single bed telling me of listening to Wichita Lineman on the pub jukebox.
She told us that her father had chosen it for her from the toy shop at the top of the town. She’d been about eleven and she’d hated it. He remembered it too, as being the doll he’d, as a baby, rubbed faeces into its eyes. It made her laugh, the remembrance of that. I suppose they had to throw it away after that, he said. Yes, she said, I suppose they did.
My current reading matter is a heavy one and my spirits are made bleaker by it. And yet, there is beauty in it too. Much. Like the dead rat I came upon yesterday. So unexpectedly exquisite in its mortis.
We were talking about deejays, ones that annoy and ones that please and he asked me about the one I used to listen to years ago in the early hours. He remembered his Christian name, and it all came back to me, his narrow boat, Captain Pugwash and so on. He was good company, as B. is now. Those voices in the dark that keep me steady. Thank you.
The little toys and objects that sit on my studio windowsill are just that, comforting. They bring me comfort, regularity, and the occasional flight of fancy. I need it, especially now when the winter-induced bleakness is slowly descending. This one, aka Roger Rooster, sort of jumps about. A small delight.
We are inundated at this time of the year. So many, too many calls for aid. And all so worthy, so important. The world is drowning under the need for help, for food, for shelter, for homes, for sanctuary. All those voices clamouring to be heard. What can we do? What can I do? I offer a small gesture, while feeling the tiny drop of it. I am sorry. We have failed to make it all OK. Haven’t we?