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?
It’s a strange juxtaposition of words. One so clear, clean and the other redolent of business transactions, of compromise and of loss. I hope the outcome, if it comes, protects those who need it…
Why did I weep at breakfast? I said it was about the horror of other people’s actions and beliefs. It was but it also wasn’t. Mostly, no almost entirely it was about mine. All of that wrongness that is in me, that came into me even before my birth, that I carry in my blood, bones and organs. I reject it wholly but it remains. A horrid gift. And nothing will cleanse me of it. Except death. And even then, who knows? Forgive me.
John Berger writes about painting the existent as an act of resistance, of hope. Is that what I am doing by drawing my quotidian? I like to think so.