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.
Who am I to say what is right and what it wrong? Rightness is subjective, some might even say a cultural notion. And yet, it hurts to see and hear what is happening to those whom I deem as good, truly so, being bludgeoned and bullied by those who are not. Will nothing happen to stop this? Must might and pure self interest win out?
She finds sweet things to share with us, anecdotes that she delivers with a honeyed charm. I resist and welcome it. Today she told us of a recycling place in Yeovil, I think she said, that has salvaged all the discarded Christmas decorations and hangs them out each year at this time for their customers’ delight. A nice thing. Thank you.
I am groggy, her text woke me from a deep sleep and after I texted him I struggled to return to it. She says he is struggling. I said what I could, weighing my words carefully. He is such a tender being, so full of feeling. I hold him to me in my mind. I hope he feels it.
It was a mish-mash of things that I’d thought or spoken about the day before with a familiar replaying of characters. Do you want some more coffee or toast? I asked the assembled family. No, they said, though I still went into the next door room to make some. Each of the rooms were virtually empty, with just a table, some chairs and in the smaller ante-room a toaster. When I went in there to make more toast I noticed that just by the door, on another smaller table, was a toast rack full of pre-prepared toast. I still went to the toaster to make more. It was a machine like the one you find in hotels with a revolving tray on which to place the bread. H. and J. were there, though I didn’t see the faces of the others.