I’ve still never seen my letter. I will one day. I will get a hold of it. I’m terrified what I will think of myself when I find it. So much has come between us. Will I be challenged by that memory? The memory of writing a letter versus the horrifying contrast its contents conceal?
I have said it before, I tried to convince myself that there was something here. Something more than the errant waste that lies in my now shriveling memory cells. Writing that letter, I remember how much I was trying to convince myself that this was going to work out and that this was going to be OK. I wrote about how I dreamed of coming back home to you, and that it would all be grand.I knew in my heart of hearts that it was a pile of romantic gibberish. I knew that I shouldn’t be hoping for this but knowing this. In fact, if it really had been right, I knew that I wouldn’t be writing the letter in the first place. There would be no need to convince myself that we would be there on the other end.
The girl of my dreams would have been beside me, writing her own letter. She’d be talking about how this experience wasn’t going to define her life, but refine it. To make it more than it was. You wrote me something around the time reminding me that you would be there when I got back, That you’d be there once I had found myself. That you’d be waiting. That you had already started the calendar. While I was thinking about all the things I would do, the people I would meet and the friends I would make, simply because I was getting on that plane off to the unknown. What you were thinking nothing of what would happen while I was gone, of the opportunities in store, just about that moment that I came back.
Which is real? The formulated sap I wrote all that time ago? Or these memories, cracked and bent, twisted and entwined; glued back together through years of resentment, hope, anguish, love and guilt?
Neither is probably the truest of statements, yet truth right now is not quite something I am willing to confront.
I wonder what the non-stressed people are doing right now.
I could go on a holiday. But I could stay away.
I would leave my guide behind, scratching his head saying, “that’s a crazy guy, that guy”.
There’s be loose pebbles on the ground. There’s be snow on the side of the road, occasionally a local would go by on a motorbike not looking at me twice.
I’d ignore the frantic emails of my mother.
I’d stare at the clouds as they passed behind the mountain, I’d watch as the hours clicked by. Me, sitting still.
I’d get to a new country, confident in my ability to get through, not knowing how I arrived.
What if I just kept walking?
I just had the strongest outpouring of emotion and I almost feel like there is more there, and just like that the feeling is gone. I often do this. I have such an explosion of thought, love, anger, sadness and romance that I simply must share it with someone. But who?
That is what my blogs used to be for. They covered that bond for me. That’s all gone since That Thing I Did. I want to blog but I can’t or don’t. Or I have the idea and then I put it in the bank for later but later never comes.
My grandma died on Sunday morning. It wasn’t a surprise, but we knew it was coming. I saw her on Tuesday night and I desperately wanted to write about what it was like to see her in that state. Everyone around her so terrified, upset and confused. She was more at peace than I have ever seen her. I had the immediate though to write down what I felt like at that moment.
I didn’t write it though. I thought I could hold onto that emotion forever and just bring it out when I had the opportunity to write/blog about it. But I canb’t hold onto it. Allegedly that’s a Sagitarrius thing. We are very fiery individuals. Leaping from one emotion to the next. Find it hard to hold a grudge.
The outpouring tonight wasn’t about her, although those emotions may have got me started. They were something else, the words just came so clearly and quickly I just want to share them with the world. I know now that that’s not always in my (or even others’) best interests so it will go unblogged. But I hope I can get back to that stage where I can share those deep thoughts, feelings and emotions for strangers to witness.
OHHHHH ! It smells like it outside. Only outside the backdoor. I haven’t been out of the front door, so I don’t know if the smell is there too. But it is definitely at the backdoor.
I had a dream about that place the other day. Not just any dream, but a morning dream. One of the – dreaming while you wake up and you try to go back to sleep to continue the dream – type things.
Literally, the half-second after you step out my backdoor, you can smell the beachside town that my family would go to every year in late November. I could feel the warm humid air against my face and I knew exactly where I was. Standing on the road, barefoot a stone’s throw from the beach. I was staring at a sand dune with some coarse yet fine sand sticking to the sides of my legs and the top of my feet. The smell made the memory so real I almost booked myself onto a plane to go there for the weekend.
And seeing as I don’t have any plans for the weekend, that might not be such a bad idea.
Six years since I lived in a place where I wallpapered my room with photos of my friends and adventures. Actually, back then there weren’t even that many adventures.
I used to have them everywhere. The floor would also have a pile of photos that had fallen off the walls in the heat; I would have posters in various states of (dis)repair. Newspaper clippings, headlines, album covers and flags and those free postcards that you can pickup from cool record stores or bookshops.
I can’t think why I stopped? Perhaps I moved house and I was scared of ripping the paint in the new place, or I felt that the environment didn’t warrant it.
When living with my ex-girlfiend, if it didn’t have a frame, then it didn’t go on the wall. That was the rule. I don’t know whose rule, but I knew it existed. That’s not even to go into the question of “why would you want to put up photos of people [read girls] I’ve never met?” [cross arms, furrow eyebrows, raise voice].
Ten minutes last night. A wad of blu-tac. A consistent pattern. BOOM! I have a room in which it looks like someone lives! It’s a remarkable transformation. Suddenly some of the most important experiences and people in my life, even if they were some time ago are back, and I love it.
I can remember the when, what and why of each of them. The Boatcruise, the Ball, the Bazza and Shazza party when I was very nearly very charming, a Buck’s party, the Wedding (carrying on from the Buck’s). The far East, my brother, Buddha. A storm blowing over my parent’s home, the tree I climbed as a child and a photo of my family when my grandfather and uncle were still alive and my grandmother knew who I was.
Maybe this place won’t be too bad after all.
I’m giving you a free upgrade!
CONGRATULATIONS! That’s a move from “you’re an arsehole but I can tolerate living with you” to “GO FUCK YOURSELF”. You know what? As far as upgrades go, on paper it does not look bad. In fact, it looks like you started off pretty badly in the first place. But in all seriousness, what it means is that you have broken the camel’s back – you have dropped at least 5 estimations in my book.
And the camel is not happy about it. At all.
Probably, what has happened really isn’t that big a deal, and in the morning I will wake up and not think about it again.
But when I left the house, I looked at that piece of mail for someone that lived here before time began. A person who none of us know in person, but know by name. The mail that continues to spray our mailbox despite our best efforts to stop it. I looked at it and thought, “you probably better re-address that or throw it in the bin, because whatzisname is gonna get cranky about it sitting there, and while you are thinking about it, you need to find a spot to put that newspaper away”.
Here’s the thing though. That newspaper is the weekend newspaper. And what if the other housemate wants to read it before the weekend is over? Or what happens is Mrs John Harolld O’mailitude comes to collect their mail? Hey? HEY?!? Would that be such a big fucking deal?
Now, because I looked at the mail and the newspaper and had that thought, because I knew exactly where is was when I left the house, I know that when I came back it was not in the same place. I know that the paper on top is the same part of the paper that was on top before. Only now, it is in a different part of the living room. A “cleaner” part. And the mail is no longer on the edge of the table, but in the middle of the table. You moved it! From the edge of the table, to the middle of the table! The middle! perfectly in the middle.
So I’m sorry, but you, and your perfect OCD house, can just go and upgrade yourselves to a “go fuck yourself” while I start to looking for somewhere else to live.