A sombre evening

No one has asked me how my foot is. Well it is much better thank you. But that’s it really, isn’t it – people just don’t care. Not when it comes down to it. When push comes to thingy.

That comment on my photo. What she really means is, to have another go AT LIFE.

It is all very well her saying what SHE feels. What about HIM? What was that little boy feeling when the picture was taken? What was he thinking about? Was he thinking: one day I will grow up and jump off a big bridge?

Was he wondering what he was doing there in that backyard? And the person taking his photograph: did she say ‘come on now, smile’? And how did he feel? Shy? (people were always telling him he was shy). Embarrassed? (he is looking down at the ground) Or is he showing off? Proud that he can ride his tricycle? With a good hypnotherapist we could meet him again – and ask him.

But it’s just a snapshot: a little boy on a tricycle. It’s so long ago. What does it matter Well it does matter. The boy truly is the father of the man. And when we really understand that we will treat our children better. Not try to mould them in the shape of our unfulfilled dreams. Not try making them into something WE think is the ideal. Not fuck them up like we were fucked up. Not go on repeating the pattern.

I am on my own. I know that. That is what the dreams were telling me. Anastasia, Georgina, Sydney, Carol, Amanda, Freddie and all he rest of them – they have got to take care of themselves. It’s understandable of course. They have their own lives to lead. It’s called SURVIVAL.
Pitch-forked onto this planet, without so much as a ‘by your leave’, ‘mind the step’, ‘kiss me Hardy’ – just get on with it. And that is what we do. Get on with it. Willy-nilly. Because we must.

"Night, mothering night, take us on your knee,
And hide our eyes from the blank face of eternity"

It is approaching midnight. Soon the lights in the corridors will go out. The building is shutting down for the night – like a giant computer going offline. “Any work which hasn’t been saved will be lost.” That’s why I write: an attempt to leave some trace of my having been here.
Perhaps it’s futile, but I go on doing it. Why? Because I feel driven to express what is in my head. I think I would write if no one read my stuff. But also I want to be heard – don’t we all? And, occasionally, I get a response that tells me that someone out there does hear.

One day I shall walk out of this place Meanwhile, I am going to bed. I have a couple of Sydney’s magazines, which I shall read under the bedclothes – using my ‘Everlasting Torch’, which I purchased from ‘Modern Originals.’