I have four or five “draft” blog entries that I have written in recent days as I attempt to recapture some of the élan so prevalent in nascent entries. I’m trying to condense all of those thoughts. I apologise for my succinctness, but I just need to sit and type for a while, lest these thoughts gnaw away at me with the rising of the sun. There will be time for questions – and answers – later.
This blog entry should really be filed under “Life freakin’ sucks at the minute”. The hot weather (see below) has fried my laptop and a meltdown at my server (pun intended) have curbed my access dramatically.
Just when I thought I’d reached the uppermost limits of my emotional fortitude last week, my heart broke for the third time in as many days and the memories and emotions I thought were long assuaged stampede through my mind like a herd of elephants.
Mid afternoon Thursday, it all came crashing down with the events here in Melbourne. I still shudder. So if anyone finds a handful of marbles rolling around their neighbourhood, they’re mine and I would be exceedingly and sincerely grateful for their return. Reward offered, though it will be nothing like the £300 a London-based friend of mine is offering for the return of her coat.
The words of men – some long dead – but all eminently wiser, more intelligent, insightful and prodigious in their output than I; run through my head. Their words collide with my poetry, but nothing has come of it yet. At the moment Julius Caesar prattles on drunkenly with Rudyard Kipling as David Bowie sets up with his band and Shakespeare toddles off to the gents’ for a leak. My words lack vim.
I had the idea to dispense out some “tough love” to a friend, but my chivalrous streak for all its devilish charm, has the upper hand. I can’t do it, and I’d be breaking a long-held promise to myself besides. I want to turn away. But I cannot take “no” as my answer. I miss “us” too much, whatever that is. A horrible dichotomy.
Trust me that there is nothing, nothing on this Earth that is more painful than seeing somebody you care for in tears and being entirely powerless to stop them. Well, actually, realising that you are the reason for the tears. I’ve been guilty of that too, but that is a sad story for another day.
You’re gonna read this the moment you return, I know, so I might as well put it all out there. Right now it’s … 9 pm Monday. You’re probably at work.
I wish, babe, I could thumb away those tears, perhaps even buy some chips (from Stalactites, of course), a lollipop to stain your lips and tell you everything’s just gonna be right as rain. But it’s just not that simple. You still have some credit to claw back, but I am a patient man. Remember that ardent heart of yours and the diamonds within. Remember that I possess neither the desire nor the malice to refine them, because I already regard them as perfect.
The heatwave here is broken – he says as a thunderclap rolls overhead – it was hot, even by local standards. Thursday and Friday topped 115 degrees, and the two days previous were 110. Melbourne’s hottest ever day was 20 January 1939 (aka Black Friday, when it was 121 degrees). It was even hot enough for the evening newsanchors to dispense with jackets for crying out loud!
I had wondered what had happened to Melbourne’s notorious “four seasons in 15 minutes”, but it didn’t transpire. Thursday night I was wishing I lived in my old flat: 10 minutes’ walk to one of the city’s best beaches.
A handful of people have asked me, but I’m not ready to comment on the Darcey Freeman thing yet. Ask me later in the week.
Reading verbose academic articles and the CLR gets me zoned.
This blog entry should really be filed under “Life freakin’ sucks at the minute”. The hot weather (see below) has fried my laptop and a meltdown at my server (pun intended) have curbed my access dramatically.
Just when I thought I’d reached the uppermost limits of my emotional fortitude last week, my heart broke for the third time in as many days and the memories and emotions I thought were long assuaged stampede through my mind like a herd of elephants.
Mid afternoon Thursday, it all came crashing down with the events here in Melbourne. I still shudder. So if anyone finds a handful of marbles rolling around their neighbourhood, they’re mine and I would be exceedingly and sincerely grateful for their return. Reward offered, though it will be nothing like the £300 a London-based friend of mine is offering for the return of her coat.
The words of men – some long dead – but all eminently wiser, more intelligent, insightful and prodigious in their output than I; run through my head. Their words collide with my poetry, but nothing has come of it yet. At the moment Julius Caesar prattles on drunkenly with Rudyard Kipling as David Bowie sets up with his band and Shakespeare toddles off to the gents’ for a leak. My words lack vim.
I had the idea to dispense out some “tough love” to a friend, but my chivalrous streak for all its devilish charm, has the upper hand. I can’t do it, and I’d be breaking a long-held promise to myself besides. I want to turn away. But I cannot take “no” as my answer. I miss “us” too much, whatever that is. A horrible dichotomy.
Trust me that there is nothing, nothing on this Earth that is more painful than seeing somebody you care for in tears and being entirely powerless to stop them. Well, actually, realising that you are the reason for the tears. I’ve been guilty of that too, but that is a sad story for another day.
You’re gonna read this the moment you return, I know, so I might as well put it all out there. Right now it’s … 9 pm Monday. You’re probably at work.
I wish, babe, I could thumb away those tears, perhaps even buy some chips (from Stalactites, of course), a lollipop to stain your lips and tell you everything’s just gonna be right as rain. But it’s just not that simple. You still have some credit to claw back, but I am a patient man. Remember that ardent heart of yours and the diamonds within. Remember that I possess neither the desire nor the malice to refine them, because I already regard them as perfect.
“And now for something completely different”
The heatwave here is broken – he says as a thunderclap rolls overhead – it was hot, even by local standards. Thursday and Friday topped 115 degrees, and the two days previous were 110. Melbourne’s hottest ever day was 20 January 1939 (aka Black Friday, when it was 121 degrees). It was even hot enough for the evening newsanchors to dispense with jackets for crying out loud!
I had wondered what had happened to Melbourne’s notorious “four seasons in 15 minutes”, but it didn’t transpire. Thursday night I was wishing I lived in my old flat: 10 minutes’ walk to one of the city’s best beaches.
A handful of people have asked me, but I’m not ready to comment on the Darcey Freeman thing yet. Ask me later in the week.