Archive for April, 2008
A new Macbook complete with photobooth. That is where the tiresome pics of yours truly are coming from. The novelty will wear off soon. Now it is shiny, glossy and quite beautiful. Commodity fetishism reigns in these parts. The revolution can wait.
Mother was shocked that I bought a new computer. What would you like me to spend my money on mother: drugs, alcohol, junk food? The money I spent on my shiny new macbook is money I have because I never purchase those things. She fails to grasp the importance of a computer to my everyday life, to my health, to my general well-being. Sometimes when I am too afraid leave the house the computer it is my lifeline, my sole connection to the world. It is the same when I wake up in the middle of the night, terrified beyond reason, bathed in perspiration. The computer is the only thing that can stifle the babbling voices in my head. The only thing, sometimes, that can stop me from simply giving up. How can she fail to understand that?
I have been mostly shopping. And yes, I am aware that I shouldn’t be indulging in such frivolous pastimes. I should be wringing my hands and weeping helplessly over atrocities occurring on the other side of the planet. On second thoughts:
The Serenity Prayer
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can
And the wisdom to know the difference
A Refusal to Mourn the Death, By Fire, of a Child in London
Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness
And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn
The majesty and burning of the child’s death.
I shall not murder
The mankind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
With any further
Elegy of innocence and youth.
Deep with the first dead lies London’s daughter,
Robed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.
(My Liverpudlian therapist is getting me to take photographs of myself from various angles for obvious reasons.)
And another thing:
…Freddi is dead. His son took her to the vet’s on Friday morning. In a nutshell her lungs had simply stopped working. She was in great pain. Nobby’s son telephoned him from the vet’s and he consented to have her put to sleep. When I spoke to Nobby in the afternoon he could hardly get the words out. ‘How is Freddi?’ I asked.
I don’t think those around him understand what this had done to him. He is ninety one. He has lived through a war. He fought in Italy in a Special Services Reconnaissance Commando Unit. He has seen men blown to bits, trapped in tanks, burning to death and yet none of that affected him as much as the demise of ‘a little white dog’. It’s like Freddi was an anchor, tethering him to the earth and now she has gone there is no reason for him to stay. He is broken. There is a wall between us. I don’t know what to say to make it all better. Why are we given things only for them to be snatched away?
When someone asked me if I had had a ‘flutter on the grand national’ I directed them to this link.