Welcome to my blog which has just
spent two long days with a ten year old grandson spent mostly discussing an
imaginary siege conducted by the forces of the Sith against the temple of the
Jedi. As my grandson is the Jedi, the Siths are not allowed to actually win a
war and any strategies they come up with are immediately thwarted by some
awesome power just developed by his imagination which is pretty limitless.
Consequently I have been forced to delve into Sith history to come up with new
versions of old weapons, such as the Amulet of Invisibility, with which to
temporarily surprise my grandson. Yesterday when he set his Walkers on me, I
was able to momentarily silence him with my knowledge of three ways in which
the Walkers have been defeated before. By 3pm I was getting pretty desperate
with the conversations and was delighted for once to say, ‘Why don’t we watch
the Olympics? The BMX cycling is on.’
Although immune to the delights of
football and cricket, my grandson does know sports that I don’t, such as
canoeing, kayaking, archery, and BMX cycling who’s World Championships he had
been to see. In fact the tv coverage was fairly dull because once they’d
dropped down the first ramp it was impossible to see the whole of the race. The
two british riders were favourites to do well in the final but trailed in last.
It seems that the excitement is in watching the crashes.
Meanwhile the Olympian newspeak
continued apace in the UK. Or is it GB now? There is much talk of Olympic legacy
and the british Olympic winners are being put forward as models of perfect
citizens, dedicating their lives and bodies to winning a freak show once in
four years. Hard work brings rewards, we are told. Tell that to the labourers
of the earth, to the factory workers, to the women of the world, to all those
who know it isn’t true. Britain won a gold in a martial art. I watched the
final; two women trying to kick each other in the head. Sporting excellence for
our children to be inspired by? Or is that the dancing horses?
I struggle spending the day in a ten
year old’s world. I want my own thoughts and to get on with my Day of the Dead
but by time his parents come home, I am brainless.
The other day I was contemplating a
row of nearby bungalows when I suddenly remembered my grandparent’s bungalow in
stunning clarity. And there they were; grandpa, grandma and auntie bobbie, all
smiling at me. In my grandfather’s garage which smelled of polished leather,
was kept the mangle and I loved to push the washing through the rollers and
feel it come out squeezed of liquid.
Of course when I began to recall
those days, I felt the tears welling up. But what was I crying at? Maybe one
day young Louis will be walking past the house where he now lives and he’ll
remember some of these days with his granddad and maybe he’ll shed a tear too
and not know why. And maybe, for all my resistance, those interminable hours
spent with him are the best thing I could be doing with my time.
Having written the above, I switch on
the radio. For once, not the Olympics but the sick sad story of a 12 year old
girl murdered by her grandmother’s lover, the man she called grandfather.
Okay, enough, lets watch the sport.
---
On Monday I wrote this:
Today I was knocking out my begging
emails and feeling good about my gig when I got a reply from Copperpiece, the
theatre group I had surreptitiously allocated £500 towards getting. With them
in place, I felt I had an event to be proud of. What they want is £11,000! I
felt instantly mortified. I could feel it deep in my body, shame, foolishness
and embarrassment. Small and stupid. Overeached himself. Got carried away. A
dreamer. Fucking hate this feeling. (And a part of my mind adds them to a Day
of the Dead of the future, maybe in Bristol next year. Or should I just realize
that me and the Southbank, never the twain shall meet.)
Of course the temptation is to avoid
feelings of failure rather than allow and expand the feeling to experience and
discreate it. I’ve always been aware of my pessimism and negative internal
chatter so it is no real surprise to find the self-critical voice of the
non-existent person whinging loudly in my head. It isn’t having all its own
way, however, for on another front, the writing one, I’m still expecting to
suddenly make a fortune. Who knows? The man I sent my novel to may decide to publish it as an ebook or I may win that short story prize in November. Both are highly unlikely - the first guy isn't even a publisher. In fact I've got myself into a superstitious hole because although I want to finish doing this blog, which has served its purpose, I dare not for if I don't have a twist of success in the tale I'll always think 'if only i had kept doing the blog until the end of the year, what might have happened?'
---
We are plagued by mosquitos on the Somerset levels. Occassionally we can see clouds of them drifting above the waters. At night we have to close the windows, cover up the wrists and ankles, and burn citronella. If only the sun would shine it'd be like living abroad.
But the sun doesn't shine and the rain continues to fall.
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