This post is full of lines and paragraphs from old, draft posts. Posts that never ‘made it’. I like some of the bits below though and, now, I have got rid of all these draft posts.
The feeling that ‘I’ve seen all this before’ prevails and I mistake that for being wise.
I read an interview today. Someone said that he didn’t want to be content. That content sounded like ‘maturity’ and that implied decay.
A single lie that I find out means that everything that is said might be false. Probably is false.
Funny, isn’t it. Some people spend their whole time trying to convince you they are someone that they’re not.
He sings songs to Dino. The latest one is:
pupi pupazzo ¨ un cane pazzo
pupi pupazzello ¨ un cane bello
pupi pupazzino ¨ un bel bambino
tu che sei dino
sei un cane carino
>The tour was surprising. Mostly because most of it remained the same or, nearly the same. England’s green and pleasant land remaining green and pleasant – with lots of sheep and cows and, so, lots of photo opportunities!
Yes, he was probably bored, the sheep being a welcome distraction.
We drank beer, he ate fish and chips and I ate lamb. We walked around the towns. We went to the church where my Grandfather was buried. I tried to explain but found that I couldn’t really.
My Grandfather was 83 when he died; my Grandmother, 85. They lived quite long, really.
His philosophy on life was that you had a good life if you were ‘content’. And he’s right and always was. My father never understood that, always striving onwards and upwards as he did and now probably having died before he was even 70.
We exchange few words, the woman who owns them and I. It’s too early in the morning for me to understand Italian and, anyway, we don’t need to talk. I’m not good in the mornings. Today neither she nor her dogs are there, of course.
Gotta be strong. Gotta say ‘no’.
This meant asking for the stuff. F said to get 1 etto (100 grams) of prosciutto and half an etto of coppa and salami. I asked about buying the pre-packed stuff, saying that I wasn’t sure the deli was open but the horrified look on his face said all that I needed to know.
However some friends (of theirs) turned up just as we had started and hadn’t been invited to dinner and just sat on the sofa, reading, whilst we spent the next couple of hours eating.
At that point I began to realise that certain ‘strong’ memories of his were, as most people’s are, just a figment of his imagination.
Well, you know, fuck that for a lark.
I hope he doesn’t let you down but fear he will. But, please don’t be asking me why V has not been in touch or not come round to see you. He’s not my responsibility any more and I don’t have to make the excuses like I used to – go figure it all out for yourself.
Let’s say that we’ve both given each other some shit over the years so we must be ‘even’ by now but, still, fuck you for believing in what V has said. It is, in the nicest possible way, utter bullshit and for you, an intelligent guy, I thought, to have fallen for V’s greatest trick, makes you a fool at the very least.
“It’s the same for me”, he writes. I misinterpret that a little
Of course, it will never be ‘over’. Undoubtedly, I shall be ‘paying’ for it, in one way or another for the rest of my life and there will always be some little thing that will come back and haunt me but ….. still ……..
I realise now that I never understood him (probably, in much the same way as he quite obviously never understood me).
He always went from ‘mad passion’ for some friend or other to another. I learnt to avoid getting too attached to them (unless I really liked them too), knowing that it wouldn’t last that long in any event. The last time I did this, I was worn down after years of being told that this person was wonderful; I didn’t think so. Within a year or so of my ‘giving in’ the glorious affair was over but with such suddenness and such hatred that I vowed never to put myself in that position again – and I never did.
…. but there will be that falseness behind it. The people that you don’t exactly ‘dislike’ but that, if they aren’t there, actually don’t mean that much to you.
I just wish that the closure of these paragraphs would reach the closure of the chapter. We have both moved on and these things do not help either of us.
The old man rang yesterday. I knew it was him, since my phone said ‘Unknown Number’. I was driving the first time, walking from the car to my house the second, and doing something else on the third. It was the fourth occasion that I answered. “It will only take 10 minutes”, he assured me. I was not assured. I am assured that it will mean I am at least an hour later back at home – of that I am 90% certain, even if the actual work does only take 10 minutes.
And then that made me think about his blog. Do I want anything? At first glance, that would be no. The reality is, I think, that I do want something.
F is still feeling ill. Last night he had a stomach ache. He blames it on the food and drink he has had over the last few days – but it’s not that. It’s the drugs that he’s been taking. I try to tell him but he’s not listening and he’s Italian so he has a different view as to what causes things. I know it’s that because he stopped taking any tablets and his stomach was fine and then, last night, he got more syrup and some tablets and took one of the tablets and then suffered stomach ache.
He’s not really good with suffering – as most men; as most Italian men.