Tag Archives: Friends and Inimies

Colours are interesting

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I’ve always thought that colours are interesting in that, what is ‘red’ to me may be an entirely different colour to you. I mean, we all know what red is but that is because, as a child, you are ‘taught’ what name a particular colour is. So, the questions is: when you see red, do you actually see the same colour as me or am I seeing what would be blue or green or something else, in your eyes?

And, last night, Best Mate and I had another lengthy conversation, which was useful for both of us although I’m not certain which of us was more grateful, her or me.

In this lengthy conversation, we talked for a while about feelings. To me, feelings are a bit like colours. Except that they are also like being colour-blind as well.

She was trying to explain her feelings and said, quite rightly, that, unless you had been through what she has been through, there is no way for you to understand.

What was interesting was that, when I was describing my feelings and the problems of how they made me feel physically, she said that she had never had these.

So, are my feelings unique to me? Is it really something I can share with others? I was trying to explain that I was aware that the things that are currently happening to me are as a result of chemicals that my brain is releasing or permitting to be released into my body and why it has left me feeling so crap.

She said she would like to have those feelings. I said I would rather be like her, without them ever. She said they were good (for me). I said that they were terrible and I want it all to stop.

Earlier on in the conversation she had told me to ‘get a grip’. And, the logic side of my brain knows this to be true. The problem, as I explained to her, was/is that my brain starts thinking and then, before I have time to stop it, it has thought the thoughts that it shouldn’t (logically) and off we go again, into this helter-skelter of emotions and almost flu-like symptoms.

I said I would like to ‘get a grip’ and know that I should but I just can’t stop my thoughts, even if I know them to be stupid, pointless and just giving me a hard time for no good reason.

At least, for the while I was talking to her, I felt much better. It would be better if she were physically here although I would probably break down into tears, so, maybe not. I’ve promised to fix this before she comes over.

Let’s hope so.

In other news…..

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I am afraid, in spite of my promise not to post, I still am. However, the bulk of the insanity is now relegated to elsewhere and I am making a serious effort to lighten this one up a bit, not least because it was becoming a bit of a bore.

And so, in other news:

I cannot get really angry with Dino. This morning, as I was getting ready for work, I glanced over and saw what looked like something white on the front of my shoes, which I had not put on yet.

I went over to find it was not white on the shoe but rather the floor showing through what should have been the front of my shoe. And they were relatively new shoes too! To be honest they only cost me about €15 from the market and I can always get some more. Whilst I can’t get so angry with him, Dino will be banned to the kitchen until further notice. And he’s been doing so well recently, too!

S, my colleague that I mentioned in the last post, told me that, whilst she was on holiday and her husband still at home, her dog had committed suicide! Stop laughing because, really, it’s not funny. Now, she had told me, in the past that C, her husband, never got on well with Carmilla (the dog – and here, I’m not referring to our latest Princess of Wales). Anyway, S went to the holiday flat with the kids leaving Carmilla and C alone together (he was working). It seems that, at the ripe old age of 15, this resourceful dog, whilst not exactly going into the kitchen, getting a bread knife and slashing whatever her wrists are called, squeezed herself between the railings on the balcony and jumped to her death! I just can’t help but have this sneaking suspicion that C, having had enough, kicked her and, unfortunately, she went flying over the balcony but, obviously, he can’t tell his wife and kids that. However, with her having lived in the same house for 15 years, the idea of jumping off the balcony herself sounds, well, quite absurd.

To go back to the current insanity, just for a moment, for the second morning running, I have been wide awake at about 4.30 a.m. And I don’t seem to feel really tired which I find quite amazing. I don’t start off wide awake but as soon as I start to ‘come to’ I start thinking and that’s the thing I really need to stop, that and the pain-which-is-not-real-pain that causes my stomach to churn and ache as if I am hungry and full to sickness all at the same time. Once I can get those two things sorted, I’ll be fine.

Still, this 4.30 thing has one advantage. I get up and take the dogs out and don’t have to rush. I don’t have to rush over coffee and I don’t have to rush to work, arriving earlier than I have to, meaning that, in theory, I could leave a little earlier, if I wanted.

Finally, I’ve been invited to a party by FfI. Interestingly, during the conversation she mentioned that the Weasel would be there. Is it possible that my lusting after him was noticed after all? You know what women are like with these things whereas us blokes can be pretty useless. Although, I am aware that, in my madness, I don’t quite realise that things I think are ‘secret’ are, in fact, known by everyone around me. This can, of course, lead to much embarrassment later on but I am finding that, being in the middle of such madness means I am incapable of determining when I have crossed that magic, invisible line from being unobserved to slightly, or worse, completely, blatant. I didn’t ask as that would have made it much worse. We wait to see what happens. Let’s hope I can keep myself in check enough.

Saturday morning, I shall have to revisit the market for new shoes. Ho hum.

About Families and Death and stuff

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S, my colleague, has a father who has the cancer associated with asbestos, with which he used to work. When she first found out she asked me to look on the internet to see what British doctors had to say as she was thinking he should get a second opinion.

I looked for her. It became clear that, in spite of anything she may wish, this was terminal, with or without chemo. I feel sorry for her but in a detached way, as he’s not my father nor is she, really, a friend, for whom I am likely to empathise much more. And, in spite of the fact that she had complained about him and how they didn’t really get along for the last few years, I can see that it is affecting her deeply.

Another friend also has problems with his father, who I have now met. However, he doesn’t really tell me much although I think he’s worried. His father seems to be in and out of hospital most of the time although there seems to be some indication, from what he has told me, that it may be a little hypochondria.

And I wonder, at what point does the parent become like a child? When the child-that-was becomes more concerned over the parents well-being, health, state of mind, etc. than the parents ability to influence the child’s life? And, is the worry more associated with guilt on behalf of the child, rather than anything else? But, and this is just me talking in my own special circumstances, why the guilt? Is it because the child feels they ‘owe’ something to the parent who gave birth and/or nurtured them for the first x years or the blood-thicker-than-water thing (which, obviously, I don’t believe in)?

I have thought about my parents from time to time. I have played the scenario in my head where one of them is on their death-bed and, although seemingly impossible, they find me and I get ‘THE CALL’ – the one that asks me to go to their side.

I wondered why they would do that? To try and make it right, perhaps?

I have also played out the possible two responses. The first being that I would say ‘no’ because if the point was only to satisfy them then that’s not good enough. The second being ‘yes’ because who would ever deny a dying person the right to at least
to fix a problem that’s existed for over 30 years! I mean, with their last dying breath and all!

And would I, at that point, feel the guilt that everyone else seems to feel as their parents approach their last years? I would like to say ‘no’ but if I am to be honest, then I really don’t know.

Of course, the reality is that it would be very difficult to find me. Not because I’ve gone out of my way to make it so but because it has been over 5 years since the last contact with any of my family and, although there are ways they could find me, it would take a great deal of effort and, basically, have to be my sister who worked it all through. After all, I have one ‘advantage’ over some other people – my name is a very common name and there are many people with my name who are much more famous and, therefore, take up most of the Google web search result pages (and, yes, I have looked, as have most people, I would think). Although both this and a conversation recently means I really should take another look to see how difficult it is to find me, If one were to make a determined effort and had some basic information.

And, anyway, going back to the subject, I don’t fool myself that this call will ever come. I cannot believe that after all this time they would want to make it right. What good could it possibly serve?

Thanks to Ico who inspired this post and, in my case, whereas the rest of my family may be on one island (although I believe that they ‘suffer’ the same situation as Ico’s family), certainly, I am on an island well adrift from theirs and so far away that it is over the horizon and, if not in reality, might as well be the other side of the world.

A Night Out with Best Mate

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Best Mate and I went out the other night. Well, it was the same thing but we actually stayed at home. In our own homes. And used Skype with videocam. I drank wine and she drank beer and we chatted and laughed and so on as you do when you’re out for a night on the town. Except we were in our respective bedrooms.

It ended up being for about 3 and a half hours. We had to have a break at one point so she could stock up on beer.

It was necessary. It was good. We talked about everything that’s going on right now, both in her life and mine. I was explaining why I am crazy and what the symptoms and causes were. She understood. She chided me where it was necessary and comforted me also.

It was a good night out with Best Mate…….

……who is looking and feeling much better and that makes me very happy. She will be over again in a few weeks and I am really looking forward to that.

I send an email but don’t send a text

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I’m afraid the madness is still upon me. The kitchen is full of the smell of something – and, initially I can’t quite tell what, though the smell is familiar. And then I realise it is the melon I bought, just-in-case, for the dinner last night.

A colleague at work got me some Boursault cheese from France earlier this week. I had invited FfI and another friend (in fact, the one who first introduced us to FfI – FfC) for dinner but really to taste the cheese with some crispy baguette and good wine but we couldn’t seem to work it out and so, FfI and her friend who has a shop in Isola were to come round last night.

I got home and, after seeming to break the hoover, I went to make the Special Salad (that used to be made by my Father) which, I am told is called Cob Salad in the States, to find that the fridge seemed not to have been working well, if at all. Maybe the door wasn’t shut properly. I had to go and by more salad stuff as the stuff in the fridge, in one day, with the heat, had become mushy. During the day, FfI had also invited her other friend so there were to be four of us.

Buying new stuff meant that I was a little later than planned and, therefore, rushed. FfI is moving again. She has to. She cannot afford the current flat and has found another which, in my opinion, she will be able to unafford equally as much.

She phoned to say that she was on her way round with the Friend with the shop and some guy who was giving them a lift but would not be staying. She had had a meeting with her current landlord and it had taken longer than expected so they were bringing nothing other than themselves. I told her that we needed bread for the cheese as that was one of the things she had promised to bring but that I had wine.

It was all going to pot but I just didn’t care. I had posted a comment on a blog that I instantly regretted and sent an email to a friend that I also instantly regretted. The madness remains. I promise myself that I won’t do that anymore.

They arrive with some bread (though it is not quite right it will do). Everything is not quite right but it will do, suffice, be enough – but is never good enough to be good.

The guy is some estate agent (realtor) in Milan. He found the new flat for FfI who uses her womanly charms every chance she gets, since she is not unattractive for her age and, being who she is, is forward enough to use it well although I never cease to be amazed at how gullible these men are to fall for the ‘trick’. He is of average height, very slim and, kind of, weaselly. I don’t dislike him but I don’t like him either. I don’t know him, of course.

He is, it seems, shy and holds back. The other two are concerned that I am not happy. They are right, of course but although they are friends, I can tell them nothing. I tell them that I am fine, just a little tired (which is not exactly untrue). Everyone is always tired in Italy and so one can use it as an excuse at any time.

Since the Weasel is not staying and the kitchen table is laid up for four, I suggest we first have a drink in the lounge. We open the first bottle.

The Weasel is talking to the Friend with the shop. It’s all in Italian and I really can’t be bothered to try to understand. I think they are talking politics. It turns out later that, although he is not a big fan of Buzz Lightyear, he is anti-left. I decide that’s the problem everywhere, but particularly here. People aren’t for anything, only anti something. I would like to talk that through with someone but always feel out of my depth here, not really knowledgeable enough to have a serious discussion. Still, it’s my feeling.

We open the second bottle of wine. The Weasel will take just another, small glass, apparently.

FfI seems upbeat about the new flat and a new job. I always feel she is upbeat but, behind the facade, she isn’t. It’s always a facade and I wish it weren’t. It’s an American thing, I think. It’s like the ‘Have a nice day’ thing. Behind it there is nothing.

The other friend, who was coming but not eating (after I had prepared the salad too) arrives. At least she has a bottle of wine.

She is also American and Jewish and truly over-the-top but I like her for her honesty. She was the first (maybe, only) person who correctly guessed that V & I had split up even when we were still pretending and not having told anyone. And she is not really a close friend. I am amazed by her perspicacity and admire her for that and her honesty, even if she will never be a close friend.

I offer more wine and the Weasel will just have one more. It is getting late. FfI had said it would not be a late night. It is already gone nine. The Weasel is making no signs of movement out of here. I suggest, to someone, that, perhaps we should do the cheese anyway, thinking that, perhaps, the Weasel will take the hint.

I get the cheese and cut the bread and bring it into the lounge. Everyone seems to love it which is, kind of, galling since, although I wanted them to like it, I watch it disappear too quickly and, for a moment, wish I had never mentioned it and been alone and had been able to eat it all myself.

We finish the cheese. I offer more wine. The Weasel will just have a little more. He is getting drunk and seems to be slurring his words slightly but I can’t place his accent and maybe it’s that. I give up on the idea that he will be going. I explain that there are only four salads. FfI will share with someone, the someone is the A/J, over-the-top friend who keeps exclaiming that she shouldn’t be eating and especially cheese, as she should lose weight (which is true) but has done a damn fine job of gobbling the cheese anyway.

We go in the kitchen. I offer more wine. The Weasel will have just a little more. He had taken off his tie in the lounge, earlier. He had opened his shirt a button or two (it is hot) but I notice that he had opened it more and I look at his chest with some longing, for although he really isn’t my type, I know of the madness which I described in a much earlier post as me ‘being vulnerable’ which was stupid really as it’s me being unable to control this madness. I could jump him right now but I won’t, thank goodness.

We eat. FfI so likes the salad (or, maybe, having no money, ever, has not eaten for days, I don’t know) eats what remains of the Friend-with-the-shop’s salad as well. I eat it but it’s not as good as it should be, the oranges not being enough nor good enough – but it will do. I want them all to leave.< All the meat is eaten. More wine. Friend-with-the-shop's husband comes over. He is nice and I like him. He makes a fantastic deer sauce for pasta. I have said, in the past, that I would marry him for that, although I could not, of course. It's just one of those jokes - jokes you can do when you're not physically attracted to someone and, therefore, you can, kind of, flirt with them in safety. Like I can do with women. He has some wine too but only a little as he is driving. He is sensible and half the height of his wife and Italian and white (and she is black) and, together, they look......well......, I think you can guess. I offer what liqueurs I have. There is a little Sambuca, some Amaretto, and an unopened bottle of port - good port. Friend-with-the-shop, who is English, would like some port, the others wanting one of the others. I bring out the bottles and the shot glasses. I tell Friend-with-the-shop that this is nice port. Now everyone wants to try. The Weasel, has a glass. Then another, then another, then, after some consideration, just a little more. I wonder, as I look at him, if he will stay behind a little, after the others have gone and wonder if he has stayed so long, so far, because he fancies me rather than, the most likely reality, that he has stayed because of the women where he has misinterpreted their flirting, since he is the sometime boyfriend of a friend of the Friend-with-the-shop (I do hope you can keep up with this). I know I am in the middle of this madness and hope that it doesn't show and am grateful that, at least, I recognise it in myself and can, I hope, keep my bloody mouth shut and not say anything I will regret in the morning. Whilst we were sitting at the table, during the port, the subject came up about the 'gayness of Italian men'. The Weasel explains that this is true but only of men from the south, Northern Italian men are not like this. I realise he is annoyingly stupid and racist and right-wing and hate him for that whilst his open shirt and the fact that he doesn't speak English means that, in bed, it wouldn't matter one bit. I am annoyed by myself for this insanity and desperation, for my lack of control over my feelings, for knowing that, almost (but not quite) any man will do. And I know it's not the sex, per se, but, rather, the closeness that I desire (although for certain, the sex would be important for that is the ultimate closeness even if it would leave me unsatisfied for not being true closeness). We move back to the lounge and finish the port. It's now 2 a.m. and I tell FfI that everyone will have to go. I am not V and the time has come for me to go to bed. I toy with the idea of going to bed anyway and let them continue and let themselves out (except they could not lock up and, so, I don't do that). They leave at 2.30 ish. The Weasel is not staying after all, although he does look at the dirty dishes and starts to try to help clean up and I tell him no because I will do it in the morning and, so, they all leave. I hold his arm, for a moment as we're saying goodbye and wish I could hug him but, even as I think this, I know there is no magic, no sensation in this touch, no thrill like there would be would be with a lover or potential lover. But at least it's some physical connection with a man, with someone other than women. And, now, I should go to bed but I go to the computer and the friend has replied to the email and, with the madness upon me and the promise to myself about to be shattered (see, I can't even keep my own promises with this insanity), I reply even though my head, the logic side, says I should not and I am too drunk and too tired but I reply anyway and then, as if the madness has not gone far enough, I write a text message to try and explain the email reply, which I have already regretted as soon as I pressed send because I realise that English is such a crap language and that even as I write the words, which, because I say them as I write them, gives them meaning which, when written and read by someone else, with a different voice, with different inflection, different tones, different, different, different.......means that the meaning has gone and the meaning becomes something else and I hate that and want that to be different; and so I regret the words I have written but can't take them back, for the words I have written now seem far too much if read in a certain way, without a smile, without humour and, yet, I didn't want to put smiley faces all over the email and, so, they, the words will be read wrong, and that's why I've done this text and, at the last minute, I delete it and I will, at least, be so grateful that I did when I get up in the morning because writing more words to explain the words before will not explain the words before because they are words that will be read in a different way to the way they were intended to be read because the previous words have already set the pattern. So, I will be grateful tomorrow that I didn't make the situation even more shitty. This much I know. And it is morning (but too late to do the things I intended) and the madness has gone and now my mind has to deal with the madness of yesterday and trawl through it trying to make more sense and being so grateful for not making a play for the Weasel and so much more grateful for not sending my friend the text even if I so want to explain properly, but with the voice, which, you know, if you read my stuff, is more important than anything, since I can put the real meaning to the words. And the dogs want to go out but I just want to stay in the flat, with the shutters closed, with just me, without having to have human interaction, for fear of the madness and losing control completely but also because it means putting on a show that I don't want to do. So we go out but we don't go to the park and I take the quieter streets so as to see as few people as possible, just in case someone should know me or, anyway, want to talk, or strike up conversation at which point I would pretend not to understand Italian at all but always with the danger, here, that they would speak English or be English and want that conversation anyway.

I am lucky. There is no one who wants the conversation and we do not go to the normal café or even past it as the dogs know it and always try to go to sit at a table and we arrive home.

There is a text from FfI. She enjoyed it last night and the salad and that the Weasel thought I was nice (but not nice enough to go to bed with although that too I would have regretted this morning in the same way I have with the stupid emails, the near text and all the other things I do with this madness upon me). I have been here before, 20 odd years ago.

And, I wonder, was last night just punishment from her to me for the fact that I didn’t text her or come round or help her with the problems of the unaffordability of the current flat or just to ‘get back at me’? And I find that I really don’t care, even if I now need to get more wine and more port and more stuff. After all, that is just stuff.

And, so, I said I wouldn’t write more posts but that was the sanity talking, which only happens in the morning before I have had the hours to think, which I must find a way to stop before I do some real damage. And so I write yet another rambling post to try and pour out my feelings – not even to be read, really, just to try and get the bloody things out of my head as if, by writing them they will disappear, which they do in a way but not enough and this time it simply will not do.

And I realise that I must talk to someone about this. And there is one person I want to talk to about this, as if this person can straighten me out (so to speak) but that can’t happen and so, unwillingly but desperately, I text Best Mate, who can’t talk right now but does, at least, recognise that something is wrong and phones me and I explain that I’m crazy and that I must talk and she say she will be back later and will be over in August anyway and I laugh and explain that I really don’t think I can wait until August ‘cos that’s weeks away and the madness is now and increasing and that I’m sorry to put this burden on her but I have no one else and she understands (or says she does) and I believe her because I think I can hear it in her voice because, after all, the tone and the way the words are spoken actually really express it all.

And we agree to Skype later.

And so, because the madness is abated at the moment I will not post this straight away but will hold it ready and, maybe, after the conversation with Best Mate will not post it, or maybe I will and then delete it later or not. But I feel I should post it because this blog has become some sort of place where I try to………no, I don’t know what I’m trying to do anymore.

It will do.

A truly English meal out.

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OK then. Just one more post for now, since it is about last night.

We decided on Indian. We’ve been there before but I wasn’t so impressed last time and less so this time. But that’s not what I need to talk about at all.

We talked without really talking.

How was the flat hunting going?

How are you getting on where you’re living?

How’s work?

They were the subjects. As part of the answers there were things like, ‘a friend who lives on that street came with me’.

What friend? A colleague? No. But no explanation. An explanation is not needed – I know already or, at least, I guess but I bet I’m right since the things that I do, actually, know lead to a guess that will be, pretty much, spot on.

And, whereas it still has the power to wound, it is only a little now, like a pin prick compared to a stab with a bread knife.

The flat-hunting story continues. I ask questions, just as I am supposed to. He asks me questions just as he is supposed to.

We do the things we are supposed to with no feeling, no desire (and I don’t mean for each other but, rather, no desire to make a wave or really enquire or, be involved).

The conversation could be wrapped up in one of those typical English conversations:

Hello! How are you?
Fine, thanks, and you?
Oh can’t complain, you know.
Well, goodbye then.
Goodbye.

The end.

Of course, it went on much longer than that. But nothing was ever really said. I wanted to tell him of Ico; of the fact that Best Mate is coming over for some more time as she’s feeling much better; of my potential few days with the boys at a friend’s place in Rome.

Instead I said nothing. Partly because I now want some secrets from him, as he now has from me and as he thought he had from me but didn’t, so much, over 6 months ago and partly because I didn’t want him to tell me of things that he has done or is going to do that mean I am permanently excluded from parts of his life that I hadn’t been before – just like he is already excluded from parts of my life.

We could never get those back even if we wanted to.

He did tell me of the holiday plans that he doesn’t want to do; that he says he won’t do. I don’t enquire as to what he will do instead but stick to the simple things that I know about him such as ‘and when will you tell them that you won’t be going? The day before?’, smiling and laughing but without smiling and laughing at all because this is ritual and, after 20 years, I can do it without thinking, without feeling, without anything. Not that I expect anything amazing after 20 years. I’m not that deluded. Nor am I sad for that either. It’s the way it is and what can be expected. No surprises after all that time.

I notice he looks thinner still but that at least the moustache has gone, which is better. And I tell him so. He tells me the story of why it went and I am bored within the first couple of words since it is all irrelevant and as irrelevant as me telling him in the first place but at least mine was only a sentence.

I joke that, as his ‘mother’ and ‘father’ have phoned him during the meal, the holiday with them will make them all like a little family. He knows me too. He knows I am joking and taking the piss. We laugh as we should; as is required. We probably both know what we are doing.

We talk a little about FfI, complaining about the same things about her. United in our complaints but not really caring what the other has to go through, knowing that the other doesn’t have to go through this if they didn’t really want to.

The samosas were crap. The main course was decidedly average. The house wine expensive, as I pointed out just after he had ordered it, but we only drank half a litre in the end anyway, probably because neither of us wanted to extend out this nothingness when no possible good could come of it.

It wasn’t pretty but it could have been much worse. It did, however, feel more like we were in a Mike Leigh play (such as Abigail’s Party) and had the same ‘cringe factor’.

I didn’t go with the thought that it would be any better but I think I was prepared for most possibilities. This, though, left an empty feel.

Prices seem to have dropped for flats and it seems he will end up with a bigger flat than mine. I feel a little jealous but, at the same time, know I could have done no different and still love my flat anyway. And I do hope that he is happy with whatever he finds.

We shall see each other on Tuesday when certain things will be finalised. The Final Question still, after all this bloody time, hangs there. I can tell no one. I am alone in this, again, as always, as we all are, really.  I want to tell someone but they will only try and give me good advice – which I already know anyway and which will change nothing.

Those ties that bind are thin now and about to break. I can still see the things in him that I like and love but they are not mine now to ‘have and to hold’ – not that they ever were nor ever could be, really. To think that is so is a delusion.

Finally, death!

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And, finally, we talked about death. And it seemed fitting as it was the end of the conversation. We had talked about death before – about how he was living in the flat of a woman who had died not twelve months earlier and, whether it was true or not, how he had hoped that she may not have died in her bed – the very bed that he was now sleeping in. We came to the conclusion that it was less likely, these days, as everyone seems to go to hospital or an ‘old people’s home’ to die.

But here we were, at the end of a very pleasant afternoon, saying goodbye, in that stretched out way that one does when, in reality, one doesn’t want it to end but is unsure how one can keep it going, one of us having already said we must get back, as if that were really important, which, of course, it really wasn’t, but how one doesn’t want to ruin something that has been going so well and, in order not to ruin it or run out of conversation or say something that will annoy or upset the other person, although neither of us would have said anything, I’m sure, we cut it short but then linger over this goodbye, by adding some question, which, of course, is normal and innocent enough.

And, it didn’t start off as death at all but rather holidays and then drifted into one of those conversations; a conversation that had been going all afternoon, through life, through love (both now and past), through politics, through everything, in a flow that was not forced or stilted and rambled on, much as this post is doing because we were busy (or, rather I was busy) finding out more about a person that I liked (and here, I thought about the word a lot because, in reality, it was a person that I had fallen in love with, not in a way that I was in love with V but only for the words that we had between us because, until this point, there were only words and, like being in love, I have found, over the time, a strange yearning, like I would have for a lover but, instead of this desire being for the body and a physical thing it was the yearning for more of the words and I eat each one as if I haven’t eaten at the table of literature for many years just like the insatiableness (I don’t even know if that is a real word) one has for a lover’s body and so, in the end, love would be better than like but I didn’t want you (my dear reader) to get the wrong idea) and wanting to say things that I don’t say to others because he knew me but in a way that no one else really does, since he had a perception of me that came only from this, this here, and wanting to explain myself (as if, by explaining myself, he would quickly see the things that I may have missed or, even better, that others may have missed) and the reason I was here and not having enough time and rushing through explanations in a terrible way.

And, holidays led to one thing and another (but quickly so that it wasn’t something deliberate) to death and, in the main, other people’s deaths, or, rather, lingering deaths that, because of the health care and drugs and such-like, is now more common than, perhaps 30 or 50 or, certainly, 100 years ago (see the link above) but, as a conclusion, we decided that a quick death was preferable, like a heart attack or a stroke that was so debilitating that death was swift and, one would hope, less painful. Worst was the death of the mind, since the mind is the person and that is what counts.

And that is what counts.

And, lest you misunderstand this post, the hours we had spent talking and laughing and so on, about the important things and the trivial things was, and I hesitate to use this word as many people consider it over-used, nice but I will as it fits. Again, I thought about the word a lot. I wanted to say wonderful or fabulous and they fit too but, again, it gives the wrong impression when, in reality it was comfortable and made me feel warm and was, well, nice (although I could have added ‘really’ in front of it).

And, even though I know that he will probably read this and may be disappointed that, given all that I said during the afternoon, what I did fail to add, was that I understood (or, at least, I thought I did) the person who was convinced that they were going to die, as I have and have had the same feelings except that, in my case they haven’t yet come true and, perhaps because I don’t have anyone to tell them to, I’ve never mentioned it and, in any case, it seemed crass and presumptive of me to say anything, like someone who knows you’re gay and says things like, oh I have a friend who’s gay, as if that makes it alright and gives them a green ticket to understanding me, which, of course, it doesn’t and is what I hate people doing to me and, therefore, there was no way that I was gong to do it to him.

So, just in case you (my ‘word lover’) read this rubbish that I have written, please don’t think that I was being disingenuous or secretive or closed. It just didn’t seem right. And I didn’t want to spoil an afternoon that I had enjoyed and felt so comfortable with, in a way that I don’t often feel and for which I want to thank you and have found it so difficult to explain using words which is what, after all, we both love.

I’ve been thinking that I don’t really like Telecom Italia very much

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The engineer phones me (about a day late). As my Italian is abysmal, he does try some English. We, more or less, make each other understood.

He thinks it may be necessary to come to the house. To be honest, they should have phoned me yesterday. However, he is very pleasant and tries to be helpful. Apparently they will make an appointment.

I wonder how, in the main, the engineers can be so nice and the call centre people can be so bloody crap. I guess, if they were engineers and had to actually see the people they deal with they would be nicer.

And so, once again, I am without ADSL and, so, no email or internet connection at home.

It all started Sunday night and although it had been working fine about half an hour earlier, when the break came, it was just too late. And I keep forgetting that Telecom Italia are not Infostrada and it will not ‘fix itself’ within an hour.

The next morning the same problem and I thought that if I don’t phone them now it will just continue not to work.

>I phone. It is just after 6 a.m. I have problems conversing in English at that time in the morning, even with the dogs, so Italian was, well, shall we say ‘interesting’. However, I made myself understood and the guy on the line said some stuff of which I probably caught about half. Basically, my understanding was that it was going to be fixed within four hours.

I put the phone down after I thanked him.

Then I reprocessed what he had said and had this horrible feeling that they were going to send an ‘tecnico’ round to the house within four hours! And, forgetting what day it was and that I HAD to be in work today, I toyed with the idea of not going in at all.

And then I remembered there was a reason why I had to wear a suit. We had a visitor and it was important that I was there, even if my presence was, in fact, not strictly necessary since I would sit and do nothing – except, maybe, make pleasantries with this guy, talking about his flight over; the hotel; the weather; and considering that he was someone that I didn’t much like, it all seemed so bloody pointless and not really important after all.

So, I phoned TI again. Again, Italian; again, difficult but possible. Certainly, as it was about 20 minutes later, it was a bit better. I explained that I wasn’t sure if I had understood what the guy had said to me and were they going to send this ‘tecnico’ round to my house because I had to go to work? She assured me that they weren’t. So, that’s OK then.

The annoying thing was that I had written a post and had emailed it to myself at work – it being better to re-read it before posting and do it during the day when I am, probably (hopefully) more cognisant. And, now I couldn’t. Damn.

Ah well, I thought, I could put it onto my USB key and take it to work that way. I recently got a new one as a gift (my old one being small and only working intermittently). But I couldn’t find it. Where the hell is it, I thought? Ah, I remember taking it to work.

I had no time to check at work, really, just a quick scout round my (very) messy desk. Not there. Later I even did a quick search of my desk drawers. It must be at home, somewhere.

I get home. I am excitedly expecting the internet to be obtainable. I am, of course, sadly misguided, this being Italy and the company being Telecom Italia and all. I phone again.

The automatic message says (I think) that the problem will be fixed on or before Wednesday! I’m not sure and I don’t want to believe it anyway. I wait. I get to an operator. She tells me it will be fixed tomorrow but at the very latest by Wednesday. I am incredulous. I want to be able to say that the four-hour promise was obviously pie-in-the-sky and, since they had my mobile number (I had given it to them in call 2, someone could have phoned me and add that it is totally ridiculous that, having come back to them as their customer (albeit without a choice in this) that they had, once again proved that I had been right to move to Infostrada and that, at the earliest opportunity I would return to Infostrada. I wanted to – but my Italian language skills restrict this to :- two more days? (said with the appropriate incredulous tone).

She is sorry (but doesn’t mean it, you can tell) but it is something to do with the central something or other and it is more complicated. And I know, in my heart, that, even when they say they have fixed it, it will not work in my home and they will have to come round and look and then, probably, do something at home or, after five minutes checking, something somewhere else.

I search for my USB memory stick. I remember the box it was in (I have not used it yet). It was quite large and silver in colour. It is nowhere to be found. I am frustrated.

A calls and I agree to go for a quick pasta dish at his house (F is not there because the call was unusual – it being Monday but without F he is looking for company and I am, after all, very obliging and there is only ironing that I must do but, damn it, I can’t pass up food just for that).

After the engineer phones (me knowing that I probably won’t have Internet access much before the weekend, if I am lucky) I check my desk for the umpteenth time for the USB stick. I find a small, not large, box that is more white than silver, under some papers. It is the key! I feel a little happier about the situation.

I still, very much, hate Telecom Italia.

Showing my true feelings (not)

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I am confused by my feelings. On the one hand I am angry – very angry. On the other, I couldn’t care less. On the one hand – ‘I never want to see you again’ and yet, ‘It’s your problem, you deal with it’.

And the stupidness of the whole thing beggars belief which is why there’s a part of me that couldn’t care less.

In addition, of course, one must take into account my stubbornness. I wonder if it’s a trait that I have developed because I am stubborn or because I am Taurus since, although I take Astrology with a pinch of salt, I do enjoy the fact that certain people (those who believe) will immediately see me as an Earth sign and that I like my home comforts, good food, good wine, etc. and as having positive traits?

>Indeed, I see them as positive traits too and am pleased to have them. But, did I see them as positive traits because that is what I am supposed to be or because they are positive traits? Even stubbornness I see as positive!

Anyway, back to the issue. I will do….precisely….nothing. Of course. I will neither say anything nor do anything although I might do less than something that I should and, therefore, by my inaction, make an action. In fact, the problem will fester with me for, possibly, quite some time. The inaction on my part to do ‘the something’ that I should, may continue beyond even that, as it may have become a habit and I shall do it without really knowing why or, even, that I am doing it.

And there are also other, related things that, in future, will now happen or, rather, that I shall do or not do as a result. Many (although, at the moment, I can only think of the one) of these will, probably, have a detrimental affect on me – the old ‘cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face’ thing, at which I am a practised master. I have, after all, had 40+ years of experience at it. Or is that the stubbornness thing really?

If it is the stubbornness thing then it has nothing to do with being Taurean (unless you believe in that stuff) but all to do with how I was brought up and, possibly, my genes – which all comes back to my parents. But don’t get me wrong, they are not to blame for this but, in my opinion, to be proud of this.

If you believe in this stuff, then the fact that I am Taurean makes me stubborn anyway and there is no talking to you.

And, the funniest thing about all this (although ‘funny’ is not really the right word) is that the person who is both the cause of this and the victim (if, again, that is the right word) will, in all probability, know nothing of it but might think me a little strange for a while.

There, that shows them, doesn’t it!

A striking moment of clarity

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I was ironing.  Having been away so much, there are many things to do including the small mountain of ironing.  I hate ironing almost as much as cleaning.  Let’s face it, I am not really domesticated.  The dogs are probably better than me.  I am doing a bit at a time since to do all of it in one go will just be too much!

However, ironing must be done if I am to have any clean stuff to wear and, in this weather (yesterday, when I got in the car after work the temperature read 43 degrees, so it’s quite warm), it is necessary to wear a lot of clean stuff after a lot of showers.

I have the telly on (MTV as we get it free here) but, really, I am paying no attention to either the telly nor the ironing.  The ironing is automatic and the telly plays music that I, generally, don’t really like.

As normal, I am playing through conversations in my head as I have nothing else to distract me, really.  Of course, the conversations were not conversations that had actually happened but rather ones that may happen but, if I’m honest with myself, won’t happen and, anyway, if they did happen, the other person wouldn’t say the things that I had predetermined they would say so my replies would not be so certain and, most probably, I wouldn’t be so sharp or so clever.

The basic nature of the conversations is this:

V wants to get back together.

V says he’s sorry.

I say (without completely closing it down) that that will be very difficult.

I say that he needs to be honest and open with me.

I say that to do that, he first needs to be honest and open with himself.

V asks what things he needs to be honest and open about.

I say that that is the point.  I cannot tell him, although I know some things, but that, to be honest and open, he has to decide to tell me everything and I will know if he has.

This is a stupid conversation as this will never happen.

Suddenly (and I really don’t know why this happened), I think of another situation.  I think of my parents who, apparently, are or, at least were, waiting for me to ‘come home’ asking for their forgiveness (for what, I really don’t know).  I think how stupid they were and little they knew me, even if I was their son and even if they did raise me for almost 18 years before I left, for good.

And then, I realised, in one of those moments of complete clarity that, in spite of my efforts not to be like them, I was, in fact, doing the same thing.  I was waiting for V to come to his senses and come back begging to be together.

And, then I realised that, of course, he is not coming back – begging or not – and that my life has been in this limbo state, waiting for him to appear on my doorstep whereas, in fact, he has already moved on and, damn it, so should I.

It won’t be the last time that I will enact these meaningless conversations and, for certain, I am catching myself wanting a man again, which makes me vulnerable but I know that, as these future enacted, made-up, incredible conversations happen, I will be able to stop it following this ‘moment of clarity’ by remembering that, in fact, the situation is not going to happen.  It will get easier each time.

The wanting a man part, though, will not.  At least, not for a while.  The problem with that, other than my previous track record in this situation, is that, this time, a) I really find so few men attractive and b) how the hell do I tell whether they’re gay or not, at least here, in this land where men don’t seem to have a problem with their sexuality and, therefore, have no need to be give off the right signals?  Or, rather, give off signals that I find perplexing and unclear.

And the point of this post?  None at all really!