Tag Archives: Relationships

In Como with true friends.

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Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door
I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before

Hotel California – The Eagles

And the conversation over dinner in this rather nice and not so expensive pizzeria, in some square in Como, was a distraction from the current feeling and A was very concerned and, what’s more, I could see it in his eyes. For all that I complain about him, I could tell that this was true and that, even if he thinks I am some sort of alien, he does, really, actually, care about me as a friend. And I am grateful for that.

He has said he will call me from his holiday to check up on me and see how things are going.

I am supported by friends and, even if they cannot take this away from me, it is good to know that if or when I crash and burn, they will be there.

We had been to Fox Town, as I mentioned a couple of posts ago. I had wandered round Iceberg and found a very nice, blue suede jacket/shirt thing. I tried it on because it was so nice. It had the outlet price as half of the original but was just way out of my range and I wouldn’t have paid so much.

I had put it back on the rail and had wandered around more of the store, picking things up, giving a cursory glance, putting the stuff back. Neither caring nor interested, really, in what I was doing.

A came over to explain why they were taking so long. It seemed that the 60 or 70% sticker was the extra discount, not on the original price but on the discounted price. At first I didn’t believe him. But he insisted. So I went round to the rail on which this blue shirt/jacket was and calculated how much it was now.

It’s one thing that V has given me. I know that, this thing, although only a thing and, therefore, not important, can be worn for years and still look good. So, suddenly the price was not only affordable but, for something that will be worn so much, well worth it. I was very happy about it, as much as I could be given the circumstances – and it was the first time I have bought something that I didn’t strictly need for about 3 years.

After shopping, we were to have gone to Lugano but because it was late, we went to Como instead, somewhere I have never visited before (although I have been on a train through the station).

We sat and had aperos overlooking the Duomo and then went to the pizzeria which had been recommended. The pizza was good – not the best – but good. I’m sorry but I forgot to take a card so I cannot tell you the name.

And there, rather than pooh-pooh my story, which, in any event was difficult to explain and posed as many questions as it gave answers, is where A showed how genuine he was; how understanding; how much of a friend he was.

His advice coincides with my plan. I don’t know whether it’s the right thing to do but it is the only thing I can do. The only question now is ‘how’?

However, right now, with this tiredness and the situation, I could burst into tears – which is certainly not a very blokish thing to do – but I can tell I am only a step away from that. Let’s hope I can keep it together until I get home, at least.

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.

And where is that bloody Knight in shining armour when you need him?

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Everybody wants me to be
What they want me to be

Easy – The Commodores

It was playing on the radio this morning and, you know, it’s not a love song but an ‘end of love’ song which fact I didn’t realise until now.

—o—

I remember, oh, twenty+ years ago, trying to explain to M (my partner of about 8 or 9 years standing at the time) that what I wanted him to be or, what I really wanted (which may not have been the same thing) was my Knight in shining armour, riding into view on a perfect white horse and coming to save me from this situation; take me away to a quiet place where none of the people in my life nor the problems that were associated with them, could touch me. And keep me there, safe, calm, at peace, fighting off those who would seek to destroy me or have me be what they wanted me to be – which was not me at all.

And now, with the weather here about to break, from the calm stillness and stifling heat (although I prefer it, as you may know), we shall probably get violent storms and much rain and wind and ‘cold’.

Conversely, finally, the storms in me may have passed already (I hope) and a calmness may have been restored. In the end, I was wrong and I was right.

I was wrong about the Knight in shining armour – he just doesn’t exist .- and that’s because, as in the lyrics above, the ‘Everybody’ does, in fact, include myself, or, maybe, is only myself. So, that’s what I wanted, then? I wanted someone to save me from myself; to take me away from the turmoil that was, in reality, not really outside of me, but inside of me.

And, I wonder, what does that look like from the outside? Looking back over the past few days (when it all came to a head), I can see that I was, in a way, a crazed madman, desperately searching for a way out of the madness, staring eyes, wild hair, head turning this way and that, but quickly and without measure.

And just like a madman, as I reach out to grab something/someone, with those staring, wild eyes and contorted features and wild hair, wanting help, seeing in someone/something the thing that I want or, maybe, the thing that I think I have found after this search that seems to have been going on for ever, they turn away, as any sane person would or reel back in horror at the wild thing in front of them, grasping and grabbing.

And so, the time that I mentioned, with M, he wasn’t the Knight (how could he ever be?) and then, as the madness continued, I found some respite (but it was not respite at all just a continuing of the madness) in my affair with a married colleague, AA, of which I am not proud, but we were travelling away a lot, together, and it just sort of happened and went on for a while, which seemed like an eternity and the emotions were all mixed up and high and intense, between us and inside of me and, then, finally, I dropped him because I found V and I left him, probably, perplexed as to what had happened and why the sudden change and I told him:

‘I’ve found someone else’

as if that was the reason. It wasn’t the reason at all. It was a coincidence. What had happened was that I had come to a place of calm or near calm and V happened to be there at the time. Not that the madness had quite finished but it petered out, like a slowly dying thing, flapping it’s wings but weaker and weaker, gasping for breath but each breath becoming shallower until I became, again, this person who seemed in control, who was content and at peace.

_____________________________________________________________

At the top of this blog I used to have a sentence that included something like:

I came here to find the passion and, here, it is all around me and still it doesn’t touch me

Well, in these last few weeks and last few days, I certainly found some sort of passion. It touched me alright. It made me ‘touched’ as we would say. I lost my way, briefly calmed and sated by my afternoon with Ico and written about here but, by then my madness was at it’s height, and so I can only hope that the wild, raging madman didn’t scare him too much with the aftermath of the afternoon as it is a place that I would rather be and a place that I value so highly but not a place in which I can live, since living is about so much more than talking and walking and being with a friend, unfortunately. But it is somewhere I can visit (hopefully, if he permits me) to get away from the actual process of living which, is not ‘living’ at all but ‘existing’ and ‘surviving’ and, perhaps, a place, an oasis, in which I can relax and be ‘myself'; that is – my real self.

And, so, I have reached this calm this morning. It came to me because I realised that I was doing the stupid, crazy, wild thing with the grabbing and clutching, expecting someone else to pull me out of this mess that I had created and, in the process, probably, scaring them and achieving the very opposite of what I needed and desired. And the ‘passion’ was found, in a way, as I have, in fact found it before, a few times – but I just can’t handle it; it’s just too much for my mind.

And so, I shall stop writing, for a bit and recuperate some of the energy I have been using in this madness and concentrate, maybe, on some things that need to be done to do the living that is not living but surviving and being ‘normal’ (and here, I was going to write ‘whatever the hell that may be’ but I know what that is – it is the ‘not rocking the boat’, the ‘doing the right thing (at least by everybody else’s standards – ‘everybody’ being those other ‘normal’ people)’ and ‘behaving myself in a proper manner’ – proper by the standards of society, that is).

And, maybe, this time it was not the physical presence of a real lover but the dream of the other night that allowed me to rapidly move to this new calm? Since it was all so real and so perfect, without being too perfect so as to be unreal. However, if he is out there for real, now is the time to step forward and make yourself known.

I am ready, finally.

I can’t even be bothered to give this ramble a title

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I sit here, being paid for something else, not this. Of course, my ‘waiting’ thing is still going on, a little like ‘The Final Question’ – still not finalised.

I would prefer to be doing the thing I am paid for. It would stop me from thinking and would stop me from messing with my nose, which has developed a sore, at the base of one of the nostrils. It isn’t a true spot, since it is not raised nor does it have a head but it feels like an ‘inward spot’ if you know what I mean. And it is red in that point but not inflamed. It’s a lack of sleep, I know, not from last night but, rather, from the last few weeks.

The sore is just like the ‘waiting’ and ‘The Final Question’, both of which are not on any surface but mostly hidden, except from me and just like the sore in the nostril, they are annoying and irritating and sore.

And V has emailed again as we are due to meet up tonight.

He said: ‘I don’t have anywhere in Milan to stay (at the moment).’

I don’t answer straight away. I think it was the addition of ‘at the moment’. Worse was to come, I felt. I responded that I guessed he was living in the Hinterland.

I looked it up. It is even beyond the Hinterland! A long way from the centre of Milan. Anyway, we are still to meet up, it’s just that he must leave early. He adds, ‘if I stay in Milan obviously I can stay later but the apartment is still quite a way away. I’m not sure what he is asking or, even, if he is asking.

Either way, I studiously ignore it in my reply. I am good at that. At least, I say to myself, I am good at something.

Apparently he doesn’t like where he lives.

I took off the weeding ring a few days ago; the copy of his that we had specially made for our 10<th anniversary. I must remember to put it back on. He notices these things whereas I always mean to but always forget. It’s one of those things one does as a couple. Taking roles. I fleetingly wonder if I became worse at noticing these things because I could rely on him to do it for me and tell me. However, I don’t want to shut any doors as one never knows and I still do love him and want him and…. well enough of this shit.

I get called to the Purchasing office. It means a walk outside and the chance of a cigarette. It is now so hot that it is like stepping into a furnace. The only creatures brave enough to be in this heat are me and the ants – the lizards, normally sunning themselves at every opportunity are hidden away in the coolness of the permanent shade – unless they have all died or something?

And I watch the ants, from some shade that I find, whilst I finish my cigarette. I watch them move from the shade to the open sun. In the shade they move at normal pace; in the sun they move at three times the speed and more erratically as if they were chickens with their heads ripped off and running around frantically hoping that they will find their heads and, as if by magic, become whole again; then they find the shade again and immediately go back to normal speed. It is funny to watch them do this. Funnier still when you see one that, apparently didn’t learn from the last time of being in the glaring sun and goes back to the madness the extreme heat induces.

It all seems so random and I think that we are the same. When we are in the comfort of the shade we move at a moderate pace, seemingly aimlessly (and almost certainly it is aimlessly, not matter how we tell ourselves it is different) and then we hit the sun and it makes us crazy, running faster and faster, still aimlessly, still with no plan as to how to get out of this shit. I think I may be in the sun. What is it they say? ‘Mad dogs and Englishmen……’

Oh enough already. Enough of the ‘waiting’, ‘The Final question’ and the bloody sore nose thing.

And, since I wrote this piece to be posted tonight, the ‘waiting’ has stopped and I cannot tell you how relieved I am.  And, excited or, maybe, that’s just the relief.  I could jump in the car right now and speed down there just to shake his hand and buy him a beer (that being a very blokish thing to do) and give him a hug (which is not a very blokish thing to do nor very English).

How to be needy for something impossible

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V asks me if I am well ‘or at least, better than me, which is no great feat, to be honest’.

We haven’t spoken or emailed for almost a week, now. Having left the flat (though there is still some finishing off to do), there has been no real need and also, me; because it would feel far too needy and him because of (my imagined) him having a good time.

And so am I to believe what he wrote?

I know him so well. I know that, even if he were to be having a good time, he would tell me how dreadful it was. Conversely, if he were having a terrible time, he would tell me how good everything was going. Or, maybe, I’ve got that the wrong way round? And, how would I know?

So here I am, in this limbo world not knowing the truth and in a position where I will never know the truth and, therefore, I can never trust anything he says even if it were to be the truth.

Of course, I must reply. I shall say I am sorry that he is not having such a good time and that I’m sure it will improve. I will say that, in spite of part of me hoping that it won’t, the same part that is glad that he’s suffering and still, even though I know I should not, hoping that, eventually he will realise what he has lost. The same part that is wanting his suffering to be worse than mine because then it’s ‘all right’. God forbid that my suffering should be worse than his.

Even if there would be no suffering on either side, this part of me hopes that my ‘not suffering’ will still be better than his ‘not suffering’. Is this the competition thing or just jealousy?

And to think, recently, over the last two days, I had convinced myself (nearly) that he was already living with someone else; someone who could fulfil his every need in a way that I cannot, right now.  I had prepared myself for the inevitable.  Maybe it’s not happened?  In a strange way, that’s almost worse.

Of course, I could have emailed over the last few days and had thought to but, again, I don’t want to seem too needy or, in fact, needy at all – even though the reality is that I am needy, needy of him for his life, his vitality and his undying love….and that’s where it all starts to fall apart again, crumbling into ashes before my eyes.

I am needy for something that I believed was but that is not and may not have been for some time, if ever. So, I am needy for nothing possible.

Don’t come into my head

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In spite of an earlier post (which, to be honest, I just can’t be bothered to find), there is, after all, another side of me.

It is well hidden from the rest of the world. It is dark. It is gloomy. It is cold. It is like a deep well, with straight, slippery sides that go down to the centre of the earth

It’s not a new thing that has happened recently. Rather, it is an old thing from way back, if not all my life.

>I keep it in check. I know it’s there and I know it has power over me but I try to push it back. So far, I have succeeded and sometimes, holding on to the reality that ‘is’ rather then the reality that very well could ‘be’, is a struggle.

If I am honest with myself, I have relied on V too much. The first time I thought that, perhaps, he ‘didn’t really understand me’ (although, given that I keep it quite well hidden, why should he?) was about 6 or 7 years ago. It sticks in my mind. Although I often have the feeling of being lonely whilst with others, I had never really felt this with V until this time. It was his response – ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be alright’, in an unconsidered way, that made me feel all alone. Strange how these little things stay with you, isn’t it?

It’s the overwhelming feeling of dread; of panic; of impossibility that gets to me. Of course, like my imaginary conversations, the things do not exist, except inside my head. Or maybe they will exist? And there’s the rub.

Sometimes, I feel, I want to take my brain out, give it a good wash and get rid of these stupid things which cling and grow like some sort of fungus on, say, an apple that is going bad. In fact, in the Tate Modern, there is (or was) a video film that I really loved which showed a bowl of fruit over a period of time, going bad. The fungus started as specks and grew and grew as the fruit collapsed and became smothered by it. I wonder if I loved it because it was how I feel about my brain?

There are times, when some good thing happens that this deep, dark well seems many miles away and other times where I am already in the well, clinging for life by a finger of one hand on the edge of the well; looking behind me and down to the bottom which, without doubt, I cannot see because, without doubt again, there is no end; no bottom; I shall just keep free-falling forever.

And, if in previous times, when I hang so precariously, I have come back from the brink, it may have been because of some (misguided?) sense of responsibility to others around me (for example, V). Right now, what is the reason that I should fight it? For whom? And wouldn’t it be easier to succumb to the inevitable and allow myself to let go and slip into the darkness without a care in the world?

Sounds a little depressing, I know, but you should be in my head for a moment! Or, rather, you shouldn’t.

A striking moment of clarity

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A_striking_moment_of_clarity

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!

A couple of nights in Milan, anyone? Only a couple of strings attached!

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A_couple_of_nights_in_Milan_anyone__Only_a_couple_of_strings_attached

I have to go away to another Northern country.  I really didn’t come to Italy to be travelling outside all the time (OK, it’s not true but right now that’s how it feels).

V moves out on Saturday.  This is good – but, of course, it does mean that there is no one to take the boys whilst I am away!  Damn!

I immediately thought of the kennels.  I rang the shop to see what time they open.  10.30 a.m.  Hmm, no way to make Malpensa airport in about 5 minutes so no good at all.

V did offer to have the key to the flat but I’m really not keen on letting him have the run of the place.  It’s my place and I want it to stay that way.  If he comes here (without me being here) then, somehow, that makes it different – at least, in my head!

FfI offered the other day, so I might try her, tomorrow. Else there are a couple of other people or I could get someone to take them to the kennels on Monday night and I pick them up Wednesday morning.

Or, of course, you could come and stay here.  Near the heart of downtown Milan.  Beautiful (if unfinished) flat in a wonderful street!  Sounds tempting, eh?

The strings are a) you have to look after the dogs and b) you must be here by about 8 a.m. on Monday morning!

I’m waiting………(hopefully)……….

Why?

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Why?

I do have, from time to time, and overwhelming feeling of dread. This usually happens just before I get to sleep or if I wake up in the night. I do and don’t know why.

But it always comes back to V and what has happened and whether anything was really real or not and, therefore, whether anything can be real in the future – with or without V.

V is due to move out in the next few days. This is good and bad in that, finally, there will be some sort of closure, which I certainly need. It’s bad in that, from that point, we shall drift apart, as yachts on a still lake, without means of steering, or, maybe, race away from each other as if down different ravines; the threads that once held us together becoming more stretched and thinner until, finally, they snap or melt to nothing.

And my thoughts turn to ‘home’ and what it is and what it really means. And to why we are here and why we even have to struggle through life – to what end? Does it all really serve any purpose?

For if there is no ‘life after death’, other than the memories of others and if, like me, one remains childless without anyone to need to remember me, then there really is no point.

And, therefore, people believe in ‘life after death’ because it fulfils their need for a point.

But, tell, me, if we have that wrong, then why?

Friends come round for dinner

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Friends_come_round_for_dinner

Now, here’s a thing. When I first met V, he could cook Spaghetti Bolognese and that was all. Over the years he became quite proficient at cooking and we entertained quite a lot. I would always do the sweet whilst he would do most of the other things.

However, now that V is no longer there, I am back to doing my own thing.

Whilst in the UK, I bought quite a few pieces of Stilton and Cheddar. Also, from Londis in Hay-on-Wye, the best smoked bacon I have ever tasted. They cut it and vacuum pack it on the premises so it’s not like supermarket bacon which shrivels as the water content vaporises but it stays almost the same size and is really very tasty.

So, as I am determined to demonstrate to Italians that the food from the UK is not like they think, I had promised A that I would do dinner, mainly so that he could try the Stilton (with Port, of course).

Friday night was a night out with colleagues at an agriturismo called Ai Boschi in a small village called Origgio, not far from Milan. The nice thing about agriturismos is that they grow a lot of their food on the premises. I suppose they are an extension to the British ‘Farm Shop’. Agriturismos will have a restaurant and, quite often, rooms. Unfortunately, they are not all great. This one was, well, mediocre.

It meant that I did not get home until about 2 a.m. I had already said to A that dinner would be Saturday or Sunday depending on how things went (cleaning the house, etc.). As it was, I actually got up about 11.30 which was very late for me. And put me all behind.

However, I made the supreme effort to clean the house and, finally, at about 7 p.m. went shopping. I managed to make it in time to get the Port from the little off-licence near Corso Buenos Aires so called A to say we were on for the dinner.

To start, I had a baked pasta dish, given to me by G, our cook at work. Then I made a warm bacon and chicken salad – the bacon from Londis and the salad including salad cream which I had also picked up in the UK. Finally, cheese, British cheese biscuits, apples and port.

A made some big thing about me being able to cook and it made me think that V did most of it after all. A didn’t know I could cook whereas, in reality, it was me who taught V how to cook.

The meal was a great success. F really loved the bacon and the Stilton, which made me very happy. My first dinner in the flat!

Sunday I went for brunch at A&F’s. M, A’s friend was there too. As he pointed out, it was more like a wedding breakfast! Many courses and it lasted for hours.

And, the weather over the weekend was great so a good weekend all round.