"She never uses my name. I will phone her and she will never use my name. she will call me darling or sweetheart or love but never my name. it is as if she cnnot be bothered to use my name or she has forgotten my name."
"Thank god we have never spent a Christmas together; imagine the horror of recieving a gift with a tag that says: whatshisname or the bloke I live with. Imagine your lover ringing your friends to ask the name of the man she sleeps with. Imagine her phoning your mum to ask her the name of her son.
I would love her to use my name just once.
but she won't
She hasn't forgotten it... She just didn't learn it in the first place."
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
the lonliness of the long distance blogger.
In blogging regularly one creates a rod for ones own back. one becomes a slave to the blog.
It is a lonely, thankless task (occasionally brightened by the odd comment from a reader).
However it is encouraging to note that this is read in far flung corners of the planet and that people return to it regularly.
Feel free to comment or even email.
It is a lonely, thankless task (occasionally brightened by the odd comment from a reader).
However it is encouraging to note that this is read in far flung corners of the planet and that people return to it regularly.
Feel free to comment or even email.
The most difficult question
This morning at 8.27 my telephone rang, waking me. I could not get to it in time. I missed the call. I did not recognise the number.
At 10.00 I redialed the number and before I had time to speak a childs voice said: "Daddy". That was all, nothing more, just "Daddy".
I was thrown into confusion, I was thrown back in time. My mind filled with the image of a four year old child, walking through a meadow high above the river Dart. A four year old child who asked: "Are you my daddy?" The easiest question to answer but hardest question to be asked.
At 10.00 I redialed the number and before I had time to speak a childs voice said: "Daddy". That was all, nothing more, just "Daddy".
I was thrown into confusion, I was thrown back in time. My mind filled with the image of a four year old child, walking through a meadow high above the river Dart. A four year old child who asked: "Are you my daddy?" The easiest question to answer but hardest question to be asked.
This morning all I could say to that child was "I'm sorry".
"I'm not your daddy. I'm sorry."
"I'm not your daddy. I'm sorry."
Essential listening
http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/console/b00mj7nc
Don Letts on Notting Hill/Ladbroke Grove. check it out.
Don Letts on Notting Hill/Ladbroke Grove. check it out.
Monday, 14 September 2009
Sunday, 13 September 2009
holiday romance
Baltimore, Ireland. 1970
We talked of red roses
we talked of sorrento
while the other kids drank to their pledge
We walked to the beacon
then out at the beacon
held hands and then
went to the edge
she told me she loved me
I told her my fears
we talked of red roses
we talked of Sorrento
Her name was Penelope
the same as my sister
which smacked of incest
each time that I kissed her
On the well rounded bottom
of an overturned inflatable
and all was in reach
but how far was debatable
down there
down on the beach
Under a mans checked shirt
we talked of red roses
we talked of sorrento
we parted agreeing no contact was best
On a postcard weeks later
she wrote of red roses
she wrote of sorrento
she wrote of red roses on a card from sorrento
Without a return address.
We talked of red roses
we talked of sorrento
while the other kids drank to their pledge
We walked to the beacon
then out at the beacon
held hands and then
went to the edge
she told me she loved me
I told her my fears
we talked of red roses
we talked of Sorrento
Her name was Penelope
the same as my sister
which smacked of incest
each time that I kissed her
On the well rounded bottom
of an overturned inflatable
and all was in reach
but how far was debatable
down there
down on the beach
Under a mans checked shirt
we talked of red roses
we talked of sorrento
we parted agreeing no contact was best
On a postcard weeks later
she wrote of red roses
she wrote of sorrento
she wrote of red roses on a card from sorrento
Without a return address.
Saturday, 12 September 2009
Another Event
It doesn't seem like ten minutes since the last one but we are at it again.
Tabernacle, Notting Hill this time, tomorrow night. come and see. should be interesting.
I think tristan is going to be in a bright place.
Tabernacle, Notting Hill this time, tomorrow night. come and see. should be interesting.
I think tristan is going to be in a bright place.
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