Wednesday, August 25, 2004
Evolution
I stood alone in a nondescript little park, feeling the sudden shocks of the occasional leaf-flung dewdrop striking the top of my head, and watched the blood-red rawness of the wounded-flesh of God's creation crawl quietly - but magnificently - across the drab greys and speckled pastel-blues of a dying English sky, and wondered at who, and what I've become.
*****
I never thought...
...I'd make it past twenty. Maybe it had something with reading that my once-best friend spent his last moments under the wheels of a bus, at the age of ten. Or maybe I just never thought I'd get so... old. It's strange, being born old.
...I'd learn to appreciate music. I grew up in a household where music was Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Rachmaninov, Paganini. Brahms. And Debussy was just a little racey. My mum is an accomplished pianist, violinist, and now in her later years, cellist as well. Her brother is a concert pianist. I'm probably just the retard of the family who can, with great effort, force his fingers into obedience on the slippery ivories.
My first radio was a walkman, smuggled into the cloisters by my brother The Rebel when I was sixteen. Somehow, in learning to appreciate "contemporary" music the beauty of classical music has grown on me as well. And playing the piano became less of a chore than a pleasure. Sometimes while I'm letting my fingers wander over the keyboard making up some random sad tune with the half-life of a highly unstable mental isotope (too much English Beef) my mum wanders in and sits down to listen, much to my surprise. Far-out.
I suppose this doesn't have as much impact seeing as I'm not an accomplished pop singer or classical musician... but still. I never thought I'd learn to appreciate music.
...I'd find someone who made me laugh. I was always the weird kid who cracked the strange jokes and came up with the sitcom one-liners that made other people laugh. Thankfully I decided to become a doctor rather than a comedian, else I'd probably be broke and suicidal by now. I lost Her, but kept with me the ability to laugh. Once in a while, anyhow. Sometimes even softly to myself - earning me funny looks on the street. I reckon I should carry a pill bottle around with me and fill it with pebbles or something, then I can shake it meaningfully when I get those stares. Hell, I'd fit right in. giggle.
...I'd learn to love, and hate. No, not just like and dislike. Was it my upbringing - or was it the country - or maybe the education system I passed through? I don't quite know, but apathy seemed to be a national illness at the time. I remember one of my classmates, when asked for his opinion in a JC GP class by the teacher ponderously replying that he had "no opinion on the issue" and that it wasn't his place to have an opinion. (I looked around surreptitiously to check if the other students were writing it down.) I've picked up the knack along the way - I've become positively opinionated - laughs. I, grouchy bastard. I hate the way some people (back home, and elsewere) take anything less than flattery as a patronising attack on themselves, how criticism - positive, negative or even neutral - is always perceived as condescending insult. I hate injustice, racism and bigotry; I hate hypocrisy and that variant of it - reigning the truth in out of "tact" or "fear of stirring the waters - and I hate myself for doing it so often in my daily life.
I love chai. I love summer, I love lying in the grass feeling the sun on my skin. I love looking up at the clear blue sky, preferably framed by green leaves high above me moving slowly in the wind. I love sunsets, preferably reflected in a large body of water. I love some of my memories of Coogee bay - standing on a concrete pier overlooking the sea, under the setting sun, with my arms outstretched and my hair blowing in the wind in the middle of a cloud of gulls hanging motionless in the sky.
I even loved someone, once.
...I'd feel alone. I didn't envision this life I've somehow come to possess, standing on my own two feet away from the paternalistic protection of my mother and father. I had nine-o'clock curfew till I was nineteen, and leaving the house was always a pain and it sometimes even felt like it wasn't worth the effort -
mum : who are you going out with?
me : a friend.
mum : which friend?
me : a FRIEND
mum : which girlfriend??
me : A FRIEND!!!
mum : it's a girl isn't it???!
In retrospect, she was sweet. Err mum, not the friend. Even if she vetted through all my mail. (kids don't need privacy!) grr.
I do quite often feel alone, wandering through the streets of London - and occasionally, when I'm feeling particularly adventurous, Scotland or some other country of my choosing - but I even feel alone sometimes, surrounded by friends (which doesn't happen often anymore). Alone is a place in my head. I don't fear it - oftimes during the hustle and bustle of professional life I even feel like I need it desperately. Alone is liberating, and restful. Solitude is a much-needed rest by the roadside of the rat-race.
Yet the thoughts most vividly seared into my mind... are from a time when I didn't feel alone.
...I'd turn into Aunt Aggie. But over the years, I have. It's a bit like being a comedian in a way. Always the coach, never the contestant; always the spectator, never the participant. Always the Watcher, and the Listener. Sometimes called upon to speak, more often than not, not. Once in a blue moon I've felt envious, and wondered what it must be like to lead these secret lives of intrigue... what it must be like to feel so much (both good and bad). What it must be like, to do so much. But I realise that just... wouldn't be me.
Once in a (very) blue moon, I'm even tempted to try to become personally involved... but that wouldn't be... ethical.
But most days I just pretend to listen, and feel glad that I don't have to go through the hassel of so, so much; and that my life is so quiet and simple in contrast. And most days the people who wet my shoulder don't remember me the day after, and we drift apart without a word of thanks or farewell. Shrug. That's life as an Aunt Aggie. It's in the fine print.
...I'd use commas so often. And instinctively, put, them, in, the, wrong, places. frown.
...I'd feel so lost. 48 hours to go till fate swings her axe...
*****
Anyone remember this? I wrote it with my tongue firmly in my cheek, but point sixteen really is food for thought. And it's not confined to us men, the weaker of the species, either.
*****
I never thought...
...I'd make it past twenty. Maybe it had something with reading that my once-best friend spent his last moments under the wheels of a bus, at the age of ten. Or maybe I just never thought I'd get so... old. It's strange, being born old.
...I'd learn to appreciate music. I grew up in a household where music was Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Rachmaninov, Paganini. Brahms. And Debussy was just a little racey. My mum is an accomplished pianist, violinist, and now in her later years, cellist as well. Her brother is a concert pianist. I'm probably just the retard of the family who can, with great effort, force his fingers into obedience on the slippery ivories.
My first radio was a walkman, smuggled into the cloisters by my brother The Rebel when I was sixteen. Somehow, in learning to appreciate "contemporary" music the beauty of classical music has grown on me as well. And playing the piano became less of a chore than a pleasure. Sometimes while I'm letting my fingers wander over the keyboard making up some random sad tune with the half-life of a highly unstable mental isotope (too much English Beef) my mum wanders in and sits down to listen, much to my surprise. Far-out.
I suppose this doesn't have as much impact seeing as I'm not an accomplished pop singer or classical musician... but still. I never thought I'd learn to appreciate music.
...I'd find someone who made me laugh. I was always the weird kid who cracked the strange jokes and came up with the sitcom one-liners that made other people laugh. Thankfully I decided to become a doctor rather than a comedian, else I'd probably be broke and suicidal by now. I lost Her, but kept with me the ability to laugh. Once in a while, anyhow. Sometimes even softly to myself - earning me funny looks on the street. I reckon I should carry a pill bottle around with me and fill it with pebbles or something, then I can shake it meaningfully when I get those stares. Hell, I'd fit right in. giggle.
...I'd learn to love, and hate. No, not just like and dislike. Was it my upbringing - or was it the country - or maybe the education system I passed through? I don't quite know, but apathy seemed to be a national illness at the time. I remember one of my classmates, when asked for his opinion in a JC GP class by the teacher ponderously replying that he had "no opinion on the issue" and that it wasn't his place to have an opinion. (I looked around surreptitiously to check if the other students were writing it down.) I've picked up the knack along the way - I've become positively opinionated - laughs. I, grouchy bastard. I hate the way some people (back home, and elsewere) take anything less than flattery as a patronising attack on themselves, how criticism - positive, negative or even neutral - is always perceived as condescending insult. I hate injustice, racism and bigotry; I hate hypocrisy and that variant of it - reigning the truth in out of "tact" or "fear of stirring the waters - and I hate myself for doing it so often in my daily life.
I love chai. I love summer, I love lying in the grass feeling the sun on my skin. I love looking up at the clear blue sky, preferably framed by green leaves high above me moving slowly in the wind. I love sunsets, preferably reflected in a large body of water. I love some of my memories of Coogee bay - standing on a concrete pier overlooking the sea, under the setting sun, with my arms outstretched and my hair blowing in the wind in the middle of a cloud of gulls hanging motionless in the sky.
I even loved someone, once.
...I'd feel alone. I didn't envision this life I've somehow come to possess, standing on my own two feet away from the paternalistic protection of my mother and father. I had nine-o'clock curfew till I was nineteen, and leaving the house was always a pain and it sometimes even felt like it wasn't worth the effort -
mum : who are you going out with?
me : a friend.
mum : which friend?
me : a FRIEND
mum : which girlfriend??
me : A FRIEND!!!
mum : it's a girl isn't it???!
In retrospect, she was sweet. Err mum, not the friend. Even if she vetted through all my mail. (kids don't need privacy!) grr.
I do quite often feel alone, wandering through the streets of London - and occasionally, when I'm feeling particularly adventurous, Scotland or some other country of my choosing - but I even feel alone sometimes, surrounded by friends (which doesn't happen often anymore). Alone is a place in my head. I don't fear it - oftimes during the hustle and bustle of professional life I even feel like I need it desperately. Alone is liberating, and restful. Solitude is a much-needed rest by the roadside of the rat-race.
Yet the thoughts most vividly seared into my mind... are from a time when I didn't feel alone.
...I'd turn into Aunt Aggie. But over the years, I have. It's a bit like being a comedian in a way. Always the coach, never the contestant; always the spectator, never the participant. Always the Watcher, and the Listener. Sometimes called upon to speak, more often than not, not. Once in a blue moon I've felt envious, and wondered what it must be like to lead these secret lives of intrigue... what it must be like to feel so much (both good and bad). What it must be like, to do so much. But I realise that just... wouldn't be me.
Once in a (very) blue moon, I'm even tempted to try to become personally involved... but that wouldn't be... ethical.
But most days I just pretend to listen, and feel glad that I don't have to go through the hassel of so, so much; and that my life is so quiet and simple in contrast. And most days the people who wet my shoulder don't remember me the day after, and we drift apart without a word of thanks or farewell. Shrug. That's life as an Aunt Aggie. It's in the fine print.
...I'd use commas so often. And instinctively, put, them, in, the, wrong, places. frown.
...I'd feel so lost. 48 hours to go till fate swings her axe...
*****
Anyone remember this? I wrote it with my tongue firmly in my cheek, but point sixteen really is food for thought. And it's not confined to us men, the weaker of the species, either.
