Ah. So. Blogging. Well. Here we are again, Rory at a keyboard and another thought about getting back on line, about saying what I want to do – to write every Sunday, etc – and about catching up on where I've been. But…been there before and…I know my head and…so many places to start at and start at the beginning and just let it flow, have a go and…that's enough for one night, I'm tired – I feel my emotions start to open up already – I think I've had enough…
I don't want to open up because then I'll cry, and crying's messy, and…[something or other] will be gone. Well, we all die, don't we? (I don't know what that means).
Anyway…
I had this idea, that I'd write here every Sunday, that I needed a place to express myself, to share my thoughts, to get things off my chest, and I needed to write. And Sunday seemed like a good day for it, because, for some reason, all that expression and communication business seemed to roll around quite naturally when Sunday came in that 4-year relationship I was in that just finished, and that made me all think maybe in the religion of the future Sunday's not the day for rest but the day for getting things said, for sitting down with your loved one, for clearing away the week just gone and making space for the week to come and…there I go, blabbing again. But I'm not sorry; to say I was sorry would be to say that I haven't said anything useful – and to say that would say, I've wasted your time, and I don't want that. In any case, I don't like that. It's just that…focus, that's what I need – to bring some focus to the proceedings. But then isn't it just jolly nice to be able to blab, string it together, make no sense, stream of yadda-yadda stylee? Maybe. Depends on the purpose, I suppose.
I had this idea, I'd write down the things I wanted to do – the things I keep saying I'd like to do – and think that maybe having them here in some kind of concrete form might be of some benefit to me, get the ball rolling, etc – because, for sure, the ball needs to get rolling: I'm stuck. I'm stuck internally, stuck in my head, stuck…stuck. Stuck. And now I could just sit here typing that word over and over – but I won't , because already…
My, I've done a lot of things – and now I don't know where to go; I'll be honest with you, the world holds little appeal to me; it's hard to get excited about anything these days. I crave the new – but what new is there? Except kids, of course. Wow-ee, that would be something. But not much chance of that now my relationship with Sara has ended. Oh well. I guess that's been the big thing these past few years – that and…well, that, really – and now that it's over, just on the brink of seriousness and wedding bells and children – then it's a whole new world again. A blank canvas. A new start. An empty page. But what to write, to draw, to create? Man, I haven't even written a song in five years, I just don't have the words any more. But maybe this will help. Anyways, I like it so far!
I love to type, I do. Did I ever tell you that? Or did you just know from reading my words? Are you mad at me that I deleted the eight-hundred-thousand? Or are you excited for the future, to see how they will be reborn and take shape anew? Perhaps I am too – but just not yet; the time ain't now. No, now's the time for…for specifics? For the down-to-Earth? For the here-and-now? Like…the humdrum?! Ah, okay…
I live in Wakefield; Wakefield sucks! Wakefield's like a void, a cultural vacuum – and, alas, I live with the grandmaster of all that is Wakefield, my terminally depressed brother, who sucks the life out of everything, the ghoul-who-walks, the dead. That can't be good for a man, can it!? No, I'd like to live in Leeds; I'd like to share a place with some funky (clean-livin') bohemians and have talk 'n' discussion and creativity and excitement. Something to come home to other than internet Risk, fish finger sandwiches and muesli. Hard to believe I'm living like this. Me! Ha!
I work for Oxfam; I like my job. It's cool – and if I lived in Leeds, I'd live even closer, could sell my car, good get a bit more out of life. Leeds is nice – there's a line you cross somewhere between the two and I really feel the difference. Yes, moving to Leeds would be the answer to all my problems (he jests) (in some seriousness/hope) (he jests again)…
Is that enough for one day? Or you want me to pretend that I'm writing now for the people who used to read The Rubadub and who've been wondering what I've been up to these past five years since I deleted it all in Dublin library? And then I went 'bit loopy – and then I wanted to work – and then I got a job as a postman – and then I lived in a graveyard – and then I went to uni – and then I became a teacher – and then I hated that – and then I moved to Yorkshire – and then I sat down here – and then I typed this sentence – and then I told you about the bits in between.
About Sara. And about the four years we had together – and about how we got together – and about how we suddenly became 'no longer together' kinda out of the blue after a lovely holiday to Morocco three months ago and for no apparent reason – and all the stuff that entails. Also I tell you about uni, and getting my degree, and…oh, man, I seemed so young back then – and not that I'm even anything but young now but, wow! how 26 seems so young now that you're 31 – and, of course, you must bear with me because all this will settle down in due time, once things have…well, settled down. (Oh, what a way with words!)
The other thing is: oh my God, have I really become addicted to internet Risk (and all things internet in general)!!? Oh, it's so desperately sad! (lol) Oh, how it ever came to this (he smiles ruefully and shakes his head, not without some amusement but also with what is sure to be a huge regret one day when arms are brittle and falling off and flimsy lips want to tell young jack-o-me-lad, "youth's wasted on the young, you know"). Well it is, I guess – but what to do with all this youth, all this young? Here in Wakefield? In this day-and-age? Oh, how I miss those open American highways and my sleeping bag and tent my only friend!
And, oh, how I love my drama (in words), he smiles ruefully once again.
Hey, this is fun – a damn sight more fun than internet Risk, that's for goddamned sure. I think I might do this again next week. Ciao!
PS What I really wanted to write about: how do you choose a woman? I mean, discounting love - whatever that is - how do you judge it? What wins? Companion or prospective mother? Boobs and sexability or communication? Humour or nipples? Aid-in-growth or non-naggingness? Face or the bumfun factor? Yes, I really am that shallow! 'Shame time and memory and discretion got the better of that line of thought, eh?
And now it really is ciao.
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