Maybe there’s more to it than that – something of romance, perhaps, and even possible love – but that’s what I’ve got in my head. Not necessarily what I’m lusting after or desiring – more I’m just following the path, taking it one step at a time – but once you’ve been down this path a few times you’ve a fair idea of where it leads.
The problem with this way of thinking is that it suddenly all seems so fake and hollow. The bridge has been crossed and now it’s two people in a coffee shop “getting to know one another” and maybe taking that flirtation a little further, getting closer. And yet, surely beneath everything, both parties know it’s all just a game and a sham, a slow sidling towards the first kiss, the first caress, the first hand up jumper – down skirt – fumbling on belt.
I know it. Most likely they know it. Except will we call it? Or will we do the smalltalk thing and ask questions and tease a little before we decide to move on? Ettiquette dictates – what? Two dates? Seven hours? And then we’ll feel satisfied with wanting to proceed.
Or maybe I’m being foolishly presumptuous: this could all actually be necessary checking out time, and maybe it won’t proceed the way I imagine it so inevitably will. And yet, it always does.
Perhaps worse than – more amusing than – and a damn sight more presumptuous than all of that is the way I take it even further. So having enjoyed maybe thirty minutes of conversation and flirtation and obvious attraction with a girl, and having taken that step of “arranging a date”, not only am I thinking ahead already to the first physical entanglement, but to the playing out of the whole damn thing. Maybe it’s unavoidable: like I say, you walk down a road a couple of dozen times, and see others walk down it too, you ought to know to where it goes. Yes, to kisses and joyful naked sex wrestling – but also, if you’ve a forward-thinking mind like mine, to all the rest of it. Falling in love. Feeling that someone is perfect. Walking hand-in-hand. Talking about the future. Discovering differences. Bitter and petty arguments. Being snide and childish. Sentences that begin with the words, “But you were the one who…” Falling out of love. Hurt feelings. And then one day looking back on it all and laughing at how ridiculous and childish one can be when emotions take hold, despite one’s obvious smarts and understanding.
It comes like a flash in my head. The whole thing played out. Based on previous experience and the way things have always played out.
It’s not a depressing thought, no matter how these words might come across. It tickles me, that my mind should work in such a manner. And it won’t stop me being charming and flirtatious and hopeful.
‘Tis, though, like I said in the beginning, strange.
…
Yesterday was a day of two parts, the first, sadly, so overwhelmed by the power of the second that it seems like a time lived years ago. But then isn’t that the truth of all memories? [he types, not really knowing what that means] Here today, gone tomorrow. Nothing real but the present and the thought of the future. The past having –
Well, yes, you get the picture. I still don’t know what I’m saying: that was one of those moments when the words just came of their own accord, tumbling out of some other place – surely not the bee, nor spiritual wisdom – which I’m actually wont to ascribe to the needle of my mind having accidentally slotted into the groove named “cliché.” Everybody knows that the sentence, “The past having – ” ends with the word “passed.” And what comes after that? Probably everybody knows that too.
Damn habitual cliché! ;-)
But then, having jumped out of that groove and pondered on something I never have before, let me get back to my day, which began with an interesting bit of freedom and maybe synchronicity and ended with frustration and perhaps a desire to change something major.
I woke in the morning tired and in need of a shower. My shower sucks – at least the thought of getting into it, which is usually powerful enough not to; once overcome and inside it’s never really that bad – so as often as I can I shower at the gym at uni, which is pretty often since I’m there just about every day playing squash or something.
Anyways, I went down for a sauna and after that, exiting a little before one, needed some food. And –
To cut a long story short, I did something I haven’t done in quite a while – left my bike behind – and emboldened by the sunshine and those spring feelings and these frequent thoughts I have of cycling less and walking more went a lot further than I had planned and embarked on something of a coin walk. (A coin walk is where you just walk without destination or direction in mind and when you come to a junction you toss a coin and go where the coin dictates.)
My coin walk took me much further into town that I ever would have done otherwise (I very rarely go into town on foot; though the entering can be pleasant enough, when one needs to leave – the feeling of escape from all that shopping and bustle can arrive with unbelievable speed – the foot just ain’t fast enough) and –
I thought I was supposed to be cutting this short? Sheesh…
The upshot of it is I ended up by this guitar shop I went in last week and bought a Gibson SG and a Marshall MG30FX for four hundred and fifteen quid. Then I took the SG down my dad’s shop and sold it to him for a small but worthwhile profit. On the way I bumped into a guy I‘d randomly played football with a few weeks ago and it turns out he played guitar and wrote songs too. He gave me a copy of his CD. By this time I’d decided the Marshall was way too heavy to lumber home – I’d just sold the little Squier SP-10 I’d been using – and figured I’d probably sell that to my dad too. But just about to leave his shop was a chap who was driving up to near mine and he offered me a ride.
Talk about perfect timing.
The other thing that happened in my dad’s shop during the few minutes that I was there…well, you know the other day I was talking about the stink and how it made it impossible for me to be in there and do the work I’m supposed to be doing for them? Funny thing is, it smelled okay when I walked in yesterday, noticed it right off. Sure, the door was open and the spring sun was penetrating in, but something more than that…
“Well I’ve got some news that’ll be good for you, son,” my dad says, “I’ve had to give up smoking.”
Excellent, I think, now we can get down to business, father and son rocking on selling guitars and me sat behind that counter just as I was twenty-three years ago. Praise be for a no-stink shop!
“Doctor gave me a Scarborough Warning. My blood pressure’s off the charts.”
“What’s a Scarborough Warning?”
“It means you’ll die if you don’t do something about it.”
Oh. Okay.
“Well you’ve done it before,” I say, remembering the last time the doctor told him he needed to quit smoking to avoid having a stroke, and how he’d lasted a year – and eaten healthy bread, and drunk less – before sliding back into old habits after the whole moving to Bulgaria/divorce thing.
That was ages ago though: and still he ticks on.
But, if nothing else, he’s a man of willpower, and once he sets his mind to something, he’ll see it out for a little while at least.
That’s one of the benefits of stubbornness and ego. Makes you want to prove yourself to the world. I guess I have that too.
Seems like he’s not so keen on death after all.
…
And so, it was a small thing but an encouraging thing. Shedding the habits of the bike and following whim and coin I ended up doing a bit of wheeler-dealing, just like good old days, and making some cash and becoming the owner of a Marshall amp – will keep it for a while, then sell for a profit – and getting a lift home and receiving the news that the door has opened for me to go to town on my poor old dad’s struggling old shop. Bringing it into the twenty-first century. And I guess a wee bit of occupation and income for me too.
I’ll go down there today, make a proper start. Who knows what I would have done otherwise? Write, go on other adventures, just procrastinate some more? Life has changed direction, no matter now imperceptibly, and it all hinges on chance and doing something different and listening a little to the voice within.
Spring has sprung, and March is here, and once again I’m thinking, hm, maybe I shouldn’t be giving up my lovely little flat after all…
The only hitch yesterday – until the major one, that is – came about because of my ignoring an earlier little voice to leave my bike at home and take the more natural form of foot transport. So I had to trail back across to the sports centre on campus to pick it up later. And then whizz on over to lose a game of squash at the other sports centre. And then pretty much straight from that – was exhausted before it, after football yesterday, and a not good night’s sleep; triply-so afterwards – to the late night Thursday football match. Bah humbug! That just about ruined everything.
God, what a frustrating sport football is! Your teammates doing lame things and not thinking properly and taking too many touches and not seeing the obvious ball. Defenders swinging and missing, goalkeepers flapping and fumbling. And my own two bitch feet so often so clumsily traitorous and pathetic, short passes I’ve made a thousand times bouncing off at odd angles straight to the opposition player. There’s no sense in it: I never have any idea which version of me is going to turn up for the game. The man who scored nine goals one night, an all-time record in something like twenty years of Thursday night football? Or the bumbling, stumbling oaf who plays like he’s only just learned to walk, never mind kick a ball?
In a nutshell: Frustration City
The worst of it is that I shout. I shout at my teammates and I shout at myself. I say things I would never say off the pitch. I’m always immediately chagrined and apologetic – and yet it never stops me from doing it again. I wish I could – but then I’ve been wishing that for a long time and never seen any improvement. In fact, in a game like last night’s I only seem to have gotten worse.
We were terrible. I was especially terrible. And we never had a chance. I don’t know what it ended up but for a long time it was something like 6-1 and it was men against boys. If I’d had any hair I’d’ve torn it out. I pretty much did, metaphorically speaking. And beyond all my talk of frustration and not wanting to shout so much, it’s losing that’s got me in this funk.
I get home about half ten and my mood is foul. I’m all hyped and I know that sleep will be some ways off. I want to punch something. I regret the whole frickin’ mess. And I wonder whether it’s really worth it.
And the answer is probably “no”.
Except, next week, I’ll be back. Already I’ve reasoned that my poor display was due to Wednesday’s football and the squash just before. Who could be expected to perform for two hours after exertions like that? And – ah, yes, now I remember: doesn’t my touch always desert me when my legs have done too much? I don’t necessarily notice the fatigue when I’m running – but certainly there’s a lack of control.
And, above everything, there’s the memory of “the winning feeling” – and you can’t lose ‘em all.
Still, there is a part of me that just wishes I could “retire”. Obviously the smarter thing to do would be to stop taking it so seriously, stop getting frustrated, and just enjoy it for what it is – but we’re talking about the teeny-weeny testosterone-laden aggressive male pissass brain here. It ain’t so easy as that.
Retirement, eh? And a life merely of squash. At least there’s no one else to shout at or blame in that game. And it’s more fun. And the people you play with are generally less numbskullish. And the arms are a bit more obedient than the legs.
But retirement? Christ! How could I live without chasing balls and feeling that thrill when it all comes beautifully together and the ball hits the back of the net off my own sweet foot?
Scary thought. And it’ll one day come.
How do sporty active people live with getting old?
…
Anyways, that’s all. I’ve got a date in 33 minutes and I’m still at home in my dressing gown and need a shower and an egg sandwich and to dig out some non-dirty clothes. The date is seven minutes away, on my bike. I guess I ought to get a move on.
Tschüss!
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