Whilst having my typical lunch (cottage cheese and apples) I was lazily looking at a magazine. Suddenly I noticed a familiar face from the past. Back in -92 we lived in the same lovely old house in a small, probably not all that lovely village. I was in an art course, he studied something creative. How often we were all so busy, sitting in the noisy kitchen, drinking cheap wine and drawing doodles on the tablecloth. I loved that old house and all the people living in it. I remembered the long spring afternoons when we idled under the old trees and dreamed about our future. How young, talented and immortal we were.
He is a writer now, but even after two published books and one noticeable writers' prize he still says he's a dilettant, not a writer. What modestness, he's like Samuel Beckett, I sighed, and at the same time felt that cosy feeling of nothingness building up. I wanted to be an artist, but became an arty secretary. Well, one who writes legal argreements in foreign language, edits books and writes press releases, but still a secretary.
I looked at the next page. A dark photo of a gloomy looking artist and the text saying Nick Cave changed his life. "I listened to
Henry's Dream inside a drab dormitory."
3 comments:
This post perfectly matches the way I feel at this time of year - nostalgic for my more confident, youthful past and mildly disappointed by what I have become.
Today I've booked a night away in a beautiful rural "restaurant with rooms" for Brian and me in July. Then days will be long and light then. I'm going to think about that all day, while I look at the rain.
(whispering) ...darling, the problem's in the lunch. You need something a bit more substantial. A bit more fried. Wash it down with two glasses of red and sleep through the rest of the day in your, I hope, overheated office. Then you'll be as right as rain for your role as perfect wife and mother in the evening.
(yawning) I might try those kind of delicious sounding things when I am not hibernating anymore (yawning)
Post a Comment