I’ve been thinking a while on the subject of love. Some – perhaps many of you – will feel I’ve been indiscreet. And maybe it’s true, and maybe I’ll have to pay – but I guess the price will be worth it, if I manage to rescue (in ways I think pretty possible now) the person I was in 1989.
It was the year after I’d got married. I won’t say either way whether it was fine or not: my memory will clearly be rewriting history, and in hindsight I shall want to deform to my benefit the story I need to tell.
I have lived a life of rejection on many sides: rejection by people who apparently loved me; rejection by people who I should’ve loved; rejection by people I really did – still do – love.
But the lesson I take away with me from the last few months of learning – learning through writing, and trying not to wrong – is that there still is time for me to turn round a life of ineffectiveness; the poorly achieved life I have described in other contexts.
I have tried all my life to do what is right, and in trying to do what is right have done what is wrong. My words have not helped anyone, least of all my family and its financial status, but after realising my past year was me not hitting the heights which I should have had the courage to understand, I hope with a certain degree of support and understanding, as well as the necessary cojones on my part, I can achieve for myself what I truly would wish – and possibly deserve – to achieve, as well as help others make their own dearly required independence.
I do this as a man, wishing to find his place: wishing to engineer a better future for himself as well as for those around him.
I have special skills, this I realise now: a dear person close to me lightly described them recently as being akin to a kind of Sherlock Holmes mind: I curiously maintain in stasis so many apparently disparate pieces of data – sometimes for months – until they suddenly settle into a puzzle-resolving pattern that resolves this puzzle thus laid out. Without intending to do so, this will obviously have made me plenty of enemies (it gives out the impression, surely, that I know far more from original sources than I actually do). What’s more, my sensing of such enmity will in the past have led me to make myself even more unpopular through the way I communicated my frustrations at the lack of ownership being taken by those who populated my environments.
I could see exactly what they were doing, and what they were doing they thought perfectly hidden.
I became bitter and fearful in my writing and my life as a consequence, to such an extent that no one could easily see the kindness sitting already well within.
Once understood this issue, and at the very least understood on my part, I can now address the second element of my life: to return to stuff I was doing in the past and kickstart old projects where they continue to have a useful shelf life.
And if none do, and none are judged to have such a shelf life, at least let me hope that more may come of my life than cups of coffee on a Friday afternoon. (I like such cups of coffee, of course; but not as a substitute for life …)
Finally, if you’re really asking me my opinion about my being, as it was and where it now stands, I have to say I’m beginning to understand that I’m a damn sight better at the very limited but nevertheless curiously interesting things I do than my very nearest has ever realised – nor indeed ever shall.
And if I thought the world was entirely against me, and if I thought the world was hunting me down, and if I thought my reality was inscribed by sad behaviours out there, I think perhaps now I was wrong: what I thought came from outside maybe didn’t, quite; or at least, didn’t initially. Once I had given plenty of evidence of my growing anger, it naturally did. But the cause of that anger wasn’t the outside world in that first place.
And I am sad to understand this now, and it is painful to realise. And I don’t think I can break free without breaking free.