…and I sit and I sit and I sit.
On the Radio, Trevor Nelson talks to Mary J. Blige and I like them both. The ‘desk’ I’m sat at is too high for my arms, and my chair is too low. I use cushions as a makeshift booster seat. Like a toddler having a driving lesson.
On Sunday I went to my boyfriend’s nephew’s first birthday and found myself surrounded by tiny people, who will one day have driving lessons as sit at computers that work faster and with far more grace than my dwindling five-year-old Mac Book. The perfect happy occasion to write about. But right now, as the dwarfed one in the room – albeit by an inanimate object – I feel lost.
I had 17 years without experiencing a death within my immediate family, which is extraordinary. The effect of this, however, is that I now don’t know how to feel, now it has suddenly reoccured and I am 25, rather than eight. The all-round brilliant woman Cariad Lloyd has recently written for the also brilliant Standard Issue magazine about how to talk to people who are grieving and I wonder if there is a guide for the grievers. I still blog – so I should be aware that of course there must be some great articles out there – but searching for them would require energy and admitting that I don’t know how to behave and so I keep writing this instead. It’s a stream of consciousness, but it’s something.
There is so much to do. And there is Christmas, and work, and the project I should really kickstart on YouTube. There are presents to buy, and frivolous blog posts to write. A guitar is gathering dust in the room I have spent months emptying for the purpose of playing it and writing on this much-neglected blog.
A song comes on the Radio. I double take; “I love it when you blow the flute.” And suddenly I am hysterical for the wrong reasons.
And I think; I can never feel as bad as this song sounds, surely? And I think; in time.