So…… lot of weather we’ve been having lately, innit?……
All right, let’s talk serious shit. I’ve lost my way since our son Blake completed suicide back in September 2019. Of course it’s understandable — Luscious and I have been swallowed by grief, and anybody who can’t understand how that level of grief can affect you has my permission to stay quiet — but the ultimate end of that process is that my life has turned in upon itself and started eating its own tail. Everything that was supposed to be good about coming to Karratha — gaining fitness, writing more, lowering my stress levels, finding my post-50-year-old-future, etc etc and so forth — was destroyed, and what’s more, I didn’t care.
This can no longer be supported.
So, an acknowledgement, as harsh and mercenary as it may sound to say it in such simple terms: I love my son. I always will. But if I allow myself to be consumed by his act then he will, to all intents and purposes, have ended my life as well. And as much as it hurts to try to live our family life without him, the prospect of another twenty, thirty, forty years with nothing to live for hurts, too. So, no more. It’s not fair to me, to Luscious, to Lord 16 and our other children, to our grandkids, to my students… to that guy… and that one… not him… her… that dog…
I have dropped so many balls, allowed so many plates to stop spinning. It’s time to pick them up again, to start juggling, start spinning, dust off the performing monkey (okay, even I can see how dirty that sounds…) and start bloody well working again.
Here’s what that means. First and foremost, if I want to keep calling myself an author, I have to, uh, auth? I’m a writer, damn it. That means fucking well writing. So it’s back to the word mines. Half an hour, every day, just to begin with. Doesn’t matter if I spend it all staring at an empty page, as long as I do nothing else. I haven’t wriiten a word in fifteen months. All my muscles have atrophied. They’ll only get better with use. So half an hour a day, every day, and see where we go from there.
And speaking of muscles, I am so sick to death of being a fat, torpid, bag of flab. I hate it. I hate myself. So I’m exercising every day. Every day. I have a pool membership: I’ve started using it again. Just walking up and down the lanes, but it’s a start. And a walk every evening. Again, it’s not very far, not much at all. But two weeks ago I wasn’t walking at all. Distance and intensity will come. Right now habit is the thing. Add a gym membership, which I did yesterday, and a better diet (those who know me will understand what this means: I haven’t had a single cola yet this year. For those who don’t know me– I averaged about two litres a day by the end of last year) and I’m committed to losing this fat and keeping it off for once.
Then there are all the side quests, all the things that gave my days some flavour. After being able to participate in Bricktober 2020 online, I’m building again with an eye to driving down to Perth and taking part in Bricktober 2021 in person. I’m living in one of the most ecologically fascinating and beautiful places I’ve ever seen: it’s time to get back out into it and explore. And blogging will be a more regular occurrence once more, including the resurrection of some ongoing features like Thumbnail Thursday, 5 for Friday, and Graphic Novel Mini-Reviews that have fallen by the wayside. And thanks to an opportune calendar discovery in a pop-up shop, I’ll be classily insulting you pretty much every day through via the medium of a bald bloke who wrote some plays what he wrote.
I’ve been away from my own life for too long. It’s time to return, before the journey back to my own self is too great.