My beloved Luscious turns 50 today. Continue reading “50 FOR MY BELOVED”
I turn 47 tomorrow. There’s no hiding it: I am well and truly middle-aged, and looking down the barrel of being old.
I’m worried about my future. I feel like I’ve not achieved the things I want to achieve in life, and with a mortgage, a family, and all the responsibilities that come with being a fat, middle-class, hairy man, many of those things are now, realistically, beyond me: I will never fly a fighter jet; I will never be a practicing paleontologist; there’s a very real chance I will never join G-Force.
“Is he… dressed… as a flamingo?”
I’m also worried that my achievements are all in the past. As I’ve aged, and responsibilities have multiplied, I’ve lost space and time for the selfishness that seems to be a requirement of the single-minded pursuit of excellence. It’s not like I come from a family of high achievers, either: I can’t think of single thing of lasting importance that the generations of my family before me have contributed to the world– and my Father’s side of the family has been traced back over 500 years, so you know, I’m not exactly riding the crest of a wave here.
Seriously, this is about as good as it gets.
So, with this uncertainty accounted for, and with a determination to rail against the fortunes of withering capacity, it’s time to take stock and consider five things I’ve done that set me apart from centuries of familial mediocrity, and lay out a set of markers to keep me moving forward into my onrushing dotage.
Five for Friday: 47 Not Out
After delays, cancellations, and general faffing about, I finally received my birthday present yesterday.
I think it looks rather natty myself.
It’s my first tattoo, at the age of 46, and as I can’t afford a sports car, and I have no intention of having an affair with my secretary, this is about as mid-life crisisish as I’m likely to get. Of course, if you’re going to permanently scar yourself, the image should have some meaning, and this is no different.
I’ve always been a huge fan of The Prisoner, the TV show from which the image and quote are taken. The show is a meditation in individuality, personal choice, and the right to privacy in a world where the compromises you make in order to survive threaten the very notion of your right to exist as a discrete being. After most of an adult life spent trying to balance some sort of artistic career with the soul-destroying conformity of various Governmental jobs, the quote speaks for itself: it’s a reminder to me of the need to constantly assert my individuality in the face of overwhelming conformity. It’s cost me a great deal over the years: happiness, job satisfaction, advancement, and stress. But it’s the message that I cling to, because I’m more than another faceless bureaucrat, and my worth to the Universe is greater.
The penny farthing is, to me, a bumblebee: the least efficient, most nonsensical design for achieving its primary goal, but one that works outside of all logic and reason. It’s the physical manifestation of a wonderful Doctor Who line, spoken many years ago by the Third Doctor– A straight line may be the shortest distance between two points, but it is by no means the most interesting.
So, there we have it: thanks to my darling Luscious, the kids, and our good friends Kris and Kim, I’m a marked man. My physical nature is changed forever. And I’m rather pleased.
I turned 44 years old on Tuesday. To be honest, I don’t know what to make of it. Lyn and the kids were beautiful to me, allowing me time to open and build my great big birthday Lego set and serving me a dinner created especially for me. And my bonus sons Aiden and Blake, as well as their respective girlfriends, gave me gifts that showed they really did think about what I like and what sort of person I am when I allow myself the space to simply be my private self.
It’s a big thing, for me, when I receive gifts from my bonus children– I came into their lives when they were pushing towards their teen years, and they would have every right to consider me solely as the man who married their mother, rather than any sort of friend or father figure. I’d understand their reasoning, if they did, because I’ve already lived with that sort of attitude– my parents separated when I was only slightly older than they were when I came into their lives, and my stepfather made it very clear that he was only interested in being a part of my mother’s life, not mine or my brother’s. He even refused to marry her until we were both out of the house. But they don’t. They took me into their lives as much as I tried to make them a part of mine. They not only remember my day, they mark it as something to which they attach importance, and that makes me feel like I’ve done something right by them.
And knowing that the members of my family see me as someone important helps, because right at the moment, my daily life seems to come with a high degree of difficulty: my day job is trying, and I’m struggling with the responsibility of several events I don’t wish to run yet have to acknowledge fall squarely within my portfolio; the events I normally do enjoy running have left me flat and uninspired; after a positive start to writing work this month I’ve pretty much abandoned Nanowrimo and am taking stock of my upcoming work; the novel once known as Magit and Bugrat is to undergo another title change at the publisher’s behest and has been pushed back a second time, so that it will appear far enough into 2016 to pretty much destroy any career momentum it might have helped maintain in the wake of the Corpse-Rat King books; and all in all, I’d rather just be at home with Lyn and the kids, preparing for our move to the new Batthome and enjoying a quiet and self-driven life together.
Perhaps it’s my mid-life crisis calling, but I’m feeling a little sick and tired of living my life at the beck and call of outside parties.
I read over the blog post I made this time last year, and it was full of grand plans for the year between then and now. In the end, almost none of them came to fruition. So, no big plans for me this time. No announcements or prognostications. All I want for this coming year is to move to my new house, find a measure of peace with my family, and try to rediscover some sense of personal satisfaction with what I see in the mirror.
The way I feel right now, that would be enough.
My darling wife, Luscious Lyn, turns 45 today.
It’s difficult for me to believe that we’ve been together, now, for over 11 years. Every day feels like a first. There’s a freshness, a spirit, to our relationship: it constantly reinvents itself, changes shape and form and direction, so that I’ve never once felt any sense of stalemate, or a lack of passion.
She’s a woman of immense strength, my Lyn, of intensity and lyricism and devotion. She forgives everyone, sees benevolence and righteousness everywhere, puts the whole world and its achievements above her own. She is by turns humble, empowering and sacrificial. And these great strengths are also her great weaknesses, because they drive her into areas of self-doubt and lack of belief that she doesn’t, in the slightest way, deserve. She is capable of great things, and while she achieves them on a daily basis– overcoming health issues, raising children through the onset of myriad serious, life-changing issues, coping with a past that would keep seasoned horror writers from their sleep– she holds within her the capacity to create something that will change the way the world looks at itself, if she believes in herself long enough to do so.
She is the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning, and the last thing I see before I fall asleep at night. She bookends my thoughts like she bookends my day– nothing I say or do happens without her in my mind. She is the centre of my life.
Happy birthday, my beautiful wife.
It’s my Dad’s 70th birthday today.
It’s an odd occasion in many ways: as I’ve spoken about before, we have a friendly relationship if not an overwhelmingly close one, and he really is the last link between me and what I think of as my ‘old’ family: that traditional family structure of my birth– my mother is dead, I am estranged from my brother and see no way of going back, I have never been close to any cousins or grandparents and never see them beyond the occasional visit from overseas relations or bumping into each other in the shops, which suits me fine. Dad is it, and even though we live no more than thirty kilometres from each other, we’re far from in each other’s pockets.
I’ve never thought of him as old. Perhaps you never do with parents– I don’t know. Mum died when she was 61, which certainly is not old, so I’ve no experience in the mind set. But there’s no denying that 70 is an age where the average lifespan begins to loom on the horizon: certainly, there’s got to be a point where every year begins to feel like an extra year, one you’ve been granted rather than taken as your right. Or perhaps I overstate the age thing because of my own particular phobias. Either way, I find it difficult to associate my old man with an old man. There’s the understanding, at the back of my vision of him, that one day he’ll be gone and that somewhere along the line I’d better start preparing myself for that eventuality.But not now.
For now, he’s only 70. There’s plenty of kick in the old bugger yet. I’ll drop in on him after work today: the kids have made him cards, and I have a present and a hug for him. We may not be in each other’s pockets, but he’s still my Dad.