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Disgruntled

About everything, pretty much...

Maybe the funeral's end will see my mood lift. Giving myself til next monday before I must return to my work and apply myself.

The weekend should have been pleasant enough; we met friends on Saturday and wandered around Camden, lots of sushi, lots to look at, and yet, we tired pretty quickly, came home early, crashed out.

Sunday I had to go do this talk at a pagan event. I have been promising the organiser an appearance for years, and she is lovely, patient, and extremely persistent. I found myself in a room with a few people, one of whom was very sure she should be giving the talk... once upon a time I would have set her down gently, or not so gently. This time, I let her babble on, eating up the time, because the people knew nothing and cared less. They were sitting there because the seats were comfy. Did the talk go down well? Well enough, given the circumstances. I did not stay for the day even though the bands were excellent.'But did you enjoy it?' Asked the organiser, magnificent in a golden corset over russet skirts, 'Did it stir something in you?' How could I say it didn't? I just smiled and told her it was very different to what I had planned, but it was a great time. This was enough for her generous heart.

I can't escape thinking about the funeral. I am pretty sure I've got the right place. I asked Bro to phone and check with Dad's second wife, and he said he would.

Our plan is to take an early dinner at Devizes. 'Oh, there will probably be some kind of wake,' says Bro. But how can I go back to the house where we were so unhappy? It wasn't our home - I was all but fully grown by the time they bought this place - but I had a bedroom here, and the memories tack on to the rest of the rubbish. Am I to go back and see the house my mum worked so hard for, turned into a nightmare for us all, then becoming the home of strangers to whom Dad was kinder? The screaming tyrant become a man content to sit in his chicken run, with a house full of pets I would have adored? I can't imagine polite smalltalk with Dad's family from Scotland, after the way they turned on my brother when he came out... Or remembering the stories that reached me after I left, about the night he was so drunk he had to crawl on his hands and knees from the taxi to the house. It was said in the town that the reason his second wife had an easier time with him, was not just the nearness of her father and brothers, but also because she was content to let him drink himself to death as he wished (Devizes was not the sort of town that is kind to second wives. Actually, it was not the kind of town that is kind to first wives.) There's a killing joke in the fact that his liver held out longer than his lungs. It must have been a close run race. God, how much of this do I have to hear again, or recall hearing?

So why am I going at all? I made peace with Dad for his sake some months ago. And my own sake?

I don't know how to deal with all this stuff. If I can't redeem our past, I can build a story out of the town for future reference. For Devizes is very old, a Roman settlement, an iron age fort, more history and ghosts than I can shake a stick at. I must try to focus on that. Perhaps, if it is possible without seeming rude, decline the wake, and spend that time wandering around the bits of the place worth loving, Hillworth, the old oak, the canal, Hartmoor...even the house that tried to be our home in the early years. Poor little house! How could it contend with the determination of humans to make each other unhappy? But I will see it, and maybe it is more joyful now.

Maybe this awful low mood will leave me, now that I have written it out. And soon, very soon, back to life, back to work.

Comments

( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
nyarbaggytep
Oct. 19th, 2015 10:30 pm (UTC)
I don't have anything to say except I hope you figure out what feels right for you to do.
smokingboot
Oct. 20th, 2015 07:34 am (UTC)
Thank you for saying that, Baggy. It will be all right I think - the toxins and distortions are just old rubbish being stirred up now. My feeling is that the day itself will be much easier and kinder. I'll look for these things.

And there is story in it. I started writing something based around Devizes and its environs, but the story went awry the moment my protagonist got to London. I have to rethink it, and this will probably help. It has to wait in my story queue because life has been ridiculous recently, but it is matter than can be used.

The only active flashpoint I can imagine is if the homophobic contingent start on bro; I lack a non-inflammatory behaviour for dealing with that. But I don't think even they will do this at Dad's funeral.
( 2 comments — Leave a comment )

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