Made a trellis today from homegrown (in the garden) hazel. Local materials and local resources define local culture. Coated it with raw linseed oil. It made me feel very chuffed. Also was gardening at Simon's which made me feel like I was working. I felt good. Healthy, recovered from viruses, free of the pangs of need for that four-letter thing called Love. I was quite convinced I could abandon this blog, this quest for love, this ridiculous, impractical nonsense, and embark on some narrow, ignorant, psychopathically focussed pragmatism.
And then I'm cleaning up my computer and I come across pictures of The Belgian. Totally forgotten, only existing in the archaeology of my mind. He was a short-lived affair, while I was estranged and briefly single five years ago. He somehow did the Heineken thing - no one else has ever managed to reach my pinnacles of ecstatic sensuality.
The instantaneous reaction to seeing his photo was of feeling crushed at my own stupendous imbecility. The freakishly volatile eruption of irrationality on my part that blasted the affair in the space of 20 minutes; it was the one time in the last 15 years that I had so tempestuously burned a bridge with a lover, throwing every can of fuel and every stick of dynamite at it, and walking away without scarcely looking over my shoulder.
No wonder I need to write about Love. It makes no sense to me, that after all these years, I can once again look at his photograph and be reminded why I was so enchanted by him.
These people in our history, these islands that we have cast adrift, buried hastily in our minds for some urgent instinct, must surely be a vital part of our subconscious if a split second of looking at their photograph can suddenly bring upon an avalanche of remembrance.
So after this moment of reflection, I shall return to Ignorant, Atonal, Mathematical, Pragmatism.
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