June 2002

At breakfast this morning:

Sarah: Daaaaaad, tell us a poem
Dad: OK, here is one I learned from Grandpa when I was young

There once was a man from Newcastle
Who wrapped up a turd in a parcel
He sent it by train
With a note to explain
It had just arrived fresh from his arsehole

Sarah, Paul and Kate: Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha that is really funny ha ha ha, say it again daaaad, there was once was a man from somewhere, who did a turd in a parcel, he sent it off, saying it was from his arsehole, ha ha ha ha, there was a young girl from Penzance Road, who did poose in a newspaper, she sent it by train to explain it was from her arsehole ha ha ha, I'm not a young girl, yes you are, I am not I'm 11, well that's young, no it isn't, yes it is, no it isn't, yes it is, Daaaaaaaaaad Paul is teasing me, was not, was so, was not, was so, Daaaaaad Sarah is hitting me, I am not and I'm not young, but you wrapped up YOUR poose in a parcel anyway and then you ate it, I did not, yes you did, Ha ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha, you did so, I did not, you're the one who eats poose, I am not, you are too, you did when you were a baby, I did not, yes you did, Daaaaaaaaad didn't Paul eat his poose when he was a baby, I did not and anyway you ate the raisins from your poose and that wasn't me, eating poose is worse than eating poose raisins, no it isn't, yes it is, there was a man who did a turd in a parcel and then sent it on a train to explain it was from his arsehole ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha a girl in Penzance did a turd in a newspaper and sent it on the bus to her father ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha and then her father whacked her on the bum ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

(short pause)

Sarah: Daaaaad, tell us another poem.
Dad: No. Never again.

I must admit that it has not be an easy time for me recently. A lowering mood sets in deep and hard, this black cloud weighing me down. I get like this sometimes. It never lasts for long, maybe a few days, but while it's here, I'm as black as black can be. It's worse this time, and damn, I know why, I know why so very well. Much worse than it has been for a long time. I should be doing stuff. Getting out to play. Moving my thoughts along from where they sit in this rut, unable to get out. They try to climb the wall every so often but just slip right back down, scrabbling, panting, scratching frantically. Intellectually I know I'm silly, foolish, stupid.... crazy almost. But emotionally it's like there's this great grey filter sitting over my mind, over my thoughts. Every so often the filter lifts and the sunshine peeps into the rut, but then wham, down it comes again, rebounding hard, making me wonder whether the sunshine is worth it. Perhaps I just need to block out those rays, light the candles, and pull myself together on my own, by myself, independently of others. I feel like my life has been messed up, turned upside down, pulled inside out, that I just need to run as fast as I can to preserve my sanity, my dignity, my ability to function. The implications are terrifying. Why can I not get past this feeling that I have reached a wall over which I cannot pass, that I will beat my head against this wall until the blood runs, that I am constricted, constrained, tied up, wholly and entirely unsatisfied and unfulfilled? Maybe it's because, this time, I really have reached such a wall. That I am constrained in truth.

I know what it is. It must be a mid-life crisis. Well, I mean, it would be, if 87 could be called mid-life. Maybe it's an end-life crisis. Don't laugh. Stranger things have happened.

	June 8th 2002 The wind blows the clouds away and out shines the sun. Then I wonder what the fuck was the matter with me. Holy shit, what a bloody whiner. All is well (better) with the world, and, with luck, I'll be going sailing tomorrow. It will be cold, wet and windy, but (as Mary says) I feel the need for some salt water therapy. I still haven't been doing any playing. Mostly from laziness, and the lack of energy to go looking for work, but it will come in eventually. The Barbie band starts up again soon, and maybe Johnny Boy will find something. If I was keen I'd arrange some rehearsals with the blues band, but I just can't be fucked at the minute. While in Chicago, JR took me shopping. To a shop that sells vulgar, and vaguely offensive, pieces of plastic crap for kiddies. He claimed that he wanted to buy presents for my kids, but I happen to know for a fact that he just likes buying vulgar and offensive pieces of plastic crap. Whether or not he keeps them is immaterial, he just likes buying the stuff. (No, no, what I really mean is thank you JR). Anyway, one of the pieces of plastic crap he bought was a pooping cow, or, in the local vernacular, the pooing cow. A little plastic cow that, when squeezed, protrudes an offensive bit of brown plastic out its rear end. Nasty. Yeah. I know. I offered the bag of goodies up to the kids to choose. (Big, big excitement. Shepherd and Txara Serene, much loved and never forgotten, have sent them presents. BIG excitement.) Katy chooses first, being the youngest. She makes a beeline for the pooing cow. Then off she goes to put it into her school bag. What you are doing with that? asks Daddy. I'm taking it to school, replies Katy. Why?, asks Daddy. For Show and Tell, says Katy. I want to pass it around the class so they can all see how the cow does poose. Oh, says Daddy. Great idea.

	June 10th 2002 It was windy, but not cold, and not even very wet. Huzzah!!! Think about it, gentle readers all. It's getting on into winter. Not the depths yet, but getting there. And I can still go sailing, wearing only a light jersey (and shorts, to show off my hairy legs). Woo Hoo. Andre came out with me. Blowing 15 knots, gusting 25 or so. Maybe up to 30 in the gusts. Calm sea, almost no chop at all. Overcast, grey sky, an iron-grey sea, looking very cold and forbidding, but absolutely gorgeous. I love the colours of the sea. A warm breeze. Almost nobody else out on the water (cause we were out early). The islands shining in the distance, the cliffs looking white on the mainland. (As an aside, you know what I would so much love to do? Well, apart from having sex with 10 lovely women all at thesame time. Hell, or even one by one. Hell, just one would do. Ahem. No, what I really want to do some day is show the sea to Jeff. To sit beside him, saying Yeeeeeup, while we both stare at it. To show him all the colours.) Andre's not experienced. He took the tiller awhile, but the 30 knot gusts phased him a bit. He let me take over before we went for a spill. Well, not that one does go for a spill in a keeler. Even if the sails hit the water the boat still rights itself perfectly happily. But it's not for the faint-hearted when that happens, and I didn't really want to have to fish Andre out of the water. It didn't happen to us yesterday, but we had the gunwales underwater in the gusts. Maybe making 8-9 knots on a beam reach. Woo Hoo! It was wonderful. More than wonderful. It was needed. And then I got called last night for two more gigs. The old folks in Thames want me back (despite my donger being a rope) and will pay me more this time! Woo Hoo. And Colin's trying to fix something up at the London Bar. That would be nice. Only three weeks before I move jobs. I cannot claim that excitement is building, but I'm looking forward to it all the same. Despite frustrations, life continues. It has to. It cannot just stop. I really shouldn't have bitched so publically. Not wise, James, not wise. Without comments one feels a little more isolated, a little more like you're talking only to yourself. If my diary really was role-playing my real life, I would have projected a far more sophisticated image. Not that of a pathetic whiner. Ah well, c'est la vie. Oh, and by the way, if you're not sure whether or not it was you I was bitching about, then it wasn't. It's like the old adage, "If you're not sure you're in labour, then you're not". So, relax. Furthermore, if you're unsure whether or not I'm violently in love with you, then, again, relax. I'm not. grin. Ahem.

Pope Sleipnir's Diary. Read it at your peril.

June 5th 2002

June 8th 2002

June 10th 2002

	June 5th 2002 At breakfast this morning: Sarah: Daaaaaad, tell us a poem Dad: OK, here is one I learned from Grandpa when I was young There once was a man from Newcastle Who wrapped up a turd in a parcel He sent it by train With a note to explain It had just arrived fresh from his arsehole Sarah, Paul and Kate: Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha that is really funny ha ha ha, say it again daaaad, there was once was a man from somewhere, who did a turd in a parcel, he sent it off, saying it was from his arsehole, ha ha ha ha, there was a young girl from Penzance Road, who did poose in a newspaper, she sent it by train to explain it was from her arsehole ha ha ha, I'm not a young girl, yes you are, I am not I'm 11, well that's young, no it isn't, yes it is, no it isn't, yes it is, Daaaaaaaaaad Paul is teasing me, was not, was so, was not, was so, Daaaaaad Sarah is hitting me, I am not and I'm not young, but you wrapped up YOUR poose in a parcel anyway and then you ate it, I did not, yes you did, Ha ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha, you did so, I did not, you're the one who eats poose, I am not, you are too, you did when you were a baby, I did not, yes you did, Daaaaaaaaad didn't Paul eat his poose when he was a baby, I did not and anyway you ate the raisins from your poose and that wasn't me, eating poose is worse than eating poose raisins, no it isn't, yes it is, there was a man who did a turd in a parcel and then sent it on a train to explain it was from his arsehole ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha a girl in Penzance did a turd in a newspaper and sent it on the bus to her father ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha and then her father whacked her on the bum ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. (short pause) Sarah: Daaaaad, tell us another poem. Dad: No. Never again. I must admit that it has not be an easy time for me recently. A lowering mood sets in deep and hard, this black cloud weighing me down. I get like this sometimes. It never lasts for long, maybe a few days, but while it's here, I'm as black as black can be. It's worse this time, and damn, I know why, I know why so very well. Much worse than it has been for a long time. I should be doing stuff. Getting out to play. Moving my thoughts along from where they sit in this rut, unable to get out. They try to climb the wall every so often but just slip right back down, scrabbling, panting, scratching frantically. Intellectually I know I'm silly, foolish, stupid.... crazy almost. But emotionally it's like there's this great grey filter sitting over my mind, over my thoughts. Every so often the filter lifts and the sunshine peeps into the rut, but then wham, down it comes again, rebounding hard, making me wonder whether the sunshine is worth it. Perhaps I just need to block out those rays, light the candles, and pull myself together on my own, by myself, independently of others. I feel like my life has been messed up, turned upside down, pulled inside out, that I just need to run as fast as I can to preserve my sanity, my dignity, my ability to function. The implications are terrifying. Why can I not get past this feeling that I have reached a wall over which I cannot pass, that I will beat my head against this wall until the blood runs, that I am constricted, constrained, tied up, wholly and entirely unsatisfied and unfulfilled? Maybe it's because, this time, I really have reached such a wall. That I am constrained in truth. I know what it is. It must be a mid-life crisis. Well, I mean, it would be, if 87 could be called mid-life. Maybe it's an end-life crisis. Don't laugh. Stranger things have happened.