Blursed (Memento Vivere addendum )

It usually takes a little while for a blog to brew in my brain but by going out earlier than usual I managed to generate a whole different set of occurrences that bared ponderance over.  I had to pop out early today to deliver a pack of assorted stuff for sale at a high profile gig on Hastings pier this Saturday coming and as such saw my usual morning outing upside down, meeting an entirely different set of people. The most interesting factor was how so many people were in a rush, a rush for trains, a rush to be elsewhere. It did make me wonder as the last golden rays of sunrise made even the st leonards concrete look ethereal and the light played on the surface of the bluest of blue seas why anyone wanted to be anywhere else. Money  guess… 

As I walked along, watching the sea, feeling the wind in what little hair I have left, trying to remain in the moment, preventing my thoughts from wandering into areas of my life that I have no control over and making me feel sad, I remembered my daily walk in Doncaster eight years ago. A mile and a half round trip to the co op and back, a bleak little under stocked shop on a soulless 80s brick version of a hamet. A walk past house upon house by the same developer with only the slightest variation between each. Often the journey would be lowlighted by obscenities hurled from cars, the mindless local kids taking out their frustrations at their pointless little lives on anyone foolish enough to do anything as bizarre as to actually walk somewhere without wearing the prerequisite knock off sportswear uniform. Contrasting that with the now, conscious of soaking up every moment of loveliness before the weather turns and the price of the lovely summers comes back threefold on seaside dwellers like myself.

As I walked along a friend of mine squealed to a hault on her bike, stopping briefly on her way to her own meeting. A few weeks ago she and her son put up posters for my art show about the old town where they live, it was heartening to hear her feedback of how many of the shop, bar and whatever owners knew and loved my work. As she sped off I thought about this, and how the genesis of the things that make so many people happy came out of so much sadness. My need to mentally escape the bounds of that northern housing estate, rootless, mad, lost, bereft of a role and a place in life, trying to connect through the outer world by the burgeoning Internet and a world over the far horizons. None of what I have now, for better and for worse, would be here in the world without that point in time and it’s important for me to remember that. 

There is a lot going on in Hastings and St Leonards, you can while away all your time so easily doing this and that, meeting this person or that, trying to meet everyone’s demands and petty whims. I am both blessed and cursed at the same time blursed? cressed? shudder! with a wild imagination and and abiliting to appreciate the wonders of the world without the need of booze, drugs, party hats, bells and whistles and the constant need for attention that seems to be so popular hereabout. For good or bad, every day is a party in my head and one to which I can sadly wish I hadn’t been invited sometimes. I have a strange relationship with real world parties though, I have an open invitation to so many things but people now know that it is awquard both for them to ask and for me to politely decline. If I was more pretentious I would liken it to Sir Lancelot’s permantly empty seat at the round table of Camelot… The reality though is more likely a crumpled plastic glass by a bottle of fizzy mineral water and a plate of stale twiglets at a party.

Free though from that constant maintenance of egos and balance of invites and social reciprocations and the drain of finances, energies and the resultant hangovers and other repercussions from things that can never hope to live up to their expectation, I can get on with  so much more than would the leaking rusty bucket that would be social Christopher, he had his reign up to 1998 and it was a messy, hazardous one not to be repeated at pain of death… Mine. 

Anyway, I now have to reluctantly get on with my day, a route March delivery to Hastings with a rucksack full of stock that I really shouldn’t be carrying. And when I’m back, presuming my heart and back hold out, I shall illustrate this piece and send it out into the world. 


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