Missing Days
I'm trying to convince myself that the sporadic updates to the blog are just a product of life landing on me like a grand piano from a tenth floor window, rather than an eventual silencing of the daily brain-dumpage.
I'm sitting in the study (read: junk room) at two minutes past midnight, on my third glass of wine. Spotify is playing an eighties playlist. Crowded House are telling me that the dream isn't over.
Earlier this evening I walked into town in the rain to meet my eldest daughter from a language class. She's learning Japanese. There is a wonderful cafe in a sheltered corner that opens late – run by an Italian family. I ordered a cappuccino and waited for Miss 19's arrival, trying to ignore the group of attractive women sitting in the window – a “girls night out” of sorts. I didn't manage to ignore their conversation about not needing men in their lives, and found myself grinning while stirring my coffee.
I sometimes wonder what the service staff in cafes and restaurants see – what they see that perhaps they shouldn't – conversations, moments. Perhaps life changing moments. The beginnings of relationships, and the end of relationships. It must be both wonderful and awful by equal turns. I remember going out for a family meal a few years ago, and half watching a young couple out on a date across the restaurant from us – both looking at their phones rather than making conversation with each other.
Anyway. It's getting late. I guess this qualifies as a few words rather than none. Hardly an auspicious start to this brave new world of posting under the cloak of anonymity. Nothing is really anonymous though, is it – Fox Mulder once taught us that nothing vanishes without a trace.
The Cars are singing Drive – asking “who's going to pay attention to your dream”. I wonder who is? Do we really listen to each other's dreams, or do we just humor each other ?