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DannyH
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I suppose one might take jauntiness as one's excuse. The rationale:? Perhaps I'll pick up my guitar. It may surprise you to learn that this is my form of grieving. More of that later...
Is four pints of guinness enough to engender a feeling of genuineness?
Let's
(let us)
find
out.
Impossible to remove that twist of Art & Language from my poetry. My one insight: we feel our way through style. An observance of how my children learnt to speak. First comes cadence, then meter, then grammer. Vocabulary is the last and by the time that comes a flood has truly been initiated.
Exactly the opposite of what I would have expected.
E - C
My new tray of teeth are black. I preferred their more porcelain predecessors predeccessors? Prodecessoraters.
So, back to the hat. I returned to my stepmothers house. It was more a point to be made , a jagged rock sticking up out of the sea than a genuine promise of dry land. She was clearing out his clothes, said that some of his hats should survive, already reducing him to a parodic figure, claiming the right to his definition now he could no longer contradict.
That was my Father's great skill. Contradiction. Even his obituaries said so.
Independent Guardian of the Times.
Ha
ha
ha
It was, of course, the cancer that carried him off, rather than the cough.
He knew how to look, but not how to feel. That was his tragedy and the making of the man.
I will not garner an obituary in The Guardian, The Times or The Independent.
I am sitting at my computer, four pints drunk with a guitar on my lap, repeatedly playing C E C E.
I am wearing a hat.
My father's hat.
I look ridiculous.
That is the problem with being alive.
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091001
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