What is the point of this ?
Wiping the sleep from my eyes, the crackle of the gas fire, 30 minutes set on the oven buzzer, sip of tea with soya. Eyes still adjusting to the glow of the light form the computer, I avert my eyes and look at the keyboard and fingers tapping letters making words. Train rumbles past.
I was lying in bed, Naoise little leg wrapped around mine, so warm, so cosy. He asked me before he went to sleep last night that could I stay in bed for exactly the same time as him. He likes to be cuddled and held and adored.
The front room is much, much tidier. I am trying to remove the piles of dust and build up of domestic detritus, paper work, toys, cracker plastic, objects whose function I am not sure of. I cleared the top of the record player so that Patrick could play his music. I put a bulb in the red lamp which now shines in the corner, lighting up my Louise Bourgeois embroidered handkerchief, which reads ” I have been to hell and back and let me tell you it was wonderful”.
Guzzling tea, almost gone. I was thinking that I want to have some sort of celebration to mark the beginning of writing this blog, maybe a coffee morning. Never held a coffee morning in my home. I have plenty of christmas cake. It will be a little gathering of my friends that I talk to at the school gates and other creative women that live near by. I wonder if they would come, maybe hold it on a Friday after the school run, needn’t be anything too long, an hour would do. A coffee morning it is with all my lovely women friends who make my life good.
Tea already finished. Rubbing eyes. I will go back to bed after this, I am tired, my throat is a little sore. I spent yesterday on my own, I didn’t go outside, I felt sad that Sydney wasn’t home. Some pleasure was had in sorting CD’s and DVD’s, finding lost items, reuniting. placing, controlling, bringing some order.
Patrick and Naoise went to Eureka. Its lovely that they do this together. Its a simple day out reached by the train. Patrick showed me photographs of Naoise breaking into the safe, shimmying around the side of the carpet so not to set off sensors. Naoise showed me his bank of Eureka money and his requests for withdrawal forms. Naoise wanted to buy a srorbree tree (strawberry tree), hcoklut (chocolate), a dog, a kat (cat), toys, moysee modror (moshy monster), a kar (car) and a foan (phone).
Yawning, looking at the clock in the kitchen, time passing slowly.
Not looking forward to the kids going back to school, the rush of the morning and the lists of to do’s. January is a hard month. Main jobs to do are the annual tax return that as usual I have left till the last minute, and I want t attempt the PhD application. I must get better at filling in forms. I have to exist outside of the confines of this home, I have to.
The studio and the home are great but I want to earn money, to be adult. I feel like a leach, like an overgrown child, I need some independence, its been almost six years now. How can six years pass so quickly. Six years of being local and caring for my family. It is a job, unpaid. I still have to convince myself of its value. Care doesnt seem to be valued in our society. This is sad. Care is everything. Love is care. Care is frustrating and rewarding and absolutely exhausting. I will be happy to exist outside of just care. I will be happy to use my knowledge to help others. Not being able to teach has made me feel sad. The ten week course that I ran at Artsmill was so great, I can continue to run private courses, but I really want to be part of a university again. I need a library, access to knowledge, people and the support of an institution.
Who is it that I am talking to, who is listening ? Who cares ? All this talking to myself. What is the point of this ? Am I writing about anything of interest ?
More cars on the road. Sit up straight, find something less banal to write. Write about who you are now, not what you want to become. Who am I now ? A person that neatly piles the washing on a chair, that tenderly hugs her child in bed, that tries not to have arguments with her partner, that makes art with and in-between the domesticity. Is this who I am ? Perhaps I have more time to question to consider whilst Sydney is away.
My neighbour knocked on the door yesterday, she asked that I collect some lemons to nurse her cold. Patrick bought some back for her in the early evening. She talks about how tall and handsome Sydney was growing. He is going to be so tall, a tall man, taller than me. I found videos that he had made on my computer. Videos of him singing and playing his guitar. I found tiny bits of footage of him as a 17 month old baby dressed in a frock pushing a pram. I had dressed him up as a girl. I think that I was re-imagining my own childhood, this wasn’t a comment about gender. I just wanted him to become me. He pushes the small pram with the doll. He is playing. He repeatedly pushes the pram away from him and then catches it as it rolls back his way. He walks into the neighbours front gardens. I love this footage.