Here I am, fingers flexed, running ever so slightly late…
I had planned to start this blog on Dec 1st 2013; beginning a new project at the beginning of a new month and on the cusp of a new year. The idea felt all crisp and orderly – starkly beautiful in my mind – and I no doubt hoped that such stark beauty would invest itself into this whole blogging experience as a result.
Suffice to say things have not gone quite to plan.
You see, my parents visited this weekend and there was no time to fit words and wonderings and sensibility into the carnival that is their presence. They fill my house relentlessly with laughter and sarcasm and sharp Northern tongues and it is a real challenge to keep all the balls flying and my feet on the ground. It is so, so easy to drift off into that lovely holiday-space that they bring with them, to let go of all my usual responsibilities and simply LIVE.
Today is December 2nd, 2013. The blog is late and my mind is running low on starkly beautiful imagery.
All I can think about is a necklace, all tangled in a junk shop box, that takes a few patient moments of mother/daughter weaving/unweaving to reveal it as something bright and colourful and beautiful in its gaudiness. About how it feels warm and weightless around my neck.
I can taste a cider, sweet fuzz on my tongue that is supposed to be lemonade but isn’t, courtesy of my Husband’s rather glassy eyes and irrepressible smile.
I hear my Mum laughing as we decorate the table for Sunday lunch with Christmas decorations and crackers and my Dad’s boyish glee when he realises he can colour in the pictures on the paper tablecloth and does so, forgoing seconds to keep his penmanship perfect.
I hear her early-morning cough and the hiss-fizz of my his infernal e-cigarette.
And there’s a pull in my cheeks from smiling too much (or not enough).
It always amazes me how tightly I’ve been wound and how little it takes for them to unwind me. And I’m always shocked by the energy I expend in that unwinding; I become a frazzled, giggling mess of flyaway curls, dropped ‘t’s and endless smiles that I just can’t shake, all crackling with laughter and joy but inevitably needing my bed by 9pm.
I spend the whole weekend feeling like my heart will simply explode in my chest, too full of gratitude and pleasure and joy for one person to manage. Or like I’m carrying an armed-explosive under my coat and having tea with the Johnny Depp at the same time: fraught with panic and exhaustion but never, ever wanting the moment to end.
But it does.
They went home yesterday. Now I find myself drained and dizzy and perfectly at peace with myself and my lot in life (which, let’s be honest, doesn’t happen to anyone very often) and I’m savouring it. It is creeping up on me though, the return to reality. I am slowly rewinding myself into a fully functioning adult who enacts her own needs and desires and responsibilities with crisp efficiency and dreams of stark beauty and a blog that runs in precise calendar months.
But for now I’m here, running a little bit late, curls still flying and trying to punch out something wise and wistful with fingers that still remember being gripped around greasy pizza at 1am Saturday morning.
And I’m beginning to think that cracked, carnival madness might make for more interesting reading (and writing) than stark beauty after all…
What do you think?