Is breaking down on the Coventry ringroad the most depressing place on earth to do so? The few hours I spent there in a dead car, working out what to do, and not having any answers, being broke, bonkers and generally suffering from the psychic buboes, were not the most pleasant, indeed, living as I do on this tightrope of circumstance, one week up north, one week down south, made possible by a combination of kindness, mutual cooperation, manic-depressive state-funding and general goodwill was rivetted brutally through nipples, cock, eyeballs and soul, and while the lorries pulled in and out, and I contemplated change, and that spiritually, in a Heideggerian sense, I *dwelled* in a Coventry lay-by, being the halfway point, the zenith, or rather, nadir of that hundred and sixty miles I traverse each week for love of lover and love of children... I seem to have lost my thread-
Sur la fil. Sur la fil. On the wire. Somehow, I've survived two years of this, with varying degrees of success and failure. My meditations in that lay-by, while waiting for the breakdown lorry (of course I had no cover) gave rise to a question that has simmered and nagged and pustulated in my heart seemingly for all time now: where do I live, and when can I declare to myself I *dwell* here, or there.
My life is truly split. I *dwell* in two places. Here, lying naked in the garden this sunny saturday, the children busying around, typing this shite. There, up north, piecing my life together in a new form. I think it's thereapeutic. I daresay it must be therapeutic.
My old car, now dead, now hopefully ripped and crushed and mangled for being a treacherous lump of metal... I can say I didn't treat it well. It was my splitting car. It saw more tears, more shouting, more suicidal drives and recklessness and harsh treatment than any car deserves. I don't blame it for dying on me. I murdered it.
When it was dead, and I was stranded in the south, I argued with both my lover and my ex. Why did I need a car? (A thousand practical reasons. All true.) But the car (or the next car, the theoretical car now made ominous steel flesh here in actuality) symbolises this precarious stasis. Why can't I just accept that my life is torn in a way many might envy? Because I'm not like that. Astrology is bunk, but I am pure home-loving affectionate Cancer. ("Too true," my harem chorus.)
I can tell myself I *dwell* north AND south. But each absence of the other hollows me out. I have stretches of time (bizarre concept, infinitely provoking and malleable) when I cope well with it. Other times it is pure torture.
The thing is, dear reader, I am two people. There is a free-spirit, (yes all-too-dangerously-free yawn yawn), and there is a fucking traditional well-socialised actor, and they fight continuously. The polygam and the monogam are locked in an eternal argument. I'm writing from the gap in-between.
If I can only interpret my life as happiness, then I am happy. But it's tough, and I've fallen off my tightrope, and have only been reinstated by the kindness of the women who care for my continued balancing act.
This isn't sour grapes. By no means. Either I will learn and change and accept, or some crisis (perhaps eagerly awaited) will inculcate decision. But for now, I have to keep balancing.
"Life is on the wire. The rest is just waiting." Karl Wallenda.
Obligatory 'trigger warning': he falls off and dies.
So, foolish man, keep balancing, keep walking. If you fall off, it won't matter then. Enjoy life!
2016 - Best Books
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