'One cannot speak anymore of being, one must speak only of mess.' - Samuel Beckett

Friday, April 08, 2005

You just...

Painting? What's that? I'm ticking 'to do's' off little lists in my little diary so that I can sleep. These are not great things I have to tell you. At this stage in my life whilst so many, many of my dutiful peers are buying and selling houses and companies, bringing up children and getting divorced I have a chair to sell at Bonhams, a bunch of books to bring to Amnesty International and an estate agent to call about blagging free exhibition space, see the doctor and look in on my grandmother who's lost the use of her right hand. I should be grateful, I am, I don't know what I'm complaining about but I'm a little fragile at the moment, trying to keep myself on the straight and narrow, being a bore! I took the heavy pile of these beautiful old seventies architectural design periodicals to Amnesty and they wouldn't take them! This spotty college kid addamently declined my offer of charity and frankly I felt a little offended. I walked out saying "God guys! I'm offering you a chance to make some more money and your turning it down!" Afterwards I regretted using the cringing word 'guys' like some spoilt child, an uncomfortable vernacular from an earlier self, a childish self, sulking me, turned away from his act of unrewarded generosity and of course the underlying fact that I had to carry the damn things home again.