Saturday, 19 April 2003

Autumn Longing Bah. I wanted to write on autumn and longing but scared I'll make a hash of it in my current state. Too bad: I'm writing it anyway. We're halfway through autumn here, and we've hit a stretch of perfect autumn weather. The nights are cool but not so that we yet need the heating on. The mornings are crisp and dewy. The mist clears by mid morning, revealing the most-stunning clear air and gorgeous golden light. It's the kind of light that makes me wish I could photograph or paint, the kind that genius artists catch and splash over the canvas to bring it to life. It's lovely. The days are warm, say 20C (68F). Perhaps late in the afternoon a haze will begin to form, as the air takes on a chill. And soon it'll be time to go inside, close the doors and windows to keep the warm in. But before I go in, I sit and watch the hills opposite in the fading light. I watch the airliners climbing overhead, the birds returning for the night. And it's then that I suffer this most-intense longing: real, empty, hole-in-the-chest, hurting, wanting to be somewhere, a life elsewhere that never was, unrequited love, all of that kind of longing. Except I have no idea what it is I'm longing for. None. Every year it comes around and does this to me. It must be carried in the evening mist, and it soaks itself into my flesh and bones and makes me feel this way. I see images: I see things like stone buildings and and french gardens and oak trees and vineyards and wine and log fires; I see myself, soaring high above in some kind of silent and perfect aeroplane, climbing up and up; I see myself standing on a mountain top, watching night fall on the land below. I feel something like, but not quite, alone. And so it will be each night until spring comes again. The feeling doesn't ever go away completely but it's not so bad in the warmer months. And I don't think I'm alone in having it: a quick search on Google for "autumn+longing" produced a few links to poems and writings. But, introspective as I am, I'd like to understand a bit more of what it is. 11:34:04 PM    comment []

Wednesday, 16 April 2003

Alone It seems to me sometimes that each of us is ultimately alone in the world. We may have friends, close friends and partners. But there comes a point when they have somewhere else to go, someone else to be with, some other life to attend to. Or because of differences in gender, life experience, personality type, they cannot feel what we feel, know what we know; sympathy and love might be unlimited but empathy cannot be. So, each of us has to deal with our fears and pains, celebrate our joys and achievements. And we have to do it on our own. Our loved ones might support us, offer understanding, advice, sustenance. Or they might try to bring us down. But, ultimately, beyond all that, it's a very private thing. We succeed or fail on our own. And we do it for only ourselves. Sometimes this strikes me as a very bleak thing. Perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps I'm just the idealist, the romantic, the cynic who secretly expected something better from life and, when he found it really wasn't so perfect as he'd hoped, lost some faith. 5:59:14 PM    comment []

Sunday, 6 April 2003

The Day I love the early morning, first thing in the morning. I love being up before anyone else, drinking coffee in the near-dark, looking out at the street before dawn. It doesn't happen so often as it did, but I still love it when it does. The day always starts off full of promise. By that I mean it's like a clean sheet of paper, a blank canvas, a new roll of film, a... OK, enough analogies. I tend to think each day has a theme or character, be it clumsiness, or long-awaited-things-all-suddenly-happening-together -- like Friday just gone when my dear wife was offered a new job after a long selection process AND furniture we ordered months' ago arrived -- or discovering and living my inner Alpha Male for a day. It could be any kind of day, anything could happen. And then other people get out of bed. And children fight as they do. And, if a weekday, we leave for work, or otherwise not. We act, and we interact. And the day takes its shape. 10:48:10 PM    comment []

Sunday, 2 March 2003

Emma Today marked several milestones for my little girl, Emma. She's 2 years, 5 months -- almost. Perhaps if I record these events here I'll be able to look back some years from now. Who knows. Lately each Sunday morning, we head off to the swimming pool for an hour or so. Nat swims for a while and I splash about with the kids. Emma has quickly developed a love of the pool and is quite fearless most of the time. Normally we don't worry with swimming aids for Emma beyond goggles, but today she was kitted out with blow-up floaties on her arms and a strap-on, polystyrene bubble on her back. And she swam :-) All on her own, she lifted her legs and floated and slowly waggled arms and legs and swam 10 metres or more at a time. Little people are so funny when they do things, and watching her happily paddling along, declining assistance, was just priceless. Toilet training has been a little bit of an issue with Emma. She's actually quite in control of her bodily functions, but using the potty or toilet seems to be a power struggle of some sort whereby she doesn't want to let go in the way we ask her. She'll hang on for hours without a nappy (diaper for US readers), then either have an accident or desperately request a nappy. She's piddled and pooed on the carpet, kitchen chairs, couch, table, you name it. But today, 3 times in all, she ASKED to sit on the toilet. Yay! Yeah, we still had a few nappies too, but this is a big step, the one that means we're more there than not. And finally, Emma pedalled her tricycle instead of scooting with her feet. Way to go little girl. 10:18:52 PM    comment []

Thursday, 27 February 2003

Bye now wKen has left the room. 10:17:25 PM    comment []

Tuesday, 18 February 2003

When kids are sick 3 days a week, Nat and I take the kids to their respective child care in the morning and catch the train together. I get to work about 9:15. I leave again at 4:15 to begin the long journey home, picking up the kids on the way. Annyway, I got in this morning as per normal, made a cup of tea, sent some emails and began work. Then my mobile rings; it's Emma's child care. She's a little unwell, which we knew, but they've picked up other symptoms which they feel are worrying and should be seen by a doctor. OK, pull up the train timetables on the web; there's one I can make in about 20 minutes. Pull up the 'phone directory and call the medical centre; yes, I can get her an appointment late morning. Shut down the PC and leave. Total time at work: 40 minutes. Nat's on a field trip today, so she can't do anything to help. I call her to let her know, but she doesn't answer. I send a text message to let her know what's going on. And now I'm sitting on the train, worrying needlessly about my little girl. I'll be OK once I get to her but I hate the sitting and waiting. When kids are sick it tugs on your heart like nothing else can. 10:38:57 AM    comment []