Sometimes the machine of life can grind on so efficiently, that when it comes to sitting down and just writing...I can't do it. I hate it. I feel the seat getting warm, and there's still nothing on the blank page. The page gives me blank look and I give it one back. Then I make a cup of green tea, and then Rashimi distracts me, which is actually just what I want. Though I know deep down, it really isn't. But then, he's my 3 year old and I think, he needs me here doing Lego stuff and digging. Wouldn't I rather be here than exchanging blank looks with my 27 inch screen? In a few years he'll be 10 and my screen will still be 27 inches. And believe me, that's big when you're only 10 inches from it.
So I found a website, and it seems I'm not the only one that gets this.
The author, Sugar, says: 'If someone died each time I checked my inbox, there would be no one left.'
Oh man. That's me.
She says: 'Writing is hard for every last one of us—straight white men included. Coal mining is harder. Do you think miners stand around all day talking about how hard it is to mine for coal? They do not. They simply dig. You need to do the same. … So write...Not like a girl. Not like a boy. Write like a motherfucker.'
So, I've begun, and that's better than not beginning at all. So she says. And Rashimi is at school for the next 4 hours.
A couple of weeks ago I left for London at 4am, on a pilgrimage to a christening of a beautiful new godson, Casper, and to meet my new niece, Daisy and hang out with my still quite new niece, Tilly. Girl time - in many senses.
It felt disloyal, creeping away in the darkness before the dwarfs darted into the daytime. But by the time I cruised out of the plane in Heathrow, with one small bag, I realised I had time to breathe and notice what was going on around me. The normal situation is hurtling around the corner into arrivals with a trolley stacked with cases, and two dwarfs perched on top; orange juice down one leg of my jeans and chocolate finger prints on my top.
The first thing I noticed was a large vending machine selling SIM cards. Each time I go back home, the UK has moved on, and I feel like an old person remembering how things used to be. But seriously, I do remember a time when you bought packets of fags from a vending machine. Now the world has moved on and communications have become our new nicotine. I don't smoke these days, but I reminisced about those days when a handbag was not complete without a ten pack of Marlboro Lights and good friendships were made on the pavement outside the office.
As I stood, gawping, I wished I could exchange the loud phone call my neighbour was having on his iPhone 6 for a plume of smoke. I think we suffer more these days from passive communications than we ever did passive smoking. People puffing out conversational toxins are more vexatious to the spirit, I honestly believe. But at least it doesn't make your hair smell.
Then I noticed that most men in the airport were carrying a handbag and wearing designer neckscarves. And then an announcement warned not to let your children ride on trolleys. Our dwarfs wouldn't travel with us if they couldn't ride on a trolley. It's the whole point of a trolley and a smooth floored airport combo, is it not? But life in the Arab world (though not so security-conscious Israel) has taken us away from a nanny state.
I remember a taxi driver in Amman telling me once, as we gaped at four children standing up out of the car sunroof as their Dad hooned their hatchback along the road, that it was really dangerous when children did that, because sand and dust could get in their eyes. Not the first risk on the list, I thought to myself.
But in the UK, the nanny state trains us to be over cautious. Maybe that's why so many men are now in scarves.
Then I spent a glorious 4 days with friends and family. Tilly, a wide eyed one year old. I don't get the chance to watch her unfurl on a daily basis, but she's gone from a tiny bud to a beautiful flower since I last saw her. And Daisy, at just 5 weeks, a perfect parcel of peace, slumbering and sipping her way through those early weeks. And clearly adored by her brother, Fergus. He's so kind and gentle. I don't remember quite such a smooth ride when Rashimi was born. I have clear visions of the Lozenge waving a wooden spoon above Rashimi's head, while checking I was watching.
I realised on my way back that we've mislaid most of our baby kit. I have no recollection if 2 years ago, in our frantic departure from London, I dumped the whole lot outside the door of Mind in Camden, or if it's all in a suitcase somewhere. I'll have to post a message on the Jerusalem parents Facebook group asking for second hand kit.
Maybe we might even find the original Moses basket.
So I found a website, and it seems I'm not the only one that gets this.
The author, Sugar, says: 'If someone died each time I checked my inbox, there would be no one left.'
Oh man. That's me.
She says: 'Writing is hard for every last one of us—straight white men included. Coal mining is harder. Do you think miners stand around all day talking about how hard it is to mine for coal? They do not. They simply dig. You need to do the same. … So write...Not like a girl. Not like a boy. Write like a motherfucker.'
So, I've begun, and that's better than not beginning at all. So she says. And Rashimi is at school for the next 4 hours.
A couple of weeks ago I left for London at 4am, on a pilgrimage to a christening of a beautiful new godson, Casper, and to meet my new niece, Daisy and hang out with my still quite new niece, Tilly. Girl time - in many senses.
It felt disloyal, creeping away in the darkness before the dwarfs darted into the daytime. But by the time I cruised out of the plane in Heathrow, with one small bag, I realised I had time to breathe and notice what was going on around me. The normal situation is hurtling around the corner into arrivals with a trolley stacked with cases, and two dwarfs perched on top; orange juice down one leg of my jeans and chocolate finger prints on my top.
The first thing I noticed was a large vending machine selling SIM cards. Each time I go back home, the UK has moved on, and I feel like an old person remembering how things used to be. But seriously, I do remember a time when you bought packets of fags from a vending machine. Now the world has moved on and communications have become our new nicotine. I don't smoke these days, but I reminisced about those days when a handbag was not complete without a ten pack of Marlboro Lights and good friendships were made on the pavement outside the office.
As I stood, gawping, I wished I could exchange the loud phone call my neighbour was having on his iPhone 6 for a plume of smoke. I think we suffer more these days from passive communications than we ever did passive smoking. People puffing out conversational toxins are more vexatious to the spirit, I honestly believe. But at least it doesn't make your hair smell.
Then I noticed that most men in the airport were carrying a handbag and wearing designer neckscarves. And then an announcement warned not to let your children ride on trolleys. Our dwarfs wouldn't travel with us if they couldn't ride on a trolley. It's the whole point of a trolley and a smooth floored airport combo, is it not? But life in the Arab world (though not so security-conscious Israel) has taken us away from a nanny state.
I remember a taxi driver in Amman telling me once, as we gaped at four children standing up out of the car sunroof as their Dad hooned their hatchback along the road, that it was really dangerous when children did that, because sand and dust could get in their eyes. Not the first risk on the list, I thought to myself.
But in the UK, the nanny state trains us to be over cautious. Maybe that's why so many men are now in scarves.
Then I spent a glorious 4 days with friends and family. Tilly, a wide eyed one year old. I don't get the chance to watch her unfurl on a daily basis, but she's gone from a tiny bud to a beautiful flower since I last saw her. And Daisy, at just 5 weeks, a perfect parcel of peace, slumbering and sipping her way through those early weeks. And clearly adored by her brother, Fergus. He's so kind and gentle. I don't remember quite such a smooth ride when Rashimi was born. I have clear visions of the Lozenge waving a wooden spoon above Rashimi's head, while checking I was watching.
I realised on my way back that we've mislaid most of our baby kit. I have no recollection if 2 years ago, in our frantic departure from London, I dumped the whole lot outside the door of Mind in Camden, or if it's all in a suitcase somewhere. I'll have to post a message on the Jerusalem parents Facebook group asking for second hand kit.
Maybe we might even find the original Moses basket.
No comments:
Post a Comment