Writing about H

English: Old Reading road Not too clear but wa...

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Over the past couple of weeks I’ve been given cause to revisit much that I had previously posted to this blog, going all the way back to the start. The catalyst for this has been a person far from here who has cottoned onto this site and has been reading it with an almost obsessive zeal. I watch, bemused, as the stats wrack up. Occasionally I’ll get a message from the person about one particular post or another, to which I’ll politely respond. I’m curious and also fatalistic. I don’t know what they’ll find or what they’ll think, but that is no real cause for concern. In a way this blog puts me on the public record, and I can’t expunge what I’ve already committed to writing, and have no desire to censor the story – erratic I’m sure – that is occasionally presented. It is me after all, for good or bad.

While I have watched this feat of reading I have myself occasionally clicked on some of the links from a sense of curiosity and occasional nostalgia. I find myself reading wondering how other people take this in. I am always writing for myself – but how does the audience receive what are often quite self-indulgent posts? Gradually as I read I find that curiosity recede. In place of it I find myself recalling moments that had slipped from me. I read things and surprise myself now realising that while often enigmatic, my words frequently have the veneer of deeply considered wisdom. If only!

It’s probably not the done thing, but I find myself appreciating the man who could think and feel so deeply before attempting to transcribe those thouse thoughts and feelings for the world. Much of what I wrote may be mysteries to others – I am coy often, and archly reticent – but even if I have forgotten some of the people I refer to, the sense of what I write is always clear to me.

As I read I recall the different stages of my life the posts reflect. Unlike any reader who stumbles across my blog, I have the benefit of complete context – I lived it after all. And so as I read I recall the moments and the incidents that prompted me to write. I remember the things about it, often incidental, which go unreported here. You get the high notes here, but in my mind and my memory I can still recall the tune whole, the slow movements as well as the dramatic.

Reading again gives me context on the present also. I realise, or remember, that I have experienced most things at least once before. The good things you never forget, and the bad – often forgotten – you’ve obviously found a way to survive. That’s a reassuring note. We all know when trouble looms how overwhelming it can seem, so inescapable in fact. There’s no guarantees of anything – even escape – but given you’ve done it before countless times, have taken on adversity time and again and survived, there is sense of perspective and confidence. She’ll be right.

Reading back too it seems to me that my blog is a mix of things I’ve reported externally – from politics to movie reviews to commentary on my travels; and, more significantly, reports on my internal movements, the things I think, I feel, the torturous road I’ve followed. It’s very clear in re-reading that I’m strongly heterosexual, motivated by a combination of powerfully insistent lust, all the way through to a tender romanticism that makes the present day H blush. There’s a lot about women here.

I don’t know what it says about me, but the things I’ve forgotten are often incidental contacts, some of which appeared to be far more at the time. As an exercise the other night I lay in bed and tried to figure out how many women I’d had sex with in the last 12 months. It was a figure I found myself revising by the moment, recalling banal and insignificant encounters that had faded to the back of my mind: sometimes sex is only that. In another year I’ll have forgotten some of those encounters altogether. You remember what is important, the rest drifts away.

I thought that this morning as I woke up. I had dreamt overnight of a girl I used to work with and like. We still have some incidental contact via Facebook. You know how it is sometimes you feel surprise at the events unveiled? So it was in this dream with the girl making a b-line to me in a public forum and making it clear she wanted to be with me. Ok then, fair enough – she’s cute after all.

I thought of the dream and then thought how many times have I had such a dream and written of it here – or even not bothered to write of? Likewise moments when I’ve met with, or flirted, or even bedded some woman? It’s just normal, just life, just another small blip on the radar. Ultimately this is what this blog has become: it charts a journey, the small things, the big things, the sorrow and joy, the angst and desire, failures and successes, the map that has led me from there to here, and ahead a road uncharted but surely to be described.

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