Reconstructing myself

Up early, fed Rigby made my morning latte. Normally it’s back to bed for me to read for an hour or so. I have a routine. In the morning’s I read non-fiction, and at night before switching the light off I read fiction.

I just read a book by Geoff Dyer about D.H. Lawrence, and am halfway through a book about the year 1688. That’s my morning reading. By night I’ve just finished reading Littell’s The Revolutionist, and have started, would you believe, a novelisation of Alien I picked up cheap in the sales bin of a second-hand bookshop. It’s familiar obviously, but fine.

This morning I didn’t go back to bed. I stopped by to check my email and got stuck. Yesterday I had an extra-large number of hits to this blog, and so followed up to see what people are reading. I ended up making my own digressions, clicking on links to read random posts spread out over the years. I had forgotten about that me. Reading, I missed him.

I’ve had a hot shower since and Sonos cranking out the music. Right one of my all-time favourite songs is playing, Georgia, the Ray Charles version. I got onto that young before I knew much about anything when the lyrics led me to imagine – these days they make me remember.

It was a favourite song to sing in the shower, belting it out while the water happily sprayed over me. Be bop a lua was another favourite shower song, the Gene Vincent song, surprisingly inherited from my father – someone you can’t imagine singing in the shower, though he must have. He would have grown up with that song. I used to do Johnny Mathis to, used to imitate that quaver in his voice, mostly singing It’s Not For Me To Say.

How I loved that song! I still do. It seemed so true, so sweet and delicate. I can remember listening to it in my home in South Yarra many years ago and thinking yes, that’s the way it is, that’s the way it will be, delightfully wistful with it. I recall one years eve dressed up in my dinner suit listening to it while waiting to be picked up. “…perhaps the glow of love will grow with every passing day, or we may never meet again, but then it’s not for me to say…”

Reading this morning and listening to this music, remembering, I’ve made my mind up, I can’t let that go. I’ve tried to juggle things for so long, and do the right thing. I’ve sacrificed myself in that, to the point I have no life. I need to live again. Need to reassert that independence that was so precious to me.

There’s no point trying to do the things I can’t do. No-one is ever satisfied anyway, and I’m left empty-handed. I’m setting aside notions of duty, which exist only in my mind anyway. I have to live. I have to have fun again. I need to be me. I have to be selfish and live my life.

That means I’ll go out and have a beer sometimes, even if I need the dollars for something else, I’ll shout myself a pizza on a Friday night, I’ll stop for a coffee on a whim. It may even mean I eat out sometimes.

I’ll be sensible, but if I don’t do this I’ll struggle to survive. Things are critical. I need to fill out my frame. Need to look upon the world as I used to. Need to be bold again, need to be me – if I can remember who that is.

The clues are in these pages. I can reconstruct something of myself from the words I’ve left behind. It’s there, I’m still me, but buried beneath years of shit.

Easier said than done – I have $30 in my pocket, but still. It’s my only way out.

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