Intermittent Fault

I have not been in what one would generally describe as a particularly good mood of late. Nothing so dreadful as to ring any alarm bells, but not so good that I'm not keeping an ear open to hearing them (if that makes sense). If I'm irritated by this low level persistent bad mood, then I can only imagine how it is for anyone close to me. (Sorry!)

It more or less began with news of the death of an old schoolfriend. We hadn't been close (or even in touch, really) for years, but the memory of him as a vibrant, talented, ambitious, gentle young man - how I remember him fifteen to twenty years ago - is so vivid it is hard to think of him as dead. I could carry on and eulogise but I won't: I don't think here's the place to be honest. I'm still considering writing a letter to his parents, but I'll save that for another time, maybe.

I didn't get the opportunity to go to his funeral. It was back in Norwich and I had work commitments in Scotland that I couldn't get out of. But I feel as though I've missed an important part of being able to share in the grief and share in the recollection of the good times we had with our shining boy.

Death has a funny way of getting you thinking. And although I'm doing OK in life (interesting job, pleasant home, great partner) there's still something nagging at me, jabbing me in the conscience and hissing about my failings: the things I haven't done, or dared to do; the things I never tried, or risked trying. Either I'll get round to them eventually, or they'll stay stuck like a drawing pin in a thin soled shoe: not quite breaking the skin but an irritation all the same. And that's my fault.

But here's hoping I have the luxury of time and a life in which to try. Life is often one drama after another, but there really isn't a dress rehearsal, there's not even a read through, it's just curtain up -some crying, shouting, laughing, singing and dancing- then curtain down.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

Mr Damian, sir - you were a mensch. You'll be missed.
The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148–158


Anonymous said...

Sorry for your loss.