In Times Which Seem Like Self-Psychotherapy He Says To Himself:
Novel: Times 1–4, Chapter 53 I don’t know what you make of his plans
What if you spoke to me, would it be like being a teenager in school again, wondering if Hazel Walters might go out with me. I knew it wasn’t you, or her, in the photograph; I could tell, by the longer, more wrinkled fingers, otherwise I might have made the mistake.
It seems more or less certain that our son will return to live with you in Devon, I met up with him in London on Saturday. He thinks it will take him at least six months to construct a suitable portfolio, before he goes off in search of work. He is though widening his horizons, I do believe that New Zealand, among many other places, will be considered, he hopes to visit NZ with you at Christmas.
I don’t know what you make of his plans; you don’t tell me, he doesn’t tell me, I don’t ask; instead I choose to simply enjoy his company, which I do. I admire his work. I admire his application to a task; I worry about his, might I say his naivety, in thinking that he can so clearly build a future. I never did, I never have.
There that is sufficient of an update I do believe, suffice to say that I am still thinking about you; you have undoubtably claimed your place in my deep-space memory. How much joy in that place, how much despair lies there, how much crippling inability to do anything with those memories, other than to feed them into the writing.
Does the imagination really do so so good a job as the reality; am I able to fulfil all of my needs of you, without any physical, verbal, or textual contact with you; I can’t quite believe it, yet I fear that I must believe it. I do believe that any analyst worth his salt (which includes you, which includes me) would soon see that my writing is no more than a catalogue, of my wishes, for how my life might have been.
The writing then is my escape; to write for you, to write about you, to write both sincere or insincere words, that I won’t ever be able to, or indeed have to explain away to you. Words that bounce out of almost nowhere, nowhere alone together, for well over a decade. Words that flutter, flutter from nowhere other than a decade of dust.