troubled

Apparently just one more post before I am obliged to whore myself to Google. I say whore myself, it really means nothing at all, I just object to the fact that I cannot continue to use this software unless I sign up to Google as well. What if I don't like Google? What if Google shot my dog?

*****

Out last night, after Kit's memorial gig, I see so many things, feel and hear so much that I tell myself to remember. But here I am, pissed yet again and all I can remember from last night is how pale my legs looked in the streetlights in the car on the way home, how yellow they looked, even in yellow tights.

Before the Ag, of course, I remember a lot. I remember Sid singing that Ellegarden song from his Myspace, and the slideshow of pictures. And holding onto Matt. And 99 red balloons and a dozen other emotions in different colours.

*****

And the car, passing it round and realising I can take it down, right into the bottom of my chest and keep on breathing, blowing back several minutes after I toked. So it was that by the time I got inside the place, I thought I was a spy, and that every one of my friends had never looked so beautiful.

Who says drama never taught me anything? If I'd known that seesaw breathing could get me stoned as well as help me riff Shakespeare... I'd have practised, is all.

*****

Now? I'm wearing my grandfather's ring, the ring he died wearing on his little finger on a chain round my neck. His little finger, and I could fit three of mine in there. He was, I learnt today, a man in possession of very big hands. I won't think about the mysterious entry in his 1992 diary, nor will I stare at the two pictures of him that he kept himself. I will not wonder at the weight of his war medals and wonder what he saw.

I'll wear his ring, though, as a reminder that people can be both bad and flawed and beautiful, that men can leave and still make music, that people can hurt and still have sentiment. I'll remember that people die. And remember what that means.