one day in winter
A cold and wet wintriness has returned. Yesterday was a busy day, spent at the community centre, taking bookings and sorting out ongoing computer problems. Also attended the centre’s first staff meeting, and even contributed in a relaxed sort of way. Years of housing co-op meetings have stood me in good stead. It’s a pleasant work space, a pity I’m just a volunteer. I’ve been admonished, though, for using such language. Volunteers are much respected here in the council.
After work, I attended a twenty-fifth birthday dinner for Fiona, at Catherine’s house. Sarah, her three daughters, her five grandchildren, Rachel’s husband Dave, Fiona’s boyfriend Peter and myself made up the company. Even with all the kids running around it seemed a subdued occasion.
I was subdued sure enough, except when Dave brought up the court case. People want to see this kid brought to justice, brought to heel. Dave’s glad to hear I have a lawyer for free, they can cost $200 an hour he points out. Imagine if some kid tells an outrageous lie that threatens to destroy not only your earning capacity but your reputation and your very life, and you have no option but to hire someone at such cost, just to try and maintain a normal, struggling life.
I have fantasies of a letter to the lad’s mum, the most responsible party, delivering her a serve about her lying son, and especially about his reason for lying, his desperation for a mother’s love, but it doesn’t take long to realise that she too is likely a victim, that her troubled relationship with her son goes back darkly to her past and so forth. No winners, but I’m losing badly, the boy’s not winning and will eventually lose his mum surely, the police have lost least and that’s most infuriating. I suppose I should contact lawyer George.
I’ve written occasionally of Courtney, but I must again register my amazement at her speedy incorporation of new language, the expansion of concepts, the way she builds narrative, with less and less repetition as vocabulary and understanding burgeon. She speaks often now of her best friend Michael, a fantastical being with whom she shares lip gloss and her pretty pink car rattling through the city full of people dangerous and monstrous. She builds on the story to keep receiving the reward of glitter-eyed fascination, the beginning of the poetry of invention. And the face puckers and pouts, nods and tilts, the hands flap and fly, the eyes bulge and blink, and you try not to look too entranced, and sometimes you’re wearied, for after all she flags, she’s human, oh she’s very human, she wants to dominate your every second, and you’re glad to escape, the extraordinary scary force of a three-year-old. Exceptional? Aren’t they all?
Mostly I just watched. Fiona seemed straighter than usual, and all lovey-dovey with her beau. She’s a sad dependent type. And I suppose I’m a sad independent type. Sarah suspects she’s pregnant again. Just as long as poor Sarah doesn’t get further lumbered.
After work, I attended a twenty-fifth birthday dinner for Fiona, at Catherine’s house. Sarah, her three daughters, her five grandchildren, Rachel’s husband Dave, Fiona’s boyfriend Peter and myself made up the company. Even with all the kids running around it seemed a subdued occasion.
I was subdued sure enough, except when Dave brought up the court case. People want to see this kid brought to justice, brought to heel. Dave’s glad to hear I have a lawyer for free, they can cost $200 an hour he points out. Imagine if some kid tells an outrageous lie that threatens to destroy not only your earning capacity but your reputation and your very life, and you have no option but to hire someone at such cost, just to try and maintain a normal, struggling life.
I have fantasies of a letter to the lad’s mum, the most responsible party, delivering her a serve about her lying son, and especially about his reason for lying, his desperation for a mother’s love, but it doesn’t take long to realise that she too is likely a victim, that her troubled relationship with her son goes back darkly to her past and so forth. No winners, but I’m losing badly, the boy’s not winning and will eventually lose his mum surely, the police have lost least and that’s most infuriating. I suppose I should contact lawyer George.
I’ve written occasionally of Courtney, but I must again register my amazement at her speedy incorporation of new language, the expansion of concepts, the way she builds narrative, with less and less repetition as vocabulary and understanding burgeon. She speaks often now of her best friend Michael, a fantastical being with whom she shares lip gloss and her pretty pink car rattling through the city full of people dangerous and monstrous. She builds on the story to keep receiving the reward of glitter-eyed fascination, the beginning of the poetry of invention. And the face puckers and pouts, nods and tilts, the hands flap and fly, the eyes bulge and blink, and you try not to look too entranced, and sometimes you’re wearied, for after all she flags, she’s human, oh she’s very human, she wants to dominate your every second, and you’re glad to escape, the extraordinary scary force of a three-year-old. Exceptional? Aren’t they all?
Mostly I just watched. Fiona seemed straighter than usual, and all lovey-dovey with her beau. She’s a sad dependent type. And I suppose I’m a sad independent type. Sarah suspects she’s pregnant again. Just as long as poor Sarah doesn’t get further lumbered.
posted by Stewart at 11:54 pm
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