Soulmates never die. An addage that has stuck with me ever since the sweet sultry voice of Brian Molko whispered those words into my woefully depressed teenage ears. It's about the most evocative song and powerful song that didn't get ruined by my depression and the fear of crying I always get when listening to songs like "December" by Hawthorne Heights and "Wake up" by Coheed and Cambria. But I digress.
I came here with the intention of writing a beautifully painful blog but it would seem all I can do is sit here listen to "This Picture" by Placebo and will away the tears that seem to be welling up inside me; although I know deep down I really just want to let go completely. That's not going to happen though. It never will. My tears seemed to dry up when I was very young. My parents used to occasionally hold gatherings of close family friends and if this was so I would be fed with my sister (if indeed she was alive at this point; I do not remember) and then sent to bed. It wasn't like I was banished from the presence of guests and alcohol I think the theory was just that if I went to bed earlier then I would not be disturbed by the "gathering" (for want of a better word). The opposite was in fact the case. I was always disturbed. And I always felt left out. This meant that it was not uncustomary for me to sit in my bed and force tears to stream down my face until someone using the bathroom would hear the noise and investigate before fetching my mother. And so I believe that is the reason why I didn't cry at my Grandad's funeral. And I also believe it's about the only reason I'm not crying now.
I can't seem to get to the point. Maybe if I ramble long enough it will come pouring out like the long forgotten memory of a holiday that has just been restored to technicolour; or maybe it will fade into the night in black and white.
So, let's get to the stuff that whilst not mundane is not really the point of this blog post.
London
So, Me and a certain very special friend of mine (she knows who she is) took a trip down to good 'ol London Town. Seh had a ticket to see Rage Against the Machine and whilst I didn't I offered to accompany her down so that she didn't have to be around London on her own. This also provided me with ample oppertunity to head to Camden! *insert smiley face here*
So we headed off at some stupid time on Sunday morning, me driving us to Preston where we parked and caught the coach down to London. We arrived 5 hours later at 7a.m feeling groggy but by no means sleep-deprived. From there we made our way to Camden Town where we proceeded to peruse all the awesome alternative shops. I bought an awesome t-shirt that is the "Darkside of the moon" (Pink Floyd album) cover on it buty instead of a triangle it has Darth Vader's head. I also got a nicely weirded out electronic album by a guy called Squaremetre which is also awesome.
From there we had food and then headed to Finsbury Park where I left my friend to go enjoy herself whilst I waited in a pub for a few hours, listening to music and writing poetry.
This is where it gets interesting. And by interesting I mean this is where it goes wrong. I've told so many people the same story that I cannot even be bothered to type it so I'm going to just say that there was a crush of people getting on the tube and that as a result we just missed our coach home. Fortunately my friends parents live in Birmingham and came and picked us up (for which I am very grateful. We then headed back to her house in Birmingham and stayed there for two nights before heading home.
That's that part of the blog. It's not something that unimportant it's just something that I will probably blog about later.
Now onto the real purpose for the blog.
My Grandma.
She's deteriorating.
I don't really know what else to say about it. It's always been a little joke between us that she can never remember my name. She will always call me the name of my two cousins, the name of my dad and even the name of my sister before she finally finds my name but these days it seem sto be taking her longer to remember my name and she keeps getting more confused not only about the things I do tell her but also about the things that we haven't told her. She's starting to mix the real and imaginary with the ease of someone like Tolkein or Pratchet and it's becoming disconcerting. I'd noticed sometime last summer that she might be beginning to "lose it" slightly but it never seemed this bad. But I guess that's how it is, you know like Mike Campbell in The Sun Also Rises "Slowly then suddenly".
I'd noticed last time I'd seen her recently that she'd been perhaps a little more unsteady on her feet and that she'd had more aches and pains and trouble sitting down and things like that. But the gravity of the situation hadn't really hit me until earlier this evening when I Was playing the piano. Maybe the fact that I was singing triggered a faint memory of some long forgotten school performance that I'd done many years ago but whatever it was made my Grandma start to cry uncontrolably.
And so it was that I was stood hugging my Grandma while she sobbed into my shoulder.
I do not know what else to say about this but it's something that is going to continue to plague me for a while I can feel.
I'm beginning to think that this is why I've been having a a run of "bad" luck lately. I don't think I've done anything particularly "bad" recently to deserve this run of "bad" luck and now I'm beginning to think that the world/web/spirits/deities are trying to tell me something either that or their trying to let me down gently. I'm leaning towards the theory that all this "bad" luck is trying to soften the blow that I my Grandma won't be around much longer.
Gods.
I hope that this feeling of uselessness dissapears soon.
xx
Quote of the day: "Would you know my name If I saw you in heaven Will it be the same If I saw you in heaven I must be strong, and carry on Cause I know I don't belong Here in heaven" - Tears in Heaven - Eric Clapton
Song of the day: This Picture - Placebo
