Long Night’s Journeys into Day. Don’t Ever Wipe Tears Without Gloves
I was awake ’til late last night. Not unusual. I had that wonderful sensation of next day muscle soreness after intense physical exertion, but the mental version. I spent the past few weeks going through auction catalogues and buying, buying, buying. I’m done and free to collapse. I’m happy with my selection. Sometimes I buy stock and I’m thoroughly unimpressed with what I see. Last night I was smirking, alone, in the dark, with self-satisfaction. This doesn’t necessarily translate to easy sales, but they’re sales which I enjoy. I walked around the house a bit. I like to do that with just the glow of the fire in the small living room and the reflection of the moon on the floors of the larger one. It’s nice to do that when the house is empty. It makes me feel like a Grand Seigneur (that was the intentionally sarcastic usage). I used to do the same thing as a boy at my grandparents’ house(s)- but that was accompanied by a sense of bitterness that nothing was actually all mine (and mine alone). Now I have that child’s satisfaction of the fulfilment of ardent selfishness. I own myself and everything around me. Mike insists I don’t own him, but of course, that’s just a semantic discussion. Anyway, Welsh people have this exaggerated need to feel independent.
We went through another selection of French houses the agents sent us last week. Pictures were inspected as well as their locations on google earth. At one point I thought ‘do they think we’re absolute idiots?’- were we really not going to notice the train tracks that run by the kitchen window? Seriously? We put off one of the clients that was going to come to see our place. He was looking for a summer house and as I explained to the agent this can only be a summer home for someone who would keep permanent staff. It’s not the sort of house where you can just lock the doors and leave. The garden needs constant attention. Just the ground floor has +50 glass windows or French doors. If someone left and came back three months later, everything would look awful. I’m actually starting to get a bit antsy about moving. I think I’m ready for the change. Although the idea of packing up the contents of this house still horrifies me. The idea of someone else living here is also slightly uncomfortable. One of the neighbours asked me how I’d feel driving by the house knowing other people were inside- I answered that it’s not an issue because once I leave a place, I never go back. I don’t go for reunions and re-visitations. When I left my past behind in my very early twenties I knew that was it. I knew I’d never see any of those people or places ever again. Life is cleaner that way. Of course some people will come and visit at first, but soon enough that will stop as we go in our different directions.
I’m in the middle of Don’t Ever Wipe Tears Without Gloves. In Swedish it’s Torka aldrig tårar utan handskar. I don’t know Swedish. I just thought it would make me seem more clever if I included the original title BBC4 has shown the first two episodes. The last is next week. It’s quite outstanding. Not slow and over-focused on being moody as is sometimes the case with modern Scandinavian dramas. The second episode ended with a mother writing to her gay son. She said something along the lines of Please don’t write to me. I wish you well, but I spend my time pretending you don’t exist. I know it sounds tough, but I love the honesty of it. It’s that form of honesty that makes people think. I’ve always (and probably always will) resent my own family for their lack of honesty. They’re perfectly at ease with being unpleasant to one another but could never admit they don’t actually like each other. Life is so much easier if you can just sit down and say, ‘hey, I don’t like you, you don’t like me, why don’t we stop wasting time and just put an end to this farce?’