birthmark #4
this week: i learn my body can't compete with 68 year old men.
Birthmark is my diary that I upload here on Substack weekly. I write about what I did, what music I enjoyed, and what book(s) I read the week before.
Hi!
It’s been a minute…
The sunsets around twenty to ten around here, I’m in no rush to see it leave. The news tells us it’ll be the wettest summer on record. My spirits remain high.
WHAT’S THE CRAIC?
I’ve applied for a job, the first time in a decade. The 'man' has finally got me. I’ll be in a suit and tie with a fresh haircut for an interview any day now, trying my best to force eye contact with a stranger whilst I talk about myself; ’I’d be the perfect candidate to represent your company’. My dream, since I was practicing my signature in school books, was to write one novel that becomes so successful it would pay my way for a lifetime. Much like Salinger, write that one book. Buy a house and never leave it. Don’t release another book. Hope no-one reads what came before it and add to the belief I had more brilliance in me. If I could sing in key or know how to play an instrument, I’d wanna write a popular Christmas song. Each time Santa comes around, the sales and radio play would see me through another year. Other jobs I’d like are; bin man (they look a tight gang that finish early everyday) the guy that fires the gun before each race at the olympics (minimal effort/maximum result) and a guy that picks up rubbish off the beach (usually voluntary, I’d like to be paid for it, have my own picker thing and save some sea life).
I wrote in the last Birthmark I’d have an update on where my Grandad Holidayed, ‘the place where the immigrants go’, I did ring and ask. He still didn’t know the name of the place he stayed, it’ll only ever be now known as ‘TPWTIG’ (the place where the immigrants go). He told me he had a good time, though he spent the entirety of his his stay in the hotel, due to a foot injury. Since being back his doctor has advised him to use a tennis ball. He’s a remarkable man, someone I love deeply. We’ve never hugged or told one another ‘i love you’, much like the brazen men of past, we hold ourselves like statues unmoved, afraid. He pats me on the back and leaves it there for longer than he should. I think it’s his way to let me know he loves me and each time we say goodbye I await in eagerness for the pat on my back that lingers too long. He’s nearing 90, and up to last week, walks a few miles each day to get his morning paper. Boasts a full head of hair, promising for me, though I’ve never seen my fathers hair. During the war he was sent to live in the countryside because a bomb got dropped on his house, through the roof, and landed in the bathroom without exploding. Lucky! He came from a longline of gambling smoking drunk men and his choice to never bet, smoke or drink alcohol in his life, not even a drop out of curiosity, is one that broke the lineage. I’m sober and quit smoking, the best of me comes from him. I smile when people say I look like him. I didn’t mean to write about him, but I could forever, I suspect at his funeral I won’t be asked to give a speech as I’d never stand down from the pulpit. If if were asked I’d repeat all his favourite jokes. His favourite was to tell someone they’re English when they said they were rushing.
I got my first shoutout at a gig. My friends band, Big Romance, were playing in the city. I’ve seen his band play before, but this was the best they’ve sounded. Check them out here. I’m fun in a sober setting, but why does it cost the same at a bar for an alcohol alternative? That shit ain’t fair! I hope something becomes of his band, and I know it will, he has something that you want to attach yourself to. The support band were a bunch of kids that played like it was their Glastonbury, void of any irony, it was cool to watch. During their set the drummer rushed from his seat, sticks in hand, ran over to a girl in the crowd kissed her on the lips and ran back to his drum kit. I need to start taking myself less serious.
I reflect too often, and think about the what ifs and what could’ve been. Last week I was thinking about what i would tell my 18 year old self. I see younger versions of myself as different person. i feel so sorry for them and wish to go back in time and help them. I’d tell them to not compare themselves to others, everyone has their own pace. Try sushi, don’t wait until your 20s, you love it. Keep fit, by your mid 20s there’s gonna be old men running faster than you. Self indulge more, a day spent in thrift stores, coffee shops, museums and grabbing nice food is what makes you the happiest. I bought a pair of brown leather shoes from a thrift store for five quid. I love them, they have a cushioned heel, and compliment my jeans and my faux facade of ‘a dad that looks like he has a creative job’. When my partner saw them she was less keen on them. ‘They look like someones died in them. Someone probably did, they’re a dead mans old shoes’ was how she described my new old shoes.
The older you get the more you’re recommend to try spots, ‘you gotta try this new coffee spot I know’, ‘Dude, this new steakhouse, i have to take you.’ This week we drove to a new pizza spot, it was good, I’d recommend it. The biggest takeaway was the drive there. We passed a knocked down wall that was draped in police tape. My partner with eyes on the road told me she read in the paper that a 70 year old man had drove into at great speed in the night, died on impact, leaving a suicide note in the passenger seat. That I would not recommend. Life is worth living, I know this by the way I fight for mine, the way old folk cling to theirs and the way seagulls fly away from children chasing them.
I’ve gotten back into playing football. I joined my friends weekly indoor game on Tuesdays. I got humbled quickly. Besides me and my friend the rest of the players are retired men with an average age of 60. Within the first five minutes of play I was being sprinted past by grandads, one after the other. I was dragging my feet, forcing them to move with the same effort as man leaving the house to walk his dog in the rain, backed by the stamina of a pug. At some point, probably when I couldn’t keep up with 68 years old Ken, I told myself ‘I gotta start running’. I did the next day. 5k with great hardship, two breaks and a rude awakening that I’m miles off competing with a 60 years old men.
The last two weeks have flown by, and I’ve not done much to write about. I’m working on a piece of fiction titled, ‘There’s a man that dances under a disco ball hanging on his washing line that keeps me up at night’, I hope to have a shorter title by the time it’s posted.
what i’m listening to:
Baby Blue Movie - Cigarettes After Sex
Linger - Royel Otis (SiriusXM Session)
Dig - Orlando Weels feat. Rhian Teasdale
Raining On Your Pillow - Diiv
New Arrivals - Pet Snake
Gnt - Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs
what i’m reading:
Factotum - Charles Bukowski
until next time