Easter Thoughts of Pink Rabbits: Resurrection?
It is all very good and well to take the content of your blog, format it for hard copy and then print it. There is nothing but delight in ordering the output of your labour, enjoying the surprise of it being printed in France. It is a fine and dandy thing to watch your creation track its way across the world. There is joy in the act of testing the thickness and gloss of a page, stretched between finger and thumb, as if a single leaf foretells all within.
It is all good and well to have encapsulated the first 3 years of your blog throughput into book format for posterity, ego, permanence, or whatever other false motivation you need to foist upon your act to justify it… Yet, this does not ensure the existence of your efforts into any, future, tense. You must still sit at your computer and eke out each offering to history.
And so I realise that ever since the inception of Mme et moi that I have been lazy. Or have I been guarded? Could I go even further and read into the quote fixed to the front of my book?
“I’m so surprised you want to dance with me now
I was just getting used to living life without you around
I’m so surprised you want to dance with me now
You always said I held you way too high off the ground.”
On my Macbook alone the song at the source of these lyrics, Pink Rabbits - The National, has accrued 40+ listens. Take into account that I listen to my music on 6 devices it is probably a fair estimation that I have listened to this song at least once a week for the last 18 months. And for the last 18 months these lyrics have elicited from me, at times, a tear, a sigh, a groan, a scream, a fist pounded into the dash of a car, a smile, a pause at keyboard of work or pleasure. The lyrics evoke. What?
Well, good and well it was as I opened Volume I of my efforts and smiled at the pretentiousness of they layout: A title page, subtitle page, copyright page, and then… the lyrics. I stopped at the lyrics, testing the thickness of that page, mid leaf turn. The act of rubbing the glossy paper between thumb and finger, testing the tolerance of that page to tension, a subconscious physical manifestation of the mental act of once more weighing those lyrics and their meaning. Testing their place in the fifth page of the book, opposite the copyright text, afore the dedication.
What story did the lyrics tell? I offer myself this is explanation: the act of printing Volume I - closing the door on the life that was lived up until 17th January 2014 - made me realise something. I was at first terrified but then after a time, surprised that I was happy to live with myself. I had spent too long not dancing with myself, too ashamed to be seen on the floor with the goofy and self-conscious idiot who could keep in time with the rest: I was surprised that me was ok with me. I had hoisted myself upon a high and cold rock, to be left there in isolation - partly in shame, partly in fear, partly in confusion, completely because I needed to be there. Like the families best gravy boat, some ancient china thing of some dubious provenance, best to leave it at the very high and aft shelf of the larder, rubbish: you have to use these things.
So I find me yelling in song at me that I am stunned I fancy dancing with I.
I scoff and I for putting me too far up to be of any use to me.