this guy knows how to write
"At such moments I find I love him with an animal desperation, a need to take him under my coat and crush him to my chest, keep him there, protect him"
Don DeLillo, White Noise
bloody hell. never have i read that so stunningly put.
i remember a point in my life like that. one particular, painful, passionate, angry moment. it was at st katharines, my primary school. on saturday mornings we used to have a cookery class, up in the senior school, where the teacher taught us, amongst nothing else i can bring to mind, how to take the white bits out of a pepper, and never to leave the seeds in because they would poison you.
at the end of the year we had to invite our parents, parent, to a dinner party where you cooked them all their food. they sat in mr and mrs bayley's study, in candlelight, all loud peircing long high oppressive vowel speech and wine, wine, wine.
and my dad was quiet, staring into the candles, with that enormous load of peace and pain that he has.
noone spoke to him. they probably tried, but he looked so lonely there, sitting amongst all these couples, staying for his daughter, who couldn't stand to look at him because he wasn't talking, because noone showed an interest in him, because he had always let my mum do the talking, and my pride in him, and anger at these yapping and ya-ing bastards with their wine and first names, and my quiet, solemn, ridiculous father, and me crying in the kitchen into the syrupy red wine and canned pears.
i doubt he remembers it.
Don DeLillo, White Noise
bloody hell. never have i read that so stunningly put.
i remember a point in my life like that. one particular, painful, passionate, angry moment. it was at st katharines, my primary school. on saturday mornings we used to have a cookery class, up in the senior school, where the teacher taught us, amongst nothing else i can bring to mind, how to take the white bits out of a pepper, and never to leave the seeds in because they would poison you.
at the end of the year we had to invite our parents, parent, to a dinner party where you cooked them all their food. they sat in mr and mrs bayley's study, in candlelight, all loud peircing long high oppressive vowel speech and wine, wine, wine.
and my dad was quiet, staring into the candles, with that enormous load of peace and pain that he has.
noone spoke to him. they probably tried, but he looked so lonely there, sitting amongst all these couples, staying for his daughter, who couldn't stand to look at him because he wasn't talking, because noone showed an interest in him, because he had always let my mum do the talking, and my pride in him, and anger at these yapping and ya-ing bastards with their wine and first names, and my quiet, solemn, ridiculous father, and me crying in the kitchen into the syrupy red wine and canned pears.
i doubt he remembers it.