9. Written 16th Feb 1997

Painting
Presently I am painting a house. Well, actually, not a house, more a building conversion - converted for the cause of lost souls and those in search of comfort, peace and reflection. I apply bright new almond scented paint over the old pastels whilst singing along tunelessly to the Rolling Stones and The Beatles.
Mostly I think. This activity of covering over the old, changing one set of ideas for another new, improved and more colourful version, seems to sink into and blend with my thoughts. The first layer goes on slow. Time is taken masking, edging and evenly applying. But the result is thin, the old colour shows through like badly applied make-up. I hate this stage, can't wait for it to be over. I reminisce about old love affairs turned sour, jealousies and unspoken regrets rise up to the surface and float there, old paint, old colours.
When a room is covered, still the old room, but covered, I turn up the stereo and start grooving to Helter Skelter. It's not conscious at the time but there is a sense of impending completion, of that smooth and total coverage that no longer looks like a covering but takes on itself the newness - IS the room. A new breath of life in less than a millimeter of pigment, latex and water.
I slap it on freely now, firmly rollering back and forth, feeling optimistic about my future, making plans. I sing, stop occasionally to admire the green-blue view and to visualise myself in a tender embrace amid cacti or tall cedars. When it's done I peel off the masking tape earlier than is probably wise - patience being a virtue I have never possessed, at least not in this kind of context - in order to get the full effect of the room. Familiar but different and radiant, the colour moving and changing in each corner, like the changing memory of my father's face.

8. The Funny Thing About Suicide.

I was listening to the radio this morning and there was a piece about a short story competition. I don't know what the story ("How to Get Away With Suicide" by Jackie Kay) is like, but it set in motion a train of thought that started as I was listening to the interview.
Mention was made of how suicide is a taboo subject, which I have found to be true, and even censor myself regularly on it (just not here, which is a relief). As I was getting ready for work I found myself making my mental check list of ticks and crosses, agreement and disagreement, against what was being said. Often, when suicide is mentioned - especially on radio phone-ins and on TV talk shows - there are more crosses than ticks in my mind's eye and the irritation and anger wells. But in this case author seemed sensitive towards her subject and interested in confronting the more difficult aspects of human life and relationships.
Only a short section of the story was read out . It's about a man who has just left his family - so far so believeable - and is looking for the perfect way to kill himself yet make it look like an accident - and here we enter the realm of fiction. In order to approach a subject as "difficult" and taboo as suicide the author talked about using black humour. It's not a new thing of course. In fact, in film suicide is either a tragic (yet somehow romantic) end to a life - or a way of eliciting a guilt-ridden laugh. The recent film "Little Miss Sunshine" springs to mind, in which one of the main characters (a gay, Proust-reading, scholar snubbed by lover for another) fails at his suicide attempt and (ironically) is the character who the viewer most identifies with as the rest of his road-tripping family are completely bonkers. He is depressed, but he is amusing and self-aware in his depression - something most truly depressed people are not.

I felt a little let down when the humour side was mentioned - listening to the radio article I had started to hope for something that might resonate with me, that might show that someone understood and was explaining to others a little of what it means for someone to end their own life and why it might be that some people do this, what state they might be in. Certainly not lucid enough to cunningly choose a way of doing it that would look like an accident (thus sparing their family and friends somehow?).

I can understand. I think that this suicide-for-laughs approach allows writers and artists access to a subject that would otherwise be out of their reach. The seriousness of suicide is what makes it so * . The complete and utter misery of it and the misery it inflicts would not make easy reading or viewing for most people - authors must sweeten the pill somehow in order to use it in their stories, otherwise it would simply be too much. Most stories and films require both conflict and resolution, but suicide can never give us any resolution. It is a story that must remain open ended, without even a full stop, simply space and ?
The rest we must make up ourselves.

7. Different Days

All certainty is gone. For months, then years, I did not know what kind of day I would have, what kind of memories it would bring or how I would cope with that. The best days were those when I felt most myself and not living under the long shadow of sadness and grief and anger caused by my dad. The worst days - moments or days even - where when I was unable to separate myself from him, when I truly felt the fear that I too was cursed and I too would end up taking my own life. Even though I know that I would never want to inflict that hurt onto my loved ones, I felt I had been marked.
Other days I waited for the days to pass, in the hope that as they passed I would get further and further away from the fact.
Some days I felt totally mired in it all and so lost and unable to relate to my peers that I wondered if I would ever be "normal" again.
And then there were the occasional days, when the sun was shining and the leaves moving in the breeze and it didn't matter because I knew I was part of something bigger and that life carries us on like a salty tide, regardless. We have no choice in that.