KILOMETRICODEPENDENT

Paint a picture of your mother for me. She wouldn’t like that.

Ah, the misinterpreted world of the Bond family, most especially misinterpreted by ourselves.

As a for instance.

Today is my mother’s birthday, and from where I am writing, literally the longest day of the year. I’ve stayed up too, which makes it all worse – her, this writing, my life – and even more like the eleventh series of 24 she wishes I could download her, although just series 3 would do for today though as that’s where I’m up to darling.

I mean none of this (all of it, I should have just said most or much or some of this) of course but it is coinciding with my plummet into bloggery [cast into dark eternity – hyperlink], which is in part to appease and please her. The mother.  But it would also require I don’t mean today is my mother’s birthday. In conversation this confused sally would be forgiven, my review of it will bring me to a precipice. As usual, it was something to say. A scream into the void.

Mum truly loves some of my painting and creative output (in fact my moving at all impresses her. ‘’Maybe it’s because you’re left-handed’’ ‘’It’s so painful watching you trying to do anything’’) so the following complicated anecdotes, brushstrokes of a portrait of her (and me, by me, for us), coming across as a bit Quentin Blake (you can guess I’m 33, right? You know where Wally is, Family Ties) will be fine with her surely? In time.

Probably twenty years into my painting she said to me ‘’I always saw you as a writer [I definitely won’t fail then, not like in art]’’. Admittedly she has said variations of this periodically in less conflicted settings. To wit, in the kitchen a few days ago when I wasn’t writing.

Additionally, she wasn’t only indirect: standing in the garage studio near me I once said, for something to say, on an unfinished painting, ‘’I’m not sure what to do with this one’’. To which she replied ‘’What? Apart from paint over it?’’ At least we were both correct.

So I am writing, which they now call typing, and have finally taken your ‘’Jesus Christ Dan just write a fucking blog’’ advice to heart, into digital eternity, if a success, to the thirty dozen.

I hope you find this activity is as ambiguous in motive, content, and interpretation as you had wished for my Solsticistic mother, Ma.

Love Dan.