Now I'm sitting in Tavistock Square, across from the statue of Ghandi. I wish I was more inspired to write something other than a boring play by play of what I've done since I arrived in London. Every now and then people walk over to the statue and get pictures with Ghandi. Some people have left him flowers. I wonder what he'd think about that? Wealthy old french women, cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, taking turns snapping pictures of each other, almost looking bored, like someone is forcing them to do this. I can't help feeling they don't quite uphold his ideals.
Equal in number to the trickle of tourists through the square are the unusually plump pigeons, who keep waddling up to me, cooing like fat, pigeony motorboats. Fortunately, it doesn't take them long to realize that my lollipop isn't the sort of thing that will give them scraps, and they leave me alone. Except the one that flew over and pooed 2 feet from me on the bench. It looks like he could stand more fiber in this diet.
Ghandi looks remarkably free of pigeon poo, though. I haven't seen any of them perch on him yet either. Respectful little tossers. I just had a thought for a short story where all members of Parliament get reincarnated as pigeons in their next life. I bet that would make Ghandi chuckle, and I bet he had a cute little chuckle. The reason he has a statue here is because he got his law degree at UCL. I would have been in good alumni company. Viriginia Woolf also used to live in this area. I think the sign said there's a bust of her somewhere around here. The nice thing about Bloomsbury (besides the fantastic 20's scene it boasted) is the fact that its sprinkled with green squares. Very nice for writing. I just wish I was more motivated about it.
If I have to be really honest about it, its because whenever I think about some sort of fictional story, it has to do with love. And its a great story, but I just know that writing it will make me sad…because it'll be some story that I wish would happen to me, and I know it wont. This isn't anything new- I've realized this for years now, why I can never bring myself to write good fiction. I don't know how Jane Austen did it; all those happy love stories, and never having one in her own life. Since I learned that I've really felt that she is one of the biggest martyrs in all of literature and there should be a holiday commemorating her, or something. She was much braver than I am with writing, thats for damn sure. In Nancy Meyer's The Holiday, Kate Winslet's character refers to people who aren't loved in return as "…the walking wounded- the handicapped without the privilege of a great parking space…" and that really is what it feels like. And quite frankly, I'm tired of feeling that way. Every time I've been in love it has felt more terrible than wonderful. Isn't it supposed to be the greatest thing in the world? Everyone tells me that its everyone else who's messed up, but I mean, the common denominator is me, isn't it? If I've done it right, what are the odds that its always been the other person who ruined things? Am I just the most unlucky person ever, or do I have terrible taste in guys, even when my taste changes over the years? Or is it something I do every time that I haven't been able to discover yet?
The good news is, I don't feel completely hopeless anymore. I mean, you never know, I could die next year, but in theory I have a lot of time left being alive, and even though I always wanted to meet my someone early on so I could spend more of my time on earth with them, I suppose I've got a decent amount of time before they have to turn up. I'm really not sure if I'm writing this out for my benefit or to prove to everyone that might be reading that I'm not a complete misery or dangerously unstable. The first step in excepting things for me is to laugh about them, and laugh at myself, so thats the reason I say ridiculously self-depricating things. I find it funny. You know, in a "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" way. At the same time, a lot of people who understand this also take this to mean that I'm totally ok now, and thats not true either. This was a bad one. It still hurts and its still easier to pretend "it" doesn't exist, though at the same time its satisfying to yell "NOPE" when "it" tries to steal some of my chips and salsa.
I know I said that I wasn't planning on talking about this, and that the point of this blog was London, but its just that for the first time since everything turned black, today feels like I'm back on track with the screenplay that is my life. I am absolutely meant to be sitting here alone looking at a statue of Ghandi. The sun came out just as I starting writing that. It felt like someone smiling at me. By someone I probably mean God. Or the MP's who were allowed to go to Heaven after they lived good lives as pigeons. I won't even pretend to know anymore.
No comments:
Post a Comment