Reflections on kettles and confusion. – Fashion Tips and Medical Advice
I don’t understand much at all. This isn't some kind of introduction to a kind of stand-up routine, or some falsely-modest attempt at self-deprecation. I just don't understand much.
- My opinion that everyone is fooling themselves about most things, most of the time but not everything, all of the time and that all of us occasionally get it just right but we’re not always able to recognize it and rely on other people to tell us because we can’t see truth in ourselves, the same way we can’t see our own eyes – we only ever see them in reflection or images.
- Truth. The first thing is that I am honestly not even sure I can recognize truth. I have a sense it doesn’t really matter, anyway. Truth changes over time. Also, my dogs are not worried about truth, and they seem to get by just fine.
- My childhood. I have very clear memories of childhood. Most of them unremarkable but I cherish them. Bicycles and skateboards, football in the park. That kind of stuff. Those are visual memories. It’s the psychological memories I’m afraid to write about, mainly because I cannot be sure they are real memories. They could be inventions, or scars – or just stuff that stuck for no reason. I don’t know. That’s the point. That’s what I’m afraid of.
- Love. I’ll tell you why – it’s the same as my problem with Truth. I worry it’s essentially no more than an opinion I have sold myself. I’m talking here about Romantic Love. The love I have for Artur, obviously, is the only thing perhaps I know is real.
- My mother and the last years of her life. Nothing could be more frightening. Everything went wrong and the train finally ran off the edge of the cliff – just as I had known it would for a good 20 years beforehand. We cannot foretell the future, but this really was a straightforward case of looking at the rail track ahead and seeing where it went. Decades of fear. Yes, I’m afraid to write about that. Who wouldn’t be?