Spark in the Umbra

You know you’ve passed a milestone (or is that millstone, or even worse, gallstone) when your doctor casually includes you in the class of middle-aged men for the first time.

You see, cholesterol is no longer my friend. Now I don’t have any of the true risk factors so whilst there is nothing to really worry about, she thinks it would be better for me to eat a little better and exercise a little more. No need to tempt fate.

Apparently, my situation is “classic for middle-aged men with young families”. Pow!

I suppose it’s fair enough – I have just turned 40 after all. But nevertheless, Ooof!

So I was instant messaging with a friend yesterday, talking about the blog and generally shooting the breeze as us old folks do. In the process, I remembered how much I enjoy talking with him, so it’s something I definitely should do more of – Timezones be damned. He’s in the USA and I’m in New Zealand you see.

Anyway, we got to chatting about the process of writing and the self-consciousness that goes with it which he could relate to. And then he made the insightful comment that he reckons it’s harder for us old fogies (Ooof!) compared with todays youth who seem pretty blase about it.

See, they write stuff and ‘publish’ themselves on Facebook, mySpace, Flickr, their blog, etc every day and are often TXTing (which is what SMS is called here in NZ) on their cellphones late into the night and even into the wee hours (if their parents will let them).

As for TXTing, I’ve heard stuffy English profs bemoan this trend and complain that TXTspeak with it’s very loose relationship with spelling and grammar is going to “degrade the future of literature”. Shit, at least they are writing something, which is a fuck load more than I manage on any given day and I’m the one that fancies himself as a writer. (Note to self: writers WRITE!)

Last year, I remember watching our teenage baby sitter, sitting on the couch with a cellphone in each hand TXTing on them simultaneously, both thumbs a blur of motion and she wasn’t even looking at the screens!

Boy, did I feel old watching that. Not quite middle-aged old though I should point out.

Me, I hate TXTing on those horrible cellphone keypads. 4 jabs to get an S and bugger, I’ve gone past it so I have to go around the horn. And where is the damn full stop? In my day, sentences use to end with them.

Shit, at my snail-like TXTing pace, it’d be quicker to just call the damn person and tell them. You know, by talking. In my day, that was what phones were for. Quaint but true.

Anyway, all this talking about writing is really just letting me avoid doing more of it.

Best get on with it.

Chapter 1: Not Waving, but Drowning [continued]

Cassandra is in the kitchen, standing at the stove. She is thirteen years old. She checks to see if the rice is done yet. Nope – not quite. She cooks most nights now and Beef Stroganof is her fathers favourite. She reckons she makes it as well now as her Mum used to.

It’s Friday night and she’s feeling pretty excited. Her father has agreed to take her hunting tomorrow for the first time. She’s done lots of hiking, camping, and fishing with him – but letting her come hunting and being taught to use the rifle is special. It’s testimony to her growing up, and something far better than the awkwardness she feels about her changing body. She remembers having to talk with Rita about periods and shudders.

She walks over to the back door which is ajar and the evening breeze gently strokes her face. Her father is sitting on the back step, wistfully looking out into the orange and purple clouds scattered across the sky. His left hand is resting on his knee, a cigarette sitting between his fingers, largely forgotten, a limp arch of curving ash.

“It’s almost ready. 10 more minutes.” Cassandra says.

He doesn’t respond.

“Dad, dinner will be ready soon.” she repeats, reaching down to touch his shoulder.

“Huh… Oh, sorry. What did you say?” he says, turning and blinking.

“Dinner is almost ready.” Cassandra says, smiling.

He nods, absently, drifting way again.

“You’re thinking about Mum, aren’t you. I can always tell.” she says, after a pause.

“Yeah, I guess it was the smell of the Stroganof. It was my favourite and…” he says, trailing off. He sighs.

“I miss her too.” Cassandra says, squeezing down beside him on the step. He puts his right arm around her shoulders and they both look out at the sunset.

Disturbed by the motion, the ash has fallen from the cigarette and left a grey smear down his trouser leg.

“You really should stop smoking those things, Dad. Smoking can kill you.” Cassandra says.

“Yes, yes. So you keep telling me.” he replies, smiling now, and tussling her hair.

Blink

This entry was posted on Thursday, June 12th, 2008 at 11:02 pm and is filed under Novel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.