I feel like a complete bore these days. I’m sure I was creative once. I used to spend hours drawing these detailed portraits of Jim Morrison. I made mobiles out of homemade recycled paper. I embroidered motifs all over the hems of my pants. I belted out tunes on my guitar. I wrote long juicy letters. I got drunk and recited poetry at the top of my lungs.
I was adventurous too. I lived out in the bush under a big tarp near the creek for a few months. I hitchhiked rides up and down the coast with truck drivers and families and strange drug dealers and all sorts of people, everywhere I went, for a few years. I’d stack my motorbike on the bitumen in the rain. I’d go to parties and make everyone homemade bread.
My sense of normality and responsibility kicked in hugely with my first pregnancy and I got real and got myself some real credentials. I didn’t care how much of a brokey-broke I was, but I wasn’t about to have a child in the financially deprived state-of-affairs I was use to!
Actually when I was single my interests seemed to thrive more. I sewed and facepainted and played tennis and went out dancing and hosted fancy-dress parties.
Lately I feel like I’m loosing myself. I feel amorphous. I like to read and have enjoyed writing again lately. But Greg places absolutely no value on either of those pursuits so I end up having to justify the time I spend doing either. It kinda sucks.
To prove to him I have got hobbies I printed out some music last night and hacked away on the guitar. My half-arsed versions of Henry Lee and God is in the House by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds and Dolly Partnon’s Jolene. What a hack job alright but it was fun.
I spose I better get off my a*se and get some things rolling around here. I might repaint the house. Then he’ll really see, visually, with his eyes, what I do with my time. (Besides doing all the housework and cooking and nuturing the children…)
No comments:
Post a Comment