Sorry seems to be the easiest word
The uncertainty of uncertainty.
The uncertainty of uncertainty.
You’d be forgiven for thinking that with the twisted and bastardised use of the lyrics to an Elton John song used as the headline to this article that I listened to the Rocket Man himself as I made my way to Ironbridge this morning. There’s no need for an apology or indeed to say sorry as I say that enough for the both of us, a fact you’ll discover shortly if you continue reading this ode to sadness. It’s a sad, sad situation all right.
And it’s getting more and more self inflicted and absurd.
Instead, and to correct the pun intended record, I in fact listened to that magnificent trio from Athens, Georgia, and a group you’ll be more familiar with as the band REM, and their final album, “Collapse into Now”. Twelve years sure is a long time since they released their last and arguably one of their best all time albums, and an instant favourite of mine amongst the stiffest of competition too. From “Discoverer” through to “Blue” and the ten tracks in between, it’s REM at their guitar jangling best and Michael Stipe at his most mournful, reflective and majestic. But I guess you’re not here for a music review from an album released over a decade ago and I’m only putting off the inevitable and the uncertainty of the uncertainty that pulses through this particular wrong child.
Having so much to say has long been a burden I’ve carried upon my shoulders. I thought that resurrecting my writing here might assuage this but alas I dance around the words I wish to say whilst thinking of lyrics written by a much loved if now defunct rock ’n’ roll band. I’m surprised I haven’t delved into my one true love and Radiohead and I might be wrong, I may be high and dry, I certainly have the bends and I wish with all my heart that I could sail to the moon.
There was some welcome, if occasional, Spring sunshine scattered across toytown today. Whilst buying some bread for the local ducks I glanced at the headlines of the newspapers I never buy and apparently Biblical rains are about to descend upon this Sceptered Isle once more. It would seem that the Ides of March are about to be swept away by the intense showers of April as the headlines of long ago redundant newspapers pour forth their fear once more. I could delay the inevitable once more, heap yet more uncertainty onto the already overflowing jug of it by stating that newspapers only continue to function in order to spread their headline screaming fear or by quoting yet more lyrics of “lunatics” taking over the “asylum”, and “waiting on the rapture”, but you know that already, and I’m sorry.
I say sorry a lot. I said it today to a friend called Jeremy who must by now be dreading my arrival in Ironbridge. After listing my March madness to him once more I said my only way out is to kill myself, a prospect I’ll never reach but which is a daily thought, and has been for far too many full moons to admit to. So I said sorry. I met the usual array of tourists and strangers today, the ships passing in the night that I always have to drag myself back from saying “I’m really sorry” before infecting them with my sadness. After leaving Jeremy and saying sorry once more I said sorry to a bridge that doubles for my Mum before weeping disconsolately all the way back to the car.
I said sorry to the ghost of an old girlfriend who’s memory leapt into my scrambled mind, sorry for being the disappointment of a quarter of a century ago. I say sorry to my son’s Mother for dragging her into my life two decades ago and for ruining her life in the process. I tiptoed around a house that isn’t mine saying sorry to each and every photograph of my beautiful son, from the beach in Wales to the kid with the thumbs up outside a Theme Park and the older kid about to graduate school.
I said sorry to a Mum who I couldn’t be with in her most desperate of hours.
I said sorry to a Dad who’d be ashamed of the son he treasured for all the world.
I even said sorry to the publishers of a book that will never be published as I haven’t really written a book, I just misguidedly believe I have as it’s the only thing that keeps me going. “I’ve written a book” I cry, and if you believe I’m a writer who’s written a book you’ll also believe that Lee Harvey Oswald killed a sitting President of the USA and if so, I have a bridge to sell you in Ironbridge at a spectacularly cheap rate. Writer’s have an audience, and mine is the square route of zero.
I tried to give up smoking today and that failed by mid-afternoon as I stood crying in the garden with yet another cigarette.
I’ll try again tomorrow.
And I’ll say sorry when I fail again tomorrow too.
Oh my heart.
“Mother and Father, I stand beside you
The good of this world might help see me through
This place needs me here to start
This place is the beat of my heart”
Thanks for reading. For far less serious fare from the bread and circus of life, please see the cave of wonderous delights that is my collected library here or alternatively, here are my three most recently published and future Pulitzer Prize winning articles:
“Cocaine Bear” (2023)
Fantastically surprising comedy horror.medium.com
Mork calling Orson.
Come in Orson.medium.com
Facebook censorship and the curious case of John McAfee
A short story from beyond the pale.medium.com