The moon up there looks like a cat’s eye through smog, but by the time I’m home it’s a suggestion of one, an illusion.
I don’t remember seeing Edinburgh so empty for a long time. The temperature isn’t cold, isn’t warm - it’s just neutral. It carries an almost physical reaction of approval. I remember winning a pub quiz and taking the prize fund outside onto Bruntsfield Links at 2 in the morning. I remember going upstairs to a flat I never saw before or since to feed someone’s cats out of a downpour. I have no idea why, or what we did afterwards, apart from argue, probably. I realise that I don’t remember with any clarity which one the Thirlestane Road double window is that denotes the front room I drank away an entire nine months in. Nine months passes a great deal quicker these days.
Anger is an admission of defeat, says D. Boyle’s silly latest outing. Cod psycho-drama, flashbacks, Danny’s trademark writing-on-the-screen that he could not resist, one nice touch of the ketchup bottle in the foreground during a bloody interlude (Ecclestone in Shallow Grave - “You didn’t saw his feet off”). I think anger is more a selfish thing, but it can rule me. I don’t think it’s a defeat. I think it’s an admission of weakness, of the corporate training that can do nothing to affect my buzzing brain and shaky hands under self-created pressure. But defeat seems final, finite, fin. I don’t think anger means getting to close the chapter - isn’t that the point?
Ultimately I deal with anger and frustration worse than some folk who have far more pressing problems. Even if they appear to be happy, even if they appear to be fine, whatever shields they have manufactured to assist. Me, I just miss you from my head down to my toes.