Good Friday must be the most boring day of the year. Hot cross buns and chocolate are the highlights for me. The shops are shut, old Victor Mature movies get a re-run on the teev and the age old Good Friday appeal runs through the day, minus only Zig and Zag.
For me I've decided to slob it today. I'll dress proper soon enough, but it's mid morning and I'm in the pair of tracksuit pants and the tee I wear to collect the morning paper from the drive. I've spent the last hour or so reading the Fin Review and decided this afternoon I'll sprawl across the couch and watch DVD's like I never do during daylight hours.
I looked forward to this Easter. I had an invitation to a farm in Gippsland, and anticipated a few very mellow days reading and drinking good wine and eating chocolate and cosying up to the wood fire and interesting conversation. Rigby was similarly enthused at the thought of chasing sheep. Unfortunately it all came to an abrupt nothing. My hostess was admitted into hospital for the night Wednesday and yesterday informed me she was too crook for the weekend to go on. Fair enough, but now I've got some toitally blank days to fill in.
It won't be women who do it. I've shed the latest batch. I sort of cracked the shits with myself last week. I was seeing three and I didn't really feel anything substantial for anything. Like many times before it felt like I was going through the motions, being bright, being attentive, being occasionally charming, but being persistently unmoved. What's the point of that I wondered. Not much.
During the week I unexpectedly heard from two in my past. One was a woman from late last year. Maybe I'll see her again, and maybe we'll become friends, maybe even kissing friends, but not much more than that. The other person I heard from was Paige, but I'll write more on that another time.
Sitting getting my hair cut during the week I rambled on to my very patient hairdresser about all manner of related things. It had occurred to me on the tram ride in that I missed that feeling of absolutism present when you're in the throes of passion or love. Doesn't always end up well - as I know too well - but something like that is much preferable to the middling nothings I've been experiencing. Life is all about passion, the search for, the repining of.
In that state of mind I felt the ghosts all around me - the women I've been with either fleetingly or more deeply. I felt surrounded by their presence, and in a sense haunted by them. I'm not one for regrets. I wish some things had have turned out differently, but it's easier in hindsight than it is at the time. You fuck up, you're sorry about it and wonder how things might have been different - aware though that they aren't different, and never will be once the deed is done. There is a pragmatic sense of romantic realpolitiks, at least for me. Yes there are ghosts, there are curiosities, but regardless of circumstance you forgive yourself for whatever happened because you knew no better.
I've actually twigged that the right woman for me is hard to find - something you would have thought I'd have figured out long before now. Like I occasionally say, I feel like I try to squeeze myself into a tight box often to accommodate others. That doesn't work. I'm me. I'm adventurous and expansive and sometimes outspoken, but that's how I've got to live. End of story.
Having said all that I'll probably sort out some female companionship this weekend to keep me diverted. The big day is Monday, the annual Anzac Day clash between the up and coming Bombers and the reigning premiers Collingwood. I'll be there, me and 90,000 others at the G. Can't wait.
