Another post, another Autechre remix. This song is just beautiful. Bear with it. The last two minutes are hypnotic.
Today, Squishy entered something called JoJingles, which was essentially a large woman, who seemed to be high on helium and
a good dose of speed. She got Squishy and all the other rugrats playing with musical instruments and singing. Then she produced a doll which looked like a care-in-the-community patient and forced the little tykes to kiss it. Kinda like what the Catholic Church used to do at All-Ireland Finals. My Squishy was sitting there for the first half hour completely stunned. He was just staring and staring. I wondered what it could have been. Since he arrived a year ago, he has been force fed a diet of music that means that he instantly recognises “Novelty’ by Joy Division, “South African Song” by Louis Armstrong, “Wild in the Streets” by the Circle Jerks and basically anything by Nathan Fake. I wondered had he possibly been dumbfounded by the thoughts of this new music, “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” “Twinkle twinkle little Star” and some other really god-awful shite that appeals to children (and maybe me when I was that age). It was true. He re-entered childhood and the world of a shrieking maniac who screamed at ol Stretch a few times in some dialect from outer space. Squishy was happy.
I looked at the women who had brought their kids with them and I saw the level of happiness and hysteria and genuine tiredness that accompanies the raising of a small thing. As one of two monkeys there, I felt the urge to embrace my inner mother and really get into this. Instead, I accidentally tripped up a young’un who spent the rest of the hour crying. I felt really guilty until the same moronic child collided with another more robust beast later on. I laughed. We all did, well not out loud, because his mother hadn’t really forgiven me my transgression.
The question appeared in my mind. What the fuck am I doing here? For Squishy, I would go to a Daniel O’Donnell concert or throw myself on a grenade. These people however perplexed me. They are what I’m supposed to be. They, behind their tired eyes are living a life solely based on the raising of these little bruisers. What alien planet am I from anyway? How selfish am I? How do you do what they do? How do you stay consistent to that whole world, sacrificing, denying yourself? It made me feel very disconnected from reality. Arrested development maybe or reaction to ageing. I see the same thing everywhere I go. People doing things, acting in ways I don’t understand. 20 year old kids acting twice their age. People I know getting older and indulging in weird pastimes. Maybe I’m lucky that all I really need is as much music as my pounded eardrums can take. Maybe I should throw away my stupid punk t-shirts, buy a set of golf clubs and douse myself in petrol at the fourteenth hole. Maybe I should wear shirts with alligators on them, coats with North Face badges and wash my fucking car for a change and fight with the neighbours. Accept, accept. Ping!
Maybe I should stop dreaming. Maybe I should return to planet Earth. Maybe I should just fucking grow up! Yeah?
As soon as we got home, I threw on some great reggae by Culture and danced around the kitchen with Squishy. He laughed alot.