Am I ready for T2 Trainspotting?

A friend of mine shared this this morning

She said it was for anyone who had the poster on their wall, obsessively played the soundtrack on their CD player and “lived and breathed this film”. And that was me. I loved the original Trainspotting. It was probably the first film with truly adult themes, that I found and made my own. And I think a lot of my generation felt the same. We were obsessed. At the beauty and the horror. Because after all, what’s more horrifying than real life?

But that was 20 years ago. A long time past. I haven’t watched, or even thought about Trainspotting in years. In fact I think the last time it even crossed my mind, was on hearing that Danny Boyle was directing the Opening Ceremony of the 2012 London Olympics. A fleeting “wasn’t he the guy that directed Trainspotting” moment and I moved on. Because Trainspotting and everything about it lived in the past. My past.

So I was really thrown, when I found they’d made a sequel. A real sequel, with the same cast, playing the same characters dealing with real 21st Century shit, the way the real people do. 20 years on in their lives. I can’t say I was happy or sad or excited or reviled. Thrown really was the best way to describe it. And that surprised me.

Part of me really, really wants to see this film. I watched the trailer and it really does look like it’ll break you and entertain you in equal measure, as much as the first ever did. But part of me really, really doesn’t. That part of me just wants to believe Renton got away and lived happily ever after. I know life doesn’t happen like that, we never truly get to out run our past, but that part of me, that 17 year old, 18 year old part of me, who was innocent and naive and hopeful, she still wants to believe we can break away and start again. This film meant so much to me at the time. It broke my heart and gave me hope. Hope in a time when things were bad in my own life. Not as bad as those depicted in the dirty streets of Glasgow I’ll grant you, but bad enough that I wanted to get away. Far away.

And I almost want to protect her naivety. Let her live in blissful ignorance. That the happy ending is all it was and all it takes. I want to shout at the filmmakers “You pulled me in with my suspension of disbelief long enough to care about these characters. To care that good stuff happened to them. So why are you now trying to show me that actually life happened to them? I don’t want to see Cinderella arguing with Prince Charming or having to take a crap with the door open because the kids are screaming at her. I can see that in real life ‘ta very much!”

Or maybe it’s this quote from Robert Carlyle

“I tell you, this film is going to be quite emotional for people. Because the film sort of tells you to think about yourself. You are going to be thinking: ‘Fuck. What have I done with my life?’”

Robert Carlyle, NME

And maybe I’m just too scared of what the answer might be.

 

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Art imitating life

Poor little blog. Like a poor second child. Or actually, at the moment, more like a distant cousin. Twice removed. I want to keep in contact, but I’m just finding it so hard.

What on earth could I possibly write about that people would want to hear?

But I do write. I’m more committed to this blog than any other project I’ve ever had. I write. But blogging isn’t all about the writing. It should be of course but it isn’t. Because what’s the point in writing if there’s no one there to read it? Blogging is huge amounts of publicising. Getting the words out there and in front of people. Those who do this game well aren’t always the best writers with the most original, funny, touching, clever or thought provoking content (although some are of course), no, it’s the ones who push and push and push. The ones who have this social media game figured out. The ones who make the networks and the connections and build the ‘love’ almost to the point that what they say comes second.

And I admire these people so much. These business minded folk who know how to make every possible opportunity work for them.

I’m just not them.

I write something. It’s usually something I want to say, not something people want to hear. And then I send it into the world. Alone. Unsupported. With no one cheering it on. No support team showing it off, pushing it forward. I let it drift. And I move on.

Much as I’ve lived a lot of my life.

I’ve always thrown my energy into the ether and walked away. When things get hard, my instinct is to shrug and change direction. They talk about life imitating art. I’m pretty sure my blog is art imitating life.

Or at least my life before Oscar.

He changed everything. Suddenly here’s this thing, this other life, that I can’t move on from. And I can’t tell you how hard that’s been for me. Some days I’ve been so ready to run. But I don’t. I can’t. But more than that, I choose not to. Against all my judgement I choose to keep going. Even when every fibre of me screams to make the choice to walk away walk, I choose not to.

Because it is a choice. Even on the days when it feels like a choice between a rock and hard place. It’s a choice.

I stay

I push forward

And I keep writing

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Maybe

Sorry it’s been quiet of late. Truth is life’s fair taking it out of me. The harder things get the harder it is to see the light, the positive, the things that keep you going. The temptation is there to focus on the difficult things, the stuff that makes you sad or, in my case, to feel yourself coming to something of a grinding standstill. Not happy, not sad, just suspended.

We do our stuff every day. Sometimes that means a heart wrenching nursery drop off, sometimes a fraught trip into town, other times it’ll mean staying home because today it’s just easier that way. I don’t know if it’s his unpredictability that ruins me the most. The energy he takes from me he can have. He always has.

So I sit down and think, I know, I’ll blog about this, get it out there, read it through. So I write some stuff and then I stop. Partly cos I’m not sure how to say it, partly because I don’t know what to say and partly because I don’t want people to read it. It sounds so utterly boring that I cant imagine anyone would want to read it. Or it sounds so very self indulgent, so ‘woe is me’ that I can’t stand myself. So I leave the few lines I’ve written in drafts, then worry because I haven’t written anything for a while.

I wonder if it’s his DLA form that’s causing such a blockage? It sits there on my desktop, half done. Every time I do a bit more I feel like I’m betraying him, talking only about the bad stuff. There’s no question that says “And what did the child do today that made you insanely happy?” or “How often does he ask you to jump on the trampoline with him?” It drains your soul. Is that what I have to give, in return for an allowance that enables him to live a life parallel to his peers?

Maybe once it’s finished and sent off I can stop feeling like I’ve forgotten to do something. Like I feel like I can’t move forward, stuck in this treacle of bureaucracy. But that’s asking a lot of one little form (it’s not little, it’s bloody huge!) Maybe it’s not that.

Maybe I’ll feel the weight lift when I work out how to get his hair cut. So he can watch TV without having to tilt his head back, his fringe is so thick.

Maybe it’ll be when I start losing weight again and stop feeling awful every time I look in the mirror.

Maybe it’ll be when I start getting some proper time to myself (two hours twice a week really isn’t cutting the mustard) and maybe it’ll be when his nursery sorts out his plan for next year.

Maybe it’ll be when he starts his speech therapy and maybe it’ll be when he calls me mama.

Something’s pulling me down.

I’ve got a feeling it’s called life.