Thursday, 28 June 2007


Hope is on my mind today. Hope of what is to come, hope to remember what has been.

It’s hard not to spend one’s time either living in the past or the future, with hope and regret balanced out before and behind you.

Maybe it’s that I’ve just finished reading Cormac McCarthy’s The Road – a book that I have irritated a friend for the last week by calling it beautifully written. It is the bleak, suffocating story of a Man and his son making their way across the ash covered remains of the USA. There are moments in the book where the past is talked of as an alien land, where simple comforts are long past, and I’m left wondering if the ending is one filled with hope or not.

Maybe it’s the constant popping up of the past while spending too much time on things like Facebook? I am at a stage in my life where I am filled with hope and probably the happiest that I have been since I was 8 years old, and yet the crash of regret when I look to the past hits again. At a time when I feel that I should be finding hope in everything, as I sit at a moment in my life where good things are happening and can happen and will happen ahead of me.

Hell, it might even be something as trivial the fact that several times in the last few weeks I have heard friends talk about those things lacking from their lives – be it a partner, a job, the perfect place to have a breakfast in their neighbourhood or even a decently written film magazine that doesn’t treat the medium as something to be fawned over for the sole aim of collection free things or the journalism as an extension on their late dissertation for their failed film studies doctorate.

I don’t feel lacking for much at the moment – and I am finding hope in most places that I look – but why am I so unhappy with the past?

In other news today, at the risk of sounding like one of those lazy space-filling features in magazines about things over-heard – I was strolling down the road yesterday, coming back from trying to find a cheap fedora style hat, and I passed by a flower stall on a small road market. A small child with her mother was sniffing at some flowers as the old man florist served the mother.

“Those are called Bunny Rabbits.” He told the small girl.

“Really?” The mother chatted back, “We used to call them Snap-dragons because of the…”

“They are called Bunny Rabbits.” The florist hissed angrily, ending the conversation.

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