Round 29.

29.

I’m trying to get better at this, so each day I sit at this desk and write.

The desk was a gift from Pete; it’s too small but I like it’s simplicity. It has a top; legs to hold it up and three drawers that overflow with ideas.

And stuff.

Pete didn’t have a lot of ‘stuff’ in his house; maybe that’s why this desk was a gift.

He didn’t need it anymore.

He doesn’t need much in fact; he has passed on.

He left three sons and a daughter to carry on his memory and whilst they do he is alive. We only die when the last person who remembers us, forgets.

That’s not going to be the case for a long time.

Pete’s brother is 83 now, I guess that qualifies him as an older man. A letter from him arrived at the house toady, full of news and hopes for celebrations later in the year; a reply to his letter sits on the desk alongside me.

I will add some thoughts.

The letter was written by his niece who at the moment is elsewhere in this house working with her son on a t-shirt that will one day astound the world, though as I write that I hear the sound of a distant food mixer in action, so maybe she is in the kitchen making soup. It’s not a soup kind of day, but it’s a soup kind of time of year.

Her son hasn’t been up a long time, he lives by night, sleeps most of the day.

Yesterday evening, together, we sat and watched a film called Live by Night. It’s a Ben Affleck work, in all manners of the word. He wrote the screenplay, directed the thing, starred and was one of the producers.

Chaplin used to work like that.

There’s a photo of Chaplin in my daughter’s kitchen, some 90 kilometers from here.

There’s a statue of Chaplin in my bathroom, though ‘statue’ is probably an in-exact word, one that misleads.

Formerly it was a container of talcum powder, now it is empty. Perhaps it is an example of ambitious image marketing, perhaps it’s an example of image exploitation, I can’t imagine the creator of The Kid, amongst others, sanctioned his image on powder you rub on your bum.

I saw his daughter in a film recently - A Monster Calls.

Unfortunately the film was difficult to watch, the subject matter was deeply depressing, and she had a very small part.

I didn’t recognise her; the last time I had seen her was on stage a few, perhaps, many years ago in London.

My memory sometimes is very precise, sometimes a vague cloud.

Writing things down helps me.

Orders things.

It’s something I do.

It’s something I need.

I’m trying to get better at it, so each day I sit at this desk and write.

   (ALL ABOUT ROUNDS)