Whilst struggling up a particularly rocky incline this afternoon I was struck by the fact my painful progress would make a particularly effective photograph. My mind immediately jumped to the phenomena of the selfie, stubbornly still known to me as a self-portrait, then quite alarmingly and concerningly to a gentleman by the name of Tyler Breeze, whom as a professional wrestler has a very specific kayfabe shtick surrounding his indulging in said practice. This train of randomness far from making me reach for medication induced a rather intriguing train of logic.
My memories are quite clearly photographic, or at least filed pictorially. Not, I am sad to say eidetic in the true sense of the word, that would be far to useful a tool to possess. However, this suddenly realized truth does somewhat mitigate my understandably annoying habit of digressing mid-sentence, occasioned by the appearance of a new and shiny visual stimulus within my ever-scanning eye line. Such a stimulus, however oblique, will result in the automatic intrusion of a new mental image, even a kaleidoscope of evolving visual simile, mimicking a rapidly dealt deck of upwards facing playing cards.
The most frustrating effect of this phenomena, from my personal perspective and experience, is an overriding urge to audibly explore said interposing distractions fully, in infinitesimal detail, before any return to the original conversational subject seems desirable or indeed possible. Such verbal meandering undoubtably makes for entertaining and illuminating interludes, television and radio talk shows abound with such casual fractured conversation, but almost constant flexuous colloquy is generally considered inappropriate in the forthright and these focused decades that have had the misfortune to endure my presence.
My father was a man of regimental habit, his every moment, sleeping and waking, following a pattern so rigid as to be debilitating to both himself and any in his sphere. Hard as I try, I have very few recollections of himself from either my childhood or my early adolescence and those I do recall generally involve particularly painful or traumatic incidents. This is not to suggest I had a particularly unpleasant childhood; apart from illness I am quite certain time passed reasonably enough, just not in my fathers, or for that matter my mother’s proximity.
My happiest moments were invariably interlaced with sporting activities, I was a large physical specimen, visually imposing, strong, fast and resolute, yet with a surprisingly daintiness and fleetness of foot that made me as at home at the cèilidh as on the rugby field.