A long weekend with no plans, is a thing of beauty. Do you agree?
I spent today doing nothing with my teen. Best day in months.
We talked in half-finished thoughts, picking up from the night before or three years ago. Sexuality, matter-of-fact, no performance of being cool. Morality and then Nihilism made its appearance; he’s trying it on like a jacket, seeing if it fits. Then somehow India, the US, China: the stories nations tell themselves that no one outside believes, same as people. Wasn’t a discourse, just circling, curious. Of course quantum physics had to have a say. He hyperboles, I rationalise. He pushes his boundaries, I am elastic. We’re perfectly matched.
He told me about what he wants, in fragments — a scene to direct, a place to live, a self still in pencil. I mostly just listen, sometimes stratgize, sometimes mother, most times just a sounding board. Then he roasts me: my height, a phrase I overuse, my “pauses and British phrases.” Being trolled by someone I made is one of the great pleasures.
We went to the theatre for The Sheep Detectives — the Hugh Jackman one, with the flock that turns Poirot after their shepherd is found dead. It shouldn’t work. A murder mystery solved by sheep, voiced by Patrick Stewart and Julia Louis-Dreyfus and Bryan Cranston, adapted by the Chernobyl writer from a German novel called Three Bags Full. The writing, somehow tender. The sheep grieve. The shepherd is mourned. The whodunit creaks along on hoofs and there is, against my better judgement, a lump in my throat by the third act. We laughed at the wrong places. We couldn’t rewind, which felt right — some things you only get once, even the ridiculous ones. That, too, is a love language. Reminded me of the years when all I watched was all the animation and was all updates on the lore of my little pony
Evening, down to the waterfront. The sky showed off — rainbow of non primary colours, where it had no business being, lavender, a painted teal. The water doubled it. We shared earbuds: Pink Floyd, his music taste is eclectic and I couldn’t be prouder, the notes hit as the clouds broke and I came a little undone. He notices, sometimes says nothing.
Home before dark. Low jazz. Opposite ends of the couch, feet tangled like when he was small. I made a good chilli margarita — salt, smoke, slow burn. Wrote a scene I’d been avoiding, got it in one take. Crediting the day, not the tequila. Or maybe the tequila too.
Nothing happened. No milestones, only a few photos. Just a long conversation with the person I most like talking to, broken up by a ridiculous show, a gorgeous sky, a drink that bites back. Nobody tells you that one day your kid becomes the company you’d choose. Doing nothing with the right person is its own devotion. I’ll take all of it, especially the trolling.