Page 6

Page 6
11.07.14 (Day 201)
10.42
Or Volume 6, which is the hand-written notebook I’m about to start, having filled five so far (no shit). I’ve not done an electronic word count lately but on the basis of volume one, which I was leafing through last night (I still have Volumes One and Four; Two and Three went missing (in Hastings)), a rough cast off would be the 200’000 words I mentioned previously. And counting.
Volume One holds many memories, some forgotten until I read it last night; some best left where they lay but always online and indelible: that’s the point. Painful memories that I wish I could erase from my mind are recorded so that everyone can learn and I can’t forget.
Happy memories too though, like the first time I met The Courts.
I’d only been on the road for a few days when I first met The Courts: one of the first kids to come through. I was carrying heavy bags and I was tired. That little thing and her mate propped me up and carried my bags for two miles to where I was staying that night. That’s friends. That’s family.
The other thing about family (one of many) is that you keep things to yourself because some burdens you just carry and others don’t need to know about things they can do nothing about. The Courts came and went. She stayed with us, with the knowledge of all in authority. Ours is a safe environment but what no-one ever knew is that I used to sit at the top of the stairs, all night and every night to make sure our girl was safe. No wonder I’m tired but I don’t mind. They know now.
Looking through the old notes, I’m reminded of others who have come and gone. Some are still here; most passed through and others return to see the family. Families visit too: those who know. Those who don’t find out sometimes. That does no-one any favours, including me. Three broken ribs and some bruising are mine to carry, as I do so much else and so many others. But I don’t mind. I’d have done the same for my kids. And I do. If only people would speak out loud, rather than under their breath. But that’s Them; out there. We’re us, in here. And no-one knows unless they take the time to think outside of their little insular boxes and ask. But they don’t. They judge and persecute. The kids are foolish for coming to the family home? The really damaged ones are you out there.
As recently as an hour ago, I helped two of the kids. Something happened. I sorted it as only I can. They’re gone. Happy. I’ll pick up the pieces. I’ll clear up. That’s what I do. I don’t mind. I care. That’s what we used to do back in the day.
Once upon a time.
A white cupboard. There’s more of this in there. The rest is in my head, which I’ll keep and take with me.
From reminiscences to regression, as I fall asleep I remember things with fondness.
There was a magazine called Page 6: look it up kids. You’ve got Google.
Or you could ask your parents. Talk to the real ones. One day you won’t be able to

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