Fear and Romance

In a way I wouldn't mind ending up an english teacher in some country-side gymnasium.
I find the thought of a spinster grappling with 30 unruly kids and broken writer dreams very romantic.

Here you are. (Again). You've hit 60. You've accomplished nothing. You have a cat who doesn't even like you. You have truly accomplished nothing. You go to school, meet people who hate you when you teach them and hate you even more when you give them the grades the little vermins deserve, you go home, grade hand-ins, open a tin of cat-food (not the fancy kind), a beer of can (not imports, no) and sink down in the sofa to watch your now favorite soap. You fall asleep in that same position and wake up to the blearing of the alarm clock and find that one of your slippers has glided off while drool was making an exit down your chin.

At least that would be something to write about.

I got another letter from my father today. My father and I have a curious sort of correspondence.

I'm afraid of - not getting anywhere in life, I suppose. I'm afraid I've missed the important bits of everything. I'm afraid that music today won't change much over the next twenty years, I wonder if some sixteen year old swooning over the Beatles back in the day ever expected Black Sabbath and kids with safety pins in every part of their body to make their respective entries. I'm afraid that I'll never get into the line of education of my choice, afraid that I'll never even be able to decide on a line of studies. I'm afraid that there are two sorts of people- those who make it, and those who don't. And those who won't, because they find failure more romantic. Neither of these options seem desirable. I'm afraid there's no fourth mystery alternative behind any fourth mystery door, and that I'll just end up with a year's supply of cornflakes instead of that top job where you earn top dollar and have the top life and have good bones & teeth. I'm afraid of listening to Syd barett's "Scream thy last scream, of woman with a casquet, blam bam you point, your point, your point" I'm afraid i'll wake up sixty, single. I'll be barren. I'll be fertile and have two bastard children. I won't be able to support them on a teacher's pay, not with cat and all. I'll be dead. I'll be alive and senile to the point where I'm not sure whether I'm alive or dead. Gum disease - won't be able to eat anything but strained yams - mental disease - won't want to eat anything other than strained yams.

Above all this, is the overwhelming fear of turning into just another Linda Skugge.

And the funny thing is that my father is afraid of the exact same things. So we write letters to one another. But never reply each other's mails.
The concept is all very romantic though.