Shambulance | crookedman's Blog

I was moaning in therapy that I seem to only get to be ‘part’ of my family (and-metaworldview-too) whenever there’s something of a crisis going on.  All of a sudden I’m there, being all manly, sorting shit out.  I adapt, spend more time with the kids, make all kinds of phone calls and arrangements that I would never dream of doing if the need was mine.  I ‘turn up’ in case of emergencies but otherwise I’m out of the way.  My therapist reflected that I sounded a bit like an ambulance, chasing around, and had this catchy phrase about ‘people NEEDING an ambulance but not WANTING one’, that stuck with me for a week.  Gnawing.  Hmm.  She’s good.  I would’ve been prepared to argue the semantics: that ‘needing’ is just ‘really really really really really wanting’ something, but I understood her point, so didn’t.
I decided - there and in the moment - that I want to be more of a VW Camper: everyone wants one, nobody needs one.  She thought this a good metaphor, but I’m already picking holes in it.  Do I really want to be a high-maintenance luxury item, a financial black hole, a vanity object?
My eldest daughter, in her days of roaming with her gang around industrial waste sites, took a photo of a discarded ambulance that had been stolen, ransacked, then dumped near the old Avon cosmetics factory.  Ding dong.  She framed it for me a couple of years ago, knowing my penchant for urban decay and krunk.  Crack heads might have been living in it.  Note the lovely rickety bed trolley frame and the not-so pristine, emptied cupboard space with white paint, stripping; the blood red linoleum and the hatch with the Mind Your Head sign.  It had perspective, grime, and rust, but wasn’t much good as an ambulance.
Me all over.
The Mind Your Head sign… was a sign.
And that’s the thing.  I’m a shambles of an ambulance.  Or a sham of one.  Either will do.
Or not do.

As an aside, I asked her to send me the jpeg as an email so’s I wouldn’t have to take the framed print to therapy tomorrow, but she directed me to her flickr site (everyone’s a blogger!), where I still couldn’t download it.  Some rights reserved.  I bit off more than I could chew visiting her photostream!  It was definitely less reserved.  I texted her after, saying, ‘Blimey, you could have warned me about the cleavage!’  She answered, and I sic-quote, ‘That should be a given.  You kno what kinda photography I experimented with.  And an artist must not b afraid to use oneself’.  What kind of monster have I created.  Talk about reap what you sow.  I think that was exactly the same line I used when telling her mother I fancied a night on the heroin.

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