BY JANUARY this thinking had coalesced into resolve, resolve into a plan.
My mind and heart set. To honour Ginny I would use my share of her inheritance to follow my own dream, while I still could. I would take the rest of the year. I would target three months.
One Summer then, to travel to all those overseas festivals that had long coloured our wistful talk, that like wind-caught pennants had long snapped in our imagination, fierce and proud.
The northern hemisphere's Summer Festivals: the Himalayas of the dance scene world: camped: open-air: multi-day: many staged: thousands thronged: still underground: still free from the taint. I would chase my own dream, write my own ending, close my own chapter. I would be extraordinary one final time.
As the plan became real, I shared it first with my family. I told them I was travelling to festivals to write a book, but I had no idea if I could do such a thing. If such a book would be at best boring, at worst incoherent. I kept these doubts to myself.
I pushed them back and down with all the others and stored them in a little globe. When no-one was around I would bring the globe out and shake it and see them fly about like snow.
What did it matter anyway? Anywhere but here, that was my creed.
With surprising equanimity my family reacted. That is they didn’t react. They believed. They supported. They helped. Perhaps they understood it was a way for me to work through my grief. Perhaps they were numb to my deranged schemes by now—after all, not for nothing did Mum to call me up out of the blue one day to say, “Hi Izzy. You well? You eating your veges? Good. Good. Listen, I think you might be Bipolar.”
(I'm not, by the way, just a dreamer of great dreams . . . with little follow through.)
In any event, they didn’t try and talk me out of it.
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