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Youth. Age. Life.

Bee Beard gets more of a philosopher as he ages.

The trouble is that the older you get, the fewer people listen to you, even though your words are more considered.

I thought I’d have a personal debate on the phrase of youth being wasted on the young.

Funny that phrase.

And I understand it fully.
But I like the way ageing all works out, well, so far anyway.
I love that destructive intensity of youth, the angst and paranoia, balanced by obsessive, almost religious love of the things that matter.
Mine lasted way into my thirties, and still resurfaces in a way that is both scary and exciting.
When you start to slow down a bit you have more time to notice that what’s around you, even close by, is so valuable, beautiful even.
Valuing the old, noticing the emerging buds, really feeling the sunshine, maybe even driving under the speed limit and realising that actually it can be a joy.
Then of course the shit kicks in, and for a time your whole being is focussed on just dragging yourself through it.
Hopefully as a consequence the next high is higher.
Of course with no kids and just a few ego driven corporates to keep happy it is easier for me to step back and consider life in this way.
And I have to admit I rather enjoy it. And smile when you shoot a theory down in honest real flames.
Up my own arse? Why would I change? That’s the power of the beard.

Good Friday

Do you know that in all my years I still don’t understand what is good about Good Friday!

I was brought up in a religious family, but didn’t really get involved in the whole church thing, and stopped going as soon as I had the chance, I guess that must have been when I was about 15. I still have great respect for religion though and believe that society is a worse place without it.

I kind of like that Alain de Botton fellow’s idea of Religion for Atheists, which I understand to be a code of values to live your life by, without the principle of there being a central God figure.

That’s the good bit of religion isn’t it? That whole thing of a moral code and the fear of punishment or recrimination if you get it wrong.

But anyway I’m going off at a tangent here.

What I wanted to ask was What is good about Good Friday?

If Christ was our saviour and son of God, but the poor fellow was crucified on the day then I can’t see the good in it.

Easter Monday and celebrating his resurrection is cool with me.

Commemorating his death is OK too. Actually, I can’t remember what happened to him after all that.

As a slight but necessary digression from a topic I introduced but don’t understand – I have just realised that the cherry trees are going to be in blossom for Easter. How lovely.

 

Five o’clock shadow

Mrs Beard (she’s obviously not called that, but let’s run with it for now at least). Mrs Beard is offended by my sad attempts at growing a new beard. We’re less than a week in and already she is moaning at me and suggesting that I look like a tramp.

She has got a point there.

In fact I’d even go so far as to suggest that she’s being moderately generous.

So far this is not turning out to be a luxuriant growth that would be the envy of Gandalf, rather it’s a bit of a mess that looks like I have hit upon both hard times and the bottle!

How does a week’s worth of stubble make you look like a drunk?

And how come drunks manage to have a week’s worth, but rarely a month’s worth?

Is there some drunks’ hostel that offers them a weekly wash, brush up and shaving facility?

I’m going to give it a month. If it looks a bad state after that long then I have promised that I will shave it off. In the meantime I’m going to carry out some discreet tidying up around the neck and cheeks, it’s a good way of seemingly bringing it all back into control without actually changing much.

What I wouldn’t admit to anyone is that it’s also itching like a bastard – but to state that would be to add fuel to the fire of the shave Bee Beard lobby.Sometimes it’s hard to be beardy!

 

Stubble

When I was younger I used to have a great big beard that was as much a part of my character as my taciturn nature, my unsuitable clothes, and my abject refusal to behave like the old man that I am. I don’t dress like a youth, I think that’s sad, but I’m not about to slip into beige anytime soon either. I don’t care about keeping up with music, I now have such a wonderful catalogue to choose from that if I never heard something new for a year I wouldn’t feel that I’d missed out.

Anyway, this isn’t supposed to be about my youth, it’s about my beard!

On Friday I didn’t shave, and didn’t bother yesterday. This morning as i raised the razor to my foamy face I thought about it and decided to wash it all off and see how I feel after a week.

The first couple of weeks look awful on an older guy – the kids can get away with it, but I can’t . I;m going to just shave around the edges so that it stays looking deliberate, even if it doesn’t actually look that good.

I think it used to take about six months from the first stubble to a decent beard – that takes some dedication! There will be many moments of doubt during such a long incubation! And of course while mine used  to be ginger, now I suspect that it’ll be white, but hopefully there’ll be a few flecks of colour at least.

If it continues I’ll keep you up to date.

More Different Pleasures

So where had i got to?

First kid. You’re knackered in a way you have never known before no matter how much clubbing, drinking, and other less salubrious activities you may have got up to in your days.

Then she’s pregnant again!

Oh Christ!

Have we even had a shag in the meantime? Can’t remember.

But then you get into being the dad. For a while the love overwhelms everything and they can do no wrong, well not much, you still scream at them at least twice a day.

Then they hit their teens and few dads come out of this unscarred.

You want to kill them more often than noticing any feelings of love.

Then suddenly they’re gone. From under your feet if not from inside your wallet.

You might be forties.

You might be fifties.

You’re probably not slow, but certainly not moving as fast.

You notice different stuff.

And this is the good bit of different pleasures.

Because you pleasure sensors shift.

You still lust after pretty, firm thighed women.

And still the young ones too.

But you don’t actually want to act on that lust, well not if you’re lucky. Cause if you do you’d best have buckets of money.

Your pleasures suddenly kick in from noticing the stuff that has been around you since the day you were born.

It didn’t matter then.

Bit now you can look. And wonder.

That’s your compensation for getting old, and I hope to revisit it many times in this blog.

Different Pleasures

Was it Joy Division who had an album called Different Pleasures?

I know I could look it up but I really can’t be bothered.

It’s not relevant right now. It’s just a title.

I thought of the title and then made the connection.

What this is about is how you get your kicks from different places as you age.

When you’re little I guess it’s all about toys, security, love.

Then as a bloke you spend a few years where sex is the most important experience you have never had.

Then you do and nothing else is even relevant.

But you have to work. You probably drink too much. You’ll have debts.

And a need for stuff that is likely to get you more sex.

Like a bigger, faster, redder car.

A better suit, or rags or whatever.

And better sound system, although you know girls don’t give a toss really. They’re happy listening  to music from their phone for heaven’s sake.

Then come kids.

Oh. My. God.

You still want sex all the time but you are too f’in knackered from lack of sleep, the boss nagging because your work is suffering, your partner nagging because the family unit suddenly needs a whole lot more money.

Suddenly you’re pulling your tool again.

Not because you don’t love her. Because you need the release but shagging is just too much.

Oh bugger, I’m really getting into my theme but I have to go.

I’m going to continue tomorrow.

Night Night world.