Can I go nowhere with you?

Easter weekend with P's family was lovely. Full of food, fun and more food. Everything was great. There was only on moment, strung next to two other moments, that were a little bit difficult. On sunday P wanted to play basketball. I thought it would be fun too. I've been thinking lately how I wanted to be better at group sports. So we started playing 21. Turns out, I have less hand-eye coordination than I thought I did -- which wasn't much to begin with. I got maybe one or two balls in the net, the rest kept flying and bouncing around everywhere.

I suppose for people who are good at things like sports it would be unpleasant for them to play with unskilled players like myself. P didn't let on, besides a few grunts here and there. While I was basically running around like a chicken with its head cut off -- I quickly realized, it's not that I could never be good at basketball, it's just that I don't actually care that much about being good -- again, frustrating. After a while we stopped. Then spent the afternoon lounging. Later in the evening as his sister was about to drive her boyfriend back to his place, they started playing another basketball game. I think it was called bump. I've never played this game either, and it required more skill, so it wasn't pretty.

After supper, the whole family was going to play a card game called Spoons. The object is to get the lest amount of letters spelling Spoons - each lose gives you one letter, when you get them all you're out. As I was rapidly picking up letters, the family quickly offered me more letters, a longer word ('Spooniette' it turned out to be). Something about this generosity, this kindness struck a chord in me in a strange way.

Playing board games and card games are not fun for me. I didn't grow up with games, so I'm not good at them, because I never developed that kind of thinking. I could say the same about crossword puzzles and such. I never really cared about games -- probably as a defense mechanism, because all they do is remind me that I never had a family that wanted to play games, that wanted to spend time together, that could tolerate each other, that could laugh with each other. So games evoke this kind of painful association, even though I know it sounds a bit strange.

Halfway through Spoons I felt like crying. Something about me putting pressure on myself to be good, about wanting to succeed, about I don't know what. The next day, on the computer with Patrick, playing computer games -- also bad at those -- triggered the tears. Obviously I felt silly, and he didn't quite understand, but he was sympathetic and encouraging. Though I didn't believe him when he said I was good at basketball.

Everything ended fine. We got to the city, went to Bily Kun for a drink with P's friend Erc. Walked home. Bought Bagels. Had a great talk about his work, his desire to find a creative partner, and all kinds of stuff he's usually hesitant to discuss. It felt good. I feel good.

I'm indulging in a sudden Joel Plaskett Emergency revival.