Five, seven, five

From the depths of my sick bed, internet… I offer you this (very, very) humble haiku.

It hit me last night
Blood-shot eyes sore head blocked ears
nose like a geyser.

Run out of lemons
I’ll move onto whiskey next
Lemsip does fuck all.

Last entry this month
Hey, again listing my woes
Thank you Sudafed.

On a more personal note

Because of the planes, I sleep with earplugs.
The phone rang; I sprang out of bed as I do, picked up, said ‘hello’; naturally I couldn’t hear a thing because of the blue foam still lodged into my ear canal. It was J’s mom. She and I don’t communicate very well at the best of times. Because we have to work hard at each other’s accent, every phone conversation is a mini marathon.

---

I finally came out to my brother last night.
He’s very good at avoiding important issues, such as life, death, or love. I’m usually very good at putting them right in his face; but this particular point had, somehow, remained fuzzy over the years. Now he knows. It’s a relief. I wasn’t so sure. Now all the close relatives have been suitably informed of my shenanigans.

---

We fought, we broke up; at a distance of 6000 miles, we still manage to fight some more. Or, rather, we still manage to misunderstand each other to the point where communication breaks down altogether. I would never have thought that I could deeply love someone, yet be chronically infuriated, unsettled, and/or hurt by their behaviour.
Lesbian drama.
My brother is right; women are too complicated.
Back to earplugs.

L’histoire du loup rose

1- Sometimes, we’re just not flexible enough to hear an alternative version.
2- Any discussion requires lexical clarification for all protagonists to truly understand each other.
3- Fairy tales can scar you for life.

When I was four or five, my father used to tell me the following story:
Once upon a time, there was a big bad wolf. He had eaten many children in his days, because that is what big bad wolves do for a living. However, as time passed, he grew remorseful; the devoured children came to haunt him, and he decided to give it all up. Reform. Repent. Live a new life as a brand new wolf. He became a strict vegetarian, surviving on berries that he gathered in the woods.
And then an incredible thing happened: his coat turned pink. And a new life began. […other adventures of the pink wolf..]
I bawled and screamed and generally freaked out every time I heard this story, for all I could seem to hear was the word ‘wolf’. Never mind his remorse, his pinkiness, his new resolutions; a wolf would be a wolf and that was a bad, scary thing with sharp teeth dripping blood. Traditional fairy tale conditioning [wolf=evil] had already done its job.

---

I had another Friend date on Sunday, Internet. I would like to express my doubts as to whether I will go on wild adventures with that person, for I was bored.
Maybe she thought the same about me. Who knows.

Fairy-forsaken

Still no trace of the Fairy Godmother.
Bitch.
Maybe she's just watching me struggle from her glitzy purple cloud; shrugging if she's French, gracefully because she's a fairy; but shrugging all the same. Or maybe she just gave up on me when she caught me reading through a very steamy story I wrote for.. for.. you know, Internet, that far-away person who split up with me.

I should have let the steamy story in its little folder; it's so full of her.

I think I can see the FGM shake her blue rinse all the way from here.

Poetry to the rescue

[Instructions and Posology:
Learn by heart and recite before and after every meal. ]

The Ambush

When the face you swore never to forget
Can no longer be remembered,
When a list of regrets are torn up and thrown away
Then the hurt fades,
And you think you've grown strong.
You sit in bars and boast to yourself,
'Never again will I be vulnerable,
It was an abberation to be so open,
A folly, never to be repeated.'
How absurd and fragile such promises.
Hidden from you, crouched
Among the longings you have suppressed
And the desires you imagine tamed,
A sweet pain waits in ambush.
And there will come a day when in a field
Heaven's mouth gapes open,
And on a web the shadow
Of a marigold will smoulder.
Then without warning,
Without a shred of comfort,
Emotions you thought had been put aside
Will flare up within you and bleed you of reason.
The routines which comforted you,
And the habits in which you sought refuge
Will bend like sunlight under water,
And go astray.
Your body will become a banquet,
Falling heavenwards.
You will loll in spring's sweet avalanche
Without the burden of memory,
And once again
Monstrous love will swallow you.


Brian Patten (from "Storm damage")

Makeover

Ta-da!
I went for tasteful, Internet. I hope you like it.

---

Today's other piece of news is that the hole in my pyjama pants is not fixable.
I can feel a definite draught when I stand up.
I also have to walk around the house with my back to the wall in order to preserve the decorum of my peaches no, callipygian shyness, no, person.

Faced with a similar sartorial crisis, J blames it on his massive balls; but I do not have that option.

I'll miss my pyjamas. Now they look like a Union Suit, with the arse bit cut out.They saw me through many adventures!
RIP, nice pyjama bottoms. You cost me eight quid, six years ago, and I liked to depend on you.

---

(This spellchecker is shit.
It doesn't know the following words: pyjama, sartorial, callipygian, or arse.)

Rubik’s cube

A part of me is busy listening to J play a Chopin Nocturne.
A part of me wants to puke my guts out because of the American hostages who got beheaded by the crazy bearded men.
A part of me is busy fancying Margaret Cho.
A part of me is pleased with a job well done this week.
A part of me wants to go get a needle and some thread to fix the gaping hole in my pyjama pants; I believe that my arse is visible.
A part of me wants to go to Paris at the end of October.
A part of me wants a stiff drink.
A part of me is glad to be alone.
All the other parts of me are busy missing her.

the loneliness of the long distance bawler

Today I have :

- listened to very loud music and bellowed along
- listened to my shrink explain how he identifies with my tales of lost love across the world. It turns out that his story bears a strong resemblance to mine. Except that he knows how it turns out in the end..
- declined an invitation to a bikini-karaoke
- cleaned the house; as I was reaching out for a forgotten pile of porn, a much-folded and unfolded map of San Francisco fell on my head. I didn’t cry.
- Put on a pair of cashmere socks that my girlfriend ex-special lady friend got me some months ago. I cried.
- Found that two words describe my present state fairly well: sad, but resilient. The former was obvious; then I grabbed the latter and realised that it fits just right. It almost made me feel better, so I stopped crying.

I'm bigger than I think

I was in the middle of the formation of the Imperfect tense when my right thigh collided violently with the corner of my desk.
I had to pause mid-sentence; mid-word. The pain was intense. I pictured punctured skin, torn flesh, blood running down my leg and forming a puddle at my feet.
Twenty pairs of eyes were on me.
I valiantly jugulated the pathos and proceeded with verb endings.

The bruise is twice as large as the ones I sustained from paintballing. I admire it twice daily.

Jack in the box

So I'm told that I'm free now.

I'm trying to open the box, prop the lid up, and look out.

Things, people, places, events. Things to learn. Plans, even.


But I miss her; and some of the plans are somehow flavourless.

Deflated but still bouncy

So, internet, I had a date last night.
No, not that kind of date.
What do you take me for? Do you think I’m ready to go out and seduce people already? Even un-troll like people?
Well, I’m not.
Anyway, I had a date. With a girl, yes.
I know.
Trust me, internet, getting a date is the easy part. I probably don’t need to tell you that.
Anyway, it was a Friend Date. I think I made my terms clear.
I just won’t talk about the Break Up really, and since there is little else on my mind I’m just about the best listener in town right now. Take me out on a date, and you’ll see.
She was clearly very nervous to meet a complete stranger, so I did my best facilitator impression. After she was done being nervous, it became clear that she really really liked me; maybe because I just listened so well… so I took her for dinner to Garlic and Shots, where the aim of the game is to ingurgitate various garlicky comestibles. I thought garlic would act as a deterrent, you see.
I came back home fairly inebriated and with hyena’s halitosis.

Now I have a new Dyke Goth friend I can go on various outings with.I also have a splendid hangover.

(Boy, does she drink.)

Housewife

Yesterday after a 10 hour work day, I propelled myself to Argos and purchased a new hoover.The checkout guy said - Here's your B&D thingy - now don't work too hard, you look really tired. I thanked him politely and laughed at the sadness of it,then I took the bus home.

I wonder if I am unconsciously trying to push the Martyr Theme of my days..I could just let the carpet grow mould.

Sticky

"I think I know how to operate a stamp", said J, peeling one off its self-adhesive back and licking it before sticking it onto a postcard.
We're hoping that he will win this LEGO competition and that, when they hand over his prize (a StarTrek space ship) they won't comment on the obvious age discrepancy; below his name and address he added : age : 8.

Young people are just silly


I remember once, I must have been 15, wishing that I would hurt.
I remember wishing that I would, too, be heartbroken, cry over some unrequited love, and torture myself with old letters.
I wondered what it felt like.
I thought it would teach me something.

Well, it's teaching me fuck all. That's it.

Limbo

Still no trace of the Fairy Godmother.
Maybe she stopped in Turin first. I hope so.

Just as well I still have alcohol, drugs and masturbation.

And shopping.

Dear Fairy Godmother,

I know you’ve been very busy recently hovering benignantly over other fellow sufferers, but I was wondering if I could book an appointment with you some time soon. I believe that a check up is in order.
I’d like to be all dramatic and say that I’m a mess; it makes readers picture a dishevelled, haggard, underfed creature with bad skin; the truth is, I’m not quite crumbled up yet, and I still have a tan. But I do have a few wishes:
First of all, I would very much need a prescription for Self-Esteem Restorer in 40mg tablets; it’s been heavily crumpled, you see. A month’s supply should do the trick, after that I’ll take care of it myself. A no side-effect formula, please. We don’t want me to go all crazy with it. It’s a fine line as it is.

Then I would like a supply of Generosity Gelcaps. They might help with the emerging anger; they might help alleviate the urge to count points, settle scores that, maybe, don’t need to be settled. Ever.

Finally, I’d be grateful for a large jar of 50mg Hubris pills, to last me for a few months at least. You see, at some point I need to go out there, don’t I, and start all over again.

You might, O mighty Fairy Godmother, want to sit me down and give me a stern lecture on falling in love with people six thousand miles away.

Oh, and, if I may, I would be so grateful if after sorting me out, you would accept to go and look after a dear friend of mine over there in Turin. I believe her need to be just as great as mine.

I apologise if I am sounding awfully demanding; it’s just that all this grown-up business of always to have to sort out everything by myself feels rather overwhelming right now. I thought of asking Dame Edna, but she is still in California ministering over other unfortunates.
I look forward to your appearing in a purple glittery haze. Any time of day or night is fine by me.

Yours faithfully,
Your ever-grateful goddaughter.

Insomnia

The good things about being awake every morning between three and four is that, on week days, I won't be late for work.
I can sit on the step outside and watch the sun rise.

I have dreams about her, of course.

We're walking down a hill, in a neighbourhood I don't know. She is holding a magazine, ticking boxes in a quiz about 'your ideal partner'. It seems very engrossing; I tag along. She shows me the results with a glance of contempt and starts running to catch a bus; I have the choice to run too and catch up or be left behind, catch the next bus, find my own way home. I run too, while rummaging in my jeans pocket for the necessary one dollar twenty five cents. The end.


I wonder if explosive diarrhea is an improvement on uncontrollable fits of crying.

Rien n’y fait

I’ve been trying to appeal to my basest instincts.

First, I’ve counted, added, multiplied: the amount I’ve shelled out on plane tickets over the past 18 months. Scary, and yet I don’t care; and I would do it again in a heartbeat.

Then, I have tried to compile lists:

She doesn’t like French pop. I mean, come on!
She says ‘I have needs’.
She laughs at her own jokes.
She takes ages in the shower.
She has a propensity to be condescending.
With trainers and short trousers, she won’t roll down her socks and it looks geeky.
She likes small dogs. The yappy Lapsang Souchong kind. She’d like four of them, and put bows in their hair. I wouldn’t even have them on a skewer.

This is just not working very well.

The Many, dissenting, Voices of Me

A- Never again, the out of range relationship thing. Let’s keep things in the same city, at least.
B- Yeah, that’s what you said last time. Then you met her.
C- All the cash I’ll be saving now! No more return tickets to the West Coast five times a year..
B- I’ll miss flying out to be with her. I remember every minute of every time after landing; the expectation, the beating heart, the sweaty palms…
C- You mean, her sweaty palms.
B- I hope she's ok. I really do.
E- she d-u-m-p-e-d your ass, try to feel at least a bit mad!
D- I am free. I am free!
B- It’s so incredibly sad being me right now.
C- I hope she’s crying at least as much as I have been.
B- I hope she’s doing ok. I hope she’s got company. I hope she bought some more tissues.
B- I’ll call a friend, I’ll feel better.
E- Don’t even think about boring your friends with such crap.
B- This is the most horrible thing that’s ever happened to me.
E- Most horrible, you’re kidding. Do you want dates? Examples? Comparisons?
G- Let’s log onto gaydar right now and entertain ourselves. It’ll pass time..
A- They’re all trolls.
C- Come on, am I so esoteric as to believe that she was The One For Me?
E- Get a grip.
B- There can’t be anyone else. Ever.
E- Oh shut up.
B- We were doing so well!
E- Transatlantic romance cannot work.. you knew that years ago, stupid.


Etc, etc.

Dear colleagues, Welcome back

The first thing I used to do in the morning when I'd get to work was to cross out the day in my diary - one less day before I'd take off to see my lover.

The first thing I did this morning when I got to work was to adjust my watch according to the clock in the meeting room.

One has to be accurate.

And I sat, and made the necessary gestures.
I nodded through the agenda, made perfunctory notes, asked questions. I got organised, I was efficient.

I also listened to woeful tales of bereaved families - holiday car crashes, terminal illnesses; I thought : how dare I feel sorry for myself?

But this is the way we are.

Jetlag is so overrated

Here I am, trying to convince myself that going to work after two hours' sleep might be fun.
I've run out of tricks to fall asleep. I've tossed and turned enough, I give up, time for a full breakfast,complete with coffee strong enough to raise the dead.
If I hadn't sat on my sunglasses and broken them, I would have worn them throughout today's meetings.

I'm off to sit in the garden and watch the sun rise, and ponder over where I'm going from here.

Back in London after a whole month of relative idleness.
So what did I do with all that time?
Well...
I saw Dame Edna at the Curran Theatre.
I burnt my bum on Baker Beach.
I ate a lot.
I read more than I ate.
I had fights with my lover.
She thought they were my fault, I thought they were hers. It's usually the way it goes.
I watched the fog roll in.
I discovered cable tv.
I tried to not count the days.

And now I'm back home.

It's that dreaded time of the year : when the cycle starts all over again. Normal adult people have it in January; mine comes with September. Back for another ride. This time it might be even worse, being newly dumped.
There are many new books to be read, work to be done, that'll keep me thinking about something else.