Clearing
A whole week off.
Starting now.
Fuck yeah.
The plan is to do the following things:
· get up early most days, have breakfast, go back to bed and sleep late between linen sheets. The feeling of going back to bed surpasses mere lie-ins.
· Read ‘Anxiety status’, ‘After Delores’, ‘How to be alone’, ‘L’homme aux cercles bleus’ and ‘Petit manuel de manipulation à l’usage des honnêtes gens’, and if I’m feeling brave, ‘el maestro de esgrima’. Probably all at the same time, because I can’t choose.
· Consider a more active social life.
· Consider who to meet up with and where.
· Shrug the idea off and read some more.
· Go to the cinema in the middle of the afternoon. By myself.
· weather permitting, sit on a bench in Soho square and watch the pretty gay boys cruise each other.
· Try not to think that if A hadn’t broken up with me, that’s where I’d be now. There with her. Talking, agreeing, disagreeing, fighting, fucking, playing, eating, hoping. I know, I need some sense slapped into me.
· Improve on the tree pose and the toe-touching, the breathing in and out.
· Ignore Valentine’s Disaster.
· Bake cakes.

Early afternoon drink : slide, 10/02/05

1. Conversation
“so, what’s your motivation?”, she asks, abrupt.
“what do you mean? I reply to give myself time to think.
“why do you live?”
“err.. some weeks, because I don’t want a stranger, let alone a friend, to find me dead. That’d be a shitty thing to do, so I live on. Some days because I think it might actually be worth it. It depends.”
“but what’s the meaning of it?”
I laugh. Flip. It’s that clichéd phrase, it’ll make me laugh. It’s an automatic response.
“well, why should I know. I don’t know, do I.”
“what’s the point of ..beeeep..being alive?” she prods.
“hey, stop pushing buttons on your phone. It depends.. I think.. well if you have religious faith or political ideology to carry you, then you’re more or less set. For the rest of us, nothing, I guess.”
“sorry, I slipped…but why do you even bother?” I hear ice cubes click in a glass.
“because I accepted a long time ago that even though there was no reason to be here, it didn’t mean it wasn’t worth it. Sometimes, it’s worth it.”
“…beeeep….t’s your motivation?”
“stop pushing buttons on your phone, I can’t hear you. I told you: it depends.” I hear a liquid being poured and stirred.
“sorry, I shlipped. But why do you bother?”
“because, however fucking hard it is right now, perhaps in ten years’ time I’ll look back and think it was worth it. Because there are some people I love, because although there’s shit and fear and desperation, there is also exhilaration, because there is beauty and there is hope. Because I can finally do the Tree pose, and also touch my toes. Because I’m a bit of a hedonist.. I don’t know what else to say.” I’m not proud of my answer, because I know she has no idea what hedonist means, and she’s getting too angry and too drunk to ask.
“touch your toes, that’s really.. that’s really sad.”
“maybe. It’s only a way to say that the way you live your life is a matter of perspective. Art, or faith, or yoga can be your perspective. It’s not all empty. It just looks that way sometimes, you have to adjust your perspective, take a step back, breathe in, I don’t know.”
“I think I should find a guy to get me pregnant and then have a kid, so I’ll never need anyone else.” More clicking of ice. More pouring and stirring.
“err..no. Sorry. Having kids because you need love is the shittiest thing you can do.” I could add, but I don’t, that and with her drinking and smoking habit, she has what, a ten, fifteen-year life expectancy? and that’s assuming that her body could cope with pregnancy.
I don’t think she needs to hear that from me. Let’s shut up the moralist inside.
“Will you come and visit me?” she asks.

2. I hesitate. I say I’ll think about it.
I foresee evenings lost in smoke, too much alcohol, more endless, naïve questions that I can’t answer, since I can’t give her a Meaning of Life on a plate, complete with instructions. I foresee desperate attempts at dark humour, bitter sallies, and me like a plum sitting there with no way to soothe, no solution save my fucking two pence philosophy on accepting the absurdity of it all and trying to squeeze good things out of the smallness of everyday life, and always hoping. I’m no messiah.

3. She tells me she’s wasted and can’t talk any more. It’s no surprise, her drinking, although considerably better, was already an issue when we were together. I’m not sure how to react. All I feel I can offer is the promise that I’ll ring her again soon.

4. I don’t think I’ll go see her. Is that selfish?


5. Strangely, as I get off the phone, I think of A. Suddenly I want to talk to her – every hurdle we met in our relationship seems so trivial compared to that dark opaque vortex of alcohol and self-hatred.

6. I’m off to do a tree pose and touch my toes.

Pamper your arse, or The beauty of cartoon blasphemy

The predictability of doughnut shops
Sunday was muggy.
I took my vitamins and minerals and dragged my sorry ass out for a day of socialising. I came back home mentally paralysed by trite, predictable chit-chat and physically bloated with hot chocolate and doughnuts.
Dougnuts. I’ve tried to quit.
I was nearing Leicester square when I felt a sudden wave of anxiety coming, the type that wants me to sit down in a corner and hug my knees. Now I know that a good antidote is usually food, preferably deep fried and covered in sugar, so I dove into The FuckingRude DoughnutShop. It’s one of my favourite places ever; the second you walk in, you feel under attack. I believe the guys who work there have a competition going: who’ll be the rudest to customers, and who’ll be the fastest at it.
‘whatcha want.’, one of them barks with an upward tilt of the chin.
‘Good morning to you too! Well, I don’t know yet. But give me ten seconds and I’ll decide’, I answer with a smile.
‘huh?’
‘Precisely. Cinnamon and apple, please.’
‘ninety nine p. I have no change.’
It always makes my day. So after that friendly exchange I sat in smoky cafés and drank sweet goo, and listened and nodded and asked questions.

I’m so tired, internet people. Those serial killer dreams are really taking it out of me. Perhaps I should stop reading those detective novels and go back to fairy tales. I have more navel-gazing anecdotes in store, people of the Republic of blogland, but I’m dramatically underslept so I’m going to keep those simmering on the back burner for now. Good night.

Miracle [mirөkl]
n 1: any amazing or wonderful occurrence 2: a marvellous event manifesting a supernatural act of God
1. Apparently a bunch of (subversive, obviously subversive) papist officials are agitating to relax the miracle requirement for sainthood.
It seems miracles are harder to come by these days, people of blogland. John Paul II has already eased the path to sainthood by reducing the number of required miracles down to two: one for beatification, a second miracle for canonization. Only two measly little miracles, that’s all it takes nowadays to become a saint. Shouldn’t be too difficult to be responsible for two ‘amazing or wonderful occurrences’. Personally, I make things disappear. Socks, mostly, and stuff from the fridge. Where do I go from here? Is there an application form to fill in? Do I have to prove my miracles with pictures? How will they know they haven’t been photoshopped? Or can I just quote my witnesses?

(On second thought: John Paul, don’t you know that fiddling with the rules brings unwanted attention to the matter of infallibility?)

2. In truth, people of blogland, I find myself constantly, secretly, yearning for miracles. If I could pray, I would.
I’m a strange blend of fierce atheist and closet superstitious. See:

At age 5: if I can run to the gate before I hear mom call me for lunch, there will be apple pie for dessert.
At age 9: if I can do thirteen cartwheels in a row without bumping into the wall, my step dad won’t be home for lunch. Or at least there won’t be a row. Or at least he won’t shout too much.
At age 16: if I close my eyes and hold my breath for 87 seconds, Loic will sit down with me at lunch. Damn, failed again, got to train harder. Maybe if I hold my breath for long enough I’ll pass out and then maybe he’ll notice me.
At age 21: if a squirrel jumps onto that tree, He will take me out to dinner. I’m not talking about the squirrel, silly.
At age 24: if I can spot three sparrows in the next five minutes, we’ll get to skip dinner and go to bed instead.
Now: if I see a duck-shaped cloud, well, anything is possible, isn’t it. A duck-shaped cloud, especially if followed by a black cat on the garden fence, will undoubtedly signify great things. A second chance at love. Strife digested, changed attitudes, plans and vows renewed.

I can be a fuzzy ball of superstition, people of blogland.
So, miracles – bring’em. I won’t question them. Too much.

Dear Fairy God Mother,
It’s me again. I hope you’re well and that you’re not too exhausted by the post christmas and new year Trauma Interventions. I am well aware that the needy are numerous and that your schedule is hectic, but I was wondering if your P.A actually let you know that I wrote last September.
Literally begging for an appointment, I was.
No? Thought not.
Well, it doesn’t matter now, Fairy God Mother. I’ve more or less pulled through, and that’s without the 50mg capsules of Hubris I’d asked for. I also sat myself down and gave myself that stern lecture on falling in love with people six thousand miles away. I sat myself down quite a lot, I fact. I even made lists and took resolutions. Don’t worry about not doing your job, really, it’s ok. I know you’re busy. I’ll be alright now, I’ve ripped up my will and I’m flossing, which is always an encouraging sign. I know, I know, perhaps I am overestimating my recovery, since I have after all turned down a date for tonight and I plan to sit at home instead and read a book. In fact, this is what I am writing to you about, FGM – the state of today’s literature. Being a discreet yet pivotal element of a certain genre of traditional fiction, I know that you can only be sensitive to what I’m going to say.

Fairy God Mother, you know my attachment to old fairytales, don’t you. Sexist and traditionalist as they may be, I like their simple formula, their predictability and their intentions: reassurance and empowerment. I like their rationale, which is to provide a satisfyingly strict pattern: the hero(in) suffers but grows through her ordeal, and all is well in the end, and then I can sleep at night because the virgin-eating giant’s been rightfully emasculated and the evil, scheming stepmother pushed warts first into the barrel of acid, and after that Snow White shags her prince and the simple people of the forest and the bunny rabbits live happily ever after. Violence, scheming, revenge and sex. Good stuff.

After I did some growing up, since I couldn’t get enough of that simple, gratifying pattern but was no longer in awe of virgin-eating giants, I graduated to detective novels, where spunky high cheek-boned female detectives track down murderers and instead of emasculating them send them to jail for life and then probably live happily ever after, and then I could sleep at night because justice had been done. Violence, suspense and revenge. Excellent stuff, if lived vicariously. Mostly.
And now this is all coming to an end, FGM. There is this whole new trend of detective novels I’m reading, and the spunky detectives get there just a tad too late, never catch the serial killer, lose out. The homicidal bastard’s vanished, and all the detective can do is pick up the gory remains of the victim and go home and make a cup of tea to recover. Not so good stuff. The pattern is being broken, the reassuring rationale is gone, and sometimes I have to look under my bed before I can get some sleep. Do you think that’s right, Fairy God Mother? Do you?

What am I supposed to do for predictable reassurance? Where’s my bubble gone? These days, reading escapist fiction is just as bad as watching the news.

So, dear FGM, you see my predicament. I just wanted to vent a little.
I hope to see you soon. I could always do with an Intervention, you know. Or just pop in some day, you owe me a game of poker.

With all my love,
Your faithful goddaughter

The Wobbly Yogi and that bitch Sheila

1. ‘Inhale, and on your next breath out, stretch all the way to the left’, she says.

I stretch a little bit to the right, then realise it’s the other right and adjust my position accordingly.

now return to centre position

With only a slight delay, I return to a wobbly but centre position.

'Finally, we’re going to do the Rabid Newt Pose: stretch out, put your palms together, place your left foot behind your right ear and your chin behind your right calf; don’t forget to breathe in and out.'*

I expect her to add ' Just kidding, possums!' but she’s as serious as she’s contortioned.

At the words ' Now in a sitting position, bend forward and hug your knees', the hug I give myself is a desperate plea for foetal position and general surrender. I’m crap. I’m crap! My Tree pose looks like it deserves to be chopped down; my eagle pose sends me crashing to the floor; my camel pose is insulting to ruminant mammals everywhere. I’m a wobbly yogi. So, when the time comes to hug my knees, I hug for longer than was meant and try not to cry.

2. I don’t cry, of course. Much. It’s a battle against that high pitched, raucous voice in my head that repeats: ’crap, utter crap. No point, why bother; futile; if you can’t stand on one foot without toppling over what CAN you do, child? You’ll never be good. Crap.

3. Oooh, self-esteem issues, how very 2005. Or is it?

4. No exactly. Only partly.
The life story bit:
I grew up with little encouragement. I’m not trying to get pity; nothing of the kind.
Always top of the class, if I succeeded at something, and I invariably did, it was never thanks to my efforts. It was just a gift I had for academic studies. I passed every exam with as little revision as I could. No need for encouragement, if success was the only outcome. As a result I don’t know what it is to try harder. If I don’t succeed at first, I give up, because I don’t know what it is to truly work towards a long-term goal. I don’t know what I’m capable of and I believe in genius, instant inspiration, rather than hard work, tears and sweat.

5. This is why I’m so mediocre today. I am not artistic because I won’t be Frida Kalho as soon as I pick up a paint brush; I won’t play an instrument because it takes work to be Rod Stewart Phil Collins Haydn*. I won’t write a novel because I’m not Françoise Sagan.

6. So after I calm down and relax my knees from the vice-like hug, I do what I do best: ignore the people around me and start rationalising my crap.

7. This voice, can it be isolated? Can/should it be made into an entity? And could we call that entity Sheila? Every time Sheila starts with her diatribe, I’ll tell her to shut the fuck up. See where we are after that.

I’ll keep you posted on my progress, people of blogland.
Cos there will be progress.
Fuck Sheila.

* Footnote1: People, I totally made that one up. There’s no such thing as the Rabid Newt Pose. Please don’t try this at home. Or at least don’t send me the chiropractor bills.
* Footnote 2 Ok, Don’t start. I know I don’t need to justify my dislike of Phil Collins, do I, As to Rod Stewart, I don’t know. The man just fills me with repulsion. I don’t know if he’s a good musician.

Afterthought: I can do a wickedly good bridge pose, though. G’night.

Sometimes, I wish…

…..I weren’t so rude.
Example: a sterile conversation this afternoon with an extremely posh specimen who thought his name-dropping would impress me. So, he’s had hot water and crumbs with Charles and Camilla and bowed to other members of the Royal family. Well, I said, where I come from, we cut their head off. We all have our own brand of snobbism; mine’s called République.
I concede that I was insufferably rude; but he’d started it.
(Self important tosser.)

…..that the people in charge of motorway security in France would just stop it already.
Story : car manufacturers make increasingly comfortable and powerful cars that go increasingly fast; but sometimes cars drive into the trees that line up the motorway. One solution to that would be education, lowering the speed limit, tougher legislation, a combination thereof.
Instead, they cut down the trees.
(Myopic idiots.)

…..I could smother this lurking little fascist guy that lives deep inside of me.
Sample: ‘Official: it’s ok to kill burglar’ announced the Standard this morning. I was appalled at my gut reaction of ‘too fucking right it is’. I gave myself a stern talking to: what next? Take the law into your own hands crap? Suburban militia? The NRA? My gut, like an old, easily scared pensioner, can be so incredibly self-righteous. Note that the headline wasn’t simply implying that self-defence was acceptable in case of burglary, but that killing was ‘ok’.
(Shrunken git.)

… . I could tell A that I never want to hear from her again and that I hate her with all my might. Her and her entire family, including her ancestors going back to the thirteenth generation and their dog. (Not her friends, though; I liked her friends.) Perhaps for an infinitesimal amount of time, it’d feel good to hurt her. Not longer, though. And I would be lying. I don't like to lie.
(Lapsing twit.)

…..I knew what other job I could do. But that’s for another time.
(Procrastinating dreamer..)

Ah, if only all break ups could be conducted with such clarity...

Today’s questions:

1. Should I feel bad about calling in sick this morning?
2. Was the Armageddon in my head caused by overwork, general anxiety and or just by overwork and anxiety?
3. Is it really productive to snuggle bundled up on the sofa all day reading detective novels and eating tiramisu?
4. Isn’t it ironic that right after deciding that I’ve reached closure, I have Dreams?
5. Is there a checklist for ‘closure stages’ somewhere, and does it come with a time line?
6. Can someone please check in Cosmo and send me a copy?
7. How big a slap do I deserve for lapsing again and again?
8. How can I miss so much someone who was half the time toxic to me?
9. Is the fact that I never order take away for delivery because the doorbell makes me jump a further sign of a deep-seated neurosis?
10. What could I do for my next holidays?

That’s all. Good night.