A Date With The Ex

So I text the Ex today and we make a date to catch up. After work. Which is like after 9. And we meet in front of Ronnie Q's and I have some dinner in this tiny, noisy little burger joint which seems to be trendy (well,it's full anyway) which is not a patch on MyBurgerLab, and then we repair to The Talk for a drink. Kind of ironic because the first time we met was at The Talk. He was an analyst. I was a journalist. And I was taking him out for a drink. Because we used to fete analysts. He came in and saw me and instead of saying hi, walked right past me, sat inside, ordered a beer, and sweated profusely. Because he's an introverted (not shy, but introverted, there's a difference, as he takes pains to explain to me today, having stumbled upon some research on introverts).

"I was looking up how to turn an introvert into an extrovert and came across this research and...I feel so explained...like someone finally understood me!"

But that's not what he wants to talk about. Well, not all of what he wants to talk about. Basically he wants to catch me up on the past eight months. So he does. As I masticate my way through a not untasty (though not crash out either) burger, he catches me up. First, the living situation. When he went back, he was effectively homeless...house sat for a month, and then lived with a church member for six weeks and then was offered a room in the Rectory until the new Rector was appointed. And what happened there. A manipulator, a wrongdoing, him putting his foot down, she forming a team (a la Survivor) and managing to get him kicked out.

He quit the church.

The Ex doesn't understand people who allow wrongdoing to take place under their nose and don't say anything. He's starts to splutter incoherently as I gaze at him, sad, but stony-eyed.

"What did you expect? You went against her. Of course she was going to do something about it? Did you think she would just sit there and take it?"

People's bad behaviour never surprises me. It's like, of course, that was exactly what she was going to do. She's evil and that's what evil people do. If you want to go to war with an evil person, well, you'll either have to be very Zen about it, or out-Evil them. Otherwise...

He nods and goes on talking. Now it's the work situation. Again, here, no matter how hard he tries, no matter how perfect he is for the position, something always happens at the eleventh hour to pull the rug from under his feet. I sigh and feel even sadder. He deserves a break. Some break. The only thing I can hang on to now, is that maybe all this is happening for a reason, maybe something much much better is in store.

And I sip my sweet white wine and I feel something inside me relax. I don't realise how tense I am and how much I hold it in. It's automatic. I can't afford to...

And then the Ex asks me how I've been.

And I tell him. About the Mum. About the death. About the one and a half months in JB. About everything and I am alarmed to find myself tearing up. I, who didn't cry (well, not much) when it was right in front of me, happening.

He looks alarmed. And so I go for the bare bones of the story...and he nods, understanding.

"She was your anchor."

"Yeah, I guess she was. Nothing seems real now."

He continues to look stricken and stops telling me anything more about the shenanigans in Australia. Now he's focussed on...and I wish he wasn't because all I want to do is break down. I want to cry for her. And for all that I've lost. But I can't. Not here. Not in front of him.

My heart has been heavy all day.

And now, it's just about ready to burst.

Well, it's time to go. We pay up. Actually, he does. Even without a job, and not much money, he insists.

I tell him I need to find some place to live. He asks about the dogs. I say, they'll probably still live with my father. Or we would put them to sleep. But I need to start my life. Which has been in a holding pattern for so long now.

And he says: "Do you know what you want to do with the rest of your life?"

"Find a place to live. Start from there."

And he nods again.

And follows me to my car. I drop him off at his.

There's something different about the Ex. The last time I met him, he was so lost. Now he seems to have found himself, remembered who he is. He seems more assured and positive.

All good things.

I hope things work out for him. We'll probably stay in touch.

Once a year, twice a year, it's still "in touch".

The Rest Of My Life

The remaining parent looks at me and sighs: "I can't keep holding this space for you. I have to die sometime. Probably sometime soon. Don't feel like I have much life left in me."

It's true, I know. But it makes me feel scared and pressured. Get on with the rest of your life, he's saying. I've been hiding out here. I don't suppose I can hide out much longer.

I think I'm probably one of those people who end up in little hovels surrounded by a heap of cats. They're with me for the food but I pretend they're with me for company. Or love. Except that cats don't love. They just feel contempt. But I'm used to contempt by now. So I can keep company with contempt. It's OK.

I know I need to make a start to figuring out the rest of my life. I've been huddled in this corner, dry retching and the people who pass by, they stop and pat my head kindly and tell me everything is going to be OK.

I shoot them a look sometimes.

Don't they realise that nothing has ever been all right and nothing ever will?

I love my job. That's about the one good thing I have going.

I love my friends. Some of them.

I love my dog. One of them.

But I hate the rest of my life.

Maybe I'll wake up early and figure it out tomorrow.

Surving the 3ams

I feel so sad. It's 3am, my darkest time, maybe not just me. So I need you to light a candle and watch while I sleep. Because when I have no strength left, I lean on yours.

And I have no strength left right now.

And the world will be a better place

It's past eight and I'm still at the office. It's been a while since I stayed late. Not so bad, really. I managed to toss off an interlude, which I had intended to write anyway, but which was largely a reaction to an article I read today. An article written, I think, to be deliberately provocative. And like lemmings, we shared it, we commented on it, we flamed the writer.

So what if she deserved it?

We spent a good chunk of the very precious time allotted to us, dumping on someone too dumb to know any better. I mean, if that was the attitude we had taken, that would have been OK. Instead, we got personal. At least, I did.

I feel ashamed now. I really have to get over this whole "subhumanising" people.

Anna told me the writer was eccentric. Like me. At one wedding dinner she apparently told this inoffensive guy who was quietly eating his dinner that the mole on his face was in an unfortunate position and it meant that he wouldn't live to see his grandchildren. Or possibly, his children. In short, that he would die. Soon.

Out of nowhere to a stranger.

Oh dear. Was I like that?

Just Saturday, I told Mark that he would make someone a good wife. Make that, a good trophy wife.

So uncalled for. I will apologise today. Although it was said in fun, and there was a good deal of alcohol thrown into the picture that led to a boisterousness above the usual alcohol-induced boisterousness, that was still...unkind.

And my living quarters have deteriorated into scary proportions. Most times I just run away somewhere, anywhere, so I don't have to face it. And then I return, and slump on the sofa so I can avoid what I have to avoid.

Avoidance is my middle name. That and Denial (which is not a river in Egypt).

Maybe I'm just tired.

Maybe it's because I have no idea what's in store.

Maybe because where I stand right now, the road ahead seems dark and forbidding and I am not sure what tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow will bring.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Are you there?

Do you hear me?

Are you seeing what I'm saying?

I think you're seeing what I'm saying.

Easy As Sunday Morning

I finally finished Cheryl Strayed's Torch. I decided that to heck with it,  I'm a gonna at least finish one book. So I did. And while at first I kept consciously comparing the story to what she had revealed in Wild it gradually took on a life of its own.

I didn't love it the way I'd loved Wild (or else I shouldn't have taken so long to read it) but it was good. It didn't kill me to finish it.

Have done almost nothing the entire weekend other than hang on the phone and sleep at odd hours so I think maybe today I'll sleep at a decent time.

The dogs remain unbathed, although that should have been a priority since I found ticks on Arnold (he's here with me resting dreamily on the meditation mat that I never use for its stated purpose) while Elliott is outside,  tied up as a punishment for running away and not coming back when called.

Chubs is here with us as some piping problem dislodged his floor tiles so suddenly that it almost seemed like poltergeist activity and if that were not bad enough,  some guy in a four wheel drive hit his car from behind. Twice.

So he's camping out here for the moment. Uncle Solomon who descended on us unannounced for the weekend left this morning. Yesterday we all had a trip to the bookstore and despite the fact that I still have a ton of unread books, I bought a bunch more. Ivan bought two. The Unkley, one.

We also picked up some pants Chubs had tailored at a suit tailor here. Only half a year late. He was supposed to have picked them up in January. But then life intervened and he forgot all about them. When he tried them on they fitted perfectly and were, if anything,  on the loose side. His recent bout of dengue shaving off a cool 6 kilos.

We looked at possible wedding suits. The style now seems to be more fitted. Chubs thought that September's a good time to start the process. He liked a bright blue silk shirt but not much else.

I was supposed to catch up with some people over the weekend but I didn't. I have spent it completely vegged out.

I am useless without a proper to-do list.

So maybe I'll sit down and write one out now.

Morning meeting tomorrow.

And loads of questions to send out, an interview to finish transcribing and two more stories to write.

And there's the Maybank buka puasa in the heart of the city at rush hour. And maybe Marking after if I feel up to it.

Alone?  Yeah no plans to meet anyone tomorrow and no gang.

Sometimes we must go alone if we are to write letters.

The natural tears seem to be working. Dry eyes are less dry. Which is a very good thing.

Later for you.

Losing Time

Nothing is like I thought it would be. When your mother dies, the pain should be sharp and clear and focussed. It should be ever-present. It should be filled with regret, at the things you did not do, at what she had to suffer, at how long she was alone, in that condition, at the fact that she drove herself to hospital when she was having a heart attack, at the fact that you didn't just move in with her way way before, so you could have done something, helped her...

Instead, it's like my mind has split into a million shards; each separate and distinct from the other. I pick up a book, I put it down. I pile books next to my broken bookshelf, the one she broke, the one I yelled at her for breaking, the one I will never forgive myself for yelling at her for breaking. I wrote this in the letter I put in her coffin.

And then, there was nothing. Her body removed from the house, buried in that plot, piled with stones and flowers.

Her spirit absent in a way that beggars description.

I always thought I would feel her here around me somehow. Someone who was so present could never be this absent.

But was she?

Hadn't she spent all those years dying? Trying desperately to hold on, as she grew weaker and weaker, everything hurting and yet worrying about us, not letting go, praying her "Prayers of Power" for all the things that could go wrong, did go wrong.

And after it all, it was like she had been dead for years.

All those years she spent dying; all those years she had been alive; all those years.

And I just wanted to get away. Selfish, self-contained, not wanting to be around anyone who reminded me of this great big nothingness that had grown up inside me. This great big emptiness that has always been at the centre of me. Except now I touch its edges, I dive into the hollow black.

And I'm dead.

But like her, I pretend to be alive.

Except that I'm not doing such a great job. I keep forgetting stuff. Like to request a photographer for an important interview until it's too late. Like calling a friend to tell her, I made the appointment she was so insistent I make...that I couldn't come with her, but please, this is the address, if you really need to, go yourself, and deal with whatever you have to deal with and tell me afterwards. After I have painfully strung together words, racing against deadline, except that I race like a snail, a tortoise, a worm...thoughts scattered as the spawn of Satan, without agency, without urgency, without interest.

I keep losing time.

I look around and it's an hour later.

And then two hours.

And then three.

I shrug helplessly and go on contemplating the dust stacked in corners, the absurd mess I live in the midst off.

I need to gather, to arrange, to focus. And I will. Tomorrow. Maybe. Write a to-do list. Forget what I was going to say midway. Let the notebook fall from my hand. Send out the questions I was supposed to send out last week, or the week before. Maybe. To whom? I've forgotten.

Pick up that darn book again. Maybe today I'll finish it instead of picking up another one and another and another because my mind floats outside my body and my eyes, my dry eyes refuse to focus on anything.

And God, the sky is empty and my mother is gone and you?

And God, I wish I could come home to me again. I can't go home to home again because when she left, my home blew up, shattered, and most days I don't remember this, and most days I don't cry, and most days I'm not even sad.

And most days I feel nothing...and maybe that's preferable to the dark that hasn't penetrated any of the layers I've sewn up around me.

People are kind. They love me. I try to love them. But when you're a shadow, you can't love. There is nothing in you to hook a feeling and make it real. Do you know what I'm saying? Do you? Do you?

Do you understand?

Sometimes I Forget to Smile

Look, I've got everything in place
My feelings safely locked away
in the heart of a glacier
I gaze stony-eyed ahead

So...

Please don't chip away
at the ice
and don't look at me
with those eyes

Don't try to look
into my soul
Stop excavating this crater,
this hole

Let me function
pretend you believe
I'm really all right

Because sometimes
the façade crumbles
the mask slips
And I forget to smile.

Because You Matter

The goodbye we never said
bleeds into the cadaverous silence
There are no echoes...

When I was done fighting
with the voices in my head
I looked around for you
but you were gone.

You disappeared silently
and I didn't see
Where are you now?
I don't know.

So I look for you
but the road is dark
I listen for you
but the phone is silent
I reach for you
but my arms are empty.

So I'm writing this
because you matter
you've always mattered
because I care
I've always cared.

And I'm sorry
So sorry
I let you go
And I'm sorry
So sorry
I didn't say...

Goodbye.

Not Normal

If you ask me for something right now, it's possible I won't be able to give it to you. Truth is, I'm tired. Truth is, I'm so weary of pretending that I'm OK, that everything is OK, and this is how it should be and I couldn't care less. Maggot hasn't returned. And how is life supposed to continue as normal, when you don't know, when you can't see, when you didn't say goodbye?

Conspiracy theories

Are we the conspiracy theory generation? Is the stuff that appears to be happening all around us just as it is, or are there dark, hidden undercurrents to everything? I feel like I've been cursed with a lens that can only see drama and bad intentions and real, real evil.

I was once innocent. If you told me something, no matter how ridiculous or improbable, I would take it at face value, never sifting it to see if it actually could have happen, never noting timelines (well, actually I did note timelines, but if the timelines clashed, if your story didn't seem to work out, it didn't matter, I ignored the discrepancies).

And then she told me, he said, only Jenn would believe something ridiculous like that. She said it and I crumbled inside. First, at being so stupid. And second, at them laughing at me for being so stupid. And when I readjusted the lens, suddenly everything made sense. Looking at horrible people with the proper lens, you could see quite clearly, when they lied, why they lied, how everything was a performance, nothing was real.

It becomes difficult after a while, when you're surrounded by these liars, to know what to believe. The kindest you can be, is to to tell yourself that they don't mean to do it, they're simply lying to themselves. But the more sensible explanation would be, they're being manipulative because it is easy to manipulate you. Trusting shouldn't be blind. Not when you feel the contempt coming from the other side.

One of our dogs is missing. He ran away. Except that he doesn't run away. Not him. He pushed his way out just before a storm, another thing he doesn't do. And then he never came back. Him, who doesn't run very far. Who is too scared to go out when the sky lowers and starts to thunder.

Who did this to him? What call did he hear to force him out? Who is to blame?

We blame ourselves of course. We didn't love him enough. We didn't show him enough affection. He felt nobody wanted him. We all feel the guilt. And guilt does funny things. It makes you suspect things. It makes you create stories in your mind. It makes you look at people funny.

Under all that is the sheer heartbreak of thinking he may be somewhere, suffering, scared, lonely, in pain.

It's the uncertainty that kills you.

It's the uncertainty that always kills you.

I wish there were some way of knowing what happened.

I try to tell myself that I'm being ridiculous to suspect what I suspect.

But I still go on suspecting it.

In the meantime I won't waste my time or energy hating you. Every bit of intention is aimed at my dog. I'll go on praying for him and loving him.

Muslin Thoughts

It's been a long time, but I feel like updating this blog again. I guess it comes in waves, the blogs we update, especially when we've been polygamous blog-wise.

As my regular readers (all none of them) would note, from you I have been absent in the Spring. I don't know what that means, I just like saying it.

I am supposed to finish two stories now. I have transcribed both of them. Instead, I took off to Starbucks for a hot chocolate and muffin and a perusal of Woman In White by Wilkie Collins (I started, and you know when you start this, you cannot bear to put it down).

Among other things I have developed a taste for Pakeeza's fish curry. I stumbled upon it by accident as it's not one of the things I would normally get from there. Dadda asked me to bring him curry (sambar, yuck!) and there was a jam all the way to the Section 11 collection of Indian restaurants (OK, PJ Hills and Pandey's) and so I decided to go to Pakeeza instead. I got fish curry to go along with a dhal (the dhal was a bad idea) and when I came to eat my share of it with white rice, I was blown away. I mean it was so good, I could have gone on eating indefinitely. Instead, I left a portion for my father and finished my meal determining that this would not be the last time I went to Pakeeza to get fish curry. It wasn't. I bought the same thing, only a whole lot more of it, two days later.

I am still not recovered. My lungs feel like some ravelled sleave of care. Coughing interrupts my nights. I feel worn out in the mornings. And then I fall asleep and sleep soundly way past when. I'm at work now and I feel tired. It's like this illness has left its stamp on me, for better or worse.

Instead of finishing the two stories I am supposed to, I feel like going home, having some tea, having some rice and leftover fish curry, reading my book and going early to bed.

To sleep, perchance to cough.

Ay, there's the rub.

For in that cough of death, what dreams may come...

No Family

She's rocking her baby, crooning softly, bone tired but too wired to sleep. The cousin called again. Her mother is looking for her. Wants to see the baby. When he told her, she burst into imprecations.

No. Never! I told you. Never!

I think she wants to make up, Lynn, she just wants to know you're alright.

Yes, I'm sure she does. That's why she kicked me out when I was pregnant. What did she think? That I'd get rid of the baby? That I'd come crawling back? That I need her?

And she begins to cry.

Hush, says the cousin. Hush. I won't give her your number. Don't worry. I just thought you should know she was looking for you. She may show up at the hospital.

If she does, I'll know how to deal with her. And she hangs up.

She holds the precious bundle to her chest. This baby, hard won. This baby that she had alone. No father. He's married and he really didn't want to know. No grandmother. No grandfather (he's dead). No uncles and aunts. (They pulled away - sort out your own mess, we're so sick of this)

None of them thought she could do this. None of them.

You see baby, my mother never loved me. Not like she loved the other two. I was third. A spare. My father lost his money when I was born. In Indian families, they link one thing to another. So I was "bad luck". He was too proud to tell anyone, too proud to beg. So we starved. I was three and I still remember being hungry. Crying for food. My mother shutting me up. There was no food.

And then he died. I remember the house being full of people. I was excited. There was food. I ate. And suddenly everyone knew. Everyone knew just how poor we were. They came forward to help. The destitute widow and her three helpless children. They helped but they made us understand that we were supposed to be so grateful. I hated them. I hated her. If someone were to give me something she would stop them. She has enough, my mother would say. Don't spoil her, my mother would say.

My sister loved me. She tried to protect me. She would give me things, buy me food, clothes. But then she got married and disappeared into another family. And then I was alone again.

And baby, when I met your father, I thought he loved me. I was so empty inside. I didn't know what love was. You taught me that. You taught me what love is.

They wanted me to get rid of you. A married man, Lynn what were you thinking. You're a doctor, you don't know what happens when a man and a woman have sex without protection? Not even a condom?

But you see, it wasn't like that. It wasn't clinical. It was passionate and unplanned and I loved him and I thought he loved me. And you, I refused to let you go. I wanted you so much.

They thought you were dispensable.

And I could always have another.

And that's why baby, as far as you're concerned, in fact, as far as we're both concerned, I'm an orphan.

You'll never meet my family.

I have no family.

A Kind of Hush

It's late and I can't sleep. I stare at my body stretched out in front of me and think, strange, I don't fit this anymore. I clench my fists and feel my nails dig into my palms. It hurts but the pain doesn't make me real.

Nothing does.

I'm half in, half out.

I'm here and not here.

I breathe and don't breathe.

It's me.

Who's me?

And so I drop down, out of the bed, and stroke my little dog, curled up in his little pink bed. Arnold is asleep. He lifts his paw in supplication. Please let me sleep.Touching him doesn't make me real.

Tight curled ball. Asleep.

But I'm awake.

Wide awake.

Words swirl.

Like snow.

Everywhere.

Nowhere.

It's the silent watches of the night. (Hush) Heads on pillows.

 I've disappeared.

But I don't know where.

The body lies awake.

What body?

My Hand Closes Over Nothing

They say I've lost it, and I tell them, I know, I have. But we're talking about different things. I shuffle along the street, head bowed, as if in deep conversation, and people pass me on either side, stepping away because they think I look...my lips move, I'm forming words and I know you're walking beside me.

Sometimes the pain is quiet, and I just talk to you, tell you about my day and how it felt when they put the pickles in my sandwich, and what the floor feels like under my bare feet and why the dog looks at me and turns away.

I walk at night because there are less eyes. And I can talk to you without them staring, except that sometimes I forget, I'm too loud and they peep over their gates to listen.

I can't help it. I miss you. There is still so much I have to say to you.

Sometimes I feel you brush past and I reach out. But my hand closes over nothing.

It's these times that are the hardest. Just when I got used to not having you here, your shadow fell across my face and I reached out.

It's then, my darling, that my body screams. It pushes this broken voice through my throat, an animal pain, and it screams and screams until my throat is left in bloody tatters.

They come for me then. Closing in from all sides. I don't bother to run. I don't feel them shove me, hold me down, hold me to the ground.

The mad woman, they say. Can't we do something about her, they say.

And my body keeps screaming.

So I run away. I run. I keep on running. I reach out for you to hold my hand to pull me forward.

I reach out my hand but it closes over nothing.

You're still not there.

The other day, I saw something that reminded me of you. It was a puddle of water, floating over mud and I saw the moon's bright face reflected in it.

I couldn't help it. I knelt down and drank. I drank. I drank. Mud. Salt. Blood. I drank.

And they surrounded me again.

And a little child said, poor thing Mummy, the mad woman must be thirsty. Can we give her some water?

But then I didn't hear anything more, because my body started to scream.

Nobody can make out what I scream.

But it's your name, it's always your name.

It tears through my me like a siren and it keeps tearing through me until there's nothing left.

Death should not happen so slowly.

I keep waiting for you to take my hand. But you're still not there.

And so I keep walking, hoping that someday, I will reach out, my hand will close over something, and then I won't be there anymore.

The Rest Of My Life

Sometimes it is just a matter of getting over it. Retentive feelings are all very well for Anne Elliot and with her, they worked. If they hadn't she would have died alone. Sad and brokenhearted and half a person.

But tomorrows have been surprising me. I found that no matter how difficult, it is always possible to get through today. If you focus on just getting through this moment, this minute, the next five minutes, suddenly it's tomorrow.

And tomorrows can be surprising.

For years now, birthdays have been something to endure and get through.

This year, the year I turned 40, it was special. It was a conglomeration of things - the people, the presents, the effort behind it, the food. My sister Jackie coming here and doing her best. Also Simon. Also Ivan. Even Julie whom I no longer speak to, staying back in KL and taking care of the dogs.

Arnold is sick again. That wound by the side of his head acting up. She's taking him to the vet.

I've never fought for anything worth fighting for. I've never achieved anything I can look back and be proud of. And I don't want to be scared anymore. I want to work towards something, build something, be proud of something.

That's my wish.

For this year. And the rest of my life.

When My Life Needs A Spring Cleaning...

...the first thing I get rid is you.

It amazes me that some people make a lot of effort to reconnect (when I don't want to, rightly considering them vexations to the spirit, the kind that Max Ehrmann told us to avoid, who will annoy me terribly some time down the road) and then, voila, what do you know...they live down to expectations.

You're probably saying I shouldn't have had those expectations in the first place, right? That it was a self-fulfilling prophecy? Or that I should have just stuck to my guns and ignored the begging, grovelling apologetic letter and just blocked all access and addresses?

Never mind.

These kind of things help to strengthen my resolve.

So it's going to be delete and block on Facebook.

And root out emails over here and put email address on the block list.

That should do for now.

Life is short. I don't need these type of bastards in it.

Tears From The Stars

On and on the rain will say, how fragile we are...

A friend is sick. Real sick. Going for surgery. He called to tell me and I felt something inside contract.

But letting go is part of life,
And death comes to all,
Love cannot brook it,
Life cannot resist it,
Nothing can.
Death comes in the end.

He may not die. He's still young. But he sounded so tired on the phone. Not this again. Just when I thought I had it beat. Not this. Oh please, not this again.

We grow weary of fighting. Sometimes we just want to lie down and get it over with. Sometimes we just want it all to be over. So much pain, so much suffering...to what end?

We fight our way up to touch some proverbial mountain top, to gather the icy stars, to rest in comfort for a while, here at the end of all things, looking down on vistas, looking down on clouds, feeling serenity.

But in the hushed oblivion, who do we see? What do we feel?

I sit here, pointless as always, trying to frame a sentence that makes sense, trying to count shares, trying to ask if any of this means anything to anyone.

I disappear into uncertainty. I thrash around for a bit trying to get out. And then I sigh. Give up. Allow myself to fall. Be carried off by the tides.

There is sorrow in the offing tomorrow.

There is the blasted light filtering through the cracks.

There is the smile of the Cheshire cat which fades slowly until it's just a memory, a gleam of teeth.

And as they turn to look back at you, one last goodbye.

Only, you didn't know it was goodbye.

You couldn't have known.

On and on and on and on and on and on...

The Thing That Lies Underneath

Wow. My last post was at the beginning of this month. Way to go in terms of a long, long time between posts. Most of the time I've felt pretty crummy and a failure...as it becomes more and more obvious that I don't belong here.

Trying too hard is trying too hard. It does not equate with getting anywhere.

For everyone else this whole deal seems to be effortless. When was it effortless for me? Surely there was a time I could remember generating stories. I remember going for networking events and meeting people. I remember going all out and enjoying it.

Now I sit in an office and stew. I don't seem to do much. Just stew.

I have been asked to dust off my CV.

It's just one of those things. In the road to nowhere, you always wish you had already arrived. Right now, I don't know where to go, which direction to take and I trip myself by trying to go in two directions at one.

There is the thing.

And the thing that lies beneath the semblance of the thing.

The thing that lies underneath.

Free, Free, Set Them Free

I'm at work now (but of course, where else?) and I've just finished my first piece on warrants (it was hard and I hardly understood what I was doing and the nice deputy editor took my hand, walked me through it and made a few suggestions so I end the night feeling a little less like a piece of crap than I did earlier). Everyone else had given in their fixtures and I was just...just...well I forgot I had warrants to do. Why couldn't they give me a coffee break? I would have rocked that, no problem. Because I like talking about nothing in particular. Only rules, it has to be vaguely economic, and make you laugh.

So there.

We talked the down market till we were blue in the face.

Technical correction today but the mood is still sombre.

And so, two days ago, I heard in my head this little voice from more than 20 years ago...and it said...Jennifer, you forgot to wish me....and it was said in a sweet hopeful tone. What did I do? Bear that I was, just down for breakfast I bit her head off. And got (rightly so) mauled by my Mom for doing it. And then I called her upstairs and presented her with the presents I said I didn't buy and the little thing was happy again. (I have much to answer for)

I have been thinking lately about how much shit in my life is my fault. And how when I do something wrong, I'm not just content to leave it but I have to take it, worry it and make it worse.

And how many relationships I have dropped hand grenades on. Nuclear power. Explode!

I feel guilty and I know that guilt is not a positive emotion, I mean it doesn't build you up, doesn't DO anything...doesn't repair anything.

And so I picked up a piece that I had worked on, on and off, for about 15 years. Nicely framed. And I couldn't, just couldn't bring myself to give it to her. Not after what's happened. Not after we've become worse than strangers.

I feel tired now. And I woke up feeling sick.

And everybody's cigarette smoke keeps getting in my eyes, my throat, my lungs...and I cough and cough and sneeze and sneeze.

And my Arnold boy is back in hospital because the pus was building up again the two holes had closed up. Now they punctured him again. This time the holes are bigger...but the infection runs so deep.

He's happy when he sees me and he wants me to take him home. I didn't go play with him today cos I was at work. And I feel sad and guilty about it while reminding myself that there are no positive attributes to guilt...it's just ugly and painful.

I keep hearing these words over and over in my head:

Your love is a cage.

And I wonder who is saying it to me. Is it Arnold? Is it Mark? Is it one of my friends?

My love is a cage. So how do I open it?

Re-organising My Life

You know what I was doing yesterday? I was refiling my journals in a box I had bought for the purpose. Basically my filing cabinet is imploding under pressure. And refiling journals from so many years (OK there are some serious gaps in 2006 and 2007, bad years, bad years all round) is fun.

I found an excerpt, a story I wrote that I thought I would post here but basically, I lost it again, shuffling around and organising my 20 or so journals.

I am redoing my room. I figure if I organise the space a little better it would be less likely to descend into chaos in just a week. My desk is covered in stuff. My side table is covered in stuff. My dressing table is covered in stuff.

Clearly what I need, as Sheldon would put it, is a new organisational paradigm.

So on Saturday (or was it Sunday?) I went out and bought two Ikea type boxes. So I could transfer my journals and my cards/wrapping paper/present stuff from my overstuffed filing cabinet. So far, as you know, I've only transferred the journals. But even sorting that out was a huge victory. Maybe today I'll transfer the cards and all. That should be fun. Am wondering whether to put those filing inserts to separate old cards from new cards and fresh wrapping paper etc in the box. The problem with putting those separations in is that I then can't close the box...so the fancy box cover goes to waste.

Anyway, that's not all I did over the weekend. I also went and ordered a cupboard and a single bed. I figure with a single bed, I'd have more room to maneuver in the room. And once it's come and I've dismantled the clunky double bed, donated the mattress to some charitable cause and sent the frame to Addy who asked for it for her guest bedroom, I have space for another bookshelf (I always stand in need of bookshelves.

And I've ordered a new wardrobe. The one I have is falling apart so I am giving it up and moving on up, wardrobe-wise. It would be nice to finally have something that finally fits all my clothes and allows me to separate home/out/work (work being the important bit).

I interviewed my friend Theresa about decluttering and she told me about how she decided some 18 months ago, not to buy a single additional piece of clothing (underclothing and shoes not included in this ban because they tend to wear out), a single book or any of those accessories such as earrings, which she used to be addicted to. I will be featuring the interview on my other blog, The Bright Side, when I do a decluttering week, which should be coming up very soon. In fact, she put a box in her closet and everytime she decided she would not be wearing a piece of clothing, it would go into the box, and when the box was full, she would load it in the car and drive to TMC where she would dump it in one of those "for charity" recycling bins. Likewise with books. As for papers, she allocated a day a week when she would go through her mail, file what was necessary and run everything else through her newly purchased paper-shredder. The shredded paper would similarly be stuffed in one of those paper recycling bins and could also be used as stuffing whenever she wanted to pack anything.

The sum total of this was a great feeling of well-being.

There are the pack rats and there are the minimalists. I guess I'm somewhere in between, because I do get sentimental about certain things and when I'm in one of my spring cleaning modes and give them away, I pine for them some years down the road when I suddenly remember.

So I guess one of the purchases that I will have to add would be a memory box. Although I'd be pretty fussy about what qualifies for it.

I guess I would like to be a little (make that a lot) more organised. My life is truly, "pieces of paper, that I'll get back to later..." and it seems to be about scrambling week to week to make the quota and avert crises, rather than having some plan as to how I am going to tackle said week, with equanimity.

I wanted to update this because it's been a while and the last time I wrote here I was spiralling downwards and guess what...I hit rock bottom, stayed there for a while and then started the long descent out.

Life is what you make of it.

And suicide is no longer an option.