Tuesday, 28 April 2009


I've never done this before.I've poured myself a glass of red wine to help me work. Oh my god. I don't even like wine. But right now I like it more than I like everything else. I just sat down there and thought, what else do I want to do right now, and I didn't even want to procrastinate. I wanted to cry a bit, but mostly I just wanted to scream and be able to work. So I had a sing (I can't) and then put some music on to distract my thoughts.

I did just procrastinate for an hour, but then I was at work for 8 hours so I needed to get my self back. Cooking's the thing. Muesli, prune(?!) flapjack, pancakes in two courses, a production sourdough starter and tomorrow's lunch. Not bad. But bad. Oh God look at my sentences. They are short. They reflect the synapses. Times like this are when people step back and go, no this can't be real, we can't ACTUALLY be at war, we can't ACTUALLY be in a flu pandemic from frigging pigs of all things, I can't ACTUALLY have got this haircut, CHRIST. You step back from it and it's almost like it's not even you you're watching, if it was someone else you would snigger and say to yourself, what a stupid haircut, blue, WTF, who gets that, I'm glad that's not me, but, well it is me. I am running this show. This shit is my fault. It's me stepping back the way I have for years, no thanks, I shalln't try, I'll stay wallowing here, thanks.

So the woman came in again today, and I tried to convey to her the weirdness but she was crammed on table 1 and I was overseeing her and we couldn't communicate. I had a more condensed thought of the same, why am I here, how did I remove twice from my originality, how did I get here, no wonder this is hard. No wonder I am blocked. I should be a nail technician. Or the manager of Jigsaw. But no, I will be cocky, think I'm great, I'm better, I'm here, but when the evidence is lacking, here I am again lost behind and bedraggled. Nail technician not looking so bad. Hairdresser. Manager of DKNY in the Mailbox. Christ.

It's about what you want to say. And yes this is hard after a day spent talking to strangers about the differences between nutty and dark cherry and butterscotch(y) tongue-tingle(y). Yes, really it does, honest, buy some, it's CRAZY. I can't get me back after a day of Work. I don't work well. I float well. When I float well I feel alive like Pipilotti's character with the red hot poker, LA LA LAAAA, smashing the car windows, LA LA LAAAA, glass over my feet but WHATEVER...I am FREEEEEE. When I don't float, I am working. I am operating well in a constrained system where I sweep coffee grinds into a red dustpan and snip labels so they don't trail into the beans. I change the outside bin, I file the coffee count sheet into a file with it's holes not really punched that central. I stack cups with the handles at 22.5minutes past, I keep the sink grime free. I let the plates steam dry. I talk in fabricated adjectives and do these tasks to the best they can be done and I forget me. I am a cog. But like, at least I feel grateful that it's not Coffee Union, right. But still, tempting this creative side back out, the chronic goes against the new. It jars and makes me want to throw stuff.

Ideas also go stale. You think about an outfit for 8 weeks and won't want to wear it by then. It's my own fault, I don't know what I was waiting for. Perhaps something better. The institution puts a timescale on greatness, the deadline is a pinnacle, a sample of the cumulative greatness of Me. I can't believe I fell for the institution again, why not do the idea right as it was real and exciting and new, not hang around waiting for some green light. So that's one glass of wine and nothing yet done. At that point when it's go to bed for today or have another go at it.

Another glass of wine on the desk. And some prune flapjack. Winey sourey revelationary(y)

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