Wednesday, 15 July 2009

I'm scrabbling around on the internet, looking for a welcome home, how was your day, hug, acknowledgment of my reality, someone to talk to about my stress arms. Email is faceless information swapping, facebook is faceless commentary, neither are what I'm looking for, yet I'm still looking.

A empty house. Mismatched schedules. Perpetual non reward. The house doesn't care if I've had a hard day, if I got told off for weeing too many times, that I had that 'I;m listening to myself talk and I sound stupid' moment a gazillion times, that I'm worried I have an infection. The house doesn't care about my reality, and it makes me feel homeless. Home is where the heart is, mine is shriveled, I'd say say sitting back into my stomach slightly. It's nowhere near my brain, and the work feels physically and mentally difficult.

If there was a Wikipedia entry for 'Stress arms', it would also say "see 'Vodka arms' and 'Caffeine arms' ". It's the same feeling, a buzzing through the veins downwards from the biceps through the top elbows, the forearms, collecting in the wrists, unable to be released from the tops of hands, fizzy fingers, then surging back to the elbow joint. I feel it heavy on the wrists and top forearms, it buzzes and they aren't quite sure what the message means. I'm stressed? What do I do about it?

"The failure of a human or animal to respond appropriately to emotional or physical threats to the organism, whether actual or imagined."

This project has become a symbol of my inability. It has grown into an opposite meaning to that which it exists. It isn't provoking creativity, but stillness and fear. This post is very dull but I'm just trying to get writing out. Bluh.

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