Conflict of interests

So right now, I'm actually contemplating the appealing nature of both a short term let in an amazing sounding house, and a long term let with two nice sounding girls.Part of me is completely thrilled with the impermanence of a three month let, a sort yourslef out out, make plans, short burst of time which could feel like a holiday. What can you do in the time? How could you use this time to create something, whether it's a product, an idea, a feeling. A plan. Could it be really exciting and fresh, and the oppossite of domestic?

That's what Ir ea;l;y felt free about when I was away. I packed an excellent bag of perfect essentials which could have seen me through another 2 months of life. I had what I needed, and only 3 objects I didn't use out of about 50. I felt efficient and light, and satisfied that I carried with me all I wanted for appearance and entertainment. I didn't begrudge any object, wish I hadn't brought it, wish to send it home. I felt light and transient but mostly essential. Now I feel heavy.

I am back in the flat and objects gape out at me. REMEMBER ME. A sign from the past, a sign of your domesticity, your fake future, an imagining of a kitchen full of these ceramics which fill in the gaps. They sat in boxes for a year, waiting for their cupboards, but now the future is turned upside they have no purpose. They don't look beautiful and they don't work well. They are mashed, collected versions of a cossetted existence that is now void. They are souvenirs.

But I still am attached to them somehow. Boxing them up for a car boot sale, I wonder of a new house which collects Cadbury's bits, and how "I used to have some of those!" but I gave them away for my new existence, they didn't fit, or I skimmed where I shouldn't have. How many teapots do I need? Do things mean more if I found them, or if they were gifts? Does my broken, now severely impeded teapot go to the bin? Will I ever think about her if I don't use the teapot ever again? Am I even thinking about her when I burn my fingers on the stupid handle-less thing, or just how sad I feel that it fell out of the car on it's first trip outside in nearly twenty years?

A heaviness again. I cultivated a lightness away, and now it is buried under heavy clouds of indecision, confusion and cluelessness. I can feel the stress arms creeping back. Do I go for the scariest option? When I didn't know whether to steal away, it was the scariest option, the most exciting, the most unimaginable. That is the way taking a short let feels. I see him sitting on a rather orange creosoted fence, saying, moving twice in three months?? Twice?? Urgh, that sounds like a bit, you know. And then my own voice realises the argument is actually made up, my wariness is biting me. What would happen if I did the most scary thing?

Third person

Bloody hell everything is like MEMORY, everything, a song, a date, a cup, christ make it stop. I got back yesterday and I hadn't actually written anything for the whole of Germany, and I'm not really feeling liek I need to now. I am quite clear of mind on focused on ACTION but then these memories are like SLAM and I've got my frigging stress arms on again!?! Where did they spring from??

Anyway, having a declutter, really I don't need a melon baller, and I seem to have a rather large ratio of knives to other items of cutlery, and a penchant for them,,and wondering if that means anything. My 5ml Nigella spoon is missing and I want it back. What do I get rid of? What do you need in your life? Like a set of everything so if I was displaced in a country kitchen like the barn cottage (FUCK!) that I will never go to again, I could exist with this set of essential possestions. I can't even bloody spell, I've not missed typing I don't think. Possess. Possessions. There we go. So many people asked me when I was away 'do you speak English', like after I'd done a sentence, and I was like 'yes?'. But I'd not spoken at length for about four days so I'm sorry I've forgotten what to do.

I must have stopped thinking in Sweden? I don't know. I was just being. I was too busy in Germany to have thoughts and write them. Too busy to be having epiphanies. Or too busy having epiphanies to notice. Can one have multiple epiphanies? Or is that akin to being very unique? ANyway, when I spoke in France, it actually became easier, because I wasn't locked in my English head, oh oh, how to I, back up, and word it in French, and then speak it in French, oh. More like, I'm making communication here, I want you to know I'm saying this, in this country, so I will say it in your words. That was quite fun, though my French is AWFUL in sound. That would come in practice.

Anyway I am going to go and continue the sort and maybe my words will return soon and I will want to blog. But I actually just enjoyed writing to myself, and thinking about the next stage, rather than just pointless payless blogging and it's third person narrative disease. Bleugh.