Blogging at the party beacuse I don't know anyone here to Talk to

I am sad and eating Forrero Rochers at my own party. My friends have left and everyone here I have know a mere month. I played an hour of my iTunes secretly knowing it's time was the seventeenth of January two thousand and nine, in a kitchen which appreciated it and I thought I wanted more but in fact everyone was off the scale and crazy on it and it couldn't get better. I played the same songs in a room full of people with zero histories and it didn't make sense. It was stale ironic. It was old signs and older signifier.

I feel sad that he is two miles away. I feel incredibly sad about that, incredibly sad. Two miles away, a lifetime. Fuck off you didn't work and I displaced you without your consent, and now I'm two miles away and it could be 1500, same thing, zero care. But I just can't fucking shake it. What is this new life, so far it is fresh and new and non-historical, by default. It feels flimsy and unsupported and unplanned. I am pleasantly no-one; I am new and ready to be designed.

I am sad they couldn't come to the party, I was usurped. That fucking sucks. Someone else was down, someone else was ill, someones were in the mids. Quite glad I don't have an hour trawl to get home but I guess everyone will still fucking be here in four hours time (7am). Perhaps that is time to decide something. I knew he wouldn't come. I knew I'd be a floating weird thing. I am not solid enough to be sold to strangers right now. At all. I am not good value.

I was immensely happy today. They presented their celebrity and I watched in awe, smiling and incredulous. I was kind of weary that I didn't fit the demographic, I wasn't danced and I wasn't filmed and I wasn't tea-dance-for-BBC-fair. I watched as he skimmed a short lady over the floor, his frame towering her shrunkeness. It wouldn't fit if I danced with him. I was super sad. Are you a dancer, he asked, I want to be, I said. I wondered how serious I was about it. How far we carry our ambitions, if they are truly made or killed by professionalism. Doing/making. Faire. Being. Etre.

A new structure

I started today in a heavy clumsy mood, dropping and knocking stuff all over the place and spiting everything. I was on shots and in some sort of zone, if not the one, but I decided to try and mentally note down instances of interest, in order to keep me from screaming I'M SO FUCKING BORED I WANT TO THROW THIS HANDLE JUST TOWARDS THE BIT WHERE THE WALL AND THE FLOOR MEET BECAUSE I SIMPLY CANNOT COPE THIS HOUR THIS MINUTE THIS SECOND THIS MOMENT.

The guy from the Fast Show came in again. I forgot he was also Mr Weasley. He looked twinkly and it was early so he wasn't funny or odd but you got the feeling he was keeping a low profile. I wanted to start my cup signings there and then, again, but I just couldn't embarrass myself to start it. I thought it through and handed him his black and filter with a dash, is that enough milk in there for you, yes thanks. Then pm Ian Kelsey yuck came in, and was doing those 'you know you want it' eyes beyond my own customer, so I talked extra friendly and averted the eyes and wanted to ask him to sign a cup for my mum. The fucker. Yuck.

Later I joked with the owner's daughter's boyfriend in the fridge, I bet you come in here just for a sneaky break don't you, why the hell did you just say that, I don't bloody know, I'm just spinny and droppy and woozy, not really in it today, and I'm trying to create some instances to report later, or something. I enjoyed the universe moment in the fridge, the bit where things feel smaller and the world is do able, you just need to work out what it is you want to do. My caramel macchiato came in later, and I just was so dull and flattened I didn't sparkle and I didn't care. There was some movement of qi however, reminding me I was alive, just.

Not much else occurred at all. I kind of admired his bravery for popping in, but took it as a lesson to know when all is done, when to give in or up. I thought perhaps I'd got the wrong idea altogether? I got my hair cut and it was fine, not world changing like it used to be. I went to lindy hop. It was fucking amazing. All I want is a man who wants to dance. Rhythm. Style. It. I was super glad I went but now I'm so tired I can't think of anything better to say that first person reporting. I wanted to start posting more. I have a rather amazing few days planned. I shall reflect on them soon. Next week I start my assault on the world. Contacting people, having ideas and being New. November.

Fresh yeast beast

I just made the most amazing loaves. They are crispy on their metal-fold edges, and soft and slightly salty. I am distinctly not hungry, but I could probably eat a half loaf in minutes. Salty butter. What the hell am I, freshly baked bread and Black Sabbath box set, what the hell? I like these splits.

I was thinking a lot lately about how oblique the blog has become, like I am creating an own privacy by being almost non-referential. It's quite an interesting tact really, but I do want to actually start writing about things, rather than hinting at maybes. I finished work early at 1.15pm yesterday, and I was sharing my plans of swims and art, that sounds productive he said, I challenged there wasn't any product, so was it strictly true? When I chatted shit for 3 1/2 hours at the party and barely remember any of it, was anything produced, where there any results?

I am back after a sleep. There is an item about diaries on Woman's Hour, right now there's arguing. I am having a tear between the personal and the private, reporting and reflecting, are they mutually exclusive, are they the same... Either way, I want to start writing and reading for the good of Art. I think this shouldn't be on here. The internet is for reporting, journals are for reflecting. A place for both perhaps. When she said last week about writing for art reasons I was proud and sceretly knew I probably couldn't do it. I'd find my Person getting in the way, perhaps, or perhaps my Person would add what set it apart? You won't know until you try.

I have once again been smashing my diary full of fun, really good fun, gigs and dances and dancing and restaurant meals and drinks and art and dinners and parties, mini train trips, bread making, all sorts. I am being productive, with no product. I am feeling good at the time, having a panic the other times. Laura Gibson, Fiery Furnaces, Kings of Convenience, Max Richter, two tea dances, two lindy hops, noodles and Mexican, the after party, the rad party, our halloween party, St Alban's abbey cafe, two lots of bread, three dinners and one secret restaurant, the men's suits and Matthew 'heart' Brannon. Lots of fun stuff. Still particularly chronic.

We were watching Groundhog Day last night. I couldn't sit still, I was in between and the itchy repetetiveness gets me. But as the film progresses, he finds solace in the chronic release, making a difference in each relived day. It made me want to wallow in it a little bit, and just make a good day everyday. The product will perhaps occur naturally.

A late, jumbled one

I can't sleep, I want cheese. Instead of just writing about it and keeping my eyes oscillating perhaps I will just go and eat some cheese and have a cup of tea. There are some people in the kitchen. I don't know how I feel about that. I had a most excellent day off. I made bread and did yoga and put dates in my diary and rang the General Optical Council. I had a 21 day aged steak and improvised a sauce with white wine and cream and mushrooms and it was fucking amazing. I feel so satisified by meat and fish, I feel like I am eating something I need, that I didn't know I wanted

I'm having that feeling again where I can't go to bed till I've decided something, put weight on my day, made a truth. It reminded me of those times where I would just attempt to sleep in his cold damp mildly dirty bed and have to get up, and write out all these thoughts whooshing through my head. There was no-one to listen, I had to scrawl. I threw the paper away almost immediately of course, it made no sense and was damaging to my day self, crazy lines of circular ideas.

I have memories on days off. Like my brain is trying to process things. I drank rooibos and it was 2004. I had given up sugar in my tea the previous month, I had given up caffeine for something to do. I was making chocolate victoria sponges and freezing them in halves. I was going climbing and didn't yet like bananas. I was dancing in The Cooler spying a fashion boy and one in a yellow tshirt which haunted me last or last last year. It was 2004.

I never look back at memories and feel amazed by my results. I wonder if that is pessimism, or just waiting for something to happen. I read the channel 4 talent thing, and I was inspired by taking a new path. What is it that sparks you, are experiences ever real or are the relationships you form around them the true drive? If everyone was in a vacuum, would anything else exist, would creativity spark.

I'm tired but I'm not tired. I feel lazy and indulgent on my days off, having an (awful) memory of the art-guilt kind, what a fucking waste of time that was. I layer stuff up so that jumping into the fear is made more and more difficult, and plain tasks like bread making and hand washing are so much more instant and gratifying. They require no commitment. I didn't realise until I typed it, but I really do like the freedom of Monmouth. We barely need each other, but we are integral. I could quit at a week's notice, I'd be instantly replaceable, near-instantly forgotten. A lost cog. But at the same time it is my drive and focus and stamina. Perhaps I find it too comforting, am treated too well, and give myself a false sense of future.

Oh I've broken my four paragraph rule. Whatever. I just need to keep thinking about what The Voice said, that the ideas and action will not come by the way. They take time and effort, and I must take myself into that zone, somehow. I can't see how! I'm not sure how much I already know, how much is left to learn before I can start, how I can work through it. I think I need a tea.

Get back to it please

I am spending an awful lot of my time communicating. I spent so long separated and apart from connecting with any amount of people, that now I have people around me to spark with, I am ignited. It has taken a year. I feel interesting and interested. I had a memory about what would have happened, had the internship been successful last year. What group would I be moving in, who would I know, who would I be? I felt glad that it fell through, glad to know the people and circle I am in. A scary alternative thought.

So I spent the first part of my Sunday just chatting on the internet. It never feels like the best use of time, typing things that are faster said. But I like typing, and I like the process my brain uses to put thoughts into words, slower, when writing, and more like I'm developing language rather than just chatting shit. You can (try and) say trivial things in a heavy(er) way. Or something. Maybe I am just honestly still enthralled by how the internet works, so much more thrilling than the phone, though I would of course prefer a real person. I hate the phone.

We were talking about how you talk about yourself. I had so many 'what I do' conversations lately that I started to play around with how I phrased it, and how I felt about it. I realised I feel different when I know(?) that the person I am speaking to will 'appreciate' my story. Or I rank myself on their scale of success/importance, and play it up/down accordingly. I still don't know what modest means. There's a trapdoor in my brain for those, along with secular and conspicuous. However many times I look them up, their meanings do not imprint.

How do I truely feel about what I'm doing now? And was I honest when she asked me my dreams and I didn't know? How layered am I, I didn't realise so much, I thought I was empty, but the peaks and the troughs negate emptiness. I am enjoying work a lot at the moment. I am enjoying the communication, the passing of information, the subtleties and dalliances, the eyes and the shuns. When I am tired I hate it, and the pleasantry is chronic and stamina-building-torture that part of me endures and and enjoys.

I just finished my favourite meal. It's not official, it's not Italian, just cooked tomatoes until they burst drowned in an amount of cream a little bit more naughty than Nigel would approve. I wish I had meringue for dessert. I'm trying to focus on the Eight of Wands, and have a good Sunday, doing things at slightly the wrong time with slightly more energy than I need. I am taking myself off for some art, to collect my bag, roll around unplanned for a while. And try and enjoy it.

There may be so many ideas floating around at the same time that you will feel overwhelmed by the choices, but regard them as resources to help you make a decision.

Next door are having a impromptu jam session right next to my room. Bongos, banging metal, a pile o shit rhythms and a mega fucking racket, faster and faster, louder and louder, are you frigging joking? And then silence, time for me to listen to the other next door doing a bit of drilling and power sawing, and to look over at my very burnt cake, and try and imagine myself as an inspiringly light Holly Golightly character who has tasseled earplugs and wakes up looking glorious after no sleep and everything's fab-u-lous.

BANG BANG DUSH DUSH SHUT THE FUCK UP. I was going to go to bed at 10.30, after sitting down nicely with Nigel on the sofa, relaxing, loving the bit where he likes the meringue a bit too much, a bit of camera play. I enjoyed the brief chat we had at Lantana yesterday about the cookbook. I wondered and fancied about it a little...SORRY I CAN'T FUCKING THINK BECAUSE THE BONGOS...

It's about an hour later, I have had a vodka and lemonade to stave off the bongos. Today was a success in that I finished a few tasks, semi-permanently fixed my wheel, had a really insightful chat that I wasn't expecting, where I realised I didn't really have that much to say and I really should start thinking. Describe my work, who knows. It made me want to remake things I finished with, starting on repeat where I left off. We sat on the bench and it sounded like a script.

v. Spin Out

I invented a verb today - v. spin out; to become slightly detached from the world, a feeling of unraveling, a peeling of facade to reveal reality, inducing panic, mild hysteria, depression, weariness and exhaustion. I invented it, and I want to put it in the dictionary. It makes me feel better to label this moment of 'shit, this is me in the world, now, going wrong. And it's ok, because I've noticed it, and now I recognise it apart from itself, so I feel safe.

I said a weird thing today, about his problems being universal. I don't know if it meant something or nothing, or if I even meant it. I would love to be intelligent enough to support my thoughts sometimes. I spent a time asking people to give me facts, realising I didn't have any to offer, my brain being so current and fuzzy and now, it can't be of any other use. What really did help today was people. When one is spinning, it makes sense to grab hold of someone. it's not personal, it's human. It's, share my experiences, make me feel like I'm not alone. One of the internet's plus points I'd say; you got a problem? Well so does the frigging rest of the world.

It really helped to talk it out with him, and I enjoyed his enquiry. At first defensive, I slowly peeled back my guard and told things I wasn't sure I believe in or against. I tested the thoughts out loud. I miss her, she was so helpfully selfless. I unburdened myself today by candidly sharing my woe, trying to concentrate on it's transience, and my beauty. He looked hot today. I didn't venture. I didn't need it. I was focused and calm, and trying to repair. It helps to talk it out with a distance, those too close can empathise too much, and this can sometimes be counterproductive.

I knew passive aggressive had a harder meaning that just 'do the dishes' nasty notes. I'm pleased that's what it meant, and I guess he was completely unaware of his actions. I guess I thought a lot of him today, and perhaps I was just wanting to finalise this chapter by indulging my pain. Yet another customer looked like her today, and we scrutinised each other with mismatched intentions. The past will catch up with my present, yet again and again, and I shouldn't be fearful of my pain. I should ride the beauty out and bask in the knock-on attention. And Heather, if you're there, please pop into the shop soon and pay with a card so I know it's you and I might accidentally throw a long black in your face. Forget the passive I'll just go aggressive.

Sliding doors moment

I was talking to him a few weeks ago, trying to explain how I can sometimes consciously feel the pull and power of going this way, rather than that. I pick up .5mph as I trust in my intentions and decisions. And it feels so fine. I was at Holborn station, 5 steps from the barrier, and if I'd have beeped through I wouldn't have change my mind and come back. Instead I checked my phone, and trawled to Dalston on the bus for a post pick-up. My momentum fell apart when no-one answered the door; I arrived home two hours after I left, instead of 45mins. The mohitos were too late for me. I planned a Wednes Day.

I hate it when I feel like I've slipped down the gap of a decision. Had I arrived home at 9.15 I most likely would have popped to mohito hour on the back of swing dancing. But after mail fail I just felt too tired and flat to feature at the party. I'm already feeling a pull in house dynamics, I mean obviously. 'Hibernate' was default mode this year, a mere listen out would clear the coast for an underwear-clad toilet trip. Now I am on guard. I have that school trip feeling, where you do not yet know this group to which you now belong, an uneasiness. A strangeness. Surrounded by so much potential stimulation, at what point do you retire? When is the potential lost, when is me time?

It clearly has something to do with growing up surrounded by people, or not. I wasn't, it was me versus the adults, play time restricted to outside the house, in daylight hours. I suffer a kind of fear at having people so close, I sometimes don't know if I want them, or I want alone time, or I'm too layered to have a First Conversation, what-do-you-do's and the like. True small talk with people I don't yet know enough to complain about work, or the ten thousand hours thing, or the fact that I'm still, even now, screwed over this whole ridiculous life change, wondering the extent of Google Logistics' revelations.

Today at work was ok. The chronic boredom tired me out before I got chance to enjoy it. I miss my bike. I enjoyed my outfit. I enjoyed the dancing and vow that it is very sociable and not at all sexual and they are younger and it was a lot of fun, and perhaps I will make friends with Rosamund Pike one day. I just did feel a little desperate, scanning this room, holding hands with strangers and judging them in steps. I am jealous of him. I am wondering about my mode to move on. She asked me what I was thinking at work, to get through the chronic action, and I hesitated. The truth is I am mulling a lot of stuff over in my head, over and over, and hopefully soon I will sit down seriously, with a calm mind and light heart, and see some way of moving actively forward. I want to feel that power and satisfaction of knowing I'm going the right way, even if not knowing exactly where.

First Sunday Breakfast

I am sitting at my new Breakfast Bar, looking at my objects in the Open Plan Storage, contemplating my new Clothes Rail and Loft Window, and wondering how to pace my spendage around the Mezzanine Floor. All of these late cliches, was he right when he said they're only cliches because they're true, finally, and thinking how a want satisfied is truly pleasing. All these silly 80s continental modes that were the dream are now here. It reminded me how I thought Ikea vase twigs were cool in 1997, jealous of her mum wanting them for Christmas, and now my mum has the gross things in miniature next to the fireplace. I am tapping into my 'what won't my parents let me have, I'm having it' place. It's 1994 and Clarissa is so cool.

I had a really good day on Friday, despite a late non-breakfast and an allergied head. I reclaimed my computer yesterday, so the wave was lost and now I'm floating again. Bobbing, (very excited by dairy apples). It was this fear that, you know, whatever accolade you put on a life-change, you're still you when you get there. And that being a most fearful problem. All these ideals, imaginings, projections, I must get the perfect 'shabby chic' chester drawers (sic), but where does it end? Like these people who are always doing up their houses, filling them with Ikea crap, reinventing, objects as goals. They will always be their poor unfortunate apres-garde s(h)elves.

I have grown myself a fear of change and the future. I told her in August that my plans were literally into next week, and I wasn't lying. Now, my visions are further, my plans fortnightly. I'm looking through my diary and the only skeleton is tea dances and medical appointments. It saddens me greatly. But considering only a few months ago the diary was scrapped, the book of plans shot, the future combusted, dissolved, exploded, blotted out, I really cannot give myself an instant-fix hard time. I must learn ways to relax and realign, and think. I want to think. I am not apathetic anymore and this is amazing.

I told the eighty year old man in shiny shoes and tails that I feel too old to learn anything new. I felt utterly ridiculous as soon as I'd said it, knew it was one of those moments where you shoot out of yourself and go, did you just hear that, what she said, my god, learn right there will you. Something sharply bookmarks that moment so you'll remember the feeling that it made, bottle the impulse. Did you just hear that, you made your own lesson in an instant. It felt good. I nervously danced around, not knowing where to look, what he was thinking, if his wife had died, how polyester felt a bit yucky under hand, wondering who was watching me and how I must have appeared. I don't know what to do, I said; pretend you've just had a dry martini, he told me. He skipped about and I awkwardly tried to copy, secretly knowing I could do it even though right now it didn't seem that way.