Lightness

Getting to a weird point where I can comprehend where the Other Woman is coming from. You're skipping, you're asking; you're available, you're free. You, me. You me. You and me. A million yous and just the one me. I'm free. I'm light. I'm weightless. I'm juggling projections and none of You is real. You meld into one idea and I forget you are people. You are real, you have reality, backgrounds, and existence. And my popping into it, this free thing, poke, well it could have repercussions.

I'm not saying I'm being anything other than fine, but I can see the slope down into selfish abandon, a grey area where I matter, one of You matters, and well, no-one else fucking matters. So I can see how she operated. But that doesn't stop me feeling like I want to pull her hair out. I'll go and see the Picasso exhibition and if I recognise her, if I see her hair, I'll grab it. So I don't want to be like her. And I'm aware. There I go again just understanding, annulling.

It's been two weeks. I've called off the house search, called on the boy hunt. He was true when he said about the right things changing. I decided I wasn't going to find a domestic idyll through Gum Tree, that it could get different but it couldn't get better. I'm equally riled that I should have to wait until I'm romantically settled for a home with a capital H, and that I put such value on domesticity at all. Wasn't it that that stifled Me in the first place? The domestic is the matching of home and family, a house with human warmth. You can't lay your want on something so difficult to find, that ironically when it does appear, is just so simple and easy.

Part of me is still yearning for the Le Parfaits, white socks on wooden floors, a chair that's for reading while he cooks in the kitchen. A calmness. But. As it is, well, I'm here, I've got space to move, literally, and a lightness that I shouldn't bring back to neutral. A fake domesticity won't make me heavy. The real one, it made me heavy, in a bad why, so grr why do I still want it?? Anyway back and forth again, I have decided I can create a perfect nest of space for me inside a room I rent, and practice blinkers in the mess that other people cast. I can make a warmth that I want, and see if it breeds.

I tried to take two days off to practice my new calm. I didn't totally fail, but it didn't pass in a dreamy success. I'm still spinning back here. I am seeing new deadlines, finishing mid July, a summer, then two years have passed since I moved. I live in London now. I really do it well. I feel I have a pretty good hold on how to operate here. But, the bigger picture. Again, I am to remind myself about not so long back when the future wasn't possible, next Saturday was about fine, but further, blurred and abysmal. I'm thinking now about new focuses, and how much extra time I will have to make good use of come mid July. I'm aware I need to gather some strength from somewhere.

Breathe

When you're making your own rules, how do you know what they are? She was talking about Blink, it came to mind numerous times in the last days, but there's that gap after the blink, and also the gap before the blink, where you have time to mull or sit upon your choice. You start to question the snaps. Do I want to move? Or is it what I keep saying, just changing something because I feel the need for change, and I already chopped my hair off. Maybe I'll get a car, or a baby, or a tattoo. Or maybe I'll just move house.

When I got back from Lisbon I disdainfully turned down Hermitage Road thinking where the fuck do I live. Trailing my case down a cowering residential street with grim signs of life, disheveled front lawns, free-for-all scraps tipping onto the pavement, a gated concrete development of hippies I have no time or care for. Sweeping, but felt. Where is my energy here, and whilst I might love baking and dancing round my huge room, she's right, these things are stagnant, autonomous, wasted, till taken out into the world. That'll be a fifteen minute walk and a tube, or 6 miles of pedaling then.

I had a brilliant day yesterday. Successful. A potential house, a real one, my favourite gallery, some street chips. I walked through the park in a downpour, giggling under a tree eating an apple for about twenty minutes. The storm stopped and I stayed. That's how long it takes me to eat an apple. I giggled and photographed the green ripe sycamore seeds for my mind, their bright-apple looking both fresh and alive, and dead and void. We browsed the garden centre, that delicious life smell, all oxygenated and wonderful and fresh. The cafe was closed, the other one was open. A weak peppermint took the chill off at our brief, spontaneous meeting, we chatted frankly and I got the bus and it was fine. It was.

There's that worry, horror, where you feel meeting someone you have lost touch with will be just so terrible awfully difficult. But I'm glad I knocked on my old home. Three homes in one day. We had a lot to say to each other, this flash-of-a-person who both hardly knows me but knew me mostly at the most difficult time. I realised I was an absolute and utter misery for the entirety of 2009, a transition of a year that had to happen. Sunday seemed to be a day of self congratulation, taking stock, being free and seeing choice.

I did that thing where potential change makes everyone appreciate the now, and you see your immediacy with peeled eyes. I got home, this one, and people are nice, and everything is a version of amazing, and cracks are pasted. Maybe it's fine. Maybe the real possibility of change gave me new height. But here I am, unshowered on a Monday afternoon, having the same crippling problems. Home-career-relationships. No arrows, no pointers, no handrails, no call backs, no shoves, no-one behind or in front. I am the blink. Blink. Wherever I want. I just wish I knew what needs to happen.

Grey

So blue I'm not even (mean) red, but well grey, gris if you want to glamourise it. Hmm. Transition is all I can call it, when you are most honest to yourself, and know you wouldn't be making up this mood. Who'd choose this? So actually, in amongst this colourless cloud, is the most honesty, that thing you love remember, so, well, it's only leading to a good place. ? .

Hope has been missing for around ten days now. Fading away. I don't want to stop, don't want to stop spinning, literally, because when I do, well everything else is still going and I'm not in there, I'm lost, it's losing me, I don't know where I am. I walk down Green Lanes and buy and eat Turkish biscuits, trying not to feel too crazy trying to humour the guy in Homebase over the one pound price discrepency of a plastic trough that I don't even like. Days off where I see myself lost, trying to trust the everyday, not quite succeeding.

I enjoyed dancing on Wednesday, I enjoyed dancing on Friday. The type where you're clock watching because you wish it would stop, and this could go on for time, not because you resent the day continuing. I kind of enjoyed the School food tour, I mean I literally enjoyed it, it's my world, but I was also labouring under a dual purpose. Oh, I work at Monmouth, I told the Dairy man, but I'm also interning for the School. I'm here twice. Art and artisan. I'm so confusing I can't even chat to these 'customers', I'm too much, too free, too knotted, old, inbetween, cheeky excess.

She asked me to tackle the cabinet today. I was taken aback with such horror I even surprised myself. It cut close, make it curious she said, I found myself doodling art old ideas out of context, pondering how much to think about this task. I already thought too much. I remembered what she told me the other year, about my level of complete and perfect being already a spliced cut of too much, and that if I just toned down and sat comfy in a simplified version of things, then, that might be enough! It eased as I shopped, but I returned to their ideas which made me cynical and cold. I used to know too much, enough, now I know hardly nothing and I can't communicate beyond this.

I'm having a confusing time. Encapsulated, I'm thinking of moving house, I need a career and/or (another story for another day) job direction, and I'm pretty grumpy at being consistently single. I don't know if I'm doing that thing where I roll my problems into one, or whether it is true that I don't feel at all anchored, and who wouldn't feel this way. Not even the swing lifted me last night. Until that is we'd decided to head home, and I had 4 dances of abandon follow that lost me and twirled things. I didn't pretend. Of all things, sitting grumpy seemed to garner interest in my plight, attracting more advance than ever. I think I just need to work this through honestly and frankly. And be open to being helped, as well as helping myself.

New Blog

He kissed me. Twice. One cheek, then the other, swiftly, passing me, stopping to make the gesture, do the gesture, a show of a thing. I stared at him till he felt a niggling obligation, having already past me he turned a moment back, bent down and did it. Maybe it was for the guy sitting next to me. A bit o rough. I quite fancy a bit o rough, and she's probably right, I do fancy a bit o gay.

It keeps happening. Weird, weird logic says it must somehow mean something reflected on me, like, er, maybe I am looking the wrong direction myself. It didn't surprise me all those years ago when he said he thought I might have been gay, well it surprised me a little, but it made me feel kinda cool, not obvious. Maybe I'm just a bit confused that hanging out with a best friend and two guys who are resolutely not interested is really honestly a lovely Sunday, but leaves one feeling marginally cheated. Questioning.

Old hot crush is back. He's not hot per se, he is a bit Eastenders if I'm honest, but crushes are so thin on the ground these days, it's like a dried out lawn with odd scrap of life languishing in the crumpled wiry threads. I've got my hand flat on this parched landscape, brushing over what used to be green and alive, now lain flat dead and dusty. Hand scouring dry earth, kind of nice in itself, a new texture, but remember the greenery, almost I can't actually. If the grass is greener on the other side, I want to go there please.

I am in a kind of stasis. I am, not on purpose I hope, feeling a little May Oh Eight. It's anniversary time and I'm sure it's there still a depth running under the plain and ok. Still getting expired memories, flashes of really, and real heavy longing yearning desperation for second chance. It's interesting. It's my own weight, but it's real too, can I shift it? And on weight, I am uncomfortable. I hope it's not psychosomatic but I look terrible lately. Tired grey, sallow saggy. Divorced, dispirited & ill. I still like them even if they are trite.

I just made a new blog. Or should that be faire-d. I had a name for it pacing the tube corridors a few weeks ago, escalator callings. Despite seeming ideal at the time, thought over and typed in it gave me niggles of a-n, not a good thing, an instinct to believe. So many single thoughts have been used, Googled names showed old and tired. I settled on Voir/Fair. A bit savoir-faire, a bit do make say think, a bit trite, a bit nice. It makes efforts into things I want to record and think about and share, without having to direct it to anybody in particular. It might be a new muse.