Forty two

We met at the lights, he a sharp turn right across my onwards to catch my gaze at the turn of the green. Party, on a Monday? Oh yeah you're a free one, Mondays mean anydays and whatever sleeps you like. I told him I didn't fancy it, going home to have a think. Going home to have a think? Like I've got something to say on that matter, something to wonder and believe in? What happened? It was a pretty regular day, though I am rather enjoying my reborn swimming hobby. Water seems important, the sun something else.

So yes works a test, boring, and now it's fucking hot to boot and I'm making really really basic adding up mistakes. And getting angry at the cute flat white who just ripped his other ankle tendon, sorry, sorry, I think you're cute and your son leaves biscuits in your pockets and I do that too and I'm just not sure what drink you're asking me for. He apologised over and again, fetched his odd drinks, apologised again. A peppered real thing in the length of a show day. A guy who 'works for the conservatives' wanted to work here just cus we looked cool. Maybe he was right last night, it is a bit of a golden ticket.

I'm torn. I'm so so torn. One day I'm going to pack it all in and move to San Fransisco, the next I'm just putting in a mezzanine please, the next I'm seeing a room in a homely home, and suddenly googling Laban courses. Er, where is my motivation? Something, I don't know what, something dark and pongy lured me into Mysteries, a shop I've managed to avoid for almost two years. I browsed the divination books and went swimming. After lengths of weighing up the pros and implications of a tarot reading with Tanalise or whoever, luck (er?) was it that she'd knocked off for the day. I left with an i ching book to go with my spinach and ricotta roll.

I love the secret park. I'm not going to name it because I don't want you to go there. I sat on the wooden bench as though in a glade, throwing three ten p's on pastry bags in some ridiculously spiritual manner. Suddenly I was nervous. He saw me at the lights, cut across me to catch my attention, I swerved left. What have you been up to, he asked, philosophy class on the meaning of life, I said. Forty two, he replied. Really, I amazed, sounding sarcastic and false. I wondered at the coincidence of it being my first ever i ching reading, the counter reading of my progression at this stage being 21. My change is equal to half the meaning of life. Hmmmm. Absurd.

Little white skirt

So I kind of fell out with dancing today. Not sure how I feel about this. I stood there, watching sweaty backs and faux couples, just feeling a bit flat about the whole thing. The music was a bit generic or something. What are you doing, he initiated, as I missed steps for the fifth or so time. I'm tired, I laughed though it wasn't a joke. I span too much and failed to cover up my disinterest. I was thinking about boys.

Two days in a row I have had opportunities that I didn't quite take. The words weren't there, the preempted conversations destined never to happen in the right place at the right time. I'm working, I'm two lattes and two black americanos, making great milk, have you got any shows coming up, changing this bin bag, do you want cocoa on the cappuccino, putting stuff in the dishwasher, are you going to the party on Wednesday, maybe we should swap numbers. I'm not myself but I'm most myself.

I shrieked numerous times, the shriek I was told off for at Coffee Union. Everyone got a bit Wednesday loose. A couple on table six looked straight at me for too long, despite not wanting me professionally, as though our acts were offensive and too conscious. Too loose, like we were all testing our bored versions, seeing at what point they bent or broke, at what point we stopped believing in anything we were saying, doing, making. Of course we still believed in the coffee.

The dancing felt transparent and excessive after talking, being, all day. I saw the physical actions and just wanted to be at home writing or reading my book. The physical and mental seem to be leveling out, finally. I decided it was time to go home when the kind older man with glasses, tonight sporting some horrific eye injury-come-operation, told me I looked like I was going to get picked up. Picked up, I thought, I didn't fall, I'm just changing my shoes. Or, maybe this cute white denim mini did me more right than the unrealised conversations could ever have done.

Dreams

The past two days I've been thinking about dying. A lot. Like the literal lack of oxygen in the place has made me feel like I could be dying. Could my lack of enthusiasm for being, coupled with the physical environment, actually cause my heart to just, stop. I thought it could. Jolt, jolt myself into seeing I'm alive, I'm here, if I was to die now, now, is that, that, the last thing I'd have wanted to be, to feel to exist as.

Sad thing is, not even those thoughts were enough to breathe life into me. It's been fairly grim these past two days. I put it obviously down to my one-day weekend. Not into them, not used to them, and do not see the civility in them at all. I was glad she was in today, told her so. Like I need a fellow dissenter, someone who will just flatly tell the truth of the travesty and drop the act. I swore a lot today. I felt angry a lot. My dancing around others' hermeneutics was really really staid. I'm not dancing around you today, so yes why don't you just fuck off out the shop as I'm answering your question, YES THE BAKED GOODS DO HAVE DAIRY IS THAT HOW YOU'VE BEEN BROUGHT UP.

I met the most beautiful man at the lights. Well we didn't meet, you know, he was turning right. But we bike checked, those fine leather grips and a tidy red frame, some Toms and a Waitrose Foodhall. I looked behind me, ready to shout over if no other cyclists were to bare it's witness. There weren't any. Now's the time, he's turning right. Nice bike, I said, nice glasses he said, nice beard I said, only I didn't because I was tired and off and reeked of the day. He looked over again. Really. Fuck. The lights changed, he turned right. I tutted and shook my head, tears within the mile.

I'm frustrated because I sparked the other day. And now, the double life of having to close off those thoughts, temper them as they don't pay, coffee pays, thoughts don't pay, so ssshh. And my head says, no, no, er, no, stop thinking about these sparks for even minutes and they'll go again, disappear, these precious things. I want them to breathe but there's no oxygen, and I'm thinking I could die. Like them. On Friday, I had a few amazing exchanges on only 3 beers, the resonance of my twisted Theodore Zeldin quotation, the best conversations being where you say things you've never even thought before.

I can think, can I? You can understand me, can you? We are, conversing? We're talking about ideas and this bizarre space we are making, together, for these concepts is almost real. I'm thinking. I'm saying things I've never thought before. I'm talking to artists and this makes sense and I need it and I'm not jealous I'm equal? Next day on milk I decided I am going to try and get into art school. It just came over me. Not even like I'm going to try and want to get into art school, but, plainly, I think I just need it.

Life is ridiculous and anything can happen. What makes most sense, what makes you cry with life. Do that. Fuck the excuses and work backwards from the ultimatum. I completely know it's not going to be easy, if even possible, but if I have a drive towards something, they I need to try. I am willing to coolly look at it, without romanticism or awe, and plainly put in motion steps to get me there. To be around people who want to theorise about and make art. Strangely, since this realisation, I have started to have dreams. Or started to see my dreams. I shall ask her about the science of this, but think this not so concrete evidence is pretty amazing.