Another evening packed full of cats. Liz and Jamie have gone to bed, I'm sat up watching the kittens prowl, watching them squeeze themselves into shelves on the bookcase, watching them sit in the sink.
A day out exploring London and taking photographs with my uncle today. The light wasn't great but we had a wonderful time, wandering, snapping, chatting.
I've been feeling pretty uninspired with my writing recently, like I've simply got nothing to say, and no idea how to say anything even if I did. But this trip has been a nice refilling of the well, seeing family, walking, being taken outside myself. When I get home I want to get more serious about writing again, not do it last thing at night, tired and distracted, but put what time I have into working hard at it.
I need to find what makes me enthusiastic and curious and impassioned again, because the last few weeks I've struggled to care about anything. I've been going through the motions, without anything burning inside. My skin has been worse, as it always is in winter, and I think one of my eyes is getting infected again, and my self confidence has been low. I've felt ugly and slimy and yucky, I've wanted to wear dull baggy clothes and slink into the shadows.
So I guess that's a clue what to work on, where to start looking for what to get curious about. All our problems are simply avenues we've not fully explored yet - suffering always holds a lesson.
So I'm not going to feel bad that I've been feeling like this. I'm going to bring the light of awareness to it and shine it into those murky corners. I'm going to write more, work harder, not accept this state of affairs. 167 days blogging is amazing. Simply having turned up all those times is a victory in itself.
Stay the course. Keep going. Redouble efforts. It will get better again.
Friday, 12 October 2018
Thursday, 11 October 2018
Day 166: Unique
London - Liz and Jamie have gone to bed, and I sit writing by lamplight as the kittens chase one another across the carpet and the fridge splutters and grumbles and a television set plays in the next flat along.
The city is overwhelmingly vast, as it always feels when I first arrive. Too many lives, too many happenings; how is there space in the universe for all these thoughts? All these people believing they are each of central importance, buying their bagels, choosing their handbags, fretting over whether to take that job offer, how to wear their hair next weekend, who's going to notice the spot on their chin. Each a shimmering ocean of complexity, a cosmic spiral of atoms, and a hundred thousand of them all pouring forth down this road. Mad. Wild. Unfathomable. Too much to take in.
Day of newborns today, baby Cleo and boisterous kittens. Held Cleo for a long time, her tiny head pressed against my chest, her breath quickening and slowing as she dreamt. Ju and Dan look tired. Eyes strained, movements slower, getting only an hour or two in shifts a few times a night. Cleo only sleeps in their arms, they have to sit up fighting drowsiness through the long lonely hours of the night. And operations, and specialists, and anxiety over every single thing. And the happiest they've ever been in the lives.
And now kittens with heavy eyes, play fighting ending, clambering up to the sofa and between my legs. Curling into one another, Rey (no, Arya) licking affectionately at Arya (no, Rey)'s ear. Fuzzy cloud-soft fur, twitching whiskers, stretched belly-gangled bodies flopped in sighing savannah sleep. A million billion cats and people, all atomic identical emptiness, and each one unique.
The city is overwhelmingly vast, as it always feels when I first arrive. Too many lives, too many happenings; how is there space in the universe for all these thoughts? All these people believing they are each of central importance, buying their bagels, choosing their handbags, fretting over whether to take that job offer, how to wear their hair next weekend, who's going to notice the spot on their chin. Each a shimmering ocean of complexity, a cosmic spiral of atoms, and a hundred thousand of them all pouring forth down this road. Mad. Wild. Unfathomable. Too much to take in.
Day of newborns today, baby Cleo and boisterous kittens. Held Cleo for a long time, her tiny head pressed against my chest, her breath quickening and slowing as she dreamt. Ju and Dan look tired. Eyes strained, movements slower, getting only an hour or two in shifts a few times a night. Cleo only sleeps in their arms, they have to sit up fighting drowsiness through the long lonely hours of the night. And operations, and specialists, and anxiety over every single thing. And the happiest they've ever been in the lives.
And now kittens with heavy eyes, play fighting ending, clambering up to the sofa and between my legs. Curling into one another, Rey (no, Arya) licking affectionately at Arya (no, Rey)'s ear. Fuzzy cloud-soft fur, twitching whiskers, stretched belly-gangled bodies flopped in sighing savannah sleep. A million billion cats and people, all atomic identical emptiness, and each one unique.
Wednesday, 10 October 2018
Day 165: Beauty
A much improved day today. Met my mum for coffee and we wandered around the city with our cameras, taking photos, chatting, enjoying the bright and glorious October sun shining down onto the trees of red and gold. Stood a long time in the amphitheatre behind the station, watching the sun getting low and the shadows lengthening, then walked down past Park Hill Flats and over the bridge and up the tram tracks blinded by the dipped-down sun blazing under the Earth. We ate bread and oils in Strada, talked of many things, compared photographs, and then walked to my mum’s bus stop together. She hops on and off buses these days because she’s got her free bus pass, and it’s less bother, and it’s better for the environment, which she cares a great deal about. She’ll often just walk, stopping in all the charity shops and antiques emporiums on the way, despite the fibromyalgia and the vasculitis and everything else.
She told me today that people keep offering her their seats on buses, which freaks her out. She always declines, because “why should she have a seat when she doesn’t need one?” (why shouldn’t she?!), except last time the young girl who offered felt embarrassed because of my mum’s refusal, so now my mum is going to start accepting the offer just so there’s no chance of the offerer losing face.
That’s her. Me old mam. Trooping on with a cataract in one eye, chronic fatigue (“I barely notice it anymore”), an autoimmune disease, cheerful and kind and ever empathetic, utterly gorgeous, only ever taking anything for herself (apart from a glass of red some nights, and her shows on iPlayer) if it’ll end up easier for someone else, smiling and concerned and wanting nothing more than the world in harmony and good books and wild flowers growing and little birds chirruping and gentle evenings trundling on.
It’s hard to feel depressed on a day spent with such a beauty.
And tomorrow: London and sister and kittens and cousins, and a teeny new baby to meet. All is good.
She told me today that people keep offering her their seats on buses, which freaks her out. She always declines, because “why should she have a seat when she doesn’t need one?” (why shouldn’t she?!), except last time the young girl who offered felt embarrassed because of my mum’s refusal, so now my mum is going to start accepting the offer just so there’s no chance of the offerer losing face.
That’s her. Me old mam. Trooping on with a cataract in one eye, chronic fatigue (“I barely notice it anymore”), an autoimmune disease, cheerful and kind and ever empathetic, utterly gorgeous, only ever taking anything for herself (apart from a glass of red some nights, and her shows on iPlayer) if it’ll end up easier for someone else, smiling and concerned and wanting nothing more than the world in harmony and good books and wild flowers growing and little birds chirruping and gentle evenings trundling on.
It’s hard to feel depressed on a day spent with such a beauty.
And tomorrow: London and sister and kittens and cousins, and a teeny new baby to meet. All is good.
Tuesday, 9 October 2018
Day 164: Auburn
OK, I don’t feel as bleak today. I had a long old day at work, after an early appointment to have my stitches removed, bus ride to Dore Surgery with sun’s morning rays penetrating through the leaves of the trees and casting long shadows on the ground. Brilliant orange and auburn and green leaves. Haze from breath in cold air.
And work wasn’t good, I had a migraine splitting my skull that was only assuaged with codeine and paracetamol and ibuprofen all together, but I enjoyed taking photographs for social media, enjoyed chasing and being chased by Arron around the bar, goofing about with Zoe. And finally it was time to go home and I sat on the bus in a stupor listening to Regular Features on my headphones, too stoned tired to take in the premise of the jokes, just letting the familiar cadences of the voices wash over me.
And now I’m going to play classic Mario on my Switch in bed, and pass out, and sleep until I feel like getting up tomorrow. I don’t know when I will feel like getting up tomorrow.
And then three-day trip to London to see my cousin’s new beautiful baby and see my family and take photographs round the city and escape from monotony here. And long train journeys to play Switch and read my book and eat chocolate flapjack from M&S and write in my notebook.
I cannot wait.
And work wasn’t good, I had a migraine splitting my skull that was only assuaged with codeine and paracetamol and ibuprofen all together, but I enjoyed taking photographs for social media, enjoyed chasing and being chased by Arron around the bar, goofing about with Zoe. And finally it was time to go home and I sat on the bus in a stupor listening to Regular Features on my headphones, too stoned tired to take in the premise of the jokes, just letting the familiar cadences of the voices wash over me.
And now I’m going to play classic Mario on my Switch in bed, and pass out, and sleep until I feel like getting up tomorrow. I don’t know when I will feel like getting up tomorrow.
And then three-day trip to London to see my cousin’s new beautiful baby and see my family and take photographs round the city and escape from monotony here. And long train journeys to play Switch and read my book and eat chocolate flapjack from M&S and write in my notebook.
I cannot wait.
Monday, 8 October 2018
Day 163: Centre
Home from a night out for Katie’s leaving do. Took my camera and took photos all night, gave me something to do that wasn’t drinking. Came home on the bus with Michael, he took me round to his and filled up a tupperware with leftovers from his tea because I told him I hadn’t eaten tonight. I thanked him and wandered off into the cold night. Then the housemates were in when I arrived home, Phace had cooked asparagus and onions and herbs in some roasted concoction I don’t even understand, gave me some to put on my mac n cheese from Michael. Sat and chatted. Chloe came round after her close, we listened to music and sat around, then I came upstairs and left them to it.
Don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t have any words these past couple of days. Sentences are coming out slow and plodding. Been finding it difficult to hold conversations, have nothing at all to say to anyone, have nothing that I can get excited about. It’s like the bottom falls out of every topic as soon as it is brought up. Like the bottom falls out of everything. And I’m just plodding off into the cold night, not able to care either way.
It’s depression. That’s all it is. I’ve been here before. It passes. It’s nothing to worry about. I got through the outer anxiety of the storm a couple of days ago. This is the deathly calm in the centre. But it too will pass. And the sky will be clear once again.
Don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t have any words these past couple of days. Sentences are coming out slow and plodding. Been finding it difficult to hold conversations, have nothing at all to say to anyone, have nothing that I can get excited about. It’s like the bottom falls out of every topic as soon as it is brought up. Like the bottom falls out of everything. And I’m just plodding off into the cold night, not able to care either way.
It’s depression. That’s all it is. I’ve been here before. It passes. It’s nothing to worry about. I got through the outer anxiety of the storm a couple of days ago. This is the deathly calm in the centre. But it too will pass. And the sky will be clear once again.
Sunday, 7 October 2018
Day 162: Blinking
Cold city gleaming down the hill. Frost on the windshields. Puffs of breath. Streets black and crisp in the night air.
I’ve been editing photos since getting in from work. Listening to Chopin. Watching easy videos on Youtube. No energy for anything more. I don’t feel depressed, I don’t think, but I don’t feel great, either. Another day on Earth. Got work first thing tomorrow, then Katie’s leaving do.
Pssch, I don’t know. Got no words inside me tonight. Been sat with the cursor on this blinking away for hours now, keep tabbing away and procrastinating more.
Guess I’ve got to refill the well, is all. So I’ll carry on listening to soft elegant piano music, I’ll ready some poetry, then get into bed and get some rest.
All is good. All is as it should be. Just keep on going.
I’ve been editing photos since getting in from work. Listening to Chopin. Watching easy videos on Youtube. No energy for anything more. I don’t feel depressed, I don’t think, but I don’t feel great, either. Another day on Earth. Got work first thing tomorrow, then Katie’s leaving do.
Pssch, I don’t know. Got no words inside me tonight. Been sat with the cursor on this blinking away for hours now, keep tabbing away and procrastinating more.
Guess I’ve got to refill the well, is all. So I’ll carry on listening to soft elegant piano music, I’ll ready some poetry, then get into bed and get some rest.
All is good. All is as it should be. Just keep on going.
Friday, 5 October 2018
Day 161: Mini-Frankenstein
I had a mole removed from my shoulder this week. The doctor wasn’t worried about it when I asked him to take a look during a check-up, but he said my surgery offered a private service that would remove it if I wanted to pay, for peace of mind or for cosmetic reasons, though he reiterated that there was no need to take it off at all.
I’ve got lots of moles. I don’t mind the smaller ones. The larger ones have always made me self-conscious - at least since early adolescence, when my body became something awkward and ungainly, secreting smells and sprouting hair and spots, and I started to hate the way my moles marked me out as different - fat, dark targets all over my skin.
In theory I’m one for learning to accept one’s physical form, for loving yourself as you are, rather than paying vast sums to questionable plastic surgery clinics that convince you perfection is but one operation away. I rarely wear aftershave, don’t get my hair cut often, and I’ve long since grown weary of designer tags on clothes. I’d rather spend my one life concentrating on literature and art and the beauty already inherent in the world, in all its flawed crumbling glory, than on manipulating my appearance and persona to win some kind of approval from the countless morons all desperately attempting to win approval for themselves, all of them scrambling towards some unattainable ideal sold to them by brands owned by ugly CEOs getting rich off desperation.
But in practice it’s not always so easy, and when my doctor mentioned the mole removal service, far cheaper than the private clinics - and with a comfortable amount of money in the bank saved from not drinking and working with Steve and a tax rebate - I decided to book myself in.
The doctor who performed the surgery was old, experienced, and awkward in his bedside manner. He spent the majority of the time I was with him explaining that there might be a very small scar, initially red but fading to white, if not fading completely - repeating this over and over, until I told him that I’ve suffered from moderate acne all over my body since I was 15, and one more scar to add to the tapestry wouldn’t cause me even a moment’s thought.
The doctor nodded and looked at me a long time, then coughed and looked away.
As he was preparing his scalpel he asked me to take my top off. I hesitated, and then mumbled whether I could keep it on, “because of the acne.”
“Ahh, yes. Got some self-consciousness, have you?”
I mumbled yes.
“Well, I can probably reach the mole with the neck of your shirt pulled to the side. Yes. That should be fine.”
He turned away and continued fiddling with his tools.
He barely spoke through the rest of the procedure. I lay still, the local anaesthetic numbing my shoulder, doing nothing for my sense of shame, until I became bored, and found myself wondering whether I should make small talk, like at the hairdressers, or whether the doctor needed silence to work. I didn’t want to distract him while he had a scalpel inside my skin.
But it was over after ten or so minutes. The worst part was the noise. I could only feel a faint tugging of the skin in my back, but as the operation was happening close to my ear I could hear every slice into my flesh, every squelching sound, the scrunch of stitches being pulled through the skin, the gently horrendous rustle of the sides of the wound being drawn together. The sounds, untethered from any sensation of pain, made for a surreal, and disquieting, experience.
When it was done the doctor applied a dressing, told me to keep it on for three days, and bundled me out of the examination room with an invoice to pay at reception.
And that was that. The dressing is off now, I’ve got an inch-long line of red skin on my shoulder crisscrossed with dark stitches, what Fran is calling a “mini-Frankenstein”, and an appointment on Monday to have the stitches removed.
Since a couple of kids at school pointed the mole out, and one guy I hated made fun of it repeatedly, I’ve tended towards wearing tighter-necked t-shirts or collared shirts that covered it up. And now finally it’s gone. I don’t know if having it removed was exactly the right course of action, but it’s one I’m pleased with. It’s much easier to not care about your appearance when there’s nothing egregiously different about it.
Anyway, that’s about all I’ve got to say for the moment. I’ve been feeling low again today, but I’ve not let it get in my way. I’ve washed clothes, bought food from Unwrapped, walked to town with Mike, done writing, played Switch, and cooked a healthy tea. Got an open shift first thing tomorrow, joy of joys, so I’ll leave this here.
Take care x
I’ve got lots of moles. I don’t mind the smaller ones. The larger ones have always made me self-conscious - at least since early adolescence, when my body became something awkward and ungainly, secreting smells and sprouting hair and spots, and I started to hate the way my moles marked me out as different - fat, dark targets all over my skin.
In theory I’m one for learning to accept one’s physical form, for loving yourself as you are, rather than paying vast sums to questionable plastic surgery clinics that convince you perfection is but one operation away. I rarely wear aftershave, don’t get my hair cut often, and I’ve long since grown weary of designer tags on clothes. I’d rather spend my one life concentrating on literature and art and the beauty already inherent in the world, in all its flawed crumbling glory, than on manipulating my appearance and persona to win some kind of approval from the countless morons all desperately attempting to win approval for themselves, all of them scrambling towards some unattainable ideal sold to them by brands owned by ugly CEOs getting rich off desperation.
But in practice it’s not always so easy, and when my doctor mentioned the mole removal service, far cheaper than the private clinics - and with a comfortable amount of money in the bank saved from not drinking and working with Steve and a tax rebate - I decided to book myself in.
The doctor who performed the surgery was old, experienced, and awkward in his bedside manner. He spent the majority of the time I was with him explaining that there might be a very small scar, initially red but fading to white, if not fading completely - repeating this over and over, until I told him that I’ve suffered from moderate acne all over my body since I was 15, and one more scar to add to the tapestry wouldn’t cause me even a moment’s thought.
The doctor nodded and looked at me a long time, then coughed and looked away.
As he was preparing his scalpel he asked me to take my top off. I hesitated, and then mumbled whether I could keep it on, “because of the acne.”
“Ahh, yes. Got some self-consciousness, have you?”
I mumbled yes.
“Well, I can probably reach the mole with the neck of your shirt pulled to the side. Yes. That should be fine.”
He turned away and continued fiddling with his tools.
He barely spoke through the rest of the procedure. I lay still, the local anaesthetic numbing my shoulder, doing nothing for my sense of shame, until I became bored, and found myself wondering whether I should make small talk, like at the hairdressers, or whether the doctor needed silence to work. I didn’t want to distract him while he had a scalpel inside my skin.
But it was over after ten or so minutes. The worst part was the noise. I could only feel a faint tugging of the skin in my back, but as the operation was happening close to my ear I could hear every slice into my flesh, every squelching sound, the scrunch of stitches being pulled through the skin, the gently horrendous rustle of the sides of the wound being drawn together. The sounds, untethered from any sensation of pain, made for a surreal, and disquieting, experience.
When it was done the doctor applied a dressing, told me to keep it on for three days, and bundled me out of the examination room with an invoice to pay at reception.
And that was that. The dressing is off now, I’ve got an inch-long line of red skin on my shoulder crisscrossed with dark stitches, what Fran is calling a “mini-Frankenstein”, and an appointment on Monday to have the stitches removed.
Since a couple of kids at school pointed the mole out, and one guy I hated made fun of it repeatedly, I’ve tended towards wearing tighter-necked t-shirts or collared shirts that covered it up. And now finally it’s gone. I don’t know if having it removed was exactly the right course of action, but it’s one I’m pleased with. It’s much easier to not care about your appearance when there’s nothing egregiously different about it.
Anyway, that’s about all I’ve got to say for the moment. I’ve been feeling low again today, but I’ve not let it get in my way. I’ve washed clothes, bought food from Unwrapped, walked to town with Mike, done writing, played Switch, and cooked a healthy tea. Got an open shift first thing tomorrow, joy of joys, so I’ll leave this here.
Take care x
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