Day after

I don't feel in the least bit triumphant.

Meh meh meh

All this rain and dampness is really starting to bring me down.
























Update: today's falls are in fact heavy to very heavy.

Nuff said.

While reading I want to be a writer

The reason I said that loving a writer’s work can be lonely is that in order to read (or be read to) you give yourself up/over while the words are being read. You can connect those words to yourself and feel alive while reading, but when you put the book down, it’s like you don’t live in that world any more. You can still take pleasure from the memory of it (especially when there’s still more of that world to experience, ie you haven’t finished the book), and enjoy that sort of secret knowledge that you carry with you while the feeling lasts, but it’s ultimately not the same world that everyone around you inhabits. It's too private. Even when you share the experience of reading, like discussing a favourite writer with someone else, there’s something cold about it; it’s so different to that experience of reading, of living in that other world. Because it’s happening inside your head, and we all know the bitter truth about how accessible our heads are to other people (not very).

It’s a little weird, I suppose, to find loneliness in something pleasurable and life-affirming, simply because the experience can’t be sustained. Glass half empty etc.

"you're crazy"

I am going through a really trashy stage. It's all about boozing it up. Yay, booze.

Today I got a phone call from my fresh ex. We don't talk so much any more. He asked me what I was doing, I'm all 'working, of course' (I was at work). We chatted for about 40 seconds. Then he went 'I've just done this really strange thing - I meant to call the other **** and I've called you instead [how embarassment!]. I've just realised who I"m talking to. So ... how are you going, anyway? You going to that opening tonight [blah blah blah]'

Needless to say, we didn't then have a lovely chat about life etc. I got the hell off the phone asap and felt depressed the rest of the day. Call me crazy, but I find the blase-ness really upsetting. I don't see the benefit of pretending everything's nice and neat and happy when it's actually ugly, traumatic and miserable. Much better just not to speak.

Had a nice night, though. If a little desperate. I still have sore forearms from ice skating on Monday ... it's a very positive injury. I wear it like an invisible bruisey badge of niceness.

Good Clean Fun.

Hear that, reader? When in doubt, take to the ice. Wear two pairs of socks though. And good gloves.