Thursday 29 July 2010

Second Time Unlucky?

Something was technically wrong. I just deleted an hour of rant. By mistake. It was probably for the best. But I still feel sort of bereft...

What I sort of wrote 1: Bloody people. Can't stand the things.

What I sort of wrote 2: But loads of my friends are really brilliant talented people.

What I sort of wrote 3: But I'm usually too ... um ... unwell to do anything brilliant and talented outside of the space of my own skull (or wherever consciousness is located [sudden thought: perhaps this doesn't matter because I am part of a matrix of collective consciousness in which I am but a grain of sand - in which case, fuck it, mediocrity is irrelevant, irrelevancy being one of my favorite accusations when I am feeling accusative, which I have been tonight]

What I sort of wrote 4: Because I am both waving and drowning, sinking into the net of my own tangled neurological pathways and shouting "Look! No hands!" [Even cats have hands...]

What I sort of wrote 5: And I'm bloodily tried. Because I haven't bloodily slept. Because I've been bloodily insomniacal. Because my heart's been bloodily leaping around like it thinks its a chorus girl. I attempt to remind it, sometimes, that it is not a chorus girl. That it is a heart. But it never listens.

What I sort of wrote 6: Thus I am depleted. 

What I sort of wrote 7: Thus creativity and brilliance are somewhat out of my reach, because I'm too tired to jump for them. They expect that from one. As though one is a seal. I am not a seal. I am a tired girl in stripey stockings, a pink silk dress and a black cardigan. And a watch that tells me that I have not slept in 18 hours. TICK. TOCK. TICK. TOCK. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. OUCHBOOM. 

What I sort of wrote 8: I keep being shouted at. By various people. And having to say "shutupshutupshutup" repeatedly and very loudly to shut them up. & having to bite my fingers. As opposed to simply savaging my adversaries like a cross hamster.  No, actually, that was a bad idea... 


What I sort of wrote 9: the day after day marching of this, the separation of the inner and the outer, the whirling of the words through my mind and out again into the sea inexorably, there even if they do not get written down, the ideas streaming though my hands like sand from an endless beach eroded by the sea that is drowning me... So how are you today? Fine. 


What I sort of wrote 10: a picture to sum up the sense of decay... ...oh, that's not going to work either? OK.


Anyhow ... how's the hair? THE is almost thoroughly the word. Pretty awful, actually. I look profoundly butch. Fortunately, butch is not a look that I am terribly averse to, worn by reasonably attractive girls... [insert implication of own attractiveness here] - still, I'd rather not have to wear those BLOODILY uncomfortable wigs anymore! For a night or two they are delightful - but IT IS SUMMER! & I AM HOT! Headaches abound. 




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