along with the daze

Some days in the brain.

Greyday

image

Grey leaden, rain laden skies today; 50 non-fucking shades of pantone 877 C. Everything feels and sounds muffled; quiet and faraway turtle doves, the fridge is louder than nature right now. Sorry nature. There’s enough wind to turn the acacia branches interesting, but not enough to play whack-a-mole with my serotonin levels. Thank. Fuck.

I wrote myself a little litany the other day, a kind of manic depressive mantra.

You don’t hate yourself, you’re depressed.
You don’t love yourself, you’re manic.
You don’t like yourself, you don’t know how.

I can’t remember why I wrote it, if indeed there was a reason. Cereal box soundbite for the morbidly bipolar, maybe. Perhaps I should make it songshaped, go back in time and get young Kylie to sing it.

Heavy leaden, rain laden skies today,
Can’t see a thing in these fifty shades of grey.

Or maybe

You don’t hate yourself, you’re just depressed
And don’t blame yourself if you fuck up when you’re stressed
You don’t love yourself baby, you’re just really manic
It’s a shitty place to be, but don’t let it make you panic
You don’t love yourself, because you don’t know how
It’s not your fault, not your plan, bipolar take a bow

I can’t be arsed to edit or extend it. I usually catch all my typos after I publish blog posts, unless I’m having one of those days where the word ‘life’ ends up as ‘lice’ every single fucking time. Have a nice lice, what are you going to do with your lice, what is the meaning of lice.

I hadn’t written any rhymes from 2008 till yesterday, and now today. Ughhhhhhh. Bah. It’s like having measles. I’m just really shit at it.

{clang, clang, clang went the manic depressive}

He held her shadow to his soul. (A. Leverkuhn)

Windsday

image

My serotonin is now being slapped hard by the wind. It was the first cold night, the first cold morning. (Brace yourselves, southern hemisphere homies and homos.) The sky is pale blue, unsaturated, unlike summer. I hide when the wind blows; you either enjoy it, or it beats you up more than physically. I could link you to the research, but this isn’t a fucking linkdump. I’m very rattled and even more sweary than usual. Môre is nog ‘n dag. I need a unicorn to smack or a kitten to kick or something. (No…of course not, it’s just a way to describe idk quite what.)

I have the shakes badly today. This paragraph is a bit later than the other and the sky is slightly less pale, there’s a weak sun, but it’s African and so it’s still strong enough to light up the white clouds rather prettily.

(What happens to undedicated love songs? Perhaps they follow ballpoint pens and single socks through a rip in the space time continuum. I think I’m plagiarising Douglas Adams there.)

Later still, a very fresh walk and then a quiet, cold, slow dusk. It’s the first time I’ve had to break out the winter woollies; by that I mean something made from wool, as opposed to a light long sleeved tshirt. The only time I get uninvited surprise visitors, is usually a man wanting to have a look at the solar power system. Yup, I’m a solar celeb. Lucky me. It happens because although there are plenty of solar geysers around, almost everything runs on the ex state now corporate behemoth we lovingly call Eskom.*

I’ve been reading a little …

If we went back, I still wonder, could we change the story somehow? Could we take a right turn instead of a left? Seventeen months after her death, I walk through New York and watch the trees bloom once more, and she cannot. I think about how things turned out for each of us, and I recognize that it might be different for me next time. I don’t know what story to tell myself about that. (Meghan O’Rourke – The Long Goodbye)

I can’t focus well at all at the moment and I fuck up tons of words anyway. I forgot to squeak an outraged wtf at my shrink about it the other day.

I just looked up and sunset was happening in a deep and vivid pink all over the wide sky. I hotfooted it out there to take its photo, because the African sun doesn’t fuck about, it gets up, does its job and goes to sleep hot, fast and efficiently. None of your Joseph Turner leisurely pastel events. It’s so showy here, I love it. Not the most impressive sunrisesandsets on the planet, but mine. Home. It took me 43 years to be able to say that with conviction and without even knowing where my passport is.

It’s dark and I’m tired. It’s circadian crash and burn o’clock.

Slurday

Not only did I crash and burn last night, I also lost the ability to function properly. Couldn’t stand light, couldn’t stand, couldn’t type without it looking as though it was from the desk of a drunk Polish physicist. I looked at it this morning and half laughed, half cringed.

Frieday

I still wonder why the hell I was so fucked up that night. It was like being on too many meds, but I wasn’t. There wasn’t even any alcohol around. The last time I felt that way, it was definitely too many meds. I don’t like myself then; I’m foul. Too fecking tired to write more.

Splatterday

Journalling is weird, I have a strong urge to say things like, Day 142, still no sight of rescue. Provisions dangerously low and the first mate has starting eyeing me with what I can only describe as hunger. Now you could see that as a sign of lunacy, or of a joyously literate childhood. Whichever it is, I’m bored with this now and so I shall post it and move on to equally tedious things.

* Eskom: even more lovingly known as ‘ek’s dom’, which rhymes and means ‘I am stupid’. As a business, it’s in such a shit state, that they’ve implemented load shedding, which are planned power cuts. They’re due to something that I like to think of as DIY Robin Hoodism. Eskom gets ripped off wholesale by informal settlements (shanty towns) that drop a whole clusterfucked nest of cable from a power line, which then gets split off to shacks etc. It’d be lovely if only the risks and consequences weren’t so awful. Anyway, Eskom loses profits and thus declares load shedding for two hours at a time, with a fair bit of frequency. Affordable electricity would probably work better. My superior solar reaction is to first switch on every light I have and play music. Once I’m sure the poison pygmy neighbours have noticed it, I switch everything off and thoroughly enjoy a gorgeously velvety dark night, punctuated only by celestial things instead of the fucking streetlight that makes like the Gestapo all over my stoep and into my room.

Seriously, you could have accomplished any number of productive things in the time it took you to read this brainwank. Plus, I stole your sheep while you were distracted.

image

Comments are closed.