Tag Archives: me

Recovery for Introverts

I went on a business trip for 3 days to our corporate office in So. cal. I live in N. Cal. Thankfully a short and sweet plane ride. However, much longer working days than I’m used to as well as having to “perform” in a way. The role at my current job is a bit of a solo gig. Our office is quite small.
The office down south is much busier. A bustling HR department with lots of would be candidates for direct care staff coming and going. Interviews. Applications. Phones ringing off the hook. I can be bipolar bubbly and gregarious when I need to be. I know my game and can speak well when the time comes. I have over 20 years of experience in my field. I carry myself well. But, really. Truly. I’m an introvert. Perfectionist is also in my resume.
So each morning I arrived earlier than needed. Stayed longer than needed. Smiled bigger than needed. I can only work part time these days. 24 hours. My first day with travel was 12 hours and my last day with travel was 12 hours. The in between day was a solid 8 hours. I was buzzing. Running on adrenaline and expectation. On the inside. On the outside I wore my badge. Took notes. Shared information, both personal and professional. Smiled some more.
Today I am home. I slept fairly well last night. Got a great workout in. Cleaned the house a bit. But….about 3pm I crashed. I sent my husband off to a baseball game thinking I needed “me” time. But within me, myself and I, sometimes, is not the place to be. Racing thoughts I didnt present well. Intrusive thoughts of self harm. Some visions. Some voices.
Ya know. I ask myself if I’m trying to be more than I can be? Should I have known it would be too much? Was the trip truly too much? Maybe I just need more rest, less expectations for a few days. Recovery. Allow myself the idea of recovery.
Its okay. I know I did the best that I could. I may have even done better!



it is in my heart…

That solemnly handing you a paper boat would make everything alright. It is in my mind I am alone and sometimes lonely, but very wary of new people and very nervous about more people. It is in my brain Books were the things that kept me enthralled, awake for whole nights. Books and I, we’ve […]

it is in my mind…

When I was a lass lad kid, I read as much as possible about ancient and Romano-Britain. In many of the stories, ancient Britons of various tribes would preface thoughtful words with, “it is in my mind…” and you could feel the weight of it. I loved those stories, still do actually. I use those […]


It’s my mother’s birthday and I started to feel miserable and fragmented and jagged yesterday. I’m having some solitude, which is possible because I have two guests till Tuesday. I’d be lousy company anyway and there’s every chance I’d feel agitated and trapped and turn into a (more) grouchy asshole. It feels as though every…

World Suicide Prevention Day

Like many (most?) amongst the Bipolaratti, I too have entertained the notion of killing myself. I’ve even had one incident since getting diagnosed with bipolar, but thankfully, only the one.

Having said that, I’ve not trended much towards suicidiality. I’ve always done my best to pull myself along by self-cheering, and reminding myself that it could always be worse. I’m not sure how I convinced myself of such at all those pits I had to climb back out of after the worst of depressive episodes, but anyways.


That One Time…

The longest period of depression that was leading to the contemplation of suicide was when I was 19. I had been bullied into attending community college on my own dime after being utterly burned out at the end of high school. I was working full time atop a full time school schedule (as I had been through the second half of high school), except unlike high school, I had a shitty car eating up most of my money. It was nice to have that measure of freedom, but not so nice to almost die all the time because the breaks apparently didn’t know how to work (in spite of being replaced completely at least once, if not twice).

Suffices to say, was running on the ghost of the fumes after the tank is empty, and it was killing me. I remember sitting at home on a rare night off, sobbing with exhaustion, doing my best to keep my brain from going down dark paths. I was ‘saved’ by having to rescue some alcoholic idiots, which pushed me into my Meg Murry-esque saving fault: anger. I got angry enough to realise that I desperately had to change something in my life, and opted to join the Air Force.


That Other Time…

In some ways, it was a great idea to join the military, but in a lot of other ways, it wasn’t. I mainly liked my job, but I worked rotation shifts, never got enough sleep, and had sleep paralysis complete with seeing my loved ones trying to kill me while I laid there unable to move. I drank enough to float the entire Navy, and in general was in horrible shape the entire time. The closest I came to suicide in all that was trying to throw myself off the balcony while drunk because my cheating boyfriend kept gaslighting the fuck out of me. He stopped me, and was rewarded with a Hello Kitty stool thrown over my shoulder straight into his face. I hadn’t felt suicidal per se at that time (outside of being incredibly depressed and isolated), but that flash point made me decide that I needed to die immediately.


Kk, Time to Die Now

Really, that’s the big problem with me and suicidal stuff — it comes out of nowhere. The incident that occurred in 2012 was just my brain screaming for some relief from the combination of extreme physical and mental pain that were happening within that particular framework of hours. My psychiatrist didn’t seem too concerned by that, and I guess I didn’t want to dwell on it either? I also suspect the chances of that sort of incident occurring again is lower now that I am better at candidly telling things to my spouse instead of having to push myself into rage to overcome despair.


Now, why am I sharing this? As it says at the top, today is World Suicide Prevention Day. Because of my own experiences, and because of the experiences of my friends, I care deeply about preventing suicide. While my personal experiences have been transient and blessedly infrequent, I have friends who have spent months or years in a suicidal fugue. It matters to me that I can be there and supportive of my friends without making them feel cornered by trite ‘truisisms’, or trying to force them to think about what anyone outside of themselves. Certainly, I want all of my friends to live long and full lives, but the best thing I can give them, and they in turn can give me, is a safe space to think out loud.

And that, really, is the main thing that I am putting out there for World Suicide Prevention Day. You are not alone. There are people out there who you can talk to if you are feeling suicidal. Yes, ‘everyone knows’ about the hotlines you can call, but what if you’re not a phone person? Most of my closest friends with mental illnesses are emphatically not phone people, so having to try to handle calling someone while being in a distressed state is just impossible to consider. And even worse, most of the ‘big’ places like the Samaritans here in the United Kingdom have little to no online support — many places I saw when Googling around had limited online hours.

To that end, I made the below. The first three have online text chat availability, while the last one is a fairly comprehensive directory of things. If you are feeling suicidal or alone, please — reach out to someone who wants to help you. Hell, feel free to contact me if you want someone to talk at, though my old lady hours mean that I’m not going to be up for more than a couple more hours today.

Really though, you guys all matter out there, and I would be sad to lose any of y’all (for what it’s worth). I hope everyone is having a good day, as I always do, and if not? I hope the bad passes swiftly.



another pair of wings for my coatstand


He had a sticker on his bakkie, “drugs are for people who can’t handle reality,” because he couldn’t.

The phone rang and a voice I wasn’t sure of, said a name I use for someone else. I was shocked at the news, whoever owned it, and when it became clear, the shock was harder, sharper. My soul went back, two decades almost exactly. I lived in a room with little in it, he sang when he walked up the stairs towards it. My friend, my heart’s friend, the angel with broken wings. We walked hand in hand and gave plants new names and we shared the moon. On a whim, we would go from the town to the city, to a walled place with guns waiting. The journey was so much slower on the way back, and so much faster too. We were blood brothers, we were safe.

It rained all night last night, all day today and it’ll rain all night tonight. Tears first, fast, then the dull daze of shock returning. My broken man with the name of an angel, Yagharek’s wingless, scarred spine. The man with secrets and sorrows, the man who died alone. I’ll grieve him hard as mountains, desolate. Two decades claw at my neck, hunting the jugular, tearing holes in the sky.

Darling, darling broken angel, dead before he died. I won’t forget your smile, or your hand in mine.


Nothing But Death  (Pablo Neruda)

There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.

Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no
finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I’m not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.

Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.

Translated by Robert Bly

wet t-shirt

How entertaining is that title? Sounds so titillating (now there’s a pun to conjure with), but the truth, sadly, is prosaic. tl;dr – went for a walk, it rained.

(scheduled post)

Friends, Romans, pluviophiles and petrichor sniffers, lend me your queers.

It’s lovely when the weather fits my mood, but as with most things, the dark stuff stands out far more than the light. I needed wuthering weather and I got it. The day began with sunshine, my first beach walk was a rather sweaty one. The second one started off cloudy and rapidly progressed to pissing it down. I loved it. There’s that fresh air feeling that the rain  brings and the odd elation of striding along a foggy beach.

Night fell and it rained harder, a lot harder. I battened the proverbial hatches and settled in to enjoy the sound and feel cosy and then, as usual, I checked my privilege. I forget every single time, that I live in a country full of ‘informal housing’ (shacks) and too often they’re on flood plains and get hit hard. While I’m warm and comfortable and fussing about so that my possessions don’t get damp, fuckloads of people are very cold and wet and hoping their possessions don’t disappear for good. I’ve probably said it before, but charities are mostly an inefficient way to help. Better to help within your own community amirite? Well, assuming there are shacks or homeless people anyway. Read Robert Calderisi’s The Trouble With Africa if you don’t believe me. In fact, read it anyway.

I’m skilled at leaping from a soapbox on to a hobby horse and ranting/digressing.

The following day the weather shifted a bit and I had the rainy walk in the morning and the sweaty one at the end of the day. I sat on a rock at the end and picked out tiny pebbles and pieces of glass. The bookshelf Buddha’s bowl is full of misty, smooth seaglass now, I’ll have to find something else to do with the future findings.

A walk in the rain on a beach in a warm country is a lovely thing. Whatever the Mood is like at the start of it, it will be at least a little calmer at the end. It’s the perfect place and time for weeping too. Mister Neruda wrote the poems I love best about the rain and the sea (and a hell of a lot of other things besides). I’ve already blogged two of his sea poems, so here’s a breathtakingly beautiful one about rain.

(My mother spent a day on Easter Island; I say things like that with pride, as though I’d done them myself. She visited Neruda’s house in Valparaiso too, and brought me back a local business leaflet, Neruda Shoes. Me and digressing, we’re inseparable, but there’s a reason for this one…)

I fucking love this poem, even when it makes me want to fucking cry.

Rain (Rapa Nui) by Pablo Neruda

No, better the Queen not recognize
your face, it’s sweeter
this way, my love, far from the effigies, the weight
of your hair in my hands. Do you remember
the Mangareva tree whose flowers fell
in your hair? These fingers are not like
the white petals: look at them they are like roots,
they are like stone shoots over which the lizard
slides. Don’t be afraid, we will wait for the rain to fall, naked,
the rain, the same as falls over Manu Tara.

But just as water inures its strokes on the stone,
it falls on us, washing us softly
towards obscurity down below the hole
of Ranu Raraku. And so
don’t let the fishermen or the wine-pitcher see you.
Bury your twin-burning breast on my mouth,
and let your head of hair be a small night for me,
a darkness of wet perfume enveloping me.

At night I dream that you and I are two plants
that grew together, roots entwined,
and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth,
since we are made of earth and rain. Sometimes
I think that with death we will seep below,
in the depths at the feet of he effigy, looking over
the ocean which brought us here to build and make love.

My hands were not ferrous when they met you, the waters
of another sea went through them as through a net; now
water and stones sustain seeds and secrets.

Sleeping and naked, love me: on the shore
you are like the island: your love confused, your love
astonished, hidden in the cavity of dreams,
is like the movement of the sea around us.

And when I too begin falling asleep
in your love, naked,
leave my hand between your breasts so it can throb
along with your nipples wet with rain.

(Trans. Anthony Kerrigan)

And here is my favourite cover of a song from my favourite film…

by the time you read this i’ll be in a different mood

I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us — don’t tell!
They’d banish — you know!

How dreary to be somebody!
How public like a frog
To tell one’s name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

Emily Dickinson

(scheduled post)

1430260851-1I’ve always been far too impatient about hitting the publish button around here. I think I generally blog far too often, with intermittent wide open spaces. Not many this year… Last October was quiet. Ahem. So there’s one benefit of scheduling posts; I don’t drive people nuts with rapid-fire blogging, and there are still posts appearing on the tongue tied days. I started to mark my posts as scheduled a few days ago; the reason for that is also the most beneficial of benefits – you won’t know when I wrote posts. No skullduggery there, however, it just means that I can weep, wail, whine and whinge, without worrying about the people who will worry about me. Still no skullduggery, I appreciate the worriers and warriors who care, but I’m useless at dealing with the concern, especially when I’m all fucked up and fragmented. I start feeling guilty about feeling shitty and then I start agonising over answering simple, kindly queries about my wellbeing.

Overthinking? Me? Hmmm… If you’re one of my bipolar friends you can wipe that snigger out of your larynx; not only do I know you do it too, I can smell the sizzling of grey matter from here. It’s like a bipolar brainbecue.

Bob Dylan – Sweetheart Like You (Infidels, the first freshly released Dylan album I owned, it was 1983. Not a great year for me. My mother loved Dylan a lot and so do I.)

Anonymity is a funny thing. I tend to assume it’s about hiding my name and face and suchlike, but that’s a superficial judgement. Personal data aside, to be truly anonymous, I’d have to avoid connecting with other people, which means avoiding interaction. I’d have to forego empathy (both giving and receiving). Compassion would decrease, loneliness would increase.

Fuck that.

I didn’t start off anonymously anyway, when I started blogging last August. I’d given the url to a few close friends already. Part of starting this blog was, and still is, to find/be found by people like you. You guys either have bipolar, or are understanding and lovely about it. I’d tried a forum beforehand; although it was invaluable in giving support and info then, it wasn’t deep enough. So I shifted here completely and you lot held my hand through the initial shock and horror of my diagnosis. You told me about your issues, your solutions and you told me about problems with no solutions, which makes it all easier to handle. I haven’t said it before, but I’ve crammed you into my remission toolkit, which I keep in a sturdy toolbox. Well of course I do.

Thank fuck for you.

R.E.M. – Make It All Okay (My favourite band since 1986, when the video for Stand on tv held me spellbound. An obsession was born. This song is from Around the Sun, which I bought in Exeter in 2004.)

In other circumstances, I’d be spilling my soul to a therapist, a priest, a family member, a close friend… Whoever I trusted and who had time for looong conversations or emails or whatever. As you know, I’m very fucking verbose; I’d probably need about six listeners. Sometimes I feel as though my mouth has been stitched shut; more often, I feel a strong need to talk. If I can’t puke up the words and be heard, I feel as though I’ve swallowed a tennis ball. Not sure how that’d be possible with my mouth stitched shut. So I blog; I’ve been doing it since the late 90s. This time around, I’m getting the psycheducation and therapy I can’t afford otherwise. It’s important.

Another aspect is that when I blog, I’m not writing in a structured way. I’m either organising my thoughts around whatever I’ve been researching, or I’m just chucking the bread rolls of confusion into the pond of rumination and reaction, waiting for the mallards of enlightenment to come and swallow the confusion and quack some nice, clear conclusions (what a ludicrous metaphor, man that was fun to write). Flannery O’Connor said all of that far more succinctly, “I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.”  ||source|| It works that way for me too, I frequently waffle my way to some semblance of clarity, it’s mah process, peeps.

Leonard Cohen – The Partisan (The first Leonard Cohen song I ever heard was Famous Blue Raincoat. My mother, nextofkin and I shared a whole lot of love for the man and his songs.)

And all of the preceding waffle is a long-winded way of explaining why I need to write and how it helps me. Because of all of that, allowing myself to feel inhibited is nonsense, it detracts from the benefits I get here. I just can’t bring myself to keep spewing the amount of misery that I generally do; I feel self indulgent and guilty about it. So I think that if I want/need some fast help and support, I’ll blog “live”, but otherwise I shall schedule. By the time I read it, emotions will have shifted in one direction or another and I will hopefully have gained some perspective and insight in the meantime.

Plus, anything I do to keep the old brain active, is a good thing.

When I write amusing stuff, it’s for my ego. When I write emotional stuff, it’s for my soul. The linkdumps appease the multitasking magpie of my mind (I am on fire with the mixed and ridiculous metaphors and similes today).

And I think I finally wrote my way to confusion instead of away from it.


Coldplay –  Ink (There are three people inked into the skin of my left arm, the ink means the world to me and Coldplay meant the world to my mother. I like them too, but it’s an embarrassingly mainstream admission to make, so I usually blame it on the dog.)

Got a tattoo and the pain’s alright…

Rodriguez – Sandrevan Lullaby (I’d bought Coming in from Reality for my mother at some point, and we played it daily for the last few weeks of her life. Sixto Rodriguez is part of the South African psyche and my mother was a big fan.)

Hello always ends in goodbye…

a-z challenge: r

{TW: graphic info about Rothko’s suicide.}

This one is a no brainer. R is for Rothko and the reason for that, is a gentle and logical progression from seeing my very first one (Light Red Over Black) at the Tate, and then Georgia O’Keeffe’s comment about his work being like a weaving, in a film at the Hayward.

“Abstract art never interested me; I always painted realistically. My present paintings are realistic.” |Mark Rothko – The Seagram Murals|

*makes like Sophia in the Golden Girls* Picture this, Sicily London, 1993. A young woman scurries from gallery to gallery, looking in vain for her soul, her fortune, or a girlfriend. Her trusty copy of Time Out, newsprint classifieds bleeding into the rain, would get her one of those things in time, but for now, it got her to the Tate Modern. By then she had a homing device tuned to it and a thorough knowledge of which rooms to bypass and which postcards to buy.

The Rothko Room


The Tate has nine of the Seagram, or Four Seasons Murals, I’d read a short blurb saying (more or less) that after being commissioned to paint them for the Four Seasons Restaurant, Mark Rothko threw a serious case of artistic temperament, flung the commission money back and flounced off.

“Anybody who will eat that kind of food for those kind of prices will never look at a painting of mine.”  (Mark Rothko, 1959) |source|

The works I saw at the Tate had been donated by Rothko himself.

On February 25, 1970, Oliver Steindecker, Rothko’s assistant, found the artist in his kitchen, lying dead on the floor in front of the sink, covered in blood. He had sliced his arms with a razor found lying at his side. The autopsy revealed that he had also overdosed on anti-depressants. He was sixty-six years old. The Seagram Murals arrived in London for display at the Tate Gallery on the very day of his suicide. |Late at Tate at Tate Liverpool (22 October 2009): Reflect on Mark Rothko’s Seagram Murals in the twilight hours|

rothko460There was a skylight, the paintings were subdued and so were the people. I went back on a sunny day and as the paintings brightened a little, the people around me brightened a lot. On the grey day, they slumped quietly on the benches in the centre of the room; on the sunny day, there was a quiet energy and a much, much lighter mood. It’s logical and obvious, writing it down now, but then it felt like a revelation – art epiphany #3.

Inner-space-...-the-Mark--007I didn’t know much at all about the artist or the paintings then, and the work, the visceral experience of it, was enough. No internet, no rapid research fast answers; I read whatever I could find and my life was so freaking peripatetic, that threads and themes were inconsistent. It was like a rich scavenger hunt back then, much later I began to fill in the gaps. Mark Rothko was not love in the ways that Picasso and O’Keeffe were. I didn’t understand him intellectually then and to be honest, I don’t think I do now. I have zero idea how to and I’m not remotely interested in anyone’s technique. Mood, texture … that’s about it really. I love the colour blue (so do 40% of humans, apparently) and it’s tempting to fall in love with Rothko’s, but there’s a small niggle at the back of my mind, that says if I did, I’d have entered ‘does the art match the couch’ territory and then, well it’s all downhill from there, innit?

Almost everyone who enters the room feels an urge to sit down on the benches in the middle of the space. It’s as if the emotional weight of these sombre works instinctively makes you sit, instantly drained by them. Before you even have time to try to compose a rational understanding of them, they have a psychological impact. The Tate’s Mark Rothko exhibit: a room with a view of the subconscious

Mark-Rothko-Seagram-Murals-at-the-TateSo I can look at Rothko paintings and fall into their density for a while and feel colour all around, but actual sensible thought? When I attempt that, it all puzzles the fuck out of me. I firmly believe that art is better when it’s independent of all the blather of criticism and interpretation. Everyone, no matter their age or education, who looks at a painting and thinks or says a word or a million words about it, is absolutely, unequivocally right. In the Rothko Room, I probably gazed far more at the other people in the room than I did at the art. And since their reactions were a reflection of those paintings, it was truly fascinating.

Moar Stuffs

82.65.409_PS2“Like many artists, Mark Rothko was many people. He was the European emigre enjoying a better life in America; he was the impoverished adolescent from a political family who met anarchist Emma Goldman; and he was the young anarchist who studied at Yale. He repudiated abstraction and colour field, yet became known as the most famous of abstract artists and colour field painters.” The Strange Life & Stranger Death of Mark Rothko

“In October 2012, Black on Maroon, one of the paintings in the Seagram series, was defaced with writing in black ink while on display at Tate Modern, by a man named Wlodzimierz Umaniec. It was estimated that restoration of the painting might take up to eighteen months to complete. The BBC’s Arts Editor Will Gompertz explained that the ink from Umaniec’s marker pen had bled all the way through the canvas, causing “a deep wound not a superficial graze” and that the vandal had caused “significant damage.”” |bbc news|

“Kate Rothko Prizel is a strong-looking woman with a disarming smile that she switches on and off like a flashlight. You sit opposite her, trying not to be distracted by the subliminal hum of the canvases on the walls – three early Rothkos to the right of me, and one to the left – and you wonder: how did she do it? How did she survive?” The art cheats who betrayed my father


dtho23March09Tate0006.JPGmarkrothko.org – A comprehensive resource for information about Mark Rothko paintings, prints, biography and quotes.

Rothko @ MoMA

Rothko @ the Guggenheim





along with the daze

Some days in the brain.



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)



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.


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.


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.


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.