the sads

Scheduled post, by the time you read this, I’ll be in a good mood.

This, now… this is why I need to schedule posts, I have to puke a post and forget the raw intensity of the emotions behind it. If anyone said anything at all to me about it now, I’d slide a little further downhill on my arse. I need to be up in the morning, but I can’t sleep and the pills aren’t working. I’m too revved, every molecule is vibrating and there’s a massive cannonball in my gut. You can call me Melodramah Blah. Melodramblah. Headrushes and RLS and aaaaaaarrrrrrrggggghhhhh fuck fuck fuck…


That was last night and now it’s this afternoon (no wonder I have such a kak relationship with times and dates. Dating Time would be cool though. Where was I? I woke up feeling tons better, went for the routine morning beach walk and so on. Then I went into The Little Smoke for my first consult with a trainee psychiatrist from Uganda. It went really well, I liked her a lot. 23 free sessions to go (yes I’m a jammy bugger etc etc – it’s possible that you need to be British to understand that one idk). Between you and me, I think I like being a PhD case study.


Another gap in writing. Its 02h30 (ffs) and I suppose I’m too strung out for the pills to have worked. It’ll come right tomorrow, beach and sea and sky will sort it. I’m chilled now anyway. The afternoon was good for a while and then I cried and cried and cried till I felt like giving Noah a heads-up for round 2 of the flood. It’s been going on for days. I was exhausted after today’s session. Not surprising at all. So before next week I have to write a list of my problems in order of priority – I wonder what that’ll look like.

Spleen vented; i feel better already.

Walking Around (Pablo Neruda)

It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailor shops and movie houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Still it would be marvellous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don΄t want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.

I don΄t want so much misery.
I don΄t want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.

That΄s why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoe shops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-coloured birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopaedic shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.

(I’m kinda having a little Neruda blog festival at the moment.)
(BRB going to terrify a clerk with a cut lily. Wonder if that’s rhyming slang…)

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