Tag Archives: me

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.


a-z challenge: m

M is for music. I don’t enjoy questions like what’s your favourite song, band, singer, album … no good can come of such enquiries. My mother said rather often, if you applied the amount of brain you use to remember lyrics, you could become a brain surgeon, she also said, you know all the words to all the songs in the world.  Untrue, of course, I’m just not fond of R&B and Motown. Anyway. I’m lazy about writing right now and so I thought I’d share my YouTube playlist with you instead. Last I looked there were 118 songs and I know I’ve left vital stuff out. It starts off with my usual sad boy ballads and then develops a mind of its own and we could call it eclectic … but a more accurate word is demented.


a-z challenge: h

H is for …

H is for heroes

I always liked the Joseph Campbell quote, “A hero is someone who has given his or her life to something bigger than oneself,” and it took me years to think hang on … by that definition, a hero is somebody who works for a soulless corporation, gets the gold watch and then beetles off to have a heart attack on a golf course. And even though one of his works inspired Star Wars, I really can’t get behind someone who’s best known legacy is, “follow your bliss.”


To the batmobile dictionary!

hero {‘ hɪərəʊ}
noun: hero; plural noun: heroes; noun: hero sandwich; plural noun: hero sandwiches
1. a person, typically a man, who is admired for their courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities. “a war hero”
synonyms: brave man, champion, man of courage, great man, man of the hour, conquering hero, victor, winner, conqueror, lionheart, warrior, paladin, knight, white hat;
antonyms: coward, loser
the chief male character in a book, play, or film, who is typically identified with good qualities, and with whom the reader is expected to sympathize.
“the hero of Kipling’s story”
synonyms: male protagonist, principal male character;
antonyms: villain
(in mythology and folklore) a person of superhuman qualities and often semi-divine origin, in particular one whose exploits were the subject of ancient Greek myths.
2. NORTH AMERICAN – another term for hoagie.
Origin – Middle English (with mythological reference): via Latin from Greek hērōs .

Okaaay don’t let’s get all hung up on all the man male maleness of the definition. I’m sure I could find you a Birkenstock Dictionary of Lentil Correctness or something, but instead let us simply remember that some people still say hero and heroine, tattoo and tattooine, coca and cocaine and so forth.* Let’s get cerebrally advanced here and just think mankind or human. Instead, let’s get hung up on the fact that heroes are defined as white hat as opposed to black hat, without mentioning who the arbitrator of good and evil is.

(Too many italics spoil the paragraph. Too much digression is just another day on the blahpolar blog.)

So my post today is all about sandwiches. I keeed, I keeed. Heroes. I’m going to introduce you to whichever of mine my swisscheesebrain can remember. And I am not freaking well having it audited for sexual gender ethnic abled fat thin microbe equality. They don’t fit neatly on the good-evil axis and they’re often far from exemplary characters. What they are to me, are memorable characters, who taught me something and/or mean/t something to me and/or made me laugh deeply anytime during the past four decades. I cba to research and factcheck, so this one comes directly off the top of my head. There are plenty more, I’m a born follower.


Lord of the Rings rep-re-sent!
Éomer: I said more than enough in the E post of this meme.
Èowyn: Sister of the above. Slashed through the coolest loophole ever, to kill the Witch King of Angmar.
Aragorn: I had LOTR read to me from the age of three and read it myself at some point towards eleven. Strider was my hero, above all others. He made me feel safe when I really wasn’t safe at all.
Gandalf: The most reassuring character ever and the only wizard I shall ever truly love (lol). When I’m lonely and need a hug, I read Gandalf dialogue.
Gwaihir: Gandalf, imprisoned in the Orthanc Tower by Saruman the Knobhead, catches a white moth, whispers to it and releases it. The moth flaps off, has a quick word with the Lord of the Eagles and in two shakes of a dead lamb’s tail, Gandalf is free and the job’s a good ‘un. The answer to the eagle controversy meme is right there in the top right hand box:


Now shut the fuck up about eagles, noob. The problems on the surface of Middle Earth didn’t interest them one iota.

Tank Girl: Punk haired Mad Maxine with a tank, a kangaroo boyfriend and an in yer face fuck you attitude.
Alexander the Great: The toughest faggot to ever pwn the world.
Genghiz Khan: From a prophetic blood spot on his hand to leader of one of the biggest empires ever. A right royal bastard of a warlord.
Marco Polo: Off he toddled up and down the Silk Road, only to wind up in gaol when he returned to Italy, because nobody believed a word he said. Wrote a book that’s still in print. ?…years later.
Boudicca: Ancient Briton who took on the Romans after seeing them rape her daughters. Spent too long being portrayed as a Victorian marble twat called Boadiccea. Pffft.
Alison Bechdel: Delicious dyke comic artist, graphic novelist and originator of the Bechdel scale. Quietly four megatonnes more interesting than Ellen.
Leonard Peltier: American Indian imprisoned since the year dot, despite a dedicated liberation movement.
Jan Palach: The USSR rolled into Prague with tanks and Jan Palach became yet another victim of self immolation in the face of completely overwhelming odds. Considering that Buddhist monks still do it, I wouldn’t call it a successful form of protest, but these days, what is?
Desmond Tutu: Ageing gracefully and giggling; one of the rare South African dignitaries prepared to leap laughing upon his soapbox and stand up for humanity in all its forms. One seriously cool dude. The only person with any clout at all to call bs on both times the ANC here refused the Dalai Lama a visa.


The Dalai Lama: Far more pragmatic and realistic than any of the fuckenhippies who are allegedly inspired by him to drift wistfully around India irritating the locals. All of a sudden half of Ealing has Tibetan names and claims to be a reincarnated lama. TDL says Westerners would be better off doing good in their own countries. Ha.
Odin: One eye, two ravens and a horse with eight legs. Badass of the Norse pantheon.
Rān: Norse goddess of the sea, who runs the female version of Valhalla. Rawr.
Susan Travers: The only woman to join the French Foreign Legion. And a socialite to boot. Oh yeh. English.


Amelia Earhardt: Lost and pretty in a leather flying helmet and goggles, and something about flying and so forth. Did I mention pretty?
Georgia O’Keeffe: My favourite artist and yet another badass. Steiglitz made her (especially her hands) iconic, she buggered off to New Mexico, painted the fuck out of it and was still awesomely beautiful at age 90.


Leonard Cohen: Poet, songsmith, gentleman. Singer Laureate of my family of three-minus-one. I can’t even…
Kurt Cobain: The tragic hero of Generation X grunge slackers (holla). Sex, drugs, rock ‘n roll, more drugs, evil wife, suicide … ripped jeans, obscure tshirts, flannel shirts, blue converse … a primal scream and broken guitars that echo through the years. Heartbreak. Byron 3.0
Osip Mandelstam and all of the other poets that Stalin threw into Siberian gulags.
Butch Cassidy: Brave, sweet, funny, disreputable romantic and beautiful. Ultimately tragic. Also one of my favourite films ever.

*it’s possible that I was talking bollocks for two thirds of those examples.

a-z challenge: d

Doh ray mi da da da dum didi doo dum dum. Today’s post is brought to you by the letter D. D is for dog. D is also for disclaimer, but I can’t think of one for this. Damn.

The distraction du jour is a description of my own delightful dog, using particularly goofy images from medieval bestiaries. You have no idea just how much I am struggling right now, to avoid working the words doggy style into this post.


My dog is not blue, but she does wake me (early and often) by trying to drag me from the bed with a remarkably firm and supple paw. She also whines and whinges and whimpers; there is simply no ignoring her. I’m glad of it, it forces me to maintain routines and so on. I wasn’t a morning person till I met the mutt. Instant upgrade from therapy to service dog.


If only they could talk, they’d say “I want a walk!” People say if only they could talk quite often and I’ve always been wishful and wistful about the notion, until a friend remarked that actually it’d be a total pain in the arse, because dogs would follow us around saying things like give me food take me for a walk scratch my tummy oh look a rabbit incessantly. Dogs are eloquent enough and like most dogs, mine does a lot of her nagging sitting gazing at me adoringly while using jedi mind tricks to get her way. If she wasn’t beautifully obedient 90% of the time, she’d be unbearable. She’s so … dogged about things. BaDUM-tshhhh!


My dog’s dearest and most desperate desire is to catch a bird. Her hunting style is sight hound – she uses her eyes far more than her nose. On the beach, she barks joyously and races after gulls, cormorants and oystercatchers. They say oh thanks for the warning bark, now we will escape even faster than usual and off they zoom. Dog goes home to stalk frogs and catch beetles.


Bless her sweet little heart, she is the security department round here and she takes her job very seriously. It didn’t take too long to teach her not to woof raucously at every single thing that dares to stroll anywhere near the fence, but she still has her say. She barks under her breath, with a boef sound and a puffing out of both cheeks. I am completely safe from passers by, tractors, cats and I am especially safe from motorcycles, because according to her, they are seriously evil and certainly not to be trusted.


I don’t think that one needs discussion?


My dog is, of course, what all good dogs are to decent owners. Friend, companion, entertainment, loyal and devoted. Like most dogs, she asks for so little – 20 walks a day, 30 meals, a couple of comfortable couches, some toys and a reasonably sized country to dominate.

Yes, I am a childless old bat and no, I do not get out much.

a-z challenge: c

Well now. Day 3 of the challenge and all I could think of for C, is a delicious and delightful thing that I cannot use, because I didn’t mark my blog as having adult content in the signup process. That’s fair enough,  but I was stumped. I did the c word crowdsourcing thing and friends mentioned calcium, coffee, chocolate,  caracals, chalk circles … good stuff, but I was struggling to join love and a word count with those topics. And the answer was right there all the time, blowing smoke in my face. Cigarettes!

C for caveat: if I had it all to do again, I’d never start smoking. If mixed episodes didn’t kick my ass every time wellbutrin gets me off them, I’d quit. Even my psychiatrist told me not to quit at this stage. Blah blah smoking kills blah breastfeeding blah blah cancer and also, cost. Those are all utterly valid and so kids, if you don’t smoke now, don’t ever do it. Use the money on sex and rock n roll instead.

Have you heard Rufus Wainwright’s Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk? I love that song, it’s the only song that contains smoking that I love and it suits me down to the ground.


I smoked socially from age 20 to 22, and then my bro died and I smoked like an addict from then on. These days I justify it, by telling myself that having given up alcohol, sex and coffee, I deserve a vice. I drink decaf occasionally and caf much more occasionally and I have no idea whether celibacy is forever – that is a C word that I do not love. None of those things were difficult to ditch though, so my rationale is irrational. Without justification, the truth emerges. I am addicted and I don’t want to give up enough to wrestle through the addiction and the mixed episodes enough to follow through with it. If someone says I’m trying to give up or I’ve given up or you should give up, I instantly feel a major urge to light up, inhale and continue blackening my lungs and my prospects.

I’m so sorry if that distresses anyone who has lost someone to lung cancer or emphysema – I really am.

Onwards with the polluted truth … smoking ain’t glamorous or wise or healthy and it costs a bomb. I’d never recommend it to anyone. But I do it and I’ve done it for 22 years (half my life) and although I would like my shrink to help me quit … well who knows. I’d like to stop spending money on it; I do not want to lengthen my life. The oral gratification pleases , and I am foolishly deluded enough to believe that it reduces rather than increases stress. I love smoking. I will smoke a cigarette for any/all of you that tell me to stop.


I know I’ve contradicted myself, I know that it’s incredibly stupid. I just don’t care enough.


So many C words, so little logic.

a-z challenge: b

Yup I made it all the way to day two of the challenge.

I rarely talk about queer things on my blog, so I decided to now. Herewith, a rainbow b.


And b is for butch, and butch is me. When I was younger, it was b for boi, but middle age made me mannish. Let me get one thing straight clear; I do not wish I had a penis. My gender performance is masculine of centre and frankly that’s about all the definition I need for the way I look. In binary terms, I’m a mix of male and female things, inside and out. In and on my own terms, I’m just me. I love butch, because butch is brave and because it’s the real me. Being a butch woman, a butch dyke – it takes courage.

I wear clothing from the men’s department, they’re comfortable and look good on me and they never have fake, decorative pockets. Pockets matter, because I’m not overly fond of handbags and manbags. I fit the category used by Kate Clinton – stylish butch; I think Ellen DeGeneres fits that description too. I’m working on the silver fox aspect too. I don’t like the size of my breasts and if surgery was cheap, I’d get ‘em lopped off, but I don’t want it enough to sacrifice stuff for it; and anyway, women have al…erm none of your business. I don’t bind, because it sounds problematic, so bras are a necessary evil. Shifting south, it’s boxers or commando. I’m told that I walk like a man, and when I’m feeling cocky, I strut (insert dirty laugh here).

I get called sir at least once a day, both face to face and on the phone. I get called ma’am too and I don’t pay any special attention to either. I’ve been mistaken for a boy since I was seven, and when I was 22 and wearing a skirt at work, a guy shook my hand and said I was a brave man to wear a skirt. Sometimes the male or female tag sticks, and sometimes people get confused and disconcerted, but that’s their issue, not mine. Choosing a public bathroom can be entertaining and occasionally, frightening. And sometimes I have a little fun (if I’m getting funny looks) by saying I’m so glad I had the operation. I get insulted too, mostly covertly. Whether it’s covert or overt, I react by saying something along the lines of wow that’s rude, because it is. I’ve been yelled at on the streets in the UK, but never in SA. I could tell you at least a hundred stories about reactions to me; I usually make those anecdotes funny too.

Women … sometimes I fit into that heterofuckwit concept of but which is the man and sometimes I don’t. In my own little queer ghetto, plenty of hot women are fans of butches. My sex life, when I have one, is an extremely, mindblowingly intense kind of amazing. If you’re wondering about things like strapons, keep wondering.

Doing and being allegedly feminine things do not affect my perception of myself.

I shave my head and my underarms, I do not shave my shapely legs and … my groin is still none of your business. The old buggers who live round here have pretty much stopped gazing at my legs slack jawed; my policy is to force eye contact and stare right back. Freaks them out completely. My policy is a fabulous one, unless there’s a chance of being queer bashed. The policy there is throw shoulders back and stride confidently off. Alternatively, sidling away quietly with your heart pounding your eardrums is another decent option. Okay okay, if you’re a lovely lesbo, my groin might be your business. Applications on a postcard etc etc.

What else … Ivan Coyote’s Butch Roadmap is brilliant. Watch that and read this (the spoken word video version makes my eyes leak).

Blogging For Mental Health, 2015 Edition

bfmh15You know that I am having a rough time if I’m this late in getting around to what I consider one of the most important posts of the year. That is to say, making my annual pledge to Blog for Mental Health in 2015.

“I pledge my commitment to the Blog for Mental Health 2015 Project. I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others. By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health. I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma.”

This is my third year participating, and I think the thing that says it best is — I’m still here, folks. Even if I’m not a particularly suicidal person, it’s still a worthwhile affirmation to make in the face of mental illnesses (and other invisible illnesses). If you’re new to my blog — howdy. This is mainly a personal account, though sometimes I do shove in opinions and thoughts on the news. I write because writing is therapeutic for me, and because I’m glad to share my stories if they help other people feel less alone and ‘weird’. I know talking to friends in similar straits has always gone a long way to help me feel better, so.

Anyways, a year is both a long and a short time in a life. Since my last affirmation post, I have cut ties with my parents (realised they were narcissists, no good), moved house, had my second and final child, and saw my big girl start big girl school. I got back on my meds as soon as #2 was born, so I managed to avoid the worst of postpartum. I did end up getting my antidepressant dose upped last week, which just about perfectly coincided with where after my first child was born I realised I desperately needed help, and finally sought a diagnosis. So things might be a touch bumpy right now, but it’s mainly okay mentally.

Physically is the bugger right now. While I’ve yet to be able to get a diagnosis, I’ve likely had endometriosis bothering me for something like 20 years now, and chronic fatigue through most of that. It’s been especially bad lately, limiting most of my functionality to what I can do from my chair. This is… well, this is probably making the depression and anxiety spikes worse because dude, I would love to get out and about more. I’m hoping getting a Mirena coil fit will help, but that’s been slow going for various reasons (tl;dr can’t get it done at my local doctor’s office now and only just tracked down where I can instead last week). I’m still thinking I might have to go full hysterectomy like my maternal grandmother and aunt had to, but we’ll see.

Anyways, welcome again if you’re new. And as always, I hope that everyone is doing alright out there.


little griefkeepers

On the offchance that you haven’t seen this yet: Teletubbies dancing to Joy Division. It’s the ultimate in ironic emo; I love it.

Okay, if you watched that, you’re probably in the right frame of mind to put up with me mopping up tears and blowing my nose on my blog again. Stupid android app won’t let me embed the video, so here is an unsatisfactory gif.


The miserable bit is after the cut.

A farewell, a reminder, an act of kindness, a song – those were today’s gatekeepers of grief. They’re only causal in a butterfly effect sort of way; they are temporary triggers, perhaps – if you have any interest in adding even more triggers to your basket (nooooooo).

The farewell … sore, but absolutely and utterly worth it. The others, bittersweet and on their slow and careful way to becoming more sweet than bitter.

(If you feel like some soothing and comforting, this might do it.)

They’re innocent, those little guardians of grief, with their numerous and alliterative appellations, even though they frequently sneak in silently and overthrow your composure. My composure – let me avoid speaking for anybody but myself. Songs are the universal visceral reminders. I was about halfway home when the first wave hit. I turned it up louder than I have ever turned anything up (sober) before and I sang my broken heart out. A few songs later, another one arrived. It was the last bit of the main road and I had it loud and was singing (bellowing) along. I turned off and got a bit further down the road and those weird and silent tears swelled in my ribcage and that was that. It was a good and healing howl, but so so so so fucking incredibly very sore. Obviously. Grief wouldn’t be grief if it felt and tasted like clouds of cotton candy.

Amazingly, when I got back, there was a friend to hug me. Astonishing and lovely.

Home … swallow lamotrigine and ritalin and grapefruit juice. Slam tomato and olive chips down my throat. Dole out the incredibly expensive pills into the pill caddy, checking them like some kind of rite –
Even my fecking medication is sliding towards clang association. Ohhhh did you see what I did (unintentionally) there. Dole out their little friends too –
Zinc & Magnesium
Vitamin C
I know people whose daily pill intake hits double figures, my quantities are modest.

… distraction like that helps me sidle past any further tearstorms (a storm in a tearcup?), and I can plod through the rest of the day. Sensible food, exercise, routine, lather, rinse, repeat.

I scuppered myself briefly by answering an email from my alcoholic aunt. She asks things and then studiously replies to every single thing I say, except anything bipolar related. Whaaatever.

Grief is infinite, but life can curve safely around it. Aching ribs and raw eyeballs are finite. Chocolate helps a little. Clean and clear tear ducts are fabulous … eh, fuck all this positivity.

Everything is okay, even though it will never be okay again. Some of you will understand that already and the others will too, eventually.


headpurge time again

As the day is long and the world is old, many people can stand in the same place, one after the other. (Marie in Woyzeck, by Georg Büchner)

I am a total sucker for poignant, wistful and melancholy words. Also, very good at taking myself too seriously or not seriously enough, in completely the wrong circumstances.

Here’s an illustrated guide to my navel tonight.


And I am, as I frequently am, sick to the gills of the inanity of distraction. I’m sick of distraction being necessary and I’m sick of my brain getting too fried to at least find some challenging distractions. I’m sick of hearing myself bitch whine moan gripe complain. I’m too lonely to shut up. I want people/I don’t want people. I’m tired of waking with a drenched head and a tshirt neck soaked in sickly sweet and medicated sweat. I’m tired of the way my teeth default to the clenched position. I can almost always write or talk my distracted way into some sort of defocused and ok state – and then it all slides off and hurts a little more than before.


I’m tired of not having anyone to act out at.

(I didn’t want to confess to that.)

I can’t even whine I want my muuuum ironically anymore. (Grow the fuck up, Blah.)

I’m tired. I shouldn’t be tired, but I am so very fucking tired.

I think I am mostly tired of myself. (Get over yourself.)


There are very good things in and about my life. Even more importantly, amazing people too. And my dog. Blablablaaahhh I’m not gonna write my spewtastic gratitude list here. I love it, but it doesn’t need airing right now. I feel so churlish, so ungrateful – I really am so very fortunate. I tell that to my depression daily and every day it gives me a look as though I just yanked its jaw open to pour castor oil down its gullet. Not this again, it moans, I don’t care, I’m in pain, I don’t care, just fuckingwell sedate me for a year. Wah wah wahhh. Frankly, a lot of the time I don’t care either, but I go through the motions like I’m in bipolar fucking bootcamp out of respect for the corners that still care.

I can vent it … go scream at the sea or a road … feel my throat hurt … feel stupid. Catharsis my arsis.

I’m just emptying my head again. I generate a lot of words and they’d fester if I didn’t.


The horror, the horror :/ the internet is far crazier than any of us will ever be.

My moods don’t yo yo the way muggles think that bipolar moods do, but sometimes, some days, my outlook vacillates between determination and despair far too frequently for comfort. I don’t like it. I think I handle at least a full day of one or the other better than one of those days. Sucker punched by your own attitudes … all that feckin effort to adjust them and adjust to them. Meeeeeeh!


I realised sometime within the last year or so, that all the losses I have mourned, all those I still mourn, all ganged up and then I lost every single fucking dream I had. I am more used to it now, but I can still remember *melodrama alert* the icy razor realisation of it, and just how much it hurt. Some hurts knock the air right out of your lungs.

Sometimes I think that my only saving grace is the fact that my funnybone’s connected to my sighbone.

Wait there’s one more … I can still love.

Where the flagellated fuck is my wishbone anyway? You lose dreams and watch hope pack its bags too. There’s nothing left to wish for and it doesn’t feel the way the Dalai Lama said it would.


LOL. So fecking mawkish.


It is cool like Kerouac, shrugging off the shackles and making friends with tumbleweed. And it’s amazing just how far you can go before you know you’re lonely, and you’ve worn right through your soul and the soles of your shoes. How long does a ripped and faded denim, beat up boots swagger last anyway? Here I am riffing on misery and mystery again.

If I took myself even more seriously, I’d chuck some jagged line breaks at that paragraph and call it a poem.

Alright, I’ve finished barfing on my blog now. I’m ready to go and sing to wildflowers and gambol with lambs and so forth. It’ll be epic.


They never include the next line in the wistful memes …


Chk chk boom, baby.


so trivial, why did she blog it?!

This post contains no misery or mental illness.

At 44 years of age, only in the past month or two have I noticed/enjoyed the pleasure of stretching. Naturally, I googled it. I google everything.

S t r e t c h

“When a person stretches the circulation is measurably increased. The contracting muscles squeeze more blood back to the heart and replenishes oxygen to the lungs. The chest expands drawing in more air. Sometimes as a person stretches they also yawn sometimes. This also enriches the bloodstream with more oxygen and feels good to the body.
Why does this feel good? For a number of reasons. First, the brain is cleared and receives more oxygen. This is especially helpful when waking from a night’s sleep, after a nap, or even after sitting for a sustained period of time. When the body is at rest it uses less oxygen, breathing becomes shallower and the blood circulates more slowly. Stretching galvanizes the body’s metabolism and kicks it up a few notches—almost like turning up a rheostat.
All this activity releases endorphins to the brain. In some cases the endorphins gently stimulate the same region of the brain that is stimulated during an orgasm, but at a much lower level. This gives the body a mild feeling of euphoria accompanied by a sense of refreshment.
Psychology then comes into play and emotions. A long, satisfying stretch buoys the emotions and also elicits a mild feeling of well-being.
All of this from simply stretching? Yes, that is why it feels so good and at the right moment of the day little else is as satisfying as a good, long stretch.”

No wonder it feels good. My attempts at googling why on earth it’s taken me so long to get there, were useless. Despite my need (and greed) to know things, I love the fact that some things are ungooglable. It prolongs the hunt, reroutes it to pre-internet resources and even then, it might be unanswerable. When I first noticed (or experienced, idk) it, I wasn’t sure what it was and I didn’t immediately identify it as a good feeling. Now I like it lots, of course. I wonder if it’s due to a history of my mind being very far removed from my body (thanks for that, childhood). I wonder these things idly and if I’m feeling blank enough, I have the space to write down trivial shit.

Mindful cookie monster is mindful! Or at least, full.


All of my life until late last year, I’d have confidently told you that I rarely see images in my mind and that if I try to force it to, quite often I see the word or words themselves. In black, American Typewriter font, on an oldish, very slightly yellowing paperback page. And of course, that is an image of a sort too. I was astonished and really pleased when, while reading one day, the some of the characters’ faces popped brightly into my head. They were mostly celebrity head and shoulders photos. No idea when it stopped happening, but I’m gently regretful about it.

This one is plentifully googlable, it’s a very common thing.

“All the exams the scientists gave MX confirmed his claim that he was missing his mind’s eye. And yet he could do lots of things that would seem impossible without one. Without any effort he could give the scientists detailed descriptions of landmarks around Edinburgh, for example. He could remember visual details, but he couldn’t see them. Della Sala and Zeman asked MX to say whether each letter of the alphabet had a low-hanging tail (like g and j). He got every one right. They asked him about specific details of the faces of famous people (Does Tony Blair have light-colored eyes?). He did just as well as the architects.”

Not uncommon and certainly not a handicap. In fact, it may not even be an anomaly. Here is one interesting cause from the same article, but it doesn’t apply to yours truly.

“A study I was part of found that people with congenital prosopagnosia, a genetic inability to recognise faces, had virtually absent visual imagery despite having no signs of brain damage or neurological abnormalities.
Patients who acquire prosopagnosia after brain damage often report that they can no longer imagine what faces look like, but in MX’s case, he seems to have lost his ability to mentally ‘see’ faces but has no problem recognising people.”

::link to original paper the article was based on::

The only times I don’t recognise faces are because I habitually avoid eye contact, I miss lots of other visual detail that way. Naturally some funding hunters academics do see a problem and there’s a little flock of charlatans life coaches developing spin solutions in their wake.

“When people have lesions in Area 39, they have great difficulty with abstr act imagery, memory, attention and self-awareness,” writes Dr. Khalsa.

Einstein had an enlarged Area 39.

But! Research into the brain fascinates me wildly and so I approve of those grants and the projects they finance. We know so little about the brain etc etc.

Anyroad up, I am deeply fond of these little detours down the proverbial rabbit hole. There’s no discomfort behind any of it, I learn a lot (frequently about totally unrelated things) and intelligent distraction is very good for me, I think.

That’s it.