Alright.
I ate 540 this morning, written elsewhere. Then tonight, about 300 for stew, and 400 for ice cream, and 50 for mini eggs. All in all, about 1300. And a big walk. Ice cream is hard to gauge; I probably ate more. But I did do about six miles, so it's not so bad.
Oh darling, did I offend?
What people think does matter an awful lot to you, doesn't it. Moving off for a new start, and now this. I wish I could open you up, and open me up to you and say, here I am. Always here. You're lovely.
I like you a lot. I think all good things, not just about how you look but about how you are. You darling. It's funny, how some things just make people awkward; I wish I'd never mentioned the word 'fatty'. I won't anymore.
At work today, I told people about the running joke my siblings and I have, the one about being morbidly obese texans. The two people I told, JM and NP, looked blankly, and JM said, "But you're not obese!" It was as if I'd admitted an eating disorder. It's only a joke! I eat normally. Maybe she's spotted the way I leave my crusts. That's nowhere near an indication. I don't do the calorie chat, and even if I did, the teasing helps. It makes being fat not such a big thing, and it makes me feel like I'm not fat, if I can be teased to my face about it. It's good.
She was beautiful today. I want to talk about her, so I discuss her androgynous attributes. Stretchmarks and kids, but were they adopted? Thick hair. Long lean legs and arms. Big hands, big feet, broad shoulders, like an athelete gone slightly to seed. Strong jaw and features, thick neck, determined mouth. A race winner. A champion. She wears trousers (but then, wouldn't I want to wear skirts all the time if I was transsexual?) and her chest is flattened, with no collarbone. Her chest looks like mine, except she's got breasts. Or are they fake? Mine are enhanced by my A cup bra. It means I don't have cleavage. Just collarbones and flat expanse, then bra. She's similar, but she's got breasts and no collarbone. She never eats with us, but she does eat. She's clumsy- she tipped a plate of food over herself today, and I laughed but it was only because she looked lovely doing it. She didn't find it so amusing, bless her. Working out whether she's transsexual, but it's only because I want to talk about her. I don't actually care at all. She's beautiful, with her iron grey bob cut and her serious eyebrows. When she writes, she sticks her tongue out in concentration and she crumples up to lean on her long legs. It looks like the pen's too small for her. I like her. She's honest and shy, and there's something geeky about her that I find irresistible. It's so strange, because if you put me and her in a line up and got asked to pair people, we'd be the last. I look like a teen, and she's fifty at least. But she's beautiful. More than pretty, not at all pretty. Handsome. Dignified, is the word, with that carthorse walk that's so businesslike.
I'd like very much to work her out, what she likes and doesn't like, but she's so private. I know what she finds funny, and how she tries to make jokes, and I can make her laugh. I am good at making the people I like laugh, and I hold that close to my heart, when she laughs at something silly I've observed. I keep staring, just because she's lovely and I can't help it. Over familiar, I think. Private, or is it because she's the boss that she's keeping away? I can't fathom it. Distance from colleagues. She could have stayed and ate cake the other day, only she didn't want to. Strange. Has she got some kind of eating problem? I bet she was bullied, and that's why she stays away. She is afeared. And their fitness now doth unmake you...you were so much more the man. Clumsy and lovely. She told me off for going off for a fag with the others. Tutting. I liked it.
Friday 27 February 2009
Thursday 26 February 2009
It's bizarre that a day can make so much difference. I still feel like I'm doing it wrong, but not so much... she was better behaved today, I even got to joke with her. Hmmm.
I ate:
an apple-40
a tuna sandwich-300
340
some cake-300
muesli and yoghurt-300
1/2 a piece of bread-100
stew-300
1000
2 cubes of chocolate-100
chocolate mini eggs (6)=60
some figs-50
200
so 1540, all in all. I need to do more exercise.
I have been looking at people achieving lots and feeling I'm not achieving at all.
I want to achieve.
Bollocks.
This is depressing.
Alright, the actress girl is only in something small, and it's only because she's pretty, and everyone loses their looks, and she didn't get there on talent alone.
I feel horrible doing this, because she is nice and talented. But she also had parents that did stuff for her.
Publishing friend is just good at being herself, and found her niche straight away. If they were me, would they be freaking out? Probably.
Self esteem is not at its highest.
More exercise, less eating. I could have done it today, except I was tired and I needed to tidy up. Urgh, that's not true. Noone needs to tidy. It's just something people say to excuse themselves.
I could do with a cigarette, or a sleep, or both.
I had a fun time with my sister, she's developing a brilliant little personality lately and it's wonderful to watch.
Think of you, think of your soft enveloping arms, your pragmatics, your sense and your loveliness. Think of that and abolish the rest. Think that I am worth something to someone; though maybe it's the wrong someone. Sometimes I can sense people do like me, but I rarely like them in return and that inequality makes me almost like them less, for liking someone like me; they must be falliable, if they've fallen? That makes no sense. How would I feel if she liked me? I'd be so happy. I'd not think she was falliable. I'd think it was miraculous.
I need new books, new clothes (especially shoes) and novelty. And to act.
I ate:
an apple-40
a tuna sandwich-300
340
some cake-300
muesli and yoghurt-300
1/2 a piece of bread-100
stew-300
1000
2 cubes of chocolate-100
chocolate mini eggs (6)=60
some figs-50
200
so 1540, all in all. I need to do more exercise.
I have been looking at people achieving lots and feeling I'm not achieving at all.
I want to achieve.
Bollocks.
This is depressing.
Alright, the actress girl is only in something small, and it's only because she's pretty, and everyone loses their looks, and she didn't get there on talent alone.
I feel horrible doing this, because she is nice and talented. But she also had parents that did stuff for her.
Publishing friend is just good at being herself, and found her niche straight away. If they were me, would they be freaking out? Probably.
Self esteem is not at its highest.
More exercise, less eating. I could have done it today, except I was tired and I needed to tidy up. Urgh, that's not true. Noone needs to tidy. It's just something people say to excuse themselves.
I could do with a cigarette, or a sleep, or both.
I had a fun time with my sister, she's developing a brilliant little personality lately and it's wonderful to watch.
Think of you, think of your soft enveloping arms, your pragmatics, your sense and your loveliness. Think of that and abolish the rest. Think that I am worth something to someone; though maybe it's the wrong someone. Sometimes I can sense people do like me, but I rarely like them in return and that inequality makes me almost like them less, for liking someone like me; they must be falliable, if they've fallen? That makes no sense. How would I feel if she liked me? I'd be so happy. I'd not think she was falliable. I'd think it was miraculous.
I need new books, new clothes (especially shoes) and novelty. And to act.
Wednesday 25 February 2009
You were lovely tonight.
Lovely every night, together or apart. When I was freaking, you gave me some solace. You gave me advice that wasn't advice at all- sought and given easily, with no feelings of remorse. Or recrimation, which is what I sometimes get.
You're kind and firm, and polite.
Oh darling.
It's hard at that age, anything that makes you different. You said that. You had a hard time, harder than I realised, though maybe you didn't make it easier on yourself, but noone's really got control over who they are at that age. I mean, you're so defensive. But you've got reason, darling. You're easily hurt, and you have been, and you need your walls and battlements. Just let me in, because I care.
You can't walk round in your perfectly decent pyjamas. Long trousers, big t-shirts. That must make such an impact on you, not feeling good about your body already and then someone says, don't, your form makes me feel uncomfortable.
You don't make me feel uncomfortable darling. There's a feeling, like an itch that's been scratched in my stomach, that makes me want you so much. From the inside out.
I wanted to say, screw him, you are lovely beyond anything. You look beautiful all the time, and maybe he doesn't like to be reminded of it. Maybe he feels about you as I do... because noone can really be made that uncomfortable, just by the presence of a woman in pyjamas. I'd like to spend time with you, lounging around in our night time clothes, cottony soft and crumpled into each other.
I wonder, if I told you that you were beautiful, if you'd like to hear it or not at all? You're not one of those that seeks approval, but then you do feel like you want to seek it; weight loss, though you'd say it's for you, is it? It's a little bit because of other people. It always is dear. I want to tell you, over and over and over. But you might feel like I do. I don't like hearing it that much, when I'm not sure what it means. I like hearing it when I know it means, 'you are the most beautiful thing to me, not to everyone else', but if it just means, 'you're beautiful', whisper-shouted over a dripping bar table and stumbling shoved into the ears, it means nothing. I mean the first kind, dear, and what I'm really saying is, 'you're the best person, and it's evident in your face and form'. I want you. Your pragmatic sense, your defensive nature, your beautiful shy form, I don't care whether you drive me to distraction with pedantry, because it's you.
I wonder sometimes if you do love. I hope you do, even if I know it's not me you want. I want you to have that and to be that for someone else, because if I feel this then others will too, and I'd like you to know if it wasn't so deeply embarrassing. I'd like you to know you inspire this huge feeling in someone. That someone thinks this of you.
We'd not celebrate valentines day, and go night walking, and cook for ages, and make tea, and sit in pyjamas for hours on end.
You're kind and firm, and polite.
Oh darling.
It's hard at that age, anything that makes you different. You said that. You had a hard time, harder than I realised, though maybe you didn't make it easier on yourself, but noone's really got control over who they are at that age. I mean, you're so defensive. But you've got reason, darling. You're easily hurt, and you have been, and you need your walls and battlements. Just let me in, because I care.
You can't walk round in your perfectly decent pyjamas. Long trousers, big t-shirts. That must make such an impact on you, not feeling good about your body already and then someone says, don't, your form makes me feel uncomfortable.
You don't make me feel uncomfortable darling. There's a feeling, like an itch that's been scratched in my stomach, that makes me want you so much. From the inside out.
I wanted to say, screw him, you are lovely beyond anything. You look beautiful all the time, and maybe he doesn't like to be reminded of it. Maybe he feels about you as I do... because noone can really be made that uncomfortable, just by the presence of a woman in pyjamas. I'd like to spend time with you, lounging around in our night time clothes, cottony soft and crumpled into each other.
I wonder, if I told you that you were beautiful, if you'd like to hear it or not at all? You're not one of those that seeks approval, but then you do feel like you want to seek it; weight loss, though you'd say it's for you, is it? It's a little bit because of other people. It always is dear. I want to tell you, over and over and over. But you might feel like I do. I don't like hearing it that much, when I'm not sure what it means. I like hearing it when I know it means, 'you are the most beautiful thing to me, not to everyone else', but if it just means, 'you're beautiful', whisper-shouted over a dripping bar table and stumbling shoved into the ears, it means nothing. I mean the first kind, dear, and what I'm really saying is, 'you're the best person, and it's evident in your face and form'. I want you. Your pragmatic sense, your defensive nature, your beautiful shy form, I don't care whether you drive me to distraction with pedantry, because it's you.
I wonder sometimes if you do love. I hope you do, even if I know it's not me you want. I want you to have that and to be that for someone else, because if I feel this then others will too, and I'd like you to know if it wasn't so deeply embarrassing. I'd like you to know you inspire this huge feeling in someone. That someone thinks this of you.
We'd not celebrate valentines day, and go night walking, and cook for ages, and make tea, and sit in pyjamas for hours on end.
Some days aren't yours at all.
an apple-40
a plain chocolate digestive biscuit-80
half a sandwich (cheese and onion)-150
270
some apricots-30
carrot cake-300
1 slice of bread-100
430
some chicken pie, vegetables and mashed potato-400
figs-50
450
smoothie- 100
ice cream-150
chocolate-150
1550. That could be more, I don't know. I always fear that I'm erring on the side of less calories, not more.
I am terrified I'm doing my job all wrong. I seem to be an irritant rather than an aide. I suppose if I believe I'm irritating, I will become irritating- like JM. So I'll just keep on the way I'm going. Everyone finds their own way. I just don't want to let anyone down, or to be like Dr A, who I had as a child, who really grated on me. I'm starting to feel sympathy. Who can I be like instead? I wonder how my brother would do my job. He probably wouldn't care, so I'm not going to do it that way. It's no use trying to think myself into his social mindset, because he's a bit of a wanker at the moment, and besides, I'm awful at that kind of social posturing.
I suppose I just have to believe that what I'm saying is right- and it is. I don't care how popular I am- I just care that they're learning, and that they'll do well. This is the right attitude- I want them to respect me, but not necessarily like me. I fear that at the moment, I've got neither. I'll learn.
I'm worried, so I don't feel like being particularly creative. Admiration matters to me, I realise. I want people to respect me, but I suppose respect doesn't just come. I worry that I'm vaguely autistic. One girl today said she didn't want to have my job- and that's the worst thing anyone's said so far. My brother insulted my lack of independence, and that made me want to move out.
a plain chocolate digestive biscuit-80
half a sandwich (cheese and onion)-150
270
some apricots-30
carrot cake-300
1 slice of bread-100
430
some chicken pie, vegetables and mashed potato-400
figs-50
450
smoothie- 100
ice cream-150
chocolate-150
1550. That could be more, I don't know. I always fear that I'm erring on the side of less calories, not more.
I am terrified I'm doing my job all wrong. I seem to be an irritant rather than an aide. I suppose if I believe I'm irritating, I will become irritating- like JM. So I'll just keep on the way I'm going. Everyone finds their own way. I just don't want to let anyone down, or to be like Dr A, who I had as a child, who really grated on me. I'm starting to feel sympathy. Who can I be like instead? I wonder how my brother would do my job. He probably wouldn't care, so I'm not going to do it that way. It's no use trying to think myself into his social mindset, because he's a bit of a wanker at the moment, and besides, I'm awful at that kind of social posturing.
I suppose I just have to believe that what I'm saying is right- and it is. I don't care how popular I am- I just care that they're learning, and that they'll do well. This is the right attitude- I want them to respect me, but not necessarily like me. I fear that at the moment, I've got neither. I'll learn.
I'm worried, so I don't feel like being particularly creative. Admiration matters to me, I realise. I want people to respect me, but I suppose respect doesn't just come. I worry that I'm vaguely autistic. One girl today said she didn't want to have my job- and that's the worst thing anyone's said so far. My brother insulted my lack of independence, and that made me want to move out.
Sunday 22 February 2009
I feel like doing something.
The options are:
Sort through my clothes.
Go on a walk.
Sit here and doss about.
I have been on a walk today.
I ate:
A mars bar ice cream-222
Some chocolate cake-100
Some lentil curry and rice-200
A digestive biscuit-100
622
A piece of carrot cake-300
Some Broccoli, 2 roast potatoes, some chicken and roast carrots and parsnip-350
650
That's 1272. No wonder I feel crap, I've only eaten three portions of vegetables, tops. I'll try to eat some fruit later.
Last night I stayed at Chatelaine's. Something happened in the night- one of the men had something stolen, and I wasn't called. I felt a bit like a young ineffectual child that hadn't been woken or trusted to do anything. Let her sleep, no sense waking her. I want to be the person awake, or the person to wake. I also hated the man I was responsible with- he was jocular and had a really patronising manner. Chatelaine thinks he's nice- and I suppose he is- but I don't know if he would be if it came down to it. He's one of those people that's trying to be nice. I wasn't even asleep- I would have been fine to do it! Ugh. I hate being the one that's not relied on. Is there something ineffective about me? Something defective, that makes people think I'll foul up or collapse under strain or make things worse or blow it all up.
I feel like there is.
I feel like I don't say or do or think the right sort of things. The right thing.
Noone does or says the right thing all the time; but they feel they do, and my problem is that I feel I'm always being wrong. I'm getting morose. Snap out of it.
Would you think I was doing it all wrong? Would you? If I told you. Probably. I'd like you to say yes or no and tell me something true. We can live like Jack and Sally if we want.
Am I one of your beautiful people? You're one of mine, evidently.
I walked with Chatelaine and three others today. She's lovely, but I fear I might be cloying to her- she might not want me, she might think I'm too much, altogether too much around and too much in your face and too much know-it-all boring ignorance.
All of those things.
And a princess to boot, and fluffy.
I can't be all of these things. I'd rather she thought I was just plain bolshie.
What everyone really wants from a relationship (I heard) is to see themselves reflected back in a way that coincides with the way they think of themselves. Narcissism, essentially. It's not so much the person doing the loving, it's the way that they love. And if I think about her now, what I really want her to say is, you're fine, don't worry, I like you. There's no guarantee though. If I can have that from someone that organises and does, who I admire, then it would all be alright. I don't know.
The options are:
Sort through my clothes.
Go on a walk.
Sit here and doss about.
I have been on a walk today.
I ate:
A mars bar ice cream-222
Some chocolate cake-100
Some lentil curry and rice-200
A digestive biscuit-100
622
A piece of carrot cake-300
Some Broccoli, 2 roast potatoes, some chicken and roast carrots and parsnip-350
650
That's 1272. No wonder I feel crap, I've only eaten three portions of vegetables, tops. I'll try to eat some fruit later.
Last night I stayed at Chatelaine's. Something happened in the night- one of the men had something stolen, and I wasn't called. I felt a bit like a young ineffectual child that hadn't been woken or trusted to do anything. Let her sleep, no sense waking her. I want to be the person awake, or the person to wake. I also hated the man I was responsible with- he was jocular and had a really patronising manner. Chatelaine thinks he's nice- and I suppose he is- but I don't know if he would be if it came down to it. He's one of those people that's trying to be nice. I wasn't even asleep- I would have been fine to do it! Ugh. I hate being the one that's not relied on. Is there something ineffective about me? Something defective, that makes people think I'll foul up or collapse under strain or make things worse or blow it all up.
I feel like there is.
I feel like I don't say or do or think the right sort of things. The right thing.
Noone does or says the right thing all the time; but they feel they do, and my problem is that I feel I'm always being wrong. I'm getting morose. Snap out of it.
Would you think I was doing it all wrong? Would you? If I told you. Probably. I'd like you to say yes or no and tell me something true. We can live like Jack and Sally if we want.
Am I one of your beautiful people? You're one of mine, evidently.
I walked with Chatelaine and three others today. She's lovely, but I fear I might be cloying to her- she might not want me, she might think I'm too much, altogether too much around and too much in your face and too much know-it-all boring ignorance.
All of those things.
And a princess to boot, and fluffy.
I can't be all of these things. I'd rather she thought I was just plain bolshie.
What everyone really wants from a relationship (I heard) is to see themselves reflected back in a way that coincides with the way they think of themselves. Narcissism, essentially. It's not so much the person doing the loving, it's the way that they love. And if I think about her now, what I really want her to say is, you're fine, don't worry, I like you. There's no guarantee though. If I can have that from someone that organises and does, who I admire, then it would all be alright. I don't know.
Friday 20 February 2009
Me.
Here are a list of facts about me that I'd never publish anywhere else.
1. I won't go back to education, unless it's to formulate a career plan- acting, journalism, being a barrister or even a teacher are all slight but potential possibilities.
2. I fall for people easily, but noone knows this, and I fall on bizarre criteria.
3. I'm very rarely successful in love because I worry that the other person isn't enjoying their time with me as much as I am.
4. I am happier alone than with people I feel middling about. This applies to friends and loved ones.
5. I am obsessed with eighties synth pop.
6. And correct grammar and spelling (though I use the word 'and' too much at the beginning of sentences). I will google something if I'm not completely sure of the spelling. I just googled obsessed.
7. I adore going food shopping with people, friends mainly, and observing what other people buy, despite or maybe because of my relationship with food.
8. I hate going clothes shopping with people. I feel like I have to concentrate on them as well as me, and it's too stressful to do both at the same time. I also get bored quickly.
9. I always flick to the life and style section of the papers, though I would far rather my persuasion was for the political.
10. I am petrified of sinking into obsolescence instead of reaching for ambition.
11. I would rather be ugly than irritating and pretty. I think I might rather be ugly and memorable than pretty and fading into obscurity.
12. My favourite game to play is the cube game.
13. I am triskaidekaphobic, though I don't consider myself particularly superstitious. I won't put down a book on any number that's a multiple of thirteen, or that ends in three (this could be thirteen plus or minus any number of tens). I am therefore well versed in the thirteen times table. The numbers thirty nine and one hundred and sixty nine are especially avoided, and pages that are ten times any multiple of thirteen (a hundred and thirty, two hundred and sixty) must be read straight through to 140 and 270, respectively, as the whole ten-cycle is also unlucky, being preposed by digits that are multiples of thirteen.
14. I also say hello to magpies. Three times.
15. I am not always the best at what I want to be the best at.
16. If I am pushed towards something I am unlikely to do it. I was pushed towards maths as a child, and I'm only just now discovering enjoyment of it, a decade and a half later.
17. I frequently feel guilty for being the eldest child, as my parents had the most time to spend on my education, and wonder if I'd have flourished if I'd been second or third in line. Though my siblings did get help, I was the undivided focus. I feel that maybe I'm not that bright under it all- it was all just conditioning. If you look at it that way, isn't everyone's childhood? Though my siblings are musical without any particular driving force, so I suppose I feel they'd have been even brighter if they'd have had the help I did.
18. Port is one of my favourite drinks, though I despise wine.
19. I always mean to get a facial.
20. I have always used the same makeup, since I first started and have pared back my kit if anything. I wonder what will happen when I turn fifty and my face needs more than moisturiser, concealer, mascara and lipstick to look its best.
21. I can appreciate that film stars are beautiful and want to look like them, but I don't want to touch them at all like I want to touch the people I detail here. They're all somewhat anodyne or defensive.
22. On the aspergers scale, I'm between 'normal' and 'aspergers'. I'm proud of this. I'd like to be more of a perfectionist, though I'm not at all. I thought everyone was about something; I'm not, it appears. I try to cultivate this in myself.
23. I smoke menthol consulates, around 4 a week. I am proud of this rate; enough to let me enjoy them, little enough for me to feel that the risk of cancer is abated (though the heart attacks tend to catch us out). I make an occasion out of each one; I find a place, sit and fume away.
24. I hate cutting meat. The word's picorism. I eat meat, but only in small chunks or forms where it's not apparent that it's a dead corpse. I was a vegetarian from the age of about seven to thirteen, and I've always been aware of the carcass conundrum. I can't think about the flesh too much when I'm eating it.
25. I prefer soy milk to normal, it doesn't give you the coated feeling on the back of your throat.
1. I won't go back to education, unless it's to formulate a career plan- acting, journalism, being a barrister or even a teacher are all slight but potential possibilities.
2. I fall for people easily, but noone knows this, and I fall on bizarre criteria.
3. I'm very rarely successful in love because I worry that the other person isn't enjoying their time with me as much as I am.
4. I am happier alone than with people I feel middling about. This applies to friends and loved ones.
5. I am obsessed with eighties synth pop.
6. And correct grammar and spelling (though I use the word 'and' too much at the beginning of sentences). I will google something if I'm not completely sure of the spelling. I just googled obsessed.
7. I adore going food shopping with people, friends mainly, and observing what other people buy, despite or maybe because of my relationship with food.
8. I hate going clothes shopping with people. I feel like I have to concentrate on them as well as me, and it's too stressful to do both at the same time. I also get bored quickly.
9. I always flick to the life and style section of the papers, though I would far rather my persuasion was for the political.
10. I am petrified of sinking into obsolescence instead of reaching for ambition.
11. I would rather be ugly than irritating and pretty. I think I might rather be ugly and memorable than pretty and fading into obscurity.
12. My favourite game to play is the cube game.
13. I am triskaidekaphobic, though I don't consider myself particularly superstitious. I won't put down a book on any number that's a multiple of thirteen, or that ends in three (this could be thirteen plus or minus any number of tens). I am therefore well versed in the thirteen times table. The numbers thirty nine and one hundred and sixty nine are especially avoided, and pages that are ten times any multiple of thirteen (a hundred and thirty, two hundred and sixty) must be read straight through to 140 and 270, respectively, as the whole ten-cycle is also unlucky, being preposed by digits that are multiples of thirteen.
14. I also say hello to magpies. Three times.
15. I am not always the best at what I want to be the best at.
16. If I am pushed towards something I am unlikely to do it. I was pushed towards maths as a child, and I'm only just now discovering enjoyment of it, a decade and a half later.
17. I frequently feel guilty for being the eldest child, as my parents had the most time to spend on my education, and wonder if I'd have flourished if I'd been second or third in line. Though my siblings did get help, I was the undivided focus. I feel that maybe I'm not that bright under it all- it was all just conditioning. If you look at it that way, isn't everyone's childhood? Though my siblings are musical without any particular driving force, so I suppose I feel they'd have been even brighter if they'd have had the help I did.
18. Port is one of my favourite drinks, though I despise wine.
19. I always mean to get a facial.
20. I have always used the same makeup, since I first started and have pared back my kit if anything. I wonder what will happen when I turn fifty and my face needs more than moisturiser, concealer, mascara and lipstick to look its best.
21. I can appreciate that film stars are beautiful and want to look like them, but I don't want to touch them at all like I want to touch the people I detail here. They're all somewhat anodyne or defensive.
22. On the aspergers scale, I'm between 'normal' and 'aspergers'. I'm proud of this. I'd like to be more of a perfectionist, though I'm not at all. I thought everyone was about something; I'm not, it appears. I try to cultivate this in myself.
23. I smoke menthol consulates, around 4 a week. I am proud of this rate; enough to let me enjoy them, little enough for me to feel that the risk of cancer is abated (though the heart attacks tend to catch us out). I make an occasion out of each one; I find a place, sit and fume away.
24. I hate cutting meat. The word's picorism. I eat meat, but only in small chunks or forms where it's not apparent that it's a dead corpse. I was a vegetarian from the age of about seven to thirteen, and I've always been aware of the carcass conundrum. I can't think about the flesh too much when I'm eating it.
25. I prefer soy milk to normal, it doesn't give you the coated feeling on the back of your throat.
Thursday 19 February 2009
Aesthetic meanderings.
She sits in splendour on the city's edge
Face night smeared and hair like hedge
Then through the curtain there's a call
Put out that fag, I'm just appalled.
Luminescent nut brown maid
On Scottish Lowland central stage
Enters left and wraps around
The dirty urchin makes no sound.
Ugh, poetry's hopeless nowadays.
It's not what I really want to say, the rest of the stuff is, but then that never comes out quite right either. Should I just make a list? We'd be bad together because it would take so much to stop being secret, because you hate drugs and I like them, because you're the kind of person that can't stand discussion when she's made up her mind, because it would cause fuss in the one area I need to be clear and simple, because you don't feel this way about me at all and you'll never know, so why am I thinking like this?
Though I'd be kind to you, and you surprise me all the time by opening up and expanding yourself. You're secret and shy too. Maybe we'd have secrets together. I don't mind waiting for you to feel comfortable. We have similar opinions on things. We laugh. You're the most feasible obsession I've had, and the most longstanding probably... on-off for quite a while now, always unrequited. I will settle for friends, at the moment. Friends is a good place. I wouldn't ever want you to feel bored, or wishing you were somewhere else with someone else. I'll never proposition you for that reason, because I think you do like women, like me, but unlike me completely; you wouldn't want me at all. I'm too much everything. Then, you don't suspect me of wanting you- you don't think I'd like to be round you at all. Or at least, not in that way. You're so disillusioned. Too much wanting you, and you'd never believe the good things, only the bad, and all I want to tell you is the good truth about yourself. Everyone else only tells you bad things; not everyone. Family. I wouldn't want you to talk about that if you didn't want to. I know when to leave well alone.
I'd like to play you songs and say, this is what I think of you, and make you believe that that is my truth. What I believe to be the truth.
Sometimes, an optimistic little pirhana thought punctures the surface of common sense and whispers, 'what if she's doing the same thing? Totting up her daily calories in secret and wishing for you?'
I know she does the former. Another on the list of wonders. You calorie count quietly. There are women (I work with them) who shout about it. Weight classes and other things; there's one in particular, always remarking on how much weight she's lost. I would wait for people to point it out rather than forcing them to notice, it's my pet peeve. Especially as I practise food quibbling a fair bit, but have the decency to keep it quiet. I'd love to be a person who thought calories were boring, who knows that weight is trivial and who has bigger and better concerns than something so fluffy; and I try to effect that image. I do it fairly well, I think. Not many twig. I don't describe food as naughty, I don't engage in calorie chat, I don't pour scorn or praise on my own body. I just let it out here.
You don't talk about it. You don't eat in public (so you must think people are watching and judging. I did too, but then I realised people watch and judge more if you're not eating, whether you're fat or thin. If you're fat it's disdain, that fatty's not eating, poor them, dieting, or if you're thin it's well, she must be anorexic. I'd rather people thought I eat normally). The only inkling I caught was when you said, 'I'll eat that pizza, I know what's in it'. And I knew you'd been going to Weight club. That's a scam darling. If you want to lose weight, you can walk with me if you want and I'll tell you about what I do and not expect you to follow a word of it, because it's stupid, but I just want you to know there's another way, an infinite variety of ways. Please don't pay to stand and be weighed with a load of people with issues and be told what you're going to do. Make up your own mind- you're bright enough, and you hate people deciding for you.
If I could say anything about it to you, I'd say, just be happy with yourself. You're beautiful to me whether you gain weight or lose it, whether you're fat or thin. I want you to be happy as you are- and I want you to feel like you can be happy, whatever size you are. I mean, if you got so thin you started fainting all over the place, or so fat you couldn't walk, I'd be concerned, and it would be unattractive because I'd be more of a carer than a partner, but I'd know it wouldn't be my perogative to change you. Then again, I know from personal experience that someone telling me to be happy and that I was beautiful, even if it was the person I adored most, wouldn't be enough to stop me totting up the numbers every day, or thinking blow it if I've eaten over. It's what I think that's driving me. I still don't care how people think I look- though I do. I've got a fear of being classed as fat- because I equate fat and vulnerable, fat and teased- yet I don't equate it with you, I didn't know you were trying to lose weight till you said about the pizza. I hate pity the most, and I refuse to be pitied. So I want to be thin. I care that people perceive me as thin, but I don't care if I look ugly, or mean, or nasty. I know I'm not any of those things inside. Maybe I am, but I don't feel it. It's easy for people to make me feel teased or vulnerable.
Mum said a strange thing the other day; that the adolescents have probably got more respect for me because I'm pretty. I responded that I'm not really- and Dad chipped in that I probably was in comparison to the teaching staff. I don't really think I am- I'm younger, but a lot of the staff are really good looking. The good looking ones aren't necessarily best respected though. There's a woman who takes care of herself, who is fairly good looking and has got a hold on them really well, and another woman with a ridiculous surname who wears no makeup. She's not ugly, nowhere near, she's kind of middling- she could be pretty with effort, she's likely beautiful to her lover. She's certainly attractive. She was wearing this silly bow headband the first time I met her, trousers that were too tight- and the kids all had massive respect for her. She stormed round the room getting excited and making them think, and they were close to rapturous. And they liked her. She's the kind of person I want to be more like. Looks don't matter a jot in this game, it's on personality alone, and it's good to know that, if scary because I'm not sure my personality measures up, though I'd rather be judged on that than my face. It frustrates me that something so trivial should be considered a weapon- it's what makes me so hung up on the fat issue, and on food in general, the concept of others observing and judging and finding wanting (or excess). It's the thing that makes me put on makeup in the morning and think of my walks (which I really enjoy on their own merit) as little calorie burning excises, and it's the thing that makes all my food into numbers. It's good to be on a playing field that feels even, from where I'm standing. I suppose that this is what I would tell her, if I could tell her anything. Looks don't really count if you're amazing anyway, but they're a stick to beat you with if you're not brilliant. But, dear, you're an academic, you're bright and sparky and earnest and you stand straight for what you believe in, nothing else. Admirable. Noone really admires beautiful people on the sole merit of their beauty- everyone knows they're vacuous. The truly beautiful famed are the ones that have something behind their faces. I wouldn't swap my face, though I know it's not perfect and not half as beautiful as my sisters, because I like its quirks. I'd swap my body weight, but not its type, though it's large and mannish- but I like it, I like its practicality and movements. I'm getting closer to accepting, I think. I'd rather someone insulted me concerning the way my face is than called me a fluffy person. I don't care what you think of my face; I care about whether I'm effective or not. I'm proud of that. I'll get there with my body too one day. Then I'll be immune, and invulnerable.
I still think you're beautiful. Why do I want to say it if it's not important? I don't just mean corporeally, I mean everything. Beauty transcends. I mean, I don't describe people as beautiful often. I mean, you are my beautiful.
But if it's not important, couldn't I just as lovingly say, you are ugly? If you said that to me, in a loving tone, I would like it. I'd smile. I'd know you were complicit in what I think of the whole judging on looks world, I'd know you wouldn't care if I got old and grey and lost teeth and gained weight, I'd know...
Yet, I think you've heard ugly enough, in your short lifetime. I want you to hear beautiful, and accept ugly as well. Ugly can be beautiful.
Face night smeared and hair like hedge
Then through the curtain there's a call
Put out that fag, I'm just appalled.
Luminescent nut brown maid
On Scottish Lowland central stage
Enters left and wraps around
The dirty urchin makes no sound.
Ugh, poetry's hopeless nowadays.
It's not what I really want to say, the rest of the stuff is, but then that never comes out quite right either. Should I just make a list? We'd be bad together because it would take so much to stop being secret, because you hate drugs and I like them, because you're the kind of person that can't stand discussion when she's made up her mind, because it would cause fuss in the one area I need to be clear and simple, because you don't feel this way about me at all and you'll never know, so why am I thinking like this?
Though I'd be kind to you, and you surprise me all the time by opening up and expanding yourself. You're secret and shy too. Maybe we'd have secrets together. I don't mind waiting for you to feel comfortable. We have similar opinions on things. We laugh. You're the most feasible obsession I've had, and the most longstanding probably... on-off for quite a while now, always unrequited. I will settle for friends, at the moment. Friends is a good place. I wouldn't ever want you to feel bored, or wishing you were somewhere else with someone else. I'll never proposition you for that reason, because I think you do like women, like me, but unlike me completely; you wouldn't want me at all. I'm too much everything. Then, you don't suspect me of wanting you- you don't think I'd like to be round you at all. Or at least, not in that way. You're so disillusioned. Too much wanting you, and you'd never believe the good things, only the bad, and all I want to tell you is the good truth about yourself. Everyone else only tells you bad things; not everyone. Family. I wouldn't want you to talk about that if you didn't want to. I know when to leave well alone.
I'd like to play you songs and say, this is what I think of you, and make you believe that that is my truth. What I believe to be the truth.
Sometimes, an optimistic little pirhana thought punctures the surface of common sense and whispers, 'what if she's doing the same thing? Totting up her daily calories in secret and wishing for you?'
I know she does the former. Another on the list of wonders. You calorie count quietly. There are women (I work with them) who shout about it. Weight classes and other things; there's one in particular, always remarking on how much weight she's lost. I would wait for people to point it out rather than forcing them to notice, it's my pet peeve. Especially as I practise food quibbling a fair bit, but have the decency to keep it quiet. I'd love to be a person who thought calories were boring, who knows that weight is trivial and who has bigger and better concerns than something so fluffy; and I try to effect that image. I do it fairly well, I think. Not many twig. I don't describe food as naughty, I don't engage in calorie chat, I don't pour scorn or praise on my own body. I just let it out here.
You don't talk about it. You don't eat in public (so you must think people are watching and judging. I did too, but then I realised people watch and judge more if you're not eating, whether you're fat or thin. If you're fat it's disdain, that fatty's not eating, poor them, dieting, or if you're thin it's well, she must be anorexic. I'd rather people thought I eat normally). The only inkling I caught was when you said, 'I'll eat that pizza, I know what's in it'. And I knew you'd been going to Weight club. That's a scam darling. If you want to lose weight, you can walk with me if you want and I'll tell you about what I do and not expect you to follow a word of it, because it's stupid, but I just want you to know there's another way, an infinite variety of ways. Please don't pay to stand and be weighed with a load of people with issues and be told what you're going to do. Make up your own mind- you're bright enough, and you hate people deciding for you.
If I could say anything about it to you, I'd say, just be happy with yourself. You're beautiful to me whether you gain weight or lose it, whether you're fat or thin. I want you to be happy as you are- and I want you to feel like you can be happy, whatever size you are. I mean, if you got so thin you started fainting all over the place, or so fat you couldn't walk, I'd be concerned, and it would be unattractive because I'd be more of a carer than a partner, but I'd know it wouldn't be my perogative to change you. Then again, I know from personal experience that someone telling me to be happy and that I was beautiful, even if it was the person I adored most, wouldn't be enough to stop me totting up the numbers every day, or thinking blow it if I've eaten over. It's what I think that's driving me. I still don't care how people think I look- though I do. I've got a fear of being classed as fat- because I equate fat and vulnerable, fat and teased- yet I don't equate it with you, I didn't know you were trying to lose weight till you said about the pizza. I hate pity the most, and I refuse to be pitied. So I want to be thin. I care that people perceive me as thin, but I don't care if I look ugly, or mean, or nasty. I know I'm not any of those things inside. Maybe I am, but I don't feel it. It's easy for people to make me feel teased or vulnerable.
Mum said a strange thing the other day; that the adolescents have probably got more respect for me because I'm pretty. I responded that I'm not really- and Dad chipped in that I probably was in comparison to the teaching staff. I don't really think I am- I'm younger, but a lot of the staff are really good looking. The good looking ones aren't necessarily best respected though. There's a woman who takes care of herself, who is fairly good looking and has got a hold on them really well, and another woman with a ridiculous surname who wears no makeup. She's not ugly, nowhere near, she's kind of middling- she could be pretty with effort, she's likely beautiful to her lover. She's certainly attractive. She was wearing this silly bow headband the first time I met her, trousers that were too tight- and the kids all had massive respect for her. She stormed round the room getting excited and making them think, and they were close to rapturous. And they liked her. She's the kind of person I want to be more like. Looks don't matter a jot in this game, it's on personality alone, and it's good to know that, if scary because I'm not sure my personality measures up, though I'd rather be judged on that than my face. It frustrates me that something so trivial should be considered a weapon- it's what makes me so hung up on the fat issue, and on food in general, the concept of others observing and judging and finding wanting (or excess). It's the thing that makes me put on makeup in the morning and think of my walks (which I really enjoy on their own merit) as little calorie burning excises, and it's the thing that makes all my food into numbers. It's good to be on a playing field that feels even, from where I'm standing. I suppose that this is what I would tell her, if I could tell her anything. Looks don't really count if you're amazing anyway, but they're a stick to beat you with if you're not brilliant. But, dear, you're an academic, you're bright and sparky and earnest and you stand straight for what you believe in, nothing else. Admirable. Noone really admires beautiful people on the sole merit of their beauty- everyone knows they're vacuous. The truly beautiful famed are the ones that have something behind their faces. I wouldn't swap my face, though I know it's not perfect and not half as beautiful as my sisters, because I like its quirks. I'd swap my body weight, but not its type, though it's large and mannish- but I like it, I like its practicality and movements. I'm getting closer to accepting, I think. I'd rather someone insulted me concerning the way my face is than called me a fluffy person. I don't care what you think of my face; I care about whether I'm effective or not. I'm proud of that. I'll get there with my body too one day. Then I'll be immune, and invulnerable.
I still think you're beautiful. Why do I want to say it if it's not important? I don't just mean corporeally, I mean everything. Beauty transcends. I mean, I don't describe people as beautiful often. I mean, you are my beautiful.
But if it's not important, couldn't I just as lovingly say, you are ugly? If you said that to me, in a loving tone, I would like it. I'd smile. I'd know you were complicit in what I think of the whole judging on looks world, I'd know you wouldn't care if I got old and grey and lost teeth and gained weight, I'd know...
Yet, I think you've heard ugly enough, in your short lifetime. I want you to hear beautiful, and accept ugly as well. Ugly can be beautiful.
Where are you?
We can live like Jack and Sally, if you want.
I remember when she joked, I'll pretend I'm a boy.
Would I pretend I was a boy? I did, when I was a child for a while, just to amuse myself really. I'm not so sure that I could anymore. I like being a woman. Though I don't know that I should care about it; it seems a silly thing to think of as compositing me as a person. I'm always sympathetic to transsexuals; I think if gender boundaries were a bit less constrained, and boys could dress as girls and be referred to as such with a penis, and vice versa, people would be a lot happier to stay the same. It's driving for authenticity determined by our organs that's messing people up inside and out.
So would I pretend to be a boy? I'm not the most feminine girl. If I could change my appearance at a click, and if I could keep my other characteristics. I don't know. I don't think I could; which must mean that something in me holds stock by being a girl.
I bet if I was a boy she'd have made a move.
I remember when she joked, I'll pretend I'm a boy.
Would I pretend I was a boy? I did, when I was a child for a while, just to amuse myself really. I'm not so sure that I could anymore. I like being a woman. Though I don't know that I should care about it; it seems a silly thing to think of as compositing me as a person. I'm always sympathetic to transsexuals; I think if gender boundaries were a bit less constrained, and boys could dress as girls and be referred to as such with a penis, and vice versa, people would be a lot happier to stay the same. It's driving for authenticity determined by our organs that's messing people up inside and out.
So would I pretend to be a boy? I'm not the most feminine girl. If I could change my appearance at a click, and if I could keep my other characteristics. I don't know. I don't think I could; which must mean that something in me holds stock by being a girl.
I bet if I was a boy she'd have made a move.
You're so pretty.
I don't go for a look. I just go for safety.
I totted it up elsewhere today. Again, about 1400, but I haven't done the necessary exercise to warrant it. I added on 100 to be safe.
Tomorrow I will cut my hair, maybe see Chatelaine again (I haven't decided yet) and I will sort out my wardrobe, and find a postcard, and reply to people, and do some drawing and create a birthday card and wrap my Nan's presents. In the evening I'm meeting my friends.
I need to do a bit of exercise every day- I have fathomed this. I can't sit and do nothing, it drives me mad.
I like you, darling. You don't have to do much to be liked by me, just be around and it's all automatic on my part. Wind me up and watch me go, only it's unconscious winding- you don't know you make me feel like this, I think. I have missed you.
I totted it up elsewhere today. Again, about 1400, but I haven't done the necessary exercise to warrant it. I added on 100 to be safe.
Tomorrow I will cut my hair, maybe see Chatelaine again (I haven't decided yet) and I will sort out my wardrobe, and find a postcard, and reply to people, and do some drawing and create a birthday card and wrap my Nan's presents. In the evening I'm meeting my friends.
I need to do a bit of exercise every day- I have fathomed this. I can't sit and do nothing, it drives me mad.
I like you, darling. You don't have to do much to be liked by me, just be around and it's all automatic on my part. Wind me up and watch me go, only it's unconscious winding- you don't know you make me feel like this, I think. I have missed you.
Wednesday 18 February 2009
Take me to the desert, take me to the sands, show me the colour of your right hand.
I defy anyone to say you are not beautiful. You're not a page three bimbo. I think you're lovelier. There's no harsh pneumatic edge to you (though, by day, you're locked in tight and so strict, but at night, you're blurred and vulnerable). I want to follow the lines of your face; cheekbone, nose, rounded chin and the socket round your eye. You went to bed after studying for hours tonight, and I am looking at you asleep in our bed. I'm prolonging the moment of sliding between the sheets next to your body. You could be dreaming of all kinds of things, of someone that's not me, of anything.
Your mouth is open a little bit, but you don't dribble. I do. I've always wondered how you keep it all in. Your hand is feathered out, palm up on the pillow. Here I am arranging you with words, posing you like a shop window mannequin, but I can't help it. Consumer voyeurism and provider, all in one. Maybe I'm making you up. I flip through the other things I like about you; earnest intelligence, the way you're so bookish in your glasses, hunching over six books, the way you surprise me time and time again with little gestures, and your bossiness. But I like you like this too. Soft and silent, private at night time. Just you and me. Your blonde eyelashes flutter and you shift under the covers. You murmur, 'come to bed. It's cold.' Do you mean cold without me? I get in and loop an arm round your shoulders. There's a rustling as you take my hand and pull me further into you. Most nights I fall asleep with your head on my chest, and one of your hands on my breast. It feels soothing, like you're keeping me safe and slowing me down. I don't know that I could sleep without it. I hate hearing my own heart, feeling it beat through the bone in my chest, far too visceral and close, but you don't seem to mind. In return, I stroke the nape of your neck and kiss your forehead. The light comes in through a chink in the curtains and a car goes past, and the world outside feels large. We settle into each other.
I like your pyjamas. You've never gone in for negligees or anything silly like that; it's always been flannelette, and you look lovely. I creep a hand under the material to feel the top of your hip. When I hold you, you feel warm and safe and well packaged- there's no other way to describe it- and I can hold you without crushing you, and you look so clean, so tanned and scrubbed. You let down your hair (another thing you never do in company) and we can sit for hours. There's a noise you make in the back of your throat- a sound halfway between n and m- and that means that you're happy. Your eyes are closed and you're making it now.
Or, like tonight, I can creep into bed and curl myself around you as if I'm a second blanket, and you wriggle to shift your hips to latch into mine. That's how I know that you feel the same; even half asleep, you want to be closer. It's reassuring because for the longest time, when we were friends, I thought you would prefer me to be further away. I think you're asleep but you unbutton your top, and I unbutton mine to unsheath my arms, and we lie flesh against flesh together. I always worry I'll spear you with my collarbones, but you never make any complaint. Sometimes you say you worry you'll flatten me, but nothing could be further from the truth. Tonight you are sniffing the place where my neck joins my shoulders.
'Just memorising you'.
You didn't need to explain to me.
'I can feel you smiling in your tendons'.
You're right. I touch my lips to your hair again. You're the only person I'll allow to touch my neck, because I hate it when most people touch me there. We're the only two people who are able to touch each other here, in the dark. There's a whole list of songs I've heard that are about you, all about you. "Love is hot and love is cold, I just want someone to hold". "What a beautiful face I have found in this place". "Your prettiness is seeping through, out from the dress". "A Sunday Smile, we wore it for a while". "Will you say to them, when I'm gone, I loved your son for his sturdy arms". They're all for you dear. Vaguely wistful slow sounding songs with a joyous note and bright lyrics. I say the lyrics into your yellow hair.
Your mouth is open a little bit, but you don't dribble. I do. I've always wondered how you keep it all in. Your hand is feathered out, palm up on the pillow. Here I am arranging you with words, posing you like a shop window mannequin, but I can't help it. Consumer voyeurism and provider, all in one. Maybe I'm making you up. I flip through the other things I like about you; earnest intelligence, the way you're so bookish in your glasses, hunching over six books, the way you surprise me time and time again with little gestures, and your bossiness. But I like you like this too. Soft and silent, private at night time. Just you and me. Your blonde eyelashes flutter and you shift under the covers. You murmur, 'come to bed. It's cold.' Do you mean cold without me? I get in and loop an arm round your shoulders. There's a rustling as you take my hand and pull me further into you. Most nights I fall asleep with your head on my chest, and one of your hands on my breast. It feels soothing, like you're keeping me safe and slowing me down. I don't know that I could sleep without it. I hate hearing my own heart, feeling it beat through the bone in my chest, far too visceral and close, but you don't seem to mind. In return, I stroke the nape of your neck and kiss your forehead. The light comes in through a chink in the curtains and a car goes past, and the world outside feels large. We settle into each other.
I like your pyjamas. You've never gone in for negligees or anything silly like that; it's always been flannelette, and you look lovely. I creep a hand under the material to feel the top of your hip. When I hold you, you feel warm and safe and well packaged- there's no other way to describe it- and I can hold you without crushing you, and you look so clean, so tanned and scrubbed. You let down your hair (another thing you never do in company) and we can sit for hours. There's a noise you make in the back of your throat- a sound halfway between n and m- and that means that you're happy. Your eyes are closed and you're making it now.
Or, like tonight, I can creep into bed and curl myself around you as if I'm a second blanket, and you wriggle to shift your hips to latch into mine. That's how I know that you feel the same; even half asleep, you want to be closer. It's reassuring because for the longest time, when we were friends, I thought you would prefer me to be further away. I think you're asleep but you unbutton your top, and I unbutton mine to unsheath my arms, and we lie flesh against flesh together. I always worry I'll spear you with my collarbones, but you never make any complaint. Sometimes you say you worry you'll flatten me, but nothing could be further from the truth. Tonight you are sniffing the place where my neck joins my shoulders.
'Just memorising you'.
You didn't need to explain to me.
'I can feel you smiling in your tendons'.
You're right. I touch my lips to your hair again. You're the only person I'll allow to touch my neck, because I hate it when most people touch me there. We're the only two people who are able to touch each other here, in the dark. There's a whole list of songs I've heard that are about you, all about you. "Love is hot and love is cold, I just want someone to hold". "What a beautiful face I have found in this place". "Your prettiness is seeping through, out from the dress". "A Sunday Smile, we wore it for a while". "Will you say to them, when I'm gone, I loved your son for his sturdy arms". They're all for you dear. Vaguely wistful slow sounding songs with a joyous note and bright lyrics. I say the lyrics into your yellow hair.
Love is hot and love is cold, I just want someone to hold.
A woman's got no time to think about the dirty old dishes in the kitchen sink! I wish I was invisible, so I could climb through the telephone...
Or the computer wires. I'm talking to you and you're being wonderful, unexpectedly everything, not just kind. I'm watching QI and wondering at your childhood fears. I like you a lot.
Here's what I ate today:
smoothie-200
muesli-150
3 apricots-50
banana cake-300
700
pieces of chocolate-150
stew and bread-250
a doughnut-300
700.
And also I walked about eight miles. I saw Chatelaine, who, again, was her causes. I don't know if she knows how to be without them, but I do want to give her a hug. She looks so small, I just want to wrap myself around her and say, shh. I like you, not for what you do (though that's good, and you do good and it's awe inspiring) but for who you are and the loveliness you perpetrate. Which is part of your cause, but even if you were just sitting about doing nothing you'd still be exuding loveliness.
Or the computer wires. I'm talking to you and you're being wonderful, unexpectedly everything, not just kind. I'm watching QI and wondering at your childhood fears. I like you a lot.
Here's what I ate today:
smoothie-200
muesli-150
3 apricots-50
banana cake-300
700
pieces of chocolate-150
stew and bread-250
a doughnut-300
700.
And also I walked about eight miles. I saw Chatelaine, who, again, was her causes. I don't know if she knows how to be without them, but I do want to give her a hug. She looks so small, I just want to wrap myself around her and say, shh. I like you, not for what you do (though that's good, and you do good and it's awe inspiring) but for who you are and the loveliness you perpetrate. Which is part of your cause, but even if you were just sitting about doing nothing you'd still be exuding loveliness.
Sunday 15 February 2009
She's fey.
This was my criticism.
I didn't know if I meant it or not. The girl (and she was a girl, though she'd dressed like a woman, she was a girl, with her face and her motions and her optimistic nature) had been like a fairy, or a ghost, wafting into the office like some mythical character. The tykes would rip her to shreds, I was sure. Or she would cry at the sight of them, at their plaintive lives. I wondered what sort of a trio we had made, sitting and waiting for her. The three Norns? The Fates? There was no distaff, no spindle- one of the malevolent Sleeping Beauty fairies? We made an odd set, I knew. Variants on the middle aged. There was small, spiky Anna, who pursed her mouth and was overly concerned with health and safety. She had never changed the bright pink lipstick she wore, for decades, if not earlier. A nod to the time she'd been happiest, trying to recapture her youth. Then there was Julie, who was as round, maybe rounder than she was tall, and as so many women are, always trying to diet, unsuccessfully. The two of them were small women. I made the conscious decision to sit furthest away from the candidates, so as not to alarm them with my size. I knew that I was an affront, close up. Julie was doing her level best to assume her twinkly, non-judgemental stance, and Anna was going through the interview as was her habit with everything; methodical, no-nonsense.
I reverted to type as well, and sat quietly at the back, the centre of the triptych. None of the candidates were especially impressive. A fluttery woman was first, with bleached floaty hair, then two others not particularly worth remembering, then this girl, looking almost gothic in black with red hair that she'd pinned up in an attempt to appear adult, but wisps escaped. The effect was seductive, but there was no need for seduction before the panel. Venturing into the lair of the fates. She seemed at ease, and responded well to the questions. She was not half as cloying as the others, with their feminine scents and new styles. They were trying to be girls, and she was doing her level best to be a woman. It was working. I could see Julie and Anna enjoying this one. She was probably the best looking of the three; they were no doubt drafting up prospectuses, or plotting friendship making rituals with her. I would stoop to no such flattery. "But she's got a degree", Anna commented. "And she dresses so well", said Julie. "She's got a lovely face, but that won't do her any favours", I said. They looked at me. Anna, no doubt thinking herself beautiful, looked slighted. Julie astonished. She said, "we can't hold her face against her". What she meant was, I have made the concession, and I am as ugly as you are. The assumption grated with me, the reproach beaming from her curranty eyes, hidden in a dough face. "She's very young. No experience". "You're outvoted", Anne trilled.
When she began, she seemed more girlish than ever and this vexed me. I had enough children to care for and I didn't need another teen into the mix. I needed a proper member of my team. After a few false starts, she seemed to be able to mix with the group. She'd been too academic to begin with, too interested and too interesting. I'd heard her talk of scientific advances, and try to plug knowledge out of people. That didn't work with many, so instead she began listening and watching, and then joining her in. She seemed fractious. She didn't know where she stood with the children, and they could smell that and didn't let her forget it. She was more one of them, low down in the social strata, than one of us when she taught. An academic scholar, who happened to come well-packaged. I laughed to myself, to see her trotting about between sessions, looking more like a student than an employee. To her credit, she did not indulge in calorie chats with most of the staff, and bonded with them on her own terms rather than theirs.
I didn't know if I meant it or not. The girl (and she was a girl, though she'd dressed like a woman, she was a girl, with her face and her motions and her optimistic nature) had been like a fairy, or a ghost, wafting into the office like some mythical character. The tykes would rip her to shreds, I was sure. Or she would cry at the sight of them, at their plaintive lives. I wondered what sort of a trio we had made, sitting and waiting for her. The three Norns? The Fates? There was no distaff, no spindle- one of the malevolent Sleeping Beauty fairies? We made an odd set, I knew. Variants on the middle aged. There was small, spiky Anna, who pursed her mouth and was overly concerned with health and safety. She had never changed the bright pink lipstick she wore, for decades, if not earlier. A nod to the time she'd been happiest, trying to recapture her youth. Then there was Julie, who was as round, maybe rounder than she was tall, and as so many women are, always trying to diet, unsuccessfully. The two of them were small women. I made the conscious decision to sit furthest away from the candidates, so as not to alarm them with my size. I knew that I was an affront, close up. Julie was doing her level best to assume her twinkly, non-judgemental stance, and Anna was going through the interview as was her habit with everything; methodical, no-nonsense.
I reverted to type as well, and sat quietly at the back, the centre of the triptych. None of the candidates were especially impressive. A fluttery woman was first, with bleached floaty hair, then two others not particularly worth remembering, then this girl, looking almost gothic in black with red hair that she'd pinned up in an attempt to appear adult, but wisps escaped. The effect was seductive, but there was no need for seduction before the panel. Venturing into the lair of the fates. She seemed at ease, and responded well to the questions. She was not half as cloying as the others, with their feminine scents and new styles. They were trying to be girls, and she was doing her level best to be a woman. It was working. I could see Julie and Anna enjoying this one. She was probably the best looking of the three; they were no doubt drafting up prospectuses, or plotting friendship making rituals with her. I would stoop to no such flattery. "But she's got a degree", Anna commented. "And she dresses so well", said Julie. "She's got a lovely face, but that won't do her any favours", I said. They looked at me. Anna, no doubt thinking herself beautiful, looked slighted. Julie astonished. She said, "we can't hold her face against her". What she meant was, I have made the concession, and I am as ugly as you are. The assumption grated with me, the reproach beaming from her curranty eyes, hidden in a dough face. "She's very young. No experience". "You're outvoted", Anne trilled.
When she began, she seemed more girlish than ever and this vexed me. I had enough children to care for and I didn't need another teen into the mix. I needed a proper member of my team. After a few false starts, she seemed to be able to mix with the group. She'd been too academic to begin with, too interested and too interesting. I'd heard her talk of scientific advances, and try to plug knowledge out of people. That didn't work with many, so instead she began listening and watching, and then joining her in. She seemed fractious. She didn't know where she stood with the children, and they could smell that and didn't let her forget it. She was more one of them, low down in the social strata, than one of us when she taught. An academic scholar, who happened to come well-packaged. I laughed to myself, to see her trotting about between sessions, looking more like a student than an employee. To her credit, she did not indulge in calorie chats with most of the staff, and bonded with them on her own terms rather than theirs.
Awaiting the Onslaught of Sickness.
A plague has befallen our house, taking down the matriarch.
She's since recovered, but I am having stomach cramps and look pale (the first is extroadinary, the second nothing too new).
I have no wish to faint or have effluvia shooting out of both ends of my person, so I am hoping that my strong epiglottis will hold, and the stomach aches are a product of my ludicrous sugar consumption over the last few days.
Lord, if I keep well I'll stick to broth tomorrow. Bread on the side.
I wonder what you would do if I was ill? I'm usually the picture of health. I am apt at picturing tender bedside scenes, but maybe you wouldn't know what to do. Used to dealing with weakness in day to day life- and it's a euphemism, isn't it? 'So and so is especially weak, keep an eye on her at the back because...'. Would you handle it with me, who is usually so strong?
Your prettiness is seeping through, out from the dress I took from you.
You aren't even close to pretty and I'd never insult your intelligence by describing you as such. Distinguished ugly, that's better. And what I'd prefer, because it's more noticeable and definitive. Anyone blending in can be pretty, but you're something else entirely. I tried to draw you but it came out wrong. I've forgotten your face in the past few days. I thought it was ingrained upon my memory, but in this picture I've just got your hair and something resembling Barbra Streisand, facially.
I thought I saw you on Friday, in the half-light of a theatre audience. I was wrong. But I'd have liked to. I'd have liked to see that we like doing the same things. This is all a bit Notes-on-a-Scandal in reverse, isn't it?
My dream girl don't exist... because she's a fully grown woman with lines and iron grey hair. No girl. No slip of a thing. She may as well be a dream. Though I can touch her, I can get close, I can float about around her peripheries and weave myself into her seams.
What I'd really like to do is ask what's wrong- or maybe everything's just so right in her life that she doesn't need other people? It can't be. Where does she eat lunch? This is a question that niggles away at me. She must do it, so where? In her office? Why not with the rest of us?
She's since recovered, but I am having stomach cramps and look pale (the first is extroadinary, the second nothing too new).
I have no wish to faint or have effluvia shooting out of both ends of my person, so I am hoping that my strong epiglottis will hold, and the stomach aches are a product of my ludicrous sugar consumption over the last few days.
Lord, if I keep well I'll stick to broth tomorrow. Bread on the side.
I wonder what you would do if I was ill? I'm usually the picture of health. I am apt at picturing tender bedside scenes, but maybe you wouldn't know what to do. Used to dealing with weakness in day to day life- and it's a euphemism, isn't it? 'So and so is especially weak, keep an eye on her at the back because...'. Would you handle it with me, who is usually so strong?
Your prettiness is seeping through, out from the dress I took from you.
You aren't even close to pretty and I'd never insult your intelligence by describing you as such. Distinguished ugly, that's better. And what I'd prefer, because it's more noticeable and definitive. Anyone blending in can be pretty, but you're something else entirely. I tried to draw you but it came out wrong. I've forgotten your face in the past few days. I thought it was ingrained upon my memory, but in this picture I've just got your hair and something resembling Barbra Streisand, facially.
I thought I saw you on Friday, in the half-light of a theatre audience. I was wrong. But I'd have liked to. I'd have liked to see that we like doing the same things. This is all a bit Notes-on-a-Scandal in reverse, isn't it?
My dream girl don't exist... because she's a fully grown woman with lines and iron grey hair. No girl. No slip of a thing. She may as well be a dream. Though I can touch her, I can get close, I can float about around her peripheries and weave myself into her seams.
What I'd really like to do is ask what's wrong- or maybe everything's just so right in her life that she doesn't need other people? It can't be. Where does she eat lunch? This is a question that niggles away at me. She must do it, so where? In her office? Why not with the rest of us?
Saturday 14 February 2009
Bronwyn
Would be a name that suits you down to the ground. It's proud and at first it seems ugly, but truly it's a name with its own rhythms, quirks and handsome qualities.
Just like you.
Don't you think so?
I've never seen you eat. Are you paranoid, like I am but in a different way? Were you an athelete? What were you like at school? I'm construing popularity, standoffishness, maybe a bully?
Or, conversely, hanging about on the edge of groups- not having a best friend, but on the outer circuits. More interested in sports than anything else. I bet you were a bright child, but you couldn't or didn't really want to go on to do anything scholastic.
Your hair catches the light lovely, iron grey and steely. I like the lack of fuss- classicist. I like your personal lack of fuss about everything. I make far too much fuss, or I like everything far too much, or I am too insubstantial.
I hope to God you don't think I'm fluffy. I am not. I never talk about weight, and I don't pity the little children, like some of them do. I don't like cuddly toys.
But I do ask for too much help don't I, and I am too easily bonded to the little blighters, and I can't work out how to deal with them yet. I wear makeup every day- that's a basic plea for acceptance in itself, a way of saying I am scared. I don't think you wear makeup. I wear skirts, trousers for the first time the other day, and holey boots. Do you think I'm ridiculous? I thought Chatelaine did, and now I know she doesn't. That's good. But you're a different story.
Ruth, or Bronwyn, or Bren, or something along those lines. Valiant, strong names. Those should be what you're called, not the twee fifties-inspired moniker you currently sport. Not that I'd change it. Do you like your name? There's acceptance and there's liking. I like mine.
Just like you.
Don't you think so?
I've never seen you eat. Are you paranoid, like I am but in a different way? Were you an athelete? What were you like at school? I'm construing popularity, standoffishness, maybe a bully?
Or, conversely, hanging about on the edge of groups- not having a best friend, but on the outer circuits. More interested in sports than anything else. I bet you were a bright child, but you couldn't or didn't really want to go on to do anything scholastic.
Your hair catches the light lovely, iron grey and steely. I like the lack of fuss- classicist. I like your personal lack of fuss about everything. I make far too much fuss, or I like everything far too much, or I am too insubstantial.
I hope to God you don't think I'm fluffy. I am not. I never talk about weight, and I don't pity the little children, like some of them do. I don't like cuddly toys.
But I do ask for too much help don't I, and I am too easily bonded to the little blighters, and I can't work out how to deal with them yet. I wear makeup every day- that's a basic plea for acceptance in itself, a way of saying I am scared. I don't think you wear makeup. I wear skirts, trousers for the first time the other day, and holey boots. Do you think I'm ridiculous? I thought Chatelaine did, and now I know she doesn't. That's good. But you're a different story.
Ruth, or Bronwyn, or Bren, or something along those lines. Valiant, strong names. Those should be what you're called, not the twee fifties-inspired moniker you currently sport. Not that I'd change it. Do you like your name? There's acceptance and there's liking. I like mine.
Oh dear, not in the way you think though.
I went out to see a friend last night, and she told me all kinds of things about her mother. She makes far more sense as a person now. God, I felt terrible- because I am essentially so ungrateful. My parents ask me to do the odd thing, pick up my siblings, tidy up a bit- and I moan, because they don't ask my siblings to do the same amount of stuff. But she's turned out so well, from a parent with problems, and it's noones fault.
I almost blame our school, for knowing about it and not getting more involved.
I don't feel sorry for her. I admire her. I wanted to give her a hug. Her knack of talking when you're not particularly listening, her knack of not really listening sometimes makes sense- because if she listens to what her parent said, she'd probably go mad. Her knack of not caring about little things, because big things are so much more important. Underneath her happy exterior (and I think she is really happy, really and truly, and she deserves to be, I want her to be happy so much) I think she's probably angry too, because she didn't deserve any of that crap and yet she had it and handled it. Is it the way that people who are brilliant are so because they have handled bad times, or is it that awful people sail through life? I prefer to think the first. I think of my classmates, some of whom could have done with a dose of what she's had to cope with. If I had a hand in it, I'd have parcelled bits round to all of the spoilt kids. Not a lot, just a little bit, just so they knew.
It's made me grateful for my own family. I always have been, but I suppose I just haven't been showing it. I still think my principles are right- we should all be helping out, not just me, and when I do it seems like noone else does- but I really appreciate not having to go through bereavment, and being a young carer.
Though I don't when they keep jutting into my private time, or when my brother is at his most obnoxious and everyone just seems to think I am intolerant instead. I just pushed my Dad away. She'd give anything for her Dad to be about. I detest insincerity.
I almost blame our school, for knowing about it and not getting more involved.
I don't feel sorry for her. I admire her. I wanted to give her a hug. Her knack of talking when you're not particularly listening, her knack of not really listening sometimes makes sense- because if she listens to what her parent said, she'd probably go mad. Her knack of not caring about little things, because big things are so much more important. Underneath her happy exterior (and I think she is really happy, really and truly, and she deserves to be, I want her to be happy so much) I think she's probably angry too, because she didn't deserve any of that crap and yet she had it and handled it. Is it the way that people who are brilliant are so because they have handled bad times, or is it that awful people sail through life? I prefer to think the first. I think of my classmates, some of whom could have done with a dose of what she's had to cope with. If I had a hand in it, I'd have parcelled bits round to all of the spoilt kids. Not a lot, just a little bit, just so they knew.
It's made me grateful for my own family. I always have been, but I suppose I just haven't been showing it. I still think my principles are right- we should all be helping out, not just me, and when I do it seems like noone else does- but I really appreciate not having to go through bereavment, and being a young carer.
Though I don't when they keep jutting into my private time, or when my brother is at his most obnoxious and everyone just seems to think I am intolerant instead. I just pushed my Dad away. She'd give anything for her Dad to be about. I detest insincerity.
Oh, today was gonna be the day...
I ate so much food I'm not even going to try counting.
I have mainly slouched about, watching films and doing nothing of note. I didn't get dressed until five.
Tomorrow will be different- I will sort clothes, and go to the library, and go and see Chatelaine.
I wonder what my insolent charges are up to as of now?
I wonder most what you are doing. Weren't you taking a turn for the Celtic this weekend? Cymru, whatever, I'm not up on the Welsh. I bet you never spend entire days in your pyjamas, or lounge about, because most people I fall for are energised people that do things and can't abide being lazy, or laziness itself in any form. It's not a characteristic I find particularly endearing, it just seems to pan out that way.
So what do you do, what are you going to do and what do you like doing?
What I'd really like to know the answer to is, do you like me? Or when they hired me, did you want to shrivel up, because I'm so young? And fluffy. I don't want you to think of me as a fluffy person, it's my least favourite descriptive term.
Why don't you like alcohol? Were you an alcoholic? Or is it just the concept of consuming copious amounts? There's definitely something that's hurt you- well, that's a stupid thing to say isn't it? Everyone's had something hurt them. I was toying with the idea that you were a man, till I remembered the stretchmarks. I'd still like you. Something vulnerable hidden beneath your clothes that explains your semi-awkwardness, your desire for privacy, your hands, your height, your walk. You're beautiful. You could have adopted children, and found a man to love you- it would have been easy. Though not for you, of course.
I fabricated this because I'm trying to work out why you don't socialise, or why you don't like the rest of us knowing things about you. Already, there's a palpable divide between you and us and I want to know why- it doesn't seem to be at your or their instigation. Am I reinforcing it? I didn't offer you tea yesterday. It took me a while to cotton on to cleaning up, and I felt in the way- did that irk you? Does my attitude to H irk you? I know she's naughty, but I can't help feeling overjoyed about it- it's brilliant that she's got such a big personality. She's challenging people's perceptions. She's challenged mine. I like the naughty ones a fair bit, though I sympathise with the brainy ones. I can't help but laugh at your bluntness, 'swot'. I far prefer the ones you have to work at.
I far prefer you.
I have mainly slouched about, watching films and doing nothing of note. I didn't get dressed until five.
Tomorrow will be different- I will sort clothes, and go to the library, and go and see Chatelaine.
I wonder what my insolent charges are up to as of now?
I wonder most what you are doing. Weren't you taking a turn for the Celtic this weekend? Cymru, whatever, I'm not up on the Welsh. I bet you never spend entire days in your pyjamas, or lounge about, because most people I fall for are energised people that do things and can't abide being lazy, or laziness itself in any form. It's not a characteristic I find particularly endearing, it just seems to pan out that way.
So what do you do, what are you going to do and what do you like doing?
What I'd really like to know the answer to is, do you like me? Or when they hired me, did you want to shrivel up, because I'm so young? And fluffy. I don't want you to think of me as a fluffy person, it's my least favourite descriptive term.
Why don't you like alcohol? Were you an alcoholic? Or is it just the concept of consuming copious amounts? There's definitely something that's hurt you- well, that's a stupid thing to say isn't it? Everyone's had something hurt them. I was toying with the idea that you were a man, till I remembered the stretchmarks. I'd still like you. Something vulnerable hidden beneath your clothes that explains your semi-awkwardness, your desire for privacy, your hands, your height, your walk. You're beautiful. You could have adopted children, and found a man to love you- it would have been easy. Though not for you, of course.
I fabricated this because I'm trying to work out why you don't socialise, or why you don't like the rest of us knowing things about you. Already, there's a palpable divide between you and us and I want to know why- it doesn't seem to be at your or their instigation. Am I reinforcing it? I didn't offer you tea yesterday. It took me a while to cotton on to cleaning up, and I felt in the way- did that irk you? Does my attitude to H irk you? I know she's naughty, but I can't help feeling overjoyed about it- it's brilliant that she's got such a big personality. She's challenging people's perceptions. She's challenged mine. I like the naughty ones a fair bit, though I sympathise with the brainy ones. I can't help but laugh at your bluntness, 'swot'. I far prefer the ones you have to work at.
I far prefer you.
Thursday 12 February 2009
Secret songs that you keep wrapped in boxes so tight.
Rings round your eyes and I love you.
Rings of life round your eyes, I think, not rings of flowers.
Soft hands and slamming doors, and kites without string... inspiration from geographically substandard teens.
I wish I could write properly, I mean, knowing when stuff was good and bad, and feeling it out.
A child to your chest that would lay as you sleep.
Comparatively, I am a child, I suppose. Though not really, not at all, at least as large as you and I feel so maternal, almost, to you. Silently protective when you are derided in private, and happy when you are close by. And I am all grown up. I can't look at you without wondering how it would feel to put my head on your shoulder and touch your proud jaw. Does my flouncing irritate you? Am I too much, too pouty or feminine or lax or quiet or uncertain?
I always wonder. I always get paranoid and misconstrue what could be neutral, or even more, for something uncertain, which I interpret as dislike. I just look at the differences, and I'm all too aware that those differences, that attract me to her, might put her off me well and truly. And even if she'd never consider me in the way that I'd like, I crave her approval.
Secret songs that you keep wrapped in boxes so tight, sounding only at night as you sleep.
Your hands are big and gentle with trammeled lines all over. Man's hands, with short square nails. Fidgeting around usually. I saw you walking, from far away, and knew your rollicking walk.
Here's a fact. I don't like feeling my own heartbeat, or the movement of skin over my collarbones. Both of these things make me feel panicky and vaguely nauseous. As if I'm encouraging palpitations. I don't like knowing what my body's doing underneath its surface. I also abhor the veins in my wrist.
However, I wouldn't mind at all if you laid your head on my chest to listen to my heart, or if you stroked my wrists, or if you wanted to touch the tendons in my neck. That would be fine. I'd be charmed that you could find those ugly visceral things charming. You can run a finger over my eyelids and into the soft skin under my brows, and I wouldn't wince once, as I do if I'm charged with the task myself. I'd like you not to be scared of my body as I am.
So, what do you think about your body? Do you ignore it? I suppose you apply practical thinking- it gets me from A to B. It's useful. It's strong and lovely. Those last two are my own proclivities.
Rings of life round your eyes, I think, not rings of flowers.
Soft hands and slamming doors, and kites without string... inspiration from geographically substandard teens.
I wish I could write properly, I mean, knowing when stuff was good and bad, and feeling it out.
A child to your chest that would lay as you sleep.
Comparatively, I am a child, I suppose. Though not really, not at all, at least as large as you and I feel so maternal, almost, to you. Silently protective when you are derided in private, and happy when you are close by. And I am all grown up. I can't look at you without wondering how it would feel to put my head on your shoulder and touch your proud jaw. Does my flouncing irritate you? Am I too much, too pouty or feminine or lax or quiet or uncertain?
I always wonder. I always get paranoid and misconstrue what could be neutral, or even more, for something uncertain, which I interpret as dislike. I just look at the differences, and I'm all too aware that those differences, that attract me to her, might put her off me well and truly. And even if she'd never consider me in the way that I'd like, I crave her approval.
Secret songs that you keep wrapped in boxes so tight, sounding only at night as you sleep.
Your hands are big and gentle with trammeled lines all over. Man's hands, with short square nails. Fidgeting around usually. I saw you walking, from far away, and knew your rollicking walk.
Here's a fact. I don't like feeling my own heartbeat, or the movement of skin over my collarbones. Both of these things make me feel panicky and vaguely nauseous. As if I'm encouraging palpitations. I don't like knowing what my body's doing underneath its surface. I also abhor the veins in my wrist.
However, I wouldn't mind at all if you laid your head on my chest to listen to my heart, or if you stroked my wrists, or if you wanted to touch the tendons in my neck. That would be fine. I'd be charmed that you could find those ugly visceral things charming. You can run a finger over my eyelids and into the soft skin under my brows, and I wouldn't wince once, as I do if I'm charged with the task myself. I'd like you not to be scared of my body as I am.
So, what do you think about your body? Do you ignore it? I suppose you apply practical thinking- it gets me from A to B. It's useful. It's strong and lovely. Those last two are my own proclivities.
When I was young, I'd flee this town...
Today I ate:
So many of my posts start off like this. After I've written it all out, I always intend to write something else, and before it's always niggling at the back of my mind.
A biscuit-70
lasagne and salad-400
a biscuit-55
525
some muesli-350
5 dried apricots-50
turkey and mushroom curry-300
700
1225 currently. Not bad. I might go on a walk in a bit.
I have since walked, had a cigarette (much needed) and ate some more apricots and two oreos. So, fifty and 115- 165. 1390. I didn't really need both oreos, I don't think.
Tomorrow I am going out with friends, which should be good.
Darling, don't have to worry turn out the light.
I like you.
Ha, it's funny because it's such a silly little statement, and you don't like it. I don't even know if you like being complimented. I wonder if you think it's a misnomer? Misnomer, something that is misleading or a name that is a mistake. Like yours, too soft, not celtic. You aren't a hard person, but you are firm, and it seems that noone is close to you. But I bet you're like chocolate. Soft centred.
That's a misnomer- you're not at all like chocolate. Maybe you're like an egg, fragile shelled and able to withstand pressure if it's applied correctly. Not easy to crack, though.
I wonder if you turn out the light, when you love your husband? Or even if you do love him at all? Your shirts sometimes ride up and I see evidence of your strength, little purple lines fading white that are proof that you can withstand, you have borne. Hard won lines, and a softened physique. Lovely, just beautiful. A handsome face.
Do you think less of me because I am always in skirts? You don't wear them. Private, private.
So many of my posts start off like this. After I've written it all out, I always intend to write something else, and before it's always niggling at the back of my mind.
A biscuit-70
lasagne and salad-400
a biscuit-55
525
some muesli-350
5 dried apricots-50
turkey and mushroom curry-300
700
1225 currently. Not bad. I might go on a walk in a bit.
I have since walked, had a cigarette (much needed) and ate some more apricots and two oreos. So, fifty and 115- 165. 1390. I didn't really need both oreos, I don't think.
Tomorrow I am going out with friends, which should be good.
Darling, don't have to worry turn out the light.
I like you.
Ha, it's funny because it's such a silly little statement, and you don't like it. I don't even know if you like being complimented. I wonder if you think it's a misnomer? Misnomer, something that is misleading or a name that is a mistake. Like yours, too soft, not celtic. You aren't a hard person, but you are firm, and it seems that noone is close to you. But I bet you're like chocolate. Soft centred.
That's a misnomer- you're not at all like chocolate. Maybe you're like an egg, fragile shelled and able to withstand pressure if it's applied correctly. Not easy to crack, though.
I wonder if you turn out the light, when you love your husband? Or even if you do love him at all? Your shirts sometimes ride up and I see evidence of your strength, little purple lines fading white that are proof that you can withstand, you have borne. Hard won lines, and a softened physique. Lovely, just beautiful. A handsome face.
Do you think less of me because I am always in skirts? You don't wear them. Private, private.
Wednesday 11 February 2009
I am irked.
And so not in the best frame of mind to be writing.
Death, be not proud.
Pride is a strange thing.
What would you think, if you knew of my reliance on opiates? Amphetamines, actually, and no reliance that would be considered one. A dalliance, refreshed every few months at best. Irked.
I am irked.
Idealised Switchpoint.
She is a long, thin pale thing. Etiolated. She smiles too much, and her teeth are too yellow, and she looks like a child, which disturbs me. Little half-Lolita, with her blood red hair and dark eyes. She's somewhat vampiric, sitting quietly in corners until there's a burst of energy, always sweeping into rooms in dark colours, browns, blues, greens and most often black. Always black. She is younger than my children, she could be my daughter, and so it disturbs me to feel for her. I imagine that my feelings are maternal in nature; I want to protect her. I want to wrap her up from the world and show her things and be her friend. In the morning light she seems to glow, though I know it's just the wan sun and her skin acting together to beam out white light. It's not her fault she's seductive. I know that no mothers feel quite the same as I do now. I keep away as much as possible, because this isn't how it's meant to be, but she seems to home towards me. She floats around after the day is done, she asks my opinion, she smiles on me indulgently. I show her lists and figures, and explain. She nods. I catch scents of sprayed deodorant and the plastic smell of makeup, and wafts of coffee, and her clean hair. She's large boned, like me, but she is actually bony, as opposed to masculine. Or maybe she is masculine and bony, but it's her masculine way of stalking about and pulling herself up tall that makes her attractive. I know I walk like a carthorse. I am as tall as she is, in my heels, and yet she seems to be able to cover ground in an instant, with her groundkeepers lope. The youths catcall behind her back, but never quite to her face; she seems impervious. Slights about her clothing, with regard to Oxfam, do not perturb her. I form suppositions that hurting her would involve delving deeper, or into another area. I am sure that whatever her weak point is, it won't be sartorial. The children know that she is attractive, and this in itself seems to give her an unfair status advantage, as if comments from her carry more weight. She isn't like the slight, mousy women, no tiny thing, and yet she's not formed in the mould of the well-dressed, busty women. Dressing for their figure, something that always seems to elude me. I know the rules, but I can't quite play the game. She inhabits a ground in between; slim and pale, looking as if she's jointed together, but low tones and forceful presence that make her present. Her clothes are unembarrassed. And she will not be embarrassed, either. I suppose that in many ways, she is unfathomable, and she is old, for her years.
Death, be not proud.
Pride is a strange thing.
What would you think, if you knew of my reliance on opiates? Amphetamines, actually, and no reliance that would be considered one. A dalliance, refreshed every few months at best. Irked.
I am irked.
Idealised Switchpoint.
She is a long, thin pale thing. Etiolated. She smiles too much, and her teeth are too yellow, and she looks like a child, which disturbs me. Little half-Lolita, with her blood red hair and dark eyes. She's somewhat vampiric, sitting quietly in corners until there's a burst of energy, always sweeping into rooms in dark colours, browns, blues, greens and most often black. Always black. She is younger than my children, she could be my daughter, and so it disturbs me to feel for her. I imagine that my feelings are maternal in nature; I want to protect her. I want to wrap her up from the world and show her things and be her friend. In the morning light she seems to glow, though I know it's just the wan sun and her skin acting together to beam out white light. It's not her fault she's seductive. I know that no mothers feel quite the same as I do now. I keep away as much as possible, because this isn't how it's meant to be, but she seems to home towards me. She floats around after the day is done, she asks my opinion, she smiles on me indulgently. I show her lists and figures, and explain. She nods. I catch scents of sprayed deodorant and the plastic smell of makeup, and wafts of coffee, and her clean hair. She's large boned, like me, but she is actually bony, as opposed to masculine. Or maybe she is masculine and bony, but it's her masculine way of stalking about and pulling herself up tall that makes her attractive. I know I walk like a carthorse. I am as tall as she is, in my heels, and yet she seems to be able to cover ground in an instant, with her groundkeepers lope. The youths catcall behind her back, but never quite to her face; she seems impervious. Slights about her clothing, with regard to Oxfam, do not perturb her. I form suppositions that hurting her would involve delving deeper, or into another area. I am sure that whatever her weak point is, it won't be sartorial. The children know that she is attractive, and this in itself seems to give her an unfair status advantage, as if comments from her carry more weight. She isn't like the slight, mousy women, no tiny thing, and yet she's not formed in the mould of the well-dressed, busty women. Dressing for their figure, something that always seems to elude me. I know the rules, but I can't quite play the game. She inhabits a ground in between; slim and pale, looking as if she's jointed together, but low tones and forceful presence that make her present. Her clothes are unembarrassed. And she will not be embarrassed, either. I suppose that in many ways, she is unfathomable, and she is old, for her years.
I ate 1360 today.
No exercise though, shame.
I wonder about my manager at work. The team seem to believe she's useless- I wonder if they think I'm useless too, privately? I think my manager is sweet. She's distinguished, and ugly in the most beautiful way... that's what I think. Obviously that has no bearing on her suitability for the post. We were discussing after work outings, and she doesn't go on any. One of the staff had a birthday a few days after hers- she didn't get any presents, and this woman got a fair few. I wonder why? Does she really like to keep her private life that private? She talks to us, it's not a problem to talk to her. I like her a lot. But then, the people I work with don't seem like the sort of people that would take against someone for no good reason. Unless it's just because she's in authority.
I am going to memorise some Blake, some Byron, some Keats, some Donne and some Milton. I would like a cigarette right now. It's strange that I abhor the women at work that discuss weight endlessly, how baggy their trousers are; and yet, I can't think of anything else here. I wonder if they've realised, or if they just think I don't think about it? I could pass for someone who doesn't think about it. Not obese, not thin- in the middle and not bothered. Only, I really am.
Anyway.
Why do I like her so much? She's not the cleverest (though she is clever), she walks like a carthorse. I like that. I like her lack of mawkishness and her direct approach, and that she doesn't talk to anyone as if they're mentally deficient. I am trying to eradicate that nasty little trait in myself.
I like the way she doesn't try to be cool and make jokes, lots of people do, and yet she's funny anyway in herself. I like watching her be in charge quietly, without people realising, but without being manipulative either. I like the way she seems to radiate safety. Safety is a good feeling for me.
Noone listens to me really. They think I am being something or something else; vindictive, narrow minded, judgemental, stupid. It's strange to find that in other places I am listened to, even by turbulent youths. I suppose being listened to is important, ensuring people have taken things in instead of riding roughshod over anything I say or feel or do.
I cannot get any private time, and it's driving me insane. I need to be alone for a bit of the time, not to do anything, just to be me and to be able to think.
I feel like the people I adore would understand. Though I probably would be different with them, in turn.
I wonder about my manager at work. The team seem to believe she's useless- I wonder if they think I'm useless too, privately? I think my manager is sweet. She's distinguished, and ugly in the most beautiful way... that's what I think. Obviously that has no bearing on her suitability for the post. We were discussing after work outings, and she doesn't go on any. One of the staff had a birthday a few days after hers- she didn't get any presents, and this woman got a fair few. I wonder why? Does she really like to keep her private life that private? She talks to us, it's not a problem to talk to her. I like her a lot. But then, the people I work with don't seem like the sort of people that would take against someone for no good reason. Unless it's just because she's in authority.
I am going to memorise some Blake, some Byron, some Keats, some Donne and some Milton. I would like a cigarette right now. It's strange that I abhor the women at work that discuss weight endlessly, how baggy their trousers are; and yet, I can't think of anything else here. I wonder if they've realised, or if they just think I don't think about it? I could pass for someone who doesn't think about it. Not obese, not thin- in the middle and not bothered. Only, I really am.
Anyway.
Why do I like her so much? She's not the cleverest (though she is clever), she walks like a carthorse. I like that. I like her lack of mawkishness and her direct approach, and that she doesn't talk to anyone as if they're mentally deficient. I am trying to eradicate that nasty little trait in myself.
I like the way she doesn't try to be cool and make jokes, lots of people do, and yet she's funny anyway in herself. I like watching her be in charge quietly, without people realising, but without being manipulative either. I like the way she seems to radiate safety. Safety is a good feeling for me.
Noone listens to me really. They think I am being something or something else; vindictive, narrow minded, judgemental, stupid. It's strange to find that in other places I am listened to, even by turbulent youths. I suppose being listened to is important, ensuring people have taken things in instead of riding roughshod over anything I say or feel or do.
I cannot get any private time, and it's driving me insane. I need to be alone for a bit of the time, not to do anything, just to be me and to be able to think.
I feel like the people I adore would understand. Though I probably would be different with them, in turn.
The people I think are best aren't always my favourite people.
And by this I mean those I hold in high esteem.
The people I rate highest aren't always the ones I most desire to spend time with. My Mum comes in pretty high, also a fair number of my friends. I suppose Lady of the House gets about 90%, but then she's sometimes far too cause-oriented rather than people oriented, worried about the world rather than those around her, or herself. It's all well and good, but you've got to worry about those things too, the selfish things, else you end up pushing your children away or tiring yourself out or being dishonest to yourself. You can't be all causes. I am never quite sure whether she likes me for me, or because I'm useful to have around, another body that can entertain and is better in social circumstances than some; I know that that's a mode of preference in itself, but it's for a cause, it's all coming back to a cause. Some of it's got to be self-centric, or self-centred. The two are different, I think.
Unexpectedly Kind has got a whole series of flaws; terrible when she's nervous, defensive, pernickety and pedantic. She's bordering on self-righteous at times. Others would cite her closed nature, the lack of real laughter- but I like this about her. She's closed till you open her, and doesn't laugh properly till you make her. I like her. She's not a person that scores highly, yet I still want to spend lots of time with her, and please her, and make her happy. The people that score best are not necessarily those I like best; I suppose they're more those that I aspire to, or not even that; those who I consider to make the best decisions? Not always. Those who are upstanding, and kind, and don't force themselves on anyone else. Those are the main constituents, but there's so much more than that to the people that come top in my bizarre rating system that doesn't even hold up to my own scrutiny. They're all open minded people, to an extent, but they also know what they stand for. I suppose Unexpectedly Kind has all of those attributes, as do the others. Lady of the House hyperbolises those qualities until they're her tragic flaws, ha, just like a Shakespearean tragedy.
The people I rate highest aren't always the ones I most desire to spend time with. My Mum comes in pretty high, also a fair number of my friends. I suppose Lady of the House gets about 90%, but then she's sometimes far too cause-oriented rather than people oriented, worried about the world rather than those around her, or herself. It's all well and good, but you've got to worry about those things too, the selfish things, else you end up pushing your children away or tiring yourself out or being dishonest to yourself. You can't be all causes. I am never quite sure whether she likes me for me, or because I'm useful to have around, another body that can entertain and is better in social circumstances than some; I know that that's a mode of preference in itself, but it's for a cause, it's all coming back to a cause. Some of it's got to be self-centric, or self-centred. The two are different, I think.
Unexpectedly Kind has got a whole series of flaws; terrible when she's nervous, defensive, pernickety and pedantic. She's bordering on self-righteous at times. Others would cite her closed nature, the lack of real laughter- but I like this about her. She's closed till you open her, and doesn't laugh properly till you make her. I like her. She's not a person that scores highly, yet I still want to spend lots of time with her, and please her, and make her happy. The people that score best are not necessarily those I like best; I suppose they're more those that I aspire to, or not even that; those who I consider to make the best decisions? Not always. Those who are upstanding, and kind, and don't force themselves on anyone else. Those are the main constituents, but there's so much more than that to the people that come top in my bizarre rating system that doesn't even hold up to my own scrutiny. They're all open minded people, to an extent, but they also know what they stand for. I suppose Unexpectedly Kind has all of those attributes, as do the others. Lady of the House hyperbolises those qualities until they're her tragic flaws, ha, just like a Shakespearean tragedy.
Friday 6 February 2009
Your palms are sweaty, I'm barely listening to last demands.
I'm staring at the asphalt wondering what's buried underneath.
Oh, you're beautiful; I just get the urge to tell people who think they aren't.
I wonder, Chatelaine, if you've ever had sweaty palms? They seem permanently dry, always at work. Worked hands, square and strong with reasonable nails.
A stranger with a door key explaining that I'm just visiting.
Oh, you're beautiful; I just get the urge to tell people who think they aren't.
I wonder, Chatelaine, if you've ever had sweaty palms? They seem permanently dry, always at work. Worked hands, square and strong with reasonable nails.
A stranger with a door key explaining that I'm just visiting.
Actually I am happy at the moment.
I have a job which is enjoyable, though I worry about it a bit, whether I am doing the best. I had palpitations the other night, but that's OK. I have got a part in an amateur dramatic thing, and that makes me happyish, though they were going to offer me a bigger part but changed their minds.
Here are things I want in life:
1. A bit more independence and privacy. I could move out.
2. To lose some weight.
3. To go on a course, a drawing course.
Today I ate:
an apple-30
a cheese and salad sandwich-300
1/6th of a mars bar-50
a bowl of muesli with raisins and milk-370
OK, this all adds to 750. It is half past six. I plan to go and buy stationery, and to take my shoes back, maybe, and buy train tickets. I want to drink a smoothie, and possibly some tea. My stomach is aching a bit but I think that's down to the muesli onslaught. I've had three portions of fruit and vegetables, maybe four.
Then I ate:
a smoothie- 150
some apricots-50
a biscuit-60
soup-150
bread and houmous-200
600.
So all in all 1350, not too bad, though I haven't exercised as much as I'd have liked to today.
I am going to see my friend tomorrow, which will make me happier than I am currently.
And I am happy. I am currently watching Hairspray with my cool little sister, who becomes cooler and more beautiful and funnier by the day. It's good that I can just feel pride instead of the usual jealousy. I am envious of her work ethic and her cleverness, but I am not envious of her beauty or her popularity, which is good.
Here are things I want in life:
1. A bit more independence and privacy. I could move out.
2. To lose some weight.
3. To go on a course, a drawing course.
Today I ate:
an apple-30
a cheese and salad sandwich-300
1/6th of a mars bar-50
a bowl of muesli with raisins and milk-370
OK, this all adds to 750. It is half past six. I plan to go and buy stationery, and to take my shoes back, maybe, and buy train tickets. I want to drink a smoothie, and possibly some tea. My stomach is aching a bit but I think that's down to the muesli onslaught. I've had three portions of fruit and vegetables, maybe four.
Then I ate:
a smoothie- 150
some apricots-50
a biscuit-60
soup-150
bread and houmous-200
600.
So all in all 1350, not too bad, though I haven't exercised as much as I'd have liked to today.
I am going to see my friend tomorrow, which will make me happier than I am currently.
And I am happy. I am currently watching Hairspray with my cool little sister, who becomes cooler and more beautiful and funnier by the day. It's good that I can just feel pride instead of the usual jealousy. I am envious of her work ethic and her cleverness, but I am not envious of her beauty or her popularity, which is good.
Thursday 5 February 2009
Noble Ugliness.
I work with a woman I consider to be ugly, in a noble, dignified way. I like her ugliness. It's not ugliness, necessarily; in bygone days, she would have been described as handsome, but because we are modern and sharp featured, and elfin, she has fallen out of fashion.
She has a roman nose and small eyes. She is tall and broad, like me, and blunt featured, with straight teeth and narrow lips. I think she is wonderful looking. She attracts attention, from me anyway. I like that she dresses in suits and flat shoes and makes no pretence of flounce or prettiness. I like the iron grey bob cut she wears without fuss, which falls perfectly.
I wonder if she used to be a beauty. She looks like a sportswoman, someone that likes to run and walk and jump. She is nervy, almost, and sensible. I like her dignity. Somehow she emanates calm.
Lady of the House, Chatelaine, looks crumpled. I always worry I might step on her, or squash her. She doesn't look so very fragile or delicate. It's simply that she is so strong, she does so much, and it all pours out of such a small body. I worry she'll wear herself out, scrubbing and cleaning. She doesn't seem large enough for the person that she is, for the things she does. Her skin wrinkles and blushes easily, touched by the badness of the world, but she's got a quick walk, propelled by all of those big things she's thinking about.
If she touches me (and it's always a very light tap on the arm, a touch on my shoulder) it feels as if she'll dessicate, just from touching something so large and hard as I am, but then I remember she is as strong as me, if not more. She has more colour to her. Does she see me and think, what is this etiolated specimen about? Long arms and legs, and pale pale pale. Looking always like something from a victorian detective fiction, blood red hair and pale skin, warring contrasts. Though I can walk and go and do. Do I sap her energy? I hope not. I hope I make her feel safer, rather than adding to the burden; another one to turn to the sun, to place in the shade and feed and water. She's the eternal gardener. And how does the garden grow?
I was so surprised, that she wanted me because I want her. I have visions of being in some sort of play and inviting her to watch, and... I don't know.
I want to bring her things and fill her out, and nourish her and wrap her up and let her go out into the world, because that's what she adores doing. I just want to be about for her to come back to. She's like snow, unexpectedly strong when compacted into a small form, but easy to crush and melt. Beautiful all the time. I just watch and wonder.
She has a roman nose and small eyes. She is tall and broad, like me, and blunt featured, with straight teeth and narrow lips. I think she is wonderful looking. She attracts attention, from me anyway. I like that she dresses in suits and flat shoes and makes no pretence of flounce or prettiness. I like the iron grey bob cut she wears without fuss, which falls perfectly.
I wonder if she used to be a beauty. She looks like a sportswoman, someone that likes to run and walk and jump. She is nervy, almost, and sensible. I like her dignity. Somehow she emanates calm.
Lady of the House, Chatelaine, looks crumpled. I always worry I might step on her, or squash her. She doesn't look so very fragile or delicate. It's simply that she is so strong, she does so much, and it all pours out of such a small body. I worry she'll wear herself out, scrubbing and cleaning. She doesn't seem large enough for the person that she is, for the things she does. Her skin wrinkles and blushes easily, touched by the badness of the world, but she's got a quick walk, propelled by all of those big things she's thinking about.
If she touches me (and it's always a very light tap on the arm, a touch on my shoulder) it feels as if she'll dessicate, just from touching something so large and hard as I am, but then I remember she is as strong as me, if not more. She has more colour to her. Does she see me and think, what is this etiolated specimen about? Long arms and legs, and pale pale pale. Looking always like something from a victorian detective fiction, blood red hair and pale skin, warring contrasts. Though I can walk and go and do. Do I sap her energy? I hope not. I hope I make her feel safer, rather than adding to the burden; another one to turn to the sun, to place in the shade and feed and water. She's the eternal gardener. And how does the garden grow?
I was so surprised, that she wanted me because I want her. I have visions of being in some sort of play and inviting her to watch, and... I don't know.
I want to bring her things and fill her out, and nourish her and wrap her up and let her go out into the world, because that's what she adores doing. I just want to be about for her to come back to. She's like snow, unexpectedly strong when compacted into a small form, but easy to crush and melt. Beautiful all the time. I just watch and wonder.
Isn't it strange, who we think we are?
Margaret Atwood says that she identifies most with Zenia, the eponymous Robber Bride.
Identifying with and being are different things; but she must see some similarities between her and this leonine woman. Margaret Atwood, who always writes the same bookish decisive ethereal heroines, has gone for the seductress.
I do believe she's wrong. She is Tony Freemont, or the girl in Cat's Eye, or Grace, Alias Grace, but she is not Zenia. She cannot be, really Margaret, consider your aptitude for research and the diligence with which you write your novels, you're an armchair necrophiliac, or something akin.
That's just my anonymous opinion. Robber Bride is interesting, because all of the women believe they're punished, but really, who is worse off? None of their men are loyal, or particularly loveable. Zenia, in my view, does well to remove them. But then there's the vengeance, it seems, for making such silly choices- the money, the chicken neck slitting (though she says she wasn't part of it). Is it revenge, for not being wise, or retribution for the future? For not appreciating that life would have been worse had those men stayed. And why would you want anyone back, always knowing that you were the worst? The men in the tale didn't love completely, but then, neither did the women, or they would realise that to love someone completely, you let them go off and pursue what they want. Which was Zenia.
I would like to select characteristics and formulate myself from those characters; I know Maggie A's probably doing something far more sophisticated with her Zenia identification.
I'd like to have Tony's dedication and general intelligence, her decisive nature, her ability. I'd like to have Zenia's control and power over everyone, and her capacity for expressing rage, and her perspicacity. And something of Roz. Nothing of Charis. In reality, I'm probably most like Roz. A depressing thought. And secretive, so a little like Zenia.
Identifying with and being are different things; but she must see some similarities between her and this leonine woman. Margaret Atwood, who always writes the same bookish decisive ethereal heroines, has gone for the seductress.
I do believe she's wrong. She is Tony Freemont, or the girl in Cat's Eye, or Grace, Alias Grace, but she is not Zenia. She cannot be, really Margaret, consider your aptitude for research and the diligence with which you write your novels, you're an armchair necrophiliac, or something akin.
That's just my anonymous opinion. Robber Bride is interesting, because all of the women believe they're punished, but really, who is worse off? None of their men are loyal, or particularly loveable. Zenia, in my view, does well to remove them. But then there's the vengeance, it seems, for making such silly choices- the money, the chicken neck slitting (though she says she wasn't part of it). Is it revenge, for not being wise, or retribution for the future? For not appreciating that life would have been worse had those men stayed. And why would you want anyone back, always knowing that you were the worst? The men in the tale didn't love completely, but then, neither did the women, or they would realise that to love someone completely, you let them go off and pursue what they want. Which was Zenia.
I would like to select characteristics and formulate myself from those characters; I know Maggie A's probably doing something far more sophisticated with her Zenia identification.
I'd like to have Tony's dedication and general intelligence, her decisive nature, her ability. I'd like to have Zenia's control and power over everyone, and her capacity for expressing rage, and her perspicacity. And something of Roz. Nothing of Charis. In reality, I'm probably most like Roz. A depressing thought. And secretive, so a little like Zenia.
Noone ever leaves me alone. I just want a little bit of private time to myself to write about these things.
Which is probably why I fantasise about being silent, just with you. Silent and safe, too. You seem so out of context, in this gaudy apartment complex.
See, I think you would seem out of context in a lot of places dear. Is it because of the age gap? Or maybe not. At a rave, certainly. You'd hate it. What if I wanted to dance around and listen to ridiculous songs at three am? Never particularly loud but even so.
Last night I worked out that I must be liked by you, or at least, you must think I am good at something, having wanted me there for the party night.
I liked to think of you snuggled up in bed at eleven, I like you. A disarming statement. I told you once, and you blushed (I could tell in the dark by that little giggle you gave) and said, oh, oh I'm scary too.
And maybe I'm out of context; all too brash and lacking in depth, and all too furtive. Too strange to myself.
Etiolated and bizarre.
You look soft and easy to hold, but inside you're hard and strong about what you believe if that makes sense. It does make sense. You're soft to those you like and to those you don't, the door comes down and you're the chatelaine, female Cuchulain, the Hound of Ulster though you'd balk at being described in any form of warlike terms.
Chatelaine doesn't suit her as much as her real name. It's all wrong.
Anyone I adore has something of Cuchulain about them.
Which is probably why I fantasise about being silent, just with you. Silent and safe, too. You seem so out of context, in this gaudy apartment complex.
See, I think you would seem out of context in a lot of places dear. Is it because of the age gap? Or maybe not. At a rave, certainly. You'd hate it. What if I wanted to dance around and listen to ridiculous songs at three am? Never particularly loud but even so.
Last night I worked out that I must be liked by you, or at least, you must think I am good at something, having wanted me there for the party night.
I liked to think of you snuggled up in bed at eleven, I like you. A disarming statement. I told you once, and you blushed (I could tell in the dark by that little giggle you gave) and said, oh, oh I'm scary too.
And maybe I'm out of context; all too brash and lacking in depth, and all too furtive. Too strange to myself.
Etiolated and bizarre.
You look soft and easy to hold, but inside you're hard and strong about what you believe if that makes sense. It does make sense. You're soft to those you like and to those you don't, the door comes down and you're the chatelaine, female Cuchulain, the Hound of Ulster though you'd balk at being described in any form of warlike terms.
Chatelaine doesn't suit her as much as her real name. It's all wrong.
Anyone I adore has something of Cuchulain about them.
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